#or maybe I’ll just do it because I like them

[hanniebaeee]

Call It What You Want

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI

Genre: friends with benefits to lovers, smut, fluff

Summary: You and Hyunjin have been doing this 'friends with benefits' thing for a while now. But let's be real. You love him. And when he starts showing similar feelings, you're terrified. And it leads to a whole lot of Hyunjin-style drama.

“Fuck, princess,” Hyunjin groaned, voice wrecked, “you’re so tight.”

He had you pinned to the bed, as he fucked you like the world’s about to end. His hips snapped against yours, each thrust hitting so deep you’re seeing stars. Galaxies even. His lips were on your neck, sucking bruises - which would have your art class whispering for weeks.

You pressed your eyes shut, losing yourself in him completely. The way he moved in and out of you. The soft wet sounds that filled the room. And him whispering the filthiest things in your ear.

You were barely coherent, nails digging into his back, pulling him closer. Hyunjin had this glint in his eye, as he shifted slightly, hitting that spot, and you choked out a moan, tugging at his short dark strands.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers circling your clit, and your orgasm hit you so hard, and you whimpered his name, clenching around him so tight, making him curse.

His thrusts turned sloppy as he whispered, “Fuck, that’s it,”

He came just as hard, burying himself deep inside you, and you were both panting, sweaty messes when he finally collapsed beside you. Pulling you close, he kissing your temple, and you let yourself enjoy it, just for a second.

It started about an year ago at a frat party you were dragged to by your friend, Jennie. You’d been sulking in a corner, nursing a warm beer, when Hyunjin, already tipsy, waltzed over, and declared you “the hottest grump he’d ever seen.” You’d scoffed at him, but in less than ten minutes, you had somehow ended up making out in his room upstairs.

One thing led to another, and now you were in this absurd, hilarious mess called, friends with benefits.

---

Hyunjin: You left your glasses on my nightstand. I can bring it over

You: Bring it to class tomorrow

Hyunjin: I’m keeping them hostage. 

You: Hyunjin 🙄

Hyunjin: Sleepover tomorrow? I’ll make pancakes.  

You: Maybe. But only for the pancakes.  

Hyunjin: Liar. You want my pancakes and you know what.

Hyunjin: Night, Nerd Queen 😘

You: Night, Hwang.  

---

You smiled at your phone, heart doing that stupid flip again. You knew you shouldn't be feeling like this. You two were friends with benefits. Fuck buddies. But every time you were with him, you fell for his stupid smile and his childish self way harder than you liked to admit. 

It was a Friday night, and you were curled up in your dorm, binge-watching a new series, when your phone started buzzing.

Hyunjin's frat was organizing a party, and he was probably charming the socks off everyone with his stupidly perfect face. You were trying to stay strong - no running to him tonight - because if you kept giving in to his every whim, he would surely figure out that you were completely, pathetically in love with his dramatic ass. 

And that was a secret you kept locked in a vault.

But Hyunjin? He wasn't making it easy. Your phone lit up again, and you caved, glancing at the screen.

---

Hyunjin: Babbyyyyyy where are you 😭 This party sucks without you! 

Hyunjin: Seriously, come over. I miss your face.  

You: You’re drunk, aren’t you? I’m staying in. Go flirt with your bros. 

Hyunjin: Drunk? Me? Pshh. Ok maybe a lil. But I only wanna flirt with youuuu.

Hyunjin: Come over, I’m lonely.

You: Lonely? Go cuddle Felix.

Hyunjin: Felix doesn’t moan like u do. 

You: Nope. I’m in my PJs, and I'm comfy. You’re on your own tonight.  

Hyunjin: I'm coming to you then. Can't escape me.  

You: Hyunjin, no. Stay at your party. You’re too drunk to walk across campus.  

Hyunjin: Too late. I'm on my way. Gonna cuddle you so hard you forget ur own name. 😤  

You: Oh my god. 

Hyunjin: I'm gonna climb into your bed and never leave. 

You: I’m locking my door.  

Hyunjin: You won't. You love me too much. 😘 Be there in 10. Wear that sweater I like.

---

You groaned, tossing your phone onto your bed. You should lock your door, but you don’t. Instead, you fix your hair, pull on that oversized sweater (the one he liked, because apparently you’re weak). Your heart did that stupid fluttery thing again, and you hated it. You were supposed to be the cool, studious introvert. But here you were. 

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on your door. You opened it, and there he was, looking like a dishevelled Greek god. His short hair and forehead glistening with sweat, his cheeks flushed, and his leather jacket slipping off one shoulder.

He gave you a sunny smile, his eyes lighting up when he saw you.

“My girl!” he slurred, stumbling forward and wrapping you in a sloppy hug. He smelled like beer and his cologne, and it was so unfairly intoxicating. “Told ya I’d come. Missed you so much.”

“You’re so drunk, Jinnie,” you said, but you were smiling as you guided him inside, shutting the door. “How did you even make it across campus without falling into a bush?”

“Love,” he declared dramatically, flopping onto your bed. “Love gave me wings.”

He patted the bed, saying “C’mere, nerd. I need cuddles.”

Then he decided that he couldn't wait, and grabbed your wrist, tugging you down next to him. You landed with a squeak, and he immediately buried his face in your neck, nuzzling like a needy puppy.

“Fuck, you smell so good. Like… home and sexy books.”

“Sexy books?” You laughed, pushing at his chest, but he’s clinging to you like a koala. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he mumbled. “God, I love you.”

He's drunk, you remind yourself. He doesn’t mean it. But your poor heart wished that he did. Meanwhile, his hands slid under your sweater, and you yelped as his cold fingers grazed you stomach to move up and cup your breasts.

“Hyunjin! Your hands are freezing!”

“Then warm me up,” he whined, and before you could stop him, he was crawling under your sweater, tugging it up and burrowing into it. “Lemme in, it’s cozy in there.”

“Oh my god, you won't fit under my sweater!” you laughed.

He was wiggling, his head and shoulders all the way under the fabric.

“You’re gonna rip it!” you squealed, but he just hummed, pressing his face into the space between your breasts. 

“Worth it,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “Wanna live here forever. You’re so soft. And warm.”

You were dying, torn between shoving him off and melting at how stupidly cute he was. He was still trying to fit into your sweater, but finally gave up with a huff and whine and said, “Fine.”

And then settled for wrapping his entire body around you instead. He threw a leg over yours, arms squeezing you tight, face buried in your chest (half submerged in your sweater).

“This’ll do. For now.” he said, and you hummed, stroking his back. 

“You’re such a baby,” you said, and you both remained silent as his breathing slowed and you thought he was falling asleep. But then he murmured, “Love you…so fucking much. You’re my everything.”

Your heart stopped. You froze, hand still on his back, waiting for him to laugh it off or say something dumb. But he just snuggled closer, sighing like he was finally at peace. You swallowed hard, emotions bubbling up.

You loved him too. His childish giggles, his unhinged texts - but saying it felt too big, too scary. So you just hold him, letting the moment linger.

“Sleep, you idiot,” you whispered, kissing the top of his head (poking out through the neckline of your sweater). He hummed, already half-gone, and soon he was snoring softly, clinging to you like you’re his lifeline.

---

Hubby: Morning, wifey 😘 You're so cute when you sleep. Didn't wanna wanna wake you up. Let's go get some breakfast?

You: WIFEY? You changed your contact name to HUBBY? Hyunjin, I’m going to murder you.  

Hubby: Murder your husband? Harsh, babe.

You: You’re not my husband. You’re a silly boy who needs to stop stealing my phone.  

Hubby: I don’t have to steal anything. You're mine. Your phone’s mine. Deal with it, nerd.

You: You're delusional.

Hubby: Call it what you want

Hubby: Now come gimme a kiss, I’m dying😩  

---

You rolled your eyes, yet you were grinning like an idiot before kicking your feet and squealing into your pillow.

---

Later that day, you were in the library, trying to study, but Hyunjin had other plans. 

---

Hubby: Wifey, I’m lonely 😢 Lets study together. 

You: Stop calling me that. And I’m not falling for your tricks. I’m studying.  

Hubby: Tricks? Don't be so mean my love

You: I’m muting you.  

Hubby: You can’t mute your soulmate. Be real fir once, you can't resist me. 

You:  You're so full of yourself.

Hubby: Come over and you'll be full of me too 😉

You: Omg HYUNJIN. 

Hubby: Lmao you're so easy to rile up. Ok, I’ll be good. Love u, wifey. 

---

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. He was so stupidly endearing, and you hated how much you loved it. You were about to reply when a shadow fell over your table. You looked up, and there stood Hyunjin, holding a coffee and grinning. 

“Surprise, wifey!” he said, loud enough for it to echo through the library. He slid into the seat across from you, completely ignoring everyone’s glares. “Coffee for my love.”

“You’re not my husband,” you hissed, but you took the coffee. “And how are you even here? Don’t you have class?”

“Nope,” he said, leaning forward, chin in his hands. “Had to see you. I knew you'd be wearing those glasses and looking so cute…makes me wanna bend you over this table.”

Your jaw dropped, and you kicked him under the table. “Hyunjin! We’re in a library!”

He laughed, unbothered, and grabbed your hand, kissing your knuckles.

“Can’t help it.” 

You snatched your hand back, face burning.

“You’re insane. Go away before I get kicked out.”

“Nope,” he said again, scooting closer until his knee brushed yours. “I’m staying. Gotta protect my wife from nerdy predators.”

He winked, and you were so torn, because you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe this was real. But this whole thing started off on sex. And you were worried that he'd get bored and he'd get over you. 

You tried to focus on your notes, but Hyunjin was making it absolutely impossible - humming softly, doodling “Mr. & Mrs. Hwang” in your notebook. You give him a glare and yanked your book away, ruining the cute doodle he was working on. 

He gave you a pouty look, and you narrowed your eyes at him. The usual Hyunjin would whine or tackle you into a hug. But he did none of that. Instead he stood up, putting your pen down as he held your gaze, and then just walked away. 

You watched him disappear, and for the first time ever, you were terrified. 

It has been three days since the library incident, and you’re losing your mind. No “wifey,” no texts about bending you over a library table. 

Nothing. Just… silence. The worst part? You missed it. You missed his childish whining, his needy cuddles, his sweet face. You tried to play it cool, but by day four, you were a mess.

You had just finished class and were walking towards the campus cafe, when you spotted him. Hyunjin. Reading. You did a double take, nearly spilling your drink. Since when did Hwang Hyunjin, read a book that thick? He was sitting under a tree, leaning against the trunk, looking so soft in his hoodie and glasses (glasses?!). Your heart squeezed, but you were also annoyed.

You marched over, plopping down next to him. He glanced up, one eyebrow raised, and went back to his book. No grin, no nothing. Just a cool, “Hey.”

“Hey?” you repeated, incredulous. “That’s it? Why are you ignoring me?”

He closed his book, looking at you with a neutral expression that was so unlike him it was creepy.

“I’m not ignoring you. I’m just… reading.”

“Reading?” You narrowed your eyes. “You haven’t spoken to me in days. What’s your deal?”

He shrugged, and said, “Figured you were sick of my ‘needy bullshit.’ You kept telling me to stop, so I stopped.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. He was being… serious?

“I didn’t mean stop everything. You’re acting like we’re strangers.” you snapped.

“I’m giving you space,” he said, his voice is tight. “You said I was too much. So, here’s not-too-much Hyunjin. Happy?”

Happy? You were miserable. But he was staring at you, all sulky and gorgeous, and you realized that he was on strike. No kisses, no touching, no sex. He was punishing you for resisting, and oh, it was working.

“You’re pouting,” you said, poking his cheek.

He swatted your hand away, but there was a flicker of his usual playfulness.

“Am not,” he muttered, turning back to his book. “Go study or whatever. I’m fine.”

You stared, heart twisting. He was hurt, and you did this. You pushed him away, and now he has dialled it back to zero. But you weren't letting him win this. You needed your Hyunjin back, drama and all.

You couldn't take another day of this cold-shoulder nonsense. You mustered the courage for what you were about to do, and walked to the frat house. Ignoring the party raging downstairs, you headed straight for Hyunjin’s room. You didn't knock - you just barged in, and there he was, at his desk, sketching. He was in a loose tank top, hair messy, pencil moving with that focused intensity that made him look so unfairly hot. He glanced up, startled, then leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Ever heard of knocking?” he asked, but there was a spark in his eyes, like he'd been waiting for you.

“Nope,” you said, shutting the door. “We need to talk.”

He raised an eyebrow, playing it cool, but that pout’s still there, lingering. “Talk then. I’m listening.”

You took a deep breath, heart pounding. You’ve been resisting him for months, pretending you were not in love with him. But you were done fighting. You reached into your pocket and pull out the ring pop you had bought on a whim at the campus store - a cheap plastic band with a strawberry-flavored candy “diamond.” It was ridiculous, but you were desperate.

“Hyunjin,” you said, stepping closer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you away. I was scared. Because I have wanted more for a while now. I don't want to be someone you sleep with. I wanna be more. I miss you. I miss being your wifey. I miss you so damn much.”

His eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything, so you kept going, holding up the candy ring.

“You wanna be my husband? Fine. Here’s your ring. Marry me, you idiot.”

For a second, he just stared, and you felt like you'd broken him. Then his face blooms - eyes sparkling, cheeks flushing, grin so wide it could overshadow the sun. He looked so happy, so Hyunjin, it was like the room got brighter.

“Wifey,” he breathed, voice shaking. “You’re proposing? With a candy ring? Fuck, that’s so cute. I think I'm gonna cry.”

“Please don’t cry,” you said, but you’re grinning too, heart racing. “Just say yes so I can stop feeling like an idiot.”

“Yes yes yes,” he said, jumping up and grabbing your face, kissing you so hard you stumbled back. His lips were soft and desperate, and you kissed him back, hands tangling in his hair, and it was like the world snapped back into place. He was yours, drama and all, and you were his.

The kiss deepened, all tongue and heat, and you were both gasping, pulling at each other like you’ve been starved. He lifted you onto his desk, knocking over his pencils and sketchbooks, and you laughed against his mouth.

“Careful, Hubby,” you teased, and he groaned, kissing you harder.

“Say it again,” he murmured, hands sliding under your shirt, warm and needy. “Please.”

“Hubby,” you whispered and he practically whimpered, pressing himself closer, lips trailing down your neck. You made out for what felt like hours, all sloppy kisses and wandering hands, until your lips were swollen and your hearts pounding.

Finally, you pulled back, both of you panting. He had the candy ring on his finger, and he looked so genuinely happy and excited.

“I love you so much,” he said, holding up his hand to admire the ring. “Strawberry’s my favorite.”

“You’re such a dork,” you mumbled, but you were beaming, because he’s your dork. “I love you, Jinnie.”

---

Hubby: My heart’s gonna explode.  

You: You survived the strike, you’ll live.

Hubby: Never. You looked so hot with that ring, though. Oh fuck, I'm hard again. 

You: HYUNJIN. Behave for five seconds.  

Hubby: Can’t. I’m married to the hottest nerd ever. I’m gonna kiss you forever.

You: I love you baby

Hubby: Fuck, I love you. My wifey. My nerdy goddess. I’m never shutting up again, you know that, right?  

You: Good. I missed your dramatic ass. 

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes

[dexxtrosee]

Safekeeping

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!reader

Summary: A baby got to the ER thirty minutes ago and hasn't stopped crying since. It's starting to get on everyone's nerves. He is, unfortunately, the one in charge, so it's his problem to deal with.

A/N: Set a few months after the last episode of The Pitt's S1. Mind you, this was supposed to be me testing the waters with the fandom and instead I got dunked, I just can't get this man out of my head. Oh well. Part one, I guess?

There´s a baby crying two rooms away from the one he’s at. 

The baby hasn’t stopped crying in thirty minutes, a world of difference from the case Robby is currently using as a teaching lesson for Santos and Whitaker. He doesn’t need to be a genius in emotional expression to notice she’s bored to death, while Whitaker seems relieved to be away from an immediate life threatening situation for once. He won’t admit it, not even to Dana, but he is using it as both a punishment for her and a break for him. He barely got between her and an abusive mother just a few hours ago before they drew blood. He managed to save Santos from being escorted out in cuffs along with the mother by sheer force of willpower and some favors owed by the cops.

And he won’t say it to her either, but if he were thirty years younger and a tad more stupid, that would have been him. She doesn’t need to know that, though.

“Are you a smoker, miss Rossi?”

The lady, a seventy year old woman who insists on them calling her miss, because she’s “divorced, dammit”, shakes her head and turns to look at her granddaughter. Robby can practically hear her thoughts (Can you believe this boy?) and has to bite back a chuckle. 

“Do you, by any chance, often cook on firewood?”

Miss Rossi shakes her head again, this time with an added eye roll. The baby hasn’t stopped crying. 

Whitaker is starting to play with his hands, glancing nervously at the granddaughter and at Santos. The boredom seems to have eased a bit, now replaced by amusement from seeing the poor boy suffer. Robby doesn’t interfere. 

“Have you done strenuous activity recently?”

At this, the teenage girl sitting by her side perks up, glancing at her grandmother with pursed lips. Robby smiles when Whitaker catches it and latches onto it like a starved animal. 

“Maybe cleaning around the house? Too long walks? Heavy lifting?”

Miss Rossi finally seems to think about it. Santos starts fidgeting where she’s standing, checking her watch. He suppresses a sigh and writes a mental note about mentioning it to her. The baby hasn’t stopped crying. 

“Well, I went with the kids to the park this morning. Had to chase them around when they grabbed the youngest and put her inside the basket of one of the bikes! Can you believe it? Those fuckers.”

They all let out some chuckles and sighs of relief. 

“Are you from Allegheny, miss Rossi?”

She nods, smiling for the first time since they both got here. “Born and raised, boy.”

Robby nods at him, giving him a thumbs up. Santos tries to hide her own smile. 

“Alright, seems you can handle this one.” Robby glares briefly at Santos, and she nods with so much annoyance he shakes his head. “I’ll go check on other cases, call me if anything happens.”

He doesn’t wait to see the answers, just steps out and walks straight to the room with the crying baby. 

Before he enters, he notices Dana standing inside and talking softly to, he assumes, the mother. She has her back to him, shoulders shaking and head hung low. Samira and McKay are bent over a cradle. A hole inside his stomach appears when he notices how anxious they both seem to be. 

“Good morning, I’m doctor Robinavitch. What seems to be the problem here?”

Dana turns, frowning and looking at him like he’s the worst thing to happen to her today. He reels back slightly, tries to peek behind her back. She shakes her head, motions him to fuck off. 

McKay doesn’t move. Samira stands up straight like he just pulled her back string, nervous. “All good, sir. We can handle this one, no worries.”

Robby frowns, bites back the need to tell them all off. “Well, that poor thing hasn’t stopped crying in more than half an hour. Are you sure?”

McKay waves at him from her bent position, shaking her head furiously without actually turning to look at him. 

Without saying anything, he turns to Dana again. She sighs, lets go of the mother’s hands and pushes him out of the room with no explanation. Before she closes back the curtain, he tries and fails to catch a glance at the mother.

“What the fuck is going on?”

He loves Dana, he truly does. Still, sometimes he wishes he could work with someone less hardheaded. He has enough of it in himself.

“She doesn’t want any men near her baby.”

Robby tilts his head, frowns deeper. “Should I call the cops?”

Something inside him burns and itches when Dana shakes her head. “They’re already aware of anything worth reporting.”

Robby nods, clenches his hands. He doesn’t know what to do with himself when the baby lets out a louder cry. “What the hell is wrong then? They haven’t figured it out yet? Should I bring Collins here?”

She’s busy dealing with a broken leg from a teenage boy that got too excited with his skateboard, but the cries are starting to get on everyone’s nerves, he can see it. 

“Maybe you should, yeah.”

“Fuck.”

He turns away, walks to Langdon and grabs him away from the nurse bay. He doesn’t protest, hasn’t since he came back last month. It still weirds Robby out. 

“I need you to finish Collins’ case, she has to help out with a different one.”

“I can do it,” The need for approval drips from his words. It still twists Robby’s chest. He shakes his head, doesn’t explain, pushes him inside and motions Collins out with just a smile to the parents.

“Need you to help in Room Two, I’m sorry.”

She gets it immediately, smiles softly and nods. She’s trying again, Robby knows. Still, he’s tried his best to keep her away from any babies. 

When they go back, Dana steps out and grabs Robby. He lets her lead him to the corner between rooms, crossing his arms. “I’m not going anywhere near the baby unless it’s completely necessary, I know. What now?”

“She wants to talk to you.”

The mother, he guesses. He nods, interlaces his fingers and then unthreads them when he notices how tense he feels from it. 

“Just… be gentle, Robby. She looks six seconds away from throwing up out of stress.”

There are so many things he could say to that. Instead, he just nods. Dana goes inside, doesn’t come out again.

When the mom steps out, the first thing that crosses his mind is “wow, holy shit”.

Then he starts berating himself because, holy fuck, what the hell was that?

You take a few steps closer to him, playing with your fingers, and cleaning a few stray tears away from your face. His hands twitch by his sides.

“Hi.”

Dear God, take him now. Warmth spreads all over his chest when your voice reaches his ears. 

“Hello,” he starts. He has to clear his throat before continuing. “Dana mentioned you wanted to talk to me, I’m doctor Robinavitch. Or Doctor Robby, if you prefer.”

You nod, trying and failing to smile at him. “Nice to meet you. Are you… like, the boss around here?”

He nods, unsure of how you may react. He doesn’t notice any disgust or annoyance, but there’s no positive reaction either. He relaxes his shoulders and makes sure to leave his hands visible. 

“Indeed I am. What can I do for you?”

He has to hold his breath when you raise your head to look at him straight to his eyes. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Can you make sure no male nurses or doctors come near her?”

Irrationally, he wants to sit you down and make you spit out any and all information about your baby. Why you seem so scared one second and ready for combat the next, why your eyes are so pretty, why you don’t let him near the babygirl.

Instead, he just nods, asks softly “Is there anything or anyone we should be worried about?” 

You shake your head, give him a satisfied smile that seems to pull the ground from under him. “No, not anymore.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He feels lightheaded, unsure of where he stands. You tilt your head slightly, then jump when Collins comes out. He realizes now that the crying stopped. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but can we have a word?”

Your face falls. It makes him irrationally mad, wants to twist the world around until you’re smiling again. He doesn’t move.

“What’s wrong? Is it serious?”

Collins puts her hand on your hand in an effort to comfort you, shaking her head. He glares at her hand like it personally offended him. “Nothing serious, it seems like she just had an allergic reaction to formula. Could you tell me which one she's taking?”

It’s almost like he vanishes into thin air as soon as there’s something related to the baby anywhere near you. You turn around, back to him while you pull up a picture in your phone and show it to Heather. She nods and smiles, letting you know it’s nothing too bad. He notices your entire body relaxing, and the tips of his ears turn red. 

“So what should I do at home now?”

The anxiety you exude makes him tense, almost angry. He’s bothered by not being able to get an actual look at the situation, relegated to talking to you only and away from what seems to be the center of your universe. He takes a deep breath to try and push out the uncomfortable feeling of uselessness.

“We would like to keep her here, at least for today just to keep an eye on how she reacts with different formulas, and maybe give her some fluids in case she’s dehydrated.” Heather’s voice is tender, gentle in a way he’s not sure he could manage now, not after so many years of hoping it would help and seeing it turn people into aggressive maniacs. 

But you just nod, pocketing your phone before turning back to look at him again and knocking the air out of his lungs. 

He's sure he's earned his year in Hell when faint excitement blooms as he realizes you'll be around for a few hours. He doesn't understand what's happening, why he's acting like a teenage boy with a crush or a fresh student handling his first case with an attractive person. Fuck. Fuck.

“Can you make sure the people from other shifts respect what I ask?”

He’s already mentally preparing his speech for Jack. “Of course. And I’ll see if we can keep you here along with your baby, just to be safe.” 

You beam at him, and once again, he feels like the Earth tilts under him. “Thank you, doctor Robby.”

He notices Dana staring at him from inside the room, grinning.

Oh, he’s absolutely fucked.

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

AO3

[hot-patootiee]

Eddie wholeheartedly believes that Steve and Robin are dating, but instead of backing off or “respecting their relationship” he fully commits to making Steve break up with her and date him.

Eddie is frustrated, like can’t Steve see that Eddie is perfect for him?

Even Eddie has morals, so he has to get them to break up because who would feel secure in a relationship with a cheater?

Robin and Steve fully deny that they’re dating, but when they’re bunked together at a party, Eddie will not let it stand. He’s sitting at the edge of their shared bed with a cup of water, all three of them sitting on the blanket.

Then Eddie laughs especially hard at Steve’s joke and purposely dumps that water on Robin. He immediately starts feigning apologies, pulling her to the bathroom, getting her a change of clothes.

But when she comes back, she finds Eddie has stolen her spot in bed with Steve. They’re joking around, Eddie leaning on Steve in a way that just begins to suggest his actions are not entirely platonic and laughing a little too hard. She catches a glimpse of Steve’s hand on Eddie’s thigh and smiles.

Robin doesn’t say anything though, assuming Eddie made a mistake and just got comfortable while she was getting changed. Robin just grabs her shit and heads to the guest room Eddie was supposed to stay in.

Events like this happen several times.

…

Robin puts popcorn in the microwave on movie night. She returns to her spot next to Steve, but when Eddie gets there he looks a little annoyed, taking a seat between Robin and the other end of the couch.

Then under the guise of checking on the popcorn, he goes into the kitchen. He comes back quickly and Robin thinks nothing of it.

When 3 minutes later, the microwave finally goes off, Robin hops up and goes to the kitchen. She opens the microwave and immediately gets hit with the smell of burned popcorn.

She spends a while in the kitchen, grieving her popcorn and throwing it out, popping a new bag in the microwave. She sets it, assuming she simply set the wrong time before.

When she walks back to the room, Eddie is basically cuddling Steve. He’s curled around Steve like a happy cat. Steve’s hand is essentially on Eddie’s ass and holding him there.

Robin bitterly sneers when she realizes she didn’t mess up the time on the popcorn.

…

Robin and Steve conversation as soon as Eddie is gone:

Robin: You know your embarrassing crush on Eddie? Guess what? He has a crush on you too!

Steve: No, he doesn’t.

Robin: Eddie spilled water on me and burned the popcorn, so he could cuddle with you! Not to mention the time he dumped trash juice on me so he could have time alone with you! How could he not be clearer?

Steve: Eddie wouldn’t do that.

Robin glares at him.

Steve: okay, maybe he would.

Robin: Just fix it. I’d rather not be in a one sided Cold War with Eddie Munson.

(If you ask nicely I’ll write the trash juice story. Or meanly I don’t care)

[formulaonecrumbs]

maybe a weird requests but would you be comfortable writing reader convincing lando to let her use a strap on on him, and him bottoming for her for the first time... 👀

his first time

Lando Norris x softdom!reader

summary: lando lets you take control for the first time, trusting you completely

warnings: smut (18+), strap-on use, pegging, bottom!lando, dom!reader, first time, praise

A/N: thank u anon for the request!!! this is my first time writing PROPER smut. keep both hands on the screen 😑🫵 don’t worry i’m not uncomfortable, i’ll honestly write anything. i just get hesitant writing smut because i feel like i don’t write it well. reminder: i’m a virgin. i have no clue what i’m writing about because i’ve never done it. also this is pegging right (i’m not this innocent but this shit is confusing me)? can a guy get pegged in missionary while on his back? IDK but i wrote it that way so y’all will have to live with that image. i mostly only know anything about lesbian sex 🤷‍♀️ i hope u enjoy it anyways, regardless of my lack of knowledge on sex. love uuuuu ❤️

p.s. no moodboard cause i couldn’t find the right pics for it

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

you’d talked about it before—soft, tentative conversations that started as jokes and turned into curious glances, heat blooming between you both. the idea of it lingered, never pushed, never pressured. but tonight, it hangs in the air differently. heavier. more real.

lando’s lying back on the bed, freshly showered, the skin of his stomach still damp and warm under your palms as you straddle his hips. there’s nervousness in his eyes, but not fear—more like anticipation, a quiet kind of trust that makes your chest ache with how much you love him.

“we can stop if you don’t like it,” you whisper, fingers tracing gentle patterns up his sides. “the second you want to stop, you just tell me.”

he nods, licking his lips. “i know. i want to try. with you.”

his voice is soft, but there’s something raw underneath it, something that makes you want to kiss him until he forgets how to breathe.

you lean down, lips brushing against his jaw. “you’re gonna be so good for me, baby.”

lando shudders under you, his hands gripping the sheets like he doesn’t trust them to stay steady if they touch you. you kiss down his neck, slow and warm, dragging your tongue along his collarbone. your hand slips between his thighs, cupping him through the soft fabric of his briefs, and he moans—quiet and high-pitched, his hips twitching up into your touch.

