#so it was a lot of staring and thinking and Feeling

[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 4

I wanted to write more events for this part, but there’s a limit sadly and I underestimated it waaay too much. Anyways, shit starts to get intimate in the sweet way.

cw: physical fights, cursing, still a lot of sexual themes, Stockholm Syndrome developing, dumbass men

The thing is, the girls want their assistant back.

And not just because you’re important. Not just because you know the girls’ patterns, where Rumi stashes her favorite backup daggers, Mira’s real name (which nobody is supposed to know), or Zoey’s weaknesses. It’s not even about strategy anymore. They want you back because you’re theirs. Their little right-hand angel. You brought them tea before demon hunts, patched up wounds, stayed up researching until your eyes burned and your hands shook.

Now you’re gone.

Yeah, turns out, you had them all wrapped around your little finger, and never even tried.

It’s been—what? A month? Two? You stopped counting after the second week because time gets weird when you’re basically a prisoner in a loft that has seven bedrooms and zero privacy. They’ve all got supernatural senses, so nothing is secret. Jinu can sense your mood from down the hall. Abby can hear your heartbeat spike if you so much as think of escape. Romance just…knows. You have no idea how. But he knows when you’re lying, when you’re sad, when you’re lowkey horny (which is so annoying, because he acts like it’s about him—it’s not). Even Baby—little brat Baby who looks like he should be in detention—is constantly sniffing around, only to get bored and poke your shoulder like a child just to piss you off. Mystery doesn’t note on anything he can feel about you, but once he growled at Romance once when he tried to kiss your hand.

But somehow, despite the kidnapping, the light torture, and being the world’s prettiest emotional support hostage—you’ve… adjusted. Kind of.

Even though Romance tried to woo you with supernatural roses he bought up to the human world that screamed when they died.

Even though Baby offered to kill Bobby for you, said it like he was asking if you wanted fries.

Even though Abby carried you to the roof one night—literally picked you up—just so you could watch the stars, and said, “Don’t say I never do anything romantic.” Then promptly tried to kiss you.

Even though Jinu is worse. Gentle. Careful. Never tries anything. Just exists near you like he’s waiting for your soul to recognize his.

Even though Mystery… Mystery claps when Abby does a flip and also claps when you squeeze a lemon into Romance’s eyes

You know they like you.

You know. You’re not an idiot. Not blind, either.

You don’t need a vision from the heavens or a love confession, though you got many of that already. You’re not fourteen. You see the way they look at you. The way they move around you.

You’ve known for a while.

God, you remember when Jinu simply told you he’s interested. Just the truth.

He didn’t even touch you. Just stared across the battlefield of little black and white pieces and laid his feelings down like a move. Your hands were trembling so slightly then, you thought he might’ve noticed. Of course he did. They all do. There’s no hiding in a place where you can’t even sneeze without someone five rooms down saying “bless you” and be so proud of themselves too for knowing human things like this.

And then there’s Romance. Gods, Romance. Subtlety? He doesn’t know her.

You could be brushing your teeth, and he’ll walk in all dressed up, acting like he’s there to borrow toothpaste when everyone knows he’s just there to be seen. The man purrs. He purrs. That’s not a metaphor. He’ll lean against the doorframe, arms folded, voice dropping just low enough to be illegal in several countries, and say something like—

“Let me know if you ever get lonely at night. I don’t snore. Much.”

He doesn’t even care if you roll your eyes. He loves the chase. Loves when you tell him off gently, when you glare at him across the kitchen counter or throw a pillow at his head.

Abby’s not much better.

He’s the type to act like he’s not even trying. Just walks around shirtless, flexing. Pretends not to notice when you do notice. Every touch is casual, but not casual. Every time he calls you sweetheart or cupcake or worse—good girl—you want to set something on fire. Preferably his abs. For the greater good.

But you’ve caught him staring when you aren’t looking. He tries to laugh it off, but it cracks something behind his eyes. There’s real shit going on under that cocky exterior, and it wants you.

Even Baby, for all his “I’m too cool for this” energy, is obvious in the way that makes you want to scream into a pillow. He’s horrible. Picks fights with you over the dumbest things. Snaps gum in your ear when you’re trying to read. But he’s always around.

You’ll sit down in one of the ridiculously plush armchairs, and within five minutes, he’s there. Perched on the armrest, legs dangling, pretending to be bored. If you ignore him, he sighs dramatically. If you look at him, he sighs as if you’re annoying him.

You almost punched him. You also almost kissed him. Which is… terrifying.

And then there’s Mystery. The flower. Him trying at small talk, opening towards you, no more needed to say.

So yeah.

You know they like you. Every last one of them.

And what the fuck are you supposed to do about that?

Because it’s not just harmless flirting. Not just attention.

It’s heavy. It’s real. It’s aching.

They’re not playing games, not really. They don’t have time. They’ve seen too much, lost too much, been used too much.

You’re their first love in centuries. And it’s not a soft thing. It’s a suffocating thing. A hungry, endless, terrifying thing. They want you in ways that have nothing to do with bodies and everything to do with fate.

You miss the girls.

You miss freedom.

You miss peace.

But every time you think about leaving, there’s a tug in your chest.

What’s happening now?

Mira’s blade slashes through the air. Jinu blocks it with one arm like he means to get cut—show-off. Sparks fly. The wind howls. The rooftop is chaos.

Three girls against five ancient, demon-marked, cocky-as-fuck man-children who just will not die. Or stop talking.

“God, you’re all so loud.” Zoey huffs, leaping back from Mystery’s claws. She lands with a spin, barely catching her breath before going in again.

Mystery doesn’t say a word, so she obviously wasn’t talking to him. He just growls low in his throat, eyes glinting. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smirk.

Because Zoey’s been giggling. She tries to swing at him, dead serious—and still, still she giggles when she misses. Every time.

Mira’s faring better. She’s relentless. Precise.

Jinu is not even trying. His shirt’s half-torn open (like he planned it, asshole), and his arms are crossed while dodging. Calm. Elegant. Smiling. He doesn’t block—he flows.

Mira screams something wordless and furious at him, and he bows. Actually bows. Then catches her blade mid-swing with two fingers.

“Careful.” he says, voice syrupy smooth. “You’ll chip it.”

Abby is doing what Abby does.

He’s shirtless. Obviously. Gleaming with sweat. Just flexing and dodging, muscles moving under skin.

Baby is on his phone??

Well, he was, until Rumi noticed him and took the chance to attack. Suddenly Baby’s behind Rumi now, twirling a blade like it’s a fidget toy, expression completely blank.

Unbothered. Unbothered like he didn’t just try to stab her ribs. Unbothered like he didn’t vanish and reappear behind her within half a second.

“You’re so slow.” Baby says, like he’s disappointed in her for being mortal.

Rumi snarls, swings at his neck, and he disappears again, laughing quietly—more breath than sound. But Rumi ducks past Baby and nearly lands a hit on him.

He hums. “Almost.”

Now Mira’s holding her own with Abby—barely. Mira actually snarled the first time he winked at her mid-swing. (He’s winked three more times since. She’s missed twice.)

Zoey’s tangled up with Mystery. Which is a sentence that sounds more sexual than it should, but really it’s just fast, brutal, and completely quiet—except for Zoey’s occasional giggle, just again.

Romance, unbothered to help, rolls his shoulders. “Can’t we just agree you all missed us? You clearly came looking for a reason to see us again.”

“No, we came to end you.” Rumi hisses, cutting through the air with a blade that actually manages to scrape Jinu’s cheek.

“Mm. You always say that.” Jinu murmurs.

Romance pushes off the wall, finally stepping into the fight with a little spin. “You act like you don’t love playing with us. But you do. I can feel it. Or maybe that’s just Y/N rubbing off on us.”

Everything stops.

Everything.

A beat.

Rumi drops her blade an inch. Mira’s punch falters mid-air. Zoey—giggles stop.

“What,” Rumi says slowly. “did you just say?”

Romance freezes. Looks at the girls. Then at the boys.

“…What? I’m just saying she’s rubbing off on us. Her little quirks. The sighing. The eyerolls. The way she complains when we track mud into the—”

“YOU DICK.” Abby snarls, charging at him and shoving his shoulder hard.

“Are you stupid?” Baby mutters.

Mystery hisses. Not growls—hisses—like he’s ready to physically maul Romance on the spot.

Jinu grabs Romance by the collar, dragging him a step back like they’re not in the middle of whatever this is. His voice is low, barely audible. “Do you want her taken from us?”

Romance blinks, realizing a half-second too late that he just lit the wrong fuse.

“Oh.” he says. “Oh.”

Mira steps toward them, blade dropped at her side, forgotten.

Zoey’s hand trembles near her belt. “She’s alive?”

“No.” Rumi says, almost choking. “She’s there. She’s with them.”

Mira looks at each of them. Her face is unreadable. Flat and dangerous. “You kidnapped her.”

None of the boys speak.

Romance swallows.

Baby won’t meet their eyes. Not because he feels bad, just the little bird on that lamppost is way more interesting.

Abby’s mouth opens, then closes. Then he mutters, “Fucking idiot.” and punches Romance in the gut. Not hard enough to injure. Just enough to say you fucked up.

“She was ours,” Zoey whispers, eyes glassy. “She’s—she’s ours.”

And maybe that’s the thing the boys didn’t calculate properly. Because in their little yearning hearts, they thought they were the only ones who needed you. But the girls? The girls have bled with you. They’ve cried in your arms. They had done this and that and whatnot and everything that makes them want you back.

Romance opens his mouth. Mystery kicks him in the shin. “OW! What?!”

“They didn’t know.” Mystery says flatly. First words of the night.

Romance finally glances at the girls properly, face sobering as reality sets in. “…Okay, yeah, we should go.”

“Now you think that?” Baby snaps, turning on his heel.

“She knows we’re coming.” Mira growls, stepping forward.

“Knew that already.” Baby mumbles. “She’s not stupid.”

Zoey finally cracks. “Is she okay?! You took her, and now you want us to believe—”

“Shut up.” Jinu says. (AN: guys I’m cackling up at myself it’s fucking HILARIOUS that he’s mean like that)

Abby looks at Romance. “You’re such a dick, bro.”

“I’m not leaving.” Baby says, crossing his arms. “Not after all that. Now I wanna see what happens next.”

“What happens next,” Jinu says like he’s talking to a child. “is we get killed.”

“I kinda like those odds.” Mystery says darkly.

Of course he does.

Then Zoey speaks, voice shaking just slightly—“Did she… did she say anything about us?”

Rumi doesn’t wait for a cue. Doesn’t wait for answers. Just screams bloody rage and grief and fuck you forever and charges.

Mira follows instantly, eyes flaming.

Zoey’s scream is less words and more war cry.

And suddenly the girls are everywhere.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Romance blurts, eyes going wide. “Okay okay OKAY—”

“I TOLD YOU.” Abby roars, grabbing his wrist.

Jinu steps back with perfect posture, calmly cracking his neck like it’s just time to clock out of work. “Let’s go.”

Mystery doesn’t even blink. Just vanishes—one blink and he’s gone.

“Are we teleporting or running?!” Romance yells, backpedaling fast as Mira’s blade nearly takes his face.

“YES.” Jinu shouts over the wind.

Abby grabs Baby by the collar. “We’ll go—NOW—”

“I CAN DO IT MYSELF—”

“DON’T CARE—”

Romance grabs onto Abby with one hand. “CAN WE ALL AGREE THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT—”

“IT WAS ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT—”

And just like that, the rooftop is silent. Boys gone.

The wind dies.

The girls stand alone.

Fuming.

Abour an hour later, the door bursts open.

They’re loud. They’re bleeding. They smell like smoke and wet asphalt and one of them is holding something wrapped in someone’s jacket sleeve.

You blink. Petting the tiger, sitting on the carpet. Its tail swishes once. “Hi.” you say, not looking up.

You feel the way the boys freeze in the doorway. There’s a split-second of silent debate, like someone might just back out and pretend they walked into the wrong house. But then—

“Heyyyy.” Abby drawls, walking forward like he hasn’t got a cut across his cheek. “Look at you, still awake. Missed us?”

You hum. “Something like that.”

Romance appears behind him next, limping slightly but smiling. "You would not believe what just happened to us. Jinu?”

Jinu sighs, so fucking done with Romance starting shit and Jinu having to finish it. Not even only in this scenario. Then, he quickly makes something up. “We saved a kid. From a burning building.”

Abby waves his hands. “A dog! It was a dog. A whole dog shelter. We saved like… twenty-five dogs.”

Romance nods. “There was an alien. I swear. This thing came outta the sewer, babe, big eyes, like wet beach balls, all like blee-blop, and I—“ he points to himself “—punched it.”

They all pause. Realize. They just said completely different things.

You stare at them for a beat. “That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”

Jinu rolls his eyes at the other two then keeps going. “Okay, technically it was a burning animal shelter. So Abby isn’t wrong. You’re not wrong, Abby. But the fire started ’cause someone knocked over a candle. There was a candle. For the dogs.” Jinu is such a loser. Such a loser, god. And he’s supposed to be better than the others.

Abby nods quickly, walking towards the kitchen already. “Yeah! Candle dogs. Like aromatherapy. For their nerves. They were…” he squints, struggling for words. “stressed dogs.”

Romance raises his brows at you. “You should’ve seen me. Shirt off—obviously. Fire blazing behind me. I had this kitten in one arm—little guy was shaking, scared shitless—and I look back, flames in my eyes, and I saved it.”

“Sure you did.” you say dryly, watching as the tiger-cat leans its entire head into your hand. “Is that why Abby looks like he got tackled by a lawnmower?”

“I’m fine.” Abby calls from the kitchen, already chugging on something.

Then Baby walks in, dead silent. Expression bored. Disinterested. Pacing straight past you toward the fridge.

You say nothing. He says less.

Which means: he’s really happy to see you.

“—and I was nearly kissed by a banshee.” Romance continues, “but I told her I was taken. She screamed anyway. That’s not the point. The point is, we’re fine. You should’ve seen us. Heroes. Real shit.“

You finally glance at him. “Romance.”

“Yes, my love?”

“Shut up.”

Abby snorts into his shaker bottle.

While Mystery just lowers himself slowly, settling beside you on the floor. His shoulder brushes your thigh. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at you. But his head tilts just slightly toward your hand as it runs over the tiger-cat’s fur.

Abby’s voice comes from the kitchen. “And I kicked a dude. In the head! Like whack! His whole tooth came out. Might’ve been mine. But still.“

Jinu sighs. “That wasn’t a dude. That was a fence post. You roundhouse-kicked a fence post. And then apologized to it. There was no dude.”

“Not with that attitude.” Baby mutters, digging out a can of something vaguely carbonated.

Romance doesn’t listen to you telling him to shut up. Why would he? “Listen. What we went through tonight… I looked death in the eye. But I thought of you. I said, “No. I gotta get back to her. Can’t die here. Not like this. Not with this much chest out.””

You turn to look at them fully now, petting slowing. Brows raised. “So let me get this straight. You all went to the same place. Fought the same thing. And yet every single one of you has a different version of events?”

Romance: “Multiverse?”

Jinu: “We split up.”

Baby: “Can you stop talking to us?”

Abby: “I peed in a bush.”

That’s not a lie.

You sigh.

God. You should care more. You should press. You should catch the lies and squeeze the truth out of their cocky throats. But… You don’t. You don’t even suspect what actually happened out there. You don’t see the bruises for what they are. Don’t notice the way Jinu keeps glancing at you to see if you believed the lie. Don’t hear the way Baby breathes a little easier the longer you sit next to them. Don’t realize Mystery’s quiet lean is the closest he’s come to comfort in centuries.

Because all you see are idiots. Sexy, beat-up, broken-nosed idiots trying to lie their way through an obvious catastrophe.

All five of them? Tripping over each other’s fake stories? Really?

You lean back into the couch, pretending you believe them. Just for tonight.

Because they came home.

They came home to you.

And even if they’re lying bastards with god complexes and way too many abs between them…you’re still glad they did.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re all wrong for what they’ve done. You know that. You never forget it. They held you against your will. They kept you from the girls—your girls—who would’ve torn the world open to find you if they knew where to look. And now they do. (You don’t know that yet. But they do.)

And still…

You don’t even try to leave anymore.

But they changed, too. Not all the way. Not enough. Not where it counts, but… enough.

So yeah. They’re wrong. They’re still lying to you—badly, tonight—but it’s desperation. It’s fear. It’s the only way they know how to keep you.

Because they know—they know—that if you had the chance, the real chance, the safe one…

You’d leave.

You’d go running back to Mira, Rumi, Zoey. You’d take the hand they offered and vanish into the night with them, never once looking back.

So they lie.

They lie like children.

They lie with the panic of five lonely immortals who got one taste of softness and can’t stand the thought of going back to their hell without it.

You never asked for this. You didn’t want to be their comfort, their strange little mercy. You were supposed to be their enemy. A little help then a soul taken. And now you’re sitting in their living room, heart thudding slow, steady, full of goddamn dread because you caught yourself thinking—

“I’m glad they came back safe.”

You are.

You’re not okay with this. You’re not forgiving them. They’re still dangerous. They’re still wrong. They still can’t let you go.

But…

But.

Mystery’s shoulder is pressed into yours.

Romance is humming something low. Abby’s looking at himself in the hallway mirror. Baby’s doesn’t put gum in your hair anymore. Jinu is mostly an asshole to everyone except you, you just don’t know that.

You don’t move.

You don’t run.

You don’t cry.

You just sit.

You’re still not free. And you’re still staying.

Jinu disappears toward the hallway, muttering something about a shower.

Romance follows, winking at you before you can say anything. “Don’t miss me too much, sweet girl.”

“I never do.”

“You doooo.” he sings from down the hall.

It’s been two months.

Two whole months.

Which meant when you ovulated, Romance went feral. (AN: y’all asked for it)

Not in a hot way. In a “we’re going to need a spray bottle” kind of way. He followed you around the entire apartment with dilated pupils and this low, mewling sound in his throat. At one point, he sat on the floor of the laundry room with his forehead pressed to the dryer whispering, “Just one bite. Just one little bite.”

You had to barricade yourself in your room for the day. Abby called him a pervert. Baby told him to go jack off and shut the fuck up. Mystery stared at the wall and didn’t come near you. Jinu rolled his eyes at Romance but listened to him talk about you anyway. Abby kept offering to “get it out of your system.” whatever the fuck that meant.

Back around your first period here, you cried once. Just once. Just out of nowhere. Sat on the floor in your bathroom with that aching pressure in your back, and your hormones all upside down and stupid, and cried.

And Romance—that sick son of a bitch—moaned through the wall. Actually moaned. “Are you crying? Is that real? Oh my GOD, she’s crying, this is the best day of my death, I’m gonna cum—”

So yeah.

Now, though?

Now you’re back to the start of the cycle. The cramps hit yesterday. The bloating. The grump.

Which brings you to the current situation:

Period cramps. Nothing world-ending, just enough to ruin your posture, your mood, and your ability to trust god.

So you’re in the kitchen. Fruit salad. It’s pretty. You’re pretty. The knife glides across strawberries, the lemon juice stings your fingers. It’s quiet. Almost peaceful.

“Yooo.” Abby calls, walking in. “What’s cooking, good-looking?”

“Fruit.” you mutter. “Your brain would reject it.”

“Ouch.” he raises an eyebrow, leaning on the counter like he wasn’t just at the gym bench pressing Jinu. “Also, that’s not cooking.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious.”

You don’t even look at him. Just cut another kiwi slice. You feel like shit. Your lower stomach’s twisting. Your back’s sore. But instead of anyone doing something nice like shutting the fuck up, you get Abby.

He reaches for a piece of mango.

You smack his hand with the flat of the knife.

“WHOOOO!!” he hollers. (Just hootin n hollerin🥀)

“Don’t touch my shit.”

“It’s our kitchen.”

“It’s my bowl.”

“You’re being kinda gatekeepy right now.” God, he looks so proud that he knows that word.

“You’re being kinda concussed in two seconds if you don’t leave me alone.”

He grabs a strawberry anyway.

You flick a piece of orange peel at him. He dodges, but still yells “AHHHH!” like you just shot him.

“You’re a child.” you mutter.

“Sexy child.” he replies instantly.

You grimace. “That came out so wrong.”

You resist the urge to throw the fruit bowl. Mostly because it’s your fruit bowl and you like it.

“Baby’s a fucking nightmare, by the way.”

“Oh?” Abby leans on the counter, brutal forearms btw.

“He unplugged my fan while I was sleeping. Then tried to gaslight me into thinking it was never plugged in.”

Abby snorts. Like, whole chest laugh. Head thrown back. Bastard.

“What’s he even doing right now?” you mumble, cradling your chin in your palm.

With zero hesitation, he starts making the wanking gesture with one hand, raises his brows, then adds the second hand for emphasis—like it’s a two-person job—and finishes it off with a dumb throat-clearing groan.

“Abby.”

He does it harder.

You close your eyes.

He adds a grunt.

You slam the knife on the cutting board. “Shut up.”

“Hand against the wall. One leg up. Really getting into it.”

“Abby.”

You hear him moving closer behind you. Not too close—he’s not completely suicidal—but enough that you feel the vibration of his voice when he speaks again.

“…You alright though?”

You stiffen.

He doesn’t say what he means. Doesn’t say you smell like pain today or your uterus is screaming, or I can hear your joints aching from three rooms away.

He just says that. You alright.

You nod. Quiet. Focused on blueberries now.

Warm hands land on your shoulders.

You tense.

Because—what the fuck.

They’re big. Warm. Too warm. You forget, sometimes, how hot their bodies run. It seeps through the fabric of your shirt.

You don’t move.

Because oh god.

He’s massaging you.

“Jesus Christ.” you breathe, not even meaning to say it.

Abby laughs, low, smug, voice too close to your ear now.

You glare at the cutting board. “Why are you touching me.”

“Just shut up, baby.”

God.

You hate that he’s good at this.

Not in a professional way, you can feel he’s rusty. His rhythm is weird, uneven. He clearly hasn’t given a massage in like three hundred years. He’s doing that thing where one thumb pushes too hard and the other forgets it’s supposed to help. But even so…

You sigh, soft. Accidentally. Almost a moan.

“Yeah.” he says. “That’s what I thought.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Say please.”

“Please shut the fuck up.”

He snorts. Adjusts his grip. Presses the heel of his palm into the meat of your shoulder. It hurts. In that good way.

You mutter something between a groan and a prayer.

Abby’s hands move lower. Carefully. Slowly. Like he knows he’s testing your limits but doesn’t want to scare you off. Which is shocking, honestly. He’s not exactly known for tact. More known for shirtlessness, swearing, and shoulder-checking Mystery into walls when bored.

But now? Now he’s… being good. Well. As good as he gets.

“I’m genuinely impressed.” you say flatly, staring at your half-finished fruit bowl. “You haven’t tried to motorboat me once.”

��Tempting.” he says. “But I’m saving that for when you cry at a movie and need comforting.”

He doesn’t know what MySpace is but knows what motorboating someone means, fantastic.

“Do you even know how to comfort someone?”

“Yeah.” he says, dragging his thumbs down your spine, making something in you flinch and melt at the same time. “Like this.”

You let out a bark of laughter. Can’t help it. You tilt your head back a little and look up at him.

He’s already watching you.

That cocky little smirk still on his lips, but softer now. Faint. Barely there.

His eyes flick over your face, quick, like a scan. He sees the flush. The tiredness. The pain you’re trying not to show. He always does.

And for once—he doesn’t tease. He just keeps massaging. Hands steady. Fingers firm. Breaths slow.

You look away first.

His hands trail back up, thumbs circling behind your neck again. Your eyes flutter. You hate that it feels good. Hate that it’s him giving it to you.

But hate isn’t the right word anymore.

It hasn’t been for weeks.

He’s evil, sure. Still cocky, still loud, still dumb as a sack of rocks when it comes to boundaries. But he touches you like… like this. And right now? He’s the only thing keeping the pain at bay. So you don’t stop him. You don’t ask him to let go. You just let yourself be. For once.

Until he ruins it.

“You know,” he says suddenly, breath hot against your neck. “if you need me to help alleviate the cramps—”

You elbow him in the stomach. Hard. He laughs through it, wheezing a little. Still proud.

Still a fucking idiot.

And yet—his hands never leave you.

And then, there’s that weird, tight ache like a sob forming out of nowhere. The stinging behind your eyes. A single sniffle that escapes before you can catch it.

“Hey.” Abby says quietly, still behind you, still massaging. “…What’s going on?”

Your mouth opens. But you can’t talk. Not really.

He takes his and off you and turns you around by the shoulders, and god, you’re crying.

“I’m fine.”

“No, no, no.” he says, voice going from smug to soft in a heartbeat. “Hey. Hey. Don’t do that—what’s going on? Did I hurt you? Are you—”

You hiccup. “Noooo—You’re—” you choke out. “You’re just—!”

Abby blinks. “I’m just…?”

“You’re so—” your hands flap uselessly near your chest. “You’re just—!”

He stares. “…I’m what?”

“Nice!” you sob

“…Nice.” Even he doesn’t believe that.

You nod violently. A hiccup punches out of your lungs. “You’re so nice to me, and—and—and you were massaging me and you didn’t even try anything and, and you’re such an angel, and I don’t deserve—”

You’re a mess. Shaking and clutching your little fruit bowl like it’s a teddy bear. Cheeks blotchy. Mouth open and useless. Hormones and hunger and affection all conspiring to break your soul.

You’re the cutest thing he’s ever seen. And he’s seen kittens. This is worse.

“I—I just touched your back, man.” he says, holding up his hands like they’re evidence. “It wasn’t that deep.” He takes one hesitant step toward you, then takes it back like he’s afraid you’ll cry harder.

Which—you do. Wipe at your cheeks with the back of your wrist. Nose red, eyes glossy, lips wobbling. You are so, so done.

That’s when Jinu walks in.

Buttoning his crisp shirt. He opens his mouth to ask something—maybe about the smell of fruit or where Baby put the remote—and immediately freezes.

Because there you are. Crying in the kitchen. Smelling like fruit. Looking like an angel.

And Abby looks like he just got caught breaking a fucking law.

“…What happened?” Jinu asks, slowly, stepping into the room.

You spin toward him.

“Jinu.” you sob. “He’s so nice.”

Jinu’s brows draw together. “Who?”

“HIM.” You point to Abby like you’re accusing him of murder. “He massaged me. And didn’t even grope me! And he was helping and he’s an angel and I just—!”

You hiccup. Sniffle. Blubber. You’re basically melting into your own hands now. Entire body trembling.

“He’s so nice, Jinu.” you whisper.

Jinu glances at Abby.

Abby stares back at him, mouth agape. Then he gestures helplessly, mouthing I didn’t do anything!!

Jinu blinks, then takes a single step closer to you, reaching slowly.

“Y/N…” he says gently. “It’s okay. Come here.”

You don’t hesitate.

You launch yourself into his arms.

Jinu freezes. Then gently wraps his arms around you, wide-eyed, careful, calm. One hand rubs your back like he’s petting something small and traumatized. The other hovers awkwardly for a second before settling on your waist. You bury your face in his chest, sobbing into his shirt, while he strokes your hair and murmurs something soft in a language you don’t understand.

And behind you, Abby is standing completely frozen. Still gaping. Mouth open. Eyes wide. One hand still in midair like he forgot what hands even do.

What the fuck is happening.

What the FUCK is happening.

He’s not built for this. He’s not equipped. This is an emotional boss battle and he’s only got a sword made of dick jokes and gym stats.

Jinu, to his credit, is the picture of calm. Even when you start babbling he just shushes you, nods, murmurs soft encouragement like it’s nothing. You’re mumbling shit into his shirt that don’t make sense at all.

Jinu leans down a little. “…What’s that?”

“Bleeeehhh.”

He nods, seriously. “Okay. Okay.”

Your words are incomprehensible.

“B-but h-he—and—and th-the thing with his—shoulders—and he’s like—rrghhhhhh—and now—bweeeeeh—”

“I know.” Jinu says softly, glancing at Abby in complete shock. “I know.”

Abby just stares.

Mouth open.

Hands on hips.

A man defeated.

He mouths: what the fuck did I do.

Jinu shakes his head.

He pulls back after a minute to check your face.

“Do you want water?” he asks.

You nod.

Abby finally speaks. “Can I—can I get it—?”

“No.” you and Jinu both say in perfect unison.

Jinu leads you gently to the stools, arms still loose around you, like he’s worried if he lets go, you’ll evaporate or explode into more bleh noises, then he presses a glass of water into your hand. He does it slowly. Gently. Like the water might tip and you might tip with it. And honestly? Not far off.

Your hands are trembling. Eyes still leaking. You take it.

“Thank you.” you whisper through your snot, voice wrecked and watery, and then—oh, for fuck’s sake—you immediately burst into another wave of silent, gasping sobs right onto the rim of the glass.

Water splashes onto your chest. You don’t even care. You don’t even notice.

“Okay.” Jinu says softly, standing beside you like he’s ready to catch you if gravity wins. “There we go.”

You try to drink it.

You fail.

It’s like you forgot how to swallow. You’re crying while sipping and your throat closes halfway through and it becomes a horrifying hiccup-gulp-weep hybrid. Abby winces.

“You good?” he asks, mostly because your entire body just twitched.

“Yuh.” you manage, half-drowning in your emotions and saliva.

You try to set the glass down. Miss the counter. Abby catches it mid-air, miraculously. You make a pitiful noise.

You sniff, loudly. “It’s so cold.” you whimper. “It’s such a good temperature, Jinu—do you even know—?”

“I do.” he says.

“You’re so good at everything.” you sob, wiping your face with your sleeve. “And he’s such a bitch.”

Abby blinks. “Still me?”

“Always you.”

“It’s okay.” Jinu says again, doing that thing where he shhh-es you without making a sound. His hand’s back on your upper back. He doesn’t speak. He just lets you be.

And be, you do.

“Oh god.” you sob, eyes wide and staring at the cabinets. “I miss Rumi’s braids.”

Abby drags his mouth. “That’s specific.”

“And I—I miss the girls.” you sob. “I miss Rumi’s ugly-ass laugh. I miss Zoey stealing my lip balm. I miss Mira calling me a bitch when she means ‘I love you.’”

Jinu nods slowly. Abby freezes, looking vaguely guilty for the first time in… ever.

“I’m sure they miss you too.” Jinu says gently.

You sniff hard, face splotchy and eyes red, then lift the glass of water again, holding it with two hands. You squint at it, voice going high and tired and miserable: “Why do I cry like thisssss.”

Jinu leans closer and gently pushes a bit of hair off your face. You flinch, not from fear, but because you didn’t expect it.

Being a demon and living in shame sucks, but they’re kinda grateful that they’re not human girls at this moment.

Abby clears his throat, then walks over to the counter where your abandoned bowl sits, glistening with juice and slices of something soft and pink. He picks it up carefully. Offers it.

“I didn’t spit in it.” he says, smiling. “Yet.”

You blink at him through your tears. Sniffle once. “You can eat it.”

His eyes light up.

“Oh, fuck yeah.” he mutters, already reaching for a fork. “Best day ever.”

Jinu stays close. Doesn’t leave your side. Just watches you with a quiet patience that you never asked for and desperately needed.

“You cried because I was nice.” Abby says, grinning. “That’s actually the sickest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You sniff hard. “Don’t talk to me.”

“I’m a hero.” he mutters under his breath.

You lift your teary eyes to Jinu, lip wobbling. “You’re the only normal one.”

Jinu pats your hand. “That’s what I keep telling them.”

