#if you watched him without knowing anything about him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heeluvv · 1 day ago

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˗ˏˋPAID SESSION

pairingᝰ.ᐟ park jongseong x fem reader ft. lee heeseung

warningsᝰ.ᐟ unprotected sex, oral (f), fingering, overstimulation, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ 3/9 completed!

──

the sky outside jay’s apartment is dull and overcast, the kind of cloudy that makes the air feel thick and unsaid things feel heavier. heeseung doesn’t knock twice—just once, knuckles dragging off the wood like he’s already exhausted by the weight of walking through the door. jay looks up from the couch when it opens, expecting the usual lazy smirk and offhand banter, but heeseung’s face doesn’t match the energy. he looks… off—not angry, not annoyed, just quiet in a way that stretches under his skin, like something inside him didn’t settle right. “you look like hell,” jay mutters, pausing his music with a flick of the remote. “didn’t think she was the type to drain you like that.” heeseung doesn’t answer. just kicks off his shoes with one foot and sinks into the couch like gravity has doubled in strength, elbows resting on his knees, head down. silence hangs in the space between them, long and stiff.

jay waits a few beats, like maybe heeseung just needs a minute. maybe he’s tired. maybe it’s nothing. but heeseung exhales—long and hollow—and when he finally speaks, it’s without looking up. “she left.” the two words come out flat, but something behind them wavers, the kind of break you can only hear if you’re really paying attention. jay’s brow twitches, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “left?” he repeats, and heeseung nods, still not lifting his head. “as soon as it ended. pulled on her hoodie and walked out like it didn’t mean anything.” jay blinks slowly. “and… did it?”

heeseung’s jaw tightens, muscles shifting beneath his skin as he finally lifts his head and leans back into the couch cushions, eyes staring at a point above jay’s shoulder like he can’t look him straight in the face. “i didn’t even talk to her before we filmed,” he says, voice quiet but full. “not really. just… hello, a few lines about consent and angles, and then—” he stops, swallowing hard. “and then we started, and everything changed.” jay studies him now, frown deepening, the smug tease he’d usually fire off noticeably absent. “what changed?” heeseung licks his lips, slow and nervous. “i didn’t wanna stop. not even when the camera shut off. i didn’t wanna let her go.” the words hang there, heavier than anything he’s said.

jay leans forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies heeseung with a calmness that feels a little too practiced. his voice is lighter than before, careful almost, as if he knows whatever thread he’s tugging on has the potential to unravel more than either of them wants to admit. “so,” he starts, tone smooth but softened now, “who is she?” he doesn’t say it like he’s prying. not yet. it’s quieter, more curious than anything—like he’s tiptoeing into something fragile, not wanting to break it before he understands what it is. heeseung doesn’t respond immediately. his eyes stay fixed on the floor, unfocused, and his fingers twitch once against the hem of his jeans, then again, like maybe the answer is buried there in the fabric if he presses hard enough.

jay watches him, head tilting slightly. “you said she posted recently, right?” he prompts, still gentle, still casual on the surface. “just drop the name. i won’t stalk.” it’s a light joke, but it lands with a dull thud in the silence that follows. heeseung doesn’t laugh. doesn’t smile. he doesn’t even look up. he just shakes his head—small, deliberate, a tiny movement that’s almost easy to miss if you’re not looking closely. jay is looking, though. he sees it. sees how stiff heeseung’s shoulders are, how still his hands go after that single shake of the head. the shift in the air is subtle, but unmistakable.

jay leans back a little, eyebrows pulling in. “what—you don’t wanna share?” he asks, the edge of something creeping into his voice now. it’s not judgment. not annoyance. just… confusion. curiosity. maybe even a hint of something else. but again, there’s no reply. heeseung’s jaw is tense now, his gaze still fixed somewhere across the room, anywhere but on jay. his silence feels thick. weighted. like there’s something he’s protecting and doesn’t want to admit to—not to jay, not to himself.

they sit like that for a moment, the quiet stretching long between them.

and jay doesn’t need him to say it.

because they’ve all had their moments. they’ve all talked about their collabs, laughed about awkward edits, swapped notes on lighting and pacing and what works. but they’ve never dropped usernames. it’s always been an unspoken rule—don’t ask, don’t check, don’t pry. the anonymity protects everyone, keeps it from getting personal. and if it’s not personal, it can stay simple. professional. clean.

but this? this silence?

this is not simple.

and jay knows—whatever happened between heeseung and that girl?

it’s not just content.

the realization creeps in slow. jay’s brows lift, lips parting as he exhales through his nose and lets the tension stretch between them. “wait…” he says, the edge of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “no fucking way.” heeseung doesn’t budge. “dude.” silence. “you’re not giving me the name because you’re into her?” still nothing. jay leans back in disbelief, blinking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. “bro.” heeseung’s jaw flexes. “you caught feelings?”

and that’s it. no witty comeback. no scoff. no smirk. just stillness.

heeseung goes completely still.

jay lets out a low whistle, leaning back into the cushions with his arms spread across the top of the couch like he’s trying to fill the space with anything but the silence. “that’s crazy,” he laughs, shaking his head like he’s heard something ridiculous, even though the grin on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “mr. freakshow himself, down bad for a girl he doesn’t even know much of?” he tries to keep it light, playful, the kind of jab he usually throws without thought, but this one lands weird. heeseung doesn’t flinch. doesn’t argue. doesn’t roll his eyes or laugh with him. he just sits there, unmoving, like the weight of the truth is too heavy to shift around anymore. jay glances at him again, this time longer, the humor starting to fade from his mouth. “you serious right now?” he asks, quieter now, the air settling. “like… actually serious?”

heeseung doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to. his silence says everything, thick and loud and final, and jay leans forward again, elbows on his knees, the playfulness draining from his posture. “you’re really not gonna tell me who she is?” he presses, and this time there’s something different in his voice—something caught between curiosity and disbelief. heeseung shifts slightly, finally dragging a hand over his face, and mutters, “no.” jay tilts his head, trying to get a read, but it’s hard to see through it—the silence, the distance, the weird swell of something he can’t name growing in the pit of his stomach. “you think she’s the only one who made you feel something?” he jokes half-heartedly, but there’s a bitter edge beneath it now. “there’s, like, dozens of new creators every week.” heeseung glances up at him then, and the look in his eyes is so bare, so unguarded, that jay has to look away.

he shrugs like it’s nothing, standing to stretch and move toward the kitchen, even though there’s nothing waiting for him there. “you’ll move on,” he calls over his shoulder, like it’s fact. “you always do.” the words echo a little, float into the stillness like he needed to hear them aloud to believe them. heeseung doesn’t reply, and jay opens the fridge, stares inside like he’s suddenly deeply interested in the half-empty energy drink shelf. the longer the silence lasts, the heavier it feels—off, unfamiliar, like the ground has shifted just a few inches under both of them. jay grabs a can, pops the tab, and leans against the counter without turning around. “she must’ve been really good,” he says after a moment, voice quieter again, like the thought is sticking more than he expected it to. “or maybe you were just overdue.”

jay’s apartment feels too still once the door clicks shut behind heeseung, the weight of his silence lingering long after he’s gone. the couch feels cold, the echo of that final look he gave still playing in jay’s head, and for some reason, jay can’t stop pacing. he walks into the kitchen. opens the fridge. closes it again. stands by the window like the answers might be written in the clouds outside. but they’re not—so he does what he always does when something gets under his skin. he sits down, boots up his account, and scrolls through the new creators tab with idle swipes of his thumb, trying to let the algorithm distract him. names flash by, previews blur together, but one stops him cold. @babydollxo.

the profile is nothing flashy—no thirst traps, no bio full of emojis or promises—just a clean layout, a single post, and a display name that’s more suggestion than scream. it’s the thumbnail that makes him click—low lighting, soft curves, a still shot of thighs parted just enough to tease but not enough to show. he doesn’t recognize her. not even close. but something about it feels… personal. the video opens quietly, and what hits him first isn’t the visuals—it’s the sound. her breathing. her pace. the soft, near-whispered moan like she’s trying not to be heard. “fuck,” jay mutters, leaning closer, one hand braced on his jaw as the video loops back to the beginning. “who are you?”

he taps through her page, skimming the stats—no verification, barely a few thousand followers, but the engagement is insane. comments already pouring in, tips stacking, new subscribers flashing in real time. jay scrolls again, watching the preview once more before his fingers move on instinct—hitting follow, and typing out a message without even hesitating.

you’ve got good rhythm. ever thought about collabing?

it’s casual, confident, and quick—sent before he even second-guesses it. he settles back in his chair, lets the video loop again, and lingers longer this time, eyes trailing down the curves of her body. he doesn’t know her. doesn’t need to. he just knows she moves like she’s got something worth chasing.

he lets the video loop again, slower this time, volume just a bit louder, thumb hovering over the play bar like he wants to rewind and memorize every second of the way her hand moves. there’s something about her pacing—unrushed, unbothered, like she’s not performing for anyone but herself—that makes it worse. hotter. more real. she doesn’t show her face, but the shape of her mouth is visible in the soft outline of the mirror behind her, parted, pink, whispering something too faint to hear. jay’s hand slips beneath his waistband before he even realizes it, fingertips brushing over his cock already half-hard from nothing but her rhythm and the sound of her moans. “shit,” he mutters under his breath, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he starts to stroke himself slow, eyes locked on the way her fingers dip between her thighs. he watches the tension in her body, the way her hips roll, the way her knees twitch just before the clip cuts. it’s barely 40 seconds long, and it has him already grinding into his palm like it’s been hours.

he strokes himself slow, thumb dragging over the head, using nothing but the weight of her movements to guide his pace, lazy and deliberate. he imagines her beneath him, same lighting, same breathless moans, but this time his hands are the ones between her thighs—his name the one falling off her tongue. his hips lift slightly off the chair, chasing friction, fucking into his fist in slow, tight rolls that match the rhythm she set on screen. his breath starts to fog the screen, but he doesn’t care. he leans in anyway, watching the arch of her back, the twitch of her thighs, every small tremble that gives her away. “who the fuck are you,” he whispers again, voice strained now, knuckles tightening with each stroke, precum leaking warm across his hand. he’s close, but not rushing—just breathing, just fucking into his hand like she’s watching him right back. and then it happens—just as his eyes start to flutter shut, just as his cock twitches against his grip—

buzz.

his phone lights up in the corner of the screen, and he blinks, chest still rising fast, fingers stilled mid-stroke as the name flashes clear.

────୨ৎ────

the car ride home is quiet, the soft hum of the engine the only thing keeping your mind from spinning completely out of control. you stare out the window the whole time, watching buildings blur into neighborhoods, storefronts into trees, your reflection ghosting back at you every time the light hits the glass just right. your body feels heavy in a way that isn’t just physical—like you left part of yourself back in that bed, wrapped in sheets and tangled in someone else’s breath. your thighs are still sticky, your hair still smells like his detergent, and your phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since he posted the video. you don’t check it. not yet. you know what’s waiting for you there. attention. validation. noise. and none of it feels like enough to quiet the ache still blooming beneath your ribs. you just want to be home. you just want your bed. you just want this night to stop echoing.

you thank the driver and climb out quietly, your fingers trembling as they grip the strap of your bag. the air hits different now—colder, clearer, like it’s trying to sober you up from whatever high your body’s still crashing down from. the building looms in front of you, too familiar, too grounding, and your feet feel too loud on the stairs as you climb. you don’t expect nari to still be awake. you don’t expect her to be sitting on the couch in her hoodie and shorts, blanket over her lap, hair tied up and a mug of tea forgotten on the table. her head lifts when she sees you, eyes widening, expression soft and sleepy but instantly alert. “hey,” she says gently, not like she’s prying—just like she knows. you blink once. twice. and then the tears start rising up too fast to swallow.

“i did it,” you say, voice cracking before you can catch it, dropping your bag to the floor like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “i filmed with someone. like… all of it. everything.” your eyes sting as you move to sit beside her, pulling your legs up on the couch, hugging your knees to your chest like you’re trying to hold yourself together with your own arms. “it wasn’t supposed to feel like this,” you whisper, breath hitching as her hand comes down gently to rub your back, slow and reassuring. “it was supposed to just be money. content. like… a transaction. but then—he was…” you trail off, shaking your head. “he made me feel things i didn’t expect. he made me forget it was even being recorded.” nari doesn’t say anything yet. just keeps rubbing your back, waiting.

“he was sweet,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper now, “and careful. and so good—like, not just at the physical part, but… the way he looked at me. like he actually cared.” you laugh then, bitter and soft and full of disbelief. “and then i got dressed. and i left.” you press your palms to your face, shoulders trembling with the weight of everything crashing back down. “i told myself it was business. that’s what i kept saying in the car. it’s just business. but it didn’t feel like that. not for one second.” nari doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to talk over your spiraling. she just pulls you in, arms wrapping around your shoulders as she rests her chin against the top of your head. “i didn’t want to admit it,” you breathe out, “but i think… i liked it too much.”

nari pulls back just enough to look at you, her brows drawn, voice soft and steady. “do you regret it?” she asks, and the question doesn’t come with judgment—just care. you pause, really thinking about it, your heart still aching, your body still buzzing from everything he touched, everything he said. you shake your head slowly, fingers tightening into the sleeves of your sweatshirt. “no,” you say. “i don’t regret it. i just don’t know what to do now.” the truth settles between you like steam—warm, fragile, lingering in the quiet space nari always creates for you. she nods once, like she understands. like she already knew. “then we figure it out,” she says. “together.”

you stay tucked into nari’s side for a while after that, the quiet between you comforting in a way that nothing else has been all night. her arm stays around your shoulders, warm and steady, thumb tracing small shapes against your arm like she’s grounding you with each pass. your breathing evens out eventually, and the ache in your chest settles—not gone, not even dulled, but wrapped in something that makes it easier to hold. the light from your phone catches your attention when it buzzes against the cushion beside you, and you glance down without thinking. the notification flashes once—

@jayafterhours replied to your message.

your stomach flips. not from nerves, not from guilt, but something sharp and new and electric. you hesitate for half a second, then pick it up and unlock the screen.

the app opens instantly, and the message lights up clean beneath your own.

@jayafterhours: depends. how good are you at following directions?

it sits there like a dare. no emojis. no filler. just those words, sharp and smooth, wrapped in heat. you read it once. then again. and then a third time, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as something unfamiliar sparks low in your stomach. jay’s message isn’t careful or warm or soft. it’s cocky. bold. full of the kind of energy that doesn’t ask—it challenges. and it should be easy to ignore, should be nothing more than another opportunity—but after the way tonight left you exposed, this message feels like armor. like escape. like exactly what you need right now.

you’re still staring at jay’s message when your phone buzzes again—this time softer, quieter, like it knows it’s interrupting something private. nari’s still next to you, her hand resting gently on your arm, both of you folded into the silence after your confession. you don’t realize how tense your body has gotten until her thumb strokes over your sleeve, grounding you like she always does. “everything okay?” she asks softly, and you nod—too fast, too automatic. you glance down, thumb dragging over the edge of your screen, and your breath stalls when you see the name.

@heefreakshow: i’m outside

no punctuation. no lead-in. no warning. your stomach tightens. your chest tightens, breath catching hard as you blink at the message once, then twice, like it might go away if you look long enough. but it doesn’t. it just sits there—steady, waiting, pressing heavy against your ribs. “nari,” you say suddenly, voice softer now, “can you grab me that tea from earlier? i think it’s still on the counter.”

she nods easily, no questions, just kindness, slipping up from the couch and padding toward the kitchen in her socks. the second she’s out of sight, you grab your phone, the grip of it cold against your palm as you move toward the door on autopilot. your heart thuds unevenly as you reach for the handle, and for a moment, you hesitate—what are you even doing?—but your hand moves anyway. you open the door slowly, half-expecting to see no one there—to tell yourself you imagined it, that maybe the message wasn’t meant for you. but he’s there. standing just a few feet away in the hallway, hands in his jacket pockets, hood drawn halfway up like he’s trying to shrink into the shadows. his eyes meet yours instantly, and the world seems to stop moving. it’s the same face. the same mouth that kissed your shoulder, the same voice that whispered your name until you came undone. but it’s different now, too. softer. sadder. there’s something unreadable in his expression, something that pulls at you, something that says i’m not here just to see you—i’m here because i can’t stay away.

you step back without a word, letting him in with a tilt of your chin, your fingers tightening around the doorknob before you close it softly behind him. he’s still watching you—same mouth, same eyes, but something about him feels different now. more exposed. less in control. like the walls he held up on camera don’t follow him into your apartment. “i wasn’t gonna come,” he says after a second, voice quiet, husky at the edges, “but i couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you.” you freeze. not because of what he said—but how he said it. no teasing. no performative confidence. just the raw, stripped-down truth of a man standing in front of someone he wasn’t ready to lose.

“i don’t want to make this complicated,” he adds, eyes dipping away from yours for a heartbeat, “i know you’ve got your reasons. i know what this was supposed to be.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the envelope—thick, sealed, heavy with every cent the video made. “this is yours,” he says. “all of it.” your fingers curl instinctively, but you don’t reach for it. “i just…” he trails off, shaking his head like he hates himself for even being here. “i haven’t been able to stop thinking about how you sounded. how you felt. how you looked at me when the camera turned off.” his voice drops even lower, and when his eyes meet yours again, they’re raw. “you keep showing up in my head—and i don’t know how to turn it off.”

heeseung exhales like something inside him’s cracking open—like the silence you’re holding is slowly tearing through his chest. his fingers twitch at his side, still gripping the envelope he hasn’t let you take, like it’s the only anchor he has left. “i used to think people who said love at first sight were full of shit,” he says suddenly, voice low, almost ashamed of the words as they fall out. “like it was just something people told themselves when they were lonely. or desperate. or drunk.” his throat works around the lump sitting in it as his eyes flick back to yours, soft and vulnerable and scared. “but then i looked at you. and everything i thought i knew stopped making sense.” the envelope lowers. his hand opens. and now it’s not money between you—it’s him.

he steps forward slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast you’ll vanish. you don’t breathe. don’t speak. your entire body’s frozen under the weight of what’s unfolding in front of you. his hand lifts, fingers brushing gently beneath your chin before tracing upward, knuckles grazing the line of your jaw. “you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the softness of your skin. “not just because of how you look. but the way you breathe. the way you speak. the way you left me speechless without even trying.” his forehead nearly touches yours now, his breath warm and unsteady between you. “i don’t want this to be about the fucking camera anymore.”

“let me in,” he whispers, and it’s so quiet, so desperate, that it barely holds itself together. “let me know you. i’m not asking for everything. i just want… something. something real.” your lips part, but no sound comes out—your chest rising hard, your pulse loud in your ears, your mind too full to form words. his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up, searching you, waiting for permission you don’t know how to give. you could push him away. you could lie. you could tell him this is too much, too fast. but before you can speak—he leans in.

his mouth presses to yours with a softness that stuns you—nothing rushed, nothing demanding. just him. trembling, open, real. his hand cups the side of your face like he’s afraid you’ll break beneath him, his lips moving slowly against yours like he’s trying to tell you everything he doesn’t have the words for. your breath hitches. your lashes flutter. and for one suspended moment, there is no camera. no contract. no inbox. just him. and the way his mouth is kissing you like you’re the first thing that’s ever made sense

his lips move against yours with an aching kind of care, like he doesn’t want to rush it—like he wants to memorize every part of your mouth before the moment slips away. his hand tilts your chin just slightly, thumb brushing along the edge of your jaw as his other hand hovers at your waist, not pulling, not forcing—just holding, like you’re something he’s scared to lose. you lean into him before you can stop yourself, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, catching in the fabric of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. the kiss deepens naturally, your mouths molding together with more weight, more heat, until his breath is tangled with yours. he exhales shakily into the kiss, lips parting just enough to let his tongue flick against yours, soft and slow and searching. you gasp quietly, your body pressing just a little closer, like the gravity between you both is impossible to resist. his thumb traces beneath your cheekbone, slow and reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him do this. everything inside you is warm and light and crumbling.

the taste of him lingers sweet on your lips, heat blooming through your body in waves as the kiss stretches out longer than you mean it to—longer than it should. his tongue slides against yours again, a little deeper this time, a little more sure, like he’s just starting to believe this is real. your fingers clutch at the edge of his hoodie, pulling him closer without thinking, your chest pressing flush to his, your breath stuttering against his lips. you hear the softest, tiniest sound from him—almost a whimper, half-swallowed, too quiet to be on purpose. and it makes your stomach twist. makes your knees feel weak. his mouth moves lower, dragging to the corner of your lips, then kissing softly along the edge of your jaw like he can’t help himself. and it’s all too much. too good. too full of feeling you’ve been trying to deny since the second you walked out of his bed.

your hand lifts to his chest to ground yourself, fingers splayed over the beat of his heart that’s racing just as hard as yours. heeseung’s breath hitches, and he pulls back just enough to look at you—his mouth swollen, eyes dark, lips still parted. “i mean it,” he says again, voice rough and wrecked and so soft. “i want to know you.” your heart stutters. your mouth opens—but before either of you can speak again—

“y/n?”

the voice comes like a slap. bright. clear. and cutting straight through the warmth like a blade.

you freeze.

your body jerks back like a switch flipped under your skin, like your name being said aloud burned straight through the fantasy. you stumble out of his grip, lips still parted, breathing hard, your fingers releasing his hoodie so fast it feels like you just realized what you were holding. your eyes go wide as your mind scrambles to catch up, to remember where you are, who you are, who is in your apartment right now. “shit,” you whisper under your breath, heart hammering like it’s trying to punch through your ribs, like your pulse forgot how to settle. heeseung straightens a little, blinking, his expression shifting fast—from warmth to confusion to that same guarded tension you saw at the door. you turn quickly toward the hallway, barely able to process what you’re supposed to do next. “just a second!” you call back to nari, your voice thin and breathless, like you’re trying not to sound like you were just kissed like someone’s favorite memory.

she doesn’t answer right away, but her footsteps pad closer from the kitchen—slow, unaware, still far enough that you can breathe but not for long. you whip around to face him, panic laced in every inch of your movement. “you have to go,” you say, too fast, too tight, the words leaving your mouth before you can soften them. heeseung’s brows pull together, the smallest flicker of hurt in his eyes before he catches himself. “y/n,” he says gently, his hand half-lifted like he wants to reach for you again, but he doesn’t. “please. don’t shut me out again.” your throat tightens, your fingers clenching at your sides. you can’t do this right now. not with your roommate three steps away. not when your lips still taste like his name.

“this was a mistake,” you say, though your voice wavers at the end of it, and you hate how easily it betrays you. heeseung flinches—not dramatically, not with words, just the subtle shift of someone trying not to react to a wound they didn’t expect. “it didn’t feel like one,” he says, barely above a whisper, but there’s weight in it, something heavy that sticks in your chest. you open your mouth, but no words come out—just air, just panic, just silence. the warmth from his touch is still clinging to your skin, but it doesn’t feel soft anymore. it feels like a question you don’t have an answer to. you step back once, then again. and he takes the hint.

“i’ll go,” he says, voice dull now, and you hate it—you hate the way he sounds when he says it, like you’re undoing something that hadn’t even started yet. he moves toward the door without another word, his shoulders square, steps quiet like he doesn’t want to make it harder than it already is. your breath catches as he opens it, just wide enough to slip out, and for a second you almost call his name. almost. but then he’s gone.

and when the door clicks shut, it’s like your whole body deflates.

you don’t move at first—not even after the door clicks shut, not even after your heartbeat starts to slow. you’re frozen there, staring at the space he left behind, like the warmth of his presence is still lingering in the air, clinging to your skin. your lips are still parted. your hands are still shaking. and your thoughts feel like they’re spinning too fast to hold onto anything solid. you press your fingers to your mouth, just once, like you’re trying to erase the kiss from your skin—but all it does is make you remember how it felt. how soft he was. how much he meant it. and how badly you wanted to believe it.

“hey,” nari’s voice calls gently from behind, her steps slow and light like she’s trying not to startle you. “who was that?” her question isn’t sharp, not suspicious—just curious, just concerned. you inhale too fast, turning toward her with a smile you have to force into place, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “no one,” you say, and the words sound brittle even to your own ears. nari tilts her head slightly, stopping just a few feet away, her gaze soft but a little puzzled. “it sounded like someone was here. you okay?” she asks, her eyes searching your face like she already knows the answer isn’t yes.

you nod too quickly. lie too easily. “yeah,” you say, waving it off like it’s nothing, like your hands aren’t trembling from the ghost of a kiss that’s still burning through you. “just… someone dropping something off.” nari hums, unconvinced but not pushing, and moves past you toward the living room again. your shoulders fall the second she turns her back, the pressure of pretending scraping down your spine like sandpaper. you follow her slowly, your feet heavy, your mind louder than it’s ever been. part of you wants to tell her everything—to let it spill out in messy pieces like you did before—but the rest of you can’t. not yet. not when it’s still sitting in your chest like it means something more than it should.

you sink back onto the couch, your hands folding in your lap, trying not to feel the way your heart’s still pulling in opposite directions. “you want me to warm your tea again?” nari asks from the kitchen, casual, kind, unaware of how badly you need something—anything—to anchor you right now. “yeah,” you manage, your voice hoarse. “please.” she hums again, and the clinking of the mug hitting the counter fills the silence while you reach for your phone like a reflex, screen lighting up again with the last message you received.

@jayafterhours: depends. how good are you at following directions?

your thumb hovers over it for a second. just long enough to wonder what would happen if you said yes.

────୨ৎ────

jay could hear your footsteps before the knock even came—soft, steady, unhurried as you walked up the steps to his door. he didn’t move right away. just stood there, watching the blur of your shadow shift beneath the crack, listening to the quiet rhythm of your shoes against the concrete. when your knuckles finally tapped against the wood—quick, confident, not too firm—it echoed straight through his chest. and for some reason, his breath caught. he hadn’t even seen you yet, but something in the way you approached already had him standing a little straighter.

he opened the door slowly, not expecting much—just a girl, a creator, someone behind a screen turned in front of a lens. but then you were there. standing in front of him like you’d always belonged in his doorway. and for a second, jay couldn’t fucking breathe. it wasn’t just the way you looked, though that was enough to throw him off—lips bare, lashes soft, skin kissed with the kind of natural glow that didn't need lighting. it was the way you carried it. cool, calm, but not cocky. like you knew he’d be staring—and you didn’t mind one bit.

he had no idea what to say at first, and that wasn’t like him. so instead, he stepped back. made room. let you walk into his space while he held the door and tried not to think about the way your hoodie rode up just enough when you passed. “glad you came,” he said finally, voice lower than intended, the heat behind it already showing. and still, you didn’t say much—just nodded, eyes flicking over his apartment like you were already deciding if you liked being here.

and jay? yeah, he was already fucked.

he invites you to sit, his tone smooth and unbothered, like this is all routine. your eyes drift over the table—neat dishes laid out already, plates warm, silverware set clean and deliberate, like he’d done this more than once in his head before you actually showed up. the chairs are tucked in, a folded napkin on each side, and it’s not fancy, not showy—just thoughtful. the kind of quiet preparation that says he was expecting you. he gestures toward the one closest to the corner, letting you choose your seat, and only after you lower yourself does he finally move to the opposite side. the room smells like something savory—spiced, warm, familiar—but you’re too focused on the way he looks across the table. like he’s already unwrapping you with his eyes and hasn’t even touched you yet.

“i wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you, “so i made something safe.” he says it with a shrug, casual, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he knows it still matters. you glance down at the dish—pasta, something seasoned and steaming lightly, nothing too heavy but just enough to show he gave a shit. the table feels too quiet for a second, but jay fills it easily, leaning forward with one forearm against the wood like he’s settling into something easy. “before we get into the rest,” he says, tone steady, “i just wanna know a few things about you.” you blink, not expecting that—not after the texts, not after the message that brought you here.

“what should i call you?” he asks, voice low but not demanding, like he wants to give you space to answer how you want. “real name, nickname, something else?” he waits. doesn’t press. just watches you with those sharp, dark eyes like he’s already cataloging every answer for later. you tell him your name—and he nods once, storing it somewhere behind the calm set of his mouth. then he asks another. “what’s your favorite ice cream?” and when you raise a brow, he shrugs again. “everybody’s got one. mine’s pistachio. but i don’t expect you to take me seriously after saying that out loud.”

the edge of a smile touches your mouth before you can stop it, and you hate the way it catches his attention immediately—like he notices everything, even the small shifts. he asks more. not deep things. just enough to make you talk. favorite time of day. worst habit. music you only listen to when you’re alone. it’s disarming. gentle. like he’s peeling you open slowly without ever putting his hands on you. and it throws you off balance, because none of it feels like an act. he’s not trying to seduce you. he’s just trying to see you. and somehow, that’s worse.

he doesn’t look at your chest. doesn’t stare at your legs. his eyes stay on your face like he wants to memorize it before the lighting and the angles and the camera strip it down. “i like knowing things,” he says after your third answer, voice quieter now, like it’s a secret he’s only saying once. “makes what happens later feel less like performance. more like chemistry.” your breath catches slightly, the implication not subtle but not crude. and he knows it. his mouth curves slowly around his next word. “boundaries,” he says, leaning back finally, like he’s shifting gears. “let’s talk about them.”

you sit a little straighter at the word—boundaries—as if the reminder helps you find your footing again. it feels like the only thing you can control in a space where everything else is already moving faster than you expected. jay watches you with that same measured gaze, not pushing, not crowding, just waiting. and somehow, that’s what makes it harder to speak. you inhale slowly, letting the words settle in your mouth before you release them. “i’m okay with most things,” you say carefully, voice quiet but steady. “just… not my face. i don’t want it shown.” your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat as the words leave you, like saying them out loud solidifies them in a way that’s permanent.

jay doesn’t blink. doesn’t shift. doesn’t even flinch. he just nods once, slow and certain. “easy,” he says simply. “i’ve worked around that before.” you blink, a little surprised at how quickly he agreed. “you can stay cropped, blurred, or angled out. whatever you’re comfortable with.” his tone doesn’t falter—there’s no question in it, no teasing, no hint of disbelief. just clean acceptance. and that, somehow, makes your chest tighten. “i don’t do spit,” you add suddenly, a little sharper now, like you need to draw one more line just to see if he’ll cross it. “noted,” he replies, just as calm.

