#posing for the camera all polite-like

[dante-mightdie]

pornstar!price who does a competition where he’ll fuck one of his fans and the winner is some inexperienced, awkward loser girl :( when he asks what she wants him to do on camera she asks him to be nice and gentle with her, to make her cum loads of times and tell her how pretty she is and what a good girl she is the whole time

and she asks with such a polite smile, how is supposed to say no? makes her cum nicely on his tongue and fingers before letting her lower herself onto his cock at her own pace. she doesn’t pose for the camera she just focuses all her attention on him as he presses kisses to her neck and shoulders as per her request

stops and gives her a cuddle halfway through the session when the multiple orgasms make her all dizzy. presses kisses to her forehead and strokes her back like they’re lovers :( makes her head all fuzzy by whispering praise in her ear the whole time

[verstappenverse]

Waiting Game

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: You’ve been in love with Max for years, silently watching him date the wrong girl, until walking away makes him finally realise you were the one all along. (Requested)

3.9k words / Masterlist

The first time you met Max Verstappen you knew you were doomed.

Not in a he’s-going-to-ruin-my-life kind of way. No, it was quieter than that. Deeper. It was the kind of knowing that settled into your bones and never left. The kind that whispered, I will love him for the rest of my existence, even if he never loves me back.

And you had. Hopelessly. Silently. Faithfully.

You’ve never known a world without Max.

From sandbox castles to celebratory podium hugs, you’ve always been there. When you think of home, it’s not really a place, it’s him. The way he throws popcorn at you during movie nights, the way he remembers how you take your tea, the way he always texts “landed” the moment the wheels hit the tarmac.

You were inseparable. The kind of closeness that made people tilt their heads and ask, Are you sure you’re just friends? You brushed it off with a laugh, a shrug, a carefully rehearsed, Yeah, just friends. But you knew better. You felt it every time your hand brushed his and he didn’t pull away. Every time he called you at 2 a.m. because something was heavy on his mind and you were the only person he trusted enough to hold it with him.

There was never a clear moment when friendship turned into something more for you, it was just a slow unraveling. A shift in the way you watched him. The way your heart stuttered when his name lit up your phone. The way everything softened when he looked at you, even if he didn’t know what it meant. The time he flew across three countries just to bring you soup when you had the flu. You’d laughed, voice hoarse, swaddled in blankets and tissues.

“You’re insane,” you said, but your heart was already halfway gone.

You memorised him like a religion. The furrow between his brows when he was focused. The way his voice softened when he talked about things that scared him, the future, family, not doing enough. You traveled the world with him, race weekends blurred into hotel rooms and midnight drives and laughter spilling out of overpriced restaurants.

And at night, when you’re apart, FaceTime is your safety net. You fall asleep more times than you can count, with his voice crackling through your phone, tucked on your pillow. Sometimes it’s quiet, just the sound of his breath syncing with yours. Sometimes it’s laughter, or whispers about things he’d never say out loud during the day.

Still, you said nothing, because Max was Max. He had dreams to chase and tracks to conquer and a world to carry on his shoulders. And you? You were his best friend. The keeper of secrets. The one he called when everything else fell apart.

It’s always him.

Always.

And that was enough you thought.

That’s probably why it hurts so badly when he chose her.

It was one night, when you were sitting on the couch with him, legs folded, laughing about something dumb. And then, just as the moment quitened, he said it.

“I’ve been seeing someone by the way.”

So casual and unbothered, and you smiled like it didn’t split you open.

“Oh,” you said. ���That’s nice, I’m happy for you.”

She wasn’t outright awful.

Not in a way you could call out directly. Not in a way that gave you permission to hate her.

She was sleek and polished and knew exactly how to pose for the cameras. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it looked good on magazine covers. She knew how to charm a crowd, how to toss her hair just right, how to smile for the cameras and nod politely at press events.

She never reacted to his frustrations, because she didn’t care enough to be affected by it. She didn’t ask about his bad days. Didn’t know the way his fingers twitched when he was nervous or the sound he made in his sleep when he was too exhausted to dream.