“fuck,” he whispers. “you make me feel so—”

“i know,” you say, slipping his briefs down slowly, baring him inch by inch. “let me take care of you tonight.”

his whole body flushes at that—he’s already hard, already aching for it, and you haven’t even touched him properly yet. you take your time, letting him feel every second of your mouth on his skin, your hands guiding him through every shift and change. he watches you the whole time—eyes wide, lips parted, like he’s seeing something sacred.

when you finally press a kiss to the inside of his thigh and move to grab the toy, he exhales like he’s been holding it in all day. he watches you put the strap on, watches how natural and confident you are in it, and you swear you see awe flicker in his eyes.

“ready?” you ask, settling between his legs again, one hand stroking up his side.

lando nods. “yeah. just—go slow?”

“of course, baby.”

you prep him carefully, fingers slick with lube, coaxing him open with soft praise and kisses. he’s breathless and flushed, his head thrown back into the pillows as you work him open, and the sounds he makes—fuck, they’re beautiful. every gasp, every stuttered breath, every little moan when you hit the right spot.

by the time you finally slide inside, it’s like the world stills.

lando lets out a broken moan, hips trembling, hands reaching out blindly for you. you catch them, lace your fingers with his and hold tight.

“you’re doing so good,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth. “look at you, taking me so well.”

he whines—actually whines—and your whole body lights up.

you move slow, letting him adjust, watching his face for every flicker of discomfort or pleasure. and when he starts to rock his hips into yours, chasing the friction, you know he’s ready. you start thrusting gently, finding a rhythm that has him gasping, moaning your name like it’s the only thing he knows how to say.

“fuck—please, don’t stop,” he begs, voice wrecked. “feels so good, i—fuck—please.”

you lean down, kiss him hard, deep, messy. “you’re mine like this, lando. you know that?”

he nods desperately, thighs trembling around your waist. “yours. all yours.”

you reach down, wrap your hand around his cock, stroking him in time with your thrusts, and he unravels—completely. his back arches off the bed, head thrown back, a long moan spilling from his lips as he comes, shaking under you, breathless and wrecked.

you slow down, easing out gently, kissing his chest, his neck, his cheeks. he’s flushed and beautiful, dazed in the way that only comes from being completely, utterly ruined.

“you okay?” you whisper, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

he nods, smiling so softly it makes your heart ache. “more than okay.”

you curl up beside him, his arms pulling you close like he never wants to let go.

“you liked it?” you ask, nuzzling into his shoulder.

“i loved it,” he breathes. “love you.”

you grin against his skin. “love you too, baby.”

and in that soft, breathless silence after, with your body pressed close to his and your name still trembling on his lips, you know he meant every word.

THE END :>

[bunnwich]

Same anon about the Leona bf Hcs....I'm also curious, do you have any ICKS when it comes to how people portray Leona romantically? plspls, I wanna get controversial.

My Leona Boyfriend HC Icks

(This is subjective, but you asked! Idk why I wanted to answer this ask before your other one… I guess I felt some type of way. It's a bit more ranty/bitchy so be forewarned. I’ve been in the fandom since the ENG release, so I've seen a lot of stuff that personally icks me. Dw I’ll get to your other ask!!)

Btw, I know some ppl won't like some of these opinions, but it's just my personal preferences at the end of the day! Friendly reminder: I am not the authority on Leona Kingscholar nor do I claim to be!!!

STINKY (But not metaphorically)

Why? He is an athlete and a prince? All the athletes I know bathe MORE than other ppl bc they get sweaty.  Besides…we all have bad hygiene when we aren't doing well mentally? So, this HC at best is just gross, and at WORST is offensive.  Also, just a question for ppl who do STILL this: Why would you WANT him to stink??? I never understood this mindset, even if he WAS that lazy. I simply wouldn’t wanna HC that he stinks. I love myself. GFBHNJM (Idia seems to get this stinky boy treatment too WHYY??? Sorry, I choose to believe my man smells good.)

HERBIVORE. (The H-Word)

I think where people lose me fast in Leona fics is hitting me over the head with the word “herbivore.” Honestly…he doesn't use the word as much as people think?? And I don’t think he would call his S/O at all. I find it mean? Because of the Japanese context of this word, and just the literal meaning. I think of it as more akin to the word “whimp” or “weakling.” It's not…cute to me? He doesn’t even use it for the MC later in the game as much. So, unless you're a lion beastman or fellow carnivore, I’d expect prey nicknames. Kitten, mouse, bird, bunny, etc. He even likens the MC to a “kitten” in a few voicelines. Just makes more sense to me, idk. Think of the silly nicknames he has for the canon cast. That or you know…he’d just use your name.

BRUTE BOYFRIEND

He's rude, sure. But no…Leona is NOT beating anyone up for looking/flirting with you. Would he be annoyed, maybe even secretly furious? Sure. But, he's not a “brute strength" kinda guy who uses his fists. (It’s almost like it's his main battle line!) If someone truly hurt you or did something off-color, he’d probably send someone else to do the dirty work to intimidate or deal with them.  In a real fight, OFC he'd defend you, but fighting cause some guy winked at you? NO. I don’t personally believe so. He’s a grown man with high intelligence, so I think high school like beef would be a bit beneath him?? At least he'd have one of his goons go do it.

ALOOF BOYFRIEND

I think where a lot of ppl lose me is the “aloof/stoic” bf thing.  No doubt he would keep his distance at the first instance of catching feelings because he doesn't wanna be hurt. At first, he’s only batting at you to gauge how you feel for him. But if he becomes seriously interested, and then you begin dating, I just don’t believe he would care what other people think. Or try to downplay your relationship. He’d wait for you to make the first real move, sure…but YOU’D KNOW. I just think about how he acted toward Sally in the last Halloween event and how he was almost “uncharacteristically” sweet to her. I think because Leona isn't super close to anyone in NRC—beyond a few of his frosh or respect-based relationships (like he has with Vil), we don’t see this side of him often, and so it comes as a shock.  Without spoiling anything, let’s just say…he was VERY unbothered at everyone's reaction to his soft side. He was focused on Sally and being nice to her. And if we apply this to “bf status Leona,” I think he’d be too focused on YOU to worry about what other ppl think of him. I’ve been preaching for years that this part of him always existed, and that now he just chooses who sees it. He saves his softness for very specific people he deems worthy of his time. Period. You’ll have to play a bit of a game to get on his good side, but like the motto of Savanaclaw: PERSISTENTLY proving to Leona that you care for him despite his flaws, he’ll come around. And when you're together, well- (I'll save that for the other ask) Especially if you are in an established relationship. He clearly thinks the world of you. He doesn’t have many close relationships, so you think he’s wasting his time with someone he wouldn’t even bother to be nice to??? Besides, Leona later in the main story becomes quite self-aware of his inability to reach out to others, despite craving affection desperately. He knows it's his blind spot, SO he's putting effort into being a good bf to you!

HE'S 20 (45)

To further my above point, I think people forget he is a few years older than even the other 3 years, and…was raised by an old man? I think when ppl write him with low emotional maturity...it loses me. I get it, he's a brat. And often he CHOOSES to act like a petulant prince when it suits him. But, I think deep down esp in more serious situations, we’ve seen that he's wise, calm, and level-headed. Just some nuance, please.

“USING YOU AS A PILLOW”

Napping/cuddling together is no doubt one of the nicest things you can do with a partner. And I’ve even implemented this kinda thing in my writing. HOWEVER, there is a certain flavor of this I dislike. Esp when it’s “forced” on the reader/OC. Sometimes I find this is ALL ppl write about him in those HC posts, esp ones that aren’t Leona focused. That or “Leona dragging you off to be his pillow.”  (A bit of my life is taken every time I read this sentence now…) I know there are new folks coming into the fandom who may repeat old tropes, and that's fine! But, I STILL see this from people who have been here for yearssssssss. It's just cliche to me. I do believe he's a cuddly guy, EXTREMELY SO. It's just that specific phrase that icks me. Maybe it’s the implication that he does it against your will and is aggressive about it?? Just, no thanks.

"I CAN FIX HIM”

Okay maybe now we’re getting into the more controversial ones?? I think the idea of “tru wuv” fixing someone’s flaws is just unappealing as a concept to me and completely against what I think love is about. The “dragging him to class”, “making him dress up more,” or “forcing him to get along with his family” is not something I think he’d put up with. He’s grown, he's extremely stubborn, he knows he’s failing school. He doesn't need another person to nag him! Ruggie already does that! Plus, family relations are complicated. Idk…if someone I started dating tried to get me to talk with a family member who I felt genuinely hurt/neglected me, I’d be annoyed af??   I think he would find it all patronizing coming from a romantic partner. It's one thing if he chooses to be better himself or for his mental health to improve gradually, but forcing things on him and “nagging” him constantly about his behavior at school and at home is just what his family does so- He's flawed, VERY MUCH SO. But, I think when it comes to relationships…everyone has flaws they deal with easier in a partner than others. Like you can maybe deal better with someone being socially awkward, but can't stand your S/O having a messy room. Like if your “hard nos” are lazy people, your S/O dressing “sloppy,” or someone who can be petty and rude to others- Well, you get my point.  It's like....if you hate playing video games and wanna ship with Idia. My question is why?? I’m genuinely curious why you even like this character in the first place?? Hot take, (I guess) this is the reason I don't really ship LeoVil. It just rubs me the wrong way how it turns Leona into a “fix me” project thing. And not to mention how Vil talks to Leona canonically in a demeaning way. (I love you Vil, but you’re wrong.) Leona needs a kick in the ass for sure, all the twst boys do, but personally when a fic/ship leans too heavy on the dynamic of “I can fix/change him” it turns me off. As someone who's been in a long-term relationship… if your day-to-day lifestyles don’t align when living together…ya’ll are gonna be at each other's throats over the small stuff. That’s just how it works irl. And...I understand if everyone doesn't want to apply this logic to fictional ships.  I just personally am not fond of this dynamic. And with Leona being a beastman AND a POC, it often feels like a loaded trope to apply to him.

DISPOSABLE LION BOYFRIEND

Last one! (Maybe most controversial idk) I just think Leona is not good at being a romance rival, (assuming we're not talking about poly situation) despite him being competitive. While ofc I think it's possible for an MC or OC to have multiple crushes and things, I think Leona is someone who wouldn’t handle this well? Like, if Leona feels like he’s gotta compete for scraps of your attention, at a certain point...I'd think he’d just give up, or at least give you your space to come to him. He’s had to compete for attention his whole life, and I feel like he's too emotionally mature and ego-driven to put up with these kinds of games for too long? I DO think it's interesting to explore the dynamic of having multiple love interests!! I even do it for a lil drama! But…in gen I don’t prefer when it feels like Leona is just there to be the "the disposable love interest" considering all of his insecurities of being second. Honestly, in that case, I can see him giving an ultimatum? He's a grown man among...mostly teens, I PERSONALLY just can't see him being a love rival with a child. FGHJK

Anyways, I could go one. that's all I can think of for now!

AGAIN I WANNA STRESS THAT THESE ARE MY ICKS. And if you don’t agree or do any of these, that's okay! Everyone can play dolls how they choose, I’m not the HC or character police. ✌️✌️✌️

[corruptedcaps]

Attribute Roulette

In the pink bedroom of the sorority president, far from the noise and strobe lights of the easter party downstairs, Emma sat quietly across from Brielle, the president herself and top bitch on campus. A few of Brielle's sorority sisters stood behind her, standing between them and the door, making escape impossible.

Emma had no idea why she was hustled off the quad by them and shepherded all the way up to the bedroom or why on the table stood a black tower of Jenga but in the pit of her stomach she knew it couldn't be good.

Brielle crossed her toned legs and popped her gum, still smug, still perfect. Her dress hugged every curve. Her blonde hair shone like a shampoo commercial. Today she was wearing a slutty easter bunny outfit to celebrate the party happening downstairs.

Emma? She was everything Brielle loved to mock, awkward, hunched, flat chested, bookish, the cardigan draped cliché. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t even want to come to the party, but Brielle and her clique had dragged her in, threatening her. She expected to see maybe beer pong, some sort of hazing ritual or hell even a stripper pole in the back room but Jenga was certainly a surprise.

“Ok let's get this thing going, I have a party to be the center of. Here are the rules dork.” Brielle said, her manicured finger tapping a brick on the bottom row. “You pull, you read, you steal.”

Emma glanced at the tower. “What do you mean ‘steal’?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll see.” Brielle winked. “And because I’m feeling generous, why don’t you go first?”

With trembling fingers, Emma pulled a brick from the middle and read it aloud.

“Nails.”

The word shimmered silver against the black. She looked up, confused. Brielle looked at her hands and watched as her expensive manicure faded away like magic. That’s when Emma felt heat in her own finger tips and looked down to see her grubby, short nails take on the look and appearance that Brielle’s hand just a moment ago.

“Ugh whatever, that colour was played out anyway.” Brielle said annoyed. “My turn.”

Brielle slid a brick out from the top of the tower and looked at it with a puzzled face.

“Empathy? What the fuck is that, some dungeons and dragons shit?” She said jokingly.

But then something fluttered in her chest. Her grin faltered. A wave of remorse washing over her suddenly. She didn’t like it.

Emma meanwhile giggled. It was sharp, unlike her usual shy chuckle. She should have felt bad for Brielle but she couldn’t find the urge inside her to care.

“My turn.” Emma said, almost eager now pulling a brick.

"Makeup."

Instantly, her face shifted, cheekbones smoothing out, lashes thickened and lifted, lids dusted with darker eyeshadow. Her lips gleamed with a high shine pout, and her complexion took on an impossibly flawless glow.

Across the table, Brielle’s skin lost its warmth. Her bronzer faded. Her lashes thinned. Her lip gloss dulled and dried, leaving her looking pale, bare, ordinary. Brielle scoffed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Whatever. I’ll just get my makeup done later when I get new nails at the salon.”

She pulled out another brick, hoping it was the one she was after but as her eyes landed on what was written the disappointment was hard to hide.

“Weight.”

She hung her head as she felt Emma’s chubby belly inflate her well worked out and toned stomach.

On the other side of the table, Emma marvelled at her body as the pounds melted off in an instant. Her new nailed fingers running over it with glee.

“It’s reversible, just a few weeks in the gym and I’ll be back to normal. It’s all reversible. I just need to pull her intelligence so I can pass my finals.” Brielle thought to herself as she watched Emma grab another brick, hoping it wouldn’t be anything vital.

“Confidence.”

The two girls both shivered at hearing the word but both had vastly different outcomes. Brielle suddenly had a gnawing feeling inside her that, a shadow of doubt hanging over her now. She slid down in her chair starting to feel hopeless. Emma meanwhile had a smirk cross her lips as her chin lifted and her posture straightened. Brielle’s friends even seemed to take notice of her.

“One more and then we stop, whatever it is.” Brielle thought but there was some rising doubt. “Oh but what if I pull something even worse. Should I just stop now?”

As she tried to think, the sound of nails drumming on the table distracted her. She looked over to see Emma grinning at her, making her feel uneasy.

“Come on, I don’t have all day.” Emma said sighing almost bored which illicited a few quiet giggles from Brielle’s friends. Brielle took a deep breath and pulled out what she determined would be her last one.

“Compassion.” She said disappointedly. This was a stark contrast to Emma who left out a soft moan, as her eyes rolled into the back of her head. She felt as though a great weight had been taken off her shoulders.

Brielle looked up from her brick, looking smaller somehow. “I don’t want to do this anymore.” She said getting up from the table and turning towards her friends. “Come on let’s get out of here.”

Emma’s eyes snapped open, now lacking any warmth they previously had. “Not so fast. Girls?” She purred and Brielle’s friends stepped in Brielle’s way. Emma snapped her fingers and the girls grabbed Brielle by the arms, forcing her back into the chair.

“What… what are you doing?!”

Emma picked up a brick, turning it so Brielle could read it. Brielle’s mouth fell open.

“Friends.”

“I pulled it while you were busy trying to leave.” Emma purred. “They’re my friends now, isn’t that right girls?”

“Of course babes.” One replied with a smirk while the others nodded in agreement. Lithe cheerleaders with perfect makeup who once laughed at Emma, now followed her lead.

Brielle now started to look worried. “No you can’t-”

“I just did bitch, and I’m not done taking what you have left.” Emma sneered. “Now pick one.”

“No! Emma don’t do this! You’re a good person! I just wanted your brains to pass my finals, I’m sorry I ever started this.” Brielle said starting to well up.

Emma stood and walked over to Brielle who seemed to shrink even smaller. Emma leaned in, brushing a long painted nail under Brielle’s trembling chin.

“I used to be a compassionate, empathetic person. But that was before you freed me of those weaknesses.” She said with cold disdain. She looked to one of her new friends and nodded. The girl grabbed Brielle’s arm and twisted it as Emma sat back down.

“Pick one loser and I won’t have your arm broken. Don’t worry we’ll let you go… eventually.” Emma smirked and the girls giggled.

For the next half an hour, the two girls pulled brick after brick with Emma always seemingly to take the good stuff. Before long she had bigger breasts, plumper lips, silky smooth hair and a cheerleaders physique to die for. Not to mention Brielle’s ruthlessness, her cunning and even her style which manifested itself in Emma’s clothes becoming tight and revealing, her sensible flats turning into expensive heels.

Brielle meanwhile continuously pulled the weaker aspects of her opponent. She now wore Emma’s thick glasses and sported her paler, blotchier skin. She was riddled with self doubt, had an urge volunteer, had a rising interest in sci-fi books, even her voice seemed to drop several levels of volume.

“Can we please stop? You’ve taken everything from me.” Brielle said barely above a whisper.

Emma was checking herself out in the nearby mirror, her eyes drinking in her new and improved form. Her mind raced with the wickedness she could accomplish and she couldn’t wait to start.

Rolling her eyes she sat back down in her chair. “Ugh fine if you’re going to be such a whiny bitch about it. Because I’m generous why don’t you pull your last one and then we can quit.” Emma said smirking like a Cheshire Cat.

Brielle looked at the very unsteady tower in front of her, she was almost certain one more would topple it. “At least whatever happens it will be over.” She thought to herself as she started to tug slowly at a brick.

As she nudged it out she managed to make out some of the lettering on the brick, “intelli” was all she could see but it gave her hope that she would finally get a win in this game.

However across the table Emma could sense the meagre joy in Brielle. Knowing that her enemy was finally happy with a brick, Emma knew it couldn’t mean anything good for herself. Lazily she kicked the leg of the table she was closest to. The tower began to wobble and Brielle let go of her brick to try and steady it but it was no good, all the pieces fell and spread out on the table.

Emma sighed and stood up. “What a fucking klutz, right girls?” Emma said and her new friends all giggled loyally. “I gave you one chance to come out of this with something positive and you even managed to scare that up. I’m doing you a favour taking all your best bits, at least now they’ll be put to good use.”

The girls swarmed around Emma like a moth to the flame, their new queen exuding power that they wanted to be close to. “Come on girls, let’s leave this loser to her little game.”

Emma turned on her heel and strode towards the door, grabbing a pair of black bunny ears that were strewn on the vanity, one of Brielle’s discarded options. Brielle had always presented to the world a vision of herself that was more pure than she seemed, wearing white to lure victims of her sharp tongue into a false sense of security.

Emma on the other hand wanted nothing more than to have people fear her, to have them see her coming and cower. She wanted people to know she was an evil bitch and black seemed like the best way to convey that. She opened the door that led back into the sorority party that was in full swing. It was her sorority now, her world, her people. Brielle was done and Emma was just getting started.

[masorciereviolette]

Hi, hope you’re having a good day! I was wondering if you could write an au Agatha x reader where R is in love with Agatha but Agatha is still hung up and chasing Rio and then R finds Agatha and Rio hugging and that’s when she finally snaps. Reader cries over Agatha and then her friends (maybe Jen, Lilia and Alice) tells her that it’s time for her to let Agatha go because she deserves to be loved the same way that she loves and Reader goes and does that. R starts to become distant from Agatha and starts talking to Wanda and Agatha started wondering why R is behaving like this and Lilia eventually tells her and now Agatha can’t help but feel jealous and possessive over R and now the tables have turned— Agatha is now chasing R after she realizes that she loves R. The angst and the pinning 😩😩😩 plus the fluff that comes after when Agatha finally won R back plus claiming R as hers ehem ehem… smut :> thank you so much!!!

The One Who Stayed

Pairing: Au Agatha Harkness x Reader, Past Agatha x Rio

Warnings: Small Time Jumps, Unresolved Feelings, Hurt, Angst, Pining, Past Toxic Relationship, Comfort, Minors DNI 18+, Graphic Sexual Descriptions, Happy Ending.

Word count: 17k

A/N: BRO OH MY GOD ?!? This request was insane but absolutely phenomenal— ✋🏽😭 I’ll warn you now there is slight pov switching but it’s not too bad. I had a few days off and as soon as I read this request I was OBSESSED and started IMMEDIATELY :)))

Taglist: @harknessshi

Masterlist Link

The worst part wasn’t the hug. It was the way Agatha melted into it. Like her body still remembered what it was like to hold Rio. Like it was the easiest thing in the world to fall back into arms that had once broken her.

Because even though Agatha never kissed you—never reached for you the way you reached for her, she never pushed you away either. She let you stay close. Let you love her in the quiet, unseen ways. Bringing her coffee when she forgot breakfast , staying late to help her organize lecture notes, listening when her voice shook after difficult conversations with the board.

She never really asked for any of it. But she never told you to stop. And so, you hoped. You hoped in the way people do when they have nothing else to stand on—carefully, foolishly, hungrily. Maybe, just maybe, if you stayed… she’d look your way fully. She’d see it was you, not Rio, who had stayed behind all this time. Who had loved her through every shadow, but in that hallway, all your hope cracked.

The sunlight spilled in through the tall windows, painting golden lines on the stone floor, and there they were—Agatha and Rio. Just ahead. Just close enough. Agatha’s eyes were closed. Her arms looped around Rio’s waist, her cheek resting on her shoulder like it was some long-awaited exhale. Like comfort. Like home. Your heart didn’t break all at once. It caved in slowly, like a house collapsing under the weight of what was never reinforced.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Your body locked in place, your chest burning with something sharp and wild, your hands curled into fists to stop the tremble that threatened to give you away. Maybe if you didn’t move, they wouldn’t notice you. Maybe if you stayed still enough, the moment would rewind itself. But it didn’t. So you turned—quietly, carefully—before either of them could see the way your face had started to crumple.

You made it out of the building. You even managed to smile at a student who passed you on the steps, their voice distant and muffled, like you were underwater. It wasn’t until you were home, safe behind the familiar click of your door, that the dam finally broke.

The tears came in waves. Silent. Angry. Inescapable. You slid down the door like it was the only thing keeping you upright, burying your face in your hands as your chest heaved in uneven bursts. It felt humiliating and cinematic all at once—like one of those scenes you used to scoff at in movies, thinking no one really fell apart like that.

But here you were. Cracked wide open on your hardwood floor, mourning something that was never really yours. And still…Still, in the back of your mind, curled in the small, deluded corners of your heart—You hoped she’d see you one day. Not as the friend who was always there. Not as the quiet support.

But as someone she could love. Because love wasn’t supposed to be something you had to earn. But with her, you’d been willing to try anyway and maybe that was the real tragedy. Not the hug. But the way you still wanted her, even after.

Your phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

Then again.

You didn’t have the strength to look. Not right away. You were still curled on the floor, eyes red, throat raw, limbs heavy with grief you hadn’t earned the right to feel—not really. Not when Agatha had never been yours. Not when you had walked yourself into this heartbreak like it was inevitable. Eventually, with shaking fingers, you reached for your phone

Lilia: We’re coming over. Jen saw Rio leaving with Agatha.

Lilia: No arguing.

You didn’t reply. You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just sat there, knees to your chest, hoodie sleeves damp with tears that wouldn’t stop coming even though your body felt like it had nothing left.

Fifteen minutes later, the knock came. One sharp rap—Alice. Then three more, lighter and spaced—Lilia’s pattern. The last was a full open-palm impatient thump—Jen, impatient as always. The door creaked open. You hadn’t locked it. You heard the shuffle of shoes, the quiet gasp from Alice, and Lilia’s breath catching in her throat. Jen cursed under her breath.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Alice murmured, already kneeling beside you. Her hand reached to gently cradle the back of your head, guiding you up enough to rest against her shoulder. You let her. You didn’t have the fight in you to pretend you were fine.

“I’m here,” she whispered, soft and maternal. “We’ve got you.” Jen lowered herself to the floor in front of you, crossing her legs. Her tone wasn’t soft—it was never soft—but it was steady. Grounding.

“You give so much love,” she said, brushing your hair away from your damp cheeks with care that didn’t match her sharp voice. “To the wrong people, maybe. But you do. You love with your whole heart, and it’s beautiful.” She paused. “But you can’t keep giving it to someone who only sees you when it’s convenient.”

You flinched. Jen sighed, then leaned forward and took your hand “You deserve someone who doesn’t treat you like a backup plan.”

But it was Lilia—Lilia who’d been with you through every bad decision, every whispered hope about Agatha in the middle of the night—who finally shattered something inside you. She didn’t speak right away. She stood silently in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes rimmed red like she’d been crying too. Like she’d been holding it in for your sake.

When she finally stepped forward, her voice was quiet. Controlled. Like she didn’t trust herself to speak loudly “She’s not going to choose you.” You looked up, startled. Your lips parted, but no words came “Not while she’s still haunted by Rio,” Lilia continued, voice beginning to tremble. “She says she’s trying to let go, but she keeps going back. Over and over. And you…” Her voice cracked “You deserve to be loved like you’re it. Not like you’re next.”

You blinked, and the tears started again, silent and unrelenting. Lilia dropped to her knees in front of you, gripping your other hand tightly. “I’ve watched you shrink yourself for her. Wait for her. Make excuses. You deserve someone who doesn’t need time to realize what they have.”

“She doesn’t even see it,” Jen added quietly. “Doesn’t see what she’s doing to you.”

Alice held you tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You don’t have to let her keep hurting you to prove you’re loyal.” And you broke. Not like a dam, but like a thread finally snapping—tired, frayed, done.

The sobs that came weren’t gentle. They were full-bodied, aching, sharp enough to leave your ribs sore. You felt Lilia’s hands tighten, Jen’s forehead press gently to your knee, Alice’s arms wrap fully around you like she could keep you from falling apart completely.

None of them said anything after that. Not for a while. They just stayed there. On the floor. With you. Later, they moved you to the couch, wrapped you in a blanket, and passed around mugs of tea no one really drank. Jen put on some quiet, wordless music. Alice braided your hair like she used to when you were in grade school. Lilia sat beside you in silence, her hand never leaving yours.

And still, you couldn’t sleep. Not even when the tears stopped, Not even when the house fell quiet. Not even when the weight of your friends anchored you enough to stay in one place. You just stared at the ceiling. Aching in places you didn’t have names for. Wondering how long it would take for hope to die. Wondering if it ever really would.

Over the next few weeks, you did the only thing you hadn’t tried yet. The thing everyone had told you to do long before you were ready. You let Agatha go. Not in some grand, cinematic way. There was no big confrontation, no dramatic goodbye. Just quiet choices. One by one. Until all that was left between you and her was silence.

You started with the emails. Her name used to make your heart skip—a flutter, a jolt, that electric ache of possibility. But now, every time her name lit up your inbox, it felt like a bruise being pressed. So when she sent another message about the joint lecture—“Need your input on the ethical paradox section. Thoughts?”—you stared at it for a long time. Then you hit “Forward.”

To Lilia. You typed out a single line: “You’re better at handling her anyway.” Then you closed your laptop. After that, it got easier. Or maybe just more mechanical. You stopped sitting beside her in the faculty lounge. There had always been this unspoken arrangement—you’d grab her favorite tea, she’d save you the spot by the window. That spot sat empty for a few days before another professor took it. You started eating lunch outside, even when the air turned sharp with cold. At least the wind didn’t pretend to care.

When Agatha passed you in the hallway, you didn’t look. She called your name once. Softly. You kept walking. You didn’t stop loving her. You just stopped letting her hurt you. It was raining the day you met Wanda. One of those gray, quiet rains that made the whole world feel a little softer around the edges.

You wandered into a bookstore on 9th and Langston, the kind of place that smelled like old pages and warm wood, a safe little cocoon from everything outside your chest. You headed straight for the poetry section, tucking yourself between narrow shelves and pretending the ache inside you could be soothed with Rilke and Dickinson.

You were holding a worn copy of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet when a voice beside you spoke—light, curious, like a breeze slipping through an open window “That’s my favorite translation.”

