#PRETEND I POSTED IT ON TIME PRETEND IT'S NOT LATE-

[notiddygothgf]

i.

★ pairings: dante (netflix dmc) x fem reader

★ summary: After a messy breakup with Dante and a year of silence, you've rebuilt your life from the ground up. Now, Dante's back, and one thing is clear — he's determined to make you his.

★ ❝ It's been exactly 365 since I've seen your face ❞

★ c.w.:dante being a little shit, suggestive content. not beta'd, reuploading bc it got taken down?

★ a/n:HIIIIIIIII!!!! okay so i put out a poll asking about how y'all would feel if i posted a dante fic, and omg. so many of you replied. so now here go ahead and take this shit!! damn!!! jk i want him so bad so yk i had to rush to get this done LMFAOOAOA. enjoy besties! if you're from around here, you know the drill. if not, please leave lots of comments, i love the spam and your praise gives me motivation to update quicker!!

★ w.c: 10k

pretty ; chapter index

YOU AND DANTE had a messy breakup. Contrary to how it may have seemed at the time of “The Argument” (as you had begun calling it), there was nothing sudden about it. It didn’t detonate like some sort of time bomb, but disintegrated rather slowly – like water trickling through the cracks in the cement, soft and patient, until one day everything just caved in.

It didn’t always feel that way.

When you had first met Dante, it was… effortless. (Some of which was the rose colored glasses’ doing, you were sure). He was cute as hell, first of all. He was funny, too. He had no problems laughing you right out of your panties on the first date, and… well, practically every night after that. He looked at you like you were everything to him – like a dream come true, like he couldn’t believe someone like you would actually have chosen him. You got along famously.

For a while, things stayed that way. Six months, in fact. Things were good. Simple. You’d wake up to his arms around you, his voice in your ear, calling you names that only sounded pretty falling from his lips – princess, babydoll, sweetheart. His stupid jokes – the ones that always used to make you crack a tired grin. He used to make time.

But, somewhere along the way, his job started taking more and more of him. Late nights began to bleed into early mornings. You’d wait up for him with leftovers gone cold and shows paused halfway through. At first, he apologized. Said he hated missing out on time with you. But then the apologies stopped, and so did the explanations. You’d go days without hearing from him. Sometimes weeks. You’d text—hey, you okay?, can you call when you're free?—and the replies would trickle in too late or not at all.

You tried to be understanding. People get busy, right? Life gets in the way. You told yourself that a strong relationship should be able to weather a few quiet days. But it was more than just quiet. It was absence. It was like he was slipping through your fingers and pretending he wasn’t.

And when you did talk, it was always surface-level. You’d try to tell him how it made you feel—how the silence scared you, how you felt like you were in this alone—and he’d get defensive. He’d say, “I’m doing my best,” or “You know how much pressure I’m under right now.” And you’d bite your tongue. You didn’t want to add to the weight on his shoulders. But the resentment kept building. You weren’t asking for the world. Just a check-in. A sign that he still remembered how to love you when things got hard.

The miscommunications started small. A forgotten anniversary dinner. A vague answer when you asked if he’d be home. But they stacked up like dominoes, one after the other, until the smallest push sent everything toppling. You both stopped speaking the same language. You’d say, “I miss you,” and he’d hear, “You’re not good enough.” He’d say, “I’m tired,” and you’d hear, “You don’t matter.”

Then came the argument. The big one. The one that split the foundation.

You were setting the table when he buzzed the apartment door.

It was 10:18 PM.

You stared at the intercom for a second before pressing the button to let him in. No words. No "I'm here" or "Sorry I'm late." Just the click of the door unlocking and silence.

You opened the door before he could knock. Dante stepped in looking like hell—literal hell. Blood on his sleeve, eyes sunken from lack of sleep, hair damp like he’d tried to rinse off whatever mess he’d walked through before coming to you. He smelled like copper and smoke and exhaustion.

Still, your heart lifted for a beat just seeing him. Stupid, soft reflex.

“Hey,” you said.

He nodded. “Hey.”

You stepped aside and let him in. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch you. Just dropped his duffel by the door like he was clocking out of something. The sight of him like this—tired, distant, barely standing—it tugged at something in your chest.

“I made dinner,” you said, a little too hopeful. “It’s probably cold by now, but—”

“I’m not hungry,” he cut in, already moving toward the couch.

You stood in the kitchen for a second, hands still resting on the back of one of the chairs. Watching him. He sat with a grunt, elbows on knees, head in his hands like gravity was pressing harder than usual. You knew that posture. It meant don’t ask questions. Don’t start anything. Just let him sit in the silence.

But tonight… you couldn’t.

It had been a week. A week without him. A week of one-word texts, unanswered calls, and too many nights alone, replaying old conversations in your head trying to figure out when exactly he started slipping through your fingers.

“I waited,” you said softly. “I thought you were coming at eight.”

He didn’t look at you. “Got held up.”

You waited. Hoped for more. An apology. An explanation. Something that showed he realized this mattered.

Nothing.

You took a slow breath. “Dante… you can’t keep doing this.”

That made him lift his head, eyes hazy with irritation. “Doing what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Ghosting me for a week. Showing up in the middle of the night like it’s nothing. Acting like I’m just supposed to—what? Pretend we’re fine?”

His jaw tensed. “I’ve been working.”

“I know,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I know you’ve been working. Risking your life. I get it. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care when you disappear. I can’t keep sitting alone in this apartment wondering if you’re alive.”

He blinked, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t want them to.

“You think I enjoy this?” he muttered. “You think I like being stuck in some sewer for three days bleeding out while some freak tries to tear me apart?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You have no idea what it’s like out there.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping forward. “But I know what it’s like in here. Waiting. Checking my phone every five minutes. Making excuses for you. Pretending this doesn’t hurt because I’m scared if I say the wrong thing, you’ll just disappear again.”

He stood then, sudden and sharp. “You think I want to be like this?”

“I think you don’t know how to let people in,” you said, quieter now. “And I think I’ve been trying so damn hard to hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held.”

He stared at you, breathing hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said finally.

“I didn’t cook for someone who wasn’t going to show up,” you said.

The room went still.

He looked away first. Scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

Your voice cracked on that last word, and he looked at you again—really looked this time. And for a second, something in him softened. Like he saw the version of you that wasn’t angry or nagging or dramatic. Just hurting.

But he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t say I’m sorry.

Didn’t say I missed you.

Just ran a hand through his hair and said, “Maybe this isn’t working.”

Not working?

Not working?

“You can’t be serious,” You huffed out a bitter laugh. Dante reached for you. You swatted him away. “You… We’ve been together for six months. What the fuck do you mean “Maybe this isn’t working”?”

He stood before you with his arms crossed, white hair still disheveled from his day, eyes narrowed, jaw ticked. “I mean that this…” He answered, gesturing to the space between you and him. “Isn’t working out. I don’t think– I can’t…” He swallowed, “I can’t be the man you need me to be. Not right now.”

“You’re gonna give up on us? Just like that?” You continued, still, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Then, you stepped forward, raising a hand to reach out for him, “I love you, Dante. You’re not gonna fight for us?”

“This isn’t love,” He spoke, tone final, but the slightest trembling breath beneath his words betrayed his true feelings. His fingers slipped into his hair, trembling as they carded through his white locks and tugged at his roots. “Look at you– you don’t even see the problem. You shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not your boyfriend is gonna come back alive. You shouldn’t have to put your whole life on hold for me. You still have the whole world to see. I don’t want to have to live a double life anymore.”

“Then let me in!” You hissed back. Your arms were crossed, too. “Do you think I like feeling as if I don’t know the man I love? I could take some of the burden off your shoulders, Dante, if you just–”

“Enough,” Dante sucked his teeth. “I don’t want you wasting your life away worrying over me,” After a lengthy pause, he continued, “All we ever do is fight and fight and fight– I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore, not with you. You’d be much happier without me.”

He was probably right.

“Oh, fuck you,” you shouted, your voice cracking with fury, but even then, it wasn’t enough to hide the way your heart was shattering inside your chest. When your eyes finally met his, you knew he felt the heat of it—anger and hurt and betrayal, all coiled together like fire licking at his skin.

“You’re not going to decide what’s best for me.”

“Yes, I am,” he snapped, cold and absolute.

You took a step forward, trembling, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. “You don’t know what’s good for my well-being,” you bit back, chest heaving. “You don’t even know what’s good for your well-being.”

That hit him. You saw it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, how his teeth caught the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on the guilt. Then he said the words that broke you:

“You could be so much happier without me.”

And just like that, everything inside you stopped.

Something in your gaze must’ve shifted then—something that startled even him. Because the anger didn’t burn quite as bright anymore. The fire was still there, but it flickered lower, smothered by something glassy, something wet clinging to your lashes. It was hurt. Real hurt. Deep, bone-deep heartbreak that swelled until your chest couldn’t contain it.

“Baby…” he sighed, and for the first time, his voice wasn’t sharp. His shoulders dropped like the weight of his decision had finally started to crush him. “I’m sorry. You know I love you. I just… I can’t live with myself knowing that one day I might not come back to you.”

You didn’t say it back.

Not this time.

Even if you wanted to. Even if your love for him still pulsed through every inch of your body, even if it begged for a reason to stay—how could you keep loving someone who was walking away from you like this?

Your lips parted, dry and trembling. You licked them slowly, like maybe the right words would come if you just gave them time. But all you could manage, hoarse and raw, was: “Take your shit…” You swallowed hard. God, it hurt. It hurt worse than anything he could’ve done. “And go.”

He froze.

“What?” he asked, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to mean it. Like he thought you’d plead. Cry. Kiss him one more time just to remember what it felt like. Like you’d make it easier for him to leave you.

But you didn’t.

“I said…” You looked up at him, every inch of you on fire, your arms folded so tight across your chest they ached. You could feel yourself shaking—fists clenched, breath shallow. “Take your shit… and get the fuck out of my apartment.”

And you meant it.

Even if it destroyed you.

You saw the pain in his eyes then. The flicker of disbelief. The way his entire world seemed to crumble at your feet. Two years. Two whole years. Twenty-four months of laughter, late nights, shared secrets, and silent apologies. A thousand soft I love yous whispered between sheets. A thousand more unspoken.

Was he second-guessing it now? Did he finally realize what he was throwing away?

YOU

|  Guys we’re going out tn.

When you reached the bar, it was still early. There were a few people here, but not too many. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses provided the background noise that you desperately craved.

You grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey, the burn in your throat just sharp enough to make you feel something—anything, really. It felt like you were drinking to forget, and the first sip seemed to help, dulling the edges of the ache, if only for a moment.

Your friends noticed you as soon as they walked in. They must have heard the difference in your voice when you answered their text. They could tell something was off, but they didn’t press. Not immediately.

The first drink turned into another. And another. You weren’t trying to get drunk; you were just trying to escape. To lose yourself in the clinking of ice cubes, in the low hum of the bar, in something that wasn’t him. But as the minutes passed, the alcohol didn’t do much to stop your thoughts from spiraling back to him.

You thought about the night before. The argument. His face, so conflicted, yet resolute. The way he walked away without even a second glance, as if he knew the decision he was making was the right one. How could he be so sure? How could he leave you like that?

“Another?” one of your friends asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. She was smiling, but there was a glimmer of concern in her eyes.

You didn’t even think about it before nodding. “Yeah,” you said, a forced smile on your lips. "Just one more."

You didn’t want to talk about Dante. Not yet. You didn’t want to explain to anyone why you felt like the world had been yanked out from under you. But it didn’t matter. Your friends could see it in your eyes. They didn’t need you to say a word.

No, a year ago, your life changed.

So, you can imagine how it felt to walk home from a day spent at the grocery store, bags tucked beneath your arms, and see him standing there.

Dante.

It had been a year since you’d last seen him, and you were doing just fine. Really. A little grocery shopping to get your mind off the usual stuff, a bag of chips here, some pasta there. You didn’t need Dante in your life anymore, and if you were being honest, you were doing better without him. You had a boyfriend now, someone who didn’t make you question your sanity. Things were... uncomplicated.

That was until you turned the corner and saw him.

Dante. Standing there across the street, looking like he’d just stepped out of a scene from some movie you hadn’t signed up for. There he was, all messy hair and that familiar red coat, like he didn’t have a care in the world. You froze for a second, staring at him as if your eyes were playing tricks. Was he actually here? In your world, in your life, right now?

Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? The universe had a sick sense of humor.

You immediately felt that familiar wave of annoyance—was it even annoyance? Maybe it was exhaustion, or some mix of both. You adjusted the grocery bags under your arms and took a deep breath. You were doing just fine. He was not about to mess with your day.

But Dante, being Dante, didn’t just stand there. No, he was coming toward you now, his long stride eating up the space between you with an unsettling familiarity.

Great, you thought, shifting the weight of your bags to one side as if they were the only thing that mattered right now. But in truth, you were already calculating the best possible escape route. The crosswalk? Too far. The alley to your left? Maybe, but the sidewalk was too narrow. Okay, girl. Focus.

You picked up the pace, shifting into a power walk as though your life depended on it. Sure, you looked a little ridiculous, but it was a small price to pay for a little peace and quiet. You weren’t looking back. Not now.

Behind you, you could hear Dante’s footsteps closing in, his voice trailing after you, “Hey, wait up!”

But you didn’t wait up. No way.

You’d moved on. You had a boyfriend now, someone who would never make you feel like a damn emotional rollercoaster. Someone who didn’t show up after a year of radio silence with that same unreadable stare, acting like nothing happened. No, Dante. No thank you.

Still, you could hear his footsteps, gaining on you. It was like an unspoken challenge. You had to admit, he wasn’t slow. But neither were you. You adjusted the bags once again—damn, this was turning into a workout—and picked up the pace.

You weren’t going to make it easy for him. You weren’t even going to acknowledge the way your heart still remembered his presence, the way it beat a little faster the closer he got. You weren't going to let yourself get sucked back into that mess.

His voice was closer now. “Come on, just—”

A sigh. You were really doing this, weren’t you?

A glance over your shoulder, just a quick flick of the eyes to see how much ground he’d covered, and what do you know? He was right behind you now, practically breathing down your neck. “I’m just trying to catch up, alright?”

Catch up? You weren’t sure whether to laugh or groan at that. This wasn’t a race, Dante, and you didn’t need a personal trainer chasing you down the sidewalk. You could already feel the annoying tightness in your chest. The one that had always been there whenever he was around, the one that reminded you of how difficult it had been to move on in the first place.

He was getting too close for comfort now, and you could already tell this wasn’t going to end well if you kept this pace. So, against every instinct telling you to keep walking, you slowed down just enough for him to catch up. You didn’t want to, but here he was, breathing like he’d run a marathon just to get you to stop. And for what? So he could talk?

He stopped beside you, his eyes searching your face with that all-too-familiar intensity. His chest heaved slightly, probably from the exertion, but you’d be damned if you showed any signs of weakness.

For a second, he just stood there, catching his breath. You, on the other hand, kept your eyes straight ahead, acting like you hadn’t just sprinted for your life.

“Alright, listen,” he said, voice softer now, “I know I messed up. But can we at least—”

You didn’t even look at him as you interrupted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I can’t. I have to go.”

And that was that. You didn’t need to say anything else. You couldn’t afford to.

You were done.

That night, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hair tied up into a neat little bonnet. The faucet was running – lukewarm water trickling out – but you weren’t washing up. No, you were standing there, letting the water drip down your eyes, your cheeks, your neck. You were staring at your tired reflection.

You should’ve been washing away the exhaustion of the day, but instead, you just let it fall over you, droplets slipping down your face, down your chest, almost as if you were trying to wash away the past.

But you couldn’t. No matter how much water hit your skin, how much you scrubbed away at your tired reflection, you couldn’t erase him. Dante. He was there, in the back of your mind, in the way your pulse quickened when you saw him again, after all this time. It had been a year, and yet, when you looked at him across the street, the world seemed to stop for a moment. It was like stepping back into a dream.

You hadn’t realized how much of your heart you’d given to him, how much of yourself you’d let him take. And then, nothing. No texts, no calls, no explanation. Just silence, stretching on for months, the gap between you two growing wider, until you started to convince yourself that maybe that was for the best. Maybe you were better off without him, your life finally starting to take shape without the constant ache of waiting for him to come back, to acknowledge the mess he left behind.

Cupping your hands beneath the faucet, you splashed some more water onto your face. God, I need therapy.

But, being that your current rent situation didn’t exactly permit a visit to the psychologist at the moment, you threw your favorite fuzzy robe over your satin cami and shorts, popping your feet into your beat up pink slippers. You shuffled right over to your bedroom and plopped down onto the bed, limbs falling uselessly to the mattress.

Kill me, you thought.

That wasn’t viable, though. So, instead, you reached into your nightstand (past the vibrator you had bought eight months ago during the worst part of your dry streak) and pulled out a sheet mask. Biting into the package, you opened it and pulled the slimy thing out. The serum melted into your skin as you laid it over your face, leaning your head back against the pillows and relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages.

Your head was blissfully empty. There were no thoughts of men with precarious jobs and swords and… devilishly handsome faces. No, it was just you. You and your favorite pajamas and your favorite skincare routine.

You flicked the TV on. You didn’t have to change it back to your favorite channel. No, that was the glory of having a shitty little apartment in the city to yourself. It was on the same channel you left off on – your favorite drama.

The characters buzzed to life. You set the remote down and watched.

The characters on screen started a new conflict, one that you knew would keep you hooked for the next hour. You sank deeper into the couch, letting the familiar warmth of your apartment wash over you. Everything was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only comes when you're truly alone.

Then, the sound came. A soft knock at the window outside your room, followed by a long, drawn-out silence. Your heart skipped, the peace broken. You froze, eyes still locked on the TV, the characters' voices fading into the background as your mind reeled. It was too late for anyone to be outside. Too late for anything normal to be happening. Another knock, louder this time. A rhythmic tap that sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly turned your head toward the window, your pulse quickening.

Oh, God, you thought. I’m going to die.

Still, because you couldn’t exactly ignore the sound, you slid out of your warm, comfortable bed and into your slippers once more. Then, hesitating every single step of the way, you snuck into the living room, glancing around in search of the source of the sound.

Another knock. This one louder. You held your breath, hand hovering just above the blinds. It was coming from outside. No one else came to your apartment at this hour. You knew who it had to be.

You glanced down.

There, crouched on the balcony just below your window, was Dante. His face was half-lit by the streetlights, a little smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he waved at you. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn’t disappeared for an entire year. Like you hadn’t spent every sleepless night wondering if he was dead or alive, missing his presence as if your heart had been torn in half.

The audacity of it. There he was, grinning like nothing had changed. His hair was messy, his eyes gleaming with that same mischievous spark that used to drive you crazy. The same spark that made your chest ache, even now.

“He cannot be serious,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but he caught it, his grin widening.

You could almost feel his eyes on you, waiting, daring you to say something. But you couldn’t. What could you even say?

All you could do was crack the window open.

“Sorry,” He huffed out a laugh. A familiar one. One you… kinda missed, actually. “I tried calling, but I think you blocked my number.”

“I got a new phone,” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut as if that would make this situation any better – as if you would open your eyes and he wouldn’t be here.

But he was. 

“What the fuck are you even doing here– I mean– the balcony, Dante, really?” You threw your hands out, eyes full of exasperation. “You could have knocked at the door like a normal person.”

“Would you have answered?” He asked. “If you knew it was me?”

“Probably not,” You replied honestly. “I should leave you out here to freeze to death.”

“Oh, right, about that,” He laughed, rubbing the back of his head abashedly. The entire encounter was so absurd that a part of you firmly believed you were dreaming. “I found out I’m, like… half demon. Crazy, right? So I don’t think I would freeze to death. Demon stamina, or whatever.”

Demon stamina. You thought. Right. Definitely awake right now.

Still, that would certainly explain his… endurance.

“Okay…” You had many, many questions, but that was the only thing you could muster, “Should I be… scared?”

What the fuck is going on?

In all honesty, if he told you that the world was ending tomorrow, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“Nah,” He waved your concerns away with the back of his hand. “I’d never hurt you. Except for… well, when I broke up with you. That’s why I came here, actually. Sorry about that. I’ve done some reflection and I…” Suddenly appearing rather nervous, he trailed off, “I fucked up. I was a real asshole to you back then. God, this is hard.”

Your arms dropped to your sides as you stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “You’re… ridiculous.”

“I know,” Dante said, hands up like he was surrendering. “But hear me out—”

“No, no. You don’t get to just Spider-Man your way onto my balcony, confess your demon heritage, and then act like this is normal,” you said, pointing to him like you were trying to make sense of a hallucination. “You broke up with me out of nowhere. Then you vanished. For a year, Dante. Not a word. Not even a shitty text.”

“I didn’t have a phone,” he replied, offended. “I was on a mission. I was in Hell.”

You snorted. “Oh, please.”

He blinked at you. Then, very seriously, he hissed out, “No, I was literally in Hell. For a year. You can’t imagine what that was like for me.”

“Oh my god.” You pressed your fingers to your temples. “You’re insane. Hell? Really?”

