#have you. seen us... up there.. unreal

[autism-corner]

YIPPEEE (picrew)

[everysai]

[curatorofbabel]

that adriana varejão post is great obv but missing her incredible paintings of details from baroque churches but also seeing them through a screen really cannot capture the feeling, and they seem harder to find online? i didn't even know about them until i saw them in person last year. i love her work so much

cristo, 1988. oil on canvas, 180 x 220 cm

[youthguk]

Vestiges | jjk (m)

He built a life without you — success, power, everything you once dreamed of. You spent six years pretending you didn't destroy him. One night is all it takes to tear the silence open again.

 jungkook x reader | exes to lovers 

warnings: second chance romance, heavy angst, explicit language and sexual content, emotional manipulation, slight depiction of addiction struggles, toxic relationships, trauma themes, mature emotional content.

wc: 15k

author’s note: I didn’t mean for this story to hurt as much as it does. But heartbreak feels a lot like mourning — and sometimes, writing is just another way to grieve what you lost. Feedback is always welcomed. 

It takes you longer than it should to get dressed, longer than it should to run a comb through your hair, longer than it should to fasten the thin, trembling clasp of the necklace around your throat — because everything inside you feels reluctant, slow, half-stuck in a memory you wish you could forget but know you never will, no matter how many years or cities or mistakes you stack between yourself and that boy who once promised you the world with his trembling hands and reckless heart.

The mirror doesn’t help; it only shows you a stranger, one with hollows under her eyes and a dress that doesn’t quite fit the way it used to, an almost-pretty woman wearing borrowed pearls and borrowed courage, trying to pretend that she hadn’t spent the last hour sitting on the edge of her bed staring at nothing, wondering if the version of you he remembers — if he remembers at all — would even recognize what’s left.

The room smells faintly of turpentine and old paint, the corner where your canvases lean still cluttered with yesterday’s half-finished dreams, and when you reach for your phone, the screen lights up with a message from Minho, simple and sweet and unbearably distant: Call me when you’re free. Love you.You don’t answer. You can’t. You wonder if that makes you cruel or simply too tired to pretend tonight.

Your fingers fumble with the cheap clasp at your wrist — a borrowed bracelet too — and in that one careless moment, memory slices through the present like a blade: Jungkook, twenty-one, grinning boyishly as he caught your hand outside the university library, threading a handmade beaded bracelet over your knuckles with such earnest pride that you had laughed, embarrassed, your cheeks warm, the world so soft around you it felt unreal.

"Now you have to marry me someday," he had teased, and you had rolled your eyes, but you hadn’t said no.

You blink hard, banishing him from the glass, watching the woman who stares back at you set her jaw a little harder, fix her earrings a little faster, breathe a little shallower — because you can’t afford to cry over ghosts, not tonight.

The group chat blinks awake: Sora: “Can’t wait to see everyone tonight 🖤 love you guys.”

The words should be comforting. Instead, they twist inside your chest like a dull knife, because you know her love is real, but you also know that weddings are for the blessed, and you — you are only here because Sora never chose sides when everyone else did.

You wonder if Taehyung will even look at you, wonder if the cold shoulder he gave you six years ago will stretch into tonight’s vows and toasts and forced smiles. You wonder if seeing him beside Sora will feel like a betrayal or just another quiet ache to add to the pile you stopped counting long ago.

But it’s not Taehyung who makes your palms sweat, your ribs tighten like a vise around your lungs. It’s him.

You haven’t seen him since the day everything broke, since the night your voice cracked on the phone and he didn’t pick up, since the day you stopped being someone’s future and became a cautionary tale instead.

Jungkook might have buried that reckless smile you once loved beneath all the sharp suits and colder women; or maybe success never touched the part of him that burned for you. Maybe hatred is all that’s left now, a slow, steady fire smoldering out of sight — or maybe you’re nothing more than a scar he learned to live around.

Either way, standing in front of him tonight will feel like pressing your hand against an old wound, desperate to prove it's healed when you already know it hasn't.

The taxi honks outside — a short, impatient sound that feels impossibly loud in the quiet dusk — and you stand because there’s nothing else to do, grabbing your small purse, slipping your trembling fingers into cheap heels, locking the door behind you with a finality that feels too heavy for such an ordinary sound.

The city beyond your window is a watercolor blur of neon and shadows. Each streetlight you pass feels like a countdown, leading you closer to the moment you'll have to face him again. Not the boy who promised you forever with handmade bracelets, but the man he's become – all sharp edges and success stories, probably with a model on his arm and victory in his smile.

The driver barely glances at you when you climb in, muttering the address with a voice that barely feels like your own, and as the car pulls into traffic, the low murmur of the radio fills the silence between your heartbeat and your fear, a love song from another decade humming like a ghost you can’t quite outrun.

Outside the window, the world blurs into a thousand small, careless lights — neon signs flickering above half-empty restaurants, the gold smudge of streetlamps bending against the slick black of the road — and you realize, distantly, that you don’t even remember when this city stopped feeling like home and started feeling like exile.

Your hands twist the strap of your purse tighter in your lap, knuckles aching from the pressure, and you wonder — not for the first time — if tonight will shatter you, or if you have already been living inside the ruins for so long that you won't even feel it when the final pieces fall.

The venue creeps into view before you’re ready, a soft, golden glow spilling out onto the cracked sidewalks like an invitation you should have never accepted, the kind of place built for promises and photographs and futures you don't belong to anymore.

The car stops with a jolt that rattles up your spine, and you pay the driver with fumbling fingers, stepping out into the cool night air that smells like jasmine and distant rain, clutching your purse to your chest like it might somehow shield you from what’s coming.

You hear the music first — faint, lilting strains of a string quartet filtering through the open doors — and then the laughter, bright and careless, the kind of laughter that used to be yours once, when the world was smaller, safer, sweeter.

Somewhere inside, Sora is probably floating down the aisle in a dress spun from dreams, her hands steady, her smile untouched by the kind of ghosts that still cling to your skin.

Taehyung must be standing there too, pride pressed into his spine, betrayal still thick in his chest like old smoke.

And Jungkook — though you can barely force yourself to think it — is breathing the same air as you for the first time in six years, close enough to touch and a thousand lifetimes away.

You press your hand harder against your ribs, feel the panic fluttering there like a trapped bird, and when you finally force your legs to move, to step toward the door, it feels like walking into the mouth of something hungry and merciless, something that has been waiting for you all this time.

"Please," you whisper to whatever god still listens to lost causes, "let me survive this night."

The lobby is bright and soft and aching with gold, and familiar faces blur past you — old friends you barely recognize, old friends who barely recognize you — and you keep your head down, keep moving, telling yourself it will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine, until the lie thickens and clots somewhere at the back of your throat.

You are halfway to the main hall when you hear your name, soft and almost startled, and when you turn, Sora is there — radiant, trembling, beautiful in her wedding dress, her eyes shining with something between relief and apology.

She rushes toward you before you can move, gathering you into a hug that knocks the breath from your lungs, and for a moment you let yourself fall into it, let yourself believe in the warmth of her arms, the truth of her loyalty, the small, fragile spaces where you are still loved.

"You came," she breathes against your hair, pulling back to look at you with a smile that wobbles at the corners. "God, I was so scared you wouldn’t."

"I wouldn’t miss it," you manage, and your voice sounds almost real, almost steady.

Behind her, the world shifts — guests milling about, waiters balancing trays, the glittering haze of champagne — and then, through the blur of light and sound, you feel it, before you even see him.

A weight against your skin. A gravity pulling your gaze without mercy. You lift your eyes — and there he is.

Jungkook.

Standing across the room, half-turned toward you, a glass in his hand, a black suit cut sharp against the broad frame of his shoulders, his hair dark and slightly mussed like he'd run his hand through it one too many times.

He looks different now — older, harder around the edges, devastating in a way that feels less like beauty and more like a warning.

The noise around you dulls, falling away like heavy snow, until it’s just him and you and the space between your bodies that aches like a phantom limb.

His eyes — the ones you once memorized better than your own reflection — find you across the golden crowd, and for a breathless second, there’s nothing: no recognition, no anger, no tenderness, just a flicker of something vast and unreachable that knocks the air from your lungs.

Then, just as quickly, he looks away — leaving you suspended in the terrible silence where strangers live, where memories rot, where love once existed and now nothing remains.

The air inside the hall feels heavier now, thick with perfume and champagne and the kind of brittle laughter that stretches too wide over old wounds, and you realize as you stand there, clutching the small wrapped box to your chest, that your fingers have gone almost numb.

You try not to look for him again — you try, you swear you try — but your eyes betray you anyway, sliding across the glittering room until they find him near the bar, a dark figure half-turned away, laughing low at something someone says, and for a moment it stings more than it should, the way he looks — older, sharper, all clean lines and heavy shadows, the easy beauty of boyhood burned away into something colder, something harder, something you could cut yourself on if you dared get too close.

He doesn’t belong to you anymore — maybe he never really did — and yet some foolish, broken part of you aches anyway, aches in the marrow of your bones where even time cannot reach, where memory still reigns.

It hadn’t always been like this — hadn’t he once leaned against a chipped kitchen counter in the dead of night, grinning, offering you the last slice of cheap pizza like it was a crown, like you were something holy worth starving for? Hadn’t he once promised you — reckless, breathless — that he would fight every single battle for you, even the ones you didn’t see coming?

You had believed him. God, you had believed him so much it made you foolish.

Your throat tightens as you move forward, your heels silent on the polished floors, the soft music wrapping around you like a noose, and somewhere in the back of your mind the memories start to bleed — his parents’ disapproval, sharp and sterile in their polished dining room; the thin-lipped smiles, the cruel little glances they thought you wouldn’t notice; the way Jungkook had slammed down their checkbook one night and said he’d make it without them, because loving you mattered more than money, more than power, more than blood.

He meant every word — you never doubted that — but standing here six years later, wrapped in a borrowed dress and trembling under the weight of everything you lost, it’s hard not to wonder if they were right all along. You were the disaster they warned him about, the mistake they tried to tear from his hands, and maybe — if you’d loved him less selfishly — you would have let him go before you ruined everything he could have been.

You press the thought down, hard, like smothering a fire with bare hands, and you fix your eyes on the only safe thing left — Sora, radiant and teary-eyed in her wedding dress, laughing softly at something Taehyung mutters in her ear.

It should be enough to anchor you. It isn’t.

You force your feet to move, weaving carefully through the crowd, dodging the familiar faces, the flashes of recognition, the stares that linger a little too long.

You see him again — just for a second — Jungkook leaning casually against the far wall, speaking to someone in a low voice, his profile sharp under the warm golden lights. It hits you harder than it should, the way he holds himself now — heavier somehow, not in body but in gravity, in presence — the easy recklessness of boyhood hardened into something colder, something that doesn’t bow for anyone.

Sora had mentioned it once, in a hurried, breathless phone call you almost didn’t answer: how Jungkook had started a tech company straight out of university, how he had built it from nothing, refusing every offer of help from his family even when it would have made things easier, how now he stood at the helm of one of the fastest-rising startups in the country — a CEO at twenty-seven, sharp and brilliant and terrifyingly untouchable.

You never asked for the details — you didn’t need them. It was already clear enough: he had survived without you, built a life where you were nothing but a forgotten name.

The shame settles heavier against your ribs as you clutch the small wrapped gift tighter, pressing forward toward Sora and Taehyung where they stand near the main table, a little island of perfection in a sea of strangers. 

You reach them just as they turn toward you, and for a brief, foolish moment you let yourself hope — just for tonight, just for Sora — that you can pretend the past is not clawing up the back of your throat.

Sora’s face brightens when she sees you, her hands fluttering excitedly to her mouth as if she might cry, and you feel the first crack in your armor when she pulls you into a hug so fierce it knocks the air from your lungs.

"You made it," she whispers, voice thick with emotion, and you smile — a broken thing, but a smile nonetheless — as you hand her the small gift wrapped in trembling paper.

"For you," you manage, your voice smaller than you remember it being.

Sora presses the box to her chest like it's precious, like you are precious, and for a moment the noise of the party dulls into something almost kind.

But then Taehyung steps forward, his expression carved from something colder than marble, and the weight of him — of everything you once trusted — hits you square in the ribs.

You brace for it instinctively, the way a body remembers impact even after the bruises have faded. He smiles — wide, charming, empty — and leans in slightly, his voice low and sweet enough to rot your teeth.

"I’m surprised," he says, his words like silk over a blade. "That you had the nerve to come, knowing he'd be here."

The sentence slices you cleanly down the middle, and for a moment all you can do is blink at him, your hands limp at your sides, your breath sticking somewhere between your heart and your throat.

Sora’s eyes widen in horror, but she says nothing, and Taehyung only straightens his jacket with an easy grace, as if he hadn't just peeled the skin from your chest in front of half the wedding party.

You don’t even flinch — not really. Maybe you expected it, or maybe, somewhere deep down, you’ve always believed he earned the right to hate you.

Taehyung hadn’t just been Jungkook’s best friend. He had carried Jungkook’s heartbreak like it was his own, had stitched the bleeding pieces of him back together when you weren’t there to do it. Of course he would still bear the wound like a badge of honor, would still sharpen it against your skin whenever you dared step back into their world.

You swallow down the rising sting of tears, swallow down the shame that floods your gut like dirty water, and somehow — somehow — you manage to stay standing.

You wonder if he’s right — if you should have stayed away, if you’ve become nothing more than the ghost they all wish they could finally forget.

The air outside is cooler than you expected, crisp against your overheated skin, and for a moment you just stand there on the terrace, clutching the banister with both hands like it might anchor you to something solid, something real. Inside, the wedding hums on — champagne glasses clinking, laughter blooming like overripe fruit — but out here, under the weak glow of fairy lights strung across the courtyard, it feels like another world entirely.

You press your fingers against your temples, willing your heart to slow, willing your body to forget how it trembles from the inside out.

Footsteps sound behind you — soft, lazy, unhurried — and you already know, without looking, who they belong to.

The air always shifts differently when he’s near.

Still, when you finally turn, the breath catches sharp in your throat, as if your body wasn't prepared for the sight of him after all.

Jungkook stands a few paces away, his black suit rumpled just enough to look careless rather than messy, the knot of his tie loosened at his throat. One hand is shoved deep into his pocket, the other holding a half-empty glass that tilts dangerously in his loose grip, and for a moment you can't decide if he looks more like a fallen prince or a soldier long after the war has ended.

He lifts the glass slightly, a mock-toast, his mouth curling into something that might have once been a smile if it hadn’t turned bitter somewhere along the way.

"Well," he says, voice low and rough like gravel. "If it isn’t the ghost herself."

You flinch before you can stop yourself, the words scraping raw against old wounds, but you force your spine straight, force your lips into something that might pass for calm.

"Hi, Jungkook," you manage, the name strange and sacred on your tongue after so many years of silence.

For a beat, he just looks at you — and it cuts deeper than anything he could have said.

Because for a second — just a second — you see it flicker there, the ghost of another boy entirely, the one who used to trace your skin like it was a prayer, who used to kiss you like it hurt him to stop. Gentleness pools in his dark eyes, unguarded and aching, and it guts you with how badly you want to reach for it.

But just as quickly as it came, he shutters it away, his mouth hardening into a line you barely recognize.

"So," he says, voice lighter now, mocking almost. "How’s life?"

You swallow, wishing the earth would swallow you first.

"It’s..." you fumble, your mind blanking under the weight of his gaze. "It’s good. Busy. Art shows, part-time jobs... the usual."

He nods once, a jerk of his chin, his glass tipping slightly in his grip. You notice the way his fingers tremble faintly around the glass stem, how his pupils are blown too wide for the soft light — little things that tighten the pit of your stomach before you can reason why.

"And you?" you ask, your voice steadier than you feel. "You’re... doing well?"

He huffs out a laugh — not cruel, not kind either — and sets the glass down on the stone ledge beside him, missing it slightly before correcting the movement with a small curse under his breath.

"You know everything already," he mutters, and there's something brittle under the words, something breaking. "CEO. Big company. Fancy suits. Bullshit meetings."

You flinch again — not at the words, but at the hollowness behind them.

And because some masochistic part of you can’t help it, you whisper, "Are you... okay?"

For a moment, he goes very still. Then his mouth twists, slow and sharp, and he laughs — a low, broken sound that makes the fairy lights above you seem suddenly, unbearably cruel.

"Am I okay?" he repeats, tasting the words like they’re poison. "God, you really don’t get it, do you?"

You open your mouth, close it again.

"You should have done me a mercy back then," he says, voice dropping lower, softer, deadlier. "You should have just confessed. You should have just told me you didn’t love me anymore."

"I—" You don’t even know what you’re trying to say. The guilt surges so thick it almost drowns you.

He chuckles again — the sound rougher, edged with something manic, and when he speaks next his voice is shaking slightly, like the words cost him more than he can afford to give.

"I thought," he says, looking past you into the night, "that I thought if I became enough — if I built something so big it touched the sky — you’d love me again or regret betraying me."

The weight of it hits you harder than any accusation.

"Jungkook," you whisper, stepping toward him without even realizing it, "please... don't."

But he moves faster. His hand closes around your arm — not painfully, but firm, desperate — and the touch burns through the thin fabric of your sleeve like wildfire.

"Don’t what?" he demands, voice rough. "Don’t say it? Don’t feel it?"

You stare up at him, heart beating so hard you think it might break through your ribs, and for a moment neither of you breathes.

Something in him falters; the fight drains from his body, and his grip loosens. You tear yourself free, stumbling backward as if the air itself turned against you. Without thinking, without looking back, you turn and flee — pushing the door open, slipping back into the too-bright, too-loud reception, the noise crashing over you in waves.

You don’t stop until you find the bathroom, collapsing against the cool tile, gasping for air that won’t come.

And when your shaking fingers brush against the marble counter — smooth and cold and smelling faintly of expensive soap — a memory surges up so violently it knocks the breath from your lungs:

Six years ago.

The walls of Jungkook’s tiny off-campus apartment seemed to shrink around you, the air too thick with the leftover taste of the night you couldn’t forget, no matter how tightly you crossed your arms or how fiercely you jutted out your chin to hide the hurt leaking through your bones.

You were pacing, barefoot on the worn carpet, your dress wrinkled from hours of sitting stiffly at a dinner table where every glance, every polite smile, every icy comment had felt like a slap delivered with a silver fork.

"You didn’t hear the way your mother said it," you muttered, arms wrapping tighter around yourself, your voice wobbling even as you tried to sound defiant, bratty, anything but the small, shaking thing you felt like inside. "The way she asked if I needed help... pronouncing the wine list."

Jungkook sighed heavily behind you, the sound rough, frustrated, loving all at once, and when you dared glance back at him, he was scrubbing a hand through his messy hair, his white dress shirt rumpled, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the very picture of someone who wanted to punch something but was too busy loving you to bother.

"I told them to back off," he said, stepping closer, voice low, tight. "I told them you’re it for me. What else do you want me to do, baby?"

The word burned into you — baby — the way it always did, softening your anger just enough to make room for the real thing: the sadness.

"It’s not just about you standing up for me," you said, your voice small now, your throat raw from holding too much back for too long. "It’s your family, Jungkook. They’re supposed to... I don’t know... accept me. If they don’t — if they think I’m just some poor girl you’ll grow out of — maybe I don’t belong there at all."

Your hands twisted together in front of you, trying to tie yourself into a knot too small for pain to find, and you hated how broken you sounded, how much you still cared even after everything.

For a heartbeat, Jungkook just stared at you — something fierce and wounded flashing through his eyes — and then he crossed the room in three strides, his hands gripping your arms, pulling you against his chest with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.

"If they can’t love you," he said, his voice a growl against your hair, "then they’re not my family anymore."

You froze — heart thudding painfully — but he only hugged you tighter, burying his face in the curve of your neck, like he could physically shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.

"I already have a family," he whispered, voice cracking slightly. "It’s you. It’s always been you."

And something inside you — some fragile, terrified thing — cracked wide open and poured itself into his arms, because even though the world outside these walls was sharp and cruel, even though you could feel the future trying to tear you apart already, in that moment, he was enough. He was everything.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his lips brushed your neck — a featherlight touch that sent shivers chasing down your spine — and then he was kissing lower, onto your shoulder, the strap of your dress slipping down your arm under the insistence of his mouth.

Your body betrayed you instantly, leaning back into him, your pulse pounding wild and helpless beneath your skin.

"You’re mine," he murmured, each word punctuated with a kiss that burned hotter, lower, softer."No one else matters.I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

His hands slid down your sides — warm, steady, reverent — and when you arched instinctively into him, you felt it: the hard, urgent line of his arousal pressing into the small of your back, undeniable, desperate.

"I love you too," you breathed, tilting your head to the side to give him more skin, more access, more of everything he wanted.

He groaned softly at your words, the sound vibrating against your neck, and his hands moved faster now, not rough, but hungrier, slipping under the hem of your dress, mapping the familiar landscape of your body like a man tracing the borders of a country he already owns but never tires of conquering.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, voice thick, broken, worshipful. "You’re everything."

And standing there — half undressed, half unraveled, completely loved — you believed him.

You believed that love could be enough.

Jungkook’s hands are everywhere — frantic, reverent — as he lifts you easily into his arms, carrying you to the bed like you weigh nothing, like you’re something sacred he’s afraid he’ll break if he isn’t careful, and when he lays you down, the mattress dipping under your back, his gaze devours you with a hunger so raw it leaves you trembling before he’s even touched you properly.

He leans over you, bracing himself on one arm, the other already tugging at the hem of your dress with impatient fingers, and you raise your arms without thinking, letting him peel it off you inch by inch, baring you to the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window.His shirt follows quickly — buttons popping loose under his fumbling hands, sleeves yanked off — and then he’s kneeling above you, bare-chested, flushed, beautiful, the muscles of his arms flexing as he tosses his shirt aside and drops back over you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that steals every thought you ever had.

You moan against his lips as he grinds down into you, the hard line of his cock pressing hot and heavy through the thin barrier of your underwear, his jeans rough against your bare thighs.The friction is maddening — too much and not enough — and you arch against him instinctively, your hands clutching at his back, dragging your nails down the ridges of muscle as he rolls his hips again, harder this time, swallowing the broken gasp you let out into his mouth.

"Fuck," he growls against your lips, grinding into you again, the air between you electric, desperate, filthy. "You’re gonna make me come like this if you keep moving like that, princess."

You giggle breathlessly, dizzy with the heat coiling low in your belly, and nip at his bottom lip, making him groan again, deeper, rougher, before he pulls back just enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, your throat, the hollow between your collarbones.

He takes his time there, kissing, licking, sucking soft bruises into your skin, before moving lower, capturing one nipple between his lips and sucking hard enough to make you cry out, your back arching off the bed as his hand kneads the other breast greedily.

"You’re so fucking perfect," he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked with devotion and hunger, and you whimper, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging when he sucks harder, the sensation shooting straight between your legs.

"Tell me who you belong to," he says, lifting his head to look at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust and something deeper, something almost frantic.

"You," you pant, grinding up into him shamelessly, needing more, needing everything. "Always you."

"Good girl," he rasps, the praise making you clench around nothing, making you whine.

And then he’s kissing down your stomach, dragging your panties down with his teeth, leaving them forgotten at the foot of the bed, and when he settles between your thighs, his hands spreading you open for him, you think you might die from how much you want him.

"So fucking pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself, before he licks a slow, devastating stripe up your center, making your hips jerk, your hands fly to his hair, anchoring yourself to him as he groans against you, like he’s the one losing control.

He works you with his mouth until you’re writhing, gasping, begging — filthy, broken sounds spilling from your lips as he sucks your clit between his lips, fingers slipping inside you, curling just right, making your vision white out at the edges.

"Jungkook— fuck — please," you sob, grinding helplessly against his mouth, chasing the high building so fast it terrifies you.

"What do you need, baby?" he murmurs, teasing you with his breath, his fingers still thrusting slow and deep inside you. "Tell me. Wanna hear you beg for it."

"You," you gasp, shameless, lost. "Need you inside me. Need you now."

He groans again, desperate, wrecked, and kisses your inner thigh before pulling away, climbing back over you, his jeans shoved down just far enough to free his cock, flushed and leaking at the tip.

"You drive me fucking insane," he mutters against your mouth, grinding into your soaked core, making you both moan.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, trying to pull him closer, deeper, needing to feel him, needing to be filled.

"Beg for it," he demands again, teasing your entrance with the thick head of his cock, just barely pushing inside before pulling back, making you whimper.

"Please, Jungkook," you cry, breathless, broken, desperate. "Need you — need you to fuck me — please —"

That’s all it takes.

With a growl torn from his chest, he pushes into you in one slow, devastating stroke, stretching you, filling you, making you gasp, making him curse under his breath.

"Fuck, baby," he grits out, bracing himself on one elbow while the other hand lifts your leg higher, changing the angle, pushing deeper, hitting places inside you that make you sob. "So tight, so good — always so good for me."

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, and he starts to move, thrusting slow at first, deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to carve himself into you, like he wants to live there.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, voice shaking. "Like you were made for me."

"Yours," you gasp, clenching around him, loving the way his eyes darken, loving the way he loses control when you say it. "Always yours."

He thrusts harder, deeper, the bed creaking beneath you, the sound of skin against skin obscene, beautiful, necessary.

But then — he flips you, rolling you easily until you’re straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you as you start to move.

"Fuck, yes," he groans, head falling back against the pillows, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy. "Ride me, baby. Let me see you."

You move — slowly at first, grinding down, rolling your hips — and his hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you whimper, making you move faster.

"You’re so beautiful," he says, voice wrecked, worshipful. "So fucking beautiful like this — my princess — my fucking queen."

You preen under the praise, loving the way he looks at you, loving the way his mouth falls open in a silent moan every time you clench around him just right, loving the way he can’t even think straight when you’re on top of him.

You ride him harder, faster, rolling your hips the way you know drives him crazy, loving the way his breath stutters in his chest every time you slam down onto him, loving the way his hands clutch your hips like he’s holding onto something sacred he doesn’t want to lose.

"Look at you," Jungkook groans, voice so low and rough it makes you clench around him without meaning to, "riding my cock like you were fucking made for it."

You whimper, heat flashing through your veins at his words, and grind down harder, faster, setting a brutal pace that makes the bed creak beneath you, the headboard thudding faintly against the wall with every desperate movement.

"You like this?" you gasp out, nails dragging down his chest, watching the way his abs tighten under your touch, watching the way his eyes darken impossibly. "You like me using you like this, Kook?"

"Fuck, baby," he curses, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts again, squeezing them greedily as he thrusts up into you, matching your rhythm. "I fucking love it — love watching you fuck yourself on my cock — love how messy you get for me — how wet you are, fuck, you're dripping all over me —"

You moan at his words, at the filth of them, at the way he says it like he worships you, and the pleasure inside you coils tighter, tighter, unbearable.

"You drive me insane," he pants, bucking up harder, dragging guttural sounds from deep inside your chest."You ride me so good, baby — fuck — gonna make me come just from watching you —"

"You’re so big," you whimper, losing yourself completely, grinding down harder, faster, chasing your own high with no shame now, loving the way he watches you like you’re something holy and obscene all at once. "Feel you so deep — filling me up — love it, Jungkook — love you —"

"Say it again," he begs, his voice wrecked, desperate, lost to you. "Say you love me."

"I love you," you gasp, nearly sobbing with it, pressing your palms flat against his heaving chest to steady yourself. "Love you, love your cock, love everything about you —"

"Fuck, that's it," he groans, hips pistoning up into you, chasing your pleasure with frantic, punishing thrusts. "Take it — take everything, baby — it’s all yours —"

You feel the orgasm building, spiraling out of control, and with a shaking hand you grab his wrist, dragging his fingers to your clit, needing more, needing him.

"Touch me," you gasp, voice breaking. "Please, Jungkook, need you — need you to make me come —"

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tease — just rubs tight, messy circles against your swollen clit with the rough pads of his fingers, fucking into you harder, faster, his mouth open on a gasp as he watches you fall apart above him.

"Come for me," he groans, wrecked, begging. "Show me how good I make you feel — want you to fall apart on my cock — fuck, baby, please —"

And you do — you shatter with a cry, back arching, nails raking down his chest as you come hard, clenching around him, waves of pleasure crashing through you so violently your vision goes white at the edges.

Before the last waves of your orgasm even finish crashing through you, Jungkook’s hands are gripping your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your back, knocking the breath from your lungs with the sheer force of him, the sheer need — and then he’s pushing into you again, deep and hard and desperate, a raw groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt inside your trembling body.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, doesn’t give you a second to breathe — just fucks into you in long, dragging strokes, slow enough to make you feel every thick inch of him, deep enough to make you cry out again, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, holding him there, locking him to you like you’ll never let him go.

"You’re mine," he gasps against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged and tasting like desperation and devotion."Always fucking mine. No one else gets you — no one else ever fucking will —"

"Yours," you sob, clinging to his back, your nails raking down the slick muscles there, leaving red trails he’ll feel tomorrow, proof that you were here, that you belonged to him in every filthy, holy way.

"You feel so good," he pants, thrusting harder now, the rhythm messy and beautiful, skin slapping against skin, the room filled with the obscene, perfect sound of your bodies coming together. "So fucking good around me — fuck, baby, you were made for this — made to take me — made to be mine —"

You whimper, lost to him, to the brutal tenderness of it, the way he looks at you like you’re breaking him apart and putting him back together at the same time.

"Want you to come inside," you gasp, dragging your nails up his arms, feeling him shudder under your touch. "Want to feel you — want you to fill me up, Jungkook — please —"

He groans like the sound is being ripped from somewhere deep inside him, thrusting deeper, faster, his hips snapping against yours in wild, desperate movements that have you seeing stars.

"Gonna fill you up," he grits out, voice wrecked, forehead slipping to your shoulder, his mouth hot and desperate against your skin."Gonna fucking come so deep you’ll feel me for days — fuck, baby, can’t hold it — can’t —"

You tighten your legs around him, dragging him impossibly closer, and he loses it — with a hoarse, broken cry of your name, he thrusts deep one final time and spills inside you, his whole body shuddering violently against yours, cock pulsing as he fills you up just like he promised.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move at all.

He collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside your soaking, fluttering walls, his body trembling from the force of it, from the emotion choking both of you.

His breath comes in ragged, desperate bursts against your throat, each exhale brushing hot and trembling over your sweat-slicked skin, and you can feel the way he’s still fighting for control even though it’s already shattered, the way his whole body trembles against you, the way his heart hammers so violently inside his chest you can feel it pounding against your own.

When he finally lifts his head — slow, heavy, reluctant — his hair falls into his eyes, messy and damp from sweat, and you barely recognize the expression on his face, so raw and wrecked and open that it feels like a sin to look at him and a greater sin to look away.

His eyes are glassy, undone, burning with a kind of desperate devotion that punches the air straight out of your lungs, and you realize too late that he’s not just holding your body — he’s holding everything he has left.

You barely manage to blink back the sting of tears before he’s reaching for you again, finding your hands where they lay limp and boneless against the mattress, threading his fingers through yours with a fierce, almost frantic tenderness, squeezing tightly, like if he lets go even for a second, you’ll slip through his fingers like smoke.

He keeps your hands pinned above your head, locked against the pillow, and when he leans down to kiss you, it’s not the desperate, sloppy thing you expect — it’s slow, reverent, aching, his mouth moving against yours like a promise he’s too afraid to say aloud.

The kiss deepens slowly, messily, lazy and languid, tongues tangling, teeth scraping, lips dragging — a thousand whispered apologies and confessions bleeding between the spaces where your mouths meet and part and meet again.

Every tiny shift of his hips still buried inside you makes you whimper into the kiss — makes him groan low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his whole body — because even now, even after he’s given you everything, he’s still not satisfied, still not ready to be apart from you, still thrusting shallowly inside you, tiny desperate movements like he’s trying to fuse you together permanently.

His nose brushes yours, clumsy and sweet, and he lets out a choked, breathless laugh against your mouth, pure emotion bleeding out of him in every ragged exhale.

"Can't... can't let you go," he mumbles against your lips, voice shaking with the weight of it, with how much he means it."You're mine, baby. Always mine. Always, always —"

You squeeze his fingers tighter, pressing your forehead against his, your heart splitting wide open inside your chest, because you can feel it too — the way you still belong to each other, stitched together by something reckless and terrifying and beautiful that no amount of distance or time or heartbreak could ever fully tear apart.

And as he rocks into you again, slow and tender, just to stay connected, just to keep you in his arms a little longer, you kiss him back with everything you have, everything you are, everything you’ll never be able to say.

You don’t know when it happens — maybe in the soft press of his forehead against yours, maybe in the trembling way his hands refuse to let go of yours, maybe in the way your bodies are still joined so completely it feels like one breath between you — but something inside you shifts, something warm and bright and terrifyingly fragile blooming deep in your chest, and for a moment you think you might actually break from how much you love him.

You think about how unfair life has been in so many ways — how you weren’t born into a family with silver-lined houses and gilded bloodlines, how you’ve spent so much of your life feeling like you were always standing on the outside looking in — but none of it seems to matter anymore, not when fate, or luck, or some reckless, merciful god saw fit to gift you with the only treasure that ever really mattered.

Jungkook.

You think, with a fierceness that leaves you trembling, that maybe you weren’t born into riches, but you were still the luckiest person in the world, because somehow, against every odd, you were loved by someone like him — someone who fought the whole world just to keep holding your hand.

You think about the past three years — about finding your way to each other through crowded lecture halls and late-night coffee runs and countless small moments stitched together into something so much bigger than either of you could have imagined — and you realize you’ve never been as happy as you are right now, wrapped up in him, in his messy devotion, in the future you were stupid enough to believe was already written in your favor.