“I’m just so tired, Jinu,” you say. “and there’s fruit and a bird with six eyes and someone keeps putting their used straw in my skincare draweeeeeer.”

“That was Baby.” Abby mutters.

“He found my lip tint.” you mumble.

“Yeah. He liked the color.”

You make a mournful little noise and stare down at the water again like it’s supposed to fix any of this.

Jinu’s still beside you, hands on the counter, watching you. Abby is now licking the juice off his fork and humming something in a… in a beautiful voice, fuck, okay. He’s in his own world—shirtless, sticky, glowing.

Movement.

You glance up toward the arch into the hallway, and—

Oh.

Mystery.

Peeking in, barely visible through the shadows and his hair.

He’s not saying anything. Just watching. His head’s tilted slightly. Half-hiding behind the doorframe, strands of hair in his mouth, his eyes peeking out like he’s shy—which, in some ways, he is.

Until he sees you looking.

And he smiles.

Sweet and genuine. His cheeks barely move, but it’s so cute, so soft, so rare, that it takes the breath straight out of your throat.

You smile back.

“Ohhh shit, MYSTO!” Abby shouts, talking through peach chunks. “Get your ass in here, bro! Look what Y/N made. It’s got strawberries and whatever the fuck this thing is—” he holds up a piece of dragon fruit.

Abby sets the bowl down. Leans a hip against the counter. And slaps the back of his own hand loudly against his thigh before striding over and giving Mystery a massive clap between the shoulder blades like he’s trying to knock him through the wall.

You hear the clap of skin on skin. Mystery stumbles half a step back.

Mystery laughs.

Like laughs-laughs.

A sound you barely ever get to hear—soft and breathy and unreal. And then he reaches out, and slaps Abby right back. Mystery’s shoulders shake. He’s laughing. A full, real sound. They’re having fun.

It’s so… sweet.

So boyish.

So dumb.

So—fuck.

You sniff.

It’s because they’re friends. Because they’re evil little shitheads who keep you kidnapped and lie about things and slap each other for fun and still—somehow—you can see the real thing underneath.

You see it.

How Mystery’s face softens when Abby laughs too hard and bumps his head into the cabinet. How Abby nudges Mystery like “don’t be shy bro” and Mystery doesn’t even growl. How boys are so dumb and stupid and ridiculous but also how boys love. How they show it through violence and bad jokes and too-hard pats on the back.

You start sobbing. Loudly.

They enjoy each other. They make each other laugh. They’re idiots together. They fight like wolves and then joke like kids, and there’s something… pure about it.

Something devastatingly human.

You’re hiccuping.

“Okay—okay.” Jinu says, head turning like a hound the second your breathing skips. He’s beside you instantly, crouching slightly, rubbing your arm like he’s done this before, even if he hasn’t. “What happened? What happened now?”

“Nuh-nothing, I just—” you hiccup through the words, trying to explain, trying to form a sentence that matches the mess in your head. “They’re s-sooo cuuuuteee.”

Jinu blinks.

Abby blinks too, fork in mid-air.

“They’re so—” your voice breaks, chest heaving. “They’re such boys, Jinuuuu.”

“Yeah.” Jinu murmurs. “We are.”

“They keep—touching—and yelling—and laughing, and they don’t even know how to do it right, and it’s still cute!” You sob harder. “Oh god,” you gasp. “they like each other. They like each other and they like me, and they’re demons and they’re so stupid, and I l-live here now, and I miss my g-girls and I’m bleeding and I didn’t even finish my f-fruit, and—Jinuuuuuu—”

Jinu steps in. Hands up, palms out, the calmest in this deranged storm.

“Okay.” Jinu says, stepping in front of you and gently taking the water glass. “Okay, let’s—let’s not drown right here in the kitchen, yeah?”

“But it’s—so sweet.” you squeak, tears rolling down your face. “I never see them laugh like that—he smiled—Mystery smiled—and I can’t h-handle it—”

He takes your arm gently. “I know, I know.”

“I—” you hiccup, voice warbling. “They like each other.”

“Okay. We’re gonna take a little walk now, yeah?”

“Nooo—”

“Yes. Let’s go.”

Holding your shoulders, he drags you up from your seat and starts pushing you out of the kitchen softly.

You protest. Weakly. “I—I was watching them—”

“You can watch them later.” Jinu says.

Abby calls out from the kitchen behind you, voice loud and teasing: “Hey, if you guys are gonna make out, just say so! We’ll leave!”

Mystery chuckles.

Jinu just rolls his eyes. He walks slow. No rush. When he gets to your room, he pushes the door open with his foot and steps inside with you.

He sits you down on your bed, tucks a pillow behind your back. Your face is red and miserable and soaked in saltwater and hormones, and still, still, when you look at him? You manage a watery little: “They’re such good boys…”

Jinu presses a hand to his forehead. Breathes in like he’s praying to some god that hasn’t answered in centuries.

“Sure, Y/N.” he says softly, sitting on the edge of your bed. “They’re angels.”

From the kitchen, you can still hear Abby yelling.

You laugh. Sputter. Cry again.

You can’t help it.

It’s all too much.

And yet somehow…

Not enough.

He doesn’t say anything. He just watches. Listens. Breathes with you. And it’s weird, because he’s not trying to be a prince right now. He’s not trying to seduce or coax or manipulate or even soothe, not really. He’s just here. Present. And that… is so rare. Especially in this place. With these boys.

He glances over at you again. You’re rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palm, smearing saltwater across your cheekbones, your mouth wobbling in the most adorable little way.

And Jinu—more than four hundred years old, the favorite of Gwi-Ma ever and the most selfish person probably—feels his chest ache.

It’s not lust. It’s not hunger. Not even fascination.

It’s… awe.

Because you feel everything.

Because you can’t help it.

And you don’t even hide it.

He thinks of how it started. And now… this.

Jinu’s not naïve. He knows you’re not safe here. Not really. Not emotionally, not spiritually, maybe not even physically. They’re demons. They’re wrong. They lie to you. Trap you. Keep you like something precious locked in a chest with no key. Because if they let you go—

They know they’ll never see you again.

That’s how much you matter. That’s what they can’t stand.

You breathe in.

And somehow, it’s not awkward.

Even though you rejected him before. Well, didn’t straight up reject, just didn’t say anything when he told you he was interested. Even though he’s Jinu. The leader of the demons who kidnapped you. Even though he wants you in ways that stretch centuries deep and he could have any soul in the underworld if he wanted—and still he’s sitting on your bed like the wind might break you.

Because he knows. Somewhere deep in his demon marrow. This isn’t about romance. It’s not about him. It’s about you. And what it takes to simply be you right now.

He studies you again, quietly. Takes in the red blotches under your eyes. The slow, sleepy shiver in your breath. The way your hair’s tangled at the nape of your neck and the blanket is half tucked under your leg and you’ve still got a little piece of strawberry stuck on your cheek.

Humans are so ridiculous.

So soft and loud and inconvenient. So emotional.

And so fucking magnetic.

He leans back slightly, resting one ankle over the other, posture lazy but gaze sharp. He doesn’t say it—but he’s thinking it:

What would they do, those girls of yours, if they knew how you are here? That you’re being cared for by the enemy. That you cried into my shirt. That you call Abby evil and still let him eat your little salad. That they like you here.

He exhales slowly.

Because he knows what he’d do.

He’d tear the sky open to keep you.

And he’s not alone. Behind every sarcastic quip, behind every stupid grin and ridiculous flex and forced “unbothered” act, they all feel it.

They ache for you.

They know what they did was wrong.

But that doesn’t stop them.

Because wrong is all they’ve ever known.

And you’re the only thing that’s ever felt right.

Jinu doesn’t even realize he’s stopped breathing for a full five seconds until your fingers twitch against the edge of the blanket, barely shifting, barely there—and something in his chest pulls.

Not tears this time. Not pity. Just want. Heavy and sinking, like it’s dragging him under the floorboards.

He can’t stand it.

He wants to protect you, yeah. Wants to shield you from the noise, the blood, the fire in his head, the guilt that gnaws through the others, the ache that claws up their spines every time they think about you going back to your team.

But more than that?

He wants to touch you.

To press his mouth to that pretty little throat and see if you’ll make a sound. To slide his hands over your hips and feel you tremble. To pin you down, gently—never forcefully, never—but completely, utterly, so you remember what it feels like to belong to someone ancient and aching and full of things you’ll never understand.

He wants to ruin you softly.

Break you open with worship.

Leave his mark in a way that isn’t demonic but still damn near holy.

He wants you to choose them.

To say fuck the girls, fuck the hunters, fuck everyone—and stay. With them. With him.

Even if it’s not just him.

Even if he has to share.

Because Jinu is a demon—but not the possessive kind. He knows Romance would kill to get his tongue on you. That Abby would go feral if you ever so much as asked for him. That Baby would climb into your lap like the little terror he is and Mystery would melt against you, desperate and dangerous and way too quiet about the way he worships you already.

Jinu would let them.

He’d step back, even. Watch, even. His spine would go stiff, and his fists would clench, and jealousy would rise—but he’d still let it happen.

Because as long as it’s you—alive, warm, touched with love, and not gone—

Then fuck it. That’s a victory.

That’s enough.

He clears his throat suddenly, head dropping, gaze dragging toward the floor, he just caught himself fantasizing.

So instead of saying any of it, instead of giving in to the rot twisting low in his gut or the softness that makes his ribs ache, he just stands up.

“I’ll go now.” he says simply.

Your eyes blink open in the most precious way—like you forgot he was even there, like he’s not the reason you’re calm again.

“If something else is up…” He keeps his tone neutral, easy. “You can find me.”

You nod.

He hesitates at the door.

Because what he wants to do is crawl back into bed with you and bury his face into your neck and tell you he’s so, so glad he met you. That he’s glad they kidnapped you. That you’re the worst sin he’s ever committed and he’d do it all over again if it meant holding you like this once.

But all he does is let the door close softly behind him and walk through the hall. His steps are soft. Bare feet against the cold hardwood. Dim lights glowing overhead. He drags a hand down his face, exhales slow.

He opens the door to his room quietly. Steps inside. Doesn’t turn on the light. Just moves to the edge of the massive platform bed and sits down, rolling his shoulders, bones heavy from centuries of guilt and something else. Something new. The tiger is already there, curled up in the corner, watching. Its eyes glowing. It stretches when it sees him, as if sensing Jinu’s energy, the way his heartbeat isn’t steady.

He lifts a hand and the beast crosses the room without hesitation. Its massive head lowers into his lap, pressing there, warm and heavy. Jinu rests a hand on its fur. The other hand curls into the dense muscle of its back, smoothing down along its shoulder.

He doesn’t speak. He just stares into the dark, breathing slow. Thinking about you. Your eyes. Your puffy cheeks. Your dumb little sleepy bleats of “blehhh” and “he’s so nice” and “I just—I just—bweehhh—”

He closes his eyes. His jaw tightens.

He wants you.

So bad it makes him sick.

And not just to touch you—though, god, he does. Not just to pin you to a wall or get on his knees or bite your lip and leave it swollen just so you’d remember it was him.

He wants the other stuff.

He wants to know what your first thought is in the morning. Wants to hear your opinion on dumb, mundane shit like oranges or show reruns. Wants to know how you hold your toothbrush and which songs you hate and why you keep rearranging the throw pillows even though you act like you hate the place.

He wants time with you.

He wants a life with you.

He smooths his hand again over the beast’s shoulder. The fur ripples under his palm. Then he leans back against the bedframe, lets his head drop, staring at the ceiling.

He’s glad he met you.

Even if you destroy them.

Even if you leave.

Even if you never look at him that way.

He’s so fucking glad.

Meanwhile, Romance is a mess.

A hot, sweaty, brain-rotted mess sprawled across his bed. His shirt’s been discarded somewhere (he genuinely doesn’t know where—it might be on the lamp) Just breathing hard, a hand resting dramatically over his chest like he just ran a goddamn marathon—and not, you know, jacked off to the memory of you saying his name once while you were annoyed.

Yeah, his hand was just down his pants five minutes ago.

For the fifth time today.

He had to stop himself—again—not because he’s shy or ashamed(not of this, at least), but because it’s starting to feel pathetic. Like he can’t go five goddamn minutes without thinking about you.

“Fuck.” he mutters to no one, arm flung over his face. His voice is hoarse. Disgusted. Still dark with that voice he only ever uses on his worst days. “Fuuuck, you’re killing me, pretty girl.”

He’s obsessed. It’s terminal.

And it’s not just the sex stuff, either.

Okay, it’s mostly the sex stuff. He’s made up so many scenarios. Some of them are honestly creative—like, he’s impressed with himself. There was one where he runs into you during a thunderstorm and you’re soaking wet in white linen and begging to be touched. Another one where he wakes you up from a nightmare and comforts you with something far more intense than a lullaby.

And then there’s the really deranged ones. The domestic ones. He made one up earlier where you were brushing your teeth beside him, hair messy, shirt too big, and you handed him the toothpaste wordlessly. That fantasy made him whimper. WHIMPER. Out loud.

He’s always been a flirt. That’s just the role. A wink, a purr, a little brush of his thumb on a lower lip—he’s been doing that for literal centuries. He’s good at it. It’s a performance.

But with you? It’s not a performance anymore.

It’s sick.

You don’t even let him kiss your cheek, and he’s still acting like he’s in heat every time you say his name. He tried to casually lean against the fridge next to you a few days ago and almost broke it because he slipped on condensation and nearly fell into the fruit drawer.

You didn’t even laugh. You just looked at him, blinked, and said, “You good?”

He pulls the crook of his arm off his eyes and stares at the ceiling. His painted nails dig into the pillow under his head. Then he sits up with a grunt, dragging his hand through his hair until it flops back into his eyes.

He doesn’t want just your body. He wants your yes. He wants you to choose him. He wants to hear you say it. That you like him. That he makes you feel good. That you want him back.

He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead like that’ll squash the yearning down. It doesn’t. It just makes his head hurt more.

God, he’s a boy. He’s such a dumb boy. He’s writing love letters in his head like you’ll ever want him. You’re too good. Too nice. He tortured you, kind of, in the beginning. All of them did. You shouldn’t want him. He wouldn’t blame you if you hated him forever.

He groans again.

He misses you.

And you’re just down the hall.

If he knocks on your door now, what’ll happen? Will you scream? Will you sigh? Will you let him lay on your floor like a kicked dog and read you poetry in a see-through robe?

(He does have one. Just in case.)

God. He needs help.

But also… maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe he just needs you.

He lies there now in the afterglow of his own depravity, legs twitching occasionally, eyes open and glazed, like he’s astral projecting into a parallel universe where you actually want him, not tolerate him. Where you’re touching him instead of the tiger that Jinu keeps feeding better cuts of meat than the rest of them get. Where you’re whining for him instead of Jinu.

(Not that he’s bitter. That would imply he didn’t just make up a full-fledged fantasy about you licking honey off his fingers in the middle of that kitchen. So, yeah. He’s fine.)

He shifts slightly, makes a disgusted sound.

Not because he regrets it. Hell no. He’s a demon, not a fucking monk. And he’s been around long enough to know there’s no shame in need. In want. He wants you in every way a boy could want a girl—yes, even though he’s centuries old, he’s a boy about it. He’s so stupid. So obvious. So pathetic.

Would you braid his hair if he sat real still? Would you lean your head on his shoulder if he shut the fuck up for once? Would you kiss him if he asked nicely for once in his goddamn life?

He’s never been this bad. Not even in the 1800s when he accidentally got obsessed with a courtesan who spat on him in public. (Okay, not accidentally, he chased her halfway across Europe, but that’s not the point.)

The point is, you’re so good. He wants your mouth. Wants your laugh. Wants your moods, your messes, your little mumbles when you’re in pain or pissed. He wants to taste your tears and your gum and your shampoo. He wants to ruin you, yeah—but only because you’ve already ruined him.

And worst of all? He’s romantic about it.

He’s not just jerking off to your face. He’s imagining stupid, soft, idiotic scenarios. Like you pulling him by the wrist into your room and saying something like “I guess you’re not the worst.” Or you sleeping on his chest and drooling a little and him being honored to be the one you chose to lean on.

It’s humiliating.

He would rather be smited by an archangel than admit this to anyone.

He hears movement down the hall—maybe Jinu’s footsteps—and snorts out loud.

Romance is full filth and desperate little poems that he scrawls mentally with your name tucked into every line. Romance wants to spit you open and slow dance with you in a rainstorm. He wants to fuck you on the couch and send you letters. He wants you, in every version, in every mood, even the ones that slam doors and roll their eyes.

You’re in his nonexistent soul and it’s driving him fucking nuts.

He’s going to combust.

He’s going to write you poetry and never let you read it and also try to get his hand under your shirt while you’re complaining about cramps. He’s going to lose his mind over you and still act like it’s your fault.

Because he’s the worst.

And also because he’s hopelessly, brutally, comically in love with you.

And you don’t even know it yet.

Romance rolls over, half-naked and fully rotted from the inside out. Not from lust, not even from longing—but from something far worse.

Shame.

“Ohh, what’s this now?” Gwi-Ma’s voice. “Crying again because the little human won’t kiss you?” “Can’t even lie to her right without your voice shaking.” “You should see yourself.”

Romance presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Hard. Like maybe if he just squishes his own brain for a second, the thoughts will settle.

“Let me tell her what you really are. I’ll show her.”

Romance chokes out a bitter laugh. He swings his legs off the bed, leans forward, elbows on knees, head in hands like someone two seconds from praying even though there’s no god left who listens to demons.

He’s full of feelings. A disgusting soup of them. Sloshing around in his stomach with nowhere to go.

Horny? Yes, of course. But he’s also so tired. It doesn’t help that Gwi-Ma claws at the weak spots. Knows where to press.

“You’ll rip her apart. She’ll hate you for it.”“Oh, is this the one you think will save you? You pathetic little mutt.”

“Shut up.” Romance mutters under his breath.

No one’s around. Just him and the slow drip of his own humiliation. The weight of everything he wants and doesn’t deserve pressing in on his temples like a migraine.

“Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the—”

His voice cuts off.

His jaw clenches.

He hates this. Hates that he has someone to lose now. That he cares. That he walks past your bedroom and slows down like a coward, just to hear you snoring softly, to feel the low tug of comfort knowing you’re behind that door, safe.

What is he even doing?

He’s a fucking demon. A creature made of sin. He’s killed people for less than the flutter he feels when you hand him a spoon and say, “Don’t eat it with your fingers, you animal.”

God.

God, he loves you.

“You missed your chance.” Gwi-Ma hisses, voice thick with smugness. “The ��nice one’ has her wrapped up. You think she’ll ever want the loud-mouthed pervert?”

Romance lifts his head and hisses, low and sharp. “Go haunt a cliff.”

But the truth is? Gwi-Ma isn’t wrong. He is the loud-mouthed pervert. The ridiculous one. The one who flirts all the time.

You probably do think he’s a joke.

You probably don’t take him seriously.

And he doesn’t blame you. Not when he can’t even sit still with himself without having emotions like this. Not when his chest feels like it’s full of razor wire and honey and rage. Rage at himself. At his body for betraying him. At Gwi-Ma for always being there.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, like that’ll clean out the thoughts too.

He knows sleep isn’t coming tonight. But maybe if he lays there long enough, staring at the ceiling, he’ll finally shut his brain off. Maybe if he listens closely enough, he’ll hear you breathe through your bedroom door again. Maybe that’ll be enough to survive another night like this.

As this is going on with Romance, Baby sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor, one knee bouncing absently while he pinches sunflower seeds between his fingers and offers them to Jinu’s bird. The bird chirps with exactly one ounce of gratitude and a shit-ton of judgment. Baby glares at it.

“Eat it or don’t.”

The bird hops closer. It does eat it.

Baby leans back on his hands, smirking.

He wins. Always.

He looks bored. The usual. But it’s not fair how fucked you’ve made his brain. And it’s not just the usual dumbass guy shit. It’s more. It’s worse. It’s not just boobs and voice and legs and eyes and the way you hum under your breath when cutting things.

It’s the fact that he remembers everything about you. And he likes remembering it. He’s holding onto it like a sick little freak. Like it’s his.

He shifts, drags the bag of bird seed toward himself again. Tosses a few seeds at the dumb hat-bird without even looking. Nails it. Obviously.

What a shame you can’t see how cool he is.

But behind the fuck-you energy and the smug one-liners and the absolute feral desire to shove Romance down every single flight of stairs in the building?

There’s a mess.

A massive, sticky, snarled-up mess of a crush that started the second he laid eyes on you and has been crawling deeper into his nonexistent soul every single second since.

He knows he’s an asshole. He’s a bitch. He’s awful. He literally threatened to lock Abby in the dryer last week because he said “Y/N’s cute today.” He pushed Romance into a bookshelf yesterday just for breathing weird around you. Tripped Jinu six times a day and didn’t listen to shit he said. Mystery is the only one Baby doesn’t throw hands with, because Mystery will literally bite. But still. Baby side-eyes him when he gets too close to you, and once even fake-fell just to crash between you and him.

He’s so fucking annoying.

But then again… so are you.

So are you with your sleepy face and your tiny gasps and your fruit salads and your long stares and your petty silent treatments. You stomp past him and he acts like it’s nothing, but damn.

He flops back against the floor now, arms spread. Looks like he’s relaxing. He’s not.

You make him insane. INSANE.

And he hates that he likes it. It’s like this cursed, fucked-up dopamine hit. He likes being mean. He likes being him. But somehow you just… fit in there.

He doesn’t want to be a better person.

But he’d let you put a leash on him.

And not in a normal way.

(Or maybe in a very normal way, depending on who you ask.)

He snorts at his own thoughts. Catches the bird staring. Stares back. “What.” he mutters, deadpan.

The bird chirps once, like judged.

Baby kicks the bird seed bag away lazily, smirking at nothing.

This is hell.

And he’s gonna enjoy being the brat of it as long as you keep stomping around in your dumb slippers, scowling at him, smelling like sweet soap.

Evil. He’s evil. Like, unapologetically, certifiably, Olympic-grade evil. He steals things he doesn’t need. He breaks things just to watch someone cry. He lies for fun. He once slipped Romance sleep poison for no other reason than the guy looked too happy.

That’s normal for Baby.

What’s not normal? Liking you this much. Liking anything this much.

It makes him want to throw up and kiss the floor and set it on fire all at once.

You… you’re a mess. So annoyingly good and soft and real. You don’t beg for his attention like a fan. You don’t worship the dirt he walks on. You reject him.

Which is hilarious.

Because you totally like him.

You must.

He’s too hot. Too cute. Too Baby. You’ve got to be frontin’. You’re just playing hard to get. Classic. (You literally don’t. You don’t like him like that I’m not even kidding)

But in his head, you think about him late at night. In his head, you’re in your bed, rolling over and giggling his name into your pillow. He bets you dream about him. About his mouth. His hands. Things he does to piss Jinu off.

Yeah.

You’re down bad.

(You’re not.)

He rolls over, lets his head loll onto his arm like he’s about to take a nap, and then—

“Wow.” It’s in his brain. Inside it.

“Fuck off.” Baby mutters instantly, eyes shut.

“No, really, I just… I’m in awe.” Gwi-Ma’s voice says, slow and cruel and dripping sarcasm. “This is truly pathetic. And I’ve seen Romance hump a pillow.”

“You sound jealous.” Baby says, unbothered, even though his stomach’s doing flips. “You wouldn’t get it, I do.”

“You’ve got nothing but your face, no worth at all, that’s what you get.”

Baby kicks at the air.

“Listen, child—“

“I’m three hundred and seventeen.”

“Then act like it.” Gwi-Ma hisses.

Just to make it clear, Baby doesn’t keep track of things most of the time. But he always, always keeps track of how old he is, hurts or not.

Baby gets up. No, he launches upright like a demon possessed (which he is, technically), and shakes out his limbs with an annoyed little growl. His hair’s a mess. He doesn’t fix it. That’s the charm. He stomps to the mirror just to look at himself.

He’s flawless.

“Can’t blame her.” he says to his own reflection. “I wouldn’t survive me either.”

Gwi-Ma hums darkly, slipping back into his own world and out of Baby’s head.

Baby glares at himself for another five seconds, then slowly—painfully slowly—lets the grin slide back into place.

Evil. Evil down to the bones. A menace. A psycho. A brat.

And somehow, somehow, you’ve got his entire demonic heart in your pretty little hands.

He hopes you never figure it out.

Or worse…

He hopes you do.

As we’re talking, I have to note that Mystery doesn’t look in mirrors very often.

Not because he doesn’t like what he sees, no, quite the opposite. He’s just not… interested in himself. Not the way Romance is, always adjusting his collar, biting his own lip in the reflection like he’s flirting with himself. Not like Abby either, who flexes abs in passing windows. Baby straight up glares at mirrors until they crack. Jinu doesn’t like looking at himself.

Mystery just doesn’t see the point.

But tonight… tonight, he stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom. He combs his fingers through his hair slowly, pushing it out of his face. He could cut it, but he doesn’t. He likes it. He smiles at his reflection—and fuck, he’s beautiful. A face sculpted by hands that wanted him to ruin people. Something about his features makes it hard to tell if he’s about to kiss you or kill you.

He raises a brow at himself, tucks one strand of hair behind his ear, then lets it fall again. His lips are slightly parted. Always are. The reason fans scream when he glances up mid-performance. The reason girls can’t get enough of him. The reason HUNTR/X gets so pissed when their fans drift toward Saja.

He’s not sorry.

He didn’t ask for his voice to sound like that, either. But he’s used to it now. Used to stealing hearts like it’s nothing. Used to being a weapon.

He leans in closer. Blinks once. Stares himself down.

And then thinks about you.

He bites his bottom lip without meaning to.

You’re cute. Always trying to stay mad at them. Always failing. Your little hands balling into fists when you tell him off, your voice all shaky when you’re tired or hormonal, the way you tuck your knees up when you sit on the couch. Your smell in the hallway.

He likes you.

He turns away from the mirror but doesn’t leave the bathroom. Just leans against the cold tile wall, crossing his arms, letting his hair fall back over his face. He doesn’t move for a long time.

Mystery is not sweet. He breaks fingers. He growls in fights and kicks people in the teeth. He lets Gwi-Ma feed on people’s dreams just to quiet the voices in his own head. He’s a bad person.

But you smiled at him today like he’s not.

He likes liking you.

He likes that he doesn’t understand it.

He’d gut the whole world for you if it meant seeing you laugh just once.

Mystery giggles. He giggles like he heard a really funny secret. One that only he gets. A little sway in his step. He doesn’t even look like himself when he’s like this—so damn… boyish. So not the feral menace that people see in the spotlight or in battle.

When he gets to his room, he shuts the door with the softest click. The kind that lets everyone know he’s done being social. If any of the others knock, he’ll kill them. Not metaphorically. The lights are off. He yanks his shirt off over his head in one go, ruffling his already-messy hair more, then lets it fall somewhere by the bed. Doesn’t even care where.

He plops onto the mattress like he’s been out in a war.

But the battlefield isn’t where he got hit.

It’s you.

Been a while since he talked to a girl who wasn’t a fan. God. That alone is enough to make him laugh again. The fans all scream and cry and faint like they know him. They don’t. They know the makeup. The voice. The poses. They don’t know that he used to stutter in front of mirrors. That he still chews on the drawstrings of his hoodie when he’s nervous.

Been a while since he made friends. Jinu, maybe, is closest.

Been a while since he had sex.

He won’t lie. That one kinda hurts.

Long since he had sex that didn’t end in some kind of bite. Not that he minds bites. Or scratching. Or being called names. But he hasn’t liked someone in… how long? A hundred years? More?

Been a while since he had a thing with a girl. Long time. Longer than he’d ever admit out loud. Even before the demon thing, he was never good at love. Too awkward. Too distracted. Too intense. He always came off cold or wrong or creepy. So he stopped trying. Let the stage version of himself flirt and play and pretend. The real version? Locked up. Silent. Hands in pockets. Heart in mouth.

Been a while. Been a while. Been a while.

And now you’re here.

He just needs you to like him. That’s all. Then maybe everything else will follow. The closeness. The talking. The touching.

But he’s not the best at communication.

He’s actually horrible.

He tries. He does. But most of the time it comes out in shrugs. In soft grunts. Growls. In too-long stares across the room that you either ignore or don’t see. He doesn’t know how to tell you “I think you’re the best” without sounding like a complete psychopath. So he just… doesn’t.

And he thinks he might die for you if it came down to it. But for now, he just giggles again.

Abby in the shower is one of the most ridiculous sights in the multiverse. Let’s just get that out of the way.

While the others have these little mental fucks, the water is running hot—too hot, probably—but Abby doesn’t turn it down. It’s pounding down his back, his neck, his shoulders, and he’s just standing there with both hands on the tiled wall, head down, drenched, steaming. The mirror across the room is fully fogged, but if it wasn’t, he’d probably flex at himself out of muscle memory.

Because here’s the truth:

He’s a whore.

Like, clinically. Professionally. Spiritually. To make that clear, right now, he has one palm dragging over the slick plane of his stomach, just because he can. His hand slides over the ridges of muscle like he’s proud of them. (He is.) A thumb glides up the V of his hip, not even sexually—just admiring the structure.

Abby thinks he’s a masterpiece. A hot one. A mean one. A very evil one.

But then… then there’s the second truth. There’s the one that hits a little lower in his chest. The one that won’t get the fuck out of his head. The one that’s got nothing to do with his abs, or his power, or his demonic charms.

The one that starts and ends with you.

“Fuuuuuuck.” he breathes out, forehead thunking against the wet tile like it owes him money. “Get outta my head.”

You’re not listening.

You’re everywhere in there.

And that massage earlier? Holy shit.

He didn’t even think. He just saw you slumped and pissed off and bleeding, and his brain went, be useful, dumbass. So he put his hands on your shoulders and dug in. And you… you melted. You fucking melted under his hands. He felt your whole body shift like a sigh, and he knew he was doing good—but it wasn’t until you started crying that he froze.

You said he was nice.

Nice.

What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

He didn’t mean to be nice. He didn’t try to be. That was just his dumb, big-handed, hot-bodied brain doing something functional for once. And now here he is, in the shower, water running down his back and steam curling around him, thinking about the way your voice broke when you said it.

“You’re so nice.”

Bitch, no he’s not!

He’s mean. He steals. He punches. He calls Baby a bitch three times before breakfast and once more before bed. He leaves empty chip bags in the couch cushions and plays music at 2am just to see who snaps first.

But he was nice to you.

And you cried about it.

Now his whole chest is tightening in this horrible way, and his hand has not moved off his abs. He clenches his jaw. He’s got his hips angled into the wall like the devil himself might come slap him for his thoughts. Which are… filthy. They always are, when it’s you. Because you’re pretty. You’re smart. You’re weird. And when you looked up at him earlier, lip trembling, voice soft—

He had to physically bite his tongue.

And now he’s hard.

“Fucking hell.” he hisses, slamming a fist against the tile like it’ll knock the heat out of him. (It doesn’t. If anything, it just makes him harder. He’s an idiot.)

He angles his body away from the spray, breathing heavy. He’s still got your face in his mind, your voice, your whole tiny form leaning back into his hands like you needed him.

And that—that’s the thing, isn’t it?

You needed him.

You trusted him for a split second.

And Abby? Abby hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

It’s not just about wanting to get you under him anymore. He wants that, sure, but it’s not the only thing. He wants to make you smile. He wants to pull your hair just to hear the sound you make when you’re mad. He wants to carry you around the apartment and not explain why. He wants you to lean on him again. Cry again. Breathe against him like you trust him.