“I’m not making it up! You think I wanted to ghost you for twelve months?”

“Well, you kind of did. You broke up with me, remember?” You crossed your arms. “Said I should forget you. That I should move on.”

A pregnant pause.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he muttered.

“Well, congrats. I moved on. I did the whole crying on the bathroom floor thing, I got a therapist, I drank my sorrows away, I bought this plant—” You gestured wildly at the lonely fern in the corner. “His name is Rico. And he’s thriving. Without you.”

Rico was not, in fact, thriving. He was an exotic plant. One you had purchased on impulse at a farmer’s market that you definitely should have researched prior. He wasn’t doing too well cooped up inside of your apartment in New York City. Who would?

Dante crouched down, tilting his head, squinting at Rico. “Looks a little dehydrated.”

You glared. “So do you. What do you even want, Dante?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked down for a second, suddenly quiet. “I want a do-over.”

You stared at him.

“I didn’t have much control over the whole… trapped-in-hell thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, “but I wasn’t happy with how we ended things. I could’ve been better to you. I kept rehearsing what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, but I wasn’t expecting it to actually happen.”

He’s not being serious

… Is he?

One look at him, and you knew he was.

You let out a long, flat breath. “We can’t.”

“Why?”

You raised your brows. “Because we can’t,” you said again, quieter this time. And this time, it hurt.

“Why?” He asked, as if you hadn’t made yourself perfectly clear. “I’ve changed, honest. The past year I spent without you, I realized how good you were to me. How I took you for granted – I don’t wanna let you go. I don’t wanna make the same mistake twice.”

Aw, you thought, That’s… kinda sweet, actually.

No. Stop that.

Instead, you propped your hand up on your hip, “Does that mean you won’t be here on my balcony ever again?”

He paused, pursed his lips. “Okay, maybe I would,” He finally admitted. “But if you would let me in–”

You cut him off right then and there, rolling your eyes. “I can’t, Dante. I have a fucking boyfriend.”

That hit its mark.

His mouth opened, then closed again. The silence that followed made you uncomfortable in a way only Dante could manage—equal parts awkward and guilty. He looked down at the floor of the balcony like maybe it had some hidden message for him.

“Oh…” he murmured. “Oh. You… You really moved on.”

“Something like that.” You shrugged, trying not to sound as tired as you felt. “That’s what happens when you disappear for a year. Life goes on.”

“Not for me,” he muttered, lips curling downward into a pout that would’ve been funny if it didn’t come attached to so much damn history. “Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest.” Then he added, almost too fast, like it slipped out before he could filter it, “I could probably fuck you better, too—”

He probably could. Honestly, your current sex life with your current boyfriend wasn’t the greatest. Still, he was consistent. He didn’t leave you hanging for nights in a row, wondering if he would come home. Not to mention the fact that, when you were with Dante, well…

You had some of the loveliest orgasms you had ever had. On the bed, on the floor, on the kitchen counter. The kind of orgasm you hadn’t achieved once since he had left. Not with your vibrator, and certainly not with your new boyfriend.

Your stare could’ve burned through glass. “I have to be up early tomorrow.”

He had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, but not enough to shut up. “Did you come here just to ask for a do-over?” you asked, already backing toward the window.

“No,” he said, and then paused. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”

You almost respected his commitment. Almost.

You didn’t respond right away, just stared at him— hair as white as starlight, red leather coat, sword still strapped to his back, ridiculous expression like he genuinely thought charm could undo the year-long hole he’d left in your life. The silence made him fidget, scuffing the toe of his boot against the concrete.

“What do I have to do to convince you?”

You sighed. You really sighed this time, long and from the chest, because there was no point in even pretending this wasn’t exhausting.

“Goodnight, Dante,” you said.

Then… you shut the window.

The next day came with no promises of peace.

You were behind the counter at the diner, hair tied back, apron smudged with flour, oil, and maybe a little bit of your sanity. The coffee machine hissed in protest as you filled another mug for a trucker in the corner booth. Your feet hurt. Your head hurt. But at least it was a different kind of ache than the one Dante stirred up last night.

And then, like the universe had a personal vendetta against your emotional wellbeing, the bell above the door jingled.

You didn’t have to look up.

You felt him walk in—like some twisted sixth sense. The air shifted, and you could practically smell the cologne he always wore, something smoky and leather-soft. A second later, a voice followed.

“Damn. This place got a lot prettier since I was last here.”

You looked up anyway. Because of course you did.

There he was. Dante. Leaning casually against the host stand, all devil-may-care charm and a ridiculous leather jacket that made him look like he belonged anywhere but this greasy spoon diner. His eyes found you immediately.

You blinked slowly, then turned back to the coffee pot. “I swear to God,” you muttered under your breath, “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He strolled right up to the counter, pulling up a stool like he hadn’t trespassed on your balcony twelve hours ago. Like he hadn’t cracked open an old wound and kissed the air with apologies.

“You look good in that apron,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t bother looking at him this time. “You look like someone who doesn’t tip well.”

“I tip amazing,” he argued. “Just like I–”

“Do me a favor and don’t finish that sentence,” you warned, grabbing a towel and wiping down a clean patch of counter for the hundredth time. “Have you always been this petulant or is it something in the air?”

“I’m a lot of things,” he said, shrugging innocently. “I’m a man of many talents. Want me to prove it? I’ve got time.”

Oh my god.

You finally turned to face him. “Do you not have demons to fight or… hell dimensions to get trapped in again?”

He laughed. “You remembered.”

You deadpanned, “How could I forget? It’s not every day your ex disappears into Hell without a cell phone.”

Dante lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair. But look—I just thought we could talk. Maybe over some waffles? Syrup fixes a lot.”

You were already shaking your head. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this with you. Not here.”

“I’ll be good,” he said, drawing an imaginary halo over his head with his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you replied flatly.

“And you were never this mean to me,” he said with mock hurt.

“You were never this annoying. Go piss off somewhere. You had no problems leaving me alone for a year,” you shot back. Then you waved down one of your coworkers—a sweet girl named Lila with a bright smile and no idea what kind of emotional tornado she was about to serve.

“Hey, Lila?” you called. “Can you take counter stool three for me?”

She blinked. “Uh, sure. You okay?”

“Peachy,” you said, handing her a menu. “He’s all yours.”

Dante blinked as Lila approached with her notepad, looking confused and a little betrayed. “Wait, seriously?”

You leaned over the counter slightly, voice low. “You want waffles? Order them. You want closure? Write a poem.”

And then you walked away. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. The ache in your chest was enough to tell you exactly what kind of expression he wore.

The living room was dark, lit only by the bluish haze of the TV screen flashing between killstreaks and loading screens. Your boyfriend was sunk deep into the couch, legs wide, controller gripped like a lifeline. He hadn’t looked at you in over twenty minutes, completely absorbed in his game, spewing half-hearted trash talk at some twelve-year-old with better aim and a louder mic.

You shifted beside him, stretching a little, brushing your leg against his. Nothing. So you leaned over, nuzzling your nose lightly against his neck, just beneath his jaw.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft and sweet. You let your fingers slide down his chest, slow and teasing. “Want to take a little break?”

He flinched—not from desire, but because someone on screen shot him. Again.

“Babe, not now,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the game. “I’m in ranked.”

You pulled back a bit, blinking, mouth falling open in disbelief. “Seriously?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept clicking buttons, dead focused on the screen. “Yeah, just like… fifteen more minutes. Can you make dinner or something?”

You stared at him, chest hollowing out in quiet, stunned offense. You’d offered him your body. He asked for food.

There was a moment of silence. Your hand dropped from his chest.

You sat back against the cushion, a little colder now, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. And that was when Dante’s voice—his voice—echoed in your head from the night before.

“Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest. I could probably fuck you better, too—”

You closed your eyes briefly, scoffing under your breath. God, he was ridiculous. And yet…

You pushed yourself off the couch wordlessly, heading to the kitchen without a sound.

Behind you, your boyfriend called out, “You’re the best, babe!”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just slammed the fridge door a little harder than necessary.

And in the back of your mind, Dante's voice lingered like a splinter.

You turned the stove on, lips pressed into a thin, tired line. Maybe later you’d lie down and try to remember what it felt like to be romanced by someone who didn’t treat Call of Duty like a second girlfriend.

One incredibly sexless night later, you took the evening to decompress. That is, you lit up some candles, had a few slices of the pie you’d kept in your fridge for days just like this one, and blocked off an hour for the sole purpose of masturbation. 

What? You needed it.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit, perfectly still. You’d even put your phone on Do Not Disturb, because tonight was about you. Your fingers itched with anticipation as you laid out your night like a ritual: the robe slipping lower on your shoulder, the cool sheets turned down, your favorite toy already waiting on the nightstand like a promise.

God. You needed this. You were wound tight. Between work, the complete lack of passion from the man you were dating, and that absolutely deranged balcony visit from Dante… you were more than pent up. You were practically vibrating with unmet desire.

You let out a long, dramatic exhale, sinking down into your mattress with the kind of grace usually reserved for tragic heroines. Just you, a flickering candle, and the fantasy of literally anyone but your boyfriend.

You reached for the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Knock, knock.

Your hand froze.

You stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe someone had the wrong door.

Knock, knock. Louder this time. Three slow raps, followed by silence.

You sat up slowly, groaning into the air. Then, begrudgingly, you stuffed your vibrator back into the drawer, kicking your feet over the edge of the bed and walking into the living room. It was dark, of course, so you flicked on a light. When you stared into the peephole of your front door, it took all of the strength you had to not bang your head against the door.

It was Dante. Again. No leather jacket this time, just a black hoodie, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweatpants.

You blinked, then groaned into the back of your hand.

Another knock, like he heard you. And then, muffled through the wood, his voice.

“I can hear you in there. Demon hearing, remember?” He brought his head up to the peephole, staring right back at you. “I know it’s late, Just… let me talk to you? For just a second? Please?”

You pulled the door open.

Dante stood there in the dim hallway light, hair windswept, hands in his pockets like he’d been pacing outside for a while, working up the nerve. His gaze moved over your face with a kind of stunned reverence, like he hadn’t really believed he’d see you again.

“Hey, princess,” he said.

There it was. That nickname. The one you hadn’t heard in a year.

You stepped aside without a word. He walked in like the place still remembered him. Or maybe you did.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You didn’t speak. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching him watch the room like it had changed without him. It had. You had. But he still looked at you like he saw the girl you were a year ago. That girl who let him ruin her, and smiled while doing it.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice low. “I tried.”

“Did you?” You answered.

“Okay, not really,” He looked at you again, more serious now. “I keep thinking about you. All the time. You’re in my head constantly, like—fuck—I’ll be walking down the street and I’ll see something and just need to tell you about it.”

You laughed. Just once. It came out bitter and exhausted. “Keep it to yourself.”

“I missed talking to you about anything,” he said. “Everything.”

You shook your head, pushing off the wall, pacing just a little—like if you kept moving, you wouldn’t fall for this again. “You don’t get to come back after vanishing for a year and say shit like that.”

“I know. I know I don’t,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve been trying to act like– like I’m not completely in love with you still, and it’s killing me.”

Your breath caught.

After all of this time?

His hands reached for yours before you could stop him. You let him take them.

Okay… what the fuck is going on?

“You deserve someone who sees you. Someone who treats you like you matter every second of the day,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t take you for granted. I could be that. I want to be that.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Because you’d heard those words before, from people who never meant them. From the person you’d curled up beside just last night, feeling more alone than ever. And yet here Dante was, saying all the right things—but he hadn’t even asked. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know how long it had been since someone had touched you like they meant it.

Your voice came out hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” he whispered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I think about you when I’m trying to sleep. I think about your laugh. Your stupid, shitty taste in TV. Your coffee order. The movies you like. I want that back. I want you back.”

You yanked your hands away, jaw tight.

He’s got a lot of fucking nerve.

“Don’t do this,” you said. “Don’t show up and say these things and make me feel like this again. You don’t even know what you left behind.”

He looked at you, eyes open and raw. “Then tell me. Let me make it right.”

“Go away, Dante.” you snapped.

Silence fell between you like a slammed door. You turned your back to him, trying to catch your breath.

Then he stepped in behind you.

Not touching, not quite—but close enough that you felt the heat of him. Close enough that your body remembered every inch of him like a phantom limb. 

“Hey,” he murmured. “I know I fucked up. Can you be… like, not so mad? Just for two seconds?”

His hand slid to your hip, turning you gently toward him. You let him, still trembling, still so full of everything you never got to say.

“I’ve been in love with you this whole time,” he whispered. “And I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words were genuine. Genuine enough that you felt the tears begin to prickle at your eyes all over again – emotional at the mere thought of him, because truthfully?

You missed him, too. You just didn’t want to admit it. You missed the late nights and later mornings. You missed waking up next to him, hearing him talk about his crazy adventures as a demon hunter. You missed his kisses, the smell of him, his everything.

And, God, the sex… The sex was great.

He was taller than you. Always had been. But in that moment, it felt impossible not to notice how much he towered over you—how his shadow swallowed yours, how the air itself seemed to dip around him. You didn’t want to look up at him, but you did.

You stood frozen, breath shallow, pulse racing in your throat. You didn’t want this. You shouldn’t want this. But here you were, locked in place, every part of you screaming to walk away, and every part of you still craving the comfort of his touch.

“Please…” You whispered, trying to fight the overwhelming tide of emotion. “Please, Dante. Just go.”

His expression softened, like he hadn’t expected that—like he was expecting something more. You felt his fingers on your waist now, and they were warm, pressing gently into your skin. There was no escape now. You weren’t sure you wanted to run anymore, not when it felt like your body was already betraying you.

“I shouldn’t be here, I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. The distance between you seemed to vanish with each word. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried to forget about you, I tried so damn hard, but I couldn’t. I don’t want to.”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Don’t, Dante. I can’t… I can’t do this.”

His eyes searched yours, the guilt and longing mixing together in a way that made your heart ache. He was close now, so close that you could feel his breath against your skin. You knew what was coming, but you didn’t stop him. Not yet.

“I know I fucked up,” he whispered again, more softly this time. “But I love you. I never stopped. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t. I just—I can’t be without you.”

And then, without waiting for another word, he leaned in.

His lips touched yours, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. You didn’t stop him. For that moment, for that brief, heart-stopping moment, you let yourself fall back into the pull of him. Your hands found their way to his chest, clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

God, I missed this.

You melted against him, a wave of relief crashing over you as his kiss deepened, more urgent, more desperate. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you responded without thinking, your body moving instinctively against his. He groaned low in his throat, his hand sliding to your neck, the other pressing you closer.

You kissed him back like you were starving, like you had been dying for this. And for a moment, it was like nothing else mattered—like the last year of silence, the hurt, the betrayal, all of it faded away in the heat of his mouth on yours.

But then, just as quickly as the warmth had started, it turned cold.

You pulled away, gasping for air. Your chest heaved with the sudden rush of emotion. You couldn’t do this. Not again. Not after everything. Your hands shook as you pushed against his chest, creating just enough space to break the connection.

“No,” you said, your voice breaking as you stepped back, wiping at your eyes. “No. I can’t do this. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, stunned, his face pale, but he didn’t move. His eyes were full of confusion, pain, and something darker that you didn’t want to see.

“I can’t,” you repeated, voice steadying with every word. You took another step back, hand reaching for the door. “We can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

There it was.

“I’m sorry, Dante,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I really am.”

He stared at you for a long moment, and for the briefest second, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes – something devastating.

But then, he nodded. The motion was slow, almost resigned, and he took a step back. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. As he passed you, he stopped for a moment, his gaze lingering on you one last time.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

And then, he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

You were sitting on the couch, the faint sounds of your boyfriend’s video game drifting from the other room, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator. You hated that noise—hated the sound of him so effortlessly immersed in a world that wasn’t yours, that didn’t care about the growing tension between the two of you. You tried to focus on the TV, tried to let the sitcom's canned laughter drown out the gnawing discomfort in your stomach. But it wasn’t working. You couldn’t stop thinking about what Dante had said.

I could treat you so much better.

Those words. God, they kept coming back to you. You didn’t want them to. You didn’t want to feel them pushing into every corner of your mind, making you question everything you thought you knew. But they did. And you were alone with those thoughts now. Alone with your insecurities that you usually kept locked away.

You huffed, pulling the blanket tighter around you as if it could protect you from the storm of doubt forming in your chest. You shouldn’t be thinking about him—about Dante. You should be thinking about how your boyfriend had been in and out of your life, barely there, barely present, always distracted. But the longer you sat there, the more it seemed like it was all just a reflection of the way you felt inside: disconnected, hollowed out, drifting.

And then, as if fate was timing it just perfectly, he left his phone on the counter.

Your breath caught, the phone staring at you like a challenge, like an invitation. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You promised you wouldn’t invade his privacy like this. But your fingers itched to touch it, to confirm the sinking feeling in your stomach that something—someone—wasn't right.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the decision feeling both slow and inevitable as you walked toward the kitchen. The phone sat innocently on the counter, waiting. You took a breath, a shaky, hesitant inhale. You could walk away. You could pretend you didn’t see it.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, unlocking it with a simple swipe. Your heart hammered in your chest, adrenaline kicking in as if you were about to do something reckless. The phone screen lit up with messages from some unnamed number. And when you saw the first message, your throat tightened.

"I miss you so much. When can I see you again?"

It hit you hard. Like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t even had time to react before your eyes were scanning the next message, then the next, your stomach sinking deeper and deeper with every word.

“Last night was incredible. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

A sharp, painful gasp escaped you before you could stop it. You clutched the phone tighter, staring at the words, and then—bam—it all crashed into you. You hadn’t been wrong. You hadn’t been imagining the distance, the emotional coldness that had settled between you and your boyfriend. There it was, in black and white—proof of his betrayal.

You felt like you were drowning, suffocating under the weight of it all. This wasn’t just about the messages. It was about everything. About the endless late nights when he came home late from “work,” about the weekends when he’d disappear into his own world, leaving you to figure out where you fit into it. And now this—this confirmation that the man you had been with for so long wasn’t who you thought he was.

You could almost hear Dante’s voice again in your head. I could treat you so much better. The words felt like salt in a wound you hadn’t even realized you had, their presence almost suffocating in the quiet of your kitchen. Were you settling? Were you really going to let this happen? Let yourself get swallowed by someone who couldn’t even give you the decency of respect?

You exhaled sharply, your pulse quickening as the next message flashed on the screen.

“I can’t wait to see you again, babe.”

Babe.

The word made you sick, twisting your stomach into knots. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much—maybe because it wasn’t meant for you. Maybe because it was meant for someone else. Someone who got his attention, who got his time, his affection. It wasn’t you. You were just the woman he settled for, the one who wasn’t good enough for the effort.

The room felt too small, the air too thick, and you suddenly hated everything about this moment. The phone in your hand, the pit in your stomach, the way you had let things go on for this long. You could feel the tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. You weren’t going to cry over this. You weren’t going to let him have that power over you.

But just as quickly, the rush of hurt was replaced by something else—a sharp anger that burned through you like fire. You weren’t going to keep doing this. You weren’t going to keep letting him make you feel small. You weren’t going to keep standing by, pretending that nothing was wrong when everything was falling apart around you.

You weren’t going to be the backup. The woman who stayed even though she knew she deserved more.

The sound of footsteps from the other room snapped you out of your thoughts, and you shoved the phone down onto the counter, just as your boyfriend entered the kitchen. His voice was casual, too casual, as if nothing had changed.

“Hey, babe. You alright?” He asked, glancing over at you.

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, your chest tight with all the words you didn’t want to say, the emotions you didn’t know how to handle.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The raw anger, the aching disappointment—it was all building up inside you, suffocating you. You stood there in the kitchen, phone still in your hand, his lies echoing in your mind. Every text, every word, had become a blade, slicing through your trust, through your relationship. And now, standing face-to-face with him, it all came to a boiling point.

You couldn’t help it.

You walked up to him, eyes burning with fury, and before he could even open his mouth to explain himself, your hand shot out. The slap echoed through the small apartment, sharp and loud, breaking the tense silence between you.

His head jerked to the side from the impact. He didn’t even seem surprised. But you could see the flicker of guilt in his eyes. Too late for that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your voice trembled with rage as the words spilled out. “You think I wouldn’t find out? You think I’m some kind of idiot, just sitting here while you lie to my face?”

He reached up, touching his cheek, and for a moment, he looked almost confused. “What the hell are you talking abou–”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back, trying to breathe, to stop the angry tears from spilling over. “Don’t even try. I’ve been here, okay? I’ve been here, giving you everything, and this is how you repay me?”

You could feel the walls around you closing in. The kitchen—the place where you had made so many meals together, laughed together, fought together—it suddenly felt suffocating. This wasn’t your home anymore. It wasn’t the place you thought it was.

“I trusted you,” you spat, your voice cracking. “I trusted you, and you went behind my back. All this time, you were texting her—her—while I was sitting here, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.”

