#instead of like the only thing i get notifications for

[total-killer-brainrot]

This is part 2 of this

Ghost knew something was going on. His sergeants were acting... off. Like they were sneaking around. Hiding things from him. He could see them giggling and whispering to each other in the corner of the rec room. Not-so-subtle glances his way when they thought he wasn't looking.

Gaz always seemed extra eager to spot him on his workouts. He didn't mind the company, it was nice to spend one on one time with him. But it was suspicious.

Johnny seemed to get extra flustered whenever he gave him an order directly. The scot was always flirty, not just with him, but with everyone. But lately it seemed to have been dialled up to the max. To the point where even the ever emotionless Ghost was blushing beneath his mask.

And you seemed to be avoiding him entirely. Whenever he gave you a command he had to repeat it at least twice before you would respond. You had a bit of a staring problem. He found it weird.

He was determined to find out what you three were up to. And hopefully put a stop to it so everything could go back to normal.

The ping on your phone drew you out of your paperwork. Feeling a tingle in your lower belly at just the notification 'Gazzy Poo sent a photo'. Already knowing your eyes were about to be blessed.

You had to fully focus on not slipping a hand into your pants at the sight.

Your lieutenant, your gorgeous, terrifying lieutenant. Facing away from the camera. Reaching into his locker. His body side on. You could see the raised mass of scars across both his back, arms and ribs. You wanted to feel them under your tongue. At this angle you got a delicious view of both his muscled ass and pecs. And best of all, his cock. This was the first time Kyle had managed to snap one without a towel on, the damp rag held loosely in Simon's large hand. Leaving his cock on full display. The curve of it, the impossible length, he wasn't even hard and you were sure it would hurt.

You were practically drooling. Abandoning your paperwork to go find Soap. You knew the second he saw the photo he would have even less self control than you. Beelining for his bunk you didn't even knock, bursting through the door with a longing moan.

"Oh my god Johnny... his cock did you see his co-"

You froze. Eyes wide as three pairs of eyes all turned to you. One too many.

Gaz was sitting on Soap's bed sheepishly, hands in his lap. Soap himself was kneeling in front of Ghost.

Ghost was here.

He was here and by the dangerous look in his eye, he knew.

And god he looked so good. Shirt tight and clinging to his still damp muscles. Sweats low on his hips. Balaclava donned instead of the full skull mask this time. His hand gripping Johnny's hair so tight you could see tears welling in his eyes.

A soft disappointed tut pulled you out of you horny stupor.

"You too, Sergeant? I though' you were better than this... Shut the door."

You did as you were told. Your face hot with embarrassment. He jerked his head towards Gaz on the bed and you hurried to join him.

"Sir... I'm so sor-"

He cut you off with a stern look. "Quiet. I'll deal with you in a bit."

And boy did he deal with you. Making you watch while he shoved Johnny's face into Kyles ass and work him open with his tongue. You could see how much Soap was enjoying this. His gaze hazy and submissive already.

Then he fucked Gaz. Hard and fast and with no mercy at all. Even when he was crying and clawing at the sheets after two orgasms he kept going. Eventually manhandling you to ride Kyle's, weepy face. Promising him that he would stop when he made you cum. Only satisfied once you were bucking and grinding your clit down against Gaz's tongue.

Simon moved on to you. Leaving Kyle laying limp, nearly passed out next to you. He had you on your stomach bent over the small bed. Plowing into you from behind. Each thrust making stars dance behind your eyelids. You were right about it hurting. The stretch of his cock so intense you almost begged him to stop. But after all this fantasising you couldn't possibly back out now.

He had ordered you to jerk Soap off. You obeyed of course, but you weren't doing very well. Far too out of it to do much but loosely grip his throbbing cock. He didn't seem to mind though. Too busy writhing on Ghost's fingers while he was stretched out. The lieutenant knuckle deep and curling up against that spot that you knew would leave Soap firing blanks and still begging for more.

After he drew four orgasms out of you he finally moved on to Johnny. You could have cried you were so relieved. Thighs aching with how much you had been clenching around him. He seemed to give the Scot mercy. Having already made him a mess before he even slid his cock inside. Soap was so sensitive that the stretch alone had him whining and jerking. His limp cock twitching in the mess on his stomach. Cumming dry as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Ghost drew back slowly, laughing at how Johnny writhed in overstimulation.

He stood over the three of you. Cock still hard. The view was incredible. But you hardly had the brains left to appreciate it.

"Bunch of fuckin' perverted sluts is what you are. Takin' pictures of me. Fantasising about me. Didn't even 'ave the balls to come and tell me. Whores. The lot of you."

He neared Johnny again. And you saw genuine fear in his eyes, too weak to squirm away. But he relaxed once he saw that Ghost was only jerking off over him. Adding to the pool of cum over his abdomen. When he was finally finished he looked to you and Kyle.

"Lick it up."

There was no room for argument. Your body screamed in protest as you shifted to drag your tongue through the sticky pool. Feeling flushed as the salty taste made your cunt quiver. Part of you almost wanting to go another round.

Gaz didn't move though. Already passed out. He had been since before Ghost had even reached Johnny.

None of you were used to how Simon treated his submissives. But you all had to learn fast if you wanted to keep up with him now that he knew your dirty little secret.

[p0liticking]

I've gotten a couple more replies to this post---ones that Tumblr will give me notifications for, but not let me see for some reason---calling me a "z*o" and basically just getting pissed off that I posted this, saying I "support genocide," and all that other fun stuff these morons like to word vomit on any post that points out their blatant hypocrisy or general uselessness.

Three things on that:

----------

1. They keep throwing the word "z*o" at me, which is funny because---for all they keep whining about how they're totally not antisemetic and totally not racist---they seem to be really comfortable cozying up to the KKK and using the same slurs as them. Even funnier, though, is the fact that I'm not Jewish...so they literally just saw me saying something they disagreed with and decided to yell slurs about it. Literally on par with white people calling other white people the n-word when they get mad at them. They're never beating the allegations.

2. Did I hit a nerve? Did me calling out people that are using Palestinians to feed their savior complexes piss you off? Did me pointing out that a lot of y'all don't actually give a damn about Palestinians and aren't doing anything to actually help them hit a little too close to home? Did I actually say anything offensive or untrue, or are you just mad that I'm calling out your shitty behavior?

And 3. I have fucking receipts for the fact that the vast majority of y'all don't give a damn about Palestinians.

-----

First of all, a lot of you idiots---if not the majority---actively support Hamas.

Hamas has been raping and murdering Palestinians long before they broke the ceasefire on Oct. 7th and the current conflict started, Hamas has actively said that they want more Palestinians to die so they can get more support for their "cause" (killing all Jews), Hamas has been stealing aid from civilians and killing anyone that tries to get aid from them and/or accepts aid from Israel, Hamas used money that they should've spent building up Palestine and its economy to instead build a bunch of tunnels underground for military purposes;

Hamas refuses to let Palestinian civilians take shelter in said tunnels despite having plenty of room and resources, Hamas broke the ceasefire that was in place to knowingly start a war with Israel (which obviously would cause harm to Palestinian civilians), Hamas knowingly puts military bases in/under hospitals and schools so that they lose the protections they have and are then considered valid military targets, Hamas has refused to give the hostages back (which is the main term for a ceasefire) and refused to accept any reasonable ceasefire terms and stop the war, and literally so much else!

Even if you don't give a fuck that they're a terrorist organization or that it's stated in their charter that their goal is to kill all Jews, HAMAS IS LITERALLY KILLING PALESTINIANS AND DOING EVERYTHING IN THEIR POWER TO GET AS MANY DEATHS AS POSSIBLE! There were literally protests by Palestinian civilians against Hamas, because they want them gone, yet all of you "pro-Palestine" MORONS still support the terrorist group that celebrates civilian deaths!

-----

Secondly, the only "activism" y'all seem to give a damn about is performative bullshit that doesn't actually help Palestinians whatsoever---and you actively ignore anything that goes against your misinformation campaigns and bigotry.

Once again, Palestinians protesting Hamas? It goes against y'all's belief that Hamas is a bunch of "freedom fighters" who are "fighting for Palestinian liberation," plus admitting that they're not and condemning them would also mean condemning their actions on Oct. 7th, so hey! No news! You don't give a fuck!

Israelis protesting against Netanyahu and their government's actions in Palestine? Well admitting that many Israelis disagree with what's going on in Palestine and that they're doing a lot more to stop it than you idiots would poke holes in your idiotic (and bigoted) misinformation campaigns that say all Israelis are evil (((zionists))) and want to murder Palestinians and eat Palestinian babies, so you'll ignore that too. No news here! Who cares?

Israeli and Jewish-run groups and charities that are dedicated to providing aid and other resources for Palestinians, including ones that were advocating for Palestinians long before Oct. 7th? Once again, it'd go against your bigoted bullshit listed above, so nope! Never mentioned! I don't like it, so it didn't happen!

Other groups and charities run by non-Israelis and non-Jews that are dedicated to providing aid to Palestinians, but that advocate for a two state solution and peace rather than the mass murder of millions? Well it doesn't advocate for murdering several million civilians and dismantling the ONLY country where it's safe to be Jewish (ie. normal ass civilians and the government aren't gonna do horrible things to you because you're Jewish), so obviously these charities are just (((zionist))) propaganda and we don't wanna talk about them! We don't care! Shut up about them!

There's a conference held that is quite literally about GETTING AID INTO GAZA and two Israeli embassy workers were there in support of getting said aid into Gaza? Well you guys don't give a fuck, and actually you'll completely ignore what the conference was for and only bring up the two embassy workers in order to justify their horrific murders.

BUT WAIT!

A random white girl hops on a boat with a bunch of her influencer buddies, with LESS than a SINGLE TRUCK full of aid, and makes a bunch of performative videos about her and her influencer friends are gonna "free Palestine" with their bullshit publicity stunt---and then proceeds to cry "kidnapping" when she's stopped from sailing into a war zone, given food and water, and then sent on a flight back home?

CALL THE NEWS CREWS!!! POST A THOUSAND VIDEOS ON TIKTOK!!! EVERYONE CHECK IT OUT, SHE'S FREEING PALESTINE!!! LOOK AT HOW GREAT THESE INFLUENCERS ARE, STANDING UP TO THESE EVIL (((ZIONISTS)))!!! #FREEGRETA #SAVETHEINFLUENCERS #KIDNAPPING but ignore the fact that this supposed "climate change activist" dumped a bunch of electronics into the ocean and also the fact that they didn't actually do anything to help Palestinians

Like are y'all fucking serious? You'll spend all day, every day, harassing random Jews online for Good Person Points online but heaven forbid you donate some money to reputable charities instead of gaza gofundme scams on this fuckass website that are literally ran by modern-day slaves btw---and the money you send to "savemegaza241" is literally just supporting human traffickers and other scum, but people are evil and spreading "Israeli propaganda" if they tell you that.

-----

And third, you idiots refuse to do anything that might ACTUALLY HELP Palestinians, because you're too self absorbed and morally bankrupt that you refuse to help people if it requires stepping off your high horse to do it.

Voting for Kamala and getting her in office would've helped Palestinians---she advocated for a ceasefire and a two state solution, both of which would benefit Palestinians. Hell, Palestinians told y'all ANYONE BUT TRUMP, and yet you guys kept rambling on and on about "genocide Joe" and "Holocaust Harris" and REFUSED to vote for her because "uwu it goes against my moral purity test."

Advocating for a two-state solution would help Palestinians, why? Because it's a reasonable fucking action that you can pressure your government officials, who can then try to pressure whoever is the head of your government, who can then try to pressure Netanyahu into accepting. Like it or not, "nuke Israel" and "murder several million civilians that I don't think are human" are (first of all stupid and bigoted, but also-) not reasonable demands and not something that your local government is going to be able to actually seriously advocate for.

Condemning Hamas and advocating for return of the hostages would help Palestinians---literally the MAIN THING the Israeli government has been asking for ever since Oct. 7th, do you not think that peace terms might just be possible if the hostages were released and you dumbfucks stopped dickriding literal terrorists? Not to mention that actual Palestinians literally want Hamas gone, so you're not even helping them by doing this shit, you are LITERALLY just fucking them over.

And speaking of fucking them over, you wanna talk about how you think the Israeli government should pull back? You think Netanyahu is too extreme? You think Israel shouldn't exist and Jews should just live in diaspora forever?* WELL CONGRATU--FUCKING--LATIONS, BECAUSE YOU HAVE LITERALLY JUST JUSTIFIED EVERY ONE OF THOSE THINGS!

You idiots have been advocating for every country to attack Israel and justifying every attack on Israel by countries whose goals are literally just to kill as many Jews as possible, which tells the Israeli government that they need to use extreme force and can't pull back and accept peace, because if they do then it's only a matter of time before they're attacked again and you fucks will just laugh.

You idiots have literally just fed into Netanyahu's extremist rhetoric, it couldn't survive and look reasonable without you slack-tivists sitting there and giving him the ammunition he needs to keep pushing more and more extreme ideas without looking like an idiot.

You MORONS keep fucking attacking Jews in the diaspora! People that have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO with the Israeli governments actions! Harassing them, vandalizing their property, burning down their houses, drawing swastikas on everything, assaulting them, murdering them, kicking them out of schools, kicking them off of planes, fucking their lives up AGAIN and AGAIN!

YOU ARE LITERALLY JUST PROVING WHY ISRAEL IS NEEDED---BECAUSE YOU FUCKS HAVE MADE IT CLEAR THAT JEWS ARE NOT SAFE ANYWHERE ELSE!!!

You don't want Jews to move to Israel? You don't want Israel to exist? THEN STOP FUCKING ATTACKING THEM EVERYWHERE ELSE, YOU ANTISEMETIC NAZI FUCKS!!!

Literally none of you want to do any of this, though, because it's just "not cool" and requires some actual critical thought and nuance---it isn't just a "snap your fingers and it's fixed" bullshit solution that all of you are always looking for. It requires you to actually see Israelis and Jews as people, and it also requires you to relinquish some of your demands, but it would ACTUALLY HELP Palestinians in ways that posting fifty watermelon emojis in your Instagram profile doesn't.

But nope! Y'all can't do any of it, because moral purity is more important to you than actual human suffering.

----------

So yeah, save me your whining about how "mean" I am and how I'm such an evil (((zionist))) for calling you dumbfucks out for your performative bullshit---you don't actually give a damn about Palestinians and everyone knows it, so maybe shut the fuck up and go do something productive with your life, yeah?

All the westerners in the “pro-Palestine” movement don’t actually care about Palestinians, they’re just using them as a way to cleanse their own guilt for having privileges and to cosplay as “revolutionaries” without having to actually do anything or help anyone - send tweet

[starcigarettez]

I’LL BE YOUR RECORD PLAYER BABY IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN | KA12

Featuring: Andrea Kimi Antonelli x Reader In which: Two best friends grow apart due to fear of ruining their friendship but also the media’s criticism. Unable to communicate the feelings they don’t even fully understand they find themselves getting influenced by the circumstances and losing each other in the process. Includes: Angst, betrayal, unresolved conflict, childhood best friends to lovers but with difficulties in between. Notes: PLEASE listen to Paul by Big Thief!!! Title is inspired by the song. Btw this is my first work and so I apologise in advance if this is ASS. English is not my fist language xoxo

THE water sparkled, but Kimi’s mind wasn’t matching the peaceful sight.

Eighteen, the youngest Formula 1 driver on the grid, standing on the balcony of his hotel suite in Monte Carlo. It was race weekend and his first Monaco Grand Prix. The kind of thing people dreamed of since childhood and he had it. All of it. The paddock buzzed with his name and headlines called him a future champion. He should be focused; preparing, memorising, calculating but instead he kept checking his phone every few minutes. Not to contact his team, not to keep up with the media, but hoping to get a notification from a certain someone. You.

