#he's angry like 85% of the time

[mytortoisegotstuckinatupperware]

I’m a dog walker and my job is to (you guessed it) walk the dogs. But sometimes. When the sun is right and the forest is quiet, I sit with the dogs on a log and boy do those dogs like to sit 

[landologged]

Out Lapped | Part One

pairing: lando x reader

genre: toxicity, shit aint sweet sorry, like 85% porn and arguing????, its hot tho, angst? i guess, monaco beinf monaco, possessive and hot lando, readers a dumb hoe (but i get it)

description: You sure as hell didn’t expect to find yourself at Lando’s door after promising your therapist you wouldn’t see him again. But your thighs remember things your brain pretends to forget, and Monaco is a dangerous place to have free time and a hell of a lot of unresolved trauma.

So, here you are, stuck in a loop you swore you’d escaped: he wins races, goes home to her, and calls you at 2AM like you’re the reward. You know it’s toxic. You know he’s lying. But every time you try to walk away, he says your name like it still means something. And every time he touches you—you forget how to leave all over again.

WC: 19k

notes: want to preface this is extremely toxic, i dont hate magui but needed her for the plot sorry, this is not a healthy relationship its just toxic n sexy im sorry i have issues, enjoy tho xx | had to repost bc tumblr put a warning on it

You tell yourself it’s just a building. Just concrete and glass and overpriced furniture, just one of dozens of sleek high-rises dotting the cliff-edge of Monaco’s coastline like little temples to wealth. But that’s a lie you started telling before the plane even landed, and now—standing outside of his door, heat curling around your ankles and your jaw locked so tight you can feel the tension in your teeth—it’s all unraveling way too fucking fast. This isn’t just a building. This is a goddamn shrine. To every version of you that lost and begged and bled behind those walls. And the worst part is you let all of it happen. Over and over and over, like some stupid animal who keeps going back to the cage because it’s the only place she remembers how to breathe.

You stand there too long. Not knocking. Not leaving. Just standing like a goddamn idiot. Sweating in your blouse,  clutching your phone like it might ring if you squeeze hard enough, though no one’s called you in hours. You’d deleted his number. Blocked it. Then unblocked it. Then memorized it, like that made you the one in control. The gate code, too. You remembered that one without trying. 

Inside, you imagine he’s probably shirtless. Or worse—fresh out of the shower, towel slung low, smirking at his own reflection in the mirror like he’s still a teenage boy. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s got someone over. That girl he was seen with last week, or the one from before. Some Portuguese model with a body like a Victoria Secret angel and a face the camera loves. Long legs, soft mouth, always sun-kissed and unbothered. She’s been rumored with him for months—not that you’ve been reading, obviously. Not that you have the search saved. Not that you zoomed in on the photos where he’s walking three steps ahead and still somehow looks like he belongs to her.

She has no idea what he sounds like when he’s angry. No idea how fast his mood can turn—how one second he’s teasing, laughing, and the next his voice goes low and hard and mean. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be devoured by him, not kissed but taken, not fucked but owned. She’s never had to piece herself together in his bathroom afterward, thighs shaking, mascara wrecked, trying not to cry just because he simply didn’t stay.

There’s no breeze in the hallway, just stillness. Expensive stillness. Climate-controlled. Smells like fresh-cut flowers and clean linen and the faintest undercurrent of chlorine—like the building itself is trying to convince you nothing messy ever happens here. No broken glasses or slammed doors or whispered confessions between kisses that feel like the end of the world. 

The walls are paneled in soft blond wood, warm under the overheads, you shift your weight, and the tap of your heel against polished wood echoes too loud. Sharp. Embarrassing.

A laugh bubbles up uninvited. Quiet, bitter, barely audible, but still real. What the fuck are you doing here? You told your therapist—once—that you were past this. That you’d written it off for what it was: a phase, a crash, an experiment in self-destruction that just happened to have a face. His face. His voice. His hands. You’d said it with conviction. You’d almost believed yourself.

But that was when you hadn’t counted in the photo.

It wasn’t even new. Just some grainy tabloid resurrection of last summer—him holding your wrist outside the back of a club, the tension in your posture so clear it almost hurt to look at. And his face—god that fucking face. Golden tan, summer-slick skin that caught the flash of the camera like it knew exactly where to land. That haircut—fresh, sharp, fade carved clean down the sides, but the top left long, soft, curled just enough to look effortless. Like he’d rolled out of bed into a suit and made it look intentional. 

White shirt open at the throat, no tie. Slim-fit navy blazer that hugged his frame like he’d been sewn into the thing. And that expression—cool, calm, always calculated. He looked straight into the lens, jaw set, eyes unreadable, like he knew they were watching and didn’t give a single fuck about it. Like he knew you wouldn’t leave. Because you hadn’t. Not really. Not for long, and sure as hell, never for good.

You don’t knock. You can’t. Your hand hovers near the wood, fingers curled like a fist you don’t have the strength to make. You stare at the door like it might open on its own. Like maybe he’ll feel you on the other side and save you the choice.

So when the door finally opens—slow, quiet, just a few inches at first—it doesn’t feel like an invitation. It feels like a trap you’re already halfway inside.

Warm light spills out into the hallway, catching the edge of that honeyed wood paneling behind you, and suddenly you’re in it again. His world. The clean, curated silence of it. Not cold—just impersonal. Too white. Too perfect. A mirror near the entry catches the edge of his shoulder, and for one disorienting second, you see both versions of him at once.

He’s barefoot, of course. Hair damp and pushed back like he’s just gotten out of the shower or maybe just doesn’t give a shit anymore.  Black long-sleeve shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he’s mid-recovery from something. The fabric’s soft, lived-in, probably smells like skin and detergent. There’s a ring on his finger now—something thin and silver, catching the light as he leans one shoulder against the frame. Something that definitely wasn’t there before.

And just under his collarbone, a flash of color. Sunburn maybe. Lipstick, if you let yourself believe in worst-case scenarios. You don’t want to know. You do want to know. It burns both ways.

Behind him, the apartment stretches long and quiet. Pale floors. White cabinets. Stainless steel fridge that reflects the open-concept kitchen like a showroom. Heineken keg on the counter. DJ deck in the corner. Stacks of papers on the island that say he’s busy. Clean sink that says he’s not that busy. Trophies in the other room. Art that’s mostly just versions of himself—cars, helmets, movement frozen mid-victory.

“Well, well,” he says, mouth curling slow. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You raise an eyebrow, defaulting to sarcasm like muscle memory. “You think too much of yourself.”

He leans against the frame, lets his eyes drag over you like it’s nothing. Like it's a habit. “And yet, here you are.”

You hate how calm he sounds. How unsurprised. Like he knew. Like he felt you coming before you even booked the flight. You step forward without meaning to, past the threshold, into the coolness of the apartment that smells like bergamot and money and something darker underneath. Something familiar. Like heat after sex. Like you.

“Are you gonna say why you’re here,” he says as he closes the door behind you, voice low, smooth, almost bored, “or just continue to stand there?”

You shrug. You’re already halfway to the couch. “Didn’t think I needed a reason.”

“You always had one,” he says, following at a lazy pace. “Even when you lied about it.”

You don’t sit. You don’t take your shoes off. You just stand there in the middle of all that soft lighting and polished calm like you’re something feral that wandered in off the street. Your arms cross without thought, instinctive, defensive—like maybe if you press hard enough, you can hold yourself in. He notices. He always notices. That was the problem, wasn’t it? How seen he made you feel. Not loved. Not even wanted. Just known. 

“You look tired,” he says. Not kindly.

You stare at him. Let your eyes drag over every inch of him. The tan. The jaw. The lazy posture. The fucking confidence. You try not to let it show—how familiar it all is. How foreign it feels now. Like you’ve studied it in photos more recently than in person.  “You look the same.”

He grins. “You mean perfect?”

There it is. The smirk. The bait. The comfort in knowing exactly which part of himself still gets to you. He tosses it out like a joke, but his eyes don’t leave yours. He’s watching your mouth. Your shoulders. Your tells.

And fuck—you wish it didn’t still work. And so you do what you always do, you deflect. You roll your eyes, but the sting hits anyway. He’s always been beautiful in that arrogant, accidental way—like he never had to work for it. You always had to work for everything. But he just was. That was half the danger, all of the problem. 

“You must’ve seen the article,” you say, even though you’re not here to talk about the article. Even though this whole thing has nothing to do with whatever the press dug up and everything to do with how quiet your apartment’s been. How empty your chest’s felt. How loud he still is, in every fucking corner of your mind.

“I did,” he says, shrugging. “You looked good. Even when you’re pissed off.”

You laugh once, sharp. “You looked like a fucking asshole.”

“Branding,” he replies, with that infuriating grin, the one that used to mean you’re not really mad at me and you’re not really leaving. The one you used to fall for. The one you feel yourself slipping toward again, like gravity. Like his goddamn dog. 

You inhale through your nose, slow. Careful. Like control is something you can hold in your lungs.

“Don’t get excited,” you tell him.

He steps closer. One, then two. Not touching you. Just standing there, inches away, his presence thick as smoke. “You came back,” he murmurs. “That’s all I need.”

And your heart breaks a little, just enough to make room for something worse. Because this is the part you forgot—how he looks at you. Like nothing else exists. Like you’re a secret he’s been keeping warm in his mouth this whole time. There’s something about his eyes up close. Something impossible. They make you forget all the bad endings and bruised mornings. They make you think you might want it again. That maybe the problem was never him. Maybe it was you. Maybe you were too scared to be kept.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, voice raw around the edges. But it’s not a real protest.

He moves like he hears it for what it is. Like he knows the thread is already pulled, and you’re unraveling in his hands. He steps closer. Close enough that his breath ghosts against your cheek. Close enough that you can feel the burn of him without needing to touch. But then he does touch—just one hand, slow and certain, curling around your hip like he’s staking a claim he never stopped believing in.

“You always say that right before you kiss me,” he says, low, like a dare he already knows you’ll take.

Your breath catches. Just a subtle hitch in your chest that betrays you more than any yes ever could. Your mouth parts like instinct, like muscle memory, like maybe it remembers how good it felt to fall apart under his mouth. His hand moves, slow. Deliberate. Thumb grazing over the front of your shirt, dragging downward. Just enough to make your skin burn under the fabric. It’s not a grope. It’s worse than a grope. It’s casual. Familiar. Possessive in the quiet way that says I’ve had you like this before, and I will again.

His touch isn’t asking. It’s remembering. You swallow. Your heart's trying to crawl up your throat. You should move. Should say something colder, sharper, final. Instead, you just breathe out—

“Don’t.”

Barely audible. Not even a command. Just a plea. God, you’re an idiot.

He tilts his head, like he wants to get a better angle on your mouth. His nose almost brushes yours. The space between you contracts until it’s only breath and tension and history.

“Don’t what?” he asks, and his voice has that low, slanted softness—curious, cruel. Like he knows exactly what you meant but wants to hear you struggle to say it. The kind of voice that used to unravel you in dark corners, in backseats, in beds that didn’t belong to either of you.

He leans in. Just a little. Enough that you feel the heat of his breath against your mouth—warm, embarrassingly warm, laced with mint and something sweeter underneath. Familiar. Him. That exact blend you used to chase in the dark like a hit you didn’t want to quit. It makes your knees weaken. Your jaw tighten. Your pride splinter.

Your eyes flick to his lips. Mistake. They’re right there. Parted. Wet. Waiting. And the space between you shrinks until it feels like a trick.

“Don’t make this something it’s not,” you manage, barely above a whisper, every word scraped from the raw edge of restraint.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans in further, and fuck—his mouth grazes yours. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a ghost of one. A threat.

His voice is so rough now—like it’s been worn down by every time he’s said your name in the dark. “You mean something it is.”

You shiver, and you hate that he feels it. You want to hold out. You want to keep control. You want to say something biting, something final, something that makes him feel the way you’ve felt since he let you go. But then he exhales—slow, hot, right against your tongue. And just like that, you’ve lost.

You kiss him, hard. Desperate. Like a dam breaking. Your hands are in his hair, dragging him in, and his body collides with yours like he’s been holding back since the moment you walked in. It’s all heat, no space. His mouth opens against yours and the taste of him hits like hunger—like rage, like missing something for too long. You chase it. You give him your teeth, your tongue, your breath. He takes all of it like it’s owed.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, your ass, sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the skin he used to fall asleep on like he’s checking to make sure it’s still his. You make a sound in your throat, somewhere between shock and surrender, and he groans into it—deep, guttural—like he’s been waiting months to hear it again.

He pushes you back until your spine kisses the wall, the impact muffled by the heat rolling off him. And you—God—you don’t even think. Your legs part without hesitation, hips tilting, instinctive. You wrap them around him like that’s where they’ve always belonged, thighs locking tight as his hands slide lower. And then you feel it—how hard he already is against you, thick through his pants, straining with a pressure that feels dangerous. You gasp. His hips grind forward, slow and deliberate, dragging that heat against the softest part of you. All muscle. All him.

He’s solid everywhere, unyielding, his abs pressed tight against your stomach, his chest hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. You can barely breathe. He’s all around you, above you, inside you already without even being there yet.

“You miss me?” he growls into your mouth.

You don’t answer. Your answer’s in the way you arch into him, nails raking down his back, pulling his shirt up and over his head like you need to feel every inch. It hits the floor. He’s warm and solid and panting.

“You fucking miss me,” he says again, dragging his mouth down your throat, sucking hard enough to mark.

You nod. A tiny motion. Barely there. Then—brrzt. brrzt.

His phone. 

You freeze. Just for a second, enough for the thoughts to collect. Lando, however, keeps going. Grinding against you harder. Hand shoved between your thighs, fingers pressing through denim like he wants to rip it off with his teeth.

brrzt. brrzt.

“Your phone,” you pant.

“Fuck it,” he mutters. “Ignore it.”

It buzzes again. Long this time. He doesn’t even look. Just lifts you higher, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your cheek, back to your lips. “Come back to bed,” he whispers against you. “Let me show you how much you fucking missed me.”

Your heart stutters. The phone won’t stop. You twist your face away, breathing hard. “Answer it.”

He growls low in his throat. Frustrated. Presses his forehead to yours. “It’s nothing.”

brrzt. brrzt.

You push against his chest. Gently. Not to stop. Just enough to see his face. “Lando. Just—answer it.”

Silence stretches. He stares at you. Jaw tense. Then—without a word—he reaches into his pocket and pulls the phone out. Glances at the screen. Jaw flexes again. You see it before he hides it.

Magui? The model. He doesn’t answer right away. Just holds the phone like it’s radioactive. Then, slowly, he presses accept. Puts it on speaker and doesn’t look at you.

“Lando? Where are you?” her voice asks, soft, breathy, sweet like something that doesn’t know how sharp the blade is. “You said you’d come back.”

Your stomach drops. Something ugly twists in your chest. He looks at you. Finally. Lips parted. Chest heaving. Guilt doesn’t even register on his face.

And you—you just stand there, legs still wrapped around his hips, his hand still under your shirt, his mouth still wet from your kiss.

Listening. Like a fucking idiot. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until it starts to burn. His name is still hanging in the air between you, but you’re not looking at him anymore—you’re staring at the phone, your body gone still in his hands, your heart pounding like it’s trying to scream over her voice.

You said you’d come back. He doesn’t say anything. Not to her. Not to you. And then she says it. Soft. So soft you almost miss it.

I love you.

Your brain doesn’t register it right away. It glitches. Like static. Like maybe it wasn’t real. Like maybe your ears are just cruel. You blink, but your face doesn’t move. Your jaw’s locked so tight it feels like your teeth might break.

And he—he just ends the call. Like that. Like nothing. No goodbye. No excuse. No tone shift, no sigh. Just a tap of his thumb and the silence is back, louder than before.

Your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You look at him, really look, and you don’t know what the fuck you’re expecting. Remorse? A joke, maybe? Something to soften the way that name is still ricocheting around your skull like a pinball.

But he just breathes—deep, shuddering, like he’s swallowing down the instinct to pull you back in. Like it physically costs him to let go. His chest rises too fast, too hard, like he’s been running, like holding you against him took something out of him. His breath hits your cheek in short bursts, humid and sharp, laced with the taste of everything you almost let happen. It’s the kind of breathing that isn’t just from need—it’s from restraint. Barely-there control. Like his whole body is buzzing with the effort not to drag you right back against the wall and finish what you started.

You slide off of him. Feet hitting the floor like reality. You fix your shirt automatically, hands shaking, lips buzzing from where his mouth had been, skin hot and damp and stupid.

“Are you serious?” Your voice comes out raw.

He watches you, eyes dark, unreadable.

“She—she loves you,” you spit, breath catching as you take a shaky step back, heart still racing, hands still curled into fists. “She said that and you just—what the fuck was that?”

He exhales sharp through his nose, then drags a hand through his hair—fast, rough, like he’s trying to get a grip on something he can’t hold. His curls fall right back into place, but his jaw’s tight, his eyes flicking toward the floor like maybe he’s trying not to look at you. “She doesn’t mean it.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

He exhales, sharp through his nose. “She doesn’t know me like you do.”

“That’s the problem,” you snap. “She doesn’t know what you are.”

“And you do,” he says, voice quiet. Still dangerous. “So why are you here?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again, and this time it’s just a laugh. Ugly. Bitter. “Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what? Don’t realize what this is? That I’m your dirty little relapse while your soft little girlfriend plays house and says I love you into your voicemail?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he barks. Too fast. Too defensive.

You stare him down, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t say that a second ago.”

He comes toward you and you stumble back.

“No,” you say. “Fuck no. You don’t get to touch me right now.”

He freezes. Stops dead, just a foot from you, close enough to feel the heat of him, too far to do anything about it. His chest rises and falls like he’s running—he’s not. He’s just feeling too much, too fast, too late.

“Look at me,” he says.

You don’t. You stare at the floor like it might save you. Like if you don’t meet his eyes, you won’t fall back into the same goddamn loop that’s already eaten you alive twice over.

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You flinch, but you don’t move away. Of course you don’t. Because part of you is still standing in the wreckage hoping he’ll lie to you sweet enough to make it okay. His touch is soft now. Thumb tracing your cheek, then dragging down your throat, slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing you again.

“She doesn’t know what I sound like when I’m inside you,” he murmurs.

Your knees almost give out.

“She doesn’t know how you taste when you come.”

Your stomach flips, hard. Heat coiling down your spine, settling between your legs.

“She doesn’t know how wet you get for me, even when you hate me.”

Your thighs clench—reflex, muscle memory, betrayal. His grin brushes your cheek without even forming. He doesn’t need to see it. He feels it. He steps closer. Just one inch. But it’s all it takes. His mouth brushes your ear, hot breath curling into your neck.

“But you do,” he whispers. “Don’t you?”

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe. Just to pretend.

His hand slides under your shirt again. Palm flat over your stomach, fingers splayed, dragging up—slow, heavy, deliberate. Every inch he takes feels like a claim. Like he’s reminding your skin who it belongs to. He reaches your ribs. Stops there. Presses in. Just enough to make you feel the weight of it. The heat. The power.

You should pull away. You want to pull away. But your body’s already arching into it. Already melting.

“You’re not some side piece,” he says, low and rough, his mouth dragging along your jaw. “You’re not a fucking mistake. You’re the one I can’t seem to get over.”

