#i would love to just read how their text messages would go

[ggukivrse]

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

warnings: swearing, they actually talk about their feelings :0, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, hickeys, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (be smarter than them pls), a bit of banter, petnames (baby), they're really fucking cute in the end it makes me sick, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: idk if this counts as my first completed series buttt... i'm gonna act like it does. thank you so so much to all the love and support you guys have given me for the past two parts, i'm genuinely so beyond grateful for it all :<< hopefully, you guys enjoy this part too!!

ps. READ PART ONE HERE & PART TWO HERE!!

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You open his chat window again like it’s muscle memory. Like your thumb don't know how to not betray you.

It’s not even about sending something. You’ve got no intention of doing that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But the screen is always open, staring back at you with that last unread message you sent almost a week ago — a throwaway meme you found on your lunch break. No reply. Not even a reaction.

And it hadn’t felt like a big deal in the moment. You sent it like always, light and dumb and nothing. But then the nothing kept going. No little gray typing bubble. No 'lol.' No double text. No late night 'you up?' Just this wall of silence.

You would’ve rather gotten a dry reply. Hell, even a thumbs up. Anything to prove that he saw you.

But now it’s been long enough that sending something new would feel desperate. Like you’re chasing him. Like you’re asking for something you’re not even supposed to want.

You lock your phone and throw it face down on your bed.

Then pick it back up five seconds later.

Then toss it again, harder, as if that’ll prove something.

You wish you were mad. You think you are mad — at least a little. But it’s a tangled kind of anger. One that knots itself up with embarrassment and sharp, bitter shame. You want to scream at him, yeah. But also at yourself.

Why did you let this happen?

Why did you let him blur the lines and kiss you like that and touch you like he meant it?

You were supposed to be smarter than this.

You lie back across your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It was just sex. Just two nights. Two insanely good, dangerously close, way-too-connected nights. But still — technically just sex.

Except it wasn’t.

Not when he remembered your favourite sauce order without asking. Not when he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear while you ranted about work.

And especially not when he went cold the second things felt too good.

That’s what keeps twisting the knife. That shift in him. Like someone flipped a switch and rewrote the script. One minute, he was holding you like you mattered. The next, you were stepping out of his bathroom and into a stranger’s apartment.

You haven’t heard his voice since.

You bite the inside of your cheek and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down that lump of feeling before it rises too high.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.

Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he didn’t mean to shut you out. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to hear from him. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward who got scared when the stakes changed.

But then, why didn’t you reach out?

Why didn’t you ask if he was okay, or tell him he was being weird, or demand an explanation like you’re owed one?

Because you’re afraid.

Because you don’t want the truth if the truth is that he regrets all of it.

Because deep down, you know this isn’t just a friendship anymore, and pretending it is would break you worse than silence.

Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.

You freeze. Then sit up fast, breath catching halfway in your throat.

Your eyes are already scanning the screen before your brain can fully catch up.

Kook 🍜: hi

One word. Just hi. Like the last seven days didn’t happen. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots trying to make sense of his silence. Like he didn’t vanish without warning after folding you into his sheets and leaving you to figure out what the hell it meant.

Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.

You blink at the message, your body locked in this strange stillness. Your thumb hovers, frozen. Part of you is tempted to stare at it until it disappears. Ignore it. Let him feel what it’s like to be the one left hanging. But your hands betray you again — just like they always do with him.

You: Radio silence for a week and all I get is a fucking hi? Wtf Jungkook

It’s not even what you really want to say, but it’s the closest thing you can manage that doesn’t sound like I missed you so much it made me sick or please don’t do this again.

Three dots appear.

Your heart squeezes like it’s caught in someone’s fist. And then the dots vanish.

Then come back.

Then vanish again.

You mutter, “Fucking say something,” to no one. It comes out too small, too desperate. You shut your eyes tight for a second like you can wring the feeling out of yourself by force.

A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.

Kook 🍜: sorry. can i talk to you today?

You reread it so many times the text starts to lose meaning. Can I talk to you today?

You feel sick.

There’s no way you don’t know what this is. The phrasing. The tone. He wants to talk? What the fuck else could that mean, if not that he’s about to cut things off? That he’s going to hand you some polite little speech about how you’re great, but this can’t happen again. That he wants to stay friends and he doesn’t want to confuse things any more than he already has.

Or worse — he thinks you guys are better off cutting contact all together.

You bite down hard on your thumb, suddenly on the verge of tears and furious at yourself for it. You should’ve never let it get here. You should’ve drawn the line before the second time. Before the car. Before the party.

You should’ve been more careful with your heart.

But you’re here now. So far past the line you can’t even see it anymore.

You open your keyboard, then close it again. You want to ask what he wants to talk about. You want to demand answers over text so you don’t have to see his face when he says the words. But you know you won’t get anything that way.

You: Where?

Kook 🍜: i can come to yours

You sit there for a second, just breathing. You feel like you’re bracing for a crash that’s already midair.

You: What time?

Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy staring at your reflection in the dark screen, wondering why your face looks so calm when your body feels like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

You: Okay

You put the phone down carefully, like it might go off again, or explode, and turn your gaze to the ceiling. Every minute after this is going to stretch like it’s mocking you.

You don’t know if you’re getting closure or clarity. You don’t even know which one would hurt more.

But you know you won't cancel.

Because if this is going to end — if he’s going to say it — it has to be to your face. You need to see it.

You need to know for sure.

Jungkook is fucked.

Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.

He stares at the elevator doors like they’re the gates to hell, and his own reflection in the brushed metal does him no favours. He looks tense. Jaw tight, shoulders hunched up high like he’s trying to fold himself into a more manageable version. Someone chill. Someone who isn’t about to shit himself over the thought of seeing you.

He rolls his shoulders back, shakes out his hands. Useless. He’s already sweating through his hoodie.

Every nerve in his body feels like it’s tuned an octave too high. Like if someone so much as breathes in his direction right now, he’ll either snap or confess something humiliating.

He wipes his palms on his jeans again. That’s the fourth time since the lobby.

The worst part is, he knows how he got here. He knows exactly when it happened, too — the moment the line moved.

It was your laugh. The tired kind, all cracked at the edges after that hellish Friday you had. You were curled up in his passenger seat, half out of it, feet tucked under you, and you’d looked over at him with that soft, worn-down smile.

And it just… hit him.

The weight of it. Of you.

He wanted to reach over and touch your face. Not to tease. Not to start something. Just to feel your skin under his fingers like it was allowed now.

And the second that thought formed — clear and blinding and way too tender — it was over. Game fucking over.

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You’re his best friend. Have been for years. He knows how you take your coffee, how you organise your playlists by mood, how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you're anxious. You’re not just some girl he hooked up with at a party. You’re you.

And now, he’s standing in an elevator on the way to your apartment, trying not to think about how badly he messed it all up.

He hadn’t meant to ghost you. Not really. It was just — after that night, after the way you looked at him, all warm and trusting — he panicked. Full-body, brain-scrambling, total system failure. He couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was seconds from saying something stupid like "Don’t sleep with anyone else, please," or "I think I’m in love with you."

So instead, he shut down. Did the one thing he always swore he wouldn’t do with you — he pulled away. Got weird. Avoided it. Avoided you.

And now you’re pissed.

Rightfully so.

He deserved that text you sent. Probably worse. You could’ve ignored him completely and he wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. You texted back and he’s clinging onto that like a lifeline. Because it means there’s still time. Still a chance to fix it — if he doesn’t blow it again.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest like that might steady the erratic rhythm of his heart.

What the fuck is he even going to say?

Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?

Sorry I ghosted you because I realised I’m in love with you and it short-circuited my whole fucking personality?

Sorry I thought I could fuck you and still keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than anyone else?

The elevator dings.

Jungkook flinches like it slapped him, then scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a tight breath, and steps through the doors before he can change his mind.

He’s here.

Fuck. He’s actually here.

Jungkook looks like he didn’t sleep last night. Hair messy, clothes a little wrinkled, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before they dart away again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if left unsupervised.

You tell yourself not to feel relieved. Not to let it show. He didn’t cancel. He showed up. That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It really, really shouldn’t.

But still — there’s something in your chest that unclenches when you see him standing there, real and present. Even if he does look like he’s about to apologise for burning down your house or something.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You step back from the door to let him in. Dry. Wordless. The move is automatic, but your body feels stiff with it, like your own muscles are annoyed on your behalf.

He hesitates before stepping inside, like he thinks the floor might swallow him up. You don't offer a smile. Don't even look at him once the door’s closed behind him.

You cross your arms and lean back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching him with a blank expression that’s only half-real. The other half is tightly coiled under your skin — anger, sure, but under that, all the feelings you’ve been pretending not to have.

He does a slow, uncertain glance around your apartment like something might’ve changed since the last time he was here. But it hasn’t. It’s still your place. Same plants, same overhead light humming softly, same faint scent of laundry detergent that clings to the air.

He stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his body.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Not around you. Jungkook’s always been comfortable here. The kind of comfortable that leaves shoes by the door without asking. The kind that opens your fridge like he owns a shelf. But right now, he looks like a stranger in someone else’s house.

You let the silence stretch out. You’re waiting for him to just speak, but he doesn’t

He doesn’t even try.

Eventually, your voice cuts through the air, a little too sharp. “Jungkook, you said you wanted to talk.”

His head snaps up like he forgot that was part of the deal. Like the fact that he came here at all already cost him everything he had in reserve.

“Yeah,” he says. His throat moves when he swallows. “I do.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to start, then closes it again. Shifts his stance. Rubs the back of his neck with one hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, then away again.

You narrow your eyes. “Well?”

He breathes out a weak, almost bitter laugh and runs both hands down his thighs, like he’s physically trying to ground himself. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.

You frown, arms still crossed tight across your chest. “What? Talk?”

You hate being like this towards him — you feel like a bitch. But it’s the only way that you can stop yourself from just spilling all of your thoughts and feelings to him.

“No, I—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “No. I mean… say the right thing. Say any of it without sounding like an idiot.”

You blink, unimpressed. “So you came here without knowing what you were gonna say.”

He looks at you then. Fully. And for the first time since he walked in, you see the real wreckage behind his eyes. There’s nothing cool or casual about it. He’s unravelling in slow motion. Everything about him is quiet desperation wrapped in someone trying really hard not to fall apart.

“I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says finally. “And then I figured it out, and that somehow made it worse.”

You stay silent.

He shifts closer, not by much — just a few inches. “I fucked up,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. I know I disappeared. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care. I was just—” he stops, jaw tightening again. “I got scared.”

You scoff under your breath and look away.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “It freaked me out. How fast it happened. How much it changed.”

You look back at him, jaw set. “What changed?”

He swallows again. Stiff. His voice cracks a little when he speaks next.

“You,” he says again. “How I feel about you. That changed.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t react, not visibly. You keep your face still, unreadable, even though your brain is suddenly scrambling. You’ve been yanked in too many directions this past week. You’re not going to lean into hope just because he finally decided to speak.

So you say nothing. You just hold his gaze and wait.

Jungkook takes a breath, his shoulders rising with it, then falling in a slow, deliberate exhale. The nervousness is still there — but it’s settled into something quieter now.

“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t mean anything,” he says. “That it was just— whatever. Two friends, getting carried away. We were drunk the first time, right? It was easy to lie to myself about that. Easy to say it didn’t have to go anywhere.”

His voice is calm, but there's tension underneath it.

“But the second time?” He pauses, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, eyes still locked on yours. “That wasn’t drunk. That wasn’t casual. That was me driving us across town just to make you feel better, because I can’t stand it when you’re not okay.”

You flinch — barely — but he sees it. You know he does.

“And then it was me kissing you like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. You think I didn’t notice how different that felt? I’ve never kissed you like that before. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you.

You’re still standing by the counter, arms crossed, but now your grip has loosened. You hate how much this is getting to you, how badly you want to give in, how your chest aches just hearing him say the things you’d only let yourself think when the lights were off and your phone screen was dark.

Jungkook takes another step toward you.

“When I brought you back to mine that night… when you came out of the shower, and I saw you just standing there in my space, looking at me like I was safe…” His voice catches, but not in a way that makes him crumble — just enough to show the truth of it. “I freaked the fuck out.”

You blink at him, finally speaking. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite. “I didn’t mean to shut down. I didn’t even know what I was doing in the moment. I just— everything in me wanted to pull you close, and that’s when I realised I couldn’t keep doing this the way we were doing it. Not without losing my shit every time you left.”

Your throat feels tight, but you still ask, “So you decided to ghost me instead?”

That lands. His jaw flexes, and he nods once. “Yeah. I did. I thought if I gave it space, I could go back to being normal. Go back to just being your friend. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Not because of the sex, not because it was good— which it was, but that’s not the point. It’s you. It’s always been you. I didn’t realise how much until I almost lost it completely.”

You swallow hard. Your arms are uncrossed now. Not folded in, not defensive — just hanging at your sides like you’re too stunned to remember what to do with them.

Jungkook steps in closer. Not touching you yet. But near enough that you can smell him — faint cologne, his laundry detergent, the scent you associate with your car windows fogging up.

“I missed you,” he says, and his voice turns softer. “Every day. And it scared the shit out of me, how badly I wanted to talk to you. Touch you. Just be around you. I wasn’t ready to admit it last week, and I was a coward for that. But I’m not running anymore.”

Silence again.

Except it doesn’t feel like the ones you’ve been drowning in for a week.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says, lower now, like the words might break if he’s too loud. “And I’m not assuming anything. But if you still want me around— really want me— just say the word. I’ll figure out the rest.”

You inhale slowly, try to even out your breathing, but your chest still feels like it’s barely holding together. Your heart’s doing that thing where it thuds too hard without speeding up.

You hate that you believe him. That you always would’ve. That no matter how angry you were, no matter how cold you tried to be when he walked in — you still wanted him to explain, to prove it wasn’t what your worst thoughts told you it was.

And now he has.

He’s standing in front of you with open hands, with the words you oh so desperately wanted to hear. And for a moment, you’re not sure what to do with that.

“I hate you,” you say quietly.

It’s not true. Not even close. But it’s the first thing that leaves your mouth.

Jungkook huffs out a dry laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I figured.”

You shake your head once. “No. I mean it. I fucking hate you for this. For—” You break off, because your voice is shaking now. “For making me feel like I was crazy. For not even saying goodnight after… after everything.”

His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You could’ve just told me,” you go on. “You could’ve said it was too much. That it got weird. That you needed time. Anything. But you disappeared. And I had to sit here wondering if I made it all up."

You pause, pressing your lips together.

“And I— I missed you too, you know,” you add, quieter this time.

His mouth opens like he might speak, but no sound comes out at first. Instead, he closes the space between you by half, slow and steady, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you whisper, but your tone isn't mean. Not even close.

He laughs, soft and low. “Yeah. I know.

“You promise me you’re sure? Cause Jungkook, I will fucking cut off your dick if you pull this shit again.”

He smiles but doesn’t hesitate. “I promise. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You stare at him.

Long enough that the air between you stretches taut, thin as thread.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t know if he’s allowed. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in uneven swells. You can tell he’s waiting — for a sign, for a go-ahead, for you.

And even though part of you still wants to be mad, still wants to make him sweat just a little longer, the rest of you aches. For his mouth. For his hands. For the solid, grounding weight of him.

So you move.

You step into the last inch of space between you and grab the front of his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.

You kiss him.

Not out of impulse. Not for show. You kiss him because you need to. Because your chest feels like it’s going to split open if you don’t.

At first, it’s quiet. Just lips pressed to lips — careful, slow. There’s a pause between each pass of your mouth over his, like you’re both trying to remember how this started. How you even got here.

But then he sighs against you — not loud, not dramatic, just a sound full of relief — and it unravels something.

His hands lift, hesitating for only half a second before they settle on your waist, fingers curling tight. You press closer, and his lips part beneath yours. The angle shifts. Your nose bumps his cheek. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and when your tongue brushes his, everything tilts.

The sweetness melts fast.

He makes a sound low in his throat and drags you in like the distance is unbearable. Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands at the base of his neck, and the way he reacts — the little shiver he tries to swallow — sends heat straight down your spine.

You kiss him harder.

His body crowds yours until your back meets the wall. Not rough, not rushed. Just firm. His chest presses to yours, and you can feel the way his heart races. How your own pulse kicks up to match it.

The kiss deepens, turns messy at the edges. His teeth catch your bottom lip and your breath stutters, but you don’t pull back. You tilt your chin, chasing more, and the next time he kisses you, it’s hungrier. One of his hands slips to the small of your back, palm dragging slow and warm beneath your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes your whole body twitch.

You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hands tightening. His other arm slips around your waist completely, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just feeling.

The tension that’s been bottling up between you two — the silence, the week of wondering, the ache of missing him so much it hurt — it all floods to the surface.

You fist your hands in his hoodie, yanking him impossibly closer. Your hips shift forward, just enough to brush him, and the sound he makes is sharp and involuntary, caught between a breath and a groan.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “You’re driving me insane.”

You huff, lips brushing his. “That’s fair.”

Then he kisses you again. Rougher this time. Desperate in a way that makes your knees go soft.

He doesn’t stay at your mouth for long. His lips trail down — your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and uneven, and when he finds your neck, your whole body reacts. Your hands clutch at him, your back arches off the wall, and the soft sound that escapes your throat isn’t one you mean to make.

He feels it. Hears it. Answers it with a low, reverent sound that seems to vibrate straight through you.

His tongue traces the spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter shut.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching sharp in your throat. You pull back for a second before lowering your mouth to his neck, right where the collar of his hoodie dips. He lets out a small sound, hands flexing on your waist, when your lips press there.

You start slow. You can feel his pulse under your tongue, the way his chest rises against yours, unsteady and warm. Then you part your lips and suck gently at the spot just below his jaw. His whole body stutters, hips jerking against yours before he can stop it.

Your fingers trail down his chest, tugging his hoodie collar aside for better access. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.

You do it again, this time with enough pressure to leave a mark, and the sound of your mouth working against his skin is lewd.

He groans. It’s low and rough and barely held back, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You feel him hardening now, undeniable through the fabric where he’s pressed against you.

“All mine?” you whisper, your lips brushing over the new mark you’ve left.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “All yours.”

His voice is breathless. Wrecked. And so damn certain it knocks something loose in your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him — really look. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, a flush climbing high on his cheeks. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like he would if you let him.

“I missed that mouth,” he mutters, hands gliding under your shirt again, palms broad and warm. “Missed everything.”

You kiss his throat in reply and drag your teeth across it until he swears under his breath.

His hips grind against you again, harder this time. You both feel it — the friction, the heat building between your bodies.

His arms shift beneath you and he lifts you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, hands strong under your thighs. A startled sound escapes your throat as your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, gripping him tight.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I want you so bad it’s actually stupid.”

You smile, drunk on the feel of him.

“Bedroom?” you murmur, tracing your lips over the new mark blooming against his skin.

He hums lowly, and shifts his grip on your thighs.

He carries you through the hallway and your lips never leave his skin for more than a second.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and drops you onto the mattress in one fluid movement.

You barely get your bearings before he’s crawling over you, slotting his body between your legs, His mouth finds yours again, and you moan into it before you can stop yourself when his knee presses between your legs.

Your hips twitch, grinding down against the pressure, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest as his mouth moves with yours. His hand slips under your shirt again, this time bolder, fingers spanning across your ribs and inching higher until his knuckles brush the curve of your breast.

You gasp softly, and he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Off.”

You sit up just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one smooth pull, your hair mussed from the friction. He watches the fabric fall to the floor, then looks at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty," he breathes.

You roll your eyes automatically, even though your face is already burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice drops low. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips part and he kisses along your sternum — slow, wet presses of his mouth that trail up and then out, over the swell of one breast, then the other.

You inhale sharply when his mouth grazes the sensitive skin beside your nipple, and his eyes flick up at the sound, pupils blown. He kisses lower, then higher again, murmuring against your skin, “Can’t believe I went a week without this.”

The vibration of his voice right against your skin makes you arch, and he meets you halfway, grinding down slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what you’re chasing and wants to stretch it out just to watch you squirm.

Your hands curl into his shoulders, nails biting down just enough to make him grunt softly into your skin. He rolls his hips again, slow and heavy, and the pressure against your core has your breath catching in your throat.

“Koo,” you whine out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips pink and wet, hair falling into his eyes. He grins, crooked and hot and deeply pleased with himself.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, and his voice is pure sin.

You glare, but your thighs shift open under him anyway.

“Please.”

He hums, satisfied, and starts working his way lower. Every kiss is wet and unhurried. Down your chest, across your stomach. His hands follow, smoothing over your ribs, down to your hips, dragging the waistband of your pants just slightly with them. His thumbs hook in the fabric, pausing right above your pelvis.

He looks up at you, smug and dark-eyed.

“Gonna let me take these off?”

He's so annoying you're gonna kill him. “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”

“No,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel, “but I like hearing you say it.”

You huff, fingers threading into his hair again. “Take them off, Kook.”

He eases them down slowly — too slowly — dragging the fabric down your legs while his mouth follows in a path of heat and pressure. He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, every patch of skin he uncovers like it’s something sacred. When your panties go next, he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat — more reverent than smug this time.

You’re already wet, already aching, and from the way his eyes flicker as he takes you in, he fucking knows it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked. You missed me that much?”

You exhale hard, cheeks hot. “Shut up and do something about it.”

He grins again, slower this time. “Anything you want.”

His hands grip your thighs and spread them further apart, and before you can say another word, his mouth is on you.

The first swipe of his tongue is long, and delibirate. You jerk at the contact, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he groans like he’s the one falling apart. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place, and does it again.

Every movement of his tongue is practiced and precise. He starts slow, almost gentle, licking through your folds with a kind of focus that makes your head spin. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he pushes them apart with ease, never breaking rhythm.

Your hands move to the back of his head, gripping tight. His tongue circles your clit once, then again, and the third time he sucks it between his lips. You try to stifle a moan, but it slips from your lips anyway.

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your skin.

“Keep making those sounds, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Wanna hear every fucking thing I do to you.”

He movements turn faster, his mouth messy and hot and relentless. You’re already close, the build-up sharp and climbing, and he can feel it. One of his hands slips lower, spreading you open further with his thumb, and his tongue drags in tighter circles.

You’re writhing, panting, toes curling into the sheets. Your fingers tug at his hair, your spine arching off the bed.

“Fuck— Kook—” you gasp, head thrown back.

He groans again, the sound vibrating straight through your pussy. He doubles down, mouth moving faster, and when your hips start to stutter, erratic and desperate, he presses his hand over your stomach, grounding you.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he murmurs against you, mouth slick with you. “Gonna let me taste it?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak, your whole body wound tight and ready to snap.

He presses his mouth against you again, lips sucking against your clit, and the feeling has you squirming with pleasure.

“Kook—” your voice breaks open as you come hard against his mouth.

He moans, but his movements don't stop.

Your body arches helplessly, heels digging into the bed, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair as you ride out the wave. You’re gasping, blinking hard, your heart trying to punch through your ribs.

Only when your legs start to tremble uncontrollably does he finally pull back.

His lips are slick and swollen, jaw damp, hair messy from where you’ve been gripping it. And he looks wrecked — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, like just being between your thighs has undone something in him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his lips slowly up your inner thigh, leaving lazy kisses in his wake.

You’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling like your soul just left your body, when he plants a final kiss on the inside of your knee and murmurs, “Yeah. I’m never ghosting you again.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too blissed out to be mad. “You better not.”

“After that?” he says, crawling back up your body, slow and unhurried. “I’d be clinically insane.”

He settles over you again, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then another between your breasts, then finally your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and when he groans against your lips, it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through you.

His body is flush against yours, his clothed cock thick and heavy where it presses against your thigh. You let your hands trail down his chest slowly to tug at the denim loops of his jeans.

"Want these off," you mumble against his lips.

He smiles and presses one last kiss to your mouth before he leans back onto his knees. His hands go to his belt, and you watch the way his fingers fumble for just a second.

He gets the buckle undone, then the zipper, the sound louder than it should be in your quiet bedroom. You watch as he shucks them down, boxers and all, and your breath catches slightly at the sight of him — flushed and hard and achingly ready.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, breath shallow, and he’s already crawling back over you. The heat of him sinks into your skin as his body settles between your thighs, bare now.

