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slutty4jk · 3 days ago

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KISS ME! | JJK › PART 1

Summary: You and Jungkook have known each other your whole lives. Childhood best friends turned almost something more. He’s charming, popular, and scared of commitment. You’re ambitious, guarded, and tired of being a maybe.

After one kiss changes everything, you realize wanting him isn’t enough if he won’t choose you back. But walking away is easier said than done.

University brings distance, jealousy, and new people. You’re ready to move on. He’s finally starting to realize he can’t. Not when it’s always been you.

pairing: childhoodbestfriend!jungkook x (fem) reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, kinda toxic but delicious, mutual pining, fluff & eventual smut

rating: 18+ (mdni!!)

word count: 3.4k 💌

warnings: emotional whiplash, jealousy, possessive behavior, fear of commitment, unresolved tension, mutual obsession, brief mentions of sex, hurt/comfort, pining, lots of yearning

A/N: I finally hit post!!!! AAAAAAAA I’ve always been anxious about sharing anything I create, so I really hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it hehe. This is my first fic (kinda), so please be gentle with me. I’m also lowkey new to Tumblr, so I’m just going off what I’ve seen other fanfic creators do, hopefully I’m doing this right. I don’t have too many solid plans for this story yet, but I truly hope you stick around. Also hope this lives up to the hype the teaser got heheh 🤓 Happy reading! - Ivy ₍^. .^₎Ⳋ

Taglist: @akirawhore @amarawayne @jahnaviii @crazyovayou @niniythv @dollyunjinz @yungies @caaally @aestheticalime @flaneuseonthestreets @goldenko-97 @lachimolalajeon @buckylov3r @labbbaaa @bts123746 @chxiosworld @amarawayne @qu3t @littlecherri @alessiamargaux @lokislittlemouse-library @enchantingeagleengineer @jeoncasino @minnie-mouser22 @tinytangerineangel @yourlittleslutcums @httpjeonlicious @uaremyserene @intro-bts @glossyxiaoting @cdllevantae

please like, reblog, follow & scream into the void for more! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

KISSME!MOODBOARD | KISSME!PLAYLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST ⭑.ᐟ

(One Year Ago)

You’ve known Jeon Jungkook since the day he was born. Your moms were best friends before either of you even existed, girls who grew up together, fell in love with life side by side, and then raised their kids side by side too. You were born in February, and just like fate, Jungkook followed in September, just six months behind you, and from that moment on, it was the two of you. Always.

You were inseparable. Friends before you even understood what friendship meant. Sleepovers, scraped knees, shared snacks, birthday candles blown out together, all of it.

And then high school happened.

You drifted. Slowly, painfully. The way people sometimes do when the world starts asking more of them.

You went to a top-ranked all-girls private school, the kind with uniforms pressed to perfection, essays that weighed as much as bricks, and girls who competed to see who could have the best grades. Jungkook ended up at the local public school. It was louder, messier, freer. His parents wanted him to have a social circle outside of the snooty prep school one.

You started moving in different circles, living different lives. And somewhere along the way, your daily texts became weekly, then monthly, and then… nothing at all.

So when he invited you to a house party at his friend’s place, you were shocked. And maybe a little bit hopeful. Maybe this meant something. A bridge being rebuilt.

You dressed carefully that night. A pale pink tweed dress with gold buttons, white stockings, and shiny Mary Janes. Definitely overdressed for a house party, but you didn’t care. You wanted to look good. Maybe even wanted him to notice.

He didn’t.

He barely looked at you when you got in his car. Just a casual nod. No compliment. No hug. No "I missed you.” Or just a simple “How’s life?” To catch up.

It stung.

You quickly realized the only reason you were even invited was because his mom insisted he bring someone she trusted in order for him to go, and that someone was you.

As soon as you got there, he ditched you, disappearing in the crowd. You stood awkwardly by the drinks table, sipping a Coke Zero, the cold fizz sharp on your tongue. You didn’t know anyone. Everyone else seemed to know everyone. Loud laughter, inside jokes, bodies swaying to the beat.

You felt overdressed, overlooked, and completely out of place. People stared. Girls whispered. But you held your head high like your mom taught you.

You searched the crowd for Jungkook and when you found him, your heart sank.

He was on the couch, some girl straddling his lap, his hands gripping her waist, her fingers tangled in his hair. Mouths moving like they were starving. Oblivious to everyone else in the room.

Your stomach twisted so hard it felt like it was trying to fold in on itself. A bitter sting crawled up your throat, sharp and sour, like you’d swallowed regret.

Suddenly, the air felt too thick. You weren’t supposed to be here. You should’ve said no. You just wanted to spend time with him.

That’s all.

You pushed the patio door open, letting the cool night air wash over you. Arms wrapped tightly around yourself, fighting off the chill and the burn in your chest. It felt like stepping into a different world, darker, quieter, with the distant thump of bass bleeding from inside. You leaned against the railing, trying to relax a bit.

“Hey,” a voice said behind you, soft but close. You jumped, your spine going stiff as you turned.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” the guy said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. His lips quirked up, amused. “Though… I’m starting to think you scare easy.”

You startled and turned fast, your pulse kicking up.

“You’re real smooth,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes.

He grinned. “Smooth’s better than sleazy, right?”

“You always approach girls like that?”

“Only the ones standing alone in expensive shoes.”

You glanced down at your Mary Janes.

“And what if I’m just lost?”

“Then I guess I’m lucky.”

You tried not to smile, but failed.

“What’s your name?” He was handsome and looked like the type that would break your heart. Why not let him entertain you for a while?

“Eunwoo,” he said, shifting closer. “And you’re…?”

“Y/N.”

“Pretty name,” he said, leaning one elbow against the railing beside you. “Let me guess. St. Michael’s?”

You blinked. “How’d you know?”

“You’ve got that energy,” he said. “Put together. Fancy. But kind of annoyed to be here.”

You let out a dry laugh. “That obvious?”

“Only to someone who’s also pretending to have fun.”

You smiled. He was disarming, in that effortlessly flirty way that made you want to roll your eyes and lean in closer.

“You don’t seem like the house party type either,” you said.

“Not when half the people here still think fart jokes are peak comedy,” he replied but you could tell he only says that to impress you.

You let out a soft laugh, for real this time. “You’re not wrong.”

He tilted his head at you. “So, what’s your deal? You here with someone?”

You hesitated. “I got ditched the second we got here.”

His expression flickered, just for a second. “Ah. That makes sense.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’re way too pretty to be standing out here alone if you weren’t.” The compliment caught you off guard.

“Do you always flirt like this?” you asked, half teasing.

“Only when I mean it. I can keep you company, if you want.”

You hesitated, then smiled faintly. “I’d like that.” You were done feeling lonely at this dumb party.

You chatted for a while, nothing too deep. Just a little bit of distraction from the ache in your chest as you sipped on your drink.

“So, do you have a boyfriend?” he asked suddenly, eyes searching your face.

You shook your head. “No.” You could have but going to an all girls school made that kind of social circle a bit more difficult.

“Really? That’s hard to believe.”

You laughed softly. “I’m not interested in that sort of thing right now.”

He tilted his head. “Interesting.” He just wanted to know if you were single or not.

You looked up at him. “What about you? Do you have anyone special in your life?”

“Got dumped this morning.” He admits.

You look surprised as he says that, you would have never guessed with the way he was talking to you right now.

“Oh. Sorry.” Your tone is a bit regretful. You hadn’t expected him to respond with… that.

He shrugged. “We didn’t click. Guess I was meant to be alone.”

You echoed his earlier words. “I can keep you company, if you want.”

He grinned. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“And how would you do that?”

You didn’t know what came over you, but you said it anyway.

“What if I said you could kiss me?”

He blinked, then smirked. “I'd ask if you were serious.”

“Does it look like I’m joking?” You lean in.

He leaned in, slow, deliberate. “You’re trouble,” he murmured.

You tilted your chin up. “Do you like trouble?”

“Depends on the kind.” he murmurs and then he kissed you.

He kissed you. Gentle at first, then hungrier. You kissed him back, maybe out of loneliness, maybe out of spite. You weren’t sure. But for a brief moment, it felt nice to be wanted.

You didn’t notice the group of boys by the pool bar watching.

Didn’t see the money exchanging hands.

Didn’t see Jungkook stepping out on the patio.

Jungkook stepped outside just in time to see it. The way your hands clung to Eunwoo’s collar, how his fingers were brushing the hem of your dress lowering to your ass like he had every right to. The kiss was already too far gone. His pace slowed down, eyes narrowing.

A group of his friends stood nearby, some grinning, some groaning, throwing bills into a baseball cap at the poolside bar. His gaze flicked to the hat full of crumpled bills.

“What’s going on?” Jungkook asked, his voice low, guarded.

Mingi didn’t even look up. “We bet Eunwoo he wouldn’t be able to kiss the rich girl in under an hour.” They were watching as if to see what would happen next, ready to add more money into the hat.

“He did it in 45 minutes, he a real sweet talker,” Mingyu added with a chuckle, popping a chip in his mouth like it was just another Friday night. "I wonder if she'll sleep with him.." he thinks out loud.

Jungkook’s nostrils flared.

They made a bet for a kiss and now he might take you to bed?

His eyes flicked back to the hat stuffed with cash, to the smug look on Eunwoo’s face, to your soft smile, the one you used to give him when you were kids.

It reminded him of summers in your neighbourhood, you in your silly sandals and ribboned braids, waiting for him on the porch with two popsicles, always saving one for him.

That smile used to be his.

He remembered it like a favourite song, sweet, familiar. But now? Now you were smiling like that at someone else. And it burned.

You weren’t the girl on the porch anymore; you were all grown up, and now someone completely new got to see that side of you. Someone else got to make you laugh like that. And it made his chest tighten in a way he hated.

He felt something shift in his chest, like his heart had just dropped straight into his stomach. Was it jealousy? Was it disgust? At them or at himself? For leaving you alone? For bringing you here in the first place?

He couldn’t even name what it was, but it felt wrong.

He was moving before he even realized it.

He stormed across the patio, clearing his throat loud enough to slice through the moment.

You broke the kiss first, startled. Eunwoo smirked, the kind of lazy, satisfied grin that made your skin crawl. He knew exactly what he’d done. He had gotten under Jungkook’s skin. He had won the bet, he kissed the girl.

“Y/N,” Jungkook snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through the noise. He’s standing stiffly just a few feet away, strong arms crossed over his chest. "Let's go."

You blink at him, lips still parted, confused by his sudden intrusion. “What? I was just starting to have fun.” You grumble like a child.

His jaw tightens. “Kissing strangers is fun?” There’s something biting in his tone. Not just judgment, jealousy, too. Thinly veiled and barely contained.

You scoff, heat rising to your cheeks. “You do it.” You just saw him. That girl on his lap, his hands all over her. You didn’t know if they had history or if they were dating but he never mentioned her to you, he never even brought up having a crush.

He’s one to talk.

His eyes flash. “No, I don’t.” It’s not a lie, not exactly. But the way he says it, quiet and defensive, you know he means something else.

“Remind me. Was that your girlfriend or just your entertainment for the night?” Your voice is cold, sharp as glass. You're not just asking. You're accusing.

He knows exactly who and what you're talking about. You saw him back there. Hands all over her like you weren’t even there.

His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even look surprised. “Trust me,” he mutters, voice tight. “I know her.”

You laughed bitterly. “Yeah. That makes it better.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but nothing came out.

“Can you just leave me alone?” you muttered, voice tight as you brought your arms up around Eunwoo’s neck. Maybe out of spite, maybe out of pain.

If Jungkook could ditch you for some random girl, then why shouldn’t you do the same thing to him?

“No.” Jungkook grabbed your shoulder, firm, pulling you back to face him again.

Eunwoo chimed in lazily, “She’s fine with me, man.” His hands slid to your lower back, hands lowering a little too low for Jungkook's liking.

That did it.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened as he stepped forward, closing the space between them. “Get your fucking hands off her,” he growled.

One arm moved around you, yanking you out of Eunwoo’s grasp and behind him like you were something to protect and to claim.

Eunwoo smirked. He liked this. Getting under Jungkook’s skin like it was part of the game. As if he knew Jungkook had the hots for you.

But wasn’t it already obvious?

“Stop,” you snapped, louder this time, your voice cutting between them. “Both of you.” You didn’t want to cause a scene. Especially since you already stood out in this crowd.

Jungkook turned to you, jaw tight. “Y/N. Go to the car.”

It wasn't a suggestion, it was a command. He was pissed.

You didn’t argue this time. You were tired. You wanted to leave anyway. You turned, heading out to the driveway without sparing a glance at either of them. You probably wouldn’t see Eunwoo ever again, so you didn’t even bother saying goodbye or give him a chance to ask you for your number.

Once you were out of earshot, Jungkook took one threatening step closer to Eunwoo, voice low and sharp. “If I ever catch you making bets about her again, I’ll break both your fucking legs. Got it?”

Eunwoo rolled his eyes and lifted his hands like he was innocent. But the message was clear.

He didn’t move. His fists stayed clenched, like holding on could stop everything else from slipping. He was angry. At Eunwoo. At you. Maybe at himself.

But beneath it all, shame was twisting in his gut.

And something else he didn’t want to name.

Something that felt a lot like heartbreak.

Jungkook found you outside, standing by his car with your arms wrapped around yourself, the cool night air brushing against your legs.

That dress, as pretty as it was, wasn’t built for cold air, or this party.

But you already knew that.

And now someone else had touched you. Kissed you.

His stomach turned.

What the hell were you thinking? Letting some stranger put his hands on you like that? Letting him taste you like it meant nothing?

You weren’t like that. At least… you never used to be.

You weren’t just some girl. You were his best friend. Or… you had been.

So why did it feel like he was already losing something he never even got the chance to have?

You didn’t look at him when he approached.

“What was that about?” he asked, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface.

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the pavement. “What?”

“Kissing that guy?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered, voice quiet. “Maybe I just wanted to have fun.” Your tone was sarcastic.

He let out a sharp breath, stepping in closer. “Eunwoo’s not a good guy. He cheated on his last girlfriend like six times.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” You grumble, hugging yourself from the cold.

Jungkook scoffed. “Well, he’s not. They were making a bet to see if Eunwoo could kiss you and probably take you to bed right after! Are you that easy, Y/N?”

His voice was laced with anger, sharp and bitter, the words cutting before he could stop them.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Wow. So now I’m easy? Is that what you think of me? Just some spoiled girl who jumps at the first guy who calls her pretty?”

He clenched his jaw. “Well, it seems like it, doesn’t it?”

You took a step back, your voice rising. “What’s your problem? Why are you getting so mad that I kissed some guy? I don’t care if it was a bet, I was having fun. I wasn’t even supposed to be here, was I? Your mom needed me to keep an eye on you, huh?”

His eyes widened slightly.

You hit a nerve. You read him like an open book.

You turned away, angry, pulling at the handle of the locked car door.

He exhaled, voice lower now. “You weren’t supposed to come… but I brought you anyway, didn’t I? You were supposed to hang around me. Not those other guys, you don’t know what their intentions are.” He scolds you.

That made you snap your head toward him. “With you?” you repeated. “You invited me, then ditched me the second we walked in. I didn’t know anyone. You knew that!” You exclaim angrily.

“I didn’t think—”

“Exactly,” you cut him off. “You didn’t think.”

You blinked at him, heat rushing up your throat. “I looked for you. And I found you with some girl practically dry-humping you in the middle of the living room.”

He dropped his gaze, jaw clenched.

You shook your head, laugh bitter. “I felt so stupid. I thought maybe you invited me because you wanted to see me. Like maybe we’d talk. Catch up. I dressed up and everything—”

He interrupted you. “I noticed.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did, Y/N.” His voice was quiet, but the weight behind it made your breath catch. “You look beautiful.”

Your arms dropped from around yourself. “Then why didn’t you say anything?” you huff, your voice vulnerable.

It wasn't about the compliment. It was about him acknowledging you, him making a stupid comment about how you were overdressed just like he would before.

Jungkook looked at you then, really looked. And there it was.

That flicker in his eyes. That quiet ache.

The one that said everything he didn’t know how to say.

You shook your head, voice softer now. “I felt like you didn’t even want me there. Like you were embarrassed to be around me.”

He stepped in. “That’s not true.”

“Then what is?” you say, staring at him, waiting for him to say something, anything. He didn’t answer, though. Instead, his hand reached for your arm, just lightly, just enough to ground you both.

You let out a breath. “We used to be best friends.”

Jungkook scoffed, shaking his head. “We’re not little kids anymore, Y/N. That whole best friends thing? It doesn’t work like that.”

Your jaw tightened. “No, it does… you just stopped knowing how to be one.” Your words hung in the air, sharp and defensive.

“You’re the prettiest girl here,” he added, softer now, like that would change the ache between you. Even he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. He said it suddenly, quietly… like it slipped out before he could stop it. Like he was only just realizing it himself.

You scoffed, stepping back. Your voice rose, raw. “Pretty? Please. Is this a bet too? You invite me out here, ditch me, get pissed when someone else kisses me like it matters, and now you call me pretty like that makes it okay?”

He flinched. Your words hit harder than you knew, because he’d already asked himself those same questions. What the hell was he doing? Why was he so mad when he was the one who messed up first?

Your voice cracked, and your hands shoved at his chest. “Tell me, Jungkook. Are you doing this just to see if I’m really that easy? Or do you mean it? Do you really care about me?”

You hit his chest again. Once. Twice. You hit him again, and he didn't stop you, not until the ache in his chest became unbearable. Then, gently, he caught your wrists. His touch wasn’t rough. It was careful but cautious.

He swallowed, his jaw tight. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt. And then, when your eyes finally met his… it hit him all at once.

The fear. The guilt. The jealousy. The truth.

He was afraid of this… of you, of what this could mean, but more than anything, he was afraid he’d already lost you.

His gaze dropped, unable to hold yours.

His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.

“I mean it.”

It wasn’t slick or charming or sure of itself. It was broken open and vulnerable, scraped raw and trembling with something too big to name.

You froze.

Something in you shifted.

He lifted his eyes again, slowly, and for the first time in a long time, you saw the boy who had always been your best friend. The boy who still cared, the look on his face stole the breath from your lungs.

Regret. Longing. Fear. Hope.

All tangled in one unbearable glance.

And then, like everything in the world had been building to this, he kissed you. Not like a mistake. Not like a dare. Like a promise he was too scared to speak out loud.

And you kissed him back because despite everything, part of you had been waiting for this your whole life. It was sudden and deep, full of everything neither of you had the guts to say.

His hands cradled your jaw, warm and trembling slightly, like he was afraid you'd vanish if he let go. His lips tasted faintly like spearmint gum and bad decisions, and your knees nearly buckled.

When you pulled away, lips tingling, you whispered, “I thought I wasn’t supposed to kiss random boys.” You teased.

Jungkook leaned in again, his forehead pressed to yours. “You know damn well I’m not a random boy.”

The second kiss was messier. Needy, deep, slow, desperate. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

One moment you were in the driveway, the next, in the backseat of his car. Your heart was racing. His touch was careful but confident, his fingers memorizing every line of you like a secret only he got to know.

And even though it scared you, how fast it was happening, how much it meant, it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt like the beginning of something you didn’t quite understand yet. But it was yours. His, too.

That night, in the backseat of his car, under the streetlight glow and distant hum of a party you didn’t belong to, you gave yourself to him for the first time. The windows fogged. The car rocked gently. And for a while, nothing else mattered except the quiet gasps, the whispered names, the fingers grasping for something real.

And for a moment, just one, it felt like maybe he belonged to you too.

Or at least… you hoped he did.

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bbgsaja · 2 days ago

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⳽ωɩtᥴᖾ ᥙρ (ᙖᥲᑲყ ᔑᥲʝᥲ x ᖴ!ᕼᥙᥒtᥱɾ!ᖇᥱᥲᑯᥱɾ) ρt 丂

summary - everything is right in the world again, and you're back on track to stopping Gwi-Ma warnings - none part one • part two • part three • part four • part five • part six

"Baby."

You breathed out his name so reverently that it made his breath hitch, and when he looked down at you he saw awe, admiration and love - not fear or disgust like his insecurities suggested.

"You're stunning."

Your hand came up to trace the patterns by his eye, then trailed down to the ones on his chin. Your lips parted, a sigh of contentment falling through. Your eyes followed your fingers down the patterns on his neck, making him shiver.

"I didn't want you to run away from me," he admitted quietly.

"Never," you whispered back, cupping his cheek in your hand.

He turned his head, pressing a gentle, affectionate kiss to your wrist, speaking urgently, "I love you."

"I love you too," you wrapped your arms around his neck. "And nothing is going to change that. Whatever insecurities you have, whatever is going on in that head of yours, just talk to me, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed softly.

He let you admire him, watching in awe as you practically worshipped his demon form. Pressing kisses to all the patterns he despised, running your hand along the rough skin he resented. Your touch was soft, gentle, fingers gliding over his skin like he was a treasure you were trying to cherish. Your gaze followed your hand, as if you were trying to commit his features to memory.

"You were wrong," you spoke, with a tenderness he wasn't yet used to. "I do like it. I love it, actually." Then you dropped your hands, but only to bring his clawed ones up to your lips. You pressed reverent kisses to each and every finger, and then each and every claw. Not once taking your eyes off him.

You let him take his time, watching his every reaction. His beautiful amber eyes studied your face as he brought his claws to your face. His breath hitched at the unwavering trust you had in him, not even flinching as he gently poked your skin. You just smiled at him, even as he dragged the tips down your cheeks, to your jawline.

You giggled, "That tickles, actually."

He was bewildered. Your reaction was far from anything he had expected. And even if he'd thought you would accept him, he could never have predicted the absolute love and devotion you looked at him with.

"You're insane," he finally breathed out, before leaning in and pressing his lips against yours. Clawed hands gripped your waist, tugging your body against his as he kissed you with an urgency, a craving, that you hadn't felt before. "But I love you."

You didn't get a chance to respond, because after he kissed you he smushed you against his sweater again.

"Baby!" You protested, voice muffled. "Breathe!"

Later on, you were dragged into the living room by Baby, only to see the other girls being dragged in by the other Saja boys as well. They sat you girls down on the couch and crossed their arms.

"I can't believe that we're the voice of reason here," Baby started.

"But we think you need to work this out," Mystery finished.

You did a double take, looking at the next Saja boy who spoke before realising that Mystery spoke again, and your head snapped back to him. That took you off guard more than the rest of them trying to play mediator.

"Everything is at steak," Abby added, "Though I prefer chicken-"

"Stake, Abby!" Jinu groaned, face-palming.

Baby snickered.

Abby shoved his beret over his eyes.

You and Mira face-palmed.

"Anyway," Jinu sighed, "You girls can't be fighting like this when we're so close."

"That was my line!" Romance protested. "I could have said it better."

Jinu took a deep breath, his eyes flashing amber for a moment, "Just say what I was going to say then!"

"But it's so short!" When Jinu gave him a look, he quickly backtracked, "I-I mean, so, um, talk this out or, you know, hug it out!" He opened his arms, flashing you all a charming smile.

Jinu screamed into his hands.

This entire thing was more than enough for the four of you to burst out laughing, though.

"I'm afraid our idiots are right," Mira sighed, turning to the three of you. She looked uncomfortable, not used to initiating apologies.

"I'm sorry!" You all blurted simultaneously.

"I can't believe that worked," Baby commented.

Abby wrapped a thick arm around your boyfriend's neck, covering his mouth with his large hand, "Let them talk!"

"I should have told you guys," Rumi ignored them, looking at you all. "I know, it was a bad call. Celine forced me to keep it a secret, promising me they'd be gone when we turned the Honmoon gold." She took a deep breath. "But...I should have told you anyway. I trust you guys, I do, and I don't know why I kept it a secret..."

"It's okay," you told her.

"We get it," Mira agreed.

"You couldn't go against Celine's wishes," Zoey smiled softly. "Totally understandable."

"But you don't have to hide anything from us," you reached for her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "We're here for you, and we'll support you - and each other - no matter what."

"Yeah, and if it helps," Zoey's eyes lit up, "Your patterns are gorgeous!"

Rumi smiled, really smiled, as her patterns glowed a different colour. Or different colours, like a chromatic rainbow had imbedded itself on her skin.

"Thanks, guys."

Then they turned to you.

"What did Gwi-Ma tell you?" Rumi asked, voice turning serious.

"What?" Your eyes widened. "How did you...?" Your eyes slowly drifted to Jinu, who was not looking at you. He was, in fact, making it very obvious that he was trying to avoid your gaze. He was looking at the table, studying it like it was a scientific marvel.

"That's not the point," Mira pulled your attention back to them. "We just want to know what he said to you."

You sighed, fiddling with your fingers, "He told me that no one trusted me. And that he could help me." You shook your head, "Guys, it's fine, I-"

They cut you off by hugging you, Zoey and Mira trying to smother you and Rumi in love and affection through their tight embrace.

"Once again, a flawlessly executed plan!" Jinu exclaimed, proud of himself.

"Uh, no," Baby disagreed, "Our first plan technically failed." Then he turned and smirked at you. "Though no one said that's a bad thing."

"Yeah, your first plan sucked," Mira agreed. "Come to think of it, why did you guys think those first pairs were going to work?"

They all looked at each other, but no one responded.

"Romance," Baby finally answered.

"WHAT?" The pink-haired boy cried. "It wasn't me!"

"Yes it was," Baby casually replied, "You bet you could get the "cute" one to go out with you. And then you encouraged him," he looked at Abby, "to get my girl to like his stupid abs. And Mystery...well, Mystery just went along with it."

"...I feel attacked," Abby pouted, looking at his abs.

"I didn't do that!" Romance protested.

"Actually," Jinu laughed nervously. "That was me. My bad."

"See!" Romance gestured to Jinu frantically.

"Nah," Baby shook his head. "When in doubt, blame Romance."

"..?!?"

"Yes."

Everyone looked at Mystery, who just shrugged as if he hadn't just agreed with Baby. Romance looked like he was short-circuiting.

"It's always Romance."

The pink-haired demon crashed out.

You pulled Baby away and took him to your room before he could make anyone else cry. Trying to hold back your own laughter.

He immediately lounged on your bed and smirked up at you, "I'm the funniest, aren't I?"

"The meanest, actually," you laughed.

He sat upright, raising an eyebrow, "Is that how it is?"