You shake your head. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

His mouth finds yours again. Softer this time. Slower. Like he’s trying to rewrite the last five minutes with his tongue. Like if he kisses you deep enough, long enough, you’ll forget her name. Forget what she said. Forget what you heard.

You moan into it. God help you.

He lifts you again. You let him. Your legs wrap around his hips like they never left. He presses you back into the wall and grinds against you, and you’re gasping again, already soaked through your jeans, shame melting into heat like sugar over flame.

“You still want me,” he says. “Even after all this.”

You nod before you can lie. Before you can save face. Because the truth is—it’s not that you want him. It’s that you need him. Like air, you want him more than anything else.  And when his hand slips down, tugging open your fly, fingers sliding beneath the fabric like a claim, you whimper.

Because this isn’t healing. This is a fucking possession, and worst of all you’re still letting him in.

His fingers are in your jeans, dragging them down with that reckless one-handed pull like he can’t wait anymore. As if he’s been fucking starved. The denim catches at your knees, then your ankles, and you almost trip trying to step out of them, but he catches you—of course he catches you—because the fall is always part of the game with him.

“You still get wet for me so fast,” he murmurs, thumb pressing into your underwear, slow circles right over where he knows you’re already soaking. “Just like that. Just like you used to. I didn’t even have to try.”

Your breath hitches. Shame and arousal flood through you in equal measure, but it’s not enough to stop you. He watches you fall apart with that cocky, ruined grin—like he’s proud of what he does to you, but not even remotely surprised.

“Bet you touch yourself thinking about this,” he adds. “About my mouth. About my cock.”

Your mouth opens to protest, but he slips a finger beneath the fabric and slides through you—wet, thick, slow—and your entire brain short-circuits. Your knees buckle and he fucking laughs, low and mean and gorgeous.

“You’re so full of shit,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You don’t mean any of this.”

His mouth finds yours again, teeth scraping your lip. “Maybe,” he says against your tongue. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”

You shove his chest, but it’s not a real push. It’s nothing. You’re already grinding against his hand, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around his fingers as he adds another. The stretch burns in the best way. Your head falls back against the wall.

“Lando—”

“I missed this pussy,” he cuts in, voice rough now, his own breathing ragged. “Fuck. I thought about it every time she opened her mouth. Had to stop myself from saying your name when I came.”

That hits like a slap. Your jaw drops, your stomach lurches, but the worst part—the most humiliating part—is how much wetter you get hearing it. You hate him. Hate yourself more. He drops to his knees before you can think. Yanks your underwear down and apart like he owns it, spreads you open with both hands and groans when he sees how wrecked you are.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” he mutters. “You’re dripping. Look at that. She’s got no fucking clue.”

Then his mouth’s on you. You cry out, hands flying to his hair, trying to push him away and pull him in all at once. His tongue is relentless—circling, flicking, sucking your clit with practiced, hungry precision—and your thighs are already shaking. His fingers pump into you hard, steady, curling just right. It’s disgusting how fast you’re close. How desperate you are. How your hips are fucking chasing his mouth like he’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks, voice muffled against you. “Show me how bad you still want it?”

You nod frantically, too far gone to pretend. He chuckles darkly. “Then fucking do it. Let her hear you next time she calls.”

And then he sucks, hard, and everything inside you snaps. Your legs shake, your vision whites out, your body jerks against him with a guttural, broken moan that you couldn’t stop if you tried. You’re still shaking when he stands. Licks his lips, smug. Unbuttons his jeans like it’s nothing.

“Still think I don’t mean it?” he asks, pulling his cock out, hard and leaking, dragging it against your thigh. 

You should run. But instead you grab his face and kiss him again—deep, messy, tasting yourself on his tongue—because if you’re gonna go down, you’re gonna burn on the way.

“Shut up,” you whisper against his mouth.

He grins like he’s already won. Next thing you know your panties are hanging from one ankle, forgotten. He’s panting into your mouth, hand gripping the back of your neck like he wants to fuck you with your face pressed against the wall and your spine bent backwards. His cock is hard against your thigh, leaking, twitching, so ready, and your nails are in his skin, already dragging, already marking.

Then he pulls back.

“Hold on,” he mutters, breathless, and turns away.

You blink. Chest heaving. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Walks toward the bedroom. Opens a drawer. You don’t move, frozen in that second of hot disbelief, like maybe you didn’t just see what you saw.

Then he comes back. With a condom. And your blood boil over, you were going to fucking murder him. You stare at the plastic like it had personally slapped you. 

“Seriously?” you spit in utter disbelief. 

He shrugs, casual, tone light like it won’t explode the whole fucking moment. “What? Just being careful.”

“Careful?”

He shrugs again, tearing the foil open with his teeth, cock still hard in his hand. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”

The silence that follows doesn’t hang—it slams down between you. Sucks the oxygen out of the air. You just stare. Your mouth doesn’t work. Your chest doesn’t move. Rage rises slow in your throat, heavy and hot, turning your blood molten. It crawls up the back of your neck, behind your eyes, makes your vision pulse at the edges.

You take a step. Then another. Close enough to see your own slick glinting on his skin. And then your hand flies. The slap cracks across his face—flesh to bone, skin to heat—and his head snaps with the force of it. The sound ricochets off the walls, brutal and final.

He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t flinch.

He just laughs. Low. Dark. That sharp, broken sound that says fuck yes. Mean. Worse, turned on.

“Oh, that’s what does it for you?” he breathes, eyes flicking back to you, wild now. “Getting offended that I don’t assume you’ve been sitting at home like a fucking nun?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“So are you,” he snaps back, grabbing your face with one hand, gripping your jaw. “But you’re the one who keeps coming back. Not her. You, princess.”

You’re both panting. Still half-dressed. Still drunk on whatever shit-show occurs whenever you two are in the same room. 

“You think I’m letting you fuck me with a condom now?” you hiss. “After all this? Go fuck yourself.”

“You’d rather I come in you just to prove a fucking point?” he growls.

“Yeah,” you snap. “I fucking would.”

He doesn’t put it on. He just lets it fall. Condom hits the floor with a whisper and then he’s on you—slamming you back against the wall with the weight of his whole body, his mouth crushing yours, tongue and teeth and spit, hands everywhere, gripping your thighs, your ass, your jaw like he can’t decide what part of you he wants first.

He’s cursing into your throat, your name half-spoken—spit out—like a threat, like worship, like an apology he doesn’t fucking mean.

And then—

He shoves into you.

Raw. Bare. Deep.

You gasp—no, scream—your legs snapping tight around his waist, head thudding back against the wall as your body stretches around him with that slick, aching slide that feels like pain, like home, like fuck, finally.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t check if you’re okay. Doesn’t have to. Your nails are already dragging down his back, hips tilting into his like your body’s starving. He grabs your ass and drives into you again, again, harder—grinding deep like he’s trying to split you open and crawl inside.

You bite his shoulder. He groans loud, then fucks you harder.

“This what you wanted?” he snarls. “This what you fucking needed?”

“Yes,” you moan, breath caught, body stretched and shaking. “Yes, yes—fuck, yes.”

He pulls out mid-thrust and drags you down the hall, arms still locked under your thighs. You’re dizzy, dripping down his stomach, mind gone. Then he kicks the balcony door open.

You jolt. “Are you serious—”

It’s too late. The breeze hits your sweat-slick skin. Warm air, salty from the sea, cool on your flushed face. He presses you to the glass, your chest against it, city lights glittering like stars below, and pushes back inside you in one brutal stroke.

You scream. Palm slaps the window. He fucks you like he wants Monaco to watch.

“You don’t care if anyone sees, do you?” he hisses, snapping his hips. “Fucking exhibitionist slut.”

You’re moaning into the glass, fogging it up with your breath, clawing at the railing.

“Say it,” he growls into your ear. “Say you like getting fucked in front of the world.”

You can’t even form words.

“You’re mine,” he snarls. “Say it.”

His hands grip your hips like handles, like he’s steering the whole scene, and your face is pressed to the cool glass, moaning open-mouthed against your own reflection. You can barely see the city anymore—just streaks of light and shadow and your own shame, smeared across the surface in fogged breath and desperation. Your knees are going numb. Your thighs burn. You can’t stop clenching around him.

He’s fucking brutal now. Deep. Deliberate. Each thrust hitting with the full weight of him—hips slamming into your ass, chest flush to your back, breath hot and ragged in your ear.

You shudder. Grip the railing, knuckles white, thighs shaking. And all it takes is one more thrust—one more brutal drag of his cock inside your soaked, ruined cunt—and your body fucking shatters. You come with a sob that scrapes your throat raw, clenching down on him, pulsing so hard it feels like you’re trying to pull him deeper.

“Fucking—fuck—I’m gonna cum in you,” he grits, voice torn, no space for permission, no pause for protest.

You don’t say no. You can’t.

He slams forward one last time and stays there—buried to the base, cock twitching inside you, and then he lets go.

You feel it hit. Feel him spill, thick and hot, spilling into you without hesitation, no condom, no fucking thought. Just heat. Just need. Just him.

His entire body shudders against yours, mouth open against your shoulder, groaning low and wrecked, every pulse a brand.

It’s silent for a moment after. Just heavy breathing and the muffled throb of music echoing up from the street below. You can feel him softening inside you. Feel him pulling out, slow. Lazy. Like he’s done. Your legs shake. You press your forehead to the glass, body humming, raw and wrecked.

And when you turn—he’s already walking away. Without a single word, he begins adjusting his waistband. Grabbing a towel. Scrubbing his face like he just finished a workout. Not even a glance back in your direction.

You blink. Still half-naked. Still leaking.

Still there.

“Lando,” you say. Quiet. Maybe it’s not even his name—it’s a plea. A question.  He doesn’t respond. Just walks into the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Drinks straight from a bottle of water like your body wasn’t just wrapped around him minutes ago.

That’s when it hits. The shift. The drop. On queue. You wrap your arms around your chest. The breeze brushes your thighs, sticky and exposed, and you feel it—his cum sliding out of you, running down your inner leg in a humiliating heat.

You feel empty. Not the kind that hums. Not the kind that settles sweet and fucked-out in your bones.

No. This is raw. Open. Like something vital’s been scooped out and left behind. You’re still dripping from him. Still shaking, breath catching in your throat like a secret you didn’t mean to tell. Your legs are barely holding. Your heart’s trying to pretend it’s fine.

He leans against the counter. Phone in hand. Scrolling. Laughing under his breath at something you’re not a part of.

Like he didn’t just fuck your soul out against the glass. Like you didn’t say yes to all of it.

And now—he’s done. And you’re just there. Still wanting. Waiting. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, barefoot and half-naked, the breeze licking at the mess between your thighs, spine still curved from where he bent you against the glass. The city glows on without you. Somewhere below, people are drinking champagne and laughing under golden light. The world keeps turning. You peel yourself off the railing. Limbs heavy. Walk stiffly back inside, legs aching from the way he held you open like a vice. You grab your jeans from the floor and pull them up without really thinking, fabric clinging to sweat and everything he left inside you. You’re dizzy. It doesn’t feel real. Or maybe it feels too real. Like the high’s just starting to rot from the inside out.

He’s still in the kitchen. Shirtless, scrolling. Water bottle on the counter, beads of condensation sliding down the side. He hasn’t looked at you once.

You watch him for a second, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold your insides in. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just scrolls.

You clear your throat.

“I… guess that’s it, then?”

His eyes flick up. Casual. No longer interested.

“Thought that’s what you came for,” he says. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just flat, just honest.

Dismissive. Like the fuck was the favor. Like this was a transactional itch, not a relapse that shattered something in you.

You blink. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He goes back to his phone.

You step forward. One bare foot against the marble tile, cold and slick beneath your toes. “So what now?”

“Now nothing.”

He says it like it’s funny. Like you’re the one being too dramatic. Like you didn’t just let him inside you. Like you’re not still stretched around the memory of him.

Your stomach tightens.

Of course. Of course. Because his is how it’s always been, isn’t it? Because he fucks you, and then he pulls away. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. Every time. He rolls off. Goes quiet. Distracted. Picks up his phone like your body didn’t just bend around him like it remembered how. Like you didn’t give him everything—again. And on the rare nights he let you stay, he wouldn’t touch you after. Wouldn’t hold you. Wouldn’t even turn toward you in the bed. Like warmth was permission. Like kindness meant commitment. God forbid he see you after.

And still, you stayed. Every fucking time. Still hoping that one day he’d kiss you on the forehead instead of just your mouth. That he’d trace your back after instead of zipping his pants. That he’d make breakfast. That he’d ask you how you felt.

But he never did. He never wanted that part. And still—you came.

“I came here because of that photo,” you say, quietly. “Because I thought—fuck—I don’t know, I thought maybe we should talk. About what we were. About what we never really finished.”

That gets a reaction, but not the one you want. He exhales sharply, smirks at the counter. Shakes his head.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Your jaw tenses. “No. I’m not.”

He sets the phone down, finally looks at you, and the look is pure Lando—half exasperated, half smug, like he’s above it all. Like he’s already out of reach again.

“What did you think this was?” he says. “Closure? A love story?”

Your throat closes up. You swallow hard. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t think. Okay? I just missed you.”

The words feel pathetic in the air. He tilts his head. “Yeah, and now you don’t have to.”

And that’s it. That’s fucking it. No tenderness. No gratitude. No I-missed-you-too or it’s-complicated or even a lie to soften the blow.

Just that. He picks his phone up again. You start to say something—maybe don’t make me feel used, maybe tell me this wasn’t nothing, maybe just lie to me—but you stop.

Before you can even finish inhaling, he’s pressing the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he says, soft.

So. Fucking. Soft.

Your heart caves. It doesn’t break. It caves. Like something imploding from the inside out. It’s not the volume of his voice—it’s the tone. The shift. Like he’s wiping you off his skin and putting on someone else’s smile.

He turns his back to you, leans against the counter. “Yeah… I know. I’m sorry, baby.”

You just stand there. Your arms still crossed, but now it’s because if you don’t hold yourself together, you’ll fucking fall apart. You feel the cum drying between your legs. You feel it leaking into your jeans. You feel like a mistake wearing your own skin.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Just had to handle something real quick.”

Your breath stutters. You’re not a person. You’re not even a memory. You’re a thing he had to handle.

He glances over his shoulder. Sees you still standing there. He turns back, still murmuring sweet nothings into the phone, and you’re left standing in the middle of the room with your mouth full of dust and your thighs still slick with the lie you let back in.

You stare at the back of him, phone cradled to his ear, voice soft in that way you haven’t heard in months—not since he used to call you at 1AM, whispering like a promise. He’s murmuring something now. You catch pieces. Missed you too. No, just tired. I’ll come by tomorrow. Yeah, I will.

The words don’t even hurt as much as the tone. That casual affection. The tenderness you’ll never get again.

Your body aches. Not from pleasure, not anymore. From the aftermath. From the sharp reminder of how quickly he empties you out and walks away. You’re still sticky with him. Inside and out. You don’t say anything. No dramatic line. No last jab. That would give him too much. Let him think you still want a reaction. That you’re still clinging.

Instead, you start collecting your things. Quietly. Your shirt’s wrinkled where he tugged it. Your panties are still damp, shoved in your back pocket with shaking fingers. Your shoes by the door—you slip them on without a sound. Your bag. Your phone. What little dignity you can scrounge from the marble floor.

You glance back once, not because you want to, but because your body betrays you even now.

He doesn’t look. Still on the phone. Still laughing quietly. Still calling someone baby like it means something. Your throat burns. You swallow it down. You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You told yourself it was just to talk. Just to finish what never got finished. Just to say goodbye properly.

But you knew. You knew the second you saw him. This was never going to end clean. Not with him. Not with you.

You open the door. His voice fades behind you as it clicks shut. You hold your bag close to your chest as you walk down the hall, staring straight ahead, blinking fast and hard.

Because if you cry now, you’ll never stop. And he doesn’t deserve to know that he still has that power. He already knows.

You don’t even remember walking back. You must’ve called a car. Or maybe you walked half the way and then gave up. Maybe you blacked out the drive, staring out the window with your lips still swollen and your thighs still sticky with him, flinching every time a memory passed too close. Maybe you held your phone in your hand the whole time and didn’t unlock it once. You can’t remember. You don’t want to.

You’ve never felt less like a person and more like a ghost dragging her ruined body across white marble and velvet hallway carpet. Everything at the hotel is too pristince. Too quiet. No one at the front desk looks at you, but you feel like they know. You feel like you’re wearing it—like guilt is a stain bleeding through your clothes, like they can smell him on you.

You ride the elevator in silence. Your reflection stares back from the brass paneling. Eyes rimmed red. Lip a little bitten. Hair half-wrecked from where he’d fisted it. You don’t fix it. What’s the point? There’s no one left to impress. You get into the room and it feels smaller than it did this morning. Like the walls have leaned in, closing around you. You don’t turn the lights on. You just stand there for a second, letting the dark settle. Your bag slides off your shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud. Your phone clinks against the dresser when you set it down too hard. And you’re still holding your shoes.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare into nothing. The shame doesn’t come all at once. It creeps in. Starts as a whisper behind your ribs, an ache behind your eyes, the slow, growing awareness of what you just did. And who you did it with.

Lando.

Your heart clenches at the sound of his name in your own head. Not because it’s romantic. Because it’s sick. Because you want him still. Want more. Want his mouth, his hands, his fucking voice even now—like he didn’t just toss you aside like old gum. Like he didn’t walk away mid-mess and call her. Like he didn’t say nothing when you stood there, humiliated and half-clothed.

You drag yourself to the bathroom and flick the light on. It’s too bright. Makes everything worse. The mirror is a crime scene. Your makeup is half-gone. Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded and smeared. You can still see the mark on your collarbone where he bit you. You run cold water. Cup it in your hands. Splash your face. It does nothing. You strip slowly. Shirt. Jeans. Bra. That ruined pair of panties you shoved into your back pocket like a secret. You drop them all onto the cold tile, one by one, and stand there naked, not touching the towels. Not stepping into the shower. Just standing. Letting the air hit your skin.

You feel used. Your thighs are sticky. The inside of your cunt aches, sore in that way that used to make you feel desired, but now just makes you feel stupid. You stare at the spot on your hip where he used to kiss you, back when it meant something. Back when it felt like worship instead of a routine.

Your exes never fucked you like this. Not even the worst ones. Not even the ones who said all the right things with their mouths and none of it with their eyes. They fucked you politely. Or carelessly. Or selfishly. But never like this. Never like they needed you to feel it days later. Never like they hated you and loved you and wanted to punish you for both.

Lando does.

Lando always did.

You sink to the floor. Slowly. Your bare ass hits the tile and you curl your knees to your chest like you can somehow close yourself off from the parts of you that are still open. Your hair falls in your face. You don’t move it. You just breathe.

You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You said it out loud. Like a spell. Like if you repeated it enough, it would become a truth. I won’t let him do this to me again. I won’t let myself want him. I won’t go back.

But here you are. Back. Fucked. Full. Empty.

And still—wanting.

You reach for your phone. Not to call him. Just to look. Some part of you is already anticipating it. Hoping for the text. The breadcrumb. Some half-assed “You okay?” that’ll make you hate yourself more because you’ll respond to it. You always do.

You unlock the screen. Nothing. You check the signal. Perfect bars. You wait. Another minute. Five. Still nothing.