You had friends — good ones.Taehyung with his bright, mischievous smile; Sora with her endless, unconditional love; Sungwon and so many others who filled your days with laughter and reckless plans — but when it came down to it, when the world blurred at the edges, it was always only him.

You needed only Jungkook, and he needed only you.

Even when you fought — and God, you fought — you always knew it was temporary, just a storm passing between two people too stubborn and too desperate to ever really let go.It was never about the two of you. It was always about the others — about the judgment of his parents, about the sharp words whispered behind closed doors — and even then, Jungkook had made it clear where he stood.

He cut them off without hesitation — the gold, the promises, the blood-ties that once weighed him down like anchors.

He built a life with you instead, stubborn and scrappy and achingly beautiful, guided by nothing but your trembling hands and his reckless heart — and somehow, against everything, it had been enough.

You believed in it with a desperation that left no room for doubt: that love like this could survive the world outside your window, that he would catch you when you fell, fight for you when you bled, hold on even when everything else told him to let go.

You were the luckiest girl in the world — and lying there beneath him, your fingers locked together like a prayer you hadn't realized you'd been whispering for years, you truly believed that nothing could ever tear you apart.

Because back then, you still believed forever could be real. Back then, you still believed love like this was enough to save you both.

You believed that nights like this could hold back the tide of everything waiting to destroy you. And that Jungkook — your Jungkook — would be the one thing in this world that never broke.

The next morning, sunlight bleeds soft and golden through the thin curtains, spilling across tangled sheets and discarded clothes and the two of you, still wrapped together, still skin to skin, still smelling of sweat and sex and something sweeter, something that feels suspiciously like forever.

You wake first — blinking slowly, drowsily, your body aching in the most delicious ways — and for a long, perfect moment, you just lay there, staring at him, at the boy who somehow managed to crawl inside your chest and build a home there without you ever realizing it was happening.

Jungkook is sprawled on his back, one arm flung carelessly over his head, his other hand still loosely tangled in the sheet that barely covers either of you, and your heart squeezes painfully at the sight of him — messy hair, flushed cheeks, kiss-bruised lips parted in sleep, a faint crease between his brows like he’s still dreaming about you even now.

You can’t help yourself.

Your fingers move without permission, tracing the hard lines of his chest, the muscles shifting slightly under your touch, warm and firm and familiar, and you take your time — outlining the ridges of his abs, the curve of his waist, the faint dusting of hair that disappears below the sheet — memorizing him, hoarding him, because some part of you already knows you’ll never love anyone like this again.

He stirs under your touch, a low, sleepy groan rumbling deep in his chest, and before you can even think about pulling away, his hand is shooting out, grabbing your wrist and dragging you down for a kiss — lazy, messy, desperate in the way only mornings can make kisses desperate.

You giggle against his mouth, breaking the kiss just enough to tease, "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Morning, trouble," he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep, eyes barely open but his mouth already chasing yours again, already greedy for more.

You shift slightly — intending only to reposition yourself — but when you move, you can feel it: the hard, heavy press of his morning erection against your thigh, hot and insistent and utterly unignorable.

You smirk against his lips, pulling back just enough to glance down, and then back up at him with a teasing sparkle in your eyes.

"Someone’s awake," you whisper, sliding your hand slowly, wickedly, down his chest, your nails grazing lightly over his abs, watching with smug satisfaction as his whole body tenses under your touch.

"You’re evil," Jungkook groans, head tipping back against the pillow, the muscles in his neck flexing beautifully as he tries and fails to control himself."Pure fucking evil."

You laugh, delighted, and throw one leg over his hips, straddling him easily, feeling the thick, twitching heat of him pressing against your bare core through the thin layer of the sheet.

"Am I?" you ask, feigning innocence as you grind down ever so slightly, making him curse under his breath, making his hands fly to your hips like he can’t help it. "I thought you liked me like this."

"Like you?" he rasps, his voice cracking deliciously. "Baby, I fucking worship you."

The words burn through you, leaving you flushed and reckless, and you lean down, bracing your hands on his chest, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across his skin — above his heart, across the slope of his pecs, down the tight ridges of his stomach — while he fists the sheets, his muscles trembling under your tongue.

"You’re killing me," he groans, head thrashing slightly against the pillow as you kiss lower, lower, lower still.

"Good," you whisper against his hipbone, laughing softly when he growls in frustration.

And then — slow, deliberate, teasing — you trace your lips along the length of him, the heavy weight of his cock throbbing against your mouth, so big and thick and perfect you almost moan at the taste of him, the sheer heat of him.

"Fuck," Jungkook hisses, his hands flying to your hair, not to force you down but to anchor himself, to keep from losing his mind completely.

You lick him lazily, dragging your tongue from base to tip, savoring the way he twitches against your mouth, savoring the broken sounds falling from his lips, savoring the way his thighs tremble under your palms.

"You’re so big, baby," you murmur against him, your voice sweet and filthy all at once. "So hard for me. You want me that bad?"

"Always," he gasps, his hands tightening in your hair. "Fuck, baby, you’re so good — driving me fucking insane —"

You giggle breathlessly and press teasing kisses all over his length along the thick vein pulsing along the underside, nipping playfully at the swollen head, loving the way his hips jerk up off the bed like he can’t help it, like he needs you too much to stay still.

"Please," he groans, utterly wrecked now, his voice shaking, desperate. "Please, baby, please suck me — need your mouth so bad — fuck, need to feel you —"

You finally take pity on him — finally wrap your lips around the flushed, leaking tip — and the sound he makes is nothing short of obscene, a strangled moan that punches straight into your core.

You suck slowly at first, teasing, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, hollowing your cheeks to create a suction that has him cursing, babbling, begging.

"God, you’re so fucking good," he pants, hips thrusting shallowly up into your mouth."Look at you — look so pretty with my cock in your mouth — fuck, baby, you’re made for this — made to suck me off —"

You moan around him, the vibrations making him curse even louder, and then you take him deeper, swallowing inch by inch until he hits the back of your throat, until he’s gasping your name like a prayer, until his hands are trembling in your hair.

You bob your head faster, working him with your mouth and your hand, feeling him grow even harder, even heavier against your tongue, until you know he’s close — until you feel his thighs tensing, his breath catching, his hands fisting desperately in your hair.

"Baby — fuck — gonna come —" he warns, his voice raw, frantic.

You suck harder, faster, moaning around him, and with a broken, hoarse cry, Jungkook falls apart, spilling hot and salty down your throat, his body jerking helplessly, his mouth falling open in a silent, beautiful scream.

You swallow everything, licking him clean, savoring the taste of him, savoring the way he collapses back against the bed like he’s been hollowed out, like you’ve stolen every thought he ever had except for you.

And when you finally lift your head, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, he’s staring at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Like you hung the fucking stars just for him.

You crawl back up his body slowly, languidly, savoring every inch of warm, trembling skin under your palms, and when you finally reach him, when you finally meet his mouth again, he kisses you like he’s starving, like he’ll never get enough, like he’s still drunk on everything you just gave him and desperate for more.

It’s a messy, perfect kiss — mouths open, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, gasps and laughter bleeding into each other until neither of you knows where you end and he begins — and when you finally break apart, panting against each other’s lips, Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed like he’s trying to savor the weight of you pressed so completely against him.

For a moment, neither of you speaks — just breathing each other in, suspended there, floating somewhere that isn’t entirely the world and isn’t entirely a dream either — and when he does finally find his voice, it’s rough, low, laced with something too big for either of you to name.

"I know," he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours, "that we live in a bubble."

You blink, lazy and drowsy and sated, but he just smiles — that soft, crooked smile he only ever gives you when it’s late and the world feels far away.

"I know," he says again, threading his fingers into your hair, cradling the back of your head like something precious. "That out there—" He jerks his chin vaguely toward the window, toward the city waking up beyond the glass. "—the world is still waiting for us. Still expecting things from us. Still trying to pull us apart."

You frown at that, nuzzling into his hand like a kitten, pouting without meaning to, your voice soft and bratty and unbearably adorable when you mumble, "I don't want the world."

He chuckles, the sound low and full of something aching and infinite, and pulls you tighter against him, like he can shield you from everything with the sheer force of his body alone.

"You," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your mouth, each one softer than the last, "are my whole world."

And when he kisses you again — slow, deep, endless — you realize it’s true.

In this little bubble made of tangled sheets and whispered promises and reckless hope, there is no city, no parents, no expectations, no fear.

present time

The fluorescent lights above the bathroom mirror buzz faintly, a cruel, ugly sound in the soft, gilded hush of the wedding venue, and for a long, dizzying moment, you just stand there — your palms flat against the cold marble counter, your chest heaving like you’ve run a marathon you didn’t realize you’d started until it was too late.

Your reflection stares back at you, wild-eyed and red-rimmed, mascara smudged in soft gray shadows beneath lashes that flutter helplessly against the tears you can’t seem to stop.

You try. God, you try. You dab at your eyes with trembling fingers, blotting the damage, smoothing your hair, painting a brittle, empty smile onto your mouth — the kind of smile that fools no one and saves nothing, but maybe buys you just enough time to get the hell out of here before the weight of the past buries you alive.

Your heart still races from the memory, from the aftershocks of his hands on your skin, his mouth on your mouth, his voice breathing love into the hollow places you hadn’t even realized existed until he filled them.

You stand there, willing yourself to move, whispering that the past can’t touch you anymore, that you’ve outgrown this kind of pain — that you have to be stronger than you feel.

But grief — true grief — has no sense of time, no mercy for logic or willpower; it doesn't politely fade into the background like an old scar — it waits, it sleeps under your skin, and then one careless thought, one familiar smell, one remembered kiss, and it awakens ravenous, dragging you back under as easily as if you had never crawled out at all.

You draw a shuddering breath, taste salt and bitterness on your tongue, and turn away from the mirror before you can shatter completely.

The wedding hall is a kaleidoscope of color and noise as you step back into it — laughter and music and champagne glasses clinking together like tiny, mocking bells — and for a moment the world tilts under your feet, the sheer vibrancy of it so at odds with the funeral you feel unfolding in your own chest.

Someone calls your name — a polite, curious lilt — and you manage a weak smile, nodding vaguely at a group of guests you barely recognize.

"Leaving so soon?" a woman asks, genuine surprise softening her features.

You mutter something about a headache, about early work tomorrow, about anything that isn’t I’m drowning and if I stay here another second I will die where I stand.

You make it halfway across the floor before you feel it — that unmistakable pull, that gravity that never stopped tying you to him even after everything tore apart.

You look up, helpless against the instinct, and there he is — Jungkook, across the room, frozen mid-conversation, his dark eyes locked onto yours like he can feel you slipping through his fingers all over again.

For just a moment, it’s there — the worry, the confusion, the stunned, aching tenderness he still hasn’t managed to bury.

But beneath it, something harsher stirs — raw and unrecognizable, dark enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

It flickers at the edge of him — in the slight tremble of his hand as he sets his drink down too fast, in the faint glassiness in his gaze that has nothing to do with champagne and everything to do with exhaustion, with habits he can’t seem to outrun.

He looks... thinner, somehow. Sharper around the edges. Like the success sewn into the cut of his expensive suit is holding together a body that's burning itself out from the inside.

It twists inside you, sharp and familiar, because you recognize that look — the hollow stretch of someone slipping out of their own skin, the weight of a world too heavy to carry sober, the slow erosion of time when surviving becomes the only thing left. Even after everything — after the betrayal, after the years — your heart still aches for him without permission, as natural and inevitable as breathing.

The years sharpened him: the expensive suit, the calculated ease — but none of it masks the way he carries his grief like a splinter buried too deep to remove. And somehow, with a clarity that feels like a blade to your ribs, you understand: no matter how high he climbed, no matter how much he built, some part of him never moved forward either.

Something inside him still folded back to you. He takes a step forward, almost involuntary, like he doesn't realize he's doing it — but it’s enough. It’s too much. You break the gaze like it burns, shove your way through the crowd, nearly tripping in your haste to reach the door.

The evening air slaps your face, cool and sharp, as you stumble outside, waving frantically for the first taxi that slows down, ignoring the concerned calls of a few lingering guests.

You hear the heavy thud of footsteps behind you — faster now, urgent — and you don't have to turn around to know it's him.

You keep your eyes down, refusing to look and to hope. You dive into the taxi, slam the door, choke out your address to the driver with a voice you barely recognize as your own.

The car pulls away, and you catch a final, fleeting glimpse of him through the window — Jungkook standing alone on the curb, hands clenching uselessly at his sides, his face carved into an expression that looks far too much like grief to belong to someone who supposedly moved on.

A vicious thought flickers through you — wondering if he feels the same hollow ache, if the hatred ever faded, or if somewhere deep down he never stopped loving you.

The city blurs past — streetlights smearing into liquid gold, shop windows flashing by like tiny, glittering ghosts — and you press your forehead against the cool glass, your breath fogging a small circle into the world you can no longer reach.

The thing about loss is that everyone tells you it gets easier. That time smooths out the jagged edges, that grief dulls like an old knife, that someday you’ll wake up and it won’t hurt to remember. But the truth — the ugly, merciless truth — is that time doesn’t move forward at all.

It folds, bends you back into the shape of your own broken heart, trapping you inside memories you thought you had outlived, making you relive every kiss, every fight, every promise you failed to keep as if it’s happening right now, as if it will always be happening, as if you will never truly escape the moment you realized forever wasn't a promise after all — it was just another kind of lie.

The taxi carries you deeper into the night, but part of you never moves at all — still trapped six years ago, clinging to the boy who held you through every storm, still bleeding in the ruins of everything you couldn’t save — and maybe, you realize, some pieces of you always will be.

***

The apartment smells like burnt coffee and wet paint when you stumble through the door, still half-frozen from the chill outside, your thin jacket doing little to protect you from the colder, heavier things clinging to your skin.

Minho is slouched on the battered couch, a sketchpad balanced on his knees, his pencil tapping absently against the paper in a restless rhythm, and he looks up at you with surprise when he hears the door click shut.

"Back so soon?" he asks, blinking like he’s not sure if you’re real or just a ghost wandering in from the street.

You shrug, forcing a small smile that feels brittle and wrong on your face. "It was boring without you," you lie, peeling off your shoes, your jacket, your skin, your heart.

He smiles — small, touched — and you hate yourself a little for the way you can’t feel anything when you look at him.

Because it isn’t the wedding you fled from.

It wasn’t the guests or the champagne or the polite conversations that drove you out like a storm looking for somewhere to crash.

Jungkook, standing across the room like a living wound you couldn't stop bleeding from, his eyes carving you open in places you thought had long since scarred over.

How predictably stupid it was to think that six years of silence — six years of precision avoidance, of carefully stepping around mutual friends and blocked numbers and old memories — could survive a single collision without splintering into a thousand sharp-edged regrets.

You told yourself — foolishly, naively — that you could be normal tonight, that you could smile and toast and laugh at old jokes without shattering, that you could pretend you hadn’t once built a whole life inside his arms only to lose it all in a breath.

You laugh under your breath — a dry, humorless thing — as you drift toward the bathroom, mumbling something about needing a shower before he can ask any more questions.

The hot water scalds your skin, but it does nothing to burn him out of you. You press your forehead to the cool tile, water pouring down your back like tears you refuse to shed where anyone might hear, and you find yourself whispering silent, stupid prayers to a world that stopped listening to you a long time ago.

You beg the water, the walls, the hollow silence — anything — to take it away, to stop the endless aching, to grant you even a moment’s relief. But grief doesn’t listen.

It isn’t a wound that scabs over, or a fever that breaks; it is a parasite, patient and merciless, sinking its teeth into your ribs, your spine, your lungs, gnawing through every part of you until you forget there was ever a time you were whole.

When you finally step out, you feel no cleaner than before, just wetter, colder, heavier.

You towel your hair half-heartedly, throw on a worn sweater and sweatpants, and emerge from the bathroom with the blank, practiced face of someone who knows how to act normal when the world expects it.

Minho doesn’t seem to notice the cracks you’re bleeding from. He tosses his pencil onto the coffee table and sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair.

"Club canceled the gig again," he mutters, frustration curling under his words like smoke. "Said they’re cutting back on live performances."

You offer him a tired, sympathetic noise — something noncommittal — as you collapse into the chair across from him, feeling the exhaustion settle deep into your bones like a second skeleton.

"I should probably find another part-time job," you say absently, staring at the water stain on the ceiling, feeling the weight of the future pressing down like a hand around your throat.

Minho hums, toeing off his sneakers with a grunt. "Maybe we’re just idiots," he says after a moment, not cruel, just tired. "Thinking we could survive as artists in a world like this."

A faint, broken smile tugs at your mouth — because isn’t that the cruelest joke of all? Not the falling apart, but the fact that, for one bright, reckless moment, you believed you could win.

"Maybe," you whisper, voice almost lost to the hum of the cheap refrigerator rattling in the kitchen.

He tilts his head, studying you with a quiet frown. "Since when did you stop believing?"

You only sit there, silent, because there’s nothing left inside you that knows how to answer. Because the truth is — you stopped believing the night Jungkook walked away.

Not because Minho isn’t good enough, not because you don’t love your art anymore — but because something inside you shattered that night, something vital, something sacred.

But because when Jungkook accused you, when he looked at you like you were something dirty, something cheap, something less — it broke more than your heart.

It shattered more than your heart — it stripped you of the faith you once had in yourself, the belief that you were someone capable of being loyal. 

And no matter how many paintings you hung on cold gallery walls, no matter how many late shifts you survived or coffees you poured or exhibitions you faked your way through, you never really found her again — the girl who believed she deserved to be loved without shame.

You glance at Minho, who has already gone back to sketching, his pencil moving in soft, furious strokes across the page, and you feel a pang of guilt so sharp it almost doubles you over.

He is good, and he is kind — steady in ways that should have made you feel safe, in ways that deserve something better than the hollowed-out version of you still clawing through the wreckage.

Minho deserves someone whole. Not this —  a girl still haunted by a boy she couldn't bury, still stitched together with threads too thin to hold under real weight.

You press your palms against your thighs, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay, and the thought slips in, unwelcome but familiar — that maybe grief is not something you outlive, but something you learn to carry, heavier with every passing year.

If some loves do not die cleanly, if they rot instead — festering quietly inside you, hollowing out everything they once touched — then maybe that decay is the only thing you have left to claim as yours.

___________________________________________________________________________

Time doesn’t heal wounds so much as it teaches you how to live around them — teaches you how to carry them in the quiet spaces between conversations, how to fold them neatly into your chest where no one else can see, how to laugh and nod and keep moving even when the old pain still howls beneath your skin.

You learn that grief becomes a kind of muscle memory — a reflex, a twitch just beneath the surface — and eventually you stop noticing the way you flinch when the world presses too hard against the places you are still bleeding.

You learn to live with it, folding the weight into your bones until it feels almost natural. You master the art of pretending — smiling, nodding, breathing like you're whole — and you almost convince yourself it's enough, until something sharp and familiar tears the stitches open all over again.

It’s been a week since the wedding.

A week of avoiding every thought that bears his face, every memory that tastes like blood in the back of your throat. A week of moving through your days on autopilot, smiling when expected, speaking when required, dying quietly in the spaces between.

When Sora’s message pings onto your phone, you almost don’t answer.

Sora:"Hey love, can you meet me at Primrose Café today? Need help planning honeymoon stuff! 🤍"

You hesitate — thumb hovering over the screen — but guilt sinks its teeth into your ribs and drags you under.

You owe her — more than silence, more than your fear, more than the cowardice clawing up your throat. So you tell yourself it’s fine, that he won’t be there, that it’s just coffee, simple, harmless, easy — but the lie tastes bitter even before you swallow it.

The café bells chime softly as you push the door open, the warm smell of roasted beans and vanilla flooding your senses — and for a brief, stupid moment, you allow yourself to relax, to believe that maybe today will be easy.

And then you see him. Jungkook is already seated at a corner table, his hands folded stiffly around a coffee cup he isn’t drinking from, his eyes dark and unreadable under the soft light.

The world tilts. Your stomach drops through the floor.

You freeze, every muscle locking tight, every instinct screaming at you to turn around, to run — but then you see Sora, waving you over with that bright, frantic smile she only uses when she knows she’s asking for forgiveness before the crime has even been committed.

You move because standing still feels worse — because running has never really saved you, only delayed the inevitable.

You slide into the seat across from him, feeling like a lamb being led to slaughter, feeling the air thicken around you, feeling the familiar prickle of his gaze skating over your skin like a brand you can’t scrub off.

Sora clears her throat awkwardly, twisting a napkin between her fingers.

"I know this is... a lot," she says, voice too loud, too brittle. "But I just— I love you both. And with me and Tae... with everything changing... I just want us to be able to be around each other without... without it being like this."

You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes on Sora, on the way her hands shake slightly while she bites her lip like she’s scared you’ll hate her for this.

You could never. She’s the only reason you still have anyone at all.

"I’m not asking you to be friends," she rushes on, voice cracking slightly. "Just— just civil. For me. For family events. Holidays. Birthdays. I don’t want to have to choose between the two people who mattered most to me for so long."

The weight of it all presses down harder.

You nod because it’s the only thing you can do without breaking apart in public.

Sora’s face softens, relief flooding her features, and she reaches across the table to squeeze your hand briefly before rising to her feet.

"I’m gonna give you two a moment," she says, and before you can protest — before you can even breathe — she’s gone, leaving you alone in the heavy, aching silence of too many unsaid things.

You feel his gaze on you — steady, sharp, unbearable — and for a long moment, you can’t bring yourself to look up.

But eventually, inevitably, you do.

And the moment your eyes meet his, the past hits you like a tidal wave — dragging you back to the night everything shattered, the night you learned that some betrayals don't bleed out cleanly but rot inside you for years.

The night everything you believed in burned to ash in his hands — the same night you lost him, and somewhere along the way, yourself too.

Six years ago

The night air was thick and heavy, the kind of suffocating stillness that clings to your skin, and you had been sitting alone in your small apartment, half-listening to the hum of the old refrigerator, your sketchpad abandoned at your feet, your thoughts drifting somewhere soft and slow, like maybe — finally — you could start piecing yourself back together after the stupid little fight you had with him a week ago.

You weren’t expecting anything.

Which is why the furious, violent banging at your door made you jump so hard you nearly toppled off the couch, your heart slamming against your ribs as a thousand terrible possibilities flashed through your mind — none of them preparing you for the sight waiting on the other side.

Jungkook.

But not the Jungkook you knew — not the boy who used to kiss you until the world melted away, not the boy who used to call you his princess like it was a sacred word.

This Jungkook looked like something broken loose from a storm — wild eyes, chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, with his rage, with his grief.

"Who is he?" he choked out the moment you opened the door, his voice raw, splintered at the edges."Tell me who the fuck he is, Y/N."

You blinked at him, confused, terrified, stepping back instinctively as he stormed past you into the apartment, his presence filling the small space with something frantic and electric and wrong.

"Jungkook, what are you talking about?" you asked, your voice shaking, your hands reaching out to him without thinking — but he jerked away like your touch burned him.

"Don't fucking lie to me!" he shouted, his voice cracking, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself together."I saw it! I fucking saw it — you and him — you telling him you loved him like I meant nothing!"

The words didn't make sense.

They slammed against your brain but refused to stick, refused to arrange themselves into anything real, anything you could understand.

"I— I don't—" you stammered, tears already welling up because the look on his face — God, the look — was worse than anger, worse than hatred.

It was betrayal, heartbreak — and somehow, impossibly, you had been the one to put it there, even if you didn’t understand how.

"You're protecting him," he spat, eyes glinting wet under the cheap ceiling light. "You love him that much, huh? You love him so much you'd throw everything away?"

"No!" you cried, stepping closer, desperate, frantic. "Jungkook, I swear to you — I don’t even know what you’re talking about!"

But whether he didn't listen or simply couldn't anymore, it made no difference — the part of him that once trusted you was already too broken to reach and had already shattered beyond repair.

He shook his head, laughing hollowly, wiping his mouth like he was trying to scrub the taste of you from his skin, and then he was gone — slamming the door so hard behind him that the walls shook, that your bones rattled inside you.

You stood there for a long time after, staring at the door, at the emptiness he left behind, feeling something inside you collapse so completely it left nothing but ashes in its wake.

You called, you texted, you sat up all night watching your phone flicker to life and die again, over and over, until even the light felt like a knife against your eyes — and still, he never answered.

And somewhere in the pit of your stomach, you understood that this wasn’t a fight you could fix with an apology or a kiss or a whispered promise under the covers.

This was something bigger and fatal. Days passed — long, gray, aching.

When he finally agreed to meet, it wasn’t at your apartment. It was somewhere neutral, somewhere cold — a small, empty parking lot behind a coffee shop you used to visit when you were too broke for anything but each other's company.

You spotted him leaning against his car, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched so hard you could see the tension vibrating through him even from yards away. You approached cautiously, heart hammering against your ribs, clutching your jacket tighter around yourself like it could shield you from whatever was about to happen.

He didn’t speak at first — just unlocked his phone with shaking fingers and shoved it toward you, and you saw the images, the videos, spilling across the screen like a slow, relentless gutting.

You — in a too-short dress you didn’t remember wearing — laughing too loudly, leaning too close to a stranger, kissing someone whose face you couldn't place, slurring out words you didn't recognize as your own — "I don't care about anything. I love you. I love you."

You stared at the screen, horror blooming in your chest so fast and so hard you thought you might be sick.

"I—" you stammered, throat closing, hands trembling so badly you almost dropped the phone."I don't— I didn't—"

But you couldn't say it with certainty. You remembered going out that night after your fight, remembered the sharp, desperate need to forget how much it hurt when he raised his voice, when he walked away. You remembered drinking too much, laughing too hard.

But after that, your memory dissolves — slipping into darkness, into empty spaces where something should have been, leaving you grasping at shadows that will never take shape.

"Say something," Jungkook rasped, his voice barely more than a breath now."Fucking say something, Y/N."

You lifted your eyes to him, saw the devastation there, saw the way he was barely holding himself upright — and you realized, with bone-deep certainty, that you had destroyed him.

You had destroyed everything beautiful you had built together — every late-night secret, every whispered promise, every desperate, trembling hope — crushed under the weight of one stupid, reckless night you could barely even remember.

"It’s not real," you whispered, the words tasting like ash on your tongue."It can’t be real."

But doubt had already sunk its teeth into you, gnawing at every fragile truth you thought you knew, until even the ground beneath your feet felt like it was crumbling away.

"I need you," you whispered again, broken, desperate, hating yourself for even daring to ask when you were the reason he was bleeding out in front of you."I need you, Jungkook. Please. Now more than never."

For a heartbeat, something soft and familiar cracked through his face — something that looked almost like the boy who once loved you without fear — but it withered too fast, collapsing into bitterness, into fury, into a sadness so sharp it barely looked human.

"You needed someone to pay your bills," he snarled, stepping back like he couldn't stand the sight of you. "You needed someone to lift you out of your shit life, and I was dumb enough to think you actually loved me."

The words sliced clean through you, sharper than any knife.

"I never—" you tried to say, but your voice cracked, the tears spilling over now, unstoppable, humiliating.

He laughed — a hollow, broken sound — and wiped his mouth again like he could still taste your betrayal.

"You played me," he said. "You played me, and I fucking let you."

And then he was gone again — turning away, walking off into the night — leaving you standing there under the flickering streetlights, broken, abandoned, a ghost of the girl you used to be.

Present time

The silence between you stretches so taut it feels like it might snap and slice both of you open, and when you finally blink, the café shifts back into focus — cold coffee on the table, the faint scratch of chairs against wood, the distant hum of conversations you can't quite catch.

Jungkook is still sitting there, watching you with an expression that isn’t hatred, not exactly, but something worse — something exhausted, something hollowed-out, something like a man still bleeding from wounds that never truly closed.

You straighten in your seat, fingers tangling awkwardly in the hem of your sweater, your mouth dry, your heart thudding against your ribs like a battered bird desperate to escape.

He’s the one who breaks the silence first.

"You still painting?" he asks, voice low and rough, like it scrapes his throat just to speak to you.

You nod, barely, afraid if you use your voice it might crack apart.

"And still working those shitty jobs?" he adds, the corner of his mouth curling into something bitter, something that was never his real smile.

"Yeah," you whisper, and it sounds so small you almost hate yourself for it.

He doesn’t respond at first — just looks at you, and for a moment you think he might say something else, something sharp or cruel — but his gaze drops to his hands instead, to the way they tremble slightly as he grips the paper cup, knuckles whitening.

Your throat tightens.

You notice it then — the way the shadows cling too tightly under his eyes, the way his skin looks drawn and dry, the way his body seems almost too light in the chair like he's been losing something important slowly and no one cared enough to notice.

Without thinking, without weighing the danger, you lean in slightly, voice breaking through the shield you’ve built around yourself.

"Are you okay?"

The words are soft, tentative — a whisper stretched thin with guilt and fear — and for a second, just a second, something flickers behind his eyes, something startled and hurt and unbearably familiar.

But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

Jungkook huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head as he leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing not with malice but with a tired kind of disbelief.

"You don’t get to ask me that anymore," he says, and the way he says it — low and tired and irrevocably sad — stings worse than any shout could have.

You drop your gaze, staring at the table between you, counting the little scratches and coffee stains like maybe if you focus hard enough they’ll tell you what to say, how to breathe, how to survive this.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, struggling under the weight of everything that’s never been said. And then — so low you almost don’t catch it — he murmurs:

"It’s funny, isn’t it?"

You look up, and there’s something broken and almost wistful in the curve of his mouth, something too raw to be a smile.

"So many years," he says, voice rough, thick with the kind of grief that doesn’t dull, "and it still fucking hurts."

You swallow hard, your throat burning, your hands curling into fists in your lap just to keep from reaching for him.

"Me too," you whisper, the truth of it carving fresh wounds into your lungs.

He turns his gaze on you then, sharp and cutting, and the tenderness in his features vanishes like smoke.

"Then why don’t you just confess it already?" he snaps, and for once it doesn’t sound cruel — just desperate, like he’s begging you to make sense of the senseless wreckage you both live inside.

Your chest caves inward.

"I didn’t cheat," you say, the words trembling between your lips, and you hate the way your voice shakes, hate the way the tears well up without permission, blurring the world around you.

His jaw tightens, his whole body going rigid.

"Don’t," he says, voice low and strict, the command so familiar it punches straight through your ribs. "Don't you dare cry. You don’t get to cry. You did this to me."

And maybe you would have obeyed and swallowed the tears like broken glass and let them shred you from the inside. But the truth rises before you can stop it, ugly and shaking and alive.

"I was pregnant."

The words tear themselves from your mouth, leaving you gasping, weightless in their aftermath, as the world around you collapses into a silence so complete it hums inside your skull — your heartbeat thundering in your ears, your eyes locking helplessly onto Jungkook as he goes rigid across from you, his body stiffening, his face freezing, until he looks less like a man and more like something carved from stone.

You stay frozen too, trapped in the wreckage of the moment, breathless, unmoored — suspended in that terrible space where time folds in on itself, where every grief you thought you had buried, every memory you thought you had survived, comes roaring back to life with a vengeance.

Across the table, Jungkook stares — not with anger, not even with disbelief, but with the hollow, shell-shocked emptiness of someone standing at the edge of their own undoing, with no ground left to stand on.

.

part 2

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

[chastiefoul]

kiss your best friend and see his reaction!

ft. nanami kento,  gojo satoru, geto suguru, sukuna, toji fushiguro modern/no-curse au | fluff, light-hearted

basically the kiss ur best friend challenge/trend and it went a little too well

➝ gojo satoru

he hadn't been confused when you told him you needed him for a short video, since that’s already a part of his job description anyway as your best friend for as long as he remembered. but when you started the recording without saying anything satoru looked at you with a tilted head, expression beyond confused.

“wait, why am i supposed to do her-“

your sudden kiss drowned his question promptly, his eyes widened at the touch of your soft lips. the touch that he’s been dreaming of since who knows when—and gods it didn’t even come close to the real thing. a sensation that made him feel like he’s walking on clouds, and is currently devouring something that’s even sweeter than his mochis. he grinned into the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist pressing your body close on his before spinning you around slowly out of excitement, his hair brushing your forehead ticklishly.

satoru didn’t stop—he’s not willing to stop, as if that was the only chance he had to taste your lips. he had to forced himself to pull away, his eyes in a haze; looking at you like a man who's drunk in love, his mouth agape.

“that’s—i, it’s unreal. you’re unreal. do you know  how long i’ve been wanting to do that?”

he brushed a hand over your lower lip, a man who’s so desperate already wanting to go in for seconds. now that he knew how you taste, he became insatiable.

“no, tell me.” you smiled, feeling kinda stupid for even thinking that he’d reject your kiss when he’s acting like a lovesick fool instead; a mirror of how you’re acting, you’re sure. “you have no idea,” he replied, already kissing you again as if it hurt to pull away.

➝ suguru geto

“so i’m supposed to just stand here?” he eyed you suspiciously, searching for answer from someone who usually had a detailed instructions to prevent him from making mistakes in making your videos— even resorting light threats.

you hit the record button while wearing an easy smile, even though your chest was practically about to burst from the nerves. you approached him slowly, folding your hands on the back of his neck to stop them from shaking  slightly.

suguru hasn’t catch on to what you’re doing,  leaning closer instead. you stared at his handsome face before planting a kiss on his lips, and it caught him off guard for only a second before he reciprocated the move, the most passionate you’ve ever seen him. his arm around your back, the other on your waist, grabbing it like it’s his last lifeline.

your tongues dancing against each other, as if fighting who had been waiting for it more. and it went on for a while,  no one came out as a winner but no one was complaining. both of you stared at each other, his hand rubbing your back lovingly.

