#so seeing someone do this and start to waver | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xylatox · 2 days ago

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Fragile! Handle With Care, Sir || psh

I am finally getting to read this oh my god. I am such a happy camper today because ive been literally thinking about this for days.

Before I even start, seeing reader is an unreliable narrator made me giggle omg what is going to happen.

“I just— I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ll be fine.”

I love how casual he is about it, like its absolutely nothing

It is the kind of space people inherit, not rent — where artists live when they can afford to treat their work like a mood, not a career.

Oh to be a rich artist who can do this and watch birds <//3

But I needed the money, desperately. Rent was overdue, my fridge was empty, and my pride didn’t stretch nearly as far as my bills.

This line ate i fear

Also mc is cute and shy i wanna eat her up

Just as I moved to take another step, he spoke. “Here, let me take your coat,” I pause, my fingers twitch at the top button, slow and clumsy, too aware of his eyes on my hands.

And hes a gentleman ugh <//3

“— or something stronger, if you need it.”

I was taking something stronger I cant lie, i would not be able to do that sober

Sharper, denser. Male torsos bent in half-light, male hands twisted in motion — uncanny in their intimacy — as if he had studied his own in the dark, again and again.

Oh this is good ugh (i maybe be a bit obsessed with the idea of hoon studying himself)

“You’re doing well,” he says before I can finish. “You carry tension in beautiful places.”

Literally want oh fuck out loud😭😭😭bro i genuinely would never be able to handle this and he calls her PRETTY OH MY GOD. HE FLIRTS LIKE SYCH AN ARTIST I CANT DO THIS

“That’s good,” he adds, eyes locked back on the page. “You’re responsive.” A pause as his pencil moves again, “raw emotions make better art.” His voice doesn’t waver, it never fucking does. It’s detached like he can afford to look at me like a part of his project now.

Istg i will jump this man like a rabid dog what the fuck sunghoon

“You’re more than welcome to come back.” he said, opening the door for me. The light from the hallway spills in. I step through it, the envelope still clutched in both hands.

Would have him right there immediately

Also the little paintbrushes being the separations are so darn cute ::( and the tension after the first session is so high i think i might go insane

His sleeves were rolled higher today, exposing the sinewy shape of his forearms which are smudged faintly with graphite.

Someone hold me back <///3

“Just hold this one a little longer, darling.”

Oh my god

they don’t ache like you do.”

Oh holy fuck, berry??????

A corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “Second time,” he murmurs, more observation than accusation, like he’s keeping score. “You’re consistent, at least.”

HELLO??? MAY THE WORLD SWALLOW ME WHOLE

“So fucking desperate,” He leaned in, voice indulgent near my ear. “all this from a couple of words?”

I will pass out (shes so real for reacting like this)

“Every time you tremble, I get a better line out of you.” he said, his breath fanning my shoulder. “I mean, just look at you,”

AHHHHH?????

“No brushstroke could ever capture this.”

Man i love this so much ugh

“I’ve already seen all of you, love.” His words wrap around me like a reminder: I’m already laid bare — in ink, in memory, in him.

Im so giggle i love him😭😭I am such a loser for artists for real

“They’re mine,” he says, like a truth he’s living with. “You gave them to me. You don’t need to see how I see you.”

I fear this was kinda hot

Slipping from my stool with a slow, careful grace, I sink to the floor between his legs. The room feels different from down here, colder somehow. He blinks down at me before his brow lifts, curious. My hands hover near his inner thighs, not yet daring to touch. “Like this?” I look up at him through my lashes.

HELLO???? FORGET HOON I WANT HER <////3

“You’re adorable to think I’d care about a boyfriend.” he chuckled, pushing it past my lips, “he should’ve held on tighter.”

?!?!?!? SUNGHOON??

Was the praise for the pose or for what came after? I didn’t know…

Oh im so normal about this

BRO. The fruit scene was so intimate oh my holy fuck actually, i cant do this i need him

And the prompt?? Cool as hell wtf

Loving how needy mc is actually oh my god

“If I fucked you like I want to,” he said finally, voice dropping into something more intimate, “you wouldn’t be able to pose tomorrow.”

Need him so bad i cant even hide it anymore

“Patience, precious. I’ve waited longer for things worth less.”

I cant oh my god

. “Flattering… but wrong,” he murmured, voice low and playful. “You really think he listens to you more than I do?” His words hung in the air, I tried responding but it came out as a whimper.

MY JAW DROPPED AT THIS LINE HOLY SHIT

if God saw you like I do, He’d set the sky ablaze out of pure jealousy.”

I am going to pass out

“You’re more than any prompt could ever ask.”

The way im so giggly at the end, berry im so glad i finally got to sit and read this oh my god, it was so good😭😭😭 i need to read this again istg, i need him so bad

Fragile! Handle With Care, Sir.

Synopsis: Money’s tight. That’s the beginning and the end of it — the reason you find yourself responding to an anonymous ad on a dusty forum thread. "Female nude figure model needed — discreet, well-compensated, urgent" is all you remember from it. You didn’t expect much. Definitely not him… and definitely not returning, over and over. He tells you it’s academic — your face, your form, your flush. But what began as art turns into obsession. He touches like he’s still studying you — Every gasp, every shiver, every drip he’s cataloging. He talks to you like you’re a masterpiece he hasn’t finished. Like he’s not done carving you open. You're no longer just his study. You’re his favorite piece that he can’t stop refining.

Word count: 14.6k

Pairing: art major!Sunghoon × nude model / muse!reader

Warnings: university art major au, smut centered (MDNI), dark themes (???), reader is an unreliable narrator, unprofessional relationship, size kink, oral sex (m!rec), fingering (f!rec), power dynamics, age difference, yn called him ‘sir’, nicknames (darling, precious, sweetheart, etc), soft dom!Sunghoon x sub!reader, yn loves to be praised a little too much, yn kinda becomes a little bratty at the end bccc why not hehe, obsession (on both sides), both are insane and unhinged actually sorry (not sorry), light degradation / praise & humiliation kink, hoon is nice pinky promise, grinding (on a chair), cum play / swallowing / smearing / creampie (i hate this word), exhibitionism / being watched / put on display, edging / delayed orgasm / denial, overstimulation, v in p, unprotected sex, bulge kink / breeding kink, we still have the aftercare promiseee

a/n: RE-read and take the warnings veryyyy seriously, yall know i commit to my themes lol. I did have to take out some scenes because frankly it was getting so long and I couldn't stfu sooo. I'm not 100% proud of the writing or story telling or the pacing, i was so overwhelmed by it that i stopped taking it seriously LMAO but im still posting it either way bc fuck it, i cant leave you guys hanging. A special thank you to my lovely lovely lovely moots and dear friends @hoonieyun and @orxngebloods you guys helped me push thru this even tho I wanted to burn it with me in it LMAO thank you so so so much <3

Taglist: @hoonieyun @rosepetals09 @xylatox @seungsoftly @bxcndd @kireistrawberryjayla @hoonkishoe @luvyou2ooo @orxngebloods @cutehoons02 @kaiaonsaturn @ddeonuswife @ambi01 @yukisroom97 @berryzoo @geniejunn @toastmenace @snowprincehoon @annovaz @enhaheart8 @dark-moon-light02 @tobiosbbyghorl @ikeuheartz @heelovesmeknot @pjselee @zoe1love @sunooqvrlsx @girlwholovekpop @enhawonnie @juliejulesjule @whateverhoon @luvchaew @hoonieyun @ikeuheartz @heekolazz @wiccangirl29 @pshfan0812 @orxngebloods @seungsoftly @tian-zu @yooonjnng (comment if you want me to add / remove you from the list <3)

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“You’re not messing with me, right?”

I must’ve asked him three times by now if this was real. My voice shaky over the line, my fingers tight around the phone. I’d just come off a double shift, still in my uniform, pacing the corner of my small kitchen with a half-dead phone pressed to my cheek. He didn’t laugh, just responded with that flat, almost bored voice.

“Why would I bother?”

I found the ad three nights ago, scrolling the university forum during a bout of 3 a.m. financial anxiety. The ad didn’t say much, just a phone number and those couple of words: ‘Female nude figure model needed — discreet, well-compensated, urgent’. It was anonymous, but the tone was unmistakable. Clean. Cold. Borderline rude. It sounded exactly like him. It should’ve raised alarm bells, yet they were easy to ignore in the haze of overdue bills and late shifts. Desperation has a way of softening the sharp edges of good judgment.

“I just— I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ll be fine.”

It wasn't reassurance. Instead it was a verdict, like something he already decided. That phone call had been short and efficient. His voice was oddly calm like someone confirming an appointment, and not asking a stranger to undress in front of him. He didn’t try to convince me — just answered questions like it was a practiced drill. Like my uncertainty was the only variable that’s still lagging in a process already set in motion.

The stairs leading up to his apartment are wide and spiral, wrapped in an ornate iron banister that’s chipped at the edges but still elegant. The metal scrolls are cool beneath my fingertips, worn smooth where hundreds of hands must’ve passed. They wind upward around a hollow column of air that smells faintly of turpentine, varnish and something more expensive — maybe cologne? maybe leather-bound books and red wine that’s bled into wood? Your guess is as good as mine.

The wallpaper is floral, pale green and ivory, faded in places like they were left too long in the sun. Dust clings to the edges where the ceiling stretches impossibly high, catching light from a chandelier I can’t see but know is there — because everything in this building feels curated, not decorated.

My boots echo softly with every step. It’s the kind of silence that carries its own gravity. The hush that says the people who live here were raised not to rush. As I move forward, as I climb higher, there are fewer sounds and fewer lights. More velvet, more shadow.

It is the kind of space people inherit, not rent — where artists live when they can afford to treat their work like a mood, not a career.

The same post-it note was still in my hands, the one with his address scrawled in my rushed handwriting, the ink slightly smeared from when I’d written it down in the middle of our phone call. Rain had gotten to it on the walk here, turning some of the lines into soft blurs. I kept it folded in my pocket, it was unimpeachable like it was a contract. The corners had gone soft from being folded and unfolded, smoothed over with my anxious fingertips in the fluorescent light of the train. I must’ve checked it ten times on the way here, as if the numbers might shift or vanish.

I should’ve laughed and said ‘I made a mistake’, hung up the phone and gone back to scrolling through job boards that paid ten dollars an hour to smile behind a register. That would’ve been the sane, safe thing to do. But I needed the money, desperately. Rent was overdue, my fridge was empty, and my pride didn’t stretch nearly as far as my bills. So instead of hanging up, I swallowed whatever hesitation I had left and asked for the address, and he gave it to me like he already knew I’d come.

“Bellgrave Residences. 62 Linden Street. Suite 701. Top floor. White door. You'll know it when you see it.”

I stop at the top floor, heart thudding as I come face to face with the door marked ‘Suite 701’, the numbers screaming at me in serif gold. White door, brass handle… just like he said. But what he didn’t mention was the nameplate below it. A slim, engraved plaque: ‘Park Sunghoon’. His name also looks cold when etched in metal. Enough to remind you he lives in a place where names matter.

I check the post-it note again, even though I already know the number by heart at this point. I’ve read it so many fucking times it’s burned into the inside of my eyelids. With one deep breath, maybe even my last from how hard my heart is pounding behind my eyes, I lifted my hand and knocked on the lacquered wood.

The door opens after two knocks with a soft click of an expensive lock turning, my pulse and nerves were the first to answer back in my throat. He came into frame in the low light and for a second, all I could register was the shape of him. Broad, strong looking shoulders framed by a dark button-up shirt — sleeves rolled, collar loose, wrists bare. He didn't just stand, he held space in a way that made the air feel tighter. There’s no smile from him, just a subtle lift of the brow.

“Y/N?” he asked, his voice is smoother in person, though still unreadable. The same light from inside casts him in a halo of soft gold, warming the sharp lines of his pale face. It makes him look almost gentle, until you meet his stiff eyes — detached, too observant. I can’t tell if I’m more intimidated or embarrassed under his gaze.

Great fucking start… I'm already on edge when fully clothed in front of him. How the fuck am I supposed to stand naked in front of him?

I nod. “Hi, yes. This is for the…” I trailed off, suddenly unsure what to call this. My fingers tighten slightly around the strap of my work bag. “The modeling.” I finished quieter. He doesn’t say anything at first, the silence hangs awkwardly while he watches me, making me too aware of myself — how I’m standing, breathing, inevitably making me shift my weight on the heels of my boots. God, why does this feel like a test?

“You found it alright, come in.” He opens the door wider, stepping aside to let me in.

I step past him, careful not to brush against his shoulder. The warmth from inside wraps around me as soon as I cross the threshold, a quiet shift from hallway chill. The air inside is thicker than it was in the hall — not stuffy, exactly, but heavier. Like it’s been holding its breath all day. That soft orange glow from the lamp deepens now that I’ve stepped inside, blooming against the darker corners of the room.

“Shoes, if you don’t mind,” he spoke up as he clicked the door behind me shut.

“Right, sorry.” I mumbled, already crouching to slip them off. The apology came out fast and automatic like muscle memory, like every customer service job I’ve ever worked has drilled into my mouth. My fingers fumbled at the laces, I tried not to look as frantic as I felt. The socks were embarrassingly mismatched — one navy, one pale pink with a fading cuff. I tucked one foot behind the other instinctively, hoping he wouldn’t notice. He probably did.

That’s what happens when you’re stretched too thin — rushing between jobs, surviving off borrowed hours. Some things just slip. The dark wood beneath me is polished and cool against the soles of my feet. I take a careful step and my socks glide a little. It’s almost too smooth, frictionless. It felt like walking on glass.

Just as I moved to take another step, he spoke. “Here, let me take your coat,” I pause, my fingers twitch at the top button, slow and clumsy, too aware of his eyes on my hands. The wool is still warm from my body. I manage to undo the last clasp, and before I can shrug it off fully, his hands are already there to ease the weight from my shoulders.

He’s close now, close enough that I catch it — something faint clinging to his collar. Clean linen, maybe a hint of bergamot. Not heavy or sprayed, it’s the kind of scent that comes from fabric softener that bakes into the fabric. Subtle, masculine. He folds the coat neatly over his arm. “I’ll hang this up,” he says, already turning away.

“Please, go in.” He gestures lightly toward the interior of the apartment. “Tea?” he asks over his shoulder, already halfway down the hallway before I can answer. His voice carries easily through the tall ceilings, pale walls, and that low golden light from the autumn dusk bleeding through sheer curtains. A velvet couch sits near the window, deep green and sunk into slightly at one side. There’s a stack of well-used sketchbooks on the floor beside it, carelessly neat, like they live there. “— or something stronger, if you need it.”

“Tea is great,” I responded, something stronger might actually dissolve me into the floor right now. I don’t trust my nerves with anything more volatile than caffeine. Carefully, I sat at the edge of a chair that probably costs more than my entire month’s rent. My hands are folded in my lap, trying not to fidget and look like someone who answered an anonymous ad for cash.

And I did. I'm that someone. I’m sitting in a stranger’s apartment, waiting to take my clothes off like it’s a transaction I’m qualified for.

Jesus, what the fuck am I doing here?

The thought comes hard like I’ve been holding it off all night and it finally crashes through. The palms of my folded hands are suddenly damped. I shouldn't have come — or maybe I should’ve thought it through, at least.

I try to breathe. The space helps, strangely — not by calming me, but by giving me something else to focus on. The air carries a scent that’s difficult to name but impossible to ignore — the soft residue of things once warm: dried mint, cedar, maybe a blend from whatever he wears or drinks. It is soaked in the corners of the room, woven into the fabric of the curtains, the grain of the floorboards. Underneath it all, there’s the dry, fibrous tang of canvas — that raw, papery smell of linen stretched too tight. A hint of old pigment, maybe gesso. Like the room itself has been painted a hundred times and remembers every stroke.

A tall folding privacy screen stands near the window, its wooden panels carved in delicate patterns, edges worn smooth by time. The lacquer of the divider is faded in place. Beside it, a low leather chaise rests in shadow — scuffed, sun-softened, the kind of furniture that remembers every body that’s sunk into it.

When he returns, it’s with two ceramic mugs balanced easily in his hands, no tray or sugar bowl. He sets one down on the low table in front of me. His sleeve pulls back just enough to show the cut of his forearm — lean, steady muscle under smooth skin. Strong without trying. You can tell by how quiet his movements are, but never rushed. Just a controlled man. The tea smells faintly floral.

“Today’s just a try-out,” he says. His tone is steady, like a slow pour. A kind of calm professionalism that still manages to land gently. “Just to see if we’re a good fit. You’re free to leave whenever you need to.”

I nod once. “Okay.”

Sunghoon studies me for a moment with his hands in the pockets of his pants, then gives a short nod of acknowledgement. He turns and I follow his gaze toward the far side of the room, where the light falls into a soft yellow behind the sheer curtains. The windows stretch nearly to the ceiling, but most of them are covered, the outside world blurred into a sea of suggestions.

“May I ask why you need this so badly?” I say it carefully — not confrontational, but curious. My voice is softer than I mean it to be, careful in the way you are with someone you don’t know how to read yet. “You make it sound… important.”

“I’m a final-year at Daeho,” he says as he walks, not looking back. His voice is level, but there’s no warmth in it. Just clarity. “This series is for my graduating portfolio. If I don’t finish it, I won't walk.” He says it plainly, as if it’s simple math: no model, no final, no diploma.

“And I’m behind.”

So this isn’t just ambition. It’s pressure and fear of consequences. However, being behind doesn’t seem like just a deadline problem — it looks like something that presses heavily against his pride. Like this work isn’t just academic, It’s essential. As if finishing it is the only way he knows how to stay intact.

I watch his back. Steady, absurdly straight, full — like posture was drilled into him young and never unlearned. The way his sharp shoulder blades moved under the fabric, the narrowing where it meets his waist made it hard not to stare. Ridiculously composed. Like even the way he stands is intentional.

He gestures toward the folding screen. “You can change there. Robe’s clean.” His tone is dry, like he’s keeping a careful distance from anything too personal.

I just got up and stepped behind the divider, it creaked softly as I moved. On the wall inside hangs a slate gray robe — well-worn, freshly folded over a brass hook. I hesitate for a beat because I don’t know if it’s his or something he keeps for these types of occasions. The idea that other people might have worn it makes my stomach tighten… but it smells like him, that same bergamot smell. Like breath on a collarbone. I start unbuttoning with unsteady fingers. Every movement feels twice as heavy behind the screen — the slip of fabric, the tiny clinks of metal of my jeans. I don’t know if he can hear, why does it even matter? He will see everything in a couple minutes.

My clothes slide to the floor piece by piece. There’s something strange about undressing in someone else’s quiet. Like each layer isn’t just clothing, but some flimsy shield I’d rather not admit I need. By the time I slip into the robe, my heart is hammering against the inside of it.

It fits — just barely. A little too big. Probably meant for him — it makes more sense on a body like his that holds space. The sleeves fall past my wrists, and the hem brushes the tops of my knees. I exhale, and it smells more like him now that it's warmed by my skin. From the other side of the screen, I hear the shuffle of papers, the scratch of charcoal against canvas. Already working and thinking in lines and shadows.

Of course he is.

When I step out slowly, he doesn’t look at me right away. Just moves toward the easel like this is routine — just another class, just another figure to study, just another pose to capture. There’s no shift in his expression, no flicker of surprise. Just the efficiency of someone who’s done this before.

Am I the one overthinking this?

He sets down a thick sketchpad with a gentle rustle. The stool in front of it is simple, dark wood polished smooth at the seat’s edge. There’s a single overhead lamp angled toward the center of the room, casting a low, warm pool of light over where I’ll sit. Everything else falls into a soft shadow, unfocused.

“Whenever you're ready,” he murmurs, still not quite facing me. “No rush.” His hand lifts to adjust the lamp, just a few degrees. Then the angle of the easel… then his stool, sliding half an inch left. I realize he’s giving me time, turning his back while I decide what to do.

Deep breath.

Fuck around and find out, I guess.

I slip the robe open, the fabric tugging light at my wrists as it falls. My skin prickles at the change in temperature, or maybe it’s just the muteness in the room. My pulse feels impossibly loud in my ears, making it hard to hear anything else in the studio. The seat is cold, too bare beneath me. I exhale slowly, trying to let go of whatever tension is gripping the back of my neck, trying not to shuffle with any of my limbs.

“All right,” he says, leaning back. “Let’s begin with something natural.” I nod while looking at the floor, not trusting my voice or my eyes. I just shift into the pose he’s asked for: simply sitting. Then, the scraping of charcoal bagin — that soft, scratchy drag of it over paper.

I can feel the weight of his attention. It’s not loud, It doesn’t demand… but it’s absolute. Every part of me feels watched — not in the way men usually watch women, but in a way that’s somehow worse. Deeper. Smarter. Like he’s not just seeing me, but computing shadows on my skin, calculating every angle of light falling off my waist. The kind of gaze that isn’t greedy, but exacting. It makes my chest feel too open.

He sees too much.

His stare isn’t lecherous either. It’s terrifyingly focused — the kind of focus you give to something you don’t want to ruin by blinking. And maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s just an artist doing his job. Regardless, it still makes me want to look anywhere else. Out of sight, out of mind.

My eyes drift around the apartment — if he's observing me, so will I. Your room reflects your mind after all. If there’s one word for his studio, it’s cluttered — but not carelessly, there’s a method to it. It's the kind of clutter that only looks chaotic to someone who doesn’t live inside it. Every surface holds something: pencils, brushes, old sketchbooks with frayed corners, empty mugs and wine glasses, rolls of paper held down by chipped ceramic weights.

There were canvases leaning against the walls in loose stacks — some blank, others smudged with the early shadows of figures in progress. Some sheets had begun to peel back, as if trying to escape the surface they'd been pinned to. The tools are old-school: graphite, pastels, palette knives and abandoned old brushes in jars of murky water. Everything looks expensive, used but cared for.

Even his mess has structure.

The pieces that are stuck onto the muted walls are unframed and almost all rendered in charcoal, thick and smudged, edges blurred like smoke. Some are tacked up carelessly, others are more composed — stark lines, dramatic contrast, unfinished limbs trailing into white space.

And then I realized something… most of them aren’t women.

Figures, yes. Bodies, lots of them. But the musculature is different. Sharper, denser. Male torsos bent in half-light, male hands twisted in motion — uncanny in their intimacy — as if he had studied his own in the dark, again and again. A few portraits, hollow-eyed and tired-looking, all bearing the same signature strain. But women — soft shapes, breasts, hips — I hardly see them. Maybe one if I squint.

Is this why he posted the ad? Maybe that’s what he wanted. Something he didn’t usually draw, something different. Or maybe something he couldn’t look at for long without it getting complicated. He doesn’t interrupt my wandering thoughts, doesn’t rush and just keeps sketching.

The grainy sound of charcoal dragging across paper is the only thing filling the space. He sharpens his charcoal pencils obsessively, even though the tip is already razor-thin. His movements are methodical, like the repetitive act soothes something restless inside him. The tiny shaving of wood curls onto the floor, a soft testament to his need for control. I can’t help but watch — the way his wide fingers cradle the pencil, how his eyes flicker with something unspoken every time he leans closer to his work. Somehow, I know: he draws like this all the time.

He shifts in his chair only occasionally, but each time he does, it’s for a reason. When he reaches for a new pencil, it is as if it’s an extension of his own hand. He tilts his head, adjusts the angle of the sketchpad just so, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he studies the lines he’s drawn. There’s a rhythm to it: draw, pause, correct, erase, redraw — an unspoken dialogue between the artist and his canvas.

He rose from his stool with a soft scrape against the polished floor. From where I sat, it felt like he suddenly grew taller — like the air around him stretched upward. His gaze stayed locked on the sketchbook in his hands until the very last second, not betraying any flicker of distraction or hesitation. He moved with that same assured confidence he’d had when he opened the door, not flustered by the naked girl in front of him. “The next position is a bit softer.”

His touch is practiced, clinical, impersonal in theory. One hand slips beneath my arm to nudge my elbow higher; the other settles briefly at my shoulder, coaxing it downward with the gentlest encouragement. His fingertips are ice cold, but the pressure is barely there, it’s more of a suggestion than force. It's from knowing exactly how the body should look in stillness. All I can focus on is the faint scent of charcoal on his sleeves, the soft rustle of his shirt as he shifts.

When his hand grazes the side of my ribcage to adjust the curve of my spine — a fleeting, featherlight contact meant only to guide the curve of my back. A flush creeps up my neck before I can stop it. I shift just slightly, a reflex more than a choice. It’s barely a movement, but I know he caught it. He notices everything.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, so close I feel it more than hear it, a breath brushing the nape of my neck.

“I’m sorry —”

“You’re doing well,” he says before I can finish. “You carry tension in beautiful places.” His fingers ghost along my jaw, just adjusting the angle of my face. Ironically, heat pools beneath my skin where his cold fingertips are, a stain only I can feel. “Just stay still, pretty.” My breath stutters. I hear it, loud in my own ears. My hands stay where he placed them, but my pulse has migrated: behind my knees, in the hollow of my throat, in my inner thighs. “Your lines are clean,” he continues, almost to himself, the way someone might admire the grain of marble before the chisel falls. “It would be a shame if I couldn’t capture them.”

The pad of his thumb, smudged dark from charcoal, presses lightly against my cheekbone. it dragged a shadow streak across my skin in a slow, downward arc. Not rough, not tender either. Like sketching without paper. His gaze shifts into thoughtfulness, maybe, with amusement held close to the chest.

“You look better in charcoal,” he said, absently. But it lands somewhere deeper in me — warmer than a compliment, heavier than praise: I look better in his favorite medium. The smudge on my face felt like an afterimage, like he signed something that doesn’t belong to him yet.

He steps back without another word or glance. Just the scrape of his stool against the floor once again as he sinks back into it.

Silence.

There is silence over my racing heart that is not empty, but dense. A silence that settles and that stretches between us like drawn fabric, close enough to touch but never quite folding in. He returns to his work like nothing happened, pencil moving across paper with his rhythm of habit. I feel the weight of his attention feels heavier now, like he’s not just sketching me — now he’s studying what his touch did.

I’m holding the pose, muscles tight where they need to be, but something else is stirring beneath the surface — not pain, not discomfort, just a gentle pressure, like a quiet heat pressing from the inside out on my lower belly. My breath catches more often than it should. Each inhale is shallower, each exhale trembles on the edge of something unnamed. The air feels thicker now, like it’s pressing closer. Where his charcoal-stained fingers brushed me before, my skin tingles, like the touch is still there, like it’s waiting to be followed up, alive in the wake of his touch.

I try to push the feeling away, to focus on the lines, the light, the shadow — but it deepens instead. It even curls in my stomach. I am both here and somewhere else — caught between the careful discipline of the pose and the slow, building heat that demands my attention and his.

He shifts in his seat, the scratch of charcoal pausing mid-stroke. His gaze lowers to where the soft crease of my thighs parts just barely. A subtle sheen catches in his eyes. In that clipped tone which carries no judgment or surprise, just observation, “you’re wet.”

He said it like he identified a symptom on my body or noting a detail of anatomy. My breath stilled, I didn’t know if I’d imagined it or if I heard him right. But the slick between my thighs pulses with sudden awareness, undeniable now that it's been named, like it was asking to be noticed now.

I swallow hard, cheeks flushing, caught off guard by his bluntness and the truth in it. “Forgive me, I —” I began, voice unsteady around the syllables. “I don’t know what happened —”

But I haven’t detached from the sheer embarrassment of being wet and needy in front of a stranger. The air feels thick against my skin. Each breath feels noticed by him, and I hate that I know he sees it — the way I fidget at the corners, the way my thighs tense ever so slightly making the drippings louder with that squelching sound. God fucking damn it…

Why is my body embarrassing me? It's not fair. It's as if it responded to him before my mind had a chance to catch up, a silent surrender I hadn’t planned. I don’t even know what it’s responding to — his voice? His eyes? His hands? I shift slightly, not enough to break the pose, but enough to feel just how hypersensitive my cunt has become against the open air. I’m too aware of every inch of myself. Too aware that he is aware.

However, none of this seemed to outweigh the way I only saw green. Green as in money. Green as in rent paid. Green as in keeping my head above water.

So I let him draw.

Let myself be looked at.

-*-

It ends the moment he said, “That’s all for tonight. You can cover up now.” He didn’t look at me when he said it. His focus stays on the easel, on the page.

Still, I nodded and pushed myself to stand with muscles I hadn’t realized were shaking by now. I try not to rush toward the folding screen, even though every nerve in my body screams to. I folded the robe neatly, carefully, placing it back on the hook like that small gesture will buy me back some dignity.

Sliding my panties up is the hard part — the fabric catches, making me freeze. They're already damp. Not just warm, but wet enough to make my cheeks go hot again. God, what did this man even do for me to get like this? My jeans feel cooler against my skin when I pull them on, clinging where I don't want them to.

As I finished lacing up my boots by the front door, I saw him appear from my peripheral with a sealed envelope in his hand. “There’s more than we discussed.” he said, offering it out.

I blink in surprise, accepting it with both hands. And indeed, the envelope is thick, heavier than I anticipated. “You were better than I expected,” he adds after a moment; meeting my eyes with quiet sincerity, I feel the weight of both the envelope and his words settle in me. I murmured an instinctive ‘thank you’, unsure where to look, unsure what this exchange even means anymore.

“You’re more than welcome to come back.” he said, opening the door for me. The light from the hallway spills in. I step through it, the envelope still clutched in both hands.

That should’ve been the first and last time I saw him.

-🖌-

I called him two days later. It rang once, twice.

When I heard his voice answer — that calm, unreadable tone that never seemed to ask for anything — I realized I’d already made up my mind. He didn’t sound shocked. “Same time?”

His apartment looked the same, of course — but it felt different this time, less overwhelming and didn’t hit me like a wave. It unfolded slowly and surely. It's a place I was allowed to see with new eyes. I began to see the layers between his strokes. The hush between objects had a kind of elegance to it, like even the silence was curated. His apartment made the world outside feel far, far away.