His eyes widened, but then he scoffed, trying to brush it off. “Come on, it’s not like that. She’s just—”

“Don’t!” You interrupted again, shaking your head, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what excuses you’ve got. I don’t want to hear how you’re ‘sorry’ and how ‘it wasn’t like that’ because it was. I saw the texts. I saw everything.”

There was a cold silence, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. He was quiet now, eyes downcast, as if he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he had no idea how to fix it—because there was no fixing it. Not this time.

“Do you even care?” You whispered, feeling the heartbreak seep into your bones. “Do you even care that you’ve been hurting me this whole time?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He was trying to form the right words, trying to make it sound like he cared, like he had some kind of reason, but it was too late for that.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I’m done.”

He froze. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was an almost desperate look in his eyes. “Wait—what? You can’t—”

“Don’t try to stop me.” You took a deep breath, the anger dissipating just enough to feel the weight of the pain. “I’m not staying here. I’m not going to keep putting myself through this. I’m done.”

His face fell. You could see the regret in his eyes, but you didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t. Not after everything. Not after what you’d just found out.

You turned your back on him, heading for the bedroom to grab your things. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. You could feel the tension in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. Not anymore. You were done.

You grabbed your bag—your jacket, your wallet, your keys—and made your way toward the door. Every step felt heavy, like you were walking away from something you had invested so much of yourself into, and yet, there was a strange sense of relief settling in your chest. You were leaving behind a lie, a hollow version of something you had once wanted to be real. 

You were leaving him.

“Wait,” he called out, his voice strained. “Please, don’t go. We can fix this. We can talk—”

But you didn’t listen. You opened the door, stepping out into the hallway, and closed it behind you. The sound of it was final. You didn’t want to hear his excuses anymore. You didn’t want to be with someone who could betray you like this.

Still, weak thing that you were, you began to cry.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

As you walked down the hallway, your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You didn’t want to look at it. 

But then, your fingers moved of their own accord, slipping the phone out of your pocket.

And there it was: Dante’s old number.

The one you’d saved with the naive hope that he might have called. You hadn’t thought about it in a while. You hadn’t dared to reach out to him—hadn’t dared to even look at his name on your phone. But now, standing there in the hallway, your heart pounding, your chest tight from everything you’d just left behind, you thought about what he’d said to you.

I could treat you better. 

I’ve always been in love with you.

A cold shiver ran down your spine at the thought. You could still hear his voice in your head, still feel the weight of his words.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, uncertainty swirling inside you. You didn’t know why you were doing this. You didn’t know what you hoped to get from it, but you couldn’t shake the pull. You wanted—needed—someone who saw you. Someone who cared.

So, in a moment of weakness, you typed the words.

YOU: I need you.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. The words felt foreign, too raw, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t take them back now.

a/n: ok so whenn i say this is gonna be short... i MEAN IT THIS TIME LOL..... maybe. anyway! part two is almost done, so comment what you thought, let me know what you'd like to see, what you loved, etc! until next time, my loves x not sure why this got deleted? but ok

I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

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[overadores]

⋆˙⟡ must be love.

⋆˙⟡ pairing: manon bannerman x 7th!member reader ⋆˙⟡ about: it’s supposed to be a simple trip—just you, the snow, and a board beneath your feet, but then manon joins and suddenly, the air feels warmer. the silence feels louder. she says she wants to learn, but you’re starting to wonder who’s really teaching who. ⋆˙⟡ genre: fluff fluff fluff ⋆˙⟡ wc: 1.2k ⋆˙⟡ tune in: must be love by laufey ⋆˙⟡ a/n: as promised a fluff! not my best one tho, but i tried to make one T-T. I'll make another one cuz im not really satisfied with this. oh and i'll try to start on my smau hehe, and try to make a sabrina or jenna fic :D

It started with a Weverse post.

Just a photo of the chalet, half-covered in snow like powdered sugar dusted over gingerbread, with a lazy caption that barely hinted at anything: “Back home for a bit. Time to fall on my face snowboarding again ⛷️❄️”

Meant as a joke. Meant as a “don’t forget I exist” kind of thing.

I didn’t expect the flood of comments, or the stream of DMs from our fans. But most of all, I didn’t expect Manon to come knocking on my door five minutes later—literally, not metaphorically—still in her pajama pants, holding her phone like it had personally offended her.

“You didn’t think to invite me?” she said, pouting like I’d just eaten the last cookie.

I blinked at her, rubbing my eyes. “Invite you where?”

“Switzerland. Snow. Boards. You. What do you mean ‘where’?”

I laughed, thinking she was just teasing. But Manon wasn’t joking. She crossed her arms, stubborn. “You’re gonna teach me how to snowboard. That’s what’s happening. You promised once. You said if I ever came with you, you’d teach me.” “I’m dead serious,” she said. “You promised”

“I did?” I asked, still groggy.

She nodded, determined. “You did. On the tour bus. In Tokyo. You said if I ever came with you, you’d teach me how to snowboard.”

Of course she remembered. I vaguely did too. I probably said it in passing, like I always do when I’m too tired to filter myself. Still, I didn’t think she’d actually take me up on it.

But now she stood there with her bottom lip sticking out and her eyes all wide and serious and a duffle bag already packed behind her.

So I said yes.

The flight was quiet, save for the moments she kept humming the melody from one of our unreleased songs, except for the moment Manon fell asleep on my shoulder and drooled a little bit , but I didn’t mind. I kind of smiled to myself, tugged the blanket higher over her, and let her sleep. Switzerland in late winter was pure magic. The kind of cold that wakes you up without hurting. 

My family’s vacation home sat tucked away in the Swiss Alps like a secret. The house was warm with pine-scented candles and the fireplace my mom insisted on lighting even if it wasn’t that cold inside. My brothers dropped by to say hi, and Manon charmed them within minutes, laughing at their jokes, stealing bites of fondue, slipping into our little world so easily it almost hurt. I watched her make my older brother laugh until he cried. That was new.

She always had this way of doing that. Blending in, but somehow shining just a little brighter than everyone else.

We hit the slopes the next morning.

“Okay,” I said, strapping on my board and tightening my gloves. “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

Manon looked up at me from where she was awkwardly trying to balance on her board, an innocent expression plastered across her face. “Not really, no. I mean, a little. I went skiing once. Does that count?”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s slippery snow things. Same vibe.”

“Right.” I laughed. “This is going to be a disaster.”

It wasn’t, though. Or rather—it was, but in the best way.

Manon pretended to be clueless, but I caught her adjusting her stance just a little too well. And every time I gave her advice, she already seemed to know what I was going to say. She let herself fall a lot, though. Mostly into me.

“Oops,” she’d say, her laugh muffled against my jacket.

“You totally did that on purpose.”

“Nooo,” she’d drawl. “Never.”

But the way she looked up at me from the snow, grinning like a devil in a beanie, told me otherwise.

After a few hours and a lot of falling—real or otherwise—we collapsed near the edge of one of the quieter trails, just past a ridge where the snow dipped into soft rolling hills. The sky was blushing pink, the sun slow and syrupy as it slid behind the peaks. I pulled off my gloves, breath fogging in front of me, cheeks flushed.

Manon flopped beside me in the snow, still laughing from her last fall. “Okay,” she said, rolling onto her back. “You’re a good teacher.”

“Liar.”

“No, really. I only almost died three times. That’s a win.”

I chuckled and stretched out next to her, watching the sky change. Everything was quiet up there. No fans, no cameras, no pressure. Just cold air and the smell of pine and the sound of her breath beside mine.

She turned to me, her hair a mess of curls escaping her hat.

“You really love it here,” she said softly.

I nodded, squinting up at the sky. “It’s the only place that doesn’t feel loud. It’s quiet without being empty. You know?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I do.”

We were quiet again, the kind that feels full instead of empty. I watched the sun kiss the snow golden. Manon was watching me.

Then she said it.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just—

“You’re really pretty when you’re not paying attention.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

She sat up fast, panic flashing across her face. “Wait, I didn’t— That came out weird. I just meant— You look…happy. Here. It’s nice. You’re nice.”

I laughed. “You’re rambling.”

“I know,” she groaned, flopping back down. “Ignore me. It’s the altitude.”

But then, quieter: “I think I might be in love with you.”

The words were soft. No drama. No buildup. Just a quiet, accidental slip. Like she’d said it a million times in her head and finally forgot to keep it there.

I sat up slowly. My breath caught. “Wait, what?”

Her eyes squeezed shut. “I didn’t mean to say that. I mean, I did, but not like this. I know we say ‘I love you’ a lot in the group, but I don’t mean it like that. I mean—”

A pause.

“—not in a friendly way. I love you, and I didn’t plan on telling you, but you looked like that and it just sort of happened.”

I stared at her. My heart was thudding like a drum line in my chest.

She was looking everywhere but at me now, cheeks red—but maybe from the cold, maybe from everything else. I sat up slowly, brushing snow from my coat.

“Manon.”

She groaned. “Don’t. It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I’ll just—”

“I love you too,” I said finally.

Her head snapped up. She blinked. “Like—?”

“Like,” I added, shifting so I was facing her directly, “not in the group, we’re-besties kind of way. I think I’ve been trying not to think about it. Maybe I didn’t want to mess things up. Pretending it was something else. But it’s not. It’s you.”

Manon blinked. “Oh.”

For a beat, neither of us moved.

And then we were laughing again — breathless, snow-damp, joy bubbling up in our chests like we didn’t know where else to put it..

She leaned in, slowly, like she wasn’t sure if it was okay.

I met her halfway.

Our lips were cold, noses red, teeth clinking a little from nerves and cold. But it was still perfect. It was real.

Somewhere in the distance, the sky melted from pink to lavender. The stars were just starting to wake up.

Later, when we walked back to the chalet, Manon’s glove slipped into mine. 

We didn’t say much. 

We didn’t need to.

She leaned her head against my shoulder as we trudged through the snow.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel the need to post about it.

Some things, I think, are just for us.

[jjkbambi]

roommates luigi mangione x reader 18+

smut summary your roommate luigi has been dealing drugs out of your house for or the past year and a half!!!??

warnings long ass intro, goodgirl-ish stereotype, jealousy, Angst, seriously long arguments, makeup/high sex, unedited, fingering, pussy eating, slapping, UNEDITED seriously

“hey, you live with pep, right?”

you blink, caught off guard. the question wasn’t unusual; the coffee shop was just a few blocks from campus. luigi liked to joke his only experience with roommates was sharing a house with frat boys and their girlfriends—unsurprisingly, they were the ones who usually came by. always with a package he left behind or cash they owed him.

never pretty, single girls.

you knew rebecca was single because she dumped her boyfriend at your birthday party last semester—caught him cheating and, according to campus lore, beat the shit out of both him and the girl. there was blood on the wall for weeks.

“you mean luigi?” you clarify.

“we were study buddies during undergrad. loved him,” she says, rummaging through a leather tote. she pulls out a pale pink envelope, his name scrawled across the front in careful cursive. “ran into him the other day and totally forgot to give him this. would you mind?”

you pause. the envelope feels too personal.

“you should give it to him yourself,” you say, too fast. “he’s throwing a party for the game tonight. you should come.”

“you’re so sweet. but i don’t know. i haven’t talked him in forever and so much has changed…” you feel a storm of something strange wash over you. a part of you didn’t want her to come to the party and you couldn’t place a finger on why. “is he still seeing that humanities major?”

“no, i don’t think so,” you say, trying to sound casual, even though your heart is already betraying you. pride tugs at your voice, holding it steady.

“oh. thank god,” she says. “pep’s always been so nice, but i can never tell if he’s just nice to everyone, you know?”

you’d never lie to a girl about your hot roommate’s love life—especially not just to protect your own feelings. even if they’re louder than they should be.

louder than they should be?!??! god, what were you even saying? your voice echoes in your own head, tiny and unsure. before you can spend another second replaying it, beautiful, blue-eyed rebecca leans over the counter and slides the envelope toward you. her fingers brush yours—intentional, maybe. she’s still smiling.

“listen, if i don’t make it, you’ll give it to him, right?”

maybe it was the optimist in you. maybe it was just a slow evening. or the retrograde. but ultimately, you smile—tight-lipped but genuine—and suddenly, you’re playing matchmaker. pretending your heart isn’t thudding, pretending you’re just being helpful.

the sky’s already gone purple by the time your shift ends. you smell like espresso and sweat, and your hair’s half-falling out of its bun. you don’t bother fixing it.

by the time you get to the house, the party’s already full; bass pulsing through the floorboards, bodies pressed together in the living room, and the back door swinging open every few minutes to clouds of smoke and laughter.

luigi’s posted up in the kitchen, adidas hoodie half-zipped, sleeves pushed up, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers like an afterthought. his hair’s a mess in that deliberate way, eyes sharp but warm when they land on you.

“you’re late,” he says, but he’s already moving to pour you a drink. something just a little sweeter than what he gives anyone else.

“had to close,” you say, sliding the envelope from your pocket and holding it out. “rebecca dropped this off for you.”

the brown-haired boy takes it, glancing at the cursive with a flicker of something unreadable. “cool, thanks,” he mutters, shoving it into a drawer without opening it.

you frown when he slides the envelope into the drawer like it’s junk mail. “you’re not going to read it?”

luigi glances at you, then at the drawer. “read it?”

“yeah,” you say, stepping closer. “i don’t know. it just seems like something she… put effort into.”

“y/n,” he huffs a soft laugh. “it’s not that kind of letter.”

you tilt your head. “what kind is it?”

“business,” he says. “boring stuff.”

“rebecca doesn’t seem boring.”

“she’s not. but this is,” luigi says, slipping his specialty drink into your hand—all sugar-sweet, just the way you like it.

“i’m glad you think so,” you watch him carefully as you continue your sentence, “cause i invited her over tonight.”

he tilts his head at you. “what? why would you do that?”

you shrug, trying to sound breezy. “she said you two were close. that you used to study together.”

a pause. too short to mean nothing, too long to not mean something.

“right, uh…” he tilts his head and tries to come up with more fulfilling response. “i guess i had a lot of study buddies that year.”

“okay well,” you frown at his lack of excitement. “she seemed nostalgic about it. she obviously misses you. she still calls you by your nickname and everything.”

the brunette watches your expression as he leans a hip against the counter, close now—close enough that you catch the faint smell of weed hiding underneath his signature cologne. he smiles playfully.

“so you figured i’d be thrilled to see her again? y/n, what would we even talk about?”

you’d been undergrad together, but never really together, not the way rebecca might’ve been. you wonder: were they hooking up? the story about the thought of rebecca, a dance major, seeking out robotics captain luigi mangione for help seemed strange. but who knows? there were always elective classes, chance meetings, and volunteer opportunities.

theories racketed your brain. she was his type obviously. she was everyone’s—confident, beautiful, the kind of girl who didn’t need to try to be the center of the room. the kind of girl people orbited around. the kind he’d probably want to be around—loud, magnetic, always laughing.

regardless, it wasn’t your business. you and luigi were roommates. friends, more or less, and only because the lease said so. crossing that line, even in conversation, felt weird. invasive. risky.

“don’t be a dick,” you say. “she seemed excited to see you.”

luigi raises an eyebrow. “to what, rekindle our academic bond?”

you roll your eyes. “i thought you’d be at least be little grateful i scored you a pretty date.”

“right, y/n,” he drawls out. “i’m so grateful you went out of your way to reunite me with another one of my study partners.”

“she’s gorgeous and she’s single.”

luigi watches your face carefully. “she put you up to this?”

“here i thought you were all about having a growth mindset,” you point out.

luigi sighs before another eye-roll. “i’m growing tired of this conversation. stop doing favors for people you don’t know.”

“you know, i think that’s why you’re still single.” you say, taking another swing of the sugary alcohol. “you’re close-minded.”

“i’m still single because i know what i want,” he corrects. “and you’re one to talk. you haven’t brought a guy home since you moved in.”

“don’t lump me in with you. i don’t bring guys home because i’m classy.” you say, though he was right. you weren’t seeing anyone. you just wanted to give off the impression that you were.

the brown-haired boy raises both his brows, amused. “alright then, who?”

you straighten. “i’m not telling you.”

“you get to pimp me out to strangers and i don’t get to know who you’re seeing?”

“oh, lighten up, i’d kill to have a love letter handwritten and delivered. it’s romantic!”

luigi shakes his head. “she owes me cash, y/n. it’s not a love letter.”

you feel your shoulders drop a bit, but maintain your stance. “no one decorates an envelope like that for a business transaction, luigi. give her a smile, at least.”

“if i give her a smile, do i get to know about your secret little love affair?

“it’s not like that.” at all. hopefully, rebecca could coerce him into a couple more drinks and he’d forget about this interaction completely.

“just you’re just hooking up, then? is he coming out tonight?”

“it doesn’t matter,” you give him a playful wave—desperate to end your lie—and start making your way up the stairs, but not before throwing a glance over your shoulder. “i’ll be right back. i need to change.”

“hurry back down,” luigi barks after you. “you’re seven drinks behind!”

you don’t go looking for him when you come back down.

the lights are low now, pulsing to the bass, and the house is full—warm with bodies and laughter and the smell of weed curling out through the open windows. you hear his voice somewhere, low and easy. you don’t look for rebecca but she’s here, you know it. you can feel them together somewhere in the room—close, magnetic, like a glittering coin on the pavement you have no interest in picking up.

jack—one of luigi’s older friends—spots you before you can pretend you’re just passing through. he was tall, and had just recently started a fancy press job in new york. he barely came back down for holidays, so you couldn’t help but notice him in your kitchen. he leans against the counter, tequila in hand and a half-smile already pulling at his mouth like he was waiting for you.

“y/n,” he says, eyes flicking over you, slow. “thought you’d locked yourself in for the night.”

“i tried,” you say. “someone threw a party under my house.”

“right, forgot, luigi’s infamous for being inconsiderate.” he pours you a drink without asking. “but if it gets you out here looking like that, i’m not mad about it.”

you blink, surprised, but not. jack’s always had that look about him, like he enjoys pushing a little past the line just to see what you’ll do.

“new york taught you how to flirt?”

he grins, offering you a brand new red solo cup. “no, those lessons were learned at harvard. i’ll can tell you all about it outside if you’d like.”

you glance away, take the drink. you can feel luigi somewhere behind you now, his presence like heat on your back.

“he letting you off your leash tonight?” jack presses, tone light, but there’s something sharper under it. “or is this a jailbreak?”

you huff a laugh, lifting the cup to your lips. “what leash?”

“c’mon,” he says, cocking his head. “you two play it off well, but you’ve got the kind of orbit that doesn’t happen by accident.”

“we’re just roommates,” you say.

“sure,” jack smirks. “and i’m a priest.”

before you can come up with something clever to toss back, a voice cuts through the conversation.

“oh my god, there you are!” rebecca practically bounces up to you, her face lighting up like she just spotted her favorite celebrity. she hugs you before you can even react, nearly knocking the drink out of your hand. “i couldn’t find you anywhere. this is amazing! thank you sooo much for inviting me!

you blink, surprised but trying not to show it. you haven’t seen rebecca this excited since, well… ever. how’d she get this drunk this quickly? had you really spent that long changing?

“careful, you’re gonna choke her out,” jack says, replacing her life-threatening grip with arm slipped around your waist, hovering close enough to make you feel the heat of his touch. you stiffen but don’t pull away, unsure if it’s because you’re actually okay with it or just frozen in the moment.

“sorry, sorry, i get handsy when im drunk,” rebecca says, eyes bright. you think back to your birthday party and agree silently. “don’t worry, jack, i have no plans on stealing your date.”

he leans in close, voice warm. “guess i’ll just have to hold on tighter, then.”

“date?” the word cuts in like a hook—low, sharp, unmistakably amused.

you glance up. luigi enters in behind rebecca, hands shoved in his pockets, the faintest tilt to his mouth like he’s trying very hard not to look annoyed. or worse: interested.

“i didn’t know you two were close,” luigi continues, eyes skimming over you and jack like he’s filing something away.

god. you were never going to hear the end of this.

“we’re not,” you say too quickly.

“yet,” jack adds, easy as anything, his arm still resting a little too comfortably around your waist.

you open your mouth, but before you can respond, rebecca gasps dramatically beside luigi.

“oh my god, pep, you’re so nosy,” she teases, looping her arm through his like it belongs there. “let them flirt. it’s cute.”

you blink, surprised, but try to play it off. jack chuckles. luigi doesn’t.

jack shifts, clearly picking up on the tension, and attempts to pull you away, “we were just headed out for a smoke, actually, so—”

“she doesn’t smoke,” luigi says, like it’s some sort of fact he’s decided for you.

you feel your face sink a bit, embarrassment flashing hot under your skin. really? this is how he repays you? cock-blocking you after you set him up with miss fucking pennsylvania?

“what? no, i—”

luigi cuts in, eyes steady, eyebrows raised like he’s already caught you in a lie. “you what?”

you falter. you don’t. you never have.

jack glances between you two, clearly catching on. “hey, it’s not a big deal,” he says, hands half-up in peace. “just thought you might wanna come out back. talk. chill.”

luigi’s mouth twitches, but it’s not a smile. “talk. chill. sounds thrilling.”

rebecca snorts as glances between the three of you, like she’s clocking something—then leans in, stage-whispering, “if i didn’t know any better, i’d say someone’s feeling a little left out.”

jack holds up his hands in mock innocence. “it’s just a cigarette, pep. not a proposal.”

you shift, caught somewhere between wanting to defend yourself and wanting the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “i—i’ve tried it before. once.”

luigi raises an eyebrow. “and that makes you a smoker?”

you glare at him, embarrassed. “no. i didn’t say that.”