You open his contact anyway. Just stare at it. That stupid name. The photo you should’ve deleted months ago—him grinning at some party, hand in your hair, that cocky fucking smile. You remember the moment. You remember thinking this might actually work.

You close the app. Open your messages. Type something.

“You didn’t have to call her while I was still in the room.”

Delete.

“I know what this was, but you could’ve at least—”

Delete.

You lock the screen. Drop the phone next to you on the floor.

You sit there, knees tight to your chest, bare skin on cold tile, heartbeat echoing in your ears like a countdown to nothing.

You won’t cry. But the part of you that still aches for him—still wants him—knows the truth. This isn’t over. It never is. And when he calls again, you’ll answer. Because you always do.

The morning’s too bright. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Just literally—too fucking bright. The Mediterranean sun punches you in the face the moment you step out of the hotel, and you’re instantly sweating through your shirt. You should’ve worn black. You should’ve stayed in bed. You should’ve never come to this country in the first place.

The streets are already buzzing. Tourists, locals, teams in branded polos. You can hear the distant whine of an engine on a test run somewhere, that sharp scream of speed slicing through the heavy, salt-thick air like a knife. The city’s waking up, but not slowly—Monaco never does anything slowly. She wakes up hungry, already half-drunk, already waiting for someone to crash.

You hope it’s him. You hope he hits the wall. You hope he qualifies dead fucking last. P20. God, give him P fucking 20. It’s petty. It’s cruel. But it’s all you have left. You wrap your arms around your stomach like it’ll hold in the sour twist of jealousy and hurt and sex you still haven’t scrubbed off. He’s probably already awake. Already laughing. Already sending her good morning texts while stretching in those silk sheets you bled yourself into last night.

You duck into a small shop near the marina—overpriced bottled water, sunscreen, last-minute branded merch. A cap with his fucking number is front and center on the rack. You want to set it on fire. You want to smash the display. You want to grab it and scream at the teenage girl fawning over it, he’s not a hero, he’s a fucking coward.

You buy gum and painkillers and overpriced sunglasses you don’t need.

At the register, the clerk asks, “You here for the race?”

You smile too hard. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Your body’s sore in that deep, intimate way. Not just your thighs, not just your hips—but your core, your chest, your fucking heart. Your insides feel rearranged and not in the poetic way. Your stomach is tight. Your mouth is dry. You didn’t even eat dinner last night. Just swallowed him. Let him fill every empty space. Let him win. You keep walking. Past yachts bobbing in the harbor, past velvet ropes and security guards and women with lips like weapons. Everyone’s beautiful here. Everyone looks like they belong. 

Your phone stays cold in your pocket. No text. No call. No you okay? You imagine her posting something. A soft-boiled egg on a white plate. His wrist in the corner of the frame. His smile. Her caption: my love.

You hope the car catches fire. You hope he gets lapped. You hope he feels a tenth of what you’re swallowing with every step. 

You sit at a café just off the main street. Order espresso. Black. No sugar. Your phone’s on the table. Face up. Still nothing. You chew your gum until your jaw hurts. You glance around. Every man in the city looks like a ghost version of him. Curls and sunglasses and soft voices ordering oat milk lattes. Every laugh sounds like the one he gave her. Your legs are crossed tight. Like if you keep them that way, it’ll keep the shame in. You still feel it. Every time you shift in your seat, you feel the dull ache of him. The stretch. The emptiness. Like he’s still inside you, just in the form of silence.

It’s not that you wanted love. You just wanted to not be discarded. Not like that. Not so fast. Not so quiet.You check your phone again.

Nothing.

You sip your coffee and watch a woman walk by in a Ferrari shirt, her toddler in tow. The kid’s got a tiny McLaren cap on. Your stomach flips. You wanted to be seen. Instead, you were handled.

Just another fucking pit stop. You close your eyes. Inhale. Count backwards from ten.

But the only thing that fills your mind is his voice from last night, low and smug in your ear.

You almost don’t go.

The cab ride feels long. The restaurant feels too much. Too much candlelight, too much glass, too much silver on the table, like it’s all trying to distract you from the fact that you’re still aching in all the places he touched. Your body’s clean, but it doesn’t feel that way. The shower didn’t help. The makeup didn’t help. The dress—tight black silk, slit to your thigh, halter low enough to tempt—feels more like armor than anything else. You wore it to forget, not to remember.

The guy across from you—what’s his name again? You haven’t said it out loud since you saved it in your phone—he’s sweet. Easy laugh. Well-dressed in a way that’s intentional but not obnoxious. Confident, but not a narcissist. The kind of man who should be able to make you forget. You’re nodding along to something he’s saying about race weekend logistics, sipping cold white wine and tasting nothing.

You laugh when he laughs. You answer questions. You twirl your fork in risotto you’re not hungry for. And you look fucking good. You know you do. Hair pinned. Collarbone sharp. Lip gloss like lacquer. There’s a version of you here that could do this. Who should be doing this. Being adored. Taken out. Picked up and shown off. A version of you who isn’t still bleeding for someone who left her dripping on a balcony.

But you’re not her. Not tonight. Not when your heart’s still a clenched fist in your chest. Your phone lights up once.

You glance down.

Lando.

No message preview. Just the name. Just the knot that forms instantly in your throat—tight, familiar, awful.

You don’t react. Not outwardly. You don’t flinch. Don’t gasp. You lift your glass like nothing’s wrong, like your whole body isn’t already curling inward from the contact.

The guy across from you is still talking. Still smiling. Still thinking you’re here.

“—so I told him, mate, you can’t just buy the yacht, you actually have to learn how to drive it,” he’s saying, laughing at his own story, voice too loud, too clean. “Rich kids, man. No sense of reality.”

You nod. Smile, maybe. You’re not sure what your face is doing. Everything sounds underwater.

Your phone lights up again.

Lando.

You shift in your seat. Cross your legs tighter beneath the table.

“Anyway, so we ended up in Saint-Tropez for the weekend—crazy, right?—and I swear to god the guy tried to dock it by just, like, aiming.”

You pick up your drink just to keep your hands busy. The rim touches your lip but you don’t sip. The screen lights again.

Lando.

And again.

Lando.

“Have you ever sailed? I feel like you’d be good at it. You’ve got that… I don’t know, that calm presence. Like you’d be the only one not panicking.”

Your fingers twitch on the stem of your glass. Calm. He has no fucking idea of the whirl-wind occuring in your head this very moment.  Your phone buzzes again and this time you don’t even look. Because you don’t need to.

Lando.

Lando.

Lando.

Your hand tightens around the stem of your glass. Your lips part like you might say something. Like maybe you’ll stand up and run before this moment becomes what you know it’s about to be.

You look over your shoulder.

Not because you want to.

Because you have to.

That awful sixth sense prickling at your neck, crawling down your spine. Your body stiffens before your eyes find him. Because somewhere inside you, you already know.

And then—

There he is.

Far end of the restaurant. Slipping in through the private entrance like the front door was beneath him. Like he hasn’t made a mess of your insides. Like he didn’t fuck you breathless against his balcony railing not even twenty-four hours ago.

Tan coat. Dark trousers. Curls pushed back like he ran a hand through them on the drive over. Jaw tight, smile easy. There’s a laugh in his throat—God, that laugh—like he didn’t tear yours out with his fucking teeth. She’s with him. Magui. In the flesh. Long legs. Loose hair. White silk dress, delicate little thing hanging off her body like an afterthought. She’s laughing at something he said, hand on his arm, and your gut plummets.

He doesn’t see you yet. Or maybe he does, and he’s just pretending. Your face burns. You want to disappear. Melt into the leather of your chair, vanish into the floor. The guy across from you says something about dessert. You smile. You think you do. Maybe you grimace. He excuses himself to the bathroom, promising to be quick.

You’re already grabbing your phone the second he stands. And now you look, you read, properly. 

Lando [9:37 PM]

nice dress

Lando [9:39 PM]

trying to impress him or just make me crazy?

Lando [9:40 PM]

it’s working

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t walk over there?

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t remind you what you begged for last night?

Lando [9:42 PM]

you can’t fuck him. you won’t. i can see it on your face.

Your heart pounds so loud you can feel it in your throat. Your hands are trembling against the phone. Your thumb hovers and then you type it.

go fuck yourself

You don’t even get the full breath out before another text lights up.

Lando [9:43 PM]

already did. thinking of you the whole time

Your stomach turns. You look back across the restaurant—and now he’s looking at you. Head tilted. Smile carved into his mouth like a dare. His hand rests on Magui’s lower back as he murmurs something in her ear.

She doesn’t notice you. But he does. His eyes are locked on you like a blade. You want to stand. You want to scream. You want to slap him across the face in front of everyone, tear the candle off your table and set that fucking smile on fire.

Instead—you grab your wine and down it.

Pick up your phone and you type.

what do you want from me, Lando?

Because you know exactly what he’s going to say. And you know you’ll give it to him anyway.

You don’t send another text. You don’t need to. Because you already feel it—his eyes. Continuing to burrow into you across the room. You don’t have to look again to know he’s watching your every move, jaw tight, tongue pressed hard behind his teeth. She’s still talking to him. Smiling. Leaning close like she’s won something.

But you know better. You’ve played this game before.  He’s not listening to her. He’s watching you.

Before you know it, the bathroom door swings open and your date returns, all warm smiles and lightly cologned confidence, none the wiser. He slides into the booth beside you now instead of across. And you—oh, baby—you let him. You lean in. Just enough. Just close enough that your perfume slips into his nose and your thigh brushes his. Your knee rests against his under the table and you don’t pull away. You’re smiling now—really smiling, lip caught between your teeth, eyes bright with something vicious.

“Miss me?” you murmur, voice syrupy.

He laughs. “Was only gone a minute.”

You rest your hand on his forearm. Light at first. Then you drag your fingertips down to his wrist, slow and soft like you’re mapping out where you’ll bite later. He pauses, eyes dipping down to your hand, then back up to your mouth.

“You’re… different all of a sudden,” he says, smiling. “Something change?”

You shrug, eyes hooded. “Just realized I like this table better from this side.”

You know what you’re doing. You tilt your head, your mouth just a little too close to his neck, and you laugh at whatever he says next—something harmless. A joke. A compliment. It doesn’t matter. You laugh like Lando isn’t sitting ten tables away, burning. You laugh like you’re not already thinking about unzipping this poor man’s pants just to get revenge on the one who broke you.

You rest your chin on your hand and trace circles on the inside of his knee. You cross your legs in his direction and let your dress slip higher. You sip your wine with your lips parted, slow, tongue flicking the rim.

And then—your phone buzzes again. You check it casually, still smiling.

Lando [9:51 PM]

what the fuck do you think you’re doing

Oh, there it is. The leash pulls tight. Instead of answering, you reach for your date’s collar and straighten it instead, gentle, intimate. He’s blinking at you now, almost stunned, not quite believing his luck.

You feel Lando watching. You can taste it. Your hand drifts down to your date’s thigh. Not obvious. But not subtle either.

“You wanna come back to mine?” you ask, quiet, like a secret.

His breath catches.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

You feel the heat in your cheeks. Not embarrassment—arousal. And rage. And something darker. You want Lando to lose his fucking mind. You want him to picture it—the way you’ll moan for someone else, even if you’re faking it the whole time. You want him sick with it. You want him to feel what he did to you.

Yo grab your bag and stand, letting your hand trail down your date’s chest as you say, “Come on, then.”

You don’t look back. But you don’t have to. You can feel Lando watching you walk away like he’s about to snap a wine glass in his fist. And for the first time all fucking day, you feel a little bit like you won. The cool air hits you the second you step outside, crisp with salt and a faint hint of fuel—Monaco always smells like money and speed. You’re holding his hand. This new guy. The sweet one. He’s talking about the afterparty, asking if you want champagne or tequila when you get there. You nod. Smile. Pretend.

But it’s all wrong. Every step you take feels heavier. Your stomach twists once. Then again. Sharp, then dull, then sharp again. It’s not the wine. It’s not the food. It’s the lie you’re living inside, stretched too tight around your ribs.

By the time you reach the curb, your throat is dry. He’s hailing a car, jacket off, offering it to your shoulders like a gentleman, still thinking this night is going somewhere good. He’s got no idea you’re two seconds away from falling apart.

You stop and pull your hand back.

“I can’t,” you say, voice too small.

He looks over. “What?”

You shake your head. Your smile’s already cracking. “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.”

He takes a step closer, brows pulling together. “You okay? Is there something wrong?”

You press a hand to your stomach. It does hurt now. Real pain. Not from food. From grief. From self-disgust. From the way your body still remembers another mouth, another weight, another name.

“I thought I could,” you say, voice barely above a breath. “I thought I was over it. But I’m not.”

He just watches you. Confused, maybe. Definitely kind, and kind in a way that only makes it worse. You hate that he’s decent. Hate the way he listens without interruption, the way he offers space for your sadness without trying to fix it. He’s doing everything right and it still feels wrong. Because no matter how gently he holds you, how safe his hands are, your mind always drifts elsewhere. Always pulls back to something sharp. Something dangerous. Something that doesn’t even belong to you anymore.

To Lando. To the way his name still lives under your tongue like it has a right to be there. To the taste of him, the weight of his stare from across a room, the way his laugh ruins you even now. To the memory of his hands on your body while someone else wears his heart in public. It’s shameful, the way you crave what hurt you. The way your skin still prickles for him while someone good stands in front of you trying to love you without a fight. And still—he’s the ghost you reach for in the dark. Even now. Even here.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, stepping back. “You don’t deserve this.”

And before he can speak, you turn. He calls your name once. But he doesn’t follow.

You walk. Fast at first, then slower, then fast again. The city glows around you—buzzing, alive, gearing up for a weekend of victory and champagne, of golden boy headlines and photos that will never include you. The heels you wore start to hurt. You carry them, bare feet on warm pavement, heart thudding in your ears like a warning bell.

You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You don’t throw your phone or punch a wall or sink to the floor in some kind of cinematic collapse. That would require an emotion that hasn’t already been wrung out of you. What you do is walk. Barefoot. Purse in one hand, heels in the other, dress still clinging to your skin like it knows it’s part of the performance you didn’t get to finish. You walk like you’re being timed, like if you slow down even a little you’ll notice what your body’s doing—shaking, buzzing, trying not to feel anything too loudly in case someone hears it. In case he does.

You walk back to the hotel. Back to the quiet. Back to the too-cold lobby where the concierge doesn’t even glance up. Back to the elevator that moves too slow, back to the room that feels too clean. Back to the bed where you let him inside you, to the window you pressed your palms against, to the glass that still holds the outline of your spine. You walk back to where last night still breathes in the sheets, where the air remembers what your mouth sounded like when he pulled you open.

You unlock the door with shaking hands. Not trembling—shaking. That kind of shake that lives in the marrow, in the hollows between bones, the kind that doesn’t show up until the moment things go quiet. You twist the handle and step inside like the room might have changed, like maybe it’s not the same space where you peeled yourself out of his grip hours earlier, where your knees hit the carpet and you thought maybe, for a second, that he might look at you and see something. The door closes behind you with that soft hotel click, and it sounds too final. It sounds like the kind of soft that doesn’t care how heavy the silence is on the other side of it. You don’t turn the lights on. You don’t move beyond the threshold. The air feels stale even though the window’s cracked. The sheets on the bed are still half-pulled back from when you rushed to get dressed, from when your fingers fumbled over your bra strap like it mattered, like decency was something you still had access to.

And that’s when it hits you—that feeling. That pulse. That presence.

Not the man you left at the restaurant, not the one who leaned into another woman’s ear while staring straight through you across the room. Not the one who smiled like he hadn’t had his face between your thighs the night before. Not the one who let you walk out without chasing. That version of him is for the public, for the cameras, for the kind of girls who don’t know better.

The one you feel now is the one who told you, under his breath, that no one would ever fuck you the way he does. The one who kissed your throat like it was an apology, like it was a promise. The one who held your hips in both hands like he needed to brace himself against the want. The one who said I love you with a groan and meant it in the filthiest, most broken way. The one who left you full and aching and ruined and somehow still wanting more.

He isn’t here. He isn’t anywhere. But his name is still wet in your mouth, and his breath is still in your lungs, and your underwear is still sticking to you from where he finished without asking, and every part of your body still feels like it belongs to him. And maybe that’s worse. Maybe this—this absence, this phantom weight—is heavier than the act itself.

Because this is what he does. He invades. He stays. He lingers. And when he goes, he never really leaves.

The phone rings just past two a.m.

You stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen, not moving. You don’t answer right away—not because you’re trying to punish him, but because it’s a moment, and it’s yours. The quiet just before. The breath held. The anticipation curled at the bottom of your stomach like something alive. You hate how much you want this. Hate how your body remembers his name before your mouth does. Hate how none of it has dulled, not even now.

It rings again, softer somehow, though you know that’s impossible. It’s just the hour. The way silence thickens around sound this late, the way everything feels heavier when you’re alone. The way he feels heavier when you’re alone.

You press accept on the third buzz.

You stare at the ceiling while the line connects, the glow of the screen fading into the dark again as your hand drops back to the mattress. Your fingers brush the edge of the pillow but you don’t turn over. You don’t shift. You stay exactly as you were—still, flat, undone. He doesn’t say your name. He never does right away. That’s part of the performance. That moment he lets the silence settle just long enough to remind you that he holds the leash, that if you want anything—words, answers, closure—you’ll have to crawl for it.

He sighs, soft, like he’s tired, like it’s been a long day, like this is normal. “Hey.”

Just that. Just hey.

And it’s nothing. It’s nothing and it’s everything, because your chest tightens immediately, stomach flipping like you were still twenty minutes from him and not lying here in the wreckage of what he left behind. His voice sounds rough, maybe from the champagne, maybe from her, maybe from the way he always sounds when he’s just had something and still wants more. You want to hate it. You want to pretend it makes your skin crawl. But all it really does is make you ache.

“You alone?”

The question lands too gently, like he’s not really asking. Like he knows.

“Yeah.” Your voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else. Brittle. Caught in your throat.

A pause. You can hear him breathing. That quiet, familiar rhythm that used to mean something. That used to make you feel safe before it made you feel like a fucking joke.

He clears his throat, and the smirk is audible even over the line. “So? How was he?”

You flinch. You don’t know why—you should have expected it. It’s exactly the kind of thing he says when he’s trying not to ask the real question. When he’s trying to keep the power even while he’s already lost it.

You pause. Too long. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” His voice drops, dark amusement curling at the edges. “You let him fuck you, then?”

Your jaw clenches. You know what he’s doing. You know exactly where this is going. You roll onto your side, tuck the phone closer to your ear, press your thighs together without thinking.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. You swallow. Hard. “No.”

He laughs. Just once. Dry. “Didn’t think so.”

The silence stretches again, and it’s worse this time, heavier, like it’s his. Like he brought it with him and left it in your lap and now you’re the one holding it. You shift onto your side without meaning to, knees curling into your chest, hand still clutching the phone like it might anchor you to the bed.

“Hmm,” he hums, dragging the sound out like he’s picturing it. “Thought so. You always tighten up when you lie.”

You don’t respond.

“You were thinking about me the whole time, weren’t you?” His voice is softer now. Dangerous in a different way. Not sharp. Sweet. “Sitting there all pretty, playing the part, but your pussy was still sore from me.”