Your eyes widened when he crawled towards the end of the bed, "What are you doing?"

"Teaching my girlfriend who's the funniest."

Then he lunged forward, grabbed you, flipped you so he was on top, and started tickling you. Laughter bubbled out of you, but his hands didn't stop their assault.

"Baby stooooop!" You giggled.

He carried on.

He only stopped when you were breathless, panting, clutching your aching stomach. You wheezed, struggling to breathe as he chuckled next to you.

"See? Mean!" You gasped.

He just laughed and pulled you closer. Slipping into his true form easily, his arms wrapping around you. He was tired of keeping up the illusion, and you made it easy for him to be himself. Especially when you rested your head on his chest, listening intently for his heartbeat as your hand found his and held it.

And when you looked up at him like he was your whole world.

The next day, rehearsals went great.

No one argued. No bickering. Not even a sassy remark from Baby. Everyone locked in, focused and put all of your energy into practice-performing the song.

But just when you got the choreography right, Gwi-Ma sent another obstacle to replace his demon boy band.

tag list - @tenaciouskittenpuff @tiger-lilee-5 @seavnz @haru-reto @redkitsu03 @pearthesimp

#kpop demon hunters #baby saja #baby saja x reader #baby saja x you #saja boys #saja boys x reader #saja boys x you #huntrix

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macherouviere · 3 days ago

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What We Don't Say About Ruin

I look like a horror movie that can’t even be sung. I’ve seen how heartbroken he is, and how everyone else is. God, I don’t even know how to describe the feeling I got right now. But I felt like my head was exploding. Even “devastating” doesn’t come close. I was actually hanging out with my friend, watching the match, and I thought having a lot of reconnecting, buffering, and laggy moments would be the hardest part I’d see tonight. Not until the video cleared. I had missed a moment. I screamed with joy, looking at him playing in the background and telling my friend how good he looked tonight. But then I saw him, just staying still near the goalpost. Not down, not out, but frozen. And the keeper was crying.

I asked what happened, why he was crying. My friend said, “That’s because he’s sad”. I didn’t think too much of it. I just said, “Oh, okay, cool? Why though?”. But then I saw it. The man that I love, just staying there. There were people in blue jackets around him; medics, I guessed, but I didn’t even know how to name them in the moment. Some of his teammates were close, and even a few players from the other team. And then the game stopped. Like, actually stopped. The match was paused. And panic crept in. I opened Twitter to find something, anything, to anchor the moment. I still joked around. I didn’t want to believe something was wrong.

But then my friend tagged me in a post. It showed the moment I missed. It was sickening. I watched the clip and everything in me just shut down. The sound stopped. My thoughts dissolved. I couldn’t even hear the room. The only thing left was whatever was going on in my head, it might’ve been ringing or some kind of alarm. It felt like a drum, low and steady and dreadful, vibrating from deep inside. Then my ears actually started to drum, as if my own body was trying to warn me about what my brain couldn’t yet process. I felt like my heart had moved up into my skull and was pounding inside my head, louder and louder.

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t say anything except “fuck”, over and over again. Maybe I was angry. Maybe I was scared. I felt so close to throwing my phone. I ditched my laptop like I’d never use it again. I locked myself in my room, but I didn’t know what to do. Sleep wasn’t even a consideration. I didn’t know how to move forward. Everything had just collapsed. And all I wanted in that moment was to cry with him. If I could, I’d go to him and wrap my arms around him and walk with him through whatever hell this would become. Because I know I could make it if it was for him.

But I don’t know how he’s feeling right now. I don’t even want to try guessing. And I especially don’t want to hear someone say, “It’s going to be okay”, because it won’t. Not yet. Not tonight. Not in a way that makes sense. There’s no word to fit this moment. Even “devastating” feels hollow. I just want to hold him. I want to cry with him, over everything; his pain, his fear, my heartbreak, our helplessness. Everything feels upside down, like my world’s been spun onto the tip of a needle and left to tremble.

I can’t scream for help. No one can help me. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I thought about deleting social media altogether. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like this. But I know what I saw, that shockwave, the moment he realized what was happening. He knew. I could see it in his face: the confusion, the pain, and that creeping realization that something might be lost forever. And I, God, I don’t know who I am anymore after seeing that.

It felt like a crisis. A real one. Like if I didn’t ground myself, I might disappear. I even thought that doing something bad would make more sense than this moment. My world fell apart the moment he went down. And so did his. I knew it. And he knew it too. Because it’s not just a game. This is his everything. His joy. His meaning. His world.

I kept questioning everything after that. About him. About life. About myself. I kept thinking about how fragile everything is. And then I thought about how one of my lights; one of the few things that makes life feel bright, is flickering. I remembered how I once joked that “almost is never enough”, but now I don’t even find it funny. I don’t think I find anything fun anymore. The light’s gone. The fun’s gone. It’s all gone.

It didn’t just look painful. It felt like something was taken away. Like a whole future cracked before our eyes. Like time snapped. My head is still buzzing from the shock. I knew it when I saw it. Something shifted, and I knew the version of him I knew might not return. I can’t even think about his career or when he’ll return. I don’t care. I just want him whole. I want him safe. I want to know that his spirit, his smile, his softness… Will survive this.

But the fear is real. I knew it the moment it started to creep in. I knew he might not be the same. I knew he might stop. I knew he might never dance the same way again. And it’s terrifying. Can he ever smile again, truly? Will he be okay? Will he still be… Him?

I’m grieving. I know that now. Everything around me is blurry. God knows I’m still sitting on the edge of something I don’t have words for. Not despair, not heartbreak, just, grey. A silent, shapeless grey that smothers me. And not even a horror movie could explain what I feel. I just want to mourn.

And this grief, it caught in my throat. Not like sobs. Not like tears. Like a scream that didn’t have the courage to be loud. Like something stuck there, pressing down on my chest, twisting up my ribs. At some point, I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to throw up. Because maybe that would finally let the feeling out. They say it’s not numbness, but that this kind of sadness doesn’t follow rules. It knots itself inside you. It tangles with your breath and your heartbeat and your hope.

I kept asking myself, “Why am I this upset? Why does this hit so hard?”. But I didn’t want the answer. I didn’t want to reason with it. I just wanted to be in it. I sat still. I drooped low, and even the ground didn’t want me. My jaw locked. My body stayed curled, like it wanted to disappear. I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to be perceived. I wanted the world to go quiet and stay there.

They say caring is a beautiful thing. I don’t know if I believe that. Because this doesn’t feel beautiful. It feels like being torn open by something you can’t fight. It feels ugly and relentless. It feels like love in its most painful, consuming shape. I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to care this much. I don’t want to live in this.

I didn’t sob. I didn’t break down. But my grief showed up anyway, in the silence. In the tension. In the way my throat felt like it was holding back a hundred words that didn’t exist yet. My body held onto everything it didn’t know how to express: the fear, the sorrow, the helplessness, and the hope I’m still terrified to lose. It’s like crying without sound. Mourning without movement.

Now, the tears come easily. They roll without warning. I’m not crying loudly, I’m just, unraveling. Quietly. And every time I think about it again, the frustration comes back. It’s fucked up. And I don’t even know who to blame. But I want to blame someone. Anyone. Because someone should have kept him safe. Someone should have stopped it.

And still, all I want to do is cry with him. In 5th of July, the horror movie that won’t be able to light on, in my theater.

Landscape of Roman Ruins (François de Nomé, 1593 - 1644)

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pitlanepeach · 16 hours ago

Text

Three Of Us | Chapter Three (3/3)

Lando Norris x Original Female Character x Oscar Piastri

Summary — Margot has single-handedly run Marjorie’s Bakeshop, a Monaco institution, ever since her grandmother’s passing. It’s by chance that a tiny blue Fiat Jolly breaks down on the curb right in-front of her door.

Warnings — Established!Landoscar, polyamory negotiations, eventual throuple, slow(ish) burn, vandalism, OFC has atypical OCD, SMUT!

Notes — The ending my babies deserve. I hope you enjoyed this mini fic!! xxx

They took her to a tiny place tucked away behind Rue Grimaldi — dim lights, red leather booths, the kind of place locals didn’t post about because they didn’t want to lose it. Lando said the chef knew him from “his karting days,” and Oscar had only given him a look that said you’ve never karted in Monte Carlo and you absolutely made that up to sound impressive.

Margot slid into the booth first, the leather worn smooth under her hands. Lando followed, sitting close but not crowding. Oscar took the other side, straight-backed and composed in a way that should’ve been formal, but somehow wasn’t.

The menus were handed out. She didn’t reach for hers. Not yet.

She adjusted the water glass in front of her. Then the fork. Then the knife — angle a little tighter, edge just parallel to the napkin’s seam. She barely realized she was doing it. Just muscle memory. A small breath out.

Lando didn’t blink. He just slid his knife a half-inch to the left, let her fix it. “Thanks, babe,” he said, glancing up at her with a grin. “Did you see Oscar’s defence against Carlos on lap one?”

She blinked. “I… did.”

Oscar’s wine glass was already perfectly in place — she didn’t need to adjust his. But he still sat there and waited; didn’t touch it until she gave him a small, awkward smile and a jerking nod.

Dinner flowed.

Lando talked the most — jumping between topics, bouncing excitement like a pebble on a lake. The podium, the champagne, someone’s shoes being set on fire in the garage — she couldn’t keep up, but that was okay. He didn’t expect her to.

Oscar asked questions. Not many. Just enough. About her grandmother. About the bakery. About the blue ribbon she tied around the tarte tatin boxes. He noticed things.

They didn’t touch her too much. A hand on her forearm, once. Lando’s knee brushing hers under the table. Oscar passing her the bottle of water before she even realized her glass was empty.

At one point, Lando offered her a bite of his gnocchi. She hesitated — not sure what she was supposed to be in this moment — the date of two people already in love. The third wheel. The curiosity. The variable.

But Oscar just nodded, slow and quiet. “You’ll like it.”

So she tried it.

And then, for the first time that night, she laughed. Fully.

“Okay, fine,” she said. “It’s very good.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Told you.”

She sat back then, for a second, looking at them both. The quiet intensity in Oscar’s eyes, the way Lando’s fingers moved when he talked with his hands.

It shouldn’t have made sense.

But somehow — they weren’t too much.

They weren’t not enough.

They just were.

And for the first time in a long time, Margot felt like she might be something like that, too.

—

They walked slowly, nowhere in particular, their steps falling into rhythm on instinct. Monaco was cooler at night, sea-slicked and gold-lit, the glimmer of the marina cutting a path through the hills.

Lando talked the whole way — about nothing, about everything. Oscar was quiet beside him, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze forward. Margot walked between them, arms brushing theirs every few steps.

Halfway down a cobbled slope, Oscar leaned in a little, voice low. “I want to hold your hand.”

Margot blinked.

He didn’t look at her. Just kept walking, deliberate and slow. “But I don’t want you ending up on someone’s TikTok with the caption ‘guess Lando’s the third wheel now,’ or… you know. Worse.”

Lando let out a snort behind her. “You think they’d call me the third wheel?”

Oscar shrugged, unbothered. “More followers than me.”

Margot’s heart knocked against her ribs. Not at what he said — but how he said it. The careful way he’d admitted the wanting. The consideration of her in it.

Quietly, she reached across the narrow space and slipped her fingers into his. Oscar’s breath hitched, just slightly. His hand closed gently around hers. It fit easily. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t press.

Just held.

They looped back through the winding backstreets. And when she paused outside the darkened café, keys in hand, she glanced over her shoulder at Lando and smiled.

The inside smelled like cinnamon and lemon peel, the last lingering notes of morning. She reached for Lando’s hand (finally), led them to the back — past the counter, through the swinging staff door, into the tiny office she used more for journaling than accounting.

She clicked on the desk lamp.

It glowed warm, like the three tarts she pulled from the fridge — one almond, one raspberry, one plain frangipane. They didn’t need plates. Crumbs were fine.

Lando flopped onto the old velvet loveseat someone once left on the curb and her grandmother had rescued in the late eighties. Oscar next to him, legs stretched. Margot tucked herself between them both, knees folded, tart in lap.

Lando’s head dropped to her shoulder halfway through the raspberry tart. “Okay,” he murmured. “This might be better than sex.”

Margot choked on a mouthful. Oscar sighed.

Margot reached for the almond tart. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

“It is,” Oscar said. “Lando’s incredibly food motivated.”

Lando grinned. “Facts.”

When the tarts were gone, she felt Oscar’s hand brush hers again. Just soft. Deliberate.

Lando bit his lip. “I— do you want us to—“

“No,” she said, without thinking.

Oscar shifted beside her. “You sure?”

“I…” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “Yes. Im sure. I like this.”

Lando leaned in. Just slightly. “This?”

She turned to look at him. His eyes were gentle, even in the dim amber light. His hand came up, slow, like he didn’t want to spook her. But when she didn’t pull back — he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. And kissed her.

Tentative. Sweet. The kind of kiss that asked before it took.

Oscar kissed her next — when she turned her head, when the weight of it settled in. His kiss was steadier. Lower. Anchoring.

And when she blinked back, breath a little shaky, both of them were still there.

“Oh.” She whispered.

—

It was nearly midnight. Oscar was leaning back against the prep counter, arms crossed, watching her with that steady, unreadable look that made her a little dizzy.

“You can’t even relax in your own bakery,” Lando teased. “That’s tragic, babe.”

“I am relaxed,” she insisted, even as she wiped down the counter for the third time. “This is me relaxed.”

“Right,” Oscar said, voice low. “That’s why your hand’s shaking.”

She froze.

He hadn’t said it cruelly — not even pointedly. Just… softly. Observant. Like he saw her in a way few people ever did.

Her breath stilled in her chest. Lando stepped in close behind her, voice suddenly quieter. “Hey.”

She didn’t move.

Oscar didn’t either.

“We know this place matters to you,” he said. “We wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want.”

And then, just like that — something inside her gave.

Not a collapse. Not even a crack.

Just a shift. A choice.

She turned. Looked at both of them. Her voice was barely audible.

“I want.”

That was all.

And it was enough.

Lando kissed her again first — hungrier this time, his hands at her waist, sliding under her cardigan. She clung to him, fingers fisting in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. Oscar stepped in behind her, warm and solid, and when his hands settled gently on her hips, she didn’t flinch.

She leaned into him.

The prep counter dug into her back as Lando lifted her up onto it, careful, reverent — but fast, like he couldn’t stand to not have her closer. She’d cleaned it a hundred times that day. It didn’t matter now.

None of it did.

Oscar’s hands slid down her thighs, coaxing her knees apart as he stepped between them. He kissed her neck while Lando’s lips dragged hot and unhurried down her collarbone.

She gasped. Oscar caught the sound with his mouth.

There was something breathless about it — this trio orbiting each other, no one quite leading, no one quite following. Just heat and want and the kind of trust that made everything else fall away.

She tugged Lando’s t-shirt off and he helped, laughing against her mouth as he got tangled in the sleeves. Oscar murmured something about useless man-child as he unzipped her skirt, and she felt herself laugh — fully, freely — even as her body ached with need.

Clothes slipped away like clock hands ticking past the hour.

Oscar’s hands were sure. Lando’s mouth was all chaos and sugar and sin.

And when they pressed her back against the cool steel counter, when they worshipped her like she was something holy — when she reached for them both, frantic and certain and soft — she didn’t think about the rules. The cloths. The perfect angles.

She only thought: I’m safe.

I’m wanted.

I’m theirs.

Later, tangled together on the loveseat, the air still thick and warm, she caught Oscar looking around the space. Assessing the chaos they’d left in their wake — crumpled napkins, half-buttoned shirts, a spoon on the floor.

“I can clean up,” he offered quietly. “If it helps.”

She looked at him. Then Lando, who was asleep with his face buried against her side, hair mussed, lips swollen.

And she smiled.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

She could clean in the morning.

Tonight, she would keep this — the sweetness and the mess — even if it meant an uncomfortable tightness in her chest.

It was just more proof that maybe not all of life was about perfection.

Some of it… was just living.

—

The bakery still smelled like cinnamon and heat when they stepped out into the night, the door clicking quietly shut behind them.

It was late. Past late. The kind of hour when Monaco went quiet and the shadows belonged to no one. Streetlamps flickered in soft gold pools across the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out and was gone.

Margot sipped her coffee quickly — maybe too quickly — the takeout cup warm between her palms but cooling fast in the sea-soaked air. She tipped it back until it was empty, then tucked it into the nearest bin without slowing.

Both boys noticed. Of course they did.

Oscar’s hand found hers without a word, fingers curling gently, confidently. His thumb brushed across her knuckles like he’d already memorised them. Lando glanced over, still sipping from his own cup, and gave her a lopsided smile before offering his free hand.

She took it.

And just like that, she was in the middle — tucked between the two of them like she belonged there. Oscar was steady and warm on one side, his silence never cold. Lando was all lazy energy and swinging steps on the other, thumb rubbing absently against hers like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

They walked like that through the sleepy streets. Three shadows in sync. No cameras. No beady eyed tourists. Just footsteps, soft laughter, and the occasional quiet hum from Lando as he recited part of a song he couldn’t remember the words to.

Margot leaned into Oscar’s side as they waited for a light to change. He didn’t flinch. He tilted toward her — slightly, solidly — like it was instinct.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“I think so,” she said, voice soft with disbelief. “I think I really am.”

Lando gave her hand a gentle swing. “You’re kind of stuck with us now, y’know.”

She laughed — tired, genuine — and squeezed their hands. “I’m not sure I mind.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, but his hand tightened around hers.

When they reached the car, none of them rushed. The quiet lingered like something sacred. Margot didn’t let go until the very last second.

And even then, only because she had to.

—

Margot was halfway through peeling the label off her wine bottle when Alex flopped down next to her on the sofa, legs tucked underneath her, hair scraped into a loose braid that had started to unravel an hour ago. The living room was glowing gold with lamplight, soft jazz playing under the occasional hum of city traffic. Takeout containers littered the coffee table — pizza, two types of pasta, and one decorative salad that neither of them touched.

Margot giggled as Alex made a grand show of stretching like a cat. “One glass of wine and you’re already preening.”

“I’m just stretching,” Alex corrected, raising her wine glass with a smirk. “You, on the other hand, are glowing. Positively radiant.”

“Oh my god, stop.” Margot buried her face in her hands.

“Nope. Spill. Right now. I want full details. You’ve been smiling and blushing all by yourself all night.”

Margot peeked through her fingers. “I have not!”

“You have. And it’s cute. You’re all flushed and bashful, and I want to scream about it in a very supportive and dignified way.”

Margot groaned, but the kind of groan that was half-laughter. “It was… nice. Okay? Really nice.”

“Nice?” Alex repeated, scandalized. “You went on a cozy, romantic date with two McLaren formula one drivers, and all I get is ‘nice’?”

Margot laughed into her wine glass. “I don’t even know what to call it. We went back to the bakery after dinner. We had dessert and coffee and they just… made space for me. It didn’t feel like I was trying to catch up or fit in. I was just… there. And it felt right.”

Alex’s smile softened, quieter now. “That sounds like more than nice.”

Margot let the words hang there for a second. Her heart tugged a little. “I think it is. But—”

Alex caught it instantly. “No. Nope. No buts. You don’t get to ruin the mood with doubts right now.”

Margot hesitated. Then, quietly, “It’s not that I’m trying to ruin anything. I’m just being realistic. They’re already them, Alex. I’m… me. And we’re not official. They haven’t introduced me to anyone. We’ve only been out together once. And I know they’re private — that they have to be — but I’m terrible at keeping secrets, Alex. What if… I don’t know.” She sighed.

Alex stared at her for a beat, then reached for the wine bottle and refilled both glasses with purpose.

“Oh no,” Margot said, bracing herself.

“This,” Alex said, gesturing wildly, “might be the wine talking, but: are you joking right now?”

Margot blinked. “I—”

“No. Stop. You’re telling me the boys who send you flowers, who show up after hours at your bakery like sad puppies, who look at you like you’re made of moonlight — you’re telling me that you’re worried about them changing their minds. That’s what you’re saying to me right now?”

“I don’t know,” Margot muttered. “Maybe they won’t want to deal with the headlines. Or maybe they won’t ever want to explain whatever this is. I don’t… I don’t want to end up being a third wheel. They haven’t made me feel like that yet, but — I can’t be a secret, Alex.”

Alex softened at that, the teasing melting from her features. “You’re not going to end up being anybody’s third wheel, Margot.”

Margot looked away, eyes flicking to the city lights through the balcony doors.

“And okay,” Alex went on, more gently now, “I get it. I really do. It’s scary. And it’s new. But you can’t let fear keep you hidden away forever. You have a life to live too. A heart to live with. They’ve chosen you. Both of them. So let them.”

Margot’s voice was small. “Alex…”

“Come to the next race with me.” She pleaded.

Margot blinked at her. “They might not want me to be there.”

Alex shook her head. “You’re ridiculous. Of course they want you there. They told Charles.”

Margot stared at her wine glass, her heart thudding loud and strange.

“Come with me,” Alex said softly. “Come to the next race. Surprise them.”

Margot didn’t answer. But she didn’t say no, either.

—

The café was closed, the windows dark, chairs flipped onto tables in neat, perfect rows. Margot sat at the counter with her elbows resting on the worn wood, the same spot she always stood for morning prep — only this time, she wasn’t moving. Wasn’t wiping. Wasn’t counting spoons or straightening pastry tongs.

Just sitting.

The brass key lay next to her phone, cool under her fingers. She rolled it between her thumb and knuckle, a nervous fidget, her grandmother’s faded ribbon still tied around the base. It felt heavier tonight. Or maybe she was just imagining that — giving weight to something that wasn’t physical.

She glanced at the calendar behind the register.

Two days. Forty-eight hours until the shutters wouldn’t rise at 6:59. Until the espresso machine wouldn’t hum its low morning hello. Until no one would wander in and ask for two citron pressés and a croissant to-go.

Marjorie’s hadn’t closed for a weekend in decades.

Not for renovations. Not for holidays. Not even for her grandmother’s funeral — Margot had opened the next morning, lids heavy with tears, hands shaking, apron tied twice like always.

It was tradition.

It was ritual.

It was safety.

And now she was changing it.

Just for two days, she reminded herself. Not forever. Just one weekend. To go with Alex. To surprise Oscar and Lando. To take a step outside the warm, cinnamon-scented rhythm of her life.

It still felt… wrong. Or maybe not wrong. Unmoored.

Like she was undoing something that had been holding her upright.

She exhaled shakily and ran a hand through her hair. She’d written the sign for the door — “Closed This Weekend. Back Monday.” — but hadn’t taped it up yet. It was folded in her bag, creased from the number of times she’d pulled it out and stared at it.

She didn’t know who she was without the store open. She didn’t know what the world looked like when she wasn’t standing right here, grounded in sugar jars and espresso cloths and memory.

“Grand-mère,” she whispered softly, her voice catching, “I’m going. I’m really going.”

She didn’t expect an answer.

But for the first time since she’d made the decision, her chest didn’t feel like it was cracking in two. Just stretching.

Making room.

—

The private jet smelled faintly of leather and citrus, the kind of sterile luxury Margot wasn’t used to. She hovered by the sleek white seat for a second too long, fingers worrying the edges of her phone case, until Alex nudged her gently from behind.

“Window seat. Go on,” she smiled, lifting her oversized tote into the overhead compartment like it weighed nothing. “You’ll like watching the clouds. I promise.”

Margot eased herself into the chair, smoothing the hem of her cardigan and then fixing the edge of the seatbelt before even buckling it. One, two. Buckle. Then unbuckle. Then buckle again.

Alex settled across from her and didn’t say anything — didn’t make a face, didn’t draw attention — just slid a granola bar across the table between them and picked up her phone like this was normal. Like this was okay.

It helped.

Across the aisle, Charles and Max were bickering softly in French about something on Max’s iPad. Margot could only make out pieces — tires, setups, and a very animated comparison involving soup. Max glanced over once and caught her watching. He grinned.

“C’est pas si sérieux,” he said, then switched to English. “I’m just telling Charles he drives a road car like a grandmother.”

Margot startled a laugh, and Charles rolled his eyes. “I drive better than your grandmother,” he muttered.

“You’ve never even met my grandmother.”

“She drives a Fiat Panda. I don’t need to.”

Margot looked down at her hands. She was tapping her fingers in sequence on the tray in front of her — index, ring, pinky, middle, pause. Then again. It was barely noticeable, but Alex noticed. Of course she did.

“You want the schedule again?” Alex asked, opening her iPad.

Margot nodded. She didn’t need to read it. She’d already memorized it — gate to tarmac, flight time, landing, hotel, passes. But it helped, somehow. Helped to orient her thoughts when everything else felt unfamiliar.

Alex slid the iPad closer. Margot rested her eyes on the neat little bullet points and felt herself start to settle, the pressure in her chest loosening notch by notch.

When the engines fired up, she flinched instinctively, and Charles — from the row in front — twisted around and offered her a piece of gum.

“Helps with the ears,” he said simply, like he wasn’t a world-famous driver, just some guy who’d done this a thousand times and knew she hadn’t.

She took it. Unwrapped it slowly. Folded the foil into a tiny square. Tapped the edge of her tray four times before placing it down.

None of them said a word.

Not about the gum. Not about the tapping. Not about how she re-checked that her phone was on airplane mode five times in a row before takeoff.

And when the plane lifted off the ground and Margot gripped the armrest a little too hard, Alex simply leaned across the aisle, nudged her foot with her own, and grinned.

“I love your lipstick today,” she said.

And Margot laughed.

—

The paddock was louder than she expected.

Not just engines — though the roar of one starting nearby made her flinch — but people. Everywhere. Clipped radio chatter and walkie talkies, VIPs in linen and sunglasses, camera crews weaving between cables. Margot stuck close to the edge of the walkway, half-hiding behind her lanyard and sunglasses, clutching the guest pass like it might unlock a door to somewhere quieter.

Alex had gone off with a PR handler to find Charles. Max had vanished almost immediately. And now she was standing outside the McLaren garage with no real plan and too many thoughts stacking inside her head.

She shouldn’t be here.

She wasn’t with them.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands.

She glanced through the open garage. Mechanics moved with practiced speed, adjusting monitors, reviewing tire data, ducking around each other like clockwork. She caught a glimpse of orange — the papaya kind — and then Oscar’s voice, somewhere deep in the garage, laughing low and warm.

