#How Long Should I Wait To Text Ex Back | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lupinqs · 29 days ago

Text

THE WAY I LOVED YOU ━━ paige bueckers x ex-girlfriend!reader

☆ ━ summary: a night out leads you right back to your ex-girlfriend’s bed.

☆ ━ word count: 10.8K

☆ ━ warnings: smut (oral, fingering, strappp, scissoring, pure filth)

☆ ━ links: my masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: not proofread and basically just porn goodnight

THERE’S NOTHING WRONG with Lucas.

You tell yourself that a lot. Not because you don’t believe it, but because you do. You believe it so much, it almost feels rehearsed.

Lucas is easy to love. Easy to explain. He says what he means and he follows through. He’s the kind of person who brings you flowers on a random Tuesday and remembers your favorite kind without needing to be reminded. He holds the door open for you—not in the forced, performative way, but just because that’s the kind of person he is. Thoughtful. Steady. Soft around the edges in a way that makes other people relax just by being near him.

Your friends love him. Your mom keeps saying things like “he’s a keeper” and “baby, he is so in love with you” and it’s not like she’s wrong. He texts back. He listens. He laughs at your jokes, even when they’re not funny. He gets along with your dad. He plays video games with your little brother. He always smells like laundry detergent and cinnamon gum, and when he kisses you, he cups your cheek like he’s holding something precious.

You like that. You like him.

It’s good.

It’s normal.

It’s healthy.

And for the most part, you don’t think about anything else. Not really. You’ve been… training yourself not to. You’ve developed entire routines around the art of not thinking about her—deleting old playlists and creating new ones, watching different shows, changing your route to class, rewriting entire chapters of your day-to-day life just so you don’t trip and fall back into the places where she used to live.

And it’s worked. Mostly.

Until it doesn’t.

Because Lucas will be saying something—something sweet, something thoughtful, something that would’ve made you melt if this were your first relationship—and you’ll feel this tiny flicker of something you can’t name. Not sadness. Not longing. Just… something. A quiet, sinking realization that you should be feeling more than you are. That what he’s saying is right, and hood, and all the things you’ve ever been told to want—but it’s landing in your chest like a feather instead of a thunderstorm.

And that’s the thing. Lucas is feathers. Warm, light, gentle.

But Paige?

Paige was fucking weather.

Not sunshine or softness or stillness, but storms. Paige was thunder and static and lightning under your skin. Being with her felt like leaning too far out of a window just to see what would happen. Like running a red light or driving a hundred miles an hour. Reckless. Stupid. Exhilarating.

Not that you think about her. You don’t.

You don’t think about the way she used to kiss you like it was the last time, even when it wasn’t. You don’t think about the fights that started over nothing and ended with slammed doors and tear-streaked apologies. You don’t think about the 2 AM screaming matches in her car that would turn into the 2:07 AM make-outs that made your head spin and send heat to your core. You don’t think about how being with her made you feel like a live wire—shocking, wild, electric.

Lucas makes you feel like you’re being taken care of. Like your future has clean lines and soft landings. He respects your boundaries. He never raises his voice. He doesn’t make you wait three hours for a reply, only to show up at your window like he’s in a movie. He’s never left you crying in the rain. He’s never made you cry in the rain.

It’s easy, being with him. Comfortable.

And maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe that’s why you said yes when he asked you out, and why you kept saying yes after that. Maybe that’s why you’ve tried so hard to get used to all this normalcy. You wanted someone who didn’t make your heart feel like it was constantly trying to break out of your chest. You wanted someone calm, steady, safe.

Lucas is all of those things.

He doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire. He doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire.

There are no extremes. No chaos. No bruised egos or tearful apologies or scream-raw throats. He doesn’t make you second-guess yourself, and he never looks at you like he’s seconds away from either kissing you or shouting at you. He just looks at you with kindness, with a quiet sort of adoration, like you’re exactly who he hoped you would be.

And still—still—there are nights when you find yourself lying awake next to him, the glow of your phone lighting up the ceiling, and you feel something sharp and shapeless pressing at the back of your mind. Not a memory. Not a name. Just pressure. The kind you used to feel when things were about to go wrong. Or when things were too good to be true. Or when she was around.

You don’t let yourself go there.

You shut it down

Because it’s not fair to Lucas, and it’s not fair to you. You’ve moved on. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

And besides, you already tried loving like that.

You gave everything—everything. You screamed and sobbed and kissed like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into someone like Paige Bueckers and got spit back out with bruises you couldn’t explain. It wasn’t sustainable. It wasn’t good.

You remind yourself of that whenever your mind drifts.

Lucas doesn’t make you cry.

Lucas shows up.

Lucas texts back.

Lucas doesn’t run hot and cold. He doesn’t storm out of rooms. He doesn’t pull you into closets at parties and fuck you until your legs are shaking, only to pretend like nothing happened the next day. He doesn’t keep you guessing. He’s consistent. Warm. Soft.

You can trust him.

You just don’t burn for him.

And maybe that’s what growing up is. Learning to choose what’s good for you over what feels good in the moment. Learning to stay steady instead of chasing the highs and lows of a love that made you lose your mind.

So, no—you don’t miss Paige.

Or, at least, that’s what you’re currently telling yourself.

You’re at Ted’s. UConn’s beloved, grimy, too loud and far too small campus bar. It’s girl’s night out—no Lucas, no boyfriends, just you and your friends. The music is bad, the floor is sticky, and you’ve already had one too many drinks, but none of that is really the problem.

The problem is that she’s here.

Paige fucking Bueckers is here.

Of course she is. Of course she’d pick tonight to show up, like the universe just can’t let you have a single night off. She’s across the bar, flanked by her teammates, posted up like she owns the place. And she kind of does. She’s got that charm, that draw—the one that makes people want to be near her, even if they don’t know why. She doesn’t even have to try.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen her since the breakup—seven months, not that you’ve been counting—but that doesn’t make it easier. The sting hasn’t dulled. The ache hasn’t faded. Every time you see her, it feels like getting burned in the same exact spot over and over again. Your body should be numb to it by now, but somehow it never is.

And worst of all?

She looks good tonight. So good it makes your stomach twist and shrivel.

She’s wearing black cargo id that sit low on her hips and cling just enough to the right places. A white collared crop top, short-sleeved and perfectly fitted, which gives you a detailed fucking display of her biceps and abs—both of which are bigger, sharper, more defined than when you had her. She’s been hitting the weight room hard this summer. You know it. Everyone knows it. She must want that natty bad.

She probably wants it more than she ever wanted you.

You hate how bitter that thought tastes going down, but it’s not like it’s new. That feeling—that doubt—was there the whole time. The fights. The jealousy. The nights she didn’t text back. The way her phone would light up late at night and she’d just turn it face down and mumble something about it being nothing. You wanted to trust her. God, you tried. But it was always like walking a tightrope with her. One wrong move and you’d fall.

She was a fuckboy before you got together, and you’re sure she’s a fuckboy again now. Probably worse. Seven months is plenty of time for her to rediscover all her old habits. You can practically see it written all over her tonight—the loose body language, the flirtatious smile, the way her eyes scan the room like she’s picking her next fuck. She’ll take someone home tonight. You don’t even have to wonder.

Some girl—probably sweet, probably impressionable, probably someone who has no idea what it’s like to be wanted and discarded by Paige Bueckers—will follow her home. She’ll get to experience first hand what all the hype is about.

You try not to think about how that was once you. Try not to think about the way Paige would toss you onto her bed and kiss you like she needed it to breathe. Try not to think about the desperate way she’d strip you bare. Try not to think about the skill her hands and mouth and hips held. Try not to think about the way she used to look at you—like she couldn’t believe she got to have you.

You try not to think about any of it.

You stare at her, hating her and wanting her and hating that you want her. And her hair’s down tonight—down—long and straight and golden under the bar lights. She never wore it down when you were together unless you asked, unless she was feeling soft, unless you were the only one she wanted to impress. She’d preferred it up, out of the way in a bun or ponytail. But now it’s out and shining like a fucking halo or something.

She’s laughing at something KK said, her mouth open and easy and happy, and you hate how good it looks on her. How it makes her shoulders shake just slightly, how her head tilts back, how she glows. She’s got a Dirty Shirley in hand—of course she does—and a devil-may-care look in her eyes like she’s on top of the world. Like nothing, not even you, ever touched her deeply enough to leave a mark.

She doesn’t notice you staring.

Good.

You tear your eyes away with more force than necessary, like dragging a splinter out of your own skin. It leaves you raw. But you want let yourself look again. You won’t.

Your drink is almost gone. You need more. You need to blur this out, soften the corners of the room until her shape doesn’t stand out in it anymore.

You mutter something to your friends and slip away toward the bar. Your legs feel heavy. Your skin too warm. You feel her presence behind you like a heat lamp, burning a hole in your back even if she’s not looking.

You shove through a group of guys yelling about the Celtics and wedge yourself between a couple of juniors who are too busy taking selfies to notice you. The bartender glances at you once, uninterested. You order a shot.

Then another.

Then, one more with your friend who just walked over.

You were tipsy before—now you’re full-on drunk. It’s dangerous and smart for this situation. You needed it, but it could also make things catastrophically worse.

You glance back—just once, just to be sure—

And she’s looking right at you.

Her mouth is still curved in a half-smile from the joke someone made. But her blue eyes are locked into yours, and for a second, just a second, the noise of the bar fades.

And you remember everything.

Every fight. Every fuck. Every late-night apology. Every quiet morning. Every lie you swallowed. Every truth you ignored. Every time she held you like she’d never let go.

And then did.

You break eye contact first.

Not because you want to. Not because you’re strong enough to look away. But because the heat of her stare is too much—it crawls beneath your skin, presses against your throat, makes your chest ache in that way that only she ever could. And you’re too fucking drunk to pretend like it doesn’t affect you. Too fucking drunk to pretend it doesn’t burn.

So you look away.

Swallow hard.

And then you turn your back on her, like the coward you swore you wouldn’t be.

Your stomach twists as you push through the crowd, arms bumping shoulders, elbows knocking against glasses. You’re headed for the bar bathroom, and you don’t even care how pathetic it looks. You need a second. You need air. You need to not be near her.

You make it to the restroom, barely missing the girl stumbling out with her heels in her hand and lip gloss smeared against her chin. You shut the door, lean back against it, and exhale hard through your nose.

It’s a shitty little bathroom. One mirror. Flickering light that doesn’t help stop your intoxicated brain from spinning. Peeling poster on the wall advertising Tequila Tuesdays. You avoid your reflection because you already know what you’ll see: mascara slightly smudged, lips parted, that look in your eyes—like you’re unraveling. You can feel it. You’re slipping. The drunk is mixing with the memories now. You’re seeing her hands on your skin again, hearing her laugh against your neck. You’re remembering the way she used to back you into this same wall when the two of you would sneak off here together, tipsy and breathless and stupid in love.

You press your palms to your eyes and mutter, “Fuck,” under your breath.

You hate her.

You hate her so much.

Except… not really.

You swore you didn’t miss her. You swore you over it. You promised everyone, including yourself.

But underneath all the anger and the betrayal and the hurt you still carry in your ribcage like broken glass, you do fucking miss you. God, you miss her. The way she smelled. The way she’d look at you. The way her voice would soften when she said your name. You miss what it was like when it was good—when she let you in, when she chose you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Try to breathe.

Then—the handle jiggles.

Your eyes snap open.

The door creaks. You forgot to lock it all the way.

And there she is. She slips inside like a shadow and shuts the door behind her, slow and certain. Her eyes are already on you—the same icy blue. You can tell by the look in them that she’s just as drunk as you are. You want to scream at her. You want to melt into her arms.

“You were looking at me,” she says simply. But there’s a rasp to it that makes your skin tingle.

You swallow and straighten your, your reflexes all sharp and brittle. “No, I wasn’t,” you snap, defensive, even though your voice cracks halfway through it.

She steps closer—crowding you, closing the distance in two long strides. You stumble back, spine hitting the cool tile wall behind you, and she plants her palms on either side your head, caging you in.

Her gaze flickers—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again. She’s reading you like she used to. And then she’s leaning in, breath fanning against your face as she tells you, “Don’t lie.”

Your breath catches. You look up at her, feeling small beneath her height. She was always good at making you feel that way. She’s still staring at your lips. You try not to stare at hers. “Don’t,” you say, and your voice is small, too small.

But she already knows that “don’t” means “do.”

Her hands find your waist, hot and certain. You should push her away. You should tell her to leave. But you don’t. You can’t. Your fingers curl into the collar of her shirt instead, and then she’s kissing you, and it’s not gentle. It’s rushed and tough and months too late. Her lips crash into yours like she’s staring for you, and you let her take what she wants.

Because you want it, too.

Paige’s hands are everywhere and nowhere, gripping and slipping and dragging fire down your sides. You can feel her breath stutter every time your hips tilt forward just slightly, like your body is trying to remember hers on instinct alone.

You’re both far too drunk, you know that. Her balance is all fucked, her touch a little too eager, a little too messy to be calculated, but she’s trying to make it feel that way. She’s trying to keep control. Her arm is braced next to your head, her body angled so your only exit is through her. She always used to do that. Always made herself a wall. And now she’s doing it again, caging you in like she owns the right to.

And worse—you’re letting her.

You’re letting her and kissing her and grabbing at her like you never want her to leave. You’re cheating. You know that. You know that Lucas is probably asleep at home, completely unaware that you’re pressed up against a bar wall right now with your tongue in your ex-girlfriend’s mouth.

And you should care.

But you don’t.

All you can feel is Paige—her mouth, her tongue, her teeth. All you can taste is her Shirley and whatever shots she’s been drinking and your lip gloss that’s been smeared across both of your mouths.

And beneath that—deeper than the alcohol and the anger—is the hurt. Yours and hers, bleeding through your kisses like you’re both too stubborn to admit how much it still matters. You hate her. You fucking hate her for what she did, for how she made you feel, for the way she stopped calling and let everything rot in silence.

But you also want her.

Desperately. Viciously. Shamefully.

She kisses you harder, lips slotting with yours like she wants to devour you whole. One of her hands drags up your side, long fingers bunching in your tank top until it wrinkles under her grip. Her other hand finds your hip and squeezes hard—possessive, rough, like she’s trying to bruise herself back into you. And you don’t stop her. You tilt your head back when her lips begin to trail downward, dragging along your jaw, your neck.

She sucks there, open-mouthed, like she wants to leave a mark. You gasp. Your fingers tighten on her shirt. Your knees almost buckle, and you’re suddenly very grateful the wall is there.

She knows what she’s doing. Of course she does. She’s always known.

When she gets to your ear, she nips—just the edge, sharp and quick—and you inhale so hard your vision blurs.

Then her hands slide from your hips to your waist and she presses her mouth right against the shell of your ear, voice low and warm and dripping with something that feels way too much like the past.

“Come back to mine, mama,” she whispers, pinching your waist for emphasis. “Let’s leave.”

Your breath catches. Everything slows, just for a second. You hear the music pounding from the other side of the door, the sound of someone laughing in the hallway. You feel her breath fan across your neck, her body flush with yours, her large hands holding you with a firm grip.

And you want to say no. You should say no.

But you’re drunk. And this is Paige.

You lean your head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. Her lips brush your throat again.

“Okay,” you breathe, so quiet you’re not sure she heard it.

But she does.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and pink, face flushed. She doesn’t smile. She just lifts her hand, swipes her thumb across your lower lip and chin, wiping her spit away. And then she grabs your hand and pulls you toward the door.

You stumble out of the bathroom together, the door creaking wide and hitting the wall like a gunshot in the haze of noise and cheap bar lighting. Neither of you say anything—you just look at each other and then move in sync, turning toward the back entrance like it’s muscle memory.

It is muscle memory.

The same hallway, the same emergency exit sign buzzing slightly overhead. You’ve done this before—slipped out together, ducking before your friends could ask questions or try to convince you to stay, walking home in that stupid little bubble where it was just you and her and the fucked-up, magnetic thing that kept dragging you together. It feels like that again. Familiar. Dangerous.

You push the door open, and the rain hits you in the face like a slap. It sobers you up maybe half a percent, just enough to register how soaked the ground already is. You look up in disbelief. The sky is coming down heavy now, full-on pouring—of course. Of fucking course.

Paige lets out this short laugh, all breath and surprise, like she can’t even believe the timing either. “Jesus,” she mutters, throwing one arm around your shoulders, tugging you closer into her side. “We gotta walk.”

You just nod because you already knew that. Her apartment isn’t far—not that you’ve been to the new one, just that you know the building. It’s about ten minutes if you’re sober and walking with purpose. Which, neither of you are right now. You’re drunk. She’s drunk. You’re dressed for the bar, not a rainstorm. And you’re making the worst decision of your entire relationship history, possibly of your life.

But you go anyway.

The two of you start moving down the sidewalk, feet slapping against puddles, your arm wrapped tight around her waist now, because fuck it, she’s warm and solid and familiar. Her shirt is clinging to her by the minute—white cotton soaked through and sticking to her torso, giving you a clearer outline of the muscle she’s been building all offseason. You glance at her abs, now shiny and wet with rain, and immediately look away again. Mistake. Everything about tonight is a fucking mistake.

Still, your body keeps walking.

The rain is cold and heavy, but your skin is buzzing and hot from the alcohol and the adrenaline and whatever this horrible, electric thing is between the two of you. It’s always been like this—heightened. Too much. Like your nervous system doesn’t know what to do around her except overload.

You try not to think. You try not to remember.

But you do.

You remember the last time it was late at night and raining and you were with Paige. Screaming in the middle of the street, voices cracking and soaked to the bone, fighting like it was the end of the goddamn world. And it kind of was. You ended up having angry sex in her car afterward, teeth and nails and hands clawing for something solid, something familiar, even if it hurt. You broke up the next morning.

You remember the heat of her skin, the sting of her words, the way she looked at you like she didn’t know whether to worship you or run from you.

But that’s how it always was.

You and Paige were never soft. You were sharp edges and blood-hot emotions and never knowing whether the night would end in a fight or a fuck. You both went a little insane because of the way you felt about each other—because neither of you ever knew how to not feel too much.

And now, you’re cheating on your boyfriend just to feel it again.

You shove the thought down as hard as you can. Focus instead on the way Paige’s fingers dig slightly into your waist every time you slip a little on the slick concrete. On the way her hair, long and straight and down for once, is starting to curl at the ends from the water. On how your teeth are starting to chatter even though the warmth from her body is leaking into yours, bit by bit.

And then, out of nowhere, Paige just stops walking.

You barely register it at first—your steps carry you half a beat too far until she tugs you back by the hand. You turn to ask what the hell she’s doing, but then she’s already kissing you.

Right there, in the middle of the fucking sidewalk in a downpour. No warning. No buildup. Just her mouth on yours like gravity snapped and she had no other choice. And maybe she didn’t; maybe neither of you do.

It makes sense.

When you were together and she was drunk, Paige always got like this. Clingy. Touch-starved. She’d pull you into her lap at parties, curl up behind you on the couch, mouth against your ear saying dumb little things that would make you blush. Always wanting to be near you, in you, around you, on you—like proximity made it easier to breathe.

That version of her is here now, kissing you like she’s trying to devour you. Her hands cup your face, holding you steady, but her mouth is anything but—urgent, greedy, moving over yours like she’s trying to memorize every part she’s been missing. Her lips are warm and insistent even through the cold, even through the rain that’s coming down heavy, pattering against the sidewalk, running down your neck, getting between your clothes and skin. It’s kind of miserable, but it also kind of doesn’t matter.

Because Paige is kissing you like she’s pissed off. Like she wants to make a point. Like she’s angry she still wants you, and the only way to get it out is kissing you hard enough to bruise.

And God, you feel it. Your body is lighting up from the inside, every part of you buzzing. You can taste the rain between her lips, the mix of it and her chapstick and the alcohol on both of your tongues. Her hands slide into your hair, tugging you toward her harder. It’s enough to coax a gasp out of you, and that only makes her groan and lick further into your mouth.

It’s clumsy and wet and messy, teeth knocking a little, breaths hitching, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for rational thought. And you let it happen. You lean into it. You want to punish her a little, too—want her to feel it like you do. So, you kiss her back just as angrily, like she’s not the only one with something to prove.

But then the chill starts to creep in. You’re soaked to the bone now, both of you only in tank tops, and the wind cuts sharp across your face as it whips through the street. As hot as you feel inside, you’re suddenly aware your body is freezing. Besides, you need to be somewhere inside to satisfy your real need—the one resting between your legs, pulsing and aching with want.

You pull back just a little—your lips slipping away from Paige’s, breath fogging between you—and try to catch your bearings. But Paige isn’t done. She follows you forward, mouth chasing yours like she can’t stand even the smallest bit of distance. Her nose bumps yours, big hands still gripping the sides of your face.

“Okay,” you mutter, voice breathless, dazed, trying to push her back with shaky hands on her chest. “Let’s go, c’mon.”

She stares at you, blue eyes wide and glossy under the streetlight glow, lips kiss-swollen and parted.

“Needa—apartment,” you stumble, the words coming out in fragments because your brian is still somewhere back in that kiss. “Like, now.”

Paige blinks like she finally remembers where the two of you are. She exhales slowly before nodding quicker, saying, “Yeah. Yeah.”

It doesn’t take much longer to get to her apartment. She’s in a different building now, not the same one she lived in when you were dating. You don’t even get a chance to look around before she’s telling you, a little breathless, “Jana and Allie are both staying at Azzi and Morgan’s tonight. We ain’t gotta worry ’bout none of that.”

You nod. “Good,” you reply, but it’s barely out of your mouth before she’s already closing the space between you once more.

Her mouth crashes into yours with this messy, impatient heat that catches you off guard even though you probably should’ve expected it. You gasp slightly, back hitting the wall with a dull thud as her hands find your hips and press in like she’s trying to fuse herself to you.

She kisses you hot and desperate, tasting like her Shirley and rainwater and you, like she’s been starved for too long and forgot what moderation is. Or maybe she never knew in the first place. Her breath is shallow against your cheek when she pulls back just barely, only to bite at your bottom lip, gentle at first and then not. Your knees buckle a little.

She starts walking you backwards eagerly, quickly. Your shoes squeak faintly against the hardwood floor, and every few steps, she pauses to kiss you again—at your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—each one a little sloppier than the last, like she’s trying to leave her mouth on every inch of your skin that’s currently available. You stop for a second to kick your shoes off, Paige doing the same, before her hands are right back on you.

You let her guide you, stumbling slightly but somehow never really tripping, your hands tugging at her shirt now without hesitation. Your fingers find the hem and you push upward, palms grazing the warm skin of her stomach, the firmness of her abs. She lifts her arms to help you, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as the tank top peels off her like a second skin, damp from the rain and sticking to her in places. You toss it aside without even looking where it lands.

She’s gorgeous like this—hair damp and sticking to her temples, broad shoulders gleaming slightly from the rain, eyes half-lidded and wild, white sports bra soaking into her skin. You pull her back in. She lets you, fingertips digging into your waist as she spins you slightly and then walks you back the rest of the way.

The door clicks shut behind you, Paige’s hand still on the lock as she flicks it closed without even looking. You only catch a blur of her bedroom before she’s pushing you, your back hitting her mattress with a dull thud. The bed’s soft, and it dips underneath you as Paige follows right after, crawling on top of you without a second thought.

She kisses you hard the moment she’s close enough. No pretense. Just mouth on mouth, rough and messy and hungry. Her knee slips in between your thighs like it belongs there, and suddenly she’s pressing forward, using the weight of her body to open you up, her hands already sliding up your sides, tugging at the hem of the tiny tank top you wore out tonight.

She’s always been like this—especially when drunk. She got clingy, reckless, possessive. All hands and teeth and sharp exhales against your throat. She never hesitated to take what she wanted. Clearly, nothing about that has changed.

You can barely think. Your brain is cotton. Static. Her mouth moves down along your jaw, biting just a little at your skin as her hands palm over your chest through the thin fabric, rough and eager, hardening your nipples. It’s overwhelming in the same way you remember. Like she’s trying to devour your whole. Like you’re the last drink of water on Earth and she’s been crawling through the desert.

You let her take. You’re not even sure if you could stop her if you tried.

“Paige,” you murmur, just her name because you don’t know what else to say. She hums against your neck, doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t slow down. Her mouth catches your collarbone bow, her teeth scraping skin, and you can feel your tank top sliding further up, her hands bunching it near your ribs.

You try not to think. About anything. Not about where you are. Not about who’s on top of you. Not about Lucas. Definitely not about that.

But your guilt creeps in, just for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

You’re cheating on your boyfriend.

You’re actively cheating on Lucas with your sort-of insane ex-girlfriend—who, to be fair, is currently kissing along your body like you’re something deserving of worship. Like she wants to go back to the night you broke up, grab it by the throat, and shake it until it gives you a different ending.

And the worst part is that you want her to.

You want all of this. Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s messy. Even if tomorrow comes and you have to lie through your teeth about where you were tonight.

Thankfully, you’re pulled from your thoughts as Paige’s fingers hook into your tank top, pulling it up over your head in one smooth, urgent motion. It gets caught for a second, snagged under your arm, but she doesn’t even hesitate. Just lets out a breathy laugh and helps you lift your arms the rest of the way, tossing the top somewhere behind her.

She pauses when she sees you.

You’re bare from the waist up—unlike her, you didn’t bother with a bra tonight. The tank top was enough. You shiver slightly, skin still damp.

“Fuck, baby,” Paige mutters hoarsely. Her eyes roam across your chest like she’s recommitting your breasts to memory—which, she probably is.

And then she leans back in, mouth fast and greedy. Her lips graze across the swell of your chest, her tongue flicking out against one of your pert nipples. She sucks, cheekbones becoming prominent, as her hand stimulates the other bud. You arch into the touch, a quiet gasp escaping your lips, and Paige just groans in response.

She moves even lower, trailing wet kisses down your stomach like she’s trying to worship every inch of you in the fastest way possible. Her hair is still wet from the rain. It sticks to her forehead, her cheeks. You reach down without thinking and brush some strands behind her ear, and for a flicker of a second, her eyes spring up to meet yours.

There’s something in them—something messy and unspoken and so achingly familiar it almost knocks the breath out of you. She looks at you like she doesn’t know whether to say “I missed you” or “I’m gonna ruin you,” and honestly, it might be both.

You swallow hard as her fingers slide down your sides, wet palms skimming your hips. She shifts slightly above you, her knee pressing deeper between your thighs, and then she mutters, low and little slotted, “’M takin’ these off.”

It’s not a question, or a warning. Just a statement of fact, like she knows it’s already a done deal. Like she knows how much you want her. It pisses you off, but she’s right. You don’t bother trying to argue; you’re too impatient for that right now. Instead, you lift your hips, giving her room.

The denim peels off in slow, wet scrapes—Paige tugging your jeans down clumsily, muttering something under her breath about how soaked they are. Her hands fumble at your ankles, pulling the cuffs off before she throws the mess of fabric to the floor. Her hands are cold and your skin is goosebumped from the downpour, but somehow it just makes everything feel sharper, more alive.

You watch as her gaze returns to you before stilling. The grin sidles upon her face before she even says anything. Her lip quirks, slow and smug. She blinks once, then twice, like she’s confirming something.

“Well, would you look at that,” Paige murmurs, titling her head. Her voice is thick with amusement.

You frown. “What?”

She reaches out, brushes her fingers over the lace of your underwear before snapping the waistband against your stomach. “You wore these,” she replies matter-of-factly. The way she says it makes your face go hot.

You glance down, your stomach twisting the second you register. Lavender lace. The soft pair she got you when you were still dating, the one that belongs in the set with the bra. Purple is her favorite color. You hadn’t meant to wear them tonight. It just—happened. Bad luck. Or maybe subconscious salvatore. You’re not sure.

“Shut up,” you mumble quickly, but your voice is weak, defensive. You shift your hips slightly, trying to throw her off, but she doesn’t let up.

“Nah, nah,” she says, laughing. “You wore these. Tonight. These.” Her fingers curl just under the waistband once more like she’s framing the evidence. “These are my panties.”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

Paige just chuckles again—low and smug, the sound all warm breath against your thigh—and leans in. She presses her mouth to the inside of your leg, right above the lace, and bites. Not too hard, just enough to make you gasp, make your hips jerk. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you still as she drags her teeth across your skin again.

You feel her fingers trail up between your legs, teasing, lazy. She doesn’t even go for the waistband. Not yet. Just presses her fingers over the damp lace, at your clothed clit, where she knows you’re already pulsing for her. Her touch is light, maddeningly so. Just pressure, then a slow little circle, then nothing. Then again.

You exhale sharply, a little whimpering escaping before you can stop it.

“Yeah,” she breathes, all cocky and satisfied, rubbing at your pussy through your underwear—her underwear. “You want this, huh?”

You want to roll your eyes. You want to curse her out. You want to tell her to shut up again.

But you also want her hand between your legs, so.

“Obviously,” you mutter instead, shifting your hips closer to her fingers. “Jesus.”

She smirks. “Still so easy for me,” she murmurs, running her thumb in a slow, purposeful drag over your covered clit again. “Still so wet, even with these on. Shit.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way your body is reacting to her—how warm and staticky and shamefully good it feels, even after everything. Especially after everything. It’s fucked yo. It’s so deeply, stupidly fucked up. But the thing about Paige is that she’s always known exactly how to pull you apart, and tonight’s no different.

