#I KNEW IT WAS COMING BUT I STILL SCREAMED

[maskedbyghost]

this is part 2 to toxic ex!Simon Riley x f!Reader, smut, mdni

You hadn’t planned to cry, and honestly, you weren’t even sure why your chest felt tight in the first place. It was just supposed to be a walk, nothing more, just some fresh air and sunshine and maybe a break from your own thoughts.

You thought moving your body might help. Maybe if you just walked far enough, breathed deep enough, looked up at the clouds instead of staring at your bedroom ceiling, something would click into place and you’d feel like yourself again. Like a person again.

But the universe clearly had other plans.

Because every corner you turned, there was another couple.

They weren’t even being obnoxious about it. It wasn’t the affection that made you roll your eyes or want to vomit. It was worse. It was the soft stuff, the connection you could feel without even hearing a word of it.

A guy was walking with his girlfriend, and his hand was resting right at the small of her back. Another couple sat under a tree with a checkered blanket spread out beneath them. She was half in his lap, trying to balance her drink, laughing at something he had said, and he was holding her as if she were made of glass and sunlight, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other brushing her hair with his hands, slowly.

An older couple walked by, holding hands, their fingers intertwined so casually that it made your throat ache. She was talking, he was nodding, and they stopped every few steps to point at the flowers planted along the sidewalk like they had all the time in the world.

And you just… froze.

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t even sadness, just this deep yearning that settled heavy in your chest and refused to budge, this desperate ache for something that didn’t hurt, something soft, something simple, something that didn’t feel like you were holding your breath all the time, afraid of saying the wrong thing or asking for too much.

You wanted to be held. Not grabbed, nor thrown onto a bed because someone couldn’t control themselves. You wanted to be chosen in the quiet moments, when there was no sex or tension or drama to sweeten the deal. You wanted someone to look at you and think, There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.

You sat down on the nearest bench, dropped your phone into your lap, and just stared at the grass. You didn’t want to cry in public, not really, but the sting was there, just behind your eyes, and you blinked fast, hoping it’d go away.

Your phone buzzed.

You didn’t even want to check. You already knew, somehow, like a sixth sense, or maybe just muscle memory.

“Come over. I’ll order Thai. You can stay.”

As if it was some kind of prize. Like the offer of food and his bed was supposed to feel anything other than a pity invitation. Like that sentence wasn’t the exact same breadcrumb he’d been throwing your way for months, just enough to keep you following, never enough to satisfy.

He wasn’t saying I miss you. He wasn’t saying I’m sorry I hurt you or I didn’t know what I had until you were gone. He was saying Come over. Like this was still a game he was winning.

And maybe a week ago, hell, maybe even yesterday, you would’ve paused. You would’ve stared at the message with that same dull throb in your chest and thought maybe this time will be different. Maybe he means it. Maybe he’s trying.

But right now?

Right now, you felt done.

Done with making excuses for him. Done with confusing attention for affection. Done with dragging your heart behind you like dead weight every time he pulled you back in with nothing more than a half-assed promise and a takeout order.

Your fingers hovered for a second, just long enough to acknowledge the part of you that still wanted to believe he’d ever be capable of giving you what you needed.

And then you typed:

“No. We’re done, Simon. For real this time. Don’t text me again.”

Your thumb hit send before your brain could stop you, before your heart could scream, before the echo of what if could take root and grow into something dangerous again.

And then, without waiting for the three dots to pop up, without giving yourself a chance to hesitate or soften or let him back in even a little you blocked the number.

And that was it.

Your hand was trembling, your eyes burned, but the tears didn’t fall. And your heartbeat was steady in your chest, like it was relieved.

You looked up at the sky. Watched the clouds move slowly across the blue. They didn’t know what it meant to panic over someone who didn’t care.

You weren’t happy, not yet. But for the first time in too long, you didn’t feel chained to him anymore.

And that, in itself, felt like something.

...

You hadn’t seen him in over two weeks.

No texts, no calls, no sudden knocks at your door. No glimpses of him near your job, no DMs from new burner accounts, nor mutual friends trying to convince you he was “going through it.”

And honestly? You were starting to think he’d finally gotten the message. That maybe he’d realized what it meant when you said we’re done. That he’d felt the silence for what it was: a full stop, not a pause.

But then he showed up. Of course he did.

You were walking home from the grocery store, just a quick trip for bread and milk and some random snacks you didn’t need but bought anyway because the act of filling your cupboards made you feel happier. You’d just turned the corner onto your street, earbuds in, music low, mind somewhere else entirely, when you looked up and froze.

He was leaning against your building. And he had the nerve to be casual about it too, his arms crossed, head down like this wasn’t completely insane. He looked up when you stopped walking, and his mouth did that slow curl into a grin that used to make your stomach flip but now just made your jaw tighten.

You pulled your earbuds out and said nothing.

“Hey,” he said, as if this was normal or completely not out of bounds. “You’ve been hard to reach.”

“Simon,” you started, your voice flat, your pulse already kicking up. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “You blocked my number and my backup email. You weren’t really leaving me a lot of options.”

You blinked, stunned at how casually he said it. “So you decided to stalk me instead?”

“That’s a dramatic word,” he said, pushing off the wall and walking toward you like you weren’t already backing away slightly, trying to hold onto your grip. “I just wanted to talk. You made that impossible.”

“I made it impossible because we broke up,” you snapped, dropping your grocery bag onto the steps with more force than necessary. “I told you not to text me. Not to call. I said we were done—done, Simon—what don’t you get?”

He smiled again, that infuriating smirk, like you’d just said something cute instead of trying to set a boundary.

“Yeah,” he said, cocking his head. “We broke up, sure. But that doesn’t mean you get to erase me.”

You stared at him, jaw slack. “Are you actually hearing yourself?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Simon said, stepping closer now, his voice calmer, which, honestly, made you want to scream. “You think a couple texts and a blocklist are gonna make me forget what we were? You really think that’s enough?”

“I don’t want you to forget,” you snapped. “I want you to leave me alone. I want you to understand that this—whatever this was—is over. I’m not doing this anymore. I don’t belong to you.”

Something in his expression shifted then, just a flicker. A twitch of his jaw, a tightening of the eyes. You’d seen that look before, right before the walls went up. Right before the mask slipped into place.

“You keep saying we’re over,” Simon said slowly, “but you don’t get it.”

He stepped in so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the scent of his skin, that cologne he always wore too much of, the one that used to make you ache but now just made your stomach turn.

“You and me?” he whispered. “We’re never really over.”

Your breath hitched, and for a second���for one stupid, fleeting second—you felt that pull again. That old, broken, magnetic force that lived in the space between his mouth and yours, in the memory of what it felt like to be wanted by him.

But you were so fucking tired of confusing that with love. So you stepped back.

You looked him dead in the eye, and you said:

“What do you want from me, Simon? Seriously. Do you want me to scream? Do you want me to cry? Do you want me to fall apart in front of you just so you can feel something? Because whatever this is—it’s not love, it’s not real. It’s you, trying to control me. And I’m done letting you.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there. And you picked up your bag again, turned on your heel, and walked away. You didn’t look back, didn’t have to.

Because this time? You were the one leaving him behind.

...

It had been weeks.

Weeks of silence, weeks of healing, and pretending you were ready to move on, even when your heart still felt like a battlefield he’d walked away from without ever looking back.

So when your coworker asked you out—the nice one, the one who remembered your coffee order and always held the elevator—you said yes.

You didn’t feel fireworks, nor did you get butterflies. But you also didn’t feel dread, or the bone-deep exhaustion that came from chasing someone who only ever looked back when you were halfway out the door.

And maybe that was enough. Maybe soft was what you needed now. Safe and simple.

He took you to a cozy little restaurant tucked off the main street, the kind with candlelight and mismatched chairs and a menu written entirely in cursive. He held the door open for you, pulled your chair out when you sat, complimented your dress without looking at your chest. And you smiled, even if it felt a little forced. You laughed, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You tried...

Halfway through the meal, you excused yourself to the bathroom. The ladies’ room was down a narrow hallway in the back, quiet and dim, music muffled through the walls. You were halfway there when you felt it.

That shift in the air.

That awareness that only ever came from one person. And you didn’t even get the chance to turn around before he was there.

He stepped out from the shadows of the hallway like a fucking ghost, like he’d been waiting, like he knew you’d be here and timed it down to the minute. And before you could speak, before you could even breathe, he had you pressed up against the wall, one arm caging you in, the other sliding slowly along your waist.

His mouth was at your ear in an instant, voice low, thick, dirty.

“Really, sweetheart?” he murmured, breath warm against your skin. “This the best you can do?”

Your heart slammed in your chest. Your hands went to his chest, pushing lightly, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He leaned in closer, body not quite touching yours but so fucking close, you could feel the heat radiating off him like fire.

“You think he’s gonna fuck you better than I do?” he whispered, and it wasn’t even a question—it was filth wrapped in confidence. “You think he even knows what to do with you? Bet he doesn’t even know how you sound when you beg. Doesn’t know how your thighs shake when I’ve got my mouth on you—”

“Stop it,” you hissed, voice shaking, but your knees were already weak and your throat felt tight.

Simon smirked, eyes dark and gleaming. “Can’t stop thinking about it, can you? His hands won't feel right, will they? Bet you’d picture mine every time he touches you.”

Your hands pushed harder now, but he didn’t flinch.

“And what about when he’s inside you?” Simon rasped, mouth brushing your jaw, teeth grazing skin just enough to make you gasp. “You gonna close your eyes and pretend it’s me?”

“At least he’ll fucking stay,” you snapped, louder now, anger burning through the haze. “At least he won’t leave the second he gets what he wants. At least I won’t wake up to an empty bed.”

That got him. His jaw clenched instantly.

But he didn’t move. He just stared at you, breathing hard, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to touch you or punch a hole in the wall beside your head.

You shoved him. Hard.

“Get the fuck out of my way.”

Simon didn’t move right away. He just stood there, watching you like you’d gutted him, like your words had cut deeper than you’d meant them to—but you didn’t regret it.

Not this time.

You stepped around him, ignoring the way your legs trembled beneath you, head high, heart pounding like it was trying to tear its way out of your chest.

You didn’t look back.

You walked straight back to the table, sat down, and smiled at your date like your ex hadn’t just whispered filth into your ear in a hallway like a man possessed.

“Everything okay?” your date asked gently.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “The bathroom line was just long.”

...

The walk back to your apartment felt like an out-of-body experience.

Your date had walked you home, smiling the entire way, hands tucked into his pockets, making soft jokes that you tried to laugh at, even though your stomach had been turning since the second you stepped out of the restaurant. He was kind. He listened, he held the door open, and he even complimented your dress without leering. And when you reached your door, he leaned in and kissed you, soft and gentle, just like the kind of kiss you should want from someone like him.

And you felt nothing. Not even a flicker, not even a spark.

You kissed him back out of politeness, maybe even a little guilt, and when you stepped away and thanked him for dinner, he smiled like he’d had a good time. And you hated that you hadn’t. Hated that he was everything you said you wanted—safe, respectful, sweet—and all you could think about the whole fucking night was Simon’s mouth, Simon’s hands, Simon whispering filth and promises and pain in your ear like he was made to ruin you.

By the time you reached your door, your hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from rage.

From this endless, exhausting loop of trying to do the right thing and still craving the wrong one.

You fumbled with your keys, cursing under your breath, eyes burning. You wanted to scream. Wanted to punch a wall. Wanted to shove Simon’s face into the fact that he’d broken you so thoroughly that now, even when someone was good to you, it felt wrong.

The door opened. And there he was.

Simon.

Sitting on your couch but he didn’t look cocky this time. Didn’t smirk or lean back with that smug glint in his eye. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, head in his hands like he didn’t even know what to say anymore.

You dropped your purse.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” your voice cracked, sharp and loud in the quiet room.

He stood, slowly, but you were already walking toward him, hands clenched, eyes blazing.

“How dare you?” you hissed. “How fucking dare you be here again. After everything.”

“Just listen—”

“No!” you snapped. “No, you don’t get to talk. You don’t get to sit there and act like you’re confused about why I don’t want you in my life. You ruined me, Simon.”

He flinched, and good. You wanted it to hurt.

“You took everything I gave you, every part of me, and you made it ugly.” Your voice shook now, rage mixing with grief. “You used me when you wanted company. Tossed me when you were bored. And I kept coming back, like a fucking idiot, thinking maybe this time you’d mean it when you kissed me.”

He was quiet.

“I went on a date tonight,” you spat. “With someone who treated me like I mattered. Someone who held doors and remembered things I said and kissed me like he gave a damn, and do you know what I thought the whole time?”

Simon swallowed, barely whispering, “What?”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes now.

“I thought about you,” you said, voice cracking. “I thought about your fucking mouth, about your hands. I thought about how I’d rather have your soft kiss than his perfect one. And I hate myself for it.”

Simon took a step forward. “I never meant to—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice trembling now. “Don’t stand there and act like this just happened. You did this. You made me believe you’d never care, and now I’m so fucking broken I can’t even feel anything from someone who actually tries. I still picture you when I think about love, Simon. That’s the worst part.”

He was right in front of you now, his breathing shallow, his eyes wide as he just watched you split yourself open in front of him.

“I imagine you,” you whispered. “But better, softer, and kinder. I imagine you as the version I needed, the one I deserved, and it kills me, because I don’t even know if that version of you exists.”

Silence.

He reached out then, so slowly it made your breath catch, and placed one hand gently on your cheek, the lightest touch he’d ever given you.

“I can be him,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I swear to God, I’ll try. I’ll be him.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Because he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

And then another, on your temple. One on your cheek, your jaw, your nose.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered between them. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You were crying now, full-on sobbing, body shaking like it had been holding this in for far too long. And he didn’t grab you, didn’t pull you into him like he used to. He just stood there, kissing every tear that fell like he was trying to wipe them from existence.

“I didn’t know how to love you right,” he murmured, voice breaking. “But I will. If you let me. If you give me a chance, I’ll change. I’ll do the work. Just… don’t shut the door on me yet.”

You didn’t answer.

Because even after everything, even through all the rage and resentment and raw wounds, his kisses still felt like home.

And that was the scariest part of all.

He kissed your tears like they burned him, as if each one that slid down your cheeks was proof of what he’d broken, and he was trying, pathetically, hopelessly, to piece it all back together with nothing but his mouth and the weight of his regret.

You didn’t say anything when he pressed his forehead to yours. Didn’t pull away when he wrapped both arms around you like he thought you might disappear if he didn’t hold you tight enough.

You just stood there and let yourself breathe him in, his warmth, his scent.

“Let me show you,” Simon whispered, voice raw. “Please, just once. Let me make it right.”

You didn’t nod, you didn’t speak, but you let him take your hand.

He led you to the bed and didn’t tear your clothes off like he usually did. He didn’t grab or push or bite. He just kissed you, like you were something fragile, something he didn’t think he deserved to touch but was begging to try.

His hands trembled when he slid your top up over your arms. He took his time with every button, every hem, because rushing would ruin it. When your bra fell away, he kissed the center of your chest—not your breasts, not your neck—your chest, right over your heart, and rested there for a second like he was trying to feel it beat.

“You don’t have to forgive me now,” he whispered. “But I need you to know I’m gonna earn it. All of it. Whatever it takes.”

You didn’t stop the tears. You didn’t hide from them. They slid quietly down your cheeks as he lowered himself between your legs and pressed his mouth to your stomach, your hips, your thighs—anywhere but the place you were already aching for him.

“I’m gonna learn how to love you right,” he murmured against your skin. “I’m gonna give you every soft thing I never thought you’d want. You won’t have to beg for affection anymore. You won’t have to guess if I’ll stay.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then the other, then finally pressed his mouth to where you needed him. It felt as if he was praying with his tongue. Like this was how he was going to worship you now.

You gasped, hands fisting the sheets, more tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

And he noticed. Of course he did.

He looked up from between your thighs, his face a mess of want and pain.

“You don’t have to cry,” he said softly, crawling back up your body. “I mean… I know why you are. But I hate that I’m the reason for it. I swear, I’ll never hurt you like that again.”

You cupped his face, fingers trembling, and he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing holding him together.

He lined himself up, slow and careful, and when he pushed inside, he went still. Completely still. Just breathing against your mouth, his hands cradling your face like he couldn’t believe he was allowed this close again.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Fuck, you always did.”

He moved slowly, painfully slow. Like every thrust was an apology. Like he was rewriting the way he touched you, undoing every rushed, selfish fuck with something tender and earned.

Your tears didn’t stop. And neither did he.

He kissed your eyelids, your cheeks, and your jaw. Whispered everything he’d never said when it would’ve mattered most.

“I’m gonna do better.”

“I’ll take care of you. I swear I will.”

“No more games. No more pushing you away.”

You whimpered beneath him, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, clinging to him like you didn’t know how to let go anymore.

He rested his forehead against yours and kept moving, slow and deep, every thrust sending something hot and unbearable through your chest.

“You deserve flowers,” he breathed. “And check-ins. And hand-holding and fucking morning texts and someone who doesn’t make you cry every goddamn day.”

His voice cracked again. You felt it.

“And I want to be him,” Simon said, nearly choking on it. “I need to be him.”

Your body trembled beneath him. You were already so close, not just because of his cock, but because of the way he was inside you.

You came with a broken sob, your nails digging into his back, your legs shaking.

He came a moment later, groaning into your neck, and holding you tightly.

He didn’t pull out and didn’t move.

Just wrapped his arms around you, face pressed to your shoulder, and kissed you again and again and again, believing that if he just stayed close enough, the damage might finally start to heal.

...

Morning came quietly.

You woke to the pale gray light bleeding through your bedroom curtains, the kind of early morning glow that made everything feel hazy. For a few seconds, it was peaceful. Warm.

And then you remembered.

The weight behind you wasn’t just a dream.

Simon.

Still here, and breathing steadily against your back, one arm draped around your waist.

Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t that last night had been bad. It hadn’t. If anything, it had been too good. Too soft. Too vulnerable. It was the kind of night you used to pray for back when you thought he’d never give it to you.

And now?

Now it just felt like weakness.

You untangled yourself from his arm slowly, carefully, trying not to wake him as you sat up and slipped your legs over the side of the bed. But he stirred anyway, and you felt his hand twitch behind you, reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore.

You stood up and didn’t turn around when you said it.

“Simon… you need to go.”

Silence.

Then the quiet sound of bedsheets rustling behind you.

“...You serious?” His voice was rough from sleep, low and uncertain in a way you weren’t used to hearing from him.

You nodded, still facing the window. “Yeah. I am.”

He sat up, and you could hear it, the shift in weight, the creak of the mattress, the pause before the sigh.

“Last night—” he started, but you cut him off.

“Was a moment,” you said, finally turning around to look at him. “That’s all. A moment of weakness. It doesn’t mean everything’s okay.”

He blinked at you, eyes bloodshot, hair messy, mouth parted.

“I meant everything I said,” he told you quietly. “Every word.”

“I know,” you said. “But meaning it isn’t enough. Not yet.”

He was quiet again, looking down at his hands, he didn’t know what to do with them now that they weren’t holding you.

“Okay,” he said eventually, dragging a hand through his hair and exhaling slowly. “Okay. I’ll go.”

You watched as he stood, pulled on his jeans, his hoodie, his boots. He didn’t rush, nor beg. He just moved with weighted sadness, like leaving was physically hard to do.

But at the door, he paused and turned around. “This isn’t the last time you’ll see me.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going.

“I’m gonna prove it to you. That I meant what I said. That I’m changing. You’re gonna look at me one day, and you’re not gonna feel stupid for loving me anymore.”

You didn’t reply.

You just looked at him, arms crossed, your heart pounding.

And then he opened the door and stepped into the hall, casting one last glance back over his shoulder.

“I’ll win you back,” Simon said, voice like a quiet promise. “Even if it kills me.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you didn’t breathe until you were alone again.

-----------------------------------------

@nightunite I'm not done with this bitch yet.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973

[bunnis-monsters]

Cafes and knots

Werewolf x Vampire!Reader

WC: 2k+

warning: breeding, knotting, blood drinking, grinding, pining

A/N: Use code: birthday to get 25% off your first month of my Patreon ^^ this was a Patreon/kofi reward, and everyone on Patreon and kofi got to see this first!

It was one of those nights, the type where you spent every moment of your eternal life on your feet, jogging back and forth between customers.

Working at a cafe for monsters wasn’t terrible. If anyone asked, you would say it was a fun job with great perks.

The only problem you had was the pushy, rude customers that either wanted the manager or something inappropriate from you.

Thankfully, some of your regulars always stuck up for you when a situation got out of hand.

Especially him.

Standing at a little over 6 foot and with a muscular frame, his eyes always followed the sultry sway of your hips as you moved around the cafe.

Usually, he came in twice a day. Once in the morning for a black coffee and donut before work, and once at night for a protein shake and any pastries you had left to fuel up for the gym.

So when someone got rowdy, he was quick to run over and get up in their face. Tobias was that kind of guy, always ready to help.

You had no idea that he had a thing for you, and that’s why he was so defensive over his cute vampire barista.

To most it was obvious you were crushing on him like crazy too, but neither of you were aware of your shared love.

Most of the time you spent the day sighing wistfully, watching him from the register as he chowed down on your freshly baked pastries. He had a huge appetite after his workouts, so you decided to treat him.

Although today was relatively peaceful, the werewolf was still on edge, as if he could sense something was about to happen.

“Toby, something up?”

You walked over, placing a pastry in front of him. “Here, it’s on the house.”

Tobias looked up at you as if you offered him the world, taking the pastry into his hands carefully. The man loved his baked goods, and giving him something like this for free meant a lot more to him than you knew.

“Thank you… and it’s nothing, I just…”

His wolf ears perked up when the bell chimed, signaling someone had just walked in. A nasty looking monster walked in, his horrible body odor spreading through the cafe like a thick miasma.

None of that mattered to you, though. You politely greeted him, smiling as you gestures towards your menu. “Welcome, what would you like, sir?”

“Hey, toots. Black coffee and some of those bagels, stat.”

You blinked in surprise, about to say something before Tobias spoke up. “Don’t talk to her like that, she’s a lady.”

The werewolf was barely holding himself back from jumping up and beating the guy, he just wanted to keep the peace and make sure you weren’t mistreated.

“I wasn’t talking to you, was I, mutt? Now get ya ass back there and make me a damn coffee!”

He raised his hand, about to slap your ass before Tobias caught it mid swing. The sound of bones snapping filled the air, and Tobias began to shift right in front of you.

“I’m not mutt, and you should never even try to lay a hand on her, you hear me?”

The monster screamed, pulling back his scaley wrist in agony before running out the door, cursing the entire time.

“Wow… Toby, you saved me.”

Your cheeks heated up, and you smiled fondly at the man as his fur settled down. Slowly, his body shrank and he was back in his usual human form.

“That’s probably what had me on edge earlier, I could smell the bad vibes from a mile away.”

He sipped on his protein shake, his tail wagging while you smiled at him. Did you know how pretty you were, with your plump cheeks and twinkling eyes?

“I really appreciate it… is there anything I can do to repay you?”

His tail thumped against the booth he was seated in, and he swallowed as he looked up at you. “Well… I enjoy your baking… would you mind coming by my place and teaching me a recipe or two?”

It was clear he just wanted to spend time with you, the person he was crushing on, but you didn’t notice. “Oh, sure! I can come over after work.”

“Sure!”

“It’s a date!”

When he walked out, you sank behind the cash register, hands over your warm cheeks as you squealed.

It was kind of like a date, right? In your mind, he just wanted to bake with you, but to you it was a date!

Once you were home, you scoured through your closet, struggling to find something cute to wear that you thought Tobias might like.

After 30 minutes of trying on clothes and tossing them aside, you decided on something simple and comfortable to bake in that would also be appropriate for a possible date.

You stood outside his door, a parasol keeping the fading sunlight off of your skin. After knocking, you heard some rummaging before footsteps approached you.

Tobias answered his front door, wearing only a bag of sweatpants. Sweat dropped down his toned, tan chest and his tail picked up speed when his eyes met yours.

“Hey, sorry I’m still a bit sweaty from my work out. You smell- I mean you look nice.”

You were too busy staring at his glistening pecs to notice his slip of the tongue. “Ahh, thank you…”

He smiled, wiping his brow before stepping aside. “Come on in, I cleaned up the kitchen a minute ago!”

You bit back a laugh, spotting crumpled baking supplies sitting on the counter. Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work whipping up something sweet.

He hovered behind you, watching with great interest as you cracked another egg into the bowl. It was hard to concentrate when you could almost hear his warm blood rushing through his veins, only aggravated by his post workout scent.

You were definitely aroused, but tried to play it off… Tobias, however, knew your scent was off.

You yelped when he suddenly started to sniff at your neck, moving down your back. “T-Toby, what are you-“

He stopped, his cheeks reddening as he stepped back. “Sorry, I forgot that uh… that’s not normal for non-werewolves…”

He looked away shyly, scratching the back of his head. “You just… smell different.”

His tail wagged, and he tried his best to hide his boner as you continued. Tobias was truly a sweet guy with good intention, he was just a bit of a himbo.

The werewolf followed you around like an oversized puppy, his tail knocking over random objects in the kitchen. Although he was making a mess, you couldn’t help but find him cute. Getting to see him at home where he was comfortable felt like a treat to you!

The sexual tension was rising by the second, and you both felt your arousal growing. Tobias still hadn’t put on a shirt, but he was a little ditsy so you couldn’t blame him for forgetting.

“Hey…” Tobias called out as you put the pie in the oven. “Do you… wanna stay for a movie or something?”

Your eyes widened, and you looked over at the blushing werewolf. Although you wanted nothing more than to stay with him a little longer…

“Sorry, I have to feed tonight. If I don’t drink enough blood I get woozy.”

For a moment, Tobias looked disappointed, but suddenly his face lit up. “Just drink from me!”

Your undead heart leapt into your throat as you struggled to comprehend what he just said. There was no way Tobias knew how intimate it was to drink from someone else, you knew that, but it made your plump thighs tremble regardless.

“A-alright… I guess I can do that.”

He sat on the couch, looking up at you with those big blue eyes of his. “Is this an okay position?”

You nodded slowly, climbing into his lap. He blinked, smiling widely as you pushed his dark hair away from his neck. “Y-yeah, it’ll hurt for just a second…”

Your fangs extended, glinting in the faint light of his living room before you leaned forward to plunge them into his neck.

“F-fuck!”

