#Tell me yours in the damn comments and replies

[hearts4johnwick]

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ Sad Girl. / Mark Grayson.

SUMMARY. 𝜗𝜚 a night of drinks and sexy pictures with your best friend takes a turn when a group of boys approach you.

CW. 𝜗𝜚 1.5k. established relationship, mentions of cheating, profanities, harassment and assault (nothing explicit, mark saves the day).

A/N. 𝜗𝜚 had this idea for a while and it was originally gonna for jason todd, but ive been watching invincible </3

The waitress puts down your and your friend’s drinks on your table, the two of you thank her and get to drinking. “Damn, this is good.” Your friend says, sipping on her espresso martini.

You sip on your strawberry daiquiri and hum. “So is my drink.” You lick your lips, tasting what’s left of the strawberry taste on your lips.

“Told you this place was good with their drinks.” Your friend says and you chuckle.

“You were right, for once…” You mutter the last two words before placing your lips around the rim of the glass.

“What was that?” She says, turning her head and inching her ear closer. “What did you say?” She repeats.

“Nothing, I didn’t say anything.” You say in a dry tone, and your friend laughs.

“Bitch.” She shakes her head and you laugh. “Dude, guess what Kaitlyn said to me the other day.” You lean in, an eyebrow raised.

“What?”

“She said that Jonathan has been hooking up with Taylor behind his girlfriend’s back.” You groan in disgust. “Yeah, cause supposedly Taylor has been tutoring him for their engineering class, but, looks like she’s tutoring him in sex ed, too.” You scoff.

“Ew, dude, that’s so gross.” You groan and take a sip from your drink once again. “I hate cheaters, and cheating.”

“Yeah, me too. He’s just so gross, he’s always been a perv. But, why the hell would he cheat on Tiana, she’s so gorgeous, and he’s… well, he’s…God, there’s nothing attractive about him!” You furrow your eyebrows at the mention of Tiana, a popular girl from back in high school and even now in college.

“Wait—he’s dating Tiana? I thought she was…”

“She’s pan.” Your friend corrects you before you finish your sentence.

“Ohhh, right. But she’s single now? Or she doesn’t know that he’s cheating on her?” You ask.

“Nah, she’s still dating him, she doesn’t know. But, Kaitlyn told me she was going to tell her.” Your friend replies.

“Oh. I wanna see that.” You say, drinking.

“Me too.” Your friend also takes a sip from her drink, after she swallows it down she speaks again. “So? It’s crazy I have to ask you about him, you usually start talking about him and never shut up. How’s Mark?”

“Mark’s great! We’re great! I love him so much.” Your tone softens when you speak about him, your friend notices this and smiles. “He’s so amazing, dude, he’s so nice, and kind of clueless but still, he has a lot in his hands, and I understand that, he tries, and his tries are more than okay.”

“I’m surprised he let you go out wearing that.” Your friend says, and you furrow your eyebrows, tilting your head. You were wearing a leather halter top, a mini skirt and boots, how basic pretty girls dress nowadays, but her comment seemed odd.

“Uhh, he better? He doesn’t control me.” You say, a soft and dry chuckle escaping your lips.

“Ugh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just—I’ve never been as lucky as you in love.” You want to cringe, but, you don’t want to be a bad friend, so, you comfort her.

“Neither was I, but, still, I wasn’t patient, but I waited, because I knew the right one would come any day now, and little did I know he was right in front of me for four years straight.” You grab her hand and smile. “Maybe yours is also right in front of you.” She raised an eyebrow, looking at you up and down. “Tiana.” You see a flash of red rushing up to her cheeks and you chuckle. “I knew it.”

You and your friend were in a restaurant that had tables outside and inside, but you and your friend decided to go outside since it was the perfect amount of chilly instead of hot.

You were minding your business, getting ready to eat your calzone when “Damn!” A boy from a group yells, you look to where it came from and make direct eye contact with one of them, then, they head your way. You cover your eye roll by putting your hand on your face, you groan softly. Your friend notices and hums.

“Yo, let me get your number…” one of the boys demanded, you ignored him, not taking your hand off your face, staring directly at your friend. “Did you hear me?” He pulls your hand away from your face. “Your number.”

“No.” You say.

“I wasn’t asking.” He says and you scoff.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, I’m going to need to ask you to go your way and leave this young lady alone.” The waiter attending the table behind you spoke up. “Let go of her hand. Now.” He demanded, and the boy let go.

“Whatever.” He grumbled and walked away with his group.

“Are you okay?” The waiter asks you and you nod.

“I am. Thank you.” You smile and he nods, walking away.

“Pricks.” Your friend says, grabbing her utensils to eat.

After eating, you and your friend find a cute spot to take pictures, you start posing for the camera until you hear the same voice you heard earlier, you roll your eyes and groan. When they approach you, you utter a soft “fuck.”

“No stupid waiters to have your back now…how about you give me what I’m asking for?” The boy from earlier says.

“I thought you weren’t asking.” You spit and he shakes his head.

“I suggest you shut that smart mouth of yours and use your fingers to type.” He pulls out his phone, showing the keypad.

“You want mine or my boyfriend’s?” You ask, and the boy chuckles, looking between his friends.

He chuckles mischievously. “How about your boyfriend’s? So he can see I took his bitch.” He says, looking between his friends again as they laugh and you hum.

“You got plenty of bitches over there, they’re not enough?” You point over to his friends, but the joke is quickly over when he grabs your face and pushes you against the wall. You groan as you try to push his hand away.

“You think you’re funny?” He says, leaning closer to you. He throws his phone to one of his friends, and grabs a blade from his back pocket. “Let’s see how funny it is when I carve a smile in your mouth.” He threatens, your friend yells for you, but one of his friends pushes her to the ground. The boy holding you pushes the blade closer to your mouth, and as you gasp for air, the most angelic voice you could hear, fills your ears.

“Get away from her.” A voice growls from above. You look up and with your blurry vision you manage to see Invincible, you smile.

He lowers down and the boy lets go of you. “I suggest you boys pack it up before this scene turns into something you don’t want it to.” Invincible says, the boy drops the switch blade and gasps.

“Invincible…I-I’m so sorry! It won’t happen again.” In the blink of an eye, Invincible has the boy by his throat. You gasp softly, you don’t want him to kill the boy, after all, he is just a boy, no younger than you, but definitely still in high school.

Mark has been acting differently, ever since the Angstrom incident, he’s been different, more intrusive, but, you fuck around with the people he loves, and you will find out. Just ask Cecil.

“Alright, we get it! We won’t do it again! Put him down!” One of his friends approaches Invincible, but Invincible has a hard sneer on his face, his lips twitching in raw rage.

When you place your hand on his shoulder, his muscles relax, so does his face. He drops the boy and he tries to catch his breath. “Go! Get out of here! Never let me see your face again.” Invincible says to the boys as he approaches you.

When they run away, he holds you. He cups your cheeks and places a hand on your hip. “Oh, baby, oh my God, baby… are you okay?” He wipes a tear away from your face. Both his hands are now caressing your face and cheeks, you hold his wrists.

“Yes, I’m-I’m fine.” You say, gasping for air.

“Oh, thank God.” He brings you closer, your face coming in contact with his chest. “I’m so sorry. I wish I got here sooner.”

“No, it’s okay…” you reassure him, caressing his cheek. He bends down to kiss your lips, and you return one quick, but, “Mark…” you whisper oh so softly. You place a hand above his abdomen and look behind him. He looks behind you, and his eyebrows raise when he sees your long term friend.

She’s stunned, frozen. Why did Invincible save you? Why did Invincible call you ‘baby’? Why did Invincible kiss you?!?!? “Mark?!” She shouts. “Oh my fuck—fuck! You’re dating Invincible!”

“Surprise…?” You smile innocently, but Mark looks back at you. “What?” He towers over you with just his stare, technically, you can’t see his eyes, but, you know he’s not happy.

“We’ll talk when we get home.” He says, and you nod. This means two things, it has always meant two things, and it’s always the one you think.

❛ but you haven’t seen my man…

you haven’t seen my man. ❜

[peachesanmemes]

Love asking my fellow freaks what the first website or game they ERPed on was. Really tells you a lot about a person...

[whosmariaaa]

— another angsty/ fluffy drabble of this !

college! sukuna loved arguing with you. the entire reason why he’s so head over heels for you, is because you don’t take his shit. at all. that seriously turns a man on.

yes, he promised himself he’d never make you feel really bad ever again. but riling you up is just a little too funny to resist! especially when you fall for it each and every time, because you do kind of have a temper.

you two are in his dorm, arguing about something stupid again. sukuna’d long forgotten what the argument was even about. you secretly did too. now it was just purely because he wasn’t taking you serious.

“do i look like i’m fucking joking to you, sukuna?!” you yelled, seriously pissed off. that disgusting, stupid smirk of his was glued to his face, making your frustration a thousand times worse.

“calm your tits, sweetheart. you’re always so pissy all the time, i worry you’re going to pop a fucking blood vessel,” he mocked.

this jerk! you curled your fists into your hair, and honestly felt like pulling it all out. “what the hell is your problem, you asshole?” you snarled.

he huffed, “you’re my damn problem, y/n. you’re lucky you’re still my girl even with all those anger issues,” sukuna commented, his tone a little more harsh.

he still had a grin on his face, but his insult still hurt all the same. and you barely felt the tears building up in your eyes.

sukuna was a firm champion at getting on your nerves. he found it hilarious, his number one source of entertainment, but you were seriously contemplating pushing him out of the window.

you stared at him, eyes narrowed, nose slightly scrunched. it was quiet for a few seconds. no ordinary person would’ve noticed your eyes getting a little wet, but of course your boyfriend did.

“what? ya gonna fucking cry now over a joke, baby?” he replied meanly. “didn’t take you for a crybaby with all that attitude, hmm?” sukuna added.

okay, sure, he could’ve said worse things, but you still felt hurt. and also stupid for crying, but you couldn’t help yourself.

“whatever, man. go find yourself another girl that isn’t a crybaby then,” you sniffled. at that, sukuna paused, and his grin disappeared.

to him, you had a tendency to be dramatic, but this time, something in his stomach felt off.

you hurriedly grabbed your jacket and raced out the dorm, leaving him behind. you wiped your tears, and just… walked. not to your dorm, not to campus, just no where in particular. you were just strolling through tokyo, through the damn rain.

but after one hour of not replying to his calls or texts, or better yet, coming back, your boyfriend had started losing his shit.

sukuna was a crap boyfriend. he was a mess. but he loved you oh so dearly, even if he struggled to show you. and now he felt even worse knowing he made his poor girl cry on purpose.

the second sukuna knew you weren’t coming back for the night, he grabbed his bike and searched through tokyo’s streets for you.

he spotted you eventually. soaking wet because of the rain. hood up, eyes a little droopy. the sight made his heart feel heavy for some reason.

at the sound of sukuna’s bike, you turned your head slightly. “what?” you snapped.

“c’mere, sweetheart, let me take you home, aight?” he offered. you glared at him, and flipped him off.

“don’t be difficult, baby. i won’t be an ass anymore,” he replied.

you scoffed, “fuck outta here. leave me alone.”

sukuna surpressed a sigh at your response. “drop the fucking attitude, y/n, and get on the fucking bike,” he sneered.

you clicked your tongue, sighed… but complied. you were soaked to the bone, and honestly all you wanted to do was curl into sukuna’s arms again. not like you’d tell him.

the drive to the dorms was mostly silent. at stoplights, he’d rub your thigh with his thumb, but words weren’t really exchanged.

but, eventually sukuna cracked. “sorry, sweetheart. s’my fault for getting you so riled up,” he told you. you sniffled, “it’s okay.”

“it’s not. but i love you. and i know i’m fucking up every single chance i get from you, i fucking know. but i’m trying, okay?” he said. he grabbed your hand, and placed a kiss on it. you didn’t really reply, but sukuna knew you heard him. and for now that was enough.

safe to say, sukuna attempted to not get on your nerves as much anymore. i mean, he still did. everytime you’d yell at him or sass him, his pants would still tighten, but he started listening to you more. that man loved you more than anything, and more than anything did he want to show you.

──★˙🍓̟!! i hate this so much goodbye. idk it’s not bad but i feel like i could’ve done better. i’m sorry babe @fictionalmen4eva i tried my best, but thank you sosoosos much for the request!!!💗 i do feel like sukuna would be his girlfriend’s 1# ragebaiter just bc he can😣

— taglist ! @imlikeacoffeeconnoisseur @stars4you777 @totallygyomeiswife @sukubusss @seizecherry @xlilycoco @v1x3n @go-go-gadget-autism @elizabeth-von-winken-universe @paradisestarfishh @13-09-01 @misticsilver @whosmarjj @seellove @aquariusscollection @satorushousewife @rwirxles @anonnieghost @bitchpleaseeeeeeeeee-blog @iminloveweveryone @poopooindamouf @phisen @ryomku @erintaro @clp-84 @mastermasterlist1p1 @katsukiseyebrows @happy2delivur @jup1tersuccubus @nxcxllxsevens @realalpacorn @kxgumi @crankyarchives @itsjustisa @junitries @kodzukensworld @bnbaochauuu @tomsxslvt @flwerie @bwlol7 @szuuyl @grignardsreagent @yourangel04 🍓

[aomiiine]

HE LOVES HIS OFFICER!

𐔌  .   𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆  ୧ ──── PRAEDATOR! SYLUS + ENFORCER! FEM READER

W☆RNINGS. N!SFW/MDNI (18+) — cockhead pinching, hate fucking vibes, orgasm denial/orgasm delay, cock ring, handjob, cock slapping (once), feral sylus, tame(?) bdsm-ish vibes, restraints (chains obv), a bit predator/prey dynamic, slight praise kink (reader), might be ooc sylus but idc lol, switch m & f, overstim, hints of corruption (sylus -> you), quite heavy degradation (reader to him & him to reader. ie; slut, bitch, animal, etc.), that tongue scene lmaoaoa, kind of (not canon) improvised lore at the end, ‘kitten’ is used twice i think, all smut no plot, not proofread wordcount is 1.7k edited to 1.9k

TAGLIST. @tinycatharsis @jellysix @wonryllis @tsukkisukkii @wonuwuuuuu

author’s comment. thinking ab making a small event for valentines day w the lnds guys based on the new banner.. tell me what u think abt this one though! also, this is just me exploring these kinks so pls pardon me if they aren’t well written :’) Comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated !! <3

“As if the frenzy enhancer wasn’t enough, you had to put a fucking cock-ring on me when I’m already this fucking hard, you slutty minx.”

Chains clanged and rattled from Sylus’s writhing, hands balling to fists in his attempt to yank the metal cuffs off him. It was in vain, of course, but you couldn’t blame him. You were tasked to interrogate him by your superior but here you were—absolutely torturing his big cock by denying every single orgasm.

It was almost sad honestly. The way his dick curved to his belly, abs flexing with every ragged breath he took. His tip leaked what seemed to be a steady stream of pre-cum staining his stomach, his arousal making a mess of the white nest on his pelvis, swollen shaft throbbing like a fucking heartbeat in anticipation on what your next move would be.

“The cock-ring was a necessary measure taken for you to speak. Since your mouth wont tell me the information I need, maybe your stupid cock will,” you scoffed at his glower, landing a slap onto his stiff cock, earning yourself a hiss. His teeth gritted and bared at you in obvious agitation from the endless heat running through his veins and the frenzy enhancer.

“Maybe if you stopped being a cruel bitch and let me cum already, I’d fucking speak.”

“Information first, reward later,” you replied swiftly, hand reaching out to wrap around his needy dick, stroking him half-heartedly, not even bothering to pay a sliver of attention to his weeping tip.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“No, thank you.”

Sylus groaned loudly, wrists tugging on the biting metal cuffs hanging over each side of his head. His breath quickened, guttural moans rumbling from his chest from the lazy strokes you gave him.

Sylus felt utterly humiliated that he was being so damn sensitive at the weak jerks of your soft palm around his slick cock, his hips rolling to fuck into your fist. His ego was bruised, but he wasn’t one to dwell on it. Instead, he’d like to move on and have you kiss fuck it better.

“Do you not know how to stroke a cock, kitten? Is my little enforcer a virgin?” Sylus’s voice was low and husky when he spoke, hands relaxing on the chain to lean down forward, his large and tall frame looming over your smaller one just before you could retaliate his remark.

The shadow sylus’s figure casted over yours was undeniably intimidating—especially so when his nearly crazed eyes gleamed at you in a predatory gaze. His head dipped closer to yours, stray strands of his white hair falling over his eyes as he searched for your irises.

It took every will in your body to not flinch, refusing to show him a single shred of weakness to exploit. Except, Sylus merely grinned at your bravado, tongue darting out to lick his lips as if he was staring at prey.

“Scared of a little proximity, my dear enforcer?” The mockery in his voice grated at your nerves, your features contorting into a grimace on instinct.

“You animal,” you seethed, grasp on his cock tightening to a point bordering on pain. Your praedator gasped sharply, leaning away to throw his head back in relief when you began stroking him, fast.

Every deliberate flick of your wrist brought hot white pleasure to his strained body, eyes closing shut with nothing but deep, drawn out groans leaving his throat. The chains began rattling against, muscles flexing with effort when he felt himself nearing an explosive orgasm.

“Yes— oh fuck, yes, make me cum, you dirty bitch,” he grunted in a near whimper, hips rocking upward uncontrollably when your hand began focusing on his crown. Your index finger and thumb created a circle around the head to stimulate his glans continuously, pads of your fingers purposely rubbing over the sensitive frenulum.

“Calling me a bitch when you’re the begging to cum like a manwhore,” you tsked disapprovingly, quickening your strokes while your glared intense at his deep red cock, the cock-ring tight on his base to keep him rock hard.

You didn’t miss the way his slit continued to leak, his arousal betrayed by the way he kept producing natural lube for you to use. “At least I’m honest—agh—fuck! I wanna cum so bad, baby, please,” Sylus stammered, head hung low with droplets of sweat falling down his flushed skin.

You considered showing him mercy at his plea, truly. His cock was throbbing around your fingers, balls drawn up tight to his body with pent up cum—why couldn’t you just let the poor man cum his brains out already?

“I don’t know.. I’m not getting the information I want,” you uttered teasingly, not truly contemplating the thought. Even if you did, the answer would always fall on ‘no’.

You could see how Sylus was on the edge of cumming with how his legs quivered subtly, abdomen muscles flexing and relax with each stroke. His cock was steaming hot in your hand, warm with fresh cum flowing up to his shaft. Yet just moments before he was about to release, your ministrations ceased, two fingers stopping just below his glans to pinch his sensitive flesh, forcefully halting his orgasm.

“Motherfucker—I was just about to fucking cum all over your uniform, you—” he snarled, nostrils flaring with every intake of breath. His nose scrunched up briefly in pure infuriation, eyes closed as he leaned his head back, the corners of his lips twitching to a smile.

“When I get out these chain, kitten, I’ll get back at you so fucking good, you’ll be crippled for weeks,” he huffed in a scoff before punctuating his threat with a harsh tug on the metal cuffs restraining him to the metal bars of the cage, the chains clattering loudly. His throat was stretched and exposed for you to see, skin glistening with perspiration and Adam’s apple bobbing.

The sudden motion startled you, sending your heart beating faster than it already was. Your assigned praedator was unhinged, you knew that much from his files—but you didn’t expect him to be this unhinged.

Despite that, it sent your heart racing rather than falling into the pit of your stomach. You felt excited, fucking thrilled even. Your pupils dilated as if you just found your fix, like a cat setting its sights on its newest toy.

“Mmhm, sure,” you muttered with a faint yet noticeable tremble to your voice. It caught Sylus’s attention in an instant.

the sweat sheened praedator finally lifted his head, tilting to the side with intrigue glinting in those crimson irises. “Are you liking this, kitten?” He said with his now hoarse voice, smirk stretching more than it should. “‘S that why you decided to make this cage for me? Using this place as your personal sex dungeon? Yeah, I see it. The eyes of the depraved.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed with sadistic glee, no doubt pounding with satisfaction at the thought of corrupting his righteous enforcer and throbbing with an ongoing orgasm, cock still held in place by yours unwavering fingers.

It took you a moment to regain your composure, still reeling from the shot of adrenaline he gave you. Eventually, you caught yourself again, inhaling deeply before dropping your eyes to his cock between your digits, shaft still pumping with kept cum.

With a bite of your tongue, you released him of punishment, letting his cum spurt out onto his stomach in ropes.

”yesyesyesss— mmph, god fucking damn it!”

His balls pulsed with his length as thick, hot stuttering streams of semen dripped to the floor, your hand not hesitating to wrap around his girth, pulling his stiff dick towards you and letting his cum make white messes on your dark coloured uniform.

“There, I let you cum.” You spoke sounding just as winded as Sylus who was basking in the mind-numbing relief of emptying his balls to the fullest after accumulating it all in his cock for what felt like hours.

“You did.. Yes, you did, you good girl,” he slurred, no doubt basking in the afterglow shameless, hips thrusting shallowly into your hand for the slightest bit of friction.

A brow twitched when you heard him call you good girl all of the sudden. Your lashes batted at him, lips parted in surprise until your head dipped once more, averting your gaze.

The cock-ring at the base of his dick was slid off him, his body chasing your heat as you pulled away and tucked his cock back into his pants, zipping him back up. You allowed him slump bonelessly with his hands tied up above his head, leaving him panting for air.

He must’ve said it ‘cause he was drunk of the high, not because he meant it, was a mantra you repeated in your mind to convince yourself. Regardless, you couldn’t deny how it sent goosebumps up your nape, hair standing at attention, couldn’t deny how a single fleeting praise made your throat go dry and breathing quicken.

“I expect full cooperation tomorrow morning, Sylus.” you blurted, focus moving back to him before you backed away a few steps and stormed out his cage, locking it securely behind you.

You practically sped walked out the prison underground, heading straight to the elevator leading back up to your office.

Once you were in the metal box, you fished for a handkerchief in your pocket, frantically using it to wipe the stains of his seed on the front of your uniform.

With quivering hands, your rubbed it off you the best you could to fade the colour so you could excuse it a spill of chemicals or something to your colleagues—even if that wasn’t what really happened.

Your little rendzvous with a praedator—a SSS ranked dangerous praedator at that—risked more than your job. You yourself could be detained for being suspected of having intercourse with a praedator. You’d be an experiment, again, for researchers to exploit if sex could turn you into a praedator.

But unfortunately, deep down, you knew you’d come back to him again. After all, nothing intoxicated you more than dancing with that red eyed devil tied up at your mercy.

Finally reaching your office floor, you got off the elevator, walking in a bee line past your busy colleague, eyes on the ground to avoid contact with any of them. You didn’t know if you could handle speaking or explaining (lying) about your situation to anyone right now.

you pulled on the back of your chair, taking a seat and immediately holding your head in your hands, rethinking your life choices—the one where you decided to change your occupation from Hunter to Enforcer. Your hands slid down your face, eyes falling to the handkerchief, a reminder of your earlier affair.

Only then did the events dawn on you, your entire body processing the audacity and brazen display you showed Sylus. Now you crumbled in the solace of your safe space away from his predatory gaze.

A hand came up to your mouth, lips capturing a finger to nibble on when your thighs rubbed against one another, making you realise how fucking drenched your panties were. That damn praedator had you this wet in a rut without laying a finger on you—how pathetic of you.

One thing was for sure, you’d call in leave early to rub this compiled arousal off quick—it didn’t matter if you had to wet your sheets with cum, you needed this feeling gone, asap.

[gojosconsort]

what happens in the car, stays in the car !? // nanami kento

𓂃୨ৎ you're the young intern who's been fantasizing about your stoic coworker, nanami, and he's the older, unhappily taken man who finally breaks, pinning you down in his car after drinks to fuck you senseless.

𓂃୨ৎ pairing. afab!reader x coworker!nanami

𓂃୨ৎ warnings. mdni. oral (both receiving), fingering, deep throating, spanking, bondage (seatbelt), edging, age gap, overstimulation, cheating (nanami has a girlfriend), gagging (with tie), creampie, drunk driving (don't do that! it's more of a plot hole), car sex

you’re sitting at the bar, the dim lights casting a warm glow over the polished wood counter, the faint hum of chatter and clinking glasses filling the air. it’s been a long week at the office, and you and nanami, your coworker who’s somehow always got that tired look in his eyes, decided to hit this place to unwind.

he’s in his early thirties, a bit older than you and more experienced in your job, but tonight his tie’s loosened, top button undone, and there’s a slight flush on his cheeks from the whiskey he’s drinking.

you’re in your early twenties, still figuring out the corporate grind, and maybe that’s why you’re drawn to him—his steady presence, the way he carries himself like he’s seen it all but hasn’t let it break him.

you’re both a little buzzed, the kind of buzz that makes your laughter come easier and your shoulders relax. the bar’s crowded, but it feels like it’s just the two of you in this corner, elbows brushing on the countertop. he’s telling you about some client who botched a deal today, his voice low and rough, and you’re leaning in closer than you need to, catching the faint scent of his cologne—something expensive, woody, grounding. you make a snarky comment about the client, and he chuckles, a rare sound that makes your stomach flip.