You turned, startled. The woman standing beside you had soft auburn hair pulled into a loose braid and kind eyes that didn’t pry. She smiled, and it wasn’t the kind of smile that demanded anything. It just… was. Gentle. Honest. Patient “Oh?” you managed. Your voice was scratchy from disuse.

Wanda nodded, her gaze flicking to the book in your hand. “The Mitchell version. There’s something about the way he keeps the longing intact. Doesn’t dilute the pain, just… frames it.”

You blinked. Then, almost without meaning to, you whispered, “Love consists in this: that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.”

Her smile widened, softening the curve of her lips. “See?” she said, tilting her head. “You get it.”

You almost laughed. Almost. But it caught in your throat “Sorry,” you said instead, hugging the book to your chest. “I’m not great at—”

“Talking to strangers in bookstores during rainstorms?” she offered, still gentle. “I’m Wanda.” You nodded, too shy to give your name yet.

She didn’t push “Well, mystery poet,” she said, “if you ever want a recommendation, I practically live here.” She tapped her fingers on the shelf once, then turned and disappeared down the aisle.

You stood there for a long time, staring at the space where she’d been. You didn’t expect to see her again. But the next week, she was there—sitting on the floor near the fiction section, flipping through a novel, her thumb absently stroking the spine. She looked up when you walked by. This time, you smiled first “Hey,” you said.

Wanda grinned. “Took you long enough.” You ran into her again the week after that. And again the week after. Always in that little bookstore, always like fate didn’t need to announce itself to be real.

Each time, she asked more questions. Not the invasive kind. Just the curious, open-ended kind that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t invisible anymore. And little by little, you started breathing easier around her. Wanda was warm in the way that didn’t burn. She didn’t make your heart race with fear or doubt or longing. She didn’t keep you on a leash of half-promises and maybe-one-days. She just showed up. And stayed. And for the first time in a long, long while…That was enough.

Agatha noticed your absence almost immediately. At first, it was subtle—just a shift in the air. A missing presence in the faculty lounge. A silence where your laugh usually lived. She told herself you were just busy. Stressed. Needing space. But even as she said it in her head, she didn’t believe it.

What she hadn’t known—what she hadn’t wanted to know—was that you had found solace in someone else. She saw it for the first time one crisp morning outside the lecture halls, when the autumn chill had started biting at the edges of the breeze. Agatha was walking back from a meeting, preoccupied with thoughts of an upcoming board presentation, when she heard it

Your laugh. Clear. Bright. Free. It froze her mid-step. Her head turned instinctively. And there you were—shoulder to shoulder with someone unfamiliar. A woman with auburn hair, soft features, and eyes that never seemed to leave your face. You were holding a to-go coffee, smiling so widely your eyes crinkled at the corners. The woman reached out and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. Gesture small. Intimate.

Agatha’s stomach turned. She hadn’t seen that smile in weeks. Hadn’t been the cause of it in even longer. The redhead—Wanda. She remembered Lilia vaguely mentioning her as the new hire in the science department. She was standing a little too close for Agatha’s liking. Your arms brushed, and neither of you moved away. Wanda said something else, too quiet to hear, and you laughed again, head tipping back with ease.

It was that ease that gutted her. The absence of tension in your shoulders. The way your eyes softened without hesitation. That used to be hers—or at least she thought it was. She didn’t mean to speak, but your name slipped out—softly, uncertain “(Y/N).”

You looked over. Just slightly. Just enough to acknowledge her then, calmly—coldly—you said, “Professor Harkness.” A nod. That was it. Like she was a stranger. A colleague. An echo.

You turned back to Wanda before the ache in Agatha’s chest had time to bloom fully, and walked with her into the building, laughter still lingering in the air like smoke. The following weeks were quiet. Too quiet. And in place of your voice came sterile, clipped messages from someone else entirely.

Her inbox began to fill with updates about the joint philosophy lecture series. Lesson plans. PowerPoints. Adjusted timelines. But none of them were from you. They were from Professor Calderu. The fourth message read: “Please review the attached materials. I’ve also edited the speaker notes for clarity.”

The fifth one was worse “I’m handling all future collaboration at Professor (Y/L/N)’s request. Please send any correspondence to me directly going forward.” Agatha stared at it for a long time. Her hand hovered over the mouse, rereading it. Again. And again. As if the meaning might change. As if she might have misunderstood. But she hadn’t. You weren’t coming back. Not to the work. Not to her.

And it made something in her unravel—quietly, steadily. A slow rot of regret creeping through her chest like ivy. Jealousy was a cruel thing. Especially when it wore the face of someone you’d ignored too long. She started asking around. Casually. Or so she thought “Anyone seen Professor (Y/L/N) lately?” she asked one of the admin staff, feigning nonchalance.

“Not really,” came the reply. “Think she’s been working in the bio wing a lot. With that new hire—Wanda something?” Wanda. She tried again later with a colleague at lunch. “How’s that new biology professor everyone’s whispering about? The redhead.”

The response was knowing. “You mean the one always seen with (Y/N)? Yeah. They seem close.” Too close. It wasn’t until Lilia caught her lingering outside your department office that she finally snapped.

Agatha was standing there, staring at your nameplate like it might reveal something. Her arms were crossed, jaw tight, and she looked… lost. Like she couldn’t decide whether to knock or turn away. Lilia rounded the corner, stopping short “Seriously?”

Agatha blinked. “What?”

Lilia crossed her arms, brow arched with irritation. “Stop.”

Agatha frowned. “I’m not—”

“Yes,” Lilia said sharply, stepping closer. “You are. You’re hovering. You’re lurking. You’re doing that thing where you suddenly remember she exists only when someone else does too.”

“I’m not trying to make her feel guilty,” Agatha defended, but it came out weaker than she intended.

“You don’t have to,” Lilia shot back. “Your silence already did that. She waited for you. So long. She let herself hope, Agatha. And all the while, you kept her just close enough to hurt her.” Agatha’s mouth opened, then closed again. She looked away.

Lilia’s voice softened, but only slightly “She stopped waiting. And someone else saw her. Someone who actually wants to be there.”

Agatha’s hands clenched at her sides, Lilia’s eyes narrowed. “Just let her be happy.”

Then, without another word, she walked past her, heels clicking decisively down the hallway. Agatha stayed there for a long time. Still. Small. She didn’t know how to stop the feeling. It crept up on her slowly, like water seeping into cracks she hadn’t known were there. It made her heart race at the worst times, left her staring at walls too long, and made her fingers twitch toward her phone only to hesitate—hovering, uncertain, ashamed.

It hit her the hardest in the quiet spaces. The ones you used to fill. But sometimes, it roared. And sometimes, it burned. Like the day she saw you in the quad, sunlight in your hair, eyes crinkled in laughter as you sat beneath one of the sycamore trees with Wanda. Your knees were nearly touching, and Wanda’s fingers brushed yours—light, casual, familiar. And you didn’t pull away. You leaned in.

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat, and she looked away too fast, like the sun had blinded her. It happened again outside your office two days later. She’d lingered longer than she should have—told herself she was passing by on her way to the lounge. But then she heard it.

Your voice. But not the version she remembered. Not the soft, hesitant tones that wrapped around her like fog. Not the careful, deliberate quiet you always used when speaking to her, afraid to be too much or too open. This was different. You were laughing. Bright and free. Mid-conversation with someone—Wanda, probably. Your words spilled out without restraint, animated and unfiltered, and Agatha felt something twist deep in her chest. She turned before you could catch her there. Again.

You pass her in the hallways now and didn’t even blink. No pause. No hitch in your step. No hopeful glance her way like there used to be. You didn’t flinch from her silence because you no longer expected anything at all. You’d stopped looking for her. And for the first time, Agatha realized… she’d miscalculated everything. She’d spent so long chasing shadows of a woman who didn’t know how to love her properly, obsessing over the wreckage Rio left behind. She kept you close enough to feed her ego, to ease the loneliness, to feel adored. But she never let herself see what was truly in front of her.

Somewhere between the quiet coffees and the midnight drafts of lecture slides, somewhere between your soft smiles and the way you always stayed—Agatha had fallen in love with you. And she hadn’t even noticed. Not until you were gone. Not until she felt the ache of your absence like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing. She remembered how you used to look at her. Like she was something sacred. Like you were memorizing her in case she ever disappeared. Now, you looked past her. Like she was nothing more than a closed chapter.

Agatha Harkness was unraveling and quickly. Not publicly, of course. No one would dare suspect it. She was still the sharp, composed professor everyone respected, the woman with perfectly constructed sentences and biting wit. She still walked the halls of the university with her usual air of intellectual detachment, a storm wrapped in silk and sarcasm.

But underneath it all—behind the neatly lined eyes and the cool voice that never wavered—she was falling apart. Cracking like old porcelain. Quietly. Where no one could see. Every forced smile, every hollow “let’s catch up soon,” became another thread fraying at the edges of her composure. She moved through her days like a ghost trapped in her own body, her mind elsewhere—always chasing moments she had no right to miss.

It gets worse every time she sees you again almost unavoidably it seemed, this time tucked away in a quiet corner of the campus café, bathed in soft afternoon light. You were sitting across from Wanda—legs crossed beneath the table, hands loosely cradling a cup of tea. She was reading aloud from a book you clearly didn’t need help with, but you were smiling anyway. Beaming, even.

You had your chin in your palm, the other hand resting near hers on the table. Your eyes were warm—happy—focused completely on the woman across from you. And Agatha felt something lurch inside her. It was subtle at first. A dull ache at the back of her ribs. A weight in her throat. But then it bloomed into something heavier, something darker. She had to look away before she could see Wanda reach for your hand.

That night, she sat at her desk long after the sun went down, staring at the glowing screen of her laptop. The shared lecture folder—the one she hadn’t dared open in weeks—blinked up at her like a challenge. She clicked it open. Still nothing from you. Only Lilia’s updates. Sterile. Efficient. Lacking any of the life or banter that once filled the margins. Gone were your ridiculous subject lines, your poorly timed memes, your “I made edits but they’re probably terrible so feel free to mock me later” notes.

Gone was the quiet intimacy of your collaboration. The quiet presence of you. Her gaze drifted to the email thread between you two. Hundreds of exchanges. Lesson drafts, scholarly articles, late-night musings, questions about conference panels. Memes. Inside jokes. A string of life lived together in pixels and paragraphs.

She scrolled. Slowly. Searching for the moment everything shifted. She didn’t realize she was crying until a single tear splashed onto the keyboard, trailing across the spacebar. Another followed. Then another. Her breath caught.

It shouldn’t have hurt this much. Not when she’d chosen this. Not when she told herself she needed space—needed time to sort things out with Rio. To close that chapter properly, before she could start another. But it wasn’t Rio her heart ached for. It was you. It was always you. Why couldn’t she just see that before.

Every time you walked past her without a glance, it scraped across her like glass. Every time she saw you tucked into conversation with Wanda, fingers brushing or hands lingering a second too long, it sent her stomach into freefall. Not because she hated Wanda. She didn’t even know her.

But because Wanda knew what it was to make you laugh now. Because Wanda knew what it felt like to be the center of your world—something Agatha had taken for granted. Something she only realized she needed when it no longer belonged to her. And the worst part? You didn’t seem hurt anymore. You seemed happy. Genuinely, quietly, peacefully happy.

And Agatha hated how much it made her want to scream. How much she envied the ease in your eyes, the way your shoulders had uncurled. The way you no longer carried her absence like a wound. You had healed. And she—who once believed she was immune to this kind of ache—was breaking. Piece by quiet piece.

Still, something inside her refused to accept that this was the inevitable ending. Not when she hadn’t said it. Not when you hadn’t heard her mean it. Not when there was still time left to fix this. So she made herself a promise. This wasn’t how your story ended. Not if she could help it. Not when she’d finally figured out who she couldn’t live without.

She started showing up in your orbit more often. At first, it was subtle. Innocent, almost. A book “accidentally” left in the faculty lounge—one she knew you’d been meaning to borrow. Her favorite annotated copy, spine worn and pages lined with ink.

A quiet afternoon spent in the back corner of the library, not even pretending to read, just hoping to catch a glimpse of you grading papers near the windows where the sun hit just right. She’d linger by the entrance of your classroom when your door was open, asking Lilia vague questions about curriculum structure she already knew the answers to. Anything for a few extra seconds of proximity.

But you never looked up. Not once. And if you noticed the book in the lounge, you left it untouched. If you saw her in the library, you never let it show.

If you heard her voice in the hallway, you didn’t flinch or pause or react—not anymore. If anything, you moved further away. Deliberate. Careful. Like someone who’d been burned and had learned their lesson far too well. Still, she kept trying.

Until one day, she stood just outside your office, palms clammy around the coffee cup in her hands. It was your usual order—half sweet, a splash of oat milk, a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. Your name was scrawled on the side in her handwriting. She had to rewrite it twice because her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She rehearsed what she might say.

Hey, I was just passing by—

No. That sounds too casual.

I just wanted to check in—

No. You’ll sound pathetic.

She settled for silence. Maybe if she just handed it to you, it would say enough. Maybe the look in her eyes would do what words had failed to but before she could knock, the sound of heels clicking down the corridor caught her attention. Jennifer Kale rounded the corner and stopped short, eyes narrowing instantly “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding fucking me.”

Agatha blinked. “Professor—”

“No,” she snapped, stepping closer. “You don’t get to do this now.”

Agatha straightened, tightening her grip on the cup. “I just want to talk.”

“She doesn’t want to talk,” Jen bit out. “Not to you. What can you not grasp here? You broke her Agatha, you don’t get to come in once she’s finally found her footing—.”

Agatha’s breath caught. “I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did.” Jen’s voice was low, sharp. A blade dulled only by the effort it took to keep from yelling. “You didn’t slam the door in her face, Agatha. You just… kept it open just enough for her to hope.”

“Im not trying to hurt her,” Agatha said, quieter this time.

“Yet you did.” Jen’s arms folded across her chest. “She waited. For months. Holding on to the scraps you gave her. She gave you everything, and you looked right past her. Now someone else is putting her back together.”

Agatha’s throat tightened, a sudden ache clawing up her chest. “Is she happy?” she asked before she could stop herself. Her voice came out hoarse. Small.

Jen stared at her. “Yes. For the first time in a long time.” Silence. The kind that filled too much space and not enough. Agatha dropped her gaze to the coffee cup in her hands. It was already cooling. The lid felt too tight. The warmth was fading. And so was the excuse to be here.

“She’s not a placeholder, Agatha,” Jen said, softer now but no less firm. “She was the one who stayed. She showed up. For everything. And you didn’t even look at her until she finally stopped waiting.” Agatha looked up “That’s on you.”

Jen stepped past her without another word, her shoulder brushing roughly against Agatha’s. The hallway swallowed the sound of her retreating footsteps, leaving only the quiet hum of a nearby vent and the muted beat of Agatha’s own pulse ringing in her ears.

She stood there for a long time. Still. The coffee in her hand was lukewarm now. Her fingers clenched it like a lifeline, but she didn’t move. Her legs felt heavy. Her chest felt tight. And the truth settled over her like dust on an old memory. She had pushed you too far. And you weren’t going to come back this time. But the thing was—she didn’t want to let you go.

Not this time. Not now that she finally knew what she was losing. Not when her heart, after all this time, had finally stopped whispering Rio’s name—and started crying yours. It took three days before she got the courage. Three days of pacing her apartment, rehearsing the words she should’ve said months ago. Three days of deleting half-written emails she couldn’t bring herself to send, heart pounding like she was twenty and stupid again.

On the third day, she didn’t turn away. She waited. Outside of the building , the wind carried the scent of late autumn—crisp, sharp, tinged with the promise of winter. The golden light from the setting sun cast long shadows across the pavement, and Agatha stood tucked beneath the overhang by the door, coffee in one hand, uncertainty in the other.

Through the glass, she watched as you neared the entrance. Slowly. Methodically. The curve of your shoulders was familiar, even now. But there was something different about the way you moved—measured, self-contained. No longer reaching for anything.

You looked tired. But calm. You looked… steady. The way you used to when you leaned into her side after long meetings, laughing under your breath at the way her notes were always color-coded but never organized. The way your fingers tangled in her scarf that one winter morning she let you walk her to the train, stealing her coffee and kissing the lid instead of her cheek.

The way you once touched her—without hesitation, without expectation. Back when she hadn’t even kissed you yet, but you made her feel like she was already loved. When you stepped outside, the glass door swung closed behind you with a gentle thud, and she stepped forward instinctively—like gravity itself pulled her.

You stopped. Your hand tightened around the strap of your bag, fingers white-knuckled in the fading light. You didn’t step back. But you didn’t move forward, either. The silence stretched between you like a wire pulled taut. One wrong breath, and it would snap.

You looked at her like someone you used to know and it broke her “(Y/N)—” she began, voice low, tentative.

You raised a hand gently, your voice firm but not cruel. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Agatha’s throat tightened. “I just need—” she tried, but her voice cracked. She closed her eyes for a second, steadying herself. “Please. Let me say this.”

You hesitated. Not because you were waiting for her. But because some part of you wanted to believe that whatever she was about to say wouldn’t hurt anymore. She swallowed hard “I was scared,” she said, the words pulled from somewhere raw. “I kept chasing what I thought I needed to fix—what I thought I had to fix—before I could deserve anything new. Before I could let myself have something good.”

She took a step closer “And by the time I realized that what I needed… what I wanted… was already standing in front of me—” her voice dropped to almost nothing, “you were gone.”

You didn’t speak. Your eyes didn’t soften. But they shimmered. Just slightly. As if the weight of her words unsettled something still healing inside of you “I never meant to hurt you,” she said. “But I did. I see that now.”

Agatha took another step. Close enough now that she could see the way your lashes flickered, the way your breath hitched “Wanda seems lovely,” she added softly, unable to stop herself. “But she’s not me.”

You let out a slow breath, no bitterness in it—just quiet finality. “No,” you said. “She isn’t.” You met her gaze then, steady and clear. “And that’s a really good thing.”

The words hit her like a blow. She flinched, visibly. Still, she stayed. Her fingers trembled at her sides, but she didn’t look away “I love you—” Agatha whispered.

You blinked. Once. Twice. “Don’t—”

“I’m in love with you.” She cut you off, her voice was trembling now, stripped of all pretense. “I think I always did. I just didn’t know it until I saw you loving someone else the way you used to love me.” The air between you stilled. You didn’t answer.

She took another step, cautiously, closing the space inch by inch like one wrong move might scare you off. Her voice dropped again, nearly breaking “I should’ve said it before. Fuck— I should’ve chosen you before. I should’ve seen you before. I’m not here to make promises I don’t deserve to keep. I just…” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed the rest “I really needed you to know…..in case”

You stared at her for a long moment. The breeze picked up slightly, catching the ends of her coat and your hair as the silence thickened again, more intimate this time. More vulnerable. And your eyes—those eyes she used to think she could read like poetry—were shining. But unreadable. Not angry. Not forgiving. Just full of something she couldn’t name. Not yet.

You stared at her in silence, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. The wind shifted again, lifting a few strands of your hair across your cheek, but you didn’t move. Neither of you did. Finally, your lips parted. And your voice came out low, measured—but far from calm.

“You don’t get to just say that,” you said, not venomously. Just… honestly. “You don’t get to show up and tell me everything I’ve wanted to hear after months of silence. After watching you cling to someone else like I never even existed.” Agatha opened her mouth, but you cut her off with a hand raised again—this time sharper “No!” you said. “You don’t get to speak until I’m done.” Her eyes widened, and she nodded—silently.

“I waited for you,” you continued, the emotion catching in your throat. “I made excuses for you. I told myself you needed time, or closure, or space, or whatever stupid fucking lie helped me sleep at night. I stood right next to you every damn day, offering everything I had—everything—hoping maybe, one day, you’d finally look at me like I wasn’t just some… background character in your story.”

You took a breath. A shaky one “But I wasn’t enough. Not until I was gone. Not until someone else made me laugh. And now that you’re not the center of my world anymore, suddenly I’m what you’ve been missing?” Your voice cracked. Just once “Worst of all— I still want to believe you,” you said, softer now, with something closer to defeat. “God, I want to. But I don’t know if I can—”

Agatha took a trembling step forward, voice thick with desperation. “Then let me prove it. However you need me to.” You stared at her, blinking slowly. Like you were trying to see her for who she really was—who she might be now. But the ache behind your eyes didn’t budge.

“Sure,” you said with a tired shrug, tone flat. You didn’t believe her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You ran a hand over your face, exhaling hard into your palm. The weight of everything—the past, the love, the loss—sank heavy in your shoulders “Nothing’s going to be fixed tonight—” you muttered. “Maybe not ever.”

Agatha’s face fell, but she didn’t argue. You stepped back, one foot behind the other like your body was already preparing to leave her behind again. And you did. You turned. Walked away slowly, expecting—hoping, in some quiet corner of your heart—that she would drop it. That she’d let you go this time. That this would be the end.

It wasn’t. It wasn’t the end. Because Agatha Harkness, for the first time in her life, refused to be silent. Refused to let go. The next morning, she showed up outside your class before you even got there—shivering slightly in the early cold, her breath fogging in the crisp air, holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers and three pastries from the tiny café you used to love.

She offered them with a sheepish smile, her hair wind-tousled, cheeks pink from the cold “I didn’t know which one you liked best anymore,” she said, not quite meeting your eyes, “so I got them all.”

You blinked at her, at the awkwardly wrapped flowers, at the grease-stained paper bag she held out like a peace offering. You took the bag with numb fingers. Said nothing. Just opened the building door and stepped inside without a word. She didn’t follow.

Three days after that, you were attending a faculty-wide meeting, half-listening to the usual droning updates about semester projections and departmental budgets, when Agatha raised her hand and stood—unannounced. Her voice was clear. Unapologetic “I’d like to speak on the importance of collaborative trust,” she said, gaze scanning the room before landing briefly—pointedly—on you. “How sometimes… we don’t realize what we’ve lost until the silence becomes unbearable.”

The room went quiet. All eyes turned toward her. You didn’t look up. Not really. But your heart thudded painfully behind your ribs, as if your body knew she was speaking to you—only you—even if no one else caught it.

Then came the mailbox note. Folded neatly and tucked between your department memos. Her handwriting was scribbled across the outside: For (Y/N). Inside, in hers—steady, familiar, honest—was the quote you had once used to open your very first co-lecture together, almost a year ago

“We build trust in inches, not miles.”

“Let me earn every inch.”

You sat at your desk holding it for a long time. Long enough that your tea went cold. Long enough that your chest started to ache. You didn’t know how to process any of it. Because it wasn’t grand gestures you were used to from her. Not affection in daylight. Not vulnerability spelled out like that.

You’d been the one who stayed. You were the one who waited. And now, she was chasing you—and it felt like standing in the middle of a storm you no longer knew how to brace for. Wanda noticed the shift. She noticed everything. It was in the way you paused now when she spoke. How your eyes sometimes drifted over her shoulder, like you were listening for a voice that never came. How you smiled at her, but less often with your whole face.

You didn’t mean to, and Wanda never once accused you of it. She was too gentle for that. Too intuitive. But that Thursday, the dam finally cracked. You were eating lunch together in your office, both of you tucked comfortably in your usual seats—your salad mostly untouched, your fork resting limp in your hand.

Across your desk sat the poetry book Agatha had left behind. Somehow, it always ended up back in your line of sight. This time, it was open to the inside cover. Your fingers moved without thinking—tracing the familiar ink of Agatha’s handwriting. You weren’t even reading the words anymore. You were just remembering the way she wrote in the dark, half-asleep, mumbling about Rilke and how he “had the audacity to romanticize longing.”

You didn’t notice Wanda watching you until she gently asked “Where’d you get that?”

You blinked and looked up. Her eyes weren’t cold. Just… curious. But you had the overwhelming feeling that she already knew. You considered lying. Or deflecting. But something in her expression—something kind, but quietly firm—told you the lie wouldn’t land. So you didn’t, you swallowed. “Agatha left it. A while ago.”

Wanda was silent for a long moment, eyes scanning your face like she was trying to solve a puzzle she’d been working on for weeks. The muted hum of the campus café filled the space between you—clinking mugs, soft chatter, the hiss of espresso machines. Outside the window, students passed by in pairs or clusters, laughing, lost in the rush of late afternoon sunlight and deadlines. Then Wanda nodded once, as if confirming something she’d already suspected. Her voice came quietly, almost too gently “She’s in love with you, you know.”

You blinked, not quite processing. “What?”

“She loves you,” she repeated, softer now, like she was afraid saying it any louder would shatter you.

You stiffened, instinctively falling back behind old defenses that had served you well—especially lately. “No,” you said, shaking your head with more force than necessary. “She’s trying to fix a mistake. That’s not remotely the same thing.”

Wanda’s lips curled into a small smile—not mocking, not smug. Just… sad. Knowing. The kind of smile someone wears when they’ve seen this play out before and already know the ending “You’re sitting here touching her handwriting like you’re afraid it’ll disappear,” she said. You looked down without meaning to, hand still resting on the edge of Agatha’s note—creased and well-worn from how often you’d unfolded it, stared at it, folded it again. You hadn’t realized you were doing it. Not consciously. But Wanda had. Of course she had.

Your silence stretched. You didn’t look up. Wanda shifted, voice quieter but still firm, like she was laying down a truth that had no edges to argue with. “You can’t fake that kind of love. Not for this long. Not with this much… heart.” You swallowed hard, throat dry. Her words lodged somewhere deep, scraping against old wounds you weren’t sure had ever healed right.

“And I’ve seen her,” Wanda continued gently. “Asking about you. About us….. Around campus. Like she’s trying to find the right shape for something she’s never been brave enough to say.”

You said nothing. Couldn’t. The truth pressed heavy in your chest, stealing your breath before you even had a chance to protest “And you,” Wanda added, tipping her head with something like sympathy, “you’ve got that look in your eyes lately. Distant. Like you’re always somewhere else. Like you’re trying to remember how not to miss someone who isn’t really gone.”

You sat back slowly in your chair, fingers curling away from the note. The breath left your lungs in a tired exhale—soft, frayed at the edges. The kind of sound that didn’t quite resemble defeat, but something perilously close to surrender.

And then, softly, “I’m sorry.”

Wanda tilted her head. “For what?”

“I don’t know.” You swallowed thickly. “For still feeling something. For letting her get to me again. For not being able to stop hoping.”

Wanda reached over, placed her hand gently on top of yours “You don’t have to be sorry,” she said. “Not with me. You loved her. Maybe you still do. That doesn’t make you cruel.” You didn’t say anything else. You just sat there, eyes fixed on the handwriting beneath your fingertips, trying to convince yourself it was just ink on a page. And failing.

—————————————————————————

You were seated at the head of the long conference table in the university’s main staff hall, surrounded by colleagues from nearly every department. The another interdepartmental meeting—a logistical nightmare—was always exhausting. But today? Today you were distracted in a way that had nothing to do with curriculum updates or budget allocations.

Lilia sat two seats to your left, already sensing something was off. Jen and Alice were tucked together near the back, passing a clipboard between them and whispering under their breath like the world’s most discreet gossip channel. Wanda, steady as always, was next to you, pen poised over her notes, her eyes occasionally flickering your way.

Rio was here too, of course. Sitting perfectly poised on the other side of the room, lips pursed, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. You could feel her watching you from time to time, but you didn’t look back. You’d just been called to speak. You cleared your throat, standing with your notes in hand, palms slick with nervous energy that didn’t come from public speaking. You weren’t thinking about the faculty. You were thinking about Agatha. Your eyes scanned the room hoping to see her, but she wasn’t there yet.

Over the past several weeks, there hasn’t been one morning that you haven’t woken up to a sickeningly sweet text or two. Some reminding you to have a good day, but most on just how much she loves and appreciates you. She, true to her word was relentless. Sending notes, pastries, music, poetry, flowers even—each one worse for your heart than the last.

“For the philosophy department, I’d like to propose a revised approach to cross-disciplinary collaboration that emphasizes a more reflective framework for—”Then a voice cut in from the back of the room

“Excuse me.” It was strong. Clear. Familiar. Your blood ran cold. You turned slowly. Agatha Harkness stood in the doorway, dark coat draped over her arm, hair swept back like she hadn’t rushed here—but the wildness in her eyes said otherwise.

You could feel every person in the room turn to look at her. Conversations died mid-sentence. The university president leaned back in their chair, brows raised You blinked. “Agatha—”

She stepped forward “I know this isn’t the time,” she said, voice trembling just enough to betray how fast her heart was beating. “And I know you hate when I make things messy. But I can’t do quiet affection anymore.”

You froze. Jen sat upright, eyebrows shooting up. Alice nudged her so hard she almost dropped her tablet. Lilia’s eyes widened in horror. And Wanda—Wanda didn’t move. She just watched. Calm, but unreadable. Like she’d been waiting for this. Agatha continued “I’m irrevocably in love with you.”