I noticed things I hadn’t before: books lined along a wall, some with their spines cracked and faded, others stacked haphazardly near a lamp that never seemed to be on. Old film canisters sat unlabeled on a shelf, next to a closed sketchbook weighed down by a river stone. There were candles too, their wax pooled but not yet set. There was a record spinning softly when I came in — I didn't recognize the music… must be something from his time, not mine.

When I arrived, he greeted me with an almost absentminded politeness, like he was already halfway somewhere else in his mind. There was no warmth, but no coldness either — just a kind of practiced detachment. He didn’t say much after, just gestured toward the familiar folding screen I’d come to associate with him.

His sleeves were rolled higher today, exposing the sinewy shape of his forearms which are smudged faintly with graphite. there were little smudges near his wrist, near the crook of his elbow. The wire frames of his glasses didn’t soften him. If anything, they made him look more severe. As if they weren’t meant to only correct his vision, but to narrow it — to focus it like a blade. Still, his posture carried that same soft-spoken certainty — the quiet command of someone who never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed.

The poses he gave me were different this time. Longer, for sure. Less forgiving, more demanding. Some of them bordered on awkward — not indecent or lewd but definitely meant for his eyes alone. Posed and exposed.

One of them had my spine twisted slightly to the left. My hands were placed behind me, pressed to the edge of the stool. Another one had one of knees up, the other angled down to the floor. One had my weight tilted back onto my hands, shoulders drawn, ribs visible. There was just the sound of his pencils working and the occasional instruction:

“Chin down.”

“A little more to the left. Yes, just like that.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“Good.”

My muscles were still getting used to the strain. I tried to mask a wince, but during one of the longer poses, just a sharp breath slipped through my nose as my shoulder locked a little too tight. His pencil paused. “Are you alright?” His voice, for once, held something softer than precision.

“Yeah. Just… sore.” I tried to roll my shoulders a bit without losing the line of the pose.

He stood, his tall build crossed the room in only a couple steps. “I’ll let you take a break in a moment,” he said, pausing beside me. “Just hold this one a little longer, darling.”

Just like the first time, his charcoal-dusted fingers lifted to my face, grazing the curve of my jaw. His hand was so large, but his touch was light. The contact sent a nervous flicker through my stomach, wings beating at my ribs like startled butterflies. The nickname was the kind you earned by being in someone’s hands, someone’s head — not by name, but by shape. By presence. By body.

He tilted my chin slightly, guiding me back into the angle he wanted. The weight of his attention wrapped around my throat like a second robe, too tight to allow words to come out. My skin prickled in places I didn’t know could react to a word or a touch.

So I held still.

He gave a small, almost amused smile, like he found my hesitation endearing and a little entertaining, like a joke only he was in on. Not cruel, more like he was curiously unwrapping a delicate gift. “You’re not used to being looked at like this, are you?”

I bit the inside of my reddened cheeks, making the heat spread down my neck. “No, sir.”

“Mhm,” he just responded, sliding back into his seat with the ease of a man who owned this space and every quiet moment within it. “Don't worry, you will get used to it.”

Being naked in front of a whole art classroom — strangers, students, and all — felt easier somehow. Easier than being completely bare and vulnerable in front of him — someone who saw every curve and shadow, who could read the secret language of my body better than I ever could.

After a pause that stretched just long enough to make my heart skip, he finally breaks the silence. “May I be honest with you?”

I look over at him from the side of my eye, not wanting to break the pose he just placed me in. He leans back slightly, eyes tracing some invisible line on the paper, not meeting my eyes. “I tried to sketch someone else a couple days ago. But...” He admits. “It physically repulsed me.” The sincerity caught me off guard, not because there was malice in it, but because he was very genuine with what he was saying. His gaze finally met mine, “they don’t ache like you do.”

A sudden rush of pride blooms in my chest. I should feel ashamed — but how could I? Finding satisfaction in being this vulnerably bare should feel like defeat, but instead, it feels like a secret victory. I'm starting to notice not only by his words but also from the way he looks at me, like I’m more than just a body to sketch and that I carry something he can’t put into charcoal but wants to capture anyway.

That fierce pulse in my chest settles. My fingers curl slightly in my lap, trying to contain the fluttering that’s spreading, luring me. I shift slightly on the stool, trying to refocus, but it happens before I can stop it — a subtle change, a flicker of want that tightens everything. The slippery mess of my cunt returns, slowly leaking down.

Fucking again. It’s maddening how involuntary it is. Like something beneath my skin has decided for me.

He glances up from his sketchpad, then down again, making his pencil pauses mid-line. A corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “Second time,” he murmurs, more observation than accusation, like he’s keeping score. “You’re consistent, at least.”

“I— I don’t know what’s happening,” I manage, voice barely above a whisper. “I swear, I’m not usually like this.”

He hums, amused. The sound is all-knowing, that smug ‘sure you aren’t’ threaded beneath it. He leans back just a little in his chair, like giving me space might ease the pulsing — but he doesn’t stop watching. No, his eyes stay locked on mine, as if trying to memorize the exact moment I unravel.

His gaze just adds to the pressure, making my hands clench faintly at the edge of the stool, not from discomfort — but from the sheer intensity of being seen like this. Of being read so easily. I crossed one leg over the other, breaking the pose just a little, trying and failing to get some friction of relief. But if anything, it made the tension worse — like a spark catching on dry kindling.

“Go on.”

“What?” I asked, honestly I couldn't hear him over my racing heart and the way I’m clenched, throbbing just from his voice.

“I said go on. Don’t be shy now.”

“Im alri—” I tried protesting, but my hips buckled on the stool’s edge involuntarily. As if my body accepted the permission before my mind. The pressure went straight to my clit, easing its nagging, I couldn’t help but let out a soft curse under my breath.

My breathing is uneven, shallow in a way that has nothing to do with the pose anymore and everything to do with how I press my now puffy folds on the soaked stool. I kept rocking my hips — the faster i cum, the sooner this humiliation ends.

I must have been too consumed with the task of chasing my high to not notice how he was already next to me. It was hard to see anything with my glassy eyes, but I could make out his usual relaxed posture. His fingers brushed against the inside of my knee, barely there, and then dragged upward with excruciating patience. His knuckles skimmed the edge of where I ached the most, grounding and teasing all at once. “So fucking desperate,” He leaned in, voice indulgent near my ear. “all this from a couple of words?”

His words made my movement slower. I closed my eyes and pulled my head down, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. His cold hands found the plush of my hips, holding me still before pushing me down on the stool again, as if he’s encouraging me to continue coaxing out my own orgasm.

“Sir, please.” I begged, not sure for what exactly, I couldn’t tell anymore. Most probably begging him to not stop holding me down, making my grinding much rougher. My thoughts blurred with every drag of friction, every embarrassing whine I made.

He hummed low and approvingly in my ear. The vibration of it — so close, so casual — made my balance falter, and I found myself instinctively leaning forward to him. “Every time you tremble, I get a better line out of you.” he said, his breath fanning my shoulder. “I mean, just look at you,” he taunted, holding my jaw lightly, firm but gentle as he tilted my head toward the window behind us — he really is making me look at myself.

My reflection stares back at me, unrecognizable: eyes fluttering half-shut, lips parted on a whimper, slick from all the biting. I look dazed, flushed, like I’ve been undone from the inside out — like a girl wrung of every coherent thought, all I can do is take what I can get.

He held my gaze in the reflection, possessive, adoring. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever drawn.” He praised.

My closed my eyes, It’s too much — the way he looks at me, the rasp of his praise. My head fell back as my spine arched. I came with a whimper, my pussy tightening and pulsing around nothing, trembling with the release he'd so patiently pulled out of me without even really touching me.

The erratic movement of my hips slowed down as I started riding out my orgasm, thighs shaking against the stool and his arms. He came closer — gentle, but no less intimidating — and brushed the sweat-damp hair from my face.

“No brushstroke could ever capture this.”

-🖌-

We’ve filled sketchbooks by now, multiple.

Dozens of me — where the paper captures and holds my body undone, time and time again. Some pages catch me mid-sob, eyes lidded, mouth open in soundless moaning. Others show me stretched by his fingers alone, ruined in that sacred, breathtaking way only he understands. Always drawn with that same precision he uses when he touches me, like he discovered me once, and keeps trying to rediscover me.

Sometimes I see them half-finished on his desk. My own face, hips and waist — caught in the middle of the moment, ink bleeding at the edges like I was shaking when he made them. One sketch has my back arched, mouth open like I’m about to say his name. There’s another which was too tender, where my starry eyed face is turned toward him, soft pink cheeks, like I’m waiting for him to say I’m doing well. He sketches like he’s trying to remember me even as he’s looking right at me.

Although… he never lets me look at any sketch for long.

My thighs would ache from being spread open, holding in particular positions he would ask me to do. So much so that all I could focus on is the soft drag of pencil over paper, and his low, thoughtful hum he makes when something pleases him. I try not to writhe away or beg — pretend I don’t ache for more than his touch, than his fingers.

Sometimes, when his admiration sits too heavy on my skin, I can’t help but shy away, tilting my face anywhere but his direction. It's ridiculous how much I crave his attention — this raw, hungry need that shames and excites me all at once. He’d lean close to my ear, making his thumb pressing firmer on my clit, drawing a needy mewl from my lips. “Don’t hide now,” he murmurs, amusement lacing his voice. “I’ve already seen all of you, love.” His words wrap around me like a reminder: I’m already laid bare — in ink, in memory, in him.

He truly believes that when I come as he sketches, it's like the final stroke that brings his sketches to life. As if without it, his art would be missing the key part — a secret pulse only my pleasure can provide. Like my slick seeps into the paper through his fingers, making each line more vivid, each shadow deeper. “The more I touch you,” he breathed once on my lips as I was so, so close to coming on his digits again for the night, "the better my art gets.” He groaned at the slick glide of his fingers inside me. To him, my release isn’t just an ending — it’s the ignition, the spark that turns charcoal and paper into something electric.

When I step into the room still wrapped in his robe, he’s already at his desk, the soft haze of dusk spilling over his shoulder and catching in the waves of his hair. The golden light glints faintly off the rim of his glasses, just where they’ve slid slightly down the bridge of his nose.

He doesn’t glance up right away — his focus is on the pencil that flicks once, twice across a page like he’s finishing a thought only his hands understand. “We’re doing portraits today,” he says after a moment, voice threaded with the same calm concentration as his movements. “Come sit in front of me, my darlin’.”

I move toward him, caught in a room that feels like it exists outside time. The only sound is the quiet shuffle of my steps and then, just as I near the desk, the soft slip of paper. That practiced rustle of pages and sketchbooks being closed as soon as I’m close to his sketches — makes my heart jolt in my throat.

He always does this, every time.

As I lower myself into the chair, he’s already in motion, wordlessly slipping sketchbooks into the wide drawer beneath his desk. One after another, the thick spines disappear with a quiet thud. Not hurried or flustered, but intentional. He lingers on the last closed book as he slides the drawer shut with a muted click.

With a slow breath, he leans back in his chair and adjusts his glasses with one hand. Then he begins to draw, the paper whispers beneath his hand — the steady hand that had once held me open, drawing sounds from my throat I didn’t know I could make — now it moves with the same careful precision, dragging graphite across the page. Nothing about him is rushed. His gaze lingers between lines, like he’s sketching me in his mind first, committing each detail to memory before it ever reaches the paper.

I hesitate, my toes curling against the legs of my stool. The hem of my robe brushing my thighs, suddenly feeling sheer. And still, I ask — not because I haven’t wondered before, but because this time the weight of it feels too close to swallow. “When can I see some of the pieces we did together?” I was aiming for casual, but my voice thins around the edges.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he nudged my chin gently slightly to the left until I sat just the way he wanted. His fingers linger at the nape of my neck longer than they need to. A hush hangs between us. He studies so closely that he could draw the shape of my breath if he wanted to. His eyes — unreadable behind the lenses as usual — but no less consuming, rake over me with the quiet accuracy of someone cataloguing something already beloved.

Then, finally.

“They’re mine,” he says, like a truth he’s living with. “You gave them to me. You don’t need to see how I see you.” It’s like he’s guarding something too precious to share — something he’s convinced I wouldn’t understand, even if I stared straight at it.

His voice was poised, but there was something coiled tight beneath it — not menace, no, never that — just a deeply tethered reverence that bordered on obsession. Like he could sketch me a thousand more times and still find something new to fixate on for weeks. “They’re too sacred.” he added, more to the page than to me. He reaches for another stick of charcoal, his fingers smudged for sure.

He turns his focus back to his paper, completely reabsorbed in the curves and shadows. I shift without thinking, restless under the weight of his attention, making my knee bump his. It’s an accident — I swear — but the sudden contact makes my breath catch. I go still, cheeks warming with embarrassment, expecting at least a glance or a flicker of reaction.

But he doesn’t look up, not even once. As if I’ve always been this close, already in this intimate part of his world — an extension of his art. His pencil glides over the page again, never pausing, but my eyes start to wander lower, past the firm curve of his arm, past the scattered charcoal dust on his clothes. That’s when I see it, the unmistakable bulge outlined beneath his pants, betraying his composure.

Oh, how the tables turn… So much for being the calm one in the room.

Without notice, his strokes falter with a subtle huff of breath through his nose, frustrated. His fingers hesitate at the edge of the page, as if chasing something just out of reach, before he finally sets the charcoal down with a soft clink. “I need another position to see you properly,” he mutters, almost to himself. He looks around, clearly thinking and searching — the charcoal still staining his fingers, his sketch unfinished, something about it is not quite right. His brow furrows behind those glasses, that familiar crease between his brows deepening.

The idea blooms in me all at once. It takes root before I can question it, and I’m moving before doubt has a chance to catch up.

He leans back, like he wants to take in every inch of the view I’m offering him. As I settle lower against the cool hardwood floor, the loose edge of his robe slips off one shoulder, baring the curve of my collarbone and the top swell of my chest. “Always so eager,” he said, amusement softening the marvel in his tone. His charcoal fingers flex, resting just at the edge of the sketchbook like he’s unsure whether to keep drawing — or reach for me.

My fingers find the zipper, narrowing the world to the sound of the metal sliding and the soft rustle of fabric under my touch. I slowly freed his cock beneath the waistband of his boxers, revealing his red and strained tip with a bead of pre-cum.

“You’re not married.” he hummed, just an observation once I wrapped my fingers around his length. My eyes flick downwards to see what he sees: bare skin, no claim, no ring.

I shake my head. “No,” I confirmed, licking his slit before reaching the very top, “No, I'm not.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Good,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb slowly across my lower lip. “I’d hate to do this to someone else’s woman.” He's consumed with the contrast — that dissonance. The softness in my eyes, all doe-eyed and sweet, paired with the kind of simmering shameless hunger I’m no longer trying to hide.

And he drinks it in. Not just the need, but the way it lives alongside the tenderness.

“You didn’t even ask if I had a boyfriend.” I tilted my head, a flicker of mischief slipping through. I didn’t even have a boyfriend — haven’t in ages, honestly — but of course he wouldn’t ask something so juvenile. Not him.

That’s just how his mind works: serious, precise, polished. Every word feels chosen, every pause earned. He speaks like a man who hasn’t just lived but built something brick by brick — a life shaped by intention, not impulse. He’s older, sure… but never dull. If anything, age has sharpened him and made him timeless, dangerously aware. He learned the weight of silence and uses it like a blade.

My eyes found his as I traced a vein on the side of cock with my tongue, lubricating the rest of his shaft, gradually making my way back to the top. “You’re adorable to think I’d care about a boyfriend.” he chuckled, pushing it past my lips, “he should’ve held on tighter.” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut like he was savoring the feeling of my throat.

I stroked what I could fit in my mouth with my tongue and the rest I stroked with my hands. I could feel him twitch, guiding every movement with quiet command, his voice praising even as he pushed me to the edge. “Can you take a little more for me, yeah?”

His fingers tangled gently in my hair, ushering me to go deeper and take more of him. His cock hits the back of my throat, muffling my sigh as he’s slightly choking me. “You're doing so well. So good for me.” he breathed out, head tilting backwards just enough for me to catch the rough shadow of stubble tracing his jawline.

As I swirl my tongue around his cock, I feel him tense one last time. His breath ragged as he bucked his hips involuntarily before his hot release spurting into my mouth, coating it in that translucent white color.

I pulled back slightly, just for his swollen tip to come out a small ‘pop’ and make the rest of his cum drool onto my hands. His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, relishing the sight. “Messy thing,” he teased, fond, like he liked me that way.

His thumb found its way between my lips, calloused and warm, stained faintly with charcoal. “Open.” I parted my lips, curiously, revealing all his release still flowing between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

He doesn’t speak at first — just watches me, eyes narrowing slightly as if catching onto something he hadn’t seen before. “Hold still, love.” he murmurs, already reaching for his sketchpad. His thumb presses slightly more to ensure it stays open, resting on the edge of my bottom lip.

As soon as the sound of pencils scratching on paper returned, I tried to focus on the usual things — the tension in my shoulders, the steady lift of my chest as I breathe, the faint ache in my spine from holding still. But it’s different this time. The vulnerable parting of my mouth somehow feels more intimate than being bare.

“Open wider for me, sweetheart.” he spoke up, still completely focused on the sketch as he pushed down just a little more. “That’s it.” Each scratch of his pencil feels like a tether, binding me to his gaze even though his eyes are on the page.

It only took a few minutes before my jaw started to ache — not intense, but enough for my brows to pull together and for tears to brim in my eyes. I’m still motionless but inside, I feel like a wire pulled too tight. He notices immediately. “Does it hurt?”

I nod once, barely, unable to speak.

He reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at my mouth — not in that clinical precision of his. But it's like he was still drawing, still paying attention to details only he could see. He wasn’t cleaning so much as preserving. Unexpectedly, his strong palms brushed my hair back from my temple where sweat had made them cling, before pressing a kiss to my forehead — like he was trying to erase every trace of discomfort.

“Stunning,” he whispered between the strands of my hair. “You did amazing.”

Was the praise for the pose or for what came after? I didn’t know…

-🖌-

The money was better than anything I’d earned before, that was true.

It meant I could finally step away from the endless cycle of shifts and odd jobs — the ones that blurred together until I couldn’t even remember which uniform I was supposed to wear that day, leaving me bone-tired and half-present in my own life. No more 3 a.m. alarms, no more rushed shifts, no more weird jobs strung together.

Somehow, he always noticed what I needed before I could name it.

Before I even knew how to respond to his soundless attentiveness, he said something that caught me completely off guard. “Do you need me to double the pay?” he asked, like he was asking if I wanted more sugar in my tea. The amount he was already giving was more than generous, already absurd by any reasonable standard — but his offering wasn't indulgent but instinctive. As if the idea of me needing anything and not receiving it from him was unacceptable. “It’s not charity,” he said again, in case I dared think it. “It’s peace of mind — mine. Knowing you're taken care of. I don’t want you stretched thin, not when you give me so much already.”

But care, for him, was never just practical. It bled into everything. It wasn’t just money or comfort he gave so freely; it was attention. Obsession, almost. Like every small act — feeding me, paying me, studying me — was part of the same devotion.

His art became our foreplay, oddly enough. His art was more than just lines on paper — it was the slow build, the prelude to everything that followed. Each stroke, each whispered compliment dripped filthier than his palette ever could be. His praise wasn’t just words; it was a tantalizing promise, edged with something deliciously daring.

He takes orgasm after orgasm from me, like a man gathering proof. Proof that I’m real beneath his hands, that he can draw out every twitch, every cry, every flood of heat and still not reach the end of me. Sometimes I think he’s counting them, memorizing the cadence of each one like brushstrokes, mapping out where my body breaks open and how it sounds when I fall apart. He watches every time, like each climax is another layer of truth he gets to carve into his memory. And he never rushes, never stops until he’s sure there’s nothing left in me but the echo of his name.

However, today, he seems off.

Distant in that unreachable way he sometimes gets — but something is chewing at the edge of his thoughts and he won’t let it surface. He hasn't shifted my position once since I arrived, not even the usual ‘tilt your chin’ or ‘relax your wrist’. Hours pass, and still, I stay like this. Muscles beginning to sting, knees threatening to lock.

But it’s not me he keeps adjusting — it’s the paper. He’s redrawn the same angle again and again, hand moving with that practiced focus but with muted irritation. Erasing, sketching, erasing again. The image just refuses to come through the way he wants it to.

After maybe the fifth paper he had balled up and threw in the trash, he finally spoke. “Let’s take a break,” he dismissed, not quite meeting my eye. Just turned, wiping charcoal off his fingertips with the edge of a towel before leaving the studio. His tone is leveled, but there’s something in it that makes me pause. I wordless came down from the pose he’d held me in for far too long — limbs stretched, hips tilted just so. Everything in me feels overworked and sore, and not in the way I’ve come to crave.

Did I do something wrong?

I gathered his robe where it had slipped from my shoulders and wrapped it tighter, the fabric still warm from the place and smells like his hands. It's quiet when I step out, the only sound is the soft tick of the old clock above the hallway arch, counting time that suddenly felt heavy between these walls.

I found him in the kitchen, back turned, haloed by the afternoon light. He was still in his crisp button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He’s at the sink, cutting a pear with almost surgical precision. The knife glints under the light. His hands move with that same quiet concentration I’ve seen when he draws, like nothing could rattle him. But I see the tension, like he's trying not to think too loudly.

He slices the fig next, its flesh opening with a soft sound. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry — not sure why I suddenly feel like I’m intruding. The fact that he hasn’t spoken to me in full sentences even when I was modeling for him does nothing to ease my uneasiness.

He glances over his shoulder, finally acknowledging me. His gaze skims me slowly — from bare legs to where my fingers clutch the lapel of his robe — then settles on my face. Whatever he sees there softens something in him, but he just goes back to the fruit. The silence stretches between us, long enough that the ache in my legs dulls, but the ache in my chest blooms louder. I wonder, foolishly, if he’s angry. If I’ve held the pose wrong. If I ruined the drawing. Or worse — if he’s tired of me altogether.

Then, with terrifying calm, he cuts into another fig, the blade sinking through its skin. “You haven’t eaten all day.” He doesn’t even look at me when he speaks, but it lands like a stone dropped into still water. Slicing the fig into quarters, then halving a pear — slow, exact motions that say this isn’t about fruit. This goes back to care, control.

He dips a sliver in honey, watching it drip in slow glistening beads, then turns back to me. “Eat, sweetheart,” he says softly, sliding the piece toward my lips. His voice is persuasive, but there’s an unmistakable edge of authority beneath it. “You’re no good to me starved.” The fruit is sweet — obscenely so, clinging to my tongue like syrup. My gaze flicks up, and he’s already watching, studying, cataloging every small motion — the way my jaw moves, the flick of my tongue, the hollow of my throat when I swallow.

He feeds me another slice, slower this time, and lets the pad of his thumb catch the juice spilling at the corner of my mouth. I expect him to wipe it away, but instead, he draws it to his own lips and sucks it clean. Something about it makes my stomach tighten — not with nerves exactly, but with that impossible, fluttering I only ever seem to get around him. It’s stupid, maybe, the way that the patience, the certainty and the attention short-circuits my thoughts.

“We should get back,” he says in his matter-of-fact voice, and disappears down the hallway.

I follow a few steps behind, the hem of his robe brushing my calves with each step. Back in the studio, the light has shifted. It falls differently across the floor now — longer shadows, cooler air — night is falling. He’s already moved to his easel, brows knitting with focus again.

Maybe I’d imagined the softness in the kitchen, he’s still frustrated.

I lower myself back onto the stool without being told, tucking the robe from my shoulders, waiting. He starts again, charcoal to his paper.

It only took a few strokes from his pencil before he groaned again, worn with creative restlessness. His hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses askew, fingers pressing in tight like he could squeeze the tension out through his skull.

“Should I do a different pose?” I finally speak, already starting to shift slightly on the stool. “I can —”

“No, darling,” he interrupts, his voice firm but clearly worn at the edges. “You’re perfect. That’s not the problem.” His hand drags through his hair — something he only does when he’s genuinely stuck — while the other grips sheets of paper from his desk, already slightly crumpled from being handled too much.

I recognize the layout immediately, it's the printed portfolio guidelines. He showed them to me on his computer a couple times before, but of course, he had to print them out. I can already imagine the justification, something like ‘reading on paper helps me think’. It's unmistakably him. “It's just that this next prompt for the portfolio.” he eventually exhales.

I step down from my own stool, the floor creaks slightly beneath my weight — he doesn’t look up. We’re used to this sort of nearness by now: the kind where bodies hover near each other simply because it’s become habit, not necessarily out of intention. I drift behind him, arms folding over his broad shoulder as I lean in close. His strength is solid beneath my touch. He tilts the paper slightly, sharing the words with me, and a stray lock of his thick hair brushes my cheek, rough against my skin under the soft glow of the studio light.

On the page, bolded in academic print near the top, is the phrase:

Prompt: the vessel of a Human. For this series, we invite submissions to consider the human form as a vessel — not just of anatomy, but of memory, desire, silence, or longing. How does the body contain something unseen? How does it fracture, or strain, or carry?

glasses sliding slightly as he rubs at the bridge of his nose again. “It’s vague. How am I supposed to draw a body that’s holding something invisible?” It's like he’s chewing gravel. “Pretentious as hell.” He drops the printed sheet onto his desk with another one of those tired exhales that seem to rise straight from the chest, the kind that settles in artists who live too long with their own ideas. I watch his fingers — ink-stained, smudged with charcoal — tap against the edge of the table.

He’s frustrated, but not at me, that much I know. I glance at the sketch discarded beside him, the faint imprint of his latest attempt already curling at the edges. The prompt might as well be written in another language, whatever it was meant to be, I couldn’t guess. My thoughts however wandered to the way his eyes held me earlier, the way they lingered, the familiar pull that entwines between my ribs and presses against my skin. Something in me clicks in place — a thought, a pulse, a flicker of boldness pulled straight from the burn of his attention.

“You know…” I started, stepping closer, voice low — soft, almost conspiratorial, “I might have an idea.”

He glances at me sideways, not moving much. “Do you, now?”

I want that feeling again. Need it, even now, as he frowns at his desk, lost in thought. “Maybe it’s not about what’s invisible,” I offer, tip-toeing around the topic. “Maybe it’s about how the body — the vessel, I mean — wants to be filled.” I tilt my head at my last word, letting the suggestion hang in the air.

His eyes narrow, not with judgment — more like amusement. That knowing gleam again, like he’s caught me in the act of something I haven’t fully admitted yet. That steady gaze that always seemed to reach beneath whatever mask I wore. His voice was like velvet ribbons when he answers, faintly teasing. “You think that’s what they want?”

“I think…” I pause, watching him watch me. “it’s what you want.”

There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, something caught between surprise and recognition. He leans back in his chair, slow and unhurried, like he’s giving me space to hear just how loud my own boldness was. “What I want?” he echoed my words as his hand drifted forward — firm, sure — to rest on the back of my thigh, squeezing once on the flesh back there. “You cheeky girl,” his tone was not scolding, but almost fond, like he can’t help but be a little charmed by my nerves.

“You’re the one who’s stuck.” The words leave me a little too fast, laced with something desperate — not just for his attention, but for him. I reach for him, not bold enough to grab, but needing to touch something. My fingers brush against his forearm, barely grazing the skin where his shirt sleeve is pushed up. My thumb toying with the seam of the fabric there. “Let me help.” I offer again, gentler, needier.

He watches me for a second, eyes dragging over my face like he’s measuring how much I mean it. One brow lifts, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “You just want my attention again.”

“You haven’t really looked at me all day.” I whispered, not denying what he said, just mustering the best doe eyes I can manage. Letting the need and the plea beneath my words show. It’s ridiculous — selfish, even – for wanting his attention like this, hungry for it in ways I can't soften or disguise.

A low laugh slips from his chest as he brings my knuckles to his lips, letting them linger there for a beat too long. My hand looks small in his, shrunken by the breadth of his fingers. “Mm.” His eyes flick up, half‑lidded, appreciative. “You really are a work of art.”

This is it. This is when he finally gives in, the green light I’ve been waiting for. But then he tilts his head toward the waiting stool for me. “Go sit,” he murmured — kind, yet edged with quiet authority. “And stay still this time.” The instruction isn’t loud, but it lands with the weight of a command meant to be obeyed.

Fine, then.

Climbing back onto the stool, I made a point to stretch long, deliberately — letting my knees fall open just a little wider than I know he needs. Just enough to tempt, to test the edge of his patience. A flicker of a suggestion, if you might. I don’t say anything, and I don’t need to. The mellow between my legs has never been louder, but I keep still — except for the way I subtly tilt my hips out of frame, angle my shoulders wrong, let one hand fall too casually at my side. Just enough to skew the lines. Just enough to make him notice.

I know the frame he’s trying to build, the symmetry he chases with every stroke of charcoal — and I know I’m breaking it.

The room is apparent and thick with his focus, but I feel the intensity of it drift when he realizes. He didn't say anything yet. Maybe he’s giving me a chance to correct myself, or maybe he’s waiting to see how far I’ll push. I keep my expression sweet, unbothered — like I’m simply doing my best to follow directions. But inside, I already know exactly how he likes me, I’ve been posing for him too long not to. I want to see if he’ll touch me.

“Change positions,” his voice firm, already drawing again.

I blink innocently. “Wait — like this?” I shifted the wrong way again, chin tilted, eyes wide. “Sorry… I keep forgetting how you want me.” im putting up an act, drawing it out like a performance. I kept delaying, pretending that I’m guessing, fumbling with my limbs like it was my first time. Each second stretched.

Until, at last, I heard it — that familiar deep inhale-exhale. Then the soft scrape of the stool followed as he stepped out from behind the easel, the sound loud in the muffled studio. I heard his footsteps, slow and unrelenting — like he had all the time in the world to correct me. There’s something simmering behind his gaze as it drags over me, more like he’s entertaining a game he already knows the outcome of.

His hands braces against the back of my stool — caging me to him. Whether it’s to secure the seat or secure himself, I can’t tell. His eyes radiated controlled heat and measured restraint, but it smolders all the same. “Enough,” his tone was clipped, but solid with something between frustration and his own impulse. “You’re wasting time.”

