#and how they can be seen faintly in their final moments

[chuxmy]

advice 4 i beg 💗💗💗💗💗

Advice.. IV

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You‘re forced to visit the boss

Warnings: Mild angst, threats

A/N: upss 🤭

☜ Prev Next ☞︎

You had barely slept since that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the flicker of Seongje’s face livid, protective, blood smeared knuckles trembling not from fear, but fury. You still felt the ghost of his arms around you, the way his jaw had locked when he whispered, “No one touches you.”

But peace never lasts long in this world not when the Union was involved.

You should’ve known it wouldn’t end there.

You were walking back from a bookstore when the first shadow fell behind you. At first, you thought it was just a passerby until the second one stepped out in front of you.

You turned around, heart thudding.

Two boys. Older. Union. You recognized them one of them had been in that alley. The other was new. The moment your eyes met, the one in front smirked like he knew a secret you didn’t.

“You thought that was the end of it?” he said.

You took a step back, glancing around the nearly empty street. “I’m just going home.”

“Not yet you’re not,” the first one said. “Boss wants to see you.”

You hesitated. “I didn’t do anything.”

He grabbed your arm not hard, not gentle either. “Doesn’t matter. You’re part of something now.”

You tried to jerk free. “Let me go.”

They didn’t.

By the time you reached the bowling alley, your legs were weak.

The place has dim lights, music thudding faintly, the occasional crash of pins. But they didn’t take you to the lanes.

They took you through the back door, down a narrow hallway, and into that room. Na Baekjin’s room.

It smelled like cold smoke and old wood.

He was already sitting in the leather booth in the corner, his legs crossed, spinning a ring slowly on one finger. A soda can sat untouched on the table. His expression was unreadable. Calm. Dangerous.

“Close the door,” he said.

They did.

Then you were alone with him.

He didn’t speak right away. Just watched you. Studied you like something under glass.

“So,” he said finally, his voice almost amused. “You’re the girl.”

You swallowed. “What do you mean?”

Baekjin leaned forward, elbows on the table. “The one Seongje fought over.”

You said nothing.

He tilted his head. “You know how many years I’ve known him? Since before he could throw a punch. And not once, not once have I seen him lay out one of our own over anything personal.”

Your throat went dry.

“I don’t care who you are,” Baekjin said, voice tightening. “But you caused problems. That guy he beat? He’s not some random. He answers to me. And now I’ve got half the boys questioning if Seongje’s loyalty is slipping.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. “He was protecting me. They hit me.”

“I know,” Baekjin said smoothly. “I saw the footage.”

You froze.

He leaned back, stretching his arm across the seat. “We record the exits near the alley. Saw you stumble in, saw what they did. Saw what he did to them.”

You couldn’t breathe for a moment.

“But see, here’s the thing,” he continued, casual. “I don’t like it when my guys step out of line. And I don’t like secrets in my territory. So you’re gonna tell me the truth now.”

Silence.

“Are you with him?” he asked flatly.

You didn’t speak.

“You don’t answer, I take it as yes.”

You met his eyes finally, your voice shaking. “What does it matter?”

Baekjin stood.

He walked over slowly, deliberately, until he was in front of you.

“I don’t care about your little romance,” he said. “What I do care about is control. Respect. And the fact that he risked both for a girl no one knew existed? That’s not good for anyone.”

You held your chin high, even as your stomach twisted. “If you’re going to do something to me, just do it.”

Baekjin looked almost impressed. “You’ve got teeth.”

“I don’t scare easy.”

“That’s cute,” he said, stepping away. “But fear isn’t the point. This is a message.”

“To who?”

“To him.”

The door opened behind you.

You turned and there he was.

Seongje.

Breathing hard. Like he’d run the whole way. His eyes locked on you instantly, and the second he saw you in that room, something in his expression snapped.

“Get away from her,” he said, stepping forward.

Baekjin held up a hand. “Relax. She’s fine. I just wanted a talk.”

“You sent your dogs after her.”

“I told them to bring her, not drag her.”

“She’s not part of this,” Seongje growled.

“She is now. You made her part of it when you spilled blood over her.”

Seongje’s fist clenched at his side.

You stepped toward him. “I’m okay. I promise.”

But when he looked at you, really looked at you his face twisted with something deeper. Not just rage.

Guilt.

“Don’t come near her again,” he said to Baekjin. “Don’t send anyone. Don’t talk to her. Or I’ll burn this whole place down.”

Baekjin looked at him. “That’s cute. You threatening me over a girl?”

Seongje didn’t blink. “She’s not just a girl.”

And when he walked out with you, his hand brushed yours not in front of them, not fully, but enough that you knew.

He wasn’t going to hide it anymore.

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

how the bigbang boys would act after finding out her girlfriend/wife (reader) was diagnosed with a deadly illness

Deadly

Characters: Gdragon, Daesung, T.O.P

Summary: It's above, loves

warnings: Deadly illness???

Gdragon

He didn’t remember sitting down.

One moment, Ji-yong was standing next to you, arm loosely around your shoulders, and the next he was in the stiff plastic chair by your hospital bed, hands dangling uselessly between his knees.

“Stage four,” the doctor had said, voice neutral. Almost too neutral. “We’ll begin palliative options, but…”

But.

That word had slammed into his chest harder than any paparazzi headline ever had.

You didn’t cry. That was the worst part. You just nodded slowly, like you’d been preparing for this. Like you’d had time to process something he hadn’t even seen coming.

Ji-yong felt like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes.

The room buzzed faintly from the overhead lights, but everything else was quiet—too quiet. He could hear your breathing. Steady. Tired.

You reached for his hand.

He flinched before he even realized it. You stilled.

“I’m not mad,” he said quickly, voice hoarse. “I just—give me a second.”

You gave him more than that. You gave him the grace to fall apart.

He stood abruptly, walking to the window like it could offer him something—air, answers, escape.

It didn’t.

“I’m supposed to protect you,” he said finally, his reflection ghosted on the glass. “I was supposed to—be the strong one.”

“You are,” you said softly.

“No, I’m not. I’m not.” He turned to you, voice shaking now. “You’re sick. And I can’t write my way out of this. I can’t fix it with money or tours or—” He broke off, biting his lip hard.

You gave him a small smile, tired but genuine. “You don’t have to fix it, Ji. You just have to be here.”

He hated how easily you said it. How kind you still were. How it made him want to cry.

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he said, finally coming back to your side. “And I’m terrified.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“I’m not gone yet.”

That undid him.

He buried his face in your lap, arms wrapping around your waist like he could physically hold time still. You stroked his hair like you always did, like he was just your Ji, not the idol, not the legend—just the man you’d married.

And in the silence that followed, with machines beeping softly and winter sun slanting across the floor, Ji-yong made a silent promise:

As long as there was breath in your body, he’d be there—loving you, grieving you, living beside you.

Even when the beat faded.

Daesung

The doctor’s words didn’t register at first.

Daesung sat there, hands clasped too tightly in his lap, nodding like a good student—but his ears were ringing. His heart pounded like a snare drum that had lost its rhythm.

“Daesung-ssi, did you hear me?” the doctor asked gently. “We’re looking at Stage IV. We’ll do everything we can, but…”

That was the moment the ringing stopped.

Everything else—every concert, every TV show, every sold-out arena—disappeared into a dull fog. All that mattered now was the way your hand trembled in his, and the way your eyes stayed locked on the floor.

You didn’t cry. That was what made it worse. You just sat there, nodding once. Calm. Resigned.

As if you’d already known.

At home, the silence felt unbearable.

The world had changed, but the apartment looked exactly the same. The kitchen still smelled like the orange peels you’d left in the sink. Your mug sat by the window, half full of lukewarm tea. The framed wedding photo on the mantle smiled too brightly, frozen in time.

He followed you to the bedroom without saying a word, helping you out of your coat like he always did. His fingers moved automatically. You went straight to the bed and sat on the edge, shoulders curling in. The air felt too heavy to breathe.

“Say something,” you whispered, finally.

He crouched in front of you, slowly—like his knees had forgotten how to bend. “What can I say?” His voice cracked. “Tell me what to say, and I’ll say it.”

Your hand touched his cheek, brushing a tear he didn’t even know had fallen. “You don’t have to fix this.”

“But I’m your husband.” His voice broke open, raw now. “I’m supposed to fix everything. I’m supposed to protect you.”

“I know,” you murmured. “And you do. Every day.”

“But not this.” His throat burned. “Not this.”

You pulled him into you then, arms wrapping around his neck as he finally let himself fall apart—right there on the bedroom floor, head in your lap, sobbing like the world was ending. Maybe it was.

You didn’t flinch. You held him through all of it. The strong one. The one dying.

The next few days passed in a blur of hospital visits, consultations, treatment plans. He smiled where he could, joked when you needed it, brought your favorite snacks and held your hand until it ached. But every night, when you were asleep and the apartment was dark, he’d go out to the balcony and cry into his fists.

And then one night, he didn’t cry.

He just stared at the stars.

And whispered, “Even if the sky falls, I’ll be here. I’ll hold you up.”

Because he finally understood: he couldn’t save you. But he could walk with you. Every step. Every appointment. Every bad day. Every good one.

Even if the ending was written.

He would love you through it all.

T.O.P

The doctor said the words like they were reading from a page: “Stage four. Aggressive. We’re sorry.”

Seung-hyun stared at the wall. You, on the other hand, nodded. Quiet. Brave. Braver than him, somehow.

“Okay,” you said.

Not why me, not what now, not even how long—just that one word. Like you already knew.

The next few months were a blur of hospital lights, sleeping upright in chairs, and Seung-hyun clutching your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth. His face grew thinner, hollow-eyed. Yours, softer somehow. Like you were becoming part of the air.

“I want you to go,” you whispered one night, weeks before your final breath.

“To hell with that,” he’d snapped, instantly ashamed of his tone. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

You shook your head. “On tour. You have to go. I want them to hear you. I want you to be heard, even when I’m gone.”

He gripped your wrist. “Don’t talk like that.”

But you only smiled. “Write for me. Sing for me. That’s how you’ll love me after.”

You made him promise.

So he went.

It was the third city of the tour—Tokyo Dome. He’d done the soundcheck half-present, still checking his phone every three minutes like he could will good news into appearing.

But there were no updates.

Your mother said you’d fallen asleep earlier that afternoon and hadn’t woken yet.

“She’s peaceful,” she said. “I’ll tell her you called.”

He was pacing backstage when it happened.

The text came from your sister. Two words:

She’s gone.

He walked on stage anyway. Something automatic in his limbs. The crowd’s roar sounded like wind through an empty canyon.

He opened his mouth to rap his verse and instead whispered: “She’s… she’s gone…”

Then his knees buckled.

Someone shouted.

The lights blurred.

They said he fainted before he hit the floor. They said he stopped breathing for three seconds. They said the EMTs got to him in time.

They didn’t know he died a little, too.

Back home, the world was too quiet. The bedroom smelled like your lotion. Your mug was still on the shelf. There were voice notes from you he hadn’t had the strength to replay yet.

But there was also a letter.

Folded under the lamp by your bedside.

His name written in shaky, familiar script.

He read it with trembling fingers.

My love, if you’re reading this, then I didn’t make it to your next show like I promised. But you did. And I’m so proud of you. Don’t let this break you. Let it bend you into something even stronger. Sing louder. Love harder. I’m still listening—just from somewhere softer now. Love, always. Me.

He wept for hours. Clutching the letter like a lifeline. Like a song not yet written.

Months later, he would return to the stage. The first words he said into the mic weren’t lyrics.

They were: “This one’s for her.”

And somewhere, maybe, you heard it.

[heavymetalfight]

cool pupil moments from armada and energon (one of the few 2d animated shots)!!

[mephisto-reporting]

Don’t Die on Me

About: You’re hurt—badly—wounded while shielding him from danger. As he rushes to your side, there’s a shift in his demeanor; he seems different, more vulnerable beneath his usual bravado. Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are NOT in a relationship. but there is implied mutual attraction. My inbox is open for prompts and requests :) Content Warning: Angst, injuries, mentions of blood.

SYLUS

The sounds of gunfire had finally faded into silence, leaving only the shallow, ragged pull of your breath and the press of Sylus’s hand against your side, trying to stanch the bleeding. You had been hit during the ambush, shielding him from a blast intended for his head—an instinct you couldn't explain, or perhaps didn’t want to.

Sylus's expression was a mask of controlled fury, his jaw clenched as he knelt beside you, his usual cocky, unyielding demeanor giving way to something sharper, darker, and far more personal. He applied pressure to the wound with a fierce intensity, almost as if he could hold you together through sheer force of will alone. His fingers, usually steady and sure, shook faintly against your skin.

“You’re a damn fool,” he muttered, his tone laced with anger and something else—something deeper. “I didn’t need saving. Have you forgotten that I can heal quickly!?.”

You managed a small, pained smile. “Maybe I did it for the fun of watching you panic for once.”

His hand gripped your chin firmly, tilting your face to meet his intense, searching stare. "You really don’t know when to quit, do you, kitten?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it was laced with something raw, something unsteady.

“I thought… I had it under control.” you mumbled, trying for a smile, though even you knew how weak you sounded.

“Under control?” His laugh was short and sharp, a bitter edge in it. “Don’t be ridiculous!” Sylus hissed through gritted teeth, his usual cool facade crumbling. He never panicked—not him, not the man who’d handed you a gun to his own heart just to see if you’d pull the trigger. But right now, he was faltering, his steps uneven as he pulled you closer. His hand, normally so sure, so controlling, was shaking against your side. “You think I wanted you to jump in front of me like that? What were you thinking?”

You tried to catch your breath, his words slipping past you in a haze. You knew the risks of sticking by Sylus, knew that you’d inevitably end up in danger—but you couldn’t stand the thought of losing him. “Had to protect you,” you whispered, voice barely a thread. “I couldn’t... let anything happen to you.”

For a moment, he simply stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between anger and something far softer, something unspoken. “Protect me..?” he repeated, his voice lower, and you could feel the barely-contained fury laced with worry beneath it. He was trying to keep his grip on his composure, but his eyes betrayed him. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as he traced the edge of your cheek, the words slipping through clenched teeth. “You’re an idiot, Sweetie. A reckless, stubborn, damnably frustrating idiot.”

His expression twisted, the frustration in his eyes unmistakable, but there was something else too—something vulnerable, barely concealed beneath his usual scowl. You’d seen it before in the softer moments, those times when his hand would linger just a moment too long, or his voice would drop to that rare, gentle murmur. But this was different, more unguarded.

“Sylus…” you whispered, but he cut you off, pressing a hand to your wound. You stifled a gasp as his fingers met the raw injury, his jaw tightening in response, an unexpected flash of helplessness slipping through his mask.

“Quiet,” he muttered, his voice almost breaking. “You don’t get to talk right now.” He ripped off a piece of his sleeve, wrapping it tightly around your shoulder, though his touch was uncharacteristically tender. “This isn’t part of the plan, sweetie. You’re supposed to stay in one piece, just like I ordered.” The usual bite in his voice softened, desperation pooling in his dark gaze.

You chuckled weakly, trying to make light of the situation, but the pain pulled a groan from your lips instead. His expression grew even more intense, the hardness in his eyes melting into a quiet sort of anguish.

“Stop laughing. Stop… smiling like that.” His voice was fraying, edges cracking, a wavering panic he seemed unable to fully control. “You… you have no idea how hard it is not to tear this entire place apart for hurting you.”

The statement caught you off guard, and it must’ve shown in your expression because he let out a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that he’d never let you see before. It was strange to see him so unguarded, the man who played god in the N109 Zone suddenly grappling with the possibility of losing you.

The corner of his mouth twisted, and he tried for his usual smirk, but it faltered. “What would I do without you, hmm? My little hunter, so brave and foolish…” His words softened, and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, holding you securely against him as he continued on, urgency in every step. “You’re mine, kitten,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “And I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

You managed to laugh, the sound weak but genuine. “Then… don’t let go,” you whispered. “Sylus…” Your voice was weak, your head spinning, but you reached up, brushing your fingers along the sharp edge of his jaw. His expression softened, his lips pressing into a thin line as he leaned closer.

“You’re… more trouble than you’re worth, you know that?” he whispered, his voice breaking the slightest bit, but he forced a smirk, trying to hold onto his usual bravado.

“Guess I… picked it up from you,” you murmured, your vision growing hazy, but the warmth of his hand grounding you.

His grip tightened, and his lips brushed your temple, an unspoken promise lingering in the gesture. For once, Sylus seemed stripped of his dominance, his bravado washed away by the raw fear of watching you slip away. His hands shook as he held you, his mask cracking with every ragged breath you took. The man who’d taunted and tested you now held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable.

“Hold on, Sweetie… just a little longer.” he said fiercely, and in his voice, you heard something you never expected from him—fear. “I won’t let anything or anyone take you from me.”

XAVIER

Xavier’s arm is tight around you, steady even as he fights his own injuries. The blood trails hot down your side, and you can barely see it through the blurred edges of your vision, a dark stain spreading across your suit. Xavier’s face, usually a mask of quiet calm, is set hard with a sharpness that you rarely see. Xavier's hands, usually steady and almost uncaring, were shaking as he tried to press down on the wound at your side. You'd taken the hit for him, jumping between him and that blasted Wanderer with a split-second of hesitation—or none at all. He hadn’t expected it. Neither had you.

Blood soaked through his fingers as he crouched beside you, his face tight with a look you’d never seen. Fear, maybe—though he wouldn’t admit it.

"Why... did you do that?" His voice was low, but it felt like he was questioning the universe itself. His usually calm tone was laced with an edge that made you dizzy or maybe it was the blood loss, hard to tell.

“Instinct…?” you murmured, managing a weak smirk despite the pain slicing through you. “I know, I was a bit reckless.”

“Reckless isn’t... you bleeding out on this floor,” he muttered, pressing harder against the wound, a little too hard, but you didn’t have the strength to complain. “You should have left me to handle it.” His gaze softened when you winced, and he pulled his hand back, immediately brushing away the edge of guilt. Yet the blood still glistened darkly on his fingertips, his gloves, on the floor where you lay.

“It would’ve been worse if it got you,” you mutter, trying to summon even a hint of humor, though the attempt falls flat against the pain.

Xavier doesn’t laugh. Instead, he looks at you, and the deep space void reflected in his eyes almost draws you in. That familiar aloofness fades, and for a brief moment, his concern seeps through, raw and achingly close. He shifts his weight to press you more securely against him, his free hand gently adjusting the strap of your gear as if every second counts in keeping you here, anchored.

“Look,” you managed, reaching up, even if it took everything in you to keep your voice steady, “you’d do the same for me.”

Xavier’s mouth set in a thin line. You’d hit a nerve, that much was clear. Despite the unspoken rule between you two—the sidelong glances, the unsaid things—he wouldn’t entertain the possibility that he would have let you get injured in this manner on his watch.

“You don’t know what I’d do,” he replied, his voice just above a whisper. His words held a weight you hadn’t expected, making you look at him closely even as the edges of your vision began to fade. “And you won’t have to, because I'm getting you out of here.”

He hoisted you up, careful, gentle, though he flinched when you sucked in a breath from the pain. He started forward, one arm cradling you as he moved you through the wreckage of the battle toward the shelter of the shuttle. It was strange, seeing Xavier so unguarded, every step almost too fast as though he feared stopping would break you.

“Stay with me,” he whispers, voice low. You feel his breath, close enough to count heartbeats, to wonder if his pulse is racing like yours. The space between you feels impossibly small, and the silence stretches, vulnerable, bare.

You manage a faint smile, fingers brushing his, a silent reassurance even as the sharp ache of your wounds thrums persistently in your bones. “You know, if I’d known I’d end up leaning on you like this, I’d have come up with something... cleverer to say.”

To your surprise, he huffs a small laugh, his gaze softening. “You always talk,” he murmurs, with a hint of that familiar, boyish charm, though it’s laced with worry now. “Save your strength. I’ll get us out of here.”

You felt yourself drifting, and his voice brought you back.

“Hey,” he said, tightening his hold. “Stay awake. I can’t have you falling asleep on me now—I'm the one who does that, remember?”

His humor was strained, like he was grasping at something familiar to keep himself steady. You let out a soft chuckle, the sound weaker than you meant it to be. “Guess we’re trading roles today.”

There was a moment, somewhere between one step and the next, where he stopped. He looked down at you, his gaze intense. For once, his expression was completely open—his worry and something warmer simmering just beneath.

“I can’t lose you,” he murmured, voice barely audible. “Not here. Not now. Not ever.”

You felt a wave of heat rise within, one that made the pain more bearable, somehow grounding. Before you could respond, he resumed his pace, carrying you as if you were the most precious thing in the galaxy.

The world swayed, darkness creeping at the edges of your vision, but you forced yourself to focus on him, on the boyish charm that hid beneath his cool exterior. “Xavier,” you rasped, “I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.”

“Just keep looking at me,” he replied, his voice steady. “We’ll get through this together. You and me.”

In the quiet of the shuttle, as he set you down and the medics began patching you up, you felt his hand graze your cheek, lingering just a little too long. You dared to meet his gaze, and for once, Xavier’s eyes didn’t look away. They softened, and the smallest hint of a smile touched his lips.

“Next time,” he said, voice warm with unspoken promise, “let me protect you.”

RAFAYEL

The harsh winds of the remote village howled around you as Rafayel’s face loomed over you, more serious than you’d ever seen it. You hadn’t intended for things to get this bad, but the ambush from the Wanderer had been swift and brutal, and you’d thrown yourself between its claws and Rafayel without a second thought. A mistake, maybe—though you could hardly think of it as a mistake, even now, lying on the cold, unforgiving ground with blood soaking your side.

“Damn it, stop being so heavy,” Rafayel muttered, though his voice trembled, barely hiding the edge of panic. You glanced up, expecting his usual smirk, his smug teasing, something bratty, but his face was blank—frustrated, pale, and determined in a way you’d never seen.

“S-sorry to inconvenience you,” you managed through the haze of pain, trying to keep it light. “But I think I lost quite a bit of blood back there.”

Rafayel’s usual smug charm was gone. His carefree expression had twisted into something you couldn’t place—anger, worry, a flicker of panic as he knelt down beside you. He pressed his hands over the wound, and though it was uncharacteristic, there was no teasing, no insults, just an almost frightening intensity. “You… Why did you do that?” he demanded, his voice low and jagged, as though the question alone might tear him apart. “Do you think I’m some helpless damsel? You could have been killed.”

Your breath hitched, and you were grateful that it could just as easily be the pain causing it. Still, you shrugged, or tried to, but your body had other ideas, and you stumbled. Rafayel caught you, his arm firm around your waist as he steadied you. You managed a weak smirk, though the effort cost you. “Guess… I wanted to make myself useful as a bodyguard, for once,” you rasped, feeling the humor fall flat even as you said it.

“Useful?” His eyes, normally filled with a cocky gleam, were sharp with frustration. “Throwing yourself in harm’s way is your idea of useful?” He gave a dry, humorless laugh, his hands applying pressure that made you wince, though he didn’t seem to notice. “You’re dumber than I thought. The one time I actually need you to stay out of my way, and you—” He broke off, swallowing hard, his fingers trembling ever so slightly against you.

“Don’t… act like you care now, Rafayel,” you murmured, half-teasing, though the words came out weaker than you meant.

His face twisted, and you saw a flash of something in his eyes that you hadn’t expected—hurt, genuine and raw, like you’d struck a nerve. “Idiot,” he whispered, and his tone was so low it was almost drowned out by the wind. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get… what?” You were slipping a little, your vision swimming, but you caught his gaze, and for the first time, you saw past his bratty facade to something deeper. He took a breath, his jaw set in determination, and then he did something you never expected: he carefully scooped you into his arms, his hold gentle yet fiercely protective.

“Stay awake, all right? I can’t have you passing out on me,” he ordered, though his voice had lost its usual bite. His words were soft, desperate, as he moved through the bleak landscape, carrying you with a carefulness that belied everything he usually projected. For a long moment, you stared at him, the pain numbing under the intensity in his gaze. This wasn’t the bratty, arrogant god who’d dragged you into mess after mess. This was someone else—someone who, behind the charm and teasing, was scared. For you.

"Idiot," he muttered, his words a tangled mess of relief and frustration. “Why would you do that?” He repeated.

And you almost laughed, wincing through the pain, because wasn’t it obvious?

“Because… I care,” you murmured, voice barely a whisper. It was the closest you’d come to admitting the truth—to saying what had long hovered between the two of you, unspoken, stubbornly denied.

"Just shut up for once,” he whispered, his voice strained, almost a plea. “You don’t… you don’t know what it’s like.” His arms tightened around you, as if holding you close could somehow protect you from the damage already done. “You… throwing yourself in front of me like that—do you have any idea how reckless that was? I didn’t need you to… risk yourself.”

“Couldn’t let the prince of the art world get scratched up… on my watch,” you said, trying to maintain your humor.

Rafayel glanced down, his usual piercing eyes softening, his expression raw. “If you’d died, I wouldn’t…” He paused, his gaze slipping away, the words seemingly caught in his throat. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself,” he finished, barely audible.