You weren’t there. Again.

You met years ago. You were just kids from Bologna. Both angry at the world in their own ways. You made fun of his stupid diet plan and he made you laugh in the way no one else could. As his best friend since childhood, you were the only constant in his life. Through the ranks of motorsport, championships, broken bones, teenage crushes, and overnight fame—you had always been there.

But now you weren’t.

No more photos with you in his driver room. No more middle fingers behind the camera after quali. No more making everyone in the paddock laugh. Your life was different now. Rooftops. Red cups. New tattoos every other week. Guys he didn’t recognize, touching you in ways that made his fists clench.

You hadn’t been to a single race for the past couple of months and it was obvious you weren’t planning to attend anytime soon. Still, every time he climbed out of the car, his eyes searched the crowd frantically looking for you. But you weren’t there. You never were.

The paddock knew. Everyone knew that the young Italian and you weren’t just best friends. You never kissed or hooked up. Always scared to cross that line but the tension was understandable. Unspoken. Fractured.

The others made jokes all the time. Toto called you “the girl in his head.” George nudged him with raised brows saying something along the lines of:

“Just ask her out already.”

“You’re in love with her, Antonelli. Everyone knows it.” Ollie told him smirking.

Even the press speculated… until they didn’t.

You didn’t look like a WAG. You had tattoos and party girl energy. You smoked and drank. You laughed too loud. Wild teenager with a messy style.

“Kimi Antonelli’s Party Girl BFF: A PR Nightmare?”

“F1’s Golden Boy Linked With ‘Alt’ Wild Child”

“She’s not elegant,” the media said.

“She’s a bad look,” fans typed.

“She’s not F1 material.”

You read every comment. You didn’t delete your socials or block the haters. You pretended to be unbothered but always hoped he would defend you, shut them up. But Kimi said nothing and you took that silence like a door closing.

It started with skipped calls which became canceled flights. Then came the parties; in Milan, Berlin, London, LA. Your make up got messier, your smile thinner. But, undeniably, you were still beautiful—God, to him you were still the only one—but there was something desperate in your eyes now which scared him.

You kissed strangers and let cameras catch it. He watched every story. He didn’t sleep much.

━━━━━━━━━

After the race everyone was celebrating. Everyone but him. And it wasn’t because he finished 18th; he actually couldn’t care less about that at the moment.

When he got back to the garage, someone shoved a phone in his hand. You. In Milan. On a rooftop. Cigarette in one hand, boy’s lips on your neck. Your eyes half-lidded, bottle on your lap.

He dropped the phone.

“Yo, Antonelli.” It was Hamilton, already tired of the circus. “You gonna keep watching her self-destruct or actually do something?”

Kimi didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Ollie was there too. “Go get your girl, man.”

“She’s not my—” he started. But his voice cracked.

They looked at him like he was the dumbest person alive.

“She was never yours,” George muttered, “because you never asked her to be.” And then it clicked.

He texted you.

Where are you?

No response.

Please don't ignore me.

That night, he didn’t go to the team dinner.

He booked a flight to Italy instead.

━━━━━━━━━

Your apartment — 4:08 a.m.

He didn't knock. He used the spare key you gave him a few months ago, back when you were still real.

The living room was dark except for the TV screen, paused on the Monaco Grand Prix replay. Empty bottles on the coffee table. Ashtray full and records on the floor. He made his way into the kitchen and there you were curled up on the floor, back against the fridge. Mascara streaks, wearing a hoodie—his hoodie—and an almost-empty bottle of tequila in your hand.

He stared at you like you were a painting he hadn’t seen in years.

“Jesus, Tesoro” he said, stepping in.

You didn’t need to look up to recognise who that voice belonged to. You dropped the bottle instantly. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

He didn't respond immediately. Just crossed the room, picked up the half-empty tequila bottle, and slammed it into the sink.

“What the fuck is going on with you.”

You blinked, then laughed

“You don't get to ask that,” you said. “You don't talk to me for two months and then show up here throwing bottles like some jealous boyfriend.”

His jaw tightened. “So you’re gonna pretend this is normal?”

“What? That I’m drunk in my kitchen wearing your hoodie? Sure. Super normal.”

“I want to know why you're blowing yourself up like you want to disappear.”

Your expression changed. Barely, but he saw it. The flinch. The way your arms wrapped around yourself like you needed holding.

“I am not.” was all you could manage.

“Seriously?” he snapped. “This is where you're at now?”

“Oh, what-Mercedes’ golden boy is disappointed in me?” you said, voice bitter.

“Don't,” he said. “Don't act like you don't know what you're doing.”

“I'm living,” you said flatly. “I go out. I drink. I dance. So what?”

“You're not living. You're fucking spiraling.”

You rolled your eyes, turned to light another cigarette which he grabbed out of your mouth.

“Antonelli,” you warned.

Then—

“You think I don’t care?” he said, voice low. “I see what you’re doing to yourself. Every time you post something. Every photo with a new guy. Every blackout night.”

“So what? You want me to be elegant?” you spat. “Wear beige linen? Smile in the paddock like a good little girlfriend?”

“You're not a girlfriend,” he said, instantly regretting it after seeing your face crumble.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know I'm not.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You left me,” you snapped. “Don't come in here and act like you still get to care.”

“I always cared!”

“Then why didn't you defend me?” you said, voice cracking. “When they started calling me a distraction, when the articles came out, when the fans said I was ruining you-where were you?”

“I wanted to. I fucking wanted to. But you said you were fine.”

“I lied, Kimi. Obviously.”

“Well, you’re good at it.”

Your eyes snapped up. “You don’t get to be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he said. “I’m scared.”

“For me?”

“For both of us,” he snapped. “You think this is fun for me? Watching you sleep around and yourself with guys you don't even know? Drinking till you black out?Pretending like it doesn’t kill me to see you with people who don’t know you like I do?”

“You don’t get to say that. Not when people publicly humiliated me and you did nothing. They compare me to every PR model in the paddock. I don't look like them. I don't play the part. I'm messy and loud and I talk too much shit and I smoke cigarettes when I'm anxious—”

“Tesoro”

“—and I wanted to be enough for you anyway and I—”

He stopped you mid sentence. He didn’t say much, just your name. But his desperate tone was enough. “I love you.”

“You don’t mean that”

“I do mean it,” he pleaded. “I've loved you since we were kids. Since we were sixteen and you fell asleep on my shoulder in the back of my parents’ car. Since we were seventeen and I nearly kissed you and then pretended I didn't want to.”

Your voice broke. “Then why didn't you ever say it?”

“I never said anything because I didn’t want to ruin us. Because you were the only good thing in my life that wasn’t about racing, the only one who truly saw me and I didn’t want to lose it.”

Tears slipped from your eyes.

“I don't know how to be what everyone wants me to be.”

“Be you. That's all I ever wanted.”

You exhaled like your lungs were finally giving up.

“Kimi” you said.

“Yeah?”

“Kiss me.”

So he did.

“I don’t want to be your almost anymore.”

“Then don’t be.”

Your foreheads touched. His voice cracked.

“Be mine.”

━━━━━━━━━

The next morning, a blurry photo made it to Twitter.

You and Kimi on your balcony. You in his hoodie, barefoot, cigarette in hand. He's holding coffee. You look like hell. You look in love.

The fans go loud. The media calls it reckless. But Kimi doesn't care. Because for the first time in forever, he has you.

And he's not letting you go again.

[supi-wupi]

CEO, Crybaby, Crush - Seungcheol

pairing: seungcheol x reader synopsis: Y/N accidentally sends a breakup text meant for her ex to her new boss — Choi Seungcheol. Instead of firing her, he offers to be her fake boyfriend to make the ex jealous. The plan works too well, and now she’s fending off both men... while catching feelings for her boss. wc: 4.9k genre: Fluff, Office Romance, Fake Dating, Romance Comedy warning: Fluff, Crying (breakdown in the printer room), Mentions of ex, Meetup with said ex, Mutual Pining, Cheesy flirting (Seungcheol is serious but sweet), Minor Jealousy, a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHEOLLIE!!! WOULD GIVE YOU A TREAT

You don’t realize your mistake until the message bubble turns green.

A single line of text—firebomb-level destructive, somehow both petty and poetic — stares up at you with a wicked little smirk.

“I hope your next girlfriend knows the breakup playlist I made was about you and that you cried to Taylor Swift. Twice.”

Sent.

Not to your ex.

To your boss. Choi Seungcheol. CEO. Of. The. Company.

You fling your phone across the bed like it burned you, and your life flashes before your eyes—not the sweet nostalgic kind, but the HR-violation, resume-rewriting, LinkedIn-updating kind.

Your group chat explodes within seconds.

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

Juri: what did u do.

Hana: Y/N. SAY SOMETHING.

You: it was supposed to go to Minjae THE PLAYLIST TEXT i sent it to SEUNGCHEOL

Juri: YOUR. BOSS???

Hana: pack your things. dye your hair. flee the country.

Juri: can i have your bluetooth speaker

You: THIS IS NOT THE POINT

You don’t know whether to throw up or scream into your pillow, so you do both, in that order.

Minutes drag by. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’ll think it’s spam. Maybe you typed so fast autocorrect changed “Minjae” to “Seungcheol” somehow?

Your phone buzzes.

You sit up slowly, dreading the notification, a gulp caught in your throat. Your worst fear is confirmed.

—

[Text — CEO (ok, that’s new)]

CEO: Well… I wasn’t expecting that kind of honesty. But I did cry. Twice. Taylor hits hard. Also—want to make your ex cry harder?

—

You blink.

What.

—

You: sorry??? that was not meant for you oh my god please don’t fire me i can bring you coffee and delete the servers

CEO: Don’t worry about it. I have a stupid idea, but it might actually help you. Want to make him jealous?

He’s joking. Has to be. You pace, holding your phone like it’s made of live wire. He texts again.

CEO: I’ll be your fake boyfriend. You get closure, I get to avoid another company dinner alone. Win-win.

You nearly choke on your own breath. Your boss—your unfairly attractive, sometimes-too-nice, definitely-too-intimidating boss—is offering to be your fake boyfriend?

You respond the only way you can:

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: what the actual hell is going on

Juri: YOU’RE FAKE DATING YOUR BOSS NOW????

Hana: this is better than any drama i’m making popcorn.

Juri: you’re going to catch feelings

You: i will not

Hana: you absolutely will

You: i’m still spiraling can we circle back to the part where i ACCIDENTALLY EMOTIONALLY BLACKMAILED MY BOSS

Juri: he emotionally bonded instead.

Hana: did he use a taylor swift lyric?

You: NO …i think

—

You don’t sleep that night.

Instead, you stare at your ceiling, thinking about Taylor Swift, corporate doom, and the way Choi Seungcheol’s name sits in your messages like it was always meant to be there.

—

It’s supposed to be a soft launch.

Just a casual post on Seungcheol’s Instagram story—a blurry photo of two coffees, one marked “Y/N” in loopy handwriting. No tags, no faces, no captions except a single emoji: 💘.

You choke on your tea when you see it.

“HE POSTED YOU?” Juri screeches through the phone, voice distorted by wind and fury. “HE JUST? SOFT LAUNCHED YOU? ON HIS MAIN?”

“I didn’t even know he took a picture!”

“Do you know how many employees follow him?” Hana yells from the background. “You’re already on gossip accounts!”

“What-” you open Instagram, hands shaking. “No way.”

You search. You find it. An account called @/KworkKtea has already posted a collage of evidence:

“mystery girl’s coffee name = confirmed Y/N from finance”

“seen walking into his building twice in the last week 👀”

“source says she made him smile at the Q3 report meeting???”

And the worst part? There’s a poll.

Is Choi Seungcheol in love? — YES, 72% — no, 28% (these are the delulu exes probably)

You consider walking into traffic. Or HR. Whichever is closer.

—

You storm into Seungcheol’s office first thing the next morning. He’s mid-sip of an energy drink when you slam your phone on his desk, screen open to the post.

“What. Is. This.”

He blinks. “Public perception?”

“I said fake dating, not PR chaos!”

He has the audacity to look confused. “People love us.”

“People don’t even know me.”

He shrugs. “They will.”

You nearly combust. “You soft launched me without consent!”

“I thought it was a nice coffee picture!”

You stare at him. He stares back. This is, technically, your boss. This is also, technically, the man who is now listed as your alleged boyfriend on three workplace forums.

“I’m going to have a stroke,” you whisper.

He softens, setting down the drink. “Hey. I’ll fix it, if it’s too much. I’ll post a meme or distract the algorithm. But… can I say something?”

You blink. “You’re going to anyway.”

“I meant it as a thank you,” he says, voice quiet now. “For helping me. For making things easier. For being someone I can trust to hold this chaos with me.”

Your stomach flips.

It’s not even the words that undo you. It’s the way he says them — not like a script, but like a secret.

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: he soft launched me and then soft confessed???

Juri: define “soft” because i think you’re in love

Hana: trusts you with chaos??? it’s over for you girl

You: i’m being normal about it i’m being CHILL i’m not rereading the text 6 times

Juri: you’re lying

Hana: and shaking

You: mind your business

—

A week later, he asks if you want to join him for a company dinner. A very public, very board-filled dinner.

“It’ll sell the illusion,” he says, straightening his sleeves. “But no pressure. We can always say you’re sick or in Bali.”

You exhale slowly. “Do I have to wear heels?”

He grins. “Only if you want to see me flustered.”

—

The dinner is ridiculous. The room is full of power suits, champagne, and cautious small talk.

You expect to be ignored. You expect to be judged.

Instead, you are introduced—officially introduced—by Seungcheol himself.

“This is Y/N,” he says. “She’s brilliant. She’s keeping me sane.”

It shouldn’t mean anything. You’re playing a part.

But when his hand lingers at the small of your back, warm and protective When he laughs at your joke before anyone else does When he looks at you during a toast instead of the room

You realize something terrifying.

You’re not soft launching anymore. You’re falling.

—

You wake up to the kind of email that makes your soul leave your body.

Subject: URGENT: Meeting Request – HR From: haein.k@kwcorp.com To: yn@kwcorp.com, choi.seungcheol@kwcorp.com Cc: legal@kwcorp.com

You sit frozen in your desk chair, eyes wide, until your chat pings.

Seungcheol: don’t panic 😇 i’ll handle it come to the 9am with snacks

You reply with:

You: YOU GOT US HR-SUMMONED. FOR YOUR INSTAGRAM STORY.

Seungcheol: correction: for my aestheticand your coffee handwriting

You: I should’ve just sent that breakup text to my ex. At least HE wasn’t being monitored by compliance.

—

9:00 AM – HR Office (Aka The Firing Room)

The HR rep, Haein, is devastatingly pretty, unreadable, and sipping a colorless green juice. She gestures to two chairs. You take one. Seungcheol—of course—leans casually against the wall like this is a press shoot.

“So,” Haein says, smiling like a guillotine. “I just wanted to follow up on some… observations.”

You open your mouth. Seungcheol beats you to it.

“We’re dating.”

You nearly fling your bag across the room.

Haein raises a brow. “Officially?”

“Yes,” he says smoothly. “Romantically. Exclusively. Legally, if necessary.”

You make a choking noise.

Haein types something ominously into her laptop. “Interesting. And this relationship began…?”

“Last week,” you blurt. “Roughly. A little after the Q3 wrap meeting.”

