#this whole thing. masterpiece of angst

[wazzappp]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

oh my god. oh my fucking GODDDDD. HOGHHG. I just finished drawing a bunch of like. fluffy shit this hit me like a FUCKING FREIGHT TRAIM AGHHGKLSFD. I AM HAVING A LOT OF FEELINGS RIGHT NOW

"He wanted to remember Robbie when they’d both been real people, not see what Eveline would turn him into."

VIBRATING. FUCKING VIBRATING. AAAGHHHHHH. CAUSE. CAUSE. YOU WILL SURVIVE. BUT YOU WONT BE 'REAL PEOPLE' EVER AGAIN YOU WILL NOW ALWAYS IN SOME WAY BE WHAT EVELINE MADE YOU TWO AGHHHHHHH FUCK. FUCK. FUCKING FUCK. AND THAT BIT ABOUT HER MAKING GABE LOVE HER MORE THAN ROBBIE OH MY GOD. OH MY FUCKING GOD.

"-Eveline wanted Robbie nice and broken before she took him."

Jesus fucking christ dude

"The mold was more active than Gabe had ever seen it, snaking down from the ceiling over the walls, pooling and mounding on the floors. Robbie was hurting it more than any other guest had. "

DAMN RIGHT!!!!!! THATS MY BOYYYYYYYYYY!!!! THATS MY BOYYYYYYY GET THEY ASS KILL MAIM BURN!!!!

"Gabe reached out to a tendril of mold and stroked it: damp, soft. -- Soon Gabe would have only the mold for company."

ogh my god. the forshadowing. for Gabe seeing the mold as a friend and finding comfort in it. HOghhg. HELL. OH MY GOD. AGHH.. im actually going to start crying.

"Daddy had hit Gabe, told him it was for his own good. He never hit Eveline though, even though he loved Eveline more. "

MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRRRRRR

All of Gabe realizing its Robbie on the other side of the fence. BEING READY TO TRY AND WARN SOME RANDOM STRANGER EVEN BEFORE HE KNEW IT WAS ROBBIE OH MY GOD THIS BRAVE LITTLE GUY AGHHHHHHGHGHGHGHHDKG. He hasn't felt love or happiness that wasnt forced by Eveline in so long that being happy to see his brother feels strange and almost wrong. Im going to LOSE MY MIND. IVE LOST IT. I NEED TO GO FIND IT BEFORE I CAN PROCEED.

REALIZING THAT ROBBIE iS ALSO INFECTED OHHHHHHHHH MY GODDDDDDDDDD HGNNNNNGGGGG. Oh my god and Robbie doesent understand he thinks Gabe is crying because he feels bad about cutting his hand off I mean he DOES but OH ITS SO MUCH WORSE THAN HE KNOWS IT IS. im fuckigng. hmgnd.

"Gabe couldn’t force out any words through his sobs, so he couldn’t tell Robbie that neither of them could go home, they were both rotten inside like the Baker’s house. They belonged to the swamp."

FUCK

Robbie being so mad that it reminds Gabe of Jack is SCARY. Ohhhhhhh god that kind of anger is scary and he can recognize that in his brother now oh jesus christ im going to scream you really really know how to twist the knife dude ohggod

"Robbie lowered the gun, his whole body shaking. “I’m coming for you, Gabe,” he promised, his voice raw and terrible. “I won’t let any of these people stop me. You’re my brother, and you always will be. I’m taking you out of here!”"

YEAH!!!! YEAH!!!! YEAH!!!! GET MAD!!!! KILL THEM ALL!!!! KILL THAT FAMILY OF FOUR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! DO IT MULTIPLE TIMES!!!!!! GOD KNOWS YOU WILL HAVE TO!!!!

Im not well.

ANGR/RE7 AU fanfic: Timeout

Inspired by @wazzappp's Ghost Rider/Resident Evil 7 AU because it haunts me.

Gabe and Robbie meet for the first time after Robbie gets his hand stapled back on.

Nobody ever came back from Lucas’s side of the basement fence. He was mean and Gabe usually stayed away from him; he didn’t care about any of the guests they caught, didn’t respect his own bio-dad and bio-mom, and somehow he didn’t even care about Eveline. Gabe didn’t know how Lucas managed that one. Eveline made it impossible not to love her. Gabe loved her more than Robbie, and he knew that if Robbie stayed here and got to know her, he’d love Eveline more than Gabe. 

Eveline always wanted to be sure, though. That was why she’d made Gabe cut off his hand. 

He just wished Robbie would leave and never come back. If Eveline had Robbie, she wouldn’t need Gabe except as someone to bully, or a spare body to borrow. And Robbie would never look at Gabe again, not with Eveline filling his head, tugging. He wanted to remember Robbie when they’d both been real people, not see what Eveline would turn him into.

Gabe sat on Lucas’ side of the basement fence, clutching his head and rocking. That was a self-soothing behavior, he remembered one of the doctors explaining to Robbie, and who else was going to soothe him? Not Eveline. Robbie’s arrival had made everything worse; Ma Baker was upset because Robbie was ungrateful to her and Eveline, Daddy Baker was angry and wanted to teach him a lesson, and Eveline wanted Robbie nice and broken before she took him. Nobody had time to check that Gabe was alright, and once Robbie was well and adopted into the family, no one ever would. 

He’d cut off Robbie’s hand. He’d cut him with a knife. Robbie wouldn’t stay after all that, would he? He’d run away. Gabe hadn’t been acting like himself, he’d been acting like a bully. Robbie hated bullies. No one had escaped Daddy Baker before, but that wouldn’t stop Robbie. 

He kept hearing what Robbie used to call fireworks, loud and close. Daddy Baker had never shot at any of their guests. Lucas did once, but Daddy took his gun away after that. 

Pop-pop echoing close through the hallway. Gabe caught an echo of Eveline’s frustration—one of her friends was hurt, she’d have to rebuild it. She had so many of them now. The mold was more active than Gabe had ever seen it, snaking down from the ceiling over the walls, pooling and mounding on the floors. Robbie was hurting it more than any other guest had. 

Gabe reached out to a tendril of mold and stroked it: damp, soft. Eveline wouldn’t want to be the middle child between Robbie and Gabe. Soon Gabe would have only the mold for company.

The gunshots had been getting nearer. Now they were silent, and Gabe heard lurching footsteps. He wondered if he was in trouble. Daddy wasn’t one of those sissy parents who didn’t believe in corporal punishment and the idea of a social worker checking in on the Bakers was laughable. Daddy had hit Gabe, told him it was for his own good. He never hit Eveline though, even though he loved Eveline more. 

Gabe could open the other door and creep away into the swamp, but not if he wanted to know who was doing the shooting. Not if he wanted to warn them. He waited, crouching in the shadow where the hall light had burnt out, ready to run if Eveline let him. 

A blood-soaked man stepped around the corner. It was Robbie. 

Gabe lurched toward him, coming up against the wire fence. His body seemed not his; it had been so long since anything but fear for himself or love for Eveline had made him move, that his love for Robbie seemed like an intruder. 

Robbie’s gun flashed toward him, just for an instant. Then he pointed it at the ground and stumbled toward Gabe just as urgently as Gabe had tried to run to him, free hand outstretched to wrap over top of Gabe’s fingers through the wire. 

“Robbie!”

“Gabe!” His voice was hoarse. He leaned his head against the fence like he could fit through the gaps if he thought small thoughts. “It’s you, right? Help me out, how do I know when it’s you?”

Gabe felt himself start to cry. “You can’t. She’s in my head, she can make me want things. Robbie, I’m sorry—” He choked up and couldn’t talk anymore. Robbie tucked his gun into his waistband, his other fingers still firm and clammy over Gabe’s. Other fingers. Gabe followed the hand up Robbie’s wrist, past a big smartwatch he’d never seen Robbie wear, to the ring of carpentry staples biting into Robbie’s skin where Gabe had cut his hand off. Same way Lucas always fixed himself up when Daddy had enough of his lip.

Normal people’s arms didn’t work that way. 

Gabe couldn’t keep himself from crying. Robbie was saying, “Buddy, it’s okay, I’m not mad, I just need to know what’s happening to you so I can get you medicine and we can go home. I’m gonna bring you home. Okay?” Gabe couldn’t force out any words through his sobs, so he couldn’t tell Robbie that neither of them could go home, they were both rotten inside like the Baker’s house. They belonged to the swamp.

But Robbie could still want to go home. He could still say it. 

“Run,” Gabe managed. “Robbie. Robbie, run away!”

“I’m not leaving you, bud,” Robbie said, and then his hand pulled away and he jerked his head up and grabbed at his waist and he bared his teeth. His face was dark with fury just like Daddy on a real tear. “Don’t you fucking touch him!” Robbie snarled, and from behind Gabe a strong arm snatched him up by the waist and heaved him off his feet. Gabe smelled the disinfectant Lucas used.

“Shoot me!” Lucas taunted, voice coming from just below Gabe’s chin. “The kid’ll be fine. Go on. Do it.” Lucas carried Gabe away through the door behind them, even as Gabe thrashed and kicked. Through his tears, he saw Robbie gripping a gun with both hands, trembling as he aimed it just past Gabe’s head. Robbie never used to have a gun. He’d always told Gabe never to touch them, never to play with them, to keep away from anyone who had one. 

Robbie lowered the gun, his whole body shaking. “I’m coming for you, Gabe,” he promised, his voice raw and terrible. “I won’t let any of these people stop me. You’re my brother, and you always will be. I’m taking you out of here!”

I can’t, Gabe thought. I can’t leave, I belong to Eveline. But he saw the fury in Robbie’s eyes, and bit the words back. 

Lucas walked them back through the door and leaned around Gabe’s back toward the opening. “Pussy.” He slammed it shut.

[cynicalmusings]

phainon’s trailer is actually so insane wtf? i had tears in my eyes as i watched it and he’s not even one of the characters i’m Super invested in

[mamawasatesttube]

thinking kon & jon otgw au thoughts...

[fics-lovebot]

jungkook fic recs - pt. 3

main masterlist

· · ♡ · · tysm to the amazing creative minds of the writers for giving me sevaral moments of joy reading your creations

pls reblog if you like any of my recs and don´t forget to support authors!❤️

come sit on my lap - ( @euphoricfilter ) pwp, lots of praisingg, they way this is written is good yall, "use me" , “so polite” shUT UPPPP im literally blushing, AND he is also cute at the end?? i hate it heREEE :´)

he has a lot of cum - ( @euphoricfilter ) bf!jk, the title I- , he DOES have a lot of cum, lots of stamina, lots of everYTHING, and on toP of those small details, wdym he wants to see how many times he can cum in you before it´s too full and it starts to spill????? somebody stop this man

riding jungkook´s nose - ( @euphoricfilter ) we´ve ALLL thought about this, and if you haven´t you´re lying, periodt. pRAISINGGG, he´s in a pussy-drunk frenezy, he likes feeling used, he likes getting his hair pulled, he likes getting his face wET, it´s sickenINGGGG goreaditplease

fucking in the gym - ( @euphoricfilter ) this was inspired by that one pic of him and jimin with their back out, I SEE THE VISION, fucking with ceiling mirrors

wicked - ( @noteguk ) smut, incubus!jk, big big corruption kink, lots of dirty ploting and dirty talk, yupppp this is a good one, so detailed, love me a fic that lit makes me see what i´m reading

strings attached (to my heart) - ( @jungkoode ) smut, crack, fluff, IT HAS IT ALLL, spider man au, college au, spider-man!jk x journalist!reader. READ THE TAGS BC ITS GOOD AF, bc wdym you combined sub-loser-desperate jk who also has a noona kink wITH a superhero au??? it´s like you wrote it for me,, (also, this deserves many many more notes imo)

think i need someone older - ( @redcherrykook ) smut, whipped rich older bf!jk (PERIOD!!) x younger!reader. JESUS FUCKING CHRISTTTTTTT!!! no more words needed, this one´s pulled right out of my maladaptive daydreaming folder

fade into you - ( @nmjoo-n ) SMUT, fluff, fwb to lovers au. barista!jk, possessive obsessive toxic lovesick!jk (LETS FUCKING GOOOOOO). this is a whole 2022 masterpiece, they way this is written, and the way jungkook is borderline PSYCOTICH (or in love ig) for her is so hotttttttt. deff one of my favs

this is how you fal in love - ( @jeonqkooks ) fluff, smut, angst if you squint. rockstar!jk au, est relationship. this is beautiful, a 2022 gem. love love love how lengthy and detailed this is

frost impressions - ( @fortunexkookie ) soccer coach!jk, teacher!reader, gamer au, work au, idiots to lovers, one sided pining at first, it´s a longggg one. another 2020 masterpiece, one of my favorite fics out there, he´s so disgustingly smitten with his new coworker that he ends up making a terrible first impression. so so so entertaining and fun to read, jk is silly af lmao, can´t stop putting his foot in his mouth, theres a bunch of cute second hand embarrasment situations

Over The Odds | The Confession - ( @jungk0oksthighs ) ceo jk, sugardaddy jk, jealous bf jk, sugar baby reader, he gets mad and yells bc he is lowkey insecure of her ex but reader is equaly in love. this is a series

wrong time - ( @spideyjimin ) smut, angst, dilf!jk, ceo!jk, exes to lovers, workaholic as a scape mechanism, the one that got away type of stuff but she broke things up first for valid reasons, big big heartache but she´s still the love of his life

don´t blame me - ( @ctrlsht ) sugar daddy!jk, ceo!jk, soft yan!jk, obsessive!jk, student!reader, unhealthy behavior on his part, manipulative behavior on her part, jealousy on both parts, he goes a lil too far but reader is bitchy and annoying, he lit gives her everythinggg she asks for, the man is..creazy about her in a very unhealthy way and she takes advantage of that, toxicc

failed quickie - ( @vminizzle ) cowerker jk, suggestive, they´re about to fucc on an elevator but shit happens, he likes his hair pulled!!1!

someone older - ( @bonny-kookoo ) smut, ceo jk, divorced jk, 30 something yo jk, taehyung has a kid, younger oc, its a nice read, would do it again

[itoshiierae]

𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 ᯓ✩

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

ᡣ𐭩 ft: rindou haitani x f!reader

ᡣ𐭩 summary: it was supposed to be simple — a fake relationship to make your toxic ex finally back off. but then you went and tested the temper of your ‘fake’ delinquent boyfriend. and the thing about rindou??? he doesn’t fake his jealousy. not when it ends with you pinned to his couch, lips swollen & marked up like his personal masterpiece. (wc: 3.2k words)

ᡣ𐭩 cw: minors dni, nsfw, fake dating trope, technically fwb-to-lovers, complicated feelings, p0rn with plot (so no, it’s not just “straight to the smut”), jealousy, eventual smut, rough sex, degradation, overstimulation, fingering, lipstick kink, possessiveness, oral (m! receiving), slight angst

ᡣ𐭩 notes: rindou lovers, this one’s for you 😋 this idea hit me out of nowhere and i knew i had to write it ASAP. it’s got fake dating, jealousy, and rindou being a menace in the best possible way. enjoyyy <33

you were the one who asked him first. not because you liked him, but because you were in a desperate situation. and rindou… well, he didn’t exactly say no either. it started after your toxic ex-boyfriend wouldn’t leave you alone even though you’d told him for the nth time that you weren’t getting back together with him. he kept calling, texting, even showing up at your house and begging for “one last chance.” — you were completely sick of it.

you knew the only way he’d finally back off was, if he believed that you were completely unavailable. so what better way to prove it than by fake dating an infamous delinquent??? after all, rindou haitani wasn’t just anyone, he had a whole reputation. your ex surely wouldn’t stand a chance against someone like him, and you knew it.

the haitani brothers were infamous for throwing the wildest parties. they had that brand of danger, girls knew they should’ve avoid but somehow couldn’t resist. despite all the rumors and how chaotic they seemed, they were actually pretty chill once you got to know them. especially the younger one: rindou. you’d accidentally bumped straight into him at a mutual friend’s party — heels too high, hallway too dark, and your drink still half-full when you turned the corner too fast. the heel of your left shoe twisted beneath you as you stumbled, sending a sharp jolt up your ankle. you winced, clutching onto the nearest surface (which just so happened to be his hoodie), hissing out a “fuck—” under your breath.

before you could fall, his hands caught your arms, firm but surprisingly gentle. “whoa... you good??” his voice carried that usual lazy drawl — but his brows furrowed when he noticed you weren’t putting weight on one foot.

you let out a breathy laugh, already wincing — embarrassment prickling hot up your neck. “y-yeah but i think... i might’ve just twisted my ankle.”

to your surprise, he didn’t walk away or tell you to suck it up. he actually helped you out the entire night; got you an ice pack, made sure you were sitting somewhere comfortable, even stayed next to you while the party raged on. he literally took care of you — and even when the night ended, he was the one who called the ride and made sure you got home safe.

──★

a few weeks later, you ran into him again at another party. your toxic ex-boyfriend was there too. you were so over it. let’s not forget the fact that you’d already blocked at least five of his burner accounts; the ones he made just to try and get through to you. it was honestly exhausting at this point. so now??? frustrated, half-drunk, and fully done with everything — you spotted rindou across the room; leaning against the kitchen counter, bored out of his mind and sipping on something that was probably stronger than it looked.

you walked straight up to him and blurted, “if i kiss you right now, can we pretend we’re dating?” he let out a low chuckle, eyebrow cocking. “seriously… just like that??”

“i need my ex to stop thinking i’m available…” you sighed, exasperated. then added, “and you literally don’t care about anything, so… would you mind helping me out?”

he stared at you for a second, like he was trying to figure out if you were being serious or just tipsy. then, after a beat, he just shrugged and went, “uhh… sure, i guess?? whatever keeps things interesting.”

afterwards, you didn’t even hesitate. one step forward, fists already curled into his shirt — and then you kissed him. you tilted your chin, lips parting against his like you’d been wanting to kiss him for the longest time.

rindou didn’t flinch. in fact, the second your mouth met his; his hand flew up to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a grip so instinctive it made your knees weak. he kissed you back, slow and cocky, like he had nothing to prove but still wanted you breathless. but then you instantly felt his teeth tug softly at your bottom lip, and just like that, the kiss turned filthy — louder than it should’ve been; hotter than it had any right to be.

you heard the sound of gasps from all over the room. a few people nearby were full-on staring, one girl even whispering a shocked, “oh my god???” to her friend. this whole scene literally feels like it came straight out of a hollywood rom-com, you thought.

across the room, your ex stood frozen — drink still in hand, eyes locked on every second of that moment. he watched the kiss, watched the way rindou pulled away with swollen lips and a lazy smirk, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

safe to say, now your ex finally — got the message and that moment was also, the start of it all.

one staged kiss turned into the both of you spending time together almost every day. one fake instagram story turned into holding hands in front of everyone. one thrown arm over your shoulder turned into possessive little habits he might’ve picked up along the way — unintentionally, maybe… but they somehow stuck.

he even introduced you to his older brother, ran, not long after that. you still remembered the look on ran’s face — a little amused, a lot surprised. he blinked, then muttered under his breath, “now this is a first… you never bothered to introduce any of your bitc— uhh, girlfriends to me.” he probably thought you didn’t hear it, but you did. and you definitely noticed the way rindou just sighed and brushed him off, like this wasn’t worth explaining — or maybe it was, and he just didn’t have the words yet.

somehow along the way… it almost feels like the both of you weren’t really pretending anymore. the way he looks at you like you’re already his. the way his gaze sharpens whenever another guy lingers too long in your direction. the way he constantly showed up whenever you needed him. it’s all… starting to feel a little too real.

whatever this was, it probably stopped being fake a while ago — and deep down, you already knew that. still though, he hasn’t exactly made it official yet. so technically, you were still considered single.

… or so you thought.

──★

one night, you went out clubbing with your friends — dressed in a red, barely-there dress that hugged your curves just right, showing off just enough to turn heads. it was one of those outfits you wore for you, just because you felt confident of yourself and to top it all off? you even wore that same red lipstick rindou had given you weeks ago. he said it suited you; you hadn’t worn it since… until now.

when you and your friends finally arrived at the club, all you wanted was to let loose; dance a little, forget about everything for a while, and just breathe. some random cute guy offered to buy you a drink — you smiled politely, said thank you, even agreed when he asked if you wanted to dance. you didn’t think much of it. harmless fun, after all right???

but what you didn’t know was that, one of rindou’s boys was there too. leaning by the bar, drink in hand, watching the dance floor with sharp eyes — and he definitely saw you. saw the way that guy’s hands settled a little too low on your waist. the way you leaned in, laughing at something he said. the way that red dress barely left anything to the imagination.

so he pulled out his phone and snapped a photo — you, back arched, hips swaying, with a stranger’s hands gripping your body.

and sent it straight to rindou with one line:

“yo... isn’t this your girl??”

when rindou saw the photo? ohhh, he was definitely not happy.

he didn’t even bother replying to the message. just stood up, grabbed his jacket and keys, then drove straight to the club — twenty minutes, tops. he wasn’t thinking, just fuming while thinking of ways on how he’s gonna “punish” you later.

when he walked in, it was like the music dulled just for him. violet eyes scanning the crowd until he found you; in that red dress, with that guy’s hand a little too low on your waist. you were laughing at something, barely paying attention — and that was what set him off the most. without a word, he shoved through the crowd and grabbed your wrist.

“waittt rindou??? what are you—?”

“outside. now.” his grip wasn’t rough, but it was firm enough to leave no room for argument. he didn’t even glance at the guy — just dragged you out like it wasn’t up for discussion.

──★

which explains why you’re now here — in his apartment, back against the front door, his jacket barely off you before the full interrogation starts. the way he’s pacing, jaw clenching, voice clipped? it almost feels like you’re cheating on him. except you didn’t. because you’re not even officially his. well… technically???

“… i don’t get it,” you mutter, arms crossed, still a little tipsy. “you’re not even my real boyfriend.”

“so what?” he spits, voice rough and bitter. “you let me fuckin’ act like it.”

you want to argue; want to say that he’s overreacting, but you can’t — because he’s technically right.

he’s the one who lets you come over for movie nights that somehow always turn into makeout sessions — the kind that end with you tangled in his sheets until morning. he’s the one who once beat a guy half to death for touching you without permission. he’s the one who remembers all your favorites — from your dunkin’s order, to the exact way you like your eggs. he knows your body like it’s his favorite secret — knows when to grip, how to ruin, exactly how to fuck you dumb until you’re left begging. and the aftercare? he rubs your stomach while his cum still leaks out of you, then wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you in, letting you fall asleep against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

afterwards, the air suddenly shifts. you feel it before he even moves; that silent, seething tension rising between you like a stormcloud about to burst. the way his jaw tightens and his violet eyes don’t leave yours. he hasn’t even touched you yet, but your body’s already reacting — chest heaving, spine tensing, like you know what’s coming next.

you blink — and suddenly he’s there, stealing the breath from your lungs. the kiss lands hard, all heat and control, with no room for doubt. his hands are firm, his body pressed close — there’s no more hesitation.

your back hits the pristine wall with a dull thud.

he kisses you like he’s trying to erase the last few hours — like if he holds you close enough, maybe the jealousy won’t choke him. his hands find your waist, tight with something he hasn’t said yet.

you barely get a second to breathe before he lifts you — strong arms locking around your thighs as he carries you straight to the couch. your purse falls from your shoulder in the process, landing on the cushion beside you with a soft thud.

then he’s pressing you down, like your body belongs right there beneath him. before you can adjust, his mouth claims yours — deep, unapologetically mean, “thought you were single, huh?” he growls against your lips, hands already pushing your dress up your thighs. “… letting some guy grind on you like i haven’t had you moaning into my pillow for weeks??”

you try to speak, “wait!! — rindou, i —” but he cuts you off with a sharp kiss, teeth catching your bottom lip.

“nah… you knew exactly what you were doing.”

his hand slips between your legs, finds you soaked already, and he chuckles darkly. “fuck… this wet already? just from a little yelling?” his fingers press in — slow, deep, curling in that way he knows ruins you.

then he presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles as your hips twitch beneath him. “see this?” he mutters, voice low and venom-laced. “you piss me off, and i’m still here — makin’ sure you’re properly prepped. still playing nice… even when you don’t fuckin’ deserve it.” he doesn’t stop — just keeps rubbing, taunting and deep, while the pleasure coils tighter in your gut.