“you’re trouble, you know that?” he says, his eyes flicking to yours, a playful edge to his tone that’s not usually there. he’s got that half-smile, the one that makes him look younger, less burdened. you grin, nudging his arm with yours, your skin lingering against his for a second too long.

“me? trouble? you’re the one who’s been scowling at spreadsheets all week,” you tease, sipping your drink, the burn of alcohol warming your throat. your knee bumps his under the bar, and you don’t pull away. neither does he.

he shakes his head, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. “you make it hard to stay focused,” he mutters, almost to himself, and you catch it, your heart doing a little stutter.

he’s got a girlfriend, you know that—someone he’s been with for years, someone he talks about in passing but never with any warmth. you’ve seen the way his jaw tightens when her name comes up in conversation, the way he changes the subject. it’s none of your business, but you can’t help wondering what’s keeping him there when he looks so damn miserable.

“what, i’m a distraction now?” you say, leaning closer, your voice light but your eyes searching his. you’re treading a line, you both know it, but the alcohol’s got you bold, and the way he’s looking at you makes it hard to care.

he tilts his head, his fingers brushing against yours as he reaches for his glass, and you swear it’s not an accident. “something like that,” he says, his voice softer now, almost dangerous. his thumb grazes your knuckles, just for a second, and it’s enough to make your pulse race. you laugh it off, but your cheeks are warm, and you’re pretty sure he notices.

“careful, kento,” you say, using his first name like you’ve done a hundred times at the office, but here it feels different, heavier. “don’t want to get too friendly.” you’re joking, mostly, but there’s a challenge in your tone, and he picks up on it, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“too late for that, don’t you think?” he replies, and there’s something in his voice—something raw, unguarded—that makes you wonder how long he’s been holding back. his hand shifts, resting on the bar near yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin. you could pull back, keep it safe, but you don’t. instead, you let your fingers brush his, just enough to feel the spark.

the bartender slides another round your way, breaking the moment, and you both laugh, the tension easing but not disappearing. you talk about work, about the idiots in upper management, about anything that keeps the conversation flowing. but every now and then, your eyes meet, and there’s something unspoken there.

your drinks are running low, and you’re feeling reckless, the kind of reckless that comes from too much whiskey and the way his knee keeps brushing yours under the bar. you’re the one who suggests it, half-joking, half-daring. “wanna play a game? make this night a little more fun?”

he raises an eyebrow, that half-smile creeping back, and you can tell he’s intrigued. “what kind of game?” he asks, his voice low, like he’s already expecting trouble.

“truth or drink,” you say, smirking, tapping your glass with your fingernail. “answer the question or take a shot. no dodging, no bullshit.”

he leans back, considering, his eyes flicking over your face like he’s weighing the risks. “alright,” he says finally, his tone almost challenging. “you first.”

you grin, leaning closer, your elbows on the bar. “okay, kento. what’s the one thing you hate most about your relationship?” it’s a cheap shot, and you know it, but you’re curious, and the alcohol’s making you bold.

his jaw tightens, just for a second, and you think he’s gonna drink. but then he meets your gaze. “she doesn’t see me,” he says, voice quiet but heavy. “not really.” he doesn’t elaborate, just takes a sip of his whiskey anyway.

your heart does a little twist, but you keep your face neutral, nodding. “fair enough. your turn.”

he doesn’t hesitate. “what’s the most reckless thing you’ve ever done for someone you wanted?” his eyes are locked on yours, and you feel the question like a hook, pulling you in.

you laugh, but it’s nervous, and you grab your drink, stalling. “that’s a loaded one,” you mutter, but you don’t drink. instead, you lean in, voice dropping. “snuck into a guy’s apartment at three a.m. just to leave a note on his fridge. didn’t even know if he’d see it.” you don’t mention it was a dumb college crush, not worth the effort. you just watch nanami’s reaction, the way his lips twitch, almost impressed.

“bold,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes your skin prickle. “my turn.”

the game goes back and forth, questions getting sharper, flirtier, the shots piling up. you’re both laughing, but it’s tense, like you’re circling something dangerous. you ask him about his first kiss; he asks you about the last time you broke a rule. he’s loosening up, his usual restraint cracking, and you’re eating it up, every brush of his hand against yours sending a jolt through you.

then it’s your turn again, and you’re feeling bold, maybe too bold. “what’s one thing you’ve always wanted to try but never had the guts to do?” you ask, your voice teasing, but your eyes are daring him to cross a line.

he pauses, longer than before, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. then he leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath, and says, “something like this.” before you can process, he grabs a shot from the bartender’s tray, holds it up, and says, “new rule. you hold the shot. i take it.”

your brain short-circuits, but you’re too far gone to back down. “what, like, in my mouth?” you say, half-laughing, half-challenging, but your heart’s pounding.

“exactly like that,” he replies, his voice so low it’s almost a growl, and his eyes are burning into yours, no trace of a joke.

you hesitate, but the way he’s looking at you—like he’s starving—makes you nod. you take the shot glass, tip your head back, and let the tequila pool in your mouth, the burn sharp against your tongue. you’re hyper-aware of everything: the bar’s noise fading, the heat of his body as he stands, the way his hand brushes your jaw as he tilts your face up.

he doesn’t break eye contact, not once, as he leans in, his lips hovering over yours for a split second, close enough that you feel the ghost of his breath. then his mouth closes over the edge of the shot, his lips brushing yours, soft but deliberate, as he takes the tequila, his tongue grazing the corner of your mouth just enough to make your knees weak. he pulls back, swallowing, his eyes dark and unreadable, but the tension’s so thick you could choke on it.

“your turn,” he says, voice rough, sitting back like nothing happened, but his hand’s still near yours, and you know you’re both in way too deep now.

the tequila’s hitting hard now, your head buzzing, the world softening around the edges. you and nanami are slouched closer together, the bar’s noise a distant hum, like it’s just you two in this hazy, charged bubble. your thighs are pressed together under the bar, and you’re not sure who leaned in first, but neither of you’s pulling away. the empty shot glasses are piling up, and your laughter’s getting looser, sloppier, every touch lingering longer than it should.

he’s got that look again, intense, like he’s trying to figure out how far this can go before it breaks. the game’s still on, but the questions are getting reckless, dangerous. it’s his turn, and he leans in, elbow on the bar.

“what’s your biggest fantasy in bed?” he asks, no preamble, no hesitation, his eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to flinch. it’s filthy, the way he says it, and it sends a shiver down your spine, your breath catching.

you laugh, but it’s shaky, and you take a sip of your drink to buy time, your cheeks burning. you could dodge, take a shot, but the alcohol’s got your guard down, and the way he’s watching you—hungry, unguarded—makes you want to match him. you lean closer, your lips curling into a smirk, and say, “you.”

it’s out before you can stop it, hanging in the air like a spark. his eyes darken, and he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t brush it off. he just stares, his gaze heavy, like he’s imagining it right there. “careful,” he murmurs, but his voice is thick, and you catch the way his hand tightens around his glass. “you don’t know what you’re starting.”

you’re dizzy, from the drinks or him or both, but you don’t back down. “maybe i do,” you say, your voice softer now, teasing.

you’re both drunk, past the point of pretending this is just friendly, his tie long gone, sleeves rolled up, and your hair’s falling messy around your face. his hand’s been creeping closer all night, and now it’s resting on your thigh, warm and heavy through your skirt, his fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse race.

“you wanna know why i don’t get along with my girlfriend anymore?” he says, leaning in so close you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. his hand tightens on your thigh, sliding up an inch, and it’s enough to make your whole body go weak, your breath hitching. “yeah,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper, “tell me.”

he’s so close now, his lips almost brushing your ear, his fingers digging into your thigh like he’s anchoring himself. “it’s her,” he says, low and rough, the words spilling out like a dam’s broken. “she doesn’t want me. not the way i need. i want—fuck, i want someone who’ll let me take control, who’ll give themselves up to me, let me push them to the edge and beg for more.”

your knees are jelly, your head spinning, and you’re gripping the edge of the bar to keep yourself upright. his words are filthy, raw, painting pictures in your mind that make heat pool in your core. his hand’s still on your thigh, higher now, his thumb brushing slow circles that send shivers up your spine. you try to speak, but all that comes out is a shaky, “kento…”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded, searching your face like he’s waiting for you to stop him. but you don’t. you can’t. you’re too far gone, your body leaning into his touch, your lips parted, and he sees it—the way you’re unraveling under him. “you get it, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice a low growl, his hand sliding up another inch, bold and possessive.

you’re weak, completely undone, your heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it. his face is inches from yours, and you’re drowning in the scent of his cologne, the weight of his hand, the promise in his words. you know you’re crossing a line, but right now, with him this close, you don’t care.

he leans back suddenly, his hand slipping from your thigh, leaving your skin cold where his touch had been. “you wanna get out of here?” he asks. it’s not a question, not really; it’s a dare, and you feel it in your bones.

your heart stumbles, but you don’t hesitate. “yeah,” you say. you slide off the stool, legs shaky from the drinks and the way he’s looking at you, and follow him out, the cool night air hitting your skin like a shock.

his car’s parked a block away, a sleek, dark mercedes that screams understated money, and you’re hyper-aware of his presence beside you, his hand brushing your lower back as he guides you through the crowd. neither of you speaks, the silence heavy, loaded. when you reach the car, he unlocks it but doesn’t open the door right away. instead, he turns to you, backing you against the passenger side, his body close but not quite touching, caging you in.

“last chance to walk away,” he says, but you catch the strain in it, like he’s holding himself back by a thread. his eyes search yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s itching to touch you.

you don’t walk away. you tilt your chin up, defiant, wanting, and that’s all it takes. he closes the distance, one hand cupping your jaw, firm but not rough, and kisses you like he’s been starving for it.

his lips are hot, demanding, and you melt into him, your hands fisting in his shirt as you pull him closer. the kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue, the taste of whiskey and tequila mingling, and you’re drowning in it, in him.

you arch into him, desperate for more, your body pressing against his, but he’s in control, and he proves it. when you push up on your toes, chasing his mouth, he pulls back just enough to make you whimper, his thumb brushing your lower lip, teasing. “slow down,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver through you. “we’re doing this my way.”

you’re panting, your body trembling under his gaze, and he’s watching you like he’s memorizing every reaction. his hand slides to your waist, pinning you against the car, and he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring it.

you try to arch again, to press yourself closer, but he pulls back just enough to keep you wanting, his lips hovering over yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “patience,” he says, and the word alone makes your knees weak, his control wrapping around you like a tether you don’t want to break.

you’re trembling, caught in the push and pull of his restraint, the way he keeps you teetering on the edge with every calculated move. his hand on your waist tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp, and you feel the hard line of his body against yours.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, almost amused, but there’s a hunger in it that makes your stomach flip. his thumb traces a slow line along your hip, slipping just under the hem of your shirt, grazing bare skin. “nervous?”

you shake your head, defiant. “not nervous,” you manage, your voice breathy, betraying you. “just… want you.”

his eyes flash, something dangerous sparking in them, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you again, devour you right there. but he doesn’t. instead, he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “you have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says, his voice a low growl, each word sinking into you like a promise. “but you’re gonna find out.”

before you can respond, he pulls back, his hand leaving your waist to open the passenger door. “get in,” he says, not a request, and the authority in his tone makes your knees weak. you slide into the seat, your pulse racing, and he shuts the door with a quiet click that feels final, like you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. he rounds the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, and the silence between you is heavy, charged, as he starts the engine.

he doesn’t drive far—just a few blocks to a quieter street, where the city lights are dim and the world feels smaller, just you and him. he cuts the engine and turns to you, his gaze heavy, assessing. “still with me?” he asks, his voice softer now, but still laced with that control that makes your skin prickle.

“yeah,” you breathe, leaning toward him, your hands itching to touch him. you reach out, fingers brushing his jaw, but he catches your wrist, his grip firm, stopping you. your breath hitches, and he smirks, like he’s enjoying how easily he can unravel you.

“not yet,” he says, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate, making your whole body hum. “you don’t get to touch until i say.” he releases your wrist, but his hand slides to your thigh again, higher this time, his fingers spreading possessively over your skin. you arch toward him, desperate, but he pulls back just enough to keep you wanting, his eyes never leaving yours.

“kento,” you whisper, half-pleading, and he leans in, finally kissing you again, slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours until you’re whimpering into his mouth. his hand slides up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher, and you’re melting, completely at his mercy, every nerve sparking under his touch. when you try to press closer, he pulls back again, just enough to make you chase him, his lips curling into that infuriating, controlled smirk.

“good girl,” he murmurs, the words hitting you like a shockwave, and you’re done for, your body trembling, ready to give him anything he wants, right there in the dark of his car.

“you’re so responsive,” he murmurs, like he’s savoring every reaction he pulls from you. his hand slides higher, fingers slipping under the edge of your underwear, and you gasp, your hips jerking instinctively toward him. he pauses, his gaze sharpening, and you feel the weight of his control settle over you like a blanket. “stay still,” he says, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “you move when i tell you to.”

you nod, biting your lip, your body trembling with anticipation as his fingers brush against you, teasing, not quite giving you what you want. he’s slow, deliberate, exploring you with a precision that makes your head spin, his touch light but purposeful, building a pressure that’s almost unbearable. you’re already slick, desperate, and he knows it, his lips curling into that smirk that drives you wild.

“you’re so needy,” he says. his fingers trace the edge of your underwear, slow, teasing, brushing the sensitive skin where your thigh meets your core. you’re already aching, slick and hot, and he hasn’t even touched you properly yet. “but you’re gonna be good for me, aren’t you? gonna let me take my time.”

you nod, biting your lip, your body trembling as his fingers hook under the fabric, tugging it aside with agonizing precision. the cool air hits you, and you gasp, hips twitching instinctively, but his other hand presses firmly on your thigh, keeping you still. “what did i say? don’t move,” he orders again.

his fingertip grazes you, feather-light, just along the edge, and it’s torture, the barest touch sending sparks through your nerves. he’s slow, methodical, circling your entrance, spreading your wetness with a deliberate stroke that makes you clench. “so ready,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his eyes flicking to your face, drinking in the way your lips part, the way your chest heaves. “but i’m not letting you have it that easy.”

you whimper, your hands gripping the seat, nails digging in as he presses one finger against you, not pushing in, just resting there, letting you feel the pressure. “kento, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking, but he shakes his head, his thumb brushing over you, teasing your clit for a split second before pulling back.

“patience,” he says, his voice a low growl, and then he’s finally giving you something, his finger sliding in, slow, so slow, the stretch deliberate as he pushes past your entrance. you feel every inch, the way he curls slightly, testing, exploring, his knuckle brushing against your walls as he sinks deeper. your head falls back, a moan slipping out, and he pauses, just holding there, letting you adjust, letting you feel him.

“look at me,” he commands, and you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze, dark and intense, as he starts to move, pulling back almost all the way before pushing in again, deeper this time, his finger curling just right to hit that spot that makes you gasp. when you start to rock your hips, chasing more, he stops, his finger still inside you, and you whine, tears prickling your eyes.

“i said don’t move,” he repeats, his voice firm, his free hand gripping your thigh harder, pinning you in place. “you come when i let you, understand?” you nod, desperate, your body shaking, and he rewards you with a second finger, pushing in alongside the first, the stretch fuller now, making you bite your lip to stifle a sob.

“please, kento,” you beg, your voice a broken whisper, tears spilling over as the pleasure coils tighter, your body screaming for release. he leans closer, his lips brushing your cheek, his breath hot against your skin.

without warning, his pace shifts, his fingers thrusting harder, faster, the rhythm brutal and unrelenting. the wet sound of his movements fills the car, obscene and overwhelming, as he drives into you with a force that makes your whole body jolt.

each thrust is deep, his fingers curling sharply to hit that spot inside you that sends white-hot pleasure shooting through your veins. you cry out, your head falling back against the seat, your hands clawing at the leather as you struggle to hold on.

“kento—fuck,” you sob, your voice breaking, the intensity too much, too good, your body screaming for release. his fingers are merciless, pounding into you, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with every thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure that make your vision blur. you’re a mess, trembling, sweating, your hips twitching despite his orders, desperate to meet his brutal pace.

“please, kento, i can’t—i need—”

“no,” he cuts you off. “you’ll wait.” his thumb presses hard against your clit, circling roughly, and you scream, the pleasure so intense it’s almost pain. he’s pushing you to your limit, his fingers relentless, driving into you with a ferocity that leaves you sobbing, your body completely at his mercy.

“look at you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as he keeps up his punishing rhythm. “crying for me, so desperate. you’re mine right now, aren’t you?” his fingers twist inside you, hitting that spot again, and you nod frantically, tears falling freely, your body shaking as you cling to his words, to his control.

you’re right there, teetering on the edge, the pleasure so overwhelming it’s almost unbearable, your walls clenching tight around his fingers. tears stream down your face, your breaths coming in broken sobs, and you’re so close, so close and he knows—reading every shudder, every gasp, and just as you feel the first wave start to crash, he pulls his fingers out completely, leaving you empty and aching.

you cry out, a raw, desperate sound, your body shaking, leaving you a panting, trembling mess. your thighs are slick, your underwear soaked, and you’re practically sobbing. “no, no, please.”

“i told you,” he says, “you don’t come until i say.” he shifts, his hands moving to his belt, the sound of the buckle clinking loud in the quiet car. your eyes widen, your breath catching as he undoes it with slow, deliberate movements, the leather sliding through the metal with a soft rasp.

“get over here,” he orders, his voice sharp, and you’re moving before you can think, your body obeying on instinct. you lean across the center console, your hands trembling as you reach for him, but he grabs your wrist, stopping you.

“not your hands,” he says, his eyes burning into yours. “your mouth.” he undoes his pants, freeing himself, and you swallow hard, your mouth watering despite the ache still pulsing between your thighs. he’s hard, thick, and the sight of him makes your already shaky resolve crumble.

he guides you down, his hand firm on the back of your neck, not rough but unyielding, and you lower yourself, your lips brushing against him. you’re still reeling, your body screaming for release, but you want to please him, need to, and you take him into your mouth, slow at first, your tongue tracing the length of him. he groans, low and guttural, his fingers tightening in your hair, and the sound sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, guiding you with a steady hand, setting the pace. “take it all.” you do your best, your lips stretching around him, your head bobbing as you try to match his rhythm, but he’s in control, his grip firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

every time you try to speed up, desperate to please, he pulls you back, slowing you down, making you feel every inch of him. you’re a mess, tears and spit mixing, your body still trembling from being left on the edge, but you’re lost in him, in the way he’s using you, in the way he’s watching you with that dark, hungry gaze.

“deeper,” he says, his voice a low growl, thick with want, and you feel his fingers tighten in your hair, pulling you closer. you relax your throat, taking a shaky breath through your nose, and he pushes you down, slow but relentless, his cock sliding deeper until it hits the back of your throat.

you gag slightly, your eyes watering, but he doesn’t let up, his hand steady, holding you there as you adjust. “that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough but steady, his thumb stroking the back of your neck like a reward. “take all of me.” your throat constricts around him, the sensation overwhelming, and you’re struggling to breathe, your hands gripping his thighs for balance. he’s so deep now, filling your mouth completely, and you can feel the pulse of him, hot and heavy, as you try to keep up.

he pulls you back just enough to let you catch your breath, your lips slick and swollen, but before you can fully recover, he pushes you down again, harder this time, his hips shifting to meet you. you choke, a muffled whimper escaping. his groans are louder now, raw, and you can feel the tension in his thighs, the way his control is fraying just a little at the edges.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters, his voice tight, and he thrusts into your mouth, shallow but firm, making you take him deeper with each push. his hand in your hair guides you, relentless, and you’re a mess, spit dripping down your chin, your body still throbbing.

you can feel him tensing, his breaths coming faster, rougher, and the way he’s throbbing against your tongue tells you he’s close, so close you can almost taste it.

just as his hips stutter, a low, guttural sound escaping him, he yanks you back by the hair, hard enough to make you gasp. your scalp stings, and you’re panting, spit-slick and dazed, as he holds you there, his eyes blazing with intensity. “not yet,” he growls, his voice rough, strained, like he’s fighting his own edge as much as he’s controlling yours. “you don’t get it that easy.”

your chest heaves, your lips trembling as you try to catch your breath, but before you can process, he’s moving and gestures to the backseat. “get back there,” he says. you scramble over the center console, your body shaky, skirt still bunched around your hips, and he follows.

he doesn’t give you time to settle. his hands are on you, pushing you down face-first onto the seat, your cheek pressed against the cool leather, your knees tucked under. you hear the soft click of the seatbelt being pulled, and then his hands are on your wrists, yanking them behind your back. the seatbelt strap loops around them, tight and unyielding, binding your hands together.

“stay down,” he orders, his voice low, dangerous, as he kneels behind you, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you pinned. you can feel the weight of him, the heat of his body, and the rustle of his clothes as he shifts, his other hand trailing down your spine, slow and deliberate, making you arch despite yourself.

without warning, his hand lifts, and then it comes down hard, a sharp smack against your bare ass that makes you yelp, the sting blooming hot and sudden across your skin. your body jolts, but his other hand keeps you pinned, unmoving, and the mix of pain and pleasure sends a shockwave through you, making you clench instinctively. “fuck,” you gasp, your voice muffled against the seat, and you hear him chuckle, low and dark, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

“you like that,” he says, not a question, his voice rough with control as he delivers another smack, harder this time, the sound echoing in the cramped backseat. your skin burns, the heat spreading, and you whimper, your hips twitching despite his orders to stay still.

he pauses, his hand resting on the stinging flesh, fingers kneading lightly, and you can feel his gaze on you, heavy and assessing. “answer me,” he says, his tone sharp, demanding. “have you thought about this? about me, your coworker, fucking you?”

your breath catches, your face burning as much as your ass, and you’re too far gone to lie, too wrecked to pretend. “yes,” you admit, your voice shaky, barely audible against the leather. “all the time.”

he hums, low and approving, and delivers another sharp spank, this one making you cry out, the sting blending with the throbbing need between your thighs. “good,” he murmurs, his hand lingering, soothing the burn with a slow stroke that makes you tremble. “because i’ve thought about it too. bending you over my desk, making you scream my name.”

he shifts behind you, his hand on your lower back easing up, but the reprieve is brief. “spread your legs,” he orders, and you obey instantly, your knees parting as far as the cramped backseat allows, exposing yourself completely.

without warning, his mouth is on you from behind, his lips and tongue diving into your slick heat with a hunger that makes you cry out. it’s sloppy, relentless, his tongue lapping at you, broad and rough, no trace of gentleness in the way he devours you.

he’s so mean about it, sucking hard on your clit, his teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt, the sensation sharp and overwhelming. “kento—fuck,” you whimper, your voice breaking as you squirm, but his hands grip your hips, pinning you in place, his fingers digging into the tender flesh he spanked raw.

“stay still,” he growls against you, the vibration of his voice sending a shockwave through your core, and you moan, your bound hands twisting uselessly against the seatbelt. he’s merciless, his tongue plunging into you, licking deep, then pulling back to suck and nip at your clit, the wet sounds of his mouth obscene in the quiet car. spit and your arousal mix, dripping down your thighs, and he laps it up, greedy, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin.

he knows exactly what he’s doing, pushing you right to the edge, his lips closing around your clit, sucking hard, then releasing just as you start to unravel, only to dive back in, harder, meaner. “please, kento, i can’t—” you sob, tears spilling down your cheeks, your voice muffled against the seat as the pleasure becomes too much, too intense.

“you can,” he says, his voice muffled but firm, and he doubles down, his tongue fucking into you, fast and deep, his lips smacking wetly against your skin. it’s too much, the sloppy, relentless assault driving you wild, and you’re done for, the coil snapping as your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing through you.

you scream, your body shaking uncontrollably, your hips bucking against his face despite his grip, and he doesn’t stop, licking you through it, drawing out every shudder, every pulse, until you’re a whimpering, oversensitive mess, your thighs trembling, slick and spit coating you.

he finally pulls back, his breath heavy, as he watches you quiver, still bound, completely at his mercy. “that’s one,” he murmurs. you barely have time to catch your breath before you feel him shift, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force, pulling you up just enough to position you how he wants.

without a word, he lines himself up, and before you can brace yourself, he thrusts into you in one swift, brutal motion, his thick cock stretching you so suddenly that you scream, the sound raw and loud in the confined space.

he’s big, impossibly so, filling you completely, and the sensation is overwhelming, your still-sensitive walls clenching around him as your body struggles to adjust. your juices coat him, slick and dripping, making the slide easier but no less intense, and you’re loud, too loud, your cries echoing in the car.