Her lips move up your thigh again, kisses slower now, mouth more deliberate. She’s still teasing you with her fingers, but at least she’s pressing harder now. Your legs twitch a little under her hands, breath coming faster.

You grab at her wrist. “Paige.”

She hums against your skin. “Mm?”

“Either take ’em off or don’t.”

Another smug little grin. “Bossy,” she mutters, but she finally starts to tug them down.

And you think she’s gonna rip them off just like the jeans and your tank top, quick and careless, like she can’t get them off fast enough. But she doesn’t. She goes slow with it. Real slow. The lace peels off your skin in soft, damp stretches, catching slightly on the curve of your hips, then your thighs, like it doesn’t want to let go. She’s careful with it, rolling them down past your knees, then over your ankles one at a time.

And then, instead of flinging them off to the side like the rest of your clothes, she hesitates.

She holds them, twisting the fabric around her fingers once. She looks at them for a second, like she’s remembering something. And then, without a word, she sets them down—right beside you on the bed, neat and deliberate like she’s placing something valuable. You roll your eyes; you know she’s trying to emphasize the fact that they’re “her” panties.

You watch as her blue eyes trail over you, before settling between your legs. She can see how soaked and slick you are. When she looks back up at you, that teasing edge in her expression is gone. Replaced by something darker. Heavier. Like the sight of you naked knocked the air right out of her.

“Fuck,” she breathes, more to herself than you.

And then she moves.

No more games. No more slow burn or smug comments or smartass remarks. Just Paige, leaning in with a newfound desperation.

The first thing you feel is her breath. Hot and shaky against your cunt, curling over you in waves that make your toes curl. Then her mouth—her lips, soft and plush and open, parting against you like a question she already knows the answer to.

Your hips buck involuntarily and she groans—low and satisfied and a little dizzy—like the taste of you hit her like a shot to the head. Her hands grip your thighs firmly, thumbs digging in just enough to hold you still as she licks a slow stripe between your folds.

Your breath hitches in your throat. Paige doesn’t say anything, but she hums like she’s pleased with herself, and the vibration makes you whimper. Her mouth works steadily, not frantic, not messy, just focused. Eager, but in control. She’s pacing herself like she knows exactly how long it’ll take to make you cum—and plans to stretch it out just enough to make you lose your mind before it.

You feel her shift, settling between your legs like she’s not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. One of her hands slides up, presses lightly over your stomach, while the other stays clamped around your thigh, keeping you open and spread for her. You’re breathing hard already, fingers fisting the sheets, head tilted back against the pillow.

But then she flicks her tongue just right—right there, straight on your clit, the perfect little spot she always used to find without trying—and your whole body goes tight.

“Fuck,” you choke out, hips twitching, hand flying to the back of Paige’s head without thinking. Your fingers tingle in her hair, damp and messy and soft, and she lets you, even leans into the pressure like it spurs her on.

“Mm,” she hums again, mouth still locked on you. Her eyes flick up for a second—just long enough for you to see the heat beneath them—and then she closes them again and gets back to work.

Her pace picks up, beginning to circle her tongue on your pussy with more pressure. Like she’s chasing something now. Like she’s chasing you. And when your hips roll up again, she moans softly like she loves that—like she needs it just as much as you do.

“Paige—” you stumble, her name coming out half-broken.

She pulls back for one second, breath ragged, lips slick and swollen, her nose a little wet too, and murmurs, “I gotchu, mama,” before ducking her head again.

And you know she does—in this position, she always does.

She sucks, lips around your bud, and your legs shake.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Her fingers finally move—trail up your thigh again, then find their way between your legs. Her mouth moves down, tongue finding your entrance, thrusting inside. Her fingers, on the other hand, rub over your soaked clit in slow strokes.

You’re a mess now. Moaning soft and breathless, biting your lip, fucking Paige’s face. It’s too much and not enough.

Paige’s grip tightens. She keeps moving her tongue, rubs her fingers faster. The sounds emitting are obscene. Your whole body is trembling, your thighs clenching around her shoulders, your heart pounding so loud you can barely hear anything else.

You’re about to cum. You’re right fucking there. You know it, Paige knows it too.

And then: she stops.

Just for a second. Just long enough to make you want to scream.

Her mouth doesn’t move far. Her fingers don’t leave. She just slows everything down—lets her tongue go lazy, softens the pressure of her fingers into something more like a tease than an intention. Just enough to cool the fire without putting it out completely. Enough to keep you hovering in that frustrating, impossible space where you can feel your orgasm burning in your gut, but you can’t reach it.

You whimper, pathetic and desperate. “Paige,” you say. It doesn’t even sound like a protest—it’s too soft. Too needy.

And she just chuckles. Low and rough and stupidly smug. “Sweetheart, I know you ain’t think I was gon’ let you finish that fast,” she chastises.

She licks a lazy stripe up your center, just enough to make you shudder, then pulls back again to speak. “Uh-uh.” Her lips brush the inside of your thigh now. “Nah, baby. Not yet.”

You try to buck your hips, to chase the pressure, but her hand flattens against your stomach again, pinning you down.

“Be good,” she scolds.

It’s cruel. So cruel. But it’s not mean. She’s not doing it to punish you—there’s no spite in it. It’s worse than that. She’s doing it because she wants to. Because she likes this. The control, the way she can make your whole body lose itself with nothing but her mouth and a couple fingers.

She starts again. Slow. Gentle. Just lips and tongue at first—no fingers—circling softly, tasting you with this lazy rhythm that makes your whole body ache. It’s good. God, it’s so good. But it’s not enough.

Every time she gets you close—every time your thighs start to tremble and your hands fist in the sheets and your stomach starts to tighten like you’re gonna explode—she backs off again. Pulls away just enough go to keep you right there on the edge. And it happens again. And again. And again.

You lose count around the fourth time. Maybe the fifth.

Your entire body is flushed, sweat beading down your neck and across your chest, your breathing ragged and high in your throat. You’re begging now, pride gone. Just soft, broken pleads slipping from your lips.

“Please,” you whisper, over and over. “Paige, please.”

She hums like she’s thinking about it. “Please what?” she asks, voice all innocent like she doesn’t already know. “Whatchu want, baby?”

You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to cum. But mostly, you want her—her mouth, her fingers, her everything. The full weight of her attention. No more teasing. No more games.

“I want—” You can barely get the words out. Your voice is hoarse. “I want to cum. Please.”

She grins into your thigh, and you can feel it.

“Yeah?” she asks. “You want me to let you?”

You nod hard, nearly gasping. “Yes. God, yes, baby, please.”

She takes her time, still. Like she’s filing that away for later—your voice all cracked and pleading, your body practically shaking with want.

But then—finally—her mouth returns, this time with her fingers. Two of them, slow at first, just enough to ease inside, stretch you open at this perfect pace that makes your eyes roll back. And then her tongue follows—firm and fast and focused again.

She doesn’t let up this time.

Her fingers pump deep, curling just right with every thrust. Her mouth locks onto your clit, her tongue flicking and circling, and you feel it. You feel the difference. You feel her let you.

It builds so fast you almost don’t believe it’s happening—like your body can’t trust it yet, like it’s waiting for her to pull away again. But she doesn’t. She keeps going. Keeps fucking you with her fingers and sucking with just the right amount of pressure until you’re moaning like mad. Until your back arches clean off the bed.

And when you finally cum, you really cum.

It hits like a wave—full-body, all-consuming, a rush of heat and noise and sensation that floods your chest and curls your toes and makes your vision blur. You cry out, loud and unfiltered, Paige’s name breaking on your tongue as everything finally snaps.

She holds you through it. Keeps her fingers moving just enough to ride it out, keeps her mouth pressed against you like she doesn’t want to miss a single second of it. And when your thighs tremble and your hips jerk and you try to push her away, overstimulated, and breathless, she only pulls back slowly, letting you come down soft and dizzy and completely gone.

You collapse against the bed, boneless, the sheets twisted beneath you and your skin flushed everywhere. Your chest is rising and falling like you ran a marathon, your eyes fluttering shut, and your lips are parted like you forgot how to close them.

Paige crawls back up your body, slow and smug and glowing like she just won something. Her mouth is shiny, her chin wet, her eyes softer now. She leans in, kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then your hip, then right between your ribs like she’s following a map only she can read.

And then she finally kisses you. You taste yourself on her tongue.

“Still alive?” she murmurs, pulling back just barely, her breath fanning over your lips.

You nod tiredly. She grins.

“Good,” she says, nudging your nose with hers. “’Cause I ain’t done with you yet.”

“Paige,” you whine, eyes squeezing shut. You can’t, you swear. After all the edging and teasing, you’re fucking spent.

“C’mon,” Paige breathes as her fingers trail back down, teasing light circles on your clit like she’s checking to see if you’re still there. Still dripping for her. Still a mess. You are.

But instead of going soft or gentle—instead of giving you a break—Paige just laughs, low and smug and annoying, leaning closer until her forehead brushes yours. She’s smiling down at you like she’s seen this movie a hundred times before and already knows how it ends.

“You can’t take anymore? Really?” she asks, faux innocent, like she didn’t just spent twenty minutes dragging you to the edge and yanking you back every time you even thought about finishing.

You shake your head, too wrecked to even be embarrassed. Your legs twitch under her, and your breath stutters when she dips her hand again, rubbing faster now, rougher. Quick circles.

Your eyes fly open. “Paige—!”

She’s right there, hovering, looking so calm it’s almost rude. Her voice drops low, warm and coaxing. “You got it,” she murmurs, then leans in, kissing you languidly. “I’mma strap you, ’kay? It’s gon’ feel good.”

You blink at her, heart stuttering. The words hit you like a wave of something—lust, maybe, or memory, or just plain old holy shit, it’s been a while type of adrenaline.

Because, with Paige, the strap is something different. And you remember.

You remember how it used to turn her into almost someone else entirely—more focused, more intense, like she stepped into a role made for her. All that cocky, athletic confidence of hers funneled into every thrust. It used to drive you insane. She’d smirk down at you, hold you steady by the hips, mutter stuff under her breath that made your brain go static. Always so good at knowing when to push, when to slow down, when to whisper something filthy in your ear like she owned you. And, back then, she kind of did.

So, if you already here, already ruined and half-gone and trembling in her bed—you might as well let her finish the job.

You nod, barely, and Paige’s smile shifts into something more serious. Still soft, but hungrier now. Like she knows this means something and she’s not gonna waste it.

“Okay,” she says, voice lower. “Don’t move.”

Then she kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your collarbone. Her mouth is everywhere at once, moving down in quick little bursts of affection like she can’t stop touching you, even for a second.

You hear the drawer behind her open, the soft jingle of the harness. It takes her no time at all. She shimmies out of her cargos and boxers thickly, and fits the purple thing—same color as those panties she got you—to her hips with the same efficiency she’s got on the court.

She climbs back over you, eyes scanning your face like she’s checking in, making sure you’re okay—not just ready, but okay. Her hand slips under your thigh slowly, lifting it gently to drape over her waist.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just runs her fingers down your side again, resting them low on your hip as she settles between your legs. The silicone presses soft against your skin, and you twitch, already sensitive.

“Look at me,” she tells you, quieter now. Not demanding, more like a reminder. You do. You meet her eyes, and she gives you this look—tender, steady, locked in—that makes your stomach flip.

“You still want this?” she asks, even though she knows the answer.

You nod. “Yeah. Want you, P.”

Something flickers across her face when you say it. Then she leans down, kisses you once, deep and slow. Her hips roll forward just a bit, her strap dipping into your entrance.

“I’ve got you,” she mumbles.

Then she starts to move.

And—God.

You forgot how good she is at this. How well she reads you. How every stroke is meaningful—hips snapping forward in a rhythm that builds slow, steady, patient. She’s not fucking around anymore. She’s locked into this, onto you.

Your hands scrabble for purchase, fingers digging into her back, her shoulders, whatever you can hold. Your legs fall open wider around her hips, and the air goes thick between you—all breath and skin and sound.

She leans down, forearm braced beside your head, sweat already starting to gather along her hairline. Her voice is right against your ear now, rough and low, saying, “Fuck, missed this. Missed you.”

You gasp, nails digging into her skin.

She keeps going. Her hips rock into you steadily and your head tips back into the pillow. She’s so deep, so good, and your body is still humming from everything before—all that edging left you raw, still twitching and clenching down around nothing, and now she’s filling you. Driving into you with smooth, practiced thrusts.

She moves like she owns you—like this is hers, has always been hers, and you’re just finally getting back to what was supposed to be. You can barely catch your breath. The slick sounds between you, the pressure building low in your stomach, the quiet grunts coming out of her mouth every time she drives back—it’s a lot.

Paige’s body hovers over yours, strong and steady, blonde hair falling a little wild into her face—and yours—as she stares down at you. Her cross chain dangles above you as well. It makes you wet. Her eyes flick over your face like she’s tracking every breath, every twitch. Making sure she’s hitting the spot. Making sure you feel all of her.

You do.

Fuck, you really do.

Your fingers curl deeper into her shoulders, your voice slipping out in little gasps and stuttered moans.

“Shit,” you choke out.

“Yeah?” Paige says, breath warm against your mouth. She’s grinning again, cocky as ever. “That feel good?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. “So good. Jesus—”

“Mmm,” she hums, and then she leans in again, nipping lightly at your jaw and throat. Her hips roll deeper, sharper, like she wants to remind you exactly who is doing this to you. “Don’t bring him into this. You know I’m the one that fucks you like this.”

You shudder—because yeah. She is.

And this shouldn’t be different. Theoretically. Mechanically. You’ve been having sex with a man for months now—Lucas, your boyfriend. He has a real dick and everything. And, with him, it’s been fine.

But this?

This isn’t fine. This is Paige. And what she’s doing to you—this focused, obsessive, filthy thing she’s doing with her strap and her body and her mouth and her fucking words—it’s not even in the same universe.

It’s better. So much better.

She’s in a whole different mode now. Not the teasing, soft, cocky Paige from earlier—not even the sweet, grinning, “let me make you feel good” Paige. This version of her? The one who puts the strap on and immediately goes a little feral? You almost forgot about this side of her. Or maybe you blocked it out because of how goddamn dangerous it is.

She moves harder, faster, her rhythm never faltering as she slips a hand under your thigh and pushes it up, opening you more, giving herself a better angle.

Her voice drops again, gravelly and low, lips brushing your ear. “You miss this dick, huh?”

You gasp. “Paige—”

She laughs, all breath and grit. “Yeah, you do. Don’t lie. You’ve been lettin’ him touch you, yeah? That boyfriend of yours.”

You blink yo at her, brain short-circuiting, and she moans when she sees it—the way you clench around her strap, the way your eyes roll just a little. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“You let him fuck you?” she asks, still thrusting, her voice starting to get breathless. “Let him hear you make all those sounds you used to make for me?”

You shake your head—not because it didn’t happen, but because that’s not what matters right now. Not when Paige is here, inside you, her hand gripping your thigh tight and her hips snapping forward like she’s trying to make you forget everyone who isn’t her.

She leans down, pressing her forehead to yours, still talking through shallow breaths.

“He ever get you this wet? Huh?” she asks. “You ever beg him like this?”

You’re too far gone to answer. All you can do is whimper, grabbing at her shoulders, your legs shaking with every thrust. Your body—your cunt, mostly—feels like it’s on fire.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” she mutters, more to herself now. “You can let him date you, whatever. But you always come back to me for this. Don’t you?”

You nod. Or try to. Everything’s blurry now—pleasure curling in your spine, building too fast again. The way she’s thrusting, angled to brush against that gummy spot deep inside you every time, it’s criminal. And she knows it. She keeps her hand on your hip, guiding you into her rhythm, using your body like she built it herself.

“Paige,” you gasp. “I’m—fuck, baby, I’m close.”

Her eyes flash, and she slows just slightly, grinding instead of thrusting, pulling out a ragged moan from your chest. “Yeah?” she whispers. “You wanna cum for me?”

You nod fast, begging with your eyes now.

She leans in again, presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your lips.

“Okay, baby,” she murmurs. “Go ’head. I got you.”

She thrusts—so fucking deep—and your body goes completely out of your control. That pressure builds too fast, too tight, and your thighs shake. You clench around Paige, voice cracking into a high whimper. Your legs go stiff, whole body arching. Paige rides you through it, hips still moving, her mouth catching the sounds you can’t control.

You cum harder than you have in a long, long time. Even harder than the first one tonight.

And Paige—sweaty, wild-eyed, her strap glistening between you—just smirks down at you like she knows.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek again. “That’s my girl.”

She eases out of you slow, careful, knowing you’re tender, and even still, it makes you flinch a little. Your whole body’s buzzing—nerves fried, legs weak, brain a complete blur. And the second she’s out, that emptiness hits you like a gut punch. You sigh, deep and shaky, already missing the weight and heat of her even though she’s right there.

You’re still leaking, thighs sticky, body limp. You don’t move—can’t, really—so you just watch her through heavy-lidded eyes as she undoes the harness and slides it down her legs. She tosses it lazily toward the floor, not even looking where it lands, and then she crawls up beside you, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her pale skin is flushed and glistening. You feel the mattress dip as she pulls herself closer, wraps on long, sweaty arm behind your back, and drags to right on top of her like you weigh nothing.

You don’t resist. You just melt into her.

Her skin is damp and hot against yours, her abs tight beneath your belly, and she lets out a small, winded laugh as you settle in, tucking your face into her neck. Her other hand reaches up, pulls at the hem of the sports bra she’s still wearing. She shimmies it off with some difficulty, then flings it somewhere behind her with zero aim, sighing like she’s been dying to get it off for a while now.

You glance up at her, and she looks down at you, her mouth soft, a little swollen. Then, she leans in and kisses you again—slow this time. Not needy or rushes. Just warm.

You’re so lost in it that you barely notice the way she’s shifting—until her thigh hooks around yours and suddenly her cunt is pressed right against you’re. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. It sends a shockwave through you, makes your breath hitch in your throat and your hips jerk without thinking.

“One more, mama,” Paige murmurs against your lips. “Please.”

You almost say no. Almost.

Because your body is fried. You’ve cum twice—hard, both times. And you’re sore and wrung-out and still trembling in little aftershocks. But then she’s calling you mama in that voice again—sweet and wrecked and a little desperate—and you know exactly what she’s asking for.

She deserves at least once. She’s been so patient. So fucking good to you tonight. You don’t even think she cares about cumming, honestly—she’s always been the type to chase your pleasure more than hers—but still. You want to give her that. Want to watch her fall apart, too.

So, even though your body is screaming at you to rest, you give a little nod. And then another.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Yeah. One more.”

Paige kisses you hard this time, all teeth and tongue and gratitude, and then she’s adjusting your hips again, sliding one of her legs between yours and guiding your thigh up over hers. And then you’re there, pressed together, pussy to pussy, and fuck—it’s a lot. There’s no slow build. You’re already soaked and swollen, and so is she, and the friction is fast and immediate and sweltering.

She groans into your mouth as you grind your hips down into hers, and you can feel her grip tighten on your waist.

“God, baby,” she mumbles. “Fuck, you feel s’good.”

You whimper, already teetering on the edge again. “’M not gonna last,” you admit, breath catching. “I’m so—God, P—”

“I know,” she says, not missing a beat. “I know. Just wanna feel you. Wanna cum with you.”

She guides you with her hands, rocking your hips against hers, keeping the rhythm steady when your thighs start shaking.

“You’re so wet, holy fuck,” Paige breathes. “You’re makin’ a mess on me, mama. You hear that?”

You do. That obscene, slick sound where your pussies meet, the wetness mixing and sliding. It makes your cheeks burn, but it also pushes you closer.

You want to finish with her—you really do. You want to hold you, want to grind together until you both cum at the same time, messy and gasping. But your body has other plans. You’re too sensitive, too overstimulated, and it’s Paige. That combination doesn’t give you a lot of room to breathe.

So you finish first—again—your body seizing up on top of her. It’s not big like the others, but it’s sharp and sweet and hits you right behind your eyes, whitening your vision. You let out a breathy little moan and shudder all over Paige, your thighs twitching around her hips, your chest collapsing against hers.

“Fuck, baby, yeah,” Paige groans, feeling you cum against her, sliding along her own pussy. She doesn’t stop. She just keeps going, grinding up into you a little more insistently now, chasing her own orgasm.

Her grip on you tightens, essentially manhandling your hips now. She tilts up into you, breath catching, and you feel her tensing under you, her thighs locking around yours.

“God, I’mma cum—shit,” she yelps, one last grind of your pussy sending her over the edge.

Finally, you both go still, the air between you thick and humid and exhausted. You collapse fully on top of her now, cheek smushed against her collarbone, her arms wrapped loosely around your back, her heartbeat pounding under your ribs.

Neither of you talks for a minute. You just breathe.

And then Paige sighs, light and wrecked.

“Fuck,” she curses. “Are we gonna regret this tomorrow?”

You’re too tired to think about it. Too dazed to pretend like you have any clue what the hell any of this means.

So you just press your face into her shoulder, and mumble, because you do know this one thing, “Definitely.”

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wbb #wnba #dallas wings #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers angst #paige bueckers fluff #wnba x reader #wlw #wlw smut

1K notes · View notes

okwonyo · 6 months ago

Text

.. TRYNA CHANGE YOUR MIND ⠀ ⟡⠀YJW

─── 𝖮𝖭 𝖧𝖨𝖲 𝖪𝖭𝖤𝖤𝖲 𝖥𝖮𝖱 𝖸𝖮𝖴. ⠀❀ ⠀❛ 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒.

정원 & fem!rea 1.6THOU の fluff exsituationship getting together warn𓈒 drunk!jungwon profanity ﹑ recue𝒾l

嘉 i was a bit in a rush writing this and i got carried away a little bit … ㅠㅠ but happy birthday @soov 🎀

reblogs ੭୧ feebacks ─── click ！

you have been staring at your phone’s screen for what feels like an eternity. your body stays in halt, as if frozen— there is a battle between your heart and brain.

“can i come over?” questions the last message received by you. it’s only four simple words, but it puts an invisible weight in your stomach. blossoming feeling or growing guilt, you are unable to say, unable to pinpoint.

the message before this one says, “i did something stupid” and you recent your burning curiosity and glimpse of desire for even opening it in the first place.

you try to not let your feelings take over again. your lip almost hurts from how hard you have been biting it— finding a sane balance between spirit and body is hard. especially when it comes to him.

a notification brings you out of your trance like state before making it worse, “please,” it says. your name at the end of it makes your breath hitch.

the worst part is that you already went through this already.

you take your phone, takes a deep breath before telling him to not come to your apartment. you prepare yourself to reject him once again. to apologize and to turn off your phone without reading his answer.

however, tonight your body moves on it’s own: “yes,” you send first without even realizing. “of course you can.”

double texting your ex situationship might be the most embarrassing you have done so far.

you throw your phone on your bed before putting your palm in your eyes and groaning gently. you fall backwards, your body bounces on the soft mattress as you rethink your life decision.

it is three in the morning. no one should ever have to deal with this kind of situation so early— or late, considering the fact that you haven’t slept yet— in the day. especially not with jungwon.

the doorbell rings the moment your back hits your bed. approximately, ten seconds after you responded to his text.

a smile creeps on your face unknowingly.

before opening the door, when you hold the door’s handle, jungwon ring the bell again. and, out of pettiness, you want to leave hum hanging a little bit more.

but you don’t.

you open the door in one breathe, the outside door hit your face— it is nothing compared to what you feel when you see his face after so long. well, merely a week.

he stares down at you with slightly widened eyes, as if he didn’t expect to you see you there. although he is the one who wanted to come over. you swear he has got manlier and his freshly new blonde hair makes you weak in the knees.

his first instinct is to step closer. even if his state is as clear as a day, he is enchanting. the scent of the liquor on his lips is mixed with sugar touches your lips as he breathes, his eyes pouring their devotion into yours, his beautiful face.

he leaves you breathless.

his eyes fall on your lips, staring at them shamelessly while you are not capable of focusing on anything but his face. while you are not capable of doing anything but wait for the connection.

he gets so close, starry-eyed and a pink hue on his cheeks. he looks like he is daydreaming although you are right in front of him. so lost in the clouds that he stumbles over his own feet— breaking the rising romantic tension.

you chuckle as he falls against the doorframe, “and we didn’t even kiss yet.”

he chuckles back, standing up straight and trying to maintain is posture as much as he can. he leans against the doorframe he just fell on, trying to appear cool. “i missed you.”

it is lovely, really. it gets you giddy. maybe you even blush a little. alas, you cannot help but huff slightly. not even in a mean way, a very faint smile appears on your face, but just to make him remember, “you’re drunk.”

jungwon doesn’t say anything. he barely even budges, he just blinks at you. he contemplates your face and forgets to answer somewhere along the line. he breathes again, “i missed you.”

he says it softly, as if omitting the fact that he has never said that to you before. it falls like water. angelic and dreamy. oh, so dreamy.

it is your turn to watch him now. with eyes narrowed as you examine his foolish expression. he doesn’t seem regretful in the slightest, as if it was as natural as breathing to him.

“i’ll give you some water,” you sigh, turning around to get into your apartment. he follows you immediately, even closing the door when you don’t look back. you continue, “it’ll make you quiet for a while.”

jungwon’s steps are steady for how drunk he looks. you have never seen him this red in the face ever.

“you have such—” cuts himself as he swallows before giggling. “a way with words, my love.”

you wince. he only calls you that when he is full of alcohol— well, he only texts you when he is full of alcohol, if you are being honest. he calls you nicknames sometimes, to annoy you most of the time. but he only add ‘my’ when he is drunk. he is only ever intimate when he is drunk.

pouring water in a glass, you don’t even respond to him. you don’t tell him to shut up as you usually do, you don’t hit him playfully, you just wince. not feeding into this, it doesn’t feel right.

you turn around to jungwon being nowhere in sight. even as you look around you, he disappeared. and for a minute, you wonder if you are starting to have hallucinations. until someone tap your hand, making you look down.

you almost told a man on his knees to get up before he protested, “please, let me do this,” and honestly, you are just a weak woman.

jungwon takes a shaky breath before starting to talk, “listen, i know you didn’t want to see me anymore,” he starts, his brown eyes get progressively more sad and desperate as he looks at you. “and i know that i have been an idiot.”

your grip on the glass of water in your hands gets tighter. you bite down your lip to fight the urge of saying something like ‘it’s an understatement’.

he smiles, catching your antics, “i apologize for my behavior,” he adds. it shocks you a tad, you frown. “i truly do,” his hands clap together, as if it was a prayer. “i know i said i wasn’t ready for a relationship, i know that we agreed to not see each other anymore but i— i missed you so much. as if my heart was missing in my chest,” weirdly poetic. “i need you with me.”

your mouth gets dry. you feel a jolt deep in the pit of your stomach. you put the glass on the kitchen’s counter. to refresh both of your memories, you speak, “jugwon,” he waits for you to continue. “you’re drunk. please, get up.”

instead, he kneels closer and takes your hand in this, “no, no, not that much,” he pleads. “give me just one chance. one last chance to prove what i feel for you. i—i promise, i won’t fail you, love.”

his words fall out of his mouth like sweet honey. so sweet and tempting. the way he looks at you, begging for you on his knees, his eyes like alluring pearls.

you might give in.

as far as your remember, he has never done that. he has never said those words to you, even as drunk as he might have been. he is the kind to lie to get what he wants, you have to admit.

although you would love to have a reason to hate him— he is not a liar. maybe just a coward at times.

you get your hands out of his grip. his pretty lips parts, ready to beg you a little more but he calms down when you cup his cheeks.

looking down at him, your thumb parts his lips, brushing over their petal softness. tingles runs down your back when he sighs. you lean in. falling, falling and falling into him like you always do.

“please,” he implores. “please.”

you give him a gentle peck before pulling away slightly. his hand comes holding your wrist, a silent plea. you kiss him again. longer and more passionate than before. he kisses you right back.

between a kiss you murmur, “stand up,” and he obliges immediately.

his strong arms hugs your waist. you bury your fingers in his hair before wrapping your arms around his neck. he is so desperate, his entire body curves into yours. you can feel his heartbeat rising inside of your own chest as it goes on.

his mouth is warm, soft and tastes like enough alcohol to intoxicate you a little and enough sugar to make you crave for more.

you both bump into the kitchen counter, making the glass of water you put there shake. but you don’t care enough to see if it fell or not, because his tongue teases yours just right. you feel faint when he tilts his head to the side to get in your mouth properly— a little too great and little too good.

he manages to get you out of breath after a few seconds. his lips are red, his cheeks are crimson and you want to kiss him again.

“you better do things right,” you grin. he presses his fingertips under your top as you talk, not to take it off, just to touch— it makes you gasp at the end of your sentence.

in a hoarse whisper, he tells you, “i promise, you i will.”

𓈒ㅤㅤ𓈒 taglist open

1K notes · View notes

trashytracktales · 3 months ago

Note

My love….i need some ANGST. Like make me cry….then make me wet 😱😅

IM SORRY ITS BEEN ONR OF THOSE DAYS and your posts always make the day better.