“then why the hell are you trying to impress him?”

jack steps closer now, his voice calm but firm. “look, if there’s a problem here, we can talk about it.”

but luigi doesn’t respond to jack. his hazel eyes stay locked on you, cold and unreadable. “upstairs bathroom light’s been on for the last half hour,” he says, his voice casual, but it cuts through everything. “again.”

you pause, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “what?”

“it’s messing with the breaker,” he says, more pointed now. “you wanna help me fix it, or do you need more time with him?”

your face flushes deeper, but you don’t know what to say. you glance at jack, who’s looking at you, a little frustrated but still giving you space to make a decision.

rebecca tries to cut in with a forced smile. “okay, okay, let’s not make this a whole thing,” she says, giving luigi an exaggerated pat on the arm. “you’ve got ‘house duties’. go before the place falls apart. both of you.”

you take a deep breath, torn between the need to stay and the undeniable pull of getting away from this mess. reluctantly, you turn to follow luigi.

he doesn’t look back, but you can feel the weight of his presence as he heads toward the stairs. you follow, hesitating, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes on your back.

the door clicks shut behind you, and for the first time tonight, it’s just the two of you.

“you’re being mean,” you finally say, voice tight. “i set you up with the ten of tens, and you repay me by embarrassing me in front of jack?

“embarrassing you?” he repeats in disbelief. “are you serious?”

“i would’ve never done that to you!” your voice comes out sharper than you mean it, laced with something like betrayal. “i wouldn’t humiliate you in front of someone i knew liked you.”

“yeah?” he bites back, his fawn-colored eyes darker than ever. “well, maybe if you actually paid attention, you’d realize he doesn’t just like you. jack’s been circling you for months.”

“what the fuck are you talking about?” you snipe. “and even if that were true, who cares? we were just talking.”

“you don’t see it,” he says, shaking his head, furious and exasperated all at once. “you never fucking see it.”

“see what?”

“he’s not subtle, and he’s definitely not harmless. he’s just waiting for you to be dumb enough to give him a shot.”

“so what?” you say. “he’s not the first guy to flirt with me, luigi.”

“he’s the first one you let,” he argues.

you throw your hands up. “jesus, who cares? he was talking to me. you know, like people do at parties. i wasn’t naked in his lap.”

“could’ve fooled me.”

that’s it. the last thread of patience snaps.

“you’ve got a real talent for making me feel like shit,” you say, each word heavy with hurt. you’re not crying. you’re not giving him the satisfaction of breaking down. but god, does it feel like he just ripped something out of you.

you don’t wait for him to say anything else. you turn on your heel, walk straight to the door, and shove it open with more force than you meant. the sound of it slamming behind you feels louder than it should, final in a way you weren’t prepared for.

he doesn’t follow.

. . .

the house is silent for days. luigi’s always been out earlier than you, and you’ve mastered the art of avoiding him—turning your head just in time to not catch his eye, slipping out the door when you hear his footsteps getting too close. there’s a strange comfort in the silence, in not having to confront what happened. but the silence is bound to break eventually.

he starts leaving little things behind. a hoodie on the couch, a mug in the sink, his shoes at the door. it’s like he’s trying to find a way to be around without being around, but it’s only making it harder for you to ignore him.

you can feel him watching, though he doesn’t say anything. you’re aware of every shift in the air, every time his footsteps get too close to your door. the air in the house gets heavier, filled with all the things neither of you are saying.

days pass like this: him and his quiet little offerings, and a stream of overly confident ex-frat guys making appearances at your coffee shop. you’ve been spending more time at work more than ever.

one afternoon, a girl—polished nails, perfect ponytail—leans over the counter and says, “hey, are you luigi’s roommate?”

you groan internally. “yes.”

she slides a thick envelope toward you. “can you give this to him?”

you should say no. it’s on the tip of your tongue. but instead, you nod once and slip it into your bag.

the house smells faintly like weed when you get home—soft and sour, like it’s sunk into the walls. you don’t think much of it until you knock once on luigi’s door, step in to drop off the envelope and. he’s on the floor, shirtless, back against his bedframe like he’s been there for a while. his curly hair is a mess, sticking up in soft waves like he’s dragged his hands through it too many times. his eyes—bambi-colored, warm and red-rimmed—find you instantly.

he blinks up at you like he wasn’t expecting to ever see you again.

“you’re home,” he says, half to himself.

you glance at the envelope you just dropped on the desk. “don’t get too excited. it’s just another envelope.”

the brown-haired boy blinks, confused, slow to react. “wait—can you just—”

“already did my part,” you cut in, stepping back.

“can you just talk to me?” he says. it’s not demanding. it’s quiet. weirdly soft. “yell at me. call me a dick. something.”

you shake your head. “we’ve argued enough.”

he stumbles closer, barefoot and slow, like he’s trying not to spook you. “y/n, come on, i didn’t mean to—”

“then why did you do it?” you cut him off, but the frustration that floods your voice doesn’t quite match the hurt you feel.

you just want him to apologize. you shake your head, trying to make sense of the confusion swirling in your chest. “i don’t you want me to say, luigi. that i felt humiliated? that i was standing there trying to have a normal conversation, and you acted like i was doing something wrong? like i was—i don't know—cheap or something?"

luigi frowns. "i would never say that.”

"you don’t have to," you snap. "the look on your face said it. the tone in your voice said it. everyone could hear it."

"i just didn't want him near you!”

“why does that matter?”

“it just does, okay?”

you cross your arms over your chest. “that’s not an answer, luigi.”

“i know… i know, i’m sorry i’ve been a mess, and i made you feel like shit, and i’m sorry,” he begins quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “but you have to understand… it’s not easy for me to say any of this. i’m not used to feeling like this.”

you glance at him, not quite following what he’s getting at. “feeling like what?”

he takes a slow step forward, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that almost feels like it’s burning him. he’s close enough now you can smell the remnants of whatever he’d been smoking—and hell, he was right. you really weren’t a smoker. you feel yourself shrink underneath the cloud, eyes studying his tired face.

“feeling jealous. feeling… like i was losing something i couldn’t live without. when i saw you with jack, smiling at him, it… god, it just hit me,” he says, his voice strained. “and i couldn’t stand it. the way you looked at him—it’s like i wasn’t even there anymore. like i was invisible to you.”

you stare at him, processing everything, and it’s like the weight of his words hits you all at once, but your pride refuses to let you soften just yet. “so what? you thought humiliating me was the answer? making me feel like shit in front of jack and rebecca.”

“no,” he says quickly, his voice raw. “god, no. that was never the plan. i just… i don’t know what the hell i was doing. i just saw you with him and my head—” he stops, shaking his head, clearly frustrated with himself. “i wasn’t thinking straight. i know it’s no excuse. i fucked up. but i want to fix it. please, y/n, i want to fix this.”

“i don’t even know what to say to you,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, but your arms still crossed defensively over your chest.

he steps forward again, desperation in his eyes. “you do, though. you do. i swear to god, i never meant to make you feel like this. i’ve… i’ve been an idiot. i don’t know how to fix it, but i can’t stand seeing you like this. i can’t stand knowing i’ve hurt you.”

“i’m sorry, y/n.” he continues, his voice dropping even lower as his arms come around to embrace you, “i know i messed up. but i care about you, more than i can say. i didn’t want him looking at you like that, not when you’re… so much more than that.”

you’re quiet for a long moment, letting yourself nuzzle into his warmth. “you should’ve just said something,” you say softly, the edge still in your voice, though it’s starting to fade.

“i know. i wish i had. i just didn’t know how to handle it. i didn’t want to mess things up between us.” his voice drops to a whisper. “but i can’t stand the thought of you thinking i don’t care.”

you look away, feeling the weight of everything swirling between you both. “i don’t know, luigi. i’m still pissed.”

the brown-haired boy exhales sharply. “yeah, i get that. i do. i’m not asking you to forgive me right away. but…” he hesitates before he pulls himself off of you, his voice almost embarrassed. “but maybe we can try… i was thinking maybe we could just to smoke, for now. just to calm down. and then we can talk more.”

your brows lift.

“you’re trying to bribe me into forgiving you with weed?”

luigi laughs under his breath. “no. maybe. i don’t know. i just… thought maybe we could use a pause.”

you eye the joint warily. “i’ve never smoked before.”

“i know,” he says gently. “and you don’t have to. just stay here with me.”

and somehow, you do. you sit on the edge of his bed while he lights up, still shirtless and stupidly pretty in the soft light. he takes the first hit, exhales slow, then offers it to you.

you hesitate.

“it’s okay,” he says, voice dipped in something tender. “you don’t have to be cool about it. i’ll talk you through.”

you take it. breathe in. cough, a little.

luigi grins. “cute.”

you narrow your eyes, but the minutes slip by quietly, and the high starts to settle into your limbs—warm, slow, like honey. the anger that once pulsed sharp behind your ribs begins to dull at the edges, softening into something you can’t quite name. he gently guides you closer to him on the bed. as you both pass the blunt back and forth, the tension is still there, but it’s lighter now, less heavy. his skin brushes yours—bare and warm—and you feel the heat of him even through the haze.

“you know,” luigi says softly, his voice low, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “you’re pretty all the time.”

you glance at him, brow arching.

“but when you’re mad at me…” he trails off with a small huff, running his fingers down the line on your chin. “it’s a problem. because i still wanna kiss you. even when you look like you want to kill me.”

you roll your eyes, trying not to smile, but it’s a losing battle. “you’re just saying that because we’re high and in your bed.”

“nah,” he says, and this time his voice drops even lower, more serious. “i’ve been thinking it since sophomore year.”

“i think you’re confusing me with someone else.” you laugh. “we didn’t know each other sophomore year.”

“what do you mean?” he frowns. “that was the first year you worked at the coffee shop.”

“sure, yeah,” you agree. that was correct. but you two didn’t even know each other until halloweekend junior year. “how would you even know that? you don’t even like coffee.”

“you’d never remember me,” luigi adds quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “i’d just sit there and try to study. you were always there, like… humming to yourself behind the counter. or talking to old people like they were your best friends. i don’t know. you just—made everything feel more fun.”

you stare at him, processing.

he shifts closer, just slightly. the bed dips. his shoulder brushes yours again. you don’t pull away.

his fingers find your hair, brushing it back from your cheek, so gentle it makes your chest ache. “i’m sorry for being a dick,” he says. “at the party. before that. all of it. i didn’t know how to say any of this. and i didn’t want to screw it up.”

“you kind of did,” you say, but there’s no bite to it. just truth.

“i know.” his thumb traces lightly along your jaw. “but if there’s still a chance… i want to try.”

your heart skips. the weed makes everything feel softer, but the clarity in his eyes is real.

“can i kiss you?” he asks, voice low. nervous.

you hesitate for just a second. then you nod.

and when he leans in, it’s slow. he’s giving you every second to pull away. but you don’t. your eyes flutter shut and his mouth finds yours, warm and tentative, until the kiss deepens with something that feels like all the things he never said. you melt into his warmth, one hand on his bare chest, the other tangled in his curls. his hands are everywhere, tracing the curve of your back, sliding under your shirt.

you gasp into his mouth as he quickly finds the softness of your hip, pulling you closer and tugging your leg over him so the heat of your core is against him. shaky breaths escape you as his lips travel up your neck.

“y/n, hold on,” luigi murmurs, his body feverish beneath yours as you feel his raging bulge poking into you with every small movement you make. “are you sure?”

“yes.” you were misty-eyed and barely breathing but completely sure, your arms wrapping around his neck, teasingly scratching his back with your nails. “you don’t have to be so careful with me.”

the brown-haired boy lets out a short laugh as he leans in for another kiss. “don’t say shit like that,” he murmurs.

you weren’t usually this confident. but other than this weekend, you couldn’t picture luigi as anything other than sugar sweet.

“or what?”

“or i’m not gonna be able to control myself.”

“control yourself?” you repeat, feeling a hazy laugh escape your lips without reason. “luigi, you could never hurt me.”

“yeah?” luigi hums. “you sure you can take it?”

“i want to,” you say, overconfident. “i want you, luigi.”

and before you could even adjust, he was on top of you, his tongue down your throat as you pressed yourself into him, feeling his hard cock against you.

you gripped his bicep as his two large fingers found your heat, giving you no time to adjust. he moved with precision and purpose, thrusting and curling as you were forced to look into his brown eyes.

“good girl, so wet f’me,” he whispers. eyeing you down, admiring the wet patch he’s created through ur panties.

“that’s all for me, yeah?” he continues airily. he swipes his fingers across the waistband of your panties, letting it catch and snap lightly against your butt. you gasp, and he grins, pleased with himself. “or did you wanna call up jack one more time? make his fuckin’ night?”

“no,” you hum. “i only want you.”

“good girl,” he murmurs into your skin as he begins to kiss down your body. he harshly rips the fabric of your panties off your body.

you pout. “those were expensive.”

“i’ll buy you anything you need,” he says. “just let me have my way with you.”

helpless and impatient, you whine, when he spits against your core, lubricating his movements so he can abuse every one of your senses. his tongue darts inside your weeping cunt, moving freely with the oozing wetness that gushes over, moaning with every sweet gasp that escapes you.

“luigi," you writhe, fingers grappling blindly at the curls that lay matted against luigi’s forehead. "please please please.."

his response is muffled against your pussy as he licks every ounce of arousal that your cunt provides, spurred on by the fruitless push of your heels into the mattress and the tightening of your thighs around his skull. he's eager to make up for lost time, sealing his lips around your clit for the last time so that your spasming, legs locking into a momentary paralyzed position until he's pressing palms into your dewy thighs and forcing them farther apart to delve further into his meal.

you can’t help but let out a whimper when he pulls his mouth off of you, dragging you to the edge of his bed by your ankles. “luigi,” you cry out, helpless.

“don’t be a brat,” he says before throwing. a hard smack to across your face. “i’m gonna give you exactly what you need.”

tugging at his sweatpants down, letting them fall, and pushing his boxers down just enough for his huge veiny cock to sit up hitting his stomach.

your heart races at the sight of him, you already know he’s gonna stretch you out. he loves the look of fear in ur eyes as u take him in. without any warning at all, he starts ploughing his massive cock into ur soaked innocence. you scream at the impact, tears welling in your eyes as he fucks you with no remorse.

your legs unconsciously wrap around his waist. his hands grip onto your hips tightly, surely leaving bruises for you in the morning. you feel a slap come down on your ass cheek, you let out a sharp moan, and another hard slap makes you writhe in pain.

“where you goin’?” he retorts, somewhere between playful and arrogant. “don’t run from it, baby, you said you’d be a good girl f’me.”

“luigi, fuck, hold on—” you cry out when he goes in deeper.

“fuckin’ take it, quit complaining.” he gripes before taking your tit in one hand, teasing your nipple in between his fingers.

you shiver at the sensation. “luigi!”

“just like that,” he grunts. “scream on my cock like that, sweetheart. let the neighbors know.”

he put his whole body into fucking you, tightened his grip around your throat and leaned down to whisper in your ear, pushing you further down and you squirmed underneath him.

"you want me to fill you up, huh?" he says, voice low and filthy. "want me to come inside you?" his thumb finds your clit, putting the slightest pressure as he circles slowly, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

you can’t answer, not with words. just a desperate whimper as your legs lock tighter around his waist, hips rolling up to meet him. "come on, princess,” luigi coos. "don’t make me do all the work. least you could do is tell me what you want.”

"p-please… luigi. i can't—” you whimpered, tears pricking the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from sheer, ineffable need. your inner muscles clenched desperately, trying to pull the orgasm out.

“poor pussy probably never felt this good, huh?”he groans into your ear, you writhe against him once more.

“s’close,” you cry out, finally. “want you to breed me.”

luigi moans at the request, flipping you over as you let out moans that got muffled by the pillow, a handful of your hair around his fist as you closed your eyes in pleasure, your fists gripping the sheets to try and anchor yourself as he whispered in your ear. every thrust, truth and praise. such a good girl for me... you're mine... this pussy's all mine... no one's gonna fuck this pretty girl like i do..." until you become undone around him, his own cum mixing with your juices as your cunt clenched around him.

luigi’s body sinks into the mattress beside yours, the bed dipping gently beneath him. the air is thick with the scent of sex and weed—hazy, intimate, almost golden in the low light. it clings to the sheets, to your skin, to the quiet between you. but there’s no regret. no leftover ache. whatever had fractured between you hours ago feels far away now, softened by touch and breath and the comfort of being near each other again.

you’re still staring up at the ceiling, letting the moment settle into something that feels like this—peaceful, but maybe a little fragile. then, almost without thinking, you ask,

“so… if this didn’t work, what was your backup plan?”

luigi lets out a quiet laugh, like he’s caught off guard. “you think i had a backup?”

“you always do,” you tease, shifting slightly to look at him.

he hesitates, glancing at the ceiling like he’s deciding how much he’s willing to share. then, finally,

“i wrote you something.”

you blink. “like a song?”

he snorts. “jesus christ, no.”

“oh.”

“don’t look so disappointed, it was just as corny,” he says. there’s a pause, then a soft laugh from his side of the bed. not mocking. nervous.

“i, uh…” he continues, and he’s already blushing, you can hear it in his voice. “it was a letter. i wasn’t gonna show you unless i had to. like, absolute worst case scenario.”

you shift, propping yourself up on one elbow so you can see him better. “you wrote me a love letter?”

he makes a face. “no, i wouldn’t call it that.”

you turn to face him, amused. “what would you call it?”

“something i’m gonna throw away as soon as you fall asleep.”

you pout, turning fully to face him now. “what, it wasn’t romantic?”

“that’s not what i said,” he mutters. “it’s just… you said that thing in the kitchen. about how you’d kill to have someone write you a love letter.“

you meet his gaze, a little shocked by how tender it is, how much sincerity he’s not even trying to hide.

“wait,” you say, heart beating a little faster, “where’s this letter?”

he looks away, obviously flustered. “uh… probably buried at the bottom of my backpack somewhere.”

you narrow your gaze. “you’re lying.”

he turns toward you with a smile, but it’s more like a nervous grin. “yeah, well… if you’d seen it, you’d understand why.”

you pout immediately. “it doesn’t matter what it says. it’s my first love letter.”

the fan hums its tired rhythm above you, steady and slow. beneath the blanket, your fingers find his—softly, like a thought half-formed, like instinct.

“you seriously not gonna let me read it?” you ask eventually.

he doesn’t answer right away.

“maybe not tonight,” he says.

you nod, and that’s fine. it’s more than fine.

you stretch your arm across the space between you, hand resting just barely on his chest. his heart beats steady beneath your palm. real. ordinary. a little fast.

“hey,” you say softly.

he looks at you.

“don’t lose it.”

“the letter?”

you nod.

he watches you for a long second. then says, “i won’t.”

ask-box officially re-opened!

masterlist

[saatorus]

had the brightest idea…sukuna x tattoo artist reader..😪😪

wc: 1.4k

warnings: smut (unprotected sex)

authors note: anon anon anon. i need to pull your head off so i can get access to your brain like kenjaku so that i can give your smart brain a lil smooch. this was fun to write :3

The first time he walked into your studio, he had zero tattoos. Just scars from what looked like getting into fistfights and that sharp, cocky grin.

You didn’t think he was serious. Guys like him—too smooth, too smug—usually just wanted to flirt and bounce. But he picked a design off your wall, pointed to his chest, and said, “Right here. First one. Don’t fuck it up.”

You didn’t. In fact, he looked almost… reverent, watching you prep. Like he wasn’t used to being touched gently.

You assumed he’d be a one-and-done. He was not. He came back the next week, shirt already off when he walked in. “What’s up, picasso shawty. Wanna do my ribs next?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but you let him sit. Again. And again.

He kept coming back. More tattoos. Bigger pieces. One on his back. One winding around his thigh. Some you designed just for him—your art permanently etched into his skin.

Your studio’s small. One chair. Walls covered in sketches and post-it notes. Half your tools are secondhand, but your work is crisp—clean lines, solid shading. Sukuna never comments on it directly, but he never lets anyone else touch him. Not once.

You pretend not to notice how he watches you set up. The way he stares at your hands like he’s memorizing every move.

He’s always saying dumb shit.

“If I say something filthy mid-session, will you mess up on purpose?”

“If you talk while I’m doing linework again, I’m putting a Hello Kitty on your ass.”

“Tempting.”

You keep it professional for months. Years. But it’s not cold—it’s comfortable. Inside jokes. Dumb snacks during long sessions. Him crashing on your couch once when it got too late. You drawing a fake tattoo on his thigh with sharpie “just to mess with him.”

One night, you’re doing a detailed piece low on his hip. He’s quiet, for once. Then:

“You ever think about how many hours you’ve spent touching me?”