You wanted to believe she loved him for his sake. But it felt like she loved the image more, the icon, the podiums, the press, the power. Not the boy who forgot to eat when he was stressed. Not the man who kept every letter from his mother in a shoebox under his bed.

You watched from the sidelines, clapping the loudest, smiling the widest, standing just close enough. Pretending that your heart didn’t fracture a little more each time she showed up wearing his jacket. Each time he kissed her forehead. Each time he introduced you as his best friend, like that word wasn’t slowly bleeding you dry.

You didn’t ask for more. You never had. Because loving Max wasn’t a choice, it was an inevitability. And you knew, deep down, he was never really yours to lose.

But God, it still felt like he was.

The longer she stuck around, the more cracks you began to see. Not gaping ones, just tiny fractures only someone who truly knew Max could notice. Subtle, quiet things that dug under your skin until they bruised.

It was in the way she watched his races, when she even bothered to show up. Sometimes she’d arrive midway through, sunglasses still on indoors, distractedly scrolling through her phone while his car kissed the barriers. She never flinched. Never held her breath when he went wheel-to-wheel.

That was the thing, her indifference wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t loud. It was just careless. Passive. It came out in the small things, the way she dismissed his nerves before qualifying with a flat, “You’ll be fine, babe.” The way she laughed when fans screamed his name, muttering, “They’re obsessed with you. It’s creepy.”

Max didn’t see it.

Or maybe he did. Maybe he caught glimpses of her disinterest and shoved them deep enough that they wouldn’t threaten the stability he’d convinced himself he needed. Maybe he stayed because it was easier to be with someone who never demanded the truth.

And you?

You smiled through it.

You were polite. Friendly, even. Because Max was your best friend, and the last thing you wanted was to be the reason for a wedge between him and someone he cared about. So you bit your tongue when she interrupted him. You offered her a drink when she showed up late to the paddock. You complimented her shoes. Let her lean on your shoulder for a group photo you didn’t want to be in.

You did it for him.

And still, people noticed.

The fans weren’t blind. If anything, they saw it more clearly than he did.

@maxarmy33: I don’t care what anyone says, Max’s gf is just NOT it. It’s actually wild how Max can’t see that Y/N has always been the one. She’s been by his side through everything. That kind of loyalty isn’t fake.

@redbullfan1: Max doesn’t just smile around Y/N LOOK at how he lights up around her.. You can’t fake that kind of connection. They’re meant to be, and everyone sees it but him.

@dutchlion26: The fact that Max still isn’t dating Y/N despite their perfect chemistry is a crime.

@maxy4stappen Y/N has been in Max’s corner since day one. She knows him better than anyone, and he’s out here dating someone who barely even watches his races?? Be serious.

You knew they weren’t kind comments. Fans never know the full story, they only saw what was on the surface. Still… you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little vindicating.

You thought maybe, maybe, one day he’d see what everyone else did.

But he didn’t. He chose her.

Things changed slowly after that.

He called less. You didn’t always answer. You made excuses when he asked to hang out, not because you didn’t want to, but because every mention of her name was like pressing on a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

You watched him wrap his arm around her waist at events, post pictures with captions you assumed she wrote. You watched him smile at her like she might be everything.

You told yourself it was fine. That it was enough to love him quietly, from the background. That your place, constant and steady, just a little to the left of center, was still better than not being in his orbit at all.

But deep down, you hoped. Hoped that the weight of your love, quiet and unconditional, would finally register. That maybe one day he’d turn around and realise you’d been there all along.

The intervention happened after Monaco.

You’d watched from your usual place, tucked into the Red Bull hospitality suite, just close enough to feel like part of the chaos, just far enough to know you never really would be. The routine was muscle memory by now. Headphones looped around your neck, heart thrumming in sync with every lap. You could trace the corners of the circuit with your eyes closed, every turn etched into your bloodstream from years of watching him fly through them.

Max had been brilliant. Fierce and unrelenting. He’d carved through the streets of Monte Carlo like the track had been built for him, like it was always meant to be his. You felt every gear shift like a jolt in your ribs, every overtake like a breath you couldn’t quite finish.