Your legs part without hesitation.

His weight, the press of his chest to yours, the familiar scent of him wrapped in something raw and new — it all hits at once, and your whole body shivers.

He’s warm everywhere. The kind of warmth that soaks into your bones and makes you ache for more.

His hands slide along your arms until they find yours where they’re resting above your head. He threads his fingers through yours and presses them gently into the pillow, pinning you there. His eyes search yours, and you feel the first brush of him between your legs, just the tip, teasing the edge of you.

He doesn’t move yet. Just rests there, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

You don’t answer — not with words. You just tilt your hips up, welcoming him in with nothing but a look.

He pushes in slow — painfully slow — each inch dragging fire across your nerves as your body stretches to take him. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, your fingers clenching around his. When he’s fully buried inside you, he stills completely.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel… unreal.”

You can’t speak — your body’s too full, too wrecked already — so you kiss him instead. Slow and sweet and a little desperate. Your hips rock up, seeking more.

He groans into your mouth, finally starting to move, and every thrust is so fucking deep. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s him savouring you, like he wants to remember how this feels with every part of himself.

His hands stay tight around yours, anchoring you both to the bed, to each other.

The rhythm builds, a slow burn that spreads everywhere, and between kisses you catch the way he looks at you — like he’s seeing something he’s afraid to lose. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t yet.

“You were supposed to beg,” you manage to murmur against his mouth, breathless. “Grovel a little.”

That crooked smile curls against your lips. “My bad, baby,” he murmurs. “You can make me beg next time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He shifts his hips, thrusting deeper, and your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.

“You promise?”

The challenge in his voice is smug, but his eyes are dark and glassy, his control hanging by a thread. You whimper in response, thighs tightening around his waist, and he dips his head to your throat, dragging his lips along your pulse like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He starts to move with more purpose now, making you feel every second of it. His cock grinds into that spot that makes your vision blur, and your whole body tenses, fingers squeezing his like a lifeline.

The moan you let out is shameless, high and wrecked, when he tilts his hips just right — again and again, like he’s carving his name into your body from the inside.

“Right there?” he murmurs, already knowing. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you — every reaction, every sound. “God, you’re so fucking wet. You always get like this for me?”

“Koo—” His name slips out broken, a warning and a plea wrapped in one.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His thrusts get rougher now, faster, the rhythm losing polish but gaining intensity. “Let me have you, baby. Come again for me.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your whole body winding tight. His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond, tongue tangling with yours, greedy and open and honest in all the ways his words still aren’t.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, “You feel like heaven, fuck.”

You can’t even process it — not now, not when his rhythm stutters and his hips slam harder, each thrust jolting a cry from your throat. Your legs are trembling, your grip bruising where it clings to him, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tighening.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, and you cry out his name. His hand squeezes yours back, holding you through it.

Your walls grip him tight, and he groans loud against your skin, hips faltering. “Fuck— shit—”

He thrusts once more before spilling into you with a broken sound, voice rasping your name like a prayer.

His whole body shudders as he comes, arms locked tight around you like he needs you to stay exactly where you are — here, under him, around him, real. His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin as he exhales, long and shaky.

Neither of you move right away. The air between you is thick with heat and breath and a comforting silence.

Eventually though, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone. Then another, softer.

His hand slides along your waist, fingertips brushing lazy patterns into your skin. You hum under your breath — not a word, just a sound — and he responds by kissing your shoulder again.

Your legs are still tangled together. His body still half-draped over yours. There’s a mess between your thighs and sweat clinging to your skin, and you should probably say something, anything — but there’s something sweet about the silence now. It’s soft. Unspoken. Peaceful, in a weirdly intimate way.

He shifts again, easing out of you with a quiet groan, and you wince a little at the loss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over your thigh like an apology.

“It’s fine,” you breathe, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

He doesn’t go far. Just rolls to the side, still close enough that his leg stays pressed against yours, and reaches for the blanket to pull it up over you both. He tugs you into his chest like second nature, burying his nose in your hair, his hand stroking absently up and down your arm.

“You good?” he asks softly, lips brushing your temple.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”

He pauses. Then he nods against your skin. “Yeah. More than.”

You lay there like that for a while, heartbeats evening out. He’s still drawing shapes on your skin — fingertips slow, mindless — and you smile to yourself, warmth blooming low in your stomach.

“So,” you murmur eventually, voice still hoarse. “What now? We high-five and call it a night?”

He huffs a laugh into your hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a high-five.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, grinning. “But really—” He shifts a little so he can see your face, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If we’re doing this, I wanna do it right.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Do what right?”

He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. “Us.”

There’s a pause. You look at him, and he looks at you, and it’s terrifying and sweet all at once.

“I really like you,” he says, quieter this time. “And I’m not just saying that because I just got laid.” He cracks a small smile. “Though, to be fair, that was mind-blowing.”

You snort. “So humble.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll take you out. I’ll plan dumb dates. I’ll be obnoxiously charming and show up with flowers. I’ll be— like— a gentleman, or whatever.”

You give him a look. “You should’ve done all that before you fucked me.”

His grin spreads. “Yeah, well. Guess I got the order wrong. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll see. I’ll be so romantic it’ll make you want to punch me.”

“I already want to punch you.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, pulling you closer, “you’re still in my bed.”

“This is my bed, dumbass.”

He pauses. “Okay, fair. But I am naked in it. With you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face won’t go away. His arm tightens around your waist, and you let yourself relax into it — into him. For once, it doesn’t feel like something to second-guess.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

You tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “You better bring the good flowers. Like the ones that don’t die in two days.”

“Oh, so now you’re picky?”

“You said dates and flowers. I’m holding you to it.”

“Noted,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I’m gonna be so disgustingly good to you.”

You laugh softly into his skin.

And he just holds you tighter.

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

[rosenclaws]

Hi rose!!! IM SO GLAD YOU'RE BACK AHHHH

omg i was reading kitty and marie earlier AND I LOVE IT SM U ATE and now i have smth in my mind im not sure you'll like it but its like Marie has a family day activity at school and Marie insists that Logan should go with her Mommy 🫣

Family Fun Day || Worst Logan x Reader

warnings: fem!reader, fluff

a/n: this is such a good fucking idea non holy. My old elementary school used to have these events like a star night or a fun festival so Im gonna use one of these.

Kitty and Marie Series

"Family fun day? Face paint, bake sale, and games." You read off of the crumpled flyer Marie had shoved into her backpack.

"Do you want to go honey?" You ask. She looks up from her homework and nods.

"Yes please, Dani said she's gonna go with her mommy and daddy." Dani was her best friend. You often found them playing together after school when you went to pick her up.

"Can Kitty come?" She asks and you hesitate.

"We can ask but I don't know if he'll want to honey." You tell her gently.

Logan often couldn't say no to Marie but this was going to be a family day and well, you don't want to scare him by dragging him to a school with a bunch of screaming kids.

"But...but..." Her little eyes well up with tears and you can't help but laugh. Oh she's perfected her puppy eyes.

"Here, how about we'll ask him the next time we see him okay?" Marie nods and goes back to her homework. While she's occupied you whip out your phone and text Logan. Not wanting to spring something on him so he thinks he has to say yes. Marie is very convincing.

Are you free on Friday?

Yeah. Why?

Marie has this family fun day and she wants to invite you. It's totally okay if you don't want to go though because it's a lot and I don't want to put any pressure on you to go.

You bite your lip as you see the three little bubbles pop up and then disappear. Did you type too much? You didn't know if Logan would freak out seeing the family part of the family fun day. You're still early into your relationship. Hell you still get shy when someone calls you a couple. Plus Logan wasn't a very expressive texter so it was hard to read his mind when all he sends are short messages with the occasional emoji.

I'll be there.

👍

You take a deep breath as you tuck your phone back in your pocket. This is just supposed to be fun, nothing to read into right?

Marie sees Logan the next day and asks him if he wants to go. She's practically jumping up and down as he picks her up and hangs her upside down for a moment making her squeal with laughter. He says yes and Marie couldn't be happier.

Friday rolls around and you and Logan walk to her school. He can already hear the screams of the children and he shudders.

"You don't have to go Logan, it's okay really." You tell him, noticing his super senses starting to act up.

"No I promised Marie, I can deal with a few...okay a lot of rowdy kids for a few hours." He can suck it up for a little bit. Marie's waiting by the front with a few of her friends and spots them as soon as they walk up.

"Kitty!!!" She screams as she runs up to him. Logan picks her up with ease as she jumps into his arms.

"Hi Mommy! Can I get my face painted please please pleaseeeee." You laugh as she starts to squirm in his arms. Leaning over you boop her nose and tell her of course.

"Dani!! Mommy said yes!" She calls over her shoulder. Logan sets her down and he grabs both of your hands and "drags" you towards the face painting table.

"What do you want kid?" Logan asks as he bends down to look at the options.

"Mmm Butterfly or Unicorn." Marie thinks hard as she looks between the two.

"This is the hardest decision a little girl has to make." He teases.

"I think...Unicorn." She nods her head firmly and hops in the chair.

"Kitty look they have a tiger." She points out on the poster.

"Stay still honey." You tell her as she keeps moving her head.

"You should get the tiger face paint right mommy?" You smirk as you look at Logan who is shaking his head.

"No way. I am not painting a damn tiger on my face." He huffs.

"Not even for us?" You pout your lips slightly and so does Marie.

"You two are evil. Evil." He points at you and you just smile sweetly. 20 minutes later and Logan now has half a tiger painted on his face.

"You look purr-fect." You joke and he just glares at you playfully.

"Oh shut up."

Marie tugs on his hand and points towards some of the games. Her eyes go wide when she sees a massive cow plush sitting on one of the shelves.

"I need it." She whispers.

There's a crowd of kids around the booth. It was one of those knocking down the bottle games and so far everyone else has failed. Even some of the parents can't seem to get it. You hand Marie a few tickets and she goes up to the booth. He hands her a ball and she gives it her best shot. Knocking down one bottle but not the other ones.

"That was a good shot honey." You tell her trying to cheer her up. But you can see the sad look on her face. There's not tantrum or fit but just disappointment.

Logan narrows his eyes at the game. He watches a few more people take some shots and still nothing. He notices one of the bottles at the bottom get hit square in the middle but it doesn't budge. He knows most carnival games are rigged but at an elementary school? Really?

"Give me a few tickets, I'll get that stupid cow." He whispers in your ear.

"Its okay Logan we can just buy her one from the store." You tell him but he insists.

He hands the tickets to the guy at the booth and takes the ball. Logan throws the ball hard. It's not even at his full strength and it knocks the bottles clean off the stand. And rips through the tent and gets stuck in the fence behind the tent.

"Oops." Logan shrugs as everyone stares in awe. Logan plucks the cow from the high shelf and hands it to Marie. She squeals in happiness as a few kids come up to celebrate with her. Petting the fluffy hair and looking at Logan with big eyes.

"Is using mutant strength cheating?" You tease as he grabs your hand.

"Nah, That wasn't even my full strength." He smirks as Marie continues to show off her new plushie.

"Maybe I can show you how strong I really am sometime." He whispers in your ear, winking when he sees your jaw drop. Oh that jerk. You glare at him but he just smiles wider.

The whole day she wouldn't let go of it. Bragging to everyone who would hear that Kitty won it for her. She eventually hands the cow off to you as she goes to play on the playground. You and Logan sit on a bench eating some popcorn. The cow tucked under his arm.

"Thank you for coming Logan, Marie is having so much fun and so am I."

"I mean I really only came for the free food." He jokes and you roll your eyes. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer.

"Thank you for inviting me. I...It's nice being apart of your life like this." He says, his voice serious as he presses a kiss to your head.

"It was all Marie's idea. I was worried it would be too much."

"Too much how?"

"Its silly but sometimes I get nervous that we're moving too fast. The word family can be a lot." You explain. He's quiet for a moment which worries you.

"I never thought I'd be this kind of guy. The one who goes to their kids school events and gets their face painted because I can't say no to a child." He's teasing but there's a hint of vulnerability.

"How's it been so far?" You ask softly, the fact he said "their kid" doesn't escape you.

"It's better than I could have imagined." You lean your head against his shoulder as you watch Marie play.

As the fair winds down Logan gets up and heads over to the playground.

"Hey kid it's time to go home." Logan hands Marie her cow as she sighs, not wanting to leave yet.

But the promise of ice cream has her ready to go. Logan buys her a small ice cream cone on the way back. She swings on his arm as he orders and sticks by him while they wait. Marie has seemed to fall in love with him just as quickly as you have. You never imagined this was going to be your life.

Since her father left you all alone with her, it's been hard. Doing your best to make her happy, to be there for her while providing for her too. You were so happy with just the two of you and then Logan swooped in and filled the small hole that was still living in your heart.

"Thanks for inviting me kid, I had fun." Logan tells Marie as he drops you off at your apartment.

"You had to come, you're part of the family." She says. She doesn't realize how much it means to Logan to hear that.

"Yeah?" His voice is barely a whisper as Marie hugs his leg and hurries inside. You see his eyes turn misty and smile.

"She's right, you are part of your family now Logan. We're never gonna let you go now." You tease, trying to lighten the mood. He looks up at you with a serious face and your smile fades.

"I think I'm in love with you guys." He admits.

"No actually, I know I am."

The two of you were easy to fall in love with. He looks at you and suddenly his old ass wants everything. The school events and playdates, the tantrums and sick days. All of it. The good and the bad.

"Logan..." Your heart squeezes in your chest as you reach out and cup his face.

"We love you too. So much." You tell him and he kisses you gently.

You think you fell in love with him a long time ago, maybe even the first day you met him. Or at least you knew you would. He gently presses you against the door as he deepens the kiss.

"Stay for dinner?" Or stay forever. But you'll take dinner for now.

"Of course." His hands slip to your waist as you open the door.

Marie lights up seeing Logan still here. Already rambling on about making dinner. He helps her wash her hands as the three of you start to cook. He looks around to see the two of you cutting some vegetables.

There's a small tug at his heart as he realizes he's right where he wants to be. Wishing he never has to let go.

[insomniac4000]

can you do a fic about chris x reader, where sharon meets reader for the first time on maybe like see it off with becky and reader and sharon both start telling their steamy stories with Chris to kinda one up each other

See It Off. ChrisMD

Hope you don't mind, I couldn't write Shannon mean! So I just had them swap stories and bond.

It was still difficult for you to comprehend you were in demand and people wanted you on their shows and Podcasts. You had only been doing Youtuber for fifteen months, but things had exploded very quickly in that time. You did travel but also you did book reviews; people loved you for your honesty and laid back attitude. One person who fell for it in particular was ChrisMD. The pair of you had meet at a Youtuber’s conference eight months ago and after a couple of months of texting Chris finally bit the bullet and asked you out for a drink, neither of you had looked back since. Recently, after six months of dating you had gone public you had your reservations but on the whole it had gone well. You had slowly been bought into the larger UK Youtube scene over the past month or so and now Becky had asked you to go on see it off.

Originally Becky had asked both you and Chris to go on together. He unwaveringly refused “Look what happened last time I went on that show! Nope I’ve grown to like you and I want to keep you,” Chris commented.

Of course he was referring to the fact that when him and Shannon appeared together they broke up the very next day.

Shannon.

When the message came through from Becky that she had a great idea if Chris couldn’t make you never thought you would read the words Shannon. She wanted both of you to appear together, said it would be a “laugh.”

You had met Shannon twice, once before Chris and you had got together at an event and once afterwards at Becky’s birthday party. She was nothing but kind and gracious, Chris having spoken about you to her a lot. This was on another level though, it rattled you a little but after some assurances from Becky that Shannon was on board and it would be fun you agreed.

“Hello lovely!” Becky’s wonderful sing song Welsh voice rang out the studio. You smiled nervously and gave her a hug.

“Hey, how are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good how are you? Welcome to my pub!” Becky exclaimed, you smiled and looked around the place, the bar was incredibly well stocked and up on a bar stool already was Shannon, a glass of wine in front of her. She smiled warmly at you and waved, you sent a polite smile back but felt the nerves bubbling inside you.

“Want a pre drink?” Becky asked, you nodded silently and followed her to the bar area as Shannon poured a third glass of wine, this one was yours.

“Before we start I just wanted to ask if there was anything maybe you were uncomfortable with talking about? I’d hate for this to be awkward so just wanted to lay stuff down first?” Shannon suggested. You nodded.

“Chris and I agreed we’d talk about some stuff but keep a lot of it under wraps. I don’t know how I’ll feel after a couple of drinks though,” you smile and Shannon and Becky giggled.

You made some small talk but soon the cameras were rolling, hair and make up was touched up a little bit and it was go time.

“Hello and welcome back to see if off with strong questions and even stronger drinks! Today we have a treat for you as we have two beautiful babes with me today in Shannon and Y/N!” The three of you started clapping.

“The pair of you ready to drink?” Becky asked with a small smile.

“Well we’ve already started,” you replied with a smile causing the other two to giggle.

The premise of the video was simple, if you hesitate answering a question you drink. Things started off quite lightly, talking about videos and then it moved onto people you had met that you didn’t really like or click with very much. Both you and Shan had hesitated a little bit with it so you both had to drink a rum and coke.

Then the inevitable happened.

“So obviously you two have something in common or should I say someone in common, a certain Christopher Dixon also known as ChrisMD so I would like to know what has been your favourite date from the little hobbit.” You and Shannon looked at each other and shared a smirk which counted as a hesitation meaning you both needed to drink, it was wine again this time.

“Not a date as such but we went to Iceland and it honestly to this day is my favourite holiday.” Shannon answered while you thought of your answer.

“Probably my birthday a couple of weeks ago. He took me to my favourite play and Chris is not a musicals guy at all but sat through it for me and took me to this restaurant that I talked about once and mentioned it was my favourite meal so booked it for us. He often says he has a terrible memory and that’s true to some extent,” you started and Shannon nodded in agreement, you continued. “But he remembers the things that really matter and is thoughtful.”

“He is, he is always on his phone and it can drive you mad but you realise he’s just jotting things down so he doesn’t forget them later,” Shannon added.

“Okay, next question have you two ever compared notes?” Becky asked, a wide and sly grin on her face. You looked at Shannon again and bit your bottom lip slightly. In the time between Shannon and yourself Chris had made a bit of a reputation for himself for his bedroom antics and you had to admit you were a very happy customer. Part of you had wondered if he was naturally gifted or if it came with experience.

“Not yet,” Shannon’s response caused you to almost choke on your drink, you coughed.

“Is that what you do in the bedroom too?” Becky asked at your choking, the three of your then collapsed in a fit of giggles.

“He prefers the other way,” you replied now feeling bold from all the drinks you had consumed.

“Oh absolutely!” Shannon agreed and the pair of you giggled again.

“You know I can see that the dirty little boy!” Becky added raising her glass , the three women then clinked their glasses laughing between each other and took a sip. The video now became more about the drinking then playing the game.

“So his top shagger status is true then?” Becky asked, it wasn’t one of the questions he had on the card she just wanted to have a bit of a gossip now.

“I mean I never had any complaints even at the time.” Shannon smiled.

“He’s very giving,” you added sipping your drink once more.

“Oh absolutely, he puts other people’s needs before his own. I think he’s always been that way.”

“And he’ll try another once,” you spoke again.

Becky just sat in her way the biggest shit eating grin on her face as you and Shannon continued to bond over Chris’s bedroom adventures.

Eventually the conversation moved to other things but Becky was safe in the knowledge that this would be a good video.

You didn’t tell Chris too much about what had said, he did notice how tipsy you were and you told him that you and Shannon had a good time and you completely understood why he fell for her because she was beautiful and sweet but not much beyond that. You told him his name came up “a couple of times” but he didn’t know how much until the video was  released a couple of weeks later.

He watched it.

Of course he watched it, he was a curious little kitty and when he watched it, it almost killed him. You had to admit you couldn’t remember everything you said that day and you didn’t know what made the edit. Chris was at home, watching it with George which was a massive mistake as he already had lots of ideas on how to make content out of it already. You were filming but the pair of you had already made plans to meet up for dinner that night at your favourite ramen place. Chris was already there which was slightly unusual, sitting down at a booth. You walked over and indicated to the server that you were with someone and sat down opposite him.

“Hey you.” You gave him your usual greeting.

“So, youtube now know I love eating out and my dick leans slightly to the left,” he replied. He tried to look pissed off but he had that mischievous glint in his eye.

“We were complimentary too…” you tailed off, hoping the waiter would come over soon with a drink order. A big one.”

“Yeah. Four times in one day compared to her three and the hour session,” he replied this time his smile growing on his face.

“If I apologise and promise never to do it again will you agree to never take all those things away from me,” you suggested, genuinely looking remorseful.

“Fine. But next time you and Shan bond please don’t let it be on camera.”

You smiled. “Deal.”

[darkseidex]

I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU.

they were never really over. married young, loved hard—too hard. aaliyah and austin were fire and gasoline, all teeth and tenderness until the silence between them got louder than the vows they whispered on their wedding night. a quiet separation. no cheating. no scandal. just two people too proud to bend first.

but love like theirs doesn’t unravel clean. it clings. it aches. it shows up in headlines, in rings still carried in pockets, in dresses worn just to make his chest hurt.

when they cross paths at an industry event—her in silk and vengeance, him still wrecked and wanting—it doesn’t take much for the dam to break. a hallway. a kiss. a question whispered against his lips: “did you touch her?” and then it’s hands on skin, vows repeated in gasps, a ring slipped back on with trembling fingers.

because even at their worst, even after everything—

“you were always mine.”

18+ !!

Every marriage had its seasons—its ebbs and flows, its moments of joy and its inevitable silences. Aaliyah had always known that. She had braced for the day it would reach them too, creeping in not through explosive fights or betrayals, but in quieter ways. It showed up in the missed dinner dates that neither of them tried to reschedule, the text messages left on read, the long pauses where laughter used to live. It lingered in the unresolved arguments that stretched across days, tension thickening the air between them until it felt like walking through fog. And at night—those tender, vulnerable hours where love was meant to be reaffirmed—it arrived in the form of whispered “not tonight”s, soft enough to be polite, but heavy enough to bruise. They would each turn away, curling toward the edge of the mattress like islands adrift, backs facing one another, miles apart in a shared bed that used to feel like the safest place on earth.

Eventually, they decided to take a break—a quiet, aching kind of separation. There were no slammed doors or final words, just a mutual, mournful understanding that they needed space. Time. Distance. So they peeled their lives apart like wallpaper from a familiar wall, each returning to the person they were before the we had ever formed. For a while, they lived separately, orbiting in different cities, different routines, different silences.

They agreed—without needing to say it out loud—that they’d find their way back when the time was right. When their paths naturally curved toward each other again. When their bones ached for each other louder than their pride did. When longing outlasted stubbornness. And maybe, just maybe, when love no longer felt like something they had to protect with silence and distance—but something they were finally ready to fight for again.

The thing was, Aaliyah had never known how to love quietly. Jealousy pulsed through her like blood—warm, unyielding, stitched into the very marrow of her being. Envy wasn’t a flaw in her eyes; it was proof. Of how deep she felt, how fiercely she claimed. Her love did not whisper—it roared. It swallowed. It wrapped around the ones she chose and held tight, unwilling to let go.

She knew she should’ve softened it. Learned to ration the hunger, to quiet the ache that bloomed in her chest whenever his eyes wandered too long, his phone lit too late. But he never asked her to shrink. Never pulled back from the fever of her touch, never recoiled from the storm that lived beneath her skin. He met it. Matched it. Let her pour herself into every kiss like a prayer, every caress like an invocation.

And when they came together, it was nothing short of worship. A liturgy written in moans and half-choked gasps, in the grinding roll of hips that didn’t ask for permission. They broke themselves open on each other—over and over—until their bodies were boneless with fatigue, slick with sweat and devotion. Until they had nothing left to give but the quiet rise and fall of breath, the sacred silence that follows after surrender.

So when she scrolled through her phone—mind elsewhere, thumb moving on muscle memory—and saw the headline “AUSTIN BUTLER SPOTTED WITH NEW BLONDE BOMBSHELL AMID SEPARATION” flashing beneath a pap-shot of him half-smiling in someone else’s direction, her blood ran cold.