“is this why you looked nervous just now, sweet girl?” he smiled endearingly as you nodded. “as if you don’t already know you have me wrapped around your finger,” he said lightly, couldn’t even entertain the idea of him rejecting you since it’s so ridiculous.  “well you’re a closed book, sugu. it’s hard to read you sometimes,” you claimed, resting your head on his chest.

“then one thing you have to know about me is that your kiss was one of my dream come true.”

“one of?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. “kiss me again and find out, pretty girl.”

➝ nanami kento

the blond man looked as stiff as a board in front of your phone camera, not quite used to it despite him always end up agreeing to your whims albeit reluctant. “do i need to do something here? some sort of dance again perhaps?” he asked, wincing at the latter sentence as he remembering  last week where he made himself a fool.

“no no, just stand there, ken,” you said, pressing the red button on the screen before going back to the man. “alright-“ he didn’t have a moment to prepare himself when you kissed him suddenly, and it took everything out of nanami to keep his knees to stay still and support his weight properly.

a kiss that took his breath away, an inconvenience that he’ll welcome anytime, anywhere. his hand instinctively reach for the skin under your ear, holding your jaw to deepen the kiss, not close of having enough of you.

camera be damned, every part of his body was a natural at the feeling of your lips, rolling his face to taste every inch of you; the usual reserve in his gestures were nowhere to be found, as if he had finally let himself be selfish for a moment.

nanami finally managed to pull away before slowly realizing that he’s still on record. everything was.yet he couldn’t find a part of him that could let go of you, his thumb brushing over your cheek gently. “you could have... told me before doing that,” he said, his tone was not deceiving anyone; that’s a man without regrets.

“and miss the chance to catch you off guard?” you grinned.

“you’re a handful, do you know that?” he said with a little sigh, wearing the widest smile you’ve ever seen him with.

“yet you kissed me.”

“yes, and and i was not even close to being done,” nanami replied, leaning in.

➝ sukuna

“what is it today?” he said exasperatedly, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. and he would be, if it wasn’t for you following him around until he agreed to be in your video. “just stand there kuna, it’s easy right?” you said, setting up your phone despite the turmoil you’re currently experiencing.

you’re about to kiss your best friend. you’re about to kiss sukuna.

“knowing you i can’t even trust that even for a second,” he said grumpily. “really appreciate the enthusiasm,” you said rolling your eyes. “c’mere and start already.” and you did, even when he eyed every single of your move with suspicion, wondering what mischief you’re up to that day.

you cupped his face and he lets you, as you captured his lips with a kiss. and he lets you do that too.

and sukuna could not be more enthusiastic even if he tried, his mouth moved faster than his mind, who’s still registering the fact that you’re really kissing him. his lips stringing you along to the march of his drum. that’s a man who has been depraved of your kiss, even though he had never experienced it, his hunger was as clear as a day.

he deepened the kiss by taking another angle, the impact made you walk two steps behind before he put a hand around your neck, holding you close. he groaned when you pull away, chasing your lips like a madman.

“wait.” you panted, and sukuna did in fact wait albeit hanging on his last thread. his forehead resting against yours. “what?”

“i—it’s just, this is new.”

“then we better get used to it fast,” he replied quickly, his patience reached its end; ten seconds. he parted your lips with his thumb, when that met no resistance from you who’s as eager as he was he leaned back in, beyond ready to have another best kiss he’s had for his entire life.

➝ toji

“toji, please look like you want to be here,” you pleaded, seeing his nonchalant expression who had just finished yawning for the nth time in just ten minutes. “i don’t know how that’s like,” he said uninterested. “just a minute and you’ll be free,” you sighed, worried that his low energy wasn’t a good sign.

oh how you were wrong.

the moment your lips brushed against his toji had the biggest grin before kissing you back passionately. his hands roamed at your sides, all the way to the behind of your thighs. you understood what he meant as you jumped and wrapped both legs around him, he supported your weight effortlessly. 

you gripped his hair as you held him closer—as close as you could be, escalating the kiss even more before you both reluctantly pull away, still panting.

there’s an annoying smile on toji’s face. “so how long have you been holding that in hm?”

“too long. now shut up and kiss me again.”

“atta girl, don’t gotta tell me twice.”

[neferaskingdom]

♡ The Girls Are Fighting | MV1

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: How exactly is a girl supposed to tell their brother that she got knocked up by his current archnemesis? Especially when said brother is George Russell?

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

f1teaspill posted:

f1teaspill: 🔥 DRAMA ALERT 🔥 George Russell and Max Verstappen were seen exchanging heated words in the paddock after today’s qualifying session. Witnesses claim George called Max’s driving "reckless" (again), while Max allegedly replied, "Maybe if you drove faster, you wouldn’t need to talk so much." Sources say team personnel had to step in to separate them. Thoughts?

Comments:

user: the girls are fighting AGAIN

user: george and max beefing is my roman empire

user: "if you drove faster" HELPPP max is so unserious 😂

user: honestly george has a point tho?? max’s cooldown lap was suspicious af

user: no bc max cooked him and served him cold 😌

user: serious f1 fans trying to analyze the incident while we’re here laughing at “girls are fighting” 😭

landonorris: who needs netflix when you have this

user: ariana what are you doing here user: why is lando just our f1 gossip girl atp 😂

user: let’s be real. max and george are two sides of the same coin but one side is feral and the other side uses hair gel religiously

user: nah bc this is giving zendaya and bella thorne fighting over who was the real star of shake it up 🎤

user: not to be dramatic but george and max are my toxic exes fighting over me in my delusional little mind palace 😍

user: george fans: "max is ruining the sport" max fans: "cry more" me: "post the video!!!"

f1teaspill posted:

f1teaspill: The rivalry between George Russell and Max Verstappen is heating up, and it’s no longer just about racing. George has been outspoken about Max’s dangerous on-track behavior, accusing him of crossing lines and being unable to handle adversity when he’s not in the dominant car. "He's been enabled because nobody's stood up to him," George said, adding that Max’s reactions after a few bad races show he’s not handling pressure well​

Things got even more awkward at a recent team dinner when everyone left a seat for George next to Max—but George pulled his chair elsewhere. The tension was palpable, and fellow drivers like Lando Norris are enjoying every minute of it. When asked about the feud, Lando admitted he just wants to see them keep fighting—because, honestly, it’s pretty entertaining

Comments:

user: omg not the russell vs verstappen cinematic universe expanding

user: why are they STILL fighting. like girlies pls hug it out or smth

user: serious question: if they had a boxing match, who’d win? asking for a friend.

user: Lando really out here asking for Max and George to keep fighting like it's the best reality TV show ever. This is the content I didn’t know I needed. 😆

user: Imagine showing up to a team dinner and everyone’s waiting for you to sit next to your rival

user: George avoiding Max like he's the plague, and honestly, I don’t blame him. These two are about to turn F1 into a soap opera. 😆

user: The tension between them is unreal. Can’t wait for the next race to see if they actually talk or just pretend the other doesn’t exist. 😂

user: This is like a bad breakup but on a race track. Max and George giving us nothing but drama. And I am HERE for it. 🙌

[callmeimlost]

Open to requests? Stand ready for my arrival 👹

May I request a Main!Mark x Starfire!reader? Like maybe reader is a kryptonian and Tamaranean mix, just super OP. Like imagine Starfire!reader coming to earth, becomes a famous hero, becomes the symbol of hope, and Mark becomes super nervous to meet her, but turns out she’s really kind and fun

(And maybe a cameo of Cecil, losing his mind trying to find weaknesses for these OP aliens that keep crashing into earth 💀🤚)

Just imagine Starfire!reader teaching Mark about krypton and Tamaran, while he teaches her about earth. And how Starfire!reader would help him after all his battles, and how she’d make him feel better by always just being there for him

(If this is too confusing, or if you’re just not getting the vision then that’s okay. Have a nice day 💕)

✷ PLANET HER:: mark Grayson x Starfire!reader

WARNING:: reader is very OP, cannon gore, mark & reader teach each other about their planets, bubbly! Reader.

SUMMARY:: after crash landing onto earth and being held by GDA to make sure your no true threat, you meet Mark Grayson who is utterly smitten with the idea of introducing you to life on earth !

MEIMEI YAPS:: this was all written on my phone bcs my iPad sucks rn, so sorry if there are any spelling mistakes. Also im so sorry it took me this long to write I was sick and then I went to a concert yesterday and had no time 🫩💔.

The smell of dirt and copper filled your every sense, the distant shouts, the sound of your planet falling apart at your own feet; it felt like a fever dream, truly unreal. Even with the two suns that hung over Tamaran like twins; yet even then a chill wracks through you, unsettling and churning in your stomach.

You felt the bile itching at the back of your throat, how your legs felt like jelly, or even your fingers shakily gripping at your family as you were sent into the endless abyss of space. You had floated through orbit; for how long? You couldn’t remember. The many planets you had passed by, even picking up on languages before setting off once more. Nothing habitable for you, nothing to make you stay longer than short of a day or two.

You had grown used to the impending trash looming around as you fly through, swatting at the debris of asteroids and trash floating from planets that had been long abandoned. Like an endless cycle of floating through nothing, before you had heard word of planet- earth, an odd sounding planet but nonetheless you were willing to try.

It had taken you days to fly to Earth, you had known you’d made it when you had seen the odd shaped metal floating not too far from the blue and green planet. And without hesitation you had set off onto your decent. At the speed you were going you could’ve been sick at just how hard you had pushed your self.

Breaking through the mesosphere the heat on your skin sizzling against your skin bothered you none, bringing a sense of comfort though it pales in comparison to the twin stars that hung in the sky of tamaran. Your skin felt like it was buzzing within the moment you hit the stratosphere, the air thin as you hover slowly.

Taking your time to now get closer, the air or lack there of, makes your head spin and your heart burn. You could feel your body dropping quicker than your brain could respond. Wind whipping past your face as your ears ring. Black splotches cover your vision as you realize there was no possible way of willing your body to catch itself from the whiplash inducing crash it was going to make.

You didn’t hear it; but you definitely felt it. Your body laid out in a crater sized hole in a rural field; the raw dirt and smell of flowers and grass had been the only comfort as you were lured into the darkness of your own sleep. Earth wasn’t off to a great start at all, your first impression on their people was slightly destructive, you didn’t mean to! How would you know that the spikes green stuff would be there?!

It was odd; waking up somewhere you hadn’t fallen asleep, almost panicked at the realization. The sterile walls, the smell of antiseptic. It felt powerful, protected. Your hands twitching at your side as the clatter of cuffs to the handles of the frame to this mysterious bed.

Your palms feel warm and tight balled in fists as you yank at the cuffs, the metal bending at the sheer strength of your incessant tugging before pulling harder out of frustration you break the handle of the bed frame making you yelp softly at your wrist that was not old still in the cuffs but now had a metal bar latched to the other end.

You can only hold it up as you look at it dumbly, before you could even try to further free yourself from the bent out shackle the door to the room slides open with an almost comical sound. A man; no- a handler. A man who looks to not know rest, the distant yet stern look in his eyes, and the crisp look he had told you that he was in charge; and he had done this to you, and it makes you press yourself harder against the pillow behind you.

The chilling blue eyes he held that pinned you to your spot and kept your mouth sealed shut, waiting for him to speak. But he doesn’t- at first. He lets in a heard of doctors who check these odd shaped projectile machines that move and fill up the once quiet room with loud medical noises. You watched with curious eyes and a pinched brow as the man steps forward at the foot of the bed.

He doesn’t ask you any questions, he only looks to the doctors flitting his gaze between them and you as he speaks in a tone you could tell he was talking about you but not to you, and the very few words you do understand stem from him mentioning Tamaran. He speaks quick and with purpose and it confuses you but you, but the small broken sentences you can make don’t seem to help either of you much.

But you improve! Only at the expense of a poor doctor trying to check your vitals when you use the Tamaranian way of exchanging language when you lay one on him. And even more to the dismay of Cecil because the moment you start forming true sentences he learns you are just lollipops and rainbows; well- for someone who grew up on a planet where warriors are practically bred.

And with that you had spent little time under Cecil’s watch from what you understood you had only been under watch for the purpose of making sure you were no real threat to Earth, you were almost harmless had it not been for the fact that you could probably blow half of the building up with only a few beams of that green light glowing around your fists when you train.

But it was a surprise not only to Cecil but you as well when Mark Grayson stumbles upon you in private training he watches you with curiosity, his skin buzzing with warmth, you were intimidating. How easy everything seemed for you, the way you effortlessly move around and can be efficient. When Cecil catches Mark he felt like a kid being scolded for eating snacks before dinner.

“who was that?” Mark couldn’t keep his eyes off of you even as Cecil was practically guiding Mark out of the vicinity, he didn’t need two stupidly strong aliens consorting around with each other seeing as Mark is a loose cannon and you are emotionally driven. Cecil would only glare at Mark before spatting “Earth’s second biggest gain and potential enemy” and it wouldn’t be long before Mark would see you again, just not necessarily in the presence of Cecil.

When you were trusted under the guise that you were to work for the GDA you were propelled into the hero scene and became popular amongst the younger crowd, he’d see you on the news when he was on patrol, how you had taken the lizard league down on your own, how you mainly worked solo jobs.

He’d see how truly easy you made it look, how you knocked around people way bigger than you, how you could take a punch and not react let alone show any weakness; and when he finally met you face to face he was practically sweating out of his suit.

You were prettier up close, you emanated an aura that could be ignored- well for the purpose of Mark’s job in that moment it wasn’t time to be star struck but do his job. Cecil had sent the two of you with a group of astronauts to Mars where you’d make yourselves stay hidden unless something where to go wrong and god did Mark try to convince himself he was petrified to spend any time alone with you; he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of another really strong alien who could understand at least a fraction of how he feels.

When the two of you are sent of to take the two day flight to mars the two of you sit quietly the first few hours as Mark as unserious as it sounds tried to be as nonchalant and mysterious as he could because in his eyes that’s what you were. It wasn’t until you offered to make food for the two of you had Mark let his guard down. You were a mystery to him; your words polite and tone soft, your stride was strong and though you didn’t speak much, your presence was quiet and slightly refreshing.

The first time you and Mark had truly tried to teach each other about your planets was when you laid out a plate of food that had looked odd and almost inedible. Mark put on the best smile he could as you watched with eager eyes “on my planet it is much like a turkey on your planet” and Mark would have worn a small smile at how cute the excitement on your face was had it not been for the fact that he’s pretty sure he watched the food on the plate move….

But for the sake of not ruining the small connection he just gained between the two of you he sucks it up and eats the food anyways- even if it was squishy and salty with an off putting color. “Do you have any meals on Earth that your family likes?” You had now seated yourself across from him curling your knees to your chest as you watched eagerly waiting to learn.

The two of you sat for the rest of the ride happily exchanging stories and history of your planets. How Mark knows that Tamaran is 26 light years away and that you’re actually Tamaranean royalty; is beyond him. He wondered if Cecil knew these things, or if it too personal? He didn’t know, so he never told; keeping it between you and him.

Though Mark does catches the looks of bewilderment when he explains that technology had not evolved that far on earth to the point of spacecrafts as advanced as ones on other planets that fly lightyears faster than a helicopter or an airplane. He didn’t know wether to feel pity or almost laugh when he realized that on Tamaran you didn’t have cell phones or internet, and you didn’t speak as fluently accurate; so when you watch him looking at pictures of Debbie and Nolan on his phone it was like he had grown a second head.

Plucking the little device out of his hands between your index and thumb as you tilt your head looking at the boxy metal piece of technology in your hand. “This is your communication?” Though it was more of a statement it came out as a question and it makes a small curious grin grow on Mark’s lips. “Cecil didn’t teach you about the power of a phone?” It sounded outlandish at first but Mark realized exactly who he was talking about; the man who only had time to stress out over everything else going on in the United States.

You only shake your head as you fill grip the phone looking down at the screen. “It is like the projectors we have on my planet….but trapped in a box” you swipe the screen and watch as another photo comes up, a picture of Mark with people who looked around his age all close together smiling happily. “Are these people your companions ?” You look up at Mark who looks at the photo’s with a smile. “On Earth we call them ‘friends’; companion sounds….formal”

Regardless of the fact you continue to let Mark show you many different photos of his friends and family, every time he showed you a picture he could feel your body temperature rising almost as if it were radioactive, yet you watch with curious eyes as he turns to you with a hint of amusement in his eyes “can I teach you how to use it?”

The explanation on how to work a phone was like a battle of with his brain; you were curious what every button does and what certain apps do. To say Mark had to test his wits with answering every question you have to the best of his ability without sounding like a complete fool. The two of you laughed at the others lack of under within certain contexts of conversations neither would have thought you’d have.

The two of you had been so caught up in his phone and how to work it that when it had eventually died, Mark would come to find out the astronauts were gone. The only thing left behind were a track of prints. “Shit!” And that’s when Mark also realized you were impressionable as you float by his side testing the curse word on your tongue and it makes Mark sigh as he realized how much of an influence his bad vocabulary would also have on you…..poor Cecil.

When the two of you eventually land on mars; the two of you work well together, though mark did have to worry a few times… It had never occurred to him before that sometimes the two of you were very emotionally charged, letting your moral compasses guide you rather than logic. And when the two of you learn of their disappearance the two of you go searching when you stumble upon the underground palace that belonged to sequids.

You watched Mark pull open the small hat hatch door that led underground, seeing the many little creatures slimy and sticking to helmet and suit of Mark as he tried to pull off the creature’s with yelps and shouts; watching him squirm makes you giggle as pull the last sequid off of him. “Are you okay?” You ask gently as the dull thump of the parasite on the group makes Mark shiver in disgust before he hums.

The two of you looking at the creatures with completely different looks on your faces, Mark had to do a double take when he saw the way you coo at the pink little membranes that squirmed disgustingly. “You think those things are cute?!” He whisper shouted he was flabbergasted on how you could such a thing to be anything but gross. But the way you nodded and stepped closer made his heart leap out of his ass.

“They are adorable!” You’d chime in quickly but quietly not to trigger any of them to attack “on my planet we keep creatures like these as pets….or we eat them!” Mark’s skin almost turned green at the idea of ever eating one of those things. “Maybe we should keep you at a distance from those” he’d chuckle cautiously as he watches you look at the pink beings with almost heart shaped eyes.

He almost has to tug you away with each carefully placed step you took towards the small creatures. And when the two of you find yourselves with your hands up surrounded by Martians who had clearly been in some kind of distress due to said pink creatures after you had basically shot it down from jumping on you, with that in mind the martians take you into their leader when you finally meet face to face with rage astronauts you and Mark were supposed to be watching and protecting.

After getting the run down on what exactly sequid’s were and what they do, Mark could clock the dark cloud looming over you at the deeply disturbing story. He had watched your once pouty smile slowly fall into a deeply disturbed frown and once he sees the look on your face he immediately feels the frown on his lips weighing down on his lips as well.

The Martian’s had practically disappeared from Mars due to the insurmountable amount of sequids had plagued the planet and had latched onto their kind before completely taking over the mind and body.

“I should have eaten them when we saw them” you mumbled to Mark and had it not been for the serious matter at hand he would’ve burst into laughter; but he had to be serious. “No eating” he says back and it makes you roll your eyes and slightly kick the flooring your very efficient plan being shot down.

“Tell me, how are you able to resist them” the Martian asked as he stands towering over the two of you and it leaves an uncomfortable pit in your stomach that makes you reach for the sleeve of Mark’s suit clutching slightly for some sort of comfort. “I come from the planet Tamaran” you answer quickly as Mark stutters slightly before dumbly answering “I’m part viltrumite; ever heard of us?” An impending and almost embarrassing silent beat passes by before he answers.

“I am the emperor of Mars, of course I’ve heard of you!” And that makes you step back slightly letting go of Mark’s sleeve so unaware that invincible belonged to an empire, to a race of people who didn’t have the greatest track record in space. “Well if you know us then you know; we like to help out wherever we can. Which is why; we were sent to help protect these astronauts” you could tell that even in costume; Invincible was just a boy at heart.

The slightly distressed look on his face as he tries to talk his way out of this. “So if your all good, we can finish our science and head home” he points towards the way you had came step back a few steps before the two men who had captured you blocked your paths. Your brows scrunch as an encroaching feeling of heat along your skin spikes. “Impossible! Human’s are sent to immediate execution!” The emperor shouts taking a step closer flickering between you and Mark.

“We cannot risk them coming into close counter with a sequid!” He urges in frustration you frown looking at your feet, you weren’t all too sure how Mark handled situations like these; but you knew for a fact that you were not a failure, you will not leave these people here to die, you will not die, and neither will invincible. You were sure of it. “I understand” you heard Mark say in an almost disappointed tone that makes your brow twitch.

He was onto something; brute force, maybe. But it was still something! And by the time you make it back to the surface hoards of martians had been chasing you through the thick clouds of dirt cloud your eyes you keep up and almost pass everyone before you yell over your shoulder you can see one of the human’s falling behind with a petrified face. “Flying sounds real efficient right now invincible!” You push yourself of the ground using the leverage to pick the woman up and a man before Mark follows behind you back into the ship.

As you and Mark try holding off the Martian’s as the smoke rises the two of you were practically clearing house until Mark had practically gotten tossed right under the ship. “You try and get that thing off the ground, I’ll hold them off. Can you do that?!” You ask over your shoulders as you feel anger growing in your stomach. Your eyes were glowing green and Mark didn’t know if he should be concerned or do what you say; regardless he would try.

He gets the ship up in the air in no time as he gets hit with the heated beams you could hear the pained grunts he let out making you return the favor, hearing the jets buzzing you take off towards the ship as you make your quickly awaited exit, you see Mark fly back down for a Rock that makes you laugh. “What’s that for?” You ask sitting on one of the wings. “Just thought I’d get something out of this whole ordeal” he shrugged holding the rock out to show you.

You tilt your head with a sad smile, Mark didn’t have to look at you, he could feel a sense of sadness lingering “it reminds me of the color Tamaran” you run a finger over the rock letting the dirt of mars stain your finger a burnt chalky orange. “Do you miss it?” He asks finally looking up at you with sympathy dripping from his words. “Sometimes…but i can’t go back” you swing your feet back and forth enjoying the lack of gravity with each moment.

He doesn’t say anything, at least not about why you can’t go back home; because he wasn’t there yet. He wanted to ask so many questions, but he’s too scared he’d overstep so he took the silent route instead. The two of you enjoyed the ride back home. It was better than awkwardly sitting together for hours.

Though when the two of you got back to Earth and checked in with Cecil it seemed he wanted the two of you to work together more often, keeping an eye on not just the two of you; but Mark’s own father. With the disappearance of the Guardians of the Globe and their unsuspecting deaths everyone searching for answers publicly and privately.

You had only met Omni-man in passing once or twice, not one for help or conversation you seemed to steer clear of him regardless of the fact that he was invincible’s father. When it all came spiraling down; Omni-man had officially lost it. Chicago was in ruins, people were trapped under collapsing buildings, cars and debris filling the streets.

Cecil had sent you out to do damage control as much as you could, the fight had ripped through subways, killed pilots and cracked a fucking mountain. When you had seen how much damage was done you were pissed. Nothing could have prepared Cecil for an angry alien basically standing over of him shouting. “You have to get this under control, he will kill him! You’re just sitting here watching it!” It was an outrage, how could he just stand there and watch like this was peak entertainment?

You had been so caught your own anger you hadn’t realized the woman who watched you with wide eyes on the brink of tears. “You know Mark?” She asks weakly and it makes your heart squeeze in your chest as you nod walking closer gently taking her hand into yours gently “Me and Mark went to Mars together. He was my first…friend on Earth” the word sounded weird falling from your lips but it felt like the right word.

“I’m so sorry this happening; I’ll see if can do anything to help Mark” squeezing her much smaller and weaker hand gently “I’ll do whatever I can” the gleam of hope flickering through her eyes makes you give a firm nod without saying anything else you look to the other workers amongst you watching Omni-man practically brutalized his own kin.

You took off towards the mountains, your body practically buzzing with heat and anger, your eyes and hands glowing and buzzing the closer you get to the fight- more like pummeling; but you had decided you were going to stand a fighting chance, and you were going to help Mark in anyway you can.

You understood that that the Guardians of the Globe was Earth’s protectors, and the track records Viltrumites had back on Tamaran Omni-man had a huge target on his back now. You’ve watched neighboring planets be destroyed and fallen victim to the empire you had so desperately prayed stayed far away from your home.

You were angry, these people, Mark; close to or already being dead- it pissed you off, how could you come to a planet like Earth and want to destroy it? Ruin the little peace it already holds? Every sharp turn, no matter how hard you pushed yourself to fly faster it still didn’t feel fast enough. You had grown to care for Mark since you’ve met, dealing with his small rants about some silly little earth cartoon on paper, or even sprinkles of him talking about school work.

So the moment you see Omni-man looming over the onyx haired boy whose face was practically swollen shut, blood covering his uniform. You could feel your insides churn at the sight, the bile sitting at the back of your throat, how your body tensed and fists tighten. You don’t hesitate to throw yourself into the mix; tackling the man off of his own son.

Thinking back; had you been human you’d had died. The brute force the two of you exchanged wasn’t much; but who could really beat a viltrumite who had been alive for centuries that had conquered planets and killed for strength? He had broken your arm and had finally flown off. Even with the sharp pain running through you in searing waves with every inch you moved, you still found yourself laying beside Mark’s feeble body checking if he was still alive; once you had fully recognized him as breathing and alive you had accepted exhaustion and passed out beside him.

And from then on you had an unwavering loyalty to Mark, going as far as to wheel your own IV around in the hospital to marks room and sit by his side watch trashy TV on mute because remotes still confused you, sometimes apologizing for not doing more, complaining about Cecil, just even eat dinner. Debbie had started to see your face way more often after the fallout of her family.

Even at times you had become very protective over him, going as far as to stand outside of his room and glare at Cecil for the poor job he was doing taking Mark under his wing. And eventually when Mark had woke up you two were glued at the hip. In return for helping him during his fight with his dad he’d help you emerge in Earth culture!

He teaches you about social media, slang, he at one point had to use parental controls in order for you to not accidentally call or text any of the numbers he gave you. You did break the first phone Cecil got you, you were very concerned when you got a call from Mark but couldn’t see him, his voice barely audible from how low your volume was making you shout into the line before ultimately throwing the phone out of stress.

He taught you how to make ‘Earth food’ though it was debatable on if it truly mattered what you ate because truly….you ate anything; and that kind of scared him. Having to explain why eating burnt toast or something that has been in the fridge for clearly too long was not something people on Earth do, he got an odd stare and a shrug before you reluctantly threw it away.

You do teach Mark about your planet, the history, the environment, how you were born into a planet where being warriors was normal; brutality was not frowned upon as much as it is on Earth. Though you have questioned him on why people don’t kill their enemies you had to have a serious discussion on why that isn’t exactly always okay.

Mark takes you to different countries, states and cities to show you how much fun Earth was; Breakfast in Paris and Dinner at Mark’s with Debbie with food from her favorite Mexican restaurant. The field trips were always great, he enjoyed watching the way your hands and eyes glow green when you got excited to experience new things.

Eventually when things start to get sour between Mark and Cecil especially after going through that rough patch with his dad, finding out about Oliver, and most of all Cecil not trusting Mark. Mark had been nothing but good! He could do no wrong in your eyes. The day Mark parted ways with Cecil you dipped in solidarity.

You help him train Oliver, you adore the small boy. Sometimes Mark comes to you for advice when he needs help with how much Oliver starts to pick up the ideologies of their father and how fast he’s even rapidly growing. You try your best to help make his work load less heavy. With the year he was having you don’t know he hasn’t found the time to lose his shit.

Mark appreciates you more than he has probably said it; feeling just slightly less alone because of the random alien that crashed into Earth like a meteor and just stuck around. Although you do have a slight innocence to you now; Mark looks back on his first encounter with you and can’t believe how nervous you made him when really you were in a way….kind of like him.

[teapartyprincess4two]

On Stream- M. Sturniolo

pairing: gf!reader x bf!Matt

classification: fluff

warnings: use of y/n, short, slight cursing, some suggestive comments

summary: Matt mentions you on stream, causing the chat to go crazy.

—

Nowadays it seems that Matt and Chris have an abnormal amount of free time.

The pair have spent the past few days running errands, catching up on chores, spending quality time together, and unwinding. But two energetic young men can only do so much relaxing before it becomes unbearably boring, especially without you and Nick around.

Nick’s somewhere across the globe, relishing in the perks of having good friends. He’s experiencing the world with a sense of individuality, having been apart from his triplet brothers for over a week.

Without Nick around the house is quiet and boring enough, but Chris and Matt can usually count on you to keep them company. But it seems that they see you less and less every day.

You aren’t somewhere far away, not physically at least, you’re just very, very busy. As you enter the fall semester, you’re juggling a multitude of responsibilities including school, work, your social life, and your relationship. But as you adjust to your crazy hectic schedule, you spend less time at home with Matt and more time nose deep in a book.

So, just as the brothers grow accustomed to the eerie silence that haunts the halls of their home and the boredom that settles into their everyday lives, they decide enough is enough and take up a new hobby. Streaming.

Today, as Matt anchors himself in his rolling chair, his eyes skim through the endless chats that flood his screen. Chris sits next to him, a vibrant and excited smile adorning his features.

This is their third consecutive day going live on Twitch. At first they went live to entertain and chat with their fans, but now they’re doing it to occupy their bored minds.

Chris’s eyes skim the chat, fixating on one message in particular. He subconsciously reads it aloud, “Is Y/n on tour with Nick? We miss her.”

After reading the comment, the chat was flooded with similar messages asking for you. Matt slumps into his chair, the mention of your name reminding him that it’s been a week since he’s seen you.

“Nah, she’s just busy with school right now,” Chris replies mindlessly, skimming for another comment to read.

A lot of the viewers noticed Matt’s mood shift. They noticed the way his eyes drooped and the way the corners of his mouth turned into a frown. They especially noticed the disassociated look he wore, mind traveling to a place only you could bring him out of.

“Matt,” Chris says, waving a hand in front of his brother’s face. No response. “Matt!” He tries again, louder this time. Matt still doesn’t respond, only coming back into reality when Chris violently shakes his shoulders.

“What, dude? What?!” Matt asks, annoyance evident in his tone.

“Your phone’s ringing.” Chris replies with an eye roll and a small scoff.

Suddenly the blaring ring registers in Matt’s mind as he pats his pockets in search of his phone. When he finally finds it, your name illuminated the screen.

“Who’s calling?” Chris asks, stretching out his neck in hopes of catching a nosy glimpse at the caller ID.

“Umm be right back chat. Y/n’s calling,” Matt says, words spewing out a mile a minute. He disappears from the room faster than ever, immediately pressing the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey, baby.” Your voice is music to Matt’s ears. It feels like forever since he’s last heard it.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “everything okay?”

You hum in response, followed by a soft yawn.

“You sound tired. When are you coming home?” Matt asks, softly leaning against the wall. You’ve been at school all day stuck in lectures and studying, so Matt knows you need some well deserved rest.

“I’m on my way now. That’s why I called, wanted to see if you guys were hungry so I could pick up something to eat.”

The excitement that courses through Matt’s veins is unreal, winding him up with enough energy to last until tomorrow. He can’t wait to see you, hold you, kiss you, and make up for all the lost time.

“Whatever you want, baby,” he replies, pausing for a second to compose himself, “I just wanna see you.”

A warm smile graces your features and if Matt could see it he’d mirror your expression.

“I’ll be home soon don’t worry. How’s the stream going?”

“Huh?” For a second Matt forgot that he and his brother were live streaming for thousands of people.

“The stream. Aren’t you live with Chris right now?”

“Ohhh. It’s going… it’s going good.” Matt replies with a soft sigh.

Your smile is momentarily replaced with a frown. “It doesn’t sound like it’s going good. What’s wrong?”

Matt’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose before gliding across his eyelids and massaging the tense nerves and muscles on his face. “It’s going fine. I just can’t focus. The chat keeps asking about you and it’s honestly making me really sad.”

A small chuckle escapes your lips. “Aww my poor baby. Can’t focus on Fortnite?”

“Not Fortnite.”

“Oops, sorry. Fall Guys?

“Y/n.” Matt warns, though he finds it slightly funny too.

“I’m joking, I’m joking. I’ll be home soon with some good food and open arms. We can cuddle and watch a movie, or do anything else you wanna do. Okay?”

Matt feels his spirit lighten up again, a cheeky smirk forming on his face. “Anything?”

“Don’t push it,” you laugh.

Just as Matt’s about to respond, he’s cut short by Chris calling his name from inside the room.

“Get back to your stream. I’ll be home soon, handsome.”

Matt’s lips form a silly pout you can’t even see as he replies, “But I wanna keep talking to you. Miss you so much.”

“MATT!” Chris calls again, this time much louder than the last.

“We’ll talk all you want when I get home. Now go! I have the stream pulled up on my computer and I think Chris is gonna start twerking,” you say, trying your best not to laugh.

“Holy fuck this kid,” Matt groans, face palming. “Alright baby, I love you. Drive safe.”

“I love you too,” you say through small giggles before hanging up.

When Matt renters the room, he’s not surprised to find Chris dancing for the camera. He pushes past him and settles back into his rolling chair wearing a huge, toothy smile.

“What did Y/n want?” Chris asks, briefly glancing at Matt as he switches from doing the griddy to shuffling across the room.

“Just asked if we were hungry,” Matt shrugs, attempting to act nonchalant, but there’s no hiding the newfound pep in his step.

“And it took you that long?”

“I was catching up with my girl. —Why the fuck are you still dancing?”

“Someone gifted,” Chris says, slightly breathless as he bops from corner to corner.

“Alright…” Matt shifts towards the computer, “What did I miss?”