Margot shifted awkwardly on her feet.

A few crew members passed her, friendly but brisk. One of them did a double take and gave her a polite nod — recognition, maybe. Or confusion. She tried to smile back but didn’t quite manage it.

And then—

“Margot?”

She turned, startled.

Lando was standing just inside the garage threshold, race suit unzipped to the waist, fireproofs clinging to his torso, hair still damp from prep. There was a moment — half a beat — where his expression was neutral.

And then he lit up.

Like really lit up.

“Oh my god—” He crossed the distance in three long strides, his face breaking into the sunniest, dumbest, happiest grin she’d ever seen. “You’re here! What—how are you here?!”

“I—um—” she tried, cheeks already flushed. “Alex invited me. Kind of talked me into it.”

Lando made a quiet noise that might’ve been a laugh or a relieved exhale and didn’t hesitate — just wrapped his arms around her and lifted her clean off the ground.

“Jesus, warn a girl,” she squeaked into his shoulder.

He set her down but didn’t really let go. One hand slid to her waist like he was making sure she didn’t disappear again. The other pushed her sunglasses up to rest in her hair.

“You didn’t say you were coming,” he said, eyes scanning hers like he needed to keep looking at her to make sure this was real.

“I didn’t… know if I should.”

“Why the hell not?”

She looked away — embarrassed — and that’s when Oscar appeared just behind him, helmet in hand, brow raised.

Then he saw her.

And smiled.

Not the polite PR smile. Not the reserved little nod he gave reporters or fans. This was different — slower, warmer, like something in his chest unspooled just a little.

“You’re here,” he said, quiet but sure.

Margot nodded.

“Yeah. I, uh, survived a jet full of Red Bull adjacent people and Charles’ terrible playlist.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Brave girl.”

Lando glanced between them. “Okay, okay. Um. Have you eaten? Do you want coffee? Water? We have these weird protein muffins that Jon brought—”

“I’m okay,” Margot interrupted softly.

Lando’s hand flexed at her waist, grounding her. Oscar stood close enough for the edge of his sleeve to brush hers.

And just like that, the chaos of the paddock melted into background noise.

“I didn’t know where to go,” she admitted.

Lando leaned in, playful and boyish. “With us, obviously.”

Oscar’s voice was lower. Steady. “Always.”

And when a Netflix producer passed by with a camera crew in tow, Lando gently guided her to the side, blocking her from frame without making a thing of it — just quietly pulling her back into their little orbit, like that’s exactly where she belonged.

—

The McLaren hospitality suite was quieter than the paddock — but only barely. Still, there was air conditioning and coffee, and someone with a clipboard who offered Margot a bottle of water with a warm smile, and that helped. A little.

Lando had taken her hand again the second they stepped inside. Oscar walked just a step behind, close enough that she could feel the occasional brush of his arm against her shoulder.

She’d barely had time to breathe before someone called out across the room.

“Boys!”

Lando groaned under his breath. “Oh no.”

Oscar only hummed, already resigned.

And then Zak Brown was striding toward them — unmistakable in his McLaren polo and mirrored sunglasses, even inside.

“Well?” Zak said, arms folded over his chest, clearly suppressing a grin. “Are you going to introduce me to this lovely lady friend of yours?”

Margot’s spine straightened instantly. She moved to take a polite step back, but Lando just kept holding her hand. Oscar rested a quiet hand at the small of her back, anchoring her.

“Zak,” Lando said, smiling far too wide, “this is Margot. Margot, this is Zak Brown — boss man. Big cheese. Runs the show.”

Zak extended a hand. “Pleasure.”

“Nice to meet you,” Margot said, cheeks warming.

Zak shook her hand, gave her a once-over that felt more curious than judgmental, and then glanced between the three of them — the way Lando still hadn’t let go of her hand, the way Oscar hadn’t moved an inch away, how all three of them seemed to take up the same breath.

Then Zak raised an eyebrow and said, flatly, “So… the three of you?”

Margot nearly choked.

Oscar blinked.

Lando said, “That’s modern,” in perfect unison with Zak, and immediately burst into laughter.

“Jesus Christ,” Oscar muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “That’d exactly what he said when we told him that we were seeing eachother. Me and Lando. They both think that it’s hilarious.”

Margot covered her mouth with her free hand, torn between hiding her face and laughing right along with Lando. “This is mortifying.”

Lando, still snickering, leaned closer to Margot and said, “Zak’s a cool dude.”

“Hell yeah I am.” Zak said, a wide smile on his face. Then turned toward the boys with a smirk. “Just don’t let this distract from the job at hand. You know—points, pace, tires, all that.”

Oscar raised a brow. “We’ll be fine.”

Lando nodded solemnly. “We’ll be very focused.”

Zak gave him a pointed look. “Speak to someone in PR.”

And then he turned on his heel and left, muttering something about “bloody Netflix” as he disappeared toward the back of hospitality.

The moment he was out of sight, Margot exhaled — not quite a laugh, but not quite a sigh either. Her fingers were still curled around Lando’s, her other hand lightly brushing Oscar’s wrist. Safe, but exposed.

She looked between them, heart thudding too hard. “Was that—bad?”

“No,” Lando said instantly. “Zak’s just… Zak.”

“He’s already scheming,” Oscar added wryly. “We’ll get an email in two hours with media talking points and a suggested group hashtag.”

That made her laugh, soft and a little shaky. “God.”

Lando squeezed her hand. “We don’t have to say anything, you know. Not today.”

Oscar nodded once, quiet as always but fully attentive. “But we should talk about it.”

They found a little bench tucked around the corner from the bustle, behind a half-wall of sponsor banners. The kind of tucked-away space made for whispered debriefs and private coffees.

Lando dropped onto the bench and pulled her down next to him, his knee knocking into hers. Oscar stayed standing, arms crossed, scanning the paddock for a moment like he could keep watch for her.

Margot toyed with the hem of her sleeve. “You’ve… thought about going public?”

Lando nodded. “Yeah. I mean, not like some big announcement or anything. But I don’t want to pretend. Not if we’re doing this for real.”

Oscar tilted his head slightly, gaze softening. “But it’s your call, Margot.”

She blinked. “Mine?”

“You didn’t sign up for this,” he said. “The scrutiny. The public’s reaction. The—” he hesitated, then added, “the way people will talk. They won’t come after us the same way. But you…”

Margot looked down at their hands. Her knuckles were pale. She hadn’t realized she was gripping Lando so tightly.

“I expected you guys to be the ones wanting to keep this a secret,” she admitted quietly. “It’s just—my life is so… small. My world is small. And this—this is…” She looked up, gesturing vaguely at the chaos of the paddock. “This is huge.”

Lando nudged her knee. “I know. It’s a lot:”

Oscar nodded. “It’s your choice, Mar. It won’t change how we feel about you.”

That made her throat feel tight. She tried to smile, but it wobbled.

“I don’t want to hide you,” Lando said softly. “Not even a little. But if staying private makes you feel safer—then we’ll do it. I’ll walk next to you the paddock with my hands in my pockets if that’s what it takes. But I’ll still kiss you as soon as we’re behind closed doors.”

Margot laughed — startled and grateful.

Oscar stepped closer, crouched in front of her so he was eye-level. “We’re not in a rush. This is still new. I get it.”

She stared at him for a moment. Then Lando. Then back again.

And nodded. Slowly. “Okay.”

“We’re yours, either way,” Lando said. “Public or not.”

“And you’re ours,” Oscar added.

Margot blinked fast. “Okay,” she whispered again.

“Good.” Lando grinned. “Because I already told the social media team I had plans after the race. Didn’t tell them it was to kiss our girlfriend in a corner of the motorhome, but—details.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Very focused,” he muttered.

Lando only smirked. “She’s very distracting.”

Margot flushed.

—

Oscar was still breathless.

Not from the race — not really — but from everything that came after: the radio screaming in his ears, the champagne, the roar of the crowd, the sudden, dizzying realisation that he’d actually done it. He’d won.

Hungary. His first win. It tasted like sweat and sugar and disbelief.

He was pulled from interview to photo op to the podium to parc fermé, and it all blurred together — until he saw her.

Margot.

Wearing a papaya cap too big for her head and an unzipped McLaren jacket draped over her shoulders like she’d stolen it from Lando’s room (because she had). She was standing just past the security line, beside Alex and Charles, caught between grinning and crying and like she didn’t know where to put her hands.

He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

Oscar cut away from the group of engineers, jogged the last few steps toward her, and ducked beneath the barrier like he’d done it a hundred times before. And then—

Then he swept her straight off her feet.

“Oscar!” she squeaked, laughing into the side of his neck.

“I won,” he mumbled into her hair, like she hadn’t noticed. Like the whole world hadn’t noticed.

She wrapped her arms around him tight and pressed her forehead to his cheek. “You really did.”

And when he set her down — gently, slowly, like she was breakable — he didn’t even think about the crowd or the cameras or the dozens of people watching. He just kissed her. A little too eager, a little too long, a little too much teeth and happiness.

When they broke apart, flushed and stunned and absolutely beaming, Lando was there — bouncing on the balls of his feet like a golden retriever in a fireproof race suit.

“Don’t hog our girl, winner!” he yelled, laughing as he flung an arm around both of them. “Jesus Christ, I leave you alone for ten seconds.”

Oscar gave him a lopsided smile. “Not my fault I got there first.”

Lando leaned over Margot’s shoulder to kiss her temple, fingers brushing Oscar’s briefly in the crook of her back — light and private, even in the middle of a public storm.

Margot, still dizzy, whispered, “I thought we were keeping it quiet.”

Oscar’s brows lifted slightly. “Right. So did I.”

Lando grinned. “Oops.”

Behind them, a camera flash went off. And then another. And another. The Netflix crew was already whispering frantically to each other, and Zak was somewhere behind the barrier with his hands in his hair and a full-body sigh.

Margot blinked. “So that’s it? It’s just… out now?”

Oscar shrugged. “They would’ve figured it out eventually.”

Lando nodded. “And now we don’t have to pretend.”

Oscar just smiled again. “I won.”

“You did,” Margot said, heart swelling all over again. “You really did.”

Lando slung his arm more firmly around her waist. “And we’re really proud of you.”

Oscar leaned in and kissed her again — quick this time, but no less certain. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “For being here.”

Margot didn’t say of course. She just held onto both of them, amid the noise and the cameras and the crowd, and smiled like her whole chest might float away.

Because she was here.

And she was theirs.

And they were hers.

No press release could’ve explained it better.

—

Marjorie’s looked different in the off-season.

The air was slower. Softer. Less rush, more routine. The kind of mornings where the croissants flaked just right and the sunlight pooled golden across the pastry case like it had all the time in the world.

Margot stood behind the counter, hair braided and tucked under her scarf, apron tied twice like always — and tried not to laugh.

Because Lando was elbow-deep in flour.

And Oscar was very seriously attempting to refill the sugar jars without spilling (again).

“You’re using the wrong cloth,” she said gently, eyeing Lando as he wiped the espresso machine with what was very obviously the display case rag.

“Babe,” Lando called over his shoulder. “There are four different cloths. That’s too many cloths.”

Oscar, without looking up: “You’ve spilled sugar on every surface. Maybe the amount of cloths she has ready are justified.”

“I’m helping,” Lando insisted, with all the confidence of a man who’d never worked a cash register in his life.

“You’re making it worse,” Margot said fondly.

Still, she passed him the right cloth. He took it with a wink and a smudge of flour across one cheek.

Oscar finished the sugar jars — mostly — and nudged her gently with his shoulder. “He’s trying really hard to impress you.”

“I know,” she said, voice softening as she watched Lando carefully align a row of coffee cups to match the tray edge.

“And you’re not so bad at this,” she added to Oscar.

He blinked. “At sugar?”

“At… helping.”

He ducked his head, a rare smile flickering across his face. “Thanks.”

The door chimed, and a pair of regulars shuffled in, bundled in scarves and already waving. Margot took their order while Lando made a truly heroic effort not to spill espresso grounds everywhere. Oscar handled the pastry boxes like they were car parts — precise and steady — and when the customers left, Margot found them both leaning against the back counter, dusted with powdered sugar.

“This is the best,” Lando said, licking powdered sugar from his thumb. “I love sugar. I love coffee. And I love you guys.” He grinned.

Margot looked between them — her two ridiculous, flour-dusted boyfriends in their unofficial Marjorie’s aprons (Lando had insisted on buying embroidered ones from the market) — and felt her chest pull tight with something like happiness.

Like wholeness.

“You know,” she murmured, brushing sugar off Oscar’s sleeve, “my grandmother used to say the bakery ran better when it was full of love.”

Oscar reached for her hand. Lando took the other.

“Guess we’ve got that covered,” Lando said, mouth tilted into a grin.

Outside, the street was quiet. Inside, Marjorie’s hummed — warm and safe and a little messy, but perfect all the same.

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heartyluv · 24 hours ago

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hi! can u yap abt cam!caleb being blue balled by his own daughter? like sudden wake up and knocking on their locked door.. i just thought abt out it when i read the last installation of the series where in baby Sloane is asleep and so on...

quick note: the way they’ve been on my mind sm lately. i’ve aged sloane up in this too, sooo she’s like four or something. i hope you like, bae!

i imagine caleb would wake you up with his head in between your thighs. this man can’t help but be horny when he wakes up to his beautiful wife every morning, and what better way to show his love and appreciation than licking your pretty pussy until your eyes open? his mouth is on you, hungrily sucking your clit and licking between your folds as he presses hip hips into the mattress.

it doesn’t take him long to wake you either, and he’ll smile with kisses grazed along your inner thighs when you hum with pleasure the more you become conscious of the bliss building in your tummy from what he’s been doing to you.

“good morning,” he mumbles, his nose inhaling your intoxicating scent the more you push your hips up to try and soothe that ache he’s been happily instilling.

“c—caleb…” you whimper. “that’s…mm..morning…”

“you’ll let me fuck you good to start our day off right, won’t you pretty?” he begins to trail up your body, smooching your plush stomach and flicking your nipples with his tongue the higher he gets. he’s already naked like you are from last night, the brief yet delicious sex you had putting you to sleep so fast that there was no time to do anything else.

he knows he’s insatiable, but the fact that you’re just as ready for him at all times is what causes him to be this way without remorse.

“hmm,” you smile up at him when you’re face to face, cupping his in your hand and biting your lip when he turns to kiss your wrist. “you know i will.”

his cock brushes up against your cunt as you clench around nothing in anticipation when he presses into you, excited for the way he’ll fill your tightness.

just as he grasps his length, kissing your lips and smirking as you giggle, there’s an interruption.

knock. knock. knock.

“no,” he whispers, his breath shaking as his head falls between his shoulders. he tries to wait and see if that was just his imagination—until they sound again to swipe away that possibility. “no. no, no, come on..”

they’re soft—gentle, and both of you already know who it is.

“mommy…” your daughter sloane mumbles on the other side of the door. you nearly panic when you hear the knob rattle before caleb assures you that he locked it before he started tasting you.

“daddy…” she calls out next. “i’m ready to brush teef. and i hungry..”

the knob shakes more in her sweet efforts to see her parents, but caleb can’t help but look at you with begging eyes.

“i’ll be quick,” he promises. “please, baby. just…ask her to give us a minute. that’s all i need.”

“caleb, hon,” you coo, bringing him down to press your mouth to his. “we can’t do that to her. our girl wants us now.”

“mooommyyyy…daaadddyyyy….” sloane draws out with impatience, starting to announce your names to her in a sing-song way to make you giggle, but caleb is so hard and ready to take you that everything is far from funny right now.

your husband closes his eyes and breathes out with dissatisfaction before opening them again to see your pretty face that gives him understanding.

and a leaking dick.

“later,” you promise. “i’ll be all yours later. let’s not make her wait anymore, yeah?”

even if caleb is about to lose his opportunity to have morning sex—one of his favorites—he’ll never trade moments like this for anything.

knowing that both of his girls are happy and safe? he’ll deal with blue balls to make sure it stays that way if need be.

“we need to have her spend time with her grandparents soon.” he rolls off of you, his cock twitching when he watches you crawl out the bed to slide your panties and robe on.

“you in’orin’ meeee,” sloane whines, still tapping on the wood as you wait beside it for caleb to cover himself.

“we’ll work something out,” you wink. “be good for me? clothes on.”

yeah, he’s absolutely gonna need to rub one out. “go ahead without me for now? i’ll cook us something when i’m…done.”

the tone of his heady voice tells you everything and it makes your cunt throb.

“okay,” you nod. “but, record it for me? i wanna watch it with you tonight.”

maybe he needs to come twice if he’s going to be functioning properly at all.

on your way out with the sheets covering his body, he answers you, his gaze fixated on the jiggle of your ass beneath your silk cover up.

“yes ma’am…”

a/n: forgive me if this isn’t great. it was quick LOLLL

#heartyluv answers!#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb smut #lads x you #lads caleb

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lvl109 · 12 hours ago

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summary.ᐟ when they realize they love you. caleb, zayne, & sylus. established relationship.

tee says.ᐟ this is more notes? than actual fic, more so things i've noticed (that may seem obvious lmfao, bear with me i'm new here.) i was thinking about how they'd fall in love with someone who doesn't have shared trauma with them.

as a caretaker at heart, caleb’s love comes in the form of being as useful as he can be—from carrying your bags when the two of you go shopping to being a barrier between a hard surface so you don't hit your head to making sure your hand never touches a handle. chivalrous at best and a bit overprotective at worst, all he wants is for his partner to rely on him.

so i think he appreciates the little things a lot more than the average person would. flowers that appear on his desk ‘just because’, kneading the tension from a long day at work out of his sore shoulders, or just simply holding him when he needs it but can't bring himself to be ‘a burden’. would come to seek it out even, once comfortable enough. acts of devotion he doesn't come to expect, talk less of deserving.

caleb loves very openly without expecting much in return. so when you not only reciprocate his feelings but add gestures of gratitude and affection no matter the size, i think he'd take care to preserve the feeling it brings him and mull over it carefully. even if he keeps telling you that you don't need to 'prove your love' to him. he’d allow himself to relax in your arms a little bit. knowing he has someone to come back to might make him seem a little soft to the ones bold enough to even regard him as such, but it fuels his determination in all aspects of his life tenfold.

having a reason to put himself through everything he does. as long as he has a reason to continue on. and as someone who believes having the reason is all he's afforded, having his affections returned is everything to him.

˖ ࣪ ୨୧

to be high in demand as a vital member of society means zayne rarely has any time outside of long grueling shifts, equally as long meetings and conferences, traveling to give aid, and squeezing in even a few minutes of shut eye. there are times where it feels like he's been awake for three days straight, bone tired but pushing through because he's needed. there are people who rely on him and look to him for support.

not that you don't need him, and not that he doesn't love his profession either, but with you he's come to realize he's allowed to let his shoulders drop and let himself be taken care of, even if it takes him a while to relinquish that kind of control. he knows he can be vulnerable in front of you and the weight of his worries and fears aren't just for his already burdened shoulders bear alone.

i think zayne would realize he loves you very quietly. a quiet realization that dawns on him not with a bang, but in a slow moment of clarity. you bring peace to a hectic routine. peace he cradles to his chest with tender hands. a respite comfortable with the human being behind the renowned surgeon.

(that and enabling his poorly hidden sweet tooth, but more on that another time.)

˖ ࣪ ୨୧

there aren't many people that would talk back to sylus upon seeing him and the way he holds himself. lazy grin, the confident set of his shoulders, his impeccable style, the cadence of which he talks—the list goes on forever. most people would be scared to challenge someone so sure of themselves yet can't help but be drawn in by his mysterious and alluring presence.

he commands attention at will, filling the room as soon as he walks in. so when you talk to him like he's just another human being, it intrigues him.

not rude, but unwilling to back down. your banter is charged with wit and sass and he enjoys it so much to the point of deliberately riling you up just to bask in the full front of your responses. he loves it. he loves… you.

the way your expression shifts when you're about to tell him off, yes, but also the way you study him closely as if trying to peer past the several fronts put up. the way your relationship shifts from charged responses to care that lingers long after you've parted ways. i think he'd start to seek you out beyond that kind of thing, inquiring about bits and pieces of your life that you're willing to share, and in turn, giving pieces of himself to you. wanting to know more about the person who'd chosen to look at him and really see him when others haven't.

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z4rph1m · 2 days ago

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Platonic Yan! Batfam X dazai!reader X Yandere DC

Forgotten Child

Pro. Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3(you are here) Ch.4

Odasaku

Your father figure who was there to care for you more than Bruce Wayne did.

He’s a man of virtues, ironically in the mafia.

Maybe in another life he would’ve been a writer or maybe a caretaker in an orphanage.

Or maybe under different circumstances, he would’ve taken you in and raise you as his own.

Maybe, just maybe there was a world where your mother, odasaku and you were able to live a life of love and happiness.

A world where your mother is able to live without blood on her hands.

You’ve always been interested in the arts.

Writing was one of them.

You’re mother taught you that whatever you felt or see, write it down. With all the time you had, you wrote down your moments and your days in your old house.

What you did, how you feel, your surrounding and your condition.

Odasaku was the one who expand your writing.

He was the one who help you find ways to not write through facts but also fictions.

One of your few hobbies that doesn’t hurt you.

He would always help you improve, even read some bedtime stories for you.

Too bad he’s gone now.

You’re a bastard.

You know that, Bruce knows that, Mori knows that, everyone does.

But in your mother’s eyes, you were her everything. Her precious little flower. A flower that could’ve bloom so beautifully under the right conditions, the right environment and the right place.

She was those things before a part of your life died.

Maybe she use her ability on you before she died. Maybe that’s why you feel so hopeless and left to withered in the dark.

Your mother was the one who made you feel at you’re best yet at the same time can make you feel like you’re the lowest.

As much as she was a traitor to the port mafia, she was also your mother.

How are you going to hate the exact thing your mother was?

She betrayed the mafia to give you a chance of the light, even if it was in vain.

I’m back, sorry for the delay people

Inspired by @-acid-ixx again & again

& @-marcyvamp1re-blog silly little bat

#yandere batfam #platonic yandere #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfam x neglected reader #dazai reader #crossover

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ro-sa-le-en · 17 hours ago

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Wooooow this was the perfect mix of romantic/sweet and hot/sensual, literally perfect!💖

“Your teeth sink into his skin, lightly, making him squirm and there is something in the way you can handle him so well, the way he’s older than you, physically bigger than you and yet he’s the one tied up and squirming under your touch, unable to stand still such is the want and the desire to have more, knowing that you can make a mess of him in no time.”

“That is what Joel likes more than anything, that he’s yours, and that he can trust you with his whole life, letting you in control, even though in everything in his life he would never give up that control.”

Ooh I love this version of Joel, the fact that he trusts blindly and lets himself go completely when he's in her company drives me crazy with how much I like it!

“Would you eat your girl out, while still being tied up?” His breath itching for a moment at the question, his lips parted like he’s already imagining having you over his mouth, ready to take you, and you know you have him wrapped around your finger.”

“You’ve been so good,” you kiss him, thumbs brushing over his cheeks, feeling a tear under your fingertip, your heart dropping for a moment. “It’s okay,” you soothe him, his chest still rising up and falling quickly, still taking his breath back, “You’re okay, Joel, I’m gonna take this off, baby, just breathe.” You let your voice calm him as you reach his wrists.”

“He nods at your words, closing his eyes, and you quickly undo the tie around his wrists, thumbs passing over them to ease any pain that he might feel there and lowering his arms slowly to not hurt him in any way, those signs on his biceps pretty visible.”

“You press a kiss on his forehead, shiny in sweat, “It’s all good, just breathe, my love.”

Aww the way she reassured him and took care of him filled my heart with joy, I loved how you described her sweet and loving gestures towards Joel.

“And once you’re out and he’s just wearing a pair of clean boxers, you drape a clean shirt of him on your shoulders, now hanging on your body. You lead him back to the room, letting him lay on the bed, taking the soothing cream for the bruises.”

“Let me see, love.” You utter, him widening a bit his legs and your ring finger spreads the cold cream over his skin, having learnt that this is the finger with the less pressure and so the one that will hurt him way less while doing this.”

I loved both the detail of her putting the cream on him but most of all the fact that she uses her ring finger to be as delicate as possible with him, it's such a small gesture but at the same time so full of love.

“And you keep holding him, keep holding in your arms that man that trusts you with his whole life and that you would always give all the care that he needs, feeling like you have the whole world in your arms.”

I'm speechless with the sweetness, I loved this and them so much!🥹

I loved reading this and this version of Joel, the way you wrote it and made it so perfect was truly a MASTERPIECE!! I loved every little gesture, every word, every speech, it was truly beautiful! As usual your works are a certainty!💗💗💗

Made your mark on me

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel loves to let his guard down when he’s with you, and you find all the ways to please him, making him forget everything else

Warnings: +18 smut, MDNI, sub!Joel , Joel has a biting kink/pain kink, Joel has his wrists tied to the headboard, oral (f!receiving - m!receiving), face riding, handjob, edging, begging, praising (everything that the store has to offer), aftercare, use of pet names (baby, good boy, honey, babe, big boy, my love, angel), age gap

Word count: 4k

Notes: thanks @walkinginsunflowers for listening to my ideas and actually endorsing them <3 lyrics in the title are from “Dress” by Taylor Swift

Divider credits: @anitalenia

|| MY FICS ||

You’ve been kissing him on the inside of his bicep, teeth sinking in the soft skin, Joel squirming for the pain but also for the pleasure that just sparkled through his veins.

You lap your tongue over the bitten part, a finger drawing a heart around it, “Want more?”

Joel quickly nods, his eyes closed, exhaling a ragged breath.

“Uh-uh, need the words baby.”

“Yes, please.” His hands holding for dear life onto the satin tie around his wrists, tied to the headboard.

“Good boy.”

You blow cold air over the bite, the reddish sign appearing on his skin, before kissing it and diving onto the next inch of skin, gracing it with another bite. He squirms at that contact, the pain running in his bloodstream, feeling his skin becoming hotter and hotter.

You leave his arms only to reach his neck, kissing him there; your kisses trail until his chest, where you toy with his nipples and a low moan makes his chest vibrate under your lips, as you’re sucking his skin, keeping the nipple between your fingers.

There is something in the way he complies, the way he melts under that touch and completely lets go of anything else, abandoning himself to you, to your only devotion and adoration.