For a second, the world paused. Not the dramatic kind of pause you see in films, but the cruel, silent kind—where breath forgets itself and the floor suddenly feels too far away. Her mouth went dry. Her grip on the phone tightened, knuckles paling.

She stared, unblinking, at the image: her husband—her husband—lit up in the frame like he had nothing to mourn. Like he wasn’t hers in flesh, in name, in all the ways that mattered. The woman at his side had waves of sunlit hair, a dress that clung like worship, and a laugh caught midair—carefree. Effortless. Everything Aaliyah knew she wasn’t when she loved.

Her stomach twisted with something feral. Not just jealousy, but grief’s bitter cousin—possession. Because how dare he smile like that in someone else’s orbit? How dare the world forget he was still hers, even now? Even apart?

With a roll of her eyes—sharp, deliberate, regal—Aaliyah tapped her screen and called her publicist. Not in panic. Not in heartbreak. In strategy.

She wasn’t going to clap back with a man on her arm. Please. That was child’s play, and she was no little girl. She was legacy. Silk and storm. She wouldn’t respond with a rebound—she’d respond with a reminder.

No, she wasn’t his wife right now. But she was still his woman. And whether he’d admit it or not, she knew the ache in his chest wasn’t for the blonde—it was for her. For the way she used to ride him slow just to hear him beg. For the scars her nails left behind his shoulder blades. For the perfume he couldn’t scrub from his sheets. Because no one knew her body like he did. No one had ever had the privilege of unraveling her in the dark, of watching her bloom beneath them with that breathy little gasp she gave when she tipped over the edge. That was power. That was currency. That was her ace.

So she wouldn’t speak. She’d stun. She’d show up looking like revenge dipped in honey, with diamonds at her throat and her waist cinched just enough to make him remember what his hands used to grip when the world got too loud.

And when the cameras flashed and the headlines rolled, it wouldn’t be petty. It’d be poetry.

A quiet you miss me, baby? Loud enough to echo in his bones.

The sun draped itself across the garden like a spotlight, warm and unforgiving, casting diamonds off flutes of champagne and the gold teeth of industry men pretending not to measure each other in glances.

Austin stood beneath the awning, half-listening to someone talk about a French short film, nodding on autopilot. But his body went still before his mind caught up—like something old and instinctive had just shifted in the air. Like his soul stood up before he did.

Then came the click of heels.

He didn’t have to look. He felt her. Like gravity, like God.

And when he finally turned—slow, careful, like he knew too much—there she was.

Aaliyah.

She entered not like a woman but like a reckoning, carved in white and soft thunder. Her dress clung to her like devotion—cinched at the waist, slit high enough to humiliate him. Fabric ghosted over her thighs with every step, catching wind and attention with the same ease. Her curls framed her face like a halo gone rogue. Sunlight kissed her collarbones. Her lips held that lazy, dangerous softness he used to lose himself in.

And she didn't look at him. She didn’t have to.

The entire room pivoted like a compass to her magnetic north. Eyes followed. Phones lifted. Paparazzi, stylists, producers—all of them suddenly tuned into the quiet power of a woman who knew she was missed. Who didn’t need to say it out loud.

And Austin? He watched.

Not with weakness. Not with guilt. But with something older. Something heavier.

Want.

Because God, he wanted her.

The curve of her neck, the way her dress whispered against her calves, the sway of her hips like a song only he knew the lyrics to. He remembered her breath in the dark. The heat of her back pressed to his chest. The nights she’d cry and swear she didn’t want to become her mother, and he’d promise she never would.

But love wasn’t enough—not then. Not with the way she’d shut down instead of speak, or punish instead of apologize. She could blame the blonde in the photos all she wanted, but he remembered the nights she’d gone cold first. The mornings she rolled away. The apologies that came too late.

No—this wasn’t just on him.

So he watched. Jaw tight, chest heavier than the tux on his back. And when she finally passed close, her perfume curling up his spine like smoke, she glanced his way—only once. Just long enough for her eyes to say everything her lips didn’t.

You miss me, baby?

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t reach for her like every cell in his body begged him to.

Instead, he nodded once—barely—and offered a smile. Quiet. Unshaken.

Every day, he thought. But I’m not the only one who let us drown.

And just like that, she walked on.

White dress fluttering in her wake like a threat. Like a promise. Like a dare he refused to take.

Not yet.

She felt him before she saw him.

Like a pressure drop in the air. Like the stillness right before thunder cracks.

Aaliyah was mid-laugh—light, practiced, elegant enough to land in someone’s press coverage—when she felt fingers brush the inside of her wrist. Not a grab. Not a pull. Just that intimate, unmistakable kind of contact that only someone who had once kissed your scars could deliver without asking.

She turned slowly. She already knew.

And there he was. Austin. Dressed in shadows and restraint. His suit tailored to perfection, his expression anything but. His eyes devoured her the way a starving man studies the last meal he swore he didn’t need.

“Come with me,” he said. Low. Controlled. Like if he didn’t get the words out gently, they’d break his mouth.

She should’ve said no. Should’ve raised a brow, tilted her head, maybe let out one of those soft, unbothered chuckles that said boy, please. But her feet moved before her pride could protest.

They slipped through a garden path veiled by ivy and whispers, past murmured applause and flutes of champagne, until the world faded into stillness again—just the hush of leaves, the floral ghost of her perfume, and the charged silence that always seemed to settle between them.

He let go of her wrist but didn’t step back. Not fully.

The distance between them was threadbare—measured in breath, not space.

“That’s what we’re doing now?” His voice was gravel laced in honey. “You walk in looking like vengeance dressed in silk, and I’m just supposed to pretend I didn’t notice?”

She smiled, slow and venom-sweet.

“Funny. I figured you liked blondes now.”

That landed like a slap wrapped in satin.

He stared at her—really stared. The way a man does when memory gets too loud to ignore. His jaw ticked. His chest rose. But still, he didn’t step back.

“Don’t act like I’m the only one who drifted,” he said, quieter now. “You shut me out, Aaliyah. Every time I tried to reach for you, you turned to stone. I was loving a ghost with perfect lipstick.”

She exhaled. Not because she was exhausted. But because the truth stung.

“And you stopped trying,” she whispered. “You let me stand out in the cold and called it distance.”

The silence between them filled with ghosts. With all the nights they spent pretending the silence didn’t hurt, all the times her back turned first, but his stayed turned longer.

Then his hand found her waist—not possessive. Just there. A palm to anchor her. A reminder.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, eyes tracing the line of her collarbone like it might spell an apology. “But don’t weaponize it like I’m the villain in your fairytale.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“I never needed a fairytale,” she said. “I just needed a place to rest my heart where it wouldn’t bruise.”

He closed his eyes. Just for a second. Like her words reached some place inside him he wasn’t ready to revisit.

They stood there—face to face, years of love and blame stitched between them, trembling beneath their skin.

He wanted to kiss her. God, he wanted to. But pride was a cruel warden. And she wasn’t reaching either. Not yet.

So they stood in that fragile quiet—close enough to shatter, too stubborn to break.

And when she finally stepped back, her fingers brushing his suit like a farewell, she didn’t need to say a word.

Her silence was a poem. And he would spend the rest of the night rereading it, aching for the next line.

But as she turned to leave, as her silhouette began to slip from the cradle of their silence, he moved.

Not much—just his head, just slightly, just enough. Enough for the world not to notice, but enough for his body to betray him.

His jaw loosened, barely. His eyes fell to the ground, as though looking directly at her might undo him completely. And then— he inhaled.

Slow. Deep. Willful.

Like a man trying to remember the exact temperature of her skin.

And her scent—God, it hit him like a memory with teeth. Warm vanilla soaked in sunlight, faint jasmine blooming at the throat, the quiet heat of skin on silk. But underneath all of that, it was her. That Aaliyah note. The one perfume couldn’t bottle. The one he knew in dreams.

It wrapped around his ribcage and pressed its mouth to his chest. It smelled like the sheets they used to tangle in. Like the back of her neck when she’d fall asleep facing away from him, and he’d press his lips there like a promise. Like the hollow behind her knee where his fingers used to rest in the dark, lazy and certain, like he had all the time in the world to hold her.

He breathed it in like gospel. Held it in his lungs like a secret. And when he let it out, it almost sounded like a prayer.

She didn’t look back. Of course she didn’t. She walked away like a slow-burning verse—measured, untouchable, devastating. But she knew he was watching. She knew he was breathing her in like she was the last soft thing left in a world full of sharp edges.

And he just stood there. Head bowed. Fists in his pockets. That scent still clinging to his collar like a ghost.

He didn’t chase her. Didn’t speak. Because this was a war neither of them wanted to win.

But he would carry that breath for days.

A single inhale. All that remained of a love too big to name.

The house was silent. Too silent.

Not just the absence of footsteps or soft jazz curling through the kitchen—this silence had depth. It pressed. It ached. It sounded like everything he didn’t say when she packed her bags.

Austin sat on the edge of their bed in the dark, still dressed from the brunch. His shirt was wrinkled, collar unbuttoned, his belt undone but hanging loose like he hadn’t even noticed. The moonlight cut across the floor in pale ribbons, and in his lap, shaking fingers gripped the lace like it might bleed if he squeezed hard enough.

Her panties. Black. Barely there. The pair he used to mouth through just to hear her whimper. The pair she’d once worn under nothing but his jacket, whispering, “Don’t take them off yet. Make me earn it.”

His throat worked around something that didn’t want to be swallowed.

The fabric was delicate, whisper-soft. Floral lace, edges curled from wear. He lifted them slowly to his face, inhaling like they were the last oxygen left in the world. And when her scent hit him—warm, feminine, a little sweet with a ghost of skin-salt—his whole body stilled.

Then trembled.

It was her. Her.

Memory rose in his throat so violently it almost choked him. He pictured her—head thrown back, hair wild, hips grinding down on him as she gasped into his mouth like she wanted to drown there. Her body curving over his, slow and sinuous, dragging moans out of him like confessions.

And suddenly he couldn’t take it.

His hand dropped to his fly. Shaky. Quick. Almost frantic. He palmed himself through his boxers with a frustrated groan—already hard, already aching, like his cock knew what his heart refused to admit: she still lived under his skin.

He shoved the fabric down, spit in his palm, and wrapped a fist around himself with a hiss.

Not soft. Not sweet. This wasn’t for pleasure. This was for survival.

He fisted himself in desperate strokes, the lace still pressed to his face like a blindfold, like a memory he could smell and taste and feel in his bones. Every drag of his hand was punishment. A reminder. He wasn’t imagining another woman—he never could. No matter who smiled at him, no matter what the headlines said.

Only her.

Aaliyah, in those panties, bent over the sink while he dragged them down and slid into her raw. Aaliyah, riding him in his studio chair, one hand behind her, gripping the base, her moans muffled against his neck. Aaliyah, half-asleep in his arms, whispering “You ruin me every time.”

“Fuck—” he groaned, breath ragged now, strokes faster, harsher. “Ali…”

Her name left his mouth like a sob, like a confession torn from the core of him.

And then he came.

Hard. Violently. The kind of orgasm that knocked the wind from his lungs and bent his spine. He hunched forward, trembling, jaw clenched as his release spilled hot across his hand, thighs twitching from the force of it. It hit him like heartbreak—relief and ruin in one.

Still, he didn’t let go of the lace.

Didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t move.

He sat there—shirt open, pants down, hand sticky, breathing like he’d run a marathon he didn’t train for—crumpled over a pair of panties that no longer belonged to him.

He lifted them again. Brushed them across his lips.

And for one horrible, beautiful second, he let himself believe she was still his.

SILVERLAKE ROOFTOP – 4:13 P.M. The sky was melting into late afternoon gold, casting everything in a soft, flattering glow—the kind that made champagne sparkle and sins seem cinematic. Laughter rose and fell between the clink of glasses, a DJ spun something low and sultry, and the scent of garden herbs floated through the air like perfume.

Austin had just tucked a hand in his pocket, mid-conversation, when the crowd shifted. The noise didn't dim, but his awareness narrowed—like the sun tilted on its axis, just slightly. Like the gravity in the room realigned itself around a single figure.

Her.

Aaliyah.

And God—she wasn’t walking in. She was gliding. Moving through the crowd like golden-hour honey, poured in slow motion.

The dress was yellow—no, not yellow. Sun-kissed. Scandalous. Soft like peaches and sin. It clung to her like it had been poured onto her body, delicate spaghetti straps holding onto her shoulders like a prayer. The neckline scooped just enough to make his mouth dry. The fabric hugged her waist, dipped along her hip, and then— that slit. High. Wicked. Revealing the long, endless line of her thigh like it was a promise wrapped in silk.

Her skin glowed. Not sparkled—glowed. Like light was something she didn’t reflect but radiated. Her curls were down, effortless and lush, bouncing gently as she walked like she hadn’t just destroyed him last week with silence.

She had a white paper coffee cup in one hand. A black leather shoulder bag looped lazily over the other. Long nails. Glossed lips. Unbothered expression.

He felt his pulse spike, just watching her. Felt heat flood his throat. Felt his jaw lock so tight it ached.

Because he knew that dress. Not that exact one, but the blueprint. He knew how that kind of fabric would stretch over her thighs when she straddled him. How it would pool at her waist when she pulled it up with a smirk, biting her lip. He knew what she looked like just out of it—skin flushed, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with hunger and victory.

She hadn’t seen him yet.

Or maybe she had—and that was the cruelty of it. She kept talking to someone else, a hand resting gently on their shoulder, smiling like she was at peace. Like he hadn’t spent the last three nights jacking off into his fist with her lace panties pressed to his mouth just to feel close.

And then— She turned.

Their eyes collided.

It hit him like glass breaking in the chest.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just looked at him—slow, deliberate, measured. Her gaze dropped for a moment, grazing his mouth like a touch. Then slid back up, cool as moonlight.

And she sipped her drink.

No smirk. No drama. Just… detachment.

Like he was a room she’d already walked out of.

Then she turned away.

Back to her conversation. Back to her life. Like he was nothing but an echo.

Austin stood frozen, staring at the sway of her hips, the ripple of golden fabric stretched taut over her ass, the slit in her dress teasing glimpses of the thigh he used to kiss like worship.

His fingers flexed in his pocket. His teeth ground silently. He looked away just to breathe.

Because she was burning him alive without ever touching him. And the worst part?

She knew it.

He lasted forty-four minutes.

Forty-four agonizing minutes of watching her float through conversations like she wasn’t driving him mad. Of pretending not to see the way other men looked at her—lingering gazes that crawled too low, too long. He knew that look. He’d worn it first. But now it belonged to strangers. To anyone.

And her? She didn’t so much as glance at him again.

Until she moved.

He saw her hand brush someone’s arm in parting, watched her thank a server, and then she turned—hips swaying, coffee cup nearly empty, heels clicking against concrete as she slipped through a glass door at the far end of the rooftop.

He didn’t think. He followed.

Through the open doorway, down a quiet corridor half-lit with amber sconces. The music faded behind them, the laughter dimmed. The walls closed in. Her scent hit him again before she even realized he was there—coconut, citrus, a sweetness he’d tasted in the hollow of her throat more times than he could count.

“Aaliyah,” he said, low.

She stopped.

Didn’t turn around.

Just stood there, her back to him, shoulders high, the curve of her waist framed perfectly by that fucking dress.

“You following me now?” she asked, voice calm, a touch amused, like she already knew the answer.

He took a step closer.

“You wore that for me.”

She laughed softly. No mirth—just music.

“Baby, not everything’s about you.”

“Don’t lie,” he said. Lower now. Rougher. “You walked in wearing sunlight and sin with your tit nearly falling out the top, knowing exactly what it would do to me.”

She turned then. Slowly. Eyes sharp. Chin high.

“You think I dress for you? You think I wake up wondering if you’ll get hard the second I walk by?”

His jaw clenched. He stepped in closer, close enough to see the golden undertones glowing against her skin, the flutter of her pulse at her neck. His hand hovered like he wanted to grab her hip—like he was seconds away from breaking.

“No,” he said. “But I think you knew I’d follow. And you wanted me to.”

Her lips parted—just slightly. Not to speak. To breathe. And it sounded like a dare.

For a second, they just stood there. Heat radiating. Breaths shallow. The hallway too narrow for how much space they needed to not touch.

He stepped forward again.

Their chests nearly grazed. His breath hit her cheek.

“You think this is a game, Ali?” he whispered, voice ragged. “You think I don’t remember what you taste like in the morning? How your legs shake when I go slow? You think a dress like that doesn’t have my name all over it?”

“It doesn’t,” she whispered back. But her voice caught on the lie.

He looked down at her lips. Then lower. That slit. That slit. The thigh he used to kiss, the one that still showed faint traces of a mark he’d left weeks ago, hidden under the hem.

His fingers twitched.

“Tell me to leave,” he said. But he didn’t move.

Neither did she.

The air between them was electric. Not romantic. Not soft. Charged.

Austin was close now. Too close. His body towered over hers, not in threat—but in declaration. Every inch of space between them was gone, filled with heat and breath and the frantic hum of restraint cracking beneath the surface.

“Tell me to walk away,” he said again.

But Aaliyah didn’t. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare.

He stared at her, chest heaving, eyes dragging down the length of her in that fucking yellow dress—slippery like sunlight, sinful like skin. It clung to her hips like he used to. Split high up her thigh, teasing him with every breath she took. The neckline was too low. Her breasts too full. Her waist too small in his memory. She was standing there wrapped in everything that used to be his, acting like she didn’t know what she was doing to him.

And that’s when it snapped.

His hand came up slowly—fingers brushing the slit of her dress. He trailed them along her bare thigh, reverent at first, like he was tracing scripture. But his touch trembled, not with nerves—with rage.

“You wore this for someone,” he said. Voice low. Dangerous.

His other hand slid around her back, anchoring her to him. Their bodies flush now, no room left for air or lies.

“So tell me, Aaliyah. Who the fuck did you put this on for?” “Who the fuck are you showing my thighs to?” “Who’s out there imagining pulling this dress up, when they don’t even know how to touch you right?”

She flinched—barely—but he felt it. Felt the guilt, the heat, the inhale she didn’t mean to take. That was all the confirmation he needed.

He shoved her—gently—against the wall with a thud. The kind that said, you’re mine, not you’re in danger. His palm pressed flat to the curve of her waist, holding her in place, like he was daring her to vanish again.

Her coffee cup dropped from her hand. It rolled away, forgotten.

His lips brushed her jaw.

“While you still wear my fucking last name,” he growled into her neck, “you don’t get to walk around like this. Not for them. Not for anyone.”

His hand slid down, gripping the meat of her thigh now, lifting it just enough to tilt her hips toward his. The dress rode up with the movement, soft fabric bunching at her hip, exposing more skin than should ever be seen in public.

“This—” he hissed, dragging his mouth along her collarbone, “—was always mine.”

Then his lips crashed into hers. Not a kiss. A claiming. His tongue swept her mouth open, devouring her like he was starving, like he hadn’t touched water in weeks and she was the only source left on earth.

And her— She moaned against him. Weak. Broken. Willing.

Because there was no fighting it. No escaping it.

They were fire and bone and breath, coming apart at the seams in a hallway not meant to witness this kind of ruin.

“Take it off,” he snarled against her lips, tugging the strap down her shoulder hard enough to make her gasp. “Or I will. Right here. Right now. I don’t give a fuck who hears.”

She didn’t answer.

Just looked at him with wide, wet eyes and want.

And it nearly destroyed him.

She didn’t answer.

Just looked at him with those wide, wet eyes and trembling lips. Eyes that used to hold galaxies for him. Eyes that used to soften when he touched her name with his mouth.

Now they were blown open with want.

And it nearly destroyed him.

Austin’s jaw flexed. His breath came heavy, nose brushing hers. His fingers gripped the strap of her dress where it slipped down her shoulder, knuckles white. She wasn’t pushing him away. She was melting into him.

He leaned in, teeth grazing the shell of her ear.

“Is it getting harder to think, baby?” “Hm?”

He kissed her jaw, then lower—trailing down her neck with his tongue, his breath hot and ragged. She whimpered as he pressed her harder into the wall, her thigh still hoisted against his hip.

“All that attitude,” he murmured, “and now you can’t even speak.”

His hand slid beneath the hem of her dress—finally, fully—and found her center with two fingers, slick and swollen.

“Shit,” he groaned. “You’re dripping.” “You walked in here ready to be fucked. Didn’t you?”

He rubbed slow, teasing circles against her clit—light pressure, just enough to make her buck forward. His mouth was at her throat again, biting, kissing, sucking until she whimpered into his shoulder.

“Open those pretty eyes,” he said, low and possessive. “I want you looking at me when I make you come. Got it?”

She obeyed.

Barely.

Her gaze fluttered back to him, dazed and desperate, pupils wide like the night sky. Her lips were parted, lip gloss ruined, her chest rising in uneven waves.

He licked into her mouth again, harder this time, one hand gripping her jaw as the other slipped his fingers deeper between her legs. She gasped against him—then moaned. Loud. Shameless. Her hips grinding against his palm, body betraying every sharp little lie she’d tried to wear like armor.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Show me.” “Show me how fucking needy you still are for me.”

Two fingers slid inside—slow, deep, curling up to drag along the spot that made her knees go weak. His thumb kept circling her clit, precise and filthy, his rhythm maddening. Her breath stuttered. Her hands clung to his arms, nails digging into his biceps.

“You gonna come just like this?” he taunted. “On my fingers, right here in this hallway like a little slut?”

She whimpered, eyes fluttering shut again.

He pulled his fingers out suddenly and slapped her thigh, just once—not hard, just enough to shock her back into the moment.

“Eyes.” “On. Me.”

She snapped them open—wet and wild and ruined.

“There she is,” he whispered, voice shaking from how badly he wanted to fuck her against the wall until her legs stopped working. “My good girl. My fucking wife.”

His lips crashed into hers again, deeper than before. One hand slid up to her breast, kneading through the fabric, thumb grazing her nipple until she was gasping into his mouth.

“You feel that?” he panted against her lips. “That pulse between your legs? That’s mine. You don’t come unless I say so.”

“Please,” she breathed. “Please, Austin—”

“You begging now?” he said, half-laugh, half-growl. “God, look at you. Dripping down your thighs for the man you tried to leave.”

He kissed her again—open mouth, tongue deep, bruising and claiming.

And then he dropped to his knees.

Lifted her leg over his shoulder. Pressed his mouth against the center of her. Sucked once—deep, dirty, deliberate—and she cried out, high-pitched and broken.

“Keep those eyes open,” he said again from between her thighs, his voice thick and slick with her. “I want to watch your soul leave your fucking body.”

And he devoured her. Messy. Filthy. Tongue everywhere. Nose buried. Moans vibrating against her clit. Fingers spreading her open. No rhythm, no mercy—just obsession.

She writhed. Moaned. Fisted his hair like she’d fall without him.

And when she shattered—screaming, gasping, back arching against the door—he stayed right there. Licked through her high. Didn’t let go. Didn’t stop.

Because this wasn’t just about making her come. This was about making her remember.

Who she belonged to. Who she still carried in her skin.

Aaliyah was still trembling when he stood, lips slick with her taste, jaw clenched tight like it hurt to hold back.

She looked ruined. Hair falling out of place, one strap down, thighs glistening, chest heaving like she couldn’t catch breath. And he—

He wasn’t satisfied. He was starving.

Austin grabbed her by the waist and spun her around—chest to the door, palms flat, breath caught.

“You’re not done,” he growled, voice ragged and wrecked. “Not even fucking close.”

She barely had time to gasp before he yanked the rest of her dress up over her ass and shoved his jeans down just enough to free himself—hard, heavy, already leaking. He gripped her hips, dragging her back until her ass was flush with his cock, and snarled at the sight of her arched and waiting.

“Look at you,” he hissed, voice low and shaking. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

He pushed into her in one deep, brutal thrust.

Aaliyah cried out, hands slamming against the door. The stretch, the fullness—him—it shattered her composure in one go. He was deep. So deep it burned, so perfect it felt like coming home at the same time it felt like falling apart.