He reads comments, expecting most of them to be about Chris and his absurd dancing skills, but he’s surprised to find that they’re all about you.

Some fans ask where you are, others ask what you’re doing, some speculate on the conversation you and Matt had, and others simply comment on how much happier Matt seems since talking to you.

All Matt can do is smile and patiently wait for you to arrive, ready to bombard you with kisses as soon as you step through the door.

—

MASTERLIST

a/n: hi babies! Hope you enjoy this short oneshot! I know I haven’t updated or posted much in a longggg time but I honestly had writers block :P I’m trying to get into the habit of writing again, so bear with me pls. I have a lotttt of drafts (some that just need to be edited) so be expecting that soon! Luv you all 😚

- L.A.M.B🪽💝

—

taglist: @nickgetsmewetter @sturniololovers @raysmayhem-72 @worldlxvlys @gnxosblog @meg-sturniolo @creamoncreamoncream2 @mattnchrisworld @sanyi5 @lustfulslxt @whicked-hazlatwhore @tworosesblackthorn @mxqdii @fawned01 @junnniiieee07 @sturniolololover @missriddle03 @k-l-a-w-s @maryx2xx @biggesthat3r @herxyzblog @getosuckers @sturnioloarchive @tillies33ssss @fratbrochrisgf @rxeae @riasturns @sturnikitty @sturnrc @sturtriple16 @sillyfreakfanparty @imwetforyourmom @mattslovelygf @certifiednatelover @cartiiwannagotoplutoo @luvr4miya @somegirlfromasgard @l0vergrlll @pepsicolapussy333 @unbruisable @sugrhigh @khxna @wh0resstuff @jnkvivi @callsignwidow @sturnstvr @inkyray-deactivated20240729 @stasiesturn @poopiepantsworld @cvnt4matty @eleanore2204 @jhutchismyl0verb0y

note: if you want to be tagged in my fanfic related posts, you can access my TAGLIST and comment 💐 if your user is striked through, I wasn’t able to tag you :(

[alinathinkstoomuch]

SAFEST THING

pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader summary: rossi drops off a drunk hotch who can't help but profess his undying love for you, based on this request. warnings: flufffff, love drunk hotch who is completely besotted with you. that's literally it. he loves you, dammit! word count: 0.9k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

Rossi could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Aaron tipsy, let alone properly drunk. Steaming, wobbling, slurring his way through a love sonnet drunk. It just wasn’t a thing that happened. Ever. 

His suit jacket was abandoned somewhere in the backseat of Rossi’s car, which now smelled like a whiskey parlour. Rossi had cracked a window in hopes the breeze might air it out before the leather started soaking up the scent—and maybe, just maybe, sober Aaron up a little before you gave Rossi an earful for letting your husband get this shitfaced.

So shitfaced, in fact, that he apparently didn’t even remember taking off his tie, which was probably laying somewhere on the bar floor…right next to his left cufflink.

“She’s just—Dave, listen. Listen. She’s so smart. Like scary smart. And she makes it look easy, y’know?”

Rossi hummed in vague acknowledgment, eyes on the road.

“And she’s so pretty, and Jack loves her. Really loves her. He used to be so quiet and now he talks and laughs and he made her a macaroni necklace last week and said she was his favorite person ever, and I didn’t even mind, Dave.”

Rossi didn’t look over, mostly because he knew if he made eye contact, Aaron might cry. 

“I think—I think she healed us, Dave. Made us a little family.”

“You’ve mentioned,” Rossi replied dryly. “About six times since we left the bar.”

Aaron let out a wistful sigh and slumped back in the passenger seat. “She’s my home, y’know?” he said dreamily. “It’s not even a place anymore. It’s her. Just…her.”

“Mm,” Rossi grunted. “Poetic.”

They pulled up outside your home a few minutes later. The porch light was on, making Rossi shake his head. He could practically feel you pacing inside. Probably barefoot, probably annoyed, possibly armed.

He switched off the engine, glancing sideways. “Alright Romeo. Let’s get you to your Juliet before she kills us both.”

Aaron blinked up at the house like it had just appeared. He swayed slightly, squinting through the windshield. “She’s gonna be so pretty when she’s mad.”

Rossi let out a long-suffering groan and got out of the car. “Unreal,” he muttered, circling round to the passenger side just in time to catch Hotch attempting to stand up without using any of his core strength.

“Whoa, easy there,” Rossi huffed, grabbing his arm. “Let’s keep the dramatic swooning to a minimum.”

He was halfway through wrangling a love-drunk, six-foot-two, Unit Chief up the steps when the front door opened and you stepped outside, tying the sash of your dressing gown with the same expression you strictly reserved for when Morgan and Reid decided to start pranking each other mid-case.

“Oh, Aaron,” you sighed, hands on your hips. “Really?”

His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “It’s you,” he breathed, all dreamy-eyed, abandoning Rossi. “You came outside.”

“Yes,” you said flatly, stepping down to meet him. “Because you’re being very loud. We have neighbors. And Jack.” You pointed up towards the window. “He’s asleep, so hush.”

Aaron turned back to Rossi, grinning like an idiot. “Told ya she’s pretty when she’s mad,” he slurred right before he fully leaned into you with all his weight causing you to take a step back, catching him by the arms just in time. 

“You’re not even gonna help me get him inside?” you asked, glaring at Rossi over your husband's shoulder.

Rossi was already halfway down the steps, brushing his hands off. “He’s all yours, sweetheart. Goodnight and make sure he sleeps on his side. He was mixing everything Morgan ordered.”

You adjusted your grip on Aaron as Rossi disappeared down the path, mumbling something about needing a drink and a month off. Aaron meanwhile, had gone entirely pliable in your arms. Not quite dead weight, he was still trying to be helpful in that way drunks think they’re being helpful, mostly by murmuring ‘I’ve got it’ while making zero actual contribution.

“You realise I’m probably going to hold this over you for the rest of your life,” you muttered as you led him up the final step.

“I deserve that. But in my defence…you looked really good coming down the porch.”

“You want to live, don’t you?”

“Very much,” he nodded, leaning heavily against the doorframe as you flicked the light on. “Preferably in this house. With you.”

Your arms were around him again, helping him to the couch. “I mean it,” he added as he slumped on the pillows with a grunt. “You. This. You’re the safest thing in my life.”

You swallowed, your annoyance dissolving like sugar in warm water by the sincerity in his bloodshot eyes. “Let me get you something to drink before you start making me cry.”

“I know what this job does to people,” he went on, and you paused mid-step, glancing back at him. Without thinking, you abandoned your hydration mission entirely and sat down beside him. “I’ve seen it, we’ve watched it. Over and over. And you,” he continued, “you still choose me. Even on days I wouldn’t choose myself.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his, your thumb gently spinning his gold wedding band. Then you brought his knuckles to your lips, pressing a soft kiss there. “Always, baby. Now let's get you upstairs and you can carry on telling me how great I am, hm?”

That earned the faintest of smiles, crooked and sleepy. “I do have a lot more material.”

“I bet you do.”

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[hamilton-here]

Lewis x famous reader? They meet randomly and instantly click, but for the first time in his life the woman is the one to be hesitant about being in a relationship with him, and not really wanting to claim him, especially after learning his reputation. The chemistry is there and he seems to bend over backwards for her, but is she just another trophy he's desperate to claim? Or is he genuinely falling in love?

I don't think he's used to really courting and pursuing people properly anymore, especially those who already have fame and fortune

𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒜 𝒯𝓇𝑜𝓅𝒽𝓎

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Bouncing around waiting for the Canadian Grand Prix. I need it now...anyway enjoy. Lots of love xx

Summary: You meet Lewis Hamilton by chance and instantly click, but his past with women makes you hesitant until he proves you're the one he’s been waiting for.

Warnings: slight sweating

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You’d almost skipped it, yet another opulent gathering filled with designer perfume, flashing lights, and smiles stretched too tightly across surgically perfected faces. These days, you knew how to play the game. Show up, smile, give just enough soundbites to feed the headlines, and then vanish before the fifth glass of champagne dulled your instincts. But your agent had insisted. Monaco, post-race, luxury and sponsors lining the balconies. It was the kind of glamorous setting where your presence wasn’t just welcomed, it was expected.

So, you went.

The dress was a custom number your stylist sent over. The attire was slinky, liquid silver and wrapped around you like it had been painted on. You wore it with the practiced ease of someone who’d long learned how to turn their body into armour. The cameras flashed the second you stepped out of the black car. You gave them a smirk, a slight tilt of the head, then walked up the marbled steps without a backward glance.

Inside, the venue was sheer decadence. Crystal chandeliers, velvet furniture, waiters moving like ghosts with champagne flutes, and a DJ spinning house music under a canopy of stars. The party was housed on a private terrace of a super yacht club, high above the coastline. The kind of place where money was assumed and names didn’t need introductions.

A few nods, a few air kisses. You exchanged pleasantries with a fashion house executive and a singer you’d shot a cover with last month. A Formula 1 driver whose name escaped you tried to pull you into a conversation, but you politely peeled away. The air inside felt too thick, too staged. You needed a moment to yourself.

So, you found your way to the balcony.

The cool night air kissed your skin, and you let your shoulders drop. The view was unreal as Monaco glittered below like spilled stardust, and the ocean beyond looked like smooth onyx. You leaned on the railing, letting the silence settle over you for a brief moment of peace.

That’s when you saw him.

Lewis Hamilton.

He stood not far away, half-shadowed by a column of white stone, hands in his pockets. You hadn’t noticed him before. Odd. He usually lit up a room just by being in it.

His suit was black-on-black, effortlessly tailored, no tie. Understated but impossibly sharp. There was no flashiness about him tonight, no statement jewellery and no cameras orbiting like satellites. Just quiet confidence, the kind that didn’t beg to be noticed.

Your eyes met for half a second. You looked away first. Not because you were shy but because something about his gaze made you feel seen. Not in the usual, transactional way. But truly, uncomfortably, seen.

He started walking over. You told yourself you didn’t care.

“You don’t look like you want to be here,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like dark velvet with a hint of amusement.

You arched a brow, not turning toward him just yet. “And here I thought I was hiding it well.”

He chuckled, stepping closer but not too close. “You’re doing a great job of pretending. Just not to someone who’s mastered the art of faking it himself.”

You turned to face him now, studying him up close. His skin glowed under the warm lights, and up close, his eyes were softer than you expected. Thoughtful. Present.

“Lewis,” he said, as if you didn’t already know.

“I’m aware.” You let a smirk tug at your lips. “I’m not blind.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

You shrugged and sipped your champagne. “Just means I’ve seen enough to know what I’m getting into.”

“Have you?” His tone was playful, but his eyes flickered with something more. “Because I’m not sure you’ve got me figured out just yet.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you replied, but there was no bite to it.

He leaned against the railing beside you, his side just brushing yours. Not by accident. You didn’t move. He noticed.

“I’m not trying to flatter,” he said. “But I am curious.”

“About what?”

“You,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You barely know me.”

“That’s the point,” he replied. “Everyone here knows of each other. But nobody actually knows anyone. You’re the first person I’ve seen tonight who wasn’t performing.”

You laughed, short and dry. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Maybe,” he said, smiling. “Or maybe you’re one of the rare people who remembers who she is outside of the cameras.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. There was no pick-up line, no bravado. He said it like a truth. One that he carried for himself, too.

“And you’re here to tell me you’re one of those rare people too?” you asked.

He considered that for a moment, looking out at the horizon. “I’m trying to be. Lately, that means stepping away from what people expect and figuring out what I want again.”

You hummed softly, unsure whether it was refreshing or rehearsed. Either way, he delivered it well.

“I thought F1 drivers liked the attention,” you mused, watching him from the corner of your eye.

“I liked the racing,” he said, voice quiet now. “Everything else got loud.”

The honesty in his tone pulled you in before you could stop yourself.

“What makes you think I’m different?” you asked him.

He didn’t hesitate. “Because you haven’t once tried to impress me.”

You blinked, then smiled despite yourself. “Maybe I don’t think I need to.”

“That’s exactly why I’m impressed,” he said, his voice dropping just a touch.

There it was. The flirtation. But it didn’t come off as manipulative or predatory. It was gentle. Interested. Intentional.

Still, you hesitated.

“You’ve got a reputation,” you said, folding your arms as a breeze swept over the balcony. “And I’ve worked too hard to be anyone’s temporary fascination.”

Lewis turned slightly to face you more directly, his expression shifting.

“You think I chase women like some trophy collector?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

He sighed, low and self-aware. “Fair enough. I know what the headlines say.”

You gave him a small, almost apologetic shrug. “They say the same things about me, just in reverse.”

That surprised him.

“You think people see you as a trophy too?”

You hesitated, then nodded once. “All the time. They just want to own something beautiful. Not get to know it.��

He was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “Then maybe we’re more alike than we thought.”

A flash from a distant camera reminded you of where you were. You stiffened automatically, the years of instinct kicking in. You turned your head slightly, shielding your face.

Lewis noticed immediately. “You, okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied. “I just hate the way one candid photo can become a story that never happened.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then said gently, “Want to get out of here?”

Your gaze snapped back to his.

“I’m not asking for a nightcap,” he added quickly, lifting his hands in surrender. “Just a break. A quiet street. A walk. I figure someone like you probably hasn’t had one in a while.”

You hesitated.

Everything about this was dangerous. He was dangerous - good looks, charisma, a long trail of tabloid flings. He was the type of man who made you forget logic, forget your boundaries, forget how hard you’d worked to protect yourself from becoming a footnote in someone else’s story.

And yet he wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t assuming. He was offering you a choice.

You looked at him, studying the quiet sincerity in his eyes. Then, slowly, you nodded.

“Alright,” you said softly. “But no funny business.”

Lewis grinned, charming and boyish. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He offered his arm. You didn’t take it. But you walked beside him anyway.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt curious about what would happen next.

You didn’t expect the silence between you to feel so natural. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just the kind of quiet that let you breathe, like your lungs hadn’t fully expanded all night until now.

The buzz of the gala had dulled into a distant murmur behind you. Out here, the night was warmer than expected, cloaked in that soft summer breeze that carried the perfume of city jasmine and the faint smoke of a food cart two blocks over. Even your heels on the pavement sounded less sharp than they had when you first arrived like the world had turned its volume down just for this walk.

Neither of you rushed. The pace was slow, not out of hesitation, but out of comfort. The kind of tempo that suggested time wasn’t the priority, presence was.

You snuck a glance at him, eyes sliding sideways.

“You always this forward?” you asked, tone dry but not sharp.

Lewis glanced over, his mouth tugging upward slightly, eyes reflecting the gold flicker of a passing streetlamp. “What, for dragging a woman away from champagne and celebrities after barely ten minutes?”

You arched a brow, amused. “Something like that.”

He chuckled, a quiet, rasp-edged sound that made something flicker low in your chest. “No. Not usually. But I figured worst case, you tell me to piss off. Best case, you let me walk beside you for a few minutes.”

You shook your head with a smile. “Bit of a gamble.”

He nudged his shoulder slightly in your direction, hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Sometimes the odds feel worth it.”

There was an ease to him now different from the poised, polished figure who’d been standing at the edge of the ballroom, swarmed by admiration, half-listening to everyone but looking only at you. Out here, he felt less like Lewis Hamilton, global icon, and more like a man who’d just needed air. Maybe for the same reasons you had.

“You seemed like you wanted to disappear in there,” he said, eyes focused forward again. “That’s why I noticed you.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh through your nose. “I did. Not really my scene.”

“I figured,” he said. “You weren’t posing. You weren’t trying. I watched you turn down three photographers.”

You blinked. “You were watching me?”

He grinned, unabashed. “Just a little.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “I liked how you didn’t seem to care if anyone saw you or not. That’s rare.”

The words pulled a strange warmth to your cheeks. You didn’t know what to do with the sincerity in his voice how different it felt from the usual compliments tossed at you like darts. This wasn’t about your dress. Or your face. Or your presence on someone’s arm. It was about how you were.

He looked up at the sky for a second, exhaling like he was trying to loosen something in his chest.

“Truth is,” he said, “I’ve spent years around people who want to be seen with me. Not really with me.”

You stayed quiet, sensing this was more than just small talk.

“Sometimes they come for the wrong reasons. They want the access, the image, the feeling of being close to something big. And that’s fine,” he shrugged. “I let it happen sometimes. I play the part.”

“You mean you let them in?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I let them close enough to think they are. Then most nights, I send them home before morning.”

There was no brag in it. No edge. Just a quiet exhaustion that felt lived-in.

“That sounds lonely,” you said gently, more truth than question.

He glanced over, his expression soft. “It is. But it’s better than pretending. I used to keep people around just to avoid silence. But now, I think I’d rather be alone than misunderstood.”

Your heart tugged a little at that. There was something disarming about hearing a man like him say something like that. Like peeling back, a curtain and finding a mirror.

“I’m not looking for something casual,” he added after a beat. “I know that’s what people think about me that I’ve always got someone. But most of the time, those women they come wanting a version of me that doesn’t exist. And the moment I’m quiet, or complicated, or just tired, they start looking for an exit.”

You bit your lip, trying to hide the sting those words gave you not because they were painful to hear, but because they were so starkly honest. It reminded you of your own experiences. Of people who only stayed for the best parts, never the messy middle.

“So,” you said, voice careful, “why are you telling me all this?”

He looked at you. And the way his gaze settled on your face made the night feel warmer somehow. More intimate.

“Because I don’t want to play a part with you,” he said simply. “And because I think you’re the kind of woman who’d see through it anyway.”

You stopped walking.

You didn’t mean to it just happened, like your feet had caught up to what your heart was processing.

He stopped too, facing you.

The street around you was quiet, your car parked just a little ahead, but the space between you felt suddenly thick with something unspoken. A current. A shift.

“I’m not perfect,” he said, hands out of his pockets now, open at his sides. “I’ve made mistakes. I’ve walked away from good things because I didn’t think I deserved them at the time. But I’m older now. I’ve done the noise. The distractions. I’ve had every kind of attention, and none of it ever made me feel seen.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening, not out of doubt but recognition.

Because maybe you’d been waiting to feel seen too.

“Good night, Lewis,” you said softly, fingers brushing the edge of the door handle behind you.

But before you could pull it open, he stepped forward not close enough to invade, just enough to let you know he wasn’t done.

“Wait.”

You looked back.

His voice was quiet. No show. No charm. Just him.

“You’re not just beautiful,” he said. “You’re different. I don’t even know what that means yet, but I’d like to find out. Slowly. Properly. Not in a headline. Not at some party. Just one real moment at a time.”

For a second, all you could do was look at him.

Because in the space of a single walk, he’d gone from the kind of man you avoided - flashy, loud, too easily admired to someone who made you feel steady from one conversation. Grounded. Like maybe the world wasn’t just curated smiles and shallow compliments.

You nodded.

Just once.

Then you stepped into the car. The door clicked shut behind you, the driver already pulling into motion as the city began to blur past.

But you didn’t look at your phone. You didn’t reach for your clutch.

You just looked back.

And there he was.

Still standing on the sidewalk. Still watching you go.

Still waiting.

And for the first time in a long time, you wanted someone to wait.

You didn’t expect to hear from him again not really.

That night had felt like something outside of time. A moment suspended in glass, too rare and perfect to survive in the wild. You had replayed it in fragments: the sound of his laugh under the streetlamp, the way his voice dropped when he admitted things he didn’t owe you, the stillness between you that somehow said more than any scripted line ever could.

But life didn’t slow down just because you’d shared a quiet spark with someone the rest of the world idolised. Monday came with the full force of deadlines and digital calendars. Lecture halls and coffee-stained notepads. Your desk was a mess of model agency printouts and half-written research about majority of them, your inbox a graveyard of unread threads and polite nudges your manager. You had barely looked at your phone all morning, which was saying something in this age.

But around noon, during a rare lull, you picked it up. A red badge hovered over Instagram. You opened the app on muscle memory, expecting a meme from Angelica or a random story tag. What you didn’t expect was a DM request.

From lewishamilton.

Your breath stalled for a second. The blue checkmark confirmed it before your brain could even begin to rationalise a fake account theory.

You tapped.

lewishamilton:

Hey. It’s Lewis.

I found something I think you’d appreciate.

You free Thursday night? Private art exhibit. Low-key. Just us.

You blinked. Once. Twice. The words sat still on the screen, but your thoughts raced ahead.

There was no flourish. No grand gesture. Just him, continuing a conversation as if the street hadn’t swallowed your night whole after you’d driven off. Like your shared moment wasn’t just some one-off flicker of chemistry under the glow of a city too used to pretending.

You clicked on his profile, absurdly just to confirm again that it really was him. Same photos. Same activism highlights. Same effortless, understated captions.

And yet somehow, the most intimate thing was this message. Because he hadn’t gone through anyone. Not PR. Not assistants. Not Angela. Just him.

Your gaze drifted to your planner, where Thursday was already bleeding with ink. Two lectures back to back, a research meeting, and a late-night shift organising files for a criminal law professor with a penchant for last-minute requests.

You sat back in your chair, thumb hovering over the reply box far longer than necessary. You considered just saying yes. You even typed it once. Sure. Where?

Then deleted it.

You couldn’t remember the last time someone had invited you to something like that. Not as a networking move, not to impress you with glitz or clout but just because they thought you might enjoy it. Because of something you had said.

You stared at the screen again. Then, finally:

You:

Appreciate the invite.

Sounds like a lovely night, but I’m buried in work this week.

Maybe another time.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself into oblivion.

There was a pang as you closed the app. Not regret, exactly but something adjacent. Like brushing your fingers along the edge of a door you weren’t ready to walk through.

You didn’t expect a reply.

And none came. Not right away.

You figured that was it. He’d probably moved on. Maybe it had just been a kind impulse, a spark he was already used to forgetting.

But two days later, a small package arrived at your apartment.

No frills. No courier with a clipboard or a sleek branded sleeve. Just a plain cardboard box with your name handwritten across the top in a surprisingly neat script.

Your heart beat a little faster as you opened it.

Inside was a book. Hardbound. Leather edges worn just slightly, like it had lived somewhere loved.

"The Language of Light: A Hidden History of Art and Emotion."

You sat down.

Your fingers brushed over the cover like it might disappear. It wasn’t just rare. It was out of print. Something you’d mentioned offhandedly during that first conversation at the event, an old favourite you had only ever found in scanned PDFs during long nights at the library.

He remembered.

You opened the cover. Inside, tucked between the pages, was a folded note on unlined ivory paper.

Thought you’d enjoy this more than a gallery tour. No pressure. Just thought of you.

— L.

Your throat tightened.

There were gifts, and then there were gestures. This was the latter - measured, thoughtful, intimate in a way that felt undeserved but impossible not to be moved by. You hadn’t said much to him. Just a few thoughts about symbolism, about how light in Renaissance paintings wasn’t just technique but emotion how it often told the story louder than the faces.

And he’d listened.

You stared at the book for a long time, trying to find the right place in your chest to store the weight of that intention.

It was almost evening when you finally reopened your phone.

Instagram DM.

You:

That was thoughtful. Unexpected.

How about coffee instead? Saturday? Casual.

You stared at the message for a long beat. Then hit send.

You barely had time to put the phone down before it buzzed again.

lewishamilton:

Absolutely.

You pick the place. I’ll be there.

There was no emoji. No ellipsis of hesitation.

Just certainty.

You leaned back into your chair, the half-eaten takeout now cold beside your untouched notes. For the first time in a long while, your mind drifted away from work, from pressure, from performance.

You smiled.

The pursuit had begun.

But it wasn’t flashy.

It wasn’t performative.

It was something else entirely.

Intentional. Quiet. Patient.

The kind of pursuit that didn’t ask to be chased.

Just seen.

And maybe just maybe that was exactly what you’d been waiting for.

You chose the café carefully small, quiet, discreet. A little tucked away, pressed between two bookstores, as if it were hiding on purpose. The kind of place where you could order a coffee and stay for hours without anyone ushering you out. The kind of place that knew how to mind its business.

It felt like a space you could breathe in where conversation could spill and stretch without the threat of interruption.

And when Lewis walked in, head low beneath a grey hoodie, worn cap pulled down to shield his profile, no one gave him a second glance.

But your eyes found him instantly.

Not because he was Lewis Hamilton. Not because of the weight his name carried.

But because of how he walked in looking only for you.

There was no scan of the café, no moment of hesitation. Just a direct line between the door and your table like he already knew you’d be exactly where he’d hoped.

His smile half-curved, familiar now in a way that warmed your ribs slipped into place as he pulled off his cap.

“Hope you weren’t waiting too long,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

You shook your head, your lips twitching. “Not at all. I was curious what kind of coffee a seven-time world champion drinks when he’s not being mobbed by photographers.”

That earned a quiet laugh low and genuine.

“Disappointingly normal,” he replied. “Oat flat white. Sometimes cinnamon when I’m feeling dangerous.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning mock intrigue. “Living recklessly, I see.”

He leaned back slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “What can I say? Risk is in my blood.”

It was easy, the way you spoke. A rhythm neither of you had to search for. Like a song you already half-knew the lyrics to.

But the small talk didn’t last. It never did with him.

There was something about Lewis, about the way he listened without interruption, about how he never rushed silence that made honesty spill from you in ways you didn’t expect.

You talked about your work not the high-shine, polished version that made it to social media, but the reality. The grit behind the glamour. The endless fittings, the exhausting travel, the strange ache that came with building a career on being looked at, judged, picked apart.

You told him how you used to bend to fit expectations how you’d confused being seen with being valued.

“I used to think success was just visibility,” you said, your hands wrapped tightly around your mug. “Like if enough people saw me, I’d matter. But now? I’m more interested in impact. Quiet, long-term things. Not just posing for a cause but creating space. Mentoring. Funding grassroots programs. Giving the next girl a voice before the world teaches her to silence it.”

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t even blink. He just absorbed.

“That’s powerful,” he said finally, voice low. “A lot of people don’t pivot like that. They get stuck in the game, even when it’s hurting them.”

You looked at him then. “You’d know a thing or two about games.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way to his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmured, fingers tracing the lip of his coffee cup. “The system. The expectations. The story people write for you before you’ve had a chance to write your own.”

You didn’t speak. Just gave him space. And sure enough, he continued.

“I love racing. I always have. But fame that’s the part that’s lonelier than people think. Everyone thinks they know you. Or worse, they want to. But not for you, for the version of you they’ve decided on.”

He paused; eyes trained on the swirl of his coffee.

“I used to try and keep up. Try to meet the version people expected. Now? I just want something real. Quiet, maybe. But true.”

You remembered that night not just the event, but the aftermath. The book he sent. The handwritten note. The gesture that wasn’t loud, but intentional. And how, even before you met him again, you knew he wasn’t the type to play games. He’d told you as much: I don’t do casual anymore. Haven’t in a long time.

Still…

There was a part of you that hesitated. Not because of anything he’d done. But because of everything that came with him.

You stared into your cup for a long moment before saying softly, “Can I ask something?”

He nodded. “Always.”

You drew in a breath, trying to sort through the tangle in your chest. “I know you’re not looking for something fleeting. I believe that. I just need to question again. I’ve seen the headlines, Lewis. The relationships. The breakups. The speculation. I’ve seen how people talk about you like you’re a season on a streaming service something to tune into until they get bored.”

You lifted your gaze to meet his. “I don’t want to be a headline. Or a phase. Or a rumor someone laughs about over wine.”

The café hummed with soft chatter around you, but in your booth, there was only stillness.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t retreat.

Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice steady and sure.

“I get that. Completely. And I don’t blame you for being cautious. But just so you know I’ve had enough of surface-level everything. Of relationships that look good in photos but feel hollow behind closed doors.”

His voice dipped slightly. “I’m not looking for the next thing. I’m looking for the real thing. And I’d rather move slowly with someone who matters than rush into something shiny that breaks.”

You let his words sit between you.

Outside, people passed with coffee cups and hurried steps. Deadlines. Meetings. A whole city moving fast.

But in here, time bent. Stretched.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said finally, your voice quieter now.

He gave a lopsided grin. “Good, unexpected?”

You smiled. “The best kind.”

It wasn’t a thunderclap moment. No orchestral swell. Just a shift. Deep, subtle. Like the earth moving beneath your feet.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to run.

You didn’t want to edit yourself into something more palatable.

You just wanted to stay.

And that was enough for now.

Though soon enough, it started with a single photo.

No warning. No camera clicks. No telltale whispers behind menus or sunglasses tilted just a little too far.

Just a quiet corner of a Notting Hill café, the smell of roasted espresso in the air, the sleeve of your jacket brushing against his as you leaned in to laugh at something stupid, he said. A moment that had felt safe, untouched - yours.

And then it was everywhere.

By Monday morning, it felt like the entire internet had a magnifying glass held up to your life. Your face was splashed across digital tabloids, dissected on talk shows, paired with clickbait captions in bold fonts.

"Lewis Hamilton Spotted on Cozy Coffee Date with Model-Activist [Y/N]"

"Hamilton’s Mystery Woman: Who is She and How Did She Win His Heart?"

"Is This the Beginning of a New F1 Love Story?"

And worse:

"[Y/N]: From Campaigns to Hamilton’s Arm Candy?"

They called it romantic. Enigmatic. A “power couple in the making.”

But to you, it felt invasive. Dehumanising.

You had been seen but not in the way that mattered. Not for your voice, your work, your values. Just as another woman in Lewis Hamilton’s orbit.

What had been sacred and what had felt real was now public property. Another storyline to chew on. Another notch in the narrative of who Lewis Hamilton might be dating this time.

You weren’t stupid. You knew who he was. What came with him. You’d done your research the way any woman with a protective instinct would. And no matter how respectful he’d been with you, no matter how much he seemed different in private, the world didn’t care about nuance.

To them, you were just a pretty face. A model. A convenient narrative.

And it was already starting to bleed into your career.

That afternoon, walking into a primetime radio spot meant to raise awareness for a girls’ education fund, you felt it immediately the shift in tone. The not so subtle smiles from producers, the curious glint in the host’s eyes before the segment even began.

Fifteen minutes in, it happened.

“So, the internet’s been buzzing after you were spotted with the Lewis Hamilton. Anything you’d like to confirm or deny?”

A beat.

You smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I didn’t realise grabbing coffee with a friend had become headline-worthy.”

The host chuckled, leaning in. “Well, when that friend is Lewis Hamilton, it’s fair game, no?”

You steered the conversation back to the girls’ stories. Their voices. Their potential. But part of you knew it wouldn’t matter.

You could already hear the edit in your head.

By the time you left the building, your phone was vibrating nonstop. A DM from your agent. A group chat with your friends lighting up. A gossip blog already running a headline that quoted your sarcasm completely out of context.

And suddenly, you were no longer the lead of your own life.

You were someone’s accessory.

By the time you reached Lewis’s place that evening, your chest was tight with frustration. Not at him not yet but at how predictable this all felt. How familiar. Like the very thing you’d always avoided was now unfolding, despite every quiet warning you’d given yourself.

He opened the door in a hoodie and sweats, hair tied up, a tea mug in hand. His expression shifted immediately when he saw your face.

“Hey are you alright?”

You didn’t answer.

You walked past him, head bowed, hands in the pockets of your oversized coat. The silence hung between you like static.

“Did you know?” you asked finally, your voice low and tight.

He blinked. “Did I know what?”

“That we were photographed. That this would happen. That they’d turn it into this.”

He shut the door slowly, setting the mug aside. “No. I swear I didn’t. I had no idea.”

You nodded once, but it wasn’t enough. The knot inside you was still there. Growing.

“I knew this would happen eventually. I knew. But I didn’t think it would be this soon. And now…” You paced once, then stopped. “Now they’re writing about me like I’m some some stunt. Like I’m another model sleeping her way into your headlines.”

His face dropped. “That’s not what—”

“No, I know it’s not what you think,” you said, voice rising, cracking slightly. “But that’s how they’ll spin it. It’s already happening. Three interviews today, Lewis. Three. And not one of them gave a damn about the girls I’m working with. They wanted soundbites. They wanted a scoop. They wanted you.”

He stayed quiet, jaw tense, watching you with a look that was more pain than anything else.

You took a breath, then another, pressing your hands to your temples.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to get involved. With you. Not because I don’t like you. Not because I don’t see something real between us. But because this is what happens. Every woman you’re linked to, she gets reduced to a hashtag. A rumor. A whore in the comments section.”

Your voice broke, but you didn’t stop.

“They’re already calling me the new ‘flavour.’ The model-of-the-month. As if I’m not allowed to be more than a body. As if I haven’t spent years building my name on actual work.”

You met his eyes then, finally still. “Do you know how exhausting it is to constantly have to prove that you’re not some pretty thing sleeping her way through life? To fight for every inch of credibility and then lose it the second someone powerful is seen next to you?”

The room was quiet. So quiet you could hear your pulse in your ears.

And then he stepped forward, voice hushed.

“I hate that you’re feeling this. That being next to me made it harder, not easier. That you got the backlash for something I should’ve protected you from.”

You shook your head. “It’s not just you. It’s the machine around you. The expectations. The stories they’ve already written before they even know who I am.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And I wish I could change it all. I’d burn the whole narrative down if I could.”

He walked over, slowly, giving you space to step away if you needed. You didn’t.

“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how women are treated in this world,” he continued. “How women like you are always the first ones questioned, the first ones judged. And it kills me that being near me added fuel to that.”

You exhaled, your voice quieter now. “It’s not that I regret being with you. I just... I need to know that I still get to be me. That I don’t disappear into this.”

He reached for your hand gentle, warm and grounding.

“You won’t,” he promised. “I won’t let that happen. We can be as private as you need. I won’t post anything, won’t speak about you unless you’re ready. If this is too soon, I’ll give you space. But I don’t want to lose this. Lose you.”