Final call | LN⁴

📞 summary ──── Lando thought that ending things was the right decision. But he never really let go. When one final, desperate call pulls her back into his orbit, old wounds resurface, anger and longing collide, and the lines between love and heartbreak blur.

📞 pairing ──── Lando Norris x (she/her) ex!reader

📞 rating ──── explicit

📞 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, mentions of drinking, Lando struggling with withdrawals from his usual life, drunken texts, heavy angst and arguments, swearing, heartbreak, power struggles between both characters, smut, fingering with teasing and edging, unprotected sex, praise, desperation, overwhelming pleasure leading to emotional vulnerability, begging, multiple orgasms, post-sex tenderness, crying (I need to touch some grass fr fr).

📞 word count ──── 12.8k

📞 date ──── Mar. 30, 2025

📞 a/n ──── Been working on this for over a month now. It feels like a fever dream, I have no words. Enjoy whatever this is and I apologize in advance 🤧

IT IS A random Saturday night during the winter break, and Lando would rather stay home. But he’s spent the last two months buried in the same routine; rinse and repeat. It’s been easier that way, keeping himself too busy to think, and too exhausted to feel anything else.

This time around, his friends have been quite insistent, pushing him to get out of his self-imposed isolation.

“Come on, mate,” said Max, his frustration evident in every word he uttered, even through the speaker, “One night won’t kill you. Everyone is expecting you to be there.”

“Why would they?” asked Lando, not particularly interested in Max’s answer.

“Because I told them you’ll come. Now, don’t make me a liar, and get your athletic physique up. I’ll get to yours in five.”

Lando tried to argue at first, but Max wouldn’t take no for an answer. So, eventually, after what felt like ages of back-and-forth, he caved, mostly out of morbid curiosity.

Now, standing in the dimly lit bar, surrounded by laughter and music, he wonders why he agreed, after all. When he’s not in the mood to party or to be around people in general, everything is suddenly way too loud, too annoying, and nothing satisfies him. The air is thick with a weird combination between spilled liquor and various perfumes, adding to his irritation.

Avoiding to make a scene, Lando shifts awkwardly, nursing a drink, half-listening to whatever story Connor is animatedly telling. He feels bad when he realizes that he hasn’t seen most of his friends since the breakup, but he knows they’ve only been giving him the space he needed, waiting for him to bounce back.

But Lando hasn’t. He’s just gotten better at pretending things are going the right way. Fake it until you make it, or whatever.

“Landooo,” Max says suddenly, nudging him out of his thoughts. “Look who I ran into!”

Lando turns and his eyes lock on her, her alluring presence catching him off guard.

“This is Eva,” Max continues, “An old friend of mine.”

He can’t help but think how effortlessly beautiful she is, all bright eyes and easy smiles, with the kind of confidence that makes people gravitate toward her instinctively.

“Hey,” the girl says, offering him a playful smirk. “I was starting to think you were just a figment of Max’s imagination.”

Lando forces a chuckle. “Yeah, well. I haven’t been… around much.”

Eva tilts her head, taking him in. “That’s a vague answer.”

Max claps a hand on Lando’s shoulder. “He’s just being mysterious. It’s part of his charm, you’ll see.”

Lando rolls his eyes, but plays along. He knows what Max is doing, but he doesn’t call him out on it.

Because maybe Max is right. Maybe he should try.

And so he does.

He engages in conversation, letting himself slip into the rhythm of it. Eva is funny and easy to talk to. She makes it effortless, steering their interaction in a way that keeps his mind from wandering. As the night progresses, they end up dancing, and hands are suddenly everywhere while the music envelops them like a protective dome.

At some point, he offers to buy her another drink, and she smiles, nodding at Lando’s initiative.

“I’d like that,” she admits, her eyes sparkling under her eyelashes.

They weave through the crowd toward the bar, and as they wait, she leans in a little closer. It’s subtle at first — a touch to his shoulder when she laughs, then her fingers grazing his bicep. Lando notices it, but he doesn’t react. Not until he feels her fingertips brush against his hand. At that, he looks down and sees the way her small hand lingers against his, making his chest tighten.

She’s watching him with anticipation in her expression, waiting for him to do something. Anything. To respond, to take her hand in his, to let this moment be what it’s supposed to be.

Lando closes his eyes for a fraction. Then he pulls his hand away. Eva’s face doesn’t fall, but something shifts in her eyes; the spark goes away, being replaced by something Lando can’t quite decipher. Confusion, perhaps? Understanding, maybe? Pity, for sure.

She nods, taking a step back, putting distance between them. “Right,” her voice is light, but unbothered. “Cheers for the drink, Lando. I should get back to my friends.”

Lando swallows, guilt gnawing at him. “Eva, it’s not that I don’t—”

She stops him with a tiny smile hanging in the corner of her mouth. “Don’t have to explain yourself to me, darling. It was fun meeting you, hope to see you around. Have a nice night.”

And with that, she’s gone.

He watches her disappear into the crowd, debating going after her or scanning the place to find someone else.

Finally, Lando turns back to the bar, giving his head a little shake.

Well, that went well.

He downs the rest of his drink in one go and signals for another. The liquid burns his throat, but it’s still not enough. He needs more, now that he’s alone. Just for tonight.

As Max said, it won’t kill him.

A few minutes later, Lando returns to his people with another drink in hand. He looks much more relaxed, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s still there, somewhere, lost among the lonely nights spent in his apartment, buried under the lies he told his friends just to be left alone.

Max spots him first and frowns, “Mate, where’s Eva?”

Lando shrugs, “I think she didn’t like my bucket hat.”

Max squints in his direction, clearly unimpressed. “You didn’t even try, did you?”

He did, but won’t bother explaining that to Max. It’s not the time nor the place and, taking a slow sip of his new drink, Lando doesn’t answer, ending the conversation there.

HIS PLACE IS drenched in darkness, exactly how he left it, when Lando stumbles in. He kicks off his shoes haphazardly, muttering a curse as one skids across the floor.

So, Max’s plan hadn’t helped; nothing ever does. He had laughed at all the right moments, sipped at overpriced drinks, and told himself he was having fun. But the ride home had been silent, his thoughts crashing against him like a lost boat against the waves in the middle of a storm.

His friend offered to stay over, but didn’t insist when Lando told him he was okay; two months of pretending he was.

Two months of convincing himself he made the right choice, that he needed space to figure out who he was outside of them. He told himself he needed to be alone and focus on his work, because the aftertaste of the last season still lingers. He wants to see his dream manifesting before his eyes, and he knows that comes with a set of sacrifices. He is ready, but how far is he willing to go? What else is he willing to give up?

Because all he’s done in her absence is slowly descending into madness.

With a defeated sigh, Lando collapses onto the couch. His head falls back against the cushions, just as his phone starts buzzing into his pocket. He doesn’t need to check it to know it isn’t her. She hasn’t reached out since the day she walked away, her face crumpling in defeat as she whispered, I can’t keep fighting for something you clearly don’t want.

The memory of her face still haunts him, because he knows now, just as he knew then, that he should have fought harder. He wishes he had at least tried. Although he also knows it wouldn’t have been fair to either of them, because the mental state he was in at the time would’ve made everything worse for both of them.

Without thinking too much of it, his thumb finds her little icon, and before he can stop himself, Lando starts typing.

10:24 PM: Hey, you up?

10:24 PM: Sorry.

10:26 PM: Can we talk?

10:30 PM: You ever think about us?

10:35 PM: Forget I said anything.

10:39 PM: No, actually, don’t. You were everything. You ARE everything.

10:39 PM: I may be a little bit drunk, but I fucking miss you, baby…

10:41 PM: I don’t miss you because I’m drunk BTW. I just miss you.

10:41 PM: All the time.

10:45 PM: Was I ever enough for you? Like, in general… do you think we could’ve made it work?

10:47 PM: God, I hate you for making me question myself like this.

10:58 PM: I don’t hate you. I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about you.

11:59 PM: Remember when we went to Lake Como and got lost trying to find that little café? I think about that all the time. It started raining, and we both got sick, then we stayed in bed for a week.

11:08 PM: Are you happy?

11:10 PM: Please, say something.

11:10 PM: I know I ended this, but don’t ignore me.

11:10 PM: Please…

On the other side of the city, she’s sitting across from a man who could be plucked from a brochure for Monaco’s elite. His posture oozes confidence and he’s immaculate, from the tailored suit to his charm that has her smiling politely but distantly. He’s nothing like Lando, and she noticed that from the first date. That’s the reason why she agreed to go out again. And again.

Now, she’s four dates in, and she tries to convince herself she could get used to seeing this man as something more. But it’s not that easy when all he talks about is crypto currency and boats.

Suddenly, her phone starts buzzing, a succession of vibrations that she tries to ignore at first.

Once.

Twice.

Three-four-five-six-seven times.

When it keeps going, she excuses herself to glance at the screen, and her stomach twists as she sees his name. What freaks her out at first is that only now she realizes that she never changed his contact name, and LANDO ♥︎ now occupies both the entire size of her screen and her entire mind.

“Is everything okay?” her date asks, his voice cutting through her haze.

She blinks, confused, “I’m sorry, yeah,” she says, a wave of heat crawling up her chest and neck. “I forgot to put it on silent.”

A deep ache settles in between her lungs as she touches the icon to silent her phone. She wishes she could do that to her brain right now, because all of a sudden, her entire world starts spinning faster.

It’s the first time he’s reached out since he ended things. For her, this is monumental. But she shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t even be tempted to read whatever nonsense he keeps typing out. But then another message comes through, begging her not to ignore him, and something about the desperation in the rapid notifications makes her break.

“Excuse me,” the girl says quickly, pushing her chair back as she gets up, ready to head towards the bathroom. “I’ll be right back.”

Somehow, she knew the quiet won’t last forever, but she kept hoping that Lando was happy, even without her. She hated him for a few hours after he broke up with her, but all the hatred faded away the next morning, when she woke up in an empty bed, trying her best to understand his decision.

She did, eventually. And she accepted it. More than that, she respected it, because she knew that Lando would do the same for her.

Rage.

She put in so much work, and now it’s all for nothing.

She exhales heavily, gripping the edge of the sink before finally, finally unlocking her phone, not so surprised to see more texts flooding the screen.

11:12 PM: I just wanna talk, I swear.

11:12 PM: Can I call you?

11:12 PM: Just once, please.

11:13 PM: I miss your voice.

Her heart breaks a little, but before she can overthink it, she presses that call button herself, and Lando picks up on the first ring. There’s silence at first. Nothing but his uneven breathing and the faint hum of the muted background noise.

Then, she hears his voice, rough and slightly slurred, “You called.”

She closes her eyes, trying her best to control her trembling hands. “Only to tell you to stop texting me, Lando. I am busy.”

A pause. Then a slow, shaky inhale, followed by Lando’s curiosity, “It’s almost midnight on a Saturday night, how busy are—” he stops himself as if realizing something obvious, his next words dripping in disappointment, “Oh, you’re busy,” he continues, but this time his voice changes to nonchalance. “What am I interrupting?”

She presses her lips in a thin line, bringing her fingers to her temple. “None of—”

“Are you with someone?”

Her throat tightens. “None of your business,” she finally manages to say.

His heavy breath crackles through the speaker. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She doesn’t confirm it. Doesn’t deny it. Just exhales slowly, wishing she would disintegrate into thin air before the conversation gets to an end.

To break her silence, Lando makes a noise, something caught between a bitter laugh and a sigh. “How boring is he? Be honest.”

The girl blinks, letting out a dry laugh. “Excuse me?”

“The guy you’re with,” says Lando, “How boring is he? Does he talk about taxes and golf? I bet he fucking sucks at golf.”

“Lando, how drunk—”

“Does he make you laugh?” his voice drops, softer now, but unsure. “Like I used to? God, I miss your laugh.”

She grips the sink tighter, warning him, “Stop that.”

Silence.

Then, in true Lando fashion, he blurts out something completely ridiculous, “And I miss you.”

Her stomach flips. Painfully.

He shouldn’t have this right. He broke up with her. He was the one who argued in detail why they should break up and stay that way. Him. But hearing his voice again, after all this time, she realizes how easy it is to fall back into it. Into everything they had.

“I do,” Lando insists, “I really fucking miss you, baby. Do you miss me?”

The words hit like a sucker punch.

Yes.

She bites her lip, willing herself not to break. “No,” she ends up saying.

“No,” he echoes. And for once, he sounds completely sober.

She swallows hard, forcing her voice to stay steady as she repeats, “I am busy. Goodbye, Lando.”

And before he can say anything else, before she lets herself feel too much and tell him the truth, she hangs up. With a heavy heart, she presses the phone against her chest, eyes shut, trying to breathe through the emotions crashing over her.

Breaking up with someone when you still love them is like throwing yourself into a bottomless pit. You don’t know when or if the fall will ever end, you have no idea whether or not you’ll be alone on the other side if it does end, and you certainly don’t know if you’ll make it there alive. They had their problems, of course. Everybody does. But for the first time in their relationship, Lando’s goals didn’t include her, and she had to make peace with it.

Inhaling deeply, she looks back at her reflection then she steels herself, smoothing her dress, and wiping at the corners of her eyes.

THE SECOND SHE hangs up, her words brand themselves into his brain, and for a while, he’s terrified that he’ll go mad, because they won’t stop replaying in his head like a broken record.

Goodbye, Lando. Goodbye, Lando. Goodbye, Lando.

Goodbye.

The finality of it slams into him, sucking the air from his lungs, and all the light from his eyes.

He can’t do anything but stand there, phone still pressed to his ear, as if maybe she’ll change her mind and call back. As if this is just a silly test, some cruel joke played by the universe to see how much more he can take before he completely breaks.

To his horror, the line stays dead, and the realization settles in too quickly for him to process, a dull ache spreading through his chest like poison ivy.

She didn’t even hesitate, didn’t soften, didn’t give him anything to hold onto. And maybe it’s better this way, but how easy is it to close the door on someone like that?

For the past two months, he told himself that if he ever needed her — really needed her — she’d be there for him. Because he knows her, and he knows that no matter how much time passed, no matter how many miles stretched between them, she’d still be his person.

But now, the truth is staring Lando in the face. And it looks like him. She’s gone for good, and he has no one to blame but himself.

His jaw clenches, his hold tightening around the phone so hard he might break it. The room feels too big, too empty, too goddamn quiet to the point it gets too much. With an angry exhale, Lando hurls his phone across the room, watching it smashing against the wall before clattering to the floor, the sound slicing through his ears like a gunshot.

With a deep sigh, he drags his hands down his face, fingers digging into his skin as if he can claw the frustration out of his body.

What did you expect? he asks himself. Then, he laughs. A dry laugh, deprived of real amusement.

At that time, space was what he needed, but she was never something Lando needed to escape. She was his anchor. His safe place. And now, she’s out with some other guy, probably smiling in that adorable way she does when she’s trying to be polite but isn’t actually interested.

Or maybe she is interested. Maybe she is moving on.

The thought nearly guts him.

Pushed by fear from behind, Lando forces himself to move, pacing the the living room while he runs a hand through his hair, irritation simmering beneath his skin like an annoying itch he can’t scratch. His heart is racing, thoughts spiraling faster than he can control. The only time he felt like this before was when his car slipped from his grasp back in 2021 at Spa. He knew he had to brace for impact, and knew his time was limited to do so. The difference now is that he can’t even brace himself, because the impact already took him by surprise.

This can’t be it.

After a moment, he crosses the room and picks up his phone. It has a little crack across the screen, but it’s still functional and, in his foolishness, he takes it as a sign to start typing again.

11:59 PM: Fuck your goodbye. You’re really just going to pretend like I don’t exist?

11:59 PM: After everything?

12:01 AM: Such a fucking liar.

12:01 AM: You can’t tell me you don’t feel anything. That you don’t miss me at all.

12:04 AM: I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you, alright? But I swear to god, I never stopped caring about you.

12:04 AM: Not for a second.

12:07 AM: It’s so stupid, but tell me to move on, and I will.

12:08 AM: Tell me you don’t love me anymore, and I’ll leave you alone.

12:48 AM: Please, don’t leave me like this…

12:48 AM: We can find a way, I know we can.

12:53 AM: No one will ever know you like I do, you know that, right?

12:53 AM: He doesn’t know how you hum when you’re nervous or how you always steal the blanket in your sleep, does he?

01:23 AM: Got it.

01:23 AM: If you ever meant what we promised, just know that this is my final call.

The moment he sends the last text, Lando knows he’s got only one chance to make it right. And maybe he took it too far this time, but he’s also at peace, knowing he did everything he could to catch her attention.

Their worst fight ever, before breaking up, nearly ended them right there and then. They were on the verge of walking away, but when all the anger settled and the silence stretched between them, they both realized neither wanted to lose the other. So, they needed a way to say it. A final chance to make things right.

A final call.

A desperate ‘I need you’. No games, no pretending. If one of them said it, the other showed up, no questions asked.

But the seconds turn into minutes, and the minutes turn into his darkest hour.

HER KNUCKLES ALMOST leave marks against Lando’s door from how aggressively she’s knocking. She is relentless, angry, and insistent, like she wants to break through it at all costs.

Behind the door, Lando frowns, pushing himself off the couch where he’d been slumped, after the realization hit him. But when he swings it open, his heart nearly flatlines.

She’s standing there, chest heaving and eyes wild with fury, with her tears still fresh on her face. Before he can say a word, she pushes him hard, forcing him a step back as she storms inside. The door slams shut behind her, the sound ringing through the silence of his empty apartment.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Lando?” her voice cracks, her chin trembling under the weight of her furious words. “Are you actually serious?”

Lando barely has time to react before she shoves him again, her palms pressing into his chest with all the force her adrenaline generates.

He stumbles back, blinking at her in shock.

“You’re such a coward!” she yells, “This is so unfair, you know?” her voice wavers, but her anger doesn’t falter. “You have no right to do this to me. None.”

Lando swallows hard, his mind scrambling to catch up. But too much is happening too quickly, and he doesn’t get the chance, before she interrupts him right when he’s about to speak.

“No. You’ve said enough, now I’m talking,” her breath is ragged while pointing a finger at her chest, her whole body shaking with rage as she glares up at him. “You don’t get to pull me in just to push me away. Again and again. You don’t get to decide when you love me and when you need space. And you sure as hell don’t get to use your last call just to make me drop everything for you. Because of course I will, and you know it!” she says, laughing at herself in disbelief. “That’s so fucking selfish, especially when I know you don’t even mean it, and you’re just too fucking pressed that I’m moving on without you.”

His stomach twists. “I do mean it.”

“Oh, really? Then why do you do this?” she asks, her voice breaking as she shoves him again, weaker this time. “Why? One second, you’re in love with me, and the next, you want to be left alone. And now you’re dragging me back in like I don’t have a choice, like I don’t have a life outside of you.”

Lando flinches, guilt settling deep in his bones. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“You don’t know what you want,” she accuses, her voice trembling in frustration. “Because if you did, you’d know how ridiculous you’re being right now. You can’t do this to people who love you, Lando. You can’t just… fuck with my peace like this just because you’ve had a rough night. I’ve had plenty of those myself!” she loses it, turning around only to take a break from seeing his face.

Her words hit Lando like a freight train, but she doesn’t even realize what she’s just said. She’s too caught up in the whirlwind of emotions, too exhausted from holding herself together. But Lando heard her loud and clear: she still loves him.

He takes a step toward her, thinking that she’s done with pushing, but when she suddenly turns around, she starts hitting his chest again, enough to pour out all the anger, all the irritation, and all the heartbreak she’s been carrying like rocks in her pockets.

Lando just stands there, letting her, because he knows he deserves it.

Finally, she lets out a shaky breath, her hands falling limply against him. Her forehead presses into his chest as the fight drains from her completely, and a sob wracks through her. Instinctively, Lando’s arms move on their own, pulling her into his tight embrace.

He wraps himself around her, his grip firm but careful, like she might slip through his fingers if he’s not careful. Her tears soak into his shirt, and for the first time in months, the floor stopped moving under his feet, and Lando can breathe again.

They stay like that for a long time. No more words. No more yelling. Just the sound of their breathing, and their hearts beating in sync. Lando’s hand is gently moving up and down her back, and she hates how safe she feels with his scent enveloping her from every direction.

She doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually, she sniffles and pulls away just enough to wipe her cheeks.

Her fingers brush lightly against his damp shirt, letting out out a humorless laugh. “I probably ruined your stupid shirt. There’s make-up all over. Sorry.”

Lando shakes his head, his hands still resting on her waist. “That’s okay.”

She scoffs, stepping back to free herself from his embrace. Next time she looks up at him, her eyes are still glassy, but there’s something softer in them now. Then, quietly, she says, “He was boring, by the way.”

She walks past him without another word, heading straight for the couch, just like she did a thousand times before.

Lando turns to follow her, his mind slowly starting to catch up.

She’s here.

She came.

He hesitates for a moment before he enters her personal space again, watching as she sinks into the couch, exhaling silently as if she’s trying to steady herself. She rubs the mascara smudges beneath her eyes, and the sight twists something deep in his chest, realizing that he did this to her. Again. And he hates it. Hates knowing that he’s the reason she looks so lost, with puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Hates that she showed up at his door furious, but now she just looks tired. Most likely of him. Of their situation. Of running in circles that he’s designing with the sole purpose of torturing her.

Still, as Lando lowers himself onto the couch beside her, a strange sense of normalcy settles over him. They’ve sat like this countless times before, curled up together watching movies, falling asleep tangled in each other, making love, and sharing lazy conversations over takeout. He can still picture her lying here in one of his hoodies, laughing at some stupid joke he made, eyes bright and full of adoration. But tonight, the space between them is foreign, like a chasm neither of them knows how to cross.

He exhales, raking a hand through his curls. At least, her words sobered him up, his thoughts clearer than they’ve been in months.

“I met someone tonight,” Lando’s voice cuts through the silence.

Her heart drops in her stomach, but she turns her head to look at him. Her expression is unreadable, however, Lando can see the way her fingers tighten on her thighs, like she’s bracing herself.

He swallows. “If you need a reason why, this is it. Max introduced me to her,” his tone is quieter now, a bit uncertain. “I think he was trying to… I don’t know. Set me up, maybe.”

She nods once, a short, clipped motion. “And?”

“I tried,” he admits. “I really did. She was nice. We had a few drinks together.” Lando huffs out something that’s almost a laugh but lacks any real amusement. “I even thought that maybe it could work out. I hoped it would work out.”

She doesn’t say anything, but looks at him with empty eyes and dry lips.

Lando sighs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “But then she tried to hold my hand and…”

A beat of silence.

Another deep sigh.

He lifts his head just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye before continuing, “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pretend,” he adds, voice faint, like the confession is physically weighing on him. “It felt so wrong.”

She turns her face away, staring at the opposite wall, her jaw clenched. She understands him, of course she does. Because that’s exactly what she was doing before her phone was flooded with his texts — pretending. Faking it. Settling for something that, deep down, was so utterly wrong.

Lando shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

He watches her profile, trying his best to understand what’s going on inside her head, what she’s thinking, and if she’s warring with her own heart, just like he did for the past two months.

Finally, Lando leans back against the couch. His fingers drum restlessly against his knee when he starts speaking again, “Do you like him?”

She stiffens. “What?”

“The guy you were with tonight,” he says, studying her closely. “Do you like him?”

The girl rolls her eyes, pressing her lips together. “You are so incredibly stupid, Lando.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “I still want to hear you saying it.”

She hesitates, “I don’t know. He’s nice.”

It’s Lando’s turn to roll his eyes now, “Nice.”

She gives him a sharp look. “Yeah, nice. Like the girl you met? What is wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he mutters. But when she keeps staring, he forces himself to continue, picking at the lint on his pants, only to avoid her piercing eyes. “It’s just… you never went for nice.”

Her expression flickers between annoyance and something else he can’t quite name.

“You don’t know me like that anymore,” she warns him.

Lando lets out a quiet breath, “People don’t change that easily,” he says it like he talks from experience. “I’d still be able to recognize you blindfolded.”

His words almost knock the wind out of her. She tilts her chin up, trying to hold onto her anger, but it’s slipping through her fingers like sand. Especially when he speaks so soflty, no bitter trace behind his voice. It’s just a fact.

“I don’t know about that,” she whispers.

“I do,” he says, getting closer to her side of the couch.

She takes a breath in, exhaling slowly. “You walked away, Lando. It was your choice. What changed?”

Instead of looking back at her, Lando’s picking now at the skin of his thumb with his nail, until he feels the blood under his fingertip. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“For who exactly?”

His chest tightens. “It was for you too,” he says in a defensive tone. “I couldn’t be what you needed. It took me years to finally be competitive, and I barely had time to breathe outside work, let alone be someone you could rely on. There was so much noise around me, I just couldn’t put you in second.”

She shakes her head, her expression caught between irritation and heartbreak. “You didn’t have to change anything for my comfort. I know what racing means to you. Knowing you were there was enough for me.”

He swallows, guilt pressing heavy against his ribs. “Not enough. I didn’t want to drag you down.”

Her lips part, a flash of disbelief crossing her face. “Do you even hear yourself?” she gestures wildly, “You were never dragging me down. I was so happy for you, Lando. Still am,” she blinks rapidly, trying to push down the emotion rising in her throat. “But you decided I was an inconvenience.”

Lando closes his eyes briefly, his fingers curling into fists. He knows she’s right. He knows. But back then, he had convinced himself that letting her go was the only way to keep her from ending up hating him. Now, she’s standing next to him, looking at him like she doesn’t know whether she wants to scream or sob.

“I’m sorry,” it’s all he can say. And then, “I just... missed you.”

Out of instinct, she makes herself smaller on the couch, raising her knees to her chest.

“I tried to act like I didn’t, but I was miserable,” Lando adds, “Everywhere I went, I was looking for you. Waiting for you.”

She closes her eyes, shaking her head again. “Spare me, won’t you?”

“I’m not saying this to change your mind,” he defends himself quickly. “I just need you to know. Because it was eating me alive.”

Her arms loosen around herself, her posture softening just a fraction. “Do you think I wasn’t miserable too?” her voice cracks on the last word. “You said I was pretending you didn’t exist. Do you really think I just walked away and simply forgot about you?”

Lando stares at her, taking in the way her lower lip trembles, the way her eyes are shining with new, unshed tears.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Stupid, stupid,” she repeats.

She’s still mad at him. But she aches to be closer, to touch him, to bury her face in his chest and just breathe him in. Just for a moment. Just long enough to pretend that everything is okay again.

Cautious, Lando lifts a hand like he’s giving her time to pull away. But when she doesn’t, his fingers brush against her hair, gently tucking a loose strand behind her ear. His touch is light, barely there, but it still gives her chills. Then, without thinking too much of it, she leans into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut.

A tear slips down her cheek, and before she can wipe it away, Lando’s thumb does.

“I’m sorry.”

She lets out a quiet sob, and that’s all it takes for Lando to pull her into his arms without hesitation. She melts against him, fists gripping the fabric of his shirt, pressing her face back against his chest as she lets more tears out.

Lando buries his face in her hair, whispering all over again, as if that will make her believe him, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Tears are threatening his eyes too, but he closes them before they can escape.

He feels the warmth of her breath against his collarbone and, once again, he’s terrified. He would rather her push him away, rather her scream at him, tell him she hates him, hurt him back. Because all this silence is unbearable. It swallows him whole, and tells him everything he’s too afraid to admit: that he drained her, emptied her out until there was nothing left to give.

He’s about to apologize again, but then he feels it in the way her fingers, still curled into the fabric of his shirt, twitch slightly, and the weight of her head is pressing deeper into his chest — she fell asleep. As soon as things went quiet, she slipped under, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the time of night and everything to do with him.

A lump forms in his throat as he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead. He shifts carefully, moving just enough to lean back fully, making sure she’s as comfortable as possible. But unfortunately, sleep doesn’t come easy for him.

HER PALM RESTS against his cheek, the heat of his skin seeping into hers. Every exhale of hers tickles his jaw, and it feels like muscle memory, the way her body molds into his, the way he instinctively holds onto her even in sleep.

Lando doesn’t stir. He never does. He’s always been the type to sleep through anything — alarms, thunderstorms, and morning light flooding the room. Even now, he’s dead to the world, his lips slightly parted, his arm wrapped lazily around her waist.

But his phone vibrates on the coffee table, and that’s what wakes her up, the sound cutting through the stillness. She barely registers it at first, burying her face against his chest, but when it buzzes again and again, she groans softly.

Disoriented, her breath deepens as she takes in her surroundings: the familiar scent, the heavy weight of Lando’s arm, the warmth of his body against hers. And then, all of it crashes down on her. Last night. Every whispered apology, every push, every tear, every way she let herself slip back into him like she never left.

Suddenly, a wave of panic wakes her up for good and, covering her mouth with a trembling hand, she tries to muffle the sob that threatens to escape. She can’t cry again; she’s way too exhausted for that. But her body betrays her, stiffening next to him as his weight becomes suffocating.

Luckily, the continuous buzzing takes her out of it and, reluctantly, she finally reaches for Lando’s phone. The screen lights up with a crack across it, and lots of notifications. It’s 1:04 PM, and a text from an unsaved number catches her attention first:

Hey, Lando ;) This is Eva. Max gave me your number, said you weren’t feeling well last night. I’d like to see you again tonight if...