“what about contact?” he asks after a beat, fingers tapping lightly against the table, not impatient—just thoughtful. “hands? mouths? toys? giving, receiving?” it’s the first time the words sound even remotely intimate, and it sends a ripple down your spine, but you don’t let it show. you answer carefully, listing what you’re okay with, what you’d rather avoid, and he takes it all in without interrupting. not once does he smirk. not once does he turn it into something dirtier than it needs to be. he just listens. and somehow that makes your pulse pick up more than anything he could’ve said.

“do you have a safeword?” he asks next, voice low but clear, no edge to it—just importance. you hesitate for a second, your teeth pressing gently into your bottom lip as your mind flips through words that feel right. something simple. something soft. something you’ll remember even when your thoughts are a mess. “peach,” you say finally, your voice barely above a breath. “if i say peach, we stop.” you don’t expect the way his eyes soften at that, like he wasn’t just listening—he heard you. he nods once, firm and sure. “peach it is,” he replies, voice quiet but absolute. “say it once, and everything ends. no questions asked.”

he leans back, letting the quiet settle. “anything else?” he asks, tone a little lighter now, like he’s giving you space to say no. your fingers twitch against the edge of your thigh. your heart’s still racing, your head still loud. but you shake your head slowly. “not right now,” you murmur. jay gives you a long look. not unreadable—but quiet. measured. like he’s still trying to piece you together without rushing it. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, gentler. “i don’t want you to just feel safe,” he says. “i want you to feel seen.”

jay stands from the table slowly, pushing his chair in with one hand and tilting his head toward the hallway. “come with me,” he says simply, his tone softer now—less like a command, more like an invitation. you follow without speaking, your footsteps quieter this time as you trail behind him, your body still warm from the way he looked at you. the deeper you move into his apartment, the more the quiet hum of something personal settles in. the space is open but not cold—walls painted a cool gray, dark wood floors that soften each step, and framed black-and-white prints spaced carefully along the hall. everything feels… intentional. not staged, not overly curated—just clean, calm, and lived-in, like he only keeps what matters.

there’s a faint scent lingering in the air, something earthy and expensive—maybe sandalwood, maybe cedar, something low and smooth that fits him perfectly. the hallway passes a spare room, its door cracked open just enough for you to see a neat workspace with a monitor, ring light, and perfectly wound cords—no mess, no clutter. he’s the kind of guy who wipes surfaces even if they’re already clean. who arranges things by size without realizing it. and now that you’re walking through it, it makes sense. he feels like someone who controls the chaos before it ever starts. someone who doesn’t just direct scenes, but knows how to curate them down to the last breath.

when he opens the door to his room, he doesn’t say anything—just steps inside and waits for you to follow. and you do. slow, careful, your eyes scanning the space as you enter. the room is warm in tone, dimly lit by a lamp in the corner with amber-tinted light that makes the shadows look softer. the bedding is dark navy, sheets smooth and taut, a throw blanket folded at the edge with precision. there’s a small table near the wall with a speaker, a single coaster, and a lighter next to an unused candle. everything is exactly where it should be—but not in a clinical way. more like someone who lives in silence and pays attention to what it tells him.

the tripod is already set up across the room, angled down slightly toward the bed, lens cap off but nothing recording yet. it doesn’t feel threatening. just… real. you were expecting something more dramatic. lights. backdrops. fake velvet. but this is something else. this feels personal. honest. quiet. and maybe that’s what makes your pulse start to rise in your throat again. jay walks past you slowly, crossing the room to the dresser, and opens the top drawer without saying a word. you watch him carefully, still trying to piece together what kind of man sets a camera like that and still remembers to cook you lunch.

when he turns around, he’s holding something small and black, the shimmer of silk catching the light as he walks back toward you. the bag in his hand is delicate—drawstring ribbon, gold threading, and you already know what it is before he offers it out. “for you,” he says, holding it between you like it’s something important. “to wear.” you blink up at him, but his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter. “i saw it in a shop the day after i found your profile,” he adds quietly. “wasn’t looking for anything. just… saw it. and thought it would suit you.”

you give him a slight smile before you speak, “give me a minute?” you say, voice quiet but sure. jay’s eyes meet yours again, and this time he smiles without speaking. just a small tilt of his head, an unspoken take your time. you close the bathroom door quietly behind you, the soft click echoing louder than it should in your ears. the small silk bag is still clutched in your hand, your palm warm and damp against the fabric like you’re holding something much more dangerous. the light in here is brighter—clean, warm-toned, flattering—but it only makes your nerves feel sharper. the mirror reflects back a version of yourself that looks steady, calm, composed… but your chest is tight. your skin buzzes beneath your clothes. and as you lay the bag down on the counter, you realize this moment feels familiar. too familiar.

your breath slows as your fingers reach for the hem of your hoodie, pulling it up and over your head with a slow drag, your tank top following right after. you fold them both neatly beside the sink, more out of nervous habit than care. and for a second, you’re standing there in just your underwear, heart thrumming low in your stomach, staring at your reflection like it’s someone else’s body. you’ve been here before. not in this room, not with these lights—but in the feeling. the anticipation. the tight pull in your gut. the sting of wanting to impress someone who shouldn’t mean anything.

you think of heeseung. how it felt when you changed for him. how you stood in your room, under dim lighting, slipping on something you picked while he waited for you just down the hall. how it wasn’t supposed to feel like it did. how you thought it would just be performance. and it wasn’t. it was heat. it was vulnerability. it was dangerous. and now here you are again—different place, different man, but the same twisting ache curling around your spine. why does it feel the same? why does your body keep falling into this rhythm like it wants to be seen?

you open the silk bag slowly, the lingerie soft and light in your hands as you lift it out. black lace, just like he said. a deep plunge neckline, sheer mesh sides, satin ribbon at the center. the fabric is cool against your fingertips, delicate enough to feel like it might tear if you don’t handle it carefully. it’s beautiful. subtle. nothing flashy—but undeniably seductive. you step into it slowly, one leg at a time, pulling the straps over your shoulders, adjusting the fit around your waist. and as it settles against your skin, molding to your body like it was meant for you, you feel something crack open behind your ribs.

you shouldn’t like this. not the way you do. not the way your thighs press together, not the way your breath comes shallower, not the way you want to step out there and watch jay’s face when he sees you in this. you shouldn’t want to impress him—not after how confused you still feel about the last time. about heeseung. about what it meant, and what it didn’t. but your skin burns all the same. your hands tremble slightly as you fix your hair, as you smooth the hem, as you give yourself one last look in the mirror. “just business,” you whisper to your reflection. and even you don’t believe it.

you open the door slowly, just enough to slip through, your hands brushing down your sides one last time as you step back into the low light of his bedroom. the air feels thicker out here—warmer, heavier, like it’s been waiting for you. the door clicks gently behind you, and your bare feet make the softest sound against the floor as you move forward, your breath caught somewhere between your throat and your chest. you don’t look at him right away. not yet. you don’t want to see his face until you’re standing still, until your heart isn’t racing so fast it might show on your skin. but you feel it the moment his eyes land on you.

jay goes completely still—like the sight of you knocks the air out of him. he was sitting at the edge of the bed, adjusting the tripod when the door opened, but now he’s frozen, hands resting loosely on his thighs, lips parted just slightly as his gaze drags up your body. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t smile. he just looks—like you’re something he’s only seen in his head before this. something better in person. his eyes move slowly, taking in every line of lace, every sheer inch of skin, every soft curve the lingerie hugs like it was tailored just for you. and when your gaze finally lifts to meet his, he looks like he’s trying not to say something reckless.

“fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, the word falling out like it escaped before he could hold it back. he shifts forward just slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, fingers loosely laced like he needs to stay grounded. “you really wore it.” there’s something in his voice—something tight, restrained, too controlled to be casual. his eyes keep flicking between your mouth and your hips like he can’t pick which part of you he wants to touch first. “looks better than i imagined,” he adds, and it doesn’t sound like a compliment—it sounds like a confession. low, almost reverent.

you try to stay still under the weight of his stare, but your skin feels too hot, too bare, too sensitive. his gaze alone feels like it’s dragging fingers down your sides, smoothing over the lace, sinking into places he hasn’t even touched yet. he straightens a little, breath deeper now, like he’s forcing himself to remember why you’re both here. “can i fix the straps?” he asks suddenly, voice softer now, eyes flicking toward your shoulder where the delicate black lace has slipped just slightly out of place. “just the straps.” his tone is calm, careful—asking not assuming.

you nod once, and he rises without another word, his steps slow and deliberate as he closes the space between you. he moves behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body at your back but not close enough to touch—not yet. his fingers reach up gently, grazing your skin as he slides the strap higher, smoothing it back into place with practiced ease. then the other. slow. patient. like he’s putting something sacred back where it belongs. “perfect,” he murmurs once, voice brushing warm against your neck, and then he steps back, keeping his hands to himself.

you can still feel him, even after he’s gone.

“lie down for me,” he says again, a little softer this time, like he’s coaxing the words past your skin. you move slowly, climbing up onto the bed with steady breaths, the lace hugging your body shifting with every motion. the sheets are smooth and cool beneath your palms, your body sinking slightly into the mattress as you stretch out along the center. jay watches from the edge of the room, his movements calm, practiced, but not rushed. nothing about this is rushed. he moves like he has all the time in the world to break you open piece by piece.

he disappears for a second, and you hear the soft click of a switch. the lighting shifts immediately—warmer, dimmer, all shadows and low gold. intimate. like candlelight caught in motion. and then, music. something slow, rich, vibrating low through the walls. it starts with a soft hum, something sensual and aching underneath, followed by a voice thick with emotion, sliding across the beat like a secret. the melody winds around your body before he even touches you. it’s moody, seductive, dangerous. like desire in the form of a song. like something you shouldn’t be listening to unless you’re ready to fall apart.

you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the mattress dips beside you. jay’s back now, his body lowering beside yours, his hand brushing along your forearm with quiet intention. in his hand—black leather cuffs, soft-lined and already adjusted to your size. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain. he just takes your wrist, gently, lifting it with the kind of care that makes your breath catch, and buckles the first strap around you. the second follows. secure. firm. not uncomfortable—just enough to remind you that your hands aren’t yours anymore.

“you good?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. you nod again. “say it,” he murmurs, pausing just before the fabric meets your eyes. “i’m good,” you breathe. then the blindfold. satin, black, impossibly soft. he holds it above your eyes for a moment, his voice barely above the hum of the song when he speaks. “say it again,” he murmurs. “i’m good,” you whisper, lips parted, chest rising. and with that, the world goes dark. the music swells. your body buzzes.

you feel everything more sharply now—the way the sheet slides against your thighs, the soft brush of air across your stomach, the subtle shift of the mattress as he stands and steps away. the music pulses like a heartbeat, slow and full of heat, the vocals dragging out in a way that makes your lungs feel tight. and then, the faint sound of glass. a bottle being unstoppered. something being warmed. your body tenses, even as your breath grows slower, heavier. you're not afraid. but you are open. waiting.

the first drop lands just below your collarbone. warm. sharp. a sting that spreads and melts as fast as it came. your mouth parts in a silent gasp, your back arching as the sensation ripples across your chest. it’s followed by another—slower this time, deeper. your body jerks slightly against the cuffs, your breath catching as heat coils low in your stomach. and then, his voice—quiet, close, wrecked in the best way. “too much?” he asks, his breath ghosting over your shoulder. you shake your head, pulse thudding wildly beneath your skin. “good girl,” he murmurs, and the next drop comes before you’re ready.

his fingers hover just above your ribs, tracing the fresh trail of wax he’s left behind, not touching—not quite—just following the shape of the cooling heat like he’s painting with his breath. your back arches slightly, hips pressing deeper into the mattress as your bound wrists tug gently against the cuffs. the blindfold robs you of sight, but it sharpens everything else—the sound of the song still melting through the speakers, the rhythm low and slow, the singer’s voice drawn out in pure seduction. the room smells like warmth, like candle wax and skin, like want. your skin tingles in every direction, but he hasn’t even touched you where it aches the most. not once.

“you’re so sensitive,” jay says quietly, voice curved with something dark, something proud. he lets one fingertip finally graze over a spot where the wax has cooled—a slow, deliberate line that drags across your sternum, up the swell of your chest. your stomach clenches, a whimper caught in your throat as he drags it downward again, pausing just above your navel. “you feel everything, don’t you?” he murmurs, like he’s marveling, like he’s falling in love with the way your body moves beneath his. “but i haven’t even touched you.” his voice is warm honey over ice, and it makes your thighs twitch.

another pour. hotter this time. it hits just beside your hip, then crawls inward, a path of liquid fire that fades into a cruel, pulsing throb. your toes curl, breath catching hard in your throat as your back arches again, body fully open and helpless to the rhythm he’s set. “please—” you breathe, voice thin and unsure, but you don’t know what you’re asking for yet. “please what?” jay’s mouth is near your ear now, close enough that you can feel his smile. “you don’t even know what you want, baby.” he laughs, soft and low, and you swear the sound is almost worse than the heat.

his hands return—not between your legs, not to your breasts—just to your waist, where he spreads his fingers slowly along your sides like he’s claiming you inch by inch. the pads of his thumbs rub light circles into the bone beneath your skin, grounding you, teasing you, keeping you right where he wants you. “you take pain so well,” he murmurs, and then another line of wax pours across the top of your thigh—too close. too close, but not close enough. your whole body trembles, wrists straining against the cuffs as you gasp out his name. not loud. not sharp. just needy.

you feel it before you realize what it is—his breath on your inner thigh, his hands pressing your legs gently open farther, farther, like he’s worshipping the space between them. but still, he doesn’t touch. “i could make you come with just my voice,” he says, not cocky—confident. capable. and you believe him. because your body is already falling apart, already pulsing around nothing, already begging him without the words. “but i want you to ask me.” his lips brush the inside of your leg, not a kiss—just air. “i want you to beg me.”

your pride tries to hold on. it claws at your throat, tries to press your mouth shut. but your body betrays you. your hips lift without permission, your moan slipping free like it’s been waiting for this moment. “jay—please,” you gasp, voice raw now. “please, fuck, please touch me.” it’s broken. breathless. real. and it’s everything he was waiting for.

he doesn’t give you a warning. doesn’t make a show of it. he just moves—fluid and silent, settling between your thighs like he’s done it before in a dream he’s finally gotten to touch. your skin is slick with heat, glowing with wax and want, and he breathes you in like your scent alone is enough to wreck him. his hands slide beneath your thighs, palms warm, strong, tilting your hips upward just slightly so you’re perfectly open, perfectly framed, perfectly his. the first brush of his mouth is featherlight, almost nothing—just lips grazing over your inner thigh, barely touching your cunt, just enough to make you sob through gritted teeth. “so fucking pretty,” he murmurs against your skin.

his hands return to your waist without a sound, no command or question leaving his lips—just touch, warm and steady as his fingers slide over the edge of the lace that still clings to your body. you twitch slightly beneath him, the blindfold making every brush of his fingertips feel sharper, more exposed, and when his thumbs dip beneath the fabric, you realize what he’s doing—but you don’t stop him. he moves slowly, deliberately, not yanking or rushing, but peeling the lingerie off your skin like it’s something delicate, something earned. the lace folds away from your hips, dragged down inch by inch, baring more of your skin to the air, and your chest rises involuntarily when he shifts the straps off your shoulders. he eases the piece down your body, taking the time to trace every inch that’s revealed—his knuckles grazing your ribs, the curve of your waist, the crease of your thighs. when it finally slips free from your ankles, you feel more naked than you’ve ever been.

his hands return just as slowly, palms spreading up the backs of your thighs before gliding to your hips, like he’s reacquainting himself with skin he’d already claimed. he doesn’t speak. he doesn’t rush. he just takes in the sight of you—bare, breathless, bound beneath him, blind to everything but the beat of your own heart and the sound of his breathing. the song continues behind him, velvet-rich and dangerous, the lyrics curling through the shadows of the room like temptation: “bring your body, baby…” your lips part, your legs twitch, but he doesn’t move to fill the space between them—not yet. he just touches. lets the pads of his fingers skim the edges of your thighs, your stomach, the sides of your breasts, without truly settling anywhere. just to feel you.

the air is thick now, heavy with unspoken tension, and your body is buzzing, aching, completely at his mercy. you don’t know what’s coming next—his mouth, his fingers, another pour of wax—but you know that whatever it is, he’ll give it to you slowly. your skin still remembers the sting of the heat from earlier, the way your body pulsed with every drop, and now—now—without anything between you, it feels like every inch of your body is begging to be touched. your wrists flex against the cuffs, more reflex than restraint, and your breath comes out in a shaky exhale you hadn’t meant to release. his hands settle on your thighs again, fingers curling gently as he pushes them wider.

he licks a long, slow stripe through your folds that has your back arching off the bed. it’s not just the contact—it’s the way he does it, the reverence in his pace, the softness in his grip, like he’s worshipping something he thought he’d never be allowed to touch.

he doesn’t rush. he doesn’t groan. he doesn’t perform for the camera. he just devours. his tongue works in long, controlled strokes, collecting slick like it’s the only thing he needs to breathe, licking deep and purposeful like he’s trying to memorize how you taste. your head spins beneath the blindfold, your hands tugging uselessly against the cuffs as your body trembles beneath the weight of everything. you can’t see him, but you can feel the way he watches every twitch, every gasp, every time your thighs clench in his hands. he hums against you, not loud, not obnoxious—just pleased, like he’s satisfied with how quickly you’re unraveling under him. and when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking slow and tight, you cry out so loud it barely sounds like your voice.

you’re so close so fast, too fast, and he knows it. knows because he slows down again—easing the pressure, dragging his tongue in lazy circles that make your hips jerk in frustration. “not yet,” he breathes into your skin, and it doesn’t even sound like a tease. it sounds like a rule. like a command you’re meant to obey without argument. the music is still playing behind him—“just let me motherfucking love you…”—but it’s all a blur now, a background heartbeat to the way he laps you back up like he missed you between each breath. his fingers trail up your thigh slowly, slick with the wax he laid earlier, and it’s not until one dips between your folds that your breath stutters in your chest.

he slides in with ease, your body more than ready, and his tongue doesn’t stop. his mouth stays on your clit, soft and sucking, drawing it between his lips while he curls his finger just right, just enough to make your vision flash white behind the blindfold. “fuck—jay—” you gasp, thighs shaking now, unable to stay still under the rhythm of his mouth and hand. “please, I’m gonna—I need to—” your words dissolve into moans, into nonsense, because he doesn’t let up. he keeps going, steady and cruel, another finger joining the first with a wet slide that makes you whimper like a fucking prayer. he groans low when he feels you clench, not for show, but from hunger—he likes how tightly your body reacts to him. he lives for it.

you’re falling apart now. your hips are bucking, your legs twitching, your fingers digging into empty air as you gasp through another moan that cracks at the edges. “please let me—please let me cum,” you beg, your voice wrecked and wet and half-sobbing. and only then—only then—does jay lift his head. his fingers stay inside you, slow and curling, keeping you trembling just at the edge while his mouth ghosts over your thigh. “you want to cum?” he asks, voice low, ragged, almost teasing—but not cruel. “then beg louder, babydoll. i want the camera to hear how fucking desperate you are.”

his mouth returns without a word, settling between your thighs like he belongs there, like there’s nowhere else in the world he wants to be. you feel the soft exhale of his breath fan across your soaked folds, the warmth of it a cruel tease before the first drag of his tongue lands—slow, deliberate, curling through you like he’s savoring the very first taste. your entire body jolts against the cuffs, your mouth falling open in a choked moan as he licks again—longer this time, deeper. he just devours, each stroke of his tongue more intentional than the last, like he’s studying you. like he wants to memorize what makes your thighs twitch, what makes your breath skip, what makes you gasp his name with that tiny shake in your voice.

your legs are trembling already, wide open and held there by his firm grip, and when his lips wrap around your clit—sucking slow, tight, deep—you feel your whole body lurch off the bed. the blindfold only makes it worse—makes it better—because you can’t see it coming, can’t predict how fast or how gentle he’ll be, can’t do anything but feel everything all at once. “fuck—jay—” you cry, and he only hums in response, the vibration shooting straight through your core. his tongue works circles around your clit, soft and teasing, then firmer, faster, until your hips are grinding helplessly into his mouth, searching for more friction, more pressure, more anything. he pulls back just enough to slide a finger into you—then two—slow and curling, the stretch perfect, unbearable, perfect.

you’re right there. right fucking there. your walls pulsing around his fingers, your moans growing louder, messier, no longer soft or shy but wrecked, raw, real. your hips rock into him without grace, your body flushed and burning, but just as your orgasm starts to crest—he pulls away. completely. his mouth, his fingers, his heat—all gone. and you sob. a real, desperate sob that breaks out of your throat without warning, your back arching as your hands pull helplessly against the cuffs. “no—please—please,” you gasp, voice shaking. “i was so close—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

he gives you no mercy. not yet. he returns to you slowly, his mouth brushing your clit with a soft kiss before his tongue drags over it again—firm this time, relentless. his fingers reenter you with no hesitation, curling with perfect rhythm, and now he doesn’t let up. he fucks you with his mouth like it’s what he was made to do, devouring every sound you make, every clench, every broken cry that escapes you. “you gonna cum for me now, babydoll?” he breathes against your skin. “gonna give it to me this time?” your only answer is a gasp—then a moan—then your whole body snaps, orgasm crashing over you so hard you cry out his name, thighs shaking violently, breath punching out of your lungs like it’s been ripped from your core.

he doesn’t stop. not when you cum. not when you beg. not when your voice breaks. he slows only slightly, mouth and fingers still working you through it—drawing it out, dragging wave after wave from your twitching body until it becomes too much, too sharp, too deep. tears are slipping from beneath the blindfold now, your voice hoarse as you sob through your second orgasm, overstimulated, unable to breathe without moaning. your cunt clenches around his fingers again, your cries turning into pleas as your thighs try to close, but he doesn’t let you. he holds you open. makes you take it. makes you fall apart again and again and again.

when he finally lets up, his fingers slip from you with a wet drag, and you collapse into the sheets—limp, slick, ruined. your chest rises in shaky pulls of air, your skin still twitching in places you didn’t know could feel, your wrists tugging instinctively against the cuffs even though you’re not trying to move. he doesn’t speak, not right away. you feel the bed shift beneath you as he moves, crawling up your body with a slowness that makes you ache in a different way. he’s not touching you—not yet—but his presence hovers, warm and close and overwhelming. then, you feel it. his breath against your mouth. the faintest graze of lips against yours. not a kiss. not quite.

your breath catches like a sob. you lean up the smallest amount, chasing the touch you can’t see, but his mouth barely brushes yours again and then pulls away. it’s cruel. gentle, but cruel. “please,” you whisper, voice so hoarse it barely comes out. your lips part again, desperate, trembling. “kiss me… please…” and finally, finally, he gives you what you ask for.

his lips press into yours, slow and full, his hand cradling the side of your face like you’re something breakable, like he wants to hold you still while he kisses the breath right out of you. there’s nothing rushed in it—no heat, no show. just intimacy. just need. he kisses you like he’s been thinking about it since the moment he opened the door. your legs fall open again, welcoming the weight of him, your body leaning into every inch of contact like you’ve been starving for it. his kiss deepens, tongue slipping slow and warm into your mouth, and you whimper under the blindfold, too fucked-out to hide how much you want it.

when he pulls away, you feel cold for only a second before you hear it—the low rustle of clothing, the quiet unbuckle of a belt, the unmistakable slide of denim down long, toned legs. your body tenses with anticipation, still aching in the best way, still sensitive and exposed and so ready for whatever comes next. you don’t need to see to know he’s watching you—all of you—the flush of your skin, the tremble in your thighs, the slick between your legs that’s already waiting for him. you hear the shift of fabric, then silence. and then, the weight of him between your legs again.

thick, warm, heavy against your thigh.

the mattress dips beneath his knees as he moves in closer, and your breath catches when you feel it—him, thick and heavy, dragging slowly along your inner thigh. he doesn’t push forward, doesn’t press in. just lets the head of his cock rest there, warm and slick against your oversensitive skin. the moment it brushes your folds—barely catching—you cry out, hips jolting up in instinct. but he doesn’t move. just stays right there, not giving you anything more.

he watches the way you strain beneath him, every inch of you open and ready, your wrists twitching against the cuffs like you’d reach for him if you could. your blindfold is soaked now, a tear trail drying on your cheek, your mouth parted in silent desperation. he slides the tip down slowly, catching just slightly at your entrance, then pulls back—barely there, not enough, and yet you whimper like it’s breaking you. he repeats the motion again, slower this time, teasing over your clit and down, dragging himself through your slick folds with lazy precision. and all the while? he says nothing. doesn’t praise you. doesn’t mock you. just lets you feel every aching inch without giving in.

your body bucks, hips rolling, trying to take more than he’s giving, but his hands move to your waist—firm, steady, holding you still. “please,” you gasp, voice cracked and wrecked. “please, jay, just—” but he hushes you with a kiss to your collarbone, soft and featherlight, and keeps grinding the thick head of his cock right where you want it most. never pushing in. just letting you suffer with the knowledge that he could—he just won’t.

he brings the tip back to your entrance again and pauses. and you feel it so clearly now—the pressure, the fullness that isn’t there yet but could be, the stretch you’re aching for. you try to speak, but your words come out as a sob, a moan, a broken little sound that barely qualifies as language. and then he does it again—rolls his hips just right so the head of his cock nudges your hole, teasing a shallow push that makes your breath stop entirely. your back arches, your thighs clamp instinctively around his waist, and your voice breaks. “fuck— please let me feel you. please… i want it, i want you inside—i need it so bad, jay—please.”

he hums, low and deep in his throat, like that’s the sound he’s been waiting for.

he doesn’t say anything—not when you beg, not when your hips buck up again in desperation—but his hands shift on your waist, grip tightening slightly like he’s finally giving in. you feel it in your gut first—the silence, the way the moment holds its breath, and then… the pressure. a slow, steady push, the thick head of his cock stretching your entrance open, and your breath leaves you in a single, shattered moan. he eases in with unbearable control, the kind that feels like his entire body is tense with restraint, letting you feel every inch as he sinks deeper, deeper, until your walls pulse and flutter helplessly around him. your mouth falls open. your thighs shake. your fingers flex in the cuffs above your head like you need something to hold onto—but all you have is him.

he moves slowly—so slowly it feels like time is breaking apart—his cock dragging along your inner walls in a stretch that’s equal parts bliss and pain, every inch carved into your body like it belongs there. “fuck,” he finally breathes, voice wrecked now, low and strained as he bottoms out completely, hips pressing flush against yours. “you feel—fuck—you feel unreal.” but you can’t respond. can’t speak. all you can do is feel, the thick weight of him buried inside you making it impossible to think, impossible to breathe. your body clenches tight, and he groans again, low and broken, like he’s losing himself just trying to stay still.

you’re soaked—beyond soaked, your slick coating his cock, dripping down your thighs, the sounds between you filthy and wet every time he moves. and still, he doesn’t fuck you. not yet. he holds there, deep and unmoving, letting you adjust, letting you fall apart around the stretch, like he knows this moment means something more than just release. and you feel it—god, you feel it everywhere. your chest is heaving, your toes curled, your head tossed back against the pillow even though you can’t see anything. you’re pinned, cuffed, blindfolded, full—and for the first time tonight, you feel the beginning of surrender settle into your bones.

