#it is two in the morning what is wrong with me

[piastrisun]

love me not.

pairings: lando norris + female reader.

summary: it started with one kiss. it kept happening. now you don’t know what hurts more — the way he holds you at night or the way he leaves you in the morning.

genre: angst.⠀word count: 7.7k. ⠀ warning: mentions of sex.

notes: inspired by ‘love me not’ by ravyn lenae. i feel this could’ve been more angsty but i’m happy with the result. hope you enjoy it a lot!!

you were best friends.

the kind of best friends who could sit in silence for hours and still feel like you were saying everything. you knew the passcode to his phone. he kept a spare hoodie at your place. you made playlists for each other and had a standing friday night tradition: pizza, films, and sharing one blanket on your sofa. it was always that way.

safe. easy. solid.

you’d grown up side by side, gone through break-ups, new jobs, bad days — all of it. you were the first person he called when he did well at a race. he was the one who held your hand when you failed your final exam. you were home to each other.

then it changed.

it was after a party. one of those nights that didn’t feel like it was supposed to matter. you were drunk, barefoot on his sofa in one of his old t-shirts. he was sitting on the floor, head leaning against your knee, telling you about some girl he wasn’t sure about.

“i just wish i liked her,” he’d said. “wish it felt like something.”

you laughed — tired, tipsy, warm — and said, “maybe you’re just waiting for the wrong person to feel like the right one.”

he looked up at you. eyes hazy. tired. quiet. and then he kissed you, not rushed. not hungry. just… gentle. curious, even. and you kissed him back.

the first time wasn’t planned.

you didn’t talk about it afterwards. you fell asleep in his bed, wearing the same t-shirt, pretending everything still felt the same.

and it didn’t.

the next morning, you made pancakes like you always did. he kissed your temple when he left. like it meant nothing. like you hadn’t just crossed a line neither of you could uncross.

you told yourself it was a one-time thing. a weird moment. something that didn’t need a label.

but a week later, it happened again.

and again. and again.

you told yourselves it was casual. just two best friends who slept together sometimes. nothing had to change. nothing would change.

except it did.

he stopped texting you good morning. you stopped telling him about the guy you’d matched with on hinge. the friday night film marathons got shorter. more skin. less talking.

you only saw each other late now. and even then, only when one of you was lonely enough to press send on a “you up?” text.

you used to talk until 4 a.m. now he leaves before sunrise. and now the friendship is gone. no more dumb inside jokes. no more teasing. no more comfort. just late-night sheets and fading laughter.

you still know how he takes his coffee. he still notices when you change your nail colour. but you don’t say those things anymore. you don’t talk unless someone needs a body. not a friend. not a heart.

just a body.

─────⠀ SCENE #1.

“don't loosen your grip, got a hold on me / now, forever, let's get back together.”

it’s sometime after 2 a.m. the city outside your window hums softly, distant and unbothered. the kind of quiet that only exists in the middle of the night, when even the streetlights seem tired. your flat is dim, lit only by the faint orange glow slipping through the blinds. your phone is in your hand. you’ve typed and deleted the same message three times.

you finally send it.

“you up?”

you don’t expect him to answer. not really. but when there’s a knock at your door ten minutes later, your heart trips over itself anyway. three soft raps, the kind only he does. and before you can even think about changing your mind, you’re opening it.

lando stands there, shirt half on, eyes tired but wide when they meet yours. his curls are messy, like he’d been tossing in bed or maybe hadn’t slept at all. he doesn’t say anything. neither do you. you just step back, and he walks in like he always does like this is still his place too.

the flat is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of the streetlights bleeding through the curtains. the silence between you crackles, thick and heavy with everything unsaid. you both know why he’s here. why he always comes back.

soon, you’re lying in bed, backs pressed against the mattress, shoulders just barely touching. the sheets are tangled, the air between you damp with something that isn’t quite love but feels too much like it.

he breathes steady beside you, like he’s already slipping away and something about that makes your chest tighten. you stare up at the ceiling, your fingers absently brushing against your own collarbone, grounding yourself. then your voice breaks the silence, low and soft like it might crack if you’re too loud.

“do you ever miss it?”

lando shifts a little, but he doesn’t turn to look at you. you see his jaw tighten just slightly in the dim light. he keeps his eyes on the ceiling like it’s safer that way.

“miss what?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

a small, bitter laugh escapes, but it isn’t really funny. you turn your head toward him. “us. before this,” your voice cracks a little. “when we could talk about stupid shit for hours and it didn’t end with you zipping up your jeans.”

the silence that follows is different this time, heavier. you swear you can feel it pressing down on your chest.

he exhales, long and slow, and finally turns his head toward you. you don’t look at him. you’re afraid if you do, the ache in your throat might spill out.

“i do,” he says eventually. quiet, but clear. “i miss it more than i say.”

you close your eyes. that should mean something. that should feel like enough. but it’s not. because you also know what comes next, the part where he pulls you close, kisses you like he means it, and then leaves before the sun comes up. the part where he pretends it’s nothing again.

“then why do we keep doing this?” your voice cracks despite you trying not to let it.

he doesn’t answer right away. he swallows hard, and you can see it, the way his throat bobs, the way his fingers curl against the sheets like he’s trying to hold himself still.

“because i don’t know how to not want you,” he says. “but i don’t know how to keep you either.”

your chest burns. that stupid mix of relief and heartbreak, like his honesty is a knife you asked him to twist. and in a way, you did

you finally turn to face him, and for the first time in weeks, your eyes meet in the dark.

“i don’t need you like that,” you whisper. “but i miss you. every time you go.”

he doesn’t say anything. just reaches out and brushes his fingers against your hand like he’s asking for permission to stay a little longer. and even though you know it’s going to hurt, you let him.

because you’re both already in too deep.

because you both lie.

and it’s all starting to crack.

his fingers graze yours, and your heart stutters, not because it’s new, but because it isn’t. because he’s touched you a hundred times like this, maybe more. but it never feels casual, no matter how much you both pretend it is.

you don’t pull away. not yet. even though you probably should.

you shift slightly on the bed, turning toward him, your knees brushing under the sheets. the air smells like him, faint cologne and something familiar, something that always clings to your pillow when he leaves.

“do you ever think we ruined it?” you ask, barely more than a whisper.

lando doesn’t hesitate this time. “yeah. all the time.”

that hurts. but what hurts more is how easily he says it, like it’s a fact he’s made peace with. like it’s something you’re both supposed to carry now, quiet and heavy and constant.

“i miss knowing you,” you say, and the words feel naked. “not just… this version of you. the one who only shows up when it’s late and no one’s looking.”

lando flinches, just a little. like the truth surprises him even though he knows it’s true.

“you still know me,” he says, soft but urgent. “more than anyone.”

“that doesn’t feel like enough anymore.” you don’t mean to sound bitter. but maybe you are, maybe that’s fair.

─────⠀ SCENE #2.

“it's hard to see you, but i wish you were right here / it's hard to leave you when i get you everywhere / all this time i'm thinkin' we could never be a pair.”

it starts in his car.

the windows are fogged from the inside, soft with condensation and blurred city lights that bleed through like bruises — purples and reds smudging across the glass. rain taps steadily against the roof, rhythmic and gentle, like a heartbeat. not yours, though. yours is lodged somewhere in your throat, pounding too hard, too fast. the air is thick with the scent of leather, the chill of the night air slipping through the cracks, and him, always him.

you hadn’t planned this. of course you hadn’t. you were supposed to just talk. to sit here, say a few things, maybe pretend it didn’t hurt as much as it does. maybe say goodbye, if either of you were brave enough to say the word out loud.

but then his hand brushed yours across the centre console — just a soft touch, nothing dramatic — and neither of you moved away.

you’re sat in the passenger seat, knees pulled up to your chest like they can protect you. your eyes are fixed on the streetlamp outside the car, watching the way the light flickers in the rain. like if you stare long enough, it’ll anchor you. keep you steady. because looking at him would ruin you. because looking at him means remembering everything you’re trying not to feel.

and then he says your name, quietly. like it’s fragile. like it might break if he says it too loud. “you okay?”

you nod. your throat is tight, but you lie anyway. “i’m fine.”

you’re not fine. not even close. because he’s sitting right there, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin, close enough that you could just reach out and… touch him. and all you can think about is how much you miss him. how even when he’s this close, it still feels like he’s slipping away.

you finally turn to look at him, and your lips part, maybe to tell him to go. maybe to ask him to stay. maybe to scream. maybe to confess. you don’t know what you’re going to say.

but you don’t get the chance. because he leans in first, and, as usual, you let him.

it’s soft at first. barely even a kiss. like he’s asking a question. like he’s giving you a chance to stop this before it begins. but you don’t. you lean in too.

your fingers slide into his hair before you can think better of it, pulling him closer like it’s instinct. like you’ve done this before. like your body remembers him better than your heart does. the kiss deepens quickly, too quickly. all tongue and teeth and aching desperation. you move across the console like your bones were made for this, like you’ve always known how to get to him, how to reach him. like there’s never been any space between you at all.

his hands find their way under your shirt before you can catch your breath, and yours are tugging at his belt like it’s the only way you know how to speak now, through skin, through touch, through the kind of silence that says too much.

you end up in the backseat.

clothes half-on, half-off. limbs tangled. your breathing messy, mouths greedy, movements clumsy but real. it’s not perfect, it’s rushed, uneven, aching. but it’s honest. it’s desperate. you breathe him in like air, like you’ve been holding your breath for days, waiting for this exact moment to come undone.

you never tell him to stop.

not when the cold window presses against your back. not when his breath hits your ear, hot and shaky, and your name leaves his lips like a vow he doesn’t know he’s breaking.

because you don’t need him.

but oh god, you want him.

and in this moment, that feels like the same thing.

somehow, later, you end up back at your place.

he drives like nothing happened. his grip on the steering wheel steady, eyes forward, the silence between you thick with everything left unsaid. like your lipstick isn’t smeared down his throat. like your hand on his thigh isn’t enough to make him hard again. like neither of you are pretending that this is normal.

the door clicks shut behind you, and you’re on him again. it’s instant, automatic, like the moment you crossed the threshold, everything else disappeared. your backs hit walls. his mouth finds your neck. your blouse comes off, buttons lost somewhere on the floor. his shirt doesn’t even get a chance to drop, it stays crumpled in your fists like you’re afraid letting go of the fabric means letting go of him.

you don’t speak. you don’t have to.

this time, he takes you in the hallway. then the kitchen table. then finally, the bed, the one place you’ve never let him this far in, or at least you try to avoid.

he moans into your neck, murmurs your name like it’s a prayer, like it means something. and for a second — just one second — you let yourself believe it. you let yourself pretend this is love. pretend it’s real. pretend it isn’t just another night of pretending.

because loves you not, he loves you.

he holds you tight, then let you go.

he holds your waist like you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

and you ride that lie all the way through. every kiss. every sigh. every time you whimper “don’t stop” when what you should’ve said was “don’t come back.”

later, you lie on your side, facing the window. his arm is draped around your hip. your bodies still pressed together, skin still burning. the room is quiet, but your mind is anything but.

your thoughts scream, you don’t need him like that. you’re better off without him. you’ll be fine in the morning. but right now?

you reach back. find his hand in the dark. your fingers wrap around his without thinking. you hold on. just for tonight.

because sometimes, want wins.

even when it will hurt like hell.

─────⠀ SCENE #3.

“soon as you leave me, we always lose connection / it's gettin' messy, i favor your affection.”

you weren’t planning to go out that friday.

but your friends insisted, and you didn’t feel like being alone with your thoughts. so you let them drag you to that bar in the city centre — the one with the overpriced drinks and the red lighting that makes everything feel a little too intimate, like even glancing across the room could mean something.

you’re halfway through your second drink when you see him.

lando.

same half-tucked shirt. same slouched posture, like he couldn’t care less who’s watching — and yet, somehow, he’s always the one everyone watches. not because he’s trying. because he never has to.

he’s not alone.

beside him — her. the girl. she’s pretty. effortlessly so. the kind of pretty that doesn’t ask for attention, but gets it anyway, just like he does. she leans in when she laughs, head tilting just right, mouth parted like she’s rehearsed it. you see her fingers graze his arm. see the way he doesn’t flinch or step back.

she’s close. too close. laughing at something he said. her fingers brush his sleeve again like she’s done it before. like she belongs there.

and worst of all — he smiles. soft. familiar. not that smug grin he uses with strangers. no, this one’s different. it’s the real one. your one.

and it twists in your stomach like something sour.

you try to swallow it down. pretend it doesn’t bother you. pretend you’re better than this. but it does bother you. and you’re not better.

you stay long enough to let it sting. then you leave. like it doesn’t matter. like it didn’t crack something open in you. you make it home. sit on the edge of your bed. try to forget.

and fail.

later that night, your phone lights up.

“can i come over?”

you stare at the message, screen glowing in the dark. thumb hovering over the keyboard for a full minute. you could ignore it. should ignore it.

but you don’t.

“door’s open.”

you hate how fast you type it. hate that your heart jumps. hate that you’re already pulling on the sweater he left at yours three weeks ago — the one you swore you were going to wash and return. you hate that you glance in the mirror, just once, even though you tell yourself you don’t care.

it’s past midnight when he shows.

you don’t watch him enter, but you know the sounds of him — the soft click of the door, the quiet rustle of his jacket landing on the arm of the sofa like muscle memory. like he’s done this a hundred times before. because he has. because you’ve let him.

you stay where you are, perched on the kitchen counter. legs bare, sweater slipping off one shoulder like it always does. the glass of water next to you has gone warm and untouched. your heart, though — wide awake. pulsing in your chest like it’s been waiting.

you don’t look at him when you speak.

your voice is steady. cold. detached — at least on the surface. “she looked nice.”

a direct hit. you don’t give him the grace of subtlety tonight.

he exhales hard. like he was expecting it. like he deserves it. “it wasn’t like that,” he says, stepping toward you. you see the way his hands twitch, fingers flexing like they want to reach for you. but he doesn’t.

you finally turn to face him. your expression gives nothing away, but your chest aches. every beat hurts. “neither is this,” you reply. “but here you are.”

and that’s the truth. the raw, ugly kind. the kind that scrapes at your throat on the way out.

he looks at you, eyes darker than usual, jaw tight. like he’s searching for something he already knows is there. and hates that it is. there’s guilt in him. you can see it.

but it doesn’t change a thing. guilt never stopped him before.

you slide off the counter slowly, deliberately. your bare feet hit the cold tile. you walk past him without a word. like he’s just another ghost in your hallway. like the heat between you hasn’t already begun to suffocate.

he follows. of course he does.

when the door clicks shut behind him, everything changes. like someone flipped a switch. emotion blurs into impulse. silence into heat.

your mouth is on his before he can speak. and he kisses you back like he’s been starving. like she didn’t exist. like you’re the only real thing he’s ever known. but you aren’t sure if that comforts you anymore. it just makes you want to break something.

your hands clutch at his shirt like you’re trying to rip her off him. erase the memory of her skin. take her name off his lips. you don’t care if it hurts him.

you hope it does. and he lets you. he always does.

clothes fall like lies — fast, careless. his shirt hits the floor in the hallway. your underwear ends up somewhere by the front door. you don’t even make it to the bedroom straight away. it starts in the kitchen, your breath fogging against the fridge. then the hallway wall. then, finally, the bed.

it isn’t tender. it’s desperate. messy. wordless.

you give him everything. let him take everything. because if this is all he wants from you, fine. let it be this.

he kisses you like he’s trying to forget. and you let him. even when your heart begs for something more.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling harder than you should. he groans into your neck, the sound raw, like pain and want all tangled up. his name falls from your lips like it’s a habit you can’t shake. and you hate that it still feels holy.

when it’s over, you’re twisted in the sheets. your back pressed to his chest. his arm draped around your waist like it means something. like he still belongs here.

like he’s not going to disappear before the sun comes up.

the silence is heavy. thick with everything you didn’t say. you should ask him why. why he keeps doing this. why he picks you at night but forgets you in the daylight. why it hurts more every time he leaves. but you don’t ask. because you already know the answer. and maybe hearing it out loud would hurt more than this.

so you just lie there. pretending the ache is enough. pretending the weight of his arm is more than just routine. pretending you’re not just a placeholder for something he hasn’t figured out he’s looking for.

because this is what it is now. not love. not friendship.

just him.

just you.

and all the ways you don’t belong to each other but still can’t seem to walk away.

─────⠀ SCENE #4.

“you gotta say that you're sorry at the end of the night / wake up in the mornin', everything's alright.”

the sun leaks through half-closed blinds, casting soft, golden lines across the tangled sheets. it’s the kind of light that should feel warm — gentle, even — the kind that belongs to slow mornings and shared breakfasts. but all it does is highlight the distance between you. it stretches across the bed like a quiet, golden reminder of how far apart you really are now. the dust in the air glows like ghosts, dancing in the silence, haunting the space you once called safe. there’s a stillness to the room now, like the aftermath of a storm, when everything has been said or broken or swallowed. and in a way, that’s exactly what this is. the quiet that comes after something violent. something real.

you sit on the edge of the bed, legs curled beneath you, arms wrapped tight around your own body like it’s the only thing holding you together. your hoodie’s still on, sleeves tugged down over your hands, like maybe the fabric can shield you from the ache in your chest. it can’t. your hair’s stuck to the back of your neck, tangled and damp with sweat you didn’t bother to wash away. your skin smells like him. it always does after nights like this. nights where desire drowns out sense, where you let him in even though he never really stays.

and that scent, that ache, it clings. it always lingers longer than he ever does.

behind you, he’s getting dressed. you don’t need to look. you know the sound by now. the soft shuffle of denim, the faint metal hiss of a zip, the familiar clink of his belt. then that quiet sigh, the one you could recognise with your eyes closed. it’s the sound he makes when he’s trying not to feel. like he’s gently, deliberately peeling himself away from you, slipping back into the person he is when he’s not here. when he’s not yours.

and somehow, that hurts more than it should. more than you ever let on.

the silence between you thickens, stretching long and heavy, not just awkward — no, this is denser. fuller. it carries everything you haven’t said, everything you’re both too afraid to touch. but it pulses under your skin, louder than his heartbeat had been against your back only hours ago.

you break the silence first. you always do.

but this time, your voice isn’t soft. you don’t cushion the fall. you don’t offer him an easy out. “say something.”

your words drop into the room like stones. heavy. deliberate.

he pauses. long enough for your stomach to twist. long enough to make it feel like maybe he won’t respond at all. you know this version of him, the one that shuts down when things get too close, too real. the one that dodges truth with silence, always hoping it’ll be enough.

then he speaks, barely above a whisper, like he wants to say it without it counting.

“i don’t know what you want me to say.”

your jaw tightens. of course he doesn’t. of course he hides behind that. because to say the truth would mean facing it — facing you. it would mean admitting that this, whatever this is, matters. that you matter.

you turn to him slowly, carefully. your eyes sting, but you won’t cry. not here. not in front of him. he’s sitting at the edge of the bed now too, his back turned, bare shoulders hunched slightly, the curve of his spine rising and falling with every breath. and god, you hate how much you love the way he looks. you hate how familiar he still feels. how much of you still wants him.

your voice is thin, shaking at the edges. but you say it anyway.

“say you miss me.”

he doesn’t move.

“say this fucks you up too.”

still nothing.

“say i’m not the only one who can’t sleep after you leave.”

your voice cracks on that last line, and it feels like failure. it feels like breaking in front of the very person who made you feel like you had to be unbreakable in the first place. you didn’t mean to fall apart, not again. but you’re so tired. tired of pretending. tired of swallowing your feelings. tired of being something soft when he needs it, and nothing when he doesn’t.

the silence that follows is different this time.

you hear the way he swallows. you notice the tiny hitch in his breath. and when he finally speaks, it’s quiet. raw.

“you think i sleep at all?”

and just like that, it steals the air from your lungs.

because it’s the first thing that’s felt honest in weeks. and no, it’s not enough. not nearly. but it’s something. something real in a mess of half-truths, vague touches, and midnight lies.

you look down at your hands. they’re trembling now, gripping the hem of your hoodie like you can physically stop yourself from falling apart if you just hold on tight enough.

“then why do you keep leaving?” your voice barely makes it out. “if it hurts so much, why do you always walk away?”

you don’t turn to face him when you say it. you can’t. not when the answer might ruin you. and again, he doesn’t respond.

you think maybe it’s because he truly doesn’t know. or maybe he does. maybe the truth is too heavy. maybe it’s that he’s scared. scared of what it means to love you more than just friends. scared of what he becomes when he does. scared of staying — and scared of what might happen if he doesn’t. but what if it’s not like that?

for neither of you and the desire is the one talking. the ego trying to make sense of why he doesn’t want you like that.

you blink hard, trying to stop the tears from coming, but one escapes. a single drop, hot and slow, sliding down your cheek before you can stop it. you wipe it away quickly, almost angrily.

he stands. quietly. pulls his shirt on like it’s just another morning. like this is just another ending. you feel the shift in the room as he moves, and even though you don’t look, you know he’s watching you. maybe he wants to say something. maybe he almost does.

but he doesn’t. he walks to the door, it clicks shut behind him. and just like that, it’s over. again.

until the next time.

until you miss him too much to fight it.

until he needs something he doesn’t know how to name.

until one of you breaks and sends that same old message.

“you up?” “can i come over?” “door’s open.”

but for now, it’s just you.

in a bed that still smells like him. in a room that feels hollow. in silence that sounds more like goodbye every single time. and all the words he didn’t say are louder than the ones he did.

you lie back down, pulling the sheets over your chest even though they offer no warmth, no comfort.

and you try. god, you try, to breathe through the part of you that still hopes he’ll turn back. but he doesn’t. and deep down, you knew he wouldn’t.

─────⠀ SCENE #5.

