#the thick of it u will always be famous

[carebearcody]

amazing when art parallels real life <3

[narcjsistx]

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆... | sae itoshi, shidou ryusei, kaiser micheal

plot: you're in a nonpublic relationship, but one gesture in particular blows your cover <3

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

— sae itoshi

That you had always been attracted to impossible things was not unknown: as a child you loved unicorns, one of the most imaginative and magical creatures ever. You believed you could love even something impossible, and the same thing had more or less happened when you met your boyfriend, Sae Itoshi. Sae was something impossible, out of your reach for the simple fact that you were a very normal person when he was one of the most famous U-20 soccer players in the world and, above all, of the moment

Sae was impossible, and you had always liked the impossible. That's how you liked to tell your mother when she asked how you ended up in a relationship with him. Known for a big misunderstanding in a public laundry, for a reason still unknown to you, fate had decided that this was not the last time you would see each other

The choice had come when Sae had explicitly asked you for it: not that he was ashamed of you or anything like that, but fame brings negative things as well as positive ones. One of them was privacy. Although after years he was used to invasions of privacy even during a walk, he didn't want to ruin what had always been normality for you. So no one, other than your families and a few friends of yours, knew about you two

And so, a little over a year after you had made it official only to your families that you were together as a couple, the thing that was impossible for you was how your cover was still standing. You didn't mind being in a nonpublic relationship, in fact you found it more pleasant and intimate, but Sae was famous all over the world: you knew that sooner or later everything would collapse like a house of playing cards

And evidently that day was today

"So, who is she?" his teammate asks again, the Spanish accent thick in every word. Your fingers tighten around the handles of his sports bag, desperately searching for a way that doesn't confirm what practically everyone in the room has already assumed. 10 pairs of eyes stare at you curiously, waiting for either you or Sae to speak and make up an excuse that they can deny

The last match that ReAl had won against an equally Spanish team had ended less than an hour ago. It was Valentine's Day, and the stadium where the match was played had made VIP seats available to which only the players partners could access. The partners had a card previously given by the boyfriends which gave the possibility of walking in certain areas of the stadium, one of which was the locker room. You had remained in the popular stands for the entire match, and after the end you had decided to use your VIP pass, which Sae had given you a few days before, to go and congratulate and surprise him. You had purposely waited a full hour to get in just so all the other teammates would leave, but apparently something had been holding them back

The players didn't know you, it was a secret relationship after all. The partners who usually came to see their boyfriends knew each other, and Sae was still the only one no one had ever seen with a girl. Everything fit with the perfect fall of the cover that you had so carefully supported

"umh" you stutter embarrassed. The most damning proof you have is undoubtedly the Sae sports bag you have in your hands, which stands out for its black color instead of the white and red that ReAl uses. You take a few steps back, not knowing at all how to escape the situation, much less where Sae is, who you don't even see in the locker room. His stuff is here, his teammates are here, but where is he dammit?

"We've never eaten anyone, or at least off the field" says a boy who gets up, making the rest of his teammates laugh. You recognize him for being a braggart that Sae tells you about every now and then, who has 100 girls and every game brings a new one. You roll your eyes at the tasteless joke, trying not to let your annoyance show

"I probably went to the wrong locker room, please excuse me..." you say turning on your heel, heading towards the exit, but the boy's hand grabs your wrist just enough to make you immobilize "It's not a problem, you don't have to apologize. But I don't think you're here by mistake..." the boy says laughing cheerfully, and really, you don't understand all his humor. You try to free yourself from the grip on the wrist, but the soccer player doesn't seem to give in as he makes some of his teammates laugh with sleazy jokes

“Could you let go of my wrist?” you say trying to sound polite, but he shakes his head "We need to figure out who your boyfriend is first! Victor, is she your girlfriend?" the boy asks, making you turn towards another guy, who obviously shakes his head "Sanchez, is this yours?" he asks another again, and you can't explain why you have to suffer such humiliating treatment if you haven't actually done anything wrong

"Arion, is it your-" the boy says, but someone interrupts him "She's my girlfriend."

Everyone turns towards the voice, including you: Sae, fresh out of the shower wearing sweatpants and a simple towel around his neck, peeks out from the locker room showers. His eyes waver a little at seeing you here, surprised at the whole situation and above all not understanding how you ended up here. He tilts his head, his usual apathetic look at the boy next to you "You should let go her wrist" he says taking a few steps forward, the usual nonchalance typical of his character. "Oh! Oh, yes" says the boy, immediately pulling away, taking a few steps back. The grip on your wrist releases, easing the pressure you had built up. You breathe a sigh of relief, but at the same time remember what situation you are in: the relationship that you had covered for so long has just come to light

You look up at Sae, who you think is the least bit angry, but there isn't a shred of anger in his face, in fact, he almost seems relieved. He comes in front of you, taking his sports bag that you had in your hands "Thanks. Two minutes and we can go" he says putting it back on the floor, putting a clean t-shirt on and putting the towel back on in his black bag. You look at him embarrassed, not daring to look at any of his teammates who have remained silent in the meantime

Sae stands up, holding his bag with one hand and grabbing yours with the other, letting your palms and fingers connect "Let's go" he says, nodding his head. You leave the locker room, everyone's gaze still on you. Start walking towards the back of the stadium, heading towards the car parks dedicated to the players cars. A slight, uncomfortable silence hangs between you two, and you wonder if he's simply thinking of a way to restore everything to how it was and make your relationship nonpublic again

"It wasn't that bad anyway. You can ask your teammates to just shut up" you say, looking down, but a light squeeze on your hand makes you look up in his direction “Huh?” he asks, and you try to sound clearer "For the relationship. You can tell your classmates not to talk-" you say, but he cuts you off even before you finish "Do you want to make it nonpublic again?" he asks, and you find yourself thinking about it

Being nonpublic had never been a problem for you, you appreciated that Sae cared so much about your privacy. On the other hand, your privacy never really mattered much to you: you wanted to walk with him and hold his hand even in front of a crowd, not pretend not to know him as often happened. If being with him meant sacrificing something, you would have done so immediately and without even thinking about

“I'm actually okay with being public-” you say and at the same moment you see him sigh more calmly “What is it?” you ask curiously "I've been waiting a long time to ask you this. But I didn't want to seem hypocritical since I asked you to make it nonpublic" Sae says, and almost immediately you smile at his words

The impossible was something that actually often actually happened. It had happened that you got dating to the prodigy of Japan, and it was happening now when you were officially made his girlfriend for all his fans and the world

— shidou ryusei

“You went too far as usual” you say, rolling your eyes, albeit amused. Shidou chuckles, buttoning up the buttons that hide your chest “You should be used to it” he says looking up after finishing his work. You laugh softly, still amazed at how you let yourself be dragged into such a situation. But then you think about it and you understand that avoiding these situations with your boyfriend is far too difficult. Shidou cups your face in his hands, tilting your head slightly to look at his beautiful work: two red and purple marks stand out from many other small ones. He observes them with a certain pride, stroking the bite mark he left on you with his thumb

“I don't think this was the break the director intended” you say, walking towards the door, reluctantly releasing the grip Shidou had. You hear him murmuring something, but you don't pay attention to it as you brush your hair to the side, leaving the hickeys on your neck visible: you have to walk in an empty corridor and you're hot, so you're not at risk. You place your hand on the doorknob, headed to exit and return to the car, but you are petrified when the entire corridor turns out to be filled with journalists

You stand there, motionless, and Shidou appears behind you, also intending to leave. He stands still, but less shocked, a few steps behind you. Everyone turns in your direction, and an awkward silence hangs in the narrow space delimited by the walls. Many, if not all, notice the red marks on your neck and there are more than a few surprised expressions. Some cameras turn towards you, some journalists take their microphones in case the situation requires them

And you immediately regret having, for the umpteenth time, indulged Shidou's shitty ideas. You knew you had to wait for him in the car so that he could go home with you at the end of the interview, but his messages had convinced you that there was no harm in sneaking out for a few minutes. While you were waiting he had sent you messages telling you that his interview was late and that the director had advised him to go to a private room to relax before his shift. He had asked you to come in to keep him company, that you could sneak in for a few minutes since the corridors were empty, and that he simply needed you. And so you found yourself against the wall with your boyfriend's lips on your neck, killing time until his interview

But evidently something had gone wrong with the program in mind, because now you had more than 100 journalists waiting their turn and now they had a front page story. You and him had been together for a while, and the agreement between you was to keep your relationship nonpublic for a while because the media often went heavy on their idols partners

But the cover seemed to have been blown

"Shidou, Shidou Ryusei? With a mysterious girl?" says a journalist, directing the microphone at you "The king of the penalty area with a woman?" someone else says, and from then on you just hear everyone else making up name after name as they try to get some information out of you two

"Holy shit" you whisper to yourself, covering your hickeys with your hair, even though everyone has noticed them by now. You die of embarrassment at all these eyes staring at you, and the best option at the moment seems to be going back into the room and hoping that this is all just a trick your mind is playing on you. You knew that sooner or later you would make it official, but you didn't think this way and especially with you in these conditions. It all looked perfectly like the most colossal figure of shit the human lifeform had ever seen in this shitty life

You look for Shidou, but when you turn you can't find him anymore. You wonder if he seriously followed the advice to go back to the room and hope it's all a dream, but you know that's not your man's style: instead you feel your shoulders surrounded by his arm, which promptly squeezes you to the point of keeping you by your side alongside. You turn towards him, and on his face you notice that his usual smirk that never leads to anything good. Something's about to explode

"Ladies, gentlemen! One at a time, please" he says loudly, and the attention they previously had on you shifts to him, who has always dominated the scene better in a frighteningly natural way "This racket for WHAT? Two red marks? You've never seen worse, then" he says, and as you thought his joke provokes a small laugh from everyone

The journalists try to get the best place in front of you, and perplexed you turn to Shidou "Don't do anything I might regret" you say almost in a whisper, but he grins "Let me do it, babe. I tied them to my finger like fish to a fishing line" he says confidently, and it's his confidence that worries you. Some journalist raises the microphone, firing off questions that you don't even understand because of the speed. Shidou still doesn't understand them, and after several attempts he gives up; he waves his hand, moving the microphones away

"I thought I would talk today about my relationship with the beautiful girl in question here, but evidently the scoop will go to you and not to the agency we are in" he says dramatically, as if he actually regretted giving information to others. "What did you want to do?" you whisper perplexed, not knowing that his goal today was to make it official anyway. Shidou turns to you, grabs your waist and bends your back, his chest smeared against his “Media, meet my fucking beloved girlfriend!” he says, kissing you. Confused, you don't know how to react, but shortly after you give in and respond to the kiss, placing your hand against his face. The journalists explode, the cameras start filming and broadcasting. It's an understatement that you have shocked the media for at least the next few days, but with Shidou in the end everything is unpredictable and without explosions

It wasn't the way you expected to make it official, but as long as it works it's fine, right?

— micheal kaiser

The subtle smell of french fries hung in the air, mixing with the light air that resonated in the club. Everyone's chatting made the evening pleasant, which actually seemed to go too well

Hamburg was huge as a city, Ness himself recognized it, yet he had lived there for a good part of his life before moving to Berlin on the campus of Bastard Munchen. You had been here a few other times, and you had fallen in love with the small and cute clubs that the city offered

When you returned to the hotel room with Kaiser you had begged him to go out tonight, since you had arrived you had spent all your time at training or at the match, which had ended with the victory of the German team. And Kaiser has little chance of telling you no, it's something he just can't do: so, a few hours later, you and other team members found yourself in a club celebrating the victory. Sitting next to him you were calm, after all he was your boyfriend and his team knew about you two, unlike the rest of the world. However, being in a public place the only affectionate gesture you could allow yourself was his hand on your thigh, covered by the table and which no stranger could see

Everything was going well: Bastard Munchen had won today, tomorrow morning you would return home and take a few days break from being the team manager. Everything was perfect

But obviously perfection, even if sweated with difficulty and attention, does not last long

You were chatting with a team member when, from afar, you noticed a group of guys watching you. It was nothing new, the players were famous and you were also quite well known thanks to your role in the team. Kaiser notices the same thing, tilting his face towards the small crowd "You're wanted" you say jokingly, and he snorts in a mock annoyed way: you know how much he actually loves this attention from fans, which feeds his big ego. The guys step forward, followed by others and yet others, until the table is surrounded by all the guys shyly asking for an autograph or a photo

The group, made up of a girl and two boys, approaches Kaiser asking to take a photo. He accepts, reluctantly lifting the contact of his hand on your thigh, and you can read his slight annoyance in his cerulean eyes. You giggle a little at seeing him annoyed, but you don't let it show

Then, the dinner that was supposed to be quiet and a way to spend time with your boyfriend turns out to be yet another time when public life comes before private life; it doesn't make you sad though, because seeing Kaiser happy while talking to his fans makes you happy too

You stay to eat your chips and chat with Ness, who unlike Kaiser only had to sign a few quick autographs, and every now and then you glance at Kaiser who stayed behind to talk to the group of people. You notice how completely comfortable he seems, so you don't worry

But then something reaches your ear

"We are moving to another club to spend the rest of the night, would you join us?" a boy says, and the rest of the group nods. Kaiser is used to these somewhat sudden questions, fans often cross the line almost without wanting to "I can't guys. The team is celebrating together tonight" he says playing with a lock of his blue hair, and you try to be indiscreet in listening to the conversation

"What a shame..." says a boy, and Kaiser chuckles "I know guys. Maybe next time" he says, and he seems about to go back to the table, when the girl stops him by taking a few steps forward "Or maybe there's is it a girl you're waiting for?" the woman asks, and you immediately turn towards their direction, trying not to cough up what's in your mouth for the surprise

You see Kaiser a little perplexed, you notice it from the way he tilts his head trying to come up with an excuse that seems convincing "Maybe. But I shouldn't tell you, guys" he says, and this time you're the one who's perplexed

You see him turn towards you, just enough to give you a brief wink that you notice all too well. You pretend like you didn't see him, turning away, but you really don't understand where he's going with his speech. You've been together for quite a while and it's always been confidential for a matter of convenience, being nonpublic you had many pros but at the same time many cons. And at the time you had never talked about making it public, as much as you actually wanted to be like this

"Really? Are you in a relationship?" the boy asks, and Kaiser smiles satisfied "I don't know. Do you think I have it?" he asks, and everyone immediately nods "There are rumors that you are dating the German model who is always on the front page of Vogue" says one, but the other corrects him "What are you saying! He could be dating the girl he was spotted with last week passed in front of the city's cathedral" says the other, and you see in Kaiser's gaze an amusement you've never seen before. You nervously bite your nail, not knowing what he's doing and above all why he didn't complete the conversion a few minutes ago. What the fuck is going on?

"You're both wrong! The rumors all agree that he's dating the manager of Bastard Munchen, have you seen how they look at each other? Or how she's always the first one he greets when the players take the field?" says the girl very convinced, placing her hands on her waist

It is at that moment when all your beliefs fall away. You thought you hadn't made the situation so obvious, but evidently you failed

You turn towards them again, trying to hide the blush that you now know has taken up residence on your cheeks. Kaiser claps his hands happily "Right! I'm waiting for her" he says, and everyone in the group's jaw drops "Are you serious? Are you seriously with the manager?" the boy asks, and he nods. You notice too late how the girl, peeking out from Kaiser's figure, has noticed you: you hide your face by looking down, but it's too late now

"But she's here!" the girl says, and Kaiser rolls his eyes as if he hadn't noticed you “I know. My girlfriend, yu-hu Y/n!” he says, raising his hand to greet you as if he hadn't just dropped a bombshell on a mere group of fans. You raise your face trying to look as calm as possible, as if everything is actually normal and your heart isn't going 100 times faster than normal. Kaiser comes closer, sitting next to you again and putting his arm around your shoulders, while the group looks at you surprised but happy "I don't like to keep my girlfriend waiting, guys. Have a good evening though!" he says, cuddling while you are literally trying not to start screaming

The guys nod, both saying goodbye and thanking Kaiser for his time. When they leave, you turn to him with the reddest face ever "What did you just do?!" you ask in surprise, but with his free hand he caresses your arm, making slow and gentle movements "Doing what I should have done a long time ago. Isn't it better this way, Schatz?" he asks. You suppress the urge to insult him, because the truth is, you too would have liked to make it official a long time ago

“Do you know that now you will have to confirm this to the whole world and not just to one group?” you ask with a sigh, relaxing the nerves that have been on edge for minutes. He smirks, nodding as he grabs his phone “I've had a post ready on Instagram for a while. It's been in the drafts for a long time, how about I post it now?” he asks, and you curse yourself for never being able to be mad at him

You both had each other's fingers tied, it was too obvious by now. Maybe it really was time to share your love with the world and not just with the team, as it has been until now

[novy2sirius]

ASCENDANT CORE ©novy2sirius

readings for sale (“ur core” readings for $18)!!!

moon core | mercury core | venus core | jupiter core

this is just a random post abt things ppl w these ascendant signs could experience ♡

the more negative ones r based on low vibrational ppl not neutral to high vibrational ppl, so don’t take those specific ones personally if u don’t resonate ♡

these r only abt isolated placements so take these with a grain of salt bc the whole chart does matter ♡

a lot of these r experiences that i’ve heard personally from my friends and ppl who’ve purchased readings from me ♡

aries ascendant

being the first in ur family to do things (ex - graduate, be rich, be famous, etc), being the first person to do things in general (ex - create trends), not being able to find happiness in life until u find what ur passionate abt, unintentionally coming off too intense and speaking too passionately abt something random, ppl thinking ur a mean person before even getting to know u bc of ur rbf, getting sunburnt or getting tan easily, having a lot of pet peeves, blushing rly easily, having thick eyebrows, being called hot and never cute or pretty, being relentless when someone hurts u, being complicated, looking hotter w tattoos, accidentally screaming at someone over something that wasn’t even that big of a deal bc ur react too quickly sometimes without thinking, not giving up until u have what u want, getting farther in life by being assertive and demanding than by killing ppl w kindness, giving amazing head, having a high sex drive, being that person who has natural abs w out working out (if ur naturally skinny)

taurus ascendant

saying the most insane or traumatic stories in the calmest voice ever (nonchalantly) leading ppl to believe something is rly wrong w u, having a deep desire to be valued, sleeping a lot, being a stoner, being a throat goat, being a touchy person, holding a lot of grudges and being slow to forgive, being materialistic or more abt that bag than anything else, taking a lot of naps like a little kid, realizing things too late (a lot), overdoing things/being extra, being super grounded and down to earth, being hella chill, being slow to anger but when u do get angry being vengeful af and raging, being an observer, being able to act calm in the scariest moments and somehow not scream, never looking at someone the same again when they have stank breath even once around u

gemini ascendant

oversharing too much, talking to too many strangers, texting ur every thought one by one instead of typing one longer message, always posting on social media, being well known online, talking w ur hands a lot, always getting told u look younger than u r, having a lot of online friends, constantly wanting to go places and be active, being rly witty, being rly energetic until 3-5 pm hits and then randomly being drained, being in denial a lot even when u know ur wrong, creating a lot of trends online, easily being persuaded by others, ppl forgiving u easily bc of ur charm, making a lot of mistakes bc ur a rly curious person, being inconsistent

cancer ascendant

being super protective of ur loved ones, everyone always saying “y r u sO sHy?” and making u even more shy and uncomfortable, having a charm that makes ppl feel emotionally connected to u and drawn to u instantly, having a baby face/round face, being a rly cuddly person that loves physical touch (sometimes too shy to immediately be this way tho and it can take time to open up), being perceived as cute all the time instead of sexy, always being there for ur family even if they don’t reciprocate the love, having a soft/sweet voice, worrying too much abt things that will literally never happen, emotionally manipulating when u don’t get ur way, being a huge homebody and kinda lazy, getting farther in life by killing ppl w kindness than by being aggressive, being the most unforgiving person alive when someone hurts someone that u care abt

leo ascendant

being popular or attracting lots of attention regardless of how loud/quiet u r (having that star-like energy w out even trying), being a natural comedian, looking like a cat or being a cat person (someone who loves cats), having a deep desire to be admired by others, being brought into drama that has nothing to even do w u, being a gawd damn furry, having a playful energy that’s perceived as immature sometimes but rly u just don’t like to take life too seriously and want to be happy, being rly generous until someone gets on ur bad side (then the sassy side will come out), lying abt the most random things all the time as a kid (ex - saying ur from paris when ur not)

virgo ascendant

being the best person to come to for real and honest advice bc u r not afraid to say the absolute truth and nothing but the truth, struggling with ocd, being rly critical of ur appearance, always getting told u look younger than u r, overthinking every interaction that u have w ppl, having an almond mom, being nosy, having a lot of pet peeves, having such bad anxiety before school growing up that u nearly puke (or do), having horrible health anxiety and thinking ur gonna die over the smallest things like a headache or regular stomach ache, accusing/shaming ppl for doing things that u literally do also, being rly talkative once ur comfortable w someone, wanting to have control in every situation and struggling when u don’t, being rly loyal and not forgiving others who don’t reciprocate loyalty, drinking a ton of caffeine even tho it makes u hella anxious, having grandpa/grandma posture

libra ascendant

caring a lot abt how u look and feeling unhappy/depressed when u don’t feel pretty, being flirted with a lot, being rly good at flirting, wanting to keep a good image, not being able to sleep when u have an unresolved conflict bc u just want peace and no drama in ur life, being an ass eater, attracting a lot of jealousy, blushing rly easily or having rosacea, ppl thinking that u have a crush on someone when ur literally just being nice to the person, being scared to say when ur uncomfortable or don’t like something in a situation/conflict bc u don’t wanna hurt anyone’s feelings or get on anyone’s bad side, fearing conflict bc as a kid ur parents would sweep too many things under the rug and now as a result u never learned how to properly solve conflict so u try ur hardest to just simply avoid it, accidentally coming off fake when u didn’t mean to

scorpio ascendant

ppl that u just met randomly venting abt all their traumas to u, being a rly good secret keeper, wanting most of ur life to be private and keeping a lot of secrets, ppl thinking ur a mean person before even getting to know u bc of that rbf, having an intense energy, being misunderstood, disliking when anyone has power over u in any way, attracting a lot of jealousy or being jealous over everything, having thick eyebrows, observing everyone and being able to tell if something is off just by looking into someone’s eyes, being flaky, exaggerating stories a lot to make them seem more interesting than they r, being rly compassionate (sometimes too compassionate), unexpectedly being a freak when everyone thought u were shy and innocent, looking hotter w tattoos, approaching life w a lot suspicion and skepticism (being paranoid af all the time)

sagittarius ascendant

feeling unhappy when ur in the same place for too long, being perceived as extremely blunt when giving ur opinion when u just thought what u said was pretty mild, knowing multiple languages, being rly spiritual (or religious. or both), having religious trauma, coping w being rly unstable by laughing and doing crazy shit, easily adapting to ur surroundings wherever u go, moving to a new house and being rly emotional the first day but then forgetting that u even moved like a week later, being the worst person to have a roast battle w bc u have the most insane and vile comebacks, attracting lucky opportunities at the most random moments, being that person who sends random memes/gifs thru text all the time, ghosting someone for days and then randomly coming back to tell them the most insane story out of nowhere

capricorn ascendant

being a workhorse and more comfortable when ur working than when ur sitting at home all the time, being rly intelligent, being book smart, being seen as hella cold and ppl always saying “ur sm nicer than u seemed before i met u”, having a rly hard childhood (not peaking in middle/high school but instead when ur older), having to mature from a young age which causes u to then learn lessons and experience things as an adult that u should’ve experienced as a child/teen, speaking very proper, being that one weird kid from elementary school who had a weird obsession w history books abt world wars, gaslighting hoes, seeming tougher on the outside but being a soft person on the inside, being prudish, having a coffee addiction

aquarius ascendant

being unpredictable even to urself, being told ur much friendlier than someone thought all the time bc u have an rbf, prioritizing friendships (or urself if unevolved) over anything else, ur emotions constantly changing in an instant (more so than the average person), running away from commitment bc u have a fear of failure or messing up, being perceived as chaotic, making more friends online than irl, thriving more when ur being independent (ex - not sharing finances/a bank acc w anyone, having ur own bedroom, etc), having to be the brave one all the time and stand on business, growing up with divorced parents or parents that desperately need to have a divorce and it affecting the way that u view relationships for the rest of ur life, reading to seem smarter than u r but not actually enjoying it

pisces ascendant

ppl copying everything u do (having a lot of wannabes), having a mystical/ethereal beauty, being a stoner, being misunderstood, having sanpaku eyes or eyes that look big and cute, ppl naturally being fascinated by ur presence, having a lot of secrets and having ur guard up a lot due to being hurt in the past, being rly forgiving of ppl, always putting others before urself, having psychic visions or dreams from a young age, seeing things that others don’t, knowing something is gonna happen way before it happens, being more spiritual than religious, playing mind games w ppl to get what u want, living in fear too much, wasting money on stupid stuff, morphing ur personality/appearance into every character that u love in a show/film, creating delusions in ur head too much bc u overthink everything, having the most random hidden talents

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 A DEAL YOU CAN MAKE ON A MIDNIGHT WALK ALONE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai's worst nightmare has come true, and with you standing before him once again, he has no idea how to act or feel. he's angry. he's resentful. hateful. sad. hopeful. yearning. in love. there's so many emotions clouding his mind that he can hardly think straight. but he's sure of one thing: his run-in with you makes him realize that he'll do anything to get you back again.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART TWO IS HEREEEEE HEHEHEHEHE I HOPE U ENJOY - i rushed getting it together skfaizsjf so hopefully it's all ok. let me know if im missing any warnings. reblogs and comments always appreciated!!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, mentions of past war crimes, ptsd, mentions of alcoholism, temporary amnesia, dazai is mentally unstable, so is reader, both of them are struggling LOL, grieving (reader), a bit of suicide ideation (that's a given from dazai, a little bit from reader too tho), as always: reader is part of the mafia, expect mafia behavior from her, she is not a good person.

SEE: THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE (BUT ARE WE?) SERIES MASTERLIST

God is famous for his coincidences and absurdism. Dazai is all too familiar with it. Time and time again in his life, it’s been proven over and over. You and he are even the prime example of this: everything from the part you played in his family’s demise eight years ago to you unwittingly saving his life last year. 

But this? 

This can’t be real. 

This can’t possibly be happening. 

Dazai stares at you like you’re a ghost, the air whooshes out from his lungs, and his vision blurs and tunnels until all he can see is you. All of the other patrons of the bar fizzle out of space and time until only the two of you are left in the room, and Dazai just doesn’t know what to do. He’s still half convinced that this is a hallucination, a cruel trick—even an ability working on him would make more sense than you actually standing in front of him.

When he doesn’t respond to you, you raise your eyebrows at him, but he thinks that even if he wanted to respond, he wouldn’t be able to. His voice is stuck in his throat, along with a lump shaped suspiciously like his heart. He can’t get a grasp on his surroundings, and he’s starting to feel dizzy; his ears are ringing terribly, and his fight or flight instincts are triggered, but Dazai is just frozen. He can’t push himself off the chair to leave, he can’t speak, he can’t do anything.

This can’t be real, he thinks again, more desperately this time, but the longer he stares at you, the more real you become. You’re wearing a sleek black suit, the same one you were wearing when you called for the meeting with Fitzgerald to get Dazai back, and a dark coat over it, the same one you would drape over him when you came home to him passed out on the couch, and you’re beautiful, you’re as beautiful as Dazai remembers. More. Impossibly more. Though your eyes are much more tired and vacant than he last remembered them being, and you now wear a red scarf around your shoulders and a ribbon around your neck, it’s you standing a few feet away from him—there’s no mistaking it.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” you continue conversationally when he remains silent, and to his horror, you make your way over to him. “You’re really familiar, though, maybe we’ve met in passing. Do you come around here often?”

Your words feel like knives jabbing into his back, and Dazai almost wants to cry, but he refrains with a thick swallow and a deep breath. He’s had nightmares about bumping into you on the streets and being slapped in the face with his new reality this way: that you have no idea who he is, that he’s a stranger to you when you’re still everything to him. He’s had nightmares, but he never thought those nightmares would become reality. You’re the boss of the Port Mafia now, what the fuck are you doing at some random bar without any protection?

He’s drawn out of his trancelike state once you’re standing next to him, and Dazai is acutely aware of the number of eyes on him now. The bartender is looking between the two of you with a concerned expression, and the other patrons aren’t slick in the way they keep casting nosy looks in your direction. It’s only when your gaze snaps up, an irritated expression crossing your face, that they all look away, and Dazai realizes a bit dreadfully that this must be a mafia establishment. 

Of course, it is, he thinks bitterly, no wonder he met you here the first time. 

The irritated expression is gone as quickly as it appears, replaced with a far more pleasant one as you look back down at him. 

For a moment—just a moment—Dazai’s chest swells with warmth because he can almost pretend it’s the same way you’d look at him when you’d come home to find him sitting at the piano trying to teach himself a song that he could only vaguely remember. A small smile curling at your lips, a soft expression on your face, and a fond look in your eyes that would make Dazai’s breath catch.

But he can’t pretend because it’s fake. Dazai can tell it’s fake—the small smile on your lips is disarming, and the soft expression is enchanting, but it’s not enough for him not to notice the way it doesn’t meet your eyes. Maybe it would be enough if he were anyone else in the world, but he’s not. He knows you well enough to catch what others would miss, and he’s so used to you looking at him with all three that the absence of one is glaring and unsettling.

It’s not right—none of this is right.

“No,” he finally answers your question when it becomes abundantly clear that you’re not going to move on until he addresses you. Does he want you to move on? Dazai doesn’t know; he can’t even bring himself to look away from you, trying to memorize your face before you disappear again. “I don’t come around here often.”

His voice is unbearably hoarse, and as your eyes trail over him curiously, Dazai becomes hyper-aware of how sloppily he’s dressed. His clothes are rumpled because he was lying in his futon for hours, and he hasn’t changed his bandages in days, so the ones on his wrist are yellowed and frayed at the edges. He tries to pull the sleeves of his tan coat down to cover them, but you’ve already caught sight of them from the way you squint and then look back up to his face.

“Hm,” is all you say in response, pulling out the stool next to him to sit down. You rest your elbow on the bar top and your chin on your hand as you look at him. Dazai wonders what you’re thinking; you’ve always been hard to read, but never more than now. “What’s your name?”

That lump is back in his throat, and the air around him feels too thin. Dazai almost struggles to breathe, but he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. He’s finally able to bring himself to look away from you, staring down at his lap—his fingers are trembling, he notices absently, starting to feel oddly detached from the situation. He forcibly stills them, trying to get himself together before answering your question, but each passing second only makes him spiral more. 

What’s your name? 

The question rings through his head mockingly, and at once, the resentment he feels is back with a fervor. What’s your name, asks the woman who almost died trying to protect Dazai less than a year before. What’s your name, asks the woman who Dazai lived with for months. What’s your name, asks the woman who sacrificed everything, killed her own father, just to keep Dazai safe. What’s your name, asks the woman who Dazai loves because she wiped her memories of him after he begged her not to. 

It’s like a joke, he thinks so bitterly that he can taste it in his mouth. It’s putrid, disgusting—his life has always been a joke, but things finally started looking up once he met you. You gave him hope for the future, you made him want a future, and then you ripped it away from him, worse than anyone ever has before.

A joke.

“Don’t wanna tell me?” you ask easily, leaning back in your stool. The smile on your face is teasing, but it still doesn’t meet your eyes—he’s a bit unnerved by it. When he first met you, you were cold and aloof; you wanted nothing to do with him. He didn’t think you were even listening to him while he rambled; he’d been surprised when he ran into you the day after, and you remembered what he’d been saying. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Are you… flirting with him?

The teasing tone, the small, flirty smiles, the way you’re putting in just enough effort that any other man would’ve been charmed—he would’ve been charmed if he didn’t know any better—is that what this is? Dazai suddenly feels unsettled. He thought maybe you came here to relax… take a break from work, like the first time he met you here. Maybe you were even just coming to drown out your sorrows like him, although that may just be wishful thinking on his part. The realization that you might’ve come here to find someone to fuck away whatever is clearly eating at you for the night didn’t cross his mind once until now. He doesn’t like it—something in his gut twists, and he thinks he might throw up. He blames it on the whiskey he’s been drinking, but he knows that’s not the real reason.

What if he hadn’t been the one here?

How many times has he not been the one here?

His suspicions from earlier were confirmed just like that, and Dazai is miserable about it.

“Dazai,” he finally tells you, throat spasming like it doesn’t kill him to have to introduce himself to you again. “My name is Dazai.”

You give him your name in return, and it’s just another stab to the heart—he knows your name. It’s the same name that haunts his dreams. The same name he’d spent half a year cursing into oblivion. The same name he’d gasp when he was in bed with a stranger. He knows your name better than his own, it’s etched into his soul; he would never forget you like you’ve forgotten him.

Something strange crosses your face when Dazai looks back at you—a hint of familiarity that has his heartbeat stuttering. He sees the brief confusion, the way your mind races behind your pretty eyes as if trying to understand why his name and face were inexplicably familiar to you. For a brief second, he allows a speck of hope to bloom: your love for him is enough to overcome the ability that was used to wipe your memories of him. 

“You’re an author,” you say suddenly, finally realizing why he seems so familiar to you. The spec of hope that had begun to bloom withers in an instant—his throat feels swollen, and his mouth is dry. “I read your book.”

What.

“What?” Dazai asks hoarsely, voicing his thoughts aloud as he stares at you. “You—”

“That’s what it is. I knew your face was familiar, but your name is what made me realize,” you add more to yourself than to him. 

Dazai wants to be disappointed that it’s not just you subconsciously recognizing him, that your love for him is not strong enough to outweigh the effects of the ability used on you, but he can’t be because he’s frozen at the idea of you actually having read his book. He’s wondered over the past few months if you’ve seen it around—when he first published it, it started gaining a lot of traction. It’s still pretty popular; he has people come up to him to talk to him about it, and he always thought maybe you would see his face or hear his name in passing, that maybe when you did, a part of you would subconsciously miss him. That he could haunt you like you’ve haunted him. 

He never imagined you would’ve fucking read it.