“you still with me?” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, his voice a tether to reality. you nod quickly, but that’s not enough. “words,” he whispers again, kissing the corner of your mouth. “i’m with you,” you breathe, voice hoarse. “i’m so with you. please don’t stop.”

he kisses you one more time—slow, tender, like a thank-you—and then he starts to move.

he moves inside you like he’s savoring it—like you’re the first person he’s ever touched, and he doesn’t want to miss a single second of what your body feels like wrapped around him. his hips roll slow, deliberate, dragging his cock out until only the head remains before sliding back in with a pressure that makes your eyes roll beneath the blindfold. it’s not hard. it’s not fast. but it’s devastating. every thrust lands deep, slow and punishing in the best way, the kind of rhythm that makes your chest ache and your breath shake in your lungs. your wrists strain above your head, but there’s no fight in it—only the overwhelming need to hold onto something as he pushes in again, and again, and again. he doesn’t say a word. doesn’t rush. just groans softly under his breath, like you’re pulling the sounds out of him without trying. like he’s been quiet for so long he forgot what it’s like to feel this way.

his hands hold your hips like he’s afraid to let go, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your thighs as he thrusts into you with the kind of care that feels dangerous. his cock fills you perfectly, stretching you out slow and deep, the drag of him along your inner walls making you feel every inch, every pulse, every tremble that ripples through your core. your body sings with it—raw and sensitive, already pushed past its limit, but craving more now that he’s giving it to you like this. like you matter. like you’re not just a girl cuffed to his bed, but something more—something precious. the air between you is thick with heat and the soft sound of your moans, your slick, the soft catch of breath each time he presses deeper. the music hums in the background, nearly forgotten—but the weight of the moment sits heavy in the rhythm of his body against yours.

he leans over you as he moves, chest brushing yours, his breath warm on your cheek, and it makes you feel consumed. like he’s not just inside you, but around you. wrapped into the cuffs. buried in the heat. woven between the gasps you can’t hold in. he presses a kiss to your jaw, then your temple, his pace never faltering as he sinks in deeper, grinding at the bottom like he wants to stay inside you forever. and the worst part—the best part—is how your body welcomes it. how you open more. cling more. beg silently for all of him. you whisper his name like it’s the only word left in your mouth, like you need him to know that you’re here—ruined, wrecked, and still desperate for more.

“you’re doing so good,” he finally says, voice so low it barely registers past the haze of pleasure blooming behind your ribs. “so good for me.” and that alone almost breaks you. it’s not praise for the camera. not some performative moan. it’s real, soft and meant only for you, and it hits something raw and deep beneath your skin. you whimper, body trembling beneath him, and his hand slides up your ribs, smoothing over the side of your breast before cupping your jaw with a tenderness that feels like it could kill you. he kisses your cheek and pushes in deep—slow, grinding, perfect—and you cry out again, your orgasm building back like you never even came the first time.

you don’t know how much more you can take—but his body never stops. his hips roll in that same rhythm, slow and deliberate, dragging his cock deep with every thrust like he’s trying to press into the parts of you untouched by anything before him. you’re trembling everywhere, your thighs slick and sticky, your wrists limp in the cuffs above you. and somehow, with his chest against yours, his mouth pressed to your temple, and his cock pulsing deep inside you—you feel safe. he kisses you again. not your lips this time, but your jaw. your cheek. your neck. each one softer than the last, like he’s pouring warmth into your skin. “you’re doing so good,” he whispers again, and you feel your chest tighten with it.

he adjusts his angle slightly, and the next thrust hits something sharp, something soft—something that makes your back arch and a moan claw its way from your throat. he feels it too. you feel his groan against your neck as he holds you tighter, keeps his pace just the same, grinding deeper instead of faster. and it ruins you. your whole body clenches around him, walls fluttering with every drag of his cock, and you whimper his name again, voice barely there. “you can let go,” he murmurs, breath heavy against your ear. “come for me, baby. just like that. let me feel it.” and you do. your body gives up everything.

your orgasm rolls through you like it’s weeping—a slow, full-bodied release that shakes your legs, curls your toes, makes your chest rise in stuttering waves as heat floods your veins. you cry out, not loud, but broken—soft and wet and trembling as your cunt clenches tight around him, milking every inch with desperate pulses you can’t stop. you feel like you’re floating, your body no longer your own, every nerve lit and raw and alive. tears slip from under the blindfold again, but it’s not pain. it’s everything—the stretch, the tenderness, the way his hand slides up to cradle the back of your head as he kisses your forehead through it.

“that’s it,” he whispers, still deep inside you, his thrusts slowing but not stopping. “just like that. you’re so good for me.” and god, it shatters you. your hips twitch helplessly, aftershocks trembling through your core, and you can’t even speak anymore—you just whimper, letting him keep you full, letting him rock into you with every ounce of patience he has left. his hand strokes over your jaw, your cheek, his lips brushing over the sweat-slicked skin above your blindfold like he wants to kiss every single place he can’t see.

he pulls out slow, one last deep roll of his hips before his cock slips from your body with a slick sound that makes your whole body twitch. you whine at the sudden emptiness, at the cool air brushing over your soaked thighs, at the way your cunt clenches around nothing now. but he’s already shifting, already rising onto his knees beside you. you can’t see him—but you can feel the heat rolling off his skin, hear the way his breath shudders in his chest, how his hand wraps tight around the base of his cock with a slick grip that makes your mouth fall open on instinct. he strokes himself slow at first, his breath thick with restraint, and you can tell—he’s been holding back for so long. for you.

he leans over you slightly, one hand braced beside your shoulder while the other works himself in long, steady strokes, each movement dragging a low groan from deep in his chest. “fuck,” he hisses, voice rough now, shaking, “you’re so fucking perfect.” your cheeks are flushed, blindfold still in place, mouth parted and waiting like it’s instinct—and when he sees you like that, spread and ruined and still needing, something cracks in him. “open your mouth, baby,” he breathes. “wanna see it. wanna come all over that pretty face.” and your lips part wider, a soft whimper slipping out as you tilt your chin up in obedience, wrists still tied above you, body too wrecked to move but so ready to take more.

his rhythm speeds up—rougher now, needier, the slick sound of him pumping into his own hand echoing through the room as he kneels beside your face. his breath breaks. his hips stutter. and then—he spills. hot, thick ropes across your cheek, your jaw, your lips, groaning your name like a confession as he fucks into his fist with one last desperate pull. “fuckfuckfuck—look at you,” he gasps, watching the way your skin glows under it, the way your mouth stays open, waiting. he leans closer as the last of it drips from his tip onto your bottom lip, and his thumb catches your chin, tilts it gently. “don’t close it yet,” he murmurs, breathing heavy. “just stay like that. fuck—just like that.”

he strokes the last bit out slowly, watching his cum drip down your face, catching in the curve of your mouth, the heat of your skin, and he breathes like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. his free hand brushes down your jaw, catching some of the mess with his thumb before swiping it gently over your bottom lip. “so fucking good for me,” he whispers again, and then he leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead without hesitation, soft and reverent.

he stays above you for a moment, chest still rising fast, eyes lingering on your face with something that doesn’t quite feel like control anymore. his hand brushes your cheek, knuckles grazing your jaw, and for the first time since it started, he looks like he doesn’t know what to say. not because he’s unsure—but because he’s overwhelmed. he reaches out slowly, hitting the button on the camera without looking, the soft click of it powering down echoing through the quiet like the world’s finally breathing again. then he moves for your blindfold, untying it with careful fingers, his breath brushing your skin as he leans in close. the light hits your eyes again, warm and low, and when you blink up at him—he’s already watching. not with lust. not with pride. just something softer. something that feels like wonder.

he doesn’t speak as he undoes the cuffs, just slides your arms down gently and brings your wrists to his lips one at a time, pressing soft kisses to the reddened skin there like he’s saying thank you without the words. your hands are too weak to hold him, but you lean into the contact anyway, body limp, breath shallow, held together by the warmth of his hands alone. and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet—almost hoarse. “you okay?” he asks, barely more than a breath. and you nod, a soft sound leaving your lips. it’s not enough. he leans in and kisses your forehead like a reflex. then your temple. then the space just beneath your eye, where your skin is still damp from tears. “i got you,” he says softly. “you did perfect.”

he doesn’t make you move. he doesn’t ask. he just gathers you—an arm beneath your knees, the other cradling your back—and lifts you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the walk to the bathroom is silent, but not cold. just full. the steam from the shower has already started to cloud the mirrors, warm air kissing your skin as he sets you gently on the edge of the tub and turns the water on, testing it with his wrist before letting it run. he moves slow—every step deliberate, every glance careful, like he’s still in that headspace where everything is about you. when the water’s warm, he comes back to you and crouches down. he doesn’t ask. he just touches your thigh, kisses your knee, and lifts you into the shower with him.

he stands behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, your body resting against his chest as the water rushes down your skin. his breath is steady now, slower, his lips brushing your shoulder as his hands begin to move. not sexually. not even intimately. just gently. like he’s piecing you back together with soap and fingers and quiet worship. he lets the water rinse between your legs, across your stomach, down your spine, holding you still like you might float away. when you shiver, he holds you tighter. when you sigh, he presses his mouth to the side of your neck and breathes you in like he needs the scent of you to stay grounded. “thank you,” he whispers once, and it’s so soft, you almost think you imagined it.

he helps you wash. helps you rinse. helps you breathe again. and when it’s over, he wraps a towel around your body, dries your hair with gentle pats, and leads you back to the bedroom with nothing but quiet touches. the room is darker now. still warm. still full of the echoes from earlier. he brings you to the bed, lifts the sheets, and tucks you in slowly—like it means something. and then he slides in beside you, shirtless, still a little damp, his arm wrapping around your waist like he was made to fit against you. no pressure. no words. just the soft, steady rhythm of him being there, his hand rubbing slow circles into your back while your head presses into his chest.

your body melts into his without resistance, legs tangled beneath the sheets, your face pressed into the dip of his chest like that’s where it was always meant to be. he smells like clean skin and leftover warmth—something earthy and faintly sweet, something him. his arm curls tighter around your waist, his fingers dragging soft, lazy circles across your back, and it makes your whole body settle. like gravity’s gentler now. like the world outside doesn’t exist. his breaths are deep and even beneath your ear, steady like a heartbeat you didn’t realize you’d been syncing to all along. and every now and then, his lips graze your hairline, quiet and constant, like he can’t stop kissing you without saying anything out loud.

you don’t try to speak. you don’t need to. your limbs are too heavy, your throat too sore, and the silence between you feels so much better than any sound. he shifts just a little, resting his chin on top of your head, and you feel his fingers still. not because he’s stopped. but because he’s watching. you can’t see it, but you know—he’s looking at you like you’re still glowing. like the room didn’t get dark. like his eyes are only made to find you.

and then—soft. breathless. almost too quiet to catch.

“you didn’t just do something to my body.”

he says it like a secret. like a confession. like something he wasn’t supposed to let slip.

“you did something to me.”

but you’re already falling. your lashes flutter. your body goes limp. and the last thing you feel is the warmth of his chest, the press of his palm on your spine, and the faint, dizzy ache of your lips curling into a smile you don’t even remember making.

────୨ৎ────

you lie there for a second too long. eyes wide open, pulse ticking in your throat like a warning, the weight of his arm draped over your waist like a secret you’re not supposed to keep. the sun’s fully risen now, the light clearer, sharper. the room doesn’t feel like it did last night. it’s too quiet. too still. and your heart? too loud. the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered against your skin—it all presses into you at once, suffocating in its gentleness. this wasn’t supposed to happen. it was supposed to be work. a collab. content. but everything about the way he held you said otherwise.

you shift gently, slow enough not to wake him, slipping his arm off your waist and sitting up with a breath you don’t remember holding. your legs feel shaky. your body still aches in places he touched like you were something worth worshipping. and that’s the problem. you weren’t ready for that. not the way he looked at you. not the way he made it feel like more than just a shoot. your phone buzzes again on the nightstand and it’s like ice through your spine—because this is what you wanted, right? the money. the exposure. the success. not the way he kissed your forehead in the shower. not the way he whispered thank you like you gave him something he didn’t deserve.

you climb out of the bed, quiet and careful, your feet cold on the floor. his shirt is still draped over the chair. your lingerie—wrinkled and damp—folded on the dresser like he couldn’t bear to toss it aside. you ignore the lump rising in your throat as you pull your clothes on, smoothing them over your skin like armor. everything feels wrong. tight. too small. your hands are shaking when you reach for your bag. you don’t look back at him—not even once—because if you do, you’ll change your mind. and this? this was just business.

you slip out of the room like a shadow, easing the door shut behind you as if you were never there. the hallway is silent. the apartment too still. and every step you take toward the door feels heavier than the last. your phone buzzes again, and you swipe it up with trembling fingers, ignoring the unread message glowing at the top of your inbox. you don’t even let yourself breathe until you’re outside, the morning air hitting your face like clarity. like guilt. you blink up at the sky, trying to will the sting in your eyes away, whispering to yourself the only line that feels safe right now—“it’s just content. nothing more.”

and you hope that if you say it enough… you’ll believe it.

the ride home is silent. too silent. your driver doesn’t say a word, and neither do you—just sit back with your bag clutched tight to your chest, your body aching in a way that doesn’t feel physical. your thighs are still sore. your lips still tingling. your wrists marked faintly from the cuffs. but it’s not the pain that lingers—it’s the warmth. the look in jay’s eyes when he washed your face. the way he held you after. the way his heartbeat steadied yours. your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. you don’t want to remember that. you don’t want to feel this way. so you focus on the window, on the blur of early morning light cutting through city streets. and you keep your breathing even. one scene doesn’t mean anything. not if you don’t let it.

you don’t even say thank you when the car stops. you just slip out onto the curb, into your apartment building, through your front door, and straight into your room like muscle memory. your roommate isn’t home. thank god. the silence hits you harder now. you toss your phone on the bed and fall right after it, face down in the sheets, letting the last twelve hours replay in flickers behind your eyes. his voice. his hands. his weight pressed so carefully against yours. your mouth trembles, but no sound comes out. your chest rises, then falls. and you stay like that for what feels like forever—until your phone dings again. and again. and again.

you flip it over, eyes bleary. new notifications flood your screen—tips, subscribers, messages—and they keep coming. you stare at them blankly, your thumb flicking through without reading until one catches your eye:

@jakeoncam liked your video. @jakeoncam has followed you.

your heart stutters. your gaze sharpens. and then the messages from followers come into focus.

@yourbabygirl: you should collab with @jakeoncam 👀

@whoreforjake: pls do something with @jakeoncam!

@ruinmeeee: @jakeoncam x @babydollxo WHEN??

you don’t even think. your thumb taps over to his profile automatically.

and there he is.

verified. 5.5M subscribers.

that same preview still pinned at the top.

you remember him now. you remember the way he moaned, the way his hips rolled in tight, fluid motions. how he whined, “i'm gonna cum....fuck, baby...” and you remember what it did to you.

your thumb hovers over the message button. your reflection stares back at you in the dark screen. and you type without thinking:

@babydollxo: hey. wanna collab?

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ hoped you all enjoyed!!

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itzpookiepooh · 2 days ago

Text

Dump Him!

You ask them for relationship advice

“I need advice.” You huff falling onto the couch where Caleb sat. Your head was in his lap as you pout, he looks down at you in confusion. He adjusts his position taking his ankle off his knee.

“Shoot pipsqueak I’m all ears.” He assures you making you take a deep breath. This was like a mini therapy session you guys had every once in a while. Too often for you not often enough for him.

“So he’s always running to help his best friend and I mean running. She called him to stay at her house because she’s going through a break up.” You explained as Caleb nodded slowly. He didn’t see the big deal because he always comes running when you call.

“I mean that is his best friend and think of us—“ You cut him off before he could say anything stupid. “The best friend is a girl and he spends the night. No matter what we’re going through he runs to her.”

“You should kill him.” He states bluntly before unpausing his show as if he solved your problem entirely.

“Caleb!”

You just got done arguing with your boyfriend again. Rafayel just watched with a bored expression, he was use to the bickering. He just wished you would dump him already. He watched you pace as you screamed at him which was out of character for you, in his mind at least. You hung up slamming your phone on the counter.

“Ugh! He’s insufferable. What should I do?” You ask more out loud but Rafayel was going to answer anyway.

“What did he do this time?” He asked taking about bite out of a grape from the bowl. You pout putting your chin on your fist. You know Rafayel and you also know he loathes your boyfriend.

“Ditched our date tonight for his friends.” You sigh, Rafayel on the other hand glares at you. He then got an idea.

“You should invite him out here to make up. It’s beautiful and quiet.” Rafayel counts on his fingers before your face fell flat.

“I’m not bringing him out here for you to kill him.” You deadpan making him drop his act and shrug.

“Worth a shot.” He throws a grape into his mouth.

Your leg bounced as you stared at your phone waiting for a text back. Sylus looks over his glasses to watch your leg bounce. You were shaking the couch with these nerves of yours. He couldn’t focus on a single word with all this bouncing. He knew you were arguing with that no good boyfriend of yours. He grabbed your leg without looking away from his book. Your gaze snaps over to him.

“Sorry.” You mumble, Sylus closes the book with a sigh, “What is it now?”

“He’s jealous because I spend a lot of time with you. Which is bullshit by the way! He spends a lot of time with his friends too!” You ramble as you wave your arms around. Sylus just watches you as you express yourself.

“What should I do?” You groan leaning into him. Sylus hums before rubbing your arm.

“We could give him something to be jealous about.” Sylus suggests, his smirk widening as he looks at you.

“You’re never serious.” You deadpan making him chuckle.

“Worth a shot.”

You get in Zayne’s car in a hurry accidentally slamming the door. You were so irritated that the night felt ruined because your boyfriend wanted to argue. He hated whenever Zayne was around but you make sure to remind him this is your childhood friend. His jealousy was ugly and Zayne would tell you constantly. The boy thought you were sleeping together for goodness sake! Not that you would mind. You explained all this to Zayne knowing he’d probably say what he usually does. You were just waiting for it.

“Maybe I can fix him…fix us y’know?” You fall back into the seat as Zayne stops at a red light. He looks over at you with the most serious face ever.

“Did he defecate on himself?” He asks seriously, you blink at him as if he was confused.

“No?” You question more than answer. Zayne hums as he nods his head slowly, “then why would you change him?”

You narrow your eyes at him. He’s as sassy as ever but he was right.

Your boyfriend and you had a huge fight. It was so big that you left and went to Xavier’s who could hear it from his apartment. You apologized for the noise which he didn’t care about. Your wellbeing was what mattered most to him after all. He made you tea and waited to hear what the arguing was about. You explained he accused you of cheating on him which wasn’t true. Xavier knew this since you guys spent so much time together.

“What should I do?” You sigh sadly. Xavier blinked slowly as he gave you a once over.

“Leave him.” He bluntly said. No hesitation, no pauses, nothing.

“Xavier I can’t.” You groan falling into the couch as he takes the cup from you. He places it on the coffee table and then turns his attention back to you.

“Why not? He’s not a good person and has zero redeeming qualities. He chews with his mouth open, he burps obnoxiously loud—” He lists and if you hadn’t stopped him he would go on and on all night. You put your hand over his mouth and nod as you look at the ceiling.

“You’re absolutely right.” Leaving the conversation at that.

“Want me to kill him?” He mumbles looking at you. You swiftly turn your head to look at him with genuine concern. Maybe you heard him wrong.

“What?”

“What?” He repeats now looking at you confused.

I couldn’t wait to get to Zayne’s but imo his Caleb’s and Rafayel’s are the funniest 😭 I also forgot what I was gonna write mid Caleb’s because I left my mind palace (the shower).

Have this while I concoct Sylus’ bday special 💋

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sugarwarachan · 2 days ago

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the worst part about finally fucking sae is you can no longer cum without him.

you do everything you can to keep this information from the smug bastard, but one day he comes home early from practice and finds you on his bed, legs spread obscenely wide, nails scrabbling at the sheets in frustration as you writhe around a vibrator.

you don’t have to say anything. he knows exactly what’s wrong, and for the briefest moment, you see triumph flash hot in his teal eyes.

he settles into the chair, one ankle over a knee, and calmly gestures for you to continue.

“go ahead. i’ll watch.”

(you cum seconds later.)

#I HATE HIM #I NEED HIM #I FEAR I WOULDNT SURVIVE HIM #itoshi sae #itoshi sae x reader #bllk sae #sae itoshi x reader #sae itoshi smut #sae x reader #sae imagines #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #blue lock smut #sugarwarachanwrites

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luv-lock · 2 days ago

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ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤTHE SUN'S ONLY FOR YOUㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Clark Kent x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It starts soft. Too soft.

Clark notices you like anyone would notice sunlight on their skin: slowly, then all at once. You work in the same building—maybe a reporter, maybe a researcher, maybe just someone who passes by his desk with a stack of files and a tired smile—but it’s enough. He notices.

He doesn’t mean to. But you said “thank you” once and looked him in the eye. And that was it. Your voice is polite. Gentle. But not weak. You speak with intention. Your laugh makes the world tilt just slightly to the left. The first time he heard it, he almost tripped on air.

Clark tells himself it’s admiration. A crush. Something harmless.

It spirals when you’re kind to him.

You remember his coffee order once, and it carves a space inside him he didn’t know existed. You ask how his day was, and he forgets how to lie. Because how does he say, "I spent last night thinking about what you sound like when you're scared, when you're sad, when you're in love"?

He listens. Oh, God, he listens. With superhearing, he doesn’t even try to. He just starts tuning in to the frequency of your life. Your laugh. Your breath. Your voice on the phone late at night. The music you hum in the elevator. The way you talk in your sleep—because yes, Clark has floated by your window before, just to be sure you’re safe.

(It’s just a habit now. No harm in checking, right?)

He gets jealous. And you haven’t even touched him yet.

You talk to other people. Smile at them. Laugh. Flirt. Clark doesn’t say anything, of course—he’s not that kind of guy. But inside? He’s ice. Still. Watching. He doesn’t blink.

You date someone once. A nice guy. Decent. Human. Clark hears your conversations, every awkward moment, every kiss, every sigh. He listens to the way your voice never quite softens for them the way it does for him.

The day you cry over that guy? Clark almost thanks him. Because now he gets to be there. Now you need him. And he’ll never let you go again.

He makes it look like fate.

Little things. Helping you carry things. “Accidentally” bumping into you. Being wherever you are—at the café, the library, the store. You laugh and say, “Small world.” He smiles and says, “Yeah,” like he didn’t track your location ten minutes ago with his heat vision on low.

He wants you to love him slowly. Not because he couldn’t have you fast—because he could, and that’s the part he hates the most. He could rip the sky open and make you his. But he wants you to choose him.

So he watches. Protects. Waits. Waits for you to see him the way he sees you.

But time wears patience thin.

The first time you kiss him, you don’t know you’re sealing your fate.

It’s soft. Sweet. Maybe a thank-you. Maybe a moment of weakness. Maybe you’re just lonely.

But to Clark? That kiss is a vow. You chose him. You picked him. That means you're his. It’s not obsession if it’s mutual, right?

He starts pulling away from the world after that. Less Superman, more Clark. He wants to be around you. Wants to walk you home. Cook for you. Tuck your hair behind your ear and hear you whisper his name like it’s a secret.

He’s not possessive. He’s protective. That’s what he tells himself. And if he breaks someone’s arm for touching you without permission? Well… shouldn’t they have known better?

He’s terrifying in love.

You don’t see it until it’s too late.

The little things. The way your ex got fired suddenly. The way people who hurt you seem to vanish into thin air. The way he always shows up the second you need him—even before you call.

The way he knows you’re lying when you say “I’m fine.” Because he heard your heartbeat skip.

The way he says your name. Like it’s something holy. Something he’ll never give up.

And when you finally ask, trembling, “What would you do for me?”—he doesn’t blink.

Clark leans in, kisses your knuckles, and says with terrifying softness:

“Anything, sweetheart. Anything. Just say the word.”

You are the sun now.

And if anyone dares try to take you away?

They’ll learn the hard way:

Not even God can stop Superman when he’s in love.

It’s when you say “I love you” that everything breaks.

You don’t even mean it the way he hears it.

Maybe you’re drunk. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe it slips out after a long day and a comforting hug. “Love you,” you mumble, all warmth and sleepy breath. You might not even remember it the next day.

But he remembers.

Clark feels it like a goddamn explosion behind his ribs. Time stops. Galaxies shift. Planets burn. Because you love him. You love him.

And suddenly, he’s free.

Free to take what’s his.

It gets worse after that.

He’s around more. Always smiling. Always gentle. But there’s something behind his eyes now—too intense, too still.

He’s memorized your schedule. Your favorite mug. The lotion you use. The scent of your shampoo. He makes you breakfast before you ask. Washes your sheets before you notice. He moves like he lives here now. You blink and his toothbrush is next to yours.

He doesn’t need an invitation. He belongs.

You let him stay over once after a long night. He never leaves after that.

It’s subtle. But it’s everywhere.

Your phone stops buzzing as much. Friends cancel. Coworkers act weird. The guy who always flirted with you suddenly avoids eye contact like you’re radioactive. You ask Clark if he’s noticed anything strange.

He kisses your temple and murmurs, “No, sweetheart. People are just finally respecting you.”

You want to believe him. He’s so soft with you. So good. He kisses like he’s never known violence. Touches you like you’re porcelain. Wraps you in his arms like you’re the only thing keeping him from breaking.

But when he hugs you, he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time.

He doesn’t want you to lie.

That’s the scary part.

He knows when your heart skips. When your voice shakes. When you smile too politely. He knows when you're scared—and it hurts him. It crushes him.

He never yells. Never raises a hand. But he’ll stand too close. Look too hard. Say things like, “You know you can tell me anything, right?” with that painfully calm voice.

You can’t lie to him. Not anymore.

Because even if he wouldn’t hurt you, he might hurt someone else. Without blinking. Without guilt.

You try to leave once.

Maybe not forever. Maybe just for space. A break. A weekend away. You tell him, “I just need time.”

Clark goes quiet. Nods. Kisses your forehead.

And then the storm hits.

Your bus crashes. The roads flood. Your hotel burns down. Everything goes wrong. And when you finally make it home, soaked and shaking, he’s waiting on your couch like he knew.

Arms wide. Smile soft.

“I told you it wasn’t safe without me.”

You collapse into his chest because you're cold, tired, and terrified—and that’s when you feel it.

The ring box in his pocket.

You say yes. Because you’re scared to say no.

The proposal is private. Sweet. Romantic. The kind of thing you always thought you’d want. He kneels. Holds your hand like it’s a lifeline.

And when you whisper “yes,” he exhales like he’s finally allowed to breathe.

But deep down, you know: it was never a question.

Not really.

He moves you to the farmhouse.

It’s quiet. Isolated. “Safe,” he says. He wants to give you peace, a slower life. There’s no reception out here. No visitors unless he lets them in.

He builds a new life for you. A garden. A library. A bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows for sunlight he swears is only for you.

You try to talk to him about freedom. About space. About feeling caged.

He laughs—laughs—and says, “You don’t need freedom, baby. You need me.”

And maybe he’s right.

Because even if you ran, he’d find you. He’s always listening. Always watching. Always there.

But he never hurts you.

Never.

You’re his. And he worships you like it.

He carries you to bed every night. Brushes your hair. Kisses your ankles. Your wrists. Your knuckles. He holds you like you’re the last piece of a crumbling world.

And when you cry?

He doesn’t ask why.

He just pulls you closer, strokes your back, and whispers, “It’s okay. You don’t have to think anymore. Just let me take care of you.”

He calls it love.

And maybe it is.

Maybe it’s the only kind of love a god like him can give.

But deep down, you know the truth:

Clark doesn’t love you.

He owns you.

And now?

There’s no getting out.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

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maskedbyghost · 1 day ago

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part 1 part 2

You don’t hear from him for two days. Not a text. Not a call. Not a single word. So you finally text him something short—coming by later to grab the rest of my stuff. You didn’t want to leave it like this, but you're not gonna be the one to chase him anymore. You gave him more chances than you should’ve, waited too long for a guy who couldn’t even tell you he wanted you to stay.

He doesn’t reply, but the front door’s unlocked when you get there.

You push it open, step inside, and the second you do, he’s there—leaning in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall, like he’s been waiting, like he knew you’d come at exactly that time. You pause, feeling weird about the way he's just standing there watching you, but you keep your eyes ahead and walk toward the bedroom.

And then the lock clicks, and you freeze.

“Did you just lock the door?”

Simon doesn’t even flinch. Just walks toward you slowly, like this is normal. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not leaving.”

You blink at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking or if he’s actually lost it. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re not leaving me.”

“Simon—”

“No,” he says, firmer this time, standing in front of you now. “I’m not letting you go. I fucked up. I know I did. I should’ve said something. I should’ve grabbed you when you were walking out. Should’ve told you how much it was killing me to watch you leave. But I didn’t. And I regret it. And I’m not gonna let you pack up your shit and pretend like we don’t mean anything.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to let your voice shake. “I’m just here to get my stuff.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, following you as you walk into the bedroom and grab the bag off the floor. “You’re here because you’re hoping I’ll say something to make you stay.”

You start throwing your things into the bag without looking at him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He walks over and calmly pulls your sweatshirt out of the bag and folds it before putting it right back in the drawer.

You stare at him. “What are you doing?”

“Putting it back.”

“Simon, I swear to god—”

He pulls out another shirt, smooths it, puts it back in the closet.

“Stop it!” you snap, trying to push past him to grab it again.

But he steps in front of you, puts his arms around you and holds you against his chest. “No. You’re not going anywhere. I can’t let you. I haven’t slept, haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t complete shit, and I’ve been sitting in this house trying to figure out how I let the one person who gave a fuck about me walk out. I know I ruined it. I know you don’t trust me anymore. But I’ll earn it back. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll fix it. I swear.”

You struggle against him, not hard, but enough to make it clear you’re not just giving in. “Let go of me.”

He tightens his arms around you instead and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then another, and another, soft little ones, all over your face—your nose, your jaw, your forehead—mumbling between them like he’s afraid if he stops talking you’ll slip away again.