“Fuck—Aaliyah—” he groaned, forehead pressed to the back of her neck. “You were made for me. You hear me?”

He started moving—fast, hard, brutal. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, filthy and sharp, her gasps echoing off the door. Her cheek was pressed against the wood now, legs spread wide, dress bunched around her waist, his name tumbling from her lips like it was all she knew.

His hand came around her throat—firm but not cruel—just enough to own the sound of her breathing.

“I can’t fucking sleep without dreaming about this pussy,” he snarled into her ear. “I can’t fuck, can’t eat, can’t breathe without thinking about what it felt like to be inside you.”

Another thrust. Deeper. She cried out.

“I should hate you for leaving,” he growled, voice cracked and wild, “but I’d take you back right now—right fucking now—because you’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel whole.”

Her eyes rolled back, mouth falling open, body straining under the weight of his rhythm.

“This body—” thrust. “This moan—” thrust. “This fucking name you still wear—” thrust— “It all belongs to me.”

He slapped her ass once—rough, loud, the mark blooming under his palm—and she shook.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say who you fucking belong to.”

“You!” she sobbed. “You, Austin—only you—”

“That’s right,” he growled, gripping her tighter, his thrusts growing frantic now, near-desperate. “You still feel like mine. You still fucking sound like mine.”

She was spiraling. Her thighs trembled. Her back arched.

“You gonna come on this dick again?” he snarled into her hair. “Right here, like the filthy little wife you are?”

“Yes—yes, please, I’m gonna—”

“Then fucking take it.”

And she did.

She came with a scream that no one would hear—his hand slapped over her mouth, holding her to the door, body quaking under his. Her orgasm tore through her like a storm, muscles locking, legs trembling, tears slipping from her eyes as she pulsed around him like she never wanted him to leave again.

He followed with a guttural groan, burying himself deep, spilling into her with full-body shudders, his head falling forward to rest against her back as he gasped for air.

For a long moment, they just breathed. Still joined. Still shaking.

His arms wrapped around her middle. Not rough anymore. Just holding. Needing.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, voice raw. “And I’ll never let you forget it.”

She didn’t let him breathe.

The moment he zipped up and turned to speak, to exhale, her hands were already on his chest—shoving him, hard, back into the room behind them.

The moment the lock clicked behind her, she pounced—like something wild that’d spent too long chained. Her hands weren’t gentle, they were commanding—gripping his chest, dragging him backwards until his back slammed against the supply cabinet. Bottles rattled, a clipboard clattered to the floor, but she didn’t flinch.

“You’re not walking away,” she breathed, words like silk soaked in venom. “Not this time.”

Austin was panting already, chest rising and falling like he’d just run through traffic to get to her—and maybe he had, emotionally. Physically. He was still dripping from her, his shirt half-tucked, mouth red from the ruin they’d just left down the hall.

But this wasn’t over.

Her hands were furious, tugging his pants down again until they hung around his thighs, cock already swelling back to full hardness like his body couldn’t help itself around her. He tried to speak—tried to say her name—but she grabbed his jaw, forced his head back, and mounted him.

Just like that.

No warning. No teasing. Just claiming.

Her wet heat swallowed him whole, inch by inch, as she sank down slow—eyes locked on his the entire time. She didn’t even blink when he choked out a gasp that sounded like her name.

“Yeah,” she purred, circling her hips. “Remember how this feels?”

His head thudded back against the cabinet. His hands shot to her waist, holding tight like if he let go, she’d vanish. But she wasn’t done.

“She didn’t fuck you like this,” Aaliyah whispered, voice cracking into a growl. “The blonde. The one from the photos.”

His jaw tensed.

She rolled her hips again—grinding—using every inch of his cock to hurt him just a little with how good it felt.

“Did she ride you like this?” she spat. “Did she say your name like a prayer while she cried on your cock and begged you not to stop?”

“I didn’t fuck her,” he rasped, desperate now. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t, Aaliyah.”

“Because she wasn’t me?” she asked, venom-sweet. “Or because you were thinking about this pussy while you kissed her goodnight?”

Then she slapped his face—not hard, just enough to make his eyes snap open.

“Look at me,” she growled. “Look at what you gave up.”

She rode him harder now, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the tiny room, her moans ragged, breath catching with every bounce. His hands slipped under her dress, gripped her ass like he wanted to bruise her, but she just smiled—like she was winning.

Because she was.

“Is it getting hard to think, baby?” she whispered, lips brushing his ear. “You always get dumb when you’re inside me.”

“Fuck—Aaliyah—please—”

“Please what?” she asked, rolling her hips slower now, torturously slow. “Please let you come? Please let you be mine again?”

She leaned back, hand at his throat, pinning him with her gaze.

“You want that, don’t you?” “To be mine again.”

He nodded. Couldn’t form the words. Just looked up at her—his mouth parted, pupils blown wide, jaw slack like a man being undone.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” he choked. “I never stopped being yours.”

She grinned like sin itself. Her body tightened around him.

“Good,” she whispered, grinding deep. “Because I’m about to ruin you.”

And then—he snapped.

He grabbed her waist and slammed her down, over and over, matching her rhythm with thrusts of his own now. Their bodies clashed like thunder—sweat-slick, furious, starved. She gasped. Screamed. Bit into his neck. He groaned so loud it was a miracle no one heard.

When they came, it was violent—her legs trembling, his fingers digging bruises into her thighs, both of them shaking like something holy had passed between them. Like they’d both been burned alive and liked it.

And afterward?

She didn’t move. Just stayed in his lap, pulsing around him, breath shallow.

Her fingers traced his jaw. Soft now. Still claiming.

“Next time they say you’re seen with someone else,” she murmured, eyes hooded, “I want them to know—you’re not theirs to spot. You’re already owned.”

She shifted—barely, just a tilt of her hips to lift herself off of him. But it was enough.

His hands seized her.

Not yet.

“No,” he said, guttural and hoarse, voice like gravel smoothed by water. “Don’t move. Don’t—please, just—stay.”

She stilled again, heart knocking behind her ribs, eyes catching the tremble in his fingers as they splayed across her lower back. She could feel his pulse beneath her palms, still hammering, still unsteady from the high of their ruin.

He wasn’t done.

But this wasn’t about sex anymore.

It was about what came after.

“I can still feel you,” he whispered, head bent against her chest like a confession. “Your body, your breath, your name on every wall in that fucking house. I can’t wash you off.”

His voice shook. He never shook.

But now? His hands couldn’t stop trembling.

“I tried. God knows I tried to pretend you weren’t mine anymore. I even let you go. Gave you space, gave you the silence you asked for—but Aaliyah, I’m fucking starving.”

He lifted his head and looked up at her.

And oh, God—his eyes.

Raw. Red. Wrecked.

As if just looking at her was the kind of pain that reshapes a man.

“You once said you needed time,” he murmured. “Said our love was burning us alive.” “But baby, I liked the fire. I thrived in it. I’d let it eat me whole if it meant you'd stay.”

She inhaled sharply. But he kept going. Couldn’t stop.

“You think that blonde meant something?” “You think she could touch me and make me forget you?” “No one knows how to pull me apart like you. No one knows where I break.”

His hands ran up her sides now, slow and reverent, as if mapping the fault lines of her soul by feel alone.

“And I’m so tired of pretending I’m fine.” “I’m not.” “I’m not okay. Not when you’re not sleeping next to me. Not when your toothbrush isn’t on the counter. Not when your perfume fades off the sheets and I’m left breathing in the absence.”

Her hands trembled now too.

“Austin…”

But he cupped her face—gently, desperately, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek like it was glass he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch anymore.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “If you’re gonna leave, at least look at me while you do it.”

She looked. God, she looked. And her heart split so wide open it nearly collapsed inside her chest.

Because no matter how much he hurt her, no matter the distance or the fights or the missed chances, there was no mistaking the truth in his face now.

He never stopped loving her.

He never would.

“I’ll do better,” he choked. “I’ll fucking earn you, every day. Just—come home. Come home, Aaliyah.”

Silence fell like dust between them.

She could hear his breathing. Shaky. Sharp. Like he was trying not to sob.

She didn’t move. Not yet.

His hands clutched her hips tighter now, as if trying to anchor her to him with just sheer will.

“You wear my last name,” he whispered, voice cracking. “But you are my name. My beginning. My end.”

And just like that—

Her fingers threaded through his hair. Slow. Soft. Like forgiveness.

She didn’t say yes.

She didn’t have to.

Because the way she leaned in—the way she kissed him so gently, so deeply, so full of everything they used to be—that was answer enough.

Her breath ghosted over his skin, uneven and hot, like she was exhaling three months of silence all at once. Her nails scraped gently at the nape of his neck, just enough to make him shiver beneath her touch.

And then she spoke—soft, bitter, beautiful.

“You think I didn’t miss you?” “You think I didn’t fucking ache for you?”

She pulled back enough to look at him. Really look at him. And her eyes—glassy with restraint, brimming with fury and love and heartbreak—demanded he feel every syllable.

“You think I didn’t lie awake every goddamn night, staring at my ceiling and wondering if you were curled around someone else? If she knew the way your hands shake when you’re about to fall apart? If she tasted me in your mouth every time you kissed her?”

His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

“I saw the photos,” she went on, her voice turning sharp, diamond-edged. “Of you. Her. That café in West Hollywood you used to take me to when you couldn’t sleep.”

She let that hang there. Let it sting.

“And you know what made me sick, Austin?” she whispered, fingers sliding down his chest like a slow unraveling. “It wasn’t the fact that you were with her. It was that you looked calm. Like I hadn’t ripped you open before I left.”

Her eyes shimmered now, glassy under the low light, fury giving way to something even worse—grief.

“I used to think no one could touch you the way I did,” she said, voice cracking like porcelain. “But I guess I was wrong, huh? I guess she did just fine.”

And then—smiling. But it wasn’t happy. It was the kind of smile that makes men drop to their knees.

“Except she didn’t know you hate mint in your coffee. She didn’t know you can’t fall asleep unless I hum that one stupid Sade song. She didn’t know that when you come, you bury your face in my neck like it’s church.”

Her hands moved to his face, cradling him like a prayer. She forced his gaze to stay on her.

“She didn’t know,” Aaliyah whispered, “because you don’t belong to her.”

And when he didn’t answer—couldn’t answer—she kissed him. A slow, shaking kiss. Not full of lust or fire this time, but of history. Of weight. Of a thousand unsaid things that had lived in the cracks of their shared silence.

“You let me leave,” she said softly against his lips. “You let me walk away and didn’t run after me.”

He tried to speak, but she pressed a finger to his mouth. Shushed him.

“You always fight for everything, Austin,” she murmured. “But you didn’t fight for me.”

She sat still in his lap, but the whole room felt like it was tilting around them. Her voice turned softer now—deadlier in its tenderness.

“I hated you for that,” she confessed. “I hated you for making it easy. For making it feel like I didn’t matter enough to stop.”

A pause.

A breath.

Then—

“But I’m here now,” she whispered. “And I still know how to ride you slow enough to make your voice crack. I still know how to look at you like you hung the moon.”

She leaned in, brushed her lips against his again.

“But don’t mistake this for surrender,” she said, voice velvet and fire. “I’m not coming home to what we were, Austin. I’m not crawling back into a version of us that broke.”

And now she was crying, tears sliding down her cheeks, silently, even as her mouth curled into something tender and aching.

“If I come home,” she breathed, “I want all of you. Not what’s left. Not the scraps. I want the man who used to stare at me like I was the only thing left worth believing in.”

She pressed their foreheads together, both of them trembling.

“And if you can’t be him again… then don’t ask me to stay.”

He didn’t kneel.

Didn’t need to.

Not when he was already cracked open at her feet, his heart bare, chest heaving like the words were being pulled from the very marrow of him.

His hands came to her face, cradling her like she was something holy and haunted all at once—his greatest miracle and his deepest punishment. He looked at her the way a man looks at the sky after a drought. And then—

“Let me say them again,” he whispered.

Her breath caught. But she didn’t stop him.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Because suddenly the room felt too full—full of ghosts, of memories, of things left unsaid. And his voice came, quiet and wrecked, shaking under the weight of everything he never said when it would’ve mattered most.

“I vowed to love you when it was easy—and when it wasn’t. When your laughter filled our house like music, and when your silence made the walls ache.”

His thumb brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. Not gently. Not slowly. Urgently, like he needed to touch her before she disappeared again.

“I vowed to stand beside you,” he said, “even when I didn’t understand you. Even when you were hurting and didn’t know how to say it. Even when you pushed me away because you didn’t know how else to ask me to stay.”

He exhaled, ragged and harsh.

“And I didn’t. I didn’t stay the way I should’ve. I stayed in the room, but not in the fight. I let you feel alone while I was still breathing beside you.”

Her lips trembled now, but she still didn’t speak. Still didn’t look away.

He leaned closer. Forehead pressed to hers. Voice shaking, but louder now—like every sentence cost him something.

“I vowed to worship you. Not just when you were soft and sweet and saying my name like it was your favorite song. But when you were hard. Sharp. Screaming at me in the kitchen because your love had nowhere else to go.”

“I vowed,” he breathed, voice breaking now, “to keep us sacred. To never let the noise outside be louder than the truth between us.”

He pulled her hand to his chest, placed it over his heart—beating too fast, too loud, like it was calling to her.

“You’re still my wife,” he said. “But I forgot how to honor that.”

“I let the world see us break before I fought to hold us together. I let pride become a third body in our bed. And I let you walk away… when I should’ve run barefoot down the street behind you.”

She sobbed then—a quiet, cracked sound like something ancient and tired—and he caught it with a kiss to her hand. Not her lips. Not yet. He wasn’t allowed there again. Not until she said so.

“So let me vow it again,” he whispered into her palm. “No ring. No altar. Just this moment. Just us.”

“I vow to love the woman you are now, not just the one I married. I vow to listen harder. To kiss slower. To hold you even when you try to disappear in my arms.”

And then, his voice low and hoarse:

“If you come home to me… I will never let you doubt it again. Never. You are my beginning and my undoing. My only.”

And he looked at her then—not like she might forgive him, but like she was already saving him by just standing there.

Her hand had started to drift down from his chest when he caught it, firm but gentle—like he wasn’t just touching her, he was holding her together. And when she glanced down, confused, she saw it.

That familiar glint of gold nestled in his trembling palm.

Her ring.

Still pristine despite the time apart, despite the ache it must’ve carried in his pocket every day. A small, perfect circle—their beginning, their promise, their almost-ending—pressed now between them like a living thing.

“I never stopped carrying it,” he murmured, voice so soft she barely caught it. “Not once.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Her throat locked, her breath snagged in her chest like her ribs had closed in around her heart.

He held the band up to the light between them, and for a second she swore it shimmered with every memory they'd ever forged—firsts and fights and midnight whispers soaked into its shape.

“I’d take it out sometimes,” he said. “When I was alone. When I missed the sound of your voice more than I missed breathing. I’d hold it in my fist, like if I gripped it tight enough, you’d come back.”

Then, he brought it to her hand. Paused.

His gaze flicked to hers—not asking, but searching. For permission. For forgiveness. For a piece of the woman who once slid this ring on without hesitation, eyes full of stars and forever.

She didn’t pull away.

Her fingers didn’t flinch.

And with a breath that shook him straight down to the bone, he slipped the band onto her finger.

Slow.

Precise.

As if the act itself might tear a hole in the universe and stitch everything back together.

The gold kissed the curve of her knuckle, and he exhaled like he’d just come up for air after months underwater. His thumb pressed to the metal once it settled, then trailed down to her pulse point, circling it with trembling reverence.

“There,” he whispered, kissing the skin just below. “Where it belongs. Where you belong.”

She stared at her hand like it wasn’t real. Like it was a ghost finally solid in the morning light.

“I held onto it like it was you,” he said, eyes still on her. “I never stopped holding you. Even when you weren’t mine to hold.”

And something in her cracked—in her eyes, in her chest, in her breath.

Because the truth was, she never stopped wearing it either. Not on her hand, no. But in her movements. In the way she’d reach for the passenger seat. In the way she said his name even when no one else was listening. In the way she hadn’t let another man close enough to even ask for her time.

“You remembered,” she whispered. “Even when I didn’t think you would.”

He nodded, voice catching:

“I never forgot. Not one day. Not one second.”

The gold glinted between them, and his lips followed it—soft at first, then open-mouthed, desperate, like he was drinking in the pulse that beat beneath the band.

“You still feel like home,” he rasped against her skin. “Still taste like every promise I meant. And I swear to God, I won’t lose you again.”

He kissed higher. Her palm. Her wrist. Her ring finger again.

And when his gaze met hers one last time, shattered and shining, he didn’t ask her to stay.

He just breathed:

“Come back to me.”

The silence between them stretched—thick, electric, laced with the weight of everything that had been said and the storm of everything left unspoken.

She sat astride him still, thighs locked around his hips like she’d never left. Like she’d always belonged right there. Her breathing came heavy, chest rising and falling above his, lips parted in disbelief at how fast the air between them had shifted—how he’d cracked her wide open with a whisper and a ring.

The metal band on her finger pulsed like a second heartbeat. Like it knew where it belonged. Like it had waited for this reunion as much as they had.

She stared at him, lips trembling, jaw clenched, eyes wide and wet. And Austin—God, he looked wrecked. Spread beneath her like a man undone, veins straining in his neck, knuckles white where his hands fisted into the couch, like he didn’t dare move unless she told him to.

And she did.

Without a word, she leaned in.

Not quickly. Not recklessly.

But with the kind of deliberation born from knowing exactly what she was about to do.

Her hands, small and trembling, ghosted up his chest—dragging along the ridges of muscle and memory until they hooked around his neck. Fingers slid into the familiar softness of his hair. She tugged gently, angling his head back just enough so she could lower her mouth to his.

And then—

She kissed him.

Slow.

Deep.

Not a rush of passion, not yet. It was a drinking—a tasting. Like her lips had forgotten the shape of his and were re-learning it one gasp, one glide, one reverent brush at a time.

He moaned into it, low and raw, hips twitching beneath her. But he didn’t move to take control—not yet. He let her guide it. Let her claim it.

“You carried it,” she whispered into his mouth, her voice trembling as her nose brushed his. “That ring. Every day.”

He nodded, just barely.

Her hands flattened against his chest again, feeling the hammering beneath his ribs. And then she moved her hips once—slow and devastating, grinding into the hardness she’d felt pressing against her from the moment she’d straddled him.

“Still fits,” she said, lips brushing his jaw. “I still fit.”

Austin let out a strangled sound and surged up to kiss her again—but she stopped him with a press of her hand to his chest.

Her eyes searched his. Hungry. Accusing. Needing.

“That blonde,” she said—low and sharp. “Did you touch her?”

He froze.

She tilted her head, pressed another slow roll of her hips down onto his lap. His mouth dropped open on a quiet curse.

“Did she make you beg?” she murmured against his ear, taunting now, dangerous and sweet. “Did she take her time with you, or just fuck you fast and forgettable?”

His hands flew to her waist, gripping. His voice, when it came, was nothing more than a rasp.

“Don’t,” he groaned. “Don’t do that. It was nothing. I didn’t even look at her.”

She smiled—feral. Wicked. And leaned in to bite his lip, soft then sharp.

“She doesn’t kiss you like I do,” she whispered. “No one does.”

“No one can,” he growled, hands clawing at the hem of her dress now, desperate. “Fuck—don’t stop. Don’t you dare get off me now.”

“Then tell me,” she demanded, panting as she rocked again, slowly, cruelly. “Tell me I’m the only one who ever ruined you like this.”

“You are,” he choked. “You are.”

She kissed him again—this time brutal, messy, tongues tangling, teeth clashing. His fingers dug into her thighs, anchoring her, hips bucking up in rhythm now, trying to meet her even though she held the pace.

He was gasping into her mouth, desperate and undone.

“You’ve got me,” he rasped. “Fuck, baby—you’ve always had me. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”

And when he said it, his voice broke.

Because for all his strength, she was his weakness.

And she always would be.

[miffyshu]

why do I feel hollow? | sylus qin

summary | in which sylus becomes her caim, providing comfort in the most uncertain times sheltering her hollow, fractured heart.

tags & warnings | sylus x non!mc, female oc, academic au, neurodivergent oc, angst, academic burnout, mild fluff, mentions of mental health. (n.) lit. a “sanctuary”; an invisible circle of protection, drawn around the body with the hand, that reminds you that you are safe and loved, even in the darkest of times.

word count: 1.07k (proofread!)

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The rain. for most people it brought peace and tranquillity calming the nerves, it brought sustenance and growth to saplings and plants. But for Minju, it was the complete opposite: it was noisy, and hellish. The constant thumping of the raindrops drove her mad, especially when she was trying to concentrate on her law essay; it was like a sledgehammer pummelling against her skull. Minju had tried every possible thing; white noise, earplugs, moving to a different room, nothing worked. Minju flopped on her bed like a flimsy pool noodle flailing on water. Everything was, pointless.

Drowning in expectations — the feeble cries for help were misunderstood and neglected. Until help came from the most unexpected place.

Sylus: Hey, sweetie. Is everything okay? You weren't in class today. I was thinking about you..

Her phone buzzed again, snapping her out of her reverie, as she focused on the task at hand before getting distracted again.

Sylus: Dear. Please open the door. I'm waiting for you outside and it's raining, please let me in before I catch a cold.

She almost choked on her saliva. Sylus? At her door? She shot a glance at the clock on her bedside table, which read: 12:35AM. Minju tossed herself into her upstairs manual wheelchair to the stairs so she could use her seated lift. Before she forgot again she shot him a quick text.

Minju: I'm on my way down.

Guilt churned in her stomach. He was worried about her. And now he was standing in the rain because of her. Carefully, she wobbled to the front door reaching as high as she possibly could, to touch and open the door. Curse having a 4’7 body.

Finally, the door clicked open; a broad, towering silhouette resembling a wet racoon stood in front of her in the drizzling rain; Sylus.

Seeing her dazed expression on her face, as fresh as a coat of paint, he snickered teasingly. “What's the matter, dove?” He perused, his lips failing to suppress the very palpable smirk plastered on his face. “You weren't expecting your oh-so-handsome knight in shining armour to come running to his damsel in distress?”

Minju guffawed. Pompous as always, “Yeaaah I'm in soooooo much trouble! Save me!” she mocked, rolling her eyes at him letting him in before he drowned in the buckets of water, being chucked from the sky.

The boy took off his drenched sneakers, placing them on the mat, before she sat back on the lift looking at him as she went up. “So…what brings you here? Besides, how did you know where I live?”

It suddenly dawned on her that this was the first impression of her house.“I was worried about you.” He was candid in his speech and posture - his behaviour became completely paradoxical as soon as he was posed with such a question. She puffed her cheeks in annoyance. What did he think she was? A five year old? Yeah, right! There's no way someone like him would bat an eyelid at her, let alone visit her at this supposed ‘scandalous hour’ under the veil of darkness. Tonight was going to be a looooong night.

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“Sylus, be honest with me.” Minju sat across from him, her eyes piercing his, arms crossed, nonplussed. “Why are you here, not that…I'm ungrateful it's just…”

“Just what?” Sylus echoed, a hint of mirth reflected in his eyes, a gleam - which could only mean one thing. Mischief. He laid relaxed on her bed, hugging her pillow, “I thought I made myself perfectly clear, sweetie, I'm here to see you…” He recited the exact words in his messages matter-of-factly, which only boiled her animosity towards him tenfold.

“Fine,” She retorted, swivelling in her chair, “You can stay there and ogle at me all you want, cos you're clearly bored - or shut up and get lost.” A veil of silence draped over them, truth be told - she didn't mean to sound as harsh as she did but she was at her wits end; her patience waning thin.

Hunger corroded her stomach. She hadn't eaten anything for the past few hours. Running on fumes and a string of feeble hopes and dreams. Her posture, slumped - something akin to a dead shrimp, her eyelids barely open like slits. Exhaustion crashed over her like waves against the shore, eroding any sliver of defence she had.

Of course, this didn't go unnoticed by Sylus, who had keenly been picking at her mannerisms. The way she would slump in her chair when she would get exhausted, not bothering with the teachers. Or how she wouldn't pay attention in class, especially maths. Or how these past few days, the light in her eyes seemed to slowly dwindle, till there was nothing but a feeble flicking ember.