“You read my book?” Dazai presses, his voice almost as faint as he feels. The ground suddenly feels uneven, and the stool he’s sitting on sways. He has to try to casually reach for the bartop to pretend like he’s not having to steady himself. 

“Yeah,” you say, and don’t add anything else. 

Dazai turns his head to the side to look at you. Did you think it was bad? Why aren’t you saying anything else? He wonders, a bit horrified by the thought. When you don’t make any effort to explain how you feel about it, Dazai grimaces and forces himself to speak up.

“And… what did you think?”

He’s not sure if he actually wants to know the answer.

“It was good,” you say simply, but Dazai can tell that’s not your full opinion. He can hear the unsaid ‘but’, and he doesn’t want to know what that ‘but’ is, yet he finds himself pressing anyway.

“But…?” he prompts, against better judgment. 

You look at him, that empty look that’s been lingering in your eyes is replaced, a bit more entertained now as you look over him curiously, as if trying to decide whether or not you actually want to tell him the ‘but.’ Dazai’s fingers thrum impatiently against the bartop as he waits for you to speak, and you notice from the way you glance down and then back up to his face. 

“The ending was interesting,” you finally say.

Dazai blanches. “Interesting?”

“It was cynical,” you amend, and Dazai’s eye twitches. “The whole novel was built up to expect a happy ending, and you had the main couple just leave each other at the end. It came out of nowhere. I didn’t like it.”

“Sometimes, people don’t get happy endings, and sometimes, it happens when you don’t expect it,” Dazai spits, a bit too bitterly from the way you raise your eyebrows, the corner of your lips curling up in amusement. Dazai isn’t quite as entertained, wondering where you get the audacity to say you didn’t like the ending that you gave him. “It’s realistic. People don’t get happy endings. Clearly.”

“Clearly,” you echo, sounding all too entertained by the conversation that has Dazai’s blood boiling.

“What? And you think it’s not realistic? Is that it?” Dazai turns his head away from you instantly, taking a long sip of his drink to try to quell the way his stomach churns.

“I think it’s cynical,” you repeat. “They clearly loved each other—there was no reason for them to split the way they did.”

Dazai’s head snaps back in your direction. “Well, that’s life—one minute, someone loves you, and you’re their whole world, and the next, they toss you aside. You’re forgotten, left behind. And they just move on like you never even existed.”

“Cynical,” you say again, and Dazai wants to throttle you for it, but he refrains. “People don’t just forget someone that they loved. It’s not possible—you can’t forget someone who was once so important to you.”

“Impossible?” Dazai asks through gritted teeth. “What about you? You’ve never forgotten about someone important to you?”

The amusement on your face fades as you study him a bit more carefully; Dazai realizes miserably that he’s being way too obvious with his resentment toward you, and you’re going to get suspicious. And you don’t know him, the last thing he needs is to be on the Port Mafia’s radar like this.

… Or maybe, it might not necessarily be a bad thing, he thinks, mind starting to race with possibilities. You told him how Ilya Repin’s ability worked while in the safe house. Now that you’ve followed through with your plan, the Three Deaths should officially be subsumed into the Port Mafia, meaning there’s a high chance that Repin is still somewhere in Yokohama, and with him, the painting that stole your memories of him. 

If he could find it…

“What do you mean?” you finally question, and Dazai’s drawn back to reality.

He averts his gaze from you immediately. “Nothing,” he replies quietly, the fight draining from him instantly when he sees your brows furrowed in confusion. “It’s nothing.”

Your lips part to speak, but you’re interrupted when the door to the bar slams open harshly. You don’t even turn around to see who entered before you roll your eyes, giving Dazai a wry smile. “I’m afraid that’s my cue, my keeper has arrived.”

You rise to your feet to leave, your drink still untouched on the bar in front of you. Dazai’s gaze lingers on you for a second before he looks to the door, eyes shooting open when he sees none other than Nakahara Chuuya standing there. The man is livid, and Dazai can hear the litany of curses about to spill from his lips, but tilts his head curiously when it never comes. 

It doesn’t come because he’s too busy staring at Dazai, eyes wide and lips parted.

Does he… recognize Dazai?

Dazai straightens in his seat, brows furrowing as he observes Chuuya carefully. You seem to notice the odd reaction, too, from the way you squint at your executive. This shouldn’t be possible, though—the plan was that everyone would have their memories of Dazai wiped in order to ensure that there was no evidence that he was ever connected to the Port Mafia. Connected to you. There’s no way Chuuya should know who he is, but that expression was damning; it’s like he knows exactly who Dazai is and knows the implications of you running into Dazai by chance.

“We’ll talk later,” Chuuya finally says, voice rough. “Let’s go.”

You sigh, looking thoroughly disappointed as you glance back at Dazai once, an odd expression on your face. He thinks maybe you’ll say something, but you don’t, and the bitterness he feels returns with a vengeance. 

He calls your name as you turn your back to him, and when you pause, he says, “Red is your color.”

It’s not a compliment, it’s him sharpening a knife that he’s preparing to jab into your chest, but he guises it as one because you don’t know that he knows what he does. You stiffen at his words, and Dazai’s suspicions are confirmed when Chuuya shoots him a vicious look behind your back. He knows.

“Yeah? My father used to say the same,” you say, voice a bit too tense to be casual.

“Used to?” Dazai presses, readying the knife against your skin.

You hum in agreement. “Used to. He passed.”

Passed, Dazai thinks mockingly. He makes sure to hide his scathing tone as he smiles sweetly and drives the dagger right into your heart, “I’m sure he would be proud of you.”

You don’t respond, but Dazai can see the way your head hangs a bit lower at his words, and your hand lifts to toy with the ribbon around your neck. For a brief second, Dazai feels gleeful—he’s glad that he can hurt you, even just a little—but the momentary satisfaction dissipates quickly. He doesn’t like hurting you, but more than that, he knows whatever pain he might’ve caused with his words is still nothing compared to the last six months he’s suffered. 

You leave without another word, and Chuuya follows after you, but not before giving Dazai another dirty look, one that promises that this isn’t the end. He sighs as he slumps over on the barstool. The satisfaction is long gone, the adrenaline rush that your appearance triggered has dissipated, and Dazai just feels sick again. He feels sick and lonely, but most of all, he just misses you. He misses you so bad that he thinks he might be willing to do anything to get your memories of him back

With that thought in mind, he fumbles for his phone and shoots a text to Ranpo before he can lose his nerve.

Dazai: ok. i’ll help but under one condition

Ranpo: knew you would :P deal

--------

Chuuya has been stiff since the two of you left the bar. You can tell that he’s waiting for you to say something, and that alone is proof that something weird is going on. You figure otherwise, you would’ve been scolded from the moment you stepped outside of the bar to the moment you slammed the door to your office in his face.

You don’t confront him right away—he’ll try to slip away if you make an attempt at cornering him, so you wait until the two of you are in the elevator going up to your office to say anything.

“Who was he?” you ask as soon as the doors slide shut, positioning yourself in a way so that he can’t reach the buttons without getting through you first. Chuuya stiffens as his gaze cuts to the side to focus on you. “The boy at the bar. You recognized him. How?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says tightly.

Your eyebrows shoot up at the blatant lie, mind spinning as you try to figure out why Chuuya would lie to you about this. The only thing he’s ever lied to you about before is whatever it is he knows about the Port Mafia’s regime change that eludes you. Could it be related? You doubt it—you’re not sure what some random one-hit-wonder author would have anything to do with a mafia coup—but it makes you feel a bit nervous, it makes you unsure of where you stand with the one person who has always been your other half. 

Why is he suddenly so comfortable lying to you? 

Why is he lying to you at all?

“And you’re lying to me about it,” you say tightly, swallowing thickly as your mind races for answers to your questions. 

He’s been distant lately—is it because there’s something going on that no one is telling you about? You know Chuuya wasn’t happy about your decision to demote Kouyou. Has it left him more resentful than you initially thought? You suddenly feel very, very alone. If you don’t have Chuuya solidly at your side, then who do you have? Klaus? Is that it? 

History moves in such vicious circles, doesn’t it? You remember the amused words Mori spoke to you many, many years ago—back when you’d followed him to the underground clinic before he became a doctor for the previous boss, when he would sit you at his desk and force you to read old textbooks and recite them to him because he refused to have an uneducated protege.

Doesn’t it? 

The previous boss was the right-hand of his father and took power from him by force; you heard it was a brutal execution, and people whispered that it should’ve been the first sign of madness. The previous boss was killed by Mori, the man he trusted to take care of him, a man who quickly became his right hand when his mind continued to deteriorate, and then Mori took control. Mori was killed by you, his heir, his second-in-command, his right hand, and then you took control.

Your gaze slowly tracks over to where Chuuya still refuses to look at you.

Doesn’t it? 

“I met him before,” Chuuya finally says, shaking his head, oblivious to your spiraling thoughts. “He was a fucking asshole. Don’t waste your time with him.”

“When did you meet him?” you ask, voice coming out a bit sharper than you intended. Chuuya gives you a wary look, like he’s only now realizing that something is seriously wrong, and you try to smooth your face out. “Just curious.”

“At the same bar,” Chuuya tells you. “A couple weeks ago. He was a little shit—drunk and insulting me as soon as I walked in.”

“Is that so?” you question flatly, eyes settling on him, watching the way his expression twists in frustration.

“Why would I lie to you about this?” Chuuya demands.

“I don’t know, Chuuya, why would you?”

A hurt expression flies across his face as he fully turns to face you, arms crossed over his chest. When he speaks, you can hear the anger dripping from his tone, but more than that, you hear the hurt. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

Your shoulders slump, the fight draining from you when you see how betrayed Chuuya looks by your questions. Your voice wavers as you whisper, “I don’t know.”

He sighs at your answer and then steps forward. Your eyes slide shut as he rests his hand on top of your head. He brings his other hand up to cup the side of your face, tilting your head up to force you to look at him. You want to cry when you see the pain in his eyes as he studies your face. You chew on the inside of your cheek and try to look away, but he forces you to keep your gaze on him.

“I’m on your side,” he whispers, thumb running over your cheek. His other hand slides from the top of your head to hold your face between both of his hands. The leather of his gloves is coarse against your skin, but it’s achingly familiar—you’ve missed Chuuya desperately. “I’ve always been on your side.”

“Then why are you lying to me?” you ask weakly, hands coming up to curl around his wrists. “Chuuya, I feel so lost. I don’t understand what’s going on, I—”

Chuuya sighs and steps away as the elevator reaches the top floor of the building. The two of you walk down the hall past your guards and step into your office quietly. You walk over to the door in the back of the office, leading to the penthouse apartment. The moment you get in there, you feel suffocated again. The air is too heavy, and when you try to breathe in, it tastes stale and rotted. You look back at Chuuya to distract yourself and raise your eyebrows.

“Please,” he says, tired. “I can’t.”

You nod tightly and look around the apartment. It’s just as Mori left it—you’ve hardly touched it at all. You haven’t brought anything over from your own place. The walls are still black and empty except for some pinned-up crayon drawings of Elise’s, their bright colors feeling almost out of place. The living room is staged with gaudy decor, remnants of Mori’s taste, meant to impress any possible guest rather than comfort its owner. But the bedroom is stripped of everything personal, as cold and impersonal as a hotel room.

You like it this way. It’s easier to pretend you don’t actually live here, that this isn’t where you fall asleep at night, isn’t where you wake up to suffocating silence. You can almost pretend that Mori is still around, and you’re just occupying his space until he returns. But some nights, the weight of it settles too heavily on your chest, and the emptiness echoes too loudly for you to handle. Like tonight.

Chuuya follows you into the living room, expression unreadable as he glances around. “You still haven’t done anything with this place.”

“I haven’t,” you agree quietly, looking down at a picture on a nearby table. It’s of you, Mori and Elise—you were much younger then, it was taken when you were ten, still at the underground clinic, before he became the doctor for the previous boss. “Did I ever tell you how I met him?”

Chuuya doesn’t respond immediately. “How you met… Mori?”

“Mhm.”

“You didn’t,” he murmurs, taking a few steps closer to you to look down at the picture in front of you. “When you were still cute.”

“Hah,” you say, unamused, nudging his shoulder. “I lived on one of the main warfronts during the Great War before Tokoyami Island appeared and the fighting moved there.”

Chuuya lets out a noise of acknowledgment. “You told me that much.”

“It was a small village in a valley,” you continue quietly. “I don’t even… really remember where. The war was going on all around us, but the mountains and the forests kept us shielded from the worst of it. But we could hear it. Smell it. The gunfire and the explosives, the smoke was so thick that it reached our village. We couldn’t leave our houses without masks; there was a constant haze and—”

You cut yourself off as you look away, swallowing thickly. You feel Chuuya’s hand come to rest on your shoulder, concern rolling off of him in waves.

“I thought you didn’t remember any of this,” he says. “From before Mori found you.”

“I didn’t,” you reply, voice cracking. “Not until—”

Until you killed him. Until all of the memories you repressed came rushing through the floodgates without the one person who helped you hold them back.

“We weren’t supposed to leave the village,” you rasp. “They were scared that one wrong move would draw attention our way. I was seven, Chuuya. I didn’t understand, not really. I didn’t understand why my dad suddenly stopped bringing me out to the river—it was the only place where we could see the stars clearly, and I loved the stars, so I went to go see them on my own one night when everyone was asleep.” 

Chuuya says your name quietly, like he knows what you’re going to say, but he doesn’t. Your mouth is so dry that it feels like ash has built up in it, but you force yourself to continue.

“I didn’t even see him at first—the soldier,” you whisper. “He was hidden in the brush. Hurt. His leg was stuck in a bear trap, and he was dehydrated. He thought he was hallucinating when he saw me, thought I was an angel. He scared me, I wasn’t going to help him, but he was so young, Chuuya. He didn’t look any older than my cousin, and he was in so much pain, and he was so kind to me. Offered me the last of his food when he realized I was scared. I got him water and bandages and helped him free his leg. I was just a kid, I was only trying to help. I didn’t understand what I’d done.”

“That’s not your fault,” Chuuya says hoarsely. “Whatever happened wasn’t your fault, that’s—”

“By the next night, the village was burning,” you interrupt. “He got back to his regiment with my help, and he led them back to us. I don’t even remember his face now, but I remember him. I was playing with my brother by the well, and he stepped out of the tree line, and I didn’t even think I was seeing things right until my brother dropped his toys, but then the rest of his regiment followed, and the gunfire started, and the screaming. And he came up to me, and his eyes were empty. I’ve never seen anything like it before, it was—”

Chuuya starts to say your name, but you interrupt him, agitated. 

“Would you just listen?” you rasp, nails biting into your black jacket. “He didn’t kill me. I figured it was his way of repaying me for saving his life; he hit me over the head, and when I woke up, I was at the bottom of a pile of corpses.”

Chuuya inhales sharply. He reaches out hesitantly for your hand, and you let him hold it, but your hand remains limp in his.

“Do you know what death smells like?”

“I’ve killed—” he starts to murmur.

“No, the decay, Chuuya. For the first few hours, all you can smell is the blood,” you breathe out. “That’s what you smell. You never stick around for cleanup, and even if you did, cleanup always happens quickly. But after a day passes, the bodies start to decompose. It happens fast when it’s humid. And it was the middle of the rainy season. Hot. Muggy. By the end of the first day, all I could smell was rot.”

Chuuya looks sick, you can see it in the reflection of the picture you’re staring at, but his grip on your hand tightens.

“It’s so thick that you can taste it in your mouth when you try to breathe,” you say softly. “I tried to hold my breath at first, but that only made it worse because eventually I needed to breathe, and when I did, it was so…”

You don’t finish the sentence, lost in your own thoughts as you look up at the window looking over the city.

“And the flies,” you swallow thickly, almost gagging past the lump in your throat. “The flies showed up after the first day. The buzzing. There were so many of them, I wanted to cover my mouth, but my arms were pinned at my side. I still can’t take deep breaths without tasting the rot in the back of my throat. Sometimes when it’s too quiet, I can hear the buzzing of the flies around me.”

Chuuya lifts his free hand to wipe away a tear that you didn’t realize was rolling over your cheek.

“I could just barely see the sun rising and setting through the limbs above me. I was stuck beneath the corpses of my family members and neighbors for four days before a different regiment showed up—they saw the smoke. They started pulling the bodies off the pile to bury them, but I couldn’t even call out for help.”

You reach out for the picture on the table, brushing your thumb over Mori’s face.

“He was the first face I saw,” you whisper. “He didn’t even realize I was alive at first, but when he did, he pulled me out of the pile and carried me somewhere safe. I couldn’t speak or move for weeks; I was pretty much catatonic. His superiors wanted him to send me away, but he was the head physician and said I was better off with him. I don’t know if it’s because he realized I had an ability or if it was because he was worried about sending me away, that he knew I’d never be okay again back in the real world.”

 “He saved me, Chuuya,” you finish, turning to face Chuuya again. You reach out to grab his jacket, forcing him to look you in the eye. “Do you understand now why I can’t just accept I did what I did on a whim? On a suspicion that he used me as a scapegoat? Do you understand why I can’t just let it go—why I need to know what you’re keeping from me?”

Chuuya almost looks like he wants to cry when he looks down at you. You know his answer before he says it. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked me to,” Chuuya finally says, hands reaching up to cradle your face again, begging you to listen. “Please, you have to stop asking.”

Asked him to, you think, even more confused than you were to begin with. Your mind races to put together the few pieces of the puzzle that Chuuya gave you. But why wouldn’t you remember asking him unless—

Repin?

“Repin,” you realize softly, looking up at him for answers. The heaviness in his eyes is enough of an answer. “And… does this boy from the bar have anything to do with it?” 

He sighs heavily, hands dropping to his side as he gives you a long look.

“No,” he answers after a moment. “That little shit doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Is that another lie?” you ask with a slight smile that wavers at the edges.

“No,” Chuuya says quietly. “It’s not.”

You search his face for something—anything—that will make this all make sense. That will make it hurt less. But there’s nothing. Just that same pained look, the weight of everything he isn’t saying pressing down on you incessantly. 

Your fingers loosen their grip on his jacket, slipping away as your shoulders slump. You don’t know what you were hoping for. Answers? Closure? Neither would bring Mori back. Neither would fix whatever had broken inside you the moment you pulled the trigger. Neither would rid yourself of the rot in the back of your throat or the buzzing in your ears.

Your head tilts slightly, eyes flickering toward the window. The city outside is bright, alive—but you feel impossibly far from it, like you’re watching from the wrong side of a one-way mirror. The top of this building is a prison; the scarf around your neck is a shackle. 

A humorless chuckle slips past your lips. “It never ends, does it?” you murmur. Your breath hitches, and you tilt your head back to look up at the ceiling. “This will never end. I’m so tired, Chuuya.”

“I know,” he whispers, reaching up to brush your hair behind your ear. “I know, I’m so sorry.”

“I just want a break,” you say shakily, leaning into his touch for a moment. “I just need a break.”

Your lips part as you look up at him again, his eyes are dark as he looks down at you, entirely unreadable. You shift your weight forward, closing the space between you again. You lift your hand to trace the light scar on his cheek before sliding to cup his jaw. His lashes flutter as he turns his face into your touch like he always has, the familiar warmth of his skin seeping into your fingertips. You look at him through your lashes, studying his face carefully as you run your thumb over his bottom lip. 

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” you breathe out, thumb pressing down gently on his bottom lip. He swallows thickly, pupils dilating as his lips instinctively part for you. Your lips curl up into a teasing smile that’s a bit frayed at the edges. “Like old times?” 

He lets out a shaky breath, and your hand slides down from his face to cradle the side of his neck, thumb tracing slow circles against his pulse. You lean in to ghost your lips against his jaw before trailing slow kisses down the column of his throat, savoring the way his breath hitches and how his muscles tense beneath your touch. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s not sure if he should reach out to grab your hip or push you away.

“Please,” you murmur, kissing his pulse point once before resting your head in the crook of his neck. Your hands slide down his body to rest on his waist before you slip them around him, holding him close. You press your body closer to his, your breath shaky against his skin, feeling his warmth, his presence—the one thing that grounds you in the suffocating haze of what has become your life. “Please, I need one night to forget. I can’t keep going like this.”

Chuuya tenses under your touch, and for a moment, he’s utterly still. The silence stretches between you, too heavy, and you hold your breath as you wait, heart hammering in your chest. His hands finally move—one settles at your hip, the other curls into a fist at his side. 

For a second, he doesn’t push you away.

After what feels like an eternity, he exhales sharply and grips your shoulders, pushing you back just enough to look you in the eye. His gaze is dark and conflicted, and your heart sinks.

“We can’t,” he says quietly. “I can’t.”

“Please,” you whisper again, voice cracking as you shift closer to him. Your fingers hook in his belt loops, clinging to him desperately. “Just for one night.”

You don’t wait for an answer—you don’t want to hear his rejection. You lean in to press your lips against his. They’re warm and familiar, tasting of red wine and nicotine—you’ve kissed Chuuya a million times before, you’ve always felt most at home with him, but it feels… wrong this time, and you don’t know why. 

Frustrated, you press yourself into him again, lifting your hands to cup his cheeks. You slant your lips against his to deepen the kiss, trying to remind yourself of what this used to be. You barely notice the wetness against your lips until the salty taste seeps in.

When did you start crying?

Chuuya kisses you back, but there’s no heat behind it—it’s empty, he’s just going through the motions. His lips move chastely against yours, never taking the step to deepen the kiss, and you know it’s another rejection. When he pulls back to rest his forehead against yours, you take in a ragged breath, swallowing a sob.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he murmurs.

A shudder racks through your body, fingers digging into his shirt as you press your face against his chest. His hand comes to rest between your shoulder blades, holding you close to him.

“I don’t know what to do,” you gasp, speaking the words out loud for the first time. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Chuuya. I don’t know what to do about Cao Xueqin. I can’t get him to back down. And the government is threatening to send the Hunting Dogs to Yokohama—I don’t know what to do. He would—he would, and he’s gone, and he’s gone because of me. I need him, Chuuya, I don’t know why I did this, I don’t get it, I—”

Your words break into another sob as Chuuya presses his lips to your forehead, arm tightening around you as you collapse into him. He shifts to he can sit down on the couch, pulling you into his lap and cradling you in his arms. He presses your ear to his chest so that you can hear his heartbeat, stroking your hair gently as you let yourself break down in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this.”

It’s not the first time, and certainly won’t be the last time, that Chuuya’s words of reassurance do little to keep your anxiety at bay. Paired with his gentle rejection, it’s useless against the war that’s raging within you. You need to quell the doubt in your mind, the paranoia devouring all of your logical thoughts, the voice in the back of your head that gnaws at your mind and tells you that this isn’t right. But you’re exhausted, so instead of searching for answers or seeking out a body to numb your mind, you allow yourself this moment to drown.

--------

Dazai knows what he signed up for when he agreed to help the Armed Detective Agency. He’s been warring with it since he got home from the bar last night. Helping the Armed Detective Agency means working against you—he knew this when he messaged Ranpo, but it was different actually hearing the plans happening around him.

“Getting the new mayor out of office or trying to apprehend and imprison one of the most dangerous ability users in the world, I think one is quite obviously less dangerous than the other,” Ranpo says dryly, sticking a lollipop in his mouth as he kicks his feet up onto the conference table. “One is also less likely to bring the entire wrath of the Port Mafia down on us. If only marginally.”

“How are we supposed to get the mayor out of office without getting information from the Port Mafia?” Yosano asks, shaking her head. “Pictures of him talking to suspected mafia affiliates aren’t enough to get the assembly to vote him out. We need actual correspondence. Proof that he’s just an extension of the Mafia.”

An extension of you, Dazai finishes when Yosano spares a look in his direction. His fingers are stiff in his lap—he should probably speak up, he’s not even supposed to be here, he’s only here to give some insight into the Port Mafia and he hasn’t helped with much of anything, but every time his lips part to speak, he tastes ash in his mouth.

“I could apply for a job in the city hall,” one of the office workers, Haruno, offers quietly from the corner of the room where she’s taking notes for the meeting. “There’s an open job posting for a secretary at the—”

“Out of the question,” Fukuzawa says immediately, raising his hand to silence Haruno. “We will not be putting our office workers at risk.”

“But President,” Haruno protests, setting down her notepad. “The best way to get this information is to get on the inside—”

“No,” Fukuzawa interrupts firmly, crossing his leg over his knee as he leans back in his chair. “Whether we’re directly up against the mafia or going at this from a side angle, this is going to be dangerous. Our detectives will be the ones to handle this, but—”

“Going through it that way will take too long,” Ranpo says dismissively, head tilted back to look at the ceiling. “Plus, it’s not reliable enough. There’s no telling if you’ll get the job, and if you do, if you’ll have the clearance you need to get the information we need. We need to be more direct than that—”

“We can’t just storm the city hall, Ranpo,” Kunikida sighs, pushing his glasses up. “That’s a great way to get us thrown in jail.”

“What about—”

“I met her the other night,” Dazai finally says loudly, too abruptly. He swallows thickly when all eyes turn onto him. His gaze flickers over to Yosano, who looks concerned, and then to Ranpo, who doesn’t look surprised. “Her.”

They all exchange looks with one another, and though Dazai technically knows he is an outsider, the Agency has never made him feel like one before now. He could only imagine what they’re thinking—wondering if he’s going to rat them out to you, wondering if their plan is doomed before they’ve even fully begun. He knows they don’t trust him; they don’t really have much of a reason to, but it still makes his stomach flip. His throat tightens, fingers tensing in his lap as he looks down.

“What do you mean?” Yosano demands after a moment of silence. “She sought you out?”

“No. No,” Dazai says immediately. “She… didn’t even know it was me. It was just by chance.”

“She didn’t know it was you?” Kunikida splutters. “How is that possible—?” 

“What happened between you two, Dazai?” Yosano asks quietly, and Dazai’s heart sinks, a lump forming in his throat as he stares down at the table. He knows there’s no getting out of it this time, and he has to brace himself as he decides what to say. “We have to know before doing all of this.”

“She wiped her memories of me. Her and everyone who knew about me. All traces of our—” Dazai cuts himself off, taking in a shuddered breath before exhaling. “That’s not the point. The point is, I know the places she frequents. I can get the information you need if I can get close to her again. I can—”

I can do exactly what I was accused of. 

The thought rings through his head too loudly; his stomach churns, remembering the accusations Mori hurled at him and the betrayal on your face. He would be doing exactly what he was accused of. But it’s for the better, right? If he gets close to you, he’ll have a better chance at finding the painting that Repin used to take your memories of him, and if he finds some information to help the Agency, then there’s less of a chance that the military police will be sent in to deal with the Port Mafia and less of a chance that you’ll be caught in the crossfires or targeted yourself.

“Out of the question,” Fukuzawa repeats, dismissing Dazai immediately. “You are a civilian. I was against even letting you stay here for mission preparation, but Ranpo insisted on it. We are not sending you into the heart of it.”

“I haven’t been a civilian in a long time, you all know that, and I have the best chance of anyone here,” Dazai argues, sitting up in his seat. He ignores the nausea creeping up his throat. “I know her. I know all the places she likes to go. If one of you tries to do this and gets caught, you’ll be lucky if she kills you. You have no idea what she did to the journalists trying to expose her. But I know her, so—”

“But she doesn’t know you, Dazai,” Yosano interrupts, voice unusually gentle. “You’ll be at risk.”

“No,” Dazai says, swallowing thickly. His pulse is pounding; he has to blink to clear his vision. “No, she wouldn’t hurt me, she—”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Kunikida says. “She’s boss of the most dangerous mafia in the eastern hemisphere—maybe the world right now. If she figures out that you’re trying to get close to her for information, she’ll kill you just like she would any of us.”

“She won’t,” Dazai insists. He knows it in his heart. Even if you can’t remember him, you’d never hurt him, and it would never get to that point because—“She made sure that her second-in-command kept his memories of me. If things go wrong, I can go to him and he’ll intervene—”

“This is ridiculous.” Kunikida shakes his head, expression twisted in concern. “There are too many holes. It’ll never work. If you get close to her and he notices and realizes what you’re doing, it’ll blow everything up. And there’s no guarantee that he’ll save you if you mess up—”

“No, it’s perfect,” Ranpo says as he sits up in his seat, glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose as he looks down at all of the pictures on the conference table. “Wiping conscious memories might not necessarily affect the subconscious. He’s right—she might not hurt him, might even be blind to his real intentions because her subconscious is at ease with him. And if things do happen to go wrong, he has an extraction plan that has nothing to do with us.”

“And if that extraction plan goes wrong?” Kunikida demands. “There’s no telling it’ll work—we’re betting everything, his life, on a maybe. Just because he thinks the second-in-command of a mafia boss remembers him, how do we know he’ll protect him if things go wrong?”

“Because,” Ranpo says, lips curling up into a smug smirk as he leans forward to look at Dazai, “this whole transition of power happened to keep you safe, didn’t it?”

Dazai stiffens. The weight of Ranpo’s words slams into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. His mind reels back to the last night he spent with you at the safe house—the resignation on your face, the anguish in your eyes when you realized what had to be done. You made the choice to kill the closest thing you had to a father to protect him.

And now, here he is conspiring against you.

He feels sick so suddenly that he has to physically steady himself by grabbing the arms of his seat. He tells himself again that this is for the best—he needs to get close to you anyway, he needs to find the painting that took away your memories of him because he needs you back, and if the government doesn’t get something, then there’s going to be a military operation in Yokohama that you’ll be at the center of. 

Going behind your back to get a few files to incriminate your friend is nothing compared to that.

Right?

“I was trying to figure out what the missing piece was,” Ranpo continues with a grin, looking mighty pleased with himself. “From what I knew about Miss Mafia Princess through Akiko, she never would’ve killed Mori without a reason. It was to protect you—she wiped her memories to not drag you back in, wiped everyone else’s to keep you safe, but let someone she trusted keep their memories to intervene in case she made a mistake somewhere along the way. It was all to keep you safe.”

Dazai gnaws at the inside of his cheek. This is too much for him in one day—seeing you yesterday had been too much, and now this—now working with the Agency, working against you, having all of this brought up again and thrown right in his face—

“I think I should go,” Dazai suddenly says, standing so fast his chair scrapes violently against the floor. “Let me know if you want my help.”

“Dazai—” Yosano starts to call after him, but Dazai is already tunnel-visioned on the door, making his way out of the conference room rapidly. 

“Dazai,” Ranpo repeats. Dazai pauses, but doesn’t look back. “Do it. Get close to her. See what you can find out.”

Dazai glances over his shoulder. Fukuzawa looks displeased, but Dazai has learned that they seem to know better than to question Ranpo’s decisions, so he’s not entirely surprised when the older man nods in agreement. 

Dazai exhales shakily before nodding in return and quickly making his way out of the office. He only gets into the hallway before he’s keeling over, hands on his knees as he breathes in deeply. His head is swimming, his chest is so heavy that he feels like he’s being crushed. He clenches his fists as he tries to push away the nausea rising in his throat, pressing his forehead against the cool wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing his mind to go blank, but the weight in his chest refuses to lift.

His fingers tremble as he exhales slowly, trying to force the ache into something manageable. It doesn’t work. His thoughts are relentless, whispering accusations in the dark corners of his mind.

Conspiring against you. Doing exactly what he was accused of. 

It’s unforgivable. 

But it’s for the best, he tries to convince himself desperately. He needs you back, and you need him. Dazai knows it; he could see it in your face just from that brief meeting—you’re lost and lonely, just like him. Despite your betrayal, despite his resentment, despite his desire to hate you, he still loves you. He’ll always love you. He needs to find the painting Repin created that stores your memories of him, so he can destroy it, so you two can have each other again. And he needs to help the Agency find something to get Lippmann out of office, otherwise the military police is going to rain hell down on Yokohama, on you.

It’s for the best.

Dazai presses his knuckles to his lips, biting down on the skin hard enough to hurt, desperate for something to anchor himself, but he’s drowning in memories of you now. The warmth of your skin against his, the way you would gently cradle his face between your hands, the adoration in your eyes as you looked down at him—he needs you back. Everything he’s tried to push away for months crashes onto him at once. 

The months of anger and resentment have drained for the time being—all he wants is you, and he’ll do anything to have you back again. 

Anything.

--------

The grand chandeliers of the New National Theater glitter like a thousand tiny stars, casting warm, golden light over velvet-lined balconies and the sea of elegantly dressed patrons below. The air is thick with perfume, candle wax, and the hushed anticipation of the evening’s performance. Usually, you wear your suits to your weekly trips to the opera house—you come here for business, not pleasure—but tonight, you’re dressed in a gown.

You move through the crowd easily, your heels clicking against the marble floor. Your executives think that you’re meeting with an informant for intel. You don’t give them specifics. You don’t need to—you’re the boss now. But you give them just enough that they’re not suspicious—that Chuuya’s not suspicious—you don’t need him, of all people, to know who you’re really meeting. 

Anticipation curls low in your stomach, fingers twitching in the silk of your gloves. You don’t know what you expect from tonight, but you know what you want, and that’s why you came dressed in your nicest gown and in the color he likes best on you.

You reach the box and pause in front of the heavy velvet curtain. A slow inhale, a careful exhale, and then you push inside.

He’s already here.

Seated in his chair with one arm draped lazily over the backrest, Fyodor Dostoevsky looks as unbothered as ever, as if this is simply another night at the opera instead of a meeting between enemies. 

“You’re late,” he murmurs when he hears you enter. “The show has almost begun.”

His gaze flicks over his shoulder to assess you, violet eyes widening just a smidge when he sees your attire. His lips curl up into an unreadable smile, something between amusement and curiosity, but he rises to his feet to greet you. He holds out his hand and you place yours in it, breath catching when he bows his head down to brush his lips against your knuckles. 

When he lifts his head back up, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

His fingers tighten around yours, cold despite your gloves. His smile remains in place, but his eyes are as calculated and knowing as ever. In spite of everything, you find yourself enjoying the weekly mind games and power plays that take place between you and Dostoevsky.

“You dressed up for me,” Dostoevsky hums, voice soft as silk, thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist, a feather-light touch that sends a ripple of heat down your spine. “I’m flattered. You look beautiful—I did tell you that red is your color, didn’t I?”