“quiet,” he snaps, and you hear the rustle of fabric before his tie is suddenly at your lips, shoved into your mouth with a quick, firm push. the silk muffles your moans, tasting faintly of him, and you whimper around it, your eyes watering as you bite down, trying to obey.

his hand grips the back of your neck, holding you in place, keeping your face pressed into the seat as he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear. “i said stay quiet,” he growls, his tone low and dangerous, sending a shiver through you even as his cock pulses inside you, buried deep, unmoving for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him.

his hips pull back, slow and deliberate, then slam forward, hard, the force rocking you forward against the seat, your muffled cry stifled by the tie. he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust deep and relentless, his cock stretching you, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice tight, his hand still firm on your neck, keeping you pinned as he fucks into you, hard and mean. “take it all.” your body is helpless, bound and gagged, completely under his control.

your mind is a haze, completely cockdrunk, lost in the relentless, brutal rhythm of nanami’s thrusts as he fucks you hard into the backseat. the tie in your mouth muffles your moans, but you’re still loud, whimpering and choking around the silk as his thick cock stretches you to your limit, slamming into your cervix with every deep, punishing thrust.

your wrists strain against the seatbelt binding them, your body rocking forward with each movement, face pressed into the sweat-slick leather, your juices dripping down your thighs, pooling beneath you in a sticky mess.

the car is a furnace, the windows fogged up, condensation beading and streaking as the air grows heavy with heat and moisture. sweat clings to your skin, your hair sticking to your neck, and nanami’s no better—his shirt clings to his chest, damp and rumpled, his breath coming in loud, guttural grunts that fill the space every time he drives into you. the sound of him, raw and primal, mixes with the wet slap of his hips against your ass, obscene and unrelenting, making your head spin.

“fuck,” he growls, his voice rough, almost feral, as he pushes in again, deeper, harder, his cock hitting your cervix with a force that makes you see stars. he’s relentless, his hands gripping your hips so tight you’re sure they’ll bruise, pulling you back to meet each thrust, his grunts louder, more desperate, as he loses himself in you.

“look at you,” he growls, his voice rough as he leans over you, his breath hot against your neck. “so fucking dumb on my cock, aren’t you? just a messy little slut, taking it all, crying for me.” his words hit you like a spark, making you clench around him, a muffled sob escaping as the pleasure spikes, sharp and overwhelming.

he slams into you harder, his hips grinding against your ass, and you feel him hit your cervix again, the pressure so intense it’s almost painful, but you’re too far gone to care, your body craving every brutal thrust. “bet you’ve been dreaming about this,” he snarls, his cock throbbing inside you. “getting fucked stupid by your coworker, my fat cock stretching you out, making you drip all over me. you’re such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

you’re shaking, your mind blank except for his voice, his cock, the way he’s claiming you completely, your walls clenching around him, and he feels it, his grunts getting louder, more desperate. “fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his thrusts growing erratic, his control fraying. “gonna fill you up, make you take every drop. you want that, don’t you? want me to cum deep inside this perfect little pussy?”

his words, the raw hunger in them, send you spiraling, and you’re done for, the coil in your core snapping as another orgasm crashes through you. you scream into the tie, your body convulsing, your walls clamping down around him so hard it pulls a guttural moan from his throat.

he’s right there with you, his cock pulsing as he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep. “fuck,” he growls, and you feel him cum, hot and thick, filling you, his hips stuttering as he grinds against you, drawing out every shudder, every pulse.

you’re both trembling, panting, the car a haze of heat and sweat, his cock still buried inside you as you both come down, your body limp, completely spent, his cum and your juices mingling, dripping out around him. he leans over you, his breath ragged, his hand stroking your hip, possessive and grounding, as you both try to catch your breath in the sticky, fogged-up confines of the backseat.

he shifts, and you feel him move, his hands gripping your hips again, possessive but slower now. “good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost hoarse, and before you can process it, he’s pushing into you again, his softening cock sliding through the wet, nasty mess between your legs. it’s sloppy, the slick sounds obscene as he thrusts in, slow and deep, the sensation overwhelming your raw, sensitive walls.

you whimper, high and broken, your body jerking at the overstimulation, every nerve screaming as he fills you again, his cum and yours making everything wetter, messier.

“shh,” he says, but it’s softer now, less a command and more a coaxing, his hands kneading your hips as he rocks into you, lazy but deliberate, savoring the way you clench around him. your whimpers are constant, muffled by the tie, your body trembling uncontrollably, too sensitive, too full, but you can’t stop the way your hips twitch back into him, craving the feeling despite the intensity.

he leans over you, his chest pressing against your bound arms, and you feel his lips on your back, soft and warm, kissing a slow trail down your spine. “so good for me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low, almost tender, as he kisses lower, his lips brushing the curve of your back, grounding you in the haze of overstimulation. “look at you, taking it all, so fucking perfect.”

his thrusts slow, becoming more of a grind, his softening cock still buried deep, and you’re trembling, your body a live wire as he kisses down your spine one last time, his breath warm against your skin. he finally stills, his hands stroking your hips, your thighs, soothing the trembling as he stays inside you, letting you both catch your breath.

the car is quiet now, save for your muffled whimpers and his heavy breathing, the air thick with the aftermath, the windows fogged, the leather slick. he presses one final kiss to the small of your back, soft and reverent, before pulling out slowly, leaving you empty, spent, and utterly his in the hazy, sweaty confines of the backseat.

[danysdaughter]

Lost

pairing | lost!au!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 10.2k words

summary | you and bucky were supposed to be going home—then your plane crashed, and you were left to survive the island thinking he didn’t make it.

tags | lost!au, plane crash survival, angst, hurt/comfort, post-crash trauma, emotional whiplash, “they thought the other was dead” trope, protective!bucky, bucky is a war vet, survival-related violence, trauma and ptsd, grief and emotional breakdowns

a/n | chat, I started watching lost, and unfortunately that's my hyperfixation, and like any show I watch, I always have to imagine bucky in it 😬 it's a sickness I swear (apologies to the requests sitting in my asks and my wips ☹️)

you do NOT need to have watched Lost to understand, chat, don't worry, I'm chill like that

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

September 22, 2004

“Final boarding call for Oceanic Flight 815 to Los Angeles. All passengers, please proceed to Gate 23. I repeat, final boarding call—”

You could already feel the migraine settling in behind your eyes.

“Tell me you’re joking,” you said flatly, arms crossed, standing dead still in the middle of the terminal. “Tell me you didn’t leave my jacket at the hotel.”

Bucky looked at you, jaw tense, backpack slung over one shoulder. “I—I thought you packed it.”

“I packed everything else, James.” You threw a hand out toward the chaos of Sydney International. “The least you could’ve remembered was one damn jacket.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor like he was doing mental math. “I can go back for it. The hotel’s only—what, ten minutes? If I catch a cab—”

You scoffed. Loudly. “The flight leaves in thirty. You wanna miss it over a jacket?”

“It’s your favorite.”

“No, Bucky, my favorite thing is not missing international flights.”

You didn’t yell, but you didn’t need to. The edge in your voice was sharp enough to draw blood. A Korean couple across from you glanced over before pretending not to notice. You shifted your weight, arms tightening across your chest.

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. He gave a short, frustrated sigh and looked off toward the windows, where the sun poured onto the tarmac like it had the nerve to be cheerful.

You watched him. He wasn’t mad—not really. Just tired. You saw it in the way his shoulders sat too low, like he was always bracing for something that never came. You used to think it was from the Army—some echo of everything he didn’t talk about. Now, it just felt like a thing between you he wouldn’t fix.

And you were too pissed to fix it either.

“Look,” he muttered finally, “I’ll buy you a new one in L.A.”

You exhaled, not quite laughing. “Oh good. I love buying knockoffs to replace the one jacket I’ve had since college.”

He didn’t reply. Just nodded once, eyes distant, and stepped into the line forming at Gate 23.

You stood there for another few seconds, staring at his back. Then at the screen above the gate. Then at the boarding agent, calling out names with the kind of chipper indifference you wanted to punch.

When you finally stepped up to the counter, the woman smiled like this was a good day.

“Hi there! Just you two?”

You nodded stiffly.

She tapped her keyboard, then frowned.

“Oh—huh. Looks like we had to shift some seat assignments. Maintenance on a row in the middle of the cabin.” She tilted the screen. “Mrs. Barnes, you're now in seat 12B, and your husband is in… 42F.”

You blinked. “We’re not sitting together?”

The gate agent gave a sheepish shrug. “It’s a full flight.”

You blinked. “Right. Of course it is.”

Your tone was short. Not full-volume rude—but enough for the woman’s smile to falter. You could feel that familiar frustration building in your chest, the kind that had nowhere to go.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, not even trying to hide it. “You’d think after paying how much for international flights they could at least keep our seats intact.”

“Hey,” Bucky said low, stepping up behind you, voice cautious. “It’s not her fault, doll. Just… let it go.”

You turned toward him slowly. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not,” he said, hands raised slightly. “I’m just saying, it’s not worth—”

“Don’t tell me what it’s worth,” you snapped, too sharply.

His brows knit together, and your voice dropped just enough be spiteful, “At least I don’t have to see your face for the next twenty hours.”

It was mean. You knew it. You said it anyway.

He stared at you for a second, jaw flexing. Then he looked away, back toward the gate. You thought that was the end of it—until you heard him mumble under his breath.

“Guess everything’s my fault now.”

You didn’t respond.

The gate agent cleared her throat awkwardly and handed over your boarding passes. Bucky took his and walked off without another word. You followed a few steps behind, silent.

Somewhere between the counter and the jet bridge, you swallowed the lump in your throat and told yourself it didn’t matter. You’d be in the air soon. You’d land in LA, get some sleep, and maybe by the time you got back to New York, you wouldn’t hate each other anymore.

That’s what you told yourself.

And you believed it—right up until the sky split open.

────────────────────────

Day 1

You came to with your cheek pressed against something warm and coarse. Sand.

Your ears were ringing.

At first, there was nothing but the sound in your head—like TV static turned all the way up—but then it cracked open: screaming. Somewhere close. Metal groaning. Wind. Fire.

Smoke stung your nose before your eyes even opened. You coughed once, hard, and pain shot down your neck into your chest. Your whole body felt like it had been rattled in a paint can.

You tried to push yourself up, but your arm buckled.

More yelling.

A man’s voice—"We need water!"—someone crying, a child maybe. The sharp hiss of flames. Somewhere behind it all: waves. Close. Rhythmic.

You blinked hard. The light was too bright. Your head throbbed—deep and hot, pulsing behind your left temple.

You reached up and your fingers came back sticky.

Blood. A lot of it.

You turned your head slowly. Your mouth tasted like smoke and sand. Everything around you was blurred at the edges—burning wreckage, people staggering, someone running past with their hands over their face. There was half a plane twenty feet from where you lay, nose-first in the beach like a dropped toy. Smoke poured from the engine. The other half—

Was gone.

You pushed yourself up on shaky hands, coughing again. A scream tore from your throat before you realized it was his name.

“Bucky!”

It came out hoarse and desperate. You looked wildly around. Ash stuck to your skin, your clothes. Your legs didn’t want to work right, but you forced yourself upright.

“Bucky—!”

No answer.

You staggered toward the fuselage, tripping over torn luggage and pieces of seatback. A man passed you shouting for help. Someone else was trying CPR on a limp body near the water.

You grabbed a woman by the shoulder—her face streaked with blood. “Tail section,” you said. “Was he—do you know if it—?”

She just shook her head and kept walking.

“Bucky!”

You shouted again, louder this time, throat burning. Still nothing. Just the fire. Just the wind.

A man rushed past you—dark hair, blazer and button-down shirt streaked with blood and sand. He barely slowed.

“Hey—hey, you need to sit down. You’re bleeding.”

“My husband—he was in the back—”

“I’ll come back to you, okay? Just stay here, press on that cut.” He grabbed your wrist, moved your hand to your temple. “Hold pressure. You’re probably concussed.”

And then he was gone—off to the next screaming voice.

You sat there dazed, hand to your head, heartbeat pounding in your ears. The heat. The noise. The smoke. People yelling. Somewhere, someone was screaming names—none of them his.

You turned slowly, looking back at the wreckage. The tail end wasn’t there. No sign of it. No seats. No Bucky.

You didn’t know what that meant. You couldn’t make yourself think it through.

You just sat there, blinking through the ash, holding your head together with one shaky hand.

────────────────────────

You hadn’t moved from that spot all day.

The sun was setting now—orange bleeding into red, casting long shadows across the beach. Smoke still curled from the engine somewhere behind you, but the noise had quieted. Most of the screaming had stopped. Now there were only quiet sobs, the rustle of wind through palm trees, and the occasional clang of metal being dragged into a pile.

You didn’t feel the cold settling in your skin until someone crouched beside you.

“Hey,” the voice said, calm and careful. “Still with me?”

You turned slowly.

It was the same man from before. Sweat on his brow, sleeves rolled up, shirt even more stained than before. He had a small black case in his hands.

“I’ve been trying to make rounds all day,” he said. “Sorry it took so long.”

You blinked at him, like your eyes were still adjusting. “You… know what you’re doing.”

He glanced up as he opened the kit. “I’m a doctor.”

That made sense. Somehow.

You watched as he pulled out a small suture kit—thread, needle, forceps. All small. Travel-sized. Maybe from one of those plane emergency boxes. His hands were steady, but his eyes were tired.

You flinched when he pressed a wipe to your forehead.

“Concussed, probably. The cut’s deep,” he murmured. “But you’re lucky. Could’ve cracked your skull wide open.”

You didn’t say anything. Just let him work.

After a few seconds, he said, “I’m Jack, by the way.”

You swallowed, then murmured your name under your breath. It came out quieter than you meant.

Jack nodded, threading the needle.

He was quiet for a moment. Then:

“Any dizziness?”

You didn’t answer that.

“My husband,” you said slowly instead. “He was in the tail section.”

Jack paused for half a second—but not long enough to stop.

“He switched seats,” you added, almost to yourself. “Last minute. They moved us.”

He kept working. Slower now.

“Do you… do you know what happened?”

He paused—again—before pulling the thread.

“The tail broke off before we crashed.”

You nodded. Slowly. Like your brain was trying to digest it but hadn’t figured out how.

“But we don’t know where it is,” Jack added quickly. “Could’ve landed somewhere else.”

“Do you think…” You took a shaky breath. “Do you think the people in the tail section are okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Tied off the last stitch. Sat back on his heels.

“I don’t know,” he said softly.

You nodded, like that was enough. Like any answer would’ve felt the same.

────────────────────────

Day 4

You sat about thirty feet from camp.

Close enough to hear them. Far enough to feel like you weren’t part of it.

Someone was arguing over a tarp. Someone else was trying to start a second fire. Voices moved around in low rhythms—half-hopeful, half-bored. Settling in.

You didn’t like how comfortable it sounded.

Your hands were dirty. You’d been digging through sand for the past hour, pulling out scraps—seat cushions, wrappers, a broken pair of sunglasses. Looking for what, you didn’t know. You’d stopped trying to explain it to yourself.

“Hey.”

You looked up. Kate stood a few feet away, holding something wrapped in torn fabric—half a mango, maybe, or papaya. Whatever it was, it looked vaguely edible.

She offered it out with a small nod. “Figured you hadn’t eaten.”

You shook your head. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Just not hungry.”

She crouched a little, still holding the fruit.

“I’m not mad,” you said before she could say anything else. “I’m not having a breakdown. You don’t need to check on me.”

Kate shrugged, casual. “Didn’t say you were. But you’ve been sitting out here for a while.”

You looked back toward the ocean. Still no tail section. Still no rescue boats. Just endless blue and the same ache behind your eyes.

“I’m fine here.”

“Closer to camp’s safer. At night, especially.”

You let out a slow breath. “What’s the point? Everyone already thinks I’m the crazy one.”

She didn’t deny it. Just shifted her weight.

You glanced at her. “They do. I know how they look at me.”

“No one thinks you’re crazy.”

You gave a flat, humorless laugh. “Sure.”

Kate finally set the fruit down beside you. Didn’t push.

You didn’t reach for it.

A minute passed.

You stared at the water, quiet.

“He’s not dead.”

Kate didn’t respond.

You kept your voice low. “I would know. If he was.”

She looked at you for a moment, then nodded like she understood—even if she didn’t. She didn’t say anything for a while, either.

Just sat beside you, close but not too close, legs folded, arms resting loosely over her knees. You both looked out at the water. The waves came in steady. Familiar now.

The silence stretched. But it wasn’t uncomfortable.

You didn’t look at her when you finally spoke. Your voice came out quiet. Careful.

“We were coming back from our honeymoon.”

Kate looked over, but you kept your eyes ahead, fingers absently toying with the ring on your left hand. Turning it, loosening it, pushing it back down.

“Got married two weeks ago. In Vermont. Just the two of us and his best friends, Sam and Steve.” You paused. “Felt like the right kind of quiet.”

Your thumb pushed against the edge of the ring again. You weren’t even thinking about it. Just moving it. Like it would remind you he was still out there.

“We spent the first few days in Sydney. Didn’t see half the stuff we said we would.” You gave a faint shrug. “Mostly just slept in, fought about directions, tried weird food. He hated Vegemite.”

Kate smiled slightly. You didn’t.

“We had a fight. Right before we left the hotel.” You stopped twirling the ring for a second. “Stupid, loud one. One of those fights where you both act like you're winning, but really you're just saying shit to make it sting.”

You scoffed under your breath. “I don’t even remember what it was about. Just… snapped at each other. The airline moved our seats, and I was glad. Didn’t want to sit next to him for twenty hours.”

You shook your head slowly.

“I was so mean to him.”

The burn started behind your eyes first. Then your nose. But you didn’t let the tears fall. You just kept your gaze fixed straight ahead, mouth tight.

“I was pissed about a jacket. That’s the last thing thing we argued about. A damn jacket.”

Kate looked down. Still silent. Letting you have the space.

You wiped your nose with the back of your wrist, angry at yourself for even doing that much. You weren’t going to cry. You’d already decided that. Crying felt too final. Like giving up.

You just kept spinning the ring, gently, like if you stopped, the weight of everything would finally hit.

Two Weeks Ago

The hotel room was nicer than you expected.

You stepped inside first, dragging your carry-on behind you, one hand reaching to flick on the lights. It lit up soft and golden, the kind of warm tone that made everything feel expensive, even though you'd booked it on a discount site three months ago.

“Okay, not bad for something with three and a half stars,” you said, kicking your shoes off immediately.

Bucky stepped in behind you, hauling both your suitcases like a mule. He gave a low whistle as he looked around. “Damn. They even folded the towels into swans. That’s how you know it’s fancy, baby.”

You glanced back at him with a grin. “You sure it’s not because we’re on our honeymoon?”

“Oh, right,” he said dryly. “Guess I should start acting like your husband or somethin’.”

He dropped the suitcases and crossed the room in a few strides, arms wrapping around you from behind. You let out a small yelp as he buried his face in your neck.

“Bucky,” you laughed, “we’ve been in this country for all of two hours—”

“Exactly. Jetlag,” he mumbled against your skin. “Terrible condition. You should probably lie down. Maybe take off some clothes.”

“Right,” you said, turning your head just enough to catch his smirk. “We’ve got a tour scheduled in two hours. Harbor walk. You wanna miss that?”

“You wanna leave this room?” he countered, pressing a kiss just under your jaw. “You wanna go talk to strangers and walk around in the sun and look at birds or bridges or whatever the hell the brochure said?”

You hummed, pretending to think. “Well, when you put it like that…”

He kissed your shoulder. “Exactly.”

You pulled away just enough to turn and face him. His hair was a mess from the flight, his shirt wrinkled, and he still had a paper airline tag stuck to his wrist. You tugged it off and flicked it onto the nightstand.

“Let me guess,” you said, arms around his neck. “You wanna stay in, order food, and have me all to yourself for twelve hours.”

He tilted his head slightly, mock-serious. “Just twelve?”

You raised an eyebrow.

He leaned in, voice low. “Baby, we just got married. I got plans.”

You kissed him before he could get cockier. His hands settled on your waist like he was still surprised he got to hold you at all.

And for the first time in weeks—after the chaos of the wedding, the flights, the packing—it hit you. You were here. Married. With him.

You pulled back, just barely. “This is real, right?”

Bucky’s smile softened. That crooked, lopsided thing you loved.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s real.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time. Like he had nowhere else to be. But he didn’t give you time to get sentimental at all.

One second you were kissing him, the next—his hands were on the backs of your thighs, and with no warning, he lifted you clean off the floor.

You shrieked, laughing as your arms wrapped instinctively around his shoulders.

“Bucky—!”

“Shh,” he grinned. “Mr. Barnes is carrying his blushing bride across the threshold.”

You rolled your eyes. “Pretty sure the ‘threshold’ was back at the elevator, dumbass.”

“Details,” he muttered, and then dropped you onto the bed.

You bounced once with a laugh, hair splaying across the pillows. He followed, toeing off his shoes, then peeling his shirt over his head as he climbed onto the mattress with you.

“God, you’re such a dog,” you said through a grin, breathless.

“Excuse you,” he said, settling over you with a hand braced beside your head. “I am a husband. A respectable, married man now.”

He leaned down and kissed you again, slower this time, hands bracketing your waist like he couldn’t believe you were really there. Like he didn’t know where to touch first.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured against your mouth.

You smiled into the kiss. “Say it again.”

“Mrs. Barnes,” he repeated, dragging his lips down to your neck, voice lower now. “Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes—”

You swatted at him, laughing. “Okay, you can stop.”

“Nope,” he said, grinning against your skin. “You said ‘I do’. You’re stuck with me.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging gently. “Guess I am.”

He looked at you for a second then—really looked—eyes soft and a little awed. You reached up and touched his cheek with the backs of your fingers.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

He just leaned in and kissed you, like he wanted to memorize the shape of you.

And for a little while, the world was small. Just this room, this bed, the sounds of the city tucked far below you. No future to worry about.

Just him. And you.

Day 10

You found him near the edge of the jungle, crouched low beside a makeshift trap.

John Locke.

You didn’t know much about the old man—only that he seemed to know exactly what he was doing out here. More than anyone else. Quiet, strange sometimes, but… useful. Capable. He moved with intention, and people didn’t ask questions when he spoke. You respected that.

He heard you coming, but didn’t look up.

“Need something?” he asked, adjusting something on the snare.

You shoved your hands into your pockets. “Yeah. I wanna help.”

That got his attention.

He looked up, eyes narrowing like he was trying to figure out if you were joking.

“I’m serious,” you added. “I’m not gonna sit around camp watching everyone slowly lose their minds. I’m not good at making polite conversation over papayas.”

His brow lifted slightly. “You want to hunt?”

You shrugged. “I want to not be useless.”

Your gaze drifted past him, toward the beach. The blonde girl—Shannon, you thought her name was—lay flat on a towel someone had fashioned out of a jacket, sunglasses on, limbs stretched like she was poolside in Malibu.

You looked back at him. “Unlike some people.”

Locke followed your gaze, then looked back at you. He didn’t comment.

Instead, he stood slowly, brushing sand from his knees.

“You ever held a knife?” he asked.

“Not the kind that matters.”

He smiled—small, unreadable. “That’s alright. Everyone starts somewhere.”

You nodded once. “So? You gonna teach me or not?”

He handed you one of the smaller knives from his belt. Nothing dramatic. Just a basic handle and a duller edge than you expected. You tested the weight of it in your hand.

“I’ll show you how to track first,” he said, already turning into the trees. “The killing part comes later.”

You followed him without hesitation.

You weren’t thinking about food.

You were thinking about movement. Purpose. Distraction. Something other than the sound of your own voice reminding you, over and over, that Bucky might be dead.

The jungle was quiet, except for the sound of your boots grinding into wet soil and the occasional rustle of leaves ahead.

You’d now been tracking the damn boar for what felt like hours. Maybe more. The sun had shifted position without you noticing, dipping somewhere behind the thick canopy. You hadn’t eaten. Barely drank anything. You didn’t care.

John walked ahead of you, patient but steady, eyes scanning the ground like it was a map only he could read.

“There,” he said quietly, pointing to a disturbance in the dirt. “See that line? Tusk drag.”

You crouched beside him, sweat dripping down the side of your temple. You squinted at the line. “You sure?”

He glanced at you. “It’s not a guess.”

You nodded, jaw tight.

He kept walking, slower now. Careful. You followed, knife gripped loosely in one hand.

“So,” Locke said after a stretch of silence, voice low, “you ever kill anything before?”

“Do bugs count?” you muttered, eyes still on the ground.

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “Spiders?”

“Big ones,” you said. “Real vicious.”

“Guess it’s a start.”