“lord, take it so far away / i pray that, god, we don't break / i want you to take me up and down / and 'round and 'round again.”

it’s been a week.

seven whole days without a single word from you. not a text, not a late-night call, not even one of those dumb memes you always used to send when you were bored or trying to dodge something heavier. his last message? left on read. the one after that? you didn’t even open it.

because if silence is the only weapon you’ve got left, then you’re going to learn how to wield it properly. it’s your armour now. your boundary. your final stand. but now it’s 11:37 p.m., and there’s a knock at your door. and you already know who it is, you knew from the second your phone didn’t light up but your heartbeat did.

you don’t move at first. you just stare at the door like maybe, if you’re still enough, if you wish hard enough, he’ll vanish. maybe the knocking will stop. maybe he’ll get the hint. but it doesn’t. and your chest is tight, the kind of tight that makes it hard to breathe, and the air feels like it’s been holding its breath with you. so you open the door.

lando’s standing there, like he always does when it’s too late and he’s run out of places to go. his hair’s a mess, his jacket’s half-zipped, and his eyes—god, his eyes look like they haven’t seen sleep in days. he speaks, low and careful, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. “hey.”

you don’t say a word. just step aside. he walks in like he’s done it a thousand times before, because he has. like your home is still his home, like he still belongs here. “was starting to think you’d really shut me out this time,” he says, trying to keep it light, but it lands heavy.

you shut the door behind him, leaning against it like it might keep you upright. arms crossed. walls up. “i did too,” you reply, and there’s no softness in it. no invitation.

he exhales, and it’s almost a wince. like the truth winded him. like he expected a door slammed in his face, not honesty dropped at his feet.

then your voice breaks. just slightly. “i can’t do this.” the words fall out like they’ve been sitting on your tongue for days. like they’ve been aching to be heard. you say them like you mean them. like this is the line you’ve drawn. the point of no return. you want him to hear it and feel it and finally, finally understand. you want it to be closure.

but you don’t move. your feet stay planted. your arms don’t push him away. you don’t walk him to the door. you don’t ask him to go.

you never really do.

because every time he comes back, your mouth says leave but your body says stay, please stay. every time his hand finds yours, your resolve melts. not because you’re weak. not because you don’t have boundaries. but because they never stood a chance with him. because you never knew where to draw them. maybe it should’ve started the first time he kissed you like you were everything. maybe it should’ve started the first time he left without saying goodbye. maybe somewhere in the middle of all the things you never said about what this was… and what it never became.

you should tell him to go. you should mean it. but instead, you just stand there. breathing him in. and he steps closer — slow, tentative, eyes locked on yours, like he’s waiting. waiting for you to flinch, to speak, to push him away. but you don’t. you let him get close enough for the air between you to go warm, thick with history.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers, like a dare. but he already knows you won’t. because you never have.

and you hate yourself for it. for the way your skin still hums for him. for how your body still reaches for something that’s always broken you. for the way he fits into you like he’s lived there. like he was made for it. and it’s you who leans in first. or maybe he does. maybe it’s both of you, meeting halfway like always. like inevitability.

your fingers slip under the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. his hands are already under your shirt, like this is muscle memory. like you’ve both been here a thousand times and still haven’t learned. the sofa’s too far. the bedroom feels like a decision. so it happens right there. on the floor. on the same old carpet where you used to laugh until your ribs hurt. where you used to fall asleep in the middle of a film, limbs tangled, hearts calm.

now you’re tangled for different reasons. desperate. breathless. hungry for something neither of you dares name.

and when it’s done — when the world quiets — your head is on his chest, your legs still looped with his, and you let yourself pretend. just for a second. pretend that it’s safe here. that maybe, this time, he’ll stay.

but you already know how this goes. you’ve lived this story on repeat. because you never made the rules. because he never asked for them. and because you never thought you’d need them.

and maybe that’s the worst part, not that he crossed a line. but that you never drew one. not really. not where it counted. because you didn’t want to lose him. because wanting him always roared louder than protecting yourself from him.

and now he’s lying beside you on the floor, shirtless and soft, warm in all the places that still ache from him. your skin’s buzzing. your heart’s already breaking. because it’s never just physical. not with him. it never has been. and you knew that. and you let it happen anyway.

because at 2 a.m., when he’s right there, saying he’s worried you didn’t texted back with his hands instead of his mouth, it’s too easy to forget that he always leaves. and too hard to remember how to tell him not to come back.

then, out of nowhere, you laugh. quiet. unexpected. because you’re tired. because he’s still him. and for one second, it’s like it used to be.

he grins. soft and barely there. you both collapse back onto the carpet, side by side. legs tangled without thought, like instinct.

he nudges your knee with his. “remember when we slept on this floor after too much tequila and you made me rank every spice girls song?”

you smile, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “you said sporty carried the group.”

“she did,” he replies, mock offended.

a beat. you both laugh. and for a second… it’s easy. it always is, just before it hurts.

then he turns his head to look at you. his voice cracks a little now, like the joke chipped away something deeper. “i—i miss you.”

it’s quiet. honest. like something unraveling between you. like thread slipping loose.

you don’t look at him. just keep your eyes on the ceiling. “no,” you whisper. “you miss the part of me that lets you in at 2 a.m. and pretends it doesn’t hurt.”

he sits up suddenly. brows pulled in, hands through his hair — that move you know too well. “that’s not fair.”

and before you can stop yourself, your body follows his. now you’re both sat across from each other, legs crossed like kids. but your expression is sharp now. and your voice? even sharper.

“no,” you snap. “what’s not fair is holding me like i’m everything, just to let me go like i’m nothing. what’s not fair is the way you kiss me like you mean it, then disappear like you never did.”

his mouth opens. then shuts. his jaw tightens.

“that’s not how it is,” he says, quiet.

“then tell me what it is, lando. tell me what this is.”

silence.

he doesn’t answer. because he doesn’t know. because he’s scared. because giving it a name means risking it all.

“you always show up when you’re lonely,” you say, voice breaking now. “not when you miss me. not when you want me. just when being alone feels worse.”

“that’s not true,” he says quickly, defensive. “i come because i—i don’t know where else to go.”

you laugh again. but it’s empty now. “wow. that’s so romantic.”

he winces. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

you stand, grabbing the blanket from the sofa, wrapping it around yourself like it might protect you from this ache. “you never do. and that’s the problem.”

he watches you. like he’s waiting for the shift. for you to fold. for you to leave the door open, like always.

but this time… you don’t.

lando stands slowly. his jeans are only half-zipped. his t-shirt’s bunched in his hand — the same one you’d pulled off earlier. his hair’s a mess. his mouth is still pink. and he looks like every version of the boy you’ve ever loved.

but he doesn’t say anything.

not please, not don’t, not i love you. just silence. then he turns, walks to the door, opens it. you don’t stop him. he leaves.

and this time, you don’t cry. not until the door clicks shut. not until it’s real.

─────⠀ SCENE #6.

“oh no, i don't need you, but i miss you, come here / and oh, it’s so hard to see you, but i wish you were here.”

it’s been months. long enough that the sting of him has mostly faded, or at least, you’ve gotten good at pretending it has. you’ve stopped waiting for those texts at 2 a.m., the ones that always came too late and said too little. you’ve stopped pretending they didn’t break you. stopped staring at your phone like it might suddenly light up with his name and a miracle, some kind of answer to the mess you two made.

you’ve found a rhythm now. a way of living that doesn’t ache quite as much. a way of laughing that doesn’t feel like a betrayal. smiling no longer costs you something. you’ve learned how to lift your chin again without feeling like the weight of his ghost is pulling your shoulders down.

and for the most part, it’s fine. manageable. survivable.

the party is loud — too loud — with too many people, too many voices blurring into one constant hum against the bass of the music. you’re standing with friends, drink in hand, half-listening, half-smiling. trying. but then your eyes catch on someone across the room, and it’s him.

lando.

and just like that, the rest of the room fades. the noise quiets. his presence pulls you in like gravity, like muscle memory, like no time has passed at all.

his eyes meet yours. there’s no smile, no wave. just that look. the one that used to undo you. and even now, months later, it still finds its way into your chest, that familiar ache, sharp and bittersweet. you can almost hear his voice in your head, low and close, like it used to be when he leaned in just to say your name.

his lips twitch, like he’s about to smile. that same crooked grin that used to make you feel like you were the only one in the world.

but you don’t smile back. not this time.

instead, you turn your attention to the conversation around you. you laugh at your friend’s joke — louder than you need to — and take a sip of your drink you don’t really want. your fingers wrap tighter around the glass. you stand a little taller, a little stronger, trying to create distance between yourself and the ghost of him still lingering in your bones.

you won’t let him slip back in. not again. not now. not when it’s taken everything just to feel like you can breathe without him.

and then — your phone buzzes. you don’t have to check to know who it is, you already know, but you do anyway.

“come here.”

it’s just two words. harmless, almost. but they knock the air out of you.

you read it once. then again. and again. staring at his name like it’s something sacred and cursed all at once.

your chest tightens. your throat burns. because you can hear it: his voice, soft and quiet, like he’s standing right beside you. like he’s saying it not just through text, but through the silence between you, the memories, the weight of everything that still hasn’t been said.

you want to reply. god, you want to. but you don’t.

you slide your phone back into your bag. your hands shake slightly, but you steady yourself. because this time, you’re not doing it. not going to be the girl who folds for a late-night message again.

and somehow, that decision — that silence — feels like the bravest thing you’ve done in months.

you turn back to your friends. the music is too loud, and someone is laughing too hard, and it all feels like a blur. but you lean into it. you let it drown out the noise in your head.

you don’t look back.

the night carries on in flashes, lights, drinks, words that drift in and out. you smile and nod and dance and breathe. and when you finally get home, your heels kicked off, makeup smudged and hair still carrying the scent of smoke and too many people. the silence wraps around you like a blanket.

except it’s not comforting. it presses in on you, heavy and unforgiving.

you sit on the edge of your bed, the message still unopened on your screen, glowing faintly like it’s waiting for you to break.

come here.

you still get him everywhere. in the spaces between dreams. in the lyrics of songs you weren’t expecting. in the way your hand reaches for your phone just before sleep, even though you already know exactly what’s there. but this time, you won’t open the door.

because you’ve learned what his love feels like, all shadows and silence. he only comes when the night is quiet and the world is still, when the loneliness creeps in and he remembers you were once warm and easy to find. but you need more than that.

and he’s never been that person.

you can’t keep being the girl who waits for someone to mean it. who takes scraps and calls them love. and that realisation, it hurts more than you’ll ever admit aloud. it tears through your chest in the dead of night when no one is looking.

you press your fingers to the side of your phone, wishing it could erase the part of you that still aches for him. that still wants to believe the words he sends when he’s lonely. but you can’t stay there. not anymore.

and across the room at that same party, lando stands near the door, phone still in hand, the message sent and left on read.

he stares at the screen. rereads it. wonders if maybe you just didn’t see it. but he knows.

he knows that silence.

it isn’t distance — it’s a choice.

he’s done this too many times. come crawling back when it’s dark and empty and he can’t pretend anymore. he’s always shown up when it’s too late. when you’ve already put the pieces of yourself back together.

and now, watching you from afar, he feels it. the weight of what he’s broken. what he never gave you.

you don’t look back. you don’t seek him out. and god, he deserves it. but it still cuts.

you were the one thing that felt like home, and now you’re just a stranger in the same room.

he sends another message — i miss you — but even as he types it, he knows it’s not enough.

he’s sorry. he is. but he also knows that sorry isn’t love. sorry isn’t showing up when it matters. sorry doesn’t fix the way he only ever came to you when he was empty.

and maybe that’s why you finally stopped waiting.

he looks down at his phone, your silence louder than any answer you could’ve given.

because now he knows what it really means. you won’t come back — not unless he learns to want you in the light. not unless he learns how to stay.

and the worst part is… he’s not sure he ever will.

the space between you is wide and echoing. and he’s left standing there with nothing but a quiet screen and the realisation that he let you go.

one of you was falling harder every time, the other pretended they weren’t feeling a thing. who was who?

and the truth: you were both lying. and now it’s over.

there’s only ache and the strings are attached forever. either you are want it or not.

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 25’.

[reignpage]

Frat Boy!Gojo

Daquiri: splash of cold water

Word Count: 3.8k Contents: angst, cursing, some dark themes, violence, Gojo's pov, highkey rushed and not proofread so bear with me pleaseeee

“I’m disappointed in you.”

Satoru rolls his eyes. He’s been hearing that line for as long as he could remember — from his mother, father, teachers, friends, and especially from his grandfather, who sits on the opposite side of the mahogany desk. 

It was stupidly early in the morning when he was roused from sleep by Ijichi, the family’s Head of Staff. He has all sorts of titles, but the family dog is the most fitting. Truthfully, he’s a good guy. Somewhat of a friend. But damn, is he annoying?

Being hurriedly shoved in a car, half naked and still sleepy, Satoru had no choice but to follow along as he was dragged out and into the Gojo estate to meet with the head of the clan, practically paraded for all the snivelling, grubby-handed relatives and gossiping staff. Not the first time, for sure. One could even say he's used to it.

Of course, if he could avoid it, he'd never come here. Anyone with half a mind would hate it here. The people who live here hate it here. Sure, it’s all pretty with the beautiful woodcraft furniture, extravagant decor and lush gardens, but it’s a really big place, and it gets really lonely. The worst part, though? Running into people. He can’t stand seeing family members who either look at him with scorn for being the heir, which he never asked to be, by the way, or try to kiss his ass. 

But worst of all, he can’t stand the look of shame on his grandfather’s face. 

Older than he remembered, the man sits, hands clasped on a knee, legs crossed, and leaning back on the leather chair, no doubt crafted by hand by some artistic genius or other. His face has deepened with age, marred by years of experience and carrying the burden of leading the clan. It couldn’t have been easy, even if he had made it look as such, and it’s precisely why Satoru’s spent most of his life running from him and all that he represents. 

“Yeah, I know,” he yawns. 

Grandpa sighs. “I would have thought some time away in university would teach you to grow up. Yet, there you sit before me, just as immature as you were at eighteen, ten and two.”

Satoru, frowning, resists the urge to mumble some petty comeback. It wasn’t true, anyway. He’s matured a lot. Especially in the last couple of months when he was literally engaged and oh so close to walking down the aisle. That’s enough to send anyone into an early grave, so how much more mature did he need to be?

Hearing a lack of a reply, the older man asks, “You resent me, yes? For springing the engagement on you?”

“I won’t say no.”

It’s always the same story between them: two stubborn men, one old, the other young. Two sides of the same coin. When he was younger, his grandfather was his role model. His hero. At tedious and stupid family meetings, the older man would wink at him and slide a piece of candy over; they had secret games, sharing whole conversations with just their eyes. He was his first best friend. The leader of their precious clan, the man who struck fear in the most powerful men in the world, was who the boy would run to when he tripped and scratched his knees, when his parents would fight, and when kids at school would pick at him. 

The man cared for him more than his parents did. He practically raised Satoru. But then, as the boy grew older, they saw each other less and less. No special reason. Life got in the way. Responsibilities and yada yada yada. Then, his grandmother died, and the ones left behind were never the same after. In an inevitable twist of fate, more and more, those meetings turned him from pitiful observant, forced to bear witness to petty squabbling, to the very subject of those meetings. 

They changed from grandfather and grandson to Head and Heir, and there was no Spare to hide behind. 

“Satoru, son," he begins, pulling his thin-frame glasses off, "do tell, what was so wrong with being engaged to that young woman? To stepping up. To maturing and doing your part for this family?”

He groans. “You don’t get it. It isn’t about her. It’s about being engaged at all. They don’t get to make that choice for me. They don’t get to throw me into their schemes and plans when they know I want nothing to do with it. Any of it!”

“A boy so smart, with eyes that see more than they let on, with strength that surpasses us all, and yet you cannot see past yourself, past your own truth. That is the true disappointment. Not your acts of rebellion, not your games, but your refusal to rise to the occasion.”

Talking to the old man is like talking to a brick wall. Always lecturing him with riddles and think pieces. Satoru wants to leave. He’s having a terrible time as it is, what with the media whirlwind he has caused and the fact that he's still recovering from the bruising his friends had given him for ‘being a dumbass prick.’ He’s been holed up in his room, refusing to see anyone who wasn’t beautiful and adorned in black lace. Even as parties raged on below, nothing could tempt him to face the world. No classes had been attended, though that's just standard practice, and he didn't even check up on social media; he was scared he'd see her having fun without him, he supposed. 

Partly out of stubbornness and partly from shame, he didn’t reach out to the one person he so desperately wanted to. He was pretty sure she wouldn't want to see him after what he did. After he decided everything on her behalf, he blew up at her at dinner, left her to deal with their parents, and never answered her messages after that. 

Fuck. 

He's gonna die alone.

“Can I go, Gramps? I want to talk to her.”

A strange look passed over the man’s face. Satoru couldn’t place it, couldn’t understand, couldn’t even begin to know what it meant. But whatever it was, it made him sit up. 

“You can’t.”

He closed his eyes. Tight. “What do you mean? 

A fist falls on the desk. Satoru is jolted from his thoughts. 

“Satoru, she is engaged.”

Groaning, the younger man, exasperated and completely done, bolts out of his chair, shoving it forward as he feels the morning chill settle on his bare chest — they hadn’t even dressed him before ruining his day. “No, she isn’t. That was the point: to break the engagement by going to the media and telling them it was forced. Which it was, by the way. Thanks for having my back, Gramps. So, if it’s all the same to you, I gotta go wine and dine her and apologise. Maybe hit up a vampire shop and communicate in her language or sacrifice a child — don't tell her I said that. I'm tryna be better.”

He doesn't wait for a reply or notice the deadly silence that hangs in the air, suffocating and all-consuming. It's wild and unwise youth that takes him away without questioning the real reason he's been taken in his sleep. Years of shrugging off everyone who wasn't his age, wasn't drunk or stupid, had dulled his senses. 

Halfway to the door, stomping and muttering under his breath, the next words that come out of his grandfather’s mouth stop him dead in his tracks. A chill settles over his skin, clawing down his back. Sudden ringing deafens him, and he swears the room shifts, swaying him where he stands. 

“No. What? When?” Hearing only a tense sigh as a reply, Satoru grits out, “When?”

“Tonight.”

Satoru whirls around. “Who is she marrying?”

“Sit down.”

“No!” He screams.

This is impossible. 

She was his just days ago. 

This entire time, he had thought he’d taken a step back and was preparing to return, to go further, to promise himself in ways he couldn’t have under that restrictive alliance, but he’s just been showered in an ice-cold bucket of reality; hehadn’t stepped back. He had pushed her away. Shoved her. 

All the way into the arms of another man. 

Which man didn’t matter. Or maybe it did. 

He can’t think. Knees threatening to buckle, he can only try to catch his breath as dread settles in the pit of his stomach. Over the years, he had met many Zenins — it’s impossible not to run into them. And every single instance, every single one of them, left a bitter taste in his mouth. They were awful. Arrogant, spoiled, cruel, downright monstrous. 

Would she have been paired up with someone closer in age? If that were the case, only one person comes to mind. No. 

No. 

No. 

Not him. 

Feeling like he’s going to laugh and cry and scream at the same time, his voice lowers, fragmented and weak. So weak. “S-she can’t marry him. She can’t. H-he’ll hurt her. Crush her spirit. Fuck!”

Men come into the room, pinning him to the ground as books, vases and paintings are thrown around. He doesn't remember how his body moved, how his arms reached for anything and everything he could, and whose hands were on him. It all passes by in a blur. He can’t recall who tore down what and whose blood he spills, whether it's his own or someone just doing their job. Everything's hurting, and, at the same time, nothing is.

One thing he does remember is the shake of his grandfather's head and the glasses neatly folded on a damaged desk.

Restrained and barely conscious, he’s dragged somewhere and locked. 

This is his fault. In his pursuit to liberate her — both of them — he had inadvertently trapped her, driven her into the clutches of a man who’d place her on a mantel. 

Regret weighs him down. Everything��has gone to shit. How could he fix this? Fix them? 

Would she want him to?

No, she would. Of course, she would. No matter how annoying, irritating, and irresponsible he is, Zenin could never be preferred. Not by anyone. Not when she deserves so much more. Someone who understands, who’d appreciate her artistry, her grace, elegance and intelligence. Someone better than both of them. Someone who wouldn’t be so impulsive and immature. Who wouldn’t react the way he had. 

Whatever she feels for him or against him, Satoru swears he will fix it. He’d free her the way she was supposed to be the entire time. And she can go wherever she wants. Be with whoever she wants.

Even if it isn’t him. 

———

“Tell me everything,” he demands. 

The old Gojo has never seen his grandson quite so serious. Having marched back into his office an hour later with bruised knuckles and a torn lip, he had approached the desk with a calmness that set an uneasy mood in the room. He’s dressed now, at least. Wearing jeans and a grey hoodie a maid had dropped off, Satoru sits, filling up a new leather seat, legs spread and fingers pressed to his lips as if to hide their pursing. Seemingly collected to anyone else, Grandpa Gojo knew better. 

His knee is bouncing impatiently, fingers drumming, and the way those familiar blue eyes are honed in onto every rise and fall of the chest of the older man in front of him, every twitch, every blink, and even on the dust that settles between them betrayed the peaceful facade he wears like armour.

Sighing, he relents, and so, the older man gets settled in and prepares for the storm.

“Your grandmother was the person I loved most in the world,” he began. 

“She was just a servant when we met. Young, beautiful, and the most headstrong woman I ever met, even then. No one at that point, or ever, dared glare at me or turn their nose up. She resented me for being a spoiled boy. Of course, she wasn’t wrong to dislike me; I was, admittedly, not a very conscientious young man then. Much like you, I skirted around my responsibilities and allowed others to take the fall. I never wanted this life, and truthfully, I didn’t think I would be well-suited.”

This is the most his grandfather has ever revealed about his past and despite the fact that he knows time is against him, Satoru listens intently. That's the man's cursed gift. Mesmerised by the charming baritone of the head of the clan, his fingers stop drumming against the armrest and he envisions a life not his and has since long past. 

“But your grandmother changed my life. She was never afraid to let me know when she thought I was doing something wrong. You remember the face she makes, don't you, son? All scrunched up and disapproving. That woman had a way of making you want to impress her.”

Chuckling to himself, he continues, “She made me want to be better. To be deserving of her. That continued well into our marriage. All that you see of our empire, far-reaching and ever-developing as it is, could not have been achieved without her. Every setback I ever faced was only made bearable because she’d smile at me as if I could get back up and try again. Do you understand what I’m telling you, son?”

“Grandma was great?”

His grandfather pinches the bridge of his nose. “No. Well, yes. But no, Satoru. What I’m saying is, women make us better. Not just any woman, but the one. I could not have managed for as long as I did without her. Even now, when she has been gone a long time, my ability to tolerate your ridiculous, weak and greedy aunts and uncles, and indeed your lousy parents, has been because of her. Because I hold memories of her in my heart. Because I can hear her voice guiding me to the right decisions. I want that for you, son.”

A sinking realisation made the younger man’s mouth dry. He sits up. And with an accusatory tone, he says, “It was you. You set us up.”

He was disgusted with his parents for stooping so low, for prioritising wealth and reputation over their son’s wellbeing again. And yet, the entire time, it had been him, the man who he thought was on his side. Always. Satoru thought he could turn to his grandfather for help, and he had actually deluded himself into thinking the man would be proud of him for having resolved it himself — or at least, attempted to. 

“Yes. I did.”

“Why? Why would you do this to me? To her?” There’s a strain in Satoru’s voice. The wood of the armrest creaks under the deadly grip he’s inflicting. Tension rides through his body, an animal ready to pounce, to rip it all to pieces. If he hadn’t been set up like this, she’d be free; he wouldn’t have driven her into the arms of a Zenin, and she wouldn’t hate him for ruining her life. Maybe they could have even run into each other on campus and had just been a boy and a girl searching for something real in a sea of greys and beiges. 

Grandpa Gojo leans back in his chair and clasps his hands together. Then, as if looking into the distance, he recounts yet another story from his past, one Satoru hadn’t been a part of. 

“Not that long ago, I had attended a funeral for a great woman I once knew. It was your average affair: faux sincerity, faceless crowds, off-hours negotiations. Truly dull.”

The younger man knows all too well how those events go. It’s one of the reasons he doesn’t enjoy his own frat parties; they remind him too much of the parties he had grown up in. 

“Just a few years before that, as you know, we buried your grandmother in the very same place but in our own family plot. It's nice, or rather, as nice as those dreadful things can get. But she loved this little clearing far back in the forest behind the cathedral. Said she grew up playing in that land with her siblings. We used to have dates there, back when we were in our youth and we had to hide our relationship. Did I ever tell you my father never approved? Ah well, a story for another day. Where was I? Oh right. To commemorate her death, in my own personal way, I built a swing set. Two seats. For her and for me. Every time I missed her and the grief overwhelmed me, I’d visit, and I swear I could feel her with me.”

Satoru, breathless, feels the ground cave from under him. 

“I don’t get to visit as often as I’d like, a consequence of being who I am. But I am sure to maintain it. And at that funeral, I was given an opportunity to see the fruits of my labour and, as you do so very often, I snuck away. I don't mean to encourage that behaviour but I think I get a pass for being so generally well-behaved, no? Anyways, son, all the way out there, I saw a young girl.”

The grandson is standing before he even realises it. “You saw her?”

“I saw a girl coming into her own. I saw a melancholy air about her and a certain sadness that I could relate to. Why, she reminded me of myself, of my wife, and of you, all at once. Like the universe had aligned, I felt my wife guiding me to her last gift. In that moment, without ever exchanging a word with her, I knew she was special. In the way I recalled mygrandson was special. Is special. I left her to herself — she was grieving, after all. But I could never forget that little girl who had been abandoned by the adults around her, left to deal with the dangers of solitude. Through the years, I kept track of her, and, as a consequence of the family business being passed from the great woman I knew to her son, I watched her father drive their family to ruin with his gambling addiction, her mother dig her manicured claws in and twist, chasing thrill in luxury goods and losing herself in a flurry of white dust. Through it all, that little —no, that budding young woman — stood tall. But we all have limits, son."

There's a pathetic sense of jealousy growing in the white-haired boy. His grandfather's reminding him of how tiny his pool of knowledge regarding her really is. All he had done the past couple months was argue with her when he should have been at her side 24/7, begging her for every morsel of information.