His girlfriend had sat two chairs down from you, legs crossed, thumb lazily scrolling through her phone. She hadn’t flinched once. Hadn’t looked up when the entire suite held its breath. You’d barely heard her speak.

You stood in the paddock afterwards, soaked in golden light and champagne mist, your ears ringing with celebration. Cameras flashed. People screamed his name. He threw his arms around his team, his smile wide and breathless. She kissed his cheek and he didn’t even glance your way.

You should’ve felt proud. Happy. Triumphant, even. But instead, you just felt… hollow. Like you were watching the best moment of his life from behind glass.

That was when your friends stepped in.

You didn’t even notice them closing in until you felt a firm hand wrap gently around your wrist.

“You need to stop.”

“Stop what?” you asked, forcing your voice to sound casual, light. The kind of tone that might fool someone who didn’t know better.

“This.” She gestured vaguely, helplessly. “Hanging around like this… waiting for Max to finally wake up and realise you’re the love of his life.”

“I’m not—” you started, but your voice cracked and gave you away.

“You are,” she said quietly, cutting you off. “You have been. For years. And it’s killing you.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again.

She stepped closer. “You think we don’t see it? The way you look at him? The way you never say no when he needs something? You would rip yourself in half to make his life easier.”

Your throat ached. Your chest felt too tight to breathe in.

“I just want him to be happy,” you whispered, and it was the closest thing to the truth you could say out loud without completely breaking.

“Yeah?” Her eyes softened, but her voice stayed firm. “And what about your happiness? When’s the last time you even thought about that?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know.

It started small. Innocent. A slow, gentle push toward something else, something that wasn’t him. Saying yes when someone asked for your number. Letting a date buy you coffee. Letting someone else ask you questions and actually listen to the answers.

The first date was forgettable. The second, slightly better. You started saying yes more often.

And suddenly, Max was paying attention. Longer glances. A missed text here, a delayed reply there and he started asking more questions, Where were you last night? Who were you with? when you posted a photo of a drink across from you at a candlelit restaurant. Did you not fly out this weekend? when he didn’t spot you in the paddock.

His voice stayed easy, but there was something sharp beneath it. Something unsettled.

One night your phone buzzed with a message from him.

Max: Who’s the guy in your story?

You stared at the screen, pulse skipping. Your photo had only shown two hands over dinner, one of them yours.

You: Just a guy I met. Does it matter?

It took him five minutes to respond.

Max: No. Just curious.

You didn’t reply.

For the first time in a long time, Max is the one feeling left behind.

He calls on a Thursday night.

You’re halfway through applying mascara when the screen lights up with his name.

“Hey,” you answer, brushing your lashes carefully.

He sounds tired. “You free to talk tonight? Facetime like always? I can’t sleep.”

You hesitate.

There’s a silence you’ve never had with him before.

“I have a date,” you say softly.

“Oh.” He sounds surprised. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Did I have to?” you replied, and instantly felt bad about it.

Max is quiet. Then, “Right. I guess not. Sorry.”

You hesitate. Then add, “Maybe this is something your girlfriend should be doing anyway.”

He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t say goodbye. Just end the call gently, then stare at your reflection in the mirror until the ache in your chest settles into something bitter and familiar.

Max doesn’t sleep that night.

Not because of the race, not because of jet lag, but because your voice won’t leave his head.

Maybe this is something your girlfriend should be doing.

You’d sounded tired. Guarded. Like you were hiding yourself from him.

And for the first time in his life, Max realises he has no idea what’s going on in your head.

It’s terrifying.

He calls the next morning.

You ignore it.

He opens his camera roll without thinking. Starts scrolling through old photos. Ones he’s probably passed a hundred times before without thinking. You in hotel lobbies, laughing at something he said. You wrapped in scarves on cold race weekends, clutching a takeaway hot chocolate. You curled up on his couch at 1 a.m. after some terrible horror movie, half-asleep, legs tangled in his.

And suddenly, it hits him how constant you’ve been.

Not loud. Not demanding. Just there. Always.