“…just a little bit… more,” his voice is low, controlled — but barely. and once he’s satisfied with how soft and ready you are for him, he doesn’t waste a second. his hands move fast — dragging his pants down, cock already hard and leaking for you. “you asked for this, didn’t you?” he mutters, lining himself up as he gives your thigh a possessive squeeze. “…so take it.”

and then he slams in — deep and merciless, his thick length dragging along your walls like he owns every inch of you. “fucking tight... greedy little thing’s been missing me.” you moan, high and raw, hands clutching the cushions like they’ll save you, but they won’t. not when he’s got you pinned to the couch, hips rolling, voice low and venom-sweet:

“… next time you let another man touch you??? i won’t be so nice.”

he’s deep inside you — hips flush, breath heavy — when suddenly??? he pulls out. you gasp at the loss, walls clenching around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs from how full you’d been just seconds ago.

“wha—?” your voice comes out wrecked, dazed. “rindou—”

“nah,” he mutters, cock resting heavy against your soaked cunt, glistening. “you don’t get to act like mine all week and then let another guy touch you.” his thumb drags along your folds, pressing right there — that has you whining. you squirm, hips chasing his hand, but he pulls back again. “you want me?” he asks, voice low and smug, leaning over until his lips brush your ear.

“then beg for it.”

you bite your lip and tried to stay silent. but the emptiness hurts. “please…” you whisper, blinking up at him. “i want you—”

“nah, sweetheart,” he cuts in, grip tightening around your thighs as he pushes your knees further apart. “you don’t ‘want’ me... you need me.”

his cock slides along your slit again, teasing. you whimper — throat dry, brain hazy. you’d do anything to feel him inside you again. “… say it,” he commands. “say you need me to fuck you. right now.”

“i need you,” you gasp, eyes wet, voice shaking. “please, rindou... i need you to fuck me.”

just like that? he slams back in — deep — a satisfied groan ripping from his throat as your body arches under him. “now that’s more like it.”

he’s relentless—drunk on the way your body reacts, like every whimper only drives him deeper. not even your trembling legs or cracked moans slow him down, “rindou—” you gasp, wrecked. “ i—i can’t—”

he grabs your jaw, tilting your face to meet his eyes. “yes, you can,” he growls. “you’re gonna take all of it.” his hips keep snapping forward, deep and mean — his cock dragging along that sweet spot that has your back arching off the couch. his thumb is back on your clit, greedy and controlled. “this what you wanted?” he hisses, breath hot against your ear. “you flirt with some loser at the club and now you’re dripping all over my cock? fuckin’ unbelievable...”

you’re sobbing now — not from pain, but from how good he feels inside you. he leans in closer, voice mocking and syrup-sweet: “don’t cry now, baby… not when your pussy’s this greedy.”

it hits you without warning — a wave of pleasure so sharp, your body locks up, cunt gushing all over the couch as you scream his name.

he pulls out slow — cock glistening with everything you just gave him. and then he gives you that look. the one that makes your stomach twist and your thighs instinctively press together again.

“…you already know what i want next.”

his voice is smug, expectant. and fuck, you do know.

he doesn’t have to say it. not when he’s already dragging you down to your knees with a firm grip on your arm. he’s already stroking himself lazily in front of you, just inches from your lips — still hard, still dripping, and unsatisfied.

“open,” he says.

you do. lips slack, eyes already tearing. and when he stuffs his cock into your mouth — thick, heavy, claiming your throat inch by inch — he groans low, hand fisting in your hair like he’s anchoring himself to you.

“clean me up.”

you hesitate — just a second, blinking up at him with ruined eyes — and he chuckles, cruel and amused, gripping your hair tighter. “don’t make me ask again.” he says with a glint of control in his gaze. you obey. lips parting, tongue out, as he pushes in; past your lips — deeper than before, until your nose is buried in his skin and your eyes are already watering.

“fuckkk, yeah—” he groans, hips twitching. “that’s it… that’s the mouth i fuck when i want you to shut up.” you moan around him, and he thrusts hard again and again. until your spit’s dripping down your chin and your throat’s burning from the stretch. “you like this, don’t you?” he pants, voice breaking. “after everything — still begging to be used.”

you’re still catching your breath, thighs sticky, dress bunched up around your waist — when he runs a thumb under your lip and smirks. “lipstick’s all fucked up,” he mutters, violet eyes locked on the red smudge trailing down your chin. “reapply it,” he says, like a command. then adds, quieter — “this is the one i bought you, right?”

you nod, lips parted — just barely — like you want to challenge him, but your body’s already given in.

he smirks again, but there’s heat behind it. “good... i wanna see it ruined again.” he says, already handing you your lipstick from your purse like he wants to see it happen. “go on… make it pretty again.”

so you do — hands still trembling, legs weak, but you’re swiping that same crimson red lipstick back onto your swollen lips like a good girl. you don’t even get to cap it. he’s already in front of you, hand curled around your jaw, guiding his length back to your mouth like it’s the only place it belongs.

“now take it like a good girl.” he doesn’t need to say more. you know exactly what he wants — the red stain, the mess, his cock shoved past your lipstick like you’re just a toy to ruin. he lets out a guttural groan the moment your lips wrap around him again.

“deeper… ohh—yeah, just like that.” his voice is low, strained, as his fingers tighten at the back of your head. you try to speak — “mhm—rindou…” you want to tell him to slow down, to not be so rough— but he’s already too far gone. so you shut up, throat stretched, tears slipping down as you give him everything, because you know he won’t stop until he’s ruined your throat the same way he ruined your body.

when he pulls out a few minutes later, it’s with a low grunt and a final thrust of his hips and then — hot ropes of cum spill across your face, staining your cheeks, your lips, even your lashes. some even trail down the curve of your neck, glistening against your skin. you blink up at him, dazed and he doesn’t say a word at first. just swipes a finger through the mess and brings it to your mouth. “open,” he breathes. you obey without thinking — sucking his finger clean like you were always made to please him.

at this point, your lipstick’s long gone. your eyes are glossy, your hair’s a beautiful mess. you look exactly how he likes you — all marked up, used, and undeniably his.

“next time…. don’t fucking test me. or i’ll remind you like this again. remember that you’re mine.”

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

✶ p.s: found this fanart on pinterest — credits to the original artist! // ‘warning’ divider credits to @/cafekitsune ✶

[norristrii]

COULDN’T MAKE IT ANY HARDER.

“You say you can take it, but you don't know how hard I can make it”— You convinced yourself love wasn’t meant for you—not after everything. The heartbreak, the lingering wounds. But Oscar saw past all of it. He refused to let you push love away, proving it was always yours to have.

pairing. Oscar Piastri x fem! reader.

warning. slight angst (?), 8,2k words, strangers to ?? kinda, overthinking, mentions of being unlovable, feels rushed (cuz it is, sorry i tried), timeskips, part of event + based on this request!

music. Couldn’t Make It Any Harder by Sabrina Carpenter.

800 event. // event masterlist.

FOR A TIME, LOVE HAD BEEN A PURSUIT—an endless chase through whispered promises, fleeting glances, and the delicate art of hoping. It had felt like something tangible, like a treasure waiting to be unearthed, if only the right person appeared. So you searched, tracing the contours of affection through late-night conversations, through touches that lingered just long enough to make you believe.

But eventually, the search lost its urgency. The same patterns emerged, the same disappointments, and the same quiet realization that maybe, despite everything, love was not something that could be captured. It was a mirage—a beautiful illusion that dissolved the moment you thought it was finally within reach.

So, you stopped searching.

Not in a moment of sadness or resignation, but rather in a moment of clarity. Love, as the world had promised it to you, was a concept wrapped in uncertainty, in longing, in an ache that never truly faded. But here, in this life you had crafted—one of silken nights and sun-drenched decadence—you began to understand that love was not the only thing capable of filling the empty spaces.

Monaco stretched out before you like a shimmering dream, the streets lined with opulence, the air thick with possibility. You were young, effortlessly beautiful, draped in the kind of wealth that turned heads and whispered your name like a secret. People watched when you passed, their eyes tracing your silhouette, their voices hushed in admiration. You had power—not just in your possessions, but in your presence, in the way you carried yourself with quiet confidence and undeniable allure.

Perhaps you had no love, but did it truly matter?

Once, it had seemed like the missing piece—the thing that would make life whole, the final stroke in the masterpiece of your existence. But standing on a terrace with the Côte d’Azur rolling out beneath you, waves kissing the shore in rhythmic devotion, you began to question everything you had once believed. The sky melted into hues of lavender and gold, the scent of salt and citrus lingering in the air, and for the first time, there was no sense of incompleteness.

Until you found him.

Oscar Piastri arrived in your life like an inevitability, a force you had long resisted but could no longer ignore. He carried himself with quiet confidence, never asking for permission, never second-guessing his place in the world—or in yours. Unlike the others, he was relentless in the way he looked at you, in the way he approached you, as if he had already decided there was no escaping what lay ahead.

You had warned him, not once but many times. Your world was not simple. Love was not easy. But he did not flinch. He did not retreat. From the beginning, he was determined to show you that love was more than what you had known—more than fleeting passions, more than careless touches, more than the quiet ache of loneliness disguised as independence.

There was no hesitance in the way he stayed. Where others had faltered, where admiration had faded into uncertainty, Oscar remained—solid, unwavering, unafraid. He saw the walls you had built, the armor you wore, the cynicism you carried like a shield, and still, he did not turn away. Instead, he dismantled it slowly, piece by piece, until you were forced to see love not as something to be chased or avoided, but as something that had always been waiting.

───

Monaco shimmered under the golden embrace of the setting sun, every surface bathed in warm hues—bronze over the rooftops, molten gold spilling into the waves, lavender creeping into the edges of the sky. The city was alive, humming with quiet luxury, the distant laughter from terrace bars threading through the evening air.

You paused, drawn into the perfection of the moment. The way the sea swallowed the light, the way the buildings leaned into the fading day—it was something that demanded to be remembered. You pulled out your phone, steadying your hands, adjusting the camera until every color mirrored exactly what your eyes saw. The sunset was delicate, its brilliance fleeting. You had seconds—only seconds—to make sure the image held everything just right.

And just as you pressed the button, movement cut through the frame. A shadow, a blur, someone dashing past, slipping between the lens and the masterpiece beyond.

Your breath hitched out of frustration, the fleeting perfection of the sunset disrupted in a single careless moment. “C’mon,” you sighed, letting the exasperation slip into the evening air as your gaze followed the figure.

He had heard you—of course he had. Pausing mid-step, he turned, his expression open, unbothered, his laughter light. “I’m sorry, should I pose again?” There was amusement in his voice, but something genuine in the apology too.

You smiled, shaking your head slightly. “I think I’m okay.” But the man, with messy light brown hair catching the last golden rays of the sun, stepped closer.

His gaze flickered toward the horizon, where the sky melted into deep shades of amber and violet. “Yeah, it’s beautiful,” he murmured, his voice softer now, as if the moment deserved reverence. Then, with a teasing smirk, he added, “Tag me when you post it?”

There was something effortless about him, something that made the interruption feel less like an annoyance and more like an unexpected twist in the evening.

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. Was he really asking for your Instagram? Of course he was. The confidence, the casual ease—it was all so predictable, yet somehow still intriguing.

“You want my Instagram?” you chuckled, tilting your head slightly.

He didn’t miss a beat, his grin widening just enough to suggest he had expected the question. The sunset painted warm strokes across his face, casting shadows that made his messy light brown hair look even softer, catching the gold in his brown eyes.

“Would it be so bad if I did?” he countered, tone light but laced with something just enough to keep you on your toes.

The laugh slipped past your lips—soft, amused, unconsciously entertained by his confidence. Monaco was filled with people who asked for things too boldly, too quickly, always moving like they had somewhere more important to be. But there was something different about him. Less like an arrogant presumption, more like a playful challenge, an easy kind of charm that made the moment linger longer than it should.

You pulled out your phone, fingertips brushing against the screen before handing him your profile. He took it without hesitation, his own phone appearing in an instant, fingers moving swiftly as he typed your name into the search bar. A brief pause, then the familiar sound of a notification—the small moment of digital proof that you now existed in his world.

“Thanks,” he said, flashing a grin that reached his eyes. “Gotta go, or I’ll be late. I’ll text you later.”

You smiled, watching as he turned, as he disappeared into the slow-moving crowd, effortless in the way he carried himself, like the city itself had already carved out space for him. He walked away with a kind of unhurried certainty, pausing just enough to glance back once, catching your gaze, holding it for the briefest second before continuing on.

And yet, as he vanished into the golden stretch of the evening, something tugged at your thoughts.

Late to where?

A dinner? A meeting? A date—with someone waiting for him at a candle-lit table, phone in hand, expecting him to arrive, to sit across from her, to smile at her the way he had smiled at you? The thought settled, pressing against the edges of your excitement, dulling it just slightly.

You hadn’t opened the notification until you got home. The moment had lingered at the back of your mind, tucked somewhere between curiosity and a quiet sense of anticipation. You could have checked it earlier—while walking, while waiting at a crosswalk, while the city lights flickered on one by one—but something held you back. Maybe it was the thrill of prolonging the unknown, of not rushing the discovery. Maybe it was the way the evening air had still carried the warmth of the day, the way Monaco wrapped itself around you in golden luxury, letting you savor the afterglow of the encounter before unraveling its meaning.

But now, the door barely clicked shut, shoes kicked off without thought, body sinking into the familiar softness of the sofa. It was only then that you allowed yourself to reach for your phone, the glow of the screen casting a pale shimmer over your hands as you tapped the waiting notification.

oscarpiastri followed you.

The name stared back at you, simple yet suddenly significant. Your gaze flickered over the profile, the first thing catching your attention—a blue checkmark, verification. Official. Then the number beneath it. 4.1 million followers.

Wow.

It wasn’t just the number itself, though that alone was striking. It was what it represented. The reach. The recognition. The fact that, for all the effortless charm, for all the ease with which he had interrupted your sunset, he was not just another face passing through Monaco’s glittering streets.

He was someone.

Your thumb hovered, then pressed lightly against the screen, opening his profile, the digital window into a life lived at high speed. Monaco. Silverstone. Snapshots of race cars blurred in motion, podium celebrations frozen mid-cheer, quiet behind-the-scenes moments that hinted at exhaustion, at focus, at the relentless demands of a world that never slowed down.

Formula 1 driver.

The realization settled in your chest, not heavy, but shifting something. It changed the weight of the encounter, redefined the context. He wasn’t just a random stranger with a sharp grin and easy confidence. He had a career, a following, a life structured around precision, adrenaline, victory.

And yet, for whatever reason, amidst all of it, he had chosen to follow you.

Without overthinking, without weighing the possibilities, you tapped the button.

Followed.

The action felt strangely significant, like an unspoken acknowledgment—of the encounter, of the intrigue, of the way a single sunset had led to this small, digital connection. The seconds stretched, your screen still open on his profile, your thoughts hovering somewhere between curiosity and anticipation.

Would he notice immediately? Would he say something?

And then, as if the universe had been waiting for your decision, your phone vibrated softly in your palm. A new message.

From him.

Your phone buzzed softly in your palm, the screen lighting up with a new notification.

Oscar Piastri sent you a message.

Your heart skipped—just slightly, enough for you to notice, enough for you to acknowledge the intrigue curling at the edges of your thoughts. With a quiet breath, you tapped on the message, the text appearing crisp and simple against the glow of the screen.

oscarpiastri that was quick. Are u stalking me?

A smirk tugged at your lips. He had noticed.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, debating your response, the weight of the moment settling somewhere between casual and significant. You could play it cool, keep it light, tease him back. Or you could lean into the curiosity, let the conversation unfold in a way neither of you expected.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for just a second longer than necessary before you finally tapped send.

yn don’t think much of it dear

A simple response, measured, unreadable. Not too distant, not too eager. You leaned back into the sofa, phone still resting in your palm, waiting. He had replied quickly before—would he do the same now?

A few seconds passed. Then a minute. Then another soft buzz.

oscarpiastri not sure if I should be offended or impressed

There was that easy confidence again, woven into the words as effortlessly as it had been in his voice earlier. You could picture him saying it, the smirk, the knowing look, the air of someone who was just amused enough to keep things interesting.

A small smirk tugged at your lips. He was playing along, keeping the conversation light yet just intriguing enough to make you want to respond.

Your fingers tapped against the screen absently as you read his message again.

You thought for a moment before finally typing back:

yn why not both?

Short. Playful. Just enough to keep him wondering.

It didn’t take long before the screen lit up again with his reply.

oscarpiastri fair. Maybe I should be impressed you’re not making a big deal outta me lol

That pulled a quiet laugh from you. You tilted your head, considering how to respond, the weight of his words settling into something that felt almost like a challenge.

Your phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with another message.

oscarpiastri how about a proper monaco experience? Dinner, maybe?

You stared at the words for a moment, the weight of them settling in. A date. He was offering a date.

It wasn’t surprising, not really. The way he had carried himself, the way he had effortlessly slipped into your evening, the way he had made the simplest interaction feel like something more—it all led to this. And yet, there was still something about it that made you pause.

A Formula 1 driver, asking you to dinner.

You smirked. He’d have to earn that.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, debating your response. You could play it cool, keep it light, tease him a little. Or you could lean into the intrigue, let the moment unfold exactly as it was meant to.

yn sounds nice, but I’m not that easy

You sent it, leaning back into the couch, waiting.

Seconds later, the screen lit up again.

oscarpiastri so what’s the challenge? Do I need to win a race first?

You laughed softly, shaking your head. He was sharp, quick to keep up, refusing to back down. But you weren’t going to make it that easy.

yn i think a little more effort than just being charming and driving fast expensive cars is required

A pause. Then another buzz.

oscarpiastri alright, then. Tell me Y/n, what would convince you?

Now this was interesting. He was game. He was willing to play along. And suddenly, the power shifted—you held the cards.

Your lips curled into a smirk as you stared at the screen, considering your next move. He wanted to know what would convince you—but letting him figure it out would be far more entertaining.

You typed slowly, deliberately.

yn that depends. How creative can u get?

A pause. Then, another soft buzz.

oscarpiastri me creative? Asking f1 driver for creativity is wild

You chuckled, shaking your head, but you didn’t type back immediately. Let him wait. Let him wonder.

Another buzz.

oscarpiastri okay fine. How about this—tomorrow, same time, same place?

The moment stretched between you—just a beat longer than necessary—as you let the anticipation simmer.

Then, with a single tap, you sent the message.

yn deal

No over-explaining. No unnecessary details. Just a simple agreement that placed the ball squarely in his court. He wanted to be creative? He wanted to impress you? Well, now he had the chance.

Seconds passed. Then your phone vibrated again.

oscarpiastri alright. Tomorrow, then. But No backing out

You smirked, shaking your head slightly. Confident. He was playing his part well, leaning into the challenge you had set without hesitation.

─── one day later.

The day arrived wrapped in the same golden warmth Monaco had gifted you the evening before. The sun hung low, casting elongated shadows across the waterfront, its fading light stretching across the sea like liquid gold. The sky, once a brilliant azure, softened into a watercolor blend of pinks and oranges, bleeding seamlessly into the horizon. The city hummed with life—voices drifting through the air, laughter rising from sunlit terraces, the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore threading through the background like a quiet melody.

And yet, despite the beauty, despite the perfection Monaco had effortlessly curated, your thoughts were elsewhere—caught in the weight of an unspoken promise.

Same time, same place.

You hadn’t given him any guarantees. No reassurances. No indication that you would actually show. And yet, as the hour crept closer, anticipation simmered just beneath your skin, settling somewhere between curiosity and quiet intrigue.

Your steps were deliberate as you made your way through the winding streets, your presence merging with the slow-moving crowd that drifted along the waterfront. The scent of salt and expensive perfume mingled in the air, wrapping around you, pulling you further into the evening.

Then—just as effortlessly as the moment had formed—you saw him.

Oscar stood near the railing, his posture relaxed, bathed in the last golden streaks of sunlight that framed him like something deliberate. He wasn’t checking his phone, wasn’t impatiently scanning the crowds. No, he was simply waiting.

The second his gaze found yours, a slow smirk tugged at his lips, something knowing, something just amused enough to suggest he had never doubted you’d come.

You took your time approaching him, letting the moment linger between you, stretching the silence until it felt deliberate.

"You actually showed up," he mused, straightening slightly, his voice carrying the same easy confidence he had worn the night before.

You scoffed lightly, crossing your arms. "So did you."

He chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets, as if this moment belonged to him just as much as it did to you. "Had to," he admitted, tilting his head slightly. "I made a promise, remember?"

Oscar’s smirk lingered as he watched you, the glint of amusement still dancing behind his eyes. He didn’t move immediately, letting the moment stretch, as if testing to see whether you’d break the silence first.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you held his gaze, waiting—curious to see what he’d do next.

Finally, he exhaled softly, shaking his head. “Alright then,” he said, motioning with a tilt of his chin. “Come on.”

He turned, stepping away from the railing, weaving effortlessly into the slow-moving crowd, expecting you to follow.

You hesitated for only a fraction of a second before falling into stride beside him. The evening wrapped around you—warm, threaded with conversation and the scent of sea air. The hum of Monaco felt different now, charged with an unspoken anticipation.

“So,” you mused, hands slipping into the pockets of your coat as you glanced sideways at him, “what exactly does a ‘proper Monaco experience’ entail?”

Oscar chuckled, his expression unreadable but amused. “You’ll see,” he said simply, stepping forward, leading the way toward the heart of the city.

Oscar led you through the winding streets of Monaco, the city alive with the quiet hum of conversation, the distant clinking of glasses, the rhythmic pulse of waves against the shore. The evening air was warm, threaded with the scent of salt and expensive perfume, wrapping around you like a whispered promise of something unforgettable.

He didn’t rush, didn’t fill the silence with unnecessary words. Instead, he let the anticipation build, let the mystery linger just long enough to keep you guessing.

Finally, after a few turns, he stopped in front of a restaurant tucked away from the bustling crowds—a place that didn’t need grand signs or flashy displays to announce its presence. The terrace stretched out toward the sea, candlelit tables glowing softly beneath the evening sky, the kind of setting that felt effortlessly intimate.

Oscar glanced at you, reading your expression before smirking. “Figured you wouldn’t settle for anything ordinary.”

The restaurant is effortlessly elegant, the kind of place where conversation hums softly between flickering candlelight, where the scent of fresh seafood and rich wine lingers in the air. The terrace stretches toward the sea, waves murmuring below, the sky fading into a deep indigo, scattered with the first hints of stars.

Oscar pulls out a chair for you with an ease that suggests he’s done this before—confident, comfortable, knowing exactly how to play the moment without overdoing it.

You settle into your seat, glancing around, taking in the quiet intimacy of the space, the way it feels deliberately removed from the rush of the city. This isn’t a restaurant that begs for attention—it simply is effortlessly refined.

Oscar leans back slightly, fingers tapping idly against the table. “So,” he muses, a slow smirk playing on his lips, “what’s the verdict? Am I off to a good start?”

There’s something in his tone—teasing, but edged with quiet curiosity. He’s watching your reaction, gauging whether you’re impressed, amused, or indifferent.

You leaned back slightly, a smirk playing at your lips as you picked up the menu, glancing over it with casual interest.

"Hmm," you mused, drawing out the moment deliberately. "I don't know. I was expecting something a little more… grand."

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head, clearly entertained. "Grand? Should I have booked the entire restaurant instead?"

You hummed, pretending to consider. "That would’ve been a solid effort. Though, I guess this will do."

He scoffed, feigning offense. "Harsh. And here I thought I was making a decent impression."

You lowered the menu slightly, meeting his gaze. "You're trying," you admitted, letting the words hang for just a second longer than necessary, teasing without giving too much away.

He exhaled dramatically, tapping his fingers against the table. "Alright, noted. Monaco’s finest seafood and ego bruising. Got it."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "Don’t worry, I promise not to be too hard on you."

Oscar leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and intrigue.

"So, I have to ask," he mused, voice carrying an unmistakable curiosity. "Were you always planning to show up, or did I just happen to catch you on a good day?"

You smirked, swirling the stem of your wine glass lightly between your fingers. "That depends," you teased. "Would you have waited if I didn’t?"

His lips quirked, but he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he held your gaze, weighing the response, letting the question linger between you before finally exhaling a soft chuckle.

"Maybe," he admitted, leaning back slightly. "But if I did, I wouldn’t have let you know."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "Ah, so you’d rather suffer in mystery?"