His hands slide to my hips, fingers pressing into the soft plush of my skin. He adjusts me with the surety of someone who never doubts where he wants me, and doesn't bother to ask for permission because he already has it. I let him guide me, in fact, I melt into the correction that I’ve been waiting for all day.

I hummed back, a poor mask for the want simmering just beneath the surface. But this wasn’t what I wanted, not really. It barely scratched the itch. My fingers strayed upward, finding the open collar of his shirt. The top buttons were already undone, exposing the slope of his chest — warm, solid, and maddeningly inviting. I traced the edge of the fabric there this time, fingertips ghosting over his skin. “I tried,” I purred, not wanting to let go of the act. “You didn't make it easy.” I added, the softest hint of accusation curling in my tone — a gentle push, waiting for him to finally lose control.

Still, he didn’t bite.

“What’s gotten into you tonight, hm?” he asked, voice like steel draped in silk — gentle seemingly, but with that unmistakable pull of control underneath. He was soft, teasing and commanding all at once — it was dizzying to say the least. “Why won’t you let me work?” he reckoned, almost like he was balancing on the edge of restraint, and I was the one daring him to tip.

“Why won’t you fuck me?” I asked back instead, the words slipped out before I could temper them, making him still. The air thickened as I searched his face — he’s unbearably handsome in that incantatory way he always is, lit faintly by the gold wash of studio light. I hate how calm he looks while I’m coming undone. My voice softened further. “I mean really fuck me.” I continued, reasoning my behavior. “You’ve made me come with your fingers. With your mouth. Over and over…” I shake your head, just slightly. “But never… properly. Never all the way.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just observes me. His silence wasn’t cruel, but it made me feel bare. Small, like every inch of my wanting had been laid out for him to examine.

“You think I haven’t been planning to?” There was something dangerous in the discrete of it, something that made my thighs press together instinctively.

“Then stop treating me like I’m breakable,” I murmured back, lifting my chin to some degree. I tried to be brave for the slow burn curling in my core that had long since outgrown teasing touches and half-finished thoughts. He narrowed his eyes on me, he was weighing restraint against desire and realizing he didn’t have much left.

“If I fucked you like I want to,” he said finally, voice dropping into something more intimate, “you wouldn’t be able to pose tomorrow.”

God, the way it landed made me feel like I was already on my knees. My breath hitched as I reached for his hand, guiding it down, until his fingers rested against my soaked folds. I didn’t say much — just, “sir, please…” — breathless, like the word itself might convince him. A low groan rumbled from his chest as he felt how wet I was. “I need you.” I whined, raw with want.

When two of his fingers entered me, It was embarrassing how fast I clenched around them, desperate. “Goodness.” he grumbled out, like he couldn’t hold it in, sounding too fond. My movements were syrup-slow at first, needy, chasing every curl of his fingers. I clutched at his wrist, seeking stability and riding the rhythm he gave me. “That’s it, baby. Take your time.” he cooed, kissing the pulse point just beneath my jaw, like he could feel my heart racing, then kissing down to my shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His other hand held my hip, steadying me while I took what I needed — and I needed all of him. Every curl of his fingers. Every breath against my neck. Every inch. “Mmh – shit. Sir?” I whimpered out, rocking down again and again until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.

“Yeah, pretty? What is it?” he crooned, laced with indulgent patience. His fingers brushed gently along my temple, tucking loose strands behind my ear. “Tell me,” he coaxed again, eyes never leaving mine. “What do you need?”

When I opened my mouth to speak, but only a gasp left me when his palm pressed against my clit just right — intentional, smug — shushing me. My voice faltered in my throat, I bit down on the sound trying to claw its way out of me. I refuse to give him satisfaction today. Yet my body betrays me, hips twitching under his palm, but I keep my gaze steady, lips parted but holding firm. I won’t let him have it.

Not yet.

“Need more — need all of you...” I was able to choke out over the obscene sound of him knuckle-deep, dragging whimpers from me with every thrust. “Hhnn–fuck.” I moaned out now that I finally let myself speak. It came out trembling, wrecked.

“Mhhh,” he hummed near my ear, as if thinking, weighing his options. This fucking man. “Patience, precious. I’ve waited longer for things worth less.”

“I’ll be good — just… please.” The words slip out, barely holding their shape.

He chuckles low, a sound that curls down my spine. “You’re usually so quiet,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles against my cheek like he’s savoring the sight of me coming undone. “Didn’t know you could beg so pretty, darlin’.”

I open my mouth to say something — a smart remark, another plea, anything — but it dies on my tongue the second his fingers curl just right again. My breath stutters. The heat in my lower belly loops and pools tighter, spreading out like molten sugar.

His gaze flicks up, catching mine — knowing. “Gonna come, baby?” he asked, voice so damn calm, like he’s not the one driving me toward the edge. I just nod, letting my forehead find his shoulder, pressing there like I’m seeking shelter, grounding myself in the steadiness of him.

He hums like he’s pleased, like he’s been expecting it. Of course he has. He is always conscious. “Just like that. Show me how bad you need it.”

And so I do — the orgasm unspools from deep inside me like a string pulled too tight finally snapping. My back arched instinctively, pressing closer against him. Muscles fluttering around his digits one last time as a breathless mewl breaks from my lips.

He withdraws slowly, savoring every inch as he pulls free. Without breaking eye contact, his cum-slicked fingers glide over my cheek, tracing a line — as if signing a masterpiece only he could create. A mischievous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve always wanted to experiment with different mediums.”

I pressed on, persistent, even though my breath was still raging from the last wave of pleasure crashing through me. “I can keep going.” One hand moved with purpose — palming the hard line of his bulge in a way that balanced innocence with unmistakable hunger. My other hand traced a slow, teasing path up his veiny arm. “I want to keep going.” I corrected myself.

He sighed, rich with a mix of admiration and exasperation, finally cracking open his usual calm. “You are relentless, my love. You know that?” Without another word, he dipped forward, arms curling around my waist with a strength that both anchored and claimed me. In one smooth motion, he lifted me off my feet, the weightlessness shocking yet exhilarating.

I’m still floating somewhere between breathless and dizzy, every nerve ending alive and hypersensitive. The world feels soft and distant, and I barely register where he’s taking me. It’s like he’s both leading me forward and cherishing me — a paradox of power and tenderness that makes my head spin.

He sets me down. I realize I’m face down on the couch, my ass raised high, exposed. The position is vulnerable — no — humiliating with how i'm still pulsing, clenching around nothing and it's all for his viewing pleasure.

“Now tell me, honey…” He drags his fingers down my slit, making a slow path that makes me flinch with the echo of my last climax.

I don't hesitate, “anything. God, I will tell you anything." I breathed out a little too quickly, like the need has taken over where words should be. I push my ass back against his hand, reaching for more.

He tsked under his breath — not quite a reprimand, more like adoration wrapped in warning. “Easy, pretty.” His hand rests heavy on my lower back, pushing me back to my place. “Look at you,” he continued his little show, collecting whatever cum and liquid that is dripping between my thighs now, “all soaked and still asking so sweetly.”

My cheek stayed pressed to the couch cushion, breath catching in my throat. “You said you’d take care of me,” I said, not accusing, but trembling. “Then do it.”

In one fluid movement, he shifts me — manhandles me with assured hands until I’m on my back, open to him. The strength in his touch is unmistakable, but it holds no cruelty. “Greedy, greedy girl,” he muttered as his charcoal stained fingers from the hours of half-finished sketches trail down the outside of my leg, leaving a ghost of heat in their wake. When he reaches my thighs, his thumbs press gently into the plush to pull them apart. “Then I gotta keep my promise, no?” he asked, rhetorically, now rocking his cock on my slit to lubricate himself.

I panted as I felt his swollen tip push in, “There,” he threaded through my entrance, my pussy wrapping to cradle him, “Is this what you needed, sweetheart?” He eased into me slowly, every inch met with a breathless shudder from me. I nodded weakly, completely forgetting the sheer size of him. It stretches with a burn, intoxicating nonetheless. “Fuck… you’re tighter than I ever imagined.”

His thickness expands my limits, “mmh, more.” I mewled, my fingernails dragging at his arm, ensuring marks soon. He leaned down, chuckling before kissing neck, “No need to rush. I want you to feel all of me.” His lips went down to the valley of my breasts, the last kiss being there. “But I won't lie, you make it so hard to take my time.” He slid fully inside with a groan, buried deep, hips grinding into me like he couldn’t get close enough. My cunt clenched as he filled me whole.

His thrusts that were slow in the beginning have picked up the pace, each push against my walls was uninterrupted, making me feel unbelievably stuffed. “That’s my girl. You’re taking me so beautifully.” he praised, his eyes not leaving the view of my pussy swallowing each one of his plunges.

I could feel his hands gently lift my legs, one by one, before he settled them carefully on his shoulder. The shift is effortless from his part, but it was a new angle that opened me up, reaching new places. “Oh my God—” I gasped, fingers clutching at my thighs, utterly lost on where to place my hands, my body trembling with a mix of surprise and overindulgence.

I felt the heat of his quiet laugh brush against my ankle, a teasing warmth that sent a ripple up my spine. “Flattering… but wrong,” he murmured, voice low and playful. “You really think he listens to you more than I do?” His words hung in the air, I tried responding but it came out as a whimper.

Then he dropped my legs gently near his hips just to then lean in so close his breath ghosted against my ear. “But let me tell you something, darling — if God saw you like I do, He’d set the sky ablaze out of pure jealousy.” His words made me light-headed, my vision unfocused with glossy eyes. My thoughts were a blur — scrambled, burning, and sweet — like my mind couldn’t keep up with the pleasure flooding through me.

“Too much?” he teased with a smile, savoring the way the words make me squirm. I only managed a small shake of my head, lips parted, breath hitching — I might be overwhelmed, but unwilling to stop. “Mmm,” he hummed as he pushed in my poor cunt even more, the pressure was beyond belief. “My sweet girl… Always taking everything I give you. Every last drop.”

“Sir—” It comes out more like a moan than a word, high and breathless, trembling with the edges of my second climax. His pace doesn't falter. “Yes, love?” he answers, gentle and vexingly composed, just focused, possessive.

I gasped as my toes curled, head falling back to the cushion of the couch. “Come in me.” I plead, cracking open around the words — straight from my heart, all surrender. His low laugh rumbles through all the way to my pussy, there is some surprise in his tone.

“Full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?” The continued stretch from him made my gummy walls cling tighter with every push. “Yeah, full – you sure are.” He muttered to himself more than anything, pussydrunk for sure.

He drove into me in one slow, devastating thrust, stealing the breath from my lungs. “You feel how deep I am?” He said, his tip touching my cervix. There was an undeniable bump on my lower belly, it being so visible made it easy for him to push on it, making me squeeze him involuntarily even further. “Come on it, baby. Come for me.”

His forehead pressed against mine, breaths ragged and warm between us. I could feel everything — every trembling inch of his cock in me, every pulse of heat. His hand found mine, fingers lacing like he was grounding me, or maybe grounding himself. "Look at me," he commanded for the last time tonight, voice thick with something that sounded like awe. I did. And I swear — for a second — I forgot the room around us, the tension from earlier, even my own name.

I squeezed his hands as his hips stuttered when he came deep, thick creamy white ropes filling me so utterly I thought I’d break. It all mixed with my own release, the squelching sound between our skin is clear as day. My back arched, mouth parted in something between a gasp and a cry, and he caught it with a kiss, swallowing the sound like it was all meant for him.

“So fucking perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.” He whispered, pressing his lips to your temple. “You’re impossible to stop drawing.” his hand finds mine, fingers curling softly around my wrist. My chest raises and falls, legs shaky, still flushed and sensitive where he claimed me — I am still freshly fucked. His cum poured out of me in relentless spurts, wet and sticky, soaking my skin and the couch beneath me. “My favorite subject.” Slowly, reverently, he lifts my hand to his lips. His mouth is warm and gentle, brushing a kiss across my knuckles, trailing soft sparks over my skin.

“You’re more than any prompt could ever ask.”

#xylatox fic recs #need him so bad actually #i do not want to talk about it #and i wont elaborate #enhypen x reader #sunghoon enhypen

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noralia20 · 2 days ago

Note

okay so first of all i read your others sinner fics and they are chef’s kiss!! Could i request a jannik x fem reader who plays tennis but not like pro level, just as a hobby, but she has problems with low iron and low blood pressure so sometimes playing can be challening. So I was thinking maybe at Wimbledon (I’m obsessed rn) they are chilling after a match and just playing around a bit but reader isnt feeling well and maybe faints?

Heart made of iron

sum up : Sometimes what makes the body weak makes the heart harden. But that doesn't mean he can't break through.

Loved the idea, I'm a low-almost-deadly-iron-girly. So I know that feeling by heart

You’d stopped competing in tennis years ago, right around the time university and adult life started demanding more from you. You never quite lost the love for the game—your racquet still rested near the front door, and on free weekends you’d hit the courts for fun or friendly matches—but the edge of competition had long since faded.

Still, it helped. Dating Jannik Sinner, a world-class tennis player who lived and breathed the sport, sometimes came with pressures that not everyone could understand. But when his coaches spoke in numbers or techniques, or when he needed to vent after a match, you got it. You spoke the same language—even if your court days were behind you.

The relationship worked. You’d been together for over three years now, and though the time zones were hell and the airport reunions bittersweet, it never wavered. He was gentle and silly and just shy enough to make every “I love you” feel like a warm secret passed between two kids at a school dance.

But lately… something was off. You’d been tired. Not your usual end-of-day exhaustion, but something heavier, like someone had siphoned all your energy out through your bones. You woke up tired. You fell asleep tired. Your hair had started thinning around your temples. You joked it was the lack of sunlight in your apartment, but deep down, you knew something was off.

A doctor’s appointment, a routine blood test. You didn’t expect much.

Then the lab called. Not your doctor—the lab. That’s when it stopped feeling like nothing.

The screen lights up just as you settle into the couch, a blanket pulled over your knees and your body heavy from another day of doing too little, yet feeling like you’d run a marathon.

Jannik FaceTime Incoming

You hesitate. Just for a second.

You forgot you’d told him about today. The appointment. The test. You hadn’t wanted to worry him—he was across the continent, somewhere warm and loud, training or preparing for a match, living the kind of schedule that didn't need a tired girlfriend clouding it.

Still, your thumb slides across the screen.

The video connects, and his face fills your phone—a little blurry at first, then clearer. Damp curls, hoodie slung over one shoulder, the hint of a hotel bed in the background. His mouth curls into a smile the moment he sees you.

“Ciao, amore,” he says softly, voice warm with affection.

You smile without thinking. “Hey.” He leans closer to the screen, inspecting your face like he always does. “You okay?” You nod quickly, then yawn. “Yeah. Just tired.” He frowns. “You look tired.” You arch a brow. “Wow. Compliment of the year.”

“No, no!” He chuckles nervously and runs a hand through his hair. “I mean—you’re always… beautiful, ovviamente. Just more…” He flaps his hands awkwardly, then sighs. “Okay, I’m bad at this.”

You laugh—because he is, and because it’s endearing. “Sleepy-beautiful?” He perks up. “Yes! That one. I was going to say that.”

“Sure you were.”

He grins sheepishly. “So. How was it?” You blink, confused, your heart beating faster, though you were doing nothing. the feeling of being caught like a child stealing cookies. “How was what?” His eyes narrow slightly. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

Then it hits you—the blood test. The results. The entire reason you’d gone to the clinic today. You make a guilty face, trying to busy yourself by cleaning the apartement while still holding the phone. “A little.”

He waits, expression soft but expectant. “Tesoro…?” You stop mid cleaning of the living room. You know you can't escape this, because he will push or you will feel guilty. And feeling guilty and anemic doesn't sound like a great combo. You reach for the little paper bag on your coffee table and hold it up to the camera. “Iron supplements.” You make a small grimace, as if it would make it all softer.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Anemia?”

“Very low iron levels,” you explain. “Not enough to send me to the hospital or anything, but the lab called before my doctor could, which apparently is a big deal... according to my mom...” You sound sheepish.

Jannik goes quiet. His expression changes—not panicked, but focused. Like he’s trying to take it all in without letting the concern leak out too visibly.

“I thought it was just winter blues,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “Or too many late nights. But turns out, no. My body’s running on empty.”

He only sighed, taking it all in at once. “Dio mio…” he mutters under his breath, then meets your eyes through the screen again. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

You shift the blanket higher around your shoulders. Reaching down to pick up something but deciding against it when you moved too fast. “I didn’t want to stress you out.”

“That’s not your job,” he says, softly but firmly. “You’re allowed to tell me things. Even when they’re not fun.” Your lips part to respond, but he keeps going—his voice gentle, but determined. “We’ve been together three years. You don’t have to carry it alone, you know?”

Your chest tightens. “I know. I just…” You rub your eyes. “I didn’t think it was serious.”

“Do you feel sick?” he asks. “Like, really?”

“Honestly? Kind of. Everything’s heavy. Even holding the kettle earlier felt like lifting weights.” you look into space, remembering about you trying to make a simple task : making tea. Though your body made it seem like a workout.

He runs a hand over his face. “Okay. Alright. So what now?”

“I take the pills,” you say, lifting the bag again. “Every day, with vitamin C. More daylight, better meals. My doctor was very kind about it. She said it’s fixable.”

He nods slowly, still worried. He knew how stubborn you could be, and out of nowhere. Like a tantrum you wouln't listen to something simple but obey when it's difficult. “And you’re going to listen to her?”

“Yes, Jannik, I’m going to listen.” You roll your eyes affectionately. “Good. Because I’ve already started Googling iron-rich recipes.” You now noticed how his face was moving while he tipped on whatever research blog the diet changes. You blink. “Seriously?”

He looks incredibly pleased with himself. “Did you know dark chocolate has iron?” He scans the screen, probably searching other benefits.

You snort. “Yes. It’s not exactly a secret.”

“Okay, but—dark chocolate and spinach? That’s like… the perfect combo.” He scrolls again. You cringe a little at the two ingredients. “Are you suggesting I eat them together?”

“No! I mean… maybe? I don’t know.” He laughs. “Google says oranges help, too. Vitamin C and all that.” He's really proud with what he's finding. “So now I’m eating spinach, oranges, and dark chocolate in the same meal. Sounds delicious.”

“You’ll be strong like Popeye,” he says, proudly. Then he pauses. “Wait, do you know Popeye?” You scoff, slightly offended but not holding it against him. “Yes, Jannik, I know who Popeye is.” He smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Just checking. He’s very famous in Italy.”

You roll your eyes again, grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously helpful,” he corrects. “Do you have any chocolate at home right now? You know, maybe from the last time you got your periods.” You glance at the drawer. “Probably.”

He nods. “Go get it. I prescribe one square every ten minutes.” You were already mid-step when you froze at what he was saying. “That’s not how prescriptions work.”

You could see a laugh bubble in his chest but he held it, trying (and failing) to lift a brow. “I’m Italian. We do things with more love.” You pause, then burst out laughing. The weight your bones seem to carry feels less heavier for a few seconds. After calming down a little, you manage to mutter quietly, “Thank you. For making me laugh.”

He softens, it's like for a moment his green eyes changed colors. You don't know if it was because of the lightening or out of love. “Sempre.” There’s a moment of stillness. You’re both quiet, just watching each other through your screens. Then he adds, “You know I love you, right?” You nod, throat tight. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he says. “Even on bad days. Even when you’re tired. Even when your iron’s at zero.” You bite your lip, trying not to cry. “Well if it is at 0, I'd be dead. But I love you too.”

Early july- Wimbledon

The London sun had decided to overperform that day, casting a stubborn golden glow over the Wimbledon grounds. While the crowd clustered around the courts to soak up the rare warmth, you lingered beneath the shelter of a side awning, your back leaning against the cool metal support beam. The slush of melting ice clinked softly in your plastic cup, the only sound beside the occasional pop of a ball being struck.

You tilted your drink back, catching another half-melted cube between your teeth and crunching it slowly. It was oddly soothing—a recent comfort you hadn’t expected to adopt. Chewing ice wasn’t exactly normal for you, but lately, it calmed the static in your chest, the lingering fatigue, the haze that hadn’t quite cleared since the anemia diagnosis.

The medical update a few days ago had been cautiously optimistic: your iron levels had finally started creeping up. Not great, but better. You could feel the difference. The crushing exhaustion had dulled, your limbs felt less like wet towels, and your hair had finally stopped shedding like you owned nine cats. It wasn’t over, but it wasn’t as scary anymore—and Jannik… well, he had finally stopped watching you like you might disappear if he blinked.

You could still feel his eyes on you sometimes, though—like now.

Out on the grass court in front of you, Jannik was clearly in his element, or at least pretending to be. His coppery hair stuck up in every direction, slightly flattened by his backwards cap, and his shirt clung to his back in places where sweat had soaked through after his earlier match. He was playing around now, laughing with Aryna Sabalenka while Novak Djokovic lounged nearby, calling out teasing commentary for the cameras lined up beyond the court.

It was a rare media-friendly moment after a match, a lighthearted interlude where players could be silly and charming and less like warriors. Aryna thrived in this kind of spotlight, grinning brightly, her voice carrying across the court like summer thunder. Jannik wasn’t as flashy, but today, he looked relaxed. Comfortable. A little shy, maybe, but happy.

You watched him pivot on his heel during a footwork challenge, swinging his racquet with an exaggerated motion before hopping sideways—too wide, too clumsy for his usual form.

You couldn’t help it. The words slipped out before you thought.

“I’ve seen tighter pivots at an amateur doubles match.”

It was barely above a mutter, more to your melting cup of ice than anything. But Jannik’s head jerked slightly, and his shoulders paused mid-turn. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked over his shoulder, straight at you.

“What was that?” he called, eyes narrowing with faux indignation.

You raised a brow and crunched louder on your ice cube, offering him an innocent shrug.

Aryna turned too, following Jannik’s gaze. Her grin widened. “She just roasted your footwork, Sinner.”

“Oh, she does that all the time,” Jannik replied, swinging his racquet casually over one shoulder. “She’s a retired competitor. Brutal. No respect.”

You grinned from behind your cup. “Hey, I’ve played. I know what good footwork looks like. That little scissor-hop you just did? Bambi on ice.” Aryna howled, nearly dropping the can she was about to set up on the baseline. From the sideline, Novak’s laugh boomed across the court. “Better come back from that one, mate!”

Jannik squinted at you, placing a hand on his hip and pointing his racquet directly at your lounging figure. “You’re brave, sitting over there with your cup of ice.”

“And you’re bold, thinking that was a proper recovery step,” you fired back, adjusting your sunglasses with theatrical flair.

He paused. You could see it in his face—that glint, that calculating little flicker in his eyes. He was plotting something. “You still know how to hit a target, right?” he asked, voice light. Your brows pinched. “Jannik…”

He turned fully now, his weight shifting onto one foot as he gestured to you with his racquet like a conductor signaling your solo. “Come on. If you’re going to criticize my technique, let’s see yours. Hit the can.”

You sat up straighter. “No. Nooope. Not doing this.”

“You scared?” His voice dropped playfully, low and teasing. A grin began creeping onto his face—soft, crooked, and smug. You crossed your arms. “Don’t you dare.”

“I mean, it’s okay,” he said, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. “You’re a little out of practice. And with your energy still low…” He gave you a dramatic wince. “No need to prove anything.” Your mouth opened slightly. A slow, dangerous breath filled your lungs. “Excuse me?”

Jannik didn’t respond—just turned to his side and walked backward a few steps, facing you with a mock-sympathetic smile and hands spread in surrender.

Sabalenka tilted her head and looked between the two of you, visibly amused. “Oh, he absolutely is geyting you back for all this.”

“Jannik…” you said again, warningly this time.

But the truth was, your feet were already shifting. Your free hand was already tensing, nails curling slightly against your palm. Your pulse picked up—not with irritation, but with something that felt suspiciously like excitement. It had been a while since you’d felt that snap of competitiveness. That thrum in your chest.

You knew it was stupid. You weren’t fully better. You still tired easily. But God, you wanted to wipe that smug little half-smile off his freckled face. He tilted his head. “You used to be able to hit a ball with your eyes closed,” he said with a faintly nostalgic sigh. “But I get it. Iron levels, long bench rest, early retirement…”

Your eyes narrowed into slits. “Oh, sei morto.” ("you’re dead")

You pushed off the bench, your sneakers scraping against the pavement, and with a defiant crunch of the last of your ice cube, you tossed the empty cup in a nearby bin and crossed onto the court.

The moment your foot crossed the white line, Jannik lifted his chin slightly, watching you approach like a cat sizing up a rival. You moved with quiet confidence, the sun casting long streaks across the court, outlining your figure as you stepped onto the grass and stretched your arm once overhead.

You rolled your shoulders back and rotated your wrist out of habit, letting your fingers ghost along the frame of his spare racquet, which he’d left propped against the bench like bait. You picked it up, feeling the familiar weight of it settle into your palm.

It wasn’t your racquet—yours had a thicker grip and was strung a little looser—but this would do. You spun it once in your hand, gauging the balance.

Jannik was already at the opposite end, walking backward toward the baseline, that slow swagger in his step like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Alright,” you called. “If I hit the can in five shots or less, you buy me those stupid matching couple shirts.”

He paused mid-step, blinked. “The ones with the little cartoon fruit?” You grinned. “Yes. You’re the peach, I’m the strawberry. Very romantic.” He groaned, throwing his head back. “They’re hideous.”

“But they’re hideous together,” you said, settling into position near the service line. “Just like us.” He exhaled a laugh and rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying not to smile. “Fine. Five shots. But if you don’t hit it…”

“I will,” you said firmly. He raised a brow. “But if you don’t—you wear my old junior training kit for a whole day. The one that still has the huge red sponsor patch on the back.”

Your nose scrunched. “The one that smells like teenage sweat and ego?” He smiled innocently. “It builds character.”

“Deal,” you said, tossing the ball once and catching it. You walked toward the baseline and set the can yourself, placing it right on the corner of the line. It was dented already from earlier hits, slightly crushed on one side, but still standing proud. You backed up slowly, eyes on the target, calculating the angle.

Jannik stood with his arms crossed, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, like he was watching a fireworks show with a personal stake in the finale. “Take your time,” he said lightly. “I’m just worried about your stamina, you know. Don’t want you fainting mid-swing.”

You didn’t rise to the bait.

Instead, you adjusted your stance. Left foot forward. Shoulders square. You bounced the ball once, then twice. Calm. Stay calm. Tennis wasn’t just movement. It was rhythm. Precision. Control.

And mind games.

“You’re chewing the inside of your cheek,” Jannik called across the net. “You always do that when you’re concentrating. Come un piccolo criceto.” (Like a little hamster)

“Shut up,” you muttered, shaking your head but grinning. You threw the ball up. Your first hit—crack—was clean. It soared across the net and clipped just past the can, maybe a hand’s width to the right. Close.

Jannik whistled. “Oooooh. So close. Too bad close doesn’t count.”

You inhaled deeply, nodding once. Not biting. You knew his tactic. He’d try to distract you, throw your rhythm, tease you until you tensed your grip or rushed your toss. It was how he won a lot of points in smaller matches—poker-faced, slightly irritating, totally unreadable unless you knew him.

And you did. Second serve. You rolled your wrist a little more this time, adjusting your grip ever so slightly for a curve. The shot went wide. Not awful—but not good. “Two down,” Jannik sing-songed. “Pensa alle camicie…” (“Think about the shirts…”)

You didn’t look at him. You bounced the ball once, twice, paused, and stared down the can like it had personally offended you.

You threw the ball up, swung—

Third shot. This one hit the net. Too low.

Jannik clicked his tongue, mock-concerned. “Is it the sun? The ice withdrawal? I can get you a new cup if that helps.” You glared at him, lips twitching at the corners. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You’re cute when you’re losing,” he replied, barely able to keep the smile off his face.

Fourth shot.

You threw it a little higher this time. Let the arc give you time. You planted your feet and twisted your hips into the swing.

The sound echoed just a little louder. Ping.

The ball hit the can dead center, sending it skidding sideways and tumbling to the ground in a little metallic spin.

Silence. A single beat of stillness. Then—

You lifted your arms in a mock victory pose. “BOOM!” Jannik let out an exaggerated groan, his head dropping into his hands. “No. Noooo. Not the fruit shirts. Anything but the fruit shirts.”

“You agreed,” you said, striding forward with the confidence of a Wimbledon champion. “I expect them printed and wrapped by the finals.”

Aryna’s voice rang out from the other court. “She hit it?! I missed it!”

“Dead center,” Novak said, shielding his eyes to look over. “It was surgical.” Jannik dropped his racquet dramatically on the ground and collapsed onto the grass, arms spread like he’d been mortally wounded. “I’ll never recover from this.”

You stood over him, nudging his leg with your foot. “Come on, sore loser. I want the strawberry shirt to say ‘serving looks.’”

He squinted up at you through one eye. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you said, crouching beside him, “you’re in love with me.” He groaned again, softer this time, but there was that smile—the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and tugged unevenly at his mouth. The smile that betrayed how proud he was. How impressed. How utterly smitten.

And then he reached up and tapped your nose. “Alright,” he whispered, “You win.”

Just as Jannik rolled onto his side, still sprawled on the grass in defeat, you leaned down, elbows resting on your knees, and said softly, “Hey. Play one set with me?”

He blinked up at you, brows furrowing slightly. “Now?”

“Just a short one,” you said quickly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Like a warm-up. Nothing crazy. You don’t even have to go full power.”

He searched your face for a moment. You knew he was checking—scanning you the way he always did lately. Since the diagnosis, since the low iron, since all the scary unknowns, he’d become hypersensitive. But now, you smiled, light and coaxing.

His expression softened. “You’re sure?”

“Promise,” you said, already turning to grab a few balls and toss them into the air with a flick of your wrist. He rose to his feet with a sigh, brushing off grass from his shirt and shaking his head. “You’re lucky I like you.”

From the adjacent court, Aryna called out, “I’ll be your referee! But only if I get to mock both of you equally.”