You never asked for anything. Never made him choose. You just showed up. When he was exhausted, when his dad said something that cut too deep, when the media turned cruel or the pressure felt suffocating, whether he won or lost, you were there. Not trying to fix it. Just holding space for him in a way no one else ever had.

How had he not seen it?

How his apartment feels colder without your socks drying on the radiator. How he still buys your favourite cereal without thinking, even though you haven’t been over in two weeks. How he used to FaceTime you after races if you couldn’t be there, win or lose, just to hear your voice while he fell asleep. He never does that with his girlfriend.

It’s never been the same.

He thinks about the last thing you said.

Maybe this is something your girlfriend should be doing.

And it lands like a punch to the gut.

Because she’s not the one he wants to call at night.

You are.

You were trying. Trying to mean it when you smiled at someone else. Trying to accept that Max had chosen someone who wasn’t you.

Which is why you brought Jake to the next race.

He wasn’t serious. Just kind. Simple. He asked about your day, laughed at your dumb jokes, and held your hand like he meant it. He didn’t know much about racing, but he tried.

You entered the paddock with his fingers laced in yours and felt the storm hit before you even made it to hospitality.

Max was standing by the Red Bull garage mid-conversation, but he went still the second he saw you. His eyes locked on Jake’s hand in yours like it was a threat. Like it didn’t belong there. His jaw clenched. Shoulders squared. A barely visible storm gathering behind his eyes.

You smiled like you didn’t notice, but your pulse fluttered in your throat all the same.

After the race, another podium, another photo-op, he found you.

Cornered you, really.

It was quieter outside the motorhome, the hum of the paddock fading behind you, tension heavy in the air.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked. His voice wasn’t soft, it was guarded. Accusing.

You turned to face him slowly. “What do you mean?”

“This.” He gestured in the general direction Jake had gone. “You and what’s his name? James? Jason?”

You blinked. “Jake.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Right. Jake.”

You folded your arms. “I don’t see why it matters.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Of course it matters.”

“Why?” you asked, harsher than you meant to. “Because you don’t like him? Or because you don’t like the idea of me moving on?”

He flinched, actually flinched. That small, involuntary pull of guilt across his features.

“That’s not—” he started, but you cut him off.

The words came spilling out before you could stop them. “Don’t you dare say that this isn’t fair. You don’t get to tell me what’s fair. I spent years waiting for you, Max.” Your voice shook, the truth finally cracking through the surface. “I waited while you ran to me for everything and still gave your heart to someone else.”

You took a breath. Swallowed the lump rising in your throat.

“I was your best friend. Your person. And I thought… maybe one day you’d finally see me.”

Max opened his mouth, barely, but nothing came out. His expression twisted, like your words physically hurt. Like they were the truth he’d buried too deep to admit.

“But you never did,” you whispered.

He looked lost. Like he didn’t know how to hold onto anything without holding onto you.

“I’m done waiting,” you said, voice steadier now. Stronger. “I deserve someone who actually chooses me. Who doesn’t need to lose me to realise I was there all along.”

He swallowed hard. The kind of swallow that hurts going down. His jaw clenched. His fists curled like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

And for once, he had nothing to say.

You come home the next day to flowers on your doorstep, express delivery.

White tulips your favourite. No note. But you know who they’re from.

You stare at them for a moment too long, heart thudding unevenly, before finally unlocking your phone.

Thanks for the flowers, you text, hitting send before you can overthink it.

His reply is instant. Like he’s been waiting.

Can I see you?

You hesitate, thumb hovering, nerves buzzing just beneath your skin.

Okay.

He comes straight to your place. Baseball cap pulled low, hoodie drawn up, not to hide from paparazzi, you suspect, but to hide from you. Or maybe from whatever truth he’s only just beginning to face.

There’s a hesitation when you open the door, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here anymore.

Once he’s inside he finally speaks. “I didn’t know,” he says, voice hoarse.

You frown. “Didn’t know what?”

Max exhales, slow and heavy, like dragging the truth to the surface is painful. “I didn’t know it was you.”