Fuck.

He palms a hand over his face. Then braces that same arm above his head, steam curling around his arm, the other resting loosely on his hip—because if he touches himself now, he’ll never recover. Like, ever. His brain will shut down. He’ll combust. They’ll find him in the morning curled up in the drain, dead from horny.

And it’s all because of you.

He glances down at himself and sighs. “Look at you.” he mutters, grinning like the fool he is. “Pathetic.”

It’s not even bad pathetic. It’s adorable pathetic. And he knows it. He even flexes a little just to show off to nobody. Watches water track down the curve of his stomach and thinks, She’d like this. Right? She’d stare.

He leans back against the tile with a dopey, crooked grin, water dragging through his hair. The heat’s still in his body, but the urgency’s softened into something almost sweet. Almost painful.

You’d kill him if you saw him right now—naked, proud of his own dick, giggling like a dumbass, cheeks flushed and grinning at nothing like a lovesick idiot.

And he is. He is a lovesick idiot.

An evil one. A demon. A bastard.

Maybe he’ll go eat another of your fruit salads the next time you make one.

Because that, at least, will give him a reason to see you again.

And steal another smile.

He thunks his head lightly against the wall again, because what is he supposed to do?

You’re in the other room, probably curled up, probably crying into a pillow because of your weird little hormone breakdown—which was adorable, by the way. You full-on melted in Jinu’s arms, oh his god.

And now he’s here. With a problem. And that problem is that he really likes you. Like a lot. Which is a huge problem. Also the one between his legs, but that’s another case.

Abby is a man of extreme talents. He can scale a wall with his bare hands, snap a demon in half like a glow stick, flash a smile and have fans screaming for mercy—and still somehow, somehow, fuck up taking care of his own goddamn boner in the shower. Because as soon as he handled business—loud, desperate, gritted-teeth, thinking-of-you kind of business—he’s already broken three things. First, the glass bottle of Jinu’s fancy cologne he “borrowed” (read: stole) last week—the one with the scent so ridiculously good it made Baby sniff the air like a feral dog. Yeah. That’s on the floor now. Shattered. Perfume everywhere.

Second, the towel rack. Don’t ask. It was already loose. Maybe. Whatever.

Third, his pride.

Because listen: Abby’s done this before. Plenty of times. Hundreds of years. His own hand, a nice daydream, sometimes a mirror if he was really in love with himself (he usually is). But this? This was different. Messier. More intense. Like the very idea of you was wired into his nerves—his body reacting faster than his thoughts could catch up.

It was too fast. It was too much.

You should hate him. You probably do. But he’s clinging to every moment that says otherwise.

And that’s why the cologne bottle is on the floor in glassy shards.

That’s why his knees knocked into the bathroom counter when he tried to stabilize himself and sent a bunch of skincare products tumbling.

Abby slaps off the water and yanks the curtain back like it insulted his mother. Then he rubs the towel roughly over his head, mussing his hair, then knots it around his waist and steps out of the steam.

He walks down the hall, not bothering to hide the low, frustrated grunt he lets out when the perfume stench follows him. Baby makes a gagging noise as he passes by. Abby flips him off without looking.

“Tell Jinu his perfume has no structural integrity.” he mutters. “Broke the moment I looked at it wrong.”

“You broke it.” Baby calls back from somewhere, not even needing to see it to know.

“No, I didn’t.”

He walks back to his room, water dripping onto the hardwood as he goes, still thinking about you. Still hearing the way you whispered, like he’d just handed you the stars instead of touched your shoulder blades for two minutes and called it a day. Still seeing the way your eyes welled up before you could say anything. Still remembering how warm you were when you leaned back into him. Like your little body just knew his touch was safe.

Which it’s not.

Let’s be so fucking clear: it’s not.

He could crush bone with a single hand. Could flip a car. Could eat someone whole, metaphorically or not. He’s a monster. He lies. He manipulates. He steals and fights and flirts because it’s funny, not because he cares.

But with you?

He cares.

He throws the door to his room open, steps inside, and exhales like he’s been holding it in since he left you in the kitchen. His bedroom door slams. The tiger in Jinu’s room huffs like it’s annoyed. Abby doesn’t care.

Because he has a crush, okay?

A massive, stomach-churning, lip-biting, idiot-making crush. And he’s not gonna apologize for it, even if it means stepping on broken glass and breaking a second perfume bottle by accident later.

You’re not even being nice to him most of the time. You try to act like you don’t even like him.

(But you do, right? Right?)

Abby’s convinced. He has to be right.

That’s what makes this worse. You’re nice, yeah—but you’ve got this bite. You’re sweet and smart and helpful and tiny and annoyed all the time, and he swears if you really didn’t like him, you wouldn’t let him breathe down your neck every chance he got.

You’d scream. You’d slap him. You’d tell Jinu. You’d stab him. (He’d let you.) But you don’t. You sigh. You roll your eyes. You tell him to fuck off, but gently. You let him sit too close. You give him your fruit salad and tell him to eat it.

And he does. Because it came from you.

He throws himself down onto the bed face-first—hard—like he’s trying to break the mattress with his skull. The second bounce nearly knocks his towel off, but he slaps a hand over his ass just in time.

Now he’s stomach down, ass up (well, towel-wrapped), legs swinging in the air.

If anyone walked in right now, he’d die on the spot.

He should be ashamed. But no—he’s just lying there on his stomach, grinning like an idiot, face buried in the sheets. Kicking his feet in the air like a teenage girl.

He tries to stop.

He can’t.

Fuuuuck, you’re so pretty. Like. So. Fucking. Pretty. Jesus.

Abby’s in love.

“Jesus Christ.” he mutters to himself. “I need to get laid.”

He probably won’t, though.

Because he only wants you. And you’re a problem. You’re good and soft and quiet and mean in this really, really pretty way. You make his skin crawl with the need to bite something. Preferably you. Not hard. But, like… enough.

He flips onto his side, towel slipping, and clutches a pillow to his chest like it’s his girlfriend. It’s not. But in his delusional little mind? That’s you. That’s you sobbing against his chest, your voice breaking because he was nice and massaged you and didn’t make a single joke about it except seventeen.

The towel falls halfway down his ass.

He doesn’t even bother pulling it up. Because what’s the point? His brain’s too full of you to function.

So he lies there, cheek to pillow, one leg hooked over the other, thinking about your dumb cute face, your voice, the way you whispered you’re so nice through a tear.

He wants to make you laugh.

He wants to make you scream.

He wants to make you cry again but in the good way.

He wants to give you a massage and hear that little sound you made when he hit the spot near your neck again and again and again.

He wants everything.

But he has nothing.

Just a memory. A moment. Your voice in his head like a fever dream.

Fuckin’ angel girl, you’re going to kill him with a simple look if not break a plate on his head the next time you see him.

He smiles.

Because wouldn’t that be a good way to go.

“Ohh, Abby.” Gwi-Ma.

Abby doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. Just sighs against the sheets. “Sleeping.” he mumbles. “I’m sleeping.”

“You’re thinking about that girl.”

No shit.

“I said I’m fucking sleeping.” Abby grunts louder this time, face still planted in the pillow. “Go harass Romance.”

Gwi-Ma pauses. “You dare speak to me like that?”

Abby doesn’t even get the chance to roll his eyes before it hits him, unbearable pain and loud, loud noises echoing inside his little head.

He flinches so hard he slams his knee into the bedframe, rips the pillow off his face, throws it across the room, and then just grabs his skull with both hands, teeth clenched so tight it feels like his molars might crack.

“Ahhh—fuck—fuck you, man—!” he shouts into the mattress, voice hoarse and breaking.

“I don’t take disrespect, Abraham.”

Gwi-Ma is ridiculously funny because both of them know Abraham is not Abby’s name. Just making fun of the boy at this point.

It’s not just a headache, it’s a punishment. It’s like having sirens screeching directly into his temporal lobes, every nerve in his skull having reaction. He kicks his legs, fists knotted in his hair, chest heaving.

He will never learn.

“How do you like that, my prince?” Gwi-Ma purrs, fucking gleeful now. “Next time, think before you cum and get cocky.”

And to make it worse—to really just put a cherry on top of the pain sundae—another boner, because Gwi-Ma is an asshole.

Abby lets out an actual, guttural groan—not sexy, not tortured in a good way, just miserable. He rolls onto his side, pressing his forehead into the mattress.

“Dude,” he gasps out. “you’re so fucking weird.” His whole back is sweaty now, his hair sticking to his temples, muscles tensed. He lifts his face just barely, panting, eyes red.

“And you’re so fucking pathetic. If I could put your little angel in your lap right now, I would. Just to watch you explode like a virgin.”

The sudden slap of arousal. Unwanted. Forced. Embarrassing. Immediate. Abby lets out an inhuman noise, part-choke, part-growl, part a whispered “fuck me” that he doesn’t even mean to say out loud.

His voice cracks before he can yell. He’s breathing heavy, sweating through the towel, red in the face, head pounding, body betraying him entirely.

“Sleep tight.” Gwi-Ma whispers, fading from his mind with one final twist of something sharp in Abby’s temple.

And then… silence.

Finally.

But Abby’s still clutching his head, naked except for the towel that’s mostly around his thigh now, on the verge of crying, hard again, and thinking about you.

What a loser.

What a fucking loser.

He drags a hand over his face, groans one more time into the empty room, then mutters like a deathbed confession:

“…worth it.”

Because you always are.

The boys all went to bed thinking about you.

No—obsessing. Stomach-knotting, aching, stupid-boy obsessing.

That was the truth of it.

They each had their little ways, their little styles, their private rituals of shame and longing and delusion, but it all ended the same: a pillow, a room, a mind full of you.

Jinu, for example, is lying with his back against the mountain of soft fur that was his tiger, stroking its ears absentmindedly, eyes locked on the ceiling. He hadn’t moved much.

He kept replaying it all. Your tears. How you’d hugged him. You’d buried your face in his chest and mumbled gibberish at him, and it had been the most sacred moment he’d had in four hundred years.

And you don’t even know.

He wants you so much it’s starting to embarrass even him.

And you don’t even know. He’d told you, calmly, clearly, over the chessboard weeks ago. But that was nothing. That wasn’t this.

This is need. This is yearning. This is waking up in a cold sweat because he dreamt of your smile fading.

Meanwhile, a few doors over, Romance is suffering. Lying face down on the bed, pillow over his head, trying not to feel the ache in his gut that came with thinking about your smile.

He’s making up scenarios. Like a high schooler. In one, you knocked on his door late at night in nothing but a hoodie and socks and whispered, “I couldn’t sleep. Can I stay with you?” In another, you leaned into him on the couch while watching a dumb movie and said, “You know you’re my favorite, right?” In another—the best and worst one—you kissed him just to shut him up.

He rolls over with a groan, fist his hands in his own hair, and hiss into the dark. He doesn’t even know what he wants more, to be alone with you or to scream into the void. Both felt necessary. And all this over a girl who doesn’t even know how bad he has it.

And Gwi-Ma’s taunts only made it worse. That sick fuck in his head laughed at him. Mocked him. Fed on his shame.

Still, he can’t stop.

He fell asleep eventually. Arms over his head. A little drool on the pillow. Dreaming of you laughing at his jokes and maybe, just maybe, calling him baby.

Now that I said Baby, let’s talk about the one who’s in the house.

He’d fallen asleep sideways across his bed, birdseed still on his shirt from earlier, hand tangled in a notebook full of angry scribbles and lazily drawn boobs. Your name is in there too, like five times. With different handwriting. Some of it looks like it was written by his left hand.

He’d never admit it. Not even under torture. But he was thinking about you. Always does. Even now, drooling onto his pillow, hair a mess, one sock halfway off, he’s dreaming of you laughing at one of his asshole jokes and maybe calling him mean but smiling anyway. That’s all he needs.

He doesn’t know what he’d do if you actually gave in. If you liked him back. Probably explode. Or pass out. Or cry in a way that no one would ever hear about, or he’d kill them.

Mystery’s not sleeping at all. He’s lying in bed, touching the ends of his hair, staring at the ceiling. Not even blinking much.

He doesn’t understand you. He doesn’t understand himself around you either. But he likes it. He likes you. The way you smile. The way you praised him back when he shot his shot in small talk.

And he likes that you didn’t know.

Abby’s still recovering from the post-shower brain-damage Gwi-Ma blessed him with, ass half out the towel, lying face down on his mattress like a dead fish. His head hurts. His dick hurts. His pride hurts. He doesn’t deserve you. But he’s obsessed. And he’s still kicking his legs a little.

While the five ancient, tortured, overpowered, emotionally constipated men are individually spiraling into full-blown madness over you—hands down their pants, heads in their hands, boners under their blankets, Gwi-Ma in their ears—you’re standing in front of your mirror in a giant t-shirt, drawing something with a pen that was almost out of ink, looking at yourself occasionally, twerking a little maybe.

No idea. None. Not a single goddamn clue about the chaos you’d left in your wake.

You know they’re interested. But you don’t know… You don’t know what it’s doing to them.

You don’t know that while you’re staring into the mirror making kissy faces at yourself, Romance is dreaming about it and completely destroyed by the fact he can’t have you. In his dream you just snuck into his room and crawled into bed with him just to tell him you liked his voice. In his sleep, he whispered a fake “I like you too” to no one.

Mystery has absolutely no game, doesn’t know how to talk to you, but he wants you anyway. Desperately. Silently. Painfully.

Baby is still asleep, but I’ll talk about him anyway. You’re the only person he thinks about when he’s not thinking about himself. You’re soft, and pretty, and a bitch, and he loves it. He’s convinced you have to like him. You must like him. You’re obsessed. He has to believe that, because if you don’t like him, then he’s nothing.

Jinu’s still up, though his eyes are closed. His tiger’s breathing slow with him. He hasn’t moved. But he’s not sleeping either. He’s thinking of your soft voice. The way you leaned into him. The way you melted. The way you didn’t flinch when his arms came around you. He tells himself it’s because he’s the only one who treats you gently. But he’s wrong. It’s because you trust him. And he’ll burn down cities for that. He’ll kill gods for it.

Abby fell asleep by now. He calmed down. Probably dreaming about you.

And here you are. In your room. Still twerking. Drawing little doodles in your sketchbook. Chewing on your pen. Thinking about if you should eat cereal or a granola bar. Blinking at your reflection and wondering why your nose looks uneven from this angle.

You have no idea what you’re doing to them.

No idea that your little human feelings and hormone meltdowns and random soft sniffling has broken five men who’ve been alive for over 300 years. No clue that you’ve taken root in the marrow of their bones.

My ass timeskip contains hours, and it’s morning now. You’d think, after all the thirst, shame, fantasy, masturbation, crying, brain trauma, demonic torment, friendship bonding, and twerking-in-the-mirror that happened just last night…there’d be tension in the air. But no. These assholes are actors. Pop stars. Demons. They’ve been lying professionally for centuries. They do this thing, all five of them, where no matter what happened the night before—whether they’re screaming inside, plotting world domination, or jerking off to the thought of you crying—they still get up like everything’s fine.

Jinu’s getting ready to go. Romance has sunglasses on. Abby’s already taken his shirt off again for absolutely no reason. Baby’s slouched against the kitchen island with a banana in his mouth, the slowest chewing on the planet. Mystery has Abby’s shirt in his hand.

So normal.

And then you walk in. Sleep shirt, mismatched socks, and a war-torn look on your face like you’ve just crawled out of a time hole. You stayed up too late. You haven’t even brushed your hair.

And all five boys look at you. Just a glance. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s the same way they’d look at the mailman.

And you—grumpy and still a little puffy-eyed from the emotions of yesterday—just whisper, “By the way. What happened yesterday between us?” You point at Jinu and Abby specifically, each one receiving a cold, squinty stare. “Didn’t happen. I don’t ever wanna hear about it again. That shit? Deleted. Erased. Nonexistent.”

Jinu just raises his eyebrows at you and sips from his matte black mug. Doesn’t even argue. “Understood.” he says. “Wiped from memory.”

“Gone.” Abby nods, already opening the fridge. “Never happened. Who even are you, anyway?”

“Great.” you nod. “Good.”

“What’s this?” Romance purrs. “Something happened yesterday? With you three?”

Your eye twitches. “Romance—”

“Y/N,” he murmurs. “tell me what happened. I’ll trade you. You can spank me if it’s embarrassing.”

Abby just grins like a smug piece of shit and keeps digging in the fridge. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be shy, baby.” he says, grinning down at you. “I think it’s beautiful that you’re finally cracking. You held on so tight for two months. But it’s okay to want us. I’d cry too if I wanted me.”

“I don’t want you.”

“Tell me what happened. Come on, sweetheart. I’m gonna be thinking about it all day now. Was it something… scandalous? Did one of us make your heart go pitter-patter~?” he says, using that hot voice, swiping a berry from the bird’s dish and tossing it in his mouth.

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

You glare at him. “You are insufferable.”

“Why can’t I ever get anything good?” he goes on, dramatically throwing himself around. “What’s Abby got that I don’t?! I’m just as hot! I’m—more hot! I even smell good!”

“No, you don’t.” Baby says around a mouthful of banana.

Romance flips him off, not even looking.

You try to walk away. You genuinely try. You even make it two feet toward the hallway before Romance grabs your wrist—not hard, not mean, but persistent. Desperate.

“Y/N. Come on. Tell me. What happened? What did Abby do? Did he—what did he doooo, beautiful? I can take it. I need to know. Come on, baby. Don’t be shy. I know everythingp about you. You always say no—but you want to tell me. I can see it. Look at you. You’re practically vibrating with guilt.” He takes a step forward. His tone’s way too soft. Way too slow. The kind of slow that melts girls. A voice that makes people confess. Die. Orgasm. Or all three. He takes a step forward. “I’ll listen real close. I’ll keep it between us. Just whisper it into my—”

“Nothing happened.” Mystery. He says it calmly. From across the room.

Romance freezes. And for a full beat, the whole room goes silent.

Mystery???

Romance turns slowly toward him, eyes squinted, mouth curled into the most suspicious grimace you’ve ever seen. “What do you mean ‘nothing happened?’ Were you there?”

“I was close enough.” Mystery shrugs. Which is both a lie and not a lie, knowing how he always lurks.

Romance stares at him. He’s clearly trying to calculate if this is a genuine answer or some mind-game trick, but Mystery doesn’t give much away.

Grumbling under his breath, Romance is muttering, “Y’all are so secretive. No one loves me.”

You glance toward Mystery.

He glances back with the smallest smile. One that says you’re welcome.

He saved your ass.

From Romance of all people.

“I would’ve kept it secret, too.” Romance sulks. “I’m so good at secrets. Ask Baby. I know everything about his porn stash.”

“Shut up, dude.”

But they’re already grabbing bags and keys and jackets. They’re getting ready to leave. Showtime. Another appearance. Another day to be evil, cocky, and extremely fine in public.

You watch them go. Just sit back down at the counter. Pour your cereal. Pop your feet up.

My pathetic time skip later, the backstage smells like ego.

Too many colognes. Too much energy bottled in glittering outfits, half-finished soundchecks and makeup chairs abandoned mid-brushstroke. The Saja boys were already bored, leaning against the sleek black walls of the green room, sprawled on couches, chewing on toothpicks and smug silence. But they can feel it, people approaching. Three of them, actually.

“Oh,” Abby says, mouth curling into something cocky. “hi.”

The HUNTR/X girls walk in. Rumi’s blade is already out, Mira has that look she got right before punching someone in the throat, and Zoey is practically vibrating.

Abby just folds his arms. Romance tilts his head, so pretty. Jinu smiles the way only someone invincible can. Mystery steps slightly behind them, silently. And Baby, chewing gum, doesn’t even look up from his phone.

Rumi is the first to talk. “Where is she?”

Romance laughs.

Mira’s blade is up in half a second. “Don’t be stupid.”

“We’re never stupid,” Jinu says, serene. “Just better.”

“You kidnapped our assistant.” Zoey hisses, like she can’t understand it. Because she can’t, not really.

“You lost your assistant.” Baby corrects, finally looking up.

That nearly got him stabbed.

Romance, ever the showman, steps forward, both hands raised like peace signs, though there isn’t a single peaceful thing about his expression. “Let’s not do this here, ladies.” he purrs. “You’re gonna crease your cute little stage outfits.”

Zoey makes a sharp step forward, and that’s enough for Mystery to growl.

And we know that the boys can feel this and that. Perhaps the changes in human body when you talk or think about someone you really really like.

Romance blinks. His nostrils flare. His grin slides sideways.

Abby cocks his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

They sensed it. The girls’ bodies—changing. The tiny, unspoken betrayals of physical attraction. The flush, the pulse, the pupils dilating just a bit too wide.

The crushes.

The desire.

The way they feel about you.

“Ohhh nooo.” Romance says, one hand over his heart, pretending to faint. “Girls—how cliché.”

“Shut up.” Mira snaps, swinging her blade.

“We understand.” Jinu says, calm but so obviously not taking the girls seriously. “You want Y/N back.”

“And we want her now.” Mira hisses.

Mystery growles. Not at the girls. At Romance.(??)

Abby smacks Mystery’s chest “Bro. Chill. You’re gonna pop a fang.”

“I like her.” Zoey says suddenly, a little too loud, a little too honest.

All five boys paused.

“You’re so late.” Abby mutters.

Romance collapses into Jinu’s shoulder like he’s fainting. Jinu steps away so Romance nearly falls over.

“We’re done here.” Baby says, brushing past, utterly bored.

Uhuh, no they’re not, the girls attack them. But Romance is laughing, ducking and weaving and dodging blades and yelling over his shoulder: “Y/N has options, ladies!”

Abby blocks a swing and winks. “Don’t worry, we take good care of her.”

“You kidnapped her!”

“Same thing.”

The lights backstage are flickering now, disturbed by the energy in the room. And the boys are laughing. It’s like they’re drunk on the moment, hyped up on adrenaline and too many centuries of not giving a fuck. Abby takes a hit to the shoulder and doesn’t even grunt. Just spins backward, and grins at Romance. “She wants to fight.” he says, clearly delighted. “She’s mad-mad.”

Romance, breathless from laughter and dodging Mira’s blade, nearly falls into the wall as he slaps Abby on the back. “Bro, she said ‘You kidnapped her.’ Like we didn’t know!”

Even Jinu cracks a smile. Zoey throws a knife at him. He catches it mid-air. And just gently… drops it. Baby isn’t even fighting anymore. He’d stopped in front of a full-length mirror, admiring the cut on his lip. Mira tries to strike him again and he dodges, still looking at his reflection. Mystery hid in the fucking shadows?? Asshole. But the smile he wears as he watches Zoey scream? He’d missed this. Missed watching people care this much.

Because they do. The girls care. Zoey has tears in her eyes. Mira’s fists tremble harder than they need to from just combat. And Rumi, god, Rumi looks horrible.

“She helped us.” she says, voice hoarse, blade still raised. “She loved us. And you took her.”

Romance tilts his head. “You ever tell her that?”

Silence.

He smiles. “Didn’t think so.”

“Tell me this isn’t funny.” Abby says, still grinning, rubbing his bruised jaw.

But the girls aren’t stupid. They see it. The way the boys react when they said your name. The twitch in Jinu’s jaw. The split-second flinch on Mystery’s mouth. They know now.

Abby grabs his pecs—yes, full-on cups them—and squishes them together, doing that exaggerated little bounce like he’s got a push-up bra on. Then he lifts his chin, throws his voice a whole octave higher, and croons: “Bring her back… she was, like, our little sunshine… our moral compass…” He fans his face. “Y/NNNN!”

Romance collapses onto Mystery’s back, wheezing, holding his gut like he’s about to die. Even Baby, who hasn’t laughed in a week and a half, snorts and turns to the wall to hide it, shoulders shaking like he can’t help it.

Rumi actually growls. Growls. Zoey throws a blade. Romance catches it and spins it in one hand, still grinning, smug as hell. “Look at ‘em. All protective now. Little too late, don’t you think? You should’ve put a ring on it.”

Mystery doesn’t say a word, but his smirk says plenty. Thriving. His smile only widens when Zoey catches his gaze and freezes for just a second. The tiniest flinch. She’s always flinched when he looked straight at her. That shit is better than drugs.

“Seriously,” Romance says, fake-exasperated, looking between the girls. “you’re all jealous because we’re funnier. And hotter.”

“I’m not jealous.” Rumi snaps, shaking. “I’m angry.”

“Same thing.” Abby shrugs, still jiggling his chest just to be a dick. “We win.”

Suddenly, a headset-wearing staff member pokes his head in through the door, looking very much like someone who had to scream over ten security guards just to get here. “Uh—Saja boys? You’re needed onstage. Now.”

Jinu looks at him. “Already?”

Mystery peels off the wall, calm as ever. Jinu’s already brushing imaginary lint off his sleeves and walking like the hallway is a runway.

And as the boys walk off, shoving each other in that obnoxious way only boys can, still laughing, the girls are left in a storm of fury, desperation… and something they hate more than anything:

Jealousy.

Because the boys don’t just have you. They know it. They revel in it. And worst of all? They’re so fucking funny about it.

Hours later, the front door slammed open like someone kicked it. Laughter exploded down the hall. Loud, messy, boy laughter. Shoes thudded against the hardwood, someone bumped into the wall (probably Abby) Romance is laughing so hard he’s leaning on Baby, who is not laughing. Just smirking a little while elbowing him in the ribs. Abby’s halfway shirtless again, sweat still drying on his skin, flipping a bottle of water upside down over his head like he thinks it’s hot. Jinu looks calm as ever, but his sleeves are a little too perfectly rolled and there’s a gash on his shoulder. Not much to say about Mystery, what do we expect?

You’re on the rug. Some huge designer monstrosity, handwoven by someone who probably had no idea it would become the lounging spot for a tiger the size of a bathtub and even bigger because I’m bad at comparing sizes okay the fuck am I kidding a big cat okay?!

You’re sitting cross-legged, humming to yourself while scratching under his monstrous chin. His tail thumps once. Twice.

“—AND THEN SHE THREW THE DAGGER AT ME,” Romance is shouting. “AND I CAUGHT IT WITH MY MOUTH—”

“No, you didn’t.” Abby interrupts, throwing the bottle across the room(?? asshole). “You screamed like a child and Baby had to teleport you out.”

“I choked on it!” Romance snaps back. “That’s basically the same thing as catching it! Besides, Baby’s obsessed with me, that wasn’t a rescue, it was a kidnapping—”

Baby trips Romance.

You glance up lazily, still scratching Derpy’s jaw. He purrs. The floor vibrates. “Hey.”

They all greet you back at once. A useless, overlapping chorus of:

“Hey, princess.”

“Hi.”

“Yo.”

“Wassup.”

“I missed youuuuuu.”

You roll your eyes but don’t stop petting the tiger. He lifts his head and rests it against your shoulder like a house cat. You smile a little. He’s warm. Your eyes flick up. And boy, they’re beat the fuck up.

Mystery’s knuckles are cut. Romance has a split lip. Jinu’s shirt has three claw marks across the back like someone raked through it (Zoey, probably). Abby’s hair is still slick with sweat, and Baby’s shirt is literally smoking.

Do they say anything about what happened? No.

Abby starts pushing Mystery’s shoulder. “Come on, leg day. You promised.”

But then you get up. Smoothly. Without warning. Grabbing Mystery’s hand.

Deadass.

Your fingers close around his wrist. Warm. Gentle.

“Mm-mm.” you say sweetly. “Mystery’s hanging out with me.”

…to be continued ❤︎︎

Thank you babeee💋

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

[dreamivyisla]

⋆˚✿˖° 𝐕𝐈𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐍 ⋆˚✿˖°

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ➤ Elias “Stack” Moore

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ➤ you’re soft-spoken, virgin living with her older sister sibella finally gives in to the persistent, cocky advances of elias “stack” moore—her sister’s boyfriend’s friend.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ➤ something to feed you guys because i’ve became so not active. enjoy!

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ➤ 10.3k

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➤ virginity loss, smut, rough sex, breathplay, choking, dirty talk, praise, overstimulation, black reader (but anyone can imagine themselves), dumbification, fingering, oral (f. receiving), backshots, size kink, modern au, slight pain from first time, post-sex soreness.

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚 𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚 𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚

you never really cared when sibella and her man got loud.

they could be in the next room, door cracked open, her voice moaning high-pitched and desperate while his sounded like it came from his chest—gritty and mean like he enjoyed knowing she couldn’t keep quiet. it happened too often for it to phase you. maybe the first time you’d been embarrassed. maybe you’d rolled your eyes, stuffed a pillow over your head, huffed loud enough for them to hear. but now? you were used to it. background noise. like the heater kicking on or a pot boiling over.

sibella had always been the wild one. you were soft. quiet. watched and listened more than you spoke. you liked your room, your books, your own air. sibella, on the other hand, liked attention, chaos, dick. she’d tell you things you never asked to hear—how good it felt when he held her neck, how she liked it rough, how you were too uptight for your own good.

“you gon’ die with that pussy untouched,” she said one night, fresh out the shower in a towel, her eyes still lined in smudged makeup.

you just looked at her from your bed, a little amused. “and?”

“girl,” she laughed, climbing up beside you, “you act like keeping it makes you better. ain’t nobody judging you, but you really ain’t even curious?”

you shrugged. it wasn’t that you thought you were better. you just didn’t want to fake wantin’ something you didn’t feel yet. and maybe it wasn’t even about sex, just the idea of someone close—really close. breath on your skin, hands down your thighs, someone else seeing all of you. you didn’t know what that would feel like, and you didn’t think it was something you wanted to rush. sibella had called you “old-fashioned.” her boyfriend, troy, had called you “uptight” once, but you didn’t care. it was your body. and they could live how they wanted, but so could you.

until he started coming around.

stack.

the first time he showed up at your apartment, you ignored him like you always did with troy’s friends. they’d come in loud, laughing, all of them trying too hard to impress each other. chain-smoking, playing music, shouting about basketball or some shit you didn’t care about. you usually stayed in your room. maybe came out to grab something to drink or use the bathroom. most of the time they barely noticed you. but not stack.

from the second he laid eyes on you, it was like he already knew you were gonna be a problem for him. and he decided to be one right back.

“damn,” he’d said loud, grinning, watching you walk to the fridge in your house shorts. “she don’t say hi? too good to speak?”

you didn’t answer. not even a glance. pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and walked back to your room. door closed behind you.

that was the beginning.

he started showing up more after that. it didn’t matter if troy was around or not. sometimes he’d knock on your front door with food for sibella, claiming she asked him to drop it off. sometimes he’d come by just to talk to troy, linger around the living room even when the conversation dried up. you caught him staring. a lot. and he didn’t try to hide it either.

“yo,” he said one night from the couch while you passed through in leggings and a hoodie, “you ever wear anything that don’t hug that ass?”

you gave him a flat look. “do you ever shut the fuck up?”

he grinned like he liked that answer. like you fed him instead of shut him down. “mmm. lil attitude. i like that. you actin’ mean, but i know that’s just ‘cause you shy.”

you rolled your eyes. sibella laughed from the kitchen.

“you might as well get to know him,” she said later, when y’all were alone. “he not that bad. cocky, yeah. but that’s just how he is. underneath all that extra shit, he cool.”

you weren’t convinced. but three months of him showing up, finding you in whatever room you tried to hide in, cracking jokes, complimenting your skin, your mouth, your shape—he wore you down. maybe it was the way he’d make you laugh without meaning to. or the fact that when you actually sat down and talked to him, he had more to him than you thought. he was smart. surprisingly observant. he’d tell you about his childhood, his mom, his twin brother. and when you spoke, he listened. remembered little things you said in passing and brought them up days later.