The rest of the message is cut off by the lock screen, so she lets the phone drop back against the glass of the table, swallowing past the tightness in her throat and slowly turns onto her side, facing him. Lando looks so peaceful like this. His curls are messy, his face slack with sleep, no frown decorating the smooth skin of his forehead. His eyebrows are a little fuzzy, so she gently styles them back into shape with her thumb.

She missed their lazy mornings more than anything. The way the concept of time never seemed to exist when they were wrapped up in each other, away from anything that could potentially come in between them.

Her hand is still weak as she presses her palm to Lando’s chest. His heartbeat thrums beneath her fingertips, steady, warm, alive. That’s why she came here in the first place: for him. And in the clear daylight, she realizes that the familiarity between them can’t be reversed. Last night was a lot, but she can’t let herself fall into it again, no matter how badly her body wants to stay curled into him.

She brings the same palm to her chest then, trying to put some distance, but Lando stirs instinctively. His arm pulls at her waist, his fingers twitching against the fabric of her dress, unwilling to let her go even in the hazy blur of waking up.

His body recognizes hers before his mind does; the warmth, the normalcy of having her there. Then, reality creeps in, dragging him back into consciousness. And with it comes the dull ache pressing against the inside of his skull, the dryness in his throat, the remnants of last night staining his entire body with exhaustion, guilt, and shame.

“I feel like shit,” he speaks against her shoulder, voice raspy from sleep. His head is pounding, his stomach unsettled, but her scent is the only thing guiding him to something steady. He breathes it in, eyes still closed, and continues, “I need a greasy burger for breakfast.”

“It’s past one,” she says quietly.

Lando groans, rolling onto his back, draping an arm over his eyes. He can feel her presence, but even though her body is so close to his, he starts to feel the tension. The distance. He realizes it the second she moves again, getting in a sitting position, ready to leave the bed. Leave him.

Lando’s eyes snap open, desperate to catch a glimpse of her, even as the sunlight nearly blinds him. Her hair is messy, hands resting against her lap. Her dress is all wrinckled and drapes over her frame, making her look small in a way that destroys him. Like she doesn’t belong to this moment, like she’s already halfway out the door.

“I should go,” she says the words that he was so afraid of, and it feels like a knife to his ribs.

“You should stay,” he insists. “We can get something to eat, and I’ll give you a ride home.”

She presses a palm against her forehead, realizing the gravity of the situation. Giving him false hope won’t help anyone.

“No, thank you. Falling asleep was already bad enough.”

Lando clears his throat before speaking again, slightly unsure, “Was it, though?” he asks and, in return, she shoots him a warning look. “I know, I’m sorry.”

However, she’s no longer angry with him. She exhausted the last of her strength last night, and now all that’s left is the bitter taste of what could have been.

“Is that the only thing you’ll say now?”

He licks his lips, throat still dry as if he drank sand. “Yes. Until you forgive me.”

It was meant to be lighthearted, a little joke, and a weak attempt at softening the weight pressing down on both of them. Based on past experiences, she always forgave him. So why should now be any different, right? But when she doesn’t react, when the silence only thickens, he realizes how fucking stupid that was.

She blinks once, twice. Her gaze flickers away, “Your final call,” she says quietly, “Did you do it because of that girl? You got scared because you liked her more than you thought you could?”

Lando’s heart stalls for a second, caught off guard by her inquire. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know what the hell I was doing. I mean, I was scared. But not of her,” he stops, thinking of it. The frown comes back, and it looks like the thought gives him a headache. “I was scared of falling back into something I couldn’t fix. Still am. You and me… we’re not easy, you know?” he lets out a small, bitter laugh, almost self-deprecating. “We’ve never been easy. And I’m just so tired of fucking things up.”

She doesn’t think much about her actions lately. She wasn’t thinking last night when she left her date in a rush, and she certainly isn’t thinking now, as she turns her body to face him.

“I don’t understand you anymore, Lando. The only thing I do understand is that you pushed me away just so you wouldn’t have to deal with me. Because you couldn’t handle me, is that right?”

Lando winces. The weight of her words hit him harder than any punch. “No, it’s not right. I just didn’t know how to fix… me,” he says it for the first time out loud, his voice breaking on the last part; surprisingly, it’s not making him as uncomfortable as he thought it would. “I didn’t want to lose you. Not like that.”

She scoffs, “And now what? You think one drunken night is enough to put you on the right track? You think you know what you want just because you’re afraid of losing something that’s no longer yours anyway?” the girl asks, watching as his facial expression changing in pain. “I’m sorry, Lando. I don’t mean to be cruel, but I need answers.”

His voice is barely a whisper as he replies, “The only answer I can give you is that I didn’t know how to be what you needed at the time. Is that so hard to believe?”

Her eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them away. “It is,” she agrees, “Because you never asked me what I needed. Not once. You just did what was best for you. And now…,” her voice trails off before moving her eyes on a random point on the floor, “You’re not showing me anything. You can say that all you want, but how do I know you won’t push me away again? I need to know you’re here, that you’re really here.”

Lando reaches for her then, almost instinctively, his hands determined as he cups her face. “I am here,” he whispers, leaning in, his breath shaky against her skin. “You’re just too stubborn to let me back in. And I get why,” he rushes to say as he feels her tensing under his touch. “But, please. Let me fix us. Please.”

Neither of them speak for a while after that. She’s so close to him now, she can hear both of their heartbeats, the weight of every single second hanging between them like lead from a strand of hair.

She is hesitant, but she pulls him in first, her lips barely brushing over his. Even though it’s a featherlight touch, her close proximity ignites something highly flammable in Lando. He stills, his breath caught in his throat, his hands curling into fists as if holding himself back, too afraid to take it any further too fast.

Just as he leans in, just as he starts to close the little gap, slowly, she pulls away. The loss of her, even for a second, makes his patience snap and, without giving her the chance to build another wall between them, he reaches out, fingers threading into her hair, pulling her back to him, this time with purpose.

She doesn’t resist — can’t, really.

His forehead presses against hers and neither of them move, trapped in the space between knowing and doing. His grip tightens against her jaw, thumb stroking over the edge of her cheek, his breath hot against her parted lips. The weight of everything that’s been left unsaid lingers in the air, and it’s suffocating. She exhales shakily, closing her eyes for a moment, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers splayed over his heart, feeling the way it pounds beneath her touch. And then, as if her body betrays every ounce of hesitation in her mind, she fists his shirt and pulls him back against her.

They crash together, and the world tilts within a second.

Their lips meet in a clash of want and desperation that knows no border of sanity. His hands are suddenly everywhere, cradling her face, threading through her hair, tracing the delicate curve of her spine. She presses into him, her nails scraping against the back of his neck, anchoring herself to him like she’s afraid he’ll slip away any minute. Like he’s going to change his mind again, and tell her to leave, because he needs to be alone.

But he won’t. He never will again. The taste of her floods his senses, familiar and intoxicating, making his body buzz with excitement as he deepens the kiss. He breathes her in, trying to make up for every second he’s spent without her.

She wants him, and she’s aware that things could go exponentially wrong after this, but she’s already broke the rules the moment she crossed his threshold last night. She shifts against him, pressing closer, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over his chest. He stirs slightly, humming, his arms automatically locking around her, helping her sit on his lap.

Her lips brush against his jaw, trailing down the column of his throat. She’s barely even touching him, but she knows he feels it, because she hears the way his breathing stutters, the slight twitch of his fingers against her hip. She smiles, shifting again, innocent, except not at all, because her thigh suddenly drags over his, pressing just enough to feel the growing heat between them.

Lando lets out a sleepy grunt, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “What the hell are you doing?” his aroused voice is exactly how she remembers, rough and deep, and able to send shivers down her spine.

She hums, pressing another kiss to his collarbone. “Nothing.”

Lando chuckles, his hand sliding to grab her waist, fingers lazy but firm. “No, I think you’re doing something.”

And, whatever she’s doing, she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause to think.

She lets out a dry laugh, edged with sadness and a hint of accusation, “Always making me ache, aren’t you?” she asks, pressing her lips against his ear, while positioning herself above him, helping Lando get rid of his shirt. Soon enough, her fingers are dragging down his stomach, nails grazing lightly at his abs. “It’s like it turns you on to see me in pain, isn’t it?” the girl sighs, brushing her hips against his in a way that makes him curse under his breath.

His fingers dig more into her waist, his patience thinning by the second. “You know that’s not true,” his voice sounds so angelic, that she actually believes him for a second because of it. “I’m sorry you can’t trust me anymore. But there’s nothing I hate more than to see you hurting because of me.”

She nods, giving him the impression that his words have the power to make her weak. In reality, she’s just curious to find out how sorry he really is.

“You’ve said that about a hundred times already,” the girl reminds him, “How bad, though?” she tries to push the limits, mostly to see if there are any, the words slipping from her lips like something delicate and filthy all at once. “Bad enough that you’ll drunk text me again? To see if I come running to you? Again? To say you’re sorry a hundred more times, hoping I’ll let you fuck me in whatever position you want, for as long as you want just because I feel for your sorry ass?”

His nostrils flare as he exhales in disapproval, “Stop that shit.”

“Why?” her voice sounds overly seductive, but somehow, he knows it’s just a trap. “Isn’t sex your answer to everything?”

There you go.

Lando’s jaw tenses as the words continue to leave her mouth, unforgiving, each one winding around his self-control like a vice. His fingers twitch on her waist, the weight of her straddling him making it impossible to think straight. She knows exactly what she’s doing, pushing, teasing and testing the waters of his restraint.

And fuck, it’s working.

Her dress has ridden up her thighs higher, exposing smooth, warm skin that begs to be touched, and his hands find their way there without permission, fingertips pressing into her like he wants to make sure he’s not just dreaming, and she’s actually there.

“Not trying to fuck my way back to you, if that’s what you mean,” Lando disagrees just as he lets his fingers drift higher, watching the way her breath becomes more uneven. “But won’t back down if it works, either. So what does that say about you? That we’re just the same?”

She puffs out a laugh, but there’s no humor behind it. Just a lot of tension, coiled so tight between them that something is bound to snap. Soon.

“We’re so not,” she argues, tilting her head slightly, her lips so close to his that he can taste her breath. “I actually have the balls to stay when things get tough.”

Her unfiltered comment it’s all it takes.

Lando moves in a blur, gripping her hips and flipping them over in one swift motion, pressing her into the couch as a surprised gasp leaves her lips. He hovers over her, his body fitting perfectly between her open thighs, hands braced on either side of her head. The sudden shift has her looking up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted, and chest heaving in anticipation.

In this position, Lando looks at her like he’s trying to figure out what to do to her, aware that the changing in dynamics favors him. His hands find the hem of her dress, fingertips teasing the edge as he watches her reaction, giving her a chance to stop him — or to take back her words, whichever comes first. But she does neither. Instead, she lifts her hips, a silent plea, and that’s all the permission that Lando needs.

He peels the fabric up, savoring the way her body is revealed inch by inch. His mouth finds the newly exposed skin along her ribs with the speed of a man starved, trailing open-mouthed kisses up her torso, leaving a path of goosebumps in his wake. Lando can feel her shiver beneath him, her fingers tangling into his curls, tugging just enough to pull a string of sweet noises out of him.

“I won’t be able to stop if we—” he murmurs against her skin, a last sliver of hesitation buried underneath all the want.

She cuts him off by cupping his jaw, guiding his face up so he has no choice but to look at her. “I won’t ask you to,” she assures him, lifting her hips up once more to meet his, feeling how hard he is against her. The contact is like a drug she’s been deprived of for too long, and now that she has access to him again, her mouth starts moving before wiring to the rational side of her brain, “I wanna do laundry together later.”

Despite what he’s just said, Lando does stop, watching her intently. Because he knows that she means more than just laundry. For starters, it means she’s staying. It means she’s letting him try. It means the weight in his chest that’s been suffocating him for weeks finally lifts, replaced by something warm yet fragile, something he doesn’t dare break this time.

He has to swallow past the ache before pressing himself against her, letting her scent wrap around him like the most familiar kind of comfort.

“Yeah?” he finally whispers, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly might shatter whatever weak truce they’ve found between them.

She nods, a real smile appearing on her face, the first one in months, “Yeah,” she parrots, which urges Lando to plant another kiss on her lips, lazier this time. And she welcomes him.

Gradually, his grip consolidates around her, his teeth catching her bottom lip, and suddenly, the slow morning is anything but. Now he’s wired, wide awake, and so fucking hard.

Her hands work fast, pushing at the waistband of his pants with an urgency that makes Lando’s pulse hammer in his throat. He moves enough to help her, and then the fabric is gone, pooling somewhere on the floor, next to her dress and panties.

The feeling of skin on skin has the power to set him on fire, every inch of him hypersensitive as she drags her fingers down his stomach, nails scratching lightly against the ridges of muscle before wrapping around him for just a second, only to say hi. His breath catches, head tipping forward before he forces himself to look down at her.

“You’re a menace,” Lando points out. His voice is thick with desire as he rolls his hips against her once her hands move around his neck, dragging his length along the soft skin of her inner thigh, brushing lightly where she needs him most. He feels her shiver, her nails digging into his back for a fraction of a second before she exhales a breathy laugh.

“I had to adapt,” she says, her voice saccharine, but teasing, fingers biting into his shoulder blades.

“I can see that,” his tone is rough, but there’s something playful underneath it. He continues to move, this time with more intention, the tip of his cock catching against her slick heat.

She bites her lip, her free hand reaching up to pull him down on her and crash their lips together in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, too desperate to be anything but raw. He groans into her mouth, their breaths blending together, and she takes the moment to wrap her legs around his waist, locking him against her completely, the heat ever-growing.

The easiest thing in the world for Lando is to get lost in her warmth, her scent and the way his skin vibrates with every touch of her delicate palm.

The hardest thing in the world for Lando is to stop when every nerve in his body screams for more, just to make sure she wants this as much as he does, even though it risks snapping her back to reason, forcing her to push him away all over again.

“If you don’t—”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “I do.”

With that, his hand is already in motion, dragging down her stomach, pushing between her thighs. He finds her soaked, warm, and slick against his fingertips, and it makes him want to howl, knowing that he still has the same effect on her; if anything, the time spent apart only made her miss his touch more.

“Shit,” he slurs, pressing two fingers against her clit, moving them in torturous circles. “Missed seeing you this needy in the morning.”

She hums, thighs twitching. “Techincally, it’s not morning anymore.”

Lando shakes his head in disbelief, “That smart mouth,” his fingers slip lower, teasing at her entrance but never pushing in, just pressing there, feeling the way she opens up for him.

For a moment, his fingers stay right there to tease her, barely giving what she wants, what she’s silently begging for with the way her hips roll forward. Agonizingly slow, he pushes in, finding her so ready for him and so fucking tight, that Lando swears he could lose his mind just from feeling her in his hands.

The girl huffs out a breath, her frustration evident as she glares up at him, “Lando.”

“Yes, love?” he uses his fingers to press further just a little more, but never enough, feeling her walls hugging him impatiently.

She bites her lip, a flush creeping down her neck, and he knows she hates the way he’s making her ask for it.

Her voice is sharper next time she speaks, “You win. Now stop being a dick.”

Lando smirks, dipping down to press a kiss to her shoulder, dragging his teeth along her skin before pulling back to look at her. “I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully, fingers curling lightly inside her pussy, enough to make her whimper. “I kinda like seeing you like this.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but it’s ruined by the way she starts panting when he finally, finally, glides his fingers in and out, her body agreeing with everything he has to offer. His thumb presses against her clit, rubbing her wetness against it as he watches her fall apart, her hands clinging onto him for support.

“Fuck,” she cries, head tipping back, and Lando swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

“Yeah, fuck,” he agrees, leaning in to kiss the corner of her mouth, and then her jaw. Her back arches instantly, a moan spilling from her lips as her nails dig into his arms, while he’s going faster, agonizingly so, dragging his fingers in and out, feeling how her body fights to keep him in. “This what you needed?”

She quickly turns her head from side to side, fingernails scratching along the skin his shoulders. “More,” she whispers, already out of breath. “Wanna feel you.”

Lando pulls his fingers out, watching the way her slick clings to them in the rich color of the afternoon light. He blows out the breath of air he was holding, trapping her thighs in his grasp as he lines himself up, the tip of his cock dragging through the wetness pooling between her legs.

“Well, if that’s what you want, that’s what you get, baby. Wanna see you drip on it,” he muses, pressing just barely inside before pulling back out, coating himself in her slick. “See how much you missed me.”

She whines, hips jerking up.

The grin on Lando’s face widens. “There you go, you beauty.”

She meets his eyes, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from his kisses. Seeing her like that, squirming under him, throws Lando into a spiral. For now, he has no idea where this moment will take them. All he knows is that he wants to make the most of it, to memorize her body lines and the sound of her moans, because once the haze fades and clarity takes its place, anything is possible.

And that terrifies him.

Sinking into her feels like homecoming, and the sweet stretch is making both of them whine in unison, cling onto each other. He swears under his breath as her walls constrict around his length, her mouth falling open in a breathy gasp.

“Holy shit.”

She’s so full of him, just like she wanted, the feeling even better than she remembers.

Lando presses a kiss to her jaw, his hands holding her waist tight enough to leave faint marks behind. “Not letting you go ever again,” he says with his lips glued to her skin like he’s in a trance, voice strained as he fights to keep control of his own body.

She nods, barely able to realize what’s she agreeing on, mind buzzing with thoughts of him, him, only him. “Promise?”

Lando sighs, pulling out slowly, almost all the way before sinking back in. The sound alone — that lazy, wet, messy drag of his cock leaving her, again and again — enough to turn him into a savage man. He watches, entranced, as the evidence of how much she wants him spills down her slit, glistening and painting her inner thighs.

In answer to her plea, Lando links his pinky finger with hers, his hand covering hers entirely. “Promise you, baby. You’re fucking unreal,” he rasps.

Waiting for her was pure torture, but the thought that this can be over before it even properly begins, forces him to still inside her then pull out entirely, his cock, flushed and soaked, resting against her thigh, leaving more of their mess behind. He grips the base, stroking himself once, careful, watching as her empty cunt clenches in his absence, her body desperate to be filled again.

“I’m so glad I got drunk,” says Lando, tracing his fingertips through the wetness between her legs. He presses a long finger back inside her, for his own pleasure, only to feel how impatient she is.

She cries out, thighs snapping shut around his wrist, back arching off the couch. “Yeah, me too,” she blinks up to him, her sincerity spurring Lando on.

He adds another finger as a reward, fucking into her deeper, his other hand stroking his cock in time with her gasps.

“We were always gonna end up here, weren’t we?” asks Lando, his hand working her faster now, watching as she writhes beneath him.

She lets out a choked moan, but can’t answer, too busy rolling her hips against his movements.

“Me, apologizing,” Lando continues, sounding so out of breath, “While you moan my name. Like always, is that right?”

“Lan,” she warns.

“Juuust like that. Look at you,” he chuckles, watching the way her body responds, getting covered in a sweaty layer of goosebumps, and the way her thighs tremble. “As desperate as ever.”

She whimpers, pushing up onto her elbows, dazed and itching to see what he’s doing to her. And the sight makes her pulse race: Lando between her legs, his fingers moving inside her, fucking her with a contrasting gentle force, while his other hand works over his cock, slick and hard, ready to stretch her all over again.

His eyes flick up to hers, dark and hungry, lips parted as he watches her descending into despair, slowly but surely. He drags his fingers out, just to press them back in, firmly, watching her body tense, making her whine louder.

“That’s it, my sweet girl,” he praises, voice subdued and teasing. “Feel it,” his strokes on himself grow lazier, drawing out the moment. “Feel me.”

She nods frantically, her thighs so close to give up from so much shaking. “Not… enough.”

Lando mewls, biting his lip as he watches her squirm, his patience hanging by a thread. “No?” he asks amused, pulling his fingers out and lining himself up again. “Let’s do something about it then. Show you how sorry I am, hm?”

He pushes back inside without any warning in one fluid motion, and the sensation wrecks both of them at the same time. She’s always so fucking tight, but soaked enough that there’s no resistance, just the messy slide of him stretching her open with every inch.

“Shit,” his voice is barely a sound, more like a guttural groan as he bottoms out, his hands finding their way back home, on her hips.

The heat of her, the way she pulses around him, has his heart racing relentlessly, and their sounds fill the living room every time they move together. Lando grits his teeth, withdrawing just halfway before thrusting back in, harder each time.

She gasps, her body craving him, like she can’t get enough. “More.”

He snarls, pace picking up, his hips snapping against hers, skin meeting skin in a rhythm that’s almost punishing. “More?” Lando asks in amazement, “You fucking take everything I give you, and you still want more?”

She nods, dragging her hands down his back, nails leaving marks that burn, but it only spurs him on, thankful she gives him something he could feel for hours after they’re done.

“Always more,” she whimpers, legs wrapping weakly around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she yammers. “Feels so. Good,” she chokes on the last word, lifting her hips in desperation.

Lando is close to sobbing at this point, slamming into her, his control unraveling by the second. “Good girl. Gonna make you come so fucking hard you’ll feel me every time you blink.”

Her whines break into cries as he fucks her harder, each thrust hitting the exact spot inside her where she needs him most. His hand slips between them, fingers finding her clit, rubbing her in messy circles, just to see her fall prey to the pleasure that only he can give her.

“Yes,” she nods, her body keep moving on its own to meet his. “Yes, I’m so close. Don’t stop!”

He is far too hypnotized by the way she loses it under him, demanding more and more with each passing second. Lando’s hands move then to encircle her waist, squeezing gently before sliding higher up her ribs, and finally to her breasts. They don’t rest there for too long, though, as she grabs his wrists and moves them around her neck, pulling his face right above hers. Her legs tighten tighter around him, and her palm cups his ass cheeks, pressing him deeper into her.

“That bad?” he asks her, and all she can do is nod again, speechless. “Come on, then. Wanna feel you drench my—"

Lando can’t even finish his sentence as her moans get louder, a blinding pleasure tearing through her in waves, over and over again, too intense to hold back. She cries out, back arching, body shaking she squirts, soaking both of them.

“Ah, shit. Shit shit shit!” Lando’s voice is wrecked, his hips stuttering as he watches her welcoming the euphoria.

The sight, the feel of her pulsing around him, squeezing him so tight has the power to destroy him. He barely manages a few more thrusts before he breaks, burying himself deep, groaning as he spills inside her, warmth flooding her walls. His body shudders against hers, muscles tensing, pleasure rolling through him in waves just as endless as hers. His hands are holding on to her like she’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. And right now, she is.

For them, the time stops. They just breathe each other in, their bodies locked together, still vibrating. He can feel everything, from the soft rise and fall of her chest to the tiny aftershocks still making her pussy throb around him, pulling him deeper even though he’s already buried to the hilt. It makes Lando gasp softly, dragging his lips lazily over her jaw.

His fingers brush along her side once they manage to catch their breaths. “You okay?” Lando’s voice is low, lightly dipped in concern at her sudden silence.

She nods weakly, eyes snapping open, a satisfied little hum escaping her lips. “Okay,” she breathes out, lovingly tracing her fingers along his spine.

Lando smiles mischievously, “Okay.”

Before she can register what he’s doing, he grabs one of her legs and pulls it up, resting it over his shoulder, changing the angle entirely.

“The fuck?” her inquire is startled, but it quickly turns into something else the moment he starts moving, the new position making everything tighter, deeper. Heaven.

His grin is downright devilish. “Not done,” he informs her matter-of-factlty.

To that, Lando’s hands settle firmly back on her hips, pinning her in place before he draws back and thrusts into her measured at first, the kind of stroke that leaves her breathless.

Somehow, the finish line turns into a brand new start, and all she can do is brace for it.

“Oh, my—Lando!” her stomach twists, fingers grasping at nothing, forced to cling to the cushions because she can’t reach him like this. The position keeps her wide open for him, helpless, unable to do anything but take it.

Lando hums, his grip tightening. “You’re so fucking pretty like this. Spread wider for me,” he instructs. “Can you give me one more?”

She whimpers, barely able to think, let alone answer, as he starts pounding into her, his rhythm relentless. Every thrust knocks the breath from her lungs, her body struggling to keep up with the sheer intensity of it, but somehow excited and so willing to push the limits.

“Please,” it’s both a cry and a plea, but she doesn’t even know what she’s begging for.

“Obsessed with those pretty noises. Just take it, baby,” he breathes, driving into her, pressing a kiss to her temple.

His grip shifts then, spreading her even wider, forcing her open until there’s nowhere for her to run. His pace slows just for a fraction, not out of mercy, but because he wants to feel every inch of her hugging him, wants her to feel how deep he is, how there’s no part of her he isn’t claiming.

And then he sees it.

Right there, in the soft plane of her lower stomach. Every time he pushes in, there’s a faint, tantalizing bulge, proof of just how deep he goes; his brain short-circuits. The sight of it has him helpless, hunger twisting tight in his gut, making his cock twitch inside her.

“Fucking hell,” his voice is nothing but raw, shattered arousal. He can’t help himself, instinctively bringing his wide palm to press down on it, applying the slightest pressure, feeling himself inside her from the outside.

“Fuck’s sake, Lando,” her moans turn high, her body jerking as if there is no such thing as too much pleasure.

“You feel that, baby?” Lando’s eyes are wild, rolling his hips a bit slower now, pushing so far inside her that she swears she can feel him in her throat. “Feel how fucking deep I am?”

She nods, tears beading in the corners of her eyes, her hands clawing harder at the sheets because it’s too much.

His forehead falls forward, resting on hers. “Forgive me.”

A simple — yet not really — plea, wrapped in something devastatingly tender. It makes her stomach flip, makes her heart ache in a way that feels too big for her body. She clenches around him involuntarily, and he groans, his grip on her hips tightening.

Her leg slides down his waist, hands instantly flying around his back, pulling him impossibly closer, her lips brushing against his jaw as she nods. “Please, Lando…”

“I need you,” he says, “Need you by my side when I win. Need you by my side when I fuck up. When I’m flying so high it feels like I’ll never come down.”

The sweat blends with the smell and the desperation behind his confession, and somehow, the moment feels endless, even though both of them know it quickly approaches the end.

“Need you when it gets too loud, when I can’t tell what’s real and what’s just noise. Need you when I wake up, and when I go to sleep. Just… need my pretty girl that knows me better than anyone,” he praises, pressing his palm firmer against her stomach, feeling the way she squeezes him from the inside. “Need to fuck you like this every day, baby. To be the one that drives you mad. Please. Please, forgive me.”

His words send a shockwave through her, a moan ripping from her throat. Lando hisses, thrusting deep again, watching the way his cock bulges against his palm, and the way her body welcomes him with no resistance.

He is right there, balancing on the knife’s edge of pleasure, and it’s almost infuriating. His whole body shakes with the effort of holding back, but he can’t tear his eyes away from where they’re joined. The sight has his stomach tensing, his cock throbbing inside her. The slick glide, the way she clenches around him every time he grinds in deep, and the way her body drags him back in with every pull out it’s fucking unbearable.

“Baby, I can’t—” she drags him deeper into the heat of her release, her weak arms pulling him impossibly closer as if she’ll disintegrate without him.

That does it for Lando, shattering whatever control he has left. His rhythm stutters, his thrusts turning erratic as the pressure in his spine explodes.

“Fuck” he groans as his release bursts inside her, hot and thick, flooding her walls. His hips jerk against her as wave after wave crashes through him, his cock pulsing with every sharp, overwhelming aftershock.

But even as his body shudders with euphoria, even as his breath stutters against her throat, his hips keep moving.

“I’m sorry. So fucking sorry,” he rasps, pressing into her with hard grinds, still spilling inside her, his body demanding more. “Fucking hell, I can’t stop.”

She gasps, over-sensitive but still achingly wet for him, her body responding to every push, every deep roll of his hips.

“I know, I know,” she says, wrapping herself around him.

“Yes? Just a little more,” he begs, “Please, just let me feel you a little longer.”

His movements slow eventually, each thrust turning sluggish, drawn out, until he can’t physically move anymore. The last of his pleasure drains from him, leaving his body heavy, and utterly spent. Finally, he collapses on top of her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, breathing ragged, skin covered in a generous layer of sweat. His natural scent sends her home in an instant, and all she wants right now is for time to freeze in place.

She doesn’t say anything, just exhales softly and presses a kiss to his temple, then another to his cheek, her lips brushing over his damp skin. She moves tenderly, kissing his jaw, his eyelids, the bridge of his nose. He’s still inside her, still holding onto her like she’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

People talk about the quiet before the storm, but the quiet after is much more terrifying. It gives you time to see the destruction it left behind, and there’s nothing you can do but watch. She has always hated feeling powerless, and it’s only when she tilts her head, pressing her lips to his forehead, that she feels it. A warm, wet drop against her collarbone. Then another.

Her fingers still where they were stroking through his curls. “Lando?” she whispers, pulling back just enough to look at him, hoping that her suspicions will not come true. But that’s when she sees the raw emotion in his eyes, the way his brows are furrowed, the silent tears slipping down his cheeks.

He looks almost startled, like he hadn’t even realized he was crying. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his lips parting slightly as if he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

She cups his face instinctively, her thumb catching a tear before it can fall, just like he did last night. “Lan…” she speaks a bit louder this time, “Look at me.”