You swallowed, eyes meeting his. “I don’t want to lose it either.”

Then, softer: “I just don’t want to lose myself in the process.”

His thumb brushed your knuckles. “You were someone before me. You’ll always be someone - with or without me. I see you. Not the headlines. You. And I’ll do whatever it takes to help protect that.”

You didn’t speak right away.

But when you leaned into him a moment later resting your forehead against his shoulder, his arms looping gently around your waist and you let yourself believe that maybe, this could still be yours.

Not theirs.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

When Lewis invited you to the charity gala, you almost said no.

Not because you weren’t interested, it aligned almost perfectly with your values. Clean water initiatives. Sustainable farming. Educational access for girls in under-resourced areas. The kind of evening that, under different circumstances, would’ve felt like home.

But this past week had knocked the wind out of you.

There had been headlines speculating about you, not just as a woman in his orbit, but as someone “plucked from obscurity,” someone “new to the scene,” someone “clearly enjoying the spotlight.”

They didn’t know the years of study. The late nights. The passion for justice work you’d carried with you since you were old enough to understand that not all children were born with the same safety nets.

You weren’t sure you could stomach another night of being seen with him, rather than being seen as yourself.

He must’ve sensed that hesitation.

Because when he asked, it wasn’t with pressure or persuasion it was with honesty.

“If you don’t want to be there for me, come for the work. It’s not a red carpet thing it’s quiet, real. You can sit in the back, speak if you want, disappear if you don’t. I just thought you might actually love what the night stands for.”

There was no glint of charm in his eyes when he said it. No flirtation. Just a quiet offering.

That was what made you say yes.

It wasn’t about the glitz. It wasn’t about optics. It wasn’t even about him, entirely.

It was about a door he opened to a part of his life that meant something.

And the way he invited you through it like it wasn’t a performance but a partnership.

The event wasn’t what you expected.

There was no fanfare. No swarms of photographers. No branded step-and-repeats or celebrity entourages.

Just an intimate venue nestled in a quiet place converted from an old greenhouse, the space still held that same breath of life. Ferns and potted fig trees filled the corners. The air smelled like eucalyptus and orange blossom. Candlelight flickered against glass panes, casting soft gold reflections across the faces of people who, like you, had come to listen.

You arrived separately.

He’d insisted on it.

“I don’t want this to feel like a scene,” he’d said gently on the phone the night before. “I just want it to feel right.”

He hadn’t tried to sit you front and centre. In fact, when you found your name card on a small round table, you were tucked beside two female founders of a clean energy nonprofit. He knew enough not to wedge you into a table of influencers and athletes. He placed you among peers.

And him?

He was working.

You watched him move through the room never in a rush, never pulling attention. He greeted activists and organisers with the kind of familiarity that only comes from showing up before the cameras. Quiet nods, quick hugs, listening intently when someone spoke instead of nodding distractedly and moving on.

You caught glimpses of him helping staff rearrange chairs at the back. Taking a moment to calm a nervous teenage speaker behind the scenes. Whispering something encouraging that made her shoulders square again.

When his time came to speak, there was no pomp, no overly rehearsed notes.

He stood beside a simple wooden podium and let silence fall before he spoke.

“It’s not about being seen doing good,” he said, his voice quiet but resonant. “It’s about making sure we’re not the last ones in the room to care. About using our platforms to amplify not overshadow. I’ve been that guy before. The one who thought showing up was enough. But showing up is just the start.”

The words weren’t smooth or media ready. They cracked slightly at the edges, especially when he talked about the time he’d visited a refugee camp outside Nairobi, and a little boy asked if he was the man who drove cars or built homes.

“That question wrecked me,” he said. “Because I had no answer that felt good enough.”

You didn’t realise you were gripping the stem of your glass so tightly until the applause broke out around you, warm and genuine.

There it was.

Not a polished version of Lewis Hamilton.

Just Lewis. No mask. No script.

And for the first time in days, the tension in your chest began to loosen.

Maybe this wasn’t a performance.

Maybe he meant all of it.

Later, after the final speaker and a silent auction that raised over a million pounds, you found yourself near the garden terrace, away from the warm chatter and clinking glasses inside.

The night air was crisp, touched by the scent of night jasmine and damp stone. You sipped your sparkling elderflower tonic slowly, letting the stillness settle around you.

That’s when you felt him approach before you saw him.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You looked over, and there he was. Not Lewis Hamilton the icon. Just Lewis. Shirt collar undone, tie gone, suit sleeves rolled up slightly at the cuffs. He looked almost boyish in that moment. Disarming.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low.

You nodded, then after a beat, added, “This was incredible, Lewis.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual smirk. It was quieter. Touched by something real.

“Means a lot coming from you.”

You turned to face him more fully. “You weren’t kidding. This wasn’t for cameras. You really care.”

“I do.” He paused, looking back toward the glowing windows. “People assume it’s performative. That I just throw money at causes to sleep better at night. But I’ve seen the wells go dry. I’ve met the kids who walk hours for school and still show up smiling. You can’t unsee that.”

There was a weight to his words, one you knew well.

“I wish people saw this version of you more often,” you said.

He gave a small, crooked grin. “Doesn’t trend the way yacht photos do.”

You laughed together, but there was something sad under it. A knowing. An ache.

And then he held out his hand, gentle and sure.

“Dance with me?”

You looked around. “There’s no dance floor.”

“There’s music,” he said, eyes glinting with a quiet softness.

You hesitated just long enough to feel the tremor of nerves flutter in your chest—then slipped your hand into his.

He led you to a tucked-away corner of the garden, where the music of soft jazz and piano drifted from discreet speakers. There were no fairy lights. No spotlight.

Just the moon above, the hush of the night, and him.

His hand settled on your waist. The other curled around yours.

And you danced.

Slow, unhurried, silent.

You felt the rise and fall of his chest. The heat of his skin through the thin fabric of your dress. The steady brush of his thumb over your spine.

The world faded.

You rested your head back on his shoulder, his arms circling you tighter.

You weren’t naïve. The world would still talk. The headlines would still twist things. You’d still be pulled into narratives you hadn’t written.

But in this still moment, in this small corner of the night you weren’t just a face next to his.

You were his choice.

And possibly he was becoming yours, too.

You stayed like that for a while, swaying gently under the soft hum of piano and night wind, neither of you speaking, but saying everything that needed to be said in the way your bodies moved in tandem unhurried, present, close.

Then slowly, he pulled back not far, just enough so he could look at you.

His gaze searched your face, quiet and steady.

And something passed between you then. Wordless. Certain.

The space between your mouths felt impossibly small.

You could’ve looked away. You could’ve stepped back.

But you didn’t.

Because for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were standing on someone else’s stage.

You felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

And when he leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to stop him you met him halfway.

The kiss was gentle at first. Just a soft press of lips, reverent and tentative. But when you didn’t pull away when your fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket and his hand slid up your back with quiet certainty - it deepened.

Still slow. Still careful.

But full of everything unspoken.

His lips moved with intention, not hunger. Not possession. Just connection.

Like he wanted to memorise you.

Like he didn’t want the moment to slip through his fingers too quickly.

When you finally parted, neither of you moved far. His forehead rested against yours, breath shallow and warm between you.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted quietly, voice barely more than a whisper.

You smiled, lips still tingling. “I know.”

He laughed softly, and the sound vibrated in your chest.

Then, pulling back just enough to see your eyes, he added, “But I needed it to mean something.”

“It does,” you whispered. “It does.”

And as his fingers laced through yours again, holding your hand like it was something worth protecting, you knew—

This wasn’t about being swept up in someone else’s gravity.

This was about finding someone who saw your light and wanted to walk in it with you.

So, you leaned in, brushed your lips against his once more, and let yourself believe—

That maybe love didn’t always start with fireworks and fanfare.

Maybe, sometimes, it started quietly.

In the corner of a garden.

With soft music.

And a kiss that felt like the beginning of something honest.

Something that, for once, didn’t need the world’s approval.

Only yours.

Only his.

And that was enough.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The shift didn’t come with fireworks or grand declarations.

It came in the quiet things.

The way he texted to ask how your casting call went before his own day had even started, even if he was in another time zone. The way you sent him photos of books you thought he’d like, or quotes from poetry that reminded you of him. The way he called late at night from hotel rooms halfway across the world just to hear your voice his tone always soft, sometimes tired, but never distracted. Always present.

You were blending slowly, intentionally. Stitching together the edges of your lives without unraveling the seams of your individual selves.

And maybe that’s what made it feel real.

One Sunday, you invited him to brunch with your closest circle - Sarah, of course, and two other friends from modelling. The ones who had seen you cry into takeout after a brutal agency meeting, who'd seen you laugh until your stomach hurt in dressing room mirrors, who'd taken your hand when jobs got too thin or criticism too sharp. They were your chosen sisters. The women who had known you in both glamour and collapse.

You warned them beforehand.

“He’s not the version you see in magazines,” you told Sarah as you sipped on your oat milk latte. “He’s quieter. Softer. So don’t you know. Put on a show.”

Sarah arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “We won’t. But if he’s fake nice, or name-drops his watch brand mid-sentence, we will roast him.”

You smirked. “That’s fair.”

But when the morning arrived, he wasn’t fake nice. Not even close.

He showed up early, dressed in a navy hoodie, loose jeans, and a beanie tugged low on his curls. No entourage. No designer coat. Just him. And a bouquet of yellow ranunculus clutched a little awkwardly in one hand.

“For your roommate,” he said, handing them over with a shy smile. “She said she liked these once. Thought it might brighten up the place.”

Inside the cozy little brunch spot, he sat across from your friends with his shoulders relaxed, elbows off the table, listening more than he spoke. He asked Sarah about her new photography exhibit like he actually cared, not like he was trying to impress. He asked one of your friends how her runway in Milan had gone and told her he’d seen the photos “You absolutely owned that Dior coat, by the way.”

Your friends tested him, gently, the way protective women do. A few sarcastic jabs. A joke about being vegan. A story from the tabloids that was clearly exaggerated.

But Lewis didn’t flinch. He leaned into it. He laughed. Deflected with grace. Made a self-deprecating joke about being the “worst texter in the world” and admitted he still sometimes got nervous before a race. When your friend mentioned a charity gala she was helping organise for women’s shelters, he asked if she needed help with sponsorships.

And when he slipped his hand onto your knee beneath the table grounding and sure. Your friends glanced at each other. Not with suspicion.

But with approval.

“He’s really into you,” Sarah whispered afterward as you walked her to her car.

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. “I know.”

And maybe you were, too. Maybe you were in deeper than you’d meant to go.

A week later, he invited you to a Grand Prix.

Not as a guest of the team.

As his guest.

“I want you to see it,” he said one night over dinner. “Not the press conferences. Not the headlines. The actual thing. The chaos. The team. The work.”

You paused, your fork mid-air. “Are you sure? That’s a lot of attention. And it’s your turf.”

“I’m sure.” He reached across the table and brushed your fingers. “I don’t need you to be seen there. I just want you with me.”

And that’s what got you.

So, you packed light denim jacket, your favourite sunglasses, comfortable sneakers. The paddock pass arrived the day before your flight, your name printed neatly at the bottom. You stared at it for a long time before tucking it into your purse.

The race weekend was a whirlwind.

The noise hit you first an electric, thunderous energy that pulsed through your chest and under your skin. Everything moved fast. Precision met instinct at every turn. Team members zipped around like choreographed dancers, every gesture economical, every second accounted for.

But even in the chaos, Lewis was calm.

In his race suit, visor down, he moved with the poise of someone who had lived inside this world for years. You watched him converse with engineers in low, clipped tones, his hand sometimes resting on his hip, nodding as he processed data. You saw him break into a grin when a young fan nervously asked for a selfie. You saw him shake the hand of every crew member before stepping into the car.

And every so often, he looked for you. His eyes scanning. Finding. Softening.

Like you were his centre in the whirlwind.

At one point, you watched him crouch down to speak with a group of kids, students from an inner-city school he supported. He met them at eye level. Asked them questions. Showed them the buttons on his steering wheel. Let one of them wear his spare headset.

You didn’t take a photo.

You just admired it.

That night, back at the hotel after hours of racing, debriefs, sponsor handshakes, and a long shower that left the scent of his body wash on your skin - he lay beside you, the sheets tangled around your legs, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.

For a long while, he didn’t say anything.

Then quietly, his voice low and a little hoarse:

“Do you think we’re doing this?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze in the half-dark.

“Doing what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between you, a tired smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You and me. The real thing.”

You didn’t rush to answer. You felt the question settle between your ribs like something fragile. Something worth protecting.

And then, you reached for his hand. Laced your fingers with his.

“I think we are.”

He nodded. Once. Like he was afraid to breathe too loud and ruin the moment.

“I don’t want to just be a chapter in your story,” he whispered. “I want to build something. Not fast. Not flashy. Just us.”

You moved closer, your leg draping over his, your mouth brushing against his.

“Then let’s build it.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for months. Then pulled you against him, his arms circling your waist, your bodies fitting like something familiar.

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the gauzy curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. His arm was heavy across your waist, his face buried in the curve of your neck, curls mussed and sleep warm.

You reached for your phone, blinking blearily at the screen.

A text from Sarah lit up the top:

Saw the paddock photo. You looked hot. But more importantly you looked happy.

You smiled.

Turning to face him, you gently brushed a curl from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, sleepy and unguarded.

“We’re gonna have to talk about what this looks like in the real world,” you murmured.

He blinked. Then nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

“We can’t control what they say about me. Or you. Especially not together.”

“No,” he said quietly. “But we can control what we say. What we choose.”

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the compass tattoo on his chest, close enough where you could feel the heart beat steady and strong beneath your palm.

“We’re choosing each other, then?”

His hand slid up your spine, pulled you closer, tucked your head beneath his chin.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Every damn time.”

And somehow, just like that, it felt like the beginning of something permanent.

A few weeks later.

It started with a headline.

“Hamilton’s Late-Night Encounter: Mystery Woman Spotted Leaving Monaco Suite.”

You were in the kitchen when you saw it still in sweatpants, mug in hand, waiting for the kettle to boil when your phone vibrated with a message from Sarah and a single word: Ugh.

You clicked the link, still half-asleep.

There it was.

A blurry photo. A woman walking briskly through the side entrance of a hotel, her back turned to the camera. Designer heels. Sleek hair. The timestamp circled in red.

Your stomach flipped.

Two nights ago. Monaco. When Lewis was supposed to be doing a sponsor dinner. When you'd been stuck in London for a shoot that ran late, your texts with him soft and sweet and sleepy.

The article didn’t outright accuse. It didn’t have to.

Phrases like “unconfirmed identity,” “not his usual companion,” “seen leaving after midnight” did all the heavy lifting. The tone of it was calculated, rehearsed an artfully vague dissection designed to pierce.

You didn’t even notice the mug slip from your hand until it hit the counter and clattered onto the floor, tea splashing across your bare feet. You barely blinked. Your eyes were locked on the screen.

And then your name.

Third paragraph.

“This comes only weeks after Hamilton was seen getting close to rising model sparking speculation of a new romance. If so, it seems the honeymoon phase may already be over.”

Your hands started shaking before your mind could even catch up.

For a few seconds, all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears. Then the silence of your flat closed in around you like a trap. Still. Too still. Oppressively quiet.

You sat down on the edge of the sofa, the article still open, as if rereading it might make it hurt less.

But your brain refused to compute anything other than the one question looping like static in your mind:

What if it’s true?

You didn’t text him.

Not with anger. Not with curiosity. Not even with sarcasm.

You said nothing. Because silence was the only thing that made sense in that moment. Because if you’d opened your mouth or your inbox you weren’t sure what might come pouring out.

You opened his last message again, reading it through blurred eyes:

Miss you. Can’t wait to be home. Call you when I’m back, sweetheart. x

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

Backspace. Lock. Unlock. Backspace again.

When he called that night, your phone lit up on the coffee table his contact photo appearing like a punch to the chest. You let it ring out.

Once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

By then your hand was clenched so tightly around the hem of your hoodie it started to ache. You finally answered the silence with a message:

“Saw the article. I need space.”

No punctuation. No heart. Just space.

You expected a reply.

Some kind of defence. A panicked call. A voice note.

But instead, nothing.

Twenty-four hours.

Then another.

And another.

You told yourself it was better this way. That you wanted the silence. That it gave you room to breathe.

But by day three, you were checking his Instagram stories with a pathetic sort of desperation, searching for signs proof of innocence or guilt. Anything.

There was nothing.

Not a quote. Not a cryptic lyric. Not even a black square.

Sarah came by with Thai food and a bottle of wine.

You didn’t want to talk about it. You told her that.

She sat with you anyway, unpacking containers onto the coffee table, brushing soy sauce off her jeans as if the world weren’t falling apart in the room with you.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head. No.

But then, halfway through the wine and an hour into a rewatch of Notting Hill, it spilled out like floodwater breaking a dam.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” you whispered, legs tucked beneath you, voice barely audible. “I thought we were strong enough. That we were real. And that the noise would stay outside.”

Sarah didn’t interrupt. She just reached over, brushed a tear off your cheek with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“Do you think he actually cheated?” she asked, carefully.

You took a long breath. One that burned on the way in.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “That’s the part that makes me sick. The fact that I can’t say for sure. The fact that it’s even a question.”

The knock came on the third night.

Late. Nearly eleven. Rain streaked across your windows, soft and steady.

You froze.

Another knock firm but cautious.

You opened the door to find Lewis standing there in a hoodie and joggers, soaked from the downpour, cap pulled low. He looked tired. Hollow in a way you hadn’t seen before.

His eyes met yours with a rawness that nearly buckled your knees.

He held up a manila folder like it was some kind of peace offering.

“Can I come in?” he asked, quietly.

You didn’t speak. You just stepped back.

He walked in slowly, like your flat was unfamiliar now. Like it belonged to another version of your relationship.

He didn’t sit.

He didn’t try to touch you.

He just handed you the folder.

“I need you to see this.”

Inside: printed emails, a timestamped guest log, signed clearance documents from the hotel. Screenshots of security footage - Jenna, the stylist, walking in at 9:13 p.m., walking out at 9:32.

“She was there for a fitting,” he said, voice rough. “That’s all. She’s married. Her husband was in the car downstairs waiting for her. I had no idea someone tipped off a pap until I woke up to the headline.”

You ran your thumb along the corner of the folder. Slowly. The paper was still warm from his hands.

“I should’ve called the moment I saw it,” he continued. “But I was scared. Not of what you’d say. I was scared it might already be too late.”

You sat down. Not because you wanted to. Because your legs gave out.

He stayed standing, elbows on his knees, hands knotted together in front of him.

“I’ve never lied to you,” he said softly. “Not once. And I won’t start now. This – us it means everything to me. But I know headlines like that plant doubt. I just wanted to show you I still choose you. That I’m not going to disappear when it gets ugly.”

Your vision blurred again. But this time not with confusion. With the weight of knowing he really did show up.

“I didn’t know if you would,” you murmured. “I hoped. But I didn’t know.”

Lewis took a cautious step closer, lowering himself onto the edge of the coffee table in front of you.

“I will,” he said. “Even if you shut me out. Even if you think you hate me. I’ll keep showing up.”

You reached for his hand. He gripped yours like a lifeline.

“I believe you,” you said quietly. “And I’m sorry I didn’t… I just didn’t know what to do with all of it.”

“You were scared,” he said. “I get it. So was I.”

You exhaled shakily, leaning your forehead against his.

The silence between you felt different now. Less like distance. More like healing.

That night, wrapped in the dark quiet of your bed, you traced your fingers along his chest.

“This is the part where most people give up,” you whispered.

He kissed the crown of your head.

“Then let’s not be most people.”

You let the words settle in your bones.

And then, softly, without lifting your head:

“If it ever happens again if they try to drag us through it…”

“I’ll handle it,” he murmured.

“No,” you said. “Next time, I get to punch them first.”

He laughed, really laughed for the first time in days and pulled you closer.

“Deal.”

The decision hadn’t been light.

Three days after the Monaco fallout, he posted the photo - your hands intertwined, taken on a quiet morning neither of you remembered posing for. No caption. No tags.

Just the truth, plain and deliberate.

You’d stared at it on your screen for a long time before you breathed again.

The press had a field day, of course. Speculation, headlines, theories. Some kind. Most not.

But what mattered was what he said when reporters asked him directly that weekend at the paddock.

“I’m in a relationship,” he said calmly, mic in hand, eyes steady beneath his sunglasses. “And I care about her a lot. That’s all I’ll say, because I’m not here to perform it. I’m here to protect it.”

He looked directly into the camera as he said it.

And you knew that was for you.

Now, as the night unfolded in glittering layers, you found him again across the room. He was with a few other drivers, laughing at something Charles had just said. But when he saw you lingering near the balcony doors, he excused himself without a second thought.

You leaned against the railing, letting the city hum below you. The party blurred behind the glass.

“Too much?” Lewis asked, stepping beside you.

You glanced at him. “Not when you’re here.”

He nodded slowly, slipping his hand into yours.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “Back at the paddock. I don’t want to hide what we are. Not anymore. Not ever again.”

You looked at him - this man who had fought for you, who had waited through your silence, who had offered not just proof, but presence.

“I know,” you said softly. “And I’m with you. All the way.”

You turned, facing him fully, letting vulnerability bloom between you like it had the night he’d shown up with that manila folder in his hand and heartbreak in his eyes.

“I was scared,” you admitted. “That loving someone like you meant losing pieces of myself. But it’s the opposite. Being with you feels like coming home to parts of me I didn’t even know were missing.”

Lewis exhaled, slow and deep.

His hand came to rest against your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

“I don’t need the perfect version of you,” he said. “I just want you. All of you.”

A lump rose in your throat. This man. This flawed, honest, vulnerable man who’d chosen you in the storm.

“I love you,” you whispered. “Even when it’s messy. Even when I’m terrified.”

His forehead pressed gently to yours, his breath warm and steady against your lips.

“Good because I love you till infinity,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, anchoring you to the moment. His lips brushed yours soft, reverent, like he was trying to memorise the feel of your mouth before he even fully kissed you. And then he did kiss you, slow and sure, his other hand resting at your waist like a vow. It was the kind of kiss that made time go quiet, the kind that wrapped itself around your ribs and held tight.

When he pulled back, his voice was rougher. Barely above a whisper.

“You were never just a trophy, you know.”

You blinked, your heart stuttering in your chest.

“Lewis—”

He shook his head, gently cutting you off. “Not to the world. To me. I was scared that maybe that’s what you thought you were to me. That with the cameras and the rumours and everything else, maybe I’d made you feel like you were a prize I won. But you weren’t. You aren’t.”

Your throat tightened. He looked down at you like you were more than flesh and blood like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t realised he’d been asking for years.

“I knew the first time I met you,” he continued, thumb grazing your jaw, “when you looked at me like I was just a man. Not a driver. Not a brand. Just a man who’d said something dumb and you called me out for it.”

You laughed softly, remembering.

He smiled, but it faltered slightly. His tone shifted again, deeper now. Honest.

“But I also knew right then that you were the lot. Not just someone special. The person. The one I’d been waiting to find without knowing I was even missing her.”

You swallowed around the ache in your throat.

Then his expression shifted again tender, and a little raw. “And thank you…for seeing past everything they said about me. The headlines. The stories. The women. I know how it looks sometimes. I know what they’ve said.”

He paused, pressing his lips together for a second.

“I was lost for a while,” he admitted quietly. “There were nights I didn’t even recognise myself. But you looked past all that. You saw me. You never made me explain, and you never used it against me.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up and touched the side of his face.

“I didn’t want the version of you they painted,” you said gently. “I wanted the one who shows up. The one who sits with me in the quiet. The one who fights to be better and means it.”

His eyes shone with emotion. “I’m still fighting.”

“I know. So am I.”

Silence stretched between you, comfortable now, thick with the gravity of everything that had been said.

“I didn’t want to need anyone,” you whispered. “But I chose you. And I still do. Every single day.”

His eyes closed for half a second, like the weight of those words landed somewhere deep in his chest. When he opened them again, they shimmered with unshed emotion.

“Then let me be worthy of that. Let me keep showing up. Even when it’s hard. Even when we fight. Even when the world’s watching.”

“It already is,” you said softly, gesturing to the world behind the glass, the party still spinning without you.

He turned slightly, angling his body so he shielded you from the view inside. “Let them watch. Let them write their headlines.”

Then he leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“They’ll never capture this. What we are. What we have.”

You closed your eyes, a small breath escaping your lips. You’d never been one for grand declarations, but this wasn’t about spectacle. It was about certainty. The kind of love that didn’t need a spotlight, just a steady hand to hold.

You rested your forehead against his collarbone, breathing him in. “Stay with me tonight?”

He tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. “Always.”

The night ended with the city lights flickering beneath the glass and the afterparty fading into a blur behind you. His jacket draped over your shoulders, his hand finding yours again without even looking.

In the car, your heels abandoned at your feet, your bare legs draped across his lap, you leaned into the quiet. The hum of the road, the steady rhythm of his hand tracing circles on your thigh.

He looked at you like you were the sunrise and the safe harbour all at once.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were just surviving the world around you.

You felt like you had someone to meet it with.

Not a perfect love. But a real one.

And as his fingers laced through yours, as he pressed a kiss to your knuckles like they were holy, you knew—

This was only the beginning.

[sixxels]

it girl

nerd!gojo x popular!model!reader

part 1 ! part 2 !

wc~ 14k

!!disclaimer!! will include heavy mentions of fling!sukuna, mentions of drug use, alcohol consumption, smut, angst/eventual confort.

summary so far: you’re the campus icon, glamorous, untouchable, always in the spotlight. but your world tilts when you fall for satoru gojo, awkward, brilliant, weirdly hot. what starts with flirty banter spirals into unexpected intimacy, and something real. you invite him into your life, your world, even your heart. but your past isn’t finished. sukuna, your toxic, magnetic almost-ex, crashes back in with chaos and temptation. now, torn between danger and devotion, you face a choice, the storm you know or the calm you crave.

the music feels louder now, like the bass is trying to drown out the lingering tension. satoru, suguru, choso nanami and shiu go back to their drinks, to their idle conversation, but there’s a charge in the air that hasn’t settled. you can feel it under your skin, buzzing hot and erratic, and it all traces back to him.

sukuna.

you clench your jaw, fingers curling around your drink too tight, and you know if you don’t get away right now, you’re gonna explode.

“i’ll be right back,” you mutter, not really waiting for anyone to answer. gojo blinks up at you, concern flaring in his pretty blue eyes, but you can’t look at him right now. not when your blood’s boiling and your vision’s turning red.

you sit up quickly, your pink bedazzled handbag left abandoned next to satoru as you stalk towards the exit of the kappa house.

you spot sukuna by the hallway, leaning against the wall like he owns the place. some girl’s trying to talk to him, all doe eyes and giggles, but he doesn’t even glance her way. his attention is on you, and the second your eyes meet, his mouth curves like he’s already won.

“you have five seconds to get your ass outside,” you hiss, storming past him. “or i’ll make a scene even you can’t top.”

he follows, of course he does, cocky and quiet, slipping through the crowd behind you like a shadow. you shove the door open and step out onto the porch, cold air rushing to your cheeks like a slap. it’s quieter here, but the anger still rings loud in your ears.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, spinning around to face him.

sukuna lets the door fall shut behind him with a lazy click. “you’ll have to be more specific,” he says dryly. “i do a lot of things wrong.”

“don’t play coy,” you spit. “what the hell was that in there? you humiliated satoru, you embarrassed me, and you ruined the entire fucking vibe. why? because i brought someone new around?”

he raises an eyebrow. “i didn’t ruin anything. you brought a stray into the lion’s den, and i treated him accordingly.”

you blink at him, stunned. “you’re so fucking arrogant it’s unreal.”

he laughs, a dark, humorless sound that makes your chest tighten. “and you’re so naive. do you even know who that guy is? do you really think he gives a shit about you, or is he just riding the high of being seen with the school’s favorite wet dream?”

“fuck you,” you snap, voice rising now. “you don’t get to talk about him like that. you don’t get to act like you know anything about what i want or who i want.”

“i know you,” sukuna says sharply, stepping closer. “i’ve seen every version of you, the real ones. and you don’t fall for soft boys who flinch when someone looks at them sideways. you fall for assholes. you fall for people who can fight you and fuck you up at the same time.”

your chest heaves, fists clenched. “so that’s what this is about? jealousy?”

he smirks. “don’t flatter yourself.”

“you’re insane,” you hiss. “you think you get to waltz in here, throw a tantrum in front of everyone i care about, and still act like you’ve got some fucking claim over me?"

“i don’t have to act,” he growls. “i know what’s mine.”

“i’m not yours, sukuna!” you scream, voice echoing off the porch walls. “i never was!”

there’s a beat of silence.

his eyes flash, dark and dangerous. “then why the fuck do you keep coming back to me?”

you falter, lips parting, but nothing comes out. the words shrivel on your tongue because goddamn it, he’s right. you hate him. you want to rip his stupid smug face off. but your feet never seem to know how to walk away.

he steps forward again, close enough that your breath stutters. “you think gojo’s ever gonna get you? you think he could ever handle the mess that lives in your head? he doesn’t know you. not like i do.”

you open your mouth to fire back, but his hands are already on your face, rough and sudden, and before you can think better of it, you’re kissing him.

or maybe he’s kissing you. it doesn’t matter. it’s all teeth and fury, lips bruising against each other like a war cry. you shove at his chest, but it only pulls him closer, his hand sliding to your jaw, tilting your face up like he’s starving and you’re the only thing left on earth.

your back hits the porch railing, the wood biting into your spine, but you don’t care. you claw at his shoulders, your anger spilling out through every movement, every breath. he bites your lip and you moan, half in pain, half in something you don’t want to name.

“i hate you,” you gasp against his mouth.

“liar,” he breathes, and then he’s kissing you again, harder this time, like he wants to destroy every thought that isn’t him.

you hate this. you hate how his mouth fits against yours like it was made to, how every furious breath you take just drags him in deeper. your fingers are in his hair, pulling hard, like maybe you can hurt him enough to make yourself feel better. like maybe pain will make sense of the ache that’s been festering under your skin since the last time he touched you.

but it doesn’t. it just makes you hungrier.

your head is spinning, chest heaving, your lips swollen and stinging. it’s like trying to breathe underwater, like drowning in something you swore you were done with. you tell yourself this is a mistake. that you don’t want this, don’t want him. but your body isn’t listening.

because this is sukuna. it’s always sukuna.

every time you try to run, he finds you. every time you try to choose someone softer, safer, someone who smiles with his whole face and says your name like it’s something sacred, someone like satoru, you end up back here. back in the fire.

his hands are all over you now, possessive and rough, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he’s not touching enough of you. like he can keep you with his grip alone. but it’s not enough. it never is.

your heart is a snarl of guilt and want and why can’t i let this go?

“you ruin everything,” you whisper into his mouth, breath hitching.

his laugh is low, bitter. “then stop letting me in.”

you could. you should. god, why don’t you?

because you know what this is. what it’s always been.

it’s not love. it’s not soft. it’s a fucking car crash. it’s the chaos after a storm. it’s ugly and loud and burning, and you’ve always been too vain to admit how much of you is built like that too.

he sees it. he sees you. not the filtered version in the magazines, not the perfect smile you wear for the camera, not the queen bee everyone fawns over at parties.

he sees this. the bite in your voice, the tremble under your fury, the craving that lives in your bones. he matches it. mirrors it.

and you fucking hate him for it.

your fingers slip under his shirt without thinking, nails scraping along his stomach, and he growls into your mouth. it’s a mess—tongues, teeth, heat radiating off both of you like a fever. your back slams harder into the porch railing, and it almost hurts, but you like it. you need it.

your name leaves his lips like a threat and a prayer. like he’s begging and taunting you in the same breath.

you gasp. “you’re not allowed to say my name like that.”

“i’ll say it however the fuck i want,” he mutters, his mouth dragging along your jaw, biting at your skin. “you gave it to me.”

“i didn’t give you shit,” you snap, even as your thighs press together, as your hands fist in his shirt like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff.

he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are glassy and sharp all at once, drunk on you, on this, on the violence that lives between your mouths. “you don’t kiss someone like that if you want them gone.”

you stare at him. lips parted. breath ragged. the porch light flickers behind his head like a bad omen.

your chest aches. your stomach twists.

he’s right.

and you hate that he’s right.

but he’s wrong, too. wrong in the way he believes he’s the only one who sees you. like he’s the only one capable of wrecking you.

because gojo sees you too. in a different way. in a way that makes you feel safe, and not just seen. and suddenly the memory of those bright blue eyes flashes behind your lids, and it’s like a bucket of cold water.

you feel sick.

you shove sukuna off you.

he stumbles back a step, dazed, lips bruised and wet, his chest rising like he’s just come up for air.

“don’t,” you whisper, voice cracking.

he blinks. “what?”

your hands are shaking. your whole body’s shaking. “don’t pretend this means anything.”

his face twists. “are you fucking kidding me?”

“you’re not—” you bite down hard, fists clenched at your sides. “you’re not good for me. you know that. i know that. this—this thing we keep doing, it doesn’t go anywhere.”

he’s silent for a second, just staring at you like he’s trying to memorize you. or maybe figure out what the fuck you’re doing. his jaw ticks.

“you kissed me back.”

“i always kiss you back,” you snap. “and it always ends the same.”

he steps closer again, but this time you flinch.

“don’t,” you say, softer. “please.”

he stops.

your breath hitches again. “you’re supposed to be the bad choice. the one i got over. the one i left.”

