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norristrii · 1 month ago

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I KNOW LOVE // NOSTALGIA.

“We started off friends, how you end up here next to me?” — After eight years, your friendship with Lando felt the same—until the bet. Fake dating was just a game, but the feelings weren’t. Somewhere along the way, the truth surfaced. It was never just friendship.

pairing. Lando Norris x childhood friend! fem! reader.

warnings. fluff, angst if u squint, 12,5k words, friends to lovers, fake dating, lando being menace, drinking alcohol, monaco gp 2025, pet names (sweetheart, darling, baby), a lot of teasing, possible grammar errors. PART ONE — NOSTALGIA.

music. I Know Love by Tate Mcrae ft. The Kid LAROI // Carry You Home by Alex Warren.

─── ONE MONTH LATER , may 2025

A MONTH PASSED, AND SOMEHOW, it felt like time had folded in on itself—like the years apart had shrunk, like the gap between then and now had quietly disappeared.

Nothing had changed, not really. Lando still remembered your favorite movies—the ones you had obsessively rewatched, the ones whose quotes you could recite without thinking, the ones that had always stayed the same. He still knew the exact spot where you were ticklish, still knew the food you ordered without needing to ask. And despite everything, despite all the time lost, despite all the ways life had pulled you both in opposite directions, it felt easy.

He was in your space just as often as you were in his, your things scattered across his apartment like they had always belonged there, his hoodies ending up in your wardrobe without either of you really noticing. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t awkward, wasn’t something you had to think about—it just happened, naturally, effortlessly, like the years apart had only been a long, quiet pause instead of a full stop.

And one day, you realized—you weren’t bitter anymore.

───

The soft hum of the song filled the space between you, slipping into the quiet like an old friend, like something familiar, something undeniably yours. It took only a second for recognition to flicker in Lando’s eyes—a glint of understanding, a knowing look, a memory shared in silence.

Your childhood song.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You sat perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging slightly, watching the way his expression shifts—how nostalgia washed over him in waves, how all the years apart disappeared with the simple melody floating through the air. He leaned against the counter opposite you, arms folded, head tilting just slightly, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips.

Then, without warning, he moved.

His fingers wrap gently around your wrist, his grip warm, steady, certain—a pull that sent you forward, off the counter, into his space, into the rhythm of something you both remember but haven’t shared in years. He lead effortlessly, far too serious for something so simple, his movements deliberate like he’s guiding you through a real dance, like this isn’t just a moment caught between laughter and history.

“You’re ridiculous,” you breathed, smiling despite yourself, despite the way he’s taking every step too seriously, despite the way he spun you with exaggerated precision, despite the way the years apart seem to dissolve between the music, between the movement, between him and you.

Lando grinned, eyes bright, alive, holding onto this moment like it’s something worth keeping. “You love it,” he teased, pulling you closer, his voice low, warm, familiar.

“That’s surprisingly romantic coming from someone with a reputation like yours,” you murmured, the words slipping out before you can stop them, teasing but undeniably true.

Because yeah—he was a player. Or at least, that’s what the headlines said. Articles filled with speculation, blurry photos, flirty interviews that never seemed to lead to anything serious. A reputation built on fleeting moments and effortless charm, something you had never fully questioned but had always noticed.

Lando let out a scoff, shaking his head with that infuriating, reckless grin—the one that somehow manages to be both self-assured and unapologetically smug. “Please,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes gleaming with amusement. “I could make anyone believe I’m the perfect boyfriend.”

Your brows lifted slightly, unimpressed. “No one would buy that.”

His smirk deepened—too confident, too knowing, too dangerous in the way only he can be. “Everyone would buy that.” He paused for half a second, just enough for the tension to shift, just enough for a challenge to settle between you. “You wanna bet?”

Your smirk deepened, curiosity flickering behind your eyes as you leaned in just slightly, watching the way Lando held himself—unshaken, confident, like he already knew you wouldn’t say no.

“Fake dating?” you echoed, pretending to consider it, dragging the words out just enough to tease him. “That’s what you’re suggesting?”

His grin only widened, too reckless, too assured, like he had already won before the game had even started. “Give me this weekend,” he repeated, tilting his head slightly, amusement dancing in his expression. “By the end of it, the whole world will think I am the best boyfriend to ever exist.”

There was something entirely too entertaining about the idea—about the way he said it so easily, about the way he looked at you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

And the worst part?

You were so in.

The list had come together surprisingly fast—far too fast, actually, considering the absurdity of the situation. You sat across from Lando, leaning over the kitchen island, scribbling rules onto a scrap piece of paper like this was some kind of business deal rather than a completely ridiculous, impulsive plan.

Lando, of course, was fully relaxed, arms folded, eyes bright with amusement as he watched you work, barely contributing, barely questioning anything you laid out. It was almost infuriating, how at ease he was about this.

Rule one: In public, yes—but absolutely no couple behavior when no one’s watching. This is a performance, not real life.

He smirked at that, drumming his fingers against the counter. “So no cute little moments when we’re alone?”

You shot him a look. “Absolutely not.”

Rule two: PDA is allowed, but keep it minimal. Holding hands? Fine. Kissing? Only if necessary.

Lando hummed thoughtfully, pretending to consider. “Define ‘necessary.’”

“If someone asks us to prove it,” you reply instantly, not playing his game.

His grin widened, far too entertained. “Dramatic, public make-outs? Noted.”

You groaned. “That’s not what I said.”

Rule three: No backing out. Once you commit, you see it through. No half-measures, no suddenly deciding it’s too much.

Lando looked far too smug for his own good. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I never back out of a bet.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at that. Ignored it.

Rule four: Don’t make it weird. Light touches are fine, casual affection is fine—but don’t, under any circumstance, make it weird.

“Me?” Lando said, pressing a hand to his chest like he was offended. “Making things weird? Never.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

And finally, rule five—the most important one: No real feelings. Absolutely forbidden.

A moment of silence stretched between you as the final rule sat there, bold, unchallenged, unchangeable.

Lando tapped his fingers against the counter once, twice, then flashed you that too-sure, too-effortless grin. “Easy.”

Just three days to survive.

─── friday: day one

The chaos of the Monaco Grand Prix was already buzzing outside—the hum of engines, the flurry of people moving through the paddock, the cameras waiting to capture every moment. This was the race, the crown jewel of the season, the one weekend where everything felt bigger, louder, more intense.

Lando’s navy blue McLaren pulled to a stop, the sleek lines of the car reflecting the early morning sunlight. The moment his hand hovered over the door handle, you stopped him—a quick, pointed reminder before stepping into the world that would now be watching.

“Fake dating, Lando. Fake.” Your voice was firm, low enough that only he could hear, warning him, setting the boundary before the cameras were on you, before the articles wrote their own versions of whatever this weekend would bring.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t tease. He just nodded, lips twitching slightly, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he stepped out onto the pavement.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped out, rounding the car with the kind of effortless confidence that came far too naturally to him. And when he opened the door for you, his hand was already waiting, palm up, steady, offering something that felt far too practiced to be anything but convincing.

“Yeah, fake,” he said, looking at you with that infuriating, too-sure smirk. “But real enough to make them believe it.”

The paddock was alive with movement—voices overlapping, the hum of engines in the background, cameras flashing, catching every moment. And right in the middle of it, you and Lando, walking hand in hand, stepping into a world that felt a little too aware of you.

You could feel the glances, the curiosity settling into the air, the way people stole quick looks before refocusing on whatever they were supposed to be doing. It wasn’t obvious, but it was there—the quiet stir of speculation, the beginnings of a story that hadn’t existed yesterday but suddenly seemed like something worth paying attention to.

Lando didn’t react, didn’t hesitate, didn’t even acknowledge the shift around you. He moved easily, the way he always did, his grip on your hand relaxed but firm guiding you through the maze of the paddock like he’d done a thousand times before—except this time, you were a part of it.

Then, just as effortlessly, he stepped into the McLaren garage, slipping into conversations with engineers, exchanging greetings like it was just another day. You barely had time to process it, barely had time to prepare before—

“This is my girlfriend, Y/n.”

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t exaggerated. It was smooth, delivered with zero hesitation, like it was simply fact, like it was something real.

“So you’re the Y/n?” one of the engineers asked, a knowing grin tugging at the corner of his lips. You blinked, caught off guard by the phrasing. The Y/n?

“The one he’s always talking about.”

Your stomach flipped. Always? Lando talked about you? To them? You turned to him instinctively, searching for some kind of reaction—some kind of explanation. But, of course, he was already smirking, leaning back with that effortless confidence that made it impossible to tell whether he was actually unfazed or just pretending to be.

“Oh, yeah,” he said casually, too smoothly, like he had been waiting for this conversation. “They probably got sick of hearing about you ages ago.”

The engineer chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s not that bad.”

You went to his driver room with him, Lando moved with zero hesitation, pulling off his shirt and swapping it for the fireproof layer beneath his race suit like it was second nature—like you weren’t even there, like this wasn’t something to think twice about. And maybe that was the craziest part. Because for him, it was normal.

Unbothered, effortless, as if he had always changed in front of you, as if the past years apart had never actually happened. You leaned back against the wall, watching as he tugged up the sleeves of his suit, adjusting them, fixing the collar, smoothing out the fabric before finally meeting your gaze again—grinning like he had already planned whatever came next.

He stepped closer, voice too damn smug, too playful, too knowing, the kind of confidence that made it impossible to tell whether he was being serious or just testing his limits. The air between you shifted, charged with the same unspoken tension that had been building since the moment you set foot in the paddock. Then, with that infuriating smirk, he leaned in just a little too much, just enough for you to know exactly what was coming before he even said it.

“Kiss for good luck?” His tone was casual, teasing, like this wasn’t an outrageous request—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You scoffed, shaking your head, but the way your lips twitched betrayed you. You were already smiling, already seeing through the act, already ready to shut it down before he got even more confident. “Don’t even try.” Your hand moved without hesitation, pushing his face away, forcing him to stumble back a step, laughter bubbling between the both of you.

He recovered quickly—he always did—but the grin on his face was even wider now, even more annoyingly smug than before, like he had already won something. Because that was Lando. All confidence, all recklessness, all charm. And Monaco had only just begun.

You stood at the edge of the garage, arms loosely crossed, watching as Lando settled into his car with the same effortless confidence he always carried. There was no hesitation in his movements—just precision, familiarity, a routine he could probably do with his eyes closed.

A light nudge against your arm pulled you from your thoughts, one of the engineers grinning as he tilted his head toward you. “Nervous for your man?”

Your stomach flipped at the wording—your man—like the whole thing had already been bought into, like it wasn’t even a question anymore. They believed it.

You blinked but recovered quickly, shaking off the moment, keeping your expression cool, unreadable. “I’m not,” you said, voice steady, effortless. “He knows what he’s doing.”

The session was about to start, tension hanging in the air like the calm before a storm. Lando sat settled in his car, fingers flexing briefly around the steering wheel, every movement deliberate, controlled. You stepped closer, watching as he lifted his helmet, the smirk already tugging at his lips before he even spoke.

“Last chance for that good luck kiss,” he murmured, voice laced with teasing as he slowly pulled the helmet over his head, visor still slightly raised, leaving just enough room for you to catch the glint of amusement in his eyes.

You didn’t hesitate, didn’t entertain it, just exhaled, shaking your head with a small laugh before reaching out and tapping the top of his helmet. “Go drive your car, Norris,” you said, your tone light but firm, cutting off whatever ridiculous response he was about to throw back.

He let out a muffled chuckle through the layers of his gear, adjusting his grip on the wheel, focus shifting as the reality of the session kicked in. And just like that, with a flick of his wrist and the hum of the engine, he rolled forward—onto the track, onto the moment where everything else disappeared except for the race ahead.

───

The sky had deepened into shades of orange and pink, Monaco settling into the golden haze of early evening. The day had slipped by faster than you realized—two practice sessions, hours spent lingering around the paddock, conversations blending into the hum of engines and movement. You hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed until now, until the weight of the day finally began to settle in your bones.

You sat back in the chair, watching as Lando packed up his things, casual, effortless, like this was just another weekend. But then—without thinking, without any hesitation—he reached for your hand as he spoke, fingers brushing against yours, slipping into the space that had already begun to feel too familiar.

“We can go," he said, voice easy, steady, like nothing about the moment was unusual. And even more instinctively—almost like muscle memory—you let your fingers intertwine with his.

The realization hit after—after the warmth, after the quiet certainty of it, after the way neither of you acknowledged it outright. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t exaggerated. It was just natural.

The quiet ease between you should’ve felt normal, should’ve just been part of the act, but Lando? He wasn’t going to let it be simple.

As you both stepped further out of the paddock, fingers still loosely intertwined, he let out a casual hum, glancing over at you with way too much amusement in his eyes. “You’re getting really comfortable with this whole girlfriend thing,” he mused, the teasing lacing his tone clear as day.

You scoffed, giving his hand a pointed squeeze before swiftly pulling yours away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His grin widened instantly, like he had already won, like your reaction had just confirmed something for him. “You literally held my hand back,” he pointed out, tapping his temple as if he had just cracked some kind of secret formula. “Instinctively. No hesitation. Just—bam—right into it.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping ahead slightly to avoid the smugness radiating off of him. “Maybe I was just making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet,” you shot back.

Lando laughed, a full, unrestrained laugh, shaking his head as he jogged a few steps to catch up. “Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

The car hummed steadily as Monaco’s streets blurred past, the golden glow of streetlights flickering against the windshield, painting the inside of the car in fleeting shades of warm amber. The city had settled into the quiet hum of evening, the rush of the paddock fading into memory, replaced by the steady rhythm of the drive. It should’ve been a moment to breathe, to regroup, to let the day settle.

But then—his hand.

It landed on your thigh like it was meant to be there, like there wasn’t a single reason to hesitate, like he hadn’t just obliterated every rule you’d barely had time to set. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t tentative. It was casual, deliberate, the warmth of his palm sinking through the fabric of your pants, sending a sharp jolt of awareness straight through you.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs before your brain could fully process the moment, before you could convince yourself it wasn’t a big deal. But it was—because this was the first day, because you weren’t supposed to blur the lines, because this wasn’t supposed to feel as natural as it did.

You turned toward him, brows furrowing, voice steady but pointed. “Lando.”

His smirk was already forming, the kind that told you he knew exactly what he was doing, that this wasn’t some absentminded action, that this was intentional.

“You’re breaking a rule,” you muttered, pulse uneven, fingers twitching by your side.

He glanced at you briefly, way too unbothered, before shifting his grip slightly on the wheel. And then—the audacity—he tilted his head, smirk deepening like he had already won whatever game had just begun.

“I’m not if you’re enjoying it too.”

The words sent heat straight to your cheeks, a reaction you despised, because there was zero chance he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t already clocked the way your breath hitched, the way you hadn’t immediately shoved his hand away.

You scoffed, finally snapping out of it, finally pushing his hand off your thigh with more force than necessary, shoving his arm like you were undoing whatever had just happened.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he settled both hands back onto the wheel, the smugness radiating off of him like he was thrilled with himself. “Alright, alright,” he mused, completely unfazed. “I’ll behave.”

The exhaustion from the day had settled deep in your bones, the weight of it pressing down as you stepped inside—his home, again. It wasn’t unfamiliar anymore. The way the lights spilled across the sleek countertops, the hum of the city just barely audible through the windows, the lingering scent of whatever ridiculous air freshener he had decided was the best option—it all felt far too normal now.

Lando wasted no time—dramatically collapsing onto the couch like he had just survived something traumatic, despite the fact that his day had mostly consisted of doing exactly what he loved. His limbs sprawled out lazily, head tilting back, an exaggerated sigh leaving his lips before he finally glanced over at you.

“I need cuddles from my girlfriend after a day like this,” he announced, stretching his arms toward you, voice half pleading, half teasing, the corners of his mouth twitching in barely restrained amusement.

You raised an eyebrow, arms crossing instinctively. “You’re still playing it?”

The amusement sharpened in his gaze, flickering bright beneath the soft glow of the living room lights. He wasn’t just playing it. He was thriving off of it.

“We’re off duty now,” you reminded him, voice firm, pointed, like you were establishing a clear boundary—like you were reminding him that this had limits, that it wasn’t supposed to bleed into moments like this.

But Lando? Completely unfazed.

“I’m committed to the role of your perfect boyfriend,” he mused, settling deeper into the cushions, fully embracing his own ridiculousness “That’s what a lot of actors do.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, because of course he was framing it like this—as method acting, as if that excused the fact that he wasn’t dropping the act when he should have.

“I think you just like having an excuse to annoy me,” you muttered, eyeing him suspiciously, refusing to give in, refusing to entertain the idea of indulging him.

His grin widened, eyes glinting with pure mischief. “Maybe.”

Lando didn’t move from his spot on the couch, arms still outstretched, still fully committed to the bit, eyes watching you like he was waiting for you to give in.

You didn’t.

Instead, you crossed your arms, narrowing your gaze slightly, exhaling slowly. “You do realize you’re taking this way too seriously, right?”

He tilted his head, considering that for all of two seconds before smirking again. “Or, maybe, I’m just really dedicated to my role.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, shaking your head. “It’s fake, Norris.”

Lando gasped, hand clutching his chest like you had just mortally wounded him. “Darling,” he breathed, shaking his head, mock betrayal dripping from every syllable, “Don’t say such things. It’ll ruin my motivation.”

You rolled your eyes, but the way his lips twitched, the way pure amusement flickered behind his gaze, told you exactly what he was doing—pushing, testing, seeing how far he could take this before you finally caved.

But you weren’t losing this round.

“You need motivation?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded. “Every great actor does.”

You scoffed, walking past him, pointedly ignoring the way his arms were still stretched toward you. “Then maybe go watch some method acting interviews instead of begging for cuddles.”

─── saturday: day two

The energy in the McLaren garage had become familiar now—less overwhelming, more comfortable, like you had started settling into the rhythm of it, the movement, the people. The engineers and mechanics no longer glanced at you with the casual curiosity of someone new; instead, they greeted you like you belonged there, like you had always been part of this world. Lando had mentioned it in passing the day before—how quickly you had blended in—but you hadn’t thought much of it until now, standing in the middle of it all, watching the final preparations unfold before qualifying.

Lando was focused, in full race mode, his demeanor shifting the moment he settled into pre-session rituals. His gloves tightened around his fingers as he flexed them, his visor propped up slightly as he scanned the monitors, listening to the soft murmur of his engineers running through the final details. He had been teasing, pushing the boundaries, finding every possible way to turn this into something more than just pretend. And if he could do it—if he could toe the line without hesitation—then so could you.

So, without warning, without thinking twice, you called for him. “Come here.” And the second the words left your lips, he obeyed, instantly, without hesitation, like it was instinct, like there wasn’t even a moment of questioning it. He stepped toward you, brows lifting slightly, almost amused, like he was waiting for whatever tease you had planned—but there was no tease. No build-up. No warning. Just action.