You didn’t smile.

Branches scraped your arms as you ducked under a low-hanging limb. Your body ached—back tight, legs heavy—but you ignored it. You were used to this kind of ache. The kind that settled in when your brain refused to stop moving.

Locke kept talking.

“This isn’t about brute strength. It’s about patience. Precision.”

“Cool,” you said flatly. “I’ve got both. In abundance.”

He glanced back at you, as if to check whether you were being sarcastic. You didn’t offer clarification.

Another set of tracks appeared, deeper this time, fresher. Your breath hitched.

“You see that?” you asked, voice quieter now.

John nodded. “We’re close.”

You tightened your grip on the knife. Not because you thought you’d need it—John was doing all the actual tracking—but because your fingers wouldn’t stop twitching otherwise.

You weren’t thinking about food.

You were thinking about the moment the knife would hit something real. The moment something would give. Flesh, bone, anything.

And maybe, for just a second, you’d feel something else besides this constant, gnawing guilt.

────────────────────────

The sun was gone.

What little light was left filtered through the trees in fading streaks, turning the jungle into a wall of black shapes and rustling sound. The heat hadn’t left with the sun—it hung around like breath on your neck, heavy and damp.

You pushed a branch out of the way and squinted at the ground. Nothing. Just more dirt. More leaves. More nothing.

Behind you, John exhaled.

“That’s it,” he said. “We’re done for tonight.”

You didn’t turn. “No.”

He took a step forward. “We can pick up the trail in the morning. Boar’s not going anywhere.”

You didn’t stop. You kept scanning the ground, eyes darting, breath shallow.

“We’re close,” you muttered.

“We were,” he corrected. “Now it’s too dark to see anything. No tracks. No direction.”

You crouched anyway, brushing your fingers through damp leaves, looking for any hint of a trail. Your hands were shaking a little, but you ignored that.

“We can keep going.”

“No, we can’t.”

“We can find it,” you insisted. “We just have to keep looking.”

Your voice cracked a little at the end, and you hated it. Hated how thin it sounded.

He stepped up beside you now, close enough that you could feel him studying you. Not the way others did, with wariness or pity. This was different.

“You haven’t eaten,” he said quietly. “I offered you water three times today. You’re dehydrated, your hands are shaking, and you’ve nearly tripped over your own feet twice in the last hour.”

You stood slowly, back stiff, shoulders tense. “I said I’m fine.”

He tilted his head, watching you for a second. Quiet. Calculating.

“You’re punishing yourself.”

Your breath caught, barely.

“I don’t know what for,” Locke continued, voice low but steady. “But that’s what this is. You’ve been chasing something that isn’t here. Not tonight. And you’re wearing yourself down because it hurts less than sitting still.”

You didn’t look at him. You stared at the trees instead, fists clenched, jaw locked.

“Whatever it is,” he said, “it won’t get better like this.”

Your lip was raw from where you’d been biting it all day. You tasted blood now, coppery and warm. Your eyes burned, but the tears didn’t fall. You wouldn’t let them.

Your fingers curled tighter around the knife handle. Like maybe if you just held onto something hard enough, it’d hold you together too.

He didn’t move closer. Just stayed where he was, voice softer this time.

“Let’s go back,” John said, quiet now. “We’ll rest. First light tomorrow—we’ll find it.”

You stood there a moment longer.

Then finally—finally—you nodded.

You didn’t speak the whole way back.

And he didn’t make you.

────────────────────────

Day 11

You left before the light had fully cracked the trees.

Camp was still half-asleep—murmurs of movement, someone coughing near the firepit, a pot clinking against stone. No one saw you take the knife.

Locke’s bigger blade had been tucked beneath his gear, under a folded tarp and spare shirt. You knew where to look.

The hunting knife was heavy in your hand as you stepped into the treeline, the camp falling away behind you. The forest swallowed the noise almost immediately. No fire crackling. No Locke's voice. No one telling you to slow down or think it through.

Just breath. And branches.

You moved fast at first, driven by that early surge of clarity—the kind that always came just before you crashed. You didn’t stop to check your direction. Didn’t second-guess if this was the same route you and Locke had taken yesterday. The ground was wet and uneven, littered with tracks that could’ve been anything. You chose the ones that looked right. Even if they weren’t.

Ten minutes in, your body reminded you how long it’d been since you’d actually eaten something real. Your limbs felt lead-heavy. Your head fogged. But you kept moving, boots slipping through mud, hand tight around the knife handle like it grounded you to something.

You tried not to think.

Tried to fix your focus to one thing.

The boar.

Not the guilt. Not the ring on your hand. Not the fact that you hadn’t said goodbye.

Just that damn boar.

You crouched near a patch of overturned leaves, running your fingers through the mess. Something had moved here. Big, fast. It had a path. And it was smarter than you gave it credit for yesterday.

You let out a slow breath.

“Okay,” you muttered to yourself. “You want to play? Let’s play.”

You weren’t a tracker. You weren’t a hunter. For God’s sake, you were a journalist. A city girl with coffee shop habits and terrible knees, who paid for parking and wore boots for fashion, not for this. You hadn’t gone camping since high school, and that trip ended with bug bites and passive-aggressive tears.

And yet—here you were.

Crouched in the jungle like some deranged amateur survivalist, trying to outsmart a wild animal that had been playing you all day yesterday. An animal that didn’t care about your grief or your wedding ring or the fact that you hadn’t slept properly in days.

The boar didn’t care. But you did.

You tracked it for what felt like hours. Doubled back once when you realized it had circled you. Clever bastard. It moved with purpose—pacing, maybe, or leading you. Trying to exhaust you.

You were already there.

Your mouth was dry. Your arms ached from holding the knife, fingers cramping. The heat pressed down on your skin like a blanket soaked in your own sweat. Every sound made your pulse jump—twigs snapping, birds scattering, wind hitting the back of your neck like breath.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

You started thinking like it. If it was tired, where would it go? Where was cover? Where was water? You remembered things Locke told you—bits and pieces you hadn’t listened to at the time. They came back now in strange flashes.

You saw another set of tracks. Fresh this time. Clear. You crouched low, scanned the clearing ahead.

And there it was.

Just beyond the brush.

Massive. Dark bristled fur. Mud-caked tusks. Snorting into the roots of a tree like it didn’t know—or didn’t care—that you were there.

Your hands trembled around the knife.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You were going to do it. You were going to charge something three times your size with absolutely no plan, because the thought of doing nothing was so much worse.

You inched forward. One foot. Then another.

The boar turned slightly. Still unaware. You could almost—

Snap.

A branch cracked beneath your boot.

It froze. Ears twitching. Head snapping in your direction.

You had half a second to react.

And then it bolted.

One second, the boar was running, all blur and muscle. The next—it clipped you with a tusk on the way through the trees. A quick, sharp pain across your thigh. You went down hard, breath knocked from your lungs, the knife skidding from your hand into the brush.

You stayed on the ground for a second. Just breathing. Letting your vision come back.

The gash wasn’t deep. It didn’t matter. You were already standing again before the sting fully set in, limping slightly as you hobbled toward the knife and picked it up.

You didn’t go back to camp. You didn’t turn around. Instead, you found a clearing and started building.

It was a half-assed trap. You remembered the basics from watching Locke. Bent branches, a pit barely deep enough to hold a body. You sharpened some sticks. You used vines and what little patience you had left.

By the time you finished, the sky was high and hot, and your vest stuck to your back with sweat. Your leg ached. You’d stopped bleeding, mostly. Or maybe you hadn’t looked closely enough.

You crouched in the trees, knife clutched to your chest, and waited.

Waited for the thing that didn’t care about your pain or your memories. Waited for it to come back.

And it did.

It stumbled into the trap sometime in the late afternoon. A loud crack, a screech of surprise and pain—then silence. You ran toward the sound without thinking, heart in your throat, stumbling on shaky legs until you reached the edge and looked down.

There it was.

Breathing heavy. Caught. One leg bloodied. Tusks still twitching. Pinned.

Alive.

The knife felt different in your hand now.

You stood there a long time, staring at it. You could’ve left. You could’ve walked back to camp, told Locke you lost the trail. Let him finish it off tomorrow.

But this was your kill.

This was the thing you had to do. Not because it made sense, but because something in you needed it. Needed to win. Needed to take something down. Make something pay.

You stepped closer. Slid into the pit.

The boar was making a sound—low, pained, somewhere between a growl and a cry. The noise was awful—low, panicked squeals, the kind that didn’t sound real. You didn’t look at its eyes.

All you had to do was kill it.

All you had to do was kill it.

You stood over it, breathing hard, every inch of you sore. You gripped the knife so tight your knuckles turned white.

The boar writhed. It was trapped. It wasn’t going anywhere.

Its eyes were wild, terrified.

And you—you—froze.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a boar.

It was a thing. Alive. Real. And you’d caught it. You’d won.

And it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

You swallowed, but your throat was too dry. Your body shook from something deeper than fatigue.

The knife wouldn’t move. Your arm wouldn’t move.

It cried out again, that high-pitched, choked squeal—and something in you snapped.

You dropped to your knees and did it. You didn’t know how many times. You didn’t count.

But when it was done, the jungle was silent.

You sat back, blood on your hands, your arms, your top. The boar’s body twitched once, then stilled.

And you waited.

Waited for the feeling. The release. The proof that you’d done something right. That this meant something. That now, now, you could stop punishing yourself.

But there was nothing.

No relief. No pride. No peace.

Just silence. And the slow, hollow crawl of something cold settling in your chest.

You looked at your hands. At the carcass. And suddenly, it was all too clear.

He was gone.

Bucky was gone.

There’d been no sign. No noise. No whisper from the jungle. Just ten days of silence, and now this.

You’d wasted your last moment with him being cruel.

At least I won’t have to look at your face for the next twenty hours.

And now you were never going to see his face again.

The knife slipped from your fingers as your body folded in. First your shoulders, then your spine, collapsing inward like paper in the rain.

You dropped beside the boar, blood cooling on your skin, your hands digging into the earth just to stay grounded.

And you broke.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just—broke.

Like glass under pressure. Like something you didn’t know you’d been holding finally gave out.

Your fingers curled around the dirt.

And for the first time in ten days, you let yourself cry.

You sobbed like it hurt to breathe.

Not loud. Not messy. Just broken. Your forehead pressed to your hands. Shoulders shaking with the effort of trying not to fall apart—and failing.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered.

Your voice sounded small. Childish.

“I didn’t mean it.”

But he couldn’t hear you now. And that was the worst part.

You stayed there beside the body, knees in the blood-wet dirt, breath catching again and again. There was no catharsis. No answers. Just you. And silence.

And the unbearable fact that he was gone.

Day 1

Salt water burned the inside of his mouth before he knew he was awake.

He gasped, choked, came up coughing as another wave slammed into him. The roar of the ocean was deafening. His limbs flailed in the current, legs kicking to stay above water as something heavy dragged at his foot—seatbelt? Bag? He didn’t know.

Voices. Screaming.

His ears rang, but it wasn’t just that. It was everything. The rush of waves, the panicked yells, the tearing metal creak of wreckage still sinking nearby.

The tail section.

It was gone—broken off midair. He remembered the drop. The violent jolt. The sound no one should ever hear on a plane.

He spat out seawater, turned, bobbing just enough to get his bearings.

People were drowning.

He could see them—arms thrashing, eyes wide. Some had life vests. Some didn’t. A man was clinging to a floating drink cart. A woman was screaming, her head barely above water.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He swam.

One hand on the woman’s shoulder, flipping her onto her back. “Breathe,” he said—calm, automatic. “Breathe, you’re okay—hold onto me.”

She clawed at him in panic. He took it. Hooked her arm over his and kicked harder.

Another scream behind him. Closer now.

He turned—saw a boy, maybe ten, slipping under.

Shit.

“Hold on,” he barked at the woman. “Keep floating—keep breathing.” He swam hard toward the kid, just barely catching the arm as it went under.

Pulled him up. Spun him around. “You’re alright, I got you.”

The kid sobbed into his shirt.

Bucky turned again, scanning.

Bodies. Wreckage. Screams. Someone floating face down.

His brain went quiet. Focused.

He didn’t think about the crash. Or where they were. Or the fact that he hadn’t seen you since before takeoff. He couldn’t. That would break him.

So he saved who he could.

One after another. A woman with a gash on her leg. A man too stunned to move. Another kid someone handed off with shaking hands.

He didn’t ask names. He didn’t speak unless he had to.

Just pulled. Held. Kicked. Hauled.

One more. Just one more.

The sun was higher now, casting gold across the water like it had any right to be beautiful.

Bodies floated in it.

Dozens, maybe. Spaced out like debris. Like trash. Some face up, some not. Some with eyes still open.

Bucky was half in the water, half out—arms aching, shirt clinging to him, knees cut open from dragging himself across jagged reef.

His breathing was shallow. Not from panic. Not yet.

Just… catching up.

His muscles were slow now, like they were only just realizing they’d carried too much. His brain kept flashing—woman, kid, crying, gashed leg, another one sinking—and looping back to the ones he didn’t reach in time.

Too many.

He heard the others before he saw them.

A heavy splash. The thud of footsteps in the surf.

Eko.

Bigger than everyone else. Quiet. Calm in that strange, unshakable way. He was already pulling another man from the water, arms locked around the torso like it was second nature.

Bucky moved to help without a word.

One body at a time. Line them up. Check pulses, even if you know. Cover the faces with whatever you can find. Bits of seat fabric. Shirts.

Don’t look too long. Don’t memorize them. And through all of it, his eyes kept scanning.

Not the wreckage. Not the horizon.

The faces.

It wasn’t even conscious at first. Just… instinct. An itch behind his eyes that wouldn’t go away.

He kept thinking he’d spot you. Sitting up somewhere. Wrapped in a life vest. Calling his name.

But you weren’t there.

Another body floated toward shore. A woman. Younger. Not you.

Bucky blinked hard. Refused to let his mind spiral.

Maybe you were on the other side. Maybe the front half of the plane landed somewhere safer. Maybe you made it inland.

He wouldn’t panic. Not until he had a reason to.

He moved to help Eko again, this time with a younger guy—early twenties. Didn’t make it. Didn’t even look hurt. Just gone.

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

He dragged the body onto the sand and wiped his hands on his soaked pants.

Then he looked back out at the ocean.

Still searching. Still hoping.

Still not saying your name.

────────────────────────

He didn’t sleep the first night.

None of them really did.

They built a fire with scraps of wreckage and whatever driftwood they could gather. It didn’t give off much heat, but it lit the beach just enough to make the dark look less infinite.

Bucky sat at the edge of it, soaked through, jaw clenched. Eyes scanning the trees. Back straight. Shoulders set.

He hadn’t changed clothes. He hadn’t eaten. He didn’t even think about either. His hands still smelled like saltwater and blood. His fingers ached from pulling bodies out of the ocean.

Someone was crying behind him. A kid. Someone else pacing, muttering about rescue flights.

He stared into the trees.

Too quiet.

Too still.

He knew that feeling. He’d felt it before. Just before ambushes. Just before landmines.

Movement, barely visible. Between the palms.

Bucky was on his feet before his brain caught up.

Then the screaming started.

The first man went down before he could yell—just a shadow dragging him into the trees.

Then chaos.

Flashlights swinging. Yells. A woman gone from the fire before anyone realized. Someone running, screaming. Another dragged into the jungle.

The camp fractured. People scattered.

Bucky didn’t run.

He moved into the trees.

The first one came at him from the side—fast, silent, knife in hand.

Bucky ducked low, pivoted. Elbow to the throat. Twist. Snap.

No hesitation.

The second grabbed him from behind. He threw them over his shoulder and drove a fist into their jaw hard enough to feel something crack.

Breathing heavy now. Vision sharp.

A third one rushed him with a blade. He stepped into the attack, grabbed the wrist, snapped it, and drove his knee into the guy’s ribs before choking him out cold.

The sounds around him blurred—screams, shouting, leaves rustling, feet pounding.

But he was locked in. Present. Brutal.

Automatic.

By the time they were gone—whoever the hell they were—Bucky was standing at the edge of the jungle, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles.

Three bodies at his feet.

The beach behind him was scattered with broken branches, panic, and silence. People were crying. Eko was checking the wounded. Someone asked if they were safe now.

Bucky didn’t answer.

He just sat back down by the fire, hands resting on his knees, jaw still tight.

He didn't say a word for the rest of the night.

And still—still—his eyes scanned the tree line.

Not for the Others this time.

For you.

────────────────────────

Day 27

Twenty-seven days.

That’s how long they’d been on this godforsaken island.

No rescue. No planes overhead. No signal. No boats.

No front half of the damn plane.

And no sign of you.

Bucky didn’t let himself dwell on it. Not really. There wasn’t time. There wasn’t space. They were always moving—deep into the jungle now, far from the crash site, far from the beach, far from where they started.

It was safer this way. The Others hadn’t found them again. Not yet. But they all knew the drill. Never stay in one place. Never light a fire too big. Take shifts. Watch each other’s backs.

There were six of them left.

Ana Lucia walked ahead, machete in hand, clearing branches with angry swipes. Always angry, always looking for control. It made sense to him.

Eko kept close to the back, silent as ever, a quiet kind of anchor that nobody questioned.

Libby, Bernard and Cindy moved in the middle, quiet but present. Not dead weight. They pulled what they could. Helped when they needed to.

And him.

Bucky.

He walked behind Ana. Always alert. Always scanning.

Not because he expected rescue anymore—but because he expected more violence.

He hadn’t slept a full night since the crash. Ate just enough to keep his legs moving. Water when someone handed it to him. He kept his hands busy, sharpening blades, tying knots, scavenging. Every task served a purpose.

Because when he didn’t have a job, that’s when his mind tried to go places.

Like where you were. Or if you were even alive.

The odds weren’t good. He knew that. He wasn’t stupid.

If the front section was still out there, it would’ve found them by now. Or they’d have found it.

He didn’t know how to sit with that. Didn’t know how to even begin to think about it. About you sinking in the ocean. About your seatbelt stuck. About you calling his name and no one hearing it.

So he didn’t. He just kept walking.

────────────────────────

Day 28

The radio was old. Cracked along the edges. One of the last things they'd salvaged before abandoning what was left of the fuselage.

Bernard had been tinkering with it for days—adjusting wires, re-wrapping it in cloth when it rained. Most of the time it was silent, static and dead air.

Until it wasn’t.

That morning, as the sun bled through the treetops and everyone sat clustered in the dense shade, the radio clicked.

Then a male voice.

”Hello. Hello, anybody out there? Mayday. Mayday.”

Everyone froze.

Bernard fumbled with the frequency, eyes wide. “Is there someone there?“ he said into the mic. “Hello?“

The voice came through again—clear this time, alive with urgency.

”Hello! Hello!“

Bucky was on his feet before he realized it. Everyone had gathered around Bernard now, Eko leaning in, Libby clutching the strap of her bag like it might hold her steady.

And then it came:

”Hello. We’re survivors of the crash of Oceanic flight 815! Please copy!“

The world tipped sideways.

Bucky’s heart stopped. Just for a second.

Bernard’s brow furrowed. “We’re the survivors of flight 815.”

Then Ana Lucia stepped forward, fast and clean, and snapped the radio off.

The silence afterward was louder than the voice had been.

Bucky rounded on her, jaw clenched. “What the hell are you doing?”

Ana didn’t flinch. “It’s them. The Others. It’s a trap.”

“You don’t know that.”

“They’ve been watching us. Picking us off. You really think it’s just some nice group on the other end of that radio?”

Bernard stepped forward, voice stumbling. “No, but—what if—what if it is them? What if there are other survivors?”

Ana looked at him, eyes hard. Tired.

“There are no survivors,” she said. “This is our life now. Get used to it.”

The words hung there. Cold. Final.

Bucky’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak.

He didn’t argue.

He just stood still, the weight of her words settling into his chest like wet cement.

His hands slowly curled into fists.

And that last little thread—the one he’d been holding onto without even realizing—snapped.

He didn’t let it show. Not to them.

But inside, something cracked open and emptied out.

He turned away from the group without a word, walked back into the trees, and sat alone—back pressed against a trunk, eyes fixed on nothing.

And for the first time since the crash, he stopped looking for you.

────────────────────────

Day 45

They found them in the jungle.

Three men. One with a busted arm, one shouting in a language none of them spoke, and the third—lanky, loud, all attitude and blood in his teeth. Said his name was Sawyer. Bucky didn’t know what to make of them yet, but the way they looked—exhausted, scraped up, sunburned to hell—they didn’t read like Others.

Didn’t matter to Ana. She tied them up anyway.

“You see how clean that one's shirt is?“ she muttered, pointing. "They’ve been watching us. Studying us. Now they’re testing us.”

“They’re lost,” Bucky said. “Same as we are.”

“They’re spies.”

“They’re survivors.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” Bucky snapped, voice sharp, “but you don’t either.”

The rest of the group was silent. Eko looked between them but didn’t speak. Bernard stayed close to Libby and Cindy, uneasy.

The guy named Michael had gone hoarse trying to explain—they’d crashed on the same plane. They’d heard the radio. They had people. A camp.

But Ana didn’t want to hear it. She stood like a soldier, arms crossed, already made up her mind.

Bucky stepped closer, jaw tight.

“You think the Others are gonna send three men into our camp, without weapons, limping and half-dead, just to what? Get tied up and beaten?”

She didn’t blink. “It’s what they want us to think.”

“This isn’t war, Ana.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Feels like it.”

Bucky shook his head. “You’re so set on being right, you’d rather tie up your own people than take a risk.”

She stepped forward. “I’d rather keep us alive.”

“And what if they’re telling the truth?” he shot back. “What if they are from the front of the plane? What if we finally found them, and you’re too scared to believe it?”

Silence. Even the jungle went still.

Sawyer looked up from where he was tied, bloody lip curled. “Well, shit,” he muttered. “Didn’t realize we stumbled into the Spanish Inquisition.”

Bucky didn’t laugh. Didn’t even look at him.

He was looking at Ana.

Waiting.

She didn’t say anything. Just turned her back and walked off.

Bucky stood there a moment longer. Then crouched beside the prisoners, reaching to untie the tightest loop around the Korean man's wrists. The man flinched.

“I’m not here to hurt you, guys,” Bucky said quietly. “Just… talk.”

He crouched there for a long time.

Just watching. Listening.

Michael was still trying to explain—something about building a raft, about his son, about how they thought they were the only ones left. Bernard had gone pale when he heard his wife's name. Libby sat down next to him, quietly stunned.

But Bucky… he hadn’t said anything in a while.

He stared at the dirt.

Then, finally, almost too quiet: “Did any of you… when you crashed. Did you meet a woman?”

Sawyer scoffed. “Brother, you’re gonna have to narrow that down.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look up. Just said it.

Said your name.

Michael paused.

Sawyer tilted his head slightly. Then glanced at Michael.

And Bucky saw it. That flash between them. That flicker of recognition.

Sawyer leaned back against the tree, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if this was funny or terrifying.

“Hot chick?” he asked, brow raised. “Sarcastic? Real sharp tongue? Throws a punch like she’s trying to break your jaw?”

Bucky’s head shot up, “You know her?”

Sawyer gave a low whistle. “Damn. You're her husband?”

Michael nodded slowly, eyes still wide. “She’s alive, man. She’s with our people.“

Bucky didn’t breathe.

“If you let us go,” Michael added, voice steadier now, “we can take you back to our camp.”

The knife in Bucky’s hand dropped slightly. His knees locked.

Forty-five days of silence. Of sleeping in dirt. Of burying people. Of listening to the jungle scream at night. Of telling himself hope was dangerous.

And now, in the middle of all that rot and noise—someone finally said it.

You were alive.

Bucky stared at him like he didn’t know how to live with that truth. Like it physically hurt to believe.

But he did. He believed it. And it changed everything.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He dropped to one knee and started untying the knots around Michael’s wrists.

Ana’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He didn’t answer.

“Bucky,” she snapped. “Stop.”

Then he untied Sawyer, who muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “‘Bout damn time.”

“You can’t trust them—we can’t trust them.”

Libby, Bernard and Cindy stood frozen. Eko watched quietly, like he’d seen this kind of thing before and knew there was no stopping it.

“They’re telling the truth,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “She’s alive.”

“You don’t know that,” she snapped, grabbing his arm. “They’re lying! You think they just know about her by chance? They’ve been spying on us—watching us! That’s how they know her name—”

He shook her off, harder than he meant to. Stood to his full height, knife still in one hand, gaze fixed and cold.

“I’m going to find my wife.”

Ana stared at him like he’d just said he was walking into the ocean.

“We don’t split up,” she said, jaw tight. “All we’ve had, this whole time—was each other.”

Bucky didn’t even blink.

“I didn’t survive this long just to sit here while she’s alive.”