You managed to brush a finger along his wrist, grounding yourself, anchoring him to you. “You’ll… still have the sea. And everyone to charm.”

For once, he didn’t laugh. Instead, he looked down at you, and his eyes were so intense, so filled with something you’d never seen before. “None of that matters,” he murmured, his voice raw. He shifted, his hand grazing your cheek, lingering there for a moment too long. “Stay awake,” he commanded, a note of urgency threading through his tone. “You can’t just pass out on me. Not like this.”

You blinked up at him, the sunlight filtering through the clouds casting a warm glow around his figure. “Not… gonna pass out,” you whispered, though it felt like a lie even to your own ears. You could see the worry etched across his handsome face, something raw and unfiltered. “You need me for your—”

“Stop it!” he snapped, but there was no bite in his voice, only a desperate plea. “You don’t get to joke around right now. Not when you’re bleeding out.”

“Rafayel…” you began, but he cut you off, a flicker of his old bravado returning.

“Save your strength,” he snapped, though the edge was softened by concern. “I’ll get you out of here, but you have to stay awake. Don’t you dare fall asleep on me!”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you managed to murmur, your vision dimming as the waves of unconsciousness tugged at the edges of your mind. “Not without you.”

“Good,” he replied, and his voice was fierce and unyielding. “Stay alive,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, eyes dark with something he couldn’t bring himself to name. “For me.”

ZAYNE

The world felt hazy around you, pain ebbing in and out of your awareness as Zayne held you steady, his hands pressing firmly yet gently against the wound on your side. Blood smeared across his fingertips, but he kept his touch steady, calculating, his focus a perfect picture of surgical precision.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, his voice level, his eyes fixed on you with a fierce intensity. “I need you to keep talking. Tell me if you’re feeling dizzy or lightheaded, alright?”

You managed a faint smile, ignoring the way your own breaths came shallow and broken. “You’re… really good at this,” you tried to joke, but Zayne only shook his head, lips pressing into a thin line. “You should become a doctor...”

“Don’t push yourself to talk. You’ve taken a nasty hit here.” His voice was calm, almost clinical, but you could see the strain in his jaw, the telltale flicker of worry in his eyes. His hands, however, were as steady as ever, working methodically as he inspected the wound, gauging the damage with the supplies he always seemed to have at hand.

“Think of it this way," he continued softly, his calm tone soothing despite the urgency of the situation. "The wound isn’t too bad—lucky hit. If we keep steady pressure on it, there shouldn’t be significant blood loss. You’ll be fine. But you have to focus on breathing for me, alright?”

He was explaining everything, his voice filling the air like a familiar, grounding hum. His hands, wrapped around the fabric of his jacket pressed to your side, were warm, almost protective. You could feel the faint tremor in his fingertips, but he moved with absolute control, unwilling to show even a hint of panic. His gaze flicked up to yours for a moment, his expression softening despite the tension in his features.

“I warned you about being reckless,” he muttered, his tone more of a gentle chide than anything else. “But it’s not the first time, is it?” The slight quirk of his lips, a half-hearted attempt at a smile, almost made you forget the pain. Almost.

“Couldn’t let you get hurt,” you whispered, fighting to keep your voice steady.

“Hold still,” he ordered softly, his voice low and steady as he worked to stop the bleeding. His fingers were meticulous, his hands steady, despite the fear you could feel radiating from him. He couldn’t afford to let it show, so he did what he knew best: he relied on the calm, clinical precision that had carried him through countless surgeries. "The wound's not fatal, but you’re going to need stitches. I’d say you’ve torn through the muscle here by… at least an inch or two.” He let out a breath through gritted teeth, looking pointedly into your eyes. “I can’t believe you tried to shield me from that Wanderer."

Despite his calm, you could see the fear in his eyes—the same fear that betrayed itself in the tension of his jaw, in the way his hands lingered just a moment too long against your skin, as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

As he applied pressure to your wound, his tone softened, more to himself than to you. “You’re lucky you didn’t rupture an artery,” he said, hands deftly inspecting the injury with precise, practiced movements. “If this were any worse… I’d be looking at a very different situation right now.” His voice wavered on that last note, but his hands stayed steady, not allowing a single tremor to betray him.

“You’re going to be fine, I’m going to make sure of that.” He glanced down at you, his gaze holding an intensity that went beyond the practiced care of a surgeon. “You’re not allowed to play the hero, you know?. And if you’re trying to impress me… then I’d say you’re not required to be reckless for it.”

“Zayne…” you murmured, feeling the darkness pressing in at the edges of your vision.

“Keep those eyes open,” he whispered, his fingers gently brushing your cheek, grounding you in the warmth of his touch. “Stay with me. I’ll… I’ll get you out of here. But I need you to focus.” His thumb gently stroked your temple, his touch tender yet steady as he leaned close, his forehead resting lightly against yours, just for a second, as if grounding himself, too.

You managed a faint smile. “Didn’t know you were the boss of me, doc.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t look up. “Believe it or not, I have plenty of experience bossing you around.” He kept talking, his voice low and clinical, grounding you in the familiar, steady cadence

“You always said I was a terrible listener.” Your voice softened as you felt his hand linger, his thumb grazing your skin in a gesture far more affectionate than necessary.

“This isn’t funny.” He met your gaze then, a look so intense it stole the breath from your lungs. “Breathe,” he instructed, his voice calm and steady, despite the chaos swirling around you.

You could see the fear lurking in his dark eyes, a stark contrast to his composed demeanor. But it didn’t matter; his touch was methodical, reassuring, his fingers steady as they pressed against the injury.

“Zayne… the others—”

“Forget them.” His voice was firm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of panic as they darted around the shop, assessing the situation even as he tended to you. “I need you to focus on me. You’re the priority right now.”

You could feel the warmth of his hand against your side, but it was not enough to push away the chill creeping into your bones. “But—”

“Enough.” He pressed down harder, and you gasped, but he didn’t relent, his expression shifting to one of fierce determination. “You can’t help anyone if you bleed out here. So please, stay with me.”

The adrenaline coursing through your veins faltered, and all you could think about was how you had protected him—how you had jumped in front of the danger without a second thought. The sight of him, typically unflappable, now uncharacteristically tense, pulled at your heart.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely able to form the words.

He shook his head, an intensity burning in his gaze. “Don’t. You’re not allowed to apologize. Not when you’re the one lying here, bleeding out for me.” He brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead, his touch lingering. “I’m not letting you leave me. You hear me? We still have so much left to do together.”

You could feel the world slipping away, darkness creeping into your vision, but his voice anchored you. “Hey… Don’t let go.” he murmured, using the nickname he reserved for the most intimate moments. “I won’t let anything happen to you, not again.”

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

[solxamber]

Idia cater and octanivelle (seperate) with a reader s/o who gets cuteness aggression towards their boyfriend, dragging him to privacy if they arent already in it so they can smother to boy with kisses and then just leaving them be like they just did the most normal thing, leaving the characters to react in their own ways perhaps please?

Cuteness Agression with: Idia, Cater, Octatrio

a/n: i loved the ask omg i was giggling the entire time i was writing it. sorry for the really long wait and i hope you like it

Part 2: Malleus, Rook, Lilia, Jamil, Riddle, Leona

Idia Shroud

Idia had never considered himself cute. If anything, he was the exact opposite of what someone might find remotely attractive—awkward, perpetually hunched over, and most likely to combust if too many people looked at him at once. But then, there was you.

You, with your sunshine-like enthusiasm and boundless energy, who had the audacity to look at him—his mess of blue flames, oversized hoodie, and permanently slouched posture—and declare him the cutest thing you’d ever seen.

At first, he thought it was a joke. Surely, you couldn’t be serious. But as time passed, it became glaringly obvious: you were dead serious.

It started on a quiet afternoon. You’d found Idia tucked away in his room as usual, gaming with a focus so intense he didn’t even notice you entering. His lips were pressed into a slight pout, his brows furrowed, and his hair glowed faintly with concentration.

And that was it. Something in your brain snapped.

You didn’t even say anything, just marched over, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him out of his chair.

“H-Hey! What are you—?!” Idia stammered, flailing as you dragged him out of the room and down the hall. “I’m in the middle of a raid! I can’t just leave! My party’s gonna—”

You shoved open the door to an empty lounge, ignoring his protests, and pushed him onto the couch. Before he could even process what was happening, you pounced.

“You’re so cute, I can’t stand it!” you half-yelled, squishing his cheeks in your hands and pressing a flurry of kisses all over his face.

Idia froze. His brain blue-screened. “Wh-What—?!”

“Nope, no talking,” you said, absolutely drunk on how adorable he looked when he was flustered. You kissed him again, your hands cradling his face like he was some precious, fragile thing. “You’re so cute, it’s criminal! I’m putting you under arrest.”

“Th-That’s not—! Y-You can’t just—!” Idia’s protests were muffled by your relentless affection. His flames sparked and flickered wildly, betraying just how utterly overwhelmed he was.

After several long moments, you finally relented, leaning back to admire your work. Idia’s face was a brilliant shade of red, his hair practically sparking like fireworks. He looked dazed, his wide golden eyes staring at you like you’d just dropped from the sky.

“See? Absolutely adorable,” you said smugly, crossing your arms like you’d just won some grand debate.

Idia sputtered, burying his face in his hands. “Y-You can’t just ambush me like that! W-What if someone saw?!”

You grinned, leaning forward to gently pull his hands away from his face. “No one saw, and even if they did, so what? You’re my boyfriend, and I reserve the right to smother you in kisses whenever I feel like it.”

Idia groaned, though there was no real heat behind it. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one day, I swear...”

“Worth it,” you teased, poking his cheek playfully.

From that day on, Idia learned to recognize the look.

Whenever your eyes lit up with that dangerous mix of adoration and mischief, he knew what was coming.

“Wait, wait, wait—” he’d say, hands raised as if to fend you off. “Let’s talk about this! Let’s be rational—!”

But it was always too late.

No matter where you were—whether in the library, the cafeteria, or even in the middle of a gaming session—you’d drag him off to a secluded spot, showering him with affection until he was a stuttering, blushing mess.

And the worst part? He couldn’t even be mad about it.

Because, deep down, a part of him liked it.

Liked how unapologetically you loved him. Liked how your touch, your laughter, your relentless affection made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was worth all the trouble.

Even if it left him blushing for hours afterward.

Cater Diamond

Cater Diamond loved attention. Loved being in the spotlight, basking in the glow of likes, comments, and shares. What he didn’t anticipate was being the target of your unique brand of attention—a combination of relentless affection and an overwhelming urge to smother him every time you deemed him too cute to function.

Which, as it turned out, was all the time.

It started with something simple: Cater had been showing you his latest MagiCam post. He was talking animatedly about angles, filters, and hashtags, and his grin was so radiant, his enthusiasm so infectious, that your brain short-circuited.

“Cute,” you muttered under your breath. But then you looked at him again—the sparkle in his green eyes, the playful way he stuck out his tongue as he scrolled through his phone—and it hit you like a freight train.

“You’re so cute, I can’t handle it!” you practically yelled, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him out of the classroom before he could protest.

Cater stumbled after you, his phone clattering to the floor. “Whoa, whoa! What’s the rush? Did I—?”

You didn’t let him finish. The moment you found an empty hallway, you spun around, cupped his cheeks, and peppered his face with kisses. “Why are you so cute all the time? It’s illegal. Illegal, Cater.”

His cheeks flushed pink as he let out a surprised laugh. “Uh… I didn’t know being adorable was a crime? Should I call the guards?”

“Yes,” you huffed dramatically. “Call them. Tell them I’m guilty of having too much cuteness aggression, and you’re the victim.”

Cater blinked, momentarily stunned into silence, and then broke into a grin so wide it could’ve lit up the entire school. “Wow, you’re like my personal hype squad! This is the best day ever.”

From that day forward, Cater learned to recognize the warning signs.

Whenever you got that look—the one where your eyes sparkled and your hands fidgeted like you were holding yourself back—he knew he was in for it.

“Let’s chill for a second,” he’d say, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “We’re in public! Don’t you wanna save this for, I dunno, somewhere private?”

You’d smile sweetly. Too sweetly. “Nope.”

And before he could escape, you’d grab him and whisk him away to some hidden corner of the school.

“Seriously, what did I even do this time?” Cater would ask, though his laughter betrayed any attempt at indignation.

“You exist, Cater,” you’d reply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And you’re cute, and I can’t stand it, so hold still.”

Cue more kisses, and more of Cater melting into a giggling mess under your relentless affection.

One afternoon, you found him lounging on the couch in the Heartslabyul lounge, scrolling through his MagiCam feed. He’d tossed on one of his oversized sweaters, and his hair was slightly mussed like he’d just rolled out of bed.

It was too much. Your self-control snapped like a twig.

“Okay, that’s it,” you said, marching over.

Cater looked up just in time to see you barreling toward him. “Oh no, not again—! Babe, wait! Let me post first—!”

You tackled him onto the couch, smothering him in kisses as he laughed and squirmed beneath you. “You’re insane!”

“And you’re adorable!” you shot back, holding his face like it was the most precious thing in the world. “It’s a problem.”

Cater gave up resisting, his arms wrapping around your waist as he laughed breathlessly. “Well, I guess there are worse problems to have than being attacked by my cute, affectionate partner”

You kissed the tip of his nose, grinning down at him. “That’s right. You should feel honored.”

“Totally,” Cater said with a wink, though the flush in his cheeks and the soft look in his eyes betrayed how much he really meant it.

Cater might have been used to playing roles, putting on masks to charm the world, but with you, there were no masks. No filters. Just him, basking in your unfiltered love, and loving every second of it. Even if it meant being smothered in kisses every time you found him too cute to handle.

Which, to your credit, was all the time.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul Ashengrotto prided himself on being composed, professional, and, above all, respectable. He was a businessman, a contract wizard, a man of strategy. What he absolutely wasn't prepared for was how you, his beloved, had a penchant for completely derailing his carefully curated image with something as ridiculous as cuteness aggression.

And by the Sea Witch, you were relentless.

It started one evening in the Mostro Lounge. Azul had been reviewing paperwork behind the bar, his brow furrowed in concentration, glasses perched delicately on his nose. His pen moved with precise efficiency, the soft scratch of ink on parchment the only sound as he reviewed the latest inventory reports.

You were supposed to be helping, but instead, you found yourself distracted. Watching the way his fingers tapped lightly on the countertop, how his silver hair gleamed under the soft lounge lighting, and the faint pout of his lips as he puzzled over a tricky calculation… it was too much. The man was criminally adorable.

“Azul,” you said suddenly, voice tinged with barely suppressed glee.

He hummed, not looking up. “Yes, my dear?”

You didn’t reply, instead marching over to him with a determined look.

Azul glanced up just in time to see you close the distance between you, a dangerous gleam in your eyes. “W-Wait, what are you—?”

Before he could finish his sentence, you grabbed his wrist, tugging him out of his chair with surprising strength.

“Hey!” he yelped, stumbling after you. “I’m working! The reports—!”

“Can wait,” you interrupted firmly, dragging him into one of the private booths.

“Honestly, what has gotten into—”

His protests were cut off as you shoved him onto the cushioned seat and cupped his face in your hands, your eyes sparkling with adoration.

“You’re so cute,” you said, and the way your voice wavered with sheer affection sent Azul’s heart racing.

“I—what?” he sputtered, his composure crumbling.

“You’re so cute,” you repeated, practically vibrating with energy. “I can’t stand it. I have to kiss you. Right now.”

Azul’s face turned a brilliant shade of red, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “T-That’s hardly appropriate—!”

You didn’t let him finish, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, then his cheeks, then his lips.

Azul went completely still, his brain scrambling to process what was happening. His carefully constructed persona, the one he worked so hard to maintain, was nowhere to be found. Instead, he was just a blushing, flustered mess, completely at your mercy.

When you finally pulled back, his wide-eyed expression made you giggle. “There. Much better,” you said, sitting back with a satisfied smile.

Azul blinked at you, utterly speechless. He adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers, trying—and failing—to regain some semblance of dignity. “Y-You can’t just… do that!”

“Sure I can,” you replied, unrepentant. “You’re my boyfriend. It’s in the job description.”

Azul opened his mouth to argue but faltered when he saw the way you were smiling at him—like he was the most precious thing in the world. His heart stuttered, and he looked away, flustered beyond belief.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, though there was no real heat behind his words.

“And you love it,” you teased, leaning in to steal another kiss.

From that moment on, Azul realized he had to be on high alert.

You had a habit of striking at the most unexpected times. Whether he was mid-negotiation, organizing the lounge staff, or simply trying to enjoy a quiet cup of tea, you always found a way to pull him aside and smother him with affection.

“We’re in public,” he’d hiss, his face bright red as you kissed his knuckles in the middle of the lounge. “What will the customers think?”

“They’ll think I’m the luckiest person in the world,” you replied with a grin, completely unfazed.

“You’re impossible,” Azul groaned, burying his face in his hands.

But despite his protests, there was a small, secret part of him that loved it. Loved the way you looked at him with stars in your eyes. Loved the way you laughed when he got flustered. Loved the way you made him feel like he was more than just a businessman, more than just the awkward, insecure octo-mer he used to be.

He would never admit it aloud, of course—his pride wouldn’t allow it. But the next time you grabbed his hand and dragged him away with that mischievous glint in your eye, Azul didn’t resist nearly as much as he claimed he would.

Because, really, who was he to deny you?

Jade Leech

Jade Leech was many things—elegant, composed, a touch unnerving when the moment called for it—but "cute" wasn’t exactly the first adjective that came to mind for most. For you, however, the sight of him was downright devastating.

The poised way he carried himself, the sly curve of his lips when he smiled, the faint glint of mischief in his mismatched eyes—it was all so unbearably adorable that it practically short-circuited your brain.

And it wasn’t like you could keep it to yourself. No, you had to act on it. Every time.

The first time it happened, you were sitting in the Mostro Lounge, watching Jade work. He moved with his usual grace, balancing trays, speaking softly to patrons, and wearing that infuriatingly charming smile that made your heart race.

“Are you alright?” His smooth voice cut through your daze. He was standing right in front of you now, head tilted ever so slightly, curiosity evident on his face.

You blinked, realizing you’d been staring. “Uh… yeah! Just… appreciating you.”

Jade’s smile widened. “How flattering. And what, pray tell, have I done to earn such attention?”

Oh, no. He was being cute and smug about it. That did it. You couldn’t take it anymore.

Grabbing his wrist, you tugged him behind the lounge counter, away from the prying eyes of the customers. “Jade, I can’t—I need to—just stay still!”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused but also intrigued. “Stay still for what, exactly?”

You didn’t answer, too busy cupping his face and pressing kisses all over it. His forehead, his cheeks, his nose—every inch of him was a target.

“Oh...” His voice trailed off, his usual composed demeanor slipping as he blinked down at you, utterly flabbergasted. “What… are you doing?”

“Kissing you, obviously,” you mumbled between smooches, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Jade chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your lips as you kissed his jawline. “I see that. But why the sudden… enthusiasm?”

“Because you’re too cute,” you declared, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. “And if I don’t do this, I’ll explode. It’s science.”

Jade’s smile shifted into something softer, warmer. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, simply studying your flushed, determined face. Then, with a low hum of approval, he gently wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer.

“Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of scientific necessity,” he teased, leaning in to steal a kiss of his own.

From that point on, your "cuteness attacks" became a regular occurrence.

Whether he was reorganizing the terrarium in the Mostro Lounge, brewing potions in the lab, or simply enjoying a quiet moment with tea, you always found a way to interrupt him with your overwhelming affection.

“Dear,” he said one evening, as you practically tackled him onto the couch in the lounge’s VIP room. “You know I had work to finish, yes?”

“Uh-huh,” you replied, pinning him beneath you as you kissed his nose.

“And you’re aware this is highly disruptive?”

“Yup,” you said, grinning as you kissed the corner of his lips.

Jade sighed, but the way his arms came up to wrap around you betrayed his true feelings. “You are incorrigible,” he murmured, his voice fond.

“Thank you,” you replied cheerfully, planting one final kiss on his forehead before letting him sit up.

But Jade wasn’t one to let you have all the fun.

One afternoon, after dragging him away from his duties yet again to smother him with kisses, you found yourself suddenly spun around and pinned gently against the wall.

“Now, now,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he leaned in close. “It seems only fair that I get a turn, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your breath hitched as his mismatched eyes glinted with amusement, and before you could respond, he leaned in to press a kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“J-Jade!” you stammered, your face heating up.

“Yes, my dear?” he replied, entirely too smug as he trailed his lips to the corner of your mouth.

“This—this isn’t how it’s supposed to go!”

He chuckled, finally pulling back to look at you. “Oh? And how is it supposed to go?”

You pouted, crossing your arms. “I’m supposed to be the one attacking you with affection, not the other way around!”

Jade smiled, a rare, genuine expression that made your heart skip a beat. “I suppose turnabout is fair play, wouldn’t you say?”

And as he leaned in to kiss you again, you decided that, yeah, maybe it was.

Floyd Leech

Being in a relationship with Floyd Leech meant two things: chaos and spontaneity. But what Floyd didn’t expect was the level of cuteness aggression you’d unleash on him daily.

It started innocently enough. Floyd would flash you one of his sharp-toothed grins, or he’d laugh that unhinged laugh of his, and you’d feel your entire brain short-circuit.

His mismatched eyes, the way his hair fell over his face, the effortless energy he carried—it all combined into something so painfully adorable that you couldn’t handle it.

And you didn’t.

The first incident occurred in the Mostro Lounge during a busy shift. Floyd was juggling three trays like a circus act, laughing at a poor customer’s flustered expression. You were seated at the counter, watching him, and suddenly, it hit you.

“Shrimpyyy! What’re ya staring at?” Floyd called, his grin only widening as he caught you watching him.

Bad move. That grin. That grin was your undoing.

You slammed a tip down on the counter and marched straight up to him. “Floyd. Put the trays down.”

“Huh? But—”

“Put them down,” you said, grabbing his wrist and dragging him behind the counter before he could even think to protest.

“Oi, Shrimpy, what’s the deal?!”

“You. Are. Too. Cute!” you hissed, before cupping his face and attacking him with kisses.

“Wha—hey!” Floyd’s laughter echoed through the empty kitchen as you smothered his cheeks, nose, and forehead with kisses. “You’re so weird! I love it!”

By the time you were done, Floyd’s face was flushed (a rare sight), and his laughter had turned soft, almost shy.

“Shrimpy,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re lucky I like ya so much. Otherwise, I’d squeeze ya for embarrassin’ me like this.”

You grinned, pulling him in for one last peck on the lips. “You love it.”

“…Yeah, I do,” he admitted, the grin returning full force.

This became a regular thing. Anytime Floyd did something that struck you as particularly adorable—whether it was his lazy, stretched-out posture during naps, the way his lips pouted when he was annoyed, or even the way he lit up like a kid when he got his favorite snacks—you’d pounce.

“Shrimpy, you’re at it again!” he’d laugh, squirming in your arms as you peppered kisses all over his face. “What’s the big idea, huh?”

“You’re too cute. I can’t stand it,” you’d reply every time, as if that explained everything.

And for Floyd, it kind of did.

One particularly memorable incident happened during a basketball game. Floyd was on fire, scoring point after point while practically dancing across the court. His energy was infectious, and you couldn’t help but cheer louder than anyone else in the stands.

When the game ended and his team won, Floyd looked up at you, his grin wide, sweat dripping down his face, and he yelled, “Did ya see that, Shrimpy?! I’m the MVP!”

That was it. That was the moment. You didn’t even wait for him to come to you. You climbed down from the bleachers, sprinted across the court, and tackled him in a hug.

“Shrimpy! What’re ya—”

“You’re so cute when you’re excited!” you exclaimed, kissing his sweaty cheek.

The entire gym went silent as everyone stared, but Floyd? Floyd cackled so loudly that it echoed off the walls.

“Ha! You’re unbelievable, Shrimpy,” he said, hugging you back tightly. “But I like that about ya. Keep it comin’!”

It wasn’t just in public, either. Even in quiet moments, Floyd basked in your affection.

One night, as the two of you lounged on the couch in your dorm, Floyd rested his head on your lap, dozing lightly. His peaceful expression, the way his lashes rested against his cheek, the soft rise and fall of his chest—it was too much.

“Floyd,” you whispered, nudging him gently.

He opened one eye, looking up at you. “Hmm? What’s up, Shrimpy?”

“You’re adorable,” you said simply, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

He chuckled, shifting to wrap his arms around your waist. “Man, you’re obsessed with me, huh?”

“Yep. Totally obsessed.”

“Good,” he said, pulling you down so you were lying on top of him. “’Cause I’m obsessed with ya too.”

Floyd might have been unpredictable and chaotic, but there was one constant in his life: you, and the relentless affection you showered him with.

And if anyone dared to comment on it, Floyd would just grin, throw an arm around you, and say, “What? Shrimpy can’t help themselves. I’m irresistible, duh!”