The room froze—no one said anything, but the collective reaction was unmistakable. You stared at her, heart thudding in your throat “I’m sorry it took losing you to see it,” she said, her voice stronger now. “I’m sorry I let you feel like you were never chosen. That you were never enough. You were. You are.” Her eyes didn’t leave yours. “You’ve always been.”

Murmurs rippled through the room. You could feel Rio’s glare without even looking. Lilia’s mouth hung open. Alice was covering her face with both hands. Jen whispered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Holy shit.”

Agatha kept going “I don’t care if this is unprofessional. I don’t care if this is foolish. I’ll spend every day proving it, even if it takes the rest of my life. You told me nothing would be fixed overnight—and you’re right. But I’m not walking away again. Not now. Not ever.”

You were burning. Skin hot, ears red, every nerve in your body alight. Your heart said run to her. Your head said what the hell is happening right now? Someone in the back coughed. A few people exchanged whispers. The silence thickened again. You rubbed your temple. Your voice came out low, tired, and entirely human “What the hell are you doing?” It wasn’t cruel. Just… raw. Unsteady.

Agatha stepped forward once more “Whatever it takes,” she said. And she meant it. You could see it in the way her jaw was clenched, in the way her hands were balled into fists to stop them from shaking, in the way she looked at you—like you were the axis her world turned on.

She had done the impossible. She had made herself vulnerable, truly, and in front of every witness that mattered. She had chosen you—loudly. Undeniably. You stood there in the dead center of a full room, feeling more exposed than you ever had in your life.

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how to feel. Wanda gently reached over and touched your arm, as if reminding you she was still there. Still beside you. Not pressuring. Just present. And even Rio, across the room, had fallen eerily quiet—her expression unreadable for once.

All eyes were on you. And all you could think was: Is this really fucking happening? Agatha Harkness had set the room on fire for you. And now the whole world was watching to see if you’d step into the flames. Your skin burned. Not just your cheeks—your entire body. From the base of your neck to the tips of your ears. You could feel the heat crawling up your spine, tight and suffocating like your own pulse was punishing you for staying still.

Every eye was still on you. You swallowed, lips parting like maybe a response would come, but nothing did. The silence was excruciating. Endless. Then, mercifully—A voice. One of the senior administrators stood and cleared their throat in that awkward, bureaucratic way that screamed damage control.

“Well,” they began, smiling too widely as their gaze darted nervously between you and Agatha, “thank you for that… spirited moment of honesty, Professor Harkness. Let’s go ahead and wrap up today’s meeting, shall we? Department heads, we’ll follow up next week on remaining items via email.”

You didn’t wait to be dismissed. You were already slinging your bag over your shoulder before the words had finished leaving their mouth. Your breath came fast, shallow, like your body had gone into flight mode without asking permission. As you turned sharply toward the exit, your hand reached out without thinking—fingers curling around the edge of Agatha’s sleeve.

You didn’t even look at her. You just dragged her with you. Gasps and whispers followed. You could feel them more than you heard them. Lilia’s muttered “Jesus Christ.” Alice whispering a “Go get her” under her breath. And Wanda— You didn’t even want to know what Wanda was thinking.

Your fingers didn’t release Agatha’s sleeve until you burst through the double doors at the far end of the hall. The cool air of the corridor hit your face, but it did nothing to calm you. You dropped her sleeve , she stumbled slightly behind you but didn’t stop.

“(Y/N)?” Agatha’s voice was uncertain now. Less sure. “Where are we—?” But you didn’t answer. You just kept walking. Fast. Determined. Past bulletin boards and closed doors and startled colleagues peeking out of their offices. You didn’t stop until you reached your own office door.

You flung it open with more force than necessary, storming inside. The space was warm, cluttered, familiar. Books stacked in uneven piles. A half-drunk mug of tea still on your desk. Papers scattered like leaves across every surface. You threw your bag onto your desk with a heavy thud, the strap knocking over a pen holder as it landed. Agatha lingered in the doorway behind you.

Still.

Silent.

Waiting.

You turned on her then. Slowly. The air between you heavy, electric, and almost unbearable. And for a long, painful moment—You just looked at her. Like you were still trying to decide if she was real. If this was real. If the woman who had once made you feel like you were asking for too much was really the same woman who just declared her love in front of half the university.

You stood there, facing her, chest still rising and falling too quickly. Hands clenched at your sides like they didn’t know what to do now that the storm had moved inside the room. Your lips parted. “I—” But Agatha moved first.

She stepped forward quickly, quietly—shutting the door behind her with a soft click that sealed the space between you and the rest of the world. The echo of it was louder than it had any right to be. She took another step toward you, slow and cautious, like you were a wild thing she was afraid of spooking. You flinched slightly at her closeness but didn’t back away. Not this time. She lifted a hand—not to touch, but to steady herself—and whispered “I’m so sorry baby.”

The words hung there. Simple. Soft. But weighted with everything she hadn’t said for months “I’m sorry I didn’t choose you when it mattered most,” she continued, her voice trembling now. “I was so caught up in fixing the past that I didn’t see the future standing right in front of me.”

You stared at her, every muscle in your body pulled tight, like you were waiting to fall or fly “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” she said. “But I did. And then I told myself it was safer to keep things quiet. To keep you quiet. Because the truth is, I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. And that terrified me.”

Your heart clenched. She took one more step forward. Her hands were shaking now. “You made me feel… seen. Held. Real. And I threw that away chasing closure that didn’t matter anymore.” You looked away for a moment, jaw tight, trying to gather every defense you’d built brick by brick.

But her next words cracked them clean open “I never looked at Rio the way I looked at you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when I was with her again, all I could think was, why doesn’t it feel the way it used to. Why doesn’t this feel right? How was it possible that you’d only sit beside me in silence and still make me feel more than she ever could with words?”

You blinked quickly, throat burning. Your eyes stung, and you hated how easily the emotion cracked through “And now I’ve embarrassed you,” she added with a soft, sad smile. “In front of everyone. Because I couldn’t keep pretending not to feel what I feel.”

You swallowed thickly. “Agatha…” She stepped even closer now, hands still not touching you—but her presence was overwhelming “I love you,” she said again, like the first time wasn’t enough. “I love you in a way that terrifies me. But I will learn how to love you in a way that never makes you question it again.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away. You didn’t know how to. Because your heart… your heart was melting. And it hurt. It hurt because it was real. Because this wasn’t some flippant apology or half-meant attempt to win you back. This was Agatha. Really Agatha. Standing in front of you with her armor off, her voice shaking, her pride left somewhere back in that conference room. And somehow, even after all this time, she still knew the exact words that could unravel you.

It hit you all at once. The weight of her words. The way she stood there trembling, eyes glassy and voice raw with truth. The silence that had dragged between you for months suddenly shattered under the force of something you’d tried so hard to ignore. You opened your mouth to reply—but nothing came out. Nothing could come out. The ache had climbed too far up your throat. Then, like a dam breaking, a soft whimper escaped you—barely a sound, really. Just breath caught on grief and longing and relief.

And before you even realized what you were doing, you moved. You crashed into her like gravity had finally won. Your hands fisted the lapels of her coat, dragging her down to you with a desperation that had been years in the making. Agatha gasped softly, caught between surprise and instinct, before her arms came around you in an instant—holding you like she was terrified you’d disappear. Your noses bumped, your breaths tangled, and then—She kissed you. And you kissed her back. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.

It was everything you’d both been too afraid to say. It was breathless and aching, desperate and unrefined. Her lips were warm, trembling against yours, like she couldn’t believe this was happening. Like she was terrified you’d change your mind mid-kiss. Your fingers slid into her coat, clutching at her shoulders, her back, her hair—anything that would pull her closer.

Agatha cupped your face in her hands, thumbs brushing tears you didn’t even realize had started to fall. Her mouth moved against yours like she was pouring every unsent email, every unsaid apology, every late-night memory into it. She kissed you like she was claiming something that was never hers to take for granted. You kissed her like you were finally letting go of all the pain. And in that moment, neither of you breathed—afraid even that would make it vanish. When you finally pulled back, your foreheads stayed pressed together. Both of you panting, eyes closed, lost in the space between now and what comes next “I still don’t completely trust you,” you whispered, voice hoarse, breath brushing against her lips. “But I want to.”

Agatha’s eyes opened. There was no fear in them now. Only something fierce. Steady “I’ll earn it,” she swore. “Every day. Every damn inch.”

You held her gaze, fingers still curled into her coat. The world outside your office might’ve still been reeling, gossiping, whispering about the scene she caused, but in here—it was just the two of you “…If you’re going to leave me again,” you said quietly, eyes guarded “don’t you dare fucking come back—”

Agatha’s expression shifted. Her grip on your waist tightened, anchoring you to her chest, her heartbeat racing against yours “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, voice fierce and clear, like a vow. “Not without you.” And this time… you almost believed her.

You stared at her, breath still uneven, heart rattling like it didn’t know how to settle inside your chest. Agatha’s eyes were locked on yours—wide, dark, shining. Her hands still cupped your face, fingertips trembling as if she was afraid to let go, afraid this whole thing might dissolve if she so much as blinked. And then she kissed you again.

No hesitation this time. No permission asked. Just need. You gasped softly into her mouth, arms instinctively rising to loop around her neck, fingers tangling in the ends of her hair. She groaned low against your lips, the sound vibrating through you like a spark igniting something deep in your stomach. Her hands slipped from your face, down to your waist, gripping you tighter like she could pull you closer—closer still—until there wasn’t even space for doubt between you. She kissed you like she was trying to make you remember her. Not the version who broke your heart—but the one who knew how to worship it.

It was intense. Fierce. Possessive. You barely registered her moving, only that your body was suddenly shifting—guided. Her hands pressed against your lower back as she walked you back, step by step, until the edge of your desk bumped against the backs of your thighs. You pulled back just long enough to look at her, lips swollen, chest rising and falling fast “Agatha—”

“Shhh,” she whispered, eyes dark with heat and something deeper. Something reverent. “Let me show you.” And then she lifted you. Just like that. Her hands curled under your thighs and hoisted you up with surprising ease, setting you down on the edge of your desk. Papers crumpled beneath you. A pen clattered to the floor. But you didn’t care. You couldn’t. Because she was kissing you again—deeper this time. Hungrier. Like she’d been starved for the taste of you and was only now realizing how much she’d missed.

Her hands gripped your hips, anchoring you to her like you might try to leave again. And maybe she didn’t blame you. But this? This was her proving something. To you. To herself. To the version of her that had let you slip away. You clutched at the front of her coat, yanking her impossibly closer, your legs bracketing her hips instinctively as you pressed into the kiss like it was the only thing keeping you upright. She pulled back for just a breath, forehead pressing into yours, lips brushing. Her voice was wrecked “I should’ve done this months ago…”

Your hands moved to her collar, thumbs stroking along her neck. “You didn’t. But you’re here now.”

Agatha nodded, jaw tightening. “And I’m never letting you forget it again.” She surged forward, capturing your mouth once more—this time slower but no less consuming. Like she was claiming every inch of space she’d once given up. Like she needed you to know: this time, there would be no halfway.

Only everything. She didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Not that you wanted her to. Agatha kissed you like her life depended on it—like if she stopped, you might vanish again. Her hands never stilled, slipping beneath your coat, gripping your hips with a pressure that sent sparks straight through your spine. You arched into her without thinking, your fingers tugging at her collar, pulling her closer until there was nothing but heat and heartbeat and the ragged rhythm of your mouths colliding again and again.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and Agatha groaned into you—low and wrecked and full of a hunger you’d only ever dreamed she might feel for you. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t soft. This was months of repression, of longing, of wrong timing and broken chances, spilling out all at once.

Her lips trailed down to your jaw, then your throat, her breath hot against your skin as she whispered your name like a prayer. You gasped, nails dragging lightly down her back. She bit back a moan, her hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your coat open as she kissed her way back to your mouth, taking it with a fire that made your whole body ache.

You didn’t even know when your hands slipped beneath her sweater, but you needed to feel her—her skin, her warmth, the solidity of her being here, finally, now “God,” you breathed between kisses. “You—Agatha—”

“I know,” she whispered, forehead pressed to yours, her voice shaking. “I know. I missed you too.” You kissed her again. Hard. And she kissed you back like she was trying to carve her name into your bones. And you let her. Because for the first time, she wasn’t kissing you in secret. She wasn’t holding back. She was here. Present. Wanting. Yours. Her coat had slipped down her shoulders, your legs locked around her waist as her hands explored your waist, your ribs, anything she could reach.

The desk creaked under your shifting weight, but neither of you noticed. Her teeth grazed your bottom lip and you gasped—only for her to chase the sound like it belonged to her. You didn’t want to stop. Not when she felt this good. Not when her mouth made you forget the ache she’d caused. Eventually—reluctantly—you pulled back. Breathing hard, your fingers still tangled in the fabric at her waist, your lips swollen, flushed, dazed.

Agatha looked at you like she was lost in a dream. Her lips were kiss-bruised, pupils blown wide, her hands still resting on your thighs as if she didn’t quite trust this moment wouldn’t dissolve between heartbeats. You brushed your nose against hers, trying to slow the rush of it all. You let the silence fall between you for a beat—just long enough to ground yourself in what this really was “This doesn’t fix everything,” you said softly, voice still trembling. “We’re not… whole. Not yet.”

Agatha nodded slowly, her fingers squeezing gently at your hips. “I know.”

You licked your lips, still tasting her. “But maybe… maybe we can build something better. Not perfect. Just… real.” Her gaze locked onto yours, and something softened behind her eyes. Not sadness. Not regret. Just hope.

“Real sounds like everything I’ve ever wanted,” she said. You rested your forehead against hers again, your hands finally stilling where they curled at the sides of her neck. You both stayed like that—breathing each other in, hearts pounding, clothes rumpled, promises unspoken but understood.

This wasn’t the end. It was the beginning. And this time, it wasn’t a false start. It was something new. Something earned.

The next morning felt… strange. Not in a bad way. Not exactly. Just heightened. Like the air around you had shifted. Like the world had tilted a few degrees off center, and now you were watching everything from a slightly different angle.

Agatha had left your office late the night before. Late enough that the hallways were empty. Late enough that neither of you had to face the lingering stares—yet. You hadn’t talked much after. Just sat together, curled up in the quiet aftermath, her hand resting over yours on the desk like she was still afraid you might pull away.

You didn’t.

But now?

Now it was daylight. Now it was real. And the university hadn’t forgotten what it saw. Not when your inbox had three unread messages by 7 a.m., all vaguely worded inquiries from staff members wondering if you were “alright” or “needed time.” Not when Lilia sent you a single line of text—“I support you. I also might murder her if she hurts you again.” And certainly not when you walked into the faculty lounge and every single head turned.

You paused in the doorway, gripping your mug a little too tightly. Agatha was already there, seated at the long table near the back. She looked up when she sensed you, and for a moment—just a flicker—you saw uncertainty in her eyes. But then she smiled. Small. Tentative. Real. And you smiled back. It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t cross the room and kiss her. You didn’t drop your things and run to her side. But you walked over. Sat down across from her. Took a sip of your coffee. Her fingers brushed yours beneath the table, barely a touch. You didn’t pull away. That was enough for now.

Later that week, Wanda dropped by your office. She didn’t say much at first—just leaned against the doorframe, watching you grade papers with that quiet, knowing calm she always carried. You looked up, smiled cautiously “I didn’t expect you to still check in on me considering….”

Wanda tilted her head. “I didn’t come to check in.” You arched a brow “I came to make sure that you’re happy,” she said.

Your breath caught. But you nodded “It’s… new. Fragile. But yeah. I think I am. ”

She gave a soft smile. “Good. She’s fighting for you now. Don’t let her forget to keep doing that.” And then she was gone, leaving you with a warmth in your chest you didn’t know how to name. Wanda truly was a remarkable woman, she helped heal something in you. You’re just sorry she wasn’t the remarkable woman your heart desired.

Lunch with Alice and Jen was a little different that day as well “That was possibly the most dramatic workplace confession I’ve ever witnessed,” Alice said around a bite of her sandwich. “Ten out of ten for entertainment. Subtracting one point for public humiliation though...”

Jen grinned. “I gave her credit for not crying. Or begging. She kept it just on the right side of tragic romantic comedy.”

You groaned. “Can we not do this now or ever?”

“We love you,” Alice said, bumping your knee under the table. “And we just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.” You did. You were still figuring it out. But yes—you knew. Agatha was more cautious now. Every glance she gave you in the hallway came with a question in her eyes. Every shared meeting, every brief moment between classes—she made space for you to decide what this was, what you wanted it to be.

She didn’t push. She didn’t perform. She just showed up. Consistently. Quietly. The way you always wished she had before. When your hands brushed in the lounge, she didn’t yank away. When you laughed at something she said during a meeting, she smiled like it meant everything.

The whispers died down eventually. People always moved on. But your story didn’t go back to what it was before. And that was the point. It grew into something different. Something gentler. Slower. Deliberate. Agatha brought you coffee most mornings. You never asked—she just remembered. You sent her poems again. Slipped under her door like they used to be. You ate lunch together twice a week, sometimes in silence, sometimes with laughter.

It was rebuilding. In inches, not miles. But this time, the foundation was better. Because now, every choice was made with clarity. With care. Not fear. Not guilt. Just want. And that? That was enough. That was everything. It had only been a few weeks since her very public display. Just long enough for the chaos to settle. Just long enough for the gossip to fade into the background, for people to stop pausing when you walked into a room, for Rio to stop pretending she wasn’t still irritated by the entire spectacle.

And in that time, Agatha had been… everything. Attentive without being overbearing. Present without pressure. She never asked for more than you could give, but she always gave more than you expected. Her affection came in quiet gestures—warm drinks slid into your hand during early meetings, scribbled notes tucked into your books, half-sarcastic, half-sincere texts late at night that made you smile even when you didn’t want to.

She was learning. You both were. And somewhere between the surprise lunches and the shared office hours, somewhere between stolen kisses behind closed doors and whispered apologies in passing—You realized you were in trouble. Because it was getting harder to pretend you weren’t head over heels in love with her. Not when she looked at you like you held the entire sky in your eyes. Not when she touched you with reverence, like she was still amazed you let her at all. Not when she said your name like it meant something holy. You hadn’t said it yet. I love you. Not back.

Not out loud. But you felt it. Every time she held your hand across the center console while she drove you home. Every time she waited outside your office just to walk you to the lounge. Every time she looked at you like you were still her favorite secret—even now that the world knew.

And it was making you reckless. You caught yourself staring more often. Letting your fingers linger just a second too long on her arm. Smiling at her with something softer than you meant to reveal. Letting your guard slip piece by piece. You tried to hide it. To keep some part of yourself tucked away in case this still fell apart. But when she leaned against the doorway of your office one Friday evening, holding a little box of your favorite chocolates, her hair tied back in a loose waves, exhaustion in her eyes—your heart ached with just how much you loved her.

She stepped inside like she’d done it a hundred times, closing the door behind her, dropping the box on your desk before sitting on the edge of it “I figured you’d need a bribe if I was going to steal you away from work tonight.”

You raised a brow. “Steal me?”

She shrugged, leaning closer, voice low and teasing. “Kidnap. Woo. Spirit away. You can pick the language. I’m flexible.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Agatha grinned, but then—her expression shifted. Softened. “But I mean it. I want time with you. Not as an apology. Not as a fix. Just as… us.” Something in your chest squeezed. You stood slowly, rounding the desk until you were standing between her legs, her knees brushing your hips.

She looked up at you like she didn’t dare breathe. And you—God, you wanted to say it. You love her. But instead, you cupped her jaw gently, brushing your thumb over the corner of her mouth, and said, “I’m already yours. You don’t have to steal me.”

Her breath hitched. Her hands found your hips. You leaned in. Let your forehead rest against hers. And though the words sat right on the edge of your lips, you still didn’t say them. Not yet. But you were close. You didn’t even get to argue. The second your laptop closed, Agatha was already tugging your coat off the back of your chair and draping it over your shoulders like she’d been planning this for days. Her hands lingered at your collar. Her smile was bright, but the look in her eyes? That was something else entirely.

Something hopeful. Something deliberate “Come on,” she said softly, brushing your hair back from your face. “You’ve been working too much. And I’ve got reservations I may or may not have bribed someone for.”

You blinked. “You made reservations?”

Agatha smirked, leaning in to whisper against your ear. “It’s called courting. Let me romance you, please darling.”

You flushed. “I—okay.” And just like that, you let her take your hand and guide you out of your office, down the long corridor, past whatever mess still lingered in the whispers of your colleagues. You didn’t care. Not with her fingers intertwined with yours. Not when she looked at you like this.

Dinner was stunning. The kind of place with soft candlelight flickering off crystal glassware, live jazz humming through hidden speakers, and a panoramic window view of the city skyline. Agatha had requested a table near the edge, just slightly tucked away, as if she wanted to show you off without making a scene.

She was effortless—her blazer sharp, her perfume warm and clean, her gaze never straying from you for long. And you… you spent most of the meal falling apart inside because she kept saying things like “Do you remember our first joint lecture? You made me look like I had a soul.” Or— “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who makes me feel this grounded.” And then the worst of them, whispered low as her hand brushed yours across the table “You make me want things I thought I couldn’t have anymore.”

By the time dessert came—some soft, elegant thing layered in chocolate and berry—you were certain your heart was no longer in your chest but somewhere at her mercy, resting between your empty wine glass and her folded napkin. But the night wasn’t over “I have one more surprise,” she said as you walked outside, cool air curling around the collar of your coat.

You gave her a look. “You’re spoiling me.”

She lifted your hand to her lips, kissed your knuckles. “That’s the plan.”

She led you to a nearby private elevator with a keycard she definitely shouldn’t have had access to—but knowing Agatha, she could charm just about anything out of anyone. When the doors opened at the top floor, she stepped aside with a slight bow “After you.”

You stepped onto the rooftop and your breath caught. The city stretched out in every direction, glittering and alive beneath the stars. String lights wrapped around the edge of the railing, flickering like fireflies, and a soft breeze tugged at your coat as you walked forward, stunned “Agatha…”

She came up behind you, wrapping her arms gently around your waist, resting her chin on your shoulder. “I used to come up here when I needed space. To think. To remember who I was.” You leaned back against her, heart already aching “But lately,” she continued, her voice softer now, “I come up here to think about the future.”

You turned slightly, just enough to look at her. “Yeah?”

She smiled, almost shy. “I’ve been thinking about what it might look like… if you were always in it.” You froze. Her eyes searched yours. “Not just this. Not just now. I mean something bigger. Permanent.” A pause. “Lifelong.”

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. The words slipped out before you could pull them back, before fear could catch up “I love you.” Agatha’s breath hitched. Your heart felt like it had burst open in your chest. You blinked, lips parting, because you hadn’t even planned to say it. But it was true. God, it was so true “I love you,” you said again, quieter this time, eyes shimmering.

Agatha’s hand cupped your cheek so gently, it nearly undid you. She didn’t say anything for a moment—just stared at you like you’d rewired the stars. Then she kissed you. And this kiss was different. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It wasn’t tangled in grief or longing or guilt.

It was full.

Whole.

Loving.

When she pulled back, her voice was thick with emotion “I love you too. I’ve never been more certain of anything.” You rested your forehead against hers, your fingers tangled in the lapel of her coat, and for the first time since everything began—You felt like the story was finally beginning. And this time, it was yours to write together.

You didn’t pull away. Not after the kiss. Not after the way she said it—I love you too—like it was the only truth that had ever mattered. Instead, you leaned in closer brushing your nose against her own, your breath still shaky from everything that had just been said “Say it again,” you whispered, voice low, almost daring.

Agatha’s lips curled. “I love you too.”

You didn’t let her finish the breath after it.

You kissed her—hard. It was different from the tenderness before. This kiss was heat and hunger, the kind that rolled up from somewhere low in your stomach and took over completely. You grabbed the front of her coat, tugging her closer with a force that had her stumbling forward with a breathless laugh against your mouth. Her hands were on your waist immediately, gripping through the fabric of your coat like she didn’t care you were still out in the open air, surrounded by string lights and stars and the city humming beneath your feet.

You deepened the kiss, your body pressing fully against hers, and she melted into you without hesitation—like kissing you was something she was born to do. Agatha pulled back just slightly, lips brushing yours, her voice a rough, teasing whisper. “If you keep kissing me like that, I’m going to forget we’re on a rooftop.”

“Good,” you murmured, catching her bottom lip between your teeth before you let it go. “Because I’m very much done being on this rooftop.”

She blinked at you, pupils blown, breath catching. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly, fingers sliding down the front of her coat. “Let’s go. Now.” Agatha didn’t need to be told twice.

She laced her fingers with yours, pressing one last kiss to your cheek, and with a smirk that promised trouble—the kind you’d dreamed about for years—she whispered “Your place or mine then?”

You smirked back “Whichever’s closer.” The moment you both slid into the car, it was clear: keeping your hands to yourselves wasn’t going to happen.

Agatha had barely fastened her seatbelt before you leaned over the console and pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck, just below her jaw—slow, lingering. She let out a sharp breath, fingers tightening on the steering wheel “You’re going to make me crash,” she muttered, half warning, half prayer.

You grinned, brushing your lips over the shell of her ear. “Then drive faster.”

She did. The city blurred past, lights streaking through the windows like stars in motion, but neither of you could focus. Your hand never left her thigh, your fingers teasing slow circles over the fabric of her slacks. She kept sneaking glances your way, her jaw clenched, breathing uneven—like she was using every last bit of control to keep from pulling over and dragging you into the back seat.

You couldn’t stop touching her, kissing her knuckles when she reached for the gearshift. Tugging on the collar of her coat to pull her toward you at red lights, nipping her bottom lip teasingly between each slow kiss. By the time she pulled into her building’s parking garage, she was visibly shaking “You’re a damn menace,” she said, voice dark and rough as she threw the car in park.

You just smirked and leaned across the console one last time. “And you love it.” Getting upstairs was a blur. She didn’t even bother pretending to be patient. Her hand was locked around yours from the moment you stepped into the elevator, and when the doors finally opened on her floor, she yanked you down the hallway with a kind of focused urgency that had your knees going weak.

And when the door clicked open—barely, just barely—Agatha was already pushing you inside. The door slammed shut behind you. And then she had you. She pinned you against it before you could say a word, her mouth crashing onto yours with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. You gasped into her, and she swallowed the sound greedily, her hands already fisting in your coat, yanking it open with impatient fingers.

“You drive me insane,” she muttered between kisses, one hand pressing flat to your waist, the other sliding up to cradle your jaw. “Do you know what it’s been like—watching you, wanting you—and not being allowed to touch you like this?”

Your only answer was a moan as she pressed harder into you, her thigh sliding between yours, your hands scrambling at the button of her slacks with all the subtlety of someone on the edge of ruin. You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Then stop waisting time.”

Agatha’s eyes burned—lit with something hungry and possessive and worshipful all at once “Oh, I have no intention of waiting anymore.” She kissed you again—deeper, hotter—her body molding to yours as if trying to prove every promise she’d made on that rooftop with the press of her mouth and the drag of her hands. Her teeth caught your bottom lip and you gasped, legs tightening around her thigh where it slotted between yours.

Whatever came next, whatever words were still waiting to be said, could wait. Right now? She was going to make up for lost time. Clothes hit the floor in pieces—buttons popped, shoes kicked off in a stumbling blur of mouths and hands and half-choked laughter between kisses that never stayed gentle for long. Agatha guided you backward down the hallway, lips never leaving yours, her hands greedy and unrelenting as they skimmed over skin she’d once only dreamed of touching again.

By the time your back hit her bed, you were breathless. Dizzy. Her name fell from your lips like a plea. She crawled over you slowly, like she was savoring it. Like this moment had been carved out of time just for her to memorize every part of you all over again. Her eyes were dark with desire, yes—but behind it, something more reverent. Tender.

“You’re even more beautiful now that I’m allowed to keep you,” she whispered, pressing a trail of kisses down your collarbone, her fingers dancing down your ribs, teasing your skin until you arched into her touch with a gasp. Your hands found her back, fingers dragging down until she shivered above you.

“You always had me,” you murmured, pulling her down into another kiss. “You just didn’t know what to do with it.” Agatha growled softly into your mouth, one of her hands sliding between your thighs teasingly.

You inhale sharply as her touch ignites your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Your eyes darken with desire, gaze boring into hers with an intensity that steals her breath. She shivers under the weight of your stare, heart hammering wildly in her chest.

"Show me," you breathe, voice heavy with want. Your hands skim back up her sides, settling on the dip of her waist. She inhales sharply, arching into your touch. Free hand roaming greedily over your chest, tracing the curve of your breast, committing them to memory.

She leans down, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I'm going to take my time with you," she whispers, her voice low and sultry, dripping with unspoken promises. "I want to taste every inch of you. Make you feel things you've never felt before."