He has said those words to you before—the first time you met him here—but for some reason, your mind draws back to the boy you met at the bar instead. His face flashes through your mind—smiling, eyes warm as he meets yours, which is odd because he didn’t smile at all during your brief encounter with him, and he certainly wasn’t warm; he was angry and bitter about whatever was bothering him.

Weird.

“I dressed for myself,” you reply smoothly before your prolonged silence becomes suspicious. “Though I suppose it’s a happy coincidence.”

His lips curl up into a smirk. “How fortunate for me, then.”

He tugs lightly on your hand, guiding you a step closer. His touch is deceptively gentle, but there’s something beneath it—a quiet command, a reminder of who he is and what he’s capable of. 

He’s playing with you. He always is. 

You don’t usually entertain it, tonight you do.

You could pull away, but you don’t. You let him guide you forward until your chest nearly brushes his, and you don’t push away his other hand when it comes to rest on your waist.

His gaze remains fixed on yours, eyes lidded and pupils a smidge larger than they should be. “I wonder,” he muses, voice dipping lower, “what it is you truly want from me tonight.”

The question should put you on edge. Instead, it makes the heat spread from your abdomen to your chest, fire coursing through your whole body. You don’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch and the tension rise between the two of you. 

Will you admit it? Or will the two of you spend another evening dancing around what it is you both really want? 

He wants you to say it, you know that, but you fear it might cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed. Fyodor Dostoevsky is your enemy still, and it’s only a matter of time before he makes his move on Yokohama. It would not look good if word spread about your meetings with him when it happened, and it could be exactly what he’s plotting to smear your reputation.

“What I always want from you,” you say at last, tilting your chin up. His face is so close to yours that you can feel his breath against your lips. “Information.”

His smile widens, teeth glittering like knives beneath the warm lighting of the opera house, and the thumb on your wrist presses down, just enough for him to feel the steady, rapid beat of your pulse beneath it. “Is that so?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” you offer, a lie, and he knows it from the way his eyes glimmer with amusement. “Would that be so strange?” 

“Strange?” he echoes, entertained. “Not at all. But terribly dangerous, don’t you think?”

You know what he means. You’ve known from the moment you started these little meetings, these clandestine encounters dressed up as you meeting an informant. You shouldn’t be here, standing so close to him, entertaining whatever this tension is between you. But the thrill of it—of knowing that you shouldn’t and doing it anyway—makes you stay. Gives you something to look forward to when you have nothing.

Dostoevsky leans in just enough that his breath ghosts the shell of your ear when he speaks. “You intrigue me,” he breathes out. The confession is quiet, meant only for you. “No one plays games with me quite like you do. I enjoy our meetings very much.”

You turn your head to the side just enough that your lips skim his jaw. His throat bobs at your brief touch, and your lips curl up into a pleased smile. You make your decision.

“Or maybe I want something else tonight,” you continue, like he didn’t speak at all, your voice quiet. He turns his face to look at you—you’re so close that your lips almost brush his when you speak, but you don’t let it deter you. “Indulge me?” 

His chuckle is soft, and he pulls back just enough to look at you again, violet eyes glinting under the golden light of the chandeliers. He lifts your hand again, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist as the lights of the opera house finally start to dim, signaling the start of tonight’s performance.

“I will indulge you in anything, darling.”

[no-144444]

hiii can u pls make a kimi fic that has angst and fluff??? u can make the story☺️☺️☺️🩷🩷 tyyy

sacrifices- k.antonelli

꩜summary: everyone has to make sacrifices...

꩜pairing: andrea kimi antonelli x fem! reader

“We need your full focus, Kimi,” Toto sighed. “You have a chance this year. You need to capitalise.” 

The way he said it sent off alarm bells in his head, and he gulped. There was something about the way Toto was looking at him, that silent sympathy but tough love he was used to. Last minute light night meetings were reserved for real problems, and it wasn’t like Kimi was underperforming. He had won a race already. He was qualifying well. He was on the podium constantly. There was a certain silence in the motorhome that always made him uneasy, and it sure as hell wasn’t helping the way this conversation made him feel. 

“I plan on,” he shrugged. “And the team is my full focus.” 

Toto sighed. “You don’t understand what I’m asking, do you?” he looked down, exasperated, as Kimi shook his head. “Y/n. You won't… I’ve talked to Y/n.” 

That was all kinds of fucked. Kimi’s jaw dropped, his brain bringing him to his feet before he could think about what he was doing, who he was threatening, or what this all meant. The air in the room vanished, replaced only by a thick tension, one Kimi would only add to. His whole body went cold. “You do not get to meddle in my life!” he shouted, crossing the table and getting right up into Toto’s face, a pointed finger at his chest, hitting it, hard. “I have a girlfriend who is nothing but supportive of me and what I do, what I give to this team, even though it takes away from her! And I know you like to pretend I’m your son because it makes you feel better about the fact that your actual sons barely speak to you, but you’re not my dad,” his chest was heaving, head burning with anger, and he scoffed. “Fuck you.” 

Toto took a deep breath, shocked at his outburst. Stupidly, he thought this was going to be easy. He thought Kimi would do what he asked blindly. He was wrong. “We all have to make sacrifices-” 

“I will not sacrifice her,” he demanded, his voice cutting through the Austrian’s. “Not more than I already have to.” 

And he turned and left. He couldn’t do this right now, not when he just got you back from an argument about something stupid he did. He was working hard everyday to make you feel how much he cares about you, how much he loves you, despite the thousands of miles of distance. He dialled your number, terrified that Toto had gotten to you before him, and fucked up any chance he had of reconciliation. 

“Kimi?” You sighed. “What?”

“Please don’t tell me-”

“Toto talked to me,” you sighed. “Is that what you want?”

“NO!” he practically screamed down the phone. “God no!”

You let out another teary sigh. “Kimi, if it’s what you want I’ll understand,” you sniffled. “You’re busy now, you’re a famous F1 driver, you don’t have to just keep me around because you feel bad-”

“Baby please,” he begged. “Just please don’t. I love you, I have always loved you. I’m not giving you up just because Toto asked me to,” he shook his head, his feet working as fast as they could to get to his room before he had a breakdown. “Just- please don’t leave me.” 

You were quiet. “We can talk about this when you get home, alright?”

The silence was deafening when you hung up the phone and his mind raced as he sat in his driver’s room, his life falling apart. 

“Ready for quali?” a knock at the door signalled his time for leaving all of this shit in his driver’s room and making sure it didn’t touch his helmet. He wasn’t sure if he could. 

The dim light of the setting sun made the perfect backdrop for your quiet evening alone. You usually liked evenings like this, just you and your dinner, finishing up some college work, making yourself dinner, and calling Kimi. Little candles all over your apartment, a cosy blanket and couch, maybe the cat from next door would come in through the balcony and lie down beside you where Kimi usually sat. 

Except, that evening there was no calling Kimi. And the apartment felt much too cold. You couldn’t unhear Toto’s points about how Kimi performed better when you were there, because he had less to work about and juggle, but you couldn’t always be there. You had your own life and friends, your own family to take care of, your school and your work. You couldn’t drop it all just to follow Kimi around the globe. You adored him, but come on, that’s a huge ask from someone. And then Toto suggested breaking up and your heart just… broke. 

But if that’s what it has to be, then so be it. 

The door opened. “Y/n?” His voice was clearly tired but determined. You turned your eyes to the door, a puff of smoke leaving your mouth as your eyes found his. He hurried over to you and took the cigarette out of your hand before stomping on it, mumbling something about ‘Peccato per te. Giving me heart attacks’.

It was a bad habit you'd picked up from some of your college friends, but you'd gotten it down to only doing it when you were really stressed. You thought this situation more than applied to that.

You sat on the couch as he closed the sliding door of your apartment balcony and sighed. “Congrats on the weekend. Pole and podium are huge.” 

He sat down beside you, sighing. “It was… alright, I guess. Didn’t feel as good with you not there,” he turned his head with a small smile and saw the way you dropped at his words. He cleared his throat, not knowing what to say in the prolonged silence. 

“I think Toto’s right,” you practically whispered. “You don’t need me coming in and giving you more stress.”

He shook his head, taking your hands. “No, si sbaglia. You’re everything to me-”

“I shouldn’t be. Racing should, Kimi,” you sighed, dropping his hand. “Let’s face the facts, you’re going places in that sport, you’re going to be a household name. You don’t need me fucking up your first season just becasse-”

“You’re not fucking anything up,” he shook his head, calmer than you’d even seen him during a fight. “And I don’t care what Toto says, I love you, and I’m not giving that up. Fine della storia,” he shook his head and took your hands again, bringing them to his mouth to kiss them. “You’re brilliantly smart,” one kiss. “And stubborn,” another. “And everything I want. I’m not giving you up because Toto doesn’t understand me.”

You were quiet for a long moment. He was so sure. So soft with you. There was something in his voice that almost made you believe him. So you nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he questioned, making sure. 

You turned your head and nodded. “Okay.” 

He leaned in and kissed you, and it felt right. But that growing pit in your stomach made you feel sick, and you didn’t know how long you could act like everything was fine. 

Toto had begged you to break up with him. 

You were considering it, for his own good.

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[holybibly]

The summer heat seems to be getting unbearable by the day. And there is nothing better than indulging in unholy thoughts during these times. 

And here are your unholy thoughts for the day: Your roommate San fucks you in the shower when the tension between you two gets too hot for you to handle.

San was a great roommate—you might even say perfect—if it weren't for one thing: he was so damn sexy. The boy just smouldered with hotness, and on top of that, you had a hard time dealing with his intensity and straightforwardness.

You never thought you'd share an apartment with someone like Choi San; it was like you two were from different universes; he was a famous fighter in the underground arena, and you worked in a fantasy flower shop. You rarely saw him without cuts and bruises and wearing anything more than an inappropriately tight tank top and sweatpants that hung so low on his hips that you could easily see the tattoo on his Apollo belt. San was quite the homeboy too, though; he loved to spend time with you, watching films or having dinner together, which was pure torture for you.

San had absolutely no filter; he could easily comment on how he liked your panties when your skirt was riding up too high or how your nipples were hard from the cold in the house. So, you often blushed in his presence, and as embarrassed as you were to admit it, your pussy was always unseemly wet for him. You were literally dripping.

Things had only gotten worse since he'd started letting you help him with his cuts and bruises from fights. He literally couldn't take his eyes off you, looking at you as if he wanted to eat you alive or fuck you right then and there. San was on the verge of grabbing you and fucking your brains out, and you knew he might, if the four broken beds he'd replaced were any indication.

But lately he hadn't brought any girls home, and something about his presence had changed. It felt like he was really hunting you down, circling you like a predator, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

He became rougher with you, harsher—you would even say possessive—as if you were his. The tension between the two of you was like the thick air before a storm. You could feel how stifling and electric San's presence in your life had become.

And if it was possible, he became even more shameless. Words, actions, touches—the level of sexuality and vulgarity increased day by day. It got to the point that one evening, while you were cooking dinner, he pressed himself against you from behind, all sweaty and dirty from another workout, wearing only sweatpants, and rubbed his erection against your buttocks.

His hands gripped the counter on either side of you so hard that his knuckles were white, and he breathed into your neck like a dog in heat—wet, hot, and hoarse as he thrust his hips into you. You were so shocked by what was happening that you didn't even know how to react; you just stood there and let him rub against you.

After that incident, you avoided him like the plague, and he didn't like that at all. You still remember the time you stayed late at work and came home after midnight to find San sitting in the middle of your living room in total darkness, staring at you with his feline, predatory gaze.

San had you cornered that night, pinning you between the wall and his body, giving you no chance to escape. He was so damn mean, scolding you until one moment his hand was around your throat and his forehead was pressed against yours. You literally gasped as you felt his other hand slide between your thighs and touch your pussy. It was over as quickly as it had begun, and the last thing you saw was San's smug grin as the door to his bedroom closed.

His games with you continued for weeks, literally driving you mad and depriving you of sleep. Hot images of him fucking you into the mattress or bending you over and fucking you so hard you couldn't walk for days filled your mind. And San stimulated it even more, as he seemed to have decided to give up t-shirts and vests altogether, walking around the house half naked all the time, and it seemed that his underwear had also been thrown out, as you could always see the outline of his semi-hard cock under the soft fabric of his jogging bottoms.

And maybe it would have stayed that way for a while if you hadn't left the bathroom door unlocked while you were taking a shower. You didn't think you'd see San until tomorrow morning; he's had another fight tonight, and as you knew, that usually lasted until dawn, so you didn't even think about locking the door.

The hot water scalded your body, thick steam filled the cramped shower cubicle, fogging the glass, and you were so lost in it all that you didn't even hear the front door close. Your hands slid over your body, smearing the fluffy, fragrant foam of your shower gel until your fingers were on your clit, slowly rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves.

You were so sexually frustrated by all of San's actions, and you really hadn't had sex for a while, so you just couldn't resist playing with yourself a little. If only you had noticed the dark figure behind the misty shower wall.

Just as you had inserted a finger into yourself, throwing your head back against the tiled wall and rolling your eyes in pleasure, the shower door swung open with a vengeance, revealing none other than Choi San. You didn't even have time to react because he was instantly beside you in the cramped, wet space of the shower with you. He hadn't even taken his clothes off, his crisp white t-shirt immediately clinging to his body, showing off every muscle of his perfect frame.

You gasped as his palm slapped the tile next to your head, his other hand tugging roughly at your arm, pulling your fingers out of your wet hole with a loud squelching sound. He slowly brought your slimy fingers to his mouth, staring into your eyes before he stuck out his tongue and licked up all your slime.

He moaned softly, his eyes rolling back at the taste of you, his tongue swirling around your fingers, carefully lapping up every drop of your juices.

"Mmm, you're sweet, just the way I like it." San whispered to you, letting go of your hand and grabbing your throat instead, pulling you into a hot, hungry kiss. He fucked your mouth with his tongue instead of kissing you and continued choking you. Your hands gripped his back, feeling all the tense muscles under his thin, wet t-shirt. You moaned into his lips as San emptied your mouth.

When he let you go, your knees buckled, but his arm around your waist held you in place.

"That's it, angel, I've got you, and I'm going to fuck you so good you'll never want to get off my cock again."

[femmeftal]

Hello bestie , wanted to ask if u could do how omni mark and viltrumite mark met their wife reader . She could be a hero , alien or just a regular person. Did she like him at first , how did they feel about her when they first met . The proposal 😍, wedding and never forget the honey moon night . 😉☺️😘

݂ ͡ ☆ be my baby!

⭒ pairings : mark!variants x mantis!reader

warnings : ( reader is a alien whos a hero ) fem body reader, smut, forced marriage

# OMNI-MARK

You and Omni Mark had met through standing known for being mass murderers, no one had expected you to be a killer those sweet innocent eyes with the galaxy in them fooled everyone.

No one knew about your kind not even Cecil, you were an empathic insectoid that was capable of taking over people's emotions which was lethal.

You had tendencies as a celestial hybrid, your father was worse than you thought having tendencies as a killer, and a hunter but you didn't inherit your fathers abilities instead you had your own set of powers that would deem you powerful.

When you had saw Omni-Mark slashing peoples heads off and ripping their bones from out of their place leaving a gory scene, you were amazed something about this made your mouth drool.

You couldn't put your finger on it but something about this feeling was foreign, you weren't an expert at human feelings and continued to dismiss it obviously that wasn’t enough.

Your antennas jumped when you saw the taller muscular male approach you, he was hovering up into the air with his arms crossed into his chest.

“ who are you. “ his tone was cold and demanded to know what you were and WHO you were since in the hero industry you were not that famous.

“ oh.. I am uh i’m Y/N “ Your innocent smile and the thoughts that ran through your sick mind were unbelievable, imagining stuff not a normal human would imagine but you were not human.

“ I cannot help but to see you kill those Heros, it was such a satisfaction to see and view “ The power balance between you both were thick, being on your knees in front of him drooling like crazy like a crazy pervert peeking at someone's panties, the look on Mark’s face was priceless.

When he had first saw your face when you were on your knees, something in him told you were the one, the one to boss around, the one to command your hand in marriage and you’d say yes like the gullible alien you were he’d thought.

and so he did, demanded your hand in marriage telling you how he needed a little pet following him around with powers like yours to fill in his voids, telling you how you did not have a say in what he said so when he saw the love drunk smile on your face he stiffly rubbed the back of your head.

Helping Mark during the war to emotionally damage many enemies, healing mark while convincing the good guys to give up and commit suicide to make Mark’s job easier in this war.

Rewarding you with either a praise or a sloppy kiss on your forehead, telling you once you guys had gotten back to your worlds he’d treat you good.

So when you and Mark got back to your dimension he bounced on you, taking your sloppy cunt in the middle of the destroyed road. your loud squeaky moans made it harder for him to not shove his whole cock deep into you, but luckily for you he had composure like any other human.

Of course you and him have done it before, he always told you it was for him to release his stress so he wouldn’t hurt you during his mood swings.

But this time he told you it was special, it was a certain things that human had did when they were married. Your very first honeymoon on the streets and it was amazing, the deep thrusts hitting your spongey G spot and almost inserting into your womb. Every pained moan was always a pleasurable one, the grip on the back of your neck was Mark telling you to hush it and take it like he had always taught you to. It was so hard to take

your master, especially if his thrusts were rough and slow. only time he had jack hammered inside of your walls is when you disobeyed one of his orders and degraded him for it, never again.

Mark’s loud whimpers and groans had echoed through the dark dim street, swearing that his nails would leave a mark from digging into your fragile neck. And all of a sudden your world went blank, the feeling of both of your guys orgasm washing over each other. His balls were emptied into you, three days worth of cum was in your womb that would probably get you pregnant.

# VILTRUM!MARK

You and Viltrumite Mark met when he had taken over the planet you were living on, the loud sirens of alarms telling you that people should start to evacuate to somewhere more safer than what this was, and so you did. Well try to do, but you were pinned down by a Viltrumite, sniffling you’d beg for your mercy kicking underneath the body that was above you. “ stay still woman “ the male viltrumite said, your whimpering and crying had made Mark’s heart melt. eyes squinting from

the tears that were spilling out of your wet eyes, witnessing your planet be destroyed for the one that would carelessly take over it. You couldn’t do anything about this which enraged you so much

It was too bad you were knocked out, head hitting the rough ruined ground. Your vision went straight to black when this had happen it was so quick that you didnt notice the man raise his hand

so when your eyes started to flutter on the white bed that was decorated with pillows, and lace blanket you were confused. Where were you? How did you get here? But you soon realized how you gotten here, soon pulling yourself up despite the agonizing pain in your head from hitting the ground.

Walking to the door you could hear the creaks behind you, the man who kidnapped you and placed you in this white room was right behind you. Not knowing what to do you stupidly turned

around to face the man, he was handsome looking like he had just got out of his shower which is why fog was in the room. The man started to frown “ why are you up, you will need sleep for the ceremony tomorrow. “ you looked

confused “ what ceremony?! let me go at once.. please “ still having kindness in your heart to save yourself from not being killed, looking like you’d

breakdown again if he did try to kill you, “ why would i let my wife leave? “ his voice was sly and questioning as if he wasn’t doing a single thing wrong. When did you become a wife you thought?! HOW did you become a wife

“ i do not want to.. no i dont want to hand you my hand in marriage “ your body would back into the metal like slide door, the technology on this new planet you were settled to was strange to you.

“ You will, for my heir and to populate my planet “ his priority was straight, you hated it. No you hated it and him you couldn’t possible marry the man who had destroyed your home planet as if it was okay just to do so?! frowning harshly you started to spit out degrading words to the male

“ you bastard! you think you can just do this and get away with this you’re a psycho i would never get with a scum like you! “

only if you knew that hours later you’d regret your wording when Mark’s hands were wrapped around your wrists restraining your hands to stop the hitting, he could smell the arousal on his brand new brides sex, the pool between your legs had began to smear on the white sheets.

Dampening them your white fluffy dress was lifted up to reveal so, being forced to not even wear under garments. Mark watched with fascination from your warm pussy pulsing at nothing, if mark knew your kind went into

heat he would’ve taken that to heart so long ago, your reddened face and glowing antennas made your appearance look even sexier. Chest heaving like you were out of breath and thrashing to get away from the male, you didn’t want to admit but you needed this, no you had to have this your heat hurt so much. wanting to be filled your hips unconsciously bucked up, signaling that you did

want this and you weren’t just fighting to be a little stuck up bratty wife, and Mark watched this with amazement remembering the degrading sentence that came out your vocal cords 4 hours

ago, “ dont worry my bride, i’ll take care of this “ him whispering into your earlobe made this worse for you, he was teasing you wasn’t he?

So when Mark’s long slim fingers slithered and sunk into your pussy you calmed down, stopping the thrashing and kicking. Even opening your legs wider to help him finger you better for prepping,

soft mewls and gibberish sentences filled the room just like how his fingers filled your un experienced pussy. Using every trick in the book he knew he had used, curling his fingers to find your g spot, playing with your hardened nipples and twirling your clit with his other fingers.

You were prepared, placing your legs onto his shoulder and swiftly thrusting in. Of course Mark held onto the fat of your thighs, the feeling of your virgin cunt broke him slightly. He never knew someone could be this tight until now, and god he wanted to experience this every single day

your protest went silent on his ears, swaying his hips to make a rhythm that could make your soft moans turn into loud screams. making sure the whole empire heard you getting pounded by Mark.

[sweetfcwn]

Hey can I make a request I was wondering if u can write where the reader and George day in the life and the reader helps George film a you tube videos

take one - george clarke

sorry i haven't been super active - work has been really busy! i'm slowly working through all your requests <3

the morning light filters through the curtains, soft and golden, painting lazy patterns across the sheets. you stir slightly, shifting closer into george’s warmth, your face buried against his shoulder. he’s still half-asleep, one arm draped loosely over your waist, his breath slow and steady against your hair.

“five more minutes,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep, pulling you closer like he has any intention of getting up soon.

“you said that ten minutes ago.”

he hums, clearly unconcerned. “i meant it then, too.”

you laugh, pressing a kiss to his jaw before wriggling out of his grasp. “come on, we have things to do.”

“we do?” he finally cracks one eye open, watching as you stretch. “can’t imagine anything more important than staying in bed with you.”

“your job, for one,” you tease, ruffling his hair before rolling out of bed completely. “something about being a very famous youtuber? filming a video? does any of this ring a bell?”

george groans dramatically, shoving his face into the pillow. “hate it when you use my own words against me.”

but minutes later, he’s up, trailing behind you into the kitchen as you start making breakfast. he’s still bleary-eyed, hair a mess, but he stands behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as you flip pancakes.

“how did i convince you to stick around, huh?” he murmurs, voice low, lips ghosting over the side of your neck.

“you haven’t gotten rid of me yet,” you reply, leaning back into him.

he grins against your skin. “and i never will.”

later, after breakfast (and after george has spent an unnecessary amount of time messing with his hair in the mirror), you help him set up his camera in the living room.

“okay, be honest,” he says, adjusting the angle. “do i look good from this side?”

“you always look good.”

he pauses, glancing at you with a smirk. “was that a compliment?”

“don’t get used to it.”

he laughs, nudging your shoulder. “you’re lucky i like you.”

once everything is set, he claps his hands together, the familiar shift into his on-camera persona settling in. “alright, we’re rolling. today’s video—” he gestures dramatically, “—features my lovely assistant, who is not getting paid for this.”

“tragic, really.”

he grins. “tell the people your name, love.”

you shoot the camera an unimpressed look before turning to george. “they know my name.”

“right, right. they probably know too much, actually.”

the video idea is simple—something lighthearted, a challenge video of sorts—but george being george, he finds every opportunity to tease you. when you mess up, he overreacts dramatically. when you get something right, he acts deeply offended that you’re better than him at his video.

“honestly, you should just take over my channel at this point,” he announces at one point, throwing his hands up. “you’re clearly the fan favorite.”

“i do have better comedic timing than you.”

he gasps, clutching his chest. “you wound me.”

but despite the constant teasing, he never stops checking in—subtle, quiet gestures meant just for you. a quick squeeze of your hand when the camera isn’t on you. a glance your way to make sure you’re still having fun. and later, when you’re both sitting on the floor, reviewing footage, he rests his head against your shoulder, murmuring a soft, “thanks for helping me.”

and you smile, pressing a kiss to his hair. “always.”

[4unnyr0se]

PLS BOKUTO SMUT I WILL SELL YOU MY SOUL VIV 🙏🙏🙏

❥ nepenthe | kotaro bokuto

warnings: timeskip! bokuto, fem! reader, mutual pining, bokuto is emo in the beginning, dry humping/grinding, multiple orgasms, making out, incredibly lewd dialogue, fingering, missionary, two text messages, unprotected sex, tiny corruption kink, possessive! bokuto if u squint, extreme fluff at the end, bokuto is a semi-hard dom in bed, atsumu, hinata and sakusa mentioned, not proofread (unless u count grammarly)

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 5.3k (lol)

opal i would write anything for u i love u sm

got a request? asks are open!

Being on the MSBY Black Jackals was all the Bokuto could ever dream of. Playing on a team made up of his peers, the adoring cheers from the crowd filled his ears and boosted his ego. He especially loved how cute the girls in the stands were and how they wore merchandized versions of his jersey. People paid good money to watch him play, him. Was there nothing better than the universe could offer him? Indeed, Kotaro Bokuto’s life was perfectly perfect. 

Except until recently. He had missed a significant spike in the latest game against the Alders, which nearly cost him the match. He was not okay. But that was just a first-time thing, right? Indeed, he would not miss a spike in tomorrow’s practice. He’s Bokuto; he doesn’t miss spikes. And then he missed nearly all of his spikes. He was not doing well when he returned to his penthouse apartment that evening. Was he in a slump?

His golden eyes flicked back and forth on his ceiling as he lay in his plush bed, hands crossed over his chest in thought. Why was he acting like this? He occasionally missed a spike, but that was a rare event. Was he missing them so frequently? What if he wasn’t as good of a volleyball player as he thought? Anxiety plagued his mind, making him toss and turn in his cotton comforter decorated with owls (stylish owls, of course). Bokuto’s black and white hair became incredibly messy, reflecting his inner thoughts. Luckily, he had a means of comforting himself. When the opposite hitter wasn’t doing so well at times like these, he could always turn to you, one of his beloved Black Jackal Managers. 

You were the kindest of all the managers he had, that was for sure. While the other seven managers focused on scheduling or payroll, you were the personality hire. Your pretty face automatically boosted the morale of the entire team, like a beam of sunlight poking out from the clouds after a thunderstorm. Bokuto liked you; he really liked you. Every single practice, he would pray that you’d be there, sitting on your chair, diligently taking notes while wearing that MSBY windbreaker that covered the curves of your breasts in the most annoying manner possible. Fuck, you were so damn pretty.

Bokuto reached for his phone, which was charging on the bedside table, scrolling through his messages until he landed on your chat from a couple of weeks ago. The topic was simple: What kind of onigiri did he want from Onigiri Miya? It was just a question, but the notification made his heart race every time he read it. The pads of his thumbs hovered over the keypad for a moment, unsure of how to word his message. He wanted you to visit him. Why couldn’t he just type that? After minutes of contemplation, he had sent his message. Bokuto’s phone was thrown to the other side of the bed, nearly getting lost in the mess of thick duvet. The opposite hitter slammed his face into his fluffed pillow, groaning into the fabric. 

Kotaro Bokuto: Wanna come over and talk? Been feeling really down recently. :( 

It felt like hours since he sent the text, looking at where he tossed his phone every other minute to see if the home screen lit up. Finally, after agonizingly painful minutes passed, his screen lit up with your message, the cute little heart icon next to your name making him break out in a crooked smile. 

Cute Manager: I’ll be over in 30 minutes. Bringing my famous sugar cookies! They always brighten someone’s day <3

Bokuto practically threw himself off his bed, looking around his messy apartment. Shit, had that smell always been there? Why (and how) was there a sock on the ceiling fan? Don’t even get him started on the empty packages that littered his living room floor; this was a disaster. He had to ensure it was perfect for you, his angelic manager. You thought so highly of him; he wasn’t about to lose that due to a messy apartment. 

He cleaned like a man gone wild, sensual R&B music playing from a speaker in his kitchen. He had obtained three full trash bags and one spilling-over hamper, but he had made his apartment look presentable. The counters were no longer sticky, and the sock was down from the fan, thanks to him expertly flinging rubber bands at the blades. Bokuto was proud of himself, bearing a satisfied smirk while his hands rested on his hips in a hero pose. 

The doorbell rang. Oh fuck, how were you here already? Did half an hour seriously pass by so quickly? He didn’t even have time to change out of his black tank top! Maybe that was a good thing? Perhaps you liked looking at his massive biceps. Whatever, he didn’t have time to think about all that. His cute manager was waiting behind that door with a plate of delicious sugar cookies!

Bokuto swung the door open a little too enthusiastically, his crooked smile fully displayed amongst his handsome features. His golden eyes instantly landed on your figure, drinking in your outfit. A low-cut black scoop neck top with oversized ripped jeans; fucking perfection. You offered him a kind smile and held out the wrapped-up plate of cookies, tilting your head to the side. “Hey, Bokuto! I’m here, like I promised. Oh, and I brought the cookies. Don’t ask for the recipe because I won’t tell!” you giggled, stepping inside his apartment. It was cleaner than you imagined, and it smelled like roses. Who knew that Bokuto could be so neat?

“Woah, it’s even bigger than I imagined! Sometimes I forget how much professional athletes make annually,” you joked, kicking off your ballet flats on the shoe stand. “You must have an amazing view at night, look at the city! It’s gorgeous.” you turned to Bokuto and smiled, placing your hands on his shoulders. “It’s been a while since we last hung out, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah! I guess it has, eh? Time flies when you’re a Black Jackal!” Bokuto awkwardly stammered, growing increasingly flustered as the almond shape of your manicured nails made contact with his muscular shoulders. “Thanks for coming over so quickly; I thought you were at a club or something.”

You shook your head and leaned against the raised kitchen counter, raising an eyebrow. “Nah, I hate clubs. It’s always so stuffy in there, and there’s always a hand on your ass, whether you want it or not.” you brushed your hair to the side, exposing your neck. The perfume you had to carefully put on, a mixture of lilac and jasmine, filled Bokuto’s nostrils. He was only a few feet from your body, yet the aroma drove him secretly insane. “What about you, do you like clubs? You seem like the type.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bokuto asked, pretending to clutch his pearls.

“Well, you’re extroverted and love having a good time. That’s what the clubs are for, aren’t they?” you paused your speech, matching his gaze with your own. “But you haven’t been having a good time recently, have you?”

Bokuto shook his head and slumped onto the sofa, his bottom lip curling into a childish pout. “No, you’re right. I just can’t hit my stupid spikes! Atsumu’s been on my ass about it like it’s my fault that I can’t seem to hit them! I mean, I guess it’s my fault…whatever! I don’t know what I’m saying anymore!” he slammed his face in his hands, groaning in exasperation. 

You smiled softly and sat next to him, patting his muscular back. “Hey, it’ll be alright. You’ve hit amazing spikes before, and you’ll hit amazing spikes again. I know you will.” your soft hands ran up and down the thin fabric of his tank top, massaging the tense muscles underneath. “We all have our slumps, you know. Nobody is perfect, not even Atsumu. Besides,” your lips were centimeters away from his ear. “Atsumu is my least favorite.”

Bokuto chuckled and wrapped his arm around your waist, pressing your cheek against his pectoral. “Yeah, but he’s really funny! Except when he texts the group chat with me, Shoyo, and Sakusa…then he gets really gross. Usually about the women he slept with or something.”

“Ew,” you blush softly as Bokuto's muscular bicep wraps around your waist, his large hand squeezing the fabric of your jeans. “So, are you feeling any better now? Do you wanna eat a cookie and watch a movie, maybe? What would make you feel better?” you could feel his heartbreak in his chest, the thumbing sensation of the organ being a somewhat calming presence. “Because when you’re sad, the Jackals can’t really get anything done. No offense.”

Bokuto chuckled and squeezed you closer, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. God, you smelled fucking amazing. Did you always smell so good? “I’m down for a movie if you’re down. What kind of movie were you thinking of?”

“Comedy, maybe? I don’t know, you can pick,” you replied.

“Comedy it is,” Bokuto leaned forward to grab the remote from the coffee table, turning on the massive television he owned. His hand remained firmly grasped on your waist, occasionally running his thumb up and down the denim of your high-waisted jeans. He flicked through a couple of films under the comedy section in his DVR until he selected a random one. He chose it solely on how fantastic the movie poster was, naturally. 

The opening credits played from the surround sound speakers, and his hand was still snug on your waist, his golden eyes occasionally stealing a chaste look. You were smaller than him, so he really only got to see the top of your head, but you were so fucking adorable. Bokuto thought it was vital that you didn’t push him away after he wrapped his arm around you and that you welcomed his touch. You trusted him so much, making his heart beat a million miles a minute. 

The movie's beginning was hilarious, as expected from an award-winning comedy. Bokuto’s laugh was deep in comparison to yours. Of course, your laugh was adorable; why wouldn’t it be? He felt as though his heart would explode from your presence, beating erratically in his chest.

“Are you feeling okay? Your heart is beating really fast,” you questioned, lifting your face from its comfortable resting spot on his chest. “Do you need anything at all?”

Bokuto bit down on his lower lip, unsure of what to say. Should he just confess how much he wants you, how much he craves to have your lips on his own? What if you rejected his advances and quit managing the team? “Uh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.” Sweetheart, did he really just say that? Bokuto cringed at himself.

A small smile graced your delicate features at the endearing name, your tiny hand resting on his chest. “Bokuto, I’m always going to worry about my team. Especially you, you’re my favorite. Did you know that?”

His mind went blank for a second. He was your favorite. He was your favorite. Out of all the members of the Black Jackals, you liked him the most. “I-I didn’t know that at all, am I actually your favorite? You aren’t messing with me or anything?”

“Why would I lie about that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s just…you’re beautiful. And I’m your favorite…it makes me feel special. I know I’m already special, just like, more special. Y’know?” 

“You think I’m beautiful?” your eyes bore into his once more, the chatter from the movie falling on deaf ears. “You really think I’m beautiful?”