“I see.” She pauses. “Just so you’re aware, interdepartmental relationships aren’t prohibited, but they must be disclosed. And should any conflicts of interest arise, especially with one of you in a supervisory role-”

“She’s ungovernable,” Seungcheol says solemnly. “Definitely not under my influence.”

“Choi,” you hiss, elbowing him in the ribs.

Haein stares. “Right. And you understand that public social media displays, especially when involving direct reports, can create an appearance of favoritism?”

You nod so hard your brain rattles. “Totally understood. No more soft launches.”

“Mm.” She clicks her pen. “And—purely hypothetically—if this were a fake relationship…”

You stop breathing.

Seungcheol leans in slightly. “But it’s not. We’re disgustingly into each other.”

“I made him a Google Calendar invite for our first kiss,” you lie.

Haein doesn’t blink. “You’re both insufferable. Meeting adjourned.”

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: hr hates me

Juri: hr is jealous of you

Hana: what’s the legal status of pretending to kiss someone for a calendar invite

You: spiritually illegal

Juri: was he hot in the meeting tho

You: unreasonably leaned against the wall like a ceo/vampire hybrid

Hana: you’re going to fall for him for real

You: gonna? bestie i’m already on the floor

—

After the HR incident, you expect Seungcheol to back off.

He does not.

He sends you morning coffees with sticky notes that say things like "for my favorite corporate liability 💖."He walks you out of the building with his hand at your waist like this is some K-drama and not a financial district. He flirts. Constantly.

And you—professional, stable, emotionally intelligent you—flirt back.

It’s not real. It’s not.

Until it starts to feel like it is.

—

You’re at your desk, finishing reports, when he sends a message.

Seungcheol: got a meeting in 10. do i look okay?

You glance up. He’s across the office in the glass boardroom, holding his phone like a teenage girl at a sleepover. He’s wearing his navy suit—the one that does things to your pulse—and that dumb dimple’s showing.

You type back.

You: you look like a man who just made someone fall in love with him in a google calendar

He doesn’t respond immediately. Then—

Seungcheol: i hope it’s you.

—

You sit frozen, half-blinking, heart punching your ribs.

You don’t know what’s happening anymore.

You’re fake dating. You’re soft launching. You’re flirting across boardrooms. You’re surviving HR.

And you’re starting to wonder:

What if none of this is fake anymore?

—

There’s something deeply humiliating about crying in a copy room.

Maybe it’s the sound of the paper tray thudding like a heartbeat. Maybe it’s the way the fluorescent light reflects off your tears like a bad indie film. Or maybe it’s because your fake boyfriend is standing outside the door, knocking gently like a damn Hallmark character.

“Hey,” Seungcheol says. “Y/N? You okay in there?”

You swallow a sob, which only makes it louder. Fantastic.

“Fine!” you croak. “Totally fine! Just the toner fumes!”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Is this about the press leak?”

You freeze.

Of course he knows.

The article had dropped half an hour ago: “CEO Choi Seungcheol Dating Internal Hire?”

Complete with blurry photos, fan theories, and a very smug screenshot of his Instagram soft-launch.

The whole building saw it. The company Slack is one wrong emoji away from imploding.

“It’s not your fault,” he says through the door. “It’s mine.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve, a piece of copy paper stuck to your wrist. “No, it’s not. I should’ve said no to all of this. I should’ve—god, I don’t even know what we’re doing anymore.”

“Then let’s figure it out,” he says softly. “Together.”

You laugh. It’s watery and sharp. “We’re not actually together, Seungcheol. Remember?”

Another silence. Longer.

Then, very quietly:

“But I want to be.”

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: so the ceo of this company just confessed to me

Juri: ???

Hana: wait like confessed confessed???

You: said he WANTS to be together

Juri: omg do you want to be together with him

You: i don’t know it was supposed to be fake

Hana: babe your heart is not fake

You: he’s my BOSS

Juri: and you’re his BRAIN

Hana: and you’re hot. like, professionally hot. so he’s right.

—

You expect him to pull back after the confession.

He doesn’t.

He brings you tea the next morning. Doesn’t say anything. Just places it on your desk like it’s a peace offering.

Later, you find a message:

Seungcheol: i’m not expecting anything just wanted you to know i meant it no more pretending if you don’t want to but i still like you. fake label or not.

You stare at the screen.

Then your heart does something dangerous.

It softens.

—

That night, you sit on your bed, staring at the Google Calendar invite from weeks ago.

Title: First (fake) kiss Time: 6 minutes after our imaginary anniversary dinner Location: Somewhere cinematic

You click on “Edit.”

Then, without thinking, you change the title.

Title: First kiss (maybe real?) Note: Just in case.

—

The next day, you pass him in the hallway.

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a little smile.

You almost don’t do it.

But something in your chest takes over.

You reach out and slip your fingers around his wrist.

“Seungcheol,” you say softly. He stops. Looks at you like you’re gravity itself.

“If we do this for real,” you say, “you can’t soft launch me again. The next time you post me, I want it loud.”

His eyes crinkle. “Deal.”

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles. Just once. Just long enough to make your bones melt.

The copy room doesn’t feel so embarrassing anymore.

—

You wear your best Casual Friday outfit and feel anything but casual.

Because how are you supposed to look effortlessly chic when the CEO (your fake boyfriend, maybe-real crush, habitual knuckle kisser) keeps glancing at you like you’re the sun and he’s never seen light before?

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches as you sip your coffee and scroll through your inbox, entirely pretending to not be melting under his gaze.

Then: “Are you doing anything after work?”

Your hand jerks. Coffee spills on your desk. “What?”

Seungcheol blinks. Then quickly grabs tissues. “I meant like—dinner? As two people. Who enjoy each other’s company. With possibly…romantic undertones?”

You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a real date.”

“Yes.”

“After I spilled coffee all over myself.”

“You still look incredible.”

“Seungcheol.”

“Yes?”

“Stop flirting. I’m vulnerable and damp.”

—

You say yes.

Of course you say yes.

And the office explodes with theories when he walks you out of the building.

He opens the door for you like you’re royalty. Offers you his coat when the wind picks up. You catch the reflection of a coworker’s jaw physically dropping in the elevator glass.

You lean in.

“Bet they think we’re doing this for show,” you whisper.

He looks down at you.

“Let them,” he murmurs. “But this part’s for me.”

And then, in full view of the security camera, he presses a kiss to your temple. Gentle. Reverent. Real.

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

Hana: SOOOOOO

Juri: [image attachment: you and seungcheol on a sidewalk, his hand on your lower back, both of you glowing like a pinterest couple] Hana: CARE TO EXPLAIN????

You: um it’s casual friday

Juri: BABE YOU’RE IN HIS COAT

You: okay. it’s slightly less casual friday.

—

Dinner is… magical.

Not in the grand, candlelit, cinematic sense.

It’s just a tiny place tucked behind your apartment complex, where the staff knows your name and the food is warm and greasy and perfect.

But he listens when you talk. Really listens.

You tell him about your old dreams. Your worst heartbreak. The fact that your favorite flower isn’t roses, but freesia, because your grandmother used to grow them outside her window.

He absorbs it all.

At one point, you realize he’s not even eating anymore.

He’s just watching you.

“What?” you ask, self-conscious.

He smiles. “Just memorizing.”

—

Afterward, he walks you to your door.

“Want to come in?” you ask.

His brows lift. “That’s bold.”

“I just meant for tea.”

“That’s somehow bolder.”

You both laugh.

But then—he steps closer. His hand lifts to your cheek.

“You don’t have to invite me in,” he says softly. “I’d wait outside all night if you asked me to.”

You blink.

“Why?”

“Because you’re the first thing that’s made sense in months.”

Your heart trips. He catches it. With his voice. With his eyes. With all the stupid, tender feelings wrapped up in this ridiculous arrangement you fell into by accident.

He doesn’t kiss you.

He just…leans in. Foreheads touching. Breath shared.

And somehow, it’s better than any kiss.

—

[Late Night Text — Seungcheol]

Seungcheol: just wanted to say thank you for not being afraid of how messy this got i know we didn’t start this the normal way but i don’t think i’ve ever liked someone this much and i’m terrified but also really, really happy

also: freesia noted 🌼

—

You should have said no.

You should have blocked your ex the moment his name popped up on your screen with a casual:

“Hey, I’m in town. Want to catch up?”

You meant to ignore it.

But you’re an idiot.

So now you’re here—wearing your most emotionally detached outfit and regretting your life choices—because apparently closure is a drink you share over overpriced cocktails.

And of course, the moment your ex walks in, he looks exactly the same.

Same smug smile. Same arrogant half-buttoned shirt. Same faint trace of cologne that used to make you weak in the knees.

He hugs you like he earned it.

“So,” he says, already ordering for you. “Still writing poetry in spreadsheets? Or have you upgraded to being the CEO’s pet project?”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on. I’ve seen the tabloids. ‘Mysterious New Flame of CEO Choi’? That's not accidental.”

You open your mouth to snap something back—but a voice behind you beats you to it.

“You’re right,” Seungcheol says, casually sliding into the booth beside you. “It’s not accidental. I picked her on purpose.”

—

Your ex stares. “Who-?”

“Her boyfriend,” Seungcheol says, clapping a hand on your shoulder like this is his show now.

You whip your head toward him, eyes wide. “How—how did you find me?”

“Location-sharing. You never turned it off after that wine festival.”

You gape. “That was months ago.”

He shrugs. “I’m thorough.”

—

The tension at the table is so thick it might need its own drink menu.

Your ex clears his throat, clearly flustered. “Didn’t mean to offend. Just… surprised. She usually went for less controlling types.”

“Controlling?” Seungcheol repeats, voice suddenly all steel.

“She hated being told what to do,” your ex continues with a smirk. “But I guess every girl gets tired of chasing pipe dreams eventually.”

You make a sound halfway between a gasp and a growl. “You don’t know anything about me anymore.”

“I know enough.”

Seungcheol puts his arm around you. “You know nothing. She’s brilliant. She’s brave. And she’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Silence.

Your ex looks… uncomfortable.

Good.

He stands. “Well. It’s been—something. Take care of yourself.”

You don’t say goodbye.

Neither does Seungcheol.

—

Outside, you lean against a wall and exhale shakily.

Seungcheol leans beside you. Quiet.

Finally: “I wasn’t trying to crash your dinner. I just saw where you were and panicked.”

You don’t respond.

He tries again. “You okay?”

You nod. “I should’ve known better.”

He looks at you—really looks at you. “Don’t beat yourself up. Closure’s a liar. You don’t owe that guy anything.”

You glance down at your heels. “I think I just wanted to prove I wasn’t the mess he left behind.”

“You didn’t have to prove anything.”

He reaches for your hand.

“You’re not a mess,” he says quietly. “You’re the whole damn masterpiece.”

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

Hana: did he really show up

You: yes. like a bad haircut.

Juri: AND SEUNGCHEOL JUST???

You: stormed in. defended my honor. held my hand.

Hana: that’s the most romantic thing since juri cried at her own proposal

Juri: IT WAS THE MUSIC

You: i think i’m in trouble.

Hana: oh babe you’re in love.

—

Later that night, you find a small bouquet placed at your front door.

Not roses. Not lilies.

Freesias.

With a note:

“For closure. And for everything after it. -SC.”

—

You are not panicking.

You are simply adjusting to the reality that you are Seungcheol Choi’s date to the biggest company event of the year, where everyone—including your coworkers, your enemies, and that weird guy from IT who always microwaves fish—will be watching your every move.

Your phone buzzes.

Hana: is he hot or is he i might actually fall in love with my fake boyfriend hot

You: shut up

Hana: so hot then

—

The moment you step into the ballroom, it’s like a movie scene.

Crystal chandeliers.

Golden light.

Soft jazz.

And Seungcheol beside you, in a black suit so sharp it could cut glass, offering you his arm like this isn’t fake. Like this is the most natural thing in the world.

"You okay?" he murmurs, his hand brushing your lower back.

"Yes," you lie.

You are not okay.

You are freaking out because his cologne is perfect and his touch is warm and when he turns to you, he smiles like you belong here with him.

—

Across the room, someone gasps.

"Is that the CEO with his girlfriend?"

You almost correct them. Almost.

But then Seungcheol says it first.

“Yeah,” he says casually, like he’s done it a hundred times. “She’s mine.”

—

You turn toward him slowly. “She’s yours?”

“Temporarily,” he adds, mouth twitching.

You squint. “So you do know this is fake.”

He grins down at you, utterly infuriating. “It’s fake. But the dress? That’s real.”

You flush.

You told him not to say anything like that.

He ignored you on purpose.

—

Halfway through the night, after smiling until your cheeks ache and answering a hundred polite “how did you two meet?” lies, you sneak outside to breathe.

Seungcheol follows. Of course he does.

“You okay?” he asks again, this time softer.

You sit on the edge of a marble fountain. “This whole night feels like I’m playing a character.”

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re the main event.”

You roll your eyes. “Smooth.”

“Accurate.”

He sits beside you. You look at the sky.

Quiet hum of city traffic. A streetlamp flickering nearby. The soft thump of music from inside.

Then—

“You’re doing amazing, by the way,” he adds. “People think I upgraded.”

You snort. “You did. From single and brooding to fake-dating a disaster in heels.”

He chuckles. “You’re not a disaster.”

“You haven’t seen my kitchen sink.”

“I’d marry you just to fix it.”

You stare.

He freezes.

"...I didn’t mean that."

“You kind of did.”

“Okay but like—hypothetically.”

You’re both quiet.

Then you laugh, half-crazed. “You can’t say that. Not while I’m in heels and emotionally unstable.”

“I’ll take note.”

—

Inside again. More dancing. More watching.

Then suddenly-

A flash of camera. A reporter. "One photo for the company archives?”

Before you can protest, Seungcheol slips his arm around your waist and kisses your temple.

Soft.

Gentle.

Like it’s not the first time.

Like it’s not a lie.

—

You don’t know how you walk to the car. Or how you manage not to hyperventilate when the driver rolls the windows up and the city disappears behind tinted glass.

You don’t say anything until the silence becomes unbearable.

“…You kissed me.”

“You had glitter on your temple.”

“You kissed me.”

He doesn’t look at you. “Do you want me to apologize?”

You pause. “No.”

“…Do you want me to do it again?”

You don’t answer.

But your hand, halfway across the seat—doesn’t pull away when he touches it.

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: HE KISSED MY TEMPLE

Hana: oh we’re in stage three

Juri: what’s stage three

Hana: delusion and forehead kisses

You: it wasn’t even the forehead

Hana: dear god

—

Later that night, there’s a knock on your door.

It’s Seungcheol.

In sweatpants.

Holding a takeout bag.

“I figured you’d be hungry,” he says, sheepish.

You stare at him. “This is… domestic.”

“I can leave.”

“…No. Come in.”

—

You sit beside each other on the floor of your living room, eating pad thai in silence.

And somewhere between bite five and six, he reaches over and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Your heart lurches.

Because this feels real.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

—

Your morning starts like any other—coffee in hand, a playlist humming softly in your ears, and a to-do list that’s already growing.

Except today, Seungcheol’s in the office early, and he’s not alone.

Across the room, his assistant Jiwoo is showing him a presentation on a tablet. You watch their easy smiles and shared jokes, and suddenly your stomach tightens.

Jealousy, you realize with a pang, is a thing.

—

Seungcheol spots you watching and raises an eyebrow.

“Did you miss me?”

You clear your throat, clutching your mug. “You’re here early. Busy day?”

“Always,” he smirks. “But I could be busier if you weren’t distracting me.”

“Me?” You laugh, but the sound is brittle.

Jiwoo waves at you from across the room. “Morning.”

You force a smile.

—

By lunch, the awkwardness is palpable.