Masterlist

[pucksandpower]

The Interview

Max Verstappen x journalism student!Reader

Summary: when you are given an assignment to interview someone, you can’t resist asking your boyfriend to be the subject … it’s just a shame that your professor doesn’t believe the interview actually happened

The classroom smells faintly of old books and freshly printed handouts as you sit in your usual spot, third row from the front, slightly to the left. The room is slowly emptying out, the hum of post-class chatter gradually fading as students make their way out into the hallway. You’re gathering your things, sliding your notebook into your bag, when you hear Professor Carter clear his throat.

“Y/N,” he says, his tone firm but not loud. “Could you stay behind for a moment?”

You pause, your hand gripping the strap of your bag. His voice isn’t one that invites argument, and you’re already running through the possibilities of what this could be about. Your mind flickers to your most recent assignment — the interview with Max. The nerves you’ve been trying to suppress all week twist in your stomach.

You watch as the last few students shuffle out, closing the door behind them. Professor Carter leans back in his chair, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he flips through a stack of papers. His desk is a mess, as usual — books stacked haphazardly, coffee stains on nearly every surface, but his eyes are sharp when they finally meet yours.

“So,” he begins, tapping a finger on the paper in front of him. “Your latest assignment. The interview.”

You nod slowly, trying to gauge his mood. “Yes, sir.”

He holds up the paper, and you can see your neat handwriting sprawled across the page. “You interviewed Max Verstappen.”

It’s not a question, but you nod again anyway. “Yes.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Tell me, Y/N, how exactly did you manage that?”

Your heart skips a beat. You knew this might happen — knew that choosing Max, of all people, might raise some eyebrows. But you hadn’t expected it to be this ... confrontational. You take a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Well, I’ve known Max for a while,” you say, carefully choosing your words. “I asked him if he’d be willing to help me with the assignment, and he agreed.”

Professor Carter leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Known him for a while, you say?”

“Yes,” you reply, trying not to sound defensive. “We’ve been ... friends.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Friends.”

There’s something in his tone that makes you stiffen. You know what he’s implying — he doesn’t believe you. You fight the urge to fidget under his gaze, forcing yourself to stay calm.

“Professor,” you start, choosing your words carefully, “I understand that it might seem unlikely, but I assure you, the interview was real. I can-”

He holds up a hand, cutting you off. “Y/N, let’s be honest here. You’re a student at the University of Sheffield. Not exactly the kind of place where one casually befriends a Formula 1 driver.”

Your stomach twists tighter. “I’m not lying,” you say, a little more forcefully than you intended. “Max and I-”

“Enough,” he says, his voice rising slightly. He sets your paper down on the desk, his fingers drumming against the wood. “If you’re going to fabricate an interview, at least make it believable. I’ve seen this kind of thing before, you know. Students who get desperate, who think that stretching the truth — or outright inventing it — will get them the grade they want.”

You stare at him, disbelief coursing through you. “I didn’t fabricate anything,” you insist. “I really interviewed him.”

Professor Carter’s expression doesn’t change. “Then prove it.”

You blink. “Prove it?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “Show me some kind of proof that this interview actually happened. Otherwise, I’m going to have to give you a zero for academic dishonesty.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. A zero. That would tank your grade — maybe even your entire semester. But the worst part is that he’s asking for proof you can’t provide, not without exposing the relationship you’ve been so careful to keep private.

You hesitate, your mind racing. What do you do? Do you tell him the truth? Risk everything to save your grade? But the thought of Max — his need for privacy, the way you’ve both agreed to keep things quiet for now — weighs heavily on you. You can’t just throw that away. Not for this.

You swallow hard. “I ... I can’t.”

Professor Carter’s eyes narrow. “You can’t?”

“I mean, I can’t give you proof,” you clarify, your voice wavering slightly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m lying.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “Y/N, you’re a smart student. You should know that in journalism, credibility is everything. Without proof, your story doesn’t hold up.”

You bite your lip, frustration bubbling up inside you. “I’m telling you the truth. I did interview him. Just because I can’t show you proof doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“And just because you say it did happen doesn’t mean it did,” he counters, his tone cool. He taps the paper again, a final, dismissive gesture. “I’m sorry, but unless you can provide evidence, I have no choice but to give you a zero.”

You’re stunned into silence, your mind reeling. You can’t believe this is happening. It feels unfair, like you’re being backed into a corner with no way out.

“Professor Carter,” you try again, your voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Please. I’m not lying. I wouldn’t risk my grade like this if it wasn’t true.”

He regards you for a moment, and for a split second, you think he might relent. But then he shakes his head, resolute. “I’m sorry, Y/N. My decision stands.”

The weight of his words presses down on you, and you feel a sharp sting behind your eyes. You blink rapidly, determined not to let him see you cry. This is supposed to be a professional conversation, and you won’t let your emotions get the better of you.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I understand,” you say, though your voice is tight. “Thank you for your time.”

He nods curtly, already turning his attention back to the stack of papers on his desk, dismissing you without another word. You force yourself to walk out of the classroom with your head held high, even though every step feels heavier than the last.

When you finally make it out into the hallway, the reality of the situation hits you full force. You lean against the wall, your bag slipping off your shoulder as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes, willing yourself to keep it together. You can’t believe this is happening. A zero. All because you refused to betray Max’s trust.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out with trembling fingers. It’s a message from Max.

Hey, just finished training. Want to grab dinner later?

You stare at the screen, a lump forming in your throat. How do you even begin to explain this to him? Do you tell him everything? Or do you keep it to yourself, like you’ve been doing for the past year?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, the words you want to say tangled up in your mind. Finally, you type a simple response.

Yeah. Let’s meet at our usual spot.

As you hit send, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. You’ll figure this out. Somehow. You have to.

***

The restaurant is quieter than usual, the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware blending into a muted backdrop. You sit across from Max in your usual booth by the window, the warm glow of candlelight casting soft shadows on his face.

He’s already ordered for both of you, the way he always does when he gets here before you. It’s a small thing, but it makes you smile — a reminder of how well he knows you, your likes and dislikes, the little details that make up your routine.

But tonight, the smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You can feel the weight of what happened earlier pressing down on you, a knot of tension in your chest that you can’t seem to shake. Max is talking about his day — something about the latest adjustments they’ve made to the car — but the words are barely registering. You nod along, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting back to the conversation with Professor Carter, the way he looked at you, the disbelief in his voice.

“Hey,” Max’s voice cuts through your thoughts, gentle but insistent. “You okay?”

You blink, realizing you’ve been staring at your untouched glass of water for the past minute. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just ... tired.”

Max studies you for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. He’s not convinced, you can tell. But he doesn’t push, not yet. Instead, he leans back in his seat, taking a sip of his drink. “Long day, huh?”

“Something like that,” you murmur, picking up your fork and poking at the salad in front of you. You’re not really hungry, but you force yourself to take a bite, if only to keep your hands busy. The last thing you want is for Max to start asking questions. You know him too well — he’ll find a way to make this his fault, even though it’s not. And you can’t handle that right now, not on top of everything else.

Max is still watching you, though, and you can feel the weight of his gaze. He’s always been able to read you like a book, and tonight is no different. After a few more moments of silence, he sets his glass down with a soft clink.

“You’re doing that thing,” he says, his voice carefully neutral.

You glance up at him, confused. “What thing?”

“That thing where you say you’re fine, but you’re not.” His tone is gentle, but there’s a firmness underneath it. He’s not going to let this go. “Come on, what’s going on? Did something happen today?”

Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly drop your gaze back to your plate. “No, nothing happened,” you lie, trying to sound casual. “It’s just been a long week, that’s all.”

“Right.” He doesn’t sound convinced, and you can feel his eyes on you, searching for cracks in the facade. “Because you’re always this quiet when nothing’s wrong.”

You sigh, pushing the lettuce around your plate. “Max, I’m fine. Really.”

There’s a pause, and then you hear him exhale softly, like he’s trying to be patient. “You know, you’re a terrible liar.”

Your stomach twists at his words, but you keep your eyes on your plate. You know he’s right — you’ve never been good at hiding things from him. But this ... this is different. You can’t just blurt it out, can’t just tell him what happened without worrying about how he’ll react. He’ll get upset, maybe even angry, and he’ll blame himself for something that isn’t his fault.

“Just ... drop it, okay?” You say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Max’s expression softens, but the concern doesn’t leave his eyes. “Y/N,” he says gently, leaning forward. “If something’s bothering you, I want to help. You don’t have to deal with it on your own.”

You shake your head, still not meeting his gaze. “It’s nothing you can help with.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Max’s hand is on yours, warm and solid, grounding you in the moment. “Let me decide that,” he says quietly. “Please.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you, but you bite down on the words that are clawing at the back of your throat. You can’t do this, not here, not now. So instead, you pull your hand away gently, offering him a small smile.

“Really, Max, it’s fine,” you say, trying to sound reassuring. “Let’s just enjoy dinner, okay?”

He hesitates, clearly torn between wanting to respect your wishes and wanting to press for answers. But eventually, he nods, though the worry doesn’t leave his eyes. “Okay. But if you change your mind ...”

“I know,” you say softly. “Thank you.”

You both lapse into silence after that, the conversation stilted and awkward. You try to focus on the food, on the comfortable routine you’ve built together, but the knot in your chest only tightens with every passing minute. You hate this — hate that you’re keeping something from him, hate that you’re letting it affect your time together. But you don’t know what else to do.

It’s Max who finally breaks the silence, setting his fork down with a sigh. “You know, I’m not very good at this.”

You look up at him, frowning. “At what?”

He gestures between the two of you. “At ... whatever this is. The whole ‘let’s pretend nothing’s wrong’ thing. It’s not really my style.”

You can’t help but smile at that, despite everything. “I know.”

“So why are we doing it?” He asks, his tone gentle but probing. “Why are you pretending that everything’s fine when it’s clearly not?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Because ... I don’t want to ruin dinner?”

Max’s lips quirk into a half-smile, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “Dinner’s already ruined if you’re not happy.”

The words hang between you, heavy and honest, and you feel the walls you’ve been trying to keep up start to crumble. You take a deep breath, feeling the tightness in your chest loosen just a fraction. Maybe ... maybe it’s time to tell him. Maybe he deserves to know.

“Okay,” you say quietly, setting your fork down. “But ... promise me you won’t get mad.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “Mad? Why would I get mad?”

“Just promise.”

He sighs, nodding. “Okay. I promise.”

You take another deep breath, steeling yourself. “It’s about my journalism assignment. The one where I interviewed you.”

Max nods slowly, waiting for you to continue.

“So ... my professor — Professor Carter — he, um ... he thinks I faked it.”

Max’s expression darkens immediately, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What? Why would he think that?”

You shrug, trying to keep your voice steady. “Because ... well, because he doesn’t believe that I actually know you. He thinks I made the whole thing up to get a good grade.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Max says, his voice rising slightly in disbelief. “Why would he assume that?”

“Because I’m just a student at Sheffield,” you explain, your words tumbling out faster now. “And you’re ... well, you. He doesn’t think someone like me could actually know someone like you.”

Max’s jaw clenches, and you can see the anger simmering beneath the surface. “That’s-” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. “What did he say?”

“He said ... he said he’s giving me a zero for academic dishonesty unless I can prove that the interview was real.”

Max’s eyes widen in shock. “A zero?”

You nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

Max sits back in his seat, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “That’s insane. You shouldn’t be penalized for telling the truth. Did you explain to him that we’re ... you know ...”

You shake your head quickly. “No, I didn’t tell him about us. I didn’t want to ... I mean, we’ve been keeping things private for a reason, right? I didn’t want to drag you into this.”

Max frowns, his frustration evident. “Y/N, you shouldn’t have to choose between protecting our privacy and your education. That’s not fair.”

“I know,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t want you to feel guilty. I know you would have found a way to blame yourself for this.”

Max looks at you, his expression softening. “I don’t want you to suffer because of me,” he says quietly. “I’d rather the whole world knew about us than have you lose out on your grades.”

You shake your head. “It’s not your fault, Max. I made the decision to keep things quiet, too. I don’t regret it.”

“But now you’re paying the price,” he mutters, frustration lacing his tone.

You reach across the table, taking his hand in yours. “We both knew there would be challenges. We’ll figure this out.”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just hate that this is happening to you. If I could talk to your professor-”

“No,” you cut in firmly. “I don’t want you getting involved. That would just make things worse.”

Max frowns, clearly unhappy with your decision, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks down at your joined hands, his thumb still tracing soft circles over your skin. “But what are you going to do?” He asks quietly.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe I can talk to him again, try to convince him without bringing you into it.”

Max shakes his head, clearly frustrated. “It’s not right, Y/N. You shouldn’t have to prove yourself like this.”

“I know,” you say, your voice soft but resolute. “But I don’t want to drag you into it. We’ve worked so hard to keep our relationship private, and I don’t want this to be the thing that changes that.”

Max looks at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours. Finally, he sighs, squeezing your hand one last time before letting go. “Okay. I’ll respect your decision. But if it gets worse, if he keeps pushing ...”

“I’ll let you know,” you promise, trying to offer him a reassuring smile. “But for now, let’s just try to enjoy dinner, okay?”

Max nods, though the tension in his shoulders doesn’t quite ease. “Okay,” he agrees, though there’s a note of reluctance in his voice.

You both lapse into a more comfortable silence after that, the conversation slowly returning to more familiar, lighter topics. But even as you talk about other things, you can feel the weight of the situation lingering between you. Max’s concern is palpable, and you know he’s still thinking about it, even if he’s trying not to show it.

But for now, you’re both doing your best to push it aside, to focus on the time you have together. You know you’ll have to deal with the situation with Professor Carter eventually, but for tonight, you’re content to just be here with Max, to enjoy the quiet moments that are yours alone.

No matter what happens, you’ll figure it out together.

***

Professor Carter’s classroom is as stifling as ever, the air thick with the scent of old books and the faint smell of chalk dust. You’re sitting in your usual spot near the back, trying to focus on the lecture. But it’s impossible to concentrate. Every time Professor Carter glances in your direction, your stomach twists with anxiety. The weight of his accusation still hangs over you, and you can’t shake the feeling that everyone in the room knows what happened, that they’re all silently judging you.

Your notebook lies open in front of you, but the words on the page blur together. You can barely pay attention to the lecture, your mind constantly drifting back to the conversation with Max. You told him you’d handle this on your own, but now, sitting here under Professor Carter’s scrutinizing gaze, you’re starting to doubt yourself. What if you can’t convince him? What if you really do end up with a zero on the assignment?

As if sensing your distress, Professor Carter pauses mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as he looks in your direction. “Miss Y/L/N, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” He asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You snap out of your thoughts, your heart racing. “No, sir,” you mumble, trying to shrink into your seat.

He arches an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with your response. “Then I suggest you pay attention. This material will be on the final exam, and I’d hate for you to miss out on any more important details.”

There’s a smattering of laughter from your classmates, and you feel your face flush with embarrassment. You nod quickly, your fingers tightening around your pen. “Yes, sir,” you say quietly.

Professor Carter smirks, clearly pleased with himself, and turns back to the board. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. But just as you’re about to refocus on the lecture, the door to the classroom swings open.

Every head in the room turns to look at the sudden interruption, and you feel your heart stop when you see who’s standing in the doorway.

Max.

He’s dressed casually, in a black T-shirt and jeans, but there’s no mistaking who he is. The entire room goes silent, the air thick with shock and disbelief. You can see the recognition in your classmates’ eyes, the way they start whispering to each other, nudging each other and pointing in his direction.

Max strides into the room with the kind of confidence that only he possesses, his gaze scanning the room until it lands on you. His expression softens for a moment when he sees you, but then he turns his attention to Professor Carter, who is staring at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

“Can I help you?” Professor Carter asks, his voice sharp, though there’s a note of uncertainty beneath it.

Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, actually, you can,” he says, his tone polite but firm. “I’m here about Y/N’s assignment.”

Professor Carter’s eyes widen slightly, and you can see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to piece together what’s happening. “I’m sorry, but this is a private class,” he says, his tone regaining its usual authority. “If you have concerns about a student’s work, you can schedule a meeting during my office hours.”

Max crosses his arms over his chest, unfazed. “I think we can sort this out right here.”

You feel a mix of panic and gratitude welling up inside you. You didn’t want Max to get involved, but now that he’s here, you can’t deny the relief that floods through you. He’s taking a stand for you, and you can see that he’s not going to back down.

Professor Carter, on the other hand, looks like he’s trying to maintain his composure, but there’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Max Verstappen, I presume?” He says, his tone clipped.

Max nods. “That’s right. And I’m here to prove that Y/N didn’t fake her interview with me.”

There’s a collective gasp from the students, and you can feel the tension in the room spike. All eyes are on Max now, and you can see the shock on your classmates’ faces as they realize what’s happening. Professor Carter, however, doesn’t seem impressed.

“I see,” he says slowly, his gaze flicking to you for a moment before returning to Max. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

Max’s expression hardens, and you can see the determination in his eyes. “Simple. I’m here, aren’t I? She couldn’t have faked an interview with me if I’m standing right here.”

The room falls silent again, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. Professor Carter opens his mouth to respond, but for a moment, no words come out. It’s clear that he wasn’t expecting this. He was so sure of himself, so confident that you couldn’t possibly know someone like Max Verstappen. And now, here Max is, standing in front of him, making him eat his words.

“I ... appreciate your enthusiasm,” Professor Carter finally says, though his voice lacks its usual bite. “But this doesn’t prove anything. For all I know, you could be here out of some misguided attempt to protect her.”

Max’s jaw clenches, and you can see the frustration building in his eyes. “You think I would waste my time lying for someone? If she didn’t do the interview, I wouldn’t be here.”

Professor Carter’s gaze shifts to you, and you can see the doubt still lingering in his eyes. “Miss Y/L/N, I told you that if you could provide proof, I would reconsider your grade. But this ...” He gestures to Max. “This isn’t exactly the kind of proof I had in mind.”

You feel a surge of anger rising within you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re standing up, your voice trembling but firm. “What more proof do you need? He’s here, in front of the entire class. He’s telling you the interview was real. What else do I have to do to make you believe me?”

The room falls silent again, and you can see the shock on your classmates’ faces as they watch you stand up to Professor Carter. He looks taken aback, his usual smug expression faltering as he stares at you.

For a moment, no one speaks. Then, Max steps forward, his voice calm but filled with conviction. “Look, Professor, I get that this might be hard to believe. But Y/N isn’t lying. She interviewed me, and she did a damn good job, too. If you don’t believe me, you can check with my team. They’ll confirm it.”

Professor Carter hesitates, clearly torn between maintaining his authority and acknowledging the reality in front of him. He glances around the room, seeing the way his students are hanging on every word, waiting to see what he’ll do next.

Finally, he exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll take your word for it, Mr. Verstappen. But I expect Miss Y/L/N to submit any additional documentation that can verify this interview. Understood?”

You nod quickly, relief flooding through you. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Professor Carter waves his hand dismissively, clearly eager to move on. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to continue with the lesson.”

Max glances at you, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips. “I’ll wait outside,” he murmurs, and with one last look at Professor Carter, he turns and walks out of the classroom.

As the door closes behind him, you sink back into your seat, your heart still racing. The tension in the room starts to dissipate, and you can feel the curious stares of your classmates on you, but for the first time since this whole ordeal began, you feel a sense of calm. Max believed in you enough to do this, to stand up for you, and that’s all that matters.

Professor Carter clears his throat, trying to regain control of the room. “Alright, everyone, back to the lesson. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

You open your notebook again, but this time, the words on the page seem clearer, more focused. You can do this. You’ve got this. And no matter what happens next, you know you’re not alone.

***

When you step out of the building, the late afternoon sun is warm on your face, but you barely notice it. The adrenaline from the confrontation in class is still coursing through your veins, and all you can think about is getting out of here, away from the stares and whispers that followed you as you left the room.

You spot him immediately.

Max is leaning against his car, casually checking his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. But you can see the way his shoulders tense when he catches sight of you, the way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

The sleek black car gleams in the sunlight, and you can’t help but notice the way people are staring, some pointing, others whispering to each other. Max Verstappen waiting outside a university lecture hall is not something anyone expected to see today.

You make your way over to him, trying to ignore the attention and the pounding of your heart. You had told him not to do this, told him you’d handle it on your own. And yet, here he is, right in the middle of everything, like he promised he wouldn’t be.

“Hey,” Max says casually, slipping his phone into his pocket as you approach. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like he’s waiting for your reaction.

You stop in front of him, crossing your arms over your chest. “You promised me you wouldn’t get involved,” you say, your voice tight.

Max raises an eyebrow, looking entirely too calm for your liking. “I said I’d respect your decision. And I did — until I realized your professor is a jerk who needed to be put in his place.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to maintain your anger, but it’s difficult when he’s standing there looking so smug, so unbothered by the situation. “That’s not the point, Max. You went behind my back.”

He tilts his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Did I, though? Because I seem to remember you didn’t explicitly tell me not to.”

You huff in frustration, knowing he’s right but refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Max shrugs, unbothered by your accusation. “Maybe. But I’m also right.”

You want to stay mad. You really do. But the way he’s looking at you, with that infuriating mix of confidence and affection, makes it impossible. You try to hold on to your irritation, try to keep the scowl on your face, but you can feel it slipping away.

Max must see it, too, because he steps closer, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. “You’re not really mad at me, are you?”

You hesitate, biting your lip. “Maybe a little.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and familiar. “No, you’re not.”

You look away, trying to maintain your resolve, but Max reaches out, gently turning your face back to him. His thumb brushes over your cheek, and you can’t help but lean into his touch, your anger melting away as quickly as it came.

“Stop trying to be cute,” you mumble, though your voice lacks any real bite.

Max grins, clearly enjoying this. “I can’t help it. It’s just who I am.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile that tugs at your lips betrays you. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still love me,” Max counters, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can say anything, Max leans down and presses his lips to yours, effectively cutting off any protest you might have had. The kiss is soft, gentle, but there’s an undeniable intensity behind it, a promise that he’ll always be there, even when you tell him not to be.

For a moment, you forget where you are, forget about the stares and the whispers, the anxiety that had been gnawing at you all day. All that matters is the feel of Max’s lips on yours, the way his hand cradles the back of your head, anchoring you to him.

When he finally pulls back, you’re breathless, your heart racing for a completely different reason now. Max looks down at you, his eyes dark with affection, and you can’t help but smile up at him, any remnants of anger long gone.

“Okay, fine,” you admit, still slightly dazed from the kiss. “Maybe I’m not that mad.”

Max chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before pulling back completely. “I knew it.”

You shake your head, but there’s no real frustration behind it anymore. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He grins, clearly pleased with himself. “I know.”

You glance around, noticing the continued stares from the students passing by. You sigh, knowing this moment of privacy is short-lived. “We should probably get out of here before someone decides to take a picture.”

Max follows your gaze, nodding in agreement. “Good idea. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

He opens the passenger door for you, and you slide into the car, trying to ignore the curious eyes still on you. Max walks around to the driver’s side, getting in and starting the engine. As the car purrs to life, he reaches over, taking your hand in his again.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, his tone more serious now, the teasing edge gone.

You nod, squeezing his hand. “Yeah. I’m okay. Thanks for being there, even if I didn’t ask for it.”

Max smiles softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You don’t have to ask. I’ll always be there for you.”

And just like that, the tension that had been weighing on you all day finally eases. You know things aren’t completely resolved with Professor Carter, but right now, with Max beside you, it doesn’t seem as daunting. You’ll figure it out — together.

***

The classroom buzzes with the usual energy as students shuffle into their seats, chatting with friends or tapping away on their phones. It’s a typical day, but there’s a different kind of tension in the air. Today, Professor Carter is returning the results of the investigative journalism assignments, and no one is quite sure what to expect.

You settle into your usual spot near the back, trying to shake off the nerves. It’s been a few months since the whole incident with Max interrupting your class, and while things have calmed down somewhat, Professor Carter’s stern demeanor hasn’t wavered. You still catch him eyeing you from time to time, as if he’s waiting for you to slip up.

The door slams shut as Professor Carter strides in, a stack of papers in hand. The chatter in the room dies down instantly. He’s never been one for small talk or pleasantries, and today is no different. He doesn’t bother with a greeting, just dives straight into it.

“Good afternoon,” he says curtly, his voice slicing through the silence. “As you know, today I’ll be discussing the assignments you all turned in. Some of you excelled, others … less so.”

You swallow hard, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your notebook. You did everything you could to make your article stand out, but now that the moment of judgment is here, doubt begins to creep in.

Professor Carter begins pacing the front of the room, flipping through the stack of papers as he speaks. “Several of you chose topics that were predictable but handled them with enough depth to warrant commendation. For example, Miss Klein tackled the opioid crisis in rural England — an important and underreported subject.” He glances up at a blonde girl in the front row, who nods in acknowledgment, her cheeks flushing slightly at the attention.

“Then we have Mr. Patel,” Professor Carter continues, stopping briefly to peer down at a lanky guy two rows in front of you. “Your examination of government surveillance policies in urban areas was thorough, albeit a bit heavy on the technical jargon. But it’s clear you put in the work.”

You watch as Professor Carter moves on to the next paper, calling out names and offering critiques with the same detached professionalism. The topics range from environmental justice issues to the economic implications of Brexit — serious, weighty subjects that demand rigorous analysis. The longer he speaks, the more you feel the sinking sensation in your stomach. Your topic, in comparison, feels like a joke. An entertaining joke, sure, but still …

And then he pauses.