Oscar shrugged, smirking. "Better than looking desperate."

The energy between you shifted, the teasing woven effortlessly into the conversation, blending into something just on the edge of sincere. He wasn’t just playing along—he was enjoying this.

"You know, Oscar," you said, letting the words settle between you, "you're quite an interesting man."

It wasn’t just a passing compliment—it was an observation, one that had formed slowly throughout the evening. He carried himself with a confidence that should have been overwhelming, but somehow, it wasn’t. It was effortless, natural, the kind that didn’t demand attention but commanded it all the same.

And strangely enough, in this moment, you weren’t analyzing the situation, searching for flaws, second-guessing the night the way you usually did. For once, you just let it be.

Oscar’s smirk flickered into something softer, something quieter. "Interesting, huh?"

You nodded, fingers lightly tracing the stem of your glass. "You don’t try too hard, but you don’t hold back either. You’ve got a balance."

“You’re interesting too, you know," Oscar said, his voice carrying the same easy confidence that had been present all evening. But then, after a brief pause, there was something else—a slight tilt of his head, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his gaze. "A lot of men must love that, huh?”

It wasn’t just idle conversation anymore.

The question arrived sooner than expected—direct, unfiltered, cutting through the careful layers of amusement and teasing that had carried the night so far. It wasn’t just about your confidence, about the presence you carried with ease. It was about what lay beneath it.

You held his gaze for a moment, fingers absently grazing the cool surface of your wine glass.

Should you tell him? Should you admit that, despite the way you moved through the world—sure of yourself, never hesitating—it wasn’t always that simple? That confidence was sometimes a mask, that beneath it lingered uncertainty, fear?

Fear that getting attached meant getting abandoned.

That people—no matter how present, no matter how convincing—always seemed to leave eventually.

You could keep the conversation light. You could tease him back, brush off the moment, let the evening remain untouched by the ghosts of your past.

Or you could let the truth slip, just enough to reveal that, despite everything, despite the effortless charm and quiet confidence, there was something about this that scared you.

Oscar’s gaze never wavered, watching you carefully, waiting—not impatiently, but attentively.

He had asked the question. Now, the answer was yours to give.

Your heart lurched—not because you didn’t know how to answer, but because you hadn’t been expecting this conversation. Not yet. Not like this.

And before you could stop yourself, before you could smooth over the moment with a playful laugh or a teasing remark, the words left your mouth, unchecked.

"Love, maybe," you murmured, the confession threading into the dim glow of candlelight between you. "But they don’t stay anyway.”

Silence followed.

A beat too long. A pause too noticeable.

Oscar’s smirk faded just slightly—not gone, but shifted, as if he had caught something in your tone, something not meant to be revealed. He studied you, his fingers tapping idly against the rim of his glass, gaze sharp, attentive.

"Is that what you expect?" he asked, voice quieter now, deliberate. "That people won’t stay?"

Damn.

Yeah, he saw through you. Saw through the confidence, through the carefully crafted ease, through the practiced rhythm of detachment that had kept you safe for years.

You were quiet.

Not because you didn’t have an answer. But because the answer sat too heavily in your chest, too tangled in past moments, past mistakes, past departures that had shaped every instinct you had now.

The easy thing would be to brush it off. To tease him, to shift the conversation, to laugh in a way that said, Don’t take me so seriously.

But then—

"I would never leave," he said, voice steady, controlled, unshaken. "Not if you were mine."

Damn. That fast?

The weight of it landed. Not just in the words—but in the way he said it. Not performative. Not just another moment of Monaco charm.

No, this was something else.

You felt it press against the edges of your ribs, curling against something cautious, something waiting, something terrified to believe it.

You leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, letting a playful smirk pull at the edges of your lips. "Let’s talk about you, champion,” you teased, steering the conversation away from the moment that had settled between you a little too heavily. It was an easy escape—one you knew he’d catch, but one you hoped he’d allow.

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the base of his glass. "Deflecting," he mused, his tone light but his gaze sharp. "That’s bold."

You shrugged, picking up your drink, taking a slow sip, savoring the cool, rich taste before setting the glass back down. "Or maybe I’m just genuinely interested in Monaco’s finest," you said smoothly, tilting your head slightly.

His chuckle was soft, thoughtful, the amusement still present but now layered with something else—something measured. "Alright," he conceded, resting his forearms against the table, eyes locked onto yours. "What do you want to know?"

You inhaled slowly, relieved by the shift—grateful that he didn’t push, didn’t try to dissect the vulnerability that had almost surfaced just moments ago.

And yet—there was something lingering between you. Something about the way he let it go, but didn’t let it disappear completely.

A small smirk tugged at your lips, the edge of teasing returning as you leaned forward just slightly, matching his posture.

"Everything," you chuckled, eyes glinting with challenge.

Oscar raised a brow, studying you for a beat before his smirk returned—this time edged with something deliberate.

"Everything?" he echoed, letting the word hang between you, stretching the moment just long enough to make it feel deliberate. "That’s a lot to ask, don’t you think?"

You tilted your head, the playful glint in your eyes unwavering. "Depends," you countered smoothly, fingers tracing the cool surface of your glass. "Do you have a lot to tell?"

His chuckle was low, thoughtful, carrying the same measured confidence he had worn all evening. "Maybe," he admitted, watching you carefully. "But you don’t strike me as the type to settle for maybe.”

The conversation had shifted—still teasing, still light, but threaded now with something more intentional. He wasn’t dismissing your curiosity, wasn’t brushing off the challenge. He was engaging, letting the moment stretch into something more than just playful banter.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbow on the table, chin perched lightly against your hand. "I don’t," you agreed, your voice edged with quiet amusement. "So, let’s make this interesting."

Oscar raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lips curling upward. "A game?"

You nodded, matching his smirk. "A trade. You tell me something worth knowing, and I’ll do the same."

He exhaled lightly, shaking his head as he sat back, considering the offer. Then, after a brief pause, his smirk widened just slightly. "Alright," he said. "You first."

Of course.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "I said you first."

Oscar’s eyes gleamed with challenge, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he let the moment settle, drumming his fingers against the table as he thought. Then, finally—he spoke.

"Alright," he mused, his tone shifting just slightly, edged now with something quieter, something real. "Here’s one for you—I never planned on staying in Monaco long-term. Wasn’t supposed to. But then…" He tilted his glass slightly, watching the wine swirl inside before looking at you again. "Things changed."

The honesty was subtle, carefully measured, but there—a glimpse into something beyond the effortless charm, beyond the confidence that had carried the evening.

You held his gaze, watching him, curiosity flickering at the edges of your thoughts. "Changed how?"

Oscar smirked, laughing, but this time, it wasn’t just amusement—it was cautious. “I gave you one answer. Your turn."

Fair.

─── four days later.

The soft hum of the car’s engine intertwined with the distant rush of waves crashing against the cliffs below, Monaco stretching out ahead, bathed in the muted glow of midnight. The city, ever luminous, felt quieter now, wrapped in the intimacy of late hours, where words carried more weight, where silences lingered just a little longer.

Oscar’s voice cut through the stillness—not hurried, not hesitant, but deliberate sliding into the moment effortlessly, as though he had been waiting for the right time to ask.

"Can I ask you something?"

You glanced at him, your fingers resting lightly against the leather interior, but he didn’t look back. His focus remained on the road, one hand loose over the wheel, his posture relaxed but intentional, like this wasn’t just idle curiosity—like whatever he was about to say already mattered.

Then, without hesitation, he asked, "Do you expect I won’t stay?"

The question landed abruptly, unsettling in its simplicity, in its precision.

A slow, quiet breath pressed against your ribs, the weight of his words settling in the space between you.

Why was he pushing so much?

Your grip tightened slightly against your lap, the pulse of the night suddenly louder, the car’s movement too fluid, too smooth, as though the entire world outside was indifferent to the shift unraveling between the two of you.

Because this wasn’t just about him.

This wasn’t just a question. It was an acknowledgment. A confirmation that he had seen through you long before this moment, long before this drive, long before the effortless charm and teasing deflections had given way to something deeper.

He had caught it—the hesitation, the careful avoidance, the way you pulled back just enough to not give someone too much room to disappoint you.

The way you had already assumed, long before now, that he would eventually leave.

Your lips parted slightly, the urge to laugh bubbling at the edges—to wave the conversation away, to steer things back to something easier, something comfortable, something that didn’t ask you to dissect your own fears in the glow of streetlights and midnight air.

But you didn’t.

Because avoiding it now felt obvious, too predictable, too much like something he would see right through.

Instead, you swallowed lightly, exhaling as your gaze flickered back toward the city ahead, its streets quiet, shimmering.

"Why do you keep asking that?" you murmured, your voice lower now, edged with something softer, something cautious.

Oscar let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel, his gaze still locked on the road ahead.

"Because," he said, voice steady but quieter now, more thoughtful, “I want to know if you believe it—or if you just assume it’s inevitable."

Your stomach tightened.

Because what if it was both?

A quiet tension settled between you, thick with the weight of words unsaid, with the truth you had let slip before you could stop it.

Oscar’s question had pressed too much, pushed too hard, and part of you was frustrated. Not at him—not exactly—but at the way the conversation kept circling back, forcing you to acknowledge something you had spent years ignoring.

You exhaled, fingers tightening slightly against your lap, your gaze flickering toward the city lights shimmering beyond the windshield, golden and distant.

"Everyone I did things like this with left," you murmured, barely above a breath, the confession raw, untouched.

The second it was out, it felt too real, too exposed.

Oscar didn’t react immediately—didn’t offer an apology, didn’t rush to assure you that he was different. He didn’t try to argue, didn’t push.

Instead, he was silent, his grip shifting subtly on the steering wheel, his brow furrowing just slightly in thought.

Then, after a beat, after the weight of your words had settled fully between you, he inhaled lightly.

"Then maybe you’ve never done this with the right person," he said simply—without hesitation, without pretense, without expectation.

Something flickered in his voice—not arrogance, not certainty, just fact, like he wasn’t trying to prove anything, just stating something that, to him, felt obvious.

You swallowed, staring ahead, the rhythmic pulse of the night pressing against your ribs.

Was he right?

Or was he just another moment before the inevitable departure?

You exhaled softly, eyes drifting downward, fingers tracing the seam of your sleeve as the weight of the moment pressed against your ribs. You hadn’t expected this conversation—not here, not like this, not in the quiet intimacy of midnight, where words felt heavier, where silence felt more telling than any hesitation.

"I'm sorry, Oscar," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could decide whether you even wanted them to.

Oscar glanced at you, his grip adjusting slightly on the steering wheel, brows furrowing just enough to show he was listening, that he wasn’t just letting the words settle without care. "For?"

You hesitated, inhaling deeply, willing yourself to meet his gaze even as your fingers curled slightly against your lap. "For not making it easy."

For making this complicated. For hesitating. For overthinking. For questioning something that—if you were completely honest—felt unlike anything you had ever known before.

You had spent so long assuming the worst, expecting people to leave, waiting for disappointment to arrive before you even let yourself want something. It was easier that way—simpler, safer. But with Oscar, everything felt different. Unpredictable in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

But he didn’t flinch at your words, didn’t soften them with meaningless reassurances.

Instead, without hesitation, he simply said, "I don’t do easy."

And somehow, that made it worse.

Or better.

Or maybe something else entirely—something you couldn’t quite name, something that sat heavy in your chest, curling around the edges of your thoughts, demanding that you believe him.

The words hung between you, stretching into the quiet hum of the engine, settling into the warmth of Monaco’s midnight glow. Everything about this moment felt too big—too significant in ways you hadn’t quite prepared for.

"I mean, even though I’ve only known you for a few days, I’m not planning to leave," Oscar said, his voice steady, unwavering, carrying none of the hesitation that lived so comfortably in the back of your mind. "We have a whole lifetime."

Lifetime. Future. Forever.

The weight of those words pressed against your chest, curling into the spaces between logic and emotion, between self-preservation and reckless belief. You smiled—instinctively, without thinking, because the idea of it was beautiful. Comforting. Something you had always wanted to hear but never dared to expect.

And yet—

That lingering doubt remained, whispering from the corner of your mind, cautioning you against letting this moment sink in too deeply. Against letting his certainty become your certainty. Because what if it wasn’t real? What if it was just a well-placed promise, something effortless, something that felt good in the moment but didn’t hold when time actually tested it?

Oscar had been nothing but intentional since the beginning, deliberate in the way he showed up, in the way he stayed, in the way he never made you feel like this was fleeting.

So maybe—just maybe—this time was different.

Maybe he meant it.

─── six days later.

Almost a week later, Oscar was still here—not just in passing moments or fleeting texts, but fully, in ways you hadn't expected but found yourself slowly beginning to embrace.

He called—not just once, not just when it was convenient, but because he wanted to.

Because he liked hearing your voice, because he never let too much time slip between conversations. Each call was effortless, filled with laughter, quiet confessions, shared silences that never felt awkward, only comfortable.

He texted—not just quick responses or empty words, but messages that made you feel seen. The kind that arrived in the middle of the day, seemingly random but thoughtful, like he had been thinking about you, like you had already made space in his world. The kind that carried inside jokes, teasing remarks, genuine questions that made you pause and think, that pulled you deeper into something you hadn't realized you'd been waiting for.

He stayed over—not in a way that disrupted, but in a way that settled in naturally, as if he had always been meant to be here. The way his presence folded into your routine, effortless, unforced. The way he took up space without making it feel overwhelming, without making it feel like a statement— just something that was, something that felt right, felt easy.

And most of all, he cared.

Not in grand gestures, not in overwhelming declarations, but in the small, simple ways that mattered the most. The way he noticed things—the shift in your voice when you were exhausted, the way your fingers absently traced the rim of your glass when you were deep in thought. The way you hesitated before sharing certain things, but never felt the need to hide around him.

It was different.

You were different.

And in quiet moments—when he wasn’t looking, when he wasn’t saying all the right things, when he wasn’t effortlessly slipping into your world—you realized something.

Monaco lay quiet beneath the dim glow of streetlights, the kind of stillness that felt charged, like the hush before a storm, like the world was holding its breath. Only your laughter broke the silence, echoing softly against the polished façades of designer boutiques and grand hotels, blending into the rhythmic click of your heels against the pavement.

Your hand curled around Oscar’s bicep, fingers pressing lightly against the firm muscle, the warmth of his presence grounding you, steadying you in a way you didn’t expect. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tease, just let you hold on, his body relaxed, his steps effortless as he matched your pace.

Everything about this night—about him—felt dangerously comfortable. The kind of comfortable that made walls crumble without warning, that made hesitation feel unnecessary, that made you forget, just for a moment, that caution had always been your safest bet.

A deep rumble of thunder rolled through the sky, shaking the air around you with an unspoken warning. You glanced at Oscar, your brows raising in amusement as you tightened your grip around his arm, fingers pressing slightly against his strong bicep.

"No way," you murmured, your voice carrying a hint of irony, the kind that lingered in the spaces between certainty and doubt.

Oscar barely reacted, shrugging with the effortless confidence that had somehow become second nature to him. "It’s not going to rain," he said simply, without hesitation, like the sky itself would listen.

But it didn’t.

Because as soon as the words left his lips, the heavens opened up.

The first drops landed softly—cold against your skin, hesitant at first, as if testing the air, testing the moment. Then, within seconds, it became everything— a full downpour, relentless, washing over the streets, turning Monaco’s polished avenues into shimmering reflections of golden storefront lights.

Your laughter bubbled up instantly, breathless and sharp, caught somewhere between disbelief and sheer joy.

Oscar let out a low exhale, running a hand through his hair, which was already dampening under the sudden rain. He shook his head, amusement flickering behind his eyes even as he sighed in surrender.

"Well," you teased, blinking through droplets clinging to your lashes, shivering slightly at the cool rush of water soaking through your clothes. "That aged terribly."

Oscar exhaled again, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Alright, fine,” he admitted. "I might’ve been slightly wrong."

You laughed again, gripping his arm tighter as the rain turned heavier, wild and uninhibited, crashing against the pavement, soaking both of you entirely.

"We can run," you said breathlessly, the rain already soaking through every inch of fabric, clinging to your skin, turning the world into a chaotic blur of glistening streets and golden lights.

Without hesitation, you kicked off your heels, the cool pavement beneath your feet shocking against the warmth of your adrenaline-fueled body. Before you could rethink it, Oscar’s fingers found yours, gripping tightly, lacing through with certainty. His hold was firm, steady—a silent promise not to let go.

And then—he ran.

Not cautiously, not carefully—recklessly, unapologetically, pulling you with him, laughter spilling into the storm like something raw, something untamed, something alive.

Your breath caught as the rush of cool air whipped past, the weight of the downpour drenching your hair, your clothes, your skin, every single part of you now claimed by the storm. You stumbled slightly, the slick pavement making each step a test of balance, but Oscar never loosened his grip, never hesitated—he dragged you forward, faster, laughter shaking through his chest in a way you’d never heard before.

"This is crazy!" you shouted between uncontrollable giggles, your voice barely audible over the relentless pounding of rain against stone and glass.

Oscar turned his head just enough to catch your expression—your wild grin, your soaked hair sticking to your cheeks, the way your fingers refused to let go of his. And in that moment, under Monaco’s storm-lit streets, he laughed —a real, unguarded, breathtaking kind of laugh that made your stomach tighten for reasons that had nothing to do with the running, the rain, or the recklessness of the night.

He didn’t slow down. If anything, he ran faster, and you didn’t fight it. You let him lead, let the world blur, let the cold seep into your skin while the warmth of him grounded you, keeping you here in this perfect, absurd, fleeting moment.

And somewhere in the chaos—in the storm, in the way his fingers never let go—you realized something.

You weren’t afraid.

Not of him.

Oscar’s grip tightened around your wrist, pulling you closer in one swift, deliberate motion. The rain clung to both of you, dripping from your soaked clothes, sliding down your skin, turning the night into something electric—something charged with an energy neither of you fully understood but neither of you wanted to stop.

"You are crazy,” he murmured, his voice low, edged with amusement, but there was something else there too—something unspoken, something just beneath the surface.

You laughed, breathless, rain-slicked hair clinging to your face as you looked up at him, catching the flicker of something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

"And yet," you teased, tilting your chin slightly, a smirk pulling at your lips despite the cold, despite the chaos, "you didn’t leave."

Oscar shook his head, his hand shifting slightly, fingers brushing against your wrist where his grip had softened. "What kind of idiot would leave now?" he muttered, but his voice had lost its teasing edge—now it was something more honest, something real.

The rain continued its relentless downpour, soaking into every fabric, dripping down your skin, cold and unyielding, but none of it mattered. Not in this moment. Not with him standing this close, his presence pressing against you, his breath warm despite the chill, his grip still firm at your waist, grounding you, keeping you here.

Oscar had leaned in, slowly, deliberately, and instinct had kicked in before your mind had caught up—you had moved away. It was fast, automatic, a reflex born out of hesitation, out of old habits refusing to die, out of caution you had carried with you for too long.

But the second you pulled back, realization crashed through you. His brows furrowed just barely, his gaze flickering downward for half a second before finding yours again, steady, questioning, but not retreating. He hadn’t pulled away. He hadn’t let go. He was still here, still watching you, still waiting. And that flicker of awareness burned through you—the understanding settling between you unspoken but undeniable.

He had wanted to kiss you. And you had pulled away. But why?

The answer curled somewhere deep inside you, tied to instinct, tied to self-preservation, tied to the belief that moments like this were dangerous because they meant something. But as the rain poured, as Oscar remained unmoving, unwavering, as everything else faded but him, you realized something else.

You wanted this.

You wanted him.

So this time, you leaned in.

Your lips met his, soft at first, testing, confirming, closing the space you had unintentionally created. And then—certainty took over. Oscar inhaled sharply against you, his hand sliding to your waist, his fingers pressing more firmly, pulling you closer, securing you against him like he wasn’t just kissing you, he was choosing you.

The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, the rain slipping between you, merging with the warmth of him, with the impossible electricity of the moment, with the quiet, undeniable truth neither of you could take back now.

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! this was supposed to have another part but I got kinda writer block mid this. Anon, I hope you like it though <3

[wololo-01]

Holy shit...RHM and the end of page got me a a lot, i really just crying right now, this all so sweet, i really feel so happy to finnaly see Reginald and Burt finnaly are getting along with each other but I especially feel more happy for Burt, he finally got the apology he deserved, he finally changed and now have the happy end and life that he deserved it after the shit that happens to him

Truce… 💜

Jay, Scottie, and Crusher belongs to @jaytoons7

Pollo Miller belongs to @00lari00

Calypso belongs to @bluetorchsky

[d-z20]

More Than You Will Ever Know (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: For most of your time at college, you've been in a relationship with your sugar mommy, Agatha Harkness. Everything is going great except for the fact you are about to graduate and with that comes change

- OR -

What happens when you turn up at her door months later. It's sex, sex happens.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, alcohol, sugar mommy Agatha with a few grey hairs 😍, sugar baby Reader, established dynamic, Mommy kink, strap riding (R recv), squirting, angst, a little hurt/comfort, both Agatha and Reader are switches, fingering (R recv), oral (both recv), multiple orgasms, soft aftercare

Words: 5.9k

A/N: This probably isn't the fic y'all were expecting when I said I was doing a sugar mommy Agatha post... but I hope you enjoy it anyway my lovelies ;) requested fic

AO3 | Masterlist

The restaurant you were at was one of those exclusive places with no menu—just a personal chef curating a bespoke experience, each dish a masterpiece plated with precision. You weren’t sure what half the things on your plate were, but Agatha, ever composed, swirled a glass of deep red wine and explained each one with a knowing smirk.

She sat across from you, effortlessly elegant in a dark silk blouse, her silver streaks catching in the dim candlelight. You’d barely sat down before she leaned forward, her fingers brushing over yours, and said, “You look stunning tonight, darling.”

You did, of course, because she’d made sure of it. The dress you wore—a sleek, custom-made piece in a colour that suited your skin perfectly—was her gift. She had it delivered earlier that day, instructing you to wear it to your graduation as well. “Something beautiful for someone extraordinary,” she had hummed as she held it up against your body, assessing the fit before insisting on getting it tailored just a little more.

Throughout dinner, she was her usual indulgent self, ordering the best of everything and ensuring you never had to lift a finger. When the waiter poured more champagne into your flute, she merely tilted her head with amusement and said, “We’re celebrating, aren’t we?”

And celebrate she did—showering you with praise between bites of delicacies, her voice rich with something dangerously close to pride.

“I always knew you could do it,” she said, her thumb lazily tracing the stem of her wine glass. “You’re brilliant, and I’ve seen it from the very beginning. Your mind—fuck, it’s a wonder and a privilege to witness. I hope you know that.”

Warmth spread through you, not just from the alcohol but from the way she looked at you—as if you were the only thing worth admiring in this whole damn place. You ducked your head, feeling the heat creep up your neck, but Agatha wasn’t having any of that. She reached across the table, tilting your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet her gaze.

"None of that, baby," she chastised softly. "You’ve worked so hard, and now you're finally here. I am so proud of you."

Your heart squeezed, and before you could even form a response, she was placing a small velvet box in your hand. "Not yet," she hummed when you made to open it, her lips curling in amusement. "Save it for later."

You didn’t press, instead slipping the small box into your bag—another thing Agatha had insisted on buying for you.

And, in this moment, life was perfect.

—

Heat. Skin against skin. The soft rustle of silk sheets as your body moved against hers, your fingers digging into toned muscle. Agatha beneath you, her hands firm on your hips, guiding you, encouraging you, worshipping you in the way only she knew how. The air was thick with the smell of perfume and sex.

"You take me so well, baby," she rasped, her voice hoarse with want, nails dragging down your spine, leaving trails of pleasure in their wake.

Your head was spinning, pleasure pooling in your stomach, tightening unbearably. She always did this to you—reduced you to nothing but need, left you craving her touch even when she was already giving you everything. And right now, you could feel her inside you, the stretch of silicone filling you so perfectly it had you trembling, your body fluttering around the unyielding length with every slow, deliberate roll of your hips.

"Mommy," you mewled, your voice high and breathless, and Agatha groaned in response, her grip on you tightening.

"That’s right, baby," she purred, voice molten. "Come on, let me hear you. Let me feel you."