“I love you. I know I didn’t say it before but I do, and I’ve loved you for so fucking long and I didn’t know how to show it right, but I’ll learn. Just don’t go. Please. Ask anything from me, and I’ll do it. I’ll take time off, I’ll go to therapy, I’ll talk more, I’ll do the dishes without you asking. Just stay. I’ll give you everything. Just give me one more shot. Please, love. Please.”

You’re still half trapped in his arms, his voice right by your ear, and you try to stay mad, you really do. But the longer he holds you, the more ridiculous this whole scene feels, and the more you remember how badly you wanted him to fight for you, just once.

“Anything?” you ask, just to test it.

“Yeah. Anything. Just name it.”

You pull your head back a little, looking up at him. “You’ll let me get a cat?”

He blinks. “A cat?”

“You said no every time I brought it up.”

He groans a little but then lets out this small, helpless laugh and buries his face in your neck. “Fuckin’ hell. Yeah. Fine. Get a cat. Get two. I’ll buy it a bed nicer than mine, yeah?”

You try to hide your smile, but it slips through. “Even if it scratches your favorite chair?”

He looks up at you with a look of pure defeat. “Love, I’d let it scratch my face at this point. Just—don’t go, alright?”

You sigh, and it comes out more like a laugh, and he takes it as a win, because he pulls you in even tighter and doesn’t let go.

And this time, you don’t push him away.

------------------------------------------

can you forgive me now?

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tachiara @marispunk @gluttonybiscuits

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley

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alchemistc · 23 hours ago

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8x16 coda

"I should - maybe I should go," Tommy says, because Eddie has been a silent presence at Evan's side since he pulled up in his Uber and Tommy feels ... superfluous. They've been leaning against various kitchen counters for the better part of an hour now - Evan the only one to break the silence with choked laughter and a "Remember when -?" or "This was before you, Eddie - after you, Tommy, but -."

They've dwindled off into silence now, though. The ache in Tommy's chest is growing, has been since the moment Bobby Nash sealed that door shut behind him before Evan could do anything to stop him. He'd felt a little helpless, in that moment - had seen it with just enough time before Evan to reach for a comm that wasn't there, to try to warn Evan, or ask Bobby what the hell he was doing. Not that it would have mattered, either way.

That's the worst of it. That for Bobby, it had been inevitable. That while Tommy was flipping off the Chief Pilot and stealing another bird, while he and Evan took the military on a wild goose chase, while Athena suited up to save Chimney... Bobby was already dead. How long had he known? Evan's tried to explain it but not enough for Tommy to put it all together.

"No." Tommy's attention snaps to Evan. To the firm set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes. Tommy can feel Eddie's gaze darting between them, but he'd be hard pressed to actually see it, considering Evan's expression has him caught up like a tractor beam. "Crazy concept, here, Tommy, but - but how about you just stay, this time?"

Tommy flinches.

Evan deflates.

Eddie scrambles out of the kitchen, and Tommy can vaguely hear keys rattling in the next room, the door opening. Shutting.

"That's not what I meant."

Tommy bites his lip. Squares his shoulders, and actually physically shakes out his arms so he doesn't fold them over his chest, even though it feels like leaving a target over his heart. "Yes, it is what you meant."

Evan swallows. When he rolls his jaw his nose flares, eyes going watery.

"I want you to stay."

Yeah, that one hits it's mark. Fucking bullseye.

"Evan, I don't - you're going through a hell of a time, right now, and it would -." He clears his throat. Forces himself to hold Evan's gaze. "Grief and loss are a horrible reason to -."

"Oh that's bullshit, Tommy."

He has a particular tone to his voice when he's actually calling someone out in a non-flirty way. Tommy hates it. Feels like he's under a fucking microscope. For all he'd done to hide away the soft underbelly, Evan's had a hand on it for months, now.

Evan takes a single, measured step closer.

Tommy tries to imagine there's super glue on the bottom of his shoes.

"Bobby's dead, and we're just - we're just gonna sit on this until I'm done grieving? That's never gonna happen, Tommy! I will sit in this for the rest of my life. I will feel him like a missing organ. But Bobby - Bobby would want me to live, okay? So this is me, living. Asking you to - to tell me if you wanna try that with me."

He has lungs, he's pretty sure. A working diaphragm. The innate sense to suck in air and blow out CO².

"He liked you, you know?" Evan continues, like he hasn't just hit Tommy with the force of a tank gun. "I never said, because I was stupid, and - and afraid that what I was feeling was gonna be too much for you. He told me you were good people. That you were good for me." Evan swipes angrily at his waterline. "We never even - but he - he knew, okay? He knew that you made me feel - and he knew that we were -."

Tommy hasn't had the heart to tell him that he'd stood in that silent tent and watched Bobby say goodbye. Hasn't had the heart to admit that he couldn't tear his eyes away long enough to turn off that monitor while Bobby made his peace. He doesn't feel like he deserves to know any of it. Even if he'd broken half a dozen laws for them, he's not a part. Never really has been. Never let them pull him in.

"I can - I can do this without you, Tommy."

It sounds like it hurts to say. Hurts to hear it, so that tracks.

"I can hold it together, and I can try my damndest to keep the people Bobby loved above water. I can do that, Tommy, and I can do it alone." A single step closer. A bridge Tommy could step onto, as well, if he were inclined to. "I don't want to. I want - the people I care about with me. I want Maddie and Chim and Eddie and Hen at my back. And I want you right there next to me. Like you were when we met. Like you were that night, when I needed you and you didn't even question it. That's the life I want, Tommy. It's the life I promised Bobby I'd have. What do you want?"

And that's the $64,000 question, isn't it?

Tommy isn't actually sure he's ever had a panic attack, but whatever his body is doing right now is a little concerning. His tongue is dry and yet somehow heavy. His face is hot. His arms feel heavy, solid, an immovable weight against his sides. When he blows out a breath, it comes out in staccato rhythm.

"I want to be the reason you don't have to do this shit alone," he admits, and with that sentiment in mind he doesn't blink away the tears, doesn't shift away. Just holds Evan's gaze and tries to convince his brain it doesn't need to actively think about breathing. The effort it takes to unstick a single heel from the floor is astronomical, but he does that, too, and then the other one. "I do want to stay."

Evan blinks. When Tommy steps closer, his throat works through a painful looking swallow. "We have to talk about our shit," he says. "And you can't just go running off every time -."

"Evan," Tommy interrupts, and watches his eyes flare with annoyance. "That was a really good speech, and I really want to kiss you about it."

It forces a laugh out of him, choked and bleary-eyed. "I'm so snotty," he whines, as Tommy winds a hand around his wrist, tugs him closer. "Eddie might come back."

"That might actually be helpful, for me," Tommy reminds him, just to watch him scowl. "You think a little runny nose is gonna turn me off? You once jacked me off while reciting an article about snail mucus."

"You're the freak in that scenario, Tommy, you came so fast I didn't even get to finish."

"I want to hear a thousand more irrelevant facts while you've got your fingers in my ass, Evan."

"My speech was way less horny," Evan complains, before he leans in to capture Tommy's lip between his teeth.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #911 spoilers #mcd #tevan fic #no grave can hold my body down #or my thumbs writing this sitting on the toilet seat lid after vlceying in the shower for like 20 minutes

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landologged · 3 days ago

Text

Track Limits | Part 1

Pairing: ex!lando x f1driver!reader (ft. love triangle w/ max)

Genre: love triangle, exes to lovers, slow burn, enemies to lovers, angst, emotional???, HORNY AFFFFF, F1, reader is the first female F1 driver in 50 years, toxic dynamics, betrayal, power shift, revenge sex, we’re fucking everyone

wc: roughly 23k

Description: You’re Formula 1’s reigning world champion—the first woman to ever do it. But the start of this season is all about what you’ve already lost. Lando left. Two years in the gutter without even an apology.

You don’t owe him a smile, let alone a glance—but when he follows you into the hallway and you let him touch you, everything breaks.

Notes: my main blog is for p bueckers @bueckets

Max doesn’t lean against the wall—he never has. It’s not in him. He stands like someone waiting for the lights to go out, back straight, arms loose at his sides, fingers twitching in his pockets like they’re used to gripping a steering wheel. He’s outside because he said he needed air, but the air in Monaco doesn’t come without strings. It tastes like spent champagne and new money, clings sweet and artificial at the back of your throat. Perfume and engine grease and too many accents pretending they don’t know who he is. He ignores the ambient glamour the way most people ignore hunger—until they can’t.

He’s waiting for you, of course he is. Every minute you’re late coils tighter in his chest. Not that he’s worried. He’s not the worried type. But there’s a knot forming just under his sternum, a tension he hasn’t shaken since the end of the season. Since you vanished.

He glances at his phone. One notification. It’s nothing. He locks the screen before it fully lights up. Tucks it away. Stares out at the glittering coastline like it owes him something.

And then—there. The white Porsche, turning the corner like a ghost re-entering its own funeral. White, pristine, arrogant in the way vintage things are—refusing to blend in. The headlights sweep across the valet station, the kind of entrance that gets registered even if it’s not announced. Max doesn’t react at first. Not outwardly. Just a subtle shift—his spine pulling taut, his weight redistributing slightly off his right leg, a flick of his fingers inside his pocket like he’s calibrating himself in real time.

He straightens a little. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to realign something invisible. The night exhales. The street bends. Max tells himself not to look eager. Not to stare. Not to overreact. But when the door lifts and you step out, all quiet grace and exposed skin and don’t-fuck-with-me heels, something in his throat tightens anyway.

You look– fuck– you look like sin. Like heartbreak rebuilt into something knife-sharp and exquisite. Like the kind of woman people name storms after. Your dress is white, but not innocent. Not even close. It clings at the waist, parts at the thigh, flows in soft spirals behind you like smoke from a gun that’s just been fired. The kind of gown that moves like it’s tired of being polite. The fabric kisses your calves with every step, ripples over your hips like it’s worshipping them. Your back is bare. Your shoulders glint under the light like they’ve never carried pain.

Max doesn’t do poetry. Doesn’t do adjectives. But fucking he’ll. You finally look like yourself. The you that hasn’t existed in months. Or maybe someone new—someone forged sharp in the fire of that off-season silence. A different kind of fast. A different kind of dangerous. The kind of dangerous that makes his teeth ache. The kind that hums beneath the skin, coils in his gut, and settles low—an ache he won’t name, but can’t ignore.

You see him immediately. You don’t slow down. You don’t smile like you used to. You give him that look—neutral on the surface, but full of teeth underneath. Like you’re waiting to see how he’ll handle it. If he’ll flinch.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Watches as you hand the keys to the valet—smooth, practiced, fingers brushing just enough to make the kid blush. Watches as you respond to his French without hesitation, with that soft warmth you reserve for strangers who haven’t betrayed you yet. Watches as you smile—not the full one, not the one with teeth and tongue and trouble—just the corner, the polite echo of it. The one that says I’m fine when you aren’t. Your voice, low and graceful, drapes itself around merci like silk falling from a shoulder.

Your dress breathes around you like it knows the air here doesn’t belong to anyone but you. And then you walk toward him. Each step measured, heel to stone, click to silence. The wind barely dares to touch your hair. You don’t rush. You don’t need to. You walk like you’ve got nowhere to be and everyone to impress anyway.

Max swallows something stupid. Something like regret. Something like awe. And somehow, you’re still not close enough. He doesn’t step toward you. Not even a little.

He holds his ground like he’s used to doing on track—tight grip, quiet posture, too still. You’re maybe three feet away now, close enough for him to catch the tail end of your perfume, something sharp and floral and completely intentional, the kind of scent that lives in the collar of someone's memory long after the body’s gone.

Max doesn’t blink. He catalogues everything the way only someone like him can. How your eyes flicker—not uncertain, not shy, but observant, scanning him like telemetry. How your hair’s styled not for effort but for effect. Soft waves, pinned just enough to look sculpted. How your skin glows like it’s been sleeping under better stars. And how your lips—barely glossed—still manage to look like trouble.

You stop two feet from him. Let the silence stretch. There’s a smirk playing at your mouth, not quite earned, not quite performative. The kind you wear when you’ve already decided how this is going to go, and you’re just waiting to see if he keeps up.

“You’re late,” he says, finally, and his voice is low and familiar and unsympathetic in that particularly Dutch way. No hello. No you look good. Just a casual accusation, flat on the surface, but already unraveling around the edges.

Your head tilts slightly. One brow rises. “I know,” you answer. There’s a pause. Brief. Charged.

You look at him fully now. Hold his gaze without flinching. You’re not here for comfort. You’re here for optics. For necessity. For Red Bull. But maybe, just maybe, you’re also here to remind the room that you still exist in every language they tried to write you out of. Max exhales through his nose. Like a laugh trying not to be born.

“I told them I wasn’t going in without you,” he mutters, as if it’s nothing. As if it doesn’t mean something.

You hum. That same infuriating, delicate little sound you used to make when he said something half-serious. Not mocking. Not kind. Just acknowledging it without letting it land. He watches your eyes flick past him, toward the entrance, and for a moment—just a flash—he thinks you might be reconsidering. Might turn around. Might vanish again like a dream punished for getting too close to real.

But then you sigh. Barely. The kind of sigh that means fine. And Max– still Max, opens the door. You don’t say thank you. You just walk past him—skin brushing the edge of his jacket, the silk of your dress rustling against the doorway—and step into the room like it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.

His hand comes to the small of your back. Light. Barely there. But it is there. And to him, that’s all anyone needs to see.

The air inside is thicker than it should be. Low light spills down from the custom glass fixtures like honey—too warm, too intimate for a place that charges this much to breathe. The room hums with quiet conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery, but under it all, there's that undercurrent Max knows too well: tension, curated and caged. Everyone pretending not to see, not to look, not to notice you stepping into the room on Max’s arm like a reentry wound. Monaco’s elite pretending they haven’t spent the past three months whispering your name like it was cursed.

You keep your head down.

Not a flinch. Not weakness. Just focus. Max can feel the way your posture locks in, muscles pulled tight under that silk-and-steel exterior. The dress moves like it’s made of breath and water, but your spine stays straight. Your chin tilted just slightly down, like you’re giving yourself a second to survive it. Max’s hand is still at the small of your back. He doesn’t move it.

He can’t. He’s not entirely sure if it’s to guide you or to ground himself. And then he sees them.

Lando. Charles. Oscar. Carlos. Their girlfriends. Their drinks. Their eyes.

And for the first time all night, Max falters. Just a flicker. A break in the rhythm. Because Lando looks fucking stunned. Not just shocked, not just caught off guard—but actually, genuinely out of his depth. The kind of look Max has seen on rookie drivers during their first wet quali in Spa. He recovers quickly, of course. He always does. Leans back a little. Wraps his arm tighter around Magiu like he’s marking territory he doesn’t even like the taste of.

Max meets his eyes. It’s brief. Sharp. Heavy. And in that second, there’s a history of fuck-ups and fallout crammed into one glance. You fucking idiot, Max thinks, louder than necessary. Louder than smart. You had her, and you—

He doesn’t let the rest form. Because it’s not his place. Not really. Even if he was the one you called, finally, two weeks after the season ended, voice cracked open like old paint, saying nothing but Are you home?

Even if he was the one who picked up after thirty seconds of pacing because of course he was. Even if Lando dumped you like you were an expired sponsorship deal and walked straight into some glorified influencer’s glittered lap like it wouldn’t follow him. Even if Max felt that lump in his throat grow roots.

He doesn’t let himself think about why. He’s spent a month not thinking about it. Not thinking about the way his chest tightened when he saw your name light up his phone. Not thinking about the way you sounded when you exhaled into the receiver like you hadn’t done that properly in weeks. Not thinking about how he didn’t ask any questions—just left the door unlocked and cleared the guest room and made tea he knew you wouldn’t drink.

Now you’re here, next to him, and it’s real in a way it hasn’t been yet. His hand against your back, warm from your skin, feels too personal. Too right. You tilt your head just barely toward him and mutter under your breath, voice soft and close enough to touch:

“Ik kan niet naar ze kijken.”

I can’t look at them.

Max’s jaw flexes. His hand steadies on your back, thumb brushing the edge of your spine. Just once. Barely noticeable. But it’s a decision. It’s a promise.

“Ik weet het,” he murmurs. “Ik heb je.”

I know. I’ve got you.

And he does. Whatever tonight is—whatever it means—he’s not letting you walk through it alone. He’s never cared much for ceremony. But right now, with your warmth soaking into his palm and your breath catching just enough to betray your calm—right now, it feels a lot like something.

You step through the private door like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just inhale Max’s voice in your mother tongue like a sedative. Like the tension in your shoulders isn’t three months old and fossilized. Like you aren’t acutely aware of the fact that Lando Norris is sitting in the next room, wrapped in someone else’s perfume, laughing into someone else’s throat.

You’re not here for that. You’re here for business. The room is softly lit, quiet, thick with money and influence. Long table. Frosted glass walls. A muted kind of power thrumming under everything—white oak floors, gold accents, minimalist design so curated it’s almost rude. The Red Bull principal stands at the head, his smile tight, his watch louder than his words. Flanking him are a half-dozen men whose suits cost more than most people’s mortgages, plus two women in sleek dresses and sharper expressions, their clipped nods making it very clear they don’t need to be impressed. These are the people who decide what teams look like before the engineers even touch the cars. The ones who know you by name, by number, by millions moved.

Their eyes land on you the second you enter. The silence bends. You walk like the cameras are still on. Like the championship was yesterday. Like your ex isn’t five meters away on the other side of a wall too thin for your liking. You let your heels kiss the floor like it’s a stage. Let your dress do what it was built to do—hug, whisper, glide. You keep your gaze steady, your posture regal, your expression perfectly smooth. Business now. Emotion later. Or never. Preferably never.

Max is beside you, but he’s silent. You feel him there, a familiar gravity. Still close enough to touch. Still warm.

“Look at that,” one of the execs murmurs, voice gruff but amused. “Even prettier than the headlines said.”

You give him a smile. Polished. Practiced. Sharp around the edges. Christian gestures to your seat near the head of the table. “Glad you could make it,” he says, nodding at both you and Max. “We’ll make this quick. We’re not here to waste your time. You’ve both proven you don’t need micromanaging.”

Max slides into the seat beside yours. Casual. Effortless. You follow suit, back straight, hands folded, eyes sharp.

They start talking. Money. Sponsorships. Projected figures for next season. Pay increases. You and Max are getting a bump—sizeable. You don’t blink. It’s what you’re worth. Maybe more. One of the execs jokes that with the two of you on the same team, the constructors' trophy might as well be etched already. Someone else mutters that McLaren’s upgrades are the only threat.

Because you know what they’re talking about. Not the cars. The driver. The boy. The mistake. The person you loved like he wasn’t a liability. The one who let your heart rot in his hands and then replaced you with someone who only understands Instagram captions and face angles. Your nails press into your palm. You make sure your expression doesn’t shift. You nod once. Breathe slowly. Professional. Unbothered.

Max doesn’t say anything. But you feel it—the shift in him. Like his focus sharpens the second you move. Like he’s not just watching the room. He’s watching you. You force yourself to focus on the words being said. Aerodynamic reports. Budget negotiations. Test schedules. But your mind… your mind won’t stop dragging itself back to that moment outside. The brief brush of Max’s hand against your spine. The way it didn’t feel intrusive. Or accidental. Or formal.

It felt like steadiness. Like something you didn’t realize you’d been craving until it was already gone. Like warmth in the cold hallway between past and present.

You swallow. Nod again. Someone says something about your performance last season—how no woman’s ever dominated the way you have. How the data doesn’t lie. That your cornering metrics are almost inhuman. That you might be one of the best to ever do it.

You smile again. Another trophy smile. But it doesn’t reach all the way up. Because behind it, all you can think about is the fact that Lando is five meters away. Max’s hand is still echoing on your skin. And you’re sitting in a room full of power pretending you’re not bleeding under your dress.

The room empties in increments. Slowly, like a tide receding, quiet murmurs of goodbyes and clinks of crystal echoing against the walls like afterthoughts. The chairs are pushed in with just enough noise to remind you you’re still in the land of the living. Polished hands reach for coats. Watches checked. Nods exchanged like currency. No one rushes. No one lingers.

You don’t move. You sit perfectly still in your chair, spine resting not against the leather but your own discipline, your hands laid neatly over your lap like you’re holding something fragile and invisible there. It’s over. The meeting. The dinner. The performance. And still, the tension in your shoulders doesn’t unwind.

Because the ache wasn’t in the meeting. It’s in the moments after. You feel him before he speaks. Max doesn’t move quietly. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t hover. He just exists—sturdy and low and immovable in that way he does when he’s trying to be casual but is actually watching the world unfold in real time. You don’t need to look to know he’s still standing at the head of the table, one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, like he’s waiting for something.

You glance up, finally, and catch his eye. Just for a second. It feels like being caught looking down the barrel of something dangerous. There’s no smirk. No grin. Nothing sarcastic in the slope of his brow or the tilt of his head. Just Max, steady and warm and devastating in that suit that’s too sharp for this late at night, like he’s been built out of tailored tension.

Your mouth is dry. You don’t say anything. Not yet. Just lean forward slightly to reach for the water glass you never touched, and as your fingers curl around the crystal stem, your dress shifts. The silk across your chest tugs just slightly tighter, the slit parting a breath wider at your thigh.

And he looks. Not long. Not greedy. But direct. Unapologetic. Like he was waiting for you to move so he had permission. And for a stupid, brainless second, it flusters you. Not because it’s Max. But because it’s you, and you hate that your body notices. You hate that you feel warm under your skin in a room that’s already cooled with abandonment. You hate that every inch of professionalism you put on like perfume is starting to crack where his gaze rests.

You sip the water. It doesn’t help. Max finally speaks. Quiet. Clipped.

“You okay?”

The question lands gently between you, like a paperweight dropped on silk. Light. But you feel it. In your chest. Your stomach. Lower. You clear your throat and lean back, eyes on the glass in your hand.

“That obvious?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then— “No,” he says. “But I know you.”

And that—that’s what does it. You exhale slow through your nose, the kind of breath that tastes like resignation. Your fingers still wrapped around the glass, condensation sliding cool against your knuckles while heat blooms under your skin like a secret. He’s still standing. Still looking at you with that maddening calm. Like he’s the only person in the world who knows how tightly you’re holding yourself together and the exact second you’ll start to unravel.

You shift again. Cross your legs. The slit parts with a whisper. His eyes flick down. Just briefly. You wonder if he notices the way your pulse jumps in your neck. You wonder if he feels how warm the room’s gotten.

“Didn’t expect them to bring up McLaren,” you say, finally, and your voice is too smooth. Too casual. It sounds like conversation, but it’s not. Not really.

Max lets out a low sound that might be a laugh. Might be disbelief. Might be frustration smoothed out into something prettier. “They’re scared,” he says. “They should be. We’re going to fucking destroy them.”

The way he says we punches something low in your stomach. Like an old bruise pressed too suddenly. You nod. Swallow. Force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Let’s hope they don’t upgrade too fast.”

You don’t say Let’s hope he doesn’t. You don’t say Let’s hope I never have to see him in the rearview. You don’t say Let’s hope I don’t fucking break apart the first time he’s in my mirrors.

Instead, you say nothing. And Max doesn’t push. He just moves—finally. Walks slowly around the table until he’s closer. Not sitting. Not towering. Just there. Half-leaning against the back of the chair next to you, one ankle crossed over the other, hands folded loosely in front of him. He looks relaxed. He’s not. You can tell by the way his thumbs keep brushing together.

“You handled it well,” he says, almost absentmindedly. “Even when they brought him up.”

You tense. Your body betrays you again. And maybe that’s the point. Because Max leans down slightly, not much, just enough so that his voice is nearer to your ear when he adds, quieter now:

“I saw your hand.” Your breath catches. Of course he did. You hate that you care that he did. You hate how good it feels to be seen. You don’t look at him. Just stare at the condensation dripping down your glass like it’s an escape route.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“It matters,” he says, and there’s something there now—low and charged and thick between his words. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blink. The room suddenly feels smaller. The glass is empty. The lights are too soft. Your throat is dry again.

“I need a drink,” you say, and this time it’s not an excuse. It’s a confession.

Max doesn’t move for a second. Then, “Come on,” he says. “Let’s find something good.” His hand brushes your arm as he straightens. Not an accident. Not subtle.

It’s warm. Too warm. And the feeling lingers. You step out into the corridor first, Max falling into stride beside you, the two of you cutting a sleek silhouette through the soft velvet hush of the hallway. You walk close—not touching, but close. Your shoulders brush every few steps, that easy cadence you slip into when you’re too tired to pretend there’s distance.

You don’t speak yet. Just walk. It’s a short stretch of hallway, but it feels like crossing back into gravity. The hallway lights are gold-toned and low, casting your reflections in ripples across the polished marble floors. You glance sideways at Max as he adjusts the cuffs of his suit, one hand sliding into his pocket with that lazy, practiced ease that says I don’t care and I’ve already won in the same breath.

And just like that, something tilts. You feel it in the ease of his movement, the unbothered slouch of him beside you, the heat still lingering where his fingers grazed your arm. Across the room, Lando exists. So does the girl on his arm. But they feel far away now—blurred at the edges, irrelevant. Because you’re here. With Max. And for the first time tonight, the weight in your chest loosens. You’re going to have a good night. Fuck the past. Fuck them. You’ve got better things to do.

You snort. He turns his head slightly, not quite looking at you.

“What.”

“You really leaned into that whole pensive Dutch robot thing tonight.”

“I was being professional,” he mutters.

“You were being Max.”

Max scoffs, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I didn’t see you doing any of the talking.”

“I’m mysterious,” you say, with just enough mockery in your voice to make it clear you’re doing a bit. “I let the mystery breathe.”

He laughs again—softer this time, just under his breath. And you feel it loosen something under your ribs. Just a little. Then, the bar. Low-lit. Intimate. Filled with the kind of soft shadows that make it easy to forget what came before. The kind of place that doesn’t forgive, but suspends. Everything gets quieter here. Closer. He holds the door open for you. You walk in like the air belongs to you now. Like it owes you. Like he does.

You’re laughing before you sit. The kind of laughter that lives at the bottom of your chest—hollow, exhausted, edged in disbelief. You fold into your spot at the bar like you’ve finally exhaled, like your body’s tired of pretending to be bulletproof. The champagne’s doing what it needs to do—cooling your tongue, softening the sharpness in your throat—and beside you, Max is slouched just enough to look like he belongs here. Elbow on the bar, knee brushed against yours, mouth curled in that dry, slow way that says he’s been holding back a hundred comments since the first minute of that meeting.

“God,” he mutters, speaking in Dutch but his tone needs no translation, “the management is so fucked.”

You snort, swirling the stem of your glass between your fingers. “I know. That one guy—what’s his name? With the comb-over—he actually suggested doing a TikTok collab with Stroll. I thought I was hallucinating.”

You let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sigh, and tilt your head back against the edge of the bar, eyes fluttering closed for a second. The bar’s warm. The world is soft around the edges. You could stay like this. Not forever. But for tonight.

And then, you look at him. Just a glance. Just long enough to catch the way his neck flushes a little pink above his collar, the way his hair’s slightly messed from running his hand through it for the millionth time, the way his lips are parted like he’s still chewing on a thought he hasn’t decided whether to speak.

Something in your stomach drops. Because he looks beautiful. Not magazine beautiful. Not polished, press-conference perfect. Just—real. Flushed and blinking and a little undone, like the stress is wearing off in layers, and all that’s left underneath is him. And then he turns, just slightly, his eyes catching yours, steady, clear, unguarded in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“Was your time off okay?” he asks. Voice quiet now. Still in Dutch, but softer than before. Less sarcasm. More sincerity.

You pause. Then nod, adjusting the way your fingers rest on the stem of your glass. “Yeah,” you say. “Spent most of it in Italy. On my boat. Doing nothing. Yours?”

He hums. Looks away, gaze drifting past the bar, out toward the huge glass windows that overlook the water. His expression shifts—something wistful, something gentle. His lashes are too long, and the gold light turns his profile into something carved.

And then, almost like he’s surprised to hear it leave his mouth. “Would’ve been better with you.”

You don’t answer right away. Of course you don’t. The silence feels like it was waiting for that sentence. Like it was designed to hold it. The air shifts. Slows. Thickens. The lighting overhead warps into something honeyed and cinematic, slicking across the rim of your champagne flute, clinging to Max’s lashes like it has a favorite.

You breathe, but it feels staged. Like you’re performing breath rather than feeling it. Your hand is still curved loosely around the glass, wrist delicate against the dark wood bar, but your knuckles have gone taut. The bubbles in your drink have gone flat. Or maybe they’re still rising, but you’ve lost the ability to notice. Your ears are doing that strange ringing thing they do when something lands too heavy in the center of your chest. Not painful. Pressing.

He doesn’t look at you after he says it. He says it like he means it but doesn’t want to admit he said it. Like the words slipped out of his mouth because they’d been pacing there for weeks, starved of air, and now—there they are. On the bar between you. Heavy. Unwrapped. His voice didn’t wobble, didn’t go soft. It was casual. Quiet. Like an afterthought that somehow detonated under your ribcage.