His large hands gripped your hips tightly, pulling you down onto his lap until you could feel the bulge in his pants.

Tobias let out a growl, your flustered expression unseen by the werewolf as he began to move you against his bulge.

“Sorry… just… got all worked up, you know?”

You continued to drink, and his tail wagged when he noticed you rocking your hips with him. When you were full, you pulled away and panted softly, blood dripping down your chin.

Tobias leaned forward and licked it off, his blue eyes cloudy with lust. “… how about you just stay the night?”

Neither of you were thinking much as you made the way to his bedroom, you were too busy locking lips. His tongue entered your mouth, and he pinned you against the wall.

“God, I’ve wanted this for a long time…” he said, staring down at you like a lovesick puppy. “You’re just perfect…”

“You… wanted me?”

All those days spent pining after him, wanting nothing more than to feel his muscular frame against your soft one… you could have had him all along!?

“Let’s not waste any time then!”

You surprised Tobias with your strength when you pulled him along to the bedroom, his ears flicking and tail wagging enthusiastically. He was just a needy puppy that was excited to have you all to himself!

Within seconds you were in nothing but the lingerie you picked out to wear underneath your clothes. Tobias’s cock strained against his sweatpants as he drooled.

“You look amazing… want…”

He sat at the edge of the bed, laying on his belly as he positioned his head between your legs. “Need…”

Tobias pulled the lacy fabric to the side, humping the bed like a desperate dog as he took in your pussy’s scent for the first time.

He lapped at one of your puffy lips, his pupils displaying before he buried his face between your thighs and began eating you out.

You bucked your hips tugging on his hair and moaning while he looked up at you with pussy drunk eyes. Tobias found the way you whimpered and tried to cover your face as he devoured your chubby pussy absolutely adorable.

His tongue moved over your swollen clit, stimulating it as his fingers pumped in and out of you. You could already see a wet spot forming on his sweatpants, knowing werewolves came a lot.

“Wanna… wanna mate…”

Tobias climbed up, panting as he pulled the waistband down and let his cock spring free. It was huge, pulsing, and twitching.

“T-Toby… I wanna mate with you too…”

You whimpered, feeling him press against you. The tip of his cock was already pressing into your cunt, and the stretch was… pleasant.

Your nails dug into his back, leaving long scratches in his thick skin. Tobias was stretching you out nice and slow, keeping one of his fingers on your clit.

“That’s it, that’s my little mate…”

He moved his hips at a moderate place, playing with your nipples and clit to stimulate you. You had the urge to feed, to bite down on him, and when Tobias noticed he leaned forward so you could sink your teeth into his shoulder.

The man was a werewolf, he could take some blood loss, and the idea of you biting and marking his body ruled him up.

“That’s it, mark me up… f-fuck, gonna stuff you full alright?”

Another growl rumbled in his chest and he lifted your hips so he could fuck deeper into you. “G-gonna breed you, okay? Gotta have my pups, you’ll give me a litter won’t you?”

Watching your pussy stretch around his cock, squeezing it when you came was enough to have the man groaning with pleasure. You pulled back from his neck to kiss him, letting your tongue twirl around one another before he turned you so you could lie on your soft belly.

Your face squished against the pillow, and now Tobias could properly mount his mate. His cock twitched inside you as your plump ass rippled with each thrust.

“Gonna cum!”

Tobias groaned out, completely lost in the feeling of your pussy. His seed spilled into your belly, filling you up completely.

He slumped over you, a low purring emanating from his body. When you started to move, he used his weight to keep you still.

“Don’t move… gonna knot you…”

Before you could ask, you yelped at the feeling of his cock swelling up inside of you. You could barely take it, panting softly as a bulge formed in your belly.

He cooed, rubbing the bulge before moving the toe of you into a better position. Tobias cuddled you from behind, leaving bites and kisses on your neck.

“Knotting… I forgot about that part,” you murmured. Do to having a crush on Tobias, you had done some naughty research into werewolf sex that involved a lot of porn and masturbation.

“Mmph, that's the best part… now we’re locked up for the next hour.”

The two of you ended falling asleep long before the swelling went down, and from then on you had yourself a boyfriend.

Work became even more fun… especially when no one was in the cafe.

“B-but what if someone hears us?”

“We’ll be quiet, it’ll be okay.”

You pouted, unable to deny your cute boyfriend when his tail was wagging and his cock was pressed against your dripping pussy. Sure, the cafe was empty, but what if someone walked in?

He fucked into you carefully, sighing as you tried your best to keep your eye on the door while peeking out of the bathroom. Tobias covered your mouth to muffle your moans, leaning down to nip at your neck and lick the marks he left.

“My good little mate, taking me so well… you’re all wet, getting excited at the thought of getting caught, huh?”

You bit your lip, letting out a needy whine as he groped your tits. “You’re insatiable, this is the third time this week…”

“Hey, I can’t help that I’m in rut, and when I smell you getting all aroused when I visit it gets me going!”

Tobias came inside of you, nearly making the two of you top over as he relaxed and rested his weight on you.

Now, you were stuck taking orders from customers who could smell the werewolf’s musky cum on you. It was embarrassing, and they wouldn’t look you in the eye.

“That was on purpose, wasn’t it?”

Tobias grinned as he drove you home after work, and it was hard to stay mad at your sweet himbo. “Can’t have any getting the wrong idea and trying to court my little vampire mate.”

You huffed, then laughed a bit when he gave you puppy dog eyes. “Yeah, I guess not.”

You never thought your crush would like you back, but now you had a great boyfriend and you couldn’t ask for anything better.

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi @flamefoxx @sandramalikstyles-blog @breathingstarlight : @puppyboytranny

[akeaaan]

If Only...

Jinu X fem.Reader

word count: 2.4k

a/n: this is my fourth fanfic of jinu and I'm going crazy someone stop me please. Also I'm losing ideas so if you have any request please do drop a note. I still have another idea of angst until I make some soft happy endings lol

Synopsis:

╰┈➤ If Only...

It was never supposed to happen.

You weren't supposed to feel this. To hesitate.

But fate — cruel, laughing fate — had always toyed with you, over and over again. And here you were, caught in its trap once more.

Your scythe had cut down hundreds of their kind. Demons had crumbled into dust at your feet, your blade unflinching, your heart colder each time.

But now?

Now you couldn't kill even one.

Why him?

You didn't belong in the spotlight. You hated it — the blinding lights, the staged smiles, the never-ending swarm of paparazzi. The fake interviews, the forced poses, the soul-sucking brand deals. You hated being told to be perfect.

So you stayed in the shadows, right where you belonged.

You let Huntrix shine in the public eye: Mira, Rumi, and Zoe — the idols, the faces, the voices. They danced in the light, while you hid behind soundproof glass.

You were their producer — the faceless fourth. The one who stayed up late tuning tracks, patching lyrics when writer's block hit, and crafting every beat that sealed away the honmoon. You wove magic into the melody, just like the ones before you.

Because this was tradition. Always three on the stage. Always one in the dark.

You were older than them — not by much, but enough to feel responsible. You were their unnie, their protector. You had more battle scars, more stories, more secrets. That's why they never worried when you went on solo missions.

And that was your greatest weapon: anonymity.

The demons thought there were only three.

There had always only been three — as far as they knew.

But behind every generation of Hunters, there was someone else. Someone offstage. Someone who wrote the songs, not to climb the charts, but to trap the shadows lurking in the echoes.

You didn't need powerful vocals.

You had powerful visions.

And now... your power betrayed you.

Your mind spiraled. A million thoughts screamed inside your skull.

Should I let my heart keep listening? Up 'til now I've walked the line—nothing lost, but something missing...

You had everything, didn't you?

A found family that never let go. Best friends who would die for you. Your parents—alive and well. A career that others only dreamed of.

So why... why did your chest ache like something had been carved out of it?

And then—you saw him.

That's when it clicked.

What you were missing wasn't something. It was someone. It was love.

The kind that doesn't knock politely—it breaks the door down and stands in your ruined threshold.

You cursed yourself, quietly, for saying yes to Bobby.

"Come on," he had begged, "You've got the lightest schedule. Just help us set up the fan sign?"

And because you were you—softhearted, capable, and impossibly easy to guilt-trip—you agreed.

Even went the extra mile.

You planned the whole event. Stayed up finalizing logistics. Then told the rest of the staff to clock out early and go home to their families.

Now here you were. Alone in the quiet morning, taping up last-minute signage outside the venue.

You were halfway through unfurling a tarp when you spotted them—four bundled shapes huddled in sleeping bags along the curb.

"...Idiots," you muttered, frowning. Fans like these were rare and reckless. Sleeping outside just to be first in line for autographs?

You shook your head and kept working—until one of them stirred. One pulled back his hood and stood, dusting off the creases from his shirt.

That's when you saw him.

Eyes still puffy from sleep. Hair a soft, tousled black. That calm, unreadable face framed by the dawn's early light.

Back then, you had no idea who he was.

You'd been off the grid for days. Locked in the studio producing songs for idols you barely knew. Huntrix had been hunting without you. You hadn't checked socials in a week.

So when he stepped forward and said—

"Uh... can I use the bathroom?"

—you didn't even blink. Just sighed, rolled your eyes, and jerked your head toward the venue.

"This way."

No thanks. No recognition. He simply nodded and followed.

You didn't think much of it. You were too busy—back to climbing a wobbly stool to hang the tarpaulin behind were the girls will be sitting .

Balancing on tiptoe, gripping the thin banner with cold fingers.

Until a quiet voice called behind you:

"You know, that thing's totally uneven."

You didn't have to look to know it was him.

"And you're going to fall if you keep shifting like that."

You gritted your teeth. "I'm fine."

"You're not," he said flatly. "At least let me help."

You finally glanced down—and your heart skipped. He was already walking toward you. Calm. Composed. His face unreadable, but his hand was outstretched, palm open like he already knew you'd take it.

You didn't.

And in that split-second—of course—you slipped.

"Shit—" you hissed as your balance gave out and gravity claimed you. The ground rushed up too fast. You braced, eyes squeezing shut, waiting for the sharp slam of wood against your back—

But it never came.

Instead, strong arms wrapped around your waist, halting your fall mid-air like it was nothing.

Your breath caught.

Slowly, you cracked one eye open—then the other.

There he was.

Smug. Too close. Too confident.

That crooked smirk on his lips practically screamed "told you so."

His dark eyes flicked over your face, glittering with something unreadable—maybe amusement, maybe something else entirely. The hold on your waist tightened just slightly, grounding you in his grip.

He was close. Too close.

You could feel his breath against your mouth. Hear the steady, unbothered rhythm of his heart. And yours—yours was stammering like it didn't know what to do with itself.

He tilted his head a little. "You always this stubborn?"

You swallowed hard. "You always this annoying?"

His smirk widened—but his eyes softened, just barely. "Only when I'm right."

Later that afternoon, the event hall buzzed with energy—fans lined up, banners waving, cameras flashing. But your focus narrowed sharply when your eyes caught a familiar face.

Him.

He was back, but not alone this time. He stood upfront at the signing table with a few others you recognized from earlier—those same guys who'd been in the sleeping bags back at the entrance. And now they were freshen up, styled, and posing as if they belonged.

The Saja Boys.

You stood stiffly near a concrete pillar, arms crossed, trying to keep your face neutral. Rumi, Mira, and Zoe exchanged less-than-thrilled glances. No one had told you this was going to be a joint fan sign. The Huntrix event you had personally organized—put your own hours into, from venue to logistics—was now sharing space with a brand new K-pop boy group?

Your eye twitched.

You caught sight of him again, seated right next to Rumi. They were speaking quietly, heads close. Something about the way he leaned in, relaxed but confident, made your skin prickle.

"Do they know each other?" you murmured to no one in particular.

You flagged down one of the event staff, your voice firm. "Who approved the seating chart? Who is that?"

She gave you a sheepish smile, clearly overwhelmed. "Oh—uh, that's Jinu. He's the leader of the Saja Boys.

Your stomach dropped.

Leader? Of course he is.

As if on cue, Jinu glanced up from the table and locked eyes with you across the venue. Recognition flickered instantly in his gaze—and then he smiled.

That same maddening, devastatingly charming smile from earlier. The one that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

You didn't bother looking back.

The moment you stepped off and slipped behind the black curtains marking the backstage area, it was like you could finally breathe again. The air felt less heavy away from the flashing cameras, squealing fans, and—most of all—him. You paced for a second, then stopped by a corner to scroll through your phone, pretending to be invested in it. Anything to not think about the way your stomach twisted when he was near.

The distant noise of the crowd faded just enough for you to hear footsteps. Lazy, heavy, tired ones. You looked up.

It was Jinu—of course it was. He stood a few feet away, sharp eyes unreadable beneath dyed bangs, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, the rest of the Saja boys passed by in a blur of exhaustion—Abby tossing his bouquet dramatically into a trash bin, Mystery yawning, Baby leaning heavily on Romance's shoulder as they all disappeared toward the van.

But Jinu? He was the only one who didn't just throw the bouquet in. He placed it gently—deliberately—on top of the pile. A folded piece of paper stayed clutched in his other hand, something he didn't discard. A letter from a fan, maybe. Or something else.

You glanced back down at your phone. He didn't leave.

"So what are you to them?" he asked, voice smooth, slightly amused. "Their manager? Event organizer?"

You looked up again. He was staring at you, head slightly tilted, brows raised in quiet challenge. The others were gone now—just the two of you. You squared your stance.

"I'm their producer," you replied flatly, folding your arms. Cool. Professional.

Jinu's lips tugged into a half-smirk as he slowly folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. "And you planned the fan event too? Damn. All in one, huh?"

He took a few slow steps in your direction, casual but not aimless. Calculated.

"I'm a perfectionist," you said simply, holding his gaze.

"Mm. Figures," he said, voice lower now as he closed the distance just a little more, eyes scanning your face. "You've got that look. Like nothing ever passed by you."

There was something in the way he said it—less teasing, more observant. He didn't mean just the event.

You looked away first.

You always did.

And ever since that day, your lives kept tangling—deliberate or not. Jinu always seemed to be just a few steps behind you. Or ahead of you. Or waiting.

There was something about the way he smiled—just a little too slow, a little too soft. The way his eyes held yours longer than they should've, almost as if memorizing the shape of your face each time. And then there was the way his gaze would flick down to your lips before rising back to your eyes, like a secret only he knew.

It wasn't just glances. It was tension. Thick and charged, like static before a storm.

The day he reached out—his hand resting on your waist to move you gently aside in the crowded idol common room—it felt like something clicked into place. The contact lingered. Not enough to raise suspicion, but just enough to make your breath catch.

Then there were the late-night run-ins. The 24-hour convenience store closest to your apartment, where you'd both pretend surprise even though you frequented it around the same hour. That time he "accidentally" found you working late in the studio, hunched over your laptop, trying to produce a new track under deadline.

"I didn't know anyone else was here," he'd said. But his voice didn't match the words. It was too calm. Too knowing.

Neither of you made the first move right away. But one night, you both stopped pretending.

Your lips met—slow, hesitant at first, then hungry. The kiss tasted like everything you'd both been holding back. Like the first breath after drowning.

And somehow, it felt like more than just a kiss. It felt like a beginning. A fragile, burning beginning.

You were falling for him. And he was falling too.

But then you heard it.

A conversation behind closed doors—Huntrix voices lowered in warning, laced with urgency. Jinu's name. A word you weren't meant to hear.

Demon.

Your heart plummeted like it had been cut loose from your chest.

Enemy.

And now, here you stood—frozen in place, suffocating beneath the weight of everything you knew and everything you felt. Love, twisted with betrayal. Warmth, laced with danger.

I can't decide what's wrong, what's right... Which way should I go?

The lyrics echoed in your mind, torn from a memory you couldn't quite silence. A song that once comforted you—now mocking your indecision.

Your scythe's blade hovered dangerously close to Jinu's neck. Your hands trembled, not from fear, but from fury barely contained. Your jaw locked as your blurred vision clung to the shape of him. The boy you used to trust. The demon he became.

Jinu didn't move. Didn't even raise his eyes to meet yours at first.

The wind whispered across the rooftop ledge, catching the hem of his jacket and brushing through your hair like some ghost trying to push you apart. He let out a slow breath, and when he finally looked at you, it wasn't with defiance.

It was guilt. Heavy. Real. Like he'd been carrying it for lifetimes.

"I never wanted you to find out like this," he said quietly, voice low and raw.

Your grip tightened on the scythe's handle. The curved blade shimmered under the moonlight, inches from his skin.

"You lied to me," you hissed, each word heavy like it cost you something to speak them aloud. "All this time. You were one of them."

Jinu lowered his gaze again. "Four hundred years is a long time to regret something."

"Don't you dare make this poetic," you snapped. "You could've told me. You let me care about you—trust you—when you knew what you were."

He didn't defend himself. Just stood there, letting your anger land where it may.

"I'm still me," he finally said, barely louder than the wind. "Even if the past is monstrous... I never stopped being me when I was with you."

Silence stretched. Your blade didn't waver, but your heart did

You didn't know when the tears started to fall—only that they burned on the way down.

All this time, you thought he was your safe place. The quiet in the chaos. But now... now he was the very storm you'd been trying to survive.

Jinu stepped forward—slowly, cautiously, like he was approaching a wounded animal. Like he knew one wrong move would shatter everything.

"You're right," he said softly. "I should've told you. I should've let you hate me from the beginning. But I didn't want to lose you before I ever had the chance to keep you."

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, half-choked and broken. "So instead you let me love a lie?"

He flinched.

The scythe dropped from your hands with a metallic thud against the rooftop. You couldn't hold it anymore. Couldn't hold anything anymore. Not the rage. Not the love. Not the grief curling inside your ribs like fire.

"I don't know if I'll ever forgive you," you whispered.

Jinu looked like he wanted to speak, but the words never came. Maybe there weren't any left that could fix this.

And maybe... that was the point.

You turned away from him, the wind now at your back. The skyline blurred through your tears, the city below indifferent to the war inside your chest.

Behind you, Jinu didn't move. Maybe he knew chasing you would only make it worse.

Maybe he knew he'd already lost.

Your voice broke the silence one last time, barely above a breath:

"If only I knew what my heart was telling me... Don't know what I'm feeling, is this just a dream?"

And then you were gone— leaving Jinu standing alone beneath the stars, with nothing but regret and the sound of your fading footsteps.

[muxshwriting]

bruises and a backache

max verstappen x teammate!reader

summary: hiding an injury from your teammate and then proving yourself beyond his overprotective-ness || warnings: bruises, past injury || word count: 1790 || masterlist

Max was pounding at the bathroom door, his blood rushing hot and fast through his body like he’d just stepped out of the cockpit mid-race. His palm slammed flat against the wood again. “Y/N,” he said, voice tight, bordering on frantic. “Open the door.”

The sound of the shower was still running, steam curling out from the cracks in the doorframe, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the noise he’d heard, the unmistakable sound of you stifling a scream. “I’m fine!” you called out, your voice thin and shaking as you tried to steady it. “It's just… a spider.” You try to make it sound casual but it comes out confused and as an almost question.

“A spider?” he repeated, disbelieving. “You’re not scared of spiders.”

You paused, eyes trained on your reflection in the fogged-up mirror. “It just surprised me,” you added quickly, the lie tasting stale on your tongue.

But Max wasn’t letting it go. You could hear him draw in a slow breath through his nose, trying to rein in the panic in his chest. “Please just… unlock the door,” he said, softer now. “Let me see you. Are you hurt?” Your words did nothing to calm Max's racing heart, only serving to make him more concerned. His body slumps forward, trying to be closer to you as his forehead rests on the door. "Can you unlock the door? Let me check you're alright?"

You stared at the lock, heart thudding. You didn’t want to lie to him. Not really. But you also didn’t want the storm you knew was waiting on the other side of that door. “You can't come in,” you tried again, voice light, teasing, desperate. “I'm changing.”

“It's nothing I haven't seen before. I’ve seen you change,” he shot back. “You've got to lie better. What's happening?”

There was a moment of silence before you gave in with a small sigh, walking over and unlocking the door with a soft click. Max watches the shadow retract and as soon as the lock is turned, he was already pushing it open.

You stood there, in your underwear, staring into the mirror, eyes flicking to his reflection as he entered. His gaze dropped to your skin instantly, like it always did, but instead of wandering hands and a smile, all that crossed his face was alarm. Your back still had the scars of childhood races etched onto it but it was now a mess of blooming bruises, angry purples and fading yellows. But Max could instantly tell which ones were new.

You hadn’t even made it into your shower and you were frozen in place like a deer caught in the beam of his attention. Max didn’t say anything at first. Just stared.

Then, quietly; “Where did you get those, schat?”

You closed your eyes for a second and reached for your shirt, fumbling with it as you gave up on pretending you were fine. The ache in your muscles was too much tonight, and your stupid scream had ruined the last of your cover. “They’re from the crash last week,” you said softly. “It’s nothing serious. We checked everything- the medical team checked, everything’s okay. I just knocked them weirdly when I was changing.”

Max’s brows furrowed hard. “We checked?” he echoed. “Who’s we? Does Christian know?”

You hesitated. That was enough of an answer.

“Are you kidding me?” he barked. “Everyone knew except me?”

“I didn’t want to hide it from you-”

“Then why did you?”

“Because you would do exactly this,” you said, voice sharp but tired. “You’d panic. You’d hover. You’d worry and forget how to focus. And I couldn’t do that to you.”

Max exhaled harshly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You should’ve told me.”

You looked up at him. “I didn’t want you to stop seeing me as your teammate first. I didn’t want to become a problem to manage.”

His expression twisted at that, something between frustration and heartbreak. He stepped forward, his hand brushing your arm carefully.

“You’re never a problem,” he said. “But you are my-" His mind jumped for something that didn't compeltely give the game away to his feelings. There were the countless nights of binging tv shows with you, culred up on on sofas and slipping away into each other's motorhomes. "You're my person. Do you get that? If you’re hurt, I need to know.”

Your shoulders dropped, the weight of the truth finally settling between you. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Max pulled you close, one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other ghosting over your bruised skin like he wished he could draw the pain out of it. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he murmured. “Just don’t make me find out like this again. I want to worry with you. Not because you shut me out.”

You nodded against his chest. His heartbeat thudded steadily under your ear.

“Okay,” you said. “I promise.”

The paddock buzzed with its usual pre-race energy, mechanics moving like clockwork, journalists circling like flies, engines humming in the distance. You walked toward the Red Bull garage in your race suit, helmet in hand, eyes focused ahead.

Max, of course, was already there. He spotted you immediately and beelined across the garage like a heat-seeking missile. “Morning,” he said casually, walking beside you. “Sleep okay?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Max. Still fine.”

He nodded once, like he didn’t quite believe you. “Did you take the painkillers Christian gave you?”

You gave him a look. “Max.”

“Just checking.”

He hovered as you moved to your station, watching as you adjusted the strap on your suit and flexed your shoulders, testing the pain quietly, discreetly. It twinged, sure, but nothing that would stop you from racing.

Max narrowed his eyes. “Was that a wince?”

“No,” you lied with the confidence of someone who’d already practiced it twice in the mirror. “Just adjusting.”

He didn’t look convinced. “We can still switch you out for Liam, you know. It’s not too late.”

You scoffed and turned to him fully, jabbing your finger into his chest. “Don’t start with that again. I passed medical. I’m cleared. I'm racing.”

Max lifted his hands in surrender but stepped a little closer. “I know. I know. It’s just… I watched the replay again last night.”

You paused. “Why would you do that to yourself? It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just a racing incident.”

He looked at you like you’d said the dumbest thing imaginable. “Racing incident or not, I nearly lost you.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavier than the sound of pit tools and shouting engineers. You softened, resting your hand on his forearm. “You didn’t. I’m right here.”

He looked down at your hand, then at you again. “Yeah, but I also wasn’t there. I didn’t know. You were hurting and I didn’t see it.”

“And now you do,” you said. “So let me drive, Max. Please. Don’t let this be the thing that makes you forget who I am.”

He stared at you for a moment, searching your face like he could read every inch of emotion you weren’t saying aloud. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “But if you so much as blink weirdly on the radio, I’m calling it in.”

You rolled your eyes, lips quirking. “Deal.” You're both hiding small laughs as you part.

As you turned to leave, Max called after you, “And don’t worry about carrying your helmet and your pre-race things again. I told the interns to do it.”

You turned over your shoulder, walking backwards with a smirk. “Max, are you trying to seduce me with team orders?”

He smirked right back, eyes gleaming. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

When you cross the line in first place, the throbbing of your back seems to fade away with the joy of the occassion. Max rounds off the podium but when your parked up in parc ferme, his first thought is to crouch by your car, take your helmet in his own hands and his eyes scanning you like he was reading telemetry. He didn't say anything at first, waiting, not with champagne or celebration in mind.

Just walked up, hands hovering until he gently pulled you into his chest. Not a crushing hug, he knew better, but a steady one. Solid. Careful. Like he was trying to hold you together without hurting you.

“You’re walking a little stiff,” he murmured near your ear, voice just for you.

You let out a soft breath, arms around his waist. “It’s fine. I’m just sore.”

Max pulled back to look at you, eyes narrowed, like he could spot every lie beneath your skin. “Sore how?” he asked, tone more measured now. “Like regular ‘I just drove 300 kilometers’ sore, or ‘I haven’t told my teammate my back’s killing me’ sore?”

You sighed, cheeks flushing. “Don’t do that thing where you read my mind.” He didn’t smile. Not this time. He reached out and gently, so gently, brushed his fingers against your side. When you flinched just slightly, his jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t have pushed it that hard,” he said softly, not angry, just concerned.

“I needed to prove-”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” he interrupted. “I don’t care if you finished first or dead last, I just need to know you’re not hurting worse because of it.”

You looked down at your hands, pulling your gloves off gently. “I never need to prove it to you. But it wasn’t that bad, I paced myself, I didn’t take risks. I just… I needed to feel normal.”

Max exhaled slowly, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. “You are normal. Taking care of yourself doesn’t mean weak.” His voice dropped even lower, quieter now with the noise of the crowd fading in the background. “If you’d told me it was too much, I would’ve been proud of you for stepping out. I need you to remember that, okay?”

You nodded slowly, eyes flicking up to his. “I was careful, Max. I promise. I know I’m not back to 100% yet.”

He searched your face for a long second, then finally gave a small nod of his own. “Alright,” he said. “But you’re icing your back the minute we get to the motorhome. And I’m carrying your suitcase. And I’m not negotiating on either.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, Captain Verstappen.”