He shakes his head in response, his hands gripping her waist like he’s afraid she’ll disappear again, this time for more than two months.

Lando presses his forehead to hers, closing his eyes, feeling more tears running down his cheeks, “Tell me it’s not too late for us,” he pleads, pulling back to finally meet her gaze. “Tell me I haven’t fucked this up beyond repair.”

Beneath the surface, the pain still lingers. But much deeper down, their bond is still knotted tightly, and even though the rope is taut, ready to snap at any small gust of wind, the fact that she’s still in his arms is enough for the rope to become the binder that holds them together. She can’t name the feeling without giving him everything all at once. Instead, she just brushes her nose against his.

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

941 notes · View notes

bluemousewithanxiety · 2 months ago

Text

listen, I love a big, built like a brick house, tall, broad shoulders, tattooed, bike riding, doberman/blackcat personality types (but are actually sweethearts on the inside), older, guy. I will yap till the cows come home....

but there is something about a TALL, soft mop of hair, soft hearted, stuttering, wears soft sweaters, a little shy, slutty little waist, wears glasses, that just makes my heart flutter so gently and softly....

NerdGojo! to me is like the perfect embodiment of this type of man.

NerdGojo! is 6"3, shaggy white hair always tossed to perfection, wears his usual well fitted pastel coloured sweaters to class, always pushing up his glasses with his knuckles when it slides down his nose, has his head buried in a textbook or his Nintendo switch, always on time, has the same routine every week and never strays far from it.

NerdGojo! is a little shy, and a little experienced and will admit that when you two started talking he is texting his friends to figure out what to say, is it the right thing to say? Should he have doubled texted? He texted you at 6am, are you even awake? Shit he didn't send a goodnight text yesterday? Oh god what has he done.

NerdGojo! would constantly be in subreddits trying to figure out the things to say, information to know (ex. tv shows, Iconic movies), what girls like in terms gestures. Do you like flowers? Chocolate? Nick-nacks? Do you have a favourite flower? man's low-key freaking out.

NerdGojo! will take a suggestion from someone online about having a note on his phone of everything you said you ever liked so he knows what to get you for your birthday and any special holiday.

NerdGojo! loves when you ask him for help, could be as simple as asking him to reach something on a tall shelf, helping you with homework, even with mundane tasks like grocery shopping. He will be pushing the grocery cart with a love-sick grin on his face while you scurry around collecting things on your list, he just loves making these small memories with you.

NerdGojo! would become invested in your corny dating shows, "trash" tv, anything that you watch on a regular basis that would be considered a guilty pleasure. He started off just walking by, saying that "they had no intellectual value and how they're made to just rot your brain", but 1 season later he is glued to the couch, mochi in hand, getting annoyed if you watch an episode without him.

NerdGojo! would be the type to do stuff unintentionally to make you swoon, like grasping your shoulders lightly to move you in front of him when he sees someone speed-walking with them looking at their phone.

NerdGojo! on a busy day using public transit and people are just pressed up against one another, if you're both standing, he will stand behind you with one hand on the upper bar and one around you so you don't get crushed or bumped into. When he gets a little bit more comfortable with you, he will innocently offer up his lap when sitting after hours of walking so you can rest your feet.

If you tell NerdGojo! that sometimes when you carry stuff in your arms for long periods of time your upper back will hurt for the rest of the day he will just start carrying your luggage, purse, groceries, whatever it may be without question. He doesn't want to see you in pain and it gives him a chance to puff out his chest and put his arm workouts to use. So he's content on doing something so insignificant to most, but means the world to him.

honestly, I feel like NerdGojo! would be the type to write you hand written letters, with corny love poems, filled with your favourite quotes, stuff he saw that reminded him of you, and will actually go through the effort in going to the post office, picking out a cute stamp, and have them send it your address without saying anything to you and just waits for your reaction.

If you ever told NerdGojo! that you had a local stray cat you saw outside your house/neighbourhood and how you always stop to give it head scratches before you came to class, he will literally start carrying cat treats in his bag when he comes over.

NerdGojo! would melt the moment you first said, "Satoru." He looked at you like you held all the stars in the night sky together in a beautiful mosaic.

NerdGojo! when he realizes a few weeks in that, no matter how much he overthinks, no matter how much he thinks he's fucking up...

You will always be waiting for him to catch up, your eyes will light up when you make eye contact with him in a crowded room, you remember small details about his favourite video games, you will rub his back softly while he shrimps over his computer, you will take his glasses off his head when he accidentally falls asleep at his desk, you will always be listening like he's the only one in the room, and so much more.

NerdGojo! is someone who allowed his fears of people taking advantage of him, lying about their intentions, not only from seeing it in his family, but just the horror stories he see's online and with his friends. Initially thinking that he would be content being alone romantically, he's done it his entire life, what's another 80 years?

But, through spending time with you, NerdGojo! was able to put his guard down and realize how full his heart feels everyday with you, and how a life without you wouldn't be as bright.

#blue writes 📝#nerdgojo!#gojo satoru #JJK x reader #JJK AU #satoru gojo x reader #I NEED this off my chest real quick #Gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x reader

481 notes · View notes

robbysreaders · 29 days ago

Note

In love with your jack series can we have a hint of what might of happened to cause them to break up ?

This literally made me so sad i need to follow up with a fluffier moment tonight but it was fun to write, thank you for asking!!!!!

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader word count: 800ish notes: prequel of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack also yes i did steal another scene from ER so SUE ME

It was never one big thing. It was the slow build — compounding fractures on both sides that never quite healed.

Jack wasn’t the one to suggest space. You were. He would’ve let it spiral into a blowout or let his guilt fester into something ugly. But you knew you both deserved better than that.

You’d been dating for six months when you realized you were late. He was on a tangent about work, barely coming up for air.

“These budget cuts are bullshit. We don’t have enough nurses upstairs, the boarders are piling up, and it makes everything ten times harder—”

“Jack,” you whisper, “How early can you get a pregnancy result from a blood test?”

“Seven days. Did I tell you what Robby said Gloria said?”

“Several times.”

He blinked. “Wait. Did you just say… pregnancy? You think you're pregnant? But—we’ve been really careful.”

“I know.”

“Did you miss your period?”

“Three days.”

“Okay. Okay. That could be stress. We’ll figure it out.”

It wasn’t stress.

A month later, you moved in.

One night, as you were getting ready for bed, Jack leaned in the doorway, “Will you marry me?”

You sat on the edge of the bed, towel-wrapped and exhausted. “No, Jack. We haven’t even known each other a year.”

“I’d marry you tomorrow,” he said softly. “Any day. I want to make this work. I love you. I love him.” His hand settled on your belly like a promise.

“I know you do. But I don’t need grand declarations. I need the little things.”

And Jack... Jack has never been good at the little things.

Sure, he never missed a doctor’s appointment. But he also ran to the hospital on his days off, stress trailing behind him like smoke. He brought work home and snapped, even when he didn’t mean to.

He was on rotation when your water broke. Of course, he wasn’t answering his phone. You called an Uber to get to the hospital alone.

He saw your texts and rushed to L&D just in time. Everything turned out okay. Except it didn’t feel okay. It felt like the beginning of an ending.

Jack was a devoted father. An incredible one, even. But he was a distracted partner. And you couldn’t blame him, not entirely. Postpartum knocked you sideways. You didn’t feel like yourself anymore. And the truth was, you both were just going through the motions — two tired adults playing house around a beautiful, babbling baby.

Beau was just over a year when it truly cracked.

You were walking through the park, leaves crunching underfoot, Beau kicking his legs in the stroller.

“Jack,” you said carefully, “are you happy?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m good. I’m good.”

“I think you should talk to someone. Therapy’s helped me more than I expected—”

“I said I’m good,” he cut in. “I’m just tired. The baby. Work. It’ll get better.”

You stopped walking. “Jack. I don’t think this will work if we keep going like this. I think I need a break. I’m going to take Beau to my parents’ for a week.”

He blinked. “I can’t really take time off that short notice—”

“I wasn’t inviting you,” you said.

Back at the house, you packed. Enough for you and Beau for a week. Jack held him while pacing the room, in and out like he couldn’t decide whether to stay or bolt.

Finally, you said, “Jack. Just say what you want to say.”

He stopped. Face flat, eyes hollow. Something at the edge of his lips — then he straightened.

“Yeah, um... just let me know what I can do to help.”

The next morning, you left.

Jack called off work for the first time in his career. Claimed he caught Beau’s flu. Robby knew better — especially when he showed up at Jack’s and saw your car gone, the house quiet, Jack hungover on the couch.

It didn’t take long for Robby to coax it out.

“This doesn’t have to be the end,” Robby said, flipping a beer cap off with ease. “She’s giving you space. That’s a gift. Don’t waste it.”

“She’s sick of the big declarations,” Jack mumbled. “Sick of me being all show and no change.”

“As she should be. You want her back, you rebuild the foundation. You follow her lead. Think about what she’s asked for. Start there.”

The next morning, Jack called.

He asked how you and Beau were doing. Asked if your parents hated him now.

“They could never hate you,” you said quietly. “I wouldn’t let them.”

“So, when you get back… maybe we talk? I need to have Beau in my life, and I’ll take whatever part of you I’m allowed. But you’re unhappy, and I can’t be the reason why. I’ll take your lead. If you want lawyers, I’ll pay for both of us to get them. Whatever you need.”

You were silent for a moment, heart cracking a little.

“Yeah, Jack. Let’s talk when I’m back.”

#jack abbot #jack abbott #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #the pitt drabble #the pitt imagine #dr. abbot #dr. abbot x reader #dr. abbott #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #p attempts to start writing #p's asks #ex!reader and babydaddy!jack

349 notes · View notes

vbecker10 · 4 months ago

Text

I Kissed Her

Pairing: Bucky x female reader (Y/N) established relationship

Summary: Bucky went on a short mission and when he comes home he's distant and anxious which makes you nervous that something horrible happened in the field. You reassure him that he can talk to you and he opens up about how he needed to pretend he was married to his ex girlfriend, Natasha, for their mission and he kissed her.

Warnings: angst... Bucky feeling guilty and feeling like he cheated (but he didn't, it was purely for their cover story), Bucky being afraid you won't want to be with him anymore, Natasha being a horrible and petty person (sorry, that just sort of happened but I usually really like her)... fluffy ending 😊

A/N: I'm sorry for this one but I'm pretty stressed out from life so you're getting Bucky angst 💚 This is a spin on the fake marriage scenario while on a mission so I hope everyone likes it!

Your phone goes off and you read the automated notification from SHIELD for all nonessential personnel to clear the landing area for the incoming jet. Jumping up from the couch, you grab your phone and slip on your shoes. The only jet that was out was the one Bucky, Steve and Natasha had taken for their mission. You pull your door shut and call Bucky, groaning impatiently as you listen to it ring over and over.

Bucky's been gone for three days and two long nights. Unfortunately, you hadn't been assigned as an analyst for that mission so you weren't told where he was going or when he'd return. All you know is that you miss your boyfriend and you can't wait to see him again.

Bucky finally answers as you are deciding if you should hang up and text him. "Hi," he says with little enthusiasm which causes your smile to falter slightly but you try not to let it affect your mood. You know he's probably tired, he never sleeps well when he's away and neither do you.

"Hey Bucky," you say cheerfully, hoping your excitement will be contagious, "I heard the jet landed so I was hoping that meant you were home."

"Yeah, we just got in," he answers and you can hear people talking in the background. "Sorry I didn't text you." You get into the elevator and push the button for his floor.

You're anxiety rises as you begin to worry if he didn't want you to know he was back home yet for some reason. Typically, Bucky would text or call you as soon as possible to let you know he was on his way back and he couldn't wait to see you.

"Can I come by to say hi?" you ask unsure of his mood or what's affecting it. "I'm sure you're tired but I really missed you."

"Sure," he agrees to letting you visit.

You wait for him to tell you he missed you over the last few days but when he doesn't you ask, "Bucky are you okay?"

"Yeah," he mumbles. "Sorry, just a lot on my mind from the mission."

"Okay, I'll be there in a minute," you tell him.

"Okay," he responds then ends the call before saying goodbye.

You look down at your phone as your heart beats faster in your chest. Something really horrible must have happened while they were on the mission, you can't help but think. Bucky didn't sound like himself and it worried you immensely.

You knock on his door and it opens immediately, he takes a step back to let you in. As soon as you are inside, you put your arms around Bucky without saying a word and the super soldier hugs you back tightly, almost as if he will never let go. The two of you stay like that silently for a few moments, you close your eyes and try to relax as you listen to his breathing. He leans down to kiss your forehead lightly but before you can return the kiss, he releases you from the hug and takes a step away.

"Bucky..." you start and his eyes drop to the floor, there's no hiding how anxious he looks. His metal hand flexes slowly and you ask him, "What's wrong? Did something happen on the mission?"

He nods a little at your second question and your mind races as you close the distance he created between you both, "Did Steve get hurt?"

"Steve and Natasha are fine," Bucky answers and you breath a little easier. You know important Steve is to him as a friend but you honestly you hadn't even thought something might have happened to Natasha too. Even with all the awkward tension between you and the spy, you were glad she was okay also. If no one was hurt, what else could have happened, you wonder to yourself.

"I need to shower then we can talk, okay?" he asks and you nod then he adds, "I don't want you to hear about any of this from her."

"I'll be here when you're ready," you offer him a small smile to reassure him you aren't going anywhere. You stand by his front door as he turns and walks into his room, closing the door. Letting out a nervous sigh, you take a seat on his couch and hold one of the pillows tightly to your chest as you look around his living room. Your focus settles on a picture of the two of you sitting on his end table from when you first started dating six months ago. A smile starts to spread across your lips when you remember how much fun you had at Bryant Park with him that day but then his words echo in your mind.

'I don't want you to hear about any of this from her,' he told you. He obviously meant Natasha but what was he talking about?

Natasha all but refuses to speak to you unless it is specifically about official SHIELD business and you are more than fine with that. His ex girlfriend has made no attempt to hide how much she dislikes you or your relationship with Bucky. The spy still blames you for Bucky leaving her even though you had barely known him when he ended their year long relationship. You and Bucky didn't begin dating until a few months later but you were never quite able to escape the numerous rumors that spread through the Tower. Bucky ignored all the gossip easily enough but you found it harder to shake the accusing whispers that you started your relationship with Bucky before he ended things with Natasha.

You lift your head when you hear his door open and watch quietly as Bucky sits next to you on the couch. His hair is still wet and he tucks it behind his ear when he looks at you. Bucky's eyes met yours and he says, "I know I need to tell you what happened but I'm afraid you'll hate me."

Your heart beats faster and you ask, "Why would I hate you?" He looks down and you move closer to him, taking his right hand in yours.

He shakes his head instead of answering you and squeezes your hand, "You know how much I love you, right Y/N?"

"I love you too," you tell him then take a deep breath and force yourself to ask, "But are you breaking up with me? Cause this feels-"

"What? No!" he says quickly as he cuts you off. "I'm just scared you're going to leave me when I tell you what happened with Natasha."

"I don't understand..." you start then bite your lip as your mind begins to put together the very few pieces you have. Bucky was away on a mission with his ex girlfriend and now he's distant and nervous and afraid you're going to hate him, you think as you grip the pillow next to you tightly. Natasha flirted with him every chance she could, you had seen it yourself dozens of times because she seemed to really enjoy doing it right in front of you. Had he finally given in while he was away on the mission?

"Bucky," you clear your throat and try to prepare yourself to ask something you never thought you'd have to ask him. "Did you cheat on me with Natasha?"

He sighs deeply and you fight to hold back the tears you can feel wanting to fall. "I don't know," he says and you look at him in confused silence. "No, I mean... I don't think so but-"

"You don't know!?" you ask harshly, unable to contain the mixture of emotions that flood through you. In an instant you feel hurt, betrayed, confused, angry and so many other things you can barely think straight. You pull your hand free from his and stand up, "How could you not know? You either did or you didn't."

"It's complicated," he says as he looks up at you from the couch. "Please, just let me explain," he reaches up and takes your hand.

You let his metal fingers grip your hand gently as he pulls you back down on the couch. "Fine," you mumble and quickly wipe away a single stray tear that runs down your cheek.

"I didn't tell you I was back yet because I needed to think-" he starts to explain.

"Of an excuse for cheating on me?" you interrupt him and let go of his metal hand.

"No," he shakes his head. "Just..." he sighs deeply, "Just listen please? I want to tell you everything."

You nod and sit facing him with your arms crossed over your chest. You can't imagine what he could possibly tell you that would make the feelings swirling inside of you go away but you're willing to hear him out.

He starts at the beginning, "We went to Germany, SHIELD found a high stakes poker game that a lot of high ranking Hydra officers attend on Friday nights. Natasha, Steve and I went undercover using those nanotech masks from Stark."

You look at him quietly, waiting for him to get to the point.

"Agent Hill worked up a cover story to get us in the game," he explains. "I was a wealthy arms dealer from Romania, Steve was my bodyguard and Natasha was my wife. We were just supposed to gather information, see who was there so SHIELD could decide who to go after next."

"Okay..." you say as he rubs his hands together nervously and describes every detail of the mission.

------------------------------------------------

Steve knocks four times rhythmically on the metal door and waits for the small window to slide open. "Hail Hydra," he whispers to the dark figure who slams the window shut then opens the door. Bucky let's out a small sigh of relief knowing the previously gathered intelligence was correct.

Natasha smiles up at Bucky, holding onto his arm as they walk through the door followed closely by Steve. Steve looks around the room, his dark sunglasses capturing images of everyone he sees and sending the information back to analysts at SHIELD. The three of them are greeted by a well known Hydra officer, Captain Marc Burwell, and are escorted to a poker table in the middle of another, much less crowded room.

"Your wife can wait in the other room," Burwell says to Bucky as he unbuttons his black suit jacket and takes a seat at the table.

"She stays with me," Bucky responds with a smirk. "She's my good luck charm."

Burwell's attention shifts to the plunging neckline of Natasha's dress when she leans down to place a soft kiss on her fake husband's cheek. "If I had a wife that looked like yours, I'd never let her out of my sight either," the man chuckles as his eyes roam over the spy's body. Her long, shimmery black dress reveals a high slit when she moves to sit on Bucky's lap sideways, her arm resting around his neck.

Bucky looks up at the man, his jaw tightening, "Keep looking at my wife like that and I'll remove your eyes myself."

Natasha giggles and plays with her necklace, adjusting the pendant as it connects to the numerous cell phones in the room. Steve takes a step forward, standing just behind Bucky as he folds his arms and stares at the now very nervous captain. He clears his throat and apologizes before excusing himself quickly.

The dealer takes his position at the head of the table and the rest of the players sit around Bucky. He checks his watch to ensure it's transmitting the conversations of those close to him as the first hand is dealt.

"Good luck baby," Natasha says as he picks up his cards and he smiles in return. She kisses his cheek again, this time leaving a light lipstick mark and she wipes it away, "Oops."

He clears his throat and whispers, "They already bought that we're married, you can ease up with the kisses." He moves his free hand so it barely rests on her lower back while Steve stands behind him in silence.

"Come on baby," Natasha whispers in response. "Hold me like you want me, like you used to."

Bucky chuckles as if she said something flirtatious and runs his fingers up and down her back slowly. He looks at her as if to ask if that was better and in response, she presses her lips to his then rests her head on his shoulder.

He tries to ignore the kiss, focusing instead on the cards in his hand and the bets being placed. SHIELD wasn't too concerned about Bucky winning or losing so long as the information was gathered but he needed to at least keep up with the other players. While he waits for the players to place their bets, his mind wanders to his previous relationship with Natasha.

It had started purely because they were paired together so often on missions. Pretending to date or be married to each other over and over had convinced them that a real relationship would work. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case and it took Bucky a long time to voice how unhappy he was to Natasha. She was dismissive and ignored his concerns which finally caused him to leave her. It was the best decision he could have made, because he found someone a few months later who truly made him happy, you.

Serval uneventful hands later, Bucky orders a drink from the waitress as his fingers trace small circles on the exposed skin of Natasha's arm. The quiet woman places his drink on the table in front of him but he makes no move to pick it up as he examines his cards. Natasha smirks and lifts the glass to Bucky's lips, "Here baby."

"Thanks sweetheart," Bucky says with a smile as he cringes internally after he takes a drink. He had always hated when she called him 'baby' while they were dating. He wasn't sure why he didn't like it but he had asked her not to do it several times and she never listened.

Without warning, Natasha presses her lips to his and for a moment he forgets they are pretending to be married. Bucky pulls back slightly to separate from her but she only smiles in response, running her fingers through his hair while her other fingers trace the rim of his glass.

"Need another drink?" she asks and he nods, not wanting to draw the attention of the others at the table. Natasha lifts the drink to his lips again then just as she pulls it away, she kisses him again.

Bucky closes his eyes and kisses her back, unsure of what else to do in the moment. His mind fills with images of you but he can't trick himself into thinking you're here instead of Natasha. When she finally breaks the long, deep kiss she giggles and places the empty glass back on the table.

He's unable to focus and folds his cards then plays two more hands, losing both. At the end of each hand, Natasha kisses him and he's forced to kiss her back to keep their cover in tact. After the two loses, Bucky wins a large pot and he reaches across the table to gather all of his chips with a smirk. When he sits back in his seat, his fake wife presses her lips to his in celebration.

As the dealer is shuffling, Steve receives word through his ear piece that SHIELD has enough information. He taps Bucky's shoulder and leans down to whisper that they can leave, sending a wave of relief through him.

------------------------------------------------

"I couldn't wait to get back on the jet and see you again," he says, finally looking up at you.

"But you didn't call or text me," you remind him.

"I know..." he pauses. "Like I said, I was trying to think."

"About what?" you ask.

"About if what I did was wrong or not," he says and you realize he was being serious when he said he didn't know if he cheated. "Natasha sat with me in the back of the jet while Steve flew us home," he explains. "She asked me if I wanted to continue where we left off then tried to sit on my lap again. When I told her no, she got really upset. She told me she couldn't wait to tell you how much fun the mission was and by the time she was done you would never forgive me."

"But... you didn't do anything," you tell him.

"I kissed her," he says with a sigh.

"Right, but you only did it because you had to," you remind him gently.

He nods quickly and you move closer to him on the couch, taking his hand and he squeezes it. "I know it was just for our cover story but she got in my head while we were coming home. Natasha kept telling me I kissed her like I used to when we were dating and that she could feel how much I still cared for her," he says.

"You still-" you start to ask and almost pull your hand free from his but he keeps his fingers intertwined with yours.

"No," he cuts you off before you can finish your sentence. "No, Y/N, I don't have any feelings for her. I haven't since before you and I started dating, you know that," he assures you and you nod. "It was just something she was going to tell you to drive a wedge between us." He sighs and mumbles under his breath, "I think Steve's right, I'm an idiot."

You can't help but agree, "You are an idiot."

He looks up at you but doesn't say anything.

"Bucky," you cup his cheek, still holding his hand tightly. He breaths deeply, preparing himself for the worst when you smile and his eyes fill with confusion. "You got me all stressed out and nervous because your ex girlfriend is crazy," you say at you breath a little easier. "I already knew that."

"I... what?" he asks.

You let out a little laugh at his reaction, "Did you want to kiss her?"

"No," he answers quickly.

"Did you enjoy kissing her?" you ask.

"No," he answers again and shakes his head.

"Do you wish you were with her instead of me?" you already know the answer to that one but you want to prove a point.

"Absolutely not," Bucky lifts your hand and kisses the back of it.

"So that means..." you start and give him a second to catch up.

He smiles a little, "It wasn't cheating?"

"I don't think it counts," you tell him honestly. "It's like if you were an actor and had to kiss someone for a role. You were just doing your job, right?"

You watch him breath a heavy sigh of relief, "That's what Steve said when we landed. He was listening to pretty much everything she said and he told me I really needed to talk to you before she did."

"I think you need to listen to Steve more often," you tell him and he nods.

"I'm sorry," he says and you move closer to cuddle against him. He wraps his arms around you and you feel him relax for the first time since he left.

"It's okay, I still love you," you look up at him with a smile.

He smiles in return, "I hope so because I love you more than anything." He leans down to kiss your lips, cupping your cheek lightly. You close your eyes and kiss him back, running your fingers through his damp hair.

When you pull away, you tell him, "That doesn't mean I'm thrilled about this whole thing. I mean, I understand why you had to do it... I just really wish it had been anyone else. Natasha doesn't seem like she's going to give up on trying to ruin our relationship any time soon."

"She probably won't but honestly I don't think it's because she wants me back," he says. "I think she just hates that we're happy."

You rest your head on his shoulder, "Just keep being honest with me like this and we'll be okay. Maybe... phrase things a little better?"

He chuckles and nods, "I'll have Steve prep what I should say for next time."

You giggle, "Next time you should just pretend you and Steve are married and she's your bodyguard."

He smiles and plays with your hair, "I'll ask Agent Hill about that."

"Wait, really?" you ask sitting up a little.

He laughs, "No. I'm not kissing Steve."

"Lame," you smile and kiss him again.

"I'm sorry," he says with a smile, keeping his arms around you tightly. "Can you stay the night? I can never sleep without you."

"I think I can do that," you agree easily.

I hope you liked this!! Please like, share and comment if you did ❤️❤️ Please let me know if you want to be added to my taglist!

@soubi001 @lokiswife-dark-fox-queen @multyunervisesuperfan @cabingrlandrandomcrap @icytrickster17 @mjsthrillernp @holdmytesseract @lulubelle814 @alexakeyloveloki @siconetribal @ash-muses @loz-3 @firedrakegirl @wolfsmom1 @sabspoetic @peaches1958 @catsladen @michellewgrt @crimson25 @jaidenhawke @mochie85 @itscomplicatedx @motherofmischief

444 notes · View notes

giuliannna · 5 months ago

Text

BACK TO THE BASICS

no matter how hard you try - you always let hamzah back in

contains : ex bf hamzah (he’s kind of a dick), oral (f receiving)

this was the longest it’s been without hamzah showing up at your doorstep. it'd been almost two months, he hadn’t texted or called like he usually did, claiming that he missed you and just had to see you.

you like to believe that you’re a strong-minded person. you and hamzah broke up, and you live perfectly fine on your own without him. you don’t need him at all.

yet - somehow, he always finds a way to worm himself back into your mind, your heart, your bed.

he didn’t give you any signs this time, but there he was, standing at your front door, a smug look already adorning his features.

you immediately shake your head when your gaze lands upon him, not wanting to believe that he’s actually here again.

“no- no. i can’t do this anymore, hamzah.” you immediately dismiss him before he even speaks.

“what d’you mean?” he says, feigning confusion. “just wanna see you, it’s been a while.”

“i know it’s been a while,” you retort, eyeing him up and down. “it should stay that way.”

he scoffs, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. he glances off to the side, lightly shaking his head as if he can’t believe that you’re not immediately letting him in.

“i know you don’t mean that.” he says lowly, the tone in which he speaks piercing right through you like a knife.

your heart clenches in your chest - he’s right. you don’t mean it. you miss him. you just don’t want to admit it to him, or even yourself. he has a hold on you, subconsciously.

you want to keep a strong front, but deep down you know that hamzah is the only person who can break you down piece by piece.

“c’mon. i miss you.” he adds, rather bluntly.

“no, i- this isn’t how breakups work.” you murmur, your gaze softening.

you two had come to the decision that your separation would be mutual, but you both knew that you didn’t truly want it to happen as much as he did.

“this isn’t about us breaking up,” hamzah says, taking a step closer and leaning against the doorframe, a hesitant hand reaching out to touch your waist. “that doesn’t matter right now.”

his eyes move to meet yours, assessing your expression for any hint of refusal before fully snaking his arm around your back, his hand coming to rest in the curve of your waist on the other side of your body.

you can’t help but partially melt under his all-too-familiar touch. your eyes rake over him - his disheveled curls, the cocky ease in his posture, the grin plastered on his face. you hate that he still looks exactly like the man you fell in love with in the first place.

you’re torn between shoving him away and slamming the door in order to keep your dignity, or giving in to what you really want and letting him win again.

“of course it matters, hamzah,” you say, putting on a harsher tone. “you can’t keep doing this. you act like i’m just sitting around, waiting for you, all the time.”

“i know you’re not,” he quickly replies, lacing his voice with sympathy. “but that doesn’t mean you need to shut me out when i do wanna see you.”

“and what about my feelings?” you reply. “you only care about what you want.”

“only thing i want right now is you,” he says huskily.

“it’s not that simple.”

“maybe it is.”

his words hang in the air, suffocating your mind. the atmosphere felt heavy with the weight of his presence, his words seeping into every crevice of your brain.

you stare at him for a long moment. he tightens his arm around you, sending a chill up your spine.

“it’s not.” you finally reply.

“okay,” he huffs, cocking his head to the side so it rests on the inside of your doorframe, his face only inches from yours. “but you opened the door for me. i think that means something.. y’coulda just ignored me, no?”

you can’t come up with a good response for that. he has you beat. you saw him through the peephole and still chose to open the door.

you decide to just ignore the fact that he definitely knows exactly what’s he’s doing, persuading you to let him lodge his presence back into your life.

ignorance is bliss, right?

and the smirk that crosses his lips when you start backing up into your apartment, bringing him with you - god, it was more than enough to make your knees weak.

