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screampied · 6 months ago

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PARTITION! g. satoru

ৎ୭ sum. your sugar daddy, satoru’s worst fear happened. he fears you’re too much of a spoiled rotten brat. screw riding in his expensive private limousine—you wanted to ride something else instead. (him, duh)

wc. 7.3k

warnings. fem! reader, sugar daddy gojo! au, age gap (early twenties + thirties), car sęx, bratty reader, unprotected, getting eaten out the window, tít job, reverse cowgirl, doggy, cunnīlingus, nanami cameo, slight alcohol consumption, size kink, cęrvix kissing, possessive themes (wearing waist beads w his initials), implied multiple rounds, he’s sooo whipped, bręeding.

➤ sd! gojo masterlist

“meet my baby here, sweets. charlotte.”

“satoru, what.”

as satoru had an arm slinked around your waist, brushing a thumb across the jewels that stuck against of of the many designer blouses he’s bought you within the past week, he hums. the two of you were staring straight at a limousine. it was icy blue like his eyes with a plethora of dark-tinted windows. to even top it off, it had ‘G.S limousine service, inc.’ carved into the side of one of the doors in bright, blue cursive.

you huffed, smearing your glossed lips together. “you named your limousine?”

“heh, well she’s yours now,” he hums, guiding you toward the slid open doors. “c’mon, there’s a club i wanna take you to. if we leave now, we can beat the press.” and satoru takes a peek at his gleaming, pricey watch. he helps lifts the back of your long skirt from touching the ground before you step in. immediately, you’re hit with flashing lights inside the luxurious car and its plush red seats.

“where to, sir.” a blond chauffeur adjusts his mirror with a sigh, taking a short glance at you.

satoru throws an arm around you, tugging lightly on his tie that’s tucked neatly in his suit. “ah, kento, meet my girl. and please—drive us to my private lounge,” satoru kisses your cheek as you sit, whispering in an impish, low tone. “buckle up, sweetheart. ‘s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

the seats were oh-so-soft, a violent hot color of maroon as the entire limo was lit up with nothing but dim flashing, flashing lights.

it was bright, the size alone was probably bigger than a simple normal bathroom. satoru saw you taking in the luxurious life like you always did, craning your head from left to right before peering at the empty wine glasses in front of you both.

“it’s so pretty,” you hummed, your head resting against his shoulder.

once you’re laid against him, you’re smacked with his signature loud cologne scent. it was always a scent you’d never forget, nor could you get used to.

it’s strong, making you take the citrusy manly aroma in silence every time.

with a raised brow, you look up at the white-haired man before timidly murmuring, “wait- what do you mean this is mine? like.. the whole thing?”

“yeah, silly girl,” satoru brushes a thumb around the center of your forehead in invisible circles.

you’ve grown to get weak with his tender touch every time. cerulean-iced eyes lock against you lovingly, and that’s when that cunning grin spreads at each side of his crooked lips. “think of it as an uh- surprise gift for the new year.”

with a pout, you open your mouth to complain. “satoru- last week, you just bought me-”

“a convertible, and i’d do it again in a heartbeat,” satoru whispers, planting another kiss near your temple.

your incoming words come to an abrupt pause, and the cute speechless look you gave him always made him hum in amusement.

one of the many things satoru liked- no loved about you, was that you were always so humble.

you were forever grateful, but you couldn’t help but be hesitant sometimes at how much he’d constantly spend for you. satoru continued to shower you with compliment though—constantly reassuring you that he wanted to splurge his money on you.

you were living the dream - literally.

embodying the life of a rich girl, a type of rich girl where you’d usually see in cheesy movies or sung in iconic songs by artists like gwen stefani.

even though it’s been a full-blown year, you’ve started to grow accustomed to the sweet luxury of being a sugar baby.

satoru gojo’s sugar baby.

but he wasn’t starting to see you as just his pretty ‘lil sugar baby though, that much was apparent.

satoru didn’t expect you to not only take his money but his heart too.

and he never minded.

he couldn’t put a price on that anyway.

“besides,” he grabs a clear, empty glass and an unopened bottle from underneath the fuzzy, red seat. with a flick, satoru removes the cork that is plugged near the top with just his thumb and middle finger. as he pours a small portion of wine inside, the velvet-colored liquid stains against all sides of the glass.

“what’s mine is yours, baby,” he takes a sip before sighing at the cassis flavor hits against his tastebuds, “ ‘s what my sweet thing deserves.”

as you’re still pouting, the limo continues to drive.

the windows were tinted, but it was clear as day when you looked through them to take a quick peel. as usual, the roads were quite busy with rush hour but it was a smooth ride nonetheless.

however though, you had to admit, you were getting a bit… bored.

satoru sat man spread, both of his wide legs taking so much unnecessary space before he contemptibly sighed again. with one of his arms still wrapped around you, you took a moment to take in his suave, handsome appearance.

he always was draped in nothing but tuxedos—

after all, without the whole sugar daddy side thing, you sometimes forget how satoru was a literal well-known businessman.

he never really went into the specifics of his work, but you knew he was the CEO of some private company.

satoru was a very powerful man, a man with a big net worth … but an even bigger heart.

the shoes that satoru wore were dress shoes of his own brand, of course. in the luminous, glittery lights of the inside of the limousine—the shoes were visibly spit-shined from top to bottom. his suit’s dark black, and the handkerchief that stuck out of his front chest had the imprints of your lipstick on it.

of course he kept that.

his hair..

it’s messily ruffled but somewhat presentable, slicked back as usual with a faint side part. over time, you started to notice how he was growing facial hair too.

it’s subtle, and you’d have to squint but you saw it. you saw how specks of white hair were trying to form down near his chin.

it was attractive nonetheless, and the thought of satoru growing a stubble had you squeezing your thighs together in shame.

after all, he was in his early-thirties so he was bound to grow some facial hair at some point. he’s always been a well-shaved man, but the image forever plagued your mind.

“yeees, sweets.” he snaps you out of your little fantasm, the near-empty wine glass still in his hand. he sits the expensive bottle of ‘screaming eagle’ near the limo’s bar that was covered with dozens of tiny, pretty rhinestones.

“h.. huh?” you stammer, blinking thrice.

shit.

the way you stared at him was like a deer in headlights. caught red-handed!

that same wry grin that stretched so slyly pried at both cracks of his lips before satoru tilted his head. “you’re starin’ y’know,” and you felt his hand placed on your thigh. “is my baby bored?”

“a little,” you admitted, hearing the loud screeching of tire wheels and screaming horns of other cars in the background.

only satoru could make you feel like you were the only girl in the world..

slowly, satoru dragged his pink tongue over his upper lip which was a bit damp from the scarlet-colored wine.

you sucked in a raucous breath - your thoughts turning more ‘n more filthy by the second.

his lips.. they were so perfect, naturally glossed, and forevermore had a plump downward curve. you could stare at them all day, and your eyes widened once a drip of wine started to trickle down the right side of his lip.

“ooh- excuse me. guess ‘m a bit messy today,” he throatily chuckles, feeling the coldness of the red droplet race down his skin. “would you be a doll ‘n lick that up for me, sweetheart?”

“okay-” you comply right away, positioning yourself on his lap.

satoru titters, cocking his head lazily toward the left as you get comfortable. cute, he thinks.

he could already tell how eager you were. also, he didn’t tell you the duration of the ride but it was probably about a good hour.

like hell could you even wait that long.

it felt like time was so cruel - standing still as you inched closer and closer toward his face. satoru laid man spread the entire time, eyeing you closely with his gaze never leaving yours.

he paws a big hand near your waist, hearing your pretty airy breaths pick up.

“stop looking at me like that-”

“aw, is it a crime to stare at my gi-”

satoru’s fatally silenced with a kiss.

it’s a rough one, and you couldn’t wait to run your tongue across the remnants of cherry-flavored wine that now started to drip down his chin.

it tasted sweet - a spicy cherry flavor, and you moaned once his knee aligned itself between your thighs.

his thigh was so bulky too, even underneath the lanky, slender slacks he wore. satoru was a particularly ripped guy in general — you knew his workout routine like the back of your hand, and sometimes he’d even let you do sets with him.

(sets that mainly consisted of you sitting on his back while he did push-ups orrrr sitting on his abs while he used barbells in his private gym)

“mhm~” you moan against his lips, hearing the competitive sounds of teeth rudely smacking against each other in vigorous sync.

each tongue’s on a dangerous mission, desperately trying to dominate the other and you couldn’t help but melt.

your twisting, hot tongue started to wander, creating a slippery snail trail near the crack of his mouth before nibbling on his bottom lip. “sa- satoruu.” you’d breathe, one hand giving his tie a needy, impatient pull.

“heyyy, you know i don’t speak whine,” he whispers, breaking away from your lips for a second.

your lips were already swollen, slickly shining with saliva that could’ve been an easily replaceable substitute for lip gloss. “use those words, sweetheart,” and it was like the more he spoke, the deeper his voice seductively pitched.

the knee that still rested between your sprawled open legs didn’t make things easier either. “tell me what you want ‘n maybe i’ll give it to ya, hm?”

with a huff, you mumble a soft, “you-”

“well yeah, me silly! elaborate for me though.”

“i want- i want you.. i want all of you satoru. right now,” you go into more detail, leaning in to paint a slope of wet kisses down his neck. satoru’s collar was a bit unkempt—some exposed skin showed above his collar which you then brought upon yourself to attack with kisses. “pretty please.”

“hah- but.. you already have me,” he inhales, groaning once he feels you starting to grind against his lap.

satoru’s touch was pure static..

his fingers couldn’t help but mindlessly roam, tickling against your bare skin that protruded through the minuscule squares of your ripped fishnets.

the stare you two shared was just so intimate, and he could almost already smell your lusty, loud arousal..

“mhm- y’know, what i want too?” satoru huskily whispers against your ear, grunting as your hips slooooowly rubbed against his visible boner.

hugely, it stuck out through his jet-black slacks. leave it to you to always make him hard.

“tell me.” you reply with a chastened frown, sliding a hand up his loose button-up. your hand enters underneath his shirt and his skin is so warm that it feels like his entire body is on fire.

right away, your curious palm gets a taste of his hardened abs that were nearly akin to the texture of a damn brick.

rigid, flexing muscles of satoru’s relax at your touch before he grabs a nice chunk of your ass.

“oh, nothing! ‘m just a.. ‘lil thirsty, sweets..”

♡ ♡ ♡

“ohmygod-” you’d squeal, cupping a clammy palm over your mouth.

when satoru said he was thirsty, you surely didn’t expect him to have you hanging out the window with your ass perfectly perked out.

with a single hand, he pulled up your skirt, raising it to the brink of your waistline while dragging your pretty lace panties to the side with a single thumb.

you were partially hanging out the window - safely though, he’d never let you fall.

satoru had an arm wrapped around your waist, one hand sliding down your thigh. vehemently, his tongue swirled circles around your clit before giving it one looooong suck.

his lips puckered, and he could already feel your hips starting to stutter against his mouth.

“mng- ‘toru,” you’d heave, wriggling your ass around his face. the tip of his nose started to rub up and down your slit too, and he’s shamelessly getting a whiff of your candied mess.

he was always so nasty, proudly spitting on your pussy, lapping it up before it dripped onto the thousand-dollar seats.

“mhh- wiggle that ass a little more for me baby, dance with my.. haaah- tongue,” he whispers airily, thumbing a fat finger near your pulsing clit. satoru found it so cute how you’d pulse every time he’d smear slippery circles around your pussy.

you just couldn’t help it!

you’re sucking in each ‘n every breath, sinking the edges of your teeth into your bawled knuckle to suppress your moans.

a strong gust of wind strikes you as the car continues to move, and you’re just meekly smiling at the cars that pass by.

from their points of view… the drivers are just seeing some random girl slightly hanging out a halfway-lowered limousine window.

in reality though,

you were getting eaten out while dozens of cars speedily drove past you.

through your slightly blurred peripherals, you saw satoru’s chauffeur who you remember hearing him address as ‘kento’ earlier, giving you a peer through his side-view mirror. he had his hands firmly on his steering wheel, scoffing to himself with a head shake.

he mumbled something under his breath as he looked away, focusing his browned eyes on the talking GPS that read him the directions to the destination.

from your sweet, repetitive moans, you couldn’t exactly make out what he said but from a quick read of his lips, you’d probably guess it was something like:

“i don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

as you’re still hung out the window, your legs part a bit - causing your eyes to widen.

satoru’s slurping you clean, skipping frisky plump fingers down your thigh before cupping his plump lips around your pussy. his head, it moves back and forth, ferociously shifting side to side like a damn madman.

you probably looked soo stupid. your mouth stayed open the entire time with your jaw forever dropped—dangling like an earring.

“fuh- fuuuck,” your trembling voice pitches higher, and you claw a hand near the back of your ass.

tightly gripping at a piece of your ass, it fits around your hand entirely before you turn to look back at satoru.

already, his chin’s got a pretty coat of your juices pouring down his jaw. his tongue was just hungry, wanting far more than just a few sips of his expensive screaming eagle..

you were far sweeter than any beverage, and satoru continuously took big, big gulps.

he treated his lips like a straw, pursing them to suck before slurping every single drop of you clean until you could barely hold your legs open.

“mhm- look at alllll this pretty fuckin’ ass,” he groans, removing your hand that was gripped on your rear.

with a whack! he hits it, humming at the cute ‘lil jolt of your shimmying body.

your skin jiggles in his face instantly, and you feel his curving tongue precisely slow its frantic pace down by the second.

there….

the tip of his pointed tongue stretched itself so far out that it clicked itself against your precious g-spot. “mng- spread y’rself wider, baby. ‘m not done with my.. hah- drink.”

“suh- sssatoru,” you’d drag out your whiny, pathetic words.

your brows formed into a furrow as your hands grabbed onto the edges of the rolled-down window. sweaty, perspiring fingertips imprinted the fogged glass as he licked every wet orifice thoroughly.

thankfully, some music was blasting in the background—seemingly drowning out your constant, pleading whines and whimpers..

satoru’s designer tie even gets a bit wet - you’re drip drip dripping, tears of glossy slick pouring flawlessly from both sides of your legs. he brings a thumb toward your hole, feeling your cute wriggles before spitting down your pussy.

slowly, the webby string trails a straight, sloppy line down and he licks it up — removing his thumb and starting at your hole before lapping his tongue down the bottom part of your pussy.

he’s wholeheartedly feral - animalistic, working his tongue until your brain turns into mush.

eventually, you ended up crawling back into the spacious limousine and landed on your back.

with your legs still spread, satoru lifts your thighs, continuing his feast. “mmph- get back here, sweets. ‘m not haaah- done,” he’d jibe each time he’d squint to see your cute weak pulse up close.

you’re impatient - desperate for your release so much that you could almost taste it..

it tasted sweet with a bit of tang, and the more you fantasized about your inevitable orgasm— the more more more you were starting to blank out all on his tongue.

“mnh- attaaaaa girl, let ‘toru get a nice good sip.” he’s still slurping you, a few excess juices smearing against his cheek.

satoru’s long, white lashes flutter open and close as he relishes in your treacly taste.

you just couldn’t stay still though.

with the way your hips cutely tossed ‘n turned each time his tongue delved inside of your sopping cunt, he’d think your middle name was ‘squirmer.’

time drags by for a looong time, not as long as satoru’s tongue though.. not by a long shot..

it flicked its way through each spot, munching proudly against your clit before your tummy tucked inward. your brain haywires, and with your mouth wide open — the only sounds that escaped were small, labored breaths.

you’re cumming, and your lashes frantically blinked at so many blinks per second. your muscles that were once tense relaxed as you’re finally succumbing to pleasure.

you squealed out that final, harmonic battle cry before your head plopped into the edge of the limo’s seat.

“fuck- fuck, fuuuck,” you’re whimpering, repeating the same swear like a broken record as you feel him grab ahold of your writhing hips.

his tongue’s length curved its way everywhere, creating a path to remember as it made itself known at all tender areas of your pussy.

“uh huh- that’s it, good girl. ride it out, riiiide it out, i gotcha,” he groans, laying his tongue fully flat. it’s a rose-like pink, soddened tastebuds sizzling in contempt once you’re ‘quenching’ his thirst with your sweetened arousal.

buzzing sounds went in and out of your ears as you just released huff after puff through your lungs. satoru’s lips were glossed with nothing but your slick, even more than they already were.

he gives your poor, convulsing clit its last finally smooches before reluctantly breaking away.

“hah- never a dull moment with her,” he licks his lips from top to bottom, grabbing out his lipstick-stained handkerchief before patting underneath his chin. “you okay, sweetheart?”

“ ‘m okay,” you breathe, still feeling tingles surge through every one of your veins that ran down your wobbly, numb limbs. your legs had it the worse.

you barely felt anything, and satoru helped you back to your feet.

it was a limo, so it wasn’t like you could exactly stand but you sufficed by crouching just below the fuzzy-made hood.

satoru lies slouched back - giving his lap a few playful pats before tilting his head at you. “c’mere, sweet thing,” and his voice was dripping with erotic silk.

his ocean-strong eyes zero down at your body, trailing up up up before eventually stopping just about your waistline.

your skirt was now off — pulled to the floor and so were your panties. you only had your matching blouse on. you got an idea though, and satoru watched you get on your knees. “oh..?”

“ ‘toru,” you speak in shortened puffs, still trying to get over your recent teeth-shattering orgasm. every sensitive axon and nerve located in your body was screaming at you, aching for more stimulation as time passed.

as your hands casually spread his long legs wider across the cushioned seats, you hummed. “remember those waist beads you ordered me a few weeks back?”

“mhm,” he nods, eyes never darting away from your wriggling body for a second.

satoru wondered what your game was.

as he was trying to prevent himself from smiling, he was starting to realize that maybe, just maybe you were starting to get just a liiiiitle bit spoiled.

as his legs were fully sprawled apart, you brought your hands toward the hem of the designer blouse that stuck against your skin. you honestly lost count of just how many clothes satoru’s bought you within the past year.

he watches closely - zeroing down at your figure, nipping on his lip as he stares at you leisurely pulling the piece of clothing off of you.

satoru’s seen your skin countless times, but there was just something about your body that he just couldn’t get enough of.

couldn’t get enough of you..

if he was being honest, he could stare at you all day.

“look. it fits perfectly,” you speak in a sweet tone, your thighs stuck together as you were still dripping from the inner crevices. you could feel yourself throbbing, and it took everything in you to not let out a moan.

satoru tsks, kissing his teeth once he’s now exposed to your skin.

the damn beads,

they wrapped around your waist and indeed fit your entire torso. his eyes studied the gold that went around your raised hips, whistling once he saw those two crystallized initials - his initials.

‘G.S’

the small two letters hung on one waist bead that was drooped low near your naval and an extra twin pair near the charms behind your back. “fuuuck- know that’s right,” satoru huffs, his breathing starting to get a bit heavy.

“all mine, heh- looks so damn pretty on you,” and as his eyes continued to meander down your skin, satoru’s head rests back against the softly cushioned seat. “hm- how ‘bout you model for me? show off that gorgeous body a little more f’ me.”

“say ‘please’,” you’d get on his lap, wrapping your arms around him. satoru looks up at you with a mere pouting scowl, a hand instinctively attaching itself to your hip.

“pleaaase, oh-pleaseeee sweets. don’t tease me too bad, you’re bein’ a bit of a spoiled girl right now,” he whispers, bringing wet, cold lips toward the corner of your neck. you moaned, feeling satoru’s free hand strum a few fingers down your waist beads.

they clank clank clanked, creating pretty jingle sounds at each faint movement before you started to move your hips.

“goddamn-” he holds in a breath, practically wordless as his eyes continued to rove.

briskly, you slowly turned yourself around, teasingly popping your hips to the dropping beats of the song that played through the limo’s speakers.

satoru’s suddenly short of breath, circling a thumb around the left cheek of your ass. he’s so hard, and you could feel it the more you rubbed your ass right up against thaaat particular spot.

he sucks his teeth once more, grunting as he feels the cloth knead against your skin so good..

“woman, you’re bein’ such a bratty tease right now..” and he could taste that round, large lump forming near the very back of his throat.

satoru shivers as your hands place on the crown of his knees, and you’re starting to rock rock rock back ‘n forth his throbbing boner. “hmph. the things i let ‘cha get away with, lucky ‘m not.. haah- fuck, bending ya over my lap, baby.”

“you talk a lot for a guy with a boner this hard, ‘toru.” you shrug, continuing the sensual jerking of your hips.

he’s grunting at every swift turn of your body, hearing his heart loudly thump through his ears.

the limo’s speed picks up a few miles and you could hear the grumbling from underneath the vehicle as you stayed quiet for a few seconds.

“mmh- fine, since you said please.”

as you’re still facing the other way, you reach for his buckle with your fingers brushing near the cold straps. you couldn’t see, so he grabbed your hand—guiding you where to unbuckle his slacks.

“f.. fuck, hurry up. you rubbin’ against me isn’t helping matters at all, y’know,” he tries to laugh but it comes out very dry.

satoru just wanted to be inside you, making you remember your place with a few sloppy strokes.

you giggled, hearing his pants and boxers sliiiide down to his ankles with a thud before jostling your rear way back against his leaning cock. it hung so cutely, and its tip was swollen with veins protruding at a few girthy sides.

with satoru still having a hold of your hand, he makes you touch the leaking head. “ooh,” you hum, twirling a thumb around his tender frenulum.

as you do so, he moans out the sluttiest moan, pretty white lashes squeezing shut for about three seconds to savor this moment.

“heh.. little girl,” he gutturally prowls, aligning his dick in between the crack of your fleshy mounds. it’s very hard, and you hummed at the warmth he provided. “go on then.. ride me in reverse, sweets. this the ride you wanted all along, hm?”

“yeaah,” you played along, almost seeing the weary smirk unfurl across his lips as he spoke.

you couldn’t wait any longer either.

you were throbbing persistently, every fiber of your being longing for satoru to ease his way inside of your pretty, sobbing cunt.

he was so big that your hand could barely wrap around the entity of his length. instantly, your palms met with various veins as you raised your hips moderately.

his vermillion-shaded tip carefully hovered over your dripping hole, and satoru’s just heavily breathing at your stilled body.

“mngh-” you released a rough, jagged breath once you were slowly making your way down on his cock.

like usual, you’re presented with that loving tiiiiight stretch that lasts for about a good four seconds.

satoru’s tip alone was big, and it pummeled through your insides as his inches started to leisurely disappear.

it’s such a lewd scene - a scene he wouldn’t mind replaying over ‘n over again in his head..

your pussy sings out sloshes of wet high notes in harmony, trying to take in his weighty shaft.

your mouth opens up on its own, and you’re breathing out colorful swears of ‘ohhh fuuuck’ ‘s as you continue to sink your way down.

from the both of you, countless breathy breaths were drawn from both raspy lungs as the mouthwatering penetration continued.

it felt like a squeeze pinching near your insides, tickling around you from the inside before adding pounds of pressure pressure pressure..

your hands go back to being placed on his knees, whimpering as his slick cock eases its way inside of your pussy. spongy, clamping walls hugged around him like a vice and your teeth were starting to feel that familiar chatter.

“god- always s- so fuckin’ big, ‘toru,” you moan, your bratty ‘lil façade shortly faltering once he’s finally buried balls fuckin’ deep.

the pit of your tummy was constantly heaving, cowardly sucking itself in and out at the sheer weight of his size before you eventually relaxed.

“perfect fit for my perfect… hah- girl.” he grunts, taking a quick peer down at your unbalanced thighs that struggled to move at first.

gradually, your hips started to move and greeted satoru’s lap with a sharp, rude slam. once you started to adapt to a rhythm, your hips rolled and rolled.

“agh- that’s i.. iiiiit,” he choked on his saliva, playing with the waist beads that danced against your torso as you moved.

satoru moans, feeling his fat base smush its way against your ass once you sat down. your hips were reeling, winding back into his pelvis like a wind-up toy.

with parched, hot skin amongst skin - the sounds echoed against the limo, nearly sounding over the music that played in the background.

satoru’s watching as you plop straight back into him before you sprightly wriggle your hips in a seductive circle.

“my, ain’t you a naughty girl..” he tosses his head back in overwhelming rapture, feeling his dick twitch inside you as the sloppy sounds continue.

it was hard not to hear - if it was anything satoru knew about your pussy, he knew that it was always, always vocal with him..

you’re slamming back against his lap every time, squeezing your palms against the crowns of his knees with your body twirling and falling back into his inviting lap.

if you kept riding him like that, he’d really be head over heels.

“ugh- yeah, girl. ride it, ride this dick like it’s yours because it fuckin’ is,” satoru grunts, feeling your cunt tighten for a second at his exact words. “heh- did my messy girl like that? like hearin’ that ‘m yours, sweetheart?”

“mhm,” you’d nod with your lips clamped shut.

he’s just so big, stretching through your insides with such ease. the once slow and steady beats of your heart were now thump thump thumping!

satoru’s bulbous-shaped tip had a hooked upturning curve, and fuck did you feel every sloping curve as you bounced up ‘n down on his cock.

it’s so good that your mouth’s pathetically watering from the inside, and you’re already starting to feel that burning sensation electrify through your aching, stretched muscles.

“mngh- look at this body, s… so damn-” and he pauses, clenching his jaw at the sloppy wet feeling of your barriers bear-hugging around his cock.

you’re just working your hips like it’s a full-time job, throwing them around in a circle so fast that even satoru could barely keep up.

with thighs upon thighs upon thighs, your skin sticks against his like glue. a trail of colorless slick smears down satoru’s leg and he moans at the loud slaps of zealous, clapping skin.

you’re sticky still, and he’s moaning louder once the speed of your hips quickens.

“yeah? yeah, better- fuckin’-ride-me,” and even though his voice faintly cracks, satoru still manages a sort of poised, cocky persona.

multiple ‘encouraging’ swats hit against the cheeks of your ass and you’re whining, putting your all into the movements of your jerking body. satoru’s snowy brows contort before he gives your waist beads a soft tug.

“do it, fuck me, baby. ‘n while you’re at it..” and as you’re still moving your hips, you feel a bit of paper rain down your back that’s starting to perspire with sweat.

“fuck-” satoru grunts smokily, staring as hundred dollar bills fall down your bare spine. “forgot ‘ta give you your allowance, might as well give it to you now.”

“hngh- satoruuu,” you whined, his cock hitting its way through every spot. it french-kisses near your clit before passionately making out with your cervix.

it located both spots easily, and the feeling had your toes curling inside of your four-inch heels.

satoru ended up tossing those same bills down your back, staring as it prettily fell down your body before landing on his lap and the limo’s cottony carpet.

“ ‘m gonna cum i think,” you moaned, slowing your turning hips in hypnotic, carnal arcs. satoru’s hands were brought to your waist with two thumbs pressed at each side of your hips. “ ‘m cummin’ satoru.”

“me too, s.. sweets,” he swallows, hissing silently at the unsteady bucking of your bouncing ass.

your rear jiggled at each slamming thrust, ricocheting against his thighs and it was just so mesmerizing to watch.

satoru’s feeling the scorching tip of his cock grow hot, and he’s starting to feel all types of contractions arise within his muscles. “god- tell me where to tell me where.”

“inside,” you moaned, bringing your hands toward your chest to cup to bouncing tits. you squeezed them, smearing a thumb around your hardened nipples before making yourself even more aroused.

it’s just so much to process.

your rutting hips, the loud squelches of your pussy, satoru’s dick driving through you repeatedly.. oh, you were in a daze.

“f- fuuuuck. be a… hah- good girl ‘n take it all then.” he groans, elated euphoria swelling within him.

you stuck against his lap so good, slickly sliding your ass back before going forward, then back into his pelvis again.

your movements alone left such a good taste in his mouth, and once he feels himself about to burst - he fuckin’ bursts.

a massive load spurts out of satoru, shooting deeply into your fluttering womb as your hips come to a freezing still.

you’re cumming too - whimpering as you’re gushing down on his cock while being absolutely filled.

wads ‘n wads of milky, gooey cum floods inside of you, plugging you to the fullest. you’re both moaning lowly, rocking against each other in rushed unison before you arch forward.

your ass was fully bent over, and satoru stared openly as he was still shooting such deep, frothy amounts inside of you.

you looked so pretty like this that he couldn’t help but mentally take a picture, widely peering at the foamy droplets of cum that started to trickle their way down his overwhelmed base—creating a sparkling white ring.

it’s still as thick - still as veiny, and satoru makes you raise your hips ever-so-slightly.

doing so, he stares at your soddened pussy that’s lewdly spitting out a few heaps of cum before hearing that cute wet ‘plop!’

“fuckin’ dirty girl..” he huffs, one hand softly caressing your waist beads. he takes a glance at the ‘G.S.’ initials that were engraved near the back side of the many other charms, and he sighs.

right as you’re pulled up to where his creamy tip was juuuust about to slide away from your soused opening, satoru gives your stuffed pussy a soft pat.

“don’t know who’s dirtier…. herrrr,” he mumbles, swabbing a thumb around your cum-covered hole before bringing it up to his mouth.

with a wet smacking ‘ccht’ of satoru’s lips coming together—he licks his thumb clean, cooing silently at the taste of himself like the filthy, filthy man he was. “or you.”

♡ ♡ ♡

after many, many positions, you found yourself losing multiple rounds with your shallow breath as if even breathing was a mere contest. he’s had you in position after position, folding you like a freshly baked pretzel. it’s almost like the two of you weren’t literally in a limousine.

you hoped his chauffeur nanami didn’t hear. that would’ve been well, embarrassing.

the drive felt like forever.. but, you honestly didn’t want it.. this to end.

you’re a mess, stuffed to the uttermost fullest with ribbons of satoru’s freshly hot cum messily tearing down every slick crevice of your thighs.

currently, satoru had you in one of his favorite positions.

doggy.

part of the reason why he loved it so much was mainly because of the perfect, jiggling view.

your ass - he loved seeing how it would react from each rude smack, swatting his palm over and over again at your cute, tender skin. the pads of your hands pressed firmly into the limo’s seats as he’s just giving you the pound of a damn lifetime.

“mngh!” you’d whine out, drooling from the sides of your jittery, spit-slick lips that refused to stay shut.

he’s effortlessly reaching all the right areas, swiftly pumping his way past that cute taut ring of your entrance that he’s grown to love.

that brief tight stretch nearly makes him lose his mind, and satoru then brings his hands toward your waist. “right there, right fuckin’ th— mmph!”

“shhh, you’re gonna.. hah- miss the best part, sweets,” the white-haired man cups a hand over your mouth.

slow strokes - deeper thrusts..

your eyes rolled ‘n rolled back, gasping against his palm once he sneaks a hand in between your wet thighs. with your waist beads tickling against his wrist, satoru gives your pussy a soft smack.

your wetness ‘splashes’ against the center of his hand, and it even pops out a cute sound too.

“uuugh- ‘m gonna… cum agaiiin,” you’d raise your ass in the air just a bit more, your voice turning more whiny within seconds.

your words were still a bit muffled with his hand covering your mouth, but he still made out your whiny, inaudible words—just barely. .

the sounds of fierce, sharp hips brutally clashing against skin every time made him groan. it’s a booming resounding ‘pop!’ or ‘pap!’ noise every time that makes your entire body ring instead of just your ears.

his cock’s searching through your wet, gripping walls as if it had some sort of life purpose.

“hah- me t.. too, sweetheart,” and fuck, satoru’s drowning in his sweat. “phew-” satoru brings the back of his wrist to wipe some from his forehead. glancing down, he stares at your jouncing ass before giving you one, snappingly deep thrust.

“pussy’s a fuckin’ workout- oh shiiiiit.” and satoru’s feeling you clamp clamp clamp down on him, giving his dick the work of its life.

you could feel the individual staticky pulses of your clit signaling messages to you that you’re just so close and you’re nearly salivating inside of your mouth.

soooo good.. for a moment you forgot the two of you were still in the back of a limousine.

he’s fucking you so good that you could barely think straight.

satoru’s still playing with your pussy, giving it spanks in between his robust thrusts.

his rotund tip beat red, an oxblood blush of red as he continued to ram a heart-shaped sloppy kiss toward your clit.

at that moment, your legs cutely retreated and your chest collapsed forward. “feels s.. sooo good satoru, ngh- ‘toruuu!”

as your body spasmed at the onslaught of his reckless, sloppy thrusts - your hips were all the way raised against his lap.

you’re losing track of thoughts as you’re harshly creaming down his shaft, murmuring out cute little babbles of ‘ooohs’ once you feel his angle deepen.

satoru brings a hand down your fleshy back, staring at your skin that was wetly decorated with sweat while studying the goosebumps that ran down your spine.

“ ‘m gonna.. hah- cum,” he groans, a few stubby fingers thrumming down the gold waist beads that wrapped around your waist.

he brings his thumb toward the tiny ‘G.S.’ initials before pressing his honed-shaped pelvis wholly into you with just a single, barbaric thrust.

“all mine, my pretty… hah- wife.”

wife?

you heard that — you definitely heard it, but part of you wondered if maybe satoru was just overly pussy drunk as usual.

but the thought alone - the thought of actually being his wife of satoru gojo, your sugar daddy, didn’t seem too bad.

as the image of you walking down the aisle crossed your mind, your throbbing brought you straight back into orgasmic reality.

“wait.. hnng- pull out,” you’d moan, another idea popping into your head. instead of satoru usually finishing inside, you had a better idea.

“haah- ‘kay,” he pants, his snapping hips working overtime as they continually mercilessly plunge deep into your heated core.

his rhythm was far slower, but his thrusts were always in such a hurried frenzy.

he’s close - so so close.

you’re still covered with his cum from before from the legs down, and it paints such a pretty canvas on you.

a lewd, erotic canvas maybe..

quickly, satoru ends up pulling out with a hand wrapped around his cock that painfully throbbed. it scrunched up a bit at the sudden coldness, already missing your clingy warmth before you flip over.

“h.. hm?”

“ ‘toru, put ‘em between here.” you spoke in a hushed tone, sinking your knees into the limo’s velveteen-made seats.

he hungrily stares at you with nothing but lust surrounding the entirety of his rounded, dilated pupils. at your sweet, breathy word of ‘here,’ you brought two hands up to your breasts.

“naughty… temptress,” satoru clicks his tongue. aligning his swollen dick in between the crack of your sweat-dripping chest, it easily sliiiiiides its way through.

he watches intently as you squeeze your tits together, glancing up at him with those pretty, siren eyes of yours that were starting to droop.

“mmh,” and as his tip disappears between the slot of your chest, you hang your head down, flicking your tongue across the tender slit of his shaft.

“f- fuck, ‘m gonna cum. can’t- hold it anymore, sweets,” satoru groans, his words so guttural ‘n low that they sounded almost like a growl.

he knew he wasn’t gonna last much longer, not when you were on your knees—stuffing his dick right between your perked tits.

he’s sloppily starting to thrust his cock in and out between the valley of your breasts and felt himself throb at each cute jounce they created amongst each other.

so …. soft.

satoru’s achy tip was forming into an angry shade of bloodshot red, and the entirety of his shaft was smoldering from the stimulation. after a few long milliseconds though—he finds himself shooting white blanks again.

he’s fucking between your tits as you held them together, spraying a nice sum of his load onto your chest. you gasp, a bit landing on your lip and you lick it.

satoru’s moaning - no, grunting as he’s finishing against your breasts. he drags a shaky hand through his tousled, white hair before letting off a deep, heavy sigh.

“ohhh… fuck,” he grumbles, the tips of his ears burning a fiery pink.

his limp cock now remains idle, still buried between your tits before you slide your tongue across the leaking creamed tip.

it’s so glossy, dribbling from all sides with his pasty mess plastered on the upper part of your chest. “didn’t know i had.. such a dirty sweethe- fuck.”

satoru pauses for theatrics — holding his breath, thinking he was still cumming, but he wasn’t.

his mind was simply playing tricks, and his jaw clenched once you lapped up the remnants of bittersweet tasting cum that splattered on you. you used your thumb to reach the spots your tongue couldn’t, and once you were finished, satoru bent down to pull you into a fervent, deep kiss.

you moaned against his lips as the limousine still created miles upon miles. you lost track of time, but you’d guess it’s probably been well over an hour's drive.

“mng-” satoru grunts into your lips, feeling your arms wrap around him. he still had his button-up shirt on the entire time along with his suit just above his torso. he’s tasting himself on your lips, grunting once he felt your hand tug on his ruffled black tie.

your tongue was sticky, swirling a circular pattern around the inside of his mouth before you sucked on his.

satoru allowed you to make him get underneath you, and he felt your legs crawling on top of him.

as you’re both still deeply making out — fighting each other with sharp slaps of teeth smacking against each other, you gingerly pull away.

“i’m your wife now?”

“h.. hm?”

“earlier,” you lick near the corner of his lip. “you said ‘m your pretty wife.”

satoru gives you a sleazy lopsided grin. he looked so pussy drunk that he almost forgot about that tiny piece of dialogue that spouted from his lips.

“ah, i did call you my wife, didn’t i, sweets?” and as a thumb caresses around your cheek, he hoarsely whispers. “well, do you want to be?”

bringing a wet, torrid kiss toward his bottom crooked lip, you hummed. “i do.”

“wish you would’ve told me sooner though,” he sheepishly says, giving his tie a few meek pulls. “i could’ve proposed the right way but.. this is fine too, i gues-.”

“shhh-” you silence him with yet another barrage of kisses, cupping his face.

satoru grunts, hearing the little jangles of your waist brands yet again as your hips laboriously swayed against him.

your forehead is pressed against his and its hit with a bunch of sweat from satoru.

satoru moans from your ardent, vehement kisses, his lips being left all plump, reddened, and not to mention swollen all because of you.

his dick twitches—a prominent vein striking near the left side as you steadily moved your dripping pussy against it in slow, ravishing rocks. “lie back,” you whispered, playfully pushing him back against the seat.

satoru reclines back with a ‘hmph’ and he raises a silvery brow at your audacity. “lie back ‘n let your fiancé ride you again.”

“heh.. yes, mrs. gojo.”

#★vegasbaby.#gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #female reader #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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ssrvm · 8 months ago

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Elegant Pooja Room Glass Door Designs for Indian Homes and Privacy Needs

Pooja rooms hold a special significance in Indian homes, serving as a dedicated space for prayer and meditation. These rooms are not only places of worship but also spaces of tranquility and peace. When designing a pooja room, every detail matters, including the choice of doors. Glass doors are increasingly popular in modern homes, offering a blend of elegance and functionality. However, privacy is a key consideration when it comes to glass doors. In this article, we explore elegant pooja room glass door designs for Indian homes that strike the perfect balance between style and privacy.

Privacy Glass for Home Windows

Privacy glass, also known as frosted or obscure glass, is a popular choice for windows and doors in Indian homes. It allows natural light to filter through while maintaining a level of privacy. Frosted glass is created by either sandblasting or acid etching a clear glass surface, creating a translucent effect. This type of glass is perfect for pooja room doors, providing enough privacy for prayer and meditation without sacrificing natural light.

Pooja Room Glass Door Designs

There are several elegant pooja room glass door designs that can enhance the ambiance of your prayer space while ensuring privacy. One popular option is stained glass doors, featuring intricate designs and vibrant colors. Stained glass adds a touch of traditional Indian craftsmanship to your pooja room, creating a stunning focal point. Another option is frosted glass doors with intricate etched patterns, combining elegance and privacy in one design. These doors allow light to filter through while adding a touch of sophistication to your pooja room.

For a more contemporary look, consider frameless glass doors with a sandblasted or frosted finish. These sleek and minimalistic doors create a seamless transition between rooms while maintaining privacy. If you prefer a touch of luxury, opt for leaded glass doors with ornate designs and beveled edges. Leaded glass doors add a touch of opulence to your pooja room while preserving a sense of privacy.

When choosing glass doors for your pooja room, it's essential to consider the overall aesthetic of your home. Match the door design to your existing decor and architectural style for a cohesive look. Whether you prefer traditional or modern designs, there is a pooja room glass door that will complement your home beautifully.

Privacy Needs

Privacy is a crucial consideration when it comes to pooja room glass door designs. While glass doors offer a sense of openness and lightness, they can also compromise privacy. Frosted or tinted glass options are ideal for maintaining privacy in your pooja room while allowing natural light to filter through. You can also add curtains or blinds to your glass doors for added privacy when needed.

Incorporating elegant pooja room glass door designs into your Indian home can elevate the ambiance of your prayer space while meeting your privacy needs. Choose a design that reflects your personal style and complements the overall aesthetic of your home. With the right pooja room glass door, you can create a sacred space that is both functional and beautiful.

#Pooja Room Glass Door Designs for Indian Homes #Privacy Glass for Home Windows #simple glass window

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ryosbaby · 17 days ago

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𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐓 ― #𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

❝𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐆𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄? 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓.❞

PAIRING. streetracer!sukuna x fem!reader

SYPNOSIS. in an attempt to find your little brother, you cross paths with ryomen sukuna—he offers to help, and you’re desperate enough to say yes. now you owe him a date. shame on you because he’s exactly the kind of guy you should be running from.

WC. 12k

CONTENT. mdni. modernau. he was an ex convict too. blowjob. mature language. petnames. he collects knives. dirty talking. spitting. he makes you SWALLOW. both praising and degradation. the sexual part comes in the end.

A/N. i haven't written in a YEAR didnt proofread either fuck allat, nyways def a second part

It was 7:45 p.m., and you were still in your apartment, fussing with the last details of your outfit. You’d spent nearly an hour just deciding what to wear–ending up with red for both your top and your skirt, you figured that it suits him.

Sukuna’s whole persona screams red.

You hear your phone ding.

[Sukuna] Princess

[Sukuna] Downstairs alr

[Sukuna] Take your time

He was here. You quickly move over to the window and peer out, your eyes scanning the area below. There, sitting at the curb, is Sukuna’s car. You don’t know what kind of car it is, to your knowledge it wins him races. It’s the same car he had used to race that night. It’s an impressive sight, its sleek design gleaming under the streetlights. And leaning against it, with a bored expression on his face, is Sukuna himself.

He stands by his car, clad in a form-fitting shirt that emphasizes the hard muscle underneath. He must be a gym regular. He's leaning against the passenger side, his gaze fixed on his phone. He looks up for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the building until it lands on your window.