“You don’t know it’s her—”

“I do.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

His tone cut through the noise, final and grounded. It wasn't hope now—it was conviction.

And Ana knew she’d lost him.

Sawyer rubbed his wrists, grinning faintly. “Well, hell. That was kinda romantic.”

“Shut up,” Bucky muttered.

He looked at Michael.

“Lead the way.”

────────────────────────

Day 48

Three days.

It felt longer. Like time had stretched itself thin just to mock him.

They moved slow, carefully, weaving through the jungle—always watching, always listening. No fires. No loud voices. Every snapped branch sounded like a warning.

Michael led, when Ana allowed it. Bucky kept close behind.

He didn’t talk much. Neither did Jin.

Sawyer did, of course, until Bucky snapped at him on day two and the man finally got the message.

The only person he spoke to with any consistency was Eko. Quiet man, strong presence. Didn’t trust easily, but he listened. And when Bucky told him he believed the men were telling the truth, Eko didn’t argue.

“Sometimes you know something,” he said. “Even if it doesn’t make sense.”

Bernard agreed too. But he had his own reasons—his wife. Rose. Bucky watched the way his eyes lit up every time Michael said her name. The way he walked faster. Stood straighter. Like love could pull a man through hell.

Bucky understood it now.

Michael had said you were alive. Safe.

But Bucky couldn’t believe it. Not fully. Not really.

Not until he saw your face.

His hands stayed busy. Always gripping a knife. Checking the edges. Watching Ana.

Because if there was one thing more exhausting than moving through the jungle, it was stopping Ana Lucia from trying to kill someone every time they stopped.

“They’re leading us into a trap,” she muttered more than once. “You’ll see.”

“We’ve been walking in circles,” she accused. “They’re stalling.”

“This ends with us dead, just like the others.”

She said it like she wanted it to be true. Like hope was the real threat.

Bucky didn’t answer her anymore. Didn’t waste the breath. He didn’t care what she thought.

He just kept walking.

Three days of silence, of overgrown brush, of half-rations and soaked clothes.

Three days of fighting down the fear that maybe—just maybe—Michael was lying.

Three days of you at the edge of every thought.

The sound of your voice. The way you used to tug at his sleeve when you wanted his attention without saying anything. Your laugh. That cheeky grin. Your fists balled up in anger. Your legs tangled with his under the sheets.

Three days of imagining all the things he’d forgotten to memorize. By the end of it, Bucky felt like a man stretched too thin to hold himself together.

But he kept walking. Because you were somewhere on this island.

And he wasn’t going to stop until he found you.

────────────────────────

Day 49

The trees thinned.

And then they were there.

The camp.

It didn’t look like anything Bucky expected. It looked… functional. Organized. There were tents—real tents, patched together with tarps and bamboo. A fire pit at the center. Makeshift tables. Clotheslines strung between trees. People laughing. Cooking.

It looked like a community.

He stopped at the edge of the trees for a second, just to stare.

Forty-nine days of dragging bodies, of tying vines into shelter, of sleeping with one eye open—and here these people were, with lean-tos and food and some sense of peace. It didn’t make sense.

And it didn’t matter.

Because as soon as they stepped into the clearing, heads started turning. Voices rose. People ran.

Someone shouted Michael’s name.

A crowd gathered fast, fast, fast.

Sawyer was grinning like a man returning from war. Jin had already been pulled into a woman's arms. Michael was surrounded.

And Bucky?

He was scanning every face. Every movement. Every figure that stepped forward.

You weren’t there.

He stepped closer to Michael, shoulder tense. “Where is she?”

Michael blinked, still breathless from hugs. “What?”

Bucky grabbed his arm, eyes sharp. “Where is she? You said she was here.”

Michael blinked, still catching his breath. “She’s here, I swear—she is…”

Then he turned, scanning the camp. “Hurley!” he called out over the noise.

A big guy in a ratty tank top looked up from where he was stacking something near the fire pit. “Yo!”

“Hey—uh, have you seen…” Michael said your name, barely heard above the noise of the camp.

Hurley blinked, confused. “Oh, uh—yeah. She was over at the beach, dude. Few hours ago. I think she—”

But Bucky didn’t wait to hear the rest.

He was already moving.

Through the crowd, past the tents, through the narrow trail that cut between the trees toward the rocks and sand. Heart pounding. Legs aching. Breathing too hard.

He didn’t care.

He just ran.

Because if you were real—if you were right there—he wasn’t going to waste another second.

────────────────────────

The net was heavier than you expected.

Saltwater soaked through the rope, tugging at your shoulders with every step as you dragged it over the rocks. Your fingers ached from gripping the mesh, skin rough from days of sun and sea.

The tide was low. The sun was sharp. Everything felt normal—or what counted as normal now. You'd done this a dozen times by now. Haul the net. Clean the fish. Bring them back to camp. Maybe argue with Charlie about the seasoning. Maybe steal a mango on the way from Sawyer's old stash.

You didn’t know what was happening back at camp.

Didn’t know what was coming.

You dropped the net near a tide pool and crouched beside it, pulling a stubborn fish free. You were humming something under your breath. Something stupid and old. Bowie maybe. Or something your mom used to play when you were too young to care.

The world was quiet.

Until someone yelled your name.

Sharp. Familiar. Ripped from the chest of someone you hadn’t heard in forty-nine goddamn days.

Your whole body locked. Every muscle, every nerve, frozen. Your hands were still tangled in the net. Your knees dug into the sand. But your ears—

They rang.

Because it wasn’t just anyone shouting.

It was him.

That voice you’d heard in dreams, in half-asleep dazes, in the middle of the night when the wind sounded just close enough to pretend.

And now—here it was.

Real.

You turned slowly.

Breath caught. Eyes wide.

And there he was.

Standing on the rocks, chest rising fast, shirt torn, hair longer, face hardened, sharper—but still him.

Still Bucky.

Your mouth opened. But no sound came out. Because you were staring at a ghost.

And he was staring at you. Like you were the only real thing in the world.

He didn’t wait.

And neither did you.

The second your eyes locked, your feet moved. Faster than your brain could keep up. Faster than your heart could beat.

You sprinted across the rocks, barely feeling the scrape of stone on your feet, barely seeing anything but him. And he was already coming toward you—full speed, wide-eyed, desperate, like the breath had left his body the second he saw your face.

And then—contact.

You hit him like a wave, arms flinging around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist before either of you could think. He caught you without a stutter, without a sound of protest, like his body had been waiting for this weight again. Like he was built to hold you.

His hands locked around you—one splayed across your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. His forehead pressed hard to your shoulder as he held you like hell itself wouldn’t tear you away again.

You sobbed into the curve of his neck, breath hitting skin. You couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t even breathe properly.

“You’re alive,” you gasped, voice breaking. “You’re alive—oh my god—”

“I am,” he whispered, over and over. “I am. I’m here.”

“I thought—I thought you died—on the plane—on the water—I thought—”

“I know,” he murmured, arms tightening. “I know. I thought you were gone too.”

And then it hit you.

The last thing you said to him.

The last damn thing.

“I’m sorry,” you choked, the words spilling out of you like a flood. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, Bucky—I didn’t mean what I said—I didn’t mean it—I didn’t—”

“Hey—hey,” he said quickly, firmly, pulling back just enough to cup your face in both hands. “Stop. Don’t. You don’t have to—”

“I do,” you cried. “That fight—that stupid fight—I was so mean—I told you I didn’t want to see your face, and then—then you were gone—”

He kissed you.

Just once.

Quick and desperate, like he needed to shut you up and keep breathing at the same time.

“And now I’m here,” he said, voice cracking, forehead pressed to yours. “I’m here, okay? We made it.”

You gripped the fabric of his shirt like it might vanish if you let go.

He held you like he’d die if he didn’t.

And for the first time in forty-nine days, the ache in your chest stopped growing.

Because he was real.

Your fingers curled in his hair, trembling. You pulled back just enough to see his face—bruised, sunburned, beautiful.

“You found me,” you said, voice breaking all over again.

Bucky looked at you, eyes wet, a half-broken smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

And then he kissed you again—full and sure—like he’d never let you go again.

a/n | lowkey my propaganda for you guys to watch Lost. I'm only on season 3 btw

Anyway to help you guys, and put faces to names, here's the ones I named in the fic:

Jack, Kate & Locke

Michael, Sawyer & Jin

Ana Lucia, Eko & Bernard

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @ozwriterchick

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[lay-z]

cw: 18+ | fem!Reader; (Sugar) Daddy kink; open ending

It’s a rare thing for you to indulge in this―spending time with your teammates off duty when there are so many things you could rather take care of than having a drink at a shady pub a little off base. 

But they asked and you’ve all just returned from a tough mission, and this does feel better than trying to come down from the rush of being in the field all by yourself.  

So, you dress up in civilian clothes like they do―nothing too fancy or flashy, but still nice.  

The fabric of your jeans hugs the shape of your legs nicely, your sneakers feel so much more comfortable than your bulky combat boots―like you're walking on a fluffy cloud after spending the last weeks running with bricks attached to your feet―and your tight, long-sleeved shirt is neatly tucked into the waistband of your jeans, a nice leather belt cinching your waist and rounding up the look along with some simple jewellery you haven’t been able to wear outside yet. 

Kyle is the first one to compliment you as you join the group waiting outside the pub, “Lookin’ good there, Sarge,” he remarks, flashing a toothy smile before taking another drag of his cigarette. 

Next to him, Johnny whistles obnoxiously. “Aye, barely recognized ye there, doll. Did ye wash yer hair for once?” 

Flipping him off good-naturedly, he wraps one arm around your shoulders loosely, barking out a laugh that even manages to make the captain crack a smile as he flicks ash from his cigar. 

“Thought I was gonna be the late one,” you say, taking a swift glance around. You almost expect him to lurk in the shadows somewhere, but alas...  

“Where’s the Lt.?” 

Kyle shrugs, flicking the empty bud to the ground before stepping on it, while Johnny is already steering you towards the pub’s entrance. 

“Knowing him, he might not join us at all.” Price comments, not quite answering your question, yet involuntarily crushing your hope that has been blossoming inside your chest since stepping out of the plane―when Johnny had first suggested to meet up for a drink.  

Eventually, you let them drag you inside and towards an empty corner booth, and while the first round of drinks is ordered, you feel your private phone buzz in your back pocket. 

Been a while, love. Tell me you've been a good girl for me. 

Your cheeks warm as you glance at the screen, eyes flitting over the text preview from a new unknown number. It’s not that the text itself gets you hot and bothered, but the fact that someone might catch you in the act and figure out what you’ve been up to in your free time. 

Tilting your screen to yourself discreetly, your nimble fingers fly over the letters.  

Of course, I’ve been a good girl for you, Daddy. 🥰 Been just as busy, though. I’m so sorry about that. 🥺

And it doesn’t take long for him to reply. 

Don’t be sorry, love. But show me something sweet now, will you? Daddy needs to see your pretty tits. Been too damn long. 

And I’ll send you your allowance ASAP. 

Biting your lower lip, your palms start to get clammy as you read his messages. 

“Oi, you alright?” 

It’s your captain who nudges your elbow, jolting you out of your thoughts. Locking your screen again, you nod jaggedly, forcing a smile. 

“Yeah, I just gotta–” you start scooting out of the booth, “gotta use the restroom real quick.” 

And you scatter like a mouse, feeling your teammates questioning gazes following up until you slip inside the women’s restroom and the door closes behind you. 

The picture you take inside the relatively clean bathroom stall is nothing short a lewd tease.  

Slipping out of your bra, you roll your nipples between your fingertips, tugging on them until their stiff and poking through your tight shirt. 

Snap. 

Cropping the pic and adjusting the lighting, you save it to your gallery before taking another. 

This time, you tug your shirt up to your collarbones, gold necklace resting right above the valley of your naked tits, tiny pendant twinkling in the warm light of the old lightbulbs. Nipples hard, goosebumps pebbling on your exposed skin, breasts squished together to get the perfect picture for him. 

Snap. 

Cropped, adjusted, delivered. You stare at the chat as your nudes load on the screen before they’re swiftly marked with red heart emojis.  

Christ, love. What Daddy would give to suck on those perfect nipples and bury my face between your gorgeous tits. Paint your skin with my load while I’m at it, too.

Thank you. 

And suddenly, another alert pops up on your screen―one from your banking app this time. He’s already transferred your allowance along with a hefty tip. 

It’s not really about the extra money you’re making but rather the validation and attention you’re gaining from these arrangements, given your lack of romantic relationships due to your job, and perhaps you keep telling yourself that you don’t have a favourite sugar daddy, even though this one is certainly more eloquent and exciting in his bluntness than most. 

After putting on your bra again and tucking everything in place, you stuff your phone back into your pocket and make your way back to your teammates. 

To your surprise, you immediately spot Simon’s hulking figure sitting at the booth now; dressed in all black and his balaclava secured in place over his face. The sight alone enough to make your heart skip several beats. 

“There ye are, doll! Thought we’d lost ya already.” Johnny chuckles, his first pint halfway downed. You catch Kyle slipping out of the door for another smoke, phone pressed to his ear, leaving you alone with the rest as you slip back into your previous spot. 

“Evenin’, sir,” you greet the newcomer as you reach for your own drink, somewhat desperate to keep your excitement hidden, your voice neutral. “Glad you made it.” 

Across from you, Simon froze the moment you sat down. Tawny eyes widening behind his balaclava as he drinks in your appearance, pale cheeks flushing as his heartrate speeds up at once.  

His eyes flicker down again, staring at the gold necklace resting oh so delicately around your neck. 

[maskedbyghost]

Part 2 of our boy Simon yearning for you.

The ache never eased. It just deepened, settled somewhere behind his ribs and made a home there, like a wound he couldn’t stop picking at. Days turned into nights, and nights into days, and every moment he wasn’t hearing your voice or reading your texts was a slow torture.

It wasn’t just the casual meetups, the flirty messages, or the teasing that made his pulse race. It was the way you’d brush his arm when you were laughing, the way you’d lean into him like it was the most natural thing in the world, the way you’d say his name—not “Riley” like before, but “Simon.”

It killed him. It absolutely destroyed him.

He wanted to be better than this, to be cooler, to be calm, but he wasn’t. He was coming undone at the seams, unraveling every time you were near and aching when you were gone.

He’d find himself waking in the middle of the night, breathing hard, reaching for his phone to check if you’d messaged, to see if you’d thought of him in the quiet hours when the world was asleep. And when you hadn’t, he’d drop the phone on the pillow next to him and close his eyes, trying to swallow the bitterness that rose in his throat.

Sometimes he’d dream of you, and wake up with your name on his lips, the sheets tangled around his legs, his skin burning. He’d lie there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, wondering how much longer he could take this. How much longer could he pretend he was fine, pretend he was just your friend, when every cell in his body screamed for more?

He started pulling away, just a little. Shorter replies. Fewer emojis. He’d leave your messages on read for a little too long, trying to convince himself that if he created a little space, the longing might ease. But it didn’t.

You noticed, of course. You weren’t oblivious. One night, after another one of those meetups where he’d smiled too tightly and laughed a little too late, you caught him outside the pub. The cold bit at his skin, but the look in your eyes made him feel like he was on fire.

“Simon,” you said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he said, as he looked away.

“Don’t give me that. You’ve been... distant. Did I do something?”

God, you sounded worried, and that just made it worse. Because the last thing he wanted was for you to think you’d done anything wrong. It was all him. All his fault.

“No,” he said roughly, running a hand over his face. “You didn’t do anything. I just... I’m trying to get my head straight.”

Your brows drew together, and you stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you through the cold air. “Simon, you can talk to me.”

And for a moment, he almost did. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, thick and heavy—I miss you so much it hurts. I think about you all the damn time. I can’t stand being near you because I’m falling apart inside.

But he couldn’t. Because if he said it, if he let it all spill out, he didn’t know what you’d do. Didn’t know if you’d pull away, if you’d laugh it off, or if you’d tell him you didn’t feel the same.

So he just gave you a smile and said, “I’m fine. Really. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

And he left you there on the sidewalk, staring after him, while his heart cracked open in his chest...

It was unbearable.

Days passed. He told himself he was getting better at pretending, that if he ignored the ache long enough, it would go away, and that if he kept his distance from you, he’d get over this.

But of course, it didn’t work.

Every time he saw your name flash on his screen, his chest would tighten. Every time you laughed, it was like a fist closing around his throat. Every time you touched him, even casually, even just a brush of fingers as you passed him a drink or steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, he felt like his skin was going to tear open.

And then, one night, it was just too much.

You’d sent him a message—something stupid, really. A picture of your dinner with a comment like “Guess who forgot to buy pasta sauce? 😂” And he’d stared at it, thumb hovering over his screen, the ache in his chest unbearable.

He couldn’t do this anymore. So he called you.

You picked up on the second ring, your voice warm and a little breathless. “Hey, Simon. Everything okay?”

“No.” His voice was rough. “No, it’s not.”

There was a pause, a soft intake of breath on your end. “What’s wrong?”

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing his living room, his heart pounding so hard it echoed in his skull. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, his voice cracking. “I can’t pretend everything’s fine. I can’t keep acting like I’m just your friend. I can’t... I can’t stand being near you and not—”

“Not what?” you whispered.

“Not have you,” he said hoarsely. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long it’s driving me insane. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay when I’m not.”

“Simon,” you said softly, “why didn’t you say anything before?”

He let out a sharp, broken laugh, a sound like something cracking apart. “Because I was scared. Because I didn’t know if you felt the same. Because I thought maybe you’d laugh it off, or tell me I was reading too much into things. Because... because it’s you.”

You were quiet for a beat, then said, “Come over.”

“What?”

“Come over,” you repeated. “Right now.”

He didn’t even think, didn’t hesitate. He was out the door before he realized he hadn’t grabbed his keys.

The drive to your place was a blur, the streets smearing past in streaks of light and shadow. He didn’t remember turning off the engine or locking the door. He only remembered the way his hands trembled as he knocked, the way his breath caught when you opened the door, standing there barefoot in leggings and an old sweatshirt, your hair a little messy like you’d been running your hands through it.

“Hi,” you said softly, stepping aside to let him in.

He stepped past you, and the second the door clicked shut behind him, it was like a dam breaking.

“I tried,” he said, his voice rough, breathless. “I tried so fucking hard to stay away. To act like I didn’t care. To tell myself this was enough. But it’s not. It’s not enough. I need you. I need to know you’re mine, that I can touch you, kiss you, be with you—”

You didn’t let him finish. You surged forward, grabbed the front of his jacket, and pulled him down into a kiss so hard and desperate it made his head spin. He stumbled back a step, hands coming up to cradle your face, your jaw, your hair. You were warm and soft and real, and he felt himself falling, falling so fast it was like the world was tilting beneath him.

“Simon,” you gasped against his mouth, fingers threading through his hair. “I’ve wanted this too. I was just... waiting for you to say something.”

A broken, breathless laugh escaped him, his forehead pressed to yours. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling, your lips brushing his.

He kissed you again, slower this time, pouring everything he’d been holding back into it—all the longing, all the frustration, all the desperation that had been eating him alive for months. His hands roamed, memorizing the curve of your hips, the softness of your waist, and the line of your spine. You were here, you were his, and for the first time in so long, he felt whole.

“Stay,” you whispered, lips against his throat. “Don’t go home tonight.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he murmured, and when he kissed you again, it wasn’t desperate—it was everything he’d been aching for.

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

@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

[landoughnut]

Kiss Me - OP81

masterlist - request

pairing: oscar piastri x popstar!fem!reader (fc - tate mcrae)

summary: oscar fancied the worlds current favorite popstar, but he won't give up until she notices him

w/c & a/n: smau | I have the SAT tmr but here I am writing fics instead 🫶🏻 yolo

oscarpiastri FIRST 😫 WOW

username damn he's here before me and I was here in like 2 seconds

username I respect the grind oscar 🙏

username I wonder if she'll ever notice him

oscarpiastri I'd like to believe she will 😔

username omg hi king never give up 🗣️

oscarpiastri I wish I was there 😿 I also wish I was that mic

username AYOO real

oscarpiastri erm actually you're not supposed to agree 👍

username I'm waiting for this grid to finally find her account

username lando !!!

username GORGEOUSSSS ♥︎ by author

username omg I was there best concert EVERRR ♥︎ by author

oscarpiastri #jealous

username it's alright race boy you were there in spirit 🙂

username oscarpiastri aren't you like a millionaire? why don't you just buy tickets

oscarpiastri username unfortunately I can't with traveling for racing, maybe I can sneak away though 😈

mclaren oscarpiastri no 🎀

mclaren playing your songs in our garage repeatedly 🧡 ♥︎ by author

username OOO SHE KNOWS MCLAREN EXISTS????

username username I think she's said in an interview she used to watch f1 sometimes !!

username OSCAR YOU HAVE A CHANCE ‼️

oscarpiastri chat I'm cooking up a plan 🫡

lando can I help?

oscarpiastri ehh no you suck at plans

lando meanie ☹️

username LMAOOOOO LLL

oscarpiastri is that 8 on your shirt for op81 👀😉

username you should send her some merch

oscarpiastri you've sparked an idea mate thanks 😼

username ur welcome

lando oscarpiastri help why are you spamming this poor girls comments on every post 😹

username lando be quiet let oscar be delusional

oscarpiastri OH MY 😮‍💨

username I almost thought that I was first

oscarpiastri never.

username mommy 🤤

oscarpiastri ew who even are you

username you tell em osc 📣

oscarpiastri #needthat

lando such a desperate boy tsk tsk

username desperate or determined?

maxverstappen1 desperate.

oscarpiastri HEY 😾

oscarpiastri the most beautiful girl ever

username aw a cute comment for once

lando keep it up osc compliments will surely work 💪

username date me pls 🧎‍♂️

oscarpiastri how about no 💕

oscarpiastri you guys laugh at me now but one day she'll write a song about me trust

lando have you hit your head during a race mate?

oscarpiastri australia is even better 😏 ♥︎ by author

username OH MY GOSH THIS IS NOT A DRILL

username NO WAY SHE ACTAULLY LIKED AN OSCAR COMMENT

lando LFGGGGGGGGG

lando guys do I call for an ambulance.. oscar let out this gasp that sounded like he was being strangled and then passed out

yourusername lando please do :) hope he's okay

lando yourusername well when he IS okay he'll pass out seeing your reply

username THIS IS CRAZYYYYY

username WHATTTTT

username NO WAY OMG

username AUSTRALIA??? AFTER OSCARS COMMENT ON HER LAST POST ⁉️

lando oscarpiastri TEXT ME NOW.

username guys do we think they met?

username 100%

username maybe mclaren invited her to the melbourne gp??

mclaren 👀 ♥︎ by author

username mclaren WHAT DO YOU KNOW

username mclaren LET ME INNNNNN

oscarpiastri nice picture 👍 ♥︎ by author

oscarpiastri nice location too 😁 ♥︎ by author

username OSCARIZZ

maxverstappen1 I know things

lando maxverstappen1 HOW HAS HE TOLD YOU BEFORE ME WTH

maxverstappen1 lando I'm just better 🤷🏼‍♂️

username remember when oscar first admitted that she's his celeb crush like four years ago

username ahhh look how far we've come 🙏

lando oscarpiastri I feel like a proud mum

oscarpiastri do you mean dad?

lando no :')

username 🔥🥵🔥

oscarpiastri 🧯🔫🧯

username is that a threat

oscarpiastri 🙃

oscarpiastri IS IT HOT IN HERE 😍

oscarpiastri PHEW WEE 😻

lando simp

maxverstappen1 simp

charles_leclerc simp

carlossainz55 simp

lewishamilton simp

pierregasly simp

yourusername simp

oscarpiastri go get a life losers 🙄

oscarpiastri yourusername except you of course 😊 ♥︎ by author

username I FEEL LEFT OUT SMHHH

oscarpiastri SMASHHHHH ♥︎ by author

yourusername time and place?

username WOAHHH HELLO?? SHES FLIRTING BACK NOW????

lando we did it brothers 🫡

oscarpiastri WE??

username DOES THIS MEAN THERE IS SOMETHING⁉️

charles_leclerc 🏃‍♀️

username charles_leclerc TELL ME NOW HO

charles_leclerc username not with that attitude 😒

username charles_leclerc NO WAY WAIT I'M SORRY COME BACK

oscarpiastri I'm putting this picture above my bed 😎🤤

lando oscarpiastri stop using that drooling emoji you look like a weirdo

oscarpiastri BARK BARK BARK 🐶

username he's lost it

username nurse it's this one over here

username she can run me over and I'll apologize

oscarpiastri I don't think you'll be able to apologize after I run you over with my race car🫢

username oscarpiastri oh.....

mclaren oscarpiastri oh thats not...

username WHAT WHAT WHAT

lando LFGGGGGGGGGGGG

mclaren on repeat 🧡 ♥︎ by author

username WHY ARE THEY SO CHILL ABOUT THIS⁉️

username HARD LAUNCH????!!!!!

username THEY ARE SOOOOOO DATING

username ORANGE SUIT AND CAR FOR MCLAREN AYEEE

lando it's papaya actually ☝️🤓

maxverstappen1 hehe 😸

charles_leclerc I still don't know how oscar managed to pull this off

charles_leclerc oscarpiastri proud of you son

lando charles_leclerc if hes your son and I'm his mom, are we married? 🥺

maxverstappen1 lando no

username LESTAPPEN NEVER DIES ✊

pierregasly AYEEE oscar finally got the girl 🥳 I was sick of hearing him dying to be noticed

username does this mean I have a chance with lando

lando username depends, do you have kinder chocolate?

username lando yes...

lando username then yes, u have a chance😁

username IM SO NOT NORMAL ABOUT THIS

username IM SO HAPPY FOR THEM UGH

username REMEMBER OSCAR SAID IN HER COMMENTS ONCE THAT SHE'D WRITE A SONG ABOUT HIM ONE DAY

username LMAOOO AND WE ALL POINTED AND LAUGHED

username I guess he proved us wrong 🧑‍🦯‍➡️

oscarpiastri 🧡 ♥︎ by author

yourusername 🧡

[notiddygothgf]

i.