Bokuto softly smiled at you, adoring how the light from the television illuminated your blushing face. “Yeah, I really think so. I’ve thought that for a while since you were hired.” his other hand cupped the right side of your face, his calloused thumb running across your cheekbone. “Do you…do you think I’m pretty, too?”

You giggled and rested your hand on Bokuto’s, smiling brightly. “Yeah, I think you’re beautiful, Bokuto. And handsome and adorable.” you leaned upwards, your noses touching. “You’re funny, kind, and sometimes a little too confident. You’re sensitive, and you care so much about your teammates. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“I want you to have me,” he whispered, his voice a low baritone. “Please, I’ve wanted this for so long. Tell me that I can have you, even if it’s just for tonight.” his lips hovered over yours, not daring to do anything without your permission. “Because if you say it’s okay, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold myself back, sweetness.”

His hot breath tickled the tiny hairs on your face, mouth slightly agape. You gulped and nodded, closing your eyes while his hands cupped your cheeks. “It’s okay, Kotaro.”

The sound of his given name falling from your lips was all he needed to press his mouth to yours in a searing kiss filled with unfulfilled desires. It was slow and sensual, yet it held so much molten passion. His lips molded with yours so perfectly, the taste of your chapstick making him savor you even more. His hands fled your face and grasped onto your hips, pulling you into his lap with no trouble at all. Bokuto pressed your chest against his own, groaning against your petal-like lips. A spark was set in his lower belly, his hands trailing down to your ass. He squeezed the denim fabric, eliciting an adorable squeak from your mouth. 

You pulled away after a moment, both of your faces incredibly flushed. “Shit,” Bokuto breathed out, toying with the hem of your jeans. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that, sweetness.”

��Me too,” you whispered, kissing his neck gently. “I’ve been wanting to do this,” you placed another kiss, then another, and another. “For so fucking long.” you nibbled onto his collarbone playfully, earning yourself a beautiful moan from Bokuto’s bruised lips. 

“Fuck, I never pegged you for a biter. Thought I would always be the one biting you,” he purred, slipping his hands underneath your jeans and panties. You gasped at the coldness of his hands on your warm skin, how his fingers kneaded the supple flesh of your ass. “But I guess I can let you nibble on me for a little longer since you’re so damn pretty.”

“When did you get so good at flirting, hm?” you began to suckle on his collarbone.

“The moment I got signed to the Black Jackals. They’re, fuck, they’re a bunch of womanizers.” he softly moaned at the sensation of your teeth suckling at his tough flesh. “Taught me a thing or two.”

You pulled away from his neck and smiled, kissing his forehead. “So I take it you picked up a thing or two?”

“Damn right, I have,” his hands squeezed your ass once more. “Can you do me a favor and take these off, sweetness? I’ll take mine off, too. That way, we’re even.”

You got off his lap and shimmied out of your jeans, tossing them aside along with your top. You wore a matching bra and panty set, the black fabric hugging your curves tenderly. “Now, you do yours. Don’t keep me waiting, Ko’.” 

His nickname rang in his ears, your voice making it drip like honey. Bokutp practically ripped off his clothes, leaving him in only his MSBY boxers. “Shit, you’re gorgeous.” he leaned into the leather couch, spreading his legs. “C’mere gorgeous, sit on my lap.”

Bokuto’s hands once again cupped your ass as you straddled his lap, admiring how thick his thighs were. You had never noticed it before, but Bokuto was a big guy. “That’s it, good girl. Right on my thigh there, pretty.”

“Fuck,” you moaned as your clothed pussy made contact with his bare thigh, unconsciously rubbing against it. “You’re really fucking sexy.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Bokuto pulled you into another kiss, aggressively slamming his lips against yours while his hands remained glued to your ass. His tongue prodded against your lips impatiently, begging to be let inside your mouth. You happily obliged, a mewl falling from your lips as his tongue briefly danced with yours. Bokuto pulled away, breaking the strand of saliva that connected your lips. “Your voice is too damn pretty,” his hand cracked against your ass, causing you to grind further onto his thigh. Embarrassed, you hid your face in his bruised neck, earning a smug smirk from Bokuto. “Oh, did that feel good, baby? Don’t be shy now; you can tell me.” he smacked your ass once more, relishing in your pleasurable squeaks and squeals. “Does someone like it when I smack their ass?”

“Y-yeah!” you whimpered into his neck, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. Your hips bucked against his thigh, your core desperate for friction. “Please, lemme ride your thigh. You feel so fucking good, Ko’.”

Bokuto threw his head back at your begging, his cock growing painfully hard in his boxers. “Yeah, you wanna grind on my thigh, pretty girl?” he squeezed the plushness of your thigh. “I’m the only one who can make you feel this way, right? Because I’m the best. Say it, and you can do whatever you want.” 

You let out a broken sigh and pulled your face out from his neck, your pearly whites nibbling at the shell of his ear. “You’re the only one who can make me feel this good, Kotaro.” Your breath was sweet and sensual, and you were full of wanting for your release. “Please, I wanna ride your thigh.”

“Good girl,” he praised, gripping onto your hips. He began to drag you up and down his thigh, embracing the cute little noises you made. “That’s it, baby, talk to me. Tell me how good I make you feel, yeah?”

“So good! So good, Ko’.” you whimpered, a warmth sensation bubbling up inside your belly as your clothed clit rubbed against his thigh. Your small hands rested on his abs, running up and down the prevalent muscle. “T-talk to me, helps me get off–fuck!” you tossed your head back, hair falling out of your face as Bokuto purposefully flexed his thigh muscle. 

He groaned at the sight of you, head thrown back, tits bouncing in your bra as you used his thigh to get yourself off. His goddess of a manager was using him to cum, his thigh. It was so fucking perfect. “You’re so fucking sexy, you know that? You come to practice in those short shorts that show off your ass so well. Do you know what you do to me?”

“Tell me,” you moaned, feeling your climax approach quickly. You were basically rutting yourself against his thigh like a bitch in heat, and it felt fucking incredible. 

“Every time you bent over, I thought about this ass,” he smacked the exposed flesh, definitely leaving a handprint later. “Thought about squeezing it, about smacking it, how it would look wearing slutty black panties.” Bokuto flexed his thigh muscles even more, giving you a sturdier surface to grind on. 

“Thought about you clawing at my back while I fuck you in the locker room, so the rest of the team can back the fuck off. Keep you all to myself, my pretty manager.” he spat through his teeth, gripping your jaw tightly with his hand. “Look at me when you cum, pretty girl. Wanna see that cute little face.” his thumb ran across your bottom lip, pulling slightly.

Your mouth went slack-jawed as your orgasm washed over you, your eyes struggling to look at Bokuto while you continued to ride his thigh until you came down from nirvana. “F-fuck!” you sobbed, your hips ceasing their bucking once your high was finished. “Shit, I made a mess on your thigh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t fucking apologize. That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucking seen.” Bokuto groaned, lifting you off of his thigh so quickly. “Fuck, you soaked your panties. I guess you gotta take them off now, yeah? Bra, too. Don’t be shy around me.” he set you down on the coffee table, your form blocking the movie, but he didn’t care about the movie anymore. There was only you. 

Still shaking from the shockwaves of your release, you slowly stripped yourself of your remaining clothes, placing them down on the glass of the table. Bokuto drank in your view, like an artist staring at a finished painting. You were gorgeous, ethereal, out of this world. Surely, it would be impossible for anyone else to match your beauty. “Fucking hell,” he groaned, pushing himself off of the couch to grab your wrist. “Bedroom. Now.”

He practically dragged you into his bedroom, throwing you down onto the plush owl-themed comforter. You giggled at the childish fabric as Bokuto hovered above you, his hands on either side of your head. “I take it you love owls?” you raised an eyebrow.

“I fucking love owls,” he smirked, leaning down to peck your nose. “Not as much as I love how you look right now, pretty girl.” his right hand squeezed your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple while his left hand managed to continue holding him up.

“You’re such a tease,” you moaned as he pinched your sensitive bud, his massive hand encasing your entire breast. “I thought you wanted to fuck me, Kotaro. Am I wrong?” 

“You aren’t wrong, sweetness,” he purred, rolling his hips against yours. You could feel his cock pulsating through his boxers, begging to be inside you. “Just wanna make sure you’re prepped first. I’m a big guy, y’know?” he stuck his fingers inside of his mouth, coating them with saliva before prodding at your entrance with the digits, slowly sticking them inside your heat. “Holy fuck, you’re so fucking wet. Did my thigh make you cum that much, princess?”

You gasped as he curled his fingers deep inside of you, his ministrations slow and sensual. “Fuck! Y-yes, y’made me cum so much! Love your thighs, Ko’!” you squeaked, instinctively squeezing your thighs together.

Bokuto tutted and used his free hand to shove your legs apart, now kneeling above you. “Don’t try to hide it, sweetness. You know I don’t like that.” he was not knuckle-deep inside your weeping cunt, his fingers plunging inside so expertly. “Fuck, gotta make sure you’re nice and loose for me, yeah? Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“S-shit! You’re gonna make me cum again!” you whimpered, grasping onto your breasts for additional stimulation. “God, how do your fingers feel so fucking good?”

“Can’t answer that for you, sweetheart. You wanna cum again, pretty girl? Want me to rub your clit and make a mess all over my hand?” he teased, beginning to massage your sensitive clit with the pad of this thumb. His fingers were still scissoring you open, coating you with the mixture of his saliva and your release. 

“Yes, fuck! Please, Ko’!” you whined, the familiar bubbling sensation in your belly threatening to spill over. Your legs were now dangling over his shoulder, quaking in ecstasy. “Wanna cum, fucking make me cum!”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he offered you a mischievous smirk, furiously rubbing his thumb over your clit as you tumbled into pure pleasure once more. Your mouth became agape; your head tossed into the plush pillow behind you. His fingers ceased their movement, sliding out of your cunt covered in your slick. “Shit,” Bokuto mumbled, bringing his fingers to his mouth. “Fucking delicious.”

He gave you another kiss, leaving some of your release on your lips. His boxers were peeled off and thrown onto the nightstand as he fumbled through one of the drawers, cursing at himself. “God dammnit, I know I have one. Where the fuck is it?”

“Looking for a condom?” you asked, the breath still being knocked out of your lungs.

“Yeah, it’s being a pain in the ass to find, though.”

“I’m on the pill.” you plainly state, smiling at him. “You don’t have to use a condom. It’ll be okay with me.” 

Bokuto stopped rummaging through the drawer, turning over to look at you with a look that could only be a mixture of lust and absolute delight. “Are you sure? I-I mean, I’m happy to hit it raw; I just don’t wanna pressure you or anything.”

You nodded your head and pulled him close to you by his shoulder, pecking his nose sweetly. “I promise, Kotaro. You don’t have to use a condom when you’re with me.”

“God, that’s music to my fucking ears, baby,” his voice rumbled, his hands resting on the bottoms of your thighs. You were propped up by your elbows and Bokuto’s variety of pillows, his cock painfully hard against his abdomen. “Can’t wait to ruin this fucking pussy.”

You tilted your head to the side in confidence, winking. “Then what are you waiting for?” you spread your legs, exposing your glistening heat to him once more. “Ruin me, Kotaro.”

Bokuto bit down on his lower lip and growled, aligning his cock with your cunt. “You have no idea what you’re in for, pretty girl.” the mushroom head pushed past your folds, the newfound sensation causing the both of you to moan softly. “Shit, you’re still so tight. That’s okay,” he chuckled, snapping his hips against yours. His cock slammed inside of you, filling you up so quickly. “I’ll fucking make it fit.”

“Holy shit!” you sobbed, your fingers scrambling for purchase in the bedsheets. “Kotaro!”

“That’s it, baby, scream my name while I fuck this pussy stupid.” Bokuto hissed, pounding into you without giving you the chance to catch your breath. You looked so fucking pretty underneath him, especially the way your greedy pussy took him so well. The way your sobbing walls enveloped him entirely it was perfection. “Taking me so well, good fucking girl.”

Your pathetic mewls were like that of a morning songbird, the most beautiful melody. Bokuto hoisted your legs above his shoulders once again, his cock hitting you at a deeper angle. You screamed, the head prodding at your cervix. “Fuck, shit, oh my god! Kotaro, f-fuck!”

His thrusts were animalistic as if he were in heat. They were uncalculated and had no rhythm, only a mission to make you stupid on his cock. His hands gripped onto your ankles while he started at your lewd form, admiring how your small hands encased your breasts in an attempt to create more stimulation. How greedy you were. He thought it was adorable. Everything about you was simply adorable. 

“Good fucking girl, that’s my girl,” he groaned as you squeezed around him, pulling him impossibly deep. “Oh, you like it when I call you that? Your pussy is sucking me in, pretty girl.” he teased, smacking the underside of your thigh. 

You attempted to speak, but all that fell from your lips was incoherent babbling. Your mind was all fuzzy, full of nothing but thoughts of Bokuto fucking you senseless. You arched your back further into the mattress, your hair forming the messiest halo above you. The sound of his balls slapping against your ass filled the bedroom, the movie in the living room being a thing of the past. 

“My pretty girl can’t speak now, but that’s okay,” Bokuto assured you, punctuating his sentences with a harsh slam inside of you. “I’ll just make you cum again, yeah? We’ll cum at the same time, okay, pretty girl? I know you got one more in you. Wanna give it to me? Don’t you think I deserve it? I wanna hear you say that. Say I deserve to make you cum again!”

“Fuck!” you sobbed, your orgasm dangerously close. You didn’t think you could handle one more, his cock bullying its way in and out of your weeping cunt. “Y’deserve to make me cum again, Kotaro! F-fuck, think I’m gonna cum soon!”

“Don’t fucking hold out on me, baby. You know I like it messy!” Bokuto bent forward, his thrusts becoming more erratic and needy as his cock twitched inside of you, begging for release. “Gonna fucking cum in this pussy, make it all fucking mine!”

“Shit!” you sobbed, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. “Kotaro!” his name fell from your lips like a broken pair as you came for the third and final time that night, completely coating his cock in your glistening slick.

“Holy fuck, yeah, yeah! Fucking hell!” Bokuto roared, shooting ropes of cum deep inside your core, creating a new warm sensation in your belly. His thrusts grew slower and slower, almost as if he was attempting to fuck his cum inside of you. “Dont wanna…stop fucking you…but I’m tired.” he groaned, letting your legs fall back onto your chest. “Shit.”

Bokuto shamelessly collapsed onto you, purposely landing on your breast. He lifted his hips so his cock could slide out of you, almost with the thinnest streams of his release down your bruised thighs. “Mmm, that was so fucking good,” he mumbled against your breast, sucking on your pert nipple for a moment. “You got the best fucking pussy I’ve ever had.”

“You flatter me,” your hands ran through his damp black and white strands, acting as a comb. “You felt so fucking good, Kotaro. I’m glad I could help out. Do you think you’ll feel better at tomorrow's practice?”

Bokuto looked up from your breast and smiled brightly, cupping your flushed face with his hands. “I’m totally gonna kick everyone's ass! Atsumu won’t know what’ll hit him!”

“There’s the Bokuto we know and love!” you chuckle. 

“I’m back, baby!” he weakly flexed his muscle, kissing your cheek playfully. “Guess all I needed was my sexy manager. Best damn cure on the planet!”

You rolled your eyes and kissed the top of his head. “You act completely different when you’re inside of me.”

“Is that a bad thing?” he titled his head.

“Absolutely not. I think it’s adorable. You’re adorable.” you kissed his cheek once more. “So, uh, is it possible for us to do this again sometime? I-it was nice.” your eyes landed on the floor, embarrassed for no reason.

Bokuto flashed you his signature crooked smile and laughed, kissing your neck. “What a stupid question. Of course, we can do this again! We basically confessed before I fucked you, remember?”

“Oh yeah, I guess I forgot.” you awkwardly chuckled, leaning into his enthusiastic kisses. “Maybe your dick knocked all the brains out of my skull.”

“But then you won’t have any more left when you watch us practice!” Bokuto whined, snuggling his face into your chest once more. “You gotta have some brain left, okay?”

“Okay, Kotaro,” you mumbled, your eyelids growing heavy. “Hey…it’s pretty late. Would it be okay if I slept here for the night? I understand if you don’t want me to.”

“Hell yeah, you can sleep here!” He cheered softly, running his hand up and down your arm. “That way, you can arrive with me to practice tomorrow. Then I can show off my new girlfriend to the team and make them all super jealous.”

You chuckled. “Oh, am I your girlfriend now?”

“Do…do you wanna be my girlfriend?” his voice was soft and unsure.

“Of course I do, cutie.” you pecked the top of his head, pulling up the owl-themed covers. “Now, get some sleep. You got a lot to do tomorrow, yeah?”

“Mm, okay, baby. I can���t wait to wake up in your arms tomorrow.” he innocently whispered, shutting his eyes as sleep overtook him.

“Goodnight, Kotaro,” you whispered, flicking off the lamp as the two of you fell asleep in a mutual embrace, eager for what tomorrow will bring.

copyright © 4unnyr0se 2024 all right reserved

reblogs appreciated ❤

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

hold on,hold on,Yandere!Conner Kent x reader🙏🏻

(sorry for bothering😭)

U ain't a bother and if anybody tells you that u do, then, they gonna face my pinky, my thumb and my fist they gonna run. 😼🐺🧏🏽‍♀️ nobody messes with my first ever anon 😠👊

Anyways

The night has fallen quietly over Metropolis, the cityscape softened under a blanket of stars. The world feels smaller somehow, contained within the walls of your apartment where Connor sits, angled slightly toward you, his gaze unwavering yet serene. He has that brooding, intense look—a mix of steel and tenderness—that you’ve come to recognize as uniquely his. It’s as though he’s carrying a burden, one he won’t let you see, and yet you feel its weight as if he’s drawn you into his orbit without permission.

“Connor,” you say softly, trying to break the quiet, “you’ve been… around a lot more lately.”

His eyes flicker, something shadowy dancing behind them, a vulnerability he usually keeps hidden. He doesn’t answer right away, just lets his gaze travel over your features as if memorizing every detail. The room feels charged, the air between you like the fine thread of a spider’s web—delicate and unbreakable all at once.

Finally, he speaks, his voice hushed but firm. “I just want to make sure you’re safe. Is that so wrong?”

There’s a faint, haunting cadence in his words, something raw and possessive yet laced with an almost tragic reverence. You feel the intensity radiating off him, a barely restrained storm beneath his calm exterior.

“Nothing could happen to you,” he continues, almost to himself. “Not on my watch. I’d make sure of that.”

You’ve always known Connor’s protectiveness runs deep, but tonight, it feels like there’s something else lurking beneath the surface. An edge, a quiet desperation that clings to the room, thick as fog.

“Connor…” you say his name with a gentle tone, hoping it might pull him out of whatever dark place he’s retreating into. He’s so close now, leaning forward, his hand reaching out as if compelled by some invisible force. When his fingers graze your cheek, his touch is featherlight, as though he fears you’ll vanish.

“If I could keep you here,” he whispers, his tone taking on a dreamy, almost poetic quality, “locked away from the world… I would. Not because I want to take anything from you, but because I… I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

It’s a confession wrapped in longing, and you see the truth of it in his eyes, where constellations seem to burn just for you. There’s something about his gaze that feels eternal, as if the universe itself has handed him the task of guarding you.

“You mean a lot to me,” he says finally, each word slow and deliberate, as though he’s trying to etch them into your soul. “More than you know.”

In that moment, his love feels like an uncharted ocean—beautiful and terrifying, with depths you’re not sure you’re ready to explore. But his sincerity anchors you, and, despite the intensity of his words, you can’t help feeling safe, cocooned in the quiet power of his devotion.

(A/n: is it just me or do you guys also feel suspicious of how I could post every day despite saying I'm too lazy to do so... Maybe my laziness hasn't kicked in yet which is weird and scary considering I'm writing dis rn in front of my 10 homework activities, and yes I am doing it last minute but so what...? I'm too lazy to do all of em and rn I'm don't know what I am talking about... I love yapping but I'm a introvert does it make me a extrovert when i talk too much but not as loud? Guys I'm turning crazy, I need someone to talk to and all my best friends are busy idk why they've been busy since last week....my gf is not replying for like 20 minutes now...im going crazy. Also sorry for spamming the Batfamily tag even though it's not the content I posted, I just feel like it's more famous than the others and also idk how to tag... Though mainly because I'm scared of being a flop hehe...)

[igorluvr]

‘BACKSTAGE | choi su-bong x reader

PAIRING: thanos x reader

CONTENT: maybe enemies to lovers, tiny angst, choking/neck grabbing, dirty talking, spit, fingers in mouth, mouth covering, face grabbing, mirror sex, semi-public, praise & degrading, squirting, orgasm denial, overstimulation

SYNOPSIS: years ago, you and su-bong hooked up briefly— then he vanished. now, he’s suddenly back for a comeback gig, and when your eyes met mid-concert, the tension reignited. sharp, hot, and begging to be resolved.

AUTHORS NOTE: why do i always come up with the NASTIEST smut... anyways written for req by @thanosspills, i hope u enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it !

words: [12.2k]

STARING up at the stage, all you felt was rage— pure, simmering hate. There he was, rapping like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t left you stranded after you laid yourself bare for him years ago.

Sure, you were both young and reckless back then, but even you knew what he did was cruel. No matter how famous you are, it could never excuse vanishing without a word. No goodbye, not even a text.

You weren’t just some groupie. What happened between you was rough, spontaneous, unforgettable— the kind of night people fantasize about when they’re lonely. You thought he felt it too.

But he disappeared, and the silence was louder than anything he’d ever written. You used to idolize him. Now, he made your skin crawl in disgust.

Still, you thought about it constantly. Replayed every second, every breath.

Maybe he didn’t like it.

Maybe he regretted it.

And then, as that night looped once more in your head, he looked right at you—eyes locking like a match to gasoline. The fire in your hearts exploded as you both stared intently.

At first, his eyes locked on you like a magnet, relentless and steady. But suddenly they blew wide as his face turned beet red.

His lips faltered—just for a second. One line dropped short as he stumbled over his lyrics. The mic lowered an inch before he caught himself, dragging his gaze away like it burned to look at you. Like the memory hit him just as hard.

But it was too late— you saw it. The guilt, the lust, the recognition.

Your jaw clenched. You should’ve looked away— should’ve walked off, pretended like you didn’t feel it too. Tried to ignore that ache that sat low in your stomach, sick and pulsing. But you didn’t.

Because fuck, he still looked good. Sure, he was a little older— broader in the shoulders, jaw more defined. But he still had that same face that lured you in, the same lips you used to trace with your tongue. Now those lips were twitching, smirking—like he knew what he was doing to you.

Backstage cleared out fast after the performance. Everyone buzzed about his comeback but you didn’t hear a word of it. Your ears were ringing from adrenaline and unresolved fury. Then suddenly—

“Still mad at me, baby?”

The voice came from behind, low and gravelly, cutting straight through the noisy hum of the hallway. You froze until a hand brushed your side.

Slowly turning around, you were met with the man you hated more than anything on this earth. He stood close, eyes dark with a smirk that made your blood boil.

“Don’t fucking call me that.” You spat, but your voice wavered—you hated it.

He cocked his head, stepping in until your back met the concrete wall. “Why not?” he murmured, voice thick with fake innocence as he inched closer. “You liked it last time. When you were dripping all over me—begging.”

Your eyes snapped up to his, shooting a gaze sharp enough to cut skin. "That was the past, Su-bong. Stop bringing up irrelevant shit, especially in public," you hissed, darting a quick glance around to make sure no one was listening.

"Didn’t seem irrelevant when you were staring like you wanted to rip my clothes off with your teeth,” he shot back, a smirk forming at his lips. “But okay.”

You scoffed, turning away in annoyance. “I never did that.”

He stepped right back into your line of sight, forcing your eyes to his again. “So you’re telling me that when you saw me on stage, you didn’t feel anything?” His voice dropped as his head tilted, watching you close.

Silence.

You wanted to say no— wanted to shut it down and scream that he was delusional, but nothing came out. Because deep down, you knew you wanted him back, and you didn't want to give up the chance to finally have that.

He read it instantly. The twitch in your brow, the breath you held. “Fine, be stubborn.” he muttered, turning on his heel.

Your heart dropped then and there. After all these years, after you finally found him again, there he was— walking away just like before. A pit formed in your stomach as you watched his figure grow smaller with each step.

But then suddenly, he stopped at a nearby table. His eyes flicked down as he picked something up—a lanyard.

Turning slowly, he faced you again, that same smirk from before crawling back onto his face. The distance didn’t matter—you could feel the heat behind his stare like he was inches away.

He made his way back towards you, twirling the lanyard between his fingers as he held eye contact. “If you’re gonna keep lurking backstage like you own the place...” he murmured as he got close again, “might as well make it official.”

Before you could speak, he reached up slowly and slipped the lanyard over your neck. His fingers brushed your collarbone, then your throat. He let them linger, pressed just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Come by later, or don't. It's up to you now.” he said lowly, eyes trailing down your body like he was undressing you with every glance. Then, he turned and walked away—unapologetically, like he already knew you’d follow.

You stared down at the tag on the lanyard, inspecting the design.

'V.I.P' stared back at you like a loaded gun on a table—waiting for you to pull the trigger. You almost laughed. Of course he gave you this. Not a pass— a challenge. A warning disguised as access.

By the time you blinked out of it, the hallway was empty. His presence was gone, but the heat between your legs persisted. You clenched your thighs together, scowling at yourself, but your feet were already moving.

It wasn’t until you were standing outside his dressing room that you realized what you'd done. The door was cracked open like he expected you, like he knew you’d come.

You slipped inside quietly. It was dim, private, thick with tension the moment you crossed the doorframe.

He was seated on the couch, head tipped back, shirt damp and clinging to his chest with sweat. When he heard the door click shut, he didn’t even turn around, just spoke.

“Took you long enough.”

You swallowed hard. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But your voice was breathy, betraying you.

He chuckled deeply, standing up to turn around and face you. His eyes were dark—like he'd been waiting years just to look at you like this again.

Making his way to you, Su-bong grabbed something off the cluttered table—a thick black wristband, slightly distressed from use. He rolled it between his fingers as he approached, head tilted, lips curled just barely into that crooked, infuriating smirk.

His eyes grazed over you, slow and unhurried, like he had all night to look. Like he was already tasting you with his eyes.

“You’re really still mad, huh?” he murmured, voice smooth like honey laced with poison. “But you came anyway, that says more than your little attitude ever could.”

He held the wristband up like it was some kind of offering. “Remember this?” he asked. “You wore it that night, kept it on while I fucked you face-down.”

Your stomach flipped and he saw it—how your lips parted just slightly, how your breath caught in your throat.

“Yeah,” he chuckled under his breath, stepping even closer. “But then you left it like it didn't matter."

His hand reached for yours, deliberate and slow. He slid the band over your wrist, tugging it up until it rested snug against your skin.

“Still fits. Still mine,” he said softly, letting his thumb brush across the inside of your wrist. “Even if you pretend you're not.”

Your chest rose with a shaky breath. You hated how calm he was. How in control, like he knew your body was already betraying you.

He leaned in, lips ghosting along the lobe of your ear. “You gonna keep pretending? Or should I remind you what it feels like to spend the night with me?”

His other hand reached up to cup your face—thumb tracing your bottom lip, eyes dark and lustful. A small whimper of desperation escaped your mouth, causing him to smile and step closer. “God, you're loud, I loved that. Always needed my fingers in your mouth just to shut you up.”

You flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“I missed that little choke in your breath,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “Missed how you’d pretend to hate me while riding me so deep you couldn’t speak.”

Then finally, he grabbed your jaw fully—fingers gripping, guiding your face to look directly at him.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, tone low and cruel and knowing. “Say the word. Otherwise, I’m taking my time with you tonight."

You swallowed your pride, pushing your hate aside as you were relieved you got the chance to experience him again. "No—Don't stop, please." Your voice came out quiet, breathless, but the second those words slipped past your lips, Su-bong's expression changed.

That smug grin disappeared and got replaced by something darker— hungrier.

“Say it again.” he said, not as a demand, but like he needed to hear it. His grip on your jaw tightened slightly, just enough to make your breath catch again.

Your lips parted shakily. “Don’t stop.”

His thumb slipped into your mouth before you could say anything else, pushing past your teeth slow and deep, pressing down on your tongue. “Mm,” he hummed, eyes flicking down to watch you. “That’s better.”

You sucked instinctively, earning you a sharp inhale through his nose, a low 'fuck' under his breath. Thanos let you take his thumb deeper, spit pooling against your tongue, your cheeks hollowing around him like muscle memory had never faded.

“Still such a pretty little mouth,” he muttered. “Made for me.”

His free hand slid down your stomach, palm dragging slowly down your sternum before stopping at the button of your jeans. He didn’t undo them yet, though. Just rested his hand there—heavy, intentional.

“You know what I thought about all this time?” he asked quietly, pulling his thumb from your mouth and dragging it across your cheek wetly. “How you used to sound when I covered your mouth—how your eyes would roll back when I made you hold your moans in.”

His fingers dipped just beneath your waistband, teasing the skin beneath. He didn't move yet—just watched you squirm.

“You wanna be good for me?” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours again. “Then shut your mouth and keep your eyes on me.”

As he slipped two fingers back into your mouth, the hand at your jeans finally moved. He unbuttoned them slowly, never once breaking eye contact, and slid his hand inside. Not rushed, just deep—knuckles pressed against you through your soaked underwear.

Then as his hand covered your mouth, fingers still inside, he started rubbing just enough to make your thighs tremble.

“Yeah,” he breathed, jaw clenching as he felt the heat between your legs. “There she is.” Teasing you through your wet panties, Thanos dipped down and latched his mouth onto the crook of your neck.

He sucked on your skin mercilessly, like he didn’t care if it left a mark—like that was the point. Growing harder with his mouth, his fingers started moving faster in your pants.

You moaned louder, the lewd sound muffled by his hand. You could feel yourself growing more needy with each growing second, bucking into Su-bong's hand until suddenly, his hand stopped.

“You gotta take what I give you, baby.” His voice was low and cruel, like it turned him on to see you fall apart under his control.

You whimpered beneath his hand, hips stuttering from the sudden lack of friction. His fingers were still pressed there, still warm, but unmoving—and that was worse. The teasing, the denial, the way he stared at you like he owned your need.

“Don’t grind on me like some desperate slut,” he growled against your neck, voice muffled by the skin he’d been sucking raw. “You want more?” You nodded quickly, eyes low, still locked on his like a magnet.

“Use your words.” He pulled his hand from your mouth—wet fingers dragging down your chin and across your throat, slow and filthy. “Come on, let’s hear it.”

“Please,” you breathed. “Please touch me.”

He clicked his tongue, tilting his head with a fake, cocky disappointment. “Already begging? Thought you’d last longer than that.”

Still, his fingers finally moved. He slipped past the soaked fabric, sliding two fingers through your folds with a dizzying slowness. “Fuck,” he hissed, brows twitching. “You’re soaked.”

You bit your lip hard, trying not to cry out as his fingers circled your clit just once before dipping lower again. Teasing, never enough.

“You missed this,” he whispered, mouth brushing your jaw. “Missed how mean I get when you’re this wet. Don’t lie.”

Your hands gripped his shirt, desperate for something to hold onto. He chuckled and leaned in close again, lips brushing yours but never kissing.

“I’m not gonna be gentle with you, baby,” he said softly, cruelly. “Not after the way you looked at me tonight. Not after you showed up with that attitude and those fuck-me eyes like you didn’t want this the whole damn time.”

Then, suddenly, he pulled his hand from your pants and shoved the same fingers back into your mouth—coated in your slick. “Clean it up,” he ordered. “Show me how good you taste.”

Your tongue swirled around his fingers as your eyes fluttered shut. Moaning softly onto him, you swallowed slowly, savoring the moment.

"So sexy." Thanos mumbled, running his hand down your waist as you sucked his fingers relentlessly. “Fuck… just like that.”

You felt his breath on your cheek, his body pressed close behind yours. The air between you burned—hot, heavy, filled with things neither of you were saying.

He slowly took his fingers from your mouth with a wet drag, letting them trail down your chin as he stepped back slightly. “Up,” he said. Quiet, yet firm. “Come here.”

You followed, dazed and aching, as he guided you a few steps across the room. The vanity mirror caught your eye before anything else—the soft light glowing around its edges, your reflection flushed, pupils blown wide. You looked wrecked already, but he wasn’t even close to done.

He stopped you in front of it, hand still at your waist. “Look at you.” he said, voice low in your ear. “See what I do to you?”

His hands ran over your hips before bending you over with practiced ease. Your chest hit the vanity, hands bracing yourself on either side of the mirror as he came up behind you. He kicked your legs open with one knee, just wide enough.

His palm flattened against the small of your back, pressing you down slightly. Not rough, but just enough to make you submit—to let you feel how much stronger he was.

"You know what I missed most?" he asked, voice lower now, almost reverent. "The way you arch for me the second I put you like this. Like your body knows who it belongs to."

You let out a shaky breath, heat crawling up your neck as you looked yourself in the mirror—lips parted, pulse fluttering at your throat. Su-bong bent over you slowly, dragging his lips across the shell of your ear.

“I used to fuck you right here, didn’t I?” he whispered, hips pressing against your ass to let you feel his hard length straining against his jeans. “Right in front of this mirror, made you watch the whole thing, watch as you came undone.”

You whimpered, back arching just a little more as his hands gripped your waistband, tugging your jeans down over your hips, like he wanted to unwrap you inch by inch. He let out a hiss as your panties came into view, soaked and clinging to you.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, trailing his fingers up the inside of your thigh. “You’re already a mess.”

You felt his hand slide up your back again until it wrapped around the back of your neck. It wasn't tight, not yet. Just there.

“I’m gonna ruin you in this mirror,” he whispered. “And you’re gonna watch every last second."

His hand stayed at the back of your neck, thumb grazing the base of your skull as he leaned in, pressing his chest to your back. His other hand reached around, cupping you through your soaked panties—fingers slow, almost lazy, as he dragged them over the damp fabric.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “You’re practically begging and I haven’t even pulled these off yet.”