Her tongue traces the lobe of your ear, drawing a shuddering breath from you. Your fingers dig into the soft flesh of her hips, urging her closer. She chuckles softly, a sound of pure sin and sweet seduction. "All night long," she purrs. "Until the only name you remember... is mine."

Then she kisses you. And it's not gentle. It's hungry. It's impatient. It's everything you've been craving since the moment you walked through her door. It's a promise of pleasure. A guarantee of completeness. A vow of eternal, unforgettable devotion. It's everything you've ever wanted. Everything you'll ever need. You hummed into the kiss hips snapping forward, you could feel yourself growing wet “ please—”

Agatha's head dips, her lips trailing down your neck, over the slope of your shoulder. Your skin prickles with heat and anticipation. She inhales, breathing in your scent, a mix of desire and desperation "I know," she murmurs against your skin. "I can feel it."

Her hand slips further between your thighs, fingers gliding over your slick folds. They dip inside, stroking your inner walls, curling and pressing against that sensitive spot that makes your toes curl "Look at you baby," she coos softly, almost reverently. "So wet for me. So ready." She circles your clit with the pads of two fingers, teasing the swollen bud. Your hips buck upwards, chasing her touch. Wanting more.

"Yes, you need this, don't you?" Agatha whispers. "You need me to fill up this pretty little pussy." Her thumb flicks over your clit, a hard, fast, intense press. You cry out at the sudden jolt of pleasure, hands fisting in the sheets beneath you as you but you lip stifling a whimper.

"Don't hold back, baby. I want to hear you." Her fingers pump faster, the obscene sound of your arousal echoing through the room. Her palm grinds against your clit with each thrust, the pressure building, your climax chasing faster than before. Your thighs tremble on either side of her hips, every inch of you drawn taut and coiled, waiting, yearning, craving...

"Please," you whimper brokenly, your grip tightening on the sheets, nails digging into the fabric. "Please baby, I need... I need..."

"I know." Agatha's voice is a low murmur against your ear. Triumphant. Assured. "I know exactly what you need, sweetheart." And then she pushes two fingers deep inside you, curling against that hidden spot, grinding against it ruthlessly. Her thumb presses down hard on your clit, rubbing unmerciful circles around the sensitive bud.

Your climax hits you with the force of a tidal wave, crashing over you, drowning you. You scream her name like a prayer, like a mantra, like the only word you know how to say. Your vision goes white as ecstasy pulses through every nerve ending, your body shaking and jerking in her grasp.

She holds you through it, murmuring praise and adoration, stroking you down as you float back to yourself. When you finally open your eyes, sated and sleepy, she's watching you with a soft, tender smile "That's my good girl," she whispers, brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead. " My everything."

You whimper softly, hips grinding helplessly against Agatha's hand as a powerful climax crashes through you like a tidal wave. "Please... I need more," you beg, your voice raw and broken as ecstasy pulses through every nerve ending, every cell in your body screaming for more of her touch.

Agatha doesn't hesitate. She continues pumping her fingers deep inside you, curling them hard against your spasming walls, stroking you with ruthless precision as you ride out the aftershocks of your release. At the same time, leaning down and closing her mouth around one of your nipples, suckling greedily, hissing softly as you buck against her touch.

You can feel her fingers slick with your arousal, dripping with your need as she thrusts them in and out of your fluttering channel, fucking you through your orgasm until you're writhing against the sheets, mewling helplessly as overstimulation threatens to overload your senses “Whatever you need my love—," Agatha whispered breathlessly as she releases your nipple with a sharp nip, continuing the path down you torso. Her free hand grips your hip, spreading your thighs wider to slip down and position herself comfortably between them, opening you up fully to her relentless touch. "I want to feel you fall apart sweetheart. I want to taste you come undone like only I can make you do..."

She leaned down sealing her lips around your clit, suckling hard as her fingers drive into you, pounding your sensitive flesh. The sensation is overwhelming, the pleasure so intense that it borders on pain. But you don't want her to stop. You never want her to stop "Yes, yes, yes!" you chant deliriously, fingers clawing at your own hair as you arch your back, pressing your chest against her mouth. "More, please more..."

Agatha doesn't let up, her fingers plunging deep as her tongue swirls and flickers over your swollen clit. She's determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from your trembling body, to push you past the limits of endurance until all you can do is feel the raw, electric pulse of your own pleasure.

She can feel your walls starting to flutter around her fingers, your body tensing as another climax builds deep in your core. She moans against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pure bliss radiating outward from your throbbing sex "That's it, baby..." Agatha breathes, pressing a kiss to your clit before releasing it from the hot prison of her mouth. "You're going to come for me again, sweetheart” she whispered almost commandingly “I need to hear you scream my name..."

Her fingers drive up into you, hard and fast and deep. The heel of her palm grinds against your clit as she feels your body start to seize, to clamp down and squeeze her fingers. "Now, baby. Give it to me now," Agatha demands, and you have no choice but to obey. Your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in sensation, ravaging you with the force of your pleasure.

Your scream echoes off the walls, reverberating through the room like a war cry, a demand, a desperate plea. You writhe and convulse beneath Agatha as she milks your climax for every Agatha continues her relentless assault, lapping and suckling at your gushing, twitching sex until the last waves of your climax subside. She doesn't stop until your hips start to rock into her touch once more, craving more of that sweet friction, that exquisite pressure.

Pressing a final, possessive kiss to your sensitive flesh, Agatha trail her lips up your thigh, pressing nip after nip into the delicate skin. Each bite sends a fresh spark of arousal through you, stoking the embers of your desire back into a raging inferno. Rising languidly from the bed, Agatha saunters over to the dresser, her hips swaying with a seductive rhythm. She pauses for the briefest of moments before reaching into the bottom drawer, pulling out a vibrant purple strap, larger than anything you’ve used on yourself most definitely.

Her eyes clash with yours, burning with a hunger that steals your breath. You bite your lip, nodding softly as you spread your thighs wider in clear invitation, a silent plea for her to take you, claim you, fill you... complete you. Agatha groans deeply at the sight of you splayed out before her, a carnal offering awaiting her touch. "Fuck, baby. Look at you. So gorgeous. So perfect..."

Within moments, she has the harness secured snug around her hips, the thick cock protruding obscenely from her waist. Your eyes widen and a shudder wracks down your body as she stalks back towards you. Mounting the bed, she settles between your thighs, the thick head of the toy nudging against your slick, swollen entrance.

Ducking her head, Agatha swallows your gasp of anticipation with a deep, claiming kiss, her tongue delving into your mouth, tangling with yours. As she kisses you, she rolls her hips forward just once, pushing slowly into your welcoming heat. Your back arches at the exquisite stretch, the delicious pressure of being filled, claimed, taken. You can feel every rigid inch of the toy as it parts your walls, delving deeper, reaching higher, stroking your most sensitive places.

"You feel that, baby?" Agatha whispers when she breaks the kiss, her lips brushing yours. "Feel me stretching this perfect little cunt? Making her mine?" She punctuates her words with a subtle thrust of her hips, driving the strap-on a little deeper, a little harder. Your walls flutter and squeeze around the firm length, drawing her in, begging her to fill you utterly.

"Yes—" you gasped eyes rolling back, nails digging into her back, anchoring her to you. "Yes, I feel it. It's so big. It's...ah! Fuck—"

Agatha smirks at your breathless praise, a wicked glint in her eye. "That's it, sweetheart. This pussy was made to be stretched by me. Made to be stuffed full of my cock, again and again..." She starts to move then, rolling her hips in a slow, steady rhythm. The toy drags along your walls with each thrust, stroking your sweet spots, igniting sparks of pleasure that build and grow and consume you from within.

Your head falls back against the bed, a pillow of tangled hair and sweat-sheened skin, as Agatha begins to thrust with purpose, each drive of her hips a claiming motion intent on owning every inch of your most intimate space "Oh fuck!" you cry out, voice breaking on a whimper of pure, unadulterated pleasure. "So fuckin' deep..."

You can feel the strap-on delving into you, splitting you open, reaching places no one else ever has. It's a delicious invasion, a beautiful claiming, a relentless pressure that borders on pain but brings only ecstasy. Your hips rise to meet hers, matching her fervor, her desire, your body desperate to be filled, to be used for her pleasure. The room fills with the symphony of your coupling - the slap of skin on skin, the slick glide of the toy plunging into your dripping sex, your wanton cries and breathless moans.

"That's it, baby," Agatha pants, braced above you, her hair a wild halo around her flushed face, "Take it . Take every fuckin' inch..." She leans down to capture your nipple between her teeth, biting down just hard enough to make you jerk and clench around the thick length spearing you open. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure and pain blending into a heady cocktail that sets your nerves alight.

Your hands claw at her back, nails raking down the sweat-slicked flesh as your body bucks and writhes beneath the force of her thrusts. You can feel yourself losing control, succumbing to the sheer, primal bliss of being possessed so utterly, you wailed, walls starting to flutter and clench around the plunging length as your climax builds at the base of your spine. "Harder baby, fuck me harder..."

Agatha complies with a dark chuckle, slamming into you with renewed vigor. The bed creaks and shakes with the force of her thrusts, slamming against the wall as she takes you with wild abandon "You want it harder?" she growls, the words vibrating through you. "You want me to ruin this hungry little cunt?"

"Yes, fuck yes!" you scream, too lost in sensation to care how desperate you sound. "Ruin me, baby. Fuckin' wreck me..." Your climax hits you like a freight train, tearing through you, shattering you from the inside out. Your vision goes white, your scream echoes off the walls as ecstasy crashes over you in overwhelming waves. Your sex clamps down rhythmically, squeezing and milking the strap-on as your orgasm rips you apart, chest heaving and breasts bouncing with each powerful clench.

Agatha slows her thrusts to a languid, sensual pace as she feels your walls start to flutter and quiver around her pulling her deeper, your climax building to a fever pitch. She wants to savor this moment, to linger in the exquisite feeling of your body yielding to her touch, accepting her completely. Leaning down, she claims your mouth in a slow, deep kiss, her tongue languidly stroking yours as she rocks into you one last time before slowly, reluctantly pulling out.

You gasp softly into her mouth, a hiss escaping your lips as you feel the loss of her, the emptiness inside you a stark contrast to the pleasure still coursing through your veins.

Agatha slips off the bed, your slick dripping down your thighs and onto the rumpled sheets. She makes quick work of unfastening the strap-on, tossing it carelessly to the floor before striding towards the bathroom, her lithe form a study in sin and satisfaction.

She returns a moment later with a small, damp washcloth, the fabric cool and soothing in her hands. Sitting back down between your trembling thighs, Agatha starts to clean your soft flesh, gentling you down from your erotic high with a tender touch.

You shiver as the cool cloth brushes over your sensitive sex, your skin still hot and aching from your intense coupling. But the sensation is also soothing, the knowledge that she cares for you, for your pleasure and your comfort, in a way that no one else ever has "That's my girl," she murmurs softly as she wipes away the last traces of your climax, the last remnants of her claim on your body. "Such a beautiful girl, so responsive, so perfect..."

Setting the washcloth aside, Agatha leans forward to press a single, reverent kiss to the apex of your thighs, the meet of your sex. Her lips linger there, breathing in the scent of your arousal, your pleasure, searing it into her memory. Then she's climbing back into bed beside you, pulling you into her arms, cradling your trembling body against her own. Her hands stroke down your sides, soothing the last little flutters and twitches from your climax.

You lay tangled in her sheets—limbs draped over limbs, hearts pounding slower now but still synced. Agatha’s arm was tucked under your head, her other hand tracing idle shapes along your spine. The moonlight through the curtains cast soft shadows across her bare shoulder, her lips swollen and parted, breath evening out.

You were both drifting, on the edge of sleep, but still tethered by the press of warm skin and the taste of lazy kisses passed back and forth without thought You shifted slightly, your nose brushing hers. “So… this is what making up looks like?”

Agatha hummed, pressing a barely-there kiss to your cheek. “Only the beginning.” You smiled into her neck, eyes heavy. Her hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, anchoring you gently to her chest.

“All mine.” she murmured. And in that quiet, sacred moment—intertwined, tangled up in love and sheets and everything you’d nearly lost—you believed her. You let yourself fall asleep in her arms. Because this time, she was staying. And so were you.

[himasgod]

Some twisted wonderland character comforts us when we broke down because we want to go back to our home ( separated) but it was no way back home

( if so can you make one with Jamil? )

ACE AND DEUCE AND JAMIL X READER

Where they comfort you when you miss home

How would the boys act when they find you crying because you know there's probably no way home?

The stars in Twisted Wonderland weren’t the same.

They were too blue. Too distant. Too still.

Back home, you remembered lying on your roof during summer nights, watching airplanes blink past, hearing distant traffic and dogs barking in backyards.

Here… all you could hear was wind. A different wind. One that felt like it didn’t belong to your lungs, like it didn’t know you.

You were used to pretending, smiling like things were okay. You had magic to study, housewarden rules to follow, ghosts to wrangle. But tonight… it cracked.

You sat on the crumbling steps of Ramshackle, hoodie sleeves pulled over your fists, knees drawn up to your chest. The sky blurred above you because of the tears you’d been holding back for months, now spilling down with no resistance.

You missed everything.

The feel of your own bed. Your mom’s voice. The dumb jingles from your favorite shows. The smell of your old laundry detergent. Even the mundane fights with classmates.

There was no way home.

Crowley said it over and over, he was trying to find it.

But now it felt real. You were trapped.

Like the story had been closed, and you were the only character left behind in the wrong book.

You didn’t notice when someone walked up the path to Ramshackle.

You didn’t hear the footsteps on the gravel.

“…Yo,” came a voice—too casual for the quiet night. “Did you forget what time it is? You’re gonna catch a cold out here like that.”

You blinked hard and looked up.

Ace stood a few steps away, jacket slung over one shoulder, a paper bag in his other hand.

Behind him was Deuce, fidgeting with something behind his back, expression hesitant but worried.

“…We brought you dinner. Er… late dinner,” Deuce said softly. “You weren’t in the cafeteria today.”

You tried to wipe your face quickly, but it was obvious.

“…Oh. I—I wasn’t really hungry,” you whispered, your voice cracking halfway through.

Ace dropped his bag next to you and sighed, crouching down to your level. He didn’t immediately say anything, just stared at your blotchy teary face

“Okay. Out with it. You’re too crap at hiding stuff.”

Deuce sat on the other side, carefully putting down a warm container of food next to you. It smelled like miso soup—maybe something Sam sold them.

You shook your head. “It’s dumb. I’m just… being stupid. Sorry.”

“Don't do that,” Deuce said, his tone suddenly firmer.

“You don’t have to say sorry. Not to us.”

Ace leaned his elbows on his knees, lips twitching.

“You seriously think we haven’t noticed you spacing out lately? Every time someone says something about ‘home’ or ‘parents’ you get that far-off look like someone hit you with a sad spell.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Kinda,” Ace said.

“But we didn’t wanna push. Thought maybe you’d talk when you were ready.”

You swallowed hard.

“I just… I want to go back. To where I belong. I don’t want to stay here forever. I want to be home, and there's no mirror, no spell, no nothing that can fix that. Crowley keeps pretending he’s looking but we all know he’s not really doing anything. It feels like I’m slowly being erased from my own world…”

Your throat clenched as your voice wavered.

“And I’m scared I’ll forget what my mom’s laugh sounds like.”

That was when the silence fell heavy.

Deuce looked down, fists clenched. He finally said, quietly.

“I’d be scared too.”

Ace was still. His normal sarcasm was gone.

“…That sucks,” he muttered, honest for once. “That really, really sucks.”

You let out a sob you didn’t know you were holding.

Without a word, Ace scooted closer and dropped his head against your shoulder.

“I’m not gonna tell you everything’s gonna be okay, ‘cause that’d be a load of bull. But…”

He reached over and flicked your forehead—light, just enough to be annoying.

“If you cry without telling us, I’m gonna be mad. Seriously.”

“Same,” Deuce added, resting his head in your other shoulder, more gently.

“You’re not alone, okay? You’ve got us.”

You looked between them, sniffing.

“Why… why do you two care so much?”

“Because we’re friends, dummy,” Ace said immediately, almost insulted.

“You’re our weird, stubborn, always-in-danger-because-you-have-zero-self-preservation-and-you-need-to-help-every-fucking-body friend. What kind of guys would we be if we didn’t have your back?”

Deuce smiled a little.

“And because you’ve helped us a lot too. You were there when we messed up. It’s our turn now.”

You covered your eyes with your sleeves again.

“…Thanks. Both of you.”

They didn’t push more.

Ace leaned back, arms crossed behind his head, and started complaining about how cold the steps were and how he should have brought a chair.

Deuce stayed beside you, occasionally handing you tissues from his uniform pocket.

At some point, you ate the soup.

It wasn’t your mom’s cooking, but it was warm, and it tasted like comfort.

And when you finally stood up, heart heavy but a little less cracked, Ace grinned and nudged your shoulder.

“Still stuck here with us losers, huh? Guess that means we better keep you around.”

Deuce laughed.

“And maybe… someday, there’ll be a way back. But until then… we’ll make this place feel a little more like home.”

And for the first time in a long while, you believed them.

You weren't supposed to be here.

The lounge of Scarabia in night wasn't exactly forbidden, but it was hardly a place students went after hours.

It was quiet. Isolated. Uncomfortable, even, with the cold stone beneath you and the wind tugging at your sleeves. But maybe that discomfort was comforting in its own way. Tangible. Something you could feel while everything else felt so...

Detached.

The sky above was foreign—unfamiliar stars scattered in constellations you didn't recognize, a moon that looked the same but felt completely different.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, pulling your knees to your chest, and stared into the distance.

"I want to go home," you murmured. The words felt like a betrayal.

Saying them out loud made them heavier.

You hadn’t heard the voice behind you.

"Then why are you here, instead of asking Crowley for the thousandth time to send you back?"

The voice was dry, even. Unmistakable.

You turned slowly. Jamil, arms crossed. His gaze was sharp as always, but there was no mockery in his expression.

Only... observation. Careful, measured.

"I didn't think anyone would notice I was gone," you said, managing a weak smile. "Let alone come looking."

Jamil stepped into. He didn't respond right away. Instead, he glanced up at the sky.

"Grim noticed. You left your bag behind, and he was tearing apart the hallway like you'd disappeared into thin air."

You huffed a bitter laugh. "Well, that would be on-brand for this world, wouldn't it?"

He didn’t laugh.

He just moved to stand beside you, the silence stretching long. The wind tugged at his braids.

"You want to go home," he said again, quieter this time.

You didn't answer.

"You're not the first person who wanted to leave this place," he continued. "And you won't be the last."

"You sound like you know what it feels like," you said.

Jamil sat down beside you, back straight even as he lowered himself. He rested his arms loosely on his knees, his fingers laced together. Always in control. Always composed.

"I used to think I could escape too. That one day, I'd walk away from Scarabia. From Kalim. From... all of it."

You glanced sideways. "What stopped you?"

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"Reality."

That one word hit harder than anything else had.

He continued, gaze fixed on the sky.

"No one ever asked me if I wanted to serve the Al-Asim family. No one ever asked me what I wanted. They just assumed. And when you're trained your whole life to be useful, your desires become irrelevant."

His words should have sounded bitter. But they didn’t. They were too matter-of-fact for that.

"And now?" you asked.

"Now? I play the part. Because if I don’t, someone else will write the ending for me."

Your throat tightened.

"I'm sorry."

Jamil looked at you finally, and for a moment, his eyes softened.

"You don’t need to be. You’re not the reason things are the way they are."

The silence returned. But this time, it was gentler. Less suffocating.

"I miss them," you whispered.

"My family. My friends. I miss the smell of my house. The taste of my grandma's food. I miss sunsets I recognize. I miss waking up and knowing where I am."

Jamil didn’t interrupt. He didn’t offer empty reassurances. He let you speak.

"And sometimes I feel like... if I let myself forget even one thing, it means I'm giving up. That I'm letting this place win."

Your voice cracked.

"I forgot the password on my old phone. I forgot the tune my sister always sang when she came home from school. I briefly forgot my dog's birthday."

"I'm tired, Jamil. I'm so tired."

He didn’t reach for you. That wasn’t his way

He leaned a little closer. Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. Just barely.

"Then rest. Just for tonight."

You looked at him, eyes stinging. "I don’t know how."

His expression didn’t change. But he said, softly:

"Then let me keep watch while you figure it out."

A lump formed in your throat. You turned your head away, but not before he saw it.

"You don’t have to be strong every second of every day," he continued. "I know what it’s like to keep everything inside until it eats you alive. I won’t let that happen to you."

He said it like a promise. Quiet. Fierce.

You wiped your eyes with your sleeve and leaned into him a little more. He didn’t move away.

"We’re both trapped, aren’t we?"

"Maybe," he murmured. "But under the same sky. Under the same stars."

You sat there together, under constellations neither of you recognized, listening to the wind.

And when your head gradually rested against his shoulder, and his warmth settled around you like a shield, you felt him shift just enough to let it happen.

He didn’t speak again, but you felt the faintest brush of his fingers as they hovered near yours doing constellation figures—hesitating, uncertain.

And then, softly, he intertwined them with yours.

The night didn't feel quite so cold.

[oddballwriter]

if its alright, could i request some jealous ena? do you think both sides of her would handle jealousy differently?

Jealous Dream BBQ ENA headcanons

Warnings: our lovely polygon wife struggling with big feelings of jealousy and a bit of self doubt if you squint, Meanie getting into fights, the big sad but then comfort. If I missed anything please feel free to tell me.

Author’s Snip: yay more of our BBQ babygirl

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

Oh, for sure she feels some sort of way.

People are literally so rude. You know? They were already rude and mean to ENA already but ever since you two became public about dating, it’s like there’s a whole new thing for them to tease and bully ENA about. Some people will just straight up flirt with you right in front of her like she’s not standing right next to you and talking to them.

Not to mention that people probably say stuff about your relationship to her right to her face about how she’s just a rebound or something. Someone said to her, “You know they’re just dating you because their ex got the big ring and they wanted to make them jealous, right? I heard all about it.”. Or that you felt so bad for her that you started dating her out of pity and will earn to heart to break up eventually. It’s awful.

And it really gets to her head sometimes. She knows deep down that it’s not true. You love her. You tell her so and show it in your own way. And you wouldn’t lie to her. She knows that you love her with all your heart and will be by her side despite what everyone says about her and the reputation that you may get when people find out you’re with her. You’re hers and she’s yours.

But again, sometimes it just gets to her

Her salesperson side is a little more subtle about it, but you can feel it a bit when she puts an emphasis on “my faithful partner in the market of love and affection” (her side’s way of saying you’re her s/o) and how her mitten of a hand takes yours when she notices the person you two are talking to seemingly eyeing you up.

It’s a bit awkward because that hand doesn’t have fingers, so it just kind of cups your hand, but you know that that’s her substitute for intertwining her fingers with yours on that hand and you subconsciously follow suit and hold her hand too

And even if someone does make a pass at you, she intervenes by stating “I’m afraid that we are derailing from the subject matter of our brief meeting.” and ignores the glare they give her or grins back at them letting them know that she knows damn well what they’re trying

Her meanie side… is not so subtle or polite. To put it mildly

She cuts straight to the point and straight through the bullshit like she always does and calls them out

“Hey, pal! Keep your eyes off! That’s my lucky score! Get your own at the bottom of the bargain bin!”

She’s willing to through hands and mittens with anyone and anything. She knows how to fight. She looks like that clawed hand can give a good scratch and the mitten can give a good sucker punch. The megaphone can be used for more than just yelling into it.

No fr though she’d fight someone for you and probably has or almost has if it weren’t for you holding her back. Though she has just popped her arms off and tried to fight by kicking before.

…

…

She got her ass beat but she swears to this very day that she did more damage to the other guy

She does also repeat and reinstate the fact that you’re hers to you.

IE “You’re MY little heart pest!”

She never gets too mad at you though. She just gets very passionate about you and making sure that you let her know that you’re hers and that you have no interest in how the other person was acting towards you. But in never gets to anything actually harsh or abusive, and you know that.

That’s just how she talks and is. That’s literally the whole main component of that side of her.

But in terms of warding people off, she has a very “bark and maybe even bite” approach

After these cases, her salesperson side comes in and apologizes. Mainly to you though. She’ll give the person the most customer service ass apologies as she walks away with you, but with you she’ll have a more heartfelt one about “acting unprofessional and hostile in front of such a respected and valued person of my personal interest”

ENA will never really talk about her feelings of jealousy to you as to not bother or burden you with it even if you’re offering to listen to her and help her feel relieved of them if you can tell that somethings weighing her down.

Her salesperson side denies it entirely and her meanie said calls it stupid and idiotic. It’s honestly like pulling teeth

But you honest to GØD have some sort of spell over her that makes her give in after a few good tries and a private enough area away from prying eyes

It’s always her pale side that talks during there’s moments, which makes sense. You love the salesperson side and all the good joy and positivity it brings. But you know that this side of her feels all the intense things.

She’s not yelling, throwing insults, or sarcastic anymore. Her voice is much quieter, almost soft and fragile. Almost like she’s about to cry. And she hangs her head like it’s too heavy for the pull of her body to hold it up properly.

She doesn’t say much. She just asks “You do like me, right? They’re all lying to me again, right?”

You don’t really have to say much either. No big flowery and loud profession of love and devotion. You just need to have her look at you and tell her that you do love her and that everyone else can go eat smoke. She’ll know that you mean it just by the look in your eyes. She knows you just as much as you know her and can tell when you’re lying. And the fact that she knows and feels deep down inside that you’re telling the truth makes her feel better.

After that she goes back to her regular self, either meanie says some thing about “gross softie feelings” or her salesperson side comes back in and displays that big ol grin that you love so much

People can get to her. But you basically live inside of the coding of her heart and soul

[willowsnook]

https://www.tumblr.com/willowsnook/777849918464393216/halfway-to-always-pt-2

more pleaseeeeeeee!!! maybe like their relationship growing more ? idk more relationship things since we technically haven’t see them together

pt. 1, pt. 2

Quinn hughes x sharks!reader

—-------------------------------------------

Long distance had not been easy, but you and Quinn were really trying to make it work. It was a lot of late-night calls, quick trips across the border, and constant texting. If you were at a different point in your life, you might complain, but where you are now was actually perfect. You didn’t have to worry about splitting time between work and a boyfriend, because your boyfriend lived 900 miles away, so he wasn’t expecting your physical time. 

It was easy for him too – he had strayed away from relationships ever since he was drafted in the NHL, not wanting to put someone through the experience of him being away all the time and always focused on hockey. The first half of the season came and went and you fell into a good routine: watch Quinn’s games when you could, call him after, fall asleep to his voice.

It was after a night Sharks game, when you saw that someone else had tried to call you: Ellen. The second you saw the missed call, you immediately dialed her number. 

“Hey Ellen, sorry I missed your call,” you said, concerned. It was pretty late where she was at so the unexpected call had you on high alert. 

“Hey sweetheart, I know you don’t have your phone on during games, but I wanted to tell you that Quinn got hurt tonight,” she said softly.

Your heart sank, “How hurt?” 

“Not terribly, but something with his obliques,” she said. “I talked to him an hour ago, he said it’s looking like there’s a good chance he’s going to miss some games.”

You were devastated for Quinn; missing some upcoming games likely meant he wouldn’t be able to play in the Four Nations tournament either. He was so happy when he was selected for the team and you knew this would crush him. You thanked Ellen for the call and called your boyfriend next. 

“Hi baby,” he greeted sleepily. 

"Hi, I just heard. Are you okay?" Your voice was tight with concern.

"I've been better," Quinn sighed, and you could practically see him running a hand through his hair, that frustrated gesture you'd come to know so well. "Doc says it's just a strain, but..." He trailed off.

"Ellen mentioned you might miss some games."

A heavy pause hung between you. "Yeah. And probably Four Nations too." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, confirming your fears.

"Oh, Quinn," you whispered, wishing more than anything you could be there to hold him. "I'm so sorry."

"It's hockey, you know? These things happen." He was trying to sound casual, but you could hear the disappointment weighing down each word. "I just... I wanted it so badly.”

He sounded so meek over the phone, and your heart broke in half listening. You tried to keep the conversation going but saying he was tired, all you could do was remind him that you were here for him before hanging up.

“What’s wrong?” Will asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. He had his bag thrown over his shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

“Quinn injured his oblique,” you told him, trying to keep your emotions at bay. 

“How bad?” He asked. 

“Bad,” you replied. “He’s going to miss four nations.” 

Will held open his arms, and you crumpled into them, trying to take deep breaths. You heard him talking to someone else so you pulled back, meeting Macklin’s sad gaze. He collected you from Will’s arms and held you tightly against him. 