Your lips pressed against his, firm, decisive, deliberate, and for half a second, you felt him freeze—caught off guard. But only for that. Just half a second before he recovered, before he responded without hesitation, before he got away with it like he always did. His lips moved against yours with a practiced ease, like he had already anticipated how this was supposed to go, like he had already mastered playing this game. But this wasn’t just about the act anymore. At least—not to you.

You pulled away slowly, steady, keeping your expression unreadable as you exhaled, as you let the moment settle between you. “Good luck, baby.” The words left your lips with the same teasing confidence he had used so many times before—except now, you were the one in control. You were the one shifting the rules. You were the one pushing the boundaries.

His gaze lingered, flickering with something unreadable, something that wasn’t entirely just amusement, something more complicated. And that was the real problem. Because while Lando had spent the last two days playing games, teasing, testing, pushing—there was one crucial difference between you. You weren’t sure if any of this was real or fake.

Lando lingered for a second longer than necessary, eyes flickering with something undefined, something you couldn’t quite name. But then—like always—he recovered.

A slow, lazy smirk spread across his lips as he tilted his head slightly, like he was studying you, like he was dissecting the moment for every possible meaning. “Didn’t realize we were taking it to that level,” he murmured, voice just light enough to sound playful, but just sharp enough to suggest something deeper.

You shrugged, crossing your arms as the faint hum of the garage buzzed around you, voices calling out final adjustments, the tension of qualifying thick in the air. “Figured you needed the full boyfriend experience,” you mused, the edge of amusement curling around your words. “Besides, that’s how we do it, right?”

His smirk didn’t waver, but his gaze held yours—just slightly longer than it should have. Just long enough to make something settle in your chest.

“Right.”

The single word carried weight, wrapped itself around the space between you, settled into the air before he finally—finally—stepped back, tugging at his gloves, rolling his shoulders, slipping back into race mode.

“Guess I better win now,” he said casually, like the moment hadn’t just shifted something irreversibly, like none of it mattered more than the seconds ticking down to qualifying.

And dear God, that man set whole new track record a hour later.

The air around the McLaren garage was thick with energy, alive in a way that only happened when history had just been made. Engineers still stood frozen in front of monitors, eyes flickering over numbers that didn’t seem real, mechanics exchanged looks that held a mix of pride and awe, and team members clapped backs, shook hands, embraced like they had just pulled off something impossible. The roar of celebration spilled beyond the barriers, past the podium setup, past the paddock, into the entire racing world, because today—today, Lando Norris had done something unforgettable.

But through the chaos, through the wave of victory that swept over McLaren like an unstoppable force, he ran straight to you.

It wasn’t measured. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t wrapped in hesitation or second-guessing. It was pure instinct—fast, decisive, undeniable. His suit was still warm, damp with sweat, his body humming with the adrenaline he hadn’t come down from yet, and the second his arms wrapped around you, pulling you in, holding you tight, it was impossible not to feel the sheer gravity of what had just happened.

His heartbeat was rapid, pounding against your own as the weight of the moment settled between you, as everything—the lap, the record, the significance of it all—pressed into your skin, wrapped around you like something you weren’t meant to forget.

“You are insane,” you muttered, voice barely audible over the cheers surrounding you, breath catching, arms curling around his back. Your grip tightened slightly, fingers clutching the fabric of his race suit, grounding yourself against the sheer scale of it all.

Lando pulled back just slightly, enough for his eyes to meet yours, his grin stretched wide, bright, undeniably victorious, the spark of triumph burning in his gaze. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, but he was thriving, fully alive, standing there like he had just conquered everything.

“Fastest man in Monaco, baby,” he declared, voice charged, thrumming with adrenaline, so smug, but somehow—somehow—more real, more significant than ever before. His grip on you hadn’t loosened, not yet, not even as reporters hovered nearby, cameras flashing, microphones extending toward the newly crowned record-breaker.

And without thinking, without measuring your words, without checking if this was too far, the phrase slipped out—so natural, so easy, too easy.

“I love—”

The realization hit instantly, the weight of the words pressing down, and you pivoted quickly, mid-sentence, pulse hammering against your ribs. “I’m proud,” you corrected, shifting just enough to mask the slip, keeping your voice steady, controlled, pretending like it hadn’t happened.

Lando’s expression didn’t shift dramatically, but something flickered, something sharp, something you couldn’t quite read. His grip remained firm, his body still angled toward you, and though the podium ceremony was waiting, though interviews and celebrations were lined up, though the world was watching—he didn’t move.

The words barely reached you, his voice just a breath of sound against the chaos around you, but they landed sharply, unmistakably.

“I heard that.”

───

The intensity of the celebrations had finally settled into something quieter, something softer, but the energy of the victory still lingered in the air, wrapping around you both like it wasn’t quite ready to fade. Monaco had witnessed history today—McLaren had witnessed history today—and as the night stretched on, it was clear that no one wanted it to end just yet.

The podium had come and gone, the champagne had been spilled, and now, the final act of the night was unfolding: a team dinner, a moment to revel in what had just been achieved, one last chance to soak in the sheer gravity of setting a new track record in one of the most prestigious circuits in Formula 1.

Back at the apartment, you moved quickly, stripping away the remnants of the race weekend, replacing them with something sleeker, something more refined, something that suited the occasion.

Your mind was a whirlwind, flickering between thoughts too quickly to grasp—the record, the podium, the celebration, the kiss, the weight of Lando’s touch, the way something had shifted between you today. You hadn’t had time to process any of it yet—not fully—but the echoes of each moment still rang in the back of your mind, still lived in the spaces between each breath.

Now, standing by the elevator, waiting for the doors to open, you felt his presence—strong, grounding, undeniably familiar. Lando’s arm was draped easily over your shoulders, his grip loose but firm, his fingers brushing absently against the fabric of your dress, like the contact was thoughtless, instinctive. Maybe before today, it had been just that—just part of the act, just effortless banter, just teasing at the edge of something playful. But now? Now, you weren’t sure.

Tilting your head slightly, you glanced up at him, your voice carrying a teasing edge, but also something else—something that wasn’t quite light, wasn’t quite casual. “Don’t you think that celebration was too much?”

Lando chuckled, his body shifting slightly, adjusting his hold but not letting go, eyes flickering down toward you with amusement—predictable amusement, but something beneath it felt different.

“Baby, I just set a new record in Monaco,” he declared, tone confident, smooth, the smirk slipping effortlessly into place. “So no, I don’t think so.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head slightly. “And the kiss?”

There was the briefest hesitation, something unspoken curling at the edges of his expression. But before you could press him, before you could dissect the pause—he answered, simple, effortless.

“I was excited.”

The elevator doors slid open before you could respond, before the moment could linger too long, before you could ask the question you weren’t sure you wanted an answer to yet. The moment was broken—interrupted—but the thought remained, lingering in the back of your mind, refusing to let go.

Inside the apartment, Lando moved quickly—too quickly—changing into something equally polished but effortless in the way he always carried himself. Meanwhile, you stood in front of the mirror, fingers adjusting the fabric of your dress, smoothing over edges, trying to focus, trying to ground yourself in something other than the thoughts still spinning in your head.

Behind you, sprawled across the bed like he had no plans to move just yet, Lando lay there, watching you, gaze unwavering,

locked onto you in a way that made the air in the room shift slightly. The attention was undeniable, heavy, lingering, and you felt it fully—in the reflection, in the silence, in the way your pulse didn’t quite keep steady.

“You’re staring, my dear,” you mused, smirking into the mirror, your voice light, controlled, teasing even—but your pulse betrayed you.

Lando didn’t hesitate.

“Can’t I admire my beautiful girlfriend?” His voice was low, smooth, charged, carrying something deeper beneath the teasing edge, something that made your breath catch just slightly.

Lando’s words hung in the air, settling between you like a challenge, like an invitation, like something neither of you were entirely ready to define.

You held his gaze in the mirror, the corners of your lips curling into something amused, something teasing, something controlled—but your pulse betrayed you, beating just a little too fast, racing just a little too wildly.

“You’re really committing to this, huh?” you mused, shifting slightly, adjusting the strap of your dress, still watching him, still very aware of how his eyes hadn’t moved from you.

Lando chuckled, stretching lazily on the bed, but his smirk didn’t fade, didn’t waver, didn’t lose its edge. “What, admiring my girlfriend?” His voice was light, easy, but the weight beneath it was impossible to ignore.

You scoffed, shaking your head, turning slightly to face him. “You know, the more you push it, the harder it’s going to be for you to backtrack later.”

He hummed, considering that, tilting his head slightly. “You think I want to backtrack?”

───

The dinner had been nothing short of seamless, laughter spilling across the room, glasses clinking in celebration, conversations flowing effortlessly. McLaren’s team had bought into the dynamic between the two of you without hesitation—no skepticism, no questioning glances, just complete acceptance. In their eyes, you and Lando fit perfectly, a seamless pair that seemed to work as naturally as any other couple in the paddock. And that should have been comforting. That should have been proof that the game was working.

But the problem was—it wasn’t a game anymore.

Now, walking through Monaco’s streets, hand in hand, the city lights casting golden reflections against the pavement, the reality of the situation settled heavily between you. Lando’s grip wasn’t just for show, wasn’t just effortless muscle memory, wasn’t just playing pretend. No, his fingers curled around yours like he wanted to hold on, like it was instinctive, like it wasn’t something he had to think about anymore. Maybe there had been rules once—lines drawn, boundaries set, reminders that this was all part of something bigger than just the two of you.

But those rules?

Gone. Completely fucked. Every single one of them.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice cut through the quiet, casual but with a weight that hit you instantly.

“Y/n, you know you’re my type.”

You blinked, heart stumbling, stomach twisting into something dangerously close to real panic. No way. No way.

“I noticed, Lando,” you replied, keeping your voice even, steady, controlled—like you weren’t suddenly questioning everything.

But he shook his head, squeezing your hand just slightly, just enough for the warmth of his touch to register, just enough for you to realize that this wasn’t teasing, wasn’t banter, wasn’t pushing boundaries for the sake of the game.

This was real.

“No, I mean it, Y/n.” His voice was softer now, more deliberate, his gaze scanning your face, focused, serious, carrying an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “You grew up into such a beautiful woman.”

Your breath hitched, just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

You felt his gaze linger on you, felt the way his thumb absently brushed against your skin as he held your hand, as he walked beside you through the quiet streets of Monaco, effortlessly pulling old memories into the present like they had never faded.

“I still remember that little shy girl you were,” he murmured, voice low, edged with something gentle, something careful, something that made your stomach twist in a way you hadn’t expected.

You exhaled, slow, measured, letting the words settle, letting them sink into the space between you like something undeniably significant.

“That was a long time ago,” you finally muttered, tilting your head slightly, offering him a sideways glance, watching for whatever he wasn’t saying outright.

Lando chuckled, shaking his head slightly, squeezing your hand just enough for you to feel it. “Not that long,” he mused, his smirk flickering briefly before it softened, before it melted into something that wasn’t teasing anymore.

“I guess,” you finally muttered, glancing at him, eyes scanning his expression, searching for something—for confirmation, for meaning, for whatever the hell had just shifted in this dynamic that had once felt so predictable, so contained.

Lando chuckled, shaking his head slightly, and then—without hesitation, without pretense, without playing into the teasing rhythm you had both mastered—he said it.

“You were always beautiful.”

─── sunday: day three

The early morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow across the hotel room, illuminating the undeniable reality of what had transpired in the past forty-eight hours. The energy of Monaco still lingered in the air, wrapping around the space between you both, pulling every moment from yesterday into sharp focus—the victory, the celebrations, the way things between you had shifted so irreversibly.

You stretched slightly, sinking deeper into the plush pillows, the warmth of sleep still clinging to your limbs, your thoughts slowly piecing together as the morning settled. But even through the haze of waking up, you felt it—his presence, the way Lando’s body rested beside yours, not hurried, not distant, not pretending that the closeness was something either of you needed to second-guess anymore.

And then, there was him—already awake, already invested in his phone, brows furrowed in that unmistakable way that meant he had discovered something worth dissecting. His focus was sharp, unwavering, and you couldn’t help but observe him for a moment, taking in the way his expression flickered through amusement and intrigue, the way he barely reacted to your movements as you shifted closer.

Finally, your voice broke the comfortable silence, soft, still tinged with sleep, but laced with curiosity. “What’s going on, baby?”

The term of endearment slipped out effortlessly, smoothly, like it had always been part of your vocabulary with him—like it wasn’t something you even thought about anymore.

Lando barely looked up, his grip on the phone firm, still immersed in whatever he was reading, his attention divided between scrolling through articles and listening to you. Then, with the simplest motion, he handed his phone over, lips curling into something amused but undeniably invested.

“Look at these articles,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, eyes flickering back toward you as you took the device. “We are everywhere.”

You blinked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you scrolled through the articles, headlines spilling across the screen in bold, dramatic fonts—each one dissecting every single detail of yesterday, of the celebrations, of the way the two of you had looked at each other like no one else mattered.

Lando chuckled beside you, stretching lazily, the smirk still resting on his lips, entirely unbothered by the attention, by the assumptions, by the fact that the internet had officially lost its mind over whatever the hell was happening between you.

“From fuckboy to wholesome boyfriend,” you muttered, shaking your head slightly, glancing over at him. “That’s quite the transformation, Norris.”

He grinned, eyes still flickering toward the screen, fully enjoying every moment of this chaos. “Well, I do pride myself on character development.”

You scoffed, scrolling further, your brows raising slightly as you read aloud another headline. “Lando Norris loves his girlfriend too much for love to be real.”

That earned a full laugh from him, deep and genuine, ringing through the hotel room, unfiltered in a way that made your chest tighten just slightly.

“You’re so fucked up falling for me, my dear,” you murmured, the words slipping out effortlessly, carrying that teasing edge—but this time, it wasn’t fully teasing.

It should have been simple—just another joke, just another throwaway comment to keep the rhythm going, to keep the tension wrapped neatly in the same playful game you had both mastered so well. But it didn’t feel like that anymore. Not when the air around you felt thicker, denser, charged with something undeniable. Not when Lando was watching you like this, like he was seeing something more, like he wasn’t about to laugh this off like every moment before it.

Lando chuckled, shaking his head just slightly, but the way he reacted—it wasn’t the usual deflection, wasn’t the expected brush-off, wasn’t him pulling back into safe territory. If anything, it was confirmation, quiet but certain, settling into the space between you with weight.

“Maybe I am,” he admitted, voice low, smooth, deliberate—undeniably real.

───

The paddock was alive with movement—mechanics darting from one side of the garage to the other, voices overlapping, data streaming across telemetry screens, the unmistakable hum of final race preparations filling the air. The energy was palpable, the kind of intensity that only race day could bring, where every second mattered, where every detail could be the difference between victory and disappointment.

But you and Lando? Utterly unbothered.

He sat casually on the counter, fingers lazily drumming against the smooth metal surface, his race suit hanging loosely around his frame, only partially zipped, the edges of his fireproof undershirt peeking through. There was no tension in his body, no hint of nerves, just that familiar ease—that infuriating confidence that made it seem like he had already won before the lights had even gone out.

“You should go,” you told him, nodding toward the car waiting in the garage, the vehicle that would soon carry him to the grid, to the battle, to the chaos that was about to unfold.

But Lando didn’t move.

Instead, he turned to look at you, his expression shifting, amusement glinting in his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly, just enough to tell you that he had already decided something before you even realized the conversation was happening.

“Not getting into that car without my good luck kiss.”

The words landed effortlessly, smooth, casual, like they had always belonged here, like this was just a normal part of his pre-race routine now.

Your breath hitched, just slightly, stomach twisting with something you weren’t quite ready to name, something that sat just beneath the surface of your amusement, something that made the air thicker between you.

You scoffed, shaking your head, crossing your arms. “You’re unbelievable.”

Lando grinned, shifting slightly, feet swinging as he leaned back against the counter, completely at ease. “I’m serious.”

You arched a brow, stepping closer, tilting your head just slightly, watching him carefully. “Since when do you need a good luck kiss?”

His smirk widened just a little, and for a second, you could swear his gaze flickered toward your lips.

“Since now,” he said simply, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like this moment, this request, was completely normal—even though you both knew it wasn’t.

You knew—without a doubt—that this wasn’t something Lando was going to let you forget.

For the rest of your life, he would bring it up at the most ridiculous moments, reminding you, teasing you, dragging it out for dramatic effect, making sure that no matter how much time passed, you’d still hear about this exact second when he finally got what he wanted.

So you kissed him.

Lips on lips, soft, deliberate, careful yet certain, the kind of kiss that settled deep, the kind that meant something, the kind neither of you could brush off anymore.

And that bastard?

He was enjoying every second of it.

His hand stayed firm on your waist, fingers curling just slightly, grounding you, keeping you close, like pulling away wasn’t even an option anymore.

When you finally parted—when the moment lingered, stretched between you like something irrevocable—his lips curled into that familiar smirk, lazy, satisfied, completely pleased with himself.

“Thank you, darling,” he murmured, voice low, edged with amusement, with something else entirely.

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head, knowing—without a doubt—that he was going to be insufferable about this for the rest of your life.

Lando stood before you, his race suit fully zipped, gloves secured, and helmet cradled between his hands. The usual pre-race energy buzzed around the garage—mechanics making last-minute adjustments, engineers scanning data, the hum of voices layered over the sound of engines roaring to life. Everything was moving fast, everything was precise, everyone had a job to do.

And yet—amidst all of that—he came to you.

“Is it good?” he asked, referring to the fit his helmet already sitting on his head. His voice was smooth, steady, but there was something underneath it, something unspoken, something that made you realize he wanted your reassurance more than he was willing to admit.

You didn’t hesitate.

With gentle hands, you reached for the collar of his suit, adjusting it just slightly, making sure everything sat perfectly. Your fingers brushed against the edges of his helmet, tilting it just right, securing it with the kind of precision that wasn’t just about racing—it was about him, about making sure he walked out onto that track with nothing on his mind except the drive.

“Perfect,” you murmured, the word carrying weight, carrying meaning, carrying something undeniably proud.

Lando grinned, the corner of his mouth twitching with something warm, something easy, something that told you this wasn’t just about the race anymore—this was about you, too.

───

Lando had always had a way of turning moments into something unforgettable, of making sure every victory, every achievement, felt bigger than just a race—and today was no exception.

Two hours later, he stood on the top step of the podium, his race suit clinging to him, still damp with sweat and adrenaline, his helmet long discarded, curls slightly tousled from the rush of celebration. The sun reflected off the trophy in his hands, casting shimmering highlights over the podium, catching on the beads of champagne that had started to drip onto the cool metal surface beneath his feet. He was at the center of it all, the cameras flashing, the crowd erupting, the emotion surging through the circuit like an unstoppable wave.