You blink.

“You ever think about shutting the hell up?”

But your voice cracks a little.

The shift is small. He starts showing up without appointments. You don’t kick him out. You start drawing designs with him in mind. You stop correcting him when he calls you “baby” just to mess with you.

One night, it’s late. Like should’ve closed an hour ago late. The shop is quiet, just the soft hum of the fluorescent light and whatever chill R&B playlist is still looping from your phone. You’re cleaning up after a late session with Sukuna—again. He’s lounging in the chair, shirt half-on, scrolling on his phone like he lives here now.

“You know I have other clients, right?” you mutter, wiping down your machine.

He doesn’t look up. “Yeah? You tattoo them like you do me?”

You pause. “What the fuck does that mean?”

He looks up now, real slow. Smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Means you get real quiet when you're working on me. Like you’re focused or… like you’re trying not to think too hard.”

You toss the rag on the tray, annoyed. “I don’t know if you know this, but that’s actually called doing my job.”

“You’re shaky sometimes,” he adds, casual. “Especially when I’m shirtless. Or when I ask for spots you gotta like, get on your knees for.”

You scoff. “You think you’re hot shit.”

He stands. Walks up, real close. “I know I am. But that’s not the point.”

Now he’s right in front of you. Not touching—but close enough that you feel him. Heat off his skin. The scent of his cologne and smoke and something distinctly him.

“You wanna do it or not?” he says, voice low, like he’s done waiting.

Your stomach flips. “Do what?”

“Come on,” he mutters, like he’s tired of the game. “You’ve been looking at me like you want to fuck me since the third tattoo. You gonna keep pretending or you gonna let me fuck you in that chair of yours?”

Your throat goes dry. You stare at him—cocky bastard, red eyes burning into yours, hands flexing at his sides like he’s holding back too.

You don’t say anything. Just grab the front of his hoodie and pull him in. Not your proudest moment professionalism-wise, but he kissed you like he’d been waiting for this.

The kiss is messy. Too fast. All teeth and tongue and breathless gasps. You don’t know who moans first—doesn’t matter. His hands are already on your ass, pulling you in like he’s starving.

You shove him back into the chair. Straddle him. His hands slide up your shirt, palms hot and rough, and he mutters, “Been jerking off thinking about this for months, fuck.”

Your fingers are already at his belt. “Shut up.”

“Not a chance,” he laughs, voice wrecked. “You’re gonna hear how bad I wanted this.”

You sink onto him right there, still half-dressed, the whole thing rushed and reckless. The studio smells like ink and sweat and skin. He’s gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. And you’re riding him like you’ve been needing it just as bad.

No soft words. No slow build. Just the creak of the chair. His filthy mouth in your ear. Your nails digging into his shoulders. And that broken sound he makes when you clamp around him, whispering “Fuck, don’t stop—”

Before you know it, you’re clamping down on him, hard, your orgasm washing in pleasurable waves over you. He follows suit, a final thrust of his hips, emptying his load inside of you.

The only sound is your breathing—still uneven—and the low thrum of the playlist you forgot was even on. You’re half-naked in your own damn studio, still straddling Sukuna in the chair, clothes tugged out of place, skin flushed and sticky with sweat and everything you’d been ignoring for way too long.

You shift off him with a wince. “Holy shit. That chair is not designed for fucking.”

He groans and leans back like he’s broken. “Speak for yourself. I’m thriving.”

“You’re gonna walk outta here bow-legged.”

“Shut the fuck up. I’ll limp home with dignity.”

You tug your shirt back down and start reaching for paper towels, the reality of what just happened catching up to your brain.

“Yo—chill,” Sukuna mutters, standing up behind you and gently taking the paper towels from your hand. “I got it.”

You blink, thrown off.

He gives you a flat look. “I just fucked you in your sacred little tattoo chair. Least I can do is wipe you down…and the damn chair down too.”

You snort, but your stomach flips at the way he says it—casual, like it’s no big deal, but not teasing either. 

He gently parts your legs, a grin on his face when he sees himself seeping out of you, wiping the mess clean. You lightly push your foot against his chest when he continues staring and he finally relents, snickering and grabbing your disinfectant spray.

He grabs a fresh towel, sprays down the chair, even gets the floor where one of you knocked over the rinse cup. You watch him for a second—shirtless, pulling on your pants and standing up—shakily— still flushed, watching the glint of his rings on his fingers as he moves. Like this is just part of the routine now.

“Don’t get used to this,” he says, not looking at you. “I just—y’know. Respect the tools.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So what, fucking me is now a line item on your cleaning checklist?”

He grins, tossing the used towel into the bin. “Only if it’s a recurring event.”

You scoff and toss him a water bottle. He catches it midair without flinching, cracks it open like this is just… normal now.

And maybe it kind of is.

He walks back over, presses the cold bottle lightly to your cheek with a smirk. “Still blushing?”

“Still annoying.”

“Still wet?”

You swat him, laughing despite yourself, but you don’t pull away.

There’s a weird quiet after that. Not awkward—just new. Like something’s shifted and neither of you’s pretending otherwise.

You break it first, voice lower now. “So… you still want that piece over your heart?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “If it’s your name? Yeah.”

“You’re so corny. That trend died in 2015.” You roll your eyes, but the smirk tugging at your mouth gives you away.

And when he leans in and kisses you again, actually moving his lips against you with a soft precision, different to how his tongue had been plunged into your mouth just minutes before. He grins—sharp— before uncapping the water bottle.

After a sip of the water, he looks at you over the bottle. “So… you free next week?”

You narrow your eyes. “For what?”

He shrugs. “Tattoo. Fuck. Hang out. Whatever. Don’t pretend you’re not thinking about doing it again.”

You groan. “You are so lucky you’re kinda hot.”

He winks. “And marked up like your own personal sex doll. Admit it—you liked the dick.”

You’re smiling this time. It’s different now. Maybe him being a regular wasn’t so bad at all.

[cbeargyu]

WISHES COME TRUE

SUMMARY: you’ve always been the quiet, bookish type — hidden behind oversized sweaters and your secret smut blog. yeonjun, the golden boy of the dance department, was supposed to be just a harmless crush... until a steamy story accidentally lands in his hands. now, your fantasies are no longer just fiction.

PAIRING: soft dom!yeonjun x fem!reader

GENRE: slow burn, smutty tension, university!au, angst, fluff, eventual nsfw (suggestive)

WARNINGS: suggestive themes, language, emotional tension, power dynamics, accidental exposure of private writing, crying, emotional vulnerability, soft dominance, yeonjun being too hot to handle, loss of virginity, unprotected sex.

WC: 4,8k

NOTES: i wish yeonjun would make my fantasies come true too...😞

you were a literature major at university—one of those girls who always seemed quiet, thoughtful, always with a book tucked under her arm or a notebook filled with scribbled ideas. you had chosen literature because, for as long as you could remember, stories had been your whole world. fairy tales, classic novels, poetry, fanfiction—especially fanfiction.

it had started innocently enough in your early teens: writing about your favorite movie characters falling in love. but as you got older, so did your stories. they evolved—bolder, darker, more explicit. the kind of scenes that made your cheeks flush even though you were the one writing them. you never said it out loud, of course. no one would ever imagine it of you.

you were the quiet girl in class, after all. the one with oversized sweaters, round glasses slipping down your nose, a soft voice, and a shy smile that made people underestimate you. but at night, in the glow of your laptop screen, you were someone else. your blog had grown into something much bigger than you'd anticipated. a loyal following of readers eagerly awaited your weekly updates, devouring every steamy, forbidden chapter you posted—always right on schedule, even with your hectic academic life.

and then there was choi yeonjun.

he was in the contemporary dance program—effortlessly popular, magnetic in every sense. tall, with dark hair that curled slightly when he sweat after practice, his ears lined with silver piercings, his eyes sharp but kind. he had a way of walking into a room and drawing attention without even trying.

you’d met him in a way that was both perfectly ordinary and somehow surreal. he’d started showing up at your department’s literature fairs. it surprised you the first time—someone like him, flipping through romance novels with genuine interest, not just killing time. but there he was, every time, stopping by the table you were in charge of, smiling that easy, sunlit smile that made your stomach twist in quiet panic.

“any recommendations today?” he’d ask casually, leaning over the table just close enough to make you forget how to breathe.

you tried to keep your voice steady. “uh—if you like slow burn… this one’s pretty good.”

he grinned. “you always know the good ones. you read a lot, huh?”

you’d just nod, cheeks warm, heart sprinting. he didn’t know. god, he couldn’t know.

your conversations never lasted long, but they left you dizzy every time. he’d wave at you in the halls with that same bright energy, calling your name like you were already friends. you weren’t, not really. but you liked pretending.

and when you were alone, writing late into the night, your mind would wander. you’d think about him—his hands, his voice, that little smirk when he caught you staring too long.

you knew exactly what kind of character he’d be in one of your stories. and you had plenty of ideas.

it all started when yeonjun announced that he was planning a showcase for the contemporary dance department—an open performance where students could display their personal choreographies. he needed help designing the pamphlets that would be handed out to the audience, and for some reason, you were the first person he thought of.

“you made those posters for the lit fair, right?” he asked one afternoon, catching you off guard in the hallway. his voice was casual, but his smile was bright, genuine. “i really liked the way you put them together. they had this… soft, poetic vibe. it matched the theme perfectly.”

you blinked up at him, heart stuttering. he remembered that? “i– yeah! i did,” you mumbled, trying to keep the surprise out of your voice. “i’d love to help.”

he grinned, like it was no big deal. “awesome. can i get your number? i’ll text you the details.”

you handed him your phone before you could overthink it. and when he tapped in his contact info, you felt a strange flutter in your chest. he told you he’d need it by next wednesday. today was friday—plenty of time.

saturday came, and as usual, it was supposed to be your sacred writing day. the day you sat down with your laptop and your coffee and let your imagination spill into a new chapter for your loyal readers. but today... you couldn’t focus. yeonjun’s face kept flashing behind your eyes. his voice, the way he smiled, the soft dip of his collarbone when he leaned in closer than he needed to.

so, instead of working on your usual story, you opened a new document. just a little spin-off, you told yourself. a character named yejun, inspired by him, paired with your unnamed female lead. it didn’t mean anything. it was just for fun.

your fingers moved quickly over the keys, each word making your face burn a little hotter. you described him in detail—his body, his voice, the way he would whisper dirty things between soft kisses. it escalated fast. soon, the bed sheets were tangled, the clothes gone, and “yejun” was doing things to the protagonist that made your thighs clench under the desk.

you bit your lip, trying to suppress the heat pooling low in your stomach. your skin was flushed, breath a little too fast. god, it was just a story. just fiction.

but every line felt real.

too real.

when you finally finished, you closed the file with shaky fingers and stared at the screen, guilt washing over you like cold water. you’d just written a full-blown smut piece about your classmate. someone you knew. someone who’d smiled at you in the hallway just days ago.

he’s never going to know, you told yourself, shutting the thought down. your blog was anonymous. your secret was safe.

you shifted gears, finally starting your actual chapter for the week. when it was done and posted, the familiar flood of comments poured in. the joy from your readers was like a warm blanket, grounding you again. they loved it, as always. you loved them. they were the reason you kept writing.

by the time sunday night rolled around, the guilt had faded into the background, replaced by the sudden panic of realization—you still hadn’t started yeonjun’s pamphlet. you checked your phone. a new story on his profile. something about drinks with friends. he was still out, probably.

you rushed to open your design program, pulling up the notes you’d made. soft color palettes, modern typography, minimalistic but expressive—something that reflected the rhythm and movement of contemporary dance. you made one version. then another. kept tweaking the alignment, changing fonts, shifting images.

finally, at 2:34 a.m., you saved both files. sleepy, but satisfied. you dragged the two pdfs into your chat with him, barely thinking. you typed out the message:

“hi yeonjun! i made two versions, choose whichever you like best :)”

and hit send.

except… you hadn’t just selected the two designs.

your stomach dropped as you saw the third file still hanging in the message bubble. the one labeled: “yejun_x_fmc_draft01.docx”

it sent.

you stared at the message for a second, read it over just to make sure it sounded polite enough, and then closed the chat. satisfied, you shut your laptop, stretched your sore arms above your head, and let out a sleepy sigh. it was late. too late. your body ached from sitting in one spot too long, your eyes heavy. slipping under your blanket, you let your head hit the pillow, completely unaware of the very wrong file you’d just sent to yeonjun.

you fell asleep thinking about fonts and color palettes—clueless to the chaos waiting in your inbox.

yeonjun had been scrolling through his phone lazily that night, the apartment quiet except for the occasional hum of cars outside. it was past two in the morning, and most of his friends were either out partying or already passed out drunk. he, on the other hand, was comfortably sprawled out on his bed, hoodie thrown somewhere on the floor, phone in hand and thumbs working through unread messages. when your name popped up with a new chat, he blinked sleepily, expecting a simple "here are the flyers" type of thing.

maybe a couple of PDFs, a casual "let me know which one you like better." he smiled a little to himself. you were cute, in that quiet, bookish way. sweet. unassuming. kind of awkward, but endearing.

he tapped on the files without thinking.

the first opened fine—bright colors, clean design, silhouettes of dancers mid-pose, your signature soft aesthetic all over it. he liked it. clean, expressive. you were talented.

he clicked the second, expecting more of the same.

but then he saw… text. not a flyer. a story. his brow furrowed as he scrolled further. the format was familiar. narrative, dialogue. descriptive paragraphs. curiosity sparked, and his eyes began to scan the words.

“yejun’s fingers traced slow, burning lines down the curve of her waist, his voice low and thick in her ear. ‘you’re so quiet during the day,’ he murmured. ‘but in my bed? you’re a fucking mess.’”

his heart stopped.

his mouth went dry.

at first, he thought it was just a coincidence. a character named "yejun"—close, but not quite. but as he kept reading, the illusion crumbled. the description was too specific. too detailed. tall, black hair, piercings decorating both ears, cocky smile, flirty attitude, reads romance novels like a secret guilty pleasure—fuck, it was him. it was him on those pages. and you? the girl in the story? that was clearly you. no question.

his stomach twisted into knots.

his brain screamed that this was wrong, that he should stop reading, that this was invasive and inappropriate and god, disgusting. this was a violation of boundaries, wasn’t it? some kind of parasocial delusion—was this how you saw him?

but his eyes wouldn’t stop.

line after line, paragraph after paragraph, you painted a vivid, searing image of the two of you tangled in sheets, dripping with heat and tension. “yejun” had you beneath him, fingers curled into your thighs, lips murmuring filth against your throat while you begged for more. he could hear your voice in the words—he could see the way you might look, squirming beneath him, wide eyes glassy and pleading.

his hand gripped the phone tighter. he didn’t notice how his breath had gotten shallow. he didn’t notice how hard he’d gotten, straining against the loose fabric of his pants.

“she moaned when he spread her open, kissed the inside of her thighs like she was something sacred. ‘i wanna ruin you,’ he growled. ‘wanna fuck you so deep you forget your own damn name.’”

he hissed through his teeth, biting down on the inside of his cheek. fuck. fuck. fuck.

he shouldn’t be aroused by this. this was someone else’s fantasy. someone he barely knew. someone who wore glasses too big for her face and oversized cardigans and always tucked her hair behind her ears when she got nervous. someone shy and innocent and sweet.

except—no. apparently not. not so innocent.

his cock throbbed against the inside of his waistband. his face was flushed deep red, part shock, part guilt, part something far more primal. and still, he couldn’t look away.

you thought about him like that.

you imagined him taking you apart, fucking you senseless, making you cry with pleasure.

and now… he couldn’t stop picturing it either.

you didn’t realize a thing.

monday came and went, and you went about your routine like always—classes, notes, reading during lunch, replying to your blog comments in quiet corners of the library. the only thing different was that yeonjun hadn’t replied to your message. not even a “thanks.” he’d left you on read. that was unusual for him.

you saw him in the cafeteria once—just once. he was walking with some friends, laughing at something, tray in hand. you smiled instinctively, raising your hand in a little wave like you always did.

but he didn’t wave back.

he didn’t even look at you.

he walked right past, as if you weren’t even there.

you froze, hand mid-air, cheeks heating up with embarrassment. something was wrong. you could feel it in your gut.

and yet… you said nothing. you told yourself maybe he was just busy. maybe you were reading too much into it. but your heart ached anyway.

by wednesday, you couldn’t take it anymore.

you saw him sitting alone inside the dance studio, stretching, sweat-dampened hair clinging to his forehead. the doors were unlocked. you hesitated only a moment before stepping inside, chest tight, hands balled into anxious fists.

"yeonjun," you called softly, walking toward him.

he looked up, his face unreadable.

your heart dropped.

no warmth. no smile. no teasing glint in his eyes.

"why have you been ignoring me?" your voice cracked, but you kept going. "if you only needed the pamphlet, you could’ve just said so. you didn’t have to pretend like you liked talking to me."

he didn’t answer at first.

he stood up slowly, towering over you, and for the first time you felt… small.

not just in height. in everything.

he pulled his phone from his pocket.

"what's wrong with me?" he echoed, voice low. "shouldn’t i be asking you that?"

you blinked in confusion, taking a step back. “w-what are you talking about?”

he held the phone up to you.

and there it was.

your story.

the wrong file.

your face went completely cold.

your mouth opened, but no words came out. panic flooded you, head spinning, knees weak.

"this character,” he said calmly, almost cruelly. “it's me, isn’t it? same build. same personality. even the name.”

his voice wasn't angry—no, it was too calm. too quiet. too dangerous. your eyes flicked to the screen he held in his hand, your own words staring back at you with damning clarity. you couldn’t lie, couldn’t explain this away as coincidence. it was him. everything from the raven hair to the pierced ears, to the soft but commanding energy—the character had always been him.

"i... i can explain," you stammered, your voice barely a whisper, raw from emotion. "i didn’t mean for you to read it. it was a mistake, i—"

"it was meant to be private?" he cut in, taking another step toward you. "so private that you decided to send it directly to me?"

you flinched, your body screaming for you to run but your legs rooted to the floor. tears prickled your eyes, shame wrapping around your throat like a chokehold. your fingers curled into fists at your sides, not in anger, but in a desperate attempt to hold yourself together.

"i didn’t know i sent it. please, yeonjun, i didn’t want you to see that. i never would've wanted you to think—"

he stared down at you, his gaze dark. dangerous.

“you pretend to be so sweet. so quiet. like some shy little bookworm,” he murmured. “but you write about me like i’m your personal sex toy. like you wanna use me. ride me. make me beg.”

you whimpered, barely able to breathe, your eyes wide with horror.

you wanted to die.

you wanted to disappear.

his fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him. his thumb grazed your bottom lip.

but then his eyes darkened, jaw tightening, and he leaned in slightly. "the problem is," he said, voice low, "i can’t stop thinking about what you wrote. how detailed it was. how vividly you described it—me."

your breath caught. "yeonjun..."

"you wrote that you wanted me to hold you down," he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips. "that you wanted to ride me until you couldn’t walk straight. that you dreamed of me moaning your name while you begged for more. and all that... from the quiet girl who blushes when someone says 'kiss' in class?"

your knees nearly gave out. your skin burned with humiliation and something else—something terrifyingly warm spreading low in your belly. you shook your head again, but there were no words left to give him. no excuses. you were caught. exposed. and he was standing there, looking at you like he was reading every single fantasy straight from your soul.

“you’re disgusting,” he said, voice low and rough.

your eyes welled with tears.

but then he leaned closer, and his breath ghosted over your cheek. his voice dropped even lower, thick with something dangerous.

“but the worst part?” he smirked. “the more i think about it, the more i want to make it real." he murmured. 

you gasped, a whimper escaping your lips before you could stop it. it was wrong. it was insane. and yet... the tension between you crackled like a live wire.

"yeonjun, i..." your voice trembled.

"you don’t have to say anything," he said quietly, his thumb brushing away a tear on your cheek. "but if you really meant what you wrote... i will make your first time unforgettable, better than your story, better than many stories, i will fuck you as hard as you ask."

your heartbeat stuttered. your mind screamed for you to step away—but your body leaned into him, trembling from something far deeper than fear.

“so this is what you think about when you see me?” his voice is low, controlled, almost amused. but there’s something dark swimming beneath it. something hungry.

you’re frozen in front of him, face hot and eyes watery with humiliation. your vision blurs as the tears start spilling over your cheeks.

“fuck,” he mutters, stepping closer, eyes flicking over your trembling frame. “you’re crying.”

you nod, too ashamed to meet his gaze.

“you’re embarrassed?”

another nod.

and then he laughs. it’s not cruel—no, it’s worse. it’s knowing. it's the sound of someone who's seen through every layer you tried to hide.

you whimper, thighs squeezing together at his words. that ache between your legs intensifies, shame curling up with desire in your belly like a knot pulling tighter and tighter.

he’s in front of you now, towering over you, his hand reaching up to cup your cheek—thumb brushing away a tear, so gently it makes your breath catch.