“Deal,” you and Jannik said in unison.

You both moved into position. The rhythm came back quickly—your grip tightening naturally around the racquet, your body falling into the familiar choreography of serve and return. The first few minutes were light, easy. You danced across the court, laughing as Jannik hit a wide slice that made you scramble to the far corner.

“Oh, come on,” you panted. “You said warm-up!” He grinned, bouncing slightly on his toes. “This is warm-up.”

“Not for someone with half a liter less blood in her system,” you muttered, but you were smiling, and he caught it. You hit a clean forehand, placing it just along the baseline with a drop in your wrist—his signature move. He stopped mid-step. “Did you just copy my technique?”

“Maybe,” you said, innocently. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, then turned to Aryna. “That was clearly out, right?”

“It was in,” she sang. “By a whisker. And also way cleaner than your version.”

The three of you burst into laughter, the kind that echoed across the court and made a few heads turn. Jannik ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, mock-offended, and you wiped your brow with the sleeve of your shirt, heart racing from the volley.

You didn’t notice right away, but your breath started hitching in a different way. Not from fun. From fatigue.

The sun pressed harder on your back, like it had grown more intense in just seconds. Your vision blurred slightly at the edges, as if someone had turned down the contrast. But you pushed through it. Just a little longer.

You rallied another point—quick footwork, hard return. The court blurred slightly underfoot, but the ball was still visible, still spinning in the air like a magnet for your focus. You chased it down, feet pounding the grass, muscles working on instinct.

The laughter faded. You became quiet.

Jannik noticed first. His shoulders lowered, gaze narrowing. “You okay?” You nodded quickly, even managed a breathless “Yeah.” He served again. You met him with a solid backhand. It clipped the line.

Aryna whistled. “This is getting tense. Should I actually keep score?”

But you barely heard her. Your brain had tunneled into one single channel—keep playing. You weren’t even registering the heat anymore. Or the slight sway in your stance after long runs. Or the way your breath had stopped catching up between points. Your skin prickled as if the heat had crawled under it.

You shook it off.

Another serve. Another point. Jannik slid low to return it with a grin—he was enjoying the competition now, pushing just a little harder, confident you could handle it.

You didn’t even swing.

The ball flew past you.

You stood still, eyes locked on it as it bounced once, twice, and rolled into the back net.

Jannik froze. “Amore ?”

You turned your head slowly to look at him. There was something strange about the light. It was brighter than it had been seconds ago. Or maybe everything else had dimmed. You opened your mouth to say something. Your legs felt wrong. Trembly. Like standing on stilts made of wet paper.

The ground swayed beneath you.

You looked up at the sky—blue, blinding. Then a hot wave rolled over your chest like someone had cracked an oven door in front of you. Your heart skipped. Your fingers twitched.

Then everything tilted. Jannik’s expression shifted in an instant—from confused to terrified. “Wait—hey!”

But your knees were already giving out. You dropped like a marionette with its strings cut, your racquet slipping from your hand as your legs buckled under you. Your head hit the grass with a thump, not loud, but final.

Gasps erupted from the sideline. “No—NO!” Jannik’s voice cracked as he sprinted forward, the sound of his shoes ripping through the grass sharp and panicked.

You didn’t hear it.

All you felt was heat, then nothing.

Jannik barely registered the moment your body hit the ground.

It was the way your knees buckled—like the tendons simply let go—and the way your racquet fell from your hand without resistance that made his stomach lurch. One second you were upright, flushed with motion and sunlight, and the next… gone. Collapsed into the grass like a puppet with its strings abruptly severed.

He sprinted toward you, his shoes skidding slightly on the soft Wimbledon turf as he dropped to his knees beside your unmoving body.

“Amore,” he gasped, voice jagged. He reached for you with trembling hands, palms hovering before finally pressing to your cheeks. Your skin was clammy, and far too warm. “Tesoro, hey—hey, look at me.”

You didn’t move.

A heavy silence rang in his ears despite the sudden stir of voices around them. Someone in the crowd gasped. Aryna’s footsteps approached fast behind him. Somewhere to the left, Djokovic’s voice called out sharply, but Jannik couldn’t understand the words—everything had blurred into static.

He tilted your chin toward him gently, brushing your hair back from your face. The tiny crease between your brows broke his heart.

“Guardami,” ("look at me") he whispered, more broken this time. “Please.”

Aryna dropped to the ground on the other side of you, her hand going to your wrist as she checked your pulse. “She just dropped. Her legs—she didn’t brace the fall. I think she hit her head.”

Jannik sucked in a breath like it hurt. “She was fine five minutes ago. We were just—she was teasing me, she was laughing—”

“You don’t always see it coming,” Aryna said, calm but serious. “Exhaustion creeps up. The heat’s brutal today.” You made a faint sound then. Not quite a word, more like a groan pushed from somewhere deep. Your eyes fluttered open.

Jannik’s chest squeezed painfully. “There you are,” he breathed.

Your eyes opened.

The light hurt a bit. It filtered through the tent roof, soft but too white. You blinked. Slowly. Everything was blurry at first, like you were underwater. Shapes formed. A person leaned close. A hand—warm and familiar—curled around yours.

Jannik.

His eyes were so wide. Wider than usual. A little bloodshot. His curls clung to his forehead, damp with sweat.

You blinked again. His lips moved, but you didn’t quite hear him the first time.

“Jannik…?” The word was featherlight. You sounded confused. Small.

“I’m here. I’m right here,” he said quickly, cradling your head in one palm, his other hand squeezing yours. "Stai bene, amore. Stai fermo. Non muoverti, okay?" (“You’re okay, amore. Just stay still. Don’t move, okay?”)

Your breath hitched. You looked around, your gaze flicking over Aryna, over the court’s edge, the crowd, then back to him. “I’m… I’m fine,” you whispered, as if to convince yourself. “No,” Jannik said, firm but tender. “You fainted. Hard. Don’t try to sit up.”

“But I—” You made a weak attempt to lift your arm, but it shook, useless. “You’re burning up,” Aryna murmured again, pressing the back of her hand to your jaw. You turned your head slightly. “Just felt hot. That’s all.”

“Hot is what you say before you pass out on grass courts in front of everyone,” Jannik said, his voice straining to stay calm. You tried to smile at him—half-hearted, apologetic. “Didn’t want to stop playing…” He stared at you, heart crumpling. “That’s the problem with you,” he whispered. “You don’t stop.”

A bottle of water was passed down from Novak, who knelt beside Aryna. “Ambulance is coming,” he said quickly. “Medical’s been alerted. They’ll check her vitals.”

Jannik helped tip the bottle to your lips as you took a shaky sip. You winced and turned your head, clearly dizzy. The effort alone seemed to sap you. He gently patted your cheek with a damp towel Novak handed over, wiping away sweat.

“She needs fluids,” one of the medical staff said moments later, already crouched beside Jannik. “And full cooling. We’ll set her in the shade, get her on a stretcher just in case. Probably heat exhaustion, compounded by low hemoglobin. The fainting is a red flag.”

Jannik’s voice was immediate. “She’s been dealing with severe anemia. Diagnosed months ago. She’s been recovering, slowly, but she’s still low. The doctor said it’s not critical—but…”

“But this can happen,” the medic confirmed, already working efficiently. “She likely didn’t notice the signs because she was pushing through them.”

“She does that,” Jannik muttered, eyes still glued to your face.

The medical staff started organizing transport to the tent, gently shifting you onto a stretcher. Jannik was at your side the entire time, gripping your hand tightly, brushing your forehead with the back of his fingers.

Once under the large parasol in the shaded tent beside the court, they laid you down with a thin sheet across your legs. The light filtered softly through the canopy above, dull and yellowish. You blinked slowly against it.

Jannik sat beside the cot, elbows on his knees, watching you breathe like it was the only thing holding him together. You were pale. So pale. You stirred faintly, your lashes fluttering again. Your view came back in slow, blurred fragments: the soft flapping of the tent’s canvas in the wind. The dull throb in the back of your skull. A warm pressure on your fingers.

You turned your head slightly—and there he was.

Jannik, hair messy, curls stuck to his temple, his t-shirt damp with sweat. His eyes were locked on you with unspoken panic. His grip on your hand tightened the moment he saw you move. "Mi hai spaventato oggi," (“You scared me today,”) he said, softly.

You tried to swallow. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he murmured. You blinked again. “Do I still get the fruit shirts?”

It took him a second to react. Then he let out a sharp, choked laugh—half-relieved, half-wrecked—and dropped his forehead to your hand.

“Yeah,” he whispered, lifting it to his lips. “You get the stupid shirts.”

Your lips curved into the faintest smile, even as your eyes fluttered closed again. He kept holding your hand, rubbing soft circles into your wrist, grounding you with touch, with presence.

There were still checkups to come. Monitoring. Maybe more tests. But for now, you were safe, and he was there. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

dividers : @strangergraphics

#jannik sinner x reader #jannik sinner x yn #jannik sinner fluff #jannik sinner imagine #jannik sinner x you #tennis imagine #jannik sinner

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thepeaklegendoffirstgen · 2 days ago

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Idk if you’ve done this yes but..

Random person trying to impress character’s S/O but failing since S/O and character is very much happy together, and very much trust each other.

Do you get it??

NOTE: Idk if I captured it well enough for what you are asking, so let's see. And yes, GOO KIM IS STRONG. We need to spread this agenda😤. Also, thank you for trusting me that I won't OOC Gun and Goo, but I still struggle with Goo sometimes :(

JAMES LEE

You two were finally out on a fancy dinner date after ages, relishing the rare time you got to spend together. James stepped away for a few minutes to take a "business call" well, it was just Goo and Kitae causing trouble again 😔 In that short span, some guy tried to hit on you, bringing up finance and economics in a condescending tone, assuming you had no idea what he was talking about. You firmly cut him off, letting him know you actually know quite a lot and that even your man seeks your help from time to time. The guy laughed it off until he saw you were dining with none other than Diego Kang. Let’s just say his self-esteem wasn’t the only thing that took a hit.

GUN PARK

You were browsing at a bookstore, deep in the blurb of a novel, while Gun went off to another section to find something you asked for. That’s when some guy slid in, praising your taste in books, trying a little too hard to start a conversation. You politely thanked him but didn’t entertain it further, casually adding that your boyfriend was the one who recommended the book in the first place. Later, when Gun returned, you kissed him on the cheek out of nowhere. A little surprised, he asked what that was for. You just smiled and said, “People really like your book choices,” leaving him both confused and just a little bit proud.

GOO KIM

You had gone up to the rooftop for some fresh air when a stranger struck up a casual conversation beside you. He was being overly friendly, and when he subtly tried to brush against you, you immediately backed off and told him your man was waiting downstairs. The guy scoffed like he didn’t believe you, until you showed him a photo of Goo, mid-song, pulling a goofy face. Even if he found it funny, you told him how handsome Goo is to you. And with the look in your eyes, the guy knew you meant it. He just nodded and wished you the best. Later, when Goo came up to walk you down, you told him he was both goofy and handsome. For once, for once in his life, he was the one blushing but immediately turned the tables saying you are the prettiest.

JAEGYEON NA

Everyone at your workplace kept gossiping about the “weird car” that dropped you off every day. In this crippling economy, people apparently had nothing better to do than speculate. One lunch break, a middle-aged man—probably a Gapryong Kim fan—tried to poke fun, saying you should find someone with a more luxurious ride. You scoffed and said your man’s car is perfect, thank you very much. The uncle kept arguing that his was better, but your unflinching trust in Jaegyeon, and his love for that car, never wavered. In the end, the man grumbled, saying maybe your boyfriend is just as ugly as his car, and that’s why you like them both. But the day Jaegyeon stepped out of the car to help you with some stuff, his plunging neckline very much on display 🔥 well, let’s just say the uncle suddenly seemed unsure whether he wanted to steal your man or be your man. Either way, mission failed.

JAKE KIM

“Gangster’s son”...that title still echoed in Jake’s mind, especially after a tense conversation with his mom. You reminded him he was more than that, and even scolded him to go visit her properly instead of just swinging by to get the latest pre-gen tea. One afternoon, you both went out for ice cream. People visibly parted ways when they saw him, a gentle giant with a tough look and some random uggo had the audacity to say you should be with someone more “normal.” You didn’t bother arguing. You just gripped Jake’s hand tighter, flipped them off with your free one, and walked off to get your ice cream.

Later, Jake looked at you and mumbled, “I mean… I am kind of a gangster. Are you really okay with that?”

You didn’t let him finish. You shut him up with a kiss.

That alone melted every bit of doubt just like the ice cream melting in your hand.

#lookism #lookism x reader #james lee #deigo kang #gun park #goo kim #jaegyeon na #jake kim

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cloverapple · 12 hours ago

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okay so i understand your point that once I decide I'll have it, If I decide I'll wake yp in my dr I will, if I don't ses my dr that just means it's an illusion because its not possible for the intention to not work. But how/when does the physical change? I have been doing the similar thing for a while, intending to shift and then whennI still see my cr I say "I have shifted, I'm already there, I just don't see it yet because my brain is taking time processing the chage" but I tell this to myself for weeks and still the 3d doesn't change. I don't understand what to do now like I get it it's just an illusion or wtv but all I after MONTHS is my stupid cr and then it get s harder to keep this facade and then I start thinking maybe that wasn't enough effort or wtv but another part of my mid also thinks and says there's no such thing as enough effort, you didn't do anything wrong. I am conflicted if I did do everything right, why isn't the illusion fading away? why am I still here?

Anon, I want to hug you so bad because you sound exactly like me in the weeks before I finally shifted 😭

I was crashing out, spiraling, tearing my hair out because every method, every piece of advice, every “just let go and trust” post felt like bullshit. I couldn’t figure out why I was still in my CR, why it wasn’t working, why I felt broken, why it felt like everyone else could shift except me.

Turns out I wasn’t broken. There was nothing wrong with me. And there’s nothing wrong with you. At all.

I can’t promise everything I say will click for you as everyone’s different. I write for myself, for the me who couldn’t shift, who blamed my CR, my ADHD, my brain, who thought I was the problem, who spent hours comparing myself to strangers on the internet who could shift and made it look so easy.

And in the end, it was paying attention to the weird, nonsensical cracks in reality that moved me forward, not the neat “just persist and assume” advice everyone repeats. It’s not always pretty, but it’s real. And it might help some people because back then, I wish I had someone telling me I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Maybe you’re not one of those people, and that’s okay. You should adopt what genuinely resonates with you and brings you peace, not what frustrates you.

But if you’re one of those people who’s sick of techniques that don’t work, of posts screaming “YOU ARE GOD” while you’re still stuck, of meditation that doesn’t stick, I want you to know this:

1) Wavering means absolutely nothing in the face of your decision and intention.

It’s like studying for a test, thinking you bombed it, spiraling the entire week about how you’re a failure and deluded—and then you get your score back, and it’s totally fine, and you realize you had nothing to worry about.

Of course, I’m not invalidating what you’re going through in your CR. I don’t know you or your struggles. But I do know you don’t need to ignore your CR for shifting to work. You can, and it’s a valid method that works for many. But ignoring reality is hard for some of us, and it might be hard for you too. That’s okay.

Don’t treat your CR like a place you need to get rid of immediately. It’s just one of many realities your awareness encompasses. Wavering doesn’t “put you back at square one.” You’re not living a facade. That implies your intention isn’t real when it is.

2) If you’ve been doing this for months, that’s months of proof that the intention is set. And you cannot deny that. You’ve intended to shift for months. That means the outcome is yours, and the only thing left is to get out of your own way. You don’t need to add more, try harder, or scramble for a missing piece. The action was done, and you can’t intend to succeed and fail. Sure, you can observe your outcome as failure, and that’s what keeps people in the loop, usually. Not seeing their DR after X amount of time = they’re failing.

3) Honestly, if everything I say sounds overwhelming? That’s okay too.

Let it suck. Let yourself say, “Okay, this doesn’t resonate with me right now,” and drop it. Let yourself explore, learn yourself, and place your power in yourself, never in any outside source. You’re not wrong. You’re not failing. You don’t have to rush. It’s already yours.

It makes total sense that you’re feeling frustrated seeing your CR day after day while knowing you’ve done everything right. It’s not silly or wrong to feel that way. It’s not wavering, it’s not failing, it’s not messing up your shifting. It’s simply noticing what you perceive is showing up, and that’s okay. It is okay to see your CR.

Don’t interpret seeing your CR as failure, even if you intend to be here for whatever reason, because it’s yours. It’s yours.

4) You’re using “seeing your CR” as proof that you’re not in your DR, when actually: “Seeing CR” isn’t proof of anything except your mind’s expectation that you should see CR until something else proves to you that you’re in your DR.

You’re in a loop that looks like: “Okay, I don’t see my DR, so I need to do something else, I need to keep trying, because this didn’t work.”

That loop is what I call continuity attachment, and it’s the mind’s familiar habit of:

“Do the action.”

“Check if the result happened.”

“If not, assume it didn’t work and try again.”

But the truth is: Creation (observation, shifting, deciding hat reality you want) is instant. The moment you intend to be in your DR, it’s done. You can’t intend to succeed and fail, period.

You know when you’re suuuper tired, get in bed, intend to sleep, and then don’t sleep? It’s not because you got in bed wrong, or didn’t intend to sleep. It’s because the moment you didn’t immediately fall asleep, you thought “oh great, now I’m not getting any sleep” and kept turning it over in your mind; how the bed’s uncomfortable, how you’re probably not going to sleep at all tonight, how tomorrow will suck because you didn’t get any sleep. All the while, all you needed to do was get out of your own way and let whatever happen. Say “fuck it, I don’t care if I sleep or not”....which ends up being the rest you needed.

You rest because you let yourself rest, you let your mind shut up because you don’t care anymore and know that this form of giving up sleeping is, in itself, the rest you needed. And then you fall asleep, which begs the question: were you always asleep?

5) Part of the illusion is that you need to see physical evidence to confirm it. The “waiting” and “checking” are illusions of continuity, where the mind says: “It must take time, so let me check if it’s happened yet.”

You aren’t doing anything wrong by noticing you’re still seeing your CR. It’s valid to feel upset, to want your DR now, to feel exhausted. It doesn’t stop you from shifting. It doesn’t cancel out your intention.

How I view it is: If I intended, then it’s impossible for me to fail.

And that: “Seeing CR can’t be proof I’m not in my DR, because if I’ve done the cause, the outcome must be there, and the perception of ‘not having’ is the illusion.”

6) Time is also part of the illusion. Creation/observation is instant, but the mind believes in gradual change, in waiting, in “processing” the shift. Once you see that’s not real, it begins to unravel. What you can do now:

You don’t need to “try harder.” You don’t need to “fix” anything. You don’t need to fight your CR, ignore it, or force yourself to feel a certain way.

Instead: Let it feel strange that you did the action but still “see CR.” Let that confusion open the crack in the illusion. Sit in the knowing that you already did it, and nothing else needs to happen. Let the comfort of that realization settle in, because it will unravel reality.

You are not failing. You have not messed up your shift. You are not stuck because you feel bad or notice your CR. You’re in the exact place you need to be, and now you’re seeing how flimsy the illusion is because you’re frustrated.

Nothing can take away what you intended. Let it be weird, let it unravel, and let yourself relax into the absolute bs it is that your action (intention) had “no outcome.” You need to look at proof? I don’t blame you. I love proof. But remember that the proof is the intention, not the outcome.

If you bake a cake from scratch, toss it in the oven, and go into another room, do you still need to go check if you have the cake? No, the proof is there even when you can’t see it.

“What if I’m still seeing CR after months?”

You can live normally, react to 3D, laugh, cry, be human, and still know you’re in your DR. Because your DR isn’t a place you get to by seeing it. It’s a place you’re in because you decided, and it was done.

Your method didn’t fail. It worked. The only reason it feels like it didn’t is because you’re checking your CR for proof, and you think that proof in your CR is seeing your DR. When the proof is that....you did it.

#asks

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party-pixie · 11 months ago

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hey, thanks for the kind words. i'll admit that i kinda forgot for a while that daily demon spotlight was meant to be a blog for fun above all, and i got too obsessed with my perfectionism to where even the slightest criticism would make me panic and overcorrect everything

i really do appreciate what you said as it kinda just grounded me again and made me realize that i'm not some giant public figure, i'm just some teenage trans girl who likes to write, so thank you so much even if you didn't intend it to be that deep lmao 🙏

well im glad i could help 🥰 i've gotten the perfectionism bug with my own writing so i know how much it really sucks. i think it's also scary on the internet where people are increasingly becoming mean to people they don't know over even small things, so it prob feels like you're risking getting huge backlash over something that isn't all that difficult to fix. like, the demon spotlight is just a hobby blog covering figures that appear in a game series that in itself has questionable information and unclear sources, it's not an official compendium blog run by atlus yknow??? i get not wanting to spread misinformation or see it get spread ab mythological figures but for a hobby blog where it's not difficult to add to posts, i don't think it needs to be all that deep. don't be afraid to add an addendum to old posts if you ever come across new information or a correction, i think that kind of thing could be beneficial even if the original post had a lot of incorrect stuff in it

plus, with so many different retellings and translations of mythological stories i think people will consider different ones to be their "canon" to them. i mean like, i read ab two or three different takes just on ganesha's birth in a little section ab parvati in a book discussing a ton of different goddesses. and with language barriers and such, you're bound to run into inaccuracies tbh

i think it's a good preface for everyone involved to come into this understanding that it's easy to unknowingly run into wrong information ab figures, smt is full of inaccuracies in itself, the demon spotlight is just a hobby and isn't gonna get thesis-level work put into it, and the goal isn't to spread misinformation

as long as you keep doing your best in research and handling things as respectfully as you can, i don't think mistakes should be a huge deal. like, yea okay you fucked up a post cus you had bad sources, it's not the end of the world and i don't think you should feel like it's the end of the world or someone else should make you feel that way. just don't argue with people if they give you a correction. i mean, if someone's a total asshole about it that's not really something you can help, the best you can do is apologize and correct the original post. but there's no need to wallow in sorrow cus you got something wrong, it's really not the end of the world🥰👍

#the demon spotlight is a place to learn ab mythology in a fun way #and part of the learning process is correcting old info based on new info #its become a little easier to get over the perfectionism bug since i write about my own culture #so i can kinda do whatever the fuck i want (within reason) with our own mythology #but its still hard to deal with so i really do get it #i thought ab starting a blog like this myself but i didnt really have the time or energy for it #so seeing someone do this and start to waver #cus of mistakes that arent too difficult to fix is esp painful #so im glad i could help u feel better #also if youre not using it already i really encourage u to try finding sources thru ur school library's online database #they have access to things that r generally a little more reliable #i prob sound like an old person begging kids to use their libraries but you really can find some interesting things there #and online will have a lot more things than in person #a highschool might not have as much as a college would but its still worth trying out maybe???????#or dont............i wont tell you what to do lmao #oops im a certified yapper sorryyyy(lying)

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hampterguts · 2 months ago

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do all gender care specialists fucking suck in relation to gender care or is it just mine

#like literally i know more than her and shes still insistant on misinfo and theres so much she didnt warn me about #some of it i knew but good lird thankfully i have a friend who took t for a while #and im still pissed that she brought up how sad she was abt her trans kid no longer going to wear the wedding dress she saved #nor provide children for her. fuck you. fuck off #you dont fucking SAY that to someone day 1 of gender care introduction.#shes pretty and i like her fashion sense but i think i. mad at her forever for these things #didnt warn me about BLOOD CLOTS but warned me about acne. fuck off.#when i asked about risk of ovarian cancer being possibly linked to taking T she dodged the question and provided nothingburger info #'ive heard theres a possible risk in getting ovarian cancer when taking testosterone. do u know anything about that?'#'well actually the cancer doesnt form specifically in the ovaries so theyre going to start calling it something else-' ...like..... ok.....#AND THE WHOLE 'NO U HAAAVE TO TAKE T FOREVER OR YOULL LOSE EVERYTHING AND GO BACK TO SQUARE 1'#WRONG. objectively WRONG. i already dont trust ur info and other doctors and PPL WHOVE TAKEN T say otherwise!!!!!!!#srry im. im worried abt. like.#im gonna have to. tell her im stopping bc im at a point where im soo fucking satisfied. and im bracing for whatever the hell she might say #sure itd be nice to get some facial hair but im happy with where im at!!! i literally told her i dont want to fully transition.#and yet everyone in the med field is like and ur goal is to increase ur t and fully transition! and im. 🙃#like guys im just a dyke. whos kinda a man. in the same way lacroix is fruits #if my voice stays im happy. thats all i want.#and voice was claimed to be a permanent change via other doctors.#we'll see.#I'll wait a handful more days to see if it wavers or leaves #dummy posts

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monicahar · 19 days ago

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bark like you want it...?

in which you jokingly treat them like a pet.

characters; phainon, mydeimos, anaxagoras

— gender neutral reader, established relationships, fluff, sugestive at anaxa's part, need ts after the hellscape the current amphoreus is in andddd hi yes im back with a kinda fun idea and uhhhh yeah sleep pronto (*ﾟ▽ﾟ)ﾉ

it was supposed to be all fun and games. you'd say 'sit' and you'd expect him to raise a brow or two before whining about how you're treating him rudely. instead and very much contrary, the next second, PHAINON is immediately sat without question.

"well, you told me to sit!" is his meek excuse, turning red just as fast when you doubled over and laughed for a minute straight.

you think it's weird and cute. he thinks it's betrayal.

"is it so bad that i want to please you?" he says weakly whilst patting down his attire upon as he stood up straight, still burning up in sheer embarrassment. it's truly a sight to see someone as proud as him get shy. "as if it's my fault..."

you disregard his mutterings as you finally calm your giggles down, "to that extent, though? what if i asked you to bark? hm?"

phainon displays a waver in confidence, constructing his words carefully and said, "well, i'd do anything for you," he then slides you a sidelong look, one that's clearly not impressed. "even if it's something like... barking and sitting on command."

it looked like it pained him to say the last part.

still, you're unable to keep the corners of your lips at bay, genuinely elated at his response.

but unfortunately for him, there always has to be a catch when it comes to your very-easy-to-tease boyfriend...

so you let your lashes flutter, watching carefully as his smile grows a tad wary at your shift in demeanor.

"phainon... you sure you're not into this?"

the future leader of the chrysos heirs — your cute little snowy, explodes into another burst of red, looking as scandalized as you expected.

"wha — what is that supposed to mean?!"

his pouty expression makes him look like a kicked puppy now that you think more about it — of which reminds you the way he begs for attention and kisses, is eager to please, also likes your praise, and often sulks in a corner whenever you don’t... like a puppy.

the resemblance is almost uncanny. how amusing.

"maybe you were a dog in your past life,"

"..."

"...um, are you going to elaborate?"

you simply smile in return.

MYDEI stares like you'd slapped him across the face when you tell him to roll over.

"what?" you prod further when he doesn't say anything in response, "you shy or something?"

a glint appears in his eyes and you already know what he's going to say next.

"there's no such thing in the kremnoan langua —"

"mydei," you stare back, rid of all humor. he stares back, equally fiery. "roll. over."

you can practically see all the stages of grief flash in his eyes within mere seconds, weighing his options against you. you inspect your nails in an attempt to hide your anticipation. mydei is a wildcard if anything.

would he pretend he didn’t hear anything? probable. would he be mean about it? probable too. would he actually go along with it? pfft, yeah, and pigs would start falling from the sky —

to your most and utter horror, he starts lowering himself to the ground.

you shriek and stop him from continuing any further by grabbing a hold of his shoulders. (drool...) "hey, hey! i was kidding, you freak!"

"who are you calling a freak?" he snaps, not looking very intimidating as he's already kneeling down on one knee before you. "and i'm just following as you told me, am i not?"

"y-yeah but..."

he stands up, half-heartedly glaring you down. "i set aside my pride for your antics and you halt me. why?"

"it's more like why were you about to go along with something that's obviously said in jest..."

"hm. aglaea told me that you would often have weird tendencies and commands," he shrugs your hand off of his shoulder, "and that i should obey them without question if i want a... happy you. something ridiculous like that."

your jaw hangs open. mydei akwardly closes it shut. "you... you consult aglaea about... me?"

he gives you a weird look, "relationships, to be more exact. and why wouldn't i? you're a lot of work."

you deflate, "that's mean, mydei."

the proud chrysos heir shifts his footing, frowning at the air like it wronged him. his words are strained yet truthful, "i just... want to make you happy. that is all."

oh my.

you couldn't hold it any longer and proceed to jump him, whilst pigs do start falling from the sky.

it's pretty much established that ANAXA would yoink you out of the room should you decide to pull that on him during one of his lectures. in front of his students? yeah, you're grounded whether you liked it not.

though, it'd be a completely different story outside such settings...

currently sifting through scrolls sprawled out on his desk was the man of the hour himself, and having decided to accompany him in your free time — your boredom had long kicked in before the idea popped into your mind.

you approach him quietly, before placing your hand on top his head.

"who's a good boy?"

his gaze does not waver from the surface of his desk, but you do catch his contemplative expression freezing for a short moment.

"if you wanted a chalk to your face, you could've just said so."

how romantic. you really can't go a day without your loving boyfriend.

you beam at him, pretending like he hadn’t just threatened you with his 'teaching' gun tool. "that's not very good of you, anaxa. want me to punish you?"

"i believe you're acting up because you haven't gotten plentiful rest. be a dear and go back to your room, will you?"

"you want me gone?" you playfully pout up at him, finally earning his attention as he directs his gaze towards you — a brow raised. "you're being reallyyy bad, right now. i can't believe you'd kick me out just like that."

a sigh escapes anaxa. his singular eye opens to stare you down. you subconsciously gulp down your nerves. did you provoke him too much?

"unprofessional conduct by reffering to me casually during work hours, petting me like some dog and threatening to punish me... pranks like these shall not be tolerated." his eye twinkles in something akin to amusement, "i'll take care of you later."

the tension reaches a stalemate.

your brain short-circuits.