He smiled this time, just a little. “You can win the race, but I’m still calling the recovery strategy.”

You lean in and almost want to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for watching out for me.”

“Always.” He tilted his head to your waiting team. “Go get 'em.”

[demie90s]

Your Fault

Diana Taurasi x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You’ve been in a mood all damn day—rolling your eyes, being mouthy, and acting like Diana don’t run that.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 2.7k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Smut, Age Gap, Power Play, Brat Taming, Soft Dom Diana, Emotional Burnout Themes

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SMUT. Oral (f receiving), strap use, dom/sub dynamics, choking, begging, refusal of touch (at first), light degradation, possessiveness, vacation setting

I woke up agitated. Not irritated. Not upset. Agitated. Like my skin was tight and everything was two seconds from being the final straw. The sun was out. The bed was soft. The AC was perfect. Diana was still asleep, breathing slow, her shoulder bare and glowing with leftover sun from yesterday.

I should’ve been grateful. But I wanted to scream.

The vacation was her idea. You need a break, she said. You’ve been saving the damn world every shift. Your charting looks like a crime scene. You need sand, a tan, and me. In that order.

She wasn’t wrong. But this morning I hated everything.

“Come on,” she said, eyes still sleepy as I stood at the bathroom mirror with my arms folded. “Don’t start today mad. It’s illegal to be fine and fussy on an island.”

I cut her a look. “It’s not fussy. It’s overstimulated and under-fucked.”

“Exactly,” she muttered, already dragging the covers off and tossing a bikini my way. “Put this on. We’re going to the water.”

She didn’t give me room to protest. Practically drug me out the room like a toddler in time-out, grinning like she hadn’t just ignored my very real cry for help. And maybe that’s what pissed me off the most. I was telling her. Plain. Calm. Mouthy. But honest.

I needed her. And she just kept walking.

The morning became the afternoon. The beach got louder. My mood got worse.

She bought me a coconut, held my waist when I rolled my eyes at strangers, whispered shit in my ear just to watch me huff.

“Why you so pretty when you mad?”

“Shut up.”

“I should’ve filmed this.”

She wasn’t helping. She was making it worse. Then came the moment.

We were standing near the rocks, sun hitting the water like a goddamn oil painting, and I was staring at it like it offended me.

She sat behind me on the stone bench, arms draped around my hips lazily.

“You know,” she said, voice low, “I love you, but you got the worst attitude on Earth when you don’t get your way.”

That hit. Not hard. But deep. I swallowed. Kept my eyes on the tide. “…So fuck it out of me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t even kiss me.

By the time we got back to the room, I was fuming in silence. She knew it. She was eating it up. That smirk was back on her face, smug and slow as she leaned against the patio door, eyes flicking toward me every time I moved like she was watching a volcano warm up.

“You done sulking?” she asked, peeling off her tank top with no urgency.

“No.”

“You hungry?”

“No.”

“You still mad?”

“…Yes.”

She laughed. Laughed.

Then laid on the bed like she wasn’t the problem. Head on the pillows, long legs stretched out, watching me like I wasn’t mentally screaming.

I stood at the end of the bed, arms crossed again. “Why couldn’t you just fuck it outta me earlier?”

She blinked slow. That smug-ass look turned into something hungrier.

“…Say that again?”

I didn’t. I got in the bed. Got close. Didn’t touch her—just leaned in like heat was enough. My lips barely touched her shoulder.

“You wait until I’m begging,” I muttered. “You wait until I’m crawling. That’s not fair.”

She turned to face me, hand sliding over my waist as I straddled her thigh without thinking. My hips didn’t move—but my mouth did.

“You like when I act like this?” I asked, lips brushing her collarbone. “You like when I’m miserable with an attitude? That turn you on?”

“I like when you act like you don’t need me.”

She kissed my jaw, lips soft but firm.

“And then melt the second I touch you.”

I scoffed. But my hips rocked slow against her leg.

“That’s evil.”

“That’s honest.”

She sat up. Kissed me like she’d been waiting all day—hands under my thighs, mouth opening over mine, tongue slow and deep. I moaned and felt stupid for being mad. For going the whole day aching when I could’ve just thrown myself into her lap.

But no. She liked that I waited. I liked how she made me come apart for it.

Her fingers found me without a word. My whole body shivered.

Just when I gasped—whined, needy, almost crying from how good it felt—she whispered “There’s my girl.”

She didn’t say it soft. She said it like finally.

Like it took all day to break me down just to rebuild me open and wet and obedient under her hand.

But I was still a brat. She slid two fingers along my slit—over my panties—and watched my thighs twitch. I exhaled like I hadn’t breathed in hours.

Then her voice dropped low, calm as ever.

“…Tell me.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

“Tell me about work, baby.”

I almost laughed. Almost. But she didn’t. Her mouth brushed my neck. Her fingers stroked again. Slow. Lazy.

I narrowed my eyes. “You wanna talk about work?”

She hummed like yes. Like I didn’t have a pussy leaking for her right now. Like she wasn’t slipping the pad of her thumb over my clit through soaked fabric.

I swear—swear—I tried to ignore it. I looked up at the ceiling like that would keep my mind straight.

I started slow. “It’s been… long. Stupid.”

“Mhm.” She mouthed at my throat, still warm, still moving her hand with zero rush.

“I’m tired of people acting like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I didn’t graduate, like I’m not licensed. You know this old man tried to—f-fuck—”

Her mouth was lower now, smirking against my chest. I paused.

“Keep going,” she said.

My stomach clenched. I should’ve told her to stop. But my hands were already in her hair.

“I had to cover three patients on restraints. One bit me. You saw the bruise.”

“I did.” She licked slowly over my nipple. Bit it. Sucked it.

“Keep talkin’.”

“You’re such a bitch,” I whispered. She laughed into my skin.

Then kissed down. Slower than necessary. Mouth dragging over my stomach, my hip, my inner thigh like she was reading a script off me.

She kissed my pussy through the panties—one kiss. Two. I gasped. She didn’t move them yet. Just flattened her tongue over the fabric and moaned, deep and smug like this what you wanted, huh?

She looked up. “Mad again?”

I glared. “Yes.”

“Mhm.” She kissed again. “Keep goin’, nurse.”

I whimpered. “He told me I was rude… for not smiling. While I was cleaning shit. Actual shit.”

That’s when she moved the panties. One hand, no hesitation. Slick and sticky and hot underneath, and she grinned.

“Aw. That why you been actin’ out?” she teased, running her thumb over my clit now, bare and throbbing. “Needed a little attention? Thought I forgot how nasty you get when you’re tired.”

I tried to sit up. She pushed my hips down. She didn’t even look at me.

Her mouth found me again. No warm-up. No soft licks. Just her tongue, slow and firm, licking right up the middle while her hand spread me wider.

I whined. Embarrassingly. Loud and helpless. My thighs shook, but her hands were locked around them—tight grip, holding me still.

I wanted to grind, to press harder, to roll my hips.

She did not let me.

“Diana—”

She paused. Glanced up. “Say it right.”

“…D.”

That got her going. She hummed low and started sucking on my clit. Tongue firm. Circles. I yanked at her hair—moaning, open-mouthed, legs trying to close.

She didn’t let me. She moved lower, tongue dipping into me, deep. Then up again—licking through everything, slow and wide and endless.

“You taste so mad,” she teased. “So fuckin’ mad at me. Can’t even focus.”

Her fingers replaced her tongue, two slipping in like nothing, making me arch.

“Oh my God—” She curled them. Hit it. Smirked. Bit my inner thigh.

“God’s not here right now, nurse.”

I was panting now, voice stuck in my throat, heat crawling up my neck.

“You said you wanted me to fuck it outta you,” she said, dragging her tongue back over my clit. “So stop running.”

I cried out. Actual tears stinging a little. Not from pain. From overwhelm. From the slow, deep suck of her lips around me like she was drinking a mood swing out of my body. Like she was cleansing me.

I grabbed the sheets. She kept going.

No breaks. No mercy. And still—still—so fucking slow. I felt the build. All of it. A full-day ache tightening into one perfect climax.

“D—I’m—fuck, I’m—” She moaned, loud and proud, mouth locked on me, fingers never slowing.

And I Came hard. Legs shaking, pussy twitching, toes curled, moaning her name like a secret I couldn’t keep.

She licked me through it. Then back up. Then kissed my lips like she hadn’t just ruined me. I could barely speak. She grinned against my mouth.

“Still mad?” I blinked. Then nodded.

She was smirking.

But not sweet. Not teasing. Not that I told you so look from earlier. No. This was different. This was dangerous.

This was the look of a grown woman who’d been waiting to make you cry since the first week you whined about your hours.

Since you slammed the car door, threw your bag, and muttered shit under your breath. She let you live. Let you talk slick. Let you sulk through a vacation she paid for.

Now she had the strap on. Now she was gonna make you apologize.

“…D-Dee.”

It barely came out. My throat burned. I was already shaky and tender from her mouth, but this? This wasn’t fair. The way she fucked—it didn’t feel good in the moment. It felt like I was losing my mind. Like I couldn’t breathe right. Like I was vibrating from the inside out and couldn’t find the sound that matched what my body was screaming.

Butterflies. Not the cute kind. These were the wild, erratic, emergency alarm kind.

The kind that told you something was happening in your body that your brain couldn’t catch up with.

Diana didn’t care.

“Come here,” she said, voice flat but full.

Like she meant business. Like she was certified in this shit.

I climbed over her, knees shaking, pussy aching. She didn’t wait. She grabbed my hip, lifted my leg, and pushed in again—slow, mean, deep.

My eyes rolled. My mouth dropped open. Her other hand slid up my back, holding me close while her hips rolled into me like a damn curse. And she kissed my neck. My shoulder. Whispered shit I couldn’t even hear over the sound of my own broken breathing.

“This what you needed?” I nodded. Couldn’t even lie.

“Then take it.”

She fucked me like she was fixing something.

Like my attitude was a medical emergency and her strap was the cure.

She hit every spot, slow enough to feel like it was personal but hard enough to break rhythm. I was grinding, panting, eyes fluttering.

Just when I felt it—right there, right there—she pulled out.

I gasped. Clawed at her forearm. “No, no—Diana please—”

She laid back. Calm. Hands behind her head like she wasn’t just inside me seconds ago.

“You wanna act brand new?” she said.

“Cool. You do all the work. Don’t touch me.”

I stared at her. Stunned. Heart racing. “Now.”

I climbed on like I had no pride.

Slow. Needy. Sinking down on the strap with a shaky moan that made my knees buckle. She didn’t help. Didn’t move. Just watched. Eyes locked on my face like she was enjoying the show, the breakdown, the sweat glistening on my chest.

I tried to fuck her right. Roll my hips. Find a rhythm. But my thighs were weak, my clit pulsing, my brain scrambled.

I tried to kiss her. Tried to lean forward and press my mouth to hers like that would make her touch me.

She turned her head.

“You hard of hearing?”

I froze. Sat up straight again. My hands clenched on her stomach. I was losing it.

“You said not to touch you…” I mumbled. Voice cracking.

She raised a brow. “I meant all of me, smartass.”

My breath caught. I gave up. Whined. Actually whimpered, lips trembling.

“…Please touch me.” Still nothing.

I ground down on her anyway. Hips desperate. Neck arched. Whimpers turning to cries. And finally—finally—when I shook so hard I had to collapse forward, she caught me.

One hand around my throat, thumb on my chin, bringing my mouth to hers.

“You gon’ act right now?” she whispered, dragging her hips up, slow and deep again.

“Y-yes.”

“Good girl.”

She said it like a reward, like a verdict—like I hadn’t been anything close to good all day, but somehow, she’d trained me there. Hips still moving under mine, hands tight on my waist, guiding my body like I was just something she’d decided to break in slowly.

I was gone. Fully. Head back, lips parted, brain blank. All I could do was ride. And let her fuck me up.

Her thumb dragged across my bottom lip, and her voice was low, barely above a hum. “That’s it, baby. Don’t think, just feel it.”

I couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t form a single sentence. My moans weren’t words anymore—just breath and pitch, soft at first, then ragged. The deeper she hit, the wetter I got. I could feel it. The mess. The slap of our bodies. Her name falling out of me without permission.

She loved it.

Her hands slid down to grip my thighs, pulling me down rougher, meaner. Her strap curved just right, hitting that spot that made my stomach twitch.

“D… D—fuck—”

I reached for her again, desperate, fingers curling on her chest. I needed something—anything to ground me—but she grabbed both wrists in one hand and pinned them behind my back like no. Like take it.

That’s when the tears hit. Not sobbing. But the kind that slid out quietly, uninvited, just ‘cause the pleasure was too much. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t scared. I was overwhelmed.

She noticed. Of course she did. She kissed the edge of my jaw, her voice syrup-slow.

“There she go. Look at you.”

She rocked up deeper. “This how you act when you finally get touched right?”

I nodded. Barely. My whole body tensed, locked down on the strap so hard I felt my orgasm choke halfway out my throat.

“I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

She grabbed a handful of my ass, her other arm wrapped around my waist, and she fucked into me. Intentional. Punishing. Her goal wasn’t to get me off. Her goal was to empty me.

I came. Hard. But it didn’t stop there. She kept going. Stroking through it. Pushing past it. My thighs shaking so bad they gave out, and that’s when it happened.

My whole body snapped forward—and I squirted. Loud. Wet. Shameless.

She groaned into my neck. “There she is.”

I whimpered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes you did. You always do.”

She eased the strap out slow, dragging my body with it, guiding me back onto my side like I’d been spun in a dryer. She kissed my temple. My shoulder. My spine.

I was twitching. Barely conscious. Breathing like I’d run laps around the planet.

“Next time you get mad on vacation,” she whispered, “just ask.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But the next tear that slid down my cheek had nothing to do with frustration. And everything to do with how full I finally felt.

She kissed my back, whispered a smug little, “There you go…” and tucked me in like I wasn’t still twitching from the inside out.

Didn’t even bother wiping me up all the way—just enough so I didn’t stick to her chest while you curled up against it, knocked clean out. Face buried in her neck, thighs still sore, pussy pulsing like it knew better next time.

I didn’t say another word. Didn’t need to. She had me slumped, soul quiet, body fed. Just what her baby needed.

She laid there wide awake, arm wrapped tight around my waist, smirking in the dark like. Attitude? Where? That’s what I thought.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037 @sillystarv @somedetailsinthefabric @essence-134340 @mochelisgf @soph1asticated @heheievidbri @unvswrld @breezybellab @planet-ghoulborne @art-ofmusic @toorealrai

[s1rawb3rry]

Out of my Hands!

Synopsis: In the high-pressure world of motorsport, an engineer and her star driver at Ferrari fall into a connection as electric as the circuits they race on. But when one mistake on his part threatens to fracture everything between them — on and off the track — the race isn’t just for championship, it’s for redemption as well…

Pairing: F1driver!enhypen jay x engineer!reader

Genres: “second chance” romance, established relationship, forced proximity, F1 driver AU (?)

Warnings: jungwon mention lol, possible F1 racing inaccuracies, sun (jay) x moon (y/n), sub!jay x dom!yn, contains smut (mdni), is actually v smut heavy lmao i used this as an excuse to write subby jay (i love him sm), smut with plot, rom com if you squint, happy ending i pinky promise, angst-smut-fluff (in that order), body worshipping to the fucking max, fucking a closet, oral (f!rec), hes a munchhhh, hes v stupid but v adorable, jay is so unbelievably in love, yn is a little mean tbh sorry (not sorry), will probably add more 

Word count: 7.6k 

a/n: here's the little request from my anon hehe i hope you like it hun <3 just a reminder for all my girliesss it's unacceptable for your partner to forget your anniversary! This is pure fiction!

Taglist: @seungsoftly @xylatox  @orxngebloods @yooonjnng @jaehoodies @hoonieyun @heesmiles @hoonsluvr @flowerwinds  @cunty4hee @bambieheeseunglee @luvashli @eczlipse @sunnygirl-kait @leehsngs @enhaeil @bxcndd @firstclassjaylee @sumsumtingz @heekolazz @amazzwon  @goldenretrieverjakezgirlbaby @hazelira @princesslenars @heestoleurgirl @stariekis @morganaawriterr @luvashli @heekolazz  (comment if you want me to add / remove you from the list <3)

⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯

Two days.

That’s how long it had been since I last spoke to him, not a single word. Just silence — sharp and deliberate, the kind that crackled louder than any screaming engine. The smothered quietness was louder than any fight we’d ever had. And yet, duty calls — making us stand in the same garage, breathe the same air, surrounded by the same chaos that usually held us together. But this time, everything was unraveling faster than he could hold it together.

The Ferrari garage buzzed with preparation for the Monaco Grand Prix. The hum of telemetry monitors was constantly glowing with live delta updates, ‘+0.156 vs. previous lap’ blinked on screens with clinical precision. Other engineers around me murmured about tire temps and brake wear.

“The front-left’s still running hot, Y/N,” one of the newer engineers reported, eyes flicking between the tablet in his hands and the tire data streaming across the screen. You could hear the respect in his tone, but also that nervous edge — the kind that comes with not quite knowing if you’re allowed to speak yet.

“Mm, I see it,” I said, already scanning the heat map on my own monitor. The wear pattern wasn’t dramatic, but the temperature spike had been creeping session by session. “We’ll swap compounds for FP3,” I added, calm but decisive. “Harder mix should stabilize temps, and I want the pressures adjusted by half a psi.”

He nodded quickly, already tapping in the update as the mechanics rolled out tire trolleys and the metallic clatter echoed off the concrete walls. The chaos of the usual pre-race rhythm filled the garage — sharp, fast, alive. It was the soundtrack of our lives, something that usually settled in the bones like second nature. But today, it pressed down heavier, as if even the noise knew something was off.

I kept my usual composed self — steady, measured, always perfectly in control.” Which is the exact opposite of the storm brewing inside Jay, who stood a few meters away, shifting on his feet while being suited up in red. But I could feel his gaze, I always could. 

His arms were crossed over his chest like he was holding himself together with the tension and friction alone. I knew it hurt him to see me speak to others like everything is normal but not utter a word to him. The reigning world champion, the golden boy of Formula One — millions in sponsorship deals and beloved by fans — is completely helpless. 

The low hum of monitors and the muted chatter of engineers, mechanics and technicians filled the garage — numbers updating in real time, tire compounds being swapped, heat maps pulsing across displays. The sharp scent of hot rubber and engine oil hung in the air. And still, none of it seemed to register with him. Not the car. Not the lap deltas. Not even the swarm of cameras lingering by the paddock entrance, hoping to catch his shiny-boy smile. They’d get nothing either way because he wasn’t really present with them. He was somewhere inside himself, unraveling slowly, quietly. And I knew exactly why.

Because I hadn’t said a word to him in forty-eight hours.

I could feel his stare occasionally, lingering like static on my skin, but I didn’t turn. My eyes stayed glued to the downforce distribution map in front of me, fingers casually adjusting the torque simulation overlay, just going through the motions like I wasn’t breaking my own heart. 

If I looked at him, I’d remember every part of him I still ached for — like the way his smile would start slowly, tugging at the corner of his mouth before blooming fully, blinding and boyish. How he always leaned into me just a little when we talked, like his body couldn’t help but reach for mine. And the way his hands trembled after a race, adrenaline still spilling out of him — only ever steady once they were wrapped around me. 

We met a year ago, when I was first assigned to his vehicle design team — a technical partnership on paper, a set of credentials matched to a championship-winning driver. It was straightforward and professional. But from the moment he walked into the garage, there was an unmistakable pull that was almost like gravity. He’d saunter in with that trademark charm, all easy smiles and too-pretty eyes. I admired how he has a habit of pushing his car, and himself, to the edge of physics. Even if it made me want to strangle him half the time.

It shouldn’t have worked — but it did. We work perfectly together.

What we have isn’t a secret, just privately ours. Away from the cameras, away from the paddock politics and sponsor demands. Jay was always careful with it, with me. Always made sure I never felt like a footnote in the shadow of his spotlight. Even when the weight of being the reigning world champion began to bear down on him — every appearance, every test run, every simulator hour — I never doubted he cared.

However, caring wasn’t the same as remembering. And on the night of our first anniversary, he didn’t.

We’d just wrapped a grueling 14-hour prep session — final calibration meetings, last-minute aero tweaks, and endless briefings. His world was racing, tunnel-visioned, every second accounted for in his pursuit of perfection. I knew the weight he carried. Knew how much pressure came with defending a world title. I’d seen it in the lines beneath his eyes, in the way his fingers twitched against his thighs even when he was still.

So I told myself I understood, that I do not expect much. But when I walked into the garage that night of our anniversary, still smelling faintly of burnt rubber and carbon fiber, and saw him bent over data sheets, not even glancing up — I knew.

He forgot. No flowers. No message. Nothing. Nada.

And when he found out by himself that he forgot — there were no tears, no dramatic exit, no slammed doors. It was like he hadn’t noticed he was walking on a tightrope until it snapped. He stood there stripped of the easy polish he wore like a second skin, and asked — softly, earnestly — if there was any way to make it right.

However, it wasn’t only the feeling of disappointment I felt, but also the weight of being invisible in the one place I thought I never would be. He remembered tire pressures and compound cycles and brake bias down to the decimal — yet somehow, not this.

I just told him I needed space. And when I said it, I watched his whole face change — He looked gutted. Like the words knocked the breath right out of him. His voice cracked when he asked, “How much?”

“I don’t know yet.” i responded. I meant to sound firm, but I'm not sure if I conveyed that. The silence wasn’t out of spite of him or as a punishment. But because I didn’t want to shrink myself to fit into the background of his life. Not when I’d stood by him, through every pit stop and podium.

He didn’t try to argue or try to talk me out of it. He just nodded slowly, like he was trying to respect my words even as they cut him open.

And I was trying. God, I was trying — gritting my teeth, white-knuckling the line I’d drawn, even though every part of me was screaming to step over it. Every shift of his boots on the concrete, every sigh from his chest, chipped away at my resolve.

Every fiber of me was aching to reach for him. I missed the way he’d find me in the chaos of the garage, eyes soft even when his voice was sharp from that driver’s rush like I intensively calmed him. The way his fingers used to find mine under the briefing table, brushing knuckles in quiet touches when the room was too loud with strategy calls and tire compound debates. I even missed that smug little whisper he’d drop when he leaned in just close enough — pretending to fuss with his earpiece during the final checks, but really just looking for an excuse to be near me. Just low enough so no one else caught it, his voice thick with that familiar tease, “still my favorite shade on you.”

It was ridiculous, really. Didn’t matter what lipstick I wore that day — scarlet, berry, nude — I could swear he had a different favorite every morning. And those quick, almost impatient kisses he’d press against me before striding out to the grid, always with that faint smudge of my lipstick still teasing the corners of his mouth.

But I reminded myself: I was the one who asked for this space, I had to honor that.

“Jay, it's time.” The call came sharp and sudden over the radio: Jay was needed for a test run. The garage suddenly shifted — tires rolled, tools clattered, and the hum of anticipation filled the air. The team moved with practiced precision, but the chatter… it was different today.

Everyone noticed immediately. Two days without a single word between Jay and I was an unspoken record. They knew how we usually were — quiet smiles, casual touches, the kind of softness that didn’t need announcing. So this silence? It spoke volumes. They weren’t subtle about putting two and two together.

“Hey,” one of the engineers — Jungwon, always the first to break tension — leaned over, glancing my way as he wiped grease off his hands. “Is he… okay?” He asked, referring to Jay. 

I met his eyes briefly, then turned back to the screen in front of me. “He’ll be fine,” I said, voice steady and flat, though inside I was anything but.

Jungwon nodded slowly, unconvinced but trusting. “It’s just… two days? That’s new for him.”

The telemetry graph overhead flickered with live data again — sector times, tire temps, brake wear. Numbers, curves, pulses of color that painted a perfect picture. But none of it matched with what we were seeing, because no matter how precise the car was running, Jay’s driving was the real glitch in the system.

“Bring the car in for pit lane after the run,” I said to the team, eyes still on the telemetry, “i want to do some tweaks.” I lied, the car is fucking perfect. However, with no hesitation, they all gave me small nods. 

He loves me, I know and believe that. Truly, maddeningly, desperately in love. From the moment we met, it was like his heart found a home and decided mine was it. Without me he's all noise and no direction — like a car with no grip, spinning in the same corner over and over again. He’s a puddle in my hands, always was. And in these past two days, I’ve felt every quiet attempt he made to reach me, I can read him like a book. I see it in the way he stands too long near the telemetry table where I’m working. I catch the way his hand twitches toward mine before he remembers. Or the way he leans in out of pure instinct when we pass too closely.

Jay, the reigning champion, the media darling, Ferrari’s golden boy — reduced to a man struggling to remember how to breathe without me reminding him.

And yet, he never pushes.

Every morning, my coffee has been sitting on my station before I arrive. Just the way I like it — two sugars, no lid, sleeve already on. Whenever I step out of my hotel room or get back at night, there’s a fresh bouquet waiting outside my door — peonies, or roses, or marigolds, or tulips. Wrapped neatly with the team’s garage tape. All these gestures never had a note or a name or anything, but I didn't need it to know who they were from.

He never knocked at the door either, but his actions — conscious or subconscious — spoke how he felt. The guilt bleeds off him, he wears it in the slump of his shoulders when I walk past. In the way his fingers tighten around his gloves like there’s something else he wants to hold. In every look he shoots me when he thinks I’m not watching, eyes full of ache and apology and that quiet ‘please’ that he never says out loud but I hear anyway.

Jay pulled the car into pit lane with a smoothness that, to the untrained eye, might’ve looked fine. But to us — to the team that knew his driving like gospel — it was obvious something was off. He unstrapped himself with methodical hands, slower than usual, and stepped out of the cockpit, fireproof gloves already tugged halfway off as he handed his helmet to one of the mechanics.

His race suit clung to him, streaked in sweat and dust from the circuit. Normally, after a run, he’d have that boyish glint in his eye, shoulders loose, lip curled in a smug half-smile as he asked about throttle trace and corner exit velocity.

But today he looked like a man dragging his heart behind him.

“Jay,” one of the technical directors called out as he approached. “What’s up, son?” the director asked, slapping a hand gently to Jay’s back as they started walking toward the engineering bay. “You’re lifting too early. Car’s fine — hell, it’s better than fine. But you look like you’re driving through a fog.”

Jay blinked, then shrugged with a tight-lipped expression. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. I could feel his eyes flick over to me before quickly darting away, like even looking in my direction burned.