Your breath hitched, body trembling slightly under his touch. In the mirror, your eyes met his; dark, feral, steady. He was watching you like a man starving, savoring every second of your unraveling.

“I want you to see it.” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “The way you fall apart for me, how your thighs shake before I even stretch you open.”

He tugged your panties down in one smooth motion, letting them fall to your ankles. You stepped out of them blindly, grasping harder against the edge of the vanity. His hand returned between your thighs, now skin-to-skin, fingers gliding through your slick folds with a slow, practiced precision.

“Fuck…” he muttered, jaw tightening as he circled your clit. “You’re dripping for me like you need me to fuck it out of you.” A moan slipped from your lips, hips twitching back against his hand.

“Keep your eyes up,” he ordered, pressing a firm kiss to the side of your neck. “I want you watching when I break you.”

Then, in a snap, he shifted. One arm wrapped around your stomach, pulling your body flush against his. His other hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so you were forced to meet your own gaze in the mirror.

“Look at that face, look how desperate you are for me.” he growled, the gravel in his voice dropping low and dirty. You could barely breathe. Every word was a match struck against your skin.

And then, without warning, he bent you back over the vanity, one hand pressing firmly between your shoulder blades, the other gripping your hip tight. He slid his fingers between your legs again, but this time, there was no teasing.

He shoved two fingers inside you—deep, fast—drawing a strangled moan from your lips as your legs buckled slightly.

“There she fucking is,” he hissed, hand clamping over your mouth as your cries escaped. “That sweet little cunt I used to wreck.”

He pumped his fingers faster now, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room, hips grinding hard against your ass as his breath grew heavier behind you. You could feel how hard he was, how badly he wanted to lose control—but he didn’t, not yet.

“You're gonna come just like this.” he growled, voice shaking with restraint. “Bent over, drenched around my fingers and staring at yourself like the filthy girl you are.”

You moaned helplessly into his palm, your thighs trembling, the pressure building too fast.

“And when you're done,” he added darkly, removing his hand from your mouth to grab your face and turn it toward him, “I'm gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget anyone else ever touched you.”

His words set off a switch in your body. Suddenly, your orgasm hit you, crashing over your body in hot, blinding waves. You gasped his name, voice shattering and back arching as pleasure surged through you in deep, pulsing shocks.

Su-bong did't stop, though. His fingers kept working you—faster, deeper—drawing out every last spasm like he refused to let you come down just yet. He pressed into your spot again and again, wrist slick, grip unforgiving.

You whined, body shaking, fingers clawing at the vanity for something—anything to hold onto.

“I wanna feel you come until you cry for me, you hear me?" he hissed. Show me how bad you need me.”

You couldn't respond, could barely think. All you could do was feel it—your body helpless under his hands; dripping, sensitive, wrecked. And still, he kept going.

“You look so fucked-out already,” he muttered, staring straight into your reflection. “I haven’t even been inside you yet.”

Finally, his fingers slowed—drawing one last shudder from your overstimulated core before slipping his fingers out of you, wet and glistening.

He held them up between you and the mirror, watching a string of slick stretch between the two as he smirked.

“Filthy,” he whispered. “Just how I like you.” Then he reached down, unbuckled his belt with one sharp pull, and kicked his legs wider behind you.

“Bend back over for me, baby.” He lined himself up, one hand on your hip, the other gripping the back of your neck again, eyes still locked with yours in the mirror.

“Are you okay? You ready?” Su-bong asked, genuine concert shining through his rough exterior as he checked on you.

With a low 'yes', you nodded— a green light for him to keep going, because at this point—it would hurt you more to stop.

Su-bong exhaled sharply, jaw flexing as he adjusted his grip on your hips. His cock dragged against your folds, slick and hard, teasing the entrance with maddening precision.

“Good girl,” he muttered, guiding himself in inch by inch—stretching you open with delicious pressure. His breath caught as he sank deeper, watching every twitch of your face in the mirror, every tiny gasp and flutter of your lashes.

You whimpered, the stretch almost too much after how sensitive you already were—but it was so good, and he knew it.

“Look at you.” he breathed. “Taking me like that… fucking perfect.”

His hips pressed flush against your ass, fully buried now. He stayed there, still for a moment, letting you feel how he filled you completely. His hand smoothed over your back, steadying you.

“I missed this pussy,” he whispered, voice shaky with restraint. Then, he pulled back just slightly, rolling his hips forward again—slow, deep strokes that had your knees threatening to buckle all over again.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent moan, and Su-bong leaned in over you, teeth brushing your ear. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel this for days.”

Each thrust stayed slow, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. Skin slapping against skin, the wet sound of your bodies meeting echoed through the room like sin.

And then, without warning, he snapped his hips forward—once, hard—pulling a ragged cry from your lips.

“Too much?” he asked, still holding you firm. You shook your head fast, eyes red and glassy in the mirror, lips parted with desperate breath.

That was all he needed. Su-bong growled under his breath, grabbing both hips this time, and slammed into you with a deep, brutal thrust.

You gasped, one hand flying to grip the edge of the vanity. Then he did it again. And again.

His rhythm shifted—no more slow teasing. He pounded into you like he needed to claim every part of you, your name lost in the broken moans falling from your mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, teeth clenched, sweat starting to drip from his brow. “You’re milking my cock—fuck—you love this, don’t you?”

You couldn’t answer, could barely breathe.

His hand came up again, wrapped tight around your throat from behind—pulling you back into him with each thrust, forcing your eyes open toward your reflection.

“Don’t look away, I want you to see what I do to you.” he growled, pounding even deeper into your guts.

You practically screamed into his hand as he repeatedly slammed into that dizzying spot deep inside you, each thrust stealing the air from your lungs.

Your vision blurred, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your body jolted forward from the force of him. But Su-bong didn’t let you fall—his grip on your throat held you steady, keeping you upright and exposed, bound to him, the mirror forcing you to watch every second.

“Look at you,” he growled into your ear, pounding mercilessly into your soaked cunt. “Fucking drooling, legs shaking— you look ruined.”

Your moans had turned into whimpers now, breath caught in your chest as your body slipped further and further out of your control. You were unraveling fast—sweat on your skin, spit on your chin, the burn of overstimulation already morphing into something dangerous.

“You gonna come again?” he hissed, voice cracking. “I can feel it—gripping me so fucking tight.”

You couldn’t even form words. Your entire body was locked up, overwhelmed, your orgasm building violently under the surface. More intense, more urgent than anything you’d felt before.

“Let it out.” Su-bong snarled. “Cream all over my cock—make a fucking mess.”

His hand moved from your throat to your mouth, covering it just as the next thrust hit your spot dead-on—and that was it.

You screamed into his palm as your body snapped. Your climax tore through you like lightning, and this time everything gave out. Your legs, your breath, your restraint. Your whole body felt weak as your orgasm ripped through you.

A hot gush of liquid shot from your core, splashing against his hips, the floor, the vanity, soaking everything.

Su-bong froze for a second.

Then let out a long, guttural, “Fuck…” like he’d just watched something divine. He looked down, still inside you, watching your slick drip down your thighs and pool beneath your trembling knees.

“Shit.” he muttered, pulling you back against him. “You squirted all over me.”

You were shaking, chest heaving, eyes glassy with exhaustion and bliss. But he wasn’t done admiring you. He pulled his soaked cock out just slightly and rubbed your release up your inner thighs, watching you twitch from overstimulation.

“Didn’t even know you could do that,” he said, voice low and awed. “But fuck, baby—you just made a mess for me like a fucking dream.”

Then he leaned down, kissed your shoulder, and whispered: “You've got one more round in you, don't you, baby?”

Panting heavily, you nodded as you leaned on the vanity for stability. Your legs felt like jello—mush under your body as they shook violently.

"So pretty, my girl." His voice was rough silk, full of need and reverence, like he couldn’t believe the sight of you beneath him—wrecked, twitching, completely his.

Your legs were still shaking when he reached down and scooped you into his arms again. He didn’t even ask this time, just carried you across the room and dropped onto the couch with you in his lap, your body folded against his chest.

“You're gonna take me again like this,” Su-bong muttered, flipping you gently so your back hit the cushions. “Staring straight up at me.”

He climbed over you, slotted perfectly between your trembling legs, dragging the thick head of his cock against your soaked entrance. Your breath hitched as your hands gripped the sides of his neck, legs falling open wider.

“Good girl,” he muttered, then pressed in again—slow this time, but heavy, stretching you full with one deep thrust. “Still so fucking tight.”

You moaned, and he caught it with his mouth—his lips messy and rough, kissing you like he needed it to breathe. When he pulled back, his hand gripped your jaw, firm and unforgiving.

“Keep those eyes on me,” he said through clenched teeth. “I wanna watch the exact second you come.”

His thumb traced your bottom lip, then pushed past it, dragging your mouth open wider. You were panting now, barely able to form words. He hovered above you, hips rolling deep and slow, breath hot against your cheek.

“Open your mouth.”

You obeyed, tongue out slightly, lips parted. Suddenly he spat into your mouth, hot and dominant. The warm slick hit your tongue, and your eyes fluttered as you swallowed it down without hesitation.

“God, that’s it,” he hissed. “You’re fucking perfect like this.”

Then his thrusts picked up—deeper, faster. He gripped your face with both hands now, holding you still as his thumbs pressed into your cheeks while his cock slammed into you over and over.

“You feel that stretch?” he growled. “That’s me ruining you from the inside out.”

You whimpered, body starting to jolt under him again, your orgasm rising too fast to fight. Su-bong leaned in, forehead pressed to yours, still gripping your jaw.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “Come with my spit in your mouth and my cock in your guts. Show me it’s all mine.”

And with a scream, you did. Your walls clamped down hard around him as your nails digged into his back, every part of you tightening as you came undone again.

“F-fuck—” he gasped, and then he was gone too—hips jerking before pulling himself completely out of you and shooting hot ropes of cum onto your stomach with a low, broken moan. Su-bong collapsed onto you, chest right on top of yours as you straddled his body below him.

You stayed like that; pressed together, panting, shaking until your heartbeats finally started to slow. His hand stayed on your face— gentle now.

Thumb stroking your cheek, eyes locked to yours like he couldn’t bear to look away. “Still with me?” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You nodded slowly, dazed and completely spent.

“Good.” He leaned down and kissed you again—slower this time, softer. And for a moment, the whole world disappeared.

Su-bong stayed draped over you for a moment longer, the heat of his skin against yours anchoring you, keeping you in the moment. His breath ghosted along your neck, slow and steady, as his fingers gently threaded through your hair.

Neither of you spoke. There was no need to.

Finally, he lifted himself just enough to look down at you—his hair messy, lips swollen, and brow damp with sweat. His thumb brushed lightly over the corner of your mouth, wiping away a streak of spit from earlier.

His eyes softened, like the fire had dimmed into a slow burn instead of an inferno. “You okay?” he asked again, quieter now.

You nodded, voice barely there. “Yeah… I’m okay.”

He kissed you again—this time not to dominate, not to possess—but slowly, like he was checking you were real. That this hadn’t been another memory he’d left behind.

Then he stood up, tucking himself back into his pants quickly, and grabbed a pack of tissues from a nearby shelf. Wordlessly, he crouched between your legs again, his touch tender now as he carefully wiped your stomach clean, murmuring a soft 'sorry' when you flinched at the sensitivity.

You couldn’t help but watch him—this man who had just wrecked you beyond belief, now wiping you down like he was afraid to hurt you. “You didn’t have to,” you whispered, smiling down at him.

“Yeah,” he said, tossing the tissues aside. “I did.”

He helped you sit up slowly, then reached down and grabbed your panties and jeans from the floor, holding them out to you. “Can I?” he asked, fingers grazing your thigh.

You nodded.

He helped you step back into them carefully, hands steady, gaze respectful. He didn’t rush it or say anything cocky, just took care of you.

Once you were decent again, he sank onto the couch beside you. For a long moment, he just looked at you. Like he didn’t know what to say. Like maybe he didn’t want this to end with silence this time.

“You were all I thought about” he said quietly, eyes dropping to his lap. “After I left—after I fucked it up.”

You turned toward him, heart still pounding—but this time, not from lust. “You didn’t just fuck it up, Su-bong. You disappeared.”

He winced slightly, then nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

Silence stretched between you again. But now it was heavy with everything unsaid—everything both of you had buried for years.

Finally, he looked up again, voice raw. “Can I see you again? Not like this. I mean… can we talk?”

Your breath caught, throat tight with emotion. You weren’t sure what came next. But for the first time in a long time, you weren’t just remembering him. He was here.

And maybe—this time—he meant to stay.

[theonottsbxtch]

hiiii i loved ur CL fics sm I was wondering if you could write angst of LN inspired by the song Casual by chappel roan?😭 feel free to ignore this req though!!💕 love u

CASUAL | LN4

an: this is TOTALLY not based off personal experience and TOTALLY didn't make me cry writing it, i poured two years worth of bullshit into this i hope you enjoy it. one of these scenes actually happened try and guess which one AND TO MAKE IT WORST I WAS THE JOURNALIST AND HE WAS THE SPORTS PLAYER ANYWAY

wc: 10.2k

Present Time

The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked window of the sleek black cab, each droplet a reminder of how tonight had unravelled into something far too complicated. She sat back against the worn leather seat, her fingers unconsciously tapping the small notebook resting in her lap. She hadn’t written a word.

She shouldn’t have agreed to this interview. That much was clear now. But when her editor had mentioned his name, her chest had tightened. It had been a year—no, closer to two—since the last time she’d seen him in person. But when you cover Formula 1, you don’t escape the shadow of Lando Norris for long. Especially this season. And here she was, his shadow pulling her back in, as if those tangled months had never happened.

The cab slowed, pulling up to a luxury hotel that had never seemed like Lando’s style—until it did. The polished, impersonal grandeur, the kind that screamed you were too famous, too fast to belong anywhere at all. The driver mumbled something about rain, but she barely heard him. She was too busy staring at the figure that had just appeared through the entrance. Tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly leaning against a pillar, Lando’s expression was hard to read, even from here. His trademark black leather jacket hung off him like a second skin. She remembered that jacket. She remembered far too much.

He spotted her through the rain, those piercing green eyes locking onto hers with the same intensity that had once sent her world spinning. For a moment, time seemed to slip backward, to late nights and whispered arguments, to hotel rooms where neither of them had belonged.

She swallowed hard and pushed the car door open. She wasn’t here for that. This was just work now. An interview, a piece for tomorrow’s newspaper. Nothing more. Lando had made it clear a long time ago that they were nothing more.

She stepped out into the rain, the cool drops on her skin grounding her just enough. Lando didn’t move, but his gaze followed her like a predator’s, waiting to strike.

"Long time no see," he called out as she approached, his voice low and edged with something she couldn’t quite place. 

She flinched at his voice, directed towards her. Like it had all been some fleeting game, some disposable moment. The thing was, she had been the one who’d tried to keep it light, who’d pretended she didn’t care. But Lando had always seen through her. And now, she wondered if he could still see what a mess she was beneath the practised professionalism.

"Yeah," she forced a tight smile, trying to pretend that his voice didn’t sting. "Just work, Lando. Let’s keep it that way."

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk curling the corner of his lips. “If you say so.” He said it like a challenge, like they both knew this wasn’t just a story for either of them.

She held her breath, her heart pounding far too hard for someone who had promised herself she was over this. Over him.

But deep down, she already knew the truth: there was nothing casual about Lando Norris. There never had been.

Two Years Ago

It had been a suffocatingly hot afternoon at the Austin Grand Prix. The sun hung heavy in the sky, the smell of burning rubber thick in the air as engines roared, and tension crackled around the circuit. But none of that had mattered when she was with Lando.

Just minutes before, she’d been in his driver’s room, his body tangled with hers, skin still warm from the way their desperation had collided. It had been fast, rough—like all the moments they’d stolen in between races. And for a fleeting second, she had believed that maybe this time was different. Maybe this time, he’d let her in.

But as she stepped into the paddock, adjusting her shirt and fixing her hair, she heard his voice, sharp and careless, coming from around the corner. She should have walked away. But curiosity, or maybe the sick need to hear, pulled her closer.

"I don't know, man," Lando’s laugh broke through the air like glass. "It’s casual. She’s just another girl. You know how it is."

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. She pressed herself against the wall, just out of sight, the words slicing through her. Just another girl.

She heard the other driver—was it Pierre? Or maybe Charles—murmur something back, his voice muffled, like it didn’t matter. Nothing anyone else said mattered after that.

All she could focus on was Lando. The way he spoke about her as if the last hour hadn’t happened. As if they hadn’t just been in his room, their bodies and hearts closer than they had ever dared admit out loud.

Her stomach twisted violently, shame and anger rising in her chest. How could he act like that? Like none of it meant anything? Like she didn’t mean anything?

She pushed herself off the wall, her heart hammering. She had to leave, get out of here before the flood of emotions swallowed her whole. But just as she turned the corner, she came face-to-face with someone who could unravel her even more.

Lando’s mother, Cisca Norris, stood in front of her, a soft smile breaking across her face the second she saw her .

“Darling, it’s been too long,” Cisca’s voice was warm, so achingly kind, as she pulled her into an embrace.

She wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to run, but instead, she wrapped her arms around Cisca and tried not to let the tears fall. Cisca held her like she was more than just another journalist, more than just another girl passing through Lando’s life. The woman had always been good to her, always treated her with affection that felt too close to motherly.

She couldn’t break now. Not in front of Cisca.

“Yeah, it has,” she managed, her voice thin as she pulled back and forced a smile. Her chest was burning, her throat tight. Cisca’s eyes searched her face with that kind of intuition only mothers had. She must’ve known something was wrong, but she didn’t ask.

“You should come by later,” Cisca continued, still holding her hands in hers. “Dinner with the family. It’ll be nice.”

She nodded, her vision blurring as she made some excuse, something about needing to finish a story. Cisca finally released her, her touch lingering as if she could sense the storm brewing inside her.

The second Cisca was gone, her composure cracked. She made her way to the bathroom, her legs unsteady as the pain crashed over her in waves. She locked herself in a stall, her back pressed against the cold tile wall, and finally let out the breath she had been holding.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to erase the image of Lando’s smirk, the sound of his voice when he had so casually discarded her like she was nothing.

She had always known it couldn’t last, that Lando wasn’t the kind of man to settle down, least of all with someone like her. But hearing it like that—hearing him reduce everything they had been to something so meaningless—tore something inside her she hadn’t even known was fragile.

She thought of Cisca, of the warmth in her embrace, and it only made the ache worse. There was no pretending now, no saving face. The line between Lando’s world and her own was more jagged than ever. She didn’t belong, not here, not with him.

She had barely pieced herself together by the time she left the bathroom stall. Her reflection in the mirror looked foreign, hollow-eyed and shaky, her hands gripping the counter as if the world beneath her feet might give way. But she didn’t have time to fall apart. Not here. Not now.

The media pen was bustling with the usual post-qualifying chaos—drivers weaving between journalists, cameras pointed in every direction, reporters asking the same rehearsed questions. She’d done this a hundred times, and today should have been no different. But today, every movement felt like it was being held together by string, and she was one breath away from snapping.

As soon as she arrived, her producer, Mark, waved her over, holding up the microphone with a nod. She forced a smile, plastering on the face she always wore when the cameras were rolling. She could do this. She had to do this.

Lando was already there, standing with a few other journalists, casually leaning against the fence like he hadn’t just torn her heart in half an hour ago. He looked almost too relaxed, that signature smirk playing on his lips. When his eyes met hers, something in them flickered—like he knew. Like he could see how fragile she was, and he wasn’t about to make it any easier.

"Hey," Lando drawled as she approached, his voice low and smooth. He flashed her a grin, the one that used to make her stomach flip. Now, it only twisted the knife.

She kept her face neutral, gripping the microphone a little tighter. "Lando," she said, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. "You had a solid qualifying. What are your thoughts heading into tomorrow’s race?"

He tilted his head, his gaze never leaving hers. "Oh, you know," he said, his tone almost playful. "Feeling good. Always do when I’ve got the right motivation." He winked, just subtle enough that the cameras wouldn’t pick it up, but she caught it. And she hated that her heart still skipped at the sight.

She fought to keep her composure, swallowing hard as she moved on to the next question, doing her best to keep it professional. But every answer Lando gave was laced with innuendo, his eyes lingering on her in ways that felt too personal. Too raw. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him to stop playing games, to stop acting like everything between them was fine when she was barely holding it together.

"Alright, thanks for your time," she said, ending the interview with a tight smile as the camera finally cut. Her hand was shaking, the adrenaline rushing through her veins like fire. She needed to get out of here. Fast.

But before she could move, Lando stepped closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Sweetheart," he murmured, his voice so quiet no one else could hear. "I'll meet you at the hotel later?"

She stiffened, her entire body tensing. She turned to look at him, her eyes wide, disbelief flooding her chest. How could he be so casual, so careless? Did he really think she’d just meet him after what she overheard? After the way he’d reduced her to nothing?

Lando’s fingers brushed against hers, and for a split second, he took her hand, bringing it to his lips. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through her, just like it always did. He kissed her hand gently, like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t just broken her in two.

She yanked her hand away, her breath catching as the pain clawed at her chest. She couldn't do this. Not again. She forced a small, tight-lipped smile, nodding as if she was agreeing, but inside, her heart was shattering all over again.

"I’ve got to—" she started, her voice cracking slightly as she turned back to Mark, her producer. "I need to go. Tell them I’ll be back later."

Mark frowned, concerned. "You alright?"

"Yeah, I’m fine," she lied, her throat tightening as she backed away, already feeling the tears pressing against her eyes. "Just… something came up."

Without waiting for his reply, she slipped through the crowd, moving faster now, desperate to get out of the media pen, away from the cameras, away from him. She barely made it around the corner before the sob hit her, choking her breath, her chest heaving as she pressed her back against the wall, her hands trembling.

She couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears spilled over, hot and heavy, her body shaking as she gasped for air. How could he do this to her? How could he look at her like that, touch her like that, after treating her like she meant nothing?

She tried to steady herself, wiping furiously at her face, but the more she tried to hold it together, the more everything crumbled.

"Is that you?" A familiar voice cut through the fog, and she looked up, blinking through her tears to see Oscar standing just a few feet away. His brow furrowed in concern, his normally playful demeanour replaced by something much more serious.

"Oscar," she croaked, her voice barely a whisper. She tried to pull herself together, to stand up straighter, but it was no use. The floodgates had opened, and there was no stopping it now.

He stepped closer, his expression softening as he realised what was happening. "Hey, hey, it’s okay," Oscar said gently, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Come on, let’s get you out of here."

She shook her head, embarrassed, ashamed that anyone had to see her like this. "I’m fine, I just—"

"You’re not fine," Oscar cut her off, his voice kind but firm. "Let’s get you somewhere quiet, okay? You don’t have to pretend with me."

She nodded, her vision still blurred with tears as Oscar guided her away from the chaos of the paddock, his arm around her shoulders, his presence steady and warm. She didn’t have the strength to protest, not now.

For once, she didn’t have to hold it all together. And maybe, just for a moment, that was enough.

Oscar’s arm was strong around her shoulders, a steadying force as he led her away from the paddock, away from the media pen, and away from the chaos of her unravelling thoughts. She didn’t resist, couldn’t find the energy to argue, not with the weight of everything crashing down around her. She was barely holding herself together, her body trembling, her breath hitching with every step.

They walked in silence through the back corridors of the paddock, Oscar casting glances at her every few moments, his brow furrowed with concern but not pushing her to speak. When they reached the quiet of his driver’s room, he opened the door without a word, guiding her inside gently.

She wiped at her face again, trying to compose herself, but the tears wouldn’t stop. She felt exposed, like her heart was laid bare for anyone to see, and the shame of it was almost as painful as the heartbreak itself.

“Sit down,” Oscar said softly, leading her to the small couch in the corner of the room. “You don’t have to talk. Just breathe, okay?”

She nodded, sinking into the couch, her hands still trembling in her lap. Oscar crouched down in front of her, his gaze soft and full of something like understanding.

Before either of them could speak, the door to the room opened again, and she looked up to see Oscar’s girlfriend, Lily, stepping inside. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene—her  tear-streaked face, Oscar’s protective stance—and immediately crossed the room to join them.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Lily’s voice was full of sympathy as she sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "What happened?"

She shook her head, her throat tightening, unable to form the words. She didn’t want to say it out loud. Didn’t want to admit that Lando still had this kind of power over her.

Lily didn’t press her, just held her closer, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”

Oscar sat beside them now, his gaze serious as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Lando?” he asked quietly, and her silence was enough of an answer.

She sniffed, trying to hold back another sob, but the pain was too sharp, too fresh. She’d overheard Lando brush her off like she was nothing. And then he had the audacity to act like everything was fine, like they could just pick up where they left off—like it didn’t matter that she was breaking.

Lily exchanged a look with Oscar, her eyes narrowing in frustration. “Darling,” she said gently, turning toward her, “you can’t keep doing this to yourself. He’s… he’s not good for you.”

She swallowed hard, blinking back fresh tears. “I know,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

But knowing didn’t make it any easier. Knowing didn’t stop her heart from racing every time she saw him, didn’t stop the ache she felt when he touched her, when he looked at her with that smug confidence that twisted her insides. She had told herself so many times that she needed to stop. But every time she tried to pull away, she got sucked back in—into the whirlwind that was Lando Norris.

Oscar sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s using you, mate. You deserve better than this. Better than him.”

She flinched at the words. She had thought, once, that Lando could be more than what everyone said he was. She had thought, in those stolen moments between races, when it was just the two of them, that he felt something for her, too. But she couldn’t ignore it any longer. He didn’t. Not the way she wanted him to.

Lily squeezed her hand gently. “You need to end it,” she said softly but firmly. “For good. Before he hurts you any more than he already has.”

She knew they were right. Oscar and Lily had always been kind to her, more like family than colleagues. They had seen it from the outside—the way Lando toyed with her emotions, the way he pulled her close only to push her away when it suited him.

She inhaled shakily, her heart still aching, but there was a flicker of something else now. A quiet, growing resolve. She couldn’t keep letting Lando tear her apart, not like this. She couldn’t keep waiting for him to change, for him to see her the way she wanted to be seen.

“He’s not worth this,” Oscar added, his voice gentle but firm. “I know he’s my teammate but you deserve someone who’s actually going to be there for you. Not someone who makes you feel like you have to hide how much you care.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting their words sink in. She knew they were right. She had known for a long time, but it was easier to lie to herself, to believe that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. That Lando would show up for her, the way she had always shown up for him.

Lily’s arm tightened around her shoulders, her voice soft but steady. “Darling, you don’t have to do this alone. We’ve got you.”

She nodded, her throat tightening again, but this time it wasn’t from the heartbreak. It was from the quiet understanding, the sense that maybe, for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t as alone as she had felt.

She sat there for a while, letting Lily and Oscar’s presence anchor her. They didn’t push her to talk more, didn’t force her to explain everything. They just let her breathe, let her fall apart without judgement.

And for a moment, she felt the weight on her chest lift just enough to see things clearly.

She knew she shouldn’t go meet him in that hotel room. She knew it had to end. For good.

But she went back.

She went back to the hotel room, even though every part of her knew she shouldn’t. She told herself she was just going to tell him it was over, that she couldn’t do this anymore. She told herself that she wasn’t going to let him pull her back in.

But the second she walked through the door and saw Lando standing there, leaning casually against the desk with that damn smile—like he’d been waiting for her, like she was exactly what he wanted—her resolve crumbled.

“Hey, you,” he said softly, his voice warm in that way it always was when they were alone. He pushed off the desk and crossed the room in a few easy strides, pulling her into his arms before she could even think about saying no. “Missed you.”

She froze for a moment, her body tense in his arms. She wanted to believe him, wanted to sink into the comfort of his touch. But her mind was screaming at her to remember, to think of what she had overheard in the paddock. She’s just another girl. His voice echoed in her head, sharp and cruel, even as he held her close now, as if she was anything but.

“I thought about you all day,” Lando murmured against her hair, his lips brushing her forehead. His hands slid down her back, pulling her closer, and she couldn’t help but shiver under his touch. He had always known how to touch her, how to make her forget everything else.

She wished it was enough.

He tilted her chin up, his green eyes searching hers, and for a second, she saw something there—something real, something that made her heart ache with the hope that maybe, just maybe, he meant it this time.

But then the words he’d said to his mates resurfaced, slicing through her like a knife. It’s casual. She’s just another girl.

Her throat tightened, but she forced a small smile. She had come this far, hadn’t she? Why couldn’t she just leave now?

Because you want him to care, a voice in her head whispered. You want to believe he’s different when it’s just the two of you.

Lando pressed his lips to hers, slow and sweet, like he wasn’t in a hurry, like he could take all the time in the world with her. And for a moment, she kissed him back, letting herself get lost in it, letting herself pretend that maybe the things he said didn’t matter. That maybe this was the real Lando—the one who held her close, the one who kissed her like she was the only thing that mattered.

But the more he kissed her, the harder it was to silence the voice in her head. The harder it was to ignore the truth that was gnawing at her.

You’re just another girl. It’s casual.

His hands slid under her shirt, fingers tracing soft patterns on her skin, and she shivered again, but this time it wasn’t just from his touch. She couldn’t stop thinking about how he had reduced her to nothing more than a fleeting moment in his life, something disposable. It didn’t matter how tender he was being now. It didn’t matter how much she wanted to believe that this was something real.

“Lando,” she whispered, pulling back slightly, her chest tightening. She didn’t know what she was going to say, but she knew she needed to say something—anything—to stop herself from falling deeper.

He smiled at her, that lazy, cocky grin that always made her knees weak. “What is it, baby?” he asked, his hands never leaving her, like he couldn’t bear the distance between them for even a second.

She wanted to ask him. She wanted to confront him, to make him explain why he could hold her like this but talk about her like she was nothing when she wasn’t around. But the words stuck in her throat, too heavy, too painful.

Instead, she let out a shaky breath and shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Lando’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, like he was trying to read her, but then he kissed her again, deeper this time, and any chance she had of stopping this slipped away. His hands slid down to her hips, pulling her flush against him, his breath hot against her neck as his lips moved lower, kissing along her jaw, her collarbone.

And for a second, she let herself get lost in it, let herself drown in the sensation of his touch, the way his hands felt on her skin, the way he knew exactly where to kiss her to make her forget everything else.

But the words kept creeping back in, no matter how hard she tried to push them away.

Just another girl.

Lando’s hands were working their way under her shirt, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her waist, and her heart pounded in her chest, but not in the way it used to. Now, it was pounding with fear, with the knowledge that this would never be enough.

He was whispering something against her skin, something low and sweet, but she couldn’t hear it over the roar of her own thoughts. She felt his hands tugging at the hem of her shirt, and she let him pull it over her head, let him kiss her again, harder this time, like he couldn’t get enough of her.

But she wasn’t really there. Not fully.

In her mind, she was back in the paddock, hearing his laugh, hearing him reduce her to nothing. The way he talked to his friends—so casual, so careless.

Her body responded to him, the way it always did, but her mind was miles away. She was too distracted, too hurt to fully give herself to him the way she always had before. She wanted to be here, wanted to feel that connection again, but it wasn’t working. Not this time.

Lando didn’t notice. He never noticed when she was pulling away, not really. He was too focused on what he wanted, too caught up in the moment to see the cracks forming in her resolve.

As he pushed her back onto the bed, his lips trailing down her stomach, her heart twisted painfully. She should stop this. She should say something. But she didn’t.

Because as much as she hated it, as much as it hurt, part of her still wanted to believe in the version of Lando that was in front of her right now. The version that kissed her like she was the only girl in the world.

Even if she knew it was a lie.

The hours passed in a blur, a mixture of whispered words, shared breaths, and touches that felt both familiar and distant at the same time. She lay beside Lando afterward, her body nestled against his, her head resting on his chest as his arm wrapped lazily around her. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, like this was where she belonged. Like nothing outside this room mattered.

But it did.

The silence between them felt heavier now, thick with unspoken truths and the weight of everything she wasn’t letting herself say. She listened to the steady rhythm of Lando’s heartbeat under her ear, trying to ground herself in the moment, trying to make it feel real. But her mind kept drifting back to his words—just another girl—and no matter how close he held her, it felt like he was slipping further and further away.

For a moment, it almost felt peaceful, lying there in the quiet of the hotel room, their legs tangled together under the sheets. Lando’s fingers traced absent-minded patterns on her arm, like it was second nature to him now. She wanted to hold onto that feeling, wanted to believe that this, at least, was real.

But then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, cutting through the stillness.

Lando sighed softly, shifting beside her as he reached for it. She felt the absence of his warmth immediately, and the hollow ache in her chest returned.

He glanced at the screen, his thumb swiping across it before he answered. "Hey, mate," he said, his voice low, casual. Like the moment they’d just shared didn’t change anything, like nothing had shifted.

She stared up at the ceiling, her breath catching in her throat as she listened to the one-sided conversation.

“Yeah, I’m at the hotel,” Lando continued, his tone easy, unconcerned. “What’s up?”

There was a pause, and she felt Lando shift again, his hand brushing absently against her bare skin of her hip as if he wasn’t even fully aware of her presence anymore.

"Alright, yeah," he said after a moment. "I’ll come down in a bit. Dinner sounds good." He laughed softly, the sound sending another pang through her chest. "Tell Max not to leave without me."

When he hung up, Lando turned his head to look at her, flashing her that easy, crooked smile. "That was the guys," he said, already starting to untangle himself from the sheets. "We’re heading out for dinner."

She forced a small smile, trying to keep her voice steady. "Right. Yeah. Sounds fun."

Lando leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before climbing out of bed. He moved with the same casual confidence he always did, completely unaware of the storm raging inside her.

"I won’t be long," he said as he pulled on his shirt. "Maybe I’ll bring you something back."

She just nodded, unable to find the words. She watched him button his jeans, the same knot of confusion and hurt tightening in her chest. How could he act like everything was so simple? Like she was just… there, waiting for him whenever he decided to come back.

Lando tossed a quick grin her way as he grabbed his jacket from the chair. "I’ll see you later, yeah?"

"Yeah," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "See you later."

And just like that, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. The room felt so much bigger without him in it, the space beside her cold and empty. She stayed there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, her thoughts spinning, trying to make sense of everything. But the more she tried to piece it together, the more it felt like everything was unravelling.