Professor Carter reaches the last paper in the stack, and his expression falters for a moment before he collects himself. He clears his throat and addresses the room, his voice taking on a more formal tone.

“And then we come to one particular assignment,” he begins, his gaze sweeping across the room before landing squarely on you. You freeze, every nerve ending on high alert. “An assignment that, while unconventional in its subject matter, demonstrated an impressive level of dedication and — dare I say — ingenuity.”

A ripple of whispers spreads through the room. You feel the heat of a dozen eyes on you but keep your gaze firmly on Professor Carter. His words are oddly measured, as if he’s trying to make sense of them himself.

He raises the paper in his hand slightly, glancing at it before looking back at the class. “Miss Y/L/N,” he addresses you directly, causing all the whispers to stop. “Your decision to investigate whether or not Toto Wolff, the team principal of Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula 1 Team, dyes his hair … was certainly unexpected.”

You hear a few muffled snickers, but you keep your face neutral, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“However,” Professor Carter continues, raising his voice slightly to silence the snickers, “the lengths you went to in pursuit of the truth were nothing short of remarkable. Going through Mercedes' trash? That shows initiative. Questionable ethics, perhaps, but initiative nonetheless.”

There’s a stunned silence in the room. You feel the urge to either laugh or shrink under your desk. You aren’t sure which. Instead, you nod slightly, acknowledging his words without letting the grin you’re fighting show.

Professor Carter takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself for what he’s about to say next. “In a field where skepticism is necessary, and where finding the truth often requires unorthodox methods, your work stood out. So much so that I found myself contemplating the absurdity of the situation. Here I am, reading about a billionaire’s grooming habits as though it were a matter of national importance.”

This time, the laughter from the class isn’t stifled. It rings out freely, and you feel your own lips twitch despite yourself.

“But,” Professor Carter interjects, silencing the room once more, “that is precisely the point of investigative journalism, isn’t it? To find the story others overlook, to dig deeper, even when the subject seems trivial. Miss Y/L/N, your article was, in its own way, insightful. You followed the evidence, and you made your case with conviction.”

He pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at you. “Though I must say, I’m not entirely convinced that your methods were ... strictly ethical. Dumpster diving isn’t exactly taught in this classroom.”

You finally allow yourself a small, nervous laugh, shrugging lightly in response. “All in the name of journalism, right?”

Professor Carter lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “I suppose so. Regardless, your paper has made an impact — certainly more than I anticipated.”

He drops your paper onto his desk and addresses the class one last time. “Let this be a lesson to all of you. Journalism isn’t always about the grand topics. Sometimes, the most interesting stories come from the strangest places. I encourage you all to think outside the box.”

With that, he begins handing back the assignments, and the classroom slowly returns to its usual rhythm. Conversations pick up again, but this time, they’re punctuated by curious glances and nods in your direction. You try to focus on the papers being passed down your row, but your thoughts are still stuck on Professor Carter’s words.

When your paper finally lands in front of you, you can’t resist flipping through it. There, scrawled in red ink at the top of the page, is your grade — a solid A. Next to it, Professor Carter has written a brief note: Keep pushing boundaries, but remember — ethics matter.

You smile to yourself, feeling a mix of relief and pride. The assignment had been a gamble, but it paid off in the end. And while the ethical considerations may have been a little murky, you can’t deny that the thrill of the chase had been worth it.

As class ends and students begin to file out, a few stop by your desk, offering congratulations or asking for details about how you managed to pull it off. You answer their questions with a grin, reliving the absurdity of your investigative methods. And though it feels surreal, you can’t help but feel a sense of validation.

As you gather your things and prepare to leave, Professor Carter catches your eye and nods in your direction, a rare hint of approval in his usually stern expression. You nod back, acknowledging the unspoken understanding between the two of you.

Stepping out of the classroom, you feel lighter than you have in weeks. The whispers and glances no longer bother you. Instead, they serve as a reminder that you’ve proven yourself, in your own way.

And as you walk through the corridors of the university, you can’t help but think about what Max will say when you tell him about today. Knowing him, he’ll probably tease you about your methods, but you also know he’ll be proud — just as you are.

Because sometimes, in journalism and in life, it’s the unconventional stories that make the biggest impact.

[asaedw]

Telling your bf Rin that you ordered a new bathing suit but it’s litterally just a pair of strings… (sfw!)

Read our PINKLOCK series here!

🌚continuing with my tt trend series before it becomes too old. The Sae one is on my account. Also rin stans, I love him but I kinda struggle w him (despite being more similar to him than sae) so if you feel that something is out of place or out of character, please suggest in the cmnts<3 love u (requested by @sugacor3 )

🌚wc: 484

His face retorts and you swear he almost gags. With a finger itching at his scalp, he opens his mouth, “what the fuck are you saying?”

“I’m saying it’s a trendy bathing suit! it’s cute, don’t even lie.” Your voice comes out whiny and you pretty much break character at his idiotic stance.

“What the fuck is that going to cover?” His volume raises at the ends of his sentences. He tilts his head and once more scans the two strings in your hand.

“Look, you twirl it… and then tie it…” you attempt to prove legitimacy of the bathing suit. His head tilts further.

You can see him eyeing every wrinkle on your face. Every twitch of your lip. He just wants his confirmation that you’re lying. Joking. That this has to be some sort of a prank. “You’re not wearing that.”

He shakes his head. End of argument.

“What do you meannnnnaaahhh.” You whine annoyingly.

“That does not work.” He throws a finger in the air, “you will never be seen wearing— how the fuck do you wear that!?” He finally snaps and you begin to laugh uncontrollably. But you decide to keep the prank going just for one last bit.

“It’s gonna look good, pretty please.” He pauses for a moment, looking at you with his jaw dropped. His teal orbs seem to lose color as he continues to watch the cheeky smile on your face paired with the cognitively bankrupt pleas. After a pause, he finally speaks again just when you thought his brain finally shut off forever.

“I’m calling a psychiatrist.” He brings his phone out.

“Rin, no—“ you giggle out of your breath and run toward him, “it was just a prank—“

“No,” he raises a palm, “I’m calling a fucking psy—“

You snatch his phone and make a run for it out of the room. He chases you down the short corridor and you hear him faintly speaking. Complaining. Or grumbling. Before you can get far, he’s already reached you and grabs you by the waist.

“It was just a prank, baby.” You giggle and drop his phone in his palm.

His eye twitches. Despite the anger, he carries you by the waist over his shoulder and walks to your shared room. He drops you onto the bed with a fwump and finally catch your breath from all the laughing. He lays down beside you, staring at the ceiling unblinkgly. As if he was visualizing something…

“Although…” he trials off.

“Rin…”

“I wonder how you would look.”

You smack his arm, “Rin!”

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Can I request a Telemachus x reader smut? Specifically after the slaughter of the suitors while Odysseus and Penelope reunite. Hehe thank you!!

A/n: YES! He's such a cutie.

Warnings: p in v , telemachus is covered in blood, telemachus dirty talks ( this man letting out his years of frustrations on you 👀)

The halls of your home still reek of blood and vengeance. The air is heavy with smoke from overturned torches, and the cries of dying men still echo faintly in the walls. But it’s over now.

Odysseus has reclaimed his throne. Penelope has wept and clung to him like a woman reborn.

And Telemachus?

He finds you in the shadows of the corridor, just past the carnage.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, but his voice is low, almost trembling. You can see the red on his hands—some of it is his, most of it not. There’s a storm behind his eyes. Too much death. Too many years. Too much waiting.

“I stayed,” you say, stepping closer. “For you.”

His breath catches. For a moment, you think he’ll walk away, disappear into the dark to let his parents have their story.

But instead, he reaches for you like a man who’s finally allowed to feel. His mouth is on yours before you can say another word, and his hands are rough and trembling, pulling you flush against him.

It’s frantic. Desperate. He backs you into the wall of the hallway, the cold stone against your spine making you gasp—and that sound drives him wild.

“Say my name,” he growls against your throat.

“Telemachus,” you breathe, your fingers sliding under the hem of his tunic, feeling the muscles still tight with adrenaline. “I thought I lost you.”

“You’ll never lose me.” He grips your thigh, lifting it around his waist. “Not now. Not ever.”

His armor is half-undone, and he fumbles with your clothes like he’s afraid this is a dream, like you might vanish with the dawn. But the heat of your skin against his is real, and when he finally thrusts into you, it’s with all the pent-up rage and longing of a man who’s waited his whole life to be seen as more than a boy.

The corridor is silent now, save for the soft sound of your bodies meeting, your stifled moans, and his whispered promises in your ear.

“You’re mine,” he says, over and over, voice breaking. “Mine.”

And when it’s over, you’re still pressed against the stone, breathless, trembling, and utterly wrecked—in the best way.

You’re still pinned against the cold stone wall, your heart thudding wildly in your chest. Telemachus’ hands are everywhere—rough with blood and battle, claiming you like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You waited for me,” he murmurs against your neck, voice low and dark. “Now I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.”

His words make your knees buckle, but he’s already hoisting you up—your legs wrapped tight around his waist as he carries you into one of the unused rooms off the corridor. The door slams shut behind you, and he sets you down only long enough to rip the bloodied tunic from his chest. You drink him in—his broad shoulders, the scars, the raw power in his frame. He catches your gaze and smirks.

“See something you like?” he taunts.

You don’t answer—you just slide your hands down his chest, grazing the line of dark hair below his navel, before sinking to your knees.

He hisses through his teeth as you take him into your mouth—he’s already hard, thick and pulsing in your hands, and the way he growls your name as his head tips back has heat pooling between your thighs.

But he doesn’t let you finish.

“Not like this,” he growls, dragging you back to your feet. “I need to feel you.”

He strips you bare, not gently, but reverently—like he’s unwrapping a gift meant only for him. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch, and then he bends you over the table behind you, one hand pressing into your lower back.

“You have no idea how long I’ve imagined this,” he whispers into your ear, lining himself up at your entrance. “How many nights I stroked myself thinking of how you’d sound when I finally—”

He thrusts in, deep and hard, cutting off his own sentence and drawing a loud cry from your lips.

He fucks you like a man possessed—deep, relentless, his hips slamming into you with wild rhythm. One hand wraps in your hair, tugging your head back so he can bite your neck, your shoulder. Marking you.

The table creaks beneath you. Your moans echo in the dim room, along with his grunts and filthy praise.

“So fucking tight,” he pants. “So good for me. You’re mine. Gods, you’re mine.”

Your climax builds fast—sharp and burning—and when it hits, you shatter, calling out his name like a prayer. He’s not far behind, pulling you flush against him as he spills inside you with a deep groan, holding you through it like you’re something precious he almost lost.

After, he presses kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, your lips—softer now, but no less possessive.

“We’ll clean the blood tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Tonight, I’m not letting you leave this bed.”

And he doesn’t.

He takes you again. And again.

Until you’re too sore to move, too drunk on him to care,Your thighs are trembling. You’ve already come twice, and your body feels spent, marked, owned.

But Telemachus isn’t finished with you.

He’s sprawled beside you now, chest slick with sweat, hand lazily tracing circles over your thigh as he watches you catch your breath. There’s a smirk tugging at his lips—like he’s not done proving something.

“You look ruined,” he murmurs, voice rough from growling your name for the last hour. “But I think you’ve got more in you.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers between your legs, brushing your oversensitive core. Your hips jerk, and he laughs low in his throat, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder.

“What’s the matter, little one? Too much for you?”

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed.

“No,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good girl.”

The tone shifts.

Suddenly, his hand is around your throat—not tight, but firm. Dominant. He pushes you back into the pillows, hovering over you like a predator. His other hand slides down your body, spreading your thighs apart once more.

“You want more?” he growls, voice dripping with sin. “Then open those legs for your prince like the needy little thing you are.”

Your breath catches. You obey.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice like silk and smoke. “Such a pretty little slut. All mine.”

And then he’s inside you again.

This time, it’s rougher. More controlled. His hand stays on your throat, his thumb brushing your pulse while he ruts into you with long, punishing thrusts.

You cry out—half moan, half sob—and he loves it.

“Gods, listen to you,” he pants. “So fucking loud for me. You want the whole palace to know how desperate you are? How wet you get for your prince’s cock?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please—please don’t stop—”

He growls and fucks you harder.

“Of course you like this. Filthy little thing. You like being used, don’t you?”

You can’t even form words anymore. Your nails rake down his back, and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours as your walls flutter around him.

“Come for me,” he growls. “One more. I want to feel you fall apart."

And gods—you do.

You scream his name as your body clamps down on him, spasming with a white-hot rush that steals the air from your lungs. He follows with a snarl, biting down on your shoulder as he spills into you, deep and possessive.

When it’s over, you’re both gasping. Shaking.

He doesn’t move for a long moment—just holds you close, forehead still resting against yours.

Then his hands soften.

He eases out of you, cradling your body with almost reverent care. He grabs a cloth and cleans between your thighs, kissing your hip as he does.

“You did so good for me,” he murmurs. His voice is tender now, barely above a whisper. “My perfect girl. My goddess.”

You can barely keep your eyes open as he wraps you in his arms, pulling a blanket over the two of you. His lips brush your forehead, your cheek, your collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Sleep, sweet thing. I’ll protect you now. Always.”

And you do—drifting off to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, knowing you’re safe.

Loved. Owned.

[tsunaso]

"WHAT A PRIVILEGE IT IS TO SERVE"

pairing. Slave!Suguru Geto x Top!Curse user!male reader

synopsis. m/n is involved in human trafficking, and suguru falls into his hands. — 2.1k

warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, dead dove, dubcon, human trafficking, slavery, physical restraint, manipulation, exploitation, dark themes, power imbalance.

The auction floor reeked of desperation and fear. Beneath the glamour and riches of bidders, soft sobs and whispered prayers filled the air, a background noise no one paid attention to. 

Suguru Geto sat in silence, his long black hair hanging in tangled strands over his face. His hands were cuffed in front of him, his thin wrists rubbed raw by cold steel.

He was no stranger to this process. The handlers would parade him around, push his face toward the crowd, and croon about his “unique” talents.

They’d remind the buyers of how rare he was—"One of the few sorcerers in captivity,” they’d say. “A handsome one, too. Imagine the possibilities!”

He bit the inside of his cheek as he stood, forcing himself to stay still as rough hands grabbed his chin, tilting his face toward the light. 

He caught glimpses of the bidders—men and women seated in shadows, their faces obscured by masks or veils. He’d learned long ago not to meet their gazes. It only made things worse.

“Fifty million,” someone called from the crowd.

“Sixty,” another countered.

The numbers climbed higher. Suguru’s stomach churned, but his expression remained blank. The money didn’t matter to him. It never had. No amount of wealth could change the fact that his life was no longer his own.

Then a voice cut through the din, smooth and commanding, “One hundred million.”

The room fell silent. Suguru’s head lifted ever so slightly, his dark eyes narrowing as he tried to find the source. A figure stood near the back of the room, dressed in sleek black. 

You didn’t bother hiding your face like the others. Why would you? The confidence in your posture, the weight of your gaze, made it clear you had no reason to fear anyone here.

The auctioneer hesitated for a moment, then slammed the gavel down with finality. “Sold!”

Suguru’s shoulders stiffened. His fate had been sealed once again.

　　　　　　　　　୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

You didn’t speak to him until you were alone.

The holding cell where he’d been delivered was cleaner than most—if only marginally. A single cot, a sink, and a mirror bolted to the wall were all it offered. Suguru sat on the cot, his hands still bound, as he listened to your measured footsteps approach.

The door creaked open, and you stepped inside, shutting it firmly behind you. You took a moment to survey him, your sharp gaze sweeping over his thin frame and dirt-streaked face.

“You’re skinnier than I expected,” you said at last, your tone almost conversational.

Suguru didn’t respond. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

“You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?” you continued, crouching in front of him. Your voice softened, but there was an edge to it—a predator’s patience. “But you’re not broken. Not yet.”

His jaw tightened.

You reached out, and for a moment, he thought you were going to strike him. Instead, your fingers brushed his chin, tilting his face upward until his eyes met yours.

“Do you know why I bought you?” you asked.

When he didn’t answer, your grip tightened, your thumb pressing against his jaw. “Answer me.”

“…Because you can,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse.

You smiled faintly, though there was no kindness in it. “That’s part of it. But the real reason is your potential. You’re not like the others. You’re… special.”

Something in your tone made his stomach twist.

“I’ve seen what you can do,” you continued, releasing him and standing to your full height. “Swallowing curses? That’s quite the party trick. Dangerous, too, if you don’t know what you’re doing. But don’t worry—I’ll teach you. I’ll show you how to control it.”

He frowned, his brows furrowing. “Why? What do you want from me?”

You chuckled, the sound low and rich. “You’ll see soon enough. But for now…” You reached into your pocket, pulling out a key. “Let’s get those cuffs off.”

The sudden gesture of “kindness” threw him off guard. He flinched slightly as you stepped closer, but you only unlocked the cuffs, letting them fall to the floor with a heavy clink.

“There,” you said, stepping back. “Better, isn’t it?”

Suguru rubbed his wrists, his gaze wary. He didn’t trust you—he couldn’t. But for the first time in years, he felt the faintest flicker of… something. Not hope, exactly. More like curiosity.

　　　　　　　　　୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Over the next few months, Suguru learned to navigate the strange, suffocating dynamic the two of them shared created. You were cruel but patient, demanding but generous. You pushed him hard, forcing him to confront the creatures that haunted him, but you also gave him food, clothing, and a bed that didn’t smell like rot.

At first, he fought you—quietly, subtly, but it was resistance all the same. He avoided your gaze, answered your commands with silence, and clung to the scraps of defiance he had left. But you were patient. You didn’t need to break him quickly.

One night, after a gruelling session, you found him sitting in the training room, his back against the wall, his head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, his dark hair sticking to his sweat-damp skin.

“You’re improving,” you said, stepping into the room.

He didn’t look at you, but you saw the tension in his shoulders.

“You’ve come a long way,” you continued, crouching in front of him. “But you’re still holding back.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” you interrupted, your voice firm. “You’re afraid of your own power. Afraid of what it means.”

You reached out, your hand settling on his shoulder. He stiffened beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away.

“But that’s why you have me,” you said softly, your thumb brushing against his collarbone. “To guide you. To take care of you.”

His breath hitched, and you didn’t miss the way his body leaned ever so slightly toward yours, like a moth drawn to a flame.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Suguru,” you murmured, your voice low and steady. “Not with me.”

For a moment, he let himself believe you.

　　　　　　　　　୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

The tension between you came to a head one evening as you sat together in your private quarters. The room was warm, the fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. Suguru sat cross-legged on the floor, his hands resting on his knees, his posture stiff but his gaze distant.

You watched him for a long moment before speaking. “Do you know why I haven’t sold you yet?”

He blinked, startled by the question.

You leaned forward, your elbows resting on your knees. “Because I see something in you. Something no one else ever has.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face.

“You think you’re weak,” you continued, your voice softening. “But you’re not. You’re strong, Suguru. Stronger than you realize.”

He looked away, his jaw tightening.

You stood and crossed the room, kneeling in front of him. Your fingers tilted his chin upward, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You’ve given me everything except one thing,” you said, your tone laced with quiet command. “Your trust.”

“I…” His voice faltered, his throat dry.

“Do you trust me, Suguru?” you asked, your thumb brushing against his jaw.

His heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. He wanted to say no, to push you away, but the words wouldn’t come.

You smiled faintly, your hand sliding down to rest against his chest. “Good boy,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his.

His breath hitched, his body betraying him as he leaned into your touch, his resolve crumbling under the weight of your presence.

And when your lips met his, he didn’t pull away.

For a moment, he lets himself sink into the sensation of your lips pressed up against his. But that feeling is fragile and fleeting, cracked the moment your hand slid lower, resting just above his waist. Suguru’s breathing faltered, his dark eyes snapping to yours, wide and uncertain.

“What are you—”

“You’ve come so far, Suguru,” you murmured, cutting him off as your thumb brushed the sensitive curve of his hipbone. “But there’s still more I need to take from you.”

His chest tightened, his pulse pounding in his ears. “You—”

“Shh,” you whispered, your voice soft but commanding, your other hand pressing firmly against his shoulder to hold him in place. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

Suguru’s fingers twitched against the floor, his body stiff beneath your touch. He wanted to resist, to push you away, but his limbs felt heavy, sluggish. 

You’d spent months unravelling his defences, picking apart the walls he’d built to protect himself, and now, in this moment, he realized he had nothing left to fight with.

Your lips brushed against the corner of his mouth, a teasing, fleeting touch that made him shiver. “You’re mine, Suguru,” you said, your breath warm against his skin. “Every inch of you belongs to me. Say it.”

He shook his head weakly, his jaw clenching in defiance. But when your hand slipped beneath his shirt, your fingers splaying across the hard planes of his stomach and the softness of his plush chest, he couldn’t suppress the quiet gasp that escaped him.

“Say it,” you repeated, your tone sharper now, your grip firm as you pulled him closer.

“I’m…” His voice cracked, his throat dry as shame and reluctant desire churned in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to meet your gaze as the words slipped from his lips in a broken whisper. “I’m yours.”

The smirk that curved your lips was triumphant, your hand trailing higher to press against his racing heart. “Good boy,” you murmured, the praise dripping with satisfaction. “You’re finally starting to understand.”

He let out a shuddering breath, his head tilting back against the wall as you leaned over him, your weight pressing him into the hard floor. His body was tense, his fingers curling into fists at his sides, but he didn’t pull away as your lips found his neck.

You kissed him softly at first, your mouth warm and insistent as it moved along his skin. But when your teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below his ear, he couldn’t stop the quiet sound that escaped him—a low, shaky moan that made your grin widen.

“That’s it,” you murmured, your hands sliding lower to hook into the waistband of his pants. “No more fighting. No more pretending. Just let me have you.”

His breath hitched as you tugged the fabric down, the cool air brushing against his flushed cock. He bit his lip, his face burning with shame as you pressed closer, your hands mapping every inch of his trembling body.

“You’re beautiful like this,” you said softly, your tone laced with both affection and possession. “Completely mine. Doesn’t it feel good to give in?”

Suguru didn’t answer, his breath hitching as your hand wrapped around his embarrassingly hard cock, your touch firm and deliberate. His body betrayed him completely now, his hips jerking into your hand as his resolve crumbled.

“Look at me,” you commanded, your voice sharp enough to cut through the haze clouding his mind.

He hesitated, his eyes flickering with defiance even as his body obeyed, tilting his head to meet your gaze.

“There you are,” you murmured, your smirk softening into something almost gentle. “Good boy.”

Your praise sent a shiver down his spine, his body trembling beneath your touch as you stroked him with practiced ease. His breaths came in short, uneven bursts, his head falling back against the floor as heat coiled low in his stomach.

“You’re perfect like this,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his in a teasing, fleeting kiss. “So sweet. So obedient. And all mine.”

He wanted to hate you. He wanted to hate himself. But as your hand moved faster, pulling him closer to the edge, he couldn’t think about anything else—couldn’t feel anything but the urge to cum into your warm sticky hand, the weight of your gaze pressing down on him until he couldn’t breathe.

When he finally broke, his release spilling over your hand in hot, shuddering waves, you caught his gasp with your mouth, swallowing the sound as you kissed him deeply. His body sagged beneath you, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths as the tension bled from his limbs.

You pulled back slightly, your lips curved in a satisfied smile as you brushed a strand of hair from his sweat-damp face. “What a privilege it is to serve, isn’t it?”

Suguru’s eyes fluttered shut, his body trembling as he let your words wash over him, too exhausted—too defeated—to respond.

[sturnioz]

─────── ꒰ THE FRAT WEDDING SERIES ꒱ 4, final.

the aftermath of the frat wedding event between shy!reader and fratboy!chris.

꒰ part one ꒱ ꒰ part two ꒱ ꒰ part three ꒱

"it's okay. i'm fine now," you reassure softly, even though your voice still wavers slightly. sniffling, you let out a small, shaky breath as kitty and bee continue to fuss over you; bee gently gabbing your eyes with a tissue, careful not to smudge what's left of your makeup, while kitty works on reapplying it.

you're seated in a garden chair far from the chaos of the main event, tucked away in a quieter part of the garden. the muffle sounds of drunk people and overplayed music echo faintly in the background, and from where you sit, you can still see the mess unfolding.

the crowd is a lot more rowdier now—people stumbling around, drinks sloshing out of their cups and staining clothes, the unmistakable smell of weed lingering in the air and other substances are seen being passed around.

you try your best to tune it all out, but it's difficult.

for the first time, you're desperately wishing that everyone here gets fucked up enough to the point that they'll forget what happened... although the words from before replay in your mind on a cruel loop, and the thought of those phones—how everyone was recording everything—makes your stomach twist uncomfortably.

you swallow the heavy lump in your throat, forcing yourself to keep it together.

a gentle nudge against your shoulder pulls you from your thoughts, and you glance up to see matt beside you, holding out a glass of water. his expression is calm but kind, and you offer him a grateful smile as you take the glass from his hands and sip.

nick sits on your other side, his face stoic, his gazed fixed ahead at the ongoing party. he hasn't said much, which is strange to you. beside him, nate sits with his leg bouncing rapidly, his teeth gnawing anxiously at his nails, seemingly deep in thought.

just as kitty and bee finish touching up your makeup, you flinch slightly as nate suddenly pushing himself up from his chair with so much force that it topples over behind him, the sound making everyone turn their heads toward him.