Sukuna’s eye locks onto yours, a smirk appearing on his face as he catches you peeking out. He lowers his phone, his gaze remaining on you as he raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. He pushes off the car and crosses his arms in a teasing manner, waiting patiently for you to come down. Your eyes widened a bit when you get caught, immediately backing away getting ready to go down and grabbing your purse

This makes Sukuna chuckle as he watches you backing away quickly, enjoying the sight of you getting flustered. He pockets his phone and leans back against his car, a smirk still present on his lips. He continues waiting patiently for you to come down, tapping his fingers against his arm as he looks around the quiet street.

You recall the night you met him. You met him last week at a street racing competition. An illegal one to add.

The CTS-V growls as it rolls to a stop, engine humming like it’s still hungry. Sukuna pops the door open, stepping out like he owns every inch of the lot. That Cadillac’s matte black, low to the ground. He stretches his neck, lights a cigarette, and leans back against the hood—he wore a simple white tank top he figured he might go to the gym after this, the grin on his face comes easy. He had already forgotten the race. He couldn’t care less about the crowd either. He never gave a fuck about them anyways. Instead his eyes land on a confused figure. He saw you earlier when the race began too, you were the only one not paying attention.

He watches, you look lost. It was a funny sight to him.

Your hair was casually pinned up with a clamp, a few loose strands softly brushing your neck. You wore a white one-shoulder top that fit perfectly, tucked into wide-leg denim jeans. On your feet, white slingback heels clicked on the dirty pavement. But it was those clear, Bayonetta-style glasses framing your face that really stood out—you were definitely not his type.

A groupie? He thought but quickly brushed it off, you were dressed too differently like them. He continues to watch you for a second too long before pushing off the car. He approaches you, to his dismay, you didn’t even notice him coming up.

“Never seen you before,” he says, voice low and amused. Up close, he’s obviously bigger than you—shoulders like a wall. His eye trails over you, lingering. His perfume was way too strong for your liking, it’s giving you a headache. “You're not dating one of these assholes, are ya?” He says obviously referring to the other guys who just raced with him.

“No?” You answer but it’s more of a question than an answer.

You don’t notice the tattoos at first. Not really. Not until you turn your head completely, light catching the curve of his cheek, Thick black lines trace down from the edge of his jaw, curling in sharp angles beneath his cheekbones. They mirror the grin he was wearing. On his forehead, a spearhead-shaped mark points downward, cutting the space between his eyes like a third eye that forgot how to blink. Across his shoulders, symmetrical lines dive down from his collarbone, meet at his sternum, and then break off—like they were carved to guide something through his chest, or out of it. His upper arms are wrapped with two thick bands, broken just enough to form shapes that almost resemble ritual marks. Circles and sharp-edged designs cut through the black, like ancient runes that had their meaning erased over time. His forearms bear a single black ring on each wrist—minimal, but final. Like cuffs that don’t restrain, only warn. And when he turns, even the back of his neck isn’t spared—lines creep up from his spine, split neatly into two blades climbing toward the base of his skull. He was attractive.

What the fuck? Who was this guy?

“Oh yeah?” Sukuna responds, taking a last drawl of his cigarette before flicking it away. His eye roams over you again, this time, slowly. His eye lingers on the curves of your body, and he lets out a gruff. Was he checking you out? You were offended, he didn’t even try to hide it.

“You don’t look like the groupie type to me,” Sukuna comments as his forehead creases, “so…who you here with then, princess?”

“Not a groupie either—’m lookin' for someone.”

“Someone?” Sukuna hums. “Boyfriend?” he asks again, making you sigh. He earns a glare from you with a simple no. The action almost made him giggle. “Good,” Sukuna responds almost immediately.

“Then who you looking for, princess?”

“My little brother–I doubt you know him…he kinda ran away. He's a pain and my parents will kill me if I don't find him.”

You confess—your brother has been “missing” for the past couple of days. At least, that’s what the police think. You and your parents know he just ran off with his friends. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before. Normally, no one would care—he always comes back eventually. But this time, he took money from your parents. And now you’re the one getting blamed for not keeping an eye on him. Leaving you responsible for not babysitting his ass.

“How old is the brat?” He asks, tilting his head. Don’t get him wrong. He couldn’t care less about the kid, if it meant talking to you, he’ll keep asking, he might even help you since he’s in a good mood.

“16,” you replied.

“Teenagers are little shits. Where ya think he ran off to, princess?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest, “There are a lot of areas here, ya looked around yet?”

You tried. Emphasize on tried, but people here kept moving around.

“He goes here a lot, that's what his friends told me— here I'll show you a picture”

“Show me,” He takes another step closer. He’s in your space now, leaning into your face. He’s looking down at you, waiting for the picture. You unknowingly bite the bottom of your lip looking up to him. “Will you help?” eyes wide, Sukuna wants to take a shot at the sight of you.

“Depends,” A lazy smirk forming on him. “Will you make it worth it, princess?”

You brows furrowed, “Make what worth it? I’m not a prostitute.”

He lets out a laugh. “That wouldn’t work. Too easy,” he says, his eyes roaming over your body again. “No, baby, I’m just asking you out,” he responds, crossing his arms over his chest. “I find him, you go on a date with me. Win-win.”

You study him. He was attractive. Really attractive. This is a win-win.

“Only if you find him.”

“Of course,” Sukuna chuckles, tilting his head back. He’s still scanning you over with his eye, studying you. “We have a deal, baby.”

“Let’s get searching, yeah?” Sukuna says, reaching forward and grabbing your hand. His grip is firm around you, his large hand completely encompassing yours. Sukuna begins to lead you around the area, guiding you towards a group of people in the far corner.

“Do you race?’ You assume he was.

“Yeah, I do,” Sukuna responds, keeping his gaze forward. His eyes are scanning over the different people littering the area, searching for the kid. “Why you ask, baby?”

“Nothing just curious, never been here before.”

“This your first time?” he asks, slowing his steps and glancing over at you. One brow lifts, and a smirk starts tugging at his lips. “You sure you’re not a groupie?”

“Do I look like one?” you shoot back, slightly offended.

“No. You don’t,” Sukuna responds, his free hand rubbing his chin. He gives you a cursory once-over, his gaze lingering in certain places. “Which is why I’m confused how you’d end up here,” he says with a hum.

“It’s usually pretty easy to tell,” Sukuna says with a slight shrug. He begins walking again, pulling you along. “It’s not so much about what a groupie looks like, but how they act…y’know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Mmm,” Sukuna hums, still leading the way as his eyes scan the crowd. He finally stops near a group of rowdy teenagers. They're loud, obnoxious, one of them already spilling beer on the pavement. His hand stays locked with yours as he mutters, “Idiots.”

“That’s the one you're looking for, baby?”

You squint toward the group, trying to pick him out. Sukuna glances at you and chuckles at the way you’re squinting.

“Are those fake? Those Bayonetta glasses aren’t helping.”

“They’re not fake,” you mumble. “Just no prescription.”

“He’s gonna lash out on me if I confront him,” you admit.

“You’re worried about a teen lashing out at you?”

Sukuna snorts, clearly amused. He thinks you're stupid.

“Okay, it’s not that—”

“Then what is it, princess?” he asks, pulling you a little closer. He towers over you now, that cocky smirk fully formed on his face.

“…He’ll get embarrassed.”

Now that makes him laugh. Like, really laugh.

“Embarrassed?” he echoes, sounding completely unconvinced. “He’s a teenager for Christ’s sake. He’s supposed to be an idiot.”

You frown. “Can you just get him to come over here? One more favor. That’s all.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tilts his head, looks at the kid, then back at you. You watch the way his mouth curves up again, smug as ever. “Alright,” he says. His hand slides from yours to your waist. “I’ll get him.”

He leans in close enough for you to catch the scent of smoke on him. He gives your hip a firm pat, then turns and walks towards your brother and his friends.

You watch as Sukuna comes to a stop in front of the group, hands tucked casually into his pockets like he’s got all the time in the world. Then his gaze lands on the one that matters.

No words are exchanged loud enough for you to hear, but there’s a shift. Postures stiffen. One kid coughs awkwardly. You look at your brother and you can already tell from a distance—he’s not happy.

You wait.

And wait.

A couple minutes stretch longer than they should, the air thick with muffled music and distant laughter. You shuffle on your feet, watching Sukuna lean in, say something low near the kid’s ear. Whatever it is, it works. Eventually, Sukuna heads back toward you, and trailing behind him is one very pissed-off teenager.

Your brother's shoulders are hunched, his hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets like he’s holding himself back from swinging. He doesn’t look at you—not once. His eyes stayed glued to the ground, lips curled into a deep scowl, his whole vibe screaming: I didn’t agree to this. I was forced.

After the talk, your brother doesn’t say much—just gives you a short nod before turning away. He walks back toward your car with his hands stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders stiff, expression unreadable. You watch as he climbs into the passenger seat and shuts the door with a little more force than necessary. It’s quiet again, leaving you standing beside Sukuna with the sound of distant engines and low voices filling the space around you.

You let out a quiet breath, finally. That could’ve gone worse.

Sukuna leans against the hood of his car, idly smoking a cigarette as he watches the kid leave. He takes a long drag, his gaze following the teen until he’s far gone. Eventually, his gaze shifts to you, a crooked grin on his lips. “Looks like you got your way, baby,” he says, flicking the ash of his cigarette to the concrete.

Sukuna hums, pushing himself off the car and walks over, stopping just a few inches in front of you. His eyes drag across your face, slow and deliberate.

“I keep my promises, baby,” he says with a smirk, placing his hand on the hood of his car, effectively trapping you between him and his car.

“But you remember what we agreed on, yeah, princess? How ‘bout you come with me tonight–I know a party we can crash in.”

You glance past his shoulder toward the car. Your brother’s already sitting inside, probably sulking in silence. You would agree if it was your decision. “I can’t tonight… another time?” Sukuna pulls back just enough to look at you. He’s not mad, exactly—but he’s not happy either.

“Another time, huh?” His head tilts slightly. “You’re not backing out on me, are ya, princess? I don’t like being stood up.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, nodding toward the car. “He’s waiting. Gotta drop him off.”

He follows your gaze, and for a second, just watches the car. Then a low, amused chuckle rumbles out of him. “Ah right. The little brat.” The smirk returns, lazy and cocky. “I guess I can give you a pass. This time.”

You hesitate, then offer, “I’ll give you my number?”

That earns you a shift—his eyes flick down to your lips, just briefly, then back to meet yours. Without a word, he pulls his phone from his pocket and unlocks it with a swipe.

“Yeah,” he says, handing it to you. “Go ahead.”

You type in your number fast, hyper-aware of how closely he’s watching you the entire time.

When you hand the phone back, he doesn’t look away—doesn’t even blink. “You better answer when I call you, baby.”

He slips the phone back into his pocket, then steps in close again. His chest brushes yours just enough to remind you how little space he’s willing to leave. “I’ll be callin’ you,” he says, voice low and rough against your ear. “And I plan on collectin’ what we agreed on.”

He gives you a cocky smirk, eyes flicking to your lips again like he’s trying to make a point without saying it. You don’t give him the satisfaction, just turn and head to your own car.

Once you’re in the driver’s seat, door shut, the familiar scent of your car wraps around you. Comforting, kind of. Your brother’s in the back, arms crossed, already eyeing you through the rearview mirror.

“How do you know that dude?”

You buckle your seatbelt. “I don’t.”

He snorts. “Then how’d you get him to help?” You shrug, starting the engine. “A favor. Do you know him?”

He leans forward, arms resting on the back of your seat. “Yeah, a bit. He races. Street stuff. Pretty big deal.”

“Really?”

“Mmhm.” His face shifts a little, “He’s fast. People either like him or stay out of his way. Got a bit of a rep.” You glance at him. “Bad rep?”

He nods. “Kinda. Heard he’s been locked up before. Fights, some other stuff. Nothing small, either.” You raise a brow. “He didn’t seem like that type.”

You recall Sukuna, and he does seem like that type. But the man did help you.

Your brother gives you a look. “He’s literally the definition of ‘seems.’ That’s the point.”

You sigh. “Whatever. He was decent with me.”

“‘Decent.’ Right.” He taps the headrest.

“Hey, sit in the front. You're making me look like an Uber driver.” He groans but climbs into the passenger seat with a dramatic sigh.

Once he’s buckled in, he mutters, “Just saying. The guy’s got a record. Theft, assault, some other stuff. He’s not exactly squeaky clean.”

You cough. “He is?”

Your brother side-eyes you. “Don’t let the nice car and smug face fool you. Dude’s been in and out of jail since he was, like, my age.”

You blink. “How old is he?”

“Twenty-six, I think.”

You mumble, “That’s only five years.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“Nothing. Get ready for Mom and Dad, asshole.”

He lets out another groan, slumping in his seat. “Jesus. Kill me now. Can I just stay at your apartment?”

“No.”

He throws his head back against the headrest. “I hate you.”

You smirk. “Yeah, yeah.”

After that night, he actually reached out. A lot. Texts turned into late-night calls, and somehow all of that led to tonight. You step out of your building, locking the door behind you, and you spot him immediately. Sukuna’s leaning against his car. When he sees you, his eyes do a slow drag up and down, and that lazy smirk spreads across his face.

He pushes off the car and strolls over, slow and confident.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and rough.

You greet him back. His gaze roams. Openly, blatantly—as he stops in front of you.

“You look good, baby.” His hand comes up, brushing lightly against your hip. It’s not even subtle, the way his fingers trail, he for sure knows the effect it leaves on you.

“I like your outfit,” he murmurs, a little deeper now. ‘You like red?” You asked. His eyes flick up to meet yours. “On you? Yeah. Absolutely.”

His touch is way too natural for your liking, it’s like you already belong to him–in his mind. “You look so goddamn princess,” he mutters, more to himself than you. His eyes catch the way your teeth tug at your bottom lip, he found your habit.

“So are you gonna tell me where we're going now? You’ve been secretive all week.”

He hums, “The first place you’ll see when we get there, and then we’re going to my apartment after.” You almost roll your eyes, you’ve been asking about the location all week but his replies are short, only saying that he's taking you to his ‘spot.’

“Just trust me, yeah? Got something special planned for us.”

His hand stays firm at your back, rubbing slow, lazy circles before he steers you toward the car. He moves ahead just enough to open the passenger door for you, holding it like it’s second nature. “Get in, princess,” he says, his tone dipping just enough to make it sound more like a command than a suggestion.

You slide in without arguing, the door framing you like a spotlight for a second before you’re tucked inside. The scent hits first—clean leather, a hint of cologne, and something else you can’t place but already associate with him.

The interior’s sleek, black leather stitched with dark red, the dash glowing faintly from the soft interior lights. Everything’s sharp edges and smooth finishes, like the car was built to match him. The red-on-black design feels intentional. If he was a car, he would be this car.

You settle into the seat, sinking into the firm leather as the door clicks shut behind you. Through the windshield, you watch him move around the front of the car slippin’ inside.

He fastens his seatbelt with a casual flick, then unlocks his phone. A few taps later, music fills the car. You recognize it immediately. Fuck the World by Brent Faiyaz.

Of course he listens to him.

He doesn’t say anything, just rests his hand on the gearshift, eyes glancing over at you with a lazy kind of satisfaction.

Sukuna speeds through the traffic, his driving as erratic as you expected. He cuts around other cars with ease, the other drivers honking in protest. But Sukuna doesn't seem to care, his attention focused solely on the road in front of him.

You sit quietly, purse and phone on your lap. The music plays, but your mind drifts. You still don’t know where he’s taking you. Sukuna doesn’t offer answers—just drives, stealing a glance at you every so often like he’s enjoying the silence.

Eventually, he exits the highway and turns onto a road you don’t recognize. The city noise fades out. Streetlights grow sparse. It gets darker, quieter, the only light coming from his headlights cutting through the empty street ahead.

“I’ve never driven down this road before,” you murmur, eyes on the unfamiliar stretch of pavement.

Sukuna chuckles, his smirk barely lit by the glow of the dash.

“I know, baby.”

He doesn’t look at you—but you can tell he’s smiling.

The car makes another turn, the streets thinning out until they barely feel like streets at all. The city sounds have faded behind you—no more honking, no low hum of traffic—just crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves brushing against the wind.

Sukuna drives slower now. One hand on the wheel, the other casually resting near the gearshift. You can feel the heat of him close, his arm brushing yours every time he adjusts.

Without a word, he rolls your window down a few inches with a soft hum, letting in a cold, earthy breeze that slips across your skin and carries the smell of the night inside the car. “Figured you could use some air,” he mutters.

The air feels good—fresh, like it just rained somewhere nearby. Your hair moves with it, and you glance over, catching the faintest grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looks back at the road. You don’t say anything. Just settle back into the seat a little more, letting the breeze and the music fill the space between you.

After a few more turns, Sukuna pulls into a hidden lot, surrounded by trees so thick they blot out most of the sky. There’s only one streetlamp, casting a soft, gold wash over the cracked pavement.

This was the perfect place to kill somebody, he's not going to kill you is he? No one’s going to find you if he buries you here. Oh god. You didn’t get to say bye to your cat. Why did you trust this man? Doesn’t he have a criminal history–assault. Were you going to be his first body–

“Princess,” He calls out cutting your paranoid crazy thoughts, “You gon’ deaf or what? Jesus.”

The engine cuts off, leaving silence in its place.

“…Here?” you ask.

He leans back in his seat, unbuckling with one hand and turning his body slightly toward you. “Yeah. Here.”

Without another word, he reaches forward and pushes open his door. The dome light flickers on for a second before fading out again. “Go out.”

You blink at him, you hurriedly open your phone sending your location to your best friend, just in case. Then quietly you open your own door and step out into the night. The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. Sukuna circles around the front of the car and meets you at your side, closing the door behind you.

There’s no one else around. Just the two of you, the quiet lot, and the soft sway of trees overhead. He doesn’t say anything right away—just watches you for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand, fingers wrapping around yours, warm and easy.

The trees thicken as you move deeper down the path, swallowing the last of the streetlamp’s glow behind you. Darkness stretches ahead, broken only by the faint strip of walkway under your feet. It’s quieter now—eerily so. Just wind through leaves and the sound of your steps in the dirt.

Then, without warning, something skitters across the path.

You jump back instinctively. “What the fuck—”

A raccoon bolts into the bushes, completely unbothered by your panic. Sukuna doesn’t flinch. He just stands there watching the little blur disappear, hands in his pockets like he’d seen it coming.

He lets out a low chuckle. You’re really a little girl. He thinks.

“What the hell Sukuna? What the fuck was that? Let’s leave– don’t wanna be here.” You take a step back toward where you came from. You barely get turned around before his hand curls around your wrist, tugging you back.

“C’mon, you’re such a fucking pussy. That was just a raccoon, princess. You’re acting like it was a damn bear.” He takes another few steps until he's standing right in front of you again. He reaches out and gently grabs your chin, tilting your face so that you look up at him. “Why would you be scared of a little rodent, huh?”

You frown, still a little on edge. “What if it bit me?”

Sukuna scoffs, grinning. “Then bite it back.”

He lets go of your chin and takes your hand instead, threading his fingers through yours. His grip is solid. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze before pulling you along beside him. “This is not a common place for first dates.” You comment.

He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah? Your dates must’ve been boring.”

“I always come here,” he mutters.

You can hear it before you see it—soft and rhythmic, like breath. The path dips slightly, and then the trees start to fall away. The trail opens into a clearing, and there it is: the ocean stretched out in front of you, dark and endless. Moonlight skims across the water in streaks of silver, catching on the tips of the waves. Every few seconds, the crash of surf echoes up from the rocks below the cliff, followed by the gentle hiss of spray. It smells like salt and night air—sharp and clean.

You didn’t know a place like this existed around here.

Sukuna stops near the edge, lets go of your hand, and takes a few steps forward. His gaze stays fixed on the water, “Pretty?” he asks without turning.

You nod, the word caught somewhere in your chest. “Yeah.”

He sits down right at the edge, legs dangling over the cliffside, then glances back and pats the spot next to him. You drop down beside him, careful but not nervous. The wind brushes your face, light and cool, and the sounds from below rise to meet you: the steady crash of waves, the low whistle of wind through the rocks, the occasional rustle of leaves behind you.

“Is this your spot?”

“You could say that.”

His hand finds yours again. This time, slower. He pulls you closer, shifts until your sides are pressed together, then slides his arm around your waist and settles you against him. One hand stays at your hip, fingers resting just heavy enough to ground you. His body’s warm—too warm for the night air—and the contrast makes you shiver a little. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

The waves crash, over and over.

You feel his chest rise and fall beside yours, steady and unbothered. It’s quiet. Almost peaceful.

Then, after a while, he mutters, “Don’t worry. We’re getting dinner after this. You said you like water when we were talking on the phone the other day… haven’t come here in a while—figured I’d take you.”

You remember saying that. Casually. Just something you tossed out in the middle of a late-night call, thinking it wouldn’t stick.

His hand shifts slightly on your hip, fingers drifting up just enough to graze the strip of skin above your waistband.

“You’re very… unpredictable.”

*"You're only realizing that now, baby?" He replies, a hint of amusement in his voice. You tilt your head slightly, your voice dry, “You were like… luring me to my death ten minutes ago.”

“Did ya get scared, baby? That’s adorable.” He leans in closer, the warmth of his breath brushing your temple. “Come closer.”

“It’s cold,” you murmur, but you’re already leaning into him.

He smiles—softer now, not the smug one. Almost like he means it—and his eyes drift down to your face. His hand slides a little deeper around your waist, guiding you closer, pressing your body into his like it’s second nature. "Then come get warmer."

“I wanna go down.”

He doesn’t say anything when you say that, just shifts under you. His hand moves from your hip to your waist before lifting you and settling you down in his lap. You feel the warmth of his body as he pulls you flush against him, his arms loosely wrapped around your waist. It’s quiet for a moment. The cold brushes against your cheeks, but his body heat cancels it out almost completely. One of his hands slides up the back of your head, gently guiding you to rest against his shoulder. There’s a certain stillness in him now—steady, almost thoughtful.

“Hey, can we go?” you ask softly, pointing toward the beach as he wasn’t answering you. He doesn’t really want to go down, he feels good like this. Sukuna leans in, resting his head in the crook of your neck. He sighs, his breath is warm against your skin.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs.

He holds you there a beat longer before finally letting go and standing. He offers you his hand, intertwining your fingers without a second thought, and leads you down the path. The trail is dim, lit only by the moon filtering through the trees. His thumb strokes your hand absently as you walk.

The sounds of the waves are much more prominent now, the sound of it crashing against the rocks almost rhythmic. It might seem corny but for a moment, it feels like you're the only two people left in the world, the emptiness of the night almost suffocating all your other senses. Your surroundings make you feel small, and only the feeling of his hand holding yours brings you into the realization that he's there. How can a first date be so intimate.

It's quiet as you guys walk. There's a comfortable silence and you feel like you guys were a real couple. Sukuna is just silently holding your hand as you walk.

“How’d you get into street racing?” you ask quietly.

Sukuna pauses, like he’s deciding how much to say. He exhales.

During the past few days of talking to him, you picked up on how guarded he usually is. Most of his answers come with sarcasm or a lazy deflection, like peeling back anything real is too much effort.

“Started off as a way to make cash. Ended up being something I liked.”

“Hmm. It’s usually the other way around,” you murmur, glancing at him out the corner of your eye. “Not for me. Wasn’t good at anything else.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles as you walk, like he’s thinking more than he’s saying.

"Street racing was just kinda something I did off the bat. Wasn't any good when I started, but I met a few people, got some tips and pointers, and I learned pretty quickly. “ He pauses for a moment, as if he's remembering something.

"First race I won, didn't even know how to drive a car properly–I won, but it was because of a stupid-ass mistake from the other guy. After that, it was smooth sailing. People kept challenging me, I kept winning, money just kept piling up."

"Started winning a few races, made quite a name for myself that way. Soon people were asking me to fix their cars and tune them. And before I knew it, I got pretty good with cars."

He went on and on about cars. You two didn’t realize it, not until you glance at your watch without thinking. It’s been nearly half an hour, and he hasn’t stopped talking once.

Sukuna notices. “What, am I boring you now?” he asks with a sideways look, his voice laced with dry amusement.

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “No. Just surprised.”

“About what?”

“That you can actually hold a conversation.”

He scoffs, his hand tightening around yours just a little. “I talk when I want to. Plus…” he pauses, nudging your arm slightly “…isn’t this what dates are for?”

You blink at him. “You don’t strike me as a first-date kind of guy.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he says, smirking. “They usually suck me and leave.”

"So why'd you take me?" you asked innocently, ignoring his attempt to be funny. It makes you curious. You agreed to go on a date with him for a good time, though you are having a good time with his company, you didn't expect the date to go like this. It's somehow romantic. you shamefully expected him to be fucking you right now.

"You didn't look like a groupie." Sukuna stated simply. You absorb his face as he no longer was looking at you but now focusing on the waves that occupy your surroundings. You took this time to study the tattoos on his face up close like you did the night you met him.., you wondered what they meant and why he got them. At first glance a person would likely assume he’s bad news– he might look reckless but right now as you get to know him you realize that he's far from that. You're coming to the conclusion that he's careful. He's attentive.

He would probably pass as a villain in an anime. His tattoos complement him—you think that if he didn’t have them, he wouldn’t look half as good. The lip piercing and the eyebrow slit just make him even more attractive. It’s honestly unfair.

"Most women at races are groupies. 'm always surrounded by them." he starts waking you up from your careful observation of his appearance, "It's not every night I'll see someone like you, decided to take a chance, now here we are. simple as that, princess."

"That's very…" you pause, searching for the right word, “underwhelming."

Sukuna turns to you, narrowing his eyes. “What? You wanted me to say I fell in love at first sight or something?”

You pout. “No, it’s just—this is very intimate for a first date.”

“Eh, I don’t know—again most of your dates are probably boring, that’s why.”

You let out a giggle, "Yeah probably." This is by far the best location someone has taken you too. Sure you hate the woods, but the water makes up for it. From the ride earlier it was more than 30 minutes away from the city. Probably more if someone else would drive. Sukuna drives like somebody is chasing him, like he’s always in a race.

Traffic probably hates to see him coming.

“So... all the girls you brought here loved it?”

Sukuna glances over at you, expression unreadable. There’s a short pause before he replies.

“No? I wouldn’t know.” He shrugs. “You’re the first one I’ve brought here.” He says it's no big deal. “We should leave. You’re probably hungry, I’m getting hungry..”

It's quiet as you guys walk, the only sound being the occasional rustling of the leaves and the crunch of the sand under your feet. There's a comfortable silence, and to your surprise sukuna is just silently holding your hand as you walk. He must like physical touch.

"Swear?"

“Swear what?” He keeps walking, eyes ahead, guiding you down the narrow path you guys took earlier. “That I’m the first girl,” you say, holding out your pinky toward him with a half-smile, almost playfully.

He looks at you for a second before looking ahead rolling his eyes continuing to walk, "What are ya? Fuckin’ six? ‘M not doing that shit." A small pout forming on your lips, he catches it out of the corner of his eye, “Just trust me,” he mutters, tone a little softer now. “No girls have been here. It’s my personal spot.”

It wasn’t a personal spot anymore–you know it now too.

He doesn't say anything for a while, he just continues to walk silently. The only sound is the sound of your footsteps hitting the dry leaves of the path and the occasional soft breaths escaping your lips. After a few minutes, you see the clearing up ahead.

“These mosquitoes are killing my legs.” You whine.

He snorts, doesn’t even try to hide the amusement. Still holding your hand, he tugs you forward, a little impatient like always. “Fucking walk faster.”

He leads you back to the car, parked right where you left it. Doesn’t say much—just opens the passenger side door and jerks his chin for you to get in. You climb in, buckle your seatbelt. He shuts the door, then walks around and gets in on the other side, sliding into the driver’s seat.

The engine growls to life. He leans back as the car warms up, glancing over at you once before looking at the road again. It's quiet. Not the awkward kind—just peaceful. All you can hear is the low rumble of the car and the tires crunching over gravel as you pull off. You took the time to check your phone seeing your best friend’s reply to the location pin you sent earlier.

You almost laugh recalling how you thought he was going to bury you here. Dragging you into the woods with that straight grumpy face… yeah, you were half-convinced he was gonna bury you.

A quiet laugh slips out before you can help it.

“What’s funny?” His voice breaks the silence.

“You are,” you say mumbling it.

“What?”

“Huh? Nothing—I just remembered something,” you mumble, glancing out the window, hoping the dashboard light hides your smile.

He doesn’t bother pressing. The car starts and he shifts into drive, pulling out of the parking lot and back onto the road. The tires roll over gravel for a second before smoothing out on the pavement. The ride is mostly calm, the kind of quiet that could easily put you to sleep. Streetlights pass in slow intervals. He drives slow, making you almost forget that he races for a living. It would’ve been easy to doze off if it weren’t for his hand still resting on your thigh.

“Where we going? Your apartment?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at you. “You should be flattered. I don’t let just anyone see my place. That’s rare.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, trying to read his face. Not because you don’t believe him—just because you’re still figuring him out. He’s the hardest to read, expression always somewhere between indifferent and amused, voice dipped in something unreadable. You don’t know if it’s restraint or detachment. Maybe both.

Meanwhile, Sukuna thinks you’re the exact opposite. Easy to read. Almost too easy.

He doesn’t even have to look at you to tell what you’re feeling—the way your leg shifts slightly when you're unsure, the way you tug at your sleeve or purse your lips when you’re about to ask something risky. Even when you bite your lips when you're bored. All of it written so plainly on you.

You don’t try to mold yourself into whatever you think he wants.

Which was weird for him. He had a criminal record to start with—nothing light, either. People usually tiptoed around him, kept things surface-level, or stayed away altogether. But you didn’t flinch. You weren’t scared off. If anything, you seemed more curious than cautious, and for someone like Sukuna, that was rarer than he’d ever admit out loud.

He doesn’t say any of that, of course. He just keeps his hand resting on your thigh, his thumb brushing slow and absent over the fabric.

You lean your head back against the seat, letting out a quiet laugh breaking him from his thoughts.

“I heard rumors about you.”

“Oh yeah? Did you hear how much of a saint I was?”

“Very much a saint, ‘Kuna,” you tease, emphasizing his nickname. He remembers telling you to drop it one time when you guys we’re in call. You give him a lazy shrug when he turns to look at you for a second. “Heard you went to jail.”

Sukuna laughs. He honestly couldn’t care less about dumb rumors. Plus he hasn’t been locked up in a while. Those charges basically don’t exist anymore. By a while he means 5 months. Five months off record counts as clean in his book.

"Yeah? Heard how long I was in for?" He raises an eyebrow.

You try to recall, the only thing you remember was your brother telling you that he was in and out.

“Ask me, if you want.” He says tapping your thigh—gentle.

“You don’t mind?” He shifts slightly, "Did I give you the impression I'd get mad if you asked?"

You glance at him, then quickly back at the windshield.

"A little."

"Why? You scared of me, princess?" By his tone you can tell he was only teasing. But the question makes your stomach do something strange. Not fear, exactly. You weren’t scared of him. It wasn’t butterflies either. You turn your head enough to see his profile—his jaw flexed, eyes on the road.

"No... at least not now."

"And why’s that?"

You exhale through your nose, shifting your weight in the seat. “You’re both peaceful and not,” you say after a moment. The word feels weird, but it’s the only one that fits. “I told you earlier I was kinda scared—I mean, it’s not every day you get dragged into the woods for a first date.”

“You thought I was gonna lure ya into the woods, never to be seen again?”

“You were holding my hands really tight.”

“Yeah, can’t have my pretty girl run away now, can I?”

You look out the window for a second, lips twitching. “So… were you really locked up?”

“Yeah, I was,” he answers bluntly, gaze still focused on the road ahead.

The car hums along steadily, the soft sound filling the silence that stretches between you.

You purse your lips before asking, “How long?”

Sukuna glances at you, jaw shifting slightly. “A year was the longest. The rest were in and out.”

You nod slowly, eyes trailing the blur of lights streaking past the window. The dark stretch of road begins to change, the trees and quiet pavement giving way to busy intersections and glowing signage. Shibuya creeps back into view, bright and alive even this late at night. Neon spills across the windshield in flashes of color. You can see people again, traffic lights, the edge of a convenience store you recognize.

You look at him to check his reaction, he doesn’t look ashamed. If anything, he looks calm—settled in his seat like it’s just another conversation. Sukuna doesn’t regret anything he has done. He barely knows the feeling of it.

“What charges?”

"Assault, vandalism…” he starts, “Illegal racing, of course. Bunch of random shit." He says it plainly, like he's listing items off a grocery receipt. “Misdemeanor stuff, y’know what I mean? Stupid fucking charges.”

He eases into it after that–he tells you about fights in holding, trading snacks for cigarettes, the guy who tried to shank someone over a radio. He talks like these are bedtime stories, his voice steady, even laughing in some of them.

You’re quiet the whole time. Not because you’re judging. You wanted to get to know him better. This was obviously the real him. He pulls into the lot of a tall apartment building. The engine cuts out.

“We’re here,” Sukuna says, hand resting on the keys. His large hands finally off your thighs. Then he turns toward you, really looks at you. “You’ve been quiet,” he says, not accusing—just matter-of-fact. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of me now.”

You shake your head. “Didn’t say that.”

You weren’t really scared. You like to describe yourself as gullible, but not stupid. Naive, maybe—but the kind that gets pulled in anyway. And with Sukuna, it wasn’t fear that sat in your chest. It was something else entirely.

Maybe this was just your type—loud, reckless, a little bit unpredictable. You hadn’t dated in a while, not seriously, but something about this—about him—felt different. Familiar in a way that didn’t make sense. Like your body recognized him before your brain did.

And it wasn’t just the way he looked—though, yeah, that didn’t hurt. But the way his presence filled up the space, unapologetic and untamed. It was how sure he was of himself. Like gravity pulling you in, and you weren’t sure you even wanted to resist.

“But you’re acting like it.”

You shift in your seat, arms crossed loosely, eyes fixed on the dash. “Not acting like anything.”

“Then why’re you so quiet?”

You exhale, eyes flicking to the windshield, to the reflection of the streetlights on the glass. “Wasn’t loud in the first place.”

A small sound leaves him—half laugh, half breath. “Touché.”

He leans over the center console, ruffles your hair in a way that’s almost lazy, but there’s a kind of closeness in it too. His fingers trail down to your chin, tilting your face toward his.

“This is a cool building,” you murmur, trying to find your footing. “Rent must be crazy.”

“Dirty racing money got me,” he says. Then his hand slides from your chin to your waist, the weight of it grounding.

“We cool, princess?”

Your eyes meet his. You nod, soft. “Mhm.”

“Good.” He says, his voice a low, gruff mutter.

He unbuckles his seat belt, and gets out of the car. He moves around to the passenger side, almost as if he's in a hurry. He opens the door for you, the cool night air hits your face. He closes the door behind you and walks up next to you, he grabs your free hand and leads you towards his apartment building. He leads you over to an elevator, pressing the button. As the elevator descends. After just a few seconds the elevator dings. He walks briskly out of the elevator leading you towards a door labeled "286". He types in a code. The lock clicks open, and he pushes the door forward, holding it there for you, motioning for you to go through. His hand still rests on the open door.

"C’mon." He says. The way he says it sounds more like a demand than a request. It feels like if you don't go inside soon he'll drag you in there himself. He follows after you, closing the door quietly behind himself.

The hallway walls are dark and mostly bare. As he steps inside, he reaches over and flicks on the light. A low, warm glow fills the space—not bright, just enough to see clearly.

His apartment is clean—everything in black or dark gray, from the furniture to the counters. Minimal, but not boring. A few things hang on the walls now that the lights are on. Some are sharp-edged weapons, displayed neatly on a mounted rack. Others are paintings—bold lines, heavy contrast. You recognize the style right away. The shapes match the ones inked on his skin. Maybe these were the inspiration for his tattoos.

On the coffee table sits an open magazine and an unopened can of soda. That’s the only clutter you can see.

“I ain’t a dirty guy,” he says, glancing over at you seeing how you were observing his space. He reaches for your hand again and gently pulls you further in.

The hallway opens into a shared space where the kitchen and living room blend together. It’s mostly open, except for the area around the couch, which drops down by a step. Subtle, but it makes the space feel separate.

"Hungry?"

You nod, "Starving," you admit.

"Sit down," He says, motioning towards the couches. He lets go of your hand and begins walking towards the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge and cabinets, quickly taking out some ingredients and placing them on the counter. You watch as he begins to chop up some vegetables, his movements precise and practiced like it's something he's done hundreds of times. It's almost hypnotizing to watch.

"See something you like, princess?"

You almost roll your eyes, “Shut up… Can I look around?”

Sukuna chuckles without looking away from the cutting board. “Yeah. Just don’t go into the room at the end of the hall. Fucking dirty in there, haven’t cleaned.”

You get up and start walking. It’s a two-bedroom place—not huge, but definitely not cramped.

His apartment is clean, yeah, but it’s the kind of clean that doesn’t feel lived in. Like a model apartment waiting on a buyer—nothing personal. No pictures, no keepsakes, you do see a jacket tossed over a chair. A few magazines stacked on the coffee table and that unopened soda still sitting beside them.

The only real sign of who he is comes from the sharp stuff. Knives lined up too precisely, throwing stars on the wall. Even the decorations seem dangerous.

And then, beside the couch on a small side table, you spot something that makes you pause.

Five Hot Wheels, still in their packaging. Brand new.

They feel out of place among everything else, especially with all the sharp things scattered around—knives lined up with too much intention, throwing stars hung like they’re decoration. The contrast is enough to make you smile a little. You wonder if he bought them himself, or if someone gave them to him. Either way, it’s kind of funny and cute.

“No roommates?"

Sukuna shakes his head, still focused on the pan in front of him. The sound of sizzling and the steady rhythm of his knife are the only things filling the room.

"Nah, I live alone." He glances up briefly, just to see where you are.

“I like this,” you say, nodding toward the furniture.

“What, all the black? What ‘bout it?”

“It looks good,” you shrug. “Just... different from mine.”

Sukuna scoffs, low under his breath. “Let me guess—pastel everything?”

You wrinkle your nose. “No. Everything’s white.”

Yours was a studio type one–very close to the college that you go to. It’s probably just as big as his kitchen plus living room. You manage to look for a cheaper one that meets your expectations. You did have a choice to live in a dorm but living communally felt more exhausting than convenient. And honestly, they weren’t that cheap either.

Sukuna huffs a laugh. “That’s worse.”

“What? It’s clean.” You say quickly defending your place. He rolls his eyes, Sukuna never sugarcoats, “That’s fucking boring princess.”

You cross the room and hop up onto the counter across from him, letting your legs swing slightly. “I’ve got a lot of plants. Mine’s very homey compared to this.”

His eyes scan over you again as you sit on the kitchen counter, gaze lingering longer on the exposed skin of your thighs. He raises an eyebrow as he gives out another sarcastic remark, "And mine’s not?"

You scoff. “Sukuna, you’ve got knives on the wall. That doesn’t exactly scream cozy.”

He shrugs without looking up. “Feels homey to me.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. Of course it does. He then asks about your plants, and you end up rambling about your favorites for the next couple of minutes. Even when he continues to ask, Sukuna obviously doesn’t care about plants—doesn’t even bother pretending to—but he listens anyway. He just likes hearing you talk.

“What else do ya like, princess?”

“Like what?”

“Dunno. Hobbies. Favorite color. Music. Shit like that.”

You think for a second. Not about your answers—more about what to even share. You rest your hands behind you on the counter, watching him wor k while coming up on what to say.

“I’m in school. You know that, right?”

He gives you a look like obviously.

“What are you studying again?”

“Bio.”

“Planning to save the world or something?”

You shake your head. “No, ‘m not that smart ‘kuna.”

He lets out a quiet hum, not fully convinced. Truth was, he didn’t agree. He thought you were smart—at least from what he’s seen. From the calls you’ve shared to tonight, he’s picked up on it. You notice things. You ask questions. He doesn’t really believe that being smart comes in academic form only. That wasn’t the only kind of intelligence that mattered. That kind of thinking always felt like bullshit to him.

“So why bio?”

You shrug. “Medical track, I guess. It’s the plan. I don’t love it or anything.”

He makes a short sound—half snort, half laugh. “So you’re just winging it.”

“Not winging it,” you say, though you’re not exactly sure how to explain it in words. You like your course—well, sometimes. Other times, not so much. But it makes sense for you. It’s something you can stick with, and you haven’t found anything else that doesn’t bore you. You’ve never really had a dream job in mind. You just want stability, and there are some people who are just like that.

He pushes off the counter and walks over to the fridge, pulling it open with one hand. The cool light spills out across the kitchen floor. He grabs a can—probably soda, maybe beer—

“You want one?” he asks, grabbing a can without looking back. “Soda, princess?” You nod, and he grabs another, tossing it to you with an easy flick of his wrist. You catch it, cold against your palms. He cracks his open and takes a sip, then leans back against the fridge, eyes drifting over to you.

“So…no passion? No dream job or whatever?”

You rest the can on your lap, thinking for a moment. “Not really. I just want a life that feels... decent.”

“That so?” he says finally, voice low.

You frown at his tone, “You sound disappointed.”

"Well, it is kinda disappointing." He says it bluntly, walking back to the stove and switching off the burner. He leans back against the counter across from you, arms crossed, his tone dry but not cold as you ask him why he thinks that.

"You're young. You pay to study that shit and you don't even like it. Pretty pathetic, if you ask me."

“Is racing your passion? Didn’t you say you started for money too?”

"I did say that but I also said that it ended becoming a hobby for me," he walks toward the sink, rinsing his hands. "Something I actually like."

He dries his hands on a towel and tosses it aside before looking at you again — this time, really looking. “Most people don’t even get that far. They just keep doing what they’re ‘supposed to.’ They wake up one day and realize they built a life that doesn’t feel like theirs.” A pause. “They just picked safety, one boring decision at a time.”

He clicks his tongue, scoffing under his breath. “That’s the most boring way of living.”

“So you’re calling me boring now?” you ask almost offended.

He squinted slightly when you weren’t listening to him. “Your major’s boring because you don’t have passion for it. But that doesn’t mean you are.”

You pout automatically like a little child, “I don’t find it boring.” That gets a reaction from Sukuna, you were so pure in his eyes. The corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. He steps closer, standing between your legs now, close enough that you can feel the warmth still clinging to him from the stove.

“Don’t give me that look, sweetheart,” he mutters, “Makes me wanna kiss it off your face.”

You blink, caught off guard. Your pout lingers for a second too long– like he’s seriously considering it. But instead, he turns back to the stove, grabbing the spoon again.