“you like strawberry cream in your coffee, right?”

“you said you like sade—put this on.”

“you was talkin’ ‘bout them earrings you saw at the mall. i got you a pair.”

and it started getting harder to treat him like the rest.

you didn’t mean to let your guard down. but it was hard not to with him. stack had a charm about him that crept up slow. he was always touching you. not in ways that crossed lines at first—just light brushes against your waist when he passed behind you in the kitchen, knuckles on your thigh when he leaned too close, fingers tucking a curl behind your ear. at first, you shut it down. pushed his hand off your leg. shifted away from his body. made sure he knew you weren’t that type of girl. but he never got mad. never pushed. he just gave you that same cocky-ass smile like he knew you’d give in eventually.

“you playin’ hard to get,” he said once, his thumb dragging lazy circles across your bare knee. “but you like that i’m on you. you just don’t know what to do with it yet.”

you didn’t even respond. but your breath had caught in your throat when he said it. and he noticed.

he always noticed.

still, you never told him you were a virgin. it wasn’t something you wanted to throw out casually. you figured he probably assumed you were just picky. maybe waiting for the right one. sibella never told him, and you doubted troy knew either. and honestly, you liked keeping that part of you tucked away.

then came that one night.

it was a friday. sibella and troy had gone out, probably wouldn’t be back ‘til the next morning. you were stretched out on the couch in your usual—short shorts, tank top, no bra, nipples pressing faintly through the fabric. you weren’t trying to be sexy, but you weren’t hiding either. you texted elias just outta boredom.

you busy?

he texted back quick.

for you? nah. slide thru? or you want me over there?

come here.

ten minutes later, he was knocking.

he smelled like his cologne, the one you were starting to recognize. brought a little weed with him, a smirk that made your stomach flutter even though you pretended it didn’t. y’all rolled up on the floor first, sitting cross-legged across from each other, talking shit. smoke drifted lazy through the room. the air got thick, quiet between laughs and teasing.

you felt good. loose. warm behind the eyes.

“i don’t get you,” he said low, leaning back on his elbows, watching you from the couch now. “you sexy as hell, smart, got that attitude on you… but you act like you scared of me.”

“i ain’t scared,” you said, biting your lip slightly.

“nah. you are. or maybe you scared of you. ‘cause if i touch you again, you gon’ fold. i see it all on your face.”

you didn’t answer. you were already crawling into his lap, slow and deliberate like your body moved before your brain. the weed had you floatin’. his eyes locked on yours, waiting.

“yeah?” he said, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, fingertips just under the edge of your shorts. “you sure you want me touchin’ you?”

you nodded, heart racing.

you kissed him. for real this time. not like the other stolen little moments when he’d pressed his mouth to yours and you turned your head too quick. this was deep. hot. full of tongue. he gripped your hips tighter, groaning into your mouth like he’d been holding back too long.

his hands moved. over your ass, up your back, fingers gripping the sides of your tank. he kissed your neck, sucked at the curve of your collarbone. heat spilled down your belly. your legs were straddling him now, his dick hard under you through his sweats, pressing up against your core.

he flipped you under him, moving slow like he was waiting for you to say no. one hand slipped down your stomach, toward the waistband of your shorts, and just when he hooked his fingers in—

“wait,” you whispered.

his eyes flicked up.

“what’s up?”

“i’m a virgin.”

his face went blank. still. he blinked, mouth parted just slightly like he didn’t hear you right.

“what?”

you looked away. “i ain’t never… like, at all.”

he sat back on his heels, staring at you for a long second.

“you serious?”

you nodded.

he exhaled slow, ran a hand down his face.

“…fuck.”

his “fuck” lingered in the air like heat.

for a second, you thought he might leave. thought maybe you read it wrong—maybe the way he’d chased you down for months didn’t mean he actually wanted you like that. maybe it was just for show, a game to get you to break. but he didn’t move. didn’t get up. didn’t pull away either.

he just looked at you different now. softer, but still sharp. eyes a little darker. mouth twitching like he had a hundred thoughts moving at once.

“…you shoulda told me that shit,” he muttered, finally. “damn.”

you swallowed, feeling small under him, but not in a bad way. just new. raw. like being seen too clearly.

“you mad?”

he shook his head slowly. “nah. i ain’t mad. just… surprised. you ain’t act like no virgin.”

“how they act?”

he leaned forward again, lips brushing your neck now, voice dropping lower. “not like this. not sittin’ in my lap wit’ no bra on. not kissin’ me like that. shit, i thought you was just takin’ your time. had no idea i was gon’ be the first.”

you shivered under his mouth.

“you want me to stop?”

you shook your head.

“aight then,” he breathed, hands sliding back down your thighs. “you sure, you let me handle it.”

he kissed you again. deeper this time. slower. like he was tasting you different now. his hands didn’t rush, but they didn’t hesitate either. he dragged your shorts down your legs, steady like he was unwrapping something delicate. your tank top went next, peeled off and tossed aside. your whole body burned. you covered your chest at first, instincts kicking in, but he gently pulled your hands down.

“nah. don’t hide all this. lemme see it.”

you looked away, but he tilted your chin back to face him. he stared for a long second, eyes trailing down your curves like he was trying to memorize every line.

“god damn, girl,” he whispered, low and reverent. “you really built like this under all them hoodies?”

you blushed, biting back a laugh.

he moved down your body slow, mouth brushing your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. then he was kneeling between your legs, lifting one over his shoulder, spreading you open like he had all the time in the world.

“shit,” he murmured, thumb dragging over your folds. “so fuckin’ pretty. pussy fat as hell.”

you squirmed under his grip, toes curling.

“you ever play wit’ it before?” he asked.

you nodded. “sometimes.”

“show me.”

you hesitated, but he gave you a look that melted any doubt in your chest. you brought your fingers to your slit, shy at first, dragging them up the center like you were doing it in secret. he watched you like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. eyes locked. jaw tight.

“mmm. there you go. you wet already?”

he ran his fingers over yours, dipped one between your lips and brought it up to your mouth.

“taste that shit.”

you sucked his finger slow, your own breath catching as you did.

he groaned. “fuck, you nasty already. i like that.”

then he lowered his head.

his tongue was slow at first. wide, wet licks that made your whole body tremble. he took his time, holding your thighs open, lips sealed around your clit, tongue dragging figure eights against it ‘til you moaned out loud without meaning to.

“don’t hold it in,” he said against you. “i wanna hear that shit.”

he sucked harder. circled your clit faster. then slid a single finger inside you and your hips jerked up from the bed.

“tight,” he growled. “fuckin’ gripping me.”

you grabbed at his hair, breathing fast now, your whole body winding tighter and tighter until everything snapped. your legs shook around his head, mouth open but nothing coming out except a breathy sob as you came for the first time with somebody else’s mouth on you.

he pulled away slow, lips shiny, licking his bottom one like he’d just finished dessert.

“damn. you taste like peaches or some shit,” he said, laughing low. “sweet ass pussy.”

you were still trembling when he moved back up your body, kissing you deep so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

then he pulled his sweats off.

your eyes widened.

“…elias.”

he smirked. “yeah?”

you didn’t even know what to say. he was thick. long. heavy. it curved up slightly, veins bulging down the shaft, head dark and already leaking. he stroked it slow, watching your face like he wanted to see your brain short-circuit.

“this too much for you?”

you nodded, honestly. “i dunno if it’ll fit.”

“it will,” he said, voice low and certain. “i’m gon’ go slow, baby. i got you.”

he kissed you again, then guided the head to your entrance, rubbing it through your folds.

“just breathe. let me in a lil at a time.”

he pushed slow. real slow. and it still burned. you winced, grabbing onto his arm, and he stilled right away.

“you good?”

“keep goin’,” you whispered, nails digging into his skin.

he went deeper. inch by inch, until your eyes rolled back and your breath caught. he filled you completely, bottomed out with a groan in your ear.

“fuck,” he muttered. “you tight as a fuckin’ vice. shit.”

he stayed there for a second, letting you adjust. kissed the side of your neck, your shoulder, your cheek.

“you takin’ it so good, baby. ain’t even cryin’. first dick and you already built for it.”

he moved his hips slow, dragging out, then back in, just enough for you to feel the stretch again. it was painful, but the pain faded quick. pleasure started creeping in, humming low in your belly.

“see that? told you i’d make it fit.”

you whined beneath him, eyes fluttering.

“that’s it,” he said, fucking you a little deeper now. “let me ruin you.”

your fingers gripped the sheets. he held your throat lightly—not tight yet, just enough to feel the pressure. his other hand cupped your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple.

“feel good?” he asked. “you like this dick, don’t you?”

you nodded, breathless.

he tightened his grip on your neck just enough to make your head float.

“say it.”

“i—i like it,” you stammered, brain going fuzzy from the pressure, the stretch, the sound of his voice in your ear.

“yeah you do. got that virgin pussy dumb already.”

you moaned louder.

“you ain’t never gon’ forget this dick,” he said, cock driving deeper now, hips smacking yours. “first one in it, first one to stretch it, first one to own it.”

you couldn’t even speak.

he flipped you over, pulled your hips up and fucked you from behind now, one hand on the small of your back, the other gripping your hair.

“this the angle that’ll fuck the innocence out you,” he muttered, dragging his dick slow then slamming back in, making you scream into the mattress. “you feel that in your gut?”

your whole body shook. you were drooling on the sheets, eyes wet, legs trembling.

“lemme see that face,” he said, pulling you back by your hair. “look at me while i break you in.”

you glanced over your shoulder, mouth parted, and he almost came right then.

“beautiful ass girl. i swear to god, i’m gon’ fuck you stupid.”

and he did.

he didn’t stop. kept going, made you cum again—twice, maybe three times. you couldn’t keep track. everything was wet. the sheets. his chest. your face. your thighs. he lifted your leg, drilled into you from the side, choked you through another orgasm. your moans turned into sobs. pleasure ate your brain alive.

“stack—fuck—i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he growled, pounding into you. “you takin’ it like a fuckin’ champ.”

your nails raked his back. his hand squeezed your throat again, hard enough to make the edges of your vision blur.

you came one more time, back arched, toes curling, legs locked around his waist.

he groaned deep, spilling inside you with a twitch.

everything went still.

all you heard was your heartbeat. your breath. his deep, ragged one against your skin.

you were ruined. for real.

he kissed your forehead after, gently. ran his hand up and down your back.

“you good?”

you nodded, tears drying on your cheeks.

“…i ain’t never lettin’ nobody else touch you,” he said, voice low, possessive. “you mine now. you know that, right?”

you just nodded again.

because deep down, you already knew.

you woke up before him.

barely. the sun hadn’t even fully crept through the curtains yet. just a strip of light cut across your comforter, hitting the edge of the bed where elias was sprawled out, ass-naked, sleeping like he’d just come home from war. one arm slung over his eyes, the other draped where your body had been. the sheets were a mess. the air still smelled like sex, weed, and sweat.

your thighs ached.

you groaned softly when you moved, careful not to wake him. every inch of you felt sore—inside, outside, places you didn’t even know could hurt. your hips were tender. your legs had that heavy, overworked kind of weight to them. and your pussy? bruised. not in a bad way. but like it remembered every single stroke.

you held onto the edge of the dresser for balance while you stood up, wobbling a little. took a second to catch your breath. your legs did not feel normal.

“damn…” you muttered, barely able to walk straight as you grabbed a towel and slipped out the room.

the water in the shower hit different. you stood there for a minute, letting it run over your body, steam curling around your face while you leaned a hand against the tile. your whole body was humming—raw, open, still floating a little from the night before. flashes kept replaying in your head. his hands on your throat. the way he moaned your name against your ear. how many times you came. how he kept going even after you said you couldn’t take it.

you touched between your legs under the water and winced.

he really meant that shit when he said he was gon’ ruin you.

by the time you dried off and wrapped up in a big t-shirt, your legs were moving better. you still had a little limp, but nothing dramatic. the hallway felt quieter than usual. you figured sibella and troy hadn’t come back yet. probably stayed at his place.

you walked out into the kitchen, yawning, about to fix some eggs or something light, when you saw her.

bella.

sitting on the couch in her work clothes, sipping a mug of coffee and staring right at you.

your stomach dropped.

“…you back already?”

she didn’t even blink. didn’t even answer.

just smirked.

“…you got your lil virgin ass fucked, huh?”

you blinked, froze by the fridge.

“what—?”

“don’t even try it,” she said, standing up slow, walking over to lean against the counter across from you. “we came back early. me and troy. around two. figured we’d crash here instead. we wasn’t even gon’ bother you—until we heard you screamin’.”

your face heated instantly.

“bella—”

“nah,” she cut you off, wide-eyed and laughing, “nah, girl. you was in there hollerin’ like somebody took the damn soul out your body. like—goddamn. i was impressed! my lil sis got some lungs on her!”

you groaned, turning around to hide your face behind the fridge door. “please shut the fuck up.”

“you shut the fuck up,” she cackled, sipping her coffee louder. “you had my man like, ‘ayo, is that stack in there?’ i said, ‘who else would it be?’ you know he ain’t never quiet. i shoulda known from the second he started comin’ over too often. he was locked in on you. and you was playin’ all innocent.”

you mumbled under your breath, grabbing eggs from the fridge.

“girl, spill the damn tea,” she leaned closer. “was it good? how big was it? that man fine as hell. look like he dickin’ every bitch down, and now he got you stuck.”

you refused to give her full details. your body still felt too open, too exposed from what happened just hours ago. like your skin still remembered his hands. like it wasn’t meant to be talked about yet.

so you gave her one thing.

you looked up at her, dead in the face.

then held your hands apart, slow.

a little bigger.

then a little bigger.

then wider.

her mouth dropped.

“…bitch.”

you smirked. “exactly.”

bella screamed into the kitchen towel, spinning in a circle like she just heard the juiciest gossip in her life.

“i knew it! oh my god. no wonder you limp-walkin’. ohhhh, he really broke you in!”

“bella, please go to work.”

“no, bitch, you need to call out. i know you not sittin’ in no office chair today.”

you shook your head, laughing quietly, cheeks hot, chest fluttering at the memory. she eventually left, still shaking her head and giggling like she’d just found out her favorite show got renewed. and as soon as the door clicked behind her, you walked back to your room.

he was awake.

half-sitting up on your bed now, chest bare, sheets low on his waist. eyes still a little heavy but locked on you the second you walked in.

“where you go?” he mumbled, voice thick and scratchy.

“shower.”

he yawned, then grinned slowly as his eyes trailed down your body again.

“how you feel?”

you climbed back into the bed, under the covers. still warm from where he’d been laying.

“…sore.”

he smirked, proud. “good.”

you gave him a look, rolling your eyes.

“what?”

“you proud of yourself or something?”

he pulled you in, kissed your neck slow.

“yeah,” he muttered. “you still here, ain’t you?”

you didn’t say anything. just buried your face in his chest and let your limbs tangle into his. his fingers found your thigh again. light, lazy touches.

you already knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

not even close.

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚 𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚 𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐕𝐘𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐀.

[zaynesgirlie]

Phainon smut alphabet:

(before it starts I want to say that I read a few Phainon fics and saw that a lot of people think he’s like more on the dominant and rough(?) side but I think he’s a bit silly and submissive so for some people this alphabet might be a bit off-character but that's how I see him so pls don't throw tomatoes at me haha ​​and I hope you enjoy it!)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

After sex, Phainon, like a little wet puppy, will be loudly panting trying to come to his senses. At first, he will just open and close his mouth like a fish trying to say something, but when no words come out of his mouth, he will shut up giving himself a little more time to calm down. But no matter how stunned he is, he will still try to bring you at least some water (which he himself will drink almost all of on the way back) and only after an hour of lying dead at your side, he will energetically sit up to ask: "Second round or shower?"

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Obviously your breasts. Phainon is the type of man who will stare open-mouthed from your one breast to the other every time you’re on top of him, fascinated by the way they bounce with every move you make.

In himself he ikes his hands because he can touch your breasts with them. Even when he’s just lying there sleeping, he still has one hand on your breast because why not.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

This shooter is a bit inexperienced, so he can’t control his eruption, hitting random places, and then awkwardly apologizing if he accidentally smears the wall or something else, so he’s better off wearing a condom…

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Sometimes he thinks about what it would be like to do it in a public place, like a bathhouse. The bathhouse is his favorite place, and you are his favorite person, why not combine the two things he loves the most? But in the end, he winces and slaps himself in the face, mentally cringing, thinking that for now this is probably too much. However, he is not that categorical and after some time he will definitely find the courage to offer you this. (But he secretly hopes that you will suggest it to him yourself)

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

No experience at all. At first, he won’t even know how to act during a kiss, letting his hands just hang awkwardly in the air while you kiss him, and when you pull away, he’ll almost die from forgetting how to breathe. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what he’s doing at all, yes, he can be inexperienced and become overwhelmed very quickly, but Phainon is also a quick learner, just be patient with him.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

This guy prefers to let you take the lead in bed, so cowgirl is the best for him. He gets:

1. an incredible view of your breasts bouncing with your every move.

2. the ability to touch your breasts at any time.

3. the ability to bury his face in your breasts at any time too.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

This poor boy won't know what to do at first, whether to moan or cry from how good it feels, so he'll just do both.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Phainon has pretty light hair both on his head and in the lower parts, so he doesn't really care about it, he only shaves when it grows too much, and as for the hair on your body, he also doesn't care, like let it be.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Phainon isn't much of an expert in romance, so it'll be a bit difficult for him at first, but he'll try! He'll intertwine his fingers with yours, awkwardly looking away when he feels you squeeze his hand tighter. He'll brush the sweat-stuck hair off your forehead, sneaking glances at you from under his long eyelashes with a small blush on his cheeks that'll get brighter.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

I feel like the first time he tried touching himself was after his first sex, because feeling that annoying pent-up feeling leave his body after his first time with you made him do it every time he's upset or stressed.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He gets turned on by the idea of ​​being under your control. Letting you touch his whole body, teasing him and making him beg you to touch him when the urge to be ridden becomes too strong.

He also likes to play with all sorts of oils, like when he gives you a massage. Phainon has strong hands, and he likes to flex them a little in front of you, running and sliding them over all parts of your body.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Phainon is a home guy, so he prefers to do this at home, preferably on the bed. It's comfortable and calm, but that doesn't mean he won't try it somewhere else if you suggest it.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He gets turned on when you say what you want directly or when you just take him to bed without further ado. It doesn't take him long to get into the mood, a simple touch on his back or a few words in his ear and he's already hard and looks at you like a puppy with big eyes, begging you to go somewhere away from prying eyes.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Despite his poor sex knowledge, he’s always willing to try everything you offer him, so if you don’t have turn offs, then he doesn’t have them either. He’s down for everything!

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He prefers both, but he’s awkward in both too. Every time you give him a head, he doesn’t know what to do, press his hands to his mouth so as not to moan so loudly or gather your hair to help you? Or gently push your head deeper and silently ask you for more? Or squeeze the sheets from how good it feels? At such moments, he really regrets that he only has 2 hands and that he can’t do everything at once.

As for when he gives you a head, Phainon tries harder than ever. He really wants to make you feel good, but at the same time he worries that you might not like it or even worse that you might be uncomfortable, and all these thoughts can slightly constrain him and his movements. But after stroking his head and assuring him that everything is fine, he becomes more confident, and hearing your moans of pleasure makes his confidence simply skyrocket.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It depends. Phainon will be on top if he's had a good day, and his thrusts will be energetic but not too strong, with a little teasing and a change of pace, but if he's tired or upset, he wants you on top and to suck all the energy out of him, allowing him to forget about his worries in a wave of pleasure.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Phainon is a man who gets turned on very easily, so a quickie really helps him, but it's not his favorite thing. He prefers to do it "traditionally" in his opinion, with the right atmosphere and long foreplay.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

If you want it, he's ready. He's ready for literally anything you suggest, or rather, you don't even have to suggest it, if you just say the first 4 words "would you like to-" he'll already be at your side, nodding eagerly.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He has good stamina, but with you in bed he allows himself to be a little weak if you are the one on top. If he is on top, then once he gets the hang of it, he can go as long as you can stand it, but then again, if you are on top, he may be exhausted after the first round just because he’s too overwhelmed by how good you look.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

At first he will pretend that he liked the idea of ​​using toys, but inside he will panic thinking that maybe you suggested using toys just because he is not very good? He will sit with this thought in the same thoughtful pose all night until you wake up in the morning and until he directly asks if he is good at all.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He loves to tease and loves to be teased too. From the beginning of your relationship, he will prefer to be submissive and for you to tease him. He likes when you play hard to get and he likes taking your hands and putting them on his body in pleas to finally touch him. However, over time he will become bolder and more teasing too. But if, having started teasing you, you decide to tease him back, he will immediately lose it, giving in to you. Therefore, if you want Phainon to stay a little mean to you in bed, then do not knock this man down, otherwise he will very quickly lose his grip near you.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

At first he will be shy, but then you will not be able to stop him. Whether it is soft moans and heavy breathing, or loud and shameless groans, or praise for you and whimpering, Phainon lets everything he feels out for you to hear. (He will be louder than you.)

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Phainon and Mydei were arguing about who would get their first time first, but neither of them would ever know the truth because they both lied about it in the first second of the argument.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He’s rather long than thick. Light, veiny, with a pink tip.

[pitlanepeach]

White Mercedes | Chapter Two

Oscar Piastri x Anneliese Wolff (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.

But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.

But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.

Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault.

Notes — I wrote most of this chapter with tears in my eyes. Ana’s pain is so intense. Love you all. Take care. Send me all of your reactions!

CHAPTER TWO

Jules showed up with a silent knock and a paper bag from the small candy shop — strawberry lollypops, crisps, a soda she knew Ana liked best. She didn’t say much when Lucian let her into his office, just caught Ana’s eyes from across the room and stared. 

Ana hadn’t moved for a long time.

Still curled up on Lucian’s office sofa, wrapped in the blanket like it might hold her together if she stayed still enough. The hot water bottle had gone lukewarm in her arms. Her pulse felt like it had sunk to the floor. Like it had given up beating for her.

Jules dropped down into the armchair beside her and started pulling snacks from the bag like she was unpacking ritual offerings. “I got one of everything,” she said, her voice soft, almost careful.

Ana didn’t answer. Her throat was raw from the crying earlier, but it wasn’t just that.

It was the thoughts.

They hadn’t stopped since the second she’d left her brother’s apartment.

Not thoughts; images. Sharp. Heavy. Familiar.

Her stash. The one she hadn’t told anyone about. The emergency dose she kept hidden behind the false panel in her makeup drawer. A final fuck-you to the world if it ever got too loud.

Tonight had been so close.

Two turns from her dealer’s place. Two turns from becoming a ghost again. She’d sat in her car outside of Valhalla for a minute. Just sat there. Hands trembling. Pulse wild. Wondering how much it would take to tip herself into nothingness. Wondering if thing would finally be different.

She hadn’t wanted the high. Not really.

She’d wanted the silence. The end.

“Do you wanna play something?” Jules asked, quietly. She’d found a deck of cards on Lucian’s shelf and had started laying them out like it mattered. “We don’t have to talk.”

“I was so close,” Ana whispered.

Jules’s hands froze mid-shuffle.

“I was so fucking close,” Ana said again, voice cracking, harsher now. “I could feel it. My skin—it was buzzing. Like my body knew.” 

Jules didn’t say anything. Just stared at her.

Ana laughed, a dry, hollow sound. “Isn’t that sick? All—all of my hard work. I was ready to throw it all down the drain.” 

Jules moved slowly, carefully — like Ana might shatter — and sat beside her on the sofa.

“I messaged Lucian because you didn’t answer right away,” Ana whispered. “And I didn’t trust myself to be alone for another minute. I’m sorry if I overstepped, or something.”

“You did the right thing,” Jules said quietly. “Lucian… he’s glad you reached out. I think—I think it would’ve killed him, if he knew you didn’t and something happened. It would’ve killed me.” 

Ana let her head fall back against the cushion, her eyes burning. “My brother thinks that I should hate myself.”

“What he did was cruel,” Jules said, voice hard. She’d seen the pictures, then. Ana had taken hundreds in her blind rage, sent them to Jules and Susie and her papa, like she was desperate for other people to have to see what she was seeing. “It doesn’t matter how hurt he is. It doesn’t give him the right.”

“I ruined his life.” She whispered. 

“You were a child. And you were sick.”

“I’m still sick,” Ana murmured. “I think. I think that I’m the sickest girl in the world. Rotten and broken and—“ 

Jules reached over and took her hand — warm, steady. No hesitation.

“Stop it,” she said softly. “You’re allowed to be angry, Ana. But you don’t get to call yourself names.”

Ana didn’t answer. The room fell quiet again, thick with the kind of silence that wraps around a person like a wet blanket. But this wasn’t the silence from earlier — not the silence she’d sat in alone in her car, every dark thought echoing louder than the last. That silence had tasted like surrender. Like the end.

This silence?

It was soft. Cradling. Like something — someone — was holding her up when everything else was threatening to cave in.

She blinked down at their joined hands. The way Jules’s thumb moved in small, absent circles against her skin. That simple touch — so human, so unremarkable — was anchoring her in a way she hadn’t expected.

Her voice came out cracked, barely audible. “I don’t know how I made it here.”

Jules gave a quiet, sad smile. “Proud of you.” 

Ana let out a breath she hadn’t even realised she was holding — ragged, frayed around the edges. Her body was still vibrating from the storm she’d barely escaped, her skin crawling with the memory of temptation, of the needle she almost reached for. The part of her that had begged for numbness still hadn’t fully gone quiet.

She squeezed Jules’s hand. Closed her eyes. Swallowed.

Then, with a voice barely above a breath, “My big brother hates me.”

And just like that, her chest crumpled in on itself.

“He hates me, Jules,” she whispered, the words trembling as they left her. “He told me that I should hate myself. That there’s nothing left to wait for. That I ruined everything.”

Her body shook with the force of it — the grief, the shame, the disbelief that this was her life now. That the person she’d once idolised, the one who used to piggyback her through airports and sneak her sweets before dinner, had looked at her with nothing but hatred.

Jules shifted closer, wrapping her other arm around Ana’s shoulders and pulling her in — not tightly, not suffocating, just… enough. Just there.

“I’m sorry,” Jules said into Ana’s hair, voice rough with emotion. “God, I’m so fucking sorry he said that to you.”

Ana didn’t answer. She buried her face into the crook of Jules’s neck, the tears hot and silent now. Not wild. Not angry. Just steady. Like grief that had finally found its exit, now pouring out in slow, endless streams.

“I love him so much,” Ana whispered, voice splintering apart like glass in a fist. “He’s my big brother. He’s—he’s supposed to look after me. Love me no matter what. And he just… he gave up on me.”

Jules’s grip on her tightened. Protective. Anchoring.

“You didn’t lose him tonight, Ana,” she murmured. “He lost you.”

For a moment, Ana almost believed it. The words landed like balm on torn skin. She clung to them — to Jules, to the warmth of being held — but the voice in her head was louder. Mean. Sharp. 

Of course he gave up on you.

He’d been tasked with cleaning up her messes since high school. Watched her spiral. Watched her destroy every good thing that touched her. Watched their parents age twenty years in five.

You OD’d the night before his graduation.

You made your mother choose between a daughter in a hospital bed and the biggest day of her son’s life. 

You didn’t just ruin your life — you set fire to his.

The warmth inside her began to dim, replaced by that creeping, familiar cold.

And if her brother — the boy who used to sneak into her room after nightmares — if he had reached the limit of what he could forgive, then… what did that mean for everyone else?

What did that mean for Jules?

For Susie?

For Papa?

It’s only a matter of time.

That thought wrapped around her like barbed wire. Tightening. Twisting.

She pulled her knees closer to her chest, her whole body curling inward, as if trying to become small enough to disappear.

“I think he was right,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Jules stilled. “About what?”

Ana didn’t look up. “That I should hate myself.”

Jules exhaled sharply. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“I do,” Ana said, and the honesty of it made her breath catch. “I hate what I’ve done. I hate that I’m this… weight everyone has to carry. This permanent scar on my family. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop — for the rest of you to finally look at me the way he did tonight. Like I’m not even worth trying for anymore.”

Jules shook her head. “No. No, Ana. That is not going to happen.”

“You don’t know that,” Ana whispered.

“I do,” Jules said, firmer now. “And I’ll keep saying it until my lips are blue. You were fifteen. A child. And a grown man took advantage of that. Everything that happened after—every spiral, every crash—that’s on him. Not you. It was never your fault.”

Ana didn’t answer. Her throat felt like it was closing. Too full of everything—grief, shame, disbelief.

So Jules just held her. Quietly. Steadily. Like she could anchor Ana to the earth through sheer will alone.

And Ana stared at the wall and burned. 

—

By the time Ana let herself into the house, the world felt muffled, distant — like she was sinking underwater, every movement slow and heavy. Her limbs barely obeyed her. Each step was like wading through a thick fog that pulled at her from all sides.

She didn’t go to her room.

Barefoot and hollowed out, she drifted down the hallway with only the desperate weight inside her chest to keep her moving. When she reached her parents’ bedroom, she didn’t knock. She cracked the door open and slipped inside.

The room was dark and still. Susie lay curled on one side of the bed, her father on the other — peaceful, unmoving, like statues carved from some distant, unreachable place.

Ana didn’t speak. Her throat had locked tight, swallowing every word before it could form.

She crawled between them, like a frightened child lost in a nightmare — the same way she used to, when the shadows felt bigger than her, and silence was a monster lurking just beyond the door.

She pressed her face into Susie’s shoulder, shrinking small, trembling, desperate for the safety she’d almost forgotten with age.

Susie stirred, voice soft and trembling. “Anneliese?”

Ana didn’t answer. The tears came anyway — hot, ragged, uncontrolled — like a dam bursting after holding back for too long.

Her father shifted beside her, fully awake now. “Maus? What happened?”

Ana choked, the words barely a whisper. “He hates me. My brother hates me.”

The room held its breath.

She swallowed thick sobs. “He said I should hate myself. That I needed to be reminded of every terrible thing I’ve done. That’s why he did it. Put all of that stuff in my bedroom.”

Susie’s hand slid into her hair, gentle and steady. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Ana wept harder, curling tighter into their warmth. “He used to be my best friend,” she gasped. “When we were little... he carried me on his back, snuck chocolate bars into my coat, protected me from every big, scary thing.”

Her father’s hand found her shoulder — firm, grounding.

“I wanted to be just like him,” she whispered brokenly. “Race like him. Be brave like him. And now... he can’t even look at me.”

The silence stretched — heavy and solemn, but not cold.

Toto’s voice cracked with quiet fury. “I will speak with him.”

Ana’s voice barely escaped her lips. “Don’t. He’s allowed to hate me. Maybe he should. I ruined everything for him. He watched me tear myself apart. He said he walked across his graduation stage wondering if I was already dead, and it sounded like he hoped maybe I was — so he could be rid of me. His burden.”

“No. Stop,” Susie said firmly, pulling her closer. “You were just a child. Your brother’s anger doesn’t give him the right to speak to you so cruelly.” She faltered, words catching on something unsaid.

Later, Ana might wonder what Susie had almost said but didn’t—but she was too coiled. 

Her father exhaled. “Ana...”

She shook her head, voice breaking. “If he’s right—if I’m always going to be this burden—maybe I should just… disappear.”

Susie pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “No. You came home. You don’t get to leave us ever again.”