Tentatively, he stood up, scooping her up in his arms as if she were a porcelain doll. He would often hear whispers, laments on how she saw herself as “imperfect.” & “fat” In Sylus' eyes she was nothing like that. She was just herself, nothing more nothing less. Like a levitating feather, he gently placed her on the bed, making sure the pillows adequately supported her to prevent any back pain. She groaned in her restless slumber tossing and turning, her stomach growled, a monster roaring demanding to be fed.

Sylus frowned, how long had she gone without eating? Did she even realise how dangerous it was? Knowing that rummaging through her kitchen wouldn't be very…‘gentlemanly,’ but he had to try to get her to eat something.

Carefully, he made his way to the kitchen, it smelt like a haven of aromatic spices all attacking his senses at once. She was definitely a foodie. ‘Cute.’ thought Sylus as he rifled through the cupboards to find the needed utensils.

Eventually, he decided on making egg fried rice. Easy, quick and filling. To avoid fucking up, because he didn't want to make something inedible and…(because he low-key wants to impress her) Sylus browsed through YouTube to find a recipe and found one called, “Uncle Roger's Egg Fried Rice,” He connected his earphones and played the video, “Hello, niece and nephew, welcome back to uncle Roger’s channel…”

Unbeknownst to him a small shadow stood behind the door, watching him too scared to see the signs or look him in the eyes. The question was would she allow him to help her before she completely destroyed herself?

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© miffyshu — 2025 | please do not copy or steal & absolutely no feeding to a.i

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated! (๑ > ᴗ < ๑)

[hyunles]

Casual | H.HJ.

pairing: hyunjin x fem!reader word count: 669 genre: angst cw: none notes: this is a bit of a vent!fic and it's not really long but i did my best, hope you like it :) as always, english is not my first language, pls consider on giving feedback (in the kindest way possible) taglist and requests are open, feel free to ask! have a nice reading <3

It started good.

Holding hands, mutual smiles, friendly dates…

Until it wasn't just a friendship.

You two started to grow closer and closer, saying cheesy things to each other, talking and playing until down, cute dates you'll never forget. The I love you's were the best. You always felt butterflies all over your body.

But these days, he's been silent, very quiet for his usual. He just texted at 2 pm asking how was your day and going silent again until midnight. Ignoring your texts but being active on social media.

You noticed all those little things, and they were like little daggers on your heart. You were confused but you thought he was just busy with his job. But no.

One night, he decided to finally text back.

"Can we talk about smth?"

Your heart skipped a beat. Your mind racing with infinite thoughts. What if he wanted a formal relationship with you? What if he didn't? What if he just talked about why he has been so distant lately?

"Sure :)"

You could only text with trembling hands. You were happy because the odds of him telling you that he wanted to take the next step were high.

"I'm going to your house. Give me 5 mins ;)"

Sigh. You were nervous as hell. You tidied up the slight mess there was on your living room —that just implied the wrinkled blanket on your couch and a coffee mug on the table— before he arrived.

As he promised, Hyunjin was at your door 5 minutes later. He had teary eyes and didn't look happy at all.

"Hyune, what happened?" You immediately asked, pulling him inside the house before cupping his face.

But he moved away.

He stepped back, swallowing his tears.

"Look… Let's start for the fact that I really love you. I think I've shared very nice moments with you, and I still have them, but I know that I might have made this situation bigger than it is, and I don't want it anymore."

He sighed quietly after that, scanning for your reaction, hoping you wouldn't feel that bad.

Oh, how wrong he was.

"Hyun?" You mumbled, confused.

He continued, wanting to make this as quick as possible.

"I don't know exactly what your feelings are for me, but I know I can't reciprocate them."

His words stung, hurting like hell.

I can't reciprocate them.

It killed you.

"This… How… Why?" You were speechless, trying not to cry.

"I just don't want you to hurt. I'm not good for you." He didn't say more. He even avoided your gaze on a desperate attempt of feeling better.

"Hyune…"

"Listen to me. I want you to be happy. And I'm not the right person… Not right now." He murmured before opening the door again.

You immediately got nervous, your eyes crystallizing with tears. "No, no Hyunjin, don't do this." You grabbed his arm in a desperate attempt to keep him close.

"Don't make this harder than it already is."

"Hyunjn don't do this. You told me you wanted to marry me, that you loved my cheesy ways, that you didn't know what you'd do without me. We've been like this for almost a year, why did everything change overnight?! What did I do wrong?" You said with broken voice, tears flowing out of your eyes, streaming down your face.

The sight broke his heart, but she moved away again. "Forgive me…" He whispered, walking out with no further explanation.

You froze for a second, and when you finally opened the door, he was already driving away.

You yelled his name hoping he would stop and turn around, but he never did.

You called a million times but he never answered.

You texted a thousand messages but he never replied.

He was serious.

And he didn't explain either. He just let you live in doubt, thinking you weren't good enough for him. He just let you feel like you were a burden or a difficulty.

And you accepted it.

After all, you knew that, if he returned, you'd be there.

ᝰ.ᐟ Reblogs and likes are very appreciated. If you enjoyed this, please consider them!

Thanks for reading!

── 2025, hyunles ⋆ No translations, rewrites, or reposts allowed.

[daryfromthefuture]

i have another wild au concept i need to share: bttf shifted like 40 years forward and marty and doc meet online (maybe during the covid pandemic even?)

doc has some sort of username that's just "science_guy_121" or something and he like. replies to martys instagram story at some point where marty maybe just had to tag random ass accounts for a challenge. marty didn't expect anyone to reply but doc was like "Thank you for tagging me! 😃" and marty knows just from this message that doc is OLD lmao

marty goes "yeah no prob" and doesn't think he'll talk to the guy ever again, but doc just keeps messaging him. they find out they share an interest in music and ramble about bands a lot.

the man does know about internet anonymity and doesn't say his name, but he does say how old he is at some point and marty probably should be concerned about talking to 60 year olds online at like 13/14 years old, but he really isn't since the guy is so friendly. he does ask at some point, and doc is just super confused as to why anyone would even have bad intentions and assures marty he just likes talking to people, and that topic is never brought up again

a year later or so, marty convinces doc to get discord, and that happens at like two in the morning, so doc asks what's keeping the kid awake and marty goes on to tell doc about his family situation. doc is really empathetic and grows to be martys support system, and even as an online friend, he helps marty so much, talking to him at 3 am to calm him after hearing his parents fight all night. doc also helps him with schoolwork via internet, essentially helping marty pass several classes.

in early 2025, doc leaks that he's building something really cool and that he'd love to show marty his new invention, to which marty goes "damn, i wanna come see. may i ask which city u live close to" and doc replies with "Oh, I believe San Francisco seems adjacent enough." marty cannot believe this and texts "NO WAY, SAME HERE".

doc: That's quite the coincidence! Well, I might as well say I live in a small town called Hill Valley.

marty: WHAT

doc: Yeah, I'd assume you've never heard of it. 😂

marty: NO NO

marty: I ACTUALLY

marty: I LITERALLY AM FROM THE SAME TOWN?!?!

and that's how marty finds out he's been talking to the "crazy doc brown" the ENTIRE TIME lol

the two can, without any trouble, meet in person, and the first thing marty does when getting to the garage is apologize profusely for still laughing about the rumors about doc while texting him online about how kind he was at the same time. doc forgives him, and that's how they basically start spending time together in person. marty's screen time goes down significantly, but he's actually so goddamn happy about having a friend like that and will defend doc with his life.

yeah that's kinda it. also a bit of a homage to all the awesome people i have met on the internet. love you guys <3

[icewindandboringhorror]

I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently

[saucerfulofsins]

I think I may need to actually write a coffee metaphor fic, and also, I am CRYING

[tardis--dreams]

Feeling homicidal at work today ♡

[queenangella]

.

[vaspider]

Listen to me. Listen very carefully:

They are trying to wear you out.

They are trying to wear you out, and they own most major social media now, along with many major media outlets. The disinformation machine is cranking along. You are going to have to slow the fuck down and read things before you help them wear out other people, too.

So you just saw a post about a real scary bill, hunh? Republicans want to make it a capital offense to pet dogs and repeal The Sky Is Blue Act of 1793, declaring the new official color of the sky to be squant? Damn, that sounds scary.

Let's go look up this fictitious "Make The Sky Squant Again Act" on GovTracker* & on the official legislative tracker on congress.gov!

Well, let's see... GovTracker estimates it has a 1% chance of even getting out of committee and a 0% chance of being enacted, while congress.gov says this bill has 2 cosponsors who have been in the House and combined total of less than a month. The bill doesn't have any actual text, and it was referred to 5 different committees.

That fictitious bill and a hundred others like it are quite literally not worth your time, and more than that, continuing to wring your hands about it and tell other people about the scary scary squant sky bill only does their work for them. It scares people, it makes them spend time and energy on it, and it wears them out. It is a legislative Gish Gallop, meant to throw so many things at people that we can't keep up.

Even calling or messaging your Rep in this case means their staffer has to waste time responding to you and letting you know that Representative Buttzonheads definitely won't support making petting dogs a capital offense, a thing that will never, ever happen regardless.

Staying engaged in this environment is going to require protecting your heart and protecting your energy, yes, but also protecting the energy of others. This is why WWII propaganda posters also included ones taking people to task for spreading panicky rumors and undermining morale.

Do you know why most observant Jews don't eat chicken and dairy together, even though the ban is on red meat and dairy together bc you're not supposed to cook the calf in the milk of its mother?** It's not because we think that chicken might secretly lactate or Just Because. It's because the rabbis decided that if I'm sitting out in public and eating turkey and cheese together, someone might glance at the turkey and mistake it for red meat and think, "oh, well, I know that Spider is a good Jew, there must have been a change, or maybe I can just justify it to myself that if Spider does it, it must be permissible to bend the rules just that much." And I would then be accidentally leading my fellow Jew astray. We are responsible for being even more careful for the sake of others than we are for ourselves.

It's the same principle here. We need to really be careful about the information we are spreading and check things past reading a news site. Is it true? Is it relevant? Is it meaningful? Is the news site one I recognize? Can I find meaningful independent corroboration on another site, which is to say, if I find an article about it on a second site, is it just quoting or rephrasing this site?

Yeah, that is a lot. But that's how we keep them from using us to lead our fellows astray.

*GovTracker is an independent site. They explain their methodology in their About section.

**I cannot say enough how I am not at this time interested in going on a Jewish Side Quest About Dietary Laws on this post. Usually, I love it, but hold off this time, please, y'all. Let's stay on target this once.

[rindreamery]

out of breath, got me going like...

some of the attractive things that the blue lock men do. featuring: itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, michael kaiser, oliver aiku, yukimiya kenyu ─ content: fluff, suggestive

note. yukki debut on my acc ??? do we fw the casual, less poetic writing cuz there was really no way to make this poetic 👩‍🦯 just astronomically down bad writing all around

itoshi rin sends you gym pics without you having to ask.

it initially took a lot of convincing, at first, to get rin to send you a picture. in his eyes, it was embarrassing— the idea of pulling his phone out mid-workout, taking a picture, sending it to you, and then going back to whatever he was doing. his mind would drift off to the weird stares he would probably get from others, and the fact that he also wasn’t exactly known for knowing how to pose to begin with. as much as he loved making you happy, there were just some things he was not willing to do.

it took a lot of begging, and for the first few months, the answer was always, “no.”

the first picture came unexpectedly. your phone was thrown off to the side of the bed, not really anticipating any texts from rin for the next hour or so, given the fact that he was at the gym. so you were surprised when you heard a familiar tune come from your phone— one specifically assigned to his contact. you had no idea why he would be texting you. 

you’re absolutely floored at what you see; jaw left hanging and eyes practically bulging out of their sockets, almost dropping the phone.

it's a gym picture. he's doing a normal pose, nothing too special. he’s standing in front of the mirror, one hand shoved into the pocket of his shorts, and the other holding onto his phone. his face was partly covered by his phone, but you could see the blush spread across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. but it wasn’t that that got your attention— no, it was something entirely different.

he was wearing a sleeveless compression shirt, giving you a full view of his arms. they were glistening in sweat and perfectly toned. the arm that was propping his phone up was slightly flexed, from the position it was in, adding to the bulk and definition in his biceps. and you could see the veins traveling up the arm of his hand, the one that was shoved into his pocket, crawling up from the back of his hand to his forearm. the bright overhead lighting, with a combination of the dim background lighting, served to emphasize every line and crevice of his exposed skin. 

“this what you wanted?” came a message right after, “i know you’re reading this right now, respond.” you felt weak. he definitely researched how to do this.

words couldn't describe how you felt. so, your immediate response was to send him a flurry of incoherent texts; a mixture of randomly pressed keys and crying emojis. but that’s what feeds his ego— your reactions are what makes smile smugly to himself, covering his lips with his hands as he reads your texts over. he starts to send you gym pictures more consistently after that, patiently waiting for your response after each one. at this point, it’s become a part of his gym routine.

itoshi sae drapes his arm over the back of your seat while reversing.

driving with sae was a true test of control— specifically, yours. it had become increasingly hard to focus whenever he was driving, with every little motion of his body seeming to pull your attention away from the road. he was just so distracting, to the point that you had started offering to drive instead. yet to no avail, because he always insisted on being the driver, furthering your silent suffering in the passenger's seat. but, there was nothing more testing than whenever he was reversing the car.

it’s an internal battle; it takes everything in you not to ogle him so openly. and somehow, you’re losing a battle to yourself.

it’s as if your eyes instantly become magnetized to sae— the way he moves when he rests his arm so casually, yet so securely, on the back of your headrest’s frame. and it doesn’t help that this position gives such a perfect view of him. the way the muscles in his arm ripple and flex ever so slightly, but visibly, under his loose dress shirt. the way his folded sleeves ride up every time, and the exposed part of his forearm constantly taunts you to take a peek. you hate that you suddenly become hyperaware of everything he does in that moment. especially his fingers, and the way they tickle the back of your neck, almost touching you but not quite there.

you have to hold back the subtle shudder that sweeps over your body.

it feels like he’s taking up so much space, demanding you to notice him. the way the scent of his cologne wafts over to you, the bergamot and sandalwood notes of it slowly overwhelming your senses. the faint shift in his posture, emphasizing the subtle stretch of his neck, giving you a view of his collarbones and necklace. and the way his lips curve ever so slightly when he speaks, his voice in a low tone, with his eyes flitting over to you momentarily before they’re back on the road.

it has to be intentional, he has to be aware of what he’s doing. “you’re doing this on purpose,” you mutter under your breath, willing yourself to turn away and look out the window.

“doing what on purpose?” he asks, but the mirth in his tone is evident— you can practically hear the tiny smirk that’s splayed on his lips. you’ve concluded that he’s sick in the head, that he’s playing with you right in your face. “i’m just making sure we don’t get into a crash, you baby.” and you willingly fall for it, every time.

nagi seishiro becomes clingy when it's just the two of you.

laying in your lap, while you’re absorbed in your own hobby, is one of nagi’s favorite pastimes. it keeps him close to you, but allows you both to do your own thing. sometimes, he’d take a nap while you work, one hand loosely holding onto yours in his sleep. other times, he’d play video games on his phone, making sure his volume is turned all the way down to not distract you. but most of the time, he likes to just lay there and admire you, with a barely noticeable smile on his lips.

but he becomes somewhat miffed whenever your hair falls in front of your face, blocking his (initially) flawless view of you. and it annoys him more whenever you don’t push it out of the way.

so, he decided to take it upon himself to move it for you, arm lazily stretched up to reach for you. you barely noticed it at first, so absorbed in the book that you were reading. the sensation of his fingers ghosting over your cheeks doesn’t register in your mind, and his touch is barely there. and then you feel it. his fingers are in your hair, gathering the strands on the back of his hand before he’s brushing it out of the way. it’s so gentle, the way he locks your hair behind your ear, and the way his hand lingers a little longer on your skin after. his fingers then travel from your ear to your jawline, finger lightly tracing the side of your jaw, and it makes you curl in on yourself at the feeling. (it tickles, but also oddly comforting.) and then, he’s pulling his arm back down to reach for your wrist instead, fingers wrapping around it.

your skin is tingling, and the surface of your skin feels warm— taken aback by the sudden act of affection. you glance down at him with a curious look, only to see that he’s already staring attentively at you, and you feel his hold on you tighten. “you know,” you begin, “you could’ve just asked me to do it for you.”

"you always get so lost in whatever you're doing," he mumbles slowly, his voice sounding almost whiney at the fact. his hand, the one firmly holding onto your wrist, is traveling up until it’s wiggling the book out of your hand. (you don’t miss the small furrow of his brows when you jokingly grip onto the book, before giving in and letting it fall to the side.) he takes this chance to intertwine your fingers, his larger hands completely enveloping yours. "i don't mind it, but i hate when i can’t see you."

michael kaiser holds intense eye contact with you when you're talking.

at times, you found it hard to talk to kaiser. he's constantly exuding such an intense confidence, one that's often present in his gaze, that you could never truly hold face-to-face conversations with him. you're always shying away from it, crumbling under the intensity, and he finds twisted pleasure in how flustered it makes you. the way the words always die on the tip of your tongue whenever your eyes meet, when you see that his focus is locked on you

it makes you look away, because it's the only thing you can do to escape it. but kaiser doesn't like it when you're looking away from him— he wants your attention. he wants to see you when you talk excitedly about your day.

he’ll get that attention however way he can. from where you're seated on the couch gives him quick access to you. you can feel his tattooed hand crawling up the skin of your thighs, sliding up slowly, leaving a trail of goosebumps as he goes. he stops short of the hem of your shorts, planting his hand firmly on the spot. he gives it a firm squeeze, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs— trying to get you to cave into him. “why won’t you look at me when you talk?” he’s leaning into you, invading your personal space despite the spacious couch. you can feel his breath on the shell of your ear with each word, “mein liebling, i want to see you when you talk. look at me.”

“you can listen to me talk without needing me to look at you,” you swallow, and his grip tightens ever so slightly at your words.

you're shifting awkwardly, trying to ignore the way your heart beats a little faster at the proximity, at the fact that his voice has started to sound almost pleading. almost— because he would never admit to something as desperate as pleading. it’s hard to focus when he’s this close, when he’s right there. his fingers remain on your thigh, tracing deliberate lines over your skin, and despite the way you're trying to resist, you can feel your resolve crumbling.

it’s not every day that you see someone like kaiser be on the precipice of begging for your attention. 

“i promise, i’ll stop teasing you. look—” his other hand is hooking under your chin, coaxing you to look at him. and you do— his eyes, once intense and teasing, now holds a softer and almost guilty looking gaze. “keep talking, yeah?”

oliver aiku likes to loosen his necktie with one hand after a formal event.

neckties are the worst, an opinion oliver will stand by ‘til the end of time. he absolutely despises having to put one on for formal events, and he’ll do his best to charm his way out of having to wear one. it never works, so the second he puts it on, he’s already thinking of the moment he gets to pull it off of himself. he doesn’t think much of it when he does it— one finger looping in the space between his neck and necktie, and he’s pulling at it without care.

but recently, he’s started to notice how intently you’d been staring each time he did it.

oliver’s got a keen-eye; not even the smallest thing can get past him. he drinks in the sight of you when he does it, eyes fixed on you, and taking joy in the fact that you don’t even seem to notice. you’re too busy being fixated on his hand, and the way the vein on his hand becomes prominent when he flexes it to pull, or the way his fingers seem to play around with the fabric. your eyes are so sharp, but somehow so unfocused, all at the same time. he loves how it gets you worked up.

it’s entertaining, so he takes it up a notch.

he drags his fingers, slowly, down to the first button of his shirt. and then he’s unbuttoning it with one hand, putting in extra effort in exposing his collarbones. he can’t fight the grin that makes its way to his lips, at your reaction— your eyes are widening, and he can visibly see you gulp at the sight. and then your eyes are shooting up to meet his, and his grin becomes impossibly wider.

“like what you see?” the teasing and flirtatious lilt in his voice is unmistakable, and you can’t help but draw your eyes back down to where his hand is twirling the tie around his fingers. he makes you tick, but he’s also so attractive, and you hate that he can easily make you blush with his words.

“you wish.” you choose to look away with a scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “it’s gonna take more than that.” that makes him oddly excited, brows raising in mild surprise, and you honestly should’ve known better. it’s like you’re offering up a new challenge to him, and he gladly accepts.

oliver still hates neckties; that’s an opinion that will never change. he still looks forward to the second he gets to pull it off. except now, he gets to play a little game with you while he does it.

yukimiya kenyu keeps a hand on your back at all times, in public.

it’s a habit formed purely from the fact that the streets of shibuya have the tendency to become really crowded, and yukimiya hates it when you get separated from him in such a crowd. he likes it when you’re right by his side— he can keep a close eye on you at all times and protect you from getting pushed around. and originally, it started off with holding your hands. it was fine during the colder seasons, providing the two of you with extra warmth. but you had both quickly realized that it could become quite uncomfortable during summer, making your hands all sweaty and sticky.

so he experimented. he let his arm drop from your shoulders to the small of your back, his palm hovering over your skin, initially unsure of how you would react.

“is this okay?” he would lean down to whisper in your ear, and his voice was so gentle and so concerned about you. even when he was the one getting shoved around by the crowd, with people constantly running into the sides of his shoulders, he was still only thinking about you. you and your comfort. “tell me if this is uncomfortable, and i’ll figure something else out. okay?”

it made you shiver— you felt a heat crawl up your spine, and your stomach was immediately fluttering with butterflies.

you nod, “no, this is okay.” more than okay, actually, but you keep that to yourself. “thank you for asking.” he flashes you one of his pretty smiles, and he leans up to look straight ahead in the crowd again. but this time, his touch is more present— his palm is now firmly planted onto your skin, and he’s actively weaving you through the crowded streets.

whenever someone would get too close to you, or if he anticipates that someone is about to crash into you, his hand would travel to the side of your waist. and yukimiya grips on it, pulling your body flush against his side, effectively pulling you out of the way. “sorry,” he’ll whisper an apology, not having intended to hold you so tightly. his hands will go right back to where they initially were, not without trailing his fingers on the way back, leaving sparks tingling across your skin where he touched. “did i hurt you?”

“no, i’m fine,” you can keep your hand there, you almost tell him. it drives you insane that everything he does is unintentional— but maybe, one day, you'll be able to tell him exactly what you’re thinking.

© rindreamery, 2024

tags. @choccorin @mininji

[vrystalius]

Not saying “I love you“ back to the Squid game men.

How will they react if you don‘t say it back? In what scenario would they not say it back to you?

Pairing: The Recruiter, Thanos, Nam-gyu, Dae-ho, Gi-hun, In-ho x gn!reader

Summary: Them not saying “I love you“, their reaction to you not saying “I love you“

Genre: fluff, a lil bit of angst sprinkled on top

If you’re interested, here’s more fluff! Calling the Squid Game men some weird petnames and their reaction to it!

(Pre-Squid game)

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

Gong Yoo // The Recruiter // The Salesman

♡— Him not saying I love you…

It barely ever happens, really. He adores everything about you, from your face, voice, body and the ground you walk on; that man is ready to worship you like a devoted follower would to the most merciful goddess. Therefor he would always be aware of how to make your day a little better, even if it‘s just a small “I love you” or a gentle kiss here and there.

The first thing you hear from him in the morning is a groggy voice mumbling a small “Good morning love...” into your ear while warm kisses were trailed down your back.

While standing in the kitchen and searching the fridge for any signs of a tasty breakfast, a small “I love you, I‘ll be back later!“ would echo slightly through the apartment as the front door closed.

Once, he did forget to say his usual I love you on the way out. He thought about how he possibly could forget? You‘re probably overthinking everything now and think what you might‘ve done wrong or do to offend him. You didn‘t, though! He was just too caught up in perfecting his appearance because his damn hair refused to obey and submit to his meticulous styling.

The poor man was almost scared to come home. As some sort of peace offering, he bought some of your favorite take-out food alongside some dessert, flowers and a new bracelet he thought you might like. Anything to try and make you know that he does really love you.