“Come here.” You slide off the counter without thinking twice and walk over to him. He doesn’t look at you, just stirs the sauce once more and holds the spoon out toward your mouth.

“Taste this.”

You raise your brow, teasing. “You’re feeding me now?”

“Open,” he says firmly, his eyes finally cutting toward you.

You do. Lips parting, you let him slide the spoon into your mouth, the sauce warm and bold on your tongue. He watches you carefully, and not just for your opinion — like your reaction says something else he’s trying to decode. “It’s good,” you murmur. Then, curious, “You cook?”

He nods, a bit of pride in the way his mouth lifts. “Yeah. And I’m good at it. Don’t act so surprised.”

“I am surprised.”

He snorts. “Why, ’cause I got tattoos and a mean face?”

You smile, chewing slowly. “Exactly that.”

You gesture to the plate. “It’s really good, Sukuna.”

He takes the spoon back from you and doesn’t say anything at first– just dishes out the rest of the food and hands you a plate. You follow him to the couch, both of you eating with that kind of quiet that comes when you’re starting to settle into someone else’s space. After the meal, he wordlessly takes your plate and washes everything, sleeves pushed up, steam curling around his forearms.

He was very domestic.

When he finally dries his hands and walks back into the living room, you’re already curled up on the end of the couch, full and half-asleep. You expect him to sit beside you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he grabs your waist and pulls you into his lap with no warning, so smooth and casual like this is something he’s done a thousand times even when it’s the first time. You let out a tiny gasp, but your body melts into his — head falling against his chest, legs curled along the length of the couch. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you flush to him. The other brushes through your hair slowly, carefully, his fingers working through a tangle here and there like he’s in no rush.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

His gaze stays fixed on the ceiling. His hand beneath your shirt starts to move again, slow, calloused fingertips dragging over the skin of your back, and it’s surprisingly gentle. Borderline soothing.

“Something on your mind?” you ask quietly.

He’s silent for a long moment. His fingers don’t stop.

Finally, he sighs. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“Sorry.”

His hand pauses. He looks down at you, “Don’t be.” He brings his fingers to your chin and tilts your face up, the touch gentle—“I like it.”

“Nothing’s on my mind. Just you. Thinking about why I didn’t meet you earlier than I should’ve.” He confesses making you roll your eyes, trying to hide the way your stomach flips. He probably uses this on every girl.

“Shut up. That’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Well princess, you’re not exactly very good at reading me,” he murmurs, almost amused.

You look up at him, trying to read his face, but it’s not easy when he’s standing this close, his voice that low, his attention that steady. He’s hard to read but even harder to ignore. There’s just something about him—how grounded he always seems, how he never fidgets, how he looks at you like he already knows what you’re going to say. It’s annoying. And kind of attractive.

Your eyes narrow a little. “No? Then what are you thinking, Sukuna?”

"Positions."

"Positions?"

He chuckles lowly at your confused tone. "Sex positions," he clarifies, his voice dropping slightly. He feels you tense up on top of him but continues anyway. "I'm trying to guess what's your favorite." His hands move to your waist slowly, squeezing gently.

What?

"You're shameless."

He laughs genuinely this time, his hands squeezing your waist playfully. "Shameless and honest," he corrects you. His thumbs start to rub small circles on your hips he doesn’t like beating around the bush, you should know that by now. "Matter of fact, what's your favorite, princess?"

You failed to answer.

Sukuna managed to be nice all night, you probably don’t know how many times he was staring at your skirt thinking of how easy it is to just take it off. He behaved, now he likes to believe that he has good self control. He wanted you to have a good first date with him. All his dirty thoughts consumed him all night.

"Mhmm?" He presses, knowing you're trying to ignore his question. "I'm assuming you're not the missionary type." He leans his head back against the couch cushions, his eyes closing as he thinks. "Is it doggy style? You would look good like that."

You did your best not to give him any reactions, he would definitely tease you and you would not hear the end of it.

"Sukuna..." He ignores your weak protest, his hands moving to your ass and squeezing firmly. "Look at you, barely even stopping me from talking to you like this," He sits up suddenly, capturing your mouth in a rough kiss to shut you up. His hands grip your hair tightly as he kisses you aggressively.

The kiss breaks apart for a second, a smile stretching on his face, "Should I stop?" He waits. And wait. His grins widened when he didn't see any signs of displease on your face, "Dirty girl." He whispers before kissing you back again, fingers gently sliding down the side of your face to your neck.

You feel him suck the bottom of your lips. There's a bitter taste of blood in his mouth realizing that it's from your lips. He noticed that you had a habit of biting your bottom lip. He doesn’t mind though.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, sucking and biting gently. You let out a moan as his hands roam over your body possessively, remembering every curve and dip. "Been thinking of you ever since I saw you that night," he whispers against your skin, his breath hot and heavy. He takes your silence as an invitation. "So pretty," He murmurs, his hands sliding up your thighs again, spreading them wider apart.

He starts to grind himself against you, his hard length pressing against your core through his pants. "Ya feel that, sweetheart?" he says his eyes watching your every reaction. His fingers dig into your thighs as he continues to grind against you, his breathing growing heavy with desire that matches the fast beating of your heart.

His large hands grip your hips tightly as he pulls you flush against him, his thick erection pressing urgently against your center. His fingers dig into your soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. "You must be soaking," he asked, leering at you, "All for me?"

You nod completely, going dumb for him, not even thinking straight too desperate for him to continue. The wet patch you feel on your panty is embarrassing, since when were you this touch deprived? You blame the lack of sexual activities you've done. When was the last time somebody touched you like this? You honestly don't remember.

"Imagine how your pussy will squeeze my dick so fucking hard when I hit your spot," He groans, his hips jerking forward involuntarily as he imagines it. His hands slide up to your waist, gripping it tightly as he pulls you even closer. "Please 'kuna," you plead, barely saying his name, growing impatient.

"Please what?" He smirks against your skin, his hands roaming up to cup your breasts. He thumbs your hardened nipples through your shirt, teasing them roughly. "Please fuck you? Is that it?" He pinches your nipples hard, eliciting a gasp from you. "Say it properly, 'm not a fucking mindreader, did you go stupid already?"

He watches you as you lick your lips shaking your head still not giving him an answer, "You're fucking killing me with this shy shit," he mutters, his voice thick with desire. He grabs your chin firmly with one hand, forcing your eyes to meet his intense gaze. "Say it. Do you want my dick deep inside your pussy?"

You nodded hurriedly, letting out a faint yes. A satisfied smirk spreads across his face as he hears your admission. Poor you.

"Good girl," he exclaims, his hands immediately moving to unbuckle his belt. He doesn't waste any time, pushing his pants down roughly with his underwear to free his thick, hard cock.

Your eyes widened at the sight, what the fuck?

"Suck it for me, yeah?" He grabs your hair tightly, without a warning guiding your head down to his throbbing cock. You can feel the heat radiating off him as you take him into your mouth, tasting the familiar salty flavor. He groans loudly, thrusting his hips up to meet your mouth as he fucks your face. "Good girl,"

"Just like that," he praises, his voice strained with pleasure. He looks down at you watching his cock slide in and out of your mouth. "Take it deeper," he demands, pushing your head down further, hitting the back of your throat. "Watch your fucking teeth." He holds you there for a moment, his cock buried deep in your throat before pulling out with a wet pop. A string of saliva connects your lips to his tip. He smirks, "Fuck, you're good at that." He suddenly pulls out completely, making you cough.

"Goddamn," He mutters, watching your lips swell up slightly from sucking his dick. "You look like a damn porn star right now princess," He adjusts his length, "Do you swallow?" He asks suddenly. "Answer properly." His eyes drop down to your full lips again.

You breathe out, trying to catch up—he wasn’t giving you time to adjust, no warning, no pause. "I’ve never… I haven’t tried it before."

"Never tried?" He repeats, raising an eyebrow in surprise. "You're fucking kidding me." He grabs your chin, tilting your face up to look at him. "You must have had pretty boring sex." You don’t even remember any of your past experiences right now.

"Jesus," He laughs softly, "How old are you again?" He asks suddenly. He knows you're young, but he's starting to think you might be innocent in some aspects. "21?" He guesses. You nod. "Damn," He mutters.

"Well, princess," He grins, "there's always a first in everything." He pushes your head back down onto his cock before you can react, shoving deep into your throat without warning. He holds you there, cutting off your air supply momentarily. He starts fucking your throat relentlessly, using you like a cheap blowjob slut. "Take it," He growls, "Like a good girl." He hits the back of your throat over and over.

"Fuck, look at those eyes," He watches you gag around his length, tears streaming down your face as you try to breathe through your nose. He pulls out suddenly with a wet pop, only to slam back in just as deep. "More, yeah?"

He starts fucking your throat relentlessly, using you like a cheap blowjob slut. "Take it," He growls, "Breathe through your nose," He hits the back of your throat over and over, making you gag and choke. Suddenly, he pulls out and comes hard on your face and lips. "Swallow,"

He starts fucking your throat aggressively, his balls slapping against your chin with each brutal thrust. You're choking and gagging loudly, saliva dripping down your face as he uses your mouth roughly. Suddenly, he grabs a handful of your hair and holds you still deep on his cock. "Gonna cum..."

"Mmph!" You mumble around his length, preparing yourself. He groans loudly, his hips jerking forward as his hot, sticky seed shoots straight down your throat. He feeds you his entire load, pulling out slightly to let you breathe before pushing back in to deposit more spurts of cum.

"Swallow it all," He demands, watching your throat bob as you struggle to down his massive load. He holds your head in place, not letting you pull away until you've consumed every last drop. "Good girl, better not waste shit."

He releases your head, his cock slipping out of your mouth with a messy plop. He watches as you cough softly, his cum still visible around your lips and on your tongue. He suddenly grabs your jaw, forcing you to open your mouth. "Let me see," He demands. You open wider.

He leans in close seeing his cum coating your tongue and the back of your throat makes him even harder. Without warning, he spits directly into your open mouth, mixing his saliva with his cum. "Now swallow that too."

You feel dirty.

You swallow his spit and cum mixture reluctantly, your stomach churning at the taste. He smiles sadistically, amused by your discomfort. "Dirty girl." He pats your cheek patronizingly before standing up and pulling his pants back on. "Clean yourself up." He orders coldly.

You look up to him confused, that's it?

Is he not fucking you? You don't mean to sound like a desperate woman but you are pretty desperate and horny right now. And you just tried your best to give him a good ass blowjob—were you not good enough? It’s that it?

"The fuck you looking at?" He notices your confused expression and smirks. "'M not gonna fuck you yet, ya not ready." He says dragging the last part as he walks over to the sink to wash his hands, leaving you on the couch.

He watches you through the reflection in the mirror as you sit there, looking confused and messy. His cum is still visible on your lips and chin. He smirks to himself, amused that he's already marked you without even fucking you yet.

"Get up. You look like shit in there." He commands but it comes more as an insult. You stand up slowly, still confused. He grabs the towel and walks back over to you. "Open your mouth." He orders again. You hesitantly open your mouth wide. Without a word, he uses the towel to wipe away the remaining spit and cum from around your mouth and on your chin. He's surprisingly gentle with the towel, unlike his rough handling earlier.

"You're gonna leave me hanging?"

"Damn," He mutters softly to himself, ignoring your question, watching your body. Your tits are still half hanging out from your disheveled top, your hair messy from where he grabbed it earlier.

"If you wanted a blowjob, you could've just said from the start—you didn't have to do all that extra shit." You started glaring at him pursing your lips.

He tosses the towel aside and buttons his suit jacket. "Ungrateful brat, 'm not giving you what you want so stop looking at me like you're gonna get dick anytime soon." He checks his watch, clearly uninterested in you right now. "C'mon, you're sleeping here tonight."

He leads you to his bedroom, completely ignoring your disappointed state. He throws you a t-shirt to sleep in before changing into his own pajama pants. He climbs into bed without another word.

He watches you change into his shirt, your body barely covered. He thinks he likes you. And he’ll probably keep you to be with him. You were fun. He pats the spot next to him on the bed. You climb into bed beside him.

"Stop pouting." He turns off the lights and smacks your ass playfully. "You think I'm just gonna use you and throw you away? You're either really dumb or really desperate for dick." He adjusts his pillow, moving closer to you. "Now shut up and go to sleep."

To ease your displeasure he leans in to give you a quick kiss for goodnight,

"Mmm," You hum softly against his lips, your knees slightly parting. He pulls back and laughs softly. "Damn, you really are horny." He mutters. He throws his leg over yours possessively. "Go to sleep, this isn’t the last time, don’t be fucking greedy."

#jujustsu kaisen x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna smut fic #sukuna oneshot #ryomen x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #sukuna fic #sukuna x you #sukuna imagine #jjk imagines #streetracersukuna

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rafecameronssl4t · 7 months ago

Text

One Big Misunderstanding || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: Tensions rise when an innocent comment about a missing bracelet sows doubt between you and Rafe, sparking suspicions of infidelity.

Warnings: ANGST GALORE

Word count: 2,711

A/n: inspired by the perfect couple on Netflix 😛

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

The sunlight streamed through the grand floor-to-ceiling windows of the drawing room, casting a warm glow on the pristine marble floors. You sat perched on one of the luxurious cream sofas, a curated array of diamond necklaces sprawled elegantly across the glass coffee table before you.

Across from you, Eloise, your private jewellery consultant, adjusted her notepad, a professional yet friendly smile playing on her lips. “Madeline, sweetie, no touching, please,” you gently reminded, catching your daughter’s small hands as they reached out eagerly for the sparkling treasures.

Her curious blue eyes, so much like Rafe’s, widened in innocent protest before she giggled, retreating to your lap with a playful pout. Eloise chuckled softly, waving at Madeline. “Someone has quite the eye for jewels already,” she teased, her gaze fond as Madeline shyly buried her face into the folds of your dress.

You let out a soft laugh, brushing Madeline’s hair back as your fingers glided over the dazzling collection. “I don’t think it’ll be too long before she’ll be in my position,” You softly say. The newest designs shimmered under the light, each more stunning than the last. “They’re all exquisite,” you sighed, lifting a delicate piece encrusted with diamonds.

“But I think I’ll take this one, and…” Your eyes roamed over the display again, settling on another necklace with an intricate design. “This.” “Excellent choices, Mrs. Cameron,” Eloise praised, jotting down notes in her leather-bound book. Her tone brimmed with approval, and her smile didn’t waver as she looked up.

Madeline squirmed in your lap, reaching up to tug at the simple necklace you were already wearing. You adjusted her gently, holding her small hands to keep them still. Eloise glanced up from her notes. “Did you like the bracelet Mr. Cameron gave you?” Her tone was casual, but her words made you pause. “Bracelet?” you echoed, your brow furrowing.

Your voice held a slight edge of confusion as you looked at her. “The gold bangle with the pavé diamonds,” she elaborated, glancing up with a look of delight. “Rafe spent so much time picking it out for you.” Her enthusiasm was almost contagious as she beamed. Your lips parted slightly in surprise, your mind racing.

You had no idea what she was talking about. A heavy silence lingered for a moment, and you felt the weight of Eloise’s expectant gaze. “Oh! The bracelet!” you quickly feigned recognition, a forced smile stretching across your face. “Yes, of course. It’s lovely—he knows me so well.” Your voice sounded light, but your heart sank as the lie left your lips.

Eloise didn’t seem to notice. She rose gracefully, tucking her notebook under her arm. “Well, I’ll be on my way. I’ll see you next month, Mrs. Cameron,” she said cheerfully, giving you a polite nod before heading toward the door. You stayed seated, your posture still and tense as Madeline babbled happily on your lap.

The silence of the room closed in around you once Eloise left, leaving you to wrestle with your thoughts. Rafe had bought you a bracelet? Why hadn’t he given it to you himself? Had he left it somewhere, expecting you to find it? Or had it been an afterthought, something he had no time—or desire—to present personally?

The questions swirled in your mind as you absentmindedly stroked Madeline’s hair, your gaze fixed on the glittering necklaces on the table. As much as you tried to push it aside, the confusion, and a small pang of hurt, lingered.

Later that night, you sat before your vanity, the familiar routine of your skincare ritual grounding you in a semblance of normalcy. The soft hum of the bathroom light and the gentle swish of creams and serums felt like a small act of defiance against the questions that kept circling in your mind. The bracelet. Rafe’s strange omission of it.

The way Eloise had mentioned it so casually, as though it was something you should’ve known. You brushed the thoughts aside, telling yourself you were overreacting, but they lingered, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. The bedroom door creaked open behind you, and without turning, you saw Rafe in the reflection of your mirror.

Still in his suit, looking as polished and untouchable as ever. You didn’t acknowledge him, continuing with your skincare, your movements slow and deliberate. “Busy day?” you asked, your voice flat, more out of routine than affection. His response was distant, lost on you as you remained absorbed in your own thoughts, the quiet hum of your routine enveloping you.

The bracelet. “How was the jewelry showing?” he asked, his voice still detached, but something in his tone caught your attention. You glanced up at him briefly through the mirror. His eyes were on you, studying you with a faint trace of curiosity. “It was good,” you mumbled, your focus wavering again.

Rafe’s brow furrowed as he watched you, sensing the lack of the usual excitement you carried after these showings. His fingers paused at the buttons of his shirt as he tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. “Did you… pick anything you liked?” he asked, his tone slower now, as if he was gauging your mood, sensing something was off.

“Yeah, I did,” you replied, your voice empty, devoid of any real emotion. Before he could continue, you stood up abruptly, tightening the robe around your body more than necessary. The familiar movement felt like a barrier, an armour you could slip into. “I’ll just make myself some tea,” you said, the words sounding rehearsed, like you were already running from the questions.

You didn’t spare him another glance as you walked past him, leaving the room without another word. You descended the stairs mechanically, but instead of following the usual route to the kitchen, your feet took you in the opposite direction, towards Rafe’s office. Your heart pounded as you approached the oak door, glancing over your shoulder to ensure no one was watching.

Slowly, you pushed the door open, the room still and quiet in its untouched state. The room was a sharp contrast to the chaos in your mind. Your eyes darted to his desk, and instinctively, you moved toward it. You knew Rafe kept everything meticulously in order, and his drawers were always locked. But tonight, your curiosity outweighed your caution.

You pulled open the first drawer, then the second. It was the third one that caught your attention. As your fingers sifted through papers, your eyes landed on a familiar logo—the jewelry shop. Your pulse quickened as you pulled it free, finding a receipt tucked between papers. The words on the page seemed to mock you as you read, Rafe Cameron, the date, and the item listed: Nature Bangle, Pavé, priced at $18,000.

A photo of the bracelet accompanied the receipt. The image burned itself into your mind—elegant, delicate, and undeniably expensive. Your breath caught in your throat, and your mind spun. You quickly shoved the receipt back into the drawer, snapping it closed. The weight of what you’d seen was suffocating, the overwhelming question taking shape in your mind.

Was Rafe cheating on you? The thought gnawed at you, its edge cutting deep. You had been with him long enough to believe that something like this wouldn’t happen. But the pieces didn’t fit. Rafe had always been… Rafe. He wasn’t the type to hide things, or at least, you never thought he was.

The doubts began to creep in, unsettling your thoughts, but before they could settle into a clear conclusion, you stood up from the desk and made your way out of the office.

The morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the living room. You sat on the plush sofa, coffee in hand, its warmth grounding you as you watched Leo and Madeline play on the rug before you. Their laughter filled the room, a soothing balm to the unease still simmering from the night before.

The sound of Rafe’s footsteps descending the staircase pulled your focus, and soon enough, he rounded the corner into the living room, his presence unmistakable in the tailored suit that hugged his frame. Despite the domestic setting, he still exuded the same composed, businesslike energy he carried everywhere.

“Jordan told me your schedule was clear for today,” you remarked, your voice calm but inquisitive as you tracked his movements. “Hm?” Rafe hummed in response, crouching slightly to press a kiss to the top of both Leo’s and Madeline’s heads. The gesture was effortless, automatic, and yet it made your chest tighten—a cruel contradiction to the doubts swirling in your mind.

“I said, Jordan told me your schedule is clear today,” you repeated, watching him carefully as he straightened, his gaze finally meeting yours. A small, almost nonchalant smile tugged at his lips. “Last-minute meeting, that’s all,” he replied smoothly, brushing off the question as if it were of little consequence. His tone was casual, but it didn’t sit right with you.

You cocked an eyebrow, your expression neutral but sharp enough to suggest you weren’t entirely convinced. “I’ll be back before three,” he added quickly, as though the reassurance might settle you. Without waiting for a response, he stepped closer, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek. The gesture was familiar, practiced, and yet it felt hollow.

You remained still, your eyes fixed straight ahead, your coffee cooling in your hand as his cologne lingered in the air. “Drive safe,” you murmured, your voice even but distant. You didn’t look at him as he pulled away and adjusted his cufflinks. The sound of his footsteps retreated, leaving a subtle void in the room once he was gone.

The door to your bedroom creaked open, and Rafe stepped in, his movements deliberate but calm. Your eyes lifted from your phone, following him briefly before drifting back to the glowing screen in your hand. “They’re asleep,” he murmured, his voice soft but tinged with exhaustion. You hummed in acknowledgment, barely lifting your gaze as he moved toward his side of the bed, shrugging off his jacket and placing it neatly on the chair by the window.

Rafe climbed into bed beside you, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He leaned back against the headboard, undoing the top few buttons of his shirt and letting out a quiet sigh. The silence between you felt heavy, the kind of quiet that wasn’t comfortable but wasn’t quite confrontational either. You placed your phone down on the nightstand, your fingers brushing its edge before folding neatly in your lap.

The glow of the bedside lamp softened the room, but it did little to ease the tension you felt knotting in your chest. “Are you cheating on me?” The words left your lips before you could stop them, your voice sharp yet trembling, slicing through the quiet. “What?” Rafe’s hand froze, his body stiffening as he turned to look at you, his tone laced with shock and disbelief. His brows furrowed deeply, searching your face for an explanation.

“Are you cheating on me?” you repeated, softer this time, the vulnerability in your voice stark against the tension building in the room. His lips parted, words stuttering for a moment before he finally asked, “What are you talking about?” You sat up straighter, folding your arms as you exhaled shakily. “The bracelet, Rafe.” The words were laced with hurt as your eyes locked onto his, watching the colour drain from his face.

His expression shifted—confusion, then understanding, and finally a look that you couldn’t quite place. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes began to water, the emotional floodgates breaking against your will. “Eloise mentioned it. She said you spent so much time picking it out, but I never got it, Rafe,” your voice cracked slightly. “So, where is it? Who is it for?”

Rafe ran a hand down his face, the exhaustion in his eyes now replaced with something akin to guilt—but not the kind you feared. He pushed himself up against the headboard, facing you fully. “It’s not what you think,” he said firmly, his voice low, almost pleading, but it did little to ease the storm brewing inside you. “Then explain,” you demanded, your voice trembling with a potent mix of anger and sorrow.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, hot and relentless, and you swiped at them quickly, unwilling to appear completely undone. But your composure was already fractured, and Rafe could see it in your glistening eyes and the slight quiver of your lip. His silence was unbearable. The hesitation hanging between you wasn’t just a pause—it was an admission, a crack that threatened to shatter everything you’d built together.

It cut deeper than words ever could, leaving a hollow ache in your chest. “Explain,” you repeated, your voice firmer now, laced with urgency. “For the sake of our children, for our marriage, Rafe. Tell me what I’m supposed to believe right now.” He ran a hand over his face, his usual confidence, his composed exterior, seemed to falter under your gaze. For once, Rafe Cameron looked unsteady.

“It wasn’t meant to be like this,” he muttered, his voice low. You blinked, your breath catching. “What wasn’t meant to be like this? Stop talking in circles and just tell me.” Your voice cracked on the last word, and you felt your chest tighten with the weight of your fears. Rafe exhaled sharply, finally looking up at you. His eyes locked onto yours, their usual sharpness softened by something unfamiliar—regret, perhaps.

“The bracelet,” he began, his words slow and deliberate, “was supposed to be a surprise. For you.” Your brows furrowed as you tried to process his words, your heart racing. “What?” He leaned back on the headboard, his hands clasped together. "It’s… for our anniversary. I wanted to give it to you then. I even had it engraved.” His voice wavered, and he shook his head.

“I thought I was doing something thoughtful, but I should’ve just given it to you right away. I didn’t think it would—” He stopped, the weight of your reaction sinking in. You stared at him, your mind reeling. His explanation had knocked the wind out of you, leaving you unsure whether to feel relief or frustration. “You… were planning to give it to me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.” He looked at you earnestly, his expression softening. “I didn’t realise it would make you question everything. That’s on me. I’m sorry.” Your tears slowed, but the tension in your chest lingered. “Why didn’t you just tell me that when I asked? Why make me feel like I was losing my mind?” Rafe sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Because I thought you’d laugh at me, or brush it off as something meaningless.

You don’t exactly make it easy to do… sentimental gestures.” His voice wasn’t accusatory, but it held a hint of frustration. You exhaled slowly, processing his words. The weight of your accusation settled heavily on your shoulders, mixing shame with residual doubt. “You should’ve told me,” you murmured, your voice soft but firm. “And you should’ve trusted me,” he countered gently, his tone not harsh but pointed.

“We can’t keep doing this—assuming the worst about each other.” You looked away, your throat tight as his words sank in. Perhaps he was right, but the wounds of mistrust weren’t so easily healed. “I just… I don’t want to be a fool,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly. “Not for you, not for anyone.” Rafe turned his head, his hand reaching over before settling on your knee. “You’re not a fool,” he said quietly, his voice steady.

“You’re my wife. And I know I don’t always get it right, but I need you to believe that I’m trying.” You met his gaze, searching for any flicker of insincerity but finding none. His blue eyes held yours, unwavering, and for the first time that night, you felt the tension in your chest begin to ease. “I’ll believe it,” you whispered, the words tentative but genuine.

"But you have to meet me halfway, Rafe. No more secrets. No more hesitation.” He nodded, his grip on your knees tightening briefly in silent agreement. “Deal.”

1K notes · View notes

starlightshore · 7 months ago

Text

trying my hand at some redesigns... i want them to be

Fancy

but not too detailed because that never looks good in my artstyle (and I'm too lazy to ever do that consistently) so here's my balance between the two desires.

under the readmore is some concept art i did when playing around with the ideas

first i played w/ color and the idea that loop would look like a stained glass window. idk everything turned out messy lol

i knew I wanted Loop to not be Nakey but this felt too simple. siff is pretty good here but was rendered a lil off idk

added this late, this is after i settled on the designs but i didn't wanna make a whole extra post for this doodle

#in stars and time #isat #isat loop #isat siffrin #isat redesign #isat fanart #character design #fanart tag

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ice-man-goes-bwoah · 2 months ago

Note

So I just saw that you want an ask about plus size reader and f1 driver👀 I'm a Lando Norris fan so can I please ask about him? Maybe plus size reader is his physical therapist and looks after him and makes him happy and he in return is so down bad that if anyone says or does sth disrespectful he is so defensive he always has her back and he shows that he loves her every single minute ❤️ I really hope you have many plus size reader asks cause as a midsize girl myself I really don't see many fics to represent us

All the ways you look at me||Lando Norris x mid size reader

Summary —Y/N lands the job as Lando Norris’s physical therapist, neither of them expects much beyond rehab sessions and recovery plans. But as shared glances turn into inside jokes and late-night conversations, a quiet friendship begins to blossom—one that tiptoes into something deeper to bad they are scared to take the fall into something more than friendship.

Word count—8k

Thank you @fuckoffbard for reading this for me!

A/n—depending on how well this does I’ll do a part two

"Come on. You can do this. It’s your first day meeting everyone; you’ve had plenty of first days, so this should be easy,” Y/n said to herself. She sat in the parking lot of the McLaren Technology Centre, where she was to meet her new team. Taking a deep breath, she let it out and opened her eyes. “Okay, I’m ready.” She opened the door to her car, stepped out, grabbed her iced coffee, badge, and bag, and walked to the building.

The scenery was beautiful. The McLaren Technology Center was secluded from the rest of civilization in a big field hidden behind trees. There were two buildings: the factory itself and the headquarters. That's where she was going.

Walking up the pathway, she admired the bean-shaped building with the little pond that was next to it. It was definitely something she could get used to seeing on a daily basis. Once she was up to the door, she took out her badge and put it up to the scanner to open the door. As the door opened, she was welcomed by the nice, cool air and the beautiful interior of the building.

The lobby was filled with F1 cars and cars that McLaren had produced over the years. To the right of her was the staircase and the elevator that led to the second floor, and in front of her were the trophy cases that held all the trophies that the team had won over the years. The building was truly beautiful with its simple and futuristic design.

“Can I help you?” A voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

She cleared her throat and held out her hand. “Yes, hi, I’m Y/n, I’m the new physical therapist. I’m here for the team meeting. I'm supposed to meet everyone.”

The owner of the voice shook her hand and spoke softly but friendly, “Hello y/n, I’m Sarah, I’m part of the social media team. I’m heading that way so I can help you get there.” Sarah said, shaking Y/n's hand.

“Oh, that would be lovely, thank you,” Y/n replied with a smile.

Sarah led Y/N through a maze of corridors and open workspaces, the hum of quiet conversations and the occasional keyboard tapping following them as they walked.

“This place is like a spaceship,” Y/n murmured as she looked around.

Sarah laughed. “Right? Wait until you see the simulator room. Total sci-fi vibes.”

They stopped outside a wide conference room with frosted glass panels through the translucent windows. She could see shadows shifting and hear a few muffled voices from inside.

“You’ll be great.” Sarah said, giving her a small nudge, “Come on.”

Y/N took one last calming breath and stepped inside.

The room was already half full—engineers, mechanics, PR staff. A few people turned to glance at her as she entered, their expressions curious but friendly. At the far end of the table, there were two guys, one was balancing his chair on its two back legs while trying and failing to balance his pencil on his nose. The other one had an unimpressed look on his face while trying not to smile or laugh at the other’s antics.

Y/N immediately knew who they were—Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri. Even without the uniforms and team gear, their energy gave them away.

She took a moment to observe them from where she stood, unnoticed for now. Lando had that easy, magnetic kind of charm—the type that could dissolve tension with a grin and a well-timed joke. He moved with confidence, expressive hands, and animated eyes, clearly the kind of person who filled a room without even trying.

Next to him, Oscar was a striking contrast. He was quieter, his posture more composed, his words more measured. While Lando spoke with his whole body, Oscar listened with stillness. His eyes were sharp and observing, like he was always a few steps ahead in his head, even when he didn’t say much.

They worked like a natural counterbalance. Lando brought the lightness, Oscar the grounding. It was a rhythm—one teased, the other gave dry comebacks; one stirred things up, and the other reined them in without needing to say much. And somehow, it worked.

“They’re like opposites, but at the same time, they work so well together.” Y/N thought, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Suddenly, she felt a little less nervous. Because despite their differences, there was something oddly comforting about the way they fit together. Like maybe this place wasn’t going to be so intimidating after all.

Especially if Lando kept looking at her the way he just did.

His head tilted slightly like he was trying to place her. His eyes flicked from her face to the badge clipped to her shirt and back up again. Then he smiled—lazy, crooked, and so bright it made her stomach flip.

“You must be the new Physio,” he said, “I was starting to think they were making you up.”

Y/n blinked slightly, off guard by the friendliest tone of his voice.

“Nope, very real. I even brought an iced coffee and everything.” She joked, holding up her iced coffee and giving it a little shake.

A few people chuckled, the tension easing, and Lando's smile widened.

“Then we’re going to get along just fine.”

Zak Brown stood and clapped his hands for attention.

“Everyone, this is Y/N. She’s officially joining us this season as part of the performance and health team—working closely with you, Lando.”

“Lucky me,” Lando muttered with a grin.

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully.

“We’ll see how lucky you feel after your first deep tissue session.”

More laughter followed, and a few people around the table gave her nods of approval or polite greetings. Someone even muttered, “Bold move on day one,” with a grin.

As the meeting began and the briefing started, Lando leaned slightly toward her seat, voice low so only she could hear.

“Seriously, though. Welcome. We’re glad to have you.”

She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes.

“Thanks. I’m glad to be here.”

But her heart was racing. Because while she came here expecting professionalism and a great work performance, she hadn’t expected him.

Over the course of the few months that Y/N joined McLaren, she really had made her mark on the team. She and Sarah are quickly becoming friends, the two of you often meeting up for coffee dates and other things that friends do.

Y/N’s office doubled as her Physio room, in the corner was her desk with her laptop and a couple of other personal items that made the space truly hers. On the other side of the room was a table where the mats, foam roller, and other supplies sat, and in the center was the padded table.

Y/n was reviewing Landos' training notes Landos's trainer sent to her tablet when the door creaked open.

“Morning,” came that familiar voice—soft, a little smug, a little sleepy.

She glanced up. “You’re late.”

Lando strolled in like he wasn’t, tossing his water bottle on the bench. “You’re early.”

Y/N raised a brow unimpressed “Try that again but imagine that I haven’t heard it from every cocky athlete I’ve worked with.”

He grinned, “touché”

She nodded towards the mat, “Shoes off, warm-up stretches, let’s go.”

He obeyed, stretching his arms overhead and settling onto the mat with an exaggerated groan. “You’re scarier than my last physio.”

“That’s because your last physio didn’t have to deal with you constantly flirting with him.”

“True. He didn’t look this good, either.” Lando remarked, admiring Y/N’s curves.

God, he would give anything just to hold her—to let his hands rest on her hips, fingers curling around the softness he admired far more than he probably should. She was all curves and comfort and warmth, and it was unfair how often his mind drifted to her when he was supposed to be focused.

He swore she was made for him. It just made sense. His hands were big—meant to anchor, to hold, to fit—and when he looked at her, he couldn’t help but imagine how perfectly she’d settle against him.

His thoughts flicked back to three months ago when they’d trained together outside under the sun. She’d worn those leggings—the ones that clung just right, hugging the shape of her legs, her thighs, her hips. He remembered watching her move, muscles working under soft curves, grace and power woven together. He hadn’t meant to stare. But he did.

And the worst part?

He still remembered how she’d smiled at him afterward. She didn’t even realize the way she knocked the air out of his lungs.

Y/n didn’t even blink when she turned to face him. “Flirting won’t save you from the foam rollers.”

“Damn.” He gave her a mock-wounded look. “You are immune.”

Truthfully, she wasn’t. Not even close. But she had a job to do.

Y/N crouched beside him, guiding his leg into position. “How’s the left quad feeling?”

He shifted slightly. “Tight. Not awful, though.”

“Alright. Let me know if anything feels off.”

Her hands moved to his thigh, fingers firm but practiced as she applied pressure, feeling for tension. He stilled a little under her touch, his gaze flickering down to her.

“Are you always this focused?” he asked quietly.

Her brows lifted. “Are you always this chatty during treatment?”

“Only when I’m trying not to think about your hands being on my leg.”

That earned him a warning look, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “Behave.”

He smiled—but it was softer this time. Not smug. Not cocky. Just…warm.

For a moment, silence settled between them, the only sound the quiet hum of the AC and the shuffle of movement. She moved around him to adjust his arm, her fingers brushing his skin.

He looked up at her. “You’re good at this.”

She paused. “Thanks. It means a lot. Especially from someone who can’t sit still for longer than a minute.”

He chuckled. “I sit still for you.”

That stopped her. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and something in his expression made her chest tighten. It wasn’t teasing. It was sincere.

Dangerous, that kind of sincerity.

Y/N cleared her throat and stepped back slightly. “Alright. Upon the table. Let’s check that shoulder mobility.”

Lando obeyed with a faint smirk. “Yes, boss.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks felt warm.

And he noticed. Of course, he noticed. He’d always noticed.

Truth is, Lando loved the way her face flushed, and then she bit her bottom lip trying not to give him the satisfaction that he made her feel this way, she was never successful.

And he found it adorable.

Y/N stepped around the table to check the alignment of Lando’s shoulders, her fingertips pressing lightly along his upper back. “Drop your right shoulder just a bit,” she murmured.

He obeyed, head tilted slightly toward her. “You know, you’re very serious when you’re in work mode.”

“That’s because I am working,” she replied, eyes flicking up toward him.

“Yeah, but like—intensely serious. Like mission control, seriously. I bet you’d threaten to take someone’s kneecaps if they did a stretch wrong.”

She snorted. “I’ve never threatened kneecaps. Hamstrings, though? Fair game.”

Lando grinned at that, leaning back slightly on his elbows, watching her as she made a few notes on her tablet. “You must be fun at parties.”

“I’m a riot,” she said dryly, glancing up. “But only if someone needs help foam rolling their Iliotibial band.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It was.”

He laughed, and for a moment it felt easy—normal. The line between physio and friend blurred slightly in the warmth of their shared amusement.

Y/N set the tablet down and nodded toward the floor again. “Back to the mat. Let’s work on hip mobility.”

He groaned but complied, flopping onto his back dramatically. “You just like bossing me around.”

“It’s not that I like it,” she said, kneeling beside him, “It’s that you’d be hopeless without me.”

He blinked up at her with mock offense. “Hopeless? Excuse me—I am an elite athlete.”

“Who forgot how to do a proper glute bridge three weeks ago?”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

Lando gave her an exaggerated glare, then pointed at her. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Oh?” she teased, adjusting his knee with a light touch. “Is that why you’re being so dramatic this morning?”

“No, that’s just who I am.” He gave her a soft grin. “But seriously—I do like working with you. You’re not like the others.”

Y/N paused, hands still on his leg. “Is that a compliment or a red flag?”

“A compliment,” he said, softer this time. “Most people treat me like a brand. You treat me like… I don’t know. A human.”

For a beat, their eyes met again. It wasn’t flirtatious-not-not-not-not-not-not—not really. Just honest.

“I guess I figure you already have enough people telling you what you want to hear,” she said quietly.

His smile widened a little, less cocky now. “You’d tell me if I sucked at something, huh?”

“Absolutely. No hesitation.”

“See?” He gestured vaguely. “Hopeless without you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. She pressed gently on his hip, making him flinch.

“Hey! Abuse!”

“Mobility,” she corrected.

“You enjoy this way too much.”

“Only when you whine.”

He grinned up at her again, and for a second, something warm settled between them. It was subtle. Easy. The beginning of something unspoken.

Once the session was over, Lando dropped onto the bench near the corner of Y/N’s office, sweat dampening the edges of his curls as he reached for his water bottle. Y/N tossed him a clean towel from a nearby shelf.

“Here,” she said, settling onto the floor across from him with her bottle. “Try not to collapse dramatically on my floor next time. I might not be so kind.”

He caught the towel with a grin. “You love it. Gives you an excuse to roll your eyes at me.”

She took a long sip of her water. “You give me plenty of those without nearly fainting mid-stretch.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay, that was one time.”

“Twice, actually, and you faked it. Both times,” she replied with a smirk.

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

He pointed at her, mock offended. “You and Oscar are going to start a club at this rate.”

“‘The Times Lando Was Wrong’ club? I think there’s already a group chat.”

Lando laughed, head tipping back slightly. “God, you do fit in here.”

She blinked at him, surprised by the softness in his voice.

“I mean it,” he added, more quietly now. “The team likes you. It’s been…lighter since you showed up.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed slightly. “Lighter?”

“Yeah. You bring this kind of energy—like, calm but still sharp, you know? It’s a good balance.”

She wasn’t used to compliments like that, especially not ones that sounded so genuine.

“Well,” she said after a beat, “someone’s got to balance your chaos.”

He smiled at that. “You calling me chaotic?”

“I’m calling you exhausting.”

He laughed again, eyes crinkling. “You’re mean.”

“Only to the ones I like.”

He looked at her for a moment—looked. And for once, he didn’t shoot back a flirty line or a joke. Just smiled.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said simply.

Her breath caught. But then she smiled too, soft and a little surprised.

“Me too.”

They sat in the quiet for a few seconds longer, sipping water, the faint hum of the building in the background. Outside the window, the sun was high, casting soft shadows on the floor.

“I’ll probably regret saying this,” Lando said after a moment, “but you can drag me through those stretches again next time if you want.”

“Oh, I will,” she promised.

“God help me,” he muttered, shaking his head—but he was still smiling.

A few days later, Y/N and Sarah sat at an outdoor café nestled on a quiet street in Woking, the warm spring air wrapping around them like a soft sweater. The table was cluttered with two half-drunk iced coffees, a slice of cake they were sharing, and the occasional gust of wind that kept threatening to blow Sarah’s napkin off the table.

“I swear,” Sarah said between bites, “if we keep meeting here, the barista is going to start calling us regulars.”

Y/N grinned, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. “We already are. The barista knows our order.I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“God, you’re right. That’s dangerous.” Sarah paused to sip her coffee, then gave Y/N a look over the rim of her cup. “Speaking of danger…”

Y/N raised a brow. “What is it?”

“Look who’s here.”

Y/N turned her head—and sure enough, Lando was walking across the street, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, curls a little messy, sunglasses perched on his head. He hadn’t spotted them yet, distracted by something on his phone.

Sarah leaned closer, conspiratorial. “He looks relaxed. Like really relaxed. Must be your influence.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed. “Stop.”

“I’m serious! I’ve worked with him for years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this chill during a season. You’re good for him. He listens to you.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s because I threaten him with foam rollers and ice baths.”

Sarah laughed. “Maybe, but it works. You’re a good team, you know?”

Before Y/N could respond, Lando looked up and spotted them.

A wide grin immediately spread across his face, and he jogged the last few steps over to their table.

“Well, well, well,” he greeted, dropping into the empty chair beside Y/N without asking. “Didn’t expect to see you two here. Or should I say, the office dream team?”

Sarah raised her brows. “Crashing girl time? Bold move.”

He shot her a cheeky grin. “What can I say? I live on the edge.”

Y/N nudged his leg with her foot under the table. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Canceling all plans immediately,” he said, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand. “Unless you’re kicking me out.”

Y/N bit back a smile, and Sarah just gave her a look—the kind that said this is exactly what I meant.

They chatted for a while, laughter threading easily through the conversation. Lando didn’t even seem to notice how comfortable he looked, slouched in his chair, legs stretched out, occasionally stealing bites of their cake. It felt natural. Uncomplicated.

And when Y/N caught Sarah looking at her with a knowing smirk, she just shook her head with a laugh and looked away.

Late nights had become something of a routine for them now. It started with playful iMessage games—8 Ball, Cup Pong, Darts. A way to unwind after long days. Eventually, the games were followed by texts, then voice notes, then full-blown calls that stretched into the early hours of the morning.