"uh, what do you mean by —"

"you know i dislike it when people ask questions they already know the answer to," as cryptic as ever, he spares you one last glance before returning his attention down to the scrolls laid upon his desk.

heeding his warning of sorts, you depart and stand outside his office — unmoving.

you seem to have brought upon yourself another day of being... unable to walk.

3.4 is taking forever...

#phainon x reader #mydei x reader #anaxa x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #hsr headcanons #hsr fluff #fluff #har❗#hsr imagines

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littlelamy · 9 months ago

Text

a/n: the beginning is loosely based of S4 with rafe and sofia! I’m kinda obsessed with rafe being needy behind close doors 🥵I hope you guys enjoy!

you couldn’t stop replaying his words over and over again in your head. each syllable hit harder, cutting deeper than the last. always running her mouth? what. just a hookup, id never date a pogue.

you stood there, behind the slightly ajar door, heart pounding so loudly you were sure it could be heard. but rafe didn’t notice—he was too busy tearing you down with topper, speaking like you were nothing more than a nuisance in his life. he’d never know how those words would haunt you, how the trust you had in him shattered like glass.

your eyes burned with unshed tears, the sharp sting of betrayal settling into the pit of your stomach. but there was something else bubbling just beneath the surface—rage. not the hot, fiery kind that comes and goes. no, this was colder, more calculated. the type that stews, planning its revenge.

your fingers itched to grab your things and leave, but not without making sure he understood who held the power in this relationship. you weren’t going to walk away defeated, not when you could leave him begging for mercy.

so, instead of running, you turned, heart hardening with each step as you walked back into the room, your hands trembling slightly as you pulled out a suitcase from under the bed.

if he thought he could treat you like this, he was about to learn how wrong he was. you weren’t some weak girl who would let this slide. no, rafe was about to see a side of you he never had before.

the door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, you could hear his confused muttering. "yo, topper, i’ll catch you later."

rafe’s voice rang through the hallway, much closer now, but still carrying the same arrogant tone. you ignored him, hands moving swiftly as you tossed your clothes into the bag, each item thrown more aggressively than the last.

when rafe finally stepped into the room, his eyes immediately fell on you, and panic flickered in his expression. "what the hell are you doing?"

his voice wavered as he took in the scene—your half-packed bag, the angry flush on your cheeks, the tight set of your jaw.

"what does it look like?" you shot back, barely sparing him a glance as you continued packing.

he hesitated, taking a step closer to you, but the sight of your seething rage stopped him in his tracks. "hey, let’s just—let’s talk about this, okay?"

you laughed bitterly, slamming the suitcase shut before finally turning to face him. "oh, now you want to talk?" you snapped, the sharp edge in your voice slicing through the air between you. "funny, because earlier, it seemed like you had plenty to say."

his face paled as realization dawned on him. you watched as his lips parted, searching for words but finding none. for the first time in a long time, rafe cameron was speechless, guilt flooding his features.

"i didn’t—" he started, but you cut him off.

"save it," you hissed, stepping closer to him now, your eyes blazing. "i heard everything, rafe. every. single. word."

rafe’s breath hitched as the full weight of your words crashed down on him. his eyes widened in panic, and he took another shaky step toward you, reaching out as if to touch you, to ground himself in this spiraling nightmare. "i didn’t mean it, baby. i swear, i wasn’t thinking—i was just venting—"

"venting?" you scoffed, stepping back from his touch. "do i look like someone you just 'vent' about, rafe? am i just some girl you get to shit on when i’m not around?" your voice cracked slightly, the hurt bubbling beneath your fury slipping through the cracks.

rafe’s hands trembled as he dropped them to his sides, a strangled sound escaping his throat as he shook his head. "no, no—please, you know i didn’t mean any of that. i was just—" his voice broke, and you watched as his composure started to crumble, tears pooling in his eyes. "i was just talking, okay? i’m sorry, i didn’t mean it. you have to believe me."

but you weren’t about to let him off the hook that easily. your eyes darkened as you stepped even closer to him, your voice dropping to a dangerously low whisper. "if you’re really sorry, rafe, you’re going to have to prove it."

a flicker of hope sparked in his eyes, and he nodded eagerly, desperate to fix what he’d broken. "anything," he breathed, his voice shaky. "i’ll do anything."

you stared him down, watching as he swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing with nervous anticipation. there was no trace of the cocky, confident rafe now. instead, he was a trembling mess, willing to do whatever it took to keep you from walking out that door.

you grabbed your phone from the dresser, starting the recording and letting the soft beep fill the silence. rafe’s eyes widened as he watched you, confusion and curiosity mixing with the fear in his gaze.

"get on your knees," you ordered, your voice firm, leaving no room for hesitation.

rafe blinked, momentarily stunned by the command, but the second your eyes met his, cold and unwavering, he obeyed. he dropped to his knees before you, looking up with wide, tear-filled eyes. the vulnerability radiating off him was palpable, his breath shaky as he knelt before you, completely at your mercy.

"you don’t get to speak," you warned, holding the phone steady as you circled him slowly, capturing his wide eyes, his trembling hands. "you only get to listen and do what i say."

he nodded quickly, his throat tight with emotion as he blinked away the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.

you positioned yourself on the bed, spreading your legs slightly, and gestured for him to come closer. "you know what to do," you said, your tone soft but commanding.

without a moment’s hesitation, rafe shuffled forward on his knees, his eyes glued to your thighs as he leaned in, his lips pressing soft, tentative kisses along your skin. his breath was hot and shaky, the desperation in every touch making your pulse quicken.

"good boy," you murmured, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer, guiding his mouth exactly where you wanted it. "now, show me how sorry you are."

rafe wasted no time, his tongue flicking against you with a desperation that sent shivers down your spine. his hands gripped your thighs, holding on for dear life as he worked to prove himself, his movements frantic, eager to please.

your head tipped back slightly as a soft sigh escaped your lips, but you quickly regained control, focusing on the phone’s camera in your hand. you adjusted the angle, making sure you captured every second of rafe’s unraveling—his lips swollen and red from the effort, his face flushed, sweat beading on his forehead.

"look at you," you cooed softly, your free hand caressing his cheek. "you’re such a mess for me, aren’t you?"

rafe whimpered in response, the vibrations from his soft sobs sending waves of pleasure through you. his eyes fluttered shut as he pressed his face harder against you, the tears finally spilling over and streaming down his cheeks.

you could feel the shift in him—the way his body trembled beneath your touch, the way his breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps. he was breaking, right in front of you, and the sight sent a surge of power through your veins.

"don’t stop," you whispered, your fingers tugging on his hair as his pace quickened, his tongue working furiously. "not until i say so."

rafe let out a choked sob, his tears soaking into your skin as he continued, his movements growing sloppier, more desperate. you glanced down at him, the sight of his tear-streaked face and swollen lips sending a rush of heat through you.

"you’re mine," you whispered, your voice dripping with possession as you tilted his face up slightly, capturing the tear that rolled down his cheek with your thumb. "and you’ll never forget it."

rafe’s body shuddered at your words, a strangled moan escaping his lips as he clung to you, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. another tear slipped down his face, and you leaned down, your lips brushing against his cheek, kissing the tear away.

you recorded it all, making sure you caught the exact moment rafe broke for you, his body trembling beneath your touch as he whimpered your name.

"please," he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "i’m yours. i’ll never leave you. i love you. please…don’t leave me."

his words were slurred, thick with emotion, and you smiled softly, running your fingers through his hair in a soothing motion.

"good boy," you whispered, pressing one last kiss to his temple as his body finally collapsed against you, completely spent and vulnerable.

slowly, you stopped recording. rafe barely noticed, his head resting against your thigh, still trying to steady his breathing. his tear-streaked face was a picture of surrender.

you stood up, gently pushing him off you, and his body slumped against the mattress, too weak to even protest. you didn’t say a word as you picked up your phone, your fingers tapping with practiced precision.

rafe watched through bleary eyes, his chest still rising and falling with uneven breaths, the reality of the situation not quite sinking in yet.

the video—the raw, intimate recording of rafe at his most vulnerable—was right there, in your hand. the smirk playing at your lips deepened as you attached it to a group chat, the names of topper, kelce, and several other friends flashing across the screen. rafe’s inner circle, the same ones he was so eager to talk big around. they’d all see this.

and then, for the final touch. your fingers hovered over the keyboard for just a moment before typing: looks like the pogue got your boy.

the message was delivered, the little ‘sent’ confirmation making your heart race with satisfaction. the power was now entirely in your hands, and you relished the silence that followed, the calm before the inevitable storm.

rafe blinked, finally realizing what had happened as he noticed the shift in your demeanor. “w-what did you do?” his voice was small, trembling with fear as his eyes darted from your phone to your face, dread sinking in fast.

you leaned down, brushing a lock of hair out of his face with surprising gentleness, and a sweet peck on his lips. “just reminding you who really holds the power here, rafe,” you whispered softly, your voice laced with a wicked edge. “you thought you could talk shit about me behind my back? guess again.”

rafe’s eyes widened as he tried to sit up, his body weak and uncoordinated. “no, no, no—what did you send? please, baby, please!” he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation.

you straightened up, staring down at him, your smile never faltering. “i sent a little reminder to all your friends. they’ll see it soon enough.”

he scrambled to reach for his phone, but it was too late. his friends were already watching the video, seeing him like they’d never seen him before—broken, crying, at your feet, worshiping you. and with that message—looks like the pogue got your boy—they’d know he wasn’t the powerful rafe cameron anymore. not with you around.

rafe’s breath hitched, panic surging through his veins as his phone buzzed incessantly on the bedside table. “no,” he whimpered, tears spilling over again, pure terror flashing in his eyes as he looked up at you, utterly helpless, still with a needy gaze.

you bent down one last time, tilting his chin up so he could meet your gaze, your thumb gently brushing against his swollen lips. “next time you even think about talking behind my back,” you whispered, “remember this moment. because there’s more where that came from.”

with that, you walked away, leaving rafe alone in the room, his phone lighting up with messages from his friends, the weight of his humiliation crushing him.

you didn’t even glance back as the door clicked shut behind you, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

you owned him now. completely.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0

#rafe obx #rafe imagine #rafe cameron #rafe x reader #rafe x you #outerbanks rafe #rafe fic #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron x reader #rafe #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe fanfiction #rafe smut #rafecore #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron blurb

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whatsverstappeningnow · 1 month ago

Text

how f1 drivers react

to you breaking up with them because you think you are distracting them from their career (requested) -> part two: getting back together

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

max verstappen

Weeks of contemplation hadn’t made this any easier. You still didn’t really know what to say, how to say it. But you knew what needed to be done. Every second you’re together is time taken away from his work. Hours wasted.

You don’t even get the words out all the way, just the beginning of a sentence, something about how maybe this isn’t fair to him, he’s distracted. He’s making mistakes he never used to make.

Max stills like you’ve poured ice cold water over him. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, eerie still.

“What are you saying?”

You keep your eyes on the floor. Meeting his gaze would hurt too much. You don’t have the strength to do it. “We need to break up.”

It’s quiet. So deathly quiet you think you can hear every thought whirl through his head at a million miles an hour. Your heart pounds heavy in your chest.

“You don’t mean it. Stop.” His voice is small, restrained.

“I do. We’re done. This is for you Max… you’re better off with me gone. I’m in the way.” You voice cracks and wavers as you speak, but you refuse to back down. You know you’re right.

Max lets out a sharp breath through his nose, like he’s trying not to raise his voice.

“You think I’d be better off?” His voice cracks on the last two words, his arms crossing like he can’t figure out what to do with us hands. “You think my life gets easier if you disappear? What the fuck?”

You start to explain, something about pressure, the pressure on him, his career, about not wanting to be the thing that takes his focus. About not being able to stand yourself if you were the reason he failed.

“Jesus, you think I don’t know pressure? You think I give a fuck about all this shit if the choice is it or you? You can’t decide for me that I can’t take it. You can’t decide that for us! For fucks sake!”

You flinch. His words hurt like a knife to the heart. His hands are in his hair, rubbing his face and then settling back into crossed arms, his chest rising and falling too fast. Then he stops.

He’s still so suddenly it makes your heart drop. He just looks… tired. The kind of tired that goes bone deep and settles in your soul. He looks up at you and you see the look in his eyes, he knows he’s already lost you.

If he won’t do this for himself, you will. You love him too much to let him fail.

“If you leave… don’t pretend it’s for me. Don’t. Just go.”

Leaving feels like giving up, but you don’t let yourself turn back. A flurry of texts erupt from your phone as you drive away from his house, a call rings. You let it go to voicemail and delete it without listening.

This is for the best.

lando norris

“No, nope, not happening.”

He’s pacing the room, a nervous energy filling his body and seemingly preventing him from sitting still for ever a second. His hands fidget, fighting for something to do. Ever since you told him you needed to break up, he has simply stopped listening. Nothing you were saying was getting through to him.

He refused to understand.

“Lando, please just listen—”

“I am listening. And you’re talking bullshit.”

You sigh slightly and look down, you’ve been fighting of tears all morning just thinking about having to have this discussion, but you can’t let yourself cry now. But still, they well in your eyes and threaten to fail your resolve. He softens instantly, moving toward you.

“I’m sorry, I just—” He looks desperate, eyes wide and searching your expression for any sign of hope. A sign that he can turn this around. Save what you have. “You can’t drop something like that out of no where and expect me to be okay with it. I don’t want you to leave. You don’t distract me.”

“You say that now—”

“I say that because it’s true. You ground me. You make me feel normal. You give me someone to come home to no matter if I’m P20 or P1. You make me feel like more than my fucking result. And if you walk away, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing any of this for. Cause I’m not sure who I am without you around!”

His hands reach out and grip yours, his hold tight and firm but not painful. Just constant pressure. Like he’s afraid if he lets go you will disappear. You might.

“You’re not leaving. You wanna talk about this? Fine. But you don’t get to pick up and leave me out of no where. You owe me more than that.”

“You need this. Trust me.”

“I need you!”

Finally, a tear falls down your cheek. You don’t brush it away. As it plummets to the ground, Lando knows something has shifted that can’t be undone. He’s lost you.

oscar piastri

Oscar doesn’t say anything at first. His face is straight, mouth in a tight line, but his eyes hold within them all that he feels. He just stares at you like he’s trying to figure out if this is a test. Or, maybe, an elaborate prank. He hopes it is.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just… I don’t want to be the reason you lose focus. You’re so close to everything you’ve worked for.”

He finally exhales and looks away. “You think I made it this far alone?” he asks quietly, voice slow and careful.

You blink. “Oscar—”

“I didn’t. You were there. Every night I was doubting myself, worrying, thinking I wasn’t going to make it, you reminded me who I was.”

He pauses. Swallows hard. You take the chance to interrupt, to justify yourself.

“Things change. You needed that then. You need me gone now. You just can’t see it.” You plead with him, desperate for him to understand; this wasn’t because of any loss of love or heartbreak. You were doing this because you loved him too much to stand in his way.

“You think taking yourself out of the picture is going to help me? You keep me going.”

You say nothing, because anything you say will only make it worse.

So he nods, just once. Hurting. Resigned. He turns his head and stares out the window, his eyes glazed over with unshed tears.

“I don’t want this,” he says, unable to look you in the eye.

“I know.”

“You don’t either.”

“I know.”

“So don’t leave,” he pleads, but it’s too late. You had made your mind up days ago. If this is what it takes for him to reach his dreams, you’d glad to clap from the sidelines. Even if in your heart you would always be applauding in the front row.

carlos sainz

Carlos is quiet for a long time after you say it, the five fatal words. Long enough that the pit, already deep in your stomach, starts to feel like it’s going to cave in on itself. The silence is more painful than any screaming would be.

“I don’t understand. You think I’d give up what we have… because I had a couple of bad races?”

Your eyes sting, you try to hold your ground. But the sheer confusion in his voice makes you want to turn and run.

“It’s not just that. I can feel it, Carlos. You’re distracted. You need to be focused. And I… I can’t be in the way. I won’t let myself do that to you.”

He steps toward you, voice calm but firm and hands reaching out to grasp yours. You shouldn’t, but you let him. The warmth of his hands in yours grounds you.

“Hey, don’t say that. You’ve never been in the way.” He says it with such certainty, such conviction, you almost believe him. Almost.

“I don’t love you because it’s convenient. I don’t just love you when times are easy, mi vida. I love you because when the world’s spinning, you’re the only constant. You ground me.” He exhales shakily. “Don’t take that away from me. Don’t take you away from me.”

You press your lips together to keep them from trembling, and Carlos finally lets the emotion crack through his voice.

“If I crash and burn, I want you in the pit watching. If I win, I want you there too. But I want you. That’s never changed.”

“Then maybe I’ve changed. It’s me, Carlos. Not you.”

“No, no. Cariño, no.”

“We can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry.”

“Doing what? Loving either? You want to give this all up because, what, I am not performing well?”

“No, Carlos, it’s not that…”

He’s quiet then. He can’t understand , and you can barely explain. You know what you have to do. Even if it hurts.

“Please, I have to go.”

You don’t think you’ll ever forget ever forget the look of pure desperation in his eyes as you walked out of his house for the last time, carrying with you the weight of all the could have been, that now never will again.

alex albon

The colour drains from Alex’s face the second you tell him. The spark in his eye, the pure joy he radiates that you’d learnt to associate with him, and him alone, suddenly disappears. His whole body just stops.

“No—no, no, come on,” Alex says, voice panicked. “You don’t mean this.”

“I do,” you whisper. “You’re distracted, Alex. Every time you chose me over work, I know what you’re giving up. You’re so close to proving yourself again, and I don’t want to be the reason you miss this opportunity. I won’t be.

His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but he closes it again. His eyebrows furrow and his head dips. For a moment his hands twitches forward, but, like he suddenly thinks better of it, it stays in his lap.

“You’re not the reason for any of that. But you are the reason I get out of bed some days.”

You look away. It’s too much. “Alex…”

“No, c’mon. You want to know what you’re really responsible for? It’s not my failures. It’s not my losses. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re not enough. I’ve lived that for years. And then you showed up and made me believe I was more than all of that.”

His hands wave in the air as he speaks, but you can only stare at his eyes. The beautiful eyes that look so heartbroken, so afraid. He swallows hard

“You really think you could make me believe all that, and be standing in the way of my success?”

He doesn’t stop you if you walk away. Just stands there like he’s still waiting for you to come back, hoping you’ll wake up from the sleep of insecurity you’re deep in and turn back around to him. You don’t.

Walking away takes a kind of strength you didn’t know you had.

charles leclerc

“No.”

It’s immediate, institutional. He says it the second the word breakup leaves your lips. Whatever he was going before is immediately forgotten, he’s turned to you dead on like a challenge.

You try to keep your voice calm. “Charles, I just… I’m not good for you right now. I’m distracting you. You need something that I’m not.”

He laughs bitterly, eyes glossy with disbelief. One hand rest on his hip, the other rubs his eyes. He’s the picture of confusion and shock. It hurts to have caught him so unaware, just yesterday he was talking about holidays and date nights. In one sentence you’ve sent it all crashing to the ground.

“So, what? You think you’re the reason I haven’t won a championship yet?”

“Of course not—”

“Then stop trying to erase yourself like you’re some burden I didn’t ask for. If I didn’t want to be here, if I didn’t think what we had was special, I wouldn’t be.”

He steps closer, but doesn’t touch you. You fight the urge to reach for him, you know you have to stand your ground.

“I don’t care about perfect focus. I care about coming home to you. About having someone who understands me. Someone who stays.”

You whisper his name, but he shakes his head.

“If you do not want to stay, then leave, cheri.” His voice is low, and there’s a breathily disbelieving laugh that clouds the end of his sentence. He doesn’t think you’ll actually leave. That is his last mistake. He doesn’t realise how much you are will to do to help him reach his goals.

You love him so much. But you can’t keep holding him back, you won’t let yourself. Endless phone calls pile in throughout that night, but by morning they have stopped. A single text shines bright among the string of apologies.

“I love you. Please come home.” But home isn’t with him anymore.

lewis hamilton

It’s the hardest sentence you’ve ever had to say. Your heart beats heavy in your chest. Doing the right thing is never easy.

“I think we should break up,” you murmur, barely loud enough to rise above the hum of the hotel room’s air conditioning. “You’re better off without the distraction. Better off with me gone.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. Lewis doesn’t speak right away, he doesn’t even look at you at first. He just stares down at the floor, hands clasped tightly to the crisp white bedsheets.

When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “You think you are a distraction? Baby, what?”

His head shoots up and his eyes meet yours with a tearful gaze. He’s stuck in place, so in shock that he can barely move.

You nod, swallowing hard. “I see the pressure you’re under. The expectations. The media. I don’t want to be one more thing pulling at you. You need to focus. And I— I can’t always be okay. You shouldn’t have to carry that too—carry me too.”

His jaw clenches like he’s trying not to fall apart from your words. Each thing you say, each self deprecating phrase, cuts into him like a knife.

“No. No! It’s not like that. Yes it’s hard, it’s always been hard. But no,” he says with a sudden firmness. But not anger. Somehow, that hurts more than rage.

“You’re not something I carry, you’re the reason I keep going.” He finally turns to face you, eyes glassy with something unspoken. “Do you really think I’d be better off alone in all this? You really think an empty house and an empty bed is going to fix me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because it’s already too much.

“I’ve given up a lot for this career,” he says, voice shaking. “So many things. And I’ve told myself over and over it was worth it. I’ve made a million mistake and I’ll make a million more before I retire. I’m sure of it. But you’re the first thing in a long time that feels right. You’re the first person who has made me feel like there is more to life than winning.”

His voice cracks on that last word, and he curses under his breath, turning away like he can’t bear to let you see. Like the very sight of you hurts him. It’s hard to admit that it hurts you too.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And you want to walk away because you think I’d be better without you?”

You’re crying now, silent tears slipping down your cheeks, and it’s killing him. He crosses the room… then stops. Like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. He doesn’t want to over step in already shaky grounds.

“I won’t beg you,” he says, finally. “If you really believe I’ll be happier without you… then go.”

And so you do.

You feel his absence deep in your bones. It’s hard, figuring out what to do when the thing that made him feel most human leaves. But no one ever talks about how hard it’s to be the one who must walk away.

george russell

You’re standing at the edge of the room, arms crossed tight over your chest, like you're trying to physically hold yourself together. George is sitting on the edge of the bed, running a towel through his hair, fresh from the shower and smiling up at you with practiced fondness. Then you say it.

“I think we should break up.”

And it’s like a switch flips.

His hands still, towel frozen mid-motion. The silence stretches long and cold. Neither of you move, each waiting for the others next choice.

Finally, breaking the dome of silence over the two of you, he speaks, slow and careful. “You… what?”

“I just think maybe I’m a distraction,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “You’ve been under so much pressure and I— I don’t want to be something that takes your focus away.”

George stands, slowly, eyes narrowed just slightly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not,” you insist, your voice already cracking. “You’re fighting for a championship. You don’t need me in your head before every quali or after every crash, you need to think of yourself. You need to be selfish for once!”

His expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it sharpens, like he’s trying to understand how this could possibly be happening. He drops the towel onto the bed, his hands resting beside him with a practiced kind of care.

“So you’ve already decided,” he says, voice quiet and tight. “Without talking to me.”

You look away. “It’s better this way.”

“For who?” The question is sharp, angry in a way George rarely lets himself be. “Because it sure as hell isn’t for me.”

The fight drains from him almost instantly. He hates getting mad, especially at you. He runs a hand down his face and leans back, sitting back down in the bed and letting the distance between you grow.

“I thought we were a team,” he says, softer now, but broken. “I thought when things got hard, we worked through it. We talked. Together.”

You can barely breathe. “I didn’t want to make you choose.”

“But there was never a choice,” he says, shaking his head. “It was always you. Everytime.”

“And that’s why I couldn’t let you decide… I’m sorry.”

You move towards the door. He doesn’t stop you. Not because he wants you to go, but because he’s not the kind of man who’ll beg someone to stay who’s already halfway gone. Your decision your his own, he won’t tell you what you can or can’t do.

But after you leave, he sits on the edge of the bed, the one that used to be yours, staring at the door like he expects you to come back. You don’t. And George doesn’t sleep that night, or the one after. He’s not sure when he will ever sleep well again knowing what he let slip through his fingers.

part two here!

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0scarp1astr1 · 1 month ago

Text

࣭ ˖ 𐔌 𝐃𝐚𝐝 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭 ࿐ . ۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Kimi and you always had a crush on each other, your father, Toto Wolff knew this. After a world of heartache and a break up, Kimi is there to mend it with the support of your father. ||

ᯓ★ Kimi Antonelli x Fem! (Wolff) Reader

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Angst, Fluff

ᯓ★ Warning: None, really, just an angry Kimi that punches your ex

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: Thank you guys so much for showing support towards my other post. It means a lot, and I see all the support you've been giving me. Here is some Kimi. I will be working on requests as soon as I upload my original works to my draft. I do apologize if this isn't the best work of mine!!!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Toto had always been a devoted father—the kind of man who, the moment he held you for the first time, knew without question that he'd move heaven and earth just to see you smile. From that instant on, his purpose was clear: give you a life full of wonder, safety, and choice. And for a long time, that meant spoiling you just a little—okay, a lot—because nothing made him prouder than giving you a life most kids could only dream of.

But as you grew, watching you change from the little girl who clung to his leg into a young woman carving out her own place in the world… well, that was the hardest challenge he'd ever faced. Not even Formula 1 came close. If he could, he would’ve frozen time—kept you small, safe, protected in the bubble he built. But your mother, Susie, had always been the wiser one in those moments. She’d tell him gently, "Let her live, Toto. She knows what she’s doing."

And he trusted you. Deeply. He always had. Even when every part of his protective instincts begged him to hover, to step in, to control—he held back, because Susie was right. You had a good head on your shoulders. You knew what you wanted, what you didn’t. He just had to believe in that.

Still… that belief wavered the day he met your boyfriend.

From the first handshake, Toto had to grit his teeth. There was something off—something smug, careless, cold. He tried to give the benefit of the doubt at first, tried to play civil. But dinner that night had been a disaster. The boy barely looked you in the eye, spoke with that detached tone that set off every alarm in a father’s soul. He interrupted you, ignored your opinions, tossed out passive comments that stung with disrespect.

And when Toto confronted Susie afterward, trying to reason out his frustration, the only thing he could mutter was, “He treats her like one of the guys. He doesn’t see her. Not really.”

You tried to brush it off. You always did. Maybe, deep down, you figured your dad wouldn’t approve of anyone. He had never made your love life easy. It wasn’t that he wanted to sabotage it—he just had impossibly high standards. He wanted someone who saw you the way he saw you: as someone rare, worthy, and deeply loved.

Then came the day he brought you with him to work.

And everything quietly began to change.

That was the day you met Kimi Antonelli—young, respectful, focused, and, unlike your boyfriend, someone who actually listened when you spoke. Toto watched the first interaction from across the paddock. It was subtle. A handshake. A smile. But there was something in Kimi’s posture—something in the way he looked at you—that caught Toto off guard.

It wasn’t long before you and Kimi started spending more time together. He wasn’t flashy or overly forward, but he showed up—every time. And every time you laughed around him, something settled in Toto’s chest. Even Susie noticed. You were lighter when Kimi was around, more yourself.

And though Toto never said it out loud, he was rooting for him.

He’d seen the signs: the way Kimi’s ears turned pink when you said his name, the way he nervously played with his hoodie strings whenever you walked into a room. The way he leaned in when you talked, fully tuned in like there was no one else in the world. Toto recognized the feeling—because it was how he used to look at Susie when they were young.

Usually, that would’ve been Toto’s cue to intervene, to draw boundaries, to be the protective dad. But with Kimi? He felt none of that need. Kimi wasn’t just respectful—he adored you. And Toto approved. Quietly, but wholeheartedly.

Just earlier that day, Toto had watched Kimi’s face drop when you casually mentioned your boyfriend was coming to pick you up. That flicker of hurt was brief, quickly buried—but Toto saw it. And though he knew it was probably wrong, he couldn’t help but wish the boyfriend would disappear altogether.

Still, Kimi had been kind. Encouraging. He smiled and told you to have fun, even though Toto could tell it cost him something to say it.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Toto leaned against the kitchen counter, one hand cradling a half-empty mug of coffee that had long since gone cold. His eyes weren’t on the cup, though—they were fixed on the clock hanging above the stove. Each tick felt louder than the last, like a slow, steady drumbeat to his anxiety. 10:15 PM. Fifteen minutes past the curfew he had set. Not a hard rule, not a command—but a boundary. A sign of care. Respect. And you weren’t home.

He shifted his weight, arms folding across his chest as he exhaled sharply through his nose. His mind spun. You were eighteen. Legally an adult, yes. But to him, you were still his daughter. Still, the baby he carried on his shoulders through airports. Still, the teenager who came to him crying the first time school made the world feel too big. You were his, and even if he knew he couldn’t protect you forever… he couldn’t help the fear that always crept in when you were late.

Especially tonight.

Because he knew who you were with. And if there was one thing that tightened every muscle in his chest, it was him—the boyfriend who never seemed to look Toto in the eye. The one who was all charm and zero substance. The one who never bothered to say thank you, who treated curfews like suggestions and your boundaries like inconveniences. From the start, Toto had sensed something off. A chill beneath the surface. But for your sake, he bit his tongue. He didn’t want to be the overbearing father who pushed you away by pushing too hard.

Still, it gnawed at him.

Footsteps approached from behind—soft, steady, familiar. Susie wrapped her arms loosely around him from behind, resting her chin gently against his shoulder. “She’ll be home, love,” she murmured with that even voice of hers that always grounded him. “We didn’t raise her to break all the rules.”

Toto sighed, his jaw tightening. “It’s not about the rules. It’s about respect. Time. Safety. That boy doesn’t care about any of it. I told him when he picked her up—I made it very clear. And yet…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. The clock answered for him.

Susie stepped back, hands trailing down his arms as she gave him a soft look. “She has your fire and my good sense. Let her make this choice, Toto. You have to let her learn.”