You look at the side of his face instead of his eyes. The sharp line of his cheekbone. The little hollow under his jaw that always shadows first when he’s overtired. His lips are parted slightly, like there’s more coming, but nothing follows. He’s sipping his drink again now. The glass glints. The whiskey clings to the cut crystal like it wants to stay. He looks flushed, just a little, in that way Max always does when he’s said something that cost him more than he expected.

You inhale. Exhale. Try to say something. Nothing comes. Because what do you say to a sentence like that? Because part of you wants to reach for it. Wrap your fingers around it. Feel the heat of it on your skin. The you in that sentence feels too alive, too tender, too recent. And another part of you wants to pretend it didn’t happen. Because you’re not ready. Because your heart still sounds like it’s trying to knock its way out of your throat every time Lando’s name is said.

So you do what you always do when you’re circling a feeling too big to hold. You whisper the truth, without looking at him. “Max… I’m not ready.”

It barely escapes your mouth. Like you’re ashamed of it. Like it costs something. It does. You expect him to flinch. Or worse—offer some perfect, gentle platitude about timing and healing and how “you don’t have to be.” Something warm but distant. Something that would leave you feeling more alone.

But he doesn’t. He just nods, like he already knew. Like he’s been rehearsing that answer in the back of his mind all night.

“I know,” he says, and his voice is low. Rough like gravel, but softer than he usually lets it be with you. And then, in Dutch—quiet, intimate, untranslatable in the way it sounds in your bones.

“De mooiste bloemen groeien langzaam.”

You blink. Look at him. He finally looks at you.

And you know. You know what he means. The most beautiful flowers grow slowly. Not flashy. Not fast. They take time. Pressure. Soil and silence and things unsaid. And suddenly your chest aches. Not in the way it did when Lando broke it.

This ache is different. Gentle, but deep. The kind that builds slowly, like heat under your skin. The kind that says: I see you. I’ll wait. Not because I have to. Because I want to. You swallow. Nod. Look down at your hand on the bar, your fingers just barely brushing his now. The contact is nothing. And somehow it’s everything.

Your fingers are still resting on the edge of his. Just barely. Just enough that you can feel the heat where your skin touches his—not a flame, not a jolt, just warmth. Lingering. Like he isn’t trying to move. Like he wants you to know he’s not going anywhere.

And then— buzz.

Your bag vibrates once against the side of your hip. You ignore it. Obviously. You don’t look away from him. Not yet. The moment’s too fragile. Like a ripple that hasn’t decided whether to become a wave. Like it might disappear if you breathe wrong. Then it buzzes again.

Max raises an eyebrow without moving his hand. His fingers stay where they are. Yours do too. You sigh. Pull back.

Not dramatically. Not like you’re breaking a spell. Just gently. Like a page being turned before the chapter’s finished.

You slide your hand into your purse, thumb already unlocking your phone on instinct. The screen glows too bright in the low amber light, and it stings your eyes, makes the bar look colder than it is. You blink against it.

Alexandra

come say hi you little freaks 😘

charles said ur making max antisocial we have wine and gossip. and ice cream 🫶

You huff out something between a snort and a laugh.

“Alex,” you say aloud, shaking your head. You tilt the phone toward Max so he can see it, and his eyes flick down at the screen, then back up at you. He doesn’t say anything at first.

“Are you up for it?”

Max groans. Not with effort. With drama. His head tilts back slightly, his shoulders slumping like you’ve asked him to run a half-marathon in loafers. “God,” he mutters, already finishing his whiskey. “I just started enjoying myself.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So that’s a no?”

He looks at you. Eyes narrowed. Then downs the last of his drink in one smooth, sulky motion. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“…We’ll stay ten minutes.”

You laugh again, softer this time. “Ten?”

He nods. “Ten. Unless someone’s annoying. Then five. If Oscar’s eating ice cream with a fork again, we leave immediately.”

You stand. Max stands with you. And for the second time tonight, he doesn’t touch you. But he’s right there. Half a step behind. Ready. The walk back feels like threading a needle.

You and Max move through the crowd with just enough space between you to say nothing’s going on, but not enough to say we’re strangers. You feel him next to you in every breath, every shift of air. But he doesn’t look at you again. Doesn’t brush your arm. Doesn’t soften his step. He’s already folding back into the shape of someone you’re not supposed to need.

You hate how well he does it. The booth is half-lit, washed in the kind of gold that makes everything look softer than it is. Alexandra spots you first, her smile blooming immediately as she tugs Charles toward the open seat beside her.

“There she is,” she sing-songs, already reaching for your wrist. “You took your sweet time, I was starting to think Max had dragged you away.”

You let her pull you in, your fingers grazing hers, your smile automatic. Controlled.

“God, you’re obsessed with me,” you say. Light. Teasing. The words fall easily off your tongue.

Charles leans in with a grin, his accent rounding everything he says like a warm hand. “We had bets. I said twenty minutes. Oscar guessed forty. Carlos said you’d never come.”

You raise your brows. “Carlos has no faith in me.”

“He has no faith in anyone,” Alexandra mutters, pouring you a splash of wine without asking. “Sit. You need a drink that isn’t whatever that neon gold shit Red Bull serves as champagne.”

You sit. You thank her. You drink. You’re performing. But you’re good at it. And Max—Max moves without ceremony toward the other end of the table, slipping effortlessly into conversation with Carlos, Oscar, and their dates. Of course he does. Of course he makes it look easy. The way his head tilts when he listens. The way he nods, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, posture loose like he isn’t doing calculus in his brain every second he’s away from you.

It’s not personal. It’s strategy. Because if he sat beside you, now, if he looked at you like he just did at the bar, the whole room would notice. And they’d talk. And you can’t afford that.

So he doesn’t. And neither do you. You turn back to Charles. Let him ask you about next season. Let Alexandra pull you into a story about a dinner party in Paris that involved a flaming cheese wheel and an almost-divorce. You laugh. You ask follow-up questions. You sip your wine and try not to glance down the table. Try not to search for Max.

You feel it. The shift. The weight of a gaze before you even meet it. You turn your head. And there he is.

Lando.

Seated at the far end, next to Magui, but not with her. She’s focused on Carlos, on Max, something about a joke you’re not listening to. Her hand moves when she talks. Her laugh flutters too loud. She doesn’t notice that he’s not even looking at her.

He’s looking at you. Direct. Unapologetic. Unblinking.

His eyes drag across your face like a bruise being pressed. Slow. Unflinching. His jaw ticks once. A twitch of muscle like something about you hurts. His tongue swipes across his top teeth like he’s holding something in. Something sharp. Something too late. And still, he doesn’t look away.

Neither do you. Your spine straightens. Your mouth is still parted from the sip of wine you were mid-taking. You don’t blink. You don’t move. The moment stretches—too long, too full, too familiar. And for a second, it feels like no one else is there. Like it’s just you and him and everything that was said and everything that wasn’t.

The others don’t notice. Alexandra is still laughing beside you. Charles is responding, his voice soft, affectionate. Their joy bubbles like champagne beside you, blissfully unaware that your ex is looking at you like he’s drowning in everything he threw away.

You shift in your seat. Cross your legs. Press the stem of your glass between your fingers harder than necessary.

And still, Lando looks. Like he wants to say something.Like he knows he won’t. The longer he stares, the more absurd it becomes. Like a dare. Like a joke you haven’t been let in on. His jaw is tight, lips parted like he’s halfway through a sentence he doesn’t have the nerve to say, and his whole face has that stormcloud softness—like he’s confused. Like he’s wounded.

And suddenly it hits you. The audacity. The pure, blinding ridiculousness of the man who cracked your ribs open and danced in the ruin now looking at you like he’s the one grieving. You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Sharp. Short. It slips out before you can stop it—just a little huff of disbelief pushed through your nose like a gunshot. You don’t even mean to do it. But there it is.

He sees it. You don’t break eye contact when you do. That’s what makes it worse. You let him watch you laugh. Just for a second. Just enough.

Then, casually—too casually—you lean over and murmur something to Alexandra. Something vague about needing to step away. She barely hears you, still caught in the glitter of whatever joke she’s spinning for Charles, but she nods anyway, and you slide out of the booth like smoke under a door.

Your hand is steady on the table as you rise. Your glass is left untouched, wine lipsticked and sweating. Your dress shifts when you stand, the slit catching a breeze you didn’t know existed, silk hugging your hip like punctuation. You walk.

Not quickly. Not with purpose. Just out. Out of the booth. Out of the moment. Out of the weight of Lando’s gaze. But it follows you.

You don’t need to look. You know. You feel it like breath on the back of your neck. You disappear around the corner of the bar, into a hallway that leads toward the powder rooms, the private terrace, the less curated corners of the restaurant. Somewhere dimmer. Quieter. Somewhere you can exhale without an audience.

You walk like you don’t hear him behind you. Like you’re not anticipating every echo of his footsteps. Like your spine isn’t buzzing with the awareness that he’s chasing after you like this is still his story.

The hallway is dim and narrow, padded with shadows and that expensive quiet—just enough ambient light from the sconces to illuminate the framed, abstract artwork that means nothing. Everything here smells like lemon balm and wealth. You hate how familiar it is. How your body remembers the scent. The pacing. The knowing.

You turn the corner sharply, pausing halfway down, just past the staff service door, just shy of the terrace entrance, right under one of those antique sconces that drips soft gold light like honey.

And then—he appears.

Fast. Breathless. Like he expected to find a locked door and instead ran headfirst into you.

He skids slightly into the corner, like he wasn’t sure where you went until he saw you stop. Like his whole body is trying to slow itself down and failing. He’s flushed, even under the low light—his collar slightly askew, hair messier than it was ten seconds ago, the top button of his shirt pulled undone like he needed to breathe. Like you took the air with you when you left the room.

He stops two feet from you. Staring. Just staring. Eyes wide. Jaw tight. Chest rising fast, then slower. Then fast again. Like he’s trying to regulate himself but doesn’t know what gear he’s in anymore.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Blinking. Breathing. Like you’re not a person but a fucking apparition. And you just stand there. Arms crossed.

Weight shifted to one hip. Head tilted slightly in that way that says you’re waiting for him to be less ridiculous than this. But he doesn’t speak. He just looks. Like he wants to say a hundred things but can't even get past the first.

And you—God, you can’t help it—you almost laugh again. Because this is insane. Because you look like this, and he looks like that, and the last thing he said to you before he shattered everything was some halfhearted apology followed by a soft, smug “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

And now he’s breathing like you just stabbed him. So you say it. Flat. Quiet. Weaponized.

“What the fuck do you want?” You don’t expect the first thing out of his mouth to be that. No—you expected silence. Maybe an apology, if he could stomach the shape of the word. Maybe nothing. Maybe the cliché—“You look good,” or “Can we talk?” or “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” Something limp. Something boring. Something safe.

But not this. Not this flame to the chest. Definetly not, “Is there something going on with you and Max?”

You don’t speak. You can’t. The question lands like a slap, hard and stupid and echoing, and for a second all you can hear is your own blood pulsing through your ears. Hot. Viscous. Humiliating. It drowns out the ambient jazz leaking down the hallway, drowns out the laughter from the bar, drowns out the sound of him breathing like he just chased you out of the restaurant and into a goddamn memory.

He’s two feet away and wrong in every direction. Shirt half-untucked, hair damp at the temples. Sweat clings to the curve of his brow like guilt. His eyes are bright, too bright—reflective and glassy like they’re catching every ounce of gold light and making it ugly. He smells like spice and panic, like whatever cologne he started the evening in is already losing the war against whatever stress he’s been stewing in since you stood up from that booth. He looks beautiful, the way wreckage always does—ruined and breathless and sharp around the edges. Like something that can’t be touched without cutting yourself open.

You taste iron at the back of your throat. And you burn. Because this is what he opens with. This. After everything. After the cheating. After the silence. After the photo of him and Magui you had to see, not hear about. After the complete lack of apology—no explanation, no acknowledgment, no goddamn accountability. Just… you, gone. Him, louder than ever. And now he wants to talk about Max.

Now, he wants to stand in this hallway and pant like he ran a mile in the wrong direction and ask if your teammate is touching you?

You feel your forearm itch. Not in a physical way. In that deep, animal kind of way—like your body is rejecting the moment. Like your nerves are trying to crawl out through your skin. Your spine is too straight. Your fists curl too tightly. There’s sweat between your shoulder blades and your silk dress is clinging in places it didn’t earlier. The scent of citrus cleaner and soft musk from the air diffusers is cloying now, too clean for a hallway filled with this kind of tension. Your heel is slightly off-balance against the slate tile. Your teeth are pressing into the back of your tongue. Everything is wrong. Every sense is alive.

You speak before you mean to. Your voice doesn’t crack. It slices. “You’re actually fucking serious.”

He blinks. Like he doesn’t understand. Like you’re the one being unreasonable. His hands flex at his sides. He leans a fraction closer, eyes scanning your face like it’ll save him. “I just—he was all over you tonight.”

You laugh. You laugh. It’s a sharp, hot sound that doesn’t match the coolness of your dress or the control in your expression. You laugh like it hurts your ribs, like the sound might unhinge your jaw if you let it go too long.

“He’s my teammate,” you spit. “Are you fucking joking?”

Lando says nothing. His mouth is open. Like there are more words waiting. But none of them matter. None of them would make this better. You take a step forward, and he doesn’t move. Your voice drops. Quiet now. Controlled.

“You cheat on me. With her. You didn’t call. You didn’t explain. You didn’t look for me. You just let it happen.”

You pause. Your breath catches, hot and wet at the top of your throat, and you push through it.

“And now, months later, after pretending I don’t exist, after parading her around and you have the audacity to ask about Max?”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flick down—mouth, throat, waist—then back to your face. And there it is. That old flicker. That low heat. Desire, curling like smoke from the ashes of what he burned. You feel it hit you like it always has—low in your belly, unwelcome but familiar. Like muscle memory. Like poison you used to mistake for love.

But you don’t let it win. You step back. One inch. Enough. And then, softly. Final.

“You don’t get to look at me like that anymore.”

You say it softly. Not a whisper. Not a scream. Just truth, delivered like a blade left cooling on marble. Final, but not loud. And you mean it. You fucking mean it. You mean it even though the second the words leave your mouth, you feel the heat behind your eyes, that stupid low ache blooming in your stomach, crawling beneath your ribs like a bruise forming in real time.

Because he’s still looking at you like that. Like you’re his. Like none of it ever happened. Like you weren’t the one left with ash in your lungs and his fingerprints still clinging to the parts of you he never earned in the first place.

He blinks once. Breathes harder. His chest rises like he’s trying to say something, but the words get caught on his tongue. And then he moves.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just one step. A single fucking step that shouldn’t mean anything but sends a bolt through your spine so sharp you almost forget how to breathe.

He’s close now. Close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip. The way his jaw is flexing too tightly. The pulse at his neck, visible now. Racing.

He smells like whatever he sprayed on three hours ago—something expensive and leathery and sharp—but now it’s been overtaken by something else. The smell of panic. Of want. Of a body trying to hold itself still while everything inside it starts to burn. You’re still standing there, not backing down, not giving him the satisfaction. But your skin is doing things. Twitching under your dress. Tingling at the tops of your thighs. That heat low in your belly is turning into something worse. Not romantic. Not hopeful. Worse.

Familiar. He reaches for you. Slow. Like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. Like he knows he shouldn’t. But he does anyway. His hand lifts, then hovers, just at your arm. Just at the place where your shoulder meets your bicep.

“Don’t,” you breathe.

But you don’t move. He breathes out, ragged now. He doesn’t touch you yet, not really, just lets his fingers hang there, so close you can feel the ghost of it. And that’s worse. That’s so much fucking worse.

“You look so good,” he says, and his voice is strained, quiet, like he hates himself for saying it but hates himself more for not saying it sooner.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

You mean it. But your thighs are pressed together now. Tight. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just enough. He sees it. His lips part like he’s about to say something else—an apology, a confession, maybe a lie he’s trying to turn into something beautiful. But nothing comes.

His hand finally lands. Light. Careful. The heat from his palm sears straight through the fabric of your dress. And that’s it. That’s the mistake.

You exhale like you’ve been punched. You step back again, not because you want to—because you have to. Because if he touches you like that again, you’re going to let him. And you can’t. You fucking can’t. You spin away. Your back hits the wall. It’s cool, textured, but it doesn’t help. Your breath is shallow. Your thighs are shaking.

He watches you like a man unraveling. Like he knows he lost you the second he looked away months ago, and now he’s standing in the aftermath, trying to pick through the ruins for something salvageable.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” he says, finally.

You laugh. It sounds more like a gasp. “Then why did you keep doing it?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks down. Then back at you. Then down again. There’s silence. There’s too much fucking silence.

You’re thinking about the last time he touched you. The last time you let him. The way his mouth felt on your neck. The way he used to say your name in the dark, like it tasted good. Like he earned it. Your hips shift against the wall. You don’t mean to.

His eyes flick there. It’s the worst thing you could’ve done. He steps forward again. And you don’t stop him.

“Tell me to go,” he says. Right there. Right in front of you. So close now that your noses could touch if you tilted your head. So close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his chest like a furnace, like punishment.

His voice drops. “Tell me you don’t think about me anymore.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes. He looks at you like he’s drowning. Like you’re the only oxygen left in the room.

“Tell me,” he breathes, “and I’ll leave.”

And that’s the problem. You can’t. You don’t say it. You try. You really try. Your lips part like they’re about to shape it—Go. I don’t think about you. I’m fine. I’m better. But nothing comes out. Just breath. Just the taste of his cologne and regret and the electric press of skin that isn’t touching but is too close anyway.

Lando knows. The bastard knows. You feel it in the way he softens, just a fraction. The way the fight drains from his eyes and something hungrier slips into the cracks. Like he’s starting to believe this might not be the end. Like he’s seeing a window instead of a door.

Your throat burns. Your chest pulls tight, like something’s trying to claw its way out. Your hands curl against the wall behind you, searching for texture, for anything to ground you before your knees give out.

“Two years,” you whisper. It’s not loud. It’s not sharp. It’s just wrecked.

He stills.

“Two years,” you say again, and this time your voice cracks—splinters straight down the middle. Your head tilts back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut like it hurts to look at him. “For what? For who? Some girl who can’t even look me in the face?”

You open your eyes. He’s right there. You could kiss him if you wanted to. His jaw is tense, shoulders drawn in like he’s bracing for impact. His hands are fisted now. He looks like he wants to say it wasn’t like that. Like he wants to explain. But he can’t. Because it was. Because he did it.

Your chin trembles. He sees it. And then—slow, agonizingly slow—he leans in. His hand lifts again. This time it lands on your hip. Just barely. Just his fingers against the edge of your dress, the soft fabric caught between you. He doesn’t press. Just rests there. Warm. Steady.

“Don’t,” you say, but it’s air.

It’s not real. It’s not no. He dips closer. His nose brushes your cheek, soft and maddening. You can feel the heat of his breath against your jaw. You smell him—you smell him. That mix of cologne and skin and sweat and everything you’ve tried so hard to forget. Your head spins. Your mouth goes dry. Your thighs press together, unthinking, desperate for friction.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

It’s not fair. None of this is fucking fair. You squeeze your eyes shut, but he’s still there, lips just above your skin, not kissing, not yet—just hovering. Like he’s waiting for you to move first. Like he’s giving you control, when you both know he took that from you the second he opened his fucking mouth.

His mouth brushes your jaw. Once. Soft.

Like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s testing what he can get away with. Your breath catches in your throat, too high, too raw. Your whole body arches forward before you can stop it—just slightly. Just enough. He kisses it again. Lower this time. Firmer. Right where your pulse sits.

You gasp. It’s quiet. Humiliating. So utterly humiliating. You don’t think— instead, your fingers dig into the wall behind you, the plaster cool under your nails. Your knees do buckle now, just a little. Just enough that his other hand rises to your waist to steady you. And now he’s holding you. Lightly. But fully. His chest against yours. His mouth still ghosting your skin.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

He nods against your jaw. “I know.”

You breathe him in. And it’s the worst decision you’ve made all night. Because he still smells like yours. Because your body still remembers this. Because you haven’t touched him in months, and now your hands are twitching at your sides like they need somewhere to go.

He kisses your jaw again. Then your cheek. Then lower.

And then he pauses—mouth at the corner of your lips, your pulse a fucking drumbeat in your throat, your body trembling with anger and ache and everything you never got to say.

“You still want me,” he says.

Your eyes don’t close when his mouth brushes yours. They flicker. Twitch. A full-body glitch, like your nerves just remembered how this ends and still can’t stop you.

Your fingers are still splayed behind you against the wall. You could push him. You should push him. Your knees would give out anyway. You tilt your chin. Half a millimeter. He crashes into that space like he was waiting for it.

His mouth—god, his fucking mouth—lands on yours not soft, not slow, not even hungry. Starved. He kisses like it’s a punishment. Like every inch he claims is revenge for something you never did. Your teeth knock, your lip catches, and there’s a hiss between you that might be pain or might be something worse. He tastes like whiskey and ash, like every “I’m sorry” you never got. And yet, you still fucking kiss him back.

You hate yourself for it. You hate how your hands leap from the wall to his shirt like they were made for this. One fist curled in the fabric near his chest, the other sliding—grabbing—his jaw like you’re trying to break it or memorize it. Your nails scrape down his neck and he groans into your mouth, low and guttural and needy, and that’s when it slips.

That thing inside you. The part you swore you buried. You bite him. Right on the lip, sharp and vengeful, and he stumbles into you with a grunt, palm flattening hard to your waist, the other flying to the wall behind your head. You’re pinned. You’re caged. And for some reason you don’t fucking care. You don’t even think.

“Fuck,” he growls, mouth slick against yours, and you can taste blood now—his or yours, you don’t know.

“Don’t talk,” you snap.

He laughs. It’s breathless, bitter. “You came out here so I’d shut up?” You shove your hips forward just enough to make him hiss.

“Didn’t come out here for you,” you lie, panting.

He tugs at your waist like he’s going to break your spine in half. “Then why are your legs shaking?”

You snarl. “I hate you.”

“I know.” And then he does it—he drags you. Literally, hand on your arm, spins you with a snarl toward the door next to you. Unmarked. Employees Only. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t check. Just kicks it open like he owns the fucking hallway, shoves you through it, slams it shut behind him.

Click. Lock. It’s dark. It’s tiny.

Some storage closet or wine room or who gives a fuck. Shelves line the walls. A faint overhead bulb hums to life, flickers. Lando’s silhouette is massive in the door’s amber spill. He steps in like you owe him something.

“Say it,” he breathes, one step closer, “Say you hate me again.” You backpedal into a rack of coats and uniforms and god knows what. His hand lands next to your head.

Your voice wavers. Just barely. “I fucking hate you.”

He exhales, forehead lowering to yours, lips barely apart. “Then say you don’t want this.”

You don’t. You can’t. You won’t. Instead, you lunge. Mouth to his. Harder this time. Deeper. This kiss isn’t just hate—it’s grief. It’s betrayal. It’s every sleepless night you stared at your phone, knowing he wasn’t coming back. Your hands fly to his belt like a threat. His go for your thigh—no grace, no hesitation, just grab, yanking your leg up around his waist, and he groans into your mouth like you’re the first clean breath he’s had in weeks.

It’s clumsy, wet, desperate. He shoves your dress up like it’s insulted him. His hand slides under, hot and rough, fingers digging into the softness of your hip like he’s trying to erase what he did with her. You jerk his belt open, pop the button on his pants without finesse. Your breath catches on a sob that doesn’t get out, and he eats it with his tongue, one palm cupping your face now, tilting you where he wants you.

“You gonna cry for me, baby?” he pants, lips dragging along your jaw. You shove your hand down his waistband.

“Only if you come too fast.”

He snarls. Fucking snarls. Your back hits the wall with a thud. He’s fully holding your leg now, spreading you open. You’re soaking. He can feel it through your underwear, and the way his jaw clenches tells you he’s about to ruin you for that.

“You’re a fucking liar,” he mutters, thumb dragging hard over the soaked seam.

“And you’re a fucking cheater,” you shoot back, voice sharp, broken. And then—finally—he sinks to his knees.

You're not even sure how you got to this point. One minute you were hissing fuck you into his face like it was a spell, the next you’re hoisted onto a supply shelf in some hidden back hallway, dress yanked up, panties shoved aside, and Lando’s on his fucking knees. Hands tight on your thighs, fingers bruising, tongue deep in your cunt like he’s trying to crawl inside and live there.

The room’s humid with breath and sex and whatever this filthy, unholy thing is that still pulses between you like it never died. And God, it’s good. You hate that it’s good. You hate that you’re gripping the back of his head like he’s oxygen, thighs quaking every time his tongue circles your clit in that slow, cruel swirl.

You throw your head back, eyes fluttering— and that’s when you see him.

Max.

Just a flash. That quiet steadiness. That strong grip at your back. His voice in Dutch, low and constant, telling you he’s got you. And for a split fucking second, your body clenches in reflex to a man who isn’t even here.

What the fuck. Your brows twitch. Your throat burns. You’re on the edge of an orgasm with Lando's face buried between your legs, and you’re thinking about Max.

Not for long. Just a flicker. But it’s enough. You feel guilty. Not for Lando. Not for the cheating. But because Max—Max didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be in your head while you’re getting your pussy eaten by the man who shattered you.

Lando doesn’t notice. Hes lost in it. He groans into your cunt like your taste just wrecked him, hips grinding into the air like he’s fucking you with his face, tongue flicking fast, fingers now inside you. Two thick ones curling up like they know where that sweet spot is, and—

You break. Your thighs clamp around his ears and you’re coming, spasming on his tongue with a scream torn raw from your lungs.

“Fuck— Lando—fuck— you fucking—cheating bastard—”

He doesn’t stop. He keeps sucking, dragging that orgasm out like it’s punishment. You’re sobbing now. Half in rage. Half in bliss. Your nails dig into the shelf behind you, the world blurred through wet lashes. He pulls back, chin and mouth glossy with you. He’s panting. Eyes fucking wild.

“You taste so fucking sweet when you’re mad,” he growls. “I missed that cunt. Missed this fucking pussy so bad I was getting hard looking at your goddamn photos.”

You slap him. Not hard. Just a stinging smack across the cheek. His head snaps sideways He smiles.

He fucking smiles.

“Still wanna hit me? Do it after I ruin this pussy.”

Then he stands. His cock’s already out—veiny, hard, flushed at the tip. And so thick. You’re drooling at the sight of it, even as you grit your teeth like you’re not. He fists it once, slow, the head smearing pre-cum across your inner thigh as he lines up.

“Say you want it.”

“Go to hell.”

He slams in. No warning. No slow. Just full tilt, no condom, raw and brutal. Your scream bounces off the walls, drowned in his growl.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight. Like this pussy missed me too.”

Your arms fly around his neck, legs locking high around his waist, and he starts to thrust. Hard. Deep. Every motion sending your ass crashing back into the wall, the shelf behind you rattling with every wet slap of his cock inside you.

“Say it,” he snarls into your neck. “Say this cunt still fucking belongs to me.”

You sob.

“No.”

He fucks you harder. Your dress is soaked. His shirt’s half off. Your tits spill free and he bites one, groaning as your pussy clenches around him.

“Fucking liar,” he pants. “You love this dick. You need it. You’re dripping on me, babe—you’re soaking for the man who ruined you.”

Your head hits the wall. Your eyes roll back.

“God, fuck, I hate you—”

He laughs, breathless and wrecked.

“You hate this cock too? Huh?” he grunts, pounding into you. “You hate this fat cock splitting you open like it never left?”

Your orgasm crashes over you without warning. Your scream echoes, thighs shaking, cunt spasming around him so hard he chokes. He loses it.

“Shit— I’m gonna cum—fuck—I’m gonna fill you up, yeah? Gonna fucking—paint this pussy, remind you who fucked it best—”

And he does. Buries himself to the hilt, slams his cock deep one last time, and moans. Hot and broken, like he’s falling apart inside you. Cum spilling raw and endless, thick and messy as he pulses into your cunt with a strangled groan. Your head lolls against his shoulder. You’re trembling. His grip is the only thing keeping you from sliding off the shelf in a pool of sweat and cum and sin.

You breathe. Once. Twice. And then his mouth finds yours again. Slower this time. Hungrier. Wrecked. Like he’s still not done.

You’re still full of him. Still trembling from that first, frenzied, hate-fueled high. His cum is leaking out of you, warm and slick between your thighs, your legs trembling around his hips.

He hasn’t moved. Not really. He’s still inside you. His forehead is pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged, and everything’s quiet now. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s daring you to speak.

You don’t. You can’t.

Because suddenly his hands are gentle. One smoothing up your back. The other trembling against your jaw. His thumb traces the corner of your mouth like he wants to kiss you there—not to shut you up, but to taste the things you’re not saying.

Then he does. Soft. Too soft. A kiss so careful it hurts. His lips press into yours like an apology, like a confession, like he still thinks he has the right to be tender. And it shatters you.

Because that’s not what this was supposed to be. This was supposed to be violence. Payback. Carnage. But now he’s rocking into you slow. Steady.

His cock’s still hard—buried inside you like he’s home. Each thrust now is long, deep, aching. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you higher, cradling you like something breakable. Like something he wants to keep.

“God,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek. “I missed you.”

Your heart jerks. Don’t you fucking say it.