Gulping, he shifts in his seat. "Limit?"

"She lost her dear friend. And rock bottom came soon after. Chained to a hospital bed, she took care of him when no one else would. But that is far too much responsibility for anyone. Once again, I saw you in her. Both running away from the problem, searching for comfort at the bottom of a bottle, and filling that void with countless people whose names you could not even begin to list. It was a pity.”

Reeling, Satoru tries to make sense of it all. The nonchalance in his grandfather’s words sends his blood boiling. Everything. Every second. Every fucking person in his life is a product of someone’s manipulation. Always. “So what? You wanted to help her out by bringing her into our family?”

“Well, yes.”

“That’s bull. Why couldn’t you just give her money? Why not build up her family's business like you do with literally everyone in this family if she's so special? Why go through this elaborate scheme? Why play games?”

Grandpa Gojo shakes his head. He looks thoroughly disappointed in his grandson and when he responds after a second or two of further thought, his voice reveals the age that has been wearing him down more and more. “Because when I go, I’d like to be certain you have somebody like I did, Satoru. Because you are young and you need guidance.”

It has become clearer than ever before: she was sent as a final nail in his coffin.

Satoru finds himself getting back up onto his feet, hands flailing in the air and a furrow in his brows.

“Now what? Huh? Your stupid games got her as good as dead. What are you going to do now?”

She's going to be a Zenin by the end of the day and he's going to have to watch her spirit fade at every ridiculous function for some charity event no attendant of the party could even hold a conversation about. They'll pass each other by like strangers, like two ships in the night, like nothing they shared had even happened. Was it better to have mattered for even just a second than to be nothing to each other?

SLAM!

A heavy fist quakes the mahogany desk, rattling every bone in the young man’s body. 

“We are the most powerful family in the country! We rule with both hands on a shield and a sword. A sword, Satoru. And deny it all you want, son, but the brutal truth will always be that you are not just a Gojo, not just a powerful man, a boy with a trust fund. You are the Gojo heir. A god among men! What you want is the will of our clan, don't you understand, my boy? Power courses through your veins. Limitless. Infinite. Accept it. For you, alone, are the honoured one. Embrace it. Use it. Weaponise it." 

When two pairs of eyes collide, one sees himself in the other and, after years of being at opposite ends, repelled by the weight of responsibility that hung between them, they finally arrive at the same page. After all those misunderstandings, all those stern talking to's, those never-ending arguments and disappointments neither could speak about, they're finally, finally friends again. 

One of them almost smiled. 

"So, what are you going to do?”

Satoru has one hand on the door and the other on his phone in a flash. For the first time in his entire life, he knows what to do. That thing that has been haunting him, forcing him deeper into the facade of an inconsiderate fratboy, brews to the surface. The privilege he had always considered a burden and a curse, that he had locked away and allowed to collect dust on, becomes his very lifeline.

“I’m gonna get my girl back.”

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Can you please do a George having a daughter the same age as Kimi, and he finds out there dating, and freaking out?

The boyfriend/teammate

"I can't believe he thinks he's faster than me through Sector 2," Kimi scoffed, tossing a protein bar toward Yn, who caught it effortlessly.

They were sitting on a low wall just behind the hospitality area, the warm hum of the paddock swirling around them. Mechanics rushed by, PR people clicked down the walkways in sharp heels, and the ever-present sound of tires being rolled echoed nearby.

"You are faster," Yn said with a smirk, unwrapping the bar. "But he's not wrong about your starts. Those are a disaster."

"Okay, rude," Kimi mock-pouted. "I'm trying my best."

"Your best almost ended up in the pit wall in Bahrain."

Kimi blinked at her. "That was one time."

Yn arched an eyebrow. "Two."

"Okay, fine. Twice. But we’re not talking about that anymore. We’re talking about how awesome I am in Sector 2."

"Your ego needs its own garage space."

Kimi grinned, leaning back on his hands. "You love it."

Yn flushed, just barely, the warmth rising in her cheeks not from the sun.

She did. God help her, she really did.

Yn had grown up in the paddock. Her earliest memories included race day adrenaline, the scent of burning rubber, and her dad’s voice on the radio. By the time she was twelve, she could tell the difference between tire compounds just by looking. By fourteen, she was helping her dad review telemetry.

And now at eighteen, she had the run of the paddock like it was her second home.

Which was great.

Except for the part where her dad’s new teammate was annoyingly charming and exactly her type.

Kimi was just a few months older. He was confident, a little too pretty for his own good, and had a laugh that made her stomach flutter.

It had started slow. A shared joke here. A walk back from the media pen. Watching data together. And then... more.

Now, they snuck hand squeezes behind hospitality tents, exchanged texts all through the night, and once, memorably, made out in the motorhome when the team was at a strategy meeting.

But they'd kept it quiet.

Until now.

"You what?!"

George stood in the team’s motorhome, eyes wide, voice somewhere between a shout and a squeak.

Yn winced. "Dad, calm down."

"I am calm!" George said, clearly not calm. "You’re dating him?"

Kimi, ever unbothered, lifted his hand in a little wave. "Hi."

"Don’t 'hi' me! I trusted you! I mentored you! I— I— I taught you how to heel-and-toe!"

"That was very helpful, thank you," Kimi said earnestly.

George flailed. "Kimi!"

"Dad," Yn said, stepping between them, voice steady. "It’s not like we planned it. We just... started spending time together. You know how often I'm around."

"Yes, and I trusted him!"

"I’m still me," Kimi offered. "Just with your daughter’s number now."

"Not helping!"

"Sorry."

George paced a few steps, hands on his hips, then turned to his daughter.

"Yn. You’re my little girl."

"I’m eighteen."

"My baby girl."

Yn groaned. "You let me drive a car at Silverstone at fifteen."

"Exactly! Because I trust you! But this—this is different."

"Why? Because it’s Kimi?"

"Yes! No! I mean—he’s my teammate!"

Kimi raised a finger. "I’ll never crash into him on purpose."

George stopped pacing. "On purpose?"

"I mean—I wouldn’t crash at all. Sorry. That came out wrong."

George sighed dramatically and sank onto the couch.

"This is going to be a disaster."

"Or not," Yn said softly. "Dad... we care about each other. A lot."

George looked up at her, then over at Kimi, who looked surprisingly earnest. He’d taken his cap off, ruffling his hair like he always did when nervous.

"I’ll take care of her," Kimi said. "Promise."

There was a long pause.

George sighed again. "I need coffee."

The next day, the entire paddock knew.

Not because they told anyone.

Because George told everyone.

"Did you know my daughter is dating Kimi?" he said to a stunned Toto at the morning briefing.

Toto blinked. "...Congratulations?"

"Thanks. I think. Maybe. I don’t know!"

When Max wandered into the lounge later, George cornered him.

"She’s seeing Kimi."

"...And you’re telling me this why?"

"Because you’ve known him for years! Should I be worried?"

Max blinked. "About what? That he’s gonna crash her into a wall of roses? He’s the most boringly respectful guy I’ve ever met."

George frowned. "That's what worries me. No one is that respectful."

Later that afternoon, Kimi was cornered by a swarm of drivers in the cool down room.

"You’re dating George’s daughter?" Lando asked, grinning wide.

"Please tell me you told George in the car."

"No, it was in the motorhome," Kimi muttered.

"Coward," Pierre said, flopping onto a beanbag. "I would’ve done it in the garage. With the radio on."

Oscar leaned over. "Are you scared of him?"

"Terrified," Kimi admitted. "He keeps looking at me like he’s imagining pit stop sabotage."

George, for his part, was trying to be supportive.

He just... had moments.

Like when he stood outside the motorhome while Kimi and Yn were inside, dramatically clearing his throat every five minutes.

Or when he "accidentally" sat between them at dinner.

Or when he started casually asking Kimi about his intentions. Every day. In public.

"So, Kimi," George said, strolling up with a totally fake smile, "where do you see yourself in five years?"

Kimi blinked. "...Still racing, maybe. Traveling. With Yn, hopefully."

George narrowed his eyes. "Mm-hm."

"You asked," Kimi said defensively.

"Just making sure we’re on the same page."

Yn rolled her eyes so hard she almost tipped over.

But slowly, things softened.

George saw how Kimi waited for Yn outside of interviews. How he held her hand protectively in crowded media zones. How he watched her with the same tenderness George remembered in Carmen’s eyes when Yn was born.

One evening, George found them sitting under a canopy of stars behind the paddock, Kimi’s jacket wrapped around Yn’s shoulders, her head on his shoulder.

George didn’t interrupt.

Just watched for a moment.

Then smiled.

The race that weekend was a blur of chaos—rain, safety cars, unexpected pit stops. Kimi managed a podium. George finished just behind.

As they stepped off the podium, champagne-soaked and exhausted, George nudged Kimi.

"Nice drive."

Kimi turned, blinking. "Thanks. You too."

George gave him a long look.

Then smirked.

"Hurt her and I’ll replace your steering wheel with a baguette."

Kimi grinned. "Noted."

"Good. Now go kiss your girlfriend before the photographers find her."

And with that, George walked off, already planning to call Carmen and tell her everything.

Kimi ran straight to Yn, swept her up in a hug, spinning her slightly before pressing a kiss to her lips. She laughed into it, arms wrapped tight around his neck.

"He smiled," Kimi whispered.

"My dad?"

"He didn’t even flinch."

"Wow. Progress."

"Do you think he likes me now?"

Yn grinned. "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves."

Back in the motorhome that night, George flopped onto the couch beside Carmen.

"She’s in love."

Carmen looked up from her book. "We knew that."

"With Kimi."

She smiled. "I know."

George groaned. "I’m not ready."

Carmen kissed his cheek. "You don’t have to be. You just have to be there."

He sighed. "Do you think I can still scare him a little? Just to keep him on his toes?"

Carmen smirked. "Oh, absolutely. That’s a father’s job."

George nodded. "Good. Tomorrow I’m sending him a list of dating rules."

Carmen raised an eyebrow. "Color-coded?"

"Laminated."

She laughed, leaning into him.

And in the next room, Yn and Kimi lay curled on the couch, watching old race replays, fingers entwined, hearts full.

Love, it seemed, had found its place on the grid.

Even if it had to dodge a few protective elbows along the way.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

Also, please ignore that the ages of the people don't really make sense. Thank you!

Another also, thank you to 🐴Anon for your kind words (OMG, I have an anon (can I even say that?)).

To answer some questions, yes I can speak German because I'm from Austria. About writing Part 2's for some stories, I'll have to think about that.

Thank you for all your kind words and support!

Special shoutout to @heyitspapayaontop for defending me with their life. Now that's what I call a real girls girl

-🤍🦢

[mywritersmind]

TROUBLE - LN4 part two

previous part

og summary : Trouble comes in many forms, for Lando Norris, it comes in the shape of his teammates sister. A week at Oscars brings more temptation and impulse than any other start to a season.

summary : A day that was supposedly for Lando and his sight seeing turns into a day full of holding back touches, fast car rides, water fights, and his hand on hers.

listen up : i don’t know anything abt cars so don’t come for me if i said smt wrong abt the mclaren F1. dirty jokes. dual pov! comment to be on taglist!

words : 4082

⋆｡‧˚⋆

lando

I wake up to hushed voices outside my door. I practically roll out of bed, seeing that it’s five in the morning and moving to the door, still half asleep.

When I open it, I expect it to be Oscar with Lily or maybe even Nicole- what I don’t expect is a random man I've never seen, grinning down at Y/n.

She has her arms crossed and stops whispering when she sees me. She steps away from him, the man turning to look at me now. Y/n doesn’t say anything, just grabs his arm and tugs him down the hallway.

I watch her go, her hair a mess and her body barely covered by her sleep set. I blink, still confused and honestly too nosy to not get answers.

She’s back a minute later, shaking her head, “Don’t say a thing.”

I shrug, watching her run her hands over her face, “I wouldn’t dare.”

Then we’re both quiet, neither of us moving and a smirk growing on my face. She gives in easily, stomping her foot and groaning quietly, “He’s my ex. And neighbor.”

“That’s… fun.”

“No. It’s idiotic!” She leans against the wall, frowning still, “You can’t tell anyone. Oscar would freak if he saw him.”

This makes me stand up straighter, “Why?”

“He may or may not have broken my heart… long story.” She sighs, closing her eyes before turning fully towards me again, “And we didn’t do anything!”

I smile, “I believe you.”

“He just- wanted to ‘talk’.” She puts finger quotes over the word ‘talk’. “I shouldn’t have let him in.”

My eyes narrow, not judging her, just assessing her emotions. “But you did…?”

She looks at me as if I slapped her, “Go back to sleep, Lando.” I don’t think she’s ever said my first name before. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Don’t worry-” My alarm goes off on my phone at the perfect moment, “I’m getting up to run, anyway.”

She nods, still looking tired but angsty, crossing her arms. I hesitated before saying, “Wanna come?”

I know I shouldn’t have said it the second she looks at me. Her eyes curious and way too distracting. “Really?”

“Why not?”

“Not like I'm gonna get any sleep after that.” She shivers as if she’s remembering the image of him in her room, “Okay. I’ll see you out front in ten.”

⋆༺

you

When accepting Lando’s offer to join him on his morning exercise, I forgot one thing.

I cannot run.

I’m out of breath and sweaty, falling onto the couch as Lando actually LAUGHS at me! “I think I'm dying.” I mumble, feeling like i’ve just ran a 10k.

“You don’t exercise much, do you?” He walks around the couch, a smoothie in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

I scoff, “Excuse you!” He hands me the water, something so simple but very sweet to me. I chug that shit, making my breath even more ragged, “Why would I!?”

He smiles, sitting down next to me and resting his arm on the back of the couch, “Well usually when you exercise, you tend to get better at specific things. If you start running everyday you won’t look like you’ve just crawled out hell-”

I hit him with a pillow, my skin on fire even in my tight shorts and sports bra. “Fuck you.” I whisper, standing up and walking into the kitchen so he doesn’t see me smile.

“Do you know what we’re doing today?” Lando looks back at me, watching me fill my water.

“Apparently I'm showing you around? I’m not sure.” I shrug, plopping a few ice cubes into my glass, “Lily and Oscar wanted to go to the beach so maybe that too-”

Oscar walks in then, his eyes tired as he yawns and waves weakly at me, “Speak of the devil.” I mumble as he glares at me.

“Good Morning to you my amazing and wonderful sister.” He grins at me, now I know he wants something.

“Pancakes?” I ask, knowing my brother too well.

“Favorite sister.” He ruffles my hair as I push him away. He turns and stops dead in his tracks. I realize that he must have just spotted Lando, the brit watching our sibling antics quietly.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, turning back to me and eyeing my outfit.

“We went for a run.” Lando says casually, bringing his straw to his lips.

“You got her up this early to… run?” Oscar asks skeptically as I understand that he’s not just shocked that I ran, but that I ran with Lando.

“I was already up.” I try to diffuse the tension I know is coming, “Trying to clear my find and stuff.” I pull the ingredients out of the cabinet and fridge, biting my tongue.

“Right…” Oscar shakes his head, seemingly letting it go and joining Lando on the couch. As Oscar scrolls through the TV, Lando glances back at me, not giving me a smile or anything before turning back to his teammate.

I turn to the stove, my eyes wide and cheeks red. This is going to be a long week.

⋆༺

lando

“What do you mean, you’re not coming?” I ask Oscar as he pushes past me to grab Lily’s bag.

“Lily just killed her foot-” He says, looking more worried than i’ve ever seen him, “I’m taking her to the hospital.”

Y/n walks in with Lily next to her, her hand around her waist as Lily’s arm is over her shoulder. She’s limping with a pained look on her face, “Shit. I can come- I’ll drive.”

“No it’s fine!” Lily says quickly, “I’ll be fine. You two can just go explore. You should have fun.”

Y/n looks from me to Oscar, “Lily we can come with you it’s really not a prob-”

“No!” She moves away from Y/n, hopping to Oscar who wraps his arm around her, “Just- send me pictures!” And with that, they’re gone.

Y/n looks at me, blinking. Nicole hurries back inside, shutting the door, “That boy I swear…”

“Mom, do you want to come with us today? Lily won’t be back for a while and you should-”

“I’ve gotta work, love.” She explains, “Take Lando to all the touristy spots!”

Y/n turns on her heels, looking at me skeptically, “So… what do you want to do first?”

⋆༺

you

What do you do when you’re tasked with exploring your home town with a man you’ve known for one day and are extremely attracted to?

In my mind, you take him to the best place for him to get as shirtless as possible… the beach! Even though my mom said that wasn’t good enough, I’ve been craving the water.

I still bring him there, how could I not!? Best beaches in Australia are right in my hometown. He’s probably all sad and broody from grey Britain anyway!

I know I already saw Lando shirtless yesterday, but this… this is different.

Tanned, wet, sandy, AND shirtless. His curls are wet and I'm pretty sure a smile is permanently drawn onto his face. He plops down next to me, music blasting from a speaker a couple people down.

“I love the sun.” He mumbles into the towel, sitting up and unknowingly flexing his arms. I breathe in and look back at the water.

“I can tell. I’m jealous. I wish I got as tan as you.” I flick sand onto him as he rolls onto his back. He’s in blue and reminds me a bit too much of prince eric.

“Yeah you might wanna sunscreen up.” He teases, pressing my arm as if I'm bright red! I do not burn that easily, thank you!

I scoff as he tosses the bottle at me, “Fuck off!” I grab it, “You wanna put it on me?” my manner changes in an instant, seeing an opportunity and taking it.

His tooth catches on his lip as he nods. I smile and hand him the bottle gently. Ah, men… So easy to manipulate. So easy to trick.

I move my hair from my back slowly, but the second I hear the bottle unlatch, I spin around and grab it, squeezing it onto him.

“Trouble!” He yells, the sunscreen on his chest and splattered onto his face. I’m running away before he can even open his eyes again. “Get back here!”

I run straight into the water, diving under the first wave and regretting it as soon as his hand meets my ankle. He tugs me back as I come back up for air, his hands fully white and coming straight for me. “No!” I scream, trying to swim away, but his hand is on my waist and smearing the sunblock all down my arm.

“Cunt!” I yell louder, shoving him under water. He pops back up, coughing and laughing.

“You’re so dramatic!” His hands are clean now, shaking out his wet curls onto me.

“You basically called me pale!” I argue, laying back in the water and catching my breath, “I reacted like a sane woman.”

“Nothing about you is sane.” He dunks his head again. I watch him go under and match him, not being able to see him in the salt water but feeling him there.

“You’re the one who fell for it.” I shrug, not forgetting the want in his eyes.

He shakes his head, sinking into the water again so I can only see his head and shoulders, “I’m understanding the trouble thing more and more...”

I can’t help but smirk, “Good thing you can handle it.” Him. The dim kitchen light. The ice cream. His fucking eyes never leaving mine.

“You want me to handle you?” This, surprises me.

He’s matching me quicker than I expected.

I just smile and swim to shore, “Come on, Norris! We’ve got plans!”

Like I said, my mom said the beach wasn’t enough ( even though it’s only his first day here! ) so we took Oscar’s Mclaren and booked it to Fitzroy market.

Lando said he likes shopping and my favorite place to do it is here! The area is crowded with people in way cooler outfits than me and vendors with tons of vintage items.

Lando and I are still in beach wear. He’s in all black, probably baking in the sun but looking ridiculous in a shirt with cutoff sleeves and backwards hat, a camera slung around his neck.

I gravitate to some vintage juicy couture while Lando is on the rack over looking at jerseys. The woman working the booth grins when she sees me. “Y/n! My girl!” She hops over to me, side stepping the others around, “How’ve you been!?”

“Mitch!” I grin right back at her, “Better than ever, babe, i’m out of school!” She laughs, her full head of curls bouncing with her. “How are you!? Business is booming, I see!”

“Amazing! Broke up with Jonah too…” She looks down, her glasses shading her eyes for a second before she pops right back up, “But fuck him!”

“Fuck him!” I join in.

“Yeah, Fuck him.” Says a deeper voice. Jonah comes walking up behind Mitch, wrapping an arm around her before she has the chance to push him away.

“Hey, J.” I roll my eyes at him, respecting his role in Mitch’s life but definitely not the way he dated her.

“Hey.” Mitch sways my arm, leaning in a bit and lowering her voice, “Who’s the hottie?”

I glance back to my companion for the day, he’s holding up a jacket at the booth over and talking to the guy who runs it. “That is Lando…” I turn back to them.

“Boy toy?” Jonah raises a brow as I shake my head.

Not yet.

“Boyfriend?” Mitch looks so shocked that It makes me laugh.

“No! Boy i’m showing around today.” I clarify, “And someone I should probably go after before he gets lost.”

Mitch and Jonah nod, both knowing the extreme confusion one can get into at the market. I kiss Mitch on the cheek and wave goodbye to both of them.

When I turn around, Lando is handing money over to the man and smiling when he sees me. There’s that smile again.

He swings the bag in his hand as we walk away, “You come here often?” The curly haired man glances back at my friends.

“Maybe too much.” I shrug, “Mostly because Mitch carries the best shit ever.”

“Oh yeah?” He nods, “I heard you two talking… what’s up with the tall one?” I laugh when he refers to Jonah.

“They’re… a lot. Soulmates? Maybe. But definitely not meant for eachother. You know? At least, not right now.”

He scrunches up his nose, “I don’t know.”

“They love each other and stuff but Jonah needs to get his life together. All we can do is help Mitch get over him and pray that we don’t end up like them.” It sounds mean, but the two really are in a situation that I would hate.

“Shit.” He nods as we turn into a booth with a million shoes, “I had something like that once.”

This makes me turn to him suddenly, “Yeah?”

“Without the soulmates part… I think I may have been Jonah in that situation. Thank fuck it’s over, though. The girl was not as nice as Mitch.” I nod and smile at his use of my friends love life, “What do you think of these?”

The conversation switches to a horrendous pair of sneakers he’s holding up, “Oh babe… no.” I make him put them back and drag him to the correct section.

He’s like my own barbie doll! One that can talk and definitely bite back.

I knew I would lose Lando in this godforsaken place! I’m in too deep and have three bags in my hands.

I walk around to find him, possibly getting distracted by all the pretty things, but settling my eyes on him once again at a plant shop.

He’s in the corner talking to two girls and a guy, looking a bit shy and way too hot in his backwards cap. I watch him for a second, weaving through the people and walking across some shops.

He finds me pretty fast, it’s probably due to the all white i’m wearing in a sea of colorful button downs and denim. I can see him excusing himself and hurrying over to me, “You left me.”

I laugh, “I lost you!”

He shakes his head and starts walking away, “Sorry prissy, I forgot I'm babysitting you.”

He shakes his head, smiling back at me, “I got cornered by fans.”

“Better than me being there and having rumors spread on twitter of your ‘possible new girl’.” I laugh and walk out of the crowd, the sun hot on us and making me crave a cool drink.

He laughs at this, “You wish.”

I scoff, turning back to face him, “I can leave your ass in the middle of melbourne, you know?” I hold up the keys to my brothers car as he steps closer.

“I dare you.” He says, “I guarantee if you got into that car alone you’d be in a wall in five seconds flat.”

I swat the keys at him, “I’m a great driver!”

“Not in that.” He shakes his head, “Has Oscar ever actually let you driven it?”

I bite my lip, not answering.

His eyes flick down to my lips, then back up at my eyes, “Come on then.” He snatches the keys right out of my hand!

“Norris!” I yell, hurrying after him and across the street as he walks faster, “Hey!”

I catch up to him on the other side, he’s still swinging the keys around his finger with a grin on his face, “Where’s the most open, empty road you know?”

I raise a brow and follow him into the parking structure, “Why…?”

Our car is easy to spot, he walks over to it, and to my surprise, finds his way to the passengers side. Looking at me over the expensive car, he tosses me the keys, “We’re gonna hit two hundred in this thing and I want to make sure there’s no bystanders in the car of your havoc.”

He slides into the car, making me squeal and swing the door open quickly, sliding into the way far back driver's seat and turning the keys into the ignition.