Miserable didn’t even begin to cover how he looks.

-*-

That night, the garage was quieter than usual, the usual roar and chaos of the paddock fading into a low, distant hum, as if the whole world was exhaling after a long day. The faint scent of burnt rubber and engine oil clung stubbornly to the air, a reminder of the day’s relentless pace.

The heat of Monaco clung to the space like a thick, invisible blanket — heavy, stifling, and impossible to ignore. It pressed down on everything, curling into the edges of the garage, seeping into concrete walls and steel beams. I shifted in place, uncomfortable in my worn-in denim shorts that are sticking to my thighs with every move. The waistband dug just slightly as I leaned forward, a sheen of sweat gathering at the back of my knees.

Most of the team had already left or were wrapping up their own tasks elsewhere, but I stayed behind, focused on finishing up Jay’s gear prep. His equipment was a silent extension of him — every buckle, every clasp needed to be perfect. This was his armor, and I was the one tasked with ensuring it fit just right.

The HANS device still wasn’t quite where it needed to be, not by my standards. I set it down and glanced up as Jay lingered near the entrance, hesitant. “Jay,” I said quietly, almost commanding. “Come here. Let me check your HANS.”

When our eyes met, something flickered in him — hope, or maybe desperation. For a moment, he seemed to brighten up, like the mere act of me talking again was a small victory. But I was still a block of ice, my expression unreadable, carefully guarded.

He nodded without saying anything, and slowly setting his helmet somewhere. Strands of his dark hair clung damply to his forehead, plastered by the long hours under the sun and the strain of the test run. He lowered himself onto the stool in front of me without a word, his movements quiet.

He was still wearing his Nomex shirt which looked like it was painted onto him. The material clung to his body, damp with sweat, outlining every sharp line and sinew beneath. It hugged the swell of his chest, stretched over his shoulders, and clung to his biceps, the fabric pulled taut with every breath and subtle movement. The collar was tugged halfway down, exposing the clean slope of his throat. 

As I leaned in to clip the device into place, my fingers brushed along the edge of his jaw — light, barely a whisper of contact, but electric all the same. The stubble there was coarse against my skin, familiar. It should’ve been a clinical motion, routine, muscle memory. His gaze locked with mine, eyes dark and searching, filled with something unguarded and raw.

“I miss you,” he said softly, voice barely more than a whisper. His lips trembled as they moved gently, pressing a tentative kiss to my wrist, then my palm. I didn’t speak at first. I just looked at him — really looked. The flushed pink in his cheeks from the heat or the yearning, I couldn’t tell. The way his eyes had gone heavy-lidded, hooded. 

He looked wrecked. Needy. Not the Jay the cameras knew, not the star boy of the paddock — but mine. Just mine.

I slowly unclipped the HANS device and set it aside behind me with a deliberate click. The air between us buzzed, electric. I could feel the tension vibrating in his fingertips as they hovered just near my knee, waiting.

I leaned down slightly, voice low. “Show me, then.”

His breath caught, and before I could blink, his hands were at my waistband — unbuttoning my shorts with tentative, shaking fingers. He stripped them down in one smooth motion, panties sliding down with them to the garage floor, pooling around my ankles. Without hesitation, his hands smoothed up my thighs like prayer. Reverent. He kissed the inside of my knee, then higher, and higher still, each press of his mouth more devoted than the last.

“Tell me what to do,” he whispered against my skin, voice breaking like a vow. “I’ll do it. I’ll fix it. I swear.” I looked down at him — still kneeling, still in his sweat-drenched Nomex, chest heaving like he’d just finished a full race stint. But this? This was his real endurance.

His hands curled around the back of my thighs, placing them over his shoulders with that practiced ease, thumbs brushing reverently along the curve just under my hips. His head dipped, the collar of his Nomex shirt tugging just a little further down, sweat still glistening along his collarbones as he exhaled against my skin.

He traced my clit with his lips like he owed me something, “Fuck, I’ve missed you. Every part of you.”

I didn’t guide him, I didn’t have to. He recalls every soft spot, every sound that caught in my throat, every twitch of my fingers as they tugged in his hair — not tender, but possessive. Testing him. Tethering him.

“Jay,” I gasped, my voice barely recognizable as my own. He looked up at me through his lashes, lips wet and parted, swollen. “Don’t stop.”

His grip on my thighs tightened — not painful, no, never — but full of desperation, like letting go meant losing me all over again. Every movement of his mouth was frantic, like an apology written in tongue and breath.

When that heat coiled in my stomach and snapped, one of my hands flew behind me to brace against the workbench, the other buried itself in his hair, yanking just enough to make him groan against me. 

He didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, as if the taste of me was his salvation.

When he finally pulled back, I could properly see those glassy eyes, faint sweat caught on his soft curls that clung to his forehead. But instead of leaving, he rested his head against my inner thigh, breathing hard, grounding himself like he needed the contact to keep from falling apart entirely.

My slick was still glistening on his chin, dripping slowly down his jawline. He made no move to wipe it away, too intoxicated by my taste to wipe it off. His eyes closed slowly like the world had finally gone quiet in his head.

A man of many talents, my Jay. Precision braking, top-speed control, knew how to make me come — except remembering dates, apparently. 

- ᯓ -

The next morning arrived laden with humidity and tension, Monaco’s sun already spilling searing and merciless over the paddock before the engines had even started. I stood by the telemetry monitors, eyes trained on the scrolling data, but my attention kept wandering back to him.

Jay stood beside the car, half-listening to the race engineer walk through setup changes, nodding absently, helmet tucked under his arm. His race suit clung to him in the heat — red and branded, gleaming as usual — but his posture gave him away. There was a subtle stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw set rigidly.

In every post-breakup interview, every carefully worded press conference, I spotted the moment his fingers drifted up to tug gently at the curve of his ear. It’s a nervous tic he’d never quite managed to shake. He only did it when he was dodging something real — an uncomfortable truth, an emotional landmine, or just when reporters prodded a little too close to the subject of us. 

‘You’ve had a stellar season, but are there any concerns heading into tomorrow’s race?’

‘You looked a little frustrated after FP2 — is there something off with the car or just track conditions?’

Tug.

‘You’ve always credited your inner circle for keeping you grounded. Everything alright mentally heading into this one?’

Tug.

I had watched it unfold on screen more times than I could count — his picture-perfect media-trained mask, every answer crisp, charming, noncommittal. But the nervous tug of his ear was his tell, the soft confession his mouth never made.

It didn’t fool me. It never had. I knew the difference between race nerves and something deeper. He was thinking about me, and he knew I noticed.

He was back in the garage after his morning media rounds and microphones shoved in his face, the sharp scent of heat and engine oil trailing faintly behind him, laced with just a hint of cologne clinging to the collar of his undershirt — one I recognized instantly. He moved through the space like someone half-present, greeting a few crew members with nods, polite but distant, eyes scanning out of instinct more than curiosity. 

I didn’t look at him at first, I just did what I always did. I focused on the checklist in front of me, fingers moving over gear I could prep in my sleep. Torque specs, harness calibration, tire temps — all second nature by now. If I kept my hands busy, maybe the ache in my chest wouldn’t claw its way upward.

Around us, the team operated with quiet efficiency. A couple engineers moved toward the car, final checks being logged off with tight nods and murmured confirmations. One of the techs helped him shrug into his race suit fully and zipped it up, another crouched to help adjust the cuffs around his boots.

My hands moved on autopilot, finding his gloves on the workbench without needing to look or think. I folded them the way he liked: neatly, palms down, index fingers tucked in slightly, so they didn’t crease awkwardly when he slipped them on. The small reflex remained in my body, no matter how much I tried to unlearn it. It’s a habit stitched into my bones after months of doing it for him.

He stood there in front of me in full gear, helmet on, waiting. Not for the gloves. For something else — for the kiss.

It had started as a joke, once — something stupid and impulsive in the rush of his early podium days. I had leaned in and kissed the visor of his helmet before a race, laughing as my lipstick left a perfect red print over the clear polycarbonate. He won that race. And the next. And the next. And suddenly, it became a ritual — not a superstition, he’d insist, but something more sacred. “It’s not just the kiss,” he told me once, helmet already strapped beneath his chin, gloved hands resting against my waist. “It’s you. You win the races. I just drive.” He swore by it too, that faint kissprint above his line of sight calmed him, makes him focus, like he was already halfway to the checkered flag. He never raced without it. 

Until now.

I handed him the gloves wordlessly, ignoring the way he tilted his helmeted head slightly forward like instinct. And when I brushed past him, his shoulders tensed because the kiss didn’t come. He froze and looked away like he could swallow down the sting.

“I can race without the kiss,” he said. “I just… don’t want to.” His voice cracked like worn leather.

Just then, the garage radio crackled to life, slicing the tension with mechanical precision: “Car 17, radio check.”

He blinked and turned slightly, fingers lifting to adjust his earpiece below the helmet. “Loud and clear,” he answered, but his voice was tight, strained. He gave a quick nod to the race engineer, murmured something clipped in return, and then turned on his heel, the movement precise but not relaxed like usual.

Honestly? After seeing him like this — so tormented, so stripped of that usual indestructible veneer, the one he wore so convincingly that even the cameras believed it — it did something to me, like a needle under my ribs. I had already forgiven him. Last night something cracked open in me, and the light had started to creep back in before I even realized it. 

Seeing his restless hunger for my attention, still looking at me like I was the only way he remembered how to breathe… it poked at something low in my stomach. I could feel it coil every time his gaze flicked toward me, aching, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands unless they were on me.

And maybe that’s why I let it drag out a little longer. Just a little.

He made it too easy, like he couldn’t help himself. His body spoke volumes, louder than anything he’d said out loud. I wasn’t really being cruel… I just wanted to see how far I could push before he unraveled completely.

The pre-practice runs had already started, tires shrieking in bursts as Jay darted around the track — or tried to. I watched the monitors in silence, arms crossed, the sound of engines blending with the low hum of telemetry feeds.

“Telemetry is fine. Car is good,” one of the engineers mumbled beside me, his eyes narrowed at the stream of data pouring across the screen. His voice was clipped, laced with confusion. “But he’s still lifting too early, way too early.”

Another voice chimed in behind me, sharp and uneasy. “Throttle trace is inconsistent. He’s overthinking in sector two.” I’d seen this before — not often, because Jay was usually a machine behind the wheel. But when something emotional had its claws in him, it bled into everything.

“Driver feedback doesn’t match what we’re seeing,” someone muttered further down the pit wall. “He said brake bias is off—”

“But it’s not,” I cut in before I could stop myself, eyes fixed on the track display. “It’s him. Not the car.” No one argued back at me, they knew I was right. I knew my work was flawless.

A static crackle split through the comms: “Box, box, Jay. Let’s reset.”

A few more laps ticked by, each one dragging like an exhale held too long. The kind of silence that felt heavier than any noise — not because no one was speaking, but because everyone was waiting for something to snap back into place. But it didn’t. Jay was off. I could see it in the throttle curves, the braking points, the hesitation creeping into corners he used to crush. He wasn’t himself.

Then I heard his voice, faint and scratchy over the comms. “Coming in,” he said, just that, layered in a quiet kind of defeat that settled into my chest like weight. The static gave way to the overhead broadcast. The announcer’s voice cut through the background hum of the garage: “We’re on a 30-minute hold before second practice resumes.”

Jay pulled into the bay a few seconds later, the car rolling in clean but the atmosphere around him anything but. He was already wrestling off his gloves by the time the engine cooled — slow, mechanical movements like he wasn’t really present. His helmet was off, hanging from his hand, his hair matted to his forehead from the heat.

“What are you doing?” one of the assistant directors barked, arms flung wide in frustration. “The race is tomorrow, Jay. Tighten the fuck up.” but Jay didn’t flinch, just went to sit somewhere.

He wasn’t driving like the car was part of him anymore. He was second-guessing every movement, every intuitive knee and arm jerks that used to come without thinking. His mind was clouded, heavy, pulled somewhere else. To me.

And maybe the cruelest part wasn’t just knowing it — it was also knowing how easily I could fix it. 

He sat on the edge of the bench beside the telemetry table, silent, water bottle in hand. His lips were parted slightly as he took small, unfocused sips, his eyes glued to the industrial fan spinning nearby like it might give him answers. But he just looked… hollowed out. Like someone had scooped the fire out of him and left the shell behind.

God.

Fuck.

Fine.

I let out a sharp exhale through my nose once I noticed how the team was too focused on whispered commentary and screen replays. “Jay,” I said, just loud enough for only him to hear. “I need your help with something. Now.”

He blinked slowly, stunned, like his brain couldn’t quite catch up with my words fast enough. But something flickered and rushed in, filled the space behind his eyes, and before he could think too hard about it, he stood and followed me without a word. Just like a lost kitten.

I led him down the narrow hallway, the hum of the garage fading with every step. We passed racks of spare parts and stacks of unused tires wrapped in warming blankets, the faint ticking of cooling engines echoing through the stillness. 

I knew the sound of his footsteps behind me — cautious but eager, like he wasn’t sure if he was walking into forgiveness or fire.

The storage room door creaked slightly when I pushed it open. I stepped inside, the dim light flickering overhead like it, too, was unsure of what this was. He followed me in, breath hitching when the door clicked shut behind us.

“Y/N…” he started, voice rough and uncertain. I turned slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make his chest rise harder with the weight of it. “You really think I don’t know how you operate, Jay?” I asked, stepping into his space. I was close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him, see the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

Just one more push to his buttons. Just one more time.

I tilted my head just slightly, lips brushing his — not quite kissing, just grazing. Enough to make him chase it. “You drive like shit when you’re heartbroken,” I breathed against his mouth.

That did it for him, his hands that were already on me tightened their grip. A quiet groan escaped his throat when his lips crashed against mine in something too messy to be called a kiss.

His hands were everywhere — roaming like he couldn’t decide which part of me he missed more. One palm flattened over the curve of my lower back, while the other gripped my hip with bruising certainty. He squeezed my ass like he was trying to re-memorize the skin he already knew by heart.

Clothes peeled away fast, forgotten. His hand palmed its way between us to pull at the waistband of my shorts, rough from haste. My back arched against the wall with a moan from me once his cock sank into me. His fingers dug in, dragging me down harder onto him with every thrust.

I gasped as his other hand slipped beneath my thigh, hooking under my knee and hauling my leg up, opening me wider for him. The shift had me taking him deeper, impossibly so. “God, you feel so—” he choked out, voice unraveling into a groan.

He moved his pelvis like he couldn’t stand the thought of space between us. Every roll of his hips, every bruising grip, every trembling inhale was a silent plea. 

His fingers laced through mine, lifting them to his lips mid-thrust like he couldn’t stop himself. “You steady my fire,” he murmured, his mouth warm and shaking slightly against my knuckles. The way he looked at me made my breath catch. “You know that, right?”

I swallowed hard, a sound catching in my throat as his hips pressed deeper into mine. I couldn’t answer — not with words — just a soft whimper and the way my legs tightened around him in response, pulling him impossibly closer.

He drank in every sound I made like it was water after drought, his lips ghosting down my jaw, over my shoulder, anchoring himself in the softness I tried so hard not to show him anymore.

I couldn’t think, barely holding on to a single coherent thought as he moved against me. Every part of me felt stretched tight, strung up in the kind of tension that hummed just under the skin, raw and unrelenting.

Jay wasn’t being gentle. No, he was desperate with it — like he needed to feel every inch of me to stay grounded. 

The pressure coiled low in my stomach, slow and burning white-hot. It was too much and not enough all at once. My breath hitched as my nails dug into the back of his shoulder. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, chasing something just out of reach. And still, he was murmuring things under his breath — words I couldn’t quite catch, but felt more than heard. 

Heat shattered through me, sharp and overwhelming, like a wave crashing over every nerve ending. My breath was caught between a gasp and a moan as I came around him, my muscles clenched tight and then shuddered. 

His breathing was still uneven, chest pressing firmly against mine as we stood locked together. My fingers traced slow, wandering circles along the tense muscles of his back, feeling the heat and pulse beneath my touch.

A moment or two passed when then it just bubbled up in me — a laugh. Small at first, then unstoppable. I buried my face in his shoulder, trying to suppress but can’t quite manage.

Jay shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to glance down at me, confused and a little alarmed. “What’s so funny?” he asked, voice still rough around the edges, hair a total mess.

I bit my lip, still grinning. “I forgave you like… maybe ten bouquets ago.”

His brows furrowed. “Wait, what?” he blinked, trying to do the math. “You’re kidding.”

I shook my head, still laughing. He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half an exhale of disbelief. “Oh, you’re evil,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to my shoulder with a groan. “Cruel, evil woman.”

- ᯓ -

I was late. Of all fucking days to be running behind, today of all days — the race day. 

The roads to the circuit felt like they stretched on forever, endless. Every red light taunting me, every delay was a reminder of how close I was to miss the beginning. My heart pounded as I dashed through the chaos of the paddock, adrenaline mixing with a creeping panic. Every second wasted was another second I wasn’t at the track, wasn’t with him. My phone buzzed — phone calls and messages — none from him. What he didn’t know, and couldn’t know, was that I was racing against time just to get there. 

I barely caught my breath as I rounded the corner into the paddock, the thrum of engines and radio chatter crashing over me like a wave. I nearly tripped over the edge of my own boots, one hand steadying myself on the garage frame as I spotted Jungwon adjusting his headset.

He turned, brows lifting in surprise. “You made it,” he said, pushing his mic aside. “He’s already in the car. They’re rolling him out.”

My heart jumped, a mix of guilt and adrenaline pulsing through me. “Can I watch from the track?” I blurted. “I mean — pit side. Not from the monitors. I want to see him… really see him.”

Jungwon tilted his head. “You mean instead of the garage feed?”

“Yeah,” I nodded quickly, fingers twitching at my side. I’ve watched every lap of his from behind a screen. Every corner, every throttle trace, every sector split. But I don’t want to see him through data right now. I want to see him, live.

He studied me for a second, then gave a short nod toward the track edge. “Go. You’ve got two minutes before lights out.”

I thanked him under my breath and jogged toward the barrier that edged the pit lane. My lanyard flipped in the wind behind me, chest rising and falling too fast as the distant red blur of Jay’s car rolled into formation.

The moment his car rolled into view, a loud wave of sound exploded from the stands. The roar of his name wasn’t just noise; it was devotion, hundreds of voices rising all at once like a war cry for their champion. I felt it deep, the way the energy cracked through the air and wrapped around the track. They loved him, adored him. And as the scarlet flash of his livery passed, I could swear he soaked it in like fuel.

The lights went out, and with it, everything else in my head did too. The race started with the world narrowing to the sound of engines screaming down the straight, tires clawing at asphalt, and that flash of red — his red — slicing through the chaos. I watched him push, fight, every inch of the track a battleground for more than just speed.

Every corner he took with the kind of hunger that couldn’t be engineered. He was relentless, dancing that dangerous edge between brilliance and madness. And as the final laps blurred past, I realized I hadn’t unclenched my hands in minutes.

Then, just like that — it was over.

The finish line came fast, sudden and final. The scoreboard lit up a second later, and the numbers punched the air out of my lungs, flashing the impossible results that no one expected: a tie. 

Meaning there was one more round. One more chance.

My chest tightened the moment I saw him. Helmet off, fire suit unzipped halfway, sweat clinging to the curve of his jaw — he looked utterly wrung out. His eyes scanned the paddock like he was searching for something he couldn’t name. Like he was still racing, even after the car had stopped.

He sipped from a water bottle someone handed him, barely swallowing before pushing it away. The crew buzzed around him, adjusting things, calling out data — but he barely registered them. I could see it in the way he stood, like his body was here, but his mind was miles away.

He didn’t know I was here yet.

Until I stepped into his line of sight. His shoulders dropped, like some invisible anchor had finally been cut loose. Relief hit him so hard, he stumbled toward me without thinking — like instinct, like gravity.

“Hey,” I whispered, catching him as his arms wrapped around me tight.

He buried his face into the crook of my neck, breathing me in like I was the only clean air he’d had all day. I stroked the back of his head, gently, grounding him.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here before the first round,” I murmured against his hair. “I got caught up, the traffic — everything. I was late. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh...” His voice was hoarse but sure. “You’re here now. That’s all I care about.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, soft eyes flickering.

Then someone called out from the other end of the paddock — “Jay, you're up. Let’s go, round two!”

He sighed, long and quiet, as he adjusted the strap of his helmet. I could tell that he wasn’t entirely ready to walk away, but he was about to with seconds ticking against his chest.

“Wait,” I whispered as I reached out, lightly touching his arm.

He paused mid-step, turned back toward me. Even though I couldn’t see his face through the tinted visor, I knew him well enough to feel the way his breath caught. That slight hesitation in his stance, the tilt of his head — like muscle memory pulling him back to me.

I stepped in close and lifted myself just enough to lean in, lips pressing against the visor in a kiss — right where my lipstick always left its mark. “Be safe,” I murmured, letting the words settle between us. “And win.”

He didn’t speak, just a firm nod, then his gloved hand found mine and gave it a gentle squeeze, like a silent ‘thank you’. Then he jogged off toward the car, his steps lighter — like he’d just been handed something back, like a reborn man.

I watched him leave — not as his engineer, not as a strategist or teammate — but as someone who knew the rhythm of his breath better than telemetry ever could. My chest felt tight again, like my heart was being held between two trembling hands, trembling with awe, with nerves and with love tucked in the space between every beat.

I’d made my way back to the viewing area, blending in with the sea of spectators. Just one among thousands, waiting for that light to go out. The countdown felt like it echoed inside me.

Three. 

Two. 

One.

The start lights disappeared again for the last time today, and the roar of the engines came back. His car launched forward, surging like it had been waiting to be unleashed, finally. The corners he took now are done with surgical precision, every overtake like a challenge flung down and answered without mercy, every sector time had my heart climbing higher into my head. 

He wasn’t just fast, he was fierce. Clean lines. Ruthless moves. This wasn’t just him racing — this is him alive in that car, completely himself again.

Each lap was a war of nerves. Each sector bled seconds. When the checkered flag waved and dropped, it was like the entire circuit inhaled at once.

He won.

For a second, I didn’t hear the explosion of cheers around me. It was like I’d gone under, submerged in disbelief and wonder. I was still watching the scoreboard, hands over my mouth, eyes wide. Then the noise came rushing in all at once like a wave of sound. Applause, shouting, all strangers around me screamed his name and I smiled through my shock, hands still pressed to my lips.

Somehow, I knew what he believed with every fiber of his being that the kiss — that little touch of lipstick on his visor — had something to do with it. 

The cameras cut to parc fermé, but he didn’t go to the others. He didn’t even look toward the podium gates. With his helmet in hand, freeing his wild hair, gloves forgotten, Jay ran.

He bolted straight past the team, past the press, past the sea of microphones and congratulations, the kind that usually dragged him in. He didn’t stop, he didn’t even hesitate. He made for the barrier like it was the only thing keeping him from breathing.

Then — he leapt over the pit wall.

Security shouted, startled. A few mechanics turned in confusion. But I saw him, eyes locked on mine like he’d never looked away. The world blurred around us.

He reached me in seconds, arms crashing around my waist, lifting me off my feet with the full weight of everything he’d held in. And when he buried his face in my shoulder, it wasn’t just relief — it was release. 

“Don’t ever make me race without the kiss again,” he choked out, breath coming fast, smile blooming with that stupid, boy-ish recklessness I’d fallen for in the first place.

His earpiece was still buzzing: “Box for podium protocol, Jay. Jay? Jay — where the hell did he go?”

I laughed, half-shaking, half-melting into him. My hands slid into his sweat-damp hair, curling around the base of his neck, pulling him back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You don’t need luck,” I whispered.

He smiled, forehead resting against mine, sweat-slick and beaming, his eyes shining. “Yeah,” he breathed, “you’re right. I don’t need luck.” His lips brushed against mine, soft and sure, “I need you.”

[lyricwritesprose]

Oh. So I was the bad guy.

I hadn't meant to be the bad guy. I don't suppose anyone does. But in addition to remembering things like the throne and the armies and the crown of fire (which I knew how to summon, now, and also had a feeling it would be a very bad idea), I remember the utter rage. You think that ruling the world would get rid of rage. Everyone knows what happened to the last person who annoyed you because the crows are still at the bits, so surely everyone around you would take care not to offend and everything would work smoothly and it would all be all right. If you can crush everyone and nobody can crush you (old memories of a dungeon, a torturer, the man who took me as an apprentice because that would hurt my weakling original father worst of all) then everything would be all right and you would be happy.

Right?

Doesn't work that way. There's always more to be angry at. Always something.

And despite a very large portion of my mind being just a scream right now (is that anger or fear? Do I know? Have I ever known?) I didn't want to go back.

It had been good here.

I did have to do something about these bandits, though.

The first was holding a sword on Aia, so I grabbed the sword and snapped it in the middle. Should have been enough to tell all of them that they were engaging in an act of stupidity. But the thing about bandits is that they're usually desperate. Since the Empire of the Undying fell, and right now I am not going to deal with that being my fault in several different ways at once, there have been lots of bandits, mostly because minor kings are generally bone stupid enough to give a man a sword and a job and then not pay him afterwards, and what the fuck did they think was going to happen, heavily armed tea parties? Look, they used to say that a child could carry a bag of gold from one end of the Empire to another without being bothered by anything more than well-meaning busybodies, and that wasn't just because of all the impaling and necromantic punishments, it was because my fucking soldiers. Got. Paid. Idiots.

I was woolgathering, and I shouldn't be, because one of the bandits was coming at me with a mace, which I took away from him and broke his ribs with, more because that behavior was extremely rude than because he was any kind of threat to me. Threw it at the head of the bandit leader in the back yelling, "He can't get us all!" First of all, it wasn't true, and second, even if I couldn't get them all, I could most certainly get him. I dodged a sword, broke the arm of the bandit wielding it, and—since Aia couldn't see me—let my eyes flare up a little.

They bolted. Injured members hindmost. The cads.

I sighed, and carefully got my eyes under control, and turned to face Aia.

Oh. Right. That was the other thing about being the Undying. You didn't have any friends. People said they were. But you could see it in their eyes, hear the undercurrent of please no please no please no in the magic. (So was that scream anger, or fear, or loneliness?)