★ pairings: dante (netflix dmc) x fem reader

★ summary: After a messy breakup with Dante and a year of silence, you've rebuilt your life from the ground up. Now, Dante's back, and one thing is clear — he's determined to make you his.

★ ❝ It's been exactly 365 since I've seen your face ❞

★ c.w.:dante being a little shit, suggestive content. not beta'd, reuploading bc it got taken down?

★ a/n:HIIIIIIIII!!!! okay so i put out a poll asking about how y'all would feel if i posted a dante fic, and omg. so many of you replied. so now here go ahead and take this shit!! damn!!! jk i want him so bad so yk i had to rush to get this done LMFAOOAOA. enjoy besties! if you're from around here, you know the drill. if not, please leave lots of comments, i love the spam and your praise gives me motivation to update quicker!!

★ w.c: 10k

pretty ; chapter index

YOU AND DANTE had a messy breakup. Contrary to how it may have seemed at the time of “The Argument” (as you had begun calling it), there was nothing sudden about it. It didn’t detonate like some sort of time bomb, but disintegrated rather slowly – like water trickling through the cracks in the cement, soft and patient, until one day everything just caved in.

It didn’t always feel that way.

When you had first met Dante, it was… effortless. (Some of which was the rose colored glasses’ doing, you were sure). He was cute as hell, first of all. He was funny, too. He had no problems laughing you right out of your panties on the first date, and… well, practically every night after that. He looked at you like you were everything to him – like a dream come true, like he couldn’t believe someone like you would actually have chosen him. You got along famously.

For a while, things stayed that way. Six months, in fact. Things were good. Simple. You’d wake up to his arms around you, his voice in your ear, calling you names that only sounded pretty falling from his lips – princess, babydoll, sweetheart. His stupid jokes – the ones that always used to make you crack a tired grin. He used to make time.

But, somewhere along the way, his job started taking more and more of him. Late nights began to bleed into early mornings. You’d wait up for him with leftovers gone cold and shows paused halfway through. At first, he apologized. Said he hated missing out on time with you. But then the apologies stopped, and so did the explanations. You’d go days without hearing from him. Sometimes weeks. You’d text—hey, you okay?, can you call when you're free?—and the replies would trickle in too late or not at all.

You tried to be understanding. People get busy, right? Life gets in the way. You told yourself that a strong relationship should be able to weather a few quiet days. But it was more than just quiet. It was absence. It was like he was slipping through your fingers and pretending he wasn’t.

And when you did talk, it was always surface-level. You’d try to tell him how it made you feel—how the silence scared you, how you felt like you were in this alone—and he’d get defensive. He’d say, “I’m doing my best,” or “You know how much pressure I’m under right now.” And you’d bite your tongue. You didn’t want to add to the weight on his shoulders. But the resentment kept building. You weren’t asking for the world. Just a check-in. A sign that he still remembered how to love you when things got hard.

The miscommunications started small. A forgotten anniversary dinner. A vague answer when you asked if he’d be home. But they stacked up like dominoes, one after the other, until the smallest push sent everything toppling. You both stopped speaking the same language. You’d say, “I miss you,” and he’d hear, “You’re not good enough.” He’d say, “I’m tired,” and you’d hear, “You don’t matter.”

Then came the argument. The big one. The one that split the foundation.

You were setting the table when he buzzed the apartment door.

It was 10:18 PM.

You stared at the intercom for a second before pressing the button to let him in. No words. No "I'm here" or "Sorry I'm late." Just the click of the door unlocking and silence.

You opened the door before he could knock. Dante stepped in looking like hell—literal hell. Blood on his sleeve, eyes sunken from lack of sleep, hair damp like he’d tried to rinse off whatever mess he’d walked through before coming to you. He smelled like copper and smoke and exhaustion.

Still, your heart lifted for a beat just seeing him. Stupid, soft reflex.

“Hey,” you said.

He nodded. “Hey.”

You stepped aside and let him in. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch you. Just dropped his duffel by the door like he was clocking out of something. The sight of him like this—tired, distant, barely standing—it tugged at something in your chest.

“I made dinner,” you said, a little too hopeful. “It’s probably cold by now, but—”

“I’m not hungry,” he cut in, already moving toward the couch.

You stood in the kitchen for a second, hands still resting on the back of one of the chairs. Watching him. He sat with a grunt, elbows on knees, head in his hands like gravity was pressing harder than usual. You knew that posture. It meant don’t ask questions. Don’t start anything. Just let him sit in the silence.

But tonight… you couldn’t.

It had been a week. A week without him. A week of one-word texts, unanswered calls, and too many nights alone, replaying old conversations in your head trying to figure out when exactly he started slipping through your fingers.

“I waited,” you said softly. “I thought you were coming at eight.”

He didn’t look at you. “Got held up.”

You waited. Hoped for more. An apology. An explanation. Something that showed he realized this mattered.

Nothing.

You took a slow breath. “Dante… you can’t keep doing this.”

That made him lift his head, eyes hazy with irritation. “Doing what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Ghosting me for a week. Showing up in the middle of the night like it’s nothing. Acting like I’m just supposed to—what? Pretend we’re fine?”

His jaw tensed. “I’ve been working.”

“I know,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I know you’ve been working. Risking your life. I get it. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care when you disappear. I can’t keep sitting alone in this apartment wondering if you’re alive.”

He blinked, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t want them to.

“You think I enjoy this?” he muttered. “You think I like being stuck in some sewer for three days bleeding out while some freak tries to tear me apart?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You have no idea what it’s like out there.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping forward. “But I know what it’s like in here. Waiting. Checking my phone every five minutes. Making excuses for you. Pretending this doesn’t hurt because I’m scared if I say the wrong thing, you’ll just disappear again.”

He stood then, sudden and sharp. “You think I want to be like this?”

“I think you don’t know how to let people in,” you said, quieter now. “And I think I’ve been trying so damn hard to hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held.”

He stared at you, breathing hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said finally.

“I didn’t cook for someone who wasn’t going to show up,” you said.

The room went still.

He looked away first. Scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

Your voice cracked on that last word, and he looked at you again—really looked this time. And for a second, something in him softened. Like he saw the version of you that wasn’t angry or nagging or dramatic. Just hurting.

But he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t say I’m sorry.

Didn’t say I missed you.

Just ran a hand through his hair and said, “Maybe this isn’t working.”

Not working?

Not working?

“You can’t be serious,” You huffed out a bitter laugh. Dante reached for you. You swatted him away. “You… We’ve been together for six months. What the fuck do you mean “Maybe this isn’t working”?”

He stood before you with his arms crossed, white hair still disheveled from his day, eyes narrowed, jaw ticked. “I mean that this…” He answered, gesturing to the space between you and him. “Isn’t working out. I don’t think– I can’t…” He swallowed, “I can’t be the man you need me to be. Not right now.”

“You’re gonna give up on us? Just like that?” You continued, still, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Then, you stepped forward, raising a hand to reach out for him, “I love you, Dante. You’re not gonna fight for us?”

“This isn’t love,” He spoke, tone final, but the slightest trembling breath beneath his words betrayed his true feelings. His fingers slipped into his hair, trembling as they carded through his white locks and tugged at his roots. “Look at you– you don’t even see the problem. You shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not your boyfriend is gonna come back alive. You shouldn’t have to put your whole life on hold for me. You still have the whole world to see. I don’t want to have to live a double life anymore.”

“Then let me in!” You hissed back. Your arms were crossed, too. “Do you think I like feeling as if I don’t know the man I love? I could take some of the burden off your shoulders, Dante, if you just–”

“Enough,” Dante sucked his teeth. “I don’t want you wasting your life away worrying over me,” After a lengthy pause, he continued, “All we ever do is fight and fight and fight– I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore, not with you. You’d be much happier without me.”

He was probably right.

“Oh, fuck you,” you shouted, your voice cracking with fury, but even then, it wasn’t enough to hide the way your heart was shattering inside your chest. When your eyes finally met his, you knew he felt the heat of it—anger and hurt and betrayal, all coiled together like fire licking at his skin.

“You’re not going to decide what’s best for me.”

“Yes, I am,” he snapped, cold and absolute.

You took a step forward, trembling, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. “You don’t know what’s good for my well-being,” you bit back, chest heaving. “You don’t even know what’s good for your well-being.”

That hit him. You saw it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, how his teeth caught the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on the guilt. Then he said the words that broke you:

“You could be so much happier without me.”

And just like that, everything inside you stopped.

Something in your gaze must’ve shifted then—something that startled even him. Because the anger didn’t burn quite as bright anymore. The fire was still there, but it flickered lower, smothered by something glassy, something wet clinging to your lashes. It was hurt. Real hurt. Deep, bone-deep heartbreak that swelled until your chest couldn’t contain it.

“Baby…” he sighed, and for the first time, his voice wasn’t sharp. His shoulders dropped like the weight of his decision had finally started to crush him. “I’m sorry. You know I love you. I just… I can’t live with myself knowing that one day I might not come back to you.”

You didn’t say it back.

Not this time.

Even if you wanted to. Even if your love for him still pulsed through every inch of your body, even if it begged for a reason to stay—how could you keep loving someone who was walking away from you like this?

Your lips parted, dry and trembling. You licked them slowly, like maybe the right words would come if you just gave them time. But all you could manage, hoarse and raw, was: “Take your shit…” You swallowed hard. God, it hurt. It hurt worse than anything he could’ve done. “And go.”

He froze.

“What?” he asked, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to mean it. Like he thought you’d plead. Cry. Kiss him one more time just to remember what it felt like. Like you’d make it easier for him to leave you.

But you didn’t.

“I said…” You looked up at him, every inch of you on fire, your arms folded so tight across your chest they ached. You could feel yourself shaking—fists clenched, breath shallow. “Take your shit… and get the fuck out of my apartment.”

And you meant it.

Even if it destroyed you.

You saw the pain in his eyes then. The flicker of disbelief. The way his entire world seemed to crumble at your feet. Two years. Two whole years. Twenty-four months of laughter, late nights, shared secrets, and silent apologies. A thousand soft I love yous whispered between sheets. A thousand more unspoken.

Was he second-guessing it now? Did he finally realize what he was throwing away?

YOU

|  Guys we’re going out tn.

When you reached the bar, it was still early. There were a few people here, but not too many. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses provided the background noise that you desperately craved.

You grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey, the burn in your throat just sharp enough to make you feel something—anything, really. It felt like you were drinking to forget, and the first sip seemed to help, dulling the edges of the ache, if only for a moment.

Your friends noticed you as soon as they walked in. They must have heard the difference in your voice when you answered their text. They could tell something was off, but they didn’t press. Not immediately.

The first drink turned into another. And another. You weren’t trying to get drunk; you were just trying to escape. To lose yourself in the clinking of ice cubes, in the low hum of the bar, in something that wasn’t him. But as the minutes passed, the alcohol didn’t do much to stop your thoughts from spiraling back to him.

You thought about the night before. The argument. His face, so conflicted, yet resolute. The way he walked away without even a second glance, as if he knew the decision he was making was the right one. How could he be so sure? How could he leave you like that?

“Another?” one of your friends asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. She was smiling, but there was a glimmer of concern in her eyes.

You didn’t even think about it before nodding. “Yeah,” you said, a forced smile on your lips. "Just one more."

You didn’t want to talk about Dante. Not yet. You didn’t want to explain to anyone why you felt like the world had been yanked out from under you. But it didn’t matter. Your friends could see it in your eyes. They didn’t need you to say a word.

No, a year ago, your life changed.

So, you can imagine how it felt to walk home from a day spent at the grocery store, bags tucked beneath your arms, and see him standing there.

Dante.

It had been a year since you’d last seen him, and you were doing just fine. Really. A little grocery shopping to get your mind off the usual stuff, a bag of chips here, some pasta there. You didn’t need Dante in your life anymore, and if you were being honest, you were doing better without him. You had a boyfriend now, someone who didn’t make you question your sanity. Things were... uncomplicated.

That was until you turned the corner and saw him.

Dante. Standing there across the street, looking like he’d just stepped out of a scene from some movie you hadn’t signed up for. There he was, all messy hair and that familiar red coat, like he didn’t have a care in the world. You froze for a second, staring at him as if your eyes were playing tricks. Was he actually here? In your world, in your life, right now?

Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? The universe had a sick sense of humor.

You immediately felt that familiar wave of annoyance—was it even annoyance? Maybe it was exhaustion, or some mix of both. You adjusted the grocery bags under your arms and took a deep breath. You were doing just fine. He was not about to mess with your day.

But Dante, being Dante, didn’t just stand there. No, he was coming toward you now, his long stride eating up the space between you with an unsettling familiarity.

Great, you thought, shifting the weight of your bags to one side as if they were the only thing that mattered right now. But in truth, you were already calculating the best possible escape route. The crosswalk? Too far. The alley to your left? Maybe, but the sidewalk was too narrow. Okay, girl. Focus.

You picked up the pace, shifting into a power walk as though your life depended on it. Sure, you looked a little ridiculous, but it was a small price to pay for a little peace and quiet. You weren’t looking back. Not now.

Behind you, you could hear Dante’s footsteps closing in, his voice trailing after you, “Hey, wait up!”

But you didn’t wait up. No way.

You’d moved on. You had a boyfriend now, someone who would never make you feel like a damn emotional rollercoaster. Someone who didn’t show up after a year of radio silence with that same unreadable stare, acting like nothing happened. No, Dante. No thank you.

Still, you could hear his footsteps, gaining on you. It was like an unspoken challenge. You had to admit, he wasn’t slow. But neither were you. You adjusted the bags once again—damn, this was turning into a workout—and picked up the pace.

You weren’t going to make it easy for him. You weren’t even going to acknowledge the way your heart still remembered his presence, the way it beat a little faster the closer he got. You weren't going to let yourself get sucked back into that mess.

His voice was closer now. “Come on, just—”

A sigh. You were really doing this, weren’t you?

A glance over your shoulder, just a quick flick of the eyes to see how much ground he’d covered, and what do you know? He was right behind you now, practically breathing down your neck. “I’m just trying to catch up, alright?”

Catch up? You weren’t sure whether to laugh or groan at that. This wasn’t a race, Dante, and you didn’t need a personal trainer chasing you down the sidewalk. You could already feel the annoying tightness in your chest. The one that had always been there whenever he was around, the one that reminded you of how difficult it had been to move on in the first place.

He was getting too close for comfort now, and you could already tell this wasn’t going to end well if you kept this pace. So, against every instinct telling you to keep walking, you slowed down just enough for him to catch up. You didn’t want to, but here he was, breathing like he’d run a marathon just to get you to stop. And for what? So he could talk?

He stopped beside you, his eyes searching your face with that all-too-familiar intensity. His chest heaved slightly, probably from the exertion, but you’d be damned if you showed any signs of weakness.

For a second, he just stood there, catching his breath. You, on the other hand, kept your eyes straight ahead, acting like you hadn’t just sprinted for your life.

“Alright, listen,” he said, voice softer now, “I know I messed up. But can we at least—”

You didn’t even look at him as you interrupted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I can’t. I have to go.”

And that was that. You didn’t need to say anything else. You couldn’t afford to.

You were done.

That night, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hair tied up into a neat little bonnet. The faucet was running – lukewarm water trickling out – but you weren’t washing up. No, you were standing there, letting the water drip down your eyes, your cheeks, your neck. You were staring at your tired reflection.

You should’ve been washing away the exhaustion of the day, but instead, you just let it fall over you, droplets slipping down your face, down your chest, almost as if you were trying to wash away the past.

But you couldn’t. No matter how much water hit your skin, how much you scrubbed away at your tired reflection, you couldn’t erase him. Dante. He was there, in the back of your mind, in the way your pulse quickened when you saw him again, after all this time. It had been a year, and yet, when you looked at him across the street, the world seemed to stop for a moment. It was like stepping back into a dream.

You hadn’t realized how much of your heart you’d given to him, how much of yourself you’d let him take. And then, nothing. No texts, no calls, no explanation. Just silence, stretching on for months, the gap between you two growing wider, until you started to convince yourself that maybe that was for the best. Maybe you were better off without him, your life finally starting to take shape without the constant ache of waiting for him to come back, to acknowledge the mess he left behind.

Cupping your hands beneath the faucet, you splashed some more water onto your face. God, I need therapy.

But, being that your current rent situation didn’t exactly permit a visit to the psychologist at the moment, you threw your favorite fuzzy robe over your satin cami and shorts, popping your feet into your beat up pink slippers. You shuffled right over to your bedroom and plopped down onto the bed, limbs falling uselessly to the mattress.

Kill me, you thought.

That wasn’t viable, though. So, instead, you reached into your nightstand (past the vibrator you had bought eight months ago during the worst part of your dry streak) and pulled out a sheet mask. Biting into the package, you opened it and pulled the slimy thing out. The serum melted into your skin as you laid it over your face, leaning your head back against the pillows and relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages.

Your head was blissfully empty. There were no thoughts of men with precarious jobs and swords and… devilishly handsome faces. No, it was just you. You and your favorite pajamas and your favorite skincare routine.

You flicked the TV on. You didn’t have to change it back to your favorite channel. No, that was the glory of having a shitty little apartment in the city to yourself. It was on the same channel you left off on – your favorite drama.

The characters buzzed to life. You set the remote down and watched.

The characters on screen started a new conflict, one that you knew would keep you hooked for the next hour. You sank deeper into the couch, letting the familiar warmth of your apartment wash over you. Everything was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only comes when you're truly alone.

Then, the sound came. A soft knock at the window outside your room, followed by a long, drawn-out silence. Your heart skipped, the peace broken. You froze, eyes still locked on the TV, the characters' voices fading into the background as your mind reeled. It was too late for anyone to be outside. Too late for anything normal to be happening. Another knock, louder this time. A rhythmic tap that sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly turned your head toward the window, your pulse quickening.

Oh, God, you thought. I’m going to die.

Still, because you couldn’t exactly ignore the sound, you slid out of your warm, comfortable bed and into your slippers once more. Then, hesitating every single step of the way, you snuck into the living room, glancing around in search of the source of the sound.

Another knock. This one louder. You held your breath, hand hovering just above the blinds. It was coming from outside. No one else came to your apartment at this hour. You knew who it had to be.

You glanced down.

There, crouched on the balcony just below your window, was Dante. His face was half-lit by the streetlights, a little smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he waved at you. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn’t disappeared for an entire year. Like you hadn’t spent every sleepless night wondering if he was dead or alive, missing his presence as if your heart had been torn in half.

The audacity of it. There he was, grinning like nothing had changed. His hair was messy, his eyes gleaming with that same mischievous spark that used to drive you crazy. The same spark that made your chest ache, even now.

“He cannot be serious,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but he caught it, his grin widening.

You could almost feel his eyes on you, waiting, daring you to say something. But you couldn’t. What could you even say?

All you could do was crack the window open.

“Sorry,” He huffed out a laugh. A familiar one. One you… kinda missed, actually. “I tried calling, but I think you blocked my number.”

“I got a new phone,” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut as if that would make this situation any better – as if you would open your eyes and he wouldn’t be here.

But he was. 

“What the fuck are you even doing here– I mean– the balcony, Dante, really?” You threw your hands out, eyes full of exasperation. “You could have knocked at the door like a normal person.”

“Would you have answered?” He asked. “If you knew it was me?”

“Probably not,” You replied honestly. “I should leave you out here to freeze to death.”

“Oh, right, about that,” He laughed, rubbing the back of his head abashedly. The entire encounter was so absurd that a part of you firmly believed you were dreaming. “I found out I’m, like… half demon. Crazy, right? So I don’t think I would freeze to death. Demon stamina, or whatever.”

Demon stamina. You thought. Right. Definitely awake right now.

Still, that would certainly explain his… endurance.

“Okay…” You had many, many questions, but that was the only thing you could muster, “Should I be… scared?”

What the fuck is going on?

In all honesty, if he told you that the world was ending tomorrow, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“Nah,” He waved your concerns away with the back of his hand. “I’d never hurt you. Except for… well, when I broke up with you. That’s why I came here, actually. Sorry about that. I’ve done some reflection and I…” Suddenly appearing rather nervous, he trailed off, “I fucked up. I was a real asshole to you back then. God, this is hard.”

Your arms dropped to your sides as you stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “You’re… ridiculous.”

“I know,” Dante said, hands up like he was surrendering. “But hear me out—”

“No, no. You don’t get to just Spider-Man your way onto my balcony, confess your demon heritage, and then act like this is normal,” you said, pointing to him like you were trying to make sense of a hallucination. “You broke up with me out of nowhere. Then you vanished. For a year, Dante. Not a word. Not even a shitty text.”

“I didn’t have a phone,” he replied, offended. “I was on a mission. I was in Hell.”

You snorted. “Oh, please.”

He blinked at you. Then, very seriously, he hissed out, “No, I was literally in Hell. For a year. You can’t imagine what that was like for me.”

“Oh my god.” You pressed your fingers to your temples. “You’re insane. Hell? Really?”

“I’m not making it up! You think I wanted to ghost you for twelve months?”

“Well, you kind of did. You broke up with me, remember?” You crossed your arms. “Said I should forget you. That I should move on.”

A pregnant pause.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he muttered.

“Well, congrats. I moved on. I did the whole crying on the bathroom floor thing, I got a therapist, I drank my sorrows away, I bought this plant—” You gestured wildly at the lonely fern in the corner. “His name is Rico. And he’s thriving. Without you.”

Rico was not, in fact, thriving. He was an exotic plant. One you had purchased on impulse at a farmer’s market that you definitely should have researched prior. He wasn’t doing too well cooped up inside of your apartment in New York City. Who would?

Dante crouched down, tilting his head, squinting at Rico. “Looks a little dehydrated.”

You glared. “So do you. What do you even want, Dante?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked down for a second, suddenly quiet. “I want a do-over.”

You stared at him.

“I didn’t have much control over the whole… trapped-in-hell thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, “but I wasn’t happy with how we ended things. I could’ve been better to you. I kept rehearsing what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, but I wasn’t expecting it to actually happen.”

He’s not being serious

… Is he?

One look at him, and you knew he was.

You let out a long, flat breath. “We can’t.”

“Why?”

You raised your brows. “Because we can’t,” you said again, quieter this time. And this time, it hurt.

“Why?” He asked, as if you hadn’t made yourself perfectly clear. “I’ve changed, honest. The past year I spent without you, I realized how good you were to me. How I took you for granted – I don’t wanna let you go. I don’t wanna make the same mistake twice.”

Aw, you thought, That’s… kinda sweet, actually.

No. Stop that.

Instead, you propped your hand up on your hip, “Does that mean you won’t be here on my balcony ever again?”

He paused, pursed his lips. “Okay, maybe I would,” He finally admitted. “But if you would let me in–”

You cut him off right then and there, rolling your eyes. “I can’t, Dante. I have a fucking boyfriend.”

That hit its mark.

His mouth opened, then closed again. The silence that followed made you uncomfortable in a way only Dante could manage—equal parts awkward and guilty. He looked down at the floor of the balcony like maybe it had some hidden message for him.

“Oh…” he murmured. “Oh. You… You really moved on.”

“Something like that.” You shrugged, trying not to sound as tired as you felt. “That’s what happens when you disappear for a year. Life goes on.”

“Not for me,” he muttered, lips curling downward into a pout that would’ve been funny if it didn’t come attached to so much damn history. “Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest.” Then he added, almost too fast, like it slipped out before he could filter it, “I could probably fuck you better, too—”

He probably could. Honestly, your current sex life with your current boyfriend wasn’t the greatest. Still, he was consistent. He didn’t leave you hanging for nights in a row, wondering if he would come home. Not to mention the fact that, when you were with Dante, well…

You had some of the loveliest orgasms you had ever had. On the bed, on the floor, on the kitchen counter. The kind of orgasm you hadn’t achieved once since he had left. Not with your vibrator, and certainly not with your new boyfriend.