Y/N had learned a lot about Lando during those calls. How he hated olives but loved olive oil. He always watched one episode too many when he promised he’d go to bed early. How silence didn’t scare him, and how his laughter sometimes sounded like relief.

They’d grown close.

So close when the new season began, and she started to notice him pulling away—she noticed.

He was Lando, still cheeky and warm and kind. But now there was a weight behind his smile. A slump in his shoulders when he thought no one was looking. Most of all, there was tension in how quiet he got when scrolling through his phone, the way his jaw would tighten, thumb hovering over a screen that never seemed to offer good news.

The race hadn’t gone as well as they’d hoped. The car was temperamental, the strategy of. The media had been brutal. And Lando… Lando was taking it personally.

It was past midnight when Y/N’s phone buzzed.

Lando: You up?

Y/N: Always. Need to talk or need to be distracted?

It took a minute before the typing bubbles appeared.

Lando: a bit of both. I'm just… tired. Of people. Of messing up. Of feeling like I’m not enough.

Y/N’s heart sank. Without thinking, she called him.

He picked up after the first ring.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Talk to me.”

There was a pause on the other end, then a shaky breath. “I know I shouldn’t let it get to me. The comments. The press. The expectations. But it’s like… I can’t shut it out this time. Everyone’s already written me off.”

“Lando…” she murmured, shifting on her bed. “You are not what those people say you are. You’ve done more in the past few years than most people ever get close to. You work your ass off. You care. You’re allowed to be disappointed—but not to forget who you are.”

He didn’t speak for a second.

“I just don’t want to let anyone down,” he said finally, voice quiet. “Especially not you.”

She blinked at the ceiling, her heart squeezing. “Hey. You couldn’t let me down even if you tried. I’m here. Always. Whether you’re on pole or P18. That doesn’t change.”

He let out a breath—this time, steadier. “I hate how you always know what to say.”

“That’s because you’re not very mysterious,” she teased gently. “Plus, I’m a genius.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Debatable.”

“Shut up. Let me hype you up.”

Lando grew quiet again, but this time it felt like peace instead of pressure.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he said after a beat. “For always answering. For always being… you.”

“Always,” she whispered. “Now get some sleep. I’ll beat your ass at 8 Ball tomorrow.”

He chuckled. “Dream on.”

But she heard the smile in his voice, and that was enough.

The paddock buzzed with media, team personnel, and the hum of anticipation. Cameras flashed, journalists circled like hawks, and mechanics moved with quiet urgency. But Y/N had learned to find her pockets of calm. She had her coffee, her notes, and her well-practiced ability to look like she was busier than she was.

She spotted Lando from across the garage.

Cap low, hoodie pulled over his race suit, jaw set.

But when his eyes found hers, something shifted. His shoulders relaxed just slightly, and his mouth twitched up at one corner.

He made his way over, slipping through the chaos like it didn’t faze him, though she knew better.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice only for her.

“Hey,” she replied, equally quiet.

“You beat me at 8 Ball,” he muttered.

She grinned. “Told you I would. Should’ve let me hype you up before the game, too.”

He laughed under his breath. It wasn’t loud, but it was real. And that felt like a win.

“You sleep okay?” she asked, watching his face.

He nodded, nudging her lightly with his elbow. “I did. You helped.”

“Good,” she said. “Now don’t let any of those trolls live rent-free in your head today. You’re here for you. For the team. And maybe a little bit for the drama.”

That pulled a wider smile from him. “You’re better at pep talks than my old sports psych.”

“Probably better looking too,” she teased, sipping her coffee.

He didn’t deny it.

They stood there a beat longer, just existing in each other’s calm before the noise swallowed them whole again.

Will called him over, and Lando straightened up.

“Time to go to work.” He said, turning away.

But before he went, Y/N called for him to come back.

He glanced back at her. “What is it?” He asked.

Y/n bit her bottom lip in the nervous way Lando loved, but he would never admit that, and walked up to him. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a light peck on the cheek.

“For good luck,” she said, flushed.

Lando smiled, and he smiled hard. So hard that it hurt, and he carried that smile out onto the grid.

The roar of the crowd was still echoing in the paddock. Orange flags waved from the grandstands, mechanics were cheering, champagne sprayed somewhere nearby—and Lando stood on top of the world.

He’d done it.

His first win of the season.

It didn’t hit him all at once. It came in waves—the checkered flag, his race engineer yelling in his ears, the blur of the final lap flashing back in his mind. But now, standing next to his car with confetti still drifting down like slow-motion snow, it hit.

And he smiled.

No, he beamed.

Because the first thing he saw when he turned around was her.

Y/N had pushed through the crowd just enough to stand on the edge of the garage, a breathless grin on her face and pride in her eyes.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

He jogged straight to her, still in his suit and helmet, sitting on the first-place table stand, and before she could even say a word, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground like she was weightless.

She let out a startled laugh, clinging to his shoulders. “Lando!”

“I did it!” he yelled, spinning her once before setting her back down, still holding her like he wasn’t ready to let go.

“I know! I watched it happen!” she said through a laugh, breath catching at how happy he looked.

He leaned his forehead against hers for a second, grinning like an idiot. “It was a kiss. I’m telling you. You kissed me and boom—podium. Easy math.”

She flushed. “I didn’t say it was that kind of good luck.”

“Too late,” he whispered. “I’m never racing without one again.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too widely to deny how much she cared. “You were brilliant out there.”

He pulled back enough to look at her properly. “You believed in me when I didn’t. I’ll never forget that.”

Her heart stuttered at the sincerity. But before she could answer, cameras started clicking furiously again, someone called his name, and he gave her one last squeeze.

“I gotta go do media stuff—but don’t leave, alright?”

“I won’t.”

He took a step back, still smiling like he’d just been handed the world—and honestly, he kind of had.

And Y/N? She just watched him walk off, her heart full and racing, a little dazed by how much that boy meant to her now.

The party had faded hours ago. The team had cheered, the champagne had flowed, and Lando had done more interviews than he could count. His face hurt from smiling, his voice was half gone, and his suit still smelled faintly of victory and engine oil.

But now… now it was quiet.

Lando stepped out on the rooftop lounge of the hotel wearing a t-shirt and some joggers. The night air was cool against his skin, the concrete still warm from the day’s sun. He wasn’t even sure why he came out here—just needed space, maybe. Air that wasn’t full of flashing lights and praise.

And there she was.

Sitting on one of the lounges, looking up at the stars, sipping from a bottle of water, like she’d been waiting. Or maybe just knew he’d show up eventually.

Y/N looked up and smiled, soft and familiar. “Hey, champ.”

He walked over and dropped down beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “You’re still awake?”

“Could ask you the same thing.” She handed him her spare bottle.

He took it, twisted the cap, and drank without question. “Can’t sleep. Still buzzing.”

“Kind of hard to crash after your first win of the season.”

He chuckled. “You make it sound cooler than I do.”

“It is cool. You were incredible, Lando. No one could’ve taken that win from you today.”

He leaned back on his palms, glancing up at the stars above. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

They sat in silence for a moment, their legs stretched out in front of them, ankles nearly touching. Somewhere down the road, a car whooshed by. People were humming in the streets down below.

“You ever wonder,” he said quietly, “if it’s ever going to be enough? Like… you do everything right, you win, you prove people wrong—but then there’s always more. More noise. More pressure.”

She looked over at him, eyes steady. “Yeah. I wonder about that a lot. Especially when I see you carry the weight of it like it’s your job, too.”

Lando didn’t respond right away. He just stared ahead, letting her words settle.

“But you don’t have to carry it alone, you know,” she added gently. “Not when I’m around.”

His gaze shifted to her, something raw and open in his eyes. “You mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

Another quiet stretch passed, filled with everything they weren’t saying out loud. And then—

“You’re kind of my favorite person right now,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

Y/N’s breath caught.

“Just right now?” she teased.

Lando smiled slowly, turning to face her fully. “Alright—maybe longer.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, heart thudding a little too loudly in her chest. “Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”

And they sat there, side by side, under the stars—two friends teetering on the edge of something more. Not ready to fall just yet, but both were wondering what would happen if they did.

They weren’t together. But they weren’t just friends anymore, either.

Sometimes Y/N would catch herself mid-laugh, watching the way his eyes crinkled when he was genuinely happy, and her stomach would twist. Not in a bad way—just that damn it kind of way. The kind that made her fingers itch to reach for him. To hold his face. To kiss him like she’d imagined one too many times in the dark.

And Lando? He was no better.

There were nights he’d finish a race and instinctively check his phone—not for the media, not even for his team—but for her. Just a little “Proud of you” text with the star emoji she always used. That’s all it took. That one sentence could undo him. He kept screenshots. He reread old messages when he couldn’t sleep. And there were moments, more than he could admit, where he caught himself imagining what it would be like to wake up to her in his bed. Not even for anything explicit—just her, warm and sleepy, stealing the covers and smiling at him through the sunrise.

They hadn’t crossed that line. Not yet.

But the tension simmered beneath the surface, unspoken but always there. It was in the way her hand lingered on his back just a second too long. The way his gaze dropped to her lips when she was mid-sentence. The way they always seemed to lean just a little too close when they laughed, like gravity was slowly pulling them together.

And when they hugged now—because they did, often—it wasn’t the quick, polite kind anymore.

It was slow. Intentional. Bodies pressed close. Hands-on waists, fingers at the nape of a neck. Heads tucked into shoulders. His heart was thundering.

Y/N wasn’t sure who would break first.

But sometimes, when he looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth, she thought maybe it would be both of them.

But where it truly got complicated… was in the physio room.

There was only so much distance you could keep when your job involved touch.

Y/N was a professional. She’d worked with dozens of athletes. But none of them made her heartbeat do stupid things when she slid her hands down a tight quad or helped them through a stretch. None of them made her pause before every session and breathe, just to stay grounded.

Lando was different.

At first, it was subtle—his breath hitching when her fingers pressed into the muscle at the back of his shoulder, his eyes fluttering closed for a second longer than necessary. The way he’d hum quietly, almost to himself, whenever her hands found the spots that needed working out.

But lately, the air between them had changed.

His eyes lingered when she bent down to adjust his posture. Her fingers hesitated, not out of uncertainty, but want. His body relaxed under her touch in a way that felt like trust. Like surrender.

And sometimes… their touches lingered.

Like that morning when he came in early, hoodie tugged over his curls, voice still raspy with sleep.

She had him lying flat on the padded table, one leg bent, her hand gliding over his thigh to feel the tension. Her other hand braced his knee, her eyes locked on his body as she worked through the tightness.

“You okay?” she asked softly, fingers pausing at the sensitive spot.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Feels good.”

Too good. Too intimate.

She glanced up, and he was already looking at her—eyes soft, lips parted, breath shallow.

It would’ve been so easy. Just a little lean forward. Just one second of bravery.

But then he blinked, and the moment passed. Barely.

Another time, he sat shirtless on the edge of the table, and she stood behind him, helping him stretch out his shoulders. Her hands slid up his back, over the planes of muscle and the little freckles she was trying not to memorize. He leaned back slightly into her touch, head tilting until it nearly rested against her shoulder.

He didn’t move. Neither did she.

The air was thick with something unspoken. His hand dropped, fingers brushing against her leg.

It should’ve meant nothing. But it did.

Their sessions grew longer. Not because he needed more treatment, but because neither of them wanted to leave.

Because physio had become the one place where they could be close without questions. Without pressure. Just them. Quiet. Tense. Comfortable. Dangerous.

They weren’t together. But they weren’t just friends either.

And more and more, when Y/N found herself thinking about him—about his laugh, about his hands, about the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention—it wasn’t professional.

Not even close.

And Lando? He couldn’t even pretend anymore.

He thought about her when he fell asleep. Dreamed about her touch. Missed her even when they’d just seen each other. He lived for her voice. Her calm. Her presence. Her hands.

He was falling.

They both were.

And one day soon, one of them would break.

Lando had finished P2. A hard-fought, tooth-and-nail race that left his adrenaline spiking and his heart pounding. The kind of race where the sweat felt earned and every muscle in his body ached in the best way.

And when he climbed out of the car and saw Y/N waiting just outside the garage with that quiet smile—smile-the one she saved just for him, it was better than any champagne on the podium.

“You were unreal,” she beamed, reaching for his water bottle, like always.

He leaned in without thinking, resting his forehead against hers for a beat. He was still in his helmet, visor up, and he could feel her breath against his chin.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmured.

She flushed. He loved it when she flushed.

But before they could say anything else, someone behind them cracked a joke—too loud, too thoughtless.

“…Guess Lando needs extra weight in the garage to balance the car out, huh?”

A pause.

Someone snorted. A second of awkward laughter from a couple of junior engineers nearby. They didn’t mean it maliciously. Just idiots being idiots. The kind who thought fat jokes were still funny.

Y/N didn’t even flinch. She’d learned not to. Instead, she looked away, jaw tight, the smile slipping off her face.

But Lando?

Lando snapped.

He turned so fast that his helmet nearly swung into someone.

“What the hell did you just say?” he barked.

The laughter died instantly.

The guy, the one who’d said it, froze. “I was just—just joking—”

“No. You weren’t. You were being a disrespectful prick,” Lando said, voice sharp, unwavering. “She does more for this team than you ever will. She’s the reason I’m standing here right now with a trophy in reach, and if I ever hear you talk about her like that again, I swear to God—”

“Lando,” Y/N said quietly, her hand brushing his arm. But he wasn’t done.

“I don’t care who you think you are. You want to stay on this team, you treat her with respect. She’s family.”

The word family landed heavily.

Everyone was silent.

The guy mumbled something that might’ve been an apology and disappeared fast. The others avoided eye contact, scattering like roaches.

Lando turned back to her, face still flushed with anger, chest heaving.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His eyes softened immediately. “Don’t. Don’t you ever apologize for other people being assholes.”

She looked at him, her throat tight. “I’m used to it.”

“Well, I’m not. And I won’t be.” He reached out and took her hand, just for a second. But it felt like a lifetime. “You mean too much to me.”

That part slipped out.

Neither of them moved. Not even when Will called for Lando to get to the media.

“I’ll find you after,” he said, voice quiet again. “Don’t disappear, yeah?”

She nodded, heart thudding.

And when he finally walked off, she stood there for a moment longer, hand still tingling from his touch, replaying his words.

You mean too much to me.

Maybe this wasn’t just friendship anymore.

Maybe it never had been.

The gym was quiet—unusually so. Just the soft hum of machines, the occasional thud of a dropped weight, and the low murmur of a playlist that neither of them was paying attention to.

Y/N sat on the mat, stretching out Lando’s leg, focused on his hamstring. Or at least pretending to be.

Lando was lying on his back, shirt clinging to him with sweat, one arm slung lazily over his eyes. But she could feel the way his body had gone still under her hands. Not relaxed. Not tense. Just waiting.

Waiting for something to break.

Her fingers moved gently, working the muscle. Slow, practiced, familiar. And yet it felt anything but.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally, voice soft and scratchy from the heat.

Y/N glanced up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just focusing.”

“Right,” he muttered. “Because stretching me out is so mentally taxing.”

She gave his leg a push, just enough to make him grunt. “Don’t tempt me to bend it the wrong way.”

That pulled a laugh from him, but even that sounded off.

A beat passed. Another. The air buzzed with something unsaid.

“I meant it, you know,” Lando said suddenly, lowering his arm so he could look at her. “What I said last week. About you.”

She froze, fingers stilling just above his knee.

“Lando…”

“No one’s ever stood up for you like that?” he asked, sitting up slowly. “That’s what you told me.”

She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t move away either. “People don’t usually think I need it.”

“Well, I do,” he said. “I see how you carry it all. The weight. The pressure. The way you make space for everyone else. I just—I wanted you to know someone’s got your back too.”

Their eyes locked, and everything in the room went still.

Her heart pounded in her ears. “You didn’t have to. But you did.”

“I’ll always choose to.”

That hung in the air.

And then she was moving, standing, grabbing a towel, pretending to need a break—but Lando followed and stopped her just short of the water cooler.

He stepped into her space, one hand coming up to brush a loose curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered, soft and warm against her skin.

Her breath hitched.

His eyes dropped to her lips.

“Y/N…” he said, almost like a warning. Almost like a prayer.

She leaned in just slightly, barely a fraction.

But a door slammed in the hallway, laughter echoing down from a nearby group, and they both stepped back at the same time, like the spell had been broken.

She swallowed. “We should… finish the cooldown.”

He nodded, jaw tight, eyes still locked on hers. “Yeah. Okay.”

But as they returned to the mats, neither of them could focus. Her hands still trembled faintly every time they brushed his skin, and he didn’t stop watching her like he’d never seen her before.

And maybe… just maybe… that was the beginning of the end of pretending.

Race weekends didn’t leave much room for downtime, but somehow, Lando always found time to text her.

Lando: u up?

Y/N: classic

Lando: It’s not what it looks like

Y/N: uh huh

Lando: Okay, it’s a little what it looks like

Y/N: insomnia or overthinking?

Lando: both. You?

Y/N: same. Plus hotel pillows suck and Sarah snores.

Lando: Want to come upstairs?

She stared at the message for longer than she’d admit.

Then:

Y/N: I’ll bring the gummy worms.

Y/N smiled to herself as she climbed out of bed, scribbling a quick note for Sarah to let her know where she was going.

Ten minutes later, she was standing outside Lando’s hotel room, knocking gently. The door opened almost instantly.

Lando stood there in sweats and a hoodie, his curls a tousled mess, eyes soft in that way they only ever got when he was tired—or when she was near.

“You weren’t kidding,” he said, eyeing the bag in her hand.

“I never joke about sugar,” she replied, stepping in.

“Just don’t tell Jon, he’ll flip if he finds out.”

“Don’t worry, your secret's safe with me.” Y/n joked poking Lando lightly on his chest.

He closed the door behind her, the air between them thick with the things they weren’t saying. The things they almost said yesterday.

They sat side by side on the edge of the bed, legs brushing, the bag of gummy worms between them.

For a while, it was easy. Familiar. Joking about the media circus, roasting each other over their old Spotify-wrapped playlists, comparing race notes with mock-serious expressions. The kind of rhythm that came with trust.

But somewhere between her laughing too hard at one of his impressions and him watching her like she hung the damn moon, the silence started to hum again.

“About yesterday,” Lando said softly.

Y/N looked over at him. He wasn’t smiling now. Just studying her like she was something he wanted to memorize.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said, voice quiet.

“I want to,” he replied. “It’s not just what they said. It’s that they thought they could say it. That they thought no one would care.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight.

Lando shifted closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that she felt the heat of him. “I care.”

She met his eyes, searching. “I know. I just… I didn’t expect it. You’re kind to me, Lando. And I don’t know what to do with that sometimes.”

He reached out, hesitating only a second before taking her hand in his. His thumb brushed gently over her knuckles.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “I just want you to feel safe with me.”

Their hands lingered like that—twined and quiet and warm.

Then she laughed under her breath, the sound a little breathless. “You know this is dangerously close to being a rom-com moment.”

“Is it?” he asked, smirking. “We already share gummy worms and trauma. What’s next, joint taxes?”

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t let go of his hand.

And neither of them kissed the other.

But God, it was close.

Closer than it had ever been.

And it was getting harder to pretend they didn’t want more.

The dining area was quiet, tucked into that early hour when most of the paddock was still asleep or off on their morning routines. Y/N sat at a corner table with her usual coffee, toast, and a notebook open beside her.

Lando showed up like he always did lately. No grand entrance, just that familiar presence sliding into the seat across from her, hoodie up, sleepy eyes.

“Did you even sleep?” she asked, glancing at the mess of his curls.

“Some,” he said, voice rough with morning. “You?”

“Eventually.” Her mouth quirked. “The sugar crash helped.”

His eyes softened at the memory of gummy worms and everything that nearly happened after. But he didn’t say anything about it—not directly.

Instead, he reached for a slice of toast from her plate, and she didn’t stop him. Their legs brushed under the table. Neither moved.

They talked about the day ahead, strategy notes, and the weather. All the surface-level things that kept them steady. But the air between them was still humming, still warm with the weight of almost.

She caught him watching her once, thumb brushing absently over the edge of his coffee cup. When she looked up, he didn’t look away.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… glad you’re here.”

Before she could respond, someone slid into the booth beside her.

Sarah.

Y/N blinked. “You’re up early.”

Sarah grinned, setting down her plate. “Early bird gets the paddock pass upgrade.”

She looked between the two of them, and her brows lifted just slightly.

“What?” Y/N asked, trying to sound casual.

“Nothing,” Sarah said innocently. “Just… the tension in this booth could cook my eggs for me.”

Lando choked on his coffee. Y/N elbowed her.

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Sarah continued, eyes dancing. “You two are acting like you didn’t almost kiss last night.”

“Sarah!”

“I knew it,” she crowed, pointing her fork at Y/N. “The way you were texting him before bed? Girl. Come on.”

Lando’s ears had gone pink. Y/N looked like she wanted to melt into the booth.

But still, neither of them denied it.

Sarah grinned, looking way too smug for someone holding a half-eaten croissant. “Well, let me know when you two do something about it. I want front-row seats. Or at least to plan the wedding playlist.”

Lando finally laughed, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’s relentless.”

Y/N gave him a sidelong glance, fighting her smile. “She’s not wrong, though.”

His eyes met hers, something quiet and serious beneath the teasing.

“No,” he said softly. “She’s not.”

The room was quiet, tucked away from the buzz of the paddock. Just padded floors, low lights, and the occasional thrum of the bass from the nearby garage.

Lando lay on the mat, one arm slung over his eyes, his race suit pulled halfway down to his waist. Y/N knelt beside him, helping him stretch through his usual pre-qualifying routine.

It should’ve been routine by now—she knew the shape of his body like muscle memory. But something about today felt different. Like they’d both woken up with the echo of what could’ve happened the night before still lingering in their skin.

“Tell me when it’s too much,” she murmured, guiding his leg into a deep hamstring stretch.

He let out a breath through his nose, shifting slightly under her touch. “You’re good.”

But his voice was rough, and she could feel the tension—not just in his body, but in the way his fingers flexed slightly every time her hands brushed his thighs, her forearm skimmed his ribs.

He didn’t pull away.

And neither did she.

When she leaned in to adjust his shoulder, her breath hit the side of his neck. He shivered.

“Cold?” she asked, low and teasing.

“No,” he said, and when he looked up at her, his eyes didn’t blink. “Not even a little.”

Y/N’s breath caught. She was straddling one leg, hovering over him, face barely inches away.

It would be so easy.

His hand came up like he might tuck her hair behind her ear or maybe just touch her cheek—he stopped himself.

Barely.

A beat passed. And another.

Then the door creaked open.

“Lando?” Will’s voice broke the spell. “Time to suit up.”

Lando blinked first. Cleared his throat. “Yeah. Be right there.”

Y/N rolled off him, trying not to look rattled. Lando stood, tugging his suit back on, eyes flicking to her once more as he paused by the door.

“You coming?” he asked softly.

She nodded, grabbing her clipboard, trying to calm the heat in her chest. “Always.”

He smiled—small, knowing, charged—and disappeared down the hall.

She exhaled hard, gripping the edge of the table.

They were right on the edge of something dangerous and wonderful.

And neither of them had quite decided if they were brave enough to fall.

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baby-yongbok · 2 months ago

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Could you pleaseeeee keep doing ASD based stuff? 🥹 Maybe a fluff where Fem!reader receives something she has a hyper fixation for from chan and he stands and admires here as she stims and lightly jumps in circles 🙏🏻❤️

A little something

Bang Chan x Autistic!reader

⤷ Fluff ⤷ WC - 0.6k ⤷ a/n - this took me forever but let's pretend it didn't... I'm sorry. It's hard for me to write ASD stuff despite being on the spectrum myself but I finally did it. I used my own special interest for this & this is based off of my experience with autism and not to meant to reflect how every person with ASD may operate. I hope that you enjoy! ♡ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆

You found Chan by the window, sleeves shoved up, wrestling with something in his hands — a tangled mess of clear plastic and suction cups. He muttered under his breath, so focused he didn't notice you come in until you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe with a small, curious hum.

He glanced up, sheepish, and immediately tried to hide the mess behind his back. Which was pointless, because a second later a suction cup popped loose and fell to the floor with a sad little thunk.

You blinked at him, heart already starting to race the way it did when you could feel something good was about to happen. Chan smiled — a real one, the kind that crinkled his eyes, the kind he didn’t use for anyone else.

"I, uh..." He toed the suction cup across the floor with the side of his sock. "Had an idea. For you. For, y'know, spring and stuff."

He crouched down to pick it up, grumbling to himself, before straightening up and holding the whole thing out toward you. Finally letting you see it properly.

A bird feeder.

Clear plastic, simple design, with little perches and trays. Small enough to stick directly onto the glass of your bedroom window.

“So you can see them whenever you want,” he said, voice soft, almost shy. “You shouldn’t have to go looking for them.”

For a second, you just stared. Not because you didn’t get it — no, you got it too much. The thought behind it hit you straight in the chest, so much louder than any words could’ve been.

Your hands twitched before you could even think. You squeezed them into fists, You rocked on your heels in what slowly progressed into a small bounce, and then you burst — your hands fluttered up, half-formed movements in the air, your feet carried you in excited circles as you tried to get the fuzzy feeling out. A high, shaky noise slipped out of your throat, this bright, raw little laugh you couldn't even contain.

And Chan... God, Chan just looked so stupidly proud. Like he'd just handed you the entire sun.

You didn’t know what to do first — say thank you? set it up? hug him? cry a little because someone thought of you like this?

You did a messy mix of all of it — Chan set the feeder down carefully to catch you when you fling your arms around his waist, laughing and half-crying into his hoodie.

"I love it," you mumbled against him, voice muffled. "I love you."

He chuckled low against the top of your head, squeezing you so tightly it felt like he was trying to put all the unspoken things into his arms instead.

"Let's stick it up now," he said, pulling back just enough to wipe your cheek with his thumb, grinning like you personally kept the stars lit.

The two of you ended up perched on the windowsill, crammed side by side, sticking the feeder to the glass with too much excitement and not nearly enough coordination. Your hands kept fluttering every time you touched the feeder — tap, tap, tap — a little dance of your fingers against the window, almost like you were coaxing the birds to come faster.

Chan caught you doing it once, and instead of saying anything, he just bumped his knee against yours, soft and understanding.

It didn’t even take an hour. A tiny, brave sparrow fluttered down, landing on one of the perches like it had been waiting for the invitation. You gasped so sharply you clapped your hands over your mouth, then started bouncing where you sat, fists clenching and unclenching in wild, giddy excitement.

Chan watched the bird for maybe two seconds — then he turned to watch you instead. Like he couldn’t imagine a view better than the way you lit up.

And honestly, maybe he was right.

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anticipatedexhale · 5 months ago

Note

Arcane women and promise rings? Like reader hand makes it out of whatever they got and gives it to the girls and how they would react

hihiii this is suchhh a cute idea omgg.

How romantic you made them a promise ring!.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨୧

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, mel, sevika, jinx, ambessa, vi.

☆ ◞ summary: you swoon them over with a hand made promise ring!

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader.flufff!!

Mel Medarda.

The evening was painted in gold, the last rays of the sun filtering through the grand windows of Mel’s private chambers. The room was as lavish as ever—fine silk curtains, elegant sculptures, and artwork that spoke of power and refinement. But despite the luxury surrounding her, Mel sat in quiet contemplation by the balcony, a glass of wine resting idly in her hand.

She had been deep in thought all day, her mind burdened with the endless political games of Piltover’s elite. Her expression, normally poised and unreadable, was slightly softer now, the weight of it all evident in her tired posture.

That’s when you approached, your hands nervously clutching a small box.

You had spent weeks working on this. It wasn’t extravagant like the jewelry Mel was used to—it wasn’t encrusted with rare gems or crafted by Piltover’s finest artisans. But it was yours. Every twist of metal, every etched detail, every imperfection… it was made with your own hands.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped closer, your voice gentle. “Mel?”

She turned to you, her golden eyes flickering with curiosity at your tone. A small smile played at her lips, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes yet. “Hmm? What is it, darling?”

You hesitated for a moment before holding out the box. “I… made you something.”

Mel raised a delicate brow, setting her glass down before reaching for the small package. Her fingers, always graceful, carefully undid the ribbon before opening it.

Inside, the promise ring gleamed in the dim light.

It was simple, yet undeniably thoughtful—crafted with an elegant design that suited her perfectly. You had carefully engraved a small pattern along the inside, a design inspired by the murals of Noxus, a quiet nod to her past.

Mel was silent.

For the first time in a long while, she seemed stunned.

You watched as she lifted the ring between her fingers, studying it with an unreadable expression. Your heart pounded in your chest—was it too simple? Too unrefined? Was this a mistake?

Then, she spoke—her voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“You… made this?”

You nodded, suddenly feeling nervous under her intense gaze. “Yeah. I know it’s not the kind of jewelry you usually wear, but I wanted it to be something personal. Something that… means something.” You swallowed. “It’s a promise. That no matter where you go, no matter what happens, I’ll be here. With you.”

Mel’s lips parted slightly, her fingers tightening around the ring as if it were something fragile, something precious. Slowly, she looked up at you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, her carefully guarded walls slipped—just a little.

She didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she reached for your hand, her touch impossibly gentle as she slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.

For a long moment, she simply stared at it, as if memorizing the feel of it against her skin. Then, a slow, genuine smile spread across her lips.

“You are full of surprises,” she murmured, her voice laced with something deep, something warm.

Before you could respond, she pulled you into her arms, her embrace soft yet firm, like she never wanted to let go. Her fingers traced gentle patterns along your back as she whispered, “I’ll hold you to that promise, you know.”

There was something vulnerable in her tone—something rare.

You smiled against her shoulder, your arms tightening around her. “Good. Because I meant every word.”

Mel pulled back slightly, just enough to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, her golden eyes filled with something unreadable, something dangerously close to love.

She lifted her hand again, admiring the ring once more, before glancing at you with a smirk. “You do realize this means I’ll have to outdo you, right?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

And for the rest of the night, Mel kept glancing at the ring, her fingers brushing over it absentmindedly—proof that, for once, someone had given her something real. Something that wasn’t about politics, power, or war.

Something that was simply you.

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Caitlyn kiramman.

Piltover’s skyline stretched endlessly beyond Caitlyn’s balcony, the city lights flickering like stars against the deep blue of the evening sky. The cool air carried the faint scent of rain, and somewhere in the distance, the muffled sounds of the city continued as always—never truly sleeping, never truly silent.

Caitlyn had just returned home from an exhausting day. The precinct had been chaos, the kind of day where nothing seemed to go right—criminals slipping through the cracks, paperwork stacking higher than she could manage, and politics interfering with justice. It was enough to make her sigh the moment she stepped through the door, peeling off her coat and running a hand through her hair.

That’s when she noticed you.

You were standing near her desk, looking slightly nervous, a small box clutched between your fingers.

She raised a brow, immediately sensing that something was up. “You look suspicious,” she teased, a tired but genuine smile tugging at her lips as she stepped closer.

You chuckled, shifting on your feet. “Suspicious? I thought I looked charming.”

Caitlyn smirked, placing a hand on her hip. “That remains to be seen. What are you hiding?”

You hesitated for a moment before taking a deep breath and holding the box out to her. “I, um… made you something.”

The amusement in Caitlyn’s eyes softened into curiosity as she carefully took the box from your hands. Her fingers brushed against yours for a brief second—a small, familiar touch that made your heartbeat quicken.

Slowly, she opened it.

Inside sat a promise ring, simple yet carefully crafted. The band was sturdy but elegant, made to withstand her fast-paced life as an Enforcer. You had taken extra care to engrave a delicate design on the inside—tiny, interwoven lines that resembled a winding path, symbolizing the journeys you’d take together.

Caitlyn’s breath hitched slightly.

She wasn’t the type to be rendered speechless often, but as she held the ring between her fingers, her usual sharp wit faltered.

“You… made this?” she finally asked, her voice softer than before.

You nodded, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious. “Yeah. I know it’s not as fancy as the jewelry you probably grew up with, but—”

Caitlyn cut you off with a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she turned the ring in her palm. “Are you joking? This is perfect.”

You blinked. “It is?”

She glanced up at you then, her deep blue eyes filled with something warm—something unguarded. “Of course, it is. You made it. That alone makes it better than anything I could buy.”

She slipped the ring onto her finger, admiring how it fit. It wasn’t extravagant, it wasn’t something that screamed wealth or status, but it was hers. And more importantly, it was from you.

For a moment, Caitlyn just stared at it, an unreadable expression flickering across her face.

Then, without warning, she stepped forward and pulled you into a firm, heartfelt embrace. Her arms wrapped tightly around you, her body pressing into yours as she buried her face against your shoulder.

You felt her exhale deeply, as if letting go of all the stress from earlier, letting herself breathe for the first time all day.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice just above a whisper. “I don’t think you realize how much this means to me.”

You smiled, your arms tightening around her. “I just wanted you to have something real. Something that’s ours.”

She pulled back slightly, her hands still resting against your waist as she studied your face, her expression softer than you had ever seen it. “It is. And I promise, I’ll wear it every single day.”

Caitlyn was a woman of her word.

And as she laced her fingers with yours, her thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles, you knew—without a doubt—that she meant it.

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

Ambessa.

The Noxian war tent was quiet—an unusual thing, given that it was usually filled with the sharp clatter of weapons, the deep hum of strategy meetings, or the bold laughter of hardened soldiers. But now, there was only the flickering of torchlight and the steady sound of Ambessa sharpening her blade, the steel whispering against the whetstone.

She sat at the large war table, maps and battle plans sprawled out before her. She was always planning, always calculating her next move—such was the way of a general who had built an empire with her own hands.

But tonight, you had something else planned.

You took a slow breath before stepping forward, setting a small metal band beside her weapon. The contrast was almost comical—her massive sword, engraved with the blood of history, and the simple ring you had crafted with your own hands.

Ambessa glanced at it, then at you, arching a brow. “What’s this?”

You crossed your arms, suddenly feeling a little ridiculous. “A ring.”

She let out a low, amused chuckle. “I can see that. But why are you giving it to me?”

You shifted, feeling the warmth of the fire behind you. “It’s a promise ring. I made it.”

That got her attention. Ambessa stopped sharpening her blade, setting it aside before picking up the ring with the same hands that had conquered nations. It looked small between her fingers, delicate compared to the war-forged armor she wore.

“You made this?” Her voice was quieter now, but no less commanding.

You nodded. “I figured… you have a lot of power. A lot of people swear loyalty to you, but it’s always tied to war, to politics. I wanted to give you something different. Something that isn’t about conquest.”

Ambessa was silent for a long moment, turning the ring over in her fingers, examining every imperfect groove and scratch. You had worked hard on it, even consulting a blacksmith to make sure it was strong—strong enough to survive even her.

When she finally looked back at you, her expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something soft.

“You know, in Noxus, promises are not made lightly,” she murmured, slipping the ring onto her finger. It wasn’t ornate, but it fit well enough, and she seemed to appreciate the weight of it. “They are binding. A vow, once given, is expected to be upheld—no matter the cost.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

Ambessa tilted her head, watching you with sharp, knowing eyes. Then, with a slow smirk, she leaned forward, her presence commanding even in the quiet. “Then tell me—what exactly are you promising, little one?”

You held her gaze, steady despite the way she had a way of making people feel small in her presence. “That no matter what battles you fight, no matter how much the world sees you as just a warrior, you won’t have to carry everything alone. That someone will always be here… not because they have to, but because they choose to.”

Something flickered in her golden eyes—something rare.

Then, to your surprise, she let out a deep, satisfied chuckle. “Hah. You truly are foolish.”

You blinked. “Uh—”

Before you could react, Ambessa reached out, hooking a finger under your chin and tilting your face up toward hers. There was no mocking in her expression, no condescension—only something heavy, something real.

“But I suppose,” she murmured, glancing down at the ring once more, “even a fool can make something worthy of keeping.”

And with that, she pulled you into a firm, unshakable embrace, as if sealing the promise herself.

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

Vi.

The night was quiet—rare for Zaun. Usually, the city never slept, filled with the distant clang of machinery, the hum of shimmer deals happening in dark alleys, and the occasional brawl breaking out in the slums. But for once, things were still. Peaceful.

Vi sat on the rooftop of your shared hideout, leaning back on her hands, legs stretched out as she watched the neon lights flicker in the distance. She had been quiet all night, which was unlike her. No teasing, no playful jabs—just a sort of tired stillness that weighed on her shoulders.

You knew why. She’d been out all day handling trouble—some gang fight that nearly turned ugly, a reminder that no matter how much she wanted to change things, Zaun always found a way to pull her back into its chaos.

That’s why you were here. That’s why the small, handmade ring in your pocket felt heavier than it should.

You took a deep breath and sat beside her, nudging her shoulder lightly. “You good?”

Vi blinked, then turned her head toward you with a lopsided smirk—one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

You hummed, pretending to be casual as you pulled something from your pocket. “Well… maybe this’ll help.”

Vi glanced at your closed fist, curiosity flickering in her tired pink eyes. “What, you finally got me a golden tooth so I can match Sevika?”

You snorted. “No, but I did make you something.”

With that, you opened your hand, revealing a simple metal ring. It wasn’t flashy—not polished like something you’d find in Piltover, not encrusted with gems. But it was solid, sturdy, and built to last. Just like her.

Vi blinked, completely caught off guard. “Wait… you made this?”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “Yeah. Took me a while, but I figured… I dunno, you always put yourself in the middle of fights, always taking hits for other people. Thought maybe you deserved something that’s just… for you.”

For once, Vi was speechless.

She picked up the ring, turning it over in her calloused fingers, tracing the rough edges. She wasn’t the type to get sentimental over gifts, but this—this was different. This wasn’t some expensive piece of jewelry from Piltover, wasn’t something someone threw money at to impress her.

This was you.

After a long moment, she exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “You really went and made me a promise ring, huh?”

You nudged her with your elbow, suddenly nervous. “Shut up. It’s not dumb, okay?”

Vi grinned, but there was something soft in her expression—something rare. “Nah, it’s not dumb. Just didn’t think anyone would… y’know. Do something like this for me.”

She slipped the ring onto her finger, flexing her hand as if testing how it felt. It wasn’t perfect, wasn’t smooth, but that didn’t matter. It was real.

And then, without warning, she leaned over and pressed a firm kiss against your temple. Not rushed, not teasing—just solid, grounding.

“Guess that means I gotta keep my promise too, huh?” she murmured.

You tilted your head. “And what exactly are you promising?”

Vi grinned, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you against her side. “To keep you safe, dumbass. And maybe—just maybe—get us out of this city one day. Just you and me.”

And as the neon lights flickered in the distance, she twisted the ring around her finger, a silent reminder that, for once in her life, she had something worth staying for.

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

Jinx.

Finding Jinx was never easy.

She was like a ghost—always slipping in and out of the shadows, disappearing for days, only to reappear like nothing happened, a manic grin on her face and a new stash of explosives in her arms. But you knew her better than most. Knew that beneath all the chaos, all the unpredictability, there was still a girl who needed something—someone—to come back to.

That’s why you were here now, weaving through the abandoned warehouse she had claimed as her latest hideout, the dim glow of neon lights casting eerie shadows across the walls.

You spotted her up ahead, sitting cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with one of her gadgets. She was humming to herself, lost in her own world, before her head snapped up at the sound of your footsteps.

"Well, well, look who finally decided to show up," she drawled, spinning a wrench in her hands before tossing it over her shoulder with a clatter. "Did ya miss me?"

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer. "You’ve been gone for three days, Jinx."

She grinned, unbothered. "Aww, you keepin’ track? Cute."

You sighed, shaking your head. No matter how much she deflected with jokes, with teasing, you could see the exhaustion creeping at the edges of her expression. The kind of exhaustion that came from running too long, from never stopping.

"Here," you said, pulling something from your pocket. "I, uh… made you something."

Jinx’s blue eyes flickered with curiosity as you dropped a small, handmade ring into her palm. It was rough, slightly uneven, made from repurposed metal scraps you had carefully bent and shaped into something hers.

She blinked, tilting her head. "What, a ring? What, you proposin’ to me now?"

You chuckled. "It’s a promise ring, Jinx. Not a wedding band."

She held it up to the dim light, watching it glint as she twirled it between her fingers. "Hmm… so what's the promise?"

You swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous. Jinx wasn’t like other people—she didn’t trust easily, didn’t believe in things the way most did. But you had to try.

"That I’m not going anywhere," you said softly. "No matter how far you run, no matter what happens… I’ll always be here."

Jinx went still.

The air between you felt heavier, the usual playfulness in her expression faltering for just a second. She stared at the ring, then at you, something flickering in her eyes—something unsure, something vulnerable.

"That’s a pretty big promise," she muttered, voice quieter now.

You nodded. "Yeah. But it’s one I plan on keeping."

Jinx was quiet for a long moment. Then, suddenly, she grinned wide, slipping the ring onto her pinky finger with a dramatic flourish.

"Well, duh you’re gonna keep it," she said, leaning in close until your noses almost touched. "‘Cause if ya don’t, I’ll find ya."

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, I figured."

But before you could say anything else, she grabbed your wrist and tugged you down onto the floor beside her, settling against your side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Y'know," she murmured, playing with the ring, "it's kinda nice… havin’ somethin’ to come back to."

And in that moment, you knew—you had given her something no one else had. A reason to believe.

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

Sevika.

Sevika wasn’t the kind of woman who cared for sentimental things. She lived in a world where promises were just words, where loyalty was bought and sold, and where people who got too attached ended up dead.

That’s why this was stupid.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you sat at The Last Drop, waiting for her shift to end. The dim glow of the bar lights flickered above you, the scent of cheap liquor and cigarette smoke lingering in the air. Sevika was across the room, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, watching over the patrons like a wolf waiting for an excuse to sink her teeth into someone.

She hadn't noticed you yet.

Good. That gave you another minute to talk yourself out of this.

But before you could, Sevika’s gruff voice cut through the noise. “You’ve been sitting there for a while.”

You looked up just in time to see her approach, her mechanical arm gleaming under the low light. She pulled a chair out and sat down heavily, eyeing you with mild amusement. “Something on your mind?”

Your fingers clenched around the small piece of metal in your pocket. This is dumb. She’s gonna laugh.

But you had already come this far.

Wordlessly, you pulled the ring out and set it on the table between you.

Sevika blinked, then looked at you with a raised brow. “What’s this?”