A desperate moan left your lips, your thighs shaking as she bucked up into you, her hands guiding your movements in a way that made you dizzy with need. Every stroke had you gasping, the friction deep and deliberate, hitting your g-spot over and over again. But it wasn’t just that—Agatha’s mouth was on you too, hot and wet, her lips closing around your nipple as she sucked, her tongue flicking over the sensitive bud, sending another sharp jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

"So fucking perfect," she praised, letting her fingers slide up to cup your jaw, tilting your head down until your lips were only a breath away. "You’ve been so good for me, haven’t you?"

"Y-Yes, Mommy," you gasped, barely coherent, but she swallowed your sounds with a kiss, deep and possessive.

The pressure coiled tighter, impossibly so, your body alight with sensation, every nerve ending sparking under her touch. You could feel another orgasm building, stealing the breath from your lungs, your nails sinking into her shoulders as you chased that final, devastating peak.

"That's it, my love," she groaned, her voice thick with satisfaction. "Cum for me, baby."

And you did. A shattered moan, body arching, the pleasure tearing through you like fire. The intensity was blinding, overwhelming; your entire body tensed, then gave way to the sheer force of your climax. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as the pleasure burst free, your thighs trembling violently as you soaked the strap buried deep inside you.

Agatha groaned low, feeling the warmth spread between her legs, the slick mess you had made drenching the harness, the sheets, and her own skin. “Fuck, baby,” she husked, her voice thick with satisfaction, her hands gripping your hips as if to steady you. “Look at you... so perfect.”

Your breath came in rapid pants, your limbs weak, your body still wracked with aftershocks. The evidence of your pleasure was undeniable—your arousal staining the sheets beneath you, glistening against Agatha’s stomach just above where the strap had pressed flush against her. She let out a pleased hum, her fingers tracing soothing circles on your back as you collapsed against her, utterly spent.

“There you go, baby,” she whispered, her voice softer now, almost reverent. “You did so well for Mommy.”

Her hands ran slowly, worshipfully, over your spine, grounding you as you shivered against her. She pressed lazy, lingering kisses to your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, anywhere she could reach, while both of you struggled to catch your breath. The world beyond these walls didn’t exist; there was only the warmth of her embrace, the way she murmured your name like a prayer, the soft hum of contentment vibrating against your skin.

You belonged here. With her. Always.

And yet, you didn’t notice the way her expression shifted, the way her hold tightened just a fraction, as if she were memorising the feel of you, as if she were already preparing to let you go.

—

The sun dipped below the skyline as you sat on the edge of Agatha’s expansive marble countertop, feeling a familiar weight in the air. Less than twenty-four hours ago, you had been wrapped in her arms, your body trembling with pleasure, her voice thick with praise as she called you perfect. She had spoilt you rotten—an extravagant dinner, a new dress, a reminder that she was proud of you, that she always knew you’d make it. Things had felt so whole, so right.

But tonight? Tonight felt like the cruellest contrast.

Agatha’s penthouse, usually brimming with her presence, warm and commanding, felt cold and distant. She was pacing the living room, arms crossed, her sharp blue eyes avoiding yours. There was no teasing smirk, no playful remark about how well you took her the night before. The tension in the air was suffocating, pressing against your chest like a vice.

Finally, she broke the silence with a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You’re about to graduate, Y/N,” she began, her voice smooth yet clipped. "I think it's time we stop pretending that this... arrangement... still serves either of us."

You blinked, your stomach plummeting. Just last night, she had held you so tightly, whispering sweet nothings against your skin. And now she was speaking as if the last three and a half years were nothing more than a fleeting indulgence.

"What are you talking about?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, but the words came out too sharp, too raw.

Her eyes flickered toward you, her lips twisting into a teasing smirk, but it didn’t carry the same warmth it usually did. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, darling. You have a great job lined up and a whole life ahead of you. You don’t need me to be your sugar mommy anymore."

The words stung. You swallowed against the lump rising in your throat, masking it with a hollow laugh. "I don’t need you? Is that what you think?"

"You don’t need a sugar mommy," she corrected, her voice carrying that sharp edge that cut deeper than you wanted to admit. “I’m saying it’s time for you to grow up. To live your life without being bound to anything—or anyone.”

The finality in her words left you breathless. This wasn’t a joke. There was no hint of her usual playful cruelty. 

She really meant it.

“I don’t want that, Agatha,” you said softly, your voice cracking just a little, but your pride wouldn’t let you break. “I’m not ready for it.”

“Oh, I know you’re not,” she replied smoothly, turning away to pour herself a drink. The sound of liquid hitting glass was deafening in the quiet room. “But you’ll be fine. You’ll forget about me and find someone more your speed. Someone young and eager to be your equal, not just someone who's... well, who’s old enough to be your mother.”

A sharp sting bloomed in your chest, a dull, aching wound. Three and a half years down had come down to this. It started as just a simple arrangement—she took care of you financially, and you gave her company and affection in return. But somewhere along the way, something deeper had blossomed between you two, something neither of you had been brave enough to admit. And now she was discarding it like it had never meant anything at all.

She turned back to face you then, and for a brief moment, there was something else in her eyes—something softer, maybe even hesitant. But then it was gone, masked by that familiar smirk, the one she always used when she wanted to hide her vulnerability.

“Look, sweetheart, I’m doing this for you. You don’t need me holding you back. Go out there. Find yourself. It’ll be better for the both of us.”

Your chest was tight, the weight of her words suffocating. “I don’t want anyone else,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath. “I only want you.”

She scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but like I’ve said, you'll get over it.”

You let out a hollow, defeated scoff of your own, staring down at your feet as you willed yourself not to cry. When you finally spoke, your voice was eerily indifferent. “Okay.”

You grabbed your bag, turned on your heel, and stormed out, slamming the door behind you with a force that rattled the walls.

The moment you stepped onto the busy street, the cold air hit you like a slap in the face, but it wasn’t enough to stop the sting behind your eyes. You blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears, refusing to let the world see you like this.

But when you finally made it back to your apartment, the second the door clicked shut behind you, everything crumbled.

Your bag slipped from your shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud, but you barely noticed as your knees gave out beneath you. You collapsed onto the hardwood, your entire body shaking, the weight of it all crashing down on you at once. The tears burnt as they spilt over, hot and unstoppable, rolling down your cheeks in thick, messy trails.

It wasn’t just crying—it was full-body, gut-wrenching, ugly sobbing. The kind that left your chest aching, your throat raw, and your limbs trembling. It felt like your heart had been shattered, and now it was cutting your hands to shreds as you desperately tried to gather the pieces.

You gasped for breath, curling in on yourself, hands clutching at your arms as if you could physically hold yourself together. But nothing could stop the pain or the gaping void that Agatha had left behind.

Your fingers reached for the armrest of your couch and found the hoodie she had bought for you last month, and you clung to it like a lifeline, burying your face into the fabric that still smelt like her. Just a few weeks ago, you would have never imagined this—never imagined she’d leave you, that she’d end things so cruelly.

You thought it would never end.

But it had.

And as you lay there, curled up on the floor, crying yourself to sleep in a hoodie that smelt like the woman who just broke your heart, you failed to notice how the small velvet box she had given you had slipped from your bag and slid under the couch, out of sight.

—

The days following Agatha’s decision felt like a blur. You tried to move on, to focus on your future. The job offer you’d received was a great opportunity, and Agatha had made a valid point about your independence. You told yourself this was for the best, that you could do this, that you could build a life outside of her.

But no matter how much you tried, every minute without her felt like a slow death.

Your apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt hollow. The bed was too big and too cold without her beside you. Mornings were the worst—waking up alone, reaching instinctively for her only to be met with empty sheets. You used to wake to the scent of her perfume lingering in the air, the warmth of her body pressed against yours, her voice teasing as she coaxed you into wakefulness with slow kisses and whispered praises. Now, silence stretched endlessly, suffocating in its vastness.

You kept yourself busy, throwing yourself into the final few weeks of college life as graduation loomed closer. You accepted invitations to go out with friends and tried to lose yourself in the crowds, in the laughter, in the distractions, but it never worked. Conversations blurred together, nights out felt dull, and no matter how much you smiled or how much you laughed at someone’s joke, you felt empty. It wasn’t just loneliness. It was Agatha.

You missed her. Desperately.

You missed the sound of her laughter when she was genuinely amused—not the polite, calculated chuckle she gave in social settings, but the real one, the one that made her eyes crinkle and her entire body shake, a soft snort escaping her. You missed the way she would kiss your forehead absentmindedly, as if it were second nature, the way she’d roll her eyes at you but always, always indulge you. You missed the way she touched you, not just in the heat of passion but in the quiet moments—her hand on your lower back as she guided you through a door, her fingers tracing soothing patterns against your thigh as she read, the way she’d brush your hair back just to get a better look at you.

But most of all, you missed the way she saw you.

Because no matter how much success came your way, no matter how proud your professors were, no matter how many congratulatory messages you received, it all felt muted. Distant. Like something was missing, like a shadow had been cast over every achievement. And you knew exactly what it was.

It was Agatha.

She was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

You reckoned she had completely moved on, that she was thriving in your absence. You convinced yourself of it because what other choice did you have? The world wouldn’t let you forget her. She was too deeply woven into it.

Her name popped up in conversations—friends of friends mentioning her in passing, mutual connections keeping her name alive. And then there was social fucking media.

You didn’t follow her, of course. That would’ve been masochistic. But that didn’t stop her from appearing on all of your feeds, no matter the platform—through tagged photos, through shared articles, through snippets of interviews that made their way into your timeline.

She was back in full force, attending galas, closing deals, and commanding every room she stepped into. She was radiant, powerful, and untouchable. The world saw her as she always had been: composed. And it made you sick.

Because if she could move on so effortlessly, why couldn’t you?

—

It only got worse after graduation.

You should have been happy. You had finally done it—achieved everything you had worked so hard for. Your professors beamed with pride, and your family sent messages filled with love and admiration. Your friends celebrated you, taking you out, making toasts in your name.

And yet, through it all, the joy never felt whole.

Your graduation gown felt wrong without Agatha there to see it. The dress she had bought you clung to your body like a second skin, but instead of making you feel unstoppable, it felt wrong. Hollow. As if the fabric itself had been stripped of its magic, leaving behind nothing but an empty, uncomfortable reminder of what you had lost. What once made you feel desired now only makes you feel abandoned. 

As you stood on that stage, accepting your degree, you couldn’t help but scan the crowd, your heart foolishly hoping, just for a second, that you’d see her there. That she would be watching, pride shining in her eyes, just as she had promised.

But she wasn’t there and that should have been your final sign, the last nail in the coffin.

And yet it wasn’t.

Because you still needed her.

Not for her money, not for the extravagant gifts or the lavish lifestyle. You needed her. Her wit, her sharp tongue, the way she challenged you, pushed you, believed in you even when you didn’t believe in yourself. You needed the way she made you feel—cherished, adored, hers.

But she was gone and the world just kept on turning.

—

It took a few months, but eventually, the truth hit you like a freight train.

You couldn’t move on. You couldn’t picture a future without her. Your job was exciting, sure, but it was nothing compared to what you had with Agatha. The thought of another person touching you, holding you, even kissing you—it felt wrong. You only wanted her.

You had only ever wanted her.

You were cleaning your apartment when you dropped a pen and it had rolled beneath the couch, disappearing into the shadows. With a huff, you crouched down, reaching blindly, fingers brushing against something soft. Velvet.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The box.

You pulled it out slowly, heart hammering in your chest. The moment you saw it, the memories rushed back; the dinner, the way Agatha had smiled at you with something unreadable in her eyes when she handed it over, the way she told you not to open it yet.

You swallowed hard and flipped the lid open.

Inside sat the most breathtaking ring. It was perfect. A piece so intricate and unmistakably you that it stole the air from your lungs.

Agatha had listened. She had remembered.

You had mentioned it once, maybe twice, in passing. About how you could never find anything quite right, how everything in stores always felt too impersonal, too generic. And yet, here it was. Commissioned. Designed just for you.

Your fingers trembled as you lifted it from the box, your eyes catching on the engraving along the inside.

"More than you will ever know."

Your breath hitched.

What did it mean? More than you would ever know… what? That she cared for you more than you realised? That she—

Your heart surged and shattered all over again.

How could she give you this and then break things off a day later?

It didn’t make sense.

And suddenly, you had to see her.

You barely remembered throwing on a coat, stuffing the box into your pocket, and hailing a cab. The moment you arrived at her building, you asked the concierge not to alert her. The doorman, who knew you after the countless times you came here for Agatha, hesitated before nodding, letting you up without question.

Your pulse was deafening as you knocked loudly on her door.

The seconds stretched unbearably.

And then—

The door swung open, revealing Agatha in silk loungewear, her hair in soft waves, her expression unreadable.

She was poised as always, but something was different.

Her eyes were tired. The dark circles beneath them barely concealed, her sharp features softer than you remembered. And suddenly, you wondered, had she actually moved on? Or was she just keeping up appearances?

Her lips curled into a familiar smirk, but there was no bite to it this time. No amusement.

"You look like hell, Y/N," she noted, voice unexpectedly soft.

You blinked, realising only now that fresh tears had fallen from your eyes on the way up to her apartment.

"Thanks," you replied, forcing a humourless smile. Your throat tightened. "I’ve missed you."

Agatha hesitated. Her gaze flickered over your face, searching, but for what, you weren’t sure.

"I thought I told you to move on," she said, voice quieter this time.

"I can’t," you confessed, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

She didn’t stop you.

"I’ve tried. You’re all I want, Agatha. I don’t need anyone else, and I don’t want to."

She sighed, crossing her arms, tapping her fingers against her sleeve in that way she always did when she was thinking too much. "This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be, you know."

Her voice was weary, laced with something close to regret.

"You’re supposed to live your life. You deserve someone who can give you what I can’t–"

"You give me everything," you butt in.

The words left you without hesitation, your feet carrying you closer, your heart pounding as your fingers brushed against the silk of her robe. "I don’t need anything else. I never did."

Her eyes darkened.

The breath between you was charged, heavy, thick with something you both had been suppressing for far too long.

"Y/N, don’t say things you don’t mean," she whispered, but her voice wavered. "I’m not going to–"

But she didn’t get a chance to finish. You leaned in, and the moment your lips met, the world shattered.

She gasped softly, just before her hands found your waist, pulling you flush against her. The kiss was desperate, urgent, and needy. A collision of everything unspoken between you.

Agatha responded immediately, claiming your mouth with a hunger that sent a rush of heat straight to your core.

"Fuck," she breathed against your lips before kissing you deeper, her grip tightening, pulling you impossibly close. "You’re going to be the death of me."

Your only response was a soft whimper, fingers tangling in her hair as you pressed yourself against her, already drunk on the feeling of her after so long apart.

"I missed you," you murmured between kisses, hands slipping under the robe, palms pressing against her warm, bare skin. "I missed you so much."

Agatha groaned, walking you back toward the bedroom.

"Show me how much."

The second your back hit the bed, Agatha was on top of you, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, and your collarbone. She tugged impatiently at your shirt, and you helped her strip it away before her hands slid down, claiming you as if she never wanted to let go again.

Your legs wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer as she kissed down your body, teasing, tasting, until all you could do was whimper and beg.

"Mommy," you moaned, arching beneath her as her mouth found your chest, teeth grazing over sensitive skin before her tongue soothed the sting.

She groaned at the sound of the title slipping from your lips, her fingers gripping your hips, keeping you exactly where she wanted you.

"That’s right, baby," she murmured, voice dripping with want. "Let me take care of you. Let me remind you exactly who you belong to."

You gasped as her hands roamed lower, her touch setting every nerve in your body alight.

But before she could go further, your fingers curled around her wrist, stopping her.

Agatha’s brow furrowed slightly as she looked up at you, lips parted, eyes burning with desire but shadowed with something else.

"Why did you give me the ring?" You asked, your voice a whisper, fragile but demanding.

She stilled.

Her breath slowed.

For a long moment, she didn’t speak, her gaze searching yours as if trying to decide whether to run or to finally give in.

You swallowed hard and continued.

"You had it made just for me. You knew exactly what I wanted before I even knew myself. And then you gave it to me, only to leave the next day."

A crack formed in her carefully constructed mask.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this," Agatha admitted finally, voice raw. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

"By breaking my heart?"

Her jaw tensed. "By letting you go before I ruined you. Before I kept you."

Your fingers tightened around her wrist. "I wanted to be kept."

Her eyes flickered with pain, but before she could protest, you reached into the pocket of your discarded coat and pulled out the small velvet box.

You flipped it open between you, revealing the ring—the proof that she had always known you, had always loved you, even if she had never said the words.

"Then tell me what it means," you whispered.

Her throat bobbed as she looked at the engraving.

"More than you will ever know."

Agatha exhaled sharply and sat up, running a hand through her tousled hair. 

"It means..." she hesitated, then shook her head with a self-deprecating chuckle. "It means I’m a coward."

You frowned, shifting onto your side to face her fully. "Agatha–"

She cut you off with a sigh, her fingers ghosting over your wrist, like she needed to touch you to ground herself. "I was going to explain it all that night. Before I—before I convinced myself you were better off without me." She scoffed lightly, as if irritated at her own foolishness. "I thought pushing you away would make it easier for you to move on. That it would be easier for me."

Your breath caught. "And was it?"

Her gaze softened, and she gave you a small, sad smile. "No. It was hell."

Something in your chest cracked wide open. You reached for her hand, lacing your fingers together, grounding yourself in her warmth. "What does the engraving mean?" You ask again.

She let out a breath like she had been holding it for months. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it, she said the words you had been waiting for all along.

"It meant... it means I love you, Y/N." She shook her head, laughing bitterly. "I love you more than you will ever know. I should have said it a long time ago, but I didn’t know how. So I put it in a gift instead, hoping you’d understand without me having to say it."

Your chest ached, but this time, it wasn’t just pain. It was overwhelming, all-consuming relief.

"I love you too."

Agatha’s breath caught.

"Say it again," she croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You sat up, reaching for her, cupping her face between your hands.

"I love you, Agatha. I never stopped. I never could."

The tension in her body melted as she exhaled shakily, leaning into your touch.

Then she kissed you again.

This time, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed or frantic.

It was slow. Intentional. Reverent.

Agatha laid you back down with deliberate care, her hands trailing over your body like she was memorising you all over again. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered "mine" against your skin was a promise.

The rest of your clothes were shed in a haze of need, the soft rustle of fabric hitting the floor drowned out by breathless moans and desperate hands mapping out familiar territory. Agatha took her time with you first, pinning you beneath her as she trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down your body, her tongue flicking over sensitive skin, her fingers following in its wake. When she finally dipped lower, parting your thighs with a knowing smirk. She took you apart with practiced ease—driving you to the brink again and again until you were a trembling, pleading mess beneath her.

But you wouldn’t let her have all the control tonight. With a sudden shift, you flipped her onto her back, straddling her hips, drinking in the sight of her flushed and breathless. You kissed like you wanted to drown in her, dragging your tongue down the column of her throat, over the swell of her breasts, sucking marks into her skin, and staking your claim the way she always had with you. 

And when you finally settled between her legs, when you pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh and felt her shudder beneath you, you didn’t tease; you devoured. The taste of her, the sound of her moans, the way her fingers twisted into your hair as she cried out your name—it was everything, and you never wanted to stop.

Agatha’s hands tightened in your hair, holding you in place as she rolled her hips, grinding up against your mouth, chasing her release with unrestrained need. She was completely lost in the sensation, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps, her thighs trembling around your head. 

"Just like that—fuck—don’t stop, baby," she groaned, throwing her head back as her body tensed. And then she shattered, her orgasm hitting her in waves, her grip tightening as she rode it out against your tongue, moaning your name like a prayer.

Agatha was wrecked by the time you pulled away, her chest heaving, her lips parted as she reached for you, pulling you back into a bruising kiss. "You’re insatiable," she panted, her nails raking down your back. 

"And you love it," you teased, grinning against her lips. 

She flipped you once more, settling herself over you with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "I do. But  now it’s my turn again.” She trailed her lips down your neck, across your collarbone, then lower, nipping and sucking at your chest, your stomach, your thighs—leaving her marks all over you. 

Agatha hovered over your dripping cunt, her hands trailing possessively over your thighs, making you tremble, your body taut with anticipation. She took her time, lips and tongue teasing along the sensitive skin, her breath warm as she moaned something low and indulgent against you. The first slow drag of her tongue had you gasping, fingers fisting in her hair, and she hummed in approval, pressing deeper, savouring every reaction.

Her tongue worked you over with aching precision, lapping and circling before closing around your sensitive clit, sucking with just the right amount of pressure. The pleasure was almost too much, the heat pooling in your stomach threatening to spill over as she pressed her fingers inside, curling them perfectly to have you crying out. Every movement was deliberate—slow and deep, then quick and teasing, keeping you on the edge but never quite letting you fall. 

Meanwhile, you could hear the subtle, desperate rhythm of her own hips grinding down against the mattress, a quiet moan slipping from her lips as she lost herself in you, the friction bringing her closer and closer.

"You're shaking, baby," she murmured, voice thick with satisfaction as she glanced up, her chin glistening, her expression utterly wrecked. "You gonna fall apart for me?" 

She didn’t wait for an answer, just sealed her mouth around you again, her fingers pressing deeper, relentlessly coaxing you toward that inevitable bliss. And then she gasped against you, her body tensing as she shuddered, her own release crashing over her from the way she had been grinding down against the bed. 

The realisation that Agatha was cumming while fucking you sent you spiralling, your orgasm ripping through you with an intensity that left you gasping, back arching as a broken moan spilt from your lips. She groaned at the feeling of you coming undone, drinking in every last wave of pleasure before finally pulling away, her hands smoothing over your shaking thighs, her own body still trembling as she pressed one last lingering kiss against your oversensitive core, a satisfied smirk curving her lips.

Agatha collapsed against you, her breath warm against your skin as she buried her face in the crook of your neck. Neither of you spoke for a long moment, both too lost in the haze of pleasure and the weight of everything that had led to this—every moment spent apart, every unspoken feeling, every stubborn refusal to admit what had always been so painfully obvious.

You carded your fingers through her damp hair, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, letting the steady rhythm of your heartbeats fill the silence. Agatha exhaled slowly, her hands smoothing over your sides, grounding herself in the feel of you, as if she still wasn’t convinced this was real. 

Without a word, Agatha stood, her movements graceful and purposeful as she left the room for a brief moment. You could hear the sound of water running in the distance, the soft splash of it filling the silence before she returned. She didn’t need to say anything; the warmth in her eyes, the gentle press of her lips against your temple, told you everything.

She guided you to the enormous, luxurious bath—spanning the width of the penthouse’s bathroom—an almost surreal oasis of warmth and comfort. The water was a perfect temperature, fragrant with oils and salts, designed to soothe the soul. She lowered herself into the tub first, pulling you into her arms as if you were weightless, holding you close.

The space around you was immense, but it felt like it was just the two of you in this intimate world. Her fingers traced lazy patterns along your back, soothing the tension in your muscles as she softly kissed your shoulder, your neck—anywhere her lips could find. Each tender touch seemed to speak of something deeper, an unspoken vow of care that settled around you like the warm water.

You let out a contented sigh, resting your head against her chest as she kept you in her embrace, the steady rhythm of her breathing grounding you. Your hand lazily traced over her skin, lost in the softness of her touch, the comfort of her presence.

“You’re not leaving this time,” you murmured, the words more of a gentle plea than a statement. Agatha’s voice was soft but unwavering as she kissed your forehead, her arms tightening around you, pulling you even closer.

“Never again,” she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m exactly where I belong.”

And in that moment, with the water lapping gently against the sides of the tub and the soft warmth of her embrace surrounding you, you knew—this time, she meant it.

-----

this fic had been teetering on the edge of my imagination for a while but I got a sudden burst of inspiration after daydreaming about it all day—lemme know what y'all thought :D

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taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @jujuu23 @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6ange19

[cry4mina]

Jealousy

(Sana x fem!reader)

Word Count: 6.7k

Smut/Play angst/Fluff

Summary: You have a friend from college that is coming to visit and is very affectionate with you. Sana doesn't like that and retaliates before taking this "issue" into her own hands.

TW: THIS IS JUST FUCKING WITH A HINT OF BACK STORY. drinking, food, eating, sex, oral, strap ons, jealousy, degrading, top sanaaaaaaaaa, choking, hand cuffs, just a whole brain rot moment. Let me know if I missed anything.