Your brows draw together, confused, lips parting, but he keeps going.

“I’ve been chasing all these things, titles, wins, people, and I didn’t realise I already had the most important one right in front of me.”

You blink, caught between disbelief and the ache of wanting to believe it.

He steps closer, carefully. “You’re the one I want to talk to at 2 a.m. You’re the one I want next to me when I fall asleep. You always have been. I just didn’t see it. Not until I thought I’d lost you.”

Your chest tightens, breath catching. “Max…”

“I think…” he cuts in, voice raw, “I think I’ve been in love with you this whole time.”

You freeze.

“What?” you ask, stunned. The word barely escapes.

“I didn’t know what it was,” he says, his hands shaking slightly as he rakes them through his hair. “I know I’ve been an idiot, but you have to know I never meant to do anything to hurt you, I was just blind. I thought… fuck, I thought it was just how we are. I thought everyone had a best friend like you. I didn’t realise it until I saw you with someone else, and it felt like the air got ripped out of my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stand it.”

You step back on instinct, the pain too fresh, too tangled with old wounds. “Max… don’t do this. Not because you’re jealous.”

“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I mean, I am, obviously, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I can’t keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, so longed for, so impossible, and yet, somehow, not enough to steady the storm inside you

His voice breaks on the next part. “I ended things. I don’t love her. I don’t think I ever did. She was easy and safe. But she’s not you. No one is.”

And God, the way that splits you open. The way it taps into something buried but still bleeding.

He watches you, eyes wide and full of fear. “I know I’ve hurt you. I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But tell me…”

He swallows hard.

“Tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him.

Really stare.

You see it. The boy who once held your hand under a table because you were nervous. The one who stayed on FaceTime with you for hours after a race just to hear your voice. The boy who didn’t know how to love you the right way until he almost lost the chance to try.

And there’s a part of you, raw and wounded, that wants to say no. That wants to tell him it’s too little, too late. That it’s not fair it took you walking away, took someone else’s hands on your waist, for him to finally look up and see what had been in front of him all along.

But the love runs too deep. Deeper than pride. Deeper than reason.

“I love you,” you whisper, before you can think about stopping yourself.

Max goes completely still.

“I have for a long time,” you add, voice trembling. “I just didn’t think you’d ever feel it back.”

For a beat, he’s stunned. And then he laughs, a quiet, breathy sound, and crosses the space between you, pulling you into his arms like he never wants to let go.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I love you.”

You smile, eyes burning, burying your face in the soft cotton of his hoodie, heart pounding loud enough to echo in your ribs. When he pulls back, his hands linger at your jaw, brushing your cheek with a kind of reverence. And then, finally, finally, he kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Careful. As if he’s still not sure he deserves it. But when you sigh into it, arms tightening around his neck, he deepens the kiss with a low, shaky breath.

When he eventually pulls away, he’s grinning, eyes soft and voice rough.

“No more falling asleep on FaceTime okay?”

You tilt your head, confused. “Why not?”

Max squeezes your hand.

“Because I want you next to me for real.”

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leo-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89

[sixeyesonathiel]

RED STRING OF FATE m.list

— alternative universes, same lovestruck idiots.

a collection of love stories woven through time and fate, where every twist and turn leads you back to him—gojo satoru. from childhood bonds to fleeting encounters, soulmates to strangers crossing paths, each moment is tied together by an invisible thread. no matter the distance or detours, love always finds its way home, and satoru is the heart of it all.

♡ generally fluff + happy ending 𔓘 some gn / mostly fem reader-insert

♡ satoru gojo being obnoxiously in love with you <3

♡ different aus, same red string

codes. path = oneshot. routes = series. completed = navigated, ongoing = navigating. word count = miles. personal faves = stellar. fan favorite = landmark.

── .✦ FATE’S ITINERARY

♡₊ path #001 ⌇ free throws and figure drawings

⤷ satoru gojo is a basketball star, the campus menace, and undeniably the best-looking guy in any room—but he’s definitely not a model. so when you, a quiet, intense art student with nothing but a flyer, ask him to pose for a painting, he laughs and says no. but when you mention paying him? suddenly, he’s reconsidering—because easy money might just turn into something far more complicated. <– navigated, 22k miles. stellar, landmark.