"alright. i gotta confess—fuck," nate blurts out, his hands flying to his hair as he yanks off the ridiculous pink flamingo glasses he's been wearing all night. his movements are frantic, and he begins to pace, rubbing his hands together like he's trying to calm himself down.

everyone watches him, and you furrow your eyebrows, frowning at his words. but you stay quiet, waiting for him to confess whatever he needed.

"shit, okay, look," he continues, his voice shaky as he talks. "this entire wedding event shit? it was rigged from the start. but hear me out, 'kay? 'cos i feel fuckin' terrible right now. my hearts racin' 'n shit, i feel like i'm about to pass out or somethin'."

your frown deepens, confusion swirling in your chest as you try to piece together what he's saying.

"me 'n a few of the other frat brothers," he gestures wildly with his hands as he speaks. "we only put chris' name in one of the hats—like, only his name a bunch of times. 'cos we thought it'd be funny if he got picked, y'know? sometimes it's funny gettin' him all riled up 'n shit."

you blink at him, his words slowly starting to sink in.

"there... then there's the other hat. the one for the girls," he mutters quietly, licking at his lips nervously. "we thought about puttin' your name in a bunch of times, just so you'd definitely get picked too for some fun. but i felt bad 'cos i know you don't like attention or being in the spotlight or whatever, i didn't want to do that to you."

nate has to pause for a moment to inhale deeply, losing air from talking to fast as he tries his best to explain everything to you.

"so, we only put your name in once—just once... but you still got picked."

you stare at him, your mind racing to process everything he's said. a part of you wants to say something—to ask him why they all thought any of this was a good idea... but the words get stuck in your throat.

"i just..." nate sighs heavily, dragging a hand down his face before letting it fall limp at his side. "i just feel like this is all my fault, y'know? maybe if i wasn't so adamant on only puttin' chris' name in the hat for laughs, or maybe if i didn't put your name in at all, this whole shit wouldn't have happened. none of this would've happened."

he stops pacing now, standing still for the first time since he started talking. his shoulders slump, and his gaze drops to the ground as he mutters.

"i'm sorry, bun. i really fuckin' am."

you're not sure how to respond—not yet, not while everything nate's said is still settling in your mind. the confession feels like a little jab to the gut, sharp and unexpected, leaving a slight ache behind.

you glance at the others, somewhat hoping someone will say something first, but no one speaks right away.

kitty's lips are pressed into a thin line, while matt's rubbing at tense jaw. nick remains stoic, his face unreadable, and bee shifts, her gaze flicking between you and nate, like she doesn't know what to say or do.

"i knew," nick suddenly speaks up, breaking the silence. his voice is quiet, laced with guilt and frustration (mostly at himself). "i knew it was rigged, but i didn't say anything. i should've, but i didn't, because i was hoping it'd be something fun for all of us. but i know chris, so i should've known he'd pull some dumb fucking shit like that. i'm sorry too, bun."

before you can respond, matt speaks up, his voice steady but low. "i also knew," he admits, and your eyes widen slightly in surprise even as kitty nods beside him, admitting she knew too. "like nick said, i thought this would be a fun lil' thing for all of us. but i know chris too. i know the shit he does, so i should've known better... should've known he'd say what he said. i'm sorry."

your eyes slowly flit over to bee, waiting for her to confess something—anything. and for a moment, she hesitates, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

"i didn't know..." she finally says, shaking her head, her voice soft and sorrowful. "i didn't know it was rigged. if i did, i would've said something..."

you remain silent, letting their confessions hang over you. one by one, their voices linger in your mind, each apology adding to the weight that's pressing down harshly against your chest. you can see how sorry they are—how much they regret letting this happen—and despite everything, you know their intentions weren't malicious.

after a long pause, you finally breath, your fingers gripping the edge of your chair as you process your thoughts.

"i'm... not mad at you," you say softly, glancing up at them, your eyes flicking from one face to another. "any of you. i'm not mad at any of you."

they seem to slightly ease up at your words, but the tension doesn't disappear entirely.

"i'm just..." you pause, swallowing hard as that lump in your throat returns. "i'm embarrassed, that's all. i'm embarrassed about what chris said. he didn't have to make it so... public. it's so humiliating, it wasn't funny at all, it—" you stop yourself, shaking your head as your hands curl into fists as the emotions run through you. "it made me feel so awful."

the group falls silent, the weight of your words now settling over them. you wonder if they can see the way your chest tightens, the way the memory of chris' words still make your stomach churn with embarrassment.

nate swears under his breath, pacing back and forth again as if he can't sit still with the guilt eating away at him while bee squeezes herself into the chair beside you, wrapping her arms around you in a tight embrace as she murmurs soft apologies into your ear.

you feel yourself relax, just a little, leaning into her as you rest your cheek against her shoulder. you're not mad at them, but the fact that the majority of them knew about how the event had been rigged and didn't tell you? that stings a little.

you do understand why they didn't though. they wanted to have a good event—well, hoped to have a good event... but at the same time, you can't help but think they should've reconsidered, especially knowing how chris is.

it's a little past midnight when you decide you've had enough, and you find yourself in chris' room, toeing off your shoes and placing them neatly to the side.

you don't really want to say here tonight. if you're honest, you want nothing more than to go home, curl up in your own bed, and forget this entire night ever happened. completely block it out of your memory. but with no way of getting back to your apartment and with nick already gone, you don't have much of a choice.

you should've left with nick. why didn't you?

you shake your head at your stupidity, pushing the thought away as you pad over to the dresser. you pull open the top drawer and begin to rummage through it for your pyjamas, keeping yourself busy to avoid thinking too much.

but the sound of the door opening makes you freeze, and that familiar scent of cologne fills the room. you don't even have to look to know it's chris.

you don't speak, keeping your eyes focussed on the drawer as you pull out a shirt. it's easier to pretend you don't notice him, easier to keep yourself occupied rather than facing him.

"what is it?" his voice startles you, sharp and blunt, and you glance over your shoulder to see him standing by his bed, untying his tie with that familiar annoyed expression on his face. his eyes are fixed on you, and when you don't respond, he pushes further. "huh? what is it?"

you blink, your fingers curling tightly around the fabric of the shirt in your hands. "what are you..."

"you've been weird with me all night, kid," he cuts you off as he yanks the tie off and tosses it carelessly onto the bed. "think i didn't notice you pullin' some runaway bride bullshit?"

you swallow thickly as you turn back to toward the dresser, "you're not funny." you mutter under your breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

"m'not tryin' to be," chris scoffs, his fingers moving to unbutton his shirt. "you gonna tell me what the fuck is goin' on? or you just gonna keep sulkin' all night?"

the word sulking makes your throat tight, and you take a deep breathing, trying to keep your emotions in check. but the humiliation from earlier comes rushing back like a tidal wave.

you can feel the warmth rising in your face, and the tightness in your chest makes it harder to breathe.

you don't want to do this—not right now, not tonight—but chris is standing there, waiting for an answer.

turning slowly, you face him, your fingers still clutching the shirt in your hands as his gaze locks onto yours, and you feel yourself waver under the weight of it.

"you really don't know?" you say finally, your voice quieter than you intended it to be.

chris raises his brow at you, "know what?"

"forget it," you murmur, turning back around. you don't trust yourself to explain it without your voice breaking, and the last thing you want it to spill tears in front of him.

"nah, don't pull that shit," he says, his tone sharper now. "if you've got a problem, just fuckin' say it."

"okay," you find yourself surprisingly snapping, despite your voice trembling slightly. "you... you humiliated me, chris. in front of everyone, you made me look like—like some joke..."

chris doesn't respond right away, his expression unreadable as he stares at you.

"i—i get it, okay?" you continue, unable to stop your rambling. "this whole thing was supposed to be stupid and fun, and i know you hated doing it, but you didn't have to say all that stuff... you didn't have to make it so public and so embarrassing for me," you take a shaky breath, your voice turning softer now. "it wasn't funny. it just... it made me feel awful."

chris exhales through his nose, "you're takin' this way too personally, kid. everyone knows the fuckin' shit we do, yeah? everyone knows we're hooking up so i dunno why you're makin' it such a big deal. it's not that deep."

"you don't get it," you whisper, shaking your head. "i.. i know that people know. i'm not stupid. but it doesn't mean—you can't just—we—"

you stop yourself, your words faltering under the weight of his stare. his head tilts slightly, his brow arching like he's waiting for you to finish.

so, you take another breath, trying to steady yourself before continuing, "you can't just talk about me like that in front of everyone... even if they already know, even if they assume stuff.. it's still humiliating to hear you say it in front of them."

chris is just watching you now, his expression unreadable with his hands shoved into his pockets like he's waiting for you to stop talking so he can continue with the night.

the silence stretches between you, and the longer it lasts, the warmer your face feels with embarrassment. you bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to cry again and make a fool out of yourself.

and then, chris exhales deeply, tilting his head back slightly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. for a moment, you think he's just going to brush it off again—shrug it away with some dismissive remark about you being too sensitive or dramatic.

but then, he speaks.

"i..." his voice is low, hesitant, like he's testing the word before fully committing to you. it comes out slow, uneven. "i'm... i'm sorry, 'kay?"

the words sound awkward, almost foreign coming from him, and you can't help but stare at him with wide eyes.

chris glances at you, his gaze meeting yours for just a second before flicking away again. his jaw tightens, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. his eyebrows furrow slightly, and his hands twitch at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them.

it's obviously clear he's uncomfortable—like this apology is something he's struggling with, something unspoken clawing at his mind but never quite making it out.

"i didn't mean..." he trails off, his words faltering as he shifts in place. his shoulders tense up, and you can see the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard. but instead, he huffs, his lips pressing into a thin line. "didn't mean t'make you embarrassed, s'all."

he doesn't look at you this time. his eyes are fixed on the wall, his expression unreadable. you can tell he's struggling a lot as apologises don't come easy to chris—not like this anyway. you know he's not the type to open up and be vulnerable with his words, and it's obvious he's already pushed himself further than he's comfortable with.

still, there's something in his voice, in the stiffness of his frame, that tells you this is as close to genuine as it gets from him. it's blunt, awkward, and faaaar from perfect. but it's chris, and you're aware how hard it must've been for him to even say this much.

"thank you for apologising..." you murmur to him softly, and chris lets out a low grunt as his hand moves to rub at his jaw, the tension still evident in his movements.

he doesn’t wait to hear if you’ll accept his apology or not as he turns away, his shoulders stiff, and he starts to unbutton the rest of his shirt. the fabric is tossed carelessly onto his desk chair, and he works at his belt next, his focus fixed on the task like it's an excuse to avoid looking at you.

when he's finally down to his boxers, he slumps into bed without another word—just the faint creak of the mattress as he settles in, his back turned to you.

you can see the way his shoulders remain tense even as he lies there. he looks like he's trying to retreat, to bury himself in the quiet and force himself to go to sleep, and you can't help but begin to wonder if the apology took more out of him that he'd ever admit.

divider credits. @issysh3ll

© STURNIOZ

[4linos]

already gone.

kim seungmin x f!reader

synopsis: to the world, you’re the perfect couple: the rising athlete and the woman who stood by him. but behind closed doors, something is shattering. the MLB offer. the agent. the betrayal you never saw coming. now your home is no longer a refuge, but the battleground where truth and love fight for survival.

warnings: angst, heated arguments, infidelity accusations, implied cheating, emotional distress.

wc: 6335

The soft click of the clasp echoed faintly in the bedroom as you fastened the final earring into place. Your fingers were clumsy, tired, but determined. The room was dimly lit, the last orange traces of sunset bleeding through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the vanity where you sat. Behind you, Seungmin stood near the full-length mirror in his navy suit, carefully adjusting his cufflinks.

“Are you sure you don’t want to just stay home?” he asked for what had to be the fifth time, his tone light, teasing, but underneath, you caught it, something uncertain. Something else.

You glanced at him through the mirror, watching as he checked his tie again, even though you had already fixed it just minutes ago. His posture was relaxed, the easy smile on his face was one you’d seen countless times before… but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not tonight.

“I already told you,” you replied, reaching for your lipstick. “I’m going. I want to be there.”

He exhaled with a slight chuckle, walking over to you. His fingers brushed your shoulder, and you paused applying your lipstick as he leaned in and kissed the top of your head. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he whispered.

You smiled, but your heart didn’t flutter the way it usually did. “You’re stalling,” you said plainly.

He grinned as if caught red-handed. “Can you blame me? You’re just… very pretty. Distracting.”

“You’re very bad at changing the subject,” you said, standing up and brushing invisible lint from your dress.

A soft fuss broke the moment, your daughter, Iseul. You instinctively moved toward the crib in the corner of the room where she lay in her tiny floral onesie, fists waving in complaint. Before you could reach her, Seungmin stepped in front of you.

“I got her,” he said gently, scooping her up into his arms with practiced ease. “Go on, finish. We’re already late.”

You hesitated, watching as your husband soothed your baby with a quiet hum. Even after years of marriage, and two children, it still made your heart twist to see how naturally fatherhood came to him.

“Are you sure?” you asked.

“Always,” he said, giving you a lopsided smile.

The distraction of getting ready, wrangling a toddler who had earlier decided to dump an entire box of cereal on the floor, and feeding the baby between curling your hair had left you frazzled. Seungmin’s teasing earlier had only barely been tolerable.

“Maybe it is taking longer because I’ve got two little humans to keep alive now,” you’d snapped at him earlier, glaring as he chuckled.

He’d raised both hands in mock surrender. “Not complaining. Just saying you’re not the fastest anymore.”

You’d muttered something under your breath, but Seungmin had leaned down, kissed your shoulder, and taken Iseul from your arms like it was second nature. “I’m serious though,” he had added gently. “You don’t have to come. You’ve done enough today. You always do.”

And for a moment, you had almost considered it. Almost.

But that look, the one that didn’t quite match his words had bothered you more than you admitted. You were tired, yes. But more than anything, you were curious.

Now, watching him with your daughter, that strange unease returned. You shook it off, slipped on your heels, and followed him downstairs.

Seungmin’s mother arrived just in time, letting herself in with the spare key. She was beaming, as always, excited to babysit her grandchildren for the evening. She ushered you both out of the house with warm reassurances.

“You both look wonderful,” she told you, bouncing Iseul with ease. “Have fun! Don’t worry, I’ve got everything handled.”

You kissed your children goodbye, lingering maybe a little longer than usual and followed Seungmin to the car.

The venue was already buzzing when you arrived. The end-of-season dinner was a yearly tradition, but this year felt different. Bigger. More elaborate. The private hall was beautifully decorated, navy accents for the Lotte Giants, chandeliers glimmering above round tables where players, coaches, managers, and their families were already seated, laughing, talking, raising glasses.

You were seated at one of the central tables with other wives and girlfriends, many of whom you’d grown close to over the years. There was an easiness to it familiar faces, shared exhaustion from parenting, the camaraderie of loving men whose careers were as demanding as they were exhilarating.

Seungmin settled in beside you, and his hand found yours beneath the table. His thumb brushed along your skin absentmindedly, comfortingly. You leaned in closer, murmuring, “See? Aren’t you glad we came?”

His smile was soft. “Yeah.”

And yet, there it was again. That shadow behind his eyes. That silence between sentences.

You didn’t press him. Not yet.

Dinner was a blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and endless toasts. You chatted with other WAGs, one of whom was due with her third baby in a few months and shared tips about baby sleep regressions and toddler tantrums. Seungmin drifted in and out of the conversation, occasionally throwing a playful jab at his teammates, smiling when someone complimented your dress.

But the entire night, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was performing. Laughing at the right moments. Responding on cue. Holding you a little too tightly, like he was memorizing the weight of your hand.

Then the general manager stood up. The room fell quiet.

You turned toward the front, expecting the usual end-of-season wrap-up: congratulations, next season’s goals, and the usual pat-on-the-back speeches.

But this was different.

The GM’s voice echoed across the hall. “Before we close out this amazing season, I want to take a moment to acknowledge someone very special someone who’s been a cornerstone of this team for years. A player whose heart, discipline, and incredible right arm have led us through some of the toughest games of our careers.”

The room was still.

The GM continued, “Seungmin, you’ve given everything to this team and it shows. You’ve been more than a pitcher. You’ve been a leader. A brother. A Giant in every sense of the word.”

Seungmin squeezed your hand beneath the table.

“I know I speak for everyone here when I say: thank you. Thank you for the years, the grit, the wins and for making us proud. The MLB will be lucky to have you.”

Cheers erupted around the room. Glasses raised. Players clapped Seungmin on the back. WAGs smiled at you with congratulatory looks. There were whistles. Laughter. Applause.

But your body went cold.

The MLB?

The Major Leagues?

You turned to Seungmin slowly. He was smiling, ducking his head modestly, but when his eyes met yours, the truth was there. Quiet. Heavy.

You leaned closer. “What did he mean? The MLB?”

Seungmin’s smile faltered. “We’ll talk later.”

“Seungmin,” you whispered, but the room was too loud now. The moment had passed. Or maybe it had only just begun.

The car ride was so quiet it felt like the silence itself had weight.

Heavy, pressing. Like a fog that rolled in between you and Seungmin, blanketing the small, familiar space of the car in a silence that had never felt so foreign. This wasn’t the comfortable quiet that often passed between you, not the kind that came with years of knowing each other so well that words weren’t always needed.

No, this was something else.

This was the quiet of things left unsaid too long.

This was the sound of trust cracking.

Outside the windshield, the streets of Busan passed by in a blur of neon and night. Streetlights flickered over the hood of the car, casting fleeting stripes of light across Seungmin’s jaw, his hands on the wheel, the furrow of his brow. But you couldn’t look at him, not now. Not after the dinner.

Your arms were tightly crossed against your chest, like folding in on yourself could hold everything inside. Your disappointment. Your anger. Your fear. And your heartbreak most of all, that aching, low throb of heartbreak that kept pulsing under your ribs, like a bruise you didn’t see coming.

You felt him shift beside you.

Then his hand reached toward yours, the way it always did.

It was instinctive, familiar. Seungmin had always reached for you like this, even in silence. During fights. During your long hospital stay after giving birth to your daughter. During that sleepless month when your son wouldn’t stop crying and you were too exhausted to speak. His hand always found yours.

But not tonight.

You flinched.

Your arms tightened around yourself and you turned, just slightly, away from him.

Seungmin’s hand hovered in the air for a moment, then slowly fell back to the console. He didn’t speak right away.

And when he did, his voice was low. Regretful.

“I’m sorry.”

The words floated there, soft and tentative.

You stared out the window. You weren’t even looking at the streets anymore, just letting your eyes unfocus, mind reeling, thoughts scattered and tangled. You could hear the apology, sure, but it barely registered. It was buried under the roaring in your chest.

Because all you could think about, all you could see behind your tired, stinging eyes, were your babies.

Your son, Minjoon, who had refused to nap earlier today and had thrown a tantrum when you tried to get him into his formal little pants for dinner. Who’d needed three full readings of Goodnight Moon before he calmed down. Iseul, who had been fussy all evening, needing to be held, rocked, reassured. Her tiny body curling against your shoulder like you were the only thing keeping the world from swallowing her whole.

And the whole time, you’d powered through.

You’d put on the dress you’d been saving. Done your makeup. Smiled. Laughed.

For him.

Because it was supposed to be his night.

And the whole time, the whole time he’d known.

He’d known his future plans.

He’d known your life was about to be upended, and he hadn’t said a word.

A lump formed in your throat, thick and hot. You swallowed it down, but it didn’t go away.

Seungmin sighed again. This one sounded heavier.

“I didn’t want to ruin tonight for you,” he said, voice quiet. “I didn’t want to ruin what we have. I know I should’ve told you earlier. I just… couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”

“You didn’t want to,” you said, eyes still fixed on the passing lights. “There’s a difference.”

That made him fall quiet.

You weren’t trying to be cruel. But you were tired, soul-deep tired and something in you had fractured when the general manager said “MLB.” The idea that your husband had been building a future, a whole new life across the ocean, and hadn’t included you, even in thought, had taken a sharp edge.

He shifted slightly in his seat.

“You don’t understand—”

“Don’t,” you cut in. “Don’t say I don’t understand. I understand too well. You’re scared, right? Scared of what it would mean to bring this up. Scared of how I’d react. So you just… kept it from me. Like it would somehow protect me. Like I couldn’t handle it.”

You finally looked at him then, and your voice cracked.

“I gave birth to two children. I’ve handled more than you know. And I thought we were in this together.”

Seungmin’s eyes flicked over to you, and the guilt in them nearly broke you. But not quite.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to risk you resenting me,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you uprooted your life, left your family, your friends. The kids… They’re so young. You already do everything for them. I thought maybe, if I just waited, if I figured it out first—I could make it easier. Cleaner. Safer.”

You shook your head, biting down hard on your bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

“You don’t get to make that choice for me, Seungmin.”

He looked down at his hands on the wheel. “I know.”

A long silence stretched between you. The car rolled into your neighborhood quiet, peaceful. Your street, lined with hedges and low lights, your home waiting up ahead. You stared at the windows, lit from inside. A warm, quiet glow.

You could imagine your son asleep in his bed. His dinosaur pajamas. The way he sometimes rolled over in the middle of the night and called for you in his sleep. Your daughter probably cradled in her grandmother’s arms, small and peaceful, unaware of the storm brewing outside her home.

You exhaled shakily. “Did you ever stop to think how this would affect them?”

“Yes,” Seungmin said, his voice hoarse. “Every day. And that’s why I’ve been so torn.”

He turned off the ignition. The sudden silence made your ears ring.

“I want to do what’s best for us. I want to give them a future. I thought this opportunity—” He paused, eyes flicking to yours. “I thought maybe it would be worth it. A few hard years, and then we could have something more.”

You sat back in your seat, chest tight. “And you didn’t think what we already had was enough?”

His lips parted, but no words came out.

Because that was the question that echoed through the car, through your mind, through your bones.

You were building something. Here. Now. You had a family. You had a rhythm, even if it was messy and chaotic and exhausting. You had love. Wasn’t that enough?

The betrayal wasn’t just about baseball. It was about being left out of the most important decision since you’d chosen each other. Since you’d become parents. Since you’d stood at that altar years ago, hands clasped, promising to never go forward without the other.

And tonight, he had gone forward. Without you.

“I’m so sorry,” Seungmin said again, voice cracking this time.

You reached for the door handle but hesitated. Your hand hovered there, your heart racing.

You looked at him one last time. “We’re not okay.”

He nodded slowly. “I know.”

You got out of the car, heels clicking softly on the ground. Seungmin followed a few steps behind, but he didn’t reach for you this time. Didn’t try to touch your hand. Didn’t speak.

Inside, your mother-in-law greeted you with a warm smile and gentle hushes, the kids were fast asleep. You thanked her. You smiled tightly. You said all the right things.

But inside, the ache lingered.

That night, you lay in bed beside Seungmin, your backs turned to each other for the first time in months. And though your body was still, your mind was not.

Because you weren’t thinking about MLB contracts.

You were thinking about a dimpled little boy who would one day ask why you moved. Why you left his playground, his cousins, his language. You were thinking about your baby girl who wouldn’t remember this home, her first room, the sound of the ocean just beyond the porch.

You were thinking about whether you were strong enough to make this leap and whether the man beside you would be the one holding your hand, or the one who had already let go.

The morning light seeped into the bedroom like a quiet intrusion soft, unwelcome. It threaded through the curtains and warmed the edge of the bed where you lay, still in your dress from the night before, now wrinkled and clinging to your tired body.

You hadn't changed. You hadn't even taken off your earrings.

Sleep had come in short, fractured waves stolen between the cries of your daughter needing to be fed at 2 a.m., and the restless tossing that followed after, your mind far too loud to silence. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the banquet hall, the raised glasses, the moment the general manager said "The MLB will be lucky to have him," and the proud, practiced smile on Seungmin’s face.

And then… the way he hadn’t looked at you when he said it.

He was still sleeping now, or pretending to be. His side of the bed was slightly turned away, shoulders curved inward, a breath that wasn’t quite steady. You didn’t care to check. You slid out of bed wordlessly, your movements quiet but brisk, careful not to wake the children or him.

You padded barefoot into the nursery and found your daughter still asleep in her crib, her tiny chest rising and falling beneath the soft pink blanket your mother had crocheted. You stared at her for a moment, absorbing the stillness, the simplicity of her peace. Your son was next, curled up in a tangle of dinosaur sheets, one small hand clutching his favorite plush tiger to his chest.

And just like that, the sharp edges of your anxiety dulled, briefly. Your children were safe. Still here. Still yours.

But the gnawing ache in your stomach hadn’t left.