You swallow hard, lips parted, phone hot against your cheek. It feels heavier than it should—like it’s holding his whole mouth on the other end. Like if you press it tighter, you might feel the weight of his breath against your skin, humid and amused.

“Lando…” You don’t mean it to come out like that—weak, soft-edged, needy—but it does. It always does when he says your name first, or doesn’t say it at all. When he lets the silence settle until you have no choice but to fill it.

“I bet you didn’t even want him to touch you,” he murmurs. Not a tease. Not even mean. Just certain. Like he’s telling you something you haven’t admitted to yourself yet. “You sat through dinner, acting like a good little date, and all you could think about was my hand on your throat. My mouth on your cunt. The way you begged for it on that balcony.”

Your breath catches. The kind of catch that expands across your chest and makes your lungs feel too full too fast. You shift—barely—but the movement gives you away. Your hips tilt into nothing, like muscle memory took over. Your chest rises too quickly. You’re trying to hold it back, but your body’s already mid-confession. You make a sound, low in your throat, too soft to call language. Half protest, half surrender.

And he hears all of it.

“You touching yourself right now?”

You don’t say anything and he takes your silence as a yes.

“Do it.” He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t coax. He never has to. His instructions always sound like they’ve already happened, like you’re just catching up to the inevitable.

“Slide your hand down. Just one finger.”

You move slowly, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s shame in the familiarity. The way your body responds without hesitation. The way the sheets shift as your hand disappears beneath them. The way your fingertips graze your stomach and you pause—not out of modesty, but reverence. Like you already know what you’re going to find. You press your thighs together, the way you used to when you were trying not to let him see how bad it got, how fast. You hesitate. You want to blame him. But you’re already wet. Already ruined. Your panties cling, soaked and still warm, like your body’s been waiting for this call all night.

“Lando,” you whisper, but it’s not a plea to stop. It’s a surrender.

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, and it lands deep in your ear, rough and syrup-slick at the edges. His voice has thickened—fuller, slower, like the sound of someone wrapping their palm around a want they’re trying not to show. “That’s right. Show me you still fucking need me.”

You hate how good it feels. Not the words. The tone. The certainty. He never doubts it. Never doubts you. Your need. Your body. He speaks to it like it’s his, and the worst part is—it still listens. God help you—you do.

Your fingers hover beneath the sheet, suspended above your stomach like they’re waiting for permission. Caught there in limbo. Not quite obedience, not quite defiance. The space between his command and your compliance is thin, delicate, the place you always seem to fall into first.

His voice lingers, curls around you like a second skin. Honey-laced gravel. That sound you’ve heard pressed to your shoulder, your mouth, the inside of your thighs. It tugs. Not gently. Not violently. Just effectively. It would be so easy. To give in. To surrender under the guise of pleasure. To let your body chase his voice and pretend—for five minutes—that this is love. That he means any of it. That wanting you is the same as keeping you. That this ache, this pull, is more than just habit wrapped in heat.

But something clenches in your chest. Sharp. A tightness just behind your sternum, hot and specific. A different kind of knowing.

You pull your hand back. “No,” you say, quiet, but not soft. A whisper, yes—but one you mean.

The line stills. His breath shifts—no longer seductive, just audible. A pause, an exhale, the kind that happens when someone wasn’t expecting a refusal.

“No?” he repeats, slower now. 

You swallow. Your throat tightens. “Not like this. I’m not—” You sit up in bed. The sheets slip down your chest like they know they’ve been dismissed. Cool air replaces the warmth of your body, and it feels like stepping outside of something. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to say that shit to me after what happened.”

You wait. Expect the smirk in his voice. The pivot. The sarcasm. The cruel, clever deflection that always comes when you try to reach for something with weight.

A beat passes. Then another. You brace yourself for the mockery, the deflection, the teeth. But instead, he sighs. Honest. A sound you’ve only heard a handful of times before. The sound he makes when his armor slips, when he thinks no one’s watching.

“I know,” he says snd it sounds like truth.

You blink.

“I just— fuck,” he mutters, voice dropping low again, but not to seduce this time. Just honest. Raw. “I keep trying to not think about you. I go to sleep next to her, and it’s you I’m dreaming about. I kiss her and it doesn’t taste like anything.”

Your breath catches.

“I thought maybe if I pissed you off enough, you’d stop being in my head. But then I saw you tonight.” He laughs under his breath. “You looked so fucking good. I hated it.”

You’re quiet. Staring at the far wall of your hotel room like it might give you answers.

“I don’t want to keep doing this,” you whisper.

He doesn’t protest. Doesn’t try to sell it as love or misunderstanding or timing or fate. He just waits, still on the line, still breathing, letting the weight of your words—and his silence—do what it always does. Fill the room with him.

“I want to stop,” you say again, but it sounds different this time. Smaller. Your voice loses its bite somewhere on the way out, like your throat already knew it was a lie.

“So stop,” he murmurs. “Block my number. Forget my name.”

You don’t answer.

“Exactly,” he says, softer now, and the smile bends downward in his tone, into something resigned, something rotted. “You won’t. You fucking can’t.”

You close your eyes, let your head fall back against the pillow. The ceiling’s too white, too still. Your chest feels hollow, carved out with something blunt, something dull and wide. Like he reached in with both hands and took, not just the good parts, but the name you say when you’re alone, the thoughts you think when you’re cold, the you that existed before him.

“I miss you,” you admit, and it guts you to say it.

He breathes in like you just unzipped his skin. Like you reached down the line and dragged his ribs apart with your teeth. “Say it again.”

You shake your head, lips parting, but no sound comes.

“Please,” he says, quieter now, the way he gets when he really means something. Like you’ve just put your hand on the door, and he’s begging without pride. “Just once.”

The silence feels like it stretches forever, like the night itself is holding its breath just to hear what you’ll say next. Your fingers tremble where they rest on your chest, tracing the curve of your collarbone like distraction could be enough. It isn’t. You should hang up. You should. But your throat is tight and your stomach’s hollow and your whole body feels like it’s still locked in the shape of his. You wish it didn’t matter anymore. You wish his voice didn’t still pull at the part of you that needs to be seen. You close your eyes and inhale through your nose, a sad attempt at trying to ground yourself in this moment. “I miss you,” you whisper, again. And it cracks something in your own voice—thin and breaking, like you hate yourself for meaning it.

You hear him groan. Deep. Loud. From the chest. The kind of sound that doesn’t start in the throat—it starts lower. Beneath the ribs. That heavy, involuntary kind of noise that escapes before it can be shaped into something cooler, something controlled. It scrapes up through him like the words pulled something raw out of him and left it there, exposed.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You picture him—eyes closed, jaw tight, knuckles white around the phone. Picture him tilting his head back, one hand dragging over his face like he’s trying to shake it off, like the sound embarrassed even him. Like your voice still reaches places he keeps locked and your thighs clench instinctively, traitorously from the thought of it. Something inside you twists, low and hot and helpless.

“You can’t say that to me and expect me to stay quiet,” he mutters, voice ragged now. You can hear the shift in him, the sudden tension coiling under his words like a wire pulled too tight.

You bite your lip, but you don’t interrupt.

“I’ve been thinking about it since you walked away tonight,” he says, lower, slower, each syllable like a bruise dragged across your skin. “How your hips moved in that dress. How empty your hand looked without mine in it.”

Your fingers slide beneath the sheet again, slow this time, like surrender—like there’s no point pretending you won’t. Not when he’s already in your ear, in your body, in the rhythm of your breath. You barely brush your own skin, but it’s enough to light up everything he left raw. You don’t stop. You can’t. Something in you has already given way.

He exhales, sharp and sudden, like he felt it—like he knew the moment your hand moved. “Are you touching yourself now?”

Your breath catches in your throat, tight and unsteady, and you hate the pause that follows. Hate how long it takes you not to answer, but not to lie either. The silence is its own admission.

“Yeah…” he says, voice dipping. “You are.”

You swallow hard. Hard enough that it hurts.

“I can picture it,” he murmurs. “Your legs spread just a little, that pretty little cunt already soaked for me. You’re rubbing slow, aren’t you? Just like I taught you.”

Your hand obeys without permission, palm pressing down over the thin cotton of your underwear. You gasp—quiet, quick.

“God, I miss the way you taste,” he groans. “I’d fucking die right now to have you sitting on my face, one hand in my hair, grinding like you always do when you’re too far gone to be shy.”

Your hips jerk.

“I’d tongue-fuck you ‘til your legs shake,” he growls. “Wouldn’t even stop when you begged me to.”

You moan, involuntary, soft and choked.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you, baby.”

You slide your hand lower. Inside. Fingers sliding through slick heat. Shame and need pulsing together under your skin. You want to stop. You don’t. Because his voice is the only thing that feels real right now.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick now, every word catching on the edge of a groan. “Nice and slow. Fuck yourself for me.”

Your fingers move without thought, caught between his breath in your ear and the ache blooming low in your stomach. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet of your room—shameless, slick, and sinful. And he knows. You haven’t said a word in minutes, but he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“I bet your thighs are shaking,” he says. “Bet your fingers are slipping because you’re so fucking soaked. You always were, weren’t you? Always such a desperate little thing for me.”

You bite your bottom lip, hard, your free hand grabbing the sheets beside you, twisting them as your hips start to move.

“Are you gonna come for me?” he asks, voice low and reverent now, like it’s prayer instead of poison. “Yeah? You’re close, aren’t you? I can hear it. I can fucking feel it.”

You moan. Soft. Broken.

“God, I miss how you sound,” he groans, the sound raw in your ear like he’s fisting the phone. “I used to make you scream, didn’t I? When I had you bent over the edge of the bed, dripping, wrecked, begging me not to stop.”

Your back arches off the sheets.

The room is too still—dim and expensive and wrong, like every object inside it is holding its breath with you. Fingers move frantically between your thighs, slippery with sweat and want, chasing that high you swore you wouldn’t let him give you again. The bedsheets twist beneath you, cool against your calves, sticky at your back. You’ve kicked them off entirely now, one leg stretched toward the edge of the mattress like you’re bracing for impact. You are.

Outside, the faint drone of the sea whispers through a cracked window. Somewhere in the distance, a car rips down the avenue too fast, tires humming against wet asphalt. Monaco never really sleeps—just hums at a lower frequency, like even the city is in on it. Like the architecture itself is bent toward indulgence and regret. And then his voice drops again—low, measured, threading into the stillness like silk soaked in kerosene. Almost tender.

“You wanna know something?” His voice drops even lower, into something almost tender.

You make a noise. Can’t speak. Don’t trust yourself to. Your eyes are closed but you can feel him—his voice in your ear, his name still carved into the rhythm of your breath. He doesn’t wait.

The words drop like fire in your chest. They land hard. Searing. Like you swallowed something molten and now your lungs are screaming, your spine melting into the mattress. Your thighs jerk. Your fingers falter. The ceiling above you stays dark, indifferent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, this time harsher. Desperate. “I hate how much I do. But I do.”

It’s not soft. It’s not romantic. It’s a wound splitting open in real time. A confession flung into the dark because he can’t hold it anymore. And you—you shake. You can’t breathe. You can’t stop. Your fingers stop and then start again, harder, faster, like maybe if you come it’ll drown it out. Like you can flood it out of your bloodstream, sweat it out of your skin. But it doesn’t work. It’s still there. In every heartbeat. In every gasp.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

“You’re mine,” he breathes. “Even when you’re not. Even when you walk away. I still feel you. Every fucking day. No one else even comes close.”

And your orgasm hits like a crash.

It’s violent. A wave slamming your body against itself. Your legs tense. Your stomach seizes. Your breath breaks into pieces. A sound claws its way out of your throat, and your hand flies up—reflex—trying to cover your mouth, trying to keep it in. You can’t. It’s too late. He hears it. Of course he does. He always does.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Fucking knew you’d give it to me.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. The words won’t come. They’ve drowned under the weight of him—of this. The way his voice still owns the oxygen in the room. The way your body still says yes when everything else is screaming no.

The line is quiet.

You can still hear him breathing, but it’s distant now. Removed. Not soft or hungry anymore—just there. Like a metronome ticking at the end of a hallway. Background noise in a house that doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

You curl onto your side, away from the phone. Away from him. The sheets are cold on this side—untouched, undisturbed. Your arm tucks under your head, and your legs curl toward your chest on instinct, like your body’s trying to hold itself smaller. Contain the ache. The trembling hasn’t stopped yet, a slow pulse beneath your skin like something sacred was scraped out with a dull edge.

He should say something.

You should say something. But neither of you do.

The heat is already fading from your skin. It evaporates too fast, like it was never yours to keep. The chill that replaces it seeps under your ribs—quiet and surgical. It settles in your throat like a question you don’t want to ask. You blink at the wall. At the dark. At the soft glow of the city bleeding in from the window. The room’s filled with dim gold and ghostlight, shadows cast by luxury fixtures and memories you didn’t mean to resurrect.

Everything is still. And wrong, you fucking hate how familiar this feels. The after. Always the after. That hollow stretch of silence where he pulls away—not with excuses. Not even with guilt. Just absence. Just a breath you can’t sync with anymore. A distance so thick it presses against your chest like a hand. You’re alone in a room that smells like him. On sheets that remember your back arching. And now it’s quiet. And cold. And exactly like the last time.

When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.

“You still there?”

When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

You wait.

You try not to. You tell yourself not to. But you do. Of course you do. For softness. For proof. For anything that makes what he said—I love you—feel like a truth and not just a well-aimed knife disguised as comfort. You wait for the voice that said it to come back with warmth, with meaning, with something that makes the wreckage worthwhile. But all you get is silence.

And then—his voice again. Casual. Neutral. Airy, even. Like a light switch flipped somewhere between your thighs and his pride.

“You gonna be at qualifying?”

It hits like a slap. Not a sharp one. A dull one. Open-palmed and slow, the kind that comes after the fight’s already over. The kind that reminds you who’s still standing. You roll onto your back. Stare at the ceiling like it might peel away and let you float out of this. Your chest aches, hollow and wide. Your thighs are still slick and parted and ruined. Your mouth still tastes like his name. And he’s asking about fucking qualifying. Like this was a meeting. Like this wasn’t a bloodletting.

“No,” you say. Flat. Tired. Honest. Like your voice has finally given up trying to be anything else.

He doesn’t argue. Of course he doesn’t. That would require effort. Would require remembering that you just let him back inside a body that still flinches from the last time.

The pause stretches. Long. Unearned. The kind of pause that should hold regret. But doesn’t. You wonder if he’s already looking at her. If she’s asleep in his bed right now, one leg kicked out from under the covers, soft breathing and sheets still warm from her skin. If he’ll crawl back in like this was just a break. If he’ll kiss her shoulder and curl into her like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just call you from the next room and come in your ear while whispering your name like a prayer. If she’ll roll over and whisper I love you back.

“Okay,” he says, finally.

That’s it. No pause. No catch. No sorry. You don’t say goodbye, won’t allow yourself to give him the satisfaction. So instead, you just hang up. Slowly and quietly. Like if you move too fast, the grief might notice you. Like if you make a sound, whatever just died might come back and ask for more. And then you lie there. Alone. Cold. Numb in the exact places he made you feel again. The wet between your legs isn’t even arousal anymore—it’s humiliation, pooling like proof. The room feels too big. Your skin too tight. Your heart too loud for how little it’s getting back. You close your eyes. And you try—god, you try—not to remember how good it felt to believe him.

You told yourself you wouldn’t watch. Told yourself you’d go out during the race. Walk the port. Maybe take a train out of the city. Catch a ride into Italy, buy a coffee in some no-name border town where no one gives a fuck about Formula One. You told yourself if you left early enough, you wouldn’t hear the engines start.

But you did. You heard them. Sharp and brutal. Like the city itself was exhaling all at once. The engines howled to life like beasts shaking off sleep. And the streets—those narrow, glittering veins winding around the harbor like silk on bone—filled instantly. People spilled out of hotels, bars, yachts. Laughter carried down alleyways. Shoes clacked against marble and cobblestone. Horns. Screams. Sirens. The whole city vibrating in a single fevered pitch, like a heartbeat you couldn’t separate from your own.

And that was it. You felt it again.

That tug. That sick little string wound tight through your ribs. Strung there by him. Still holding. Still pulling. It didn’t matter how much distance you told yourself you needed—when the world turned toward him, you did too.So you ended up outside a bar near the track. Not the private ones. Not the ones with velvet ropes and industry passes and terrace views. Just one of the ones carved into the street-level buildings, open to the chaos, full of heat and sound. Flat screens bolted above the bar. Fans shoulder to shoulder. Bottles sweating in metal buckets. Flags tied like bandanas. Champagne already foaming across tabletops like victory was a guarantee.

You stood by the railing. Arms crossed. Sunglasses still on even though the sun was behind the buildings now. Shadows stretched across the street like tired ghosts. Your foot tapped against the base of a rusted stool, your hip leaned just barely into the edge of the counter like you weren’t really here. Like maybe you were just watching a version of yourself watch him.

The race blurred by.

It always does. Too fast, too clean, too cinematic. Like it’s not real. Like it’s something you could turn off if you found the right remote. He looked good—of course he did. He always does when there’s something on the line. Fast. Confident. Hungry. His car didn’t take corners. It swallowed them. He moved like he was dancing with the track. Like he could feel its heartbeat better than his own. You didn’t blink when he overtook on Lap 42. Didn’t flinch when the leaderboard adjusted like it had been waiting for him all along.

But when the checkered flag dropped? When the whole bar erupted—glasses raised, hands slapped to backs, phones held high and recording?

That’s whens something inside you cracked. It was clean and silent. Like glass under pressure. You watched the screen. Watched him throw his fists into the air inside the car, helmet still on, adrenaline turning his voice to something breathless and boyish through the radio.

“Fuck, man! We did it!”

And he sounded happy. Not like he’d sounded on the phone. Not like last night. Not like someone torn in two. He sounded whole. He sounded free. You stood still while the rest of the bar screamed and spilled and toasted and laughed. While confetti machines burst at the table beside you. While someone popped a bottle and poured foam into a stranger’s cup like they’d both waited their whole lives for this.

And you—still in your sunglasses, arms locked across your chest like armor—you felt like you were being erased. Not slowly. Not softly. Violently. Like the footage of him crossing that line was actively overwriting you. Like every frame of his win was bleaching your name from his mouth. Then you saw her.

Not up close. Not at the podium. Just a flicker. A flash of white on the screen behind him. Behind the fence. Her hair. Her silhouette. Her hand.

Raised in a wave. And the way he looked at her—god. You thought you’d collapse. 

You don’t know why you’re here. You already booked your ticket back to Italy. You packed your bag with one hand while brushing your teeth with the other, You checked out of the hotel like it was a fire you had to get away from. You had a plan. You were going to leave before the city woke up, before the papers hit the stands, before your own stomach could catch up to the shame curling in it.

But then you didn’t. You didn’t leave. You didn’t get in the car. You didn’t do the smart thing, or the sane thing, or even the thing you promised yourself you would. Instead, you walked. Shoes in your hand, face bare, heart kicking like it wanted out. You walked past the marina. Past the crowds still drunk off the race. Past the café where your phone first lit up with his name. You told yourself it was a loop. A muscle twitch. A final look.