He sees my eyes light up as I adjust the seat, “You ever kart as a kid?”

“A bit. Got kicked out a few times.”

“Why…?”

I eye him and click my seatbelt into place, “Too fast, too reckless…”

He shakes his head and mumbles a curse under his breath before tightening his seatbelt. “Don’t make me regret this.”

⋆༺

lando

I was right. Oscar has never let her drive his Mclaren before, and for good reason.

She can’t drive stick shift, first of all. But I only let her briefly panic before I grab a hold of the stick and tell her to go slow.

She does not go slow. Tate Mcrae is blasting through the speakers as she speeds up the empty street with the windows rolled down. The street is right next to the beach and I can see the sun about to go down.

Y/n break checks me and makes me hold on tighter. My arm is around the back of her seat so I can control the stick shift with my dominant hand. She’s laughing and going faster and faster by the second.

It doesn’t take her long before she gets the hang of it but I still hang onto the stick as she sings along to Sports Car.

I’m not stupid, I know her little games and yes, they might be working, but I will not be giving in. This week is supposed to be relaxing, recuperating, and definitely NOT romantic.

Although, the track that Y/n and I are heading is definitely not romantic. More on the side of we both want each other in a hot sexy way.

Her hair whips all around us as she turns the corner, making her way higher up the hill. I’m now realizing that the hill is more of a mountain, the street getting smaller and the trees growing farther away.

I watch her speedometer as it inches higher and higher, her smile growing bigger as it goes, “Christ, are all Piastri’s this quick?”

She laughs out loud, “Next time you compliment me try not to include my brother in it too!”

I can’t help but let out a laugh, staring at her profile as the landscape zips by us. Her cheeks are pink from the sun and I bet if I put my hand to her neck i’d be able to feel her heart racing.

I shouldn’t be thinking this. I know I shouldn’t. But my eyes wander too easily down her smooth skin, her bikini top untied with the strings hanging over her thin top like it’s nothing.

I drag my eyes off her tits and back on the road, knowing I'm in too deep for someone I just met. We slow down as we reach the top, or at least, where she thinks is close enough.

She practically jumps out of the car, running over to a small patch of flat land and a bench that overlooks the water.

“Holy shit.” I walk slowly behind her, looking out at the view and watching her figure jump up and down. I grab my camera that I forgot is around my neck and snap a photo.

She looks back at the perfect moment, her face shadowed and her hair a mess around her, but it just… fits.

I sit on the bench as she sets her ass down on the back of it, her feet tapping the wood next to me.

“So. Your first full day in Melbourne! Thoughts?”

I smile, “I’ve been here before.”

She groans, “Not with me. Was I a good tour guide?”

I nod, “The best.” We didn’t do a whole lot but that’s the best part. Y/n is completely fun but totally chill at the same time.

My phone lights up, it’s a text from Oscar.

“Osc says that Lily is Ok and they’ve been chilling at the house for a while. He’s asking where we are.” I look up at the girl whose eyes are set on the pink and orange sky.

“Tell him we’re making out sloppy style in his car.”

The only change in her behavior is a tiny tug on her mouth, “Trouble…” I mumble and text him that we’re watching the sunset and will be back soon.

“I’m only voicing what we both want.” Jesus Christ, this girl… I’m rarely speechless, especially after a comment like that. But this girl is insanely captivating and I've never wanted to give in more.

I’m struck again at how beautiful she is, the sky reflecting off her as if she’s a part of the earth.

“Nervous, Norris?” Her head dips down to my level.

“We should get back.” I say, leaning my head back on the wood.

“Cop out.” she whispers before hopping off the bench and moving back to the drivers side.

“Woah! You are not driving back.”

“Try and stop me.”

⋆༺

you

I can’t drive stick. I wasn’t lying about that. Although now that I think about it, it would be a great way to get closer to a man.

Lando’s hand is over mine the whole way back. I insisted I could do it (or at least try!) but he guided my every move anyway. Hot. As. Fuck. I try to watch the road and not his huge veiny hands on mine, but mostly fail.

We’re split up after another quick dinner. I talk to Lily about her new addition to her shoe collection (a black boot semi-permanently on her foot as of today), while Lando, Oscar, and my Mom talk about the movie they’re watching.

I’m in my bed a while later, the lights still on in the hallway and Lando’s door hasn’t creaked shut yet so I know he’s not there.

My mom had thanked me immensely for showing Lando around and Oscar gave me a small thanks while looking at me funny. I don’t think he trusts me with his friend, especially with my past and a certain neighbor.

And sure, I want him to trust me! But I want Lando more.

I’m so zoned out that I don’t notice the man in my doorway, knocking on my open door with a tired smile on his face.

Lando has one hand in his pocket, looking sunkissed and content. “Hey.” I sit up, crossing my feet under me.

“Hi.” He smiles as if he’s about to blush, “I just wanted to say… Thanks for today. It was really fun.”

“I didn’t scare you too bad in the car?” I ask as his head meets my door, his neck straining against it.

“You weren’t too bad. Definitely got my adrenaline pumping.”

“Just say I'm an amazingly fast driver and move on.” I shrug, leaning back on my hands and puffing my chest out proudly.

He watches me- watches my body. I don’t have a bra on, something obvious in the cool space of our air conditioned house. I’m wearing a new set, light yellow with lacy little shorts. He likes it and I can tell.

He groans, running a hand down his face and shutting his eyes tight. “Your brother is gonna hate me by the end of this trip.”

I quirk a brow, playing the innocence card as I push a rogue strand of hair out of my face, “Why’s that?”

He looks at me again, his tongue running over his teeth as he challenges me. I want him, that’s the truth. But i’m not that easy.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, trouble.” he pushes off the door, turning around and not looking back.

“Dream about me. But don’t be too loud tonight, yeah?” I tease, “Thin walls. I learned that the hard way.” I emphasize ‘hard’ never missing an opportunity to tell a joke.

He throws up one hand, the other still on his face as he walks out of my room and turns to go to his. I smile to myself, standing up and shutting the door he was too busy to remember.

[bandgie]

Let Me In

warnings! MDNI18+, fem!reader, vampire!chris, voyeurism, blood drinking, drugging (oopsies), hypnosis mentions, bit of manipulation from Chris, PIV, no protection, cumming inside, fingering, chris has weird pillow talk ngl

notes: I have redone this concept so many times and at this point, i just need to say 'fuck it' and hit post. also! this is supposed to take place from the late 80s to early 90s. not super important to the plot but just an fyi

5.3k words

CONGRATULATIONS! You’ve been picked to attend the Alpha Phi Omega ball this weekend in honor of the blood moon! Wear your best dress, your highest heels, and most importantly of all, keep this invitation a secret. We hope to see you soon!  Call to RSVP at xxx-xxx-xxxx

The paper is thick between your fingers. It’s not the cheap invitation material you used to send as a child for birthday parties. There’s not even a single crease on it despite being wedged between the front door and the frame of your apartment. It’s handwritten as well. Blank ink stains the paper with the message, a phone number at the end. 

No location, though everyone knows where the Alpha Phi Omega frat house is. Everyone also knows about the infamous party that only a select few are chosen to go to. Sure, it’s supposed to be a secret, but you think that’s just a tactic to get people to talk about it on campus.

You never did, however. You focus on your studies, your classes, and you wake up extra early on Sunday mornings to watch the new episode of Dragon Ball. Getting invited to the ball has never even crossed your mind, and in all honesty, you had completely forgotten about it. 

Yet, you can't deny the excitement coursing through your veins. You got invited. You. Someone who hardly has any friends and opts to spend time with your dog rather than party on the weekends. 

Maybe you should figure out how the frat brothers even knew about you, but you’re too giddy to even think about that. You slam your door shut and run to your shelves where your landline is. Your eagerness is easily sensed by your dog who jumps on the couch and hops from one paw to the other, barking and yipping.

“Berry!” You look at her curly fur and floppy ears. “Shut up!”

But she doesn’t. Berry continues to bark even as you pick up the phone and click on the keys corresponding to the number on the invitation. She’s a good dog, sometimes, but it’s like she’s trying to prevent you from reservering. Her little body jumps from the couch to run to your ankles, biting your slippers.

You hit the green button and soon hear ringing. “Berry! What is wrong with you?! Stop it-

“Hello?”

“Hi!” You try to push Berry away, ignoring her growling. “Hey sorry, um, I got an invitation to the ball and - ouch! - uh, shit, sorry my dog is crazy right now.”

The voice on the other end laughs. It’s contagious, and you can’t help but chuckle with him. 

“Ah, that’s cute~,” you notice an accent. There are only two brothers in the fraternities with that Australian tongue. One with a voice so deep it makes your bones shake, and the other with a lighter timbre that makes people trust everything he says. “What was your name?” You tell him and he makes a sound like recognition. “Ahhh, I see your name right here, gorgeous.” A surprised laugh barks out from you. For a brief moment, you’ve forgotten about Berry using your slippers as a chew toy. Now you know which Australian brother this is. His swooning words make your anxious walls slowly break and crumble. 

Like he can see your blushing face, Christopher laughs. “You know, I’m not supposed to say anything, but it was me who invited you.”

That adrenaline fills you again, but this time, you feel your stomach swoop. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. You’re so quiet, so kind, and so so pretty. I didn’t think you’d want to come.” Another laugh. “Our ball has quite the…reputation.”

You know what reputation he’s talking about. Even if you don’t involve yourself with many people, you can hear the girls on campus rave about their time at the party. How they went home so fucked out and marked up they couldn’t move for days. It was even rumored that they could hardly remember how much fun they had. 

“Oh, yeah, yes. I…I know.” You sound like a damn virgin. Truthfully, you feel like one. Remembering what you’ve heard sends butterflies in your stomach that shoot straight to your cunt. You can feel stickiness beginning to form on your underwear and you can’t help but press your thighs together.

He wants you. Christopher Bahng Chan wants you. It shouldn’t boost your ego or make you feel validated, but god dammit, it does. The oldest from the frat with wide shoulders and plush lips picked you. 

“So, that’s okay with you, gorgeous?” His sultry voice brings you back to the phone call. “You wanna keep me company for the night?”

The way he makes it sound almost shameful, but you’ll be damned if you missed this chance in your dull college life. “Yes. I- I want to go.”

You might as well have signed your life away in blood, or at least, that’s how it feels. 

Christopher laughs like he’s enjoying your shy, yet forward self. “That’s a good girl. I can’t wait to see you.”

The line goes dead and you’re frozen in place trying to collect yourself. He called you a good girl. A good girl. You’re going to see Chris, going to…do stuff with him at the ball. It’s been so long since you’ve had a human interaction, especially a naked one. Slick has made its way to your panties that your clit throbs against the material to try and get any ounce of friction. Who cares if you come off as desperate? Who cares if people think you’re whoring yourself out for one night. If everything goes well, you can end up not only with actual friends but maybe even a lover.

-

Standing at the front door of the party feels surreal. You’ve never been inside of a frat house or stood so close to one. Alpha Phi Omega felt like it was appropriate to have the invitees be picked up by a limousine, adding to the effect of an elegant ball. Though, you know that’s the last thing it is.

The chauffeur is already driving off, leaving you and the other girls alone. 

“Oh my God,” one of them can’t stop cheesing. You think her lips must hurt from how much she’s been smiling. “I can’t believe we got invited here. With them. I’m so surprised they even knew who I was!”

You’re in the same boat, but you choose to keep that to yourself. More women began chirping about how they were so surprised to get an invitation and just to be known. The brothers typically go for more popular ones. Girls who have the newest phones and prettiest lip gloss. You can’t help but snort to yourself as you think they must be doing charity work. 

Not that it bothers you - maybe a little - but you should have some college experience even at the expense of wearing the finest dress you managed to pull from your closet. The material tightens at the back, making your breasts spill over the cups. The cinch at the waist accentuates your figure, widening your hips as the dress flows down. There’s a slit that runs from your ankle to your thigh. Elegant, but not prude. Sexy, but not scandalous. The deep red color matches perfectly with you. Its ruby darkness makes you feel like you’re in a different era. 

It only made sense to wear red - it is the blood moon ball. You just hope Christopher doesn’t find it cheesy. 

The eight of you only chit-chat for what feels like seconds before the door opens, a soft yellow light emulating from the opening. You soon see the silhouette of a man, his hair that’s normally curly is straightened. Chris greets everyone with his signature dimple and you can practically hear the girls swooning along with you. 

He’s saying something - how you all look so beautiful tonight and how lucky the brothers are to have such a gorgeous date. But you’re so distracted by him. You’ve seen Chris on campus, seen the cheerleaders that follow him like a lost puppy, but you’ve never been this close. You’ve never gotten the opportunity to see his thick lips and that broad nose sitting on his face perfectly. And his dimples, the ones he’s smiling at you with, are even cuter this close. 

Chris looks flawless under the moonlight. The shine bounces off his pale skin like a doll, almost like something not human. He’s still speaking, still being the perfect host, and you’re drooling over him.

“...and remember the most important rule, everyone.” His accent hangs heavy on each syllable. “What happens here tonight, stays here tonight.”

Then he’s letting the girls in. Everyone’s squealing with excitement and you’re…frozen. No matter how much you will your legs to move, you can’t help but stand still outside, staring at Chris like he’s the only thing you know. 

He cocks his head to the side, an amused smile finding those pretty lips. “Do you need to be invited in?”

Distantly, you shake your head. You step inside, hearing your heels click on the marble floor before Chris puts his hand on your waist and pulls you further in. 

His grip is firm, but not tight. Fingers dig into your waist like he’s feeling you up but in the most gentlemanly way.

“That dress…” he looks at you up and down, swiping his tongue over his mouth like he’s seen something delicious. “That color suits you well.” 

You look at him, this time, focusing on his outfit. Chris wears all-black slacks and a white shirt undone at the top. On the pocket of his dress shirt is a red flower, the color nearly matching your dress. Without thinking, you reach out to touch it, taking the soft petals between your fingers.

“Thank you. I don’t know if it’s… too much.”

“Too much?” Chris sounds baffled. He grabs your hand and presses it against his mouth, planting a gentle kiss to the back of it like he’s done this with you a thousand times.  “This is a ball and you’re my date. I need you pretty by my side. And don’t worry about anything other than having a good time, yeah?” When he pulls back his teeth to smile, you can’t help but notice how sharp his canines are. “I’ll make sure you do.”

With his hand around your waist and on your hip, you two walk into the main room to be with everyone. It seems like all the girls have already found their dates, sitting next to them on the couches or standing. You recognize most of the brothers of the frat, but it’s hard to think such attractive men can be in the same room. 

One of them, who you think is Jisung, walks around with a tray of shots. Red liquid sloshes in the plastic cups that are distributed to all the ladies. Once he’s before you, you hesitate to take it. 

Chris grabs it for you. “A little pre-game. Helps with getting things started.” He’s holding it up for you, but there’s a prickling sensation crawling on your skin that you can’t shake off. You don’t take it from his hands, not before you ask, “What’s in it?”

“Wine.” His answer is immediate. “With a little kick from yours truly.”

The red wine looks at you intimidatingly. As if daring you to sip from it. You take the shot from Chris and look at it again. Should you really trust a drink from a stranger? Even if Chris is well-known among the ladies, and even if everyone always comes home safe after the ball, you can’t drown out your gut feeling. 

But when you look amongst the other women, they’ve already drunk it. Their lips are stained with red, their tongues swiping over the flavor before clinging onto their dates.

You sigh and look at Chris. “Bottoms up.”

When you tilt your head back to gulp, you swear Chris smiles so wide it almost looks malicious. His dark eyes watch your throat bob, watch as you scrunch your nose at the unique taste.

He pulls you closer, kissing you on the cheek and laughing like he’s won a game you didn’t know you were playing. “Now let’s fucking party!”

Whatever ‘kick’ Chris put in the drink works like a charm. You’re not thinking about how out of place you feel when you’re dancing with him. You’re not thinking about how nervous you’re supposed to be. With his hands on your hips, his crotch on your arse, all you can focus on is him him him. 

Chris pulls you by the wrist to the other part of the room, red solo cups laid out in a triangle on each side of the table. Beer pong. You’ve only played at birthday parties, and even then, you would let other people shoot for you. There’s already a couple waiting at the end, watching as Chris drags you along.

“You can go another round, right Hyunjin?” Chris teases.

“Depends.” Hyunjin has the same smirk. “What’s in it for me?”

You don’t know how they’re carrying a conversation right now. Not when Hyunjin’s date is kissing on his neck. She’s leaving lipstick stains on his throat, hands rubbing over his pelvis before swooping down and gripping him through the pants. Maybe this type of thing is normal for them, but for you, it feels as though you’ve accidentally browsed the adult section of the book shop.

“You get a taste of my date,” Chris says. “And if I win, you have to watch.”

They’re talking about you as if you’re not there. Like they couldn’t care less about your opinion. You should feel some way about it, any type of way, but all you feel is your tummy turning warm and the sudden need to mimic what Hyunjin’s date is doing. 

The slender man grins. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Then you’re playing. The white ball feels unsteady in your grip, and when you shoot, your aim is completely off. The other girl isn’t much better, but she manages to score a few cups whereas you’ve made none. 

“Come on, pretty.” Chris’s sultry voice makes you shiver. “At least try.”

You grab the ball again, this time, closing one eye. Chris wants to win and you want to give Chris everything he asks for. But still, your vision is hazy and your feet are unsteady. How can you get so drunk off of one shot?

When you miss again, you pout. You turn to Chris, meaning to apologize, but your eyes lock with the couple on the couch. Jisung’s digging his mouth into his companion's neck, her head thrown back with a blissful look on her face. What looks like blood drips down the side of her throat. Jisung pulls away, and then you see it, sharp teeth coated with red.

Hyunjin shoots, you hear the ball hit the plastic cup and splash in the water. He and his date celebrate, but you’re too busy staring at the way Jisung licks the blood from her neck and sucks on the wound. 

“What…” you shake your head. “What is he…doing?”

Chris doesn’t ask to specify what you’re talking about. His hand encircles around your waist again, and his other hand swipes the hair from your neck. You let him, unconsciously tilting your head to feel him lean down. The softness of his lips trail over the shell of your ear before descending. Each peck feel makes you feel on fire, the coolness of his body soothing your blazing one.

Was he always this cold?

“He’s feeding,” Chris says casually. So matter-of-factly that you nod. Of course, Jisung is feasting on his date’s neck. Why wouldn’t he? Judging by her closed eyes and parted lips, maybe it’s not that bad. 

Although you like Chris’s mouth on you, his attention on you, your common sense is screaming at you to come back to reality. There’s a haze over you, a spell almost, that keeps you pliant in Chris’s hold. You don’t want to fight against this feeling. It’s all too easy to succumb to this fantasy of a regular frat ball with strange fetishes. You can tell yourself that you’re drunk, that it’s not blood dripping from her neck, but simply spilled wine. 

You blink once. Twice. A third time before you realize no, you’re not drunk at all. Not after one shot at least.

“My drink…” It's so hard to form words. “What did you do to my drink?” Chris is still kissing your neck, licking just above your erratic pulse. “Nothing you’re thinking.” He’s speaking quietly, just below your ear. “I told you - a kick from yours truly. Just a little something to get the party going. To loosen your nerves.”

You swallow thickly. “A drug?”

“My blood.” He corrects. “All it does is…make you more cooperative.” Another kiss, another soft bite. Chris never bites hard enough to draw any blood, but enough to feel the abnormal sharpness of his teeth. 

His blood? Why would his blood work like this? As much as you try to fit the puzzle together, you can’t help but feel like you’re missing a crucial piece. Chris pulls you closer until your side is pressed against him. He feels firm against you. Despite the growing bulge on your hip, he doesn’t rock at all. Chris keeps licking your neck as if prepping the skin.

Nothing makes sense, yet, you still try with your limited speech. “Mind control?”

That makes him laugh. “You won’t let it go, huh? Okay. It’s more like…hypnosis. You won’t do anything you won’t really want to do, but it makes you more open to suggestions. I’m sure you felt nervous coming here. A quiet little thing, hardly talks to anyone, yet, invited to the party everyone wants to go to. If you didn’t have that little kick - my blood - I doubt you’d be having as much fun as you are right now.”

That is…true. You wouldn’t have danced on him like you did. You wouldn’t have played beer pong despite knowing how terrible you are if you were, well, you. His words start to make their way into your head. Whether it’s the blood, the openness to suggestions, or just confusion, it feels easier to believe him. 

“Look at everyone here,” Chris grabs a hold of your chin and guides your head to scan the room. Everyone is in their little pairs, hands on their hips, blood seeping from different parts of their body, and they’re not worried in the slightest. You didn’t notice how many girls have replaced their talking with moaning.

“They’re having such a good time. Kissing, biting, drinking,” his voice is like a purr. “Don’t you want that too?”

The answer is on the tip of your tongue. It doesn’t help that you’re starting to grow slick between your legs watching the scene unfold right before your eyes. Tongues clashing, hands roaming, and mouths gasping. You know what you’re going to say, and yet, you can’t help but try to ask one more question.

“Hurts?”

And like a lion that’s caught its lamb, Chris smiles with all his teeth. He shakes his head, “No, baby, not at all. I’ll make sure you feel nothing but pleasure. Sit on the table for me, yeah?”

The cups fall to the ground, water splashing but no one pays it any mind. You’re too distracted wrapping your legs around Chris’s torso and pulling him in to care about the mess. The kiss isn't soft. It isn't tender. It's hungry. You pay no mind to the coolness of his skin. His lips are consuming, tongue running over yours in a matter of seconds. Chris puts his hands on your hips and pulls you close. The action deepens the kiss. You're humming into his mouth every time you lock lips. Moaning at every caress of his tongue. 

His lips work past your mouth. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, then down to your neck. You tilt to one side to let him nip at your skin, trembling and breathing hard. He slows when he finds your pulse. His tongue lavashes over it before sucking. 

You can feel slick seeping through your folds. Chris's mouth is so good, so practiced, that you could think you could let him mark your throat for as long as he wants. You tangle your fingers through his hair and pull. Not hard at all, but it drags a groan from his swollen lips. 

With your legs spread, Chris easily finds your core. His fingers run up your inner thigh before rubbing soft circles over your clit. The sensation makes you gasp and he takes the opportunity to shove his tongue deep in your mouth. There’s people around, perhaps watching, but you can’t find yourself to care. Even as you grind your hips against his palm, it’s only exhilaration that you feel.

Chris finds the side of your underwear and pulls it to the side. Your pussy almost weeps with joy finally being touched, but you jump when his cool fingers come down to rub on it. Thick fingers drag your juices through your slit slowly, making sure to press hard on the bud at the very top. 

You keen, back arching until your chest touches his. Chris makes a sound that seems mixed with a laugh and a groan as you rub your breasts on him. 

He pulls away from your lips to grunt in your ear. “Let me taste you, yeah? It’ll feel so good. I promise.” Chris is already nipping at your skin, eager to drink from you.

If you’re already feeling this good from his fingers, you can’t imagine how his mouth does. You pull back just enough to look into his eyes and nod, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you bat your eyelashes at him. 

Chris bites you at the same time he sinks two fingers in. The sting of his bite is overshadowed by his knuckles spreading you open. The pace he sets is brutal. Quick pumps of his hand that force your cunt to open for him. You lean to one side to let him bite harder, to feel his teeth blemish your smooth skin. It doesn’t feel like you thought, not like a real bite, but more like two needles quickly replaced harsh sucking. The pressure of his mouth makes you clench on his fingers, pussy gushing so loud you know everyone can hear it. 

Footsteps make their way towards you and Chris, and you soon see the familiar buzzcut of a man you had lost to moments ago. 

Hyunjin grins, blood lining his lips like a gloss. “Thought I was supposed to have a taste.”

You feel Chris tense next to you. His mouth pulls away with your blood on it, a snarl on his lips as he looks at the man almost threateningly. Your legs are shaking, still being fucked open by Chris’s fingers as Hyunjin watches amused at Chris’s pissed-off reaction. His eyes are ten shades darker and so possessive that you feel another gush of arousal spread onto Chris’s fingers.