It wasn’t easy for Joel to admit that at the beginning, but he found himself more and more wanting to let someone else have control of him, wanting to let his guard down at least when he’s with you. The world outside might not be gentle with him, but he knows that instead you are, and so he feels safe to let you be in control, to guide him through the pleasure.

And he would never trade this for anything else, not when he feels your hands trailing on his waist, before your lips close on his skin, that soft skin soon becoming marked.

You nuzzle on his happy trail, avoiding though his boxers and going for the inside of his thigh, looking so inviting and so lonely, and especially looking like it could be decorated with your making.

You dig your thumb in it, making him widen his legs a bit for you, and you have to keep him still as you’re starting to kiss him, going until the knee and then back up, a series of “please, please,” leaving his lips, tugging at the tie around his wrists.

“What do you need? Tell me, honey.” You let out, breathing over his skin, your fingertips dancing on it, wondering where you’re gonna kiss him and his chest rises and falls as he opens his eyes to look at you again.

“Please, just…” you caress him, placing a kiss over his knee, “Just bite me. And touch me, please.” Joel’s voice is shaky, needy, and full of desire.

“You’ve used all the right words, baby.” You compliment him, fingers skimming over his hips, before diving on his inner thigh again, going from kissing to sucking the tender skin, Joel letting out a moan, and you couldn’t be happier than that.

Your teeth sink into his skin, lightly, making him squirm and there is something in the way you can handle him so well, the way he’s older than you, physically bigger than you and yet he’s the one tied up and squirming under your touch, unable to stand still such is the want and the desire to have more, knowing that you can make a mess of him in no time.

But instead, you’re gonna take your time, you don’t want to rush anything.

“You know that you’re so gorgeous?” You breathe on his skin, looking at the mark that you just left him, marking him, making him yours.

That is what Joel likes more than anything, that he’s yours, and that he can trust you with his whole life, letting you in control, even though in everything in his life he would never give up that control.

His hands tug the tie, “Thank you,” he utters, his voice raspy and already high in pleasure.

And his relaxed expression makes you eager to give him more, to see that expression turn into pleasure and into something that he somewhat enjoys: pain.

You nuzzle higher on his thigh, the soft plush looking inviting, keeping the other hand on his other thigh, just to keep his legs apart, “Gonna give you another bite here, babe.”, Joel moving in trepidation, thrusting involuntarily his hips towards you.

“Easy, big boy, or I’m gonna have to tie your legs too.” It lets a giggle out of him, because he wouldn’t be totally against it.

When he goes still again, breathing deeply and trying to control his desire, you can finally go back to your making, closing your lips on his inner thigh; he moans loudly and you know you just hit a sensitive spot, that’s all it takes to give him a shoot of pleasure.

Joel feels the pain, but it gets substituted by the pleasure, his body not even able to tell the difference between them, as you suck on his skin and leave a kiss there right after.

A cry leaves his lips, rubbing your hand on his upper thigh, “It’s okay, baby, you’ve taken them all so well.”

Those slightly purplish stains starts appearing on his soft skin, and you caress the outline of them, knowing that they probably hurt. “You look like a work of art.”

The ones on his thigh and the ones on his arm are small decorations on him, little gifts that he wanted so bad, that he yearned for.

You couldn’t understand why he wanted to get bitten, you understood the whole wanting to let go of the control, of course, but the biting was something you were not familiar with. You wouldn’t even dare to do it at the beginning, thinking that it would have hurt him too much, but every time Joel would tell you that it wouldn’t hurt and that it was what he wanted. So you started once with his neck, a small bite, that made you scared of hurting him, and at the same time feeling like a vampire, letting a giggle out of your lips.

“What?” He had asked, with a smile, “Nothing, it’s just- did it hurt?” You asked and all you could see though was how he was blissfully looking at you, knowing that you could have done it again.

“Want more, Joel?” Your hands smoothing now over his thighs, fingers curling on the way back, making him sigh, Joel controlling the urge to move at your touch.

“Yes, yes, please.” His plea coming out of his lips, but it is not enough for you.

“Where?”

“Wherever you want.” He pledges with urgency, his voice so weak, but that’s not the answer you want from him, clicking your tongue.

“Be more specific, use all your words.” You taunt, tapping your fingers on top of his thigh.

Joel tugs his tie, grabbing it with his fingers, staying still though, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to put one word after other, “I want you to- to-” but he doesn’t finish his phrase, the words are all mushed up in his mind and they are messed on his tongue. And well… not delivering an answer is not allowed.

A firm slap ends on his inner thigh, the one not bitten, the hit making him tug even more, moaning with pleasure and pain, and his moans are really the only thing you could ever hear, especially if they are caused by the pain that he yearns for.

“I want more on my thighs, and-” he whimpers, stopping again for a moment to catch his breath, as your fingers are trailing over the outline of his boxers, eyes following your movement, “I want you to touch me, I want to come for you.” He finishes in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut at the way you took your touch away, having nothing on him and even the lack of that drives him crazy.

You place a kiss over his hip, then leaning on his side and kissing his cheek, brushing your hand on his soft peppered beard, “Can you take it, Joel? Or do you need a break?”

He blinks his eyes open at you, as you press a kiss on his forehead, your thumb going over one of his wrists, “You know you can tell me when it’s too much, baby.” And your voice eases his want and his heat for a moment, it makes him relax his shoulders, releasing his fingers and not holding that tie in fists anymore.

“I know, but I can take it right now,” he babbles, and you kiss his lips, cupping his cheek with one hand, the other on his chest, his beating heart under your palm, “Please.” He adds over your lips, and you would be damned if you ever didn’t give him what he’s asking so desperately.

“You’re being so good.” You praise him, now lowering to his hips again, and going for his right inner thigh, so lonely without a single sign on it, like a beautiful canvas waiting to be painted.

His skin is so velvety under your lips, fingers digging in it before you grace it with you teeth, just a small bite, sucking a little his skin and the moan he lets out is all you need to know to keep going.

Another bite, followed by another one, building his desire once again, and that is when you decide to bring your attention to something else.

You cup him through his boxers, him whimpering at the sudden contact, arching a bit his back and tugging at that tie, holding onto it for dear life, “Oh you’re already wet, honey.” Your thumb passing over the tissue, over the little darker stain, and you can’t help but thrusting a little against the mattress, trying to give yourself some ease too.

He nods at your words, compliant, as he knows that he can’t clearly lie about that: he got all aroused just at your biting, the pain is what is almost making him come, what is bringing him metaphorically to his knees. You don’t lose the chance to hold him properly through the tissue, pressing your palm over him, Joel having to recall all his strengths to keep a little quiet.

“You’re so big, baby, so big.” Other praises leave your lips, him at this point moving and squirming under your touch, as you’re trying to tame him and keeping him still with a hand grabbing his hip, his mind completely under your spell.

You soon start touching him again with only the back of your fingers, that sending him over the edge, aching for more.

That is when you bow on it, kissing all the outline, a wet trail being left over the tissue; hands go teasing his waistband but not pulling it off, his panting telling you how much he’s enjoying that, and the wetness is becoming more and more evident.

“Should I take them off? Do you deserve that?” You lavishly ask, him nodding quickly, “Yes, I would do everything for that.” A shaky breath leaving his lips.

“Oh I bet that you would, babe, and would you let me ride you?” You coo, still massaging him through the boxers, another nod and a moan at the thought of that leaving his lips.

You’ve been working up yourself for the whole time, keeping thrusting the mattress while being laid down between his thighs, so you’re definitely wet too but still you ask for one more thing.

“Yes, I can’t wait.”

“You deserve the world, baby.” You whisper on his lips, kissing him, breathing in all his desire; you take off your panties right after, rubbing a bit your fingers over your clit and not losing the chance to ride him a moment, while he’s still clothed with his boxers on.

He almost cries out when you land on him, feeling his length pressing against the tissue and you can imagine that it might be painful, and so that he’s enjoying that.

You cup your breasts as you ride him a little more, thrusting over the tissue and it shouldn’t feel this good, “Don’t come baby, not yet.” You remind him, Joel sighing but nodding and you feel his hips thrusting against you, knowing that it is time to leave him otherwise it will be too difficult to contain himself.

“Alright, alright, enough of this.” You stop yourself from continuing, having felt that tissue becoming wet in you too after that bit of riding.

You move and soon your knees are pressed on each side of Joel’s head, looking down at him now, not moving yet, waiting for him to raise a bit his head to then feel the shape of his nose under you and his tongue lapping on you for a moment, but still not able to eat you out properly.

“Okay,” you say, balancing your hands over the headboard of the bed, “Gonna give you your treat now.”

And one second after you have his mouth under you, his lips kissing your folds and making love to them already; he kisses your clit, and the sounds are surely obscene but that’s how it really should be.

You can’t suppress the moans, and you have to recall all your strengths to not fall completely onto him when he presses his tongue into you, so fucking wet that you know that he might have his whole mouth and nose covered in you.

You reach your clit as he keeps diving in you, Joel’s eyebrows furrowed to concentrate on giving you all you want, and fuck, it’s even more than what you imagined, it’s addicting to have him like that and having the power to now ride him a little, moving over his tongue and him just taking and taking, not uttering a word, only moans reverberating around you, breathing deeply.

Your other hand reaches his hair, falling through the soft curls, thumb brushing over his forehead to reassure him too, to let him know that he’s doing a hell of a job and that he’s surely appreciated.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re being so good to me, Joel, so good.” You moan out loud, as you keep moving over him, that friction that his beard and moustache give you driving you even more crazy and you know for sure that you will have to pull away, otherwise you’re gonna come with this already.

But you can’t, your body keeps wanting more and Joel gives it all to you, no questions asked; it’s when he wraps his lips around your clit and starts sucking it that you know that you can’t contain it anymore, your legs shaking and grabbing his hair as you tremble over him, the spasm of the orgasm so strong that you have to raise your hips from him, Joel though still managing to raise his head and keeping on licking you, lapping his tongue over you during the aftermath too.

You pant, heart exploding in your chest and you didn’t think it would have been so intense and so sudden, but you should never underestimate him.

You keep panting as you step away from his head, feeling all your wetness between your legs and when you lay next to him, on your tummy, you let your fingers trail over his nose and lips, seeing how he’s covered in you, and he’s never looked so hot.

You lean in for a kiss, feeling his smile on your lips and then smoothing your fingers over his eyebrows, “Did you come, babe?” You ask, him shaking his head, “But I am close,” his voice so fucking husky as he has to clear it a bit, “I don’t know if could take you riding me.” He communicates, and you love him for doing that. You have established from the beginning that communication is the key during these moments and that it is important to let the other know when it’s too much and what they can take and what they cannot.

He’s starting to apologise though, you shushing him with a kiss, “It’s okay, angel, it’s okay,” your voice gentle and soft like a cloud to him, “no need to apologise, you just made me come and you’ve been so fucking good to me.” You praise, since the praising is never too much with him.

You trace a path of wet kisses on his chest, fingers trailing the same path, drawing imaginary hearts on his skin, until you reach the waistband and you finally pull them off, his length aching for your touch, and already leaking when you take him in your hand, your palm sliding easily over him. And he looks too inviting to not start licking his tip, his deep moan following your gesture.

Joel tugs at the tie when you wrap your lips around him, still keeping the fingers around his base, starting to work up your head over him, feeling his wetness in your mouth and having to keep your other hand over his hip, a bruise now appearing there for the way you’ve been holding him. You can feel him leaking over your tongue, pushing him inside your mouth a little more, wobbling your head, until you release him all together, him whining immediately, as he’s so fucking hard in your hand and you know that he is so close, his vein pulsating under your palm.

“Shh you can come, baby, you can come whenever you want to.” You make sure to say, his length sliding even better in your hand now, thumb indulging over his aching tip, and his chest rises and falls so fast when he finally furrows his eyebrows and with a pitched moan releases all over your hand, as you cover him in praises.

“There you go, there you go, Joel, give it all to me.”

He moves his hips, his body shaking for the orgasm slamming his body and shaking his system, still his wrists wrapped in that tie, just like your hand is still wrapped around him, guiding him through the orgasm.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Joel moves until he’s given everything to you, then releasing his body against the mattress, spent and sweaty, as you leave him and you clean your hand over the bedsheets.

You let him breathe a moment, quickly taking his plaid shirt and wearing it over you, ready then to take care of him after all of that intense session.

He nods at your words, closing his eyes, and you quickly undo the tie around his wrists, thumbs passing over them to ease any pain that he might feel there and lowering his arms slowly to not hurt him in any way, those signs on his biceps pretty visible.

You press a kiss on his forehead, shiny in sweat, “It’s all good, just breathe, my love.”

You sit up in bed, letting him curl over your lap and letting his head over your thighs, the soft curls brushing over your partially covered skin, and you can’t resist the urge to tangle your fingers through his peppered hair, brushing it gently. And that is all he needs actually, just to feel safe, as you wrap an arm around his waist, his hand reaching yours and you brush your thumb over his knuckles, keeping on comforting him.

Even if it’s uncomfortable given the position, you still bow on him to land a kiss on his hair, him brushing his face over your thighs.

“There you go, angel, keep on breathing.” You whisper, Joel just cuddling on you at this point, closing his eyes for a moment, feeling safer than ever.

You let him stay like that as long as he needs to, until he moves from your lap getting up and you keep his hand into yours, “Everything good?” You check in, him nodding, a relaxed look on his face now.

You offer him a glass of water, knowing that he definitely needs it, then placing the glass back on the nightstand.

Your look wanders over his thighs and on the inside of his arms, noticing the little bruises, “We’re gonna put something on those after the shower.” You comfort, glancing at them.

The shower is a shared shower, sharing stolen kisses and breathing him in under the warm water, letting him relax even more when you spread your hands over his chest and then over his shoulders and back, fingertips dancing on his freckles as you do so.

And once you’re out and he’s just wearing a pair of clean boxers, you drape a clean shirt of him on your shoulders, now hanging on your body. You lead him back to the room, letting him lay on the bed, taking the soothing cream for the bruises.

He would often tell you that he could definitely do that by himself, but you’re the one who made them, so you always want to take care of them personally.

“Shh, it’s alright,” you whisper, kissing his hip when he just squirmed a little at the cold contact, “Is it okay if I keep going?” You ask, the other hand rubbing on the outside of the thigh, away from the bruises.

He stays quiet for a moment, before leaving out a small “Yes,” searching for your other hand as you spread the cream, you squeezing it back.

You take care of the other thigh too, then going on the purplish stain over his hip, having the mark of your grip.

“Almost finished,” you soothe, taking both of his hands in yours and pressing a kiss on each wrist, so lightly to not hurt him. The signs are not too visible here, but better be safe than sorry, so you give your attention to them too, some cream being applied there too.

He hisses with the pain though when you let him move his left arm to take a look at the inside of his bicep, the purplish signs being very stark.

“I know, baby, I know,” pressing a kiss over his shoulder, “It’ll be over in a second.”

You give it the same treatment of all the other bruised parts, being extra careful here as it seems to be the part where he’s more sensitive to the pain. You thought it could be the thighs, but every time it turns out that it’s his arms, feeling the pain more there.

You rub the cream with a feather touch on his skin, then leaving the cream on the nightstand, “All done, my love, you’ve kept being so good to me, I’m so proud of you.” Him smiling all content and brushing his cheek over the pillow.

And even though the sun is just starting to set right now, his eyes blink slowly, noticing how he is very tired at the moment and knowing that this is it for the day.

You lay down in bed, “Come here, baby.” You whisper, him cocooning with his head over your chest and hugging your waist, once again him being bigger than you but feeling so much smaller when he does that.

His soft breathing is so relaxing, dancing your fingers on his shoulders, “I love you so much, Joel, so much.”

“Love you too.” He utters, sinking more on your chest.

You rub your hand on his arm a little more, until you feel him breathing slowly, his eyes closed, having drifted off.

And you keep holding him, keep holding in your arms that man that trusts you with his whole life and that you would always give all the care that he needs, feeling like you have the whole world in your arms.

#joel miller x reader

310 notes · View notes

igorluvr · 17 hours ago

Text

‘RED HOT LOVE | lee myung-gi x reader

PAIRING: myung-gi x reader

SYNOPSIS: you were perfect. he knew it the second he saw you—too perfect to be real. you just didn’t understand what that meant yet. so he watched. closer than anyone else ever did. and now you’ll see it too. even if he has to show you from the inside out.

CONTENT: VERY dark fic, yandere!myunggi, stalking, kidnapping, cannibalism, possessive behavior, graphic gore, death, violence, gaslighting, emotional manipulation/trauma, mental instability

AUTHORS NOTE: insp by sarah by tyler the creator … umm idk i just got bored & felt my heart explode when i saw him all bloody in a suit (am i weird?)

words: [9.5k]

MYUNG-GI always had a sort of unattainable type. She had to be beautiful, but naturally. Any girl who tried too hard, in his eyes, was just an attention-seeking whore. She needed to be insanely smart and genuinely kind too; nobody wants to deal with a rude girl nagging them 24/7.

His whole life, he never involved himself in any real relationships. Not because he couldn’t—he practically had girls throwing themselves at him—but because he was waiting. Waiting for the perfect one.

Then you came into his life. It felt like a scene from a movie; you appeared out of nowhere—like an angel dropped from heaven. One look at you and everything inside him shifted. No girl had ever made him pause before, but you did more than pause him— you rewired him.

“Excuse me, do you know where the Myeongdong station is?” you asked, stepping in front of Myung-gi’s seated figure with that soft, unbothered grace he hadn’t realized he craved until now.

As he looked up, something in him snapped. Messy hair, no makeup, soft eyes—you weren’t trying. You were real; unfiltered, untouched. The kind of beauty that didn’t know it was being watched—and that made him want you even more.

He didn’t answer right away—just stared, memorized. You looked directly at him, and something fluttered behind his ribs—something hot, sharp, possessive. He’d never believed in soulmates until that second. Now, he couldn’t believe in anything else.

“Um, yeah, it’s…” he started, trailing off.

Then, suddenly—he got an idea, a way to make sure this moment didn’t just slip away. Why send you off into the city alone when he could go with you? Subway stations were full of creeps anyway. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be walking around there by herself—not when he was right here.

“Actually,” Myung-gi said, flashing an innocent smile as he stood up a little too quickly, “I’ll show you.”

Your face lit up like it was the easiest thing in the world to trust him. “Thank you so much!” You smiled, having no idea what you’d just invited into your life.

He walked beside you, just close enough to memorize your scent and the way your shoes barely made a sound against the pavement. You talked like he wasn’t a stranger, like you weren’t walking next to someone who had already decided you were his.

You laughed at something small he said and that was it. That was the moment he knew: he wasn’t going to let you go. Not now, not ever.

As you reached the station, you turned to him one last time, meeting Myung-gi’s eyes with that warm, unsuspecting smile. “Once again, thank you!” you said, then turned on your heel and disappeared into the subway.

Watching you walk away felt like someone had reached into his chest and torn his heart out. No—you couldn’t leave him, not yet. He didn’t even know your name.

Without another word, Myung-gi followed.

He kept his distance, careful not to catch your eye. Far enough to stay invisible, but close enough to see every move. You blended into the crowd so easily—so delicate, so unguarded. He couldn’t let this be the end. Not when fate had handed you to him so perfectly.

This wasn’t stalking, it was just making sure you were okay. There were a lot of unsafe places in Korea, he just wanted to be there if something happened to you.

He followed you to every store, every restaurant, every street. Quiet, patient—you never left his sight, not once.

It amazed him how unaware you were. How you didn’t feel his eyes on you, how you smiled so softly at strangers, paused at windows, wandered like the world owed you softness.

It made something burn in his chest. Not anger—need. You weren’t built for solitude. You needed someone to look after you, to keep the world from sinking its teeth into you.

You stopped at a convenience store, stepping inside without a second thought. He waited across the street watching through the reflection in the glass. You bought a drink and a snack—simple. Your choice was cute, innocent. Just like you.

He wondered what you’d sound like laughing in his apartment. If you’d like his cooking, how you’d look as you sat on his bed with your legs tucked under you, completely at ease.

You exited the store and kept walking. He followed quietly, still sure to keep his distance. You didn’t look back once, that made him smile. You trusted the world too much.

Even though you didn’t know it yet, he was already a part of your life. A constant you'd never be able to escape.

For the next few days, he trailed you like a shadow, always near, never seen. He memorized the rhythm of your steps, the stores you visited, the way your fingers tapped against your thigh when you were waiting to cross the street.

You liked sweet snacks from the convenience store, lingered too long in bookshop corners, and sometimes sat on park benches doing absolutely nothing, just staring into the air like you belonged to it.

You became a routine—his favorite part of the day—so predictable it felt intimate, like you were already connected in some silent, unspoken way.

He imagined what it would be like to sit beside you in those quiet moments. To hear you talk about the book you were reading for the past few days, to slip his hand over yours like it always belonged there.

And then today, as if the universe rewarded his patience, he saw you standing outside a bookstore, scrolling on your phone with one earbud in, hair frizzed slightly from the heat and bag slipping off your shoulder every few seconds.

You didn’t even look like you knew you were being watched, like something that wasn’t meant to be touched—but he couldn’t help himself

He adjusted his shirt, fixed his face into something friendly and casual, then approached like it was all just a happy accident. “Oh—hey, we met the other day, right? Myeongdong Station?”

You looked up, surprised for a second before your lips curled into that same soft smile, the one that made his chest feel too tight. “Oh yeah! I remember, you helped me.”

“Yeah” he said with a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck like a boy who hadn’t been planning this moment for days. “Total coincidence seeing you here. But, uh… would it be weird if I asked for your number?”

You hesitated—not long, but just enough to make his stomach twist, then nodded, unlocking your phone and handing it to him like it was nothing, like this wasn’t the beginning of everything.

He took it with steady hands, smiling as if he hadn’t already memorized your entire schedule, as if this really was fate and not obsession dressed in clean clothes and polite words.

When your number appeared on his screen, he knew it for sure— you were his now.

Even while all these thoughts ran through his head, you didn’t think much of it when he showed up again.

Seoul was huge, yeah—but sometimes the city looped back in strange ways. People crossed paths, passed faces they swore they’d never see again. You figured it was just one of those coincidences, nothing more.

He seemed sweet—nervous, almost. His voice was soft, not too pushy, and when he asked for your number, something in you relaxed. Maybe it was the way he smiled, or the fact that he didn’t linger too close or try too hard.

So you gave it to him. You didn’t feel unsafe. If anything, you were a little flattered that someone as good-looking as him was interested in you.

You texted later that night, just a quick “thanks again!” and when he replied almost instantly, it made you smile. He was just a guy you bumped into twice—no big deal.

That’s what you told yourself.

But in the days that followed, you started noticing small things. Seeing him near the same places. The same café, the same bookstore, the same quiet corner of the park where you liked to sit alone.

Each time, he waved, smiled, said hi like it was another happy accident. And each time, your stomach felt just a little heavier than before.

You didn't want to assume things early on—maybe he just liked going to the same places as you, right? But if this was the case, why are you just now seeing him?

He’d found your address days ago, coming by occasionally just to make sure you were safe. Finding out where you lived felt like the grand prize, confirmation that he was meant to be in your life. And once he had it, more and more details about you began to bubble to the surface.

He knew you always woke up late at night to get snacks, knew you spent most of your time at home in bed on your phone, even that you kept that one window unlocked all the time.

It had to be a sign, though, right? Maybe you knew he was watching, and left it unlocked as a passageway—an invitation into your life.

You acted so oblivious, but you must’ve felt it too. Felt the way his heart exploded into a million pieces every time you looked at him, or how he wanted nothing more than to run his hands up and down your body, covering every inch of skin with warm, soft kisses.

That was all the confirmation he needed. The next day, Myung-gi texted you asking to hang out. It wasn’t intrusive, just a suggestion. He offered to meet at the library you loved and pick out books for each other to read—nothing too intimate, just a quiet place where he could finally express his feelings.

He stared at his screen for a full minute before pressing send, re-reading the message over and over to make sure it sounded casual enough. Polite, interested—but not desperate. He didn’t want to scare you, not when he’d come so far.

You replied fifteen minutes later.

“sure, that sounds fun!”

He sat frozen, phone still in hand as the words echoed in his head like a prayer answered. You said yes. You wanted to see him again, and this time, he’d be able to sit across from you. Hear your voice without needing to follow from a distance, watch your eyes move from page to page and imagine a life where this wasn’t a one-time meeting, but instead the start of something permanent.

He spent the night planning what he’d wear, what books he’d suggest, how close he could sit without making you uncomfortable. He wouldn’t come on too strong—not yet. You still needed time to realize how well you fit together.

That next day, he arrived at the library twenty minutes early, heart pounding beneath his neatly ironed shirt, fingers twitching as he paced the aisles pretending to browse. Every few minutes, he checked his phone—no new messages. But you hadn’t canceled, that was enough for him.

He chose a seat near the windows where the sunlight hit just right, soft and warm, like the glow that radiated off you naturally. He wanted you to feel comfortable—wanted you to walk in, spot him, and smile like this was something you’d been looking forward to too.

When you finally appeared, his breath caught. You looked just like you did the first time. Simple, effortless, unaware of the effect you had on him.

Your hair was tied loosely with a bag slung over your shoulder, thumb scrolling absently on your phone as you searched for him. Then suddenly, your eyes landed on his. As you smiled, his chest tightened.

You sat across from him, greeting him cheerfully, “Hey! I’m glad you picked here, it’s quiet.”

He nodded, swallowing the flood of thoughts trying to rise up all at once. His mind swarmed violently with things he so wanted to say.

"I missed you" "I’ve seen you every day" "I’ve watched you sleep"

Instead, he offered a small smile. “Yeah, I figured you’d like it. Thought we could pick out a few books, maybe read some together?”

You agreed easily, not knowing that he’d already planned the next two hours in detail—what aisles to take you through, which titles to suggest, how close he could get when pointing something out without drawing suspicion.

Yet all he could think about was how perfect your life would be once you finally understood it belonged to him. It would all be so simple—the two of you spending the rest of your lives together.

You hadn’t expected to enjoy yourself as much as you did. Myung-gi was quiet, a little awkward, but in a way that felt endearing.

He listened more than he talked, nodding along thoughtfully as you rambled about the books you liked. He even surprised you with a recommendation that was already on your to-read list. That made you pause for a second—had you mentioned it before? You couldn’t remember.