“and this part—” he whispers, pulling his phone from his pocket. “this part right here... where you wrote that he ‘pinned her against the mirror and kissed her until she forgot her own name, one hand gripping her thigh, the other buried in her hair, making her moan before he even touched her pussy.’”

you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it all out.

“open your eyes.”

you do.

he leans in, lips ghosting over your ear.

“do you want me to do that to you?”

you pause. swallow hard. your silence is answer enough.

he chuckles again. “fuck, you’re cute when you pretend to be innocent. but now i know what’s under that little act. now i know what kind of slut you really are.”

your knees weaken. your panties are soaked.

“take it off,” he murmured.

your throat went dry. “w-what?”

he stepped closer, towering over you. the scent of his cologne and sweat from practice clung to him, heavy and dizzying.

“don’t make me repeat myself.” his voice dropped, gravelly. “hoodie. now.”

you hesitated, fingers curling at the hem.

your body moved before your brain could catch up. trembling fingers pulled your hoodie over your head, revealing your bare chest underneath—no bra, just skin, soft and warm and exposed to him.

“fuck, no bra? you were walking around like this, waiting for me to notice?”

he growled. actually growled.

“you walked in here looking like this…” his eyes roamed again, hungry. “thinking i wouldn’t notice the way your nipples get hard through your hoodie?

your stomach twisted, heat rushing between your legs.

“you act so innocent, baby, but that little mind of yours?” he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “filthy.”

your cheeks burned. your thighs squeezed together.

“take off the pants too, those fucking pants hiding the slut you really are” he added, voice darker now.

you obeyed slowly, pushing down the waistband of your sweatpants, revealing your thin white panties already soaked through. the air hit your thighs and you shivered—whether from the cold or the anticipation, you weren’t sure.

yeonjun sat down on the bench behind him, legs spread wide, cock hard and pressing visibly against his sweats.

“come here.”

you stepped between his legs, every nerve in your body lit on fire.

his hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer until your soaked panties brushed against the bulge in his pants. he hissed at the contact.

“you’re wet already?” he whispered, almost mocking. “just from me talking to you like this?”

you nodded, lips parted in a silent gasp as he rubbed his nose along the curve of your breast, not kissing—just inhaling you. savoring.

“you know what’s crazy?” he murmured. “i remember every single thing you wrote. every moan, every word you gave that version of me… and now i wanna hear them come out of your mouth.”

his hand slid under the band of your panties, fingers slipping between your folds.

“fuck—so wet for me. untouched, huh? this little cunt’s never been filled?”

you whimpered, nodding, nails digging into his shoulders.

“good,” he groaned, pulling your panties down your legs. “i wanna be the only one who gets to ruin this pussy.”

he hooked your thighs over his, adjusting your body until you were hovering over his clothed cock, dripping against the fabric.

“say it,” he ordered.

“say what?”

his eyes locked with yours, deadly calm.

“tell me you want to sit on it.”

your chest rose and fell fast, lips trembling. “i… i want to ride you.”

“that’s not what i said, baby.”

you swallowed. heat flooded your cheeks, but your hips instinctively rolled against him.

“i want to sit on your cock,” you breathed, voice shaky. “please, let me ride you”

his head tilted slightly, lips curling into a smirk as he pulled his sweats down, cock springing free. thick. veined. already leaking.

“then prove it,” he rasped.

you didn’t even hesitate. you gripped his shoulders and lined yourself up, your slick dripping down the tip. his hands gripped your hips, steadying you.

“this might hurt, baby,” he whispers, brushing his lips against yours, “but i’ll be gentle. i’ll make it feel so fucking good you’ll beg me never to stop.”

he pushes in slowly, his cock splitting you open inch by inch. you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders. he’s big—so much bigger than you imagined—and your body clenches tight around him.

“that’s it, princess. take it. let me feel that pretty little virgin pussy.”

you whimper, burying your face in his neck as he bottoms out, letting you adjust. he doesn’t move right away—just holds you, one hand cradling your back, the other gripping your thigh.

“you’re doing so good for me. so fucking tight.”

he let you sink down inch by inch, until you were fully seated on him, legs shaking. your head fell onto his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.

he starts to move, slow at first, dragging you up and down on his cock with gentle rolls of his hips. you gasp again, tears springing to your eyes from the overwhelming stretch and pleasure.

“slow, baby,” he murmured, voice suddenly softer—but his eyes still burned with control. “i’ll go slow. i’ll stretch you out nice and easy, okay?”

you nodded, barely breathing.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned. “so fucking perfect. this little pussy was made for me.”

you moaned totally lost in desire, little by little the pain disappeared and turned into pleasure.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he whispered against your neck, kissing you there. “being such a good girl while i ruin your first time.”

you whimpered, rocking your hips slowly, gasping at the overwhelming fullness. he filled every part of you—stretching, claiming, owning.

“don’t stop,” you breathed. “please, don’t stop.”

“fuck, you’re even better than i imagined. so warm. so wet. so fucking mine.”

his hands slid up your back, gripping your hair, pulling your head back just enough for your eyes to meet.

“then ride me, baby. ride me like you fucking mean it.”

his grip on your hips tightens as you start to move—slow, uncertain rolls of your body at first, each one drawing a sharp inhale from you and a low, rumbling groan from him.

his cock feels impossibly thick inside you, the stretch dragging along every nerve ending. your thighs shake from the pressure, the burn, the pleasure that's building fast and overwhelming.

“that’s it, baby,” he breathes, eyes locked on your face as you try to ride him, “you’re doing so fucking good. taking me so well… fuck, this tight little pussy was starving for cock, huh?”

you cry out when he shifts his hips up, thrusting deeper. your walls clench around him, and the reaction makes his head fall back against the mirror, a hiss leaving his lips.

“fuck—don’t do that unless you wanna make me cum already.”

his hands slide from your waist to your ass, grabbing handfuls of soft skin as he starts to guide you himself—lifting you, lowering you, bouncing you gently on his cock. your hands fly to his shoulders for balance, mouth open in a silent moan as he hits a new spot inside you.

“right there, huh?” he growls, pulling your hips down harder. “you like that, baby? you like being stuffed full of your senior’s cock in the fucking practice room?”

you nod frantically, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, not from pain anymore—but from the pressure building deep in your core, the knot tightening fast.

“say it.”

“i love it,” you gasp, rolling your hips now with purpose. “i love your cock—fuck—it’s so deep, i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he grunts, meeting your movements with rougher thrusts now, fucking up into you while holding you down. “you will. be a good girl and take it.”

you sob, pleasure tearing through you, sharp and desperate. your nipples brush his chest, slick skin against skin, sweat dripping down your spine.

“you’re such a filthy little thing, aren’t you?” he pants, dragging his tongue along your collarbone, biting down just enough to leave a mark. “acting shy in front of the others, but here you are—riding me like a fucking whore.”

you moan loudly, the sound echoing in the studio, your voice bouncing off the mirrors, filling the space. his hand slips between your bodies, thumb pressing hard against your clit.

“don’t hold back, baby. cum on my cock. i wanna feel this pussy squeeze me while you fall apart.”

your eyes flutter shut, and your whole body tenses as his thumb moves in tight circles, the thick drag of his cock hitting all the right places.

then everything snaps.

your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, stealing the breath from your lungs. your moan breaks into a cry as your walls pulse around him, milking his cock, your thighs trembling uncontrollably.

“that’s it, baby—fuck, that’s it, just like that,” he growls, holding you tight as your cunt grips him, hot and wet and spasming. “so fucking good for me.”

his rhythm falters, his breaths sharp.

“you’re gonna make me cum—fuck—where do you want it?”

you barely manage to speak, drunk on the high.

“inside,” you whisper. “please, fill me up.”

his hips snap up one last time, deep and hard. he buries himself to the hilt, a strangled groan ripping from his throat as he spills inside you, hot and thick and endless.

you both go still—bodies pressed together, hearts racing. his arms wrap around your waist, holding you to him like he never wants to let go. your walls flutter around his softening cock, the mix of your release leaking down your thighs.

he kisses your shoulder, slow and soft now, grounding you.

“you okay, baby?” he murmurs against your skin.

you nod, voice weak. “yeah… i’ve never felt anything like that.”

he chuckles gently, kissing your jaw.

“can i—can i ride you at your place next time?” you pant, nails raking down his arms.

he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“you wanna sit on daddy’s cock at home, baby? ride me like a good little slut while i fuck your brains out?”

you nod frantically, eyes hazy with lust.

“please… dominate me. make me yours.”

his grin is wicked. his thrusts grow rougher. deeper. the sound of skin slapping fills the mirrored room.

“you are mine, baby. every fucking inch of you.”

you sat there, still straddling him, your thighs shaking against his hips, skin flushed and slick with sweat. your fingers dug into his chest, trying to steady your breath, but the heat between your legs pulsed with every heartbeat — a reminder of what had just happened. he looked up at you with that same wicked smile, the one you once only imagined while typing your dirtiest fantasies late at night. except now, it wasn’t fiction. it was real. your filthy little story had come to life, every word, every whimper, every shameless desire — all of it played out on the floor of the dance studio, with yeonjun underneath you, hard and breathless. he had read your mind… and fucked it into reality.

[theonottsbxtch]

I KNOW LOVE | CS55

an: i know love when it hits when it hits yeah i know lovvvvvvveeeee. i want to be in love im sick and tired of being single. anyway enjoy this situationship turned relationship.

wc: 2.6k

summary: a university student and a carlos sainz fall into a no-strings-attached situationship that slowly, quietly turns into something real. between teasing banter, soft confessions, and tender moments, they navigate the blurred lines of love and timing. what begins as casual ends in a kiss on the graduation steps, proving that love doesn't always come loud. sometimes it arrives exactly when you're ready.

SHE HADN’T MEANT TO MEET ANYONE THAT NIGHT.

It was meant to be one of those throwaway evenings. Cheap drinks, too-loud music, and her best friends dragging her onto sticky dancefloors under pulsing neon lights. A Friday night reset before deadlines started piling up again. But then there he was.

Carlos.

All dark eyes and an easy smile, pressed against the bar like he wasn’t used to standing still for long. He looked vaguely familiar, like someone she’d scrolled past on Instagram once or twice, but she hadn’t connected the dots until later. After he’d offered her his jacket outside, after he’d walked her to her Uber and kissed her like he already knew what she tasted like.

That was six months ago.

They didn’t call it anything. No labels, no promises. He was a Formula One driver. 

A fucking Formula One driver.

Always bouncing between cities and time zones, giving her just enough to keep her coming back. And she was a full-time student, juggling seminars, flatmates, and a dissertation she barely understood. Still, between the chaos, they found time for stolen moments. Late-night calls, blurry selfies, hotel rooms that smelled like his cologne, and whispered words that felt dangerously close to confessions.

Now, she was sat in his Grove flat, legs draped over his lap, one of his race team hoodies drowning her frame. He was flipping through some post-race briefing on his iPad, lips moving as he read, brow furrowed. His accent was thick, words rolling off his tongue like slow honey, and every now and then he’d look up at her like she was the only thing in the room worth watching.

She wasn’t sure when it had changed. When casual had turned into something that lingered in the silence. When kisses stopped feeling like a game and started to taste like maybe.

Maybe she was already his. Maybe he was already hers.

“¿Qué?” he murmured, catching her watching him. “You look at me like that, I forget all my words.”

She smiled, heart tripping over itself.

“You should really learn to focus, Carlos.”

He leaned in, eyes dark and slow-burning, voice a low drawl. “Hard when you’re here.”

Carlos tossed the iPad onto the sofa with a sigh, stretching his arms behind his head like he hadn’t just stolen every ounce of her attention.

“You read that or just stared at the screen pretending to be clever?” she teased, nudging his knee with her toes.

He looked at her, deadpan. “I am clever. Just... very distracted.”

“Oh yeah? By what?”

He leaned closer, like he was going to whisper a secret, but all he said was, “You.”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a grin. “Smooth.”

“I am smooth.” His accent thickened around the vowels, “You say this like it’s not true. You know what they call me on track.”

“You flirt like it’s your job.”

He tilted his head, mock serious. “It’s not my job. I drive cars very fast. But this?” He gestured between them. “This, I do it for free.”

She laughed, curling her legs back under her. Carlos had a way of making her laugh without trying too hard. He didn’t come off like the typical athlete, didn’t need to peacock or throw stats in her face. He was easy, in a way that made him dangerous.

“Do you always flirt this much with girls you’re not dating?”

His mouth curved slightly. “We are not dating?”

Her breath caught. That was the thing with Carlos. Hhe could say something like that, loaded with implication, but his eyes would stay soft, almost shy, like he was trying it out on his tongue.

“I mean, we said no labels.”

He gave a little shrug, like labels were just stickers on a helmet. “Sometimes I think about... putting one on. Maybe. When you are not looking.”

She swatted his arm. “Cheeky.”

“You like it.”

She did. God, she really did.

Sometimes he brought her flowers, nothing fancy, usually from some street market in whatever city he’d landed in, always slightly crumpled from the travel, wrapped in paper that smelt like espresso and jet fuel. Once, he turned up outside her lecture hall in a hoodie and cap, waiting in a beat-up rental car, blasting music from the speakers. Another time, he’d cooked her dinner in his Monaco apartment, not well, but with so much heart it tasted like comfort anyway.

She learned early on that he liked to touch. Always brushing his fingers over her knuckles when she talked, or resting his palm against her thigh when he laughed. Acts of service came next, unasked for, casual, like carrying her shopping up three flights of stairs without blinking, or fixing the wobbly chair in her flat without mentioning it.

And when she was overwhelmed with uni stress and hadn’t replied to him all day, he’d sent a voice note. Just his voice, soft and sleepy and a little accented.

“Don’t worry, cariño. I wait. Always.”

She hadn’t even told him she liked being called that.

Now, she watched as he fumbled with the zip on her hoodie — his hoodie — and made a face like the whole thing was conspiring against him.

“Why do your zips always jam?” he grumbled.

“Because you insist on owning overpriced team merch that’s all show and no substance.”

“Hey,” he protested. “This is quality.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, then lunged suddenly, pulling her into his lap with a laugh. “Okay, no more insults. You stay here, and be quiet. It's better that way.”

She wriggled, pretending to fight him off. “So bossy!”

“Mmm,” he murmured against her hair. “Only with you.”

They settled, eventually, in a tangle of limbs and easy silence. The telly played quietly in the background, but neither of them paid attention. Her fingers traced the soft fabric of his sleeve, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath her cheek.

“Hey, Carlos?”

“Hmm?”

“If we keep doing... this,” she said, voice low, “are we ever going to talk about what it is?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kissed the top of her head, slow and careful, like the question mattered more than anything else in the world.

“Maybe. But not tonight.”

And somehow, she was okay with that.

Because love. Real love didn't always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it came like this.

Quiet. Familiar. And already here.

It was raining the next morning.

Not dramatic, cinematic rain, just that persistent England drizzle that made everything feel grey around the edges. The kind that clung to windows and turned pavements slick. She stirred awake to the smell of coffee and the faint hum of music from the kitchen, something mellow and Spanish that drifted through the flat like a memory.

Carlos had a habit of waking up before her. Not in a restless way, more like he just didn’t need much sleep. He always said racing taught him how to switch off and back on again like a light. Still, she never got used to finding the other side of the bed empty.

Pulling on a pair of his joggers, she padded barefoot into the kitchen. He stood by the stove, shirtless, hair messy, humming along to the song as he stirred something in a pan.

“You’re cooking?” she said, rubbing her eyes.

He turned, grinning. “Trying. No promises.”

“What is it?”

“Something my mama makes. Very simple. You’ll like it.”

She leaned against the counter, watching him move. The way he added things with a sort of confidence that didn’t entirely match the slight panic in his eyes. He was like that with everything, really. Confident, until he wasn’t. Charming, until it got too real.

He set two plates down and slid one in front of her with a flourish.

“Taste. And be kind.”

She took a bite. It was warm, garlicky, a little too salty. But perfect in a way that had nothing to do with flavour.

“It’s good,” she said softly.

He beamed, relief flickering across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ve won me over with your terrible attempt at Spanish comfort food.”

“Terrible?” he gasped, placing a hand on his chest like she’d wounded him. “You wound me, mi vida.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You just love being dramatic.”

“You just love me.”

The words slipped out so casually, so easily, that for a moment she didn’t react. He was already reaching for the kettle like he hadn’t just cracked open something fragile between them.

Her breath caught.

“You said—”

“I know,” he said, not looking at her. “Was a joke.”

It wasn’t. She knew it. He knew she knew.

“Carlos.”

He finally looked at her. The humour was gone from his face, replaced by something quieter. Something that felt a lot like fear.

“I think about it sometimes,” he said, his voice lower now. “Saying it. For real. But I don’t want to scare you.”

She stared at him, heart thudding in her chest. Not because she was afraid, but because she wasn’t.

“I’m not scared.”

He smiled, small and unsure. “I am.”

She reached for his hand across the counter, fingers threading through his. His palm was warm, slightly calloused, trembling just the tiniest bit.

“Carlos,” she whispered. “Say it.”

He hesitated, eyes scanning her face like he was still trying to decide if this was safe. And then, just barely audible over the rain against the windows, he said it again, softer, and this time, real.

“I love you.”

No fireworks. No music swelling in the background. Just those three words, fragile and naked and hanging in the air between them.

He looked at her, dark eyes open and honest in a way that made her chest ache. “You don’t have to say it,” he murmured.

“I want to,” she said quietly.

He stilled.

“I love the way you always try to cook for me, even though you never measure anything properly,” she began, a soft smile playing on her lips. “I love the way you switch to Spanish without realising when you're tired. The way you fiddle with your necklace when you’re nervous. I love that you let me steal your hoodies even though you pretend to complain.”

His eyes softened, like each word was settling somewhere deep inside him.

“I love how you always remember to ask about my deadlines even when you’ve just come back from a race halfway across the world. I love the way you look at me like I’m the only person in the room. And I love—” she paused, voice barely a breath now, “—I love you, Carlos.”

His jaw tightened slightly, like he was trying not to fall apart. “Joder,” he whispered, standing up and pulling her into his arms, burying his face in her neck. “You say these things and now I don’t know what to do with myself.”

She laughed, muffled against his skin. “You don’t have to do anything.”

But he pulled back just enough to see her face. “No, no, I want to. I love... how you talk back to me, even when I’m trying to be charming. I love how you look in the morning when your hair’s a mess and you’re still half-asleep and grumpy. I love how you look at me like I’m not just the racing guy.”

“You’re not,” she whispered. “Not to me.”

“I love that you make me slow down,” he said, brushing a hand down her cheek. “You make everything quiet. Even the noise in my head.”

She didn’t give him time to say more. She just kissed him, not the kind of kiss that tried to prove anything, but the kind that simply was. The kind that told him she was staying. The kind that said, we’re in this now.

When they finally pulled apart, he was smiling, a real one, soft and boyish and slightly dazed.

“I can’t wait to show you off,” he said, thumb brushing her lower lip. “You have no idea.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Absolutely not.”

“What?” He looked offended.

“No paddock,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “Not until I graduate.”

He groaned, loud and dramatic, flopping backwards onto the nearest chair like she’d just cancelled Christmas, leaving his plate of food to go cold.

“You are cruel. Cruel,” he mumbled, arm flung over his eyes. “Do you know how long that is?”

“Five months.”

“Five months?!” He peeked at her. “That is forever. I’ll be grey.”

“You’ll survive,” she said, perching on his lap and poking his side.

“I’ll wither without you next to the garage.”

“Carlos,” she said dryly, “you’re literally on telly every other Sunday. You’ll manage.”

He sighed deeply, then wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in so their foreheads touched again.

“Fine,” he said, voice quieter now. “But the second you toss that cap in the air at graduation... I’m making you mine in front of everyone.”

Her heart gave the softest thump.

“You already have me.”

And he did.

He didn’t care about all the phones capturing the moment, or the look of shock on her classmates’ faces as he kissed her senseless on the steps of the graduation hall.

She’d barely turned around after tossing her cap when he found her, grinning, breathless, and already tearing across the crowd like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

“Carlos—what are you—?”

“I told you,” he murmured, already wrapping his arms around her waist, lifting her clean off the ground. “No more waiting.”

And then he kissed her. Right there, in front of her entire class. In front of her professors, her friends, even her mum, who pretended to be scandalised but later whispered that she always had a soft spot for Spanish men with good teeth and bad timing.

It was ridiculous. It was loud. It was absolutely perfect.

After that, everything changed. Not all at once, more like dominoes falling gently, one by one.

She started travelling with him between her freelance work and post-grad plans. Not every race, just the ones that fit. Enough that his team started saving her a spare pass without asking. She kept her boundaries, her life. But somehow, they found a way to overlap without losing themselves.

He still brought her flowers from dodgy airport shops. Still sent voice notes when they were apart, his voice sleep-rough and full of words that didn't always come out in the right order, but always landed in exactly the right place.

He’d whisper “te quiero” into her hair when he thought she was asleep. She wasn’t. Not once.

They argued, sometimes, usually about stupid things, like how she always left wet towels on the floor, or how he kept eating her snacks and then replacing them with “better ones” from some Spanish brand she didn’t even like. But they always found their way back.