Your stare could’ve burned through glass. “I have to be up early tomorrow.”

He had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, but not enough to shut up. “Did you come here just to ask for a do-over?” you asked, already backing toward the window.

“No,” he said, and then paused. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”

You almost respected his commitment. Almost.

You didn’t respond right away, just stared at him— hair as white as starlight, red leather coat, sword still strapped to his back, ridiculous expression like he genuinely thought charm could undo the year-long hole he’d left in your life. The silence made him fidget, scuffing the toe of his boot against the concrete.

“What do I have to do to convince you?”

You sighed. You really sighed this time, long and from the chest, because there was no point in even pretending this wasn’t exhausting.

“Goodnight, Dante,” you said.

Then… you shut the window.

The next day came with no promises of peace.

You were behind the counter at the diner, hair tied back, apron smudged with flour, oil, and maybe a little bit of your sanity. The coffee machine hissed in protest as you filled another mug for a trucker in the corner booth. Your feet hurt. Your head hurt. But at least it was a different kind of ache than the one Dante stirred up last night.

And then, like the universe had a personal vendetta against your emotional wellbeing, the bell above the door jingled.

You didn’t have to look up.

You felt him walk in—like some twisted sixth sense. The air shifted, and you could practically smell the cologne he always wore, something smoky and leather-soft. A second later, a voice followed.

“Damn. This place got a lot prettier since I was last here.”

You looked up anyway. Because of course you did.

There he was. Dante. Leaning casually against the host stand, all devil-may-care charm and a ridiculous leather jacket that made him look like he belonged anywhere but this greasy spoon diner. His eyes found you immediately.

You blinked slowly, then turned back to the coffee pot. “I swear to God,” you muttered under your breath, “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He strolled right up to the counter, pulling up a stool like he hadn’t trespassed on your balcony twelve hours ago. Like he hadn’t cracked open an old wound and kissed the air with apologies.

“You look good in that apron,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t bother looking at him this time. “You look like someone who doesn’t tip well.”

“I tip amazing,” he argued. “Just like I–”

“Do me a favor and don’t finish that sentence,” you warned, grabbing a towel and wiping down a clean patch of counter for the hundredth time. “Have you always been this petulant or is it something in the air?”

“I’m a lot of things,” he said, shrugging innocently. “I’m a man of many talents. Want me to prove it? I’ve got time.”

Oh my god.

You finally turned to face him. “Do you not have demons to fight or… hell dimensions to get trapped in again?”

He laughed. “You remembered.”

You deadpanned, “How could I forget? It’s not every day your ex disappears into Hell without a cell phone.”

Dante lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair. But look—I just thought we could talk. Maybe over some waffles? Syrup fixes a lot.”

You were already shaking your head. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this with you. Not here.”

“I’ll be good,” he said, drawing an imaginary halo over his head with his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you replied flatly.

“And you were never this mean to me,” he said with mock hurt.

“You were never this annoying. Go piss off somewhere. You had no problems leaving me alone for a year,” you shot back. Then you waved down one of your coworkers—a sweet girl named Lila with a bright smile and no idea what kind of emotional tornado she was about to serve.

“Hey, Lila?” you called. “Can you take counter stool three for me?”

She blinked. “Uh, sure. You okay?”

“Peachy,” you said, handing her a menu. “He’s all yours.”

Dante blinked as Lila approached with her notepad, looking confused and a little betrayed. “Wait, seriously?”

You leaned over the counter slightly, voice low. “You want waffles? Order them. You want closure? Write a poem.”

And then you walked away. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. The ache in your chest was enough to tell you exactly what kind of expression he wore.

The living room was dark, lit only by the bluish haze of the TV screen flashing between killstreaks and loading screens. Your boyfriend was sunk deep into the couch, legs wide, controller gripped like a lifeline. He hadn’t looked at you in over twenty minutes, completely absorbed in his game, spewing half-hearted trash talk at some twelve-year-old with better aim and a louder mic.

You shifted beside him, stretching a little, brushing your leg against his. Nothing. So you leaned over, nuzzling your nose lightly against his neck, just beneath his jaw.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft and sweet. You let your fingers slide down his chest, slow and teasing. “Want to take a little break?”

He flinched—not from desire, but because someone on screen shot him. Again.

“Babe, not now,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the game. “I’m in ranked.”

You pulled back a bit, blinking, mouth falling open in disbelief. “Seriously?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept clicking buttons, dead focused on the screen. “Yeah, just like… fifteen more minutes. Can you make dinner or something?”

You stared at him, chest hollowing out in quiet, stunned offense. You’d offered him your body. He asked for food.

There was a moment of silence. Your hand dropped from his chest.

You sat back against the cushion, a little colder now, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. And that was when Dante’s voice—his voice—echoed in your head from the night before.

“Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest. I could probably fuck you better, too—”

You closed your eyes briefly, scoffing under your breath. God, he was ridiculous. And yet…

You pushed yourself off the couch wordlessly, heading to the kitchen without a sound.

Behind you, your boyfriend called out, “You’re the best, babe!”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just slammed the fridge door a little harder than necessary.

And in the back of your mind, Dante's voice lingered like a splinter.

You turned the stove on, lips pressed into a thin, tired line. Maybe later you’d lie down and try to remember what it felt like to be romanced by someone who didn’t treat Call of Duty like a second girlfriend.

One incredibly sexless night later, you took the evening to decompress. That is, you lit up some candles, had a few slices of the pie you’d kept in your fridge for days just like this one, and blocked off an hour for the sole purpose of masturbation. 

What? You needed it.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit, perfectly still. You’d even put your phone on Do Not Disturb, because tonight was about you. Your fingers itched with anticipation as you laid out your night like a ritual: the robe slipping lower on your shoulder, the cool sheets turned down, your favorite toy already waiting on the nightstand like a promise.

God. You needed this. You were wound tight. Between work, the complete lack of passion from the man you were dating, and that absolutely deranged balcony visit from Dante… you were more than pent up. You were practically vibrating with unmet desire.

You let out a long, dramatic exhale, sinking down into your mattress with the kind of grace usually reserved for tragic heroines. Just you, a flickering candle, and the fantasy of literally anyone but your boyfriend.

You reached for the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Knock, knock.

Your hand froze.

You stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe someone had the wrong door.

Knock, knock. Louder this time. Three slow raps, followed by silence.

You sat up slowly, groaning into the air. Then, begrudgingly, you stuffed your vibrator back into the drawer, kicking your feet over the edge of the bed and walking into the living room. It was dark, of course, so you flicked on a light. When you stared into the peephole of your front door, it took all of the strength you had to not bang your head against the door.

It was Dante. Again. No leather jacket this time, just a black hoodie, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweatpants.

You blinked, then groaned into the back of your hand.

Another knock, like he heard you. And then, muffled through the wood, his voice.

“I can hear you in there. Demon hearing, remember?” He brought his head up to the peephole, staring right back at you. “I know it’s late, Just… let me talk to you? For just a second? Please?”

You pulled the door open.

Dante stood there in the dim hallway light, hair windswept, hands in his pockets like he’d been pacing outside for a while, working up the nerve. His gaze moved over your face with a kind of stunned reverence, like he hadn’t really believed he’d see you again.

“Hey, princess,” he said.

There it was. That nickname. The one you hadn’t heard in a year.

You stepped aside without a word. He walked in like the place still remembered him. Or maybe you did.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You didn’t speak. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching him watch the room like it had changed without him. It had. You had. But he still looked at you like he saw the girl you were a year ago. That girl who let him ruin her, and smiled while doing it.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice low. “I tried.”

“Did you?” You answered.

“Okay, not really,” He looked at you again, more serious now. “I keep thinking about you. All the time. You’re in my head constantly, like—fuck—I’ll be walking down the street and I’ll see something and just need to tell you about it.”

You laughed. Just once. It came out bitter and exhausted. “Keep it to yourself.”

“I missed talking to you about anything,” he said. “Everything.”

You shook your head, pushing off the wall, pacing just a little—like if you kept moving, you wouldn’t fall for this again. “You don’t get to come back after vanishing for a year and say shit like that.”

“I know. I know I don’t,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve been trying to act like– like I’m not completely in love with you still, and it’s killing me.”

Your breath caught.

After all of this time?

His hands reached for yours before you could stop him. You let him take them.

Okay… what the fuck is going on?

“You deserve someone who sees you. Someone who treats you like you matter every second of the day,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t take you for granted. I could be that. I want to be that.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Because you’d heard those words before, from people who never meant them. From the person you’d curled up beside just last night, feeling more alone than ever. And yet here Dante was, saying all the right things—but he hadn’t even asked. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know how long it had been since someone had touched you like they meant it.

Your voice came out hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” he whispered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I think about you when I’m trying to sleep. I think about your laugh. Your stupid, shitty taste in TV. Your coffee order. The movies you like. I want that back. I want you back.”

You yanked your hands away, jaw tight.

He’s got a lot of fucking nerve.

“Don’t do this,” you said. “Don’t show up and say these things and make me feel like this again. You don’t even know what you left behind.”

He looked at you, eyes open and raw. “Then tell me. Let me make it right.”

“Go away, Dante.” you snapped.

Silence fell between you like a slammed door. You turned your back to him, trying to catch your breath.

Then he stepped in behind you.

Not touching, not quite—but close enough that you felt the heat of him. Close enough that your body remembered every inch of him like a phantom limb. 

“Hey,” he murmured. “I know I fucked up. Can you be… like, not so mad? Just for two seconds?”

His hand slid to your hip, turning you gently toward him. You let him, still trembling, still so full of everything you never got to say.

“I’ve been in love with you this whole time,” he whispered. “And I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words were genuine. Genuine enough that you felt the tears begin to prickle at your eyes all over again – emotional at the mere thought of him, because truthfully?

You missed him, too. You just didn’t want to admit it. You missed the late nights and later mornings. You missed waking up next to him, hearing him talk about his crazy adventures as a demon hunter. You missed his kisses, the smell of him, his everything.

And, God, the sex… The sex was great.

He was taller than you. Always had been. But in that moment, it felt impossible not to notice how much he towered over you—how his shadow swallowed yours, how the air itself seemed to dip around him. You didn’t want to look up at him, but you did.

You stood frozen, breath shallow, pulse racing in your throat. You didn’t want this. You shouldn’t want this. But here you were, locked in place, every part of you screaming to walk away, and every part of you still craving the comfort of his touch.

“Please…” You whispered, trying to fight the overwhelming tide of emotion. “Please, Dante. Just go.”

His expression softened, like he hadn’t expected that—like he was expecting something more. You felt his fingers on your waist now, and they were warm, pressing gently into your skin. There was no escape now. You weren’t sure you wanted to run anymore, not when it felt like your body was already betraying you.

“I shouldn’t be here, I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. The distance between you seemed to vanish with each word. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried to forget about you, I tried so damn hard, but I couldn’t. I don’t want to.”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Don’t, Dante. I can’t… I can’t do this.”

His eyes searched yours, the guilt and longing mixing together in a way that made your heart ache. He was close now, so close that you could feel his breath against your skin. You knew what was coming, but you didn’t stop him. Not yet.

“I know I fucked up,” he whispered again, more softly this time. “But I love you. I never stopped. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t. I just—I can’t be without you.”

And then, without waiting for another word, he leaned in.

His lips touched yours, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. You didn’t stop him. For that moment, for that brief, heart-stopping moment, you let yourself fall back into the pull of him. Your hands found their way to his chest, clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

God, I missed this.

You melted against him, a wave of relief crashing over you as his kiss deepened, more urgent, more desperate. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you responded without thinking, your body moving instinctively against his. He groaned low in his throat, his hand sliding to your neck, the other pressing you closer.

You kissed him back like you were starving, like you had been dying for this. And for a moment, it was like nothing else mattered—like the last year of silence, the hurt, the betrayal, all of it faded away in the heat of his mouth on yours.

But then, just as quickly as the warmth had started, it turned cold.

You pulled away, gasping for air. Your chest heaved with the sudden rush of emotion. You couldn’t do this. Not again. Not after everything. Your hands shook as you pushed against his chest, creating just enough space to break the connection.

“No,” you said, your voice breaking as you stepped back, wiping at your eyes. “No. I can’t do this. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, stunned, his face pale, but he didn’t move. His eyes were full of confusion, pain, and something darker that you didn’t want to see.

“I can’t,” you repeated, voice steadying with every word. You took another step back, hand reaching for the door. “We can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

There it was.

“I’m sorry, Dante,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I really am.”

He stared at you for a long moment, and for the briefest second, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes – something devastating.

But then, he nodded. The motion was slow, almost resigned, and he took a step back. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. As he passed you, he stopped for a moment, his gaze lingering on you one last time.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

And then, he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

You were sitting on the couch, the faint sounds of your boyfriend’s video game drifting from the other room, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator. You hated that noise—hated the sound of him so effortlessly immersed in a world that wasn’t yours, that didn’t care about the growing tension between the two of you. You tried to focus on the TV, tried to let the sitcom's canned laughter drown out the gnawing discomfort in your stomach. But it wasn’t working. You couldn’t stop thinking about what Dante had said.

I could treat you so much better.

Those words. God, they kept coming back to you. You didn’t want them to. You didn’t want to feel them pushing into every corner of your mind, making you question everything you thought you knew. But they did. And you were alone with those thoughts now. Alone with your insecurities that you usually kept locked away.

You huffed, pulling the blanket tighter around you as if it could protect you from the storm of doubt forming in your chest. You shouldn’t be thinking about him—about Dante. You should be thinking about how your boyfriend had been in and out of your life, barely there, barely present, always distracted. But the longer you sat there, the more it seemed like it was all just a reflection of the way you felt inside: disconnected, hollowed out, drifting.

And then, as if fate was timing it just perfectly, he left his phone on the counter.

Your breath caught, the phone staring at you like a challenge, like an invitation. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You promised you wouldn’t invade his privacy like this. But your fingers itched to touch it, to confirm the sinking feeling in your stomach that something—someone—wasn't right.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the decision feeling both slow and inevitable as you walked toward the kitchen. The phone sat innocently on the counter, waiting. You took a breath, a shaky, hesitant inhale. You could walk away. You could pretend you didn’t see it.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, unlocking it with a simple swipe. Your heart hammered in your chest, adrenaline kicking in as if you were about to do something reckless. The phone screen lit up with messages from some unnamed number. And when you saw the first message, your throat tightened.

"I miss you so much. When can I see you again?"

It hit you hard. Like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t even had time to react before your eyes were scanning the next message, then the next, your stomach sinking deeper and deeper with every word.

“Last night was incredible. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

A sharp, painful gasp escaped you before you could stop it. You clutched the phone tighter, staring at the words, and then—bam—it all crashed into you. You hadn’t been wrong. You hadn’t been imagining the distance, the emotional coldness that had settled between you and your boyfriend. There it was, in black and white—proof of his betrayal.

You felt like you were drowning, suffocating under the weight of it all. This wasn’t just about the messages. It was about everything. About the endless late nights when he came home late from “work,” about the weekends when he’d disappear into his own world, leaving you to figure out where you fit into it. And now this—this confirmation that the man you had been with for so long wasn’t who you thought he was.

You could almost hear Dante’s voice again in your head. I could treat you so much better. The words felt like salt in a wound you hadn’t even realized you had, their presence almost suffocating in the quiet of your kitchen. Were you settling? Were you really going to let this happen? Let yourself get swallowed by someone who couldn’t even give you the decency of respect?

You exhaled sharply, your pulse quickening as the next message flashed on the screen.

“I can’t wait to see you again, babe.”

Babe.

The word made you sick, twisting your stomach into knots. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much—maybe because it wasn’t meant for you. Maybe because it was meant for someone else. Someone who got his attention, who got his time, his affection. It wasn’t you. You were just the woman he settled for, the one who wasn’t good enough for the effort.

The room felt too small, the air too thick, and you suddenly hated everything about this moment. The phone in your hand, the pit in your stomach, the way you had let things go on for this long. You could feel the tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. You weren’t going to cry over this. You weren’t going to let him have that power over you.

But just as quickly, the rush of hurt was replaced by something else—a sharp anger that burned through you like fire. You weren’t going to keep doing this. You weren’t going to keep letting him make you feel small. You weren’t going to keep standing by, pretending that nothing was wrong when everything was falling apart around you.

You weren’t going to be the backup. The woman who stayed even though she knew she deserved more.

The sound of footsteps from the other room snapped you out of your thoughts, and you shoved the phone down onto the counter, just as your boyfriend entered the kitchen. His voice was casual, too casual, as if nothing had changed.

“Hey, babe. You alright?” He asked, glancing over at you.

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, your chest tight with all the words you didn’t want to say, the emotions you didn’t know how to handle.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The raw anger, the aching disappointment—it was all building up inside you, suffocating you. You stood there in the kitchen, phone still in your hand, his lies echoing in your mind. Every text, every word, had become a blade, slicing through your trust, through your relationship. And now, standing face-to-face with him, it all came to a boiling point.

You couldn’t help it.

You walked up to him, eyes burning with fury, and before he could even open his mouth to explain himself, your hand shot out. The slap echoed through the small apartment, sharp and loud, breaking the tense silence between you.

His head jerked to the side from the impact. He didn’t even seem surprised. But you could see the flicker of guilt in his eyes. Too late for that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your voice trembled with rage as the words spilled out. “You think I wouldn’t find out? You think I’m some kind of idiot, just sitting here while you lie to my face?”

He reached up, touching his cheek, and for a moment, he looked almost confused. “What the hell are you talking abou–”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back, trying to breathe, to stop the angry tears from spilling over. “Don’t even try. I’ve been here, okay? I’ve been here, giving you everything, and this is how you repay me?”

You could feel the walls around you closing in. The kitchen—the place where you had made so many meals together, laughed together, fought together—it suddenly felt suffocating. This wasn’t your home anymore. It wasn’t the place you thought it was.

“I trusted you,” you spat, your voice cracking. “I trusted you, and you went behind my back. All this time, you were texting her—her—while I was sitting here, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.”

His eyes widened, but then he scoffed, trying to brush it off. “Come on, it’s not like that. She’s just—”

“Don’t!” You interrupted again, shaking your head, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what excuses you’ve got. I don’t want to hear how you’re ‘sorry’ and how ‘it wasn’t like that’ because it was. I saw the texts. I saw everything.”

There was a cold silence, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. He was quiet now, eyes downcast, as if he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he had no idea how to fix it—because there was no fixing it. Not this time.

“Do you even care?” You whispered, feeling the heartbreak seep into your bones. “Do you even care that you’ve been hurting me this whole time?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He was trying to form the right words, trying to make it sound like he cared, like he had some kind of reason, but it was too late for that.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I’m done.”

He froze. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was an almost desperate look in his eyes. “Wait—what? You can’t—”

“Don’t try to stop me.” You took a deep breath, the anger dissipating just enough to feel the weight of the pain. “I’m not staying here. I’m not going to keep putting myself through this. I’m done.”

His face fell. You could see the regret in his eyes, but you didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t. Not after everything. Not after what you’d just found out.

You turned your back on him, heading for the bedroom to grab your things. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. You could feel the tension in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. Not anymore. You were done.

You grabbed your bag—your jacket, your wallet, your keys—and made your way toward the door. Every step felt heavy, like you were walking away from something you had invested so much of yourself into, and yet, there was a strange sense of relief settling in your chest. You were leaving behind a lie, a hollow version of something you had once wanted to be real. 

You were leaving him.

“Wait,” he called out, his voice strained. “Please, don’t go. We can fix this. We can talk—”

But you didn’t listen. You opened the door, stepping out into the hallway, and closed it behind you. The sound of it was final. You didn’t want to hear his excuses anymore. You didn’t want to be with someone who could betray you like this.

Still, weak thing that you were, you began to cry.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

As you walked down the hallway, your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You didn’t want to look at it. 

But then, your fingers moved of their own accord, slipping the phone out of your pocket.

And there it was: Dante’s old number.

The one you’d saved with the naive hope that he might have called. You hadn’t thought about it in a while. You hadn’t dared to reach out to him—hadn’t dared to even look at his name on your phone. But now, standing there in the hallway, your heart pounding, your chest tight from everything you’d just left behind, you thought about what he’d said to you.

I could treat you better. 

I’ve always been in love with you.

A cold shiver ran down your spine at the thought. You could still hear his voice in your head, still feel the weight of his words.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, uncertainty swirling inside you. You didn’t know why you were doing this. You didn’t know what you hoped to get from it, but you couldn’t shake the pull. You wanted—needed—someone who saw you. Someone who cared.

So, in a moment of weakness, you typed the words.

YOU: I need you.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. The words felt foreign, too raw, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t take them back now.

a/n: ok so whenn i say this is gonna be short... i MEAN IT THIS TIME LOL..... maybe. anyway! part two is almost done, so comment what you thought, let me know what you'd like to see, what you loved, etc! until next time, my loves x not sure why this got deleted? but ok

I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

taglist: @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @mrshayakawaa

wanna join the taglist? | pretty ; chapter index

[maneskinwh0re]

modern!sevika x housewife!reader // clueless couple

cw: fluff, loser butch sevy, age gap (if you squint), more fluff

i saw a post that said “holding back the urge to say ‘must’ve been ur other girlfriend’ to my bf” and it gave me the idea to write about saying it to our sev

i imagine modern!sevika is a loser lesbian but also a clueless millennial who thinks she knows everything and then proceeds to get extremely humbled. she’s adorable, your honor.

༺♡༻❀༺♡༻ ༺♡༻❀༺♡༻ ༺♡༻❀༺♡༻

༺♡༻❀༺♡༻ ༺♡༻❀༺♡༻ ༺♡༻❀༺♡༻

slow mornings are your favorite. the windows to your kitchen are swung open, allowing in thin beams of sunlight and fresh air, while the smell of brewed coffee swirls through the room.

standing at the stove, you make breakfast for you and your wife, flipping a second omelette for sevika because she has already finished the first, now nibbling on a banana slice while she waits.

she leans against the counter next to you, eyes squinting at her phone as she tries to scroll through her photos. she moves the device further away, then brings it closer, inches from her face, the brightness of the screen surely not helping her aging eyesight.

“can never figure out this damn thing,” she says with an agitated huff before you look at her stance and giggle. she’s hunched over in a grey tank top and black boxers, large veined hands cradling her cracked phone. her hair is pulled back into a stubby ponytail while small wisps of framed bangs fall against her cheekbones.

“you can’t figure it out because y’ can’t see, mama,” you chuckle as you take the thin glasses atop her head and set them nicely on the bridge of her nose. “that better?”

“oh,” the difference is night and day, you practically see her big eyes refocus with a dumbfounded blink. “yes, much better, hon’.”

and with that, she’s right back to pure eagerness as she tells a story of how she and ran beat the boys over a few poker games, elaborating on how she brought home lots of extra cash last night. while she scrolls to find a specific picture of her winning hand, she pauses for a moment to question her own memory and turns to you.

“wait- have i told y’ this already?”

“hm, no,” you reply, shaking your head as you toss the omelette onto a plate. “must’ve been your other wife.”

your side comment totally sweeps over your butch’s head at first. you give her a moment to nod and continue searching through her phone before she completes a double take — no. a quadruple take with a confused followed by a truly bewildered expression.

“what?” sevika’s head snaps to you for the fourth time, brows furrowed clearly in offense. (reference pic at the top :))

you only hum up at her with expectancy, playing the act of clueless defiance.

“what’d you just say?” she repeats with a ghost of a smile, setting her phone on the counter.

“i didn’t- what?” you dismiss, gripping the handle of the empty pan and moving past sevika to set it in the sink. although she doesn’t let you get away so easily. “nothin’! i don’t know what you’re talking ab-”

with a tight grip on your waist, she yanks you backwards, erupting a squeal from your throat followed by a fit of laughter as you fall against her. her breath tickles your skin as she peppers kisses up and down the side of your neck and shoulder.

“what the hell are y’ on about? my ‘other wife’? you’re insane.”

“oh, so now i’m insane to you? i imagine more insane than your side bride. got it,” you banter as you grip her forearm that holds you close. one of her hands then turns your face up towards her lips. “i guess you’ll just have to tell her that i-”

your words are cut off with a gentle kiss. sevika tastes a mix of morning breath and black coffee, her disheveled self looks and smells in desperate need of a warm shower. but when your wife pulls away with admiration in those big grey eyes, you wouldn’t give any of it up for the world.

not the good, not the bad. for better for worse, in sickness and in health. to love and to cherish.

“shush. i’m yours.”