“Missed this pussy,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. “Missed how you sound. How you breathe. Missed your fucking body—”

He chokes. Like it’s too much. Because it is. Because outside this door, his girlfriend is laughing. With Carlos. With Charles. With Max.

You see Max’s face again. His steady eyes. The quiet way he said I’ve got you without ever touching your skin. His voice still echoing in your chest when you close your eyes.

Your eyes sting. Lando kisses you again. Softer now. His hips move in slow, deep rolls, cock dragging inside you like silk through an old wound. Lando kisses you again. Softer now. His hips move in slow, deep rolls, cock dragging inside you like silk through an old wound.

It hurts. Not from pain. From how good it feels. How slow. How full. He thrusts like he’s still tasting your moans in his mouth. Like he’s trying to memorize what forgiveness would feel like if you gave it. Each grind of his hips presses deep into your core, filling you so completely you swear you can feel the shape of his regret curling around your womb. He noses at your jaw. Kisses your cheek. Doesn’t speak. Not yet.

You’re not moaning anymore. You’re not even crying. You’re just letting him. Letting him move inside you. Letting him pretend. His hand drags along your ribs, fingers splayed, like he’s never touched you before. Like he forgot how soft your skin was. Like it kills him to remember.

And then—quiet. He murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I don’t want to see you this season.”

Your breath catches in your throat. His hips still don’t stop. The rhythm stays the same—deep, slow, like fucking in molasses.

“I mean it,” he whispers. “If I see you in the paddock—on the track—fuck, I’m gonna fall apart.”

Your brows knit. Confusion tangles with disbelief. “You’re fucking serious?”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut. You can feel how hard he’s clenching his jaw.

“I can’t watch you,” he breathes. “Can’t see you with Max. Laughing. Acting like this—” his thrusts get harder now, more insistent “—like this— we didn’t fucking happen.”

You bite back a sob. “You fucked someone else.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just groans, deep and wrecked, and sinks in again—slow, grinding, like it’s punishment.

“I know. I fucking know. But I didn’t feel anything. Not like this.” His hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the curve of your breast. “I never stopped feeling this.”

You close your eyes. Because if you look at him, you’ll scream. He pulls out halfway, then pushes back in so deep, your breath stutters. You gasp, nails digging into his back, and he moans.

“You still feel like mine,” he whispers. “Still fucking perfect. Still so fucking warm and wet and—fuck—tight.”

He kisses you. This time it's desperate. Open-mouthed. Lingering. He fucks into you with long, dragging strokes now, slower still, like he’s trying to come without ever leaving you.

“I dream about this pussy,” he grits out. “Wake up hard. Fuck her from behind and still pretend it’s you. Every fucking time. I see your face.”

Your body twitches around him. Reflex. Your core tightens, clenches. His breath hitches.

“Do that again,” he whispers. “Please. Fuck—squeeze my cock just like that.”

You do. Unintentionally. Because your body still remembers him. Still responds. Even now.

“Jesus,” he groans, hips faltering. “You’re gonna make me cum already.”

You shake your head, voice hoarse. “Not yet.”

He swears under his breath. His hands shift under your thighs, lifting you higher, adjusting the angle, and then—oh god—he starts again. Long, slow strokes. Every inch dragging, pulling, teasing. Your slick coats his cock like honey, and he’s fucking you with the patience of someone who knows this is the last time he gets to.

“Let me watch you,” he begs. “Let me see your face.”

You do. You look. And he looks wrecked. Eyes glassy, mouth slack, sweat-damp curls falling over his forehead as he thrusts into you like he wants to stay there forever. And then—his pace changes. Just slightly. More focused. More intentional.

“I should’ve picked you,” he says. It’s not a whisper this time. “I should’ve fought for you.”

You want to scream. Instead, your nails score down his back. “You didn’t.”

He groans. “I know.”

His forehead presses to yours again, thrusts slowing to a torturous rhythm, cock sliding deep and so warm, and his voice breaks when he says:

“I don’t know how to let you go.”

You do. You do. You just haven’t done it yet. You kiss him again. And again. And then you fuck him like it’s goodbye. Because it is. Even if you don’t say it. Even if he can’t. He’s thrusting again—slow, rhythmic, chasing the high you gave him once, twice, now desperate for a third like it might rewrite time. Your body’s caught in it, hips rolling to meet him, lips parted, moans dragging low from your throat that sound too much like regret.

He’s buried to the hilt, forehead on your shoulder, fingers digging into your ass like he’s afraid you’ll float away when he cums. And maybe you will.

“Don’t want to leave,” he breathes. “Just want to stay like this. Stay in you.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes “Of course you do.”

He groans. A low, needy sound in your neck. “You feel so good. Still perfect. Still fucking—fuck—made for me.”

“No,” you breathe, voice tight, cunt fluttering around his cock because your body hasn’t caught up to your head. “You gave that up. You gave me up.” He thrusts harder. Once. Twice. Deep enough your vision blurs.

“Let me fix it,” he pants. “I’ll end it with her. I swear to God, I’ll fucking drop everything.”

You look down at him, eyes burning. “You already did.”

His face crumples. The rhythm falters. His hips still, cock twitching deep inside you.

“You said it was a mistake,” you whisper, voice shaking. “But it wasn’t a moment. It was months. You kept her. You chose her. And you only came running when you saw me with Max.”

His head falls against your shoulder. His arms tighten.

“I was scared.”

You shake your head. “You were weak.”

He tries to kiss you. You turn your face. “I still love you,” he chokes.

You bite your lip, feel the sting of everything behind your teeth—and push your hips against his, hard.

“Then remember this,” you whisper, breath trembling, “because it’s the last time.”

That pushes him over the edge. He cums with a broken groan, face buried in your neck, cock jerking inside you, hot and thick and wrong. You feel every pulse, every desperate spasm of a man trying to hold onto something he already lost. He’s panting when he slumps against you. Soft now. Dripping down your thighs. Sticky with remorse.

You press your palm to his chest. Push. Harder. He finally pulls out, groaning as your cunt lets go of him with a wet, final pop. You slide off the shelf, dress falling back into place. You don’t wipe the mess. You don’t fix your hair. You just look at him—shirt half-off, flushed and fucked and wrecked—and feel nothing but clarity.

“I’ll see you on the track,” you say, smooth, even. “And nowhere else.”

He opens his mouth. You’re already at the door. Your hand’s on the handle when you stop. One glance over your shoulder.

“I hope she tastes it,” you say. Quiet. Deadly. “Every time you kiss her.”

Click. You walk out. And the door doesn't close behind you. It slams. The hallway’s cooler than it was ten minutes ago. Or maybe it’s just you. Skin still humming, thighs still slick, the ache still fresh between your legs. You walk like you’re made of marble. Slow, deliberate, like every part of your body was poured back into its mold and polished to a high-gloss finish. Your dress falls back into place effortlessly. Your lips are swollen, but only if someone’s looking. And no one’s looking. Not like that.

You reenter the restaurant like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just fuck your ex in a dark back room while his girlfriend sat ten feet away laughing at a story Max was probably pretending to care about.

Your heels kiss the tile. Your posture doesn’t waver. The moment you step back into the dim glow of the dining space, it’s like a veil drops. The laughter. The sparkle of glasses. The low murmur of Monaco’s elite pretending they don’t breathe the same air as the rest of the world. The weight of your entrance is lighter this time, almost lazy. As if you were just reapplying your lipstick. Not rearranging your soul.

You don’t go back to your seat. You just stop by the edge of the table, where the laughter is loudest now. Oscar’s flushed. Alexandra is howling at something Charles just whispered in her ear. Even Magui is smiling, relaxed, her hand curling around her wine glass in that curated, influencer way. She looks at you and doesn’t know. None of them do.

That’s the power. You lean forward slightly, voice soft and cool. “I think I’m gonna head out,” you say.

Alexandra pouts. “You just got here.”

You smile. “I know.”

Charles nods, easy, warm. “Send me that song you mentioned earlier.”

“Of course.”

Your eyes flick sideways. Max is already looking. He straightens, barely. Sets down his glass with a soft clink. Adjusts the cuff of his shirt. Like he knew. Like he always knows. He pushes off from the booth, smooth and unhurried, nodding politely at Oscar, at Carlos, at someone’s girlfriend who says something about next week’s race. He doesn’t look at Lando. He doesn’t need to.

You don’t wait for him. You just turn. He follows. As if nothing happened. As if you hadn’t just made the worst, most intoxicating mistake of your season. The cool night air hits your skin like absolution. Not quite enough to erase what just happened, but enough to start dulling the edges. The breeze lifts the hem of your dress, tangles in your hair, kisses your neck like it doesn’t know Lando was just there. Like it wants to claim that space for itself.

You stop just short of the valet station, eyes scanning the street like you’re pretending to orient yourself. Like you don’t already know exactly where you parked. Max walks up behind you a beat later, slow, quiet, like he’s learned how to match your rhythm.

You glance at him. Just once. His tie’s loose now. His eyes are still flushed with champagne. The good kind. The kind you can feel in your cheeks and the tips of your ears. The kind that makes your teeth feel warm and your tongue too honest.

“I fucked up tonight,” you say.

Max’s brow lifts, but he doesn’t interrupt. He waits. You turn to him, slowly, the streetlight catching the curve of your shoulder, the shimmer still left on your lips. And then, softly you say. “Wanna come back with me?”

He pauses. Just a blink. Then he smiles. Small. Crooked. Devastating.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

You don’t look at him again as you hand your ticket to the valet. You don’t need to. He’s already there, standing just a little too close, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to keep them to himself. Like he knows. The Porsche rolls up a minute later, clean and white and sleek like nothing dirty has ever happened inside it. You get in without speaking. Max follows.

The doors shut. The engine purrs to life. And then—you drive. You drive like you’re trying to outrun the memory of his hands. Of Lando’s breath in your ear. Of the sob that nearly broke out of your throat when you came and he said I miss you. You drive like you’re chasing down silence. Like speed might bleach the shame from your skin.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches the city blur past his window, one hand braced against the center console, the other relaxed over his thigh.

The roads are mostly empty. You take the turns sharp. Not dangerous. Just fast. The wind slips into the car through the barely-cracked window, pulling your hair into your face, cooling the sweat at your temples. Your foot presses down harder. The speedometer ticks up.

You feel free. Then terrible. Not all at once. Just in pulses. Like your body can’t decide if this is survival or self-destruction. You don’t know what this looks like from the outside. The white car, the woman driving too fast, the man in the passenger seat who doesn’t flinch. The way his knuckles brush the edge of the gear shift sometimes, like he’s holding back from reaching for your knee. You don’t say a word until the city lights start thinning out behind you.

And even then—you just exhale. Quiet. Like the part of you that still wants to scream finally gave up. The roads curl as you climb. Sharp turns and silver lights and the sea flickering below like a memory you can’t quite shake. The kind of drive that would feel lonely if it weren’t for the warmth humming between the seats. Monaco thins out as you rise, the glamor traded for silence, for altitude, for real estate so expensive the trees are pruned to match the neighborhood’s collective ego.

Through it all—Max. Still. Watching you. Not in a way that demands your gaze. Not like Lando. There’s no performance in it. Just that quiet, relentless Maxness. Like he’s looking at a storm he’d rather walk into than run from. Like he knows it might break him but he’s choosing it anyway. You glance sideways. Quick. Just a flick of your eyes. But it’s enough to catch it.

That look. The one that doesn’t belong here. Not tonight. Not after what you did. It’s not lust. It’s not hunger. It’s worse.

It’s hope. That wide, open, dangerous look like he’s seeing a version of the future where this ends differently. Where you don’t break. Where he’s the one who gets to hold what’s left of you.

Your throat closes. You want to say something. To ruin it before it becomes real. To rip it out of his hands before he gets comfortable holding it.

But you don’t. You just keep driving. Keep pretending you don’t feel your heart curling in on itself like paper in flame. Keep pretending the thought of Lando’s whisper and falls promises doesn’t linger in the back of your head.

#f1 #f1 fanfic #lando #lando x you #lando norris #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 imagine #max verstappen #max vertsappen fic #lando Norris fic #lando norizz #Lando smut #lando angst #lando fluff #Max smut #max fluff

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rosemaryhoney27 · 1 day ago

Text

Phantom Manor

Danny had been through a lot. He’d been half-killed in a lab accident, gained ghost powers, and then been chased through the multiverse by a government that would’ve loved to dissect him like a frog in eighth-grade biology. So when the portal spat him out into this dimension—one packed with capes, cowls, metas, and aliens—he figured he’d finally caught a break.

No GIW agents. No Fenton parents shouting about ectoplasmic anomalies. No Skulker showing up to hunt him down in the middle of English class. Just... peace.

Well, almost.

The major snag? He was homeless. Again.

No ID, no money, and the last place he tried to haunt had been a warehouse with exactly three raccoons who did not appreciate his presence. He couldn’t go back to school, didn’t know how to get a job, and sleeping on rooftops got old fast, even for a ghost boy.

That was when Danny heard the most ridiculously useful rumor ever: Billionaire Bruce Wayne had a habit of adopting black-haired, blue-eyed children like it was a competitive sport.

And Danny? Well, he had black hair and blue eyes... at least half the time.

Good enough for government work.

So one night, in the dead of moonlight, Danny phased through the locked gates, passed the high-tech security system, and slipped straight into Wayne Manor. The place was huge, quiet, and oddly comfortable despite its bat-themed overtones. He didn’t even try to sneak around like a spy—he just floated through until he found an empty bedroom with a made bed, thick curtains, and a view of the garden.

He claimed it.

No one said anything.

So Danny just... stayed.

Danny didn’t mean to con anyone. It’s just that no one noticed him. He figured maybe there were already so many black-haired, blue-eyed kids around here that adding one more didn’t even make a blip on the radar. And since Jack and Maddie Fenton may not have taught their kids about interdimensional politics, they did make sure their kids had proper manners.

So, the first time he ate in the massive kitchen, he washed the dishes afterward. Alfred showed up just as Danny was drying the last fork, his sharp eyes watching from the doorway.

“...I see Master Grayson’s taste in midnight snacks has rubbed off on someone,” Alfred remarked.

Danny froze. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. Just thought I’d clean up after myself.”

The butler narrowed his eyes. Then nodded. “A rare instinct in this household. Continue.”

And from then on, it became a routine.

Danny helped in the kitchen. He helped clean the manor. He weeded the garden (phasing out any actual creepy-crawlies). He carried laundry baskets. He repaired a broken picture frame. When one of the Batmobiles needed a patch-up job on a fin, Danny phased into the engine and fixed it from the inside out while humming along to an old Ghostbusters theme remix.

Alfred was absolutely delighted with the newest, polite, respectful, and hard-working “Wayne.” Even if he had no earthly clue when exactly this young man had joined the family.

It took a few weeks before anyone realized something was off.

“Alfred,” Bruce said over breakfast one morning, “why is there an unfamiliar teenage boy pressure-washing the back patio with what looks like... green plasma?”

Alfred sipped his tea without looking up. “That’s Master Daniel. He’s been most helpful.”

“…We don’t have a Master Daniel.”

Alfred finally looked up, deadpan. “Master Bruce, I have tolerated you bringing home orphans like stray cats in the rain. The boy helps clean. He gardens. He fixed the coffee machine. I will not be chasing him out. Adopt him, give him a room, or be quiet about it.”

Bruce blinked. “...Fair.”

Meanwhile, Danny was just glad he hadn’t been blasted with a Batarang on sight.

He had a bed, food, quiet (well, relatively), and access to the Wayne library’s wi-fi. He was pretty sure Damian glared at him more than necessary and that Jason kept trying to figure out if Danny was secretly a zombie, but otherwise?

He was kind of fitting in.

At least until someone walked in on him halfway intangible while reaching through the fridge for leftover pie.

“…Master Daniel,” Alfred said from behind him, entirely unshaken. “If you are going to help with the silverware later, do remember to phase after you wash your hands.”

Danny, still half inside the fridge, stared.

“…Yes, sir.”

And thus, somehow, without anyone signing a single form or asking too many questions, Danny Fenton became the most ghostly Wayne sibling yet.

And honestly?

He was kinda cool with that.

#dpxdc #danny fenton #danny phantom #batman #alfred pennyworth #Danny has manners sort of #danny fenton is a little shit

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fairestwriting · 1 day ago

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Could I request headcanons of Ace, Trey, Riddle, and Silver's reactions to getting free snacks from their partner?

𐙚 Riddle Rosehearts

”It’s… are you sure I can have that? Um… I appreciate it, thank you.”

Riddle is a little surprised at first, even though it’s something so simple. He’s just not really used to any sort of spontaneous gifting? Even though Trey does something similar when there’s leftovers of the strawberry tart he likes— But it’s different with Trey, of course.

He is a little bit picky though. He gets conflicted on whether he should accept things he doesn’t like that much. On one hand, Riddle doesn’t really feel like eating these chips… But on the other, you specifically gave them to him. You might have even bought them for him. He can’t bring himself to say no, even if he doesn’t want them, even if he feels like he’s not supposed to eat them…

He always ends up eating at least some of it though. As he gets more used to it, it becomes a little bit easier to explain that he doesn't really like something or the other… But if it’s homemade stuff, he’s immediately folding. You made it? For him? No one besides Trey has ever done that. The fact that you took time out of your day to make that completely cancels out any hangups he might have with flavor or texture— And it flusters him every single time, without fail.

𐙚 Trey Clover

”Oh, are you sure? Well, then I’ve got something for you too.”

He’s not taking no for an answer, it doesn't matter where you are, what time it is, or what sort of snack you’re offering him. You’re giving him something, so of course he wants to return the gesture! And he’s always got some food in his bag too, mostly leftover desserts he’s made for the Heartslabyul boys.

He’ll take pretty much whatever you give him, especially if it’s anything you made yourself. It’s fine if you’re not the best cook around, he’s not picky and he’s already happy you thought of him at all while you were in the kitchen.

If it becomes a regular thing, Trey starts keeping snacks you specifically like to give you in return. Even if you never told him what your favorite Unbirthday Party dish was, he’ll just pay attention until he can make an educated guess. He really enjoys that as a part of your routine, it’s a quick and easy way to make each other’s day a little brighter, and make sure you know you’re cared for.

𐙚 Ace Trappola

”Aw, how’d you know I was getting hungry? Are you gonna feed it to me too?”

He’s a little shit about it, because of course he is, but it actually does fluster Ace a little bit. Even more if it’s done out of nowhere, and he really was getting hungry— Were you really watching him this closely? He wasn’t expecting that. He certainly wasn’t expecting your response to be offering him food, either…

Ace will shrug and tell you he’ll take it because he doesn’t turn down free food, but the light flush on his cheeks can be telling, if you’re actually looking. If it’s anything that you could feed to him, he’ll tease you over that, opening his mouth and going ”Aah~” before you can even react.

…And he’ll really let you feed him. He makes these exaggerated cutesy faces while you do, giggling through the whole thing… But actually, he kind of loves it. Ace tells himself (and you) that he’s just joking around, trying to fluster you by commenting on how much you spoil him, but he’s really just baiting you to do it more. The day after, he’ll even ask if you ”have any more treats for him”. If you say no, he’ll pester you about how you’re “neglecting” him. If you ever had cats, you’ll definitely find yourself being reminded about them.

𐙚 Silver

”That’s… really kind of you, thank you. Do you want me to get you something from the cafeteria too?”

…You’ll probably want to bring him something even long before you two get together. His stories about eating Lilia’s cooking as a child are enough to move even the coldest of souls. The feeling is only doubled when Silver casually shows you a picture of some of his “less” terrible creations.

It doesn’t really fluster him, but it’s not like it doesn’t move him in any way either— Silver is also someone who’s not all that used to receiving things, specifically not from friends or a partner. Even something as tiny as a candy bar will have him so grateful you thought of him. His neutral resting face turns into a surprisingly sunny smile as he pockets his newly acquired snack, thanking you.

He’ll pretty much always offer to get you something in return, and if it’s currently break time, he’ll ask if you want to eat with him too. If you do decide to ask him to get you something, he’s going to make his way to the cafeteria and retrieve it in record time, always quick enough for you two to have time to sit and eat together. Somehow he never comes back late or empty handed, regardless of what you asked for. You’re not sure how he does it, considering the lines that build up in the cafeteria sometimes… it might as well just be pure willpower.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #riddle rosehearts #trey clover #ace trappola #silver twst #silver vanrouge #riddle rosehearts x reade #trey clover x reader #ace trappola x reader #silver x reader #silver vanrouge x reader #twst imagines #twst headcanons #lis writing

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inseobts · 1 day ago

Note

Hiii! Can i req an ace x f!reader where he looks all over for her like he did with BB not bc she's a traitor but bc she left the crew w/o letting anyone besides WB know (WB ain't snitching lol). She has her own problems in life but the ultimate reason for leaving was bc of self loathing issues under the tough mask and thought the love was unrequited after seeing ace with cuter girls, and that she didn't need another problem. It was onesided, but ace became aware of his own feelings after she left. He finds her as a strawhat but reader and zoro are alrdy a power couple... or so he thought ;D tysm i genuinely LOVE your works btw!!! <3

Embers Left Behind

portgas d. ace x reader

a/n: aaah I always love a really good angst with fluff!! thank you aw

words count: 5.9k

tags: angst, heartbreak, slow burn, emotional tension, sfw

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The Moby Dick rocks gently with the waves, but the stillness on board is anything but peaceful.

“Ace...”

Marco’s voice is low, but firm, almost warning in his tone.

Ace doesn’t stop pacing “Don’t start.”

“You’ve already asked him three times.”

“I’ll ask him thirty!” Ace snaps, spinning on his heel. His fists are clenched so tightly his nails dig into his palms “She wouldn’t just vanish like that. Not without saying anything.”

“She did.” Marco says, voice quiet but steady “That was her choice.”

Ace whirls, fire licking up his arms now “She told Pops and not us? Not even me?”

Marco looks away “Yeah. That’s what she actually did.”

Ace’s breath hitches. That admission stings more than he’ll let show.

He storms toward the upper deck, where Whitebeard sits in his massive chair, the sea breeze tugging at his long white hair like it respects him too much to tangle it.

“Old man.” Ace’s voice is tight. Controlled. Barely.

Whitebeard doesn’t turn “Still angry?”

“Still confused.” Ace steps closer “Why her? Why’d she tell you and not the rest of us?”

“She asked for a promise.” Whitebeard’s voice is steady as a mountain “And I gave it.”

Ace’s fire dims slightly “A promise to keep her location a secret?”

“To let her go. Without questions. Without trails.”

“Bullshit...” Ace mutters, hurt flashing in his voice “She didn’t even say goodbye.”

Whitebeard finally turns his gaze down to him “You think that didn’t hurt her too?”

Ace swallows hard. But he doesn’t respond.

Later, in the infirmary, Marco sits with a bottle between his legs, flipping the cap off with a lazy flick of his thumb.

“She left her favourite coat” he says.

Ace looks up, surprised “What?”

Marco nods toward the corner of the room where a familiar coat hangs limply on the wall, untouched “She probably forgot it in the rush of leaving.”

Ace stands slowly, walking over to it. He stares at it like it’s a corpse.

“She was hurting.” Marco doesn’t say it as a defense, just as the truth.

Ace turns toward him, brows drawn together “We’re family. She could’ve told us.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why she couldn’t.”

The crew feels the void she left, even in little things like someone instinctively calling her name during morning drills, or setting aside a plate during dinner out of habit. Thatch stops laughing as loudly. Vista sharpens his swords in silence.

And Ace? He doesn’t sleep. Not really.

He stares at the stars, thinking about every conversation you ever had, what he missed, what you were hiding, what he didn’t say.

The coat’s been hanging there for weeks. No one moves it. No one touches it. It just stays exactly where you left it, draped over the hook in the infirmary corner like it’s waiting for you to come back and grab it.

Ace stares at it again that morning.

Marco walks in, holding coffee, and stops when he sees him.

“You really gonna keep standing there, or you gonna wear it yourself?”

Ace shoots him a glare “It’s hers.”

Marco sips, watching him over the rim of his mug “Yeah. We know.”

He doesn’t make a scene about it. Just one quiet morning, a little after breakfast, he shows up on deck with a pack slung over his shoulder and your coat folded neatly in his arms.

Whitebeard watches from his throne, silent.

“Going somewhere, Ace?” Izo asks, already knowing.

Ace doesn’t look at anyone as he answers, “She forgot her coat.”

A few of the guys glance at each other. That’s the excuse? Seriously?

Haruta tilts her head “You’re gonna cross the Grand Line to return a coat?”

Ace shrugs “She loved this coat. Said she couldn’t live without it.”

It’s half a lie. Maybe less. But no one calls him out.

“You gonna tell Pops?” Vista asks.

Ace glances toward the upper deck. Whitebeard’s already looking at him. They lock eyes for a second. Whitebeard doesn’t nod. Doesn’t shake his head. Just… lets him go.

“Guess you don’t need to” Vista mutters with a smirk.

Marco sighs and tosses him an extra log pose “You’ll need this more than your pride.”

Ace catches it, barely looking “Appreciate it.”

“You gonna say what we all know?” Marco asks, voice level “That it’s not about the coat?”

Ace’s jaw tightens “No.”

Marco smirks faintly “Thought so.”

As Ace walks toward the edge of the ship, Thatch calls after him, voice light but sad around the edges “Tell her she still owes me a drink!”

“And that we miss her!” Haruta adds.

Ace doesn’t turn around, but he lifts a hand in acknowledgment.

“Tell her yourself when I find her...” he says.

And then, he’s gone.

Months passed and the sun’s dipping low when Ace finds the black sails of the Thousand Sunny sway gently at the harbor’s edge, golden light flickering across the lion-shaped prow like it’s grinning at him.

He hadn’t meant to stumble across them like this. He was chasing rumors, not names. But seeing that Straw Hat Jolly Roger gave him a reason to take a break.

“So you’re just crashing dinner?” Luffy grins, already halfway through a plate of meat.

“Not my fault I showed up right when Sanji was cooking” Ace says casually, plopping down on the deck’s edge.

The table’s full. Sanji’s setting down plates faster than they can be emptied. Nami’s sipping something citrusy, Robin’s got a book open next to her rice, and Usopp’s already knee-deep in some tall tale about a sea king. Brook plays a soft melody in the background.

“Man, I forgot how chaotic you all are” Ace laughs.

Franky flexes “SUPER chaotic!”

Chopper beams “I’m glad you stopped by!”

“Didn’t expect to find you guys here, honestly” Ace admits, glancing around “I was just passing through.”

Nami quirks an eyebrow “Passing through where, exactly?”

He shrugs “Everywhere.”

They don’t press. They know that kind of tone.

Luffy’s already asking about Whitebeard, and Ace answers between bites.

Then footsteps. Two sets. Light and even. The sound of a low laugh, a deeper voice beside it.

“—I’m just saying, if you let me sharpen your swords while drunk, it’s a disaster waiting to happen, you can't blame me after...” your voice rings out, smooth and easy.

“I didn’t really give you permission, stop lying.” Zoro answers, tone relaxed in a way that makes Ace’s stomach turn.

You step into the room first, head turned toward him, smiling “You did! You said that I—”

And then your eyes land on the table.

On him.

And everything stops.

Ace freezes with a piece of meat halfway to his mouth, hand still in the air.

You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

Your gaze locked with his.

“Ace...” you whisper.

He stands up so suddenly his chair scrapes across the floor.

“You’re—” His voice cracks. He swallows “You’re here?”

Zoro’s already watching you. He sees the change in your expression, the sudden tightness in your grip, the way your breath hitches.

Sanji mutters, “Ohhh shit.”

You take a slow step forward, like you’re not sure if he’s real “What are you doing here?”

Ace doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes scanning you, your hair, clothes, the faint scar on your knuckle that wasn’t there before. You’re different. Still you. But heavier, somehow. Guarded.

He lifts something from the table.

Your old coat.

You hadn’t even noticed it until now.

“You forgot this” he says quietly.

And just like that, every wall you built inside your chest starts to splinter.

You stare at it “You came all this way for that?”

Ace’s smile is small. Not cocky. Not smug. Just… tired “Couldn’t sleep with it staring at me every day.”

The table is dead quiet now. Everyone’s eyes on the two of you.

You glance at Zoro. He’s watching Ace now. Calm. Unmoving.

Ace notices.

Something flickers in his eyes “Didn’t know you were a Straw Hat now.”

You steady your voice “I wasn't planning on staying with them at first, so I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

He hesitates “Yeah. Same.”

You don’t know what else to say. Neither does he. But damn it, the tension’s louder than the silence.

Dinner resumes... Kind of.

People try to keep it normal. Conversations start up again, tentative at first, then flowing a little easier. Luffy dives back into his mountain of food, thankfully oblivious. Usopp’s telling Brook about a “totally real” fight he had with a sea serpent, and Chopper’s wide-eyed and hanging on every word.

But at one end of the table, you sit next to Zoro, posture stiff.

Across from you, Ace is watching.

You can feel his gaze on your skin like sunburn. Every time you smile or laugh at something Zoro says. Every time Zoro nudges your shoulder casually. Every time you try to look like everything’s fine.

You’re not fooling anyone. Least of all Ace.

“Here,” Zoro says suddenly, shoving a cup toward you “You look like you need this.”