They became a thing, not in the public, polished way people expected, but in the quiet, private corners of the world they carved out for themselves. Late nights watching old race footage. Slow mornings tangled up in hotel sheets. Sundays when he wasn’t in the points and she said the right things without pretending to understand every detail.

She loved him for who he was, not what he did. And he adored her for all the things she didn’t realise she gave him.

The calm. The truth. The place to land.

And when they fell asleep, limbs tangled, voices low and sleepy and full of I love you’s in whichever language felt right there was no need to call it anything but theirs.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @n0vazsq @dying-inside-but-its-classy @carlossainzapologist @hzstry8 @oikarma @amyelevenn @obxstiles

[lovetommyactually]

this is a mess, written directly into the tumblr app lmao, but it wouldn’t leave my head so here... have it. post 8x15, cw: grief, canon mcd

It was past midnight. Maybe closer to two. That hollow hour where the city curled into itself—too late for night, too early for morning—and even the birds hadn’t begun to stir.

He sat slouched on the couch, shoulders caved in, like he could fold himself small enough to disappear. The beer in his hand—fourth? fifth?—had gone warm, but he held it anyway. The TV played something pointless, volume low, just enough to fill the room with something that wasn’t silence.

Not that it helped. The real noise was in his head.

Bobby’s voice hadn’t left him. “You’ll be okay, Buck. They’re gonna need you.” Said like it was simple. Like Buck’s world didn’t collapse on itself. He’d replayed that moment so many times it burned behind his eyes. all He could think was—how do you stay standing when the person who kept you grounded is the one who’s gone?

Maddie’s voice followed after, soft, pleading, “You don’t have to be okay right now, Buck. You just have to let yourself feel it.”

But he didn’t want to. Couldn’t. Because feeling it meant naming it. And naming it meant breaking apart.

Too much.

Everyone felt like they were slipping, like the world had tilted and no one knew how to catch their balance again. Buck didn’t either. So he didn’t try. He sat. He drank. He told himself he was fine. Numb was easier. Numb was safe.

But even that was starting to splinter at the edges.

So he stayed still. Let it all swirl inside—grief, guilt, confusion, anger—tangled so tightly he couldn’t tell one from the other. He didn’t cry. Didn’t scream—not again, not yet—He just sat there, breathing in static and beer fumes, whispering the same thing over and over in his mind,

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll try again.

Tomorrow he’d be better. He’d hold it together. He’d be who Bobby believed he could be. Tomorrow, he’d show up for everyone again.

But tonight—tonight he just needed to hold it together long enough to survive the quiet.

Too much. Too loud.

Until a knock shattered it.

Not loud—just enough to cut through the fog.

He blinked slowly toward the door. Didn’t move.

Another knock. This one didn’t ask. It forced him to get up.

“…Tommy?”

Tommy stood there, jacket zipped, windblown, eyes soft, worried.

“Hi,” he said, breathless. “Thank god… I tried calling you, Evan. A lot. You weren’t answering.”

Buck stared. Not surprised. Not upset. Just… tired. He looked at Tommy like one might look at a dream they’d almost forgotten.

All he could think was how badly he wanted to crawl inside Tommy’s ribs and stay there—where it was warm and safe and beating.

But he didn’t say that.

He didn’t say anything.

He just stepped back, left the door open, and leaned against the back of the couch.

Tommy lingered a moment before asking, careful, “Can I come in?”

Buck shrugged, eyes flicking away. Voice too thin to use.

Tommy stepped in, shut the door behind him, and slowly made his way to Buck’s side. His gaze fell to the cluster of beer bottles on the table. He didn’t comment.

Instead, he asked, “How are you doing?”

That made Buck laugh—a hollow, breathless thing. “How am I supposed to answer that?” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Tommy nodded, didn’t press, but stayed near.

Buck gave more shrugs. One for every question.

“Have you eaten anything?”

Shrug.

“Are you sleeping at all?”

Shrug.

“Did you even talk to anyone today?”

Another shrug. He didn’t even bother pretending to think about it.

Tommy exhaled slowly, like he was trying to hold something in—something fragile and fraying. “I gave you time,” he said softly. “Told myself maybe you needed space. But, Evan…” He stepped closer, just a little. “It’s been days. You weren’t answering anyone. I-I had to come.”

Buck didn’t look at him. Just let the words hang in the thick air between them, one hand tightening around the neck of his beer like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Tommy’s next breath was sharper. Pushed to the edge of fear. “Will you answer me instead of just shrugging everything away?”

Buck’s jaw twitched. He looked up at Tommy like the question was too sharp to forgive.

“Why?” His voice cracked, low and bitter. “What do you want me to say?”

He gestured vaguely—at the room, the bottles, maybe even himself.

“Of course I’m not okay. But I’ll get over it, right? That’s what people do. They move on.” He shook his head. “What do you expect from me, Tommy?”

Tommy’s hand half-lifted, like he was going to reach for him. Then dropped.

“I want you to talk to me. I’m trying, Evan. I’ve been trying to reach you, and you keep running.”

Buck scoffed. Bit down the anger rising under his skin. That sting blooming behind his eyes wasn’t anger—it was something worse.

“…Ironic, huh?”

Tommy didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile.

“Evan... I’m worried.”

That. That broke something.

“No…” Buck said, shaking his head, almost childlike.

Buck slid down the couch, spine curling, breath hitching—like the act of staying upright had finally become too much. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, like he could shove the feeling back in before it escaped.

Tommy followed him, kneeling, close but not touching.

Waiting.

“No…” he whispered, barely audible. “I have to be strong. They need me.”

Tommy moved closer, voice low and warm. “Sweetheart, you are strong. That doesn’t mean you don’t get to feel things.”

Buck shook his head, sharp and frantic. “No, Tommy. No. If I…” His breath hitched again. “If I let myself—i-if I feel this, I won’t be strong. I won’t be anything.”

He looked up at Tommy then, glassy-eyed and terrified. Not of what had happened. Of what was still inside him, waiting to be felt.

Tommy's expression broke. He reached out, just to offer.

“Oh, Evan,” he said, voice catching. “You will be. I swear to you, you will be. But right now? At this moment? I don’t need you to be strong. You don’t have to hold it all alone. You can let go if you need to. I’m here. I’m right here.”

There was a long silence. One that stretched between them, breathless and trembling. Like Buck had seen some kind of opening—like he wanted to step through it.

But instead, he squeezed his eyes shut again. Tighter. As if doing so might stop everything from spilling out.

“No…”

And then, finally, like it cost him everything

“I can’t,” Buck whispered. “If I lean on you… if I let myself break… and you leave—if you leave me—I won’t be able to pull myself back together.”

Tommy’s breath hitched.

Buck’s eyes were shining now, glassy and unfocused. “You show up, and I’m so thankful—so damn grateful… but Tommy—” His voice broke around the name. “I need someone to stay.”

His voice cracked then, thin and trembling, every syllable held together by the last thread of his strength.

Tommy reached out, hand resting gently on Buck’s arm.

“I won’t leave.”

Buck looked at him, disbelief painted in every line of his face.

“Yeah?” he asked, so quietly, like he barely dared to hope.

“I promise you, Evan,” Tommy said, firm, no hesitation. “If you let me, if you allow me to stay, I promise I will never leave.”

Buck wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to. He needed it.

But he shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut like the hope itself was too much.

Tommy’s hand stayed firm.

“Evan… I never made promises before. Not to you” He swallowed. “But I’m making one now.”

And maybe it was that—the honesty. The raw, trembling truth in Tommy’s voice. The fact of it.

Maybe Buck believed him.

Because he didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

His fingers loosened around the bottle without realizing it. The beer slipped from his hand, hit the floor with a soft thud, and tipped—its contents spilling, seeping slowly into the rug.

But Buck didn’t look down.

A tear slipped down his cheek. Just one. Quiet. Unnoticed, maybe even by him.

Tommy saw it.

He moved gently, carefully—like he was stepping into a space sacred and fragile—and slid closer. Then, without a word, he reached out and pulled Buck into him.

Buck didn’t resist.

Didn’t hesitate.

The second Tommy’s arms wrapped around him, Buck collapsed.

Head pressed against Tommy’s chest, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers clutching at his shirt like a lifeline. His breath caught—hitched—and then shuddered out of him in one long, broken exhale.

Tommy could feel Buck’s heartbeat—too fast, too loud—pressed against his chest. Like even Buck’s body wanted it out, didn’t know how to hold this much pain.

And then another breath.

And then he cried.

No sobs. No wails. Just quiet, shaking grief—like something finally cracked open and couldn’t be closed again.

Tommy held him tighter, one hand moving slowly up his back, the other cradling the nape of his neck.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice breaking with him. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

That’s what undid him.

Buck's fingers clenched tighter in Tommy’s shirt as the words tore out of him—small and cracked and soaked in pain.

“He told me I’ll be okay, Tommy…” His voice trembled, catching on each syllable. “I’m not. I’m not okay. I never will be.”

His body shook with the force of it, like admitting it made everything real.

Like the grief had finally found its voice—and it came out sounding like him.

Tommy didn’t speak right away. He just tightened his hold, one hand steady against the back of Buck’s head, the other splayed between his shoulder blades, grounding him.

“You will be,” he murmured, barely above a breath. “Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow… but you will be, Evan. I promise you.”

Buck shook his head, a broken, desperate motion, forehead still pressed against Tommy’s chest.

“I didn’t even say goodbye. I didn’t say anything.”

Tommy closed his eyes for a second, like the weight of it hit him too. But his arms never loosened.

“He knew, Evan,” he whispered. “I promise you—he knew.”

Tommy tightened his grip slightly, one hand smoothing up Buck’s back in slow, steady strokes.

“And you still can. Whenever you’re ready... he’ll still hear you.”

But Buck was past hearing reason.

His breath hitched hard, a sob catching mid-throat before it forced its way out—ugly and sharp. “I c-can’t—” he gasped, and then the words stopped working.

He tried again, but nothing came out except noise. Raw, aching noise. Grief in its purest, most helpless form.

And still, Tommy held him.

He pulled Buck tighter, cradling the back of his head, rocking him just slightly—not enough to soothe, just enough to stay.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered again, over and over now, like a mantra. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Eventually, Buck went quieter. The sobs thinned to uneven breathing, but his lips kept moving—mumbling something, soft and broken, over and over.

Tommy leaned in, trying to hear. Couldn’t. His brows drew together.

“Evan?” he whispered, pulling back just a little, just enough to see his face.

Buck’s face was wet, flushed, crumpled with the kind of pain that didn’t know how to hide itself anymore. His eyes barely opened.

“Stay,” he said, voice hoarse, barely there. “Stay tonight and tomorrow, and just… stay, Tommy. Please.”

Tommy didn’t answer with words.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the birthmark above Buck’s eye, tender and reverent. Then he pulled him back into his arms.

Buck curled in closer, folding into the space between Tommy’s legs, cheek pressed against his chest, body trembling but held.

The floor beneath them was hard. Unforgiving. And Tommy didn’t move.

He kissed Buck’s hair. Then again. And again.

Soft. Reassuring. Steady.

“I’m not going anywhere, Evan.”

[ephie-om]

Kitchen Adventures

Inspired by this post by @zephyrchama. I'm so sorry for this.

“Solomon’s been acting suspicious.”

“I hate to break it to ya, but that’s just the way he is.”

You frown at Mammon. “I know that. He’s acting more suspicious than usual.”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t question ‘im. You probably ain’t gonna like the answer.”

He hunches back over, strong hands dwarfing the tiny pliers he’s using to fix your necklace. The room falls into a comfortable silence for a few moments, until your conversation finally catches up with Mammon’s brain. “You think he’s plannin’ something?” he asks, a worried crease forming in his brow.

It’s your turn to shrug. “Maybe. Like you said, there’s no way of knowing what he’s up to.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that. I said you might not like findin’ out. There’s plenty of ways to find out what he’s up to if you’re his-” Mammon sits up straight, clasps his hands together, and puts on a high voice, “adorable apprentice.” 

“He does NOT sound like that.”

“Sure he doesn’t. Anyways, I’m sure he’d tell you if ya asked him. Or at least give ya a hint.”

Without ceremony, Mammon dumps the silver chain into your hands, barely giving you a chance to catch it. “Are you in a hurry to get away from me?” you tease.

“If you’re tryna mess with whatever Solomon’s got goin’ on, I’m gonna put some distance in between us,” he chuckles. “Good luck.”

You push open the door of Purgatory Hall with a creak. You had knocked when you got here, but judging by the muffled explosions coming from deeper within the house, there wasn’t much chance anybody would be here to let you in. Peeking around the corner into the kitchen, you see none of the hall’s residents, bringing another frown to your face. 

The counters are messy with flour, an unknown substance splotched on the cabinets. Against your better judgment, you poke at it with a finger. It’s sticky, and, from what you can sense, vaguely magical. Yep. Solomon’s definitely been in here. You turn your attention to the sink, piled with dishes that smell like… well, like death. Sulfur and brimstone. The pits of the Devildom. Maybe that was an exaggeration, but you didn’t think so. 

A creak from the staircase draws your attention, and you finally see Solomon making his way downstairs. “Hey, MC,” he smiles faintly. “Looking for someone?”

“Yeah, I was trying to find you, but there weren’t any signs of life,” you joke.

Solomon pales. “Signs of life?”

“Uh… yeah. Like you, Simeon or Luke?”

“Oh! Of course,” his usual cocky smile is back, but not without a hint of something else under it. 

You squint at him. “Solomon?”

“Yes, my darling apprentice?”

“What did you do?”

“What did I- nothing! I haven’t done anything. Not unless you count being the wisest sorcerer alive, of course.” A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his head, and he pretends to fix his hair.

“Solomon.”

“Why don’t we go up to my room for a bit? I can show you what I’ve been working on lately.”

“Solomon.”

His shoulders slump in defeat. “You can’t tell anyone, alright?” 

You nod, still keeping a safe distance from him, and he circles around you. You back up a few steps, not quite trusting him to remember your fragile human bones. He rolls up one sleeve and- “EW, SOLOMON!”- plunges his hand into the sink. He feels around for a moment, face scrunching up in concentration, and finally pulls out his prize.

In his still-dripping hand sits a soggy brown blob about the size of a fist. It looks like unleavened dough, speckled with bits of herbs. A clump of flour bobs to the top slowly, then bursts, soaking back into the dough. “You were hiding this from me the entire time?”

Solomon holds up a finger. “Just wait.”

The blob shifts, and despite the stench, your curiosity wins out and you step closer. Two lumps form at its base, lifting it up, and slowly growing long enough to support the rest of its body. Two smaller lumps grew from its midsection, and the body began to separate into one part below and one at the top. The bit at the top caves in to form two small dents, just where eyes would be. It would look almost cartoonish if you were five feet away, but right now…

“Solomon, that looks fucking horrific.”

A high pitched whine fills your ears, emanating from somewhere in the blob. Solomon curls his other hand protectively around the blob-thing, and you try not to think about the puddle of sink water forming on the floor below it. “He can hear you,” he hisses, pulling it closer to his chest. Thankfully, the noise stops as he shields it from your view.

“I don’t know what level of sentience it’s achieved,” he whispers, looking cowed. “I don’t want to make a wrong move, so I’m trying to give it as much respect as I can.”

“He?!” you whisper-yell back. “Why are you treating it like a person?”

“You want to respect the demonic version of the Pillsbury doughboy? How did he even get here?”

Solomon gives you a pained look as he slowly removes his other hand from the thing. “It’s called a homunculus, for one thing. As for his creation, I was in the kitchen.”

“I gathered.”

“And I wanted to enhance the biscuits I was making, so I used magic, of course. I guess the way I worded the spell might have been interpreted as literally giving something life…” he trails off in thought.

“Weren’t you just talking about how you’re the wisest sorcerer alive?” 

“One last question.” He raises an eyebrow. “Why the hell is he living in the sink?"

Solomon hmphs in your direction. “Everyone makes mistakes; that’s how we learn,” he says sagely.

“Oh, he likes it in there.”

“He what now?”

“I think it’s because of the humidity. I tried taking him up to my room so I could keep an eye on him and he went dormant again.” 

“Dormant? Like when he’s curled up like that?” Solomon nods, and the two of you lapse into silence, both staring down at his unholy biscuit creation. 

“Do you want to name him?”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Well, we have to refer to him somehow. Who better than my lovely apprentice to choose a name?”

You stare at the blob. Little bits of dried leaves poke out from it, and its empty eye sockets stare ominously back at you. The doughy skin has started to shrink as it slowly dries, causing it to fold and crease where the limbs meet the body. You try to like it, you really do, but the more you look at it, the uglier it gets. You hope that your reflexes will be fast enough to throw it against the wall if it starts making that noise again.

“What did you say it was called?”

“A homunculus.”

You summon all of your incredible wordsmithing ability. It is your solemn duty to name this awful creation to save the world from the next Frankenstein’s monster. It has to be something affectionate, creative, easy to say…

“Homie. Lil’ Homie.”

“...homie? As in homunculus?”

You nod. “Exactly.” Lil Homie stares back at you, a tiny stem falling through his leg. “Can we please put him back in the sink now?”

Solomon obliges, nestling him in between several plates and scraping the dough from his hands as best he can. Lil Homie re-blobs, half-submerged in sink water. You and Solomon stare into the pile. Solomon leans over to whisper in your ear. “Don’t worry, I have plans to bake him if he gets too aggressive.”

[theonlyonesora]

The Quiet Equation - Part 2

Toto Wolff x You

Brackley was not like Cambridge.

It was quieter here—cleaner, colder. The kind of silence that hummed with machinery and method. The kind that felt like precision. Like control. It fit him. It fit you.

The team welcomed you politely, if not a little warily. A new intern. One of the top minds from Harvard, they’d heard. A special project, Toto had said, though the specifics remained vague. No one asked too many questions. Not when he was the one who brought you in.

You wore your badge like armor. Your smile, even more so.

But late nights at the factory wore down masks faster than you expected.

Especially when he started staying later too.

It started with the project—an exploratory model analyzing driver response to high-stress radio communication, cross-referenced with telemetry and biometric data. Something no one else on the team had had the time or audacity to attempt. But you did. You saw patterns no one else saw.

And he saw you.

Every evening, he’d check in—not hovering, not interfering. Just… there. His presence calm and centering, like gravity with a Viennese accent.

“You haven’t eaten,” he’d say, standing in your doorway with two mugs of tea, one always perfectly made the way you liked it. “Come. Five minutes.”

You would protest. He would wait. He always did. And eventually, he’d win. He always did that too.

One night, after a particularly long meeting with the strategy department, he appeared at your workstation just as you were rubbing your eyes and pulling your sweater tighter around your shoulders.

“You’re cold,” he said softly.

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t reply. Just turned and walked away.

Ten minutes later, he returned with a soft fleece-lined team jacket, still smelling faintly of him. He draped it over your shoulders without a word, fingers grazing your collarbone with an intimacy that felt almost accidental—but wasn’t.

You looked up at him.

His gaze didn’t waver.

.

You weren’t together.

Not really.

You shared tea and shared silences. He would leave post-it notes on your keyboard with one-word compliments scrawled in a sharp, slanted hand—“elegant,” “ruthless,” “brilliant.” You never responded to them, but you never threw them away either.

Somehow, the space between you kept shrinking.

You learned his tells—when he was frustrated, he’d tap the edge of his glasses on his knee. When he was pleased, he’d say your name softly, like it was something rare. A gemstone turned over in his palm.

And one night, when you both stayed well past midnight, the factory nearly dark, the sky outside bruised with summer storm clouds—you told him the truth.

“I’ve never been like this with anyone.”

He looked up from his laptop, eyes unreadable.

“Like what?” he asked.

You exhaled, fingers tightening around the tea he’d made you. “Soft.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached across the table, slowly, deliberately, and placed his hand over yours.

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Neither have I.”

You never kissed in the factory.

But there were moments that tasted like it. His thumb brushing your wrist before a meeting. The way you’d stand a little too close at the coffee machine. The stolen looks that lingered across crowded rooms.

He kept his distance, but never too much. Never enough to forget he was watching.

And you? You stopped pretending not to love it.

.

By August, the project was complete.

The model was adopted for the next race strategy trial, and James had taken you aside to say you were dangerously clever. You thanked him and smiled like it didn’t mean everything.

Your last day came quietly. No farewell party, no big announcement. Just a final debrief in Toto’s office, where the blinds were drawn and the sun fell in soft golden stripes across the floor.

He stood when you entered. He always did. Old-world manners, like he hadn’t unlearned how to be gentle with valuable things.

“I should go,” you said after handing him the final files.

He stepped closer.

“You can stay,” he said simply. No pressure. No demand. Just… hope.

You looked up at him, heart thudding beneath your ribs like it might break loose.

“You’re twice my age,” you whispered. The fear still lived there. In the logic. In the math that never lied.

His eyes softened. “And yet, I’ve never met anyone who understands me better.”

Then, for the first time—finally—his fingers touched your cheek, trailing down to your jaw.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed.