“Okay, let’s make a plan,” Macklin told Will. “You deal with the flight stuff and I’ll get her stuff from the apartment?”

“Already looking up flights,” Will said, scrolling through his phone. “Last one of the night leaving in two hours. I’ll get it.” 

“How much is it?” You asked, turning to look at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Will,” you warned, and he gave you a look.

“Dude, we make so much money, it doesn’t matter.” 

He didn’t let you argue any further and after a quick stop by your apartment you were on your way to the airport. 

Macklin had driven you, and you sat in silence for a moment before he nudged your shoulder gently.

"He's going to be okay, you know," he said softly. "Hockey players are built differently."

You nodded, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "I know. It's just... he wanted this so badly."

"And he'll have other opportunities," Macklin assured you. "But right now, what he needs is you."

The flight to Vancouver was mercifully quick, though you spent most of it staring at the seat in front of you, unable to sleep despite the late hour. By the time you arrived at his apartment, it was nearly 3 AM. You used the key he had given you the last time you’d seen him to open the door to the quiet place. 

Being as quiet as possible, you set your bag down on the couch before heading towards Quinn’s room. Taking a moment, you admired his sleeping form, his eyebrows were unconsciously furrowed, an almost scowl on his face. 

You stepped into the room slowly, unsure if you should wake him. But as if sensing you, Quinn stirred, his eyes blinking open. The second he registered that it was you standing in his doorway, his expression softened.

"Hey," he rasped, voice thick with sleep and surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I got on the first flight I could," you said, stepping closer. "I couldn’t just stay there knowing you were hurting."

He sat up with a wince, pushing the blankets down to his waist. “You flew all the way from San Jose… in the middle of the night?”

You nodded, climbing up onto the bed beside him. “Of course I did.”

His jaw clenched for a second, like he was trying to hold something in, but then he reached out and gently pulled you into him. His hand slid around the back of your neck, his lips pressing against your temple. “You’re crazy,” he whispered.

“I know,” you whispered back. “But I love you. And I wanted to be here.”

“You love me?” He asked, frozen in place. Your breath hitched, not realizing what you had let slip out. 

Your heart hammered against your ribs as the admission hung in the air between you. You hadn't planned to say it like this—in his darkened bedroom at 3 AM, both of you exhausted, him injured—but there it was.

"I do," you said softly, deciding to own the moment rather than try to take it back. "I love you, Quinn."

His eyes searched yours in the dim light, a mix of vulnerability and wonder crossing his features. Then, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I love you too," he whispered, his hand gently cupping your face. "God, I've been wanting to tell you for weeks, but I didn't want to say it over the phone."

Relief washed over you, followed quickly by a warmth that spread through your chest. You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m sorry you got hurt.”

“If it means I get to be woken up at 3am to you in my room, I’ll do it more often,” he joked and you laughed. His tone turned serious again, “I’m glad you’re here. I needed you.”

“I know,” you told him, bringing your lips to press against his. “I’m here, always.” 

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 with high maintenance s/o

A/N: Lost that ask in the void probably but this was requested by an anon 😭

Seungcheol: He’s high-key into it. He’ll really buy you five perfumes for one outfit because he knows how you love to have options. Carries your bag, memorizes your skincare steps, and pre-orders your faves before you even ask. The man lives to spoil you.

Jeonghan: Master manipulator meets diva energy; a match made in heaven. You want all the attention? He’ll give it, but he expects it back. He’s playful about it, teasing, “You’re so high-maintenance, how do I even keep up?” But he still loves being your only person. Lovesssss to buy you random things and loves how you take care of yourself.

Joshua: Smiles through it but definitely needs a manual at first lol. He adjusts quickly though. You want to look fancy for brunch? He’s coordinating his outfit. You’re picky about your drinks? He’ll memorize your order. If it makes you happy, he’s down, becaussseeeeeee, you’re his priority. He loves it that you know what you deserve and don't settle for anything less.

Jun: He actually finds you fascinating and loves you for iy. You take two hours to get ready, you'll find him watching you get ready. He’s supportive, maybe even starts copying you lmao. You want to look like royalty? Let me help you pick your crown; prime example of this behaviour.

Hoshi: In the beginning of the relationship, he was very confused but committed. “Wait… we’re late because your lashes weren’t symmetrical?” He’s learning on the job but he tries so hard. Gets overly proud when he finally gets your coffee right. Always enthusiastic: “You look like a queen!!” his queen.

Wonwoo: Ykw? Chill king with the drama [slaying] queen 💅🏻 Your energy overwhelms him a bit, but he secretly likes that you bring noise and color into his monotonous world. He’ll listen patiently to you rant about hair serum vs oil like it’s life-or-death. Buys you gifts with zero complaint [and he actually wants to buy you things you like].

Woozi: Internal screaming intensifies. You’re the opposite of his minimalist lifestyle, but he adapts because he cares. “Why do you need thirty throw pillows?” But he’ll fluff them anyway. He’ll get grumpy sometimes, but his love language is lowkey acts of service. Expect him to custom-make you a personalized closet system just because he can 🤷🏻‍♀️

Dokyeom: Thinks it’s adorable, will hype you up so much. “You’re so picky about everything… that’s so cute!!” He loves and so into pampering you and making you happy. Carries your shopping bags, takes outfit pics from every angle, and sings to you while you do your 10-step routine.

Mingyu: He’ll do your skincare with you. He’s got the patience for your outfits, the taste for your aesthetic, and he lives to treat you like royalty. “You want another lip gloss? Cool, let’s get six.” He’s your chauffeur, chef, stylist, and biggest fan. He's a loser for you fr, mark my words.

Minghao: Absolutely supports it—as long as it’s within lines. He doesn’t mind your preferences, but if it’s for show or insecurity, he’ll call it out. “If this makes you happy, I’ll support it. But don’t feel like you have to be perfect for anyone, not even me.” Will treat you with respect and spoil you in his refined, minimalist way.

Seungkwan: Overwhelmed, but will do it all anyway. You want to go to three stores for the right nail polish shade? “I—okay, let me grab my bag.” Complains like a sitcom husband, but deep down he loves being needed. Will absolutely turn into your glam team. “You want curls or waves today, baby??”

Vernon: Baffled, blinks a lot, He’s like, “You need four lip oils? What do they even do?” But he’s chill. He won’t always understand the need, but he’ll support you. Might even help you compare filters for selfies. “You like the third one? Cool, post it.”

Dino: You confuse the hell out of him at first, but he adapts. This man is willing to learn. You want luxury, so he’s reading reviews. You like constant attention? He’s there. High-maintenance doesn’t scare him, instead, it motivates him. If that’s what you need, he'll figure it out.

[bloatedandalone04]

Bad Idea, Right?

Summary: You and Jake are broken up, so he has no business sending you dirty texts while you’re out with your friends, yet that doesn’t stop you from giving in every single time.

Word Count: 4.1k | THANK YOU FOR 5.8K FOLLOWERS

Warnings: smut, fluff, unprotected sex, rough sex, fingering, spanking, dirty talk, swearing, just overall filthiness, exes hooking up, exes to lovers if you want to know what happens in their future, possessive jake, mentions of a bad break up.

“You’re going? Seriously?” your best friend since high school, Steph, asked once she saw you trying to discreetly slide your credit card and keys into your purse a few minutes after you checked a text on your phone and scoffed. 

You looked over at her with a soft glare, because her question had made your other friend give you a look of disbelief as well, when all you wanted to do was make your great and quiet escape. “What? I’m…tired,”

Steph scoffed this time and leaned back in her chair at the small table you managed to score in the back corner of a rather rowdy bar. “Yeah right. You’re such a liar. We just got here, like, half an hour ago,” she muttered and crossed her arms. “You’re not tired. You’re fucking horny.”

You gasped, but you couldn’t deny the truth her words held. “I am not,”

“Then where are you going?” Kayce, your other friend, asked as she too clued in to what was really going on with you, and she didn’t look too happy either. 

Too bad for them, you were allowed to do whatever you wanted. “Why does it matter?”

“Y/n, if you’re even thinking about going over to his place, I swear, I’ll rip my hair out,” Steph groaned and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. 

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Jake fucking Seresin. Or, you know, fucking Jake Seresin,” she reiterated and you felt your face heat up a bit. 

Damn, you thought you were being a little more discreet than that, but clearly not. “So what if I am?” you sighed, giving up on the whole act entirely as you hadn’t been nearly as careful as you should’ve been. They both knew where you were going now, there’s no point in trying to hide it. 

“So what? He’s your ex, Y/n,” Kayce stated, but her tone was much softer than Steph’s was. 

“And he’s a fucking ass,” Steph added, “I don’t know what you saw in him before, and I still don’t know what you see in him now. He’s so full of himself, he’s cocky, arrogant and he fucking smirks at everything. Oh, and he treats you horribly.”

“Okay, that’s not true,” you defended your ex as you sat up straight. And it really wasn’t. Yeah, Jake was all those things she listed, she just missed him being overly confident, but he didn’t treat you badly at all. In fact, he was the best boyfriend you’d ever had, it was just the explosive fight you’d gotten in that ended it all. “He was good to me.”

“He’s trying to get you to come over so he can fuck you,” Steph said, a little too loudly for your liking since a few of the bars patrons had glanced over at the three of you. “He wants to fuck you then he’ll kick you out.”

“He won’t kick me out,” you scoffed, standing up and sliding your purse onto your shoulder. “Jake likes when I sleep in his arms.”

Steph looked like she was about to explode, but you didn’t care. You felt attacked by your friends, and you felt like they were trying to make you feel dumb and like a kid, when you are a grown woman who is capable of making your own decisions. 

You knew what you were getting yourself into. “And maybe we’re friends now. Have you ever thought of that? Exes can be friends,”

Steph raised a brow. “Not exes like you and Jake. You two can never be friends, not after they way you were together,”

She was right about that, but she also didn’t need to know that. 

Kayce looked up at you with a small frown on her lips, and you hated the pity in her eyes. You didn’t need it, and it wasn’t justified at all. “He texts you a lot, Y/n,” she said quietly, “Doesn’t it make you feel cheap?”

You looked down at her for a few seconds before shaking your head. “Cheap? With Jake?” you laughed, “Never.”

-

Jake was sipping on a beer and watching the highlights of the latest game when he heard a knock at his front door. He smirked, because he knew exactly who it was.

It was you, of course, and he knew exactly why you were here. 

Only a mere twenty minutes ago, Jake had sent you two texts, one reading, 

‘I wanna see you, baby. Come over,’

And the other, 

‘I miss your sweet pussy and your pretty mouth,’

Yeah, he was aware of what he was doing, because he knew you’d read them, and he knew you’d come over. Albeit, you’d take your time getting here, but still, you were definitely coming. 

And, you know, hopefully soon Jake would be too.

He set down his beer and abandoned the football game he’d been watching on the TV in the living room, and he wandered out to the front door wearing nothing but his grey sweatpants - the ones he knew drove you crazy, because they showed off the length of his cock through the fabric.

When he swung the door open and saw you in a tight skirt and a crop top, he knew he’d interrupted your girls’ night. That meant you ditched your friends in order to come to his place, and that made Jake’s smirk grow even more. 

“Hey, sweet girl,” he greeted, leaning against the door frame as he looked at your gorgeous face. “I think we’re way past the point of you needing to knock, don’t you?” he teased, and the eye roll you gave him had him grinning. You were so perfect and so fucking stunning, Jake felt like the luckiest fucker in San Diego, because you’re here. And you’re still his. 

A scoff left your lips as you crossed your arms, but the dramatic act wasn’t justified. You’d been out at the bar, attempting to have a decent night with your friends when you got his texts, and like always, any and all rational thoughts left your mind. 

“Not really,” you muttered, shifting on your feet as the cool evening air made chills run through your body. “Why do you insist on texting me filthy things in order to get me over here? Why can’t you just find another girl to fuck and forget about?”

Jake’s eyes were all over your body, the green a shade or two darker as he bit down on his lip. Your skirt was short and hugged your curves in all the right places, showcasing every inch he knew off by heart, and he wanted to pull you into his arms and warm you up properly. “Forget about you? Baby, you know that’s not possible. There isn’t another girl in the world who could ever compare to you,” he said, his voice low as he reached one hand out and rested it on your hip, pulling you closer. “And you’re here, aren’t you? Besides, I don’t want to fuck anyone who’s not you.”

You rolled your eyes again, making Jake grin. 

“Come on, you know I can’t help myself around you,” he mumbled, his deep voice right next to your ear as he brushed a kiss to your cheek. “I hate being away from you, and not knowing what you’re doing out there without me…”

You hummed, moving closer to him. “What do you think I’m doing?” you asked, raising a teasing brow as you slide your fingers up his bare chest before settling your hands on his shoulders. “Are you scared that I’m flirting with other guys? That I’m letting random strangers fuck me in the same bed you used to fuck me in? Are you scared I’ll finally move on from you?”

Your tone was teasing now as well as you leaned up and brushed your lips along his jaw. Jake felt a surge of possessiveness run through him, and a jolt of lust went straight to his cock, which he was sure you could feel against you right now. 

“I don’t scare easily, Y/n,” he muttered, grabbing your hips and pulling you closer as he leaned down to nip at your ear. “Though, the thought of another guy putting his fucking hands on you…touching what’s mine…makes me think I need to leave my mark on you so they don’t even bother trying.”

His big hands slid down to grab your ass, and he squeezed it through the fabric of your leather skirt, making you whine softly.

“You’re not going anywhere, baby. Not when I can feel you trembling for me…not when I know you’re already getting wet for me,” he added, and you moaned loudly at his words. 

“Relax, baby,” you cooed, “No guy has even come close, because I know I’ll just be disappointed. They’re not you. You’re the only one who can make me cum.”

A deep groan left Jake’s lips as you practically melted against him, your words laced with seduction and promise. He had you wrapped around his finger, and he was wrapped around yours as well. 

“That’s right, sweet girl,” he murmured, shamelessly letting his gaze trail up and down your body. “These pretty tits, that sweet pussy…your stunning fucking body. All mine. Always has been, and always will be.” 

His hands slid further down until he was gripping the backs of your thighs, then he was lifting you up into his arms and kicking the door shut behind him as he carried you towards his bedroom. 

He’d made this exact route countless times now, always with you, and only with you since the night you met. It felt familiar, normal, and natural, like he would always only be carrying you to his room so he could fuck the living shit out of you. 

“I think it’s about time I remind you of that fact, don’t you?” Jake asked, but it didn’t really sound like a genuine question. He tossed you onto his bed, the sight of you being nearly swallowed by the king-sized mattress one he fantasises about every time he goes to sleep. “You think you can tease me by talking about other guys, hm? When we both know that you’re never gonna let anyone else touch you like this.” 

Jake’s hands slid up and down your calves before tugging off your boots and letting them hit the floor with a soft thud. Next were your stockings, which he just flat out ripped off you instead of trying to pull them all the way down, and the glare you gave him had a smug smirk forming on his lips as he tossed the destroyed fabric aside. 

“Think I need to ruin you for everyone else. Fuck you so hard, you won’t bring up another guy ever again,” he hummed, crawling up your body. It wasn’t necessary, because Jake knew you hadn’t been with anyone else since him, like he hadn’t been with anyone else since you, but it was part of the game you and he had been playing recently. Riling each other up until the other breaks, then doing it all over again within a few days. 

Jake knew he still wanted you, he wanted to fucking marry you, for fucks sake, but your break up had been an explosive one, and if you still needed a little more time to yourself before getting back on track with him, that was fine. He could do that one hundred percent, as long as it meant he got you back in the end. 

You were leaning back on his pillow, your legs parting as he settled between them, and you already looked so fucked out and needy for him. It was such a pretty sight. Jake’s eyes were dark as he gazed down at your dishevelled form, his arms at either side of your head as he held himself up above you. 

“Jake,” you groaned, sliding your hands along his abs before you reached up and grabbed his shoulders, pulling his body down onto yours as you buried your face in his neck. You placed soft kisses along his skin, breathing him in as if you were as gone for him as he is for you. “God, you’re so fucking hot…I love getting you all riled up like this.” 

Jake was so hard for you, and your touches only made him harder, almost painfully so. “You love it, huh? You just love pushing me until I fuck you so hard, you can barely walk the next day,” he muttered, leaning in and kissing all along your neck and jaw as he ground his hips against yours over and over again until he couldn’t hold back any longer. He sat back on his knees, tugging your shirt over your head as he did so, and tossing it aside. His gaze immediately went to your chest, his cock twitching with need as he bit down on his lip. “Fuck, these tits…”

You laughed quietly, and Jake knew how he looked, drooling over you as if he hadn’t been with you for nearly three years before the break up. “You love them, don’t you?” you teased, reaching for his wrists and guiding his big hands to your chest. “Touch me, Jake…”

Jake groaned, squeezing your soft mounds as he looked down at you. “Oh, I more than love them, baby. I’m fucking obsessed with them,” he said as his thumbs circled your hardened nipples before he leaned down and took one between his lips, sucking greedily as he continued to tease your other one. “They’re mine. This whole fucking body is mine.”

“Mmm, for now,” you purred, giving him an innocent look as you writhed under him and he glared at you. But he didn’t let himself get too worked up at your words, since there was no for now with you, there was only forever. 

After he worshipped your chest with his mouth for a bit, Jake pulled back and admired the red peaks that were straining against the cool air of his bedroom. You were whimpering for him and looking up at him with needy eyes, Jake had never seen a hotter sight in his life. 

He gripped your hips and flipped you over, pulling your skirt down and off your body, leaving you in just your soaked panites. “Look at how perfect you are,” he murmured under his breath, his hand smoothing along the curve of your ass before he delivered a sharp smack to one side of it. “You’re such a good girl, presenting yourself so nicely for me.”

You whined as Jake hooked his fingers in the thin fabric of your panties and dragged them down your legs impossibly slow, exposing your wet core to the cool air. “Jake,” you mumbled as you propped yourself up on your knees and elbows, your fingers bunching up his sheets as you wiggled back against him and left a damp spot on the front of his sweats. 

Jake reached down and palmed himself through the fabric, his cock begging for attention as he looked down at the pink handprint that was forming on your skin. “Fuck, look at you. So desperate for my cock already. Bet this needy little pussy is clenching around nothing, isn’t it?” he mocked, gripping your hips as he ground his clothed erection against your slick folds, not caring at all about the mess he was making on the grey fabric. You were moaning loudly now, his dirty mouth never failing to turn you on, and he knew that. 

He rolled his hips a few more times before delivering another swift slap to your opposite cheek before he soothed the sting with his palm, his cock twitching more at the desperate sounds you were making for him. 

His fingers delved between your thighs and collected your arousal, the wetness making his head spin in the best way, before bringing it to your lips. “Taste yourself, baby,”

You obliged quickly, turning your head and capturing his fingers between your lips. “Mm,” you moaned, licking and sucking at his fingers until they were clean of you and left coated in your spit. “So good…” you hummed as you pushed yourself back against him again, the dark spot on his sweats only growing in size the longer he kept them on. 

“You’re so fucking dirty,” Jake grunted, pulling his fingers free from your mouth. “Getting off on your own taste.”

Then he licked his fingers, keeping eye contact with you as his free hand palmed your reddening ass. “You love it,” you mumbled, and Jake grinned as he pulled his fingers out of his mouth. 

“Yeah, I do,” he agreed, grabbing your thighs as he pulled you back onto his lap, your slickness dragging along his damn near painful erection. His sweatpants were messy now as he gently bounced you on his lap, leaning over you to place kisses all along your shoulders, and then he was guiding you to lay down on your back once more as he pushed down and kicked off his sweats. “Spread those legs for me, Y/n. Let me see that pretty pussy.”

When you did as you were told, Jake settled between your thighs once more, his cock rubbing along your soaked folds. “Jake,” you whined. “I need you. Fuck me already. Please?” 

“I will, sweet girl,” he laughed deeply, reaching down to circle your clit with his fingers. Then he was pushing forward and sinking inside your core, the wet warmth making him groan as he braced himself above you. “Fuck, you’re so tight. Missed this perfect pussy so much, baby.” he grunted, leaning down to kiss you as he began to fuck you with long, deep thrusts. 

You moaned loudly, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist as you kissed him back. Your hands ran up and down his arms before pushing against his lower back, encouraging him to absolutely wreck you as your mouths pressed messily together. “God, yes. Fuck me, Jake,” 

Jake groaned into the kiss, one hand tangling in your hair and pulling your head back a bit while his other gripped your hip tightly. “You were made for me, baby,” he murmured against your lips as picked up the pace a bit, breaking the kiss as he looked down at where you were connected. The sight of his glistening cock disappearing inside you had him thrusting a bit harder, his grip on you tightening even more. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

He hooked his elbows under your knees, shifting your position on the bed and giving him a better angle to your sweet spot, and the way you practically squealed had him fucking into you a bit faster. “Jake, oh fuck,” you moaned as you ran your hands along his abs, feeling the way he flexed under your touch. “Harder…harder…” 

Jake grunted as he complied, hitting every spot deep inside you until he felt your tight walls start to flutter and clench around him. “Not yet, baby,” he rasped, not wanting this to end too soon. He was desperate for you now more than ever, because every second with you was next to precious at the moment. “Hold on just a little longer, sweet girl.”

But you were whining in protest, shaking your head as you buried your face in his neck. “Jake,” you whimpered, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist. Then you pulled back and looked up at him, and your gaze softened a bit as you nodded. “Okay…okay, just go slower then, okay?” you asked so sweetly, your bratty persona from earlier gone as you leaned up and pressed kisses along his jaw. 

Jake’s hands loosened their grip on you, and instead he wrapped his arms around you and cradled you against him, slowing his thrusts significantly. “Mm, there’s my good girl,” he praised, peppering gentle kisses along your neck and collarbone. “I wanna take my time with you…love you in the way you deserve.”

He knew his words were perhaps a little more intimate than they should be during a hookup, but Jake would never consider you that. Just a quick, easy fuck. He’d never think so low of you when he was so in love with you still. 

His big hands caressed your body, touching all the places he knew off by heart, and he reveled in the soft moans you let out when he gently pinched and rolled your nipples between his fingers. 

Jake leaned down and kissed you as you tangled your fingers in his hair, his hips slowly rolling against yours in unhurried thrusts. His own hands slid around you and down your body until they reached your ass, and he gripped you tightly as he lifted you up a bit to meet his deep strokes. “You feel so good, baby,” he mumbled against your mouth before fully breaking the kiss to look down at you. 

You tugged on his hair, hiking your legs up higher around his waist as you arched your back. “So do you,” you replied, tipping your head back on his pillow as he increased the pace again by just a little. “So fucking good, Jake.”

He groaned, burying his face in your neck as he fucked into you, his sounds muffled against your skin. “Fucking hell, Y/n,” he moaned, “You drive me crazy, sweet girl. I’ve missed this so much…missed you so much.” 

Jake leaned down and captured one of your nipples in his mouth, grazing it gently with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue. 

You tugged a little harder on his hair before pushing on his shoulders, and for a fleeting moment Jake thought he might have gone too far with his words (not that he had much control over them anyway), but then you settled on his lap when he sat back on his knees, and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. 

“Oh, my God,” you gasped, your breasts brushing against his chest as you began to ride him. “Fuck…fuck.”

Jake’s hands grabbed your hips, holding onto you tightly as he helped guide you into a steady rhythm. “That’s it, baby. Ride me just like that,” he praised, dipping his head down to press kisses along the tops of your breasts. 

Your moans were becoming a little more desperate now as you bounced on his lap, your knees digging into the mattress on either side of his hips, and the look in your eyes told Jake all he needed to know. 

Maybe you didn’t mean for it to be there, but he could see the love, adoration and longing in your gaze, but he didn’t say anything about it. Just seeing it was all he needed to know that he’d be with you again properly someday. 

“Jake,” you whispered, running your hands along his slightly sweaty shoulders as you moved on top of him, squeezing him so good, Jake had to bury his face against the side of your neck. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Me too. Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum so hard,” he groaned, thrusting up into you as he gripped your hip tightly and pulled your chest right up against his, using his free hand to apply pressure to your stomach. “C’mon, baby, give it to me.”

You whimpered and bucked your hips a few more times before you were shaking on his lap, your hands pulling at his hair as you came with a soft cry, and it was still the prettiest sound Jake had ever heard. 

He grunted, and a few seconds later, he came too, filling you up as you became limp in his arms. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears, his chest heaving as he pressed a kiss to your forehead and moved to lay down so you were cuddled against his chest. “I love you,” he mumbled, the words all too familiar as he usually said them every single time you and he had sex, as well as every day before the breakup. 

You groaned, shaking your head as you leaned up to press a firm kiss to his lips, then a few more after that. “Shh, don’t,” you murmured before rolling off him, making his cock slip free from your warmth as you rolled onto your stomach. “Just…come here. Come hold me.” you said, burying your face in his pillow as you closed your eyes. 

Jake laughed under his breath as he pulled the covers up over your body before wrapping his arms around you from behind, holding you like you were his entire world. “Okay,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head as he let himself relax against you.

This was where he belonged, he knew that, and he knew that you belonged here too, it would just take you a little longer to get back there. Which was fine, because Jake would always wait for you. And as he listened to your quiet breathing and inhaled your familiar scent, he let his mind wander to the image of you finally wearing the ring he’d bought for you that was safely tucked away in his closet.

[imnez-daydreams]

ive only watched s1 n didnt see mark as a blorbo (for lack of a better word lol) but i followed op/olivia for her billy fics soo im dipping my pinky into this hehe.

"and he's trembling—trembling—like he’s the one doubling over in both need and humiliation. as if this is breaking him, the unbreakable—like it is you. "

ufff the description of it breaking Mark The Invincible (tm).

“i am fighting it!” he snaps back, but there’s no venom, only pain. he drags a shaky breath in through his nose. “i’ve been fighting it since you said my fuckin' name.”

love how the small things like reader saying mark's name, saying "fuck" was making the battle harder and harder for him.

"maybe we just...touch? something...i'm sorry—just, please." he sounds desperate, and you know he is. equally as needy and out of it as you.

“here...” he says again, and this time his voice is low, guttural, like he’s barely holding himself together. his hand slides from your wrist to your hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, possessive and demanding.

MMMMM. omgomg. i love seeing how desperate mark is. how that "just one touch" is definitely gonna escalate because it wont be nearly enough for them both. that "possessive and demanding" ?? yum. yummy.

"then he's kissing you. the contact brings a new kind of pain and pleasure—sharp and bittersweet. you gasp into his mouth, your hands finding their way to his shoulders. it hurts. everything hurts. but it also feels…so good. like coming home to something you’d never known was missing. he tastes addicting—it’s overwhelming in the best way possible."

holy cow that "like coming home to something youd never known was missing" was so beautiful. perfectly encapsulates their desire. how it all hurts yet feels so good when it shouldnt.

he groans, eyes half-lidded, "not anymore—" his head falls to the crook of your neck, nose inhaling your scent, "i need more."

agskdheke. i live for the guy being so vocal about needing more. n the fact that mark's head is in the crook of reader's neck while he begs wiehskdhsos. im so good.

"his fingers are clumsy, yes—but they're reverent. like you’re something sacred and holy. something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch."

REVERENT ?? SACRED ??? HOLY ???? im. im foaming at the mouth at how mark is basically worshipping reader. like the answers to his prayers.

"you don’t—fuck—you don’t know what you’re doing to me," he grits out, forehead dropping against yours. "fucking unfair really—"

we got a "you dont know what youre doing to me" yall. im. im really so okay. not giggling and kicking my feet. at all.

LIKE EDEN PERSONIFIED ???????? HELLO ? on the floor.

“can’t—can’t stop,” he pants, voice rough and cracked from the heat and how hard he’s breathing. his pupils are blown wide, sweat sliding down his temples, dark hair sticking to his forehead. the usual softness in his expression is long gone, replaced with something animal—something ravenous. “feels like i’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

“again.” he breathes. “make that sound again. please, fuck—i’ll give you anything.”

my analysis hat is gone. ive been reduced to freaking out. just. AAAAAA. the way mark cant stop because it just feels so damn good ?? how reader making 1 specific sound affected mark so much he was begging for reader to do it again ??? how vocal mark is about how the pleasure feels, about how he needs more, craves more ???? the way mark's body is moving as if he's on autopilot because the desire is coursing through his entire being and his instincts are taking over ???? AGSJSDHSKSK.

this was a wild ride. dare i say mark has grown on me a little thanks to op's/olivia's jaw dropping writing ?? literally had me captivated from start to finish when i didnt feel that much for the character before reading. op/olivia you mentioned this wasnt like what you usually write but this was incredible !! i know your writing from billy the kid but you honestly did a great job with this character. thank you for writing this op/olivia :)) !!