You blink “Sake already?”

He shrugs “It’s dinner. And you look like you’re about to jump overboard.”

You snort under your breath “Thanks.”

You drink. So does Ace.

And then again Sanji pours a fresh cup for him, glancing sideways “You alright there?”

Ace leans back with a grin that doesn’t touch his eyes “Peachy.”

He knocks back another drink.

You try not to look at him, but it’s like your eyes betray you every five seconds.

Zoro strangely keeps talking. Trying. He keeps you grounded when your thoughts threaten to drift into the fire sitting across the table.

But the alcohol is catching up to Ace.

His words get looser. His stare, more obvious.

“So,” he says after his third or fifth cup “How long’s that been a thing?”

Your head snaps up “What?”

Ace nods lazily toward you and Zoro “You and him. The whole… power couple thing.”

Zoro’s hand pauses around his cup “Didn’t know that was a thing.”

Ace shrugs, leaning an elbow on the table “Oh, it’s not. But I saw how you looked at her. Pretty sure I’ve seen animals less possessive.”

You set your cup down, jaw tight “Ace.”

“What?” he asks, eyes wide in mock innocence “We’re just catching up, right? Friends talk about relationships. Or is that off-limits too?”

Sanji clears his throat “Maybe you should pace yourself, Fire Fist.”

“Oh, I’m pacing,” Ace says, slouching back “Just catching up on a year of silence and disappearing acts.”

Your stomach drops.

Zoro glances at you but says nothing.

You speak slowly “This isn’t the place.”

Ace huffs a laugh “Yeah, no kidding. Because the place for it was back then, right? When you could’ve said something. Anything.”

Robin gently closes her book.

Nami’s eyes flicker between the two of you.

“I didn’t think I owed you an explanation” you snap, sharper than intended.

Ace leans forward, finally letting that bitter smile crack through “No, you didn’t. But damn, it would’ve been nice to get something other than your coat and full silence.”

Zoro moves slightly, like he’s ready to shut it down, but your face makes him understand he has to stop.

Everyone’s watching now, and you feel like you’re under a spotlight.

Ace shakes his head, laughing dryly “Hell, maybe I was the only idiot who thought it meant something.”

Your breath catches.

The words are out.

And for a moment, no one knows what to say. Not even him.

The dinner table clears awkwardly.

No one says anything outright, but it’s obvious they’re trying to give you space.

Luffy yawns exaggeratedly and says, “Wow, I’m full. So full. Gonna go sleep. Right now. So full.”

“Goodnight!” Chopper squeaks, tugging Usopp by the sleeve.

Even Sanji backs off, flicking his lighter once before disappearing into the galley.

That leaves just you, Ace and Zoro, standing up slowly, watching Ace with unreadable eyes.

“You gonna be alright?” Zoro asks, voice low.

You nod “Yeah.”

Zoro looks at you for a bit longer, then gives a short nod and walks away, leaving you with Ace’s stare burning holes in your side.

The silence stretches.

You finally break it “That was unnecessary.”

Ace doesn’t flinch “Which part? The part where you never said goodbye, or the part where you show up on a new ship with a boyfriend like none of us meant anything to you? Couldn't you just tell us you were leaving for love?”

Your jaw tightens “Zoro is my friend.”

He snorts “Could’ve fooled me.”

You look him dead in the eye “It’s not like that. It never was.”

The silence that follows is heavier than anything he said during dinner.

“…Oh.”

His voice is smaller now. Less fire, more ash.

You exhale “You seriously thought I left because of him?”

Ace’s fingers run through his hair “No. I don’t know. I thought—maybe—I don’t know, okay? You just vanished. You left without a damn word. I woke up, and you were gone. And now I found you here...”

Your breath hitches, but you stay rooted.

“I told Whitebeard to not worry you all too much” you say quietly.

“Only him...” Ace snaps, stepping closer now “Why? What was so bad you couldn’t even say goodbye to me?”

You blink fast, but your voice stays even “Because if I saw your face, I wouldn’t have been able to do it! It's not that hard to understand, Ace.”

Ace’s whole body stills.

You go on, voice low and raw “I didn’t leave because I hated the crew. Or you. I left because I hated me. I was tired of pretending I wasn’t falling apart inside. Tired of pretending I didn’t feel anything, especially around you.”

Ace doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

You shake your head “You didn’t need someone like me stuck in your shadow.”

“That’s not—” he starts, but you hold up a hand.

“I didn’t want to be another problem you had to solve.”

Silence again.

Then, slowly he says “You were never a problem.”

You glance up.

His eyes are different now. Not angry. Not jealous. Just… aching.

“You were a storm I wanted to chase,” he murmurs “but then you were just gone.”

Your chest tightens.

“You never said anything either” you whisper.

He laughs bitterly “Guess we both suck at this.”

Your heart pounding “So what now?”

Ace shrugs, but there’s no fire in it this time. Just quiet, open hurt “You tell me.”

Ace’s words hang in the air like smoke from a dying fire. You stare at him, heart tight and hammering. Part of you wants to move, say something, anything, but your feet won’t cooperate.

“You think I had some kind of perfect answer?” he says, voice cracking just slightly “You weren’t the only one pretending nothing hurt.”

Your brows knit “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

He steps closer.

“Because I didn’t know I could!” he bursts out “Because you always looked so strong. Always sharp. Looked like you never needed anyone, least of all me.”

You flinch. He sees it. Regrets it instantly.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No,” you cut him off, voice thick “You’re right. I made it look easy. I wore the mask. I made you all believe I was fine when I wasn’t. I guess it's normal you thought so if that was my plan to start with.”

Your eyes burn, but you keep going.

“You know what I remember, Ace? Nights on the Moby Dick where I stared at the ceiling wondering why I felt like I didn’t deserve to be there. Why I wasn’t enough. Why I could throw myself into battle for my crew and still feel like a fraud every time someone looked at me with respect.”

Ace’s breath catches “You were never a fraud.”

You laugh bitterly “I know that's a family, I love them all... but sometimes I felt like a fraud.”

The pain in your chest rises, sharp and breathless.

“But you...” your voice breaks, “you were the biggest thing I couldn’t handle. Not when I saw how easy it was for you to smile at someone else. Someone better.”

Ace’s eyes widen “Better?! What the hell are you talking about?”

You take a shaky breath “All these girls. The flirting. The way you lit up when you were with them. I saw it all. And I told myself... of course he doesn’t want you. Why would he?”

There’s silence. Only the sea, and your heart breaking against the rail of the Sunny.

Ace looks like someone just punched the air out of his lungs.

“That’s what you thought?” he whispers.

You nod, lips trembling “I left because it hurt to love you.”

The words hang there. Raw. Bleeding.

“You left,” he says slowly, “and took everything with you without even trying.”

Your throat closes.

Ace’s jaw clenches.

“I would’ve chosen you,” he says quietly “Every single time, if you gave me the chance.”

"But you can't blame me for being oblivious... You were always with some new girl, how could I even think I had a chance"

"I know. But you also knew I would have chosen you over some strangers, I wouldn't want to hurt you at all. If you gave me a change I would have put the whole world aside for you, Y/N."

You don’t know whether to cry or scream. So you laugh... a single, broken sound “And now it’s too late, right?”

“I don’t know” he says honestly “You tell me.”

His eyes are locked on yours, and he steps closer.

You don’t move away.

His hand hovers, hesitates, like he wants to touch your face, your shoulder, your hand, something, anything, but doesn’t know if he has the right anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Ace…”

And then—BANG. The galley door slams open.

“Yo, have either of you seen—oh.”

Luffy. Of course it’s Luffy.

He stops in the doorway, blinking wide, oblivious to the emotional minefield he’s just barged into “Uh. Am I interrupting?”

You jerk back instinctively. Ace steps away too, fast.

“No!” you say too quickly “No, you’re good.”

Ace turns away, face unreadable now. Mask back on, smooth and practiced.

Luffy glances between you two “You guys look weird.”

Neither of you responds.

He scratches the back of his head “Anyway, Robin and Nami are looking for you,” he tells you. “Something about maps and weird island currents.”

You nod, voice tight “Got it. I’ll be right there.”

Luffy eyes Ace for another second, then shrugs and leaves just as fast as he came, door clicking shut behind him.

Silence falls again but it’s different now. The moment is shattered, scattered like glass.

Ace doesn’t look at you.

You speak first, voice barely above a whisper “Ace…”

He cuts you off gently “You should go.”

You flinch “We weren’t done.”

“I think we were.”

You step toward him, but he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t let himself.

“I meant what I said” you tell him “About everything.”

His voice is quiet “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

And then he walks away. Leaving you standing in the dark, alone with the weight of all the things that almost happened.

You make it to the girls’ quarters, swallow hard and enter the room.

You close the door and put your body agaist it as if you're trying to let all the problems stay out.

Nami stands there, brows lifting when she sees your face “Hey, we were just—”

But then she looks closer and her casual smile drops right off her face.

“…You okay?”

Your throat locks up.

Behind her, Robin looks up from the maps she’s laying out, calm as ever but watching you with those eyes that always seem to see what you don’t want them to.

You try to say something. Anything.

You don’t.

You sit down instead. Hard. Right on the edge of Nami’s bed like your legs stopped working.

Nami follows instantly, crouching in front of you “What happened?”

You shake your head, blinking fast, jaw clenched.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whisper, voice barely there “I don’t know how to fix this.”

And then it breaks as you cover your face with your hands.

The tears hit before you can stop them. Hot, shaking, ugly sobs that you’ve held down for too long. Too many months of silence, too much guilt, too much everything.

You’re not even crying quietly. You break.

“I left because I thought it was the right thing!” you gasp “I thought he didn’t feel anything and I couldn’t take it anymore. And now he’s here and he does and it’s just—it’s too late and I ruined it.”

Nami wraps her arms around you instantly, holding tight.

Robin doesn’t say anything at first. She just sits beside you, brushing your hair back from your wet face with a gentle hand.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Nami whispers “You were hurting. That’s not the same as ruining.”

You shake your head against her shoulder “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t...” Robin says simply.

You choke on a bitter laugh “He walked away.”

“Because he’s hurt too,” Robin adds “But that doesn’t mean it’s over.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve, trembling “I feel like I’ve been bleeding since the day I left.”

Robin’s voice is soft, but steady “Then maybe it’s time to stop bleeding. Start talking.”

Nami looks down at you, eyes gentle “Do you want to fix it?”

You nod. Miserably. Broken.

“Then we’ll help you,” she says “You don’t have to do it alone.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believe it.

The next morning, no one says anything out loud but it’s clear something has shifted.

You don’t talk about the breakdown you had the night before. You don’t talk about the ache in your throat or the way sleep never really came. You just sit at breakfast and try to act normal.

Except Robin keeps watching you. Nami keeps nudging your elbow like it’s nothing, but her smile is just a little too knowing.

Zoro doesn’t say a word but when Ace walks in and his eyes meet yours across the room and then quickly slide away Zoro exhales through his nose and mutters, “This is stupid.”

Nami catches that.

Her eyes flick to Robin, who arches a brow.

Time to get to work.

“Ace,” Nami says casually, catching him after breakfast, “Luffy’s going to be real mad if you leave before sparring with him again.”

Ace pauses “We already did yesterday. I'm here just to take some food.”

“Yeah, but now he wants a rematch. Says you cheated.”

“I didn’t cheat.”

“He’s Luffy,” Nami shrugs “He doesn’t care.”

Ace gives her a side glance “Why are you so invested?”

She smiles, all teeth “Me? Not at all.”

Later, Robin finds you on the deck alone, staring at the waves. You haven’t seen Ace since breakfast.

“He hasn’t left yet” she says gently.

You don’t look at her “I know.”

Robin glances out at the horizon “You’re not the only one afraid, you know.”

You grip the railing tighter “Then why does it feel like I am?”

Robin’s voice is soft “Because you’re not used to being vulnerable. But strength isn’t always about standing tall.”

You finally glance at her “You’re not really here to talk about fear.”

She smiles “No. I’m here to remind you that there’s still time.”

Meanwhile, Zoro corners Ace on the training deck. No swords, just crossed arms and that usual scowl.

“You leaving?” he asks.

Ace shrugs “Probably.”

Zoro raises a brow “You couldn't care less about that coat, did you?”

Ace laughs once “No.”

Zoro nods “Figured.”

“She cried last night.”

Ace’s shoulders freeze.

Zoro keeps his voice even “Not for attention. Not for drama. She broke. I heard her from the girls’ room”

Ace turns his head, jaw tense “…She okay?”

“No,” Zoro says honestly “And neither are you.”

He starts to walk away, but pauses.

“You don’t get many second chances,” he says over his shoulder “Don’t be a dumbass.”

Later that day, Luffy walks up to Ace and beams.

“Hey! Are you and Y/N in love?”

Ace nearly chokes on air “What?!”

Luffy tilts his head “You’re mad. She’s sad. You love each other, right? Just fix it already.”

Ace blinks at him, stunned.

“…You know, for a rubber guy, you’re terrifyingly blunt.”

Luffy grins “Thanks!”

By sunset, you’re back at the rail again. Same spot. Same ache.

Footsteps approach and you already know it’s him.

Ace stops a few feet away.

“You’re avoiding me” he says quietly.

“I’m trying to give you space.”

He exhales “I think we’ve had enough space to destroy a fleet.”

You swallow, heart pounding.

He steps closer.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

Your eyes meet his and nod.

The sky bleeds orange and gold as the sun dips low behind the sea.

Ace steps up beside you, quiet and calm. No tension in his shoulders.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

You turn slowly to look at him.

“I figured” you whisper.

Ace nods “I came for a coat. Didn’t expect to get set on fire instead.”

You almost smile. Almost.

He looks out over the ocean “Whitebeard misses you. So does Marco. Thatch tried to make your favorite meal last week but burned it like an idiot.”

You swallow hard.

“They never said it but I know they all knew why you left” he says “I was the only one not understanding…”

He doesn’t look at you yet.

He goes on “I’ll say you found your place. That you’re with Luffy’s crew now. That you’re surrounded by people who care about you. That you’re safe. I know my little brother will take good care of you. Even that green moody head seems to care about you.”

His voice softens “And I’ll tell them you’re happy.”

You feel something twist in your chest.

“And what about you?” you ask.

Ace is quiet.

“For a long time,” he says, “I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Flirting, smiling, messing around… it was easy. It was nothing. Because the real thing scared me.”

You finally look at him.

He’s already watching you.

“I told myself I didn’t care,” he says “That the way I looked at you didn’t mean anything. That it was fine if you didn’t look back.”

He laughs bitterly “But I did care. I cared so damn much it felt like it was choking me.”

Your breath catches.

“Feeling things terrified me”

Silence.

Then he finally says it, soft and aching “I was in love with you. Still am.”

The air rushes out of your lungs.

Ace looks away.

“But I’m not asking you for anything. Not now. Not after all this. I just… I couldn’t leave without saying it. I couldn’t let you think it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter. It will hurt to go back without you but I meant it before, I'll be happy to know you found another family here, with Luffy out of all people.”

You stare at him, heart pounding.

“You still love me?” you whisper “I thought it was too late...”

“It probably is,” he says with a small smile “But at least you’ll know.”

He turns to leave but your hand shoots out and you grab his sleeve.

“…Stay one more day,” you say, voice shaking “Please.”

Ace freezes.

Slowly, he turns back to you and for the first time in forever there’s hope in his eyes.

Neither of you say much since you asked him to stay.

But the silence is comfortable now. Familiar. Safe.

Ace glances sideways, his voice low “You sure about this?”

You nod, just once.

“Yeah.”

His fingers twitch beside yours, like he wants to reach for you again but he waits.

“I don’t mean just staying,” he murmurs “I mean… this. Us. Me.”

You take a breath, and your hand moves to cover his.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t sure.”

He lets out a breath, almost like relief.

You both look out at the sea a while longer before you speak again.

“I missed you every day.”

Ace turns to you.

Your voice trembles, but you don’t look away.

“I thought about you every time I smiled. Every time something good happened. You were just… there in my mind, like you never left.”

His hand turns under yours, fingers lacing gently through yours.

“I hated you for leaving” he whispers.

You blink but he’s not angry. His voice is soft. Wounded.

“I hated you,” he says, “because you didn’t give me the chance to try stop you. But also because I was scared and stupid and thought I had time to figure it out.”

You’re quiet for a long moment.

Then you shift closer, just slightly, knees brushing. His hand stays in yours.

“You still have time.”

He looks at you then. Like you’re the first sunrise after a shipwreck.

“Can I kiss you?”

Your heart stutters.

You nod “Yes.”

And he does. It’s not desperate. Not rushed. Just real.

His lips are warm and trembling against yours. One hand moves to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing soft. You kiss him back, slow and full of everything you never got to say.

When he pulls away, his forehead rests gently against yours.

You rise slowly, fingers never leaving his, and lead him back into your room, silent, sure.

The night is tender. You lie beside each other in the dark, hearts bare and hands exploring familiar skin like it’s new.

When he presses kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your temple, you know it’s not just affection. It’s an apology. A thank you. A promise.

When he asks softly, “Is this okay?” you say “Yes” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And when you make love, it’s not about what you lost. It’s about what you finally found again.

No masks. No fear.

Just warmth.

Just you and him.

Just home.

You wake up warm.

Ace’s arm is draped across your waist, his breath steady at your back. His fingers twitch every so often, like he’s dreaming something wild. Or maybe something peaceful, for once.

You don’t want to move but you do, because you have to, because you both knew last night didn’t mean nothing’s changed, it meant everything has.

The galley is loud by the time you walk in.

The crew’s halfway through breakfast, everyone arguing over eggs and toast like nothing happened, like your world didn’t shift overnight.

Ace walks in behind you a second later, and the room stills for a heartbeat.

Then “YOU’RE FIRED!”

Luffy slams his hands on the table and points directly at you, grinning wide.

You blink “What?”

“You heard me!” he says “You slept with my brother! And on my ship! That’s illegal!”

You blush embarassed that even your oblivious Captain knew what happened.

Robin lifts her teacup “There’s no such law.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Luffy declares “I’m the captain. I make the rules here. Y/N, you’re fired.”

You open your mouth, then stop.

Because behind the ridiculous accusation, behind the over-the-top delivery you see the way his voice softens just slightly, the way his eyes look proud, not mad.

The way Nami nudges you, it’s okay.

This is Luffy's way of letting you go. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re abandoning them.

So he turns it into a joke. A ridiculous, loud, Luffy's joke.

You laugh. You can’t help it.

Tears prick your eyes anyway.

Even Sanji tries his best to play it cool, almost looking proud, of you? Or of his Captain for understanding.

Usopp tries to cover Chopper's ears so that he doesn't hear about these adults' things.

Zoro doesn’t say much. Just leans back, arms folded, watching you with that unreadable gaze of his. But when you meet his eyes he nods. Just once.

He gets it. Even if it hurts a little more than he shows.

After breakfast, you start to pack. You barely get two things in your bag before someone knocks on your door.

Zoro.

He leans in the doorway, arms crossed, swords resting against his hip.

“Guess it’s real, huh?” he says quietly.

You nod.

“…Yeah.”

He doesn’t move for a second. Then he steps forward and gives something to you.

It’s your old Whitebeard crew headband you used to have on your arm, it's tattered and sun-bleached, but whole.

“Found it in the storage room last week,” he says “Thought you might want it back now.”

Your throat tightens “Thank you.”

Zoro shrugs “You were always part of another crew before this one. Doesn’t mean we didn’t like having you.”

“I’ll miss you” you whisper.

He smiles soft, sad “Don’t get all sentimental now. I won’t cry.”

You laugh through your tears and hugs him without giving him time to protest.

Zoro stays still for a while, his arm instinctively around your shoulders but he steps back before he could let him touch you.

“Go on, then,” he says “He’s waiting.”

You find Ace on the deck, bag slung over his shoulder, waiting at the edge of the ship like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind.

You take his hand and when you look back, the whole crew is there. Waving. Smiling. Luffy cheering like an idiot.

Little you know as soon as you’re out of sight Luffy, Nami, Chopper, Usopp amd Sanji all start to cry and act whining about how much they already miss you.

Your heart aches but it also feels full. Because you’re not losing a family. You’re just returning to another one, with love in your wake.

The Moby Dick is quiet when the small boat approaches. Too quiet.

Ace shifts nervously beside you, one hand still loosely holding yours, he hasn’t let go once since you left the Strawhats. You’re both sun-warmed, tired, hearts still tender. But you feel lighter now. Whole.

The closer you get, the more you can make out familiar silhouettes on deck. Marco, Thatch, Izo, even Whitebeard himself arms crossed, massive grin already tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Ace glances at you “Ready?”

You squeeze his hand “You better not let go the second we dock.”

He grins, all teeth and dimples “Not a chance.”

⸻

The second your boots hit the deck, it’s chaos.

“YOU BROUGHT HER BACK?!” Thatch yells, practically jumping over the railing to tackle you in a hug.

Marco stares at you, blinking slowly “I thought you were mad at all of us.”

You raise a brow “I wasn’t mad.”

Then his eyes flick to your joined hands.

Then back to your faces.

“…Wait.”

Izo’s eyes narrow “Wait.”

There’s a pause.

And then everyone starts yelling at once.

“What the hell—since when?!”

“Hold on, you two are—are—what is this?”

“Are you in love now?!”

“Thatch owes me 500 berries!!”

You laugh joyfully, and Ace wraps his arm around your waist like he’s proud to show you off. Because he is.

Whitebeard’s booming laughter cuts through it all “So the brat really did bring you back. And you didn’t punch him?”

“Not yet,” you tease “But the day’s still young.”

Ace leans into you, soft and smug “I’m pretty sure she loves me too much to punch me.”

You elbow him.

“I repeat” you deadpan “The day is still young.”

Everyone groans.

Marco squints suspiciously “No, seriously. You? Soft? Since when?”

Ace, without a hint of shame “Since forever. I was just emotionally constipated.”

“Understatement of the century” mutters Izo.

Thatch’s voice cuts in, cackling “Do I get to be best man at the wedding or what?!”

You choke. Ace doesn’t even deny it, just raises his brows like, maybe.

You cover your face “I hate it here.”

Ace pulls your hand away gently and kisses your cheek in front of everyone.

“Liar” he murmurs, voice low and warm.

You glance up at him and yeah.

Okay.

You really, really don’t.

190 notes · View notes

greenwitchfromthewoods · 2 days ago

Text

a compass. l Joel Miller

Summary: your idea was good, but not everything went as it should

Warnings: angst, two infected, shooting, some blood, angry Joel, Ellie is in it, unprotected sex (don't do that), Ellie and Joel argue

A/N: .

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

short stories from life. [masterlist]

“Have you found anything?”

“Not yet!”

You glanced at Ellie quickly, then looked around the room that used to be a sporting goods store. Most of the stuff had already been stolen, but she wouldn't give up.

When Tommy had secretly told her that Joel's birthday was coming up, she had wanted to give him a present. She had come to you that evening, asking you to take advantage of the fact that he was going on patrol. A visit to the mall should be quick and easy.

“We should hurry up.” You pointed it out to her. “It’s almost evening and I’d rather be out of here.”

“Give me a second.” Ellie groaned, struggling to open the last drawer. “I’m sure I’ll find something here.”

You smiled to yourself. Neither Ellie nor Joel had spoken of emotions, but you knew how close they were to each other. Joel did everything to ensure her safety, and she, although she pretended not to care, took his opinion into account. You started to wonder what you could give Joel as a gift when a strange noise caught your attention.

"Ellie?" you mumbled, gripping the gun tighter, "We should go."

"Just a moment." Ellie was shuffling through more boxes, "I'm sure it'll be here..."

You quietly took the next steps, trying to hear as much as possible. You were already close to Ellie when the girl raised her hand, gripping something tightly.

"I've got it! I've got it!" she shouted.

At that moment, several things happened. Somewhere behind you, you heard the sound of a cabinet falling, and then a sharp squeak. You grabbed Ellie's arm.

"Gun, gun!" you said quickly when you noticed movement, and then two clickers rushed straight at you.

You fired without thinking, hitting one in the shoulder, and then hitting him in the head. "Ellie! Hide!"

The girl jumped behind the counter. Although she aimed for the other infected, she missed. The monster hit you and you both fell onto the glass case behind you. You fell, feeling something painfully cut your skin. But you didn't have time to think about it. The infected rolled off of you, but he was already getting up. You grabbed the gun in both hands and shot him several times until he finally fell to the floor, lifeless.

"Shit! Shit!" Ellie climbed out from behind the counter with a terrified look on her face. "I didn't hear them! Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I think so..." you replied, getting up carefully.

"Shit, you're bleeding."

Ellie approached and carefully took your hand in hers. Several pieces of glass pierced your hand, which was bleeding. It didn't look good, but it was a small price to pay for both of you still being alive.

"I should get this bandaged up." Ellie said, but you just shook your head.

"We have to go back. There might be more here." You said, pulling out a few of the larger pieces. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yeah." She held out her hand and showed you the compass. It was really nice, in a neat little box that could fit in the jeans pocket. "Do you think Joel would like it?"

"I'm sure."

"You have to help me bandage this and I'll say I broke a glass while washing dishes." You said as soon as you entered the house and quickly took off your jackets.

"I'll get the first aid kit." Ellie declared, but she didn't even make it to the kitchen when she stopped dead in her tracks.

You took off your shoes with difficulty, because your hand hurt a little, but when you straightened up, you understood what had stopped the girl. Joel came out of his workshop and was watching you with a frown.

"Hi. I didn't know you were back already." You greeted, trying to smile and hide your hand behind your back at the same time.

"We did it quickly today." Joel replied. You could hear the tension in his voice. "You didn't say you were going out with Ellie."

"I..." you started, but she interrupted you.

"I wanted to check something out. You know, in that mall nearby and..."

One look from Joel was enough for Ellie to fall silent. "Have you been outside Jackson?"

"Yes." There was no point in lying. "But we're back now. How was your day?"

You tried to downplay the whole situation, but Joel wasn't fooled.

"Show me your hand."

"Joel, please."

"Show me."

You held out your hand without a word, showing the already dried blood and lots of small wounds. Joel took a deep breath.

"It was my idea." You said quickly. "I wanted to..."

"No! It was me!" Ellie suddenly blurted out. "I talked her into going to that mall with me. I wanted to find you a present for your birthday. Look what..."

"You risked her life over some stupid present?!" Joel roared so unexpectedly that you both stepped back. "Ellie, for God's sake!"

"I didn't know there would be infected there!" the girl squealed. That only made things worse. Joel's eyes darkened with anger, but also with helplessness.

"Were they infected?" he asked, and you nodded.

"Two. I eliminated them, but I ran into a glass case. Nothing else happened and..."

There was silence for a moment. You felt your heart pounding in your chest, but Joel must have felt even worse. Up until now, he thought you were somewhere in Jackson, but with every passing moment, your story seemed more and more terrifying to him.

"Joel..." you began quietly, trying to approach him, "I just wanted to..."

"Don't defend her. You keep doing this, and she has to finally understand." he said in a cold voice, "You risked your life for her. You could have... Fuck! You could have died because she wanted to find something. Some stupid shit!"

The girl's eyes shone with tears, but her face was expressionless. She stared at Joel as if she was ready for more accusations.

"That was irresponsible, Ellie!" he hissed. "I'm trying to protect you, and you do something like that?"

"I didn't go there alone." she replied quietly.

"Because you knew she would go with you! Because you knew she would do anything to protect you! How could you risk her life because of your own stupid whim and..."

"Stop it!"

Joel looked at you, surprised. Tears were also shining in your eyes, and your lips were quivering nervously. You looked at Ellie with horror, she was on the verge of breaking down. With each subsequent word that fell from Joel's lips, she began to fear more and more. This was not how it was supposed to end. She just wanted to find him a gift, something that would remind him of her, something that would be only his and show how much she cared about him.

"Ellie, it's not like that..." you started, but the girl didn't answer. Before you could put your hand on her shoulder, she turned around and ran out of the house, slamming the door. You both stared at the spot where she had just disappeared.

He did what he did best. He hid. The workshop was his escape from the world, a safe haven. Especially now when emotions were boiling inside him.

Joel felt angry and helpless. He didn't want Ellie to run away from home like that, but at the same time he knew he couldn't ignore what had happened. Your life and Ellie's were in danger, he was in Jackson and he would only find out if you didn't come home. He could have reacted differently, he could have let her say what she thought. But when two people so close to him did something so irresponsible...

A quiet knock on the door brought him back to earth.

"Can I come in?" your quiet voice reached his ears and Joel felt as if something soothing had washed over him.

"Always," he replied quietly.

You slipped into the room, bringing with you the scent of soap and shampoo. You were already wearing shorts and an oversized t-shirt that you wore to bed. Joel closed his eyes as your fingers slid into his curly hair just above his neck.

"Don't hide from me, Joel." you said quietly, your voice warm and soothing.

"I'm not hiding," he replied. He sighed softly as you kissed the top of his head. "I'm sorry for what I said. I shouldn't have."

"The only thing you shouldn't have done was yell at her. She meant well."

"But she did..."

"Stupid, I know." you interrupted him, leaning against the desk and looking at him softly. "And I should have asked Tommy or Shane to come with us. I am an adult. I failed. It's my fault too."