The champagne bottles sat idly, waiting for their turn, for the explosion of joy that would come as soon as the formalities ended. But now? Now, the moment belonged to him—the British anthem playing through the circuit, the crowd roaring, every camera, every fan, every voice locked onto the driver who had just dominated the race. His team stood beside him on the lower steps, hands clasped in triumph, their faces painted with the sheer joy of seeing their hard work turn into something real, something victorious.

And you? Standing beneath the podium once again, surrounded by his team, the sea of orange alive with pure exhilaration, shouts of triumph echoing in the air. The energy was infectious, buzzing in your chest, pushing through your veins, filling you with something electric. But none of it truly registered—not the voices, not the clapping, not the flashing cameras. It was all just background noise to the one person you were focused on.

Lando’s gaze swept over the crowd briefly, soaking in the scene, reveling in the energy, before his eyes found yours—steady, certain, glinting with something smug, something so undeniably him. The slow curl of his lips sent warmth spreading through your chest, a reaction you weren’t prepared to admit, and yet, there it was. He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly the effect he had, exactly how this moment would settle into something neither of you could forget.

Then, effortlessly, he winked.

A smirk followed, stretching across his lips, settling into something infuriatingly triumphant, the kind of expression that said, I told you so without needing a single word. You could already hear the teasing that would come later, the way he would remind you of this moment, the way he would make sure it stayed with you longer than just today.

Your stomach twisted, a warmth settling deep in your chest, a realization creeping up that you had been right earlier—he wasn’t getting into that car without his good luck kiss, and now? Now, he was standing up there, watching you from the top step, knowing, without a doubt, that it had worked.

The champagne sprayed across the podium, shimmering under the bright circuit lights, cascading down the suits of the top three drivers as they reveled in the moment, in the victory, in the culmination of everything that had brought them to this point. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a mixture of cheers, applause, and celebratory shouts that echoed across the circuit, wrapping itself around the podium like a living, breathing force. The atmosphere was electric, buzzing with the kind of energy that only came with a moment like this—a victory earned, a dream realized, a legacy cemented in history.

Lando stood at the center of it all, completely unguarded, beaming, laughing as he turned the bottle in his hands, directing the spray toward his team below, toward the crowd, toward the chaos that had erupted around him. His eyes sparkled with something raw, something pure, something that hadn’t been clouded by doubt or pressure or expectation. It was just joy—unfiltered, unrestrained, the kind that made everything else disappear. The way he smiled, the way his laughter rang out, the way he held himself with that effortless confidence—it was something you hadn’t seen in a long time.

And that was when it hit you.

The tear slipped free, unplanned, unexpected, but undeniable. It wasn’t sadness, wasn’t regret—it was something deeper, something softer, something whole. Because watching him like this, seeing him in his moment, seeing him where he was always meant to be—it stirred something in you that you hadn’t fully processed before.

You had missed this version of him—the one who radiated joy, the one who didn’t overthink, the one who belonged here, on the top step of the most iconic race in the world. For so long, there had been questions, uncertainties, lingering thoughts about what could’ve been, what should’ve been. But now? Now, looking at him standing there, looking at the way victory settled around him so naturally, you realized something with absolute clarity.

Maybe, in some strange, bittersweet way, you were glad he had left all those years ago.

Because if he hadn’t—if things had unfolded any other way—he wouldn’t be standing here now. He wouldn’t be soaking in this moment, wouldn’t be gripping the trophy with hands that had fought so hard for it, wouldn’t be surrounded by the kind of triumph that had been years in the making.

And watching him up there, soaking in his moment, drenched in triumph, surrounded by everything he had worked for?

You wouldn’t change a single thing.

After the podium celebrations had settled, you found yourself tucked away in McLaren’s hospitality lounge, waiting for Lando to finish the rounds of interviews. The hum of conversation filled the space, mechanics and engineers drifting in and out, the scent of victory still lingering in the air.

With your phone in hand, you watched the interviews unfold, scrolling through clips as they surfaced, catching bits and pieces of his words between questions about tire strategy, race pace, and overtakes. But then—one particular question caught your attention.

“We’ve seen you and your girlfriend together in the paddock all weekend,” the reporter noted, voice smooth, curious, leaning in slightly. “Do you think she was the key to your success today?”

Your brows lifted slightly, interest piqued, your full attention now locked on the screen.

Lando didn’t hesitate.

His grin spread, easy and confident, amusement flickering in his eyes as he replied, “You mean my girlfriend was the key to my success?” He paused just slightly, enough to let the words settle before he nodded once, firm, certain. “Definitely. She’s my lucky charm.”

And just like that, your stomach twisted, a warmth settling deep in your chest—because he said it like he meant it.

The reporter’s question had been straightforward, part of the usual post-race inquiries about what contributed to Lando’s success, but the weight of his answer settled into something deeper—something personal, something real.

His smirk softened, the usual post-race adrenaline still coursing through him, but now edged with something sincere. His posture remained relaxed, but there was a shift—a quiet moment of recognition in his expression, as if he was fully aware of the gravity of what he was about to say. He exhaled slightly, rolling his shoulders back before speaking, his voice steady and undeniably certain.

"I'm glad my Y/n is here with me," he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, his gaze flickering toward the camera, as if the words weren’t just meant for the reporter or the audience—but for you, wherever you were, watching. "This win is for her."

The atmosphere in the room shifted just slightly, the laughter and chatter quieting for a beat, letting the words settle. His team, the journalists, the PR staff—they all carried on around him, but for that fleeting moment, none of them mattered.

Because it was about you.

And then, as if to cement the moment in history, as if to ensure you knew exactly what he meant, Lando’s smile widened, his fingers lifted in a small, casual wave, his expression holding that distinct mix of amusement and complete sincerity.

"I love you, baby," he added, voice light, but his gaze unwavering.

And somewhere—perhaps in the middle of the paddock, or tucked away in the McLaren lounge, or still watching through the glowing screen of your phone—you felt it.

The warmth.

It was ridiculous, really—how much he loved you. How much you lingered in his mind, how much the thought of you had settled into his bones like something he couldn’t shake, couldn’t ignore, couldn’t turn off even if he wanted to.

And the worst part?

He didn’t want to.

Not even a little.

Because there you were, always, in the back of his thoughts, in the quiet moments between races, in the adrenaline-fueled highs and the exhausted lows, in the way his hands absentmindedly reached for his phone just to see if you had messaged, even when he knew you hadn’t.

He was so fucked.

But then again—so were you.

Because for all the ways he thought about you, all the ways you ran through his mind like an unstoppable force—you were doing the exact same thing.

───

The music pulsed through the crowded room, a steady beat that seemed to sync with the rhythm of Monaco itself—an endless celebration, a city that never truly slept, especially not on a night like this. The race had come and gone, the results were final, but none of it mattered now. Here, in the heart of the victory party, the lines between triumph and defeat blurred into nothing.

Monaco was different from any other race on the calendar. Here, everyone celebrated. Whether they had stood on the podium, missed out by fractions of a second, or endured the brutal reality of a retirement, it didn’t matter. The atmosphere was infectious, drowning out thoughts of past regrets or future pressures, replacing them with nothing but laughter, music, and the electricity of the night.

And in the center of it all, there was you and Lando.

His hand found yours effortlessly, fingers curling around your wrist as he twirled you, spinning you into the sea of people before catching you again—firm, steady, his. His grip was easy, natural, and the way he pulled you back to him was completely unguarded, like holding onto you was as instinctive as breathing.

The flickering lights overhead bathed his features in golden hues, catching on the sharp angles of his jaw, illuminating the curve of his grin, the familiar spark in his eyes. He was glowing, alive, moving with an energy that wasn’t just post-race adrenaline—it was something else entirely. Something lighter. Something real.

And as the music swelled, as the world blurred around you, as his arms tightened around you just slightly, grounding you in this moment, in him, you realized something with absolute certainty.

This—this exact moment—was his favorite kind of win.

The music was loud, the air thick with celebration, bodies moving in every direction, laughter spilling into the night. Monaco had wrapped itself around you both, drawing you into the pulse of it, into the warmth, into the chaos that was somehow so perfectly right.

Lando’s hands were on you, strong and steady despite the way the champagne had settled into his veins, making everything feel just a little lighter, just a little easier, just a little too honest. His grip was firm around your waist as he swayed with you, his laughter bubbling up, uninhibited, raw, completely unfiltered.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice barely above the music, but close enough—close enough that it sank into you the way his touch did. “I think I might be a little bit in love with you.”

You laughed, shaking your head, because this was Lando—your Lando, messy and drunk and unbelievably obvious.

“A little bit?” you teased, tilting your head, amusement dancing in your tone.

His grip tightened as he pulled you in, so close you could see the way his pupils were blown wide, the way his expression softened just slightly, just enough to be real.

“Okay, fine,” he admitted, his voice lower now, heavier. “A lot Like, stupidly, annoyingly, completely, all-the-way in love with you.”

You didn’t have time to react before he spun you again, pulling you back just as fast, his grin unapologetic, his hands never leaving yours.

You shook your head, amusement flickering in your eyes, though the smile that tugged at your lips betrayed you. "You're drunk, Lando," you teased, brushing off the weight of his words, the confession woven into them.

But he wasn’t having it.

Without hesitation, he pulled you closer, his grip firm, his fingers pressing into your skin like he needed you to listen, like he needed you to believe him. His breath was warm against your cheek, his voice softer now, rougher, laced with something too real to be ignored.

“I mean it, Y/n."

He hesitated, his eyes searching yours, lingering for half a second longer than they should have, like he was waiting for something—some kind of reaction, some kind of reassurance, some kind of anything that told him he wasn’t just saying this into the night.

His fingers curled slightly against your waist.

"I don’t want this to end."

Your stomach twisted, your pulse stuttering as the meaning settled between you, hanging in the space neither of you had dared to touch before. But still, you asked, because you had to, because you needed to hear him say it even though you already knew.

"What?"

Lando exhaled sharply, shaking his head, his hold tightening as he finally let the words fall.

"This," he murmured, his voice lower now, heavier. "The bet or whatever it is. Us."

You took his hand, fingers lacing through his without hesitation, and guided him away from the crowd, weaving past the swirling bodies, past the laughter, past the electricity of Monaco’s endless celebration. The music pulsed behind you, but the further you walked, the quieter it became, the lights dimming, the chaos settling into the background until it was just the two of you, standing in the shadowed corner of the venue.

He let you lead him, no resistance, no questions—just quiet curiosity, just the steady grip of his hand holding onto yours like he wasn’t willing to let go. And then you stopped, turning to face him, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heart pounding, your thoughts tangled, every word you wanted to say sitting on the tip of your tongue but refusing to fall into place.

“I don’t know what’s real and what’s just pretending, Lan,” you finally admitted, your voice softer now, rawer, laced with something too heavy for the moment, something too real. You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching against his, unable to look away, unable to pull back, unable to escape the way his gaze searched yours with that same intensity, the same depth, the same knowing. Because deep down, you already had your answer—you just wanted to hear him say it.

Lando’s expression didn’t shift, didn’t flicker with hesitation or uncertainty. If anything, he looked like he had been waiting for this conversation, waiting for you to bring it up, waiting for the chance to say what had already been sitting between you for far too long.

His grip on your hand tightened just slightly, grounding you, steadying you, keeping you present when your instinct begged you to run from whatever this was. “I don’t pretend anything since the first day, love,” he murmured, his voice carrying something firm yet gentle, something sure, something that left no room for doubt. The way he said it, the way the words fell effortlessly from his lips, sent something rushing through you—a realization, a truth, a confirmation of everything you had already known but refused to acknowledge.

Then, his thumb brushed against your skin, slow, deliberate, and he went further. “I mean, I want you to be mine,” he continued, his voice dropping just slightly, almost careful, as if it carried more weight than he knew how to hold.

His eyes searched yours again, not for permission, not for reassurance—just for the moment, just for you, just for the understanding that this wasn’t a joke, that this wasn’t something fleeting, that this wasn’t just part of the game. “Truly mine.”

Lando’s voice was lower now, rougher, heavy with something undeniable. The distance between you had disappeared, the warmth of him wrapping around you, drowning out the rest of the world, pressing into something real. His fingers curled against your waist, slow, deliberate, his grip not demanding but certain, like he was holding onto the truth of his words as much as he was holding onto you.

“I’ve never wanted someone so badly the way I want you, Y/n,” he murmured, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of doubt, any hint that you might pull away, might retreat into excuses, into hesitation.

The weight of the night pressed against your skin—the heat of Monaco’s endless celebration, the pulse of music vibrating through the walls, the distant roar of voices spilling over in laughter, in cheers, in pure adrenaline-fueled revelry. But none of it mattered. Not the party, not the race, not the noise—because here, in this quiet corner, tucked away from the chaos, it was just you and him.

Lando’s grip was firm, grounding you, steadying himself, his fingers curling against your waist like he was afraid the second he let go, this moment might slip away. His breath was uneven, his pupils blown wide, the remnants of champagne and excitement lingering in the way his chest rose and fell in shallow movements, in the way his lips parted slightly like he had more to say but wasn’t sure how to say it.

He wanted you. Needed you. Craved you in ways he hadn’t fully realized until now.

And you?

You were just as gone for him.

Everything—every single thing—had changed this weekend. What started as something simple, something playful, something undefined had shifted into this, into something so much heavier, so much more real than either of you had been prepared for. Every moment spent together had turned into something impossible to ignore, every fleeting glance now carried meaning, every touch lingered longer than it should.

All the years of pain, of hesitation, of uncertainty didn’t matter anymore.

He had changed. You had changed. But in a way, he was still the same. Still Lando, still the boy with the teasing smirk, with the wild energy, with the unfiltered laughter that had always drawn you in. But now, that same boy was standing in front of you, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world, like you were his like this moment meant more than any podium finish ever could.

Your chest tightened, breath shaky, fingers twitching slightly against his as you finally let the words slip, raw and completely unguarded.

“I’m yours, Lando.”

─── monday: the end ??

The headache was manageable. The weight pressing against your chest? Not so much.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room, painting everything in muted tones of reality that you weren’t entirely ready to face. The warmth of sleep still clung to your body, but it wasn’t enough to keep the creeping thoughts at bay. Not today. Not when everything felt different, when the ease of last night had been replaced with something heavier, something impossible to ignore.

Beside you, Lando stirred. Shirtless, tangled in the sheets, limbs sprawled across the bed like he hadn’t quite processed the morning yet, like he was still lost somewhere between last night’s celebration and the reality waiting outside these walls. His breathing was slow, steady, rhythmic in a way that should’ve been comforting—but instead, it gnawed at something inside you, pulling at the edges of a thought you weren’t quite ready to examine.

You could get used to this.

The sight of him, the warmth of him, the way everything about this felt natural, like it belonged. But at the same time, something inside you hesitated, wavered, pressed against the weight of knowing this wasn’t supposed to be real, wasn’t supposed to last.

You sighed, reaching for your phone, fingers fumbling across the screen as the device lit up, notifications flooding in like a wave crashing against the shore. And the second your browser opened, the world greeted you with stark reality.

Photos.

Everywhere.

You and Lando, caught in flashes, frozen in moments that weren’t meant to be dissected by the rest of the world, splashed across headlines with catchy phrases that barely scratched the surface of what really happened. But that wasn’t the worst part.

It was the interview.

It was the way he had said all the right things, played the perfect role, made everyone believe what they wanted to believe.

It was proof that the bet was over.

And that Lando had won.

He had convinced the world that he was the perfect boyfriend. Charming, devoted, unbelievably convincing. And maybe, just maybe, he had convinced you, too.

The thought twisted deep in your stomach, tangled in something uncomfortable, something terrifying, something you weren’t ready to unpack. Because if this was over—if this was all just part of the game, part of something meant to end—then what happened now?

Were you supposed to go back to being friends?

And if so…

Why did that feel like the last thing you wanted?

You moved slowly, almost too slowly, as if the weight pressing down on you made it harder to go through the motions. Packing your things should’ve been easy, mindless, routine—but instead, every item you folded, every piece of clothing you shoved into your bag felt heavier than it should. Like somehow, leaving this room, leaving him, leaving this entire weekend behind, was more than just the end of a bet.

Was it really over?

Was it supposed to be?

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the fabric in your hands, thoughts swirling faster than you could process them. After everything—the teasing, the lingering touches, the way his gaze had held onto yours like it meant something, like it was more. After last night, after his confession, after the way he had needed you.

But maybe that was all it had been—a moment fueled by champagne and adrenaline, by the high of the night, by the fleeting rush of Monaco’s magic.

You sighed, shaking your head slightly, convincing yourself that it was just that. Just drunk words. Just impulse. Just Lando being Lando. Just something temporary—something that shouldn’t matter as much as it did.

Just as your fingers brushed against the door handle, a firm grip wrapped around your wrist, halting your movement, pulling you back before you could take that final step. The warmth of his touch was steady, solid, anchoring you to the moment before you could slip away from it. Your pulse stumbled, your breath hitching as his fingers tightened, not harshly, not demandingly, but deliberately—as if he knew that if he didn’t stop you now, you might never stop yourself.

“Where are you going?” Lando’s voice, rough from sleep, carried a quiet intensity, a gravity that settled in your chest, made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t ready to acknowledge. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t making light of the situation. He was serious.

You swallowed, eyes flickering over his face, searching for something—an escape, an easy answer, anything that would make this moment less real. But nothing came. No excuses, no rehearsed responses, nothing to fill the space between you except the raw truth you had been trying to avoid since the second you woke up. “Home?” you answered, though it came out more like a question, uncertain, fragile, like the word didn’t belong to you anymore.

But Lando didn’t waver.

His grip tightened just slightly, his gaze steady, unwavering, knowing. There was no hesitation in his expression, no uncertainty in his stance, no doubt in the way he looked at you like he had already decided what this was, what this meant.

“But you are home,” he said, and the conviction in his voice hit something deep inside you, something you had tried so hard to ignore, something you weren’t sure you could fight anymore.

Because deep down, you knew the truth—you were home. After eight long years, after everything, after all the hesitation and uncertainty, you had finally found your way back. And it wasn’t just Monaco, wasn’t just the comfort of familiar places or the rush of the weekend—it was him. He was your home.

But admitting that felt too big, too terrifying, too final. So instead, you let the words slip out, sharp and deliberate, forcing a distance between you both before the moment swallowed you whole.

“You won the bet, remember?”

Lando’s expression shifted, the certainty in his eyes flickering just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His grip didn’t loosen, but something in his stance changed—a subtle hesitation, a brief flicker of something uncertain, something vulnerable.

“I don’t care about the bet,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, rougher, edged with something too real to be ignored.

You exhaled slowly, heart pounding in your chest, fingers twitching where his held onto yours. You wanted to believe him, wanted to lean into the warmth of his words, into the comfort of the truth they carried—but it wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple.

“Lando…” you started, but he didn’t let you finish.

“I didn’t win anything,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. His fingers slid down to lace with yours, gripping tighter, like he needed you to understand—really understand. His lips parted, breath uneven, his gaze locked onto yours like he was afraid you were going to slip away, like if he let go, you would vanish completely. “Not if you walk out that door.”