The sound of her phone vibrating on the nightstand snapped her out of her thoughts. She glanced over, her heart skipping a beat when she saw the name flash on the screen: Cisca Norris.

She hesitated for a moment before swiping open the message.

Hey, darling! We’re heading out for a little shopping trip tomorrow. Just me and Flo. Thought it might be fun to have some girl time—want to join us? xx

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes stinging as she read the message. Cisca had always been so warm, so welcoming, treating her like she was part of the family. She had this way of making her feel like she belonged, like there was a place for her in Lando’s world.

But it only made everything harder now.

She could still hear Lando’s voice in her head, so clear, so dismissive. It’s casual. She’s just another girl.

Her hands trembled as she typed out a response, her fingers shaky on the keys.

Thanks, but I don’t think I can tomorrow. Hope you all have fun though xx

She hit send before she could change her mind, before she could give in to the crushing weight of guilt pressing down on her chest. She knew Cisca didn’t mean to make it harder, didn’t know what was really going on, but it felt like a cruel reminder of everything she wasn’t—a real part of his life. She was just someone he kept in the shadows, someone he could pretend to care about when it was convenient.

The tears came before she could stop them, hot and relentless, blurring her vision as she lay there, staring up at the ceiling. She’d tried so hard to hold it together, to convince herself that maybe, just maybe, things would be different this time. But it wasn’t different. It was the same as it always was.

Lando would leave, and she would be left behind.

She lay there, her body still against the cool sheets, the emptiness of the room pressing in on her. The tears wouldn’t stop. They spilled down her cheeks in silent waves, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t even try to hold them back. The room felt too quiet without Lando’s presence, without the pretence of connection he so easily crafted when it suited him.

Her phone buzzed again, a small ping echoing in the quiet. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to face any more reminders of what she couldn’t have. But her gaze drifted toward it, her blurry vision focusing on the screen as a new message from Cisca popped up.

That’s a shame, sweetheart. Maybe next time? You’re always welcome with us. Big hugs xx

The kindness in the message felt like a punch to her gut. You’re always welcome. But how could she ever feel welcome in a world where Lando could say one thing to her face and another behind her back? How could she fit into the life of someone who treated her like she was disposable—like she was nothing special?

She clutched her phone in her hands, her knuckles white, as her tears continued to fall. Her mind replayed the moment in the paddock, hearing Lando laugh, hearing him reduce her to just another girl, nothing more than a casual fling. And yet, here she was—back in his hotel room, back in his bed—still hoping that maybe he would see her, really see her, the way she saw him.

Her chest tightened painfully as she stared up at the ceiling, the dull ache spreading through her like poison. She had tried so hard to be strong, to keep her distance, to protect herself from this exact feeling. But it was like Lando had a hold on her, one she couldn’t break no matter how much she knew she should.

She wiped at her face, trying to steady her breathing, but the sobs kept coming. She couldn’t stop thinking about the way Cisca treated her like family, like someone who belonged in their tight-knit circle. It was so different from how Lando treated her—warm and genuine. It made it worse, somehow, knowing that his family liked her, that they welcomed her, while he just kept her at arm’s length. It hurt in ways she hadn’t expected.

She curled up on her side, pulling the sheets tighter around her, as if they could shield her from the truth. She had been waiting for a moment like this, where Lando would be kind, where he would hold her, and she would feel safe. But no matter how close they were, she always felt that distance. He’d given her his body, sure, but nothing else. And she’d given him everything, every piece of herself, only to be left empty.

She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, trying to muffle the sobs that were choking her. Her body shook with the force of it all, the heartbreak, the shame, the overwhelming feeling of being used and discarded. She had always been so careful in her life, always kept her guard up, but Lando had slipped past her defences with such ease.

The minutes ticked by, the silence of the hotel room swallowing her whole. She stared at the ceiling, the tears finally slowing but leaving a hollow ache in their wake. Lando would be downstairs by now, laughing with his mates, carefree, as if none of this mattered. As if she didn’t matter.

Her phone buzzed again, and she flinched, afraid it might be him—afraid that any text from him would pull her deeper into this pit she was already drowning in. But when she looked, it wasn’t him. It was Lily.

Hey, just checking in. Everything okay? Xx

She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making it impossible to answer right away. Lily had been so kind to her earlier, so gentle, and part of her wanted to reach out, to tell her the truth, to admit that she had come here even after she knew she shouldn’t.

But how could she explain this? How could she tell Lily that, even after everything, even after Lando had made it clear she didn’t mean anything to him, she had still come back? She had still fallen for his charm, for his soft touches, for his empty words.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, uncertain of what to say. The shame felt too heavy, too consuming. She didn’t want anyone to know how weak she felt, how much she had let Lando hurt her.

Instead, she typed a short reply.

I’m okay. Thanks for checking in xx

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, the lie sitting heavy in her chest. She wasn’t okay. She hadn’t been okay for a long time.

Another tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly, frustrated with herself for still crying over someone like Lando. He wasn’t worth it. He never had been.

But knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

The bed felt cold without him, even though she knew his warmth was only temporary. That was the thing with Lando—it was always temporary, always fleeting. And she was tired of pretending it wasn’t.

She pulled her phone closer, her thumb hovering over Lando’s contact. She thought about sending him a message, thought about telling him that this was the last time, that she couldn’t do it anymore. But she knew that he wouldn’t care. He’d smile, maybe say something sweet, and she’d fall right back into his orbit, trapped by the promise of something that would never come.

With a shaky breath, she dropped the phone onto the nightstand, rolling onto her back once again. The tears had stopped, but the ache remained. She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, to forget, just for a few hours. But she knew that when morning came, the reality would still be there—Lando would still be Lando.

And she couldn’t keep doing this to herself.

She got out of bed and she tried.

She had tried to pack. She really had.

She had grabbed her suitcase, tossed in a few clothes, and told herself that it was over—that this would be the last time she’d let him do this to her.

But then she’d stopped, staring at the half-packed bag, her hands frozen mid-motion. She couldn’t bring herself to finish. The idea of leaving felt like admitting defeat, like walking away from the small, fragile hope she’d been clinging to. The hope that maybe, just maybe, Lando would change.

And so, she had left the suitcase open on the floor, unfinished, just like everything else between them.

The hours dragged by in painful silence. She sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes unfocused as she stared at the door. She should go. She should pick up her things and leave before Lando came back, before he could draw her in again with his soft smiles and casual charm.

But she stayed.

She stayed because part of her wanted him to come back. Wanted him to kiss her, hold her, make her feel like she wasn’t just another girl, like she actually meant something. Even though she knew it was a lie.

Her phone buzzed a few times on the nightstand, but she ignored it. She didn’t want to deal with anyone else right now—didn’t want to answer Lily’s worried texts or face the concern in her friends’ voices. They didn’t understand. They didn’t know what it felt like to be caught between wanting someone and knowing that they would never give you what you needed.

The sound of the door clicking open snapped her out of her thoughts, her heart jumping into her throat. Lando stepped into the room, the faint scent of alcohol and laughter clinging to him as he kicked off his shoes. He looked relaxed, like he’d had a good time, like the night out had done exactly what it was supposed to—take his mind off things.

“Hey, you,” he said with a smile as he spotted her still sitting on the bed. He held up a brown paper bag, a familiar logo stamped on the side. “Brought you something to eat. Thought you might be hungry.”

She stared at him, her stomach twisting at how easy it was for him. A quick thought passed her mind, wondering what he had said to his mates when he brought home some takeaway. He acted like nothing had happened, like everything was fine. She wanted to be angry, wanted to ask him how he could do this—how he could come back here, act so normal, after everything he’d said about her.

But she couldn’t. The anger was there, buried deep inside her, but it was swallowed by the familiar pull of Lando’s presence. She hated how he could disarm her with something as simple as a smile, hated how even now, after everything, part of her wanted to reach out and take the food he’d brought, to thank him, to let herself believe that maybe this was him showing that he cared, in his own way.

“Thanks,” she murmured, her voice hollow.

Lando crossed the room and set the bag on the nightstand before sitting down beside her on the bed. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against her temple, his hand resting on her knee as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her breath hitched at the contact, her heart betraying her as it fluttered in her chest. She thought of the highs, the way Lando could make her feel so alive, so wanted. She thought of the times when it was just the two of them, when he would hold her and everything else would disappear. Those were the moments that kept her here, that made her stay, even when she knew she shouldn’t.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with just enough concern to make her believe, for a second, that he might actually care.

She forced a smile, nodding even though she felt anything but okay. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m fine.”

Lando’s hand slid up her arm, his fingers gentle as they traced her skin. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her lips, slow and deliberate, as if he was trying to remind her of the connection they shared. And for a moment, she let herself get lost in it. She let herself believe that this was real, that Lando’s touch meant something more than just the physical.

“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” Lando said after a few seconds, pulling away with a lazy grin. “I won’t be long.”

She nodded, watching as he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of the water starting up a moment later. She stayed where she was, her mind racing. The kiss had been warm, familiar, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the doubts, the pain that had been building inside her all night.

With a sigh, she glanced toward Lando’s phone, which he had tossed carelessly onto the bed before heading into the shower. The screen lit up with a notification, and despite herself, her eyes flicked over to it.

It was a text. From one of Lando’s friends.

You’re staying with her? Has she not got the hint yet?

Her blood turned to ice.

The air seemed to leave the room all at once, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe. The message stared back at her, mocking her, confirming everything she had been trying so desperately to ignore.

Has she not got the hint yet?

Her throat tightened, tears welling in her eyes again as the words sank in. Lando’s friend was in on it—on this twisted game Lando was playing. He knew. They all knew. And still, Lando had brought her back here, kissed her like she meant something, only to laugh about it with his mates behind her back.

Her hands trembled as she set Lando’s phone back down, her vision blurring with fresh tears. She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t keep pretending that this was okay, that she was okay. Lando didn’t care about her. He never had.

The sound of the water running in the bathroom felt distant, like it was coming from another world, another life. She sat there, her mind numb, her heart breaking all over again. She should’ve left. She should’ve finished packing her bag and walked out of that door the moment Lando left for dinner. But she hadn’t.

And now she was paying the price.

Lando emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, his hair damp and tousled from the shower. Water still clung to his skin, the dim hotel light casting a glow across the muscles of his chest and arms. He looked every bit like the Lando that had drawn her in from the start—effortlessly attractive, with that air of confidence that always seemed to follow him.

She couldn’t deny it. He was beautiful. Anyone would fall for him at first glance, and she had. But now, as he stood there, looking every bit the part of the man she had once thought she could love, the attraction didn’t hold the same weight it used to.

Sure, he was magnetic, the kind of person who could pull you into his orbit with just a smile. But what had that really gotten her? A heart that was constantly breaking, and a life lived on the sidelines, waiting for scraps of affection. The price she paid for being with Lando wasn’t worth it anymore—not when every touch, every kiss, every whispered promise felt like it was laced with lies.

Her chest tightened as she picked up her phone from the nightstand, her fingers curling around it like it was her lifeline. She had to get out of here. She couldn’t sit here, pretending everything was okay, pretending that she didn’t see that message, didn’t know exactly what Lando’s friends thought of her. What he thought of her.

“I’m just going to get some cutlery from downstairs,” she said, her voice shaking slightly as she tried to move toward the door, away from him.

But Lando’s hand shot out, gently pulling her back before she could make her escape. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, and she could feel the warmth of his skin, the way his touch still made her heart stutter despite everything. His brows furrowed slightly, his eyes searching hers.

“You’ve been off lately,” he said, his tone soft but probing. “Is it work?”

Her heart raced, panic flooding her veins. He was looking at her like he was genuinely concerned, like he cared. But she knew better now. This was part of the game, part of the act he played so well. And she had to lie—because the truth would only expose just how far she’d fallen for him, how deep this had gone for her, and how little it had meant to him.

“Yeah,” she replied, forcing a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Work’s just been a lot lately.”

Lando’s grip on her wrist loosened, but his eyes didn’t leave hers. He leaned in slightly, his voice soft, almost affectionate. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

She swallowed hard, her throat tight as she fought back the storm of emotions threatening to spill over. She wanted to scream at him, to ask him how he could ask her that after everything—after the lies, after the way he’d treated her like she was nothing more than a fleeting distraction.

But instead, she did what she always did. She lied.

“Of course I would,” she said, the words tasting bitter as they left her lips.

Lando’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he let go of her wrist, his hand dropping back to his side. He smiled, that same easy, careless smile he always wore, and for a second, it almost felt like he believed her.

“Good,” he murmured, brushing a quick kiss against her temple before stepping back. “I’m glad.”

She nodded, her heart heavy in her chest as she forced herself to stay calm, to not let the cracks show. “I’ll just be a minute,” she mumbled, slipping away from him and heading for the door before he could stop her again.

As she stepped into the hallway, the air felt cooler, sharper, like a small relief from the suffocating warmth of Lando’s presence. She leaned against the wall for a moment, her phone still clenched tightly in her hand, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her mind was spinning, her heart aching with the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

She had lied to him. Lied to protect herself, to protect whatever was left of her dignity. But deep down, she knew the truth. She couldn’t keep doing this.

Not anymore.

She didn’t make it far before the tears started. Her steps slowed as the pressure in her chest became too much, the weight of everything crashing down on her all at once. She turned a corner in the hallway, eyes blurry and throat tight, searching for somewhere—anywhere—she could hide.

She spotted a door slightly ajar, marked with a plain “Staff Only” sign. Without thinking, she slipped inside, closing it behind her. It was a cramped janitor’s cupboard, the air thick with the smell of cleaning supplies and stale mop water. But it was quiet, dark, and, most importantly, away from Lando.

Her back hit the wall, and she slid down to the floor, curling in on herself as the sobs broke free. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to muffle the sounds, but it was no use. The tears came in waves, the pain too raw, too overwhelming to control.

She hated herself for coming back, for believing, even for a moment, that things would be different. For letting him touch her, kiss her, knowing deep down that none of it meant what she wanted it to. And now, sitting alone in a janitor’s cupboard, hiding like a child, all she could think about was how foolish she’d been.

With shaking hands, she grabbed her phone, barely able to see the screen through the tears. She scrolled to Lily’s contact, hesitating for only a second before pressing the call button. It rang twice before Lily answered.

“Sweetheart?” Lily’s voice was soft but immediately laced with concern. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

The floodgates broke, and she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out, her voice a broken, shaky whisper. “I hate myself,” she sobbed, choking on the words. “I hate that I let him do this to me. I keep going back, Lily. I hate it. I hate me.”

“Where are you?” Lily’s tone shifted, calm but urgent. “Tell me where you are. I’m coming to you right now.”

She swallowed hard, trying to catch her breath enough to speak. “I... I’m in some janitor’s cupboard. Down the hall from Lando’s room. I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

“I’m coming, okay? Just stay there. I’ll be right there.”

She nodded even though Lily couldn’t see her, clutching the phone to her chest as she waited, her sobs quieting but still leaving her body shaking. She felt so small, so utterly broken. The seconds felt like hours, each one dragging by in painful silence.

It wasn’t long before there was a soft knock on the door, and she heard Lily’s voice. “Darling? It’s me. Can I come in?”

She reached up, her hand trembling as she unlocked the door. Lily slipped inside, her face full of concern as she quickly closed the door behind her, blocking out the world. Without saying a word, she knelt down beside her, wrapping her arms around her tightly.

She broke all over again the moment Lily held her. She clung to her friend, burying her face in her shoulder as the sobs wracked her body. Lily didn’t say anything at first. She just held her, her hand gently stroking her hair, her presence a quiet reassurance in the small, dark space.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered through her tears. “I keep... I keep letting him hurt me, and I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t stop. I hate myself for it.”

“Hey, no,” Lily said softly, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes. “Don’t say that. You’re not the one who’s wrong here. He’s the one messing with your head, making you think this is normal. But it’s not your fault, okay? It’s not.”

She shook her head, the tears still falling. “I just feel so stupid. I saw a text from his friend... asking if I hadn’t gotten the hint yet. They know. They all know, and I’m still here, like some pathetic—”

“You’re not pathetic,” Lily interrupted, her voice firm but gentle. “You’re strong, darling. Stronger than you think. And I know it hurts right now, but you don’t deserve this. You deserve so much more than what Lando’s giving you.”

She tried to breathe, but her chest still felt tight, her mind spinning with shame and self-doubt. “I don’t know why I can’t just leave.”

Lily squeezed her hand, her eyes softening with understanding. “Because when someone gets into your head like that, it’s not easy to just walk away. He made you feel special, even if it was for the wrong reasons. But you’re not alone, darling. You’ve got me, you’ve got Oscar, and we’re not going anywhere. I’ll be here with you until you’re ready to leave, whenever that is.”

Her lip quivered, fresh tears welling in her eyes. She nodded, grateful but still lost in the ache that Lando had left behind. Lily’s words were like a balm, but the pain still sat heavy in her chest, raw and unresolved.

Lily leaned back, adjusting so that they were sitting side by side, their backs against the wall. She kept holding her hand, her thumb tracing soothing circles over her knuckles. “We can stay here as long as you need. You don’t have to face him right now. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

She let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes as she leaned against Lily, her body still trembling from the tears. “But he hasn’t done anything wrong,” she murmured, trying to convince herself, even as the words tasted bitter. “He just... he just doesn’t know how I feel.”

Lily pulled back slightly, her gaze intense as she looked into her eyes. “Yes, he has. Don’t lie to yourself, sweetheart. It’s not just about what he’s done; it’s about how he makes you feel. And right now, you’re hurting, and that’s not okay. You deserve someone who cares about you, not someone who’s playing games.”

She bit her lip, frustration mixing with sadness. “I know, but...”

“No buts.” Lily interrupted, her voice steady. “You’re worth more than this. You don’t have to keep accepting less than you deserve. You know that, right?”

She nodded, but the ache in her chest remained, a stubborn reminder of the tangled mess of emotions that Lando had stirred inside her. She felt like she was being pulled in two different directions: her heart yearned for the connection she had with Lando, while her mind screamed for her to walk away, to protect herself from more pain.

“What if I just... went and got my things?” she whispered, almost to herself. “I could just—”

Lily shook her head firmly. “You shouldn’t have to do that alone. I can call Oscar and ask him to pick up your stuff from Lando’s. He’s supportive, and I’m sure he’d be more than happy to help.”

“Are you sure?” she asked hesitantly, the thought of involving Oscar making her heart race. “I don’t want to make things weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Lily said, her voice soothing. “It’s what friends do. You need to take the first step in reclaiming your space. Let’s get your things, and then we can figure out the next steps together. You don’t have to face this alone, and you don’t have to keep putting yourself through this.”

She nodded again, feeling a flicker of gratitude for Lily’s unwavering support. It felt good to have someone in her corner, someone who believed she could do better, even when she struggled to believe it herself.

“Okay,” she finally said, her voice steadier now. “Let’s do that.”

“Good,” Lily replied, squeezing her hand tightly. “I’ll get Oscar to come over. And remember, you’re stronger than you think.”

Present Time

Now, standing in front of him in the rain-soaked street, she wondered if he even remembered that day. If he had any idea how much it had gutted her. The memory felt like a ghost, haunting her thoughts, each painful recollection mingling with the cold raindrops cascading down her cheeks.

“Should we get started?” she said, her voice a little too sharp. The rain was mixing with the ache in her chest, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand there, looking into those eyes that had once made her feel seen. Once. She hated that feeling of vulnerability he inspired, but even more, she hated the way it was fading.

Lando tilted his head, studying her with that signature smirk tugging at his lips. It was the same smirk that had once made her heart race, ignited her passion, and made her forget her own worth. But now, it only deepened the resolve she had built since their last encounter. There was a flint in his eyes, a spark that had once drawn her in, but she refused to let it affect her anymore. Those flames of desire he ignited had left her burnt before, and she wasn’t going to let it happen again.

“Yeah. Let’s get started,” he echoed, his voice smooth but tinged with a hint of something darker lurking beneath. She could sense it—an undercurrent of his charm that was both magnetic and dangerous.

They both knew this wasn’t just another interview. Not for him. Not for her.

But she wasn’t that girl anymore. She wouldn’t let him see her fall apart again. Not this time. Each raindrop felt like a reminder of her strength, a symbol of her resolve to stand firm against the tides of emotion that threatened to wash her away. She took a deep breath, grounding herself in the moment, and steeled her gaze against the storm brewing in her heart.

“Let’s talk about the last race,” she said, forcing her voice to steady. “You seemed to be struggling with the new tires. What do you think the team could do differently moving forward?”

Lando's brow furrowed, momentarily surprised by the shift in her tone. It was almost like he was used to her fawning over him, allowing his charisma to overshadow her professionalism. But not today. Not anymore.

He responded, launching into technical details, but she could see his focus drifting, his smirk slipping just a little as he searched her expression for any trace of the girl he had once known—the one who had been captivated by his every word. But he wouldn’t find her here, not today.

As he spoke, she fought to keep her expression neutral, not letting the echoes of their past seep into her demeanour. The way he moved, the way he gestured—there was still an effortless charm to him, but it was fading, like a sunset after a long day. She wasn’t here to be dazzled; she was here to reclaim her narrative, to make sure he understood that she had grown.

“Uh, sweeth-” he said suddenly, cutting himself off from finishing the per name she used to love, his tone shifting as he leaned closer, invading her personal space. “You seem… different. What’s going on?”

The intensity of his gaze was like a spotlight, and for a moment, she felt the familiar stir of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. But she clung to the memory of that cramped janitor’s cupboard, to the warmth of Lily’s embrace, and the strength it had given her. She wouldn’t let him in, wouldn’t let him see her falter.

“Just focusing on the questions, Lando,” she replied, her voice crisp and steady, eyes locked on his. “I’m here to do a job.”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly thrown by her tone. The playfulness he often relied on was nowhere to be found, and for the first time, she saw uncertainty flash across his face. It was intoxicating, seeing him taken aback. It reminded her that he wasn’t invincible.

“Fine,” he said, his tone shifting back to that of a confident driver. “I can handle a little professionalism. I admire it, actually.”

“Then let’s keep it professional,” she shot back, her heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and exhilaration. There was something liberating about standing her ground, about showing him that she wasn’t afraid to push back.

As they continued their exchange, a storm raged on outside—water pouring down in sheets, thunder rumbling in the distance. But here, away from the rain, she felt the weight of her past begin to lift. She wouldn’t allow Lando to pull her back into his world of uncertainty and heartache. She was building her own life now, with friendships that mattered, goals that fueled her, and a vision that didn’t include him.

With each word, she drew a line in the sand, reminding herself that this was her moment, not his. She had reclaimed her voice, and she was ready to use it.

the end.

[sugardollcurse]

𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 | john lennon x fem!reader

𐙚 contains ; nsfw!! minors dni! lots and LOTS of yearning, overstimulation, physical injury, manhandling, power imbalance

𐙚 summary ; you’re both in your prime, two bright stars circling too close. it’s not love, not officially. but god, you both wish it were.

𐙚 note ; inspired by "your girl" — lana del rey. extra long treat for u guys

It starts in Paris. Or maybe it started long before that. Some green room in Liverpool, some lazy after-show sprawled across itchy couch cushions and half-empty bottles of flat Coke and gin. But Paris was the place you last remembered being able to breathe around him, and it had been three years since then. Three years since the air didn’t ache.

You’re backstage at the Olympia, the crowd still humming like the echo of bees through velvet curtains. Cigarette smoke curls in your lungs like cotton and vodka curls in your bloodstream like lullaby syrup. You lean against the wall, makeup melted, heels dangling from your fingers by the straps. Your feet pulse with the effort of existing. It’s been a long night. It’s always a long night.

John’s somewhere in the other room. You can hear the tail-end of his laugh cutting through the chatter, low and scraping like a matchstick dragging over a brick wall. You don’t look. You never do.

He doesn’t say much to you tonight. He hasn’t in weeks. You’re friends, good friends, great friends, close enough for the tabloids to speculate, not close enough to admit anything. You’ve spent too long folding your feelings into palatable shapes, origami heartbreaks tucked into stage handbags and jacket pockets. You’re not lovers. But sometimes he looks at you like he remembers things that never even happened.

Sometimes he touches your shoulder in passing and the ghost of it lingers three days later.

"You're off early," George says, fiddling with his guitar case, glancing sideways. Not at your face, at the door behind you.

You smile, a sharp little crescent. "I’ve done my bit. Let the boys take the encore."

George shrugs, clearly unconvinced, but he's not the one who matters.

John walks past you on his way to the hall. His shoulder brushes yours, barely, just enough static to make your skin spark. He smells like sweat and hotel soap and a hint of something else. He doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him. You both become experts at not noticing things.

You wish he would grab you by the wrist, drag you down some narrow corridor, say something cruel just to get a rise out of you. Instead, he says nothing, and it’s somehow worse. He could love you if it wasn’t inconvenient. You could love him if it wouldn’t destroy you.

Instead, you perform around each other. Two famous ghosts haunting the same tour bus.

━━

Later, you’re curled in the back lounge of the hotel suite. The couch isn’t comfortable, but it's soft, and you’re a little too gone to care. You left your makeup on. You always do. There’s a bruise blooming on your ankle where your strap dug in too tight. Your nail polish is chipped. Your dress is bunched at your thighs. You look like the kind of girl men write songs about.

You wonder if he ever has.

He comes in quietly. No announcement. No knock. No shoes.

You hear the door click, and then the room dips as the other end of the couch sinks under his weight. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. The air is thick with things unsaid.

You feel him watching the side of your face. Or maybe you're imagining it. You do that sometimes. Make-believe affection like a cigarette you can’t stop lighting even though it scorches you down the throat. You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch the curve of his jaw in the lamplight.

“You okay?” he asks.

You smile with your eyes closed. “Not really.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. He never does when you’re honest. It frightens him.

Instead, he taps a cigarette from the pack on the table. Lights it. Offers it to you without looking. You take it. His fingers brush yours. You don’t flinch, don’t sigh. You pretend it’s nothing and let it burn anyway.

“I miss Paris,” you murmur, smoke drifting from your lips.

He hums. Not in agreement, just acknowledgment.

“Everything was simple there,” you lie.

“It wasn’t,” he says, and you love him a little more for it.

There was a moment once. Three years ago. A hallway. A mistake that almost happened but didn’t. Your lip was bleeding and his voice was low and furious, whispering your name like a prayer and a curse all at once. You hadn’t spoken of it since. You both pretended it was part of the act. Like the rest of your lives.

Now, here you are again. Close enough to touch but galaxies apart.

“John,” you say softly, but not his name really, just the idea of him. Just the word you use when your soul feels like it might leak through your ribs if you don’t do something about it.

He shifts. You feel it like a tremor in the furniture.

You don’t turn to look at him.

He doesn’t lean in.

No one moves.

But the air is louder now. Charged. Cracking at the edges like a broken amp.

You blink slowly. You think about all the things you’ll never do with him. The toes he’ll never paint. The beds he’ll never carry you to. The futures that were buried under record deals and Japanese tours and wives and pride.

You want to whisper, “I wish I was your girl.”

But you don’t.

Instead, you stub out the cigarette and stand up on shaky legs.

“Night,” you say, soft, deliberate, without meaning.

You don’t wait for his answer.

You never do.

Outside, the hallway is silent. Your heels echo like drumbeats. You’re still drunk. Your heart is louder than your footsteps. Your longing feels like a scream buried under a velvet curtain.

━━

You don’t remember the last time you felt your legs.

No, actually, you do. It was six songs ago, mid-second encore, when your heel snapped and you kept going anyway, because that’s what you do. You smile, you twirl, you project, you bleed glamor like some fever dream torn out of a glossy Melody Maker centerfold. The roar of the crowd only ever drowns out the sound of your spine screaming when you’re singing loud enough.

Now the makeup's melting again. Your corset’s digging into the soft part under your ribs, the place where breath lives, where regret hibernates. You’re slumped in the stairwell just off stage left, arms wrapped around your knees, a towel too damp to do any good clinging to your shoulders like the world's saddest cape. Your feet are bare and ruined. Your toes are trembling. Your right ankle's an exposed nerve. You're vaguely convinced you left your soul on that stage next to a bottle cap and someone else's setlist.

The world is blurry in that slow, muffled way that comes with exhaustion... not sleepiness, no, you’d give anything to feel that kind of soft-lidded, innocent tired. This is the tired that comes from being stared at like a statue and touched like a fantasy for nights on end. This is the tired that makes you want to peel your skin off and slip into the wallpaper and be nothing, just for five fucking minutes.

Someone whistles.

Low, long, lazy.

And because you already know that voice, because you know the rhythm of that smug bastard’s windpipe like your own bloodstream, you don’t even look up. You just groan and let your head fall back against the brick wall with a thump.

“Well, well,” John says, drawing out the syllables like cigarette smoke, “if it isn’t the shattered glass version of our lady of perpetual sparkle.”

You squint at him from your pit of theatrical decay. “Fuck off.”

He laughs. Bastard. Looks like he’s fresh from the dressing room, still buttoning his shirt. His fringe is damp from the shower and curling against his temples, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He looks like he just got laid or is about to. Probably both.

You’re too tired to be jealous. Almost.

John lets the door shut behind him with a lazy click, strides toward you like he owns every plank of wood your blood’s soaked into. His eyes slide down your body, cataloging the limp towel, the glitter-crusted knees, the bruised bare feet curled against the tile.

“Hard night?” he says, and it’s not even a question. It’s bait. He crouches, squatting right in front of you, arms on his knees, eyes sharp and shining like he’s waiting for you to snap. “Didn’t look it from where I was sitting.”

You roll your eyes. “You weren’t sitting.”

“No,” he agrees, lips twitching. “Was standin’ right off-stage, watchin’ you nearly eat shit tryin’ to pirouette with one foot in hell.”

“Fuck. Off.”

He grins wider, teeth sharp and too white under these shit lights. “Can’t. Contractually obligated to taunt you at least twice a night.”

You close your eyes and exhale through your nose, trying not to murder him with your mind.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice thin and frayed like lace left in the rain.

“Thought I’d do my good deed for the day. Be a gentleman. Help a lady in distress.”

You crack one eye open and stare at him. “You’re about as helpful as a wasp in a jam jar.”

John leans in. Not much. Just enough to make you nervous. “Still buzzin' though, aren’t I?”

You snort, despite yourself. Your lips twitch. You’re so fucking tired it almost hurts to find him funny.

“I hate you,” you say.

He stands, and for a moment you think he’s leaving. That he’ll fuck off to the bar or to bed or to whatever girl he’s been stringing along on the side. Instead, he turns and crouches again, his back to you now.

And then he says, “Get on.”

You blink.

“What?”

He glances over his shoulder, mouth crooked. “You heard me.”

“John-”

“C’mon. You want me to carry you or not?”

You hesitate. A beat. Then another. And then-

“Fuck it,” you whisper, and you haul yourself onto his back with a grunt that sounds halfway to a sob. His hands immediately slide under your thighs, lifting you like you’re weightless, like your broken feet and battered soul don’t weigh more than his whole bloody band. Your face presses into his shoulder. He smells like cloves and sweat and hotel soap again, and you hate how much you breathe him in like you’re trying to memorize the scent for the apocalypse.

He starts walking. You’re not sure where. You don’t care.

“Do I feel heroic yet?” he mutters, breath hitching a little with the effort.

“You feel like an ass with a hero complex.”

“I’ll take it.”

Silence, then. Except for the creak of the stairs and your pulse in your ears and the slow, steady thump of his heart beneath your cheek.

You close your eyes.

You don’t mean to speak. You really don’t.

But the words fall out, raw and soft and broken at the edges. “I can’t do this much longer.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just adjusts his grip and keeps walking.

Eventually, he says, “Yeah. Me either.”

And somehow, that’s worse than if he’d told you to suck it up.

He kicks open the hotel suite door with one foot and tows you inside like some war bride in a trenchcoat. The lights are low. The bed’s turned down. Room service cart abandoned in the corner. He drops you onto the mattress like you're made of feathers and not bones ground to powder.

You groan. “I’m dying.”

“No you’re not,” he says, already tugging the blanket over you. “You’re just dramatic.”

“Let me die.”

“Can’t. You've got Glasgow in two days.”

“Then I definitely want to die.”

He chuckles, pushing pillows around you like you’re some centerpiece he’s fluffing. He doesn’t touch your hair. Doesn’t linger too long. Doesn’t look at your mouth.

Then he pauses, one knee on the mattress, that familiar tilt to his head, like he's listening to a song only he can hear. His eyes flick down to your feet, and he makes a face like he's just seen a crime scene.

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath. “They’ve done you in, haven’t they?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The soles of your feet are practically humming with pain, hot and swollen and ragged from weeks of stages that never cared how deep they splintered. Your heels, those evil, glittery deathtraps, are somewhere in the stairwell, probably sparking a lawsuit.

“Move up,” he says, voice softer now. Less teasing.

You blink at him. “What?”

He jerks his chin. “Go on. Scooch. I’m not fixin’ you like this.”

Your body protests as you shift backward on the bed, sinking into the pillow mountain with a hiss between your teeth. He moves like he’s done this before. He grabs a clean towel from the armchair and disappears into the bathroom for a moment. You hear water running, the clink of something against porcelain.

When he comes back, he’s rolled up his sleeves.

“Right,” he mutters, setting down the bowl. “Let’s see what those bloody shoes’ve done to you.”

You start to protest, out of habit, pride, humiliation. But you’re too tired, and he’s already lifted one foot gently into his lap like it's made of glass. You wince.

He whistles low through his teeth. “Hell of a bruise, that one.”

“They match the ones on my ego,” you mumble.

He smirks, glancing up. “Lucky me. I’ve always fancied a bit of symmetry.”

The water’s warm when he dips the towel and presses it to your arch, and your whole body jerks at the contrast. His hands are careful, cradling you like something precious, but it’s the way he doesn't look at you while he does it that undoes you. Like this is routine. Like you’re not special. Like this is just something he does.

"Y’know," he says, voice drifting somewhere between tired and too awake, "'S not very rock 'n’ roll, sittin’ here patchin’ up a princess’s feet."

You snort, throat dry. “You’re hardly Mick bloody Jagger yourself right now.”

He grins without looking up. “Oi. I’ll have you know I’m devastatingly sexy at all times.”