“then why are you still here?” his voice is raw now, low and wrecked. “why do you keep choosing me?”

you don’t answer.

you can’t.

because this isn’t a choice. it’s an addiction. a wound you keep scratching open. a ghost you keep trying to fuck into silence.

and for a second, you almost say it. almost tell him that you don’t know how to stop. that you’re tired of hating yourself every time you leave his bed. that you wanted tonight to be different. to feel new. to feel clean.

but you don’t.

you just turn around.

your palms are sweaty. your face is hot. your lips are sore. and you want to cry.

you make it three steps before his voice catches you like a hook in your spine.

“he’s not gonna make you feel like this.”

you pause.

“he’ll never make you burn like this.”

your jaw clenches. your eyes sting.

you don’t turn around. you just whisper, “good.”

then you open the door, walk back into the party like you weren’t just sobbing on the inside. like your heart isn’t caught between a boy who looks at you like you’re made of gold, and one who touches you like he wants to ruin you.

like you aren’t already ruined.

~

you slammed the porch door shut, taking deep breaths as you try to calm yourself down again, trying to make the thought of that asshole go the hell away. heels clicking against the wooden floor, you navigate your way back to the couch where satoru and the rest were supposed to be sitting. 

everyone seemed to be there, except satoru. you scanned the couch once, twice, no sign of him. 

'shit, shit, shit.' you knew he wasn't a baby, but this was a new experience for a nerd like him, so where the hell was he? your pace quickened as you approached the couch, disrupting whatever dumb story chico was telling the others.

"where is he?" you pant.

they all give eachother looks, then point to the back entrance.

your eyes trailed to a retreating satoru, looking distraught as he pushed past people towards the exit, and he did not look happy. 

'fuck? did he see? does he know?'

all the worst thoughts came flooding into your mind like a tidal wave, and before you new it, you were chasing after him. 

you catch up to him just as he’s shouldering through the side door, the thud of it swinging shut behind him echoing in your ribs like guilt. the backyard is dark, string lights swaying in the breeze, but he’s already halfway across the lawn, walking like he doesn’t want to be followed.

“toru, wait—” your voice is too loud in the night, but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t turn around.

you jog after him, breath catching, dress hitching, heart still beating erratic from sukuna’s mouth and the shame curling under your skin.

“satoru!” you grab his arm.

he freezes. not the soft, playful kind of freeze, not the kind where he turns with a dumb grin and says something that makes you roll your eyes. no, this is cold. stiff. like touching him burned you both.

he turns around slowly.

his glasses are gone, tucked away in his pocket. you can see his eyes now, wide and blue and hurt, and it knocks the wind right out of you.

“why did you kiss him?” he asks.

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. your lips part, the taste of sukuna still clinging to them like blood.

satoru huffs a breathless laugh and shakes his head. “don’t lie. just don’t.”

“i wasn’t—i didn’t mean to,” you say quickly, weakly, and you hate how it sounds, how pathetic it feels on your tongue.

“right,” he scoffs. “you accidentally made out with the guy who’s been staring at me like he wants me dead since the second he walked in.” he scoffs lightly. "I thought you'd at least be decent enough to at least try stay away from him while i'm here."

you flinch. “it wasn’t like that. i didn’t—he—god, satoru, he cornered me, and i was mad, and—”

“and you kissed him,” he says, like that’s the only part that matters. maybe it is. "y/n, you know how much i like you, how much ive spent obsessing over you. i'm not mad that you have flings and maybe ours didn't matter as much to you as it did me, but really? did you have to do that when you're supposed to be here with me?"

you don’t know what to say. the words are a mess in your mouth. you feel like a mess, standing here in your perfect outfit with your makeup smudged and your heart unraveling.

“do you still want him?” he asks, voice low. serious. it’s not a joke. it’s not a tease. it’s real. “because i need to know what the fuck i’m doing here.”

“i don’t want him,” you say. “not really.”

“‘not really’?” he repeats, blinking like he can’t believe this is happening. “jesus.”

“you don’t get it,” you say, chest tightening. “he’s in my head. he knows where all the broken parts are, and he uses them. he’s... he’s toxic.”

“and you kissed him anyway.”

you fall silent. the string lights hum above you. the muffled bass from inside is a heartbeat you can’t keep in time with.

“i thought maybe—” he starts, then cuts himself off. presses his lips together. swallows.

“what?” you ask, too softly.

he looks at you, eyes glassy, like he wants to say something brave but doesn’t know how. “i thought maybe i could be good for you, someone you could rely on, not just someone to bring around like a new handbag then go make out with another guy.”

you close your eyes. that’s the worst part. because he is good for you. he’s so fucking good it makes your chest hurt. and you—god, you’re the one who keeps reaching for the fire even though you know how it ends.

“you are good for me,” you whisper.

“then why do you keep running back to the guy who isn’t?” he snaps.

because you’re scared. because sukuna doesn’t ask you to be soft. because he meets you in the dark and doesn’t flinch. because being loved by someone kind feels like walking into the light with all your scars exposed.

you open your mouth, but he’s already stepping back.

“don’t,” he says. “it’s okay. i get it now.”

“satoru, please—”

“you don’t have to choose me,” he says, quiet. “just don’t pretend like you’re trying.”

and then he turns around.

and you let him go. because maybe that’s all you’ve ever known how to do.

but god, it fucking hurts.

~

you don’t go back inside.

you just sit there, out on the back steps, wrapped in silence like a punishment. the string lights flicker above you, dull and golden, casting little shadows across your knees as you lean forward and press your forehead into your hands.

your lipstick is smudged. your mascara’s probably ruined. the breeze lifts the hem of your dress and you don’t even care. you feel… hollow. like something vital has been scooped out of you and replaced with shame.

what the fuck was wrong with you?

you kissed sukuna.

you kissed him.

after everything. after the photo shoot, the café, the way satoru looked at you like you were the only girl in the world. after he made you laugh in front of your friends and actually held his own and didn’t even flinch when choso and suguru weee scoping him out.

you kissed someone else.

and not just someone else.

him.

you curl your fingers into your scalp, breathing hard. it wasn’t even worth it. sukuna was angry. you were angry. it wasn’t tender or special or even satisfying. it was just messy. bitter. a collision of teeth and heat and ego and old wounds. it tasted like guilt before it even ended.

you think about satoru’s face.

not just the hurt in his eyes, but the way he tried to hold it in. the way he looked at you like he was bracing for impact. like part of him already knew.

he told you how much he liked you.

satoru told you.

and you still...

you press your palms harder against your eyes until your vision pulses. maybe you’re a bad person. maybe sukuna was right all along, that you’re good at breaking things, even better at pretending you didn’t.

you don’t know how long you sit there. the party thumps on behind the walls, and eventually someone opens the door and asks if you’re okay. you say yes. you lie.

you always lie.

~

later that night in satoru’s dorm, he can’t sleep.

he’s tried.

he took a shower, burning hot, like he could scald the night off his skin. changed into clean clothes. even microwaved one of those sad little dorm ramen cups, just to have something to do with his hands.

but it’s almost 2 a.m. and he’s still wide awake, staring up at the ceiling like it might start answering questions if he looks long enough.

his room is quiet. too quiet.

no music, no phone calls, no stupid tiktok edits of you playing in the background as ambiance. just the hum of the mini fridge and the occasional creak of the floor above him.

his mind won’t shut up.

he keeps seeing her face.

god, your face.

the way your eyes looked when you grabbed his arm. panicked. guilty. pretty.

he hates that he still thinks you’re pretty.

that’s the worst part.

you could probably ruin him a thousand different ways, and he’d still think you look like art in the aftermath. like the kind of pain you’d thank for teaching you something.

he rolls over, groans into his pillow.

'why did you kiss him?'

he knows it’s stupid to ask. he already heard the answer. or at least part of it. the excuses, the guilt in your voice, the way you stood there like you’d already lost him and couldn’t figure out why.

but he’s not mad, not really. not anymore.

he’s just… embarrassed.

he replayed it in his head all night. how proud he’d felt showing up with you. how lucky. how fucking cocky, thinking he could handle this. that he could actually keep up with someone like you.

everyone was watching.

and he swore he could hear it, when it shifted.

the mood. the tension. the way suguru and choso exchanged glances like they knew. like something was wrong.

and then you came back without him.

lipstick smeared. breathing like you’d just sprinted through a storm.

and he knew.

he knew.

god, he’s such an idiot.

he’d been so sure it was going somewhere. that he wasn’t just another phase, another fling, another accessory in your glittering, chaotic world.

maybe he was just the nerd you flirted with for a week because he said something funny and liked your instagram pictures from 2019. maybe he was your rebound. your charity case. your soft, safe thing to play with until someone more exciting pulled you back in.

he rolls onto his back again, arm flung over his face.

he hates this.

he hates how his chest aches.

how he misses you already.

how every part of him wants to text you, even now, even after everything. not to yell. not to guilt you. just to ask if you got home okay. if you’re warm. if you’re still thinking about him.

he wants to delete your number. block your stories. act like he doesn’t care.

but he can’t.

because it wasn’t fake for him.

not even a little.

the way you looked at him over the coffee cup. the way you sat on his lap and whispered things that made his brain short-circuit. the way you smiled when he made you laugh, like you couldn’t believe he was real.

he felt seen.

he felt wanted.

and now…

now he just feels stupid.

his phone buzzes once on the desk.

he flinches. hopes it’s you. knows it’s not. still hopes anyway.

but it’s just yuji.

“u okay?”

he stares at the message. doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t know how to say 'yeah, i’m fine' when his chest feels like it’s full of glass.

he gets up, pacing.

his dorm is small, cramped, still smells faintly like instant noodles and cologne. the window’s cracked open but the night air does nothing to cool his thoughts.

he’s spiraling. he knows he is.

but how is he not supposed to? how do you go from being kissed like a secret in someone’s bedroom to being forgotten like background noise in the span of two days?

he sinks into his desk chair, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

he can still feel your skin.

the way you smiled at him in that dress.

he didn’t imagine that.

he knows you’re not perfect.

knows you’ve got a past, and messy people in it.

he just thought maybe… maybe you wanted to leave some of that behind.

he thought he could be something solid for you. not flashy. not dangerous. not the guy who sets your world on fire, but the one who stays behind to put out the flames.

and maybe that was the problem.

maybe you don’t want to be saved.

he sits like that for a long time.

the sky outside goes from navy to gray, like the sun can’t quite make up its mind. the city’s still half-asleep. he’s exhausted but wired, rubbed raw with disappointment.

he doesn’t know what happens next.

doesn’t know if you’ll call. if you’ll say sorry. if you’ll even want to fix things.

and he’s not sure if he should let you.

~

~

two weeks.

that’s how long it’s been since the party. since you kissed sukuna. since you chased after him, breathless and guilty, and he walked away with that look on his face like you’d gutted him clean through.

since then, you’ve hardly seen him. you tried ,once, twice, but the timing was never right. or maybe it was and he just didn’t want to see you.

and satoru? he’s been surviving.

not in a dramatic, falling-apart kind of way. more like he’s forcing himself into the shape of a normal person. waking up, brushing his teeth, putting on clean clothes, going to class. no more daydreaming about you between lectures, no more rereading your old messages or checking your instagram like it’s gospel.

okay... maybe he does that last one. but only sometimes. only late at night when he’s half-asleep and weaker than usual.

what’s surprised him most is suguru and choso.

he wasn’t expecting them to reach out. they were your friends first, after all, your ride-or-dies, the intimidatingly cool guys who always hovered somewhere at the edge of your spotlight, sharp and beautiful and effortlessly magnetic.

but the night after the party, he got a text from suguru.

suguru [3:04am]: you free tomorrow? come kick it with us. no drama. just chill.

and satoru had stared at it for a full ten minutes, wondering if it was a trap. but the next morning, choso had caught him outside the dining hall, handed him an iced coffee, and nodded like that was that.

they were both surprisingly normal.

well, normal for two guys who looked like they walked out of a cursed gucci ad campaign.

suguru was cool in a dangerous kind of way, always calm, always watching. and choso was dry, a little deadpan, but had a weirdly comforting presence. they didn’t talk much about you, at first. just dragged him to their favorite ramen place off campus, introduced him to their movie night rituals (choso had incredibly niche horror taste), and made him feel like he wasn’t completely drowning.

he learned that choso actually did art, really well. but the brown haired boy had to quickly put away his sketch pad when showing satoru some of the stuff he's done when sketches of you suddenly flipped past. 

surprisingly, suguru was lowkey a genius who edited most of your essays when you didn’t feel like doing them yourself. they made fun of satoru’s nerd tendencies, but in a gentle way. never cruel. never dismissive.

it made something in him loosen.

“you ever gonna stop moping?” suguru asked one night, a week and a half in, stretched out on the floor of choso’s room with a joint between his fingers and his laptop open to a cursed playlist full of slow jam remixes.

satoru was curled up in a beanbag chair with a bowl of stale popcorn, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. “not moping.”

“you’re a little mopy,” choso said, sprawled on his stomach like a sleepy cat, paint under his fingernails.

“i’m trying to move on,” satoru muttered, cheeks hot. “this is me moving on.”

suguru snorted. “you’re sulking and stalking her instagram. that’s not moving on. that’s… spiraling with extra steps.”

satoru groaned and shoved his face into a pillow. “i hate that you’re right.”

they didn’t press the issue after that. just let him lie there, halfway stoned and emotionally gutted, while slow music thudded in the background and the lights flickered like a lullaby.

the thing is, he liked hanging out with them. not just because it was a distraction, but because they were actually good company. smart. grounded. weirdly funny. they made him feel like maybe he wasn’t completely lame, even if he still wore anime hoodies and overthought everything to death.

but no matter how much fun he had, no matter how many late night hangouts or inside jokes they built, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

you were a background hum. a ghost in the static. always there, just out of reach.

he’d be laughing at something choso said and suddenly remember the way you used to scrunch your nose when you were really amused. he’d be scrolling through his phone and see your story, half your face in golden hour, lips glossy, eyes unreadable, and his stomach would drop like a stone.

it wasn’t fair.

he knew you weren’t perfect. he knew sukuna was a whole mess of a situation. he knew you’d made your choices, and maybe it should’ve been enough to just… let it go.

but he missed you anyway.

he missed the way you looked at him like he was interesting. like he wasn’t just some nerd you found amusing but someone who could actually keep up with you. he missed the way you teased him, the way you touched him, like you weren’t afraid of breaking something delicate. like he wasn’t fragile at all.

and he hated that he still wanted you.

hated that every time someone mentioned your name . in passing, in stories, in whispers across campus, his chest tightened just a little. hated that every hallway he walked down, he scanned for a glimpse of your outfit, your laugh, your perfume.

hated that the night you kissed sukuna still lived behind his eyelids when he closed his eyes.

“you’re doing better,” choso said, two weeks in, as they sat on a campus bench under a gray sky, sketchbook open in his lap. “you don’t look like you’re gonna cry when someone says her name anymore.”

“wow,” satoru said dryly, sipping his third coffee of the day. “glowing review.”

“seriously, though,” suguru added, standing nearby with his headphones around his neck. “you’ve come a long way. just… don’t trick yourself into thinking she’s your only shot.”

satoru nodded. because he knew they were right.

he’d gone from completely crushed to almost functioning. from heartbreak to the hazy kind of ache that feels survivable, even if it still hurts.

but late at night, when the music’s off and his phone’s quiet and the dorm room feels too still, it’s your name that sits in his chest like a song stuck on repeat.

you, in that ridiculous mcbling outfit the first time he saw you.

you, grinning behind your phone at the cafe. you, on his lap during the photoshoot, skin warm, voice low. you, whispering that some of those pictures were only for him.

he exhales, pressing his forehead to his pillow.

you’re not his anymore. maybe you never were.

but god, he wishes you had been.

~

now, it was late. later than it should’ve been for three college guys to be cramped into a diner on a tuesday night, the air heavy with the smell of grease and cheap cigarettes from the patio two tables over. satoru stirred the straw in his milkshake for the fifth time, his long fingers twitching around the paper cup. he hadn’t taken a sip in fifteen minutes.

choso sat across from him, hood up, dark circles under his eyes. suguru leaned back beside him, stretched out like he owned the booth, but there was a tension in his posture that gave him away, his knuckles were tight around the root beer glass, jaw clenched.

they hadn’t talked about you all night. they’d been talking about some dumb movie suguru wanted to drag them to next weekend, about choso’s lab partner who smelled like onions and always messed up the titrations. they laughed, satoru forced a smile or two, but it all kept coming back.

your name was on the tip of his tongue.

he couldn’t stop seeing you in the back of his mind. that same bright, filtered version of you, laughing in the latest instagram reel, posing in low lighting with sunglasses on inside some house party, tagging friends he’d never met, showing off outfits and drinks and that same fucking smile. like none of it had happened. like that night on the lawn hadn’t torn something open between you.

“can i ask something?” satoru finally said, voice too soft for how loud the question felt in his chest.

choso looked up first, eyebrows raised. suguru stopped stirring his drink.

“for sure,” suguru said carefully.

satoru hesitated, tapped his finger on the table. “how’s she doing?”

neither of them responded right away. choso blinked, eyes sliding toward suguru. suguru’s lips pressed into a line, his jaw ticking once. they looked at each other like they were silently deciding who would speak first, like the question was loaded. like they hadn’t expected it.

that’s how satoru knew.

“guys?...” he said softly. "i've seen her stories, her tiktok's, it looks like everything's fine-"

“it’s not,” choso said, and his voice was so quiet, so flat, it made satoru’s stomach drop.

he looked between them, his milkshake forgotten. “what do you mean?”

“she’s not doing great,” suguru said simply. his fingers toyed with the condensation on the side of his glass. “she’s trying to make it look like she is. but it’s bad.”

satoru felt his mouth go dry.

“how bad?”

choso exhaled through his nose. “she parties almost every night. not even with us anymore. she goes out with friends we've never even met, or ends up crashing wherever there’s noise. doesn’t text back. won’t answer calls unless she’s blacked out and sobbing.”

“drugs, too,” suguru added. “she’s not subtle about it. ket, molly, sometimes coke. whatever keeps her numb enough to not think.”

satoru looked down at his hands.

“why?”

suguru glanced at choso. “you really wanna know?”

he nodded. “i do.”

“because she feels like shit,” choso said bluntly. “like she ruined everything with you and now she doesn’t know how to deal with it.”

there was a silence after that. just the low hum of the diner lights, the soft clatter of dishes in the kitchen. satoru felt like something heavy was pressing against his ribs, like all the air had been sucked out of the booth and he was stuck inside a vacuum of his own thoughts.

satoru doesn’t breathe. his throat tightens. “but she looks—”

“yeah,” choso cuts in, voice low. “she looks great. viral. perfect. whatever. but the second she’s off camera, it’s like someone shuts the lights off inside her. she’s barely sleeping. barely eating unless someone forces her. the other night she had to be carried out of a club because she blacked out in a stairwell.”

satoru’s heart cracks so hard it echoes in his chest.

he tries to picture you like that, not the version with glossed lips and glittery eyeshadow, not the one who called him baby and straddled his lap like she owned him, but the one behind all that. the girl with shaking hands. the girl who’s hurting.

“and sukuna?” he asks, quietly. “are they…?”

suguru snorts. it’s bitter. “they’re done.”

choso nods. “she blew up at him. told him to go fuck himself. said he ruined everything. blocked him on everything. hasn’t spoken to him since.”

satoru’s eyes sting.

“it wasn’t pretty,” suguru adds. “they were screaming at each other outside some gallery opening. like, full scene. she was shaking. he tried to touch her and she slapped him.”

something inside satoru goes cold. “jesus.”

satoru swallowed hard. his throat was tight. “why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“because we didn’t want to make it worse,” suguru said. “we know how you felt about her. still feel, probably.”

satoru didn’t say anything to that.

he didn’t need to.

choso leaned forward a little. “we didn’t pick sides. we’ve been trying to hold her together without enabling her. but honestly, she’s falling apart either way.”

“she asks about you sometimes,” suguru said. “not directly. just… in passing. like she’s pretending she doesn’t care but hoping we’ll slip up and say something.”

“we don’t, though,” choso added. “she’s not ready.”

satoru let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, elbows on the table, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms. “i hate that i still care,” he admitted.

“you don’t,” choso said. “you just hate that she doesn’t care about herself.”

satoru stared down at the milkshake between his hands.

“yeah,” he whispered. “that too.”

they sat in silence again, the three of them surrounded by the buzz of fluorescent lights and clinking silverware. the outside world moved on around them, uncaring, fast, dizzying. and still, satoru felt stuck.

“she ever gonna stop?” he asked eventually. “the partying, the drugs, the… self-destruction?”

“we’re trying,” choso said.

“but it’s not about us,” suguru added. “she has to want it. and right now? she’s just trying to block everything out.”

satoru nodded slowly.

he understood that.

maybe more than he wanted to.

“you think she’s gonna be okay?” he asked.

neither of them answered right away.

then suguru looked him dead in the eyes. “maybe. if she gets out before it eats her alive.”

satoru closed his eyes.

he could still see her, laughing in a video from just two days ago. some party, some guy’s lap she was half-sitting on, a drink in her hand and too much glitter on her cheeks. you looked like you were having the time of your life. you always did.

but now, it didn’t look fun anymore.

now it looked like drowning.

he opened his eyes again, staring blankly at the drink in front of him.

“i miss her,” he said quietly.

choso didn’t say anything.

suguru just nodded.

“we know." he murmured.

~

you wake up in a stranger’s bed. again.

the sheets smell like stale sweat and cheap cologne. your head pounds, a dull throb that echoes the bass of last night’s club. you sit up, the room spinning, your mouth dry and tasting of regret.

flash.

you’re in the club, lights strobing, bodies pressing against you. someone hands you a drink—you don’t ask what it is. you down it, chasing the numbness.

flash.

you’re laughing, too loud, too bright. someone’s lips are on yours, but you don’t care who they belong to. it’s not him. it’s never him anymore.

flash.

you’re in a bathroom stall, powder on your fingertips. you tell yourself it’s just to keep the night going. to keep from feeling.

flash.

you’re dancing on a table, bottle in hand, screaming the lyrics to a song you don’t know. your 'friends' cheer, but their faces blur. they're not your real friends, you're ignoring them right now.

flash.

you’re alone in your room, the silence deafening. you stare at your phone, his name still blocked. you want to call, to hear his voice, but pride and shame hold you back.

flash.

you’re at another party, another drink in hand. someone offers you something stronger. you take it without hesitation.

flash.

you’re in a car, the city lights blurring past. you don’t know where you’re going, and you don’t care.

flash.

you’re back in bed, the stranger beside you snoring softly. you slip out, gathering your clothes, avoiding the mirror.

you tell yourself you’re fine.

you post a selfie, filters hiding the bags under your eyes, the hollowness in your gaze. the likes pour in, affirming the lie.

but the emptiness grows.

you see him in your dreams, his eyes filled with hurt. you wake up crying, the ache in your chest unbearable.

you try to fill the void.

more parties, more substances, more meaningless encounters. more more more. each one leaves you feeling emptier than before.

your real friends notice.

they try to intervene, their voices filled with concern. you brush them off, insisting you’re just having fun.

but deep down, you know.

you’re spiraling, losing yourself in the chaos. the pain you’re trying to escape consumes you.

you miss him.

his laugh, his touch, the way he looked at you like you mattered. you wonder if he thinks of you, if he regrets walking away.

you want to reach out.

but you’re scared. scared of rejection, of facing the consequences of your actions.

so you continue the cycle.

numbing, partying, pretending. hoping that one day, the pain will fade.

but it doesn’t.

and you’re left with the fragments of who you used to be, trying to piece yourself back together in the aftermath.

~

now you were drunk at some house party, you don’t remember what he said, this random asshole.

something stupid. something smug. something about how he “always knew you’d come back,” like you were some broken thing crawling back to its owner.

it’s not sukuna, but it might as well be. same type. same eyes. same voice that makes you feel like your ribs are cracking under the weight of old mistakes.

you’d laughed at first. that sharp, detached laugh you’ve perfected over the past two weeks, where your teeth gleam and your eyes stay dead. but then he touched your waist and said it again, said something about how “girls like you always need attention,” and something just snapped.

“fuck you,” you’d hissed.

he grinned. smug. wide. “god, you’re a mess. weren’t you, like, crying over some nerd last week?”

and that was it.

something inside you went cold and then red-hot all at once.

you don’t remember lunging at him, not really. don’t remember screaming. don’t remember shoving your drink into his chest or the sound of the cup hitting the floor. just your voice cracking and screaming “you don’t know shit about me!” as everything else blurred out.

the music stopped.

the room hushed. just like that.

you were shaking. mascara streaming down your face, hands clenched at your sides, chest heaving as you stared at him like you wanted to kill him, but mostly like you wanted to disappear.

he was laughing. of course he was. brushing you off like you were nothing. like your breakdown was a punchline.

and that hurt more than anything else.

everyone was watching.

you stumbled backwards, caught someone’s shoulder, shrugged off the hand that tried to steady you. you muttered something, maybe fuck all of you, maybe i’m fine, and bolted out the front door, into the cold.

the walk back to your dorm is a blur of static. your heels in your hand, feet bleeding. phone dead. everything else too loud.

the second your door clicks shut behind you, you collapse against it, sliding down the wood until you’re a heap on the floor.

you breathe.

and then you sob.

your dorm smells like laundry detergent and fake perfume and something rotting in the trash. it’s a mess. like you. discarded outfits on the floor, makeup-stained tissues, a magazine with your own face on the cover torn in half and stuffed under a pillow.

you pull your knees to your chest and press your face to them.

and finally, the silence hits you.

and the silence says: you did this.

you let go of the good thing. you fucked up the only love that ever felt real. you kissed a ghost and chased it straight into hell and now you’re here, screaming at strangers and crying on the floor of your overpriced dorm because no one loves you enough to stop you.

no one loves you like he did.

no one ever has.

and you didn’t know how to handle it. didn’t know how to be held that gently without flinching. didn’t know how to believe someone like satoru could really want someone like you.

not after everything.

not when you’re like this.

because what are you, really, without the followers and the outfits and the fake smiles? you’re just a girl who doesn’t know how to be soft. who only knows how to survive. who only knows how to run when things get too quiet.

you think about that afternoon in the library.

how warm he looked. how he looked at you like you were a secret he wanted to learn by heart. how careful he was when he touched you. how he blushed when you teased him.

how safe you felt.

and then you remember how he looked when he asked, “do you still want him?”

and how you said “not really.”

god.

what the fuck is wrong with you.

your body feels like it’s giving out. like there’s nothing left.

because no matter how many parties you go to or bottles you finish or people you let touch you, you still feel empty. still feel haunted.

he’s in everything.

you see him in your notifications, even when they’re not from him. in the mirror, when you put on that shade of gloss he liked. in the way your fingers still hover over his contact at 3am. in every guy you ignore because he isn’t tall enough or kind enough or awkward enough.

he’s in the way your chest aches when you’re alone.

he’s in the way no one else has ever made you feel like you were more than pretty.

you curl up tighter, sobs wracking your ribs.

you want to call him.

you want to say i’m sorry and please come back and i think i’m in love with you and i don’t know how to live with that.

but you don’t.

because he deserves better.

he deserves peace. he deserves mornings with someone who doesn’t disappear at night. he deserves someone who won’t break his heart just because she doesn’t know how to hold something so gentle.

you deserve the emptiness.

you stay on the floor until your legs go numb.

~

~

satoru doesn’t think twice when suguru texts him.

suguru [6:23pm]: party tonight. u coming?

he stares at the screen for a while. it’s not like he wants to go. he’s not really in the mood to pretend he’s fun or normal or even okay. but it’s been three weeks now since everything cracked open. two weeks since that night he saw you pressed up against sukuna like nothing had ever mattered. two weeks of trying to breathe through the ache.

suguru and choso have been good to him. better than he deserves. they don’t mention you unless he does. they keep things easy. movies, ramen, lazy afternoons in suguru’s apartment. they never pressure him to talk about it. they just sit with him when the silence gets too heavy.

maybe that’s why he says yes.

he wants to be normal. wants to be fine. wants to believe he can be in a room with people again without thinking of you.

so he throws on a hoodie and jeans, meets them outside the apartment, and pretends he’s not thinking about you when suguru says, “you sure you’re up for this?”

“yeah,” satoru says, forcing a grin. “i’m not gonna cry in the bathroom, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

choso snorts. “please do. it’ll give the party some depth.”

the three of them laugh, and for a second, it almost feels okay.

~

the bass was thudding through the floorboards. lights were low and hazy, smoke curling around the ceiling like the whole house was about to levitate. bodies pressed in on all sides, moving like one dumb, brainless thing. the stink of alcohol, sweat, perfume and something sharper thick in the air. he hated it. he used to imagine parties were exciting, glamorous even. that’s how you always looked in them, anyway. perfect lighting. perfect makeup. perfect body. always with a drink in your hand, someone whispering in your ear, laughing like your world wasn’t on fire behind your ribs.

he’d forgotten for a second. just a second. forgotten this was your scene. your territory.

and then he saw you.

it knocked the air right out of him.

you didn’t see him. not even close. you were across the room in a dress that barely stayed up, mascara smudged under your eyes, glitter on your collarbones like dust. and you were smiling. at least, your mouth was. your eyes didn’t look like they were part of your face anymore. they were glassy, unfocused, empty. like someone had taken the real you out of your body and left a wind-up doll in your place.

he watched as you tossed your head back and laughed too loud at something a guy said, someone he didn’t know, someone with his hand way too low on your waist. he watched you throw back a drink, wince, then immediately go for another. he watched you stumble when someone bumped into you and laugh like it was the funniest thing in the world.

suguru nudged him. “hey,” he said. “you okay?”

satoru didn’t answer.

his hands were in his pockets, jaw clenched so tight it ached. he couldn’t look away.

“you didn’t know she’d be here,” choso said quietly, from his other side.

no, he didn’t. they hadn’t told him. maybe they hadn’t known. maybe they had. he didn’t care. what mattered was that you were here, and you were unraveling in front of his eyes.

“she looks like she’s having fun,” suguru said, but even he sounded like he didn’t believe it.

satoru scoffed under his breath. “yeah. a real blast.”

he watched you take a shot like it was medicine, watched you lean into the guy you were with, whisper something in his ear, pull back and laugh like it was a game. you weren’t like this before. not like this. even in the middle of chaos, you had always looked composed. seductive. untouchable. now you just looked… lost.

you looked like you were trying to disappear.

“you sure you wanna stay?” choso asked, voice low.

satoru nodded once. too stiff, too quick. “yeah,” he muttered. “i’m fine.”

~

he wasn’t. every second was hell.

he didn’t want to see you like this. didn’t want to feel this sick, weighted thing sinking deeper into his chest with every minute. he hated you a little, just then. hated you for not seeing him. for not noticing. for making him watch.

and then he saw it.

some guy, some random fucking guy in a hoodie, holding something small and white in his palm, offering it to you like it was a secret. and you, laughing like none of it mattered, plucked it from his hand without hesitation. like it was candy. like it was nothing.

satoru snapped.

he didn’t remember moving, didn’t remember the plastic cup slipping from his hand or the way the music turned into a dull, echoing thud behind his ears. all he knew was that he saw you tilt your head back, laughing like the world wasn’t burning around you, and that little white pill disappearing past your lips like it meant nothing. like you meant nothing.

he was moving before he could think. heat rising under his skin like fire. maybe suguru called after him. maybe choso did, too. he didn’t hear. he just moved.

you didn’t even notice. of course you didn’t. you were busy spinning in slow, unbalanced circles near the kitchen, holding onto a stranger’s arm like it was your lifeline. your mascara was smudged. your lip gloss was all rubbed off. your dress was crooked on one shoulder. and you were smiling.

like you weren’t slowly breaking in front of everyone.

satoru shoved past the guy closest to you without hesitation and grabbed your wrist, not rough, never rough, even now, and pulled you out of the noise, down a dim hallway that smelled like dust and perfume and old beer.

“heyyy,” you giggled, stumbling into his chest with a hiccup. “wait—where’re we goin’?”

he backed you gently against the wall. not to scare you. just to make you stop. to see you.

“what the fuck did you just take?” he asked, voice low and shaking. “do you even know what that was?”

you blinked at him slowly. your lashes stuck together a little with old mascara. your smile stayed soft, dreamy.

“whoa… y’re really pretty,” you murmured, completely dazed. “d’you always yell at girls you just met?”

satoru froze. “you don’t recognize me?”

you tilted your head and giggled again, swaying a little. “no… but you... you kinda sound like...”

he stared at you, heart kicking.

you kept smiling, glassy-eyed and soft. “mm. like—like my toru…”

satoru’s breath hitched. your toru.

“w-who do i sound like?” he asked carefully.

you blinked slowly, lip gloss smudged. “my toruuu,” you whispered like it was a secret. “he talks like you. all bossy. gets mad when i do stupid stuff. but he’s sooo cute about it. he used to get all flustered and blushy when i called him pretty. ‘s’so cute…”

satoru couldn’t breathe.

“he always looked at me like i hung the moon or somethin’. he used t’get sooo serious when i was sad. even when i was tryin’ to hide it, he knew.”

you wiped at your face with the back of your hand, eyes getting wet. “he’d just—ugh, he’d hold my hand real tight under the table. or text me hearts in class. one time he ran across campus in the rain to bring me my stupid lip balm ‘cause i left it in his bag—so dumb, right?”

your voice cracked, but your smile stayed. dreamy. faraway.

“i love toru,” you whispered, eyes unfocused.

satoru’s chest was splintering.

“what happened?” he asked softly.

you leaned your head back against the wall and giggled through your tears. “i messed it alllll up. kissed the wrong guy. made my toru sad. real sad. now he’s gone and i’m like... y’know, jus’ floatin’ around. bein’ a mess. tryna party him outta my brain.”

you swayed again. satoru caught you before you could fall.