Seungcheol slides into the seat opposite you at the company cafeteria, dropping his tray loudly.

“So,” he says, voice low. “How about we make this fake thing a little more… real?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He leans in, lowering his voice. “Jealous, huh?”

You almost choke on your salad.

“I caught you watching me and Jiwoo.”

You fold your arms, trying not to smile. “Was I supposed to pretend I wasn’t?”

“You’re impossible.”

“Same goes for you.”

—

Back in the office, you catch him stealing glances at you, his usual confident composure faltering.

You decide to play along.

Later, when Jiwoo drops by your desk to chat, you keep your voice light but a little pointed.

“So, how long have you two been ‘business partners’?”

Jiwoo laughs. “Since last month. But you’re the one I hear about most.”

You smirk. “Lucky me.”

—

Seungcheol catches your eye across the room, then suddenly strides over.

“Enough games,” he says, voice serious.

You raise an eyebrow. “What games?”

He cups your face gently, surprising you.

“Fake or not, I don’t like sharing you.”

Your heart pounds.

“Good.”

—

Later that day, he texts you.

Seungcheol: Let’s stop pretending.

You: You mean keep pretending at work?

Seungcheol: Only there.

You smile to yourself.

—

That night, you replay the day’s moments in your head—his jealous looks, his touch, the way your heart raced.

Maybe the line between fake and real isn’t so clear after all.

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: He’s jealous. I’m jealous. Send help.

Hana: officially shipping you two hard

Juri: “Let’s stop pretending” is literally a romance novel title

You: now you’re just making me want to write fanfic

Hana: please do

—

You're typing a report late one evening when Seungcheol appears in your doorway, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

“Can we talk?”

You nod, heart thudding.

He walks in, closes the door, and leans against your desk.

“This fake relationship…” He trails off, then meets your gaze. “It stopped feeling fake a while ago.”

You stare. “What are you saying?”

“I think I was in trouble the second you marched into my office and yelled at me over a coffee machine.”

You blink. “That was not my best moment.”

“It was my favorite.” His voice softens. “I like you, Y/N.”

The room stills.

And then, because your heart is stupid and brave all at once, you whisper, “I like you too.”

—

He grins—boyish, wide, like he’s just won a prize he didn’t dare hope for.

“I’m your boss,” he says, like he’s reminding himself.

“I sent you a breakup text that wasn’t meant for you,” you counter. “We’ve both made choices.”

He laughs, takes your hand.

“Can I take you on a real date?”

You squeeze his fingers. “You better.”

—

The next morning, you walk into work with a coffee in each hand.

When you hand one to Seungcheol, he grins and says loud enough for the office to hear, “Wow, thanks babe.”

You nearly drop yours.

Jiwoo, across the floor, snorts into her tablet.

“Still fake dating?” she asks sweetly.

You and Seungcheol exchange a glance.

“No,” he says, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“Not anymore.”

—

[Group Chat: Chaos Coven]

You: WE’RE DATING. OFFICIALLY. I THINK.

Juri: HE ASKED YOU OUT???

Hana: caps lock ON for romance

You: i hate all of you

Hana: u love us

Juri: send kissy selfies rn

You: bye

—

That weekend, you have your first official date—real food, no staged paparazzi, no fake smiles. Just the two of you, laughing like you’ve been doing this forever.

Afterward, he walks you to your door, fingers brushing yours.

“You know,” you say, “you never did fire me.”

He leans in, voice low. “Should I?”

“You’d have to fake date someone else,” you tease.

“Terrifying thought,” he murmurs before kissing you.

—

It’s sweet, slow, and a little dizzying—like every built-up emotion finally unraveling in the best way.

When you pull away, he’s smiling.

“Worst mistake you ever made,” he says, “was sending me that text.”

You grin. “Best mistake I ever made, actually.”

—

Later that night, he sends you one more message.

Seungcheol: CEO. Crybaby. Crush. You’re stuck with me now.

You: good. i don’t want out.

Seungcheol: come over?

You: you had me at “crybaby”

—

✅ Fake dating contract: terminated. ✅ Feelings: mutual. ✅ You: in love. ✅ Him: yours.

[unityrain24]

me when people keep reading and liking and commenting the shitty uploading test fic that i did not put any care into and wrote just to figure out how to upload fics to sites instead of the actual fics i have put thought and care and love into

[safination]

Welcome welcome welcome to Saffy’s live reaction where I will be typing as I read. I decided to do it in a reblog instead of in the replies to save your poor notifications. I don’t want to destroy it.

VOX THROWING MONEY AT READER? Love that for Sunshine, I get wanting to cut all ties but like, if the paychecks keep coming just take it! Bleed him dry. But also, at the same time I understand not wanting to keep associating yourself with your ex

The Blue roses that are still there are foul btw. Why would you do this to me! The petals are dying as days go by!!! UGHH VEXI

Sunshine!!! Don’t cry!!!

“Because when he held you, when he looked at you like he was trying to memorize your soul, it felt real. Even if it was temporary. Even if it was always destined to fall apart.”

VEXI! V E X I. Who will pay for my therapy bills? Ikaw ba? HUH IKAW BA? IKAW BA MAGBABAYAD NG BILLS KO? Heartbreak so insane I had to switch to another language.

 . . . Is . . . Is Vox just watching her?? Stalker behaviour!

How do you even spell Val wrong? It’s three letters. Oh unless it’s the whole Valentino. Then that makes sense

PUTANG INA. ANO BA YAN. Girl. Girl. Vox is only now starting to realize that the jealous would fade with Sunshine around and like,,,, Vox knowing that Val would destroy Sunshine if things got deeper than sex.

Velvette a fucking queen.

He’s going to get her back! Sunshine wants to pretend she doesn’t care soooo bad. We all know that’s not fooling anyone. Calm. Professional. Cold. While wearing something sexy. Right

THE DOORKNOB TURNED. THE ABSOLTUTE GASP THAT I JUST GASPED. It was so audible mommy-saffy asked if I was okay.

Jeans?!?!!? Vox in jeans??? Ehe~

 “But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t look sheepish or sorry. Instead, he leaned in and kissed you.”

Σ(O_O) Σ(O_O) Σ(O_O)

A real date!!! A. Real. Date!!!!

“The park’s still a work in progress,” he said, trying to brighten his tone as he looked down at you. His hand never left your hip. “But it’s getting there. Just like us, huh?”

The only forcing that Vox is doing is keeping his hands to himself and honestly, good for him. (The other forcing will be his @@@@ in Sunshine’s @&@@!#@)

“You were in love with him. Fully. Hopelessly.”

Same.

The smut is smutting. (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄) (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄) (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄) (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)

“You stopped expecting easy. You let go of fairytale endings and leaned into the complicated truth of him. Because it was never about making him choose between you and the world he couldn’t escape. It was about choosing each other, again and again, even when it was hard. Even when it hurt a little.”

I think I’m going to cry. G I R L. Vexi!!! VEXI!!!

As always I am so very in love with your writing. Every line. Every word. Every punctuation. Keeps me going for days!!!!! The fluff and the smut!!! I think I just healed a little after this!!!

A/N: You thought I was going to leave Sunshine and Vox unresolved after that fiasco? Nah, nah, naw. This is a direct sequel to the story Second Place in Hell. As always, @safination this is for you.

Summary: One last date, one chance to decide if your tangled love with Vox can survive the complicated ties that bind him to Valentino. Under the bright lights of the carnival and the hum of tension, passion and loyalty collide in a night that will change everything. Will your hearts find a way forward, or will the shadows pull you apart?

Tags/Warnings: f!reader, established relationship, break up/make up, oral (f!receiving), oral (m!receiving), p in v, fluff, smut

My Sweet Sunshine Masterlist

You lay upside down on your velvet-soft couch, head dangling over the edge as the seventy-second season of Yeah, I Fucked Your Sister, So What? flickered on the oversized screen. The visuals passed by in a blur, the voices blending into static as your gaze stared through the ceiling.

All this wealth, all this comfort, came from Vox—your former boss, your ex-lover, your mistake. When the two of you got involved, he started showering you with gifts dressed up as company perks, bonuses that made it laughably easy to live in luxury for lifetimes without working another day. Even now, after you told him you were done, after you officially quit, the paychecks kept coming. Regular as ever.

You tried to cut ties. You called accounting. You begged, you demanded, you even threatened to send the checks back. But they always hung up on you, like they were under orders not to speak. So you stopped trying. Let him throw money at a ghost. You told yourself it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Because you still hadn’t thrown away a single thing he gave you. Not even the hundred blue roses he gave you that night. They were arranged in their tall glass vase, perched by your bedroom window like a shrine to something you couldn’t name. One by one, the petals began to curl, to brown, to fall. Every day, the flower got smaller, and you thought, maybe even hoped, that your sadness would fade along with it.

But it didn’t.

The grief stayed as loud and aching as the moment you walked away.

You hadn’t left your apartment in two weeks. The same set of pajamas clung to your body like a second skin. Takeout boxes crowded your kitchen counters. Your hair was a tangled mess. Once, you noticed orange crumbs on your cheek when you looked in the mirror; these were chips you didn't even remember eating. The show had been on a 24-hour loop, reruns rolling one into the next while you barely registered the plot.

Then the logo appeared again, sweeping across the screen in bright, obnoxious colours. Your throat tightened. And just like that, the tears came. 

Again.

You cried the ugly, broken sobs that wracked your body and soaked the couch cushions.

It felt so stupid. You had told yourself a thousand times that you were finished. That he wasn’t good for you. That you had to leave. But none of that made it hurt less. None of that made you miss him any less.

Because when he held you, when he looked at you like he was trying to memorize your soul, it felt real. Even if it was temporary. Even if it was always destined to fall apart.

Yet, a small part of you believed that he meant it in his own way.

You gritted your teeth, dragging your hands over your face to scrub away the tears. No. He was a selfish bastard. He had a choice, and he never picked you. You were done chasing scraps of affection from someone who only knew how to love halfway.

You deserved more. You would find more.

Just… not today.

Today, you would let yourself mourn a little longer. You would eat more junk food, cry over more reruns, and sit among the dying roses like a queen in a crumbling palace of memory. The pain hadn’t left, but neither had your will to survive it.

When the last flower petal fall, you might be ready to stand up again.

“Vox,” Velvette snapped, her voice sharp like glass against stone.

He barely flinched. His eyes remained glued to the screen of his phone, where a grainy live feed showed the crumpled figure of his sunshine curled up on her apartment couch. She hadn’t moved much in days. The drone hovered in place like a ghost, bearing silent witness to her collapse. She cried during the sitcom’s laugh tracks, the soundless tremble of her lips cutting into him like guilt-laced static.

He could barely breathe watching her. Every cell in his body screamed to go to her, to wrap her up in his arms, to beg her to stay, to come back. He needed her more than he needed his next breath.

“VOX!” Velvette’s voice cracked across the room like a whip as she hurled her phone at his head.

He caught it in one hand without looking, his jaw tightening. His eyes slowly lifted from the screen. “What?”

Velvette was livid. She bent forward slightly, her arms pinned to her hips, her red eyes glowing like coals about to catch fire. “If you're done swimming in your own pathetic pity party, I need you to deal with those pathetic rats trying to take a bite out of my models and my business. They’re making moves, and I don’t trust anyone but you to put them back in their place.”

Vox groaned and rolled his head back. “Why not ask Val? Isn't this the kind of thing he gets off on?”

She gawked at him as if he’d suggested handing the keys of Hell to a toddler. “You want me to ask your pissbaby boyfriend to handle a delicate situation with tact and discretion? The same Val who once blew up a fashion house because they spelled his name wrong in a press release?”

Tired and worn thin, he rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Fine. I’ll handle it. Just… let me pencil it in somewhere. Shit. Where’s my assistant?” His voice turned softer, distracted, as his eyes wandered back to the phone and his precious screen. He tapped into the feed again, searching for her. His babydoll. 

His world.

Velvette dropped her hands and let out a groan of frustration. “You know what? Why don’t you two just fuck it out like you always do?”

That made Vox jolt. His head snapped up, confusion painting his expression. “Who? Val?”

“No, idiot. Your assistant. The one you’ve been fucking for five years.” Her voice was dry, unimpressed.

He let out a nervous wheeze, laughing thinly. “What are you even talking about?”

Velvette raised a perfectly arched brow. “Really? You think Val and I don’t know? You’ve been as subtle as a car crash. Everyone at VoxTek knows.”

A chill raced down his spine. It was one thing to risk Val’s wrath in private. But public knowledge? Headlines? Tabloids? The CEO of VoxTek cheating on the infamous Valentino with his personal assistant? The fallout would be catastrophic.

“Val knows?” His voice pitched into a whine, his shoulders tensing. The idea of dealing with one of Val’s explosive tantrums made his head throb.

Velvette scoffed and waved a hand like it was common knowledge. “Of course he does. He was the first to figure it out. But it worked in his favour. You left him alone when he ran off to screw around with his latest playthings. Honestly, this open relationship shit is ancient in Hell. You two just took forever to catch up.”

Vox blinked slowly. His mind struggled to catch up with the avalanche of emotion pressing into his chest. He cared about you. It wasn't casual. It had never been. When he was near you, the noise stopped. When he held you, he felt like he was something better, someone worth touching. Being without you made his skin itch. His productivity tanked. His temper frayed. Everything went wrong.

“So… Val is okay with me favouring my assistant?” His voice was cautious now, every syllable weighed with fear. The word he almost said—love—caught in his throat and burned.

Velvette groaned, tossing her head back like she couldn’t believe how stupid he was being. “You are so painfully dense sometimes.” She narrowed her eyes and stepped closer, the heat of her irritation rolling off her. “Val bitches constantly about how moody you get when he does what he wants. You were jealous, remember? But you got your own little toy now, so he figured it was only fair. As long as you don’t throw the word, love, around, he doesn’t care.”

That hit him like a slap. Before you, it did bother him. Valentino parading around with his conquests used to make Vox sick. But after you… the jealousy faded, replaced with something else. Something deeper. Something that terrified him.

Because this wasn’t just sex. Not anymore.

And Valentino? If he even suspected that what Vox felt for you went beyond lust, beyond control, beyond fun… he would burn everything down.

Including you.

Vox swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the phone still playing your feed. You sat motionless on the couch, eyes blank, a single tear slipping down your cheek.

He clenched his jaw.

“But over the past few years, you two became more like business partners than lovers,” Velvette said, lazily inspecting her perfectly manicured nails. “He gets to screw whoever he wants, as long as your assistant keeps you distracted. It works out for him. Less whining from you, more freedom for him. Win-win.”

“Oh,” Vox breathed, barely able to process her words as his mind began to churn. He leaned back in his seat, eyes flicking rapidly as he ran through years' worth of arguments with you. Every painful fight, every time your voice cracked, asking why he wouldn’t choose you. Why he let Valentino come first. Why he never held your hand in public.

He always said it was complicated, that Hell was watching, that it wasn’t safe. But deep down, the truth was uglier. He needed Valentino. Not for love, but for leverage. Vox had power in spades, but Valentino opened doors, forged connections, cemented their dominance. Without him, Vox would’ve had to claw his way to the top alone.

But now… now maybe he didn’t have to choose.

His fingers twitched, itching to reach for his phone, to see you on that damn security feed again. You looked so small on that couch, tucked in a nest of pillows and grief. He hated himself for letting it go this far.

He stood up suddenly, posture straightening with purpose for the first time in weeks. There was a solution. A way to keep you and stay standing beside Valentino, without sacrificing everything he built.

“Velvette,” he said, voice tight with gratitude and simmering annoyance, “thank you for the information. Though, I would've appreciated it, I don’t know, sometime before my assistant started melting into the couch like a discarded ragdoll.”