You swallowed. “A promise ring. I made it.”

For a moment, she just stared at you. Then, she let out a low chuckle and leaned back in her chair. “The hell are we? A couple of love-drunk teenagers?”

Your stomach twisted. “Look, if you don’t—”

Her fingers closed over the ring before you could finish.

She turned it over in her palm, inspecting it like she would a blade—searching for flaws, for weaknesses. And yet, she didn’t toss it aside. Didn’t mock it. Didn’t mock you.

“You made this?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

You nodded. “Yeah. Figured… you don’t have a lot of things that are just yours. Thought maybe you should.”

She was quiet for a long moment. The usual sharpness in her expression dulled slightly, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.

Then, without a word, she slipped the ring onto her pinky finger.

It was rough, imperfect, but it fit.

“You know promises don’t mean shit in Zaun,” she muttered, flexing her fingers like she was testing the weight of it.

You exhaled. “I know. But this one does.”

Sevika studied you for a moment before shaking her head with a smirk. “You’re a damn fool.”

But she didn’t take the ring off.

Instead, she stood, ruffling your hair roughly before walking away—ring still on her hand, fingers brushing over it absentmindedly.

And for Sevika, that was as close to an I love you as you were ever going to get.

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Author note: THIS WAS SO COOL TO WRITE OMG FEEL FREE TO SEND MORE CHAT

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vantetaes · 5 months ago

Text

PARENT TEACHER CONFRENCES🫧🥂

TEACHER!NANAMI X MILF BLACK FEM READER

SUMMARY!!! hardworking single mom yn is called to meet with nanami, her sons fourth grade teacher to discuss his performance.

WARNINGS!!! aggressive tones, cursing, penetration, oral {f}, mirror sex, affirmations, sensual, praises, 6.2k

the school hallways are eerily quiet, the usual chaos of children’s laughter, teachers and coaches directing the younger kids to class, and hurried squeaky footsteps replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. you stride through the marble floored corridor, the sharp click of your black heels slicing through the silence.

your grip tightens around the structured leather of your designer handbag as you reach the door labeled with big black lettering MR. KENTO NANAMI.

you knock twice, before using your entire body weight pushing the wooden door open without waiting for an invitation.

nanami looks up from his desk, his expression unreadable behind his gold square-framed glasses. he’s put together, wearing a clean tan suit. the matching jacket lay carelessly over the back of his chair while his white button up pressed shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to hint at forearm muscle, tie loosened just a fraction. the gold chain he wore underneath barely peeking through to catch the beams of sunlight coming through the large windows.

his whole aura screams methodical, disciplined, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes when he meets your gaze. something unreadable.

“ms. l/n, i’m surprised. thank you for making the time.” he greets, standing as a courtesy. his voice is deep, smooth, but there’s an undercurrent of exhaustion beneath the professionalism.

you set your bag down on one of the two brown leather chairs before seating yourself across from him, back straight, chin tilted slightly upward. nanami watched as your blazer tightened around your frame as you fixed your posture. your sheer stockings with lace cuffing your thigh give the man a tease, revealing with the way your mini pencil skirt rose up to crease at your hips. the simple gold jewelry necklace that hung around your neck, being fixed by freshly manicured french tips.

and the one thing he could never forget about you, you smelled like homegrown vanilla and looked like you were moisturized by gods.

“i always make time when it comes to my son, mr. kento. let’s get to the point.” your tone is crisp, practiced, the same one you use when working around the most elite of clients and workers the same. although it never mattered to nanami. outside of those aura you present, he knew you’d crumble.

“it’s about yuji. he’s a bright kid. engaging , compassionate. but i’ve noticed a pattern of distraction in class. his assignments are often rushed, and while he excels in physical activities, he struggles to focus during lessons. i’m concerned he’s not reaching his full potential.” he exhales slowly, measuring his words. his hazel eyes lock onto yours for a moment, trying to gather an expression.

“so what are you saying? that my son is a problem all of a sudden?” your brows knit together, irritation beginning to bubble beneath your skin.

“not at all, in fact i love having him in my class. i’m saying he needs more structure. more consistency.” nanami doesn’t flinch, his gaze steady. he goes to grab a manila folder, with your sons name right on the front.

“you think i don’t provide that? do you know how hard i work to make sure yuji has everything he needs?” you fold your arms, nails tapping against your sleeve, leg beginning to jump. the small sound of your heel connecting with the flooring filling the uncomfortable space.

there’s a flicker of something in his expression—understanding, maybe, but not pity.

“i’m not questioning your dedication as a parent, ms. l/n. i see how much yuji adores you. but children, especially ones as energetic as him, need more than just material stability. they need presence.”

your jaw tightens. presence. as if you haven’t sacrificed enough. as if you haven’t built an empire just so yuji never has to want for anything.

“i’m present-” you say, voice quieter now, but still firm. “i show up. the amount of money i spend on this crappy little private elementary school, i should be the one signing checks.”

nanami slightly adjusts his glasses, tapping his finger along the opening of the folder. instead, his body shifts backwards in his chair, placing the cream folder in front of you. clasping his hands together, a small, tight line smile crosses his face.

“the amount of money you donate to helping your child’s future doesn’t impress me. do with that what you will. i didn’t mean for you to feel as though i was attacking you, ms. l/n. just bringing light to the situation.”

sitting forward in your seat, you lean over. your nails drum against the polished wood of his desk, slow, deliberate. his eyes can’t help but to draw down to your exposed cleavage. watching your necklace sway with your movements.

“you assume a lot, mr. kento.” your voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it now, a sharpness honed from years of speaking over men who thought they could talk over you.

“you see a distracted child and immediately think it’s a lack of structure. you see a working mother and assume it’s a lack of presence. tell me, do you make the same assumptions about fathers?”

“i don’t assume, ms. l/n. i observe. and what i’ve observed is a boy who looks over his shoulder every time he accomplishes something. searching for approval that isn’t always there.” nanami doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk, his expression unwaveringly calm. you could smell the mint wafting off his breath.

“that’s not fair.” heat flares in your chest, something dangerously close to guilt threading through the frustration.

“it’s not about fair.” he says evenly.

“it’s about what’s real. yuji is brilliant, but he’s restless. he’s eager, but inconsistent. i don’t doubt for a second that you love him. but love and attention aren’t the same thing. help him or you’ll run him right into the ground.”

your lips part, ready to retort, but the words catch. because a part of you knows he isn’t wrong. knows that between early-morning meetings and late-night conference calls, between international flights and back-to-back negotiations, there are missed dinners, forgotten bedtime stories, moments you can’t get back. you work so he doesn’t have to struggle. but in doing so, maybe, just maybe, you’ve made him fight for a different kind of survival.

but admitting that feels too much like surrender.

“you’re out of line. i don’t think the dean would enjoy hear about how you spoke to their cash cow.” so you straighten, tilting your chin up just enough to remind him who you are.

“maybe-” nanami exhales slowly, pushing a hand through his blond hair. his voice remains maddeningly level.

“-but if i don’t say it, who will?”

silence stretches between you, thick with something unspoken. outside, the distant sound of a basketball bouncing against pavement echoes through the hallway.

“enough of this. i have to make it home for yuji. i appreciate your concern for my son but from now on, please mind your own business.”

collecting your purse and the folder, you stand up, straightening out your outfit. nanami stands also, watching as you flip your bouncy curls behind one ear, the skirt still high and teasing. nanami watches as your tiny frame shuffles over to the door, a smile sigh leaving his lips.

you grip the door handle, pausing just long enough to steady yourself. the conversation lingers, the weight of it pressing against your spine, taking in a deep breath.

infuriating.

“ms. l/n.” his voice stops you, low and deliberate.

“what now, nanami?” you inhale slowly before turning, arching a brow.

he watches you for a moment, arms crossed, expression unreadable. then, with the same frustrating composure he’s had all evening, “-i was too hostile.”

you blink, caught off guard. “excuse me?”

“i should have approached the conversation differently. more patience, less provocation.” he exhales, adjusting his tie, more out of habit than necessity. then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, “let-let me make it up to you. dinner.”

there’s a pause. sharp, charged.

then you laugh, a short, disbelieving sound.

“is this your way of apologizing?”

“it’s my way of offering a reset.” his lips twitch slightly at the corner, just slightly.

“would your wife be okay with you taking out a parent?”

“no wife. just me and you.”

you study him, searching for any sign of insincerity. but nanami is firm. there’s no arrogance in his offer, no expectation, just a quiet confidence that irritates you almost as much as it intrigues you.

“interesting, well. bold of you to assume i have the time. yknow, with me being an absent mother an all.” you say smoothly, tilting your chin up.

“bold of you to assume i’m not willing to wait, just like today.” he counters with a laugh without missing a beat.

the air between you shifts, charged with something neither of you acknowledge outright.

“send me the details, mr. kento. i’ll think about it.” finally, you smirk, pushing the door open.

you don’t wait for his response as you walk out, heels clicking against the tile, but you don’t need to. because for the first time tonight, you let him have the last word.

nanami: dinner. friday. 8pm. send me your preference, or i’ll choose.

you: you assume i’m free.

nanami: i assume you’ll make time.

you: bold of you.

nanami: so i’ve been told.

you: fine. pick the place.

nanami: i already have. i’ll send the details.

you: don’t disappoint me.

nanami: i wouldn’t dare.

read 6:25pm

soft jazz hums through your bedroom, blending with the quiet rustle of fabric as you smooth your dress down in the mirror. the dark red silk pulling just right at every curve of your legs and waist. here, in the warm glow of the vanity lights, with yuji bouncing on his heels beside you, you allow yourself a moment of softness.

“mom, you look so cool!” he beams up at you, eyes bright, his excitement buzzing through the air like electricity.

“you really think so, baby?” you turn to him with a warm smile, cupping his cheek gently, watching as the boys eyes lit up like a christmas tree from the affection.

“yeah! like a superhero!” he nods enthusiastically.

“you’re too sweet.” you laugh, pressing a kiss to his forehead, immediately wiping off the faint outline of your lip combo.

behind you, mrs. okoye, yujis nanny, watches with a fond smile but says little, just straightening a few things around the room as if to give you this moment.

“but why are you dressed up? where are you going again?” yuji tugs at your hand, using his other to grab his stuffed bear.

“remember the meeting i had with mr. nanami?” you crouch to his level, smoothing a hand over his messy curly hair.

“when you got mad at him?” he scrunches his nose, pulling the stuffed animal closer.

“we had a discussion. and now, we’re having dinner.” you chuckle.

“so you like him now or are you guys just gonna talk about me, mommy?”

you smirk. “we’ll see.”

the doorbell rings. yuji gasps dramatically. “he’s here!”

before you can stop him, he dashes ahead, excitement bubbling over. he bolts around the corner, dropping his toy along the way. you shake your head fondly, grabbing your clutch and the brown bear and making your way to the door. when you open it, you blink, momentarily caught off guard.

nanami stands there, looking effortlessly composed. navy blue slacks, black button up sleeves pushed up just enough to hint at the veins decorating his forearm. the gold necklace fully visible unlike earlier. but what surprises you isn’t how good he looks. it’s the massive bouquet of red roses and baby’s breath in his hand. the red and white flowers somehow glistening in the moons light.

he stares at you in awe. the way the red dress compliments the rich brown of your skin. he admired how well you layered the gold and diamond jewelry, your warm house lighting catching the gleams perfectly. he loved the way the dress held you, how he could see the outline of your already hard nipples against the silk fabric.

“good evening, ms. l/n.” his voice is smooth, steady, but there’s something almost hesitant in the way he holds out the bouquet. “these are for you.”

“you bring flowers to all your parent-teacher meetings, mr. kento?” your eyes flicker from the flowers to him.

“only when i come on too strong.” his lips twitch, just barely, scratching the back of his neck.

before you can respond, yuji tugs at your dress. “mom! look, flowers!”

“i see that, baby.” you smile, accepting them with one hand while ruffling yuji’s hair with the other. then, turning back to nanami, you arch a brow.

“you’re trying very hard to be charming.”

“is it working?”

you tilt your head, considering, before turning toward the nanny.

“mrs. okoye, put these in water for me? and uh- make sure he’s in bed by 9 at the latest. he has a test monday, his brain needs the rest.”

“but mommy!”

“no buts, that’s how i ended up in this dress in the first place.”

mrs. okoye nods, taking them with a small, knowing smile. “of course, dear.”

“mom says you’re not gonna annoy her tonight.” yuji grins up at nanami.

nanami crouches down to hear the boy more, then glances at you, amused. “is that so?”

you smirk, stepping past the threshold. “we’ll see.”

the restaurant is warm and intimate. a few candles provide low lighting casting a golden glow over dark wood and crisp linens. it’s elegant, but not in the way that feels forced or ostentatious. it’s intentional, curated. something made to make you feel something.

nanami is composed, though somehow his tie discarded somewhere between the car ride and now. he looks, relaxed. or at least, as relaxed as a man like him allows himself to be.

“you chose well, i expected something more- predictable, if im being honest.” you say bluntly, running a finger along the rim of your wine glass, the red liquid swishing.

“ah, so you expected a steakhouse.” he lifts a brow, swirling the amber liquid in his own glass.

“no but i expected something safe.” you smirk.

he exhales, the closest thing to a chuckle slipping through his lips. “i don’t play safe.”

you study him for a moment, letting the words settle between you. nanami is measured, meticulous, but never passive.

“oh? you ordered for me?” the waiter arrives, setting down your plates with quiet efficiency. you glance down, amused.

“i made an educated guess.” nanami sets his napkin in his lap.

“i assume you don’t waste time on things like scanning menus when you already know what you want.”

“you assume a lot about me, nanami.” you lean back in your chair, regarding him with interest.

he meets your gaze without hesitation. “i’ve observed things about you since i’ve started teaching yuji.”

the corner of your lips lifts slightly.

“oh yeah? and what else have you observed?” you take another sip.

he cuts into his meal with precision, not breaking eye contact with you.

“that you’re sharp. decisive. used to being in control-” a pause. he places his glass between his lips, taking a quick sip. then, casually “-and that you rarely let yourself slow down ever.”

your grip tightens just slightly around your fork, tongue picking at the inside of your cheek.

“what else?”

“you’re stubborn. too scared to let anyone in. you think too much about what matters right now and not how it’ll affect your son or his growing up-“

“oh! so now you’re a therapist?”

“ha- ms. l/n, i’m not saying this to be rude. i’m just a teacher.” he takes another sip of his drink. “but one who pays attention.” he starts eating, eyes staying on your frame.

you exhale through your nose, shaking your head. “yuji talks too much.”

“he adores you.” nanami actually smiles at that, small, barely there, but real.

“he’s a good kid.” the warmth in your chest is immediate, but you mask it with a slow sip of wine.

“he is.” nanami leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. “-and he wants more of you.”

your jaw tenses, and he catches it, because of course he does.

“did you ask me out to berate me? you think i don’t know that?” your voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it now. you pinch the bridge of your nose, eyebrows furrowing.

“i think you know. i think you hate that you can’t fix it as easily as everything else in your life.” nanami doesn’t waver.

the honesty of it stings. not because it’s cruel, but because it’s true.

you inhale slowly, setting your glass down. “do you always talk like this over dinner?”

he tilts his head slightly. “would you prefer small talk?”

you hold his gaze, weighing the challenge in it.

then, slowly, a smirk curves your lips. “no.”

he nods once, as if he already knew.

the conversation shifts, flows. work, travel, books that neither of you have had time to finish.

the tension doesn’t leave, but it changes, settling into something less combative, more intimate.

at some point, the plates are cleared. at some point, your wine glasses are refilled for the fifth time. at some point, you realize you’re enjoying this.

and at some point, nanami sets his glass down, watching you with that same measured gaze, and says,

“would you let yourself slow down? just for a little while?”

the question hangs between you, heavier than the air, lighter than the wine.

and for the first time in a long time, you don’t have an immediate answer. in all your tipsy, deep talk with the man, you’d actually started to enjoy the way he was looking at you. how protective and smart he was. how much he cared about a child that wasn’t even his own.

the drive to nanami’s place is smooth, the city lights blurring past as the car hums through the quiet night.

nanami’s apartment is quiet, warm in a way that surprises you. large windows take up a vast majority of his walls. pure marble countertops, redwood flooring. ambient lighting coming from his carved baseboards.

“jesus, how much does teaching actually pay?” upon entering, the much taller man wastes no time bending down, hands tracing the outline of your body as he carefully removes your expensive heels, placing them to the side and grabbing a pair of slippers from the adjacent shoe rack. carefully sliding them on you, letting you adjust, he walks you over to the bar stools.

“i’ve been teaching a long time, ms. l/n-“

“shit, maybe i should quit my empire and start. and please. call me yn.”

a record hums low in the background, something slow and rich, filling the silence between you.

he moves with his usual precision, reaching into a fully see through cabinet. pouring two glasses of whiskey without asking, handing you one with a steady hand. his fingers brush yours, just for a second, and it’s enough to make something flicker beneath your skin. you take a sip letting the heat settle in your chest.

“let’s move to the couch.” he walks from behind the island, helping you off the high bar hair and leading you by the small of your back to his sleek black couch.

“such a gentleman, who would’ve thought.” you joke, leaning back against the couch.

“you expected something else?” nanami sits beside you, not too close, but close enough.

“i expected something colder.” you tilt your head slightly, studying him. his lips pressed to the glass yet his eyes are focused on the way your dress creased at your waist.

“i’m not as rigid as you think, im sorry about earlier.” his lips quirk, just barely. finally taking a drawn out sip, he places his glass down on one of the sleek black coasters.

“no?” your gaze lingers on him over the rim of your glass.

he exhales, slow, watching you the way he always does, like he’s considering his next words carefully.

“no.”

you’re curled into the couch now, one leg tucked beneath you, nanami sitting close beside you, his hand resting on your knee, thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. the city lights below flicker and shine through the darker space. it felt really natural in a sense.

“so, yuji? are you still in contact with his father or-“

your eyes widen as you place the rim of the glass to your lips, drinking in as much of the liquid as you could. already feeling the affects of the wine from dinner and the two glasses of aged whiskey tenfold. your head drops, your bouncy hair covering the sides of your face.

“woah, im sorry if it’s early-“ shaking your hand, you finish off the drink. placing the glass back down.

“i mean, what really is there to say? he got me pregnant, decided he didn’t want to have a wife or a son. left. pretty simple.”

nanamis eyes crease at the side a little, watching as your expression began to falter.

“i won’t bring it up again, im sorry.”

“it’s not your fault. i knew you’d get curious eventually.”

the rest of the conversation flows easily, the whiskey loosening the edges just enough. you talk about work, about travel, and nanami listens intently, his attention never wavering. at some point, the distance between you shrinks, you can feel the warmth radiating off him.

“that’s in a week?” he asks, the coldness of his ring sliding across your now exposed thigh.

“a week? i wish! that’s a day to day schedule.”

“holy shit! i’d rather double the size of my classes.”

your glass is fully empty when he reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray curl from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear.

you pause, breath catching just slightly. “what are you doing, nanami?”

his touch lingers, his thumb ghosting along your jaw. “just checking on you.”

his voice is quiet, deep, pulling you in like a slow tide. you should say something sharp, something to deflect, but you don’t. instead, you hold his gaze, letting the moment stretch, letting the tension coil tighter between you. the pad of his thumb rubs across your face gently.

“you always this bold?” you murmur, tilting your chin up just slightly.

“not usually.”

you find yourself leaning forward, falling into the man’s smell. his blonde hair beginning to loose its shape from the day, falling in front of his face. jokingly, you remove one of the fallen strands, pushing it back up into the style before. he leans forward fully, finally connecting your lips.

it’s slow at first, testing, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand slipping to the nape of your neck, fingers threading around your skin as he pulls you closer. he tastes like whiskey, warm and smooth, and something unmistakably him.

your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping him as he presses against you, his other hand sliding to your waist, guiding you into him. the way he moves is controlled, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second. with your back pressed to the arm of the couch, you could feel the hunger radiating off the man.

when you break apart, you’re breathless, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin.

“tell me if this is too much.” he murmurs, his lips grazing your jaw.

you shake your head, a small smirk playing at your lips. “you think i don’t know what i’m doing?”

nanami exhales a quiet chuckle, his lips brushing yours again, softer this time, slower. “you’re a headache.”

“you like that, though.” you hum, trailing your fingers up his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

his grip on your waist tightens. “i do.”

then he kisses you again, deeper, hungrier, like he’s done pretending this isn’t exactly where the night was always meant to end.

his other hand finds your waist, pulling you fully against him, his grip firm, unyielding. he kisses like he does everything else. controlled, intentional, like he’s taking his time memorizing the way you taste, the way you move against him.

you sigh against his lips, your hands moving to his shirt, fingers slipping beneath the fabric to find the warmth of his skin. his breath hitches slightly at the cold touch, and the sound sends heat pooling low in your underwear.

“you always this damn patient?” you murmur impatiently against his lips, teasing.

nanami exhales a quiet chuckle, though there’s an edge to it now, something unraveling at the seams.

“not always.”

you smirk, your nails dragging lightly down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.

“then don’t be.”

his restraint cracks.

nanami moves without hesitation, his hands gripping your thighs as he pulls you into his lap, settling you against him. the shift has you gasping softly, and he takes advantage of it, his mouth trailing along your jaw, down the column of your throat, lips and teeth and tongue leaving a slow-burning path in their wake.

you tilt your head, giving him more access, helping him out by hiking the skirt of your dress up to your hips, showing off your matching red lace panties. your fingers threading into his hair, tugging slightly. he groans against your skin, low and deep, his hands sliding beneath the fabric of your dress, fingertips teasing against bare skin.

“yn-” he breathes, voice rough with restraint, forehead resting against your collarbone. “-tell me you want this.”

you guide his face back up, meeting his gaze, dark and heavy with desire. your fingers brush along his jaw before pulling him back in, your lips barely grazing his as you whisper.

“i do.”

whatever tension was left shatters.

nanami stands effortlessly, lifting you with him as he moves through the apartment, his mouth still on yours, his hands gripping you like he has no intention of letting go.

when he reaches the bedroom, he presses you against the doorframe for just a second, just long enough to look at you—really look at you.

“last chance.” he murmurs, though his hold on you says he already knows the answer.

you smile, slow and knowing, fingers tracing down the buttons of his shirt before slipping one free.

“shut the hell up and fuck me, nanami.”

nanami doesn’t hesitate. the second the words leave your lips, his mouth crashes into yours, all slow-burning control unraveling into something deeper, something more desperate. he carries you effortlessly across the threshold of his bedroom, his grip firm but careful, like he’s savoring the way you feel against him.

the room is dimly lit, the city lights outside casting a soft glow through the windows, but you barely register anything beyond the warmth of his body, the way he moves, the way he kisses you like he’s been waiting for this—like he’s been holding himself back for too long.

he sets you down gently on the edge of the bed, the fluffy black duvet puffy up as you sit. but before he can pull away, you tighten your grip on his shirt, keeping him close.

“uh- don’t act shy now.” you murmur against his lips, fingers making quick work of the remaining buttons.

nanami exhales sharply, his hands settling on your thighs, thumbs pressing slow, deliberate circles into your skin.

“trust me, shy is the last thing i am.” he says, voice low, rough with restraint,

you smile, trailing your hands down his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath your fingertips. then, in one smooth motion, you push the shirt from his shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. disappear into the floor from the nights darkness.

your gaze sweeps over him, taking in the broad planes of muscle, tattoos littered across his skin. the faint lighting contouring his abs. your fingers trace over, your touch featherlight.

“you stare a lot.” he murmurs, amused.

you hum, tilting your head as you drag your nails lightly down his torso. “i like what i see.”

his breath stutters just slightly, and before you can tease him about it, he leans down, capturing your lips in another deep, lingering kiss. this one is different. slower, heavier, like he’s savoring every second, every sigh, every way your body reacts to him.

you let him, melting into the warmth of his touch, into the way his hands slide up your sides, tracing over fabric as if debating whether to remove it.

“nanami.” you murmur against his lips, impatient now.

he exhales a quiet chuckle, lips trailing along your jaw, down the column of your throat, pressing slow, deliberate kisses against your skin.

“hmm?”

“stop teasing.”

he pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. then, his hands move. slow, steady, as he starts to undo the zipper of your dress.

“uh uh uh, say please.” he murmurs, lips curving just slightly.

you arch a brow, amused despite the heat pooling low in your core.

“you’re pushing your luck.”

nanami smirks, fingers trailing over newly exposed skin, making you shiver.

“and yet, you haven’t stopped me.” he muses, voice dipping lower. with ease, he slips the dress from around your waist, gently pushing your body back to lay down in the warmth of the comforter.

his lips trace soft kisses down your collarbone, nipping slowly at the skin. you gasp, head falling back into the mattress, enjoying the feeling of warmth coming from the man’s breath. he proceeds down, planting kisses down to your exposed chest, tongue faintly sliding over your swollen buds.

“oh! fuck nanami, i’m gonna hurt you.” propping your body up on your elbows, he pushes you right back.

“fine, since you wanna be so impatient.”

dipping down, he picks you up, tossing carefully you so that your head rest on his massive pillows. crawling up to you, his lips pepper kisses. down your sternum, under your breast, kissing slowly down your torso, planting one first one to your belly button.

“how pretty they are, hm? just for me?” his voice raspy and hiding hunger, you let out a small sigh, fingers grasping onto the man’s blonde locs.

his head dips between your thighs, mouth pressing against your clothed cunt. a slight hum comes from his chest, letting his head fall to one side as his eyes look up at you, drunkenly.

without further hesitation, he pulls your panties to the side, tongue immediately collecting your slick that pooled. this was the most intimate you’ve been in a man since yuji was conceived. and god did it feel good.

his hands hook around your legs, holding you open in a middle split while one hand held the lingerie to the side while the other rubbed slow, agonizing circles into the swollen nub. he uses his tongue to slowly pump in and out of your throbbing hole. in the darkness of the room, all you can see is stars and made up shapes floating around in the void. tears pooling at the corners of your eyes as you feel nanami begin to slowly suck at your clit, plump lips wrapped gently around while the tip of his tongue spells out his name. his middle and ring finger pushing and pulling out of you, the sounds of wetness filling the room.

your mouth open, head thrown back into the pillows, and fingers grasping onto the man’s head for dear life, he ate you like he was starving. like a wild beast. everytime he removed his lips from sucking, using his fingers to curl up inside you, fucking your gummy walls.

“nami- oh! i’m gonna cum!” he knew it. he felt how tight you were getting around his fingers. how you were pulling him in now.

“you’re so beautiful, do it. make a mess on my fingers.”

that was enough to have you throwing your arms around the man’s neck, pulling him into a hug as the coil in your belly burned.

“shit! oh fuck.” he let you hold onto him for a few seconds before he slowly pulled his fingers out of you, watching as you frown from the lack of touch.

instead, climbs off the bed, uses his abs to wipe his hands off. he swiftly undoes his leather belt, unbuckling his slacks and tossing them somewhere else in the room. almost hopping right back onto the bed, he climbs back to your limp frame.

“you okay?” he asks, removing a few strands of hair sticking to your forehead.

“mhm.” you give him a weak thumbs up, letting your hand fall against his chest. he leans over, placing a swift kiss to your lips.

“i know you can give me another one though.”

and maybe that’s how you ended up here. bent over his sink, watching as he fucks you passionately. one hand gently around your throat, holding you up, and the other dug securely into your waist. his strokes are slow, sensual. but the way he was looking at you. his eyes got darker, body seemed to get bigger, and he was fucking you in front of his mirror.

“i knew you could take it, hm? say ‘i’m all yours’.” he watched you in the mirror as your makeup smudged and began to run down your face.

“i’m all yours, nami!” you cry out, feeling full from his length.

“mhm, good job baby. now say ‘im a great mother’.” you shake your head before he stops you, halting his movements and staring at you in the mirror. lips pressed against your ear, eye contact never stopping.

“was i asking you? say it.” you whine, trying to fuck yourself into his length, only to get met with a slap on the ass.

“say. it.”

“i’m a great mother!” he rams back into you, causing you to hunch over the counter. eyes still on the mirror as your breast press against the cold marble. he’s relentless, needy. his hand presses into your back as he fucks into you.

“yes you fucking are baby. let me give you another one.” he didn’t know what he was saying. all he knew was that seeing you, bent over his counter, eyes rolling to the back of your head, drooling. he never wanted to stop. he never was going to. he could feel the climax building, watching and feeling as you came undone under him.

“i’m gonna cum baby, oh fuck!”

it’s a short drive to his school, and before long, you’re stepping out, holding his hand as you walk him to class. yuji doesn’t mind- not yet, at least. he swings your arm between you both, talking about his favorite cartoons and how he’s going to beat his friend at some game they play during recess.

but as you reach the door to his classroom, his chatter slows, his fingers curling around yours a little tighter.

you glance down at him. “what’s up, baby?”

“you’re gonna be okay today, right?” he hesitates, then looks up at you with those big, earnest eyes.

you blink, caught off guard.

“of course. why wouldn’t i be?”

“sometimes you look tired after you drop me off.” he shifts on his feet, playing with his fingers.

your chest tightens.

you crouch down so you’re at his level, cupping his little face in both hands.

“baby, i’m always okay. especially when i get to come home to you, you hear me? you’re my favorite person in this whole world. i’m always okay when im with you.”

he nods, his tiny hands resting over yours.

“promise?” his voice small.

you lean in, kissing his forehead.

“i super promise.”

a throat clears behind you.

you already know who it is before you turn, feeling the weight of his gaze before you even meet his eyes.

nanami stands in the doorway, his usual crisp attire perfectly in place, though there’s a softness in his face when he looks at yuji and a different kind of softness when his eyes flicker to you.

“good morning, yuji.” he greets first, as always.

“morning, mr. nanami!” yuji chirps, then glances back at you.

“mommy’s happy today.”

your lips part slightly, surprised at his boldness, but nanami only nods, as if he already knew.

“good,” he says simply, then meets your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his glasses. “i like seeing that.”

your breath catches for just a second, but before you can respond, yuji tugs on your hand.

“okay, mama, you can go now. love you!”

you exhale a quiet laugh, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

“love you more, baby.”

he runs inside without another glance, leaving you standing in the doorway with nanami, his presence steady beside you.

you glance up at him, tilting your head. “you always this charming first thing in the morning?”

“only with you.” he exhales softly, almost a laugh.

“dangerous habit, mr. kento.” your heart stumbles, but you cover it with a smirk.

nanami hums, hands in his pockets. “so i’ve been told.”

you roll your eyes, shaking your head as you take a step back.

“see you later, nami.”

“looking forward to it.” his lips twitch into a smile.

you turn, heading back down the hall, but you can still feel his gaze on you.

and for once, you don’t mind being watched.

part {2} {3}

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nutmegtales · 20 days ago

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Fucking Clowns - part 6 coming to

Danny felt himself slowly waking, the smell of fresh coffee and something chocolatey baking near by hung in the air. He rolled the flavours round his mind for a while letting opinions about each one float to the surface of his mind. He liked coffee. He liked chocolate. These were good smells. Comforting smells. Not the smells of an unsafe lab or a sterile cell. As he thought, he recalled more smells he'd sensed most recently. Of warm linens fresh from a dryer, of old books, and garlic and onion and butter cooking on the stove, of baking, and fresh flowers, of grease and machine oil and leather.

It was nice. Danny took a deep lungful of air, savouring the comforting smells.

The next sense to come back to him was hearing and he listened to the rumbling rhythmic noise that was happening close by as it slowly coalesced into words. Someone was reading aloud, taking their time, their words slow and soothing. He couldn't figure out yet what the words meant, but they sounded comforting.

Danny realised he felt safe, and it was such an unfamiliar feeling he wasn't sure what to do with it. No ghosts screaming at him to kill kill kill, no shouts and jeers from others interned going through their own personal strangeness, no whirring of power tools in a lab filled with weapons designed especially to kill him, no parents plotting gleefully of how to hunt him down.

He felt safe, and he let himself enjoy that feeling for a long time before braving anything more.

Eventually Danny opened his eyes to see soft rays of sunlight streaming through a big glass window. Through it was hues of green and blue, too blurry for him to make out. A blink and the skies were painted in orange, great clouds lit up with the colour of the setting sun. There were different smells and sounds now, but he didn't want to think about them, he just wanted to think of the sky.

Another blink and Danny could see the stars brilliant and bright the way they were back home before he'd had to hide in the city. He loved those stars, he loved those skies. They made him want to reach out and touch the clouds, to leap up and soar through the window and feel the breeze in his hair. They made him want to live.

The smell of coffee was strong again and Danny breathed it in deep, tasting the scent of it on the air. He let his focus shift from the beautiful stars to search his surroundings for the familiar smell. On a table next to the bed he lay in was a still steaming mug, and beyond that in a chair across from him sat someone sipping at a mug of their own. Another glance showed another figure lounging on a couch near by and the sounds drifting through from another room made Danny think there might be someone else too.

He felt... How did he feel? Two, maybe three strangers were with him. Did he feel scared? He tried to muster up the energy to feel fear but couldn't manage it. No, he didn't feel afraid, he felt nothing. Mostly nothing. Maybe something.... Maybe curious "midnight... Coffee?" His voice was feeble and scratchy to his own ears and he wasn't sure if he'd been clear enough to be heard. His eyes drooped closed from the effort of grinding out those few simple words and he felt a wash of exhaustion come over him. He couldn't make out the response as sleep reclaimed him, but he thought it sounded playful like hearing your friends banter in a nearby room. He felt safe, and curious, and exhausted.

The welcome smell of coffee and the sight of the stars became a familiar routine. He'd stay awake just long enough to take in the beauty of the sky, to savour the smell of a fresh coffee (how was it always fresh?), and to see the three people that kept him company.

There was one that sat in the arm chair, always with a mug of his own coffee, and a laptop or file on his lap. Maybe he was why there was always a fresh mug when Danny came too.

There was one that would lounge on the couch and just talk, or who would drape themselves over the other two.

And there was one who sometimes just leant against the wall, sometimes he'd sit on the couch and read aloud, sometimes he'd be sat on the floor at the foot of Danny's bed saying things that sounded sweet and comforting. Danny remembers the times where that deep steady voice tells him he's safe now most of all.

Today he feels awake enough to hear the words of the others, and to try and talk again himself. "Hey" he hesitates, unsure of what else there is to say, the words refusing to rise to his mind.

"Hey Danny" comes the reply. It's the deep voice of the one that reads, the one that tells him he's safe. "It's good to hear from you".

Oh? It is? That's good. Danny is glad they want to hear from him, glad that he's not just a burden or a bother. "Good to be heard" he tries to put some good humour into the words, he's not sure he manages it.

"yeah, I'll bet" he hears the other say "we're listening Danny, we're listening now".

Oh, Danny thinks as he drifts back off to sleep again, that sounds nice.

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#dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake wayne #the road to recovery is a long one #Danny really hadn't expected to ever wake up again #its going to be hard to drag himself put lf the blissful numbness #but for coffee and the bat boys?#he might just do it #also this might be the end?#i think there could be more #but also is this a nice place to leave things?#maybe ill do a final scene time jumped to when Danny is more recovered?#let me know what you guys think if you see these tags #also kinda wanted to explore some GIW shenanigans actually #hm maybe as a secondary story to this one #yeah that sounds fun

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lunaa-runee · 8 months ago

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Ryomen Sukuna gets a new nanny for his son.

Minors DNI. WC: 4.9K

CW: Noncurse AU, DILF!CEO!Sukuna, smut, creampie, implied multiple rounds, kinda mean Sukuna, Sukuna is not great with feelings, broken promises, Yuji is Sukuna's son, there will probably be a part 2 to this story

You glanced up from the crumpled slip of paper in your hand, which bore the address of your new employer. The sleek glass building loomed ahead, reflecting the sunlight in a dazzling display. The hum of the city filled the air, heightening the nervous flutter in your stomach. Taking a deep breath, you pushed through the heavy revolving door, entering this new chapter of your life.

As you entered, you spotted a security guard. He was in his 40s, wearing a simple uniform and donning a hat with bits of his salt and pepper hair sticking out at the bottom. The man offered you a slight smile and said, "Can I help you, ma'am?"

You nodded, "Yes, please. I’m here for Ryomen Sukuna.”

"Could I see your ID miss?" You pulled out your wallet, pulling out and handing over your ID to him. He examined the card silently, peering at you occasionally before turning his attention towards the computer. You nervously twiddled with your fingers as you waited. "Thank you miss l/n. You'll want to take the last elevator down the hall to the right. That is the only one that can take you to the penthouse. Mrs. Ono will meet you at the door."

He handed your ID back. "Okay, thank you."

"Of course, good luck miss. You're gonna need it," he whispered the last bit. His words made you hesitate, a sense of apprehension settling in your gut.

You found the elevator waiting for you. As you stepped inside, you pressed the button to take you to your destination. As the elevator began to rise, a wave of anticipation washed over you, and you instinctively rubbed your sweaty palms against the worn fabric of your jeans.

The elevator's ding announced your arrival, the doors opening to a breathtaking atrium. You stepped, your eyes taking in the stunning entry. A lofty ceiling with a domed skylight flooded the space with natural light. Exquisite stained glass cast colorful patterns on the cream-colored walls, creating an enchanting atmosphere like something from a Bridgerton book.

"Miss l/n?" Your eyes snapped to the double doors opposite the elevator. You had become so mesmerized that you hadn't even paid any attention to the large double doors that entered the residence. A sweet-looking woman in her late 40s or early 50s stood in the doorway. Her outfit was plain, with regular jeans and a tucked-in red polo, with black hair and a few white hairs slicked back into a tight bun. Her smile was genuine as she greeted you. "You're here! I was beginning to believe Mr. Sukuna had scared off every possible nanny the agency had to offer!"

You offer a quick bow. Her words remind you of the doorman's comments. How many nannies has this man employed? "Uh, yes. Hello. You must be Mrs. Ono?"

"I am!" The woman ushered you in, "Come in, please. I'm so happy you're here."

Entering the home, you are welcomed by a spacious entryway with high ceilings, similar to those outside. The apartment features a modern design, with a large staircase leading to the upper level on the right. Just beyond the stairs is the living room, which boasts floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of the city of Tokyo.

"Welcome! My name is Asami Ono, I am Mr. Sukuna's house keeper," she chuckled. "How about a tour?"

The tour went well, but the condo turned out to be larger than you had expected. It featured a spacious kitchen, living room, and dining room. There were four bedrooms, one of which was yours since you would live there as a nanny. The home was simply decorated and appeared staged, not lived-in. There wasn't even a single photo displayed.

On the tour, you discovered that Mrs. Ono was only meant to be a part-time housekeeper. However, with the sudden departure of the last nanny, she took on the temporary role of caring for Yuji, Ryomen Sukuna's son.

"And here," Ms. Ono paused at a door at the end of the hallway on the second floor. "Is your room."

She opened the door, revealing a spacious bedroom. You entered and placed your luggage by the door, taking in the room's appearance. The room had hardwood floors with a simple gray rug at its center. To the right was a plush queen-sized bed, and to the left was a door that led to a bathroom.

"You have your own bathroom, and Yuji's room is down the room across the hall. Do you have any questions?"

"When will Yuji and Mr. Sukuna arrive?"

"Yuji's at a friend's today. I thought it best that we get you settled in before you meet him," she said simply. "Yuji is a sweet boy, but he can be a handful. As for Mr. Sukuna, his work keeps him busy, but I am sure you'll cross paths with him eventually."

"I see," you hum. This wasn't the first job you had taken with parents that made themselves scarce; it was common in your work.

"Well, if you have no other questions, I will leave you to settle in." She nodded toward the desk in the corner of the room. "Everything you need to know, like Yuji's schedule and food preferences, is on the desk for you. I'll be downstairs preparing dinner if you need anything."

You spent the next couple of hours unpacking and familiarizing yourself with everything you needed to know about your newest client. There was little information about Mr. Sukuna that you didn't already know: he was a single dad and the CEO of a large corporation. Most of the information focused on his son, Yuji. The provided picture showed a young boy with pink hair and a bright smile. According to the schedule and details, he was just your average 4-year-old.

When you made your way downstairs, the sun had begun to set. A delicious and comforting aroma filled the air as you entered the kitchen. "It smells fantastic in here."

Mrs. Ono gave you a warm smile as she continued to stir the contents of the pot. "Good, I hope you're hungry."

"Mrs. Ono, I'm home."

Mrs. Ono wiped her hands on her apron and gave you a small smile before peeking her head around the corner toward the entryway. "Yuji," Mrs. Ono called out. "I have someone I'd like you to meet."

Yuji entered the kitchen, his eyes falling on you with interest. He paused; you could already see the whirlwind of questions he was bursting to ask you behind his bright eyes. "Hello, I'm Yuji."

"Hello Yuji," you crouched down, meeting him at his eye level before smiling. "My name is F/N L/N, but you can call me F/N if you would like."

Mrs. Ono patted Yuji's mop of pink hair as she spoke. "Yuji, this will be your new nanny."

Yuji tilted his head. "Do you like to paint?

"I love to paint," you giggled as you watched Yuji's expression transform into pure excitement, his smile bright as he buzzed with joy.

The evening unfolded smoothly. Mrs. Ono left shortly after dinner, eager to return home to her husband. Yuji was put to bed not long after that.

After spending a few more hours in your room, unwinding and watching a movie, you finally decide to call it a night. You go downstairs to the kitchen for a drink, noticing the light is still on as you go to the kitchen for a drink. Did you forget to turn it off before?

As you rounded the corner to enter the kitchen, you suddenly stopped. Leaning against the counter was a large man. His eyes were closed, and the back of his head rested against a kitchen cabinet. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, as he held a glass of whiskey in his right hand. You could see the black lines of tattoos peeking through his thin dress shirt, and you recognized the familiar shade of pink hair.

Was this Yuji's dad?

Lost in thought, you accidentally bumped into the side table by the kitchen entry. The man's eyes snapped to you.

"Who the hell are you?" he snapped, standing to his full height. His beautiful yet intimidating eyes burned into you from across the room. His lips pressed into a tight line as he waited for your response. "Well?"

You flinched at his harsh tone. "I-I'm the new n-nanny."

Setting down his drink, he saunters towards you. His eyes, intense and unwavering, never leaving you. He reminded you of a predator, and you were the prey.

"So you are my son's new nanny," he said, circling you. "Let's hope you're more competent than the last one."

The familiar beep of your alarm jerked you awake. How was it already morning? You had gotten very little rest, as your mind was filled with thoughts about your new employer—some less than pure thoughts.