AN: Hey hi hellooooo! (I BARELY PROOF READ THIS PLS FORGIVE) I feel so out of practice with writing! I had the brain rot and needed to do the thing. I hope you all enjoy this! Thank you to @ghostykapi for always helping me get plot points down like girl what would I do without you and for @psylocke142 and @sscieloz because the three of you constantly keep me sane while I'm losing it when brain does not work LMAO

Please enjoy and drink some water today! Ask are always open and feedback is always welcome! :)🖤

“You don’t need to be nervous, babe. She’s going to love you!” reassuring your wife sitting next to you in the booth of your favorite cafe.

Nayeon, your best friend from college/roommate at the time was in town and wanted to visit and catch up with you - and meet your wife, Sana. You couldn’t be more excited for them to finally make acquaintance after years of talking both of them up to each other.

“I know, I know but I just know how much she means to you and I want to make a good impression, you know?” puppy dog eyes looking up at you, melting you as always.

Sana looked stunning today, wearing a lavender cardigan and a white tank top underneath with some light washed oversized jeans paired with white sneakers. Her hair is long and framing her face so perfectly, with a lavender bow in her hair.

Looking so sweet and kind, glowing in her seat while making eye contact with you. You’re so in love with her, a masterpiece come to life - moving ethereally and making beautiful waves that crash happiness and warmth into the depths of your soul.

Submerging you completely into Minatozaki Sana.

“And you will, my love.” slipping your hand into hers, toying with the ring that was the product of the love built between the two of you.

“You’re sure?” looking down at your hands intertwined, watching as your hands fiddle with the gold band and then back up at your eyes that were filled with pure admiration.

“Never been more sure about anything.” beamed back at her.

It was true, asking her to marry you was the best decision you had ever made and you would do it a million times over, in every single life.

Sana’s cheeks flush red, bringing the hand that wasn’t intertwined with yours under the table up to cover her own smile, sheepishly trying to not get flustered with the way you still flirted with her, even after years of being together.

“Hello! My name is Michael. Can I start you off with some drinks?” the waiter must have snuck up to the table while you were wrapped in each other.

“I’ll have a sweet tea, please.” looking over to Sana who is still trying to compose herself.

“And she will have a hot green tea with honey, thank you.”

“Ma’am?” looking over to Sana.

The waiter seems to be completely ignoring what you said your wife wants…Cocking your head and furrowing your brows, you tilt your head up to look at him.

“I’d like what she said I wanted, thanks.” confusion laces her voice as the waiter sighs with a smile at the sound of her voice and walks to gather your drinks.

“What the fuck is that about?” back tensing in anger, staring daggers at the man who just flirted with your wife.

“You’re cute when you’re angry.” a cold finger catches your chin and leads you to look right into her eyes, inching her face closer and closer to you.

“Nothing to worry about, baby.” voice squeaking with pure happiness at your jealousy as she places her lips on yours, sending you into a whirl wind.

“I’m all yours…forever, remember?” lifting her hand out of yours to flash you the ring and wink.

It takes everything in you to not sink to the floor, you never should’ve taught her how to wink. It’s going to be the death of you and you’re already so weak to her touch that a wink on top of it could send you into a spiral of thoughts of love, and some others that are lust driven.

“Y/n?!” shouted from the front of the cafe, the voice is familiar that can only mean one thing.

“Oop! There she is!” standing up to spot her.

Seeing her and trying to catch Nayeon’s attention and wave her to the table.

Nayeon was wearing a very small crop top, showing off her stomach, and a very small pair of shorts. Very revealing, which doesn’t surprise you. She was always comfortable in her s

“You’re late!” is how you decided to her her attention.

Squealing at the sight of you, you open your arms for Nayeon to practically tackle you to the floor.

“I missed you so much Y/nnie! Look at you! You’re glowing. Ugh I just know that Sana is taking SUCH good care of you. And this, is your color.” grabbing your face and kissing your cheeks obnoxiously with a loud smack to each side, before tugging on the royal blue sweater you were currently wearing and pointing down to the shoes that matched it.

“I miss you too, Nay! I promise you she is and thank you!” bringing her in for another tight hug before letting go, Nayeon’s hand trailed down your arm and stopped in your hand, linking your fingers together.

Head turning start your introductions to one another and you realize that you might’ve forgotten to tell Sana that Nayeon is very physically affectionate…and that it meant nothing…oops.

Your wife’s jaw is on the floor, eyes wide and you can see the annoyance simmering underneath the shocked expression on her face.

“Nayeon! This is my wife, Sana.” throwing the word “wife” in, hoping that it would calm Sana enough to get through lunch so you could explain yourself later.

Already knowing that this was going to be a big conversation tonight.

“Oh my goodness! You’re stunning!” Nayeon let go of your hand and brought them up to grab Sana’s, pulling her out of her chair.

“It’s so so so lovely to meet you! I’ve heard so many wonderful things!” Joyfully offered to your wife as Nayeon wrapped her arms around her.

“Likewise!” Sana’s voice is chipper but the glare she’s giving you from over Nayeon’s shoulder is the exact opposite.

“Shit.” stated under your breath, as Nayeon and Sana part ways to create more small talk between the two of them, everyone taking their seats to get brunch started.

Sana and you take your place on the side of the table you were already on, Nayeon sitting across from you in the booth as your wife and bestfriend slip from small talk into questions about each other.

Both of them seem comfortable, this is great.

A jealous Sana was sexy, the way anger flared behind her eyes never failed to get you wet, even though it was usually not the time for it. Not willing to let this become a situation of jealousy because it’s Nayeon…if it was a stranger, sure but you want these two to get along.

Maybe Sana would get to know Nayeon and realize that the affection wasn’t something that meant anything at all.

Maybe she’s already forgotten.

The waiter walks back over and places your drinks down on the table, only addressing Sana in the process.

“Here you are, Ma’am.” his hands are slightly shaky as he placed the drink down.

“Thank you, sweet heart.” winking at him seductively.

…she had not forgotten…

You were regretting teaching her to wink even more so, as watched as the waiter’s thoughts leave his mind, swearing you could see his heart beat in his neck.

“uh…uhm...N-no p-p-problem, m-ma’am.” tugging at his collar to relieve some of the pressure Sana just placed on him.

Nudging her with your elbow, the look you’re giving her sliced through all the tension of this and was now turning into something she saw as a game.

Pawn move, your turn.

Nayeon is taking all of this in, without interrupting the show unfolding, leaning back in her seat and cocking an eyebrow. Does she realize what’s actually happening here or does she think that Sana is insane?

“I’ll take an iced americano, thank you.” to the panicked man, giving him the exit he seemed to crave so desperately.

“Right away, ma’am!” rushing off behind the doors to the kitchen, you swear you can hear his sigh of relief when he steps out of sight.

“So how is Jeongyeon? How are things?” inquiring so you can distract for what she was witnessing.

“She’s great! She’s back home with Dahyun. They just opened a coffee shop so they’ve been busy bodies with that.” smiling in pride of what her wife and best friend were doing.

“No way! After all these years of wanting to? I’m so happy to hear they’ve finally done it!” returning the sentiment back to her with excitement.

“And Dahyun is still rooming with you both, I assume?”

“Our perfect third wheel!” both of you burst into a giggle, Sana watches how close the two of you are.

You can feel her energy shift into possessive and jealous, more tense by the second as you continue on with brunch.

Nayeon reaches her hand over the table to grab yours, genuinely smiling at you as she prepares to say something.

Sana is seething next to you and you can already tell what she’s going to do about it.

“It’s truly so great to see you, I’m so happy they called a meeting here so we could get together and I could meet Sana too!” the warmth and friendship radiating off the sentence went right over Sana’s head as she laid her hand on your thigh, digging her nails right into the denim of your black jeans.

The waiter, Michael, comes back over with Nayeon’s iced americano and places it on the table.

“Do you need some more time to look over the menu? Or have any questions?” the poor boy is shaken to his core, and it’s about to get so much worse.

“What’s your favorite thing on the menu, honey?” Sana says without looking up at him.

“Oh, you know I love the ba-” you start.

“Not you.” putting her hand up to halt you, mid sentence.

“Michael.” looking up at him with those puppy dog eyes and a smile.

You swear you can physically see his knees turn to jelly.

“Uhm…well I r-really like the pancakes, ma’am.”

Rolling your eyes in disbelief, you wait for her response, making eye contact with Nayeon and communicating with her silently as all of this transpired.

“Pancakes it is then.” putting on her sweetest voice possible before handing him the menu and intentionally touching his hand.

“Wow, your hands are so strong…” caressing the top of one of them before pulling back.

“I wonder how useful those could be…”

“Sana! Enough!” the rage set in with you snapping at her, she had pushed this too far and she knows it.

“Oh, come on. It’s all in good fun, right?” kissing your cheek and then winking at him again.

“Right, Sweet heart?” referring to Michael again.

Staring at her in disbelief, your jaw tightens as you look back at Nayeon who is holding in her laughter, flushing red from the suppression.

“And no laughing out of you!” pointing to her across the table, her arms shoot up to claim her innocence.

“I’m just here to visit a friend! I swear!” chuckling through the sentence and bringing an ease to the table.

“A friend…right…” Sana seems to not believe but laughs along anyway.

Nayeon managed to cut the tension like she always did with a silly moment and for that you were grateful.

—

Over the course of this brunch, you had lovely conversations that everyone was involved in. Nayeon and Sana got along really well, despite the introduction, enjoying a lot of the same things and having lengthy conversations about many different topics.

“How long are you in town for?” Sana asked before taking a sip of her drink.

“I fly home tomorrow night, unfortunately.” sighing and knowing that the visit would be short lived.

“That’s too soon.” quipped back with a frown.

A sudden sparkle behind her eyes and the twitch of her brow shows you that she’s up to something.

“Where are you staying?” expeditiously inquired through a new tone of excitement.

“Well, this trip was very last minute so I’m hoping I can get a hotel down town by the airport. If anything, I can just sleep in the rental car and head to the airport tomorrow afternoon.”

“Nonsense! You’ll stay with us!” This surprised both you and Nayeon.

Sana offering Nayeon to stay at your home was a very big deal. You both really liked your privacy and for her to extend that invitation was...not like her.

“I wouldn’t want to impose!” Nayeon is dismissive of the thought, looking over to you for some hint that this would be okay.

Nodding to her very softly, you agree.

“I insist, Nayeon! I can’t have my wife’s best friend sleeping in discomfort when we have a perfectly good guest room for you to stay in.” Sana’s hand reaches out over the table to grab Nayeon’s, reassuring her that all was well.

“Alright, I’ll stay.”

“Great! I’ll get the check.”

The waiter must’ve been listening as he was immediately when he heard Sana wanted something. Nayeon let out a belly laugh when she saw how quickly he was present, and you rolled your eyes.

Reaching out to hold your hand, Nayeon decides to move a pawn on the gameboard.

“Y/nnie, did you ever tell Sana about what we used to do?” the flirtatious tone perks up Sana’s ears, the scowl on her face already gently forming around her squinted eyes.

“Nayeon, what are you talking about?” trying to brush off what Nayeon was hinting at so Sana wouldn’t get upset.

“What did you guys used to do?” attempting to keep cool about the new information that just dropped onto the table like an anvil.

“If Y/nnie doesn’t remember, I don’t think I should say, besides…I don’t know if you’d be too excited about hearing it anyways. Just a very fond memory to live in my mind then.”

Nayeon winks at Sana and then stands up.

“See you at your house!” swiftly walking out of the cafe.

—

The walk to the car was silent.

Only the sounds of your shoes against the concrete.

Walking around to the passenger seat, you open the door for Sana and wait for her to get inside. She’s just standing by the car and clenching her jaw, you can see the muscles flexing causing you to swallow harshly - nerves tingling as you walk around to the driver’s side door.

Sana suddenly slams the door closed without getting inside before promptly opening it again, for herself, and gets into her seat, closing the door behind her.

Blinking a few times at how petty that actually was, you slip into the drivers seat and start the car.

The first 5 minutes of driving are just as quiet as the walk to the car, Sana’s stewing in her jealousy next to you and you’re just waiting for her to say something.

Slowing down and stopping at a red light, you look at the road in front of you until you feel her eyes burning a hole into the side of your face.

“What did you guys used to do?” sneered at you in disgust.

“We used to smoke weed and sit on a couch, babe. A few concerts, a couple parties but nothing that warrants this reaction.” trying to reassure her that there was no threat from Nayeon.

“Sounds like there might be more. Tell me.” her stern tone rattles you to your core…causing that flash of heat under your skin that screams in desire.

“I mean we hooked up once a long long time ago. But it was one time, and it never happened again.”

“You WHAT!?”

Uh oh.

“You guys had sex?!”

“Baby, we were 18 and young. Probably drunk. It only happened one time. I didn’t think it was that important.” trying to explain but she did not want to hear it.

At. All.

“No wonders she’s so fucking affectionate with you! She probably still wants to fuck you. What the fuck, why wouldn’t you tell me this?!” through clenched teeth and she crosses her arms and shifts away from you.

“Sana, it meant nothing then and it means even less now. I love you. I want to be with you. This was a long time ago, okay?”

Silence.

“Sana.”

More silence.

“Sana!” rising in volume to get her attention.

“Okay, fine. Whatever.” waving her hand at you, the weak signal that she would be fine about this.

“Sana, Nayeon is my best friend…okay? That’s all. You are my wife. I married YOU. Not her.” reassurance making it’s way to her as you try and defuse.

“I trust you. She’s your best friend…I’ll be on my best behavior.” rolling her eyes and sighing next to you.

A fight given up a little too easily…knowing her, she was planning something else.

This was going to be a long night, wasn’t it?

—

Dinner came and went as quickly as brunch did. Spending the night lounging around the house and watching movies with Nayeon and Sana was such a good way to spend the evening - despite the argument in the car earlier.

It seems like they’re getting along very well, giggling with each other and nonstop chatting. It seems Sana is getting comfortable and actually trying to get to know your best friend.

That warms your heart more than anything. She was really willing to put her jealousy aside for you…it’s impossible to not love her more and more every single day.

Nayeon and Sana decided they wanted to watch a movie, so you let them pick while you went and got some snacks from the kitchen.

Returning to find them on the couch whispering to each other, you decided to just sit on the other side of Sana and let them press play when they were ready.

They picked a weird comedy you had never heard of, you decided to just scroll through your phone while the movie played on.

—

Around 10pm, Sana stretched and yawned, leaning into your neck and sighing into you. Toying with the end of your shirt lightly and scooting closer to you.

“You getting sleepy, my love?” leaning your cheek against her forehead and wrapping your arms around her.

All she could do was nod her head softly and nuzzle into you further.

“Why don’t you go and get ready for bed? I’ll show Nayeon where she will be sleeping and meet you in there, okay?”

“Okay. Goodnight Nayeon. Thank you for today!” standing up, giving Nayeon a hug and sluggishly making her way to the bedroom you shared and closing the door behind her.

“She’s a tough one, huh? I never thought I’d see you go for someone jealous…especially with how jealous you get!” Nayeon nudged you as you both stood up and you made your way down the hall to the guest bedroom.

“I wouldn’t say though! She’s just not used to people being touchy with me. She likes a little jealousy…and I mean, you know I like possessive. Even if this round was a little intense. I’m really happy you both got to know each other better so we can do this more often” smiling at Nayeon.

“You both are a match made in heaven. I’m really happy for you, Y/nnie. She’s lovely. Good luck later!” booping your nose lightly and turning to go into the room.

“What does tha-…You know what, I dont want to know…goodnight.” dismissively waving your hand at her while closing the door shut. Her laugh can be heard from the other side of it.

Walking back to your own room, you can’t help but wonder what that meant…good luck? with what? Maybe it was just her trying to psych you out…

Trying to be quiet as you enter, you don’t see Sana on her side of the bed, assuming she’s still in the bathroom, you strip out of the clothes you spent your day in and changed into just a large T-shirt.

The bathroom door opens up softly while you’re bringing your clothes across the room to put in the laundry basket, not bothering to look up, you toss the clothes in the vessel and turn around to crawl into your side of the bed.

That’s when you finally register what is happening in front of you.

Sana has changed into her red, lacey night gown…the one that’s completely see through…the one she knows you can’t resist.

Trying not to drool at the sight of her and how sensual she is in her movements, the way her hips sway and the way she’s looking you up and down like you’re prey to her.

Taking a few steps closer to you, she watches as you stand there in total shock - ready to drop to your knees for her.

“I think I need to remind you what it means to be my wife.” sultry, sexy tone dripping off her tongue, melting through your brain - the ache for her very present between your legs.

“I think you need a reminder of who you belong to…” the sentence lingers in your mind as she makes her way over to you slowly.

Fuck.

She’s playing hard ball with you, wanting you to submit to her immediately…and you’re tempted. It’s hard not to be when she’s like this.

Usually so soft and sweet, but when that bedroom door closes, she’s in charge and you didn’t feel like giving her that power that easily, even if you knew you’d end up sore tomorrow.

“I need to be reminded? Ha! You must not remember what you did.” flipping the script on her, crossing your arms while you wait for your reply.

The devilish smirk translucently sits across her mouth for a moment, before dissolving seamlessly into the start of something that would haunt you all night long.

The game has begun.

“What I did?!” raising her voice at you and taking a defensive stance.

“After what YOU did with your little friend! And in front of me, no less!” Scoffing and crossing her arms at the memory.

Hesitating to say anything, you try and think of a how you want to navigate this. It’s obvious how this is going to end, considering the red lace that’s barely covering her body when the idea pops into your head.

Pawn moved.

“It’s cute when you’re like this” slowly walking up to her and placing your hands on her hips and leaning into her chest, lips mere inches apart.

“Whatever.” Arms still crossed under your chests pressed together as she fights to not wrap her arms around you.

“Awh come on, my jealous baby. You know it’s only you.” Trailing a finger up her side and watching as she swallows harshly, breath hitching as she mimics your movements.

As her hands glide up your sides, the tips of her fingers graze lightly over your skin and lift the over size shirt with them - revealing what was underneath.

Nothing.

Sana lets out a short laugh when she sees your bare ass, smacking it loudly and leaning forward into you with a hand slithered up the back of your neck and through your hair.

Check.

“And who says that you’ll get what you want from me? You think being a slut for others gets you rewarded?” rebutted in a whisper with her lips brushing past yours so delicately.

Pawn moved.

Hands coasting up her back and into her hair that’s tied into a bun, you kiss up her cheek and right to her ear.

“If you won’t, I know someone who will.” another peck to her cheek.

Check. Mate.

“Someone in the next room…she’s done it before. You’ve seen her hands, right baby? Can’t you just imagine how fu-”

Sana suddenly lets go of you. Shoving you, hard, onto the bed.

“Don’t fucking move. You’re going to regret what you said but any disobedience going forward will only result in worse. Do you understand me, whore?” the mood is rage scorched, scowling down at you as you nod your head one time before she sets off to the closet.

She pulls out the box, grabs her strap - the larger one - slipping it on and tightening the sides so it fits tightly. What surprises you is when she reaches back into the box and pulls out some hard metal handcuffs you rarely ever used.

“You think you can just talk about someone else fucking you and get away with it, bitch?” walking up to you, twirling her finger around in front of her, signaling you to turn over onto your stomach.

“Hands behind you.” her stern voice is making you dizzy, unable to actually register what she’s actually saying.

“Now!”

A hard smack to your lower thighs startles you, the sting is delicious but you listen to what she says and put your hands behind your back.

The metal is cold against your wrists, wiggling to see how tight they were. There wasn’t much room to move at all.

Running your fingers against the metal to find the loose bolt that usually releases the sex cuffs, you can’t find one that rattles against your fingers.

“Awh…you thought I’d use the fake ones on you?”

Oh, shit.

Sana pulls you to the edge of the bed, feet flat on the floor and torso bent over the sheets. Taking the head of the strap, she runs it up and down your slit in a very unhurried fashion.

“Look how wet you are.” slapping the end of the dildo on your clit a few times just to hear it splatter against you.

“Did you get wet like this for her too?” gliding back over your slit this time dipping between your lips and grinding against your clit.

A gasp leaves your lips at the sensation, the burst of pleasure that sent shockwaves through you.

“Answer me, slut.” she’s leaned over your back and in your ear, grinding softly against you.

Holding you down by the chain with one hand, the other slips up to your neck, holding your throat to force you to keep your head up.

“Why don’t you…fuck- ask her?” whined out between the sluggish strokes of Sana’s strap.

Immediately coming to a halt when what you said registers in her mind, she grips your throat tighter, you can feel her tensing her body.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?!” growled as she lifts herself off of you.

Rabid, feral and unhinged, Sana can’t seem to get a grip on herself. Taking the chain of the cuffs in her hand and tugging hard, she flips you over on your back. Lost in lust and rage, she grips the collar of the thin oversized shirt you were wearing and rips it clean down the middle in one harsh tug.

You’re lost in your own neediness as you start to drip onto the floor, waiting for Sana to make her move and put you in your place.

Watching as she stands before you, strap brushing up against your core while her hands are clenched into fists next to her.

You swear you can see the steam spewing from her ears and her jaw clenching. Nudging her hips forward, the sensation of the strap against you pushes you closer and closer to begging for her and you know that’s exactly what she wants.

Sana’s hand flies down and smacks your thigh, the sound is brutal but the pain is something you crave.

“I said, what the fuck did you just say?”

You’re melting, slipping into the mindset of wanting.

Wanting her.

Craving her.

“Baby” huffed out through the tension of the room.

“Please”

“Please, what?” leaning forward, her finger comes up to your collar bone and traces it down, feather light touches right over your nipple and slipping to your hips.

Her lips follow from your neck down to your nipple, brushing past her lips barely touching your skin as she descended.

“Sana, please…I need to feel you.” breathing becoming heavier as her mouth travels down to your hips, biting down when she’s low enough to cause the reaction she wants.

Bucking your hips forward, instinctual reaction from your body- her hand raises and smacks your tit. Moaning into the empty space in the room as Sana kisses her way down to your slick smeared lips.

Her breath against your pussy was enough to push you over the edge - a long carnal whine expelled in frustration at how slow she was going. Needing her to finally take you the way you knew she wanted to.

“Say. It.” maliciously whispered, eyes showing you that even if her face was stoic in this moment, there was a hunger in them.

Sana drags her tongue up your inner thigh, stopping right before you could gain any relief from the friction of her touch.

This was torture.

“Baby” a breathless attempt.

Sana inches her way back up to your mouth, leaving a trail of ever deepening teeth marks in her wake, until she’s face to face with you - noses caressing and lips teasing each other.

Tugging at the metal of the cuffs, you whimper at not being able to touch her. Wanting to pull her close to you and tempt her to break- to give in and give you want you needed from her.

Sitting in sounds of your shallowed breath, Sana smirks at you letting out a sigh.

“I can feel how wet you are, baby.” taking her hand down the the base of the strap and positioning it against your entrance.

“Dripping down my strap and knowing that you can’t touch me…Must be so agonizing for a whore like you.” taunting you through clenched teeth and a forced smile.

Gliding over your slit again, she brings her lips closer to yours, letting you lean up to her but pulling away before your lips meet.

The only thing you can think about is her ruining you. Burning sensations of the emptiness between your legs instructs you to rock your hips back and forth to try and get her to slip the tip inside you.

“What’s the safe word?” pulling out of the moment to acknowledge the boundaries.

“Red.”

As soon as the word flies out of your mouth, Sana’s hand is around your throat. Thrusting her hips forward painfully slow until she completely bottoms out inside you.

The moan you let out was music to Sana’s ears, wanting nothing more than to let the guest in your house to know who could make you like this…let them know who you belong to.

Pulling the attachment out to the tip, Sana slams back down - hard but at a slow pace.

“That’s right, honey.” hips cocking back again.

“Let her know you’re mine.” hips snapping into you creating a rhythmic slapping as she continues torturing you with the aggressively slow stake to her claim.

Lips finally meeting, you’re fighting the metal connecting your hands as you both passionately dissolve into each other.

Sana’s grip around your throat tightens as she slowly starts to pick up the pace of ramming the strap into you. Her other hand trails to pinch your nipple, giving it a flick and a few twists so you moan even louder.

Feeling all the euphoria she was presenting you with, you’re unable to stop yourself from whimpering and moaning. Any attempt at muffling them felt useless. The only sounds outside of your own moaning was Sana breathing heavier as she snapped her hips into you, was the sound of your slick against her aggressive, deep thrusts.