“don’t think this changes anything,” you mutter, reaching past him to shut the door behind the two of you.

“sure, baby.” he replies smugly, his hands sliding down to the backs of your thighs. he sinks his fingers into your flesh, picking you up effortlessly and holding you against his chest, your arms and legs instinctively wrapping around him.

he makes a beeline straight to your bedroom, laying you down gently on your bed like he’s done countless times before. you were a sucker for this twisted routine you two have developed.

he stands between your legs at the edge of the mattress, towering over you.

“god, how could i not miss you?” he mutters, seemingly to himself. “so pretty, all spread out like this.”

you stare up at him, brows knitted together as you watch him shamelessly eye you, his gaze filled with equal amounts of adoration and lust.

“hamzah..” you breathe out, your breathing tipping into an uneven pattern as you anticipate his next move.

“c’mere,” he chuckles, grabbing your calves and tugging you to the very edge of your bed. “wanna taste you again, beautiful. can i?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

you nod, your hands going to undo your pants but a harsh grasp landing around your wrist makes you immediately pause.

“no,” he says, roughly jerking your hand away from the button of your jeans. “you need to say it. you have to tell me you want this.”

“i do,” you whisper. “i want this - i want you, hamzah.”

he parts his lips, exhaling harshly as he sinks down to his knees, slotting his head between your thighs. his hands replace yours, effortlessly undoing the button and zipper on your jeans.

he glances up at you, his lips tugging into a sly smirk at the sight of you above him. your chest heaving, cheeks flushed, face all screwed up - looking so eager for him.

“always so beautiful, aren’t you?” he whispers, chuckling and shaking his head as he tugs down both your jeans and panties, letting them fall into a pool of fabric on the floor.

his gaze darkens at the sight of your newly exposed core, his breath hitting your inner thighs and making your stomach twist with anticipation.

his hands slowly travel up your legs, fingertips grazing your skin all the way from your ankles to the tops of your thighs. his insufferably unhurried pace makes you feel bothered and needy.

“hamzah, please.” you exhale, fighting the urge to just tug on his hair and force his mouth right where you want it.

he grins up at you devilishly, hooking your legs over his shoulders, taking a firm hold on your legs to keep you in place.

“look at you,” he murmurs, his eyes flitting over your features. “almost turned me away when i showed up, but now you’re begging f’me.”

he trails sloppy kisses up the inside of your thigh, making you whine. “c’mon,” he says into your skin. “ask nicely one more time, angel.”

you bury your hand in his hair, your other arm propping yourself up on your elbow so you can watch him. “please, i need to feel you.. fuck, i can’t wait anymore.” you plead.

he glances up at you, the words escaping his lips before he can think twice.

“tell me you missed me.”

your heart pounds in your chest, your lips hesitating to form the words that your mind wants to say so badly - but you just can’t give up the last ounce of dignity you were holding onto.

“hamzah, please don’t.” you manage to say, almost inaudibly. “don’t do this right now.”

his fingers dig deeper into the flesh of your thighs, his breathing getting heavier.

“fine,” he huffs. “i’ll just have to make you fuckin’ realize it.”

the words you were about to respond with are whisked away into a sighing whimper as he suddenly trails his tongue along your folds, stopping at your clit and pressing a kiss to it.

you watch his eyes flutter shut, a soft groan rumbling in his chest as his warm mouth envelops your mind, body, and spirit.

“oh- oh, my god,” you moan, your jaw hanging slack. you suddenly can’t seem to hold yourself upright anymore, and your back meets the plush surface of your comforter when you collapse down onto it.

your legs begin to involuntarily twitch as hamzah gets completely lost in your taste, his lips and tongue working overtime to do exactly what he wanted - make you truly realize what you’d been missing.

he lets go of one of your legs, letting it fall limp against the edge of the bed. he drags his fingers up your skin and to your entrance, circling the hole. he focuses on your clit, his nose pressing against you as his tongue swirls around the sensitive nerves.

he pushes two digits inside of your aching pussy, your walls contracting around them, pulling him in.

mindless whines tumble from your lips like a waterfall, your brain no longer having the capacity to form a coherent sentence.

hamzah always finds a way back in.

you feel his lips quickly form a grin before immediately going back to stimulating you, his fingers now curling up inside of you to hit the perfect spot, his mouth and hand working in harmony to bring you closer to release.

he knows you’re weak, he knows you’re giving in - so he repeats himself, just to get the answer he wants.

“fuck- now say it. tell me you missed me.” he rasps in between small kisses and licks on your clit.

this time, there’s no hesitation. drunk words are sober thoughts, and you were definitely drunk on him.

“oh, shit- fuck! yes, i missed you.. so much..” you cry out, your back arching up off the mattress.

“there’s my girl,” he murmurs, letting go of your other leg and pulling his fingers out of you, sucking them clean of your juices. “i fuckin’ knew you did.”

he pulls you even closer to the edge of the bed, practically folding you up and pressing your knees into your chest, pinning you down firmly. “gonna make you feel so good,” he growls. “just like i used to.”

he delves his head back down, eating you out with double the intensity. heat floods your stomach, tension building rapidly.

hamzah is absolutely intoxicated, getting lost in the familiar reactions your body always has. he knows you better than anyone else ever will.

“hamzah, i.. i’m..” you fumble your words, trying to alert him of the fact that your restraint is slipping away.

“i know, baby.” he purrs, sloppily kissing your dripping cunt. “y’can let go. cum for me.”

with a few more strokes of his tongue up your slit, you’re suddenly trembling - uncontrollably releasing against hamzah’s mouth with a high-pitched moan while he sucks at your most sensitive spot, hightening every sensation.

he hums in satisfaction, licking up every little bit of wetness that leaks out of your twitching body.

with a final kiss to your puffy clit, he pulls away to look at you and nearly finishes in his pants at the sight.

his gaze darts across your entire frame, taking in the glow of the sheer layer of sweat that now coats your skin, your twisted look of pleasure, your heaving chest and the baby hairs stuck to your forehead - it was the view he thought about every night since the breakup.

staring up at him, gasps escape your parted lips as you try and regain composure after your mind-bending orgasm.

he wipes his chin, ridding his face of the residue your arousal left.

“fuckin’ perfect, every single time.” he breathes out.

“this still..” you try to speak but end up whispering brokenly as you try to clear your mind. “..doesn’t change anything.”

he smirks.

“you said that last time.”

part two here

xoxo giulia

#giulianna ⁀➴#hamzah imagines #hamzah x reader #hamzahthefantastic #slushy noobz

417 notes · View notes

g4rvez-r3id · 6 months ago

Text

Back To You

Ex! Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU Reader

Synopsis: Spencer finally realizes that he wants you to stay and that he loves you and he proves to you just how much he does.

Category: Angst, Fluff, Smut

Warnings: 18+ MDNI established past relationship between spencer and reader, spencer being a lil shit, reader being depressed, cursing, mentions of Lauren arc, maeve arc, Grey’s Anatomy spoilers 4x17 “Freedom” and 11x21 “How to Save A Life”, heartfelt talks, love confessions, kissing, smut warnings: soft!dom spencer, cunnilingus, spencer is packing, praise, he whimpers (idc WHAT y’all say), unprotected sex, creampie (find a better word for this pls), a lil bit of aftercare and that should be it(?)

Author’s Note: here it is, the long awaited part three! sorry y’all i lowkey struggled to write this lmao, i hope y’all like this end to the 3-parter hehe 🤭 hope it was worth the wait! <3

part one part two

Spencer Reid was utterly bewildered when he headed into work that following week and saw that you didn’t show. That wasn’t like you. You were always at work, no matter what. Sure, you had a few sick days here and there and after your guys’ breakup, you’d taken a couple of days off but you were into work about a day or so later.

He chalked it up to your guys’ previous conversation. The one where he pushed you away. And he knew you needed time to deal with that. So, he went straight to work and didn’t think anything more of it.

But then a day turned into a few. And before he could march to Garcia’s lair and ask to track your phone down because he was concerned — and it didn’t help that his mind first went to you lying in a ditch somewhere — he instead went to Hotch and asked if maybe you were taking vacation time.

Thankfully, Hotch had told him that you indeed were taking vacation time but that you hadn’t gone into why you needed to.

But Spencer knew why.

He’d felt horrible about how things ended in the parking garage. He knew it was his fault. And he wanted to go make it right… with you, he just didn’t know how. And Spencer also worried that going to see you would just make things worse.

All he could think back to was when you guys dated. Things seemed so easy being with you. You understood the workload, since you’d had the same job, you let him ramble and listened to him — even when you weren’t dating anymore. And you were just such a good person and a good friend, no matter the cost. (The cost being his relationship with you when you hid the fact that you knew about Emily’s fake death). He didn’t think he’d ever forgive you for that. But now, since Maeve, since everything, since you were there for him, he was willing to finally push all of that aside and beg for you to come back to him.

He knew you were a hard person to convince. You held grudges like he did, which was why you two were in this mess now. But Spencer knew, eventually, you had to come back to work. But then he thought about it.

The chances of you transferring to a different unit, to a different city, maybe even to a different state because you could stand to see him any longer were high. Like previously stated, he knew you. And he knew from when you two were together that once your mind was made up, there was no changing it.

But he didn’t want you to. He hated that now he was realizing this, but now, he had to march down to your apartment and tell you how you truly felt. That he really didn’t want you to go.

And damn it, he was gonna do something about it right now.

You wondered if you’d ever recover from the hard blow Spencer Reid hit you with. It was like a punch in the gut, the fact that he wouldn’t let you in. It was to be expected, that he needed time to recover himself. But it hurt that he pushed you away, even though you knew that would happen.

Since what happened with Spencer in the parking garage, you had called in sick from work for a week or two. It wasn’t until Hotch literally texted you and asked if you were okay and if you wanted to formally request the month off to do so.

You hadn’t gone anywhere, you weren’t on any vacation and you weren’t seemingly blowing off work. You just needed time and right now, seeing Spencer in the office wouldn’t make it any better. This is what you would do, you’d wallow for a short amount of time and then move on.

Although you wouldn’t really move on. You’d pine silently and wait for the day you stop having feelings. It’s what happened with Spencer before and it’d likely happen again.

So, you sat in your living room, re-watching Grey’s Anatomy for about the third time. The men absolutely sucked in this show. You were wearing your sweatpants and a white tank top with your hair looking like a rat’s nest. You showered last night but unfortunately didn’t have the energy to blow dry your hair so it dried over your pillow covers and you woke up the next morning with your hair looking absolutely atrocious. You slumped on the couch, stuffing your face with chocolate ice cream and frowning at the screen as Meredith shows Derek she’s ready to commit to their relationship by designing a floor plan for their home. What’s the point when he’s just gonna die anyways? Someone always dies and someone always gets hurt.

You only planned in sulking on your couch for another day but you certainly didn’t plan on someone knocking outside your door rapidly.

“No one’s home.” You grumbled as you took another scoop of your ice cream from your spoon into your mouth. The knocking continued once more. “Go away!” You demanded. But the knocking wouldn’t let.

So, you groaned, pausing the TV and getting out of your blanket, putting your ice cream to the side and walking towards the door. You look through the peephole and scoff when you see who’s at the door.

“No fucking way.” You say loudly for him to hear. “Y/n, will you just open the door, please?” Spencer pleads with you. “Why should I let you in when you’ve never bothered to let me in?”

Spencer closes his eyes as he curses to himself. He supposed he deserved that. He says your name again as he rests his palm on the wood of the door. “Please, just open the door. Can we talk?”

“What is there to talk about, Spencer?” You question, crossing your arms and you choose to stand your ground, deciding not to open the door. “Open the door, please. I’d rather your neighbors not hear.”

You roll your eyes and decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. You unlock the door and open it. “You have two minutes. Two.” You lean to the side so Spencer can walk in to your apartment.

You quickly check your watch. “You’ve got,” You click your tongue. “A minute and fifty-four seconds remaining. Make it count.”

“I should’ve asked you to stay.” Spencer started. “I should’ve asked you to stay a long time ago. But Maeve… the whole thing with her… it broke me. And maybe I’m beyond repair and maybe I will never be over her, but you should not have to suffer because of it. I’ve… been… an ass.” You knew it was serious when he cursed. He rarely ever did.

“Strong beginning.” You comment, your arms carefully crossed over your chest in defense. Spencer noted to this being something you did every time you two fought.

“I wanted you to stay. Trust me, I did. And still do. But I can’t burden you with this. With my… pain. You’ve done so much for me already. Taking care of me, making sure that I was okay, being there for me when I was heinous to you after our breakup. We barely spoke a word to one another before then and you knew that but you were still there. I guess I just… don’t know how to do this. I… I was given another chance and I… couldn’t save Maeve. I’m scared that if I let you in… it could…” Wind up the same way. He doesn’t finish but you figure that’s what is about to come out of his mouth.

It made sense now. Why he pushed you away. He didn’t owe you an explanation, because you knew why he did. At least, later you did. But your heart couldn’t cope with the heartbreak and you asked for the time off anyways. You needed it. At least, your heart did. You owed her that much.

Spencer looked defeated as he stood in front of you. Like he couldn’t lose the one thing that seemed to fit in the puzzle piece of the void. He knew he didn’t deserve you. And he would be okay with the fact if you had just kicked him out this second.

Instead, you stood in front of him and your shoulders sank out of defense mode and into a shy tone. You thought to yourself for a moment before you turned back to him.

“Spencer,” You start hoarsely and walk towards him slowly and carefully like he was ready to break like glass. “How come you let me into your apartment after what happened to Maeve? You could’ve let JJ in or Garcia.” The burning question lingered for so long, you had taken the opportunity to ask here and now.

His answer was simple. “Because you’ve seen me in that state before. It’s so easy to mask my emotions in front of JJ or Garcia or Morgan. With you, I knew I could feel anything and not have you look at me out of pity. Because you’ve been there before.”

You swallow at that answer as you walk over to him, face to face with him. (Of course, you’re a tad shorter than him so you have to look up at him a bit).

You extend a hand and caress his face with your palm and he nuzzles into it like a cat to a scratch post and closes his eyes tightly as he grabs your wrist, as if he’s wanting to keep your hand there. Your eyes lilt down from his eyelids to his plump lips and you shake your head.

“Where did we go wrong?” You ask in a whisper. And you’re almost afraid for his answer. You’re entirely aware of where you went wrong. It was your fault, after all. And suddenly, you don’t want to hear his answer as he parts his mouth and looks into your eyes. “Never mind,” You say. “I remember.” Your tone is somber.

And Spencer knows why. Sure, he was upset and honestly, he had the right to be after you kept the fact that their close friend had faked her death and you knew about it but didn’t tell him. But he was willing to put that all behind him just to have you back in his life again.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” He said and you looked up at him with wide eyes at this. “It was a long time ago. And I can’t stand not having you in my life any longer.”

“Spencer…”

“I love you.”

The words fall out of his mouth so easily. “I love you, so much. I know we didn’t get it right last time but I want to, this time. I have always loved you.”

“But Maeve?” You ask.

“She was my past and I’ll always be grateful for the time that I had with her, even if it was short.” He admits but he takes your face into his hands, so tenderly as he looks you in the eyes. “But you… I’ll be damned if you’re not my future, Y/n. I’m sorry for how I’ve been. I’m sorry for how I’ve acted. You’re stuck in my head and I just… can’t seem to get you out of it, not that I’ve ever wanted to, anyways. But, Y/n, I’d go back to you. In a heartbeat. And my head is the most clearest it’s ever been so don’t you dare accuse me of just saying this on a whim. Because it’s not a whim.”

Spencer Reid knew you too damn well. He’d broken your heart in two, sure, but when it healed, it continued to still beat for him. You’ve always loved him and you never stopped. He held the darkest parts of you but he never once tried to fix them, he embraced them.

“I love you.” He said, out of breath. “Will you let me love you again?”

You stare up at him and instead of answering, you lean impossibly closer and your lips graze his and you don’t know who leans closer — you or him — (you later confirm that it was definitely him) and your lips connect.

The coffee taste is familiar in his mouth as his lavender scent fills your nostrils and he holds your face closely as he swallows you whole. Eventually, breathing becomes a chore and Spencer takes this opportunity to set you on the kitchen counter as his lips connect with your neck and you close your eyes as you feel all of him all at once.

Your hands explore his back, trying to shake his cardigan off of him — no matter how sexy it looks on him — and you are successful as it comes off of him and lands on the floor, revealing one of his dress shirts underneath.

You’re too busy admiring his body when he takes a moment, looking at you and taking in your features. He’s been here before. You’ve been here before. He’s home.

Realizing what he’s done, he knows you deserve better than being mauled on your marble counter and looks at you for permission before hoisting you to his waist and finds your bedroom, letting you get down and lay on your bed as you look at him, only in love and admiration.

He begins to unbutton his dress shirt and tear off his slacks and you take this opportunity to shake out of your sweatpants and your hair out of your elastic hair band. He’s left in his boxers and you’re left in your top and underwear.

He stares down at you, eyes full of lust and love and he smirks down at you and God, that should not have been so hot.

Spencer leaned down to kiss your lips and then kissed your neck and your collarbone. He shakes you out of your top and kisses each your breasts and then your bare stomach and then gets to his destination and with nimble fingers, pulls at the waistband of your underwear and pulls them off, flinging them across the room and looks at you as your rest yourself on your elbows so you can see the show.

You feel as his hot breath sigh into your pussy and you tilt your head back, dizzy by the sight in front of you. You had to have been dreaming. Surely, this is God’s cruel way of hurting you even more by making you have a vivid sex dream about your ex-boyfriend. (Or was he your boyfriend again?)

But when his tongue licks a stripe over your entrance, it’s confirmed. You’re definitely not dreaming, but definitely on Cloud 9.

He licks at your hole a couple of times before putting his mouth on your clit and making figure-8s with his tongue and your dig your hands into his messy locks and pull him impossibly closer.

And with his hands, he takes them out of his hair and holds them, interlocking his fingers with yours and Jesus, you might cum too soon from the sight alone.

The one thing you always liked about Spencer in bed was his expertise on sex despite not being very experienced himself. After your first time together, you were surprised to find out he’d only done it one other time because of just how damn good he was at it.

You wanted to hold out for him, but the way he looked at you and then moaned into your pussy, “That’s it,” He said. “Cum on my tongue.” It made you cum. Hard. You gasped out his name as he lapped up everything you gave him.

Eventually, he let go of your hands and let you take breather as he climbed over you and stroked your face with his hand. “Are you okay? We can stop here.” Ever the gentleman, even after giving you an orgasm that made you think you’d gone to heaven.

“You are crazy if you think I’m going another day without having your dick inside of me.” You joked and he lightly chuckled as he removed his boxers and you eyed what you were working with.

Also, another reason you were surprised he wasn’t lucky with the ladies in the past before you. He was well endowed despite being lanky and skinny.

“Wait,” You stop before he can press his cock towards your pussy and he divides his attention right onto you, willing to end this right here and now because you stopped him. “Are you okay? Because if you want to stop, we can.”

His heart swells for you even more. He understands why you’re asking him. But he was true to his word. His head was the clearest it’d ever been.

“I’m the greatest I could ever be right now,” Spencer admits. “I’d only ever want to stop if you wanted me to.”

Your eyes bore into him as you smile at him, caressing his face with your index finger, touching his plump bottom lip with it and you see the essence of you on his face, something that reminded yourself that he belonged to you. And only you. “Ready?” He asks, breaking your focus from his lips and you nod as you gasp, “Yes.”

Spencer breaks his focus away from you for a moment as he slides himself towards your entrance. You gasp out as you feel him sheath himself into you and his fingers interlock with yours beside your head as he bottoms out into you. Your body welcomes him and it’s as if your body remembers his.

“God, you’re tight,” He told as he shut his eyes and tilted his own head back because of how good it felt. How good you felt. “You feel so good.”

“So do you.” You manage to get out and his head is tucked into your neck as you hear his whimpers as he rocks into you, his only wish to make you feel as good as you’re making him feel.

He mumbles into your collarbone, trying to take you to the edge with him with his words.

“You take me so well.”

“You’re so beautiful.”

“I love how you tighten around me.”

The praise had made you rock your own hips back into him as you plead, “Harder, Spencer, please.” You beg and he commands at your wish as he fucks you into the bed even harder now. Your whines are more high-pitched as your nails dig into his back as he rails you and your bed begins to creak loudly.

“Let’s—Let’s cum together,” Spencer tells. “Where do you want it?” You gasp, “Inside, inside, please.”

You beg him, wrapping your legs around his torso and he plows into you even harder and then you feel him shudder and that’s send you over the edge as you feel his hot seed paint your insides.

You stare up at the ceiling as he collapses over your body, his hand still tightly perched into yours and his hot breath panting over your collarbone. Your hand rakes over his now sweaty chocolate locks and you hold him close to your body, not ready to let him go. It’s so peaceful as you both sit there in the silence.

But eventually, all good things come to an end and you whimper as he pulls out of you due to how sensitive you are. You close your eyes in slumber as he leaves the room, muttering something to you before he leaves and the next time you open your eyes, he’s back with a bottle of water and a warm rag to clean you up.

He takes a moment to gawk at your pussy and his cum leaking out of you before cleaning you up. You flinch at the contact at first, but he assures to you that it’s mandatory to clean you up after sex.

When he’s done, he expels the rag into your hamper and tucks you in under the covers, shortly joining you after he does so.

You turn on your side, facing him and going to hold by his torso and Spencer smiles to himself as he wraps his arms around you and quickly leans over to grab the water bottle and you open your eyes as he opens up the cap and puts the bottle to your mouth, wanting you to at least take a sip. You do so and he smiles as he puts the cap back on and then puts the bottle on the desk next to the bed.

Spencer looks down at you, playing with a strand of your hair and shortly rubbing your back soothingly, drawing out mathematical equations on your back and gazing lovingly down at you. When you woke up tomorrow, he’d be right here, right next to you and he wouldn’t leave until you were begging him to.

He meant every word he said to you. He loved you and he wanted to make it work with you again. The past was what it was — the past. And you were his future. He let you go once, over something that you had no choice but to keep from him and he let his pain get in the way of your relationship. No way was he about to make the same mistake again.

Over a few months ago, you two were barely speaking, only talking to each other when your jobs depended on it. And now, he couldn’t go another minute without speaking to you.

He got you back and this time, he had no intentions of letting you go.

541 notes · View notes

mononijikayu · 5 months ago

Text

toxic till the end — fushiguro toji.

“You can’t fix everything. You should know that.” you replied, your words trembling as they left your lips. “I don’t know if I can ever forget that.” He nodded slowly, his expression one of deep regret. “I know.” Silence grew once more between the two of you. You could feel the tears pricking your eyes harshly. And you could tell that he was noticing as much as you.

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: afab! reader, nsfw, r-18, smut, making out, biting, scratching, kissing, rough sex, p-i-v sex, fingering (female receiving), creampie, pet names (babe, etc....), age gap (reader is late 20s, toji is mid 30s) love, humor, light-hearted, long-term relationship, secret relationship, cheating, break-up, falling out of love, toxic relationship, drama, depression, grief, sexual intercourse, depictions of sexual acts, depiction of naked bodies, depiction of cheating, depiction of grief, depiction of depression, mention of sexual innuendo, mention of sexual intercourse, actor! toji, actor! reader;

WORD COUNT: 15k words

NOTE: i know i disappeared for almost a week and im really sorry,,,,,i just wasn't feeling well and in the middle of that - i was also busy. i genuinely wanted to publish something but there were things that came up - including me finishing a commission. and also worrying about uni stuff. its a really long one, i still have stuff to edit for bonus cuts for that. i am really sorry but i come back with a fury with toji!!! anyway, i hope my absence didnt make yall leave. enjoy and i love yall :']

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

the good life ― masterlist.

══════════════════

YOU NEVER LIKED BEING PERCEIVED. Even if you were an actor, you didn’t want to be. You absolutely hated the attention, you hated having to be known to people you didn’t know on the street.

He knew that. Which is why you never allowed yourself to go on dates with him in that local restaurant. Or ever allow yourself to be comfortable kissing him, knowing paparazzis were following you both.

But he was loud about his love for you. He always has been. It was obvious when he looked at you during press tours. It was obvious when he heard the sound of your name and smiled like it was the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

He was never good at hiding the fact that he was in love. That’s just how it was with loving a man so magnetic and passionate as him. He tried to convince you that he wanted the world to know.

Yet, you weren’t prepared to do that. You weren’t prepared for the world to know, for the world to be in your bed. You didn’t want everyone to know that you were his, because you were scared. You were scared of what could happen.

You’ve gone through the trauma of it before, your own ex–boyfriend announcing the break–up before you even knew about the break up. And all the people that hated you, for making him sad. For all those fantasies in their head of all the things you did wrong. You were frightful that it would repeat all over again.

Perhaps he got tired of that. Perhaps he got tired of waiting. Maybe he got tired of you. And you were scared of that. You were scared that this was the case.

You were horrified that he would do the same thing like that ex-boyfriend you loved before. You didn’t want to manifest it. But you also didn’t make a move. You were right. He would get tired of you. You made it this way. You let this happen.

The apartment was eerily silent, the kind of silence that pressed down on you, making every breath feel heavier. You stood in the living room, arms crossed, heart racing as you waited for Toji to come home. He had a late night shoot, he told you. They’d extended the shoot, because of the weather. That’s what he said in the next text. He won’t be home until today.

But as you waited home, all that plagued your mind was the conversation with your friend this morning. You felt sick as the words repeated over the phone.

It won’t go away, not even when you want it to. It remained ever so present, still echoing, hammering deep in your mind. It was as if the weight of her words settled deep in your chest like a knife would.

"I saw Toji last night." she had said, her voice hesitant. "He was with someone else."

“What….what do you mean by that?” You muttered back at her, still reeling from the words that slipped from her mouth. “Surely it was just another cast member—”

“They were kissing, babes.” She told you earnestly, yet you could tell she was having a hard time with it. She knew that everything she’s saying was breaking your heart. “I’m so sorry.”

“No…no, thank you for telling me.”

You hung up after that. You didn’t know what else to say. What could you have said that could have made it any better? You couldn’t think of anything. All that remained were the years of memories together, now scattered across that empty space where love should be.

The betrayal, the doubt, and the fear had been building in that space where you should feel your love for him. A place where it is still there, that love, bleeding and tattered by all that grief that comes with mourning the relationship. And now, standing here in the place you both called home, it felt like you were about to explode.

The door clicked open just around lunch time. You had remembered you had given Toji a separate key for your house. Just as you had a key for his. You didn’t want to see him just yet. Not right now. Fushiguro Toji stepped in, face covered by the levelling of his cap. His usual confident demeanor clouded by an unease you hadn’t seen before. He looked at you, the tension in the air immediately palpable.

Babe, didn’t know you’d be awake." he said, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

"You said you’d never do that to me." you replied, your voice trembling with a mix of hurt and anger. “You said you wouldn’t be like him.”

He nodded, closing the door behind him. "Alright. What’s going on?"

"I know you were with someone else last night, and you kissed her. My friend saw you." you spat, your voice breaking with the anger and pain you kept hidden. "How could you do this? How could you betray me like that?"

His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked caught off guard. Then his expression hardened. "It’s not what you think."

"Not what I think?" you repeated, your voice rising. "Then explain it to me, Toji. Explain why you were out with someone else while I was here, thinking everything was fine."

"I was tired, okay?" he snapped back, his voice louder now, the frustration evident. "Tired of feeling like I’m not enough, like I’m just waiting for you to trust me."

“How long has it been?” You asked him. “How long have you and your lover been going behind my back?”

“Babe—”

“How long?”

He looked away, the contorting guilt bellowing all over his face. This was a look you had seen time and time again. “A few months.”

"A few months." You repeated.

“Yes, but it was casual hook ups and she has a boyfriend too—”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you shouted, tears streaming down your face. "You think that’s going to fix anything?"

"I didn’t plan for it to happen." he said, his voice softening, but the damage was done. "I was just... I felt alone."

"You felt alone?" you repeated, the hurt in your voice cutting through the air. "What about me, Toji? Do you have any idea how alone I’ve felt, wondering if you’d get tired of me, if you’d leave me like everyone else has?"

He took a step closer, his expression filled with regret. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"But you did." you whispered, the fight leaving your body as the weight of it all pressed down on you. "God, I just….is it my fault? Is it because I have a busy schedule? Or is it just because I haven’t allowed the world to know about you? And you were desperate to be seen with someone?”

He shook his head. “That’s not the case.”

“It seems to look like it.” You laughed to yourself, almost mad in the thought of your grief. “You did say she had a boyfriend. I doubt that would have changed much, if she knew that you belonged to someone.”

He took a step closer, his eyes searching yours, filled with a regret that almost made your heart ache. His voice, usually so steady, trembled with sincerity. "Please, let’s talk about this. I can make this right."

The words hung in the air, heavy and bittersweet. You wanted to believe him, to let those words soothe the rawness inside you. But they felt too late, like a balm for wounds already too deep. You shook your head, the fight draining from your body as the weight of it all pressed down on you.