With a groan, you threw your covers off your body to begin your day.

The first thing you did was start the coffee. It would be a long day, and you needed every bit of energy you could get. The sound of the front door caught your attention just as you started breakfast. Conflicting emotions of excitement and a tinge of fear struck you at the possibility of Ryomen Sukuna rounding the corner.

“Hello,” disappointment floods you at the sound of Mrs. Ono’s voice.

You shake off your disappointment, returning to your task at hand, before calling out to Mrs. Ono. “Hi. I’m in the kitchen!”

The older woman walked into the kitchen smiling, setting her bag on the counter. “Good morning, dear! How was your first night? Did everything go alright?”

“Yes,” you replied. “Yuji was perfect.”

“Ah yes, not surprising. He’s a good boy.”

You nod in agreement, but your thoughts wander to your peculiar encounter with Yuji's father. Despite the briefness of your interaction, you couldn't help but notice the stark contrast between father and son. "Mrs. Ono," you start, feeling uncertain. "Could you tell me more about Mr. Sukuna?"

Mrs. Ono raised a brow, “did something happen?”

"No," you replied almost too quickly, trying to avoid eye contact as you pretended to concentrate entirely on the pancakes you were making. "Well, kind of. I met him last night."

The air grew tense. At first, you were worried you had done something wrong.

“What did he do? Did he say something?” Her normal cheerful tone shifted to something teetering on anger. Still, it was clear the anger was not directed towards you. The response confirmed your suspicions of a possible issue between Ryomen and the previous nannies.

“He didn’t actually do anything,” you explain the brief interaction to her.

“That man,” she huffed. “Mr. Sukuna is a complicated man with very high standards, especially regarding his son. This has resulted in…difficulties in keeping a long term nanny for Yuji.”

“What kind of difficulties,” you inquire. A feeling of apprehension blooming.

“If one thing goes wrong, the nanny would be out for some of the most ridiculous reasons. Things such as Yuji getting a scrapped knee at the park or Yuji being upset over something the nanny couldn’t control. Some have just quit, too, after meeting Mr. Sukuna. He can be a bit intimidating, as you can imagine, and temperamental.”

You could imagine. “Why is he so difficult then? How do you handle it?”

“Mr. Sukuna didn’t have it easy growing up, I’m afraid, but that’s all I can really say about that,” a pained expression on her face. “I've known him for many years, and I know under his tough exterior he is a good man who wants the best for his son.”

Your thoughts swirled at Mrs. Ono’s words, leaving you more curious about your employer. You peered at the clock; it was well past 7 a.m. now. “I should wake Yuji; I wouldn’t want him late for school.”

“Did you make pancakes?” You and Mrs. Ono looked at the kitchen entryway. There stood a sleepy-looking Yuji, still in his pajamas and clutching his teddy bear.

“We sure did,” you said with a significant smile, holding the stake pancakes. “Hope you’re hungry."

Yuji's face brightened at the sight, and he rushed to his place at the table, eager to have breakfast.

You had developed a soft spot for Yuji in just two short weeks of working for the Sukuna's. He was a ray of sunshine in your eyes; his contagious optimism never failed to bring a smile to your face. Even at such a young age, Yuji displayed so much selflessness. He became your little helper, always going out of his way to help you with chores, cooking, shopping, etc.

“No,” Yuji laughed as he saw your version of a dog you had painted.

“What do you mean no?” Tonight, you and Yuji were spending a night in, Yuji begging for an arts and crafts night. You had agreed to set up the kitchen table with paint, crayons, and glitter. The works, really.

“That’s not a dog!” He giggled, bringing his paintbrush to your canvas. “That looks like a yucky blob.”

You fake gasped as you clutched your chest. “Good sir, are you saying I’m horrible at painting?” He nodded, a shy giggle coming from the young boy. In one swift motion, you pulled Yuji into your lap, tickling his sides. The young boy laughed as he wiggled in your grasp. “Take it back.”

“No,” he yelled.

The exchange continued until the sound of a cleared throat made you freeze. Standing in the entryway was Ryomen. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but his eyes had an unusual softness. You hadn't even noticed the door opening; how long had he been standing there?

“Daddy!” Yujji cheered as he sprung from your lap, launching at his father's legs, causing Ryomen to tense. “Daddy, miss l/n, and I were making some art. Can you come paint with me, please?”

“I’m not really a painter, Yuji,” his father responded.

“That’s okay, miss l/n isn’t very good either but she’s still painting!”

“Yuji,” you exclaimed.

Yuji snickered, a small huff escaping Ryomen’s lips. “Please daddy? Pretty please daddy,” Yuji begged.

“Fine,” he sighed. Yuji cheered as he took his father’s hand, leading him to your table.

Watching Ryomen Sukuna, a figure known for his massive and intimidating presence, sit cross-legged on the floor was a sight to behold. He was surprisingly gentle as he painted together with his son. This version of Ryomen contrasted sharply with his usual fierce demeanor.

This unexpected moment of tenderness was heartwarming. It took every ounce of restraint not to grab your phone and capture the scene before you.

“What,” Ryomen spat. “Do I have something on my face?”

Heat flooded your face as the tender moment came to an abrupt halt. You hadn’t even realized you were staring. Shaking your head, you said, “No. Sorry, sir.”

His lips moved into a smirk, eyes scanning your own work. “Tch. Yuji was right. You really can’t paint."

Like father like son.

What began as arts and crafts evolved into a movie as time passed. To your surprise, Ryomen chose to join in.

You had made a large bowl of popcorn for the three of you to share. You settled on one side of the couch while Ryomen took the other. About halfway through the movie, Yuji grew tired; it was well past his bedtime, so it was no surprise. He curled up on his side, his head resting on your lap and his feet touching his father's thigh.

As the end credits began rolling, you gently ran your fingers through Yuji's hair. "I guess it's bedtime," you whispered, turning your head to face Ryomen.

Your breath caught in your throat as you noted his intense stare. While there was no warmth in his features, something in his eyes hinted otherwise. “I should get Yuji to bed.”

“No,” he said firmly. You watched curiously as he stepped towards you, bending down to pluck Yuji from your embrace. “I’ll do it.”

You swallowed hard as you watched the two walk away before shaking yourself from the daze. There was still cleanup to do, and it seemed like a good distraction.

You were about halfway through washing the dishes when Ryomen walked in. “He’s in bed.”

“Good,” you spoke, not looking up.

You expected him to leave, but to your surprise, he walked towards you, grabbed a rag, and began to dry the dishes. You started to protest, but Ryomen quickly hushed you, and a comfortable silence settled between you both.

It felt so domestic.

"Yuji seems happy," he spoke suddenly.

"He's a happy kid," you agree. "A good kid actually. He always wants to help everyone with everything."

"I don't know where he gets that from," Ryomen grunted as he dried the last dish. When you looked at each other, there was a heavy silence as your gazes met. Suddenly, Ryomen reached out, his warm hand cupping his cheek. His thumb delicately brushes under your eye. A surge of electricity coursed through you at the touch.

"You had paint." He pulled his hand back as he spoke but kept his gaze locked with yours. He moved closer to you, his warmth enveloping your body. You craved even more closeness from him, yearning for his touch and the chance to touch him in return. But just when you thought it might happen, he stepped away and cleared his throat. "It's getting late, you should probably get some rest."

"R-right," you agreed, embarrassed at your taboo thoughts. "Goodnight,".You quickly retreated to your bedroom, needing to create as much distance between yourself and Ryomen as possible.

Things changed after that night. Ryomen began to be around more, coming home occasionally in the evenings. Sometimes, he would join us for dinner or a movie. These visits were never planned; he would simply show up. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Yuji as happy as he is now. With each interaction, you see Ryomen in a new light. The man you once thought was intimidating now shows a softer side with his son.

During these times, Ryomen's attitude towards you shifted as well. It wasn't uncommon that you would spy his eyes on you, that devilish smirk gracing his lips. Or when you would pass him something, his touch would linger, leaving you wanting more. And when Yuji was put to bed, Ryomen would always come down and help you tidy up no matter how much you protested.

It seemed so natural.

As the weeks went by and the seasons shifted, the fall play approached. Yuji proudly announced that he had been cast as the Big Bad Wolf. Yuji was over the moon about it, and the next time he saw his dad, Yuji made him a pinky promise that he would go see him perform.

A few nights before the play, you sat at the kitchen table, putting the finishing touches on Yuji’s costume for the next day while sipping wine. Ryomen had come home for dinner and taken over Yuji’s nighttime routine, for which you were very grateful.

“Yuji’s asleep,” Ryomen said as he entered the kitchen. You hummed in response, watching him grab a glass of whiskey before sitting opposite you. As he sipped his drink, you couldn’t help but secretly admire the man before you. Even in his relaxed state, his presence was hard to ignore. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table while holding his drink in one hand. “The costume looks good,” he remarked.

“It better,” you snorted. “I’ve been working on it long enough.”

He chuckled. “He’s really excited about this play.”

“That’s Yuji for you. Always excited and happy, one of the many things I’ve learned to love about the kid.” You sat back, holding up the costume proudly, “Finished!”

Ryomen whistled, “Guess we have reason to celebrate.”

You put the costume aside as Ryomen tops off your glass of wine and pours himself another glass of whiskey. You raise a brow as you return to your seat. “So we are celebrating me finishing a costume?”

“Not just any costume, but the most amazing big bad wolf costume,” he emphasizes the words "big bad" as he leans closer to you, bringing his drink to his lips.

"It's late." You stand, a slight buzz from the wine. That was your signal that staying here would lead to nothing good, especially with the hungry eyes Ryomen was giving you. "I should go to bed."

Ryomen grabbed your wrist, giving you pause as you stared back at him. His eyes pleading. "Don't go."

It's unclear who made the first move, but suddenly, everything is happening at once. Feverish hands are roaming over your skin as clothes are hastily discarded, leaving you in only your underwear. Ryomen lifts you up and wraps your legs around his waist, pulling you in for a passionate kiss before placing you on the kitchen table.

His lips moved down your body, leaving a trail of kisses from your mouth to your chest. Ryomen pulls down your bra, exposing your perked nipples. As one hand twists and teases one nipple, his mouth eagerly latches onto the other. Your back arches as the sensation takes over your body. Your legs wrap around his waist, forcing his clothed cock to hit your aching core. Your need for release is overwhelming.

"Look at you, already desperate for my cock and I've barely touched you." Ryomen mumbled against your breast.

His lips trailed down your body, leaving a trail of hot kisses and marks in their wake. With each bite and lick, his hunger only grew more intense. He hooked his fingers into the fabric of your panties, pulling them down agonizingly slowly as a twisted smile spread across his face, seeming to enjoy the power he has over you. Subconsciously, you tried to close your legs, only for Ryomen to force them back open.

"Don't," he warned, giving your inner thigh a slap.

Ryomen’s gaze intensified as he took in the sight of you sprawled out on the kitchen table before him. To him, you were like a delicious feast waiting to be devoured. His fingers trailed down your legs, causing your skin to tingle with anticipation before reaching between your thighs. Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers ran down your folds.

"So wet," he licked his lips before inserting one of his large fingers. "And tight."

Your head was enveloped in a thick fog as Ryomen’s finger pumped into you at an agonizingly slow pace. His gaze bore into your very soul, from your drenched sex to your trembling face. It was too much to handle; you had to avert your eyes before he consumed you completely.

He withdrew his finger, giving your clit a firm slap that elicited a yelp from your mouth. "Don't look away," he snarled. You turned back to face the man between your legs, his eyes burning.

"I'm sorry," you mumble.

Ryomen leans over you, his body pressing against yours as he stands. His hands are firmly planted on either side of your shoulders, and you can feel his clothed arousal rubbing against your own heat. A strangled moan escapes your lips at the sensation, causing you to instinctively grind yourself against him. His face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. "If you're going to apologize," he murmurs, "do it properly."

"I'm sorry, sir."

“Good girl.” Ryomen’s satisfied grin spread across his face as he drew back, his hand tracing a slow path back to your dripping core. But he granted you no relief, only teasing grazing your clit.

You try to remain calm, but your hands tightly grip the table's edge. You crave more; you desperately need more. "Please," you beg, body trembling. "Don't tease me, sir."

"Hm, you think you deserve more?"

You couldn't believe how desperate you sounded as you replied, "Yes please, I deserve more."

"Since you asked nicely."

He pushed two fingers into you, the sensation flooding your body with pure pleasure. With each powerful pump, his knuckle grazes against your throbbing clit, sending electric shocks through you. Meanwhile, his other hand moved toward your chest, playing with your sensitive nipples. You bite your lip, struggling to suppress the primal moans threatening to escape as the knot in your belly tightens.

You were on the edge of bliss when Ryomen withdrew his hands. Before you could protest, Ryomen listed you off the kitchen table and pressed you against the kitchen counter, Ryomen standing behind you. The rustle of his pants catches your attention, but before you can see what's happening, Ryomen pushes your head down. You uttered a small cry as your face and chest pressed against the cold marble surface.

His fat head is moved up and down your folds. You tilt your head a little, catching a glimpse of Ryomen’s member. "The only place you’re allowed to cum tonight in on my cock," he growls.

Ryomen's throbbing cock plunged deep into your core, igniting a primal fire within you. Your face contorted in ecstasy as Ryomen mercilessly pounded into you with a punishing pace, the force of each thrust causing your hips to slam into the counter you were being pressed against. Pleasure and pain merged into overwhelming bliss.

Ryomen's nails press into the soft flesh of your hips. He adjusts his position, raising you so your feet are no longer touching the ground. Your body responds eagerly to his touch, arching and writhing with each deliberate movement.

Ryomen grips a handful of your hair and pulls you up against his chest, pressing your back into him. He presses his lips into the shell of your ear. "Look at you, completely fucked out. Do you want to cum, my little pet?" His husky voice sends shivers down your spine.

"Yes." You gasped, "yes sir please."

He let go of your hair and stepped back, giving his hands full access to your throbbing clit. His fingers rubbed circles on it as he thrust into you more vigorously. Your screams of pleasure are uncontrollable as he hits depths within you that have never been touched before. You cling to the edge of the counter, your face buried into the crook of your arm, trying to muffle your lewd sounds.

Finally, you were pushed off the cliff. The force of your release almost unbearable as shockwaves rippled through your entire body, causing your cunt to spasm uncontrollably. Through the haze of pleasure, you could hear a string of curses escaping from Ryomen. Still, your mind was too occupied with the overwhelming sensations to process anything else. He continued to fuck you relentlessly, each thrust bringing you to tears from the overstimulation. But just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, he gave a harsh thrust, fully pushing into you as you felt his warmth fill you.

You stayed in that position for a moment, feeling Ryomen pull out, his cum dripping down your leg.

Your legs felt weak, making you unsure if you could even stand. But before you could attempt it, Ryomen scooped you into his arms and headed towards the stairs with a mischievous smirk. "You didn't think I was finished with you?"

You felt the ache in your body as you woke up in Ryomen’s bed. The man had fulfilled his promise, and you had spent several hours in his bed before succumbing to exhaustion. The fog of lust and alcohol cleared, and reality hits you like a ton of bricks: you had slept with your boss. A wave of panic overcame you. You immediately slipped out of his bed, fearing his reaction if you had stayed until he awoke.

You sat on the edge of your bed, thoughts swirling about what would happen in the morning. Footsteps in the hallway made you sit up as fear gripped your heart. There was a knock at the door, and you held your breath, knowing who stood on the other side. "Y/n," his voice sounded uncertain.

Sliding off your bed, you moved towards the door, opening it just enough to see Ryomen. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. The hesitance etched on his face was not something you had seen from him before. "Good morning, sir."

"Listen," he rubbed the back of his neck. "About last night-"

"It was a mistake," you blurted without thinking. You didn't want to hear what he had to say, your heart aching at the list of potential things he would say. "I'm sorry; it was very unprofessional of me."

Ryomen's face twisted in pain, his fist clenched tight, knuckles white. "A mistake, right," he said. He turned to return to his room but paused. In an icy tone, he spoke, "Make sure to clean the kitchen before Yuji wakes up."

If it had been two days since you last spoke to him. Two days since you had slept with him. Now, here you sat alone, watching Yuji's play. No sign of Ryomen anywhere in the crowd.

As the final bows concluded, you noticed Yuji scanning the crowd with his eyes. They brightened when he spotted you, but his smile faded as he looked around you. You instantly realized he understood that his dad had broken his promise.

tag: @zezedoesshit

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader smut #ryomen sukuna #jjk smut #sukuna smut #jjk x reader #jjk angst #sukuna angst #jjk x reader smut #dilf!sukuna #ceo!sukuna #ryomen sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna angst #jjk au #Sukuna au

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vibelladonna · 2 months ago

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❛ 𝒶𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓅𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You weren’t meant to stand out—just orbit quietly beside the ones who burned brighter. But then Crowe noticed you. With his crooked smile and sunlit warmth, he pulled you in, piece by piece. Late nights. Lingering touches. The kind of closeness that made you forget how far you'd come just to feel seen.

To be chosen by him felt like a miracle. But even miracles cast shadows. Set against the glow of late-night party event, sharp smiles, and a moon who always stood just a little too far outside the spotlight, this is a story about timing, tenderness, and the truths we bury in our silences. After all, some stars shine for the world.

And some are only for another star.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: from Anonymous. Not gonna lie, I’m writing this because Crowe’s felt like a stranger lately—faded into the background, and I don’t even know when. Perfect time to change that… and maybe break some hearts.

So, here’s the setup: Brittney—fashion major for sure—needs a model for her final piece. You volunteer. Simple, right? I also added my favorite song, Reflections by The Neighbourhood. Listen to it at the end. It’s perfect. T-T. bro i kinda cried writing this...

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: crowe x gn! reader, morally grey reader??, established relationship, mutual pinning, angst, emotional rollercoaster, slow burn, unrequited love, one-sided love.

The student council room was quiet

Too quiet, for a space usually crackling with fake smiles and veiled threats behind designer coffee cups. Today, it was just you and Crowe. No council members, no sycophants, no interruptions. Just the low hum of the overhead lights and the sharp click of your heel tapping against the polished surface of the desk you were perched on.

Not seated at it. On it.

The chairs, the long table, the gilded emblems of prestige—they were all part of the decor. Crowe sat in one of them, fingers laced loosely under his chin, posture proper, however, gaze soft. He watched you the way someone watches a lit match near gasoline: unreadable, but not uninvested.

You stared past him at the window, where the night bled into the high-rise skyline of Titan City like oil in water. Neon signs blinked far below, the lights of Olympus University’s main campus flickering like fireflies trapped in a jar. Cold glass and concrete, all dressed up in elegance.

That was the city. That was the school. That was the game.

“Astrophile,” you said at last, the word tasting expensive in your mouth. You glanced at him. “Funny name for an event run by people who spend their lives in the dark.”

Crowe smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting in that slow, familiar way that made him look both amused and a little smug.

“It means someone who loves stars,” he said, voice soft but sure. “The sky kind. Not the celebrity kind. Though, here… they probably think it’s both.”

You scoffed under your breath, the sound almost a laugh. “Of course they do.”

Crowe leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking faintly as he folded his arms behind his head and looked up at the ceiling like the constellations might be painted there.

“It started a few years ago,” he said. “A high-society thing, strictly invite-only. The idea was to celebrate the brightest students—the future of the elite. They picked the top 1%, dressed them in silver and black, threw them under chandeliers, and called it destiny.”

“Sounds cult-y.”

“It is. Just with better lighting.”

You snorted, gaze flickering back to the skyline, but your attention stayed tethered to Crowe—the way his silhouette leaned slightly toward you, his thigh brushing yours with casual closeness. His presence was a quiet kind of gravity, the kind you didn’t always notice until the world tilted slightly and you realized he was the only thing holding you steady.

In the reflection on the glass, his outline blurred with yours like two pieces of a shadow that had learned to overlap.

“So, what? They gather a bunch of legacy kids, pour expensive wine, and pretend they're the second coming of the stars?”

Crowe offered a small shrug, his voice low. “Basically. It’s branding. A night to remind everyone who runs this place.”

“And you’re invited,” you said, not asking—because you already knew.

Crowe didn’t deny it. He just gave a slow nod, his fingers rising to rub the back of his neck like the motion might relieve some unspoken pressure. His gaze dropped to the floor before he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, fingers threaded together in a tense, white-knuckled grip.

“Yeah. I have to go. It’s… complicated why I ever have to.”

You studied him, head tilted slightly, trying to read the silence between his words. “Then why even go?” you asked, voice quieter now, but edged with that signature dry note you always carried when concern was disguised as sarcasm. “You know I could come with you. Be your emotional support partner or something. I clean up nice.”

A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His head turned toward you slowly, like he didn’t want to say it—like the answer was heavier than he’d like to admit.

“Well… you can’t,” he said finally. “Not this one.”

Your brows lifted, not in offense but surprise. Crowe had never said no to you. Not directly. Not like that. It wasn’t just the words—it was the weight behind them. Measured. Certain. Kind, even. But final.

He must’ve seen the flicker of confusion cross your face, because he softened, adding, “After the event, I’ll come over. Your place. We’ll order something greasy, you’ll put on one of those awful romantic comedies with the rain-drenched kisses and bad lighting, and I’ll pretend not to enjoy them.”

You blinked at him, caught in that quiet moment of dissonance where nothing felt wrong but everything felt off. A part of you itched to ask more, to tug at the loose thread he didn’t seem ready to let unravel. But another part—deeper, sharper—recognized the shift in his tone.

This wasn’t just an event. Not for him.

Whatever Astrophile was, it wasn’t a party. Not really. So you exhaled, steady and slow, and nodded. Just once. Letting it go—but only for now. Whatever this was, Crowe would tell you eventually.

No—fuck that.

You already knew.

You knew about Astrophile before Crowe ever said a word. Poor kids always knew about it—like how rats knew where the poison was kept.

It wasn’t just a party. It was the party.

Invitation-only, legacy-guarded, drenched in soft gold lighting and stinking of old money and newer sins. A place where the heirs of corporate empires, aristocratic bloodlines, and political dynasties came together to congratulate each other for surviving another year of inherited relevance.

They dressed it up as networking. Branding. Prestige. But everyone else knew it for what it was: a modern-day masquerade ball for the ruling class, draped in opulence to mask its rot.

You didn’t need Crowe to explain that to you.

Simple, sharp-edged thoughts rattled through your skull like bullets in a chamber: ‘You weren’t here to beg for a place at the table. You were here to take it.’ What you felt wasn’t admiration or envy. Not even ambition. It was colder. Sharper. More enduring.

A fixation. An obsession.

Everyone wanted to be high-class. That was the disease. The dream sold in every magazine, every streaming drama, every admissions brochure. Even those who’d never see wealth pretended to wear its scent. But for people like you, the truth was different.

There was a line. Thick, gleaming, and deliberate. And it wasn’t just about money—it was about access. Ancestry. Advantage. Power passed down through last names and trust funds, through club memberships and generational seats on the Olympus board.

If you weren’t born into it, you were born beneath it.

At University Olympus, that reality wasn’t whispered—it was branded into the architecture. Gold in the trim, pedigree in the curriculum, and secrets baked into every ivy-covered wall.

Here, your family’s worth meant more than your personal achievements. Your name got you further than your GPA. You could vanish for months, cheat through every class, and still walk the stage if your father donated a library wing.

You were low-class. You knew what that meant.

People like you weren’t expected to survive Olympus, let alone thrive. You were the diversity hire. The quota student. A sympathetic marketing piece for their brochures. Smile for the camera, then vanish before you embarrass anyone.

And when you stepped out of line?

They erased you.

Quietly. Efficiently. They called it attrition. You called it what it was—institutional execution.

The ghosts of students who came before you lingered in the silence. In empty chairs. In files quietly deleted. They had screamed once, fought back, and held signs. And still, they disappeared.

But you were different.

You didn’t come here to play fair. You didn’t come here to smile and curtsy. You came to adapt. Your family needed you at that party—not because of some glittering dream, but because survival demanded it.

How else would the right people see you? How else would they start saying your name in rooms you’d never stepped into?

Every glance had to be weaponized. Every move, a calculation.

You’d bleed charm when needed, bite when necessary, and burn if cornered.

University Olympus wasn’t a school—it was a war zone dressed in ivy and tradition. A place where one wrong step could blackball you forever. But if you played it right? If you moved fast, struck clean, and kept your face pretty and your intentions hidden?

Then everything will go perfectly, as planned.

Understand that climbing up in Titan City had nothing to do with merit. It wasn’t about how hard you worked, how smart you were, or how much you wanted it.

That was the story they told people like you.

The truth was sharper. Colder. Power wasn’t earned—it was acquired. Leveraged. Inherited. You got in by knowing the right people, by being in the right rooms, by saying the right things to the right names.

And what better room than Astrophile?

One of the most exclusive events in the city. Masked as a fashion show, wrapped in silk and diamonds, but underneath—power. That’s what it really was. A glittering chessboard of influence. The kind of place where legacies mingled, where alliances were forged over champagne, where one conversation could change your entire future.

It wasn’t about the clothes.

It was about being seen. About the right photos. The right whispers.

The right eyes are noticing you.

If you wanted to rise in Titan City, you had to be there.

Your eyes narrowed, lost in thought—calculating, cold. Crowe caught the flicker of it instantly, like a spark behind glass. Then came the soft click—the quiet creak of your desk chair shifting beneath you.

Crowe's hand slid up your thigh, slow and unhurried, interrupting your thoughts without apology. His fingers curled lightly against your skin, grounding you in the present. You didn’t move—not when he stepped between your legs like he belonged there, not when his knees brushed yours, not even when his breath kissed your lips.

He looked at you, really looked at you. His brows furrowed, eyes darker than usual, not with desire, however, a hint of something heavier. Guilt. Regret. Maybe both.

Then, without a word, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, or rough, or hungry. It was simple.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that begged for permission. It didn’t need to. It was his way of pulling you back from the edge—away from the cold machinery of your mind, the calculated climb, the next move, the next lie. His lips lingered, warm and sure, pressing against yours like a silent apology. Like he wished this world didn’t work the way it did. Like he hated himself a little for being part of it.

You blinked, caught between strategy and softness, letting the silence stretch. Then—“Oh,” you murmured, lashes lowered, voice dripping with feigned disappointment. A pout curled at the edge of your mouth as you tilted your head slightly. “Guess I’m not rich enough for Astrophile, huh? A shame. I’d look so good in designer…”

Crowe exhaled, his forehead brushing against yours. “Don’t do that,” he whispered.

“Do what?” you asked innocently, fingers trailing up the hem of his shirt as if you weren’t already slipping back into performance.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

“Pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

You went still. Just for a second.

His hands stayed firm on your thighs, however, his grip had gentled. Like he was scared of pushing too far. “You wanted to go. I know that. And I—I could’ve pulled strings, but I didn’t. I didn’t think it mattered that much to you.”

You gave him a small, practiced smile. “It’s just a party, Crowe.”

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”

And there it was again—that look in his eyes. The guilt. The ache. The knowing. He knew you. Knew how hard you worked to hide your hunger behind elegance. Knew that Astrophile wasn’t about dresses or runway lights. It was about proximity to power.

You tilted your head, fingers idly toying with the collar of Crowe’s shirt—just enough to remind him how close you were. “You didn’t think I could handle it?” you asked, voice light, teasing.

His jaw clenched, just slightly. “I didn’t think they deserved you.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You blinked once, then nearly laughed. Almost. But instead, you leaned in again, your lips brushing his—soft and ghostlike, a whisper of affection you didn’t let linger. “You’re sweet,” you murmured, feigning warmth.

But Crowe didn’t smile.

“And maybe I’m selfish,” he said, quieter now, voice raw and stripped of all his usual steadiness. “Because I didn’t want you to go into that place and have to become like them to survive it.”

You stilled, fingertips pausing on the fabric between you. His words pulled something uncomfortable to the surface—something familiar. Something you thought you'd buried. For a moment, you just breathed, eyes locked on his, reading the guilt sitting just beneath his gaze.

Then you leaned back on your hands, letting your lips part in a slow, calculated sigh. “You know, I could almost believe you’re trying to protect me.”

“I am,” he said, and it wasn’t just a response—it was a confession.

Your smile returned, but this time it wasn’t soft. It was the smile of someone who’d already made their next move. “Too late for that,” you whispered, the words tasting like the truth.

Because while Crowe’s guilt sat in the room like heat from a dying fire, something colder had already taken root in you. Something that moved fast. Precise. Inevitable.

Plan A was dead.

But Plan B?

Plan B had a tall height—and a pair of high heels.

“You wanna do what now?” Brittney stared at you like you’d just announced you were going to hijack a helicopter.

You barely looked up from your phone. “To go to Astrophile.”

She blinked once. Then again. “Babe, that’s not an easy party to get into. You’re gonna get kicked out.”

The two of you sat on the sun-drenched campus lawn, a pastel pink blanket spread beneath you like a magazine spread. The breeze carried a hint of fresh-cut grass and distant flowers. It should’ve been peaceful, but Brittney—never one for stillness—looked like she was preparing to fight off a dragon. Arms crossed, legs angled like a blade, and her eyes—razor-sharp and skeptical—trained on you.

You knew she’d react like this. Brittney wasn’t just anyone—she was Brittney. Gyaru perfection: long legs, longer nails, sun-kissed skin, and hair that curled like it had been kissed by gods. Everything about her screamed power, the kind earned through sweat, manipulation, and perfectly curated Instagram posts.

But she hadn’t always been up top.

You’d read between the lines. Middle-class girl with expensive taste and dreams too big for her zip code. Not rich enough for Olympus' elite, not poor enough to be invisible. Which meant she'd been chewed up by both sides—mocked for dreaming too loud, too bright, too unapologetically.

So she made herself untouchable. Every outfit, every word, every strut across campus was armor.

And right now, she was using all of it against you.

“You do realize Astrophile is invite-only, right?” Brittney said, raising a brow as she flicked a crumb off her thigh. “Like, you’re not just gonna walk in with a cute face and a half-baked plan.”

You tilted your head and gave her a slow, knowing smile. “I know.”

She froze. For once, her perfectly lip-glossed mouth parted in visible disbelief. You watched the gears shift behind her eyes—calculating risk, outcome, and just how badly this could come back to bite both of you. “You’re insane,” she said finally, almost in awe. “Clinically.”

“And yet,” you replied smoothly, folding your arms behind your head with faux ease, “you’re not shutting it down.”

She didn’t deny it. Because even if Brittney talked like a realist, she moved like a strategist. And she knew, maybe better than anyone, that in a city like Titan, appearances weren’t just everything—they were currency. And you were prepared to cash in.

Brittney sighed, stretching her long legs out on the blanket as the breeze toyed with the hem of her skirt. “Look. If I could help, in my words, you don’t need to go to Astrophile. Do you even realize how rare it is to land an invite? It’s damn near sacred. I’ve only been because I know someone who knows someone, and even that was barely enough. Unless you’ve got the right connections, a dress worth more than your tuition, and the kind of social resume that makes you look born into wealth…”

She let the implication hang.

“And the tickets?” she scoffed. “Don’t get me started. You’d have better luck sneaking into the Vatican in hot pink heels.”

You shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Yeah. I know.”

Her eyes narrowed, lips pursed. “Then why?”

Because you had to, duh.

But Brittney didn’t operate on emotional pleas. She respected power plays, not poetry.

You leaned forward, voice calm, collected. “Astrophile isn’t just about fashion. It’s a signal. A stage for the hidden elite. The kind of people who don’t bother with résumés because they’re the ones writing them. I don’t care about the show—I care about the people in the front row.”

Her gaze didn’t break. You saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes. She knew you weren’t wrong.

“You and I both know that Olympus doesn’t give a damn about students unless they see a headline in it. I’m not going to Astrophile to be seen—I’m going because it’s the only room in this city where not being there counts against you.”

There were a few seconds of silence. The kind that clung to the edges of your words like static. Then Brittney sighed—long, dramatic, and somehow still graceful.

“And what? Do you think just walking in with my name is enough?”

“Maybe, I think it’s a start.”

Another pause. She clicked her tongue and leaned back on her elbows, eyes lifted to the sky. “You’re ridiculous.” But even as she said it, she didn’t sound entirely convinced.

You were about to nudge her again when her phone buzzed, the soft chime breaking through the lull.

Brittney glanced down—and immediately froze.

Her expression shifted. Not her usual dry skepticism or feigned boredom. No—this was different.

“What?” you asked, already leaning in.

She angled her screen away like it was instinct, brows furrowed as she read. “It’s from Olympus.”

That made you sit up.

The university didn’t contact this side of useless students unless they wanted something or needed something from them to look good in the press. Brittney scrolled with her thumb, silent for a beat.

Then: “No way…”

“What? What?”

She looked at you, stunned. “They’re inviting all Fashion majors to submit designs for Astrophile. Like... actual student representation. Showcasing our work.”

You blinked. Then blinked again. That was big.

You should have expected it. Olympus was always trying to claw its way into the good graces of the elite. And Astrophile? It wasn’t just a fashion event—it was a move. A coronation. Where influencers were chosen, not found. Where names were turned into brands.

And Brittney?

She wasn’t just a Fashion major. She was one of the best. Known for her bold design taste, sharp silhouettes, and tailoring that could make a mannequin cry. If anyone had the credibility to be there, it was her.

You looked at her, seeing the shift—the calculation, the rare vulnerability she kept buried under bravado. Because despite everything, part of her wanted this too. She just never wanted to be seen wanting.

“This is it,” you said, your voice lower now. “You get your name in. I get inside. We both win.”

Brittney stared at her screen, then at you.

No sarcastic jab. No clever, backhanded compliment. Just silence.

Then, finally—soft, almost like it slipped out without permission— "They never do this. Ever."

You leaned forward slightly, studying her expression. “And you’re going to enter?”

She didn’t answer right away. And that meant something.

Because Brittney didn’t hesitate.

She was the kind of woman who executed decisions with the precision of a scalpel—calculated, clean, deadly. If her name was going to be attached to something, it had to be flawless. She wasn’t just some fashion major sketching gowns in a notebook during lectures—her work had already earned whispers in underground showcases and campus gossip. She’d been biding her time, waiting for the right moment to strike.

But Astrophile?

That wasn’t just a stage. It was a spotlight.

And you didn’t just show up in the spotlight unprepared.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, tossing her phone onto the blanket with a thud, the screen face-down like it had offended her.

“Of course I’m entering.”

You smiled, slow and satisfied. “Perfect.”

Her gaze cut to you, sharp and suspicious. “Perfect, why?”

You didn’t flinch. “Because now it looks like we’re both going to Astrophile.”

Her eyes narrowed, head tilting with something between curiosity and irritation. “Last I checked, you weren’t a fashion major,” she said, tone edged in polished venom. “So, unless you’re planning on crashing the event in a stolen gown, how exactly are you getting involved?”

You gave her your most nonchalant smile, laced with mischief. “Easy,” you said. “I’ll model for you.”

That earned you a full pause. One heartbeat. Two.

Then she laughed—short, breathy, involuntary. Not the cold, rehearsed kind she gave to flatter donors or manipulate professors. This was different. Sharper. Realer. It cracked out of her like a fault line giving way.

“You’re serious?” she asked, crossing her arms, the corner of her lip twitching. “You? A model?”

You arched a brow, feigning offense. “Why not?”

Her expression shifted—still amused, but with something else beneath it. A touch of disbelief. A spark of interest. A test. She scanned you, gaze assessing, like she was sizing up a dress form.

“It’s not that you’re bad,” she said finally, eyes lingering on your face. “You’re cute—annoyingly so. But modeling?” She let out a breathy laugh and waved a hand, gesturing vaguely in your direction.

“You’re just so... you.”

You tilted your head, playing innocent. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Brittney didn’t answer at once. Her gaze held yours, lingering—too long to be casual. Like she was digging through your eyes for something unspoken, something hidden behind the bravado.

Then she sighed. A long, theatrical exhale, like the weight of the moment demanded it. With a dramatic rub to her temple, she finally spoke. “Look. Again—you’re hot, okay? Pretty, even. But modeling? It’s not just about looking good. It’s a discipline. It’s knowing how to command a room without opening your mouth. It’s being aware of every inch of your body—how it moves, how fabric reacts to it, how light cuts across it. It’s understanding angles, tension, and control. You can’t just be different. You have to be intentional. Every blink, every breath, every step.”

Her words landed like a checklist, and you knew she wasn’t trying to be cruel—just honest. Brutally so.

You crossed your arms, your tone cooling but with a trace of amusement curling at the corners. “Okay. So who were you going to pick then?”

That gave her pause.

You leaned in, eyes locked. “Seriously, Brittney. Who in our unhinged little friend group do you think could model better than me?”

She opened her mouth—but nothing came out.

You raised a hand and started counting them off, each name a deliberate strike.

“Deryl?” You scoffed. “Sure, he’s got energy. But he treats every serious event like a food court. You really want to risk a rack of ribs ruining your centerpiece mid-rehearsal?”

She huffed a laugh, reluctant, but not denying it.

“Jess?” You tilted your head. “Too soft. She’d be gorgeous in print, I’ll give you that. But put her on a runway? One harsh glance and she’s folding like a paper crane.”

Brittney didn’t argue. Her silence was agreement enough.

“Geo?” You actually laughed. “He’d set the outfit on fire out of spite before he let someone dress him. The guy can barely commit to sleeves.”

That drew a more genuine laugh—a quick, breathy one. You saw the tension in her shoulders loosen just a little. Then your voice lowered.

“…Crowe.”

You didn’t need to explain the weight of that name. Everyone knew it. Jericho Ichabod, Crowe was a force—sharp smile, effortless charm, the kind of person who changed the temperature of a room just by walking in. He didn’t have to try. People followed him like gravity.

“He’s got it all,” you admitted softly. “The presence, the look, the confidence. If I were in your shoes, I’d pick him, too.”

But before your thoughts could sink any deeper into that particular tide, Brittney cut in, hand slicing the air.

“I can’t.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“He’s vice president of student council, and I’m also sure he’s attending as well,” she said, tone clipped, like she’d rehearsed this excuse before. “If I pick him, it’ll look political. Like I’m using his name for credibility, or worse, like he’s playing favorites. Astrophile has to be clean. No drama. No conflict of interest.”

It made sense. The show wasn’t just a fashion event—it was a launchpad. And any whiff of favoritism would rot it from the inside.

You were quiet for a beat. Let it settle. Let her hear the conviction when you finally spoke again.

“Then pick me.”

Brittney didn’t respond—she just stared at you, unblinking.

You moved forward, letting the words drop with careful weight.

“If Crowe’s off the list, then I’m your best bet. You know it. I’ve been next to him long enough to learn the tricks. I know how to keep a room’s attention. I’ve watched how power walks and how silence speaks louder than flash.”

You paused. Then: “You want someone pretty? I’ve got that. You want presence? I can summon it. And unlike the rest of them, I don’t need to be adored. I just need to win.”

Your voice dipped, low and clear.

“I don’t care if I stumble. I’ll bleed for your vision if that’s what it takes. Just make sure the audience remembers the clothes I was wearing when I hit the ground.”

Brittney was still. The air between you stretched thin—vibrating with the hum of decision. Her nails tapped against her bicep in restless rhythm. Her eyes scanned you up and down like you were a puzzle piece she wasn’t sure would fit—but desperately wanted to try.

Finally, finally, she let out a sigh that was half exasperation, half something dangerously close to impressed.

“…God help me,” she muttered, voice low. “You might actually pull this off.” But of course, Brittney wasn’t one to give the last word easily. She raised a perfectly sculpted brow, mouth curling into something sly and loaded. “Go as far as I need you to, huh? And what exactly does that mean?”

You leaned in just enough to make the air between you crackle, locking eyes with Brittney.

Your smirk was teasing, and you could feel the tension shift as her gaze flickered to your lips before snapping back up. She blinked, just once, like you’d caught her off guard—and for a moment, you reveled in it.

“Tell me how far,” you said, voice low, laced with something daring, almost unholy. “And I’ll show you what I look like when I burn the runway down.”

Brittney’s lips twitched, a struggle between laughter and disbelief. She didn’t say anything at first, just stared at you, as if weighing the gravity of your words and the audacity that laced them.

Then, slowly, she shook her head, like she was reconsidering every choice she’d made up to this point. “You’re insane,” she said, rubbing her temple dramatically. “You don’t even know what you’re signing up for.”

“Exactly,” you replied with a devilish grin, your confidence radiating like an aura around you. You leaned back, throwing your hands behind your head with a carelessness that bordered on dangerous. “That’s the fun part. You need someone bold. Delusional. Someone with main character energy and absolutely no self-preservation instinct. You need me.”

The silence hung for a moment, thick with the weight of your words. Brittney stared at you like you were both the problem and the solution, the lines blurring in her mind.

She sighed, a long, heavy exhale that spoke volumes about the burden she was about to take on. “Fine,” she said at last, her voice laced with reluctant acceptance. She rubbed her temples again, like she was trying to stave off a headache. “I’ll bless you with these hands.”

You blinked, a little lost at first. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll design you a dress,” she clarified, with a slight roll of her eyes.

Your eyes lit up. “Oh, wow. I didn’t think you’d agree to this. You’re really going to design me a dress?”

Brittney groaned, her head falling back slightly. “How about a ‘thank you,’ Britt?” She sighed, “God, why do I like you?” with a smirk, half-joking but fully aware of the chaos you brought into her life.

“Because I’m a menace dressed like a muse,” You, mocking innocence. “I don’t see the problem with that.”

Her expression tightened in a playful mix of disbelief and amusement. “All right, all right. You want to be a model? Then you’ll be my model. Just don’t come crying to me when you’ve got blisters on your feet and back pain from trying to hold in your core for hours.”

You crossed your arms with smug confidence, a look of satisfaction crossing your face. “Pain is temporary. Slay is forever.”

She gave you a deadpan stare. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here we are,” you said, grinning like the world was already yours.

Brittney paused for a moment, clearly mulling over your audacity. Then, with a defeated sigh, she tossed her phone onto the blanket like it had suddenly burst into flames. “Yeah,” she muttered, “I’m gonna enter.”

Your smirk widened, a feeling of victory creeping in.

One obstacle cleared.

Brittney caught the look on your face and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Don’t think this means I’m helping you sneak in, you little gremlin.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said with mock innocence, though the gears in your mind were already turning. You’d be sneaking in; that was a given. And you had a plan—of course, you did.

The silence between you and Brittney lingered, the soft rustle of leaves and the murmur of distant voices filling the void.