Ana’s body went slack, nearly collapsing between them — like a small child retreating into the only safe place left. “I was so close,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I wanted to use so badly. I felt it in my bones. But I didn’t.”

Toto’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “Good. You are so smart, maus. The smartest, strongest girl in the world.”

She looked up, voice cracked with fragile hope. “Did you know? That he hated me that much?”

Susie’s answer was soft but resolute. “We… suspected. That he was angry. Hurting. He doesn’t like to talk about you.”

Ana’s breath hitched. “I thought it was just… pain. I didn’t know that it was hate.”

Toto’s voice dropped low, heavy with restrained anger. “If he cannot see the fight you’re putting into staying alive... then he does not deserve a place in your future.”

Ana rested her head against her father’s chest, voice raw. “I love him so much, papa.”

His hand cupped the back of her head, steady.

“He’s my big brother,” she whispered. “And I don’t think that I’ll be able to stop loving him, no matter how cruel he is.”

“I know, maus,” Toto said softly. “I know.” 

They stayed like that — breathing, holding, Ana shrinking small between them, a child lost and found.

—

Ana’s footsteps barely whispered on the cracked pavement of the park path, but inside, her nerves were jagged shards, raw and sharp. This place — it wasn’t just a patch of grass and trees. It was a map of scars she carried in her soul.

She remembered the nights spent here, dark and empty except for her own trembling heartbeat. Nights when the cold seeped through her skin, and the world felt like a predator waiting to pounce. She’d been high then, fragile, and every rustle, every distant footstep had been a threat. The park was a cage she hadn’t escaped, a place where danger was constant and hope was scarce.

Now, it felt different. Cleaner somehow. Safer, even though the ghosts of those old fears still tugged at her chest. The air smelled fresher, the trees weren’t as menacing, and the city noise was just a quiet hum instead of a roaring nightmare.

But her skin still prickled, and her senses stayed sharp.

Jack was a few steps ahead, his laughter echoing against the trees. Ana’s eyes never left him, scanning, alert. She had only been allowed to take care of her young brother alone outside the house for a few months — a small window of trust she knew she’d fought tooth and nail to earn.

Every smile from her parents, every nod from Susie, every approving glance from her father was a victory — a fragile badge she wore with fierce pride.

She hated herself sometimes for how close she’d come to throwing it all away. For nearly unraveling everything she’d fought to build.

A sudden shout — Jack’s voice — tore through the quiet, yanking her from the edge of her spiralling thoughts.

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up, spinning around — and then she collided with someone. “Sorry!” she gasped, stumbling back, eyes wide and searching.

The man before her wore jogging gear, lean and athletic, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. 

Oscar Piastri.

Of course she recognised him. In Monaco, where every corner whispered stories of speed and fame, everyone knew the rising stars—especially one like Oscar, fresh into his first F1 season with McLaren. But for Anneliese, it was more than just local gossip or headlines. She had been woven into this world since she was a child, the hum of engines and the smell of burning rubber as familiar to her as the air she breathed. There wasn’t a name, a face, a whispered secret about the paddock or the grid she didn’t know.

Oscar’s cheeks flushed a faint pink as he looked up, meeting her eyes with a mixture of apology and awkwardness. “I should’ve been watching where I was going. I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low but sincere, edged with nervous energy.

Ana blinked, the tension in her chest loosening just a little. She forced a small, tired smile, brushing off the collision. “No, it’s fine. My fault.”

Her gaze flickered behind him, to Jack, who was calling her name, his voice threading through the quiet like a lifeline. “I’ve got to go,” she murmured, already turning toward her brother, but caught a fleeting nod from Oscar—and then she was scooping Jack into her arms, his shrieking laughter music to her ears.

As she settled onto the grass, chasing Jack’s tiny hands with hers, she glanced back over her shoulder. Oscar was jogging away, the late afternoon light catching the reflective stripes on his shirt, the easy rhythm of his strides somehow familiar and new all at once.

Ana bit her lip, her eyebrows slowly pulling together as a flicker of something unexpected stirred inside her. She thought back to the crushes she’d carried as precious secret through the years — those wide-eyed childhood moments when she’d watch drivers lift trophies, idolising them from a distance, imagining what it might be like to be one of the girls they went home to. Back then, it had all been innocence and fantasy: a sparkling dream wrapped in speed and glamour.

Now, at twenty-two, those feelings felt different—heavier, more complicated. She was no longer just a pretty young thing; she was tangled in a web of family politics and personal scars. The girl who had once dreamed of race tracks and podiums was now an ex-junkie, battling demons that no crowd could see, and the daughter of a team boss.

Her lips pressed tighter together. Oscar wouldn’t want anything to do with me, she thought, the words bitter but honest. Who would? 

The echo her big brother’s words still rattled around in her mind, a warning she couldn’t shake. 

“I want ice cream!” Jack demanded. 

Ana blinked herself out of the dark depths of her brain and smiled. “Let’s get ice cream then, my little dragon.” 

—

The yoga studio was bright but quiet, the muted morning sun filtering through tall windows and casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Soft music played in the background—something slow and atmospheric—and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle musk of exertion.

Ana shifted on her mat, feeling the worn fabric of her leggings bunching oddly around her ankles. She tugged at them absently, noticing for the first time just how loose they’d become. It wasn’t the kind of looseness that came with comfort. 

Around her, other girls were settling in—models and influencers Ana recognised from glossy magazine covers and her Instagram feed. There was Camille, with her perfectly sculpted pose and effortless grace; Sienna, who was never far from the newest Paris runway shows; and a few others whose faces she knew from the paddock parties and high-profile events that used to feel so far away from her life.

Ana felt like an imposter next to them, the threadbare Mercedes t-shirt she’d grabbed this morning hanging loose, the ragged edges of sports bra peeking out from under it. Her hair was pulled back in a careless knot, strands falling loose at her temples.

Jules was beside her, calm and steady as always, folding her legs with practiced ease and watching the instructor guide them through the final stretch.

Breaking the silence, Jules tilted her head and whispered. “So... is your dad still begging you to start travelling with him again?”

Ana let out a short laugh, but it felt hollow. “Yeah. He won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” She bit her lip, her gaze drifting toward the window where the city shimmered beyond the glass. “But I don’t feel safe. Being anywhere but Monaco right now.”

Jules’s eyes softened. “I get that.”

Ana drew her knees up, hugging them close to her chest, the stretch pulling tight at her ribs. “And I don’t want my face all over TV again,” she said softly, voice barely above the whisper of the slow breaths around them. “People have only just stopped talking about me. I don’t know if I could handle that scrutiny again. Not so soon.”

The room held its quiet — the gentle hum of the city waking up beyond the windows, the soft rustling of yoga mats as others settled deeper into their poses, the steady rise and fall of breath weaving through the space.

Ana’s eyes drifted down to her leggings, loose and slipping a little at the ankles. It was a small thing, but the fabric felt like a loud reminder she hadn’t been gentle with herself lately. Her fingers nervously played at her bottom lip, tracing the dry skin there.

Jules caught the movement and smiled, breaking the silence. “We should go for burgers after this,” she said. 

Ana laughed, a light sound that felt almost foreign in the calm studio. “Yeah. Okay. Yoga and burgers. I like it.”

“Balance,” Jules nodded with mock solemnity.

She smiled. 

—

Ana sat near the back of the small, sunlit room, the faint scent of incense mingling with the quiet hum of voices. Around her, faces softened by shared pain and hope looked up one by one, telling their stories—raw, honest, and sometimes shattering. But Ana felt detached, as if she were watching through a fogged window. She was here, yes. But only barely.

Her hands rested on her lap, fingers twisting the edge of her sleeve. The words around her swirled in and out like a tide she couldn’t quite catch. Someone shared about the night they overdosed, how the world had slipped through their fingers, how they’d been lucky to wake up at all. Ana swallowed hard. Her gaze flicked downward, past the comforting circles of support, to the dark space behind her eyelids.

In her mind, she saw the shoebox in her closet, the one she shoved under a pile of old notebooks and worn-out sweaters. She hadn’t laid eyes on it in months, but she could picture it perfectly—the faded tape, the scrawl of her handwriting on the lid. Inside, tiny packets, vials, needles. 

How long would the potency last? she wondered. Six months? A year? The thought was like ice sliding down her spine. She imagined the rush, the silence, the end of all this ache. And then the guilt flooded in. Jack. Papa. Susie. Jules. 

The room stirred softly, and a voice — hers, though it felt foreign — called out, “Anneliese?”

She blinked rapidly, shaking herself from the spiral. All eyes turned toward her. The weight of their expectation pressed down, heavy and cold.

Ana stood up slowly, feeling every muscle ache with exhaustion. Her chest tightened as she forced a smile that felt pasted on, brittle at the edges. She could taste the dry bitterness at the back of her throat.

“I’m… I’m doing okay,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. Lie, lie, lie. “I don’t have much to share this week. But thank you for listening anyway.”

Her words hung in the air, unanswered but accepted. No one pressed her further; that was the unspoken rule. But inside, Ana’s mind screamed. How long can I keep this up? 

She sank back down into her seat, hiding behind the practiced mask. The shoebox waited for her at home, a secret threat she wasn’t ready to face. For now, she would keep walking the tightrope — holding onto the smallest fragments of hope, even if they felt like sand slipping through her fingers.

—

The boutique smelled of fresh linen and faint notes of lavender—clean, calm, a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind.

Dressed neatly in the store’s minimalist uniform, Ana actually found some peace in these hours. The rhythm of folding clothes, arranging displays, and greeting customers gave her a purpose that was simple, steady — a welcome distraction.

A familiar customer, a woman with a warm smile and delicate silver hair, stopped by to admire a cashmere sweater. Ana smiled politely, helping her find the right size, but her mind wandered. 

She shook her head slightly, trying to shake off the heaviness. The boutique was her sanctuary—a place where her past wasn’t whispered in every corner, where she could just be Ana, not the daughter of Toto Wolff, not the girl who had nearly lost herself.

As she folded another stack of sweaters, a soft chime from the door made her look up. A young couple entered, laughter light and easy. For a moment, Ana envied their effortless joy, the way they reached for each other’s hands without hesitation or fear.

“Can I help you find anything?” she asked, voice steady, masking the swell of emotions beneath.

“Just browsing, thanks,” the woman said, smiling.

Ana nodded, returning her attention to the display, grateful for the simple normalcy, even if it only lasted for a moment.

—

Ana’s breath caught as she crouched behind the couch, counting slowly so Jack could find the perfect hiding spot. “One... two... three...” The familiar game usually eased the tight knot inside her chest, but today it only made the silence louder, heavier.

Eyes wide, she stood and peered into every room — the living room, the kitchen, the hallway — but Jack was nowhere to be found.

She frowned when she’d exhausted all of his usual spots and still hadn’t found him.

Her heartbeat quickened, each unanswered call slipping into the stillness like a crack in a dam.

A sudden, sharp jolt hit her chest: fuck.

The cold realisation began as a whisper at the back of her mind, then swelled into a crushing wave.

Her bedroom. Of course.

The place she had avoided all day.

The closet where the shoebox waited silently, untouched and unforgiving.

Her breath hitched, hands trembling as she sprinted up the stairs. The wooden floorboards groaned beneath her pounding feet, matching the frantic thudding in her chest.

“Jack?” Her voice barely held together, raw and urgent.

She threw open her bedroom door, eyes scanning wildly for any sign of him.

Nothing.

Then the closet door.

Her hands shook as she pulled it open, the soft rustling of dresses brushing against her skin. A shadow shifted.

There — nestled between the folds of fabric — was her little brother. His small, innocent face turned toward her, a beaming grin spreading across his cheeks.

And just inches away, lurking in the darkness behind the clothes, the shoebox.

Silent, waiting. Danger.

The breath caught in her throat. Her mind screamed with warning as the room seemed to close in around her.

Jack wriggled in her arms, giggling, but Ana didn’t dare loosen her grip.

Her panic took over.

Frantically, she ran her hands over his arms and legs, searching for scratches, bruises, any needle marks.

Ridiculous, she knew—Jack was just a toddler. He wouldn’t even know what to do with anything like that. But the fear was too much to fight.

Her fingers trembled as they brushed over his soft skin, finding nothing but the warmth of him — alive, unharmed.

She clutched him tighter, eyes squeezed shut, fighting the flood of terror, guilt, and unbearable love crashing over her.

“Fuck,” she whispered.

“Swear!” Jack giggled, kicking his tiny legs.

Ana leaned her forehead on his, finally exhaling.

“Sorry.” She whispered. “I’m sorry, little dragon.” 

He just kept laughing. Innocent. Oblivious. 

And Ana spiralled.  

—

iMessage — Ana Banana > Julesy

Ana Banana 

wanna do something tonight? need to get out of the house

Julesy

Valhalla? 

Ana Banana 

idk

actually yeah that sounds good 

Julesy

I’ll let Luc know we’re coming

Do you need to borrow a dress or smth?

Ana Banana 

i bought myself something from the boutique 

its nice. black and lacy

Julsey

Pick you up at 9?

Ana Banana 

see u then <3

—

Ana climbed into the passenger seat of Jules’ car, careful not to jostle the shoebox pressed tightly against her chest. She settled it in her lap. 

Jules glanced over as she shifted into drive, her brows lifting. “What’s that?”

Ana didn’t look up. “Just… something I need to give Lucian. It’s nothing.”

Jules didn’t buy it—Ana could hear the skepticism in the silence more than any words. But she just hummed and said, “Mmhmm. Okay. ‘Nothing.’ That’s why you’re holding it like it might explode.”

Ana forced a smile and looked out the window, swallowing down the truth that clawed at her throat. “I just want it gone.”

They drove a few blocks in silence, the glow of the city slipping past them in golden blurs. Monaco was always beautiful at night—almost too beautiful, too manicured, like it wanted you to forget that darkness could bloom in even the most polished corners.

Then Jules spoke again, breezy, but pointed. “Lucian said your guy will be there tonight.”

Ana blinked. “My what?”

Jules smirked, flicking on the turn signal. “Your guy. The one he told you about? Mr corruption kink?”

Ana groaned, leaning her head back against the seat. “Oh my God, are we really doing this?”

“We are absolutely doing this,” Jules grinned. “Apparently he’s tall, polite, and very emotionally available, which is honestly rarer than Ferrari not messing up a strategy call.”

Ana snorted despite herself. “I’m not in the market for anything serious.”

Jules side-eyed her, teasing. “Yeah, okay.”

Ana flushed. “I’m not.”

“Mmhmm.”

Ana laughed quietly, but her fingers tightened on the shoebox.

Jules noticed, her voice softening. “You okay?”

Ana nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. Just… I’m not very good at first impressions.” 

Jules didn’t push. She reached over and gave Ana’s arm a gentle squeeze. “You’re gorgeous. You, like, don’t even have to say anything. Just smile and he’ll be hook line and sinker.”

Ana didn’t respond. She just stared out the window, her reflection faint and ghostlike in the glass, and tried really hard to believe her.

—

The bass from Valhalla thumped beneath her feet like a second heartbeat, muffled but insistent, as if the club itself could sense the war waging inside her.

Ana stood outside Lucian’s office, her knuckles white around the shoebox pressed against her ribs. The cardboard edges dug into her skin, grounding her, anchoring her in the moment. If she let go too soon, it might all spill out. She might change her mind. She might run.

The hallway was cloaked in the low haze of golden light and the warm hush of luxury: velvet-lined walls, the faint scent of cologne, aged leather, liquor, and money. Her hand shook as she knocked.

The door opened almost instantly.

Lucian stood on the other side, leaning against the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a glass of something dark half-finished behind him. His sharp eyes landed on the box in her hands.

“Ana.” His smile was real. “Come in.”

She stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her, sealing herself into the quiet. The low thud of the music outside became distant, like it belonged to another world.

Lucian nodded at the box, raising a brow. “Louboutins? You shouldn’t have.”

Ana didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink. Her silence did what her expression couldn’t — told the truth.

Lucian's playful edge vanished. He straightened.

“I didn’t know where else to take it,” she said, voice tight and small. “But Jack—” Her throat locked. “We were playing. Hide and seek. And he was in my closet. Less than a metre away from it.”

Lucian’s jaw tightened. “Okay.”

“I just—I freaked out,” she continued, eyes wide and glassy, though her lashes stayed dry. “And it’s stupid. He’s four. He wouldn’t even know what it is. But what if he opened it? What if he got curious?” She exhaled, suddenly breathless. “I can’t have it in the house anymore. I can’t have it near him. Or me.”

She didn’t notice that her voice was shaking until it stopped. Silence fell between them, thick and heavy.

Lucian stepped forward slowly, like approaching a wild animal. Gently, reverently, he took the box from her hands, holding it as if it might detonate.

“I don’t even know if it’d still work,” Ana said, pacing in a tight, frantic circle. Her arms folded over her chest like armor. “Six months. Maybe it’s useless now. Or maybe it’s worse. Maybe it’s like... like a landmine, and I’ve been sleeping next to it like an idiot.”

Lucian said nothing as he set the box down carefully on his desk. His eyes never left her.

“I kept it,” she whispered. “That’s the part I can’t forgive. I didn’t throw it away. I told myself I might need it one day, and I kept it. That has to mean something awful, right? Like it still has some kind of hold on me.”

Lucian moved to her, slow and sure. He placed both hands on her shoulders, grounding her, warm and steady. “It means you’re human,” he said softly. “You didn’t open it. You didn’t use it. You brought it here. That’s all that matters right now.”

She stared at him, lip trembling, then bit it hard, as if punishing herself for feeling anything at all.

“You’ve given it to me now,” Lucian said again, firmer this time. “That’s the end of the story.”

She closed her eyes. Let the words settle into the cracks. Her whole body buzzed with guilt, shame, and something dangerously close to relief. After a long pause, she nodded.

“I’m okay,” she said.

Lucian tilted his head. “You don’t have to be.”

“I want to be.”

A beat passed.

“Alright,” he said gently. “You want me to tell Jules to take you home?”

Ana hesitated. Her fingers curled around the hem of her sleeve. “No. I—You said he was here. The guy.”

Lucian raised a brow. “You sure you want that tonight?”

“I’m sure.” She lifted her chin a fraction. “I want to meet him. Please.”

Lucian studied her for a second longer, his eyes unreadable but full of something like respect. Then he turned, picked up the box, and walked it over to the old safe in the corner of the room — the one few people even knew he had. He spun the dial with smooth precision, each turn of the metal echoing in the hush between them. The door opened with a soft metallic click.

The box slid in and vanished into darkness. The door closed, and with a final spin and a lock, it was gone.

Ana let out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding.

“Thank you,” she said, voice raw.

Lucian turned to face her, and for a second, he looked more like an older brother than anything else. “You don’t owe me thanks for doing a decent thing.”

Her lips twitched, and for the first time all night, the expression was real. “I do,” she said. 

Lucian just smiled. 

He opened the office door, and music spilled into the space, loud and alive and pulsing.

And when he held out his hand, Ana took it. 

—

The music swallowed her whole — bass so heavy it rattled her teeth, lights strobing in gold and amethyst. Valhalla pulsed with life, drunk on its own opulence. Everything smelled like expensive perfume, expensive liquor, expensive decisions.

She leaned against the bar, elbows braced, hands curled around a sweating glass of sparkling water. She didn’t order it. Jules must’ve. It sat untouched. So did she.

Across the room, Jules was already on the dance floor, laughing, glitter catching in the slope of her collarbone as she moved in a gleam of gold. She danced like someone who had never been scared of anything. 

Ana watched her, heart thudding with something that wasn’t quite envy. It was grief. For the version of herself who had never been able to be that free. That young. That untethered.

Her fingers tightened around the glass.

She’d done the right thing. She knew that. Giving Lucian the shoebox had been the right thing. For Jack. For herself.

But her body didn’t feel lighter. Not really. Just... emptier. Like she'd removed a final line of defence and now she was standing in the open; an easy target.

Because that box, as poisonous as it was, had always been her escape clause. Her one-way door. Her back-pocket mercy. Just in case.

Now?

Now there was no quiet exit.

No needle to kiss her under.

Just time. And gravity. And blades.

A sharp enough drop off a cliff. A long enough bath and a steady hand.

She inhaled sharply, shaking the thought loose like ash. Not tonight. Not here. Not with Jack’s laugh still echoing in her ears from earlier. Not when he’d clung to her neck and whispered, “you found me, sissy,” like she’d had to search the ends of the earth for him. 

He was the reason.

Always the reason.

Ana blinked hard and tipped back the water, the fizz burning her throat like something stronger. A bitter laugh curled inside her chest.

“Ana!”

She turned at Jules’ voice, startled.

Her friend was suddenly there, breathless and glowing, sliding onto the barstool beside her. Sweat clung to her neck, glitter dusted along her collarbones, and her eyes were wide with excitement.

“You good?” Jules asked, peering at her with that kind of laser focus that meant Ana’s fake smile wasn’t working as well as she’d hoped.

Ana summoned another, tighter one. “I’m fine. Just... nervous.”

Jules snorted. “Don’t be.” She tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear, then leaned in with a grin. “I saw your guy.”

Ana blinked. “My what?”

“Lucian took him into his office,” Jules said, eyes dancing. “I think he’s giving him the talk.”

Ana raised an eyebrow. “The talk?”

“Yeah, you know.” Jules deepened her voice mock-dramatically. “‘Hurt my sister and I’ll kill you.’ That whole caveman thing.”

“My actual big brother hates my guts,” Ana said dryly, ignoring the way her gut curled at the reminder.

Jules waved a hand. “Yeah, but Lucian’s basically adopted you at this point. You're his now. He likes having people to growl over. Men and their posturing,” she sighed, with an exaggerated eye roll.

Ana couldn’t help the quiet laugh that slipped through. Sometimes, she thought Jules might be the most unhinged person she'd ever met—and possibly the most loyal.

“Mr. Golden Retriever,” Jules added, nudging her shoulder. “The one Lucian’s chosen for you. I think he’s perfect for you. Sunshine in sneakers. Probably volunteers at an animal shelter and bakes bread on weekends.”

Ana laughed—weak, surprised, but real. “Lucian said that?”

Jules shrugged. “Okay, not in so many words. But close enough.”

Ana’s gaze drifted toward the dance floor. Bodies moved in a kaleidoscope of light and sweat and euphoria, but all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart.

“Okay,” she said, her voice a little steadier, a little braver. “Show me the golden retriever.”

Jules grinned. “He’s definitely wagging his tail for you already.”

Ana rolled her eyes, but she smiled anyway—and this time, it almost reached her eyes.

—

Oscar Piastri is twenty-three years old, a Formula One driver, a McLaren driver, Australian— and he’s currently standing in the middle of Valhalla.

Ana stared.

For a moment, her brain lagged behind her eyes. Not because he looked unfamiliar—he didn’t. He looked exactly like every perfectly lit photo and race weekend candid she’d ever seen. The hair slightly mussed, like he’d run his hands through it just before stepping out into the club. A crisp white button-down rolled at the sleeves. Dark slacks, too pressed for a place like this.

He looked exactly like Oscar Piastri.

But the version of him she’d seen on screens and magazine covers didn’t belong here, in the thick pulse of music and velvet-drenched lighting. Didn’t belong standing in front of her like he was real. Tangible.

Her stomach twisted.

Lucian’s hand landed heavy on her back. “Ah,” he said, voice low. “So you recognise him, then?”

Ana didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her throat had gone dry and her pulse had begun a full-scale riot in her chest.

Oscar’s gaze found hers. Steady, quiet. His voice, when it came, was calm and smooth. “We ran into each other last week,” he said, glancing at Lucian, then back to her. “At the park.”

It was a gift. A way out. A carefully placed thread she could pretend to follow.

Ana blinked, startled back into motion. Caught in his eyes a moment too long before forcing a nod. “Right. Yeah. Sorry—I just—”

She floundered. Words slipping sideways in her mouth.

Because this wasn’t just a stranger Lucian had vaguely mentioned over the past week with maddening smugness. This wasn’t just some "nice guy" or "friendly face" he thought might be good for her.

This was Oscar.

Oscar Piastri.

Standing in front of her like he wasn’t a face on a screen or a name that she’d heard her father mention a million times. Like he wasn’t supposed to be lightyears out of reach.

“I didn’t realise—” she started, then stopped. What was she supposed to say? Didn’t realise it was you? Didn’t realise Lucian was playing matchmaker with one of the few men in the world who is supposed to be completely off limits?

Oscar smiled, a small, non-threatening curve of the lips. “Didn’t mean to make things awkward.”

“No,” Ana said quickly. Too quickly. “You didn’t. I’m just... surprised.”

Lucian chuckled, already halfway backing away. “I’ll leave you two to it, then.”

Her eyes snapped to him, panic just barely contained, but it was too late. He was already disappearing into the crowd, swallowed by the bass and bodies and thick, rose-gold light.

Ana turned back, suddenly feeling too cold and too warm all at once.

Oscar stood there, hands in his pockets, watching her without pressure. “You okay?”

That question cracked something in her.

She’d heard it a hundred times. From doctors and therapists. From Jules. From Lucian. From people who asked because they knew what she’d been through. What she’d done.

But hearing it now—gentle and quiet, from someone who didn’t know a damn thing—hit differently.

Ana nodded. “Yeah. Just... long day.” A lie, but a practiced one.

Oscar tilted his head, like he didn’t buy it but wouldn’t push. “I’ve been told you like burgers and yoga and swearing in front of children,” he said lightly. “Feel like I haven’t gotten the full dossier yet.”

She blinked. Then—despite herself—laughed. It came out soft and surprised.

Oscar’s smile deepened. Like he’d been hoping for that reaction and wasn’t going to make a big deal about it.

Ana looked at him again. Really looked. He was attractive, sure. Conventionally handsome in a way a lot of modern drivers were. Clean cut. Subtly athletic. A year older than her, maybe two. Taller than her, not by much.

He didn’t feel real. 

“I—” she started, then faltered.

“I’ll get you a drink?” he offered, stepping half a pace closer.

She blinked. “I don’t drink.” Then added quickly, “Not alcohol. Or... anything like that.”

He nodded, easy. “Okay. Juice, then.”

She stared at him, waited for the moment to shift. For a flicker of recognition to cross his face. For him to realise who she was—what she was.

But nothing came.

“I’m Ana,” she said pathetically.

“I’m Oscar,” he replied, even though they both knew they didn’t need introductions.

She should tell him, she thought. Tell him everything. Warn him that if the press ever found out he was seen with her, his world might tilt off its axis. Tell him she wasn’t someone Lucian should be handing off like a baton.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Oscar moved slowly, like he didn’t want to spook her. His hand came to rest lightly at the small of her back—barely there. Enough to guide her. Enough to anchor her. Not enough to trap.

“A drink,” he murmured again, voice low, warm, like a promise.

Ana nodded, letting herself move with him, legs finding rhythm before her mind could catch up.

And then—so quiet it almost slipped past her entirely—he said it. “Good girl.”

Just like that. Soft. Offhand. Like it was nothing. Like it was natural. Like he didn’t have to think twice.

Ana’s body locked up mid-step.

Her breath caught. Her spine stiffened. Every nerve lit up like a fuse had just been touched to a long-abandoned fireline. She didn’t stop walking, didn’t pull away—but something inside her froze.

He hadn’t meant it the way others had. She could feel that in the air between them. No edge to it. No command. No performance. It was just... instinct. A passing kindness dressed in intimacy.

But her body didn’t care about context. Her mind was already spiralling—spinning into memories she kept buried beneath skin and silence.

Oscar didn’t notice her hesitation right away, or maybe he did and just gave her space to move through it. He didn’t tighten his grip. Didn’t lean closer. He simply slowed a fraction, his thumb brushing once against the back of her arm—like reassurance, not possession.

Ana blinked, forced her lungs to work again. It’s fine, she told herself. He didn’t mean it like that. You’re fine.

But the heat was rising at the base of her neck anyway. Shame. Curiosity. Panic. A terrifying flicker of want.

She tried to swallow it all down. It doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t even know you.

Oscar glanced sideways at her, catching the shift in her energy. “Too much?” he asked gently.

That undid her a little more.

The fact that he noticed.

Ana shook her head. “No. Just... wasn’t expecting it.”

He slowed again, enough that they were walking at a crawl now, just shy of the bar. “I’m... sorry if that was too familiar. I shouldn’t have said that.”

There was no apology in his voice—just accountability. No shame. No defensiveness. Just the clear understanding that words mattered.

That her feelings mattered.

Ana exhaled—slow, shaky. “It’s okay,” she said. 

He nodded once, and then offered her something quieter. Not a smile exactly, but a softness in his eyes that told her he wasn’t here to take anything she wouldn’t give.

“Still up for that juice?” he asked.

She let herself breathe again. Then nodded. “Yes. Please.”

NEXT CHAPTER

[itertarot]

1. 2. 3.

𝟏 ꪆৎ

They'll see how firm your body is, and some of you here might be tall, which they'll really like. You've got a great posture, you're easy to notice. They'll be attracted to you and want to come up and talk to you right away because you'll ignite their desires. But it's not just sexual, they also want to have a relationship with you. It's almost as if your body is saying, "Honey, I'm not here to play. I'm here for marriage. I'm not interested in any of that nonsense." They might sense that you seem a bit closed off, maybe because of your posture or your face, you might have a serious face resting. They might even get the impression that you're not someone they should mess with. But, at the same time, they might really like your body when you're not paying attention, when you're not seeming like the most grounded person on the planet and you're just being yourself. You'll look so mysterious, so pretty, so magnetic, like there's something deep, dreamy, and fragile about you, and they'll want to know more.

No matter what your weight is, they're going to love your weight so much, and they're going to admire you, too! (Seriously, if you're or skinny or fat it doesn't matter, they will LOVE it). They might think you look tired, or that you're not able to dress as well as you'd like. They might even catch you when you're in a hard time im your life, looking a bit stressed and not putting much effort into your appearance. You will look beautiful regardless, but there will be an energy of "I'm really tired" coming from you.

𝟐 ꪆৎ

You're exactly the kind of person they're looking for, i really mean it when i say you're EXACTLY THEIR TYPE. They'll absolutely love your looks, and you'll shine like a rare beauty in their eyes, even if you don't feel that way right now they will think you're a catch. You'll have a seductive energy about you, a beauty that's hard to ignore. Some of you might have darker features or long, dark hair that really caught their attention.

They'll absolutely love your skin. They'll be amazed by your body. If you've got a bigger body, they'll be thrilled, especially if you've got a little bit of belly fat, this will turn them on so much. They'll also enjoy your 🍑.

Some of you might change a lot, like your hair or clothes. I don't know, there's something about you that seems to change often, and they also like it. You might have more than one style, or you allow yourself to explore different ways to show your appearance. Could it be makeup, too?They'll find you irresistible, and a little dangerous in that good way. They'll definitely want to flirt with you and court you. They'll show how much they crave you, and your beauty will scare them a bit, but that's all part of the package. I know that most of you here have high contrast, and that's really hot for them, like a femme fatale beauty.

𝟑 ꪆৎ

I am pretty sure you are extremely beautiful, because that is exactly what your future spouse thinks, you really must be BEAUTIFUL, one of the prettiest people alive for sure. Darling, your body is just gorgeous, i do not even have a word to explain how pretty you will be in their eyes. It is not even just a sexual thing, it is pure prettiness. You're just so feminine, so right, so divine. You are for sure something they do not see often, you are not just above average pretty, you are that once-in-a-lifetime kind of beautiful. If anyone asks your future spouse who is the prettiest person on earth, they will say it is you, without a doubt. Even I want to see you!