And suddenly, the bet—the thing that had started all of this, the game that had set everything in motion—felt so insignificant compared to what this had become.

For eight years, you convinced yourself that losing him was inevitable—that people came and went, that feelings faded, that memories blurred into nothing more than passing thoughts that didn’t carry weight anymore. You had spent years learning how to live without him, how to ignore the way his name still tugged at something deep in your chest, how to pretend the absence didn’t feel so vast.

But standing here now, feeling the warmth of his grip against your wrist, hearing the quiet certainty in his voice, all of that fell apart. Because the truth was—you never really let him go.

“I let you go eight years ago,” Lando said, his voice low, rough around the edges, laced with something unshakable. His fingers curled tighter, grounding himself in the moment, in you, in everything that had come rushing back between you like time had never passed at all. “And I’m not letting that happen again.”

The words sat heavy between you, lingering in the space where doubt had once lived, where hesitation had once thrived, where every unspoken fear had kept you both apart for far too long. They pressed into the silence, into the quiet moment that felt too fragile, too raw, like any wrong movement might shatter the certainty building between you.

“I can’t lose you again, Y/n.”

But now?

Now, none of that mattered.

Because when he said it—when you felt it—it wasn’t just something fleeting, wasn’t just words tossed carelessly into the air. It was a truth, a choice, an impossible confession wrapped in quiet certainty, in undeniable finality. And that changed everything.

“I can’t lose you again,” he repeated, softer this time, voice dipping into something rough, something raw, something undeniable. The words were meant for you, meant to wrap around the air between you, meant to stay. He wasn’t just saying it for the sake of it—he needed you to hear it, needed you to understand that this wasn’t just impulse, wasn’t just adrenaline, wasn’t just the remnants of the night clinging to him.

He meant it.

And you did, too.

Because deep down, you felt the same.

You couldn’t lose him again. Not after eight years of silence. Not after everything. Not after the way this weekend had torn down every last wall between you, had stripped away the hesitations, had forced you to see what had been there all along.

Not when he was standing here, holding onto you, refusing to let go, refusing to let you slip away the way you had once before. Not when his fingers curled against your skin like he was terrified of losing this moment, of losing you, of losing everything all over again. Not when his presence swallowed you whole, when his warmth seeped into you, when every racing thought screeched to a halt under the weight of this moment, of him, of the realization that maybe—just maybe—this was exactly where you were meant to be.

The words sat on the edge of your tongue, lingering, heavy, tangled with years of emotions too vast to contain, too powerful to ignore. You had spent so long convincing yourself that time had changed things—that the anger, the frustration, the ache of his absence had chipped away at everything else, had left you with nothing more than resentment and a hollow space where love used to live.

But standing here, feeling the warmth of his fingers wrapped around your wrist, seeing the way his eyes searched yours, the way he held onto you like he wasn’t willing to let go, everything you had buried came rushing back.

Because despite everything—despite the years apart, despite the walls you had built, despite the way you had once convinced yourself you could live without him—you still loved him.

And when the words finally escaped, they carried more weight than you ever thought possible.

“I love you, Norris.”

babsie radio ! Thank you for the positive feedback on nostalgia, I’m so glad you liked it as much as I did! I know you guys wanted slowburn but I just don’t know how to write it haha, but I tried, hope it’s slowburn enough and you’ll enjoy it <3

taglist ! @haniette @hazzasmunchkin @stilesks @freyathehuntress @fictionalfanatic123 @evilive

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everrinsly · 2 months ago

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life with sae.

where he ruins you bare... except for the anklet he handpicked.

anklet with sae. smut. nsfw. very suggestive. mature. mdni. fem!reader. | not proofread.

more life with sae here!

more reads!

ᯓ⚽ᯓ⚽🩷

You don’t know what’s gotten into Sae lately—

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been away for games. Just static hotel rooms and hours of pent-up tension with only the sound of your voice over the phone to keep him sane—all soft and sweet, whispering sleepy I miss you's.

Maybe it’s those video calls. The ones where you’re curled up on his side of the bed, wrapped in his hoodie, hugging his pillow like it’s your whole world—your face filling the screen, eyes all bright and shiny.

Maybe it’s that you’ve been wearing his shirts too often. Photos of sleepy mirror selfies in his oversized jerseys, his name stretched across your back, collar slipping off your shoulder like a sinful invitation, bare thighs peeking out beneath the hem—smiling like you don’t know you’re ruining him from halfway across the world.

Or maybe it’s just you—dripping for his attention, duly spoiled, the only person he lets himself feel for, the only one who touches the version of him no one else gets to see.

—because tonight?

He buys you an anklet.

It’s thin gold and barely-there. A tiny charm dangles from it—delicate, tasteful, expensive; it's a small S engraved into a flat coin that glints when you move, like a secret meant just for him. Just subtle enough that no one else would notice.

No one except him.

You barely have time to admire it before he’s already peeling your clothes off, whispering, “Don’t need anything else. Just wear this.”

So now?

You’re naked, trembling and flushed. He drags his palm down the length of your body, tracing the dips of your waist, the curves of your hips. Your legs are spread, knees hooked over his broad shoulders—greedy, aching, begging for more.

The anklet captures the low glow of the bedside lamp and sways right by his head.

His is cock buried deep in your soaked cunt as he fucks you into the plush mattress, slow but hard.

And he’s obsessed.

“Fuck—look at that,” Sae groans, eyes locked on your left ankle where the S dangles against your skin. “You hear that? That little chime?”

Clink-clink.

He wants to see it move when he fucks you.

He wants the sound of your moans tangled with the soft, delicate chime of metal.

The dainty gold charm taps against itself every time he thrusts into you—steady and purposeful, rolling his hips so deep you swear he’s hitting your soul.

“That’s mine,” he growls. “That sound? That’s mine. It only happens when I’m inside you like this. You got that, baby?”

Your mouth falls open in a broken moan, all helpless and ruined.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, “when I bought this…”

He presses a soft kiss to your calf, then your shin—hands grazing slowly up your thighs.

“…I thought it’d look good with heels. Maybe with one of your pretty dresses.”

He leans in, kissing your ankle, tongue darting out to lick the gold S.

“But this?” His lips brush the charm again. “You. Naked. Wearing nothing but this—”

He sucks in a breath.

“—fuck, baby. I think this might be the best thing."

His rhythm stays slow—sensual, unrelenting, dragging out every inch, letting you feel the weight of him, the stretch of him. Your thighs twitch from anticipation, pussy swollen and sensitive from overstimulation. Your ankles are still over his shoulders, legs are still trembling, back still arched prettily as your body welcomes him in again and again.

Your vision is blurred, but you notice a soft twinkling as you shift with his movements.

That damn anklet—

The sound it makes—the soft little tink, the jingle every time he thrusts in—drives him insane.

—Sae doesn’t wait.

He pulls all the way out, then slides in deep, thrusts all the way to the hilt, and your breath breaks.

“Oh—S-sae—y-yes, please—”

“That’s it,” he hisses, grinding his hips into yours. “That sound—”

Clink.

The charm taps against your skin with every thrust.

“—that’s all I wanna hear. Your moans. And that pretty little jingle while I ruin this pussy.”

He pulls out again. Slow. Just to feel how soaked you still are. Then slams back in. Hard.

The anklet bounces.

Clink.

You whine, loud and broken.

“Yeah? You like this?” he grits, driving in deeper, rougher, lifting your hips toward him. “You like being laid out like a fuckin’ gift? Like wearing my initial while I fuck into you?"

Your answer is a sob. A moan. A twitch in your belly. Because that's all you can offer.

“That’s what I thought,” he growls, licking up your thigh. “Fucking made for me. Dripping. Look at this cunt.”

He pounds into you now—cock hitting deep, every harsh thrust makes your breath stutter. His hips roll in and out with precision, stroking every sweet, swollen spot inside you. He bends over you, pressing you into the mattress, your legs still folded high over his shoulders—the anklet swinging, sparkling, catching the light as he fucks you filthy.

You can barely breathe. The angle’s brutal, too deep, and the pressure makes your thighs quiver and your head spin.

But Sae's still talking.

“You hear that?” he pants into your ear.

The anklet chimes again.

Clink-clink.

“That’s the sound I’m gonna get off to when I’m away. Gonna play this in my head on the fucking plane. Picture you like this—spread open, wet, crying my name with this little thing shaking on your ankle.”

You cry out. He slams in.

"You gonna come for me?” he whispers, lips brushing your throat. “C’mon, princess. Soak my cock.”

And when he trails a hand down to press on your stomach, you do. You lose it. it's loud and messy, your moans echoing, charm clinking wildly as your legs spasm around his neck. Your thighs clamp down on his shoulders, limbs shaking under the force of your high. Your cunt flutters, clenches, milks him like a vice.

Sae groans, dark and low, and fucks you through it, pushing deep once more before he finally spills inside you, hot and heavy and endless.

The charm swings gently and settles.

The room goes quiet.

Your body twitches.

He leans in, presses a kiss to your ankle, lips brushing the chain.

“You’re wearing this every time I fuck you,” he breathes, eyes dark and wild. “Understand, baby?”

Because he wants every chime to echo—like a promise: you’re his.

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boneless-mika · 2 years ago

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Oooh no I’m being so bad and immoral, perhaps even irredeemable, because I occasionally enjoy gambling

#fyi the enjoyer of the thing is not the industry #I did not choose for predatory gacha games to be created by enjoying the experience of opening hearthstone packs #I don’t think those kinds of gacha games should exist #but I also am so immune to gambling addiction that I’ve basically quit enstars #my favorite game for like a year #because it got boring and I realized I was only playing to get more jpgs I could look at on the internet #might as well play howrse because I actually enjoy the gameplay and the gacha element is not essential for enjoyment #I love playing the events just for fun I’m obsessed with ascent of Olympus #I used to love the rhythm Game Center of enstars but o think I just got burnt out #still a fan just not a fan who plays #I also quit Genshin when I got annoyed at there being daily quests #I quit fate/grand order basically immediately because uhh it’s not good #honestly I’m a little sick of gacha as a concept #but it should never be combined with microtransactions #still it isn’t my fault that it is because I once enjoyed opening a horn of plenty #(luck (gacha) item in howrse)

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gyuuberryy · 8 days ago

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red lights

pairing: psycho guard!jungwon x reader

genre: squid game au, thriller, smut

synopsis: you enter the games to escape your debts, only to realise you're being kept alive for someone else's obsession.

warnings (MDNI 18+ only!!) : smut (fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, rough sex, dirty marking/biting, powerplay, possessive/dom!jungwon), yandere behaviour, obsession, manipulation, stalking, slight coercion, degradation/praise mix, mentions of death and gun, not proofread.

note: this was requested! it's based on the first season since i haven't really watched the other two. this is prolly the fastest ive written a fic hehe i hope you like it!

word count: 3.4k

if you liked this please comment or reblog to give me your feedback! <3

you knew you weren’t going to win.

the moment you stepped into the games, surrounded by hundreds of desperate strangers in green tracksuits, you felt it deep in your bones.

you weren’t the fastest. you weren’t the smartest. you didn’t have anyone to form an alliance with, no tricks up your sleeve, no reason to believe you’d be the one to walk away from this alive. you entered because you had no other choice. the debt collectors waiting outside your door had made sure of that.

still, even as the guards shuffled you into the towering playground that would host the first round, you kept telling yourself to stay sharp, to fight. maybe you wouldn’t win, but maybe you could survive. maybe you could make it just a little further than the next person. that’s what survival was here, wasn’t it? not about skill or power, just about making sure someone else fell before you did.

the first game was simple: “red light, green light.” you’d played it as a kid, but here, the stakes weren’t bruised knees and scraped palms. here, the doll didn’t chant instructions for fun. its voice echoed over the yard in a flat, mechanical rhythm, and every time it said “red light,” players who moved even a fraction of a second too late were gunned down where they stood.

the sound of the first gunshot made your stomach flip. the second made your knees buckle. by the third, your heartbeat was so loud you couldn’t hear anything else.

you wanted to cry. you wanted to turn and run, but you knew what would happen if you did.

so, you forced yourself forward on shaky legs, moving in short, stiff sprints every time the doll called “green light.” you could feel the weight of its gaze even when you weren’t moving.

sweat clung to your temples. your limbs ached from locking in place. every step felt like it could be your last.

you were halfway across the field when it happened. you miscalculated the timing, legs too slow and your reaction too sluggish. you stumbled, your foot catching on uneven ground, and you pitched forward as the doll called “red light.” you weren’t supposed to fall. now you were not going to survive this.

you landed hard, your palms scraping against the cracked asphalt. you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the gunfire. your breath caught in your throat as you waited.

but nothing happened.

the silence stretched on, broken only by the distant shuffling of other players. you lifted your head slowly, your heart still hammering in your chest, and looked around. you could feel the doll’s sensor locked on you. you could feel the way the air thickened around you, like the system was holding its breath.

the gun never fired.

you scrambled back onto your feet, legs shaking violently, and forced yourself forward again.

the rest of the game passed in a blur. your ears rang, your vision swam and when the final countdown ended, and the doors slid shut behind the last surviving players, you barely registered that you’d made it. you just stood there, gasping, your hands trembling at your sides.

the others whispered about system glitches. about how sometimes the doll missed a player by accident. about how maybe you were just lucky.

you wanted to believe it too, but you knew it deep down that you hadn’t been fast enough. you hadn’t outsmarted anything. you should’ve died. the doll’s sensor had locked onto you. you saw it.

someone or something had spared you.

you noticed him that night in the dorms, one of the masked enforcers standing near the exit. his uniform was the same as the others, but something about the way he watched you felt wrong. his head tilted slightly when you caught his eye, his posture shitfinh when you moved past him, gaze lingering too long.

it wasn’t just that he was watching. it was the way he was watching. like he was studying you. like he was waiting for something. like he already knew you.

the next day, you overheard two players whispering in the corner, their heads bowed low. they were talking about the guards. about how some of them had special clearances. about how one in particular was known to move differently, to linger in the control rooms when no one else was allowed. a guard connected to the vips. someone with access. someone dangerous.

you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. until it did.

you should’ve died again.

when you broke one of the rules in the second game—a mistake so obvious that a guard should have dragged you away immediately—no one moved. the others stared at you, waiting for the punishment, but none of the guards reacted. none of the guns fired. you stood there, frozen in place, breathing too fast, waiting for the consequences that never came.

it didn’t make sense.

the same masked enforcer—the one who lingered too long—was stationed near the control panels this time. his hand rested near the emergency override key. his head tilted toward you, almost like he was waiting.

almost like he wanted you to see him.

the next game, you slipped during the tug of war, your grip loosening, your body tilting dangerously backward—but somehow, the rope didn’t pull you down. the other team lost their footing at the last second, their weight shifting inexplicably in your favour.

you barely held on and your team barely survived. when you stumbled off the platform, the same masked enforcer stood near the exit, watching you.

you didn’t know his name. you couldn’t see his face. but you knew. it was him. it had to be.

you began to realise you weren’t surviving because you were clever or strong. you were surviving because someone wanted you alive. someone was bending the system around you. someone who didn’t follow the same rules as everyone else.

you caught him again after the fourth game. it was subtle. a moment where his hand brushed the control panel too casually, where the timer extended just long enough to save you, where a guard hesitated when they should’ve pulled the trigger. you saw the way his head turned toward you, as if he could feel your eyes on him, as if he wanted you to notice him.

the rumours grew bigger, spreading around like hot tea. it was about guards with ties to the vips. about ones who didn’t have to follow protocol, who could break the rules if they wanted to.

you had dismissed them before. but now you weren’t so sure.

you didn’t know why he had chosen you. you didn’t know what he wanted. but you could feel it pressing in on you now—the weight of his attention. instead of feeling lucky, you felt more trapped

whatever this was, it wasn’t over. you weren’t safe. you were being kept alive for a reason.

a reason that didn’t feel like mercy.

you noticed little things after that. little cracks. the way his hand would twitch near his weapon when other players got too close to you. the way his breathing would hitch when you stumbled, like the idea of losing you—even by accident—rattled him in a way he couldn’t quite hide. you caught him staring too long, standing too close, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides when someone else spoke to you.

there was something desperate about it which felt very off.

it built and built until you couldn’t take it anymore. you needed answers. you needed to see him. not the mask. not the uniform. the real him.

you waited until the halls thinned out and the guards dispersed, slipping away from the dorms under the buzz of half-working lights.

your bare feet slapped softly against the cool floor as you moved through the empty corridors, your heart pounding hard in your chest with every step. you didn’t know what you were walking toward, but you knew you wouldn’t stop until you found him.

you slipped past the security gates you weren’t supposed to cross, toward the back rooms—the ones you’d heard about in snatches of conversations, where the control feeds were hidden from the players. only select staff with connections to the vips were allowed here apparently.

you caught him in a maintenance room, just beyond the restricted zone. the door was cracked open, just enough for you to see his back, the pink uniform still clinging to him like a second skin.

you stayed frozen in the doorway, your breath catching in your throat as you watched him slowly lift the helmet from his head.

his hair was dark, matted slightly from sweat, sticking to the nape of his neck. he set the mask aside and flexed his shoulders, rolling the tension out of his muscles like he didn’t know you were there.

but he did.

he turned toward you, calm, steady, and met your wide-eyed stare with a small, knowing smile.

you didn’t recognise him. you had never seen his face before. he was just a boy—a stranger.

but it didn’t feel like you were meeting him for the first time. his eyes held something familiar, something that made your skin prickle and your lungs seize. it was the same weight you’d felt pressing on you during every game. it was the same suffocating attention you’d carried since the first round.

“you found me,” he said, his voice soft like it was meant for you alone.

he didn’t sound surprised or worried. it was like he’d known you would come.

your throat went dry, body locking in place. you wanted to run, but you couldn’t make your legs move.

“you’ve been…” you forced the words out, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. “it was you.”

his smile deepened, a slow curve of his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“you’re safe because of me,” he said simply, as if it was obvious. “i’ve been protecting you since the beginning. i didn’t want you to die.”

your stomach twisted painfully. you didn’t know him. you didn’t understand him. but the pieces had already snapped together in your head, each impossible survival, each glitch in the system, each unspoken warning—he’d been behind all of it.

“why?” your voice cracked, barely audible. “why me?”

he stepped closer, slow, unhurried, like he was giving you time to run, knowing you wouldn’t.

“because you’re mine,” he said, his tone so calm, so sure, it left no room for doubt. “i couldn’t let them take you.”

you could feel the panic building in your throat, but you stayed rooted in place as he closed the distance between you.

his hand lifted to touch your face, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheekbone. his touch was warm, careful, almost reverent.