The thing about Aia is that she takes care of things. I don't think she can help it. Orphaned birds. Orphaned deer. Orphaned overlords. Not that she knew about that one. It didn't give me much of a chance, but maybe—

I looked down at the hand I had grabbed the sword with and told it it to stop being quite as invulnerable for right now if it knew what was good for it. "I'll go," I said quietly. "If you want. I'd like some salve, but I don't have to stay here." I held up my hand with its newly manifested fake sword wound.

Which was dishonest of me, yes. On the other hand, the need in her to fix things was every bit as strong as the need I'd had to crush them, and—I don't know—I thought that maybe it would put her on firmer ground? Control is the only thing I know of that fixes the screaming. I didn't know what I was going to do about that on my end of things, I knew I didn't want to go back, but—I also wanted to fix the screaming a little bit for her. To let her control something.

"Oh." She beckoned me back towards the house. "Oren, you're going to turn all my hair gray, do you know that? Why would you do something so risky?"

Oren is very much not my name. "I was scared," I admitted. (Hadn't said that since I became an apprentice, the old man was weak, I wasn't weak, I wasn't going to be weak, someday I was going to…) "Why didn't you stay inside? I could have talked to them."

"Then they would have threatened you."

"Better for me to get a little hurt than you get hurt. There's—I'm—look, it's important that you stay safe, all right?"

"I swear I think you might have been a knight," Aia said, and held the door absently so I could follow her into the kitchen.

I had not been a knight. I was very, very much not any kind of a knight.

I wasn't going to tell her that today, though.

Found memoryless in a forest, you lived for years on a widow’s farm. She tried everything to help you remember. Nothing worked until the day you saw her held at swordpoint, and your true identity came rushing back.

[luvyeni]

[ req? yes / no ]

𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗘 ─── you need to let him … but you just can’t …

( 対 ) anton lee + fem. reader wc. 0.9k genre smut · contains! toxic!anton , unprotected sex , breeding kink down bad anton mature content. / back to library

you remember that night all too well; no matter how much you tried to forget it — it played over and over in your head. the screaming , the cursing , the throwing glass around the house… it played in your head like a reoccurring nightmare — you kicked him out that night , slamming the door in his face.

he called so many times; but you ignored him , eventually blocking him , you just needed space for a bit to think — anton wasn’t gonna give you that , he showed up to the apartment , knocking on the door , speaking through the door to let him in , you were tempted , the way he spoke , so softly , you had to force yourself to walk away. this space was good for you , the both of you needed this time away from each other.

the thing is, anton didn’t want space from you , he needed you. you were his life line , his only reason for living… he couldn’t just let you go…

you knew you shouldn’t have unblocked him , never gave him the opportunity to have access to you while you were still healing and trying to figure things out — but he said he needed his clothes and some other things , and although you were pissed at him , you cared for the boy deeply and this was still his home so you let him come back — that was your biggest mistake.

“baby please — anton no.” you pushed him away , but he followed behind you. “we can just talk this out , i don’t want it to end like this.” he grabbed your wrist , spinning you around so you were facing him. “anton— no i’m not giving up on us.” he kissed your cheek , down to your neck. “please don’t end it , i need you.” he breathed against the wet spot. “do i need to get on my knees and beg , baby i will beg , i’ll fucking beg if i need to.” he gave you no room to breathe , you felt so overwhelmed. “t-ton.”

you felt his hands sliding down your waist , down to your bum. “shh , stop talking..” he said softly, taking you into his arms , your arms wrapped around his neck , he knew what he was doing , anton knew how to make you crumble in his arms even if you didn’t want to. “yo-you need to go, ge-get your things and leave.”

the quiver in your voice as he laid you down , crawling on top of you. “i don’t want to.” he said. “i want to stay here with you.” he kissed down your neck , you gasped. “i want to lay next to you.” he kissed all the way down your chest to your stomach , your legs responding to his words , opening slightly , he pried them open. “i want to feel you.” he kissed the inside of your bare thighs. “you smell so good.” kissing your clothed cunt. “i want to taste you.” he lick your folds , making your body arch up. “anton.” he moaned into your cunt as he licked you , like he’d been starving for you. “anton fuck.”

it’s like his tongue was magical , because as you came into his mouth and he drank you up like you were his favorite drink — you completely forgot why you were mad at him , all you could think about was him , that’s exactly what he wanted.

“hold still.” he pinned you down by your waist. “fuck.” his cock pressing against your hole. “so fucking tight.” you moaned as he pushed himself inside. “anton.” you yelled as he began to pound into you , he was gone for a week — but he was fucking you like he’d not seen you for ages. “fu-fuck , i missed you so much.” he groaned into your ear. “i missed the way you felt around me , the way your pretty pussy remembers my dick.” he was deep inside you , kissing your cervix. “you were made for me , made to be mine.”

your hands were pinned up above your head as he claimed you once again , you couldn’t do anything but moan his name as he carved himself back into your life. “you’re mines.” he whispered into your ear. “t-ton.” he moaned at the way you desperately called his name. “you can’t leave me , i won’t allow you to.” you clenched at that. “fu-fuck see? even your body knows , your body knows it belongs to me , just gotta get that stupid head to understand.” grunting out. “say you love me.”

“i-i love you.” you knew you’d end up regretting it again , but you didn’t care at the moment. “i love you so fucking much!” he growled , speeding up. “say you won’t ever leave me , say you’ll stay with me forever.” he grabbed your jaw. “fucking say it!” he yelled in between deep thrust. “anton i’m gonna cum!” he wasn’t ready for you to , he wanted to hear you’ll never leave him. “not until you say it.”

“fuck anton ! i’ll never leave you.” you moaned out , your body begging for a release. “please , please let me cum , i’ll never leave you, i promise.” your poor body was already trembling. “good job , now cum for me.” he whisper in your ear , biting down on the lobe. “cum all over my fucking cock.” you finally let go , your mouth dropped open as you came around him , he cursed , completely forgetting about his own orgasm until he felt his cock twitch , his seed spilling inside you. “ah sh-shit.” he bit on his lip , letting himself fill up your waiting womb , you let out an exhausted whimper. he kissed the side of your cheeks. “good girl , taking all my cum like that.”

“when you’re all round and swollen for me , you won’t be able to leave me.”

©️LUVYENI

[shelovesosa]

CTRL + ALT + LOVE

paring: Fictional!Satoru X F!Reader

art credits to scarlettismm on X!

sum!! After staying up late reading an emotional fanfic, a college student wakes to find the fictional love interest—Satoru Gojo—somehow real and lying beside her. Confused and out of place in the real world, Satoru begins to unravel. As they grow closer, they share laughter, secrets, and something deeper… even as time threatens to take him away. But sometimes, endings aren’t what they seem.

CW: MDNI, Romance,Contemporary Fantasy, Soft Sci-Fi, Magical Realism, Bittersweet, Angst with comfort, Temporary Love, Borrowed Time, Soft Smut, First Time Together, nerdjo cameo, soft dom, Memory Loss / Fading Reality Unexpected Second Chance. WC: 10.9k

It’s 1:41 a.m., your eyes are puffy, your nose is running, and you’ve just finished sobbing over a fictional man named Satoru who doesn’t even exist. And yet, somehow, he broke your heart like he did.

You’re curled up on your side in bed, blanket cocooned around you, the glow of your laptop screen still burning into your tired, emotional retinas. You knew what kind of fic it was going in—CEO AU, enemies-to-lovers, workplace drama. Classic. But nowhere in the tags did it say “character death.”

You sniffle loudly and scroll back to reread the last paragraph, as if torturing yourself again will somehow dull the pain.

“I should’ve said it sooner,” he whispered, blood soaking into the snow, eyes never leaving hers. “It was always you.”

The lights from the city faded behind him. And he didn’t blink again.

[End.]

You slam your hands on the keyboard.

“You’re kidding me,” you mutter out loud, nose stuffy and voice cracking. “You killed him? Seriously?! You made me sit through twenty chapters of slow-burn sexual tension, one shared bed trope, three almost-kisses and a forehead touch—just for this?”

You groan, throwing your arm over your face dramatically.

“God, I hate you, Satoru,” you whisper into your pillow. “I hate your stupid perfect face, and your ice-cold business demeanor, and your secretly soft heart, and the way you just died before you even got to live.”

You roll over, flinging a crumpled tissue at your desk.You sniff, dragging your fingers cross the keyboard to angrily type into the comments.

You:

@shelovesosa HOW DARE YOU.
Fix it. Fix it right now or I’ll manifest this man into my bed myself.

“Stupid author,” you add bitterly. “Oh Sosa. May your coffee always be lukewarm and your favorite show get canceled on a cliffhanger.”

You slam the laptop shut and toss it aside.

With a final sniff, you curl deeper into your sheets. Your brain is spinning in post-fanfic grief. You mumble one last thing, more out of sleep-deprived delirium than real intent:

“…I wish he were real.” You fall asleep with the ache of unfinished stories in your chest.

The morning comes too fast. You’re groggy, head foggy from too many dreams and too little sleep. Your alarm bleats somewhere in the background as you reach to turn it off.

Except your hand doesn’t land on your phone.

It lands on something warm. And solid. And breathing. You freeze. Your eyes fly open.

There’s a shape beside you in bed. A weight. The blankets are shifted, your mattress slightly dipped like someone else is laying there. Slowly, you turn your head.

And the world tilts. There’s a man in your bed. White hair. Pale skin. Shirtless. Lean muscle. His face is turned toward the window, but even from this angle— It’s him. Your heart lurches.

Satoru. Not cosplay. Not a dream. Not just similar. It’s Satoru, exactly as he was in the fanfic. Down to the small scar above his brow the author described in chapter six.

Your lips part, no sound coming out. You're frozen. Shaking.

He stirs. Brows knit. Eyes flutter. And slowly, his lashes lift. Blue eyes. He sees you. And everything happens at once.

He jolts upright, sheets sliding off his bare chest. You scream. He flinches.

“Wh—what the hell?!” he chokes, eyes wild. “Where—what is this?! Who are you?!”

You scramble back, nearly falling out of bed. “Me?! Who are YOU?! This is my room!”

He stares at you, chest heaving. “No. No, this isn’t… This isn’t right.”

He looks around, dazed. Confused. His voice is raspy, like it hurts to speak.

“I was in Tokyo,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “It was snowing. I was bleeding. I was with—” He swallows, eyes darting toward you again. “Where is she?”

You blink. “Who?”

He stares. His voice breaks.

“…You’re not her.”

Something cold seeps into your spine. Because you know who he means. The her from the fanfic. The girl he loved before he died.

“But you’re not real,” you whisper. “You’re fictional. You died. I read it last night—I read your death—”

“I remember dying,” he snaps, voice shaking. “I felt it. I saw her crying. And then I woke up here.”

You both sit in stunned silence.

He presses a palm to his forehead. “This is a nightmare. I’m dreaming. Or— Or I was rewritten. Or this is some kind of punishment—”

You crawl slowly to the edge of the bed, still watching him like he might vanish.

“I think I summoned you,” you say weakly. “I cursed the author. As a joke. I said I wished you were real.”

He glares at you like you’re insane. But underneath it all—his trembling fingers, the way he keeps glancing around the room, the panic in his breathing—you see it:

He’s terrified. And it makes your heart hurt.

“…I want to go back,” he finally says.

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know how.”

He stares at you like it’s your fault. Maybe it is.

You clutch your sheets and whisper, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

His voice is flat.

“You’re not supposed to be her.”

You’ve never wanted to faint so badly in your life. He’s still sitting in your bed—your stupid college dorm twin XL bed—with your blush-pink blanket slung over his lap like that’s the most offensive part of all this.

His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and he’s still staring at the wall like it might open up and take him back to wherever he came from. Fiction. Paper. Imagination.

But now he's here. And he’s not pixelated or made of words. He’s real.

“I need to go back,” he mutters again. “She’s waiting.”

You chew your lip. “She’s not real.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I mean, she was real to you,” you add quickly. “But… she’s just words. I read her. She’s a reader-insert. She’s a blank space.”

“No,” he says, voice firm. “She was real. I loved her.”

You fall quiet. What are you supposed to say? Sorry, she was just me with better confidence and no student loans?

You sit down slowly on the edge of the bed. Satoru tenses, but doesn’t move.

“This is going to sound absolutely insane,” you start carefully, “but I think I pulled you out of your story. I was mad at the ending, I said I wished you were real, and then… this happened.”

He scoffs. “So I’m a pity project. Great.”

You frown. “No! You weren’t supposed to actually show up! I thought maybe I’d dream about you or something, not… wake up with you in my bed, very shirtless and very confused.”

You realize you’re staring at his chest. You immediately look away.

“This is a glitch,” he mutters. “Some kind of cruel rewrite. I shouldn’t be here.”

You glance at him. “Do you… remember everything?”

He nods. “Every scene. Every chapter. I remember dying.”

There’s a long pause.

“God,” you whisper. “That’s so messed up.”

He finally laughs—but it’s not a happy sound. It’s dry. Hollow. “Tell me about it.”

You rub your eyes. “Okay. Look. We have two problems.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Only two?”

“One,” you hold up a finger, “we don’t know how you got here. Two… you’re glitching.”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You were flickering,” you say, voice soft. “Just for a second. Like… your edges blurred. Like a dream.”

He doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches, like he felt it, too.

“…So I’m not stable.”

You say nothing. After a moment, he exhales and slumps back slightly.

“God, this is pathetic,” he mutters. “I was the most powerful man in the city. I could ruin a company with one phone call. I had private jets. Now I don’t even have pants.”

You try—try—not to laugh.

“I can get you pants,” you offer.

His eyes narrow. “Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you,” you lie. “I just don’t think walking around shirtless in a college dorm is going to help your situation.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

You grab a pair of sweatpants from your drawer and toss them at him. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You’re gonna have to sneak.”

He catches them with ease and stands, still moving like he owns a twenty-story skyscraper. You try not to stare at his back as he walks to the door.

He turns the knob, then pauses.

“…What’s your name?” he asks, glancing back at you.

You blink. “Y/N.”

He stares for a beat.

Then says, quietly, “I don’t remember that being in the story.”

You smile a little. “That’s because I wasn’t in it.”

He hesitates. Then opens the door and vanishes into the hallway.

You spend the next fifteen minutes pacing your room like it’s about to burst into flames. There’s a fictional man in your dorm bathroom.

You summoned him. You broke something. Maybe the universe. Maybe yourself.

He’s glitching. You don’t know how long he has. And he’s desperate to get back to a girl who doesn’t exist. But for some reason, he’s still here. Still real. And you don’t know what that means yet.

You’re sitting on the edge of your twin bed, clutching a lukewarm cup of instant coffee and trying not to spiral. Because this is real.

It’s not a dream. Not some grief hallucination brought on by staying up too late reading slow-burn fanfiction and eating sour gummies. There’s no typo, no delete button, no author’s note to reverse what’s happened.

Satoru is here.

The fictional man you loved and mourned and cursed the night before is now somewhere in your dorm’s communal bathroom, wearing your ex’s old sweatpants and the expression of someone who’s been yanked out of death and dumped into a college campus like a tossed USB file.

You stare at the door until it creaks open.

He steps inside cautiously, drying his hands on the front of his hoodie. His white hair is still damp, falling slightly in his eyes. He looks softer like this, like less of the towering CEO you met through carefully crafted prose and more like a very lost man who’s trying not to shatter.

You clear your throat. “Everything okay?”

He looks at you, nods stiffly, then glances around the room again like he still can’t quite believe where he is.

“I counted six women brushing their teeth in one bathroom,” he says, sitting on the desk chair like it offends him. “One of them offered me dry shampoo. I don’t know what that is.”

You snort into your cup. “Welcome to dorm life.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just studies you with unreadable eyes. Sharp and searching. Like you’re an answer he doesn’t want to need.

“This place…” he murmurs, gesturing vaguely to your walls cluttered with sticky notes and fairy lights, “this isn’t… scripted.”

You raise a brow. “No. That’s kind of how real life works.”

He leans back, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

“You said I’m not supposed to exist here. So what does that mean? Am I… fading? Am I going to just—stop?”

Your throat tightens. You’ve been wondering the same thing.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But you’re still here now. That has to mean something.”

He exhales, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling.

You watch him in silence. His hands are resting on his thighs, long fingers twitching slightly like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something. A phone. A pen. Her. You put your coffee down.

“Look,” you say softly, “I know I’m not her. And I didn’t mean for this to happen. But until we figure out what’s going on, maybe you should just… stay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Here?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “Just for now. You clearly have nowhere else to go. And I don’t think you're ready to navigate student housing or explain why you don’t have ID.”

Satoru stares at you like the concept of help is foreign. Which, based on the version of him you read about, it probably is.

Finally, he murmurs, “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” you say gently. “It’s a blanket and some time to breathe.”

He looks at you, expression unreadable. But he nods once.

You set up a sleeping bag on the floor that night. It’s the best you can offer in a room barely large enough to fit two people standing up. He lies stiffly on top of it, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling like sleep is a stranger.

You lie in bed, eyes open.bYou think about how he held the love of his life while he died. And now he’s here. Not holding anyone.

“Do you miss her?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, his voice is soft.

“I think I miss the way she made me feel. Like I wasn’t just a weapon in a suit.”

You’re quiet.

He adds, a beat later, “But maybe that feeling wasn’t even mine. Maybe I only loved her because someone wrote me that way.”

You turn to look at him. But he’s already looking at you. Neither of you says anything after that.

You wake up to the smell of something burning. Your eyes shoot open, heart already sprinting.

You stumble out of bed, nearly tripping on the sleeping bag where Satoru isn’t anymore. You hear the clatter of pans, the groan of the microwave, and a very muffled, very confused “Why is this machine yelling at me?”

You rush into the kitchenette area down the hall, still barefoot, to find Satoru standing in front of the microwave, poking at the buttons like they insulted his mother.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, half-laughing, half-panicked.

He points at the microwave indignantly. “It said ‘popcorn’ but there were sparks! Sparks, Y/N!”

You grab the bag—oh god, the foil kind—and toss it in the trash before it sets off the building alarm.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, hair slightly messy, wearing your oversized hoodie and sweatpants like he’s a very lost, very pretty houseguest.

“Have you never used a microwave?”

“Why would I?” he asks, completely serious. “I had a private chef in Tokyo.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And then, maybe for the first time since he showed up… you both laugh.

Real laughter. Yours high-pitched and breathless, his deeper, more surprised. It crackles in the small space between you. And for just a second, he doesn't look like a man unraveling.

He looks like a boy. New. Unwritten.

Later, you’re sitting on the floor together, eating cereal straight from the box. His hair keeps falling in his eyes. You reach out without thinking and brush it back.

He freezes. So do you. His eyes meet yours. And for a second—just a second—there’s something like electricity in the air. Not sparks from microwaves. Not glitchy fiction magic.

Something real. You pull your hand back quickly. But he doesn’t stop looking at you.

“…I didn’t feel this way in the story,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

You glance at him, heart thudding. “Feel what way?”

He doesn’t answer. But his knee brushes yours, and neither of you moves.

That night, he glitches. You're the first to notice. It’s small, at first. You're talking about breakfast cereal—how you mix Frosted Flakes and granola together like a heathen—and he tilts his head, eyes clouding slightly.

“I’ve never had cereal,” he says.

You blink.

“Yes, you did. This morning. You ate like half the box.”

He frowns. “No, I didn’t. We went to that place. With the… tiny pancakes.”

“…Satoru,” you say softly, “that was from Chapter 11. Of the fanfic. The Paris trip.”

His expression blanks. And then something in his face glitches. Like static behind his eyes. It only lasts a moment—but it’s long enough.

He exhales, hand pressed to his forehead. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

You don’t know what to say.

He looks at you, voice quieter now. “I’m not built for this world. I’m already forgetting.”

You kneel in front of him, gently placing your hand on his. “Then we don’t waste time.”

His breath catches. You hold his hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him here. And maybe it is.

You don’t go to class the next day. You don’t even pretend to.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re “monitoring the anomaly” or “preserving the fabric of reality.” But really, it’s because Satoru wakes up on the floor with the most lost look on his face and whispers, “Where am I again?” and it breaks your heart clean in half.

You sit with him until he remembers. Your name. The coffee spill. The dorm microwave. He laughs about the popcorn again, a little shakier this time. But it still counts. After that, you don’t leave his side.

The two of you walk the campus late at night when no one’s around. He keeps staring at trees like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“I didn’t have these,” he murmurs. “Not like this. The ones in the fic were always perfectly sculpted. Background props.”

You smile softly. “These ones grow crooked. They drop leaves. Sometimes birds poop on you.”

He tilts his head. “I like them better.”

You take him to the library next. He walks the rows of books with reverent hands, trailing fingers across every spine like he’s scared they’ll vanish.

“I thought I knew words,” he says, voice low. “But this is different. These were made by people. Not an author playing God. Just… people.”

You nod. “People with lives. Mistakes. Ugly handwriting and messy endings.”

Satoru turns to you.

You don’t know what he sees in your face, but it’s enough to make him pause.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Expected from what? Fanfiction?”

He shakes his head. “No. From reality.”

You teach him how to use your phone. He FaceTimes the pizza place by accident and panics when someone picks up.

You try to explain memes, which leads to you both scrolling through TikToks on your bed for an hour straight. He becomes obsessed with cooking videos.

At one point, your head drops onto his shoulder. He doesn’t move. His breathing slows, steadies, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Neither of you says anything about it.

You stay up one night talking. Really talking. You're lying side by side on your bed, not touching, but so close your arms are brushing.

“I used to think I was in love with her,” he says.

You stare at the ceiling. “The version of me from the story.”

He nods. “But she didn’t challenge me. She didn’t argue. She was soft in all the ways the author needed her to be.”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure how to feel.

He turns his head to look at you. “You’re not soft.”

You blink. “Gee, thanks.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmurs. “You’re… messy. Complicated. Real. You snore.”

You shove his arm lightly, and he grins.

But then his smile fades.

“I’m scared I won’t remember this,” he whispers.

You turn your head slowly. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing you.

“I’m scared I’ll forget you.”

Your chest tightens.

You whisper, “Then I’ll remember for both of us.”

Something shifts in the space between you. Like gravity pulling tighter.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But his hand inches closer to yours. And this time, when your fingers touch— You hold it tighter.

It starts small again. A pause mid-conversation.

A moment where Satoru tilts his head and says, “Remind me what this is again?” while pointing at something he’s already asked about twice.

You want to pretend it’s nothing. That he’s just distracted. But then you catch him standing by the window later that evening, staring out at the streetlight like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“Do you remember this morning?” you ask quietly, stepping beside him.

He turns slowly. “…Was there cereal?”

You nod.

He gives you a sad smile. “I forgot the flavor.”

You don’t know what to say. So you walk over, wrap your arms around his torso, and press your cheek to his chest.

His breath catches. You feel his arms come up, slowly, hesitantly. Like he’s afraid he’ll crush you. Like if he holds you too tightly, he might disappear completely.

His chin rests on top of your head. His heartbeat is loud beneath your ear. Neither of you moves for a long time.

That night, he doesn’t want to sleep on the floor.

“I know I said I would,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the sleeping bag. “But I just… I don’t want to feel far from you right now.”

You nod. You move over. He climbs in beside you. He stays on his side at first. Doesn’t touch you. But eventually, in the dark, his fingers find yours beneath the covers.

He holds your hand like it’s the last thread connecting him to the world. And maybe it is.

You dream of water. A soft tide pulling you away. Something fading. When you wake, he’s already looking at you. His hand is on your cheek. His thumb brushes just under your eye.

“I had a dream,” he whispers.

You hum sleepily, not opening your eyes. “What about?”

“I was back,” he says. “In the story. She was there. The office. The desk. The skyline.”

You open your eyes. He’s quiet for a long time.

Then: “But I didn’t feel anything.”

You turn to face him. “What do you mean?”

“I saw her. But she didn’t look like you. She looked like a blank space. Like a fill-in. She smiled at me, but it wasn’t you.”

He reaches for your face again.

“This world is loud. Messy. Exhausting. And I still want to stay in it.”

Your throat burns. “You might not get that choice.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“I know.”

Silence. Just your breath and his. Then he whispers:

“But if I’m going to vanish, I want to remember you.”

It’s quiet in the room. The kind of quiet that hangs between words never spoken. Between goodbyes that haven’t happened yet.

You lie beside him, breath soft, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. His hand is still resting over yours beneath the blanket, fingers loosely entwined like a tether to reality. His thumb brushes gently along your knuckles.

“Satoru,” you whisper, your voice nearly lost in the hush of the room. “Are you okay?”

His eyes are already on you. He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then: “No.”

Your heart twists.

“I feel like I’m slipping,” he says, voice low, a little raw. “Like parts of me are coming undone. I try to remember the story, the office, the people... it’s all fog. But you—” His hand tightens around yours. “You’re the only thing I still feel.”

You swallow, throat thick. “Then hold on to me.”

His gaze drops to your lips.

“Can I?” he whispers. “Really hold you? Just once. Before I forget?”

You nod. The moment stretches. And then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Uncertain at first, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish too. But when you sigh against his mouth, it deepens—his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you fully. Thoroughly.

He kisses you like he wants to taste your memory. Like he’s carving the shape of you into whatever part of him still exists beyond the glitch.

You shift closer, and his hand slips beneath your shirt, splaying across your waist. His palm is warm. Steady. You shiver at the contact.

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You,” he says. “Slow. Real. I want to make it count.”

You sit up slightly, letting him pull your shirt over your head. His eyes trail over you, and something in them breaks. Reverence. Hunger. Grief.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I almost didn’t get to see you like this.”

You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thudding beneath your palm. His hoodie comes off next, followed by his shirt, and you press your lips to his skin—his collarbone, his sternum, the small scar just under his ribs like the one described in the story. But it’s different seeing it here. Seeing him here. Alive. Real. Yours, even if only for tonight.

He lies back and pulls you with him, hands exploring your body like you’re something precious—trailing down your sides, across your back, fingers gripping your thighs with quiet desperation.

When you grind against him slowly, feeling the thick press of him through his boxers, his breath catches hard in your ear.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so soft—so warm—I didn’t know this part of the world could feel so… good.”

You roll your hips again, and he groans deep in his throat, hands locking tight on your waist.

“Need to feel you,” he whispers. “All of you.”

You shift your weight and reach down, guiding him free from his boxers, his cock hard and hot in your palm. His breath hitches as your fingers wrap around him gently, stroking once—slow and curious.

His voice is ragged. “Please.”

You press a kiss to his lips, then rise just enough to line yourself up.

And when you sink down onto him, he gasps—eyes fluttering shut, head falling back against the pillow.