You knew it was a lie and now you’re here. You ride the elevator in silence, arms crossed, your teeth sunk so deep into your lip you can taste blood. The hallway stretches out in front of you like something cinematic—floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, pale wood on the other, recessed lights humming low like they know what you’re doing. You don’t even knock. The apartment door is already cracked open.

Of course it is.

He’s inside. Shirtless. Sweaty. Champagne-drenched hair curling messily across his forehead. Still wearing his fireproofs, halfway unzipped. His chest rises with breath that’s only just started to slow. He smells like victory. Like sun-warmed metal and sweet rot and something you used to beg for. He looks good.

Of course he does. He turns when you step in. Smiles. The real kind. That one that used to mean I knew you'd come.

But it fades the second he sees your face.

“Hey,” he says, cautious now. “You okay?”

You shake your head once. Quick. Like it might stop the tears from crawling up your throat.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” you say. But that’s a lie.

He steps forward, slow, cautious, like approaching an animal he’s already wounded once and isn’t sure won’t bite again. His arms stay loose at his sides, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to reach for anymore—your waist, your wrist, your forgiveness.

“You—uh, did you see the race?” he asks, and it’s not small talk. Not really. It’s a test balloon. A toe in the water. Like maybe if you say yes without venom, maybe if your voice stays level, he can convince himself none of this is a disaster.

“Yeah,” you snap, the word scraping up your throat like it came with splinters. “You were amazing. Congratulations.”

His smile twitches back onto his face, but it doesn’t land properly. It hovers at the corners like a glitch in the system. Like he knows it’s too late to fix the part of him that doesn’t know how to be soft when it counts.

“Thanks,” he says, and it should mean something. Should carry weight. But it floats.

You step closer. Not because you want to be near him, not anymore. But because the distance feels dishonest. Like if you’re going to bleed in front of him, he should at least have to watch it happen up close. Your voice shakes when you speak, but you don’t try to hide it. You don’t care if he hears what it costs you. You want him to.

“Why wasn’t I ever good enough?”

He blinks. His head pulls back just slightly, like you slapped him. Like the words hit somewhere he wasn’t guarding. His brow creases—not out of confusion, but something worse. That dawning realization that this conversation isn’t going to end where he thought it might. That this isn’t another soft landing.

“What?” he says, but it’s not really a question. More like a deflection. A delay tactic. Something to stall the blow he knows is coming.

Your heart’s beating so hard it feels physical now—like it’s trying to break out of your chest and throw itself at his feet in one last act of desperate, humiliating honesty. Like it still wants him even as you drag yourself through the fucking wreckage of that want.

“Why have I never been enough for you to choose?” you ask, and your voice cracks on the word like it’s never been said out loud before. “Not fuck. Not sneak around with. Not call when you're lonely or bored or drunk at some goddamn afterparty. I mean choose. I mean claim. Why have I never been the one you tell people about?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes. His throat works around it. His eyes drop to the floor and back up again, and for a second—just a second—you think he might lie. Might try to salvage this with some half-truth about timing or image or circumstance.

“Why her?” you whisper, and this one hurts more than the rest—not because of what it means, but because of how quietly you ask it. Because it comes from the part of you that’s already accepted the answer. “Why does she get to be seen?”

He looks at you like you’ve just thrown a grenade at his feet, like he doesn’t know whether to jump on it or run. And maybe that’s always been him—too cowardly to save you, too selfish to leave you alone.

“I let you inside me,” you say, and now your voice is breaking for real, cracking down the middle like an old fault line that’s finally splitting open. “And you walked away. I let you hear me. I told you shit I’ve never said out loud before, not even to myself. I gave you everything. And I didn’t say I loved you, not because it wasn’t true, but because I knew it didn’t fucking matter. Because I knew, no matter how much I gave you—no matter how deep I let you in—I’d still just be the thing you come back to when you’re bored. Or lonely. Or drunk. Or broken. But never when it matters.”

He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Just stands there in the center of his spotless, silent apartment—an altar to success and self-control—still radiant with the remnants of the win. His chest rises in slow, shallow pulses, adrenaline still flickering beneath skin damp with sweat and victory. There’s a gleam across his collarbones, the faint shimmer of champagne that never got wiped off, dried sugar crusted along the edge of his jaw like celebration had kissed him and refused to let go. His hair’s a mess—curling, golden, clinging to his temples like he earned the chaos. And maybe he did. Maybe he earned every fucking second of it. But all you want is to ruin it. To drag your hand across his face and wipe the triumph off like it’s blood that doesn’t belong to him.

Because he looks too happy for someone who’s left you bleeding this many times. But when his eyes land on you—finally, fully—something shifts. He’s not smiling anymore. Not smirking. Not playing cool or disinterested or oblivious. He’s just looking. At you. Carefully, as if he’s cataloguing damage. Like he’s not sure if you’re about to cry or scream or throw a glass, and the fact that he doesn’t know is maybe the only honest thing he’s ever done in your presence.

You step further into the apartment. The floor is cool under your feet, too clean. Everything here is intentional—curated—like even his grief would be expensive. Your arms are still crossed tight over your chest, but it’s not a defense anymore. It’s just something to hold while the rest of you starts to come apart in slow motion. The tension in your shoulders doesn’t brace you—it betrays you. It trembles loose. Not strength. Not anymore. Just unraveling in real time.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, and your voice barely makes it past your teeth. It sounds like someone else said it first and handed it to you to carry. “I told myself I wouldn’t. I watched you win and I felt sick.”

He shifts his weight, opens his mouth, but you hold your hand up. You’re not finished. If you stop now, you’ll never say it.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. Tired of pretending that what we had was just sex. You know it wasn’t. You know. We talked. We laughed. You let me in. You made me feel like I wasn’t crazy for needing you. And then every time I get close to believing you—really believing you—you disappear. Or worse, you show up like nothing happened and expect me to melt for you. And I do. God, I always do.”

His gaze drops. His jaw clenches. But he still doesn’t speak. And that silence—it’s not passive. It’s precise. It’s brutal in its precision. Like he’s figured out by now that anything he says will only confirm how much worse he made it. So he doesn’t say a word. Just lets the weight of what you said sit there. Lets you carry it alone, like you always have. And that silence? It hits harder than anything he’s ever said. Than every lie. Than every I miss you that came too late.

You take another breath, but it doesn’t settle. It just wobbles on the way out, shakes loose in your throat like it’s trying not to turn into a sob.

“I just want to know…” you start, and your voice is thinner now, worn down to something soft and splintered. “Why I’ve never been enough. Not once. Not for a full day. Why I’m always good enough to fuck. To call. To cry to when you’re falling apart at three in the morning. But never good enough to stand next to in daylight.”

Your hands shake, but you keep going.

“Why it’s always her when I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. When I’m the one who told you to breathe before qualifying, when you couldn’t stop pacing. When I’m the one who stayed.”

That’s the part that undoes you a little. That last word. Stayed. You weren’t supposed to say it—not out loud. It’s too naked. Too pathetic. But it tumbles out anyway, like the truth was tired of waiting for permission. And it lands. You see it shift something in him. His eyes flick toward the floor, then back up. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling briefly into fists, then flattening again. His shoulders rise with a breath too deep to be casual—like he’s dragging something up from the part of him that doesn’t usually speak.

“I never meant for it to get this far,” he says finally, voice raw around the edges, like he’s chewing on the words even as he gives them up. “I didn’t think I’d need you like that.”

You almost laugh, but it’s not funny. It’s sharp. Bitter. It curls in your mouth like acid.

“You needed me,” you echo. “But not enough.”

He steps toward you then. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he’s approaching a live wire. Like he thinks there’s still something left to salvage in the wreckage.

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

But you shake your head before he can finish the thought. “Yes, it is.”

And this time you don’t snap it. You don’t spit it out like a weapon. You just say it flatly. Like a fact that doesn’t care how he feels about it.

“You either love someone,” you say, “or you don’t.”

“I do love you,” he replies. Just like that. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true, and always been enough.

But it costs you everything to hear it. Every little ounce of composure you’ve been clinging to. Every version of yourself that held out hope. It’s not relief that hits you—it’s grief. Not longing. Not even disbelief. Just loss. Again. All over again. Because now that he’s said it, now that the words are out, you know for sure: his love was never the kind that saves you. Never the kind that holds you in the light. His love only ever lives in the dark.

You look at him, and something twists in your chest—not from happiness, but from mourning.

“Then why has it always felt like I had to beg for it?” you whisper. “Why has it never once felt like it came freely?”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t lie. Doesn’t soften. Just stands there, mouth parted like he wants to say something, anything, but he knows. He knows whatever he gives you now will only make it worse. So he says nothing. And the silence between you—thick, heavy, final—says everything.

You stare at him—not the Lando the world loves, not the polished boy in champagne and fireproofs and grins for the cameras, but the one in front of you now. Quiet. Flickering. Human in the worst way. The kind that disappoints just by standing still.

Your arms drop to your sides. Not in surrender. In exhaustion. Your limbs feel too heavy to hold upright, your ribs ache from holding in this pain for too long. You’re sagging under the weight of it.

“You love me,” you repeat, hollow now. Like the words are ash in your mouth. “But you’re still with her.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just lowers his eyes, clenches his jaw, like maybe he hates himself for it. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just tired of pretending it’s not true. And that’s the answer. That’s the only answer you’re going to get. There’s no grand speech. No twist in the narrative. Just the sharp silence of reality pressing down on you like gravity finally remembered your name.

And somewhere behind you, the elevator dings.

[echantedtoon]

When You Kiss Me: Upper Moons

Upper Moons reaction to you leaving lipstick marks on their faces. That's literally it. Zohakutan and Daki are both written as PLATONIC in this .

KOKUSHIBO:

*Genuinely honest? He literally had no idea there was lipstick markings on his face. Legitimately neither did anyone else when he showed up at a meeting.

*He had just let his wife hold his face and kiss his eyelids sweetly before he came over. He was a usually stoic man but there's no way he'd refuse you wanting to kiss his face over and over again before he left(he's putty in your hands) and would've let you continue if Muzan didn't summon him personally.

*The problem is that mans rarely blinks, so no one legit can tell that there's bright red lipstick on his eyelids until after hours of sitting there silently listening to Muzan's tantrums on not being able to find the spider lily, he blinks. Its fast and short but it was enough to cause Muzan to pause staring at him.

*"Why do you have those?" "Those what?" "Lipstick marks. On your eyes." He's confused by the statement until he gets a chance to look at himself in a mirror closing two pairs of eyes and freezing at the sight of your kiss marks on his face.

*He's calm but mostly shocked. Slowly blinking his eyes before reaching up an arm to wipe his face on his sleeves a small smile on his lips. He's going to be having a talk with you later for pulling a stunt like that...but he's not against you covering his face in kisses again in private.

DOUMA:

*You really think he's not above letting you kiss him all over and leaving marks all over him? No..if anything this man is on his knees so you don't have to strain on tip toes to kiss him.

*He's already closing his eyes and puckered up wanting your love and affection after being deprived of it for decades. Tbh doesn't even notice the kids marks all over his face, too busy smiling like a dope ass you kiss his forehead, nose, cheeks, and other parts of his face.

*Probably won't even notice how his cult are looking at him awkwardly or confused or looking away flustered until someone takes him aside after his sermon to let him know.

*is he embarrassed? Not in the slightest. In fact he's proud to show off his love marks. Makes him feel like its a way to show others that he's yours as much as you're his. Low key wants you to use different colored lipsticks to plant multicolored kiss marks on him to match his eyes.

AKAZA:

*He's a big simp for you. So if you even mentioned wanting to kiss his face, he's hugging you gently and practically giving you silent puppy dog eyes for the affection. He just wants his pretty girlfriend to love him and secretly loves when you hold him. He has a cuddle need.

*Absolutely melts into putty when you squish his cheeks and kiss him over and over. He's mumbling how much he loves you with literal heart eyes rn. Which is why he growls angry when he's summoned for a meeting and taken away from you.

*Unfortunately also too angry to realize that he didn't wipe the obvious kiss marks on his lips, forehead, and cheeks so when Douma started laughing uncontrollably at him, he didn't even notice assuming the blonde was being an asshole as always to mess with him.

*To busy yelling at Douma to realize everyone ELSE is also staring at his face as he throttles Douma. Eventually someone breaks the silence (probably Douma between laughs) and Upper Three freezes in embarrassment. His face going a deeper pink than his hair.

*Cursing out Douma still embarrassed and ripping his vest off to rub at his pink face. Douma is not going to let him live this down. EVER.

NAKIME:

*Doesn't mind it if you do it and at the same time doesn't care. Her face is 85% covered by her hair anyways so even if you leave kiss marks on her ninety percent of them would be hidden to everyone else but the two of you.

*She takes at least twenty minutes staring into a mirror at herself however, staring at the kiss marks for a long long time especially if it's the first time you've done this. She'll wipe it off eventually with a smile on her face. Eventually she'll kiss you once back to get revenge.

GYUTARO(ft Daki's reaction:

*You'd probably have to either catch him off guard to do it or really, really, REALLY convince him to let you do it. It's not that he doesn't love your kisses, he's just not super used to anyone giving him genuine affection.

*Eventually you're able to kiss his face while you're cuddling and he can't get away. Eventually he just melts letting you kiss him all over until Daki starts whining and demanding his attention again after so long.

*He gets up with a grumble not realizing that there's bright red lipstick marks on his face and goes to calm her down from whatever tantrum she was throwing. Something about a girl bullying her. However she stops as he enters the room before bursting out in laughter. His confusion quickly turns to horror as she points out his face.

*From now on you're not allowed to wear lipstick while you kiss him. He's too embarrassed to speak about the incident.

*Daki does however recommend different lipsticks and shades for you to try out if you'd really like to get her brother flustered. A dark green to match his hair really has him flustered. Pouts if you don't give her a kiss on the forehead.

HANTENGU(+CLONES):

*Adores it strangely enough. Once you get the idea in his head and do it the first time, he's crawling back to you whenever someone upsets him and clutching onto your dress tugging at it and begging for you to kiss him better because whatever person was mean to him for no reason again. Unfortunately once the other clones see him covered in your kiss marks prepare for the others to come bugging you outta jealousy.

Sekido:

*How did you even convince him? He thinks the entire concept is entirely stupid. "What is even the point of it?! It's useless!!" Is his answer every time he sees Hantengu or one of the other clones covered in lipstick. He genuinely thinks it's dumb, until you finally convince him to let you do it. Reluctantly he does to get you to shut up. Man goes red in the face as you covered his face. He's drawing a blue screen staring at himself in your mirror. This is NEVER going to be spoken about EVER again!

AIZETSU:

*The first after Hantengu to get them. He literally comes to you crying with watery puppy dog eyes and literally begs you to give him the same treatment. He's so cute like this you can't say no. The others are literally very jealous of him when he just curls around you hogging your attention and shows off the marks he's gotten. From now on he develops the habit of crying and begging for more kisses. The marks are an assurance that he's yours.

UROGI:

*BOY. IS. READY!! As soon as he sees you giving out kisses he's on you like green on clovers. Literally. He's scooping you up into his arms before anyone else can get to you, flies off somewhere if he has to before sitting down in anticipation. Won't admit it but he's self conscious about his claws so if you kiss his claws it'll make his heart skip a beat. Lowkey gives cute sparrow chirps as you kiss his forehead.

KARAKU:

*(warning for slight innuendos) You're playing a dangerous game if you decide to give Karaku his round of kisses like he's been begging for. But he won't just want it on his face. He'll want you to kiss his neck, his lips, his chest- You refuse as he implies more that has his dirty mind racing. He pouts no matter how much he flirts and brings it up but you don't budge. He'll whine and complain about you being no fun, but he'll settle for you kissing his mouth leaving his lips red. Likes to tease the others about him making out with you more.

URAMI:

*Probably the most impatient out of ALL of the clones. He literally just scoops you up and holds you up out of reach like a kid unwilling to share a toy. Holding you up to his face and bluntly stating- "Kiss me." It might've been romantic if it wasn't so blunt and he sounded like he hated the idea. In reality he just wants it as soon as possible.

ZOHAKUTAN:

*Doesn't get it. Though he cares about you like a big sister he thinks it's gross but pouts if you don't at least give him a small kiss on the forehead when he appears.

GYOKKO:

*"SO ARTISTIC!!" Are his words when you first suggested the idea to him. You're telling him you want to put on lipstick and leave kiss marks all over him? Uh YES PLEASE!!

*It's all just another form of art to him and in a way it is. The paint is your lipstick, the paint brush your sweet lips, and the canvas is his beautifully gorgeous face!! Of course this man is going to let you put kiss marks all over him! Has no shame about it either.

*He's blushing the entire time you do it and takes an entire hour in the mirror admiring himself. Low key he's probably gets you a lipstick that matches his aesthetic. Purple or light green so it better matches.

*He doesn't wash it off for a long time after and you're later given a blank white vase he wants you to decorate with more kiss marks.

KAIGAKU:

*Like Sekido you'd have to REALLY convince him to let you do it. Of course he refuses at first giving all the usual excuses. "NO! It's stupid! Why would I even do that!?" and "I said NO! Stop asking already!!" Eventually he gets tired of you asking him and one day just throws his hands up and reluctantly agrees to let you do it but with conditions.

*This is the ONLY time he's letting you do it and it's going to be strictly PRIVATE!! You happily agree if it meant just being able to do it. He's scowling the entire time he watches you smear on lipstick and pucker up to kiss him. He complains about it the entire time but makes no move to stop you from planting kisses all over him.

*When you finish and he looks at himself, he goes blank. Mind buffering as he stares at the red kiss marks on his face ... Before he eventually grumbles wiping at his face as you giggle. He's red in the face yelling it's stupid but he actually doesn't mind you kissing him again.

[yulin-pop]

⤷ ✧ 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐌𝐞𝐬𝐬

order 85 | scenarios | Riddle, Leona, Azul | Gender Neutral

❀ NOTE: Can you guess what my inspo is? (In English class my nose randomly started dripping blood)

Small description of blood (nosebleeds specifically)

➺ Riddle Rosehearts

It happened at the worst time, during a small tea party with Riddle. With Trey serving tea and all these little pastries you felt like nothing could go wrong.

You felt something come out of your nose and you sniffle, just dismissing it until it doesn’t stop.

“MC…” Riddle gives you a harsh look.

It was sorta embarrassing when Riddle gives you that look. “Sorry sorry maybe something triggered my allergies!” You cover your nose and then you look down at your hand, you understand why he was staring.

Riddle rushes over to you with a hand towel and presses it against your nose while he leans you forward.

“Does it hurt? Are you okay? What did you do??” He continuously asked questions one after another.

Even after you insist you’re fine and nothing in particular caused it, he’s adamant on keeping an eye on you.

“I think you need first aid…” He says while staring at you from the other side of the table.

“Riddle I’m fine—“

“I can’t let you leave, maybe you need a check up.”

༻ Leona Kingscholar

You were talking to him, you weren’t there to talk to him because you wanted to but you just owed Ruggie a favor and he asked you to get Leona and bring him back at Savannaclaw.

He was laying on the floor looking the other way while you stared down at him. “Look, Ruggie really needs you.”

“He can wait.” He grumbled.

“He said right now. Seriously he sounded really concerned when he sent me.” You tried to reason with him.

You went from politely asking, getting angry, whining, then to just pleading. Throughout the entire time he didn’t look at you once.