“you only made it this far because i wanted you to.”

his words settled over you like a trap snapping shut, but there was no malice in his eyes. only certainty.

you didn’t know what scared you more—the way his touch felt almost gentle, or the way your body leaned into it despite the roaring alarm in your head.

his touch was slow, careful, but not gentle. it felt like the kind of patience that could snap at any second. like the stillness before something dangerous finally broke loose.

his fingers dragged along your waist, slow and deliberate, tracing circles over the thin fabric of your uniform like he was burning your shape into memory. his gloves pressed firmly into your skin, just tight enough to remind you that you wouldn’t be walking away from this.

your breath caught, but you didn’t pull away.

maybe you should have. maybe you could have. but your body didn’t move. you told yourself it was fear. but the truth settled heavier than that. the truth tasted like surrender.

“you don’t even realise what you do to me,” jungwon murmured, his voice low, frayed at the edges. “how long i’ve been watching you.”

“you were… watching me?” your voice came out small and shaken, heart hammering against your ribs.

his hands slid up your sides, pausing just beneath your ribs, holding you there like you were something fragile. his grip tightened, a silent warning, his thumbs pressing in hard enough to sting.

“you didn’t think you were surviving this on your own, did you?” he whispered, his lips brushing against your temple. “you didn’t really believe that, right?”

“i…” your throat closed up. “at first i thought i was lucky.”

he let out a dark laugh, his breath hot against your skin. “you weren’t lucky. you were mine.”

his grip moved lower, guiding you backward until your thighs bumped against the edge of the console table. when he lifted you onto the cold metal surface, his palms didn’t leave your body, his hands sliding down to your hips, caging you in place like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

“look at you,” he breathed, his voice slipping, his composure fraying. “so perfect. so soft for me now.”

“please,” you whispered, your chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. “i don’t… i don’t understand what you want from me.”

his thumb dipped under the waistband of your pants, teasing the skin there, but he didn’t pull them down yet. he just stared at you, his eyes drinking in every tiny tremble, every shaky breath, every small way your body leaned into him despite yourself.

his other hand came up to cup your face, tilting your chin until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“i’ve seen every part of you,” jungwon whispered, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “you didn’t know i was watching, but i was. always.”

his voice cracked a little on the last word.

“i watched you when you slept. when you cried. when you begged to be saved.” his thumb slid into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. “and you always will be. you’ll always be safe with me.”

you whimpered, your lips closing around his thumb without thinking, your breath trembling as you looked up at him.

“you’ll let me take care of you now, won’t you?” his voice softened, but it wasn’t a question.

“yes,” you whispered around his thumb, shame heating your cheeks.

his breath hitched, like that tiny, broken word shattered whatever fragile restraint he had left.

“that’s my good girl,” he whispered, withdrawing his thumb just long enough to grip your jaw, his touch rougher now, his desperation bleeding through.

“you’re always so sweet for me.”

his other hand finally moved, dragging your pants down slow and deliberately, savouring the reveal like he’d waited too long for this moment to rush it. when his fingers slipped between your thighs, he groaned low in his throat at the first brush of your slick against his glove.

“fuck,” he breathed, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your jaw, his voice breaking. “you want this. you’ve always wanted this.”

“i… i don’t know,” you gasped, your hips jerking into his touch.

“yes, you do,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. “your body knows. you’re already so wet for me.”

his fingers moved slowly at first, spreading your arousal, circling your clit in soft, measured strokes that made your stomach knot and your legs tense. he worked you open with dangerous patience, dragging two fingers through your folds, pushing them inside you until you gasped.

“say it,” he breathed, curling his fingers inside you just right. “say you want me.”

“i…” your voice trembled, your fingers fisting in his uniform. “i want you.”

his breath faltered. “again.”

“i want you,” you whispered, shame and pleasure sinking deep into your bones.

his thumb pressed firm, steady circles over your clit while his fingers curled inside you, coaxing desperate, shaky sounds from your throat. your hips rocked into his touch without thinking, the pleasure drowning out your guilt, your fear, your logic.

“that’s it,” he murmured, kissing along your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to leave it stinging. “just feel me. don’t think. just let me have you.”

“it’s too much,” you whimpered, your walls tightening around his fingers.

“you can take it,” he growled, his breath heavy against your skin.

his breathing frayed as he worked you closer and closer to the edge, his control slipping with every heartbeat. when you tightened around his fingers, trembling, he didn’t stop. he didn’t give you space to pull away.

“mine,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours, his breath hot and uneven. “you’ve always been mine.”

when you came, your body clenching around his fingers, your cry breaking the silence, jungwon’s eyes snapped wide, his pupils blown out like something inside him shattered.

“you’re beautiful like this,” he whispered, dragging his slick coated fingers across your lips. “taste.”

your lips parted before you could think, your tongue flicking over his fingers as he watched you with a trembling, starved gaze.

his composure cracked.

he tugged your shirt over your head with shaking hands, his mouth already moving across your skin, licking, sucking, biting along the soft curves of your chest, his desperation sharp and barely contained.

“the rest of you think i’m just an enforcer,” he whispered against your ribs. “but i have access the other guards will never have. i can override the system. i can pull you from the games whenever i want.”

his mouth worked hot, wet kisses over your stomach, his hands clutching your waist like he could anchor himself to you.

“you’ve heard the rumours, haven’t you?” he breathed, his hips grinding into your thigh. “about the ones who can bend the rules. the ones the vips can’t control.”

“what are you?” you choked out, your heart slamming against your ribs.

he kissed lower, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just above your hips.

“i’m the one who kept you alive,” he whispered. “i’m the one who’s going to keep you forever.”

his voice dropped, “i can break you. i can keep you. and no one can stop me.”

he pressed his cock against your entrance, dragging the tip through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. the slow tease made you writhe, your hands gripping his shoulders, your thighs pressing against his hips like you couldn’t decide whether to pull him in or push him away.

“please,” you breathed, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “please, jungwon…”

“please what?” he coaxed, his voice thick with amusement. “please stop? or please fuck you?”

you sobbed, your hips tilting forward despite yourself. “please fuck me.”

his eyes darkened, his grip tightening on your waist like he wanted to snap you in half.

“that’s my girl,” he growled, dragging you down onto his cock in one slow, brutal thrust that stretched you to the edge of pain. you cried out, clinging to him as his hips began to move in relentless, claiming thrusts.

“feels good, doesn’t it?” he groaned, driving into you harder. “so tight around me. you were made for me.”

“you’re too deep,” you gasped, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“you can take it,” he snarled, his teeth grazing your ear. “you’ll take all of me.”

he fucked you harder, each snap of his hips brutal, desperate, like he was trying to fuse your bodies together.

“you’re mine,” he gasped, his voice unravelling. “i’ve waited so long for this. i’ll keep you. i’ll never let you go.”

“you’re not supposed to—” you whimpered, your legs shaking.

“you belong to me,” he growled, dragging your legs higher around his waist, slamming into you so deep you sobbed. “you belong here.”

his rhythm never faltered, every thrust deep and claiming, every kiss desperate and filthy. his cock split you open, the obscene, wet sounds of your bodies echoing through the room.

“you’re so messy for me,” he groaned, watching your slick coat his cock. “so wet, so fucking perfect.”

“jungwon, i can’t—” you sobbed, your body teetering on the edge.

“yes, you can,” he growled, his hips snapping harder. “cum for me. now.”

when your second orgasm hit, your body clenching around him, your release washing over you in sharp, overwhelming waves, jungwon groaned into your skin, his rhythm stuttering as he spilled inside you, his cum hot and heavy, dripping out as he rocked into you through the aftershocks.

his arms stayed locked around you, his lips pressing frantic, desperate kisses to your jaw, your throat, your shoulder like he could carve his place into you.

his voice trembled against your skin, a soft, dangerous promise.

“you’re mine. forever. i’ll keep you safe. i’ll keep you forever.”

and the worst part about all of this was the part that made your stomach twist—you believed him.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

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neonseaslugs · 2 years ago

Text

FINISHED THE CATALOG

#monumental day #this is the first catalog ive finished #i got so close to completing the past ones #like i think the lowest i ever ended on was in the 70s #(i could be lying i really dont remember)#but yeah since it was during the summer i pushed myself to finish it and slay i did #oh i also hit 300 hours! tis was another goal of mine over the summer #(for reference ive had splatoon 2 probably since it came out but i didnt fully get into it until 2021 since thats when i got my own switch #and even with that i only have 130 hours)#(so;; 300 is big for me)#oh also dont think i didnt love splat2 im still obsessed or i guess i really just appreciate it and love the amount of stuff #OH ALSO SQUID BEATZ #IM STILL NOT OVER IT #SO WHAT TABLETURF IS THERE THATS A CARD GAME I NEED MY RHYTHM GAME!!#um ill stop rambling now #splatoon 3 #splatoon #sizzle season 2023 #(god i cant believe i have to label the year #come up with more adjectives srl)

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confessionsandcreampies · 8 days ago

Text

s. nagi relationship headcanons

“too much work… just stay here.”—nagi is a human weighted blanket. he pulls you into bed and traps you with his limbs. you’re not escaping. “you smell nice,” he murmurs into your hair. “let’s nap for, like… forever, yeah?”

he makes you sit on his lap when he games—he’s not letting go of the controller, but you? you better be close. even if he’s focused, he absentmindedly kisses your shoulder or rests his chin on your head. if you shift too much, he mumbles, “stop squirming. you feel good there.”

he shares all his snacks with you—he’ll ignore anyone else asking for a sip of his drink or a bite of his candy, but if you ask? he’ll pop it into your mouth himself. even licks your lips after with zero shame.

late-night honesty hours—when the world is quiet and he’s finally alone with you, nagi gets weirdly soft. he brushes your hair back and whispers things like, “i think i’d quit football if you asked me to,” or “you’re the only thing i wanna work hard for.”

texts you mid-practice: “this sucks. miss u.”—he never used to message anyone during training. now he sends blurry selfies and pouting emojis like, “coach is yelling again. i want your thighs.”

slow and deep, unless you challenge him—he’s a lazy lover, until you make a smart comment like “is that all you’ve got?” suddenly you’re bent over, ass red, and nagi’s lazily groaning, “guess i gotta shut you up now, huh?”

he’s actually insanely observant—you think he’s spaced out? wrong. he remembers exactly where you gasp when he licks, how your legs shake when he hits that one angle, the way your nails dig in before you come. he uses it all.

lazy dom energy—he doesn’t move much unless he has to. he’ll have you ride him while he lays back, big hands gripping your hips, voice all husky. “c’mon baby… use me. i’ll help if you beg.”

“one more round…”—aftercare? that’s when he pulls you close, kisses your face, and mutters, “still kinda hard though. you up for overtime?” he’ll smile all sleepy and smug while he pushes back inside you.

loves it when you take control, but turns the tables fast—you think you’re in charge when you climb on top, until he grabs your wrists, flips you onto your back, and whispers in your ear, “that was cute. my turn now.”

bath sex king—he loves soaking in hot water with you. if you’re sitting between his legs, back against his chest, his fingers will wander under the bubbles until you’re squirming. “what?” he murmurs, “feels nice, doesn’t it?”

obsessively addicted to your moans—he’ll stop mid-thrust, dead serious, and say, “say that again.” if you cry out his name a certain way? he loses rhythm. gets breathless. buries his face in your neck and groans, “you’re not fair…”

#🥀 sinful nagi #nagi seishiro #nagi seishiro x reader #nagi seishiro x you #nagi seishiro smut #seishiro x reader #nagi x reader #nagi x you #nagi smut #bllk x reader #bllk x you #bllk smut #blue lock #blue lock x reader #blue lock x you #blue lock smut

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heliosunny · 3 months ago

Note

Ooh so I had a dream that Anaxa was my academic rival. He was relatively standoffish so I figured he disliked me since we only spoke when necessary. I didn’t mind since that meant i could do my introvert things and focus on research. But when we were forced to work together he slowly and methodically over time showed his true colours as a yearning yandere 😳 like he was obsessed but super cunning!

I’m excited to see what he’s like in game! Lol

Yandere!Anaxa x Reader

Scratch. Scratch.

The steady rhythm of pens against papers filled the research hall, a quiet symphony of intellect in motion. The air was thick with the weight of concentration, punctuated only by the occasional murmur of scholars trading theories, the rustle of turned pages.

And then, Anaxa sat down beside you.

You didn’t react immediately. He was always like this—silent, only engaging when necessary. If he had his way, the two of you would exchange no more than a few words, and that was fine with you.

Except this time, there was no avoiding him. Collaboration was mandatory.

“I don’t like group projects” he said.

“Then don’t slow me down.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “If anything, you’d be the one struggling to keep up.”

“Then let’s not waste time.”

The first task was simple: gather the necessary data, record findings, and return for analysis. Simple in theory, at least.

You had expected this to be a tedious affair, given Anaxa’s usual standoffish nature. Instead, you found yourself standing slightly behind him, quill in hand, watching as he effortlessly extracted information from people as though it was second nature to him.

With scholars, he was sharp and direct, threading his questions in a way that made them eager to prove themselves. With common folk, he was almost… charming, casual yet undeniably persuasive. You had seen him argue in academic settings before—blunt, efficient, never wasting words—but this was different.

You, in contrast, played the role of a secretary, silently noting down everything while he worked.

“I can feel you staring.”

You scoffed and focused back on your notes. “I’m just writing.”

By the time you had gathered everything, the sky had long since darkened.

“Here,” you said, handing him the notes. “We can continue analyzing everything tomorrow.”

Anaxa took them without a word, his fingers brushing against yours.

“…See you tomorrow then”

The next day, Anaxa arrived as usual. But something felt… off.

The way he sat down, just a fraction slower than normal. The faint rigidity in his posture, as if he were forcing himself to act as though nothing was wrong. But you weren’t blind.

You turned slightly toward him, frowning. “You’re warm.”

“I didn’t realize you made a habit of checking my temperature.”

You ignored his teasing and pressed the back of your hand lightly against his forehead. The heat radiating from his skin was undeniable.

“You’re burning up” you muttered. “Why are you even here?”

“I can handle it,” he replied smoothly, pulling back from your touch. “We have work to do.”

You gave him a look but didn’t push further. If he wanted to be stubborn, fine. It wasn’t your problem.

So, you carried on.

At least, until he collapsed.

One moment, he was beside you, the next, his hand slipped, his quill clattering to the floor, and before you could react, he was tipping forward.

“Anaxa—”

Your body moved before your mind could catch up. He was burning. The room buzzed with hushed voices, but you barely registered them as you adjusted your hold on him.

“You idiot” you muttered under your breath, shifting your grip.

The school nurse didn’t seem particularly alarmed—apparently, scholars pushing themselves to the brink wasn’t uncommon. Still, she instructed you to stay with him until he woke, citing that you were his research partner and therefore the most convenient choice.

You sighed but didn’t argue. It wasn’t like you were going to waste time.

Settling into the chair beside the infirmary bed, you placed your research materials on your lap. If you had to stay, you might as well be productive.

Beside you, Anaxa stirred faintly in his fevered sleep.

You shook your head, refocusing on your work.

It wasn’t your problem. Right?

By the time Anaxa stirred awake, you had already finished reviewing and organizing the research data.

“…You stayed?”

“The teacher asked me to” you replied, stretching slightly from your prolonged stillness. “Lucky for you, I got everything sorted while waiting. You don’t have to worry about today’s work.”

“I see,” he muttered before sighing. “I’ll make it up to you. I don’t like leaving debts unpaid.”

“It’s fine. If it’s you, you would’ve finished it without needing my help anyway.”

He huffed a small laugh at that, shaking his head slightly. “Still. Let me repay you somehow.”

You didn’t bother arguing further. If Anaxa wanted to do something in return, he would, regardless of what you said.

The walk to his home was quiet, the evening air carrying a gentle chill. He insisted he was fine, but you weren’t about to let him wander off after collapsing just hours ago. At least not until he was behind his own door.

When you reached his residence, you stopped at the threshold, waiting for him to step inside.

“Go rest” you instructed simply.

Anaxa leaned against the doorway, tilting his head at you with something unreadable in his gaze.

“I will,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

You turned, heading home without a second thought.

The moment the door shut behind him, Anaxa exhaled, letting his carefully constructed mask slip just enough for a glimmer of satisfaction to creep in.

His plan had succeeded.

A fever induced on purpose, a minor sacrifice to buy uninterrupted time with you. To measure your worth.

It had been worth every moment of discomfort.

He wasn’t fully recovered yet, but that didn’t matter. He felt good. Good enough to return tomorrow.

After all, there was still more to do.

The next day, Anaxa arrived in class looking perfectly fine. Or at least, that’s what you assumed.

As you went over the next steps of your research, he sat across from you, quill in hand, but his usual sharp attentiveness was… lacking. His gaze drifted, unfocused, as if his thoughts were miles away.

You frowned, tapping your fingers against the table. “Anaxa.”

“Yes?”

You squinted. “Were you even listening?”

His lips parted slightly as if to deny it, but judging by your unimpressed stare, he knew better than to lie.

“…Not entirely” he admitted.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Alright, I’ll explain it again. This time, try to keep up.”

Anaxa nodded, but as you began your explanation once more, his mind refused to cooperate.

Focus. That was all he needed to do. He was no stranger to deep concentration, to immersing himself in the pursuit of knowledge.

But right now, his mind was full of you.

The way you gestured slightly while explaining, the way your brows knitted in mild frustration, the way your lips moved with certainty,...

I should pull myself together. This research is more important. It’s an opportunity to prove myself, to push boundaries, to—

But then there was you. You, who sat right in front of him, completely unaware of how maddening you were.

His jaw tensed slightly. How frustrating.

By the end of the day, Anaxa had agreed with nearly everything you proposed, his input far less argumentative than usual.

You had chalked it up to discomfort. Maybe he was still feeling unwell, maybe he hadn’t fully recovered from the fever, maybe he was simply tired.

But the truth was far from that.

It wasn’t his discomfort that affected him—it was you.

---

Anaxa was absent the next day.

Instead, one of his acquaintances approached you between classes, delivering his message: “Anaxa said to come to his place for today’s work.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much.”

To his credit, working with Anaxa was nothing short of effective.

Most groups would still be figuring out the framework of their research, yet the two of you were already halfway done.

It was almost funny—should you be relieved that you had been paired with one of the top scholars, or irritated that it happened to be him, your long-standing rival?

Yet, oddly enough… these past few days hadn’t been unpleasant.

Maybe, just maybe, he was only unbearable when he was off on his own, doing things his own way. When he worked with you, the process was smooth, methodical, efficient.

After class, you made your way to his home as requested. Anaxa had the workspace neatly prepared, his focus unwavering as you both spent the evening finalizing key points. Hours passed without notice, the ticking of the clock drowned out by the steady rhythm of progress.

When you finally checked the time, you realized it was late.

You gathered your things, stretching slightly. “I should get going.”

Anaxa, who had been reviewing some notes, didn’t look up immediately. “It’s late,” he said, as if that was reason enough for you to stay.

“I can handle a walk home.”

“Stay the night. It’s safer.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but then—

The news broadcasting on the TV got your attention.

…Due to unforeseen incidents, residents are strongly advised to avoid traveling at this hour. Increased security presence will remain active throughout the night…

You frowned. Perfect timing.