Still, he made you feel noticed. As you walked through the stacks together, the conversation stayed light—favorite genres, authors you hated, the type of stories that kept you up at night.

Every now and then, you caught him watching you, like he was trying to memorize your expression. It made you feel warm, but slightly self-conscious.

When you sat down again, this time was closer. You noticed the way he leaned in just enough that his shoulder brushed yours. Barely—light enough that it could’ve been accidental, but it wasn’t.

You didn’t say anything, but you didn’t move away either. You weren’t sure why, but there was something about him you couldn’t quite place. He was kind, but intense. Attentive, but always a beat too focused, like he was trying to hold back something heavier under the surface.

Still, when he offered to walk you home after, you hesitated for only a moment before saying yes. It was broad daylight, what harm could it do?

The walk home had been mostly quiet, but not in a bad way—at first. Myung-gi asked you a few things here and there, nothing too personal. His voice was gentle, like he was constantly trying not to speak too loudly. He mentioned a few of his favorite books, nodded a lot when you talked, and smiled at things that weren’t even jokes.

But the longer you walked, the more you noticed. Like the way he looked at you, not just a glance—he watched you, like he was trying to memorize every shift in your expression, every movement you made. At one point, you looked over and found his eyes already on you, unblinking.

You gave a tight smile and looked away. Maybe he was just awkward, harmless. Still, something deep in your chest stirred.

When you finally reached your apartment building, you slowed to a stop and turned to him. “Thank you for walking me” you said, shifting your keys into your hand. “This was nice, really.”

He didn’t smile this time. Just looked at you, head tilted slightly. “Do you want to go out sometime?” he asked suddenly. “Like, just us—a real date.”

Your smile faltered. It wasn’t that he’d done anything wrong, not really. But something about the way he asked—how quiet the street was, how still he stood, waiting for your answer like it was a life-or-death choice—made your skin crawl.

You hesitated for a second too long, then shook your head gently. “Oh, um… I don’t really date much. But I appreciate it, we can still be friends!”

He kept smiling, but something in his face shifted just slightly. Not disappointment—something else, like the quiet twitch of a crack forming in glass. “No worries” he said, his voice low. “Just thought I’d ask.”

You nodded quickly, already backing toward the door. “Yeah, totally. I should get inside though, have a nice night.”

He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching as you turned the key in the lock and stepped inside. You could feel his gaze on the back of your neck the whole time.

As the door clicked shut behind you, you didn’t even think. You reached up and locked it—twice. Something about him had started to feel… off.

You couldn’t explain it, but for the first time since meeting him, a cold, quiet dread began to settle in your chest.

You told yourself you were overreacting. Myung-gi was probably just a little awkward, socially off. But then again, the way he stared, the way his smile didn’t fade when you said no. It was like he was already living in a version of your life that you hadn’t agreed to.

You walked to the window and peeked through the blinds. The street was empty, not a person in sight. Still, your heart wouldn’t slow down.

You shook it off, took a shower, changed into something comfortable, tried to scroll through your phone and distract yourself. You even drafted a message—hey, thanks again for walking me—but ended up deleting it. Something in your gut told you not to reach out first.

Hours passed. You were half-asleep scrolling on Instagram when your phone buzzed.

Myung-gi • just now goodnight. :)

Your body stiffened as you stared at the screen, that simple sentence digging under your skin in a way it shouldn't have. You'd been home for hours, why was he just now telling you goodnight as you were on the brink of sleep?

You hadn’t told him you were going to bed, you hadn’t texted him at all. Your phone stayed face-up this time, the screen glowing in the dark beside you. Simply hearting the message, you just laid there, wondering how he always seemed to know exactly where you were.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. You couldn’t tell.

Eventually, you turned over and pulled the covers to your chin, but sleep didn’t come easy. Every creak in the apartment made you tense, every shadow outside the window looked like it might move. You kept thinking about how long he’d paused when you said no, how tightly he watched you, how little you really knew about him.

Your eyes finally fluttered shut sometime after 3 a.m. Unfortunately, you didn’t see the notification that came in half an hour later.

Myung-gi • just now your curtain’s still open.

You never heard the soft click of your window’s faulty lock, and had no clue that by the time morning came, you wouldn’t be alone.

The sun hit your face earlier than usual. You groaned, eyes squinting against the light pouring through the window, which you could’ve sworn you closed last night. Your body felt heavy, unrested, like you hadn’t really slept at all.

You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes, then froze. Your curtain was wide open. You stared at it for a long time, stomach sinking, heartbeat starting to race in your ears. You never left it open in the morning. It faced the street and the sun blasted in. You always closed it before bed.

Did you forget?

You got up, cautiously peeking outside. People passed by; a cyclist, a woman walking her dog. Normal—still, a strange chill crept up your spine. Your phone was still on your nightstand. You picked it up with a shaky hand, and the screen lit up.

1 unread message

As you read through the text, you dropped the phone. Your hands went cold as your legs rooted to the floor. Backing away from the window instinctively, your breath caught in your throat as sweat coated your skin.

You didn’t remember that message, why hadn't you hadn’t heard it come in? You had locked the window. You were sure of it, weren’t you?

Slowly, you turned toward the far corner of your room, heart thudding louder than your footsteps. The closet door was cracked slightly—just barely—but you always shut it before bed.

You stared at the gap, skin crawling, and for the first time since meeting him, you felt something deeper than unease. You felt watched.

Suddenly, you snatched the door open with wide eyes, bracing yourself for the worst. But to your surprise, there was nothing there. All your clothes were in the exact same spot, not even being moved an inch. But no matter how safe it looked, that pit in your stomach still persisted.

With each passing second, the anxiety in your chest grew sharper, more unbearable. Frustration boiled to the surface as you tore through your apartment—ripping open doors, yanking blankets off furniture behind the shower curtain.

You didn’t know what you were looking for, you just needed to do something. Prove to yourself that you were overreacting, that nothing was there—but nothing helped.

Tears blurred your vision as terror sank deeper into your bones—a cold, sick feeling crawling up your throat. Your hands shook uncontrollably and you felt like you might throw up.

Deep down, you knew you weren’t alone, but you were desperate to prove yourself wrong—desperate to quiet the voice in your head screaming that something was watching you.

Myung-gi smiled at your obliviousness. From beneath your bed, he watched as you ran through the apartment, panic spilling from your body like perfume.

He shifted slightly, adjusting the grip on the gun resting in his lap. He didn’t want to use it—he never wanted to hurt you. This was just a precaution, something to keep things from spiraling. He knew how emotions could get in the way of love.

You stumbled through the apartment for another fifteen minutes, frantically opening doors, tossing blankets, your breath loud and uneven. It hurt him to see you like this. He loved you, and seeing you this distressed made something twist in his chest.

Eventually, he decided it was time.

Crawling out slowly from under the bed, he crept toward the doorway of the room you were in. You were facing away, knees deep in a closet, tossing around forgotten clothes and boxes from years past. He paused for a moment, just watching. You looked so beautiful like this—raw, vulnerable, real.

Each step he took was calculated, soundless. He didn’t want to startle you too early. He wanted to ease you into this—help you understand. He only wanted to keep you safe, to preserve the light he saw in you.

You were still crouched at the closet, rifling through old clothes, breath shaky. As you shifted, you caught something in the edge of the mirror across the room—a shape, a figure. Your breath hitched.

You turned your head, heart slamming against your ribs as you saw him; Myung-gi. Standing just behind you, eyes wide, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding his breath.

“Myung-gi…?” you whispered, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—”

Before you could move, his hand shot out, pressing a gloved palm over your mouth as he yanked you back against him. You screamed into the fabric, kicking, thrashing wildly, panic surging through you like electricity.

“Shh” he whispered into your ear, breath hot, trembling. “Just be quiet. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You didn’t listen, you couldn’t. You were was running on pure fear. You fought harder, body working on instinct, blind terror surging through your limbs.

“Stop moving.” he hissed, tightening his grip, “Before you make me put this gun to your head.”

Then you felt it—cold metal, unmistakable, pressing against your temple. Still shaking, you froze—everything in you locked up.

Your breath hitched in your throat, and for a moment, the only thing you could hear was your own heartbeat, loud and frantic, like it was trying to escape your chest.

“That’s better,” he murmured softly. “See? It’s okay now.”

Your eyes burned with tears, muscles locked with terror. He held you there for several seconds, like he was waiting for something—waiting for you to give in.

Then came the sharp scent, the cloth. Your vision blurred, tunneled. The strength in your body drained all at once, knees buckling beneath you. His voice faded into static, and then—

Black.

Time didn’t pass the way it should have. There was no clear sense of how long you were out—just the slow, creeping awareness of silence pressing down like fog.

The hard floor sat beneath your cheek, a dull ache in your limbs reverberating through your body. Your head throbbed, pulsing behind your eyes like something was trying to claw its way out.

You couldn’t move, not yet. Everything felt heavy, like your body didn’t belong to you. Then, a voice sounded from behind you. It was soft, familiar.

“Hey” Myung-gi whispered. “You’re awake.”

You tried to open your eyes, but everything was blurred. A light flickered above you, casting long shadows on the walls. Your wrists burned—something tight wrapped around them. Rope, duct tape—you couldn’t tell.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t wake up” he said, sitting beside you, his hand brushing your hair from your face with disturbing gentleness. “You scared me.”

He sighed, almost shamefully, as he looked down at you.

“You don’t get it yet, do you? That this is better. For both of us.”

He stood up slowly, pacing in the dim light. Wherever you were—it wasn’t your apartment. The air reeked of dust, like old wood and basement rot. You could make out shelves, boxes, shadows of things stacked against concrete walls.

He'd taken you somewhere else, somewhere no one would find you. “You’ll thank me” he murmured, voice drifting behind you. “One day, when everything finally makes sense.”

You tried to scream, but nothing came out. All you could do was lay there, heartbeat roaring in your ears, as he hummed softly to himself in the dark. The crusted streaks of old tears clung to your skin as you watched Myung-gi pace. Why was he doing this? Why you?

Suddenly, he squatted down in front of you, face inches from yours, eyes dark and unreadable. “You know,” he said softly, tilting his head, “you don’t even have to love me.”

You stared frozen as his voice dropped into something almost gentle.

“I don’t care about all that performative stuff—it’s fake. I just need you to understand that we’re perfect for each other.” His eyes widened, pupils blown, mouth twitching at the corners.

“Do you feel it too?” he asked, breath quickening. “The way my body feels like it’s gonna explode when I’m around you?” He grabbed your bound hands, clutching them tightly in his own. “It’s like fire under my skin.”

You flinched, instinctively pulling back, your whole body tensing. Suddenly, his face twisted with rage. “Fuck!” he shouted, slamming his fist into the floor beside you.

You yelped and recoiled, curling inward, arms shielding your head, breath coming in sharp gasps.

“Why are you so fucking scared of me?” he spat, pacing now, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I did all this for you! I—I made it perfect!” He stopped. Silence stretched thin in the room.

Then his voice softened again, broken and trembling. “Shit… I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He knelt beside you again, brushing your hair back from your face with trembling fingers.

“You’re just overwhelmed. That’s okay. I knew it’d take time.” His smile returned—small, shaky, too calm. “I’ll wait. I can be patient. You’ll see… once you calm down, you’ll see everything clearly.”

You didn’t move, you couldn’t. Every part of you felt like it was sinking, as if your body had left in a pile of quicksand with nobody around to help.

He stayed crouched beside you once again, one hand resting on your shoulder as the other still gently stroked your cheek like he was comforting a child. His breath was steady now, as well as his voice.

“You don’t have to talk yet” he whispered, almost sweetly. “I know you’re scared, I get it. The world’s full of liars and users and people who only want you when it’s easy.”

He smiled at you like he was telling a secret. “But not me, I want you always. Even like this—especially like this.”

Your eyes flicked toward the locked door. You’d heard it click earlier when he dragged you in. No windows in the room, just a single low bulb above your head casting a sickly yellow glow over the concrete walls. This wasn’t a basement—it was a tomb.

“Don’t look over there,” he said suddenly, his fingers tightening on your arm. “Don’t even think about leaving. That’s just the fear talking. When that goes away, you’ll realize how good this can be.”

You opened your mouth, lips trembling, but no words came out. He leaned closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“I know you don’t believe me yet, but you will.” Myung-gi whispered. “You’ll see that I’d never let anything bad happen to you. You’re safe now.”

You were shaking uncontrollably and still—he smiled. Like he’d won this sick love game.

“Now,” he said, pulling away slowly, “you rest. I’ll bring food later—something sweet. You like that, right?” He stood up, brushing the dust from his pants, and looked down at you with that same sick devotion in his eyes.

“I’ll be right outside” he added, almost proud “You won’t even have to call.” Then he turned and walked out, the door closing with a soft, final click behind him.

The lock turned, and you were alone again. With nothing but your heartbeat, the sound of your own ragged breathing—and the lingering echo of his voice still whispering in your ear: "You were always meant to be mine."

It had been four days.

Four days locked in the same suffocating room, the same flickering light, the same stale air pressing down on your lungs. You stopped crying after the first day. Not because you weren’t scared anymore—but because it didn’t help. Nothing did.

Myung-gi had changed—no, evolved. Something inside him was slowly unraveling, thread by thread, exposing the thing he’d kept hidden beneath his soft voice and trembling hands.

At first, he was quiet—careful, almost gentle. Now, he never stopped talking.

He paced constantly, muttering to himself under his breath. His words came fast, sometimes incoherent—about your future together. About people who “didn’t understand,” about fate and purity and how you were the only thing keeping him sane.

Sometimes he laughed at nothing. Other times, he’d sit across from you, staring for what felt like hours, eyes glazed over, lips barely parted, like he was studying something fragile and sacred. You learned not to look him in the eyes when he got like that.

That morning, he came in without knocking. The door slammed against the wall, his hands twitching, mouth moving before the words caught up.

“You’re still not eating.” he hissed. “Why? Hm? Do you think I poisoned it? Is that it?”

You shook your head quickly, trying to stay calm. “No—I just—I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit!” he screamed, and the plate shattered against the wall beside you, scrambled eggs sliding down the concrete like vomit.

You recoiled instinctively, knees pulled tight to your chest. Immediately, his expression snapped back—too fast. A smile stretched across his face like a mask, shaky and too wide.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” he said, kneeling beside you. “It’s just… I get scared, you know? You make me feel things no one else ever has. That’s real, right? You feel it too, you have to.”

He cupped your cheek with a shaking hand, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “I hear you at night.” he whispered. “When you think I’m not listening. You cry in your sleep. You say my name—you need me.”

His face inched closer to yours, breath warm and sour. “That’s how I know we’re right. You’re breaking now—but it’s okay. Love takes time, you’ll see soon enough.”

You said nothing, sitting frozen in that spot for what felt like hours. You were still beneath his touch, praying for him to leave, for the door to shut again. But he didn’t, not this time.

He crouched beside you, hands folded neatly as if he were trying to look nonthreatening. His lips curved into a soft smile, but his eyes didn’t match—too wide, too bright, twitching just slightly at the corners.

“You’re doing better,” he said, voice low, almost cooing. “I can feel it. You’re starting to calm down, starting to see me.” He reached out and gently massaged your hair at the scalp.

“I knew you’d come around eventually. You just needed some time, some silence, some—some real love for once.” His hand lingered on your face, stroking your cheek like he was petting something fragile and breakable. You didn’t dare move. Then, his voice dropped into a whisper.

“You don’t even realize how lucky you are, do you?” He stood up sharply and started pacing, fingers twitching, his breath speeding up as his smile faded into something vacant.

“I cleaned for you, I watched you—every single day. Do you know how careful I was? How long I waited?” he hissed, hands gesturing wildly now. “And you—you act like I’m some kind of monster.”

He stopped mid-step and turned to face you again, that broken grin returning to his lips.

“But I’m not. No, no, no— I’m not the bad guy here,” he said, tapping a finger to his temple. “I’m the only one who’s ever paid attention, the only one who cares.”

He crouched beside you again—lower this time, close enough for you to smell the sweat on his skin, to see the blood vessels flaring in his eyes. “I’ve seen how the world treats girls like you,” he whispered. “Like you're nothing but an object—a toy..”

Suddenly, he slammed his fist into the wall beside your head—hard, loud enough to make you jump and cry out. “I gave up EVERYTHING for you!”

You flinched, hands trembling violently. The rage vanished from his face just as quickly as it came. His breathing slowed, and he leaned his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering closed like he was savoring the moment.

“You make me better. Even when you’re scared. Even when you don’t say a word—I feel… complete.” He stood again, nodding, staring up at the ceiling like he was receiving instructions only he could hear.

“I’ll bring you something tomorrow. Something new, something beautiful. Maybe white lace, you’d look like an angel in it.” He paused in the doorway, back still to you. “Get some sleep” he said, too softly. “You’ll want to be perfect for the ceremony.”

He didn’t explain what he meant—he didn’t need to. The lock clicked, and for the first time, you let yourself cry freely. Not out of panic, but out of pure, helpless dread.

Because now it was clear; tomorrow, something was going to happen, and whatever it was wouldn’t be something you’d walk away from.

You didn’t sleep, even when you closed your eyes, your mind kept spinning. Your body ached from the cold floor, wrists raw from the old, rotting rope. Every creak of the pipes, every flicker of the bulb made your stomach turn.

"Ceremony."

The word echoed over and over in your mind like a siren. You didn’t know what he meant—wedding? ritual? a fantasy he’d been building in his head for weeks? Whatever it was, it felt final.

You stared at the locked door, trying to calm your breathing. He was sleeping, he had to be. You’d heard his footsteps grow distant, heard the soft squeak of a mattress near you. Wherever he stayed when he wasn’t down here.

You couldn’t wait anymore. You felt the panic rise in your chest again, heavy and bitter like vomit. But you swallowed it down, you couldn’t give up.

Your wrists burned from the rope, the skin rubbed raw and tender, but no matter how you twisted or pulled, they wouldn’t come free. You’d tried for hours—quietly, patiently, rubbing the knot against anything with an edge. It didn’t loosen. If anything, it only dug deeper.

Looking around the room, your eyes scanned every corner. The shelves, the pipes along the ceiling, the single bulb flickering overhead, and then—the door. The hinges, they were on your side.

Your fingers trembled, bound and awkward, but you shuffled toward the shelves, dropping to your knees. You couldn’t grab much with your hands tied, but after a few frantic tries, you managed to catch a piece of thin metal—something rusted and sharp.

You dragged it toward you, nearly cutting your palm as you adjusted your grip. Then, shuffling to the door, you leaned sideways and started jamming the tool against the bottom hinge. You couldn’t do it fast—your hands were too restricted—but the screw started to move just slightly.

A spark of hope flickered as you kept going, teeth clenched, body shaking. The sound of metal grinding filled the room in short, sharp bursts. Every noise made you freeze, but nothing came.

Then, just as you were beginning to shift the second screw— footsteps sounded through your ears. Fast, heavy, and directly above you.

You froze, pulse thundering in your ears. Dropping the piece of metal, your body instinctively curling up, as if hiding could somehow undo what you’d just done.

Silence, then: “You’re awake.”

His voice came through the door like a cold wind, too calm to be safe. “You haven’t been sleeping,” he continued, slower now, amused. “That’s okay. I couldn’t sleep either. I was too excited.”

You stayed completely still, heart racing, chest heaving with shallow breaths. He was silent for a moment, then spoke up gently “You know, I really hoped you’d behave.”

The door handle turned. “You were doing so well.”

You started shaking, inching backward as fast as you could with your bound hands and trembling legs. The metal tool clattered beside you, useless now.

The door creaked open, and there he was, standing in the doorway like somebody summoned him. He looked down at you, eyes wide and glistening with something that almost resembled heartbreak. His smile was gone.

“Were you trying something?” You slid back slowly, eyes fixed on the door. You didn’t answer. The doorknob turned slowly, and you realized—he'd never gone to sleep.

He didn’t move toward you at first—just stood there, scanning the room as if he needed to memorize it.

Then he looked at you. Not that wide, boyish smile he used when he was pretending to be gentle—no, this one was thinner, cracked around the edges, like something rotten sat behind his teeth.

“I watched you breathe all night” he said softly, his voice disturbingly calm. “Every rise and fall, like music.”

He took a few slow steps closer, crouching near your feet but not touching you. His eyes darted along your face, hungry, glassy, burning.

“You don’t get it yet, but I’ve loved you for so long, loved you so hard.” He laughed to himself, a dry breath that held no joy. “You were mine the second I saw you.”

You flinched, and he leaned in just a little closer, eyes never leaving yours.

“I’d do anything for you,” he whispered. “I’d kill for you. I’d rip my fucking heart out if it meant you’d just look at me the way you look at strangers on the street.”

His tone shifted again, suddenly bitter. “But you never saw me, did you? You just smiled and led me on like I was nobody.” His jaw clenched. “I sat on buses with you, ate at the same places, walked behind you to your house so you'd be safe.”

He looked down at his trembling hands. “I didn’t even touch you. Not once. I waited, I gave you time—I earned this.” His eyes lifted again, dark and wild.

“You think this is wrong? You think I’m crazy?” he hissed, the words shaking. “No no, what’s crazy is you walking around like you’re not the most important thing in the world. What’s crazy is you thinking someone else could ever love you more than I do.”

He stood suddenly, hands in his hair now, pacing in a frantic circle. “You were out there talking to strangers, laughing, breathing near other men like it didn’t mean anything—but it did. It did.”

He turned on you again, rage flickering behind the tears in his eyes. “You don’t understand what it does to me when I see that. When I imagine you in someone else’s house, someone else’s bed—”

He stopped, swallowed, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “But that’s okay, because I’ve got you now. No more mistakes, no more distractions. You’re gonna love me—I’ll make you love me.”

You stared, frozen in place, your bound hands useless in your lap, lungs barely moving. Then he dropped to his knees again, crawling toward you, gaze hollow but oddly soft.

“You don’t even have to say it,” he whispered, his face inches from yours. “I’ll wait as long as I have to, and when it finally happens—when you finally get it—it’ll be perfect.”

His voice cracked. “I just want to be inside your head,” he whispered, eyes wide, unblinking. “So deep you can’t hear yourself think without hearing me.”

Then, quieter, he spoke “I want to be the reason you stop sleeping. The voice behind your eyes, the ache in your ribs. I want to take up so much space inside you that there’s nothing left for anyone else.”

He leaned closer, inches from your face now. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “I can feel it already. It’s starting, isn’t it? The way your heart beats faster when I’m near. Even when you’re scared, you’re still beautiful.”

He stared at you for a beat longer, then pressed a kiss to your bound knuckles. It wasn’t tender—it felt like branding.

Then he stood, and just like that, the heat in the room vanished. He turned his back to you, voice now light, like he was discussing something casual.

“I’m going to cook you breakfast tomorrow,” he said cheerfully, like you hadn’t just watched him fall apart in front of you. “Something warm, maybe eggs, or oatmeal. Something soft for your stomach.”

He started walking toward the door, humming softly to himself. It was off-key and slow—almost childlike. “Oh,” he added, just before slipping out, “you’ll wear something different too. I’ve laid it out already. It’s… more fitting.”

The door creaked shut behind him and you were alone again. Except you weren’t, not really. His presence clung to the room like humidity—thick, sticky, and impossible to breathe through.

Your stomach twisted at the thought of the clothes he mentioned, of what tomorrow might mean. You lowered your head, ropes burning against your raw wrists, trying to keep your breath steady. But deep down, a small voice was screaming; You were running out of time.

Time blurred as the air turned stale. You lost count of how many hours passed. You closed your eyes and forced your body still, hoping your mind would follow—but every flicker of darkness behind your lids was worse than what you could see. You kept imagining him standing over you—watching, smiling.

Then suddenly, the bulb buzzed to life, blinding in the pitch-black room. You flinched instinctively, body curling into itself as the sudden brightness cut through the thick fog of exhaustion.

Footsteps followed. They were those same slow, measured steps you'd memorized—and grown to hate. He was humming again, like a child playing pretend. You heard the keys jingle just before the lock twisted.

Myung-gi stepped inside with a tray in his hands. A bowl, a glass of water, and what looked like a slice of toast cut into a perfect heart. “I made breakfast” he said softly, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Setting the tray down in front of you like he was offering peace, his gaze scanned your face, trying to read your expression like it held a secret. “I hope you like it” he added, “You should eat before we get you dressed.”

Your stomach turned. You hadn’t seen what he laid out, but the way he said it made your whole body tense. Turning your face away from his hand, you pressed your cheek to your shoulder.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, in a much quieter voice, he said, “Don’t do that.” It was so soft it didn’t register as a threat until you looked back up and saw the way his face had shifted. The smile was gone again, jaw tight like it was about to break.

“I said I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he murmured, eyes darkening slowly. “So don’t make me.”

He stood abruptly, dragging a small chair from the wall and setting it in front of you, backward. He straddled it, arms crossed over the top, chin resting lazily on them like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

He reached down and picked up the toast heart, holding it between two fingers like a strange offering. “Eat.” he said softly. “You’ll need it.” Then he grinned, “We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

He stood slowly, walked over to a drawer by the far wall, and pulled something out—carefully folded, wrapped in plastic. A pale pink dress. “I want you to wear this,” he said, walking it over and setting it neatly on the tray. “It’s important for today.”

Your stomach turned just looking at it. “Can I… have privacy?” you asked, voice shaking.

He blinked, and for a long second, he didn’t move. Then something strange flickered in his eyes—like surprise, then delight. “Of course you can,” he said softly, almost too softly. “You’re still my girl, I trust you.”

He crouched and slowly undid the ropes around your wrists, fingers brushing your skin longer than necessary. You bit down the panic, keeping your breathing even, waiting for your moment.

Once free, he stepped back. "I’ll be right here" He said, turning around in a corner to shield himself from your body. "Just shout when you're done."

As soon as his face was completely out of sight, your mind exploded with clarity. A voice screaming inside you; run.

Your body moved on instinct. You didn’t even look at the dress, you didn’t even feel the floor under your feet. You bolted.

Across the room, through the hallway.

The front door, the exit.

You grabbed the handle with both hands, heart exploding in your chest. But there were locks, so many locks. Bolts, chains, a twist bar, a digital keypad. Your fingers trembled as you fumbled with them, hands slick with sweat.