You let your head loll to the side. Watch him work. His fingers move slowly, dabbing at the raw places, thumb brushing just above your ankle where the strap left its red ghost behind. He doesn’t rush. He never has when it's like this. When it's quiet. When it's real.

“You’ve got the feet of a gremlin.” he said, more to himself than you

“And you’ve got the face of someone who fell down a staircase made of sarcasm.” you mutter, blinking at the ceiling.

He laughs, and the sound is stupidly warm. “You're right.”

He switches to the other foot, quieter now. His fingers press, gentle, firm. There’s something so intimate about it, him, kneeling there, sleeves rolled, sweat-damp curls falling in his eyes, hands on your battered skin like you’re some half-melted wax figure he's still trying to put back together.

You don’t say anything about it. Neither does he.

He finishes your feet, all wrapped up, sets them down like he’s tucking in a child, and then turns to your knees.

“Gimme your leg.”

You hesitate, your dress’s ridden up, your thighs bare, knees raw and glitter-streaked and a little bloody where the stage bit into you. You tug the hem instinctively.

He raises a brow. “I’ve seen worse, love.”

You mumble something, but your voice is softer than it should be. You let him take your leg, watch his thumb brush a flake of silver from the top of your thigh like it offends him. He cleans the bruises, the scrapes, the faint red outline where your skin was pinched by sequins and fishnets and too many hours of pretending you were made of magic.

He doesn’t say anything smart this time.

He just… looks.

Then he leans in, and you freeze, just a fraction, just inside your bones. But he doesn’t kiss your knee, or your thigh, or your foot, or any of the places you’ve imagined. No. He leans up, up, bends forward and presses his lips to your head, warm and quiet and maddening in its restraint.

“G’night, superstar,” he whispers against your skin.

You keep your eyes closed. You don’t move. You don't say a word. You memorize the sound of him standing, the weight leaving the mattress, the click of the lamp turning off.

And then the door opens.

And then it shuts.

And then the room is quiet again.

But everything in you is louder than ever.

You think about your little day off tomorrow, and then begin dreading the day after that.

━━

The next day, your feet are still bandaged.

Bandaged. Like you’ve come home from a war you keep volunteering for. The white gauze is too clean, too bright against the mess of your skin. This temporary lie of healing, when you both know it’s only going to get worse. You’ll slip those glittering murder heels on again tomorrow, paint your lips like armor, curl your hair until it screams, and step onto another stage for another crowd that doesn’t know how much of you bleeds with every chord.

You stare at them now. Your feet. Ridiculous little traitors. Useless symbols of everything you sacrifice to keep glowing. They ache like heartbreak.

You’re in your hotel suite alone. Room service tray cold by the window. The view of Vienna glittering like a Christmas card no one bothered to sign. You're halfway under the covers, knees up, pillows wrapped around your ribs like insulation against the world. You’ve got a phone in your hand you’re not dialing. You’ve got his number memorized like lyrics.

Your body’s clean, finally. Showered until the glitter went down the drain like sins. You still feel dirty.

Late night’s always the same: too quiet, too sharp. Everything slows down until the ache gets loud. Every wound thinks it has something to say. Your skin doesn’t feel like yours. Your eyes are burning from lack of sleep and your fingers twitch like they want to touch someone they’re not allowed to.

And you know exactly who.

You swear you won’t. You say it out loud. “I won’t.”

The room stares at you like it doesn’t believe you. Neither do you.

The phone’s in your hand.

The receiver’s up.

The buttons glow from the nightstand.

You’ve waited hours now, half-daring yourself not to call, half-hoping he’d just show up anyway. But it’s late. He’s probably stoned. Probably tangled in someone prettier, easier, less exhausted.

You hate how much that thought bruises.

You don’t remember dialing.

He answers on the third ring.

“’Lo?”

Your heart stumbles. “Hi.”

A pause. Not silence. His breath is always a little loud on the line. You imagine he’s lying on his back, one arm behind his head, the other holding the receiver to his ear like it's boring him. He’s probably shirtless. You try not to imagine that.

“You alright?” he asks. Voice lower than usual. That late-night gravel that happens when he hasn’t had his second whisky or first cigarette.

You stare at the wall. “No.”

Another pause. Then, a faint shuffle, like he’s sitting up.

“Want me to come over?”

You don’t answer. But the silence does. And he hangs up without another word.

━━

Ten minutes later, there’s a knock. Not a loud one. Not dramatic. Not the way anyone else would knock if they wanted to be let in. It’s the knock of someone who’s already been given permission a hundred times without ever asking once.

You open the door.

He’s barefoot. Shirt untucked. Eyes shadowed with something that isn’t tired.

He looks at your bandaged feet, then your face.

“You look like shite,” he says softly.

You step aside.

He walks in.

You don’t speak for a while.

He leans on the wall by the window. You curl back into the bed. The space between you is the size of the Atlantic. You pretend not to notice the way he watches your every movement. Like you’re a song he’s trying to learn the chords to without a melody.

You say, “What’s the point of fixing me if I’m just gonna fall apart again?”

He laughs once. It’s a short sound. “Aren’t we all?”

You look at him. “Is that why you keep showing up?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Maybe I like the sound of breaking glass.”

“Maybe you like feeling needed.”

He lifts a brow. “You think you don’t need me?”

The question should piss you off.

But it doesn’t.

Because the answer’s crawling all over your skin like a fever. Because your chest feels like it’s about to cave in under the weight of all the things you haven’t said. Because you’re so fucking tired of pretending that every glance, every almost-touch, every smartass insult isn’t just the echo of a scream.

You slide the blanket off your shoulders. Sit up. Let your legs dangle over the edge of the bed. Your bandaged feet look like little ghosts. You should be embarrassed. You should feel small. Instead, you say,

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

The words fall into the hush between you like a stone in still water, and everything stills. The air goes tight. A heartbeat ago, the room was just space and walls and silence. Now it’s thick. Like it’s watching, holding its breath.

He stares.

Really stares. Not blank. Not surprised. Caught. You see it, something arrested in his eyes, like the moment between blinking and crying, like he was somewhere else entirely and you just called him home. His mouth parts slightly, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t move. Not even to fidget.

And then; he breaks.

Not all at once. Not like glass shattering, but like the soft sound of old wood groaning under pressure. Something subtle giving way. His chest rises with a deeper breath. His lashes lower, slow. And still, his eyes don’t leave yours.

His hand comes up, slow, reverent. Fingers hover near your jaw. He doesn’t touch. Not yet.

“You look at me like you already know what it’d do to me,” he whispers. “Like you’d ruin me. And I think you would.”

That strikes something deeper in the room. An invisible chord. You feel it in your throat, in your gut, in the ache that pools behind your ribs like heat waiting for flame. He’s still not touching you. His hand is right there, breath-close. His fingers twitch like the restraint is costing him something.

You swallow hard.

“Then let me.”

The silence that follows crackles. His eyes flick down to your mouth. His brow pulls tight, soft lines carving themselves with the tension of too many things unsaid. He shifts, subtle, forward.

That does it.

He leans in, halting like the movement might undo him. His forehead brushes yours. Just barely. A breath lands on your cheek, shaky. His lips hover so close you feel the shape of them, the tremble.

One breath.

Two.

Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s not soft.

It’s not slow.

It’s everything he’s been holding back, pouring into you like fire, like music, like confession. His hand cups your cheek, thumb at your temple. Your lips part, and he kisses you deeper, like it hurts, like it heals, like it’s the only thing he’s wanted since the first time he saw you on stage wearing that color and pretending you didn’t need anyone.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting a hundred lifetimes.

He breaks off, panting. Forehead still resting on yours.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck."

You grip his shirt.

He kisses you again, and it’s the kind of kiss you can’t walk away from.

The kind that makes you forget you were ever broken.

Your body is wrecked, tender and aching, bones humming, skin threaded with fatigue and the ghost of sequins and spotlight. Your feet are still wrapped in white, useless beneath you, and your thighs scream each time you shift, skin kissed raw from friction and hours of forced posture. You feel bruised all the way through, knees, your ribs, the delicate pull of your waist where the corset you wore yesterday cinched and cinched until your lungs gave up complaining.

You are a ruin. A beautiful one. And John looks at you like he wants to crawl inside the wreckage and never come out.

He’s still close. Still pressed against your lips like he’s testing the water before diving in. You feel the shape of his breath, warm and unsteady, his hands hovering, one just beneath your jaw, the other curled around the edge of the mattress like he’s bracing himself against the pull of gravity. Or of you.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice cracking low in the back of his throat. Not smug now. Not teasing. Just that raw honesty he only offers after midnight.

You nod, barely. “Yeah. I mean, no. But yeah.”

He smiles, faint and crooked. His forehead nudges yours. “That’s a very you answer.”

“You’re a very you question.”

That earns a laugh. He shifts again, his thigh brushing yours, and both of you feel the tremble that jolts through you when it happens. Your legs open, not wide, not offering, but letting him in. Letting him closer.

He doesn’t push. Not yet. Just lets his fingers slide over your neck, feather-light, until they settle on the edge of your collarbone. The touch alone makes you arch slightly, ribs protesting, your spine curling like a note being held too long.

“You sure you’re alright?” he says again, quieter this time. “You’re all banged up.”

Your eyes meet his. And for a second, it’s almost unbearable, the way he’s looking at you. Like he sees every fracture and wants to kiss them one by one.

“I don’t want to feel pain tonight,” you say. “But I want to feel something.”

His hand trails down, following the swell of your shoulder to your arm, down to where your wrist lies against the blanket. He doesn’t answer with words.

He lifts your hand slowly and presses his mouth to your palm.

Not a kiss, an ache. His lips linger like he’s trying to memorize the lines in your skin with his mouth, trying to absorb something from you that he hasn’t earned, like devotion, or safety, or the right to stay. His breath is warm, drawn out. He holds your hand there against his lips, eyes closing for a beat too long, as if he might say something. He doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales and turns his face, brushing his mouth across the side of your wrist next. His lips are a little softer now, a little wetter, heat blooming along your veins in a way that makes your knees tense under the blanket. Still, he doesn’t go faster. He’s deliberate. Like he knows you’re sore. Like he’s sore too.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re darker. His thumb skims over your knuckles. Then down the side of your arm. His hand meets your shoulder and settles there, warm and solid. His fingers slide into your robe’s collar, slow, gentle, just enough to dip beneath the fabric. Finally, he started undressing you.

But not like a man undressing a lover. Not like some sweaty tangle of impatient hands. No, he treats you like a sculpture coming out of its wrappings. Like something delicate and breakable and wanted. His hands slide beneath the robe and ease it down your arms, one inch at a time, until it puddles at your waist in a heap of soft fabric and static warmth. The shift in air against your skin makes you shiver, and he pauses.

He looks.

Not hungrily. Not like a man getting what he wants.

But like a man who doesn’t believe it.

His eyes roam, your chest, the faint marks left by the corset like cracked porcelain around your ribs, the flush that rises in your throat as your breath shallows. He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t move yet.

He just whispers, “Bloody hell.”

Like you’re a sunrise he wasn’t ready for.

Then his hand slides back in, cradles your waist. His thumb finds one of the corset lines, presses there, barely grazing the tender skin.

“You let this thing dig into you like this?”

You nod, slowly.

“Why?”

You blink at him. “Because I have to look good.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flicker up to yours.

“You don’t,” he says, quiet but with that sharp edge of truth he never lets out unless it’s late and he’s raw. “You’re already fuckin’ perfect.”

He leans down then, not to kiss your lips, not yet, but to press his mouth to one of the bruises on your ribs. A soft kiss. Lingering. He moves to the next. And the next. Each one slower, warmer, lips dragging across your skin like they’re rewriting what hurt.

He kisses your chest, your collarbone, your shoulder, nudging the robe further and further down with the scrape of his lips, until the fabric gives up and slides away entirely. He pulls back to look again, like he has to.

Like his sanity depends on remembering this later.

Like he’s never going to forgive himself if he forgets the way your ribs rise and fall in uneven rhythm, the soft glisten along your hipbone, the imprint of your corset etched like guilt into your skin. His eyes crawl over you like a starving man cataloging his last meal. But he doesn’t make you feel like food, he makes you feel like fire.

And then, just like that, the hesitation snaps.

Gone.

He surges forward with a sound, half groan, half growl, and your back hits the mattress with a soft thud, sheets tangling beneath you. His mouth finds yours again like gravity, like punishment, like need too long delayed. There’s nothing patient about him now. This isn’t reverent. This is desperate.

His hand’s already between your legs, pressing hard through the thin slip you’re still wearing. Your hips jolt. You gasp. Your thighs ache but the want burns right through it, white-hot and impossible to ignore. Your whole body tightens under him like a bowstring.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters against your mouth. “You’re soaked.”

You whimper, grinding into his palm. He lets out a broken, disbelieving laugh and yanks your slip up, baring you, his hands everywhere, thumb brushing your clit with just enough pressure to make your back arch.

“Three years,” he says, voice rough now, breath hot on your neck. “You don’t know how many nights I thought about this.”

“Then do it,” you pant. “Don’t talk.”

That does something to him. He groans like he’s angry, at himself, at the whole world for not giving him this sooner. His hands slide under your thighs and pull you down toward him. The shock of it wrings a whimper out of you, and he watches your face like he needs it.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” he says. “Don’t close your eyes, not yet.”

He tugs his pants and boxers down in one frantic motion, cock flushed and heavy, already hard. He catches your eyes flicker down and huffs a laugh, smug but stunned.

He lines himself up and grips under your thighs again, lifting you just enough to tilt your hips, your bandaged feet dangling useless over his forearms.

The stretch when he sinks into you knocks your breath straight out of your lungs.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes. Just a high, trembling gasp and the full-body burn of being opened like this, deep, too deep, too much and somehow not enough. Your thighs shake immediately, already weak from the night, and he notices.

“Oh, you poor fuckin’ thing,” he groans, barely holding back as he pushes in, inch by inch. “Still sore, huh? But you’re takin’ it so well, Jesus, listen to you.”

Because you’re whimpering now. You can’t help it. His cock is dragging through every nerve you’ve ever buried under lipstick and stilettos. Your hips try to buck but they’re too tired, your arms grasp the sheets but you’ve got no leverage. You’re just full and trembling and trying not to beg him to ruin you.

He pulls out just enough to make you cry out, then slams back in harder this time, your whole body jerks with the motion, a sob caught in your throat.

“That’s it,” he hisses through his teeth, “fuck, you feel unreal. Like you’re made for this.”

He leans forward, pressing your knees toward your chest so he can grind even deeper, and you cry, really cry, because now he’s dragging over that spot again and again, each stroke wet and obscene, his hips snapping fast and filthy.

The bed creaks, the air breaks, and it’s pure sex now, raw and urgent. His sweat is dripping onto your stomach, and still he doesn’t stop. His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, teeth grazing like he wants to mark every inch he’s fucked. Your hand flails for something, anchor, relief, pain, who knows.

But your thighs, god, they’re failing. You’re panting hard now, sobbing into your shoulder, legs twitching with the strain. You didn’t realize how spent you were until now. You were ready in your head, but your body’s still too raw, too used up. Something, not an orgasm, is building sharp and fast in your belly, but your legs are going, you can feel it, and when they start to give out he feels it too.

And then, suddenly he’s gone.

He pulls out so fast you whimper at the loss, wet and ruined, your whole body still rolling toward climax and denied.

“What?” your voice cracks.

But he’s already flipping you over, manhandling you gently onto your front like you weigh nothing. His hands slip under your hips, dragging a pillow beneath your stomach, arching you up so your ass is raised, your back curved, your face buried in linen.

“I’ve got you,” he says, breathless.

And then his voice shifts.

“Wait-where is it?”

You lift your head, dazed. “Wha?”

And then you see it. Your scarf. Still on the floor. Silly, feathery, totally inappropriate.

He grabs it.

And before you can even think, he’s looping it around your wrists, in front of you, and knotting it tight. Soft but firm. Gentle but sure.

You breathe out, startled, and he leans down to kiss your cheek, murmuring against your ear:

“Somethin’ to keep your hands out the way. And maybe... somethin’ to bite on, yeah?”

You moan, confused, fucked-out, grateful. You don’t even care why he’s doing it. You’re too far gone to argue. You just let him push your bound wrists up against the pillow and nestle you down again.

“I’ll be gentle,” he lies, and slams back in.

Your moan is buried in fabric, the scarf absorbing every gasped-out moan as he drives into you from behind, your hips locked in place, his fingers digging into your ass as he pounds you harder than before. The angle is cruel, perfect, his cock hitting something now that makes your vision go white, and the way you’re tied means you can’t squirm, can’t run, can’t do anything but take it.

He’s groaning behind you, loud, guttural. “You feel so fuckin’ tight like this, fuck, tied up like a present.”

You whimper into the pillow, legs spread uselessly, one of your wrapped feet twitching with every thrust. Your body’s burning. Everything hurts, but it’s so good, too good, and the ache is just more fuel. You’re soaking wet, throbbing, twitching around him, your orgasm close and cruel and insistent.

He leans over you, presses his mouth to your ear.

But he doesn’t speak.

Not yet.

Just breathes, hot, heavy, rhythmic. The air between you thickens, skin on fire where his chest brushes your back, where his fingers settle on your hips again, slowly gliding down until his thumbs press at the soft crease where your thighs meet your ass. You squirm beneath him, helpless, hands bound with your own scarf, face half-buried in a pillow that smells like clean linen and sweat and sex.

“Look at you,” he murmurs finally, voice cracked and reverent. “Fuckin’ spread out like I dreamt you, soft and fucked and beggin’ without sayin’ a word.”

You make a sound that isn’t a moan, isn’t a sob, something between shame and need and overwhelmed worship. And he eats it up. Presses a slow kiss to the shell of your ear, then your neck, then your spine, tracing a path down between your shoulder blades, then lower.

And lower still.

Until he’s kneeling behind you, cock flushed and slick and aching, but he ignores it.

Instead, he palms you, spreads you gently, and lets out a rough breath.

“Can’t believe I waited three years for this view.”

You're so heated, you hadn't even realized he pulled out. Then, without warning, his tongue is on you.

You jerk, bound hands tightening in front of you, your thighs twitching, and he groans at the reaction, dives deeper, tongue hot and insistent as it drags from your pussy to your ass, long slow licks that make your back arch and your mouth open uselessly against the sheets. He’s devouring you, feasting like it’s his last meal. His nose presses against your heat while his tongue slips into places no one’s dared, wet and slow and filthy.

“Oh my God, John,” you gasp, face burning, body shaking with the stimulation, the wrongness of it, the rightness of it, how nasty and tender it feels to be on your knees, sore and wrapped in fake fur, while he worships you like this.

He groans again, one hand sliding up your thigh, tracing the bruises he didn’t cause but clearly wants to soothe. His mouth moves down again, tongue flicking at your clit now, teasing, tasting, lips sucking just enough to make your legs twitch, to make you cry out.

He pulls back just long enough to mutter, “Didn’t think I’d get this close and not taste you proper, did you?”

You try to lift your head, to glare, to say anything, but he’s already ducked back in, mouth working you open, tongue moving in circles while two fingers slide up and tease your entrance. He doesn’t push them in, yet. Just circles, light pressure, until you’re pleading, incoherent, hips grinding weakly against his face, scarf burning against your wrists.

Then, finally, his fingers push inside, slow and careful. Your back bows, and he growls into your cunt like your reaction just cracked his fucking brain.

“So wet for me,” he says. “Jesus. Squeeze me like that and I’m not gonna last.”

You pant into the pillow, hair sticking to your cheek, every nerve lit up, skin too much, and not enough. You’re nearly sobbing, voice shaking.

“Please.”

He chuckles, tongue flattening against your clit as his fingers start moving, curling inside you, dragging over that spot with maddening precision.

“Please what, love?”

“Fuck, do it again.”

He pulls away, fingers still working you, mouth now moving to your thigh, biting lightly, then licking the sting.

He grins like a devil as he pulls his fingers free, watches the way your pussy clenches around nothing, weeping and ready, and then he climbs over you again, dragging the head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your slick.

And then he sinks into you, once again.

This time, he doesn’t go fast. Not rough.

Not yet.

He fucks you deep, slow, grinding strokes, one hand pinning your hip, the other sliding up your back and he presses down against you.

“Feel that?” he whispers, grinding in so deep you think he’s in your throat. “That’s me, all of me. No one else ever had this, did they?”

You can’t even answer. You whine, long, high, desperate, and he slams in again, harder now. Then again. His pace picks up, the headboard thumping against the wall, your bound hands arching as he uses you, still careful, still focused, but finally giving in to the way he’s starved for this. For you.

He leans down, tongue dragging over your neck, voice low and dangerous.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

You can’t speak. You’re gone.

He thrusts again, hard, sharp, angle brutal.

“Say it.”

“Yours,” you cry out. “I’m yours-fuck, John, please-”

Your orgasm builds faster than you expect, hips meeting his in frantic thrusts, body writhing, sobbing his name into the sheets.

He pounds into you until your legs shake, until you’re crying into your scarf, until your body goes liquid. And then you're coming as he snarls something filthy under his breath, and suddenly he pulls out again, no.

You groan, shaking, overstimulated and abandoned, ass still arched up, cunt twitching and emptying out. But before you can sob, he flips you, rolls you onto your back, scarf still binding your wrists. He kneels between your thighs, his cock flushed and slick and furious where it stands up against his stomach, and he looks down at you like he could die happy right now.

“I’m not done,” he pants. “Not even close.”

He slides his fingers through your folds again, watching you shudder beneath him. Then he grabs his cock, gives it two quick, desperate strokes, eyes locked on your tits heaving with every gasp.

“Wanna see it,” he groans. “Wanna see what you look like when I mark you.”

Your breath catches.

He strokes faster.

“Where do you want it, love?”

You blink up at him, sweaty, used, feral.

“Everywhere.”

He growls, actually growls.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He braces one hand beside your head, jerks himself faster, rough now, wrist working furiously, his other hand still wrapped tight around your scarf-bound wrists, holding you in place.

“I’ve wanted this for years. Wanted to see you laid out like this, lookin’ up at me like you’d die for it.”

You nod, frantic. “I would.”

That’s it.

He leans forward just as he starts to lose it, hot ropes of cum painting your stomach, your tits, your neck, his hips stuttering, his mouth open, groaning your name like a hymn and a curse.

He looks down at you.

At the vision he’s only ever seen in flickering fantasy, in dreams he never dared admit he had, and now you’re here.

Still tied up, wrists in the middle of your chest in that ridiculous scarf, your body sunk into the ruined bedding like you’ve been dropped from heaven and caught mid-fall. Your chest rising and falling fast, nipples stiff in the aftermath, his release gleaming across your skin in obscene, glorious streaks, throat slick and glistening, lines of it caught just under your collarbone, pooling lightly beneath the swell of your breasts. One streak trails down the soft slope of your ribs toward your bellybutton, shining in the low lamp light like he meant to mark you, like he couldn’t help himself.

Your thighs are still trembling, one twitching helplessly, the bruises from earlier glaring red and violet against the softness of your skin. They crawl from the edges of your hips down to your knees, angry and tender, reminders of everything you went through to be here. Your feet are wrapped still, ankles helpless, bandages softening the edge of your vulnerability but not hiding it.

He looks at your face, and something changes in him.

Because there’s cum on your jaw, just beside your mouth, catching the corner like a ruined kiss. Your lips are parted, gasping still, hair sticking to your cheek, sweat beading at your temples. Your lashes flutter, and your eyes, fuck, your eyes, look up at him with something close to disbelief.

Like you can’t believe he’s still here.

And John, naked, breathless, still pulsing between his thighs from the force of what he just gave you, looks down at you and feels this sick, aching punch of tenderness swell in his chest, so big it almost crushes him.

He collapses over you, panting into your neck, his body shaking, his hand still tangled in the scarf.

He unties the scarf with trembling fingers. And then he cradles you. Doesn’t leave. Doesn’t speak.

Just pulls you into his arms and holds you like something sacred.

And as you lie there, breathless and half-broken, you finally say it.

“I wish I was your girl.”

John’s arms tighten.

“You are.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @alanangels

[muletia]

mer bumblebee crumbs please……..mer bumblebee.. 🙏

here u go!!

mer!bumblebee x human!reader merformers AU

word count: 800

He doesn’t like the look on your face. Absent, but weighed down by a quiet, inconspicuous sadness. Knows you have every right to feel that way, he’s had bad days too, but the need to comfort you weighs heavily on his spark. He wants to help you. To pull you out of that temporary lethargy just to see your smile again, the one he had grown so used to. The one he loved and adored watching.

Perched on the rock in front of him, you don’t notice at first when he rolls over onto his back, eyes fixed on the ocean ahead of you. And while he usually loves basking in your attention and being at the center of it, right now he’s grateful that you chose to drift over for a moment. You gave him the perfect opportunity for a modest but (he really hoped) heartwarming surprise, and if it weren’t for your sadness, he’d be really thankful.

Bumblebee rolls onto his back, the crown of his head pressed to the rock beneath you, exposing his soft but toned belly and trilling gently but purposefully, hoping it will catch your attention. And when you blink a few times, waking from your daydreams and finally turn your gaze towards him, he can’t stop the bubbling excitement in his chest — the one that always stirred when you focused on him.

“Bee?” you ask, a small smile already creeping onto your lips “What are you doing?”

His big, massive tail swishes a couple of times, a visible indicator of just how pleased he is that you’re focused on him.

It’s a trap, and you walk right into it without hesitation. Just as he expected and wanted.

He sends a sweet click in your direction, then sticks out his tongue slightly. Just the tip. The real mischief can come later. After all, you’ve only just fallen for the carefully laid bait that likely no one could resist.

Seal-like charm, and Bumblebee had it in abundance. He knew exactly how to use it to tug on your heartstrings and today was no exception.

He can’t hold back a wide grin when he sees you leaning over him, shortening the hated distance between you. Not a single ounce of guilt about using his charm for his own purposes. Who would care, when his future mate was clearly in a better mood? That alone was enough to make him happy.

What wasn’t enough, though, was how slowly that distance was shrinking. And in this case, the scout couldn’t afford patience.

Before you can initiate the affection he’s been so eagerly waiting for, Bumblebee suddenly lunges forward, pressing the tip of his nose straight to your lips in one of his famous, and sometimes excessive, seal kisses, taking you by surprise with the sudden move. Your stunned reaction doesn’t deter him one bit as he leaves even more kisses: cheeks, chin, lips — anywhere his wet but warm nose can reach.

Thick, long whiskers brush against your face every few seconds, threatening to trigger laughter. An explosion of which erupts the moment Bumblebee presses his nose into your cheek, shaking his head enthusiastically, and with it, the tickling whiskers across your sensitive skin.

“Hey, that tickles!” you giggle “Okay, okay, you’ve got my attention. What do you waaaant, AAAAA!”

You have no chance of defending yourself against the large arms suddenly grabbing your torso and effortlessly, like you weighed less than a grain of sand, pulling you straight onto his broad chest, covered in soft, fawn fur.

There’s no way to escape from here. Bumblebee immediately wraps his arms around you and locks you against himself, then sends you the brightest smile you’ve ever seen, showing off his sharp, thick teeth in the process.

“You sneaky little…” you hiss, though there’s no trace of irritation in your voice “That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

A supposedly innocent shrug tells you everything you need to know.

“Next time it won’t work, you’ll see. I’ll build up immunity to that little tongue of yours and you won’t catch me off guard again. Mhmm”

But when he sticks out the tip of his pastel-pink tongue again and looks at you with those big, baby-blue eyes, you already know it won’t be so easy to ignore him from now on.

“You’re lucky you’re cute”

He tilts his head slightly to the side.

“Very cute”

As a reward, you get a few dozen more seal kisses <3

[shuastar]

Between Softened Silks and Gilded Thrones (KMG) - pt.1

masterlist; next

pairing: mingyu x reader

warnings: KIM MINGYU HIMSELF IS A WARNING; none for this chapter except for sexual jokes (only one!), death threats (um two?), childhood memories </3

a/n: FINNALY OMG when i tell you im so excited for this, i'm SO excited for this. if you think wonwoo's was hot...mingyu .... he's just so hot i can't. i'm like creaming (hahaha lol /jk!!) just kidding!!! anyways, have fun reading, and always, lmk if u wanna be on the taglist for this whoresssss (very kindly)!

y/n

“Students, please rise for the walking of our flags.” 

The dining hall, previously messily noisy with chatter and laughter, diluted to a quiet hush, a thick blanket that fell over the students, dressed sharply in their uniform. The back-most doors – double and oak – slammed open on its golden hinges, revealing five boys, the first and last holding the school’s standards and the middle three bearing the flags of Obella, Xiawei, and Estoran, arms straining under the weight of the heavy flags. 

From some corner of the dining hall, the music restarted in a mellow sort of canon that echoed through the ears of everyone sitting on the hard wooden chairs, pushed close to both the tables and each other. 

The Dean of Schools smiled, proudly watching as the three flag-bearers turned to their respective flag slots, letting the pole drop down into its holding. The BANG!s rang out in the quiet hall, effectively stopping the music. 

The five boys turned towards the rest of the students, the five now raised higher on the steps to the speaking platform. 

The Dean opened his arms. “Greetings! And welcome to another semester in the National Academy!” his voice boomed through. 

There was a slight beat of silence before students – after glancing around at others – broke out into hesitant applause that slowly built itself into a roaring ovation, including whoops and cheers. 

The Dean nodded approvingly. “Allow me the pleasure of introducing to you, your five Academy Standards of this semester,” he continued, “Please save applause till the end.” 

He was handed a tightly-bound scroll from another student, standing just off at the edge of the speaking platform. He cleared his throat before starting. 

“With the Academy’s golden standards, Jeong Jaehyun of Obella and Lee Seokmin of Obella!” The Dean let the scatterings of whoops and yells from the Obellan boys table die down before continuing. “With the National colors, Kim Mingyu for Obella,” here, the Dean was required to pause his announcement of the boys because the most ear-splitting, gut-wrenching screams and applause erupted from almost every corner of the dining hall, threatening to split the Dean’s smile wider, “Xu Minghao for Xiawei, and Kunpimook BamBam for Estoran!”

This time, there was no pause before the volcanic standing ovation the five boys received, all five of them almost keening at the attention (some more than others). 

You had the utter displeasure of selecting a seat too close to the manic Obellan girls who seemed to just about scream their lungs out when Mingyu turned to give them a fleeting glance. You grimaced as the screams felt ear-splitting. 

“He’s been a standard for the past two semesters. You would think they would get tired of screaming,” you sigh, slumping in your seat, dipping your spoon in and out of your congee that lay slowly turning colder by the minute. 

“Well, he is a prince,” Yuqi states, looking possibly even more bored than you as she slowly brought a leaf of bok choy up to her lips to nibble on discreetly as the Dean tried to hush the (manic) student body.  

“Still doesn’t make sense why they treat him like some world famous star,” you huffed. “He’s not even that cute.” 

Yuqi laughed at that, brushing her hair out of her face to look at you properly. Dimly, you heard the Dean announce for everyone to start eating. 

“You really don’t think he’s that cute?” Yuqi asked. 

“Of course not. Why? You think he’s cute? What strange taste in men you have, Qiqi.” 

Yuqi rolled her eyes, moving back to her plate of food, only to stifle a loud laugh when Mingyu pulled out a chair right behind you, sitting down in between his group of rowdy friends, slinging an arm around his new girl blessed enough to be able to run her hands down his chest for this week. 

You couldn’t help but let out a fake gag, face twisting into an expression your mother would kill you for. 

“Absolutely disgusting. And he still calls himself a prince,” you muttered, shaking your head, opting instead to turn back to a less grotesque image: your cold mushroom congee, char siu, and steamed bok choy. 

From next to you, you heard Yuqi laugh, choking slightly on her water. 

“Stop laughing! You know I’m right. He never takes anything seriously and just goes off flirting with half of the Academy–” 

You never got the opportunity to finish your sentence because at that moment, someone tapped your shoulder from the back, making you turn away from your untouched plate of food. 

“Wha-”

“-Is your default being miserable and hard to deal with?” 

You blinked, staring dead straight at Kim Mingyu who ever-so-slightly loomed over you even when sitting. When you realized what he had said, your lips curled up into the faintest mocking smile. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, did what I said hurt your little royal pride?” You taunt, huffing before turning back to your table. 

Mingyu grabbed your shoulder, forcefully turning you back to face him. You shoved his hand off of your blazer, eyes narrowing as he stared at you, now with the company of his friends. 

“What is your problem,” you snapped. 

“Y/n–” Yuqi started, only to be interrupted by Mingyu’s huff of taunting laughter. 

“What is my problem? What the hell is your problem? It’s the first day of the semester and–”

“-And you’re already out here pretending to be better than us–”

“-I can’t ever recall what I did for you to–”

“-What you did? How about what your country did? Can you recall that, your highness?” 

There was a hush that fell over your vicinity as you stood up, chair streaking across the floor. Mingyu looked like he wanted to stay something, except at Yuqi’s sharp look, you saw him slowly close his mouth and turn back to his table. As you walked out of the dining hall, back to its lively atmosphere, you glanced back, unexpectedly meeting Mingyu’s eyes as Seokmin, from his seat next to the flag bearer, whispered something in his ear that made him frown, muttering something back. 

“He’s just immature,” Yuqi mumbled as she turned to make you face forward, pushing you out of the dining hall and into the cold hallway.

*********************************************************************** 

The library was usually not this loud at five in the afternoon. 

Which is why you prided yourself when you arduously climbed the winding staircase in the law corner of the Greane Library to haul you and your miserably weighted bag up to the third floor study corners overlooking the Field. The third floor was notoriously known for being completely empty, save for the time when students on the War and Diplomatics track would come up to skim through the Diplomatic textbooks shoved to a corner of the bookshelves separating the study corners. 

You passed three study corners, all empty, to reach yours (well, not technically), the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows, illuminating every ridge of the antique oak desk. Except-

“-Jihoon?” Your surprised voice echoed through the empty third floor, bouncing off of the old, dusty, cloth-backed books that were falling apart at the spines. Your bag thudded heavily on one of the chairs. 