Sana suddenly stops, elbows on either side of you, her resting and catching her breath for a moment. Taking a second to brush the hair out of your face, she looks you in the eyes and snaps her hips into you, pressing against your cervix when she speaks.

“Does she fuck you like this, slut?” another harsh thrust.

“Unh! Fuck babyyyy- ungh” your own voice echoes off the wall and back to you.

“Can she make your pussy this fucking wet?” another rabid jolt of her hips.

The deep strokes of her inside you hit every spot imaginable, tingling building in your limbs as she keeps marking her territory with her mouth, bite marks and hickies litter your body haphazardly.

Pressure building from inside you, gasping for air when you realize how close you are to cumming.

“S-Sana! I’m gonna c-cu-”

“No.” is all she says when she pulls out of you completely and watches as you writhe and whine on the sheets.

Moaning and whining in protest as you feel the pleasure receding, Sana just smiles and watches you tear up.

“Tell me who you belong to.” tip grinding against you again, this time causing an almost out right panic in you.

“Only you! Sana, please! fuck me! I need it I need it I need it PLEASE.” tears rolling down your cheeks, inching yourself close to her.

“Sit up.”

You immediately do as your told.

Sana grabs the keys from the nightstand and unhooks your hands.

Immediately, without a second thought, you’re pulling her onto the bed and pushing her down. Her smile is huge, giggling at how desperate you are.

Sana’s hands make their way to your thighs as you fix your position on top of her, straddling her as you ease yourself down onto her.

Hands flying up to catch your waist before you can sink too far down on her, she holds you still and buck her hips up one hard time before allowing you to sit comfortably with the strap inside you.

Completely blissed out, you lean forward and lay on her chest with your face in her neck. Her soft sweet giggle can be heard in your ear.

“Is my good girl that desperate?” placing her hands on your ass and assisting you in slamming down onto her.

“I bet she couldn’t ruin you like this.” positioning her hips at just the right angle to hit your G-spot over and over again as she picks up her pace for you.

Loudly mewling out as she rails into you, the ethereal wave comes back and takes hold of you again. Slamming yourself down onto her on your own, you can only think about cumming for her.

Right as the orgasm is about to shatter through you, Sana flips you over and throws you into a mating press, thighs against your chest and starts jackhammering into you so deeply that it sets your skin on fire.

“Fuck, S-s-ana! I’m gonna c-cum! J-ust like th-that baby!”

“Tell me who you belong to, honey.” her tempo only accelerates.

“You! Only you!” turning you into a groaning mess as you come undone around her.

Vision blacking out, you practically scream as you lose your sense of self and turn into exactly what she wanted, a ruined wife.

Her ruined wife.

Every fiber of your being set on fire and you violently thrash underneath her, creating a mess on the sheets and all over your wife.

Sana is laying soft sweet pecks on your cheeks as she lets you ride out your orgasm, holding your hips still while she lightly rocks into you.

“You’re so good for me, baby.” kissing your forehead and standing up, removing the strap from inside you.

“Look at the mess you made” pointing to the lace smeared with slick.

Unable to catch your breath, you try to compose yourself to reply when she sinks to her knees between your legs.

“Let me help clean you up, honey.”

A long, wide tongued lick up your pussy has you twitching immediately, still completely sensitive and walking into overstimulated territory.

All you can say is “Fuck, baby.” as she laps at you, cleaning up the remanence of cum from your thighs and cunt.

Passing over your clit intentionally, she watches you squirm and moans into you. Hands immediately grasping at her head, trying to pull her closer.

“Is that what you want, baby?” before a rhythmic open mouth kiss engulfs your most sensitive area and turns you back into a groaning mess.

It wasn’t long before she added her fingers into your folds, slipping two in immediately and pressing them up while latched onto your clit.

Bucking your hips into her mouth, you release the loudest, guttural moan you’ve ever heard as you cum around her fingers. Barely giving you enough time to come down from your first orgasm, she expected this of you - cumming quickly for her a second time.

Feeling the droplets of sweat dropping from your forehead, you feel Sana crawl up next to you and snuggle into you. Still gasping for air, you rolled onto your side and nuzzled into her. She played with your hair until you eventually fell asleep in her arms.

—

Waking up the next day was an atrocious feeling, not enough sleep and more sore than you ever had been.

Cracking your eyes open, you realize the bed is empty and there’s laughter coming from the kitchen.

Sitting up and rolling out of bed, you stretch and wince before getting a pair of Sana’s sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt to cover yourself up.

Opening the door to the bedroom, you wipe the sleep from your eyes and meander over to where the sound was coming from, dragging your feet along the way.

Sana and Nayeon are drinking coffee together in their pajamas - Sana is wearing one of your shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, a stark difference to what she wore last night. Nayeon has on something similar.

“Well good morning to you, Y/nnie!” Nayeon blurts out before falling into a thunderous cackle.

“You look like you got beat up! I said good luck, didn’t you hear me?” continuing to laugh with Sana.

“How bad are they? I didn’t check my neck in the mirror…wait, you…you knew?!” squinting at her in judgement.

“They’re pretty bad…Sana must have a biting kink, hm? And of course I knew! The tension between the two of you can be felt light years away. Plus, you weren’t exactly quiet about it.” fighting the laughter as she winked at you.

Nayeon’s hands shoot up in innocence again.

“She’s yours, Sana. I wouldn’t dream of taking her away from you.”

Looking over at Sana, she’s got her hand over her mouth trying to stifle the giggles. She walks over to pour you some coffee.

“I think it’s more about possessive and less about biting…And what are you laughing at?! You started this!” pointing at your wife as she turns beat red.

“No I didn’t.” nonchalantly as she passes you the mug.

“Nayeon should be happy that she’s leaving tonight.” sipping the warmth and smacking your lips at the taste.

“Why is that?” curiously inquired by Im Nayeon.

Looking over at Sana, she’s embarrassed and covering her face with her hand again but for different reasons.

“I didn’t flirt with you, but Sana flirted with the waiter in front of my face like that so I’ll put it this way…I know someone who’s louder and about to get it a lot worse than I did.”

[jezebelblues]

𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 | 𝐇.𝐒 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐘𝐍 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭.

𝐂𝐖: requested exrry blurb (thank u anon!), slight angst, happy ending, fem!reader, actress!reader, unedited.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 5k

❏ HI ! it’s been such a long time :( but i’m hoping i’m finally through with writers block. i feel like this doesn’t exactlyyyy fit anon’s request but i hope u liked it even a lil bit! i’m not 100% happy w this but i really wanna get something out so this will just have to suffice. missed yall <3

masterlist

there are moments in every love story when the world rearranges itself, tilts just enough to change the course of everything. it's the way a cigarette burns unevenly when the wind interferes, how a misplaced step shifts the dancer's rhythm, or the way a train leaves the station one minute too soon. for harry and YN, their love had been both a symphony and a storm, a masterpiece constructed on fragile scaffolding. in its final act, it had unraveled quietly, with only the sound of two hearts breaking in unison.

they hadn’t spoken in two years. two years of silences punctuated only by the occasional headline, the brush of a photo on a magazine rack, his voice threading through the speakers of a café. the world, it seemed, refused to let her forget him. but there he was now, not a photograph or a memory, but him. real, palpable, standing at the edge of her periphery like a ghost who hadn’t yet decided if it would haunt her or let her go.

YN leaned against the balustrade, clutching a glass of something that tasted more sour than it should have. the event itself was a haze of champagne flutes and low conversations, an industry soirée dripping in muted opulence. her dress was a deep shade of dusk, clinging to her like a second skin, and she felt beautiful in it—had felt beautiful in it—until she saw him.

harry was dressed as he always was: an effortless mosaic of contradictions. the suit was tailored to perfection, but his hair, unruly curls with the hint of rebellion, softened the sharp edges. there was no mistaking the tilt of his head, the way his eyes skimmed the room with an almost reluctant ease. she wondered if he’d seen her yet, if he’d feel that same quiet thrum in his chest when he did.

as if on cue, his eyes met hers.

the evening wasn’t designed for heartache. the sky, opalescent and blushing, rippled with the soft hues of twilight. lights strung through the manicured gardens of the estate flickered like fireflies caught in some eternal dance, glasses catching the shimmer like constellations in orbit. laughter rippled through the space, every corner alive with movement and conversation, yet harry could feel only the staccato of his pulse, sharp and relentless.

he wasn't supposed to see her tonight. it wasn't part of the plan—then again, plans were always shaky things when it came to them, built on the hope that tomorrow wouldn't bring a gust strong enough to dismantle it all.

it wasn’t a moment of cinematic epiphany. there was no gasp, no clinking glass slipping from trembling fingers. it was quieter than that, heavier. their eyes had met, and the weight of two years folded between them like a tide coming in—inevitable, undeniable.

his gaze dropped to her hands, searching for a ring, as though her life might have accelerated in the time since they'd parted. nothing. his chest tightened with something unnamable—relief? regret? both?

the last time they’d been in the same room, the air had been filled with shouting and static. their words had ricocheted off walls that had once heard laughter. they had been too much and not enough, two meteors colliding, destroying everything they touched in their desperate attempt to remain whole.

she loved him. god, how she had loved him. loves.

their love had been big. not in the way people tell stories about epic romances, but in the way it consumed everything around it. they fought like gods waging war. they loved like the first spring after a century of winter. they tore each other apart and put each other back together, over and over, until they couldn't remember what they had looked like before.

they stood like that for what felt like hours but must've been seconds, suspended in a quiet kind of agony. the people around them blurred into shapes, the air alive with the hum of champagne-fueled conversations and the laughter of people who had no concept of loss beyond the polite kind—misplaced keys, a delayed flight, the end of a film they'd rather not have finished. the only thing that seemed real was the chasm between them—filled with every moment they'd ever shared, every word spoken and unspoken, every touch and tear and promise.

he was walking toward her now. she could feel it in her chest before she saw it—the air shifting, the atoms around her realigning themselves to make room for his presence.

YN was radiant, in the way she always had been— light incarnate. her eyes, the same shade of longing he remembered, tried not to meet his own, but of course, they did. she's only human, and humans have always been drawn to the things that ruin them.

“YN.” he breathed when he was close enough, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to utter.

“harry.” his name tasted unfamiliar on her tongue, like a word spoken in a foreign language after years of disuse.

there were too many things she wanted to say, too many memories fighting to rise to the surface. she remembered the way his hands had once mapped her skin like a cartographer desperate to chart every inch. she remembered mornings spent tangled in sheets, the sunlight spilling over their laughter. she remembered the fights, the nights spent in separate rooms, the echoes of their own voices loud in the spaces between them.

“you look—” he started, then stopped, as though the right words had slipped through his fingers.

“so do you.”

silence bloomed between them, heavy and awkward, like a third presence neither of them invited. she takes a sip of her drink to fill it, but the taste is sour, bitter. or maybe that's just her.

he couldn’t tell how long they just stood there. time had a way of folding in on itself since her, the days bleeding into nights, the minutes stretching and collapsing all at once. einstein once said time was relative, but harry was sure he hadn't meant this.

his lips parted, “i didn’t think you’d be here.”

“neither did i.”

the truth was, she almost hadn’t come. it was only her publicist’s insistence that had dragged her out of her apartment and into this room filled with people who didn’t really know her. but now, standing here in front of him, she wondered if some part of her had known—had hoped.

there was a question hanging in the air between them, not uttered, but loud enough to fill the silence. had they made a mistake?

he remembers how they agreed it was for the best—right person, wrong time. they'd parted with a kiss that tasted of salt and regret, a mutual agreement born not out of lack of love, but out of too much of it.

but how could it be for the best when the air at home still smelled like her, when her name was stitched into the fabric of every song he wrote? he thought of the way she used to rest her head against his chest at night, the way her fingers traced lazy patterns along his skin, as if she were memorizing him in braille. the intimacy of it—the quiet kind, the kind that felt like forever—had undone him. no one ever teaches you how to live without forever.

the first time they met, they were children pretending to be adults. a festival in the desert, both of them younger and wilder, sweat-soaked and sunburnt and drunk on music. they danced in a crowd of thousands, but it felt like the earth shrank to the size of a postage stamp, and they were the only two people left. he had kissed her that night, tequila and the promise of something infinite lingering on his tongue.

“i’ve missed you,” he admitted, so softly she almost didn’t hear it.

her heart stuttered, the words settling into the cracks she hadn’t known were still there. “me too.”

and just like that, the world rearranged itself again.

it had been three days, but the memory of her face still lingered on the edges of harry’s consciousness like the afterimage of a camera flash. no matter how many times he blinked, it refused to fade. he felt haunted—not in the dramatic sense of ghosts rattling chains, but in the quiet, insidious way grief lingers, reshaping the air around it. she had looked beautiful, devastatingly so. and when their eyes had met, he swore he felt time buckle under the weight of something he couldn’t acknowledge, not yet.

it was morning now, or what passed for it in january—a hesitant kind of light filtering through the clouds, pale and thin like it didn’t quite belong. harry sat at his kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling between his hands. the mug had been a gift from gemma years ago, the words world’s okayest brother faded from too many cycles through the dishwasher. he liked its imperfection, the way it felt worn and familiar. it reminded him of things that didn’t change, which was a comfort on days like these.

the newspapers were spread out in front of him, though he wasn’t reading them. his eyes kept drifting to the same headline over and over: YN stuns at charity gala, sparking reunion rumors. there was a picture, of course. she was outside, her dress a shadow clinging to her frame, her gaze distant and heavy with thoughts he couldn’t begin to guess at.

it was cruel, he thought, how the world always seemed to capture her in a way that felt so achingly intimate. even in the stillness of a photograph, she looked alive, as though she might step off the page and straight into his arms.

but she wouldn’t.

he hadn’t expected to see her, not after all this time. the last two years had been a lesson in avoidance—of places she might be, of mutual friends who still spoke her name with a fondness that made his chest ache. he had buried himself in work, in music, in anything that might fill the spaces she had left behind. and for a while, it had worked. or at least, it had felt like it did.

until three days ago.

“you’re brooding.”

the voice startled him, and he looked up to find jeff standing in the doorway, a coffee cup in one hand and a knowing look in the other.

“morning to you, too,” harry muttered, running a hand through his hair.

he raised an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at that paper for the better part of an hour. do you want to talk about it, or should i just pretend i don’t notice?”

“not much to talk about, yeah?”

“uh-huh.” he set his coffee down and slid into the chair opposite him. “you saw her.”

“yeah.”

“and?”

harry sighed, “i dunno. s’like… seeing her again made everything i’ve been trying to forget just resurface. two fucking years of nothing and then—” he gestured vaguely, another sigh falling from his lips.

“you still care about her.”

“‘course i do,” harry said, almost sharply. “but that doesn’t mean it changes anything. timing wasn’t right—we missed out.”

jeff studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “you know, timing’s a funny thing. but things do change, harry. don’t lose something you never needed to lose in the first place.”

the words hit harder than harry wanted to admit. he didn’t respond, instead lifting his mug to his lips and taking a long sip.

the tea had gone cold.

–

the email arrived in the late afternoon, slipping into her inbox like an intruder she hadn’t invited. YN stared at the screen for a long time, her tea cooling on the windowsill beside her. she didn’t open it right away; instead, she just sat there, the glow of her laptop casting faint shadows on the walls of her living room.

harry’s name stared back at her, bold and impossible to ignore. two years of silence, and now this.

the day had started out quiet. she’d spent the morning working through a script, her highlighter uncapping and capping in time with the low hum of the music she had on in the background. a storm had rolled in sometime around noon, the sky turning the color of damp stone. she liked storms—their chaos, the way they reminded her of things bigger than herself.

she didn’t like this.

her thumb hovered over the trackpad, indecisive. opening the email felt like a betrayal of all the walls she’d built, but leaving it unread felt equally unbearable. the memory of seeing him at the gala, standing there like something carved out of memory and moonlight, tugged at her resolve.

so, she clicked.

subject: reaching out

from: hs@—

to: YN@—

i wasn’t sure if this was still your email. if it’s not, i guess someone else is reading this, which would be… awkward. but if it is you, then: hey.

i know it’s been a while. seeing you the other night caught me off guard. in a good way. you looked beautiful. not that that’s news or anything, but still. it felt worth saying.

i’ve been thinking about you. not in a way that expects anything, just thinking. like in the way you’re in the lyrics i write without thinking. or when i see a blank sheet of paper i think of the origami you’d make on a whim.

this probably sounds ridiculous. i don’t really know what i’m trying to say. maybe just that it was good to see you.

for old times sake: all my stars and moons,

H.

all my stars and moons.

he used to say it with a lopsided smile, his voice soft, reverent, like it was the only way he could capture what she meant to him.

it wasn't just an i love you—it was a promise, a vow that she had been his beginning and his end. her reply had always been equally unorthodox, a kind of shared language only they understood.

she read the email twice, then a third time, the words tumbling through her mind like loose change in a pocket.

it wasn’t much. it wasn’t an apology or an admission or even an invitation. but it was something—a crack in the silence, a thread pulled loose from fabric.

her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind a cacophony of what-ifs. she didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if she should say anything.

the cursor blinked at her, patient and unyielding. YN rested her chin in her hand, staring at the blank reply box as if it might conjure the words for her. the storm outside continued its symphony, wind rattling the windowpanes in uneven bursts. it felt fitting—this chaotic, uncertain moment mirrored by the world beyond her walls.

she had typed and deleted half a dozen responses already, each one feeling either too much or not enough.

harry, she’d started, but even his name felt loaded, like a weight she couldn’t quite lift.

it’s good to hear from you. no, too polite, too distant, too not them.

why now? the most honest question, but also the one she didn’t have the courage to ask outright.

she leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. part of her wanted to ignore it. to close her laptop, pour another cup of tea, and pretend she hadn’t read it. but that wasn’t who she was—not with him.

because no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much they had broken each other, there was still that small, stubborn part of her that believed in the rightness of them.

she let her fingers hover over the keyboard, her thoughts coalescing into something that felt almost like clarity.

harry,

it is still my email. though if it weren’t, i’d like to think whoever got this would’ve found it endearing.

i don’t know how to describe how it felt seeing you again. unexpected doesn’t feel like enough. i wasn’t ready for it, i guess. not that anyone’s ever really ready to run into their past like that. believe me when i say that you looked even more beautiful.

your email was nice to read, though i’m not sure how to respond to it. i don’t know if i have the right words anymore, or if i ever did. but i’ve been thinking about you too. i’m not sure that ever really stopped, if i’m honest. it’s strange, isn’t it? how someone can take up so much space in your mind, even after so much time has passed.

it’s hard to know what else to say. part of me wonders if we made a mistake. you’re making me remember paper cranes on your coffee table, of mornings where the sunlight always seemed brighter on your side of the bed. remembering makes it harder to pretend like none of it mattered.

but it did. it still does. in ways i can't always explain, and maybe that's why i don't know how to respond. anyway, i guess i just wanted to say that it was good to see you, too.

forever and a day,

YN.

her finger hovered over the send button, her heart hammering in her chest. there was no taking it back once it was gone, no undoing the vulnerability she had laid bare. but she clicked it anyway, the whoosh of the email sending ringing loud in the quiet of her apartment.

forever and a day.

it had been her answer to him, her way of telling him that love wasn't bound by time or space, that it was infinite. it had been their secret, the thread woven through the chaos of their lives.

she didn’t know what would come next. maybe nothing. maybe everything. so, she waited—which only let things unravel further.

the emails became their lifeline over the past few days, a tenuous thread bridging the gap between the past and whatever they were doing now. it had started cautiously—polite acknowledgments, carefully chosen words that skirted too close to old wounds. but as the hours and days wore on, their messages grew longer, softer, laced with the quiet intimacy of people rediscovering the shape of each other.

harry had spent more time staring at his screen than he cared to admit, his fingers hovering over the keys as he tried to balance honesty with restraint. they wrote about everything and nothing—her latest film, a quiet piece shot in the polish countryside, his afternoons spent in the studio, the strange emptiness of passing the time during a break.

sometimes, they slipped into the past. little anecdotes laced with humor or wistfulness, as though they were tiptoeing around the weight of what they’d once shared. he’d told her about the tulips he passed by in the shop one evening, how it made him think of her, if he’d ever buy such a thing for her again—and she’d replied with a teasing remark about how he’d always overthought these things.

it felt natural in a way neither of them had anticipated, like a rhythm they’d rediscovered without meaning to. but beneath the easy flow of words, there was a tension—an unspoken question threading its way through every sentence: what now?

and then, her last email.

he’d read it three times before he noticed the address tucked neatly at the bottom, like an afterthought.

subject: RE: late night thoughts

from: YN@—

to: hs@—

h,

i don’t know why i’m telling you this, but the tulips? i would’ve liked them :)

anyway, you’re right! it’s easier to write like this, but it also feels a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it? like we’re pen pals in some old novel. maybe we should talk.

here’s my address. i’ve moved since before everything happened between us. if you’re ever around, stop by. no pressure though.

YN

harry had laughed aloud when he saw it, shaking his head in disbelief. she hadn’t given him her number, but her address? it was such a maddeningly her thing to do.

he stared at the screen for a while afterward, debating what it meant, whether he should go, what he’d say if he did. and then, as if fate had decided for him, he found himself standing in another flower shop the next afternoon, staring at a display of tulips.

the shopkeeper had been kind, if a bit amused by his indecision. “you can’t go wrong with red,” she’d said, handing him a bunch wrapped in simple brown paper. “everyone likes red, yeah?”

he’d nodded, though his mind had been elsewhere, spiraling through a thousand scenarios of how this meeting might go.

and now, here he was, standing outside her building with the flowers clutched in one hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his coat.

he felt ridiculous. what was he doing here, showing up like this? but the thought of turning back felt worse. he buzzed her apartment, his heart pounding as he waited for her voice to crackle through the intercom.

“hello?”

“oh, YN. hi! it’s harry.”

a pause and the breathiest giggle, so quiet harry wasn’t sure if it was her or the crackle of the intercom. “come up.”

once up, she opened the door before he could knock, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of her apartment. she looked different and yet entirely the same—her hair pulled back, her sweater falling loosely over her frame, the kind of effortless beauty that had always undone him.

“hi.”

“hi,” he echoed, offering her a tentative smile.

she glanced at the tulips in his hand, her lips twitching into a small, knowing grin. “you brought flowers.”

“yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “thought about daisies. or lilies. but tulips–”

“you overthought it.”

“probably,” he said, handing them to her. “but you said you would’ve liked them.”

she took the flowers, her fingers brushing his briefly. “i do.”

he hesitated, shifting on his feet. “you didn’t give me your number, but you gave me your address. thought that was funny.”

her laugh was soft, almost shy. “guess i figured if you wanted to talk, you’d show up.”

“and here i am.”

“here you are.”

she stepped aside, letting him in, her apartment warm and inviting in contrast to the chill outside. the space was a bit small but full of character—books stacked haphazardly on shelves, a record player in the corner, the faint scent of tea lingering in the air.

“s’bigger than the last one.”

she hummed, setting the tulips on the counter and reaching for a vase. “it’s cozy.”

he watched her move, his chest tightening at the familiarity of it all—the way she tilted her head when she was concentrating, the slight curve of her mouth as she arranged the flowers.

“i’m surprised you actually came over.”

“‘course i did,” he said, his gaze steady. “you asked.”

“i didn’t think you would.”

he frowned slightly, “oh,” he paused, “why not?”

she shrugged, turning back to the flowers. “it’s been a long time, i guess. people change.”

“how much d’you think changes in two years?”

her hands stilled, her fingers brushing against the edge of a petal. she didn’t look at him, but he could see the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath caught.

“i don’t know what this is,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“s’just us talking. that’s all.”

they settled at the island in her kitchen eventually, stools drawn close but not close enough. it wasn’t purposeful—not exactly—but the gap between them felt intentional in its own way, a hesitation they hadn’t yet learned how to breach.

the space was quiet, save for the soft hum of the rain outside and the faint creak of the wood beneath them. the overhead light pooled in warm, golden tones across the countertop, casting long shadows that blurred the edges of the moment.