That is just it, there is no real way to explain how beautiful you are to them. Do you know how people thought Angelina Jolie was the prettiest woman alive? And some people would even get nervous just being next to her because of how stunning she is? That is your future, but instead of getting nervous, they will just want to stare at you and never look away, like you shine.

Some of you might even be from afar, maybe from another country, and they will notice that too. They will love your body and your face, all of you, just as you are.

I don't know why, but your beauty can look like a flower. Something about you can be just as graceful as a beautiful flower.

[screamlet]

reunion cuddles? 👉👈 (also yay you're working on layla and bailey)

a happy one!!! my god!! in this economy!! (and layla and bailey are chugging along, can you believe difficult conversations are difficult to write? surprised the hell out of me) anyway: 850ish words of post s8 fix-it. inspired by @rcmclachlan's recurring tag "a three-minute conversation could fix them." this is like. idk. seven to eight minutes max.

---

As Buck and Tommy unpack their flea market and garage sale findings, Buck looks around his new apartment. He's been here a month and a half and it already looks so much like a home, a place where he wants to spend his time.

He knows in his gut that's because he can see so many pieces of Tommy here. The dark teal vase he said looked better than a navy one. A pair of framed sketches of backyard bugs, where Buck had found one and Tommy had dug around for its match, finally found it for him.

And there's the most obvious: Tommy standing in his kitchen gently cleaning a new vintage serving dish they'd found that Buck can't wait to cook in. Fuck, this is—it's what he wants.

Buck has been thinking and staring long enough that Tommy's finished drying off the dish. He catches Buck's eye and smiles. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, kinda." Buck moves into the kitchen and stands across from him on the other side of the island. "Can we talk about something?"

He can see the way Tommy's shoulders immediately tense. "Yeah, of course. You can tell me anything."

"I know, but as I want this to go both ways," Buck says. He waits until Tommy's done drying the dish and Tommy's done when he realizes Buck isn't talking until he is.

"So what's up?" He looks so terrified already that Buck wants to back off; he doesn't want to be responsible for putting that expression on his face. But the only way out is through, and Buck has to get this thing moving.

"I want to try again. Us. Being together. Dating." Buck doesn't look away. "Would you want that?"

Tommy looks at him like there's a catch and, honestly, he's right to do it. There's lots of catches, Buck's going to make sure of that. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

They say it in unison: "What's the catch?" Tommy rolls his eyes, smiling, and Buck can't help tilting his head to follow his smile.

"We have to talk to each other," Buck says slowly. "I want to know you, Tommy. All of you. I mean it."

He can tell that a dozen self-deprecating jokes want to punch their way out of Tommy's mouth, but he's holding them back. He's digging. They might actually do this. Buck really hopes so.

"I think," Tommy says, "that when you scratch past all this, you're gonna find a whole lot of nothing."

"Yeah, well. Let me decide, would you?" Buck tries his best not to look away. "Maybe what you call nothing means more to me than everyone else's something."

Tommy nods, still unconvinced. Buck asks, "What do you want? What do you need? I want you to stay with me. What can we do to make that happen?"

The silence stretches out and Buck lets it. He can do this—he can make space for Tommy. He's just relieved that Tommy's trying. He's trying to try. He's digging and that's all Buck wants. He wants more Tommy.

"I listen to you, Evan," Tommy says, "and I think you're used to letting your words roll off people's backs. I'm not like that. I hear you. I take you seriously, so you have to watch what you say. You have to think about what you're saying before you say them to me. And if you promise to do that, then I'll promise to stay. I just—" Tommy drums his fingers nervously on the counter. "If I show you my feelings, I don't want them to get hurt. So don't hurt me with things you don't mean."

Buck nods. "Okay. Okay, I can try to do that."

"Okay." He's going to drum the kitchen island to pieces at this point. "And you have to give me time. Like." Tommy laughs and motions to himself. "The excavation process here? It's a long one. A long one. So just. Let me." Tommy smiles. "Like you're doing now. Like this."

"Okay. I can do that." Buck smiles back. "I like hearing things about you. I can listen, Tommy. I want to hear you. So talk to me."

"And we have to talk," Tommy says. "I don't want to bury things because I think you'll leave. I don't want to leave because I think you want me to bury things."

Buck nods, then grins. "I'm getting a notepad. We should write this down."

Tommy laughs. "Really? You can't remember this?"

"Now? Yeah. When we need it, in the moment? Maybe not! So: terms and conditions."

The only paper Buck has is a 5×5" notepad with a crate of vegetables printed in the corner. Tommy shakes his head as Buck comes around with a pen. "Okay, so."

"Come here," Tommy interrupts. He hugs Buck, his hand resting at the nape of Buck's neck. "We're doing this?" he asks quietly.

Buck hugs him back tight, pen and paper in one hand as he sways in his arms. "Yeah, we are. As soon as we finalize our contract."

Tommy hugs him tighter. Buck sighs with relief, the newest piece of his new life finally in place, exactly where he wants him to be.

[brucedefender4eva]

“So… Dick…”

Dick raised an eyebrow, stuffing the rest of Bruce’s homemade brownie into his mouth and looking over at his best friend. “Yes… Wally…?” Dick mocked, chuckling to himself.

“Bruce… is, like, in a relationship? Right?” Wally asked slowly, very pointedly, not looking at Dick, no matter how much the acrobat tried to grab his attention.

Dick’s was already twitching. Wally knows how unhappy he is about Bruce being in a relationship. “Yeah…? Walls, where is this going?”

“Is your mom happily in a relationship, or just in a relationship?” Wally wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"...What the actual fuck did you just say to me?" Dick asked quietly, slowly standing up from his position on the floor and towering over Wally, who was still sprawled out on their couch.

“Nothing!” Wally exclaimed nervously, holding out his hands in front of him. “Just a joke! Poor taste… please don’t hurt me.”

"You better watch yourself, Wallace." Dick hissed lowly, grabbing Wally by his collar and holding him very close. "Kori and I would still be very happy in a relationship with just two people."

Wally squeaked, caught between feeling terrified and slightly turned on. "... Kori agrees with me. He's a certified MILF," he whispered, which was obviously the wrong thing to say at the moment.

Dick's scream of rage was heard throughout his entire apartment complex, and Wally was very glad he was gifted with the power of superspeed. It was inevitable that Dick would find him eventually, but running to Antarctica would surely slow him down.

Right?

——

“Hey, Cass!” Cass set down her gym bag and turned to face the other dancers in the ballet classes she was taking for fun at a local center that was up-and-coming.

“Morning. Did you all get the routines down? I had a little trouble on the jumps.” Cass made herself giggle softly, and by the sounds of the other girls talking and giggling as well, she was nailing this small talk thing.

It had taken some trial and error to realize that a lot of people don’t like ‘bragging’ even if she wasn’t bragging. She had no trouble with the jumps. In fact, she had memorized the entire routine the first time the instructor went over it, but societal norms prevented her from stating that.

“Anyways… Cass. Are you, like, being picked up by your Dad again today?” Michelle, a woman Cass thinks uses the word ‘like’ a little too much, twirled her hair around her finger. The rest of the girls and guys giggled as they stared at Cass, awaiting her answer.

Cass cocked her head to the side, not understanding why they were all suddenly interested in who she was being picked up by.

“I don’t think so. He’s busy.”

A mix of groans and complaints filled the hall as all her classmates turned to each other in disappointment, which was confusing for Cass. Why would they care who was picking her up in an hour and thirty minutes?

“Damn, I was really hoping to get the chance to talk to your hot Dad.” Kyle, another classmate, groaned and clicked his tongue in disappointment. There were loud murmurs of agreement.

Cass blinked. "What?" She asked.

Maybe it was the tone of her voice, the expression on her face, or the way she tilted her ear closer as if to hear her classmates better.

"Uh... I think class is starting."

Cass stared at the backs of her retreating classmates, making a conscious effort to restrain her bloodlust.

This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all.

——

"Oh, Bruce was over at Ollie's mansion yesterday," Roy mentioned, tossing a handful of caramel popcorn into his mouth as he eyed Jason moving around his kitchen like he owned the place.

Jason hummed absentmindedly, completely focused on the new smoked salmon recipe he was trying out. "Yeah... I think he mentioned business or something. I wasn't really paying attention to what the old man was saying." A loud sizzle and the opening of cabinets. "Did you move the paprika?

Roy shrugged. "Hey, it's basically your kitchen. I don't touch anything in there." Jason muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'Damn fucking right it's my kitchen' as he continued opening and closing drawers and whatever else.

"So anyways..." Roy continued slowly. "I saw your Dad swimming around in the indoor pool and stuff." Roy could feel his cheeks heating up, going back and picturing Bruce slowly rising out of the pool wearing only one of Oliver's Speedos (disgusting on Oliver, not so much on sexy Bruce Wayne), water cascading down his muscular bare chest.

Jeez, did he forget to turn on his air conditioner?

"Has he always been so... ya know?” Roy probably should have stopped when he no longer heard any sound from the kitchen.

“Like…?”

“Well… DILFy…” Roy continued, like the idiot that he is. “I mean, everyone’s seen what he looked like when he was younger, which was hot as hell, don’t get me wrong, but I feel like he’s only getting better with age,” Roy said, looking up only to see Jason staring at him with barely contained rage.

"Get out," Jason ordered icily, brandishing his spatula like a weapon. Considering who trained him since childhood, Roy wouldn't be surprised if Jason did know how to use it like an actual weapon.

"Uh, Jay, I don't know if you remember, but this is my apartment-" Roy was cut off by his own butcher's knife being embedded in the wall right beside his ear.

Jason had thrown the knife so close that loose strands of hair drifted down onto the couch from where he had been unwillingly given an impromptu haircut just off the side.

"Or I could leave."

——

“… so fucking hot…”

“… I know right…”

“… have more…?”

“… fucking duh…”

Tim pulled down his headphones and looked over Kon and Bernard, who were staring intently at Kon’s phone.

“Hello? Are you guys on Insta looking at hot guys or something? What’s going on?” Tim chuckled and immediately stopped when he noticed the guilty expressions on their faces. “Now way… seriously?”

"Well... It's not Insta..." Kon coughed and handed his phone over to Bernard, who was decidedly not looking Tim in the eyes. “Tim… you know how your Dad came over to the farm to ‘destress’ from Gotham life for a bit?”

Tim raised an eyebrow and slowly shut his computer, giving his boyfriends his full attention. “I wouldn’t say he was de-stressing from Gotham necessarily, but yes, go on.”

Kon played with the spiked cuff on his wrist and pursed his lips. “Bruce insisted on helping around the farm even though Clark and Pa said he didn’t have to…”

Tim waited. “And?”

“And he was super fucking hot!” Bernard blurted out, his cheeks flushing a bright red as Tim’s head whipped around to look at him.

“What?!”

“Look! Kon took a bunch of pictures!” Bernard shoved Kon’s phone into his hands, batting away Kon, who was trying to snatch it away.

Tim was in complete disbelief as he scrolled through pictures and short videos of his father walking around shirtless, sweating, and hauling heavy things.

“You-! You-!” Tim sputtered, holding Kon’s phone above his head before hurling it down to the ground and watching it shatter. “Perverts.” Tim hissed, grinding his heel.

“Babe.” Bernard tried, moving closer then holding his hands up as Tim hissed louder.

“Get away from me!” Tim gathered the broken pieces of the phone, intent on throwing them into a blazing fire and destroying all those… pictures of Bruce. “And stay away from my mom!”

Kon winced as Tim ran out of the room, wishing he didn’t have super hearing. “Oh wow… those are a lot of… descriptive torture methods. And curses…” Kon took in a shaky breath and turned to Bernard with a crooked smile. “I think we fucked up.”

“Oh, do you? Do you think we fucked up by thirsting over Tim’s admittedly stupidly sexy Dad/Mom? Just start ordering Tim’s favorite chocolates.”

——

“Your Dad’s so cool, Damian…”

“I will stab you right now. Don’t fucking test me, Kent.”

Jon got over his kiddie crush very quickly…

——

Alfred gracefully sipped on his tea, watching as the other ‘grandparents’ milled around and conversed with each other.

It was a meeting of ‘the help’ from wealthy families that somehow, over time, became family and unofficial parents and grandparents. Good ones and otherwise.

“Oh, and how’s little Brucie?”

Alfred looked up from his tea (subpar at best) and smiled politely at the nanny from the influential Korden family. “Master Bruce is as well as ever. Implementing new technologies to help Gotham has him at the business for longer, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.”

“Poor pitiful child.” Another man cooed. Alfred didn’t know him; his family simply wasn’t important enough.

“Yes, yes. What he needs is a partner to set him straight.” Another portly woman butted in, her small purse stuffed to the brim with scones and biscuits. “When is he going to settle down, Pennyworth? He's getting up there in age, soon he won't be as attractive to potential suitors.”

Alfred felt his eyebrow twitch, but he was a man of grace, no matter what Bruce said or had witnessed in the past. “Master Bruce is currently in a relationship-“

“Oh, come off it!” A man laughed, slapping Alfred on the shoulder, causing Alfred to have to fight to control his facial expression of disgust. “You know what we mean! Proper folk. One of ours.”

“Oh! If I were a few years younger! I wouldn’t let him say no!” An old man wiggled his eyebrows lewdly, causing the women around him to titter and giggle in agreement.

“Alright.” Alfred set down his cup and smiled thinly. “Even if you were the same age as Young Master Bruce, I doubt he’d want anyone with such a disgusting personality,” Alfred said, ignoring the shocked and offended gasps.

“Like I’ve said, he’s in a relationship. Your opinion on this relationship means absolutely nothing. You need the Wayne family, not the other way around.” Alfred sneered, happily turning his nose up at the other attendees.

“You in particular, watch your fucking back.” Alfred snarled at the older man who had spoken about dating Bruce himself. “I will take care of you personally. There is nowhere you can fucking hide where I won’t find you and beat you till an inch of your life.”

“Well- well, I’d never-!”

“That’s right! You’d never! The lot of you are just a bunch of-!”

Alfred walked out of that sad little meeting hall with his dignity intact and his knuckles bruised, which he hid expertly underneath his crisp white hand gloves.

“How distasteful.” Alfred sniffed, dabbing at a splotch of blood that landed on his lapel.

——

“Huh…”

All the Batkids looked up at the same time while Alfred continued to pour Bruce’s tea.

“It’s just… none of your friends have been over for quite a while,” Bruce said thoughtfully, staring at his children’s faces. “And you haven’t been going to your tea meetings, Alfred. Don’t tell me… You had a falling out?” Bruce asked, frowning in concern.

“Uh… Roy is busy with Lian.” Jason shrugged, glad he had an easy excuse.

Dick chewed on his waffle with a stiff expression before relaxing into an easy-going smile. “Kori’s off world for a bit and Wally is… dead.”

“What?”

“Dead asleep from how much crime is going on in Central City! Haha…” Dick forced out a laugh and stabbed his next waffle with more force than necessary, making all his siblings flinch and Bruce look more concerned. “He’s just busy heroing Dad.”

“…okay…” Bruce said slowly, reaching over and patting Dick’s hand before looking over at Damian and Tim. “So?”

“Kon and Bernard are… having their own dates together. Ya know, having time for each other or something.” Tim shrugged, shrinking down in his seat with a scowl on his face.

“Jonathan knows what he did,” Damian said simply, leaving it at that.

“Right… and you, Alfie?”

“No comment.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow and dropped a few sugar cubes into his tea. “No comment?”

Alfred stayed silent for a second longer before letting out a rough sigh. “I simply realized the company that I keep can be… a little too rowdy.”

“Yeah sure.” Bruce rolled his eyes, already knowing all of Alfred’s tells for his lies. “Well, you should invite them over. Oh, we can have a pool party sometime this week. It’ll be fun!” Bruce clapped his hands and smiled at his kids.

“Oh, Bruce-“

“I dunno if-“

“Well-“

“Master Bruce-“

“Let me rephrase,” Bruce said, holding up a hand and stopping everyone from speaking. “You will invite your friends whom you spent so many years complaining, griping, and whining that I wouldn’t let you reveal your identities to over. And you will have fun at this pool party next week.” Bruce said softly, causing a chill to run down everyone’s spine. “Understood?”

“Yes…”

“Alfred, I can’t force you to bring those snobs that you hang around with for some reason, and if you’ve somehow discarded them, you will be getting new friends.” Bruce narrowed his eyes as Alfred opened his mouth to speak. “Yeah, you don’t get a say in this. You’ve forced me through the years to put myself out there and make friends because socialization is a need. I’m simply returning the favor.”

Alfred closed his eyes for a second before opening them and looking down at Bruce with a slightly annoyed yet resigned expression. “Of course, Master Bruce.”

“Great!” Bruce smiled brightly. “Now, I’ve got a date in an hour, so I have to get ready!” Bruce grabbed his cup of tea and walked upstairs happily.

The dining room was silent until they heard Bruce’s door close.

“I will not let those… perverts, around Baba.” Damian hissed, clenching the butter fork in his hand dangerously.

Dick stood up slowly from his seat, making his siblings and Alfred look at him. “No… we invite them. But-“ Dick’s eyes gleamed evilly, “we make it very clear what will happen if any, and I mean any, certain comments are spoken.”

There was a nod of agreement. “Alright, let’s do this,” Jason said, also standing up, a determined look in his eyes.

“Good luck,” Cass said grimly, pulling out her phone and scrolling through her contacts. She didn’t expect anyone from her ballet class to come, especially after she made it very clear she wouldn’t accept any comments about her Dad, but she would see about the Birds of Prey. That was tough in itself.

“Don’t look at us like that, Alfred,” Tim said. “This is some serious shit.”

“Just… don’t kill anyone. Your father will be very disappointed.”

“No promises.” They chorused, leaving the dining room to make their calls.

[wendichester]

⋆˚꩜｡ handled with rage,

summary. you and dean are fighting and you make the mistake of slamming the impala's door.

pairing. dean winchester x reader ft. very distressed sam genre. intense

wordcount. 649

notes / warnings. intense verbal altercation, reader slams the impala’s door (sinful), physical confrontation (grabbing, minor scuffle), blood (split knuckles), yelling, emotional distress, explosive argument, sam intervening, unresolved tension, messy as hell

The fight starts somewhere around Kansas.

Or maybe it started hours ago and this is just the latest detour into hell.

Dean’s driving too fast. You’re talking too sharp. Sam’s in the passenger seat pretending to read a map that hasn’t been relevant since 2006.

“Always so goddamn reckless,” you mutter finally, mostly to yourself.

Dean glances at you in the rearview. “What?”

“I said, you're reckless. You dragged us into that job like we were bulletproof.”

“I got us out.”

“Barely.”

Dean doesn’t look at you. “And you always find a way to make it my fault.”

“Because nine times out of ten? It is.”

He scoffs. “Right. Sure. Everything’s on me.”

Silence.

Sam coughs awkwardly. “Maybe we could—”

“Stay out of it,” you and Dean say in unison.

The tension in the Impala could snap a neck.

Dean pulls into a gas station so fast the tires squeal.

Before he’s even thrown it into park, you’re yanking the door open and slamming it shut behind you—hard.

The sound echoes through the lot like a punch to the gut. It’s loud. Violent. Echoes through the lot.

Sam freezes in the passenger seat. He looks like his soul left his body.

Dean doesn’t move at first.

Then—

He opens his door calmly.

Steps out smoothly.

Shuts it carefully.

And then?

He storms.

No words.

No warnings.

Just rage, hot and simmering and silent.

You turn around to meet it. Chest heaving. Ready.

“What the hell did you just do?” he says, too quiet.

“What, the door?” you sneer. “Gonna cry over Baby’s feelings now?”

Dean steps closer. “Do that again. I dare you.”

“Yeah? What’re you gonna do? Scratch me with your loyalty tattoo?”

That’s when he grabs you—hand at your collar, shoving you back a step. It’s not gentle. Not playful. It’s pure fury. His eyes are wild, green gone dark.

Sam’s already scrambling out of the car. “Dean—!”

You shove Dean back with both hands. Hard. “Don’t you touch me.”

“You wanna throw punches now?” he growls. “Go ahead.”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Give you an excuse to beat someone up without feeling bad after.”

Dean’s nostrils flare. “You think I need an excuse? You think this is about you?”

You step into his space again. “Everything is always about you, Dean. You make the call, you drive the car, you pick the hunt, and if someone bleeds, we’re just supposed to thank you for not killing us.”

Dean’s fists clench at his sides, shaking.

Sam’s between you both in a blink. “Hey! That’s enough. Both of you!”

Dean shoves past Sam, pacing a tight, violent circle like a caged animal. You stand there, chest heaving, hands still trembling from the adrenaline.

You don’t notice your knuckles are bleeding until Sam grabs your wrist. “Jesus, Y/N—”

“Let go of me.”

“You punched the pump handle,” Sam mutters, eyeing your busted hand. “You're bleeding like crazy.”

Dean turns back, still fuming. “Oh, so now it’s a show? You bleeding for drama, huh?”

You laugh, unhinged. “And you bleeding for validation?”

Sam steps between you again, hands raised. “Enough. Both of you are acting like lunatics.”

Dean looks at your bloodied hand and something in him flickers. It’s fast. Almost hidden. Guilt, maybe. Maybe something worse.

You wipe your hand on your jeans.

“Go to hell, Dean.”

He stares. Breathing like he just ran a mile with rage in his lungs.

Then he turns and stalks back to the car.

The door doesn’t slam this time.

It shuts quiet.

Controlled.

And somehow that’s worse.

Sam watches him go. Then turns to you.

“You done?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, chest still rising fast.

You don’t move for a long time.

And when you finally get back in the car—wrapped hand, cracked voice, silence thick between you—Dean doesn’t look at you.

But his knuckles?

They’re split too.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[g00d--m0urning]

Final Destination: Your House (CH.2)

You get rejected. Twice! (somebody really needs to have a chat with Reggie)

Everyone in the house is acting weird, you can't help think it's your fault.

Everybody is stock still when you put the glasses on. You’ve got that one look you get when you’re on a mission. They’ve all seen it multiple times: Dorian when you made it a point to explore all of his forms, Betty, Kopi, and Florence when you set out to help Holly, Celia when she employed you to find out what was going on with Florence, etc, etc.

You help so much around the house, traversing up the stairs constantly, bumping into walls, going into the breaker box, going down to the crawlspace, so many times to get hurt.

You find yourself in front of Closet Dorian, staring at him with your brows raised, “Hey, dude. Are you good? You were kinda locked earlier. You’re never locked--except when the attic door used to be locked, and the backdoor, and sometimes the front door- ok, so you’re locked a lot, but not this door.”

Dorian frowns slightly, reminded of the way he accidently sent you staggering into the wall, “No clue what you’re talking about, love,” he tells you, unwilling to admit the truth.

“… Y’know, earlier? I didn’t have the glasses on, but I thought you guys could still see me and shit,” you remind, narrowing your eyes at him suspiciously. He may be a hard read, but you’ve been working on cracking said book open.

“Ah, that… Wasn’t locked… My door knob was stuck,” he states, internally face palming at the excuse.

“Oh! I’m sorry, do I need to oil you or something? I know I haven’t done that in…Ever,” you apologize, suddenly realizing that you haven’t broken out a can of DW-40 in a while now.

“No.. No, love. It’s fine, just- do you need something?” he stammers, sighing at your apology. Of course, you’d feel guilty.

“Oh! Yeah! I wanna check on Eddie and Volt, the power was out this morning, so I want to make sure they didn’t blow a fuse,” you explain, gesturing at the box behind him, smiling brightly at him.

Skylar winces to herself, knowing they didn’t blow a fuse, just simply turned themselves off, at her request.

“Should they be going in there? The place is quite literally a breaker box,” Phoenicia asks, watching the interaction with her app buddy.

“We can’t stop them, they’re already suspicious enough,” Skylar sighs, pouting at the fact that she’s unable to keep you from doing things.

“Eddie, Volt!” you call out, looking around the empty bar. It’s too early for anyone to come in, but one, if not both of them are usually walking around cleaning or fixing something, “I just wanted to check in, make sure you're both ok.”

There’s still no response, causing you to frown. You check the storage closets, in case they are doing stock, then the backroom. Still, nothing. You nearly bump into Eddie on your way up the stairs to their little apartment above the bar.

“Hey, are you ok?” you ask immediately, grabbing onto his arms to steady yourself from the bump.

“Am I ok, are you?” he asks back, looking you up and down in an almost panicky way, “You could’ve fallen, live wire.”

“I’m… fine. I promise,” you assure, giving his arm a light squeeze. His attitude reminds you of when you almost fell off the ladder helping him. That feels so long ago now. “Where’s Volt, is he ok? Are you ok? Did you guys blow a fuse?”

Volt’s heart aches at your questions, listening to you through the door. He and Eddie decided it’s best for you to stay away from him. He’s quite literally electric. One wrong touch from him and it could burn you or fry your nerves.

Eddie holds onto you, scared to let you go, if not to make sure you don’t fall. He’s beginning to notice you do that a lot around here, “He’s fine, live wire. We’re fine. Just tired,” he tells you, looking over his shoulder at the door.

“So, not to be rude, but could you… Go?” he asks, hating the way your face drops. As much as he jokingly offers to kick you out of the bar, he hates having to actually do it.

“Of course, yeah! Give Volt a kiss for me, and tell him I hope he feels better. I hope you do too, Eds. Don’t overwork yourself,” you lean in to give Eddie a kiss goodbye once you’re at the door, but he keeps you firmly at arm’s length.

“I’m not feeling it, sorry,” he apologizes, lightly squeezing your arms again before releasing him. He’s not as sparky as Volt is, but he’s still electric and he can’t risk it. Can’t risk you.

“No worries, feel better, both of you.”

You don’t get to say anything else before Eddie shoves you out of the bar, practically slamming the door in your face. You stare at the Breaker Box door in shock, taken aback by his behaviour. You trip on something on the floor, landing on your butt.

“Ah, shit! You ok, doll?” You look up to see Tony hovering over you, hands outstretched like he wants to help you up, but isn’t completely sure.

You laugh softly, nodding at his concern. It isn’t the first time you’ve tripped over him coming out of the Breaker Box and probably won’t be the last, “I’m fine, Tone. You know you’re really good at getting me to fall for you,” you flirt playfully, laughing at your own joke.

“A-ha, yeah, good one,” he mutters, seemingly having made his decision to lean down and help you up. He brushes nonexistent dust off your shirt, fixing the red fabric back into place.

“What, no laugh? It’s your joke,” you pout, poking his chest. He makes the joke every time you trip over him, you thought you’d beat him to the punch this time.

“Yeah, it is and I’m pretty sure I told you I like people being original,” he snaps, slapping your hand away from his chest.

You pull your hand back when he slaps it, tucking both of your hands into your pockets, “I’m sorry, I didn’t… You’re right, yeah…” you stammer, trying to swallow the growing lump in your throat.

Tony immediately regrets his actions; he hadn’t meant to snap, but seeing you act so casually about falling made him angry. You could’ve gotten seriously hurt! He’s got sharp tools on him, what would’ve happened if you landed on one, or knocked one out of him and it impaled you? He’d never forgive himself.

“No, doll…” he groans, reaching for your hand again, stopping himself midway. He shouldn’t get to touch you after that, “the bossman finally got on my ass and I’ve been stressed, ok? Ain’t got nothing to do with you.”

It’s a flimsy excuse and a worse lie because it’s got everything to do with you. He’s been working overtime to actually put effort into fixing things around the house: Celia’s drip, the rusty pipes, Florence’s loose boards, anything that could affect you.

“It’s ok, I understand, Tony,” you whisper, reaching out to touch him, probably to grab his bicep the way he likes.

He doesn’t like the way you hesitate, and he hates it even more when you pull away completely, like you’re scared of him. You should be, but it doesn’t make it any better.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” you murmur, leaving him with that soft smile that always softens his heart (and hardens something else).

Tony closes his eyes, running a hand down his face, “Fuck, fucking, fuckity, fuck,” he swears, kicking his toolbox.

“Would that be considered self-harm?” Volt inquires in jest, peeking around the corner, looking around to make sure you’re truly gone. He steps out of the Breaker Box, Eddie close behind him.

“Buzz off, zap-head,” Tony scoffs, adjusting his tool belt around his waist to busy his hands.

“Don’t get pissy, you’re not the only one who’s doing this, y’know?” Eddie cuts in, glaring at the tool box.

“Well last I checked, you weren’t the one who almost made them cry,” Tony retorts, stepping closer to Eddie, almost toe-to-toe with the taller man.

“Both of you knobheads need to knock it off,” Dorian states, stepping between the two and pushing them apart, “we’re doing this for their own good.”

Neither of the black-haired men argue with that, scowling at one another, but returning to their respective jobs.

You curl up with Mateo and Koa downstairs, trying to keep your tears at bay. You figured you’d be tougher by now; after managing to make the concept of rejection love you and your existential dread tolerate you, you should have tougher skin. It’s not like Tony was purposefully mean, he said it himself: a.) you stole his joke, b.) he’s stressed out. It’s also not your fault that Eddie rejected your kiss: he’s tired, he’s allowed to reject affection.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Koa coos, carefully brushing his thumbs over your cheeks to catch the tear you didn’t realize had fallen, “Do you want to talk about it?”

That makes you snort; the couch who lives for comfortable silence and not talking, asking if you want to talk, “No, not really,” you shake your head, running a hand through Mateo’s hair, “Ok, maybe a little bit.”

“Talk away then, buddy,” Koa urges, gently rubbing his hand up and down your back in a soothing manner.

“It’s just… Everyone seems to be acting so weird since last night and I don’t get it!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up, your bottom lip wobbling, “was my choice in movies really that bad?” you ask, more sarcastically than not.

Koa and Mateo both look at you sadly, knowing that your movie choice was, in fact, that bad. Neither of them know how to explain it to you, if it’s even theirs to explain. Mateo snuggles closer into your side, while Koa continues rubbing your back while you rant.

“It’s not your fault,” both of them tell you, glancing at each other before trapping you in a big hug. They may not be able to tell you, but they can certainly do what they do best: comfort.

You can’t help but giggle as you’re squished between the two of them, wiping your nose with your sleeve. You want to think that they’re telling the truth, but the thoughts can’t help but linger.

“Thanks,” you yawn, rubbing your eyes. The dateviators beep at you, almost dead already, “Do you mind if I sleep here?”

“Not at all, buddy, you know I love napping with you,” Koa promises, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“So do I,” Mateo chimes in, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

The affection makes you melt, it’s the first bit you’ve gotten from anybody today and it’s nice, “Thanks guys,” you return the chaste affections, then take the dateviators off.

You set the glasses on the side table, laying down fully and pulling the blankets up to your chin. You fall asleep quickly, though it seems you have a visitor this evening.

[itzpookiepooh]

can you do one where we say something weird or something usually a guy would say? like one of the LADS boys say something snarky and mc just goes "suck my balls😒" IDK ITS STUPID BUT I FEEL LIKE THEYD HAVW FUNNY REACTIONS

SUCK MY—

You were playing video games when you yelled into the mic aggressively.

“Suck my dick!” You hollered to the other player. Sylus chuckled at you.

“I didn’t know you had other facilities…” He said through his laughter. You turned to him with narrowed eyes. Did he think you were a joke?

“Do you ever wonder what it’s like to get head as a boy?” You randomly ask Rafayel making him look at you.

The silence was deadly making you sigh and turn towards the sea again. You wave him off and watch the waves.

“You don’t get it.” You mumbled making him abruptly sit up.

“I don’t get it!!??” He pointed to himself in disbelief.