"You cheated on me. So brazenly." you whispered, your voice barely audible, laced with pain. "Just like he has. Just like every other man I’ve ever let into my life." The admission stung, the truth of it settling in your chest like a stone.

“Babe…..”

"Maybe you were just another number, another ex."

His face twisted in anguish, his hands clenching at his sides. "Babe, please, listen to me—"

“I’ve listened to you long enough.” Your voice was soft but firm, carrying the finality of a decision made. Tears blurred your vision, hot and relentless, streaking down your cheeks. “Just... leave your keys. I’m going. I can’t stand to look at you or stay with you here.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Toji's gaze faltered, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something more, to plead, to explain. But no words came. Slowly, he reached into his pocket, pulling out the keys that once symbolized shared moments, shared spaces, and placed them gently on the table.

“I’m sorry.” he said, his voice barely a whisper, a final echo of the love that had once been so vibrant between you.

You didn’t respond. There was nothing left to say. You turned, each step feeling heavier than the last as you walked away, leaving behind the remnants of a relationship that had once held so much promise. The door clicked shut behind you, the sound resonating like a chapter closing.

After that, he took all his stuff from your place and left. Even the keys. And you were glad he did. You were glad he wasn’t there. You blocked his number, you told your friends to stop relaying any messages from him he sent. You even cancelled any appearances with him for work, especially those for the Japanese leg of the press tour for Jujutsu Kaisen.

And then you disappeared, as though you didn’t exist.

You moved apartments, you didn’t tell anyone where you were. Only your manager knew, just so you could make it easier for her to pick you up for work schedules when you start doing them again. And changed phones and deleted your social media presence. You just wanted to be alone. You wanted to process the death of a seven year relationship.

Over half a year later, they start to see you again. The last they had seen you, you were still red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. You had explained that you dealt with some personal loss, which wasn’t untrue. People had speculations, they always have. But you didn’t want to admit to anything. You just let them have their fun and you let yourself have your grief.

The mirror had become a stranger for a while, reflecting someone you barely recognized, a shadow of the person you once were with Toji. The truest you had been yourself was with him. And now you have lost that. You had lost the version of yourself you had loved so dearly. And you hated how that too had revolved around him. Your most beloved life was him.

You hadn't planned on disappearing, not really. But each day felt heavier, each step harder to take, until retreating into the quiet solace of your loneliness and grief became the only thing you could manage.

And everyone in your agency was understanding of that. You haven’t truly taken a break in your entire career. And with that burn out, as much as the heartache, you had to have your time to yourself.

Little by little, you started to pick yourself up from the ruins of the failed relationship. Little by little you found yourself able to breathe again, even though you were still against the crashing waves of pain. At the very least there was some progress. At least you were getting somewhere.

Though, you couldn’t escape him. How could you, when he was so beloved by the world? Every corner of your world seemed to echo with the ghost of him. His face, smiling and confident, stared down at you from every billboard, a constant reminder of what you had lost years of your life to. Years you were the prettiest to yourself.

His voice filled the airwaves, every interview a cruel twist of fate, his laughter a haunting melody that played on repeat in your mind. Fushiguro Toji. His name was a bittersweet whisper, both a comfort and a curse, lingering in the recesses of your heart.

No one else knew that you had broken up. It was a secret you held close, it was a grief that belonged to you and only you. It was a wound too fresh and raw to expose to the world.

You hadn’t found the courage to say anything, convinced that speaking it aloud would make it all too real. Besides, you believed you didn’t have to explain yourself to anyone. Your pain was yours alone, a private storm that no one else could weather.

As you walked through the winding streets of Tokyo, the city lights blurred against your vision, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. The vibrant energy of the city felt distant, a stark contrast to the numbness that enveloped you. The world moved on, oblivious to the turmoil within you.

No one understood what you felt. No one probably ever would. It wasn’t just the loss of a relationship; it was the loss of a dream, a shared future that had unraveled before your eyes. The quiet moments, the laughter, the unspoken promises. They were all gone, leaving behind an emptiness that you didn’t know how to fill.

You kept walking, the sounds of the city fading into the background, your mind a whirlwind of memories and emotions. The ache in your chest was a constant reminder of what once was, and what could never be again. But even in the midst of the pain, you knew you couldn’t stay hidden forever. Life was waiting, and somehow, you had to find a way to live it again.

The door to your apartment closed behind you with a soft click, but the silence inside felt deafening. You slipped off your shoes and let your bag fall to the floor, the weight of the day pressing heavily on your shoulders. The familiar surroundings felt foreign now, as if the air itself had shifted, carrying the remnants of memories you weren’t ready to face.

You wandered through the small space, your eyes scanning the room aimlessly. You knew you should do something, anything to distract yourself. So you started cleaning, hoping the mundane task would occupy your mind. You wiped down the counters, straightened the cushions, and folded the laundry. But every movement felt mechanical, your thoughts drifting back to him.

Then you saw it—his jacket. Your mouth went agape at the sight of it. It hung innocuously by the door, just as it always had when he would visit your apartment. You didn’t know you still had it, from the move. You didn’t know the movers packed it too. He didn’t take it with him when he left the house.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. It was the same jacket he had worn countless times, the one that carried his scent, a mixture of cologne and something uniquely him. Without thinking, you reached out, your fingers grazing the fabric.

The moment you touched it, the floodgates opened. The tears came fast and uncontrollable, pouring down your face as you clutched the jacket to your chest. You sank to the floor, the weight of your sorrow too much to bear.

The scent of him enveloped you, bringing back a rush of memories. His arms around you, his laugh, the way he would kiss your forehead when you were feeling down.

You cried for everything you had lost. For the love you had poured into a man who could never fully be yours. A man older, with a life that always seemed just out of reach. A man who cherished his independence, who was never truly tethered to you in the way you had hoped. You had given him your prettiest years, the best of yourself, only to be left with the pieces of a broken heart.

Tomorrow was the shoot, and you knew you had to pull yourself together. The contract was signed long before the breakup, back when you thought working together would be another way to share your dreams, your passions, your lives. Now, it was the weight pulling you into a reality you weren’t ready to face.

Tonight, the pain was too fresh, too overwhelming. How could you stop crying when every corner of your life was a reminder of him? When his presence still lingered in the smallest things, like a ghost haunting the spaces you once shared?

You stayed there, curled on the floor, clutching the jacket as the tears continued to fall. It wasn’t just about losing him. It was about losing the future you had imagined, the dreams you had built together.

And as the night stretched on, you let yourself grieve, knowing that somehow, you had to find the strength to face tomorrow. But for now, all you could do was cry.

══════════════════

MORNING ALWAYS DOES COME. And when it does, you try to make the effort to still stand on your own two toes. When the morning came, exhausted and numb, there you were facing the inevitable.

You bowed to everyone, greeting them with as much enthusiasm as you could muster. You smiled as though there was no problem at all. Chattered and sat there on the make–up chair like nothing had happened. As if there was nothing at all that shattered you to nothing.

The studio lights felt harsher than you remembered, their unforgiving brightness illuminating every inch of the set—and every crack in your heart. It was as if they knew, as if they were exposing the rawness inside you, the pain you had tried so hard to bury. The bustling crew moved around you, adjusting cameras, checking props, but their chatter seemed distant, muffled by the storm in your mind.

You couldn’t help but feel nervous, your hands trembling ever so slightly. It felt strange, almost surreal, like this was your first time stepping in front of the camera. You had done this a hundred times before, but today was different.

Today, you were a different person. The warmth of reassurance that once came from a simple touch, his hand brushing against yours, his quiet, steady presence—was gone. You were on your own now, and the weight of that reality pressed down on you like a heavy cloak.

You swallowed hard, the bile rising in your throat as the familiar sting of tears threatened to break free. Your muscles tensed, contorting as you fought the overwhelming urge to let go, to release the tears that had been building up inside you. But you didn’t. You wouldn’t. You couldn’t let yourself fall apart here, not now.

Not now, you repeat to yourself, a mantra you clung to with every ounce of strength you had left. You didn’t want it. You didn’t want the tears, the loneliness, the pain. You didn’t need it. You had told yourself this over and over again. You didn’t need to feel this, not here, not under the glaring scrutiny of the studio lights and the watchful eyes of everyone around you.

Your breaths came in shallow, shaky gulps as you forced yourself to focus, to channel everything into the character you were about to portray. The lines blurred between the role you played and the person you were, but you clung to that thin line of separation, hoping it would hold. This was your sanctuary, your escape. If you could just hold on a little longer, maybe the pain wouldn’t consume you.

You could do this, you told yourself.

You could survive this, you know you could.

It’s only for a few weeks of this misery.

But as you lifted your eyes, you saw him again.

And all that resolve dissolved almost instantly.

Fushiguro Toji stood across the room, talking to the director, his usual charm evident in the way his shoulders shook with laughter. The sound of it, rich and familiar, carried across the set, drawing the attention of those nearby. He looked relaxed, his posture loose, his smile easy. He seemed to be in happy spirits, more than the last time you saw him.

It was a sharp contrast to the last memory you had of him—tense, conflicted, the weight of your shared history etched into every line of his face. But now, he seemed lighter, as if the burden of your breakup had lifted from his shoulders. The sight of him like this stirred a mix of emotions within you. Jealousy, sadness, and an aching longing you tried to suppress.

You watched from a distance, your gaze lingering longer than you intended. It was painful, seeing him so carefree, as if nothing had changed, as if the past weeks hadn’t unraveled you both. But there he was, moving through the room with an ease that seemed effortless, while you struggled to keep your composure.

The director clapped him on the back, and Toji’s laugh echoed again, brighter this time. You quickly averted your eyes, pretending to busy yourself with your script, but the image of him remained imprinted in your mind. It was harder than you thought it would be, being in the same space, breathing the same air, while feeling worlds apart.

For a moment, you wondered if he had truly moved on, or if this was just a façade, a mask to hide whatever he might still be feeling. But you pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter. What mattered now was surviving this day, this scene, and the countless others that would follow. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the inevitable interaction. You had to face him eventually.

The director’s voice cut through the low hum of the studio, calling for everyone to take their places. “Alright, let’s get started! Everyone, introduce yourselves before we begin.”

You took a deep breath, forcing your shoulders to relax as you stepped forward with the rest of the cast. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on your chest, but you reminded yourself to stay calm, to keep it together.

Your eyes, however, betrayed you, flickering towards Toji for the briefest second before you snapped them away, focusing instead on a point somewhere beyond him. You were a professional. You had done this countless times before. You had been through worse—or so you told yourself. You could do this. You had to do this.

As the introductions began, your turn loomed closer. Each name and face passed by in a blur until the spotlight shifted to you. You bowed to each and every one, smiling at them as best you could even though you couldn’t process it all just yet.

“Hello, nice to meet you all!” you said, introducing yourself. Your voice is steady despite the storm within. “It’s great to be working with everyone.”

Your words were polite, professional, and utterly detached. At least you notice it. But the others didn’t seem to. You could see the blur in all their smiles towards you, shining in a way you couldn’t recognize. You barely registered the murmured responses of the others, your focus pinned on keeping your composure. Then it was Toji’s turn.

He stepped forward, his presence commanding as always. “Fushiguro Toji.” he said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room. There was a familiar warmth in his tone, one that made your heart clench. “Looking forward to working with all of you.”

His blue–green eyes flicked to you, just for a moment, but it was enough to send a ripple of tension through your body. You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than you intended, before quickly looking away, pretending to be engrossed in the script in your hands.

The director clapped his hands together, breaking the moment. “Alright, let’s dive into it! Remember, the first scene is a heavy scene, so take your time and feel it out. Call for a cut any time you want to. So let’s start, like we rehearsed.”

You nodded at the director. Everyone moved to their places, and you found yourself standing just a few feet away from Toji. The air between you felt charged, the unspoken history hanging like a shadow over the set. He glanced at you, his expression unreadable.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost cautious.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. “Yeah.” you murmured, your eyes fixed on the floor.

Toji hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, but the director called for action, and just like that, you were thrust into the scene. The lines between fiction and reality blurred once again, and all you could do was hold on and hope you made it through without falling apart.

As the cameras rolled and the scene began, you pushed everything else aside, locking the pain away in a corner of your heart. The studio lights continued to shine, harsh and unrelenting, but you stood your ground. You didn’t need your tears. You didn’t need your loneliness. All you needed was to make it through this moment. And somehow, you would.

The first scene couldn’t have been more ironic if the universe had written it itself. A husband and wife, embroiled in a bitter argument, their marriage on the brink of collapse. Every word in the script seemed like a cruel reflection of your own reality. The dialogue cut too close, each line a dagger, the emotions too raw to ignore.

You had told yourself you could handle it, that you could compartmentalize the character’s turmoil from your own. But as the words spilled from your lips, it felt as if the character had seized control of your body, dragging all your buried feelings to the surface, laying them bare for everyone to see.

“Why don’t you ever listen to me?” you shouted, your voice cracking with the weight of suppressed emotion. The accusation wasn’t just a line; it was a scream from your heart. “You’re always so wrapped up in your own world! What about us? What about me?”

The tears that pricked your eyes weren’t from the script. They were your own, threatening to fall, the pain of the breakup echoing in every syllable. Across from you, Toji’s eyes darkened, his expression hardening as he stepped into his character. His voice, sharp and filled with a familiar bitterness, mirrored your own anguish.

“Don’t act like I’m the only one who made mistakes!” he shot back, his tone rising, the frustration palpable. “You think it’s easy, carrying the weight of everything? Maybe if you tried to understand instead of blame—”

“Understand?” you interrupted, your voice trembling with the effort to hold back tears. The sting in your eyes blurred your vision, but you pressed on. “I’ve tried! I’ve given everything, and it’s never enough for you!”

The room felt electric, the tension between you both so thick it was as if the air itself might shatter under the weight of it. Each word hung in the air, resonating with a truth neither of you could ignore.

The director’s voice called out, “Cut! Let’s take a moment.”

The tension didn’t dissipate with the end of the scene. It lingered, heavy and suffocating, as if the raw emotions couldn’t be contained by the simple call for a break. You stood there, your chest heaving with the effort of keeping your tears at bay, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

Toji remained across from you, his jaw tight, his eyes still locked onto yours. For a moment, neither of you moved, as if frozen in the aftermath of the words that had been exchanged—not just between the characters, but between the two of you.

You stood frozen, your chest heaving as the emotions coursed through you. Toji turned to face you, his expression unreadable. You saw him take a step toward you, and panic clawed at your chest, but you forced yourself to stay put. Running away wouldn’t solve anything. You had to face this, face him.

“Hey.” Toji said softly, his voice gentler than it had been during the scene. “Are you okay?”

You swallowed hard, nodding even though your body betrayed you with a slight tremble. “Yeah. Just… caught me off guard, that’s all.”

He looked at you for a moment, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to gauge how much of the scene was acting and how much was real. “It felt real.” he admitted, his tone cautious. “Too real.”

“Yeah.” You murmured, not looking at him. You didn’t want to. You didn’t know if you were prepared to just yet.

The tension between you and Toji was palpable, thick like fog, clouding every inch of the set. You stood there, heart pounding, as the reality of the situation settled deeper into your bones. This was not just a fleeting moment; this was going to be every day, side by side, pretending like everything was fine when it was far from it.

Toji shifted on his feet, his usual confidence seemingly faltering as he took in your guarded expression. “I didn’t think you’d come today.” he admitted, his voice lower, more vulnerable than you remembered. “Thought you’d call in sick.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice. I have a job to do.” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “Besides….you showed up too.”

Silence befell the two of you after those words. You started fidgeting with your fingers, something you would do when you were nervous. As you feel your throat closed up, you purse your lips into a flat line. You thought it was time to walk away, to take your time away from him before the next take.

Finally, Toji broke the silence, stepping closer, his voice lower but no less intense. “It was just acting.” he said, his tone softer, almost vulnerable. “I’m sorry for my tone.”

You swallowed hard, your throat constricting. “So was I.” You whispered, your voice barely audible.

The tears you had been holding back now threatened to spill over, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him. Toji’s gaze grew softer as he looked at you, the anger from the take earlier melting into something more akin to sorrow. Something you think you were more familiar with.

“I didn’t want things to end that way.” He admitted, his voice thick with emotion. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Can we not talk about it—”

“But I want to.” He tells you in his retort, abruptly cutting you off. “I need to. I want to fix everything.”

“You can’t fix everything. You should know that.” you replied, your words trembling as they left your lips. “I don’t know if I can ever forget that.”

He nodded slowly, his expression one of deep regret. “I know.”

Silence grew once more between the two of you.

You could feel the tears pricking your eyes harshly.

And you could tell that he was noticing as much as you.

He nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor before meeting yours again. “I’m glad you’re here….at least.” he said quietly, sincerity lacing his words. “I know it’s hard, but maybe… maybe we can find a way to make this work.”

You almost laughed, the irony of it all hitting you. “Make this work?” you repeated, your voice tinged with disbelief. “You mean like how we were supposed to make us work?”

Toji winced, the pain in your words cutting through him. “I didn’t mean it like that, you know that.” he said softly. “Look, I….I know I hurt you. I know things didn’t go the way we wanted. But this project… it’s important to both of us. Can we at least try to be civil? For the sake of the work?”

You bit your lip, torn between the urge to lash out and the need to maintain some semblance of professionalism. “Civil.” you echoed, testing the word on your tongue. “I guess we can try.”

He offered a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you.”

A tense silence settled again before he spoke once more. “Look, I don’t want to make things harder than they already are. If you need space, I’ll give it to you. Just... don’t shut me out completely.”

Your heart ached at his words, but you forced yourself to stay composed. “Space would be good.” you agreed, your voice firmer now. “Let’s just focus on the work. That’s all we need to do.”

Toji nodded, accepting your terms. “Okay. Work it is.”

The director called for everyone to reset for the next take, but the two of you remained locked in place, the world around you fading into the background. It was a moment of unspoken understanding, a shared pain that neither of you could fully articulate. As the crew moved around you, preparing for the next shot, Toji took a step back, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer.

“Let’s get through this.” he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that spoke of more than just the scene ahead. “We owe it to ourselves.”

You nodded, unable to speak, and turned away. Your assistant handed you the script once again and you found yourself trying to focus on the script in your hands. The show had to go on, but the lines between fiction and reality had never felt so blurred.

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, a mix of relief and sorrow washing over you. This was your new reality. It probably always will, when people like your chemistry together.

You are going to be stuck working side by side with the man who broke your heart. But as you watched him go, you realized something: you weren’t the same person you were before. You had been broken, yes, but you were also stronger now.

You knew that. And maybe, just maybe, that strength would see you through this. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. The day had only just begun. But you were praying that he doesn’t look at you with that look in his eyes again.

══════════════════

DAYS ON SET BECAME A NEW STANDARD OF LIVING. You haven’t been sure you were used to it yet after a long time away, but you were sure about to get there. At least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself.

As the days turned into weeks, the rhythm of the shoot became oddly familiar. Early morning calls, practice for heavy scenes, dress rehearsal, the chaos of set preparation, and the god awful long night to morning shoots.

This was the relentless cycle of takes transformed into your new daily standard routine. You and Toji fell into an unspoken pattern between the two of you, though. But you had to be, if you wanted to keep your jobs. It was a strange thing to witness, if one was being honest. It took a lot of effort to memorize the dance. And every bit of that was equal parts effortless and exhausting.

On the surface, you were professionals—co-workers delivering lines, executing roles, keeping up appearances. Especially him, he was your senpai too. He was good at maintaining that mask on him more than you were.

But beneath the polished veneer, tension simmered, weaving itself into every glance, every exchange, every shared silence. You could tell just by looking at his eyes. No one else but you could do that, after all.

The studio became your shared battlefield, its walls echoing with unspoken words. You threw yourself into the work, burying raw emotions beneath layers of performance day after day.

But when the director yelled for the cut, you knew that the veil dropped most instantaneously. And that always leaves you vulnerable to the presence of the man who had once been your everything.

Fushiguro Toji was close enough to touch yet felt a world away from you. And you were certain that he felt the same way about you too. After all, you had a wall he couldn’t reach. You wouldn’t let him reach it. There was no way for him to know what to do with you.

But this doesn’t stop you from looking. Nor did it stop him from doing the same thing. You had noticed everything about him and what he does. It was obvious how hard it is to be exes on set. It was even harder when you were soulmates.

There was the slight hesitation in his laugh, the way his smile sometimes faltered at the edges. He was both familiar and foreign, a stranger wearing a face you had loved. Everything about him was something you knew and everything about him was something that was a mystery. It was a really intriguing thing. And that was the worst thing of all. You were intrigued about the man you loved and hated all at once.

Conversations were sparse at first, clinical and focused on the work. You both clung to professionalism like a lifeline, avoiding anything that might hint at the depth of your shared history. The lines were clear: scenes, blocking, timing, delivery. Anything beyond that was dangerous territory.

You were determined to keep things professional, to relegate your relationship to the sterile confines of work. But no matter how hard you tried, the walls you’d built between yourselves began to splinter under the weight of the unspoken.

The first crack came during a late-night shoot. The two of you stood under the harsh glow of the heavy set lights, running through lines while the crew adjusted the framing. Toji, leaning casually against a prop table, smirked at a mistake you made while stumbling over a particularly convoluted line.

“That’s the third time now.” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. There was a teasing edge to it, but it was softer than you remembered.

You shot him a sharp look. “Thanks for keeping count.” you replied, your tone clipped, though your lips twitched against your will.

His smirk widened, but there was no malice in it, just a faint warmth. “You’re welcome. I thought I’d help out since you seem… preoccupied.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing him off. “Preoccupied with carrying this scene, maybe.”

The banter was fleeting, but it lingered in the air long after the cameras rolled again. Once again, you did the best you could and continued to bring your spirits up. As the night progressed, the director started to feel a little bit more satisfied with one or two shots. And that had at least allowed you the hope of going to sleep soon.

Later, during one of the scene changes, you caught him watching you as you adjusted your new costume. He didn’t look away quickly enough, and your eyes met. For a moment, the distance between you felt less insurmountable, the years of hurt and silence shrinking into the space of a single glance. That glance was the longest moment of your life, you were sure.

“What?” you asked, a touch defensive, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitated, as if debating whether to respond, then shrugged. “Nothing. You just… remind me of something.”

You wanted to press him, to ask what he meant, but the vulnerability in his expression stopped you. His eyes, usually so guarded, were uncharacteristically soft, as if he was on the verge of saying something he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice.

Instead of pushing, you turned back to the mirror, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered, tracing the reflection of your face as though searching for something. It was recognition, understanding, forgiveness.

But then you caught yourself. The silence was becoming unbearable, the air between you thick with things neither of you dared to say. You cleared your throat, the sound breaking the tension like a sharp crack in the stillness.

“We should start rehearsing.” you said, your voice steady, though your heart was racing. “For the scene.”

For a moment, Toji didn’t respond. He seemed to weigh your words, as though deciding whether to challenge the sudden shift or let it go. Finally, he tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing in quiet disbelief.

“...Are you comfortable doing that with me?” he asked, his tone careful, hesitant. It wasn’t the confident Toji you remembered, the one who always seemed so sure of himself, even when everything around him was chaotic. This was different—softer, almost unsure.

You hesitated, the question throwing you off balance. There was a part of you that wanted to lash out, to let him know how much his presence still affected you, how rehearsing with him wasn’t just work. But you swallowed it down, forcing yourself to focus on the here and now.

“Yeah, why not?” you replied, shrugging as though it didn’t matter. Your tone was light, almost dismissive, but the tension in your voice betrayed you.

Toji’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but not entirely neutral either. “Why not, huh….” he echoed softly, more to himself than to you. He took a step closer, crossing into your personal space but stopping just short of overstepping.

“Okay.” he said finally, his voice steady now, though his eyes still carried that flicker of something unresolved. “Let’s rehearse.”

You nodded, turning away from the mirror and moving toward the small table where the script sat. You busied yourself with flipping through the pages, anything to avoid looking at him directly. But you knew, you could feel it — he was looking at you and only you.

As you both settled into the familiar rhythm of line-reading, the tension between you didn’t fade entirely, but it softened, shaped by the shared focus on the work. There were moments, brief but poignant, where you caught glimpses of the man you had once known in the way he delivered a line or the way he watched you deliver yours.

Yet you knew when you said these things, you knew it would be bad. You knew they would hit too close to home, too personal. And that was what happened. When the two of you were finally shooting the emotional scene, it was more real than your practice and perhaps, that’s what fueled your acting.

The dialogue was heavy, charged with the kind of raw emotion that mirrored your real-life tension a little too closely. It was a confrontation scene this time around—a breaking point between two lovers teetering on the edge of collapse. As you delivered the lines you had practiced, the words felt too personal, too sharp, cutting into wounds that hadn’t fully healed. And you hated it.

“That’s all you ever do, isn’t it?” your character accused, the anger in your voice reverberating through the silent set. “You push people away the second they get too close. You think it’s easier to walk away than to face what you’ve done.”

The silence that followed was deafening. You could feel every pair of eyes in the room on you, the weight of the moment pressing down like a vice. But your focus was on Toji.

He stood across from you, his character’s guilt written across his face, but there was something else there—something unspoken that made your chest tighten. Somehow, it was his real face. Somehow, it was his truest blossom of regret.

The director called for a break, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. The crew scattered, murmuring amongst themselves, but the energy in the room remained electric, charged with the kind of intensity that couldn’t simply be switched off.

You turned away quickly, grabbing a water bottle from the craft table. Your hands were trembling slightly, your pulse still racing. You focused on the coolness of the bottle against your skin, anything to ground yourself, to pull you out of the emotional spiral the scene had sent you into.

“You okay?” Toji’s voice came from behind you, quiet but insistent.

You stiffened, refusing to turn around. “I’m fine. Just… in the scene.”

“Right.” he said, but there was a note of skepticism in his voice. “You sure that’s all it is?”

Something in his tone made you snap. You spun around to face him, your eyes blazing. “Why? Do you think I’m talking about you?”

Toji’s jaw tightened, his posture rigid. For a moment, his mask of calm slipped, and the vulnerability beneath it was laid bare. “I don’t know.” he said, his voice low and even. “Are you?”

The question hung between you, the weight of it almost unbearable. His gaze locked onto yours, unflinching, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you standing there, raw and exposed.

“What if I was?” you shot back, your voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “Would it even matter?”

His lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, neither of you willing to back down, yet both too afraid to fully engage. Before either of you could break the impasse, a crew member approached, clipboard in hand.

“We’re resetting for the next take.” they announced, oblivious to the charged atmosphere. “Five minutes.”

You tore your gaze away from Toji, nodding curtly at the crew member and quietly thanked them before turning on your heel and walking away. Your footsteps echoed in the cavernous studio, each one feeling heavier than the last.

As you retreated to the corner of the set, you could feel Toji’s eyes on you, his presence lingering like a ghost. Even as the crew busied themselves with preparations and the director barked instructions, the tension between you remained, an invisible thread pulling tauter with every passing moment.

You leaned against a prop, exhaling shakily, trying to center yourself. The scene was over, but the emotions it had stirred up were still thrumming through your veins. And as much as you tried to tell yourself otherwise, you knew this wasn’t just about the script. This was about the two of you—about all the things you’d left unsaid and all the wounds that still refused to heal.

══════════════════

YOU HADN’T READ THE NEXT PART OF THE SCRIPT YET. You had been too emotionally exhausted about what you had been doing for work that you had put off reading the script. Which was fine, you were able to memorize things easily when you see it long enough. That’s why you have this sort of career in the first place.

So the next morning, you arrived on set early with your manager. You greeted everyone as you were clutching your script tightly in your hands. Your manager quickly greeted everyone and went to you, before telling you that he’ll get you both coffee from the coffee truck. You nodded at her, telling her that you’ll just be sitting on the trailer.

It had become a habit, one you told yourself was about preparation — ‘it will work out’; but deep down you knew it was also a way to mentally brace yourself for whatever the day might bring. You have told yourself that phrase for years now, but perhaps, it didn’t hit as hard as it has now. Much more because you were working with the man you were in a relationship with for quite a lot of years.

Working with Fushiguro Toji was a constant balancing act, teetering on the edge of professionalism and the unresolved tension that hung between you like a storm cloud storming away with its raging thunder and its hurling battering rains. That was just what it was, when you were working with someone you still had unresolved issues with.

You settled into your usual corner, flipping through the script for the day’s scenes. You moved to take the pen from your bag, and started highlighting things you wanted to work on and things you wanted to ask for feedback from the director. As you skimmed the pages, your eyes caught on a block of stage directions that made your stomach drop. A part you hadn’t seen just yet.

Hiruka steps closer to Suzaku, their faces just barely inches apart. The tension between them is palpable, one that pushes them together like gravity and after a beat, they kiss.

Your mouth went agape at what you had just read. This was not what you expected. You clutched your heart, feeling how it skipped a beat. For a moment, you just stared at the words, as if doing so would somehow make them disappear. But they didn’t. The scene was there, in black and white, unavoidable.

"Everything okay?" a voice broke through your thoughts. One of the assistant directors, passing by with a clipboard, glanced at you with mild concern.

You forced a smile, nodding. “Yeah. Just going over the script.”

She nodded, already distracted by another crew member waving her down, and you exhaled slowly, your mind racing. You haven't kissed Toji since… well, since before everything had fallen apart.