You walked into the kitchen, made yourself a cup of lukewarm coffee, and settled at the table with your phone, screen lighting up with unread messages. Friends. WAGs. Notifications. Mentions. Group chats.

One name caught your eye.

A message from Yuna, one of the team wives, someone you had grown relatively close to. Always sharp-eyed and protective of the women around her. The message was short, clipped.

“Hey. Have you seen the article?”

You frowned.

Tapping the link she’d attached, you opened it and began to read.

“Inside Scoop: Lotte Giants Star Kim Seungmin’s Secret MLB Talks And the Woman Behind It All”

It was a gossip piece. The kind that pulled from ‘sources close to the player,’ spun half-truths into narratives, laced with just enough credibility to make it hard to dismiss.

You skimmed, your heart already racing. The opening paragraphs went over Seungmin’s impressive final season stats, a summary of his fan popularity, and then, the shift.

“Sources tell us that Kim has been in quiet communication with a high-profile American agent, who has reportedly been facilitating a deal behind the scenes for over a year. The two met during a prior sports event in California, where, according to insiders, the relationship between the pitcher and the agent extended beyond professional bounds.”

You stopped breathing.

No. No, no, no.

“While neither party has confirmed the rumors, those familiar with the situation say their connection appears personal and long-standing. One source adds: ‘She was more than just a rep. She was someone he trusted, someone close.’”

Your hands trembled as you scrolled.

“When asked for comment, Kim Seungmin’s representatives declined, saying the athlete is focused on finishing the season strong and spending time with his family. But the silence speaks volumes.”

You lowered the phone slowly, your heartbeat in your ears.

It felt like ice water had been poured into your veins.

A woman.

Someone he’d met in California.

Someone “close.”

Someone who had been “facilitating a deal for over a year.”

You thought back searching your memory, tracing timelines. Seungmin had gone to the U.S. for a week during the off-season last year. He said it was for a training camp and you’d believed him. Why wouldn’t you? He'd FaceTimed you with a smile, sent photos of his hotel room, texted you how much he missed you.

You remembered because you’d been pregnant then. You remembered how miserable that week had been swollen feet, morning sickness that lasted into the night, and a toddler with a fever. You’d managed it all. Alone. And when he came back, he’d brought you a sweatshirt that smelled like new cotton, a stuffed animal for your son, and a small pair of baby sneakers.

It was one of the rare times he seemed truly guilty about being away.

And now… this.

You stared at your coffee, untouched, hands tightening around the mug like it might anchor you.

The sounds of the morning were beginning to rise,

Seungmin came down not long after. Hair messy. Shirt wrinkled. Face unreadable.

But your eyes were sharp now. Searching. Watching.

He said good morning like nothing had changed. Like the night before hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t laid in the same bed wondering if the man beside you was no longer just your husband, but a liar.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asked, moving toward the fridge.

You said nothing.

He turned. “Babe?”

“Who is she?”

The words came out colder than you intended, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t afford to be gentle. Not now.

Seungmin froze.

He blinked slowly, confusion flickering in his features. “What?”

“The woman. The agent.” You pushed your phone across the table toward him, screen still lit with the article. “You’ve been talking to her for a year?”

His expression darkened as he read. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“This is bullshit,” he said, pushing the phone back. “You know how gossip sites work. They just—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He paused.

That pause was worse than a confession.

Your throat tightened. “Just tell me the truth.”

“There’s nothing going on,” he said, voice steady, but not reassuring. “She’s a sports agent. I met her once. She reached out after the winter games. She said there was interest. I didn’t think it was serious. It wasn’t personal.”

“You didn’t think it was serious?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’ve been talking to her for a year. Setting up your career without me. And now there’s an article saying it’s more than that, and I’m just supposed to believe it’s all nothing?”

“She wants me in the MLB,” he snapped, then immediately regretted it. His voice dropped. “That’s all. That’s all it is.”

You stood.

Something inside you, that tightly held center, broke.

“Do you know how humiliating this is?” you whispered. “Do you have any idea how it feels to be the last to know about your own husband’s life? To find out in a room full of strangers that he’s moving across the world? And then the next morning, read that he’s been seeing another woman behind my back, business or not — for a year?”

Seungmin was pale now. Quiet.

“I never touched her,” he said. “I never crossed that line, I never cheated on you.”

“But you hid her,” you said. “And that says enough.”

Your son peeked around the corner, clutching his plush tiger, wide-eyed.

You exhaled, fighting to calm the storm inside you. You bent down, kissed the top of his head, and guided him back toward his toys.

“I’m not doing this in front of the kids,” you said without turning around. “I’m not fighting with you where they can hear.”

Seungmin’s voice was barely audible. “Then when?”

You looked back at him, the man you’d loved for years, the man who had held your hand in delivery rooms, danced with you barefoot in the kitchen, written love letters on hotel stationery.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Because right now, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

And for the first time in your marriage, you walked away.

Not because you didn’t love him.

But because you had to protect something more fragile.

Yourself.

-

The silence that had stretched like taut wire through the early morning finally snapped by noon.

You’d tried to hold your tongue. Tried to focus on the children. On the daily motions that had once felt so automatic, making lunch, folding a forgotten pile of laundry, wiping jelly from your son’s cheeks. But even the gentlest parts of your life had turned sharp, heavy with unsaid words.

Seungmin paced behind you, trailing like a shadow, quiet but restless. You could feel his gaze at your back, like static.

He was waiting.

For you to explode.

Or for you to let it go.

And you could feel it crawling up your throat, that familiar heat. You had done this for too long. Swallowed things for the sake of peace. Told yourself it was just the job, just stress, just a phase. But today? There was no peace left to keep.

You turned toward him, jaw set.

“You’ve been hiding things from me for months.”

His eyes locked with yours instantly, tired, bloodshot. “I wasn’t hiding anything.”

“Don’t—” You barked a short, incredulous laugh. “Don’t say that. You didn’t tell me about the MLB deal. You didn’t tell me about this agent. And now, suddenly, the news breaks and everyone knows before I do?”

“I didn’t know it was going to come out like that,” he said, frustrated. “It was supposed to be private.”

“Private? We’re married, Seungmin!”

“I know that—”

“Do you?” Your voice cracked. “Because I didn’t feel married last night. I felt like someone tagging along at a dinner where my husband’s future got announced without me. And I didn’t feel married this morning, reading that some womanhas been guiding your entire next chapter, while I was here — pregnant, raising two kids — not knowing anything.”

He ran both hands through his hair, the tension in his shoulders visible. “It’s not like that—”

“Then what is it like?” you snapped. “Explain it. Tell me, because right now the facts don’t add up. You said you didn’t cheat, but I never even said you did.”

That stopped him.

His eyes went wide like you’d pulled the ground out from under him.

You stared.

And he knew. You saw the flicker of realization in his face. That he had let something slip, a defense he shouldn’t have offered if he wasn’t guilty of more than what you knew.

“I didn’t cheat,” he said again, more measured now. “I just thought— when I saw the article, I thought—”

“You thought I’d accuse you,” you said flatly. “Because something did happen.”

“No!” He stepped forward, desperate. “No. Nothing happened. I swear to you.”

You crossed your arms. “Then why are you scrambling? Why is your story changing every ten seconds? First you barely knew her, then she reached out to you, now she’s been helping you for a year?”

He gritted his teeth. “She reached out after the winter games—”

“You already said that.”

“She brought up the offer before it was even real. I didn’t take it seriously at first—”

“And yet somehow, she’s close enough to you now that people think you’re involved,” you said bitterly. “Funny how fast that escalated.”

He groaned, turning his back briefly, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want it to turn into this. I just— I’ve been trying to secure something better for us. For the kids.”

You laughed again, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t you dare bring our kids into this. Don’t act like this was some noble sacrifice. You weren’t thinking about them. You weren’t thinking about me. You were thinking about you. Your career. Your next big move.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair,” you shot back, “is waking up next to a stranger. A man who made decisions without me. Who kept a woman secret from me for over a year. Who lied — or twisted the truth so carefully it felt the same.”

Seungmin stepped closer, voice rising now to match yours. “She’s a professional contact. I didn’t want to involve you until I knew it was real. Is that so hard to understand?”

You were yelling now. “What’s hard to understand is why I had to find out with the rest of the world. If you respected me, if you trusted me, if we were a team like you always said— you would’ve told me.”

He shouted over you, voice breaking with frustration. “I was scared, okay?! I didn’t want you to say no. I didn’t want you to hate me for dragging you and the kids overseas. I didn’t want to make this harder than it already is.”

You stared at him, truly stared.

And what broke you wasn’t the yelling.

It was the fear in his voice. Not of losing you, but of confronting the truth. Of facing the fallout of a decision he’d already made.

Your chest heaved. Your eyes burned.

“That’s the part you don’t get,” you said, quietly this time. “You already made it harder. Not by asking me to leave. Not by considering the offer. But by lying. By deciding I couldn’t handle the truth.”

He shook his head, voice thick. “It wasn’t about you.”

You scoffed. “Right. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You didn’t notice how loud you’d become until the silence that followed felt unnatural. And then, A piercing, frantic cry cut through the house.

Iseul.

Shrill, high-pitched, panicked.

You both turned at once.

Seungmin moved first, instinctively, like the father he still was bolting toward the nursery hallway. But your hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him cold.

He looked at you in confusion, breath shallow.

You stared at him with fire in your eyes.

“No.”

His brows furrowed. “What— she’s crying—”

“I’ll go,” you said, your voice raw. “Not you.”

“Why?” His voice cracked. “She’s our daughter.”

“No,” you whispered. “She’s my daughter right now. Because I’m the only one here.”

He blinked like you’d slapped him.

You let go of his wrist.

Then you turned and rushed.

Down the hall, through the open nursery door, into the soft lavender-painted room where your daughter wailed from her crib, little fists clenched, cheeks red and glistening.

You gathered her into your arms, heart pounding, holding her to your chest like a shield. Her tiny body shook against yours, but you whispered soothing words, rocking her gently.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured. “I’ve got you.”

And you meant it.

Not just for her.

For yourself.

Because right now, in this house filled with cracked trust and echoing pain, you were the only one still standing for her. For both of your children. You couldn’t protect them from everything, but you could be the one who stayed honest.

You rocked her until the cries softened, until her small breaths slowed against your collarbone.

And in the hallway behind you, you heard Seungmin sit down on the floor hard, like the weight of everything had finally caught up.

But you didn’t go to him.

Not this time.

The house was too quiet.

Hours had passed since the first argument, the one that left your daughter screaming in your arms and your husband sitting stunned in the hallway like the wind had been knocked from his chest. You thought maybe that would be the end of it. That silence would stretch long enough for one of you to finally make sense of what to say.

But you couldn’t stop thinking.

And Seungmin? He couldn’t stop moving.

He hadn’t left the house, but he’d stayed out of the nursery, out of the bedrooms, mostly pacing through the kitchen and hallway like a caged animal. When you walked past each other, it was stiff, shallow. He opened his mouth once, maybe twice, but the words fell away before they landed.

Until now.

It was dark out when it happened. The kids were finally asleep, your son curled in your bed, the baby passed out against your chest after her last bottle.

You passed her to her crib slowly, carefully, and left the nursery on bare feet, moving quietly through the hall.

Seungmin was waiting at the end of it arms crossed, leaned against the doorway to the living room like he was forcing himself to stay still.

You didn’t stop walking.

“Can we talk now?” he said, not looking at you.

You paused.

Turned.

“Yes,” you said. “But I’m not doing it with half-truths again.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

You crossed your arms. “So start from the beginning. Not the version you’ve revised three times. The truth.”

He pushed off the wall and walked into the living room. You followed.

He didn’t sit. Neither did you.

“It started last winter,” he began, voice low. “There was this exhibition thing in L.A., and one of the scouts introduced us. Her name’s Madison.”

Madison.

It hurt, having a name to put to the ghost. Somehow it made it worse.

“She said she’d seen me pitch in Busan the year before,” he continued. “Said she thought I had MLB potential. I didn’t believe her at first.”

“And?”

“She gave me her card. Said if I ever wanted to explore the option, I could reach out. I didn’t. Not for months. But then— after I got that minor injury in spring training, I started thinking about my shelf life. How fast it could end. How the kids are growing, and we’ll need more— more security, more stability. So I called her.”

Your expression hardened. “You were injured, and you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

You scoffed. “You didn’t want me to know. That’s what you mean.”

He winced, but didn’t correct you.

“I wasn’t planning anything big at first,” he said quickly. “It was just supposed to be background talk. Feelers. I didn’t even sign anything.”

“But you were talking to her regularly,” you said. “Behind my back. Letting her shape your decisions. Tell me again how that’s not hiding something?”

“She had connections,” he said. “I needed her.”

“You needed me,” you said. “You needed us. But you didn’t think we could handle the truth?”

“I didn’t want to drag you into something that wasn’t certain.”

“Bullshit,” you said, your voice cracking. “You didn’t want to hear me say no.”

His lips parted. Shut again.

Your heart was pounding now. Hard.

“And now this article comes out,” you said. “And it says you’ve had a close relationship with her. Not just business. Not just professional. And you still expect me to believe it was nothing?”

He threw up his hands. “Because it was nothing!”

“You keep saying that,” you snapped. “But everything else you say changes! First you barely knew her. Then she was a connection. Then you were working together for months. Now she’s your lifeline to a better life?! Which version is the truth, Seungmin?”

He stepped toward you, voice raised. “You think I’m sleeping with her? You think I would cheat on you?! After everything—”

“I didn’t say that!” you shouted. “You did!”

His mouth opened again.

And again, he had nothing.

“Do you hear yourself?” you said, near tears now. “You keep trying to fix the story instead of just telling it. Every time you talk, I feel like I’m catching you in another lie.”

He turned away, paced across the room, grabbed at his hair.

“I wasn’t lying,” he said, almost to himself. “I wasn’t trying to— I didn’t want to—”

“You didn’t want to hurt me?” you asked, voice softer now, but shaking. “Then why does it feel like every word you say is cutting deeper?”

He turned, frustrated. “I was trying to make the best of what I could! I thought if I got the deal solid first, you’d feel better knowing it wasn’t just a risk—”

“I don’t need you to protect me from risks,” you snapped. “I need you to be honest. I need you to respect me enough to let me choose the hard things with you.”

He stared at you, this woman who had stood by him through every game, every travel stretch, every missed birthday and late-night bus ride. And now, when he needed you most, he realized...

He’d gone too far without you.

And now he couldn’t pull you back.

Your hands dropped to your sides, empty. Exhausted.

“I don’t even know if I’m angry at you,” you whispered. “Or if I’m angry at myself for not seeing it sooner.”

He blinked, breathing uneven.

You moved past him, toward the hallway again.

“Where are you going?”

“I need air.”

He followed. “You can’t just walk out—”

You turned, eyes blazing.

“No,” you said. “You need to leave.”

His face twisted. “What?”

“I need space. The kids are asleep. I’m not doing this again while they’re in this house.”

He hesitated. “Where the hell am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t care,” you said. “You can go to a hotel, you can sleep in your car, you can call your manager. I just— I can’t look at you right now.”

He laughed, bitterly. “So that’s it?”

“No,” you said. “But it’s all I’ve got tonight.”

His eyes were wild now, mouth slightly open, chest heaving with things he couldn’t say fast enough.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine. You don’t want to hear it? You don’t want to listen to anything I have to say? Then I’ll go.”

“I’ve been listening,” you shouted. “It’s just that none of it makes sense.”

He shoved past you, storming into the bedroom. You heard drawers yanked open. A zipper. A bag hitting the floor.

You stood frozen in the hallway, watching the shadows move under the door.

Then, moments later, it opened. He walked past you, hoodie on, baseball cap low, duffel over his shoulder. His mouth pressed into a line.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

He walked down the stairs, opened the door, and stepped outside.

You watched him through the window, standing still in the dark. His car door opened.

But he didn’t get in.

He stood beside the car for a second, shoulders hunched like the weight had finally settled across them.

And then he looked back toward the house.

For a flicker.

A moment.

As if expecting you to follow.

You didn’t.

And then he got in.

And drove off.

You didn’t cry at first.

You stood there, gripping the edge of the banister like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

Then, once the headlights vanished, once the silence roared back into your chest—

You broke.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

You just sank.

Onto the stairs. Onto your knees. And the sobs came in waves. Quiet, painful, relentless.

Because love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Because you didn’t know what was real anymore.

Because the man you had once called home had chosen a path that no longer included you, not fully.

And you didn’t know if he would find his way back.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[ravens-bird]

Maybe, Meant to Be.

Pairing: Sylus x GN!Reader

Tags: Valentine's Day fic lol, fluff, love confession, first confession, established relationship, kitten. Nicknames used - Sweetie, Kitten.

wc: around 1k.

Note: So I'm back to crying over him... I blame today's Valentine's/Azure's Blessings Festival messages.

Inspired by This Fanart I found reuploaded on Pinterest.

You Don’t Know When It All Began. 

Was it when he first smiled at you — genuinely, without his usual sharpness? 

Was it when he pretended to be so bothered by a stray cat that gave birth outside one of his villas, yet still took in the only surviving kitten, placing it in a high place so it wouldn’t escape or, worse, get hurt?

Or maybe it was when he tried to comfort you when you were having a bad day, humming off-key, knowing it would make you smile?

Oh, or was it the moment he stepped in front of you during a wanderer attack, shielding you without hesitation — prioritising your safety over his own? 

Or perhaps it was all the times after that, when he wordlessly stepped in, guarding your back so you could focus on the fight, knowing he would keep you safe? 

Sylus may have brushed these off, claiming that it was nothing serious, but you knew. 

You knew that it was so much more. 

That you meant so much more to him than he let on. 

From grand gestures, like the time he won a boxing championship and dedicated the victory to you, slipping the ring symbolising his victory onto your finger as he announced that he won just for your sake.

To the small, simple ones. Adjusting your coat on chilly nights so you don’t get cold. Sending Mephisto or the twins to keep an eye on you when he couldn’t be there himself, especially when you insisted on running headfirst into danger. Reading an entire book about candy-making — mastering it, even — just so he could give you candy he made himself on Valentine’s Day. 

Even eating the accidentally ruined chocolate you had made while practicing. 

You don’t know when it all began. 

Maybe falling in love with Sylus had happened this way — a slow, steady trust building over time, until without realising it, you had let your guard down around him.

Piece by piece, you had given him fragments of your heart, never noticing how much of it he held. And by the time you did, you were already falling — headfirst, hoping he will catch you in his arms. 

And he did. Every time. Steadily. Unfailingly. 

Now, as he stands in front of you, holding a kitten in his arms, his gaze soft as the tiny creature nuzzled into his chest, his smile unguarded, there’s a warm, tingling feeling in your chest.

He hasn’t noticed the change in your expression, too busy entertaining the snuggly feline in his arms. But the only thing you can think is I love you. 

You don’t think he realizes it, and keeping it to yourself didn’t feel right.

So you say it.

“Sylus.”

“Hmm?” There’s a smile playing on his lips as he glances up, and the second he sees your expression, he blinks. “What’s wrong, Sweetie?”

Your lips twitch, and warmth blooms in your chest, spilling over as the words finally leave your mouth.

“I love you, Sylus.”

For a moment, he appears startled, caught off-guard. His eyebrows lift, his lips parting in surprise as he processes the words. 

But then, it changes. A slow, pleased smile spreads across his face, and the warmth in your chest spreads all the way to your fingertips as his cheeks tinge a faint pink. 

A rare sight. He appears almost bashful as he chuckles softly, saying the words that have you smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt. 

“I love you too, Sweetie.”

You step closer, reaching to cradle his cheek, tilting your head back to meet his gaze. His skin is faintly warm under your touch, and though his blush has cooled, the pleased expression he's wearing tells you that you were right to tell him, after all. 

How else would you have seen him like this? 

You open your mouth to say something more, but before you can, a tiny paw presses against your chin, accompanied by a rather indignant meow that has you snapping out of the moment. 

You look down and notice the kitten squirming in his arms, clearly displeased about being trapped between the two of you. You laugh softly, instead reaching out to scratch behind its ears.

Sylus hums, amusement lacing his voice. "Where did that come from?" 

You shrug, giving the kitten’s tiny nose a light boop before looking at him again.

"Felt like telling you.” Your voice is light, honest. "Thought i should be upfront about my feelings."

Because you know he struggles with this — accepting love, believing he deserves it. That somewhere, deep down, he still wonders if happiness is something he’s allowed to have. You see it in the way he sometimes hesitates when you hold his hand, in the way he brushes off his own kindness like it’s nothing. 

But it’s not nothing. He’s not nothing. And if he won’t believe it himself, then you’ll just have to remind him, over and over, until he does. 

He chuckles again, shaking his head, but when he shifts the kitten to one arm, and takes your hand in another, giving it a gentle squeeze, you know he’s learning to believe it. 

“Your words are coated in honey, Kitten.”

He says it a touch teasingly, and you roll your eyes, reaching your free hand up to lightly pinch his cheek. His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t move away. 

“Let’s go home, Sylus.”

He shrugs, fingers lacing through yours as you turn to walk together, the kitten nestling sleepily into the crook of his elbow.

And as you glance at Sylus, feeling the warmth of his touch, you think — This is it. This is exactly where I’m meant to be. 

Maybe, it was always meant to be.

Masterlist.

Divider from here.

[emakataken]

The hospital nursery was quiet. A single monitor beeped gently in the corner. The baby, a little over five pounds slept in a bassinet lined with a soft blue blanket, arms swaddled tight, face scrunched as he suckled in his sleep.

Tommy stood at the foot of his tiny warm crib, unmoving.

His hands were stuffed deep in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders tight. There was soot still streaked faintly behind his ear, a reminder of the shift he'd barely made it through before his world tilted sideways.

He hadn't moved since the nurse led him in.

The door behind him clicked open. "Tommy?"

Evan's voice was soft, unsure.

Tommy didn't turn. Just blinked hard and nodded once.

Evan stepped up beside him, his face drawn in concern, still dressed in work clothes, hair mussed like he'd run a hand through it too many times on the drive over.

"You okay?" he asked, eyes flicking from Tommy to the sleeping newborn. "You said it was urgent."

Tommy swallowed hard. "It is."

They stood in silence for a moment. The kind that stretches and stretches until it thins into tension.

Evan glanced at the baby again, then back to Tommy. "Whose kid is that?" he asked, careful but curious.

Tommy's voice was hoarse. "My nephew."

"Wait. What?" Evan's voice cracked.

Tommy pauses, his mind skimming backwards, trying to remember if he had ever told Evan of his sister. Once, maybe a year ago when they first got together. "His name's not even written down yet," Tommy said, eyes fixed on the bassinet. "He's four days old. Five and half pounds. Born early. And... he doesn't have anyone."

Tommy's shoulders drew tighter. "Jerry, the social worker. He's the one who found me and brought Eliza letter... she signed over her rights. Left the hospital. Named me."

Evan turned toward him, the pieces starting to align. "Eliza?"

Tommy nodded, finally glancing over. "My sister. I haven't seen her in nearly a decade. I looked for her for years... and then she just, disappears. Until now. And this..." He gestured toward the bassinet. "This is what she left me."

Evan didn't respond right away.

His gaze shifted from Tommy's face back to the baby. He took a slow breath, like he was recalibrating.

Tommy's voice dropped, nearly breaking. "We never talked about children."

Evan looked at him, really looked at the red-rimmed eyes, the clenched jaw, the way he stood like he might shatter, was waiting to shatter. That this would be the moment that Evan decided he was too much.

"No," Evan agreed softly. "We haven't."

Tommy exhaled shakily and turned back toward the baby, his voice cracking. "I didn't think I'd ever get to have that. A family. Not really. Not after everything. Not with how I was raised. Now, it's not even a choice. It's just here." He dragged a hand down his face. "I don't even have a crib."

Evan reached out, fingers brushing his elbow. "You have a home," he said quietly. "And you have a heart big enough to say yes. That's more than a lot of kids get."

Tommy didn't answer. His hands trembled slightly.

He pressed his knuckles to his mouth and shook his head. "I don't know if I can do this. Not without screwing it up. Not without breaking something."

Evan stepped a little closer. "Then we'll figure it out. Together."

Tommy nodded slowly, but the words didn't ease the tension in his chest. If anything, they made the weight heavier. "There's more," he said, voice barely audible. Like speaking it might crack something open he couldn't put back.

Evan went still beside him.

"There are two others," Tommy continued. "Levi Thomas and Lila Grace. Eight and five." He swallowed hard, breath shuddering on the way out. "They've been in foster care almost two years. I didn't even know. Not a single word for nine years. Not a letter. Not a call. Just... a letter. A plea to keep them away from our parents."

He blinked hard, his throat working. "I didn't even know they existed. And now, they're mine. Or they could be. All of them." The words came out rough, like they hurt on the way up. Like they weren't ready to exist in the world yet.

Evan didn't interrupt. He watched Tommy carefully, his posture shifting. Like something in him was bracing, uncertain. Like some part of him still remembered the cracks between them, the fault lines they were barely learning how to navigate. His face twisting into the guarded cautiousness their breakup had caused.