In the middle of your sentence you sneezed, you felt something drip out of your nose and you quickly covered your nose with your hand.

“Bless you herbivor…” he trailed off and turned his body towards you.

“Sorry this is kinda gross.” You said while covering your nose more.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s alright this will go away.” But it just kept going, with his napkin you had no idea what to do.

He stared at you trying to clean your hand up and also your nose until he had enough. He mumbled under his breath before picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“I’m only doing this because I don’t like the smell of blood. Let’s go to the infirmary.” Though when he said that, you couldn’t see the look of concern on his face.

⊱ Azul Ashengrotto

He was locked up in his office as per usual but you had some business to deal with. You had a temporary deal where to work for Mostro Lounge for money just for a week. Despite being a temporary employee you had the same expectations.

“Azul, please…” You bowed deeply to him. “Just let me go home early.”

“I don’t see why. It’s only been 3 hours and you have 2 more. Why not just finish off your shift for today.” He replied back with a displeased look.

“Because I have homework! I need those hours for studying.” You argued. He simply rolled his eyes and returned back to his paperwork.

“Very well, if you leave though you are terminated and won’t receive any compensation for the hours you’ve worked this week.” He said calmly with a smug look on his face.

You were about to grab him and shake him around. Until you sneezed, you covered your sneeze with your arm and held it there, feeling something was wrong.

“Your sleeve, that’s not sanitary for customers. You should get changed.” He grabbed a tissue and held it out to you. You removed your arm away from your face and stayed silent.

He almost yelled, key word almost, and stood up rushing over to you. “I don’t think this is normal for humans?! There’s so much blood…”

“Sorry I didn’t mean to get the uniform dirty.”

“I don’t care about that.” He abruptly said, “You need first aid.”

Even when you protested and guided you into his seat and pulled out the first aid kit.

[airaibunny]

BRATTY/DEGRADING/ETC SMUT PROMPTS

1. “i can’t keep going” - “aw, too bad. i don’t care”

2. “i dont care who’s outside”

3. “do you want them to hear you being such a slut?”

4. “what if i don’t?”

5. “i promise i’ll start being good, just please…”

6. “make me”

7. “that sounds like an excuse, i want a confession”

8. “you don’t get to tell me what to do”

9. “that’s strike 3”

10. “if you stop, i’ll stop”

11. “no more, please, i can’t”

12. “where are your manners?”

13. “i hear an acknowledgement, not an apology, do you want 3 more?”(the ‘it’ can be anything)

14. “what did you say?”

15. “try that again”

16. “no, you don’t get to touch”

17. “beg for it”

18. “i said no”

19. “i mean, i got what i wanted, didn’t i?”

20. “stop pushing, it won’t end well”

21. “you don’t need anything, you want it”

22. “say it”

23. “use your words”

24. “i can’t understand you”

25. “i can’t read your mind”

26. “could he/she do it better?”

27. “do you wish it was *name* touching you right now?”

28. “take it like a good girl and stop whining”

29. “that’s whining, i thought we talked about that”

30. “sluts don’t get to make requests”

31. “what happened? you wanted this so bad five minutes ago”

32. “stop talking”

33. “did i give you permission to talk?”

34. “you don’t understand how angry i am right now”

35. “be still” - “i can’t” - “yes you can, do you want to find out what will happen if you don’t?”

36. “why are you already squirming?”

37. “cut it out” - “what do you mean? i’m not doing anything”

38. “come here, now”

39. “you can barely speak, so cute”

40. “i’m tired of you speaking, i need something in your mouth”

41. “if i have to stop this car, i’m going to make sure you can’t walk out of it without my help”

42. “you really don’t deserve this”

43. “i didn’t mean to, i’m sorry”

44. “don’t cum until i tell you to”

45. “what if i just leave you here, wet and needy?”

46. “what’s the safe word? you’re going to need it”

47. “what are you going to do? punish me?”

48. “i really don’t care that we’re in public”

49. “keep it up, you won’t like the situation you end up in”

50. “who do you think you are?”

51. “grab the handcuffs and come back here”

52. “no, you’re in trouble, you don’t get to demand”

53. “liar”

54. “stop teasing me”

55. “i like it when you’re mad”

56. “punish me”

57. “are you going to stop me?”

58. “shut up”

59. “no, you started this, now you’re going to finish it”

60. “clean my fingers, this is your mess”

61. “did you really think that would work? cute”

62. “bad girls/sluts don’t get to cum”

63. “can you tell me what you did wrong?”

64. “explain what you did, if you don’t finish before you cum, you don’t get to finish again for the rest of the night”

65. “you’re being particularly insufferable today”

66. “you’re such a fucking slut/whore/cunt”

67. “make me cry”

68. “ruin me”

69. “you’re not in a position to make demands”

70. “if you ever pull a stunt like that again, i won’t wait until we get home”

71. “say that again, i dare you”

72. “i’m going easy on you, you should be getting the belt right now”

73. “what happened to my good girl?”

74. “hurry up, if you take too long i won’t touch you”

75. “you’ll cum as many times as i want, got it?”

76. “look what you did”

77. “i should edge you”

78. “stop moving, you’ll take what i give you”

79. “swallow"

80. "i'll untie you if you're good"

81. “i want to make a mess of you"

82. “you think your begging is going to change my mind?"

83. “i don't care that you're sorry"

84. “don’t argue with me”

85. “you royally fucked up”

86. “you heard me”

87. “don’t make me repeat myself”

[senseichaos]

HEADCANNONS

DATING VOX

Sfw and Nsfw

Controlling. He likes to know where you are and what you're doing and why you're doing it. And if he doesn't like what you're doing he'll come and get you home.

Jealous. Really jealous. He's insecure, we all know this. So of course Vox has some jealousy problems with literally any other man (or woman!) Who looks at you funny. Hell, he even gets jealous of Valentino sometimes.

He likes you to straddle his thigh when you sit on his lap, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and sometimes massaging your legs. He likes the feeling of being close to you.

Anger issues. Not often he will be angry at you but when he is it usually ends in you crying. Or him storming out.

I'd like to think he's a romantic type, bringing you flowers and ordering special shorts on tv so he can show all of hell how much he loves you.

He loves to degrade you during sex, having you bent over his desk calling you every name under the sun as he fingers you open for him.

He can also be the complete opposite and praise you, calling you his sweet little baby as he fucks you nice and hard. He'd then wipe away the tears of pleasure and call you his pretty baby, kissing you softly.

Likes to man handle you, putting you into any position he likes or force your legs open so he can ravish himself in your holes.

He likes to cuddle you after a hard day, either on the bed or on the couch. He'll often hug you from behind and rest his head on your shoulder as you tell him about your day. Times like this you realize how good of a listener he can be.

Enjoys dressing you up in clothes, whether it be extravagant dresses or thin slutty lingerie. Often he dresses you up in blues and reds, seeing you in his colors making him feel like he owns you.

______________

Relationship overview:

Relationship health: 70/100 (he has his own insecurity issues that he doesn't dare to acknowledge)

Relationship affection: 90/100 (he could do more, but he will cuddle you often. Even if he's working)

Relationship sex: 85/100 (doesn't always have time for sex, but he usually makes it up)

Relationship love: 100/100 (he loves you more than words can describe even if he messes up sometimes. We all mess up, right?)

Relationship strength: 95/100 (you both love each other and neither of you want to leave, but there is nothing preventing you from doing so if things get too much

Relationship overview: 88/100 (so what comes with being in a relationship with an overlord. Especially a horribly insecure one)

(requests are open!)

[redrose10]

hi!! im happy to see you are taking requests, i really love your fics. Could we do Yoongi x f!reader, idol exes to lovers au and smut sentence 85? Thank you in advance!!♡♡

Thanks for requesting, I hope this is okay!

<Be My Valentine>

Warnings: Mentions of cheating, insecurities, light smut nothing really explicit, swearing

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

Yoongi has no idea why he is here right now, standing in front of your door tightly gripping a bouquet of pink roses that are wilted beyond saving and missing a bunch of their leaves but at 9pm on Valentines Day it was the best he could do.

He has no idea why he left his own date, a nice woman, but just someone he knew he wouldn’t have a connection with so he ended it early, and came to your place.

He has no idea why the thought of you crying behind that door has his heart breaking into a million pieces.

He has no idea why he has the urge to hunt down this guy he’s never even met and make him pay for what he did to you because what kind of a monster breaks up with someone on Valentines Day.

He has no idea why he’s having all of these feelings because as of June of last year you were no long his to worry about.

Buying you flowers is no longer on his to do list.

He should be worrying about his own dating life instead of pushing it aside for you.

Your tears are no longer his responsibility to wipe away.

And he definitely should not be considering murdering a stranger for you (he really wouldn’t, but the thought it still there).

But when he ran into your best friend at the restaurant earlier this evening and she spilled all the details about this guy you had been dating for a few months and how he broke up with you this morning over a text message of all things, something about not believing in a holiday built on capitalism and not wanting to spend the money to get laid when you should be doing that anyways, Yoongi knew he had to see you because even if you still hate him he never stopped loving you.

“Yoongi I can’t do this any more.”, you cried into your hands. “Y/N, you know I would never cheat on you…ever.”, he spat back getting annoyed at having this conversation yet again. “What’s the excuse this time? Hmmm? Are you producing a song for her? She just needed your opinion on something? She was cold and you just brought her in your studio for warmth?” He rolled his eyes at your attitude.

An anonymous person had sent you some photos of Yoongi welcoming a woman into his studio. While normally you would be annoyed by that you still understood that it was part of his job and you would have moved on.

But at the time he was on his military leave so while he was allowed to work on his own music in his free time he wasn’t allowed to be helping or “working” with anyone else.

“Y/N, she’s a makeup artist with the company. She found a ring that belonged to Jimin when they were doing their yearly clean out. She knew we were going to meet up after Jin’s discharge so she asked me to give it to him.”

“She couldn’t give it to him herself? She couldn’t have given it to someone else who works for the company? She could’ve just left it there for him to find another day. Why was it you?”, you questioned.

Yoongi ran his hands over his face in frustration, “It was an expensive ring. She didn’t want to just leave it there. She was on her way to meet her BOYFRIEND at a restaurant by the studio and asked if she could stop by and drop it off real quick and I said yes. She was in my studio for a total of like ten seconds.”

“Why would they even send me this then?”,you hissed shoving the phone in his face.

“Because they’re shit starters.”, he scoffed, “You know this. They look for any reason to cause drama.”

“I’m done Yoongi.”, you said shaking your head, “I can’t take it any more. I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with this.”

At the time he was so angry and so hurt that you didn’t trust him after all these years that he didn’t even try to stop you as he watched you pack your bags and walk out the door. Looking back he wished he would’ve fought, even got down in his hands and knees and begged if he had to. His life has been hell since you left.

Maybe that’s why he was standing in front of your door this late at night.

He knocked realizing for the first time just how much his hands were shaking. A little smile crept onto his face thinking about the day he picked you up for your first date. Much like today he was so nervous he was shaking, so nauseous he hadn’t eaten or drank anything all day. He had flowers then too, although they were significantly nicer and cost half as much. When you opened the door that night his heart fluttered with how beautiful you were.

But today when you opened the door his heart had a different reaction and not in a good way. Your eyes were red and puffy. Your nose looked sore liked you’d blown it a hundred times.

“Yoongi?”, you sniffled, “What are you doing here?”

The brokenness in your voice shattered him.

“I uh I got you flowers.”, he said watching you look over the sad bouquet. Maybe he should’ve paid for the overpriced teddy bear he thought.

“Thank you. But why?”, you asked brows furrowed.

“I wanted to ask you to be my Valentine”, he shrugged.

When you didn’t say anything else he added, “And I heard about what happened earlier and I just thought I’d stop by and make sure you were okay. That was pretty shitty what he did to you.”

“Yeah he’s a real dick.”, you grumbled.

“Well I hope his dick falls off.”, Yoongi added hoping to see you smile and you did give a little one and it as just as beautiful as ever.

“Umm I just got a pizza delivered if you want some.”, you offered.

The truth was he was full beyond belief after stuffing himself with garlic bread to avoid conversation with his date, but he’d eat a full seven course meal right now if you asked him to so he nodded and entered your apartment.

“Sorry it’s not much.”, you gestured around before offering him a drink and leading him to the living room.

“No it’s perfect. It suits you.”, he said noticing a blush form on your cheeks.

The two of you talked and updated each other on what had happened since that evening in June. Yoongi loved hearing about your job and your friends. He even loved the rant you went on about how your coworker Mia was dating your coworker Han, but Han was best friends with Yongsu who was Mia’s sisters ex and it was a big mess apparently. He didn’t know who any of these people were nor did he care. He just loved hearing your voice and feeling like he was living in the past again. The two of you eating and talking and laughing like nothing had happened.

Then you abruptly cleared your throat before getting quiet. He worried that you had reminded yourself of the earlier events and became sad again or maybe it suddenly hit you that you were spending your Valentines with your ex, but you surprised him instead.

“Since you’re here Yoongi I want to apologize for how things ended. I was upset and angry and I know I should’ve trusted you, but I was just tired of getting messages like that all the time and feeling like I had no choice but to believe you. I was frustrated because I always felt hurt and sad and insecure. I should have listened from the start.”, you sighed afterwards like a weight had been lifted from you.

“What made you finally believe me?”

“Well…I think I realized that I always believed you because I knew deep down that you would never cheat on me. I also….I heard from Namjoon. He reached out to me and verified everything and even gave me the makeup artist number if I wanted to contact her, but I never called her because I realized I didn’t need to. I wanted to call you then, but I was so embarrassed and ashamed of how I reacted that I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

Yoongi noticed the slight shake in your shoulders so he pulled you in close to him for a hug before you could start crying again, “Y/N you shouldn’t be ashamed of anything. The amount of bullshit you had to put up with because of me was enough to make anyone snap eventually. I’m ashamed I didn’t fight for you, try and stop your from leaving that night. I’ve regretted it ever since because I love you so much Y/N.”

Yoongi hoped you couldn’t feel his heart beating a million beats a minute in his chest. Internally he scolded himself for getting so worked up until you looked up at him with wide teary eyes. “I love you too.”, you whispered.

And he felt a rush of relief. He knew things wouldn’t snap back to normal instantly, but for the first time in months the sense of dread was lifted and he felt hopeful, excited about the future even.

“Can I kiss you?”, he found himself asking out of nowhere.

You nodded pulling him in and the kiss sent him into a state of bliss. He felt like he was whole again like he was finally on the path to happiness.

One little kiss turned into two and then into three. Then his hands started roaming your body touching all the spots that got you going. He had me memorized everything about you and it was like you never left.

Gently he picked you and carried you to your bedroom laying you down on the lavender colored comforter. His brain had to fight his body for control as he pulled back to check with you, “We can stop if you want. We don’t have to go any further. We’ll take it slow.”

“No I…I want this. I missed you Yoongi.”, you smiled.

It was like all of his senses had imploded all at once.

“I missed you too.”, he said gently lifting up the tshirt you were wearing revealing nothing underneath. He bit his lip to stifle a moan as you helped him out of his layers of clothing as well.

When it came to sex Yoongi was normally a pretty dominating person. He always made sure his partner was fully satisfied, but he was usually a man on a mission.

But he wanted to take his time with you tonight. He didn’t want you thinking he was only here to use your misfortune and heartbreak as a way to get his dick wet. He wanted to savor every little sound you made as you writhed and wiggled underneath him. He needed to make you feel good and wanted .

He checked with you one more time and when he finally entered you he stilled. Not only because he was afraid of loosing it and finishing too soon, but also because he wanted to bask in the feeling. The feeling he never thought he’d have again. One he could never find elsewhere.

“Please move Yoongi.”, you whined clenching around him. “Sorry baby.”, he chuckled not realizing his daydream was taking longer than anticipated.

Slowly he snapped his hips back and forth over and over. It was at an almost agonizingly slow pace, but he loved the feeling. He almost felt selfish for how gentle and soft he was being with you because he just wanted to relish in the euphoria for his own needs.

As his head hung watching himself disappear inside you over and over he felt you card your fingers through his hair. He looked up to meet your gaze.

“Why are you being so gentle with me? I like it when you’re rough.”, you asked making his movements stall. You looked so sweet and so innocent like you didn’t just basically ask him to wreck you.

“Are you sure?”, he questioned.

“Yes Yoongi, please. Please fuck me fast and rough.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled out and flipped you over onto your stomach before pulling you up onto your knees and pushing your face down into the bedding. He gave your ass a hard smack before entering you again and swiftly achieving a vigorous pace.

As your mouth was releasing a litany of curse words mixed with moans and whimpers and begging for more he grabbed onto your hips at a near bruising strength and smirked, “If rough is what my baby wants then rough is what she’s gonna get.”

[obvithe-bestsoph]

Prompt 85 with pau cubarsi please

No. 85 | "Please come back to bed." PC2

masterlist requests

prompt list (if you request a prompt, please request a player for it as well!) warnings: none.

Today’s match hadn’t gone well. Barcelona lost 1-0 to Real Sociedad. In the last game, in the 2-5 win over Crvena Zvezda, Pau had taken a cleat to the face, scratching himself up real bad. So in the match today, he was wearing the mask for the first time wearing the mask in the match. Training with it had been fine, so he didn’t expect it to be so distracting to wear while playing, it wasn’t enough to impact his performance at all, but he just found it a bit annoying. 

So when he got back to you guy’s shared apartment, he was frustrated from losing the match, overstimulated by the itchiness of the healing scabs on his face and around his hairline, and generally not in the best mood. He would never take it out on you, no matter how angry he is, because that’s not Pau, but the apartment is pretty quiet that night.

You shower separately, respecting his space, although the shower does feel a bit emptier than usual without Pau’s chatter, teasing, tickling and gentle washing of your hair. He’s already in bed, laying on his side, when you re-enter the bedroom, now in your pyjamas. He gives you a small smile and continues scrolling on his phone as you slip in next to him.

After 20-30 minutes of scrolling on your own phone, you reach for the charger and put it on the nightstand.

“I think I’m gonna sleep now, amor. Està bé que apagui la llum (is it okay for me to turn off the light)?” he a small hum to say that that’s alright, and turns his head to give you a goodnight kiss like always. 

“Bona nit, mi nena (goodnight, my girl).” he whispers, pressing his lips against yours briefly. 

“T'estimo. (i love you).” You whisper back. “Jo també t'estimo (i love you too).” He gives you another kiss before rolling over again and turning the lights out for you, but he stays up on his phone.

Having had a long day yourself, you fall asleep fairly quickly, but Pau is awake late into the night.

At 3 AM, you wake up for the toilet, but when you slowly flutter your eyes open, you realise you have a missing boyfriend. Yawning groggily, you head out into the main area of the apartment. Sure enough, there he is, sitting on the edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking slightly.

Seeing him cry, you wake up fully, rather quickly moving to sit next to him. Pulling him into your side, he removes his face from his hands and instead buries it in your chest/neck.

You just hold him for a minute, stroking his hair, kissing his forehead, and rocking him slightly, until his tears stop. After he finishes his little cry, it’s silent for a moment, before you break it.

“Què passa (what’s wrong)?” you ask in a soft whisper.