His head twitched slightly, a small glitch betraying the surge of emotion behind his words.

Velvette shrugged with maddening nonchalance. Her gaze was glued to her Sinstagram feed. “Not my fault, you’re stupidly slow at reading social cues. I figured you'd already worked it out. You always act like you know everything.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but stopped short. She wasn’t wrong. For all his surveillance and obsessive need to stay ten steps ahead, this had been right in front of him the entire time.

“Hey—where the hell are you going?” Velvette called, irritation creeping into her voice as he turned on his heel.

“To get her back,” he said, determination slicing through every syllable.

She scoffed. “And I’m supposed to care? My problem, Vox,” she said, jabbing a finger toward her chest.

He halted, jaw tightening before spinning back toward his desk. “Fine. I’ll deal with your little fashion war first,” he muttered, dropping into his chair and pulling up data. His fingers flew over the keys, hacking into the rival company's system. His mind easily planned how to bring them down: hurt their brand, mess up their PR feeds, and leak damaging footage. It would be simple.

But even as he laid digital ruin to Velvette’s enemies, he opened a side chat window and sent a message.

He stared at his message, waiting for you to read it, his heart clawing at his ribs. He may not own your soul, but you owned his heart in every devastating, secret way. And even if he could never say it aloud in public, that truth burned hotter than Hell’s fire.

He would get you back if it was the last thing he did.

You should have locked the door. No. You should have packed a bag, left the apartment, and found some cheap hotel where he couldn’t reach you. Somewhere without mirrors, without memories. Somewhere without him.

But you didn’t.

And now, your heart pounded against your ribs, angry and afraid in equal measure. Weeks had passed in silence. Nothing. Not a word. And then out of nowhere, he had texted you.

He was coming tonight.

Why?

You stared at yourself in the mirror, bile rising in your throat. Your reflection made you flinch. Your eyes were hollow, cheeks dull, hair knotted from too many restless nights. You looked like someone who had lost something vital and had tried to pretend it didn’t matter. And then your gaze shifted to the apartment behind you in the mirror’s reflection, and a loud, bitter curse left your lips.

The place was a disaster. Blankets twisted like wreckage across the floor. Dishes stacked in the sink. Old takeout boxes. Forgotten laundry. It looked exactly like what it was. A den of someone grieving something they weren’t allowed to mourn.

You didn’t think. You didn’t even try to tell him off. You just… started moving. You cleaned like you were possessed, vacuuming and scrubbing as if the act itself would erase your shame. Then a hot shower, too hot, scalding even, as if you could scrape off the weeks he had ignored you. You washed your hair twice. You scrubbed behind your ears. You stood naked in the mirror for a moment and hated the way your skin still remembered his touch.

Then came the chaos of choosing what to wear. You tore through your closet in a frenzy, flinging shirts, skirts, and dresses into messy piles on the bed. Nothing looked right. Everything was too much or too little, too obvious or not enough. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that this wasn’t about him—that you were just going for an effortless look. But every glance in the mirror, every outfit change, said otherwise. You were dressing for him. As if the right look might somehow shield your heart from breaking.

In the end, despite all your claims of indifference, you reached for the sexiest lingerie you owned. The g-string was a whisper of lace, soft and sheer, with a delicate little “V” charm dangling at the front—subtle, but unmistakable. It sat low on your hips, practically teasing, hinting at secrets meant only for him. The push-up bra matched in black lace, framing your curves perfectly and giving you just the right lift to feel both confident and dangerously desirable.

For the dress, you chose something soft and bright, something that made your skin glow. A summer dress, pastel yellow, catching the light like sunlight trapped in fabric. White embroidery curled along the hem in delicate loops, brushing against your thighs with every step. The material hugged your figure just right, cinched at the waist and flowing out gently. The thin spaghetti straps rested lightly on your shoulders, letting your collarbones and neckline breathe in the open air.

Warm, inviting, and sweet with a hint of heat underneath, you looked just like the season. And as you gave yourself one last glance in the mirror, your lips parted in a breath you didn’t know you were holding. By five, the apartment was clean. Your hair was curled. Your lips were tinted with colour again. And worst of all, your door was unlocked.

You didn’t even know when you had done it. Somewhere between folding a blanket and tossing a shirt on the bed, you had decided to let him in.

Why? Why had you let him?

You began pacing the floor, hugging your arms tight around yourself. A storm of thoughts battered your brain. Maybe this was your chance to end things officially. You could tell him to stop sending those damn paychecks. You could cut all ties to VoxTek. You could look him in the eye and say goodbye for real.

Yes. That was what you were going to do.

You would be calm. Professional. Cold.

You told yourself he could take his expensive gifts with him. The jewellery, the designer shoes, the stupid limited edition tech that had once made you laugh. He could give them to someone else. Some new, infatuated little soul who hadn’t yet realized how disposable they were.

Then the doorknob turned.

You stopped breathing. Your face smoothed out. You tried to adopt some neutral expression, but the thud of your heart gave you away before he even walked in.

And then he appeared.

Wearing a soft sweater vest and a pair of worn jeans that made him look almost human. In his arms, he carried a bouquet so large it looked absurd. A hundred blue roses.

Your chest ached.

Why had you thought this was a good idea?

You had walked away for a reason. You had walked away and hadn’t once looked back. Because being near him hurt. Because you were weak where he was concerned. Because some part of you still loved him, even after everything.

You thought a few weeks apart would dull it. Make it manageable. Clean the poison from your system. But instead, the ache had only sharpened and the longing grown louder.

“Doll,” he whispered.

That voice. That smile. Lucifer help you.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. But then he stepped forward, dropped the roses like they were unimportant, and wrapped his arms around you.

He held you like he would fall apart without you.

“I want to take you out on a date tonight,” he murmured against your shoulder, his breath warm, his fingers sliding along your spine like he was trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.

You should have pushed him away.

But your hands didn’t listen. Neither did your heart.

“What?” you whispered, blinking like you hadn’t heard him correctly. Your hands were still raised in front of you, suspended midair, like they were waiting for instructions that never came. You didn’t reach for him. You didn’t push him away. You just… froze.

Vox pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze, and grinned with a kind of boyish mischief that made your heart stutter. “Let me take you out on a date,” he said, his voice light, teasing. “How about Voxtek World?”

He waggled his eyebrows, like this was some ordinary moment. Like the two of you hadn’t torn each other apart weeks ago. Like you hadn’t cried into your pillow, gasping out that you were done.

Your mind scrambled for something solid, something real. Everything felt upside down. The sudden shift in him made it hard to find your footing. Instead of the speech you had rehearsed about boundaries and closure, the only thing that came out was, “But that’s… really public.”

You scoffed, arms finally dropping to your sides. “Unless this is just another business dinner in disguise.”

But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t look sheepish or sorry. Instead, he leaned in and kissed you.

And your body betrayed you instantly.

You melted into it without hesitation. His lips were the same. The taste of him, the heat of his electricity, the way he held you like he’d never let go—it all came rushing back like it had never left. You hated how natural it felt. You hated how much you missed it.

“No, sunshine,” he murmured against your lips, brushing them once more with his own, “a real date. Just you and me. Holding hands. Maybe making out under the ferris wheel.”

Then he pulled out his phone and turned it off. A small thing, but one you knew well. He used to do it every time before a proper date, a sign that he was present, that the world could wait. That you were his priority.

Your brows pulled together, the disbelief still refusing to let go. You didn’t understand. None of this made sense. If he was doing this, did that mean he broke things off with Valentino?

No. That would’ve made headlines. The media would’ve exploded.

“I don’t understand,” you said softly, voice barely audible. “What changed?”

He met your gaze without flinching. His eyes, for once, were calm. “I know I can’t give you everything you want, doll,” he said, and his clawed finger traced gently down your cheek, the gesture almost reverent. “But I can give you as much as I’m able. I can try.”

You should have been angry. You should have yelled, demanded more than scraps of affection and broken promises. But instead, you just felt… curious. Suspicious. Hopeful. Everything, all at once.

“What does that even mean?” you asked, voice thin with doubt.

He smiled, slow and soft, and slipped his arms around your waist. “It means our relationship, out in the open. No hiding. No pretending. It’s what you wanted, right?” His voice remained gentle, but there was a flicker of fear behind his eyes. Like he wasn’t sure if it was enough.

You should have shoved him away.

But your heart had been aching without him. The ache was so familiar now, so woven into your daily life, that this—his arms around you, the sound of his voice—felt like coming home. You had missed him. God, you missed him more than you’d ever admit.

Maybe with more time, you could’ve gathered the strength to say no. Maybe. But right now, as he leaned in again, as he searched your eyes for something warm, something forgiving, and whispered, “Please, sunshine?”

Your last wall came crashing down.

The love you thought you’d buried clawed its way to the surface, angry and tender all at once. You hated it. Hated how easily it returned. You wanted to scream, to beg your heart to stop caring.

Instead, you exhaled shakily and said, “One date.”

He froze, clearly unsure if he heard you right.

“You get one date,” you repeated, eyes darting away before he could see the cracks forming again. “To convince me. That you’re willing to take a real risk. To be with me, for real.”

His expression softened with something close to awe. And for just a second, you let yourself believe. Not in forever. But perhaps—just possibly—in tonight.

You didn’t know if he was telling the truth. Part of you wanted to believe that he meant it, that he would finally be open with you in public, finally stop hiding what the two of you had. But doubt crept in, curling tightly in your chest. What if this was just another illusion? Another line? Even so, perhaps it was worth clinging to if he was prepared to make the initial move and if he had the courage to risk everything for a brief moment with you in front of the world's lights and eyes.

“But if you fail, then we’re don—”

You didn’t even get to finish.

His mouth crashed into yours with a force that stole the words from your tongue. His kiss was hot and consuming, lips parting yours with a desperation that bordered on hunger. His tongue swept through the seam of your lips, tasting you, claiming you, stealing every protest you were about to make.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered between kisses, his breath trembling with want, “one date.”

He kissed you again, slow and deep.

“I’ll make sure you’re the happiest when you’re in my arms.”

He said it like a promise. And even though you’d heard those words before, so many times that they should’ve sounded hollow, your heart still fluttered. You melted, just a little, helpless against the warmth of his voice and the tenderness in his touch.

VoxTek World was loud, dazzling, and filled to the brim with sinners. Neon lights lit up the crimson Hellsky, carnival music drifted through the air, and the scent of fried food and artificial cotton candy wafted around you. Everywhere you turned, there was laughter, flashing screens, and animatronic mascots welcoming guests. Vox, naturally, was glowing with pride, chatting with anyone who stopped him, boasting that it was quickly becoming the most visited amusement park in the Pride Ring. He even said it was starting to attract Hellborns from other rings.

You should have rolled your eyes. But instead, you found yourself smiling.

Maybe it was the workaholic in you, the part that had spent three exhausting decades climbing your way through the heart of Voxtek. You weren’t on this project—your time had been swallowed by the demands of Vinder, Vwatch, and VPhone—but you remembered the endless meetings on his calendar. You remembered how he spoke about the park like it was his child. A dream he wanted to breathe life into.

You had almost forgotten that the opening ceremony had been last week. You didn’t watch it. You hadn’t even asked how it went. And now, standing here, you felt a faint, unexpected sadness for having missed it. A strange pang in your chest at the thought of not being there, even though you were no longer his employee. No longer… his anything.

“I would’ve loved to have you by my side,” Vox murmured.

His claws gently brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and the tenderness in the gesture froze you.

Your eyes widened. “What?” You stiffened and quickly glanced around. There were people everywhere. Sinners were walking past, some glancing your way, others pretending not to. And Vox… he didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t hiding you. He wasn’t keeping his distance.

He was touching you. Guiding you. Treating you like someone important.

“The opening ceremony,” he continued softly, his palm finding its way to your hip as he steered you through the crowd. “You would’ve been beautiful by my side.”

He sounded wistful, and you weren’t sure what to do with that.

“I had Velvette pick a dress for you,” he added, then hesitated. “But… well, I know you left. I didn’t expect you to come.”

Your heart twisted. You weren’t sure if it was guilt or something more complicated.

“The park’s still a work in progress,” he said, trying to brighten his tone as he looked down at you. His hand never left your hip. “But it’s getting there. Just like us, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Everyone was looking. His arm around you, his hand resting comfortably on you as if it had always belonged there and making it clear that you weren’t just some guest. You were someone. You were with Vox.

Your cheeks flushed with heat. You weren’t used to this—the attention, the affection, the public acknowledgment. You had spent so long watching other couples walk by, hand in hand, smiling like the world belonged to them. Now, you were one of them. Or at least pretending to be.

And all the fire you had built up inside you, all the anger and hurt you carried to throw in his face, slowly began to quiet.

Not because everything was fixed.

But because for the first time, it felt like he might actually want to try.

You leaned in closer to him, just a little, barely enough to notice. But even that tiny movement made a difference. His warmth radiated into your body, seeping beneath your skin like sunlight in the cold. Your cheeks were burning, the flush of colour high on your face from the sudden affection, from the way his presence overwhelmed your senses.

“Pretty,” Vox murmured, his voice low, affectionate, almost reverent. “My babydoll.”

He came to a stop in front of the mirror house, pausing at the very first mirror—the only one that reflected your image truthfully before the chaos of distortions inside. The glass caught your reflection perfectly. You saw yourself standing there, tucked into him like you belonged.

And then you saw the eyes. The sinners passing by, stealing glances. Some looked on with curiosity, others with a touch of envy, as if they were seeing something rare and precious. But your attention was pulled downward, to his hand still gripping your hip in a possessive manner.

Then your gaze lifted to your expression, and embarrassment struck like a slap. You looked utterly lovestruck. Your face glowed red, your fingers nervously fidgeting, laced together in front of you like some pathetic blushing virgin. You hated how obvious it was. How vulnerable you looked. How affected.

“You’re perfect in my eyes, sunshine,” Vox said, his voice warm and certain.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.

You jolted. Not from the kiss itself, but from where it happened. Out here. In the open. That was the first kiss he’d ever given you in public, and your heart wasn’t prepared for it. Your emotions tangled into a confused storm, eyes stinging with heat, chest tightening. Just weeks ago, you were ready to walk away. To forget him. To reclaim your life and leave all this behind.

And yet… here you were. Basking in his attention. Letting yourself soak in every second of his affection. And you were happy.

 Genuinely, terrifyingly happy.

“Vox, you don’t have to force yourself—”

“Force myself?” he interrupted with a scoff. His grip on your hip tightened, and his gaze sharpened like a blade drawn in the dark. “Babydoll, I’ve had to force myself not to fuck you in the parking lot. Or bend you over this mirror, so everyone here would know exactly who you belong to.”

The heat slammed into your body, pooling low in your belly. You expected something lewd—it was Vox, after all—but not like this. Not here. Not now. In public.

Your eyes widened in alarm, and you hissed under your breath as you glanced around in a panic. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Your voice was sharp, but the blush on your face betrayed you, deep and furious and alive.

Vox only laughed, rich and amused, like your flustered state was his favourite thing in the world. “Just being honest, sweetcheeks,” he said, voice dripping with mischief.

Then his hand slipped lower, bold and deliberate, giving your ass a firm squeeze before settling back on your hips as though nothing happened. “Now,” he purred, “shall we keep this date going?”

You were too stunned to speak. Your thoughts twisted into anxious knots as you simply nodded, letting him lead you along.

But beneath the surface of your flushed skin and racing heart, worry began to spread like a slow, creeping vine.