It sent an ache through Tommy's ribs. But he kept going, because he had to. Because if he stopped now, he wouldn't be able to start again. "I'm a pilot for the LAFD with fucked hours and I haven't even looked at half my childhood, let alone dealt with it. I mean, I'm trying, have been for years." He let out a bitter, quiet laugh that didn't sound like a laugh at all. "I mean, who the fuck thought this was a good idea?"

He shook his head, jaw tight.

"What if I'm not enough?" His voice cracked. "What if I can't do it right? What if I break something in them that can't be fixed?" His eyes flicked toward the sleeping baby, then to Evan just for a moment.

Long enough for the truth to land in the open space between them. "Who the hell would entrust this tiny, amazing little human to me?"

The silence held for a breath just long enough to feel like his universe might implode. Then Evan stepped in, closer, his voice going firm in away Tommy's rarely heard, "You are."

Tommy looked at him, stunned by the certainty he found laced in those two little words.

Evan's voice stayed low, steady. "And you're not alone." The words fell between them like a promise.

A truth. He let it sit for a second. "Let's just get through tonight, okay? One step at a time."

Tommy huffed a laugh that sounded like a muffled sob. "Yeah," he said, voice thick. "Okay."

"Tonight we'll go home," Evan said, glancing at him, "we'll eat something warm, we'll collapse into your bed. And tomorrow... tomorrow we call that guy again. What's his name, Gary?"

Tommy shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly despite everything. "Jerry."

"Right. Jerry." Evan smiled, a little crooked. "Tomorrow we'll ask more questions. We'll start an Amazon order."

Tommy nodded. But his eyes had drifted back to the baby again, and his chest pulled tight all over again.

Evan followed his gaze. "He needs a name?"

Tommy nodded slowly. "Eliza said... she wanted me to pick it."

Before either of them could say anything more, there was a soft knock at the door. A nurse stepped in, calm and kind, her smile small but warm. "If one of you would like to hold him," she offered. "You may."

Tommy froze, like the words hit a fault line in his chest. His body tensed, like he wasn't sure if he could trust himself but his gaze followed Evan.

Evan who didn't hesitate. He stepped forward without looking back, without asking, without waiting to be told he could.

The nurse swaddled the baby a little tighter, then carefully placed the small bundle into Evan's arms.

And something inside Evan shifted the moment the weight settled against his chest. His shoulders relaxed. His breath evened. His entire body seemed to soften, like he'd just been handed something that made his entire life make sense.

He looked down at the baby, eyes wide with wonder.

"Hey, little fella," Evan whispered, instinctively rocking. His voice soft with love, "You're small little guy, huh? We're gonna need to increase your protein intake, bulk you up a bit, bubba."

The baby made a tiny sound, a breathy sigh. Evan's expression lit up like someone had flipped a switch in him. Like something in his heart had just clicked into place.

Tommy watched him, unmoving. His heart was still aching and heavy and twisted in fear but underneath it, something bloomed. Something tender. Something that felt like maybe, just maybe, this wasn't a mistake.

"He's so little," Evan murmured, glancing over his shoulder, beaming. "How is he so little?"

Tommy smiled faintly, voice cracking at the edges.

"Luke?"

Evan wrinkled his nose. "No."

Tommy tried again. "Lincoln?"

Evan gave him a look. "After the hot guy in the pub? Absolutely not."

Tommy laughed. For real this time-small and rough, but real. "Okay. Liam?"

Evan went quiet. His eyes dropped back to the baby. He swayed slowly, "Yeah," he said softly. "Liam."

He adjusted his grip, pulling the baby in a little closer like he belonged there, in his arms. Like the tiny bundle hadn't upended their life. "Liam Robert Kinard."

Tommy blinked, startled by the certainty. "Robert?" Evan still didn't look away from the baby. "After Bobby. Liam's big brother Levi was named after the best man Eliza ever knew. I just... figured I'd keep with the theme."

Tommy's breath caught. He stepped forward and gently rested a hand against Evan's back, watching the tiny rise and fall of each breath of the babe in his arms. "You're a good man," he said, voice low and thick and full of everything he couldn't put into words.

Evan finally looked up at him, eyes shining but steady. "Let's just try to be good enough for him."

Tommy stared at the two of them, this man who hadn't flinched, and this baby who had no idea how lucky he already was. "Welcome to the world, Liam Robert Kinard," he whispered.

Part 2

[cressidagrey]

Such A Mystery - Part 11

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen fell in love at the ripe old age of 12 and never looked back.

Colette Leclerc really regrets posting that particular Taylor Swift Lyric to her private Instagram account, because it made George Russell go insane.  

The rest of the world has absolutely no idea that the Dutch Lion and Charles Leclerc’s twin sister have been a couple for 15 years and are expecting a baby. 

Warnings: 

Pregnancy, Mention of multiple miscarriages, Pregnancy complications, George Russell Bashing (he's probably really nice in real life but in this, he's the bad guy, sorry), Jos Verstappen, We have apparently now reached the time where I also bash Ferrari. I am sure they are super nice in real life too. They are not in this.

Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this. Chapter 11 of 12!

Chapter 11

His sister's screams were bloodcurdling.

Charles had known that birth was a painful, messy affair, that it was never easy, but actually hearing his sister’s very real, very painful screams from the room beyond was a truly eye-opening experience. He didn’t know how women could survive this, frankly.

Arthur looked green around the gills, not helped by the white bandage on his forehead…which apparently had been the result of him fainting and being taken down by the corner of a hospital bed. 

"I am never having kids," Arthur said, swallowing heavily.

"I am rethinking my family planning as well," Lorenzo said weakly. "I don't think I can stand seeing Charlotte go through that pain."

Arthur grimaced as another scream came ringing out from the room. “I think I am scheduling a vasectomy tomorrow,” he said faintly. “This absolutely confirms it as a good life decision for me.”

"I think that's the concussion talking," Charles tried to assure his brother, as another scream rang out.

On second thought…maybe Arthur was onto something.

And just at that moment, Colette's scream suddenly broke off. They froze—all of them.

Absolute silence rang through the room. Charles was afraid to even breathe. He had no idea what was happening on the other side of the door, and that terrified him. Everything had been going well so far, hadn't it?

And then a cry rang out.

A baby’s cry: shrill, a little indignant.

All three men let out their collective breaths in a sigh of pure relief.

The whole room was silent for a moment, as they processed the fact that their sister and her baby were alright.

“Oh, thank god,” Lorenzo said feebly. “I thought something awful had happened.”

“No kidding,” Arthur agreed. He sagged back against the wall behind him, his skin regaining a proper colour again, instead of the sickly green it had been moments before.

Charles leaned his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes for a brief second. It was over. Everything had gone alright. 

Colette and her baby were both going to be okay.

"We are uncles now," Arthur said suddenly.

A beat of surprise. And then:

“Oh god, we are, aren’t we?” Lorenzo said.

“We’re uncles,” Arthur repeated a slightly shell-shocked look on his face.

Charles couldn’t help it. A smile broke out over his face, a very real, utterly ridiculous one that he didn’t have the energy to hold back. “We are, aren’t we?” he repeated Enzo’s words.

“This is absolutely insane!” Arthur said, a grin creeping over his face. “We’re going to be the coolest uncles ever.”

“I thought kids are overrated?” Lorenzo pointed out wryly.

“The most overrated,” Arthur insisted. “But I’m going to spoil our niece or nephew absolutely rotten.”

It took a little while longer, but finally, the door opened, revealing Max. He looked…exhausted. Absolutely beat. There were dark circles under his eyes…but a look of relief was on his face like Charles had never seen on his friend before. And yet, Max was grinning.

Looking happier than ever.

“Max,” Charles said, a little hoarsely. He wanted to ask how they were, he wanted to ask about the baby, he wanted to ask if Coco was alright. But all he could get out was Max’s name, his voice too thick.

"Come meet your niece," Max said simply.

He said the word ‘niece’ like it was the best thing in the world, and it made Charles smile. He straightened up, following Max into the room, Arthur and Lorenzo trailing behind him.

Coco was curled up in her bed, her hair messy, her face pale, but she was smiling, a weak little smile tinged with exhaustion but so very, very happy. And cradled against her chest was the baby, wrapped snugly in a little pink blanket.

Charles just sort of stopped dead in the midst of the room. Seeing his sister with her baby in her arms… it was like his brain had stopped functioning in the space of a moment.

All three brothers were silent for a long moment, just taking in the sight of them.

Charles felt a lump rise in his throat,and swallowed heavily.

Lorenzo was biting his lip, trying to keep the tears from welling up in his eyes. And Arthur was absolutely silent, all of the usual sass gone from his expression.

It was a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, as they all just stood awkwardly at the edge of the bed, just looking.

Finally, Coco looked up at them, and her smile widened faintly. “Well?” she asked. "Cha, don’t you want to hold your niece?"

His heart skipped, and he managed to pull himself forward so he could sit down on the bed next to her. “I get to hold her?” he asked, just to be certain.

"Of course, you do," Coco told him softly. "Here you go."

Charles could hardly believe it as Colette gently eased the baby into his arms, carefully supporting her head. And suddenly he was holding her, his niece, this brand new little life, in all of her tiny, delicate, vulnerable little glory, bundled up in a soft pink blanket.

"She's perfect," he said softly, swallowing. 

She was so…fragile, in his hands. He hadn’t expected her to be that small, somehow. Charles smiled faintly, running his fingers gently over her hair. Her eyes were closed, and one tiny fist was poking out of the blanket.  

"Does she have a name yet?" he asked his sister. 

"I get to pick," Colette told him with a grin. "Given that Max named the cats after Monaco's nightlife."

Charles had to admit that was a fair point.

“What, you aren’t going to let Max name your daughter La Rascasse?” he teased Coco who just rolled her eyes.  "What have you come up with?" he asked curiously, tearing his eyes away from his niece to look at his sister.

"If she was a boy, I would have named him Emilian Hervé after Papa," Colette said softly. "Sadly that doesn't work for a girl."

Charles smiled faintly at the mention of their father. Their father would have doted on this baby, he was certain. He would have spoiled her absolutely rotten.

"So I figured… somebody else needed to give their name for her," Coco continued. "I hope you don't mind."

"Of course, I don't mind," Charles assured her at once. Why should he? "Whose name did you use?" he wondered. 

"Yours, you idiot, Cha," Coco told him, her voice soft. "Charlene Victoria Verstappen. We'll call her Charlie for short."

"Oh my god," Max's sister breathed somewhere behind him. "You.."

But Charles could only stare at his sister…could only feel the lump rise in his throat again. He swallowed hard. “You named her after me?” he asked with a waver in his voice, feeling like his heart might just explode in his chest.

"Of course, I did," Colette said softly. "You're my twin brother, why wouldn't I name my baby girl after you?"

Charles couldn't find any words to answer that with. He couldn't find any words at all. His eyes stung, and he couldn't look at her for fear he might cry. He looked down at the baby. His…god, his niece that was named after him.  

He gently ran his fingers over her hair again, marvelling at her tiny, perfect little body. "Hello, Charlie," he said softly, his voice a little choked.

The baby didn't even stir, and Charles smiled, shifting slightly to support her more securely. He couldn't believe that his sister had done this, that she had named her baby girl after him. It made his heart feel like it was fit to burst straight out of his chest, made him try to blink back tears and fail horribly. 

"Congratulations, you've made Charles cry," Lorenzo said from somewhere behind him, sounding a little choked himself.

Charles let out a noise that was half-laughing, half-crying as his brothers joined him at his side. "Shut up," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

"Not a chance," Arthur said as he squeezed in next to him to get a better look at the baby. Lorenzo joined him, peering down at the baby in Charles' arms with a strangely soft expression on his face.

"You gave her my name too," Victoria said weakly. Charles looked up at Max’s sister, not knowing what to say. It had sounded so obvious, so natural to hear Colette say it, that Charles had completely forgotten that Victoria shared the same name.

But she did. 

"A sibling for each of us," Colette said simply. "Sorry, Enzo, Arthur. Maybe next time.”

“Nah, Arthurelle is a horrible name,” Arthur responded. “Totally see why you went for Charlene.” 

Colette laughed, but it was a very weak, exhausted laugh. Charles couldn’t blame her. She must be absolutely wrung out.

And still as he looked at her...as her eyes met his, he could feel how happy his sister. How utterly in love she was with her daughter. How this was everything Colette had ever wanted, and it was right there. 

"I am never driving you to the hospital again though, just so you know," Arthur said. “That cost me at least 30 years of my life.”

"But you did so well," Colette teased their younger brother. "Thank you for that, ma petite puce."

Arthur grimaced faintly, but he looked too tired and happy to actually bite back. Charles smiled faintly at all of them in turn.

Charles‘ eyes snagged on their mother.

"Well, Grand-Mère," he teased her. "How does it feel?"

For a long moment, their mother simply looked at the baby in Charles’ arms with an unreadable expression on her face. And then her expression slowly shifted into a smile. A true smile. A happy, proud Grandma smile.

“Your father would be so proud of you all.” 

[thesecondhandwoman]

BOTTOM OF THE BOTTLE

Sevika x f!reader

Synopsis: Another night, another time that Sevika returns home drunken off of cheap booze from The Last Drop. But this time, it was the last night that you could take it any longer.

A/N: I had to start this year off with a Sevika fanfic. I just had to.

The creak of the apartment door tore through the quiet night like a blade. You’d been waiting, pacing, and stewing in the dim glow of a single lantern. Sevika was late tonight, again. But you didn’t expect the heavy thud of her boots to hit the floor this late, nor the unmistakable tang of Last Drop whiskey that followed her like a storm cloud.

“Sevika,” you said, stepping into view. “God, you’re drunk, aren’t you?”

She didn’t bother taking off her coat. Instead, she slumped against the doorframe, the flickering lamplight casting shadows across her sharp, exhausted features. Her metal arm whirred faintly as she ran a hand through her disheveled hair.

“Nice observation,” she drawled, her voice thick with liquor and something darker—Anger? Frustration? She kicked the door shut with her heel, the sound reverberating in your chest.

You crossed your arms. “Where were you? I waited, again.”

“Don’t start, you already know damn well where I was” she muttered, brushing past you. “Plus, I’m not in the mood.”

“Not in the mood?” You followed her into the small kitchen as she reached for the half-empty bottle she’d left on the counter earlier that week. “Sevika, we were supposed to talk tonight, about us, about this.”

“This?” She turned, bottle in hand, and gestured between the two of you with a bitter laugh. “What is this, huh? Me coming back to you nagging? You waiting around like some—some Undercity housewife? Is that what you want?”

Her words stung like a slap. “What I want is for you to actually care about this relationship. About me! But you’re too busy drinking and fighting Jinx’s battles to even—”

“Don’t you dare bring her into this,” Sevika snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, the air between you felt suffocating. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what it takes to survive out there.”

“I don’t get it?” Your voice rose, trembling with the weight of held-back tears. “You think I don’t know what survival looks like? I’ve been surviving my whole damn life! But surviving isn’t enough anymore, Sevika. I need more. I need you—sober, present, not drowning yourself at the Last Drop every night!”

She scoffed, turning away from you to take a swig from the bottle. The sight was infuriating, her indifference like salt in a wound.

“Don’t walk away from me!” you yelled, your voice cracking. “For once, just face this and have an actual conversation!”

“Why?” she barked, spinning back to you with a fire in her eyes that you hadn’t seen in weeks. “So you can tell me how I’m failing you? How I’m not enough? Guess what? I’ve never been enough—for Silco, for Zaun, for anyone. Why the hell would you be any different?”

The raw vulnerability in her words made your breath hitch, but the alcohol twisted them into something cruel. You stepped back, crossing your arms defensively.

“You know what?,” you muttered quietly, voice trembling but firm. “You’re right. You’re not enough—not like this. And I can’t keep pretending it’s okay.”

Her expression faltered, the weight of your words landing like a punch. She staggered back a step, bottle still in hand, before the anger flared again. “So what? You’re just gonna leave, huh? Walk away like everyone else?”

“Maybe I should,” you shot back, hating the way your voice shook. “You’re the one pushing me away, Sevika. Not the other way around.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of her breathing—heavy, uneven. She looked at you like you’d just struck her, but the tension between you was unbearable.

Finally, she set the bottle down on the counter with a loud clink. “Fine,” she muttered, her voice low and venomous. “Do what you want. I won’t stop you.”

You blinked, your chest tightening as the tears you’d been holding back spilled over. “Is that all you have to say?”

She didn’t answer, her gaze fixed on the floor as if looking at you would shatter her completely.

“Sevika, are you serious?” Your voice cracked, softer now, pleading. But she didn’t move, didn’t respond.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you turned and headed for the bedroom, leaving her standing there in the room, alone with only the soft flicker of the light. The weight of her words, and your own, pressed heavily against your chest.

You wanted to believe this wasn’t the end, that the Sevika you loved was still somewhere beneath the alcohol and anger. But as you closed the door behind you, the sound of her lighting another cigarette echoed in your ears, and you weren’t sure if she’d ever let you reach her again.

The first thing Sevika noticed when she woke was the ache in her head—a dull, relentless pounding that made her groan and press her flesh hand against her temple. Her mouth was dry, and her tongue felt like sandpaper. The faint stench of whiskey clung to her clothes, and the stale taste of regret lingered on her lips.

Her eyes cracked open, adjusting slowly to the dim light filtering through the curtains. She was still on the couch where she had lit her cigarette, her body slumped awkwardly across the cushions. Memories of the night before hit her like a freight train—stumbling through the door, the sharp edge of your voice, the argument that escalated too quickly.

“Shit,” she muttered, dragging herself upright. Her metal arm whirred faintly as she stretched, her muscles stiff from a night spent in an uncomfortable position. She rubbed her face, trying to shake off the fog in her head, but the memory of your last words cut through the haze like a blade.

“You’re the one pushing me away, Sevika. Not the other way around.”

She groaned again, this time not from the hangover but from the guilt gnawing at her chest. She’d passed out before she could even think about apologizing. Her pride, fueled by whiskey and frustration, had kept her from chasing after you when you’d stormed off.

Now, she needed to find you, to fix this—if it wasn’t too late.

Sevika pushed herself off the couch, her heavy boots thudding against the floor as she made her way toward the bedroom. Her heart sank as she approached the partially open door. She hesitated for a moment, gripping the doorframe for support.

She called out softly, “Hey, babe, are you awake?”

No response.

She stepped into the room, her gaze immediately sweeping across the bed where she’d last seen you. It was empty. The sheets were rumpled, as if you’d sat there for a while before leaving, but there was no sign of you now.

“Y/N?” she called again, louder this time, her voice cracking slightly.

The silence was deafening.

Her heart began to pound in her chest as her eyes darted around the room. Your jacket was missing from the hook near the door. The pair of boots you always wore to work was gone from their usual spot by the dresser. She opened the closet, her stomach twisting when she noticed the gap where some of your clothes had been.

“No,” she whispered, stepping back, her head shaking in disbelief. “No, no, no…”

Her eyes landed on the nightstand. A folded piece of paper sat there, your handwriting scrawled across the front: Sevika.

She froze, her chest tightening. It took her a moment to move, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up the note. Her fingers hesitated at the edge of the fold, almost as if opening it would confirm the reality she was desperate to deny.

Finally, she unfolded the paper and began to read:

Sevika,

I don’t even know where to start. Maybe with “I’m sorry.” Sorry for yelling, for making this harder than it already is. But I think the truth is, we’ve both been making it hard.

I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you, even when you make it so damn difficult. I love the woman you are when the walls come down, when it’s just the two of us and the world doesn’t matter. But lately, it feels like I’m the only one fighting for that version of you.

I know you’re hurting. I know life hasn’t been kind to you, and you think drowning yourself in alcohol and shutting everyone out is the only way to cope. But Sevika, it’s killing us.

I need you to understand something: I can’t keep breaking myself to pull you out of the dark. I want to be here for you, but I can’t if you won’t meet me halfway.

I’m leaving. Not because I don’t love you, but because I do. If you ever decide you’re ready to let me in—to let yourself heal—you know where to find me.

~I’m sorry, Y/N.

Her grip on the letter tightened as she read, the words blurring slightly as her eyes burned with tears she refused to let fall. The raw honesty in your words cut deeper than any blade ever could. She sank onto the edge of the bed, the letter trembling in her hand.

She’d always thought she was protecting you by keeping her pain to herself, by drowning it in whiskey and fights. But all she’d done was push you away, the one person who had ever truly cared for her.

Her gaze dropped to the floor, her jaw clenching. She wanted to scream, to punch something, to make this crushing guilt and regret go away, but none of that would bring you back.

Sevika folded the letter carefully, setting it back on the nightstand. For a long moment, she just sat there, staring at the empty space where you should’ve been.

Finally, she stood, her resolve hardening. She wouldn’t let this be the end. If you’d left her a chance, any chance, she would take it. She didn’t know where you’d gone, but she’d find you, especially since she had the smallest idea of where.

And when she did, she would prove that she could be better, that she could be the woman you deserved.

Grabbing her coat, she slipped the letter into her pocket and headed for the door, determination etched into her every step.

The streets of the Undercity were as unforgiving as ever, the air thick with smoke and desperation. Sevika walked with purpose, her boots crunching against the damp cobblestones. Her mind was a storm of emotions—fear, guilt, and determination blending into a volatile mix.

Her destination loomed ahead: Babette’s brothel. The flickering neon sign bathed the surrounding alley in a crimson glow, casting shadows that seemed to taunt her as she approached. She hated this place—not because of what it was, but because it was where you always ran when things got too heavy between the two of you. It was a place you’d told her once made you feel safe, even if Sevika could never understand why.

Sevika pushed open the heavy wooden door, the warm scent of perfume and alcohol hitting her immediately. Inside, the brothel was alive with laughter, soft music, and low murmurs. Velvet drapes hung from the walls, and the dim lighting painted the room in hues of red and gold.

A few of the women lounging near the entrance glanced her way, their smiles faltering when they recognized her. Sevika had a reputation, and it wasn’t one that made people feel comfortable.

She ignored their stares, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on Babette. The Madame of the house was seated at her usual spot near the bar, her dark pinkish hair and sharp smile as disarming as ever.

Babette’s gaze flicked to Sevika, and her smile widened, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, well, if it isn’t Zaun’s favorite enforcer. What brings you here, Sevika? Looking for company tonight?”

Sevika didn’t bother with pleasantries. She crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, stopping just short of Babette’s table. “Where is she?”

Babette raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “You’ll have to be more specific. I have a lot of girls here, darling.”

“You know who I’m talking about,” Sevika growled, her voice low and dangerous. “Where’s Y/N?”

Babette’s playful demeanor faltered for a moment, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied Sevika. “You’ve always got some nerve, barging in here like this after what she’s been through.”

Sevika’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have time for this. Just tell me where she is.”

Babette leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs elegantly. “And why should I? Do you have any idea what you’ve put her through? She came here last night, Sevika, crying, shaking, looking for somewhere to feel like she wasn’t drowning. Do you really think I’m just going to send you after her so you can make things worse?”

The words hit Sevika like a punch to the gut, but she refused to let it show. She clenched her metal fist at her side, the faint whirring noise barely audible over the music. “I know I screwed up. I know I hurt her. But I need to make this right.”

Babette studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sighed, leaning forward. “You’re lucky she still cares about you, or I wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

Sevika’s heart skipped a beat. “So, where is she?”

“She’s upstairs,” Babette said, her voice softer now, though still tinged with warning. “Room six. But Sevika…”

Sevika paused, looking back at her.

“If you go up there and hurt her again, I won’t let you walk out of here in one piece. Do you understand me?” Babette’s eyes were cold and sharp, her voice like steel.

Sevika nodded, her throat tight. “I understand.”

Without another word, she turned and headed for the staircase, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Room six.

She stopped in front of the door, her hand hovering over the handle. For a moment, she hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. She couldn’t afford to let her fear control her now. Finally, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, your head resting in your hands. The soft glow of a single lamp bathed the room in golden light, highlighting the tear stains on your cheeks. At the sound of the door opening, you looked up, your eyes widening slightly when you saw her.

“Sevika?” Your voice was a mixture of surprise and exhaustion.

She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice rough but sincere. “We need to talk.”

You stared at Sevika, your body tense, unsure whether to let her stay or tell her to leave. The raw vulnerability in her expression—the regret etched into the lines of her face—wasn’t something you saw often. It caught you off guard, softening the sharp edges of your anger.

“What are you doing here, Sevika?” you asked, your voice quiet but strained. “You said everything you needed to say last night.”

She stepped closer, hesitant, her boots barely making a sound on the worn carpet. Her metal hand flexed at her side, the faint whirring a reflection of her nerves. “I was drunk,” she admitted, her tone rough. “But that doesn’t excuse it. None of it does.”

You blinked, unsure if you were hearing her correctly. Sevika wasn’t one to apologize easily, or at all.

She ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. “I… I messed up. I’ve been messing up for a while now, and I know I’ve hurt you. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” you said, your voice trembling as the tears you thought you’d run out of threatened to return. “I didn’t.”

Her gaze dropped, shame washing over her features. “You’re right. I’ve been pushing you away. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own shit—my anger, my pride, my damn drinking—that I didn’t see what it was doing to you. To us.”