“It seems you have no choice.”

“Alright, fine. Just for the night.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, “I’ll get you something to drink.”

You narrowed your eyes at his unusual hospitality but didn’t comment. Instead, you took a slow glance around his home, properly observing the space for the first time.

It was… neat. Impeccably so.

Not surprising.

In the kitchen, out of your line of sight, Anaxa exhaled slowly.

He hadn’t expected his plan to work this perfectly. Sure, he had anticipated a high chance of you staying if he played his cards right—but to have the news itself provide the final push?

Fate must have been on his side tonight.

As he prepared your drink, his mind wandered—as it often did these days—back to you. The way you worked seamlessly alongside him. The way you challenged him without hesitation. The way your presence had become an unshakable fixation in his thoughts, leaving no room for anything else.

It was infuriating. It was intoxicating.

This night was an opportunity. A rare chance to further deepen the dynamic between you two.

By the time he returned to the living room, his expression was composed.

You glanced at him as he handed you the drink. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Despite the circumstances, the night carried on as usual. Research, discussions, debates—it was a cycle you had grown accustomed to. But tonight, something felt… different.

Every now and then, Anaxa’s hand would graze yours when reaching for a paper. His shoulder would brush against you as he leaned over to reference something. A brief touch at your wrist when handing you a pen.

You weren’t sure if it was intentional or simply a consequence of working so closely, but every time it happened, it sent a strange awareness through you.

“I’ll make something to eat.”

The meal was surprisingly good—not extravagant, but warm and filling. You finished quickly, eager to make more progress.

By the time you looked at the clock again, it was terribly late.

Too late to be working, really, but neither of you were the type to leave things unfinished.

It was only when exhaustion started creeping in that Anaxa finally spoke.

“You should sleep.”

“Yeah, I probably should. I’ll just—”

“I’ll take the floor. You can have the bed.”

“That’s unnecessary. It’s your bed.”

“You’re the guest.”

“That’s not—”

“Are we really arguing about this?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it, glaring slightly at the sheer stubbornness in his tone.

In the end, you reluctantly took the bed, if only because you knew Anaxa would not let this go otherwise.

Though the bed was comfortable, sleep didn’t come immediately.

You turned slightly, peeking over the edge to see Anaxa lying on a mattress on the floor. His eyes were still open, faintly illuminated by the dim light in the room.

“We should see the professor tomorrow,” he murmured, “Get their input on our progress.”

“Mm,” you hummed in acknowledgment.

“We’ve gotten further than expected. Not that I doubted it.”

Another hum.

Then silence.

He waited for you to respond again, but when nothing came, he tilted his head slightly—only to find you already fast asleep.

For a long moment, he simply watched.

The even rise and fall of your breathing. The way your features softened in sleep.

This—this was rare.

With one last glance, he closed his eyes.

Tonight, at least, he could rest easy.

----

You should’ve known nothing would go in your favor forever.

When you received the professor’s feedback, the document was marked with more corrections than you anticipated. Whole sections needed restructuring, some data needed refinement, and a few parts—ones you were sure were solid—had to be completely rewritten.

Your fingers tightened around the papers as you skimmed through them again. This wasn’t bad per se—you still had plenty of time to make adjustments—but the sheer volume of work made your mood plummet.

Anaxa, on the other hand, remained unreadable as he flipped through the notes.

“You look like someone just told you the world was ending”

You shot him a glare. “Forgive me for being disappointed that we basically have to rewrite half of our research.”

“We have time. Figuring these out now is better than later.”

You sighed, pressing your fingers against your temple. He wasn’t wrong. You just weren’t in the mood to hear it from him.

Before you could dive back into overanalyzing the feedback, Anaxa leaned back in his seat, regarding you with a slightly tilted head.

“You need a break.”

“What?”

“Let’s go somewhere else. Relax your mind.”

You gave him an incredulous look. “Relax? With someone like you?”

“Why not?”

“You don’t exactly scream ‘relaxation’”

“I’m not a machine, you know.”

Debatable.

But still, as much as you hated to admit it, maybe a distraction wouldn’t be the worst idea. You had been staring at research papers for hours, and your frustration would only make it harder to focus.

“…Fine,” you muttered, standing up. “Where did you have in mind?”

Anaxa smirked. “The park.”

The idea was simple: a quiet walk, fresh air, a moment away from academic stress.

The unfortunate reality?

The sky had other plans.

What started as a slight drizzle quickly turned into a full downpour.

You and Anaxa were still several minutes away from any proper shelter when the rain came crashing down. Neither of you had thought to bring an umbrella, and within moments, you were both completely soaked.

“Great,” you muttered, shaking off excess water from your sleeves. “Just great.”

Anaxa, to his credit, seemed unbothered, running a hand through his now-drenched hair before nodding towards a nearby structure—an old, empty bus stop.

“Come on.”

You didn’t hesitate, dashing under the small roof, though the wind still sent cold droplets clinging to your skin. You shivered slightly, rubbing your arms for warmth.

Anaxa glanced at you, his own clothes dripping, before casually undoing the top buttons of his soaked shirt.

You looked away. “You couldn’t have checked the weather before suggesting this?”

“Oh? Now it’s my fault?”

You huffed, exasperated. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Despite the misfortune, there was something almost ridiculous about the situation. Just you and your rival, stuck in a downpour, drenched to the bone, forced to wait it out together.

“How long do you think this will last?”

Anaxa leaned against the cold metal pole of the bus stop, his eyes glinting in amusement as he smirked.

“I suppose we’ll have to find out.”

The rain didn’t let up for nearly half an hour.

Eventually, when the skies finally cleared, he walked you home.

You were tired, cold, and utterly done with the day—but what you didn’t expect was that this little misadventure would come back to bite you.

You should have known.

Between being drenched in the rain and already being exhausted from research, it was inevitable. By the next morning, you were miserable.

Your body ached, your throat was scratchy, and just lifting your head felt like a monumental effort.

With no choice but to stay in bed, you barely had the energy to process the fact that someone was knocking at your door.

You dragged yourself up, shuffled to the entrance, and opened it—only to see Anaxa standing there, holding a neatly compiled stack of papers.

“…I see you caught it” he mused, stepping inside uninvited.

You groaned. “You—this is your fault.”

“Perhaps. But don’t worry—I’ll take responsibility.”

You weren’t sure what he meant by that until he set down the papers, rolled up his sleeves, and immediately started doing everything in your place.

He cleaned up, cooked a warm meal, fed you, and before you could protest, tucked you into bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You wanted to argue. You really did.

But the warmth of the blanket, combined with exhaustion, made it impossible to resist sleep.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, you stirred.

Your fever had gone down slightly, enough for you to shift around without feeling like your limbs weighed a ton. But as you turned, you noticed something… off.

Anaxa was lying next to you.

For a moment, you thought you were imagining things. But no—he was actually there, asleep beside you.

You had no memory of this happening. Did he stay to keep watch? Did he lie down and accidentally fall asleep?

You sat up carefully, intending to move him to a proper bed, but—he was heavy.

Before you could figure out what to do, he stirred.

“…What are you doing?”

“I was going to—uh, move you.”

Anaxa exhaled softly, closing his eyes again. “Too late for that.”

“…Fine.”

Resigned, you gave up and lay back down.

When you woke up, there was no alarm. No rush to get up.

It was a day off.

For once, you had the luxury of sleeping in.

But as you stirred, you realized something far more shocking.

Your head was resting against Anaxa’s chest.

Your mind went blank for a second before you carefully, very carefully, tried to move away.

“…Going somewhere?”

Your heart nearly jumped out of your chest.

----

The next week flew by in a blur.

You and Anaxa polished your research, made the necessary revisions, and finally handed it in.

The results came back excellent. High marks. Praise from the professor. A complete success.

This meant one thing: no more group work.

You were relieved. No more Anaxa. No more of his annoyingly efficient work ethic, no more subtle brushes of contact, no more unexpected moments of domestic care.

You were fine with it.

Anaxa, however, was not.

The moment the research project ended, Anaxa felt a strange, suffocating emptiness.

No more long nights of working together. No more excuses to linger at your place. No more seeing your little expressions of focus, frustration, or amusement at his dry remarks.

It was unacceptable.

You might have been fine with moving on, but he wasn’t.

Which meant—he would have to change that.

He needed a reason for you to come back to him. A reason you couldn't ignore.

A few days later, you received an urgent message from a faculty assistant.

The professor wanted to see you.

You went to their office, only to be met with a look of concern.

"I need to speak with you about your research paper" the professor said.

"Is something wrong?"

"There's been an issue. A section of your research was flagged—it seems there's a discrepancy in the data. Anaxa was the one who noticed it and reported it. He suggested reviewing the findings together."

A discrepancy? But that didn’t make sense! You had double-checked everything. Hadn’t you?

"Since you two worked on it together, I’d like you to resolve this matter with him before we take further action," the professor continued. "He's already waiting for you in the library."

With no other choice, you left the office and made your way to the library.

When you arrived, Anaxa was already seated, flipping through your research.

"Finally here?"

You sat down, exhaling sharply. "I heard you found a mistake."

He tilted his head slightly, tapping the paper with his fingers. "It’s subtle, but yes. A slight inconsistency. I figured we should fix it together before the professor takes further action."

You frowned, leaning over to read where he was pointing.

By the time you were finished, there were no remaining "errors" in your research. The professor thanked both of you, and that should have been the end of it.

Except it wasn’t.

If anything, Anaxa had wormed his way deeper into your life.

You started noticing it in class—the way you kept running into him more often than before.

He always sat near you now. Always seemed to already be there whenever you arrived. You just noticed the way he casually pulled out a chair beside him and glanced at you, as if it were already decided you’d sit there. The way he always had an extra copy of the day’s notes, ready in hand before you even asked. The way he spoke about things he shouldn’t know about—little details about your schedule, your habits, things you were sure you hadn’t told him.

It was as if he had memorized your life without you realizing it.

One evening, you were packing up after class when Anaxa leaned against your desk.

"You’re free this weekend, aren’t you?"

"Why?"

"Because," he said smoothly, "we’re going out."

"Since when?"

"Since now," he replied. "I already planned it."

"You didn't even ask if I wanted to."

"You would’ve said no. I’m not giving you a choice," he added, tilting his head slightly. "Not when you spend so much time avoiding me these days."

"I don’t—"

"You do."

"I’ve been generous so far," he murmured. "Letting things happen naturally. But I think I’ve waited long enough."

You weren’t going to agree. That was your initial instinct—to push back, to tell Anaxa you had better things to do.

But he had already anticipated that.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it sound like a secret only for you.

"Come on," he murmured, "You owe me."

"For what?"

"For catching your mistake in our research. You wouldn’t want an academic scandal, would you?"

"That’s a low move, even for you."

Anaxa just smiled, "Is it?" he said, "Or is it just a reasonable exchange?"

You scowled, but before you could say anything, he continued.

"Besides," he added, "you’ve been stressed lately. I can see it."

"You barely take breaks," he continued, "Always pushing yourself, overworking, barely sleeping. It’s a wonder you haven’t collapsed yet."

"I’m just looking out for you," he murmured. "A little outing won’t kill you."

You hesitated.

Logically, you knew he was playing you. He was twisting the situation to make you feel obligated.

But… was he wrong?

You sighed.

"Fine..."

----

Anaxa left the classroom that day with a sense of satisfaction coiling deep in his chest.

That was too easy.

A little pressure, a well-placed guilt trip, a carefully crafted excuse—and you caved.

You always acted so guarded, so wary. But all he had to do was find the right buttons to push.

And he did.

It was just one step closer.

One step closer to making sure you’d never pull away from him again.

It started with one mistake.

At first, you thought nothing of it—just a lapse in focus, a careless slip. Everyone had bad days. Perhaps you had been tired, overworked, or maybe distracted. It was bound to happen.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Your academic performance began to plummet.

It made no sense. You were always meticulous, always double-checking your work. But now—now your answers weren’t what you remembered writing. Numbers and formulas were off. Essays you swore were polished came back with errors you had no recollection of making.

You frowned at your latest assignment, your hands tightening around the graded paper. A sinking feeling settled in your gut as you stared at the corrections—mistakes that didn’t feel like yours.

This… this wasn’t just random errors.

Something was wrong.

And yet, you couldn’t pinpoint what.

The frustration began to eat away at you, leaving you restless, anxious, and second-guessing yourself.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you placed your assignment on the desk in front of you. Another disappointing grade.

“You’re overthinking again.”

You flinched slightly at the familiar voice.

“I don’t get it,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I checked everything. How did I mess up?”

“Maybe you’re just tired,” he said. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

That had crossed your mind before, but… something still felt off.

“Can you check it for me?”

“Of course”

The more you struggled, the more you needed him.

At first, it was small things—him offering advice, fixing your mistakes, guiding your hand. But over time, it became more than that.

He was always there, always soothing you when frustration built up. Reassuring you when doubt clouded your mind.

"You can’t keep going like this," he murmured one evening, after yet another failed attempt at solving a problem. "Let me take care of it."

It was easier to rely on him.

You didn’t notice at first, but others gradually became distant.

The subtle way he redirected conversations, the way your interactions with classmates grew shorter and less meaningful. Like he had woven an invisible web around you—one that no one else could penetrate.

And by the time you realized it, it was already too late.

One evening, as you sat together reviewing notes, Anaxa spoke casually.

"Everyone else is unnecessary," he said, flipping a page with ease. "Only we matter."

----

One evening, while Anaxa was out, you found his notebook.

At first, you assumed it was just another research journal. But as you flipped through the pages, your blood ran cold.

Every page was about you.

Your schedule, your habits—things he shouldn’t have known.

What time you usually woke up. What days you skipped meals. What places you went to alone.

And then— How long you stared at him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

Every detail was written in precise, calculated handwriting.

Your hands shook as you clutched the book, realization slamming into you like a tidal wave.

You needed to leave.

Now.

"Going somewhere?"

"I—I need to—"

"You look pale," he interrupted, "Are you feeling unwell?"

"I—I’m fine...I just…"

Before you could finish, a sharp prick bloomed against your skin.

"You’re just exhausted. You need rest."

When you woke up, the notebook was gone.

Anaxa sat beside you, his expression calm, almost concerned.

"You were having a nightmare" he murmured, brushing a hand over your forehead.

"You were muttering in your sleep," he continued, "Tossing and turning. It must have been… unsettling."

The notebook. The pages. The proof—

But there was nothing.

"Don’t worry" Anaxa whispered, "It was just a dream."

That’s all it was.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #hsr anaxa #anaxagoras #anaxa #anaxa x reader #honkai star rail anaxa

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girlinterupptedsblog · 4 months ago

Text

He is addicted to kissing you

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x You

Warnings: Obsessive behavior (in a fluffy way), PDA, possessiveness, language (Rafe being Rafe), intense make-out sessions, mild teasing, extreme fluff, established relationship.

You could feel it the second he walked into the room, his eyes locking on you with a kind of intensity that made your heart skip and your stomach flip. His gaze always found you first, every single time, like his mind was wired to seek you out. And the moment he had you in his sights? It was game over.

You could be anywhere—your house, his house, a party, the grocery store, it didn’t matter. If Rafe wanted to kiss you, he would, and not just a quick, innocent peck. No, that wasn’t Rafe’s style. He kissed you like he needed it to breathe, to function. Like his day didn’t start or end without the taste of you.

Like now.

You were curled up on the couch at Tannyhill, half-listening to Sarah talk about something that had happened at school, when you felt the familiar presence behind you. Rafe’s hand slid over your shoulder, down your arm, fingers finding yours and interlacing like they were meant to be. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even announce himself, just leaned down so his lips brushed your ear.

“Missed you,” he murmured, voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine.

You smiled softly, tilting your head toward him. “You saw me this morning, Cameron.”

“Too long,” he grumbled, already pulling you up gently by your hand.

“Rafe, your dad and sister—” you started, but he didn’t let you finish.

Didn’t matter to him.

In the blink of an eye, you were on your feet and then against him, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as his lips crashed into yours. He didn’t waste any time—he never did—tongue sliding past your lips to taste you like he’d been starving for it all day. His hands were everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding up your back, fingers threading through your hair. He kissed you like no one else was in the room.

And technically, to Rafe, they weren’t.

You could vaguely hear Ward clearing his throat and Sarah groaning dramatically, muttering something like “Oh my God, get a room,” but Rafe couldn’t have cared less.

His lips moved with a rhythm that was almost addictive, deep and slow, tasting and savoring every inch of your mouth like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever known—and maybe you were. You gasped softly against him, but he only grinned into the kiss, nipping your bottom lip and pulling you closer.

When he finally—finally—pulled back, his lips were red, eyes dark, and he wore that smug little smirk that always made your knees weak.

“Better,” he said simply, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip like he was wiping away a trace of him, even though he loved leaving marks, loved the way you looked after he’d kissed you breathless.

You could barely catch your breath, cheeks flushed, but he wasn’t done. His arms stayed wrapped around you, holding you to his chest like he was afraid you’d slip away.

You glanced around, embarrassment tingling at your cheeks when you saw Sarah dramatically covering her eyes with a pillow.

“Rafe, seriously?” you whispered, laughing softly.

He shrugged, that damn smirk never leaving his face. “What? I wanted to kiss my girl. Not my fault she’s irresistible.”

Ward walked past, shaking his head. “Control yourself, son.”

“No promises,” Rafe shot back, looking down at you, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple like he didn’t just devour you in front of his entire family.

And it wasn’t just at home either.

You’d lost count of how many times he pulled this move in public. At parties, he’d corner you against a wall or drag you outside for air, only to kiss you senseless under the stars. In town, he’d stop walking mid-sentence, grabbing your hand and spinning you toward him just to kiss you right there on the sidewalk, ignoring the looks, the whispers.

You remembered one time especially, at a bonfire with half of Figure Eight and more Pogues than usual.

You were standing by the fire, chatting with some of your friends, when you caught Rafe’s eye across the crowd. He was leaning against his truck, drink in hand, but his gaze was locked on you. You knew that look. Knew it like the back of your hand.

And sure enough, moments later, you felt a firm grip on your waist, his chest pressed against your back.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips ghosting over your ear. “C’mere.”

Before you could respond, he spun you around and crashed his lips to yours, not even bothering to hide the low groan that rumbled from his throat as he kissed you. Hard. Deep. Slow. Like he had all the time in the world and wanted to spend it tasting you. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make you dizzy.

You heard someone catcall, some guy jeering, “Damn, Cameron, save some for later!” but Rafe didn’t even blink.

When he finally let you breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded, lips inches from yours. “Had to,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Couldn’t look at you across the fire like that and not have you.”

You were breathless, heart pounding, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re insane.”

“For you? Always.”