What if you were pushing him too far? What if this show of affection, this rebellion against the roles he usually played, had consequences? You had seen what happened when things between Vox and Valentino soured. You had seen the cracks in his screen, the dullness in his eyes after one of their fights. He would keep working like nothing happened, but you had seen the wreckage. The broken furniture. The shattered tech. The bruises that never made it to the surface, but you knew were there all the same.

Overlords didn’t maintain their power through kindness. They ruled through dominance, fear, and destruction. And now, for the first time, you were starting to grasp the weight of that power. The danger of it. The cost.

Would Valentino hurt Vox for this?

And if he did… would that be your fault?

A sudden weight pressed against your chest, heavy, and suffocating like wet wool draped around your lungs. The thrill of the date, the joy in his laughter, all of it dimmed beneath the creeping fog of realization. This entire time, all you ever wanted was for him to choose you. Just you. To turn his back on Valentino, to draw a line and say, “This is mine.” But now, as you looked around, that hope felt naive.

Voxtek World stretched around you in every direction, loud and blinding, made from lights, steel, and money. His name was carved into every corner of it, stamped with pride. This place didn’t exist without power. Without territory. Without calculated ambition.

And you had loved that part of him once.

You still did, didn’t you?

That ambition, the endless hunger for more, had drawn you in from the start. You admired it because you were the same. You had your own goals, your climb to make. You fell in love with a man who never stopped reaching higher, and Vox had always been more than a lover. He was your mirror in that way.

However, none of this could have occurred if he had not been perpetually engaging in battles for control, forging alliances, and eliminating threats. If he let go of that power, even for a second, it would all collapse. You knew that. And so did he.

It was complicated. You and him. Always had been.

And maybe that was the problem. You didn’t want complicated. You wanted the good parts. The soft touches. The late-night laughter. The warm glances that said everything without a word. You didn’t want to bear the weight of the rest. The danger. The deals. The damage.

He had told you, again and again, that it wasn’t that simple. That you couldn’t have one half of him and not the other. You understood that now, more clearly than ever. Vox without ambition wasn’t Vox. And if you carved that part out of him, if you asked him to trade it for a quieter life, would you even still love what was left?

You stopped walking.

The joyful screams of riders, the clatter of games, the scent of fried food and sugar all blurred together in a distant haze. None of it reached you. Your eyes stayed locked on Vox as he paused ahead of you, turning back, his expression still bright as he began to describe another attraction. Then he noticed your stillness, and his smile softened. Real. Gentle. Just for you.

And at that moment, your heart spoke louder than your mind ever could.

You didn’t need this date to confirm anything. You already knew. You had always known. Vox wasn’t just someone who passed through your life—he was woven into it. Threaded through your memories, your routines, your quietest moments. You could scream that you were done, you could walk away, but your heart would always follow him, aching.

“I want that toy,” you said, suddenly, voice light and trembling. You pointed toward a nearby booth, needing a distraction, something simple to tether you. It was one of the classic games, glass bottles stacked in a pyramid and a bucket of balls beside them. The prize was a plush, oversized blue shark with a wide, cartoony grin.

It looked just like Vark—Vox’s beloved, ridiculous pet shark, now apparently one of the park mascots.

He grinned and leaned in to kiss your temple, soft and fleeting. “Anything for you, doll,” he said, with a warmth that made your chest ache.

He guided you both toward the booth, his hand never leaving the small of your back. He would get you that toy, no matter how many tries it took. Because that’s who he was. He always tried for you. Even when it wasn’t perfect. Even when it hurt.

And as you watched him step forward to pay, his screen reflecting the neon light, his smile sharp but sincere, you knew the truth.

You were in love with him. Fully. Hopelessly.

But those were dangerous words in Hell. Words that could get people killed when said to the wrong man. Especially one with enemies. Especially one like Vox.

Still, love didn’t always need to be spoken. It could be shown, hinted at, lived out in quiet gestures and stubborn hope. And if that was the only way you could say it, then you wanted to find those ways with him.

You clutched the blue Vark plush against your chest, its goofy grin and soft texture already endearing, and you couldn’t stop smiling. Vox watched you with something warm in his eyes, though he’d never admit to how much your delight meant to him. The carnival lights cast a gentle glow over both of you as you walked away from the game booth, funnel cake in one hand, Vark in the other.

“That thing’s bigger than your torso,” Vox remarked, smirking as you adjusted your grip on the oversized plush. “You really going to carry it around all night?”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “I can manage.”

Vox snorted, already pulling out his Vphone. “Or—and hear me out here, dollface—we could send it to your place. Let the VoxTek drone boys handle it. Hands-free experience.” His lips curled around the last words, oozing with sales-pitch charm.

You burst into laughter, half-choking on your joy. “Are you seriously trying to sell me your delivery service like this is a commercial?”

He grinned wider, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “What can I say? I’m always on-brand. Plus, wouldn’t want your arms getting tired before I find something more fun for you to carry.”

You gave him a playful glare and gently smacked his arm with the Vark plush. “You’re impossible.”

“Efficient,” he corrected smugly, tapping a few buttons before you could protest. “Drone’s already on its way. It’ll be at your condo before we’re done with dessert.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn't stop the bubbling laugh that escaped you again. “You’re unbelievable.”

The two of you wandered through the park, riding roller coasters and spinning tea cups. You shared sticky carnival snacks, cheered over rigged games, and held hands under the glow of flickering lights. It felt easy, too easy, and you knew the night was slipping by too fast.

Eventually, you’d have to answer him. You’d have to decide whether you could live with the dynamic between him and Valentino, and whether you could be the one waiting quietly in the wings.

“Sunshine,” Vox called, his hand warm around yours as he pulled you toward the Ferris wheel. At the centre of the towering structure glowed a massive blue VoxTek logo, and each gondola was shaped like a glittering V, rimmed with bright lights that pulsed gently against the darkening sky.

You gave him a look, half teasing. “This might be the most shameless branding I’ve ever seen.”

He grinned. “How about we end the night here?” he said, guiding you into one of the gondolas.

Inside, the seats were cushioned, the atmosphere strangely intimate. You didn’t even wait in line.

“The VIP fast pass really is something else,” you mused, glancing out at the crowd still waiting. It was a clever, if ruthless, system. The more you paid, the faster you moved through the park. The highest tier—the black onyx VIP pass—was reserved for Hell’s elite, and it allowed complete access to the park without ever waiting in lines.

“Naturally,” Vox said with a smirk, settling into the gondola.

When the door clicked shut, your eyes widened. The top portion of the walls had turned transparent, revealing a breathtaking view of the park below. Neon lights blinked in every colour, the noise fading into a distant hum.

“We live in the age of subscription, baby,” he added with a wink.

You snorted at that, shaking your head. “Don’t I know it.” But your attention shifted quickly to the view outside, the lights swirling below like glowing confetti.

“Congratulations,” you said softly, your legs brushing his as you sat across from him, your gaze fixed on the towering symbol of everything he had built.

“Sunshine.” His voice was lower now, heavier. You turned your head and met his eyes as he reached for your hand and gently tugged.

Confused, you let him pull you closer until you found yourself straddling his lap.

His hands slid down your back and gripped your ass, kneading the soft flesh with a low groan. His head tilted forward, resting against your shoulder, and for a moment, the only thing that existed was the heat between you and the quiet hum of the Ferris wheel as it climbed higher into the sky.

The moment your eyes met his, you couldn't stop the smirk from curling at the corners of your lips. You leaned over him, the plush seat of the ferris wheel cabin creaking beneath your shifting weight. Warm air hummed around you, filled with the faint scent of fried sweets and ozone, the glow of neon lights flickering across the glass walls like distant stars.

“Really, Vox?” you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady even as a low ache twisted in your stomach. It had been over eight months since either of you had properly touched each other, truly felt each other—and not one night had gone by where you didn’t feel the absence of his body heat in your bed. Still, you feigned nonchalance, letting your voice lilt with mock disinterest. “Maybe you can stop by my place tonight,” you said, the suggestion hanging heavy in the space between you, thick with implication. “I wouldn’t mind keeping you up all night… you did say, I could scream at you all I want.” 

A slow breath escaped him, and then that damn smirk returned—cocky and hungry. “Yeah?” he rasped, his voice lower now, richer. “How about now and later?” His words melted into the air like warm chocolate, just before his hands slid over your hips and dragged you down, pressing your heated core right against the stiff bulge in his pants.

You gasped and opened your eyes wide as your body felt a jolt of electricity. The contact was sharp and intoxicating, your breath catching in your throat. You darted your gaze to the window, seeing the other carts gently swaying in the distance. Some riders were even peeking into yours, curious and unsuspecting. Heat rose to your cheeks as the cart dipped briefly, revealing a full view of the line below, before slowly climbing again. You had one more cycle left before the ride would end.

“Vox,” you hissed under your breath, shooting him a look, “You can’t seriously think you’ll finish less than thirty—”

Before you could finish, the cabin jerked slightly, and then all motion ceased. A loud static crackled overhead, followed by the distorted voice of an announcer.

“We apologize for the inconvenience. Due to unexpected technical issues, the ride is temporarily paused. We’ll resume as soon as the problem is resolved.”

You sat there, blinking, the world momentarily frozen. Then you looked back at him, suspicion dawning as his lips curled into a guilty grin. You followed his gaze to the top of the cart, where the glittering skyline of the amusement park spread beneath you like a map of coloured lights. You were at the very top. Of course, you were.

“Vox…” you narrowed your eyes.

“What?” he replied, voice dripping with faux innocence as he raised a single finger. A faint spark crackled at the tip before he extinguished it with a wink. “Total coincidence.”

“You’re such a—” The words never made it out. Instead, you let your smile twist into something dangerous and playful, a silent promise, as your fingers slid down and worked open the button of his jeans.

The soft scrape of denim parting, the sound of his quickened breath, the thrum of his pulse—it was all delicious. You fished him out, his cock hot and heavy in your hand, throbbing with need. Your thumb dragged slowly across the slick bead at the tip, and Vox groaned, his head falling back with a soft thump against the glass wall behind him.

“Oh, baby…” he breathed, hips twitching at your teasing touch.

You lowered yourself between his spread legs, the cool air brushing against your thighs as your summer dress rode up. You felt the wet cling of your g-string, soaked and doing nothing to hide just how much you wanted this. Wanted him.

Vox widened his stance slightly, anticipation written in every tense line of his body. His cock pulsed, thick and glistening, his eyes locked onto yours like a man starved. Lust shimmered in the air between you, thick and golden, like honey melting under the sun.

And you had no intention of letting this end quickly.

Your lips parted, warm breath ghosting over the flushed head of his cock. You gave him a slow, teasing lick, the tip of your tongue flicking over the sensitive slit before dragging down the veined shaft. It was shameless, deliberate—like the time you'd joked about sucking on that blue, dick-shaped lollipop last Christmas, but now it was him you were tasting, and this time, it was no joke.

A deep, shaky moan escaped his throat, raw and low. His claws tangled in your hair, not yanking, but anchoring himself to reality as his hips gave a slight, involuntary twitch. He was fighting the urge to thrust into your mouth, trembling from restraint.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his voice rough and breathless, “I missed this. Missed your mouth.”

You responded by taking him deeper, your lips wrapping around the head and sucking with a wet, deliberate pull. Your tongue swirled underneath as you bobbed slowly, creating obscene, sticky sounds that echoed off the walls of the ferris wheel cart. Saliva spilled from the corners of your mouth, coating him, making everything slick.

Your hand slipped down, cradling his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm. They were hot and full, tight against your skin. Vox hissed through his teeth, claws tightening in your hair, mussing it as he tried not to fall apart too soon.

With a loud, wet pop, you pulled back and met his eyes. Your lips were red and swollen, cheeks flushed with heat. “You’re not going to come that fast, are you, sweetheart?” you teased, your voice thick with challenge.

The moment your words landed, something dark flickered across his face.

Unexpectedly, he grabbed you and threw you across the opposite seat. The entire cart swayed with the sudden motion, groaning slightly from the shift in weight. Your breath caught, but you didn’t hesitate—you spread your legs wide, unabashed, letting him see how soaked you were. Letting him smell the heat radiating off your skin.

He growled low in his throat as he knelt between your thighs. His eyes locked onto the tiny scrap of lace stretched over your pussy, the g-string damp and clinging to your folds. “I was wondering if you were wearing anything when I grabbed your ass earlier,” he said, his voice gravelly with lust.

Lifting one of your legs over his shoulder, he pressed his face flush against your core, burying himself between your thighs. “Fuck…” he breathed into your skin, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down your spine.

Then, with a sharp snap of his claws, the thin fabric gave way. The sound of your gasp bounced off the glass, and your back arched as his hot, smooth, eager tongue finally touched you. He licked a slow, deliberate path through your folds before plunging his tongue into you.

You moaned, breath hitching as he fucked you with his tongue, curling it inside and tasting every inch. Then his thumb pressed lightly against your clit, swirling and teasing your swollen nub with purpose. You cried out, fingers clawing at the seat beneath you.

“I missed this taste,” he groaned between laps, his words muffled against your drenched cunt.

You could feel the subtle rhythm of his other arm moving, jerking himself off as he devoured you. He took his time, savouring like a feast, moaning praises against your skin. Pleasure built slow and heavy in your belly, your eyes prickling with tears from the intense heat, the endless teasing.

And then, through the hazy fog of lust, you caught movement out the window. A sinner in a nearby cart had their face pressed to the glass, eyes wide, mouth parted. Oh, God! They could see the outline of your body, your head thrown back, your chest heaving.

Luckily, Vox was on the floor. They couldn’t see the filthy, glorious things he was doing between your legs.

As if plucking the thought straight from your mind, he pulled back with a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes met yours, knowing, sly, and mischievous, and his lips glistened with your arousal, his tongue flitting out to taste it.

Without a word, he moved you, coaxing your pliant limbs with a confidence that made your breath hitch. The cabin swayed gently as he manoeuvred you into position, the low hum of the Ferris wheel and the occasional creak of metal amplifying the pulse in your ears. The seat’s edge dug lightly into your knees as you bent forward, bracing yourself with trembling hands on the seat in front of you. Your back arched instinctively, hips raised in silent offering.

Your thighs pressed together, seeking friction, and your body trembled with anticipation. You could feel the heat of him behind you; he was tall and commanding, and he fit every curve you showed. His fingers skimmed up the backs of your legs, pausing to squeeze the soft flesh before trailing inward, slow and teasing.

“V-Vox…” you breathed, shivering as his cock slid between your folds, smearing a mixture of your slick and his spit against your wet entrance.

His hands gripped your waist, guiding you as the swollen tip of his cock teased your core, nudging in and out of you in slow, shallow motions. It was maddeningly delicious.

As you opened your mouth to tell him to be quiet and be more discrete because people were still looking, he pushed deeper into you and buried himself with one smooth, firm stroke.

Your mouth dropped open, but no sound came out, only breathless awe. His thick length pressed into every perfect spot, and your body clenched greedily around him.

Your legs trembled, vision swimming from the dizzying pace of his thrusts. Just as your body threatened to collapse, Vox caught you with one arm around your waist. The other slipped beneath your loosened dress, claws gliding up the soft underside of your breast. With a low, dark chuckle, he shoved his hand under your bra, gripping and massaging the plush flesh like it belonged to him.

“Ah, Vox!” you cried, your back arching as his cock slammed into your deepest point, knocking the breath from your lungs.

His claws tugged on your nipple, rolling and twisting the swollen bud while he kept driving into you, each thrust sharp and brutal. Your slick walls fluttered around him, every drag of his cock lighting your nerves on fire.

The cart rocked with every movement, creaking as it swung wildly from side to side. Your hair clung to your sweat-slicked skin, sticking to your face and neck. Tears welled at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it all, but you didn’t try to stop them. You caught sight of the sinner again through the haze of lust. He had his face stuck to the window of the next cart, hoping to get a better look.