“everyone thinks i’m sooo fine,” you slurred. “they’re like, ‘wow, she’s soooo fun, she’s soooo cool, look at her little outfits, she’s sooo hot.’ but i’m like… dying inside. literally dying.”

you said it with a giggle. like it was funny. like it wasn’t killing you.

“i miss him so bad,” you sighed. “his dumb glasses. his dumber shirts. the way he used t’get so excited about science crap, ugh, it was so hot when he nerded out.”

satoru’s throat was raw.

“y'know you kinda smell like toru...he made me feel so…” you paused, eyes fluttering. “safe. like i didn’t have t’be anything but me.”

your voice broke. “i don’t feel like me anymore.”

he didn’t know when he’d started shaking. he just knew you didn’t see him. really see him. you were too far gone. too out of it. too wrapped up in the haze of loss and liquor and longing.

“he’s prolly moved on,” you whispered, slumping against him, head to his chest. “prolly forgot all about me. ‘s’okay. i get it. i’m messy. i’m a lot.”

you looked up at him eyes completely unfocused, lip trembling. “but i miss him.”

your voice was barely audible.

“miss him every’ day.”

he caught you as your legs buckled again, arms cradling you like glass. your perfume was familiar. your weight against him felt like everything he’d ever wanted and everything he’d lost, all at once.

“i still sleep in his shirt sometimes, he- he left it at my dorm when we slept together for the first time...” you mumbled. “even tho it don’t smell like him no more.”

satoru held you tighter.

“i jus’ want my toru back,” you sobbed. “i promise i’ll be good this time.”

and when your voice cracked, when you whispered “i love him” like it was the only truth left in you, satoru closed his eyes and held you close, because he couldn’t say anything. not yet.

not when you didn’t even know he was there.

so he stayed. trembling. breaking. aching.

and you clung to him like he was a stranger.

still calling his name. still calling him yours.

~

satoru didn’t even remember getting out of the house.

he just knew you were in his arms.

you’d passed out sometime between the end of that hallway and the front door, your body slack against his chest, face tucked against the crook of his neck. you smelled like tequila and cherries and perfume, your perfume. the one that made his heart ache now with every inhale.

someone said something as he carried you through the living room, choso, maybe. suguru was behind him, he thought, offering to help. but satoru didn’t stop. he didn’t look back. he just held you tighter and walked out into the cool night air like a man with one purpose.

the city buzzed quietly in the background. neon lights flickered off rain-slick pavement. everything felt slowed down and far away.

he got the passenger door open with one hand. it was clumsy, fumbling, but he didn’t want to let you go. not even for a second.

you didn’t stir as he laid you back gently against the leather seats of his car. you just breathed softly, cheek pressed to your shoulder, a little smudge of glitter still clinging to your eyelids. you looked so small like this. so far from the glossy, untouchable girl on everyone’s feed.

he sat in the driver’s seat for a moment before starting the engine. his hands were shaking.

you loved him.

you said it over and over, like a spell. and you hadn’t even known it was him you were talking to.

satoru had tried so hard these past weeks to let you go. he’d gone out with suguru and choso. laughed. trained. even flirted with some girl at the bookstore who asked about his glasses.

but none of it stuck. nothing filled the space you left behind.

he watched the streetlights blur past the windshield as he drove, one hand tight around the steering wheel, the other resting on your thigh to steady you. like you’d vanish if he didn’t keep you grounded.

you missed him.

you still slept in his shirt.

he let out a breath that was half a sob and blinked hard to keep his eyes clear. he couldn’t cry. not now. not when you needed him steady.

he pulled into the male dorm parking lot, parked, then walked around the car. you shifted a little as he opened the door and scooped you back into his arms, but you didn’t wake. just buried your face deeper into his chest like your body still knew him even if your mind didn’t.

the elevator ride felt endless. the whole building was quiet. just the soft hum of fluorescent lighting and the occasional shuffle of his sneakers on tile.

he carried you down the hall, fished out his keys, and nudged the door open with his foot.

his dorm was still the same. clean, minimal. a few books stacked on the counter. 

satoru laid you gently on his bed, brushing your hair back from your forehead with shaking fingers. your lashes fluttered but didn’t open. your lip gloss had mostly worn off. your breathing was steady now, quiet and warm.

he kneeled beside the bed and stared.

you loved him.

you were falling apart without him.

how had he not seen it? how had he convinced himself that your pretty stories and perfect posts were real? that you were just moving on while he was losing his mind?

you weren’t okay. not even close.

his chest cracked wide open. all the things he’d buried over the last few weeks came rushing back in like a flood, every moment he missed you, every time he started to text you and couldn’t, every time he saw someone else look at you like you were a prize and had to pretend it didn’t kill him inside.

he pressed the back of his hand to your cheek. you were still warm. still here.

you loved him.

your toru.

he let out a slow breath and leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against your temple.

“i love you,” he whispered. “god, i love you so much.”

he stayed like that for a while. breathing with you. trying to memorize the sound of it.

then, gently, he stood.

he brought you water, set it on the nightstand.

he found wipes in the drawer. he cleaned your face carefully, wiping away the smeared mascara and glitter. then he slipped one of his shirts over your dress, warm from the dryer and smelling like him, and tucked the blankets around you.

you looked so peaceful now. no pain on your face. no glassy, fake smile.

just you.

satoru sat on the floor beside the bed, knees pulled up, arms draped over them, watching you breathe.

he didn’t know what came next. didn’t know what he was supposed to do tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that.

he just knew you were here.

and that was enough, for now.

~

you wake up slowly.

your head is pounding, mouth dry, and there’s a bitter taste in the back of your throat that makes your stomach churn. everything aches. the air smells faintly like clean linen and something warm, cologne maybe, expensive, familiar. your fingers twitch against the duvet, soft and foreign, and when you blink your eyes open, you’re not in your dorm.

you’re in his.

the light filters through sheer curtains you’ve never seen before, washing everything in muted gold. the bed is big, too big for just one person. there’s a hoodie slung over the desk chair. a textbook cracked open on the floor. a sleek pair of glasses folded neatly beside a stack of manga.

your heart lodges in your throat.

satoru.

you sit up too fast. the nausea hits you like a punch to the gut, but you bite down on it. memories come in fragments, shots, music, spinning lights, a hand offering a pill. then a hallway. then him. a voice you’d swear belonged to your memories. the warmth of arms around you. not cruel, not cold. safe.

a creak.

your head snaps to the doorway, and there he is.

satoru, standing there like a ghost you wished for too hard.

his hair’s a mess. he’s still in the shirt from last night, wrinkled and slightly damp at the collar like he’s been rinsing his face over and over. his eyes lock onto yours and his expression break, just a little, like he wasn’t ready to see you awake. like he’s been pacing the edge of this moment and now he’s fallen in.

“hey,” he says softly.

your throat tightens. “hey.”

silence. thick. heavy. his fingers twitch at his sides, and you grip the edge of the duvet like a lifeline.

“i—” you start, but the words crumble. shame floods you, hot and choking. “was it really you? last night?”

he nods. his voice barely makes it out. “yeah.”

you drop your head. your hands tremble as they pull the blanket up higher. “god. i thought—you—I thought i was talking to a stranger.”

“i know.”

“i said so much.” your voice cracks. “i didn’t know it was you.”

he steps forward then, cautiously, like you might vanish if he’s too quick. he sits on the edge of the bed, not too close, not too far. you glance at him, and he looks… wrecked. like he hasn’t slept. like he’s been hollowing himself out to make space for this grief.

“you meant it though,” he says, quietly. “everything you said.”

you nod slowly. “every word.”

you don’t mean to cry, but you do. the tears come fast, hot and silent, trailing down your cheeks as your lip trembles. you wipe them away quickly, but he sees.

of course he sees.

and when he reaches for you—hand slow, careful—you let him. his fingers brush yours, warm and steady, and it’s like breathing for the first time in weeks.

“i didn’t know how to live without you,” you whisper. “after that night. i kept trying to be okay and i just… fell apart.”

his hand shifts, cups your cheek, thumb swiping away a tear. “i saw. at the party. i saw you.”

“oh my god,” you bury your face in your hands. “that’s so fucking embarrassing.”

“no,” he murmurs. “it’s not. it was awful. watching you like that. i wanted to pull you away the second we got there.”

you lower your hands. his eyes are glassy. you’re not sure when he started crying too.

“you shouldn’t still care,” you say, quietly. “after what i did.”

“i couldn’t stop if i tried.

he leans forward, forehead pressed to yours, breath hitching against your lips.

“i love you,” he says. it spills out like a secret too heavy to hold. “i love you so much it fucking ruins me. i tried to forget. i tried to move on. but every time i close my eyes it’s just you. laughing. posing. slurring about your toru like he hung the stars.”

your breath shakes. “he did.”

his lips are soft when they kiss your cheek. then your jaw. then the corner of your mouth. not greedy. not hungry. just there. grounding.

“you looked so happy when you talked about me,” he whispers. “even when you didn’t know it was me. like i meant something. like i wasn’t just—temporary.”

“you’re not,” you breathe. “you never were.”

your fingers find his shirt and tug him closer. your body curls into his, all shaky breath and uneven heartbeats. he gathers you into his lap without hesitation, arms wrapped around you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear again. your face presses to his shoulder, and his palm runs up and down your back.

“i should’ve fought harder,” you murmur. “i let you go because i didn’t think i deserved you. and maybe i don’t. but i missed you so much, toru. every day felt like drowning.”

his voice is thick, soft. “then let’s come up for air. together.”

you clutch his shirt tighter. “i don’t wanna do this without you anymore.”

“you don’t have to,” he whispers into your hair. “i’m here. you hear me? i’m here.”

you nod. your tears soak into his shoulder, and his thumb strokes your spine gently, his breath shaking each time you shudder against him.

and when you finally pull back to look at him, eyes puffy, nose red, breath uneven, he cups your face with both hands and kisses you. really kisses you. slow and deep and aching, like a promise.

like home.

you don’t know how long you stay wrapped in his arms, the sun just barely starting to rise through the blinds, painting the room in soft streaks of gold and pink. your head is on his chest, and you can feel his heart, solid and steady, under your palm like it’s trying to hold yours together too. everything still feels fragile. delicate. like if you moved too fast, it might all fall apart again.

his hand is stroking your hair, fingers so gentle it makes your eyes sting.

“can’t believe you’re here,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from sleep and crying. “thought i lost you.”

you close your eyes, squeezing his shirt in your fist. “you almost did.”

it’s honest. there’s no point in lying now. not when everything’s cracked open and raw between you, not when his scent is all around you and his arms feel more like home than anything else has in weeks.

“i was so stupid,” you whisper. “i ruined everything.”

he exhales slow, presses his lips to your forehead. “you were hurting.”

“i still am,” you admit, voice shaking. “i was trying not to feel anything at all.”

he doesn’t say anything for a second. just holds you tighter. “you think i didn’t notice?” he says quietly. “you think i didn’t see it all over your face that night?”

you curl into his chest, ashamed. “i didn’t think you’d ever want to see me again.”

“god,” he breathes, “i never stopped wanting to.”

he rolls onto his side, gently shifting so he’s facing you, hand sliding up your arm, your neck, until his fingers are cupping your jaw. his thumb traces your cheekbone, like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.

you look at him, really look, eyes soft, mouth parted, the vulnerable kind of handsome that makes your chest ache.

“i thought about you every day,” he says, and his voice cracks on it. “even when i hated myself for it. even when i wanted to stop.”

your breath hitches. “me too.”

his forehead presses to yours. “i thought about your laugh. the way you talk. the way you looked at me like i was something special, even when i didn’t know how to be.”

you close your eyes, a tear slipping out. “you are special. you’ve always been.”

his hand moves down to your waist, drawing slow shapes through the thin fabric of your shirt, his shirt. “you looked so happy online. all those stories, those parties… i wanted to believe you were okay. but i knew.”

you swallow. “i wanted to forget.”

“you took something from a stranger,” he says softly. “that night. you could’ve…”

“i didn’t care,” you say, voice small. “nothing mattered without you.”

he’s quiet for a moment. then, “you told me all of it. in the hallway. you didn’t even know it was me.”

you blink, eyes wide. “i—what?”

he nods slowly. “you were out of your mind, but you told me about how much you loved your toru. how good he was to you. how much you missed him. you cried in my arms and didn’t even realize it was me.”

your lips part, a breath caught in your throat. you remember slurring something. you remember crying. but not that.

“fuck,” you whisper. “i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry.”

his thumb catches the tear slipping down your cheek. “don’t be. it was the most honest thing i’ve heard in a long time.”

you reach for him then, hand threading into the soft white hair at his nape, pulling him closer until your noses brush, until his breath is warm against your lips. “i still love you,” you say. “i never stopped.”

he kisses you.

it’s not rushed or messy. it’s slow, deep, like he’s drinking the words from your mouth, like he needs them to breathe. his hand tilts your chin, the other anchored to your waist, and he kisses you like he’s making a promise, one he’s been aching to say for weeks.

your hands slide up under his shirt, pressing to the warm skin of his back, and he shivers at the touch. you feel him melt into you, the tension draining from his shoulders, and it makes you pull him even closer.

“toru,” you breathe into his mouth, voice soft and trembling.

he exhales your name like a prayer. kisses you again. and again.

his lips move down your jaw, to your throat, open-mouthed and reverent. every touch is careful. every breath against your skin feels like it means something.

“you’re everything to me,” he murmurs, voice shaking. “you don’t even know.”

“show me,” you whisper.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching, ocean-blue and so full of pain and love and want that it makes your heart clench. “i don’t want to hurt you.”

“you won’t,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair. “i trust you.”

his forehead presses to yours again, breath uneven, and then he kisses you like he’s pouring all of it into you — the fear, the sorrow, the love that never died.

you let him. let him hold you like you’re made of something precious, like he’s terrified of losing you all over again.

your hands roam his back, his shoulders, memorizing the shape of him again. and when he leans down to kiss the hollow of your throat, you gasp, tears slipping free again because it’s just so much. everything you thought you’d lost. everything you’ve missed. he pulls you into his lap, arms firm around your waist, grounding you. your noses brush. your lips meet again. and again.

and somewhere between the kisses and the whispered apologies, the soft gasps and trembling hands, something inside of you starts to heal.

not all at once. not completely.

but enough to let the light in again.

enough to believe that maybe — just maybe — you can have something good.

with him.

with your toru.

m.list !!

ong fic number two DONE YAYAYA

guys idk how to do tag lists SOMEONE TEACH ME 🙏🏼🙏🏼

omg all your sweet comments make me cry i'm so happy you like my writing 🙁❤️❤️

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

summary : the forgotten wayne child realizes why she's so forgotten.

Dark trees lined the horizon , their luscious leaves obscure the sight of the steady rising sun in the distance . You stand by yourself alone , eyes drooping ever so slightly as you your hands steadily move across the canvas before you.

You feel so lost - maybe because you are - lost and scared as your hands slightly trembled - the grip on your paint brush loosening. The paintbrush looks dull at first - just a sleek white wood, but the bristles were of the finest quality, of course - any gift from Damian Wayne would be .

You vividly recall the morning he had shoved a small rectangular box in your hands - face holds a small scowl . You recall opening it and was met with the paintbrush.

"Damian, you didn't have to," you murmur slightly as your hands glided across the smooth wood with utter care. Damian looks at you impassivly, " I made it , carved the wood and thined out the brush myself - I just happened to think of you that's all " he says before turning around and disappeared behind the halls.

You held your tongue - Damian was never expressive, but he tried - tried more than anyone else had in your life to care for you . That morning, you sat the box on your desk and swore to use it on a good painting.

It's been a couple of years since that swore, and now , you find yourself finally using it. You sat up straight in your wooden stool , one hand glides across the French canvas before you , it stands proudly upon the Korean easle- the wood was sourced from the finest wood the could offer.

Your left hand props up the Japanese paints in a wooden palette , around the rim sits the purest shade of white , a molten golden yellow, little dabs of sea blue , rosey pink and earthy browns .

Your hands seize as you stop , you gently rest the paint brush onto the rim of the easle as you look at your painting. It looks beautiful to the eye- how could it not?

The woman before her has beautiful golden hair - hear that shines so brightly it could rival the sun - her face , ethereally so smooth its as if God personally carved her out the finest poreclin.

Her stunning blue eyes state right back at her- captivating - so dazzling, in fact that a mere glance at it can overthrow any captain off course.

You stare back at her but can't help but find fault in it - in the faintest corner of her collar bone, you mark a single lone bristle that stuck on with the paint . Your jaw tightens, but it doesn't match the way you clutch onto the paintbrush in fury as your eyes peek the faint outline of the littlest pink escaping the outline of her beautiful dress.

Anger boils in you, and suddenly, the girl stating back at you suddenly looks imperfect - she looks uglier now that you've seen her flaws, and suddenly, this is deeper than just some stupid painting.

You glance at the canvas once more - it's your reflection stating right back and suddenly you feel your lungs constrict on itself - denying your body of any more oxygen.

Your reflection looks so hideous- why must there be so many acne scars ? Why must your nose look so distorted ? Why is it that one eye slightly looks bigger than the other? Why is it that you aren't perfect ?

You felt tears stream down your face - body still as it a war enrages within you . You fight the urge to reach out to your reflection and tear apart your body - to rearrange it , to mold it into something better , something perfect.

Why can't you be perfect ? Why must you look like this ? Is this a cruel mockery bestowed upon you ? Your mind traces back through all your memories - memories of watching Cassandra , Stephanie, and Barbra putting in makeup one night for some gala - your sister look so happy with one another as they carefully smack their lipsticks together - their reflection looked unreal- too beautiful for the eye to comprehend.

Bruce had invited them - not you but them and a few other of your brothers . You feel bile rising in your throat as the memory replays before you - why hadn't Father asked you ? Does he know how much you wish to go to a gala?

To live every girl's dream of dressing up and dancing under the prettiest lights with a handsome boy ? What a naive thought- a truly naive thought as your memory flashes to you running back into your own room .

Your sobs echo through the room as you desperately slap makeup onto yourself - a pathetic attempt to look beautiful. You memory zooms in on your past self finally looking into your old mirror - the reflection is utter repulsive - a literal pig stands before you , makeup smeared.

You choked as you blinked away , staring back at the canvas - again, the beautiful woman's portrait morphs into one of a pig with makeup smeared on . You let out a scream - shoving the portrait back, causing it to collide with the wet grass , mud trickles onto it , covering the portraits beautiful face.

You covered your face with your hands desperately as you began sobbing hard- is this what it's come to ? You being so ugly , so imperfect that it's the reason why no one in this God forsaken family loves you ?

Why you're so utterly replaceable because your surrounded by beautiful and talented people . Why Bruce always introduces Cassandra so proudly as his daughter because she's so utterly beautiful and graceful unlike you.

Why Dick and Tim snares at you whenever you're in the same vicinity . Why Alfred always shoots you a pitiful look whenever Jason and yourself quarrel - always saying "he's younger than you and had a hard life you have to foguve him" .

Us this why your mother unceremoniously dumped you 9n a cold winter night at the Wayne's manor , nothing to your name , just a simple rag that covered you?

You feel your body tremble manically - not even your own flesh wants you - just simply wants to reject your entire being . You feel yourself collapsed onto the muddy floor - maybe this is where you belong- a pig is always found in the mud - counting down the days till it meets the demise of a blade.

Maybe that's what's happening - your body is just waiting for you to die, so a better person can host it. You throw up bile upon yourself - you look even more pathetic- you look like a mess - an unwanted mess that everyone purposely walks pass because it's utterly too much .

You hiccuped again when you hear the mansions backdoor slide open.

"Name just what do you think you're doing ?"

thank you for reading !!

[quarterlifekitty]

In honor of Lunar New Year, I decided to get freaky!

Please enjoy this celebration of the each animal zodiac with some Hybrid!AU scenarios. Lots of size kink, breeding kink, feral behavior, and more. I'm really on my nerd shit here. Really playing with my dolls rn. This is so utterly distant from the source material it's unreal. You've been warned. [part 1 of 2]

Barn Cat!Nikto x Rat!Reader

Nikto is a dutiful, prideful creature. A stray who domesticated himself to a farm, hunting their vermin in exchange for a place to call his own when he pleased. He’s caught a thousand little krysy like you, but you give him pause when he bears down on you. Something about the quiver to your tail, the nervous clench of your legs… It’s not how rats ought to act when under the paw of a cat. He’s inclined to keep you– curious about what else fear might make you do.

Chianina!Ghost x Vechur!Reader

You’re in adjacent pens, having travelled a long way– you’re show animals, the most exemplary in your breed. True to form, he’s gigantic and has a brilliant white coloring to his fur, and you’re, well… little. Constantly crowded around for onlookers to take pictures, the ox beside you flaring his nostrils when he sees you being overwhelmed and anxious, stamping to scare off the spectators. You’re almost infuriatingly diminutive to him. He doesn’t know how it’s possible, and if the abundance of ribbons on your gate is anything to go by– you’ll probably be paired up to somehow make an even smaller little calf. Maybe he’ll just have to take some steps to make sure he can see it for himself.

Flemish Giant!König x Netherlands Dwarf!Reader

You’re unceremoniously pushed onto the back lawn of the house. Your owner and his are good friends– and have recently become obsessed with the idea of having little baby bunnies to cuddle. Boy meets girl– can I make it any more obvious? You can, because they neglect to take into account your difference in breed. You’re terrified when you encounter him, and he doesn’t help matters when he catches you by the ankle as you try to dive under the porch to hide. But he doesn’t do anything bad when he’s caught you. Just holds you a little too tight, nuzzling, like you’re little more than a toy to him. Unfortunately for you, your owners consider it a successful playdate, keen to set more up regularly until the right season rolls around.

Tiger!Horangi x Housecat!Reader

You live on a plantation bordering forest, climbing in and out of the window by your favorite basking spot to explore. Being raised among humans, your survival instincts are a bit dull– you can’t tell that you’re being watched by a tiger. He’s never seen a little creature like you. You’re like him, but small. But you still very much smell like a female, so he’s more than content to stalk after you. He doesn’t really understand why your back bristles up when he roars. He’s used to females growling and swiping at him when they’re not interested, but you run off back to your window, shaking as you watch him from the walls of your little palace. He’ll try again tomorrow.

Dragon!Price x Fish Scale Gecko!Reader

There aren’t many dragons left in the world. Price, for one, hasn’t seen another since he was very young. He hasn’t seen much of anything in the past hundred years or so– hasn’t come down from on high. No reason to. The forest begins to return to the mountainside– having been leveled by his flame decades ago. With the trees come more creatures, including you. Scales and tail not unlike a dragon– though your size and tree-dwelling habits are decidedly un-dragonlike. With his mating season on the horizon, beggars can’t be choosers, but when he tries to grab you by the tail, he’s left holding a fistful of scales. It gets his blood running hot– he’s forgotten what a thrill it is to hunt. He might just be in love.

Reticulated Python Naga!Nikolai x Brahminy Blind Snake Naga!Reader

You have no idea as to the extent of Nikolai’s tail, as you can’t see it. All you know are the shadows he makes against the sunlight. You know that he eats strange things, things that don’t sound like eggs or larvae (what he’s eating are your predators, hoping to take advantage of a tiny, blind, defenseless thing out in the open). When he ponders about how he’s going to stretch you to fit his cock, to take his eggs– you can’t even begin to imagine what he’s talking about. Your mother made all of her eggs on her own, and so did your sisters– what does he need you for?

[jaegerbby]

➳ stick around

--͙[naoya zenin x female! reader]-͙-

╰┈➤ word count; 6746

╰┈➤ rundown; naoya thinks you need a daddy who will not believe your stupid lies. you need someone who will keep you in check. someone like him.

╰┈➤ caution; mean! COP! naoya, power imbalance, dark content, previous alcohol consumption but yn isn't tipsy/drunk, mentions of drug use in a party (not by yn), daddy kink, age gap (yn is 20 & naoya is 28), degradation (slut, whore, bitch, sex doll), hitting, manhandling, virginity loss, HEAVY misogyny, yn has small boobs, dacryphilia (A LOT of crying), handjob, fingering, VERY inexperienced yn, unprotected sex, rough sex, car sex (doggy & mating press), creampie, dumbification, mentions of a size difference, use of the word cunny (once).

if there are any more warnings i should add please let me know !! not proof read !!

it is almost bewildering how quickly things change. one minute, you are enraptured by the frenzy of a frat party - the first one you have ever been to.

the first time you chose to live a little.

you have heard that phrase one too many times from your friends, the same ones you were surrounded by under flashing lights and pulsing music.

the world was spinning with every drink you should not have consumed.

you started thinking, maybe you could get used to that life.

except here you are, in a police station. alone.

you and 20 other people who are high out of their minds and too intoxicated to be coherent. none of your friends are here.

you start to understand why your parents always fed you words of warning. you would not have been in this position if you had simply listened.

the adrenaline you felt earlier is nothing compared to the regret that settles in your bones. the hum of fluorescent lights is the only sound ringing in your ears and every word said by the people scattered all over the station melds into meaningless murmurs.

the dress you are wearing does little to preserve your modesty. it was easier to wear it when your friends were showering you with compliments but now you are under the leering gaze of police officers. there is nothing innocent about their intentions.

they are all looking at you. except him.

"naoya." a man addresses him. you stop paying attention to their conversation after that.

you see his eyes narrow at the shorter male. it only emphasizes how large he is. every inch of him commands attention. he props his hands on his hips, his broad shoulders pull the fabric of his uniform taunt and his biceps strain against his sleeves.

every ripple of muscle on his back is outlined against perfectly tailored fabric, it hugs his trim waist and your eyes linger too long as he adjusts his gun holster and his arms flex.

every movement is precise and powerful, like it is what he is made for.

he looks otherworldly. he looks unreal.

he is the most handsome man you have ever seen, you do not think another man could possibly exceed his prowess.

the air leaves your lungs when his intense gaze finds yours. it is almost unnerving. it is the first time he has acknowledged your presence, like you were hardly anything worth noticing before. you are insanely cold, you have been shivering for the past hour but since meeting his eyes you have never felt warmer.

he shifts his weight and you swear you forget how to breathe, how to think, you are completely disoriented. you can decipher the firmness of his chest from here, your eyes focusing on the steady rise and fall with every breath he takes. he is built for more than this job, his mere presence announces that.

it is impossible for you to look away. not when everything about him screams control and strength. not when every inch of him is demanding your attention.

and- wait. why are thinking that at a time like this?

you need to get yourself out of this situation. you have long sobered up and naoya might be your best bet. he looks like a good listener, he looks reasonable, he looks decent. unlike them. you would rather plead your case to someone dignified like him than the sleazy men who have been ogling you all night.

you muster up every ounce of courage in your body as you approach him. the minute the other officer leaves, you are in naoya's sight.

he tilts his head in curiosity.

you are a pretty little thing.

"officer naoya." you speak meekly. you are unsure of what to say or where to start. something in him is stirring, something he has never felt before. just who are you and what business do you have saying his name like that?

"you skipping the line?" he quips, the last thing he wants to deal with are some drunk college students. he was against his co-workers busting that stupid party in the first place, there are far more important matters to deal with.

"no." you anxiously refute his words, although that is exactly what you are doing. "i just." you fumble for words, your hands clenching at your sides. naoya thinks you look so fucking stupid right now. "i've been waiting for a while and i really need to know what's going to happen because i've never done anything like this. i've never been in this situation before-"

you keep talking, you are rambling on and on about excuses naoya has heard countless times but the difference is you are genuine. he can hear the shakiness in your voice, he can see how glossy your eyes are. you are fighting tears, your lip is trembling.

there is no denying that lascivious warmth growing within him.

"do you ever shut up?" he sneers, his voice is low and irritated. you flinch at the aggressive tone, your words die on your tongue. "i need to see your id, i don't have all night to listen to you."

although, if he was honest, he likes the sound of your voice. it is not displeasing.

not in the slightest.

he observes you as you fumble for your wallet, you slip him an id. a fake one. one your college friends gave you, they all have one and it was fun when they were buying drinks before that party.

you start to realise that there is absolutely no humour as naoya reads the name off the card.

"i hope you didn't spend money on this, it's really shitty." he rolls his eyes. "where's your real one?"

you think you should protest, you should stand ten toes down that it is real and his accusation is false but naoya does not seem easily convinced.

he is not stupid.

"i don't have it." you left it at home. you will curse yourself from now until thy kingdom come.

he huffs, impression completely unimpressed. he leans back on his desk yet he still towers above you. "what's your name?"

"yn."

naoya tilts his head "any proof?"

"what?"

"can you prove that's your name? or are you lying again?" he sneers, his eyes are accusatory as they look you up and down.

"i'm not lying."

"sure. i'll need contact information for your parents." he has to bite back a grin at the way your panic. "judging by your outfit, they don't seem very present." you are far too distraught to respond to his smart comment.

"why do you need to call them? you can't call them." you are shifting your weight between your legs, you anxiously crack your fingers. oh, you are just a pretty doe eyed thing that has landed right into naoya's lap.

"it's the only way i can verify your identity. do you have something to hide?"

"no but i wasn't suppose to be there. they don't know i was there. please, there has to be something else i can do."

"hm." he leans closer, his arms folded across his chest, his muscles bulging. "underage drinking, drug use, fraud. i don't accept bribes for stupid shit like that."

"i'm not trying to bribe you." you are all choked up. naoya can see the tears springing in your eyes. he can see you anxiously picking at the skin around your nails. you can barely keep eye contact with him.

"sounds like you're trying to mislead the police. you don't seem very bright but i'm sure even you know that's a felony." he cannot help but bite his lip the longer he looks at you. you are swallowing hard, you are fidgeting endlessly. he finds himself noticing how long your lashes are.

"i know what i did was wrong but please don't call them." naoya feels like you need to be taught a lesson. a please does not fix anything.

"you shouldn't have been there if you didn't want mommy and daddy to know." he sees the way you crumble with just a sentence. he wants to see you crumble more, he wants to see what you look like when you are destroyed. "you're not special, every other sorry fucker here is spouting the same bullshit. you can take a seat until you're willing to cooperate."

he would not mind having you in his line of sight for the next few hours. although he doubts you will take that long to break. in a few minutes he expects you to divulge those digits you are so desperate to keep unknown.

and you will be gone and naoya will never see you again.

a pretty thing like you is bound to be too shaken up to ever repeat these rebellious actions.

he feels something tugging on his sleeve, just above his wrist. there is no force behind it. too dainty, too meek. too easy to corrupt.

he looks over his shoulder.

your eyes are all glossy, and pretty.

"please, i'll do anything." naoya likes the desperation in your voice. he likes how softly you are speaking.

naoya wants to make you loud. he wants to know if you would be suppressing the noises you make as he is pounding inside you or if you will lose all restraint. if you will spill every watery moan for him to hear.

his eyes skim over his watch.

"hear what, i'm feeling generous. give me your address and i'll take you home. whatever bullshit excuse you have to tell your parents is your problem." 

---

things change quickly.

one minute you are sitting quietly in the officer's personal audi. the next he is pulling up on the side of the highway and telling you to get in the backseat.

"what?" you fumble, if looks could kill you would be dead because the glare he sends you is poisonous.

you are still far from home and you are panicking. he has your phone. he has a gun. and he is getting out of the car.

you barely remove the seatbelt before he rounds the vehicle and he is aggressively pulling you out. "i know your brain doesn't work but i thought at the very least your ears did."

your eyes are all wide and you are trembling. he can see goosebumps all over your body.

you are so scared. it only makes his cock ache further. he has been hard since you sat down in his car. he glimpsed at you a few times and you were clueless to the fact that your dress rode up so far he could see your underwear.

he towers over you, his hands cupping your face as he invades your space. he is looking at you and he is admiring you. naoya thinks he could adore you if you were not like every other bitch.

his gaze trails over your hair, he smoothes it down before gripping your face harder than he should. he forces your head back so you have no choice but to look at him. he hums, your lashes are long and full, your lips are dry but he can see the residual stain of lipgloss. he wants to feel them against his.

"you're really fuckin' pretty. it's a shame you're a whore." his voice is low. you try to shift away but his grip is bruising. it is an unspoken threat.

"i'm not." your voice is barely audible. you are too petrified to process what is happening.

the corner of his lip tips up in amusement, the look in his dark eyes only worries you more.

"what did you say?" his voice is all sweet, like he is a nice man. he is the furthest thing from it. his right hand strokes your cheek before it harshly connects with your face.

you yelp, your nails digging into his wrists. he is barely touching you but you cannot move.

"you're not a whore?" naoya swipes his thumb over your lips "but these look like they're only good for sucking dick."

he makes you take a step back to look at your scantily clad body. he is no different than those men in the station.

"and this dress." he whistles lowly. "did you go to a party or were you selling pussy on a street corner?" 

you have never been spoken to like this.

"i wouldn't do that." your voice is all broken, he wonders if you are always this quiet.

"how much would it cost to stick my cock in you?" your brows furrow in distress, your lips part but you do not have a response. "you shouldn't charge a lot for used up pussy."

naoya opens the back door to sit you down. he pulls out a thick wad of cash from his back pocket and drops it into your lap. "honestly, a bit pricey for a girl like you."

he sees your lip tremble before he sees the tears. your sniffles are loud though you try not to be. you would have stayed at home if you knew all of this would happen.

you should have known better.

you shift further inside the car. he does not know why you are hiding when there is no where to go.

"c'mon, you wanted to bribe me but i'm the one paying now. you should be happy." his pants are far too tight, it is borderline painful. he is torturing himself just to make you cry a little more. you hate that he looks so handsome, you hate that he smiles and it is perfect. he slips in beside you and you are left flinching as he slams the door.

he takes his gun holster off and places it under the seat before dexterous hands find his belt and open his pants. his teeth pull back in a sneer as he adjusts his cock.