“Apologies, it completely slipped my mind. It will never happen again my sunshine. I love you.”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you back…

His face may be neutral and his expressions calculated but his features soften up immensely when you show even an ounce of affection. His smirk shifts into a dreamy smile, the crinkles around his mouth shifting and becoming bigger, his eyes twinkling just a little. He just can’t suppress when you even look at him.

Your kisses and words energise him, gift him life, so whenever you don’t give him that little boost of dopamine, he gets visibly more tense in a way.

The silence that followed after his usual “I love you my darling, I’ll be back later!” was almost eerie to him. He stuck his head back into the kitchen to check if you even heard him. You glanced back at him for a moment and gave your husband a dismissive head nod. So you did hear him?

Silently, he left the apartment and went on with his usual day during that time of the year. For some reason, today he is especially looking forward to slap his elders for loosing a damn children’s game. His face remained neutral and had his usual smirk on his face, but deep inside, he’s offended, confused, worried, stressed; all the negative emotions someone can feel after their spouse doesn’t reincorporate ones affection.

Do you want a divorce? Because hell no, he’d never let you go no matter how hard you

But once he got a little text message on his phone that read a simple: “Need cuddles in bed later pls. Got some snacks too. Love you.”, all of his worries washed away in an instant. You probably were still too sleepy to answer this morning.

A smile spread over his face as he thought about slipping into your arms tonight. Isn’t it ridiculous how he melt like putty in your hands?

“You forgot something this morning and it did worry me a lot. But it doesn’t matter, it’s silly anyway.”

Thanos // Su-bong // Player 230

♡— Him not saying I love you…

It’s actually quite rare to hear Thanos say “I love you” word for word. He still feels awkward committing himself to the relationship you have and those three magic words feel so heavy on his tongue, so he’ll rephrase them to suit his level of comfort. “Love ya”, “Thanos loves you” and “Me too” are his ways to dodge the action to reincorporate those sweets words you shower him with.

Thanos only really says “I love you” if you two are alone, sober and you holding him in your arms. To be cradled by someone he admires, cares and loves so much makes him want to cry for some reason, but he suppresses those emotions and instead buries his face in your shoulder as your hand soothingly runs up and down his back.

Those are the times you hear a small “I love you…” being mumbled against your warm skin.

So quiet it’s almost unnoticeable, yet it was there. You know Su-bong needs time to get used to everything, so you’ll settle with a small audio message-rap in reply to your usual “I love you” text message.

“Back to the kitty ‘cause she kinda pretty, I can’t stop looking at her ti- ti- ti-face.. Anyways, thinking of you babygirl. Iloveyatoo.” (You barely caught him saying this the way how quietly he mumbled it into the mic)

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you back…

It’s fine. It’s cool. You don’t have to reassure him every day that you love him, it’s totally fine. You still love him like you did the day before.

It causes a deep panic inside of Thanos when you don’t give him his usual “I love you” text in the morning after he had woken up. He kept checking his phone like a madman, while he was brushing his teeth, peeking his arm and head out of the shower in the middle of shampooing, staring at his text messages while microwaving himself an convenience store meal. Nothing.

Not wanting to reach out first and appear clingy, he decided to write you like he is not having a full blown eternal panic attack. A small voice message here, a picture of his food there, a selfie from the bottom to show off his double chin, anything really.

You replied like normal but still, his eyes searched for the three key words. I. Love. You.

Thanos doesn’t want to admit to himself or to anyone for that matter that your calls, texts, hell, you coming over is like the most addictive drug to him. And he had his share of all kinds of colourful drugs.

His foot was nervously tapping the ground while his finger kept ringing your poor doorbell until you were forced to answer. He gave you a close look up and down, his lips formed into a pout of sorts.

“You okay? You didn’t text me you love me this morning. It’s totally cool and all but like… do you want to break up with me or something?”

Nam-gyu // Player 124

♡— Him not saying I love you…

Similar to Thanos, at first, Nam-gyu barely ever told you how much he loved you, liked you even. He just assumed you already knew and his actions were enough. A small side hug there and ruffling your hair here had to be enough for the rest of the week anyway.

He is guarded, afraid of commitment and to be frank in belief that you’re using him for the longest of time. Maybe you’re just “dating” him to get access to high-end drugs, all kinds of clubs or whatever else reason there is there to date him but for love.

You had to say those three magic words first for him to get comfortable with the thought that you are actually just want to date and love him. It came to him in the middle of a night shift at a random club he was supposed to promote. A moment of enlightenment.

Nam-gyu hid in a bathroom stall with his phone and ignored whatever the couple was doing next door, writing you a whole paragraph about what he was thinking, feeling, before deleting everything again because he thought he’d come off as some kind of pussy if he’d sent that.

His first time telling you how much he loved you was at your place. A casual evening watching some random movie you picked out while being arms deep in a bag of chips and dressed like a homeless person, Nam-gyu was staring up at you as if you were the most beautiful person in the universe even during this ungraceful moment of yours, admiring you in silence until finally…

“I love you.”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you…

Did he fuck up again? Do or say something wrong? Don’t you love him anymore? Was there someone else?? His thoughts go ballistic as he stared at the screen of his phone with a deadpan-expression, trying to shake the crippling fear and nervousness off while looking nonchalant.

Nam-gyu’s finger kept hovering over the call button to check on you in case something happened because there could be a whole other person talking to him by how there were no affirmations at all.

He doesn’t want to appear clingy or too attached to you as that may scare you off or even disgust you, so Nam-gyu’s casually mention that one time you didn’t say “I love you” while fidgeting with his ring, trying to appear indifferent about it while intensely watching your facial expression shift to try and detect if you’re lying about your reasoning or not.

Your boyfriend is afraid to not be good enough, too much, too little. Your little affirmations give him reassurance, every day a little more until he’s full convinced that you do really, really love him.

“Hey, uhhh. Did you forget anything today?… No? You sure? Mkay.”

Dae-ho // Player 388

♡— Him not saying I love you…

Never happens. Either he is dead and not able to reply to you or already said it multiple times throughout the day. Dae-ho has separation anxiety and gets nervous when he doesn’t have you in line of his sight or not around him in general, that’s why he always tells you how much he loves you whenever he can.

Off to the bathroom? I love you. Bringing the trash out? I love you. Getting dressed? You’re gorgeous and I love you. You could be simply existing and Dae-ho would bury his face in your neck and mumble a soft I love you into your warm skin, his lips planting a soft kiss here and there.

Dae-ho is just a little scared about saying his usual affirmation in front of his family, mostly his father. He’s a very affectionate and physical man but he still wants to look like the tough-marine-son his dad wants to see.

His sisters know better though, they see how their brother’s eyes twinkle in delight when you help his mom out in the kitchen with the dinner.

He does make it up to you after coming home though. Your boyfriend will stuff the leftovers his mom gave him into the microwave and usher to you made yourself comfortable on the couch while he makes some preparations to completely pamper you for the rest of the evening.

Sometimes Dae-ho’ll even try to flirt a little but he’s still a little awkward in that department.

“Hey, do you want some snacks with that? A drink? O-Or am I enough of a snack…?”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you…

Every time Dae-ho tells you that he loves you, you always reply with equal enthusiasm. How could you not? That golden retriever of a man gets that almost childish smile of his whenever you kiss his cheek or just tell him that he looks handsome today.

Once, you tested how he’d react when you don’t give him his hourly dose of dopamine by deflecting or ignoring his touches.

As his arms securely snaked around your waist and gently pulled you against his torso, you paid him no mind and continued to stir the ramen in the food container. He watched the noodles move in circles and gave your waist a gentle poke, trying to pull your attention to him. Dae-ho’s eyes slowly dimmed and the edges of his smile turned downwards.

The silence made him seriously nervous. You could feel his rapidly increasing heartbeat drum against your back.

“Hey… is everything okay? Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry. Can you talk to me?…”

Gi-hun // Player 456 (post s1)

♡— Him not saying I love you…

Gi-hun always reassures you of his love, even during arguments. He wants you to know that he cherishes and loves you for the rest of his life and that you are his everything. Whenever he doesn’t say I love you, something must’ve happened.

He has been missing for a whole week and you had no idea where your boyfriend went. Gi-hun didn’t leave a note, a voice mail, no nothing!

And after he returned and suddenly began giving you expensive gifts, the same boyfriend that used to ask you for money to get himself an convenience store dinner, now began buying you new headphones, bracelet and whatever else you even eyed.

It was nice, sure, but you were more worried about his mental state. He was paranoid and quiet, kept checking his whole body for some kind of tracker and barely ever spoke what was on his mind. Gi-hun began having panic attacks and you were barely able to leave his side because of how terrified he was to leave you alone.

He barely touched you, gave you kisses or affection. He changed after whatever happened during that week he went missing.

While running your fingers through his hair, trying to make him fall asleep after being awake for two days straight, he sleepily stared up at you through his dyed-red hair. His voice was quiet, broken almost.

“I’m sorry. Please… know that I love you. I love you so much.. Don’t leave me, please… please...”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you back…

Your boyfriend called out to you but you didn’t quite hear what he said, so you replied with an “yeah!” and just hoped that that’s an appropriate response to whatever he tried to tell or ask you. It wasn’t.

Gi-hun stood there for a couple of moments, waiting on your reply to yelling “I love you!” across the whole apartment. When nothing came, he didn’t call out to you again. You were probably busy with something or don’t want him with your right now, he gets that.

Later though, thoughts of self-doubt began to cook up inside his mind. As he bit all his nails to shreds he overthought about how you had enough of him now. Maybe you are falling out of love now after how the death games fucked up his mind and body. You’re surely fed up with his paranoia and secretive behaviour, how much he has been obsession over finding a weird salesman. Surely.

The metallic taste that spread inside his mouth after biting the skin surrounding his nails began to open and bleed finally pulled Gi-hun out of his self-destructive thoughts that continued to circle like a toy train. Picking up his throwaway phone and choosing the one contact he saved on every single burner phone he had as “Reason to smile ❤️” and pressing the call button.

“Gi-hun? What’s wrong?” Your voice forced a small smile to form on his face. He hesitated

“Hey. Just wanted to ask if I should bring some take out home tonight. That’s all.”

In-ho // The Frontman // Player 001

♡— Him not saying I love you…

It’s purely just to tease you. When bored, In-ho will make you his greatest entertainment.

He likes making you annoyed and flustered, so he’ll intentionally ignore you just to make you react and pout at him adorably while he was trying so hard to keep his stone cold face and not break into a shit-eating grin and maybe even pull on your cheek to make you whine even more.

In-ho adores your whole being and cherishes all of your affections, so he’ll let himself get showered in them any tome he can.

Expect you to he cuddled up on his lap while he was leaning back in the leather chair, mumbling a complaint about how you covered his whole face in kisses but managed to miss the bridge of his nose. He will not allow you to move off his lap until you covered his whole face in kisses again as compensation for that mistake of yours.

So, In-ho’ll intentionally not give you affection so you pay even more attention to him. He is like a cat in that way weirdly enough.

Once you finally break his facade, the flood gates will open and you will be showered, bathed, drowned in his affection, physical and verbal.

“Fine. I’ll say it just because you’ve been so good to me today. I love you, my dearest, lovely darling.”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you back…

In-ho has a dedicated frequency on his walkie-talkie for you, so he can call in and ask you to come to his office for a kiss that cannot wait, to inform you that he is in the bedroom and retiring for the day or just to tell you that he loves you randomly throughout the day.

Of course, you’d always reply back with your own gadget, but to pay back his infinite teasing he has done to you, you decided to ignore him the way he sometimes does to you. Payback.

Your husband called into your frequency. “Dove, are you free right now? Come to my office, I miss you.” and so your game begins. You simply ignored his request and continued getting comfortable in your bed and all the sheets surrounding you, grinning to yourself as you awaited the next time In-ho calls in again, for which you don’t have to wait long for.

“Darling, I am waiting. Do you want me to send someone to pick you up?” Your grin widened as you heard how impatient he was slowly getting with the lack of your response. “I can see you in the bedroom.” That one caught you off guard. Did he install cameras in your shared bedroom??

Almost on cue, your bedroom door opened, revealing the masked Frontman. His shoulders were tense and you could feel his intense state through the mask. You stared back, not expecting how quickly your husband would cave in and visit you himself. Innocently, you batted your lashes at him.

In-ho slipped his mask off and carelessly tossed it on the nightstand. “Why are you ignoring me? Are you upset or just moody?” Unimpressed, you silently glared at him. He gave you an equally uninterested look and leaned down to your face to give you a small peck on your cheek. “Not enough. More.”

A chuckle escaped his lips as his lips cracked into a smile.

“Demanding, aren’t we? Fine. As you wish.”

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading <3

Watch me announce that I’m going to post In-ho’s yandere profile and proceed to get hit with the most ungodly group-assignment in Chemistry. Anyways, take this as an apology! Had to write a little fluff for them since the only thing I’m finding is smut 🙏😭 I’m not complaining but this fluff prompt came to me like a truck during a class of mine. It was originally inspired by this post and I made a similar one before for the Demon Slayer hashira. Check it out if you’re interested!!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33

[caelum-in-the-avatarverse]

Fandom can do a little gatekeeping. As a treat.

So I finally decided to archive-lock my fics on AO3 last night. I’ve been considering it since the AI scrape last year, but the tipping point was this whole lore.fm debacle, coupled with some thoughts I’ve been thinking regarding Fandom These Days in general and Fandom As A Community in particular. So I wanna explain why I waited so long, why I locked my stuff up now, and why I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a-okay with making it harder for people to see my stories.

Lurkers really are great, tho

I’m a chronic lurker, and have been since I started hanging out on the internet as a teen in the 00s. These days it’s just cuz I don’t feel a need to socialize very often, but back then it was because I was shy and knew I was socially awkward. Even if I made an account, I’d spend months lurking on message boards or forums or Livejournals, watching other people interact and getting a feel for that particular community’s culture and etiquette before I finally started interacting myself. And y’know, that approach saved me a lot of embarrassment. Over the course of my lurking on any site, there was always some other person who’d clearly joined up five minutes after learning the place existed, barged in without a care for their behavior, and committed so many social faux pas that all the other users were immediately annoyed with them at best. I learned a lot observing those incidents. Lurk More is Rule 33 of the internet for very good reason.

Lurking isn’t bad or weird or creepy. It’s perfectly normal. I love lurking. It’s hard for me to not lurk - socializing takes a lot of energy out of me, even via text. (Heck it took 12 hours for me to write this post, I wish I was kidding--) Occasionally I’ll manage longer bouts of interaction - a few weeks posting here, almost a year chatting in a discord there - but I’m always gonna end up going radio silent for months at some point. I used to feel bad about it, but I’ve long since made peace with the fact that it’s just the way my brain works. I’m a chronic lurker, and in the long term nothing is going to change that.

The thing with being a chronic lurker is that you have to accept that you are not actually seen as part of the community you are lurking in. That’s not to say that lurkers are unimportant - lurkers actually are important, and they make up a large proportion of any online community - but it’s simple cause and effect. You may think of it as “your community”, but if you’ve never said a word, how is the community supposed to know you exist? If I lurked on someone’s LJ, and then that person suddenly friendslocked their blog, I knew that I had two choices: Either accept that I would never be able to read their posts again, or reach out to them and ask if I could be added to their friends list with the full understanding that I was a rando they might not decide to trust. I usually went with the first option, because my invisibility as a lurker was more important to me than talking to strangers on the internet.

Lurking is like sitting on a park bench, quietly people-watching and eavesdropping on the conversations other people are having around you. You’re in the park, but you’re not actively participating in anything happening there. You can see and hear things that you become very interested in! But if you don’t introduce yourself and become part of the conversation, you won’t be able to keep listening to it when those people walk away. When fandom migrated away from Livejournal, people moved to new platforms alongside their friends, but lurkers were often left behind. No one knew they existed, so they weren’t told where everyone else was going. To be seen as part of a fandom community, you need to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known, etc. etc.

There’s nothing wrong with lurking. There can actually be benefits to lurking, both for the lurkers and the communities they lurk in. It’s just another way to be in a fandom. But if that is how you exist in fandom--and remember, I say this as someone who often does exist that way in fandom--you need to remember that you’re on the outside looking in, and the curtains can always close.

I’ve always been super sympathetic to lurkers, because I am one. I know there’s a lot of people like me who just don’t socialize often. I know there’s plenty of reasons why someone might not make an account on the internet - maybe they’re nervous, maybe they’re young and their parents don’t allow them to, maybe they’re in a bad situation where someone is monitoring their activity, maybe they can only access the internet from public computer terminals. Heck, I’ve never even logged into AO3 on my phone--if I’m away from my computer I just read what’s publicly available. 

I know I have people lurking on my fics. I know my fics probably mean a lot to someone I don’t even know exists. I know this because there are plenty of fics I love whose writers don’t know I exist.

I love my commenters personally; I love my lurkers as an abstract concept. I know they’re there and I wish them well, and if they ever de-lurk I love them all the more.

So up until last year I never considered archive-locking my fic, because I get it. The AI scraping was upsetting, but I still hesitated because I was thinking of lurkers and guests and remembering what it felt like to be 15 and wondering if it’d be worth letting a stranger on the internet know I existed and asking to be added to their friends list just so I could reread a funny post they made once.

But the internet has changed a lot since the 00s, and fandom has changed with it. I’ve read some things and been doing some thinking about fandom-as-community over the last few years, and reading through the lore.fm drama made me decide that it’s time for me to set some boundaries.

I still love my lurkers, and I feel bad about leaving any guest commenters behind, especially if they’re in a situation where they can’t make an account for some reason. But from here on out, even my lurkers are going to have to do the bare minimum to read my fics--make an AO3 account.

Should we gatekeep fandom?

I’ve seen a few people ask this question, usually rhetorically, sometimes as a joke, always with a bit of seriousness. And I think…yeah, maybe we should. Except wait, no, not like that--

A decade ago, when people talked about fandom gatekeeping and why it was bad to do, it intersected with a lot of other things, mainly feminism and classism. The prevalent image of fandom gatekeeping was, like, a man learning that a woman likes Star Wars and haughtily demanding, “Oh, yeah? Well if you’re REALLY a fan, name ten EU novels” to belittle and dismiss her, expecting that a “real fan” would have the money and time to be familiar with the EU, and ignoring the fact that male movie-only fans were still considered fans. The thing being gatekept was the very definition of “being a fan” and people’s right to describe themselves as one.

That’s not what I mean when I say maybe fandom should gatekeep more. Anyone can call themselves a fan if they like something, that’s fine. But when it comes to the ability to enjoy the fanworks produced by the fandom community…that might be something worth gatekeeping.

See, back in the 00s, it was perfectly common for people to just…not go on the internet. Surfing the web was a thing, but it was just, like, a fun pastime. Not everyone did it. It wasn’t until the rise of social media that going online became a thing everyone and their grandmother did every day. Back then, going on the internet was just…a hobby.

So one of the first gates online fandom ever had was the simple fact that the entire world wasn’t here yet.

The entire world is here now. That gate has been demolished.

And it’s a lot easier to find us now. Even scattered across platforms, fandom is so centralized these days. It isn’t a network of dedicated webshrines and forums that you can only find via webrings anymore, it’s right there on all the big social media sites. AO3 didn’t set out to be the main fanfic website, but that’s definitely what it’s become. It’s easy for people to find us--and that includes people who don’t care about the community, and just want “content.”

Transformative fandom doesn’t like it when people see our fanworks as “content”. “Content” is a pretty broad term, but when fandom uses it we’re usually referring to creative works that are churned out by content creators to be consumed by an audience as quickly as possible as often as possible so that the content creator can generate revenue. This not-so-new normal has caused a massive shift in how people who are new to fandom view fanworks--instead of seeing fic or art as something a fellow fan made and shared with you, they see fanworks as products to be consumed.

Transformative fandom has, in general, always been a gift economy. We put time and effort into creating fanworks that we share with our fellow fans for free. We do this so we don’t get sued, but fandom as a whole actually gets a lot out of the gift economy. Offer your community a story, and in return you can get comments, build friendships, or inspire other people to write things that you might want to read. Readers are given the gift of free stories to read and enjoy, and while lurking is fine, they have the choice to engage with the writer and other readers by leaving comments or making reclists to help build the community.

And look, don’t get me wrong. People have never engaged with fanfic as much as fan writers wish they would. There has always been “no one comments anymore” wank. There have always been people who only comment to say “MORE!” or otherwise demand or guilt trip writers into posting the next chapter. But fandom has always agreed that those commenters are rude and annoying, and as those commenters navigate fandom they have the chance to learn proper community etiquette.

However, now it seems that a lot of the people who are consuming fanworks aren’t actually in the community. 

I won’t say “they aren’t real fans” because that’s silly; there’s lots of ways to be a fan. But there seem to be a lot of fans now who have no interest in fandom as a community, or in adhering to community etiquette, or in respecting the gift economy. They consume our fics, but they don’t appreciate fan labor. They want our “content”, but they don’t respect our control over our creations.

And even worse--they see us as a resource. We share our work for free, as a gift, but all they see is an open-source content farm waiting to be tapped into. We shared it for free, so clearly they can do whatever they want with it. Why should we care if they feed our work into AI training datasets, or copy/paste our unfinished stories into ChatGPT to get an ending, or charge people for an unnecessary third-party AO3 app, or sell fanbindings on etsy for a profit without the author’s permission, or turn our stories into poor imitations of podfics to be posted on other platforms without giving us credit or asking our consent, while also using it to lure in people they can datascrape for their Forbes 30 Under 30 company? 

And sure, people have been doing shady things with other people’s fanworks since forever. Art theft and reposting has always been a big problem. Fanfic is harder to flat-out repost, but I’ve heard of unauthorized fic translations getting posted without crediting the original author. Once in…I think the 2010s? I read a post by a woman who had gone to some sort of local bookselling event, only to find that the man selling “his” novel had actually self-published her fanfic. (Wish I could find that one again, I don’t even remember where I read it.)

But aside from that third example, the thing is…as awful as fanart/writing theft is, back in the day, the main thing a thief would gain from it was clout. Clout that should rightfully go to the creators who gifted their work in the first place, yeah, but still. Just clout. People will do a lot of hurtful things for clout, but fandom clout means nothing outside of fandom. Fandom clout is not enough to incentivize the sort of wide-scale pillaging we’re seeing from community outsiders today.

Money, on the other hand… Well, fandom’s just a giant, untapped content farm, isn’t it? Think of how much revenue all that content could generate.

Lurkers are a normal and even beneficial part of any online community. Maybe one day they’ll de-lurk and easily slide into place beside their fellow fans because they already know the etiquette. Maybe they’re active in another community, and they can spread information from the community they lurk in to the community they’re active in. At the very least, they silently observe, and even if they’re not active community members, they understand the community.

Fans who see fanworks as “content” don’t belong in the same category as lurkers. They’re tourists. 

While reading through the initial Reddit thread on the lore.fm situation, I found this comment:

[ID: Reddit User Cabbitowo says: ... So in anime fandoms we have a word called tourist and essentially it means a fan of a few anime and doesn't care about anime tropes and actively criticizes them. This is kind of how fandoms on tiktok feel. They're touring fanfics and fanart and actively criticizes tropes that have been in the fandom since the 60s. They want to be in a fandom but they don't want to engage in fandom 

OP totallymandy responds: Just entered back into Reddit after a long day to see this most recent reply. And as a fellow anime fan this making me laugh so much since it’s true! But it sorta hurts too when the reality sets in. Modern fandom is so entitled and bratty and you’d think it’s the minors only but that’s not even true, my age-mates and older seem to be like that. They want to eat their cake and complain all whilst bringing nothing to the potluck… :/ END ID]

-

“Tourist” is an apt name for this sort of fan. They don’t want to be part of our community, and they don’t have to be in order to come into our spaces and consume our work. Even if they don’t steal our work themselves, they feel so entitled to it that they’re fine with ignoring our wishes and letting other people take it to make AI “podfics” for them to listen to (there are a lot of comments on lore.fm’s shutdown announcement video from people telling them to just ignore the writers and do it anyway). They’ll use AI to generate an ending to an unfinished fic because they don’t care about seeing “the ending this writer would have given to the story they were telling”, they just want “an ending”. For these tourist fans, the ends justify the means, and their end goal is content for them to consume, with no care for the community that created it for them in the first place.