A mop of black hair looked up, strands sticking up in the air. Dark circles crowned under tired eyes, drooping already as the warmth of the spring afternoon sun shone in, refracting colors. A hand rose in a bleak and heavy greeting before his forehead met the opened pages of his textbook with a loud THUMP, followed by a muffled groan. 

“I hate this place,” Jihoon complained, head rising. You had to force yourself to not laugh when he rose with a big red mark on the middle of his forehead. 

You pulled out a chair, soft against the carpeted floors, sitting down in front of him. “Finals? I thought Strategy and Politics only had an open discussion?” You opened your bag, taking out an ink well, fountain pen, textbook, and notebook. Your lamp clicked on automatically when you waved your hand in front of it. 

Jihoon nodded, closing his textbook with a massive sigh, sliding down his chair. “A three hour open discussion and a war strategy simulation on the Great War.”

“What Great War? Isn't there like five?”

“Exactly.”

Your hand stilled as you dipped your pen inside the ink pot. “So you don’t know what you’re going to get?” 

“It seems so.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh at how Jihoon’s face fell at every word he uttered, frown lines wrinkling his forehead and the space between his eyebrows. Although he was your year, you couldn’t help but feel bad for him as he picked up his carved-down pencil again, scribbling tired words onto his fat notebook. 

“You’re the smartest person I know. You’ll do amazing. I know it,” you consoled, capping your pen to instead dig through your bag. Your eyes brightened when your fingers brushed a cardboard box, decorated with a ribbon. With a flourish, you pulled the box out onto the table. Hesitant hands slowly pushed the box towards Jihoon’s drooping head. 

He looked up, a questioning sort of sound escaping his lips. 

You smiled, your hair tumbling over your shoulders. “A present.”

“For?”

“You. Consider it an effort of my toils.”

“Toils? You?” Jihoon let out a small laugh, but he pulled the box towards him when you teasingly reached for it back. He shook his head with a rare grin. “No need to get defensive. I’m just saying. A princess? Toiling?”

“Hey!” You huff, “I bought this out of the kindness of my heart when I went home yesterday.” 

Jihoon visibly perked up at those words, unwrapping the box with great care. The smile on his face grew when he lifted a box, opening it to find a pair of topaz cufflinks, delicate and studded with the small gem in a small circle around the main design. He gently placed the velvet box back inside the wrapping with a small sigh. 

“You didn’t have to, y/n,” he mumbled and you couldn’t help but giggle when he tried to cover his blushing ears. 

“It was nothing. Plus, don’t you remember when you brought me those candies from Obella? I think those were one of the best things I’ve ever eaten,” you laughed, returning to your schoolwork. 

Jihoon nodded pensively, tucking the present into his backpack. “Those are really good,” he hummed, then almost as an afterthought, he added, “They’re Mingyu’s favorites actu–” and then he suddenly stopped, lips pursed when he realized how your expression had suddenly fallen. He cleared his throat with a sheepish look. “Sorry.” 

You waved him away with a huff, dipping your pen back into the ink pot. “Don’t be like that. I’m not going to combust if I hear his name.”

Jihoon let out a snort of laughter. “Why do you hate him anyways? He’s a year younger than us.” 

“I don’t hate him,” was your automatic response. 

“Liar.” 

“I’m serious.”

“Okay fine. Why do you severely dislike him?”

You gave Jihoon a deadpan look. “He’s annoying.”

“That’s all?”

“And excessively flirty, seriously stupid, loud, obnoxious, happy-go-lucky, and the prince.” You said everything so matter-of-factly that Jihoon seemed to just stare at you, processing your words. 

After a beat of silence, “Isn’t happy-go-lucky something that’s good?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”

Jihoon shrugged, closing his notebooks and sliding them into his bag. “Why does him being the prince have to do with anything?” 

You clicked your tongue. “We’ve been over this. He’s the prince of Obella. I’m the princess of Xiawei.”

“I’m Obellan.” Jihoon gave you an eyebrow raise that you refused to acknowledge. 

“You’re different. You’re not annoying like everyone else,” you huffed, crossing your arms. 

Jihoon laughed, poking your puffed cheek with a quick finger, dancing out of your reach when you went to slap his hand away. “Whatever you say.” He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder and snatching his blazer from the seat next to him. “I’ll catch you later, yeah?” 

You smiled as you nodded. “See you later!” 

You returned Jihoon’s quick wave as he disappeared through the tombs of the Greane Library, messy black hair waving gently with every step. 

*********************************************************************** 

“I never imagined our first visit to be under these…” your brother trails off as the carriage wheels rumble over the cobblestone road of the Capital, “conditions.” 

You scoff at his words, fingers brushing away the strands of hair that had fallen into your paled face. You pluck off a stray hair from your red ruqun – a delicate silk hand-woven from the imperial tailor shop of Xiawei. “Neither did I.” 

When the carriage slows, the hushed chatter of voices leaking into the curtained windows of your gilded cage, your brows furrow, taking a gloved hand to gently peel away the velvet curtains. Your eyes squint as the blazing Obella sun, so different in its intensity than the warm comforting rays of the gardens of Xiawei. Even from within the guarded carriage, you can hear the whispers and the sharp glares of the crowd that is gathering around your slowing carriage. The horses whine as the driver clicks his tongue, trying to calm them as he waits for the palace guards to open the blasted iron gates.

Perhaps your face was slowly turning sour by the passing minute or perhaps you looked too ill-disposed because in the next second, Minghao pulls the curtain from your tight fingers, a loud scratch as he pulled the curtain shut and all evidence of Obella’s harsh rays disappeared with the crowded whispers and looks. 

You blink. “That was unnecessary,” you state, leaning back into your seat as the carriage lurches again, starting forward slower than before but still moving into what you and your younger brother presume is the castle – no, palace. 

Minghao just shrugs from his seat across you, face arranged into an expression, you guess, is in between grudging obedience and lamentable loathing. His posture is impossibly straight – almost rigid – against the cushioned seats of the carriage as you roll across the raised platform and into the grounds of the royal palace. 

You rattle along with the carriage as it makes its way around the loop of the palace courtyard, stopping haltingly with a neigh of the horses. 

“Are we–”

Minghao is effectively cut off by a sharp rap, followed by three more, against the doors of the carriage. 

You suck in a breath as you peek out the window, only to see the magnificent towering Obellan palace, gilded in gold and spires decorated with amethysts so big you could use them as formidable paper weights.

“We have arrived,” comes the muffled voice of the driver, drawling and so obviously bored with his decided task. 

When your younger brother raises his brow in question, you nod, letting him stand up, hunched, as he opens the door. 

The first sight you’re blinded with is people. Just row after row of people, all dressed in what Obella supposedly thinks is a great display of their wealth (or power, who knows). And in the very middle, three people – lined in a small triangle and glinting with what seems to be gold-hinted armor. 

Minghao steps off of the carriage, offering his hand up to you with a smile. You feel your expression soften at the sight of your brother, so starkly different amongst these Obellan nobles, forced to accompany you in this diplomatic envoy to the very country that had left yours in tatters. 

The only tell – rare, usually, to see from him – of his anxiety in this foreign place is his outstretched hand, pale at the fingertips and shaking as he awaits yours.

Your golden fengguan, chosen by Yuqi to accompany your gold-embroidered ruqun, feels so much heavier at that moment. 

Your fingertips meet the palm of Minghao’s hand and you duck, stepping out of the carriage and down the steps until your hanfu touches the cobblestone ground. Immediately, the whispers start again and Minghao visibly stiffens next to you, his arm robotically lowering when you tap his hand. 

The two of you stand, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, as the carriage whisks away behind you, leaving you bare to the nobles standing before you. A quick glance to your brother threatens to pull a laugh from your lips. 

His brows are furrowed in the same way as they would be if he was studying for his finals in the Academy and his bottom lip is pulled between his teeth. 

“Nervous?” you tease, mouth barely moving when you see the three-person welcome group start walking towards you when they realize you have no intention of moving. 

Minghao imperceptibly shakes his head. “No,” then, after a pause in a much more worried voice, “Should I be?” 

You smile, but you know it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Depends. Do you think we’ll be paraded around like war spoils or treated like delegated guests?” The question is infinitely rhetorical and it stills Minghao into a silence that is tenser than his usual presence.

The jarring footsteps grow louder against the cobblestones and you watch as the three stop in front of you and your brother. 

Closer now, you can see all three of their faces, glowing, almost, in the afternoon sun. And if this was any other time, you would have laughed, maybe run into two of their arms with the brightest smile on your face. But this situation seems too tilted to their side for you to feel any other emotion but betrayal. Pure flaming betrayal that simmers deep in your stomach. 

“Prince Minghao.” Kim Mingyu’s voice is echo-y across the courtyard and hushes any other voice down to silence. Then, he turns his heavy gaze to you, pinning you down where you stood. 

Mingyu seems to be, in every way, shape, and form, the same from his days in the Academy. Perhaps taller, more muscular, more handsome in the regal (disgusting) way (though you refuse to admit that fact). His gold-plated armor decorating his well-built figure glitters like a second sun, refracting and reflecting the golden rays. His shoulders are wide-set and he stands tall, proud, with his dark hair falling gently in his face, swaying with the currents of the light breeze that carries the scent of Obella’s spring flowers into your nose. 

“Princess Y/n.” His smirk is as sharp as the blade at his side, your name rolling off his tongue in a teasing jab. His voice is smooth, polished, and entirely too smug for your taste – like violently rubbing salt into a throbbing wound that has yet to scab over. 

Bitterly, you reply, “Prince,” and that one word alone leaves a sour aftertaste in your mouth. If your mother could see you right now, she would be rolling in her grave. The princess of Xiawei, greeting someone else in the place as an envoy-hostage. 

Minghao stutters in his bow when you don’t make any move to bend. 

Mingyu gives you the faintest tilt of the head, brows rising. 

“A little late, aren’t we?” Mingyu hums, arms crossing and causing the sunlight to bounce off of his royal crest and directly into your face. He grins at your misfortune and you’re almost one hundred percent sure he did that on purpose. 

“Yes, well,” your lips turn down, matching his head tilt, “even a princess can’t control carriage traffic, it seems.” 

Your words are clipped and cold. From behind Mingyu, Jihoon and Jeonghan, both classmates of yours at the Academy, stand awkwardly as Mingyu looks you up and down in what you assume is ill-fated interests. Both of them refuse to meet your eyes as if they know the real reason why you and your brother have been dragged here.��

“Your highness,” Minghao suddenly interrupts, extending an arm towards the glittering palace. His face is arranged into a haunting expression. “Shall we go inside? My sister doesn’t fare well after long carriage rides.” 

Almost as if his words are magic, you suddenly feel lightheaded, eyelids fluttering as you try to steady yourself. If anyone notices, they don’t comment. 

Mingyu gives a sideways glance at Jihoon, who nods curtly, before grinning, turning on his heels. “To the palace, then. I wouldn’t want our precious princess to go on bed rest her first day in Obella!” He gives you a cheeky little wink that makes you want to poke his eyeball out of its socket. But you refrain. If not for political decency and societal manners, then for your brother’s reputation. 

With gritted teeth, you reply with a curt, “Lead the way.” 

The walk to the entrance is deathly silent, save for Mingyu’s occasional hums of a random song. Somehow, the two of you ended up walking side by side, making you sandwiched between Minghao on the right and Mingyu on the left, with Jihoon and Jeonghan trailing behind, furiously whispering with each other (you pretend you don’t hear them). 

When you reach the giant double oak doors, the numerous guards littering the entranceway suddenly all let out a war-cry-esque yell of some kind before they salute Mingyu in what you assume is Obella’s salute. You can’t help but let your face wrinkle in displeasure. 

Mingyu salutes back and in that moment, a small part of you wonders how the prince – who used to be the lollygagging, effortlessly smart, playboy extraordinaire of the Academy – had transformed into the Crown Prince (apparently, you weren’t too sure), that you see in front of you, smiling warmly and bowing to the palace workers who line the entrance room of the palace. 

But that thought quickly vanishes when Mingyu leads you into the entrance hall because gilded statues, so great in size you know the workers had to haul them up from the antique dusty storage room, line the path into what you assume is the actual royal palace. 

When you sneak a glance to Minghao, he is already in awe, glancing around the chandelier-bejeweled ceilings and carpeted path, eyes wide and mouth just slightly open. 

He leans into you before whispering, “Do they always try this hard?”

A puff of laughter escapes your lips that has Mingyu’s head careening towards you and your brother in apt curiosity. 

“Do you remember the Obellan kids from the Academy? Of course, always.” 

You laugh again at Minghao’s awe-stricken nod, craning his head to try to see over the top of the winding staircases. 

Mingyu clears his throat but makes no move to stop your conversation, instead leading the way further into the palace. You chew on your bottom lip as you walk through the halls, paraded down another set of gilded statues. You can’t help but notice how Mingyu’s shoulders shift determinedly under his armor, broad and strong even under the dim chandelier lighting of the palace. That thought returns to you again, instead now you wonder how his presence changed into such a commanding aura suited for such a powerful Crown Prince. 

Though you would never admit out loud, of course. 

“Are you impressed?” comes Mingyu’s sudden voice. He glances down at you with a grin dancing on his lips. For a split second, you think he’s asking about himself.

You tilt your head. “Are you fishing for compliments?” 

Mingyu laughs. “So harsh.” 

“Someone needs to tone you down,” you mutter, not even missing a beat. From beside you, Minghao gives you a warning look that you refuse to acknowledge. 

Mingyu sighs, as if he’s content with your answer. “I missed you,” he hums. Your brows draw together and Minghao’s head snaps towards him. Then, almost as if Mingyu finally realized what he said, his eyes blow wide open, an awkward laugh escaping his lips. 

“God, not like that!” he defends, hands rising as he suddenly completely stops in the middle of a hallway. Behind the three of you, Jihoon and Jeonghan also slow, blinking confusedly at the two of you. Mingyu runs a hand through his hair while his head shakes furiously from side to side. “No, don’t ever take it like that! I just meant that I missed the Academy days! You know? When we used to– god, not like that – when we would fight and stuff! But not in like a–” 

You have to basically hold your breath to prevent your laughs from spilling out of your mouth, shoulders shaking as you try to remain composed. You hold your hand out, fingers splayed. “--I never took you for such an experimental person, your highness,” you say, managing the sentence without any laughter leaking out of your traitorous mouth.  

You hear Jihoon and Jeonghan (as well as Minghao) stifle their laughter at your words. 

Mingyu’s face is now aghast, his ears a blushing red as he goes to defend himself again. 

But you cleanly cut him off, “If you liked me when we were in the Academy, you could’ve just said.” You offer a mocking little smirk that sets Mingyu’s jaw out of its socket and Jeonghan almost dying in laughter. And you swear that if it weren’t for the situation, it would have felt like you were back in the Academy, glorifying yourself in the midst of Mingyu’s embarrassment. 

“It’s not like that!” Mingyu stutters, almost stumbling over his own feet when you turn away from him and walk down the hall. He grabs your upper arm – which earns him a well-timed glare from both you and your brother – before he walks in stride with you again, trying to rearrange his hair so that it lays neat. “I swear, Y/n,” he starts, and you try to ignore how easily your name flows from his tongue, as his eyes widen almost puppy-like and he shakes his head again, walking sideways, “it’s not like that! I just– it just came out wrong! Completely wrong! I’ve never liked you – not in the Academy, not after we graduated, and definitely not now. And I’ll–”

As he continues with his monologue of how much he apparently doesn’t like you, you can feel your irritation bubble in your stomach. 

“--Never! Never ever! Okay?” 

“I’m so glad you think of me as so unattractive you’ve never ever liked me,” you snap, jaw clenched as you try to walk faster down the hall. 

Mingyu just stupidly nods, sighing in what you think is relief, almost. If he hears your scoff of disbelief, he makes no note of it. 

Beside you, Minghao gapes at the two of you, eyes wide. 

“What?” you snap. 

He shakes his head. “No, no. I just–” he clears his throat, “Never knew you guys were this … close?” 

You make a face, disgust clearly, or you hope, written all over it. “Close? Us? If anything, the only thing being here reminds me of is how much I detested that man when I was younger.” 

Mingyu scoffs from next to you, but still opens the door into the private royal wing, letting you enter first (which you do, with the slightest upwards tilt of your chin). 

“I was so likeable in the Academy!” 

You roll your eyes, mouth curving into a displeasured frown. “Get over yourself. God, how is it that you haven’t changed at all?”

“I can say the same thing to you.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Is that all you have?”

“What, you want me to insult you?” 

“Well, I don’t know, can you? Because all I know is that the only insult you can come up with is–”

“--Can we please save this bitch fight for later?” 

You find yourself on the other side of Jihoon’s outstretched arm, with Mingyu across from you. Jihoon looks at you pleadingly in what you assume is code for back off please! So, you grudgingly step away, fixing your curled hair, huffing. 

Jihoon gives a pointed look to Mingyu who pouts in response, before turning back to you. 

“Your highnesses,” he starts, bowing curtly to both you and Minghao. “His majesty originally wanted to dine with the two of you, but due to some other matters, this plan has changed. He requests for His Highness to accompany me and Mage Yoon to the strategy room where his majesty will meet us. He has also told me to convey his wishes that your highness, Princess Y/n, be accompanied to her room by Prince Mingyu. There is a welcoming ball tomorrow night and his majesty has also requested your presence there, your highness.” 

Jihoon finishes with a deep-set bow. From over his lowered shoulder, you see, with something between elation and horrification, Mingyu’s thunder-shaken face, such sharp handsome features stuck in a weird expression. 

Minghao suddenly steps up, touch light on your arm. “Sir, I would prefer it if my sister and I didn't separate.” 

Jihoon glances at Jeonghan, who shrugs, before turning back to the two of you. “I apologize, your highness,” he murmurs, eyes flitting over to you. “I have been ordered by the King.” 

Minghao looks like he’s going to argue back so you intervene, patting your younger brother’s back. You gently shake your head. 

“No, it’s fine. I’ll do as the King wants,” you oblige, earning a worn, but thankful, smile from Jihoon. 

“Thank you, your highness.” Jihoon gives you one more bow before ushering Minghao (who looks completely unaccustomed to people ordering him around) towards the strategy room with Jeonghan, who gives you one last look before following. 

It leaves you, awkwardly standing, with Mingyu, who had, throughout the conversation, busied himself with gazing out the window like some love-stricken fool. He makes no move to turn back to you, which leaves you standing in the middle of the hall with aching legs because your hanfu is not meant for long-distance travel on foot. 

As you stare at his back and he stares out the window, oblivious (or you hope) to the three who had left, you can’t help but feel relieved that you are placed under Mingyu’s care. At least he was a recognizable face, even if the only memories of him you can think to recall involve you yelling at him or vice versa. 

Finally, Mingyu turns back to you, clearing his throat. His hands are clasped behind his back, trying to appear composed though the faint blush decorating the tips of his ears gives him away. “Well, Princess,” he says with exaggerated formality as he steps up to you. 

It’s unfair, really, how the sun perfectly halos around his form so that it forces you to think that you’re laying eyes upon one of heaven’s very own angels. His tan skin – so much more golden than your days in the Academy – glows, perfectly supplementing his golden armor (or perhaps his armor was supplementing his skin?), and his eyes are warm and teasing. When he stops right in front of you, it forces you to tilt your head up to look him in the eyes. 

When had he gotten this tall?

“Shall we? It seems fate has deemed us a perfect match for tonight.” His voice is light and teasing, almost purposefully airy so that it can slither through your cracks and make you laugh. 

You raise a brow, discreetly shuffling backwards to give yourself more space between his Mingyu-ness and your personal bubble. “More like the king has,” you mutter, trying to maintain your distaste. 

Mingyu just grins, offering his arm to you that you refuse. He shakes his head in faux disappointment, instead gesturing to you to follow. “Either way. I’m honored to be finally of service,” he hums. “Shall I carry you to your room or sing you a lullaby?” 

Your face drops into a look of utter disdain as you scoff. Sadly, your reaction seems to only fuel his amusement. “You and I both know you can’t sing for shit.” 

Mingyu gasps in horror. “I can sing!” He then slows his steps until he’s walking side by side to you. He leans down, face in yours. You will yourself to not pull back and instead keep walking (even though you can feel yourself heat up). 

“You’ve just never heard me actually sing,” Mingyu argues. 

You shrug. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” 

Mingyu mutters something unintelligible and you’re not too interested in what he has to say, so you let him be, rolling your eyes when you see him pout. 

“You’re such a child,” you sigh, turning the corner with him. 

Glancing out the nearest window, you realize the sun has already half-set, basking your part of the palace in the prettiest shade of colors you’ve seen in the last couple months. 

It seems that Mingyu has seen your staring because he clears his throat, pulling you out of your thoughts. When you turn to look at him with a sheepish look, he’s much closer than you thought he would be, causing you to almost crash into his chest, limbs stiff and pulled towards your own chest. Mingyu’s large hands – warm – steady you, firm around your shoulders. 

“Woah,” he mumbles, “you okay?” 

His words act as cold water sprayed over you and you blink, jolting, almost as you scramble back, dusting off your ruqun and straightening your fengguan from where it sits on the top of your head. 

“Let’s go,” you sniff, turning towards a random end of a hallway. 

Mingyu stops you, hand around your arm. “Dumbass, it’s the other way.” 

You’re too busy trying to compose yourself that you just turn with his order, the insult not even registering properly. 

You follow Mingyu down the hall, cheeks dusted with a light pink, and you try not to be too embarrassed as you hold your head up. As the two of you continue down the hall, the silence that follows is weirdly comfortable and comforting. You can feel yourself relaxing as Mingyu hums a soft melody, glancing back every so often at you. You take the intervals of a forward-facing Mingyu to study him. It’s been at least ten years (maybe less) since the Academy. You graduated before he did and then right away entered Xiawei’s Courts, ultimately pulling you away from any Academy holdings or other events. If you are honest with yourself, you thought seeing Mingyu again wouldn’t be as conflicting as it seems to be right now. And as you stare at his broad shoulders and thick arms, you feel that there is an odd familiarity in the Crown Prince’s presence that you convince yourself you are better off not acknowledging. 

As you near what you presume is your chambers, there are guards loitering around the hallway, trying to play off what is so obviously an Obellan envoy-hostage game as some kind of “guards on break inside the palace.” This time, when the soldiers salute Mingyu, he looks a smidge uncomfortable, saluting back with less enthusiasm. 

“Knights?” you ask, voice light but you know it has an edge of bitterness to it. “Just for a helpless princess like me? If I knew better, I’d think you were holding me hostage or something,” you hum. You keep on walking, trying to gauge Mingyu’s reaction from your peripheral vision as you continue down the hall. 

Mingyu clears his throat, glancing towards one of the knights leaning against the wall. “It doesn’t hurt to have precautions,” he mumbles, and it surprises you to realize how little argument he has with your claims. And then you realize what he means. 

Of course they were holding you hostage. It’s not like you had expected anything other than this treatment when you were coming from Xiawei. But still, hearing it from the very person who had called upon you under the guise of diplomacy bubbled a pot of frustration, bitterness, and betrayal in your stomach. 

He stops in front of a set of double oak doors, handles a gleaming golden and manned by two guards who seem like they want to be doing anything but guard a foreign princess overnight. 

“Yuqi arrived before you did. She’s in her quarters next door,” Mingyu suddenly states, turning on his heels to face you. 

You raise a brow. “That’s,” you pause, eyes darting to the door just a few steps down the hall, “good to hear. She came fast,” you mumble, and your expression softens into one of tiniest gratitude towards Mingyu. 

Then, he snickers behind his hand covering his mouth. “That’s what I always say,” he chortles, laughing at his own joke like he just said the funniest thing to exist. 

And immediately, whatever gratitude or relief you had from his words disappears like it wasn’t there to begin with. You scoff, loud, pushing him to the side to wrench the door open, your eyes rolling. 

Mingyu stumbles to the side, laughter dying to be replaced with a mocking smirk. “What? Oh, right,” he clicks his tongue, “You wouldn’t know what that means. Princess Prim and Proper.” 

Halfway into your room, you glance over your shoulder at him and you hope your glare is heavy enough to pierce through his horribly thick skull (though quite handsome now). “Oh,” you sigh, “go fuck yourself, Crown Prince,” you snap. Your words echo in the hallway and it seems as though Mingyu hadn’t been expecting those words because the last thing you see when you slam your door shut behind you is Mingyu’s shocked face, the smirk diluted down to a surprised twitch of his lips, as if he didn’t know you could curse. 

You shake your head as you look around the room. 

“Fucking asshole,” you mutter to yourself as your eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, the only light being the roaring fireplace on the other end of the room. Just because you hadn’t been with anyone like he had, all prancing around in his half-buttoned Academy uniform with his arm draped over a new girl every week like he needed a new prey to satiate his ever-growing hunger. The audacity still embedded into the stupid stupid Crown Prince almost makes you gag at the prospect of being stuck under his care for the god-knows-how-long period of time you’re caged in Obella as a hostage (oops, envoy!). For all you know, he might just leave you out to die – starve and dehydrate in the royal gardens or something. And when Jun visits you and Minghao like he said he would, your older brother is going to find you dead in some random side-alley of the palace. 

God, the things you go through to–

Knock, knock. 

You exhale sharply, dragging a tied hand over your face before turning towards the door. The last thing you want to see, or deal with, is him. Again! So soon! But when you heave open the heavy oak door, the figure standing in front of you makes you just about cry in joy.

All you’re awarded with is a familiar scent of vanilla, a wave of curly light brown, and a blur of dark silk  before the door slams shut again. 

“I hate you,” Yuqi hisses, gripping your arms as she stares into you. “Do you know what I had to endure in this ghastly place?” 

Despite your exhaustion, you can’t help but bite back a loud laugh. “You already knew we were going to be sent up here.” 

“Yes,” Yuqi groans, throwing her head back, “but while you rode in with Minghao, that doesn’t mean I was prepared to sit in a carriage with Zhong Chenle of all people, while he waxed poetic about the ‘delicate political and economic balance of this arrangement’ and gawked at all the passing noblewomen.” Yuqi throws her hands up, shaking her head in disgust that looked a little too real to be fake. “I thought about throwing myself out thrice.” 

She has you almost choking in laughter, stepping aside to let her roam your room in relative peace. Yuqi gracefully takes on the silent offer, striding past you and frowning at the lavish Obellan style room before flopping dramatically onto the velvet divan, an arm draped over her eyes. 

“Hey,” you hum, hands slapping down onto her shoulders, “you think you have it bad? Now I’m here and he’s here and I’m forced to breathe the same air as the Crown Prince of–”

“--Your nightmares? Horrors? Terrors?” Yuqi groans, hands going to rest on yours, shaking your arms as she turns around, facing you properly. Her eyes are wide and she lets out a laugh of disbelief. “It’s actually tragic!” 

You roll your eyes, moving to pour yourself a cup of tea from the tray by the fireplace. “I wouldn’t go that far. He’s not horrible.” 

Yuqi gasps, hands flying to cover her mouth. “This wretched place has already tainted you so,” she cries, hands slapping her knees. 

You shoot her a dry look, sipping your tea. “I’ve been here for five hours, Qi.” 

“Exactly! Long enough, apparently, to lose your sense of reason!” She shudders dramatically. “What’s going to be next? You’ll start saying he smells nice?” 

Your face wrinkles into displeasure. “Ew no. He smells like sweat.” 

Yuqi blanches, “You smelled him?” 

“No!” You huff, “Of course that’s what he’s going to smell like, god, I don’t know! Stop asking questions!” 

“You hate him!”

You blink. “I never said that.”

Yuqi stands up abruptly, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You just defended him! You–”

“--I never defended him!” you argue. 

“Well, you did subconsciously! What happened to Qiqi, I’d rather drink poison than be stuck in the same room as him?” Yuqi narrows her eyes, stalking over to where you were standing. She is quiet before she scoffs at your aghast, blinking face. “Stockholm syndrome,” she states, hands flying up, almost hitting your teacup out of your hands. “It’s happening. Already.”

You sigh, gently setting the delicate porcelain down before she actually hits it out of your hands, and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Yuqi, you’re being dramatic-”

“-No!” She collapses onto another sofa, fanning herself with a fan you didn’t even know she was holding. “I know you. I know how much you loathe him. How much you think he’s a horrible, wretched, useless little-”

“-Yuqi.” 

“Fine, fine. Either way, you’re telling me that you think he’s not horrible? God, please,” Yuqi scoffs, arms crossing over her chest, rustling the delicate navy blue silk of her robes, “you’re either lying to yourself or his princely Obellan cooties have already wormed their way inside your brain like a goddamn parasite.” 

You want to laugh, really, but the stringent way Yuqi stares you down has you weakly forcing out a snort. “Fine. I hate him. I think he’s horrible. Good?” 

Yuqi stares. “And smelly.” 

Now you really laugh. “Fine, yes. And smelly.” 

“Say it again.” 

“I hate him…” You trail off when the moon, shining so bright outside like a glittering silver platter catches your eyes. You don’t think you’ve seen it so big and round when you were back in Xiawei. Or maybe you didn’t have time to gaze out windows back home. Either way. When you take a step closer to the large french windows, suddenly, a scene, from just minutes ago, rapidly rewinds through your head. 

His chest, large warm hands firm around your shoulders, and the ever-so-slightly present glint of worry (disgusting) that shone in his eyes for a split second.

“Are you okay, y/n?” 

And you must be actually going insane because you feel heat creep up your neck and blush your cheeks and your lips finds themselves whispering a soft “...most of the time,” towards the window. 

It makes Yuqi gasp so loudly you jolt, almost jumping in the air. 

“Oh my god.” She clutches your wrist so quickly it almost gives you a whiplash. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft. Not for him.”

You scoff, backing away. “As if.” Your eyes, however, search for something else to look at.

“Come on, y/n, I know it’s been years but he’s still the same old mindless prince.” 

“I know, Yuqi.” 

“What did he say to you to deserve even a moment of hesitation?” 

“Yuqi, come on.”

“I’ll stab him. Actually. What did he say?”

“Yuqi.”

“This is a national crisis, y/n! If you’re wavering, then we’re all forever doomed to be chained to this wretched, wretched land with no silk!”

You shake your head, pushing her back onto the couch with a shove. “I hate him,” you insist. “Okay? He’s insufferable, arrogant, and the only thing I’ve realized today was that I’d rather bite my own tongue off than listen to him speak again.” 

Yuqi is quiet while she studies you meticulously, brown eyes tracing over your form as if she could read your aura or something. She finally sighs, slumping back onto the couch. “That’s better. You scared me for a second.” 

You don’t dignify her dramatics with a response, shaking your head as you turn towards a countertop to set your jewels on. 

“...But mark my words. If you ever hesitate again, know that I’m poisoning his wine.” 

taglist...

[bennyboyfics]

hey can u make a story about him making sure you’re okay and stuff when they travel together for his tournaments and making sure that the reporters aren’t all over her but also answering questions about her at press conferences!

His safe haven || Ben Shelton x gf!reader

A/n: I love this request ty!!

Wc: 930

Warnings: none!

MASTERLIST

-

The chaos of the tennis world was nothing new to Ben, but having you by his side added a different layer to it. When he travelled for tournaments, it used to be just about him—his matches, his training, his press conferences. Now, he had something more precious to think about: you. And he made sure you were okay. Always.

It started the moment you arrived at the airport. Ben’s hand found yours instinctively, fingers threading through yours in a way that felt both protective and grounding. He knew how overwhelming these trips could be—the flashing cameras, the murmurs of reporters who always had something to say.

He wasn’t about to let you feel like you had to navigate it alone. “Stay close to me, baby,” he murmured as you walked through the terminal, his grip tightening slightly as he noticed a few journalists lingering near baggage claim. You weren’t famous, not in the way he was, but that didn’t stop the media from taking an interest in you.

Being Ben Shelton’s girlfriend automatically made you a topic of conversation. And though you did your best to ignore the attention, Ben could see when it got to you—the way your shoulders tensed under their stares, the way you kept your gaze down when a camera flashed too close. So he shielded you. At the tournament, it was the same.

From the second you stepped onto the grounds, his presence became your safeguard. His arm would rest lightly around your waist, his body subtly positioning itself between you and any approaching reporters. If they tried to direct a question your way, he’d step in smoothly, answering for you without hesitation.

“Ben, is your girlfriend travelling with you for the whole season?” one journalist asked as you walked toward the players’ entrance. Ben didn’t break stride, keeping your hand firmly in his. “Yeah, she’s here to support me, just like always,” he replied, his voice even, making it clear that there wasn’t much more to say on the subject.

When the crowd of media got too thick, he’d shift in front of you, using his broad frame as a barrier. You’d feel his fingers squeeze yours as he leaned back slightly, murmuring under his breath, “Just stick with me, I got you.” And he always did. Even during press conferences, when he was seated under the harsh fluorescent lights with microphones pointed at him, he never hesitated to mention you.

“Ben, you’ve been playing incredibly well this tournament. Do you think having your girlfriend here has had an impact on your performance?” He grinned at the question, leaning back in his chair slightly. “For sure,” he admitted, his Southern drawl making the words feel even softer. “She keeps me grounded. Keeps me happy. That’s important, y’know?”

Another reporter jumped in, “She’s been spotted around the tournament a lot. Does she enjoy travelling with you?” Ben nodded, his smile never fading. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, I hope so.” He glanced toward the back of the room where you sometimes sat in support, his expression warm. “I try to make it easy for her. It’s a lot, all this, but she handles it like a champ.”

And he meant it. He knew how overwhelming it could be to be in his world, but he made it his mission to make sure you felt safe, comfortable. Between matches, he’d always check in. A gentle, “You good, baby?” whenever you were waiting for him outside the locker room. A reassuring squeeze of your thigh when you sat beside him in the players’ lounge.

A quiet, “You wanna head back to the hotel? You don’t have to stay here all day.” But you did, because you wanted to be there for him. And Ben, in turn, made sure you knew how much that meant to him. At the end of the day, when the cameras were gone and the crowds had faded, it was just the two of you in the quiet of your hotel room.

And that was his favourite part. Just holding you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead, murmuring against your skin, “Thanks for being here, baby. You know I’d go crazy without you.” And you knew—because no matter how intense the world around you got, Ben always made sure you felt safe in it.