“Sand is heterosexual glitter.” You blurt making Zayne side eye you.

“Okay.” He leaves it not wanting to probe your weird thoughts.

“Imagine how loud centipedes would be with flip flops on.” You blurt again making him stop typing and stare at you.

“Is something going on today?” Zayne asked with concern, making you shake your head.

“Nah just randomly thinking.” You shrug and he just nods slowly turning back to his computer.

“What if—“ Zayne stops you. “How about a nap?” He suggested grabbing your hand.

“What would you do if you were a girl for a day?” You asked Caleb as you both relaxed on the couch.

“Probably check myself out in the mirror.” He smirks thinking of it as if it’ll really happen. “You?” He asked.

“Stacking donuts on it.” He jumps up with confusion. You look back at him with a smile.

“Um—okay…” he leaves it alone not wanting to continue to dissect what you said.

“Should we see how many you hold?” His eyes bucked, “WHAT????” He asked as you laughed, “Wait seriously?” You push him away and continue laughing.

“You ever pee too long and wanna pee fast so you turbo pee?” You ask him and he just blinks at you.

“I always wonder what’s going on in your head.” He replied with a head shake.

“A lot.” You answered making him agree. ���I’m sure.”

Am I losing my touch? Omg guys 😭

[blackleatherjacketz]

Moonstone

Werewolf Robby x Nurse/Witch Reader

You think Robby hates you, but it's something much worse...

Notes: It's always Halloween in my heart, so here we go. Might turn this into a series.

Warnings: Enemies to Lovers, Werewolves, Witches, Crystals, Scenting, Neck Nuzzling, Grabbing, Choking, Aggressive Robby

Tags: @spookypeachpitt13 @likedovesinthewnd @skittles-archive

Word Count: 1.2k+

Read more ROBBY

You hadn’t been at PTMC very long before you met Doctor Robinavitch, your travel nursing contract bringing you here just a few weeks before he finally worked the same shift as you. You’d heard stories of how kind he was to his patients and colleagues alike, how he would often joke with them and make everyone feel at ease. But apparently that didn’t seem to apply to you. You were an outsider, someone who had to work extra hard to earn the trust of people who knew each other for years, sometimes even decades. You accepted that role with a humble sort of grace when you signed that lucrative contract, waiting for your coworkers to slowly let their guards down around you, brick by boring brick.

Everyone eventually warmed up to you. Everyone except for Doctor Michael Robinavitch.

He looked at you as if you owed him money, those soft eyes of his narrowing every time you walked into a room or sat down at the nurses station to chart. He was extremely curt with you no matter how pleasant or efficient you were, avoiding you at all costs while taking time with others to tell them jokes or give them words of encouragement. You weren’t exactly sure what it was that set him off, if you looked like an ex of his or said something wrong when you were tired, but his heated glare never wavered, not once.

It wasn’t until he asked about the pendant that you wore around your neck one night that you actually felt it, saw it. Saw him for who he was… for what he was. The stress of the job and sheer number of people in the ER at any given time had clouded your judgement, blinded you from him. But now that it was just the two of you, it was clear as day. The reason he’d been pushing you away, keeping you at such a cold distance finally made a whole world of sense as the automatic doors exposed you both to the night sky.

“It’s a crescent moon,” you told him as you exited the sterile walls of the hospital, fondly fingering the iridescent white stone hanging from the gold chain around your neck.

“Yeah, I know that.” He stated matter of factly, walking down the sidewalk with you, side by side as your feet led you toward the parking lot.

So much for a friendly conversation.

“Then why’d you ask?” You wanted to hear him say it.

He stopped in his tracks and turned toward you. Those eyes of his squinted in their usual manner, tilting his head to the side before taking a step toward you, his gaze locked onto your necklace. He bit his bottom lip as he continued to stare, taking the tiny pendant between his fingers and holding it in his hand before even bothering to speak.

“Why do you wear it?” He asked, his tone accusatory as always.

“I like the moon?” You replied, giving him just as much venom in return.

“Bullshit,” he called you out, squeezing the stone between his fingers as if he aimed to crush it right then and there. Instead, he pulled you in a little closer by its chain, completely unbothered by the sound of your sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk as he brought you crashing into him. “Tell me the truth.”

“Robby,” You muttered, planting your hands flat against his chest as he twisted the necklace even tighter, pulling you even closer. It was a shot in the dark to get his attention, a name you’d heard your coworkers call him in passing, even though he’d only introduced himself to you as Doctor Robinavitch.

He chuckled and took in a long deep breath, inhaling the scent of your skin as his beard tickled the spot just below your ear. “I can smell the sage on you, the cinnamon and salt.” He pressed his nose directly against your scalp, shamelessly sniffing your hair as he let your natural scent settle into the base of his lungs, committing it to memory. “I know a witch when I smell one.”

“You’ve met a lot of them before? Here in Pittsburgh?” You couldn’t help your smart mouth even if you tried. But his lips made you shiver and forget your sense of humor as they brushed against the shell of your ear, nuzzling into that special spot as if he needed the contact more than the answers he was seeking. It was as if he could smell the very hormones rushing through your body, the complex mixture of oxytocin and cortisol battling it out in your bloodstream as your heart pumped them all the way through to your core.

“Answer me.” He only pulled tighter on the necklace, grinning darkly as you winced.

“The moonstone’s supposed to protect the traveler, bring good fortune to new beginnings. My mentor gave it to me when I started travel nursing a few years ago.” You finally answered through trembling lips, turning your face toward his. “She was the real witch.”

You’ve never called yourself a witch before, not really. You’d simply been raised to believe in the spiritual world as much as the physical one around you, to respect nature just as much as you trusted science and technology. You believed in fate and magic, in karma and energy as they took their toll on the worst kind of people you’d ever come across. But you also knew that your beliefs were a little contradictory to those in your line of work, shrouded in mystery, so you never really brought it up, never advertised what you were up to on the first of the month or nights with full moons hanging in the sky.

“Your mentor, huh?” Robby huffed against your neck, retreating just enough to look you in the eye for confirmation. “But you do practice, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, your nose brushing against his as you decided to admit what you’ve kept hidden for years. “Here and there.”

He laughed under his breath at your reluctance to be more forthcoming with him, slowly shaking his head as his nose swept across the apple of your cheek. He clenched his jaw and rested his thumb against the divot in your neck, his other fingers loosening their grip on your chain as he let it unravel in his palm. “It’s okay, I know you’re conflicted, but you can trust me with the truth.”

”Conflicted? I’m not… I’m not conflicted," you lied. "I get grabbed by my coworkers all the time. You should see the doctors in Colorado, they’re really something else.” Your heart rate slowly steadied as your necklace no longer threatened to strangle you. You knew that you weren’t in any danger of him biting to turn you in his human form, but he was still a man, and that was sometimes just as dangerous.

”Oh, I can smell it. Each and every hormone racing through those pretty little arteries of yours, down to the very capillaries in your fingertips.” He reached down to grab your hand that still rested on his chest, squeezing your fingers tightly as he held it there. “Look, I can’t let them find out what I am, either. They can’t… I just need you to know that I wasn’t the one responsible for the attacks last week.”

“Attacks?” You searched his face for a reactive answer, any hint of a facial tick before he could actually give you one verbally. You hadn’t heard about any attacks in the area or anything else out of the ordinary. But then again, why would you? You weren’t part of any gossip mill in the hospital yet, or even in the city. Hell, you haven’t even been here long enough for that to happen.

“Let me show you something.”

[fish189]

jealousy

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: After Aemond sees you smiling with a cook, he gets insanely jealous. And he doesn't know how to deal with that.

Content: angst (ish?), jealousy, insecurity, Aemond being mean and not willing to listen, ignoring, PiV sex (as a way to show devotion), riding, aemond lowkey being a drama queen

Note: this lowkey feels like a word vomit so sorry for any mistakes

2K

---------

Aemond watched his wife from across the crowded hall, his single eye following your every move. You had only been married a few short moons, yet already you seemed to be drifting from him. Currently, you appeared deep in conversation with one of the kitchen boys, laughing loudly at something he had said. Aemond frowned, his eye narrowing. Who did this scrawny serving boy think he was, putting such a smile on his wife’s beautiful face? He rose abruptly from his seat, ignoring the questioning look from his brother nearby. Striding across the hall, Aemond took your arm in what was probably a rougher grip than intended. You turned to him in surprise.

"Husband, what-"

"We are leaving." His gruff tone booked no argument. With a polite but tight nod to the now wide-eyed kitchen boy, Aemond steered his wife swiftly from the hall. Once you had retreated to the empty corridors, you yanked your arm from his hold. "Aemond, what in seven hells has gotten into you?" Aemond scowled, unsure himself why the sight of you joking with another man had sent rage coursing through his veins. He was usually not one to show emotions easily.

He knew he should think rationally, take a moment to calm down and have a proper conversation with his wife. But he couldn’t. He felt too angry.

“What has gotten into me?” he replied angrily, his eye staring down into yours. “What has gotten into me?” he repeated, your eyes widening.

“You drift away from me any chance you get,” he said in a low voice, warning clear in his voice. 

He struggled to show tenderness, he knew this. He had married you hoping to find some companionship, and though he had found some, he knew his own social skills still needed a lot of work. But now, seeing you so easily laughing and conversing with another man--a scrawny cook, no less--made him doubt himself. Did you need more than he could give? Was your laughter simply not meant for him?

He swallowed, a bitter taste filling his mouth. He grasped your arm again, a bit more gentle than before. 

“Do I please you so little, wife?” he asked you, “So little that you are already looking for amusement elsewhere? Am I not husband enough for you? Not man enough?”

His words were rough, though there was an undercurrent of insecurity that he hoped you didn't pick up. You had started to mean more to him than he had anticipated, him growing more attached than he knew was safe for his own sanity. And he knew if he ever did lose you, he would never recover.

He searched your face for an answer, but you stayed deadly still.

Your mind was reeling. Was he serious? Your husband who prided himself in his strength, his agility, his knowledge, the dragon he rode, was jealous? 

You felt tongue tied, surprised by the raw emotions etched on his handsome face. And you took too long to answer him.

Aemond turned suddenly, storming away from you. His heart had sunk at your silence, an aching feeling almost swallowing him whole. 

He didn't know what you saw when you looked at him. What you felt. All he knew was that he was not enough. And could he blame her?

All he was, was a one-eyed prince, scarred and angry. He was good at battles, great at wielding his sword, but terrible at matters of the heart. 

And what had he expected? That a woman as passionate and lovely as you would be able to care for such a passionless man like him? He had been foolish, allowing himself to hope for something he would never be able to have.

He wouldn’t show how hurt he was, his pride didn’t allow it. So he sped up, walking out into the courtyard and getting atop of his horse.

But your silence rang in his ears, your expression burned into his memory when he asked you if he was good enough for you, cornfirming what he had believed for all those moons.

He simply was not good enough for you. 

~

He hadn’t returned to you that night, something that had made you incredibly nervous. You had asked maids and servants alike where he had gone, only to get the same answer each time. He had gone out on Vhagar, riding his dragon Gods knew where. 

You barely slept, dawn slowly cresting while you had barely gotten any sleep. He had apparently returned in the early mornings, and now he was stuck in a small council meeting.

You weren’t allowed to enter while he was inside, you knew that. But the wait was agonising.

Hours passed, you waiting in the hallway for the doors to open again. And when they finally did, you saw him again.

But he didn’t look at you. He just stepped out, brushing past you. 

~

Evening fell, and after an entire day of avoiding you, he knew he couldn’t any longer. He slowly made his way back to your bedchambers, letting out a breath of relief when he saw you weren't there yet.

He poured his wine with a slightly unsteady hand, feeling exhaustion creep up on him after not sleeping for an entire night. As he sat down and stared at the lit fire, the memories flooded back to him. What had that boy even said to you that had made you smile so carefree? And why wasn't he able to make you smile like that?

It felt like there was a knife twisting in his stomach, the feeling of inadequateness washing over him. And when you finally entered, beautiful as you always did, he felt anger and insecurity welling up inside him once more. 

You closed the door behind you softly, before walking over to him. “I..” you started, trailing off again which nearly made him burst. But he kept quiet, with a lot of effort. “I was talking to the kitchen boy, because he’s a new servant.” You explained firstly. “He told a joke, which is why I laughed.” You explained to him further, searching his lone eye.

His fist clenched as he listened to you, forcing himself to remain calm and silent.

A joke? A simple joke? His mouth twisted in a sneer, his jaw clenching. Your explanation did little to soothe him. 

He finally met your eye, seeing the pleading and almost desperate look you were giving him. And then the realisation hit him. Had you truly not realised how your actions had hurt him, hit him where he was most insecure?

He had opened up his heart to you, did everything he could to be the man you wanted, you deserved, only for you to hurt him in this way. 

“A joke,” he said finally, his voice a mocking tone. "And do you share your jokes freely with all the serving boys, wife, or only this one who so tickle your fancy? I see now how little you value the bond we share." His eye bored into her, accusation and agony mingling within its depths.

Your eyes widened at his accusation, barely believing what you were hearing. 

“Stop it,” you said harshly, moving to stand in front of him. “Stop being a jealous fool, you… you foolish man.”

Aemond paused at your tone, totally caught off guard. He stared at you in surprise, never having heard you talk in such a way to… anyone, really. 

“Foolish? He replied, his own voice raising as he stood up. “I have opened my heart up to you, and this is how you repay me? To make a mockery out of me?” His eye stared into yours, his expression half angry and half impressed by the way you were standing your ground. He wasn’t sure why he had expected submission from you, but he was silently awfully pleased at the way you were staring at him with steel in your gaze. 

A smile ghosted across his lips.

“He was barely six and ten years of age.” You hissed angrily. “He was asking if the new dish he made was appreciated by the family and after, he made a joke. You must be truly foolish if you believe such a scrawny boy has my interest when I am married to a Targaryen prince.” 

Aemond’s eye never left yours as you hissed angrily at him, not ready to back down yet. But your words did sober him up a bit.

Truly, what was a mere, skinny kitchen servant to a man like him--a prince, a dragonrider?

He regarded you for a long moment, a small seed of shame taking root in his jealousy. You were still staring at him, not backing down. You truly were a fierce one, a true dragon’s wife. 

Finally, he sighed, shifting on his feet. “I see,” he murmured. “It seems I owe you an apology for the way I acted. You have proven your innocence… this night, at least.”

You listened almost in disbelief at what he was saying, clearly still trying to push the blame on you, acting as if he still couldn't truly trust you.

So you sighed deeply, tugging at his tunic and kissing him deeply. 

Aemond was caught off guard for just a moment, his eye widening at your boldness. But he recovered, kissing you back just as eagerly. Just a day he had ignored you, and it truly had been torture.

He kissed you like a man starved, clinging onto you as if he was terrified you would disappear. He growled softly, tugging you closer against him and only pulling back from the kiss when he needed air. He rested his forehead against yours, his eye closed as he simply relished holding you close again. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” he breathed out, a shaky smile forming on his lips. You smiled back at him, your heart pounding.

“I love you,” you whispered to him, “only you. I always have and I always will, until I take my last breath.”

He growled softly, clearly not happy with the thought of you passing away. He held you closer, his hands holding you tight. 

“Let me show you,” you whispered. You slowly pushed him back towards the bed, Aemond falling backwards onto the soft mattress. You climbed on top of his lap, his dark gaze watching your every move. 

You slid your hands over his chest, untying the laces of his tunic. 

“Wife…” he said lowly as you touched his bare chest, “what are you doing?”

A soft smile formed on your lips, completely tugging his tunic off. “I’m showing you,” you whispered, before leaning in to press wet kisses against his throat.

He groaned, his large hands grabbing your hips when you started grinding down on him.

He moaned your name, his head falling back against the pillow as you continued to grind on him, his cock growing hard inside of his breeches. 

He wanted you, Gods he wanted you. But he didn’t flip you around. No, he allowed you to set the pace, to show him exactly what you wanted to show him. To please him exactly the way you wanted to.

And you did.

Riding him with a need that bordered on feverish. All he could do was grab at your hips and breasts, watching as you looked like an angel while bouncing on his cock. He came once, twice, three times when you finally collapsed exhausted on his chest, your legs giving out on you.

But you were magnificent. He pulled you close to him, your soft pants filling his ears. 

“Does this…” you panted out, “prove my devotion?”

Aemond blinked sluggishly at you, the man three seconds away from falling asleep. His mind felt foggy, his body heavy yet in heaven at the same time. 

“I love you,” he said finally, all his earlier jealousies and insecurities gone. 

You fell silent, your heart jumping. He pulled you closer, tugging a duvet over the both of you. And then he fell asleep.

“You foolish man,” you whispered softly, nuzzling closer to your husband.“My foolish man.”

[coseta]

SUGARCOAT ! ꚩ ft. mydei & phainon.

๑ synopsis. who would’ve thought that a sweet little mistake would be enough to finally settle your relationship with the Amphoreus Deliverer and Okhema's Warrior?

๑ tags. fem!reader◞ threesome◞ aphrodisiacs◞ dry humping◞ double penetration◞ shower sex

๑ wc. 3.4k

I don’t play hsr so some things may be inaccurate

english is not my first language

yes I love dry humping sorry

You were preparing for the Cultural's festival about to happen in Amphoreus, when you heard the telltale sign that they were coming your way, you feel your cheeks flush in anticipation.

You were a simple merchant, selling fruits and flowers in the streets when you meet them three months ago. You were just carrying a box of pomegranates when out of nowhere a hard body bumped into you, shocking you and making you fall to the ground with a thud, your fruits scattering helplessly around you as you blinked at the man who was now looking at you sheepishly while rubbing the back of his neck. But other thing caught your attention, as you looked down at his feet, you saw that he was stepping in one of your precious fruits. You felt a crack in your head.

Pissed off, you stand with a frown, glaring at the man, berating him and throwing the stepped pomegranate in his head. “Watch where you’re going! How dare you step on my fruits like that! Have you no shame? You better pay me back, you dumbass.” You continued to scold the man vigorously, his mouth agape at your continuously rambling about how he should pay more attention, how fruits are sacred, how pomegranates are your favourites and he should kiss your feet and apologise for that crime. Then a peach haired man appeared chuckling, “Serves you right, HKS.”

After that, it became a common occurrence to see both men strolling to you in the busy streets of the market (Mydei always eager to buy your plump tasty pomegranates), it took some time (a lot) for you to forgive Phainon, making him apologise to you every single day and staring at him with a menacing glare every time he touched something in your stand, but eventually you three became friends.

It took a while for you to realise that you really didn’t like this word. Friend. You feel your heart clench painfully whenever Phainon called you his friend. You liked them, more than you would admit, they were nice to you, keeping you company in the night as you closed your stand. Whenever Mydei touched your hand, even the briefest contact, made you shiver, your heart beating wildly in your chest. Besides, you couldn't count in your fingers the amount of times you buried your fingers deep in your cunt while thinking about them.

As they approached your stand, you turned with your hands on your hips, smiling brightly. “Hey! Stepping in any fruits today, Phainon?”

Phainon laughed, smiling warmly at you. “Why, of course not. Wouldn’t want to risk being bitten by a small thing like you, pipsqueak.”

You scoffed at the nickname, turning to Mydei smiling apogetically. “I don’t have any pomegranates today, I’ll fetch them tomorrow for you”. Then the usual talk started, when they were about to leave you stammered. “U-uh, do you think you guys could come later? I have something to show you." After all, today was the day you would finally confess your feelings for them.

As the day went on, you couldn’t help but feel anxious. Maybe they would reject you and you would have to live with that, after all, they had much more important things to do than to worry about the declaring love of a simple girl, a merchant one at that. Or mayybee they feel the same and you all live happily ever after. You hoped for the latter, and feel butterflies in your belly at the thought. A tiny spark of hope flamed inside of you.

The night was already painting the sky when you see Phainon and Mydei approaching you, your heart beating wildly in your chest, you’re scared that it’s going to jump out of it.

When they are within arms length, you say it with your eyes closed. “I like you!” your shout echoes through the empty streets as you extend your arms, your hands offering the bracelets you made for them as you wear you heart on your sleeve, pouring your feelings and sincerity in every word as you go on and on…

The silence that followed was loud.

When you finally open your eyes uncertain, you feel a pang in your heart at the look in their faces. The unexpected glances, the cautious way they were looking at you, something passing in their eyes that you don’t know what it means as they look at you. But you feel it, it’s probably only one thing, after all. Your heart breaks. It hurts. They are going to reject you. “U-uhm, never mind, forget I said anything.”

"Wait, (Y/N)!" But you were already gone, flushing with the shame of their supposed rejection. Leaving behind on the ground the bracelet you spend so much time making it.

As the days went on, you struggled to avoid them, whenever you saw a mop of white or peachy hair, you turned on your heel in the opposing direction, sprinting in the streets like crazy and blending with the crowd, hearing their shoutings of your name. And then it was finally time for the cultural festival.

You walked along the busy streets before stopping in front of one tent with free chocolate samples. You took one, then another and another piece. You hummed pleased, eating more when the men responsible for the tent arrived. "This is a very tasty chocolate, where is it from?"

The man grinned proudly. "It's one of the famous delicacies from Luofu, it has a very potent aphrodisiac though, maybe you shouldn't be eating that much, since i'ts your first time."

You palled at his words, stilling your movements. "I'm sorry...?" You put the chocolate down. "W-what? I d-didn't know that!" You cried out wildly.

The man blinked at you, tilting his head. "Then why did you eat it?"

You sighed exasperated. "Well, how could I know that the chocolate is an aphrodisiac?! It's right here, anyone can come and eat! There's not a single warning!"

"But you shouldn't just go around eating everything, I was just taking a break, If you waited patiently I would be here to explain." The man crossed his arms.

Suddenly, a commotion was heard at the entrance of the festival, and you saw a familiar mop of white and peach hair along with their unmistakable voices. You blushed embarrassed, recalling the way you've been rejected and tried to make a run to the exit, but then you swayed on your feet, a sudden wave of dizziness passing through you and the man gripped your arms. "Oi, are you okay?"

Phainon and Mydei approached with a frown taking in your disheveled appearance and the way the man was grabbing you. Mydei tore the man's hands from your arms, gripping your waist tighly, shielding your body. Phainon glared at the man. "What did you do?"

The man shivered at the glare throwed his way. "I did nothing! This young lady ate the chocolate when I wasn't here to explain the components!"

Mydei narrowed his eyes, feeling you sway on your feet, your face flushing a pretty pink that had nothing to do with embarrassment. His heart began to pound against his ribs as he saw your eyes glaze over, your pupils dilating in the dim light of the street lights, pressing yourself harder against him. "What do you mean?"

"The chocolate she ate was with a potent aphrodisiac," he blurted out. "It was specifically created to... you know, intimate settings."

Phainon looked down at the plate of chocolates, before glaring at the man once more. "And why would you be selling this in a festival in the first place?"

The man shrugged. "It's a festival, and I'm here to sell my stuff. It's not my fault she ate them without asking what they were with. She ate a lot by the way."

"How can we help her?” Phainon asks exasperated.

The man looked at him like he was dumb. “By making sex, of course.

Mydei and Phainon cringed. “Isn’t there any other way?”

He shook his head. "I'm afraid not. The aphrodisiac is too potent, too concentrated. The only way to expel it is through the release of sexual tension."

Mydei grunted as he feel your breathing growing shallow and rapid. He could see sweat breaking out on your brow, could feel the heat radiating off your skin like a fever. With a low curse, he swept you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest as he strode towards your home.

Phainon and Mydei stood frozen in the doorway of your bedroom, shock etched onto their faces. You were sitting on the bed, naked, as you grinded your dripping pussy in a desperate rhythm against the pillow.

“Guess the aphrodisiac’s already working, eh?” Phainon muttered, feeling his cock strain in his slacks.

"We should probably call Hyacine..." Mydei trailed off, his voice strained as he take in your disheveled appearance, his breath hitching as his gaze swept across you sweat-slicked form, pausing briefly to admire the way your puffy pussy lips slide easily in the damp pillow, before averting his gaze with a gulp.

"U-uh," Phaino stammered. "You heard the guy, he said that the only way to expel it is by... intercourse..." He stuttered, breathing heavily. "W-we should ask her if there's someone to help her o-or talk to Aglaea, I'm sure she could help."

As both men prepared to exit the room, you moaned softly, making them freeze in their spots. "A-ah, Phainon... Mydei..."

They turned around to see you staring at them with heavy lidded eyes, your cheeks flushed while you played with your breasts. “Please, help me…”

"A-are you sure?" Phainon asked, his eyes greedily taking in the way your fingers caressed your breasts, feeling Mydei go rigid at his side.

You nodded shakily, biting your lips. "Yes, please, please... I've always liked you both..."

Phainon breathed sharply as he quickly removed his clothes, leaving him in a pair of boxers that did nothing to hide the throbbing erection straining against the fabric, he approached the bed and murmured in your ear “We like you too…” then, with a low groan, Phainon captured your mouth in a searing kiss, his large hands coming up to cup and squeeze at your breasts, rolling and plucking at the stiff peaks.

You whined breathlessly into Phainon's mouth, a sound that he gladly swallowed, his tongue delving deep to claim every inch of your mouth.

Phainon groaned, as you pushed him back onto the bed and straddled his hips. He could feel the heat of your aching cunt even through the fabric of his boxers, could feel it soaking through the material as you ground against him with desperate, needy little movements.

"Fuck, (Y/N)," Phainon panted, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he bucked up against you, his cock throbbing with the need for friction. He slid his hands down to squeeze your ass, kneading the firm flesh as he urged you to grind harder. His hips rolled up to meet yours, the hard ridge of his erection sliding against your slick folds, the damp patch on his underwear growing with each passing second.

Phainon gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw as he fought the urge to just rip his boxers off and pound into your sopping cunt. He could feel you panting against his neck, your lips caressing his skin as you let out needy moans. “Ah, ah, ah…” you gasped, your nails digging into his chest.

You throw your head back, grinding down on him with wild abandon, your back arching obscenely. “Ah, please, please…” you babbled incoherently, your eyes rolling back. Phainon splayed his hands on your belly, pushing you back and spreading your thighs as he meet your grinding hips, his cock rubbing in your aching clit with every roll, the swollen nub throbbing painfully with your arousal.

Your body squirmed as you cummed hard, shivering in his lap, your release soaking through Phainon’s underwear as your arousal gushed out around his pulsing shaft, dripping down to soak the sheets. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head, face flushed and tongue lolling out stupidly in a way that made Phainon’s balls ache and his cock painfully throb.

“Fuck, look at you…” Phainon muttered.

As you came down from your high, Phainon stared at Mydei, he was already naked, stroking his thick cock slowly up and down to match the grind of your hips, the purplish head already glistening with precum and his cheeks tinted pink. "Are you just going to stay there watching?" Mydei's gaze narrowed at the provocation, before approaching the bed, his hands a feather light kiss on your back, making you shiver and whine softly.

Mydei leaned down trailing his lips along the column of your throat, he could still see you grinding slowly against Phainon. He cupped your breasts, squeezing sofly, his finger twerking your nipples. You whimpered, your hands coming to grip the back of his hair tighly, arching into his touch.

"A-ah... I need more, please..." Mydei licked his lips at your breathless plea, climbing on the bed, his hard chest pressed to your trembling back as his cock teasingly brushed your ass. He continued to stroke himself his gaze locked with Phainon.

Phainon groaned at the intensity of Mydei's gaze, he shoved his underwear down, freeing his thick, hard shaft from its damp prison. It sprang up, slapping against his belly, his tip already blue with restraint and his balls heavy with the urge to empty themselves in your slick cunt.

Mydei leaned down, gripping your jaw and forcing you to look at him, before claiming your lips in a bruising kiss, his teeth biting your lower lip. "You look so pretty like this, perched up on our cocks, soaking us in your arousal." He whispered against your kiss swollen lips.

You whined at the compliment, squirming at the feeling of both men pressing their throbbing tips at your sopping entrance. "N-ngh..." Your pussy quivers in anticipation.

Mydei and Phainon both start to push forward at the same time, the thick heads of their cocks beginning to stretch your tight entrance obscenely as they slowly sank into your dripping heat. You let out a sharp cry, your back arching as you trashed, you felt as if they were splitting you open, your pussy clenching and fluttering nonstop.

"U-ugh, a-ah..." you whimpered, your nails digging into Phainon's shoulders, as your eyes rolled back in bliss. "W-wait, i-it's too much nngh..."

Mydei groaned as you clenched gripping them tighter, the feeling of Phainon's cock sliding against his as they sink in your cunt making him grunt. "Easy, love, you're doing so good," he whispered, his face nuzzling in your neck as his hips rocked steadily forward, pushing him deeper into your tight channel.

You bucked wildly as Phainon and Mydei slowly sink their thick cocks deeper into your clenching pussy, drool dripping out of your open mouth out in ecstasy. Lewd squelching noises filled the air as inch after inch of hard, pulsing cock disappeared into your fluttering, soaked cunt.

"Ahhhhnnnngghhh! Ah, w-wait!" you cried out, tears streaming down your flushed face, your voice breaking as your body shuddered and convulsed, overwhelmed by the mind-blowing sensation of being so utterly filled.

Phainon leaned in, his lips licking your tears greedily, laughing. "That's it, dove, looking so pretty."

With a final, smooth thrust, Phainon and Mydei sank their cocks to the hilt inside your stretched cunt. You let out a scream as your squirted all over them, trembling with the overstimulation. You could feel the head of their shafts kissing the entrance of your womb, their pulsing cocks throbbing and jerking inside your pussy, forming a obscenely bulge in your belly.

Both men groaned at the feeling of your arousal dripping insistently, coating their cocks, your orgasm making your velvet walls grip them like a vice. They loomed over your trembling form, their chests heaving, faces etched with concentration as they savored the exquisite sensation of being balls deep in your cunt. They could feel each other's cocks pressing against each other inside your pussy, throbbing and jerking.

Phainon whistled lowly, feeling you tremble and gush slick after slick. "Look at you, taking it like a champ."

Mydei pulled his hips back, and Phainon pressed forward, their cocks slipping and sliding against each other. The dual stimulation was too intense for you to bear, your eyes crossing and rolling back in pure ecstasy with each thrust.

"O-oh, ugh... Haa... Nnghh!" you babbled mindlessly, dumbly gripping the bulge in your belly, already fucked stupid. Phainon's cock kissed your cervix as Mydei's shaft slid out until just the tip remained nestled inside your drooling sex. They set up a steady rhythm, fucking into your cunt with deep, powerful strokes, the obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the room.

You went limp in their arms, feeling another orgasm crash through you, more intense than the other. A silent scream tore from yor throat, your eyes rolling back and tongue lolling out as your pussy clenched and rippled wildly around their pistoning cocks. "A-ah, w-wait, m' sensitive!" you creaked out.

But Mydei and Phainon showed no signs of slowing their brutal pace. The men thrusted their hips faster, fucking into your spent hole with deep, powerful strokes that forced their thick cocks even deeper into your convulsing heat. The wet, obscene sounds of their thrusts filled the room, the lewd slurping and squelching of your cum being stirred and churned by their pistoning shafts.

With a final thrust, both men buried their throbbing cocks balls-deep into your spasming cunt, their shafts pulsing and jerking wildly as they climaxed. "Fuck!" Phainon whined, kissing you roughly as he emptied his heavy balls deep inside you, thick ropes of cum pumping into your core, making you gasp.

Mydei let out a groan, his eyes squeezing shut as he bite your neck, his own orgasm crashing through him. His cock jerked and throbbed, unleashing a flood of hot, sticky cum to mingle with Phainon's seed already filling your cunt.