Then behind you, the sound of footsteps—fast. You turned around quickly, chest heaving from adrenaline.

Myung-gi stood in the hallway, panting raggedly, hair a tangled mess. His pupils were blown wide, shirt half-unbuttoned as he stood barefoot. He looked like something hollowed him out and stitched the pieces back wrong.

"Why," he said, voice shaking with rage and disbelief, "would you make me do this?"

You backed against the door, scrambling with the top lock.

But not fast enough.

His hand shook as he raised the gun, face trembling—not with sadness now, but pure hysteria. “You weren’t supposed to leave,” he whispered.

And then—

‘BANG!’

The shot rang out, deafening. Pain exploded through your leg, red-hot and instant. You dropped to the ground screaming, the impact making your head snap back against the door.

Blood smeared under your thigh as your body curled up in agony, your hands instinctively trying to hold the wound, stop the blood, the burning.

He was walking toward you now. Slow, measured. His eyes were wet with tears, smile gone. But something stood out—the gun still in his hand, and the expression in his face that looked nothing like love anymore.

Reaching down and snatching your unwounded leg in a tight grip, Myung-gi started to drag your body through the house. Nails in the floor dug into your back and ripped skin off as you screamed, grabbing onto anything you could—hoping, praying to make the dragging stop.

Catching a glass vase in your hands, you acted on pure instinct and flung your arm forward, chucking the glass straight at his head.

“Fuck!” he shouted, stumbling back and clutching his head with his free hand. Blood leaked through his fingers as you kicked your leg violently, desperate to break free.

But he was stronger, manlier. Gripping your ankle even tighter now, Myung-gi looked back at you with blood dripping down his face. Every bit of softness he once had was gone—replaced with pure, wild insanity.

Tilting his head slightly, he pulled the gun from his back pocket again and, without hesitation, fired a bullet straight through the center of your palm.

You let out a lung-rupturing scream, staring at your hand—now gushing blood, a ragged hole burned through the middle. You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

You screamed, cried, let everything out. Every inch of your body burned with pain. You felt like you could pass out—you should've passed out—but you didn’t.

The pain pulsed through your body like electricity, every heartbeat sharpening it. Your leg was useless. Your hand, ruined. Blood smeared across the floor beneath you. Yet still, Myung-gi held on.

Without a word, he started up again, pulling you across the floor like a rag doll. His face was blank now—no trace of rage, no joy, just a cold, eerie stillness. His eyes locked onto yours, and for a second, you swore you saw pity.

You screamed again as your back scraped along the wooden floor, nails coming from the ground ripping your skin like paper.

You reached for furniture, walls, anything, but nothing helped. He dragged you through the hallway, past the shattered vase and overturned chair, past the kitchen where the breakfast still sat—untouched and already going cold.

You knew where he was taking you. The door you'd been trapped in for days, never having a second of daylight; the basement.

“No” you choked out, voice nearly gone. “Please—please, Myung-gi, stop…”

He didn’t answer, just pulled the door open with his free hand, revealing a narrow staircase swallowed by shadows. It smelled like mold and metal, damp wood and bleach.

Your body thrashed weakly, but it was no use. You were already half inside.

The stairs creaked as he hauled your limp body downward, one step at a time. Your broken hand hung uselessly at your side, blood dripping with every jolt. Your vision was swimming while the cold air swallowed you. Soon after, the door creaked shut behind him, plunging you both into darkness.

The light buzzed to life above you with a loud, electric snap. The basement was worse than you remembered—maybe because now you were seeing it knowing what was coming. The chair was still there, so were the ropes.

Myung-gi let go of your leg and stood upright, breathing hard. He didn’t look at you for a long moment. He just stared ahead, silent, hands twitching at his sides.

“You’re pretty fucking bratty,” he said again, voice lower now, teeth clenched. “Did all this for you. Everything.”

He took a few slow steps towards the far wall where a row of tools hung neatly—like part of a workshop. You hadn’t noticed them before, or maybe your mind had refused to.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths as you watched him select something. His hand hovered, then closed around it.

An axe.

Large and slightly rusted—like he’d used it once and put it up for display. Your body went still. Myung-gi turned towards you once again. now dragging the blade behind him. The scraping sound it made against the cement floor was slow and rhythmic—almost teasing.

“I didn’t want it to be like this” he said, voice shaking. “You made me do this. I love you—I love you so much it hurts. But you don’t listen, you just keep running.”

You tried to crawl backwards using your one good arm, your wounded leg dragging helplessly behind you. “Please.” you rasped. “Please help me... You don’t have to—”

But he was already lifting it.

And before another word could leave your lips, the blade came down—fast and jagged, slicing across your chest with a shallow slash.

You couldn't even scream. Frozen in pain, you laid still in the same spot. Breathing—barely, but still alive nonetheless. You stared up blankly at Myung-gi's blurry face, silently pleading for the torture to stop.

His eyes twitched, unfocused, almost dazed as he stared down at you—like he couldn’t believe what he’d done. Like you were the one who forced it to happen.

Then, slowly, methodically, he adjusted his grip on the axe. With one last inhale, he brought it down again—this time lower, heavier, landing hard in the center of your chest.

Your body convulsed violently, the air ripped clean from your lungs. You didn’t feel the sharpness as much as you felt the weight—a crushing force that cracked through your bones like old wood.

Blood spilled out in waves now, warm and endless, pooling beneath you like a dark halo. Your body began to shut down, nerves firing in chaotic bursts, every part of you pulsing with agony.

You weren’t moving anymore.

No twitching fingers, no pleading breath, no more glassy, blinking stares. Just stillness—silence. Blood reached the bottoms of his feet, warm and sticky. The sound of it dripping echoed in the basement like a slow, ticking clock.

Finally, Myung-gi dropped the axe. It hit the concrete with a dull, wet 'clank', but he barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on your body—limp, twisted, a lifeless version of everything he once adored.

He dropped to his knees beside you. For a moment, he didn’t speak, just stared. Then, carefully, he reached forward and rubbed your bloodied face with his hand

"You're so beautiful." he spoke, smudging crimson around your cheek. "It's so peaceful when you're quiet, isn't it?"

He laughed, but it cracked halfway through, twisting into a sob. A sudden, sharp sound tore from his chest as he pressed his forehead to your shoulder, shaking.

“I didn’t mean to do it like this...” he gasped, voice breaking apart. “You were supposed to see me—love me. Not leave me.”

His hands clutched your body, pulling you into his arms. Blood soaked into his clothes, pooling in his lap, but he didn’t care. He rocked you gently like a doll, murmuring apologies between dry, choking breaths.

“I didn’t want to.” he kept repeating. “I didn’t want to, I didn’t want to…”

His voice broke into silence, only the hum of the basement light remained, and the sound of him holding something that could never hold him back.

"Don't go yet… please" He begged, staring down at your cold, bloody body. Tears fell from his face onto yours as he sobbed loudly, snot pouring out of his nose. "I need you forever, even if it's only a part of you." He couldn't bear the thought of losing you completely, clinging to any remnant he could find.

Looking at the shredded pieces of skin and meat hanging off of your chest, Myung-gi sniffed softly. There was a way you could be closer to him than ever—inside of his body.

He bent down quickly, taking the fragments of your chest inside of his mouth. It was bitter—sour even, just like you before your demise. He kept chewing, crushing the rubbery bits of body between his molars.

His mouth was littered with the taste of blood—but none of that mattered. It was yours. The act felt like a final, twisted embrace. A desperate attempt to keep you with him always.

But it wasn’t enough. Even if it dulled the ache for now, he knew it would crawl back—hungrier, louder, more feral than before.

His hand trembled as he reached for the gun lying on the floor beside him. The metal felt weird against his skin—cold, distant, like it belonged to someone else entirely. He pressed the barrel to his temple, breath shuddering.

Silence pressed slowly, just him, the gun, and the weight of everything he’d destroyed. Closing his eyes with a slow, trembling breath, he pulled the trigger.

The blast shattered the silence, echoing through the basement like the end of a symphony. His body dropped beside yours with a heavy thud—limp and final.

Blood spilled out, meeting yours in the middle, mixing into the cracked concrete like a signature neither of you could take back. Two lives, forever tangled in violence and delusion.

As the last of his breath slipped away, a single tear traced down his cheek and fell onto yours. It lingered there—quiet and cold. Myung-gi died with a smile, satisfied by the twisted peace he'd crafted—because in his mind, you were his forever.

But your peace would never come, not even in death. Because even in the afterlife, you were still bound to him—tethered to the madness he called love.

Forever.

111 notes · View notes

araragomennnn · 3 days ago

Text

SECOND CHANCES - OIKAWA

sum: It’s been years since everything fell apart. But when a familiar voice cuts through the noise of his favourite bar, Oikawa realises some ghosts never really leave — and maybe, this time, he won’t let you go.

cw: angst, fluff, mentions of domestic violence, fighting, pining, slightly toxic!iwa, swearing.

wc: 3.8k

Oikawa knows how wrong this is. Hell, he’s known for years, yet when he heard the familiar clicking of heels against the hardwood floor along with snippets of a voice that rings in his ears and makes his heart race a million miles per hour, a voice that sounds a lot like yours.

He springs out of his seat, shuffling towards the sound, leaving his very unhappy date behind. Manoeuvring his way through the bustling crowd at his favourite Argentinian bar, his eyes frantically search the gathering and when they meet yours, it’s as if no time has passed at all. You’re leaning against the counter, elbows resting on its surface, gaze fixed on him and then you smile and it’s one that knocks all the air out of his chest as everything other than you begins to blur into the distance and he returns it, but wider.

He feels his conscience dissipate into the air when you pull out a barstool beside you, beckoning him to come over and when your arms envelope around his neck, your face meeting his chest, he feels it reduce into nothingness. He hugs you back, enjoying the moment, savouring it before he has to loosen his hold on your frame.

“Oh I’ve missed you,” you hum and it does inexplicable things to his heart.

“Makes sense,” he drawls playfully and he swears he can hear you roll your eyes.

You begin to pull away from him and he instantly misses your warmth, “I see age has not changed you,” you tease.

“What are you doing in Argentina?” he asks through a grin.

“Just work stuff,” you sigh before your lips curve into an excited smile, “enough about me, what about you, setter for the Argentinian volleyball team?” You playfully punch the side of his arm mid squeal and he chuckles, hoping you miss the way his cheeks redden at your excitement.

“How do you like it here?” you ask and you’re so happy, so proud of him, it almost makes him want to lie.

So, he does.

“I love it here,” he pauses, getting lost in the way you’re looking at him, “it’s exactly what I dreamed of,” lies.

Your face lights up and you clasp your hands together before reaching over to mush his cheeks. He rears his head back, flashing his palms, “hey, not with goods,”

You scoff playfully, smile never leaving your lips. “And to think you couldn’t get any cockier after high school,”

He chuckles and soon after you join him.

You talk for what seems like an hour after that, catching up on each other’s lives as old friends do before the dreaded question comes.

You fall silent, gaze fixed on your fingers as you fiddle with them and he tries to ignore how his heart squeezes tightly in anticipation, picking up his untouched glass to swallow the liquid in one go.

“How’s Hajime?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper as if it tastes stale in your mouth and he inhales sharply as if in physical pain but his smile doesn’t falter, he’s used to this after all.

“He’s good,” you nod, “I mean after all he is going to be the coach of the japan national volleyball team,” Oikawa shrugs.

You let out a relaxed exhale. “He’s come far,”

Oikawa nods, calling for the bartender, the nostalgic ache beginning to pour in.

It’s wrong, disloyal, betraying, the list goes on but above all, it’s his fault.

His fault for falling for his best friend’s ex.

He’d met you before Iwaizumi did and he remembers his first impression of you was that you looked a little nerdy but not in the stereotypical glasses-wearing way but the kind that makes people presidents.

He liked that, he admired that like he admired everything else about you and within the blink of an eye he couldn’t seem to remember a time without your presence in his little friend group and it seemed that with every little thing he uncovered about you, he only fell deeper.

He also remembers the day you went from iwaizumi’s lab partner to his girlfriend. Iwaizumi banged on his room door, screaming that he got a girlfriend before Oikawa did and before he got the chance to speak Iwaizumi told him that his girlfriend was none other than you.

But he would be a liar if he said that he was surprised. He always felt like an observer, scratch that he was an observer. It seemed that when you two were together you spoke in a language he never seemed to understand, a language that had no place for him.

He acted as if he never noticed the longing glances shared between you and Iwaizumi in hopes that you wouldn’t notice his.

He remembers that the breakup was messy, it was what led Iwaizumi to leave for California, and as quick as you entered Oikawa’s life you had left. You did keep in touch a little bit, but life and ambition pulled you in two different directions and it just wasn’t the same anymore, it couldn’t be. So, he moved on or he thought that he did but you, his first love always lingered in the back of his heart and mind when he was with anyone that wasn’t you.

The years have been good to you, he thinks as your laugh fills the canals of his ears and the chambers of his heart and a familiar feeling of longing begins to seep in.

They say you never really get over your first love. Oikawa hates how right they are but then you look at him like that, lips curved in an easy grin, cheeks flushed and eyes simmering with something he can’t put a finger on and he hates them a little less.

“My instructor said I picked up the language pretty fast,” Oikawa boasts,

You narrow your eyes at him, “say something in Spanish then,”

He scoffs pridefully before his gaze positions itself on the ceiling, in thought.

He sighs, “Todavía pienso en ti todos los días”

You still in your seat, eyes widening for a moment before you clear your throat, “what does that mean?”

He leans into your personal space on liquid courage, hot breath tickling the shell of your ear. “Figure it out yourself,”

You roll your eyes, leaning into the palm propping your face before the bartender shuffles over informing both of you that it’s almost an hour past closing time and that you both need to leave.

Oikawa turns to look around, the tables and barstools are empty. His time with you has come to an end.

His chest begins to hollow and dread begins to flood in as he shrugs on his coat after you.

The air is crisp and frigid once the doors close behind you, Oikawa notices you rubbing your palms together from the corner of his eye as he falls into step beside you.

He realises he barely asked you about yourself in the hours you spent together,

“What do you do?”

You perk up, tilting your head to meet his gaze and humming questioningly.

“Your job” he confirms, “what do you do for work?”

You smile knowingly and oikawa cocks a brow in confusion.

“Well,” you chew at your lower lip, “I'm an interpreter,” you confess.

Your cheeks redden, oikawa blinks before he halts in his steps.

“Wait..” he trails off, “when you said you were here for work...”

You spin to look at him, lips curved in a shy grin. “I’m a Spanish interpreter,”

Oikawa’s mouth opens before closing again, blinking before repeating the same process.

You shift your weight to your side, grin getting impossibly wider. Oikawa has no idea what any of this means but for a brief second he notices something flash across your face, a feeling he is all too familiar with but he buries that thought.

A dark red blush blooms across the skin of his face, he blames the cold. No one speaks for a few moments with oikawa gaping and blinking at you.

“Why did you act as if you didn’t understand?”

“To check if you were just messing with me,” you shrug before walking towards him. Your expression turns calmer, eyes wide and Oikawa is unsure of what to make of this. “or if you actually meant it.”

Oikawa waits for the ground to crack open and swallow him whole but sadly that doesn’t happen.

He tries to charm his way out of this by smirking but it ends up coming out pained and he sees you visibly biting the inside of your cheeks to prevent yourself from laughing.

“So what was the conclusion that you came to?” he tries to inquire cooly but it comes off wobbly and nervous.

You inhale deeply before aligning your gaze with the stars. “That it’s safe to tell you that I too thought of you everyday.”

Oikawa freezes, feet planted to the ground as he tries to make sense of the words that left your mouth but you’re already walking towards your car.

“W-wait,” he pleads to the back of your figure.

He can’t let you go. Not again, not this time.

This is wrong. He knows it is but safe guarding his best friend’s feelings led him to hurt his own.

He’s tired of trying to find a replacement for a position you never filled. He’s tired of pretending that this never happened, that you never happened but Unfortunately for him and Iwaizumi, you weren’t just a silly high school crush that persisted for a little too long and unfortunately for them you weren’t someone he was able to forget.

This is wrong he knows it is but he grabs your wrist pleadingly, he can’t for the life of him think of any other way to make you stay. Hoping the raw desperation in his eyes puts across what he’s been concealing in them for years.

But you loosen your hand out of his grip and the glaringly obvious realisation makes itself a little more obvious again.

You aren't his to keep, you never were.

He used to often think back to before Iwaizumi and you started dating. He’d kept his feelings hidden because he was afraid. A pure, simple and childish fear of rejection. It seems frustratingly stupid now.

But then, he saw how Iwaizumi looked at you and it felt like a punch in the gut and just like that it was too late. Iwaizumi had asked you out, and you said yes.

Then a month passed, a year, two years, yet the both of you were the very picture of young love and just like that Oikawa was left behind.

So, he put everything he had into volleyball and climbed his way up all the way to Argentina at the expense of his own blood, sweat and the many lonely nights in a bed too big for one and as time passed funnily enough Iwaizumi had called him, furiously delivering the news of your breakup.

He hates that all he felt was joy.

You look him in the eye, a bittersweet expression.

Oikawa’s hands are balled into fists at his sides.

“What did you mean by that?”

You sigh, it's one of exhaustion before screwing your eyelids shut.

“Tooru..I”

He inhales sharply at his first name. It’s been a while since he’s heard you call him that.

“What did you mean by that?” he pleads, brows knit together as a small spark of hope begins to ignite in him.

You glance at his hand at his side, clenching and unclenching like he’s holding something in — and you hate that you know exactly how that feels.

“I made a mistake,”

Tooru’s brows spread in confusion, “what?” he fumbles for words.

“What do you mean?”

“I made a mistake dating Hajime,”

This doesn't make sense, Oikawa thinks.

“What?”

You didn’t mean to let this get out. In fact you planned on locking how you felt within yourself for eternity. Hajime was a good man, deep down he was but you had grown tired of him, of his anger.

When the screaming matches made you long for silent dinners you knew that this had gone too far. You remember being a shell of a person you once were, pressing your palms against your ears like a cornered child when Iwaizumi shoved the china off the dinner table. The shards of glass spread across the living room like a tsunami and though regret immediately washed over his face. You knew apologies couldn’t save this relationship anymore.

You had chosen the wrong man.

You remember you were teetering at the edge of the court shyly observing the cool setter your classmate had told you about. He’s cute, you think. Your friends run on to the court after his match concluded, screaming greetings each one louder than the other. You had trailed slowly behind, unsure of what to do with your hands awkwardly in your pockets when a loud screech brought you back.

“Watch out!”

You turn to the source of the sound and as you know it, a ball is approaching you at mach speed.

This is it, you think to yourself. Of course you enter the Aoba Josei court for the first time and get hit in the face.

You close your eyes bracing for impact but none comes.

Hesitantly, you slowly open your eyes to a back facing you and the wretched ball rolling at your feet.

Oikawa slowly turns around, coughing with a pained smirk at his lips.

“You okay?” he wheezes out. His face was contorted in a weird expression in an attempt to hide the pain he was in while attempting to play off his hero moment in nonchalance.

You remember thinking he looked silly.

You hastily thanked him, hurrying off the court before you got the chance to be hounded by his fangirls.

You became friends with Hajime knowingly, and as you’d hoped you later became friends with Oikawa too, marking the beginning of your highschool crush.

You three were inseparable but the more time you spent with Oikawa, the farther he seemed to be from your reach. A man with big dreams, a star setter, the school heartthrob, he had almost everything so much so that you felt like you paled in comparison.

So the dream of Oikawa remained a dream, he was a silly day dream you played in your head in class, or when he’d come a tad too close for a friend, or when he’d brush his fingers against yours and you’d leave them there. He was your fleeting chance to escape the mundane in your head, you don’t remember exactly when you stopped thinking of him as anything else.

So, when Hajime asked you out, you said yes because while Oikawa was nothing but a dream, Iwaizumi was ready to be a part of your reality and though you’d never planned for it, you began to fall for Iwaizumi.

He made grand gestures to win you over, bought you flowers and took you on nice dates, he seemingly did everything right and those dreams you had of anything with Oikawa left at the back of your head, forgotten.

It was young love, fresh and yet to blossom but when life got to the both of you, the petals of a flower that never blossomed began to wilt. Iwaizumi was getting left behind, his classmates were training talented athletes or were becoming them but there seemed to be no room suited for Aoba Josai’s ex - spiker. He was frustrated, he knew that he still needed to grow but one harsh rejection after the other made him take out his pent up pain on you. So, you left him.

The break up was bad, Iwaizumi didn’t take it well and left for California right after.

Now, looking at how things panned out, it was for the best.

So you restarted your life without him but every now and then you couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if you’d taken that leap of fate and chosen Oikawa instead.

If those fleeting glances meant anything- him staying back after school to help you with cleaning duty, offering you his coat in the cold, the all nighters he had pulled to teach you for your tests, sharing his umbrella in the rain and tilting it so you stayed dry while his shoulder got soaked, if any of it meant anything.

You didn’t think the universe would give you a second chance but now looking at Oikawa’s desperate eyes you rethink every moment with him, every encounter, every conversation and wonder whether you had it wrong all along.

You now realise, you may have.

Maybe, this was your second chance.

You smile brightly, the weight of a thousand bricks off of you, “Tooru,” you say almost above a whisper but your eyes gleam with an indescribable light and Oikawa feels his knees go weak.

“I loved you first.”

And Oikawa for the first time in years believes that maybe this time he won't have to let you go.

a/n: reader little dense in this. also i still need to make a new taglist😢😢

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devswritingcornerorsmth · 2 days ago

Note

Headcanons for Mitchell Linn and Stefan*Underrated Dateable* who are dating a Reader who a baker who often stress bakes dozen pastries and desserts to point of overstuffing pantry cabinets and fridge

stefan my BELOVED i would kill for mr cluckles rip freddy and cabrizzio tho

Stefan

= Stefan was never much for baking, but did enjoy it every now and then. He doesn't mind it at first when you first start to bake, ending up with a dozen pasties or so. And then the next day, and the next, then he realizes there's a problem.

= He knows you love baking, and it's your job, but there's this nagging feeling inside of him that something is wrong. Even this is too much for him.

= Cabrizzo ends up complaining to Daisuke, who now barely has enough room to even breathe due to all the tupperware being filled with sweets, bread, and other things like that. Freddy has had to "secretly" throw some of the sweets away after sitting for too long and going bad. They all go to Stefan since he's the one technically helping you make all the sweets. He, with some annoyance and encouragement from Mr. Cluckles, agrees to help.

= Stefan wants to give you the benefit of the doubt, telling himself you're just doing what you love, but clearly this is for your own state of mind instead of putting the pastries in your bakery, or bringing them to friends and family, you wrap them up and put them away for later.

= Stefan confronts you as calmly as he can next time you go to bake, asking if everything was alright and why you were baking so much, with the helpful supervision of Mr Cluckles. He understands how calming it can be to focus on doing something you love, hell, he's a chef and cooks to see people smile.

= If someone is causing you to do this, like a bully or rude relative, he takes a moment, looks to Mr Cluckles, looks back to you, and says that the person is lucky he's a stove rooted in place.

= If you tell him it's no big deal, he gets a little ticked off but quickly calms down. Stefan won't force anything out of you if you don't want to tell him, but he still tells you that he's worried... and won't turn on until you tell him. He quickly takes that back when he sees your face fall, trying to play it off as a joke. Stefan cups your cheeks and tells you that he's here for you when you're ready.

= When you do tell Stefan what's going on, he stays silent and listens while cooking your comfort food. Baking helps you focus, helps you get away, comforts you, etc. He understands all of that since he is a chef, but this is a little much, even for him. Freddy and Cabrizzio are worried about the pasties going bad and making you sick if you do try to eat them, and Stefan is worried for you in general.

= He tries to convince you to try and find another way to alleviate your stress. He suggested asking other objects for things to do or to hang out with a friend (or multiple) to get your mind off things. Stefan doesn't want you to give up baking altogether if it's your ultimate relaxer, but maybe take a small break to get your chicks in a row. And hey, he can always give you cooking lessons instead!

Mitchell Linn

= Mitchell only notices when Cabrizzo and Freddy start complaining about being overstuffed and uncomfortable. Also, the fact that he barely has any breathing room anymore. He's noticed you around Stefan a lot more and figured you were planning on moving your bakery here for him to review, or starting one! Mitchell quickly learns that's not the case when he sees Freddy throw out a few week-old pastries.

= He's quick to ask you about it, asking if everything was alright and why you were baking so much. He won't mind if you don't tell him right away, but he'll be worried about you and wonder what he could do to help.

= Mitchell tries to help you relax in his own way, taking you out to the few restaurants in the house to just relax, calm down, and talk. He doesn't jump to your stress baking just yet, listening to you talk about everything and anything until he places his hand over yours, unless you don't like physical touch, and clears his throat.

= He tells you that he knows you've been stress baking and that something is clearly stressing you out to the point you make so much so often. Mitchell has heard about stress baking and why people do it, but he wants to know why you're doing it. He won't force you to say anything or tell him, but it's clear he's expecting an answer and an honest one.

= If it's someone in your personal life bothering you, he advises you to try and limit contact with them or cut them out entirely. If/When he's Realized, he writes a horrible review of that person even if they're not a food critic out of spite.

= If it's personal things like mental health or something close to that, he offers to be a shoulder to lean on if you need it.

= Mitchell then offers to help you start a bakery here at the house for all the objects, so none of the sweets go to waste! He helps you go over a location, menu, style, etc. Even if he finds some things tacky, he keeps them to himself, just wanting to see you happy.

= The both of you are surprised when the bakery becomes a hit, objects coming in and out almost every day to try some of your baking. Even Rebel showed up and proceeded to steal a dozen or so sweets from you. Talking to them later, they admit to actually liking it... before calling you a few choice words and running off, embarrassed.

= Mitchell is happy that you're using your talents for good instead of stuffing them away to either be thrown out later or eaten by yourself. All the rest of the objects and Dateables are happy too.

----

stefan is underated and i love him and Mr cluckles his realized form was a jumpscare tho-

#devv's writings #date everything #date everything game #date everything x reader #date everything stefan #stefan date everything #date everything stefan x reader #stefan date everything x reader #mitchell linn #date everything mitchell #mitchell linn x reader #date everything mitchell x reader

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bunniestial · 2 days ago

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PAVEMENT CHALK & NOSTALGIA

H.HJ x ChildhoodBestFriend!Reader

Summary: Hyunjin stumbles across a small artist from Twitter and Dms them for tips, short messages of advice turn into confessions of the past and confiding in eachother- and Hyunjin realises that the pretty girl who works with pastels isn't just some nobody.