"fuck, c'mere." he lifts his hips to shove his pants just low enough to reveal his cock. you stare in awe at the hefty length, his cock is twitching and throbbing. too long and too thick. liquid seeps from his head and trails downwards over every ridge and every bump and you can see a prominent vein along the underside desperate for any attention.

naoya brings your hand to his cock, a grunt escaping him because your hand is so small it does not even meet around the perimeter of him. he makes you stroke him, he drags your hand over his head to collect the syrupy liquid and makes you coax your hand along his heated member.

your hand is soft, it is so soft and it feels like heaven. he keeps thinking about how your cunt will feel on him. if just your hand is breaking him down so easily, you will decimate him entirely once he stuffs you to the hilt.

he curses, throwing his head back as he starts moving faster, his hips buck up into the space between your hands, his fingers around yours closing tighter.

you glimpse over his expression, he bites down on his full bottom lip before his jaw drops with an elicit moan. he is pretty, you can see the faintest freckles on his cheek and blush decorates his cheeks.

naoya's free hand slips into your hair bringing you closer, his nose brushes yours as he pants "don't stop." his proximity takes away any coherent thought in your head, your tugs at his cock are unsure and uneven but it still has him fucking up into your grasp.

naoya's hand is big, just like he is. his fingers are long but they are thin, his palm has callouses and you feel them as he trails it down your sternum before groping your breast.

"you barely have tits. m'not not into this shit, y'know." he is lying. he is lying because just feeling the soft flesh of your boob in his hand makes his hips stutter. it makes his cock pulse in your hold, the blushed head gets coated with an onslaught of sticky liquid being spewed from his slit.

dextrous fingers hike your dress up, those panties he had been eyeing earlier are finally exposed. they are pink with lace trim, there is a bow in the middle. naoya does not think he has ever been this turned on in his life.

his fingertips brush your stomach before slipping past the hem of your underwear. you let out a soft whimper and suddenly naoya has gained all this bearings even as you touch him. even as you rub his cock over and over again.

he has to keep his eyes on your face.

he has to see your expression when he is stretching you out.

he rubs your slit, you are so wet. how can you be this soaking? how is your pussy leaking this much?

"you like seeing my dick or are you just easy?" his fingers are slipping inside before you can respond. you cannot even gather your thoughts.

he keeps his eyes on your face or he would miss the way you shakily breathe as he fills you. your eyes are glossier, your lids are low and fluttering endlessly. he does not want to deprive himself of seeing your brows knit together or your lips contort to the shape of his name.

he thinks he dies and goes to heaven every time you say his name so innocently with your whore mouth.

he cannot help it, he cannot control himself. this is all your fault. the two digits he has deep in your tight gummy cunt are shoved in at an alarming speed. he is pounding your pussy open and soaking himself in sticky wetness, you like it.

and there is no denying it when you are dripping all over his hand and letting him stretch your tight hole.

naoya is going so fast, you have stopped stroking him, instead your nails are digging into his bicep for dear life. he has a grin on his face, a devious one. you are bucking your hips, you are riding his fingers. you can barely keep yourself upright and the sight of you reduced to nothing but a sex crazed slut is all too delightful.

"what would mommy and daddy think if they saw their little girl like this?" he needs to see your cunt, he needs to know what your pussy looks like when it is taking his fingers or his cock. you barely have any clothes on but somehow it is too much. "where'd you tell them you would be tonight, huh sweetheart?"

his fingers are stroking your silky walls, they are going too deep. your brain has practically liquified. his hand encloses around your throat and he shakes you but he does not stop pulling your pussy apart. a good man would give you a break but naoya never claimed to be one.

he enjoys the way tears are leaking down your face, he likes the way it only messes up your already smudged makeup. "answer me." his voice is gravelling and low and he is close enough that his lips are brushing yours.

he does not know why he is thinking about kissing you. it makes him angry. you are nothing special so why are you in his head? why does he have his fingers stretching you out when you are nothing but a warm body?

"doing a project with my friend." your words are broken by moans, his eyes flick up and down your face. the mess between your legs is all sticky, he can hear every squelch of your pussy as he fucks his fingers inside. "mmngh, naoya." why are you doing that? why are you saying his name like that? it's driving him insane.

"fucking stupid. that's the best lie you could come up with?" his chest is heaving. your legs are trembling and when he slips out, your back arches and your hips move because you simply have no restraint. not anymore.

his fingers have started pruning up and you are all expectant like a ditzy puppy. he knows your cunt is clenching uncontrollably, he knows you are aching to be fucked.

you do not have to worry because he will definitely fulfil your every desire.

"take your clothes off." he squeezes his neglected cock before undoing the buttons of his uniform shirt. you kick off your sneakers, tugging your dress over your head to reveal, soft mounds of flesh that barely swell on your chest.

that should not be such a turn on.

you are looking at him just the same. his biceps were already straining against his shirt but there is more. there is a lot more beneath the fabric. his chest is full, there are faint indentations of abs along his abdomen and veins are evident on his lower stomach. and the lower your eyes go, they find his cock.

"don't act like a prude." he quips the second you head turns away as if you have been scarred. you are tugging down your panties to discard them on the floor of his car. so much slick between your legs that the material practically peels away from your cunt.

naoya shifts to the middle of the backseat, strong hands gripping your body to position you on top of him. it is nice almost, his touch feels gentle.

that is until he shoves you down onto the centre console. he lowly curses, his hands grip the flesh of your ass, roughly groping you before he spreads you open to his prying eyes.

you are a flustered mess, your protests fall on deaf ears.

why would naoya pay attention to you when he is captivated by the sight of your drooling pussy?

it is a hot sticky mess, your hole is begging him to fill it up. with his cock? with his cum? he is stuffing it full with both regardless of what you have to say.

your pussy is leaky and swollen, it is dripping and soaking. naoya will not be able to get this image out of his head. it will never leave his mind.

he feels like if he has you to fuck at the end of every shift he would be a better man.

"your pussy is pretty like your face." he is in a trance, he is delirious, he feels like he can smell your cunt and it is destroying him. he swears the scent is filling his senses and wreaking any bit of his self control.

two thick, lengthy digits are slipped into the vice confines of your syrupy cunt, your back arches at the intrusion but you are squeezing down like you do not want to let go.

he slowly pumps them into you, groaning lowly at the sight of his fingers coated in copious amounts of wetness.

he slips them out to the tips of his digits before roughly pounding them inside of you. you are whining, you are whimpering and he can see how tense your shoulders are.

he is really trying to stretch you out but you are just so fucking tight. there is nothing he can do when all your walls want to do is clench and grip him like a vice.

he cannot wait. he cannot. your pussy clenches down and slurps when he has his fingers deep inside, he does not have anymore resolve.

he settles a large hand on your nape, holding you down as the other taps his reddened tip to your slit.

"you g'na be a good girl for me right? g'na take it like a good bitch?" he huffs, smacking his cock head against your weeping entrance. you are all sensitive and flinching at the feeling. strands of your slick cling to him and then he nestles the tip in your folds. you scream when his hips surge forward and he shoves his thick, heady cock into you.

"it hurts!" you cry, your fingers scramble to grip onto anything in reach. you would probably move if his hand was not searing into your skin and keeping you immobile. he swears he short circuits, his brain blanks and scrambles at the same time. your cunt feels like heaven, you have this oasis between your legs and this is only his first time experiencing it.

he does not think one time could ever be enough.

a part of him has already decided he cannot just have you once and leave you alone. that part of him is already too fond of the feeling of your body.

naoya ignores every whine, every flinch and every cry as he bullies his cock past the small opening of your soaking cunt. he is far too big for you but he does not care. you take it like you are made for it.

"you're so pretty, babygirl. real fucking pretty when you're full of cock." he is at the hilt, he is balls deep in you. he has you wrapped around every inch of him. you are incessantly clenching, you are so tight he loses any semblance of sanity.

he does not wait, no, you do not have any time to adjust even though he is pulling you so wide you are drooling. even though he has you stretched open and you cannot think straight.

he can see every bit of you, he can see your cunt spread around the perimeter of his cock. he can see where he has pulled you apart and opened you too wide.

"how's it feel, girl? got my cock in you raw. think i paid you enough for that." he grins, naoya shallowly pumps his hips into yours. his cock slipping out, the entire length covered in you before he thrusts it deep inside.

both his hands squeeze your waist, his grip is no where near gentle. maybe it should have been a warning because the pace naoya fucks into you with is voracious.

he is moaning, he is moaning louder than the smacks of his muscular body meeting yours. he is moaning loader than your guzzling cunt squelching every single time he slams into you.

it hurts. it hurts.

"fuck, oh fuck. tightest cunt i'ver had. i swear." naoya groans, gripping you tighter before he grits his teeth and he pounds your cunt harder. you can feel the car rocking every time his hips meet yours so hard it stings.

you are squirming under him but he pays no mind, it is not like you can go anywhere because he is so strong.

he is holding you down and fucking you like a sex doll.

you have gone stupid. drool drips from your mouth and there might be hearts in your eyes because his cock is dragging along your pulsing walls and hitting your insides too perfectly.

you never thought it would feel this good.

you never thought of it at all.

"taking it so fucking well, baby." he grunts, his head lolling back and his hips roughly piston to meet yours. "feel so fucking good, you're so fucking good."

you should not enjoy it but you like the word baby rolling off his gruff voice. you like hearing it more than you should.

"never knew there was pussy like this. where the fuck have you been?" a low laugh rumbles in his chest before breaking into something close to a whimper.

"imagine if your daddy knew your project involved getting fucked in a backseat like a whore." he slams into you particularly hard, your back arching and your cry watery as your cunt clenches uncontrollably.

your legs are trembling. naoya can see it.

he fucks your pussy with reckless abandon. sweat has coated your skin and his, the smell of sex is the only thing infiltrating his senses and creamy liquid has started frothy up at the base of his cock.

his brows furrow, you are so soft and pliant under his touch. "hey, you think you can call me daddy?" he does not even realise it crossed his mind until it already escapes his mouth.

it should be concerning that you do not hesitate.

"daddy." you brokenly cry in the prettiest voice that has ever graced his ears. oh. you're crying. he did not realise you were sobbing this much. he almost feels bad.

his hips stutter all because of one simple word.

he did not anticipate you saying it. it is the first time he has ever been called that. he never wanted it, not until you.

but here he is, balls deep in your precious little cunny, that has ruined him entirely and you are crying and you have just called him your daddy.

it lights something inside him that he never knew existed.

"shit, come here." naoya gathers you up in his arms. he binds you up in his embrace and you sits you down with your back flush to his chest.

his cock hits deeper than before and you both shudder at the feeling.

his rough hands coax over your stomach, caressing your body before settling on your breasts. naoya is much bigger than you, in every way.

soft lips find your shoulder, pressing wet kisses to your skin as he savours the feeling of your battered cunt.

naoya grips your jaw, bringing your face to his. tears have made your pretty eyes their home. your lashes are damp and clumped together. you whine when he nuzzles your face.

you just seem so desperate for any bit of his attention.

he should not be cooing at your stained cheeks or snotty nose. he should not be melting because of your pouting.

you can feel him throbbing inside you but you are ignorant to the fact that it is because naoya thinks you are such a pretty crier.

"oh, my baby. don't cry." he sounds so condescending. but you cannot find it in yourself to care because he is pecking your lips and it is the first time you have received that affection from him. you cries become muted.

"just need a few kisses, huh? that's all it takes to shut you up." he is so close and he smells so good and he looks so handsome.

and you have completely lost your mind.

he presses his lips against yours in a soft innocent kiss. it rids your mind of any and every thought.

naoya pulls out of you, you hiss at the feeling, your insides clenching as you are no longer filled to the brim.

he presses you down, your back meeting the cool material of his leather seats and he is on you almost immediately.

this time his mouth finds yours in a messy exchange that you cannot follow.

his tongue is in your mouth and you do not have the slightest clue what to do.

"you're pretty shit at this." he laughs.

he laughs right in your face but he kisses you again, his mouth moving along yours and you try to follow but he feels your teeth scraping his tongue every time he slips the slick muscle in your mouth.

"are you trying to bite my tongue off?" his tone is mocking. tears are still streaming down your face, they never stopped.

you look so embarrassed, you look ashamed.

if naoya was a better man he would conceal the pleased look on his face but he does not even try to suppress his smile.

he leans in again, invading your space. "hey, is this your first time?"

your hands wipe your cheeks, trying to dry the tears but they are endless. they are never ending and it is impossible to ignore him. not when you are stripped bare under him and you are at his mercy.

"i asked you something." he roughly grips your face, shaking you.

"it is." you warble.

it was obvious enough, you have no clue why he needed confirmation.

"why didn't you say anything? i would've left you alone, virgins aren't my thing." his voice is incredulous. like he lacks an ounce of sanity. "or ... did you not want me to leave you alone? is this what you wanted? for me to fuck you brainless? you're really fucking gross." he laughs at you like you are stupid.

naoya swipes his cock head between your sodden pussy lips before he bucks his hips and he is feeding his cock back into your drooling cunt.

"you can tell me. you can tell me that you wanted me to bend you over and fill you with my cock." he huffs, for the second time he has stretched your little hole out and his pelvis is flush to yours.

he kisses you, he kisses you hot and deep and sloppily.

"yeah? you like this. fucking love it cause you're a ditzy whore." he nods and you find yourself nodding too.

he cups the back of your knees, folding you in half and slipping so deep you swear he is touching your cervix.

"daddy. m'too full." there it is again. he falters. he crashes and burns. "daddy, you're too big." your smaller hand pushes at his abdomen. he is unmoving, the veins impressing beneath your palm pulse.

"you like having daddy deep in your guts?" he wrings your hand so meanly you cry before he leans over you and his hips roughly piston to shove his cock way too deep.

he cants his hips, pounding your cunt open. you are such a mess, your pussy is leaking incessantly. pouring copious amounts of liquid that drips between your ass and splatters with every rough fuck of naoya's hips.

it stings as his muscular thighs meet yours but every time you cry or say that it hurts naoya is muffling you with messy kisses.

"you like daddy fucking you like this, huh pretty baby? like it so much, i know you fucking do."

his balls smack against you, they are heavy and sodden in your messy liquid. naoya groans lowly, licking into your mouth as he crowds over you more. his chest heaves, his muscles straining, bulky thighs flex and biceps bulge as he slams into your leaky slit.

"you're really perfect you know that? this slutty cunt was made for my dick." he grunts, his hips stuttering before his grip on you tightens and he goes harder.

harder and faster, sinking in rougher and deeper.

you scream. your nails scraping down his chest before the dig into his back.

naoya wishes he took this stupid shirt off, he wants your nails cutting into his back and desperately ripping through his flesh.

you gasp into each other's mouths, the corner of his lips tipping into a smile as he breathily asks "you g'na let daddy cum in this cunt? g'na let me cream your messy little fuck hole? 

"uh huh." you bob your head before brokenly whining. he clenches his jaw pounding into your cunt with no restraint. you look prettier when you are like this.

naoya likes you obedient, he likes you pliant to his touch and completely for his taking.

he feels you pulsing along every inch of him, he feels you clamp down and grip him so tightly he loses his mind.

your pussy squelches so loudly when she is getting fucked full.

he cannot take it.

his mouth finds yours, he sucks on your tongue, your body rocking beneath his as he slams into you over and over.

your cunt battered and used. and naoya cums so hard he loses control of his hips. his thrusts are unsteady but they are still deep. still go so far his cock hits spots that make you see stars.

your cunt slurps all the sticky, heady cum that naoya is spilling deep inside you.

he has fucked you dumb. you have no thoughts in your head.

he kisses you again. it is not something he would usually do but he likes kissing you. he likes how soft your lips feel on his.

he likes how perfectly you fit with him.

you mutely whine when he drops all his weight on you. naoya is heavy, he shallowly pumps his hips into yours like he has to ensure you have received every drop.

he breathes in your scent, he could get used to your feminine scent mixed with his.

he straightens up, your spent body exposed for his eyes and he slowly pulls out.

syrupy streaks of milky liquid seep out of your stretched hole and naoya shudders at the sight. he needs to see it again.

he needs to have you like this again.

it leaks onto his pristine leather seats and if it were anyone else he would be infuriated.

he cannot find it in himself to be mad at you. 

it was his fault anyway, he shot a load in you. he filled up your pussy and he was the first one to do it.

his eyes rove over the sight before moving off of you. if he stays around you he will get hard again.

he will get hard and then he will keep fucking you and he will never be able to leave you alone.

although he feels like it is already too late.

naoya wipes his cock off with the skimpy fabric of your dress before he gets out of the car. he buttons up his clothes while you're in his backseat being a crybaby.

when he settles in the driver seat you are still unmoving. you look too cute, you are too pretty.

"fuck are you waiting for? get in front, i'm taking you home." you scramble to do as he says. he can see the stains on your dress. he knows it is all his doing.

your puffy eyes and swollen lips. your bruised skin and your crying. he does not think you will ever stop.

it is all his doing.

you are shivering whether it is because you finally came to or because he has the a/c on high, naoya is not sure.

"i'll get you home. where you should've been."

you are barely listening. you have been staring at his hands for a while.

your legs have parted slightly, your cunt bare on his seat and his cum seeping out of you.

it stirs something in him. he wants to lay claim despite doing it already.

naoya feels your nimble fingers experimentally touch his firm bicep, he has half a mind to shrug you off but he does not.

that is all you need to hug his arm to your trembling body and lean your head on his shoulder.

you are still sniffling, he can feel you shaking against him.

you poor little thing.

a hard fucking and no aftercare.

he almost feels bad for you. perhaps, you have made him aware of the heart in his chest because he finds himself pressing soft kisses to your forehead and letting you intertwine your fingers with his.

you are far too naive for your own good.

your eyes are half shut, your body completely lax against him as if he is someone to feel safe around.

he pulls up to your house a moment later, jolting you awake.

you do not even let go of his hand. you glance up, an unsure expression on your face.

naoya was suppose to fuck you. he was suppose to get his fill and send you home in your scanty dress that he turned into a cum rag.

right now, he is not certain if that is what he wants.

naoya thinks you need a daddy who will not believe your stupid lies. you need someone who will keep you in check.

someone like him.

he squeezes your hand, gaining your attention.

you flash him pretty doe eyes and pouted lips.

"if you need a place to stay for the night. you can come by."

your eyes trail over his face and you lean in. usually he would not approve but because it is you he finds himself enjoying your kiss.

"i'll stay with you."

naoya thinks he will stick around.

will def be writing some drabbles for this au !!

[lexiputellas]

Car Kiss

The moment your car collides with his, two things hit you harder than the airbag that just exploded in your face:

1. This was absolutely not your fault. (Technically.)

2. You did not deserve this.

For a second, everything is still. Your hands are locked around the wheel, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. The scent of burnt fabric and chemicals fills the car, the deployed airbag sagging pathetically in your lap like it just gave up on life.

Then—

"Are you fucking serious right now?!"

A voice—loud, pissed, and very much alive—cuts through your haze.

Your pulse stumbles.

Right. The other driver.

Slowly, stiffly, you peel your fingers off the wheel, every nerve in your body still humming with leftover adrenaline. The heat outside is relentless, pressing against the windshield, turning the inside of the car into an oven. Your skin feels sticky, your dress clinging uncomfortably as you try to process the disaster you just walked into.

You force yourself to move. The door groans as you push it open, and the second you step out, the sun slams into you like it's personally offended by your existence.

The man standing by the other car is fuming.

He's tall, broad, dressed in a crisp white button-down that’s now slightly wrinkled—probably from the sheer force of his frustration. His tie is loosened, his hands are on his head, and his expression is pure disbelief.

"You weren’t even looking!" he accuses, waving a hand toward the wreckage like it’s some kind of crime scene.

You inhale slowly, adjusting your sunglasses, trying to summon even a shred of calm. "Okay, first of all—let’s not jump to accusations."

His nostrils flare. "Look. At. My. Car."

You do.

And—okay. Yeah. It’s… seen better days. The bumper is hanging on by a miracle, the front crumpled in like a crushed soda can.

Then you turn to Alexia’s car.

And feel actual fear for the first time.

The front end looks exhausted. Like it’s seen things and would like to never be perceived again. The airbag is fully deployed, slumped over the steering wheel in silent, tragic judgment. The scent of burnt chemicals still lingers in the air.

You swallow hard. Maybe you should’ve just stayed home today.

"Are you even listening?!" the guy snaps, dragging a hand down his face. "You literally just crashed into me, and you’re acting like—"

"Okay, I hear you," you interrupt, forcing a smile. "I do. But, like… have you ever tried deep breathing? It’s amazing for stressful situations."

His eye twitches. "We're calling insurance."

You're already pulling out your phone. "Great idea!"

Of course, you’re not calling insurance.

You're calling her.

Alexia picks up after two rings.

"Bebé” Her voice is soft, familiar, but there’s an edge to it—like she already knows.

You hesitate.

The airbag. The crumpled hood. The fact that this isn’t even your car.

"Before I say anything," you start, voice syrupy sweet, "just know that I love you."

Silence.

Then—

"What did you do?"

You glance at the guy, who is still pacing beside his ruined car, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like legal threats.

You wince. "Hypothetically speaking, if something happened to your car—"

The silence sharpens.

"—not saying it did, but if it had a little accident—"

"Define ‘little.’"

You peek back at the scene. The wreckage. The airbag’s limp, tragic existence. The guy still looking like he’s one second away from suing you for emotional distress.

"Like… a kiss. A car kiss. Just a very unfortunate, high-speed one."

"You said you needed my car for work."

"I did. And I used it so responsibly. Except for this… one tiny—okay, medium—moment."

She exhales, long and sharp. "Is it bad?"

You hesitate. "...Define bad?"

"Is it drivable?"

"Technically."

"Is anything hanging off?"

"...Define ‘hanging.’"

"You’re actually unreal."

"It’s mostly cosmetic!" you argue. "Like, it still looks like a car! Just… also like it needs a nap. And a therapist."

"Where are you?"

"Outside work. I just parked. But the guy’s yelling about insurance and—wait, hold on—" You lower the phone. "Sir, are we exchanging info, or are you just gonna keep pacing?"

He glares. "Someone’s paying for this."

You sigh, lifting the phone back. "Ale, babe. Help."

"Send me a picture."

"...Are you sure? Wouldn’t you rather hear about it first?"

"Now."

The call ends.

You groan and snap a photo of the wreckage. Then, because you’re already in deep shit, you send another one.

Of your boobs—one of the many emergency nudes you keep saved, because honestly, who doesn’t have a backup plan?

Her reply is immediate.

Alexia:

You are actually deranged.

A few more seconds. Then—

Alexia:

I’m leaving training. Stay there.

Uh-oh.

Fifteen minutes later, an SUV pulls up fast.

Too fast.

The tires bite into the pavement, rolling to a sharp, precise stop. The door swings open, and she steps out.

And suddenly, the heat of the sun feels second to the way she carries herself.

Alexia looks dangerous in the way only someone completely in control can. She’s still in her training gear—dark compression shorts hugging her legs, a fitted Barça tee damp with sweat. Her hair is tied back, loose strands framing her face in a way that should not look as good as it does. She shuts the car door with purpose, her sharp gaze sweeping the scene like she’s assessing an opponent.

First, the damage.

Then, the guy.

Then, you.

You smile delicately, clasping your hands together like the very picture of innocence. "Hi, my love."

"Are you hurt?"

The question takes you by surprise.

You blink. "Huh?"

Her eyes soften—just barely. "Are you hurt?" she repeats.

Your stomach does something weird.

You clear your throat. "No. Just—bruised ego."

She nods once, accepting that, before turning to the guy.

"We’ll handle this through insurance," she states, her tone cool, absolute.

The guy, who had previously been full of righteous anger, suddenly looks… uncertain. "Well, yeah, obviously, but—"

"Give me your details," she cuts in, leaving zero room for argument. "The tow truck is already on its way. We’ll handle the paperwork."

You glance at your phone, realizing you missed the call she must’ve made while driving.

The guy hesitates, then sighs in defeat. "Fine."

Alexia doesn’t waste another second. She turns to you, jaw tight. "Passenger seat."

You hesitate. "I can explai—"

"Passenger. Seat."

Your stomach flips.

Something about the way she says it—calm, but final—sends a thrill through you. You don’t argue this time.

The tow truck arrives as you settle in, the driver stepping out and immediately greeting Alexia with a handshake. She’s already handling it, already making the process smooth, efficient. You watch her through the windshield, chin propped on your hand.

Eventually, she gets back in. Silence settles between you as she pulls onto the road. It lingers for a while, heavy with everything that just happened.

Inside the car, you watch her, awed despite yourself. The way she carries herself. The way people listen to her. Honestly, kind of hot for someone who’s about to yell at you.

You reach over, fingers brushing against hers on the console. Her grip loosens slightly.

"You're mad," you murmur.

She exhales through her nose. "You sent me nudes after crashing my car."

You grin. "Did it help?"

Her lips twitch—just slightly. "You're impossible."

You smile. "But you’re not mad about the boobs, right?" A pause. Then, carefully—

"You crash my car and send me nudes." She shakes her head, half in disbelief, half in something else you can’t quite place. "Honestly. Who raised you?"

You shrug. "A woman with taste."

A pause. Then, carefully—

"Your driving privileges are suspended."

You gasp. "You can’t do that."

"Watch me."

"Babe. My freedom."

She glances over, lips twitching. "I’ll think about it."

You grin, leaning in, voice low, teasing. "I can be very persuasive."

She hums, eyes still on the road but amusement curling at the edges of her mouth.

[bunji-enthusiast]

Bᴇᴇɴ ⵊɴsɪᴅᴇ

A/N… Rex is shameless, rrrrrgh. Wrote this with an energy drink and a dream fyi, so I’m still sleepy as shit.

the sun was shining and the birds were singing—which is what you’d be thinking if you were still snoring away in your beloved dreamland. but no, reality hits you hard as soon as you awoke. your gaze snaps to the man beside you, almost a little breathless; otherwise—out of it. then what happened last night comes rushing back to you, the memory makes you groan as you stretch, feeling the soreness not just down where it was; but virtually everywhere on your body. while you couldn’t complain about where you woke up, your body was hurting like hell. and it wasn’t even from last night alone. It was the entire goddamn week.

you telepathically curse the world. fuuuck.

however, you decide to check if you were really dreaming. you lift the blanket, your eyes razing over your spottily bruised skin; mainly on your hips. though to gods, you could feel some sort of warmth against the sensation of the bruises. you blinked slowly, a semblance of confusion crawls up your spine.

“holy shit.” you mutter, shifting so that you no longer were just laying down.

so you weren’t dreaming.

whatever you were feeling in your heart, or chest—this was just unreal. you actually fucked Rex.

you snort, holding your head in your hands. leaning against the headboard of the bed. well, atleast you were comfortable. because this was some bullshit.

there’s no way you actually did it, but the evidence was indisputably clear. you couldn’t deny it.

you were used to doing one-night stands, no strings attached. no feelings whatsoever involved, all purely for the moment of pleasure. however this was a different case.

Rex actually stayed. you weren’t sure how you were supposed to feel about that, or the whole thing in general. but he wasn’t awake yet—fortunately, so you could freak out about it in quiet silence. not have to be embarrassed. though that was not to deny you were already reaching that right now.

“you good?”

His hoarse voice snaps you out of your hazy daze, and you blink a few times when you fully register that Rex was—in fact awake. you let out a low squeak when you realize, groaning inwardly at yourself. “m’fine.”

“your lookin’ pretty red though.” he drawls, chuckling as he stretches his arms. this probably was nothing new to him, but this was certainly something new to you.

you did not like it. “guess we both know who to blame for that,” you bite, though there was no venom in your words. even despite the circumstances, you try to be a nice person.

“oh me?” he laughs, “damn. I’m hurt.”

however, even full well knowing he says that. it wasn’t true, he enjoys talking with you. so when he’s seen you with some less then inconspicuous assholes trying to pull shit on you last night at the square downtown. Rex most certainly didn’t take it well, he’s trying to be a better man sure, but that wasn’t stuff he takes lightly. even for a douche like him, and he recognizes it.

“like you’d be hurt by that.” you exhale, letting your shoulders deflate. despite being square as they’ll ever be when your in working form, you didn’t have the energy to muster something more. sometimes being around Rex made that part easier.

as per his cocky demeanor, he replies, “had me there, but damn, I didn’t know someone like you could moan so loud.”

“your a whiner.” you shot back with a grin, brow arched. Rex holds up his hands in mock-surrender.

“hey, I know game when I see it.”

“Oh do you?” you laugh, crossing your arms.

Rex props himself up on his elbows, biceps flexing against the strain of his weight. his tone drops low, “s’not meant to be an insult.”

you sigh, shaking your head. “I know. it’s just—“ you cut yourself off, now rubbing the back of your neck. “I’m just surprised.”

now that had him curious, Rex crawls over. for a moment, he hesitates, but against his usual gut instincts — he lends his hand for yours.

and you don’t stop him, of course you don’t. you should, but you didn’t.

“c’mon…” he questions, brows creased with concern. “you wanna tell me?” Rex will respect it if you decline doing so, but, he just senses like it’s something you need to get off your chest.

you take the moment, this transitionary pin willowed in oddly comforting silence. “it’s not like I haven’t fucked before, but usually… it’s all one-time thing with guys I’ve met just once.”

“Mhm.” he muttered, “but there’s more?”

you nod, “it’s always no strings attached, and they never stay—but you did.”

Rex pauses at that revelation, then chuckles. your prolonged sadness suddenly dissipates, wondering why he found it so funny.

“eh, shit. i get that.” he says, firmly pulling your hand closer, interlacing with his own. a lop-sided grin tugs at his lips, “i used to hop out a lot afterwards, but y’know i realized it just only made me shittier.”

you bark out a laugh at his comment, and honest to god that alone makes his heart swell. “I like getting to wake up to a face like yours anyways.” he adds finally, still grinning.

“oh fuck you.” you insult, but nothing behind it whatsoever draws any bite. usually they do of course, but now it’s just not working at all.

seriously, what the fuck was he doing to you?

“anytime of the day?” he interjects, looking straight at you. you shoot him a glare, but he doesn’t back down, instead inching closer to you.

oh my god, you think to yourself. Rex truly always had a way of subverting the mood, whether subtly, or otherwise in true fashion. it was a uniqueness only he could perform, frankly it had made you question once or twice why or how you even had a crush on Rex.

“have you got any shame?” you smile, watching as he drops himself right on top of you.

Rex hums to himself, as if he truly was taking your question into consideration. then he shakes his head, “nahhh, I lost that awhile ago.”

you had to stifle a laugh, “you know what? that tracks.” you reach for his face, carefully holding it. though, his eyes were really… pretty. oh damn this guy.

“exactly.” Rex inhales, leans right into your touch and lets out a long sigh. “damn sure I’m not the only one though.” at that, you shake your head in disbelief. Rex wasn’t wrong though, but you were sure he outmatches you in that department.

hell—Rex was naked an entire fight, and he felt no embarrassment about it whatsoever. you point your finger right into his temple, “you… Rex are lucky I haven’t kicked you out yet.”

“guess I am.” he responds, its a note of simplicity in he says it that makes you envious. “you know what would happen if you did?”

you only smile, then decide to humor him, “what?”

“I’d be so sad.” he says, laying his head against your chest. relishing in your warmth, and you blush. feeling the heat rise in your cheeks and neck, he was so unfairly beautiful when it looked like he was at peace.

you decide to pat his head, threading your thumb against the sleekness of his hair. “that’d be a first, but i would feel too bad.”

“good,” Rex sighs, almost impossibly nuzzling in closer. he moans, “keep doin’ that, please.”

you almost shiver at the noise, laying your other hand against his back. you fully commit to carding your fingers through his hair. “you really like this huh?”

“feels nice.” he admits, and you roll your eyes in slight disbelief. nonetheless—you continue doing as per his request, taking residence in this little world of yours.

if this had been you and him way earlier, maybe five months back. you would’ve accused Rex of being replaced by someone else entirely, because this was way too domestic. while it was unusual, you didn’t mind it. you definitely wanted going to commit this softness to memory, because you weren’t sure if you ever were going to see this side of him ever again.

a soft buzz interrupts your stream of thoughts, and you realize it was your phone. so you stop your ministrations, you hear a low huff immediately.

he curses breathlessly, motherfuck—he was really enjoying that. “who is it?” Rex mutters.

“dunno, I’m lookin.” you respond, dragging your free hand up and down against his back. continuing on with your other, you check the notification—

“shit.” you cursed, groaning. “it’s my brother.”

he lifts his head up, Rex was surprised, “you got a bro?”

you nod at him, ripping your eyes away from the screen. “he’s just asking if I could come over to his place to help with his shit. dumbass won’t specify.” you roll your eyes, “whatever he means.”

“well that’s stupid.” he replies, raising a brow. Rex leans forward, taking the phone out of your hand. you stutter at his sudden action, but he only just sets it face down on the space of the bed beside you. he then returns his gaze to you, and leans closer, waiting for you to be able to say yes.

you were confused, but then the realization sets in. you couldn’t repress your smile, leaning forward to slot your lips against his.

Rex hums, trying to let his mind get muddled. your the one who pulls back, and he stops. “the dude can wait can’t he?” he asks, and you shrug.

“maybe,” you replied, sighing as you your forehead against his. “but I can’t just stay in here the whole time. I’m gonna get questioned, and damn thoroughly might I add.”

Rex just only groans, rolling his eyes. he leans back a comfortable distance, a light flickering in his gaze, “I could come with you?”

“But then that’d just make things weird.” you refute, squaring your shoulders halfway. at your words, Rex laughs.

“I’ve been inside you.” he grins, resting his hand against your chest as if to emphasize his point.

“pretty sure we’re past that point.”