“Oh god—”

You’re both breathing heavy now.

You pause, adjusting to the stretch of him, the tightness between you. His hands slide up your thighs, then settle at your hips, holding you still as he tries not to lose control too soon.

“You feel… perfect,” he chokes. “Better than anything I’ve ever known.”

You begin to move, slow and careful, your bodies rocking together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. His hands roam—palming your breasts, sliding up your spine, gripping your hips as you roll against him with aching tenderness.

“Satoru,” you whisper, leaning over him, your forehead pressed to his.

He opens his eyes. And in them—desperation. Need. Love.

“I don’t want to forget this,” he says again, voice breaking.

“Then remember me like this,” you whisper. “Remember the way I feel. The way I look at you. The way you make me feel so full, like I was meant to hold you.”

He groans at your words, thrusting up into you with more force. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders, meeting him with matching urgency.

It builds between you—need turning sharp, trembling, sacred.

You come first—tightening around him, breath catching as you moan his name through clenched teeth, nails digging into his back.

He follows you seconds later, holding you tight to him as he spills inside you, your names tangled in breathless gasps.

Afterward, you lie on his chest, both of you still shaking. His hand runs gently down your spine. You feel him press a kiss to your temple.

“You’re the best thing I never got written for,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You just hold him. Because you know what’s coming next. And he’s slipping again.

you lie with him for a long time. His body is warm, tangled with yours beneath the blanket, his breath steady against your shoulder. One hand rests lazily over your stomach, like he’s anchoring himself to your skin.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that—wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after something true.

But eventually, you feel his fingers twitch. Then still. Then again.

“Satoru?” you whisper.

He blinks slowly, then furrows his brows like something's wrong.

“…What was your name again?”

Your heart drops.

You sit up, brushing hair out of his face. “Don’t joke.”

“I’m not,” he says, voice quiet. Distant. “I know you. I feel like I know you. But it’s slipping. Like I’m trying to hold water in my hands.”

You press your palm to his cheek. “You’re still here. You’re still with me.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. That’s when you realize—This is it. He won’t last much longer. Whatever brought him here—whatever magic, glitch, miracle—it’s running out.

And if he goes like this, half-glitched, half-lost, it’ll break both of you. So you do the only thing you can.

You get out of bed. Pull on a hoodie. And sit at your desk. The words don’t come easy at first. But then your fingers move. Not on your phone. Not in a fanfic comment thread. On paper.

With a real pen, real ink, real hands. You write him an ending. A soft one.

Where he’s not a CEO haunted by guilt. Not a tragic man doomed to die before he can fall in love. You write him waking up in a quiet home, sunlight through curtains, coffee in a chipped mug, a cat that curls on his lap. You write him laughing. You write him safe. You write him at peace.

And you write that he gets to say goodbye. When it’s done, you read it aloud to him. Your voice shakes.

He listens, seated on the edge of your bed, blanket wrapped around his hips, eyes full of something that doesn’t feel like a glitch anymore. It feels like gratitude.

When you finish, you look up. He’s smiling softly.

“You did it,” he whispers.

“I gave you an ending,” you say. “You deserved one.”

He stands. Walks to you. And kisses you again. This one is slower. Full of something final.

“Thank you for writing me something better,” he says against your lips.

Tears well in your eyes. “Thank you for being real. Even just for a little while.” His fingers linger on your cheek.

He vanishes in the morning. Not with fanfare. Not with light or thunder or spark.

Just… A flicker.

You’d gone to brush your teeth. You’d left him tangled in your sheets, watching you from the bed with sleep-soft eyes and a crooked smile.

You came back— And the sheets were cold. You say his name once. Then again, louder. But there’s no answer. No trace. No indent in the pillow. No warmth in the blankets.

Just a silence so sharp it cuts. You don’t cry at first.

You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, blinking at the place he had been just hours ago. You try to replay his voice in your head, his laugh, the things he whispered against your skin. You press your face into your pillow and breathe deep, desperate to find even a trace of him.

But all you smell is fabric softener and loss. He’s gone. Like he never belonged here at all.

You grieve quietly. You carry his memory in the scribbled pages of your notebook, worn at the edges from being opened again and again. But you don’t write for him anymore. You write for yourself.

You don’t talk about it. How could you? You go back to class. You go back to microwaving leftovers. You scroll past fanfiction tags and never click again.

Some nights you still whisper his name in the dark, just in case he hears it. But he never answers. You begin to believe maybe he was just a dream after all. A beautiful, impossible dream.

Three months later, on the first warm day of spring, you’re sitting outside the library, notebook open, headphones in, sunlight catching in your lashes.

You almost don’t hear it.

“Excuse me—,” someone says.

You look up. And your heart stops.

A young man stands hesitantly before you, holding a crumpled campus map. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, his hair tousled from the breeze.

He looks unfamiliar yet somehow familiar.

“Could you help me? I’m completely lost,” he says, voice gentle but uncertain.

“Do you know where the science building is?” he asks, sheepish. “I’ve been walking in a circle for like twenty minutes.”

You stare. He’s different. No polished arrogance. No CEO swagger. No tailored suit. But it’s still him. That face. Those eyes. That voice.

You slowly take out your earbuds.

“…What’s your name?” you manage, breath shallow.

He smiles at you—confused, but kind.

“Satoru,” he says. “Satoru Gojo.”

Your lips part. His gaze lingers on your face for a moment too long. Then—

“Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No, we haven’t met,” you whisper.

He chuckles, eyes bright.

“Maybe it’s a good thing. A new story.”

And as the sunlight pools around you both, you realize some endings are just beginnings in disguise.

[mooningningg]

ᴊᴊᴋ ʀᴏᴄᴋ ʙᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

Notes, this was a very cute request thank you anon!

★ Guitarist!Suguru when you show up in the middle of practice.

It was half past 10 when you stepped into the studio.

The air was thick with leftover smoke, crumpled water bottles, guitar cable coils, and the low buzz of Suguru’s amp humming as the band reset for another run.

You weren’t supposed to be there. Practice was “closed,” according to Gojo — which really just meant “don’t come in unless you’re ready to hear the same song looped twenty times while Sukuna screams at everyone.”

Still, you showed up anyway, holding a bag of takeout and slipping through the door mid-rehearsal.

“One, two—”

Crash.

Sukuna hit the drums too early.

“What the fuck, Choso?” he barked, glaring across the room.

Choso blinked from behind the keyboard, very much not present. “Huh?”

Gojo dramatically dropped the mic. “Bro. Again? Are you even on this planet?”

Toji leaned back on the amp he was sitting on, fingers idly plucking at his bass strings. “He’s high again.”

Choso lifted one shoulder. “Helps me connect to the notes.”

Sukuna slammed a drumstick on the snare. “If you ‘connect’ any harder I’m gonna put you through the fucking piano.”

“Relax,” Suguru muttered, adjusting his guitar strap, easy and calm like always. “It’s not that deep.”

“Don’t encourage him, Geto,” Sukuna snapped.

That’s when Suguru looked up — and froze.

You were there. In the corner of the room, lit by the string lights draped above the soundboard, looking tired but cute in your hoodie, holding food and smiling at him like you’d just found home.

For a second, his hand paused on the fretboard.

He didn’t say anything — just blinked, then exhaled slow, the corner of his mouth pulling into that quiet smile you knew too well.

Gojo, of course, noticed instantly.

He grinned, eyes lighting up. “Aww, would you look at that? Our lead guitarist’s girl showed up.”

“Shut up,” Suguru muttered, but didn’t stop smiling.

Sukuna scoffed, kicking a bottle across the room. “Yeah, fucking great. Maybe now he’ll play like he’s got balls.”

“Toji,” Gojo leaned over dramatically, “should we dim the lights? Set the mood?”

“Only if they fuck on the soundboard,” Toji said without looking up.

Suguru shot him a look. “Not in front of my amp.”

“Not in front of my drums,” Sukuna barked. “The hell is wrong with you people?”

You tried not to laugh, but your shoulders shook.

Suguru finally set his guitar down on the stand and walked over, ignoring every single comment from his bandmates. He took the bag from your hands, fingers brushing yours — slow, gentle, casual to anyone else, but you felt it. That quiet heat under his skin.

“You didn’t text,” he said softly.

“Wanted to surprise you.”

He leaned in. “You always do.”

God, the way he said it — low and smooth and teasing like he knew you’d think about it later when you were lying in bed.

“Can you two get a room?” Sukuna yelled from the back. “We’re trying to play music, not film softcore porn!”

Gojo cackled. “Let ‘em be, he’s been in a mood since the second set. Maybe he just needs a little—”

“Gojo,” Suguru warned without even turning around.

Toji just hummed under his breath. “Ten bucks says she’s the reason he shreds harder when we hit the bridge.”

Choso lifted his head like a confused cat. “Are we playing something?”

“OH MY GOD,” Sukuna groaned. “I’m gonna light you on fire.”

Suguru leaned in close to you, lips brushing your ear.

“I’ll be done in twenty,” he murmured. “Wait for me?”

You nodded, heart fluttering under your hoodie.

Then he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your cheek — one that lingered just enough to shut everyone up for a full two seconds.

And when he walked back to his guitar, calm and unbothered, Sukuna shouted:

“I FUCKING HATE THIS BAND.”

You stayed for the rest of the set.

He played smoother than ever.

And yeah — that bridge? He played it for you.

[mumblesplash]

(part 3/3)

AAAAND THAT'S A WRAP ON THE PROLOGUE!!!

Z startles awake at his desk with such violence he nearly tips his chair.  The half-empty styrofoam coffee cup wobbles dangerously.  Before it can spill or settle on its own Z-piece backhands it himself.  Cold liquid splatters the purple-gray fabric wall of his cubicle.  Another mission, another stain.

Z screams.

He manages to steady himself just as the others start to return.  It doesn’t take long, of course.  I-prime is efficient, as always.

S-piece comes to him right away, sultry and queenlike, fresh gloss shining on her lips.

Where does she even get lip gloss all the time?

“Hey, darling.” S-piece leans over the back of his chair and drapes her arms around his neck.  “That sucked.”

“Yeah.”

“Sucked bad, used teeth.”

“Yeah.”

“I liked the part where you went nova, though.  Haven’t seen you like that in far too long.”

Z’s bad mood sweetens a bit at the weight of S’s head on his shoulder and the memory of blazing destruction.

Quick-approaching footsteps flips him back towards sour.  Z-piece knows that brisk, irritating tread, would know it in his sleep. 

I-prime blazes past Z’s cubicle without a sideways glance and—

It’s not like Z ever expects much from him after a mission, but…

I-prime could at least spare a glance!

Z explodes from his chair.  He storms after I, S-piece flowing in his wake.          

I-prime presses onward, his stupid wrinkle-free shirt perfectly tucked into his pants while Z isn’t even wearing shoes.

Z wants to tear that shirt from those proud, straight shoulders and stain it with coffee and blood.

That desire chokes itself out at the sight of T-piece, motionless, slumped over their desk.  J’s standing over them, her hand hovering like an uncertain moth above their shoulders.  L’s at her side, of course.  O-prime is seated at her desk across the aisle from T’s half-cube, watching with her implacable neutrality.

And there’s something wrong about how T-prime looks sitting there, in a way that Z can’t place.

“What are you all doing here?” I-prime says, as if he hasn’t just rushed here himself.

“We need to debrief,” says L.  “I wanna get the report in before the Boss asks for one, do some damage control, but—“

“But T-piece won’t wake up,” says O.

Shapeless dread, like a cloud of needles in Z’s chest.  He wants to rush to T-piece’s side but the corridor between cubicles is too narrow and fucking I-prime is in the way.

S leans over the chest-high wall of T’s cubicle.  She takes in his still form then shoots a dagger of a glance at I-prime.

“What do you know, I?” she says.  “What happened before you came back?”

I-prime’s face remains smooth and composed.

“I cleared him as quick as I could,” he says.  “But the crush of Z-clones got to him first.”

Nausea hits Z-piece like a wave.  He shoulders past I-prime and forces his way into T’s cube.  Behind him O says something about contamination, about how part of T-piece might need to be cleared.

Z shoves J aside, ignores L’s protests, grabs T-prime by the shoulders and drags him upright.

“Hey!” he shouts.  “Wake up, T! Wake up and tell everyone you’re fine!”

The body beneath his hands shudders.  Tenses.

T’s eyes open.  Z sags in relief.

“Let go!”

T-piece flails back, away from Z, tipping his chair and crashing to the ground.  He scrambles backwards, eyes darting between the people all crowded around him.

“Calm down!” L shouts.  “We’re back! It’s safe!”

“Back from where?” T cries, pressed against the purple-gray wall.   

“What do you mean, where?” Z says, dread like thorns in his mouth.  “From the mission.  The world I—from the world that spoiled.  Where else?”

“I knew it.” O stands up.  “They got spoiled.  The Boss must’ve cleared his recent memories to—”

“Cut out the rot,” I-prime says.  “Makes sense.  Could be worse.”

I's right. Locking corrupted memories behind a firewall is rare, but it's happened to most of them. This is normal. It's fine.

T-prime looks up at the six people gathered around him like a cornered animal.

“Don’t worry, T, you’re alright.” L speaks with careful kindness.  “You’ve been hurt on a mission, but it’s safe now.  What’s the last thing you remember?”

Before T can answer, Z-piece realizes what seemed so wrong about him before.  All of them carry a marker, a token, an icon of their names.  O’s icon sits over his eye like a stamp.  Z’s is a charm dangling from his collar.  T’s is a tattoo on his shoulder.

That tattoo is gone.

There’s a collar around T’s neck now, one Z’s never seen him wear, and that’s where his icon now resides.  Before Z can allow himself to contemplate what that might mean, T answers L’s question.

“Nothing.”

Icy silence.  O sits back down.

“Nothing?” L struggles to keep her tone even.

“I know I’m T.  That’s it.”

T’s wary eyes dart between them all.  He gives no individual preference, spares none of them his suspicion.  Z can’t see himself reflected in those eyes at all.

“You’re lying,” Z growls.  He swings to I-prime. “He’s lying! There’s no way my—the clones couldn’t corrupt him so bad the boss needed to clear everything!”    

I-prime’s cool resolve shows no sign of cracking.

“I saw what I saw,” he says.  “It’s done.”

Z screams.  He grabs the nearest object—T’s desk lamp, the one S and Z gave him after breaking his old model—and throws it as far and as hard as he can.  In the shattering he finds no relief.

T flinches back even further and it’s like a stab to the gut.

“Who the hell are you people?” they say.  “What even is this place?”

Nobody answers.

L turns pale.

“I need to send an email.”

alright here's the rundown. more detailed version coming soon probably. the things i do for you guys

(transcript of prologue below the cut)

It's a lavender sky this time, this world. A lavender sky deepening to aubergine over a city of neon and brass. It's beautiful in it's way, just like any other city on any other world.

I-prime hasn't bothered to learn its name.

He stands in the hotel window, watching the burnished streets below gleam with fading light. The rhythmic thrum beneath his feet signals the rousing of the club below. They're playing a song that I has never heard in his life, yet part of him remembers it all the same.

The blank-faced watch on his wrist chimes a single long tone. I-piece taps its face without taking his eyes off the path into the nightclub.

"Hello, T."

"You're not in position," T says through the speaker. Their voice betrays none of the frustration that I knows he must feel.

"I'm where I need to be," I-prime says.

"We talked about this—"

"Yes, you talked, that's what you do. I make decisions."

T-piece's response is cut off by further chimes from the watch. Short, long, short, short—then the voice of L comes through.

"There's no time," she says. "The Boss just Held onto J. It's on, it's now."

"As expected," says I.

With a snap of his fingers the air before him splits. I-prime reaches into the crack between two universes and retrieves his sniper rifle. He looks down its sights, out the window, down the gleaming street.

Someone approaches the door to the club. A tall, svelt man with a face that I-prime is so sick of seeing other people wear.

I wonder what this one's named, I-prime muses as he lines up the shot.

Izaak? Ignacius? Indigo?

As he pulls the trigger on himself from another life, I-prime knows it doesn't matter what this alternate is called.

He lost track of their names a long time ago.

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

Thinking about a deadbeat cowboy.

Tw- mentions of noncon, deadbeat bastard of a man , abuse, mentions of violence

He only shows up once he's back from his jobs, horse kicking up dirt as he comes to your lonely homestead. Greeting you smelling like whisky and woodsmoke. Throwing his heavy coin pouch on your oak table with a grin as he presses you into his arms.

"Promised you I wouldn't drink all my earnings away," his boyish grin disguising the anticipation as he waits for a thank you.

You step on your tiptoes to press a kiss against his stubble, at least when he comes to your home he shaves. Your home, not his, this is only a stop to rest his wandering feet, a trough for his empty stomach, and a body to warm his bed. Returning to pin you down beneath him at night.

The first time he had you was nothing short of a nightmare. Ambushing you in the dirt , violent and quick with his hand tight around your throat. A farm dog bent over a bitch. He left you there, in the tall grass outside your home, once he took what he wanted. The only thing you could comfort yourself with was the thought it was over.

The next night he returned, you were too scared to do anything but allow him to violate you again. Fighting got you nothing but a black eye and bite marks, at least with your submission, you got something more. Someone to fix the worn floorboard and the hole in the roof. Someone who eventually stopped fucking you like he meant to only hurt you, placing an unnatural kiss on your forehead as he held you to sleep. When he left after three weeks, you knew the cycle would start again once he returned.

"I didn't know to expect you," you mumble, wringing your apron in your hands. "Didn't make much for dinner only a pie."

Still, he smiles at that. He's not picky when it comes to the temporary domesticity you give him to keep him happy. You've learnt the past year that he always returns to you in between his jobs. Sure, he will darken your door, reeking of whisky, but he won't go to the saloon so long as he sleeps in your bed. Not all women can say that. Or can say their man brings them a heavy purse, treats from cities or traders wagons, jewellery from a wealthy womans neck. So you've learnt to live with it, to not ask him questions about how he obtained his treatures unless you're obviously coy.

He wraps his arms over your shoulders. Asking if there's been any unwanted guests in his absence. Any stray dogs he needs to shoot from his property.

You're not stupid enough to find another man. It would only end up with a bullet hole in his head and one in your ankle. Or maybe your cowboy would put a knife to your sweet face, making sure no other man could ever find you pretty after being ruined at his hands.

"I tell the townsfolk I'm married that my husband rounds up cattle on the ranches. It's only half a lie." You say as you plate up the pie. "Maybe you can come with me to town one of these days so I can prove you exist." You speak too quickly, a sense of panic creeping in. The ring you wear is nothing more than a mirage of respectability, but you needed proof before everyone decided that you spread your legs for the first man to knock on your door. You need there to be proof of him. Before he next disappears. Before it's too late to change opinions.

He only smiles at that. Waiting for you to sit opposite him before he grabs your wrist so hard you nearly scream.

"You're hiding something from me lovely, and we aren't gonna eat until you spit it out. So I advise you to hurry up before the dinner gets cold." He shifts his fingers, and you can swear you hear your joint pop.

"I'm with child!" You announce hurriedly before he snaps your arm in two, the shock of the realisation making him freeze. "I'm not lying about this, I swear ." You're frantic as he stares through you, eyes narrowing at the thickness of your waist - your corset can only do so much to obscure you from someone who's seen you broken down to nothing before himself. You're barely able to breathe through the tension before he starts laughing.

"Well shit. Guess I got to settle down with you now? Can't be leaving you alone with my bastard now, can I?" The amusement in his voice is exasperated rather than malicious, but your hands still tremble at the thought of his permanence.

"Not if I don't want anyone sniffing round my girl trying to do any charity."

[itsnotyouithink]

AFRAID

SUMMARY: After a study session thick with tension, a quiet dare slips between the two of you: pass the test, and Tara will be at your next game. You’ve never cared about school — but now every page, every note, feels like a shot at something you can’t name yet.

PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader

WARNINGS: mature language

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: being sick during summer is terrible and wtf is this heat

previous chapter | next chapter

—————————

The lawn was a frying pan. Your team? The eggs.

You were drenched—shirt clinging to every dip of muscle, sports bra soaked through, ankle taped and already starting to throb again. Your mouth tasted like Gatorade and iron. Coach had you running suicides like he'd personally been offended by your existence. And still, you didn't stop.

Because she was there.

Tara Carpenter sat under a sad excuse of a tree with crossed arms and murder in her eyes, looking like she'd rather be set on fire than outdoors - which you guess was one in the same considering the temperature. Her navy T-shirt was stuck to her back, her black shorts riding up her thighs, legs folded beneath her like she was trying to vanish into the earth. Sunglasses dangled uselessly from her fingers.

Her book was open but completely ignored. Her eyes, though?

All yours.

You caught her more than once. Every time you wiped sweat from your jaw, every time you winced and shook out your ankle, her gaze drifted. And every time you caught her, she looked away just a little too slow. Like she knew better. Like she couldn't help it.

When Coach finally called for water, you didn't go to the cooler. You went right to her.

You dropped to the blanket like your body had short-circuited, one leg stretched out, one arm slung lazily across her textbook. Your head tilted back, neck glistening, chest rising and falling like a warning siren.

"I hope you're writing this down," you muttered. "This is what greatness looks like."

"You're sweating all over my Criminal Law notes," she replied dryly.

"You're welcome. They've been blessed."

"I'm going to set you on fire."

"You already have, Carpenter."

Her mouth twitched.

Just a little.

From her other side, Mindy made a noise that sounded vaguely like a scream into her hands. "Can you two not flirt during heatstroke?"

Anika peeled her sunglasses off. "No, this is amazing. This is enemies-to-lovers but the enemies part is just foreplay."

Tara turned her face slightly toward you. Her cheek was flushed. Her jaw tight. But her voice? Smooth as ever. "You look like you just lost a fight with a hose."

You grinned. "You still think I'm hot."

"You're literally steaming."

"You like it."

"You're delusional."

"You're obsessed."

She exhaled hard, then turned back to her book—still untouched. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

"Oh, I do," you said. "I just want to hear you say yes."

"To what?" she asked, not looking up.

You leaned in, voice lower now. "Come to the game."

Tara blinked.

"You've never come to one," you continued, still close. "You sit here during practice. You ask questions during tutoring. But you've never seen me play. Really play."

Her fingers tapped against the spine of the book. Then stopped.

You tilted your head. "Scared it'll make it worse?"

"Make what worse?" she said too fast.

"The thing you're pretending not to feel."

She rolled her eyes. "You've had one too many heat strokes."

"Forty points, Carpenter. I’ll drop forty next week, if you show up. You don’t want the team to lose, now do you? Oh, and you should bring me Gatorade."

She stared at you. "You think you'll actually hit forty?"

You smirked. "If you're there? Easily."

"And if I say no?"

"I won’t even get off the bench."

She tilted her head at you with a smirk, “Seeing you fail is my excitement, why would I let you succeed?” Tara shrugged, “Besides, you’re exhausting."

You let your knee brush hers. Let it linger. "You're still here."

She looked down at where your leg touched hers, then back at you. "If—and this is purely hypothetical—you pass your film studies test..."

You leaned closer. "Yeah?"

"Maybe I'll show up."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe."

You looked down at her mouth. Then back up. "Do I get anything else?"

"Yeah," she said, eyes flicking to yours. "A cold Gatorade and a restraining order."

You laughed. "I'll take the Gatorade."

"You're not getting the kiss."

"I never said kiss."

"You were thinking it."

You didn't deny it.

She didn't move away.

Mindy clapped like someone had just hit a buzzer-beater. "Oh my Gosh, she's gonna show up and she's gonna fold."

"I'm not folding," Tara snapped.

But when you stood—slowly, lazily, stretching enough for your jersey to ride up and reveal just a sliver of your lower stomach—her sunglasses came up faster than her defense ever could.

You turned as you jogged back to your team, calling over your shoulder, “I’ll text you my favorite Gatorade flavor later!"

Tara didn't answer.

But her thumb hovered over her phone screen for the next ten minutes.

And her eyes?

Locked on you.

⸻

Your dorm room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of notebook pages and the occasional groan you make when your brain short-circuits.

The overhead light is too harsh, so you've turned it off and settled with the small desk lamp in the corner, which casts a yellow glow across your notes. Your film studies textbook lies cracked open in front of you, highlighters and loose paper scattered around it like the remnants of a storm. Your laptop screen is split between the lecture slides and the Google Doc you're barely holding together - Brad Pitt glares at you through the screen.

You've read the same sentence four times. You don't even know what mise-en-scène is anymore. You're sweaty from practice, sore from pushing through drills on a busted ankle, and your eyes are starting to blur—but none of that matters as much as the fact that if you fail this test, she doesn't show.

A passing grade is all you need, B- or higher! That's the deal. And you want her in the bleachers more than you've wanted sleep in a week. You stare at the screen again, thumb hovering over your phone. It's past midnight. You've already chugged an iced coffee. It didn't help.

You send the text.

[1:03 AM — You]

you up or do you value sleep and sanity

You watch the typing dots appear, vanish, reappear. Your heart thuds like a free throw.

[1:05 AM — Tara]

what's wrong

is this a medical emergency

did you forget what a director is again

You smile in spite of yourself.

[1:05 AM — You]

worse

i don't get any of this

can you come help

like actually

i think i'm gonna fail and then i'll never get to see u in the student section

There's a longer pause this time. Then:

[1:07 AM — Tara]

give me ten minutes

don't do anything you’ll regret, i’ll be right there

You stare at the screen. Blink. Sit up straighter. Something tight and strange winds low in your stomach.

Tara Carpenter is sneaking out. For you.

————

Ten minutes later, she's in the hallway.

Well—trying to be in the hallway.

The dorm's fluorescent lights buzz low overhead, flickering slightly, and she pulls the hood of her sweatshirt up like she's about to commit a crime. Her arms are folded tight across her chest, and she walks like someone trying not to be perceived. Tara had never been in the athletics dorms before - Chad chose to go a more safer route for himself after the murders. She rolled her eyes at the spirit practically oozing from the walls — the bold signs, posters of the athletes, and the infamous Bulldog statue at the end of the hall wearing a crown and funnily enough, your jersey.

She's nearly to your door when she hears them.

"Carpenter?" a voice calls down the corridor. "No way."

Tara freezes. Slowly turns her head.

There, just outside the lounge, half a dozen of your teammates are sprawled across beanbags and couches, a few still in practice gear. One of them—Dani—is eating instant noodles straight from the cup and staring like she's just seen a ghost.

Tara blinks. "Hi," she says flatly.