They pumped you full with their combined releases, the sheer volume of it making your belly swell slightly from the pressure. Their mixed essences seeped out around their still-spurting shafts, dripping down onto the soaked sheets as they rutted through the aftershocks of their climax.

Finally, with a last shudder and twitch, Mydei collapsed against your back, blanketing your limp, trembling body with his sweat-slicked muscles as Phainon leaned back on the headboard of the bed. They remained buried inside your puffy sex, their softening cocks still nestled deep in the warm, slick embrace of your core.

As they came down from their high, Phainon looked at you with a shit-eating grin. "Are you ready for round two?" You could only shiver and nod lightly. After all, the night was still young and they would keep going, until you were dripping and filled to the brim with their cum.

As Mydei entered the bathroom, the sound of water cascading down onto the tiled floor and your breathless moans filled the steamy air, he was greeted by the sight of Phainon and you pressed up against the glass door of the shower, your tits smashed against the cold, hard surface as Phainon gripped your hips from behind.

He could see every inch of your fucking through the transparent barrier, from the way Phainon's thick shaft pistoned in and out of your glistening folds to the lewd, suckling sounds of your flesh smacking together with every brutal thrust. Your back arched sharply, your neck craned to the side to accommodate Phainon's hungry mouth as he bit and sucked at the delicate skin there, no doubt leaving his mark.

Phainon grinned seeing Mydei, not slowing down his relentless thrusts for even a second. If anything, he seemed to redouble his efforts, gripping your hips even tighter as he slammed into them with a force that made your tits bounce and jiggle with every impact.

You let out a wanton moan. "Ah, ah, ah!" you gasped, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick glass as Phainon's cock stretched and filled you over and over.

Mydei could see the way your belly slightly distended with each powerful thrust, could see the way your knees trembled and threatened to give out as Phainon fucked you with merciless precision.

You whined as you locked eyes with Mydei. You bit your plump lower lip and batted your long lashes at him coquettishly, even as Phainon continued to pound into you from behind with single-minded intensity. "Ahhh, Mydei..." You moaned breathlessly. "Feels so good..."

Mydei shivered. "It seems that you're still insatiable, my dear," he started to shed off his clothes. "No matter, there's plenty more for you."

— divider credits : cafekitsune .

[pawcider]

Can I ask what Rin Itoshi would look like with a pregnant wife? Pleaseeee😭💖

RIN X PREGNANT READER ( fluff , divider by @i-kyujin)

carries your prenatal vitamins in his gym bag like it’s normal “did you take this yet?” “rin, we’re in the middle of target.” “you forgot this morning. open your mouth.” he doesn’t care who’s watching. the man will hand-feed you a gummy vitamin in the middle of aisle 9 like it’s a love language.

starts talking to the baby way earlier than he admits you caught him once — kneeling on the floor, resting his cheek against your belly like it was the most natural thing in the world. “you’re gonna have better taste than your mom,” he whispered. “i’ll make sure of it.” he denies it every time you bring it up.

tries to act unfazed but tears up at the first ultrasound he stays silent through the whole appointment, staring hard at the screen. doesn’t say a word until you're back in the car. then he opens his mouth — and nothing comes out. just a little, shaky breath before he leans in and presses his forehead to yours. “you’re doing so good,” he mumbles.

has a running note of name ideas… but pretends not to care he says he doesn’t want to think about it yet. but when you go through his phone, there’s a secret list in his notes titled “just in case.” they’re all kind of cute. kind of embarrassing. a little soft. “this is adorable,” you say. he snatches the phone back like it burned him. “shut up. i was bored.”

starts sleeping way closer than he used to he was not a cuddler before. didn’t like heat. didn’t like being held. but now? now he’s practically on top of you every night. hand on your belly. nose buried in your neck. one leg thrown over you like a seatbelt. “you’re crushing me,” you mumble. “good,” he mumbles back, tighter.

lowkey googles everything and becomes your personal 24/7 webmd “you’re yawning. are you low iron?” “rin.” “do your feet feel tingly? i read that can mean—” “rin.” “have you peed today? enough times?” it’s cute until he starts timing your naps and standing outside the bathroom like he’s gonna file a report.

keeps every single ultrasound printout like it’s a trophy you tried to throw one out once — it had a coffee stain on it. he looked at you like you’d kicked a puppy. “that’s the one where the nose looked kind of like mine.” “rin, it’s a blurry bean.” he still keeps it in his wallet.

starts calling you “my girl” a lot more often like casually. offhanded. quiet. “my girl wants iced mango tea again.” “my girl’s feeling nauseous today.” “don’t touch that. my girl’ll cry.” you act annoyed but you secretly melt every single time.

starts talking to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep “hey. i’m your dad. sorry i sound mad all the time. that’s just my voice.” “please kick if you think your mom should stop eating five hot cheetos before bed.” “…just kidding. don’t kick. she gets scared.”

gives your belly a little ‘bye’ pat before leaving the house doesn’t matter if you’re awake or not. if he’s rushing out for training, or going to grab groceries—he leans over, kisses your temple, then mumbles, “see you later,” and rubs slow circles over your belly like it’s his little good luck charm.

[kdh-tally]

Please can you make some zoey x mystery HCs maybe how there respective found familys react to them?

Zoeystery Being Exposed

Prompt : How the boys and girls found out Zoeystery were together. In order of who found out first to who found d out last.

Author's Note : Every time i write something with Abby I switch between him being a cocky himbo and him being an instigator. Today you're getting himbo.

Baby

Knew from the start.

He was literally right there when Zoey called Mystery her type.

Was already wingmanning Mystery before he even realized he had feelings.

Mystery didn’t need to tell Baby, Baby needed to tell him that he was in a relationship.

The two were in their shared room, playing mortal combat. 

Baby was winning a lot quicker than he usually did which meant that Mystery wasn’t trying hard enough. 

He looks over only to see Mystery constantly glancing at his phone. 

He rolls his eyes and pauses the game before opening the device (Face Id works for him lol) and scrolling to his messages.

He sees the last conversation is with Zoey and shoots her a quick text.

This is Baby. Please ask him out so he can focus on the game.

And that is how they both became a couple.

They’re his OTP

Once told Zoey, “Thanks for keeping him from overthinking himself” and he meant it.

Is glad that his favourite huntrix member ended up with his favourite bandmate. 

Will never admit it out loud.

Has a whole collage of embarrassing Mystery selfies saved for blackmail, just in case Zoey needs it.

Also has blackmail photos of Zoey but Mystery doesn’t see them as blackmail.

He thinks they’re all cute photos of the love of his life.

This frustrates Baby 😒

He’s their third wheel.

Literally their child.

They’ll be out on a date and kissing in the front of the car (which Zoey would be driving) and Baby would just be in the back seat. Eating the meal they bought him.

Was helping Zoey sneak into their dorm, and also helped Mystery sneak into the girls dorm, waaaaaaay before the others figured things out.

Mira

Zoey tells her

Mira is super duper good at reading people so she honestly already had a feeling but Zoey just confirmed it.

“So you know Mystery right?”

The second those words leave Zoey’s lips Mira is staring at her, eyes narrowed as she just waits for Zoey to say the final confession.

“We’re kind of together….”

“I KNEW IT–”

Teases Zoey nonstop. 

“You’re smiling at your phone. Is it your demon boyfriend?”

“I don’t tease you when you text Abby and Roman–”

“That’s different!” Mira yells as she throws a pillow to Zoey’s head.

She enjoys seeing Zoey flustered, so she’ll purposely mention Mystery whenever she can.

Sleepovers with Rumi and Zoey become confession sessions.

Mira already knows about what Rumi and Jinu have going on so she focuses on Zoey.

Bombards her with questions that she knows will leave Zoey flustered, but also just to gather more information on the man who stole her heart.

As much as she loves Mystery, she will threaten him for no reason at all.

I feel like Mystery would be most afraid of Mira (after Zoey)

While Rumi gives sweet big sister that will only hurt you if you hurt her family vibes, Mira gives off scary big sister who will hurt you for no reason at all.

“If she cries, you die. I don’t care if you’re already dead. I’ll send you back to hell myself and make sure that even Gwi-ma won’t be able to bring you back.”

Mystery has major respect for Mira and wouldn’t dare cross her. (omg they’re names r literally M and M. eminem lol)

If Zoey ever gets questionable texts from Mystery, or if she wants to send a questionable text to Mystery, she will come to Mira.

“Okay, first of all, he’s down bad. Second, this is like reading a fanfiction–”

PAUSE!

Mira would write fanfic of them

You don’t have to agree with me at all but she feels like their dynamic is so annoyingly soft and she has to put all of those feelings into somewhere!

She has a 103k domestic fluff AU written in her head about both of them.

Rumi

At first she just thought Zoey had a crush on the guy.

She found it suspicious. 

She’s not suspicious because he’s a demon but because of how he behaves….

“You mean the weird demon who growled at a fan? That’s your type?”

“Yes Rumi”

“He glares at the makeup artists for touching your face”

“It’s kinda hot how protective he is 🥰”

“Zoey they were doing their job 😃” 

She was gonna say something else but she sees how sparkly Zoey’s eyes get when talking about him and she keeps her words to herself.

Eventually warms up quickly when she sees how gentle Mystery is with Zoey when no one’s looking.

Remember that scene when the girls went to a scam doctor and he told Zoey that she was too eager to please others?

Yea this definitely bothered Mira and Rumi.

Seeing Zoey babble on to someone who was hanging on to her every word kept them at ease.

Zoey could continue talking for a while 3 hours and Mystery would be able to recite absolutely everything she said word for word.

She thinks they’re soulmates.

Mystery would give Zoey his soul and so would Zoey

They actually helped Rumi get closer to Romance cause she plans dates for them with him and Mira.

As in Romance, Mira and Rumi plan Mystery and Zoey’s dates cause they’re just so adorable.

They go on double dates.

Rumi and Jinu + Mystery and Zoey

Mystery goes Rumi for advice about their relationship

He has no idea how to plan a date, or an anniversary, and he really wants to do something big for Zoey so he comes to one of her big sisters duh!

“What kind of flowers do I buy?”

“Mystery, you know this already. We’ve gone over it 12 times”

“I want it to be perfect,” he huffs all pouty. 

Bro just wants to make his girl happy.

Jinu

Mystery tells him one day after practice.

I saw a POV video of how Jinu recruited the Saja Boys and Jinu was more or less scared of Mystery the entire time so i will be involving that lmao.

“...”

“Are you going to jump me again?” Jinu says as he slowly backs away, eyes narrowed in focus on the silver haired boy.

Mystery scoffs before opening up his phone, pulling up a photo of him and Zoey on what’s obviously a date. His hair is up in the photo, revealing the face Jinu and the other members rarely get to see. 

Jinu looks at the photo in confusion, “Zoey has a boyfriend? I don’t see why you’re showing me this, are you jealous?” a teasing grin grows on his face.

Mystery remembers how dumb Jinu can be and brushes his hair back, then he puts the phone up next to his face.

Jinu looks back and forth before he finally registers it “OH MY GOSH YOU’RE ZOEY’S BOYFRIEND???”

He’s surprised Mystery can pull.

He’s double surprised that he got with a hunter of all people. 

I feel like Jinu would never expect Mystery of all people (other than Baby) to get involved with the hunters. 

Doesn’t see the vision so Rumi has to explain the whole cat!girlfriend x dog!boyfriend aesthetic they present.

I genuinely feel like (other than Baby) Mystery would be the only other member to view Jinu as an older brother/father figure in their lives.

Mystery didn’t 100% need Jinu to approve of his relationship with Zoey but he really REALLY wanted him too. 

Jinu, once he gets over his surprise, is obviously super supportive.

Will give Mystery the talk but would be so awkward about it….

He also gets super protective of Zoey as well since she’s basically family now. 

He already was (since he’s with Rumi lol) 

I feel like he’d present both of them with a small gift to kinda show his acception?

I really think Jinu’s language (other than words of affirmation) is gift-giving.

He made a small hat for his little tiger baby

He gave his soul to Rumi

See the pattern?

He’d give Zoey a ring (PLATONIC!!) seeing as she already has so many so might as well give her more lol

He’ll also give Mystery a ring (he doesn’t realize he literally gave them matching rings)

Romance

He thinks Mystery is lying. 

Romance was watching a kdrama when he decided he needed a snack. He gets up and heads to the kitchen only to see Mystery smiling, phone by his ear as some excited voice rambles on and on on the other end.

He close enough to hear the person on the other line say “I’ll talk to you later babe!” Romance drops his food before slowly turning to look at Mystery. 

“Who was that?

“Zoey”

“Liar”

“I’m not lying”

“Liar” Romance will not believe it. Not because he doesn’t think Mystery can’t pull (If Mystery couldn’t pull he definitely wouldn’t be in the group 💀) He just doesn’t believe he and Zoey of all people would've gotten together.

He gets too invested.

Whenever both groups hang out he watches them both like hawks.

At first he barely sees them interact and is like so Mystery was definitely lying

However, he one day barges into Mystery and Baby’s room to steal one of Baby’s berets only to see both Mystery and Zoey cuddled up on the bed. 

Jaw dropped.

He can’t get a sound out and has to leave before he completely tweaks out.

He rushes into his shared room with Abby and tries to speak but barely can. 

Abby is barely paying him attention (Romance acts out almost every day so this is nothing new).

“How did Mystery get a girlfriend before me?” He’d mumble into the carpet.

Very supportive though.

He thinks they’re cute and will probably team up with Mira and Rumi to send them on the cutest dates ever. 

Like seeing his bandmate happy.

Besides, he also has a new gossip partner

He’s already told all his underworld stories to the boys but now he can share them with Zoey, who will 10000% build off of them and add in stories of her own.

Gossip girls

He loves them.

Abby

No one told him. He figured it out himself.

Remember how I said Romance would complain to Abby about how Mystery got a girl before he did? 

Abby wasn’t really paying attention at the time but it kinda hits later.

“Mystery has a what?–”

He starts watching  Mystery a lot more.

Notice that Mystery willingly goes to the girls' dorm with Baby for no good reason.

He notices Mystery wears his hair up a lot more, seemingly confident in his face.

When both groups hang out he sees Zoey laughing at everything Mystery he says.

Matter of fact, the fact that Mystery was talking was a miracle in itself.

Abby would be home one day by himself and a knock would go off at the door. It’s Zoey returning one of the sweaters he sees Mystery wear all the time???

Another suspicion to add to his list.

He’s actually so close to figuring it out but can’t piece it together.

He’s missed all the signals because he just assumed Mystery was just awkward and unlovable like the rest of them 💀 (demon traumaaaaa)

He’d probably think that Zoey knew who Mystery was seeing and was kinda playing mediator. 

So, he decides to go ask Zoey about it (Romance is being a prick and won’t tell him)

He walks into the Huntr/x dorm, it sounds empty. Before he can say anything he’s greeted with Zoey and Mystery kissing in the kitchen.

Screams.

“I AM SO SORRY!!”

The couple immediately separate. Mystery looks hella annoyed and pissed and Zoey is so embarrassed. 

He runs out of there.

He approves of them but is so ashamed he didn’t realize earlier.

They remind him of this one couple he’d seen in one of the many movies romance had forced him to watch. 

He thinks they’re adorable but unfortunately can’t get that scene out of his head.

Major respect for Mystery.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

F1 Head Cannons

Wedding Day First Dance! 

All 2025 Grid x Fem!Reader

Oscar Piastri

First Dance Song: “Beyond” – Leon Bridges

When the emcee calls for your first dance, Oscar doesn’t say a word. Just stands up from the sweetheart table, offers his hand with that quiet, soft smile—the one he saves just for you—and leads you to the dance floor like you’re the most fragile, important thing he’s ever touched.

The second your arms wind around his neck, his forehead leans against yours. The first lyrics float through the air.

He exhales shakily. “This is really happening.”

You nod, tears already stinging your eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

Oscar’s not a man of many words, but his silence is never empty—it’s full of love. He dances like he’s memorizing every second. His fingers trace patterns on your back while he holds you closer than ever, his heartbeat frantic beneath your palms.

“I think I loved you before I even realized it,” he murmurs, voice raw. “It scared me. Still does.”

You pull back just enough to look him in the eye.

“Don’t be scared,” you whisper. “We’re safe now.”

His lips twitch upward, eyes glassy. “We’re forever now.”

And as the music swells, Oscar holds you like he’s never letting go.

-

Lando Norris

First Dance Song: “Until I Found You” – Stephen Sanchez

Lando practically bounces on his heels waiting for the music to start. He’s already kissed you six times since the ceremony ended. “What if I forgot how to dance?” he teases. “What if I fall?”

“You already did,” you grin. “In love.”

He groans. “Okay, you can’t out-cheese me on our wedding day.”

But then the song begins, and something shifts. The laughter fades. Lando’s hands gently grip your waist, and suddenly it’s just the two of you. His thumbs draw circles on the small of your back, and his eyes soften into something achingly real.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispers.

You blink. “What?”

He shakes his head with a broken laugh. “You walk into my life like a hurricane, and I didn’t even try to stop you. I just let you wreck me.”

You place your hand over his heart.

“Maybe you needed to be wrecked.”

He exhales slowly, then leans in and rests his forehead to yours. “You’re my home.”

You don’t need music. You don’t need an audience. You just need this boy, holding you like he found heaven.

-

Pierre Gasly

First Dance Song: “Adorn” – Miguel

Pierre saunters to the floor with all the confidence in the world—hand out, bow tie slightly undone, charm dialed to ten. “Madame Gasly,” he says smoothly, “may I have this dance?”

You roll your eyes but your stomach flutters anyway. “Don’t drop me.”

“I would never,” he gasps dramatically. “I cherish you far too much.”

But when your hand finds his chest and the music starts, everything slows down. The cocky grin fades. Pierre looks at you like he’s never seen you before.

“You know,” he says, voice lower, more intimate. “I’ve had a lot of nights where I felt like something was missing. And I didn’t know what.”

You blink at him, caught off guard.

“But then I met you,” he says. “And now… it’s like the world finally makes sense.”

You try to reply, but he kisses your hand and gently spins you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as you return to his arms.

“I love you,” he breathes. “With everything.”

And for once, Pierre doesn’t need to perform. He just holds you, lets his heart speak for itself.

——

Alex Albon

First Dance Song: “Yellow” – Coldplay (acoustic)

He’s nervous. You can feel it in the way he squeezes your fingers before walking onto the floor. “Everyone’s staring,” he whispers.

You smile. “Let them. We’re beautiful.”

Alex chuckles and looks down at your joined hands. “You’ve always believed in me more than I believed in myself.”

The lights dim, and Coldplay starts to play—the soft acoustic version that you both cried to the first time you heard it together in bed. Now it’s your wedding song. And he’s crying again.

“I was so scared I’d never deserve something this good,” he murmurs. “But you—you make the whole world feel golden.”

You wrap your arms around him and sway gently, his cheek resting on your head.

“I picked you,” you whisper. “You. Not a trophy. Not a dream. You.”

He pulls back, blinking fast.

“You really mean that?”

“I do.”

He lets out a laugh-sob and spins you clumsily before catching you in his arms.

“I’m yours,” he says. “Forever yellow.”

———

Lewis Hamilton

First Dance Song: “All of Me” – John Legend

Lewis doesn’t move until the first note hits. Then, slowly, he takes your hand, his other hand trembling slightly as it settles on your waist. You can see it—the nerves, the awe, the gratitude.

He doesn’t speak for the first minute. Just breathes you in. His head bows slightly until his forehead rests against yours, and you feel the weight of every year, every heartbreak, every lonely night that led him to you.

“I didn’t think I’d find this,” he says, barely audible. “Not really. Not someone who could… see past everything.”

You hold his face in both hands. “You’re not hard to love, Lewis.”

His eyes brim with tears. “I’ve always been too much. Too loud. Too soft. Too guarded.”

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But not with me.”

He exhales shakily, then presses a kiss to your lips that lingers well past the music. When the song swells, he moves with you in a slow circle, holding you like a man who finally let himself believe in joy.

“This isn’t just a wedding,” he murmurs. “It’s my rebirth.”

———

Charles Leclerc

First Dance Song: “Falling Like the Stars” – James Arthur

He’s been crying since you walked down the aisle. Not sobbing—just quietly falling apart, one tear at a time, like his heart can’t take how much he loves you.

When the music starts, Charles doesn’t take your hand. He pulls you into his arms like he’s afraid the floor beneath him will disappear.

“You’re mine,” he whispers. “You’re really mine.”

His lips brush your forehead. You can feel him shaking.

You look up at him. “Mon amour… are you okay?”

He gives a tearful laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been okay. Not really. Not until you.”

You sway together slowly, his hands tracing your waist with reverence, like he’s memorizing the feel of you. And when the chorus swells—I swear to God when I come home, I’m gonna hold you so close…—he presses his forehead to yours and chokes out, “I want a forever with you.”

You kiss him. “Then take it.”

And he does. Over and over again.

——

Carlos Sainz

First Dance Song: “You Are the Reason” – Calum Scott & Leona Lewis

Carlos stands stiff at first—shoulders tense, trying to hide how emotional he really is. He grips your waist gently, but you can feel it: restraint. Until your fingers lace behind his neck.

“Breathe,” you whisper.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. And then? His whole body softens.

He holds you tighter. Closer. Like the only thing keeping him grounded is your touch.

“You saved me,” he murmurs. “I don’t think you know that.”

You look up. “From what?”

“From becoming someone cold. Someone… alone.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “You made me feel human.”

As the chorus plays, he spins you once, then pulls you back against his chest. “I’ll never let you feel alone again. Not one day of your life.”

And the way he says it, you know it’s a promise he’ll keep until his last breath.

———

George Russell

First Dance Song: “Lover” – Taylor Swift (First Dance Remix)

George is all grins as he offers his hand, eyes shining like champagne in the candlelight.

“Shall we, Mrs. Russell?” he says with the softest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Lead the way.”

He does. He always does—with grace, with pride, with love. He spins you smoothly across the dance floor as if he’s been practicing, and when you land in his arms, he just stares at you for a moment.

“I used to believe in fate,” he whispers. “Then I met you, and I realized fate has nothing on a good choice. And loving you? Was the best choice I’ve ever made.”

Your heart stutters. “You’re really saying this during a Taylor Swift song?”

He laughs and tugs you closer. “You married a romantic, darling. Get used to it.”

When the bridge hits—can I go where you go?—he dips you so gently the crowd swoons. But you’re only looking at him. And he’s only ever been looking at you.

———

Yuki Tsunoda

First Dance Song: “Best Part” – Daniel Caesar & H.E.R.

Yuki tries to act casual—cocking his head, fake-scowling at the DJ when the spotlight hits him. “This is embarrassing,” he mutters under his breath.

“You’re fine,” you tease. “Just dance.”

He exhales and grabs your hand a little too tightly—but then the music starts, and your smile melts him. Like it always does.

“You know I suck at dancing,” he says, cheeks red.

“So?” you grin. “It’s just me.”

And that’s when it hits him—it’s just you. You, in his arms. In that dress. With his ring on your finger. And suddenly, he’s not embarrassed at all.

“You’re everything,” he mumbles, leaning in. “You know that, right?”

You press your forehead to his. “You’re mine.”

When the song fades, he’s still holding you like the world outside the dance floor doesn’t matter. And in his heart, it never will again.

———

Oliver Bearman

First Dance Song: “Enchanted” – Taylor Swift

He’s smiling so hard his dimples hurt. He doesn’t say anything when he holds his hand out to you—just looks completely and utterly stunned that this is real.

The moment your fingers link, he lets out a breathless, “Wow…”

You laugh. “It’s just me.”

He shakes his head instantly. “No. It’s you. You, in that dress. You, with my last name now.”

The song begins—gentle, dreamlike—and his entire expression softens. “I feel like I’m dancing with a fairy tale.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “It is a fairy tale.”

“I was so nervous you’d realize I wasn’t ready,” he murmurs.

“You’re perfect,” you whisper. “You’re my once in a lifetime.”

He presses his lips to your hair. “I’m never letting go.”

And the whole world melts away while you dance.

———

Esteban Ocon

First Dance Song: “Kiss Me” – Dermot Kennedy (acoustic)

Esteban is uncharacteristically quiet when the DJ announces your first dance. He adjusts his tie one more time, swallows thickly, then takes your hand like it’s the first time all over again.

“I practiced,” he admits as he leads you onto the dance floor. “I didn’t want to mess this up.”

“You couldn’t if you tried,” you whisper.

When the music starts, you expect him to joke or flirt—but instead, he just holds you. Sways gently. Eyes locked to yours like you’re the center of his universe.

“You know what I was thinking while you walked down the aisle?” he says softly. “That I would’ve waited a thousand lifetimes just for this one moment with you.”

You tighten your grip on his hand.

“I love you,” he breathes. “With every part of me.”

And as the song crescendos—Kiss me the way that you would if we died tonight—he kisses you so deeply, the whole room disappears.

———

Max Verstappen

First Dance Song: “Forever” – Ben Harper

Max isn’t the type to show emotion in front of everyone. But tonight, as he takes your hand and brings you to the center of the floor, there’s something in his eyes that’s shattering.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he murmurs under his breath. “Not the dance. The… being vulnerable in front of people.”

You wrap your arms around him. “Then just look at me.”

He does. And everything softens.

The music begins—low, slow, full of aching devotion. He holds you tight enough to make your breath catch.

“Loving you,” he whispers, “feels like finally stopping the car after the longest race of my life.”

And when the lyrics echo “Not talking ‘bout a year, no not three or four. I don’t want that kind of forever in my life anymore…” — you see tears slip down his cheek. Silent. Real.

He kisses you slow, like there’s no rush to anything ever again.

———

Lance Stroll

First Dance Song: “Perfect” – Ed Sheeran & Beyoncé Duet

He’s been calm all day—charming, cool, collected. But the second your hands meet in the center of the floor, Lance’s shoulders drop and you see it:

He’s overwhelmed.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He swallows. Nods. “You just look so… you. Like I always imagined you would.”

You’re pulled against his chest as the song begins. He doesn’t try to impress, doesn’t show off. He just holds you gently, the warmth of his palm steady against your lower back.

“I don’t say enough,” he whispers. “How much I love the way you love me. How safe you make me feel. How seen.”

You grip his lapel. “You don’t have to say it. I feel it.”

He rests his forehead to yours. “Still… I need to say it now. I love you. And I’ll never stop proving it.”

———

Nico Hülkenberg

First Dance Song: “How Long Will I Love You” – Ellie Goulding

He chuckles as you walk onto the floor, shaking his head at the cheering crowd.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this in front of people,” he mutters.

“You’ve raced in front of millions,” you grin.

“That’s easy,” he says. “This… this is the scary part.”

The song begins, and Nico falls into rhythm almost too naturally. His hands settle on your back like he’s done this a thousand times in dreams.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I used to think my best years were behind me.”

Your smile fades into something tender.

“And then you showed up. And now I don’t care how old I am. Every year I get with you will be the best one.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re not allowed to make me cry before cake.”

He leans in. “I plan to ruin you for every course tonight, schatz.”

———

Franco Colapinto

First Dance Song: “Te Amo” – Franco de Vita

He pulls you onto the floor with a grin that’s all dimples and nerves.

“Everyone’s watching,” he whispers.

“Let them.”

He exhales shakily as the soft Spanish ballad begins, his hands settling on your waist like it’s the only place they’ve ever belonged.

“I used to dream of this moment,” he says. “Of dancing with the love of my life… at our wedding… somewhere in Argentina maybe.”

“You’re getting sappy,” you tease.

He smiles. “You make me that way.”

When the chorus hits—Te amo… desde el primer momento en que te vi…—he presses his forehead to yours, whispering the lyrics against your lips.

“Mi amor… gracias por elegirme.”

You squeeze his hand. “Siempre.”

And you dance, not like newlyweds, but like soulmates reunited after lifetimes apart.

———

Liam Lawson

First Dance Song: “This Will Be (An Everlasting Love)” – Natalie Cole

The second the upbeat piano kicks in, Liam dips you. Dramatically. People cheer. You gasp.

“What are you doing?!” you laugh.

He smirks. “Setting the tone for the rest of our lives.”

You expect him to mess around the whole time, but once the fun spins settle, Liam brings you in close, his hands warm and steady on your back.

“You make everything better,” he murmurs, so only you can hear. “My worst days. My biggest doubts. My messiest thoughts. You make it all lighter.”

You blink back tears at how serious his voice has gotten. “Liam…”

“I’m not gonna be perfect,” he says quickly. “But I’m always gonna try to deserve this. To deserve you.”

You kiss him then and there—joyous and unapologetic—right as the music swells again.

———

Isack Hadjar

First Dance Song: “Je te laisserai des mots” – Patrick Watson

Isack’s hand trembles when he takes yours. But he doesn’t let go.

He’s not the loudest. Not the flashiest. But when he looks at you under the soft lights of your reception, you feel every ounce of his love.

“You always understood me,” he whispers. “Even when I didn’t know how to explain myself.”

The haunting French ballad starts to play, and Isack exhales slowly, like he’s letting himself finally be seen.

“I’m not good at this stuff,” he admits. “I don’t always have the words.”

You press your hand to his chest. “You don’t need them. I feel it.”

He closes his eyes for a second. Breathes you in. “I’ll spend my whole life finding new ways to say it.”

And he does—without saying anything at all. Just your fingers intertwined, swaying together like poetry in silence.

———

Gabriel Bortoleto

First Dance Song: “Mine” – Bazzi (Acoustic)

“Okay, I’m not gonna cry,” Gabriel says. “I refuse to cry.”

“Already crying,” you whisper, wiping under your eyes as the crowd quiets.

When the music starts, he pulls you in like he’s waited forever. “You’re mine,” he says, almost stunned. “You’re actually my wife.”

“Yup,” you grin. “Signed, sealed, delivered.”

He twirls you lazily before resting his forehead against yours, breathing hard. “You changed everything for me. The way I love. The way I see the world. The way I see myself.”

Your thumb brushes his jaw. “You’ve always been enough.”

He closes his eyes and smiles. “Not until you.”

And then, soft and sacred, he whispers the chorus in your ear—“You so fucking precious when you smile…” —and you swear your heart never beats the same again.

———

Kimi Antonelli

First Dance Song: “Better Half of Me” – Tom Walker

Kimi looks like he’s in a trance. You can tell—he’s overwhelmed. His jaw’s clenched, like he’s holding back a tidal wave.

“Kimi,” you whisper, brushing your fingers over his. “You can breathe. It’s just me.”

He lets out a shuddering breath and looks at you like he’s never looked at anyone before.

“I don’t know what I did to earn you,” he admits. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life being worthy.”

You bury your face in his neck as the song plays—soft, aching, full of raw emotion.

When the line hits—And if you ever leave me, baby, leave some morphine at my door—he holds you tighter.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says, voice barely there. “Not in this lifetime. Not in the next.”

——

Fernando Alonso

First Dance Song: “Make You Feel My Love” – Adele

He kisses your hand first. Doesn’t speak. Just guides you to the center of the floor like it’s holy.

The music begins, and Fernando looks down at you with eyes that have lived a thousand lives—but never this one. Not with you.

“I’ve loved before,” he says. “But never like this. Never with every part of me.”

You feel your breath hitch.

“I know I’m not easy,” he continues softly. “But I will never stop choosing you.”

You don’t reply. You just wrap your arms around him and let him lead. And as the chorus plays—No, there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do, to make you feel my love—he whispers those words against your skin.

Over and over again.