He gave her a tight nod, but it didn’t soothe the worry burning under his skin. She left to check on Jack—no doubt to rescue the living room from a whirlwind of superhero toys and the soundtrack of laser sound effects—but Toto stayed rooted in place, his gaze flicking between the clock and the front door as if staring hard enough would make you walk through it.

By 10:32, he had started pacing. By 10:36, he was rubbing the back of his neck, trying to slow the gallop of his heartbeat. By 10:39, he'd nearly picked up his phone—just to check in, just to see—when he heard it.

The soft click of the front door opening.

His heart leapt, but the relief that flooded him turned quickly into alarm when he saw you standing there.

You were back. But you were broken.

Your face was pale, your eyes red-rimmed and glossy with tears that had dried only to be replaced by fresh ones. Your lip trembled, and Toto's chest clenched so tightly it stole the breath from him. All the lectures he’d rehearsed—You’re late, He doesn’t respect you, I told you so—they vanished. Gone. There was no room for them when his daughter was standing in the doorway, looking like the world had just collapsed at her feet.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t speak.

He just opened his arms.

You crossed the room without hesitation, like a wave crashing toward the only shore that ever made you feel safe, and the moment you hit his chest, you let go. Sobs broke from you like thunder—loud, sudden, raw. And Toto held you like he had when you were five years old and scraped your knee, like he had when nightmares used to steal your sleep. His arms wrapped around you with that quiet strength only a father has, one hand gently cradling the back of your head.

"He broke up with me," you choked through tears.

Toto went still. He didn’t need to hear the details. Didn’t want them. His fury flared like a match in his chest—hot and instant—but he didn’t let it reach his face. You didn’t need anger. Not yet. Not now. Right now, you needed to fall apart in the arms of someone who loves you without condition or judgment.

So he pushed down the rage. The urge to call the boy. To drive across town. To remind him exactly who he had just hurt.

Instead, Toto held you closer.

After what felt like hours in your father’s arms—though in truth, it had only been minutes—you finally felt your body begin to release the tension it had been holding so tightly. The sobs faded into quiet sniffles, and the storm that had burst so violently inside you now softened to a low, steady ache. You pulled back just enough to look up at Toto, his steady hands still on your shoulders, his eyes full of unspoken love.

“I’m gonna head back to my room,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from crying.

Toto gave the faintest nod, brushing a thumb gently across your tear-streaked cheek. “Alright, liebling. I’m here if you need me.”

You nodded, but you didn’t speak again. You turned and climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the quiet of the house. When you finally shut the door behind you, your room felt darker than usual—like the grief had followed you in and taken a seat.

You collapsed onto your bed without even changing out of your clothes, the softness of your pillow doing nothing to ease the tight ache in your chest. Your hands trembled as you reached for your phone, still damp with your tears. There were texts—two from your mom, one being a photo from Jack that was sent from her phone, just a photo of a LEGO tower, and one—unsurprisingly—from your now ex-boyfriend.

You didn’t open it.

Your thumb hovered for a second, then moved to the one name that always brought a flicker of comfort. Kimi Antonelli.

You didn’t think. You just hit Call.

The phone barely rang once.

“Hey! Y/N, I was just—” Kimi’s voice lit up at the sound of your name, his energy clearly bright, distracted by something in the background—voices, laughter, maybe music—but then, in a heartbeat, it changed. “Wait... are you crying?”

You didn’t even realize you had started again until your voice cracked. “He broke up with me,” you managed, and your breath hitched painfully. The words felt raw, too sharp in your throat.

There was silence for a second. Not hesitation—just stillness. Kimi’s voice came back low, firm. “Okay. I’m coming over.”

“No, it’s—” But the line had already gone quiet.

Somewhere across town, Kimi Antonelli was standing up from a half-eaten dinner, pulling on his jacket while his friends called after him in confusion. He gave a distracted wave over his shoulder. “She needs me.”

“Who?” one of them asked, brows raised.

But Kimi didn’t answer. He was already out the door.

His footsteps were quick as he crossed the parking lot to his car, the cool night air biting at his skin. He barely noticed. His mind wasn’t on the racetrack, or the media, or even the rare night off he’d been looking forward to—it was on you. On the sound of your voice, cracking with pain. On the ache he imagined behind your silence.

Kimi had never heard you cry like that before. And God, he hated it. Hated knowing someone had made you feel that small. That disposable. That unseen.

He gripped the steering wheel harder than necessary, jaw clenched as he drove through the city streets toward your house. This wasn’t how he had imagined it—finally showing up for you, finally being the one you reached out to. He didn’t want it to be under these circumstances.

But he also didn’t care.

Because if you needed him, he’d be there.

Not for some big moment. Not to say something clever. Not to fix everything. Just to be—to hold space, to remind you that not everyone leaves, that not everyone breaks you and walks away. Some people stay. Quietly, without expectation, with nothing but steady presence and a heart full of care.

And his? Was entirely yours.

As he turned onto your street, headlights sweeping across familiar hedges and fences, he slowed the car in front of your house. Lights were still on in the kitchen. He could see the faint silhouette of Toto passing by the window. He hesitated only briefly before grabbing his hoodie off the passenger seat and stepping out into the night.

He walked up the driveway, nerves bubbling somewhere deep in his chest—not because of you, but because he knew your father was still awake. And Toto Wolff wasn’t exactly the type of man a boy arrived in front of, unannounced, after 11 PM.

But this wasn’t about pride. It wasn’t about nerves.

It was about you.

And that was enough to steady his hand as he rang the bell.

Toto glanced up from his seat at the kitchen table, where he’d been nursing a second, untouched cup of coffee. His brow furrowed. At this hour, unannounced visitors were rare. He stood slowly, his height casting a long shadow across the hallway as he approached the door. Through the frosted glass, he could see a figure—tall, lean, shifting his weight anxiously.

When he opened the door, the porch light fell across Kimi Antonelli’s face.

He looked… nervous. Not afraid, exactly, but purposeful. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes meeting Toto’s without flinching.

Toto didn’t speak at first. He simply raised an eyebrow.

Kimi cleared his throat. “Hi, Mr. Wolff. I—I know it’s late. I wouldn’t normally just show up like this, but Y/N called me and…” He paused. “She sounded really upset.”

There was something in Kimi’s voice—earnest, raw, respectful—that eased the tension just slightly from Toto’s shoulders. Still, the father in him remained protective. Measured. Guarded.

“She is,” Toto said evenly. “It’s been a rough night.”

Kimi nodded once, shifting his weight again, but he didn’t ask to come in. He didn’t push. “I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t alone. If she wants me to leave, I will. But I promised I’d show up if she ever needed me.”

Toto studied him.

He saw the signs again—the open posture, the sincerity, the quiet strength of a boy who didn’t come with rehearsed charm or performative pity. Just presence. Toto felt something in his chest relent, just a little.

“You’re not like him,” Toto said quietly.

Kimi’s brows drew in, unsure if it was a challenge or a statement.

Toto held his gaze. “And for what it’s worth… that’s a good thing.”

Then he stepped aside.

“You know the way.”

Kimi blinked, surprised for a split second by the gesture. “Thank you,” he murmured, slipping off his shoes before making his way upstairs with soft, deliberate steps.

Your room was dark, save for the faint glow of your bedside lamp. You lay curled under your blanket, hoodie on, face still blotchy from crying but eyes dry now—empty in a way that was almost worse.

You didn’t expect the knock. It was soft, a gentle triple tap that made your heart skip.

You sat up. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and there he was—Kimi, still in his hoodie and jeans, his hair slightly messy from running a hand through it too many times. His eyes found yours immediately, and whatever breath you had left in your lungs caught.

“Kimi…”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just closed the door quietly behind him and crossed the room in a few strides, lowering himself to the edge of your bed like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice warm and steady. “I’m here.”

That simple phrase unraveled something inside you all over again.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” you admitted, voice cracking.

Kimi smiled, a little sad, a little tender. “You called the right person.”

You looked down, ashamed. “I feel stupid. Like I should’ve seen it coming. He was never—he never really…” You trailed off, your throat closing again.

Kimi leaned in just slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to explain it to me. Not tonight. You don’t owe anyone that—not even yourself.”

Your chin trembled, and before you could stop yourself, you reached out for him—fingers brushing his sleeve like an anchor. He took your hand gently, threading his fingers through yours without hesitation.

“I just… I feel so used,” you whispered, eyes stinging. “Like I was never enough. Or maybe too much. I don’t know anymore.”

Kimi’s grip tightened slightly, reassuring. “No. No, don’t do that.” His voice wasn’t angry, but it was fierce. Protective. “You were always more than enough. He was just too small to see it.”

That broke you.

You let out a shaky breath, leaning your forehead against his shoulder. And he shifted instantly, wrapping one arm around you, pulling you gently into his chest. His hoodie smelled faintly like clean linen and his cologne, and his heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek.

He didn’t move. Didn’t fidget. He just held you—with patience, with silence, with that kind of safety only someone who really sees you can offer.

You closed your eyes.

Kimi spoke again after a moment, voice barely above the hush of your breath.

“I’ve watched you try so hard to be seen by someone who never deserved you,” he said. “I wanted to say something a hundred times, but it wasn’t my place. I just… I hoped you’d see it on your own. And you did. Even if it hurts.”

“It hurts so much,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, his thumb brushing softly across the back of your hand. “But it won’t forever.”

You let the silence fall again, but this time it wasn’t hollow. It was warm. Healing.

Kimi stayed.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The silence in your room had grown softer. No longer heavy or thick, but something else—like quiet after a storm. The ache in your chest was still there, raw and pulsing, but it had settled into something manageable. Something you could breathe through.

Kimi hadn’t moved much. He still sat beside you on the bed, legs stretched out, back against your headboard now. You were curled under the blanket beside him, wrapped in one of his hoodies now—he’d taken it off the moment you demanded it, discarding yours to the floor with no care.

He glanced over at you, catching the way your eyes had dulled again.

“You’re thinking about him,” he said gently—not accusatory, just perceptive.

You gave a tired little nod. “Yeah. It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” Kimi said instantly. “It’s grief. That’s real.”

You smiled, humorless. “I don’t even know what I’m grieving. He barely treated me like I mattered half the time. I guess I just thought… if I tried harder, he’d see me.”

Kimi was quiet for a beat. Then: “You know what that sounds like?”

You tilted your head. “What?”

He turned toward you slightly, eyes twinkling. “The plot of every bad teen drama ever made.”

You snorted. “Wow, thank you. That really helps.”

“I’m serious!” he grinned now, leaning into the moment. “You’ve got the tragic breakup arc, the mascara running down your face—sorry, you wiped it off, but I saw it earlier. You’re in oversized clothing that doesn’t belong to you—mine, by the way—next thing you know, there’s gonna be a moody montage of you staring out a rainy window while sad indie music plays.”

You laughed, really laughed—sudden and unexpected. It cracked something open.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, burying your face in the hoodie sleeve. “You’re the worst.”

“I prefer ‘underrated comedic genius,’ but I’ll take what I can get.”

You looked at him then, really looked—at the way his smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, at the softness in his expression that didn’t ask anything of you, only gave. He wasn’t here to fix you. He was here to sit with you in it, in the mess, in the sadness—and somehow still bring light.

“I missed this,” you said quietly.

He blinked. “Missed what?”

“You. Laughing with you. Feeling… normal.”

Kimi’s smile faded into something gentler. “You don’t have to be normal tonight. You don’t have to pretend, or laugh, or bounce back.” He reached forward and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with more care than anyone had touched you all week. “But if I can make you smile once in a while… I’ll do that. Every time.”

Your throat tightened again, but this time not from grief.

“You’re kind of amazing,” you whispered.

Kimi’s ears turned pink. “Don’t say that. I’ll get cocky.”

You gave him a look. “You already are cocky.”

“Okay, true, but usually it’s because I drive cars very fast, not because the prettiest girl I’ve ever known said something nice to me.”

Your heart did a somersault—and for the first time that night, it didn’t hurt.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The laughter had faded. The tears, too.

You’d fallen asleep not long after, head resting on Kimi’s shoulder, your breathing soft and steady. The weight of the night had finally won, and your body gave in—exhausted by emotion, lulled by comfort, by presence, by the quiet safety of him beside you.

Kimi hadn’t moved for a long while. He just sat there, still, eyes tracing the curve of your features in the dim light spilling through your bedroom curtains. You looked peaceful again. Not whole—but healing. And something in him bloomed with fierce protectiveness.

Carefully, he shifted. Slid down just enough to tuck the blanket more securely around you. His hoodie was still around your frame, sleeves falling past your hands like a cocoon.

He bent down, his lips brushing your forehead in the softest whisper of a kiss.

“Buonanotte, mia stella,” he murmured, barely audible. Goodnight, my star.

His words hung in the air for a moment, warm and sacred, before he stood and turned toward the door—taking one last glance at you, asleep and safe.

But as he gently cracked the door open, he was met with a shadow leaning quietly in the hallway.

Toto.

Kimi froze mid-step, guilt flickering in his eyes as if he'd been caught sneaking out. But Toto didn’t speak right away. He simply nodded, stepping aside to let Kimi pull the door closed behind him.

“Did she fall asleep?” Toto asked, voice low and even.

Kimi nodded. “Yeah. She cried a lot. But I think she… I think she’s okay now. Just tired.”

Toto gave a slow, thoughtful nod. He studied the boy in front of him for a moment—not as a driver, not as a prodigy or a teammate—but as someone who, without being asked, had shown up for his daughter in her most vulnerable hour.

“I watched you with her earlier,” Toto said quietly. “You didn’t say much. You didn’t try to fix it. You just… stayed.”

Kimi shifted slightly, unsure if it was a compliment or a critique. “I didn’t want her to feel like she had to be okay. I just wanted to be there.”

“That’s exactly what she needed.”

A pause. A beat of silence that held a hundred unspoken things.

Toto crossed his arms, not out of sternness—but comfort. Familiarity.

“She’s always been… emotionally sharp,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Feels things deeply. Even when she pretends she doesn’t. When she was seven, she rescued a bird with a broken wing and cried for two days when it didn’t make it. She buried it in the garden. Gave it a name and everything.”

Kimi smiled faintly. “That sounds like her.”

“And when she was thirteen, she got into a fight with a teacher over another kid being bullied. Came home with detention and a bloody lip. Said she didn’t regret it.”

Kimi’s smile widened.

Toto looked at him now, not as a father assessing a threat—but as one recognizing a quiet truth.

“You’re the first boy she’s brought around who actually listens to her,” he said softly. “Not just waits to talk. Not just talks over her. You see her. And that means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

Kimi’s throat bobbed. “I care about her. A lot.”

“I can see that.”

Toto let a long breath pass, then reached into his pocket and handed Kimi something small—an old, worn keychain. It was shaped like a little silver compass.

“She used to carry this everywhere,” Toto said. “I gave it to her when she started secondary school. Told her it would always help her find her way back home, even if she got lost.”

Kimi took it carefully, reverently.

“She stopped carrying it when she started dating him,” Toto added with a tinge of bitterness. “I don’t think she even noticed. But… if you ever see her doubting herself again, remind her. She’s never really lost.”

The silence between them now wasn’t awkward. It was full. Like something had settled.

“I’ll protect her,” Kimi said, voice quiet but certain. “I promise.”

“I know,” Toto replied, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “That’s why I’m letting you stay in her life.”

And with that, he stepped aside, gesturing toward the front of the house with a faint smile. “Go get some sleep, Kimi. You’ve done enough tonight.”

Kimi gave a grateful nod. “Goodnight, sir.”

“Call me Toto,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

As Kimi stepped out into the cool night air, that little compass keychain tucked in his jacket pocket, he felt something shift inside him—not just relief, not just affection.

Hope.

And maybe… something dangerously close to love.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It had taken Kimi three whole weeks to work up the nerve to ask you to the amusement park. Not because he didn’t want to—he really did—but because every time he imagined asking, his brain short-circuited into a flurry of “what if she says no” and “am I being weird?”

He’d ended up at your house again that morning, as usual, nervously fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie while sitting at the kitchen counter. Your dad, Toto, was making coffee—classic black, no nonsense—and giving Kimi the kind of look dads give when they know exactly what’s going on, but enjoy watching you squirm anyway.

“Amusement park, huh?” Toto asked, taking a slow sip. “Kind of cheesy.”

Kimi’s ears turned crimson. “Is it too cheesy?” he asked, his voice barely louder than the hum of the refrigerator. “I mean… do you think she’d want to go?”

Toto gave him a smirk that was half-tease, half-approval. “You’ve got a better chance if you actually ask.”

Before Kimi could respond, you came shuffling down the stairs in your pajamas—hair messy, one sock on, yawning like the world wasn’t waiting on you. Both of them looked up. You blinked at them, still half-asleep.

Kimi stared for a second too long, then smiled to himself. You looked chaotic in the morning, sure—but to him, it was cute. Soft. Familiar in a way he couldn’t explain.

And then—panic. The words in his head scrambled, suddenly impossible to get out. Toto nudged him discreetly in the ribs.

Kimi cleared his throat, nearly choking on it. “Uh—I bought passes,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “Do you… want to go to the amusement park with me?”

The silence that followed was louder than it needed to be.

He felt his pulse spike, every second stretching unbearably long. It wasn’t even a date—not technically—but still, the idea of you saying no had his stomach in knots. He stared at you, waiting for some kind of expression, some clue.

Then you shrugged, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Sure,” you said, casually. “I’ve got no plans.”

Kimi let out a breath so heavy it could’ve knocked over a chair.

“Cool! Yeah—cool,” he said too quickly, nodding way too much. “Take your time! I’ll, uh, I’ll just hang here.”

You padded back upstairs to shower, leaving him alone with your dad, who gave him a nod of approval that made Kimi sit a little taller.

Meanwhile, the water washed over you, bringing clarity you didn’t know you needed. It had been a while since you’d done anything just for fun—since your last relationship ended, your world had felt like it was stuck in grayscale. But now, as the scent of your favorite shampoo filled the air, something small and good started to stir inside you again.

Picking an outfit felt like a challenge at first—should it be simple? Overthought? What was the vibe? But you settled on something that made you feel like yourself. Clean. Light makeup. Hair styled with minimal effort. No pressure, just… something new.

Finally ready, you headed downstairs, each step tapping like quiet punctuation on a page you didn’t realize you were writing.

"I'm ready," you called out, stepping into the hallway where Kimi was already waiting. He turned to look at you—and though he didn’t say anything right away, the smile that spread across his face said more than words.

Toto looked up from the living room and gave Kimi a firm pat on the back. “Be safe,” he said, with a playful tone wrapped in a layer of dad-seriousness. “And home before eleven.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “Got it, Dad.”

You hugged him quickly, the kind of warm, familiar squeeze that said thanks for having my back even when you’re annoying. Then you turned toward the kitchen.

“Bye, Mom! Love you!” you called.

She poked her head out from behind a cupboard, smiling at the sight of you. “Have fun!”

And then Jack, your little brother, peeked around the corner, already grinning. “Don’t throw up on a rollercoaster!”

“Bye, Jack!” you laughed, tossing him an exaggerated wave that made him cackle.

You stepped outside with Kimi by your side, the sun already rising high in the sky, bathing everything in that soft golden glow that only seems to show up on good days. The breeze was warm against your skin. The door clicked shut behind you.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like something good was about to begin.

The highway stretched out ahead of you, painted in fading streaks of gold and blue. The windows were halfway down, letting in a warm breeze that made your hair dance, and Kimi’s playlist filled the car—an eclectic mix of chill indie, chaotic throwbacks, and a few songs you’d never admit to liking if anyone else were around.

Kimi was in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against the center console in time with the beat. His sunglasses were pushed up into his hair, and he was focused on the road, jaw set in that half-serious, half-goofy expression he got when trying not to miss an exit.

You leaned your head against the seat and looked over at him. “This playlist is kind of unhinged.”

Kimi grinned. “It’s called ‘Road Trip But Make It Existential’.”

“That explains the emotional whiplash.”

“You’re welcome.”

The two of you had already hit three drive-thrus for snacks and argued over who had better taste in gas station candy, and now the conversation had settled into a comfortable quiet. The kind that only really happens with someone you don’t have to fill space with.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

After the initial excitement at the gate faded, the two of you found a rhythm—slow, easy, no pressure. The kind of wandering where the destination didn’t matter. The kind where the conversation meandered as much as your path through the park.

The first stop had been an old-fashioned photo booth, tucked near the carousel. Kimi dragged you inside, half-joking that you needed proof you were outside the house again. The machine blinked to life, the countdown starting before you were even ready. The first picture was blurry, your hand still adjusting your hair. The second caught Kimi mid-laugh, you smirking at him with one eyebrow arched. By the third and fourth, you were both laughing for real. It felt ridiculous. And perfect.

“Frame-worthy,” Kimi said, holding the strip up to the light with a mock-serious face.

“Frame-worthy if we frame it in irony,” you teased, taking the photo and tucking it into your pocket.

Next came a snack run. You both settled on soft pretzels and sodas, sitting on a shaded bench while a jazz cover of a Taylor Swift song floated from a nearby speaker. Kimi tore his pretzel into perfectly even halves and handed you the bigger piece without saying a word. You noticed. You didn’t say anything either. But your chest ached in the softest way.

As the afternoon wore on, he made a point to pull you toward games—mostly the silly, winnable kind. You tried the ring toss and failed spectacularly. Kimi tried and failed slightly less, which he acted like was Olympic-level achievement. He won you a plush penguin from a knock-over-the-cans game and immediately named it Sir Waddlesworth. The name stuck.

You wandered past a duck pond with swan boats lazily circling, and he offered to row one with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Only if you want to see what happens when I try to row us in a straight line and fail miserably,” he said.

You passed. But the image made you laugh harder than anything had in days.

Later, you shared a strawberry snow cone under the shade of a pink-and-white umbrella. He let you eat the top half, pretending it was “too cold” for him but smiling every time you looked happy. Your fingers brushed a few times when he held the cup steady for you, and though neither of you commented, neither of you pulled away, either.

The laughter was constant—but never forced.

He let you be quiet when you needed to be. Gave you space when you stopped walking to people-watch or stare too long at the spinning swings in the distance. When your thoughts slipped into darker places, you found him beside you again, nudging your arm, pointing out some ridiculous park character mascot in a massive frog costume breakdancing to pop music.

You giggled. He grinned. And for the first time in days, you didn’t feel weighed down by the breakup. You felt… human again.

Kimi glanced at you then, watching your eyes follow the lights of the park. “You’re different today,” he said gently, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

You turned to him, tilting your head. “Different how?”

“I dunno. Like… a little more you. Less like you’re trying to carry a hundred things alone.”

Your smile faltered, just slightly, but it didn’t disappear. “That obvious, huh?”

“To me? Yeah.” His tone wasn’t teasing. It was honest. Simple.

You both stopped walking near the edge of the park, where the Ferris wheel stood tall in the distance, a soft hum of lights circling its frame. The sun had started its descent, the gold of late afternoon bleeding into a rose-pink sky.

Kimi followed your gaze. “We doing it?”

You glanced at him, and for once, you didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I think we are.”

The sun was bleeding into the skyline, casting the amusement park in that honeyed gold light that made everything feel softer than it really was. You and Kimi stepped into the Ferris wheel bucket together, the world slowly shrinking below you as the ride creaked into motion.

You'd spent the day wandering the park—sugary churros, shared jokes, quiet looks that lingered too long. It had been fun. Real fun. But now, with the noise below fading and the world pausing as your bucket crested higher, your chest felt heavier.

You leaned into Kimi, your head resting lightly on his shoulder. It felt natural—too natural. His body relaxed under your touch like it had been waiting for that moment all day. A quiet sigh escaped you, but it wasn’t relief. It was confusion.

The ride paused near the top, swaying gently.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you murmured, eyes on the horizon.

Kimi shifted, just slightly, to look at you. “You don’t have to deserve me. I want to be here.”

You didn’t answer right away. The wind teased your hair, and you blinked slowly, heart beating faster for a reason you didn’t want to name. You felt Kimi’s fingers brush against yours, just barely, testing a line.

“I think I forgot how it felt to be seen,” you admitted.

He turned more fully toward you, his voice lower now, soft but sure. “Then let me remind you.”

You looked up just as he leaned in—slow, tentative, eyes flicking to your lips. Your heart surged and stalled all at once. Panic gripped your chest. And before you could think it through, you flinched back.

“No—wait, I…” you said quickly, breath catching. “I can’t.”

The words came sharper than you meant.

Kimi froze.

His expression faltered, confusion giving way to hurt in the space of a heartbeat. He pulled back, his hand dropping to his lap. The air shifted between you—suddenly colder, thinner, like the altitude had finally caught up with you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I just… I’m not ready. It’s not you, I swear—”

He nodded once, quickly. “It’s okay.”

But it didn’t sound okay.

Silence draped over the two of you as the Ferris wheel began to descend again, the world creeping closer while your hearts pulled apart. Kimi stared ahead, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. You sat stiffly beside him, hands in your lap, wondering how such a perfect day had just cracked.

The ride ended with the soft lurch of the bucket returning to the ground. Kimi was the first to step out, offering his hand still—but it didn’t have the same warmth.

You took it anyway.

The walk back through the park was quieter than before. No more teasing comments. No more shared laughs. Just the distant hum of carnival music and the growing thud of regret in your chest.

You kept glancing at him, wishing he’d say something—anything—but his lips stayed pressed in a line. He didn’t look mad. Just… disappointed. Distant.

You wanted to explain, to make it better, but every version of the truth felt tangled in your throat. That your heart still ached from the breakup. That kissing someone new, even someone like Kimi, felt like stepping into something you couldn’t undo. "Thank you for today," you muttered, getting a silent head nod in return.

The air on the ride home was thick and uncomfortable and even more uncertain for both of you.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Things shifted after the almost-kiss.

Not suddenly. Not with explosions or slamming doors. But slowly—like a cold draft slipping through a window you didn’t realize was open. The air between you and Kimi, once filled with warmth and quiet laughter, had turned still. Hesitant. And it hurt more than you’d ever expected it to.

The first week was silence laced with half-hearted smiles and ghosted texts. You’d type something, only to delete it. Wait for a response that never came. Kimi wasn’t ignoring you, but he wasn’t reaching for you either. The rhythm of your friendship—the easiness, the comfort—it all hung in the balance, stretched too thin between unspoken apologies and feelings neither of you quite knew how to name anymore.

The second week wasn’t any better. Kimi poured himself into Formula 1 like a man trying to forget. Practice, strategy meetings, simulator runs—he was sharper, faster, and more focused than ever. Everyone noticed it, even Toto. Especially Toto.

He noticed your hollow expression when you glanced at your phone and saw nothing. He noticed the way Kimi’s name hovered at the top of your most recent contacts, untouched. And he noticed the ache you carried like armor, silent and too heavy for someone your age.

It was that ache that brought him to your bedroom one quiet afternoon.

You sat by your window, legs curled under you, your phone resting useless in your hand. The light outside was soft, golden. But it did nothing to warm the cold fog in your chest.

Toto knocked softly before stepping in, voice gentle. “I’m heading out soon for the upcoming Grand Prix. I’ll be gone for a while.”

You gave a faint nod, your eyes never leaving the view outside.

He hesitated, then added, “Kimi’s been looking strong. Mercedes has a real shot this weekend. I know how much you like Lewis—I’ll tell him you said hi.”

You forced a smile. It didn’t reach your eyes.

“I know you’ve always been hesitant letting me come to the races,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “You were scared when I was little… but this time, I want to go. I need to go.”

That got his attention. He turned to face you fully. “Why?”

Your gaze dropped to your lap, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. “Because I have to see Kimi. I have to make things right.”

Toto didn’t speak right away. He just watched you, eyes softening with understanding. So you kept going—pouring out the words you’d been holding back for days.

“That day on the ferris wheel… I should’ve let him kiss me,” you admitted, voice cracking ever so slightly. “Because I wanted him to. God, I wanted him to. And I pushed him away—not because I didn’t feel something, but because I did. And it terrified me.”

You blinked fast, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “I was afraid of what it would mean, of how real it would get. I just got out of something that wrecked me, and then there he was—so kind, so constant. And I hurt him, Dad. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

Toto let the silence stretch for a moment, letting your confession breathe in the space between you. Then he crossed the room, sitting beside you and placing a warm, grounding hand on your shoulder.

“I always approved of Kimi,” he said quietly. “Your mother did too. He’s a good kid, and he cares for you more than I think you realize.”

You sniffled, nodding.

“I don’t want to lose what we had,” you whispered. “Even if it’s just friendship, I don’t want the distance to win.”

He squeezed your shoulder gently. “Then don’t let it. Come with me to the Grand Prix.”

Your head snapped toward him in disbelief.

“But…” you began.

He held up a finger with a wry smile. “Avoid the media. Your mother will have my head if you end up in the tabloids for sneaking kisses in the paddock.”

That earned your first real laugh in days—a watery, grateful sound as you threw your arms around him in a tight hug.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “Thank you, Dad.”

He held you close, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

The air around the paddock buzzed with anticipation—reporters rushing past, team members running checklists, and engines screaming in the distance like thunder caught in metal. Monaco always carried an energy unlike any other race, and yet, your heart was racing for an entirely different reason.

You were searching.

Dodging between camera crews and mechanics, you weaved through the sea of people with one thought: Find Kimi. Your chest was tight, your palms clammy. You hadn’t seen him in weeks, hadn’t heard his voice, hadn’t felt his presence. And now that you were here, you needed him to see you—to know.

You passed the Mercedes garage, glanced toward the hospitality suite, even peeked into the briefing room, your nerves mounting with every step. The sounds of Formula 1 echoed all around, but it was the silence between you and Kimi that screamed the loudest.

Then, as if the universe had a cruel sense of timing, you turned a corner—and froze.

He was standing there.

Not Kimi.

Him.

Your ex.

The one who had left your heart in pieces weeks ago. Dressed casually, lanyard swinging from his neck, as if he belonged here, as if he deserved to stand on the same ground you were trying to rebuild yourself on. And the moment he saw you, his eyes lit up with a flicker of false charm you used to fall for.