It was reverent.

Like he had waited for exactly the right moment to show you just how long he’d been feeling it.

In that kiss, there was no classroom.

No power differential. No whispers. Just the two of you. Two minds. Two hearts. Brilliant. Lonely. Unmistakably entangled.

Part 3 ?

[foreverisntenough]

Fie’s Unsolicited Soliloquy

[I didn’t edit this so please ignore any errors or anything I didn’t articulate well ]

⸻

I know people likely will won’t read all of this but in any case, first, please know this isn’t a complaint or a cry for attention—just me trying be open and attempt to put words to the quiet weight I’ve been carrying.

(I also know I’ll inevitably get the usual array of messages saying this is more word salad, hate, calling me soft, unappreciative etc etc.. all the things nestled neatly in my inbox I try my best to ignore and not share with you all- but if you feel that way, please just do me a favor and keep moving because I’m in a really bad space atm)

Even so, I don’t know why I’m writing this at all to be even honest. —maybe because silence is starting to feel too loud, or because pretending I’m okay is starting to hurt more than admitting I’m not when I haven’t felt okay in a long, long time. Both on and offline. Maybe it’s also because I know it’s not what people ever want to read from me. But that’s kind of the point. I feel more like a generator than a human.

I want to be very clear—genuinely, wholeheartedly—I’m grateful for anyone who takes the time to read, to engage, to care. To connect with me. I see it. I feel it. And it means more than you probably know. This is not intended to dismiss the joy and love I have for you. And please know this is not accusatory nor a plea for all audiences. Because whether it’s 1 person or 10, i love you all for making me feel less alone. Like I said, this is merely just a rambling for a glance inside my mind and heart.

It’s not new but lately, I feel like an anchor rotting at the bottom of the ocean— not holding anything steady, feeling forgotten until someone wants something from me and reels me back up only to be tossed back in the water. It feels isolating despite the hours I spend trying to find connection. And this is likely my fault.

I try to write. To escape. To share work for people who might enjoy it but I often feel alone as the writer in opposition to a reader. To no one’s fault. I know I can never make everyone happy and that’s okay. But I try really hard to listen to my readers. I feel alone, like I’m a machine pliable to wishes and wants. I try so hard and to show up on my blog for my readers, for anyone . And sometimes I just hope maybe, someone will notice the part of me behind the words, the efforts, the human wanting connection.

I just know how easy it would be to disappear quietly. That thought follows me everywhere—soft, shadowed, familiar. I wonder if anyone would notice if I stopped. It appears in my life online / and offline. Not because people don’t care, but maybe because I’ve been naive, avoidant, accepting I’m just not going enough so I end up upsetting people for not doing what they want and when I do, I get nothing in return. I just almost feel invisible some days

I don’t blame anyone. It’s my work and it likely doesn’t merit the community or response I wish it did. I just don’t know how to be louder than my silence. I post and post, hours and hours of work, polish my words, pretending I’m fine. No one sees the mess behind the screen—the trembling hands, the quiet spiral, the days I forget how to be a person. I don’t want praise. I just want to feel real. Seen. Like I might matter even when I’m not packaging a narrative into something beautiful in the way people want to read like a machine made it.

Im feeling really depressed and discouraged. I feel I’m screaming into a room full of people who don’t hear me. And maybe that’s on me. Maybe I’ve made it too easy to miss. Maybe the work doesn’t merit a response. And that’s fair. It just all feels like I’m pathetic standing in static. That something I write might make someone pause but instead I’m met with an illusion of connection. That I’d matter—like Fie, not for reading in silence, but for the truth I’ve bled into these words.

I try really hard to run this blog—show up with words, to create something that matters. But it’s hard when I feel so I invisible and irrelevant.

Like I could vanish behind the screen and no one would even notice. Because someone else would fill the space It’s strange, the loneliness of being seen by many, but known by none. Like I could disappear behind a post—fade out behind my own words—There’s a particular ache in that, being digitally present but emotionally erased. Some would scroll past the absence like it was just another quiet day.

I remind myself to that It’s not a big deal. It’s only a blog after all. And while that’s true, my hurt is just as true.

I love to write, still, there’s a hollow ache I can’t seem to shake, a quiet question of whether I matter beyond delivering for others. I hope this doesn’t come across as a whiny complaint, rude, or a disregard for those that do support so often. I just feel really alone and it’s starting to take a toll on me.

If you’re reading this, thank you. I’m really trying to still be i’m here.

Please— take care of yourself. Even if it’s ugly. Even if no one notices. Even if you think no one cares. I do. Or maybe I just wish someone would.

[electricbluebutterflies]

38 relieved kisses for Abbott/Mohan (idk their ship name)

Somewhere post-s1, PG-ish. {Will add crosspost link when I do it but I'm too tired to pick song lyrics for a comp.}

People talk.

First rule of any high-pressure environment. People bond and people talk. Samira is on the edge of finishing residency; Samira is well aware that these people are hers, and most of them love her, and-

If she takes five minutes she barely has to fall apart in the bathroom, well… shit happens. No harm done. It still gets out.

It happens at two hours until shift change, which means the chaos level stays at normal midweek like it should, and she’s off tomorrow, and it’s fine, really. The moment she forgets she has a heart will be the moment she walks away from this career she loves, she’s decided, and-

Of course, he’s early. That’s just her luck.

All she’s really got left unless some disaster happens in the next twenty minutes is the paperwork she hasn’t gotten to all day, which means she finally gets to be still for said twenty minutes. She’s been pushing herself lately – wants good references, when it matters, especially if…

The likelihood of staying in a city she couldn’t find on a map before she ended up here for residency is an existential crisis she’d rather have on a day off with a few blankets and her cat on top of her, but-

“Join me?”

“Paperwork.”

“It’ll still be there in five minutes. Your memory’s good enough.”

She hates that Jack is right. She hates the casual way he’s right too, like he’s just as aware where her strengths are as she is but he doesn’t have a damn reason to pretend otherwise and-

Fine. She hasn’t taken anything resembling an actual break all day. She envies the smokers sometimes – not that she’ll ever say that, but the structured habit makes sense even though she’ll never pick it up herself. Or the people who have partners and kids to call at certain times to check on, whereas she’s got… this, whatever it counts for.

What it counts for, today, is slipping up to the roof for some air. She’d never been up here before this flirtation started going somewhere, and honestly she’s never been that fond of heights, and-

Jack kisses her as soon as the access door shuts, and the only thing she can think is that someone clearly told him something.

She doesn’t say this just yet. She’s a little distracted. He’s cautious with her in a way that she likes, and maybe this is a questionable reaction to distress but it’s not a bad one, and-

“You’re bribing them for information,” she murmurs when she can, when she’s pretty sure she’s kissed at least one application of lip balm off him.

“Think it’s fair to know if my girlfriend’s having a weird day.”

“You know how I feel about that word.”

They’re not anything that serious, she’s pretty sure, but… she’s turning thirty in a few weeks. She’s staying, if not here than close enough to think about it. If she wants to be something with someone, she could do worse.

But they’re here now, she thinks as she takes more kisses, as she feels herself melt a little. They’re here now, and he spends most nights he’s not working at her place, and her cat doesn’t hate him, and-

“What did they tell you?” she asks when they break for air.

“Nothing that needs repeating.”

“It wasn’t a breakdown. I just needed to steady myself.”

“And that is about what they said, and-“

“You’re clinging,” almost a laugh.

“I worry.”

She’s done with kissing for now, but it’s easy enough to fold herself int her partner’s arms and rest her head on his shoulder. If he wants clinging, she can do that just as well, and-

“I’m fine.”

“I know.”

They linger there in silence for what feels like a decadent length of time, almost long enough that she forgets she has things to do before she can leave, almost-

“Okay if I come over in the morning?” he asks as they separate.

“You’re asking that now? You’re not coming back down with me?”

“I have ten more beautiful minutes before whatever chaos the night gives me. Let me enjoy it.”

Samira leans in and takes one more kiss, just a little too much. Ten minutes, she thinks, should be enough to get over whether she’s distracted him enough, and-

“Yeah. Let yourself in. Normal rules.”

“Make coffee and feed the cat because she just loves being woken up.”

“If I don’t have an alarm set, neither does she…”

“Go downstairs,” Jack says before they can distract each other again. “See you in the morning.”

“Don’t do anything I’ll hear about day after tomorrow.”

“Nurses don’t like me like they like you.”

Sure they don’t, Saira thinks as she takes her time down the stairs. If the fondness wasn’t comparable, he wouldn’t be getting status updates on her headspace from other people, and maybe that should bother her in some way it doesn’t, and…

Just in case, when she walks out of the hospital thirty minutes later – after doing paperwork perfectly, and after some really satisfying unplanned PDA – she makes sure her phone volume is all the way up. Just in case.

{Nothing happens. In the morning, she wakes up to too-strong coffee and multiple stories about improvised sex toys gone wrong.}

{Samira is starting to think that working night shift elsewhere – at a hospital across a county line, no ethical weirdness – might not be such a bad idea, if that position stays open long enough for her to apply.}

[carawenfiction]

I have just learned about the rewrite since I've rechecked your tumblr, I didn't even know about you doing that. I know you listed changes in that post, but would it be possible to know how much will be changed, overall? I love this game so much so changes make me nervous haha! BTW, I made an extensive review both on Steam and the topic CoG forums a while ago, if you're interested in checking them out! Good luck! I love your work!

Hi Konoi!

I'm sorry for answering this (and all other asks) so late.

I read your steam review, thank you so much for taking the time to write it! It definitely reminded me about some things regarding narrative structure and to consider how to best balance character moments/bonding and overall pacing.

This is very premature to say since there's not a whole lot of content out yet, let alone the whole rewrite, but if any of you change your opinion of the final product once you've read it - whether that's negative or positive - I'd really appreciate an updated review!

I'm going to explain some key changes in this post. There are no big spoilers, but if you DON'T want to go into things with any prior knowledge about the game, please don't read the rest of this post!

My thought process

I began the old rewrite because of my personal dissatifaction with the story. I didn't have a clear picture of what exactly I wanted; I just knew I wanted it to be different. But the new, current rewrite is being created because of ideas that have developed in my mind regarding the setting and overall story. I'd say that the "shadow world" is a bit more dangerous, uncertain and that the threats that hide there are not immediately easy to determine, if that makes any sense at all. The original has you going from point A to point B and have everything explained to you, which leaves the MC with little to do and decreased agency. One of my aims is to let you explore the world in more dynamic ways than through exposition dumps and also giving you more choices and include more branching due to those choices, both big and small.

I was pondering what it might be like to enter a world like this and I think it would be a strange mixture of terror, surrealism, loneliness + a need to either depend on whoever you can, even if you don't trust them. Or alternatively, pretend like you depend on others while only really depending on yourself. That's not to say that TSS is a horror game now haha, I don't even know how to write horror 😔but my hope is that it feels like a more personal and intriguing experience rather than purely an "isekai" kind of story.

The MC

I didn't get far with the old rewrite, but I focused more on fleshing out the MC's hometown and M's background. While the new rewrite has a bit more added to chapter 1, I've kept some things that I previously tried to present more thoroughly purposefully vague for a reason this time around.

The MC is somewhat different, too. One thing I'm dissatisfied with in the original is the lack of an established past for the MC. There was your job and your father's accident, but not much more than that. And yes, there were hints at something more, but you didn't really get to delve deeply into that during book 1.

In this version of the rewrite, I think the MC is a bit more jaded. You can absolutely play an optimistic and happy kind of MC, but there are pieces of their past that have affected them and are currently affecting them to a lesser or greater degree depending on how you play. Ex. The death of their father is going to play a larger part throughout the story and will be depicted as something that haunts the MC rather than just being something that happened when they were little. The changes that have happened as they grew up - losing most of their old friends and ties as well as being curtly left by their closest friend/ex - has also affected them. The MC has some lingering abandonment issues there but it's up to you how the MC has developed because of them. There is a point in chapter 1 where it's mentioned that they currently find it difficult to grow close to people, but I'm going to update that section and offer different options that determines whether you keep an optimistic outlook or not soon.

The supporting cast/main cast

The relationships and characters are still at the center of the story. I want to make the bonds with them feel more organic and less "choose flirt, friendship, or rivalry" every time you interact with them.

In the original, the MC is thrown into this world together with M, and the group is (iirc) being very vague and generally unhelpful. I included romantic and friendship-raising scenes before you even knew anything about them, which is something I'm changing this time around (you still have romantic options during your first meeting with A and G, but they are not full romance scenes as such and only included because it fits the characters in question).

There's no longer a need to spend time with just 1 character and pick 1 right option. Instead, I want to include a lot of opportunities for you to get to know them, grow closer if you want to and keep your distance if you don't. I'm still in the process of developing this more, but all in all I want to include different branches for the relationships that aren't necessarily always as clearcut as friend/lover/rival, at least in the beginning when you don't know them well. Once the MC and the characters know each other better, I think more established roles like that will show more.

And about the romance, for those of you interested: I hadn't written much in the way of romance back when I wrote the original TSS. I actually think TSS is the first romance-related story I wrote at all. It was very much an exercise in writing in a lot of ways. Now that I have more experience I feel more confident in writing different kinds of romances, and there's going to be more romance-related content in the remake for those who choose that route. Those who aren't into romance have the option to get more platonic scenes, though!

In the original I interrupted scenes and threw in stuff that would delay certain revelations just for the sake of delaying, and the pacing, plot and characterization imo suffered as a result. The remake shows a group that is very much fractured, just like in the original (maybe more so now). They obviously know more than the MC does, but they all have different levels of knowledge and personal motivations that even others in the group don't know about. A and R obviously know each other from before, as do Q and A. But other than that it's very much a group that works together out of perceived necessity and their own motivations. Most of them don't trust one another either. They are also quicker to offer certain information and explain the situation to the MC since THEY also find themselves in a situation they didn't really predict due to unforeseen changes in their plans.

Basically they are a bit out of their depth at end of chapter 1 and chapter 2, and so they're on a bit more even ground with the MC in certain ways.

The Shadowman/Shadowlady is introduced a bit differently in chapter 2, and the main cast's backstories - and to some smaller extent, personalities - have been reworked/updated/changed.

The plot

Though I won't go into what happens in later chapters for obvious reasons, the narrative/plot is presented a bit differently. For example: in the original you met the group, had a 1 on 1 talk with one of the characters where you could raise friendship, romance or rivalry, then it was announced that you have to leave the house because it's no longer safe and the rest of the story takes place in the hideout and A and R's old home. But now that feels like a waste of an interesting story, because so much of the MC's past and so many secrets exist IN your old childhood home. That's why most of book 1 will take place inside the house itself.

It may sound less exciting, but it's not your typical house - while you need to stay in it for now, you'll soon realize that it sort of has a life of its own and can lead to places it shouldn't. I think it makes for a more intimate and personal experience as it allows you to explore more of your own character while giving you the option of growing closer to the other characters as well.

This got super long, but I hope all of that makes sense? If you (or anyone) has any questions regarding any of the info I've given just let me know <3

[evelyn72]

FOURTH WINGGG HC

OKAY so I just saw something that said Xaden and Violet's daughter and Dain and Sloane's daughter would be besties and I HADDD to write HC's for this. - They've definitely been friends since birth or since they were very young. Maybe there's like a daycare that all of the riders send their kids to and so they all get to know each other from a young age and become friends LIKE I CAN'T THAT WOULD BE SO CUTE - Xaden and Violet's daughter is named Lily and Dain and Sloane's is Lia (RIP LIAM). Imagine they have a lot of sleepovers and they have one at Xaden and Violet's house one night and build a huge blanket fort. It's getting pretty late and time for them to go to sleep when Xaden starts pretending to be a fire-breathing dragon outside of their blanket fort. The girls start screaming and giggling from the inside. Violet then joins in and they end up saying that it's time for bed. They beg to stay in the fort and Xaden and Violet let them sleep in it. - Xaden and Violet have a son (Lily's younger brother) and name him Fen after Xaden's dad. Lia comes over when Fen is a baby and Lily is so excited for her to meet him like literally jumping with joy type excitement.

-Whenever they have sleepovers at the Aetos household, Dain will always read them stories before bed. They don't get to stay up as late because Dain is stricter about their bedtime. Sloane would braid the girls hair and hangout with them. I think she would enjoy doing girly things with her daughter, same as Violet. I think Violet would really like to read to her kids and tell them the stories of Tairn, Sgaeyl, Andarna, Xaden, Liam, and everything they went through. You can't tell me her kids wouldn't be absolutely enthralled.

This is my first time posting anything, so let me know what you think!!

[ohhevans]

first lines!

!! @annabtg tagged me in this game, so here are the first lines of my ten most recent fics (not counting smut), some up on ao3 and some drafts languishing on my computer. i did not tag anyone because i truly do not know people, come say hi </3

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don't be shy and share anyway!

everything i need is right here by my side (jily, WIP, modern au, childhood)

It is a cliché, but even this writer is prone to those at points: The first thing she notices about him is his smile—not that it’s lopsided and sweet and warm, even though it is all of those things, but that it annoys her.

there's a war going on out there (jily, complete, 2.5k, canon compliant, post-Hogwarts)

In many ways, Diagon Alley has not changed at all: People do their shopping regardless of whether or not a war is raging; potions need to be brewed and food needs to be put on the table, errands will be run even if there is a touch of danger to it, gold withdrawn from vaults in Gringotts and pints drunk in the Leaky Cauldron.

late afternoon, early spring light (jily, complete, 2.2k, canon compliant, hogwarts years)

“You’re drunk, Evans.”

marginalia in a well loved manuscript (jily, ongoing collection of oneshots, various universes)

“’Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. "How could you begin?" said she. "I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first place?’” Lily tilts her head back to look at James, arching her eyebrow. “Well?” she asks.

an equal and opposite reaction (lily-centric with marylily and jily, WIP, modern au)

Some disasters are a lifetime in the making.

the story (and the story, and the story) of us (jily, complete, 20.6k, fairy tale retellings)

The sound of the window opening: rasp of wood on wood, quiet rattle of panes of glass, grind of resistance and click of give and thud of sash meeting frame.

january is for lovers (jily, complete, 13.6k, modern au, childhood friends to lovers)

The glow of the streetlights, what a cliché; faded embers, glowing in the hearth and the dregs of the bonfire; fireflies glow in the movies but not in England, no matter how much they pretend to chase them as children, shouting little lies—I saw one, right over there, you missed it!—and running and slipping in the wet grass; the moon glows, too, overhead, full and bright and casting just enough cool blue light to see the outline of his slightly crooked nose, fully healed but now forever bearing the bump from colliding with a tree when the tire swing went out of control.

untitled (jily, tragic draft on my computer, orpheus & eurydice retelling)

In Greek, euphemia is good speech: eu, εὖ, well, and phemi, φημί, to speak. Sometimes propitious speech is no speech at all: Euphemia is the eleventh Muse, the muse of keeping silent, and when James is born, it is a miracle.

untitled (jily, tragic draft on my computer, modern au)

It’s raining and Lily doesn’t have an umbrella; born and raised British, twenty-six years she’s lived here, and she still hasn’t learned that she should keep a Tesco foldable umbrella in her bag at all times.

where wisteria grows (lily-centric, jily, fifty page draft on my computer i want to finish SO badly, canon compliant)

In the footprints left by her first footsteps, there are flowers. 

Nobody notices them, but they are there: tiny white blooms of sweet alyssum blossoming in the indents left behind in the grass in the shape of little feet.

[beanghostprincess]

A tale of daisies & larkspurs

For @sanusoweek || Day 2: Fairy Tale / WLW (pretend this was posted on time)

Relationship: Sanji/Usopp (F/F)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Recommend reading on Ao3 but the main ones are: Transphobia, gender dysphoria, child/domestic abuse, and violence (I swear this is happy too don't get tricked by my angst)

Chapters: 14/14

Summary:

‘I love you’, her mother always says. ‘My precious daughter. My angel.’ But her father’s words are still louder. “It is the only thing he will never be able to obtain.” He turns around to approach her numb body, as she uses her last efforts to hold on to Pedro’s armor. Judge doesn’t smile, but he has all the fun in the world when he frowns with disgust at his son. Son. “A true love kiss.” — Usopp smells like wild berries, daisies, and wood. Like ancient books, fire, and dirt. Like chemicals, poison, and deadly flowers. Like sunlight, wet grass, and thousands of thousands of songs Sanji hasn’t been able to hear. It is impossible to know what a song smells like, but she is quite sure they all have the scent of that music box Usopp made for her. She always brings gifts whenever she comes. It makes the princess feel less trapped and more… It wouldn’t be more, since she isn’t even a bit free. But it makes her feel free. Liberation, that’s what she smells like. Freedom.

Read on Ao3!!!

More of my works!

Check out @aimtodraw's fanart here!!! I loved it so so much and I had to hold myself back from screaming in the middle of work when I saw it--

Also @the-orion-inexpirience's art I asked them to draw quite obviously inspired by this fic!!!!!!! It inspired me so much to keep writing!!!

[kiisaes]

fuckass birthday cake