♡₊ path #002 ⌇ roses bloom the prettiest in ruin

⤷ as the princess of a fallen monarchy, you were raised to uphold tradition, while satoru gojo, the son of the prime minister, was taught to rule. your families have always been at odds—yours clinging to the past, his shaping the future—but satoru has never cared for politics when it comes to you. despite the lines drawn by power, satoru’s never been one to follow the rules, and from the moment he met you, he knew your story wasn’t meant to end in polite distance. <– navigated, 8k miles. stellar.

♡₊ route #003 ⌇ love comes in small sizes

⤷ you and satoru have always been something—never labeled, never defined. from jujutsu high to stolen rooftop kisses, your bond is a tangled mess of healing hands, half-confessions, and his irritating habit of getting hurt just to keep your attention. but when pride and loss tear you apart, you walk away—until six years later, fate (and a tiny, pink-backpack-wearing menace) drags you back into his world. <– navigating, 19k miles. landmark.

♡₊ route #004 ⌇ a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

⤷ gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten—rejecting your chocolates, choosing studying over playtime, and making you think he was boring. years later, he’s the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university, and when you're paired for a 60% project, you think you can coast—until he drags you back to work at every exclusive club. you flirt, he humors you; you push, he pulls, and suddenly, you're falling for him in a way you never expected. <– navigating, 41k miles.

♡₊ path #005 ⌇ love thy neighbor

⤷ you’ve known satoru gojo since childhood, raised in a neighborhood where your moms’ lawn wars were as fierce as their friendship, and your dads? best friends. every morning, it’s the same—banter over the fence, competitive watering, and a rivalry you didn’t know would grow into something so much more. from your first awkward exchange to stolen glances over the years, he's the one constant you never saw coming. <– navigating, 24.6k miles.

♡₊ path #006 ⌇ bake me up, buttercup

⤷ after a grueling gym session, satoru’s thumb lazily scrolls through his feed, only to pause on a reel of the most captivating pastry he’s ever seen. it’s not just the mouthwatering treats your making—it’s the way you smile at the camera, a quiet warmth that gets to him more than he cares to admit. despite his best efforts to stick to his diet, he can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to steal a taste of your sweetness, too. <– coming soon.

♡₊ path #007 ⌇ dazzle me, darling

⤷ at school, you and satoru gojo are academic rivals—always competing for the top spot in every subject, exchanging snarky remarks, and trying to one-up each other at every turn. however, when satoru gets into trouble one fateful night, a mysterious magical girl swoops in to save him, leaving him utterly enchanted by her grace and power. what he doesn’t know is that the magical girl he's falling for is none other than you, the same person he can't stand in class. <– coming soon.

♡₊ path #008 ⌇ behind the lens

⤷ satoru gojo is the biggest heartthrob of his small town, a high school golden boy with a secret crush on you—the sweetest model in the industry. when he finally gets scouted, he expects to be the bad boy to your nice girl, only to discover you’re a lot more dangerous than he ever imagined. now, caught in a whirlwind of photoshoots and blushing, he can't decide if he’s terrified or completely hooked. <– coming soon.

♡₊ path #009 ⌇ name slips, heart skips

⤷ you walk into your favorite café, but today, something’s different. the new barista keeps misspelling your name on purpose, and it’s too adorable to ignore. the more you brush it off, the more you realize it might not be a mistake after all—he’s clearly up to something. <– coming soon.

♡₊ path #010 ⌇ boardroom chemistry

⤷ you’ve always kept it professional, flexible, and discreet with your side gig as a fake girlfriend—until your newest client turns out to be none other than your unbearable CEO. now you’re stuck pretending to date the man you despise, all while trying not to let your growing attraction ruin everything. if only he’d stop being so damn charming, maybe you could keep it together. <– coming soon.