“Y/n,” he said, stepping forward like you hadn’t spent two weeks crying over him. “God, I’ve been trying to reach you. I just want to talk.”

Your stomach twisted. “No,” you said firmly, trying to walk past him.

But he grabbed your wrist.

Not hard, not aggressive—but enough.

Enough to make your breath hitch. Enough to freeze your heart.

“Just listen—please,” he insisted, voice desperate. “I made a mistake, okay? I thought I was doing the right thing, but I was wrong. I miss you. I miss us.”

“No,” you repeated, yanking your arm back. “You don’t get to do this. Not here, not now.”

But he didn’t let go.

His grip tightened slightly, voice rising with desperation. “I know I messed up, but you still love me, right? You’re not really over me. That guy—Kimi—he’s just a rebound. I know you.”

You felt like the air had been ripped from your lungs. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

And then everything happened fast.

A blur of movement behind you.

A fist connecting with a jaw.

A sickening crack.

Your ex staggered back, holding his face in shock. You turned just in time to see Kimi standing there, chest heaving, eyes wild with a fury you’d never seen in him before. His hand was clenched, knuckles already reddening, and for a moment, he didn’t move.

Just stared your ex down like he was daring him to speak again.

“Don’t ever touch her again,” Kimi growled, voice low, sharp, and foreign in its anger.

Your ex didn’t respond—only muttered something and stumbled away, holding his jaw and casting one final look over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

And then silence.

Not around you—the paddock was still alive with noise—but between you and Kimi.

His gaze shifted from your ex to you, his shoulders still tense. He opened his mouth to speak, to apologize maybe—but you cut him off before he could.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, the words tumbling out fast and unfiltered. “That day at the amusement park—I wanted to kiss you. I wanted you. But I was scared. And I didn’t mean to hurt you, Kimi. I just… I didn’t know how to feel anything again after him, and then you came along and made everything feel real again, and it terrified me.”

Tears filled your eyes, not from fear or sadness—but from relief. Relief that he was here. That you were still here.

“And when you stopped calling,” you said, voice cracking, “when you stopped being there—I missed you so much it hurt.”

Kimi stepped forward, still silent, still breathless.

You looked up at him, voice barely a whisper now. “I don’t want to be scared anymore. Not with you.”

His brows softened, the anger completely gone, replaced with something tender and aching.

He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips lingering.

“I would’ve waited forever,” he said, voice hoarse. “I just didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“I do,” you said.

No hesitation this time.

And for a long moment, you simply stood there, the chaos of the world fading around you, replaced by the quiet certainty between two people finally letting their hearts be known.

No more fear.

No more running.

"A date, after the race, we're going on a date," you said, causing Kimi to smile softly at you, agreeing with your words. "A date, we're going on a date," he agreed as he went to walk away, your hands clasp his race suit, quickly pulling him back into place, your hands moving with a quickness to cup his cheeks. "What are you-" Kimi was caught off guard by the kiss, a bold move from you, but something he didn't complain about.

"Just...giving you some good luck out there..."

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The waves of the Mediterranean lapped gently against the sides of the boat, each one reflecting the city lights of Monaco like spilled stardust on water. The air was warm with a salt-sweet breeze, carrying with it the soft echoes of distant music and late-night laughter from the shore.

You sat at the bow, legs stretched out, the hem of your sundress fluttering around your ankles. Behind you, Kimi poured two glasses of sparkling water—he had insisted on something simple and sweet, no pressure, no pretense. Just the two of you and the quiet rhythm of the sea.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky a deep sapphire streaked with silver. You glanced back at him, watching the way his expression had softened—his eyes no longer clouded with doubt or fear, but lit up by something warmer. Something steady.

Love.

Kimi walked over and passed you a glass, sitting beside you, his knee brushing yours.

“You ever think we’d end up here?” he asked with a small grin.

You laughed quietly, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Honestly? No. But I hoped. Somewhere deep down, I always hoped.”

He looked down at you, his gaze lingering. “Even after the ferris wheel?”

You went still for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Even then. Especially then. I was just scared. Of what it meant… of what it would feel like to be happy again. But tonight, with you… I’m not scared.”

Kimi smiled, brushing his fingers lightly against your cheek. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out something small—delicate—a charm on a simple bracelet. A tiny silver heart, engraved with your initials and his.

“I wanted to wait until after the race,” he said, voice a little shy. “But… I thought this might be something you’d like.”

You blinked, touched beyond words, as he gently fastened it around your wrist.

“I love it,” you whispered. “And I love you.”

The words fell out of you so effortlessly it surprised even you—but Kimi’s expression didn’t falter. His eyes glistened slightly, and the grin that curved his lips was something out of your dreams.

“I love you too,” he said, cupping your face gently in his hands.

The kiss that followed wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t needy or desperate.

It was soft.

Full.

Healing.

He kissed you like he meant to erase every doubt you ever carried, and when he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“You’re safe with me. Always,” he murmured.

You nodded, your fingers lacing with his as you sat in that peaceful moment together, the boat swaying gently beneath the stars.

By the time you stepped through the front door of your home, shoes in hand, hair tousled by the wind and cheeks sore from smiling, the house was mostly quiet.

Except for the soft clink of glass from the kitchen.

Toto stood at the counter with a late-night espresso, raising an eyebrow as you walked in. He took one look at your glowing face and the bracelet glinting on your wrist… and smirked.

“So… I take it the night went well?”

You squinted at him. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

Toto gave an innocent shrug. “I may have offered him some guidance. Encouragement. Advice from a man who knows a thing or two.”

You crossed your arms. “You coached him.”

“I may have used the words if you break her heart, I’ll break your front wing,” he admitted with a dry chuckle.

You groaned, but there was no real annoyance in it. In fact, you smiled.

“Thanks, Dad,” you said softly, walking over to wrap your arms around him.

He returned the hug warmly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, cara mia. I’ve seen the way you look at him. It was always going to be him—you just needed time.”

You pulled back and nodded. “I think I finally got it right.”

He smiled. “Good. Now go to sleep. You’ve got a boyfriend who’s going to win the next Grand Prix, and a very nosy father who will absolutely take credit for it.”

You laughed all the way to your room.

And as you lay down that night, the sea still rocking in your bones and the feel of Kimi’s kiss lingering on your lips, you realized something:

You weren’t just in love.

You were home.

And one more thing, your dad really knows what's best.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

TAG LIST: @lacey-blog @svt-dk97 @linnygirl09 @coolpeanutchaos @wertyuizxcvbnm @fctnllvrs @alltypesofanimallover @fangirlmusicbiashoe @thatsnotaddy

#f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 fluff #f1 imagine #f1 x female reader #kimi antonelli x fem!reader #formula 1 fanfic #f1 angst #kimi antonelli #kimi #toto wolff

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moondustbaby · 2 months ago

Text

Mine

blue collar!Rafe x sahm!Reader

a/n: based on this request! 💌

summary: When you and Rafe are called in for parent-teacher conferences at jace’s school, you expect to talk finger paints and reading levels—not watch his overly friendly kindergarten teacher openly flirt with your husband. But lucky for her, you’re a patient woman. lucky for you, Rafe knows exactly who he belongs to.

⸻

Jace’s kindergarten classroom smells like glue sticks and apple juice, and the tiny plastic chairs dig into the backs of your knees as you shift uncomfortably in one of them. Rafe’s beside you, looking wildly out of place in his dusty jeans and a navy tee that still has faint paint streaks across the chest. He’d come straight from a job site, boots scuffed and skin golden from the sun, and when he sat down beside you, his hand naturally rested on your thigh, grounding you like always.

But the teacher hasn’t looked at you once.

“Mr. Cameron” she says for the third time, practically purring it now, “It’s just so nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from Jace.”

You blink. You’re right here.

“I’m his mom,” you offer with a polite smile, trying not to sound annoyed even though it’s starting to bubble up. “We’ve met before.”

“Oh, right, of course,” she says airily, eyes already back on Rafe. “But it’s so sweet—he talks about how his dad builds houses. That must be so rewarding.”

Rafe shifts a little in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s a lot of hours,” he says, glancing over at you like he knows. “But worth it.”

“Well, you must be so strong,” she laughs, touching her own arm like she’s imagining what his biceps feel like. “It’s just amazing what you do.”

You’re seconds away from launching yourself across the small table.

Rafe gives you a sideways look, a small twitch of his lips like he’s holding back a laugh, but you can tell by the way his hand tightens on your leg that he’s noticed it too.

You lean forward, smile sugary sweet. “He’s got strong arms and strong hands,” you say, resting your hand over his and threading your fingers through his. “Especially when he’s taking care of the kids so I can rest. You know—real husband stuff.”

The teacher’s smile wavers.

“Oh, of course,” she says. “Well—um—Jace is doing great. He’s a real sweetheart.”

“He gets that from his dad,” you say, batting your lashes at Rafe. “Except when someone crosses the line. Then he’s real protective.”

Rafe lets out a low breath that might be a laugh and finally turns his attention to the teacher. “We good with Jace, then? No issues?”

“None,” she says, flustered now, flipping through her notes. “He’s doing great. Just keep reading with him at home.”

You stand first, squeezing Rafe’s hand and helping him up, and he towers over both of you in his work boots, broad and golden and so clearly yours. You reach for his arm and give him a lingering look as he thanks the teacher, and you don’t miss the way she watches him as he walks out.

Once you’re in the hallway, Rafe leans close.

“You were gonna bite her head off,” he murmurs, clearly amused.

“I was gonna do worse,” you mutter, crossing your arms as you walk toward the front office. “She didn’t even see me.”

“She definitely saw you. Just didn’t know what she was messin’ with.”

“She was flirting with you.”

“I know.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but he’s got that smug, crooked smile that makes your heart skip even when he’s being a little shit.

“You think this is funny?” you say.

“I think it’s hot when you get jealous.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” you lie, scowling now. “I was territorial.”

He laughs, then pulls you in by the waist, pressing you up against the hallway wall where no one can see. You yelp, more in shock than anything else.

“Rafe—”

“She kept starin’ at me like she wanted to take me home,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “But you’re the one who gets to take me home. You’re the one who knows what these hands feel like when I’m not buildin’ houses.”

Your breath hitches.

“She doesn’t know what I sound like when I’m beggin’ you to let me come,” he says, rough and low now. “She doesn’t know how many times I’ve come home covered in dirt and dropped to my knees for you first thing, because I missed you too much.”

You swallow, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt. His jaw brushes yours.

“She doesn’t know I make you breakfast every Sunday. Or rub your back when you fall asleep on the couch. Or that I cry every time the kids bring home their little macaroni art projects and tell me they made ‘em for me.”

Now your eyes are stinging.

“She doesn’t know,” he says again, voice soft. “But you do.”

You nod slowly, heart beating out of your chest. His words always hit you like a truck tender and feral at the same time. And maybe the teacher had looked at him like she wanted him, but she’d never have him. Not like you did.

“You’re mine,” you whisper.

“Always.”

And he kisses you there in the hallway like it’s a promise.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: this fic is brought to you by passive aggressive eye contact, smug blue-collar husband energy, and tiny kindergarten chairs that are not meant for full-grown people. anyway. protect your man and maybe kiss him in the hallway. academic excellence starts at home. thank you for the request!! 🤩

♥️ lani

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vrystalius · 2 months ago

Text

Yearning and crushing.

What do they act like when they are utterly in love and yearning for you?

Pairing: Astarion, Gale, Zevlor, Rolan, x gn!Tav!reader

Summary: During the early stages of your misadventure, he cannot help himself but never stop yearning for you.

Genre: Fluff, lime (does anyone use lime and lemons anymore?)

Words: 2.3k

Note: I’m hosting a small event over at my blog. Check it out if you’re interested <3 I’m choosing four participating users at random to receive a personalised letter from their fav char<33 All of this is happening in act 1 btw.

Astarion Ancunín // The Pale Elf

Yearning scale: 8/10

He denied himself the pleasure of thinking about you in a romantic way other than to use you to get protection, power and a willing source of absolutely delicious blood. Really falling for you would be very stupid and have no benefit, really. Astarion never viewed himself as someone who deserved love, especially yours.

But during every battle Astarion’s concentration began to waver more and more. His eyes scan the area in panic until he finally spots you somewhere, being very occupied by trying to finish off the gnoll growling at you. He knows you’re capable defending yourself and finishing off some enemies and it is a delight to watch you fight, but that caused him to miss more and more, with both daggers and his crossbow.

You notice how his whole face lights up whenever you saunter over to him to do some small talk after a long day. His eyes look much softer and his smile becomes less guarded, less planned. It was adorable but you never mentioned it to him, or else you might never see that off-guard smile again.

At first you were adorned by Astarion and showered in flirts and compliments to love-bomb you and bind you to him, something he has done wo many countless times, but slowly he feels himself regretting playing up his flirtatious persona. He thinks you might not like him anymore when he stops with the over-the-top flirts, the nightly trysts and most importantly, the sex.

But deep down he was hoping and praying you’ll still like him for him.

Slowly, Astarion will insist on staying close with you no matter what. The group splits up to explore a cave efficiently? He is definitely sticking by your side. You’re heading to the Emerald Grove to stock on some food for tonight? Don’t mind him tagging along, he just needs a couple of healing potions. You’re injured and need healing? Out of the way Shadowheart, he got this with some alcohol and bandages.

“I’m sure you wont mind taking me with you to that grove again, I wanted to talk to that Tiefling by the forge. I’m thinking about asking very nicely to have a little taste of his blood… But I won’t if you get jealous easily, my darling.”

Astarion quietly yearns for you. He knows how to (mostly) control himself and his tongue around you to not accidentally start coughing up the butterflies terrorising his stomach by praising, flirting, teasing you, doing everything to try and make you like him by any means, even if he has to play a persona.

He has to let out this pent up love for you somewhere, so in the evenings he’ll retreat and quietly stich up his clothes that were torn during the day, check his daggers for sharpness but then also open up the hidden notebook he stashed away under his pillow and sketch a little. Mostly you, really, in all kinds of poses and situations.

He never sexualised you in any way, simply sketching you in almost domestic situations from his view; the way your face lights up in delight when Scratch brings you another drool-drenched sandal, your face scrunched together in disgust after tasting one of Auntie Ethel’s mold pies on accident or you just relaxing after a hard day. Astarion quietly admired you from his tent as his pen works against the paper. He’s not really talented in it but it’s a nice way to unwind. He is praying though that the dog never gets the bright idea to steal his notebook and drop it into your lap or he will beg Shadowheart to cast moonbeam and incinerate him.

Gale Dekarios // The Wizard of Waterdeep

Yearning scale: The ultimate yearner ™/10

Let’s be honest, Gale is not very subtle with his yearning although the wizard thinks he is being very smooth with it.

Before having the moment with you in the weave where your minds interlinked, where you imagined kissing him, first carefully, then passionately and with vigour so shamelessly while he stands there rooted in place, trying not to explode (literally), Gale has been dreamily watching you.

He wasn’t even sure why he fell in love with you or how exactly it happened, Gale had a dream about you with him in his wizard tower in Waterdeep, not exactly using his desk the way it is intended to be used. He woke up with the orb flickering in his chest and a all too familiar warmth spreading through his lower abdomen.

With every artefact you sacrifice to him and with every minute you listen to his boasting and rambling, Gale stopped fighting the feelings that were growing inside him every day and accepted that yes, he did just fall in love with the stranger that pulled him through a portal, fed him boots without hesitating and never seriously judged him for his poor decisions. He hasn’t met anyone besides Tara that was very judging.

He can’t act on his feelings yet, though. Gale can’t even let his mind slip for a moment and let the sweet, sweet thought of your lips pressed against his, your tongues dancing with each other, his hands feeling up your waist to pull you closer and closer as if trying to absorb you. He gets ripped out of these fantasies by a sharp pain in his chest and the all too familiar feeling of the orb becoming restless.

It physically hurts him to yearn for you. The orb is like a handcrafted punishment by his goddess Mystra, which it is, but not in the way she probably intended.

His way to painlessly express his admiration for you is mostly by talking; he rants and over-explains the littlest things that can sometimes accidentally come off as condescending, but you were always interested for whatever reason, even if he just listed all the different types of elementals and all the kinds he has met himself before.

But Gale also very openly expresses how highly he thinks of you. You always heard cheers like “A perfect hit!” or “You are doing absolutely amazing!” from the half dead and bloodied wizard that is surrounded by goblins but still thought about praising your skills. Sometimes his mouth worker faster than his brain and he’d accidentally compliment your very natural musk or point out how beautifully shiny your unwashed hair has gotten. It was probably meant to be a compliment.

Oh, it was starting to become a torture. Gale wakes up in the middle of the night after a blissful dream of strolling through the markets of Waterdeep together, playfully arguing who gets to cool what tonight, worrying about nothing other than to remember get Tara’s favourite treat. Rolling over in his bed he could feel his chest tighten, his hand instinctively gripping his nightshirt, trying to soothe the orb by touching it. He tried to take a deep breath, his fingers spreading out over his chest slowly.

His eyes fluttered shut and his lip quivered slightly as his other arm began to move to wrap around his own body. The wizard rolled over onto his side to stare at the tent wall, his own arms hugging himself, trying to make a fraction of his fantasies about you come true. But Gale would never allow to even properly think about asking to spend the night with him; it would be selfish to do so.

Zevlor // Leader of the Tieflings // Exiled Hellrider

Yearning scale: 6/10

It was probably wrong to feel the way he was feeling. You defended the grove and the refugees against goblins without questions and weren’t even disappointed about not getting a reward. You walked around and talked to the Tieflings, setting some dispute between three siblings, saved Arabella from the mad druid and offered to kill the goblin leaders for them.

Zevlor tried to push away the racing heart that seemed to flare up every time you showed more and more simple kindness for his people and others. He justified it to himself that the fluttery feeling in his chest and the warmth spreading embarrassingly fast on his face is just his gratitude manifesting in other ways, but during the small celebrating party you allowed to be held at your camp and after too many cups of vinegar for wine, it all dawned on him.

“Go, enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it. Don’t spend all your time on me, I’m sure many here would want to have a word with you instead.”

He admires your courage and selflessness, but his feelings reach far beyond that. To be able to share a cup with you was incredibly flattering but also a little selfish, he thought. You are quite popular in camp and Zevlor can’t deny the looks the other companions give you, so he tries to shoo you away and enjoy yourself. Having your attention all to himself, somewhere in private and in a situation that isn’t stressed by looming fights and threats would be an absolute dream.

A dream he didn’t allow himself to realise.

Besides, he’s an older, Hellrider-exiled Tiefling and an Oathbreaker Paladin with a group of refugee kin to look after and lead to Baldur’s Gate. Zevlor is barely able to love himself, how in the world are you supposed to be able to love him? Surely you deserve to be with someone more deserving of your love and devotion.

Even despite barely interacting with you, it was difficult for him to part from you and your troupe but there was a city for him to safely escort the refugees to. Duty calls and so does the road.

For now, Zevlor will just silently dream about you at night and think about your whereabouts during the day. He didn’t allow himself to get distracted too easily but during every small moment of respite his eyes would briefly close and his mind slowly travelled to you. He always wondered where you are right now, what you are doing. How far along have you come in your journey? Last he heard Halsin joined you on your quest for a cure against a tadpole.

He secretly wonders if you are still wearing the Hellrider Gloves he had given you as a thanks after redeeming Kagha and buying them more time to pack in the druid grove. It’s a childish thought but Zevlor really hoped that they serve you as well as they once served him and keep you safe. And maybe you think of him when you look at them.

For now, Zevlor has to focus on getting his caravan to Baldur’s Gate safely. The apparently cursed and so called “Shadow Lands” are the only way. Hopefully he can get them through in one piece.

Rolan // Wizard’s apprentice

Yearning scale: 8/10

Oh he has got a big, fat crush. Or at least that is what Cal and Lia have been teasing him about for the past days, hours and minutes. Ever since you stepped into the dispute the three had about whether they should leave the grove or not, Rolan has been more squishy and distracted.

He keeps seeing you around the grove, talking the Tieflings there and listening to what they have to say, trade with that druid merchant before heading over to Dammon to buy some new armour for you or your companions after the plates broke down. Rolan’s eyes would be scanning your whole body from the position he was standing, trying to see through your clothes and armour to check for injuries.

He knew you are an adventurer of some sort, talking to Ethel about something in your head and stocking up on a lot of healing potions. If not for you fighting through goblins Rolan would’ve used Thunderwave to send those scum to the afterlife. So he greatly appreciates your efforts and all it must take to finish them off.

His eyes would sparkle every time you even briefly passed him. You didn’t even had to look at him and he would feel his tail wagging embarrassingly fast behind himself as he tried to avoid his sibling’s knowing glances and how they 100% know what was going on.

Rolan doesn’t really understand himself and why his brilliant mind decided to choose you to pine on. You, someone he will leave behind and probably never see again. You, who only interacted with him a few fleeting times. You, with that heroic attitude and need to fix everything, you with that stupid smile you gave that woman Ethel, you simply existing. He felt childish for feeling like this.

He knew you’d make short work of the goblins and their leaders but his heart still managed to flutter in admiration after finding out what you managed to do. The wizard prepared his stupid party-trick spell until you got back to the grove, trying to cast the beautiful spell he had been casting since childhood over and over until it was perfect. Performing it in front of you asked for a bottle of wine or three to get some courage.

After bowing and getting some applause from you, Rolan’s eyes still stuck to you well after you gave your compliments and departed. He couldn’t help himself but feel jealous of that vampire in the corner, the purple wizard in the other and literally everyone else that breathed near you. Everyone wanted to have a piece of you— of course. You’re the hero of the party.

Rolan wanted to hog your time and attention to himself, though. He wants to sit down with you and for once just listen to you talk instead of him doing some boasting. It doesn’t matter what you were talking about, he wants to listen and watch your lips move, maybe fantasise about leaning in closer and sharing a kiss.

But alas, there’s an apprenticeship for him to attend in Baldur’s Gate. The road was calling and he had to move on with his travels. It doesn’t mean you left his mind though, every moment he did not spend checking up on Lia or Cal, getting into an argument with one of the kids or whatever, he spend daydreaming about you.

Maybe you’ll see each other again under better circumstances. He really hopes so.

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!

I wanted to write a request I swear but my hands moved on their own and wrote something that has been on my brain for like a week or so :,) Forgive me lmao. I’ll be answering asks and requests soon tho!

Check out my personalised letters event <33

Make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33 You are loved.

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lqveharrington · 11 months ago

Text

The Alchemy | D.M.

summary: Although Draco promised that he would keep your relationship a secret just for you, he can’t contain himself after winning the Hogwarts quidditch cup.

pairing: draco malfoy x hufflepuff!reader

includes: FLUFF, established relationship (and a last name of Evergreen for the reader)

a/n: inspired by the olympics recently ❤️

When Draco asked you out in fourth year, you thought it was a joke. Sure, you were both acquainted due to your pure wizardry bloodline, but you were in Hufflepuff. The only time the other houses thought you were useful was when they wanted to sneak into the kitchen. So when he came up and sat down beside you when you were studying potions, you were disheartened.

“Malfoy, please don’t do this.” You sigh, rubbing your forehead. You were just starting to understand what ingredients made a truth serum.

“Do what? I’m asking you if you want to go to Hogsmeade together this weekend.” He spun the Malfoy signet ring adorning his hand.

You look up at him with tired eyes, “Did someone put you up to this?”

“What? No no, I—“ He cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks warm at how you were able to fluster him with even a small glance. “I’m really asking you to go on a date with me.”

You search his face for any indication of a lie, before biting your lip softly and looking down at your parchment. “Are you really?”

“I am.” Draco dropped his hand onto yours to stop your fidgeting with the quill.

You felt your own face heat up at the notion. He thumbed your palm softly as you stayed quiet, not minding his closeness. Finally, you looked up at him, “You have yourself a date, Malfoy.” He sent you a soft smile but before he could say anything else, you interrupted. “Please don’t let me down.”

Draco never let you down. Despite your earlier doubts, you saw how kind and thoughtful the Malfoy heir was underneath his hardened shell his father had built around him. In private, he was always attentive, loving, clingy — there wasn’t a moment where he was separated from you. In public, he had to rein in those feelings just for you.

Even when you started your seventh year at Hogwarts, you were still terrified what others at school would say about a Hufflepuff dating the Slytherin Prince. Sure, his parents and your parents knew, but not the entirety of Hogwarts. You had asked Draco to keep your relationship private until you were ready to face the reality of your relationship to the rest of the world. He begrudgingly agreed, respecting your wishes; but the need to kiss you in front of the entire student body to rightly claim that you were his was wavering.

Especially when it had been three years since you first started dating. And right now, you were currently hiding below the stands together as you greeted him with good luck kisses for his final quidditch match as a student in Hogwarts.

“I.” Kiss. “Love.” Kiss. “You.” Kiss. You say softly as he holds you close by your hips — smiling into all your kisses. “Good.” Kiss. “Luck.” Kiss.

“You’re killing me here, love.” Draco murmurs against your lips. He pulls away gently to look at your ever so loving gaze. He draws small hearts on you hip, “You done?”

“Never.” You kiss him again, hands cupping his jaw. “I want you to be stuck with me forever.”

He hums into the kiss as you thumb his cheeks softly, “I will after I win this game, my love.”

You separate again, grinning like a lovesick puppy. “Good luck, Dray. I’ll see you later.” You press one last kiss to his lips before leaving his arms and running up the Hufflepuff stands to cheer. You couldn’t deny that even after all these years he still made you giddy and red.

Draco shook his head with a soft smile only you could coax out of him. He walked out from the stands and hopped on his broom, ready in the air for his final match as Slytherin’s seeker. Cheers filled the stadium as the players took their place, captains shaking hands.

The final match for Slytherin and Gryffindor was probably the most anticipated all year round. Since it was also Harry Potter’s last game as seeker, and the two seekers were known as rivals, it was hyped up to be one of the best end matches of the season.

As the game progressed, Slytherin and Gryffindor were constantly tied. It was really up to the seekers to find the golden snitch to determine the winner. There were bets taking place in the house stands, mind fixated on earning a few galleons for the last time. For the Hufflepuff stands, they were a house divided. Many cheered for scarlet and gold while the other half cheered for green and silver.

You didn’t mind the division between your house. After all, you only watched the games for Draco. Your friends were cheering for the Gryffindors whilst you carried the small Slytherin flag in your hands — eyes trained on the blonde high above the game itself. The second you blinked from the blazing sun, Draco was soaring after the golden snitch, Harry close behind and eventually flying right next to him.

The shouts from the stands only fueled the seekers’ attention to the flying gold. Draco and Harry were chasing in circles after the snitch, attention focused on nothing else even as the bludger zoomed past them.

You held your breath as they both reach out for the snitch. Your friend held your shoulder in anticipation, watching the two closely. Before you could register what happened, she gasped and shook your shoulders in frustration.

“I lost ten galleons to that!” She sighed heavily as Draco flashed the golden snitch in the air.

The rush of the win made you scream happily with the other Hufflepuffs and houses cheering for the Slytherin team. You wear clapping your hands as the team began flying around in victory. You watched as Draco flew around the stands more as the rest of the Slytherin team settled on the grounds. His eyes scanned the stadium until they lit up when they saw you at the very front of the Hufflepuff stands — waving your Slytherin flag with pride.

“Seems like Malfoy is off showing the last snitch he’ll catch for the Slytherin quidditch team! But we all want to know where the trophy is!” The third year announcer spoke, voice casted across the stadium.

You smiled at Draco softly when you finally met his eyes. And before you knew it, he flew right over to you and cupped your face, kissing you senselessly. You grinned into the kiss as you held his cheeks, the shouts and screams from your housemates blending in your ears.

“Aw, quite a beautiful way to celebrate the win. Don’t you think so, McGonagall? Honestly, I wasn’t expecting Malfoy and Evergreen— Ow, sorry.” The third year announcer spoke once more, rubbing the spot the professor lightly hit them with a newspaper.

You part from Draco with a blinding smile, “I think I agree, this is a beautiful way to celebrate.” You say quietly only for him to hear, pressing quick kisses to his lips.

“I’m proud of you, love.” Draco nudges your nose with his to gently stop your kisses for a second — even though he did want more.

“Me? You just won the quidditch cup for your house!” You laugh while wrapping your arms behind his neck, careful in trying not to pull him off his broom.

He rubbed the apples of your cheeks, “You just let me kiss you in front of the entire student body… I think that’s more important.” He pulled you in for another mind searing kiss, making you smile helplessly.

“AGAIN?” The third year announcer shouted into the microphone once more. “Is there—“

“Alright, we’re done announcing, boys and girls.” Professor McGonagall spoke and shut the speakers off; although she was quite happy for the couple.

You giggled as he pulled you into a hug. “I love you.”

Draco pressed kisses to your cheek repeatedly, “I love you more.”

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bunny-jpeg · 4 months ago

Text

price knows best

john price prompt: "you don’t need to go out with them tonight. stay with me instead.”

tags: smut/pwp, toxic relationship, baby trapping, possessive behavior, toxic!price, chubby!reader, established relationship (married), doggy style, carpet sex/carpet burns, rough sex

price hated saturday nights, when he saw you all dressed up for a night out. you looked so sweet in the little outfits that you wore out to the club. he wished that club burnt down to the ground so you'd be forced to stay home.

stay with your husband.

you didn't need to dress like you were looking for attention, was price's large hands on you not enough? at first price liked the idea that other men got to see what belonged to him. but now, you shouldn't be out on a saturday night. you should be at home with your husband, letting him put a baby in you.

"come sit with me before you leave, petal." he said as he spread his legs a little further to let you perch on his strong thigh. price knew he was a burly man, strong in a sense that he could easily crush you if he wanted to.

but he wouldn't be a good husband if he bruised his wife, now would he? his blue eyes were hungry on you as you came over, barefoot in a cute, whorish little dress.

"john, i have to go."

"mmm, gonna miss ya tonight." he purred as he put his hand on your waist, "hate seein' ya go each time." he kissed at your neck.

you pulled away, "honey, you can't convince me to stay home." but his lips only closed the distance and he continued to kiss at your soft skin. you smelt like peaches and the scent only aroused price more.