Prev • Series Masterlist • Next

TW: panic attack, mourning, reader has a bit of a breakdown,.mentions of car crash

★CHAPTER 8: SUNSHINE★

Hyunjin’s mind was spinning, thoughts colliding and tumbling over each other in a chaotic rush. What if? The question echoed louder with every passing second. It couldn’t be—surely it couldn’t be. The odds were astronomically low. That this girl he found online, through some random algorithm, some fated scroll, could be her- his childhood best friend. His first love. The girl he used to share secrets and sidewalk chalk with. the one who knew him before the world did. The one who vanished from his life when life tore them apart too soon. It was almost impossible.

But then again... the word almost loomed. It was almost impossible. Which meant there was still a sliver of possibility, even the smallest of chances could make this worth it... Maybe.

And that sliver, sharp and stubborn, had already burrowed itself into the pit of his stomach—a seed of hope he hadn’t realized he’d been capable of carrying until now.

He stared at her profile again, picking apart the smallest details- her brushstrokes, her captions, the subtle humor in the way she titled her pieces. There was something eerily familiar in it all, like hearing the first few notes of a long-forgotten song and knowing every word that comes next.

He knew he was being ridiculous. "Grasping at straws" as jeongin would put it. Building a fantasy out of coincidence and nostalgia. But still... what if there was a way to find out more? Nothing too invasive. Just a little sleuthing. Look into where she went to school. Her hometown. Any breadcrumb that might lead him to the truth.

Part of him wanted to just message her. Tell her his name.

The problem was... he couldn’t. Not really. His real name couldn't be given to the public. It was protected by layers of contracts and NDAs. Giving it away would be a breach of confidentiality—one with serious consequences if he was wrong. His career, his reputation, and everyone connected- his staff, company, members, could go down in flames.

He could already see the headlines: “Global Star Caught Secretly Messaging Small Artist—Allegations of Manipulation Emerge.” Just the thought of it made his stomach churn. The industry was ruthless. One misstep and everything he’d built would be swallowed whole.

No, he couldn’t afford that.

Not yet.

Still... he couldn’t shake the feeling. That strange, impossible pull in his chest. The quiet knowing. The voice that whispered: it’s her.

So if he couldn’t go in headfirst, he’d have to do this carefully.

Or at least... he’d try.

Your heart shattered the moment you read the message. Heat surged through your body like a wave of fire. It was almost laughable—how a single word, a simple nickname like "sunshine," could unravel you so completely.

Your eyes lingered on the screen, tracing the white letters encased in a soft blue bubble.

"Sunshine."

A sob tore from your chest. Your hand trembled violently, the phone slipping from your grasp and clattering to the floor. The memories came rushing in, relentless and vivid.

Not just the moments with Hyunjin—your childhood best friend—but memories of your parents, too. It was Hyunjin who first called you sunshine, but soon your family picked it up. Back then, it felt warm, like a secret between you, the world and the one you loved. A name that made you feel seen.

Now, with distance and hindsight, you weren’t so sure. Maybe your parents meant it differently—ironic, even. You’d always been quiet, withdrawn, ironically more shadows than sunlight. Maybe to them, sunshine was just a joke you were too young to catch..

But you missed them anyway. You missed them with a kind of ache that never dulled. They were gone—taken from you in a car crash when you were just eighteen. One moment, they were there. The next, ripped away by a drunk driver's mistake.

The grief never softened; it only changed. You still longed for them. For a final hug. For one last bit of advice. And you missed Hyunjin, too- the only person who ever meant sunshine in a way that felt real.

God.

Your sobs gradually faded, leaving behind only silence and a dull ache in your chest. You forced yourself up from the floor, limbs heavy and heart hollow. Maybe—just maybe, sleep would quiet the noise, even if only for a little while.

Tag list: @kochothehoe @chimmyn0chu @katchowbbie @imagine-all-the-imagines @ateez-atiny380 @kisses4cb97 @wickedbutlovely @alisonyus @n4tr3ad5 @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @brekkers-whore @amarecerasus @aria-again @dlizzzy @lonely-st-143 @staybabblingbaby @stayteez-will-be-my-demise @strayk1ds143 @afararraaaa @changbinsdwaekkiball @brbwritingfanfic

(comment, send an ask, or dm to be added)!

#hyunjin fake texts #hyunjin fanfic #hyunjin stray kids #hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #kpop smau #smau #stray kids #skz #stray kids fic #stray kids fake texts #stray kids x reader #stray kids smau #hyunjin skz #skz smau #skz x reader #skz fake texts

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preciouslandmermaid · 2 days ago

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quiet fury in your head [xii]

Dream of the Endless x AFAB!Reader!Goddess

Note: it's finally complete xoxxox thank you to everyone who has been on this journey. it was hard to find the motivation to finish this considering what we now know about NG, but leaving the fic incomplete bothered me. (especially since 80% of it was literally done) tagging @sapphireonline cuz they asked so nicely to be tagged :). Also, my fics on ao3 are for registered users only due to AI scraping.

No use of Y/N. See part 1 for all the tags tbh.

Warnings: mature content/smut (ft. mirror!sex, light choking, p-in-v, f!oral receiving, two devoted immortal beings finally matching each other's freak)

Rating: 18+ ll This is the final chapter

(Read on AO3) || (masterpost for other chapters)

His heart aches with grief at the sight of his realm, his palace, his beautiful Dreaming. But another ache wells up inside him. An old longing. Something he’s carried with him for centuries. A pain that he could not—would not—release. His Queen of Nightmares is here. You are mere moments away.

His long strides carry him up the crumbling staircase. There is so much work to be done. So, so much. How can he justify going to you first? The scent of jasmine lingers through the dusty, mote-filled air. He has to see you. That’s all it is. He cannot work – he cannot rest – he cannot fix the Dreaming without you. His hands tremble as he reaches for the doorknob of your room. The room he made for you. Everything. All of it. Every piece painstakingly chosen to match your aesthetic, your charm, and personality.

You returned as promised. You were powerless to change anything, and yet you cared for the Dreaming, and visited him at Fawney Rig. It didn’t matter that the Burgess found a method to ward you. You had remained. You didn’t need to share a prison with him, to trap yourself alongside him, speaking of your triumphs and woes. Yet, you did.

It’s proof that the depth of his feelings for you are reciprocated. This isn’t one-sided yearning. This isn’t the tragedy of two star-crossed lovers. Your fate was to be undone by him. Well, Fate didn’t account for his feelings, did it? He loved you and he would bring you back each time. You would not go into that void of nothingness without him. He wouldn’t allow it.

You belong to him.

And he belongs to you.

The simplicity of it all threatens to break his heart from his chest. The door swings inward. You’re sitting on the bed. Your bed. You’re wearing your clothes – the ones he made for you. You are radiant. Resplendent. Morpheus’ mouth goes dry.

“Morpheus.” His name is a sweet, crooning hymn falling from your lips. “You took your time, didn’t you?” Your mouth lifts into a teasing slant.

He crosses the room in quick, urgent strides before falling on his knees, and wrapping his hands around the back of your calves. He tilts his face up to meet yours.

He breathes, “I have kept you waiting, haven’t I?”

“You have.” You cradle his jaw before slipping your fingers through his fine hair. He stares into the wild expanse of your eyes. He savors the line of your nose and adores the curve of your mouth. He licks his lips. There is so much to do. His realm needs him. But, he needs you. He knows Desire would be laughing at him if they were here.

He asks, “Are you seeking an apology?”

He feels your muscles trembling under his palms and long fingers. He slides his hands higher, guiding them beneath the bend of your knees, and urging your legs to separate.

“I prefer action to words, Dream Lord.” You part your legs and Morpheus wordlessly nudges forward until his chest is braced by your knees. He remains supplicant, face tilted towards yours, yet not crossing the final barrier between you. That is your choice to make. He will reach for you, but it’s your decision to take his hand.

You tilt forward and your breath tickles his mouth and your eyes threaten to swallow him whole and return him to stardust.

He wouldn’t mind. Oblivion by your side is better than an eternity without you.

Your lips meet. A slow, gentle glide as you acclimate yourself. It has been too long. His aching has transformed into ravenous hunger. Yet he won’t let it consume him or dictate his next motion. You deserve to be worshiped. He deserves to savor you. He won’t let anything, or anyone, separate you again. Not his siblings. Not charlatan magicians. Not fate. Nothing.

You make a sweet, keening noise and Morpheus rises from his knelt position, his hands coming to rest at your hips, as he guides you backward onto the black, silk sheets surrounded by curtains that drip with fractal starlight.

“I cannot tell you how long I have wanted this,” Dream says as his mouth brushes across your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, and to the middle of your forehead. A lingering, yet all-too brief caress of his soft lips to your skin.

“How I’ve wanted to taste you, and hear you, and feel you…” Each word is torn from his throat, abrasive with lust, as his pale hands push aside the fabric of your skirt. The Dreaming is weak – you know this – yet you can feel Dream’s touch through the silk sheets. He is around you. Every piece of him is here. What delight. What bliss. He kisses the top of your head and nuzzles the space behind your ear before his gentle, non-urgent mouth finds the side of your neck.

Your throat constricts and a surge – not unlike the swelling ocean that churned beneath the emerald cliffs of your home – builds within you. You shut your eyes to enjoy the sensation of his creative hands kneading your thighs. His warm, plush lips suckle along your pulse before the scrape of his chin cuts against your collarbone.

“You waited,” he says, his voice is filled with awe and his breath is tickling your cheek. “You could’ve run, and made a life for yourself outside the Dreaming, but you chose to stay.”

You open your eyes to gaze into his face. “I did.”

There is no use mincing words. You chose to stay. You chose him. His mouth collides with yours, firm and urgent and desperate to taste. His tongue teases your lower lip before slipping, delving, savoring. You arch against him, practically purring with contentment as your hands blindly shove his woolly coat from his shoulders. Dream obliges and your hands greedily sleek over the cut lines of his abdomen and sculpted, narrow shoulders. Your mouths separated with a soft, wet gasp, before he kisses you once more, and unlacing the front bodice of your dress. His tongue is sweeping and stroking over yours as his lips caress and mold over your own. The kiss tastes of sunrises over cold deserts. A blazing red light bleeding across sleepy sand dunes. A humid rain forest, dew evaporating on verdant leaves, as creatures scuttle and crawl through the thick underbrush. The wind chimes sing. The drumbeats match your heart.

He deepens the kiss and your experience multiplies tenfold. You feel gravity splitting at the seams as a black hole ruptures. You feel cold, wet dirt shaping the curvature of your spine. A hundred thousand orange-winged butterflies burst from the ancient canopies and follow the wind.

You press your chest forward into his hands. An eagerness floods your veins. “Touch me,” you gasp, “I don’t think I can bear another second.”

His lips tilt into a soft, subdued smile and his dark eyes gleam with amusement.

“I am yours,” he says while tugging the final fastening free.

“You’re insufferable,” you claim, your face hot and your skin aware of each brief, passing touch as his knuckles bump into the tops of your breasts. You know his power isn’t what it used to be, but you also know that he could vanish your clothing with a snap of his fingers. He’s choosing to torment you and stoke the wild fires of your lust and longing. As if you have not waited centuries to be in his arms and merge your souls.

Dream’s thumb flicks over one of your nipples.

“Is that so?” His touch is electrifying. For a moment, the stars dancing in the curtains surrounding your bed glow brighter. The silky sheets beneath your spine hum with warmth.

“I don’t want to be teased.” You catch his wrist and yank his hand to your mouth. “It’s not fair to tease me, you know. It’s unwise, even. I am a Goddess.”

You kiss his thumb before dragging your tongue along the side and pulling the digit into your mouth. Dream’s face goes fraught with tension. You suckle around his thumb with your eyes locked onto his. His grip tightens around your waist. Good. He deserves to know how it feels – how unfair it all was.

Dream’s thumb leaves your mouth and a trail of saliva follows and dribbles onto your chest.

“They took you from me.” You cannot keep the snarl from your voice. “It almost made me hate them.”

“And do you?” Dream asks as he presses his index and middle finger against your lower lip. You part your lips and gently shake your head while his fingers carefully push past your teeth. You admire your sweet Dream Lord’s hungry expression as your tongue laves over his fingers, lips puckered over his knuckles, your breath leaving your nostrils in faint, excited puffs.

There is something sweetly intoxicating to know that you, above all creatures, can make Morpheus look at you with such hunger and delight and adoration. He had knelt before you like the offerings of Old. You would gladly spill blood for him, you would gladly die for him, but more than that – you would live for him.

He rewards your attention with a sweet, chaste kiss upon your breastbone before he finally – finally – peppers kisses along your breasts. His mouth suctions over one of your nipples, carefully lolling his tongue over the peaked bud, and your cunt clenches and flutters as little sparks travel from your chest down your spine. He pulls his wet fingers from your mouth and slithers his hand between your legs. You blink. Your dress is gone and you release a low hum of approval.

Dream’s fingers glide over your sickened, swollen clit. You jolt, spine arching, before your open mouth is covered with his and he greedily swallows each and every moan like they are made for him. Oh, Morpheus. You suckle over his tongue. The kiss is blinding, white-blue glaciers floating within cerulean seas. A Scarlet Macaw soaring over a winding, brown river. A charm made of small bones and tiny bells rattling and clinking over a raging bonfire.

You mutter with your hands tangled within his mess of hair. “You should remove your clothes.”

Morpheus grunts and the warm puff of air tickles your lips. “Do you plan to order me about all evening?”

You roll your eyes, but the effect is somewhat ruined when Morpheus’ index finger slides smoothly into your waiting cunt and you gasp, your legs twitching.

He says, “I don’t want to rush.”

He kisses his way down your stomach and lingers at every inch of skin. You force yourself to be patient. A few additional seconds, the grains of sand within the hourglass, are nothing compared to the eons you waited for him. Morpheus closes his lips around your clit, sucking, and flicking his tongue against it. Your abdomen clenches repeatedly with each quick, precise motion as two of his fingers rhythmically plunge within you.

“Oh—” it’s a choked and desperate sound, and your neck aches as your head thrashes backward onto the lavish, soft pillows. You reach one hand between your legs, blindly grasping for his narrow, pale shoulder, or the mop of dark, wild hair on top his head. Something to hold on to as magma drags through your veins and sends spark after spark through your body.

Morpheus captures your hand with his free one and twines your fingers together. You pry your eyes open to see him; devouring and savoring and worshiping you. He lifts his eyes to meet yours. They are dark, and fathomless, and wicked, and beautiful. He curls his fingers, as if beckoning you to come into his waiting mouth, and a low, appreciative groan vibrates through him. The grains of sand fall and you shatter – shatter – shatter – and scream his name.

You twist away from him, and it’s like a game, a theater show, the way your bodies move in tandem together.

You say, “I am a black panther. Sleek, playful, yellow-eyed, and clawed.” You rake your nails down his bare chest, admiring the sinewy strength of him, the dexterous flex of his muscles as your index finger swirls over his nipple.

Morpheus’ chin tilts up. He replies, “I am a python. Strong, unyielding, and patient.” His long, beautiful fingers wrap around your throat. Your body shudders as your pulse dances against his fingers and a rush of blood fills your skull.

“I am the mist. Impossible to grasp. Ethereal. Leading men and creatures astray.” You slip from him, a teasing and appreciative tilt to your lips.

But Morpheus is as clever as he is creative and you are unable to remain free from his grasp for long.

“I am the dawn. Light and warmth, burning away the chill, and covering the plants in dew,” he says, capturing you from behind and pulling your hips towards his and sliding his hard cock between your legs. His engorged tip slides against your clit and the slow, slick friction of it makes your eyes roll back into your skull.

“I am passion,” you choke out, “crazed, deep, inspiring poets and artists to act, even lost in ardor.” You arch your back, tilting yourself in such a way so that the head of his cock just barely enters you. Morpheus groans and you wish you could see his expression.

“I am devotion.” His cock pushes deeper. You gasp and your fingers clench around the sheets. “Waiting for your summons with bated breath, and offering a Kingdom of Dreams and Nightmares.” He sheathes himself fully within you. For a moment, you remain as such; his hands on your hips, your ass snug against his abdomen, his cock filling you to the brim and your walls shivering and pulsing around him.

“You deserve to see yourself,” he mutters with a slow stroke of his thumbs against your hips. You feel the slight pull of his power within the Dreaming and suddenly there’s a large, mirror facing the bed. You stare at your haggard reflection. You meet his eyes, beseeching and pleading, and who could’ve ever dreamed a Herald of Doom would crumble at the sight of her lover? He stares back at you. The moment suspends in sweat and starlight.

You whisper the word, “please.”

“Anything,” he whispers back, “for you.”

Morpheus molds your hips in his hands and guides you back and forth, his thrust slow and measured. Your gaze flicks up to the mirror where you can see his lean, pale body flexing, his jaw unhinged, his eyes dark and demanding. You release a low, choked sound, and submit to the pleasure that he’s offering. Your elbows brace onto the mattress and you arch your spine, allowing him the leverage, and Morpheus’ grin flashes white in the mirror’s reflection.

“Will you come again for me?” he asks, his voice ragged and torn.

“If you wish it,” you reply, hands twisted in the silky sheets.

“I do.” He bows his spine over yours and peppers sweet kisses along your shoulders as his cock pulses into your slick, wet heat. The tension coils in your lower stomach at every thrust, every brush of his knuckles across your skin, every kiss that he drops along your back, your shoulder, the side of your neck.

He brings you to the very edge, until you’re gasping and ready to leap from the cliff, and when you come – you cry out his name in an act of offering. For you, you think, shuddering and convulsing around his cock, this pleasure is yours.

Morpheus groans from above you and buries his face into the side of your neck as you quiver beneath him.

“Do you miss it?” He asks, hand skimming the space between your shoulder blades and down to the slip of silken sheets pooled around your hips.

“I cannot remember it as it was.” You admit sorrowfully. “When I close my eyes, I only see its end. Its destruction.”

“Do you recall your sisters?”

You frown. “In fragments.” You roll onto your side and Dream’s large, warm hand settles on your stomach. “I am not…I am not her anymore. Or the part of me that was her is…quieter, somehow…and perhaps that will change. Perhaps I will – I will remember them more clearly over time or perhaps the opposite will occur. I do not know. All I do know is that your devotion returned me to life...and for that – I am grateful.”

Dream searches your face before he speaks, “There are books in the library…” His voice is unusually tender. “Or there will be.”

“Hm. Of that I have no doubt.”

“I mean to say that the library is open to you.” He murmurs, “all of the Dreaming is open to you.”

“Yes, well, it has been open to me for the past hundred years or so,” you tease with a light smile.

He shifts, rolling his body on top of yours, the pressure and weight of him illicit a soft, pleased moan from your lips. His hand drags to your face, cradling it, staring down upon you with ancient, fathomless eyes.

“You misunderstand me.”

You arch up and graze your lips across his in a chaste kiss. “Then speak plainly, Morpheus.”

“I have suffered a world emptied of you and have no desire to experience it again.” His thumb caresses the tender, delicate skin below your eye. “Be with me, here in the Dreaming, as my Queen of Dreams and Nightmares.”

You blink. “What? For how long?”

His lips relax into a tiny moue of discontentment. Dream does not waste words unnecessarily. When he speaks, you know it to be truth (or at least, his version of it). He does not babble. He does not rant or rage. His words are as precise and deliberate as the dreams he created.

“Stay until the end.”

“The end of what?”

“Of everything.” He kisses you. You tasted infinity on his tongue and hope in the plush swell of his lower lip.

He nudges your thighs apart and his cock spears between your wet folds, and buries into your cunt with a swift, hard thrust. Your fingers dig into his shoulders as a moan is yanked from your throat. He fills you completely. The hard, thick length of him stretching your walls. He holds your chin with one hand, keeping your gazes locked, as he begins to thrust into you with short, quick movements.

You cling to him, thighs wrapped tight around his narrow hips. A laugh bubbles in your throat. You haven’t given him an answer.

But perhaps this is your answer already. You greedily press your hands to his chest, his neck, his shoulders, his jaw. You tug at his hair and demand his mouth to yours. Stay, stay, stay, the thought is punctuated by each hard, claiming thrust.

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes – yes, yes-”

And like a star splitting at the seams, you come apart, again and again, with Morpheus thrusting into you and carrying you through the waves of your pleasure until tears prick at the corners of your eyes. He leans down, licking away the salt at your cheeks, and whispering sweet, ancient words of devotion into your skin.

It’s later when the Dreaming is returned to its former glory that Morpheus finds you feeding the ravens by the cliffs that remind you of your old home. The memory of the Goddess you once were.

“I have something for you,” he announces with his hands clasped behind his back.

“You are a God of Gifts,” you tease warmly, dressed in your regalia fitting for your station as his queen.

“It’s more symbolic than anything else,” he says as he approaches and opens his palm for your hand. You smile up at him, the wide, blue-gray sky against his fluttering dark cloak. You give him your hand and he slides a ring upon it – a simple ring. A single black gemstone glitters in its fastening. The ravens squawk nearby, curious, but more-so annoyed that you’ve stopped giving them attention.

The magic hums in recollection. Like an old friend visiting from out of town. The the ring contains powers you were given to dream-weave. He’s right – it’s symbolic. You don’t need the ring to mold the Dreaming to your hand. You are Queen here and the Dreaming listens to you as it listens to Morpheus.

And yet, you wiggle your fingers in the overcast light and admire the simple silver and dark gemstone.

“Mortals give rings for betrothals and marriages,” you say conversationally, “are we wed?”

He tucks his chin a little in acknowledgment.

“Then I’m your wife as well as your queen.” You sidle beside him and slide your arm around the middle of his back, your head tilted up to meet his eyes. He cradles your cheek in his palm. There is an eternity in his eyes.

He kisses you softly and whispers against your lips, “And I am your husband, your companion, your lovesick servant – there is nothing I would not do for you, my love, my heart, my banshee.”

You are Gods. Immortals. Cosmic beings. There is no real need for titles shared among you. Yet you preen under Dream’s titles. A swell of pride balloons in your chest.

He is yours, wholly and completely, and you are the same. From now until the end of time and beyond – into the stardust and heat death of all known universes, until the last living being dies and can no longer dream, and the cosmic wheel starts anew.

As it was always meant to be.

#fic: quiet fury #morpheus x reader #dream the endless x reader #dream x reader #the sandman fanfic #the sandman reader insert #sandman x reader #sandman x you #dream x you #morpheus x you #dream the endless x morrigan #f!reader x dream #finale!!!!!!!

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sacred-healing · 3 days ago

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Wimbledon: The Return of a Champion

Tennisplayer!OC x Joe Burrow fanfic 🎾🏈

✨Author’s note✨: Hi! This is my first time writing a Joe Burrow fanfic. I’m thinking of turning this into a series. I hope you like it 🫶🏾

Description: Riley Edwards is considered by many to be the greatest tennis player in the world. On the court, she is a fierce competitor and a tough match up for any opponent. When Riley experiences an injury that requires her to not play tennis for months, she has to deal with the reality of being away from a sport she has spent her whole life dedicated to. While facing the mental challenges of dealing with an injury, she never expected to seek comfort in NFL superstar Joe Burrow. Joe never expected to meet a woman who he can’t stay away from. A beautiful bond is formed while leading up to Riley’s return to the Grand Slam.

From the age of 4 years old, Riley can recall vivid memories of her parents bringing their children to local tennis courts in Florida. Her parents, who were former high ranked college tennis players, wanted to share the love they had for the sport with Riley and her two older brothers, Isaiah and Mason.

Isaiah and Mason, who were introduced to the hard courts earlier on, were already accustomed to playing on the hard surface. A little Riley with wide eyes filled with wonder, watched her brothers relentlessly hit the ball with their rackets over the net without a loss of rhythm.

Growing up as the youngest with older brothers, Riley wanted to mimic everything her brothers decided to get themselves into on a given day. It was at that moment, when her father, Kevin, guided Riley to a vacant tennis court and placed a racket in her hands, she was going to do the exact same thing (but better of course). The first time Riley made a return of serve was against her mother on the other end of the court. With Kevin, giving her instructions by her side, Riley hit the ball as hard as her small arms would allow her. The heavy thud of the ball striking the racket managed to get over the net on her first attempt.

The ball landed cleanly on the white line, erasing any chance for Riley’s mother, Trinity, to hit the ball right back. Riley won her first ever point!

Riley couldn’t quite yet grasp what she just accomplished. Although, at that young age, she knew that she wanted to repeat the overflowing joy she felt after connecting her racket with the tennis ball.

“Yay! I did it Daddy. Did you see me? Just like Siah and Mason.” she happily exclaimed, as she ran over to hug her father’s long legs.

“Yes, I did see you baby girl!” he grinned, while lowering his body to embrace her. “What you just did is win the first point of the game. We call that 15 love in tennis terms.” he laughed. Trinity met the eyes of her husband with an astonished smile. The both of them in that moment realized their daughter had tennis abilities that were wise beyond her years. They would absolutely do anything for their daughter, and only if she made the decision on her own, they promised to help Riley grow her talents and train her to fully recognize the amazing strength of her powers from a racket and a tennis ball.

“I want to do it AGAIN!” Riley squealed in excitement. She did exactly that over and over and over again.

Not long after this day. Riley wanted to keep playing tennis. She didn’t waste time letting her parents know that she wanted to compete in matches and hit as many tennis balls as she could. Her focused mindset from a young age, became the only confirmation her parents needed to set up practices that would propel their daughter into becoming the unstoppable force she wanted to be. Her dream was to be a tennis player for the WTA tour. The hard-courts in Florida’s warm heat would become a home for Riley’s dedication to develop her game and the fundamentals to succeed at the highest level of professional sports.

Her talents were always evident. The kids she played against and their parents could see that she would one day become a problem for any opponent that crossed her and that racket. It was truly Riley’s pure hard-work and drive that actualized her dream. At 19, she made her debut in the WTA tour and won her first title. She did this while playing collegiate tennis at the University of Florida. She already knew winning the coveted Grand Slam had to be hers one way or another. That was on her bucket list of many big achievements.