♡₊ path #011 ⌇ no one else needed to notice

you answered a quiet jujutsu forum post to escape a restless kyoto night. late-night messages with a stranger turned into playful banter and warm voice calls. his laugh became your tether, cutting through the monotony of sorcerer life. when he suggests meeting, it feels fragile but real. something steady sparks where you least expected it. <– navigated, 6.4k miles.

more destinations to be added.

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me

comment to be added on the tl xx. whole collection or specify what fic.

unreleased fics might be subject to change.

[yasministration]

my girl - harry potter

concussions and interruptions au summary: after you failed to show up to dinner with the notts, your parents give a poor excuse as to why you aren't there. but theo spreads the message to your friends, and they all become a little suspicious of what may have truly happened. wc: 1.7k+

The Potters are not expecting any visitors, but it doesn’t change the way the doorbell rings on a random Wednesday morning. Lily Potter furrows her eyebrows, stopping in the hallway with a platter of fruits in her hands as she glances into the living room, spotting James, Remus and Sirius lounging through the large glass doors leading into the garden. She balances the fruit platter in one hand as she heads over to the entryway of the house, not bothering to check the peephole before opening the door.

Pansy Parkinson lifts her eyes from the ground, a gift basket in her arms filled with jars of expensive jams and chocolates. Something fancy that Lily hasn’t seen before. Your best friend smiles politely as Lily smiles in brief recognition, smiling welcomingly despite the clear confusion in her eyes.

“Hi,” Pansy starts, lifting the gift basket up with a nervous exhale, “Um, I’m really sorry to intrude, but I’m looking for y/n?” Lily’s eyes widen and she nods in understanding, moving aside to make way for Pansy in the doorway. “Yeah, of course, come in.” Pansy’s shoulders slump in relief, and she thanks Mrs. Potter as she enters the house. Pansy swallows thickly as she takes in the sight of the comfortable house.

“This is for you. As an apology, and a thank you.”

“Thank you so much, love, you didn’t have to.” But Lily takes the basket from Pansy’s hands anyway and charms it to fly into the kitchen as she sends the fruit platter outside. Lily turns to face Pansy, who now busies her hands by tightly clutching her purse. “I don’t want to alarm you, but she’s - she looks a little tired.”

Pansy nods, chewing on her lip nervously as Lily gathers her words. “You know what, I’m sure she’ll tell you about it herself. Come on.” Lily leads Pansy into the hallway and up the stairs, and Pansy takes the opportunity to scan the house around her; the living room, which looks so cozy and obviously lived in with a blanket strewn over the back of the couch and tea cups on the coffee table. The wall by the stairs is filled with uncountable framed photos. Pansy smiles as she spots a muggle photograph of baby Harry in his parents’s arms, a huge smile on his face, clearly mid laugh. She stops halfway up the stairs though, reaching a hand up to trace the wooden frame of an image.

An image with you.

Harry has an arm around your shoulders, but you’re squished between him and his mother. Each of you hold a long wooden stick with marshmallows stacked on it, holding them over a flaming bonfire. You look so happy in the photo, and as Pansy makes her way higher up the stairs, notices that you look happy in every single appearance you make in the family photos.

And then she spots it — the image taken at graduation.

Like some of the other images, this one moves. You’re both wearing your graduation gowns and caps, the sashes around your shoulders different colours to represent each of your Hogwarts houses. Your diplomas are held proudly in front of you, and Lily, James, Sirius and Remus are all posing with genuine smiles. Harry’s eyes break away from the camera to look at you, one hand letting go of the certificate to cup your cheek, guiding your face towards him. He meets your lips with his, and Pansy sees you jump slightly in surprise, but before you can respond, Harry breaks the kiss, leaving you flustered as Sirius claps a hand on his shoulder.

But what upsets Pansy is that the photo’s background isn’t filled with other graduates celebrating with their family, but an empty hallway in the castle, clearly taken to hide away from your family.

“Pansy?” Pansy’s head snaps up to find Lily staring at her with a concerned expression, her eyebrows slightly furrowed. “Sorry. It’s just, she spoke to me about you guys like you’re family, but you really do treat her like family.” Lily extends an arm out to Pansy, who finally climbs up to the first floor. “She is family.”