I don’t think this is confined to a specific age group. This isn’t “13-year-olds on Wattpad” or “Zoomers on TikTok” or whatever pointless generation war we’re in now. This is coming from people who are new to fandom, whose main experience with creative works on the internet is this new content culture and who don’t understand fandom as a community. That description can be true of someone from any age group.

It’s so easy to find fandom these days. It is, in fact, too easy. Newcomers face no hurdles or challenges that would encourage them to lurk and observe a bit before engaging, and it’s easy for people who would otherwise move on and leave us alone to start making trouble. From tourist fans to content entrepreneurs to random people who just want to gawk, it’s so easy for people who don’t care about the fandom community to reap all of its fruits. 

So when I say maybe fandom should start gatekeeping a bit, I’m referring to the fact that we barely even have a gate anymore. Everyone is on the internet now; the entire world can find us, and they don’t need to bother learning community etiquette when they do. Before, we were protected by the fact that fandom was considered weird and most people didn’t look at it twice. Now, fandom is pretty mainstream. People who never would’ve bothered with it before are now comfortable strolling in like they own the place. They have no regard for the fandom community, they don’t understand it, and they don’t want to. They want to treat it just like the rest of the content they consume online.

And then they’re surprised when those of us who understand fandom culture get upset. Fanworks have existed far longer than the algorithmic internet’s content. Fanworks existed long before the internet. We’ve lived like this for ages and we like it.

So if someone can’t be bothered to respect fandom as a community, I don’t see why I should give them easy access to my fics.

Think of it like a garden gate

When I interact with commenters on my fic, I have this sense of hospitality.

The comment section is my front porch. The fic is my garden. I created my garden because I really wanted to, and I’m proud of it, and I’m happy to share it with other people. 

Lots of people enjoy looking at my garden. Many walk through without saying anything. Some stop to leave kudos. Some recommend my garden to their friends. And some people take the time to stop by my front porch and let me know what a beautiful garden it is and how much they’ve enjoyed it. 

Any fic writer can tell you that getting comments is an incredible feeling. I always try to answer all my comments. I don’t always manage it, but my fics’ comment sections are the one place that I manage to consistently socialize in fandom. When I respond to a comment, it feels like I’m pouring out a glass of lemonade to share with this lovely commenter on my front porch, a thank you for their thank you. We take a moment to admire my garden together, and then I see them out. The next time they drop by, I recognize them and am happy to pour another glass of lemonade.

My garden has always been open and easy to access. No fences, no walls. You just have to know where to find it. Fandom in general was once protected by its own obscurity, an out-of-the-way town that showed up on maps but was usually ignored.

But now there’s a highway that makes it easy to get to, and we have all these out-of-towner tourists coming in to gawk and steal our lawn ornaments and wonder if they can use the place to make themselves some money.

I don’t care to have those types trampling over my garden and eating all my vegetables and digging up my flowers to repot and sell, so I’ve put up a wall. It has a gate that visitors can get through if they just take the time to open it.

Admittedly, it’s a small obstacle. But when I share my fics, I share them as a gift with my fellow fans, the ones who understand that fandom is a community, even if they’re lurkers. As for tourist fans and entrepreneurs who see fic as content, who have no qualms ignoring the writer’s wishes, who refuse to respect or understand the fandom community…well, they’re not the people I mean to share my fic with, so I have no issues locking them out. If they want access to my stories, they’ll have to do the bare minimum to become a community member and join the AO3 invite queue.

And y’know, I’ve said a lot about fandom and community here, and I just want to say, I hope it’s not intimidating. When I was younger, talk about The Fandom Community made me feel insecure, and I didn’t think I’d ever manage to be active enough in fandom spaces to be counted as A Member Of The Community. But you don’t have to be a social butterfly to participate in fandom. I’ll always and forever be a chronic lurker, I reblog more than I post, I rarely manage to comment on fic, and I go radio silent for months at a time--but I write and post fanfiction. That’s my contribution.

Do you write, draw, vid, gif, or otherwise create? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you leave comments? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you curate reclists? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you maintain a fandom blog or fuckyeah blog? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you provide a space for other fans to convene in? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you regularly send asks (off anon so people know who you are)? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you have fandom friends who you interact with? Congrats, you're a community member.

There’s lots of ways to be a fan. Just make sure to respect and appreciate your fellow fans and the work they put in for you to enjoy and the gift economy fandom culture that keeps this community going.

[moonlightwritingf1]

Just a Picture | LN4

⚘.ᥫ᭡⋆˚✿˖° summary ━━━━━━━ After four days of silence, Y/N was drowning in heartbreak, replaying the fight that started it all—a photo of Lando in a club, looking far too close to another girl. It triggered every insecurity she'd tried to bury, and when she confronted him, things spiraled—accusations, shouting, even a panicked flinch that neither of them could forget. Then he showed up at her apartment, looking just as wrecked as she felt, desperate to explain, desperate not to lose her. 

⚘.ᥫ᭡⋆˚✿˖° pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

⚘.ᥫ᭡⋆˚✿˖° word count ━━━━━━━ 10k

⚘.ᥫ᭡⋆˚✿˖° warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, p in v, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f and m receiving), creampie?, slow sex, lots of 'I love you's

⚘.ᥫ᭡⋆˚✿˖° author's note ━━━━━━━ I guess this can be part 2 to The One He Couldn't Let Go if you squint a bit.

Based on this request.

It was late afternoon. Y/N was in her apartment, the dark clouds outside mirroring the storm brewing in her thoughts. She paced across the polished hardwood floor, arms folded tightly over her chest, her posture radiating tension. The living area—modern décor, a minimalist gray couch, glass coffee table, and tall bookshelves filled with novels—felt both too big and too small all at once.

Her phone lay face-down on the dining table, silent for the past three days. Not a single call from him since that explosive argument. She glanced at it again, half-hoping it would light up, but it remained still. She bit her lower lip, trying not to let the swirl of angst devour her. The image from that damned photo online had replayed in her head non-stop. Just a random snapshot—but enough to trigger months of tension that had been quietly building between them.

A year ago, when she first met Lando, she had never imagined she could be standing in this place—both physically, in her apartment, and emotionally, consumed by heartbreak so intense that it threatened to break her from the inside. And yet, she remembered how it all started. He had breezed into her life, courtesy of a mutual friend, with that mischievous grin and those unexpectedly soft, bright eyes that seemed to look right through her. At first, she’d tried to keep her distance. He was a playboy, or so all the rumors said. She had read the articles, seen the gossip, heard the stories from random acquaintances who claimed they knew him. She doubted he was the type to stay faithful. She doubted he was the type to take relationships seriously, given all that she’d heard about his partying, about the way he used to message random girls on Instagram. It was the exact opposite of everything she wanted or needed.

Yet he had pursued her relentlessly. Flowers would show up at her apartment every week—delicate bouquets of roses, peonies, lilies. Expensive gifts, random text messages in the middle of the day just to say he was thinking of her. He found out about her favorite authors and sent her limited-edition books. He discovered her love for certain designer bags and surprised her with them, even though she told him a hundred times that she didn’t want him to waste money on her. She had tried to play hard to get; she had shut him down over and over, telling him that she wasn’t convinced, that he’d break her heart. She had tried to remind herself that once upon a time he had been in a relationship, still rumored to be cheating, going to clubs, and partying with random women. All the gossip. All the pictures. She didn’t want that kind of heartbreak. She believed he would revert to his old ways at any moment.

But then, five months ago, she finally gave in. Five months that had begun the strangest, most wonderful, and most complicated relationship she had ever experienced. From that moment, everything between them had been intense, nearly suffocating in its passion, overshadowed by her lingering doubts and his determination to prove her wrong. Every kiss felt like a confession of how badly he wanted her to trust him. Every time he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, she glimpsed in his eyes a silent plea that she believed in him. And slowly, she had begun to let her guard down. She let him in further than she had let anyone before.

That is, until four days ago, when her phone blew up with messages and notifications from mutual friends, from acquaintances who had seen it on social media: a photograph of Lando in a club with an unknown girl pressed very close to him. The angle of the camera made it look suggestive, as if he were leaning down into her ear, or maybe even nuzzling her neck. The girl’s arm was around his shoulders, and it looked like she was whispering intimately to him. The moment Y/N saw it, her stomach dropped. She hadn’t known rage so pure, not since childhood memories that she tried to bury. And in that moment, every single doubt she’d ever had about him came roaring back. She confronted him that night in her apartment, the memory of that confrontation still burned into the walls.

–

Four Nights Ago – The Fight

The moment Lando stepped into her living room, Y/N’s hands were shaking from anger. She had texted him: We need to talk. Now. And he’d come over immediately, wearing an expression of anxiety mixed with confusion. He must have known the rumors were swirling online.

“What the hell is that?” she demanded, pointing her phone at him, screen displaying the offending photograph. She didn’t realize she was almost yelling from the get-go. “Care to explain, Lando?”

He swallowed hard. His cheeks reddened. She wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or guilt or both. “It’s… nothing,” he said, raising his palms defensively. “That picture—God, I didn’t even know someone snapped that. It’s not what it looks like.”

Her words came out in a hot rush, unfiltered. “Oh, it’s not? Because it looks like you’re cozying up to some random girl at a club—just like the old days, right?” She breathed in sharply, unable to stop the venom streaming out. “I knew it. I always knew you’d go back to your old ways sooner or later.”

He stepped closer, frustration written on his face. “I wasn’t cozying up to her. She was a friend of a friend. I was leaning down to hear what she was saying because the music was too loud. That’s it. It’s a stupid camera angle.”

“Camera angle,” she repeated mockingly. “Right. Always an excuse. You act like I don’t know you have this… this history. Messaging random girls. Sleeping around. Even when you were with someone, the rumors said—”

“Rumors!” he interjected, voice cracking with frustration. “They were just rumors! I told you a hundred times, I never cheated on anyone. If I had a reputation for partying, it was because I was young, going to clubs, sure, but I wasn’t hooking up with every girl who came near me. And I’m sure as hell not hooking up with them now!”

Her face twisted with anger she couldn’t contain. “Don’t you dare lie to me. You know how insecure I already feel. You know what I’ve been through, Lando!” Her eyes welled with tears, but she blinked them back, refusing to cry. “You should’ve been more careful. You should have thought about how that picture would look. How it would make me feel.”

He ran a hand through his curls, agitated. “For God’s sake, Y/N, I can’t control every photo or every rumor. I’m an F1 driver. People take pictures. I’m sorry that it happened, but I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sure. Just like you never did anything wrong all those other times you got plastered with groups of girls, right? God, how am I supposed to believe you, Lando?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. She could see him holding back his own anger. “Because,” he replied in a voice that trembled with repressed fury, “I’ve been bending over backward for months trying to prove to you that I’m not that guy. Do you think I spend all this time showering you with gifts, messages, and time, just so I can go out and hook up with random girls? That’s not me anymore!”

he shook her head, her voice laced with contempt that came from the deepest pit of her insecurities. “We can never know for sure, can we? God, I can’t stand the idea that I let you in, and you do something like this.”

He took another step toward her, eyes flashing. “Don’t put this all on me. You came into this relationship—if we can call it that—assuming the worst about me. I’m always on trial with you, Y/N. You never truly trust me.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “Well, if you want my trust, then don’t get photographed cuddling with random girls!”

He breathed heavily, exasperation rolling off him. “I told you, it wasn’t cuddling. And I can’t believe you’d think I would cheat on you. After everything we’ve shared.”

For a long moment, they stared at each other, hearts pounding, both of them caught in the throes of powerful, conflicting emotions. Then she lifted her chin, refusing to budge. “Get out,” she said quietly, but her tone was menacing in its finality.

He froze. “Y/N, please. Don’t do this.”

She shook her head. Her vision blurred as tears threatened to spill again. “Get. Out. Now.”

Lando’s expression turned furious and wounded. “Fine,” he spat. “If you won’t even listen to me, what the hell am I supposed to do?” In his frustration, he flung his arm up, wanting to run his hand through his hair, but in that split second, it looked like his hand was coming toward her in a fast, menacing way.

She recoiled instantly, a panicked flinch, arms defensively curling toward her face, eyes wide in fear. A rush of adrenaline spiked through her. It was so fast, so involuntary, as if a primal reflex told her that he was about to hit her.

His entire demeanor changed in an instant. The anger drained from his face, replaced by a haunting sorrow. “Y/N,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You think… you think I would—?”

She just stared at him, still trembling. She hated that her body had interpreted his movement as a threat. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, guilt mixing with the cocktail of fury and heartbreak in her chest. “I— I just… you moved so fast.”

He took a shaky step backward, heartbreak contorting his features. “I would never lay a hand on you,” he said, voice trembling. “How could you even think—?”

She pressed her lips together, her cheeks burning with shame. But the anger was still there, too, overshadowing everything. “Just get out,” she repeated.

He stared at her for a few long seconds, pain written on every line of his face. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel, storming out of the apartment. She heard the door slam behind him. It left her standing alone in the silent living room, her heart pounding loud enough that she thought it might burst through her chest. She sank onto the couch, tears finally spilling.

–

The Four Days of Silence

Now she was on day four without a call, text, or anything from Lando. At first, she’d been so angry she told herself she wouldn’t care if he never reached out again. But after the first 24 hours, the doubts crawled in. Had she overreacted? Was that truly just an innocent picture? She battled with herself over and over, replaying the confrontation in her head, fixating on the moment he raised his arm to push his hair back—how she flinched, how his eyes turned to raw agony.

Guilt ate away at her. Yet the betrayal—and the fear that he was still that same playboy—remained. She wasn’t sure she could handle being with someone who always had rumors swirling around. It was making her question everything.

But she also missed him. Terribly. She missed his laugh, that boyish grin in the morning when he’d wake up next to her, the way he’d wrap his arms around her waist from behind while she was doing something mundane like making coffee. She missed how he would gently brush his fingertips down her cheek while watching TV, how he was always so enthusiastic about introducing her to his friends—well, the few times she’d let herself be around his circle. She missed that warmth and attention, how being with him made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t felt in a long while.

Late into the nights, she lay awake in her bed, staring at the city lights, tears wet on her cheeks, imagining him in Monaco or at his family’s home, maybe even with that unknown girl. The worst part was that she realized, in her chest, that she truly loved him. A truth she had tried to ignore because acknowledging it made her feel so vulnerable.

She hated herself for flinching, for letting him see that she thought he could physically harm her. She knew enough about him by now to know he wasn’t violent. That flash of panic had come from a dark place in her mind, shaped by her insecurities. She didn’t know if he’d ever forgive her for that. Or if she could ever forgive him for being so careless in that photo.

Day three passed. Then day four. She was pushing through work, eyes rimmed with dark circles from lack of sleep, snapping at her coworkers who asked too many questions, trying to bury herself in spreadsheets and emails.

–

The Afternoon of the Fourth Day

She had just gotten back to her apartment after another draining day at the office. She kicked off her heels by the front door, passing the large mirror in the entrance hallway. She lingered a moment, studying her reflection—searching for something she could never quite name. She tried to straighten her shoulders, to seem more composed than she felt, but the familiar ache of doubt had already settled in.

She always worried that Lando, with his flirty ways and well-known preference for a certain type, would eventually look at her and realize she wasn’t enough. It hurt that she cared so deeply about this. She hated that she cared. She wanted to be that fierce girl who didn’t need anyone’s validation. But with him, she felt so out of control sometimes—like all the confidence she’d tried to build kept slipping through her fingers the moment he smiled at someone else.

Letting out a shaky breath, she headed to her bedroom, planning to change into something more comfortable, maybe sweatpants and an oversized tee. She rounded the corner into her living room—and froze.

Lando was there, standing by the window, looking out across the glittering skyline of London. He had his luggage next to him, as if he had come straight from the airport or something. Her heart jumped to her throat. Anger, relief, love, and pain swirled inside her so violently that she couldn’t even speak for a moment. 

He turned at the sound of her footsteps, eyes meeting hers. She saw the exhaustion on his face, the shadows under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days either. His hair was disheveled, the curls an unruly mess, and he wore a fitted black hoodie and gray joggers. Under normal circumstances, the sight of him might have made her breath catch with desire, but now, there was only tension.

They stared at each other in silence. Her eyes filled with tears again. She loathed that she cried so easily these days. “How did you get in?” she finally managed, her voice cold.

“I still have the key,” he replied quietly. “You didn’t ask for it back.”

She swallowed. Right. She hadn’t. Maybe that was a subconscious sign she wanted him to return. “You can’t just barge in here.”

“I didn’t know how else to see you,” he said, voice trembling with raw honesty. “You wouldn’t answer my calls or texts. I kept sending messages the first two days, you never replied. I got scared you’d blocked me, or that you never wanted to see me again.”

She scoffed, though hearing he’d tried to call made her guilt spike. She had left her phone on silent, or face-down, ignoring the messages—convinced she had to remain strong. “And so you decided to ambush me at home?”

He clenched his jaw, taking a step forward. “I couldn’t stand the silence anymore, Y/N. It’s been killing me.” He paused, searching her face with a mixture of desperation and anger. “I’m sorry for everything. But you have to understand, that picture—it was nothing. And I hate that you believed otherwise. It feels like you don’t trust me at all.”

“Because you’ve given me reasons to doubt,” she snapped, tears threatening to spill once more. “I’ve seen the rumors, the pictures, the girls you used to be with. I can’t— I don’t know how to handle it. It hurts to even think about. I can’t stand the idea of being compared to those bikini-model types you used to party with.”

His eyes widened. “Compared to them? Y/N, I’ve never once compared you to anyone. I—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, I know I made mistakes in my past. I slept around. I partied. But that was before. This last year has changed me, especially these five months with you.” He paused, voice trembling, “I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”

Her throat was tight. She exhaled slowly, all the anger and hurt rising again. “Then why did that picture look so—so intimate?”

He rubbed his face. “I was talking to that girl. She was leaning in because the music was loud. I wasn’t even there for long. I’d gone out with some mates, had a few drinks, and left early. I swear to you, I wasn’t flirting or anything close to that.”

She folded her arms protectively, glowering. “And I’m just supposed to believe that?”

He looked at her with a heartbreak so profound that her stomach twisted. “I wish you would,” he whispered. “Because it’s true.”

She stared at the floor, tension coursing through her. The silence pressed down on them. She recalled the image of his arm moving up four nights ago, the absolute terror she felt, that flicker of fear that he might hurt her physically. She forced her eyes up to his. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, voice catching. “For thinking you’d hit me.”

His face contorted with anguish. “That… that moment,” he said, voice shaking, “I can’t even describe how it felt to see you flinch like that. Like you believed I could do something so horrible.”

She sucked in a breath, her lips quivering. “I just—I don’t know what came over me. It was a reflex. But everything else I meant. I can’t stand the way you have these shady pictures circulating. The rumors. And I hate feeling like I’m one in a long line of random women in your life. It eats me alive.”

His eyes were red, and he seemed to hold himself back from crossing the room to comfort her. “You’re not just another woman,” he said, voice brimming with emotion. “I would never see you that way. I love you, damn it. Don’t you get it? You’re everything to me.”

She swallowed, her heart thumping so loud it filled her ears. “You say that,” she answered raggedly, “but it’s so easy to say. What if you get bored, or you find someone else, or you want someone who wears skimpier clothes—someone who has the perfect body or an easier attitude?”

He scoffed softly, a pained look crossing his face. “Skimpier clothes? You think I care about that? Y/N, I love you for you. You can wear a shapeless potato sack, and I’d still think you’re breathtaking.” He licked his lips, stepping closer, but still leaving a couple feet of space, as if cautious not to invade her bubble if she didn’t want it. “I don’t want any other woman. I want you. I hate that all these rumors, these illusions, keep driving a wedge between us.”

She turned away, crossing to the couch. She rested her palms on the back of it, trying to steady her breathing, trying not to let the tears fall. “I can’t… forget. When I see pictures like that, it’s like a knife to the chest.”

He came up behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body. Very gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, but she didn’t pull away. “Y/N, I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I wish I could erase my past. I wish I could protect you from seeing that photo. But I can’t. All I can do is promise you I wasn’t cheating, nor do I ever want to.”

Anger still simmered beneath her skin, but she also felt the longing, the deep ache to reconcile with him. She wanted to lash out, to blame him, but she was so damn tired of fighting herself and him. She turned around slowly, looking up at him. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?” she asked hoarsely, tears pooling in her eyes. “Why didn’t you show up earlier?”

He inhaled sharply. “I tried calling. When you didn’t answer, I was worried you’d blocked me or that you needed space. I also needed to cool down. After how we yelled at each other, I— I was afraid you wouldn’t even look at me.” A trembling laugh escaped him. “I didn’t want to drive you further away. But last night, I realized I couldn’t handle another hour without trying to see you. So I packed my bag and flew here this morning.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, fresh tears running down. “I hate you,” she whispered, though her tone was heartbreakingly vulnerable, betraying how she felt the exact opposite.

He grimaced, eyes moist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I’ll do anything to make this right.”

For a moment, she couldn’t respond. She just stared at him through the haze of tears. Something inside her cracked wide open—the dam that had been holding in all the emotion. In one swift motion, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. She felt his heart hammering beneath her cheek.

He hesitated only a split second before he crushed her against him, his arms wrapping around her waist so tightly as if he was afraid she’d slip away at any moment. The tears she’d been holding back poured out, and she felt his body shaking too. They stood there, locked in an embrace that trembled with raw anguish.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled again into her hair, kissing the top of her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“I hate that you made me doubt you,” she whispered, voice muffled by his shirt. “And I hate that I’m so insecure. But most of all, I hate that… I can’t let you go.” She let out a choked sob, closing her eyes. “I love you too. And it hurts so bad because I’m scared you’ll destroy me someday.”

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’d rather die than hurt you,” he said, voice cracking with sincerity. “I’d rather die than lose you.”

The tension and heartbreak in the air shifted palpably, turning into a different kind of electricity. They pulled back just enough to look at each other, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Their faces were inches apart, breath intermingling. Then, wordlessly, as if drawn by a magnetic force, their lips collided in a fierce, desperate kiss.

She tasted salt from her tears as he kissed her, but the urgency in the press of his mouth overwhelmed her senses. Her hands slid up around his neck, fingers tangling in his curls. He held her face between his palms as though she were something delicate—yet the kiss itself was anything but gentle. It was raw, intense, filled with the pent-up longing of four days of agony and an entire relationship’s worth of insecurities.

They broke apart for a brief moment, gasping for air, foreheads touching as they tried to form words. But no words came. Only that frantic hunger to feel close after so many days of pain and confusion. They resumed kissing, deeper this time, tongues and teeth clashing, breath ragged. She moaned softly against his mouth, her body igniting with the need to be consumed by him.

“Bedroom,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak. His eyes were dark with longing, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

She grabbed his hand and led him down the short hallway. The moment they entered her bedroom, the tension redoubled. Even the air felt charged. The blinds were half-drawn, letting in the golden glow of the late-afternoon sun. The duvet on her bed was slightly disheveled, and she had thrown some clothes on it earlier that morning. The entire room smelled like her faint vanilla perfume and the leftover anxiety of the last few days.

She turned to face him, breath quivering. He reached for her face, cupping her cheek. She looked up into his eyes, still rimmed with leftover hurt. She reached for his hoodie, and he helped yank it off, tossing it aside. The next second, he was kissing her again, guiding her toward the bed. He peeled off her blouse, his hands shaking with the intensity of the moment, exposing her skin to the cool air and his heated gaze.

His lips moved down her jaw, her neck, gently nipping at the sensitive flesh there, drawing out soft gasps. Her fingers fumbled with the waistband of his joggers, pulling them down. Every movement was frantic, desperate, as if they both knew that making up like this was both a healing and a reaffirmation of what they meant to each other.

She sank onto the bed, and he followed, settling above her. Their mouths found each other again in a searing kiss, tongues dancing as their bodies pressed together. She could feel his heart beating wildly. She let her hands roam over his torso, savoring the warmth of his skin, the muscle that flexed beneath her palms. He groaned into her mouth, his voice husky with need.