You swallowed hard, your hands curling into fists in your lap. “Do you even understand how much that hurt? Watching you destroy yourself while I sat there, trying to hold us together? Do you know what it’s like to love someone who won’t let you in?”

“I do,” she said quietly, her voice cracking just enough to make your breath hitch. “Because I’ve been watching you do the same. You’ve been trying to save me, and I’ve been too damn scared to let you.”

The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling between you like a fragile thread. She stepped closer, kneeling in front of you, her metal hand resting on her thigh while her flesh one reached out hesitantly.

“I don’t deserve you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “But I want to try. I want to be better, for you, for us. I can’t promise it’ll be easy, but I don’t want to lose you. Please, Y/N.”

Your heart ached at the sight of her, this powerful, stubborn woman kneeling before you, baring her soul in a way she’d never done before. The anger and hurt inside you hadn’t disappeared, but they softened under the weight of her sincerity.

“You hurt me, Sevika,” you whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks. “And I don’t know if I can keep doing this if you won’t fight for us.”

She nodded, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I will. I swear I will. Just give me one more chance. Let me prove it to you.”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. But then you saw it—the fear in her eyes, the desperation. Sevika, who rarely showed weakness, was letting herself be vulnerable for you.

Slowly, you reached out, your hand brushing against hers. Her breath hitched at the contact, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

“I need you to mean it,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the tears. “I need to know you’ll try, Sevika. Not just for me, but for yourself.”

She nodded again, her grip tightening around your hand. “I will. I promise.”

The sincerity in her voice broke something inside you, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around her neck. She stiffened for a moment, then melted into the embrace, her arms encircling your waist as she held you tightly.

The tears came for both of you, quiet sobs that filled the room as the tension and pain of the last few weeks spilled out. She buried her face in your shoulder, her body trembling slightly as she clung to you like you were the only thing keeping her grounded.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against your skin, her voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry.”

“I know,” you murmured, your fingers tangling in her hair. “I know.”

For a long time, neither of you moved, content to stay wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, Sevika pulled back just enough to look at you, her face inches from yours. Her hand came up to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing away the lingering tears.

“I love you,” she said softly, the words raw and honest.

Your breath hitched, and you leaned into her touch. “I love you too.”

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching yours for permission. When you nodded, she leaned in, pressing her lips to yours in a gentle, lingering kiss. It wasn’t like the desperate, heated kisses you’d shared in the past. This one was different—softer, filled with unspoken promises and a tentative hope for something better.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours, her breath warm against your skin. “I’ll do better,” she murmured. “I swear.”

“I know, I believe you.” You whispered, and for once, you truly did believe it.

A/N: And now I go back to all the requests I’ve got (a lot of them are on domestic Caitvi)

[d-z20]

Resistance is Futile (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: Agatha and Rio have claimed you as their pet but you're not going down without a fight and are defiant to their advances. The two witches are undeterred and keep trying, knowing they'll break you eventually

- OR -

They've finally grown tired of your reluctance, they fuck you with their magic strap-ons until you can't think (or walk)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Top Agatha, Top Rio, Pet Reader, dub-conish, reader refered to with she/her pronouns, magic straps, magically enhanced orgasms, voyeurism, breeding, marking, degradation, praise, magical restraints, Agatha and Rio are dark in this universe, kind of stockholm syndrome, overstimulation, possession/ownership, throat fucking, cum as lube, maybe more who knows

Words: 4.4k

A/N: So in my head the magic straps in this are like similar vibes to Celestial Agatha in What If so you know: gay and powerful. It's easy to see how Rio got Agatha pregnant. Fic req

AO3 | Masterlist

You were not going to make this easy for them. That much was clear. The long, shadowed corridors of Agatha’s lair feel like a prison, but you don’t care. No, your defiance is all you have left—the only thing that gives you any semblance of control in a world where you are nothing more than their possession, their thing, their pet.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself to survive.

Agatha’s eyes follow you as you pace, her gaze calculating and predatory. Rio sits at the table, arms crossed, her sharp smile never wavering. Their attention feels like a weight pressing against your skin, heavy and suffocating, like predators waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“You think you can defy us forever?” Agatha asks, her voice low and honeyed, sliding under your skin like a blade. “You think you can stay strong in this cage of your own making?”

You stop in your tracks, meeting her gaze with fiery resolve. “I’m not your pet,” you spit, defiance simmering in your voice.

Agatha chuckles, rich and dark, the sound curling through the air like smoke. “I’ve seen stronger wills break under pressure. Yours will too. Just wait.”

Her words are a subtle threat that lingers in the air, but you refuse to let her see the sting. “We’ll see,” you mutter, arms crossing over your chest as if to shield yourself from the weight of her gaze.

Rio’s grin widens as she leans forward, her sharp eyes studying you like a puzzle she’s dying to solve. “You know,” she muses, her voice smooth as silk, “you make this so much more fun than it needs to be. But I think you’re wrong about one thing. You are ours.”

—

Days bleed into weeks, and every moment feels like a war. They test you constantly. Punishments come as sharp reminders of your place—subtle and precise—but they’re always followed by praise that’s just as cutting. Agatha’s actions are cruel and calculated, leaving you trembling with exhaustion but too stubborn to yield. Rio’s methods are softer, more insidious, sinking under your skin like an itch you can’t scratch.

“I’ve seen stronger witches than you fall apart,” Agatha muses one evening, her fingers tracing the sigil that glows faintly on your wrist. The magic embedded in it burns, sparking through your veins like electricity, and you barely manage to suppress the flinch. “What makes you so special?”

You refuse to scream; you won’t give them the satisfaction.

“This supposed to break me?” You sneer, voice shaky but defiant. “Because it’s not working.”

Her lips curl, amusement dancing in her sharp eyes. “You think you’re strong? Maybe. But strength is nothing without control.”

Rio stands in the doorway, her dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. “She’s right,” she says, her voice velvet and steel. “Strength alone won’t save you when you’re as lost as you are. But you could find control... with us.”

You scoff, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “I don’t need either of you.”

But the look they exchange, the promise and challenge flickering between them, makes your chest tighten.

—

A week later, they come to you together. Agatha’s magic is constant, clinging to you like smoke, pervasive, and invasive. Rio’s touch is gentle yet commanding; her movements slow and deliberate, as though she’s teaching your body how to respond to her. You hate how easily it works.

It begins with something small. Agatha’s fingers brush over the curve of your neck, just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “So defiant,” she purrs, her voice a dark promise. “But I see cracks in your armour.”

Your breath catches, and you hate yourself for it. The pressure of their presence is overwhelming, making your head swim. Rio steps closer, her hand lightly brushing against yours, her grin dangerous and knowing. “Maybe we’re getting somewhere after all.”

—

The next night, they return. Agatha’s magic binds your movements, a reminder of the power she wields over you. Rio removes the physical restraints, her hands steady and deliberate, as though she’s peeling away the layers of your resistance. You fight, struggling against the invisible force that holds you still, but it doesn’t stop them.

And for the first time, you start to wonder if you even want them to.

It’s late when the breaking point comes. You stand in front of them, all your defences stripped bare, the cracks in your resolve widening by the second. Agatha’s gaze is unwavering, sharp enough to pierce through every wall you’ve built.

“You can’t keep hiding from us,” she snarls, her voice low and commanding, threading through you like a spell. “You’re ours. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can turn pain into pleasure.”

Your head shakes, but there’s a tremor in your voice you can’t mask. “I’m not yours.”

“You are.” Her words are a whisper, a command, and they press down on you like a weight you can’t escape. Your knees weaken, and you gasp, overwhelmed by the sheer power of her presence.

Rio steps closer, her hand curling around your arm in a grip that’s both firm and comforting. Her touch sends a shiver racing through you as she tilts her head, her voice a soft murmur. “Stop fighting it. Stop pretending this isn’t what you need.”

Their proximity is suffocating. Your body trembles with desire, with the ache of something deep inside you finally breaking free. The walls you’ve spent weeks fortifying come crumbling down in a single moment.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of surrender.

Agatha’s lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. She steps forward, her hand settling at the back of your neck, her fingers cool against your skin as she pulls you toward her. Her kiss is slow and deliberate, a claim that leaves you breathless. The taste of her is intoxicating, and it leaves you reeling.

Rio’s laughter is soft and low as she moves behind you, her hands settling on your hips. “There she is,” she muses, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. Her teeth graze the sensitive skin, sending a jolt through your body that makes you curse under your breath.

“Fuck you both,” you manage to hiss, but the heat in your voice betrays you.

Agatha pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Such a sharp tongue,” she says, almost to herself, as if considering how best to silence it. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

With a flick of her fingers, magic courses through you, curling around your wrists and pulling them above your head. The force isn’t rough, but it’s unyielding, holding you firmly as glowing tendrils bind you in place. Your pulse pounds as Agatha steps back, her eyes raking over you like she’s admiring a masterpiece.

Rio’s hands slide to the hem of your shirt, and with a whispered word, the fabric disappears, leaving your skin bare and exposed. Her palms are cold as they trail over your stomach, her nails scraping lightly against your ribs.

“Is this supposed to impress me?” You snap, though your voice is breathless and uneven.

Rio laughs again, the sound rich and dark. “No, sweetheart,” she purrs. “This is supposed to ruin you.”

Agatha’s magic shifts again, a tangible wave of heat brushing against your skin, making you arch involuntarily as it settles low in your abdomen. Her fingers move through the air, weaving invisible patterns, and you feel it—a phantom touch tracing up your thighs, teasing, testing. Your breath hitches, and you tug against the restraints, hating the way your body reacts to the sensation.

“You’re trembling,” Agatha observes, her voice silk and steel. “Tell me, pet—are you afraid? Or just desperate?”

“Go to hell,” you snap, but the words sound weaker now, edged with something you don’t want to acknowledge.

Rio’s hands move lower, her touch firm as her fingers hook into your waistband. Another muttered spell, and your clothing vanishes completely, leaving you bare under their gaze. Her nails rake lightly against your inner thigh, drawing a shudder from you that you can’t suppress.

“Look at her,” Rio murmurs to Agatha, her voice heavy with satisfaction. “So defiant, but her body knows better.”

Agatha steps closer, her hand ghosting over your chest, her magic lacing every movement with electricity. When her fingers brush your skin, it’s as if she’s leaving a trail of heat in her wake, her touch deliberate and possessive. “Let’s see how long you can keep up this act,” she says, her voice low and commanding.

You’re trembling now, every nerve alight as their magic weaves through your senses, blurring the line between pain and pleasure, control and surrender. Every touch feels amplified, every breath stolen, until all you can do is cling to the last threads of resistance—and even those are slipping through your fingers.

Agatha’s magic pulses, a living thing coiling around your body, dragging sensations across your skin that feel like whispers and lightning all at once. Her lips are back on yours, devouring, commanding, and pulling you deeper into her orbit. The taste of her is heady, and it leaves you reeling, your legs trembling as if the floor beneath you has given way.

Behind you, Rio’s hands continue their slow, maddening exploration. Her fingers dig into your hips, grounding you just enough to keep you teetering on the edge. Her mouth is at your neck now, lips pressing hot kisses against your skin, teeth grazing the sensitive spot that makes you gasp.

"Such pretty sounds," Rio mumbles, her voice dripping with amusement as her hands slide down, teasing at the edges of where you want her most. "And you’re trying so hard to hold back. It’s adorable, really."

Your jaw tightens, but your body betrays you, hips twitching under her touch. “I hate you,” you breathe, though the words lack conviction, each syllable faltering as Agatha tilts your chin up to meet her sharp, knowing gaze.

“Hate?” Agatha repeats, her tone mocking as her thumb traces along your jaw. "No, pet, what you hate is how much you want this. How much you need it."

Her words settle over you like a weight, and the truth burns. You jerk against the glowing binds holding your wrists above your head, but the magic only tightens, pulling you taut and vulnerable between them. The heat of Agatha’s magic licks over your skin, and your breath hitches as the phantom touch returns—this time teasing higher, brushing against your inner thighs in a way that makes you bite back a whimper.

“Such a stubborn little thing,” Agatha muses, her fingers brushing over your chest, her nails scraping lightly. "But look at you now—shaking like a leaf, your body begging for more even while you try so hard to keep that sharp tongue of yours.”

Rio’s hands press against your thighs, urging them apart, her touch firm and deliberate. "Let’s see if we can help her find her manners,” she says with a smirk. “Think we should ruin her properly this time?”

Agatha hums in agreement, her magic shifting in intensity, winding tighter around you. The phantom sensation becomes sharper, more precise, brushing against your sensitive clit, drawing a cry from your lips that you can’t suppress. Agatha’s smile widens. “Oh, darling. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Let’s hear more.”

You stutter out a curse, but it dissolves into a gasp as Rio’s mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, her teeth leaving marks that send heat racing through your veins. Her hands, firm and demanding, leave no part of you untouched, tracing patterns down your sides, across your stomach, and lower still.

“Such a mess,” Rio murmurs, her voice heavy with satisfaction as her nails rake over your thighs, making you jerk. “You’re dripping, sweetheart. Just admit it—you like being our plaything.”

“Fuck—fuck you,” you stammer, though the heat in your voice betrays you, every word trembling with desperation.

Agatha laughs softly, the sound rich and dangerous, her magic surging in response. The phantom touch turns relentless, teasing, and tormenting, and you arch involuntarily, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Your knees buckle, but Rio’s hands are there, steadying you, holding you exactly where they want you.

“That’s it,” Agatha purrs, leaning in to press her lips against the corner of your mouth. “Let go, pet. Let us take you apart.”

Rio’s fingers find you again, slipping between your thighs with devastating precision, and your head falls back against her shoulder as your body betrays you completely. “There she is,” Rio murmurs, her voice a low growl in your ear. “Knew you couldn’t hold out forever.”

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, the world spinning as Agatha steps closer, her hands cupping your face to make you meet her gaze. “Look at me, Y/N,” she commands, her voice leaving no room for disobedience. “I want to see the moment you break.”

You can’t fight it anymore. The sensations are too much—the heat of their touch, the pull of Agatha’s magic, the way Rio’s fingers work you with merciless expertise. Your body trembles violently, and you cry out, shattering under their combined efforts.

But they don’t stop.

Agatha’s magic shifts again, coaxing another wave of pleasure from you before you’ve even recovered from the first. Rio’s hands are unrelenting, her touch alternating between rough and gentle, keeping you on edge, leaving you helpless against the onslaught.

“Pathetic,” Rio says, her tone gleeful as she watches your body twitch and tremble. “Completely undone. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You try to respond, but all that escapes is a broken moan, your voice cracking as your knees finally give out. Only the magical binds and Rio’s grip keep you upright as Agatha’s lips brush against your ear. “You’re ours, Y/N,” she whispers, the words sinking into your very core.

With a flick of her fingers, Agatha adjusts the magic holding you in place. The binds shift, no longer just keeping you upright but suspending you in midair, as if resting on an invisible bed. The sensation is strange but oddly comforting, the magic cradling your weight effortlessly. Your arms remain bound above you, leaving you completely exposed.

Rio moves to stand by your head, her fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your damp forehead as she smirks down at you. Meanwhile, Agatha positions herself at your feet, her glowing eyes raking over you as though admiring her handiwork.

Agatha’s smirk grows as she steps closer, her fingers glowing faintly with her signature purple magic. “We’ll start slow,” her voice a soft caress, though the wicked glint in her eyes promises anything but gentleness. Her hand slides between your legs, her touch precise and knowing, and you can’t stop the sharp inhale as her fingers begin to work you open.

“Relax, pet,” she whispers, her voice low and commanding, as her other hand moves to your thigh, holding you steady even as the magic does most of the work.

At the same time, Rio hooks her fingers under your chin, tilting your face up to meet her gaze. “Open,” she orders, her tone leaving no room for disobedience. You hesitate for the briefest moment, but the commanding heat in her eyes makes resistance futile. Slowly, you part your lips.

“Good girl,” Rio purrs, her magic flaring as A glowing, dark strap materializes at her hips. Without hesitation, she guides herself into your mouth, her grip firm as she sets a punishing pace. The sensation is overwhelming, the stretch and weight of her filling you completely as Agatha’s fingers curl inside you, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your body.

“You’re taking us so well,” Agatha coos, her tone mocking yet almost affectionate. Her thumb brushes over your sensitive bundle of nerves, her movements deliberate as she stretches you open. “See, Rio? She’s learning her place.”

Rio hums in agreement, her hips rocking forward, forcing you to take her deeper. “She’s a quick learner,” she mutters, her tone dripping with amusement. “But I think she can do better.” Her hand tangles in your hair, holding you steady as she thrusts into your throat, her breath hitching with each movement. The magic allows her to feel everything, and her low moans of pleasure send heat pooling low in your stomach.

Tears prick your eyes, and your throat protests, but you push through, the weight of their control pressing down on you until you’re trembling under their combined attention. Agatha’s fingers curl, hitting a spot inside you that makes you cry out around Rio, your body jerking in response. Rio groans, the sound rough and needy as her hips stutter, the magic amplifying every sensation as she pushes herself closer to the edge.

Her breath hitches, and a deep, guttural moan escapes her throat as she pulls back abruptly. “Fuck,” she rasps, her voice breaking with raw need as her strap pulses in your mouth, just shy of her release. She withdraws with a deliberate slowness, her eyes dark with satisfaction as she grips the base of her strap.

Rio circles you with slow, measured steps, her predatory gaze dragging over your trembling form as she moves to stand by Agatha. “Switching places for a moment, darling,” she smirks as she traces her fingers along your calf. Agatha just chuckles, her magic flaring as her own glowing strap begins to materialise at her hips, its sleek, enchanted form matching the dangerous glint in her eyes.

With a shuddering exhale, Rio begins to jerk herself off, her movements slow at first but growing more desperate as her climax quickly builds again. The room fills with the sound of her ragged breaths and low, throaty groans, the raw need in her voice making your own pulse race. As her release finally hits, a long, drawn-out groan tears from her throat. Her body trembling with the intensity of her orgasm as she cums all over your pussy. “A little something to make things easier for you, darling.” Rio says after a moment, her voice husky as she steps back, her satisfaction evident in the smug grin curling her lips.

“How thoughtful of you,” Agatha chuckles, her hand aligning the tip of her strap against your entrance, which was now dripping with a mix of your arousal and Rio’s cum. “Let’s see how well our little pet takes it.”

The stretch is slow and deliberate as Agatha pushes into you, the slickness making it easier, though no less overwhelming. She fills you completely, her hips moving in slow, devastating thrusts that leave you gasping and trembling. “That’s it,” she whispers, her hands gripping your thighs as her rhythm builds. “Take it all. Good pet.”

Rio’s eyes glint with hunger as she watches, arms crossed and shoulders relaxed as though she isn’t buzzing with anticipation. Her lips curl into a sly smile as Agatha sets the pace, each thrust precise and devastating. "Look at her,” Rio remarks, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Already such a mess. She’s perfect like this. Just for us."

Agatha’s answering laugh is low and sultry, her grip on your thighs tightening as she drives into you with more force. Each movement sends jolts of pleasure tearing through your body, amplified by the hum of her magic. She leans down, her breath warm against your neck, and you feel the sharp graze of her teeth. A shiver runs through you as she bites down, hard enough to leave her mark.

“She needs more,” Agatha purrs, her voice laced with wicked amusement. “Doesn’t she, Rio?”

Rio hums in agreement, stepping behind you. Her hands glide over your trembling form, possessive and firm as she tilts your head back, exposing your throat. "Let’s make sure she doesn’t forget who she belongs to," she hums, her lips brushing your ear before sinking her teeth into the sensitive skin just above your collarbone. The sharp sting pulls a broken moan from your lips, and you feel the curve of her smile against your skin.

“Tell us who owns you,” Agatha demands, her voice sharp and commanding as she drives into you with unrelenting force. Her magic courses through you, burning in all the right ways, overwhelming your senses until you’re teetering on the edge of another orgasm.

“Y-you,” you stammer, the word barely a whisper as your body trembles under her onslaught.

“And?” Her pace quickens, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.

“Rio,” you gasp, tears streaking your cheeks as your release builds, unbearable and all-consuming.

Agatha hums in satisfaction, her movements growing rougher as her own breath hitches. The magic connects her to every sensation—the friction and heat dragging a deep, guttural moan from her throat. “Good girl,” she groans, her voice strained with pleasure. With a particularly deep thrust, she sends you tumbling over the edge. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve cum tonight, as a fresh climax hits with an intensity that leaves you sobbing, the pleasure tearing through you until you’re left trembling, every muscle quivering with aftershocks.

But Agatha doesn’t stop. She presses deeper, drawing out every last spark of sensation, her own shuddering release building as she feels you clenching around her. An almost feral growl escapes her as her hips snap forward in one final thrust, her movements stilling as you feel her twitching inside you, magic amplifying the waves of her release. Her grip tightens on your thighs, her nails digging into your skin as her body shudders against yours.

When she finally pulls back, her breath comes in ragged gasps, her chest heaving as she stands tall, a smug, satisfied smirk curling her lips. “Mine,” she murmurs, her voice heavy with possession, as her fingers trail over the fresh marks she’s left on your skin, her touch lingering like a brand. A slick, warm sensation follows as her release drips out of you, a vivid reminder of the claim she’s just staked.

Rio steps forward then, her hands sliding up and down your trembling thighs, her touch deliberate as if savouring every inch of you. She hums softly, her lips quirking in amusement as she watches Agatha’s cum trickle down. “Messy,” she remarks with a low chuckle, her tone almost mocking.

Leaning in, Rio gathers it on her fingers and pushes it back inside you, her grin widening as you gasp at the intrusion. “Can’t let that go to waste,” she purrs, her tone thick with satisfaction.

Only then does she line herself up fully, her hands gripping your hips tightly as she thrusts into you with brutal precision. The pace is relentless from the start, her hips slamming against yours in a rhythm that leaves no room for reprieve.

“Fuck, you take my cock so well,” Rio growls, her head tipping back as she buries herself in deeper. Her pace is relentless, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure crashing through you. Her nails dig into your hips, and she drags you back against her, forcing you to take her deeper still, making you cry out in pleasure. “I thought you were defiant,” she mocks, her voice dripping with dark amusement. “And yet, now you’re practically begging for it.”

All you can manage is a broken moan, your body arching into her as the pleasure blurs the edges of your thoughts. Every thrust leaves you gasping, every scrape of her nails and bite of her teeth reducing you further. Rio leans down, her teeth grazing your shoulder before biting hard enough to make you cry out. "That’s right," she murmurs, her voice low and rough. “You’re ours to ruin.”

Her movements become erratic, her breaths ragged as she slams her hips into you, every twitch of your already overstimulated cunt pushing her closer to the edge. “Fuck,” Rio hisses, her voice breaking as her hips snap forward, her own release tearing through her with a force that leaves her trembling. She holds you tight, her head dropped back in pure ecstasy, a rough groan escaping her throat as the magic amplifies every pulse and throb of your body around her.

Rio doesn’t pull out immediately, instead grinding her hips against you, dragging out the sensations until both of your bodies finally stop twitching. Her chest rises and falls heavily, and she leans forward, pressing a possessive kiss to the curve of your shoulder before straightening and calling over her wife. “Come here, my love.”

She adjusts her position, kneeling between your legs, her hands firm on your thighs as she spreads them wider to give Agatha a clear view. “Look at this,” she says, her tone dripping with amusement as she watches their combined release trickling from your thoroughly used body. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Agatha’s sharp eyes gleam with approval as she steps closer, her lips curving into a satisfied smirk. “Absolutely perfect,” she purrs, crossing her arms as she leans in slightly, watching intently as Rio moves between your legs.

Rio’s tongue flicks out, her movements slow and deliberate as she begins to ‘clean you up,’ her warm, wet strokes collecting every drop of their cum. The sensation is unbearable, the overstimulation pushing your body past its limits as each pass of her tongue sends sharp jolts of pleasure and pain coursing through you.

“P-please,” you stutter, your voice cracking, but your plea only earns a low chuckle from Rio as her hands tighten on your thighs, holding you in place.

“Shhh, pet,” Rio whispers against your skin, her breath warm as she continues her slow, torturous movements. “We’re not done until we say we’re done.”

Your body jerks under her attention, the overstimulation finally cresting into another peak that crashes through you with devastating force. Your release hits like a thunderclap, leaving you sobbing and trembling as Rio licks you clean, her tongue never missing a single drop.

By the time Rio is finished having her fun, you’re a trembling, stuttering mess, every shred of resistance melted away. They’ve undone you completely, your body and mind utterly spent. As Agatha waves a hand, the magical restraints dissolve, and you slump forward, only for Rio to catch your limp form.

“Good girl,” Agatha affirms, her voice soft yet laced with smug satisfaction as she strokes your hair.

Rio hums her agreement, her arms tightening around you as she presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re ours now,” she whispers, her voice filled with possessive pride.

And in the haze of pleasure and surrender, you don’t argue.

-----

I told myself I'd get the next chapter of Neighbourly Care out before New Years but then this fic possessed me. Oh well, if I managed to get my degrees by writing everything the night before I can certainly do the same for my fics 😤😤

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