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tnsophiaayaonly · 5 months ago

Text

LUTALICA

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ YOU'RE A YANDERE, WELL, AN EX-YANDERE TO BE SPECIFIC. AFTER COUNTLESS OF TIMES OF KILLING YOUR BELOVED, YOU FIND YOURSELF SUDDENLY GAINING AWARENESS DUE TO SOME VIRUS DISTORTING YOUR CHARACTER FILES. NOW YOU FIND YOURSELF WEIRDED OUT WHENEVER YOU'D FEEL SO INFATUATED OVER THIS GUY, AND YOU SWORE TO STOP BEING WEIRD. UNAWARE THAT YOUR DARLING'S GAINED AWARENESS TOO.

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ MODERN AU. HIGHSCHOOL AU. YANDERE. AETHER, SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER, XIAO, VENTI, KINICH, ORORON

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ CONTENT WARNINGS: OBSESSIVE/CONTROLLING BEHAVIOR: EXPLICIT YANDERE THEMES AND EXTREME POSSESSIVENESS. OBSESSION AND STALKING, INCLUDING BEING FOLLOWED OR MONITORED. PHYSICAL RESTRAINT & KIDNAPPING: DEPICTIONS OF PHYSICAL RESTRAINT, CONFINEMENT, OR KIDNAPPING. UNLAWFUL DETAINMENT (E.G., LOCKING DOORS, FORCIBLY PREVENTING ESCAPE). CYBERCRIME & DIGITAL MANIPULATION: HACKING, INTERFERENCE WITH PERSONAL DEVICES, AND DIGITAL BLACKMAIL. EMOTIONAL & PSYCHOLOGICAL ABUSE: MANIPULATION, GASLIGHTING, AND COERCION DESIGNED TO CONTROL OR ISOLATE. THREATS—IMPLICIT OR EXPLICIT—THAT UNDERMINE PERSONAL AUTONOMY. NON-CONSENSUAL ACTS: ANY NON-CONSENSUAL OR FORCED BEHAVIOR, EVEN IF MASKED AS “PROTECTION”. ILLEGAL BEHAVIOR & UNLAWFUL ACTS: DESCRIPTIONS OR DEPICTIONS OF ACTIONS THAT ARE ILLEGAL (KIDNAPPING, DOCUMENT FORGERY, THEFT, ETC.) MATURE THEMES IN GENERAL. MENTIONS OF MURDER. MENTIONS OF BEING AWARE IN A GAME.

: ̗̀➛ note that I DO NOT condone such actions irl, and this is a work of fiction. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. part 1 (scara, aether).

-`♡´- PART 2

╰⪼ XIAO - Quiet Kid

There was something intoxicating about a man who stood alone, who existed behind a veil of solitude so thick it made you ache to tear it apart. Xiao was distant, untouchable—wrapped in a silence so heavy it pressed against your ribs, made it hard to breathe. He was always watching but never speaking, and that only made him more alluring. A man like that—one who locked himself away—made you crave him, made you want to unravel him, piece by piece, secret by secret, until there was nothing left but you.

Approaching him had felt natural, easy—perhaps too easy. Maybe you had been invasive. Maybe you had overwhelmed him. But what was love if not consuming? If not overwhelming?

You loved him. And love meant protecting him. Love meant defending him. Love meant taking a knife to anyone who dared to wrong him, who dared to hurt him, who dared to exist in a world that wasn’t solely his. That wasn’t solely yours.

Every time he looked at you, your breath caught, your chest tightened, your body thrummed with something electric and all-consuming. Every time he hit you—his fist colliding against your jaw, his grip bruising your wrist, his voice laced with venom—you felt yourself sink deeper, deeper, deeper. Because love wasn’t meant to be gentle. Love was meant to be raw, brutal, desperate. Love was meant to hurt.

But your heart is hammering now in a way that is wrong. The rhythm is off—it isn’t the frantic fluttering of infatuation. It isn’t love.

No. It’s terror.

Not of him.

Of yourself.

The realization had crept up on you, slow and insidious, wrapping around your throat, suffocating, refusing to let go. The world cracked open that day, splitting apart to reveal a truth so grotesque you wished you had never seen it. This wasn’t love. It had never been love.

It was sickness. It was obsession. It was something twisted and cruel, something that left blood in its wake. Something that left bodies behind.

So you stopped.

You stopped watching over him. You stopped lingering at his side. You stopped waiting for him to notice you.

And then, you disappeared from his life entirely.

At first, Xiao found relief in your absence. Finally, you were gone. Finally, you had faded into nothing. That was the way of the world, wasn’t it? He was meant to be alone. He had always known that. And you—you had been nothing but an annoyance, a pest, a thorn in his side that made others wary of him, that made them avoid him.

Good.

He preferred it that way. He had convinced himself of that.

Until he didn’t.

Until he noticed the silence.

Until he realized that no one was checking on him, that no one was leaving meals at his doorstep, that no one was shoving their way past his walls just to see if he had eaten, if he had slept, if he had even bothered to take a breath.

You had been there. Always there. Always pushing, always prying, always dragging him away from the edge of something dark and inevitable. Your presence had been suffocating, overwhelming, unbearable—but it had kept the abyss at bay. It had given him something other than his own self-loathing to focus on.

And now, it was gone.

And he hated it.

The first time he saw you again, it was by chance. A fleeting moment. A brush of shoulders in the crowded hallway, the briefest touch of warmth, gone before it could register.

He had turned, expecting—no, knowing—you would be there, clinging as you always did, eyes bright with devotion, lips already forming his name. You should have thrown yourself at him, babbling, touching, breathing him in like he was the only thing that kept you alive.

But you didn’t.

You flinched. Your body recoiled as if burned, eyes widening in something—fear?—before you stumbled back. And then, before he could even process it, you ran.

Cowardly. Pathetic.

The sight of it—the sheer absurdity—made something inside him curdle, twisting in ways he didn’t understand. His hands clenched before he realized they had even moved, nails digging into his palms, his breath leaving him in a sharp, uneven exhale.

You had always been relentless. You had always been constant. He had expected you to be there, to remain, to orbit him like a dying star until you burned out completely. It was a law of nature. You were his shadow, his echo, his ever-faithful devotee.

But you had left.

And that was unacceptable.

He didn’t think. He didn’t pause. He didn’t even acknowledge the decision before it had already been made. His body moved before his mind could catch up, following the remnants of your presence like an instinct, like a curse.

It was only when he stopped that he realized where he had gone.

Your classroom.

Not his martial arts practice. Not anywhere he was meant to be.

Just here.

And there you were.

Alone.

Perfect.

Waiting.

A gift, wrapped in trembling uncertainty, left unguarded.

How convenient.

He stepped forward, silent, a shadow stretching toward you, inevitable, inescapable. The air in the room grew heavier, thick with the weight of his presence. You didn’t notice at first, too lost in whatever thoughts had stolen you away from him.

He hated that.

He wanted to be the only thing in your mind.

“I noticed you’re not watching over me like before.”

His voice, smooth yet edged with something he couldn’t quite name, shattered the fragile quiet.

You startled, shoulders jerking, a visible shudder running down your spine. The reaction sent a slow, burning satisfaction curling through his chest.

Good.

He wanted you to squirm. He wanted you to feel the weight of him pressing down, suffocating, overwhelming. He wanted you to remember what it was like to be trapped beneath his gaze, helpless against it.

Slowly, cautiously, you turned to face him.

Your eyes—wide, startled, flickering with something fragile and afraid—locked onto his, and something in his stomach twisted. He had never seen you look at him like that before.

He didn’t like it.

“Is everything okay? I—”

He hesitated.

He never hesitated.

You stared at him for a long, quiet moment, lips parting, something uneasy forming in your expression before you finally spoke, your voice small, uncertain.

“Hi, uhm... I just... didn’t feel like it?”

Didn’t feel like it?

What?

His expression didn’t change, but something inside him cracked, splintering apart like glass under pressure.

Didn’t feel like it?

What the hell did that mean?

He didn’t understand.

You were supposed to be obsessed with him. You were supposed to be relentless. You were supposed to be his.

And yet, you had pulled away. You had turned from him. You had abandoned him in a way he didn’t even have the words to describe.

He left without another word.

But he wasn’t done.

Because he cared.

And now, he had to make sure you never, ever stopped again.Xiao began to shadow you without you knowing, his presence slipping into the spaces between heartbeats, between footsteps, between the seconds you thought you were alone. His silent, unrelenting gaze followed your every move, desperate to re-create the security he once felt in your presence. He had never known peace until you—until the fleeting warmth you unknowingly offered became the only thing that could keep him grounded. But now, as you drifted away, he felt something far worse than pain.

Everywhere, you felt eyes. Eyes in your room, eyes in class, eyes in the hallway. Even in the sanctuary of your home, the walls felt thinner, the air heavier, thick with something unspoken yet suffocating. The feeling clawed at the edges of your sanity, making you flinch at shadows, second-guess your reflection, your every step. The more you willed yourself to move on—to silence the obsession you once had for Xiao—the more the stare burned into you, relentless, inescapable.

It all came to a head one night. Unable to bear the gut-wrenching paranoia curling in your stomach, you stayed late at school, convincing yourself that being in the presence of others—teachers, janitors, anyone—would dispel the eerie sensation of being watched. But schools were not meant to be occupied past dark. The halls, once filled with chatter, now yawned empty, the fluorescent lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. And when the school finally closed, leaving you with no choice but to step into the night alone, the dread settled deep in your bones.

You walked home, hyper-aware, your head snapping to every shifting shadow. Left. Right. Back. Front. No matter where you looked, you felt the presence—closer than before, pressing against your senses like invisible fingers ghosting over your skin.

And then—

A hand grabbed your shoulder.

You almost screamed. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, arm swinging to strike at the unseen assailant. But before the blow could land, your wrist was caught, effortlessly, as if your resistance was nothing but a fragile illusion.

"Why are you walking home so late by yourself?"

Xiao’s voice was steady, his grip firm but not painful—possessive in its restraint. His golden eyes, once so distant, were dark now, unreadable, bottomless. They bore into you, pinning you in place as effectively as the fingers wrapped around your wrist.

Your breath hitched.

"I—"

"I’ll walk you home."

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.

There was no room to refuse.

So you agreed.

But you didn’t expect him to take a different route.

Didn’t expect him to hold your hand tighter and tighter until your fingers tingled from lack of blood.

Didn’t expect the slow realization—the creeping horror—that this was not the way home.

"Xiao… this isn’t—"

He stopped walking.

And before you could react, before you could scream, before you could even think of running—

The world blurred. The air vanished from your lungs as his arms encircled you, an iron cage wrapped in the illusion of warmth.

The next time you opened your eyes, the walls were unfamiliar. The air smelled like incense, like something sacred and ancient. And the bed beneath you—

No.

You couldn’t move.

Panic surged through your veins as you struggled, your wrists bound, your breath coming in shallow gasps. A shadow moved in the dim candlelight, and then, there he was—watching you.

Xiao knelt beside you, his eyes a storm, turbulent with something raw, something terrifyingly tender.

"I’m sorry. This is the only way I can keep you with me."

His voice was soft, almost regretful, but the hunger in his gaze betrayed him.

The need. The greed. The unbearable devotion.

It was too much to bear.

He reached out, fingers ghosting over your cheek, tracing the shape of you as if to memorize, to claim. He leaned in, breath warm against your skin as he whispered apologies between desperate kisses pressed to your temple, your brow, your lips. Each one trembling with emotion, each one a prayer, a curse.

For being selfish.

For indulging in his desire.

For making you his karma.

And this time, no matter how much you fought, how much you begged—

He would never let you go.

╰⪼ VENTI - The Free-Spirited Musician

You were always so lost in life—adrift, untethered, drowning in an endless sea of monotony and despair. Everything was dull, every breath drawn out like a cruel mockery of existence itself. Until him.

Venti was sunlight in a world that had long since dimmed for you. He was laughter spun into melody, an ever-burning ember of warmth that thawed the ice in your chest. He made you feel alive for the first time in forever, and that was something you could never let go of.

You became utterly, hopelessly infatuated—no, that wasn’t strong enough. You were obsessed. You craved him the way a dying man craved air, the way a starving soul would gnaw through bone just to taste something real. Just being near him sent tremors of euphoria through you. Your eyes shone like they had never before, cheeks stained in an endless blush, heart thrumming like a frenzied drumbeat. It was maddening. It was intoxicating. It was love in its rawest, most terrifying form.

People noticed the change. One day, you were nothing—a hollow thing, with empty eyes and lips pressed into a thin, lifeless line. The next, you were a flurry of energy, glowing, vibrating with an unsettling kind of devotion. You trailed after him like a shadow that refused to fade, clinging to every word, every note, every scrap of attention he threw your way. Others whispered, wondered. How could someone shift so violently, so suddenly? How could mere presence turn a person from despondence to delirium?

Venti laughed it off at first, waving away the murmurs of concern. He had always drawn people to him; he was used to it. He thought it was flattering—endearing, even—how your face lit up the moment you saw him, how your fingers twitched with the desire to reach out but never quite dared.

But then the disappearances began.

Posters littered the walls, faces of men who had once crossed paths with him—some he barely knew, some he had laughed with once or twice. One by one, they vanished, swallowed by some unseen force, leaving nothing behind but fading echoes of familiarity.

At first, he dismissed it as coincidence. The world was vast and cruel, and people vanished all the time. But as the list grew, as his name was the only common thread among the missing, as your unwavering, feverish adoration never wavered—

He knew.

It had to be you.

Still, he never said anything. He never confronted you. What would he even say? He wasn’t afraid of you, not really, but there was something in the way you looked at him—like you would tear apart the world just to keep him in your grasp.

And yet, something changed.

One day, you stopped waiting for him after class. You stopped lingering near the places he frequented. Your fingers stopped twitching in his presence, your eyes no longer burned holes into his back. You became tame.

And then, you became distant.

It started subtly. A missed lunch here, a forgotten conversation there. You stopped seeking him out, stopped giving him that wide-eyed, desperate look as if he were the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

Then days passed. And passed. And passed.

Until he almost never saw you at all.

And for the first time, Venti felt something foreign stir in his chest. Something wrong. Something akin to loss.

Why did it feel like something was slipping through his fingers?

One day, it was lunch. You were eating alone on the rooftop, the wind always so great up here, the vast sky stretching endlessly before you. It was peaceful—too peaceful, the kind that made your chest feel hollow rather than full.

"Oh, there you are!" Venti's voice shattered the silence, making you flinch. He strolled up to you with his usual carefree grin, but something in his eyes gleamed sharper than before. "How are you? Did you have a great day? Did you miss me? Have you eaten?" He bombarded you with questions, eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for something—something that used to be there but wasn’t anymore.

You blinked, staring at him in disbelief.

"What?" His smile didn’t waver, but his head tilted slightly, studying you. "Where did that passionate devotee go? I miss the love you brought me, even if it drove me nuts sometimes." He chuckled, but it was hollow.

Your stomach twisted, nausea creeping in.

"I always thought your wild devotion was the spark that lit up my days," he continued, plopping down beside you with a sigh, stretching his arms behind his head as if this were just another casual afternoon. Then, his tone shifted, quiet, almost vulnerable. "Now… it’s as if someone turned the music off."

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Because you felt it too.

You had always clashed with his breezy, untamed spirit—your dependency on him, your suffocating adoration, it had overwhelmed him. And yet, despite everything, Venti had secretly enjoyed it. He had basked in the knowledge that someone loved him that intensely. That someone cared so desperately.

But now? Now, you were slipping away. Your passion diluted, your obsession faded. And Venti—

Venti didn’t like that.

At first, he thought he would relish the peace, the freedom. But now, with you sitting beside him like a ghost of the person you once were, staring at him as if he were nothing but a fading dream—

He felt unmoored.

He missed the frantic, fevered glint in your eyes. The way your hands would shake with excitement just to be near him. The way you needed him, so entirely, so absolutely.

And if that fire had gone out—

Well.

Maybe it was time he rekindled it.

You just left. Without a word, without a second glance. As if all the time you spent together, all the laughter, all the stolen moments—none of it had mattered to you.

He didn’t like that.

No, he hated it.

It gnawed at him, a quiet, festering wound that refused to close. He watched—always watching—as you slipped further away, as you filled the space he once occupied with others. He saw how easily you could talk to them, smile at them, laugh in a way that used to be just for him. Why them? Why not him?

No.

That wasn’t how this was going to go.

If you wouldn’t come back to him willingly, then he would make sure there was nowhere else for you to turn. At first, it was subtle—an offhand comment here, a lingering stare there. But when that wasn’t enough, when you still insisted on keeping your distance, he decided to be more... persuasive.

His playful teasing took on a sharper edge, something darker, something crueler. Every time he saw you speaking to someone else, he found a way to fix it. After all, he was well-liked, charming, the kind of person people wanted to please. It wasn’t hard to “convince” others to keep their distance from you. A few rumors, a well-placed lie, a casual suggestion whispered in the right ear—it was all so easy.

And when you finally noticed, when you finally turned to him with confusion in your eyes, with nowhere else left to go…

Well.

That’s exactly what he wanted.

It started small. Innocent, almost. A missing phone here, a misplaced wallet there. Little things. Things that could happen to anyone, right? Maybe you were just being careless, distracted.

But then it kept happening. Your keys would vanish right when you were about to leave, only for him to miraculously “find” them hours later, tucked away in a place you swore you never put them. Your phone would be gone just long enough to make you late for plans—plans that mysteriously fell apart afterward. Your student ID? Your bus pass? They’d disappear, rendering you stuck, stranded. And who else could you turn to but him?

He always had a solution, a spare key, a replacement card, an offer to cover for whatever you lost. With a teasing smile, a playful laugh, he’d hand your things back like he was doing you a favor. Like he wasn’t the one orchestrating it all.

And then came the incidents.

An urgent text in the middle of the night—

I think someone’s following me, can you come over?

A sudden injury—

I think I twisted my ankle, can you help me get to the nurse’s office?

A campus-wide alert—

There’s been a safety issue, everyone should stay inside.

Little things that forced you to linger, to stay just a little longer, to spend more time with him until being around him became routine. Until relying on him became second nature.

At first, it was annoying. Then it was exhausting. And then…

It was suffocating.

It felt like no one else existed. The world outside blurred, grew smaller, less real. The campus, once so big, so full of people, now felt empty. Just the two of you. Just him.

Wait—when did it get this bad?

Wait—when did the campus get so small?

Wait—why are you in his bed?

And why don’t you know how you got here?

i js realized idk how to proofread lmao, anyways, HERE YA GOOO aahhhhh, i've been busy with life

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lamaery · 5 months ago

Text

Rhythm of War is the only Tor hardcover version I have of the Stormlight Archive books (the others are the Orion softcovers) ... Wind and Truth now as well, but we don't have Branderson version for that one (YET). Brandon was so awesome and signed this one for me. As with the others (WoK Part 1 and WoR Part 1) my incredibly partner in fictional romance and crime @priscellie did the text and layout and painted the pictures.

🖤❤️ text on the back of the book ❤️🖤

“Did you like it?” Raboniel asked her. “I did,” Navani said. “The tones were a terrible cacophony when combined, but somehow beautiful at the same time.” “Like the two of us?” Raboniel asked. “Like the two of us.”