You grinned through the chaos, breathless and bold. Let them watch.

“Oh fuck, baby,” Vox groaned, voice rough and desperate, each word rasping past his lips between wet slaps of skin on skin. “You feel so fucking good, so tight and messy for me.”

His grip on your breast tightened, clawed fingers tweaking your nipple hard enough to make you cry out. The pain sharpened the pleasure, sending electric jolts straight down your spine to your aching, soaked pussy.

“Fuck, I need you to scream for me,” he growled in your ear, biting down lightly on your neck. “Let every miserable fuck down there know who this pussy belongs to. Can you do that for me, baby?”

“Yes! Yes, yours!” you sobbed, throwing your head back, overwhelmed by the relentless rhythm of his cock rearranging your insides.

“Damn right,” he snarled, panting, as he dug his fingers into your hips. “And I’m not even close to done with you, doll.”

He lifted you like you weighed nothing and slammed you back down onto his cock. Your cunt swallowed him whole, slick and twitching, milking him greedily.

“I want you all fucking night,” he huffed, thrusting up into you with enough force to make the cart shake. “Might bend you over the hood of my car in the parking lot. Fuck you right there while the engine’s still hot.”

Each filthy word made your core clench harder around him. The cart smelled of sex, thick, heady, and animalistic. It clung to your skin and his, soaked into the fabric of your clothes, the air itself damp with sweat and arousal.

“Maybe you suck me off while I drive us home,” he whispered against your ear, voice dripping with promise. “Tonight I’ll make you come so hard your legs give out. So hard you can’t talk right for days. All you’ll know is how to scream my name.”

Before you could respond, he shifted, gripping your waist and driving you forward. Your knees hit the seat in front of you, and you gasped, both palms splaying against the glass as he continued to fuck you in earnest. The chill of the window shocked your flushed cheek while your saliva smeared across it, dripping slow and wet down the surface.

Then—slap—his palm cracked against your ass, the sting sharp and sudden. Your breath hitched, but pain melted into pleasure the moment he rammed back inside. Your pussy, raw and hungry, sucked him in like you’d never let him go.

“You like that, huh?” Vox grunted, every word ragged. “You like being fucked like my personal fuck doll?”

All you could do was moan, choked and hoarse, as the pleasure crested higher and higher, tight and trembling at the edge.

“Fucking perfect,” Vox groaned, never slowing, fucking you through every twitch and tremble, like he had every intention of wringing out every last drop of your sanity.

Your scream tore through the cart, raw and trembling, as your body convulsed with an earth-shattering climax. Muscles clenched, nerves aflame, your pussy pulsed around Vox’s cock, holding him tight like it never wanted to let go. You barely registered the creak and lurch of the Ferris wheel starting to move again—time felt irrelevant, lost beneath the weight of pleasure.

Then, with a deep, guttural growl, Vox came with brutal intensity. His hips slammed flush against yours, holding you still as he spilled himself inside, thick and hot, in powerful waves. You could feel him paint every inch of your insides, each pulse of release forcing a gasp from his throat and a whimper from yours.

He stayed buried in you, panting against your skin, his body trembling slightly from the force of it. And when he finally pulled out, slow and careful, you felt everything. A warm, slick fullness slipping free of your swollen cunt, followed by the soft, obscene plop of his cum spilling onto the seat below.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your limbs were jelly, your mind fogged and distant, adrift in a post-orgasmic haze. Vox smoothed your hair and fixed your dress with unexpected tenderness, but he hardly tried as you remained a mess, dazed, used, and glowing.

When the cart doors opened, and you stepped out with him, your ears barely caught the ambient noise of the amusement park. Voices, music, laughter—background static compared to the ache between your legs and the steady slide of wetness down your thighs. His seed mixed with yours, warm and slick, coating your inner thighs with every step.

Then you saw it.

A small droplet of milky fluid hit the pavement beneath your feet.

“Oh, shit…” you mumbled, staring in disbelief.

Vox glanced down and grinned, wicked and smug. “Sunshine, might want to take an extra day off work before you come back into the office.”

Your head whipped toward him. He looked so calm, so collected, as if he hadn’t just fucked you senseless in a rickety old cart and left you dripping with the evidence.

“I know I gave you enough vacation,” he added casually, draping an arm around your waist, “but I need my sunshine around. Gets too damn dark without you.”

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled you in close, his arms circling you fully in the middle of the walkway, in plain view of everyone. The breeze ghosted between your legs, cool and teasing against your flushed, overstimulated skin, but you only leaned deeper into his embrace.

Because at that moment, it hit you.

You couldn’t walk away from him.

For all his chaos, for all the lust and rough edges, Vox had wrapped himself around you in more ways than one. You saw it in the way he held you now, not just with his arms, but with his presence—possessive, warm, and fiercely yours.

So what if this wasn’t a fairytale romance? You had something real. Something raw and alive. And Vox, for all his twisted tendencies, was trying. He was trying to be more than just an overlord who took what he wanted.

You gave him a sly smirk and leaned in close. “Understood, sir,” you whispered. “I assume that means you’re taking tomorrow off too?”

He grinned, teeth gleaming, eyes filled with heat and something softer. “Baby, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

And he didn’t.

He didn’t change overnight. He didn’t cut Valentino off or turn into someone new. He still answered when Val called—sometimes with a sigh, sometimes with silence—but he always came back to you.

You understood.

Whatever Vox had with Valentino wasn’t simple. There were obligations, entanglements, histories thick as blood and twice as binding. It wasn’t just a matter of walking away. You’d stopped asking him to.

That's why you didn't fight him when his phone rang, and he stood there with that tension in his shoulders that meant he was going to leave. You just looked at him, steady and quiet, and said, “Come back when you can.”

And he did.

Every time.

He didn’t promise he’d stop answering Val. He didn’t pretend the world he lived in wasn’t dark, messy, and far from fair. But he gave you something more honest—his effort. His presence. His trying.

It wasn’t grand or romantic in the traditional sense, but it was real.

It was in the way he brushed your hair back when you were tired. In the way he asked if you’d eaten, or pulled you close when your laughter faded. In how his voice softened when he said your name, even when the rest of the world demanded the hard edge of him.

And you?

You stopped expecting easy. You let go of fairytale endings and leaned into the complicated truth of him.

Because it was never about making him choose between you and the world he couldn’t escape.

It was about choosing each other, again and again, even when it was hard. Even when it hurt a little.

There were still days he had to go. Nights when Valentino's grip pulled him away.

But there were mornings when he stayed. When he reached for you first. When he made time, not excuses.

No, this wasn’t perfect.

But as he curled around you that night, voice low and lips at your temple, you knew…

Whatever came next, you’d figure it out together.

✨ KOFI -- DISCORD SERVER -- xREADER COMMUNITY ✨

[jrueships]

guess whos not going in at all this week, actually

[maydayfireball]

i really did try to remain unbiased and not block people on the vmddirectory. Even when someone sent in a rude ask that was like.. weirdly entitled about motions. didn't do anything, just deleted the ask.

but there's someone who has repeatedly nitpicked my posts over things as small as minor grammatical errors and I finally blocked them.

If I ever do something incorrect like post a wrong link, upload a video without audio, or mess up a password hint translation.. or even if information is changed and the post needs to be updated - that's all fine to reply and let me know about. A minor spelling mistake is not a good reason to correct me. I'm just being real.

[leonardalphachurch]

okay that’s done. no commentary for the news posts bc those are just news.

[killuaisaprincess]

35 notifications

One fear

Oh it’s someone liking my stuff okie

A TEDDY BEAR FOR U 🤲🤲🤲😭🩷

[cyprogirlspiteblog]

Since tumblr still hasn’t unblurred me, I’m going to take some time to tell you about one of their most secret policies:

Tumblr bans specific images. This is not a flagging thing. The image doesn’t get flagged. It gets removed from the site permanently. And I mean PERMANENTLY. There is no notification that this happens to your image because the policy is completely unofficial. There are also absolutely no guidelines to it. For instance, an image like this one is not against any tumblr community guidelines.

Yet this image when I had if as my header for my blog, to protest my previous blog’s sudden and uncalled for deletion (I had zero flagged posts, was given no warnings, and then one day I checked at two of my blogs were missing and I had a stern email from tumblr to never make a nsft blog again or else all my blogs would get deleted…yes the email said that) was removed. Not only was it removed form the posts I had made using it. They removed it from my header.

Of course, as you can see the image in no way violates the community guidelines…and even if it did, technically the official policy of tumblr is to flag the image and make it invisible to anyone but the OP. Instead this is a different far less official policy…and it seems as though it is completely within the realm of individual tumblr staff to decide what gets to count. Indeed, this is not the only image this has happened to me too. The first two blogs of mine that got deleted we’re actually nsft blogs, unlike my current blogs, they actually technically did violate tumblr guidelines…now mind you I was no longer posting original nsft content on their at time of their deletion…but still they’d previously been porn blogs. ANYWAYS…if you run a very popular nsft blog you’ll notice that your most popular post occasionally just disappear. Maybe if you’re not paying attention you presume you just can’t track it down or no one has reblogged it lately…but no, they (staff) straight up extrajudicially remove your content. I say extrajudicially because they do have official policy and protocols they should be following, aka flagging the content and/or labeling the content. But no, they fucking remove it.

And when they remove it, it’s gone for good, for everyone. For instance, the above photo, the “ew tumblr” photo…that’s not the original photo, that’s a screenshot of that photo. You can’t post the original, the code of that photo is forever banned. It’s not even just one account either. For instance, to test this, I attempted to upload an old “missing” nsft image from my original blog, which is not associated with this email, and is not even associated with my IP address. And this is what happened:

Tumblr’s transphobia runs so deep they are eager and willing to circumvent their own policies and procedures, the staff acting like thin skinned vigilantes on their own website where they held all the power to start with anyways.

eeewwwwwwwww

unblur me now staff

[kurooh]

bf! toji who fucks you so well on camera that your account skyrockets to the top on onlyfans and pornhub. his face, body, and dirty talk garners thousands—no, millions—of followers and gets the money rolling in faster than you could say his name. of course, he’s not the only reason for all the popularity; you’re sexy in every way possible, fucking him back before you inevitably go dumb on his cock, going so far as to talk right back to him.

“what am i, a whore?” despite his words, toji smirks, clicking his tongue at the incoming comments of new members of the stream. “we’ve been live for two minutes. ‘m not taking my clothes off yet, damn.”

“oh, come on,” you press up against his side, manicured nails lightly raking over his biceps, “give ‘em what they want, toji.”

he huffs, turning his head to the side. still damp from the shower, toji’s dark hair goes along with the movement, bits sticking to his forehead. “what you want or what they want, baby?”

the chat explodes with wild comments, ranging from raw next question to i’m doing it are you, all of which makes you laugh. tips ka-ching on the screen and finally, the clothes fly off in all directions.

toji’s on his back, greedily pulling you on top of his face like he’s starving (dinner was an hour ago). he’s refrained from ripping off your underwear, favoring the idea of teasing you through the fabric instead.

“off, let me take ‘em off,” you whine, squirming as he holds you over his face and takes his sweet goddamn time licking over your dampened panties. “that’s not fair, toji.”

his green eyes narrow at you, a scoff slipping past his lips. so sassy, but at least he doesn’t ignore your pleas this time—maybe toji’s feeling magnanimous. “suck it up.”

perhaps not. another whine, and you go so far as to tug at his hair, hips rocking insistently into his face. “you’re so annoying,” neither of you are looking at your phone, the way the screen’s bursting with colorful tip notifications and comments, “if you aren’t hungry, just say so. don’t waste my time, toji.”

of course toji would never admit it, but he’s got a habit of being easy: always taking your purposeful bait, smug expression melting into a scowl. and oh, maybe that was the wrong thing to say—but it certainly feels so damn right when he yanks your panties to the side and sits you all the way down on his face.

still offended, he grunts, mumbling something intelligible as his lips find your wet cunt. (like, you’ve been together for how long?) slippery arousal coats your skin, slicking up his lips with something bittersweet when he indulges in his favorite dessert.

you’re rocking your hips into his face, eagerly taking everything he’s giving you. a small moan escapes you when your clit bumps into the tip of his nose, sending a delightful bolt of electricity through your entire body.

“t-toji, fuck.”

your virtual audience is nearly enjoying this as much as you are. if his teeth weren’t lightly nibbling at your folds while his tongue pushes inside you inch by inch, you’d be in a state to laugh at the comments. one of his palms falls away from your ass and before you can register the brief loss, a stinging slap cuts through the air.

“oughta watch that mouth, babygirl,” toji ignores the wail that follows the impact, along with the glossy tears that spring to your eyes. “maybe if you didn’t have so much goddamn nerve, i’d..”

it shouldn’t come out as quickly as it does, but you purposefully grind down into his mouth, ignoring the muffled sound of him choking on all the saliva. “you’d what, toji?”

some comments are excited, wondering what’ll happen now that you’re challenging him right back. others are raving about being in your position or toji’s—something along the lines of how difficult it is to choose.

he shoves you up with just one hand, feeling his cock twitch from the softness of your thighs circling his head and the way you use that damn mouth of yours. toji’s never had someone talk back to him as much as you do, and it’s something he’ll never get tired of. it’s something that throws him off while he’s giving you backshots and secretly makes him cum faster, although he pretends to get hamstring cramps just to buy himself some more time.

toji’s almost too blissed out to snap back.

“i’d give you mercy, but what was i jus’ saying? maybe you’d like it a little fuckin’ better if i kept eating this pussy of yours.”

you look down your nose at him. “like you could keep going, old man.”

that strikes a chord, hitting a nerve much faster than it should. so toji drags in a breath and dives in, as filthy and careless as he can be—making a mess, spreading your legs impossibly wider just to find that sweet spot of yours that always gets you arching on his face.

wet noise fills the room, backing the breathless gasps and moans that fall from your lips, along with softer panting of mumbled praises bunching with his name. the way he eats—no, devours—you is akin to someone who’s been both starving and thirsty for days on end, too insatiable to please with just one taste.

ecstasy sparks in all your nerves, chasing its way to the tension pooling in the core of your body. it’s red hot and heavy, begging to be released; but no, toji commands your high with the rough strokes of his tongue and obscene slurping of his lips. he lets it simmer right below the surface until you’re begging, hands on either side of his head as you weakly hump against his face.

“i-i said,” you grit out, ignoring the sticky sheen of sweat covering your face, “make me cum, toji.”

he arches an eyebrow, satisfaction sparkling in his eyes. “and ya still didn’t say please.”

frustration bubbles up in your chest. it’s rare for you to be reduced to a begging mess on live, but there’s supposedly a first time for everything. your lips part, preparing to give him what he wants, when something bratty speaks in the back of your mind. there’s no need to listen to him, is there?

with one hand slipping into his damp hair and the other stabilizing you on the bed, you take what you want from him. like an ocean wave, your hips roll not-so-gently over his face until you finally fall over the edge, convulsing a little as you cum.

the orgasm literally takes your breath away—not to mention his as well—and leaves you whining as you come down from the intense high, stars shooting across your vision. neither of you have been paying much attention to your phone, too engrossed in each other to notice the fact that you’ve met the livestream donation goal or all the new followers you’ve earned.

toji lifts you up, cheeks flushed scarlet. he is simultaneously turned on by you taking control of him and also pissed that you refused to say just one word.

“fucking brat,” toji curses, easily maneuvering your weakened body into a new position that’s got you on your hands and knees, ass all the way up. “you’re gonna face that goddamn camera while i wreck this pretty pussy, got that?”