“God, I missed you,” he breathed. He lowered his head to kiss down her collarbone, his breath hot against her skin. “I was going crazy not hearing your voice.”

She arched against him, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by how much she had missed him too. Her nails lightly raked his shoulders. “Don’t ever disappear on me again,” she murmured, breath hitching. “Don’t leave me like that.”

He lifted his head, meeting her gaze. The raw emotion in his eyes almost made her dizzy. “Never,” he promised, and he sealed the vow with a slow, deep kiss.

Their hands explored every inch of exposed skin, reacquainting themselves with each other’s bodies as though it had been years rather than mere days. Slowly, carefully, they stripped away the barriers of clothes. Each article of clothing fell to the floor or was pushed aside on the bed, along with the tensions and fears that had weighed on them. He caressed her curves, pressing gentle kisses to her hip, her waist, then trailing his lips up to her neck. She whimpered softly, allowing herself to be lost in the sensations.

He loomed above her, completely naked, his body trembling with the intensity of the moment. His hands slid down her arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, before he moved up her body again. His lips found hers in a searing kiss, hot and desperate, as if he were trying to make up for every second of the four days they’d spent apart. She moaned softly into his mouth, her hands tangling in his unruly curls, pulling him closer, as though she could fuse them together and never let him go again.

When he finally broke the kiss, his lips didn’t stray far. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her temples, each press of his mouth a silent apology, a promise, a plea. His breath was warm against her skin as he trailed kisses down her jawline, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below her ear. She shivered, a soft whimper escaping her lips as her head fell back against the pillows, her body arching instinctively toward him.

“Lando,” she breathed, her voice trembling with need.

He didn’t respond with words. Instead, he kissed across her collarbone, his hands moving down to her shoulders to steady her. His lips moved lower, leaving a trail of fire across her chest. He lingered there, his tongue darting out to taste her skin, his breath hitching as if he were savoring her. She could feel his hunger, his desperation, and it mirrored her own. When his mouth finally closed around her nipple, she gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair.

He sucked gently at first, teasing her, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud until she was squirming beneath him. Then he sucked harder, drawing a sharp cry from her lips. She could feel the heat pooling low in her stomach, her body responding to him as it always did, as if it were wired to crave him and him alone. His fingers found her other breast, kneading and teasing, and she moaned, her back arching off the bed.

“Lando,” she whispered again, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own ragged breathing.

He lifted his head, his eyes dark with desire, his lips swollen from kissing her. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough. “I can’t get enough of you.”

She reached up to touch his face, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the weight of everything that had happened between them hanging in the air. But then he leaned down, capturing her lips in another kiss, and all the tension, all the doubt, melted away, replaced by an all-consuming need.

This time, when he pulled back, his hands moved to her hips, lifting her slightly so he could slide further down the bed. His lips trailed down her stomach, leaving a path of fire in their wake, and she shuddered, her hands clutching at the sheets. He kissed her hips, her thighs, his breath warm against her skin, and then his mouth was on her again, sucking and teasing, his tongue darting out to taste her.

She cried out, her hips bucking involuntarily, and he groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her body. His hands tightened on her hips, holding her still as he continued to worship her with his mouth, his tongue flicking over her sensitive flesh until she was trembling, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“Lando,” she moaned, her voice breaking. “Please.”

Lando didn’t lift his head, not yet. His hands tightened on her hips as he leaned in, his tongue flicking out to trace the slick, sensitive folds of her pussy. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her, and she whimpered, her thighs trembling on either side of his head. He could taste her, her arousal, her need, and it drove him wild. He loved her like this, so open, so vulnerable, so completely his. His tongue delved deeper, exploring her, savoring her, and she cried out, her hands fisting in the sheets.

“So fucking sweet,” he murmured against her, his breath hot. “I could taste you forever.” His voice was rough, dripping with desire, and it sent a shiver up her spine. He pulled back slightly, his lips closing around her clit, and he sucked gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. She arched off the bed, her moans echoing through the room, and he groaned, the sound muffled against her.

He lifted his head just enough to speak, his lips glistening with her. “You taste like heaven,” he said, his voice low and reverent. “I fucking love your pussy, Y/N. I love how you writhe for me, how you moan for me.” He kissed her again, his tongue slipping inside her, and she gasped, her hips bucking against his face. He held her steady, his hands firm on her hips, as he drank her in, every sound, every taste, every shudder of her body.

He loved this—he lived for this. The way she fell apart for him, the way her breath hitched and her cries grew louder, the way she trembled when he touched her just right. He loved the way she moaned his name, the way she clutched at the sheets, the way she surrendered to him completely. He loved knowing that he could make her feel this good, that he could bring her to the edge and push her over, that he could make her his in every possible way.

His tongue flicked over her clit again, faster this time, more insistent, and her moans turned into desperate cries. “Lando—please—I’m so close,” she gasped, her voice breaking. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. He sucked her clit into his mouth, his tongue working her relentlessly, and she came with a sharp cry, her body convulsing, her hands clawing at the sheets. He didn’t let up, drinking in every drop of her release, until she was panting, her body limp and trembling.

He finally lifted his head, his lips wet, his eyes dark with satisfaction. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come,” he said, his voice rough. He crawled up her body, his hands framing her face as he kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips. “I love making you feel good,” he murmured against her mouth. “I love hearing you moan, feeling you shake, watching you fall apart for me.”

She reached for him, her hands trembling as she cupped his face. “You’re incredible,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I love it when you worship me like that, when you make me feel like I’m the only thing that matters.” Her eyes were soft, filled with adoration, and he kissed her again, gently this time, savoring the way she melted into him.

“You are the only thing that matters,” he said, his voice low and earnest. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek. “I love you, Y/N. I love everything about you—your body, your mind, your soul. I love making you feel good, I love hearing you moan, I love watching you come. I love you.”

She smiled, a slow, sweet smile that made his heart ache. “I love you too,” she whispered. She pulled him down, her lips finding his, and they kissed, slow and deep, their bodies pressed together, their hearts beating in sync. For the first time in days, the world felt right again.

He pulled away from her lips reluctantly, his chest heaving, his cock throbbing between them as he hovered above her. “I need to be inside you,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with desire. “I can’t wait anymore.” His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her skin as he guided her closer to the edge of the bed, positioning himself between her legs.

But she shook her head, her eyes filled with need, her lips swollen from his kisses. “Not yet,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I need you in my mouth first. Please, Lando. Let me taste you.”

He groaned, his head falling back as he fought for control. “Fuck, Y/N—I want to be in you. I’ve been waiting for this for days.”

Her hands slid down his chest, her nails lightly scratching his skin as she moved lower, her fingers wrapping around his hard cock. He hissed at the touch, his hips jerking forward instinctively. “I know,” she said, her voice soft but insistent. “But I need this. I need to feel you in my mouth. Let me, please. I’ll make it good for you.”

He looked down at her, his eyes burning with desire and frustration. She was begging him, her voice dripping with need, and he couldn’t deny her. Not when she looked up at him like that—with those pleading eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered, his resolve crumbling. “Just—just for a minute. Then I’m inside you.”

She didn’t waste another second. Lando lay back on the bed, his head resting on the pillows, his chest rising and falling rapidly as she positioned herself between his legs. His cock was already leaking precum, the tip glistening, and she could feel him twitch in her hand as she stroked him slowly. She licked her lips, her mouth watering at the sight of him, at the thought of tasting him, of feeling him on her tongue.

Without hesitation, without teasing, she took him into her mouth, her lips wrapping around his shaft, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head. He groaned loudly, his hands fisting in the sheets as she sucked him deep, her head bobbing up and down in a steady rhythm. One hand rested on his inner thigh, her fingers digging into his skin, while the other stroked the base of his cock in time with her movements.

She looked up at him, her eyes locked on his as she sucked him, her lips stretched around his length. The sight of her—her lips wrapped around his cock, her eyes filled with hunger—was almost too much for him. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, and she moaned around him, the sound vibrating through him, sending jolts of pleasure racing down his spine.

“Look at you,” he breathed, his voice rough with arousal. “Fuck, you’re so sexy like this. You love having my cock in your mouth, don’t you? You’re such a good girl for me, Y/N. Such a fucking slut for my dick.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t stop. She loved when he talked dirty to her, when he called her his slut, his good girl. It made her feel wanted, desired, and it only made her suck him harder, her movements becoming more desperate, more eager. Her hand moved from his inner thigh to his balls, her fingers gently massaging them as she continued to suck him, her lips and tongue working him relentlessly.

She could feel him throbbing in her mouth, could taste the saltiness of his precum on her tongue, and it only made her want him more. She loved the way he felt in her mouth, the way he filled her, the way he made her feel so alive, so connected to him. She loved the way he moaned her name, the way his hands tightened in the sheets as he tried to hold himself back. She loved the way he looked at her, his eyes filled with desire, his breath hitching as she sucked him.

For Lando, it was almost too much. The sight of her—her lips wrapped around his cock, her eyes filled with hunger, her hand stroking him, her fingers massaging his balls—was driving him wild. He loved seeing her like this, so turned on, so eager for him. It made him feel powerful, desired, and it made him want to give her everything she begged for. He loved the way she looked at him, her eyes locked on his as she sucked him, as if she couldn’t get enough of him. He loved the way she moaned around him, the way her body trembled with need. She was his, and he loved every fucking second of it.

But he couldn’t let himself come—not yet. He wanted to be inside her, to feel her tight, wet pussy around him as he spilled himself deep inside her. He gently pushed her away, his hands trembling as he gripped her shoulders. “Enough,” he said, his voice rough with need. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

She pulled back, her lips swollen, her breathing ragged, her eyes filled with longing. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling with desire. “Please. I need you.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His hands moved with purpose, gripping her hips firmly as he manhandled her onto her back again, her body sinking into the mattress. She gasped, her hands instinctively reaching for him as he positioned himself above her, his weight pressing her into the bed. His eyes locked onto hers, intense, brimming with something deeper than desire—something raw, emotional, and unspoken. He hovered for a moment, his breath ragged, his chest heaving, before he shifted, guiding himself toward her entrance.

She felt the tip of him brush against her, hot and insistent, and a shiver of anticipation ran through her. He paused, his hands framing her face as he leaned down, his forehead pressing against hers. She could feel the tremble in his body, the way he was holding himself back, trying to control the primal urge to claim her. His breath mingled with hers, shaky and uneven, as he whispered, “I love you, Y/N. So fucking much.”

And then, slowly, achingly slow, he entered her. She felt every inch of him as he pushed inside, her body stretching to accommodate him, the sensation both overwhelming and electrifying. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to steady her breathing. It wasn’t just the physical sensation that made her head spin—it was the way he looked at her, his eyes never leaving hers, his expression a mix of reverence and desperation. It felt like he wasn’t just entering her body; he was reclaiming her heart, her soul, every piece of her that had been fractured by distance and doubt.

For Lando, the moment was equally intense. The warmth of her body enveloped him, tight and welcoming, and he groaned, his head falling forward as he fought to keep his movements slow, controlled. He could feel her trembling beneath him, her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps, and it made him ache with a need that went far beyond physical. He wanted to lose himself in her, to drown in the way she felt around him, but more than that, he wanted her to know how much she meant to him. How much he loved her. How he’d do anything to keep her, to protect her, to make her feel cherished.

He stayed inside her, not moving, his body flush against hers, their breaths mingling as they stared into each other’s eyes. The stillness was charged, electric, as if the world had paused just for them. She could feel him twitching inside her, the way his body seemed to throb with the effort of holding back, and it made her ache with a need that was almost unbearable. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling, her hands clutching at his back. “Please… move. I need you.”

But he shook his head, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had started to fall. “Not yet,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “I want to take my time with you. I want to show you how much I love you, Y/N. How much you mean to me.” His words were soft, tender, but there was a fire behind them that made her heart race. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a slow, deep kiss, his tongue exploring hers as if he were trying to memorize every inch of her.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. I’m yours. Always.” His voice broke on the last word, and she could feel the sincerity in it, the weight of his promise. It was as if he were trying to pour every ounce of his love, his devotion, into that one moment.

She whimpered, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. “I love you,” she whispered back, her voice trembling with emotion. “I missed you so much. Please, Lando… don’t let go.”

He kissed her again, his movements slow and deliberate, his hands roaming her body with a reverence that made her heart ache. He worshiped her with his touch, his lips, his words, as if every inch of her were sacred. His hands slid down her sides, smoothing over her skin, before he cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples in slow, teasing circles. She arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips as her body responded to him instinctively.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and rough as he leaned down to kiss her neck, her collarbone, the sensitive spot just below her ear. His lips were warm, his breath hot against her skin, and she shivered, her hands tightening in his hair. He took his time, exploring every inch of her with a patience that made her ache. 

“Lando,” she breathed, her voice pleading, her hands tugging at his hair. “Please… I need you. I need you to move.”

But he shook his head again, his hands sliding down to her hips, gripping her firmly as he pulled back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes. “I’m not going to rush this,” he said, his voice steady despite the fire burning in his gaze. “I want to make this last. I want to make you feel how much I love you, Y/N. How much I’ve missed you.”

His words were a balm to her soul, soothing the raw edges of her heart, but they also made her ache with need. She could feel him inside her, hot and thick, twitching with every breath, and it was maddening to have him so close, so still. “Please,” she begged, her voice breaking, her hips lifting slightly in an attempt to get him to move. “Please, Lando… I need you to fuck me. I need you to make me feel good.”

He groaned, his hips jerking forward involuntarily at her words, but he held himself back, his hands tightening on her hips. “I will,” he promised, his voice rough with desire. “But not yet. I want to savor this. I want to savor you.”

She whimpered, her nails digging into his back as she tried to pull him closer, but he stayed still, his eyes locked on hers, his expression filled with a tenderness that made her heart ache. She loved this side of him—the way he could be so soft, so gentle, even in moments of intense passion. It made her feel cherished, adored, and it made her love him even more.

Finally, he began to move, his hips rocking against hers in slow, deliberate thrusts. The sensation was maddening, each movement drawing a soft cry from her lips as she writhed beneath him. He kept his pace slow, his eyes never leaving hers, his hands moving to cup her face as he leaned down to kiss her again. His lips were warm, his tongue exploring hers in a way that made her head spin, and she moaned into his mouth, her hands clutching at his shoulders.

For her, the slow, deliberate movements were both agonizing and intoxicating. Every thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through her, the sensation building slowly, steadily, until she felt like she might explode. She could feel him inside her, hot and thick, filling her completely, and it made her ache with a need that was almost unbearable. She wanted more—needed more—but he held back, his movements controlled, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

For Lando, the slow pace was equally intense. He could feel her around him, tight and warm, and it took every ounce of his self-control to keep from losing himself in her. He wanted to savor this moment, to make it last, to show her how much she meant to him. He wanted to worship her, to make her feel loved, cherished, adored. And he knew that the only way to do that was to take his time, to draw out every second, to make her feel every ounce of his love.

He kissed her again, his lips moving against hers in a slow, deep rhythm that matched the pace of his thrusts. “I love you,” he whispered against her lips, his voice trembling with emotion. “I love you so much, Y/N. I’m never letting you go.”

She whimpered, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as she kissed him back with a desperation that mirrored his own. “I love you too,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please, Lando… don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He kept his pace slow, deliberate, his thrusts deep and steady as he continued to worship her with his body, his touch, his words. He kept kissing her neck, her collarbone, her shoulders, his lips lingering on every inch of her skin as if he were trying to memorize her. His hands roamed her body, exploring every curve, every dip, as if he were trying to commit her to memory.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire as he leaned down to kiss her again. “I can’t get enough of you, Y/N. I never will.”

She moaned, her hands clutching at his back as she arched into his touch, her body responding to him instinctively. The slow, steady rhythm of his thrusts was driving her wild, the sensation building slowly, steadily, until she felt like she might explode. “Lando,” she gasped, her voice trembling with need. “Please… I’m so close.”

He kissed her again, his movements never faltering as he held himself above her, his eyes locked on hers. “Let go, baby,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”

And with those words, she shattered, her body convulsing as she clung to him, her cries muffled against his chest. He held her through it, his thrusts never faltering as he continued to drive her over the edge, his own release building steadily until he could no longer hold back. With a low groan, he pressed his face into her neck, his body shaking as he spilled himself inside her, his breath hot against her skin.

For a long moment, they stayed like that, their bodies trembling, their breaths mingling as they held onto each other. The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing, the air thick with the weight of everything they had shared, everything they had overcome.

Slowly, he pulled back, looking down at her with an aching tenderness she had never seen so plainly before. He brushed damp hair off her forehead, trailing a thumb across her cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice a low rasp in the hush of the room. “I love you so much. And I’m so sorry for everything.”

She exhaled shakily, caressing the side of his face. “I’m sorry, too,” she murmured. “I got so consumed by anger and jealousy. I should have let you explain calmly. And I… I should never have doubted that you’d raise a hand to me.”

He shook his head, kissing her temple. “You have nothing to apologize for. Your fears come from a real place. I just want to do better for you. I never want you to think I could hurt you.” He swallowed hard. “I’m terrified of losing you.”

She stared up into his eyes, seeing the layers of heartbreak there. “Don’t do anything that makes me doubt you again, Lando. Please,” she whispered, her voice wavering. “I can’t take this kind of fight again.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “I promise,” he said. “And if something comes up—pictures, rumors, anything—please talk to me before letting it build up in your head. I’ll tell you everything.”

She nodded, tears threatening once more, but they didn’t spill. “Okay,” she agreed softly.

They settled into a quiet embrace, his arm draped over her waist, her head on his chest. She could hear the steady rhythm of his heart, each beat reassuring her that he was here and that he wasn’t letting go. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in pink and orange hues that filtered into the room. For a time, neither of them spoke, letting the warmth of each other’s bodies and the lingering afterglow of their fierce coupling do the talking.

Eventually, their breathing evened out, and Lando shifted to lie on his side, propping his head on one hand so he could look at her fully. She blushed slightly, tugging the sheets up to cover herself, though he’d already seen every inch. Her hair was a tangled mess, and her lips felt tender from the rough kisses.

He reached out to tuck a stray strand behind her ear. “You’re so beautiful,” he said quietly.

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed. “Don’t,” she mumbled. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he insisted. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Your body, your face, your heart… it’s all incredible to me.”

“Stop flattering me,” she murmured, but she couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. His genuine admiration always made her heart skip a beat.

He gave her a half-smile, though there was still a hint of sadness in his eyes. “We have to talk, you know,” he said softly. “We can’t just… pretend the argument didn’t happen.”

She nodded, the smile fading as she remembered the fiery fight. “I know.”

He took a deep breath, shifting closer so their foreheads nearly touched. “I hate that my past makes you feel insecure. But it’s my past. I can’t change it, no matter how badly I wish I could.” He placed a hand gently on her hip. “I need you to understand that I’m not that guy anymore. Maybe I was reckless before, a little shallow. But I’m not the same person I was a year or two years ago.”

She chewed her lip, eyes drifting to where her hand lay over his on the bed. “I guess a part of me thinks that once a player, always a player,” she admitted. “Like, if you’ve done it once, you’ll do it again. But I know that’s not fair. People can change.”

His fingers squeezed hers lightly. “I don’t want anyone else. I know you might find it hard to believe, but it’s true. I’m not going to ruin this for some random stranger in a club.” He paused, voice growing thick with emotion. “I love you, Y/N. I love your fierceness, your shy smiles, your sarcastic quips, how you refuse to let me pay for everything even though I want to spoil you. I love the way you get all excited about a new book or a new recipe you learned. I love your body, every curve, every inch, how it feels like you were made to fit in my arms.”

She drew in a shaky breath, tears gathering again. “Lando…”

He nodded, blinking back his own moisture. “So trust me, please. Talk to me if you feel suspicious. Don’t bottle it up until it explodes. Because I can’t go another four days like this. It was pure hell.”

She closed her eyes, exhaling. “I’m sorry I shut you out,” she whispered, voice trembling. “And I’ll… I’ll try. I don’t want to go through this either. I just need reassurance. Because my insecurities are… they’re crippling sometimes. Seeing that picture brought back every fear I had.”

He cupped her cheek gently. “I get it. And I’ll do my best to reassure you. Always.”

They shared a tender kiss, a silent pact to communicate better, to lean on each other instead of letting the fear linger. After a few more minutes of hushed conversation, she excused herself to use the bathroom, to freshen up.

Stepping into the attached en-suite, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror: flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair in wild mess. She splashed cool water on her face, trying to calm the roiling emotions. She felt lighter somehow, as if her chest wasn’t as constricted. He was here, in her home, in her bed, and they’d just poured out so many painful feelings. But they’d also reconnected intimately, forging a new bond in the midst of all the anguish.

Yet a small flicker of doubt still lingered. She wondered if she could truly accept the rumors that might come in the future—pictures of him with fans, random girls in clubs, or women who found him attractive. He was an F1 driver, he was famous, and she couldn’t shield him from the outside world. She swallowed hard, telling herself that if she truly loved him, and if he truly loved her, they would find a way through it.

When she returned, dressed in a fresh tee and shorts, she found him sitting on her bed, having pulled on his boxers. The bedside lamp was on, illuminating the curve of his shoulders, the slight slump as he stared at his phone. He looked up the moment she stepped in.

“Everything okay?” she asked softly, noticing his phone in his hand.

He grimaced. “Max and a couple of the other guys are freaking out because I went off the grid. I told them I needed time to sort this out.”

She nodded, crossing to the bed, settling beside him. “I’m sorry if I caused you trouble.”

He shook his head. “No, don’t apologize for that. They were worried, but now that I told them I’m with you, they’re pretty much leaving me alone.”

She reached for his phone, pressing the lock button so the screen went dark, then set it aside on the nightstand. “You’re here with me now,” she said quietly. “Focus on that.”

He exhaled, nodding. Then his eyes flickered to the faint bruise on her wrist, a small mark she’d gotten from accidentally knocking her hand against a table the day before. She saw him stare with concern. “What’s that?”

She glanced at it. “Oh, that’s nothing. I bumped into something at work. I’m clumsy.”

He lightly brushed his thumb over the bruise, then lifted her hand and kissed the spot gently. The tender gesture made her chest tighten. His gaze moved up to hers, intense. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, “for scaring you the other night. I haven’t gotten that out of my head. The way you flinched…”

A wave of guilt crashed over her. “Lando, I said I’m sorry. It’s not you—it’s my own fear. I just reacted.”

“But the fact that you could even think I’d—” He exhaled unsteadily, closing his eyes. “I promise I’ll never move that way again. I’ll be mindful. I don’t want to trigger that reflex or make you think—”

She slid her arms around him, pulling him into a hug. “No. Don’t change how you move or exist in the world,” she whispered, voice thick with regret. “It was my own trauma or fear or something. But I know you’d never do that to me, logically. My body just panicked.”

He nodded, holding her close. “Okay,” he said softly. “But if you ever feel scared, tell me. I’ll do everything in my power to make you feel safe.”

They stayed like that for a long time, arms wrapped around each other on the bed, the soft glow of the lamp creating a cocoon of intimacy. She felt his heartbeat slow as he relaxed in her arms, his breathing growing calmer. She gently stroked the back of his neck, and he exhaled against her shoulder.

Finally, she drew back slightly, looking into his face. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”

He shook his head, giving her a wry smile. “No. I came straight here from the airport, then… all this happened.”

She offered a small smile in return. “I’ll order us takeout. Thai or pizza?”

He shrugged. “Anything you like. Though I’m kind of craving noodles.”

She nodded, picking up her phone from the nightstand, scrolling through her food delivery apps. Within minutes, she placed an order for a selection of Thai dishes. Then she set her phone aside again.

Lando let out a soft chuckle. “I can’t believe we went from screaming at each other to ordering noodles. My head’s spinning.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah, it’s been a rollercoaster.” Her features turned somber as she looked at him. “Do you regret coming here?”

He reached for her hand, entwining their fingers. “Not in the slightest. I want to fix things with you more than anything.”

A gentle silence fell over them, broken only by the hum of the city outside. She cuddled closer, resting her head against his shoulder. Despite the leftover ache, a sense of relief washed over her. He was here. They were together, speaking, touching, and trying to heal.