"Wait," Ava says, sitting up so fast her hoodie falls off one shoulder. "You're here? For her?"

"I'm... delivering notes," Tara lies. Poorly.

"For her film test?"

"Yes."

"Right. At one in the morning."

Tara sighs.

Dani's eyes narrow. "Are you two, like... dating?"

"Absolutely not.”

"So you're just studying in her dorm. At 1 a.m." They all glance at each other quickly, like they’re in on a joke she isn’t a part of.

Tara mutters something under her breath. Then, louder, "Can you just point me to her door?"

The team snickers as Ava leans her head out dramatically. "End of the hall. Left side. You'll hear the tragic groans of someone crying over poor formatting."

"Tell her she owes us sprints if this ends in a forehead or cheek kiss," Dani adds. Another one of your teammates chimes in, “Full suicide sprints if it’s on the lips!”

"I'm ignoring all of this," Tara mutters, already walking again.

⸻

You swing open the door.

Tara's standing there in a black zip-up hoodie, sleeves pulled over her hands, her bun falling apart in the best possible way. Her eyes are tired, but alert, dark and shining beneath the low dorm hallway light. There's a red flush creeping up her neck—probably from the walk, maybe from passing your teammates, definitely not from nerves, definitely not.

"You rang," she deadpans.

You step back and gesture her inside. "Welcome to the disaster zone."

She steps in, eyes sweeping over the room with that same semi-judgmental expression she always wears when she's trying not to smile. Your desk is an explosion of papers and coffee cups. Your bed is half-made, like you gave up halfway through fixing it and decided to suffer in it instead. The desk lamp in the corner casts everything in this golden-yellow haze, soft and a little hazy, like the warmth left in a gym after a long practice. She tries to ignore the posters practically hanging off the walls - Fight Club, The Arctic Monkeys, and a poster of.. a pie with the mathematical pi symbol in the middle?

Tara drops her bag with a soft thud and moves toward the bed like it's routine—like she's done this before. She sinks onto the edge, crossing her legs under her and tugging one sleeve down so it hangs over her knuckles.

You eye her, amused. "Comfortable?"

She lifts a brow, tugging her hoodie tighter. "If I'm gonna babysit your academic survival, I get a soft surface."

There's a flicker of something behind the sarcasm—a softness to the way she settles in, back straight against your pillow, like she belongs here. Her knee bounces once before she steadies it with her hand against the royal blue sheets.

"Wow," you say, settling into your desk chair and spinning it halfway toward her. "You've grown into such a nurturing presence."

"Shut up and open your notes."

You grab the crumpled packet from the pile and scoot closer, spinning the chair to face her directly. You're close now. Not close enough to touch. But close enough to feel the subtle pull of her presence. The way her breath shifts when you lean forward. The small, almost-invisible tension in her shoulders when your knee bumps the side of the bed.

Her eyes flick to your ankle—still wrapped, still swelling slightly. She doesn't say anything about it. Just gestures at the notes. "Start."

You try. You stumble. You're tired and wired and every word feels like static.

"Okay," she says after a beat, "Define diegetic sound."

You glance at her. "Um..."

She leans forward slightly, just enough for her shoulder to brush your bent knee. Her voice drops. "Don't make me regret this."

"Sound that... exists in the story world?"

Tara hums. Approving. Barely.

You glance up at her. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are watching you closely.

"And non-diegetic is like... the score, voice-over, stuff only the audience hears."

She nods, slowly. "Not bad."

You smirk. "I'm hot and smart. Dangerous combo."

"I wouldn't go that far," she says, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

"And yet," you say, flipping the page. "You came all the way down here just to watch me study in short shorts.

Tara blinks. Her gaze drops—too quick, too obvious.

You grin.

"I came to stop you from failing."

"Same thing."

She exhales, but it sounds like she's trying not to laugh. She takes your notes from you, her fingers brushing yours—warm, quick, deliberate. There's a pause when they touch. You feel it. She does too.

"Okay," she murmurs, skimming the page, "talk to me about cinematography."

You groan. "That's the one with... framing?"

She nods. "Composition. Lighting. Color. Movement. It's what you think of when something feels like a movie."

"Like this?"

You gesture vaguely between the two of you—her on your bed, hoodie rumpled, lamp casting golden shadows across her collarbone; you, in a hoodie you never zipped, sitting a little too close, leg pressed against the mattress like it's holding you up.

She doesn't answer right away.

Instead, she looks at you. Really looks.

"You're tired," she says quietly.

You blink. "That's your takeaway?"

"You look like you're gonna pass out."

"Maybe I'm just overwhelmed by your beauty."

She snorts. "You're ridiculous."

"You're pretty when you're annoyed."

"I'm always annoyed."

"Exactly." You smile.

There's a beat of silence.

You watch her carefully. The way her fingers curl slightly in the fabric of your blanket. The way her mouth opens like she's going to argue—then doesn't. Her lashes are dark, casting soft shadows on her cheeks. You want to trace them with your thumb.

"You're not gonna fail," she says again, gentler this time.

You nod, biting your lip. "You think I'll pass?"

Her voice lowers. "I think you want to impress me."

Your mouth curves.

"I think," she continues, "you'd study for twenty more hours just to make me show up."

You tilt your head. "Would it work?"

She leans back on her hands. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"You're still flirting," she murmurs.

"You're still here," you counter.

She blinks slowly. Doesn't reply. Just... watches you. The quiet between you stretches and deepens, full of all the things neither of you are saying out loud. Tara glared at you, “Is that your favorite line?”

You shrug and push your notes off your lap. "Okay, lightning round."

She straightens, already smirking. "You're gonna fail the lightning round."

"If I get four out of five..."

"No."

"Three out of five?"

"Still no."

"You don't even know what the deal is."

"I know it involves kissing."

You pause. Let the silence hang.

Then: "Is that a no?"

She doesn't answer right away. Her eyes linger on your mouth for a second too long.

"Three out of five," she says finally, voice barely above a whisper. "You pass. I come to the game. And... we talk about the rest after."

You exhale slowly. "That sounds dangerously close to a yes."

"It's dangerously close to a maybe."

"Progress."

She looks down, smiling—just for a second. The kind that slips out before you can stop it. Then she grabs your notes and whacks you lightly in the chest.

"Back to work."

“No lightning round?” You argue. The response that’s given is a simple glare, “You ruined that idea when you involved kissing you into the mix.”

But when she shifts forward again, her leg brushing yours, her voice low and quiet as she starts quizzing you—there's no mistaking the way the air tightens between you. No denying the soft press of something growing where grades and flirting collide.

She stays for another hour.

And when she finally gets up to leave, her hoodie sleeves pulled back down to her wrists, she pauses in your doorway.

You glance up.

Her mouth opens.

Closes.

Then, quietly, without looking at you: "B- and up, right?” You nod, heart skipping.

"Okay," she says, backing out of the room. "Make me show up, Varsity.”

The door shuts gently behind her.

And you sit there, notebook still open, pulse hammering in your throat, knowing damn well: you're not just passing that test.

You're playing for her now.

⸻

The doors to the humanities building creak open behind you, but you're already squinting into the heat.

It's late morning, but the sun's high and heavy—spilling down across the quad, coating the sidewalks in gold and turning every step into a slow drag. The humidity hangs low, dense and unmoving, the kind that makes your skin feel just a little too tight and your shirt stick to your back in damp, uncomfortable patches.

You've got your hoodie tied around your waist like a security blanket. Your shoulders ache from sitting too stiff for too long, and your brain feels like it's been rung out and hung on a line to dry. You survived your Film 101 test—barely—and you haven't even had the nerve to check your grade yet (you were busy shedding an exhausted tear or two in the bathroom).

But then you see her.

Tara.

Standing near the low brick ledge that curves around the quad's edge, partially shaded by a tree that does absolutely nothing to help with the heat. She's leaning casually against the stone, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle, the toe of her sneaker lazily tapping the ground in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

She's in a fitted black tank top and soft gray hoodie unzipped halfway, sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Her hair's pulled half-up in a loose, slightly messy twist that should look careless—but on her, it's lethal. A few strands of her bangs stick to the sides of her neck, damp from the heat, and the breeze lifts the rest just enough to make her look like she walked off the set of a film you're not cool enough to be in.

Her sunglasses are perched on her head, nudging her hair back from her face, and she's holding an iced coffee in a way that's almost theatrical—lazy, precise, like she knows it draws attention to her ring covered fingers.

She doesn't see you right away.

But when she does—her eyes flick up, and she smiles just barely, like it's a secret she wasn't going to share unless you made the first move.

"You look like hell," she calls as you approach, her voice flat and fond at the same time.

You drag a hand through your hair, still catching your breath from the nerves of the exam. "Thanks. I'm going for post-apocalyptic student athlete."

"You nailed it. Very The Road, but make it sweaty."

You stop a few feet from her, close enough to smell the faint sugar in her coffee and the sharp, clean scent of whatever soap she uses. She's got her whole I'm too cool for this act on full display, but her eyes are too sharp to sell it. She's scanning you—taking in your flushed face, the slight drag in your step, the twitch in your fingers.

"So," you say, trying not to sound too breathless, "how much do you know?"

She sips her drink, lets the ice rattle. "About what?"

You tilt your head. "Don't play dumb, Carpenter."

She doesn't look at you right away. Instead, her gaze flicks to some imaginary spot past your shoulder, like she's debating how much to admit.

Then: "You passed."

You blink.

"You got a solid B," she adds. "He curved it."

You let out a breath so loud that it turns into a laugh, half-shocked, half-weightless. "Holy shit. I was ready to fail and spiral for like, a month."

"You still might," she says, smirking over the rim of her cup.

You squint at her. "How'd you know?"

Her lips twitch. "The portal updated twenty minutes ago."

"Did you check before I got out?"

"I was... curious."

You raise a brow. "Curious?"

She shrugs with one shoulder. "Nosy. Whatever."

You grin, stepping just a little closer, enough that your shoes are nearly touching. "Admit it. You care."

Tara scoffs. "I care about the chance of never having to tutor you again."

"When I do pass and I don’t need you anymore, you're gonna miss me." When I don’t need you anymore, that hit Tara.

"I'll manage."

There's a pause—too long to be casual. Her eyes drag over your face, lingering for a second on your mouth before flicking away.

"So," you say, softer now. "You're coming?"

Tara raises a brow.

"To the game," you clarify, even though you both know what you meant.

"I never said that."

"But you implied it."

"I implied a maybe."

"But now it's a yes."

She crosses her arms, iced coffee nestled in the crook of her elbow, fingers drumming lightly against her bicep. "You're awfully confident."

"I passed the test we thought I’d bomb. What's more impressive than that?"

She laughs under her breath. "Is that what this is? A seduction via GPA?"

"I have layers."

"Mm. Like a freshman's film analysis."

You grin. "If you come, I'll drop forty."

She hums. "That sounds like a threat."

"It's a guarantee."

Tara eyes you like she's trying to figure out if she should kiss you or kill you. Maybe both. She shifts her weight, her knee grazing yours in a way that doesn't feel accidental at all.

"And what do I get if I show up?" she asks.

You don't even blink. "A free show. Me, center court. You, second row. I'll even do a special hand signal at you if I'm feeling bold."

"I will walk out."

"You'll stay. You'll bring Gatorade. Red."

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"It is now." The grin on your face makes her shift her stance, you keep talking like you usually do. “I was thinking a hand gesture like this,” you put two fingers over your heart and then point it to her, “or if I’m feeling really bold I could do the full-on I love you sign.”

Tara doesn't reply. Just watches you for a moment, jaw tightening slightly like she's trying to hold something back—an eye roll, a laugh, a blush. She turns, finally, slowly beginning to walk away.

But halfway down the path, she tosses a final look over her shoulder.

"If I show up, it's not for the Gatorade," she says, almost too quietly.

You swallow hard.

"Then what's it for?"

She smiles—sharp and low and dangerous. "You'll find out. If you don't choke."

And then she disappears into the heat, leaving you dumbfounded.

[ncsdlr]

Punish, Praise, Repeat

WandaNat x Agathario x Reader

-----------------------

You knew you were in trouble the second Rio walked in.

No one said anything — they didn’t have to. The look on her face did all the talking. That little tilt of her head, the cocky smirk that said oh, you thought you were getting away with that, and the slow drag of her thumb across her bottom lip, eyes already on your legs like they were her property.

Then came Agatha. Unbothered, in silk. She didn’t even glance at you as she sat, long legs crossed, wine glass in hand like you were something she’d come back to when she was ready. She was always the scariest when she was quiet.

Nat leaned against the wall next. Smirking. Arms crossed. “Look who suddenly remembers we exist,” she said, low and dry. “Should we clap? Or make her beg?”

And Wanda? Oh, Wanda just smiled.

Not nice.

Not sweet.

But pretty. Dangerous. The kind of smile that meant she already had a plan, and it was going to wreck you in the prettiest way possible.

“Get on your knees,” she said.

You opened your mouth — maybe to sass, maybe to plead — but Nat was already behind you, one hand in your hair. Not hard. Not rough. But firm. Enough to make your breath catch.

“You don’t get to talk, baby. Not yet,” she whispered against your ear.

And just like that, you were back in your place. Right where they wanted you.

Natasha's hand stayed in your hair. Gentle, but immovable. “Aw. Look at her. Already squirming.”

Wanda crouched in front of you, like she had all the time in the world. Her manicured fingers skimmed up the side of your jaw, tilting your face toward her. “I think she forgot the rules,” she murmured, mock-pouting. “Didn’t we say no touching yourself without permission?”

“Three times,” Agatha said from behind her glass, voice like ice water down your spine.

You shivered. Not from fear. Not exactly.

Wanda’s smile widened. “So we agree,” she said lightly, eyes still locked on yours. “She doesn’t deserve to be touched. At least… not until she’s worked for it.”

Natasha leaned in, breath hot against your neck. “How many does she owe us?”

“One each,” Rio said, bored, like this was just an agenda item on her list. “Make her earn it.”

And that’s how you found yourself on your knees, flushed and shaking, while Wanda pressed two fingers to your bottom lip and cooed, “Open, sweetheart.”

You did. Of course you did.

“Good girl,” she purred. “Now let’s see if that mouth is good for more than just pouting.”

Natasha laughed. Low and dark. “Spoiled little thing,” she said, unzipping her jeans. “Bet she thought one kiss and a few whines were gonna get her off tonight.”

“Not tonight,” Wanda whispered. Her fingers eased past your lips, and she dragged them slow over your tongue — not because she needed to. Because she could. “Tonight, she serves.”

And baby, you served.

Wanda fucks your mouth with her fingers, Natasha touches you all over. They whisper threats between kisses, their hands dragging down your back to keep you still. Natasha was all bite and bruises, Wanda was all heat and simply knowing. Together, they unraveled you like they’d written the manual.

Your knees ached. Your mouth was raw from Wanda's fingers. But the ache between your legs? Unmatched.

You moaned against Wanda’s fingers as Natasha gripped your jaw and said, “You don’t come. Not until Rio says so.”

And from the couch, Rio finally looked up. Eyes heavy-lidded, almost lazy.

“She’s not even close to earning me,” she said. “Keep her begging.”

You were trembling when Wanda pulled her fingers out of your mouth. All these feelings, and none of them have even been inside you yet.

Your thighs were slick, and you couldn’t remember the last time someone let you breathe. Every nerve felt raw. Every moan you'd let out around Wanda's fingers before they left you felt like a scream that didn’t quite make it out.

Wanda kissed the corner of your mouth, smug and sweet. “You did so good for us, honey,” she whispered. “Didn’t she, Nat?”

Natasha tilted your chin up again, eyes scanning your face like she was deciding whether to let you live or make you cry one more time. “Not bad for some brat,” she said, and tapped your cheek twice before backing off.

That’s when you felt it — the room shift.

You didn’t have to look to know Agatha was standing.

You felt it in your spine. That sharp, electric awareness that something untouchable was finally coming down from her throne.

Your head turned when Natasha and Wanda backed away from you, sitting themselves on separate armchairs in the center of the room.

Agatha. Still in silk. Still in heels. Still composed like nothing in the last hour had even grazed her. Her eyes roamed over your body like you were a piece of art she hadn’t decided if she wanted to buy or destroy.

And then she spoke.

“Crawl.”

The room went still.

You blinked.

She didn’t repeat herself. She didn’t need to.

You moved.

Agatha didn’t move to meet you — she waited. Perfectly still, hands at her sides, letting the sound of your palms on the floor echo in the silence. You reached her feet and sat back on your heels, chest heaving.

She leaned down, finally touching you — just two fingers under your chin.

“I don’t like sloppy girls,” she said. “And you’re a mess.”

You didn’t even flinch.

“I could walk away,” she said, eyes sharp. “I should. But…”

Her fingers slid down your throat, slow, and she smiled like she was enjoying a private joke.

“…you want me too much, don’t you?”

You nodded. Barely.

Agatha tilted your head, leaned in, and kissed you. Slow. Controlled. Not hungry — not yet. Just enough to remind you that if she gave you anything, it was a gift.

When she pulled back, your lips were shaking.

She smirked. “Get on the couch.”

You obeyed — legs weak, stomach tight. And when you turned to face Agatha from your kneeling position next to Rio now, you nearly gasped.

Rio was laid out. Legs crossed. One hand resting on the arm of the couch like this was a business meeting, and you were the deal on the table. The woman was staring into your soul as you sat there watching Agatha from beside her.

Her eyes didn’t leave yours as she said, “Take your clothes off and fuck yourself for us.”

You froze.

Not because you didn’t hear her.

But because you did.

Agatha’s voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t have to be. It landed like a slap. Soft. Sharp. Final.

“Take your clothes off,” she repeated, one brow arched, “and fuck yourself for us.”

Your heart stuttered. Your fingers didn’t.

You stripped — slowly. Not seductively. Not confidently. Just—naked. In the truest sense. Every inch revealed felt like another layer of control you were handing over, and the four of them? They didn’t blink.

Wanda watched with parted lips like she’d already memorized the shape of your thighs. Nat’s arms were back over the couch now, legs spread, gaze dark, jaw tight.

And Rio?

Fucking terrifying.

She hadn’t moved.

One leg still crossed. Fingers still grazing the rim of her glass like she didn’t care — like she could look away at any moment and wouldn’t lose a single ounce of interest.

But she didn’t look away.

She watched you with that unreadable expression, and somehow that was worse than anything Nat had done. That silence made your skin burn more than Wanda’s touch ever had.

You sank onto the couch.

Open. Exposed. Your own fingers hovering like even you weren’t sure you deserved this.

Rio sipped her drink. “Do it right,” she said, without a hint of heat. “Or don’t do it at all.”

Your hand dropped between your legs like a command had moved it.

You didn’t rush.

You couldn’t. Not with four pairs of eyes on you—not when you could feel how every breath, every twitch of your fingers, every choked sound you made was being dissected. You persevered because you could be punished worse: They could just stop everything and ignore you.

Wanda exhaled like she was the one being touched. Nat adjusted her seat, legs bouncing slightly. Agatha’s smile deepened, cruel and beautiful.

But Rio? She just watched. Still.

And that did more to you than your own hand ever could.

Your thighs trembled. Your lips parted. You were close already — you had been since Wanda first touched you — but you couldn’t come yet. Because it just wasn't enough. You needed them. All of them.

“You’re not gonna come yet,” Agatha said simply, as if reading your mind. “That’s not up to you.”

You whimpered your fingers stuttuering in your pussy slightly.

Wanda giggled.

Natasha smirked. “Think she can hold it?”

Agatha tilted her head. “She better. Or she won't get anything else.”

You whimpered a whine again — louder this time.

And Rio finally spoke.

“Let her get close.”

A pause.

“Then make her stop.”

You were panting.

Sweat-slicked and flushed, back arched off the couch in helpless little jolts, fingers still thrusting — desperate, frantic, fucking pathetic.

And still.

Still…

Not enough.

Your fingers were soaked. Your thighs were trembling. Every time you edged close, your body tensed, ready to fall—and then stalled. Like something inside you knew better. Like you didn’t have permission. Like your body refused to finish without being told it could.

Wanda leaned forward with her chin in her hand, watching you squirm with stars in her eyes. “Poor thing,” she cooed. “She’s trying so hard.”

Natasha snorted. “Look at her,” she said, tilting her head. “Doesn’t even know how to make herself come anymore. That’s what happens when you get used to being spoiled.”

You whimpered — because they were right.

You weren’t ruined. Not properly. And now you couldn’t be, not without them.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Agatha added lazily, crossing her legs the other way. “You’re lucky it’s cute.”

And then you heard it — the soft sound of a buckle.

You blinked through the haze of frustration and heat to see Wanda already standing, one strap in hand, humming to herself as she began securing it low on her hips like she was getting ready for brunch. Natasha was next, tossing hers onto the cushion beside her like it was just part of the decor.

Wanda caught your eye as she pulled the straps tight.

“Aw, don’t cry,” she said, mocking-sweet. “We’re gonna take care of you.”

“Eventually,” Natasha muttered.

And then — like it wasn’t a big deal at all — Wanda turned to Rio, holding something in her hand.

“Want one too?” she asked, casual. Like she was offering gum.

Rio didn’t look up right away. Just finished the last sip of her drink, set the glass down with a soft clink.

Then she reached for the harness.

Didn’t say a word.

Just slid it from Wanda’s fingers and began buckling it on like it was her birthright.

You let out a soft, broken sound.

The kind that wasn’t a moan, wasn’t a whimper — just surrender.

Because Rio in a strap? That wasn’t just a threat. That was prophecy.

Agatha’s smile curled slow.

“Oh,” she said, lifting her chin with a stupid grin on her face. “Now she’s scared.”

Rio looked at you — finally — as she tugged the strap into place.

Not hungry.

Not cruel.

Just... decided.

“You wanted this,” she said.

And you did.

God, you did.

But not like this.

Not like them, hard and waiting.

Not with her, silent and strapped.

Not with every inch of you already trembling from nothing at all.

And yet here you were — ruined before they’d even touched you.

Suddenly Agatha pulls your hand away from your cunt, your back arching immediately when her own hand rubs at your clit. Moans are ripped out of you, now getting close enough to the edge in a way that you can finish. But then it all stops. Again. And it reminds you that this is a punishment, not a reward.

You're sobbing by the time her hand leaves you.

Not crying — not exactly — just wrecked and shaking, with your mouth open in some twisted, breathless moan that doesn’t land anywhere.

You could’ve come.

You would’ve.

If she hadn’t stopped.

Again.

Agatha stands behind you now, fingers still damp, eyes sharper than they’ve ever been.

“This isn’t about you,” she says against your ear, tone cold and clean and final. “It never was.”

And then she drags you up.

Not gently. Not rough, either. Just unrelenting.

You scramble to follow, legs trembling, chest rising fast, and Agatha doesn't even flinch. She walks you forward by the wrist like you’re weightless — like you're nothing more than a spoiled brat in need of redirection.

She stops in front of Natasha.

Natasha spreads her legs.

Smirking.

Waiting.

You think — yes, finally, — and then Agatha turns you around.

Pushes you down into Nat’s lap, facing her, and it takes everything in you not to moan out too loudly.

Straddling. Mounting. Placed.

Agatha’s hands don’t leave your body. One on your lower back. The other at your throat, holding you steady like a doll.

“Ride her,” Agatha says. “Slow.”

You whimper. Your hips twitch.

Natasha’s hands grip your waist immediately, ready, eager, cocky.

But nothing happens.

Not yet.

You’re still frozen — breath shaking — waiting for permission to move.

Agatha leans in behind you, lips ghosting over your jaw.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

So you move.

Down. Just enough to feel it — thick and hot and finally where you need it.

Natasha groans under her breath. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

You moan. High and broken.

But Agatha’s grip tightens on your throat — not to choke, just to remind.

Slow.

You do as you’re told. Hips rolling, dragging yourself down inch by inch, every second an ache. You’re not fucking Natasha — you're being fucked by obedience.

“Look at her,” Wanda purrs from beside you, already palming herself through her harness. “She’s falling apart already.”

Rio’s watching again. Silent. Still.

And somehow worse.

Because her hand rests lazily between her legs now, her strap waiting, fingers drumming softly over the base like she’s bored.

Like she’s wondering if you’ll even survive long enough to take her.

Agatha leans closer.

“You want her next?” she whispers, voice just for your ears.

Your moan turns into a plea.

And Agatha smirks, satisfied.

“Then show me you deserve her.”

You don’t know how long it’s been.

How many times your hips have rolled, or how many shaky breaths you’ve taken between moans that barely even sound like you anymore.

Your body’s done. Every nerve is frayed. Your thighs burn, your hands are slipping, and Natasha — beneath you, strong and steady — is the only reason you’re still upright at all.

But it’s not about her.

It’s about you.

Because you're the one who’s been left chasing — over and over — so fucking close, so right there, and still denied like it's a game. Like they’re just watching you crumble for fun.

(And maybe they are.)

Agatha’s still behind you, whispering cruel little things in your ear. Wanda’s on the floor now, hand between her legs, strap forgotten, just watching you fall apart. And Rio?

She hasn’t moved.

But she’s staring. Silent. Intense. Like she’s watching your soul try to claw out of your body.

And then—

You feel it.

That low, pulsing coil finally snapping.

No permission.

No warning.

You come.

Hard.

Messy.

Loud.

It crashes through you like punishment and reward all at once, your whole body shuddering, vision gone white at the edges. Your hips buck, your mouth falls open in a soundless cry, and then—

Wet.

You soak Natasha’s strap.

Her thighs.

Her stomach.

You don't even realize it at first — not until she curses under her breath, gripping your hips tight to keep you steady as your body jerks and grinds through it.

“Fuck,” Natasha mutters, voice low and stunned. “What a mess.”

That’s all it takes.

The room explodes.

Wanda bursts out in a chuckle, head thrown back, eyes lit up. “Oh my god, baby, you squirted for her?”

“Desperate little thing,” Agatha croons, voice full of mockery and pride. “Look at you. Finally came and still can’t stop shaking.”

Rio doesn’t say anything.

Just tilts her head.

And smiles.

That small, terrifying little smile that says she’s already thinking about what happens next.

You’re panting. Collapsed. Broken. Still trembling as you press your forehead into Natasha’s shoulder, too wrung out to speak.

And still — even now — every eye in the room is on you. Because you finally finished. But not by yourself. Not on your terms. You came because they let you. And they’re never going to let you forget it.

You barely had time to breathe.