“I’m just frustrated. The match was crap, I hate losing, and the scabs are itchy but I can’t scratch them or they’ll just break again. I couldn’t sleep and now I’m frustrated because you’re here comforting me and not warm and in bed getting a good night’s sleep.” he replies, his usual cheery tone a little dulled.

You spend about an hour talking with him, letting him vent, occasionally chiming in with advice or comments until it goes quiet again. “Please come back to bed?” your voice comes out comfortingly quiet and persuasive, and before you know it, you’re back in bed once more, a clingy Pau taking the ‘little spoon’ position, something which you’re rather happy about, as sometimes you like to take a turn cuddling him too.

When you wake up again in the morning, properly this time, there is once again a missing boyfriend. You look around the room for a minute, and just as you’re about to get up to go look for him, the door cracks open. 

In walks Pau, smiling once more, a tray of (your favourite breakfast) in his hands. 

“What’s this?” you laugh, surprised. “Breakfast.” “Well, obviously,” you laugh again, “I mean, why?”

“As a thank you for helping me last night.” he smiles, placing the tray over your lap and getting into bed next to you again. 

“Pau, you’re so funny sometimes. You don’t need to thank me for just listening and being there for you. I’m your girlfriend, that’s my job.” you scold lightly. Pau laughs sheepishly and shrugs, “Well, then, it’s just a nice surprise.”

You roll your eyes and chuckle at his new excuse, kissing him on the forehead in thanks. You donate a piece of toast to the never-endingly hungry teenage boy that is your boyfriend, and eat the rest of your breakfast happily. 

Once you finish, you put the tray down on the floor beside the bed, and snuggle up with Pau once more. He’s now reading a book for his classe d'història (history class), but happily let’s you tuck yourself under one of his strong, muscular arms, laying your head on his broad chest. For a while, you read along with him, but eventually doze off on him once more.

Pau reads for a little longer before putting in his bookmark and placing the book on his nightstand. He just watches you for a while, feeling luckier than ever. He kisses your forehead, and gently whispers against your skin, “T'estimo, meu ànima (i love you, my soul).”

[erinwantstowrite]

there is an uptick of people thinking that bruce like. emotionally manipulated peter in LoF? i should clarify that bruce did not do that??

(potential spoilers below)

he didn't know that spooking peter would be related to a trauma response, and peter ultimately wasn't mad at him for that. peter and bruce have been messing with each other since they met and peter started it (hello orphan joke that peter made the first time he spoke to batman). what he was really upset about was that bruce figured out the plan to tell his identity AND get around the spider sense. bruce was letting him know what he was walking into should he do that right then and there.

bruce was very much right that peter wouldn't go near the manor until he was comfortable with bruce, an adult he had only a few points of contact with atp. (also bruce still doesn't know that peter had stalked him and red robin in that one scene and that because of it, peter did know some things about batman and bruce.) even if he was comfortable with the rest of them, they'd have had a hard time getting him near the cave. peter is flighty and he often leaps before he looks. bruce has experience with like all 85 of his children being the same, but specifically when dick was peter's age

it wasn't emotional manipulation, he was just presenting himself in a way that made it easier for peter to feel comfortable around him and that he could trust batman. that's why they played tag of all things. peter would have been a lot more distrusting if bruce hadn't made that step. imagine the conversation about dick being peter's parent, but peter is five seconds away from trying to leave because he's in batman's house

i should also make sure everyone remembered peter's conversation with benny about why batman "doesn't allow metas":

it's a rule to protect metas from shit like this. AND it's to prevent superheroes that don't understand Gotham or how it works coming in and trying to "fix" everything only to make it worse. agree or not, i think it's pretty clear that batman doesn't actually have a problem with metas. he works with them (justice league, DUKE is on his team for crying out loud) but he's paranoid.

this isn't an angry post btw!! i'm just confused by some comments and a few asks i've gotten recently. i'm just making sure everyone here knows that bruce made a guess that peter would want to be on more equal terms with batman, and he was right. he's made a lot of mistakes in the past with not doing that (look at ALL of his robins. especially jason and steph) and he's learned from that

also. it's batman. he's gonna do that in the most dramatic way possible

[alexisntedgy]

controversial take but being a longtime ghosts fan over the past few months has just been watching the captain become increasingly more prevalent in tags and fan content to the point where almost no other character’s stories or personalities are explored and usually if they are, it’s in relation to the captain.

I’m gay, a lesbian, and the amount of fanbases I’ve seen fall to mostly straight women and become a whirlpool of one white, conventionally attractive gay man played by a straight man has been so disappointing. the captain is not the only character in ghosts. he is not the deepest or most tragic character in ghosts. it is a found family themed show. we, gay people, do not exist as tragic entertainment to be fetishised. the women in this show are rarely mentioned in comparison to the captain, Kitty had multiple scenes about her abusive sister, is implied to come from a horrific colonialist background and basically came out as asexual in season 5 and nobody talked about it, Mary died in a way that was so horrific they didn’t even show it on camera but havers had five minutes of screen time and he is everything now, apparently.

it’s to the point where you can’t escape it, no matter what tags related to the show you do or don’t follow. I’ve seen it before with the way the good omens fanbase changed from people who respected this incredible story criticising blind faith in religion with queer characters that inherently further that message into people calling them “uwu husbands” or whatever.

I’m not particularly angry, I’m just sad to see that the internet has turned into this again. I love the captain. I love ben, he’s a fantastic actor that I grew up admiring!!! but the captain is not the entire show and I think we need to think about why he takes up like. 85% of fan works.

[ronearoundblindly]

For every cevans who are the ass men and who are the boob men 👀😏 .. maybe there are some who like both equally?

This...did not at all shake out the way I thought it would at first. More of them lean towards the top rather than the bottom, but the one's who like the butt really, really like the butt. I decided to do percentages in order of preference--the formula shows up as % tits / % ass. Warnings for sexual discussion.

A/N: What a bizarre thing to find myself thinking about for HOURS...

Ransom Drysdale 90 / 10

In a word? Jewelry. Now, an expensive necklace laying just in the valley of your breasts is not the only reason Ran prefers this view, but it's the main one.

Jimmy Dobyne 85 / 15

Breeding kink and lactation kink. Sorry. He's a simple man who is deep-down obsessed with your tits getting bigger because of him and what he did to you. This is a man who enjoys getting completely lost in sex (in his own head though, since he's not using a lot of brainpower to check in with you and your needs during the actual act).

Curtis Everett 80 / 20

He's hands-on, and the simple truth is it's easier to have his hands (or mouth) on your breasts during foreplay or missionary, even doggy-style. Curtis enjoys touch far more than he'll admit out loud, so there's also the simple fact that when you hug, he gets more contact with your top than your bottom, or dancing, or sleeping, etc. There is--and I will die on this hill--something deeply primal aroused in him when he sees your bare décolleté. Somehow that is more exposed and naughtier than you wandering around in a bikini. Not sure how to explain that further. Breasts to neck are just his real estate.

Steve Rogers 75 / 25

I mean, the guy was eye-level with them for most of his life, so yeah, Steve's fascinated by tits. He also finds laying on your chest deeply soothing. He likes the soft, sensual side of showing attention to your tits and loves when they're very sensitive. Don't get me wrong; Steve enjoys a well-balanced woman, and he will dote on all of you. He just...really likes playing with your boobs, darn it!

Important note: read that stat as "25% backside" for Steve's delicacy, please. He won't say the other thing...

Andy Barber 70 / 30

The low-key version of Ransom in the sense that for public and work events, Andy would like to show off how gorgeous you are. It's difficult to really highlight the ass without being too risqué, and he'd be far more angry if a bunch of people stared at your backside all night. He's comfortable being envied for your top half, thanks.

Jake Jensen 60 / 40

Purely a numbers game: he is more likely to be flashed than mooned, so Jake is slightly more enamored by the titties. Apart from that, his answer to the question of either/or is "yes."

Johnny Storm 50 / 50

Always changing it up because he's always on the cusp of getting bored, Johnny goes through phases. However, he is equally and actively interesting in both your tits and your ass in a sexual way which is why he gets the actual number percentages, unlike...

James Mace & Bucky Barnes- Indifferent

Slightly different reasons, but at any given time, these two change preferences. Bucky is more emotional and moody in his affection/attention, so depending on the day, he could be wildly into your breasts or your butt. He could also be really into you doting on him. This could all be for nine-million different little experiences that happened in a day or a week. Bucky can't be pinned down as just one thing--partly because he's been several different people in his life.

Mace appreciates that there are esthetically pleasing versions of body parts, that people have different ideals for those, and that it is nice to have one or more of those ideal exist in the relationship. Mace is also practical. Your body will change over time. Hell, his body will definitely change after months in space, so who is he to point out that your ass looked better one way while he loses 30 pounds of muscle between times you seen him? It's not fair and it's not realistic. He just...can't find the energy to care much about this argument. There are more important things that could be an actual problem if they changed, but your body isn't one of them.

[Enormous gap in percentages]

Ari Levinson 10 / 90

I may hate the phrase but Ari is definitely a 'dirty daddy.' He quite likes a nasty, no-holds-barred fuck fest, and those have way more to do with your lower half than your upper half. Something about your ass being his is also more satisfying than any other piece of you. He's a bit possessive that way.

Lloyd Hansen 1 / 99

Boobs can be fake, and unless he is actually fucking your tits, they aren't doing anything for him. Lloyd feeds off of touch sexually, so it's all about that booty bouncing on him or taking him deep or bruising beneath his grip, know what I mean? Yeah, you do, @ellethespaceunicorn.

Thank you for asking!

[Main Masterlist; 'Who Would...' Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[captainlordauditor]

Anyway.

This is the dickbabs break up scene, from Nightwing #87, in its entirely.

Sections of particular note:

Dick: She [Tarantula] doesn't even know what secret identities are for. Babs: Do you? Dick: Excuse me? Babs: Well, you have been a little on the reckless side lately, don't you think? Dick: Did you just ask me if I know what secret identities are for? Babs: showboating at the PD, letting Dick Grayson and you-know-who run around with the same injured shoulder.... Dick: Did you just ask me if I know what secret identities are for? Babs: ....body-tackling armed maniacs in public restaurants...

And

Babs: I'm tired of this, Dick. I'm tired of fighting with you to let me take care of myself, I'm tired of your relentless energy, and I'm tired of always playing "Remember when". Babs: Oh, and I'm really tired of the way you always look surprised when your ex-and/or-potential-psycho-love-interests-in-costume plant a wet one on you. Dick: Barbara, please. What did I do? I haven't seen you this angry since back when your dad got shot and I came to give you the- Babs: Don't you dare? Not one word about the past! Are you even listening to me?

It sounds to me like while Catalina kissing Dick earlier in the issue (yes, without consent, we'll get to that) was the final straw, Babs has been thinking about this for longer- I'd say at least since last issue when she had to call Alfred to force him to stay still while recovering from getting shot. That was also the issue where Babs finds he goes stir crazy if he doesn't have ways to help, and tries to invent ways to help:

And here in #85, Babs' issue with Dick dwelling on the past comes up as well, as does his recklessness:

We can plant the roots of their communication issues much further, actually - here they are in #77, a full ten issues before the break up, having what's clearly part of (actually given the timing I think it's the start of) a long running argument about secret identities:

Now, this one I'll give leeway - Dick is late, he knows he's not going to win the argument, so he ignores her. But it IS worth noting that Babs doesn't feel she's being listened to on a pretty major subject that affects both their lives.

Also going to note this little exchange in #85:

Babs: Yeah, yeah, you love me. Heard it before, hunk wonder. Can I go back to sleep now? Dick: Actually, I was gonna say I crave your touch with every fiber of my being. Babs: [skeptical expression on her face]: You were gonna say that? Dick: I was. Babs: Even remembering that I can't walk and everything, right? I mean, you're not just daydreaming about the good ol' Batgirl days? Dick: Oh, but you were so hot with that big yellow bat on your chest....

This is, in my humble opinion, a really notable exchange. Babs is expressing a very private personal insecurity - she is skeptical at the idea that her partner can desire her sexually with her disability. This is a very realistic way for Babs to feel. The problem is that instead of reassuring her, Dick responds by making a joke, reminiscing about the past (in her mind, confirming the idea that he's in love with someone she can't be anymore), and signing off. Babs is generally pretty emotionally guarded, so it makes sense that Dick might be caught off guard and unsure how to respond when she does open up (especially considering who he was raised by...) but that doesn't mean she can't be upset by exchanges like this, especially given that Dick frequently brings up a past that is now painful for her to think about.

TL;DR: Tarantula kissing Dick might have been the straw that broke the camel's back, but I really don't think it was the only reason - probably not even the main reason - Babs broke up with him. Their relationship is messy and riddled with communication issues, and that's what makes it so interesting! But Babs has a right to decide she doesn't want to keep fighting for something that's not what she wants anymore.

[bitethedustfools]

New World, New scars (pt 3)

The exam month had come. Yuu was in the living room with books and papers scattered on the table.

His injured hands, which were finally healed by a healing potion, held a pen in a strange manner, slowly dragging it across the paper, stopping for a few seconds before continuing. The hands noticeably became shakier and stiffer.

It seems that the healing potions don't heal everything. The crooked fingers are proof of that.

Still, Grim watched how Yuu struggled before the boy sighed and decided to abandon it to read the notes instead. In Grim's opinion, the writings were pleasing to his eyes, and he could understand them in one glance in comparison to the scrawling from before.

It goes without a doubt that Yuu was very smart and also hardworking. Even that two-toned haired teacher praised Yuu, occasionally giving him candies.

Grim looked at Yuu's hands and decided that he didn't want Yuu to ruin their first exam, so Grim would take the lead. They both are, after all, two-in-one student. It would be awful if Yuu didn't manage to score anything with those hands.

-

Grim noticed Yuu roaming around the room where he was at like a ghost haunting the place. Yuu usually doesn't stay in the same room, and if he does, he usually tries to erase his presence.

So therefore, him hovering around and gazing at him from a certain distance became annoying.

"What are you movin around for? You're botherin me," Grim huffed, looking away from the notes he obtained from a certain someone.

Yuu kept looking at him nervously, his sweat dripping and fidgeting with his fingers lightly.

"Are you sure you're going to do the exam instead of me...? I can do it," Yuu said softly, almost carefully.

"No! I can do it. I'm not that dumb! If anythin, you're goin to make us fail with those hands of yours."

"Oh, I'm sorry..."

Grim saw Yuu glanced at his hands for a short moment before hiding them behind his back, expression down as though he's shameful.

"So sit down! I'm gonna ace this exam all by myself!" Grim huffed once more after he said those words as if it would calm Yuu down.

-

Despite not doing anything troublesome like the exam, Yuu grew even more nerve-wracking just watching by the sidelines, fearing that Grim would mess it up, to which Grim assured confidently and exasperatedly that he won't.

His confidence only soared higher when he received high scores and he shoved it to Yuu, who flinched at the sudden action.

Grim dismissed it. After all, he did a very good job of it, so Yuu will definitely be impressed by it, so he held it up with pride.

"85...?" Yuu's voice trembled, and his eyes widened with horror. Grim heard Yuu mumbling from underneath his breath how the teacher won't accept this and will be angry.

Yuu began to shed tears when he saw Ace's and Deuce's marks but not from happiness as he expected. His expression looked frightened and alarmed.

"Hey, it's closer to 100. That's fine, isn't it?" said Ace, trying to comfort Yuu, who is not participating in the exam yet was unusually upset at their marks. "That's not a terrible mark at all!"

"Yes, it is... Master Crewel is going to get angry..." said Yuu with certainty and fear.

Grim thought that the three of them definitely have the same idea in mind at that time, but none spoke them out loud.

-

Contrary to Yuu's words, Professor Crewel does not punish them, but he does look at them all suspiciously.

And now, it's their turn to be scared. Grim didn't expect that all of them actually made a deal with Azul, that scammer!

Upon learning of this fact, Yuu's expression turned to be even more horrified. He hugged himself, and he began to bite the flesh between the thumb and the wrist, almost piercing through them and drawing blood.

Yuu seemed to be in his own world that his words became incoherent, but some managed to understand a few of what he's saying.

"Cheating, lies, not allowed, punished, beaten, angry, apologize..."

A story formed in their head in an instant, but Grim doesn't understand why they would get beaten for that alone?

His question remained unanswered because everyone who managed to strike a deal with Azul sprouted an anemone on top of their head and began to march to the Octavinelle dorm.

Yuu, despite trembling like a shaky leaf, remained still amongst the moving crowd, looking hesitant, as though he will end up in a terrible situation if he followed them.

-

Grim, Ace, and Deuce didn't see Yuu that much after they started working in the Mostro Lounge. Grim did meet Yuu at the dorm, but he hardly gave any attention and just dropped on the spot and snooze.

He had never worked so hard in his entire life, and that made Grim think that it's not worth making a deal with the devil.

But then he thought of the reason why he accepted, and he can only grumble loudly as his tiny paws washed yet another dirty dish.

Surely... this isn't as hard as...

He yowled as the water splashed on his face.

-

They met again during lunch after who knows how long, but Grim is exhausted that time seemed to blend together. The same thing goes for Ace and Deuce as they all dragged their feet to find their table, resisting the urge to sleep.

Yuu, who is somehow accompanied by a very decent Savanaclaw student by the name of Jack, easily spotted them and carefully sat right next to them. His eyes flitted across all three expressions as though he's looking for something, only to slacken the tension in his shoulders.

It did not last long when the Leeches twins invited themselves in, but Grim no longer took notice of this the moment the twins suggested that there is a way for them to be free.

Yuu needed to make a deal with Azul.

It did not last a minute; Yuu buckled instantly under their pleadings to save them. They all cheered, ignoring Jack scolding them.

"You know, for the first time, I think I'm ready to recognize you as our prefect," said Grim, feeling elated at Yuu for the first time.

The smile on Yuu's face immediately went strained, and his gaze was lowered. Grim saw his still injured fingers clenched tightly on his pants as though it wasn't hurt days ago.

"I'm... glad I'm useful," Yuu said.

Maybe Grim should have shut his mouth.

-

Grim still stayed on the bed, and Yuu on the floor.

Grim slept to the scent of salt and the quiet sobbings accompanying the cold night.

-

Grim sneaked out of the kitchen to the VIP room on the day Yuu came to make a deal, a trail of wet spots formed on the carpet as he made his way over there.

He heard voices, and he, who at first wanted to recklessly barge in, suddenly out of character, stopped to lean on the door so he could listen in.

"...You see, prefect, my understanding is that you have no innate magical power." Came Azul's voice.

"You're not gifted with a beautiful voice, nor are you heir to any kingdom. You also do not possess any outstanding and useful skills. You're an utterly run-of-the-mill human in every possible way. Considering the big ask you're making of me, I would need considerable collateral."

It was insults, no matter how many different angles and how many times he tried to listen. If it was Grim whom Azul had told that face to face, he would no doubt be blown up with rage and yell back.

However, Yuu only replied with two words, spoken softly and without stuttering as though he had known that a long time ago and had long accepted it.

"I know."

-

Since Yuu had put the ramshackle dorm as collateral, they both were kicked out of their only shelter into the cold night.

Ace, Deuce, and even Jack offered to help them. The Adeuce insisted Yuu go with them instead of Jack; after all, Jack is from Savanaclaw, and Yuu and that dorm don't mix well together.

Except that didn't happen.

Yuu followed Jack, and he let Grim follow Ace and Deuce.