ON MY WAY TO HEAVEN, TOOK A DETOUR TO MY VICES

｡𖦹° M.GRAYSON

🎧ྀི it was meant to be an easy mission, something mundane—but the second you and mark wake up feverish and desolate, you put those hopes of ease to bed. something's in your bloodstream, festering, begging to be let out—soothed. the worst of it all—whatever the hell’s in your system has infested itself in mark as well. and you’re not sure how long he can bear it.

wc 3.8k | minors dni, 18+ CW | S3X POLLEN FIC so, dark content (i'd say. they're close pre-fic but not this close), main!mark also, college!mark, college!reader & superhero!reader, cursing, ominous villian, they're drugged, pain from battle, body discomfort, characters horny under duress, fevers (is that a warning), mentions of yakking, plot—what plot? smut: piv, unsteady consent (see; s3x pollen), hints of voyuerism.

the ground beneath you doesn’t feel real. just jagged rock and cold dirt, and your heat-slick skin pressed to it like it’ll help. it doesn’t. nothing seems to. you're not sure you even remember when the effects started, but you're sure you've prayed to every god within the span for it all to stop.

you groan, roll onto your side, and blink up at the burnt orange sky. your fingers shake as they press the comm at your ear. nothing. just static. the sound of your own ragged breathing, like it’s echoing from somewhere deep inside your chest.

across from you is—mark—INVINCIBLE. suit torn, chest rising and falling like he ran the globe and back. he shoots a look at you—eyes blown wide. his stare hold recognition first, then confusion, and then something else. something hazy, almost delirious. until he bends forward, on his hands and knees, coughing hard.

his shoulders twitch, wings of tension mar his back. he spits onto the ground, breath steaming in the cooler air—there's too much heat pouring out of him.

you breathe out his name, a weak, inquisitive tone. he flinches like it hurts.

"think i—" he tries, then swallows the rest. “it hit us. during the fight. whatever it was.”

you nod. you don’t say anything. you already know.

because your body feels wrong.

burning. wriggling. like every nerve is two seconds from misfiring. like if you moved the wrong way—against how your body is craving—you’d tear something open from the inside.

you sit up almost impossibly slow, every muscle screaming. mark collapses back onto the dirt beside you, blinking fast. skin flushed. chest heaving.

you don’t meet his eyes. you can’t, instead, you clear your throat, trying to hide some of the discomfort you're feeling. if mark's already far gone, one of you has to keep a clear(er) head.

for a split second, you can hear cecil reprimanding you for getting caught in this situation—whatever it is.

"maybe it’s some kind of toxin.” you mutter, trying to keep it clinical. detached. “we have a fever. we can just wait it out.”

“yeah,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “sure. just a fever.”

except it’s not—and you both know it.

the burn behind your ribs, the pressure deep in your hips, the way your pulse stutters every time you hear him shift beside you—it’s not pain. it’s something else.

something archaic and primal, something utterly abysmal.

you shift, just slightly, and your breath catches—pain threading sharply through your core. it’s not the injuries. not bruises, or sprains, or broken skin. it’s deeper. like an anatomical pressure valve being tampered with from the inside.

mark’s hands twitch where they rest in the dirt. his fingers curl into a fist. his jaw’s clenched tight, like he’s trying not to make any sound.

you follow suit—you don’t speak. the silence stretches, and stretches.

and then—mark's voice, “don’t touch me.”

the words come from somewhere not right. too low, too strained, practically rehearsed. but his words are clear. and they make your stomach drop.

you blink, “i wasn’t going to.”

his adam’s apple bobs, head nodding, “i know. i know. just—don’t.”

the two of you sit there, breathing in tandem, a vile cadence. the feeling, a ribald fever—it’s escalating. second by second. beat by beat. breath by breath.

you try your comm again, the same static greets you.

“we need to move, we can't stay here.” you say. it’s more head-strung than true plan. “get somewhere safer. a building. cave. anything but open ground."

mark shakes his head, scanning the sandy terrain, “don’t think i can fly right now.”

you look over. he’s shaking. his hands, his shoulders, his mouth. he’s not meeting your gaze anymore. his pupils are nearly black with dilation. his lips are parted, breath shallow.

you open your mouth to say something—anything—but your stomach turns. a wave of heat rolls over you so strong it knocks every bit of air from your lungs. like you’ve been anesthetized with pure fire. like your body’s burning up, molecule by molecule.

you fall back onto your elbows, gasping, "fuck—"

mark startles at the sound, eyes snapping to you. but this time…he doesn't look away.

you finally see it—not confusion, not resistance. just raw, scorching lust trying so painfully to wear the face of shame, disgrace, humilation.

his voice is practically a whimper, “hmm—it’s getting worse.”

you nod once, voice coming out unnecessarily gritty, "yeah. i know. it got me too."

and that’s when it hits you.

you weren’t meant to die in that fight. you were meant to survive it. long enough to get away—together. long enough to fall apart—together.

long enough to complete whatever sick, calculated, and meticulously planned sequence someone else set into motion. the thought has you reeling away from the dark-haired hero. your body cries out at the movement, but you force it anyway.

the barely-there logic left within you is screaming at you to get away, to not succumb to the lurid visions invading your mind, to realize that this isn't right—it's warfare of your own body, your autonomy.

you dig your own fingers into the dirt, trying to anchor yourself to something that isn’t your own body, that isn’t his breathing.

you shouldn’t look at him again. you know better. but your body doesn’t listen, and your eyes drag back to him like they have to.

and he's trembling—trembling—like he’s the one doubling over in both need and humiliation. as if this is breaking him, the unbreakable—like it is you.

and maybe he is. maybe this thing, whatever it is, doesn’t care that he’s half-alien, that he’s strong enough to break worlds. right now, he looks damn near breakable.

"we have to fight it.” you say through your teeth, but it sounds less like an order and more like a plea.

“i am fighting it!” he snaps back, but there’s no venom, only pain. he drags a shaky breath in through his nose. “i’ve been fighting it since you said my fuckin' name.”

you flinch. not because of what he said, but because of how much truth there is in it. you're both trying, both failing.

something curls inside you—tight and electric. want, not yours, not entirely. it's something layered, ancient—synthetic. something meant to reduce thinking things to base instinct.

“we must have gotten tagged,” you say out loud, trying to organize your shared chaos, trying to drag reason into your mess. “during the fight—maybe tech, some compound, i don’t know. it’s designed to keep us…compliant. distracted.”

mark breathes out a ragged chuckle, “yeah? i think it’s working.”

you don't laugh back.

because you're terrified that it is, indeed, working. that whatever you were hit with, doesn’t need to be permanent. it just needs to last long enough to make you too weak to resist. the various, "why's" all but lost on you. you just know it can't happen—you can't succumb.

“i don’t know if i can move...” mark murmurs. he’s curled inward now, knees drawn slightly to his chest, like he’s trying to keep something inside. “my body is—i don’t know how to describe it. everything’s too much. you feel that too?”

you nod, far too fast, like it’ll stop the shudder building inside you, “like it’s crawling under my skin. like i'll...lose it if anyone touches me.”

mark exhales, slow and bitter. “yep. like that.”

your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. you taste copper. maybe from biting your cheek. whatever—it tastes rancid.

you can’t stay like this. you can’t.

you scramble onto your knees, nearly retching from the sensation alone, but you stay up, teetering. “we have to get somewhere. underground. shielded. wherever this thing can’t—find us. we’re not safe out here.”

mark doesn’t respond. not at first.

then, faintly, like it’s killing him to admit, “i don’t know if i trust myself to be anywhere alone with you.”

that hurts worse than anything. not because he’s wrong. but because he’s right.

you stare at him, raw and quiet, and your voice cracks like brittle glass, “mark—it's not just you going through this. do you think i even trust myself right now?”

he lifts his head, finally. eyes still wild, but there’s clear guilt beneath it now, a thick and ugly weight pulling down the corners of his mouth. “i’m trying, okay? i’m trying so hard not to think about what this is making me want—from you. i’m trying not to want it too.”

that’s what makes it worse.

because he said it. he feels it. wants it, he does. you do too.

you can feel impulse pulling at the edges of your self-control, grinding your mind down to something basic and desperate. all of it—every broken thought, every sharp-edged craving—leads you straight to him.

your voice wobbles, barely a whisper, “what if it’s not just trying to…divert us?”

mark’s breath catches, you hear it so clearly, too clearly.

“what if it’s trying to make us…” you swallow, the word tastes sour, thick, “bond.”

you don’t need to explain. not to him. not to the guy you shared an anatomy course with last spring. not to a half-viltrumite who knows what it means when instincts override reason. he knows, same as you.

his arms twitch. he covers them over his face as if he can block the thought out of existence. “fuck. that’s—”

“inhuman,” you finish. “which makes sense. we’ve fought worse.”

“but nothing that’s…used us like this.” he shakes his head. “nothing that’s made me want to—oh, god.”

you look down at your hands at his outburst—how they tremble like they’ve got a will of their own. how they ache for something, but nothing you can give them. not without losing everything else.

you whisper, “we need help.”

mark groans, “but no one’s coming—are they?”

you glance back toward the horizon. no sign of movement. no hum of backup. no smoke flares or jets. just the buzz of static and your own ragged breath.

no. no one’s coming.

you and mark are on your own.

and whatever’s been done to you—it’s not done yet.

"maybe we just...touch? something...i'm sorry—just, please." he sounds desperate, and you know he is. equally as needy and out of it as you.

Dismissal passes across your mind, gone in a flash, "just touch?" your question comes out so soft, you wonder if he can hear you over the wind.

"yeah—here," he grabs your wrist, and for a second, you're overcome with solace. in your belly, your heart, your head—pure relief. but then the small touch becomes far too little, far too fast.

he pulls you closer, straddling him now, and you can smell him—sweat and saccharine sin. his breath fans across your neck as he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear.

“here...” he says again, and this time his voice is low, guttural, like he’s barely holding himself together. his hand slides from your wrist to your hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, possessive and demanding.

you shiver, your body betraying you as heat pools low in your belly. his other hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, and you can’t stop yourself from parting your lips, letting out a shaky breath.

"this is so fucked up," you manage. you don't pull away, but you give him the most serious look you can muster, "i'm so sorry."

mark swallows, "i know, i am too. i just want to make you feel better—make us feel better."

you nod—because he's right. you believe him. it’s not a lie, not a trick, not some smooth line he’s tossing out just to get laid. it’s him. desperate, aching, more human than you’ve ever seen him.

and still, it’s wrong.

but so much of you doesn’t care. not now, not when you feel like this and he's staring at you like you're the only oasis in this desert.

his thumb trails your lip again and you don’t even flinch, don’t even blink. instead, your mouth opens for him, and that’s when something in his expression fractures. his breath stutters like a heartbeat skipping a step and he exhales your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

then he's kissing you. the contact brings a new kind of pain and pleasure—sharp and bittersweet. you gasp into his mouth, your hands finding their way to his shoulders. it hurts. everything hurts. but it also feels…so good. like coming home to something you’d never known was missing. he tastes addicting—it’s overwhelming in the best way possible.

his kisses are wet and demanding—hard enough to bruise, and you let him. god, you let him. you need him to. you can't stop yourself from moaning as he drags you in closer, fingers sinking into your hips and waist, pulling you flush against his own body.

your core throbs in time with his heartbeat as he presses against you, free hand digging hard enough into the the ground that the dirt beneath cracks. his lips move down your jaw, teeth nipping at your earlobe, "you feel—really, fuckin' good. Feels good to touch you."

you can tell by the way his words run on, he's rambling. if it weren't for the need in your own system, you'd try to pull this back—make him realize how stupid this is.

but you don't, "does it make you feel any better? am i helping?"

he groans, eyes half-lidded, "not anymore—" his head falls to the crook of your neck, nose inhaling your scent, "i need more."

he says it as such a plea—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say. it wrecks you.

"okay..." you breathe, fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. "okay, mark."

he shudders, your name desperately falling from his lips again as he kisses at your throat, open-mouthed and hungry. like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he’s ever even wanted to taste. when he drags his teeth along your pulse, your hips jerk against him, and the answering grunt punched out of his chest feels like a prize.

your hands are tearing away at his suit before you even realize it, palms skating across much too warm skin, the heat from his body almost intolerable. his muscles jump beneath your touch as he pulls back just enough to look at you—flushed, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen. he’s shaking. quivering. trying so hard to hold himself back.

"please don't hate me for this. i need you," he pants, voice breaking. "i want—i just want us to get better."

you nod again. not just because you can’t speak, but because you feel like you had given in to this the minute his skin touched yours. every pulse of your body is screaming for him, every synapse firing off his name. you drag his mouth back to his instead of answering, and he whines into the kiss, his hands slipping off your suit like he’s done it a thousand times before.

his fingers are clumsy, yes—but they're reverent. like you’re something sacred and holy. something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.

you feel his restraint slipping, fraying at the edges the longer you’re pressed together, the more your bodies align. he’s trying so hard to be gentle, to be careful, but his hips keep rolling against yours like they have a mind of their own, like he can’t help it—like he’s fighting himself just to keep from tearing through every physical layer between you.

your head falls back, and he takes advantage, licking into the valley of your neck, hand sliding over the swell of your chest. the contact makes you whimper and arch into him, needing more, needing everything, and you feel his grip falter as he breathes against your skin.

"you don’t—fuck—you don’t know what you’re doing to me," he grits out, forehead dropping against yours. "fucking unfair really—"

"stop—stopping. you're the one being unfair." you whisper, and that’s what shatters him. your rebuttal is all it takes.

his resolve crumbles—and he’s on you like he was made for it.

his hands are everywhere, frantic and greedy, yanking at the fabric of your suit like he can’t stand the damned thing. his mouth crashes into yours again, this time with no hesitance, no restraint—just pure, crude need. his tongue explores every inch of your mouth as if he’s trying to put the taste of you to memory.

you can feel his cock pressing beneath you through his torn suit, and you roll your hips against him, needing to feel more, needing to feel him.

"fuck," he groans into your mouth, hands gripping your hips so tight it almost hurts.

you don’t even think anymore. your hands are fumbling with the yellow and blue material covering him—exposing more and more of his red-tinted flesh. he lets out this broken little laugh at your effort, a desperate sound that only makes you want him more, but then he’s helping you, masks is thrown to the side, then the vibrant colors of your suits follow—leaving both of you bare. taking in eachother—the rise and fall of his chest, his toned stomach—down, to his cock. and fuck, is he perfect—thick and hard and already leaking, tip glistening.

you wrap your hand around him, stroking him slowly, just to hear him moan. he doesn’t disappoint. his head falls back, his mouth falling open as he lets out this low, guttural sound that goes straight to your core.

"holy fuuck," he breathes, his hips jerking into your hand. "you’re gonna fucking ruin me."

his words only prove to egg you on, because then you’re pushing him down into the ground, clambering onto his lap like a woman possessed.

your hands are on his chest, skimming over the hard planes of his body as you position yourself over him. he grips your hips tight as you sink down onto him, taking him inch by inch—until he’s buried to the hilt inside you.

he chokes out your name, his head lulling as you start to move. his hands are everywhere now—on your breasts, your ass, your thighs—like he can’t decide where to touch you first. but it doesn’t matter. all that matters is the way he feels inside you, the way he fills you so perfectly you swear you’ll never need anything else.

and then you’re riding him like your life depends on it—hard and fast and needy, your hands bracing yourself on his chest as you take what you need from him. and he lets you—he lets you use him like this, lets you take control, and all the while he’s watching you with this look in his eyes—like you’re eden personified.

"fuck," he groans again, his hands tightening on your hips as he thrusts up into you, wild. "you feel so fucking good. so fucking perfect."

the air’s dry and scorching around you, sun sinking low but still brutal, painting everything in a haze of gold and sweat and dust. your knees dig into the sandy dirt, scuffed and trembling from how you’ve been riding him, but neither of you let up—not when his hands clutch you like you're the only thing tethering him to earth.

“can’t—can’t stop,” he pants, voice rough and cracked from the heat and how hard he’s breathing. his pupils are blown wide, sweat sliding down his temples, dark hair sticking to his forehead. the usual softness in his expression is long gone, replaced with something animal—something ravenous. “feels like i’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

he shifts, steadies himself with one arm on the ground, and drives up—deeper—hard enough that you cry out, your body jerking in his grip. you go limp in his grasp, falling forward into him. it's the closest you've gotten to relief yet, and your mouth is expelling every sound of pleasure it possibly can.

and god, the look on his face when he hears you. it’s ravaged, desperate, like he’s starving.

“again.” he breathes. “make that sound again. please, fuck—i’ll give you anything.”

your body responds on its own, hips rolling to meet his thrusts, dragging him deeper, tighter.

the compound is still thick in your blood, turning every brush of skin into a live wire, sending every moan into something that echoes inside your skull.

“i wanna come with you,” he moans, almost frenzied now, head tipping back again. “wanna feel you lose it around me. you’re—shit, you’re so wet, i can feel you shaking—please, just—come on, come on, please.”

he thrusts up into you again, snapping his hips. your body gives in before your mind does—tightening, clenching around him, and his whole body jerks beneath you. you're both a mess, just grasping at eachother like you're one. your vision is overcast, blurred and your ears seem to be dialed in on every sound falling out of mark's lips.

his mouth drops open. he shouts your name, follows it up with a slew of curses, praises, prayers.

he grabs your waist like he's afraid you'll vanish, grinding up into you through the wave of it, chasing your high as if it's a storm.

“that’s ittt.” he groans, burying his face against your chest as he spills into you, hips still twitching, breath ragged and rough. “that’s it, that’s it…”

he holds you like he doesn’t know where he ends and you begin, arms wrapped tight around your back, heart pounding against your ribs. both of you shaking, ruined, covered in sweat and dust and heat—but still not entirely satisfied. not really.

you pull yourself off of him slowly, wincing at the sudden absence of his warmth. the ground feels like ice beneath your skin, the coolness juxtaposed with the burning heat that radiates from the two of you.

neither of you speaks at first. you can hear him trying to steady his breath, but it’s labored, like he's still unsure whether he's waking up from a dream—or a nightmare. you sit next to him, not quite looking at him, but not able to stay away either. the weight of the air around you presses down, heavier than the sand and dust under your hands.

mark shifts beside you, the sound of his movements dragging you back to the moment. he looks at you, eyes wide and confused, but there's something else there—something darker, almost desperate.

"we can't tell anyone about this," he mutters, the words catching in his throat.

you nod, your hands shaking slightly as you pull your knees to your chest. the weight of the situation presses down on you like a vice, but his words, though simple, offer some strange sense of clarity. there’s no going back now.

"i know." you whisper, voice strained but firm.

he runs a hand through his hair, fingers raking roughly, but it’s clear he’s struggling to pull himself together. "we can’t let anyone find out what happened," he says again, this time more to himself than to you. "not yet. not until we figure out who—or what—the hell did this to us."

you meet his gaze then, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. there’s a quiet understanding in the air between you, a silent agreement forged in the mess of everything that just happened. the rawness of what you've shared is terrifying, but it’s also…something only the two of you know. and that means, somehow, it’s yours to carry.

"we'll go back." you say quietly, though the words feel like a weight in your chest. "just… we go back home. like nothing happened."

he nods, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders. "yeah. no one needs to know about this. not yet."

with a deep breath, you both stand and grab your suits. the haze feels as though it’s slowly slipping away, but in its place, doubt is bubbling. neither of you are too sure what you got yourselves into—but you know it changed everything.

writer's note .☘︎ ݁˖ this is so unlike anything i've ever written so i hope i did okay—i just had to write something for mark. he's captivated me. also i got through the entire series so fast i had to write just to quell my invincible brainrot LMAO. this fic isn’t beta’d, so if there are grammar mistakes and such i’m sorry! if you enjoyed this—reblog or comment (or both and i'll love you forever)

dedicated to @inthehystericalrealm to hoping we find our own mark variants in this life <3

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

[starkwlkr]

i didn’t like the ending | mark webber

an: ok so this is the last part but because i know some of you won’t like the ending i have planned, I’m giving you TWO endings and you can choose which one is canon in your head <3 so this one is the sad ending and i’ll try to post the happy one sometime this week!! thanks for reading <3

part 1 part 2

2025 Australian Grand Prix

The paddock was buzzing with energy as the Australian Grand Prix weekend kicked off. The first race of the season always carried a certain weight, but for Y/n, it was just another day at the office. She was here to focus on Oscar, to make sure he had the best possible start to his third year in Formula 1.

She hadn’t expected to run into Mark. Last she heard, he was busy traveling.

But of course, she should have. This was his home race too, and as Oscar’s manager, he was bound to be around. She had just stepped out of the Mclaren garage when she nearly bumped into him, stopping short as they locked eyes.

For a moment, it was like nothing had changed. Like they weren’t exes, like they hadn’t broken each other’s hearts, like they hadn’t spent the past decade trying to move on from something that had never fully left them.

“Hey,” Mark said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Hey,” she replied, keeping her voice neutral, professional. She wasn’t sure if it was for his sake or hers.

“You look great.” Mark said.

“Thank you, you too,” she smiled and took a step back as if admiring his look. “You’ve got more grey hair now.”

Mark blinked, momentarily thrown off. His hand instinctively ran through his hair, as if to check for himself. “Yeah, well. . . it happens.”

A small smirk tugged at her lips. “I remember when we first got married, you joked that if you ever started going grey, it’d be my fault.”

His expression shifted—just for a moment. Surprise flickered across his face, followed by something softer, something unreadable. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do,” she said simply. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Mark opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. Instead, he let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “You always did remember the little things.”

There was a brief pause before Mark cleared his throat, shifting his weight slightly. “So, uh . . . I’ve been seeing someone.”

It was so abrupt that Y/n almost flinched. She hadn’t asked, hadn’t even hinted at it, but there it was. A declaration. A fact thrown into the space between them.

She forced a smile, though she wasn’t sure how convincing it was. “That’s great, Mark. I’m happy for you.”

He nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s great. We’ve been on a few dates.”

A few dates. Not serious. Just starting. She could hear it in the way he said it, like he was still testing the words, trying them on for size.

Y/n swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed past the ache that bloomed in her chest. This was good. This was what needed to happen. They had tried, and they had failed, and there was no point in pretending they could fix what had already been broken beyond repair.

Still, it hurt.

She forced another smile. “I’m glad, Mark. You deserve to be happy.”

He held her gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was waiting for something—maybe for her to ask if he really meant it, if he was really moving on. Maybe for her to say something that would make him take it back.

But she didn’t.

She just nodded, said goodbye, and walked away before she could change her mind.

“Fuck.” Mark whispered as he watched her slip away. He wasn’t sure why he was even going on dates with someone. He didn’t mean to tell the woman he would move to go on another date. But one date turned into another and then another and now he was using the dates as a distraction.

Mark returned to Oscar’s garage and saw the Aussie on his phone. “I’m losing my mind.” Mark admitted to him.

“Does it have to do with my race engineer?” Oscar put his phone in his pocket. Once Oscar saw how hurt Mark looked, he stopped joking around. “You saw her. .”

“And I told her I’m seeing someone.”

“That’s the stupidest thing you have ever said. You don’t even like your date!” Oscar raised his voice lightly, earning looks from the Mclaren team. “You have to tell her it’s not serious.”

“Oscar, mate, I don’t think it’ll change anything. She’s finally happy and if she’s happy then I have to be too.” The older man started to walk away from Oscar.

“But then you won’t ever be.”

“As long as she’s happy.”

tags!!

@hc-dutch @5sospenguinqueen

[motorsportbarbie13]

Hurricane - Part 2

{“Sometimes,” Max continues when she remains silent, “people just genuinely want to help. There are no strings attached. Not with me. I just don’t want you stressing about money on top of everything else you’re dealing with.” I want to take care of you. Let me take care of you. The words die on his lips because he knows they’re too much. Too much too fast and he doesn’t want to scare her off.}

warnings/notes: talk of toxic/unsupportive parents, maybe some swearing? As always, thank you to @lestapiastrisgirl for always letting me yap about stupid plot ideas and being the voice of reason when I get too unhinged 😂❤️ pairing: max verstappen x emma meyer (OC) word count: 5.4k (oops)

hurricane master list main master list ask me anything

“Max, I am not using your credit card while you’re gone.” Emma hisses, standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands on her hips as she glares at Max Wednesday morning.  

From his seat at the kitchen counter across from her, Max narrows his eyes at the tiny blonde, genuinely surprised at the sass coming from her mouth. He’d never really quite understood why some people were so opposed to allowing him to take care of them but in his experience, it was generally those people who needed it the most. 

The corner of his mouth tips up and when Emma sees it, her eyes go molten. “Stop smirking at me like you’re going to ignore anything I have to say and do whatever you want anyway.” 

“But I am going to ignore anything you say and do whatever I want anyway. Which includes leaving you my credit card while stealing all of yours.” 

Emma’s eyes go wide with horror when Max reaches across the counter and plucks her wallet out of the top of her bag. “Max!” She yelps, reaching unsuccessfully for the faded black leather billfold that held all of her credit cards and cash. “I can’t…” 

“Can’t what?” He asks, slipping the heavy black card into the front slot while shuffling the other cards around. He sees the panic in her eyes when his fingers brush against the silver and gold cards already there and decides not to push it too far, leaving them untouched instead of making good on his threat. “Can’t grab some groceries because my fridge is empty? Can’t treat yourself to a nice dinner or three while I’m gone?”

“I can’t use your credit card.” She says, eyes fixed on the marble counter that separated her from Max. The words held such weight it felt near impossible to lift her gaze to meet Max’s, even though she could feel the press of his attention pushing heavily into her. 

“Can’t or won’t?” Max challenges, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. 

Emma lifts her eyes to glare at Max then, struggling to keep from rolling them at him. Picking up her wallet, she fishes out the black card Max had just slipped in there and tosses it back on the counter. “I will not be using your credit card, Max Verstappen.” 

Max peers at Emma from over the rim of his cup, brow quirked. This sass was a side of Emma he was unfamiliar with but he didn’t hate it. Not at all. Tucking away that little bit of Emma that he wants to mull over later tonight, he sets his coffee cup down. “Why not? It’s not like you asked me. I’m offering. You need things, right? Need to eat? Until you figure out your next steps…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. 

“I’ll figure it out myself.” The words come out sharper than she intends and she winces at how rude she sounds. She can’t help it though. The ingrained mantra, the survival mechanism she’d relied on for years, echoes inside her head and it sounds a lot like her mother: “Figure it out yourself Emma. Don’t be such a burden to everyone. You need to grow up.” 

The stubbornness in her voice has something stirring wildly in Max’s chest. Another thing to mull over tonight. 

Max leans against the counter, his expression softening as it dawns on him that this is something a bit more deeper than just refusing the kindness of a friend. “Hey,” He says gently, more serious now that he sees how distressed this is making her. “No one is expecting you to figure it all out overnight. You just had the rug ripped out from under you two days ago, it’s okay to not know where you’re going to go next. I’m just trying to help, okay?” 

“I know.” Emma mumbles, sliding her fingers through her hair before gathering it up in a ponytail. “I’m just-” She pauses, eyes flicking away from Max’s intense blue eyes. She hated how they pinned her to the spot so easily, reading her like she was an open book, making butterflies stir in ways that she knew was very dangerous. “I’m just not used to it.”

Emma’s admission was small, a tiny crack in the walls she held so solidly in place to protect herself from the outside world, but Max caught onto it so quick. He was good at reading racing lines and telemetry reports, but people were usually a different story. He never really much cared about what other people thought, how they felt, how he made them feel. It took up too much time and space in his head and he just couldn’t find it in him to care, not when there were more important things to focus on. Like winning world championships. 

But with Emma it was different. 

Every shift in her posture, every dip of her brow, they all meant something to him and he felt like he was going a little crazy every time he oriented himself to her presence the last two days. 

“Not used to people helping you?” He asked, gaze intently fixed on those pretty dove grey eyes that he’d been thinking of all last night. He sensed something deeper was going on here, the visceral rejection of his offer spoke of something more at play and anxiety thrummed deep in Max’s gut at the thought of what, or who, had caused her to react like this. 

Emma’s fingers twisted the twists of gold that decorated her right hand. A fleeting, unpleasant memory surfaced, completely unbidden: the humiliation of her parents yelling at her back in secondary school after she had needed to ask a friend to borrow a few Euros for lunch on a school trip because she had forgotten her wallet in her locker. Her father had been incensed when he found out about it, raving at her for nearly an hour the evening she had come home and asked for a few bills to pay her friend back.

 “You were begging your friends for money? Now everyone is going to think we’re poor and can’t afford to send you on school trips! Why are you always so irresponsible?” 

The shame of her mistake and embarrassment of humiliating her family so publicly still lingered all these years later. 

“It’s…complicated.” Emma says, voice low. “I was always taught that relying on others just leads to trouble. You end up owing them or they hold it over you as leverage. It’s just easier to do it yourself.” 