“Not now.” There’s absolute authority in his voice. Even you quiet your moaning at his command. “Later.”

Chris doesn't wait for Hyunjin to leave when he slips his fingers out of you. A whine leaves your lips, but you see him fiddle with the confines of his slacks. Excitement fills your core, stomach flipping as you watch Chris under the zipper and pry his cock from his slit.

He’s heavy. Pink tip flushed from arousal with precum dripping along a thick vein. You let out a moan, widening your legs until your dress is touching the ground.

“Yes.” You don’t mean to say it out loud, but you can’t stop. “Gonna fuck me?”

“Yeah.” Chris fists himself at the base, giving shallow strokes to work up his cock. “You want that?”

The words get caught in your throat watching him play with himself, so you nod instead. Chris inches closer until his tip catches your clit, slapping the fat head on you until your stomach caves.

“Mmm, fuck! Put it in. Pleasepleaseplease.” You’re whining, hips lifting to try and have him slip inside you. It seems like Chris enjoys seeing you desperate. The usual quiet girl begging for his cock pathetically. He runs it up and down your folds, reaching below your belly button before going down to prod your entrance with his tip. The way you squirm, how your heels are digging into his hips to try and push him in, it only makes Chris want to see you cry for it.

So much wetness has accumulated on your clit that every drag of his cock sounds with a loud squelch. You’re clenching on nothing, pussy begging to be filled after so long, but pleasure begins to build in your core anyway. The sudden warmness in your stomach makes your hips twitch uncontrollably, chasing the orgasm that seems to climb higher and higher. 

Chris doesn’t change his pace. He simply uses his hand to press his tip down on you every time he goes over your clit. Your pussy lips surrounding him is enough to be satisfied for now. It’s only when your first orgasm wrecks through you, mouth singing with moans and eyes pinched together, that Chris finally slides in. 

You’re still cumming when he pushes inside. Gummy walls flutter around his size happily, at last having something to ride its orgasm out. A drawled-out moan barely makes it past your mouth before Chris kisses you again, this time, biting hard enough to draw blood from your pretty lips.

His hips are less forgiving than his fingers. You can feel every vein, the curve of his head, and the thickness burying itself deep inside you. It’s hard to catch your breath with Chris’s tongue lavishing on the blood he drew. Moans and whines are eaten up by his greedy, blood-stained mouth. It’s like he can’t get enough - can’t ever be satiated again now knowing your taste. The way your walls open for him, how you scream his name and grip at his hair, Chris thinks he can never get enough. 

Now, you’re barely registering the fact that you’re coming down from your high, though with Chris’s bucking hips, it doesn’t feel like that at all. Hot pleasure doesn’t just build, but it stays, forcing you to never feel like you’ve stopped cumming or even begun. Chan’s cock feels past your cervix, fucking your throat so deep that you can’t even moan anymore. His lips finally stop their assault on your mouth before going to the unbitten part of your neck. You feel the pinch again and the taste of fresh blood makes Chris kick up his speed. 

“Ngh~!” You can feel yourself starting to slip into unconsciousness. You don’t know how much he’s taken, but even without his thirst for blood, Chris would have made you pass out from his cock alone anyway. Your walls clench around him again, gushing with so much slick you think you’ve cum again.

Chris stops for a moment, moaning against your wounds at the feeling of you pulsing around him. He sucks again on his bite, body trembling as though he’s trying to contain himself. 

“So good. Mmm, that’s good pussy. You wanna cum again, huh? I can feel her squeezing me like she loves me.” Then he laughs. “Yeah. Yeah. You love me? Tell me you love me.”

Maybe if you weren’t losing so much blood or being fucking into oblivion, you would think Chris’s idea of pillow talk is strange. Yet, with how you’re clinging onto him with your hands and cunt, you think he’s right. You do love him.

“Love you,” the words come out almost meaningfully. “Love the way you fuck me. Your dick feels so good. More. I wan’ more. I love you. I love you. I love you…” You can’t speak anymore. Not as Chris picks up his pace hearing you. Not when his teeth sink into a new spot and draw red streams from you. It’s a bruising pace, an unforgiving bucking of his hips as he slams into you. You can hear how he slams into you, hitting that sensitive spot just right for another orgasm to build. His slacks manage to rub on your clit with how deep he’s fucking you, and the friction only brings you closer.

“Hnng~! Fuuuck…” Your head lolls back. Chris pulls away from your neck to kiss your jaw, seeming full from his feast. Or, maybe he can feel how much sweeter your pussy has gotten and how your moans have turned into uh-uh-uh’s.

“Yeah. Yeeaahh. Right here, huh? Love it when I fuck you right there? Come on. Cum. You can give me another one, can’t you?” Chris guides your orgasm home with the help of his fingers rubbing at your clit. He pinches it between his fingers and sinks himself as far as you can take it, making you squeal and nearly collapse on the table.

But it’s what you needed to cum, to tip over that edge. Your walls lock Chris into place, violent shudders coursing throughout your orgasm. Warm fluid shoots into your cunt that push past his tip and into the deepest parts of you. Chris cums with a shake, moans going through his swollen lips and bloody teeth. 

Then he’s cooing, barely able to rock his hips to come down from his own high as you’re stuffed with his cum. “Mm, good girl. That was a big one, wasn’t it? You did so well~.”

Chris doesn’t pull out, can’t when your pussy so clearly doesn't want to let him go. You’re trying to catch your breath and keep your eyes open when you hear conversing. Chris must be talking to someone. Something about we had a deal and go play with someone else’s meal. The bickering ends in the other person huffing and stomping away, presumably finding someone to find someone else to sink their teeth into. 

It's then that Chris slides out of you slowly. He slips out with a wet pop! that makes both of you moan. He fixes your dress, tucks himself back inside his slacks, and loops his arms under your shoulders and thighs so he can pick you up. 

Upside down, you can see everyone else in a similar state to you. Some are fully unconscious while others are close to it. 

Then your skin pricks. Could it be that they’re “...dead?”

You hadn’t meant to speak out loud. The cloudiness from Chris’s blood effect and the imprint of his cock inside you leaves everything feeling like a dream. Still, he hears you, and like always, he answers. 

“No baby, of course not. They’re just tired, but I promise everything will go back to normal in the morning.” Chris walks down the hall with you in his arms. You don’t know where you’re going, but when you hear a door kick open and feel the softness of a bed on your back, you know you’re in his room.

“It’ll be like nothing ever happened. You girls will remember you had a fun night, even if you don’t remember why.”

You won't remember? It has to be his blood and cum that makes you so emotional. Or, perhaps, it's the pure desperate need for companionship that makes your eyes water. Even if he is a monster, it's better than forgetting tonight and returning to your solitary life. Sleep has almost claimed you, but you manage to speak with pouting lips, “But, I don’t want to…to…”

A tear slips past your eye. Chris is the one to wipe it with his thumb, cooing even more than before. “Aww. I like you a lot. You know that? I like good girls like you.” He continues to wipe the stray tears that cascade down your beautiful face. “Don’t worry, baby. You’re mine now, even if I have to remind you in the morning.”

tags: @desirehorizon @skzophreniic

[differenteagletragedy]

Part Eight of Simon Riley x Single Mother, they're really doing this thing <3

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven

By the time Emma’s first birthday rolls around, Simon has a ring in a box that lives in his nightstand back at his apartment. He keeps it there, safe and sound, instead of slipping it on your finger like he really wants to.

It’s not because he’s still thinking about it — he knows exactly where that ring belongs. It’s because, all told, it hasn’t been all that long since you got together. And while he wants nothing more than to lock this down, to breathe a little easier with the help of a sturdy gold band looped around his ring finger, he doesn’t want to scare you off. Wants to give it time to make sure that you’re in the same place he is.

So he waits. And every day he wants it a little more.

What pushes him to act, to move past his fear of rejection, is a close call during a mission gone wrong.

It's strange, he thinks, because he'd definitely been in worse predicaments. He didn't even get hurt, just felt the whizzing of bullets flying past him, a little too close for comfort, and he can't get it out of his head. If he'd been a little less aware, even if the wind had been off, he could have died, and while that never bothered him before, it's unsettling now.

The thought of you on your own again, of Charlie and Emma wanting for anything, forgetting him ... it aches. It keeps him up at night, even when he's laying in your bed, your warm, solid weight resting against him.

He tries to sleep, but it's no use. It's his third day back after coming home, and he's exhausted, but he can't rest like this. He finds his fingers running lightly your arm, up and down and back again, and before long you're stirring, turning slowly to face him.

"Simon?" you ask, your eyes still closed. "Everything ok?"

On one hand, everything is ok -- more than ok. Everything is beautiful. He can hear a faint stream of white noise coming through the baby monitor by the bed, telling him that Emma and Charlie are fast asleep in their room. You're in his arms, too, and it's perfection.

But tonight, just like last night and the night before, it feels too fleeting.

He clenches his jaw, struggling to find the words, and at his silence you open your eyes, sleepy concern etched on your face. He lifts a finger to smooth out the crease in your forehead, then trails it down your temple and towards your jaw.

You're so delicate. Strong too, he knows that, but now ...

"Marry me."

It's not a question, but a plea. Your eyebrows shoot up, and he puts his hand on the back of your neck, keeping you close.

"I ... really?" you ask. "You're really asking me to marry you?"

"Begging, love," he admits quietly. "Please."

He got the ring months ago at this point, and in all that time, he'd never landed on just how he wanted to propose. He never imagined this specific scenario. You deserve better -- than this, than him -- but he's desperate.

"... You sure?"

"Got a ring back at mine," he tells you. "Got it ages ago, never been more sure of anything."

It's hard to put into words how much this means to him, so he keeps his gaze steady, hoping you can, in that special way you always do, see it in his eyes.

And you do.

In a flash, you're pressing yourself against him, kissing him deeply. He pulls you closer, indulging you, but still, he needs words.

"If this is a 'yes,' I need to hear it," he says.

"Yes, Simon, of course ... yes."

That night, he sleeps better than he had in recent memory, and in the quiet of the morning, he slips away, just long enough to retrieve the ring from his place before you and the kids start stirring. When he's back, he slips into bed beside you, gently takes your hand and slides the ring on your finger.

It's a weight off his shoulders. He can't imagine how good it will feel watching you sign the marriage certificate.

This time, you don't quite wake up, you just snuggle up against him. But before long, he starts hearing soft sounds playing through the baby monitor: Charlie muttering what he knows are good morning rambles to his little sister. There's some rustling, and soon he hears two sets of little footsteps coming through the hall, then your bedroom door opens and Charlie and Emma are there, hand in hand, ready to start the day.

"Come on then," you mutter, still nestled against Simon.

The two children scramble up into the bed quickly. Emma tucks herself against your side, still sleepy herself, but Charlie is characteristically alert and energetic, and he throws himself across you and Simon, burrowing himself in the middle.

It's the morning routine now. The four of you stay in bed, slowly (or in Charlie's case, with minimal patience) waking up together. After a few moments, you finally notice the ring newly placed on your finger, and you smile, holding your hand up to get a good look at it.

"What's that?" Charlie asks.

"A present from Simon," you answer.

"But it's not your birthday or Christmas or anything."

"Doesn't have to be a holiday to get a present," Simon points out, and Charlie swiftly turns to look at him.

"Do I get a present too?"

You laugh, warm and happy, and tell him, "In a way."

Simon wants to do it all, and he wants to do it right. Marry you, then work on adopting Charlie and Emma. Sort out everything for all three of you, make it so that you're safe and taken care of, while he's here and, if anything ever happens to him, when he's gone.

But for now, this sleepy Sunday morning will definitely do.

[cuntyji]

LOVE IS A FOUR LETTER TUG ‪‪❤︎‬ RYOMEN SUKUNA X FEMALE READER

Synopsis: They say fate works in mysterious ways, but no one ever mentioned it could be petty, nosy, and just a little bit theatrical. Tethered by something neither of them asked for, two very tired people must now navigate a world where privacy is a myth, insults are practically foreplay, and the universe apparently thinks it’s hilarious. There’s no guidebook for this sort of thing — just a suspiciously persistent string and the overwhelming urge to win every argument, even if no one remembers what it was about. After all, love might be written in the stars… but this story? It’s scribbled in crayon and aggressively underlined in red.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, fluff with crack, red string theory with possible inaccuracies (this is my interpretation of it), (mentioned) yuuji, nanami, choso, geto, gojo, uraume but they're a cat (they/it pronouns), office worker! sukuna and reader, modern au, implied reincarnation/lovers in every lifetime trope

Note: red string art by vidhic0re on pinterest, red divider by enchanthings

‪‪✶⋆.˚ Ao3

You were never one for romance clichés.

Soulmates? Sounded like a scam from a desperate deity with too much time on their hands.

Fated love? Cute, if you're into spiritual tax fraud.

Red thread of fate? Sounded like something a drunk poet made up while tangled in yarn.

You’d entertained the idea once or twice — late at night, probably during your fifth rewatch of a trashy show, tears pricking at your eyes as two characters found each other across continents. Then the next morning, you’d stub your toe on the coffee table and remember that your only soulmate was pain and poor impulse control.

So you can’t really be blamed for not noticing it happening now.

Not with the humid press of bodies in the metro car, the stale air thick with too many armpits and not enough personal space. Your headphones had long since died, your patience hanging on by the fraying thread of your tolerance for humanity. And then —

Snag.

“—You fucking kidding me?”

You jerk around, already tensing for a fight. A man stands before you — or rather towers, broad-shouldered, impossibly tall, and stupidly pink-haired. Like, offensively pink. His eyes are sharp, crimson, and burning with indignation. Tattoos coil down his arms like they’ve got somewhere to be.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he’s already hissing, tugging at his shirt. Your watch, of course, is gloriously embedded in the fabric near his waistline. Because God, or fate, is an asshole.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, dickhead,” you snap, trying to free yourself without causing a striptease. “If you hadn’t shoved your way in here like you own the place—”

“Shoved?! You clung onto me like I’m your long-lost sugar daddy—”

“Please, you couldn’t afford me.”

He bares his teeth, and for a second you think he might just eat your soul for fun.

You yank. He yanks harder. Somewhere, a sleeve audibly tears. A grandma beside you makes the sign of the cross.

“Stop moving!” you shout.

“Then stop yanking like a rabid raccoon!”

And just beneath the chaos, something else stirs.

Delicate. Quiet. Crimson.

A thin, glowing thread coils out from the fabric of reality — slow, curious — like it’s stretching from an ancient nap. It slinks around your pinky like a cat testing warmth, then tugs itself toward his hand. Wraps, binds. Neither of you notice, too busy trying to kill each other with passive-aggressive tugs and very active-aggressive insults.

“Jesus Christ, your shirt’s made of velcro or what?”

“Maybe your watch is cursed. Did you rob a priest?”

“Why are your abs out—”

“Why are you looking at them—”

You both freeze.

Your faces are this close. Breath shared. You can see the specks of gold in his eyes. He can smell the faint shampoo in your hair. The train jostles again, and your bodies bump together, awkward and too warm. He blinks. You blink.

And that little red thread? It pulses once. Content. Smug, even.

It had only been a few minutes, but it felt like years. Years of verbal sparring, the kind that leaves mental bite marks and a permanent twitch in your eye. Years packed into that hellish metro ride — the suffocating crowd, the friction of bodies, and the absolutely unholy closeness of you and Sukuna, the pink-haired plague on your peace.

It was a symphony of irritation: your bickering crescendoed, echoing off the glass, punctuated by the occasional dramatic gasp (yours, because how dare he bring your mother into this?) and a startlingly feral hiss (his — honestly, who hisses like that? You still weren’t over it).

“Your mom should’ve taught you how to dress like a functional adult,” Sukuna had scoffed, voice sharp enough to pierce through metal.

“And your dentist should’ve filed down your fangs, Edward Cullen,” you’d snapped back, right before his pupils dilated like you’d just told him Santa Claus wasn’t real. He looked like he was ready to bite you. Like literally bite you. You wondered, not for the first time, if he was just feral or if the metro air made people feral.

And then — click.

Freedom.

Your watch finally popped loose from his clothes, the poor thing traumatized but intact. You both immediately fled to opposite doors like bitter divorcees pretending they didn’t share a Netflix password.

“I hope the next time we meet, I’m deaf,” you shouted across the train.

“I hope the next time we meet, you’ve been replaced by a potted plant — it’d have more brains,” he snarled.

You both stomped off the train at your stop, muttering curses like two gremlins banished from the underworld. Behind you, the invisible red thread simply stretched further, smug and undisturbed, lengthening itself like some magical slinky that refused to be cut. It trailed behind you both like the worst kind of cosmic joke, blissfully unaware that you were both one wrong word away from starting an actual fistfight in the middle of the platform.

After what felt like an entire saga of mentally cussing him out, climbing three flights of stairs because the lift was always slow, and mentally filing an angry complaint to the universe, you finally reached your apartment door. Peace at last.

Well, almost.

You turned toward the elevator, digging through your bag for your keys, and there he was.

There. He. Was.

Leaning casually against the elevator doors like a shampoo commercial gone wrong, arms crossed, pink hair gleaming under the shitty hallway lights, and that same smug little curve on his lips like the universe had just handed him your misery on a silver platter.

You blinked. 

He blinked back, slower, smugger.

“...Are you stalking me?” you asked, flatly, because honestly, at this point, what else could this be? He barked out a laugh, loud and sharp. “You wish. I’m moving in.”

You stared at him. Your brain short-circuited. Your soul left your body and came back just to kick you in the shin.

“What.”

“New tenant,” he said with a little wave. “Landlady said the floor had good lighting. Guess she forgot to mention the infestation.”

“Infest—infestation?!” You nearly dropped your keys. “I hope you fall down the stairs and land teeth-first.”

“I hope your kettle explodes next time you try to make tea, dumbass.”

You both glared — the kind of glare that had probably made old gods weep and babies cry. Somewhere, the elevator dinged softly, its doors opening to welcome one (1) petty pink-haired menace and one (1) emotionally done human.

You both stepped in without looking at each other. The red string followed, still wrapped around your little fingers, stretching gently behind you both — a silent, glowing third wheel that refused to take a hint.

Fuck your life. And fuck fate too, while you were at it.

You really, really thought the next morning would be better.

After the disaster that was yesterday — the metro, the snarling pink-haired gremlin, the revelation that said gremlin lived on your floor, and the fact that you now had to cohabitate oxygen with him — you’d gone to bed with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that promised at least one thing would go right the next day. Just one. Just a sliver of peace, maybe, a moment of normalcy to prove that the universe wasn’t actively putting you on a hit list.

But hah. Nope.

Because you open the front door, step into the hallway in your slightly wrinkled work clothes, clutching the little baggie of food like a knight bearing gifts, and there he is.

Kneeling beside the apartment building’s most beloved freeloader — the white stray Uraume who ruled your collective lives with an iron paw and a fluffy tail — is Sukuna. Hair slightly damp like he just got out of the shower, wearing the kind of shirt that looks like it was bought solely to be hated, crouched down with a tin of wet food in his hands, and smiling.

Smiling. At Uraume, of all things.

Not at you. God no. His smiles for you usually look like they come with optional knives.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you blurt out, the cat food bag crinkling in your hand like even it is alarmed.

“Feeding the cat,” he replies without looking up, his tone smug, too casual, too comfortable. “What does it look like?”“It looks like you’re encroaching on sacred territory,” you snap, stomping closer like you’re about to perform an exorcism. “It’s Wednesday. My day.”

“They don’t know days,” Sukuna shrugs. “It’s a cat. They don’t give a shit if it’s Wednesday or the apocalypse.”

Uraume, for their part, is sprawled between you two like a tiny fluffy deity watching its mortal worshippers squabble, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking lazily as if amused by the sheer idiocy in front of them.

“They know me,” you insist, pointing an accusatory finger. “I bring them tuna. They purr for me.”

“They just purred for me,” Sukuna says smugly, leaning down to stroke their belly. They stretch like royalty, perfectly content. “Face it. They like me better.”

“They tolerate you,” you sneer, crouching down too, now both of you on either side of this indifferent god, cat food containers in hand like offerings in a duel. “Also, why are you using that cheap-ass brand? Uraume’s got a refined palate.”

“You feed a stray like they’re your tax-dependent,” he scoffs. “No wonder it acts like a brat.”

“Uraume is royalty.”

“Uraume has fleas.”

“So do you, probably.”

Uraume chooses this moment to pounce — not on either of you, but at the air just in front of them. They bat at something, paws swiping with focused glee, and you blink.

“...Is she high?” Sukuna mutters, watching as the cat wiggles their butt, springs, and lands on a very specific patch of empty hallway.

“Zoomies,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure. “They do that sometimes.”

Uraume keeps chasing something you can’t see — something red, something delicate, something that dances just ahead of their claws, curling through the air between the two of you. Something threadlike, and taut, and glowing — though not to your eyes. You both just keep bickering, oblivious.

“Seriously though, can’t you go menace someone else?” you grumble, finally standing and dusting off your knees.

“Can’t you find a new hallway?” he shoots back. “This one’s mine now.”

“God, you’re like a mold infestation.”

“And you’re like the stain on a public toilet seat.”

There’s a pause. Uraume is now gently gnawing on the air between your hands, satisfied. You look down. You look up. 

And, with a sigh, you finally mutter, “...What’s your name, anyway?”

He looks vaguely surprised, then smirks. “Sukuna. And yours?”

“Why? Gonna hex me with it?”

“Can’t hex someone without a name. Now cough it up.”

You tell him. He repeats it, rolling it around his mouth like he’s testing how annoying he can make it sound later. “Figures,” he says, straightening up. “Your name sounds like it comes with unsolicited opinions and a constant need to be right.”

“Your name sounds like a rejection email from a demon,” you fire back.

Uraume sneezes. The red string flickers, coils tighter. 

And neither of you still have any goddamn idea.

Despite your better judgment — and trust, it really was against every instinct for self-preservation that you had — you were starting to accept the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Sukuna wasn’t entirely the worst.

Not that he was good. No, you would never say that. If anyone ever dared to suggest that Sukuna had an ounce of decency in his entire six-foot-something frame of walking rage, you would probably burst out laughing and then list ten reasons why they should be on a watchlist. You were just… developing the world’s strongest tolerance, like some psychological cockroach capable of surviving nuclear-grade assholery. Yeah, that had to be it.

Because there was no way that Sukuna was a good person.

Not when he once looked old man Nanami in the eye — the sweetest, politest senior citizen in your apartment complex, the one who offered you coconut cookies every Thursday — and said, with no hesitation, "If your grandkid doesn’t shut up by 10 p.m., I’m gonna eat him. Protein is protein."

You were there.

You saw Mr. Nanami’s soul briefly leave his body while clutching little Yuuji, who was just trying to learn how to walk and scream at the same time. You were genuinely surprised Sukuna wasn’t served legal papers the next morning. (You think the only reason Nanami didn’t call the cops is because he didn’t know how to explain ‘My upstairs neighbor threatened to eat my toddler with his whole chest’ without sounding like he was the unhinged one.)

And it wasn’t just the elderly and the infants. Sukuna’s temper was democratic — he picked fights like they were his cardio. Someone sighs too loud? Fight. Someone stands too close in the elevator? Fight. Someone dares to exist within a five-meter radius while also having a smug aura? That was instant fucking fight. You’d honestly gotten used to hearing vague yelling down the hall and not reacting until someone used your name. That was the protocol.

But then there was Gojo.

White-haired menace. Lives somewhere close enough that the chaos occasionally spilled into your airspace. Visits Geto every few days, usually late at night, wearing clothes that screamed "I think rules are suggestions" and a smile that could probably trigger a lawsuit.

And every. single. time. Gojo entered your building, it was like watching two angry cats lock eyes across the hallway. Hissing. Posturing. Threats that sounded like they were ripped out of a trashy sitcom. Once, you woke up at three a.m. to actual growling outside your door.

“For fuck’s sake,” you’d yelled, groggily throwing it open, “Go home or kiss already!”

Both of them had frozen mid-snarl, their hands halfway to each other’s throats.