YN fit into the space like she always did—carefully, like she was trying to take up less room than she was owed. one knee tucked against her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around it, while her other leg dangled from the stool, her toes brushing just lightly against the floor. she turned slightly, her side leaning against the edge of the island, her eyes steady but unreadable.

his own body had never been built for this kind of furniture—too long limbs, too much of him for the delicate frame of the stool. he had to spread his legs wide, one foot braced against the floor to keep himself steady, his elbows resting on the countertop. his fingers toyed with the lip of a glass left abandoned,something to keep them occupied, something to keep them from reaching for her.

and then she said it.

“you’ve written songs about me.”

a statement, not a question. a fact pulled from the quiet places of their past, dusted off and placed between them like an offering.

harry felt the heat climb his neck before he could stop it, the corners of his mouth betraying him with the telltale pull of a smile. a man of twenty-nine reduced to something pink-cheeked and bashful, like a schoolboy caught in the act. his dimples carved deep, his fingers tightening around the glass as if he could pour all of his flustered energy into the curve of it.

“see that head of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller.”

his voice came easy, light with humor, a well-aimed deflection meant to soften the truth. but the truth was written all over him, in the way his gaze lingered, in the way his body angled toward hers as if he couldn’t help but close the distance.

she laughed, and the sound curled into his chest, tucked itself between his ribs like something meant to live there. her cheeks had gone pink too, though whether from the warmth of the room or the warmth of his attention, he wasn’t sure.

she pressed her temple against her knee, a slow, knowing smile stretching across her lips before she murmured—“red wine and ginger ale.”

it was enough to knock the breath from him, to make something stir deep in his gut, something familiar, aching, unshakable.

his grip tightened around the glass, knuckles going white. because of course she remembered. of course she had caught that line, plucked it from the verse and turned it over in her palm like a rare coin.

it had been a memory—hers, theirs, tucked into the lyrics like a secret, hidden in plain sight.

a dinner in chiswick, years ago, where he had ordered exactly that, red wine with ginger ale, because he liked the way the bitterness and sweetness met on his tongue. she had looked at him like he’d just confessed to some great crime, her nose scrunching, her lips parting in that wide-eyed, incredulous way.

“you’re disgusting.”

he had laughed, offered her a sip, only for her to recoil in mock horror. and later, in the taxi home, when he had kissed her, her lips had curled into a smile against his, and she had whispered against his mouth—

“m’never letting you live it down, baby.”

and she hadn’t. for months. for years. because she had hated the drink, but she had loved him, and that was enough.

and now, here she was, saying it back to him, plucking the words from a song meant for millions and holding them up to the light, a knowing glint in her gaze.

“you remember that?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.

“i remember everything.”

the words settled in his stomach, warm and heavy. he stared at her for a long moment, the air between them stretching thin.

he could still taste the memory of her, even now. and he wonders if she knows she’s still his favorite lyric.

time continued to stretch around them, hesitated words and heavy pauses, stolen glances and knuckles that barely grazed each other in fleeting touches.

they moved after that, standing from the stools as if a forced step back would be enough space to stop what hummed between them.

she turned to face him, her eyes searching his. for a moment, the air felt electric, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.

she lingered there, before her body angled toward the window as though she might drift outside. the soft light overhead caught the lines of her face, the curve of her shoulders.

she was beautiful in the way the stars were—distant but unmistakably present, a quiet inevitability against the darkness.

and just like the stars, she had always been there, even when he couldn't see her.

he crossed the room slowly, as though afraid that the floor might give out beneath him. his hands were empty now, his thoughts stripped bare. she turned slightly as he came closer, her eyes meeting his, and he could feel the pull of her, the way she seemed to realign the very fabric of the air between them.

YN could feel it, the frequency only the two of them could hear, a static that crackles in the air between bodies too familiar to be strangers, too distant to be anything else. the static that translated into pins and needles along their lips. the static, buzzing heat in their chest, not fire, not yet—but the ember that never fully died, flickering in the place where love was buried but never truly laid to rest.

"you came back.” she echoed from before, though it was less saturated in disbelief but rather dripping with solace.

he looked up, his throat tightening—the ache of déjà vu wrapped in silk. his body remembers before his mind does—remembers the press of his palm against the small of her back, the weight of his mouth against hers, the way her breath used to tremble when she whispered his name.

you never left he wanted to say, but the syllables tangled in his throat, thick as honey, heavy as grief. because she hadn’t—not really. she lingered in each pause between heartbeats, in the empty quiet of rooms too big and beds too cold.

so, he keeps his mouth shut. he leans in, nose barely grazing hers. she can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against her cheek as his head tilts, he can feel the tremble of her breath.

he was merely a shipwreck, his body leaning toward the tide even as his mind screamed to stay ashore. but the tide is warm, and the tide is her, and oh—how easy it would be to drown again.

the collapse of distance, the death of restraint.

the air between them is thick with ruin and remembrance, a graveyard of every night they spent apart, every moment they spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

but the body is merciless in its remembering.

her breath stutters again as his fingertips ghost over her jaw, tracing the path of old devotion, the map of a love that never truly faded. it’s not a hesitation, not a question—it’s reverence, the final breath before a prayer is spoken. and then—

then he kisses her.

it’s not soft, not gentle. it’s every unsaid word, every agonizing hour, every night spent staring at the ceiling wondering if the she felt it too. it’s the pull of gravity, of fate, of something written into constellations.

his mouth slants over hers like a plea, like an apology, like a man succumbing. and she—she meets him with a hunger that borders on violent, fingers fisting in his collar, dragging him closer, closer, as if she could consume him, as if she could crawl inside his ribs and carve her name there all over again.

it tasted like champagne and ripe fruit, like summer bursting behind teeth and getting stuck there. peaches, maybe, or strawberries picked in the height of july. his tongue slid against hers like silk against satin, heady—red wine drunk too quickly, the dizzied sweetness of berries crushed between thumb and forefinger.

it didn’t seek, did not demand; it reclaimed, a vow remade in flesh.

his tongue curled, coaxed, tangled in the wet heat of her mouth. it was slow, decadent—the first pull of opium in the lungs, the hush of velvet being drawn through greedy fingers.

and when he deepened it—when he pulled her flush, let the kiss bleed into something savored, something syrup-thick, cursive against the roof of her mouth—she tasted it:

forgiveness, the hands of a clock rewinding.

not spoken, not granted, but exchanged in the language of tongue and teeth. of breath shared between gasps, of bodies rediscovering the art of belonging.

when they part, it is not for lack of wanting.

it’s for breath, for sanity, for the simple fear that if they do not stop now, they never will. she licked her lips—not to rid herself of him, but to commit him to memory.

"YN.” he murmured, her name nothing more than a breath, a vow, a benediction.

she swallowed, throat tight, her pulse a bird trapped beneath her skin. she wanted to say something, anything—wanted to capture this moment in words before it slipped through her fingers like sand.

but there was no language for this.

there was no word for what it meant to be kissed like that—like time had never moved forward, like they had never parted, like the years apart were nothing more than a cruel trick of the universe. no word for the way his tongue had found hers, the way he had kissed her not just with his lips, but with the sum of his longing, the marrow-deep ache of missing her. no word for the way she had melted into him, the way her mouth had answered his like it had been waiting all this time.

so she didn’t speak.

instead, she pressed her fingers against his mouth, feeling the shape of his lips beneath them, like trying to hold onto a dream before waking. and maybe he understood, because he only smiled—soft, knowing, his hands still firm against her skin.

all my stars and moons, he had said once.

forever and a day, she had answered.

[fungateshortcakes]

Crochet me a mistletoe

Got this idea because, well, it's christmas and I recently started crocheting! I am nowwhere near as good as I described the skills of the reader. I can't even crochet a simple scarf. But practice makes perfect, and a girl can dream right? (Reader is gender neutral)

Pairing: Logan Howlett x reader

Summary: Its christmas at the mansion and you've crocheted everyone a special gift. What will Logan think about the present you made especially for him?

Wordcount: 4.9k

Warnings/tags: english is not my first language, none, fluff, slowburn-ish, friends to lovers, reader can crochet, painfully sappy, missunderstandings?, itty bitty bits of angst, happy ending

The x-men mansion in december felt like stepping into a festive snow globe. Frosted windows framed the place, a hord of students racing through the halls as they were excited to spent the christmas holidays at home with their families, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of christmas jingles that seemed to follow you wherever you went.

The large tree in the main living room was a masterpiece, each ornament carefully placed by a team effort of students and teachers. Even Logan had been forced politely asked to string the lights, grumbling about it the whole time while he was secretly ensuring that every lightbulb was perfectly in its place. Despite your reassurance that it was fine and that he could come down from the ladder already, he shook his head, a deep frown on his face as he munched on his bottom lip as he rearranged the lights for the 1000th time.

You sighed with a smile, deciding to let him do his thing. Yet you found yourself sneaking glances at him, something you had been doing more often than you cared to admit over the last few months.

He was rugged, rough around the edges and seemingly utterly out of place among the cheery holiday decorations, but there was something about seeing him standing by the firelight, a string of glittery garlands for the tree slung over his shoulder, that made your heart flutter.

But Logan was just your friend. A good one. And you weren’t about to mess that up by acting on a silly crush that wasn't anything more than that. So, instead of drooling at the way his muscles strained and dipped under the wife beater he wore even in this freezing weather while he helped decorating the place, you threw yourself into your newest hobby: crocheting.

For weeks, you had been holed up in your room, learning and practicing how to crochet everything from scarves, mittens and hats to cute plushies and useful items such as cup coasters or little bags.

It had started as a way to pass the time, especially when there was no mission you were sent to. And now that you were deep into the christmas holidays, you didn't even have a class to teach. That's when you realised you had nothing to do and it was time to find a new hobby.

But once you got the hang of it and felt like it wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be, the idea of creating handmade gifts for your friends at the mansion had blossomed and you were eager to make a perfect present for everyone.

The work was slow but rewarding. You had already finished a soft scarf for Ororo in her favorite lavender colour that complimented her snow white hair and a set of soft, fingerless gloves for Hank in a deep navy blue. Each project felt like a little piece of yourself, stitched into every loop and knot.

But Logans gift had been different from the start.

It had taken you three tries to find the right yarn until you finally settled on a charcoal gray that would suit his style and features without standing out too much.

You decided on a sweater, something warm and practical that he could wear during the long, cold nights he spent patrolling the grounds. And, because you couldn’t help yourself, you added a small, personal touch. A tiny design embroidered over the heart, a pair of crossed claws encircled by a wreath of holly. You might as well, right? This project would take you a long ass time anyway, so a little embroidery wouldn’t hurt.

Crocheting actual clothing pieces like sweaters and jackets was a painstacking process, taking up lots and lots of yarn and taking forever. Only people you loved were worth that effort. You hoped Logan would know that once he held the finished products in hand.

Now with christmas eve approaching fast, the sweater was nearly finished. But you had other projects that you worked on simultaniously. If the task of crocheting another long chain for a scarf became too dreading and boring, you switched it up by continuing to work on a plushie.

“Darlin’, you’re gonna get yourself snowed in if you keep sittin’ there.”

Logans voice startled you, making you lose the stitch you were in. You looked up from your crocheting to find him leaning against the doorframe of the common room. The fireplace crackled warm beside you and outside the tall open window, there were snowflakes swirling in a gentle flurry. You sat cozy on the windowsill in your warmest clothes, enjoying the crisp breeze against your face and watching how the snow painted the garden of the mansion in a dazzling bright white, all while absentmindely crocheting your gifts.

“I like the view” you answered him with a soft smile, the yarn rolling between your feet as you pull at it “And I’m almost done.”

Logan left his spot at the door and stepped into the room, his boots making soft thuds on the wooden floor. “What’re you makin’?” You shook your head as you did only a little to hide the plushie you were crocheting “It’s a surprise” you teased.

Logan raised an eyebrow, hand in his pant pockets, his lips quirking into a smirk. “For me?”

You rolled your eyes with a soft giggle. “Only if you want a teddy bear plush in Scott's outfit" you said, throwing him a knowing look.

He shuddered in mild disgust, chuckled, then settled into the armchair across from you. “Nah, I'm good" he replied, putting his hands up in defence. Then his gaze landed on the bottom of the sweater, his soon to be sweater, that poked out from under your blanket draped over your lap. He pointed to it "I think one of 'em ugly christmas sweaters you are makin' would suit Summers better" he joked, thinking you would laugh along, but he noted your slight hurt frown. Him saying that he thought christmas sweaters were ugly made your heart sting painfully. You pulled the sweater under your blanket completely, shielding it from Logan. “It’s not ugly,” you mumbled, averting eyecontact with him.

In that moment, you weren't too sure about your gift for Logan anymore. The sweater you would give him wasn’t the usual christmas sweater with bright colours and corny patterns, but still, maybe he wasn't a sweater person? What if he didn't like it? He would never say it to your face, but just imagining his unimpressed face, a forced smile as he reluctantly thanked you, already thinking about the best and fastes way to get rid of the clothing piece, it made you want to cry already. All this effort for nothing?

You hadn't realised that you stared at Logan while you where deep in thought, a lit cigar hanging lazily between his lips. “Why’re you always starin’ at me?” Logan asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.

Your face heated. “I wasn’t staring. Just thinking” you pressed out, quickly picking up your crocheting again.

Logan blew smoke from out of his nostrils “Sure you weren’t” he said, but there was no teasing in his tone. If anything, he sounded curious, curious of what exactly you where thinking with your brows knitted together.

You focused on the yarn in your hands, on the way your hook looped easily through every stitch, willing yourself to act normal. This was fine. You were fine. “You’re workin’ too hard” Logan muttered after a moment. “Spendin’ all your time on this.”

You shrugged “It’s worth it” you smiled without looking up. “I want everyone to have something special this year. And what's more special than a present made especially for them. I guess the best gift is when someone thinks of you”

Logan looked at you. Looked at you for a long second and didn’t respond right away. When you finally glanced at him, his expression was unreadable, his gaze already turned away and fixed on the fire. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Your heart skipped a beat, but before you could respond, ask him what he meant by that, Logan stood up, stretching his arms over his head. His white tank top rode up slightly as he stretched, your eyes staring at the dimples on his back before you shook your head, your cheeks on fire.

“Don’t stay up too late” he called, heading towards the door. “Santa don’t visit if you’re awake.”

You laughed, nodding your head dismissive manner “Goodnight, Logan.”

Logan smiled softly as he looked back at you one more time “Night, darlin’.” And then he was gone. You looked down at the half-finished sweater under your blanket, your chest tight as you sighed.

The mansion was alive with holiday excitement the next morning, despite the kids not being there. But if they were, you just knew that they would be buzzing about presents and sneaking peaks under the towering Christmas tree already.

You spent most of the day putting the finishing touches to most of your gifts, tucked away in a quiet corner of the common room. All your presents were nearly finished, except for the sweater you had planned on gifting Logan. You couldn't bring yourself to work on it anymore. You couldn't even look at it, too ashamed that you even came up with this idea.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that Logan appeared in the common room, carrying an armful of firewood. He always looked so effortlessly strong when he carried stuff, it almost made you drool over his forearms and hands. His flannel shirt was rolled up to his elbows, exposing his hairy forearms that had tiny snowflakes clinging to it.

You glanced up from your crocheting, trying not to stare too obviously.

“You been at that all day?” Logan asked, dropping the firewood near the fireplace with a loud thunk. He tried not to smile as he saw you bundled up with balls of yarn and wrapping paper surrounding you, a few ready gifts already stacked on top of the other, a hot cocoa with marshmallows steaming next to you on the coffee table.

“Almost done wrapping everything” you cheered, holding up a crocheted beanie for charles to keep his head warm.

Logans gaze locked onto the garment in your hands. His expression softened for a brief moment before he caught himself and cleared his throat. “Looks good” he said gruffly, turning his attention to the fireplace again.

You smiled faintly, folding the beanie neatly and tucking it into a small box with a gift card and putting it on the stack of finished presents after you wrote Charles name on it “Thanks.”

Logan unsheathed his claws and striked a match on one of them, shaking the tiny flame on a stick before throwing it to the pile of freshly chooped logs “You should take a break. All that knittin' and crochetin' must your fingers” Logan grumbled, blowing at the fire until the flames started to flicker to life, casting a warm glow across the room.

“I will once I am done with all of this” you replied to him, wrapping the next present aside. “it won't take long" Logan straightened back up, brushing his rugged hands on his jeans. “So, what are your plans tonight? Besides playin’ Santa Claus.”

“Ororo planned to watch a christmas movie with the team, I guess I will join them later” you replied, stretching your back a littlesince you had been sitting like a shrimp for the past few days, hunched over your projects. “Why, what about you?”

Logan shrugged "Not much" he cleared his throat “Might head out for a bit. Get some air.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

Logan gave a small, almost shy smile and shrugged “Never been much for all the holiday stuff.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “You could stay in. Watch the movie with us.”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to yours. “Yeah? You think they wouldn’t mind?”

Your eyebrows raised as he seemed so unsure “Of course not" you denied, smiling warmly. “I can promise that they all want you there, Logan. I know I do"

That evening, the two of you settled into the couch along with Jean and Scott, a bowl of popcorn between you. Ororo sat draped over the seat next to the sofa, Rouge and Remy sitting in front of you on the ground while Kurt was sprawled out right in front of the TV, looking up at the flimmering box with a toothy smile. Even Charles had rolled in to join.

The movie, a classic Christmas move, The Grinch, to be exact, played on the screen, and even though it was one of your favourite christmas movies, you found yourself paying more attention to Logan than the plot.

He was unusually relaxed despite everyone being so huddled up together, leaning back against the cushions with his arms crossed over his chest. You fleetingly looked over to the present neatly tucked away under the tree. His sweater. You had decided to finish it after bickering over it for so long. Well, you didn't exactly have time to make him anything else. And if you did, it would only be half assed. And you didn't want that, Logan deserved more. Something special.

Halfway through the movie, Logan reached for the popcorn, his hand brushing against yours briefly. The contact was fleeting, but it sent a spark up your arm and you felt like you were part of a cheesy and cliche slowburn fanfiction.

You quickly pulled your hand away, your heart racing. “Sorry” he muttered, his voice gruff and quiet as to not alert the others. “It’s okay” you whispered back, trying to sound normal.

The room fell into a comfortable silence again, the only sounds coming from the TV, the crackling fire and a little hushed banter between Rouge and Remy. But you couldn’t stop stealing glances at Logan, your chest tightening with every second you spent sitting so close to him.

“Thanks for talkin' me into this” Logan said suddenly, his voice low. “Didn’t think I’d enjoy it much, but… it’s nice.” Your lips curved into a soft smile. “I’m glad.”

He looked at you then, his dark eyes catching the light of the fire. There was something in his gaze you couldn’t quite place, something warm and unguarded, even though a lot of people were around that could potentionally witness it. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the world disappeared, leaving just the two of you sitting by the fire, the glow of the Christmas lights reflecting in his eyes.

Then Logan cleared his throat quietly, breaking the spell. “You’re really something else, I hope you know that” he muttered, his voice rough but sincere.

Your cheeks heated, and you looked down at your lap. There they were again, his words from yesterday. The thoughts you had repeated in your head the whole night, not knowing what they represented. “What do you mean?”

“You put all this work into makin’ people happy, to make 'em feel included even though they weren't into it at first.” He explained, draping a muscled arm over the frame of the couch. "You force people into their luck, ya know? Haven't seen anything quite like it"

You brushed a lock behind your ear. "I guess I just wanted to do something nice” you smiled softly. Logan let out a deep, content breath through his nose, looking at you, his eyes soft “Well, you did." Logan said, his gaze lingering on you.

For a second, you thought he might reach out and let the arm that rested over the couch snake around your shoulder to pull you into him, but then he shifted in his seat, his hand retreating to his side.

By the time the movie ended, everyone said their goodbyes and goodnights, swarming out to their rooms to sleep, letting the mansion fall quiet. Only Logan and you were left. You also wanted to just fall into your bed and sleep, but you were too tired already to get yourself moving.

Logan was the first to stand, stretching his arms over his head and giving you a good view of the prominent vein that cascaded below his waistband. You started to think he was doing this on purpose. “Guess I’ll head to bed too" he yawned, his tone thick.

Goodnight, Logan” you replied, watching as he headed toward the door.

He paused before leaving, turning back to look at you. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was soft when he spoke. “Night, darlin’. Sleep well.”

When he was gone, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

The morning sun filtered through the frosted windows of the mansion, bathing the common room in a golden glow.

Christmas Day had finally arrived, and the mansion buzzed with the christmas spirit of all. It was a bit overwhelming to see everyone in their christmas pyjamas sitting around the tree, eager for presents.

Logan was already there too, leaning against the mantle with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Well, you liked to sleep in okay? It wasn’t hard to be down in the common room before you.

Logans presence was as steady as ever, but there was a quiet contentment to him this morning, you noted. He looked up as you entered and something in his expression softened.

“Mornin’” he greeted, his voice low, smooth and warm from the hot coffee he was drinking. You lifted your hand in a tiny wave “Morning” you yawned, smiling as you made your way to the tree, the rest of carefully wrapped gifts in your arms that you had finished just the night before after the movie. You couldn't sleep anyway since the thought of Logan made you stay awake, might as well perfect your presents.

After a while, it was your turn to hand out your presents. You crawled under the large tree, gifting them one by one. You watched in glee as the room filled with laughter and delighted exclamations. Ororo beamed when she unwrapped the lavender scarf you had made for her and Hank was already slipping on his navy gloves. Charles shooked his head with a chuckle as he saw the beanie you had crocheted for him, letting his fingers trace over it.

Logan waited patiently, allthough he didn'texpect there to be something for him, his dark eyes following you as you worked your way through the pile of gifts, quietly enjoying the unfiltered reactions from everyone.

When there was only one wrapped gift left you had to hand out, Logan wondered who it could be for since everyone had gotten their present already. But as you turned to him, handing him the neatly wrapped box containing his sweater, his brow lifted in surprise.

“For me?” he asked, as if the idea of receiving a gift was foreign to him.

You giggled at his reaction "Of course. Did you really think I wouldn't give you something?" you asked, smiling shyly. You were just as nervous for him to open the present as he was.

Logan carefully peeled back the paper, his hands oddly delicate for a man who seemed to handle everything with brute strength. When the sweater emerged, he stared at it for a long moment, his thumb brushing over the tiny embroidered design near the heart. He remembered the colour. This was the sweater he had called ugly. He had called your thoughtful gift ugly. He was a horrible person.

“You made this? For me?" he whispered in awe, a little more to himself, his eyes tearing up slightly.

“I did” you nodded, fiddling with your fingers as your nerves ate away at your insides. “Do you like it?”

He looked up at you, his gaze piercing. “I...this is…” he trailed off, shaking his head as if he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he unfolded the sweater and pulled it on right then and there over his tank top. The fit was perfect and the sight of him in something you made with your own hands sent a warm flush through your chest. He looked like a chunky teddy bear and the urge to hug him was growing strong in your chest.

“Looks good on you” you said instead.

Logan’s lips twitched into a rare smile. “Feels good, too. Thank you.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of holiday cheer, but you couldn’t help noticing how Logan stuck close to you. He lingered near the kitchen while you baked cookies with Ororo and Rouge, his presence steady and reassuring. At one point, you caught him running his fingers over the sweaters fabric, his expression distant but content. He protected the sweater with his life, making sure no one ruined it by accidentally pouring wine over it. If just one atom of a cookie crumb were to touch the fabric, he would lash out.

It wasn’t until later that evening, after most had gone to bed and the mansion had settled into a peaceful quiet, that Logan found you sitting by the fire.

“You’ve been busy” he mumbled, his voice low as he sat down beside you.

“I guess I have,” you said, smiling. “It was worth it, though.”

Logan studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable like usual. Then he shifted and the next second, his big hand presented you a tiny wooden figurine, a little cat, carefully hand carved by him. "S'for you" he muttered, averting his gaze. The light of the fire did only so little to hide his embarrassed blush.

You gasped, taking the cat into your hands as if it was made out of glass and would break if you looked at it the wrong way "Did you....did you make this?" you asked him and he nodded reluctantly. You never thought Logan was into wood carving. But now that you knew, it made sense. "Yeah...didn't want to give it to you when everyone else was 'round. No need for 'em to know I have this hobby" he explained to you, picking at a loose thread on his sweater. Your stomach felt warm as you thanked him, holding onto his little present tightly.

You could feel Logans gaze on you as you admired his neat craftmansship, warm and steady and it took everything in you not to lean into him.

“Y’know” he said, breaking the drawn out silence between you “this is the best christmas I’ve had in a long time. Maybe ever.”