She didn’t immediately break it, her gaze turned upward, looking at the sky as if searching for an answer to a question that was brewing inside her mind. When her focus shifted back to you, the weight of her unspoken thoughts was clear.

“Why?” Brittney’s voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through the stillness with precision. “Why do you want to get into something like this? What’s in it for you?”

Her question hung in the air, and for a moment, you didn’t answer, letting her words sink in. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation that wasn’t coming. “You’ve got the prince himself, Jericho Ichabod,” she continued, her tone tinged with skepticism. “I’m sure he’s got connections that could get you into anything you want. You don’t need to go through all this trouble. So what’s your angle?”

You didn’t answer right away.

The truth? It was complicated.

To anyone watching from the outside, it might look like you were using Crowe—playing off his wealth, his quiet influence, the way doors seemed to open for him without effort. He was rich, sure. Humble, sweet, and entirely oblivious to just how ruthless the game could get. And yes, he was in love with you—hopelessly so, in that way only someone who saw the best in others could be.

But they were wrong about you.

Because you cared about Crowe.

Genuinely. Maybe too much, in ways you didn’t always show. He brought out something softer in you, something real—something that scared you more than anything else. But love, no matter how sincere, couldn’t be the foundation for your survival. Not in this city. Not in your world.

You didn’t keep him at arm’s length because you were cruel. You did it because you had to. Because you learned a long time ago that if you wanted anything in this life to last, you had to build it yourself.

Relying on Crowe—leaning on him, letting him carry you up the ladder—would only make your victory feel borrowed. And you couldn’t afford to owe anyone. Not even him.

You loved him, but your ambition came first. Not out of greed or coldness, but out of necessity. You had something to prove—to yourself, to your family, to a world that refused to take you seriously. If you didn’t take care of yourself, no one else would.

Your gaze drifted back to Brittney, her questions still echoing in your mind. Crowe might be a piece on the board, but he wasn’t the reason you were playing.

No. The real reason was deeper. Much deeper.

You leaned back slightly, the weight of your thoughts pressing on your chest as you let the silence stretch on a little longer. Brittney waited, expectantly, but you weren’t ready to let her in just yet.

“Why do you think I want to do this?” you asked, your voice quieter than usual, a rare glimpse into the part of you that wasn’t always so carefully hidden.

Brittney squinted, clearly sensing the shift in your demeanor. “I don’t know, because you want to prove something? Get ahead? Use Crowe’s connections and his love for you to get what you need? Seems like that’s the only thing that makes sense.”

You didn’t react to her words, though they were close. Too close for comfort. The truth you hid behind so many layers of your carefully crafted persona was too dangerous to let slip.

But what she didn’t know was that you weren’t just using Crowe for his connections. That was too simple, too small a reason. This was about something far bigger. You weren’t in this for yourself, not entirely. This wasn’t just about stepping into the spotlight—this was about becoming someone who could never be overlooked, someone who would finally be recognized by those who mattered.

And Crowe, though he had no clue, was a part of that plan.

You felt a flicker of something—frustration, maybe—or was it pity—as you thought about how deeply in love he was with you. He didn’t know you the way you needed him to. He didn’t see the parts of you that were cold and calculating, driven by something much darker than affection.

Geo knew. Geo, your number one hater—i will never stop brining up my man—always there to shoot you down, to remind you of the walls you kept up, the lines you never crossed. He somewhat didn’t like you, and yet, in a way, he understood you better than anyone.

He saw the drive, the ambition that no one else could see because it was wrapped in a veil of charm and wit.

Brittney, though, she wasn’t in that inner circle. She didn’t know the full weight of what you were carrying inside, the reason you were so determined to make it in a world that was never meant for people like you. It wasn’t just about proving others wrong; it was about proving to yourself that you belonged in the same league as those you envied.

In a city where status was everything, you needed to be seen. You needed to be recognized. Not just by anyone—but by the ones who could change the rules. The ones who mattered.

You didn’t need to explain everything to Brittney. No. She didn’t need the full story, the weight behind your silence, or the quiet sacrifices you’d already made just to be here.

All she needed to know now was what mattered most.

“I’m not here to play,” you said, voice cool and deliberate, like velvet pulled taut over steel. “I’m here to win. And not just for me—for you.”

A lie, partially. But not a cruel one.

You weren’t here to save her—you were here to survive. Still, survival required alliances. And if you wanted to get what you needed, you had to give something in return.

You’d be her model. You’d wear whatever she put you in, walk however she needed, smile, pose, flirt, and claw your way through whatever gauntlet this event threw at you. In return, you’d drag her name into rooms it hadn’t touched yet. You’d make her impossible to ignore.

Because if you were rising, you weren’t going to do it quietly—and you’d be damned if you weren’t dragging her right up with you.

“I’ll push myself,” you added, stepping closer. “And I’ll push you. If I’m putting your designs on my body, then we’re networking. We’re building. I’ll be your walking portfolio, Brittney. Your billboard.”

She went quiet. Her eyes searched yours, trying to find the angle, the manipulation, the catch. You let her. Let her sit in that silence and feel the weight of what you were offering.

Finally, she sighed. A slow exhale, as if releasing something she’d been holding onto.

“Fine,” she said, her voice low but sure. “If you’re serious about this, then I’ll take you as my model. But you remember what I said—no backing out, no second-guessing. You screw up, I’m killing you.”

You nodded once, your expression unwavering. “I don’t screw up.”

She rolled her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” you corrected smoothly, without a second thought.

“Delusional,” she shot back, her voice sharp but amused.

You smirked, unbothered. “You’ll see.”

Brittney chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Whatever. Let’s do it.”

And just like that, it was set.

And naturally, Brittney was impatient—of course, she was. The second the plan rooted itself in her mind, she had to act on it. Immediately. Which is why you now found yourself being dragged through downtown Titan City like some unwilling extra in a high-stakes fashion documentary.

Jess—her ever-loyal best friend assistant, or as you liked to call her, The Voice of Reason—walked beside her, looking resigned to her fate. You got the feeling she’d learned the hard way that fighting Brittney when she was "inspired" was a lost cause.

Titan City was, as always, alive. The streets buzzed—the chatter of pedestrians, the blare of car horns, the steady click of heels against concrete. The air smelled like strong espresso from street cafés mixed with expensive perfume trailing behind the passing elite.

Boutiques lined the blocks, all gleaming glass and curated perfection—displays showing off dresses that cost more than rent, heels sharp enough to kill a man, and handbags you needed political connections just to wait for. Mixed in were smaller shops, their neon signs flickering promises of limited runs and underground trends.

You were already tired just looking at it.

Trailing a step behind, you watched Brittney and Jess carve through the crowd like they owned the place. They were opposites in every way—Brittney, tall and magnetic, her blonde waves catching the sunlight like she was the main character of the city itself. The sleek black leather jacket she wore fit her so perfectly it had to have been tailored for her attitude alone.

Jess was the balance. Quieter, sharper, dressed in a crisp blue blouse and tailored black trousers, accessorized with a chunky silver necklace that said, ‘yeah, I know what I'm doing. Calm, smart, grounded.’

They were mid-argument—talking trends, arguing over designers, spitting out names like grenades.

"We need something bold," Brittney said, flipping open her sketchpad without even slowing down. "Not 'statement-piece' bold. I mean walk-in-and-shut-everyone-up bold."

Jess hummed. "Dramatic, but clean. Oversized jewelry is trending, but we’re not doing costume party."

"Obviously," Brittney snapped, scribbling something down. "And no soft pastels. God help me if I see another millennial pink dress—"

"Power colors," Jess cut in before she could spiral.

Brittney stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk and turned on you. That razor-sharp gaze of hers pinned you to the spot. "And you," she said, jabbing a finger at you like you were a puzzle she was two seconds from solving. "You’re not just gonna wear the design. You are the design."

You blinked. "That sounds... horrifying."

Jess snorted, and Brittney just rolled her eyes before grabbing your arm and steering you toward a boutique like you didn’t get a say.

"Shut up and trust me. This is art in the making."

And just like that, you were dragged into the chaos of Brittney’s latest masterpiece. You couldn’t help it—you felt the buzz under your skin. That barely-there thrill winding up your spine. Somewhere between fear and excitement. The last time Brittney mentioned Astrophile, she dropped something important:

Every designer needed a showstopper model.

You’d assumed she’d pick someone seasoned. Someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who wasn't... well, you. But now, standing here in the thick of it, you knew one thing for sure:

You were going to prove you could be that someone.

As Brittney and Jess threw around talk of fabrics and color palettes, your gaze drifted to the vibrant windows flashing around you. A blur of color here. A glint of jewelry there. It was overwhelming—and completely addictive. The idea of standing on that runway, owning it, felt unreal. But more than anything?

It felt right. And as that realization sank in, so did another—

You couldn’t just be good. You needed to be perfect.

And it wasn’t just about looking good. It was about making a statement, commanding attention, and owning the room in a way you never had before. Brittney hadn’t really mentioned the full scope of what was required for Astrophile, but you were piecing it together now.

This wasn’t about being just a ‘pretty face’—you had to become something more. Someone who fit the part. Someone who embodied the look. It was a tall order, but you were more than willing to rise to the challenge.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when Brittney suddenly stopped in front of a boutique, the door chime ringing out like the universe signaling the start of something important—or maybe it was just a door chime. Who knows?

Regardless, she walked in with Jess, and for a second, you considered just standing outside and watching. But then you remembered: you were in the middle of some grand fashion scheme, and standing on the sidewalk wasn’t going to get you anywhere.

So, with a quiet sigh, you followed them inside.

The store was one of those minimalist places that looked like it belonged in a fancy art museum—bare walls, low lighting, racks of clothes arranged by a team of very serious professionals whose only goal was to make you feel poor and underdressed. The palette was mostly soft neutrals, punctuated by bold pops of neon to keep things ‘edgy.’

Brittney was already deep in ‘fashion mode,’ dramatically scanning every rack like she was searching for something only she could see. Jess, as usual, was more practical—holding up a few pieces and offering her two cents like the resident voice of reason.

You leaned against a nearby wall, arms crossed, trying to make sense of what they were saying. It sounded like a foreign language—‘structured,’ ‘flowy,’ ‘balance of strength and softness’—terms you only kinda, sorta understood, but weren’t exactly sure how to apply in real life.

“So, what are we thinking?” Brittney said, tapping her chin with her signature mix of smug confidence and absolute self-assurance. She was already sketching in her open pad, her pencil moving in quick, confident strokes, mapping out rough lines and shapes.

It was mesmerizing to watch her work. Like she was pulling something out of thin air—and you were just lucky to witness it.

“I don’t know... maybe something with... pizzazz?” you offered weakly, fully aware it wasn’t a real suggestion but still feeling the need to contribute.

Brittney glanced at you and snorted. “Pizzazz?” she repeated, like the word itself was an insult. She turned to Jess instead. “We need bold. But not too bold. Elegant, sophisticated—with a twist. You know, like ‘I’m classy, but I could break your heart if I wanted to.’”

Jess gave a knowing nod and immediately pulled out a deep burgundy gown from one of the racks. “How about this? Structured, but still flowy. Strong, but soft.”

Brittney immediately grimaced. “It’s fine. But too safe. I want something that grabs attention without screaming ‘I’m trying too hard.’”

You rolled your eyes, mostly to yourself. Safe? Brittney could make a potato sack look like high fashion if she wanted to. You had no idea how her brain worked—and honestly, you weren’t sure you wanted to.

You watched them volley back and forth, throwing out suggestions and tossing aside dresses like they were picking fruit.

Jess suggested something classic, Brittney rejected it, sketched another idea—and repeat. It was like a chess match, except with fabric and pins instead of pawns.

Finally, Brittney turned to you, wearing that unreadable smile of hers. “What do you think? Still want to model for me?”

You straightened up, the seriousness in your voice immediate. “Of course. I’ve been thinking about it. And whatever you come up with? I’ll make it unforgettable.”

Brittney raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed by the conviction in your tone. She gestured toward the racks. “It’s not just about showing up, you know. You have to embody the designer’s vision. Become the walking, breathing version of their creation. You’ll need to bring your A-game—and not just be the pretty face.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle in your chest.

But pressure? That was nothing new. You thrived under pressure.

After what felt like hours combing through endless racks and listening to Brittney and Jess debate the existential meaning of fabric choices, we finally left the boutique—victorious, in a way. Brittney, true to her word, promised to buy food for tagging along.

Naturally, we gravitated toward the food court’s shining crown jewel: the pretzel stand. The warm smell of baked dough, butter, and sugar hit us like a freight train. It was impossible to resist.

"Okay, real talk," Jess said, dead serious, in a quiet tone "if we don’t get sugar pretzel nuggets, I might actually die."

Brittney, flipping through her phone absentmindedly, nodded. "We’re getting everything. Nuggets, pretzel dogs, classic pretzels, lemonade, cheese dip, caramel... whatever. My treat."

You smirked a little, folding your arms loosely. "You're unusually generous today."

Brittney tossed you a sideways look, pretending to be insulted. "Don’t read into it. I just reward loyalty."

You rolled your eyes but didn't argue. Loyalty was currency with her—and you, in your own way, were rich.

The line was mercifully short. Brittney placed the order while Jess and you loitered nearby, plotting your dipping sauce strategy like generals at war. As the smells got sweeter, your bladder reminded you of the lemonade you'd chugged earlier.

"I'll be right back," you said, jerking your thumb toward the nearby restroom.

"Don’t get kidnapped," Jess called after you, half-joking.

You gave her a dry smirk. "They wouldn’t survive me."

A minute later, you come from the restroom, wiping your hands on your jeans. You scanned the food court automatically—and froze.

Jess stood by the pretzel stand, tense. Facing her were three girls, decked out in matching color schemes—burgundy skirts, white cropped sweaters. Pack animals.

At the center of it was the ringleader: Sierra, a tall girl with waist-length red hair, a smirk carved into her perfect face like a battle scar. Flanking her were her loyal shadows: Paige, a girl whose only talent seemed to be laughing too loud, and Amber, who looked like she barely knew where she was most of the time.

And standing rigid just beside them, her newly bought shopping bags crushed against her side, was Brittney.

Her outfit—once clean and sharp—was now stained, a sticky red-purple splash across the front. You spotted the empty cup rolling by Sierra's feet, like a confession.

Brittney’s expression was tight, jaw clenched, arms stiff. She wasn’t backing down—she never would—but you could see it: the calculated coldness, the armor snapping into place over old wounds.

Sierra laughed, a sharp, condescending sound that scraped down your spine. "Aw, what’s the matter, Brittney? Thought if you dressed up like a real model, people would forget you’re just middle-class trash?"

You inhaled slowly, quietly, like a hunter getting into position. Something twisted low in your stomach—not anger, not exactly. Something colder. More focused.

You stepped closer, your movements quiet, deliberate. Jess caught your approach first, her eyes flickering toward you, then quickly away, like she didn’t want to give anything away. Smart girl.

Brittney, God bless her, looked like she was about to deck Sierra right then and there, but your presence stopped her. You gave the smallest, most subtle shake of your head. Wait.

Then, casually, you reached over to the counter where a plastic cup of bright yellow cheese dip sat waiting for an abandoned order.

No one noticed. All eyes were on the drama unfolding.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t warn. You just moved.

Let’s just say, in a smooth, efficient motion, you ‘accidentally’ bumped into Sierra hard enough to tip the cheese cup—and the entire thing splattered across her white sweater and burgundy skirt, dripping in a slow, ugly mess.

There was a stunned, breathless silence.

Then Sierra shrieked, backing up like she’d been shot.

"You freak!" she howled, pawing at her clothes in horror.

You stared at her, your expression unreadable, your voice calm, almost bored. "Oops. Must be hard being so... delicate."

Paige and Amber immediately started shrieking too, like confused, brainless birds, and Sierra—face burning with humiliation—shoved past you, almost slipping on the floor. The three of them stormed off without another word, Sierra's ruined outfit drawing stares and a few suppressed snickers from the surrounding tables.

Only once they were gone did you allow yourself to breathe normally. You turned to Brittney and Jess, your stance relaxed again, but your eyes, according to Brittney’s lingering look, still held that cool, irritated. Jess gasped quietly "Whoa. Remind me never to get on your bad side."

Brittney said nothing at first. She just stared at you, as if seeing something she hadn't before—or maybe something she always suspected was there.

The calculating way you had anticipated the situation. The way you stepped in, silently, without grandstanding or theatrics.

Just clean, effective loyalty.

Finally, Brittney exhaled a soft, humorless laugh. She picked up one of the pretzel bags and shoved it into your hands. "Here," she said, her voice oddly gentle, almost reverent. "You earned it."

You accepted it, a small smile appears across your face, “Oh my, yes.”

Brittney lingered a step behind as you and Jess strolled ahead, your voices mixing with the late afternoon buzz of the mall. Her arms were folded, pretending to be wrapped up in checking her nails, but her eyes kept drifting up toward you.

She should be happy—she was happy—but something in her chest curled up, small and sullen. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was admiration.

Maybe it was both.

You... you weren't from some shiny family background, no silver spoon, no high-rise apartments like the ones Brittney used to dream about before she realized even money couldn't buy her a safe place.

When she first met you, you carried yourself like it didn’t matter—like none of the status games everyone else obsessed over even deserved your attention. You were Crowe’s first close friend. Crowe’s person, his partner, if she really wanted to be honest about it.

And Crowe... Crowe never handed pieces of himself out easily.

He picked you. Vice visa.

You’re his. And he’s yours.

Brittney glanced down for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line. Her reflection in the glass of a boutique window flashed back at her—glossy curls, expensive lipgloss, perfect outfit—and yet she felt oddly… hollow.

You laughed up ahead, tossing some sarcastic comment Jess' way, a playful smirk pulling at your mouth. Jess barked a laugh, leaning into your shoulder, grateful.

You made it look so easy.

Making people feel better. Taking punches that weren't even yours to block. Dismantling bullies like it was second nature—like you'd already seen far worse, fought through far worse, and this was nothing but a minor inconvenience.

No wonder Crowe likes you so much

No—Loves you, even if the way your eyes softened up whenever you even said his name was anything to go by. Despite the buzz of the mall, the noisy chatter, the stomping feet of strangers brushing past, Brittney could still pick it out—the way your voice changed.

It got all soft, sweet, like rain water falling from the sky. It was sure. It was real. It was something that didn’t even need explaining.

Brittney tugged her arms tighter around herself, fighting the cold bite of the AC, or maybe it was just the hollow ache sitting low in her ribs. Maybe someday, someone would look at her like that. Or hell, maybe she'd just get used to watching from the sidelines.

However, you caught it—the fleeting look of something almost vulnerable in her eyes before she turned away, busying herself with adjusting her bag strap.

“Brittney!”

She looked up, blinking, the sound of her name ripping her clean out of her thoughts. There you were, standing a little ahead, that dumb, perfect smile on your face. "Let’s make it back before it rains, okay?" You reached out without hesitation, grabbing her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, tugging her closer to you and Jess.

Brittney didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say.

You were always the one who took initiative, who cared first, even when you had every reason to keep your distance. Even when you spent most of your time alone, waiting for a guy who, honestly, probably wasn’t even free enough to be waiting for.

Crowe—with all his walls, all his mystery, all his bullshit—had picked you. Saved you before anyone else even thought to move.

And it showed in you.

The way your eyes stayed soft, even now.

The way it looked like there were tiny stars caught inside them, like Brittney could throw a wish in there if she was selfish enough.

Or maybe...

Maybe it was enough just to stay close to stars like you.

The ones who didn’t just survive but fought like hell—and somehow still came out shining. She shook her head a little, picking up her pace, boots clacking fast against the mall tiles to catch up with you and Jess. When she finally reached you, she bumped your arm with her elbow, playing it cool, like always.

"You’re lucky you’re cute," she said, flicking her hair with dramatic flair. "Otherwise, you’d be a real pain in my ass."

It wasn’t a lie.

It was the truth—brutal, annoying, aching truth.

After Crowe started getting even busier, disappearing for weeks, like damn near an month at a time, Brittney somehow ended up standing in as backup—backup leader, backup friend, backup everything—all because he asked her to ‘keep you company.’

At first, she thought it’d be easy.

But the more she hung around you, the more you cracked jokes, shared stupid little facts, messed with Jess, or stared off with that look like you were hiding a whole library of secrets under your skin... the harder it got to pretend you were just another favor she was doing for Crowe.

You didn’t act like someone waiting for a hero.

You acted like the damn hero yourself.

And maybe that’s why Brittney was here now, standing in the middle of her own hot pink chaos of her bedroom, still making a dress for you like it was the most important thing in the world.

You were standing at the edge of the room, spinning a loose bracelet around your wrist, lost in your own head.

The walls were splashed with posters, glittery stickers, shelves full of perfume bottles, and piles of gyaru magazines shoved under the bed. The air smelled like vanilla body spray and fresh laundry. Makeup palettes littered every flat surface, a kind of chaotic clean that only Brittney could navigate.

It was a mess, but it was hers.

And now you were in it. Like you belonged.

Brittney sat cross-legged on the bed, sewing needle between her fingers, threading rhinestones into the hem of your dress.

She didn’t say anything. Just looked up every now and then, catching glimpses of you twirling absentmindedly near her mirror, humming to yourself, tapping a rhythm against your thigh.

After the mall incident, it became normal. You’re dropping by almost every day, sometimes with Jess or Deyrl or even Geo, tagging along. But the best days—the ones Brittney almost hated herself for liking the most—were the ones where it was just you and her.

Just the two of you, like now, in a room full of pink, rain tapping softly against the window outside, the whole world small and far away.

She tied off another stitch and looked up at you again.

You caught her eye and smiled.

And god, it made something ache in her chest so bad she almost had to laugh. She watched as your eyes looked all around the walls of Brittney’s room looked like they were losing a war.

Fabric scraps, sequin tins, mannequin limbs, open sketchbooks—there was barely a clean surface in sight. But somehow, Brittney herself moved through it all with purpose, a cigarette tucked behind her ear, a pin cushion strapped to her wrist like a weapon.

You shifted your weight on the edge of her bed, letting the mattress dip under you. The dress was half-finished on the mannequin in the corner: a masterpiece, heavy with promise, stitched with the kind of careful devotion Brittney rarely let anyone see.

You tugged absently at the hem of your sleeve, voice soft enough to be buried under the whir of Brittney’s deep focus.

”Hey... Have you heard from Crowe lately?"

The question hung between you for a moment—too casual to be innocent, too pointed to be missed. You hadn’t seen him in days. Maybe even weeks, if you were being honest with yourself.

“Busy with family stuff,” or “Ask Geo, not sure,” Brittney had said many times before, offhand, like it was supposed to mean something. But the ache of missing him had started settling under your ribs, stubborn and heavy.

Brittney didn’t answer right away.

You caught the way her shoulders tensed. The way the needle in her hand hesitated just a little too long over the fabric. When she did speak, her voice was sharper than it needed to be. "He's... Jericho. You know how he gets. Disappears sometimes. Doesn't mean anything."

But it did, didn't it?

You could see it all over her face—the tightness around her mouth, the way her hand clenched the fabric a little too hard. Before you could push further, you heard her hiss in pain. "Fuck!" Brittney jerked her hand back, a tiny bead of blood welling up from her fingertip where the needle had bitten her.

You were up in an instant, instincts kicking in before thought could catch up. "Britt—hold still."

You ducked into her tiny bathroom, snagging the first aid kit she kept stuffed behind the mirror. When you came back, she was sitting cross-legged on the bed, cradling her hand and muttering under her breath. You sat close—closer than usual—the bed dipping further under your combined weight. Your hands were gentle, careful as you cleaned the tiny wound, the sting of antiseptic filling the air between you.

Her eyes were on your face.

You could feel it—the way her gaze burned, lingering a little too long, searching for something you probably didn’t even realize you were showing. "You didn’t have to," she muttered, but her voice had softened, the sharp edges dulled into something warmer, almost fragile.

You smiled softly, small, instinctive, and kept your eyes on her hand as you wrapped the hot pink leopard pattern band-aid around her finger. "I don’t mind," you said. “Like, I don't mind being your model either. It's kinda fun. Astrophile sounds... exciting."

She went still. Completely still, like a string pulled too tight.

You glanced up, blinking when you caught the way she was staring at you, like you’d said something wrong without knowing it. And then she said it. Quiet, but steady.

"I picked you because you’re close," Brittney said, voice low. "Because you fit the aesthetic without even trying... and..." She hesitated—a rare, honest crack in her usual armor— "...because I just wanted to spend more time with you."

You froze, heart stumbling in your chest, caught off guard by the sudden, naked honesty of it.

For a second, all you could do was blink at her, wide-eyed. Then you laughed. Soft and startled, a breath of sound that escaped without your permission.

It was a sound Brittney had never heard before—light, real, pretty— and it made something strange and aching tighten behind her ribs.

And maybe that was why she said the next thing.

Why she blurted it out, unable to stop herself. "You and Crowe," Brittney said, cutting through your laugh mid-breath. Her voice was low, almost accusing, but there was something vulnerable curled under it. Something that almost sounded like fear.

"...What are you two, really?"

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you sat back a little, your gaze slipping past Brittney, past the cluttered room, past the half-finished dress—as if you were looking somewhere far beyond it all. "Crowe and I..." You exhaled, slow and quiet, trying to find the right words.

"They say stars are always burning, even when we can't see them. Even when they drift out of sight, they’re still there. Still shining." Your fingers toyed with a loose thread on your sleeve, your voice growing steadier.

"We’re like that. Even if we’re not together, even if there’s distance... there’s this pull between us. Like gravity. Like... we're part of the same constellation, and no matter how far apart we end up, we’re still connected. Written into the same sky."

You smiled a little—soft, almost sheepish.

"I guess... Crowe’s my favorite star. The one I always end up finding, even when everything else feels too far away."

For a long moment, Brittney said nothing. She just watched you, something complicated and aching in her eyes. You didn’t notice the way her hands tightened slightly around the hem of the fabric she was holding. Or the way her throat worked, like she was swallowing down a hundred things she couldn’t say.

Instead, she let out a rough, exasperated breath—half—laugh, half—sigh—and shoved the tape measure into your lap. "Alright, Shakespeare," Brittney said, trying for dry and unaffected, but her voice cracked just enough to betray her. "Enough star metaphors. I need your damn measurements again before you start waxing poetic about soulmates or whatever."

You snorted, grabbing the tape measure, tossing it back at her with a lazy flick of your wrist. "Sorry for having a soul, Brittney."

"Yeah, yeah, don’t get used to it." But there was a ghost of a smile on her lips as she stood, brushing her hair out of her face.

The fitting was… painfully awkward. Hilariously so.

Brittney tried—God, she tried—to keep a straight face, forcing herself into some imaginary role of professionalism. But the moment she draped the fabric across your shoulders, her fingers hesitated, lingering just a little too long against your skin. She muttered a sharp curse under her breath and immediately jerked her hands back like you had burned her.

"Jesus, stand still," she snapped, cheeks blooming pink.

"I am standing still," you shot back, grinning. "You’re the one having a full-blown crisis over there."

"Shut up. You're—you're uneven," she huffed, clearly flustered.

"Pretty sure that’s not how anatomy works, Britt," you teased, laughter bubbling up easily when she yanked the fabric a little too aggressively around your waist. And just like that—

It made you stumble forward, straight into her.

Right onto Brittney.

The impact wasn't harsh, just awkwardly intimate. Tangled limbs. Soft fabric. A gasp caught between your collarbones. Your breath stalled somewhere between her neck and your throat, and her hands, once so determined and focused, now lay splayed against your sides like they didn’t know what to do—hold you up or push you away.

Chest to chest. Too much warmth. Too much proximity.

She groaned in clear exasperation. "Seriously?" she hissed, a sharp edge in her voice. But you...

You just laughed. A quiet, almost guilty sound. Like velvet unraveling under tension.

And then you looked at her.

Your eyes met, and something shifted.

There, hidden beneath her frustration, you saw it—that blue.

That deep, familiar kind of blue. The kind you always adored in paintings and stormy oceans. Her eyes looked like that. Like the kind of night sky that doesn't ask for attention but always has it anyway.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared, a breath caught in your chest that had nothing to do with the fall. And then you said it—soft, as if speaking too loudly would break the spell:

“Why aren’t you taken yet, Britt?”

Her brows scrunched. “What?”

“I mean…” You trailed off, letting your eyes scan her—artfully done hair, the precision in her outfit, the quiet elegance in her every movement that didn’t try to be elegant, just was. “You’re so pretty,” you murmured. “Like... you walk around looking like this and no one’s scooped you up yet? They must be blind or cowards. Or both.”

Brittney’s entire face flushed, color blooming down her throat like spilled wine soaking silk. “Don’t flirt with me when you’ve just body-slammed me,” she muttered, voice cracking somewhere between embarrassment and something more dangerous.

You grinned, still hovering far too close, like gravity had taken sides and decided you belonged there. “Just saying what’s true,” you murmured. “Don’t get mad at me because you’re stunning and terrifying. You have such pretty blue eyes...”

Brittney’s eyes narrowed, though her cheeks betrayed her with that stubborn flush. “Get off,” she snapped, firmer this time. When you didn’t immediately budge, she shoved your shoulder—harder now. Not playful. Not tentative. A sharp push that sent you back a few inches, enough to break the spell.

The warmth between you snapped like a stretched wire.

“You’re seriously—ugh,” she exhaled, flustered beyond repair. “I swear to God, if you don’t stop being you, I will call the police and say you broke into my apartment through the ceiling tiles.”

You laughed anyway, delighting in her unraveling. “Do I at least look good enough for them to believe it was worth the risk?”

“God, shut up,” she hissed, eyes wide like a cornered animal—but not scared. Unprepared. “You’re... distracting,” she muttered, like the word had weight she couldn’t shake.

For a moment, she stared at you again—longer this time. Like she wanted to say something more.

Brittney blinked, then suddenly jolted like waking from a trance.

She coughed—sharp, deliberate, like forcing her system to reboot. Then, without ceremony, she shoved her palm against your forehead and pushed you back. "Off. You're a radiation leak of comments," she snapped, tone biting but not enough to mask the fluster beneath.

You barely had time to regain your balance before the door clicked shut behind her. "Don’t touch anything. I’m getting our DoorDash," she threw over her shoulder, voice too pointed, too practiced—betraying the nerves riding her spine.

“Okay,” you replied, unfazed. Typical.

She didn’t answer. Just slammed her bedroom door shut and leaned against it, exhaling like it hurt. Alone. Or at least, only with you in the house. She stood still, motionless for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. Then, with effort, she peeled herself off the door and headed for the stairs.

The house had shifted in the quiet—muted and breathless, like it knew what she was thinking. Floorboards groaned beneath her bare feet, each creak swallowed by the hush of late-night stillness. The fridge hummed softly in the distance. The silence felt too large. Too knowing.

But Brittney didn’t notice. Couldn’t. Her head was full.

Burning. Overheating.

She pressed her fingers to her cheeks. Still warm. Stupidly warm. Embarrassingly so. You had done that—again. With your impossible grin and that voice that slipped past her guard like silk. “Distracting,” she mumbled, echoing her pathetic attempt at brushing you off earlier.

What a lie.

You weren’t distracting. You were devastating.

A walking celestial event she couldn’t stop tracking, pretending she wasn’t being pulled into the tailspin every time you passed. She paused at the foot of the stairs, catching sight of her reflection in the crooked mirror on the far wall. The picture-perfect makeup was intact, but the control beneath it?

Fractured.

"You're stunning and terrifying," you'd said. Not flirty. Not casual. Like it meant something. And that was the worst part. It did. You meant every word—you always did. That maddening, fearless honesty you carried like a blade. Or a promise.

She touched her lips. Shook her head. It didn’t help.

Your voice still lingered. Your nearness still clung. The afterglow of your smile haunted the air. You weren’t hers—probably never would be. You belonged to freedom. To chaos. To the kind of truth, she wasn’t sure she could survive.

But God... you made her want to be someone worth surviving for.

Meanwhile, you sat cross-legged in the center of Brittney’s room, the soft thud of bass from your heartbeat the only real sound now that she'd gone. The light from your phone screen cast faint glows across your bored features, thumb scrolling with no real focus—just killing time until she returned with the food you’d both been craving for hours.

Still, she was taking forever.

You leaned back slightly, arms crossed, gaze drifting around the room. The air still smelled faintly like her—berry perfume and something sharper beneath it, like citrus and nerve. Familiar. Distracting.

You weren’t planning to touch anything.

And yet—Buzz.

The sound cracked through the silence like a pin-drop in a cathedral. Your head turned automatically, instinctive and subtle. Her laptop sat open on the bed. Lit. Humming. The screen glared in the low light, untouched in her rush to get the door. No password prompt. No attempt at discretion.

Just... open. Waiting.

A thread of messages stared up at you like they wanted to be seen.

You shouldn’t have looked. You didn’t mean to snoop.

But there it was: Jericho. Not Crowe.

The name hits wrong. Too formal. Too cold. Brittney always used it. Even when they are close friends. That name was a line drawn in the sand, sharp and sterile, like she was filing him under “miscellaneous” instead of “used to matter.”

You edged forward, unable to help yourself now, gaze tracing down the digital conversation etched into light.

Jericho: “How’re they doing?”

You didn’t need to ask who they meant.

Brittney: “They’re good. Keeping busy. I’ve been keeping an eye on them.”

Your stomach twisted. Not “they’re fun to have around.” Not “I missed them.” Just… surveillance. Like you were some chore on a checklist. A responsibility to manage. A watchful obligation. Not a friend. Not even a person, really. Something sank in your chest. Low and cold, your eyes still glued to the screen. It buzzed again.

FaceTime: Incoming Call – Jericho

And without warning—without your input—it answered. Auto-answer. Still linked to her phone downstairs. The connection causes the green and white camera symbol. Active. Your breath caught.

Crowe’s voice filtered in—low, slightly warped by digital grain but still unmistakable. “—seriously, Britt, if you’re not being honest, I need to know. This wasn’t the plan.” You could hear by the direction of his voice—he was in her kitchen or near the front room. Talking to her. Talking like this wasn’t the first time.

You crept toward Brittney’s bedroom door and eased it open just a sliver. The wood didn't creak—only a soft whisper of displaced air, like the house itself was holding its breath with you.

Downstairs, her voice filtered up—muted, casual, almost bored. “I can’t talk long,” she said, followed by the rustle of a plastic bag. “They’re upstairs, hopefully still waiting for me to bring up the food.”

You stilled, heartbeat slow and deliberate.

Then: Crowe. His voice came sharp, like it had been simmering beneath the surface. “Brittney… why them?”

You didn’t move.

“Out of everyone,” he continued, voice edged with disbelief, “you picked them to model for you?”

She sighed. “Because they’re competent? Because they get it? Because they don’t flinch when things get serious?”

“No.” His reply was immediate. Quiet. Controlled. Like he was trying not to sound angry—but failing.

“No,” he repeated, lower now. “I didn’t want them to go Astrophile for a reason. I didn’t want them in that kind of space, Britt. You know what it’s like down there—what people become in that studio, in that scene. I didn’t want them changed by it.”

Your fingers curled against the doorframe.

“I didn’t want them swallowed up by all that pressure, all that noise. I didn’t want to watch them turn themselves into someone else just to survive in that place,” Crowe said. “I didn’t want to see them start pretending.”

Something was aching in his voice—too raw to be rehearsed. And suddenly, the weight of what he wasn’t saying sat heavy in your chest. “I didn’t want to lose who they are,” he murmured. “Even if that makes me selfish.”

You weren’t excluded. You were shielded.

Not because he underestimated you. Because he was afraid of what it would do to you—of what it would do to him, to see you fade into the same haze he was still trying to claw his way out of.

A silence hung thick between them.

Then Brittney’s voice cut through—tired and done with it. “Jericho, they’re grown. They made the choice. And once their mind’s made up, nothing—no one—is stopping them.”

You could hear her shifting the bag, checking its contents. She wasn’t even looking at the phone. She was over this argument. “You told me to keep an eye on them? Fine. That’s what I’m doing. But I told them not to go. I did. I tried,” she said, almost defensively now.

“Doesn’t matter now. They’re not doing this for themself,” she continued. “They’re doing this for me. For the project.” And that stung in a different way. Not out of guilt—but out of something deeper. You had decided. You had committed. But underneath all that drive, all that control, was a quieter truth:

You were willing to burn a little—for her.

To prove something. To protect the vision she was clinging to, even when she couldn’t admit how much it mattered.

“They’re not dragging them into anything they didn’t choose,” Brittney added, more quietly now. “They knew what it would mean to stand in front of those cameras. They wanted to be seen.”

You imagined Crowe’s jaw clenching on the other end. You imagined him looking away from the screen like he always did when he couldn’t win the argument, but still hated losing it.

“I just didn’t expect it to feel like this,” he said eventually. The words came slowly. Bitter. “Like I just… handed them over.”

“They’re strong,” Brittney said, but there was less fire in her voice now. “More than you think.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I know they are. That’s why it scares me. Because strength doesn’t mean they won’t break. Especially not in a place like that.”

You didn’t stay to hear the rest.

You stepped back and closed the door with the softest click, careful not to let the sound betray the tremor building in your chest. The hallway air felt sharper now, colder, as though the words you’d just heard had chased the warmth from the walls.

You hadn't come here to be protected.

You hadn’t asked to be shielded, to be spared.

You came to matter. To do something real.

And whether that meant posing in front of cameras or walking headfirst into Astrophile’s shadowy depths—you had chosen it. Eyes open. Chin up. No one had dragged you here.

Still, that didn’t make shit hurt less.

Your breath slipped out, shallow and slow. Your eyes narrowed, dark with thought, but your face remained still. Detached. Cold. Because that was easier—wasn’t it?

Easier than admitting what really hurt.

You weren’t sure what stung more: That Brittney spoke about you like a mission, like a tool she had to justify keeping. Or that he—Crowe—still had that kind of hold on her. That she still picked up when he called. That he still had access to her voice, her trust, her loyalties... in ways you weren’t sure you ever would.

You were already in it. Too deep now to look back.

So you repeated the words to yourself like a command.

A creed. A curse: Keep going. Keep burning.

Push harder. Go colder. Make it count.

But the truth settled inside you anyway, slick and heavy like oil in water. It clung to your ribs, clutched your lungs, and made each breath feel just a bit more artificial.

Downstairs, you heard Brittney grab the food. Paper bags. The clink of drinks in a tray. Her footsteps moving without hesitation—her body efficient, practiced. You followed without thinking. Your limbs moved before your mind caught up.

By the time you reached her door and pushed it open, your face had already returned to form. Calm. Composed.

Your mask—the one you wore so well—was back in place.

She had no idea what you’d just heard. What it did to you. And when she finally looked up, smiling faintly, expectant, ready to return to business, you said nothing. Because there was nothing to say.

The battle was already behind your eyes. And she wouldn’t see it. Not if you didn’t let her. So you nodded once, slow and silent, and sat like nothing had shifted.

Even if everything had.

After all, it wasn’t long before you tasted the air inside Astrophile was thick with hushed voices and the subtle hum of orchestral music piped through hidden speakers.

Soft lights glowed from sleek, modern fixtures overhead, casting a dreamlike shimmer across the crowd gathering beneath the vaulted glass dome of the planetarium.

Above it all, the stars turned.

Projected against the curved ceiling, galaxies spun in lazy, breathtaking spirals. Nebulae bloomed in slow motion. Shooting stars flared and died in silence. The entire world outside the dome—the noise, the obligations, the expectations—faded into a muffled afterthought.

Here, the universe reigned.

Brittney, from a quiet corner, moved easily through the crowd, vibrant and conspicuously golden against the subdued black-tie backdrop.

Tonight, Brittney wore a long, dusty pink gown that shimmered faintly whenever she turned beneath the planetarium lights.

The cowl neck of the dress draped elegantly across her collarbones, while two long ruffles cascaded from her shoulders, floating slightly as she walked. The hem swept the floor, brushing just above her gold heels, each step deliberate, measured. Gold jewelry gleamed against her tan skin—bracelets that caught the light, delicate chains layered across her collarbone, and tiny gold star earrings that winked with each tilt of her head.

Her face, reflected briefly in her small handheld mirror as she checked herself, was a study in careful beauty: soft, understated makeup that highlighted rather than hid—long, thick lashes framing her deep blue eyes, a flush of warmth brushed over her cheeks, and bubblegum pink lipstick pulled across her lips in a neat, glossy smile.

Her blonde hair, usually yanked back into a tight high ponytail with a playful bow, was left down tonight—loose, flowing, and faintly curled at the ends. It framed her face in two distinct tendrils, one dyed a soft sky blue and the other a pale candy pink, mirroring the two dyed streaks that blended into her bowl-cut bangs. Two additional tendrils, smaller and more delicate, fell in front of her ears like a calculated afterthought.

Her nails—sharp, glossy, meticulously kept—flashed when she lifted her glass, alternating shades of pastel blue and pink in a pattern that only she could make seem effortlessly bold.

She looked good. She knew she looked good.

The confidence radiated from her, a tangible heat that someone could feel even across the room. Above her, the stars continued their endless dance.

Impersonal. Distant. Beautiful. Much like the night ahead.

She hadn't even noticed him at first.

One moment, Brittney was laughing lightly at something one of the investors said, her face tilted up toward the artificial starlight, and the next—

Crowe was there.

Or rather—again… Jericho.

He materialized almost like an illusion—moving from a small knot of wealthy patrons near the edge of the event space, his posture relaxed but alert, a quiet command in the way he carried himself. It was jarring at first: seeing him here, in this kind of setting, speaking with rich men and women dressed in velvet and silk like it was second nature.

But then again, she reminded herself, Crowe had always been more than he let on. Humble didn’t mean poor. It meant private.

The planetarium lights caught the edges of his outfit, drawing every eye in the room to him without him even trying. He wore a modernized version of something princely—a deep navy jacket tailored within an inch of his life, embroidered with faint silver constellations at the cuffs and collar. The fabric clung to his broad shoulders and tapered down into dark trousers tucked neatly into polished boots.

It shouldn’t have worked. It did.

His dark brown hair, usually messy and hidden under a hat or hood, was tied into a loose braid that fell over his right shoulder, several strands escaping to frame the right side of his face, pushed haphazardly behind his ear.

And when he lifted a hand to tuck one stubborn piece away, you caught a flash of his nails—long, neatly shaped, cared for with the kind of quiet precision you knew Crowe never bragged about.

His deep blue eyes found Brittney immediately. "Britt," he said warmly, arms already moving to pull her into a casual, brotherly hug.