“Shut up, we’re not into each other!” they barked at you in perfect unison, like that wasn’t the most suspicious thing they could have said.But here was the kicker: he was never like that with you.

Oh, he was still rude. He called your music taste garbage at least twice a week and once accused your bathroom cleaner of smelling like a rotting lemon corpse. But he didn’t fight you. Not like that. Instead, he held elevator doors open with his back against the buttons like it was nothing, barely even glancing at you as you skidded across the floor with your laptop bag flapping behind you like a dying bird.

“You always run like the building’s on fire,” he’d mutter.

“Maybe I’m trying to escape your energy,” you’d shoot back, breathless.

He always told the trash guys to wait when you were sprinting down the stairs with two bags of waste in hand — one dry, one wet, both swinging dangerously. He’d lean against the rail and bark, “Oi, she’s coming,” before casually flicking his cigarette and watching you descend like a chaotic meteor of domestic failure.

“I could’ve managed,” you once grumbled, tossing the bags in as the garbage truck revved.

“You would’ve tripped and died. Then I’d have to feed your cat.”

“Uraume’s not even mine.”

“Then why does it hiss when I call them my cat?”

Touché.

He wasn't nice. He wasn't.

Not to other people. And not in a way that made it easy to like him. But maybe he was conveniently decent to you.

Probably because he wanted a favor someday. Or he was playing the long game. 

Or maybe it was just that he found your chaos mildly entertaining and liked being the one person who got to annoy you without being hit.

Definitely not because he liked you.

Right?

Right.

It wasn’t like you two would wait for each other by the elevator every morning. No, absolutely not — you were both far too emotionally constipated and aggressively independent to admit to something as wildly intimate as synchronized elevator rides.

And yet.

Somehow, like clockwork, you’d step out your apartment door and he’d be there — leaning with one shoulder against the wall beside the lift, arms crossed, coffee already in hand, expression set to his usual ‘who the fuck woke me up’ setting. And on the rare days you were early, you’d pretend you weren’t glancing up from your phone every five seconds just to see if you’d hear the familiar thunk-thunk-thunk of his heavy shoes dragging toward you.

You never greeted each other like normal people. God forbid.

“Oh look, the hallway’s ugliest plant finally bloomed,” you’d say sweetly.

“Aw, how cute. A raccoon in office clothes,” he’d grunt, stepping into the elevator first like the absolute bastard he was.

You two always made it a point to bicker through the entire ride, then all the way to the station. And then — just because the universe hadn’t punished either of you enough — you somehow took the same line to work.

It’d start off harmless — like Coachella 2025, which you both agreed was a walking tragedy, but couldn’t agree on why.

“I’m just saying, you can’t call it a comeback if the vocals sound like someone left a kettle screaming on the stove.”

“They were experimental vocals,” Sukuna huffed. “Not everyone wants the same autotuned garbage you listen to.”

“Says the man whose Spotify Wrapped had three songs Fetty Wap songs in it.”

“Hell yeah it did.”

Or you’d end up arguing over Nanami’s latest sweets — the ones he passed out in neat little boxes with origami on top and a handwritten note. And Sukuna, who had the nerve to say “This tastes like diabetes” with a scrunched-up face, had the audacity to later be caught in the act — crouched in front of the communal fridge, shoveling the leftover sugar-drenched delicacies into his mouth like he was trying to erase all evidence.

You stood at the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. 

“You want me to get you some insulin, champ?”

He didn’t even stop chewing. Just said, around a mouthful of icing, “Fuck off. It’s called recycling. I’m saving the planet.”

And your little morning routine would be incomplete without the stop at the rickety cafe around the corner — a shoebox-sized shop tucked beside a bookstore, smelling like toasted bread and too much cinnamon. The place was run by a sleepy-eyed, nose-ringed man named Choso, who you later found out was Sukuna’s cousin through what had to be divine punishment.

“He looks like he listens to sad violin music in the dark,” you once whispered.

“He does. But he also makes good coffee. Don’t let the existential energy fool you,” Sukuna muttered.

The place was always packed, but somehow, your order would be ready by the time you got to the counter. Tea for you, coffee for Sukuna. Every damn day.

Except for the one time the cups got swapped.

You didn’t notice until you took a long, scalding sip and promptly had your soul exit your body.

“Why does this taste like shit and caffeine?” you coughed.

“Because you’re drinking my coffee, dumbass,” Sukuna muttered from his end, eyeing your cup like he could will it back into his hands.

Neither of you had time to swap. So you just… drank it.

You were wired until 4 p.m., typing up emails like a possessed gremlin. 

Meanwhile, Sukuna? Snored in the middle of a team call. Snored. In his swivel chair. (He still claims the spreadsheet was boring enough to induce a coma.)

And maybe the most ridiculous part of it all was the way the day would end — with both of you pretending like you weren’t keeping an eye on the metro clock, waiting.

“You’re late,” Sukuna would grumble when you jogged up to him, hair windswept, tie lopsided.

“You’re still ugly,” you’d pant, and both of you would file into the train like two mismatched puzzle pieces forced into the same space.

And sometimes, between the back-and-forths and the sleepy evenings, the rocking of the train would lull one of you to sleep. And it was always the same — if he passed out first, head thunking against your shoulder, you’d just sigh and adjust your bag so it didn’t jab him in the ribs, pretending it wasn’t a little warm having his weight on you.

And if it was you, drooling slightly, head falling against him? He’d hiss a bit. Complain. Say things like, “Great. I’m a fucking pillow now,” under his breath. But he’d stay still. Wouldn’t shove you off. And he’d glare at anyone who even so much as looked at the seat beside you like they were thinking of sitting there, as if to say: “Touch her and die.”

And yet you both swore — swore — that none of this meant anything. Just morning routines. Just bickering. Just accidentally tolerating each other. Totally normal. Nothing weird about it at all. Right?

By the time the elevator dinged on your floor and the two of you stepped out, it was the usual symphony of tired bones and overworked brains, the air thick with the shared scent of corporate despair and too-sweet coffee you shouldn’t have had at 4 p.m., but did anyway. Your body ached, your bag hung off your shoulder like dead weight, and Sukuna was just behind you — jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt half-untucked, tie loose and mouth full of complaints he hadn’t started voicing yet. But then —

A tug.

Sharp and sudden, like a fishing line catching tension, like the universe pinched your pinky in a moment of bratty playfulness. Your hand jerked slightly, and you looked down, frowning.

And oh. There it was again. The string.

The same one you thought was a caffeine-induced fever dream. The one that had flickered into existence before, soft as spider silk and just as annoying, but now it was solid — scarlet red, humming faintly with a shimmer of something that felt way too personal and real. It wound snug around your pinky, stretched across the two feet between you, and found its twin grip around Sukuna’s hand.

And he was staring at it too.

His face was unreadable — which was new. Gone was the usual smug, twitchy grimace of a man permanently five seconds away from telling someone to choke. No, right now he looked… quiet. Contemplative. Like he’d seen this before. 

Like he knew something.

“Hey,” he started, voice unusually low, not his usual bark or snarl, but a drawl trying to reach for something softer, something that made your stomach twist unexpectedly, “There’s something I—”

But his words were promptly obliterated by the sudden thump-thump-thump-thump of tiny hands and knees against the floor.

A pink blur came barrelling up the stairwell like a demon on all fours — two-year-old Yuuji, in all his diapered, wide-eyed, suspiciously-strong-for-his-age glory. He practically launched himself up the final step and planted himself directly between the both of you, letting out a squeal of delight as he sat on the floor and began excitedly grabbing at the air.

No — not the air.

The string.

Your eyes widened as his chubby fists tried to catch the flickering red thread, cooing and giggling and babbling nonsense in toddler tongue as if the world’s most entertaining toy had just appeared before him.

“Reeeeddddddd!!” he crowed, crawling into Sukuna’s office shoe like it was his new throne.

You blinked. “Wait. You can see this too?!”

Yuuji looked up at you, beaming, nodding with the pride of a war general. “Pretty!”

“Oh fuck me,” Sukuna muttered under his breath, eyes darting toward the stairwell just as the loud clomp of formal shoes came echoing behind the kid.

Nanami appeared — flushed, panting, tie disheveled like he’d just run a full marathon in work shoes, one hand clutching the stair railing for dear life. He stopped dead when he saw where Yuuji had gone. 

“Oh thank God,” he gasped, bending slightly with his hands on his knees. “I thought I was going to have to file a police report.”

“Your kid just speed-crawled up three floors,” you pointed out, vaguely horrified.

“He does that. I can’t stop him. He’s like a golden retriever possessed by Satan,” Nanami said, coughing.

Meanwhile, Yuuji was now crawling in circles around the two of you, still trying to catch the red string, occasionally grabbing at your legs or Sukuna’s pants like the thing was taunting him. You and Sukuna exchanged a look — not your usual annoyed-glare combo, but a genuinely confused what the hell is going on look.

And again, you noticed the way Sukuna was looking at the string. Not shocked, not panicked. Just tired. Thoughtful. Like a man who had been putting off something inevitable and just ran out of time. You tilted your head. “Okay. What do you know that I don’t?”

He looked like he might say it. Really say it.

But then Yuuji yanked at the thread hard enough to make it pulse — and you felt it, a zap of something warm curling around your chest like it’d coiled straight through your ribs.

“What the hell?!” you flinched.

Sukuna sighed. Muttered something under his breath you didn’t catch. And then, looking straight at you, jaw tense:

“…I’ll explain tomorrow.”

“You better,” you hissed, heart hammering for reasons you refused to unpack right now. 

And behind you, Yuuji was still squealing with joy.

“Red! Red! Red!!”

Nanami quietly took out a juice box from his briefcase and bribed him down the hall. You couldn’t help but think he had the right idea.

Because if you thought the red thread was a joke, now you were the punchline.

And Sukuna?

You were starting to think he’d been reading the script the whole damn time.

You didn’t even realize how long you’d been lying there — not really. The air in your room was heavy, too still, the kind of quiet that felt a little like grief, or maybe a little like denial, something sharp and slow and suffocating all at once. You were on your back, lights still on, phone somewhere lost in the folds of your sheets, your speaker untouched and silent for once — no pop music or shitty love songs to drown out the thoughts.

Just silence.

And the thread.

That fucking thread.

It glowed faintly against the backdrop of your ceiling, rising gently from your pinky like a tendril of smoke, an unwanted, uninvited thing that refused to leave. You lifted your hand, half-wishing it would vanish if you blinked enough times. 

It didn’t. It shimmered in the low light, stubborn and elegant, like the universe had decided it was feeling poetic this week and picked you as its tragic metaphor.

You gave it a slight tug, just to see.

The resulting sting shot through your finger like a spark, making you flinch — and from behind your wall, you heard him.

“Oi!” came Sukuna’s voice, muffled but unmistakably him, rough and indignant, like you’d just elbowed him in the ribs. “What the hell was that for, you—?!”

You immediately turned your back to the wall, rolling with a sigh so dramatic it could have won awards. You stared at your curtains, dull in the soft glow of streetlights outside. “Not now,” you muttered to no one, hoping the string would relay that too.

There was silence. Maybe for five seconds. 

Then another tug. Gentler this time. Hesitant.

You glared at the wall. “What?”

A long pause. And then:

“…You’re not gonna talk to me?” Sukuna’s voice came quieter now, like he didn’t know what to do with it either. “You’ve been quiet for hours. I thought you’d… I don’t know. Start yelling or something.”

You sat up a little, pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes. “Yeah well,” you muttered, “I’ve used up my yelling quota for the month. Thanks for that.”

There was a rustling on his side. A beat. Then another tug — not a sting this time, but something like a nudge, like a poke in the shoulder.

“I didn’t think you’d freak out,” Sukuna admitted, voice low. Too honest. “Figured you’d laugh. Say it’s stupid. Call it a dumb romance trope or whatever.”

You let out a shaky breath, pressing your forehead to your knees. “It is a dumb romance trope,” you whispered. “Except now it’s… real. I can feel it, Sukuna. It hurts when you pull it. It glows. Why does it glow?!”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud:

“…Because it’s always been there.”

You froze. Slowly, you turned to face the wall.

“What?”

Sukuna exhaled — you could hear it, rough and frustrated, like he was mad at himself more than anything. “I didn’t… I didn’t know how to bring it up. I thought maybe I was just seeing things for a while. It didn’t show up for you yet. But I’ve—”

A pause.

“I’ve seen it. Since the day we met.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

He’d known? This whole time?

“You knew? And you didn’t tell me?” Your voice cracked mid-sentence, sharp with something you didn’t know how to name.

“Would you have believed me?” he bit back, not harsh — just defeated. “You already thought I was insane when we met. You still think I’m insane. Imagine if I’d told you there was some red fucking magical string tying our souls together, huh?”

You opened your mouth to argue. He would’ve sounded completely unhinged. You dragged your hands over your face, trying to breathe through it. Trying not to feel like the floor had dropped out beneath you.

“What does it mean?” you asked, quietly now. “Why us?”

A long silence.

Then Sukuna, tired:

“…I don’t know.”

You swallowed.

“But it’s real, right?”

Another beat.

“Yeah.”

And neither of you spoke after that. But the string pulsed once — soft, warm — and for the first time, you didn’t tug back.

The days after that were strange — soft in the kind of way that crept up on you, like the first breath of cold after a long summer. Not that either of you would admit it, of course. Not in words, not directly. Sukuna still barked when you burned your toast too loud at six in the morning, and you still scoffed when he sprayed too much cologne and gave your sinuses a five-hour long panic attack. But even the insults were different now, frayed at the edges with something gentle.

When Sukuna left for work with his tie somehow inside out — you’d swear the man had to try to do that — you clicked your tongue, rolled your eyes like you wanted to stab him with a fork, then silently pulled it off and fixed it for him. He grumbled under his breath, as always, but didn't move a muscle while you smoothed it out. 

And when you tied your hair back with such rabid intensity that you gave yourself a headache halfway through lunch, he reached over the table without looking up from his phone, tugged the scrunchie loose with one hand, and shoved a protein bar into your other.

“Don’t pass out before five,” he muttered.

You didn’t even say thank you. 

You didn’t have to. The red string hummed for you.

And it was little things like that, really — like how you’d pick up his package when he wasn’t home, and he’d grumble and call you nosy, but then you’d find your favorite sour candy stuffed inside the handle of your apartment door.

Or how you’d snatch the umbrella from his hand because “You’re gonna get electrocuted holding metal near the power lines, stupid,” only for him to give you the umbrella in the morning again, saying it made your ridiculous frog print raincoat look less lonely.

You weren’t in love. Not yet. But you were on the road.

And sometimes, you swore you’d been on it before. Like the rhythm of this whole mess felt familiar, not just in this life.

Maybe once you were a dog and he was a cat, and you spent your days yowling and chasing each other up fences, knocking over trash cans in the name of something feral and tender. 

Maybe once you were thunder and he was a crooked old mountain, always meeting, always crashing, never quite learning the other’s shape but staying anyway.

Maybe once you were two flowers growing on either side of a forest, reaching for each other across centuries of sunlight. 

Maybe once you were nothing but stories told by firelight, over and over, in every tongue — about the fox who chased the wolf through storm after storm, until both of them finally curled up together under one tree.

And maybe, just maybe, it was always you and him, clawing and biting and bickering and loving.

Because now, in this life, here you were again.

In a train too crowded for comfort, someone’s armpit too close to your face, someone else’s elbow poking your spine, and yet you were standing on your tiptoes just to peer through the sea of heads, holding up your pinky so the string between you would tug. Not hard, just a little nudge.

And across the crowd, Sukuna turned.

He was pretending to read the ads above the windows, face bored, mouth twitching like he was already planning to insult your taste in shoes or how your hair looked like it lost a fight with the wind — but when he felt the tug, his gaze softened, just a little.

Then he looked at you. And without a word, he tugged back.

You smiled just a little, and the train rolled on.

Outside, the sun broke through the clouds like it had been waiting all morning.

Inside, the red string pulsed with something warm.

And for once — for maybe the thousandth time across a hundred lives — you wouldn't have it any other way.

[4nicolas]

satoru loves taking care of his boyfriend when he’s sick. the second you wake up he knows something is wrong. instead of greeting him with a smile and a sleepy morning kiss you roll on your side and groan.

he instantly knows something is up. he’s coming close, poking your shoulder and whispering. “what was that for..?”

all he gets in response is a few grumbles and you shaking your head. he frowns, rubbing your bicep thinking maybe you slept poorly.

he decides on rubbing your back, gently trying to soothe you into waking up in a better mood. he hated when his baby boy would act like this.

obviously you would never ignore him on purpose, and he knew that. you eventually fall back asleep, waking up thirty minutes later to satorus bright blue eyes staring into yours.

you blink, feeling your head pounding and your throat sore. he raises a brow, inching slightly closer. his sleepy voice breaking you out of your thoughts.

“baby are you alright..?”

he was obviously concerned, normally you two both got up at the same time, did your morning routines, ate breakfast, the usual. today was different though.

you sigh, your voice low and gravely as you speak, “not really, no..”

satorus eyes instantly widen slightly, a small pout on his lips at your response. he brings his hand up, resting it on top of yours.

“whats wrong?” he mumbles, voice quieter, he was trying not to disturb you. it made your heart clench.

“I just.. feel awful.”

this made him frown deeper, his least favorite thing in the world was you being hurt or in pain, close second when he had no sweets.

he squeezes your hand slightly, his thumb rubbing the side of your hand. it’s quiet for a moment before he asks.

“need me to kiss it to make you feel better?” he murmurs with a sheepish smile.

you give him a quick smile, chuckling quietly. “i don’t think kisses would necessarily help me feel better.”

satoru raises one brow, obviously not believeing that.

“um, kisses make anything feel better.” he leans slightly closer as he speaks.

you move your hand up, acting as a barrier between you two. satoru instantly pouts.

“I dont want you to get sick.” satoru shakes his head as if that was nonsense, gently pushing your hand back down.

“babe. i’m the strongest, no little cold is gonna get me.” he says moving closer, his face inches away from yours.

you stare at him for a minute before speaking, barely keeping your eyes open. “if you wanna help.. some soup would be nice.”

satoru, against your wishes, presses a kiss on your lips, quickly getting up for your request.

“soup it is.” he pauses before adding, “and some kisses after.”

you roll your eyes at his comment, shaking your head at your boyfriends inability to not kiss you.

he gives your hand another squeeze before quickly disappearing through the door of your shared bedroom.

as quickly as he disappeared he’s back, showing up in the doorway with a bowl in one hand and a thermometer in the other.

he was still dressed in his pajamas, the sight making me you smile. he walks over, looking down at you on the bed before sitting the soup on the bedside table.

giving your cheek a small pat as he holds the thermometer up. “open your mouth for me, baby.”

in other context you would’ve loved this comment, but right now you felt like he was your nurse.

he places the tip of the thermometer under your tongue, leaving it there with you as he watches closely.

his hand comes to rest on your cheek, the coolness of his palm soothing your burning skin.

you almost want to fall asleep right there, feeling safe under his watch. you feel your eyes fluttering shut before satoru gently takes the thermometer out.

he brings it up close to his face, furrowing his brows as he examines it. he nods at the thermometer, rubbing his chin as if closely understanding it.

he flips it around, showing you the numbers as he speaks.

“102 degrees, guess that means you’ll be staying in bed today. suppose I should just take off to take care of you, huh?”

you raise a brow, knowing that wouldn’t be the best idea. “satoru.. you can’t just take off from exorcising curses..”

“oh but that’s where you’re wrong, my dear boyfriend. when you’re the strongest no one can boss you around.”

he chuckles, placing a hand on your arm, rubbing it reassuringly. “seriously though, if the higher ups have a problem they can punish me later. I care way more about you than those old farts anyway..”

he trails off, getting a serious expression, he really didn’t like the higher ups.

“I don’t want you getting in trouble because of me-“

satorus finger presses against your lips, “shhh, don’t worry about it, okay? just let your loving boyfriend satoru take care of you.”

before you can retort he picks up the bowl of soup, holding it out in front of you.

“now eat up, im here to doctor you up today.”

satorus ways of nursing your back to health were questionable, but he was trying so that’s what mattered.

the soup served as instant comfort, making your throat feel a bit better as well as giving your body a source of energy to get back in shape.

it was a struggle trying to stay awake, but you also couldn’t fall asleep. satoru had insisted on holding you, saying that skin to skin contact would help you get better faster.

you weren’t sure how true that was, but it did provide some comfort being pressed against your boyfriend.

his arms held you in a tight grasp, his head was buried in your hair, hands sliding up and down your back.

even if this didn’t speed up the healing process it did feel good. his hands slipped under your shirt, gently rubbing at your skin, his hands and fingers exploring your muscles.

“you are on fire, babe..” satoru murmurs, his voice laced with concern.

you hum in response, too comforted in his grasp. nuzzling further against him he chuckles.

“aren’t you glad I didn’t go to work?”

instead of responding you hold him tighter, not wanting to let him know he was right, even though he already knew the second your arms wrapped around him.

he chuckles, smile evident in his voice as he speaks. “uh huh. that’s what I thought.”

“I’m going to cough on you.”

he gasps, hand stilling on your back. “so you hate me?”

you roll your eyes, burying your face in his neck, lips pressing against his skin.

“yeah.”

“you’re lucky you’re unwell or else i’d push you off the bed right now.”

a comfortable silence falls between you two, your eyes finally drifting close as you feel yourself falling deeper into the pits of slumber.

satorus arms never leave you, neither does he. he could never leave your side when you’re vulnerable. (he knew you wouldn’t like him calling you that but whatever)

he’ll take care of you how ever long it takes, hours or days, he’ll be there.

he loves you and despises seeing you hurt or sick. he’ll just have to learn how to exorcise illnesses so they can’t affect you ever again.

—

not proofread because I get motivation at 2am before I go to bed.

[c4tluver02]

Can I request a fluffy Steve Harrington x fem! reader long oneshot where reader is pregnant and they are sitting in the living room watching a movie and all of a sudden, reader feels the baby kick for the first time and reader tells Steve and guides his hand to her stomach and Steve talks to the baby and they are just in awe over feeling the baby kick and they talk about how they can’t wait for their daughter to get here?

baby bump

summary: After finding out the gender of your baby things start to feel real. First time kicks and cravings are the new normal!

warnings: mention of pregnancy, r has long hair, mentions of morning sickness (for like a second), mentions of eating more

wc: 1.3k

a/n: i don't know anything abt being pregnant so if this is wrong lets pretend it isn't!!!! thank u for the request <3

It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon, neither you or Steve have anything going on allowing for you both to relax on the couch. A movie is playing on the TV and your head is laying on Steve's lap. His fingers thread through your hair and the feeling makes your eyes flutter shut. The movie long forgotten, simply too relaxed in Steve's presence. He’s been working a lot ever since the news of a baby coming so you are soaking up any moments with him. Last week you both found out the gender, a beautiful healthy baby girl. You couldn’t be more ecstatic and Steve was already thinking of the shade of pink to paint the nursery. 

-

 “Do you think she would want more of a rustic pink or like a Barbie pink?” Steve asks on the drive home from your appointment. You two have red eyes from crying tears of joy. Hearing the baby's gender makes everything feel even more real. 

“I think rustic definitely.” You say nodding. The small picture of your ultrasound in your hand. 

“I think so too, I’ll have to start looking for a crib. Think the guys would help?” Steve asks, thinking about Jonathan and Eddie. The idea of making a whole new room in just a few months now makes him a little stressed. 

“Oh totally and Eddie owes me a favor for eating my cheeseburger the other day.” It was a simple mix up, he ate your sandwich instead of his own. But in the moment tears threatened to spill from your eyes.

“I know Rob will help with the paint and picking out furniture. I still have to call her to tell her the news.” He says giving your thigh a squeeze from excitement. When he found out you were pregnant he told Robin right away. She came over the next day with gifts and candy for you. 

You looked at him with a large grin. Filled with excitement and happiness that you are having a baby and that Steve is Steve. A perfect partner and soon to be dad. 