༺♡༻❀༺♡༻ ༺♡༻❀༺♡༻ ༺♡༻❀༺♡༻

ignore grammar/spelling mistakes 😜 dropping another random fluff bomb then locking back in to my bum ass math classes 🐑💣

also i’m absolutely LOVING all the asks that’s been sent to my inbox, TRUST i see them and will get to them all eventually!! again just super busy with school/family/friend drama recently, all is good tho and always feel free to send requests or just spam meee

stay safe out there divas 💜

-🐝

taglist: @cdbabymp3 @mirconreadzztuff22 @wizard-pdf @archangeldyke-all @nhaaauyen @inthebrainofalamb

[blastiebabe]

hell yeah, you are spoiled

Bakugo Katsuki x Reader

You place your phone somewhere Katsuki cannot notice, and in an angle enough to be able to see most of the space in the bedroom you share with him.

You press record and come back to sitting in front of your vanity table to continue getting ready for your date night. You have seen this TikTok video and was inspired by it to put your phone on record to test how easily your boyfriend can be enraged for you.

Katsuki comes into your shared bedroom wearing only trouser pants that fits perfectly in his waist and accentuate his hips. Seeing him through your mirror, you can't help but realize how beautiful your boyfriend is. Katsuki heads to the closet looking for a shirt to wear.

"Love, what color are you wearing?" He asks as he look at his clothes on the rack.

You came back to your senses when you heard him speak, you have been so mesmerized by his beauty you almost forgot you were shooting.

"A black dress." You replied, looking at his direction. "Why?"

Katsuki looks back at you. "Just askin'." He says as he brings out a black polo and proceeds to sit on the bed.

You smirk at his response. "You wanna match colors with me or somethin'?" You tease him.

"Nah uh." You watch his condescending expression from his reflection on the mirror, his tone with an attitude while simultaneously having red ears. If you aren't planning anything, you weren't gonna let that slide, but since you are, you'll prioritize that.

You laugh at him and continued your make up, trying to find the right time to throw him the reason you started recording. He laid on the bed scrolling on his phone while waiting for you.

A minute passed, and you decided to finally tell him. "Love..." Katsuki immediately darted his eyes straight at you, waiting for the next thing you'll say.

"I have something I need to tell you but promise you won't be mad, okay?" You say calmly, acting yourself the hell out.

Katsuki immediately changed his position and sits up straight, eyes locked at you with a hint of worry in his face. "I ain't making any promises. What is it?"

You turn your back on the mirror and faced your boyfriend who has now a visibly worried face. You look at the floor and started playing with your fingers, making him worry more.

He stands up and sits on the edge of the bed in front of you. He is now near you and looking straight at you while you continue to look at the floor. "Princess, come on, you can tell me..."

"Well, I... I have read some comments on your social media page..." You look at Katsuki before you, you feel a hint of guilt when you saw how genuine his concern is. But you needed to continue.

"Mm hmm. And then?" He asks calmly.

"And... and some of your fans have left comments on the pictures you have uploaded of me."

"The hell did they say?" Katsuki asks now with a hint of irritation from his voice. This is going well. You thought.

"They said I am super spoiled." You say as sad as your acting can be.

You can clearly see the shift in Katsuki's eyes as you have muttered the last word, and his annoyance suddenly became a repressed laughter. He snorts as he covers his mouth.

You face him offended. Did he just laugh because other people called you spoiled? What the fuck?

Before you can even tell him off, he stands up, grabs his polo and started wearing it. "Love, you are spoiled." He says emphasizing on it.

"Katsuki, what the actual fuck?" You say having a hard time to process what he is saying.

He was about to button his polo when he suddenly sees you look so disappointed to what he just said. He clearly isn't making himself clear. He goes in front you, his right knee touching the floor as he looks straight into your eyes.

"My love, you honestly better be spoiled. Because I do spoil you, don't I?" Katsuki reaches for your hands. "So, hell yeah, you are spoiled. Because you are my princess and you deserve to get everything you want."

You can literally feel your annoyance slowly fading out. How can this man be so damn mean and sweet at the same fucking time?

Katsuki continues, "I know you spoil yourself even before we started dating, so it is my job to spoil you better than you spoil yourself." You can straight up see how genuine his words are through his eyes.

"And if I may I remind you, I am more than willing to spoil you 'til the ends of the Earth if it means I get to make you be happiest you've ever been." The man before you explain as he cups your cheek with his hand.

This conversation has turned into a completely different route from what you had expected. You had expected him to be furious about the comments, to be protective to not let other people talk like that about you. But turns out Katsuki has his own way to make you feel so damn good. This. This is the reason why Katsuki is different from all the other damned extras.

You can literally feel tears forming in your eyeballs. You cup both his cheeks with your hands, knowing anytime the damned tears might just fall. "You know I love you so damn much, right?"

You feel his smile in the palm of your hands. "Of course I do, my love." As soon as these words depart from his lips, you took the opportunity to have your lips met his.

Using your tongue to explain and make him remember how much you love him, and all the other things you feel for him that can never be explained by words alone.

Your hands travel on the nape of his neck bringing him closer to you as you deepen the kiss. You feel his hands at the small of your back as he let you lead.

When your lips parted, both of you are catching for your breath. You stare at Katsuki's mesmerizing face before you with his eyes glistening. "Now that was a perfect example of how you spoil me."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ thank u for reading! :>> . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ༶•┈ by yel0ngkape ┈•༶ i accept requests, so feel free to reach out! ♡

[eicsferrari]

never met - op81 smau

summary: people start making up rumors about oscar and yn. problem is they never actually met

face claim: random girls from pinterest

a/n: this is chaos but it was fun to write hope you like it

masterlist

જ ♡ જ

gossipf1 singer yn and oscar piastri are reported to be dating according to inside sources

view all comments

user5 please let this be true

lando rue, when did this happen?

user14 helppp what is lando doing here

user3 my two worlds colliding

user7 she's not good enough for him

user8 ?? he's not good enough for her

yn inside sources who??? i never saw this man in my life😭😭

user10 he's a formula 1 driver

yn oh i only know lewis hamilton aka the goat aka the loml

user10 fair

yn he looks cute tho👀

sabrinacarpenter no yn!

yn 😊😊

જ ♡ જ

yn posted a story

caption: this is the man yall think i pulled? Damn thank u

replies

↪sabrinacarpenter you are insane😭

↪lando +61 12345678 text him

જ ♡ જ

yn jazzy nights are my favorite

♡liked by sabrinacarpenter, oscarpiastri and others

view all comments

user6 best night of my life

sabrinacarpenter i'm in love with you😍

yn me when i see you

user1 oscar liked...

user4 don't start

user1 i just stated a fact

user9 obsessed with your voice, i want you to sing me to sleep every night

જ ♡ જ

gossipf1 yn and oscar spotted hanging out after her concert

view all comments

user8 i fear this couple would be too iconic

user4 just... no

user5 i dont know this man my ass

yn in my defense i really haven't met him then!

lando it's true i can confirm

lando i can also confirm yn was oscar's most listened artist last year

oscarpiastri why are you here?

lando gossip is my bat signal

જ ♡ જ

yn trip made it out of the groupchat

view all comments

lando groupchat and it's only two people

yn get off my comments

lando i got you his number and this is how you repay me?

user9 lando tell us who it is🙏🏼

user3 if lando set them up it has to be oscar

user7 i'm in love with her aesthetic

user5 white shirt=oscar

user14 stop we don't know

sabrinacarpenter did my invite get lost in the mail?🤨

yn babe i'm sorry he means nothing you are the love of my life

જ ♡ જ

oscarpiastri posted a story

caption good company yn

replies

↪user4 gossipf1 ended up setting you two up huh

↪sabrinacarpenter i remember when i was the one taking her pictures...💔

જ ♡ જ

yn sorry osc i go where lewis goes🏎️

view all comments

oscarpiastri 😐

user4 osc🥺🥺

scuderiaferrari everyone is a ferrari fan ♡liked by author

francocolapinto hamilton fan first, a girlfriend second. i respect that

user5 did he just confirm that they are girlfriend and boyfriend?

mclaren 💔

yn sorry😔

charles_leclerc i approve son oscarpiastri

yn forza ferrari!

user26 we lost her to a sports guy...

જ ♡ જ

oscarpiastri posted a story

caption prettiest girl is in fact my girlfriend

replies

↪yn giggling blushing throwing up kicking my feet🥺🫶🏼

જ ♡ જ

yn posted a story

caption he's still mad i did not wear orange

replies

↪lando it's papaya not orange😡

yn same fucking thing

lando it's not !!

yn ok but the word papaya is so ugly

lando YOU TAKE THAT BACK

જ ♡ જ

yn the rumors are now true, i'm his favorite artist and he's my (second) favorite driver

view all comments

user18 she's gorgeous😍 he's just there😐

francocolapinto yes yes you might kiss but did he ever say he wanted to learn your language just to understand your jokes? i don't think so

yn call me when you are his top artist on spotify loser

user12 don't mind me i'm just patiently waiting for the love songs this will inspire

oscarpiastri you are never going to let me live this down, right?

yn you are stuck with me and my bad jokes sorry bro

sabrinacarpenter just remember she was mine first papaya boy

oscarpiastri noted🫡

જ ♡ જ

oscarpiastri she finally wore papaya

view all comments

user2 she's so hot🥵

yn not that word again😭

lando i will block you if you keep hating on the papaya

yn do it i dare you

yn i look so good tho

oscarpiastri you always look amazing

yn i love me a boy who can sweet talk

lando god stop being cheesy on main🤢

yn weren't you going to block me??

lando i should have

yn just do it you coward

user23 yes yn put the car guy in his place!

lando why are you supporting her when your page is dedicated to me??? are you a fan or a hater?

user23 i'm your biggest fan! but i support women's rights and women's wrongs so i'm with yn

yn HA even your fans like me better😛

lando you stole my teammate and now my fans what else do you want from me😭😭

જ ♡ જ

lando posted a story

caption disgusting

replies

↪yn disgustingly cute yes

lando whatever helps you sleep at night

જ ♡ જ

oscarpiastri posted a story

caption dont let their online banter fool you, they are friends

replies

↪yn babe don't expose us like that😔

જ ♡ જ

oscarpiastri 🧡

view all comments

yn DELETE what if lewis sees this?

user21 she's so real

lewishamilton i feel betrayed

yn nooo💔😔 you will always be n1 in my heart

oscarpiastri 😐

yn deal with it

yn i am so incredibly proud of you and i love supporting you🥺🧡

oscarpiastri thank you for being here<3

જ ♡ જ

yn posted a story

caption i'm going to tell my kids this is their dad

જ ♡ જ

yn posted a story

caption just kidding, i love you oscar

replies

↪ oscarpiastri i love you more❤️

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Only I Get to Lift You

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Rating: T (Teen)

Warnings: Mild jealousy, light angst, fluff, playful possessiveness

Summary: With TikTok supposedly on the verge of being banned, you’re determined to convince Paige to do the Jacked and Kind trend as a farewell. Paige refuses, saying she won’t even post her drafts, unlike the rest of your teammates. So, you ask someone else...

“C’mon, Paige, please?” I whined, leaning my full weight against her as we sat on the couch in her dorm.

Paige groaned, not even looking up from her phone. “Nope.”

I pouted. “It’s a farewell to TikTok. You have to do it with me.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t have to do anything.”

“Paige—”

“No.”

I let out a dramatic sigh, flopping against her. “Everyone else has done it! Ice, Azzi, Sarah, Jana—”

“And that’s exactly why I don’t need to do it,” she cut in. “I don’t even post like that, Y/N. I have like… a hundred drafts, most are ads that having been set to drop yet.”

I gasped. “And you’re not gonna post the non ad drafts?!”

“Nope.”

I sat up, scandalized. “You’re the worst.”

She smirked. “And yet, you’re still in love with me.”

I grumbled under my breath before pushing off the couch. “Fine. If you won’t do it, I’ll just ask Jana.”

Paige quirked a brow. “Jana?”

“Yup,” I said, grabbing my phone. “She’s tall, she’s strong, and unlike some people, she actually likes to have fun.”

Paige snorted. “Go ahead then. Have fun.”

Oh, I would.

Convincing Jana had been way easier.

“You wanna do a TikTok trend with me?” she repeated after I explained.

I nodded. “Yeah, you just lift me on your shoulders for the ‘Jacked and Kind’ thing.”

She smiled. “Okay, sure.”

Easy.

Sarah started the music, and I grinned at the camera as we recorded.

Jana crouched, letting me carefully climb onto her shoulders. She stood with ease, my legs dangling as I gripped her head for balance.

Everything was going great—until I saw Paige standing across the gym, her arms crossed, staring hard.

I could tell exactly what was happening in that pretty little head of hers.

Something clicked.

Something possessive.

And suddenly, the video was no longer cute to her—it was personal.

The second I hopped off Jana’s shoulders, Paige was right there.

“Redo it.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

She gestured at my phone. “The TikTok. Redo it. With me.”

I stared at her for a second, then smirked. “Ohhh, now you wanna do it?”

Paige clenched her jaw. “Only I get to lift my girl on my shoulders. No one else.”

Azzi, Ice, and Sarah cackled in the background.

Jana, bless her heart, just looked amused. “I mean, I don’t mind—”

“No, you’re good,” Paige said quickly. “We’re doing it again.”

I bit back a laugh. “Oh, so when Jana does it, it’s a problem?”

“Yes,” Paige said without hesitation.

Sarah whistled. “Damn, she’s pressed.”

Paige ignored her, just crouching down. “C’mon, up you go. Alright, run it back,” she said.

I rolled my eyes, but agreed to letting etting Sarah re-start the sound. We waited for the sound to start playing.

Once the sound started playing Paige stood, her grip on my waist firm, like she needed to prove something.

I smiled as the song restarted, she lifted me up with ease. With me now resting on her shoulder, Paige smirked up at me, squeezing my calves. “Now it’s cute.”

I laughed, shaking my head. This girl was ridiculous.

But, honestly? I loved her for it.

The second I posted the TikTok, I knew it was over for Paige.

The comments were rolling in within seconds:

@paige4mvp: “FINALLY she did the trend, took her long enough ”

@wnbabuckets: “Paige, just go ahead and clean out those drafts while you’re at it.”

@uconnfancam: “Bueckers, drop the drafts, we BEG.”

I scrolled through the flood of replies, laughing to myself as I sat on the couch. Paige, who was sprawled across my lap, raised an eyebrow at my amusement. “What’s so funny?”

I turned my phone toward her, showing the endless comments demanding that she post the TikToks she had sitting in her drafts.

Paige groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. “Ma, I told you they were gonna start on me the second you posted it.”

I smirked, playing with the ends of her hair. “Well, maybe if you actually posted anything instead of letting your drafts collect dust, they wouldn’t be on your ass like this.”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “I don’t even have that many—”

“Paige, you have like 105, and I'm pretty sure 50% of em are yet to be released ads and sponsors.”

She sat up, giving me a look. “How do you even know that?”

I gave her an innocent smile. “I may or may not have taken a little peek while you were editing our video.”

Paige groaned again, flopping dramatically against me. “You’re the worst.”

I laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “And yet, you still love me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled. “Whatever, you say baby.”

A few hours later kk had convinced me to do a TikTok Live with her

“Alright, y’all, what’s up?”

I grinned at the screen as KK adjusted the phone, setting up the TikTok Live. The chat was already moving at lightning speed, comments rolling in about the Jacked and Kind TikTok.

@paigeismybabymama: “Y/N, YOU SNAPPED WITH THAT POST ”

@kkfanclub: “KK AND Y/N?? ELITE LIVEEEEEE”

@paigeslockscreen: “Where’s Bueckers?? She still hiding from the comments??”

I laughed as KK read that one out loud. “Nah, she and Jana are building something new once again. Probably about to break our damn apartment, from the way they are yelling at each other.”

The camera shifted slightly, showing Paige and Jana sitting on the floor, surrounded by wooden planks and an instruction manual that Jana is reading out loud only for paige to tell her to slow down or she's not making any sense.

KK snickered, before adding fuel to the fire. “Hey, P boogers! The chat said you need to come out of hiding and post your drafts.”

Paige didn’t even look up. “Tell them to mind their business.”

I smirked, leaning toward the phone. “Y’all heard her—keep commenting about it.”

More comments flooded in instantly.

@nukebueckers:“POST THE DRAFTS, PAIGE. STOP PLAYIN.”

@wnbawatchparty: “NAH, WE AIN’T LETTING THIS GO.”

Paige sighed dramatically, setting down the drill and turning toward me. “Y/N, baby, you’re supposed to have my back.”

I gave her an innocent shrug. “I am. I just think you should give the people what they want. Cause its also what I want”

She squinted at me, then at the phone. Then, with a mischievous grin, she stood up, stretching her arms above her head.

The chat immediately went wild.

@paigebiceps:“NAH WAIT WHY IS SHE BUILT LIKE THAT”

@fypuconn:“PAIGE IN THE SPORTS BRA AND GREEN PJS HELLO????”

@wnbabuckets: “IS SHE ABOUT TO DO A TIKTOK ON LIVE???”

I raised an eyebrow as Paige walked over to me, now standing directly behind the couch. She leaned down, resting her chin on my shoulder. “You wanna put on show for TikTok, baby?”

I smirked before turning to look at her. “You trying to redeem yourself?”

She grinned, kissing my cheek. “Something like that.”

The chat was moving way too fast now.

@paigefanclub: “SHE CALLED HER BABY AGAIN BYEEEE”

@jukebueckers: “NOT HER BEING ALL FLIRTY ON LIVE—”

@y/nnation: “SOMEONE SCREEN RECORD THIS”

KK, who had been watching with amusement, shook her head. “Nah, this is actually crazy. Go ahead, do the trend again, since Paige wanna prove something.”

Jana, who was still trying to assemble the furniture, looked up and smirked. “Oh, this I gotta see.”

“Alright, P baby. You ready?” I say as I stood up going to stand in the middle of the floor.

She smirked. “Always, ma.”

Paige stretched again, showing off just enough muscle to make the chat go feral. Then, with zero hesitation, she reached down and grabbed my waist.

I let out a small yelp as she lifted me effortlessly, settling me onto her shoulders like it was nothing.

The chat? Absolutely losing its mind.

@paigeisstrong: “I KNEW SHE WAS STRONG BUT DAMN”

@y/nluver:“THE WAY SHE JUST PICKED HER UP LIKE THAT—”

@uconnfans:“OH SHE OWNS YOU FR”

I laughed, holding onto Paige’s head for balance.

The two of us did the trend flawlessly, Paige flexing way more than necessary, making sure to show off just how effortlessly she could hold me up.

As soon as we both finished, she had a menacing idea to toss me back down onto the couch. Letting out a yelp, as I landed on the couch I sat up only for Paige to put me in her lap. Her hands lingering on my waist as she pulled me close. “That good enough for y’all?” she teased the camera.

The chat was a mess.

@fypnation: “PAIGE JUST BE LIFTING READER LIKE A FEATHER, HUH?”

@wnbastans:“THE WAY SHE HOLDS HER???? THIS AINT EVEN FAIR”

@paigebucketsss: “YEAH OKAY, THEY’RE IN LOVE. WE GET IT.”

I grinned, leaning into Paige. “See? Was that so bad?”

She hummed, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Not if I get to do it with you.”

KK gagged in the background. “Alright, that’s enough of that. Y’all got the people going insane.”

Jana, still struggling with the furniture, snorted. “At least someone’s getting something done today. Paige please come finish helping me.”

Paige just smirked, wrapping her arms around my waist. “So, what I’m hearing is… I should post at least one?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Paige, just post your damn drafts already, and go help Jan.”

She sighed, pretending to think. “Ehh… maybe I’ll just keep making y’all wait, and fine give me the drill,”

The chat lost it again.

And I just shook my head, knowing damn well she was never gonna let this joke die, or post them damn tiktoks.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[jo-com]

✧˖°🌷📎⋆˚｡⋆୨ ➛ Paddock Princess

Ollie Bearman x Fem!Alonso

Summary: Being Fernando’s daughter was tough enough— but having the other drivers be protective of you was tougher.

Genre: SMAU

Fc: Various face claims: found the pics on Pinterest!

Note: May include grammatical errors and this is not proofread!

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ➛ My Masterlist

─────── ─ ⋆.˚🦋༘⋆ ─ ───────

➛ F1 headlines

Liked by 5,902 others

F1 headlines Y/n Alonso and Ollie Bearman were spotted going out together— was also seen kissing??

Tagged: @Little_Alonso and @Olliebearman

View all comments

User1 UHM WHAT

User2 the ship we never knew we wanted!

Maxverstappen1 Hmm😐

User3 maybe it was a friendly kiss?😭😭

User4 THE GASLIGHTING I CAN’T😭

Charles_leclerc oh..

Landonorris we need an explanation.

User5 oh you’re fucked @Olliebearman

Danielricciardo yes he is😊

Carlossainz55 Damn right he is

User6 HELP??😭

Georgerussell63 i am telling your dad @Little_Alonso

Maxverstappen1 alr chatting him

User7 can’t tell if their serious or not😭

Charles_leclerc we’re deadly serious.

User8 Not y/n and ollie being unbothered

…

➛ Messages

…

Liked by Olliebearman, urbff, Francisca.cgomes and 2,567,901 others

Little_Alonso Daddy approves! Don’t know abt the others though…

View all comments

Olliebearman can’t wait to come back again!

Little_Alonso can’t wait too💕

Charles_Leclerc hmm sure😊

Maxverstappen1 i too can’t wait!!

Maxverstappen1 to run you over☺️

Liked by Charles_leclerc, Landonorris, Carlossainz55 and 2 others

User9 should we be concerned??

User10 definitely😭

…

➛ Messages

…

Olliebearman just posted a story!

[ Caption: She’s so pretty😍]

Replies:

Little_Alonso: I LOVE U SO MUCH MI bebé💞💋💋

Charles_leclerc see u in the track☺️

Carlossainz55 looking forward to drive with u🙂😉

Maxverstappen1 Hope u know self defense!

Landonorris i am watching you😁

Georgerussell63 I wish u a goodluck, ur going to need it

Danielricciardo run while u still can kiddo, trust me

…

Hehe had fun making this!

[nkogneatho]

𝐃𝐀𝐃'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎.

—a/n: this is part 1. i am slowly testing out the idea since i am getting back into writing. you're free to tell me your thoughts on this in the reblogs or comments and if you want me go through and write part 2 smut.

part 2 is here yay

dad's bestfriend satoru who is hitting on you in such a subtle manner that it goes unnoticed by your family. they have so much faith in him since he's now a family friend. you've been away for college and only managed to show up on special family dinners so you didn't know he became so involved and special while you were gone.

you didn't miss the soft yet flirtatious gaze he gave you in between conversations at the dinner table. the spoon dangling between his lips for a few seconds more than they were supposed too. his finger swiping against the cream on top of the tiramisu and his tongue darting out to clean it off. it made you mouth dry even when you were sipping on the wine the whole time.

you didn't miss the "accidental" nudge of his shoulder against yours as you both bumped into each other on the way to the washroom. or when his pinky brushed against yours to steal away your embarrassing polaroids from college to see which were only reserved for your parents.

it was infuriating. hot, but infuriating. because how come no one else was seeing this? it was painfully obvious. your dad, kento, should've punched him by now. but he didn't because obviously, satoru was just being nice. so you decided on taking the matter in your own hands.

"i am gonna need you to stop," your voice stern as you confronted him. you had pulled him upstairs in the corner to avoid the embarrassment in front of everyone just in case you were wrong.

"stop what?" he looked genuinely confused but you were sure, just for a second, you saw an evil grin plastering his face.

"with all that "i want to fuck you" eyes you've been giving me the whole evening." you wait for his reply. one second passed. three seconds passed. ten seconds passed. none. there's nothing but a dark expression on his face that you don't know it roots from where. and before you could, he moves towards you forcing you to pace backwards.

step.

step.

step.

ste—shit. your back hits the wall. his hand slowly climbs up, and you gulp. you have no idea what's going to happen next but that's what is pooling your panties more. he ghosts his knuckles against collarbone, never contacting the skin but it still doesn't fail to make a shiver run down your spine. you almost beg him to touch you until he speaks.

"and what makes you think i want to fuck you, sweetheart?" he asks. his voice dark and thick. which makes you question every single moral, every single boundary of yours. you want to answer but you can't. all the words are choked up in your throat, refusing to come out. you look at him with doe eyes, that makes his dick tent against his pant. you're about to do something questionable—

"gojo-san," but the voice of your mother calling out for him from downstairs startles you. gojo sighs, almost in regret.

"go to you room," he checks around to see if anyone caught you two.

"but—"

"y/n, go to your room and lock. the. damn. door. understood?" he orders and there is no way you cam refuse him.

but why did he tell you to lock the door? more importantly, why is it making you want to keep it unlocked even more?