The idea of doing it now, even in character, felt like reopening a wound you’d barely managed to scab over. Even though it had been six, seven months since the breakup, the thought still wasn’t something you had gotten used to. The memories of what had been lingered like a ghost, haunting the edges of your mind whenever you let your guard down.

But then again, no one knew you were dating. To everyone else, you were just friends. Friends and co-workers. That was the story they had always known, the one you had carefully curated and protected. It wasn’t their fault—they didn’t see the quiet moments shared off-set, the way his hand used to linger on yours, the stolen kisses behind closed doors, the whispered promises of something that had felt so certain at the time.

You… you weren’t ready to tell anyone. The idea of opening up that part of your life to the world had felt too vulnerable, too risky. So you had kept it quiet, only sharing the truth with a handful of people you trusted—close friends who had sworn to keep your secret. Back then, it had felt like the right choice, like something sacred and yours to guard.

Now, though, it felt like a double-edged sword. No one on set knew about the history between you and Toji, which meant no one understood how charged this scene truly was. They didn’t know how much it would take to get through it without letting the weight of the past seep into every glance, every word, every touch. To them, it was just another part of the job.

But to you? To you, it was a reckoning.

You rubbed your temples, trying to shake the thought away, but it clung to you stubbornly. You were here to work, to act, to tell a story. You had gotten through every other scene with Toji, no matter how tense or emotionally taxing it had been. You could get through this one too.

Couldn’t you?

Your internal spiral was interrupted when Fushiguro Toji walked onto the set, his usual calm demeanor in place. He spotted you almost immediately and gave a slight nod in greeting, but his expression shifted when he noticed the look on your face.

“Something wrong?” he asked as he approached, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You hesitated, holding up the script instead of answering. “Have you read today’s scenes?”

He frowned slightly, taking the script from your hand and flipping through it. You watched his blue–green eyes scan the page one after another, his expression shifting from neutral to surprised and then to something you couldn’t quite place.

“Oh.” he said simply, his voice unreadable.

“Yeah.” you replied, crossing your arms over your chest. “Oh.”

Toji closed the script, handing it back to you. “Well….” he began, his tone measured. “It’s part of the job, right?”

His casual response made your irritation flare. “Don’t act like this is nothing.” you shot back, keeping your voice low but firm. “You know it’s not. Not with us.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not saying it’s nothing. I’m saying we’ve done this before. We’re professionals for a reason. We’ll handle it.”

The word professionals felt like a jab, as if he was reminding you that whatever was between you didn’t matter anymore. You opened your mouth to argue but stopped yourself, biting back the words. Instead, you took a step back, putting more space between you.

“I just... wasn’t expecting it.” you admitted, your voice softer now. “I guess I should do more reading on the script before I say yes. But then again, we were together before this. I would have thought differently if we were….”

You stopped yourself from saying anything. You sighed as you took the script back from him, not looking at him. You fumble through the script once again, stopping at where you were reading earlier. For a moment, Toji didn’t respond. He simply watched you, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded.

“Neither was I. But maybe it’s a good thing.”

You frowned. “How could this possibly be a good thing?”

“Because….” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “If we can get through this, we can get through anything else this job throws at us.”

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, you weren’t sure how to respond to him whatsoever. There was a sincerity in his tone that caught you off guard, a reminder of the man you used to know, a man you once loved—the one who could somehow say the exact thing you needed to hear, even when you didn’t want to hear it.

“Let’s just get it over with.” you muttered finally, turning away to avoid meeting his gaze. You hoped the words would end the conversation, but Toji, ever persistent, wasn’t ready to let it drop. “As soon as possible.”

“Are we going to rehearse—”

“We are not going to rehearse kissing.” you interrupted sharply, spinning back toward him with a pointed glare before he could finish the thought.

He blinked, momentarily startled by your tone, then raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay. No rehearsing. he said, his voice calm but edged with a hint of amusement. “I wasn’t going to push it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, still skeptical. “I mean it. We know how to kiss for work. It’s technical, not personal. We’ll hit our marks, make it look convincing, and that’s it.”

“Got it.” he replied, his tone unreadable. But the faint twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth betrayed him, and it made your chest tighten with a mix of irritation and something far more complicated.

“I’m serious, Toji.” you added, folding your arms across your chest. “This doesn’t have to be a thing. Let’s just focus on the scene and move on.”

He tilted his head, his gaze softening just slightly. “I know. I’m not trying to make it a thing, I promise.” he said quietly. “But it’s not like we can pretend it doesn’t feel... different.”

You froze, his words hitting you harder than you expected. Different. Of course, it felt different. How could it not? You had kissed him before, really kissed him. Many countless times in another life, when things had been simpler, when you weren’t standing on opposite sides of an invisible wall you’d both helped build.

But you couldn’t let yourself dwell on that now. Shaking your head, you turned back toward the set. “It doesn’t matter.” you said, more to yourself than to him. “It’s just a scene, Toji. That’s all it is.”

You didn’t wait for his response as you walked away, but you felt the weight of his gaze on your back, heavy and lingering. And as much as you tried to push it down, you couldn’t shake the sense that, for Toji, it might not be just a scene after all. You looked for your manager.

You needed to get that coffee from her as soon as possible.

And perhaps, a donut. You need enough sugar to get through the day.

And so you let hours pass by, trying to get the idea of the kiss off your mind. You were not going to think about it until you had to. That’s what you tell yourself. But you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

How will it happen? How will you end up lasting with how he would touch you? How could you keep this professional? You shook your head. You hated how much you were getting too into this.

When you finally make it off to set once again, you find yourself overwhelmed already. After going through the worst of thoughts while on the makeup chair, you couldn’t help but feel even worse here.

The set was quiet as the crew adjusted the lights and cameras for the upcoming scene. You stood off to the side, arms crossed, your script clutched tightly in one hand. The weight of what was about to happen pressed on you like a physical force, making it hard to breathe.

Toji was across the room, leaning casually against a prop table as the makeup artist gave him a last touch-up. He looked calm. Too calm, like this was just another day, another scene. Like there was nothing to freak out about. It irritated you. How could he be so composed when every nerve in your body felt like it was on edge?

Soon enough, the director called for everyone to take their places. You moved to your mark, heart pounding. Fushiguro Toji approached, his steps measured, his expression unreadable. The tension between you thickened as the cameras rolled into position, and the director gave the signal to begin.

The scene started smoothly enough. The dialogue flowed naturally, your voices blending together in a rhythm you had mastered over weeks of working together. But as the emotional intensity of the scene built, you felt the lines between acting and reality begin to blur.

“That’s all you ever do, isn’t it?” you said, your voice trembling with both your character’s anger and something far more personal. “You push people away the second they get too close. You think it’s easier to walk away than to face what you’ve done.”

Toji stepped closer, his character’s frustration mirroring something unspoken in his own eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” he shot back, his voice low, dangerous. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry this kind of weight.”

“I don’t know?” you snapped, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t know, because I was there. I was always there.”

The director hadn’t called the cut, so you kept going, even though your hands were trembling and your breath was coming faster than it should have been. Toji’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might break character. But then he stepped even closer, closing the gap between you.

And then it happened as naturally as breathing —the kiss.

It started the way it was supposed to, his hands lightly brushing against your arms as he leaned in, his lips meeting yours with the perfect mix of tension and tenderness. But as the seconds ticked by, something shifted. The scene was supposed to end with a brief, restrained kiss. I twas just enough to convey the characters’ unresolved feelings. But Toji didn’t pull back, and neither did you.

Instead, the kiss deepened even more, the intensity between you igniting like a spark meeting gasoline. Fire blossoming in the spark of that gasoline, over and over as you both push and pull.

His hand moved to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek in a way that felt far too familiar, far too real. Your hands, which were meant to stay at your sides, found their way to his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt as if you were anchoring yourself to him.

The room around you faded from your reality. The set, the cameras, the crew—it all disappeared as the kiss pulled you under, dredging up emotions you thought you’d buried. Pain, longing, regret. All of it crashed over you in an overwhelming wave, pushing and pulling you towards him.

“Cut!” the director finally called, his voice sharp enough to break through the haze.

You and Toji finally let loose and separated abruptly, both of you breathing hard. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the equipment and the muffled sounds of crew members shuffling around. No one said anything, but the charged atmosphere was impossible to ignore.

The director, who had been watching the monitors intently, clapped his hands together. “That was… intense.” he said, nodding approvingly. “Let’s reset and do one more take.”

You couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze, least of all Toji’s, as you stepped back to your mark. Your lips still tingled, and your heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of your chest. As the crew moved around you, resetting for the next take,

Toji leaned in close, his voice low so only you could hear. “You okay?”

You nodded stiffly, refusing to look at him. “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t. And as you prepared to shoot the scene again, you couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever had just happened wasn’t just acting—it was something far more dangerous. Many things were pushing through your mind over and over again. Things you shouldn’t think about. People you shouldn’t think about.

You touch your lips, before stopping and closing your eyes to take a breath. Toji was still looking at you, as though trying to make sure you were alright. But you couldn’t be coherent, you couldn’t think straight. Not when his lips tasted like forbidden fruit, from paradise, from heaven.

The moment the director called for another take, you felt your chest constrict. You couldn’t do it again—not right away, not with how raw everything felt. Your hands were trembling, your head spinning, and your heart still hadn’t slowed from the intensity of the scene—or the kiss.

“I need a break, director.” you muttered, barely audible, before turning and walking off set without waiting for a response. “Please….I…”

You started to move before you could register it. You ignored the crew members and assistants milling about, their curious glances following you as you navigated through the maze of equipment and props.

You didn’t stop until you found a quiet corner near the back of the lot, where the noise of the set faded into a distant hum. Leaning against a wall, you exhaled shakily, pressing your hands against your temples as you tried to steady yourself.

You didn’t hear him approach, but you felt his presence before he spoke.

“Hey.” Toji’s voice was soft but steady, cutting through the silence.

You stiffened, not turning around. “I just need a minute.”

“I know that.” he replied, his tone careful, as though he were trying not to spook you. “I just… wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

You scoffed, your laugh bitter and hollow. “Why do you care if I’m okay?”

His footsteps grew closer until he was standing just a few feet away. “Because I do.” he said simply. “I always have. You know that.”

You spun around to face him, your frustration bubbling over. “You don’t get to do that, Toji. You don’t get to pretend like everything’s fine, like you care, after everything—”

“I’m not pretending!” he interrupted, his voice rising just enough to cut you off. His jaw was tight, his expression pained. “You think this is easy for me? You think I wanted any of this to happen?”

“You walked away, Toji.” you shot back, your voice shaking. “You made your choice. And now you’re acting like—like—”

“Like what?” he challenged, stepping closer. “Like I regret it? Because I do. I regret everything, alright? But I can’t change the past. I can’t undo what I did. All I can do is try to…” He trailed off, his fists clenching at his sides.

“Try to do what?” you demanded, your own anger simmering beneath the surface. “Make yourself feel better? Redeem yourself? Because that’s not how it works, Toji. You don’t just get to show up and act like we can fix this with one stupid kiss!”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do.” he said, his voice softening, though the intensity in his eyes didn’t waver. “I just… I miss you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. You wanted to look away from him, but you can’t. How could you, when he was looking at you like that? Like he still sees you to be the only one for him. Like he still loves you most in this world.

“Toji…” you started, but your voice cracked, and you couldn’t finish the sentence.

His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, his expression torn. “Tell me to stop.” he murmured, taking another step forward. “If you don’t want this, just say the word, and I’ll walk away.”

You wanted to say it. No, you wanted to scream at him. You wanted to push him away and shove him and be angry with him, to tell him that you were done, that the past was the past and there was no going back. That you do not love him anymore. But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, when he closed the distance between you, cupping your face with his hands, you didn’t pull away. His lips found yours, and the kiss was nothing like the one on set. It was desperate and unguarded, filled with all the things neither of you had been able to say.

Your hands clung to the fabric of his shirt, almost as if you needed the physical contact to ground yourself. The kiss deepened as your body pressed against his, the tension between you both crackling in the space that had once been filled with affection and now was choked with pain and unresolved emotion. His lips were insistent, hungry in a way that told you just how long he had been holding this back. The rawness of it, the desperation, sent a shiver down your spine.

His hands moved to the back of your neck, his fingers curling into your hair as if he were afraid you’d slip away again. When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, both of you stood there, forehead to forehead, your breaths heavy and unsteady. The world around you was a distant blur, and all that mattered was the way his chest rose and fell against yours.

The silence was suffocating, yet neither of you moved to speak. You couldn’t find the words, couldn’t find the strength to pull away from him again. He, too, seemed frozen in the moment, as if this brief touch of something real had left him equally shaken. But then, before you could fully collect yourself, he pulled you even closer. His body heat, his scent, enveloping you in the tight space between you.

Your eyes met once more. This time, there was no confusion, no uncertainty. The vulnerability in his gaze mirrored your own, and for just a heartbeat, you both let the walls crumble just enough to see each other for what you were—people who had been broken, but still searching for something to hold on to.

And then, his lips were on yours again, more forceful this time, as though he couldn’t hold back any longer, as though the weight of everything between you was too much to bear in silence. You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

The emotions inside you were tangled, each one vying for dominance. Hurt, longing, anger, and something deeper. A desperate need to feel something other than the emptiness that had been haunting you both for months.

His hands slid lower, tracing the line of your back, and you gasped against his mouth as your body pressed into his more firmly. It felt dangerous, reckless, but in that moment, you didn’t care. There was something that felt like freedom in this chaotic, emotional storm that you both had been trying so hard to avoid.

But it wasn’t just about the kiss. It was about everything that led to this point. The unfinished conversations, the words you both kept swallowing, the feelings you couldn’t express. His lips softened against yours for just a moment before he pulled back slightly, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“I don’t know how to fix this.” he murmured, his voice rough, laden with frustration. "But I need you to know... I never stopped caring."

Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat ringing in your ears. You swallowed hard, blinking away the tears threatening to fall. "Then why did you leave?" you whispered, barely able to keep your voice steady.

His eyes darkened, his face tightening with regret. “Because I was scared,” he said, the words slow, deliberate. “I thought I could push it all down, but it just… it just made everything worse.”

You could feel his hands trembling against your back, his words raw with honesty. And for a moment, you let the weight of that honesty sink in.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you fought the lump in your throat. “But I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

Toji’s thumb brushed over your cheek, and you could feel the conflict in him—he wanted to comfort you, to make things right, but you both knew there were no easy fixes, no simple words that could undo the damage done.

“I know,” he said softly, his voice full of sorrow. “I know, but I’ll be here. I’ll be here until you decide if you want to give me a chance to make it right.”

Your eyes fluttered closed as you rested your forehead against his, the exhaustion of the emotional rollercoaster threatening to overtake you. You weren’t sure what this meant, what the future held, but in that moment, you allowed yourself to feel it.

The rawness, the tension, the connection. The kiss wasn’t just a kiss—it was a fragile promise, a silent acknowledgment that, despite everything, there was still something worth fighting for between you.

But you both knew that this wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning of something uncertain, something that would require more than a kiss to fix. But for now, you didn’t need answers. You just needed this. This seesaw game.

The more you were on this seesaw, the more you got to him. The more he’s here with you, locked in this cage of your own toxic desires. His touch, his presence, and the understanding that, for the first time in a long while, maybe you weren’t as alone as you thought.

“This doesn’t change anything.” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction.

“I know.” he said softly. “But it doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying.”

You closed your eyes, trying to block out the rush of emotions flooding through you, but it was no use. Whatever had just happened, whatever this was. It wasn’t over. And you weren’t sure if that terrified you or gave you hope. Because it means you were no better. Your resolve crumbled so easily. How could you, when it was him?

“We have to go back to the set.” You whispered to him.

“Let them wait.” He whispers back to you, his breath hot against you.

That’s how you ended up back in his trailer, under him just like you had been six months ago. You had all but abandoned everything outside the door. From your mic packs left on that corner wall a few meters away, to the costume clothes left on the fridges of the trailer door.

Your lips echoed loud moaning ripples that could embarrass you had you cared enough for it at that moment. But you didn’t. All you cared about was the pleasure of being underneath him, being choked by his figure pressed against you as you squirm over and over again with the breath you didn’t have against his firm grasp.

All you could do was wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to where the sweat and the drool mixed onto you over and over again. With every tug to pull him closer, you found yourself being pummeled with his member deeper over and over again — taking away the dry spell that had kept your resolve for the past six months.

You could feel him burn you inside, searing you whole with the sheer size of him, taking over every inch of your crevices as though it belonged there. As though all of you were made for all of him.

You couldn’t help but release another moan, feeling your insides close against him, as your inner thighs quivered against the side of his waist repeatedly. The force of his thrusts were so strong that you were sure the bed was going to break.

His fingerprints were being engraved against your thighs with the way he pushes against your flesh, keeping you intertwined in this vicious downfall with him. Toji couldn’t help but laugh as he pressed closer against your body, the build of his cock sliding through your tummy and he could feel it. He felt proud of it. No one knew how to make you feel this electrifying feeling of being alive the way he could. No one else. And you knew that too well.

Calluses started to form on your reddening skin, pelted with golden sweat as he pulled in and out of you with the speed of a thunderstrike. One moment he’s into the point you could feel him down your throat choking and the next, it felt like you were freed from the vestiges of being full of everything heavy, only to feel so empty that you long for him to choke you whole with his cock.

And he does. Repeatedly. Over and over again, until you are on the verge of tears you know you shed because of the pleasure you succumb to, to your shame. To your love, to your desires. To him. No, for him.

Because you knew, no one else can love you like this. No one else can make a mess of you like this. No one else can make you feel so whole and broken all at once that it breaks you into many pieces.

You found yourself clawing at his back, successive moans with your breaking tone sounding like music to his ears. He hums in acceptance of the pain, trying to keep his composure as your nails bring blood streaming down his back. You move slowly to bite his shoulder, deep and whole and raw. You find him grunting slowly at the pain of it. You dug so deep that you knew you also drew blood there too.

You find him accepting it knowing that this is your love. This is the love that you have for him. And it will never change anymore. You wanted to love him and love him to the point he hurts. You want him to hurt. You want him to cry. You want him to bleed. Because how dare he make love to you, knowing you didn’t want to be hurt by loving him?

“I hate you.” You cry to him, his blood metallic in your tongue. You cry again, in between your incoherent moans. “I hate you more than anything in the world.”

“I love you.” He whispers to you over and over again, digging deeper into you that he has carved a home in you. “I love you. More than anything. More than life itself.”

You cry at his words. Because you knew they were true. You knew that he does love you. And yet you don’t want to be with him. You don’t want to let him back in. But he is here, with you. He is you, in you. He was everything that encompasses you. He was your first love. He was your first everything. And you can’t take it back. You can’t unlove him, even for your own good. Not even if the heavens wanted you to.

Toji couldn’t help but snarl as he pushes deeper and deeper, his sound animalistic and raw. He was close. You know this too well, once he stops talking. He devotes himself to the task. He pushes through over and over, the beckoning of his thrusts growing more erratic as he nears his peak.

But you knew him too well. He never comes inside of you without making sure you get your fill first. His long fingers reach down to where you're joined, finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles that send jolts of electricity shooting up your spine.

“T–toji!” You cry out loud, arching deeper into his touch as the pleasure coiling on your belly echoing over and over. You could feel his fingers work you perfectly, expertly as he pushes through over and over as he pushes his masterful fingers and his thrusting hips. “I….I’m….I’m close!”

"That's it, baby. Come for me too." he coaxes, his voice a low rasp in your ear. "Let me feel this pretty pussy squeeze the cum out of me."

He only gets this way when he finds himself close, his words disappearing into the reality of pleasure with you. You push against him, throwing your head back against the pillows. You shatter with a keening moan, your walls clamping down around Toji’s shaft as ecstasy crashes over you in waves.

He follows moments later with a guttural groan, pumping you full of his hot seed. You were shaking as you cling to him tightly, mewling softly against his shoulder blades. You could feel his body heavier against you as you both rode out the aftershocks, still gasping and twitching with the intensity of your shared climax.

As the fog of passion clears, you slowly come back to yourself, awareness returning in increments. You purse your lips as he presses kisses against your neck and then your jaw and then your cheeks. The warmth of his seed seeping off you as your hands loosen their hold on his body.

“We can’t do this again.” You whisper to him exhaustedly.

“I know.” He whispers back to you, his eyes shot with the look of love. Or was it lust? You could not tell. “I know.”

But you knew you were both lying to yourselves.

He was going to come back again and again.

And you would let him in, just as you had now.

══════════════════

YOU HAD SAID YOU DIDN’T WANT TO PARTICIPATE IN ANY PRESS TOURS. It had taken a while before you had even budged to the demands of the director. But you knew that you couldn’t admit that to be a resolve without the act. All Toji had to do was ask you, in his own way and you knew you would say yes. And you hated that it was the case.

As the lights of the red carpet flickered around you, you smiled, the cameras flashing as you and Fushiguro Toji posed side by side. His presence, tall and imposing, was the perfect foil to your poised elegance, but inside, you felt something altogether different. It was truly a quiet storm of conflicting emotions that you could barely contain.

The interviewer, enthusiastic and bright-eyed, approached you both with a microphone. “You two are the talk of the town! After months of speculation, you’ve finally confirmed your relationship with that press announcement. How does it feel to have it all out in the open?”

You met the interviewer’s gaze, your smile steady, though you could feel the weight of the question pressing against your chest. You exchanged a brief glance with Toji, his expression unreadable. He gave a small nod, as if reassuring you to continue, but you knew the truth—there was nothing to reassure, nothing to calm.

“We’re happy to finally share our truth, really.” you said, your voice smooth, practiced, like you were reading from a script. "It's been an incredible journey, and we're excited for what's next, both in our professional and personal lives."

The interviewer’s smile widened, practically giddy with excitement. “It’s clear that you two are truly in love! Your chemistry on and off-screen is undeniable. Toji, how does it feel to have such an amazing partner by your side?”

Toji’s lips quivered into a half-smile, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. “It feels like a new chapter, honestly. I’ve always admired her strength, her talent. She’s someone who challenges me, changes me, in ways I didn’t expect. I think that’s what makes it work.”

The words were kind, but you heard the undertone. You knew what it was. It was the unspoken acknowledgment of the past. The past you’d both tried to bury under layers of public appearances, press releases, and carefully crafted smiles. The past you had come to hate with all your hatred.

What had started as something deeply painful had morphed into something else entirely, something you didn’t quite understand but couldn’t escape. This was a gilded cage that you had allowed him to trap you in.

One that you couldn’t escape. That’s why you were here, standing next to him, because you couldn’t tear yourself away. You couldn’t fly away. Even when you hated him. Even when you knew better.

You felt the interviewer’s eyes shift back to you, awaiting a response, her curiosity piqued. "And for you, how does it feel to have him by your side now, after everything you've been through?"

Your chest tightened. The words to explain your truth were there, just beneath the surface, but they never quite made it to your lips. You gave another practiced smile, masking the turmoil that churned inside you.

"It’s complicated, yeah." you said carefully, choosing your words with precision. "We’ve both had our struggles, but that’s part of growth. That’s a lot of work, to make it all go smoothly. We’ve learned a lot from each other. And we’re both better for it."

The words hung in the air, a soft veil of politeness that couldn’t hide the undercurrent of something darker. The toxic bond, the cycle of love and hate, of pain and yearning. You hated that you were still here. You hated that you could never quite leave him, no matter how much you should. And yet, there was no escaping the pull. Not now. Not after everything.

The interviewer beamed, satisfied with your answer, but all you could do was nod politely, your gaze flickering to Toji again. The smile he gave you was the same one you had seen countless times before, the one that made your heart ache, the one that made you question everything about who you were, about who you were becoming.

You knew you should’ve been stronger. You knew you should’ve walked away a long time ago. But here you were, caught in the web you had spun and truly hated it. You hated him, but you still stayed. You knew, deep down, that this was your reality now.

Your love for him would never be pure. It would never be something that anyone deserves to have. It was not worth living a life of destitution and desperation. And yet, it was what you had. It would never be easy, it would never be anything other than toxic.. It would always be tangled up in mistakes, in forgiveness, in betrayal, in passion.

And so you stayed.

Because even if he would hurt you, even if you would hurt him, this was the life you had chosen. You had crossed that line long ago, and now, there was no going back. There was no way to escape the chaotic love you shared. It would make you happy. It would make you miserable. It would always be the same, because it had always been this way, and maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

For better or for worse.

For the horrid to the frigid.

You both were toxic till the end.

The moment you stepped inside the theater, the noise of the red carpet event faded into a dull hum, replaced by the quiet buzz of the room. The lights overhead gleamed off the polished surfaces, casting long shadows over the seats where the audience had yet to arrive.

Fushiguro Toji walked beside you, his presence commanding and strong, but the usual ease between you felt heavier now, charged with a tension neither of you had addressed since the interview. Since you were now a couple in the public hemisphere. And he was too aware of it all.

As you made your way toward the dressing room, you felt the weight of his blue–green gaze on you, sharp and searching, as if he was trying to decipher something in your posture, in the way you carried yourself. You ignored it, pretending to focus on the steps ahead, the noise of your heels clicking against the floor, the rhythm of your breath.

When you reached the door, you paused for a moment, the cold handle beneath your fingers reminding you of the distance that had always existed between you and Toji, even when you were close, even when you thought you understood each other. Even when you were now stuck in this disturbed romance.

The room was empty except for the faint scent of makeup and old costumes, a reminder of the countless times you’d shared similar spaces before everything had unraveled. Toji followed you inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His footsteps were quieter now, the usual swagger in his walk subdued, but his presence still loomed larger than life.

You didn’t turn to face him immediately, choosing instead to adjust your dress in front of the mirror. The reflection staring back at you seemed almost foreign—perfectly poised, with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. Not fully. And you didn’t know when that would ever happen again.

“You okay?” Toji’s voice was low, cautious, as though he wasn’t sure whether to press you or give you space.

You met his gaze in the mirror, seeing the uncertainty there. It made something inside you tighten, but you refused to show it. “I’m fine, don’t worry.” you said, though the words felt empty as they left your mouth. “It’s just... another night, another show.”

Toji stepped closer, his reflection merging with yours in the glass. “You don’t have to pretend, you know.” he said softly, his tone edging with a familiar vulnerability that made your chest tighten. “You don’t have to say everything’s fine when it’s not, babe.”

For a moment, you thought you might turn to him, reach out for him, let the rawness of it all spill over. But then you remembered the cameras, the words you’d both spoken on the carpet. The image you were meant to present. The lies you’d wrapped yourselves in, hoping no one would see the truth beneath.

“I’m not pretending.” you replied, a little too quickly. You broke your gaze with the mirror and turned to face him now, your eyes narrowing as if daring him to say something more. “What’s the point? Everyone’s watching, Toji. Everyone’s waiting to see if we’re going to fall apart, if we’re going to crack under the weight of it all. So why give them the satisfaction?”

Toji didn’t flinch at your sharp words. Instead, he took a step closer, his eyes softening, his voice quieter. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending too. Maybe I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

You shook your head, stepping back from him, though your heart thundered in your chest. “It’s too late for that. It’s too late for us, for anything real. We’ve already made our choices, Toji. This….whatever this is—this is just for show. This is what we have now. This is what we’re stuck with. And you know what the root cause was.”

For a brief moment, silence hung in the air, thick and oppressive, before Toji took a step forward, his hand reaching out to gently grasp your wrist, stopping you from retreating further. His touch was steady, but there was a deep sadness in his eyes, something that you could feel without needing to see it.

“I don’t want to lose you.” he said, his voice tight with emotion. “I never wanted to hurt you. I know I did, but I swear, I’m trying to fix it. I’m trying to fix us.”

You looked at his hand on your wrist, the heat of it seeping into your skin, and for a moment, you wondered if you could believe him. But then reality crashed back in, the weight of everything you’d been through. His betrayal, your own resentment, the lies you told yourselves about what you were.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again, Toji.” you whispered, your voice shaky, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to be before. “I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

He watches as you halted, taking a moment to gather yourself. Before you looked at him again. “But god, we are just miserable with and without each other. Nothing changes. And yet here we are.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly, as if pleading for you to see something, anything, in him that might make a difference. “I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that I can earn that trust back. If you’ll let me.”

The words hung in the air, suspended between you, as the unspoken tension between you both remained unresolved. There was a part of you that wanted to believe him, that wanted to give in, to fall into the comfort of what you once had. But there was another part of you, the part that had learned from the mistakes, the hurt, that knew better.

“I don’t know.” you said quietly, pulling your wrist free from his grasp. “But I’m not the person I was before, and neither are you. So maybe we just need to accept that.”

Toji’s eyes dropped for a moment, the weight of your words clearly sinking in. He didn’t argue. He didn’t try to change your mind. Instead, he nodded, as if acknowledging the truth you both shared, no matter how painful it was.

“I don’t want to lose you.” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

But this time, there was no more fight left in you to give.

The words hung between you both, unresolved.

And for the first time, you wondered if you ever could let him go.

You wondered if you both would ever be free from each other.

Yet you knew that was wishful thinking, you knew that was a dream.

“You don’t have to worry.” You whispered back to him. “I’m not going anywhere….But you already knew that. Didn’t you?”