-

His sleep that night was filled with snores, the rustling of someone moving in their sleep, and a faint smell of roses that was enough not to irritate his nose.

It felt strange that Yuu was not here.

He was awake for hours and he doesn't remember what time it was when he had fallen asleep.

-

Grim does not know what happened to Yuu that same night. But the next day, he spotted bruises blooming all over Yuu's body that Grim suspected some of his ribs might have broken. There were also a few band-aids here and there, and even the face was not spared.

Grim suddenly went mad over this, yelling at Jack, who followed Yuu guiltily. Even Ace and Deuce joined as well, occasionally scolding Yuu lightly for even choosing the place where most students beat him up.

"I'm sorry... I... didn't want to bother you," Yuu murmured, the injuries making him look even more pathetic.

Their anger didn't last long upon seeing this and told him to come to their dorm instead.

Yuu merely shook his head, "I won... fair and square. I'll do my part well."

Nobody knows what he meant by this.

-

They cornered Jack when he's alone after their attempted to steal the photograph failed.

"What does Yuu mean?"

"Why is he hurt like that?"

"What did you do?"

Plenty of accusations were thrown at him that Jack's stern expression twisted into something complicated.

What left his mouth only stunned them even more.

In exchange to live there, Yuu had to be a gopher and also fight and win. And win he did, even as his body is blue and black and his form is close to a deathbed.

There's no benefit in living there and winning said fight if being beaten up and being a gopher awaited him there.

Grim was right when he said that Yuu was a coward and an idiot.

A coward because Yuu cannot say no so he does what Leona said and an idiot for not realizing that there's nothing good that will bring to him in that place.

-

Despite everything, Yuu still went there.

But Grim supposed that there's another reason why he needed to get what Azul wanted to get the ramshackle dorm back.

-

Yuu came up with a plan on the last day when everyone is starting to lose hope. It was simple. Too simple just like the time he came up with in the Dwarf mine, yet it proved to be effective.

The day they initiated the plan also went smoothly that not even the closed museum could ever obstructed said plan with the help of Ace.

Grim rather liked a smart Yuu rather than an idiot, but it is too bad that this showcase of intelligence is very limited and not available most of the time.

But it was on this very same day that Grim realized just how truly smart Yuu is.

Grim had learned Yuu had done something to Leona for him to join his plan, a second plan that no one in the group knows. Yuu and the rest were simply bait, but who would have thought that both plans succeeded anyway.

Grim wondered why it's only time like this that Yuu started to take the lead when he's usually the one who is following and endured.

-

Azul overbloated after that; his lower half became that of an octopus and Grim thought that everything can be handled since they've beaten Riddle and Leona before.

This proved to be a bit difficult seeing as Azul had stolen half of their magic and used it against them. Offensive and defensive, he had it all much to Grim's displeasure.

Azul, just like Leona before, reached out to Yuu with one of those octopus legs the moment his eyes laid on him. Eyes dilated with anger and hatred, only to replace with malicious glee when he caught Yuu who stood still like a sacrifice.

Again with that.

Grim thought he imagined it last time but he really did it again.

Yuu cried and gasped for air as Azul choked the life out of him while everyone is screaming for his name.

Grim thought Yuu hated being beaten up, thought he's scared of it.

So why is he smiling?

-

Grim never got his answer, feeling quite lost and confused with how Yuu acted. The others seemed to know, seemed to understand what Yuu is thinking even if it's just snippets.

But Grim is not as smart as Yuu, so Grim could never understand what goes through Yuu's mind.

The moment the monster got defeated, Grim quickly ate the black magestone the monster left behind to distract himself.

Yuu was currently knocked out cold on the floor, surrounded by his friends who have disheveled appearances. No doubt, they will scold him when he woke up later.

-

They did scold him when he regained consciousness.

Yuu apologized pathetically and said that he was scared he couldn't move his feet. He shed tears and trembled upon being stared upon.

But that's not what Grim saw earlier. Yet, he kept his mouth shut anyway.

[airaibunny]

GENERAL SMUT PROMPTS

1. “i need you, right here/now”

2. “louder/quieter”

3. “i dont care who’s outside”

4. “do you want them to hear?”

5. “what if i dont?”

6. “make me”

7. “you don’t get to tell me what to do”

8. “that’s strike 1/2/3”

9. “if you stop, i’ll stop”

10. “no more, please, i can’t”

11. “where are your manners?”

12. “what did you say?”

13. “try again”

14. “but the cameras” - “they can’t see us from this angle, if you can stay still”

15. “you don’t get to touch”

16. “i’m begging you, touch me, please”

17. “beg for it”

18. “i said no”

19. “stop pushing, it wont end well”

20. “you look so fucking hot right now”

21. “you don’t need anything, you want it”

22. “say it”

23. “use your words”

24. “i can’t understand you”

25. “i can’t read your mind”

26. “could he/she do it better?”

27. “do you wish it was *name* touching you right now?”

28. “play with me”

29. “you’re such a needy girl”

30. “i don’t think your stage outfits cover that”

31. “let me focus”

32. “sluts don’t get to make requests”

33. “what happened? you wanted this so bad five minutes ago”

34. “stop talking”

35. “did i give you permission to talk?”

36. “you don’t understand how angry i am right now”

37. “you’re fucking soaked”

38. “you make me so wet”

39. “why are you already squirming”

40. “can i ask you for something?”

41. “please don’t stop”

42. “please don’t think i’m weird for this”

43. “i’ve been waiting all day”

44. “does that turn you on?”

45. “i need your fingers”

46. “i want you to fuck me”

47. “do it like you mean it”

48. “scream my name while you cum”

49. “call me mommy”

50. “touch yourself, i want to watch”

51. “come here, now.”

52. “on your knees”

53. “turn around”

54. “bend over”

55. “spread your legs/spread your legs further”

56. “you can barely speak, so cute”

57. “you’re so flushed, pretty girl”

58. “sit on my thigh/face/etc”

59. “lift up your leg”

60. “i’m bored, let’s play”

61. “i can see you staring at my tits/thigh/ass”

62. “if you make me/if i have to stop this car, im going to make sure you can’t walk out of it without my help”

63. “harder”

64. “let me do it”

65. “i didnt mean to, im sorry”

66. “dont cum until i tell you to”

67. “what if i just leave you here, wet and needy”

68. “what’s the safe word? you’re going to need it”

69. “what about you?”

70. “it’s my turn now”

71. “i didn’t mean to call you that, i’m sorry”

72. “you look so pretty on your knees”

73. “what are you going to do? punish me?”

74. “i think i deserve a reward”

75. “your *body part* are/is so pretty”

76. “i really don’t care that we’re in public”

77. “keep it up, you won’t like the situation you end up in”

78. “who do you think you are?”

79. “spank me”

80. “choke me”

81. “bite me”

82. “no, don’t go”

83. “you can practice on me”

84. “this is a one time thing”

85. “i thought you said it was a one time thing?”

86. “we can’t do this”

87. “i ordered us something”

88. “that looks too big”

89. “are you comfortable?”

90. “grab the handcuffs and come back here”

91. “you bought a vibrator?”

92. “how do i look?”

93. “you taste so sweet”

94. “i’m/it’s all over your chin”

95. “do you want to try?”

96. “you’re so cute”

97. “do you think about me when you touch yourself?”

98. “why are you being so shy? it’s not like i haven’t already seen all of you”

99. “can we use a toy?”

100. “can i use a toy on you?”

101. “good girl, keep going/just like that”

102. “you’re doing such a good job”

103. “i’m so proud of you”

104. “nobody can know about this, okay?”

105. “how are you so close already?”

106. “i can see how wet you are through your shorts”

107. “can you be quick?”

108. “please, i’ll finish fast”

109. “use your mouth”

110. “why do you get so shy when i use that word?”

111. “i love your tits/ass/etc”

112. “where do you want me to touch you?” - “down there…” - “say the word”

113. “stop teasing me”

114. “i like it when you’re mad”

115. “punish me”

116. “are you going to stop me?”

117. “on the counter/table/etc?”

118. “you’re the only one that gets to touch”

119. “have you seen the things the the fans write about you and *other member*?”

120. “i don’t care what the fans think”

121. “i really need to finish this”

122. “this is exactly how i imagined it”

123. “is that my shirt/underwear/etc?”

124. “everyone else is gone”

125. “fuck, i wish this room was soundproof”

126. “shut up”

127. “relax, angel”

128. “keep doing that, please”

129. “you feel so good”

130. “your skin is so soft”

131. “kiss/touch me, everywhere”

132. “no, you started this, now you’re going to finish it”

133. “pull my hair”

134. “open your mouth”

135. “clean my fingers, this is your mess”

136. “you’re such a messy girl”

137. “why are you so hot”

138. “fuck, i love you so much”

139. “take off your underwear” - “but, there’s other people here” - “they won’t see you, there’s an entire table here”

140. “you’re so gorgeous”

141. “open your eyes”

142. “look at me while you cum”

143. “do you want me to use my fingers/mouth?”

144. “i want you to keep going, forever”

145. “do you want to join me”

146. “you’re not allowed to touch”

147. “bad girls/sluts don’t get to cum”

148. “can you tell me what you did wrong?”

149. “explain what you did, if you don’t finish before you cum, you don’t get to finish again for the rest of the night”

150. “you’re all mine” - “hm…” - “say it” - “i’m all yours”

151. “you’re such a fucking slut/whore/cunt”

152. “how bad do you want it?”

153. “make me cry”

154. “ruin me”

155. “i want to do so many things to you”

156. “you look amazing, really, but i think i prefer the dress on the floor”

157. “i need you”

158. “if you ever pull a stunt like that again, i won’t wait until we get to our bedroom”

159. “say that again, i dare you”

160. “it’s too late for this” - “you don’t have to do anything, just stay laying down”

161. “what does this make us?”

162. “i love making you so flustered, it’s so cute”

163. “do you like it when i touch right here?”

164. “can you stay quiet if i take this call?”

165. “we could get kicked out for this”

166. “don’t make me say it, you know what i want”

167. “let me eat you out while you do that”

168. “can you teach me?”

169. “can i call you mommy?”

170. “what would the others think of this? their innocent little maknae being such a whore”

171. “shower with me”

172. “put your leg over my shoulder”

173. “there’s no one else here, be louder”

174. “look what you did”

175. “i want to taste you”

176. “i’m going to fuck you against the windows, i want everyone to see how good you are”

177. “stop being gentle”

178. “i don’t care what you do, just touch me”

179. “i want to fuck you so bad”

180. “i want to feel you, inside”

181. “i promise i’ll be good, just please…”

182. “you can’t leave marks”

183. “you’re not going to fall, i’ve got you”

184. “we are not doing this standing, there’s a bed right there”

185. “do you like it when i spank you right there?”

186. “stop moving on your own, you’ll take what i give you”

187. “use my thigh”

188. “if you hate me so much, why are you letting me do this?”

189. “you’re really telling me to stop while both of your hands are in my shirt?”

190. “i still hate you”

191. “this is just sex, no strings”

192. “fuck you” - “well, that’s what we’re doing isn’t it?”

193. “you looked so hot out there”

194. “you can take it like a good girl, right?”

195. “swallow”

196. “i’ll untie you if you’re good”

197. “you heard me”

198. “that was a nice way to wake up”

199. “i want to make a mess of you”

200. “breathe, please”

201. “take it like a good girl”

202. “why don’t you make it up to me?”

203. “you think your begging is going to change my mind?”

204. “i don’t care that you’re sorry”

[mossfrg]

Jersey Gotham pt 2

Small one for this part but I Could Not get this out of my head because it’s the funniest shit ever:

Fellow Gothamites/jersey people are like… 85% positive Batman is the Jersey Devil or some offshoot of that. There’s three “camps”— Batman is the Jersey Devil, Batman and Jersey Devil are same species, Batman and Jersey Devil were/are dating. For the first camp, people just think the JD moonlight as a vigilante cause the Pine Barrens get lonely and he wants to help people.

For the second group, it’s widely accepted that Jersey Devil is rural cryptid and Batman is urban cryptid and they stay out of each other’s ways. Tim, Duke, and Babs in paticukar love this theory and fuel the flames when in costume. (“oh Jersey Devil? No no they’re so chill, Bats has them over for dinner sometimes.”)

Jason, Dick, Cass and Steph fucking love the third group. They tease Bruce about it all the time. Dick has gotten him Jersey Devil sweatshirts so he can “flaunt his mans” (Bruce debated un-adopting after Steph joked that the kids should get to meet their stepfather). Jason goes as far as to implying that Batman and JD have ~history~ and the real reason Superman can never come to Gotham is because JD is jealous (“no fr B and JD were a thing for decades and then they got into a fight and B broke up and moved away and that’s how he met Superman, and then they started dating but JD still loves B so Supes can’t visit but B can’t go to Metro cause it’s too bright and he’d melt”). Cass just smiles sweetly and says Bruce has a type for murder-inclined criminal badasses. Damian doesn’t quite get the joke for a while and is horrified that Bruce is courting “that thing” and not Talía who “may murder but is at least human!” I just really want Bruce debating whether Batman/Jersey Devil or Batman/Bruce Wayne is worse.

Clark makes a comment about the whole Jersey Devil-Batman thing and it pisses Bruce off, and while still angry he’s at a party and gets a bit tipsy; he starts flirting with the official Jersey Devil Twitter account as Brucie Wayne. Fanart is made. “Brucie has two hands” trends for weeks. Alfred, completely straight faced at dinner, gives Bruce his blessing to be with JD, or Batman, “I fought in the war I won’t judge your lovers Master Bruce”

[sineala]

More canon about Tony Stark's secret identity

So I looked this up because @kiyaar asked me it the other day and I knew vaguely where the answer was and that it was in comics I hadn't read, so I read them and I'm presenting my book report to the rest of you, for reference.

The question is: Tony comes out publicly as Iron Man in mid-v3. He also does this a couple years later during Civil War. How did the public stop believing in him as Iron Man in the intervening time?

The basic facts about 616's Tony's secret identity as we all generally know them in fandom:

Tony becomes Iron Man (ToS #39) and promptly decides to keep this a secret. His friends and occasionally enemies find this out, a few people at a time, over the years. There's a span of time shortly after Armor Wars (IM v1 #225-232) in which he fakes his death, but only as Iron Man -- he pretends that the original Iron Man has died and that the guy in the suit now is not the original. This means that he is lying to his friends' faces about being Iron Man, but for the most part he's not fooling anyone at all and all his friends are pretty damn sure Iron Man is still him. There are multiple panels of Steve being like "Tony, I know that's you." (After that, Tony fakes his own death as Tony, eventually coming back publicly in IM v1 #292.)

There are some more secret identity shenanigans in the late 90s (by which I mean the Cap/IM 1998 Annual) -- mindwipes are involved -- but the first big public move is in IM v3 #55. He gives up his secret identity because he wants to go save a puppy. You all know this. Probably.

He also gives up his secret identity a couple years later, in Civil War: Front Line #1, because he's supporting Registration and he wants to put his money where his mouth is.

So the question is, what the hell happened in the middle? He's pretty clearly publicly Iron Man for the latter half of v3 -- did people just forget that? How in the world did they buy that he wasn't Iron Man?

The answer is that this is a Disassembled thing. Specifically, it's in the Iron Man tie-ins to Avengers Disassembled, which I had never read because the only thing I knew about them was that this was the arc that Rumiko died in, and I didn't want to be sad. But it turns out this is also where Tony gets people to stop believing that he is Iron Man. This is Iron Man v3 #85-89.

So Disassembled kicks off in Avengers #500 with the mansion exploding and Scott Lang dying. Tony, who is at this time Secretary of Defense, is addressing the UN when he suddenly feels like he's drunk and starts insulting and threatening the UN representative from Latveria. This, along with many other terrible things, is Wanda's fault; she does this to him with magic. He doesn't know that, though, and the public, of course, thinks he's drinking again. Several of his friends (not Steve) actually think he's drinking again.

The IM tie-ins start with IM v3 #85 after the UN thing has happened, and it turns out that Tony's life is even worse. At this point, he's already facing a lot of public disapproval about the UN thing. Someone steals a suit of his armor and, in #86, murders the Stark Enterprises board of directors. Given that everyone knows that Tony is Iron Man, that Tony has just been drunk and belligerent at the UN, and that the board's shares in SE revert to Tony, everyone now thinks he is guilty of murdering the entire board. There are crowds of angry people with signs, at his house, protesting… him, I guess. The UN/SecDef thing, and the murder thing, I guess.

Tony, at this point, has now shut himself up in his house and is trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with him. He doesn't actually know who has his armor and is attempting to frame him for this, or why they're doing it, but this isn't his main concern at this point. His main concern is the incident at the UN, because at this point he has no idea that Wanda is responsible for doing this to him, so he keeps doing things like scanning himself because he thinks something must have gone wrong with his brain.

This is when Ru shows up at Tony's house, in IM v3 #87. Ru and Tony have been off-and-on, and are currently off, and Ru would like to get back together with him. So she goes in, looking for Tony, and is immediately shot by the guy who has stolen the Iron Man armor, who is also there in Tony's house now. Tony walks in just in time for Ru to die in his arms; she very possibly dies believing that Tony was the one who shot her, since as far as she knows, it was Iron Man.

Then we get one of the key parts enabling Tony's new identity shenanigans. The guy in his armor is still in his house, and in #88, the guy starts fighting Tony. What happens is that he pushes Tony through a window into the swimming pool below. Since Tony's house is surrounded by a mob of angry protesters, he's pretty newsworthy right now, and a news helicopter is passing overhead at the exact moment in time. So now the entire world has footage of Tony fighting a man in an Iron Man suit, who therefore cannot possibly be Tony.

So because of this, Tony is basically exonerated for the murder of the SE board, because obviously it was this evil guy who stole the suit who did all the murders, which is in fact true. So this also plants the idea in everyone's mind -- and certainly in Tony's mind -- that Tony and Iron Man could, theoretically, be separate people. They obviously don't have to be, but it's clearly possible that someone else might become Iron Man.

At the end of #89, Tony gives a big speech to the media. He says he's apologized to Latveria and he's resigning his post as Secretary of Defense. He also says that he's resigning as Iron Man. He says he's just going to be Tony Stark, but "there will always be an Iron Man."

So the story is that Tony was Iron Man. He used to be Iron Man. He admits that. That's a thing people know about him -- no one's been mindwiped of that information or anything this time. But he also swears he's not Iron Man now; he swears that Iron Man is someone else. So if anyone sees Iron Man from here on out, that won't be him. That'll be someone else.

I mean, yeah, he is completely lying when he says that, as we know.

This is a lot like the thing he tried to pull on the superhero community after Armor Wars, but apparently the public believes him this time, unlike how his friends did not. By the time we get to Avengers Finale, which is the last issue of Disassembled, all his fellow heroes clearly know he's still Iron Man -- he's hanging around in the armor without a mask, around the Avengers -- but, as he tells them, he clearly thinks the public is buying this.

And they apparently are buying this, to the point that it's news to everyone when he says he's Iron Man again in CW Front Line #1.

So, yeah, that's how this goes.

Unrelatedly, from #87, here's a panel for your collection of panels about how Tony is really kind of queer.

If Ru thought Tony wasn't ever going to date a man, that would have been a great time for her to say something in reply. I'm just saying.