Fast forward to now, Riley is 26. She is currently ranked Number 1 in the world in the women’s tennis rankings. She is a match up nightmare for any player who prays that they could send her home in defeat. It would be the biggest highlight of their career. Riley is simply a killer out there and she is not apologetic about it. Besides, she didn’t win her 6 Grand Slams without expressing her fierce competitiveness and sheer hunger to win matches.

She’s on a mission to add the Wimbledon Slam to go along with her French (1), Australian (2), and U.S. Open (3) titles. On Centre Court in London, the Women’s Final has started to determine who will bring home the trophy. Riley is up against World Number 2 Aryna Sabalenka. It was a dream final for all spectators and tennis fans who had been watching their rivalry unfold for a few years. In fact, Riley won her last two slams (Australian and U.S. Open) playing against Sabalenka. Every time these two powerful players battle on the court, it’s nothing short of intense drama and elite tennis. Just like every big game they have been a part of together, Wimbledon had all the jaw-dropping-on-the-edge-of-your-seat-popcorn-filled-moments.

The majority of the match has been tight. Riley and Aryna were leaving it all out on the grass court with big serves and heavy ball striking. Aryna won the first set in a nail-biting tie breaker at 7-6. Riley bounced back to win the second set 6-4. They have been playing for a little over an hour. The third and final set to determine the winner is put to a pause as a changeover has allowed the players time to regroup mentally for this important game. Riley sits on her designated bench on the left side of the umpire, and opens her bottle that has a mixture of different electrolytes to keep herself refueled and hydrated in this very physically taxing game. The cool liquid temporarily relieves her from the hot sun that has rotated to her side of the court. It’s a miracle that she is able to see any of the balls coming her way as the score reads 4-3 in favour of Riley. She was able to go up a break on Sabalenka’s serve (she won the point at 15-40). As Riley closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to collect herself mentally to capitalize on her momentum, her mind can’t help but drift off to when it didn’t seem possible to her that she would end up in another Grand Slam final– after her hamstring injury– this soon.

She felt so devastated when it occurred after an intense rally during the Madrid Open. As she ran to return Bianca Andreescu’s backhand, she fell down on the clay court and her hamstring endured the hard impact. It was a shocking sight for tennis fans to see a beloved player scream in agony from the pain. She had to forfeit the tournament and immediately be transported to the emergency room in Madrid. A few of Riley’s muscles in her hamstring were torn and needed surgery as soon as possible. It was a terrifying experience for Riley. Luckily, she had a great medical staff and the surgery was done successfully.

The downside is that Riley was told she would have to put tennis on hold for at least 3-6 months, maybe a year. She couldn’t fathom being away from the court for a long and uncertain period of time. Tennis was practically her life. Ever since she made the decision to play tennis professionally, Riley never wanted to be away from the courts.

But she didn’t have a choice.

The only way to get back there was a treatment plan to heal her hamstring. And so, with her team by her side a timetable was crafted to gradually begin the process. The journey was an uphill battle. Riley had a difficult time stopping herself from thinking about her hamstring and the tennis season. For a while the pain from her hamstring was constantly present. And the recovery process was at times mentally draining. She just wanted to get back out there and play the game that she loves unlike anything else. Riley’s parents, her siblings, close friends, and her team were constantly by her side giving her tremendous support to not give up.

And even while going through all of this, Riley came to a realization that life was much bigger than tennis.

It’s not like she never had any other interests outside of tennis. She was Riley Edwards. She is known all across the world. Brands and sponsors are constantly asking her to advertise their products. She’s on the cover of magazines. She has worked with companies that align with morals and values that are important to her. She is always aware of the incredible position she is in and overtime, she has accumulated amazing experiences because of tennis. She loves meeting new people and finding ways to grow beyond tennis.

Inevitably, Riley is human. Living the life of a professional athlete, and being caught up perfecting her craft, she has the tendency to forget that it’s important to not let it rule her life.

On a day when she still wasn’t able to play tennis, but making progress with her hamstring, Riley attended an event hosted by Bose. A year ago, she signed a contract to promote the brand. The event was a party where celebrities and influencers get together to talk and network, while Bose has plenty of content to put on their social media pages. Earlier before, Riley had done some photo shoots modeling Bose earbuds she created with the company (Bose x Riley). They were baby blue earbuds with an adorable design of a racket and tennis ball. She also did an interview with her very good friend Taylor Rooks. Riley was genuinely having a great time laughing and conversing with familiar faces and people she was meeting for the first time. Riley felt her glow coming back and the weight of her injury was slowly dissolving.

What she didn’t prepare for was being paired with Joe fucking Burrow for Bose’s YouTube content series, What’s That Sound? She didn’t expect to be laughing her ass off throughout the entire video because of Joe’s hilarious reactions to the different noises that he had to work with.

“I swear some of these are personal!” He laughed, when he heard the sound of the Bengals’ mascot Who Dey saying “Joe only claims he hates mascots because I’m the only mascot he loves.” Riley couldn’t help but notice the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he uttered that adorable laugh, those bright blue eyes that could look into your soul and reveal your most personal secrets, his smile that lit up the rest of his gorgeous face, his biceps that flexed underneath the sleeves of his shirt- whoa.

Riley knew Joe Burrow was a very very handsome man. On her timeline, she had come across many pictures of Joe looking too hot (if that was even possible). It didn’t matter what angle it was captured in or the context of the photo, it just made no sense for a man to be casually walking around looking that fine. The “last straw” for her was when he walked for Paris Fashion Week. Her jaw hit the floor when she saw that backless suit. Like, how dare he pull off something like that?

As she sat across from Joe, there was no way to hide her attraction towards him. Riley could already foresee the internet analyzing every moment of her drooling over Joe Burrow— that would have her publicist Julie shaking her head. She could care less if she was caught acting a fool because she would just end up giggling about it with her close girlfriends.

To end the event, Bose organized a dinner for their guests. Riley walked over to the large table and found her name card right next to the one that read Joe’s name. A wave of excitement passed through her body acknowledging that she could spend more time talking to Joe. They ate pasta and drank wine, while engaging in conversation over all types of things. Riley was a big fan of the NFL and admired Joe’s command of the Bengals’ offense. She praised him for his talents on the field, as well as his leadership and his high character that he displays outside of football.

“I’m especially even more impressed by your comeback from your wrist injury this season. You had an incredible season and definitely the best football I’ve seen you play!” Joe blushed at her words with a shy smile, genuinely surprised to find out that Riley Edwards watched his games. It felt like the biggest honour coming from a fantastic athlete. Riley thought he couldn’t have looked more handsome.

“I’m currently rehabbing my right hamstring and if I’m being honest, I really hope I bounce back just as strong as you did.” Riley toyed with the bracelet on her wrist, the chatter of voices and clatter of utensils became muted noise. She took a nervous sip of her wine, as a way to dissipate her anxious thoughts about the injury. She felt a hand placed on top of hers, and locked eyes with Joe.

“You will. Trust me, I had dark days too… I wondered if throwing a football would feel the same again. I’ve learned that you can’t rush the recovery process. I know it’s hard when you are also battling self-doubts, but with patience, you will get back on track. Riley, you will.” The tone of his voice held so much purpose. He wanted Riley to understand that her vulnerability mattered and he knew exactly what she was going through. He never removed his hand, those blue eyes kept their soft gaze on her almost as if they could freeze time. Maybe they did, because all of a sudden it was only the two of them in the dimly lit restaurant. Riley wasn’t sure what all of this meant, it would be easy to blame the wine, but the way Joe looked at her felt so damn right in that moment.

“Thank you, Joe.” Riley whispered, trying to keep her voice steady. Joe smiled.

Joe didn’t waste time asking for Riley’s number once the event was completely over. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to stay away from her. Riley didn’t hesitate to agree. She wanted to open up an Insta Story and record herself screaming from the top of her lungs: I HAVE JOE FUCKING BURROW’S NUMBER!

But of course she wasn’t crazy.

What followed after this, were many phone calls, text messages, and scheduled FaceTimes to talk about their days. They could talk for hours about anything– a post that caught their attention on social media, an article one of them read, or what they ate for lunch that day. Joe couldn’t get enough of each new fact and detail he learned about Riley. Something as simple as when she revealed her favourite colour (baby blue) and the origin story behind it (because her first tennis dress was that colour) made Joe realize she was the most precious woman he ever met.

Riley hadn’t been this excited after talking to a man in a very long time. Making time for relationships was never really a priority for her. Her focus was mainly tennis and going pro. She accomplished that. But the intense demands of the tennis season and Riley’s drive to be the best player on the tennis court, made it difficult for her to commit to anything serious with a man. And yet, she anticipated every call and text from Joe with the biggest smile. She felt like a teenager again, hiding away in her room, talking to her crush on the phone.

Riley had grown closer to Joe during this time. She cherished all of his words of encouragement as she continued rehabbing her hamstring. It wasn’t by any means an easy process and required many steps for a full recovery. Whenever Riley felt overwhelmed and stressed about the pressures of having a successful recovery, Joe became her safe space to let out all her doubts and worries. He never complained or told her that she was “over exaggerating.” Riley was grateful for all the support her family and friends and team were able to provide her. But Joe understood her frustrations on a more personal level. His wrist injury had him miss out on playing football for the entire 2023 season. He remembered how extremely devastating it was for him to be away from the sport he loved. The challenges of a lengthy rehab plan, combined with the difficulty of having to be patient when all he wanted to do was get back on the field to lead his team, Joe knew the headspace Riley was in.

Overtime, Riley had made significant improvements with her hamstring. It was growing stronger each day. She was able to put more weight on muscles without feeling a lot of pain other than a slight sourness. Wimbledon was coming up and Riley’s physical therapist Crystal had full confidence that she could start training again sooner rather than later.

“Next week I should be able to start back training. It looks promising that I could play in some tournaments to warm up in time for Wimbledon!” Riley walked out of the training facility while she told Joe on FaceTime the exciting update. Once she sat in her car she positioned her phone straight up on top of the dashboard. She took sips from her curated “I Kick-Ass” yogurt-strawberry-protein smoothie she got from the facility to treat herself. Her smile beamed through the phone.

“Riley, that's awesome! I knew you could do it.” He smiled fondly. His back was pressed against the couch with a movie he was watching before on pause, his full attention on Riley. Her dark brown eyes softened as she took in Joe’s kind words.

She placed her smoothie down in the cup holder before she geared up to confess the thought she couldn’t escape from her mind.

“Joe… I want to see you again. I know we’re both so busy at the moment. While you are preparing for the new season, I’ll be away playing in tournaments. But I miss you,” Riley whispered the last part, like a secret only the both of them understood the meaning of.

Joe smiled, knowing that he missed her too.

They did manage to see each other, when Joe took a flight to Fort Lauderdale. The both of them had a break from their busy schedules and Riley was so excited to take Joe on a personal tour around her hometown, and the chance of spending quality time together. Even though it was their second meeting since the Bose event, it felt like they’ve known each other longer.

“Don’t worry about any of that Riley. I want to see you and I’m gonna make that happen. That’s why I’ve been meaning to ask you out on a date the moment I first saw you.”

Joe was serious. He’d take a flight right now to Fort Lauderdale to show this woman how truly special she is to him.

Riley started the engine of her Mercedes and bit her lip to try masking her attempt at not freaking out because Joe Freaking Burrow casually asked her out on a date. That damn smooth talker.

“That’s cool,” she playfully shrugged, as she drove on the road. Joe laughed at this.

Oh that laugh.

“I’ll only agree if you watch me play at Wimbledon.” she grinned. Joe shook his head with a smile.

“I’ll be there.” He winked. That same wink almost made her drive past a stop sign.

Riley melted on the spot.

“Time!” The umpire informs the players that the changeover has ended. Riley opens her eyes, memories of the past only drifting away temporarily, as she picks up her racket. She jogs over to her side of the court and patiently waits for Aryna to officially start back the third set.

There is a confidence that radiates off of Riley, in the way she calmly catches each tennis ball that bounces in her direction with the help of a ball girl. She stares down at three balls in the palm of her hand, throwing two back, choosing the one that will give her the best advantage to start her serve. She tosses the ball in the air and leaps her body forward, her braids rise up while in this position, with a grunt. Her power accelerates the ball over the net. Riley isn’t fully back to playing how she did before the hamstring injury, but throughout each round, her confidence kept growing.

Typically tennis players keep two balls. One for the first serve and the other resting in their pocket just in case the first serve lands out.

Riley decided she doesn’t need a second ball. The ball lands well-placed on the center of the court with ease.

Ace.

The crowd erupted in excited cheers. Many among them were huge supporters of Riley and weren’t afraid to be transparent with their favouritism. As the umpire utters 15 love from her microphone, it became intentionally clear that Riley made sure to set the tone to her opponent.

She wants control. She wants to determine the outcome of the match. These last few games of the set are vital to crown a champion. Aryna will need to fight like hell for every point if she wants to win because Riley will not go easy on her.

What follows after, is a long rally and exchanged grunts. Riley’s feet glides and shuffles from side to side, her racket moving in rhythm with her body to hit back each ball to Aryna, her strength never letting up. Sabalenka does everything that she can to disrupt the movement of her opponent, and to her credit Riley makes an uncharacteristic error on her backhand. The ball hits the net for the umpire to call out, 15-15 all. She lets out a small huff of annoyance in reaction to this, but Riley rarely lets her frustrations boil over on the court. Quickly she moves on and gets in position to serve again.

Riley hits a forehand winner to win the second point 30-15. In another intense rally, as she makes a straight down the line backhand that hits the corner, the lineswoman deems it out. Immediately shaking her head in disapproval, Riley tells the umpire she wants to challenge this call. Hawkeye replays the point on the screen to reveal that the ball unmistakably lands on target, to win the third point 40-15. Already Riley is up double break point. This is a crucial moment for Sabalenka who looks over to her team in their designated box, visibly frustrated, understanding Riley has an early advantage to go up two in this set. Right on cue, she produces an ace on her serve.

“C’MON!” Riley roars at her Player’s Box, who have risen to their feet and fired up after watching Riley win the point. The Centre Court crowd rallies behind Riley’s energy, applauding a woman showing tremendous fight. A woman who months ago couldn't even imagine getting to this stage– this quickly. The score is now 5-3 in favour of Riley.

Chants of Let’s Go Riley! Spreads around the stadium. Riley uses her tactic of closing her eyes and taking deep breaths, to mitigate the noise surrounding her. The reality of this moment starts to creep up on her.

She is so close. She can win this last game to win it all.

She glances at her father, who is her coach. Still standing and giving his daughter encouraging claps and a nod. Over the years this has become a method to help Riley stay calm in championship games while inching closer to the finish line.

She awaits for the crowd to dial down for Aryna to begin her serve. The first point is won by her with an ace, knowing that she needs to keep this game going for salvation. Riley returns Aryna’s powerful serve so accurately, that the ball lands across the court in a winner. The game points are tied at 15-15. Riley wins the next point as she comes forward to the net and makes a tough drop shot (she hit the ball softly to give it a low bounce and Sabalenka had less time to get it back over the net). After a big forehand winner by Riley and a double fault on serve by Sabalenka,

Riley is up a double break at 40-15.

The crowd erupts in excitement. They can sense the moment, knowing Riley is in position to accomplish something truly remarkable.

Everyone in her box is at the edge of their seat. Kevin, who is showing an even-keeled demeanor to remind Riley to keep her emotions stabilized. Trinity is a different story. She has been nervous all match, squeezing on to her husband’s hand, and praying to God to help Riley earn this win. Isaiah and Mason have been attentive, watching every point, and expressing their support through words and fist pumps. Her friends and the rest of her team (physio, assistant coach, agent) are all bracing for what will happen next. Riley’s little sister Olivia, the youngest of the Edwards siblings, grips onto the railing of the box and bites her bottom lip in suspense. And utterly fascinated by witnessing her big sister in this high pressure moment.

Of course he is there watching Riley. Joe is secured in a suite high up in the stadium, managing to not draw too much attention to himself. Even if someone started to record him, it was less of his worries. Because he couldn’t keep his eyes away from her throughout the entire match. He releases a long breath of his own, wanting Riley to get this win because she is so deserving of this opportunity.

Yeah, this shit is stressful.

Riley, doing her best at staying calm and collected, grips her tennis racket with determination. When the ball goes over the net, she runs towards it to hit her signature backhand return. With resemblance of a work or art, the ball goes down the line on Aryna’s right side of the court, landing in a beautiful game winning point.

A championship point that will be remembered forever.

Riley collapses onto her knees, her racket placed next to her on the court. She covers her mouth with her hand, in disbelief of what just transpired. The crowd welcomes their new champion with elation. Riley stands back up and carries her racket with her, as she runs over to the court to greet Sabalenka at the net. They share an amicable handshake to congratulate each other on a thrilling game. It wasn’t the result Aryna wanted but she can’t discredit Riley’s amazing poise to win Wimbledon.

Riley didn’t hesitate to make her way over to her family who were all celebrating in their box. The security guards help Riley walk up the stairs and pass a few rows to guide her to the people who stayed by her side throughout her journey. Meanwhile, Riley smiles and politely thanks the supporters who praise her tremendous achievement. The broadcast captures a beautiful sight of the Edwards family embracing one another in a massive hug. Suddenly, a wave of emotion takes over Riley. Tears trickle down from her eyes, as she rejoices in this historic moment with her parents and siblings. More hugs and tears are shared with her team and special friends.

It’s time for Riley to return back to the court to commence the ceremony. She sits on her bench to wait for her turn to be at the podium.

The umpire, the ball girls and boys receive their trophies to reward them for their hard-work all match long. As runner-up, Aryna comes forward to the podium to get her trophy. She holds the silver dish in her hands and begins her speech. Sabalenka does her best to appear neutral as she congratulates Riley on defeating her to win the Wimbledon title, as well as her hard-work to come back from a painful injury. Riley acknowledges her kind praises with a smile while wiping away tears that continue to fall. She shows gratitude to her team, and begins to break down in a small cry expressing disappointment for not accomplishing her ultimate goal. Nevertheless, she ends her speech appreciating the London crowd for creating such an electrifying atmosphere for this Women’s final.

The crowd responds with a loud applause that turns into screams of delight when they hear Riley’s name called upon to get on the stage. At last, Riley happily accepts her Wimbledon Grand Slam title. It’s the first trophy of this slam to be added to her collection. Riley raises the intricately crafted golden and silver Venus Rosewater Dish above her head to the roaring fans, the gleam of the sunlight provides a polished shine. Riley, who is smiling just as bright as the trophy in her hands, waits for the interviewer to speak.

“Wow Riley! You were spectacular here on Centre Court. You blessed these fans with a performance that will be remembered for a lifetime,” the fans cheer to show their appreciation for Riley’s resilience. “Just 4 months ago you injured your hamstring, you said it yourself that you didn’t even pick up a racket or played in any tournaments, until two months before arriving at Wimbledon. And now here you are… a Wimbledon Champion! I think the question we are all asking ourselves right now is… Riley Edwards, how did you do it?” The interviewer eagerly waits for Riley’s answer.

“Well,” Riley laughs while shaking her head, speaking in the mic placed in front of her. “I can’t fathom how I am here right now, it’s crazy! It definitely was never an easy road. I don’t think it was about, will I ever be able to play tennis again. I wasn’t rushing myself to get back on the court. I just wanted to come back stronger and return to playing the sport I’m so passionate about.” She takes a moment to look around her surroundings and down at the grass court. This is a connection she can’t put into words. “I’m so proud of Aryna. She played her butt off! This was not a walk in the park by any means. Anyone could’ve won this match… but of course I’m happy that I’m holding the winners trophy.” she smiles teasingly, casually flexing the trophy. The crowd and interviewer laughs. Aryna does as well, showing that yes, they are competitors and fierce rivals. And as much as the media tries to inflate their rivalry. On and off the court, there is nothing but respect and deep admiration on both sides.

“My amazing family, friends, team… oh wow… I honestly wouldn’t be standing here without you.” She starts feeling the tears again in the corners of her eyes. “I’m so grateful for the loving people in my life who encouraged me every step of the way. When I doubted if I could play at a high level again, there was always somebody at my corner reminding me that… you will,” she looks at her box with tear-filled eyes before switching to Joe’s suite.

Without a doubt, Joe knows that Riley is speaking directly to him. Sharing a sacred moment like this among others on this grand occasion, he felt a wave of gratitude for her affection. Gratitude for meeting a woman he knows has already changed his life and he won’t have it any other way.

“I want to show anyone who is watching me… to never give up on yourself! Anything that you are passionate about it’s worth accomplishing. It doesn’t matter how long it will take because in the end, you will get there.” she says, speaking passionately to the camera. “Fans, you were spectacular and winning this title was everything I could’ve hoped for. Thank you!” she ends her speech, raising the trophy in triumph.

“Give another round of applause to Riley Edwards! She is truly an inspiration.” The interviewer concludes the ceremony.

Riley is ushered to take pictures in front of photographers holding up her glorious Grand Slam #7. She then gives her symbol of victory to one of the assistants working the tournament, to put back her rackets in her Wilson racket bag (baby blue of course) and she also throws away empty water and electrolyte bottles, including energy bar wrappers. Once Riley has everything she needs to leave the court, security guides her to the tunnel. She uses the small time she has before the press conference, to find a quiet corner without cameras to text Joe. A security guard never leaves the champion’s side.

Riley: Meet me in the players only dining room after the press conference. I’ll have my assistant text you the details

Joe❤️🫠 : I’ll be there

Riley is pacing back and forth as she waits for Joe in the private dining hall that is reserved for players and their families.

She has no idea why she’s nervous.

Maybe it’s the thought of her heart bursting with an overwhelming joy from the sight of him.

Joe sent her a text a few minutes ago that he was close by. Riley told her assistant to have security guide Joe from his suite to their secret meet-up place.

The door opens to reveal the security guard but her eyes immediately went to Joe. The both of them give a polite thank you to security who leaves the room to give them their privacy. Joe and Riley keep their gazes on each other. Studying one another until someone says the first word.

“Hi.” Riley whispers with a smile. Joe smiles back and suddenly he feels a jolt of confidence that compels him to walk forward to her.

“Hi.” those blue eyes become more intense by the second with each step he takes. But Riley isn't intimidated because she wants to feel him close to her. She proves this, as she meets him in the middle of the dining area.

“I don’t know what to say first but… you were fucking amazing out there!” he said in awe. He wraps her in a hug, and Riley sighs as she welcomes the warmth of his strong arms.

“Thank you.” she says and holds on to him tightly, never wanting him to let go. She savours the smell of his cologne. She pulls away first, their arms still attached. Riley is 5”11, but even she has to tilt her head a little to be face to face with Joe’s tall body.

“I’m still trying to take in everything that just happened… It’s going to take me a while.” her hands move to rest on his toned chest, and she’s able to feel his heartbeat start to quicken. This propels her to lightly run her fingertips over his pecs.

Joe knows Riley is testing out new territory in their growing relationship. He is willing to follow her lead and help her out.

“I’m so proud of you Riley,” his hands move to rest comfortably on her hips. He leans in closer to Riley if that’s even physically possible. “You had to fight your ass off to get in the position you are in right now. When I was watching you play, I kept thinking to myself that I was watching a woman who is such an amazing fighter! You never gave up throughout the recovery process and that showed itself today on the tennis court. Not many athletes can say that they accomplished what you just did after coming back from that type of injury… because it’s practically impossible! But I’ve learned that when you put your mind on something Riley, you will find a way to get it no matter what.You are an inspiration for anyone who needs a sign of hope in their life and to go after their dreams. You are the Wimbledon champion for a reason. And nobody can take that away from you.”

Riley starts to tear up again. She’s going to be crying all night! Though, it’s all worth it because she appreciates Joe’s sincerity. Hearing all of this from him means the world.

“Oh, and thank you for giving me a shout out in your speech.” he smirked knowingly. Riley playfully rolls her eyes with a laugh that manages to come out through her sobs.

“Ok, you made me cry, and now Joe Burrow wants to take credit for the reason why I won Wimbledon? But honestly, I know what I accomplished today was truly special. All of this definitely wouldn’t have been possible without every single person who believed in me from the very beginning.” she says. Her hand finds a home on his cheek, as she relishes this moment of closeness with him. She’ll never get tired of admiring his beautiful features and the way he absorbed every word she uttered.

The both of them couldn’t wait any longer. Riley and Joe lean towards each other to capture their first kiss. A kiss that is magical right from the start. Their lips mold together in harmony. Softly at first, taking their time to find a good pace. Joe makes the first move to deepen the kiss, which Riley gladly accepts. She runs her hands over his arms and his muscular back that is unfortunately covered by clothing. Through each kiss she grows more comfortable exploring his body. Joe groans at the feel of her hands sliding underneath his t-shirt to touch his back, Riley refusing to be denied access. Her acrylic nails gently graze over his skin. Her hands have a mind of their own, as she can’t resist running them through those soft curls. The kiss turns heated very quickly. All she wants to do is touch and feel him everywhere. Joe’s hold on her hips tighten, never breaking away from her full lips. Riley wraps her arms around his neck. They exchange blissful sighs and hums, until Riley is the first to pull away to breathe for air. She opens her eyes, to reveal Joe’s blue eyes staring at her, his chest rising with heavy breaths, and the biggest grin on his face. Riley couldn’t help but burst into breathless laughter.

“Shit. We should’ve done this a long time ago! I don’t think I ever want to stop kissing you. These lips are my new obsession.” Joe kisses her again, he places his hand on the back of her neck. This time it’s shorter, but Riley is still overcome with a rush of fireworks.

“It’s a good thing that I feel the same way.” she says, when they pull away reluctantly. She could kiss him for hours, but eventually they’ll have to leave this room to the celebration that’s waiting for her on the other end.

“Baby, when I take you out on our date, I’m going to show you exactly the way you deserve to be treated. And every date after that. You won’t regret a thing.” Joe says confidently, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his forehead against hers.

She believes him.

“Am I dreaming? Has this whole day been real?” Riley smiles. She feels so blessed. She is a Grand Slam winner, everyone she cares about is with her to cherish this milestone, and this beautiful man who just admitted that he’ll do anything to make her happy is by her side.

“Now, let’s get out of here Miss Wimbledon. We’ve got some celebrating to get to.” Joe grins, interlocking their hands together, his other hand on the doorknob.

Yes, this life belongs to her.

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