A colossal hand stroked your thigh slowly. You could see that Joel still didn't have the courage to look you in the eye. What had happened was eating him up inside.

"Ellie is already fifteen. It's a difficult time for her. It was for all of us. She needs to know that she has our support, that she can count on us, that we love her."

"I try to understand her, I really do. Sometimes I have the impression that she does everything differently just to piss me off. You're the only one who can get along with her."

You put your hand on his cheek and turned his face towards you. Your heart broke every time you saw him trying to deal with all of this. Joel was stubborn and sometimes difficult to deal with, but he loved you both and would do anything for you.

"Ellie won't learn anything from our mistakes, she has to make her own. We just...accompany her as she grows up. We have to show and teach her what we can, and then let her live."

Joel sighed and finally looked at you. His eyes were gentle and sad. "I'm afraid that I'll lose you both. That I'll lose you."

With a quiet sigh, you straddled his lap. The sweet weight he adored so much. His hands rested on your hips, pulling you as close to his body as possible.

"Ellie found out it was your birthday. She wanted to give you something personal. She asked me to go with her. Those infected surprised us, but I managed to deal with him." Joel opened his mouth to say something, but you didn't let him. "The situation was dangerous, yes. Next time, we'll ask someone to come with us. I'm sorry, Joel."

He nodded silently, and you took his face in your hands and kissed his lips tenderly. "I love you so much. And Ellie loves you too. I know it's hard." You added quietly. "Don't be mad at us."

"I'm not mad, I just... I feel so helpless sometimes."

"I know."

You let him snuggle into your arms. His safe place, a place where he didn't have to pretend he was strong, where he could truly be himself. Holding you in his arms was something that delighted him every time.

Your quiet voice broke the sweet silence. "Happy birthday, Joel."

He snorted. "Are we celebrating that I'm another year older?"

"We're celebrating that we can be together that day."

He could celebrate that. With you. He kissed you with affection, taking in this pleasure as much as he could. And when you rolled your hips, rubbing against his crotch, he understood immediately.

"Do you want to go upstairs?" you asked as he kissed your neck, his hands wandering under your shirt.

"Here is good, baby." he whispered.

He didn't need much. Finally, all he had to do was slide off his sweatpants and push your shorts aside. After a moment, he sank into you, sighing quietly. Since your conversation about the baby, every sex has been something extraordinary and full of tenderness. Joel didn't know he would ever feel like this again. He wasn't sure if he ever had.

"So good..." you moaned in his ear as his hands gave rhythm to your movements.

You were his, really. In the middle of the end of the world, you found him and let him be with you. Maybe it was one of the two good things that happened since the first day this all started. Joel wanted to draw from this, he wanted to live and have another chance.

Your quiet sighs filled his ears, he felt that you were close and soon your walls would squeeze him tighter. The movements became stronger, his hands held you more and more hungrily. You tilted your head for a moment to catch your breath, and Joel's lips found your neck, kissing you.

"That's right, baby, that's right..." he panted "Give it to me. I want to feel you all over..."

You came with a quiet moan, feeling his hands press you tightly to his chest. Joel was right behind you, filling you to the brim. You were both breathing heavily, still stuck in the embrace.

"Stay." he said when you twitched as if you wanted to get up "Give it a moment longer. Let it take it."

You chuckled quietly. "Do you want to conceive a child in your workshop?"

"Any place is good." He kissed your temple tenderly and, holding you in his arms, let the moment last a second longer.

It was late when the front door slammed quietly and Joel recognized familiar footsteps.

"Ellie?" he left the kitchen and came across a girl who already had one foot on the step "Can we talk?"

She didn't seem thrilled. She pushed her hands deeper into her jacket pockets, but didn't go upstairs, she stayed with him. He had his chance.

"I wanted to apologize to you." Joel began uncertainly "For what I said and how I said it. I should have listened to you first. Both of you."

"Have you talked to her?" she asked without even looking at him, he nodded. "You should listen to her more often. She's smart."

"I know. Much smarter than me." he replied. A shadow of a smile crossed Ellie's lips. "Listen... I know I'm a pain in the ass and overprotective, but I care about both of you a lot. I'm going crazy at the thought of something happening to you and me not being able to help you."

Ellie looked at him, her face devoid of emotion, though her eyes were shining. "You can't protect me forever, Joel. You know that."

He nodded again. "But that doesn't mean I can't try. I'm sorry, Ellie. I shouldn't have said all that. She told me why you went there and... and... I feel so fucking stupid."

"Good. I wanted to get you a present and you yelled at me. You know perfectly well I wouldn't have risked her life if I had known what was waiting for us. She's important to me too."

"I know, Ellie."

They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Finally, the girl's hand pulled something out of her jacket pocket. Ellie hesitated, but finally took a step toward Joel and held out her hand. Inside was a small metal box with an ornate lid.

Joel took it and slowly opened it.

"This is a compass. May you always find your way home."

When he looked at her with his brown eyes, in which tears shone, Ellie felt that she, too, was about to cry. Without a word, she walked over and wrapped her arms around his waist, snuggling into him.

"Happy birthday, old man."

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist, i think: @picketniffler @orcasoul @bbyanarchist @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @somedayheaven @underneath-the-sky-again @callmebyyournick-name @hiroikegawa @mandaloriankait

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us #short stories from life series

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tikitakatia · 9 hours ago

Text

Escape — A. Putellas x Reader

"If You Have Half a Brain"

WC: 4.7k

Summary: Loneliness doesn’t sit the same when someone else is keeping you company. Or Alexia continues to patch things up in all the wrong ways, completely unaware that the silence she left behind is already being filled.

Pt. 1 , Pt. 2

You heard barking before you even touched the doorknob. A sharp, high-pitched, noise echoing from inside your apartment. No, not something out in the hall. Your apartment.

You froze for a second, already tired before the door was even open.

When you stepped inside, the first thing you saw was fur. A small, scrappy blur of brown shot across the floor like a meteor on wobbly legs, skidding straight into your feet. You jumped back instinctively, and the puppy, because that’s what it was, clearly, sat down and let out a loud, unapologetic bark like you were the surprise and not the other way around.

Then came Alexia.

She peeked around the kitchen doorway with her hair half-up. She looked... exhausted. Not physically, but in the kind of way that happens when someone’s trying very hard to pretend they aren’t crashing. Her eyes flicked from you to the dog and back again.

“Hi,” she said, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to speak.

You blinked. “What the hell is that?”

Alexia took a hesitant step forward, towel in one hand. “A puppy.”

You just stared. “Yes. I can see that.”

She cleared her throat. “I got him for us. Well, you.” Her voice cracked right in the middle of it. “I mean, the apartment.”

The puppy yawned dramatically, then immediately started chewing the corner of the rug.

You dropped your keys on the table slowly, like if you moved too fast, you’d spook whatever was happening.

“You got a dog.”

She nodded, eyes searching your face for something: approval, permission, a miracle. “Yeah. Just... something small. Manageable. I thought... Maybe he could help. You know. Keep you company while I’m gone.”

You didn’t answer. Not with words, at least. You just kept standing there and taking it in: the half-unpacked dog bed in the corner, the water bowl already on the floor, the anxious set of Alexia’s shoulders.

“His name’s Tofu,” she said after a beat. “I thought it was funny. ‘Cause he’s kind of tough. Doesn’t match the name.”

Your eyebrows barely lifted. “You brought home a dog. Two days before flying out. Without asking me.”

Alexia winced. “I know. I just... I thought maybe it’d be nice. Or less... quiet.”

Your jaw tightened, but you kept your voice even. “It hasn’t been quiet. It’s been calm.”

That made her wince. Not visibly, but you felt the shift in her posture and weight behind her silence.

You stepped around her and walked into the living room. The dog, Tofu apparently, followed immediately, stubby legs scrambling to keep up. He tried to jump on the couch, failed miserably, and face-planted into the floor. You watched him with zero reaction. Just sat down unbothered, and stared as he tried again and barely managed to haul himself onto the cushion beside you.

He settled there like he’d earned it. Tail thumping. Panting like an idiot.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, eyes still fixed on the ridiculous thing chewing your hoodie string like it owed him rent.

“You’re going to pay for anything he destroys.”

Alexia nodded immediately. “Of course.”

“And if he bites my chargers, I swear to god-”

“I’ll replace them. All of it. Anything,” she said quickly, like she’d already prepared the list of damages in her head.

You didn’t look at her. The dog gave up on your hoodie and instead flopped over with a dramatic sigh, half onto your lap like he’d already claimed it as his own. You stared down at him. At the ridiculous, trusting weight of him. Warm and breathing and completely unaware of how inconvenient he was about to be.

“You didn’t think this through,” you muttered. “You’re dropping this animal into the middle of everything like it makes sense. Like it’s normal.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” She caught herself. Her voice faltered. She shifted her weight and adjusted the towel in her hands like it had suddenly become too heavy. “I just didn’t want you to come home to... nothing.”

You turned toward her then, your expression sharper than your voice. “You’re leaving for two weeks, and I’m the one who’s stuck with him. Feeding him. Cleaning up after him. Walking him. What exactly about that sounds like comfort to you?”

Alexia didn’t argue. She just looked at you, chest rising and falling too fast, the corners of her mouth pressed into something thin and tight. “I’ll make sure there’s help. I’ll find someone to walk him, or watch him if it’s too much. I didn’t mean for this to land on you. I didn’t mean” She stopped again. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have it in you to make her feel better about any of this.

Tofu, god help you, shuffled closer and pressed himself into your thigh, then let out another little sigh. Your hand hovered for a second, then rested there without thinking. Not to connect, but just to feel something solid when you reached out.

Alexia stood still and didn’t say another word. Just watched you with an expression so quietly devastated it almost made you look away. Then she slowly turned and walked down the hall, disappearing into the bedroom without closing the door. You stayed there. Silent and still with the dog soft against your side. You didn’t mean to fall asleep, but your body gave in before your mind had time to argue.

It wasn’t long before Alexia came back out. She had a glass of water in one hand, something unreadable on her face. And then she saw you curled up on the couch with your head tipped slightly back, eyes closed, breathing steady, the puppy tucked tightly into your side like it belonged there. She didn’t move.

She just stopped.

Stared.

There was something in her expression then, quiet and aching. The kind of grief that didn’t belong to anything loud. She held onto the moment like it might disappear. Like maybe this was the closest she’d get to being near you again.

Then slowly, quietly, she reached for her phone. Turned the sound off and lifted it.

One photo.

Just one.

And then she stood there for a long moment longer, looking at you like you were still hers.

Then she turned around and went back to the other room.

Alexia left early the next day. Not absurdly early, but early enough that you didn’t have time to avoid her. The light was barely breaking over the windows when her footsteps crept down the hall, suitcase wheels whispering across the hardwood. You stayed in bed with your back to the door, eyes closed, jaw tight and pretending to still be asleep. You didn’t want a goodbye. You weren’t ready for one.

But she stopped. You could hear her hesitate in the doorway and feel the weight of her pause. And then, without a word, the mattress dipped just slightly. Not much. Just enough that you knew she’d crouched beside you.

You felt her hand brush a few strands of hair from your forehead, soft, unsure. You kept your breathing steady. You didn’t move a single inch. But then she leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple. Gentle, warm and brief.

And god, you felt it.

You felt it like a ripple under your skin, like your whole body was trying not to react. Not to lean into it. Not to remember.

But you did. You remembered everything.

The warmth. The familiarity. The unbearable tenderness of being seen like that again, even for half a second.

You didn’t recoil.

Not really.

But something in you braced. Something curled tight and screamed don’t soften now. Something whispered you can’t trust that yet.

By the time you opened your eyes, she was gone. The only thing she left behind was the note on the table, folded neatly around a receipt from the vet and a cartoon heart beside the word Tofu.

I know this doesn’t fix anything. I just didn’t want to leave you with silence again. – A.

That was it. That was the whole note.

You folded it neatly and slid it into the drawer with the takeout menus and expired coupons. Tofu barked at the drawer, then immediately got distracted by his own reflection.

Your first day together was rough. You had to chase him around with a towel after he peed on the bathmat, wrestle a sock out of his mouth, and spend twenty minutes convincing him that your laptop charger wasn’t a chew toy. You didn’t even like dogs that much. Not really. But the apartment felt less... dead. In a way you weren’t willing to admit mattered.

Alexia texted around noon.

Ale: Made it to the hotel. Hope he hasn’t destroyed anything yet lol.

You didn’t respond.

An hour later, another ping.

Ale: If you need help with him, I can message Carla. She knows a sitter who’s great with puppies.

You left her on read.

That night, she sent a picture. A selfie with her teammates at dinner, Tofu’s dumb face photoshopped into the center of the group. You rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache. He was chewing on a wine glass in the edit. Classy.

Tofu was curled up in your lap at that point, completely unaware of the damage he'd caused to your bathroom trash can or the fact that he was now the third wheel in your breakup.

You opened Chattr without even thinking.

[lostinthecrowd]: You know how straight people try to salvage their marriage by having a kid?

The reply came quickly.

[go4goald2]: Uh-oh, what did she do?

[lostinthecrowd]: I got the lesbian equivalent.

[go4goald2]: …You have a cat now??

[lostinthecrowd]: Worse. A dog. Small one. Loud, chaotic, and currently eating my hoodie string like it needs to pay for a crime.

[go4goald2]: STOP. She gave you a puppy?? Like “here babe sorry I’ve been emotionally absent, here’s a living creature to make up for it” kind of puppy??

[lostinthecrowd]: Yes. Literally yes. She’s gone for 2 weeks and I'm stuck here with this wrecking ball that farts, cries and chews everything with teeth that look like tiny daggers.

[go4goald2]: Okay but... Is he cute?

You stared down at the mess of fur sleeping in your lap, one leg twitching in a dream.

[lostinthecrowd]: Unfortunately.

[go4goald2]: You’re bonding, I can feel it. I give it two days before you buy him a raincoat.

[lostinthecrowd]: Block me. I'm already looking at collars on etsy.

There was a pause. Then:

[go4goald2]: But seriously... That’s a weird move. The dog, I mean. Do you think she’s trying again? Or just panicking and throwing things at the wall?

You stared at the message for a long time before answering.

[lostinthecrowd]: I think she misses the idea of me. Not sure she remembers the real thing.

[go4goald2]: What about you?

You didn’t reply.

Instead you shifted slightly on the couch, feeling the weight of the puppy curled against your ribs, your palm resting on his tiny, warm back. He didn’t ask for anything. He just stayed there. Breathing in sync with you. Taking up space in a way you hadn’t let anyone do in months.

Your phone buzzed again.

[go4goald2]: Just fyi... I think anyone who leaves you with a puppy probably still loves you. They just don’t know how to say it anymore.

You stared at that one for a while.

Then you closed the app and leaned your head back against the couch cushion, eyes slipping shut and the dog tucked securely against your side.

Alexia’s first message came in before you even finished breakfast. Just a photo: her feet up on the hotel balcony, some far-off coastline in the background, a cup of coffee in her hand.

Ale: Wish you were here.

You didn’t respond.

Tofu tried to leap from the floor to your lap and missed completely, face-planting into the side of the couch with a loud yelp. You looked down at him, sighed, and scooped him up anyway. He curled immediately into your side like he hadn’t just caused his own trauma.

A second message came that afternoon. This one a selfie with Irene, both of them grinning, sunburned, windswept from some training session. Her hair was in that loose braid you always liked. Her cheeks were flushed. Her smile was… real.

Ale: Training was brutal but look, I survived. How's your day going?

You sent a thumbs-up emoji. That was it.

Tofu licked your cheek like he was emotionally supporting you. He wasn’t. He just liked the taste of moisturizer. But you let him stay.

By day three, she’d stopped pretending not to notice your distance.

Ale: I know you’re mad. I get it. I just wanted to check in. Is he behaving? Did he eat your slippers yet?

You typed:

“He tried.” Then deleted it.

Typed:

“He hasn’t died yet.” Deleted that too.

Settled on:

“He’s fine.”

It wasn’t kind. But it wasn’t cruel either.

That night, when the apartment was still and your wine glass was half full and Tofu was curled into the crook of your leg, his breathing like a soft heartbeat, you opened Chattr. Not to escape, not anymore at least. But to land somewhere that didn’t make your ribs feel like glass.

The message was already waiting.

[go4goald2]: Today sucked. But I'm here. You up?

[lostinthecrowd]: Yeah, barely. How bad was your day?

[go4goald2]: On a scale of 1 to “I almost cried in the shower,” I’d say 8.3.

You snorted softly into your wine glass.

[lostinthecrowd]: God, that’s sad. Do you need to talk about it or do we just roast capitalism and pretend feelings aren’t real?

[go4goald2]: Dealer’s choice, I can repress like a champ.

You paused and watched Tofu twitch in his sleep. He’d destroyed a sock earlier and then spent an hour curled against your thigh like he hadn’t done anything wrong. Like he didn’t know better. Or maybe like he did know, and was hoping you’d let him stay anyway.

You typed slower this time.

[lostinthecrowd]: You ever feel like you gave someone every version of yourself, and now there’s just nothing left to offer?

[go4goald2]: Yeah, sometimes..

[lostinthecrowd]: Like you can’t even be mad anymore. You’re just… empty. Worn out. Like someone used your love up and now you’re just walking around hollow, hoping nobody notices.

There was a pause. Long enough to make you wonder if it was too much.

Then:

[go4goald2]: I notice.

That landed. Low and sharp and terrifying.

You swallowed hard, looked down at Tofu, who stirred in his sleep and nudged closer to your body. Closer like he knew you needed it, even if he couldn’t explain why.

[lostinthecrowd]: I think the worst part is… I don’t even know who I'd be if I stopped loving her. that version of me doesn’t exist yet.

[go4goald2]: Maybe you don’t have to stop. Maybe you just get to be someone who loves her and still chooses yourself.

You sat with that. Felt it unfold slowly in your chest. A warmth. A crack.

Alexia had never said that.

Alexia had never even let you imagine that.

[lostinthecrowd]: How do you know exactly what to say?

[go4goald2]: Maybe I’ve spent a lot of time wishing I'd said the right thing when it still mattered.

That one hurt too much.

You closed your eyes, felt the soft weight of Tofu’s tiny body pressed against your side. His ears twitched. His paw shifted until it touched your arm. Something about him, this dumb, inconvenient, needy little thing, felt like being wanted. Not perfectly, nor easily. But still.

You opened your eyes.

[lostinthecrowd]: Do you think it’s possible to feel something real for someone you’ve never even seen?

There was a pause. Just long enough to make you think maybe it was too much. Maybe you’d crossed some invisible line.

Then:

[go4goald2]: I think sometimes the people who stay behind the curtain are the ones who see us the clearest.

Your chest ached.

Not from sadness exactly. Not even from longing. But from the terrifying possibility that this was becoming more than a soft place to land.

It was becoming real.

You didn’t know how long you stared at the screen after that.

Maybe minutes. Maybe longer. The apartment had gone still in that specific way it only did at night, no traffic, no neighbors moving furniture at ungodly hours. Just you, your glass of wine, and a dog who’d decided your thigh was his god now.

And that message.

“The people who stay behind the curtain are the ones who see us the clearest.”

You typed without thinking.

[lostinthecrowd]: I think you know me better than the person I'm supposed to wake up next to.

There was no typing bubble. Not right away.

You almost regretted it.

Then:

[go4goald2]: Maybe that’s because you let me. You don’t have to be strong here. You don’t have to shrink yourself to be held.

Your throat went tight.

You looked down at Tofu, who shifted again, pressing his little snout against your side like he could feel the sharp edge building in your chest. Like he wanted to press it dull.

You typed:

[lostinthecrowd]: I miss being wanted. Not just… tolerated. Not needed like a partner or a teammate. But wanted like a person you choose every day without thinking.

A pause. Then:

[go4goald2]: You should be, you’re the kind of person people write songs about.

That resonated within you and poked at something old. Something stupid.

You laughed under your breath. It wasn’t light.

[lostinthecrowd]: Ok Shakespeare. Relax.

[go4goald2]: I'm serious. You’re that person. The one who ruins people for everyone else.

Your cheeks flushed. The kind of warmth that wasn’t just flattery, it was recognition. And you hated how much you wanted to believe it.

[lostinthecrowd]: Sometimes I think you’re not real. That I made you up just to feel less alone.

[go4goald2]: I'm real, painfully so. I'm just... trying.

You stared at that for a long time.

Then:

[lostinthecrowd]: What are you trying to do?

Another pause, this one longer.

You waited. Didn’t even breathe.

Finally:

[go4goald2]: Trying to be someone who deserves this version of you.

And that.. God.

That was it, wasn’t it?

You curled tighter into the couch, wine forgotten. Tofu was a small, dumb furnace at your side. He’d been chaos all day. Torn a page from your notebook, barked at a sock, eaten something questionable off the sidewalk. But now, here, he was still. Warm. Breathing beside you like he trusted you without reason.

Like he’d decided this was home.

And the part of you that used to be held without question, the one that used to believe Alexia would always stay?

It stirred. Not toward her. But toward this. Toward them.

Whoever they were behind the screen. Whoever they’d become.

You didn’t want to sleep. You didn’t want the spell to break.

[lostinthecrowd]: Are we gonna pretend this isn’t happening?

The response was instant.

[go4goald2]: I think I’d rather pretend it could.

You swallowed.

Then typed:

[lostinthecrowd]: Goodnight, stranger.

And just before you could close the app, one last message blinked through.

[go4goald2]: Goodnight. Dream soft.

And somehow, you did.

The next morning, you woke up with Tofu’s entire body across your chest and the distinct feeling that you’d said something too honest last night.

You didn’t even check Chattr right away. You couldn’t.

Not after “goodnight, stranger.”

Not after how safe it had felt to type that.

Your phone buzzed while you were still brushing your teeth.

Ale: Morning. Did he eat the plant again?

Then another.

Ale: Please tell me he didn’t eat the plant again.

You rinsed, wiped your mouth, stared at the screen.

No “how are you.”

No “I miss you.”

Just Tofu.

And then, like she knew she was losing her grip, another message.

A selfie.

Her on a sunny sidewalk, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, coffee in one hand. Smile soft, if a little forced.

Ale: This city’s not bright enough without you. Hope you’re okay.

You blinked.

It should’ve made your chest warm. It used to. She used to send these kinds of pictures all the time. Casual. Smirking. “Look what I’m seeing without you,” but in an affectionate way.

But now?

Now it felt like she was performing softness.

Like she knew how to mimic connection, but not how to ask for it.

Tofu yawned dramatically, then sneezed directly into your hand.

You didn’t respond.

Not to the messages. Not to the photo.

And yet..

When you opened Chattr again that night, it felt like a confession.

You weren’t running away from Alexia. You just didn’t know how to meet her in the space she was offering.

Because she kept texting about the dog.

And someone else had already asked about you.

You didn’t respond to the photo. Or the message about the plant. Or the hoodie.

You didn’t know how to say, “you’re talking to me, but you’re not reaching me.”

Alexia was trying. You could see that. She was smiling in her selfies now. Asking about Tofu. Sending fragments of affection like they might rebuild the thing that used to hold both of you.

But she still hadn’t asked how you were. Still hadn’t said your name like it meant something. Just the dog. Just the mess around you. Just the safe edges of a home that didn’t feel like one anymore.

You were halfway through a reply you weren’t going to send when Tofu started aggressively pawing at the blanket beside you like he was digging for gold. You watched him kick at the couch like it had personally wronged him and then collapse dramatically across your knees like you were a pillow and not a person in quiet emotional crisis.

“Drama queen,” you muttered.

He sneezed. You sighed.

The guilt stayed heavy. Alexia was trying. And here you were, avoiding her messages and waiting for someone else’s.

Someone who didn’t know your name.

You opened the app before the glass of wine. Before brushing your teeth and before Tofu had finished circling himself into his usual chaotic nest on the couch. He whined at your ankle like you’d forgotten something important. You nudged him gently with your foot. He immediately climbed into your lap like it was his god-given right.

The screen blinked.

[go4goald2]: I can't sleep, brain’s doing cartwheels. You up?

[lostinthecrowd]: Barely, but yeah.

You hesitated. Then added:

[lostinthecrowd]: Still thinking about last night..

There was a pause. Then:

[go4goald2]: Me too.

You stared at that for a while. At how simple it was. How terrifying.

You weren’t sure what made you type the next thing. Maybe it was the way the night always felt looser. Maybe it was the way Tofu’s breathing steadied your own.

[lostinthecrowd]: Wanna play a game?

[go4goald2]: I'm intrigued and terrified. Go on.

[lostinthecrowd]: What would you do if fear didn’t exist?

The typing bubble appeared instantly. Flickered. Vanished. Then again.

[go4goald2]: Damn, going right for the jugular huh.

[lostinthecrowd]: Thought you liked pain.

[go4goald2]: Only when it’s poetic.

You waited. Gave them space to answer first. But nothing came. Just the blinking bubble. Then silence.

So you filled it.

[lostinthecrowd]: I think I'd say what I want without waiting for permission.

You paused. Then typed again, slower.

[lostinthecrowd]: I'd reach out first. I'd touch someone first.

There was a beat. Then:

[go4goald2]: You’re not afraid of being rejected, you’re afraid of being wrong about being wanted.

You blinked. That one almost knocked the air out of you.

You could’ve denied it. Could’ve changed the subject. But instead, you sat with it. And then, maybe stupidly, you kept going.

[lostinthecrowd]: What about you?

[go4goald2]: I think mine is… Tell someone the truth. even if it’s too late.

You stared at that. Hard.

You didn’t know what to make of it.

[lostinthecrowd]: Is it too late?

The typing bubble flickered. Then stopped.

Then again. Then nothing.

Then finally:

[go4goald2]: I hope not.

That sat in your chest like a bruise you didn’t remember getting. Quiet. Tender. Just starting to bloom. Across your legs, Tofu shifted. One paw kicked out, landing squarely on your phone screen like he was trying to send a message for you.

You laughed under your breath. Just a little. Just enough to shake something loose.

And when you looked back at the chat, the bubble was back.

[go4goald2]: Can I tell you something?

[lostinthecrowd]: Always.

A pause.

Then:

[go4goald2]: I think you make people want to be better. and not in the cliché “you inspire me” way. More like… “If I get another chance, I’m gonna show up right this time” way.

Your breath caught.

You didn’t know what to say to that. So instead, you let your fingers hover over the screen.

Then, finally:

[lostinthecrowd]: I don't know who you are. But some days, you feel more real than the life I live out loud.

There was no reply. Not yet.

Just a glowing screen.

A soft dog.

And the terrifying sense that you were standing at the edge of something.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep like that. Phone still in your hand, Tofu curled against your side like a dumb, steady heartbeat, but you did.

And when you woke up, there was nothing.

No new message from go4goald2.

You checked three times.

Nothing.

The space where their words usually lived was just still. Empty. Quiet in a way that wasn’t peaceful, it was missing.

You stared at your screen for too long. Told yourself you weren’t disappointed, that you didn’t care, that this was good. That the silence gave you space to think, to breathe, to maybe remember what it felt like not to be split in two every time your phone lit up.

But your stomach still sank a little.

You scrolled aimlessly. Checked the news. Scrolled again. Then, out of some mixture of guilt, loneliness, and a tiny desperate instinct to distract yourself, you opened your texts.

Alexia’s name was still there. Of course it was.

You hadn’t answered her last message. The one about a café. The forehead tan. It was sweet. Casual. Familiar in a way that should’ve hurt less than it did.

You tapped into the thread. Read it again.

Ale: Woke up early. Couldn’t sleep. Thought about that little corner table at our old café.

Ale: Remember the one you always hated because the sun hit just right and gave you a weird forehead tan?

Ale: Anyway. I walked past a place like it. Made me think of you. That’s all.

Tofu whimpered in his sleep and you sighed.

Maybe this was a sign that it was your moment to try too.

You had the emotional energy to offer something, and the one person you’d been offering it to… hadn’t shown up.

So, you started typing.

“I actually forgot about the tan until you said it. Tragic photo season.”

A few seconds later, the typing bubble appeared.

Ale: I miss those photos. The dumb ones. The blurry ones. You always looked so unimpressed with me in them.

You smiled. Sort of. Not really.

“I still am.”

It was light. Playful, even. You were trying but you didn’t know why it felt like dragging a cinder block up a hill.

Alexia sent back a picture. A blurry, windblown selfie from the hotel balcony. Hair a mess. Eyes bright, but tired.

Ale: Still unimpressive?

You stared at it. It should’ve made your chest warm, but instead, it made your stomach twist.

Because this? This kind of banter, this familiar rhythm, used to come easy. Now every message felt like a performance you were trying to remember the lines to. Like sitting across from someone who used to know your favorite drink, and now keeps guessing wrong.

You typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.

“You should sleep.”

Ale: You too, give the little gremlin a kiss for me.

You didn’t respond.

You stared at her name at the top of the thread. The picture of her that hadn’t changed since she set it. You felt like you were texting a memory wearing your wife’s face.

And god, it shouldn’t feel like this.

It shouldn’t feel like a chore.

You tossed your phone onto the table a little too hard. Tofu lifted his head, blinked at you, and flopped back down like your emotional breakdown wasn’t his business. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes and sat there.

And tried not to hope that maybe, just maybe, when you reopened Chattr later… The silence would be over.

Pt. 4

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