-

You knew no matter what Steve would be a great dad, but knowing he will be a girl dad just clicks in the most perfect way. Already infatuated with you, he won't be able to say no to your new baby girl. 

Steve was already so great with you. Quick to be by your side when you have any sickness– despite you trying to shoo him away the first time it happened. Too scared he would find you gross you made him plug his ears which made him then yell out for you to ask if you were ok. But the more it happened the more he was there and wouldn't take no for an answer. If Steves gonna do one thing it's take care of you. Any late night cravings you had he would get with no complaints. He truly was perfect. Obsessed with your bump always talking to her, like when she was pushing on your ribs and he asked her so sweetly to move. 

Now you're all laid out on the couch half asleep and you feel a weird pain in your stomach. A little jab that was so quick if you were moving you might not have even felt it. The feeling made you shoot up in shock, a hand on your stomach. Steve looked at you with his thick brows raised, concerned. 

“What? What's wrong? Is she okay?” Steve asks quickly as he grabs onto your wrist. Like he needed to know the answer right away.

He finally took a breath when he saw a big smile appear on your face. You grab his hand and gently place it on your bump in a certain location. “She just kicked me.” You say it almost in a whisper like if you said it too loud she'd stop. 

Steve pressed his hand a little firmer to your belly trying to feel the sensation. His eyes are wide and you look at him as you wait for her to do it again.   

As if on cue she kicks again and Steve gasps. “Holy shit she's kicking!” It comes out in a half yell half laugh and he leans in to give you a quick kiss. Too excited, needing to put his energy into something. 

You're both fully sat up now only locked in on the baby's next move. She gives another kick and this time Steve sees your stomach move and stretch from the action. He scrunches his nose up a little. 

“Does that hurt baby? I can tell she’s using all her force.” The way he says it with a concerned but interested tone makes you giggle. 

“Nope.” You say popping the P at the end. “It feels weird but it doesn't hurt.” Your hand is over his holding it to your stomach and Steve can't help but swoon. 

“Maybe she'll be a soccer player? She seems like she has strong legs.” Steve says.

“Hmm, maybe a gymnast? They have really strong legs.” Steve nods at your response and you both lay back on the couch. 

Steve leans down a bit to rest his chin on your stomach. His hand is still on your belly but now he's rubbing it gently. 

“I can’t wait to see what type of personality she'll have.” He says.

Steve looks so pretty right now. Carefully giving your tummy little kisses and his long lashes flutter. You can't help but run your fingers through his hair and he groans at the action. 

“I hope she has your hair.” You say with a giggle but you really do mean it. 

“I hope she has your eyes, and your nose, and your lips, and your giggle of course.” 

You roll your eyes at his comment in a playful manner. “You're obsessed with me.” 

“I am.” He gives your belly one last kiss before sitting up again. “I am obsessed with you and our baby and I can't wait to have more.”

“More? Stevie, we haven't even finished having one!” You let out a giggle that's so warm Steve thinks it could truly melt his heart. 

“I know but I can imagine us with like 6 little Harringtons running around.” The look in his eyes tells you he's 100% serious and that he's given this thought. 

“Hm and who will be pushing out these 6 Harringtons?” You ask, looking at him with a huge smile on your face. So happy in this moment, thinking about the future you and Steve will have. 

“Sweetheart, if I could do all the hard work, trust me I would. Then I could give you all the babies you want.” Steve slides his hands on your waist which is a little on your stomach due to how far out it is, rubbing his thumb up and down. 

“Let's focus on this one and then we can talk about more, deal?” You ask, putting your hands around his neck. The movement makes you two get closer but the bump creates a bit of distance. 

“Deal.” He responds, kissing your temple. The movie you guys were watching is now rolling the credits, neither of you saw the end but that's okay because in a few months you'll have a daughter.

“Stevie?” You ask but Steve knows the tone in your voice. 

“Yes angel?” The smirk he has on could be one related to the Cheshire cat. All knowing and ready for what you're about to ask. 

“Do you think you could make me some eggs and toast?” The puppy dog eyes you give aren't needed but accepted. It doesn't matter that it's 10pm or that you had dinner a few hours ago. 

“You are a hungry little bug aren't you?” Steve says into your stomach as he kisses it. Getting up to go to the kitchen but not before grabbing your hands to help you up.

“She is, isn't she? I must be growing an athlete in there.” You say, referring to your earlier statements. 

Steve laughs and rubs your back as you walk in front of him. He knows tonight you'll wake him up for more food but right now he couldn't be happier. 

[zorosangell]

⛥ﾟ・。 sample

synopsis: prequel to pocus -- katakuri's dreams of you come to a head when he learns that the two of you are already engaged to be married. and to make matters worse, your ex-boyfriend makes a rather unpleasant appearance while the sweet commander is picking up his order of doughnuts.

cw: fluff, comfort, angst if you squint, katakuri is katakuri, KATAKURI DOES NOT PLAY ABT YOU, he is twenty-one, you are twenty, for context smoothie is eight, your ex is an asshole, katakuri's got it baaad.

a/n: good golly this man is fine

"C-Commander!" you mewled, the pillow under your hips slipping under Katakuri's relentless pace.

His blunt nails dug into the flesh of your hips, a smirk rising to his lips at the way you were already gone.

His hand roamed your ass, mesmerized by the way it jiggled with each of his powerful thrusts.

Perfect... plump... round...

Seeing you bend over the ovens at your bakery, he knew it would be.

But seeing it for himself?

Squeezing tighter, he kneaded the supple flesh, strengthening his hold as he adopted a quicker, rougher pace.

"O-Oh, yes! Ngh! Kuri-Kuri f-fuck," you keened, the air in your lungs slowly but surely leaving you. "Feels s'good!"

Your cries drifted far past the room, so far that the Sweet General was sure the servants within the maid's quarters could hear them.

But he wanted you louder.

He wanted you shrieking.

He had wanted this for so long, wanted to feel the way you fit him.

Wanted to hear the way you spoke his name wrapped in pleasure.

Everything of you, he wanted.

Needed.

Katakuri needed you.

Somehow, he'd managed to hold out for this long, but his luck wouldn't last with the way you were clawing the comforter, moans rising as he switched angles.

But in an instant, it was all snatched away.

Breathless, Katakuri shot straight up in his bed, heart thundering in his chest.

Swallowing thickly, he quickly glanced down at his lap, his cum hot and sticky against his skin, and his half-chubbed length angrily confined by his boxers.

It happened again...

A faint flush of pink rose to his cheeks at the sight, the Yonko commander swiftly brought back to the countless other nights where he had awoken to the same scene.

There was something about you, something about your presence that instantly returned him to his teen years—where an ass and a couple of moans could make him cum in his pants.

God, this was wrong.

You were so kind, so sweet, yet his dreams consisted of nothing but ruining you for any and every other man to follow him.

Unable and unwilling to reckon with what your image had just done to him, he settled for flopping back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a blank, annoyed look.

How the hell was he going to face you tomorrow?

"Ah, Commander!" you beamed, warmly waving to the man as he entered through your large door. "I was just about to send Kota."

Quickly, you scurried toward your display case, pulling out the tray with ten, normal-sized doughnuts of varying flavors.

"I've got the samples you ordered right here. Freshly glazed."

Silently, the man nodded, fighting off the flush threatening to rise to his ears as he crossed his arms over his chest.

He avoided all eye contact with you, making a point to look anywhere but your smiling face as he leaned against the wall.

Every time he met your gaze, images of last night would flash in mind, further adding to the pit of guilt already sinking in his chest for thinking of you in such a way.

It made him feel dirty, and suddenly undeserving of your kindness

"Kota, come box these up for me, yeah?" you called, your young apprentice quickly scurrying to your aid.

"Yes, ma'am!" he nodded, carefully taking the tray before returning to the back room

His eagerness made you smile, the sight intensifying the rhythm of Katakuri's heartbeat as he watched you return to your work.

"I know it's not your usual, but I think you'll like the new blueberry lemon doughnut I made this morning," you attempted to strike up a conversation, going back to glazing the rest of the morning's doughnuts. "Smoothie came by earlier and said it's her favorite so far."

Katakuri hummed, seemingly uninterested in what you had to say as he glanced around your huge bakery—the size was accommodating to commoners as well as those of his height.

Confused, your face slightly fell, unsure of what you did to warrant such a cold response.

Sure, the Minister of Flour was not the warmest person you'd ever met, but he certainly wasn't this icy.

Especially not to you.

You figured the both of you were far past this stage, having gone through the whole "stoic and silent" rigmarole months ago.

It took ages to get the Minister of Flour to warm up to you even a little bit, but when he did?

The change was like night and day.

He turned off his observation haki for the first time in...well, who knows how long.

He allowed himself to participate in easy conversation.

Hell, once you could've swore he let out a quiet chuckle at a joke you made.

But all of that seemed to be completely gone now, as if it were never there.

You were one of the Big Mom Pirate's closest and most trusted personal bakers, so you had dealt with your fair share of volatile personalities.

But his was odd, even for a Charlotte.

Just then, the bell on your door let out a delightful little jingle, snapping both yours and Katakuri's attention to the familiar face walking in.

Your eyes went wide, before your brows quickly furrowed in an unsavory scowl.

"Get out."

At that, the man laughed, amused by your somewhat poor attempt at intimidation.

"That's how it is? No hello or how are ya?" he sneered, slowly walking up to the counter.

"Get the hell out of here, Gino! I told you I never wanted to see your face again!"

"(y/n)... baby... c'mon... you really meant tha—?"

"Every damn word," you swiftly answered, taking a large, tentative step back as he continued to approach. "Don't come any closer!"

"Or what? You'll bake me to death? Turn me into a jelly doughnut?" he smirked, mockingly.

You scoffed, quickly turning around and rushing into the backroom, "Kota! Get my bat!"

Annoyed, Gino let out a harsh sigh, moving to lean against the counter before glancing at the Sweet Commander.

"Women, amiright?" he griped, rolling his eyes as he pointed his thumb in your direction. "All this drama for what? Gimme a few minutes to talk and she'll be crawlin' back in no time."

He chuckled to himself, seemingly proud of this "fact".

"She always does."

A vein bulged in Katakuri's forehead at the statement, the furrow in his brows deepening and muscles tightening in an instant.

As he watched your interaction, he waited patiently, gauging your reaction to the man and the danger level in order to plan his response accordingly.

'Looks like they had some sort of romantic relationship... an ex-boyfriend, perhaps?'

Audibly, you were rummaging around in storage, frantically searching for your father's prized baseball bat.

'If she feels such a need to arm herself, then he must have a history of violent behavior... an interaction like this must've turned physical before.'

The man's jaw clenched at the thought, a certain feeling bubbling in his stomach the he had never felt before.

It made him want to gag and flay Gino's remains after a Mochi-flavored beat-down.

'It's settled then.'

"Hey, I just realized... aren't you the—?"

Without hesitation, Katakuri cut off his sentence, his mochi arm wrapping tightly around the scumbag's neck before hoisting him in the air and dragging him forward, until he was finally at his level.

"I am only going to say this once. Fail to follow direction and I will not hesitate to kill you along with your entire family... understand?"

Frantically, the man nodded, utterly wracked with fear.

"Good... now, when I release you, you are going to take the first ship off Whole Cake, continuing to travel on until you make it to Cacao Island. There, you will effectively leave Mama's territory and begin your pitiful attempt at surviving in the New World without her protection."

His grip tightened, further constricting the man's airflow as he continued on.

"If you do not get on that ship, I will know. If you turn around, I will know. If you do not reach Cacao Island by the end of the day, I will know."

Suddenly, an imaged of you flashed in his mind, reminding him of the ultimate reason for his fury.

"And if you so much as look at... think of... or utter my fiancée's name in my presence again... I will see to it personally that your body is put six feet under the ground."

Pulling him closer, Katakuri didn't stop until his face was right in front of Gino's, his fiery, ruby red eyes blazing fiercer than the pits of hell.

See, what Gino couldn't have possibly known was that last night the Sweet Commander had attended an emergency summons from his mother, where he learned that he was engaged to be married to one of Whole Cake Island's most eligible bachlorettes.

You.

Of course, it was a strictly political contract between his mother and your father, and given your rather normal reaction to seeing him in the shop today, he figured your father had failed to tell you yet about the arrangement.

But even still... he now had a responsibility to you.

A responsibility he would not take lightly.

"Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?"

Unable to speak, Gino simply nodded in agreement, practically paralyzed with fear.

With that response, Katakuri swiftly tossed him to the ground, allowing the man to scurry to his feet like the vermin he was.

"Good... now get out of my sight."

The Sweet Commander didn't even fully finish his sentence before Gino was already on the run, sprinting toward the nearest port like a madman.

The sight almost brought a smile to Katakuri's face, were it not for his haki predicting your well-timed approach.

"All right, asshole, you wanna try me now!" you spat, bursting from the backroom with bat in hand.

But, to your surprise, your ex-boyfriend was nowhere to be found, only Katakuri remaining within your small lobby.

"Huh? Where'd he go?" you asked, raising a brow in confusion.

"Away," he answered, curtly, crossing his arms over his chest once again.

"Damn... I really wanted to use this on him..."

"Commander Katakuri, sir!" Kota rushed forward, running out from behind the counter before presenting the man your signature box. "Your sample doughnuts, as requested. I apologize for the wait."

Taking them, he offered a thankful nod, carefully tucking them against his side.

"No need. I understand the... odd circumstances," slowly, his gaze turned to you, his expression somehow turning more serious than it already was. "But doughnuts aren't all I came here for."

For the first time in a long time, nerves seemed to be fluttering in his belly, rendering him partially immobile under your soft gaze.

But he was doing what had to be done.

A woman deserved to know she was getting married before the day of her wedding.

And a woman deserved to know why.

"(y/n)... you and I need to talk... Alone."

[uravitypng]

𝐛𝐞𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞

pairing: hanta sero x (chubby) reader

summary: your best friend has very recently become your boyfriend and he misses you sleeping in his bed.

word count: 1.4k

a/n: i wrote this today but it turned longer and longer until it was over 1k when it was only meant to be like 500 words so whoops, hope you all like it though! everyone is in ua longer because let's be honest... REALISTICALLY they'd all be held back a couple years or retake the years with all the stuff they had to deal with, the league and the war and aftermath / WE ALL KNOW THIS MAN IS A COMPLETE TEASE!! mdni / 18+

a light flashes on the bedside table from a notification from your phone, it jolts you awake just as you start to fall asleep. you groan as you reluctantly check your phone, you didn't expect it to be your boyfriend. ' princesa, i miss you :( come to my room x '

two weeks ago you thought your pining helplessly was just that- helpless. helpless and hopeless. that was until one night, two weeks ago, when you went to fetch your charger after forgetting it in his room.

he was a little stoned and it wasn't the first time you've seen him stoned. but adding your stoned best friend to him seeing you getting rather close to to kirishima recently he's been a bit on edge. on the occasion hanta gets jealous he distances himself away from you for a bit, normally for a few days, so he doesn't say anything rash or anything that could accidentally upset you.

two weeks ago though as you went to fetch your charger he became unusually clingy, normally you're the one that people call clingy but that night it would be considered him.

normally you're the one jumping on him when he comes back from patrol and ramble about the plans you have for the two of you that night. normally you're the one holding onto him while drunk telling him how he's your 'favourite person in the world.' normally it's you who puts a blanket over the two of you and snuggles close to him leaning on his shoulder while watching star wars. normally it's you who link your arm on his while walking together. normally it's you who asks if you can share his drink, drinking from his straw, because the one you brought doesn't taste good and his drink looks nice.

not this time though. it's the other way around.

"hanta... what's wrong?" his arms are wrapped tightly around you and it seems he has no intention of letting you go.

"don't leave me for kirishima," is all he says, he mumbles it and you don't see his face. he lifts his head up to look at you and a look of realisation crosses on his face after a second like he just heard what he said out loud. for someone who was so clingy only thirty seconds ago he quickly makes himself scarce running out his own room. you don't have time to process what he means and the implications, let alone reply.

the following morning a smirk creeps on your face as he enters the room. hanta has always been fairly confident but he remembers what he said and he doesn't really remember what you said afterwards, he never thought he would be nervous around you but he is, he can't help it. your pretty face smirking at him so beautifully. there's other people in the room but you don't take notice as you walk over to him and kiss his cheek shocking him and everyone else around, "i'm not leaving you for anyone hanta."

after that you begin dating. every night since, you've been spending it in his room, it's only a few months until you leave the dorms and you thought you should at least spend a few nights in your room before you leave and start packing everything away.

it's the first night you're not sleeping in his bed and he feels like he's your best friend pining all over again, only this time it's amplified. it's not like he's never had any problems with falling asleep, he does, but it's always been manageable especially now that you started sleeping next to him.

and now with you gone... he has nothing to hold. and he's not even guilty to admit that it's anything but innocent.

he misses the feeling of his hand under your pyjama shirt, groping your breasts and holding onto your supple stomach. he misses the little noises you would make every time he would graze your nipple. he misses trailing the waistband of your pyjama bottoms with his fingertips to tease you, the little whimper and buck of your hips towards his touch is so adorable to him. he misses how your breath would hitch when his hand wraps around your neck, he wouldn't even apply any pressure just leave it there but you would still whine.

now that you're gone he can't hold onto your love handles tightly as he ruts behind, his hard cock rubbing behind you, skin-on-skin. groaning deeply and cumming on you, enjoying the look of his cum on the small of your back or on your ass, knowing that you're going to sleep all night with it on you before washing it off in the morning- it's a dirty realisation that he's discovered.

it's been three hours since you've seen each other and his bed feels so cold without you.

when you hear the ding of your phone, you crawl out of bed and leave to see hanta. quietly tiptoeing out of your room and into his room.

he grins wide when you walk into his room. you smile back sleepily, rubbing your eyes, feeling like you could fall asleep at any moment. "you look as gorgeous as you did a couple hours ago princesa."

you pout, "i was nearly asleep han."

"i'm sorry gorgeous i'll make it up to you tomorrow, i promise, but sleeping together is so much better than sleeping alone."

you hum and shuffle towards him and make your way into the bed. his arm goes to your waist and he moulds himself behind you, pressing his body against you and smiling blissfully. his other large palm roam all over your body, starting to get hard as he feels your plush figure in his hands. his hand goes down to your shorts and almost tickles you, the sensation makes you feel tingly. "hanta." you say, almost like a warning.

"yes, dear?" you can practically hear the cheeky grin on his face.

"don't tease. don't be mean."

"anything you say." he suddenly stops his movement and drapes that arm over your middle too, so both arms are.

your eyebrow furrow. "w-what are you doing?"

"you said not to tease so i'm going to bed."

you whip your head around to look at him, your heads nearly pressing together. "what! no way! you ca- can't just do that. i can't go to sleep now hanta!"

"oh?" he asks, the smug smirk on his face is incredibly attractive.

"of course i can't!"

"why's that princesa?" he asks. his eyes gleam almost like a predator watching their prey.

"because- 'cause you! i can't go to bed after you teasing me like that!"

"i barely touched you though." his arms haven't left their position of draping over your middle and with his finger he starts making circular motions on your skin.

"you know that doesn't matter though. we both know that doesn't matter." you say quietly and your voice turns bashful as you continue speaking, "anything and everything you do makes me feel like this. it's unfair."

"feel like what?" his voice gets lower and you pout at each question knowing that he's teasing you.

"it's not fair that you can make me so needy after touching me for only a matter of seconds! i- i mean it's unfair! i actually am dating the man i love after meeting him at fifteen, it's been years, six years! and- and we're together! of course i'm going to feel like this."

yeah?"

"yes!"

"you told me not to though. and it's getting late, i'm tired y'know." his cock is getting harder and harder with each sentence you speak, sounding needier by the second.

"what?! b-but! i can't go to sleep!"

hanta hums for a second, "alright then. beg for me."

"huh?" your eyes widen.

"beg for me to touch you princesa. beg for me to make you cum." his grin is wide and teasing, it's almost sadist and sends a shiver down your spine and heat rise to your cheeks.

"please hanta." you say softly, it's almost inaudible.

"i think you can do better than that gorgeous."

"i-i- please make me cum hanta. please touch me." your voice is soft still but this time a little louder.

his grin seems to get impossibly wider, "good girl princesa," he kisses your forehead chastely and his hand travels lower down back to your shorts this time slipping under them. as soon as he makes contact with your thighs, you buck your hips slightly, his featherlight touch making you shudder.

at this point you know you're not going to sleep any time soon.

[kxsagi]

hi hi hi! Good morning/afternoon/evening:3! I saw your request open and I have to take my chance</3

Can I request for some back hugs with Itoshi Rin and older sister!reader?:) like reader's doing chores then Rin came home and gave her back hug? Then he started ranting about what Sae did, cue reader trashtalking Sae because no matter if he's their eldest, no one gets to talk shit about Rin>:c possibly after the u-20 match? How their conversation goes is up to you!

Please do ignore this if you want! Have a nice day/night!(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

“𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐯𝐬. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 (𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢)”

a/n: thank you and have a nice day/night as well beautiful!

side note, i was reading this and it kinda sounded like reader was more so rin’s gf, I’M SO SORRY IF I GOT THE OLDER SISTER DYNAMIC WRONG BUT I WANTED IT TO BE LIKE… YOU AND RIN HAVE A GOOD SIBLING RELATIONSHIP YK??? (i don’t have a brother so i really don’t know 💀)

also for clarification, reader is older than rin but younger than sae

(art credits go to ww0_511 on X)

you’re elbows deep in dish soap when the door creaks open. 

not in a dramatic, cinematic kind of way. just the soft, ordinary click of someone who doesn’t slam doors and was probably raised right. the kind of quiet you recognize immediately, because it’s him. 

rin. 

you don’t even turn around. the kitchen sink’s still running, and you’ve got a half-washed plate in your hand, but you can feel him there. 

then two arms slide around your waist, steady and warm. a cheek presses against your shoulder blade. he’s a little sweaty, like he walked straight home from the station. his breath is even but slightly tired, like he’s been holding it in the whole train ride. 

“welcome back,” you murmur, scrubbing slower now, “how was it?” 

he doesn’t answer right away. just holds you tighter. not crushing, but firm. needing. 

you reach for a towel, dry your hands, and rest them over his. 

“rin?” 

“he’s so fucking annoying,” he mumbles against your back. 

you blink. “... sae?” 

rin nods and you already know the whole story. you’ve heard about every cold look, every condescending remark, every older-brother-gone-prodigy-moment he’s been stewing over for years. 

“what’d he do this time?” 

rin exhales sharply. “after the match he didn’t even say ‘good game’ or whatever. just stared at me and said, ‘you’re still too emotional.’ like that means anything coming from him. and then he had the audacity to acknowledge my rival instead.” 

you twist around slightly so you can see him. he looks freshly irritated, his brows furrowed, lips pulled into a pouty frown he’d never admit to making. still in his jacket, his bag halfway dropped by the door. he came straight to you, didn’t even pause to take his shoes off properly. 

you scoff. “wow. did he also say ‘you need to be more rational and calculating like me, the perfect emotionless genius’ while dramatically flipping his fuckass bangs?” 

“maybe,” rin mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

“i’m just saying,” you shrug, “he thinks he’s hot shit but he couldn’t even beat you without dragging the team down with his personality.” 

rin lets out a breath of a laugh. the kind he only lets slip when he’s too tired to be grumpy and too touched to hide it. 

“he acts like he’s never been emotional in his life,” you go on, spinning around fully now so you’re facing him, “like remember when he cried because his yogurt was expired? i swear, rin, i’ve never seen someone look so personally betrayed.” 

rin huffs again. “that was five years ago.” 

“and i’m still gonna bring it up every time he comes for you like he’s king of the world.” 

there’s a beat of silence. 

then rin leans in again, arms curling around you. this time it’s a real hug, face tucked into your shoulder, and you don’t hesitate to hug him right back. 

“thanks,” he mutters. 

you stroke a hand through his hair. “don’t thank me. i’ve been waiting for years to legally fight sae itoshi and this just gives me a better excuse.” 

he snorts. a real, amused sound. “you’d lose.” 

“okay, rude… but fair. he probably does judo in secret or something.” 