"baby girl." he purred, "you can't be going out every night. men are gonna get the wrong idea. think that your ass is for sale."

"i wear my ring."

"that don't mean shit to men who are like dogs." he replied as he held onto you a little tighter and pulled you in closer. you whimpered and the sound aroused him further.

you always made the sweetest noises, you sounded so perfect. price was lucky to put a ring on you before anyone else could sink their claws into you. he continued to kiss you and eventually his large hand went up your skirt.

"john."

he chuckled lowly, "someone's excited. like when your husband touches you like this." his voice was a low purr. he rubbed your slit with his thick fingers.

"i have to go soon."

he looked you in the eyes, there was an erection in his flannel pajama pants. he gave you a small smile, the same smile that lured you into marriage. he rubbed your pussy through your thin panties and said, "you don’t need to go out with them tonight. stay with me instead.”

you pouted, "john."

"don't pout, petal. a wife doesn't pout." he rubbed a little harder and kept his grasp on you tight. little thing wasn't going to wiggle out from under him. he saw your resolve start to crack.

"john, please." you said softly.

"petal, love bug, my darlin' wife." his bread grazed across the skin he kissed, "stay home with me. please. i don't want a bad man to hurt you. it's for your best interest. for your safety."

you held onto his shoulders, you felt yourself waver. being with your friends was fun, but the promises of what your husband would do were starting to sound more appealing.

"c'mon, baby. stay home. stay with me." he cooed and you felt the excitement run through you. it was an intense heat that made you curl closer to him. you hated the effect he had on you.

he continued to kiss you and tease you, it made your pulse jump a little. you hated the way price could get under you skin this way. the way he touched you made you soul sing and before you knew it, you were face down on the carpet by the coffee table with your panties around your knees and your ass up to price's cock.

price was on cloud nine at the sight of you, so submissive for him. the perfect wife. couldn't help bu get a little excited in his sweatpants before he pulled them down under his hairy balls.

your husband was bordering on full bush, he said he loved your sweet wetness dripped down his balls and in his dark pubic hair. his cock was hefty, big in a way that there has been a few times it just didn't fit. but you were such a lovely little wife that you found other ways to pleasure him.

he sank into you without much fanfare. the angle let him go a little deeper, you could feel his balls against your ass as he loomed over you. his cock throbbed inside of your pretty little pussy. he said lowly, in that husky voice, "like that, petal? see, isn't it better to stay home? man takes good care of his woman, doesn't need the attention of other men."

"john." you gasped as he clutched onto your soft hips. price liked that you were on the thicker side, he liked that your thigh gap was next to nothing, the pudginess of your hips that he could sink his hands into while he fucked you.

next round he'd smother himself in those pretty fat tits you had. didn't matter how many stretch marks lined your stomach, thighs and even your arms. he didn't care, he hoped to add to them when you got pregnant. not if, when.

he fucked into you, he moved you up against the carpet with each heavy thrust. it felt good, he was certain of that. your cunt always squeezed around his cock, such a struggle for you to accommodate it. poor, poor mrs. price. but that alright, price would just have to continue fucking you till he reshaped your cunt to fit him. only him.

he pressed further into you and got your cheek against the carpet. you whined and he kissed the back of your neck. he laid a large hand across your soft stomach, he could watch your curves shake in that dress you wore with each of his movements. he said lowly, "you'd look good taking care of my kid, right? hefty son at your hip, better ways to spend the weekend. making sure my boys are taken care of." he got a bit more aggressive with his movements and your noises got louder.

you sounded like heaven. a heaven only reserved for him as the tip of his dick drooled pre-cum into your womb while it kissed your cervix. every cell was vital.

"getting older, won't be much longer i can keep up. time to settle you down. you got the body that could handle carrying my kids." your stomach leapt and your pussy clenched around him. you only got more wet from your husband's words, you moaned a little louder and price soaked in the feeling.

he couldn't wait to switch out all of your club clothing with something a little more fitting for a mother. he wanted to highlight how he changed your figure. seeded you perfectly and he would want to show off the slope in your middle, the extra weight in your chest. you were already beautiful, but he knew that you'd be even more perfect with his baby at your hip. it only excited him more, made him eager to nudge his tip a little harder inside of you. he tilted your hips a little more to make sure every drop barrelled towards your waiting womb.

"fuck, john. ah, please." you whimpered. you couldn't be a mother yet, you were still rather young. yes, you got married early. but that didn't mean it was time to get pregnant!

regardless price continued to fuck himself into you. he knew he was leaving poor carpet burns on your body as he fucked you further into the uncomfortable rug. but your pussy just pulled him in. almost milked him for everything.

he knew that your body wanted this, even if you got into your head that it wasn't the right time. biology knew better, and price knew that you wanted his cum. you wanted him to impregnate you. you'd have to cancel more often, if not all the time, because price's babies needed their mama. and price needed his wife.

keep you at home, keep you comfortable. price would provide, and as he fucked you up against the floor, he was proving that he could provide you. that he was still virile and that he would get you pregnant. no questions asked, you were his. all his.

you were panting, whining almost. the pleasure was undeniable for you. you arched your back a little and felt the hammering of your pulse in the back of your head. you couldn't think straight as he fucked you, it was undeniable. you were at his total mercy. damn john price and his power over you.

"please, ah!" you gasped as you tried to find leverage on the carpet but ended up just climaxing all over your husband's heavy cock. doing your wifely duties and letting price have every inch of you. you were his, all his in the end and nothing would change that.

price loved the feeling of that, your pussy clenched around his cock. the heaven between your legs that price got to have at every chance. he was proud to be your husband and a proud husband lets his wife milk his cock for every ounce of cum.

and it wasn't much longer until he shoved his entire length into you and finished inside of you as well. he made sure he was as deep as he could go and was near certain you were going to get pregnant tonight. no more dancing, no more slutty outfits, you were a mama now. time to show a little modesty.

he continued to rut into you while you felt your head swim from the pleasure. he eventually slowed his pace to a stop and kissed your neck as he kept his softening cock inside of you for a little while longer.

he patted your stomach and for the first time in a long time, he prayed that you'd be plump with his child soon enough. even if he had to take you many, many more rounds tonight.

price liked saturdays a lot more now.

you were tucked beside him, your button up night shirt undone to let john jr. have his nightly meal. your infant son seemed like a bottomless pit when it came to your milk. you suggested that maybe it was time with switch to formula, but price said that he'd find a way to make sure you made enough milk for your son.

"hungry little bugger." price said with affection, "might need a taste before he drinks it all up." john jr. was five months now, maybe it was time to start working on his little brother.

baby was a spitting image of him, and that fueled a sense of pride in price. hefty son looking exactly like his old man with such a caring mama, even if he had a small habit of sucking on you too hard. he was just hungry, you couldn't be mad at your baby, right?

see, this was better than clubbing. and don't worry, if you felt like dancing tonight you could show off that motherly curves for price before he took what was his.

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lilpaigeywbb · 1 month ago

Text

៵⋆ the reality of distance ៵⋆

➜ summary: surprising paige when she needs you most

➜ warnings: fluff (thats about it!) || not proofread!

➜ pairing: paige x long distance gf

➜ authors note: did we appreciate the donnie darko reference? anyways, here’s some fluff that i wrote this morning. i hope y’all enjoy!! also, feel free to ask if you want to be mentioned when i post something!!

three weeks, twenty eight days, six hours, fourty two minutes, and twelve seconds. that was how long it had been since paige bueckers had seen her girlfriend and she was going crazy. the longest she had ever gone without you was maybe four days, mind you, at the VERY BEGINNING of your relationship but once you guys hit the 2 month mark, she was hooked. her behavior was that of a codependent puppy. she refused to be without you for five days at most. christmas breaks? she booked you flights to and from your hometown and minnesota. during the summer of your junior year, her parents weren’t surprised when she brought you with her. you were an extension of her and during long periods of time, she didn’t know what to do without you which just made going to the wings impossible. well, not really. she was so excited that she didn’t even realize she would be leaving you until she found herself in your car, driving her to the airport. you helped her get her bags from the back but she was almost in a trance. she had tried to convince you to go with her (multiple times) but you couldn’t. there was too much school stuff, too much job stuff, and too much family stuff that just had to come first. “but mama, i promise it’ll only be for a few days.” she begged, practically on her knees. “im sorry, baby” you whispered, placing a kiss to her head and waving her goodbye. luckily for paige, she was able to immerse herself in basketball so well that she didn’t have the time to think about how far away you were. she didnt have time to mope or be lost without you.

until she did.

it was out of the blue, really. she was at a game when she saw someone who resembled you sitting courtside and it hurt. sure, she had facetimed you almost every hour of every day which helped enough but seeing someone who looked so much like you IN PERSON broke her. she felt herself succumbing to the loneliness of missing you again and everyone could see how badly it affected her. maddy noticed first, seeing how paige began to sulk. dijonai saw it in her fake smiles and forced laughs so she knew she had to take action to help out her rookie. you were sitting in your room, organizing your clothes to go back to your home state when you got a call from nai. she practically begged you to come to dallas, claiming she would get you anything you wanted and do your bidding for the rest of her life if it meant you come to surprise paige. all it took was one photo of her looking absolutely miserable for you to get on the next flight to dallas.

when you stepped into the arena, the noise was deafening. it was littered with people wearing her number on their backs and waiting for the team to start their warmups. dijonai offered for you to go into the locker room to surprise paige but you didn’t want to throw her off her game so you waited. you sat somewhere in the crowd, watching your girl play. she was even better in person than you remembered. during halftime, you got a text asking why your location was off which you ignored. then she called you. you sighed and found a quiet(ish) space to answer. “where are you? why is your location off?” she begged, clearly worried and upset by this. you sighed and glanced around. “i’m- at a club. with some friends. and i turned off my location so my parents couldn’t see?” you weren’t sure how convincing that was. probably not convincing at all because of how your voice wavered and sounded more like a question than an answer. paige huffed and you could almost see her pout. god, you wanted to see her… but you had to wait. “i dont believe you” she whined, growing more anxious. “just keep playing, baby. you’re doing so good.” “youre watching my game from the club?” “shut up.” you hung up with a small smile, returning to your seat. the wings were up 75-71 and you were cheering your heart out for your girlfriend. she was on fire. after the game (with a wings w), paige went into the locker room by dijonai waited for you. she watched as you rushed down to the court and then led you to the teams exit area. she told you to wait there, making a comment about how happy paige would be.

about fifteen minutes later, the players started filing out, some of them recognizing you from the numerous photos paige had shown them. nai tapped your shoulder and whispered, “she’s coming out now.” you smiled and nodded, beyond ready to see your girl. you hadn’t seen her in person for so long and god, she looked good. better, close up. her muscular ar,s were protruding through her shirt and it made you want to be wrapped in her. you quickly went back to your spot behind the wall and waited for paige to walk by, waiting until her back was to you before calling, “p! can i have your autograph?”

her heart skipped a beat and she didnt hesitate to turn around, her eyes wide and so beautifully blue. she blinked a few times before it actually registered that you were there. her girlfriend was there. it took maybe less than three seconds for her to tackle you in a hug, the both of you falling on the ground. her teammates took pictures and videos, gushing over how cute you two were but she drowned them out. the only thing that mattered was you. paige nuzzled her face in your neck, not even caring that you two were on the ground. “i missed you so much,” she whispered, hugging you tighter, “don’t ever leave.” you laughed and hugged her back just as tight before helping her to stand up but she wouldn’t budge. “baby, you have to get off the floor,” you laughed, amused and touched by her childish behavior. she huffed and stood up before clinging to your arm again, looking at you like you hung the moon.

later, you two sat on her couch in the quiet of her apartment. there were no distractions, no teammates, no schedules. just you and her, and the weight of all those days apart. paige leaned her head on your shoulder and whispered, “i didn’t realize how much i needed you.” you smiled and kissed her temple, holding her tight. “i’m here,” you promised, “i’m not going anywhere.” she smiled back and kissed your lips gently.

the way you two were wrapped in each other reminded you that even in the reality of distance, what you had was real and nothing could change it.

#paige bueckers #dallas wings #wbb #wlw #wlw fluff #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers fluff #wbb x reader #wbb fluff #carol writes

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st4rpiece · 7 months ago

Text

needing space after an argument pt. 2

SFW

characters: luffy, zoro, usopp, sanji x reader summary: they earn your forgiveness CW: groveling, making up, fluff, and over 600 words each

pt. 1 | pt. 2

────────────────────₊˚.༄

Monkey D. Luffy

Luffy wasn’t himself. It was the first thing everyone noticed after you left the ship. His laughter, usually loud and contagious, was quieter, forced. Mealtimes felt emptier, and the energy on the Sunny had shifted. He tried to act like nothing was wrong, but even the crew could see the shadow of regret lingering in his eyes.

But now, here he was, standing in front of you in the quiet port town where you’d taken refuge after leaving the crew. His usual confidence was gone, replaced by a desperate determination.

“I’m sorry,” he said for what must have been the tenth time. His voice was raw, almost breaking. “I didn’t mean it. I shouldn’t have told you to leave. I was stupid.”

You stood with your arms crossed, your expression guarded. Seeing Luffy like this—so uncharacteristically vulnerable—caught you off guard, but the sting of his words still lingered, fresh and sharp.

“Luffy, you can’t just say whatever you want when you’re mad and expect everything to go back to normal,” you said, your voice steady but tinged with exhaustion. “You told me to leave. So I did.”

“I didn’t mean it,” he repeated, stepping closer but stopping just short of touching you. “I was mad and didn’t think. I... I need you on the ship. Not just because I want you there, but because you’re part of the crew. You’re important to us all and i shouldn’t have made you feel otherwise.”

You searched his face, his big, earnest eyes pleading with you. You could see the regret there, the weight of his mistake hanging heavy on his shoulders. For a moment, your resolve wavered, but you quickly shook your head.

“I can’t just come back because you say you’re sorry, Luffy. What happens the next time we fight? Are you going to tell me to leave again?”

“No!” he blurted out, shaking his head vehemently. “No, I swear. I’ll never say anything like that again.”

You frowned, unsure what to make of his declaration. “Luffy, words aren’t enough.”

He nodded, his straw hat shadowing his eyes for a moment before he looked up at you with renewed determination. “Then I’ll show you. Whatever it takes.”

True to his word, Luffy didn’t give up. He didn’t force you to return to the ship, but he didn’t leave the island either. Every day, he showed up—whether it was to bring you a freshly caught fish for dinner, fix something around the small inn you were staying at, or simply sit outside and wait in silence. He didn’t push, didn’t demand, but his presence was constant.

When the ship needed supplies, he was the first to volunteer, taking on tasks he’d usually leave to someone else. The crew later told you how he’d started taking more responsibility, trying to step up as a better leader.

Even when you didn’t speak to him, he never faltered. Every action, every small gesture, was his way of showing you how much he regretted his words.

One evening, you found Luffy sitting on the dock, staring out at the ocean with his straw hat resting in his lap. He looked smaller somehow, as though the weight of his regret had worn him down.

When he noticed you approaching, he stood up immediately, his expression shifting from surprise to cautious hope.

“Why do you keep doing this?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“Because I was wrong,” he said without hesitation. “Because I hurt you, and I have to make it right. Even if you never come back, I’ll keep trying. I don’t care how long it takes.”

His sincerity stopped you in your tracks. He wasn’t making excuses, wasn’t brushing over your feelings like they didn’t matter. He had made changes—small ones, but noticeable—and for the first time, you truly believed he understood the gravity of what he’d done.

You sighed, letting the silence linger before speaking. “Luffy... I’ll come back.”

His eyes lit up with hope, his lips parting as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“But,” you continued, holding up a finger, “this only works if things stay different. I’m not going back just to deal with the same problems again. I need to know you’re taking this seriously.”

“I swear!” he said immediately, his voice brimming with determination. “I swear that things will be different. A good different. No more reckless fights for selfish reasons or saying things I don’t mean, I promise.”

You studied him for a long moment, the sincerity and determination in his eyes unmistakable. Finally, you allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of your lips. “Alright, Lu.”

Relief washed over his face as he heard the familiar nickname, and for the first time in weeks, you saw his grin return, bright and full of life.

"I missed you so much, baby," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion and certainty, as he wrapped his arms around you.

The comforting warmth of his embrace, felt like home—safe, secure, and exactly where you wanted to be.

Roronoa Zoro

Zoro wasn’t one to grovel. Stubborn and prideful as he was, apologies didn’t come easy for him. But as he sat alone on the Sunny’s deck, replaying his words from the fight, regret gnawed at him like a dull blade.

The memory of your face—shocked, hurt, and then resigned—kept flashing in his mind. He hadn’t just lashed out; he’d cut deep. You were trying to help, and he’d thrown it back at you, calling you controlling and annoying when you didn’t deserve it.

He groaned, pressing his palms against his face. He hated how small he felt for failing to show up to the dates you’d so carefully planned, how your suggestion—simple and kind—had poked at an insecurity he didn’t want to face. And now, because of his pride, he’d pushed you away.

For days, you’d been distant, giving him space, but that only made the guilt worse. He needed to fix this.

You were sitting on a quiet hillside overlooking the ocean when Zoro found you. The breeze tugged at your clothes, and you looked peaceful—too peaceful, considering how much turmoil you’d left him in.

“Hey,” he called softly, his voice unusually hesitant.

You glanced at him, surprised to see the normally stoic swordsman looking... sheepish. He stood awkwardly a few feet away, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“What is it, Zoro?” you asked, your tone calm but distant.

He swallowed hard, his fingers twitching at his sides before he took a step closer. “I wanted to apologize.”

That caught your attention. Your brows lifted in mild surprise, but you said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” he said, his voice low and gruff, but steady. “You weren’t being controlling or annoying. You were just... trying to help.” He exhaled heavily as if forcing the words out of himself. “And I was an idiot.”

You blinked, his sincerity throwing you off guard. “Zoro—”

“Let me finish, please,” he interrupted, his eyes meeting yours for the first time. There was something raw in his gaze—an uncharacteristic vulnerability. “I’ve been thinking about it, and... I hate that I’m always late. I hate knowing you’re waiting for me while I’m stuck wandering around like an idiot who can’t follow a simple route. It’s embarrassing.”

Your expression softened, but you stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“When you suggested we go together, I know it wasn’t because you thought I was useless,” he continued, his voice tightening. “But that’s how it made me feel. Like I wasn’t good enough to get it right on my own. And instead of dealing with that, I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have done that.”

He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “But I don’t think you’re controlling or annoying. You’re the most patient and understanding person for putting up with me. So you deserve better and I want to be that.”

The sincerity in his voice was almost overwhelming, and for a moment, you weren’t sure how to respond. He wasn’t just saying the words—he meant them.

“I know I can’t just say sorry and expect everything to go back to normal,” he added, glancing away briefly before meeting your gaze again. “So, please baby just… give me a chance to make it right.”

Your lips parted in surprise. Zoro wasn’t the type to take the initiative when it came to things like this, but the determination in his eyes was unmistakable.

After a long pause, you let out a soft sigh, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “One last chance.”

He nodded, relief flashing across his face, but there was also a quiet resolve in his expression. This wasn’t just a promise—it was a vow.

The next time you guys went on a date, Zoro was ready. He showed up early, finally getting the chance to wait on you. He led you to a quiet clearing overlooking the sea, a picnic already set up with food he’d personally asked Sanji to help him prepare.

The effort was clear in every little detail, from the way he chose the spot (easily accessible, no chance to get lost) to the careful decorations and crafts you mentioned liking/wanting to try. Showing that despite his stoic nature, he was listening to you during previous dates. Even now as you spoke, he would chime in at just the right moments.

It wasn’t perfect—he stumbled over a few of his words and complained when a seagull tried to swipe the food—but it was Zoro, trying in his own way. And that meant everything.

By the time the date ended, you leaned back on the blanket, gazing up at the stars, feeling closer to him than ever before. When he reached for your hand, you let him, squeezing it gently.

Zoro glanced down at your intertwined fingers, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. His gaze softened, and he took a deep breath before speaking. “I know you agreed to give me another chance, but I need to know if you’re still interested in giving me that chance.”

Your heart softened at the rare vulnerability in his voice. You turned to meet his eyes, and they were steady, full of quiet determination.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned into him as the waves crashed gently in the distance. For a man of few words, Zoro was surprisingly good at them.

“Well,” you began, tilting your head with a teasing glint in your eye, “that depends. Are you going to keep being so dramatic about it?” You bit back a laugh as you watched the tips of his ears turn red, his expression shifting into a familiar scowl.

“Tch, not being dramatic,” he grumbled, looking away, but the redness in his ears betrayed him.

You chuckled softly and squeezed his hand, drawing his attention back to you. “I was being serious about giving you that second chance,” you said warmly. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and the tension in his jaw eased.

“But,” you continued, your tone more firm, “next time something like this happens, promise that you’ll communicate it properly. Okay? No more bottling things up.”

Zoro stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once. “You have my word.” His voice was low but steady, carrying the weight of his promise.

“Good.” You smiled, squeezing his hand again as a soft breeze brushed past, carrying with it the sound of the waves.

God Usopp

The day had been quiet, almost too quiet, and the silence weighed heavy between you and Usopp. Since your argument, things haven’t been the same. You still spoke, but the words felt hollow, and the laughter you once shared now seemed distant and forced. He noticed it all—the way your smile never quite reached your eyes, the strain in your voice when you tried to act like nothing was wrong.

And it tore him apart.

Usopp sat on the deck after dinner, absentmindedly fiddling with a half-finished invention. His fingers moved on instinct, but his thoughts were stuck on your last conversation. He hated himself for the way he’d lashed out, for the way he’d let his insecurities push you away.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sea in shades of orange and pink, he made up his mind. He couldn’t let this fester any longer.

When you stepped onto the deck for some air, Usopp hesitated, watching you from a distance. Finally, he stood, his hands clenching at his sides as he approached you.

“Hey,” he called softly.

You turned, surprised to see him. “Oh, hey.” Your voice was casual, but your guarded expression told him you were bracing for something.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

You nodded, following him to a quieter spot on the ship where the others couldn’t overhear. The soft sound of the waves filled the silence as Usopp struggled to find the right words.

“I’ve been... thinking,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “About what I said. About the fight.” He looked down, unable to meet your gaze. Your brows furrowed, but you stayed quiet, giving him the space to explain.

“I know you don’t see me as weak,” he continued, his voice growing tight. “But hearing you scream for him... it made me feel useless.” He exhaled sharply, his hand tightening around the railing. “And I hate feeling like that. I know I’m not like Luffy, Zoro, or Sanji. I’m not the guy who can punch through walls or take down ten enemies at once, but... I at least want to be someone you can count on. Someone you can feel protected with.”

He paused, his words faltering slightly. “But instead of talking to you about it, I projected my insecurities onto you, and made it seem like you were wrong for asking our friends for help. For that, I’m sorry.”

The vulnerability in his words hit you hard, and guilt pooled in your chest. “Baby...” you started, your voice soft. “I’m sorry, too. I never meant to make you feel that way.” You stepped closer, resting a hand on his arm. “But you are someone I can count on. Someone who’s saved my ass more times than I can count. Your strength may not look like theirs, but it’s just as important.”

He finally looked at you, his eyes wide, searching for any trace of doubt. “You... you really mean that?”

“Heck yeah, I do,” you said without hesitation. “I trust you, Usopp. I always have.”

A small, hesitant smile tugged at his lips, and he let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through him. “Thanks... I needed to hear that," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

After a moment, he straightened and rubbed the back of his head, suddenly looking sheepish. “Actually, uh, there’s something I’ve been working on. For you. I wanted to make something that could help you in a fight.”

Your brows lifted in surprise. “Really? What is it?”

Grinning now, Usopp reached into his bag and pulled out a small, compact gadget. “It’s not finished yet, but it’s kind of like a smoke bomb, but better. It creates a flash of light to blind enemies and a smoke screen to cover your escape. I thought... you know, it might come in handy.”

You took the gadget from him, turning it over in your hands. “Usopp, this is amazing.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, scratching his cheek, his grin turning bashful. “I wanted to make sure you had another thing to keep you safe. In case no one else is around.”

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. “Thank you, Usopp. I mean it.”

He relaxed then, the tension between you finally melting away. “I’ll finish it soon,” he promised, his confidence returning. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll come up with even more stuff for you with full bragging rights.”

"Thanks, now I can let everyone know just how my amazing boyfriend is," you laughed—genuinely this time—and Usopp’s chest swelled with pride. He knew he still had work to do, but for now, the weight of your fight had lifted, and the bond between you felt stronger than ever.

Vinesmoke Sanji

Sanji stood alone on the deck, the moonlight casting a silver glow over his slumped figure. He leaned against the railing, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, though he hadn’t taken a drag in minutes. His mind replayed every moment of your relationship—the laughter, the stolen glances, the warmth of your touch. And then, inevitably, it would circle back to the breakup.

He’d failed you. The person who mattered more to him than anyone else in the world. His actions—so thoughtless, so wrapped in habit—had made you feel second to strangers. The realization haunted him, clawing at his chest.

Sanji thought of groveling, of falling to his knees and begging you to take him back, but he knew you too well. That would only push you further away. You were someone who needed actions, not words, and he knew his words had already failed you. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to give up. You were his person, his muse, his everything. How could he possibly accept a life without you in it?

So he did the only thing he could. He began to show you through his actions.

The change was immediate. The next time the ship docked at an island, Sanji didn’t so much as glance at the women who usually flocked to him. When they batted their lashes and called out for his attention, he brushed them off politely and kept his focus on his task. His compliments, once scattered freely to strangers, were now reserved only for you. Even when you ignored him, his words never wavered—soft, sincere, and meant only for you.

In battle, Sanji was more relentless than ever. But his priority was always your safety, stepping in before danger could reach you, even if it meant taking a hit himself. When the crew sat down for meals, he made sure your favorite dishes were prepared just the way you liked them, his eyes flicking to your face to see if you’d noticed.

And when he thought you weren’t looking, he’d linger nearby, silently watching you. There was a sadness in his gaze as he admired the person he’d once had the privilege of holding close. You saw him sometimes, hovering at a distance, and though you tried to ignore it, part of you couldn’t deny the pang in your chest. You still had feelings for him—of course you did. But you couldn’t settle for someone who had once made you doubt your place in their life.

Weeks passed, and Sanji’s quiet devotion didn’t falter. Even now as he stood near the railing, waiting for you, his hands slightly trembling. He had spent all day preparing for this moment, and now the weight of his plan felt heavier than ever.

When you finally stepped out onto the deck, he straightened immediately, smoothing his suit jacket with nervous fingers. "Hey," he called softly, his voice careful, like he was afraid of scaring you off.

"Hey," you replied, your tone hesitant but curious. He’d been walking on eggshells around you for weeks, and now this—an invitation for "something special" without much detail. Against your better judgment, you’d said yes, curiosity getting the better of you.

He smiled faintly, stepping toward you. "I, uh, thought we could spend the evening together. Just... talk."

You raised a brow. "Talk?"

He nodded, motioning for you to follow him. "Come on. I’ve got something to show you."

Despite the uncertainty in your chest, you followed him across the deck, and your eyes widened when he led you to a corner of the ship bathed in soft, golden light from lanterns he had strung up. A blanket was spread out neatly on the deck, adorned with a small basket, plates of your favorite snacks, and a bottle of your favorite drink.

"Sanji..." you murmured, taken aback.

"I know it’s not much," he said quickly, scratching the back of his neck. "But I wanted to do something for you. Something simple. Something that doesn’t involve me screwing it up."

You blinked, your hesitation softening slightly at his earnestness. "You didn’t have to go through all this trouble."

"I did," he countered, his voice firm but warm. "I needed to."

He gestured for you to sit, and after a moment’s pause, you did, settling down on the blanket. Sanji sat across from you, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet hum of the ship filling the space between you. Finally, Sanji took a deep breath and looked at you, his expression more serious than you’d seen in a long time.

"My love," he began, "I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since... since we broke up. And I just... I need you to know how sorry I am."

You looked away, unsure how to respond, but he continued.

"I wasn’t the boyfriend you deserved," he admitted, his voice low. "I made you feel like you had to compete for my attention, and that’s unforgivable. You should’ve never felt like anything less than the most important person in my life. That’s on me."

His gaze was unwavering as he spoke, and you couldn’t help but feel the sincerity in his words.

"I still have feelings for you," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "I never stopped. And I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight, or even to trust me again right away. But I need you to know that I’ve changed. I’m changing. And I’ll do anything to prove it to you."

You stared at him, his words hitting you harder than you expected. Sanji was always smooth with his words, but this was different. There was no charm, no performative flair—just raw honesty.

"Sanji..." you started, your voice faltering. You swallowed hard, your hands gripping the edge of the blanket. "I... I still have feelings for you too. But..."

"But you don’t trust me," he finished for you, his tone understanding rather than hurt.

You nodded. "It’s not that I don’t want to. I just... I’m scared of getting hurt again."

He reached across the blanket, his hand stopping just short of yours. "I understand," he said softly. "And I don’t blame you. I don’t want you to rush into anything you’re not ready for. If we have to take things slow, then that’s what we’ll do. I’ll show you, not just with words but with actions, that you’re the only one in my heart."

His hand lingered near yours, and after a moment, you tentatively placed your hand over his. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you, and you looked up to meet his gaze.

"Okay," you said quietly. "We can try. But slow, Sanji. No rushing, no grand gestures to win me over. Just... be honest with me."

A smile broke across his face, softer and more genuine than any you’d seen in weeks. "Slow it is," he promised.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the tension between you eased. You still had a long way to go, but as you sat there, sharing a quiet meal under the lantern light, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, things could work out.

───────────────────₊˚.༄

One Piece Masterlist

hey…I was supposed to post this yesterday but I ended up working a double 😭.

[this is lightly edited]

anyways I saw a couple people asking about a tag list ngl i don’t know shit about that 😭😭 but hopefully this finds you !!

and for the op women/queer smau I will be posting that soon as well but I got a really cute idea from anon yesterday and I want to start on that first.

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