Max watched as the memory took hold of her right there in the kitchen. He didn’t know what the memory was but he could tell it hadn’t been a pleasant one. The discomfort she felt at his offer was evident in the way she shifted her body away from him, shoulders hunched in on themselves. He could tell there was a deeper story here, a reason the fiery blonde in front of him was so fiercely independent. 

It was almost as if she was allergic to kindness. 

“Not everyone operates like that, Em.” Max says softly. 

Emma’s eyes flick up at the nickname, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Only Victoria ever called her Em. 

And now Max. 

“Sometimes,” Max continues when she remains silent, “people just genuinely want to help. There are no strings attached. Not with me. I just don’t want you stressing about money on top of everything else you’re dealing with.” 

I want to take care of you. Let me take care of you.

The words die on his lips because he knows they’re too much. Too much too fast and he doesn’t want to scare her off. 

“I don’t want to be a burden, Max.” Emma confesses, the words tumbling out before she has a chance to stop them. The ingrained fear, the constant awareness of being an inconvenience to everyone around her, bubbles to the surface so violently, goosebumps erupt all over his skin. 

 A flicker of something unreadable crosses Max’s face. It looks a bit like understanding colored with a touch of sadness. Like he knows exactly what she’s talking about from first hand experience. 

He leans forward just fraction of an inch closer to Emma, not taking his eyes off of her. 

“You are not a burden. You could never be a burden.” To me, he finishes in his head. “You just need a little help right now and that’s not the end of the world. Just…consider it. Even if it’s just for the small things. A coffee and some groceries, maybe? Whatever you need.” 

Max didn’t press further, just turned around and walked towards his bedroom quietly to finish packing, leaving Emma behind to stare at the card like it might just explode if she even touches it. 

But when Max returns a while later, suitcase for the next few days trailing behind him, he notices the card isn’t on the counter anymore. 

The silence in Max’s apartment stretched, thick and unbroken. It was a jarring change from the noise of the home she had spent the last three weeks living in and while it was somewhat unsettling. Now, it was only the gentle ticking of the clock in the living room that filled the quiet. The first thing she had noticed this morning when she woke up was how delicious the silence sounded, soft and unfocused as she laid in bed, still and quiet, for a over an hour after she had woken up. 

But now, the afternoon stretched out before her, the novelty of having the expansive apartment all to herself until Saturday evening had worn off. A nervous, restless energy replaced it and as Emma sat on the couch flicking through the endless streaming services Max subscribed to, she was itching for something to do, someone to talk to. 

Sunlight streamed through the large windows, illuminating the subtle disarray Max had left in his wake. It wasn’t dirty per say, not really messy either. There was just a distinctly masculine lack of meticulousness that left the apartment feeling slightly chaotic, slightly unhinged and most definitely in need of some organization. 

Needing to busy her hands, Emma found herself moving around the apartment absentmindedly tidying the pile of racing magazines here, dusting the surfaces of the racing sim station Max had tucked away in a corner, just trying to make sense out of the quiet chaos. It was a way to occupy her hands, to allow her to feel useful during her stay in this borrowed space, while allowing her mind a chance to wander, to try to figure out what her next move was going to be. 

Shortly after finishing organizing the cords around Max’s sim rig, Emma’s phone rings. She smiles when she sees Victoria’s name flashing across the screen. 

“Hi, bestie.” Victoria’s cheerful voice fills the quiet apartment. “How is Chalet Verstappen treating you?” 

Emma chuckles as she pads over to the overstuffed couch she’d spent too long on already. “It’s…quiet. And surprisingly unorganized. I would have expected more out of a Verstappen.” 

Victoria laughed on the other end of the phone. “He certainly missed Jos’ penchant for an immaculate house, didn’t he? If it weren’t for the house keepers he has come every other week, it would be so much worse. Anyway, I didn’t call to talk about my dumb brother. What are you up to? Plotting your next move?” 

Emma sighed, tugging the gray cashmere blanket up over her legs. It only took a few moments but as she settled back, sinking into the plush cushions, Jimmy hopped up into her lap. Max had warned her his two cats might be a bit standoffish when she first arrived on Monday night. But to everyone’s surprise Jimmy and Sassy took to Emma instantly.

Even now, with Max gone, the two bengals didn’t seem to miss Max quite as much as he had warned her they would.

“I don’t know. I’m trying.” She scratched at the fur behind Sassy’s ear as the other bengal cat came to sit on the back of the couch, cuddled up into her neck. “I don’t think I want to come home.” 

Victoria is silent for a moment, letting the words hang in the air. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Emma rasped, knowing Victoria would be sad to not have her so close by. “You know how my parents are. It’ll be nothing but ‘I told you so’s’ for the next decade. I don’t think I could handle that right now, Vic.” 

“I know.” Victoria says softly. “They were never your biggest cheerleaders, huh?” 

“Understatement of the century.” Emma mutters, running her fingers over Jimmy’s smooth back. “They thought leaving my teaching job was insane enough. This whole nannying fiasco will just confirm all their worst opinions of me.” 

“You were so unhappy teaching though, that’s not a moral failure.” Victoria reminds her. Out of all of Emma’s friends, it was Victoria who had had a front row seat to how her parents had treated her growing up. Sometimes it had felt like Emma spent more time with Victoria at the Verstappen household than she did at her own growing up. 

“Miserable.” Emma corrected. “I was totally miserable. The kids were sweet, I loved that part of the job. Seeing their eyes light up when they finally grasped a new concept. But the endless grading? The politics between the parents and admin? It was just too much.” Emma pauses, hand skating over Jimmy’s velvet ears as he napped on her lap. “I felt like I was slowly suffocating.” 

“So they wanted you to stay in a place that was killing you?” Victoria challenged, knowing that Emma would use her last breath to defend her parents despite them barely wanting to spare her a second glance most of the time. 

“They want stability for me, even if how they execute it is a little…misguided.” 

On the other end, Victoria sighed but didn’t argue, knowing that Emma was so close to getting away from the toxic home life. 

“I just don’t want to go home and have to be subjected to the hours long lectures of ‘we told you so’ and ‘what are you going to do now that you’ve managed to fail again?’ Because Vic, I don’t even know what my next move is and I’ve been thinking about nothing else since Monday night.” 

 “So if not home, then what?” Victoria asked gently. “Have you thought about staying in Monaco? Maybe looking for another job there?” 

Emma hesitated. The thought of staying in the city despite the last 3 miserable weeks with her nanny family was somewhat appealing. It was certainly better than the alternative option that felt like her only way out. “I don’t know. It feels…scary. Staying here with no sense of direction? But the thought of going back home and facing them is almost worse.” 

“Okay.” Victoria says slowly. “You don’t have to make any rash decisions right now. You’re safe at Max’s for the next few days. He’s goin until what, Saturday?” 

Emma nodded despite Victoria being unable to see her. “Yeah, Saturday evening is what he said.” 

“Perfect. Use this time to breathe. Maybe look at some job postings? I can put some feelers out to the people I know in Monaco, maybe someone has an opening for you. If all else fails I’m sure you could find some families that are looking for a piano tutor.” 

Emma’s heart rate ratcheted up as she let out a nervous laugh. “My piano playing days are long over, Vic. You know that. It’s been years.” 

Emma’s mother had put her in piano lessons the day she had turned 5 years old, insisting that music helped bring out the genius in children. What she hadn’t expected was Emma falling in love with music instead of using it as a means to be better at math. She loved every bit of the piano: learning new pieces, exploring the way it made her feel. In time it became her outlet, the way she expressed herself. Sitting at the piano had been her refuge growing up. It had been her escape, the only place where she could lose herself and sooth out the anxious noise in her brain that was brought on by the criticisms of her parents. 

Emma had begged for singing lessons for 12th birthday one year and had been denied. It wasn’t a worthy enough pursuit, her parents said. There was no way she’d ever make it as a professional musician, she wasn’t good enough and it wasn’t a practical career, so there was no sense in paying for lessons anymore. 

Her parents sold the piano the year Emma turned 16. 

She hadn’t played since. 

“Max still has that piano in his living room, doesn’t he?” Victoria asked, a hint of mischief in her voice. 

Emma glanced toward the far corner of the living room where a sleek, black grand piano stood, it’s polished surface flaming in the afternoon light. It looked expensive. Untouched. 

“I don’t know. It already feels like I’m intruding in on his space as it is. I don’t want to insert myself even further into his life.” 

“He wouldn’t mind, Em. Trust me. He’s got more money than he knows what to do with and he’s genuinely a good guy. Besides, who knows? Maybe it’ll spark something. You were always so talented when it came to music. I was always so jealous.” 

A flicker of longing stirred in Emma’s chest as she continued to stare at the piano across the room. The memory of her fingers dancing across the keys, the release she found in the music, how she felt when she finally got a particularly challenging piece nailed finally, those warm and comforting memories wrapped around her, encouraging her to stand up and approach the piano that seemed to be calling her name now. 

“Maybe.” She murmured, bare feet padding across the hardwood floor of Max’s living room. 

There was no sheet music anywhere to be found and the keys themselves looked to be a little dusty. She tapped one of them, pressing down so softly only a soft note sounded from the instrument. The tone sounded off, not significantly so but Emma knew. She knew that the piano hadn’t been played in ages probably, that it needed a good tuning, but she’d handle that later. 

“Just think about it.” Victoria’s voice gently pulled her back to the present. “No pressure. Just give yourself permission to breathe. You don’t have to have all the answers now.” 

The conversation ended shortly after with Victoria promising to call tomorrow morning to check in. Emma stayed where she was long after she hung up though, just standing in front of the piano, finger tips barely brushing the ivory keys. It was almost as if she was afraid to really touch it, to bring that kind of happiness back into her life. She was afraid if she allowed that sort of thing in again, it would break her when she inevitably had to give it up. Emma had given up enough already and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to survive another heartbreak. 

Max slotted the key into the lock, the click echoing in the quiet hallway outside his apartment door. He had intended to stay in Milton Keynes until Saturday evening, placating Horner and Marko and their requests he show his steady presence at the Red Bull Racing headquarters after a rocky start to the season for the team. 

The meetings at HQ had been a masterclass in PR spin, something Red Bull was endlessly good at. It was a carefully orchestrated attempt to quell the impending media storm and fan backlash. Liam, while being a talented driver in his own right, had been shuffled back to the sister team. Max was in disagreement with the move and he had made his thoughts on the subject known pre and post China but in the end, it had been Christian’s call. Max understood the team’s desperation for consistent points and view that Liam wasn’t living up to the expectations, but the way they had done it, the brutal way they had only given Liam 2 races to settle in before making such a drastic move, didn’t sit well with Max. 

And the sim time he’s been wanting to get in while he’d been in the UK? An absolute joke. He’d barely gotten an hour in the seat between the endless strategy debates and his PR obligations. The car still felt like a temperamental beast, unpredictable and frustrating from one setup to the next. 

It was driving him crazy. 

So, Max had cut his losses, mumbled an excuse about needing to be back in Monaco a day early, and had practically sprinted to his jet. He wanted nothing more than to spend the next few nights alone, in his own bed, before he had to leave again for a brutal triple header. 

He’d expected quiet when he’d arrived home. Craved the comfort and anonymity he had when he was alone inside those walls. Max knew Emma was still there but the thought of going home with her waiting for him didn’t bother him as much as he’d thought. Having been raised by a father who preached about making sure to stay unattached during the height of his career had left a mark on Max. He shied away form deep human connection more often than not and so the fact that he didn’t mind Emma staying with him for a bit longer was a little foreign to him. A little unsettling. 

As Max pushed the door open, a hauntingly beautiful melody drifted towards him from the living room. It was slow, melancholic, each note seemed to carry a profound sense of longing with it as it floated towards him. He couldn’t quite place the song, but he could feel the deep sadness resonating throughout the apartment. There was a quiet outpouring of something intensely personal coming from the piano sitting in the corner of his living room and as Max stood just inside the doorway, he fought the urge to slip right back out of the apartment. He felt like he was intruding on something. 

Something pulled him towards the living room though and he moved silently, not wanting to disturb Emma if it really was her playing his long-neglected piano. When he reached the archway to the living room, he stopped, mesmerized by the scene before him. 

Emma sat at his grand piano, facing away from him. Her posture was slightly hunched, her blond hair tumbling down around her shoulders in loose waves. Her head was bowed, tilted forward just a bit so she could make out the notes on the sheet music in front of her. 

Her fingers moved across the keys with a delicate grace that spoke towards the raw emotion in the music. Each note seemed to resonate with a deep sense of sadness, a quiet outpouring of something intensely personal. Max watched on, captivated, as Emma worked through the piece bit by torturous bit. He could almost feel the weight of her unspoken anxieties, the demons of her past that she was still fighting with today, all of it woven into the fabric of the melody she was making. 

Max couldn’t see her face but there was a telltale tremor in her shoulders, a subtle catch in the rhythm of the music that suggested she was not only wrestling with her demons but fighting back tears as well. There weren’t any loud, wrenching sobs. Instead, Emma’s posture trembled with the kind of silent, heart wrenching tears that spoke of a soul laid completely bare. 

The final notes of the piece hung in the air, fading slowly into the quiet hum of the Monaco evening that filtered through the closed windows. Emma’s fingers lingered on the keys for a few moments, the silence that slipped through the apartment amplifying the unsteady rhythm of her labored breathing. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying until the last few chords but the hot tears that traced silent paths down her cheeks reminded her how much she’d lost in the last few years. The melody of one of her favorite pieces, so achingly beautiful and filled with a gentle sorrow, had somehow unlocked a dam inside her, releasing a tsunami of long buried, deeply guarded feelings. 

With a shaky sigh, she finally lifted her hands from the piano, the sudden stillness that blanketed the living room, felt almost jarring. Reaching up to swipe at her eyes with the back of her hand, she turned slightly to see where Jimmy and Sassy had wandered to while she had been occupied elsewhere. 

It was then that she caught sight Max. 

He was sitting on the large sofa across the room, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his head resting against the back cushions. The dim light from a nearby lamp casting long shadows across his face but Emma could see his eyes fixed on hers, a quiet intensity shining in them as he watched her. She had been so lost in the music, so consumed by her own emotions, that she hadn’t even heard him come in. 

A jolt of surprise, bordering on panic, shot through her. Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected him back until late Saturday night. What was he doing here? How much had he heard? What had he seen?

“Max!” The sound of his name left her lips in a startled whisper, his unexpected arriaval making her jump. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic flight of hummingbirds wings against the sudden silence. 

She hadn’t meant for anyone to witness that raw, unguarded moments. Shame, hot and prickley, swelled in her chest, painting her cheeks a bright rosy red. 

“I’m sorry, Em. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Max replies, lifting himself off the couch before approaching her. He eyed Jimmy, who had leapt up onto the piano bench shortly after Emma had finished playing. 

That was an interesting development. Jimmy usually hated strangers. 

“You’re back early.” Emma scrambled for something, anything to say to distract herself from the intense way Max was looking at her, like he was really seeing her for the first time. 

Max lifts Jimmy off the bench before plopping him down on the floor, taking the cats place next to Emma on the piano bench. It was a short bench, really only meant for one grown adult, so his shoulder brushed hers as his fingers brushed against the sheet music sitting in front of him. 

“I wondered what that charge from the music store was last night.” He murmurs. 

“I’m sorry.” Her apology is instant, like a reflex coming as easy to her lips as breathing. 

Max peers at her then, liking the way the blush colors her cheeks but wishing that it was him making her blush and not the shame of needing help. “Don’t be.” His statement is firm, but not unkind. “I told you to use it if you needed anything and by the way that piece sounded, you needed that music.” 

It made Emma’s skin itch a bit at how Max read her so easily. She didn’t want to admit how much she liked feeling seen under his gaze. It felt dangerous, like there was a risk in remaining this close to him. Like if she allowed herself to get used to his kindness and generosity, she’d pay for it with her heart sooner rather than later. 

“I didn’t know you played.” Max says when Emma stays silent, her gaze flicking between the music in front of her and Max beside her. 

“Up until I was sixteen and then my parents decided my time was better spent elsewhere.” There was a touch of bitterness in her voice that made Max’s skin prickle. Every time he learned something about her parents, he liked them less and less. 

“Well, I’d never be able to tell you’d taken any time off. It sounded incredible.” 

Emma blushes harder and Max grins. “The piano is a touch out of tune, I’m afraid. It could have been better.” 

Max shakes his head, “I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t said anything to me.” He turns back to the music, flipping to the front of the piece. “Pavane pour une infante defunte” He reads out loud in perfect French before turning back to Emma with a raised brow, “Pavane for a dead princess?” 

Emma smiles sadly at the knowing glint in his eyes. There was that feeling again, that itchiness over the fact Max was so easily able to read her. Like he knew her so well already and they’d barely spent any time together. “It was the last concert piece I ever learned before…” The rest of the sentence dies on her lips. 

Max’s gaze softened. He could hear the hurt in her voice, remembering the abrupt end to something she clearly loved. The desire to call her parents up and give them a piece of his mind for ripping away something that meant so much to Emma had his fingers itching to reach for his phone. “Before they decided your time was better spent elsewhere?” He asked gently, not wanting to push but needing to understand the shadows that seemed to cling to her today.

Emma hesitated, her fingers tracing the edges of the sheet music as she leaned just a fraction of an inch closer into Max’s warmth beside her. The silence stretched between them, thick and stifling as Max waited patiently for her response. Finally, Emma lifted her gaze to meet his, a flicker of vulnerability in her dove-grey eyes. “Before they decided music was a frivolous waste of time because I wasn’t good enough to make it a career. They said I needed to focus on more…practical pursuits.” 

The word ‘practical’ fell off her tongue, bitter as ash and dripping with venom. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Max’s jaw flutter almost imperceptibly. His parents, while demanding in their own way, had always supported his passions, his desire to race cars for a living, even when it had seemed like a long shot. The idea of someone stifling such a clear talent, such a deep connection with something so beautiful, grated on him roughly. 

“Well,” He began, low and sincere, “I’m glad you decided to waste a little more time on it tonight. Even though it wasn’t a waste. It was beautiful, Emma. Really.” 

Emma’s blush deepens but this time there was a hint of something else in her expression. There was a bit of a flicker of surprised pleasure there in her eyes as she watched Max watch her. Dropping her gaze down to her hands, she flexed her fingers slightly as if her fingers were sore from playing for so long this afternoon. 

“Thank you.” She whispered so softly Max was almost sure he’d imagined it. 

Max shifted a bit, his shoulder brushing hers once again, the casual contact sending a cool shiver of pleasure down his spine. He ignored the little voice in his head that warned him to keep his distance. He shouldn’t be this interested in his little sister’s best friend. Shouldn’t care what her plans were for the future. Shouldn’t want them to include him. 

“So,” He said, turning his attention back to the sheet music, a forced lightness in his tone as he spoke. “A dead princess, huh? Bit morbid for a Friday night, don’t you think?” He shot her a teasing grin, hoping to lighten the heavy atmosphere that had settled between them. 

A small, genuine smile spread across Emma’s lips, Max’s lighthearted question chasing away some of the sadness that had clouded her features. “It’s not really about a dead princess.” She explained, tone patient. “Ravel said the title just sounded nice. It’s more about a memory, a feeling of something lost and mourning that.” 

Max nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the slope of her nose, the high cheekbones that he dangerously loved watching go pink at the sound of his voice, the way her lips formed a perfect heart shape as she concentrated. All of these observations were dangerous but not wholly unwelcome. 

He was familiar with that sense of loss, of mourning what could have been. What should have been. What could have been. 

“Well,” Max began, his eyes meeting hers again as a new understanding passed between them in the quiet of the evening. “I’m glad you’ve found your way back to it again, Em.” 

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[st4rlvr]

Chasing You || CSN

I think the worst part wasn’t watching him fall for someone else.

It was realizing that somewhere along the way, I’d become easy to leave.

San had always been there. The kind of presence that didn’t need announcing. He showed up like sunlight through a window — soft, steady, unnoticed until it was gone. People talked. Said he liked me. Said he had for years. I brushed it off. Not because I didn’t care — I think deep down I knew I did — but because I never let myself think about it too long. I didn’t date. Never had. I always told myself I wasn’t built for all that messy, complicated stuff. But maybe that was just an excuse.

They told him there was no shot. That I’d never feel the same way. And maybe they were right. Maybe I didn’t feel the same.

Maybe I felt something worse.

Something messier.

Something that couldn’t be named until it was too late.

I noticed the shift when he stopped texting first. When “let’s hang out” turned into “I’ll let you know.” When his laugh — the one I knew by heart — was being shared with someone else across the room.

He looked happy. And she looked at him the way I never let myself.

Because I was scared. Because I didn’t know what to do with feelings that sat so quietly in my chest.

When he told me about her, he didn’t say it like it was news. He said it like he was already halfway gone, like he was easing me into the idea that I didn’t matter the same way anymore.

I told him I was happy for him. And maybe some of me was. But most of me was just… tired. Tired of pretending it didn’t sting. Tired of missing him while he was still standing in front of me.

The truth is, I did like him.

I liked the way he always waited for me to finish talking, even when I rambled.

I liked the way he remembered the little things — how I liked my coffee, how I hated thunderstorms, how I hummed when I was nervous.

I liked the way he looked at me, like I was something.

And now, he looks at her like that.

We were never together. Not really. So I don’t know if I have the right to feel like something ended.

But it did.

And I think the saddest part of all is that when he moved on, I didn’t just lose a chance at love.

I lost my best friend.

And I don’t know how to tell him I miss him without making it sound like I want him back.

Even though… maybe I do.

⸻

It had been over ten years.

I was in my late twenties now, living in a different city, with a different kind of life. The kind of life you build slowly and half-heartedly when you’re trying to prove to yourself that you’re over something — or someone — you never really had.

I dated.

I tried.

But nothing was like him.

It wasn’t that they weren’t kind or sweet or handsome. It’s just… none of them made me feel like me the way San used to. None of them looked at me like I was a song they couldn’t stop humming.

I thought I had moved on. Really, I did. I knew San had. He’d been with her for over a decade. Her name was everywhere — tagged in photos, mentioned in mutual friends’ stories, tied to his smile. They were getting married. I saw the post. Simple. Elegant. He asked. She said yes.

I stared at it longer than I should have, then turned my phone off and went to sleep. Or tried to.

So when I got the call from Wooyoung, I didn’t believe it at first.

“San called it off,” he said, like it was just another update.

“What?”

“The wedding. It’s not happening.”

I paused. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

There was silence, but it was loud. Everything in my head started spinning — memories, old regrets, half-buried what-ifs.

I thought about how sure they had seemed. How in love he looked. I thought about all the years that passed, all the chances I didn’t take. And for a split second, I wondered if maybe this was the universe offering me one last chance to make sense of what never did.

But then I stopped myself.

It wasn’t my business. Not anymore. Whatever had happened between them — that was their story. Just because something ended didn’t mean it began again. And even if it did… where would I even begin?

I hung up the phone and sat there for a long time. My apartment was quiet, and so was my heart, but in that aching, tired kind of way. I didn’t cry. I didn’t smile. I just sat.

Because I didn’t know how to feel.

Was I relieved? Sad? Hopeful? Guilty for even feeling anything?

I had spent so long convincing myself that it was over — that he was over — that I didn’t know what to do with the tiniest spark that flickered up in my chest at the thought of maybe.

Maybe he still thought about me.

Maybe he wondered too.

Maybe this wasn’t the end of everything — just the start of something we’d never had the courage to explore.

Or maybe… maybe some people are just meant to haunt each other quietly, forever.

It was a Thursday. Gray skies, light drizzle, the kind of day that already felt too heavy before anything even happened.

I wasn’t expecting anyone — much less him.

But there he was.

San.

On my doorstep.

He looked different, older in the way we all were now — sharper jaw, tired eyes — but still him. Still the boy who used to sit next to me in silence just to be close. Still the boy I never had the guts to love out loud.

I froze. My heart practically stopped.

“How… how did you—?”

“Wooyoung,” he said, breathing hard. “Of course.”

Of course.

I stepped aside, unsure if I should even let him in, but he walked in anyway — like his body moved faster than his thoughts.

He looked around once, like he couldn’t believe I was real. Like he didn’t know whether to cry or scream or both.

“I’m sorry for just showing up,” he said, voice shaking, “but I couldn’t stop thinking, and if I didn’t say it, I was going to lose my mind.”

I swallowed. “Say what?”

He stepped closer, eyes burning into mine. “Do you think of me too? Do you think of me the way I think of you?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Because what do you say to the ghost that never really left?

His jaw clenched. His voice cracked, but his words came hard and fast.

“Y/N, I can’t keep pretending like what happened between us didn’t hurt me.” His fists clenched at his sides. “I love you. I love YOU.”

He shouted it like it hurt to say.

And maybe it did.

Tears welled in his eyes, and I knew the anger wasn’t really anger — it was pain. All of it was. Years of unspoken things, all crashing into one brutal moment.

“You don’t get to do this now,” I finally snapped, voice rising. “You don’t get to show up now and throw that in my face like I didn’t spend years wondering if I made a mistake! You moved on, San. You left.”

“I waited! I waited for something — anything — from you! And all I ever got was silence!”

“Because I was scared!” I shouted, the words cutting my throat on the way out. “I was scared of losing you, of ruining what we had — and I lost you anyway!”

His tears spilled over, mine not far behind. And suddenly we were both yelling. Shouting through ten years of built-up regret, of longing, of missed chances. The kind of yelling that only happens when the silence has lived too long.

“Do you know what it felt like?” he yelled. “Loving you and knowing I was never enough for you to say it back?”

“You were everything to me!” I cried. “And I was too much of a coward to admit it! Don’t you get it? You were it. You were it.”

Silence.

His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t breathe. I could feel the pain radiating off of him like heat, like it was mine too — because it was. It always had been.

“I don’t know what this is anymore,” he said finally, voice barely a whisper. “But I know I never stopped loving you. Not even for a second.”

And I broke. I broke in the way people do when they finally let go of pretending.

I took a step forward, shaky and small.

“I never stopped either.”

His eyes searched mine — wild, red-rimmed, desperate. Before I could say anything else, he grabbed my face like he was afraid I’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough. And then he kissed me.

Rough. Unfiltered. All emotions and trembling hands.

It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t pretty — it was years of love and longing and pain crashing together in one breathless, heartbreaking moment. It was him pouring everything he couldn’t say into that kiss, and me drinking it in like it was the only thing that had ever tasted right.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged, voice shaking.

“Y/N… it was never her.”

I stared at him, lips still parted, eyes wide. My heart felt like it might shatter.

“I wasn’t happy,” he said, chest heaving. “Do you know how often we fought? She knew. She knew it was you. I didn’t have to say it — she saw it in everything I didn’t say.”

His voice cracked, and his hand dropped to my waist like he needed the anchor.

“I proposed because I don’t even fucking know — I thought maybe if I committed, it would stop hurting. I wanted to be done. I wanted to move on from you.”

His voice broke entirely, and he looked at me like he was begging me to understand.

“But I can’t. Not when you’re still here.”

My hands gripped his shirt, knuckles white.

“I’ve always been here, San,” I whispered. “You just stopped looking.”

His eyes slammed shut, and he let out a shaky breath, leaning into me like he needed to fall into something real. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him like I should’ve done ten years ago.

Because after all the pain, all the silence, all the almosts — he was still him.

And I was still his.

Even if we never said it before — our hearts had known all along.

We didn’t get it all back at once.

That first night, we didn’t make some big, sweeping promise. There were no dramatic declarations, no sudden fixes. Just the two of us sitting on my couch, knees touching, hearts still raw. His hand found mine, fingers lacing slowly, like he was asking, Can I still hold you like this?

And I let him.

He stayed the night — not in the way we used to dream about, but in the real way. We fell asleep fully clothed, tangled in old blankets, with the TV playing low and his head resting against my shoulder. It wasn’t romantic. It was comforting. Familiar.

The next morning, we talked. Really talked.

About what happened. About her. About the time we lost. About how love — the kind that sits quietly in the corners of your life — never truly leaves. He told me about the ring he never really wanted to buy. I told him about the nights I cried over the thought of him belonging to someone else.

We both apologized. For the silence. For the fear. For the decade of “maybe.”

And then, we tried again. But slowly.

We didn’t move in together right away. We went on actual dates — movies, museums, late-night drives where the windows were down and the world felt soft again. Sometimes, we argued. Sometimes, we cried. But every time, we chose each other.

This time, we said the things out loud.

Two years later, he proposed. Nothing big. Just him and me, sitting on my old porch swing, the one that creaked too much and leaned a little left.

He handed me a ring and said, “Let’s not waste another ten years.”

We got married in the fall. Nothing fancy. Just people who loved us, leaves turning gold, and vows that felt less like promises and more like truths we’d finally learned how to live.

It wasn’t perfect. Life never is. But it was ours.

And that made it everything.