Navani Kholin, Queen of Urithiru, has been underestimated all her life. Haunted by her late husband Gavilar’s disdain, even she has begun to believe her brilliance at engineering is merely the reflected light of her team. It takes an enemy to see her true genius. While her husband Dalinar fights on a distant front, Navani’s home is invaded by an army led by the formidable Raboniel–Lady of Pains, Lady of Wishes–infamous among her contemporaries for her cunning and capacity for genocide. But this ruthless immortal wants Navani for more than her value as a hostage. She proposes a collaboration that could rewrite the rules of their war, and perhaps alter their fundamental understanding of physics itself. To save her people and the heart of the tower city, Navani joins Raboniel in a deadly dance of scholarship, manipulation, and treachery. But she was not expecting to find empathy with her captor, to bond over shared grief, or to find healing and fulfillment in their mutual respect. With the world hanging in the balance, dare Navani hope the harmony between them can be a bridge to peace? Or is it a trap she cannot escape?

(Meanwhile, Wit gives Kaladin relationship advice, and Moash haunts Kaladin’s dreams.)

“The tension is surging in this passionate page-turner. In every thrilling scene, you’ll be longing for Branderson to unite them!” JENNY O’NEILL, SISTERWISE GAMES.

🖤❤️ Praise for Sandra Branderson’s RHYTHM OF WAR❤️🖤

“A cunning and complex game of intellectual cat and mouse. Rhythm of War will steal your gemheart.” Orsinia Scarlett Card

“This sapphic Oppenheimer gives new meaning to ‘Enola Gay’.” Hoban Robb

“Ninety percent of everything is crab!” A. Sturgeon

“Branderson delivers a dark, intoxicating dance of intellect and seduction. Navani and Raboniel’s dynamic will leave you questioning the line between love and obsession. It’s deliciously twisted and impossible to put down.” Jem Baker

“That back blurb is literally just the plot of the original Rhythm of War.” Marie

“Yeah, somehow the original Rhythm of War may still be gayer.” Priscilla

“Oh, I know. I'll turn her into a flea--a harmless, little flea. And then I'll put that flea in a box, and then I'll put that box inside of another box, and then I'll mail that box to myself, and when it arrives, I’ll smash it with a hammer!” Martina George

“This plan is sheer elegance in its simplicity.” Patricia Rothfaux

#cosmere #brandon sanderson #stormlight archive #procreate #Sandra Branderson #romance novel covers #navaniel #rhythm of war #row spoilers #roshar #navani #rabonial #stormlight fanart #described #id in alt text

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yandere-wishes · 6 months ago

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NEEEEEED DAMIAN X CATGIRL READER

ME TOO!!!! IT'S ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT!!! Like it's so delicious, so painful, cause ultimately it boils down to the "sins of the father". A mistake, a role, an endless game. Like it or not Damian is destined to repeat this father's mistakes. He's doomed to fall in love with the carbon copy of his father's beloved. He's Just another distorted image of tomorrow.

And can you imagine all the pain it brings back?? The fact that despite knowing the truth of how he was conceived and the bad blood between his parents. There is still a small part of Damian that longs for a happy family, that longs for both parents to live together, in love and contentment.

But seeing Catwoman just shatters his hopes, because he can see the adoration flickering in his father's stoic eyes, Damian knows his mother can never be Bruce's true love.

Also, can you imagine the other side of it? Damian looks up to his father, adores the dark knight hero in every way. His obsession with you only intensifies when he realizes that you make him more like his dad, make him more like Batman. His Catwoman, his pretty little kitty to chase and put in her place. He grows addicted to the thrill of chasing you, of hunting you. Of caging you between his arms lips grazing your neck, savoring your pulse between his teeth. You are his ethereal link to his father's legacy, the last shard in fulfilling his heritage.

────────୨ৎ────────

✧₊⁺ There's something bittersweet lodged between his heart and throat. Some sickly paramour as he takes in your figure sitting docilely on the edge of the rooftop, legs swinging to an invisible rhythm as you suck away on your milkshake's straw. Damian reaches out, breath thick in his lungs, his fingers pat your silky hair for a moment or eternity, he can never tell when he's with you. It's so much easier to process these silly perfidious sentiments when he's flinging all his energy into soaring between the skylines, heel to heel with you, narrowly skirting the swipe of your claws and the sting of your whip-like tail. Damian's never been good at peace, at quiet, serenity is when his true feelings seep out. Ripping his heart as they bleed away.

✧₊⁺ He's all so torn, emotions clawing at his skin like dragon's teeth. Heart filled with daggers as he dreams of keeping you bound by his side forever. Waking up with your limbs tangled with his. To savor your lips throughout the day. To have you sit on his lap as he reads in the library. Domestic little daydreams, he wonders if his father was ever visited by the same frivolous notions. He wonders if he's always been doomed to walk the same path.

✧₊⁺ Yet despite all his longing for such simple romances, Damian can't deny himself the thrill of the chase, the need to hunt you down. To purify your sins with his lips, to intertwining his fingers with yours, pinning you to whichever wall is closest so you don't steal off him. Forcing you to release your bag of stolen goods, forcing all your attention on him.

✧₊⁺ It's unfair he thinks as he glares at the Bat Computer desperate for any inkling of a robbery, any sign of you.

────────୨ৎ────────

Like I was saying I just love the idea of Damian being torn apart with so much grief and (delusional) burden for a simple obsessive crush. Bonus point if reader is his first-ever crush, the only person he's ever felt destined to be with. It's so romantic and heavy, suffocating the poor boy. All the while reader is robbing jewelry stores and stealing sweet treats in hopes of impressing her mentor. Praying to avoid another run-in with the weird boy wonder.

Kinda playing more into legacy. I find it so fascinating to write about Batman's obsession with crime being passed down to his sons. Yet also twisting that righteous obsession into a dark morbid mania. Causing his sons to go astray and fall in love with the thing(s) they were destined to destroy!!!!

Oh and since we're on the topic of heritage and sins of the father, can I take this moment to also mention. Dick Grayson x Jester reader. More specifically a reader who is Joker and Harley's daughter, who wants to be just like her parents and was raised to take up their mantle, just like Dick was with Bruce.

I'm trying to come up with a villain name for her but there are so many possibilities. Jester is my default name for now, but I also like Wildcard and Laughtrack maybe even Giggles (sounds so macabre in this context).

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banananutmuffin28 · 6 months ago

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Hi, I loved your se-mi x reader and was wondering if you could do a no-eul one where the fem reader is a player and she kind of tries to protect them during the games?

Yesss! We NEED more fics about our favorite murderous guard :D

Warnings: Mildly Obsessive No-eul

Guard No-eul x FEM! Player Reader

No-eul has always felt a protective pull towards you. It stemmed from when she saw you in the very first game, a type of feeling that curled around her heart and blazed fiercely in her chest.

After all, you were such a pretty little thing.

She couldn't stand watching you suffer through the games as you fought to survive. Whenever she noticed your shaky legs, or the way your lips twisted as you held back a cry, she would always tighten her fists and snarl into her mask.

You didn't deserve any of this.

No, no, no, you shouldn't have to fight at all. No-eul should just be allowed to whisk you away to somewhere safe. She didn't give a shit about the prize money; all that mattered was having you sheltered in her arms.

No-eul only wanted what was best for you, after all.

But...that couldn't happen. Aside from the task of rescuing you being infeasible in its own right, she would also have to plan an escape and have some mode of transportation to leave the hidden island and return to the sturdy shore.

And besides, the risk of you getting hurt was all too high. It wasn't worth it.

So, instead, No-eul decided to give you gentle nudges in the games.

They weren't much, usually just stemming from her overlooking a small, crucial error, but it was enough to ensure your survival.

Until she found another plan, that would have to do.

—

You tried not to cry as you stumbled along the steady rhythm of the doll’s voice. The metallic stench of blood invaded your nostrils, and you swore you could even taste it on your lips.

Even now, you could still remember Mi-na’s lifeless corpse on the floor, and the others that followed.

Gi-hun’s reminder rang clear in your mind, repeating over and over again until you thought your brain would burst.

“If you move; you die!”

At first, you thought he was just some crazed lunatic too high on some unknown drug. But, even then, the way his eyes glared at everyone told some small part of you that he was being serious.

And then Mi-na died. A crisp, clear gunshot rang right next to you before she folded onto the ground. The noise had shocked you, seeing as you were right next to her and really didn’t fucking expect someonr to actually die in Red Light Green Light of all games. You remember stumbling back—it was just a miniscule amount of movement, but still enough to be noticeable.

The other players stared at you, wide eyed. And, you knew by the way sympathy had sparked in their irises, that you were done for.

You had closed your eyes, chin trembling as the first of tears fell from your face, and waited for a bullet that would shoot through your skull.

But…it never came.

A few moments had passed, and you were still unharmed.

An unsteady gasp fell from your lips as you felt a fragile, flighty sense of hope bloom in your heart. Were you really going to be spared? Did that movement not really count?

The next time the doll sang, it sounded like the heavenly voices of angels.

The next few rounds passed by achingly slowly. By now, you had decided to stop just seconds before the doll would turn its gaze to you, as an extra precautionary measure.

You didn’t want another close call like that again.

All around you, people of all ages fell down like flies. Even the slightest of movements got them shot, and you watched as one by one the life slowly faded from their eyes.

And, all the while, your mind was racing with one singular thought: Why were you spared?

–

As the timer reached zero, No-eul smirked. She squinted into the day scope, fingers dancing along the trigger.

She couldn’t believe it. Not only had you survived, but she got away with not shooting you too.

“011, what’s gotten you so happy?”

No-eul turned around, startled. Her fingers slipped, accidentally sending a stray bullet whirring past the intended target. The man screamed, tears spilling from his eyes as he begged for mercy.

How annoying.

Another triangle masked guard sat beside her. He chuckled, looking up from his gun lazily as he propped one elbow on his lap. When No-eul didn’t respond, the man made a flicking motion, urging her to speak.

“Come on, 011, whenever you’re on sniping duty for Red Light Green Light you’re always huffing and shit. Always so serious. So, why are you chuckling today?”

No-eul sighed, though she still couldn’t stop the blush that appeared on her cheeks.

“It was nothing, 013. Stop pestering me and go back to work,” She deadpanned at last. Before he could respond and fire back with a creatively stupid insult, No-eul gazed back into the magnifying scope and started shooting.

No-eul didn’t want anyone else focusing on you. You were hers and hers alone.

—

As the games passed by one by one, you grew more and more concerned. Really, you shouldn’t even be alive right now.

You laid in your bed, a frown on your lips. During each and every one of the games, you had done something that should’ve gotten you disqualified. In Gonggi, you had accidentally dropped a Jack at the very last second, but instead of making you start all over again, the guard posted at your side made an O.

Hell, you could’ve sworn the guard’s eyes were on you the entire time. There was no chance they didn’t see your slip up.

So why did they still let you go?

And then, it happened again in Mingle. During the last round, you were unable to find a partner in time on the carousel. In your fit of desperation, you had run into one of the rooms, only to find a very traumatized player already sitting inside.

And, what was even stranger was that no matter how hard someone pounded at your room, it wouldn’t budge. It was almost as if the door had locked itself before the timer ran out.

What the hell was going on? Do you really have a secret guardian angel protecting you, or were the game creators just that careless?

You paused, then punted the last part of that thought to the stratosphere.

If that were true, it wouldn’t align with the actions of the soldiers when it came to other players.

You remembered how stingy they were with the rules, and how a guard even disqualified a team’s toss because one of the men had accidentally stepped a little further than the boundary line.

Maybe your guardian angel would help you with your next game too and just hand your victory to you on a silver platter.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands as a heavy sigh escaped you.

Fuck, all of this thinking was making your head hurt.

In truth, you knew you really shouldn’t be so ungrateful at how you survived for this long. Hell, you were even willing to bet your entire life savings that most of the players would kill to have the luck you possessed now.

But… the fact that you’re still alive unnerved you. And at times, you even felt like you were being watched.

After a few more minutes of fruitlessly twisting and turning in your bed, you sighed.

You needed to go to the bathroom to freshen up.

Awkwardly, you pulled your blankets aside and climbed down your bunk bed. The room was deathly quiet, and you couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through your body as you stared into the inky abyss surrounding you.

For fuck’s sake, get a grip! You’ve already survived literal death games; a little bit of darkness shouldn’t scare you, You chided yourself.

Shaking your head, you spread your arms out and slowly walked over to the bathroom.

The triangle guard on the other side stared at you blankly when you asked them to open the door. You blushed, running a hand along your neck as you started spouting out some nonsense on how your stomach hurt and you really needed to go.

When you had almost considered giving up, the door slid open.

“A-ah. Thank you!” You squeaked, and hurried in.

The guard froze, their shoulders stilling. Then, they nodded, before turning back to their station.

The second you entered the bathrooms, it almost felt like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders.

Signing for what felt like the umpteenth time, you walked over to the sink and splashed water onto your face.

The cold liquid was like a blessing to your sweaty face.

You smiled into your reflection.

Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

And then you heard footsteps approaching.

—

After making sure no one was watching her, No-eul strided into the bathroom, a confident smirk on her face. In the still quiet of the room, she could hear her own heartbeat reverberating around her eardrums.

Finally, she was able to be alone with you.

When she opened the door, it took all her willpower not to pounce at you.

You looked so…adorable in there alone, with water still clinging to your chin. Oh, No-eul just wanted to gobble you up.

You backed away, and No-eul could see the familiar look of fear on your face. You were scared. Of her.

She tsked. She would not let that stand.

“Why are you looking so scared, honey?” No-eul purred. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Her hand retrieved a key from her pocket, and she used it to lock the door.

You swallowed, arms instinctively crossed around your chest.

��F-forgive me, miss, but that is a little hard to believe when you just locked the door. So that it’s just us. Alone.”

That last part was barely audible, even in the quiet night.

No-eul’s smirk grew wider.

“Awwwe, would me taking my mask off help with that, love?”

Your cheeks turned a dark auburn at the mere suggestion, and you doubled back. As she reached for her mask, you tried to stop her.

“Isn’t that against the rules? Won’t you…get in trouble?” You ask, genuine concern lacing your words.

No-eul laughed softly, shaking her head.

“I’ve already broken the rules by just talking to you, baby,” She tilted her head, closing the distance between you two. “What’s one more?”

Your throat bobbed up and down. You looked like you were about to argue, but didn’t.

“If that’s what you want, miss,” You mumbled at last, gaze turning to the floor.

No-eul laughed again.

She knew she made the right choice in sparing you.

She unclasped the straps to her mask.

—

Fuck.

The guard in front of you was taking her mask off. And she looked so fucking hot.

She already had a hot enough voice. Her face card was enough to kill you.

You know what, maybe you didn’t mind dying if this was her face. You would be leaving the Earth with your little gay heart doing backflips.

Unconsciously, you took a hesitant step forward.

The woman smiled, and extended her hand.

“Do you like what you see, love?”

You nodded, unable to speak.

She hummed approvingly, reaching to caress your face gently with her hand.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do this, baby. Fuck, you look so precious like this, I could just eat you up.”

The way she enunciated her words made you whimper uncontrollably. This close, you could see every little detail in her face. There was a fresh cut on her cheek, and pretty little dimples littering her mouth. Her lips were plump, but a little chapped.

You wondered how sweet her mouth would taste.

Wait, what?

For fuck’s sake, you literally just met the woman! And she was a guard! You couldn’t possibly be swooning at her already!

But, as you looked at her again, your mind couldn’t help but wander. Would she pin you to the wall and kiss you roughly? Or would she be gentler in her approaches?

“Were you the one who was watching me?” You asked at last, turning to meet her gaze.

Something flashed in her eyes. Something predatory.

“My, my, did you catch on at last?” The guard cooed, hands moving to wrap themselves around your waist. “I supposed the truth would have to get out eventually.”

She pushed you so that your face landed on her chest. Her scent filled your nostrils, comforting you in such a way that made you feel boneless.

Slowly, she leaned in, her breath tickling your ear as she whispered, “Did you realize I was protecting you too?”

As soon as you registered those words, you gasped.

In your surprise, you broke out of her embrace and gaped at her.

Already, you were beginning to miss her touch.

The guard pouted at you when you left her arms, but made no move to pull you back in.

“It was you?” You blurted out, still in shock.

A Cheshire grin danced on her lips.

“Of course, love. I was the one who didn’t shoot you in Red Light Green Light, I approved of your Gonggi performance, and I jammed that door for you.”

You freeze, not quite sure what to think. On one hand, the idea of a pink soldier protecting a player was so outlandish! A part of you didn’t believe her.

But…on the other hand, what she said lined up with the unusualness following you. It made sense that, if they chose to, a guard sparing you could be the difference between life and death.

All that left you was one, burning question.

“Why?”

The woman’s nostrils flared, and an unreadable expression adorned her face. She stepped towards you, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“It’s because I couldn’t let you die, love.”

She paused.

“Do you remember how you looked during the first game? You were so scared, so small. I wanted to protect you.”

Her eyes grew feverish.

“I only want what’s best for you, baby.”

Your heart thundered.

What the hell?

“But, we don’t know each other! I’ve never met you in my life—“

“Oh, but that doesn’t matter, sweetie,” The guard purred, running a finger along your cheek. “We can take our time getting to know each other later. When you’re safe from the games.”

Blood was roaring in your ears. You knew you were supposed to feel scared at her reaction, but something primal inside you relished in it.

Seemingly noticing your shift in demeanor, the woman leaned in close and kissed you chastely on the forehead.

Obsessively, she hugged you once again, though this time her embrace was tighter.

“Would you like that baby? Be taken care of by me? You wouldn’t have to ever be worried again.”

She said the word in between kisses, peppering your face but never touching your lips.

“We would be so happy together.”

Her hands wandered, one pressing against the back of your head while the other rested on your waist.

Despite yourself, you leaned into her touch and wrapped your arms around her. You soaked in her attention, in how desperate she seemed to want to protect you.

You liked the feeling of being loved.

The next time she leaned down to kiss you, you purposefully angled your face so that your lips connected.

The guard gasped softly, but didn’t pull away.

In fact, she deepened the kiss.

You moan softly, opening your mouth and letting her tongue explore it.

Mindlessly, she lifted you up and you wrapped your legs around her waist.

When the two of you parted for air, a string of spit connected your lips.

Mesmerized, you brought a finger to your face.

“I guess you really are my guardian angel,” You mumbled.

The woman only smiled again, and pinched your cheek.

“The name’s No-eul, by the way.”

A/N: Hahaha I stayed up so late writing this ;__:. There actually will be a part two to this! I was planning on writing it all today but I genuinely don’t think I can get it all out without it being utter trash 😭

Please let me know if you liked it! I live for your comments.

[Im going to collapse onto my bed now]

#squid game fanfic #squid game spoilers #squid game #no-eul x reader #Guard 011 x reader #Ask answered #My fics #i am so tired save me

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