Your chest was still heaving, thighs trembling, slick still dripping down Natasha’s skin when Agatha’s hands returned — sharp, certain, and not remotely gentle.

“Up.”

You whimpered, your body twitching like it didn’t know how to move anymore. But Agatha didn’t wait for you to obey.

She grabbed your hips and lifted.

You yelped, half-sliding off Natasha’s lap, your overstimulated body struggling to keep up. But Agatha was already moving you — across the couch, across the room, like you weighed nothing at all.

“Was that satisfying for you?” she asked, cool and amused. “Was that enough?”

You couldn’t answer.

Didn’t matter.

She didn’t want an answer.

She dropped you — unceremoniously — onto Wanda’s lap.

Wanda let out a surprised breath, arms catching you by instinct.

“Well hello again,” she purred, laughing softly. “Miss me?”

You were still shaking.

Still wet.

Still open and aching and too fucked-out to think.

But Agatha was already behind you again, hands on your shoulders, nails just sharp enough to leave little warnings down your skin.

“Get to work,” she said.

You straddled Wanda with legs that barely worked.

Everything in you felt undone. Raw. Used too much. And it wasn’t fair — it wasn’t — because usually by now, someone was holding you, whispering sweet things, letting you collapse after coming that hard.

Usually, there were hands pulling you close.

Mouths kissing your temple.

Bodies letting you rest.

But not tonight.

Tonight you were expected to keep going. Alone. With four sets of eyes still on you like you were just getting started.

Your breath hitched as you sank down onto Wanda’s strap, your body jolting at the first stretch. It hurt. Not bad. Not really. Just enough to make your thighs twitch and your lip wobble.

And no one even moved to help you.

Agatha stood behind you, arms crossed, utterly still.

Natasha wiped her stomach off with the corner of a blanket and didn’t even look at you.

Rio was still lounging, perfectly composed, like you weren’t even in the room.

And Wanda?

Wanda… cupped your hips.

Warm. Steady. Supportive.

“There you go, sweetheart,” she murmured, tilting her head like she was watching something fragile grow. “That’s it. Just like that. I’ve got you.”

You whimpered — not from the stretch, not from the ache — but from that.

That voice.

That softness.

She shouldn’t be soft. She wasn’t supposed to be soft.

Not when you were this tired. Not when your hands were gripping her shoulders like she was your only anchor. Not when Agatha was behind you, cold and expectant.

“Don’t slow down,” Agatha said.

You jerked upright.

“I said ride, not cling,” she added, her voice slicing through the air.

You tried.

God, you tried.

Your hips moved in shaky little rolls, your breath stuttering as Wanda’s strap hit all the right places but nothing was helping—because no one was guiding you like they usually did.

You hated it.

You hated that you needed them.

You hated that they weren’t giving you what they always did — praise, rhythm, fingers in your hair, hands on your thighs — all of it. Gone. Withheld.

And yet—

“You’re doing so good,” Wanda whispered, almost like she was afraid Agatha would hear. “You’re taking it all, baby. Look at you.”

You whined again.

Louder this time.

Your eyes burned. Your legs trembled. But still you moved. Because that was the only way out.

Work for it. Take it. Earn it.

You buried your face in Wanda’s neck, trying not to cry as she whispered, “You’re so pretty like this. They don’t deserve to watch you fall apart.”

But they did.

They all did.

And they were.

Agatha leaned down just enough to murmur, “Don’t you dare come without permission again.”

And your whole body tensed. Because you were close. And they knew it. And they weren’t going to help you.

You didn’t mean to chase it.

Not really.

Your hips were moving — slow, shallow, tired — more like survival than sin. Every bounce was a breath, every grind a silent prayer. You weren’t even trying to come.

You were just… trying to last.

But Wanda’s hands never left you.

One on your hip, one splayed across your lower back, holding you there — not controlling you, just steadying you. Like she could feel the shake in your thighs. Like she knew you were breaking and just wanted to keep the pieces from falling too hard.

“That’s it, baby,” she whispered. “Just like that.”

You moaned. Quiet. Guttural.

Not because it felt good — not just that.

Because it hurt now. The ache in your legs. The heat between your thighs. The pressure building again, again, again, like your body hadn’t learned from the last time.

“Doing so well,” Wanda murmured, voice like warm honey in your ear. “Taking me so deep. I know it’s hard.”

You gasped.

Her strap hit just right — high, deep, good — and your vision blurred for a second. Your hands clenched against her shoulders.

Wanda shifted under you, tilting up just a little, helping you ride it — breaking the rules in the smallest, softest way.

“Fuck,” you breathed, forehead falling against hers. “Please…”

You didn’t even know what you were asking for.

A break?

Forgiveness?

Permission?

Wanda didn’t answer. Just kissed your cheek. Barely there. Tender and quiet and wrong.

And that was it.

That did it.

Your body clenched around nothing, everything.

You came.

Not with a scream, not with a bang — but a sob.

A whole-body, high-pitched cry you couldn’t swallow down in time. Your thighs seized, your back arched, and your mouth dropped open as your orgasm ripped through you so sudden, so deep it felt like it had been waiting in your bones.

You tried to stop it. You really did.

But it was too much.

Too gentle. Too denied. Too good.

Wanda held you through it — hands firm, voice low and proud.

“There you go,” she whispered. “That’s my good girl.”

And somewhere behind you, you heard Agatha’s voice.

Sharp.

Cold.

The last of it shuddered out of you — trembling, raw, soaked and slack against Wanda’s body, thighs twitching with every breath.

You were still panting when Agatha’s fingers wrapped around your arm.

She said nothing at first.

Just pulled you up — slow, effortless, uncaring of how boneless and ruined you were — and off Wanda’s lap like you were a toy being passed around.

You didn’t resist.

You couldn’t.

But your stomach dropped the second she leaned in and said, soft and deadly:

“You’ll pay later.”

Your heart stopped.

You didn’t even have the strength to protest. You barely had the breath to think.

But Agatha kept going, dragging you across the room with the same clinical detachment she’d had all night.

You caught Natasha’s eyes as she approached.

And for one fleeting second, you thought—

Maybe—

Maybe Agatha was giving you back. Letting you fall into Natasha’s arms, letting her hold you, soothe you, fuck you slow until the dread faded and the ache dulled into something bearable.

Natasha even opened her arms, one leg already spreading like she was ready for it.

“Come here, baby,” she murmured, voice so soft it didn’t feel like a trick. “You’re okay.”

You moved toward her. Limp. Heavy.

And then—

Agatha pulled you back.

Hard.

Your body snapped upright with a gasp, blinking through the haze, just as Agatha’s fingers slid under your chin and tipped your face up to hers.

“You don’t get comfort,” she said. “You get consequence.”

Then she turned.

And you saw where she was taking you.

Rio.

Still untouched. Still reclined like a goddamn sculpture. Her strap gleamed in the low light, her fingers now resting on the couch beside her like she was finally ready.

Your mouth went dry.

No one said anything.

Not Wanda.

Not Natasha — who only watched with a quiet, wicked smile pulling at her lips.

Not even Rio.

She just looked at you.

And patted her thigh once.

Agatha’s hand curled tighter at your waist.

“Let’s see how long you last this time.”

Rio didn’t say anything when Agatha dropped you in her lap.

Didn’t touch you.

Didn’t adjust you.

She just let you settle — sore, shaky, overstimulated — your thighs barely managing to straddle her, her strap hard beneath you like a threat you hadn’t earned the right to avoid.

She looked at you like you were… tired.

Not in a soft way.

In a pathetic one.

You didn’t realize you’d started trembling again until she tilted her head, eyes sliding up your body like she was evaluating damage.

“Already falling apart?” she asked, voice calm. “You’ve barely moved.”

Your jaw clenched. You tried — hips rocking forward, dragging yourself slowly along her strap — but your body was so far gone it felt like begging for something you weren’t built to survive.

Rio still didn’t touch you.

Didn’t help.

Didn’t guide.

She just watched you struggle.

Watched the way your knees buckled and your rhythm stuttered, the way you bit back your moans like you could pretend this wasn’t wrecking you in a whole new way.

“Pathetic,” she murmured — not cruel. Just… observant.

You whimpered, chest caving.

“I don’t even have to touch you,” she said. “You’re doing it all yourself. Look at you. Struggling to fuck me right and still trying.”

You tried to speed up.

You shouldn’t have.

She caught your hips — not with help, but with force — holding you still mid-thrust.

You gasped.

She raised a brow.

“I didn’t ask for faster.”

She let you go.

You moved again — slower, deeper, biting your lip until it nearly bled.

Behind you, Wanda was laughing softly into Natasha’s mouth. The two of them tangled together on the couch like they weren’t even part of this anymore, Natasha’s hand sliding up Wanda’s thigh while they kissed, slow and open-mouthed, like your ruin was background noise.

Rio’s eyes flicked toward them. Then back to you.

“Even they’re bored,” she said.

You whined — not out of protest, but need.

You tried harder.

You started riding her like your life depended on it — every drop of wet heat dragging against her strap like an apology you didn’t have words for.

And Rio?

Smiled.

Finally.

And said, “Don’t stop until you cry.”

You didn’t know how you were still moving.

Every part of you hurt.

Your legs ached. Your cunt throbbed. Your lungs burned with every broken gasp you tried to hold back. You were soaked — not just wet, but ruined — thighs slick, strap messy, heartbeat pounding in your ears like it was trying to get out.

And Rio was still watching you like you hadn’t done a single thing right.

Like you were still falling short.

You’d already come once on her.

It wasn’t graceful.

You didn’t even mean to — it slammed into you so hard, so sharp, that you nearly collapsed in her lap with a sob you couldn’t swallow. It was ugly. Wet. Unforgivable.

And she didn’t say a word.

Didn’t praise you.

Didn’t stop.

She just held you steady — one hand on your hip, the other resting on your thigh — and said, low and plain:

“Again.”

You cried.

Not loud.

Not messy.

Just… quiet tears sliding down your cheeks as your body kept moving because you had to. Because she was still hard inside you, and no one said you could stop, and your thighs were shaking so badly now you didn’t know if the tremble was from pain or pleasure or panic.

“I can’t—” you whispered, voice cracking.

Rio hummed.

Not amused.

Not sympathetic.

Just acknowledging.

“You can,” she said simply.

And you hated her for it.

You hated how calm she was. How still. How she hadn’t broken a sweat while you were falling to pieces on top of her.

You hated that your own orgasm — the one building again — felt ugly. Too much. Too fast. Like your body was betraying you just to please her.

You whimpered, hips stuttering as the heat built again — that sickening, overwhelming pressure that told you this was going to be worse than the last one.

“No,” you breathed. “I can’t—please—”

She gripped your jaw.

Finally.

Made you look at her.

“Then cry for it.”

That was it.

You shattered.

The second orgasm hit like a wave slamming into a broken body — there was no grace, no rhythm, no sense to it. Just noise. Just wet. Just a desperate, humiliated collapse as you came for her again, harder than before, harder than you thought you could.

Your mouth dropped open in a sob that never became a word.

Your nails clawed at her shoulder.

Your body gave out mid-thrust, cunt pulsing wildly around the strap as your second orgasm wrung you out like a rag.

You couldn’t see.

You couldn’t speak.

You just broke.

And Rio?

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t comfort.

Didn’t care.

She only tilted her head and said, cool and quiet:

“There she is.”

Then the room was quiet.

Not silent — just… quiet.

You were still in Rio’s lap, crumpled and boneless, her strap miraculously out of you now, your arms slack, your body trembling from the inside out. The only sound was your breathing — high, broken, trying to slow down but never quite catching.

And then you felt it.

A shift.

Not physical.

Energy.

Like something in the air had changed. Like everyone had taken one collective breath and remembered that you were still a person.

Wanda sat up first, gently peeling herself away from Natasha’s mouth, eyes finding yours with a soft crease of worry.

She said, voice warm. “You alright?”

Natasha blinked, then nodded slowly, echoing her tone. “Still with us?”

You tried to speak.

You really did.

But it came out as a whimper — not from pain, not from panic — just a soft, tired little sound that said yes in a voice you didn’t have anymore.

Rio shifted beneath you. Let go of your waist to caress the top of your head.

Agatha stepped closer, running her fingertips down your back lightly.

“You’re done when you say you’re done,” she said plainly-softly. “You want to stop?”

You didn’t answer at first.

Because stopping sounded… safe.

It sounded warm. It sounded like soft blankets and praise and water.

But it didn’t sound right.

Because your body still ached. Your skin still burned. Your thighs were still slick. And even with your chest heaving and your eyes stinging — you weren’t done.

You shook your head.

Once.

Small.

Agatha raised a brow. “Say it.”

Your lip trembled.

“Don' wan' stop,” you whispered.

Agatha smiled — slow, almost kind. She leaned forward, her fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your head back to face hers above you.

“You sure?”

You nodded.

She kissed your cheek.

Then let her hand drift lower.

Between your legs.

And her fingers — two of them — slid through your soaked folds like a sigh.

You gasped, eyebrows furrowing as you stayed looking into Agatha's eyes.

“Good girl,” she murmured.

The pressure was immediate. Rhythmic. Precise. She didn’t tease. Didn’t build. She just pushed — fingers rubbing circles into your clit like she already knew exactly how to undo you all over again.

You cried out — not from pain, not from surprise — but because you were still feeling everything.

The ache.

The need.

The shame.

The pleasure that hadn’t gone away, just buried itself under layers of obedience.

You shouldn’t have wanted more.

But you did.

You wanted this.

Her.

All of them.

You moaned — louder now — as Agatha’s fingers picked up speed, her mouth brushing your ear like a kiss and a threat.

“You’re gonna give us one more,” she whispered. “A real one. The kind that makes you beg.”

And you did.

You begged.

And then you came.

Hard.

Again.

And finally, this time — they all watched you break with pride.

Your body was moving on its own.

Or maybe you weren’t moving at all — maybe Agatha’s fingers were just dragging the pleasure out of you, curling against your clit in slow, cruelly perfect circles. It didn’t matter. Everything else was gone.

There was only this.

Only her hand between your legs, the weight of everyone’s gaze still on you, the raw burn of overstimulation curling deeper, sharper, tighter.

You sobbed into it.

Breathless. Needy. Silent. Every moan caught in your throat like you were choking on the sound of your own pleasure.

Your hips twitched against her palm. Your body tried to get away — and failed. Again. And again.

“You’re so close,” Agatha murmured, her voice a low hum against your temple. “One more. Give it to me.”

And you did.

It broke through you like fire.

No warning this time. No control.

Just raw, unbearable release — a high, desperate moan tearing from your chest as your whole body seized, clenching down around nothing, legs shaking violently, slick soaking down your thighs, your cunt pulsing so hard you thought you might pass out from the effort of it.

Agatha held you through all of it — one arm braced around your waist, her fingers still stroking you through the aftershocks until your hips jerked too hard and your voice cracked into a whimper.

And then, finally—

It stopped.

She let go.

Your body folded forward.

And this time, when you fell, they caught you.

Wanda’s arms wrapped around your shoulders first, warm and strong, pulling you into her chest like she’d been waiting. Natasha was beside her, hand already cupping your cheek, brushing damp strands of hair away with the softest touch you’d felt all night.

“You did so good,” Wanda whispered, kissing your temple. “So good for us.”

You couldn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

You just let yourself be held — body trembling, brain floating, chest rising and falling in little aftershocks as they anchored you back to yourself.

Someone — you didn’t know who — was tugging a blanket around your shoulders. Natasha’s voice was murmuring something into your ear, something low and comforting. You felt her press a kiss to your forehead.

Rio knelt beside you next, one hand on your thigh, gentle now. Thumb stroking softly over the same place she'd bruised earlier.

“You’re alright,” she said — not teasing. Just true.

Agatha leaned in last, crouched in front of you now. She looked at you for a long moment — no cruelty, no smirk — just quiet pride.

Then, finally, she reached out.

Wiped a tear from your cheek.

“Good girl,” she said. “We’ve got you now.”

And you believed her. Your legs barely worked when they finally stood you up.

Wanda was on one side, Natasha on the other, both of them steadying your weight like it was second nature — like carrying you was something they’d do again and again without question.

Agatha trailed behind, a protective shadow at your back, her hand never leaving the small of your spine.

Rio led the way.

The hall was quiet. Cool against your flushed skin. Every step felt slow, underwater, your body boneless, wrapped in Wanda’s blanket and Natasha’s touch. You weren’t even sure your feet were on the ground.

The bed was already turned down.

Soft sheets. Heavy pillows. A dim light casting a golden halo over everything.

Rio sat first, back against the headboard, calm and still as ever — but her arms were open now. Waiting.

You didn’t hesitate.

You let them guide you into her lap, your cheek resting against her chest, her fingers threading gently into your hair.

Wanda climbed in behind you, curling herself around your back like a second heartbeat, her hand tracing light circles over your stomach. Natasha followed, settling on your other side, lips pressed to your shoulder, murmuring quiet praise that barely made sense but filled your chest like breath.

Agatha stood at the edge for a moment.

Watching.

Then, finally — slowly — she crawled in beside all of you.

She didn’t say anything.

Just slid her arm over your waist, fitting herself into the space between Wanda and Natasha, her hand finding yours under the blanket and squeezing.

No one moved for a while.

Just silence.

Warmth.

Breathing.

You were held. Buried in touch and comfort, in their bodies and their care, like your whole purpose now was just to rest — like you’d been used, yes, but never discarded.

You weren’t alone.

You weren’t forgotten.

And for the first time in hours — maybe longer — you felt your body let go.

Safe.

Anchored.

Loved.

Agatha’s voice was the last thing you heard, a whisper against your ear just as your eyes fluttered closed.

“Sleep, baby. We’ll all be here when you wake up.”

[formulafanfics13]

You Made Us a Family - MV1 & CL16 🔥 

masterlist

Request

She could feel their eyes on her before either of them even touched her. The room was dim. The bedsheets were soft. She was lying half-naked on the pillows, her shirt pushed up and her sweatpants rolled down to her knees, breasts flushed and aching from how full she was, cunt already wet and throbbing just from the way they looked at her.

Max stood near the edge of the bed. Charles was kneeling between her legs. Neither spoke.

She knew what they wanted. She lifted her hands slowly, pushed the shirt up higher. Her nipples were already tight, leaking faintly, the kind of heat and pressure that made her bite her lip. She didn't look away.

Max's voice broke the silence. Low. Gruff. Fucking wrecked. "You're leaking for us already."

She nodded. Barely. Her breath hitched.

Charles leaned in first. Gentle. Reverent. Hands on her thighs, mouth against her lower stomach, pressing soft kisses until her hips twitched. "I'll take her cunt," he murmured.

Max growled. "Then I'm taking her tits."

And just like that, they descended. Max's mouth closed around her left nipple like he was starving. No teasing. No gentle warmup. Just pure suction, hard, wet, moaning the second her milk hit his tongue. His hands held her breast firm, angling it to feed him deeper, his groan vibrating against her skin as he drank.

"Fuck-" she gasped, body jerking. "Max!"

Charles moaned softly as he spread her thighs wider, kissed the inside of her knee, then her thigh, then lower. And when he finally buried his mouth in her cunt, tongue warm, slow, devastating, she screamed.

Two mouths. One drinking, one devouring. She couldn't even tell where the pleasure started.

Max's teeth scraped gently. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make her feel it. His tongue licked up the milk as it spilled, his moans ragged, possessive.

Charles was more patient. Less feral. He licked her slow. Tongue flicking up to her clit in small, perfect strokes. Then down again, teasing, tasting. His hands held her thighs apart as she writhed.

Max pulled back for a moment. Milk dripped from his lips. He turned his head slightly toward Charles. "Want to taste her?" he asked, voice low.

Charles didn't answer. He just tilted his head up, mouth open slightly.

Max leaned down. Pressed their lips together. And spit the milk into Charles' mouth.

She moaned, loud, obscene, breathless.

Charles swallowed. Then licked his lips. "Fuck."

Max turned back to her breast and sucked harder. The milk came faster now. The pressure in her chest releasing, but the pressure everywhere else building. She couldn't stop shaking. Her legs twitched. Her hands fisted the sheets. She was being consumed from both ends.

"Please- I can't-"

"You can," Max growled against her skin. "You fucking will."

Charles moaned into her cunt. "Let go, chérie. We'll hold you."

Her head tipped back. Her spine arched. Max's mouth was relentless, draining her, drinking from her with need, tongue flicking over her nipple as her milk spilled between his lips. Charles sucked her clit hard.

She came, hips thrashing, mouth open, no sound coming out for a full three seconds because she couldn't breathe. Her whole body seized with it, orgasm rolling through her like a current, milk still flowing, clit pulsing, thighs shaking.

Max didn't stop. Neither did Charles. She was gone.

"Again," Max demanded, switching breasts, latching to the right.

"Oui, encore," Charles murmured into her cunt. "One more."

Her voice cracked. "I c-can't- please-"

"Yes you can," Max growled. "You'll come again while I drink. While he tastes you. While we take everything you give us."

She cried out, a sob or a moan or both, and arched again, helpless beneath them.

Charles pulled back for a second. Kissed the inside of her thigh. Then leaned over and caught a trickle of milk from Max's chin with his tongue. "Perfect," he murmured.

Max kissed him, slow, messy, tongues tangled, and she watched them pass her between their mouths like she was wine. Like she was blessed.

Because she was. When they looked back down at her, she was crying softly. Overstimulated. Overflowing. 

[barleyo]

Frostbitten, Forbidden.

Hector Condicionado X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: another one shot with my favorite cretin. he's so lovely, i just want to eat him in one bite. hope you enjoy reading this!

Tags: dub-con, p in v, creampie, lots and lots and lots of dirty talk, sensory deprivation (eyesight)

Wordcount: 1.1k

Hector would do anything for you. He made it abundantly clear. From the moment you met him, or rather, from the moment he saw you, he knew he would make any sacrifice, any oblation, just to make you happy. No, he didn't want to make you happy—he wanted to keep you happy. A constant state of pleasure and contentment, all due to his own efforts. 

If you were tired, he would build you a bed frame with his bare hands. If you were bored, he would come up with a story to rival the telling of Shakespeare on the spot. Sad? Paw at his vent and tell him all about it. 

Fuck, he would slice his own palms and use the blood to write one of his novels for you if you wanted to do some light reading.

The only thing he couldn't do for you right now was turn up the heat. His only purpose, his one job, he simply couldn't do. Whether there was some sort of blockage in the air filters or a malfunctioning motor, nothing seemed to be working. 

Dead winter and not a single puff of air to ease your pain. 

It tore him up inside more than you would ever know, watching you toss and turn in bed, layering yourself in blankets that hardly helped. He tried for days to fix it himself. He borrowed tools from Tony, but hell if he knew what he was doing. Bang a wrench against the grate? Plead with the thermostat to co-operate? 

He felt like mold. Worse, actually. At least mold gave the world penicillin. What was he giving his beloved? Hypothermia? 

Your poor, freezing legs kicked under the thin covers in discomfort. He knew he had to do something, and he had an inkling of where his mind wanted to go, but it just seemed risky.

Then again, he'd take any risk to satisfy you. 

Your body was shaking inconsolably at this point. You were miserable. Days of straight ice and still air were starting to get to you. Truly, you were convinced it was colder outside your home than in it, but you wouldn't run the chance of finding out. You wanted nothing more than to drift into sleep, but it was too cold to even hope for a good night's rest. 

Just as you began to give up, you felt the bed dip beside you. That wasn't right. You lived alone. 

You tried to scream, but a quick hand covered your mouth. Was this the end? Jesus, why you?

"Hush, my love, it is I."

Oh. 

You slacked in Hector's grasp. You had heard his voice many times, and although it sounded a bit different outside of the vent, you still felt its comforting tones wash over you. That didn't change your confusion. Why was he out of the vent?

As if he could hear your thoughts clicking, he answered, "I couldn't stand to see you like this. Suffering, when I can do something about it."

You hummed against his palm in understanding. Your eyes flicked across the wall in front of you as you laid on your side. You wanted to flip over and see him. You tried to resist the urge, to respect his privacy, but your body acted on its own.

Hector quelled your movements sharply, firm hand turning your head to face the wall again. 

"You know I cannot have that." His calloused hand covered your eyes instead. He cupped his palm over them to keep you both literally and metaphorically in the dark about his appearances. "Don't focus on anything but my warmth. Let me help you, amor."

He hastily fidgeted with his belt, popping the buckle with overly eager hands. 

"Let me make everything up to you. Please."

"Don't you know what it does to me to have this power over you?" 

Hector had gotten much more into this than he thought he would. Obviously, a chance to get this close to you, to touch you, was heaven, but to have complete control?

This was the stuff of fantasy. 

Total domination, zero vulnerability. An opportunity to act on all the depraved things he had said to you in the vents without the fear of being judged for his looks? Sign him up.

"To have you at my mercy? To have all of your trust?" He bottomed out, pushing your face into your pillow. Gentle, as to not hurt his precious girl. "I've wanted this for so many moons. So much wasted time—god—if I knew it could be like this..."

You moaned a strangled little noise into the fluffy pillow. He hated not being able to hear the full extent of your pleasure, but there would be time for that another day.

"That's right," Hector said, voice syrupy and warm as he spoke to you, "I would've taken you much earlier."

His hands gripped your hips and forced them upwards. He dreamed about this. It nearly felt like deja vu, seeing as how he thought of bending you into these nasty positions many times before. It was almost too good to be true. 

"Maybe I would have snuck out of the wretched vent early in the morning to visit you." 

What a tease.

"Or maybe late at night. Late when you think nobody hears you, touching yourself in the dark." His hips stuttered. He didn't want to cum yet, not until you did. He wouldn't forgive himself if he messed up yet again. "I hear you. I hear every sound, every little noise you make. I turn the air up. Make it nice and loud, so nobody else gets to enjoy the show you put on."

Despite the slight uncomfortableness of the angle he put you in, you could see why he did it. He was hitting deep. Deep and purposeful. It was too much for you to handle, especially with his teasing. 

"If only you would have asked me for help. I would've been out in a heartbeat." 

A sexy, but flagrant lie. The sweet vent-dweller took to hiding deep in the vents when you masturbated, stroking himself recklessly while trying to silence his breathing. He was far too nervous to actually do anything about it and far too ashamed of eavesdropping. 

"Next time you need pleasure," he choked out, feeling your gummy walls flutter around him, "call for me."

If he had any shame in the current moment, he'd be horrified at how quickly he came after you. He was simply waiting for your body's permission before he blew.

"I'm always here for you, love."