You looked up at him “Really?” you asked, your mouth agape in wonder.

“Yeah” he said, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile that was rare to see from him “And I think I’ve got you to thank for that.” Your heart swelled and before you could stop yourself, you reached out and placed your hand over his. Logan stiffened for only a short moment, his gaze darting to your hand, but then he relaxed, his fingers curling around yours.

“You’re welcome” you whispered softly. Logan didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes.

The fire started to die out, only faintly gleaming but still enough to wrap you and Logan in a light of warmth. Logans hand was still in yours, his warmth seeping into your skin as the quiet surrounded you both. You couldn’t remember how long you had been sitting there, since when you started to lean against him, head on his shoulder, but time seemed to stretch and slow, every second weighted with something unsaid.

“Darlin’” Logan finally murmured, his voice so soft it felt like it was meant for you alone. “Do you ever think about… settlin’ down?” the question caught you off guard for a second and you turned your head to look at him, your heart thudding in your chest. “Settling down?”

“Yeah” he breathed, his gaze fixed on the low fire. He found an iron rod to dig and shove between the wooden logs that had long turned into coal and ash, trying to distract himself so the words would come easier. “Findin’ somethin’, someone, you can hold onto. Somethin’ real. Y'know, not these kinds of meaningless situationships.”

Your breath hitched and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. Logan, the man who had always seemed like a force of nature. Wild, untamed and unyielding—looked almost vulnerable now, his expression open and unguarded.

“I guess I’ve thought about it. It would be nice to have that someone. The right person you can lean onto any time” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. You felt like you were leaning against that one person just now. “Have you?”

He let out a soft, almost self-deprecating laugh. “I didn’t think I had to. Thought I wasn’t the type for all that. But lately…” He trailed off, finally turning to meet your gaze, looking down at you cuddled up against him “Lately, I’ve been thinkin’ maybe I was wrong.”

The room felt impossibly still, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket. “Logan” you began, your voice trembling slightly “what are you trying to say?” allthough the answer seemed obvious, you feared you weren't understanding him correctly.

He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m tryin’ to say that I care about you. More than I’ve cared about anyone in a long time. And I know I’m not the easiest guy to be around, but… you make me wanna try. Make me wanna be better.”

Your chest tightened, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Logan…” were you imagining things? Were you actually by the windowstill, all alone, dying from the cold Logan warned you about? The cold that looked gorgeous from inside a warm room but was vicious in its beauty, killing you because you wouldn't listen and close the window? Were you just taking your last breath, your mind tricking you into dreaming about what could be?

“I know I’m probably messin’ this up" he swallowed deeply, his voice rough with emotion. “But I had to tell you. Couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

His words were real, his warmth, his soft breath fanning across your face. You weren't dying. You were just starting to live. “You’re not messing anything up" you shook your head, voice breaking slightly.

His eyes searched yours and for the first time, you saw a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “You mean that?”

Instead of answering, you leaned up, closing the space between you. Logan froze for a split second before his arms came around you, pulling you close into his lap as your lips met in a kiss that felt like coming home after a harsh and straining day out in the cold.

It was soft and tentative at first, but as the seconds stretched on, it deepened, the barriers between you dissolving like snow in the sun. Your hands laid flat against his chest, feeling the warm and fuzzy fabric underneath your fingers. Logan sighed from his nose as the kiss deepened, a quiet, longing noise forming in the back of his throat.

When you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, your breath mingling in the silence of the room.

“I care about you too” you whispered. “More than I can even put into words.”

Logan let out a soft, shaky laugh, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Guess that makes us both pretty bad at talkin’ about feelings.”

You laughed, the sound light and full of relief. “Maybe. But I think we’re doing okay.”

Logan nodded “Better than okay" he murmured, pressing another kiss to your mouth. He was already getting addicted to this.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of warmth and quiet joy. Logan stayed by your side, his hand never straying far from yours as the two of you talked about everything and nothing. You felt like two teenagers that had sneaked away from everyone else to enjoy the thrill of making out and cuddling like in a sappy romance novel.

By the time the first light of dawn crept through the windows, you found yourselves curled up on the couch together, a soft blanket draped over you both. Logans arm was around your shoulders, and your head rested against his chest, the steady beat of his heart lulling you into a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in a long while. The sweater he still hadn't taken off (and wouldn’t for a while) acting like a soft pillow under your face.

“Good night, darlin'” Logan murmured, his lips brushing against your hair before he looked out the window, the sun rising slowly. He knew it wouldn’t take long before the others flodded the room, but he wanted you to sleep and rest, even if it was just for an hour. He kind of felt bad for keeping you up until the sun literally rose again, but how was he supposed to fall asleep when he just found out you loved him back?

“Good night, Logan” you whispered, smiling as you closed your eyes.

For the first time, you knew without a doubt that this was where you were meant to be - wrapped in Logans arms, your hearts stitched together like the threads of a handmade gift, stronger and more beautiful for the care put into every moment you shared with him.

I've never tried putting dividers like this before, how do we like it? I am also sorry that I am not quite posting this on christmas anymore. I just always get the ideas so late and randomly that I can't get it out on time.

I can't type anymore bc my hands are literally that cold and now, update, i read over it and corrected some mistakes. If you still see any, im sorry😔🙏🏻 I've fallen you all

Merry christmas🎄🎀

[infamous-if]

I love how infamous is a masterpiece of unoriginality. It takes every possible rock band cliché, sticks them together with minimal effort, and calls it a story. The whole thing feels like a rejected script for a bad soap opera that somehow managed to weasel its way onto the internet. And don't even get me started on the emotionally exhausting ROs no one asked for. Let’s be real, the romance options in Infamous are just moody messes waiting to drain you of any energy. Want to play therapist to a tortured soul with commitment issues? Or babysit someone whose emotional stability is as shaky as the band’s career? Welcome to Infamous, where all the ROs are there to make you question your life choices—and not in the fun way. The Plot? Nonexistent, don’t worry. Who needs an actual storyline when you can just string together a bunch of angst-filled scenes and call it a day? The author must’ve thought, “What if I just didn’t bother with a plot at all?” So instead, you get a collection of sad, disjointed events that vaguely resemble a story if you squint. Writing quality? Eh, who needs it: From clunky dialogue to forced drama, the writing in Infamous feels like the author just threw words at a page and hoped for the best. It’s practically a masterclass in “good enough” writing—if by “good enough,” you mean “barely tolerable.” It’s almost like the main goal was to make Infamous as unoriginal and shallow as possible. Like, did they even try? Probably not. The whole thing reeks of “I read one too many fanfics and thought, ‘Hey, I could do that!’” Spoiler: they couldn’t. In short, Infamous is less a story and more a chaotic, poorly executed mess that somehow escaped the author’s drafts folder. If it’s supposed to be a game, the only real challenge is making it through without rolling your eyes.

I love how infamous is a masterpiece

you think my story is a masterpiece?

[revelboo]

You Senator shockwave angst has me soo upset but its soo good do you think he ever meets his human again😭 ik it would.e impossible but man please give him his happy ending

I have an idea…

She Is Afraid

Shockwave x Reader

• An image pulled from the recordings he’d gotten from Tarantulas. It’s a laughably simple thing to hack the human’s information network. To run that image through databases looking for a match. A name. An address. You. Servos trembling as he stares at his console screen. Because it really is that easy. Can’t remember you, but needs you. You’ve become a dangerous obsession, distracting him from everything else. Has to go find you so he can focus again. So he can figure out what’s real. You’re within reach and he’s not sure what this feeling is. Isn’t sure he likes it, but he can’t stop. Not after watching that final entry. Can’t let events play out the way they’re meant to.

• Washing dishes, you catch a glimpse of red light through the trees and you rinse your hands. A flashlight? Anger flaring, because you have work to do, your dissertation to chip away at like it’s a slab of marble hiding a masterpiece. But if someone’s out there hunting on your land? Drying your hands, you stride to the mudroom and shove your feet down in the old, oversized boots that had been your dad’s that you leave by the door, throwing on the porch light. “No trespassing means no trespassing!” You yell as you stomp out onto the porch. And a branch cracks as something moves, a flicker of unease catching your breath in your chest when you realize how high up that light is. There’s no way someone got a deer stand up that close without you noticing.

• You, but not you. Maybe not even his you. Antenna flicking as you stare up, eyes squinting trying to see, he registers the differences. You’re younger than you’d been in the recordings making him wonder how old you’d been then. If the gate’s even being built yet. Or if that you was a whole different you from some far flung timeline he can never reach. But you’re still you even if you’re the wrong you. And it doesn’t matter if your future is his past, because he’s about to change your future. Feels a pull in his spark, an ache to touch you. Hold you. Had that other Shockwave bonded you? It would have to have been a partial bond and long since withered away. So why does he still feel drawn to you like there’s an invisible tether? Like if he touches you, everything will be alright? Making him more certain that they used shadowplay on him. Carved away bits of him. Like you.

• Heart racing as a tree cracks and crashes into the yard, something massive steps out of the tree line. An enormous, metal monster with a single, baleful glowing optic. And it’s headed your way. Sees you. Turning, you run inside and slam the door locking it. Hearing the porch splinter and crack and you run screaming deeper into the house when the door and the wall around it gets torn away, big servos digging in and ripping like it’s paper.

• Can’t you feel it? Don’t you know him? But you wouldn’t know him, yet. Leaning down, he stares into the hole he made, seeing you running. Hiding from him and it hurts. So he stands and tears the roof away, hearing you screaming as he looks inside. You’re fast. Darting to avoid him, but he finally corners you, servos closing around you as you scream and fight and something in him settles at the warmth of you in his hand. The rightness of you letting him know there must have been a partial bond as he hurts. They stole that from him. Stole his future. And he lifts you, bringing you to him and pressing you close. Those memories that aren’t his roaring through him, trying to drag him under as he slides a servo against you to calm you. Because it’s alright now. That other you had learned to love that other him. You’ll love him. He already loves you. Missed you even though he can’t remember you. “Little one,” he growls softly as you wriggle in his grip, gasping and screaming for help.

Finally!! This song is so awesome for him, too 🤣

[astrae4]

YOUR MAIL ARRIVED! boynextdoor

pairings — boynextdoor x reader

genre — romance, fluff, angst

warnings — THERE WILL BE hurtful angst in some of these. And also some of these could be seen as stalking? Depends on your pov tbh.. (wc. 1.2k)

notes — another title of this fic is ‘bnd and the type of letters they would give’

more works: navigation | bnd!masterlist

MYUNG JAEHYUN | a letter of regret

Jaehyun and you would have had a break because you both were so busy that it’d make you take your frustrations out on each other. It wasn’t healthy and you needed time apart, so you practically block him so you wouldn’t get tempted to text him again. Jaehyun, of course, didn’t know the reason behind it and lowkey cried about it. After complaining to his members a million times about how he misses you, Woonhak piped up with a question that made the cork in his mind rotate. “Why don’t you just send her a letter or email then? It’s not like texting is the only way of communicating..”—wait, why haven’t he thought of that?! The idea excites him so much and he feels like he could kiss Woonhak for his brilliance. The letter is quite simple, consisting of the usual ‘please take me back’, ‘I’m sorry’, and ‘I still love you so much’ with a generous spoonful of ‘please’s— oh who am I kidding it’s going to be full of the pleases. Gets so emotional he lowkey shed a few tears onto the letter. Whatever works to get you back, you know? Sure enough, when you got the letter with a box of chocolates, the block button cancelled not long after.

PARK SUNGHO | a letter from your significant other

He’s the type to give you letters alongside a bouquet of flowers, never alone. He’d be too shy to do it before you dated, but after seeing your eyes light up whenever you got a short note with your flowers, even if it’s just a ‘to [reader]’, his messages will get longer and longer until it was too much for a card to hold and enough for an envelope to send. Sungho’s a big, big yapper—so just know that his paragraphs will be long and filled with his perfume so you’d be reminded of him when you read it. If he can, he’d be with you as you read it aloud, loving your reaction and the way you flush at his sweet words. If you’d believe it—then I’d claim that he’s sweeter in literary comms than he is in verbal communication. Perhaps because he gets too shy when saying it aloud, often hit by cringe on the reality of the sugary words he’s put together—but in letters he can say whatever, whenever. He has absolutely ❌ shame, and he doesn’t regret it at all, especially when he sees how shy you get when you read his words.

LEE SANGHYEOK | a letter of confession

Your confession wouldn’t be an unknown event. Riwoo would ask the whole group to sit with him and advice him on what to write in the confession letter. Taesan would tell him to be direct, whereas Woonhak and Jaehyun would tell him to be overly sweet. Leehan would mention to add his perfume, and Sungho would tell him to be truthful. To say whatever comes in his heart. After a long day and many motivational speeches for Riwoo to build courage in confessing, the letter—his masterpiece—is finished. The next time he meets with you, he’s planned the whole thing. From taking you to lunch, then bringing you to get coffee in a cafe while he gets dessert, and finally bringing you to a park for a stroll. Somehow he finds the best spot ever and it’s cheesy, straight out of a novel. The wind blows and the sunset shines in favor of the both of you as he shyly says another dad joke while his hand itches to the letter weighing heavily in his pocket the whole hangout. You laugh at his jokes as always, and finally—he hands you the letter—eyes cast and ears burning as he awaits your answer.

HAN DONGMIN | a letter to the deceased

I think that Taesan’s the type to write songs about you more than he does letters, so he doesn’t ever think about writing a letter for you. He’s not the best with saying what he feels, so it’s easier to him to write songs about you that just—describes you? If that makes sense. (Like his personal thoughts are different from describing you in his eyes bc it’s not so vulnerable on his end.) He’s too shy to actually open himself vulnerably, so the only time he actually writes you a heartfelt letter is when (only in this scenario okay! I pray for everyone’s health 🙏) his significant other passed. Too deep into sorrows and regrets, his members tell him to write to you about his feelings as a coping mechanism. And for once, Taesan’s love isn’t loud and is so deeply personal. He wishes he did this when you were still with him, but alas, he can’t change anything other than the increasing papers stacked in his drawer—just waiting to be read to you in your grave.

KIM DONGHYUN | a letter just because

Leehan’s the type to wake up one day and just feel like being romantic, ykwim? Like one day he feels more euphoric than ever; the kids (fishes) look prettier, the blue walls look brighter, and the thought of you sends his stomach into a bunch of flowers. He makes his mind right then and there that he’d write you a letter. The usual I miss you and I’m so grateful for you with a bunch of hearts near your name—heck, the whole letter’s filled with his heart drawings and it kinda looks like a teenage notebook ‘he will like me back’ ritual. He then ends the letter and practically skips off to wherever you are. Thing is, he’s not the type to give it to you directly. He’d hide it in your bag and then giggle as he waits for you to realize. When you do, you’d find it so cute of him and smother him in kisses (ik i would 😛) and he’d giggle so hard.

KIM WOONHAK | a letter in your locker

It’s a giddy thing with Woonhak. Coming back from lunch break with your friends to your classroom to get your PE uniform in the lockers. Only—an envelope sits awkwardly on top of your uniform, it’s position telling you that it was definitely put inside through the narrow peephole of your locker. On the envelope, there’s only one word: your name. Your friends freak out, and you flush at the attention given. They crowd around you, teasing you as they urge you to open it quickly. Who’s it from? What does it say? Do you have a secret boyfriend? Oh! I’m so jealous right now!— your friends rap out questions as you hurriedly open the letter. Inside, there’s only a short sentence: “Your hair looks pretty today, [reader].” There’s no name, and the thrill of it makes your friends go mad with conspiracies on your secret admirer. If it was possible, you blushed a deeper red. If only they knew you’ve clicked the pieces together; after all, how could you forget your desk-mate’s handwriting when you see it everyday?

TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @lonewolfjinji @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @Ize325

NETWORKS: @k-labels @onedoornet @k-films

© astrae4 2025 | please don’t copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[fics-lovebot]

jungkook fic recs pt. 2

· · ♡ · · tysm to the amazing creative minds of the writers for giving me sevaral moments of joy reading your creations

pls reblog if you like any of my recs and don´t forget to support authors!❤️

decalcomania - ( @floralseokjin ) angst, cheating trope, NOW THIS!!! if you´re an angst loving hoe like me tHIS will do it, its a whole 2019 banger fr, it has it ALLL, and also? no hea, periodddd. i love it SO MUCH

his name - ( @jimlingss ) angst, fluff, multiple personality!au. this absolute 8 piece MASTERPIECE was posted 7 years ago,,2017- can you believe it? i was so happy to read this again. fuck "after" tHIS is the one that should be on netflix, i have never read anything similar on here, the whole plot is INSANE, i love it

squirting - ( @lavishedinjimin ) smut, pwp. anon had a vvvery specfic request and we love her for that

written in the stars - (@jcwriting ) anggst, fflluufff, smut. soulmate au, werewolf!jk, human!reader. one of my faves out there for rreealllll, it´s an all-rounder and, ofc, a 2021 banger

this kingdom - ( @whatifyoulivelikethat ) smut, fluff, crack, au series, one sided E2L, softsub gamer!jk, power bottom gamer noona!reader, reader is thiccc and jungkook is an ass man fosho. ANOTHER ONEEE, this time from 2020, this is fucking AMAZING ok??, the seggs, the banter, the chemestry, EVERYTHING, it´s so good omg

pretty girl - ( @bts-trash-blog ) smut, tattoo artist!jk, chubby reader, THIS IS ITTTTT, he´s tall, dark and handsome, flirty af too, "pretty girl" stFUUUU, they both want to fuck so he shoots his shot at the tattoo appointment

easy - ( @itsamejin ) angsty, fuckboy jk, bet!trope, jk plays you so he can get his rent paid, i read this one a lawwngg time ago and decided i was an angst loving hoe

Inevitable - ( @ahundredtimesover ) angst, fluff, smut, lovers to exes to lovers, baseball player!jk, dad!jk, parents au, you break up with jk years ago after you got pregnant bc you wanted him to follow his dreams and now he´s back home just to find out there´s a boy who looks just like him.. this is a masterpiece, honestly one of THEE best jk series out there, it has it all fr, the angst is angsty and the fluff is FLUFFY, i love it sm i´ve read it 3 times and never get tired of it

finish line - ( @bonny-kookoo ) fluff, nerdy!jk, racer!jki loooooveee itttttt, so cute, so fluffy, this blurb uGHHHHH, just read the whole thing pls

ungodly hour - ( @explicit-tae ) crack, smut, fluff, college au, broke college student!reader, lowkey slutty!reader, jk is thirsstttyyyyy, simping atp, "who´s dick do i have to suck for a hulu account?" this series is honestly so funny ksjakskjs

disney + and bust - ( @1kook ) angst, fluff, smut. yall already know i love to see man crying and begging for forgiveness :p, so kook is ur succesfull "app developer" bf and he says some very hurtfull things to you out of anger

rattled - ( @gukslut ) series, single dad au, angst, smut. honestly? one of the best fics out there. I read this a long time ago and i´m still in awe. The way this is written makes you feel every word. also, the plot is so so unique. i love it.

pu$$y fairy - ( @angelguk) smut, college au, non-idol, fuckboy!jk, virgin!reader, this is a 2020 old but gold, i read this a long time ago and still love it to this day

sweeter than strawberries - ( @cinnaminsvga ) shy baker!jk, college student!reader, noona!reader ??, s2l, mutual pining, cute cute cuteeee, another 2020 banger, i love how lenghty they used to be

you wrote jk a confession letter but he didn’t see it - ( @angelguk ) fluff, small brain big heart!jk, college au, non-idol, LMAOOOO this was funny asl, 2020 did it again, i loved this

[insidekatmind]

I'll be watching you- Levi Colwill x reader (feat. Jude Bellingham)

wearning: angst, I wanted to find a photo with an elegant dress by Levi but I couldn't find it :(.

Bright lights, flashing cameras, and a red carpet teeming with celebrities from the world of football, entertainment, and fashion. The Ballon d'Or ceremony was one of the most anticipated events of the year, and you were there, hand in hand with Levi, your current boyfriend. He, in his elegant suit and perfect smile, held your hand with pride as you both moved toward the area where photographers were calling for you.

"Y/N! Y/N, give us a smile!"the photographers shouted.

You stopped, your long beige silk dress perfectly hugging your figure, gracefully flowing over your hips. Your hair, styled in soft waves, framed your face, illuminated by the bright lights. Your skin seemed to glow under the warm lights, and your smile was a lethal weapon that captured the attention of anyone who looked your way.

Beside you, Levi watched you with clear pride, placing a hand on your waist and looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. But among the crowd, there was one gaze watching you with a different kind of intensity.

Jude Bellingham.

His navy-blue suit with black accents was flawless, and next to him was his new girlfriend — a blonde model who laughed and clung to his arm as if to let the whole world know she was "the chosen one." But Jude wasn’t even listening to her.

His eyes were on you.

The moment he saw you, time stopped. His heartbeat lost its rhythm for a second, and the echo of voices around him disappeared. You were the only thing he could see. Like a flashback, his mind was flooded with memories of you two together.

“There she is…” he muttered to himself, not even realizing it.

His gaze never left you. He watched you as if you were a masterpiece too precious to be touched. Every detail about you seemed to scream at him, reminding him of what he had lost. The sweet curve of your smile, the way you tilted your head to fix a stray lock of hair, the light in your eyes as you laughed with Levi.

His jaw tightened.

“Jude, are you listening to me?” His girlfriend’s voice brought him back to reality.

He glanced at her briefly, responding with a curt “Yeah, sorry.”

But his eyes didn’t obey him. They found you again. Every move you made felt like an arrow piercing his heart. You had always had that effect on him, and even though he was surrounded by thousands of people, at that moment, he felt utterly alone.

"Y/N, Levi! Look this way, please!"one of the photographers shouted.

You and Levi turned toward the camera. He wrapped his arm around you confidently, resting his chin on your temple as you smiled sweetly. It was the perfect photo. But not for Jude.

For him, that photo was a dagger.

"Why are you looking at that girl like that?" his girlfriend’s voice now had a sharp edge to it.

"I'm not looking at anyone." he lied, but his eyes betrayed him.

She followed his gaze and saw her. Saw you. Her smile faded, and she tightened her grip on Jude's arm.

"That’s your ex, isn’t it?" she asked, her voice laced with jealousy.

Jude didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The answer was obvious.

His eyes were fixed on you, and his mind was far away.

FLASHBACK

It was the two of you, sitting on a park bench. Laughter filled the air as you tried to steal his hat. "Give me back my hat, Y/N!" he laughed, chasing after you. But you were faster, and when he finally caught you, he wrapped you in his arms, unable to stop laughing. Your breaths mixed together, and in that moment, he knew. “I love you.” He had said it just like that, without thinking twice. And you, with your eyes full of light, had smiled at him. “I love you too.”

END OF FLASHBACK

He snapped back to the present. His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. He would never feel anything like that again. He knew it. And that realization was slowly destroying him from the inside.

When the photographers let you go, Levi took your hand and whispered in your ear:

“You look incredible tonight, love.”

“Thank you, darling.” you replied with a sweet smile.

As you walked past Jude, fate decided to play its cruel game. Your eyes met his.

He stopped. So did you.

For a moment, the world around you disappeared. There were no more flashing lights, no photographers, no Levi, and no new girlfriend clinging to his arm.

It was just the two of you.

"Y/N…" he murmured your name without even realizing it.

Your gaze was unreadable. There was kindness in your eyes, but also something deeper. You bit your lip, just like you always did when you were nervous. He remembered that. He remembered everything.

You tilted your head slightly in a small nod, a silent "I see you". and then you walked away.

The familiar scent of vanilla and coconut filled his senses as you passed by him. It lingered in the air, just like it always had. Jude turned his head to follow you with his eyes, and once again, time stood still.

He had never been good at holding on to the things he loved.

As you walked away, hand in hand with Levi, the girl next to Jude narrowed her eyes.

"You never forgot her, did you?"

Jude lowered his gaze. He didn’t need to answer.

"No," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I never will."

The night continued. Awards were handed out, speeches were made, applause echoed through the grand hall. But Jude didn’t hear any of it. His mind was elsewhere. With you.

And as he stood on stage, holding the Ballon d'Or trophy in his hands, he felt an emptiness inside.

The whole world was watching him as the winner, but the only person he wanted to dedicate that victory to was already gone, hand in hand with someone else.

First love is never forgotten.

And Jude Bellingham had realized it too late.