“he does kickboxing.” 

“what the hell? why??” 

“says it helps him stay sharp.” 

you pull back with the most deadpan face you can muster. “that man is in a permanent state of being stabbed with a toothpick and calling it clarity.” 

rin actually grins. and just like that, the tension melts from his shoulders. 

“you did good out there,” you say quietly. “i’m proud of you.” 

he pauses. swallows. then nods once, avoiding your eyes but holding you tighter for a second. 

“thank you,” he mumbles. 

“and if sae ever makes that face again – y’know, the one where it looks like he smelled something gross – i will throw a slipper at his head.” 

“i’ll pretend not to know you.” 

“coward.” 

but he’s smiling. and he doesn’t let go for a long time. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[matchpointfaist]

never wanted love, just a fancy car 🪩

art x pr relationship pt ii

tw for drinking, drug use, smut, toxicccc relationship, public sex!

you didn’t see art for two weeks after that bullshit cut and run act he pulled. he didn’t even have the nerve to text you, opting to ignore you completely, like the whole thing never happened. your manager added you to a shared calendar, filled in with both of your matches, and any mutual social events you’d be expected to attend. just your luck, your time away from him had run out! your first real public appearance, some charity gala organized by the zweig’s, and art didn’t even have the decency to tell you himself. you told yourself it didn’t matter- you’d been getting really good at that- that this whole thing wasn’t real, that you didn’t even mind how he’d treated you, that you didn’t think about that night every time you slipped beneath your silk sheets, imagining his hands on your body. as long as the two of you could keep it together for the contract, none of it would matter. you’d always been a great actress anyway, so what could really go wrong?

a car picked you up at seven, and when you opened up the back door, art was just inside, sprawled out like he owned it. “morning,” he nodded at you, grinning, and you could practically see the alcohol in his system. “it’s 7 o clock,” you rolled your eyes, buckling your seatbelt, as far from him as you could manage, “you smell like vodka,” “that’s my cologne,” he laughed, “don’t be so stuck up, i’m sure you’ve had a few too,” you hadn’t, truly, not trusting yourself to be around him alone while drunk, but you didn’t tell him that. you just sighed, resting your head on the window as the driver pulled out of your neighborhood, straight towards your torture for the evening. “brought you something,” art said after a few minutes passed, fumbling with his suit jacket before passing you a shooter of pink lemonade vodka, “your favorite, right?” a smile crossed your lips despite yourself, and you nodded as you took it from him, curious how he’d even discovered that, “yeah, my favorite,” “saw you with it at parties,” he explained, “do a shot with me? little pregame before the shitshow?” “god, you’re awful,” but you were already twisting off the cap, clinking the small glass bottle against his own before downing it. “the first of many,” he grinned, wiping his mouth, and you had to tear your eyes away from the way his thumb ran across his bottom lip, dragging away the beads of liquid. “i’ll drink to that,”

the gala was definitely not the place for art to already be tipsy as he came through the doors, but no one seemed to mind. half of the people in attendance worshipped the ground he walked on, and the other half were too unimportant to say otherwise. he was shockingly charming, certainly in his element, preening around with all the women and talking business with all the men. you were used to seeing him at parties, the way he made rounds and made everyone shine with his light, or even at matches, when he’d show everyone a little bit of what it felt like to win. but this art was knew to you, poised in a way that had come from years of practice, eloquent despite the vodka coursing through his veins. he was sweet, even, taking time to talk with the older women, lending them his arm as they walked from table to table. when the donations were announced, you were truly surprised when art’s name was mentioned, having donated $10,000. you weren’t even sure what the charity was for, and here he was, donating such a hefty amount. he was full of surprises all evening, really, up until the older people started to leave, and patrick zweig started to come around more. then, he faded into the art you knew, the one from frat parties and unforgiving magazine articles.

“come upstairs with me,” his chin was rested on your shoulder, looking ever the doting boyfriend, “pat’s got some blow,” you knew it was a bad idea, going anywhere alone with him was probably ill advised, especially going to get high with him. you let him lead you up the spiral staircase anyway, let him put an arm around your shoulders when you joined a group of his friends in some random bedroom. they passed around the silver tray of white powder, snorting lines between obnoxious jokes, engaging in the sort of homoeroticism you’d only seen among the mark rebellato graduates as they wiped each others faces, all smiles and blown out pupils. art held the tray for you as you did a line, holding back your hair with his other hand, grinning over at you like he was in love when you came back up. someone brought out a bottle of liquor, and eventually you’d all made your way down to the pool, drunk and buzzing, the boys stripping out of their suits and diving into the cool water in just their boxers.

“come swim with me,” art pleaded, eyes glossy and needy, pulling at your dress. you were helpless to resist him, letting him unzip the gown with shaking hands, laughing as he took your hand, jumping into the pool with you following. “you’re so pretty,” he murmured, pulling you over to him, wrapping your legs around his waist under the surface, “look like a fuckin’ supermodel,” “you’re wasted,” you kissed him anyway, crashing your lips into his with a giggle. he waded you both through the water, his lips never leaving yours, all messy kisses and clanking teeth. someone yelled that there was more coke, and then he was pulling away, leaving you frowning as he pushed himself up out of the water. “wait for me,” you pouted, moving to climb out, but he just shook his head, squatting in front of you with the tray. “stay there,” he grinned, licking his thumb before dipping it in the powder, “open your mouth f’me,”

you did as he said, brows furrowed in confusion, but then he was rubbing it on your gums, a hum of satisfaction leaving you both simultaneously. “yeah, you like that shit?” he was glowing, beaming down at you as you wrapped your lips around his finger, sucking it clean, “knew you would,” he was back in the pool in an instant, pulling your lips to his, hungry and greedy. “can fuckin taste it,” he mumbled against you, pulling you back to wrap your legs around him once again, hard against your thigh. his hands wandered furthered, one slipping underneath your bra, the other on your low back. “your friends are still over there,” you panted, pulling back just enough to protest. “you think they give a fuck?” he rolled his eyes, “just relax, yeah? i got you,” your mind briefly slipped back into the night two weeks prior, the way he’d kissed you so sweet but left so easily. you pushed it down, losing yourself in his lips again, muffling a surprised sound from your throat as he slid a hand into your underwear, his hand warm in contrast to the water.

“not in here,” you murmured, willing your hips to stop rocking against his hand, “art, wait,” he pulled away with a frustrated sigh, “you don’t want to?” “no, i do, just not in here,” you pulled him towards the edge of the pool, his irritation long forgotten as he pulled you up out of the water, smiling all bright and shiny as you giggled. “i know where we can go,” he told you, wrapping an arm around you as he led you down the path to the pool house, huffing when the door was locked. “don’t care,” you mumbled, pulling him into a kiss, stepping back until your back hit the cool brick wall, “will anyone see us here?” “no,” he shook his head without a second thought, more eager with every second, “i’ll cover you if anyone comes,”

that was all it took. you slipped your hand into his drenched boxers, wrapping your fingers around his length, pumping slowly as he moaned into your mouth. he pressed you harder against the wall, one hand pushing your underwear to the side, his fingers finding your clit immediately. your legs buckled, but he’d put his thigh between them, grinning against your lips as he held you up. “you gonna be quiet for me?” he asked, trailing his lips over your jaw, “or do you want them to hear, hm?” “i’ll be quiet,” you were breathless with want, pushing his boxers down enough to access him fully, trembling hands tightening around his cock, “just fuck me,” “so bossy,” he mumbled, rutting into your hand, “you sure you want it?” “art,” you nearly whined, brows pinched in irritation, “just fuck me, please,”

he lined himself up, holding your leg around his waist with one hand, kissing you hard enough to keep you silent as he slid into you in one motion, the familiar stretch warming you all over. if he was needy last time, there wasn’t even a good word for this, all rough thrusts and bruising grip, fucking you hard enough to leave you breathless. he pulled you other leg up, holding you against the wall, hips snapping into yours. “oh, fuck,” he moaned into your mouth, biting at your bottom lip, “close, baby,” the nickname, unimportant as it was, went straight to your core, a quiet moan leaving your throat as he shifted his hold on you, hitting just the right spot. “oh,” you nearly gasped, clenching around him, “right there, art, please-“ you came undone with a moan, trying to muffle it as you buried your head in the crook of his neck. “fuck, yes, oh my god,” he babbled, pulling out of you at the last second, your thighs slick with his cum, “fuck, i’m so sorry, didn’t bring anything to clean you off,”

“it’s fine,” you waved a dismissive hand, still catching your breath as he helped you stand upright again, his hand nestled on your low back. “cmon, i’ll wipe you off with my shirt,” he pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, leading you on shaky legs back towards the pool, grabbing his dress shirt from the chair and wiping you down gently. “atta boy, art!” one of his friends-you couldn’t keep track anymore- yelled, grinning wide and proud. “fuck off,” art just shook his head, grinning, quickly pulling his discarded jacket over your body. you yawned, letting him attempt to dress you, too exhausted to bother. “cmon, we’ll stay here tonight,” he said softly, helping you up, walking you to the back door. it didn’t budge, and a frustrated sigh left him, “jesus christ, it’s locked,” you laughed despite his irritation, the entire night too outlandish to take seriously, “pat, your fuckin parents locked the door,” he called over his shoulder to his friends lounging poolside, still passing around a bottle. “yeah, we’re sleeping out here,” he replied, like it was so obvious, “there’s a free chair, don’t be shy,”

after a brief hesitation, you were both settled on a lounge chair, art still in his boxers and you in your underwear and his oversized suit jacket. he sprawled out, pulling you to his chest, his arm covering you, “you sure you don’t wanna call a car?” he mumbled, breath warm against your cheek. “no, ‘s fine. we’ve slept weirded places,” you smiled sleepily, “wake me in the morning? i’ve got a match at 11,” “jesus,” he laughed, breathless, “yeah, i’ll wake you. night,” “mm, night art,” you pressed a kiss to his chest, already half asleep.

you woke to lawn sprinklers dusting water over you the next morning, yawning as you sat up, stretching. “art, hey,” you shook his shoulder, “get up, it’s morning,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes, “what time is it?” “i don’t even know where my phone is,” you rubbed at your forehead, the hangover in full force, “i need to go, can you call a car?” “yeah, i’ll take care of it,” he nodded, letting his head fall back against the chair as he dialed a number, wincing at the voice on the other line. he helped you back into your dress, finding your phone next to it, and waited by the door for the car too arrive. you were both quiet, the night a haze of memories between you as you waited. “i’m going to the other side of town, so i’ll send you first. don’t want you to be late,” he told you as he helped you into the car, hands lingering on your waist, “i’ll see you later, okay? i’ll be there after your match, just need to go home first,” “oh, yeah, okay,” you nodded, “i’ll see you, then,”

he hovered, like he was debating, before kissing you quickly, making sure your seatbelt was secure in the same motion. “see you soon,” he pulled away entirely too fast, closing the door behind himself, waving as the car pulled away. your head ached and swirled with questions- mainly, what were the two of you doing- the entire ride home, last night on replay like a film. you checked your phone halfway through the ride, a sigh leaving you as you saw the first notification. it was a news article, a flash photo of you curled up on arts chest, clearly taken by someone at the party. ‘tennis sweethearts? art donaldson and the golden girl cuddled up at zweig estate. see more’ “oh, fuck me,” you mumbled to yourself, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. seconds later, your phone pinged with a text from art. ‘at least you look good sleeping!’

[rheasforum]

Title: A promise

Pairing: Choi San x Reader

Genre: Period AU, romantic tension, slice of life

A/N: I just started watching When Life Gives You Tangerines, and Gwan-sik immediately reminded me of San for some odd reason.

���

The sun dipped low behind the hill, casting long shadows over the stone-lined garden path. Tangerine blossoms perfumed the breeze, and birds chirped lazily from the trees. You walked ahead of San, your hand tucked inside the pocket of his jacket, your fingers loosely tangled with his.

With your free hand, you gestured dramatically as you spoke.

“I’ve decided,” you said, glancing back at San. “I’m going to marry a rich man from Seoul. Tall. Clean. Speaks like a gentleman. Wears a suit every day.”

San blinked slowly, following a step behind. “Mm.”

“I’ll live in a big house with a tiled roof,” you continued, nose in the air. “I’ll have three children. Two boys, one girl. And a garden. A real one. Not like this.”

He glanced around at the garden—the one he tended. The one you always walked through together.

His jaw tightened. “…Mm.”

“I’ll wear pretty dresses and go shopping in Myeongdong. Eat the finest chocolate every day. Maybe I’ll even travel, go to a good college.”

You stopped in the middle of the field, the wind brushing softly past your clothes as the quiet settled between you.

San stayed quiet.

You looked at him. “Mwo? You don’t think I can do it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

He stared at you.

You stared right back.

You moved to pull your hand from his jacket.

San’s fingers tightened, yanking it back inside.

“…Wae?” you asked, startled. “What’s wrong with you?”

He stopped walking. His voice trembled—not with fear, but with frustration. With emotion. With you.

“Don’t take your hand out,” he muttered.

You blinked. “San—?”

“I might not be rich. I might never smell like cologne or wear shiny shoes,” he said, stepping closer. “Geunde… why not marry me?”

Your heart stilled.

His eyes searched yours, burning.

“Marry me,” he said again—firmer this time, the words falling from somewhere deep in his chest. “I’ll love you. Every day. Without fail. I’ll wake up just to hear your voice, and fall asleep holding your hand.”

“I’ll cherish you so deeply that even time will envy the way I look at you.”

You stood frozen.

“I’ll build you a house—small, maybe crooked, but warm. Ours. With a roof that doesn’t leak and a window where the morning sun hits your face just right.”

His voice cracked. But he kept going—rushed, sincere.

“I’ll give you children. One, two—however many you want. I’ll learn how to braid their hair, tie their shoes, and tuck them into bed after they’ve tired themselves out chasing fireflies.”

You looked away, blinking fast as tears welled in your eyes. Your free hand clenched into a quiet fist on your side, trying to keep it together.

Still, he continued.

“I’ll protect you. Feed you. Make you laugh when the world feels heavy. “

Then he exhaled hard—“Shi…”—a half-curse under his breath, breathless and aching as his free hand dragged over his face in frustration.

“If you want flowers, I’ll learn how to garden. I’ll plant every color, every petal you love until our field is blooming. So you and our kids can run barefoot, free and happy.”

He swallowed, voice soft now.

“Let me give you everything.”

He looked like he meant every word.

You didn’t move.

He took another step forward. He looked wrecked. Like he’d unraveled everything he had.

And then—he squinted at you.

His expression shifted. Horrified.

“…Why are your lips shiny?” he asked.

You blinked. “…What?”

“Why are your lips SHINY?!” he exclaimed, voice shooting up as his arm flailed dramatically. “Wae?! WAE?!”

He stomped his foot like he was short-circuiting. His entire body tensed as if the gloss had physically betrayed him.

“You never wear anything on your lips! And now—now—the one time I finally confess, they’re shiny?! Why did you put that on?!? for who?! for what?!?”

You stared, stunned—and then slowly smiled.

“…To be ready.”

He stopped moving.

“What?” he asked, breathless.

You stepped in, eyes shining.

“I’ve been ready since I was fourteen,” you sharply. “And you’re whining?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

“Paboya,” you said softly, eyes misty. “You really made me wait all this time just to pout about my lip gloss and yell at me in the middle of a field?!”

San stared at you, deer-in-headlights, brain on complete shutdown.

And then he moved in.

Too fast.

Way too fast.

Your foreheads smacked.

His lips caught the corner of your mouth—barely—and your teeth hit.

You both froze.

Pulled back at the same time.

You blinked.

“…What was that?” you asked, deadpan.

“I—I think I missed,” he stammered, horrified. “I panicked! Your face was—closer than I thought and—and shiny!”

San looked like he was about to burst into tears.

“YAH!” you snapped, smacking his arm. “How do you confess like that and kiss me like a drunk moth?!”

“I WAS NERVOUS, OKAY?!” San cried, waving his hand around. “You were right there and my brain just went—pfffft!”

You rolled your eyes and stepped closer. “You’ve had eight years.”

“I didn’t think it’d happen tonight!” he cried, pointing at you like you were the problem.

Your eyes locked.

Then—simultaneously—you burst into laughter.

Your voice softened, eyes locked on his. “Try again.”

He blinked. “Really?”

You stepped closer. “But slower this time—don’t panic.”

He nodded seriously, like you just gave him sacred instructions. “Okay.”

You leaned in again.

This time, he didn’t miss.

The kiss was warm. Gentle. Still a little shaky around the edges, but perfect in the way only a first kiss could be.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I’m gonna practice more. So I never mess up again.”

You grinned. “Good. I expect one kiss per day for the rest of my life.”

“…Per hour,” he corrected.

You rolled your eyes. “Now you’re being greedy.”

He tucked your hand deeper into his pocket and smiled, cheeks flushed.

“I’ve been greedy for you since I was ten.”

[internetdaddy98]

The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 24

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist] Content Warning: steamy; jealousy: angst; swearing ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t mean to check her location. He really didn’t.

But the app was still on his phone from that one time she got locked out of her apartment after a shift, and now—now it glared back at him like proof of weakness. Y/N: Home.

Of course she was. Because it was their week off. Because normal people used their days off to relax. Not to spiral.

He tossed his phone on the counter and paced. Again.

Three times that morning, he’d almost texted her.

Once to ask if she wanted coffee. Once to see if she’d seen the weather. And once—because he missed her. Stupid. Childish.

The jealousy from the night before still simmered beneath his skin. He could see it like snapshots behind his eyelids: the way that guy had leaned into her space. The sound of her laugh—one he hadn’t heard directed at him in weeks. The stupid way she’d blushed when the guy asked her out while she was holding gauze to his eyebrow.

Robby didn’t blame her. Not really.

He blamed himself.

For the rooftop. For letting his pride get louder than his heart.

But that didn’t change the way it felt—watching her smile at someone else. Not when she used to smile at him like that.

He grabbed his keys.

This wasn’t going to fix itself.

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

You’d spent the better part of the day in pajamas, alternating between staring at your ceiling and doom-scrolling through videos you weren’t really watching.

You weren’t expecting the knock.

You were still in the giant hoodie you’d stolen from Robby months ago, curled up on the couch with a half-drunk cup of tea and a heartache you’d been nursing like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

When you opened the door and saw him, you froze.

Robby stood there—hood down, chest rising fast, jaw clenched like he’d run here on pure adrenaline. His eyes were brewing up a storm. Wild. Angry. Wanting.

“Michael? What are you—?”

“You laughed with him,” he said, stepping inside before you could even finish.

You blinked. “What?”

“That patient,” he growled. “He was flirting with you and you laughed.”

You shut the door, spine straightening. “And that’s why you’re here?”

His eyes flashed. “You think that was easy for me to watch? You think I liked seeing him look at you like you were his to have?”

“I’m not yours either,” you snapped, chest tight.

That did it.

In two steps he was in front of you, chest to chest, eyes burning.

“You think I haven’t wanted to make you mine every damn day since you walked into that pedes room?” he said, voice low, dangerous. “You think I don’t wake up thinking about your mouth, your laugh, the way you say my name like it matters?”

You swallowed hard, heart slamming against your ribs.

“Then why—” you started, voice shaking. “Why did you push me away? Why did you let me think you didn’t care?”

“Because I was fucking terrified!” he snapped. “Terrified of how much I cared. Of how deep I was already in before I even realized it.”

You took a shaky breath, but he wasn’t done.

“I see you with other people and it kills me. That guy last night? I wanted to throw him through a fucking wall.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’m not proud of it,” he murmured. “But I’m not gonna pretend anymore.”

He stepped closer. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But if you think I’m just gonna walk away and let someone else touch what I’ve been dying to hold—”

He cupped your jaw then.

“—you’re wrong.”

Your lips parted, a protest half-formed, but he kissed you before you could say it.

And God, your body was on fire.

The kiss was not gentle. Not sweet.

It was weeks of unresolved tension, frustration, jealousy, and lust, all crashing into each other like a dam breaking. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. Your fingers clutched at his shirt like you needed something to anchor you.

You gasped when his mouth broke from yours and trailed down your jaw, your neck.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered against your skin. “Every damn shift. Every time you smile at someone else. Every time you walk away.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed.

You blinked. “That’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair is you pretending you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he growled. “Walking around the ER, laughing with every idiot who gets five minutes of your attention. Acting like you’re not mine.”

Your breath caught.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whispered.

“You’re mine, Y/N,” he said, voice low and possessive. “I don’t care if it’s messy or complicated or if the whole damn hospital knows. I’m done watching someone else look at what’s mine.”

“I thought you didn’t want me,” you whispered.

“I lied.”

Silence thundered between you.

“I lied because I was afraid,” he said. “Because I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”

He took your face in his hands, gaze dark and raw.

“But then you walked in, and every rule I’ve ever followed stopped mattering. Every night I went home and couldn’t sleep because I could still smell you on my scrubs. Every shift I memorized the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, the way you bite your lip when you’re charting, the sound of your laugh when you actually let someone in.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, throat tight.

“And when I saw him touching you,” Robby said, stepping forward until your back hit the door, “it felt like someone was trying to take you from me.”

You gasped. “Michael…”

“Say you’re not mine,” he whispered, mouth inches from yours. “Say it, and I’ll leave.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

And that’s all it took.

He crashed into you with a growl, mouth claiming yours like he’d been starving for it. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you up against the door, and you wrapped your legs around him without a second thought.

His kiss was fire and fury—angry, aching, desperate. Your hands clutched at his hoodie, tugging him closer, anchoring yourself to the only thing that felt real in the mess.

“You think anyone else gets to see you like this?” he whispered against your mouth. “Touch you like this? Never. You’re mine, Y/N. Only mine.”

You moaned into the kiss, and that sound—God, it undid him.

He carried you to the couch, laying you down like something precious, like something that had always been his, and tonight—finally—he could have you.

His mouth found your neck, your jaw, the spot beneath your ear that made you shiver.

“I should’ve said this months ago,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Should’ve claimed you the second I realized what this was.”

You arched into him, body aching for more.

“You still can,” you whispered.

His mouth met yours again—hot, possessive, and full of every word he hadn’t said until now.

Mine.

Yours.

[ledesaid]

Recipe #2 – To Bring Out the Best in Oneself └┴┐└┴┐└┴┐└┴┐ (Billy Batson's Magical Recipe Guide for Healing Almost Everything)

Shayera: Cap, we’re in position—are you coming?

Marvel: Sure! Give me a few minutes while I fix something...

The red marker was sliding erratically across the bound old scrolls: “literally extracts everything” right below “a pinch?”

Shayera: Is everything okay, Cap?

Marvel: Ah, it’s nothing. I just bottled Barry’s soul in this little bottle.

The slight shaking of the bottle before Shayera left her breathless.

Marvel: I’m looking for a recipe to put it back into him.

With a subtle juggling motion, the little bottle was handed to Shayera, who tensed up and held her breath... Was she holding Barry’s soul?!

Marvel: The proportions and effects aren’t well specified! What would you think if someone described it as 'a generous pinch'? It’d definitely mean one or two tiny pinches—not a whole fist!

Another scribble in the grand golden book.

Marvel: Because look at it! It extracted far too much essence! You know, this morning I was supposed to whip up a simple recipe to bring out the best in a person, but that pinch of life dust caused this minor problem. These ancient wizards were far too careless—they didn’t mention in the instructions that it extracts souls if mixed wrong! I’ve said it before, but if I hadn’t added more cosmic dust, I’d have ended up with another bottle holding his spirit. *He lowered his voice as he flipped through page after page.* So now I’m searching for another recipe to put it back in.

...

Marvel: By any chance, you wouldn’t happen to know how to spell “reinsert” in ancient Aramaic, would you?

Shayera: No... sorry, Captain. That’s definitely a bit beyond the reach of my reincarnations.

Marvel: Heavens! Do you think Vandal Savage might know how?

Shayera: Ehmm, I don’t think it’s a good idea to ask a villain about it, Cap...

Marvel: I know, but I don’t know many living people who have learned that language.

-----

Part 1