“‘m still sensi—oh my god. a-ah, fuck—wait a second, i—”

behind you, toji smacks his lips, placing both hands on your ass cheeks and spreading you wide. “no, no. this is what you wanted, right? for me to make you cum again and a-fucking-gain.”

you backpedal, back arching unintentionally when two large fingers slide into your cunt without much resistance. “fuck, tojiii, wait—”

a squeal actually leaves you when he puts a hand on the small of your back and forces you to maintain the arch. toji can be stingy at times, but never when you—he’s got a habit of being too generous, if the right buttons are pushed.

“might wanna think about saying please next time, yeah? fuckin’ thought so.”

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru insists on being your lock screen.

like actually insists. he’s made it his personal mission, his divine right, his sacred duty as your overly clingy, stupidly hot husband. the moment he sees your screen light up with anything that isn’t his face—your cat, a flower, a quote graphic—he gasps like you’ve just committed adultery in 4k.

“...a sunset? a sunset?” he blinks at you like you’ve betrayed every vow. “is the sun a pretty man with ocean eyes? no. do you kiss the sun goodnight? no. do better.”

instead of letting it go like a normal person, he floods you with selfies. hundreds. different lighting. different angles. thirst traps with his shirt pulled up to flaunt the sin that is his eight-pack. mirror pics where he’s flexing. ones where he’s pouting. one where he’s fake crying. him stuffing his mouth with mochi. him dramatically sobbing with a caption that reads, “you used to love me.”

and the worst part? he’s sending all of this while sitting beside you. phone angled down, giggling like a schoolboy, thinking he’s being slick while your inbox explodes. you’re already overwhelmed when you see it.

sandwiched between selfies and spam, a very accidental mirror pic. last night. you, bent over the bathroom counter, absolutely ruined, face flushed, mouth open in a silent gasp, while satoru stands behind you grinning like a menace, very much still inside you. you scream. you hit him. he yelps but laughs, no shame, no apology. “oopsie~” and “you looked so good, though.”

he doesn’t stop even as you glare. now he’s negotiating. bartering. one lock screen slot for a back massage. five minutes of home screen privilege if he orders your favorite takeout. a full 24 hours if he lets you pick the movie and doesn’t complain even once. he even pulls out the big guns—puppy eyes, soft voice, a breathy, “baby… do it for love.”

you roll your eyes, say no, but you’re already folding. he casually shifts on the couch, hand propping up his jaw just right, profile lit perfect by the golden hour. “what about now?” he says, voice all smug, like he doesn’t already know he’s stupidly pretty. “i’m moisturized. glowin’ like your man should. tell me that’s not lock screen material.”

and in his defense? your face is everywhere on his phone. lock screen, home screen, widget rotation. polaroids of you tucked inside his clear case—some with your cheek squished to his, one with your wedding bands on display. siri responds only to your voice. his notifications banner still reads “i ❤️ my wife.”

his favorites bar? just your contact and his camera roll. album names include: “my baby 🫶,” “hot wife hours,” and “the loml fr.” he’s got slow-mo videos of you laughing, candid shots he took while you were sleeping, a live photo of you on your wedding day spinning in your dress. even that pic you told him to delete? it’s buried in a hidden folder titled with a heart emoji and he opens it like it’s the damn grail.

it’s not even a bit—he just genuinely thinks you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. so really, is it too much to ask for one lock screen in return? balance, baby. harmony. fairness in marriage.

you hold your ground for a solid ten minutes. you really do. arms crossed, phone untouched, lips pursed like you’re not even thinking about giving in. but then he starts pulling out the big guns—his stupidly pretty face all soft and glowy from your skincare, his voice low and coaxing like he’s seducing you into sin (he is), whispering, “just a day, baby. for me?” as if it’s not his lifelong mission to conquer your lock screen.

you scoff, bratty and unmoved. “you want me to advertise you on my phone? why don’t you get a billboard?”

“because,” he says, smug, “my wife’s wallpaper real estate is more valuable.”

you shouldn’t cave. you really shouldn’t cave. but then he kisses your cheek, trails down to your jaw, murmurs something sweet and stupid that melts your last nerve. you grumble about being weak for hot idiots, scroll through the absolute onslaught of selfies he sent, and pick the one where he’s grinning—smug, shirt slightly askew, and your lipstick still stamped on his jaw. it’s criminal how good he looks. you fight the urge to bite your lip and sigh like it’s the biggest burden of your life as you set it as your lock screen.

he gasps like he’s just been proposed to. dramatic hand to his heart, eyes glassy, voice warbling as he says, “i’m your lock screen. me. your husband. this is the greatest day of my life.” and then he traps you—physically. throws his whole weight over you on the couch like a human weighted blanket, peppering kisses across your face with alarming speed. “you can’t leave now,” he mumbles into your neck, “this is your new full-time job. cherishing me.”

you groan, swatting weakly at him, but it’s no use—he’s clinging like a damn koala, legs hooked around you, arms locked tight. “satoru,” you wheeze, “get off—” but he just shushes you, smug. “nope. consequences of loving me. should’ve picked the cherry blossom jpeg.”

and because he’s him, he spends the next hour being insufferable. changes your passcode to your wedding anniversary (“for security and romance”), and sets calendar reminders titled “admire husband” three times a day. “any attempt to change it will be met with a lockscreen tax,” he warns, grinning. “one kiss per pixel replaced. i will collect.”

[narugen]

feeling bad again 😧

[missdynamighttt]

so.. giving bf! katsuki his girlfriend bill and he pays.. WAY too much tax.

it started as a joke.

you sat on the couch, scribbling away at a piece of paper while katsuki was busy scrolling through his phone. when you were done, you slid it across the table to him with a smug grin.

KATSUKI BAKUGO - GIRLFRIEND BILL

• snacks (your girl gotta eat, and no, your portion does not count as mine even if i eat it): 500

• unlimited cuddles package (its like a warm cozy prison): 1,000

• tummy tax (you hog my tummy all the damn time, rent is due.): 3,000

• sex damages (broken furniture, excessive laundry, my LEGS, my BACK, my SANITY): 5,000

• miscellaneous (for anything i want because you love me): 8,000

TOTAL: 17,500

DUE DATE: NOW. PAY UP 💜

you leaned back, arms crossed. “you owe me, boyfie.”

katsuki stared at the paper, then at you. his eyebrow twitched. “the fuck is this?”

“since you love spending money on me, i figured i’d make it official,” you teased. “just the essentials. cuddles, snacks, emotional labor fees, suffering damages—”

he snorted, shaking his head. “suffering damages?”

“i am dating you.”

he clicked his tongue but didn’t argue. instead, he grabbed the paper, pulled out a pen, and started writing.

you blinked. “uh… what are you doing?”

“fixing your shitty math.”

you leaned over to look—only for your jaw to drop when you saw him doubling the charges and adding even more things to the bill.

• snacks (you always say you don’t want any, then eat mine)

• spa days (so you don’t stress out)

• hair and nails (because i know you like getting them done)

• shopping sprees (you never ask, but i see you eyein’ shit)

• being the best damn thing in my life (consider as future investment. i’m keepin’ you forever, dumbass)

your eyes trailed down the list, heart pounding. meanwhile, katsuki was casually typing on his phone.

a notification buzzed on yours. you glanced down—and nearly choked.

Deposit: 50,000 from katsuki bakugo

you gawked at the absurd number. “katsuki—what the hell?”

he grinned, crossing his arms. “what? you think i don’t know what you deserve?”

your face burned, your heart doing somersaults as you stared at him in disbelief, acting like he didn’t just casually triple your joke bill. "katsuki, this was supposed to be a joke.”

he leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “not to me. i’d pay more if it meant spoilin’ my girl the way she deserves.”

you swallowed hard, heart pounding. “you—you can’t just—”

“too late,” he interrupted, tugging you onto his lap. “the hell kinda cheapskate boyfriend you think i am?”

you stared at the new total, eyes wide. “katsuki—this is, like, a small fortune.”

he just smirked. “yeah? guess you’re worth it.”

your face burned.

"just shut up and take my money, sweets," his lips brushed against your ear. "tell you what—how ‘bout i add another big... tip?"

but before you could react, he was already throwing you over his shoulder, carrying you straight to the bedroom.

you had a feeling he wasn’t talking about money anymore.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ been feeling burnt out lately lmao😵‍💫 didnt include any money symbols so yall dont have to go through the trouble of converting it😭 thank god my husband is rich >< trying to clear my bazillion drafts, hope you guys enjoy this💜

[connorsui]

Hi! Can I ask for a Sylus fluff, where he gives the reader his bank card for her to go shopping, and he expects a bill to be at least $10,000, but all he sees is about $100. So he asks her if she bought everything she wanted, and she says something like "yeah, there were such good discounts, I didn't spend too much, did I?"

And man is just ಠ⁠益⁠ಠ GIRL GO SPEND MY MONEY I WANT TO SPOIL YOU

My beloved @lalaluch I cannot explain to you just how much fun this was to even imagine but let alone even WRITE 🩷 like I was losing my mind trying to bust out my Google docs to even make this. But my sickness was literally getting to me that all I could do was imagine--but anywhoo now that it's finally done I hope you all enjoy it ✨️

p.s: I hope this sickness finally leaves me because it be making me internally cry on the inside ...I pray for prayers lol 💅🏻

BUDGET QUEEN

It had taken weeks of gentle coaxing, half-joking remarks, and the occasional exasperated sigh before you’d reluctantly agreed. You had this stubborn streak, an insistence on independence that both irritated and fascinated him. But today, you’d finally caved.

“You’ll take it,” Sylus had said that morning, slipping the sleek card into your hand, his fingers brushing against your palm. “No arguments. No excuses.”

You had sighed, rolling your eyes. “Fine. But I’m not going crazy with it?!”

He had only smirked, knowing full well you would—and knowing full well that he wanted you to.

And now, hours later, he awaited the results.

Sylus leaned back in his leather chair, his crimson eyes flicking lazily over the documents cluttering his desk. A rare break in his usual chaos had him sipping on his usual drink, savoring the brief quiet. That was until his phone buzzed. He set his glass down and checked the notification, a message from his bank popping up.

He expected it—he wanted it. You had finally caved to his insistence after a literal month of convincing and taken his black card to go shopping. He’d envisioned the inevitable message all morning, something like:

One-hundred million spent at Celine and The Row’s combined?

Or perhaps?

Fifty million at Loro Piana?

You’d mentioned their beauty and elegance more than once.

Nevertheless, the man wanted indulgence, excess—you deserved it, after all.

Instead, the message read:

$157.45 at… Assorted Stores.

Sylus stared at the screen, unblinking. Surely, this was a mistake. He refreshed his balance multiple times. Same amount. He checked for pending transactions. None.

“…What?” he muttered, his irritation simmering beneath the surface. He slammed his phone down, crossing his arms as he waited for you to return.

Minutes later, the front door opened, and you walked in, humming happily, two bags dangling from your arms. You looked utterly content, your warm smile sending a pang through Sylus’s chest. He didn’t want to ruin the moment, but he had questions.

“You’re back,” he said, leaning against the doorframe to his study, watching you set the bags down in the living room. His towering presence cast a shadow over you, his white hair catching the light, giving him an almost otherworldly aura.

“Yup!” you chirped, rifling through the bags. “You wouldn’t believe the deals I found today! It’s like the universe knew I had your card!”

Sylus squinted. “Deals?”

“Yeah! Everything was on sale! I even had coupons for some things. Oh, and this boutique downtown was having a clearance event! It was amazing!” You beamed at him, oblivious to his growing disbelief.

“Clearance? ..…How much did you spend?” he asked, his voice neutral. Too neutral.

“Um…” You frowned, pulling your phone out to check. “About a few hundred, I think? Oh, wait—like one-fifty! I didn’t spend too much, did I?” You tilted your head, as if genuinely concerned.

Sylus stared at you, his expression shifting to one of incredulous disbelief. His red eyes seemed to glow, and his lips pressed into a thin line. It was the look of a man deeply offended. Not by you—but by the principle.

“…That’s it?” he asked, his voice sharp but measured, as if he were trying to comprehend an alien concept. “One-fifty?”

You blinked up at him, a little confused by his tone. “Well, yes… I mean, I didn’t want to waste your money—”

“Waste my—” He cut himself off, running a hand through his snowy hair. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his composure. “Sweetheart,” he said slowly, “do you have any idea why I gave you my card?”

“To… buy some stuff?” you offered, suddenly feeling like you were missing something obvious.

“To spoil you,” he emphasized, stepping closer. “To treat you like the queen you are. To shower you in luxury. And you—” He gestured to the modest shopping bags on the floor, his voice taking on a dramatic edge. “—come back with clearance items?”

Your cheeks flushed. “But… I didn’t need anything expensive! I found good deals, and I thought—”

“No.” Sylus leaned down slightly, bringing himself to eye level with you, his crimson eyes boring into yours. “Listen to me, love. I don’t care about the price tag. I want you to have the best. The fact that you’re this thoughtful is adorable—don’t get me wrong—but next time…” He paused, his voice dropping into a softer, more commanding tone. “…I want to see receipts that would make the average person cry.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m not.” He straightened, towering over you again, his arms crossing. “Do you know how much money I make? How much I’ve set aside specifically to spoil you?”

“I can guess?…”

“Clearly not if you’re spending less than a casual dinner out on everything.” His voice was calm, but laced with unmistakable disapproval.

Then, with a breath, he softened—only slightly. “I just want to see you dressed in diamonds,” he corrected, stepping closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. “To watch you slip into golden heels that make you shine like the goddess you are. To drape you in silk and velvet, to see you standing before me in a dress that costs more than a car and still doesn’t compare to your worth.”

Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the sudden weight in his words.

“I gave you my card,” he continued, voice lower now, intimate, “because I want you to indulge. To spoil yourself the way I ache to spoil you. Because you deserve to walk into a store and not think—just watch and admire”

Your throat went dry.

He lifted his hand, fingers brushing over your wrist before tracing upward, his touch featherlight against your skin. “I want to see you try on jewelry without looking at the price tag,” he murmured. “I want to sit back and watch as a saleswoman fumbles to put a necklace around your throat because her hands are shaking too much from the sheer amount of wealth wrapped around you.”

His gaze dipped lower, lingering on your frame as he exhaled through his nose. “And instead… you bring me deals?”

Your heart pounded, a mix of amusement and something else entirely stirring in your chest. “I didn’t think I needed to spend that much—”

“You don’t need to,” he interrupted, thumb ghosting over your jawline. His voice was softer now, but no less commanding. “But I want you to.”

Your face heated.

“Next time, I’m going with you.”

“What, to make sure I spend enough?” you teased.

“Yes,” he said, dead serious. “And to carry your bags. And to remind you that you can have whatever you want.” His red eyes softened slightly, and he tilted your chin up with two fingers. “All I want is to see you happy. No discounts required.”

You smiled at his sincerity, warmth blooming in your chest. “Okay, fine. Next time, I’ll go a little crazier. Maybe five million?” you joked.

Sylus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Woman, you’re going to be the death of me.”

You laughed, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. “You’re so dramatic, you know that?”

“And you’re too frugal for your own good,” he shot back, pulling you into his arms. His voice softened, turning almost playful. “But I guess I’ll just have to teach you how to spend properly.”

“Looking forward to it,” you said, grinning against his chest.

Sylus sighed, resting his chin atop your head. As much as he wanted to spoil you senseless, he couldn’t help but love your thoughtful, practical side. It was part of what made you you—and he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Still, next time… he was definitely making sure you left the store with at least an entire closet filled with designer bags.

For his sanity—and yours.