Brittney, caught completely off-guard, "Jericho,” whether from surprise or simply just lost, hard to tell. He pulled back slightly, hands resting lightly on her shoulders. "How are you enjoying your night? You’re practically the star of the show—you showing off your project to the big leagues yet?"

Brittney, regaining her footing with a breathless little laugh, shrugged. "It's fine, I guess," she said, forcing brightness into her voice. "Got a few compliments so far. Would’ve gotten more if my beautiful model wasn’t taking thier sweet time hiding somewhere in the damn event."

Crowe—blinked once, slowly, his expression shifting just slightly. Concern flickered behind his composed exterior. "Wait... hiding? Why would they be hiding?" His voice dropped lower, serious now. "Did something happen? Are you okay?"

Brittney rolled her eyes with a tired, dry laugh, waving one manicured hand in a dismissive circle. "I dunno, Jericho. Think about it, maybe if my boyfriend ghosted me for, oh, about a month, and they’re not sure how they should feel about showing up all dressed up and sparkly like nothing ever happened." Her voice was sarcastic, flippant.

Her eyes, however, were sharp. Hurt. Tired.

Jericho froze for a fraction of a second.

Barely enough for anyone else to notice.

Brittney stared at him, dumbfounded, as if seeing something she hadn’t expected. The false casualness of her shrug didn’t hide the weight of what she'd just thrown at him.

Crowe's face didn’t move at first.

There was a tiny shift in his posture—shoulders tense, jaw clenching for the barest second—but otherwise, he held himself still, like a statue carved under centuries of pressure.

He didn’t rush to explain himself. Didn’t stammer out excuses. Crowe... simply looked at Brittney with something hollow flickering behind his deep blue eyes. The silence stretched long enough to bruise. And then—

A ripple moved through the room. Heads turned, subtle but certain, pulled by the gravity of something... different.

You.

You emerged from the shadows of the planetarium's grand archways, the starlight bathing your form like a silent coronation. Your gown clung and floated all at once—a fitted silhouette of deep navy-blue silk so dark it almost seemed black, strewn with tiny, scattered gems and embroidered stars that shimmered with every movement.

The off-the-shoulder straps and sheer boned bodice added structure without confinement, leading down into a flowing skirt with a daring slit that revealed the strength in your step. The sweetheart neckline framed you like a whispered promise.

Hair pinned elegantly up, the glow of delicate silver jewelry catching every phantom beam of light. Your makeup was simple, precise, pretty—designed not to mask, but to sharpen.

You looked like something woven out of the night sky itself.

And Crowe—

Crowe felt the entire world stutter to a stop. For one raw, suspended heartbeat, he almost didn’t recognize you. Not because you were a stranger, however, because, somehow, impossibly, you had crossed some invisible threshold.

From someone he cared for quietly in the background...

To something so devastatingly unattainable, he could barely breathe.

The soul-struck silence hit him hard, right to the chest. Crowe didn’t think ‘wow, you look nice.’ No.

He thought, ‘I am not ready for the way I want you.’

You moved with effortless command, gliding through the murmuring crowd, an investor trailing respectfully beside you. As you passed by, your eyes caught Brittney’s—sharp, knowing, protective—and you stopped deliberately, every movement designed, controlled.

With a poised smile, you spoke clearly, voice carrying just enough to be overheard by the nearest circles: “Brittney Claire,” you announced smoothly to the investor, gesturing lightly toward her. “She’s the true artist behind the evening’s highlight pieces. Her work speaks for itself.” More heads turned.

Brittney blinked, flustered for half a second before recovering, her tan skin glowing under the artificial starlight, her dusty pink dress and glittering jewelry framing her perfectly under your deliberate spotlight.

A nearby group of potential investors leaned in, suddenly far more interested.

You stepped back just slightly, allowing Brittney the room to shine, but not leaving her side—an unspoken, strategic shield against any whisper of disrespect.

Crowe watched, mute, as you navigated the room with effortless grace, elevating Brittney higher with every word, every small, calculated glance.

You didn’t just attend the event. You orchestrated it.

Without stealing the stage. It was the kind of precision Crowe knew only a few could manage. And in that moment, standing there with the stars spinning silently above him, he realized—

he might have already lost the right to stand at your side.

At first, Brittney didn’t understand what you had done.

She just stared—a little dazed, lashes fluttering—as the investors around her leaned closer, curious, smiling, intrigued. Your voice, steady and sure, had acted like a blade cutting the way through dense mist.

You hadn't just introduced her. You'd positioned her. Protected her.

The realization hit Brittney like a slow-moving train. Her hands, manicured perfectly in alternating pink and blue, trembled slightly at her sides. For the first time all evening, she didn’t feel like a guest trying to justify her worth.

She felt... seen. Elevated. And she hadn't done it alone.

“...Thank you,” she whispered, voice catching, almost broken by the rush of overwhelming gratitude. Her eyes glittered too much under the starry lights—not just from the shimmer of the room, but from the threat of tears she fought viciously not to shed.

You offered her only the slightest nod, a quiet flicker of your eyes that said: ‘Stand tall. Don’t waste it.’ You didn’t linger to take credit.

You turned on your heel, skirts whispering against the gleaming floor, and walked away before Brittney could even gather herself enough to follow. Crowe moved instinctively after you. But you were faster. Not running, no—You were too composed for that.

You glided through the crowd, deliberately slipping between conversations and pockets of laughter, avoiding Crowe without a word, leaving only the soft scent of your perfume and the trail of your long, elegant silhouette in your wake. From behind you, Crowe called your name once under his breath.

But you didn't turn. You didn’t even slow. Only a fleeting, tired expression crossed your face—like you were so deeply, intimately weary of him that it didn’t even burn anymore.

It just... hurt.

And then—

You collided lightly with a woman.

She was striking—mid-forties, maybe early fifties—with flawless dark skin, well-coiffed hair, expensive earrings that caught the dim light. She was sipping champagne lazily, the glint of judgment in her gaze immediately clear. “My,” she said, a slow, approving tone in her voice, looking at your dress.

“Who created that gown? It’s exquisite.”

Without missing a few seconds, you placed a polished mask over your features, lifting your chin slightly with subtle pride. “Brittney Claire," you said smoothly. "A rising star. Her designs are tonight’s best-kept secret."

The woman raised a brow, clearly impressed. And then—a hand landed gently, but insistently, on your bare shoulder. Your body stiffened under the touch.

You already knew who it was without looking. Crowe.

Still, you didn’t turn right away. You didn’t owe him your attention. Not yet. Not when you had this to face.

The woman—older, elegant in the way money always tried to wear sophistication like a perfume—tilted her head as Crowe approached, the easy familiarity between you two clearly catching her eye. Her expression shifted. Sharpened.

“Jericho?” she asked, disbelief softening her voice as she set down her crystal flute. Her eyes narrowed faintly. “You know them?”

Crowe smiled—just barely, that quiet kind of smile that spoke louder than full-throated declarations. One hand remained respectfully but firmly on your shoulder, grounding you in place.

“They’re my partner,” he said.

The words dropped like stones into still water. A ripple. A hush.

His aunt blinked once. Then twice. Like the term didn’t quite register in her world of tailored norms and manicured expectations.

Then—she laughed. Polite. Brittle.

A crack in her mask, quickly smoothed over by the glide of her hand down the front of her pristine designer gown. “Is this the one you were speaking of? From the... lower class?” Her tone dripped with disdain, wrapped in a veil of civility.

She turned to you then, smiling sweetly. The smile of a serpent.

“Tell me, dear,” she cooed, as if to a stray dog taught to dance on its hind legs. “How ever did you manage it? You speak so nicely. You clean up so well. Almost like one of us…” Her gaze skimmed you up and down, dissecting you.

“But surely not really one of us. Right?”

Crowe’s hand on your shoulder tensed—just slightly—but you felt it.

You could’ve stayed quiet. You didn’t. Your smile didn’t waver. Didn’t twitch. But your eyes did narrow, just enough to gleam—like starlight on broken glass. And when you spoke, your voice was a razor: calm, composed, cutting.

“I’m a student model, only for the night,” you said coolly. “Built to be looked at. Paid to be seen for the sake of the artist.” You turned to her now, slowly, like you were doing her the favor of your attention.

“I don’t belong here because I fooled anyone,” you said. “I belong here because I earned it. My presence isn’t an accident—it’s a warning.”

Her smile was no longer sweet. It was taut.

You didn’t stop.

“I’m the first in my family to step foot on a campus, let alone a ballroom. First-generation student. First with honors. First with options. I wasn’t born into legacy—I became one.” You stepped forward now, just a hair, enough that Crowe’s hand slipped from your shoulder, as if even he knew this wasn’t his to interrupt. “You want to know how I did it?”

Your voice dipped lower, honeyed steel. “I made myself into a star.”

You sighed softly before explaining, “And not one of your cold, distant pedigree-no-no—no, I became the kind of star that burns on borrowed oxygen, that lives despite being smothered. A star that refuses to fade just because you weren’t the one who lit it.”

Her eyes widened.

“Your world,” you said, gesturing faintly to the glimmering sea of silk and champagne around you, “is stitched in gold thread and safety nets. But mine? Mine was built from fire escapes, night shifts, and public buses that smelled like rust and defeat. And still, I outshined the rest.”

Your voice lowered again—polite, sweet, and lethal.

“So the next time you wonder how someone like me got here... maybe wonder why so many of you never had to fight.”

There was silence—real silence—now. The kind that follows impact. A heavy, sharp pause that left no room for breath. Crowe’s aunt stared, eyes flat with unspoken rage, or awe, or both.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. But Crowe?

When you finally turned to him, there was something raw in his gaze—like he was seeing you clearly for the very first time. Not as someone brought into the room...

But as someone the room should’ve been built for.

“Well," Crowe’s aunt eventually tilted her head, voice wrapped in velvet and vinegar, drawled, swirling her champagne, "your manners are certainly refined enough, dear. One almost forgets where you come from.” Almost.

Crowe’s hand shifted subtly against you, as if sensing the final blow she tried to land. But you simply inclined your head, serene.

"One's origins," you said coolly, "have little to do with one's destination."

She arched a brow, a wry, displeased little smile twisting her mouth. But you could tell you’d struck something. Something old. Something she didn’t want to admit.

Still, despite winning the exchange—despite silencing her, standing your ground, and delivering your truth like a blade—you felt it.

Something sharp, tight, and quiet began to twist in your chest.

That awful, swelling pressure that didn’t come from fear or regret, but from being overwhelmed, completely and utterly.

And worse... from knowing Crowe has been right once more.

You weren’t as prepared as you thought. All that training in poise, every silent rehearsal in your head, every thread of pride woven carefully into your outfit, your words, your presence—it didn’t matter now. Not really. Because the moment your composure cracked, even subtly, all you could hear echoing through your mind was him.

“I just don’t want you to feel overwhelmed.”

And you did. You were. You hated it.

You hated that he’d seen this before you did. Hated that his concern wasn’t condescending—it was correct. You’d come here thinking you had something to prove. First for yourself. Then, maybe, for the promise of opportunity—networking, exposure, power. But in the end?

Right now?

You were only here for Brittany. Because you offered.

Because she believed in you, and you were too damn stubborn to admit you were starting to lose faith in yourself.

Yes, you spoke your truth. You carved it into the air like scripture. You lit yourself on fire just to show them you could burn brighter than the chandeliers. But none of it felt real anymore. None of it felt like it mattered.

You were still the outsider in the room full of legacy ghosts.

And Crowe had known that. He always knew. He saw the fault lines before you even felt the tremors. And that—that was the worst part. Not that he doubted you. But that he didn’t. That he saw you, saw your strength, your mind, your fire—and still, with all the love in the world, gently asked you not to do this to yourself.

And you did it anyway.

Because you wanted to win.

You wanted to show him he wasn’t the only one who could play this game and walk away unscathed. But the truth sat heavy in your throat now, like a selfish, bitter little thing.

He was right. You were wrong.

And you hated how lonely that made you feel.

So you excused yourself—quietly, gracefully. Not a single crack in your tone, not a tremble to betray you. No one could accuse you of running.

You stepped onto the nearest open balcony, the cold night air lashing against your skin like punishment.

You stood there, arms folded, chest tight, jaw clenched. You needed to breathe. You needed something steady, something real. Because for all the noise inside the ballroom, and all the glory you tried to claim for yourself, what you needed most now...

Was control. Your own control.

Not borrowed confidence. Not brittle pride.

Just you, again.

As the stars spun lazily overhead, your mind flickered backward to earlier that evening. You sat on a stool in Brittney’s chaotic room, makeup strewn across the vanity, dresses and shoes everywhere.

However, she stood in front of you with the intensity of a surgeon, applying foundation with careful, reverent strokes. You sat still, obedient, eyes closed so you didn’t ruin her careful work.

"You look beautiful," Brittney murmured absently, smoothing blush across your cheekbones.

You hummed lightly, noncommittal.

Brittney’s hands slowed, the brush of shimmering eyeshadow forgotten halfway across your eyelid. You felt her hesitation before you heard it—the tension in the air tightening like a string about to snap. “You know," she murmured, voice low, "you’re like a star.”

You opened one eye lazily, an eyebrow raised in dry amusement.

Brittney didn’t smile. Her reflection behind you was dead serious.

“Not one of those pretty ones either. Not a harmless little twinkle in someone’s safe night sky," she continued, tone sharpening into something almost bitter.

"You’re one of those stubborn, goddamn different stars. The kind that flares too hard, too bright. The kind that was never made to fit in up there—but forces its way in anyway."

You said nothing. Let her talk.

Because deep down... you knew Brittney rarely spoke without knowing exactly where her knife would land. “You think I didn’t see it?” she asked, her voice getting a little louder, a little rougher, her hands now resting on your shoulders, gripping them lightly like she was trying to keep you still.

"This whole thing—Astrophile, Crowe, all of it—it was your way out. Your way in. Status. Connections. Being seen.” She pulled back, pacing now, lip gloss forgotten in her hand.

“You’ve achieved more than anyone else I know," she said, fierce and furious. "Clawed your way out of a life no one ever cared to look at. But it’s not enough, is it?" She laughed once—dry, sharp.

"Because you’re still poor. And no matter how brilliant you are, how hard you work... the world doesn’t see stars like you when you’re born on the wrong side of the sky." Her words hung there between you—ugly, brutal, undeniable.

"You’re lucky you even blend in," Brittney hissed.

"But what happens when you burn out? What happens when that fire you keep killing yourself to feed... finally runs out of fuel?"

You swallowed thickly but didn’t move. Eyes still closed. Still silent.

“And Crowe," she added after a beat, softer now, more wounded. "Are you gonna tell him? About all of it? About how heavy it is, carrying a dream so goddamn big it breaks you first?"

The question cut deep. Deeper than anything else she said.

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t need to.

Brittney stepped closer again. Caught your chin in her hand— ough, not unkind. Tilted your face up until you had no choice but to meet her eyes. And in your gaze—sharp, quiet, mournful—she saw it:

It was already too late to back out.

Because, despite everything—despite the world you were stepping into, the fires you would have to keep feeding just to stay alive— your love for Crowe had already rooted itself deeper than Brittney’s hate for the rich could ever reach.

She saw it. Accepted it. Grieved it, even.

And still, in a whisper barely louder than breath, she asked the question again:

“How do you feel about Crowe?”

Your mouth twitched upward into a sardonic, knowing smile. "That’s the second time you’ve asked me that," you said, voice low, almost teasing, but your hands tightened slightly in your lap.

Brittney smiled too, but it was small. Tight. Sad.

"I’m just asking," she murmured, returning to the vanity, beginning to work again with trembling hands, "because... if this goes further..."

She didn’t finish.

Instead, she unscrewed the tube of lip gloss, pressing it carefully across your mouth—slow, reverent—her gaze pinned to the small, subtle tremor you couldn’t quite hide. “You haven’t even met his family yet," she said, almost to herself. "And being loved by him... doesn’t mean you’ll be loved by them."

Her voice dropped lower, almost mournful:

"And being up there with the rich... Is that really a life worthy of living for you?"

You sat still. Rigid. Eyes closed.

The coolness of the gloss across your lips felt almost mocking, a soft cruelty against the sudden burning in your chest. But when you spoke, your voice was steady. Mature. Certain. "I know what I’m going into."

And even though a part of you screamed silently beneath the words, you meant it.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality, muffling the roar of the party to a distant hum. You stepped barefoot onto the balcony, the stone cold beneath your feet, the night colder still.

The stars above seemed almost indifferent.

Silent witnesses to a life you weren’t sure you belonged to. The wind pulled at your dress, your hair, your carefully composed mask, as if trying to peel it away piece by piece. You wrapped your arms loosely around yourself, not out of fear, not out of fragility—more like something contemplative.

Almost resigned. ‘Did you really mean those words?’

"I know what I’m going into."

Your chest ached in the places pride couldn’t protect. You had said it with certainty. You believed it at the time. But now... Now, standing out here where the air was sharper, crueler, less forgiving, you weren't so sure. Inside, the world churned on without you. You could almost picture it:

Crowe’s aunt drifted back to her circle of painted smiles, whispering something acidic and self-satisfied. Another little dagger twisted in your absence. And Crowe himself...

Maybe he’d notice you were gone. Maybe he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter.

You had already chosen.

Even when it hurt. Even when the air you fought for felt colder than the broken places you left behind. You stayed outside longer than you needed to. Letting the quiet gnaw at you. Letting the ache settle into your bones. You told yourself you were just catching your breath.

That you weren’t falling apart. Not yet.

And then, behind you—the balcony door creaked open.

You didn’t turn. Not right away. The air shifted, heavier with a familiar presence. And then—his voice, soft and raw and unbearably gentle:

”Starlight."

You closed your eyes. The sound of it—low, tender, reverent— struck something deep, something fragile, something that had been shaking quietly inside you all night. He stepped closer, cautious like he was approaching something hot, a burning star.

You felt the warmth of his hand ghost over your elbow, but not quite touch, giving you the choice. You breathed out, shaky but silent, letting the wind carry it away.

"I didn’t come out here to pull you back in," Crowe said, his voice low, steady despite the storm you knew he carried in his chest. "I just—"

He stopped, biting the inside of his cheek, searching for the right words. "I just didn’t want you to be alone... if you didn’t want to be."

The stars overhead blurred slightly.

You blinked, swallowing hard. Slowly, you turned to face him.

His deep blue eyes were waiting. Bright, earnest, unwavering. There was no demand for them. No anger. Only the kind of fierce, aching patience that could undo a person if they let it.

You stared at him for a long moment.

The way he stood there, heart in his hands, without even realizing it.

The way he said starlight like it was a secret only the two of you shared. The way he, without meaning to, made you believe, for a moment, that maybe you could survive this.

Maybe even more than survive. Maybe you could belong.

Your voice, when it finally came, was a whisper against the cold:

"I’m scared, Crowe." It slipped out before you could stop it. A truth raw and bleeding and undeniable.

Crowe’s face didn’t change much. Just a small, almost imperceptible softening around the edges. "I know," he said simply. And then, finally, he reached for you—one hand warms against your chilled cheek, steady, anchoring.

"You don’t have to burn yourself alive for them to see you," he murmured, thumb brushing lightly against your skin. "I already do."

The night spun a little around you. You let it. You leaned into him, the way a drowning thing leans into a lifeline without needing permission.

And for the first time that night, you breathed. Really breathed.

Crowe didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

Because in that quiet, shivering space between two beating hearts, a different kind of promise took root—one no amount of status, money, or cruel stars could ever erase.

You stayed like that for a long while. Silent. Breathing him in, breathing yourself back to life. The party behind you blurred into nothing. The night wrapped the two of you in a thin, trembling sort of peace.

Crowe didn’t rush you.

He just held you there, steady and real, letting you take what you needed. Letting you decide. Then, when the shaking in your chest had dulled to a low, aching throb, he shifted—offering you a hand.

"If you want to leave, starlight..." his voice was low, almost unsteady, "...just say the word. I'll get you out of here." His palm hovered there, open and sure. A silent promise. You stared at it. At him. And something broke loose in you.

The words tumbled out, cracked and searching:

"Where have you been?"

His expression faltered—just a flicker. But it was enough to tell you he heard everything layered in your question. Every fear, every shadow that curled beneath your ribs, whispering things like you're not enough, like he’s too good for you, like he’ll leave the moment he sees the truth of you.

You hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not with your voice trembling and your resolve unraveling like thread. But you’d meant it. While you’ve been pretending that love isn’t currency, that feelings aren’t forged from power dynamics and the sickening need to be chosen.

While you’ve been lying—to yourself, to him, to everyone—because the truth is: you never felt like you deserved this. Him. Not truly.

You came into this thinking you had something to prove. That if you played your cards just right—if you dressed the part, walked the walk, wielded your words like weapons—you could erase the gap between what you were and what he was.

But the gap was still there. It always was.

And standing there now, the weight of your own pretenses pressing against your ribs, you realized just how tired you were. Of fighting. Of chasing. Of proving.

Crowe’s brows knit together, subtle but sharp, like he saw straight through you, like he always did. “Right here,” he said, voice soft but firm. “I’ve been here. Maybe not the way you needed—but I’ve never left.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

What could you possibly say to that?

That you’ve been selfish? That you’ve used honesty like a scalpel—cutting truths down to size, offering him just enough to feel close while hiding the rot underneath? That you spun silence into safety, not for his sake, but because the whole truth made you feel too exposed, too small next to him?

That every time he smiled, you counted the ways you weren’t enough?

“Do you even know when you're coming back?” you asked, the words brittle, breaking as they left you. “Since you’ve been gone—“

You tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. Ugly. More like choking.

“I’ve survived. If that’s what you’re wondering.” You looked past him, to the dark edge of the rooftop, to the glittering lights far below. “But surviving isn’t the same as living, Crowe. Not even close.”

His expression twisted. You saw the hurt there, but also the guilt.

The kind that settles behind someone’s eyes when they know they’ve let something important bleed out between the cracks. “I tried to show you,” he said softly. “I thought you saw it. I thought you knew.”

You smiled then. But not the kind he’d remember. This one was bitter. Tired. Full of splinters. "Could've. Should've. But you didn’t." You finally looked at him, really looked. "I just kept hoping you’d want this... want me... a little bit more than it looked like you did.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cruel.

Wasn’t kind either. Just... real.

The kind that settles when two people finally run out of excuses.

He reached for your hand. Slow. Careful. Not demanding.

Just offering.

“You don’t have to win anything to be with me,” he said. “This... it was never about keeping up. You don’t have to prove you deserve me.”

Your hand trembled in his. “But I did, Crowe. I do. Every day. Because people like me don’t end up with people like you unless we earn it.” You blinked, and tears slid hot down your cheeks, unnoticed. “And the worst part is? I don’t even think I was trying to earn you. I think I just wanted to prove to myself that someone like me could have something beautiful and not ruin it.”

You pulled away—not hard, just enough.

"It always felt like I was asking too much just to be seen," you whispered. "Like it hurt you to love me out loud.”

Crowe’s lips parted, but nothing came.

“And maybe that's my fault," you added, arms folding across your ribs like armor. "Maybe I made it too hard. Maybe I asked for too much without giving enough. Maybe I held you close just to stop myself from falling." You took a step back. The stars looked farther now.

“You and I…” your voice broke mid-thought, barely above a whisper, “…we were too close to the stars, weren’t we?”

Crowe didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just watched you unravel—thread by thread, truth by truth, until the shape of you started to look like something he couldn’t fix. Couldn’t hold. Couldn’t even name.

And in the end, maybe that was the problem. Maybe you flew too high on wings sewn from panic and borrowed strength—stitched from fear and too many almosts. Maybe the gravity of loving him cracked your ribs before the fall even started.

"I never knew somebody like you, Crowe.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t stop. You never did when it really counted. “Somebody falling just as hard.”

He could see the battle in your body—the urge to back away, the instinct to fold in on yourself, to disappear behind that polished mask of quiet composure. But you stayed. You bled in front of him. “I’d rather lose somebody than use somebody,” you said. Quiet. Clear. Like a confession buried too long.

You bit down hard, the taste of blood sharp on your tongue, grounding you in the moment, forcing the pain to stay real.

"I never expected to love you this deeply," you admitted. "Never expected to feel like this. You—" Your gaze flicked up to his, and the betrayal that shone in your eyes hit him like a gut punch.

“Why did you give me a chance?” you asked, raw and vulnerable.

Crowe looked hollow. Shattered in the dim light, like all the air had left him. His lips parted like he might speak—but nothing came. Nothing ever did when it mattered.

“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise,” you said, softer now. Tired.

“I see my reflection in your eyes.” Your laugh wasn’t a laugh at all. Just an exhale shaped like surrender. “I know you’re sick, Crowe. Sick with guilt, sick with grief. I know you keep hoping you’ll fix whatever’s broken, but you never let me try. You pushed me away when all I wanted was to stay close.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, your arms aching with all the things you could have held if he’d just let you. “I heard what you said to Brittany that night,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Crowe’s head jerked. His eyes widened.

"I waited,” you continued. “Waited for you to come back. To explain. To lie—anything. But you left me alone, and it hurt, Crowe. It hurt more than I can stand. Tell me you see that. Tell me you see me.”

Still, he said nothing. But he moved.

Just a step. A single step forward, like he couldn’t stand to stay away anymore. The distance between you collapsed into something unbearable. His hand trembled as it hovered near yours, like he wanted to hold you but knew he didn’t deserve to, tracing your hand across his heart.

You could feel his heartbeat pounding—wild, guilty, begging—in the space between your ribs and his. And in his eyes: a galaxy of regret. A thousand unsaid sorries lodged behind his tongue, too afraid to be spoken, too late to make a difference.

You stared at him. So close. So damn close.

But not enough.

He was a blue giant—brilliant and devastating, burning himself out in real time. The kind of star you wish on, even when you know it’ll never reach you.

And you?

You were a brown dwarf. Half-formed. Half-lit. Unseen by most, unfelt by many. Existing in the quiet corners of space, no one ever bothers to look for.

Unremarkable. Useless. Forgotten.

And still... even now, with your heart cracking in your chest—You couldn’t bring yourself to use him. Not even to shield yourself from the hurt. Because you knew better. You’d always known better.

And still... even now, with your heart cracking in your chest—

You couldn’t bring yourself to use him. Not even to shield yourself from the hurt. Because you knew better. You’d always known better. In the end, you couldn’t believe it.

You just… couldn’t.

Not after everything you’d done. Everything you were. After the silence, the nights you pulled away, the sharp words you’d used like razors just to see if he’d flinch—just to prove he was real, that he’d bleed, that he wasn’t some beautiful illusion meant to slip through your fingers.

But Crowe had never broken. Not even once.

He stood there now—tired, yes. Weathered, definitely. There were new shadows beneath his eyes, and the light in him had dimmed around the edges. But he was still there. Still standing. Still looking at you like you mattered. Like he hadn’t been the one dragged through every emotional minefield you’d built around yourself just to survive.

You hated that part of you. The part that ran before it could love properly. The part that pushed people away just to feel in control.

And still—he stayed. How?

How could someone so gentle carry so much weight without shattering? How could someone so radiant choose to stay, even when your love was all thorns and no petals?

You wanted to look away. To shrink. To vanish into the hollow of your own guilt and disappear before he realized the truth.

Because the truth was this: You didn’t deserve him.

Not his steadiness. Not his kindness. Not the way he kept showing up with his heart in his hands, bleeding, broken, but never blaming you for the cuts. Again, he was a star—pure and incandescent. The kind that didn’t ask for praise, didn’t demand to be named or owned. Just existed in spite of it all. Burned without apology.

And he—he stood like he always had.

With that same quiet ache in his eyes. That same refusal to let your damage change him. You could see it now, clear as day:

You had been cruel, and still he chose compassion.

You had been reckless, and still he offered patience.

You had been unkind to yourself, and yet he loved you in a way that made you want to be better. Not for him. But for you. And that—that was the moment your heart finally cracked open: You couldn’t believe it. You shouldn’t have had him.

But somehow… you did.

And that made losing him the most terrifying truth of all.

It was happening again.

That familiar, icy rush in your chest—the kind that made it hard to breathe, to think, to stand. You told yourself you’d be fine on your own. That you'd learned by now how to pick up the pieces alone. But you hadn’t. Not really. Not when it came to him. And now, with Crowe standing there—so close, so painfully real—you broke.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Your body trembled as you reached for him, fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring you to the world. You buried your face against his chest, desperate for his warmth, for the steady drumbeat of his heart that somehow always calmed the chaos in yours.

The tears came faster than you could stop them—hot and endless, streaking down your cheeks like the storm had finally torn through.

"I don’t know how to be solo, Crowe," you choked out, voice splintered at the seams. "So don’t go. No—please. Just stay."

You swallowed hard, but it was like your throat had collapsed in on itself. Your chest ached, ribs constricting as if grief had wrapped hands around your lungs and squeezed. Your arms wrapped around him tighter, clinging like you might dissolve if you let go.

And Crowe… he didn’t move.

He didn’t push you away.

He stood still, letting you fall apart against him, arms slowly encircling you like he’d been waiting—hoping—you’d finally let yourself need him.

"We were bright," you whispered against the cotton of his shirt, your voice muffled and wet. "Shootin’ through the sky daily..."

"Yeah," he breathed, and the word sounded like it cost him something—like it scraped its way out of a chest full of unsaid things.

You pulled back just enough to see him. His gaze was already locked on you—soft, wide, unreadable in that way only Crowe could be. But you felt the weight behind it. The ache. The tether.

"Lighting up the night wasn't always right, baby," you murmured, voice quieter now, trembling at the edges. Your eyes fell, unable to hold the intensity of his, but his never left you. He looked like someone trying to memorize a moment before it slipped away.

“Mhm.” It was barely more than breath, but it held a world of meaning—agreement not with logic, but memory. Shared chaos. Shared light.

“Every time that we realign… it’s crazy,” he said finally, voice frayed and vulnerable. Like even he couldn’t understand how you kept finding your way back to each other after all the mess, the silence, the pain.

Your hand moved before you could think, pressing flat against his chest—right over his heart.

The rhythm was erratic. Fast. Unguarded. Not at all like the mask he wore around others. You felt it beneath your palm like the truest part of him. And when you looked up, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t retreat behind walls or words or distance.

He just looked. At you. Like he’d been waiting an eternity to see your face again. And suddenly, the distance between you didn’t exist.

You leaned in—slowly, carefully—giving him space to stop you if he wanted. He didn’t. "And you save me," you whispered. The words trembled between your lips, too fragile to survive the air for long. A confession. A wound. A truth.

And then—finally—you kissed him.

Not like before.

Not out of desperation, or fear, or fleeting passion.

But like someone drowning who had finally broken the surface. And Crowe melted into you like he’d been holding his breath for years—waiting for permission to feel again.

Your lips parted just enough to breathe, to look at him—and that’s when he moved. Slowly, carefully, he slid his arms around your waist, one hand resting gently at the small of your back, the other curling protectively at your side like he was afraid you might shatter if he held you too tightly.

Before you could even ask, he lifted you—not high, not showy, just enough that your heels left the ground, just enough for the air between you to shift and the moment to hush.

You blinked, taken off guard. "...What are you doing?"

Crowe’s voice came low and warm, a little sheepish. “Dancing with you,” he said softly.

And then, as he began to gently sway beneath the sky’s quiet hush, he added, “Like we used to... before everything got so tangled.”

You didn’t remember when your arms found their way around his shoulders, or when your body started following his lead. But your feet knew. Your heart knew. It was familiar, like a song you hadn’t heard in ages but never forgot the words to.

His breath stirred against your temple as he held you close.

You could feel the way his hands lingered, hesitant and reverent, as though this—you—were sacred.

"I didn’t leave you ‘cause I wanted to,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. “My aunt… she needed me. Some event. Formal, full of high-class expectations and legacy nonsense. She wanted me there last minute, and I didn’t know how to say no. She’s... hard to argue with. The kind of rude that’s so well-dressed in charm, you feel guilty for being mad."

You rested your forehead against his. The old pain stirred, but it didn’t burn the same. The tension in your spine began to ebb with the motion of his steps and the hush in his voice.

“I thought you were ashamed,” you whispered.

His arms tightened. Protective. Immediate.

“No. No, starlight. God, no. It wasn’t shame. It was fear. I… I doubted whether I should’ve brought you into that world. Whether you deserved to be there." He paused, swallowing thickly, voice roughened by regret. “And I realize now how insulting that was—how wrong. I should’ve known you could hold your own.”

You stayed silent, eyes shut, letting him speak.

“She’s like a snake in pearls, that woman. I thought she’d eat you alive with that sugar-sweet venom of hers. I didn’t want you anywhere near it, because—” His voice caught. “Because you didn’t think I’d survive it,” you finished for him. Not bitter. Just… tired.

Crowe’s voice cracked as he answered. “No. Because I didn’t want you to think you didn’t belong there. Because that... that would’ve hurt you. And I couldn’t stand the thought of you feeling like you weren’t enough. I thought keeping you out of it was protecting you—but I was wrong. You’re stronger than I gave you credit for, and I hate that it took me hurting you to see that.”

You looked up at him. He didn’t look away. If anything, his gaze clung tighter—like he was terrified to miss another second.

“I didn’t want to be the reason you felt left behind,” he admitted, forehead pressing gently against yours now, his voice a fragile thing wrapped in guilt. “But I became that reason. And that’s on me.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, grounding yourself in the rhythm of his heartbeat and the sway of your shared steps. The past still echoed—ghostly, painful—but the warmth of his touch anchored you to now.

His breath hitched. “I missed you every single day, starlight. And I know that doesn’t fix it—but I did. I do.”

You leaned into him, forehead against his, your lips close enough to ghost over his again. Voice hushed. Honest.

“I needed to hear that.”

He nodded—barely. Like, even movement might break the fragile peace that had formed between you. And still, you danced beneath the sky—two lost things finding rhythm again. Not because everything was healed.

But because you still chose to stay. With him.

Off to the side, just past the soft glow of hanging lights, Brittney stood near the balcony entrance. The shadows clung to her like silk, veiling her in quiet observation. Her gaze was locked on you—on the way you folded into Crowe like gravity pulled you to him, the way he danced with you like nothing else existed.

He held you like he’d never let go again.

Brittney didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.

She just stood there, spine straight, expression unreadable—save for the twitch at the corner of her mouth and the slight tremble of her hand as she looked down. A stack of cards. Clean. Elegant. Networked through you. Investors’ names etched in sleek fonts. Business opportunities. Dreams stitched into reality.

For her. For the dress you wore tonight.

You were her muse. Her key. Her star. And you never asked for credit—just handed her the tools and watched her shine.

She should feel proud. She was proud.

But it ached.

The pride came tangled in something bitter, something sharp and uninvited—because part of her wished she had been the one to comfort you first. To hold you. To be seen.

After all...

She and Crowe had the same deep blue eyes. Right?

Same calm, same quiet sadness, same hidden depths. But he got there first—and you looked at him like he’d hung the constellations just for you. She saw it all. The whole performance. The whole truth. Her heart clenched, a stutter beneath her ribs. Bittersweet.

Maybe that’s all she’d ever get from you.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder, lips curling into a practiced smirk, masking heartbreak behind glossy confidence. Someone should say something. Break the tension. “Well,” she called out, voice light, smooth as champagne, “someone should probably fix your makeup before heading back inside, right? Before embarrassing yourself.”

It was sharp. It was funny. It was safe.

However, she didn’t expect you to move. Not like that. Not like you felt it. Not like you heard the ache she never spoke aloud. But then, when you and Crowe faced her from the sound of her voice, you slipped from Crowe’s hands—soft warmth turned cold in an instant—and ran. Right to her.

“Brittney!”

Her name hit her like a bullet wrapped in silk. Your arms wrapped around her the second you reached her, clinging to her with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. You hugged her like she was the one thing that mattered in the world.

Like you meant it.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice cracking with sincerity. “You made this night happen. You made me feel seen. You—You gave me more than anyone else ever has, Brittney.”

She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to breathe. Her mouth opened, but no words came—just a laugh, broken and bright and painful all at once. She looked away, blinking quickly, hiding the way her eyes glistened like glass under firelight.

“God, you’re such a sap,” she muttered, trying to swallow the scream in her chest. “You’re gonna get glitter on this dress, hugging me like that.” But she hugged you back. Tight. Like she never wanted to let go.

And then—Crowe. Of course.

He came up behind you, arms looping around your waist like vines finding sunlight, his chin resting on your shoulder, lips brushing your neck in a kiss that was far too smug to be pure. “Seriously?” he teased, his voice warm and low. “I give you a dance, a speech, a moment, and the second I blink, you’re already running into her arms? Some prince I turned out to be.”

You laughed. A real laugh. Loud and unguarded.

“Jealous?” you teased back.

He chuckled, nuzzling the crook of your neck. “A little. But honestly? Can’t even blame you. She is dangerously charming.”

Brittney smiled through it. Perfect smile. Perfect everything. But her arms were still around you.

And for once, she let the mask slip. Just enough.

“You two,” she said softly, so only you could really hear it, “you’re lucky. Don’t mess this up, for the sake of myself.”

You turned in her arms, one hand brushing her cheek, tender, knowing, grateful. “Hey,” you whispered. “You’re part of this. You always have been. I love you, Brittney. In so many ways.”

Her heart stopped. Then stumbled forward again. She nodded. Bit her tongue. Said nothing more. Because maybe that was enough.

Even if you'd never know the kind of love she meant.

You turned back once. Of course you did.

The party behind you shimmered like a galaxy in motion—laughter flickering like comets, bodies orbiting one another in slow, sparkling collisions. Crowe had taken your hand again, drawn you back into the swell of music and light and gold-dusted dreams.

But still, you looked back.

“Brittney?” you called softly, pausing just before the threshold where night gave way to noise. “You okay?”

She smiled like she meant it. Like it didn’t crack something inside her to be seen by you, just seen, and not chosen.

“I’m fine,” she said, voice weightless. “I just… need some air.”

Your eyes softened. You always did see too much, didn’t you? But never the right thing. Never the thing that counted. You nodded. Held her gaze like a promise you didn’t know you were breaking. And then Crowe tugged you gently, and you went—back into the glitter and the warmth.

Back into the stars.

Back to where you belonged.

You were a star. Not just any star—no. You were the star.

A celestial wonder with laughter like comets and a smile that pulled gravity. You shimmered with the kind of warmth people mistake for salvation, the kind that wakes the dead things in others and makes them believe again. To Brittany, you weren’t just light. You were life. The night sky bowed around you, painted in hues of violet and gold, alive with everything she had only ever dared to dream.

And she—

She was the moon.

Distant. Orbiting. Forever watching.

Reflecting what little radiance she could gather and pretending it was her own. Not glowing—echoing. A mirror in silver sequins, always shining secondhand. The kind of beauty that was quiet, conditional, and cold when the sun wasn’t near.

You were surrounded by stars now, dancing where the universe pulsed with celebration. She could hear you laugh—see the way Crowe looked at you like you’d hung the constellations himself. He held your hand like it was the only anchor in the galaxy. No one has ever looked at Brittany that way. No one ever did.

Expect you. At least you gave her light.

She leaned against the balcony railing, the cool metal biting into her skin like it might anchor her here a little longer. The music pulsed behind her. The sky stretched endlessly above.

Somewhere in the crowd, you were laughing—your hand curled in Crowe’s like a vow. And Brittany… she stood there like a monument to a love unspoken.

“I see myself in you, you know,” she whispered to the wind, voice cracking like glass. “I sold my soul for you.”

Then quieter. A confession folded in starlight:

“Maybe you should’ve stuck with us.”

Not because it would’ve changed anything. But because… for a moment, in some lost and better version of this story—

She believed you could’ve loved her back.

“I’m the moon,” she whispered, the words barely slipping past her glossed lips. “And you… you’re a star.”

A star that belonged in the heavens. Among others like you—burning, brilliant, untouchable.

Because stars don’t love moons. Not really.

They don’t stop to notice the one that’s been following them through the sky. The one who’s always been there, lighting the dark in quiet ways, giving everything without ever being asked. They don’t realize the moon is just a satellite, stuck in orbit, always just close enough to see but never close enough to touch.

And the moon never complains. Not aloud.

Because to love a star is to love from afar. To stay locked in orbit, tethered by longing and gravity you never asked for. To offer silence and smiles as placeholders for truth. To take a heartbreaking, and call it friendship—because that’s the version you were willing to carry.

But still...

Didn’t you feel it?

The way her laugh faltered when yours did. How her eyes always found you in a crowd, like they were pulled there by instinct. The way she leaned in—just enough—never more. How her voice softened like an apology when it was only ever meant for you.

But you never said anything. Never stopped her. Maybe that was kindness. Or maybe cruelty. Because Brittany, for all her glitter and glamor, would rather break than be your burden. Would rather fade than make you stay.

And you—

You were never meant for her gravity. You belonged in the sky, arms stretched toward the cosmos, flying free. Not tethered to her ache. Not caught in her quiet, collapsing world.

You were meant to soar with the rest, and she—

She was the thing left behind when you took flight.

She looked down at the cards in her hands. Her Dreams, she shared with you and made them real as you promised. Hopes that once aligned. Reflections of yours—of hers. But hers had dimmed. Yours still burned. And when she looked back up, she could see it:

The way Crowe looked at you like you held the map to every lost place he’d ever known. The way you smiled back, not just with your mouth—but with your soul.

You had found somewhere to belong. And Brittany could see it so clearly now—You belonged.

You belonged in his hands.

And that should have been enough for her. It had to be.

Because Brittany… She understood you.

More than anyone ever did. Loved you—not the way people say they do, but in the way that destroyed her from the inside. Slowly. Softly. Like a secret that never got spoken out loud. And she buried it under perfect eyeliner, sharp humor, and the kind of charm that made people think she couldn't hurt.

But she did. She hurts.

The jealousy bloomed beneath her skin like poison—rich and purple and still somehow beautiful. It sat behind her ribs, in the hollow where your voice used to echo.

And even as she clapped for you…

Even as you laughed in the arms of someone brighter…

She smiled.

Because loving you meant letting you shine—even if it scorched everything inside her. So what did you want from her, babe? Maybe nothing. Maybe she was already giving everything—and you didn’t even notice. Maybe that had to be enough. Even if all you ever saw in her was a flicker of Crowe’s confidence, a flash of his charisma—never her heart. Never her truth.

And that was the thing no one warned her about:

Stars don’t fall for moons who wait.

They fall for other stars—ones who burn back.