Lily guides Pansy towards the end of the hallway upstairs, stopping in front of a door that has an “Enter at your own risk” sign. Lily knocks twice on the door, waiting for Harry’s call of “Come in!” to open the door. “Y/n, someone’s here for you.”

Pansy can’t see into the room from the way Lily barely has the door open, but she imagines the confused expression on your face. Lily nods at Pansy to go inside, and Pansy gulps harshly, pushing the door slightly wider so she can enter the room. She almost laughs at the way you and Harry are sat on the floor with your backs against the bed, identical to the way you’d always sit down in your dorm back at Hogwarts. But Pansy is too distracted by the bandage wrapped around your arm and the way a bruise on your face stretches when you smile.

“Pansy!”

Pansy finally smiles, mumbling “Hey.” You wince as you begin to stand up, and both Pansy and Harry scramble to help you up. But when you deem Pansy close enough, you launch yourself at her, wrapping your arms around her shoulders. From the doorway, Lily smiles fondly before closing the door again, leaving the three of you alone. “How did you-I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Pansy mumbles, tightening her arms around you just enough as she shuts her eyes. Pulling away, you hold Pansy away from you at arm’s length, tilting your head to the side with a small smile when you spot the worried expression on her face. “I’m fine, Pans.”

Harry pulls his desk chair out, gesturing around his room as he tells Pansy “Make yourself comfortable, Pansy.” You move your grip to Pansy’s hand, leading her to sit down on the bed with you. Harry sits down on his desk chair. Pansy tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she takes in the room, spotting little elements of you in the room, like a pair of slippers by the door and folded up pyjamas. “Theo said he thought something was wrong,” She starts, moving her gaze back to you. “He said you were supposed to go to his for dinner, but then your parents showed up without you. Said you were sick. We didn’t really know what to do but we couldn’t just, you know.”

“Yeah. I’ve been here since friday. I don’t- I don’t really know what to do with anything.”

“What did he do to you?”

Harry lifts his eyes from the floor at Pansy’s question, frowning when you shrug. Pansy breaks eye contact with you, a hard glare on her face as she moves her eyes to Harry, as though challenging him not to tell her. “She fainted when she came on friday. There was blood all over.”

“Harry.”

“Love, she’s your best friend. You didn’t wake up for another two days.”

Pansy gasps in horror, standing sharply and shaking her head. “You can’t- you’re not going back. He’ll kill you.”

“I know… I wasn’t planning to. But I don’t know what to do.”

“Yes you do,” Cuts in Harry, now also standing up, eyes squinted in confusion. “You stay here for as long as you need to. You don’t worry about rushing things because you have a home here.”

“You know you’re welcome to stay at mine too.” Pansy says quietly. You were welcome to stay at hers, but what would her parents say? Pansy shrugs her purse off her shoulder, catching it in her hands as she sits down next to you again. “Do you need anything? Do you have clothes? What can I do to help?” You shake your head softly, resting a hand on your best friend’s shoulder. “Everything’s okay Pansy. I got my luggage with me, and the Potters really do treat me well.”

Pansy sighs, smoothing her hands down her thighs with a gentle nod. “Alright. Well, do you want to go grab a coffee or something? You know, Hogsmeade’s only a walking distance away.” You grin, nodding excitedly as you stand, rushing to get your purse from Harry’s desk with so much excitement that you forget you’re supposed to be in pain. Harry makes a gruntled noise of disapproval in this throat, but Pansy beats his argument with another comment, adding “It’ll do her good to get out of the house. How long has it been?”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, watching as you rush into his bathroom, shutting the door behind you. Harry leans in closer to Pansy, bringing the volume of his voice down while pointing an accusing finger at her. “Alright but if you feel like she’s getting tired or in pain, you bring her straight back here, Parkinson! Hold on, I have a potion for pain here somewhere.”

Pansy stores the vial Harry hands her in her purse, glancing to the bathroom door before looking at Harry once more. “You gonna take care of my girl for me, Potter?”

“Your girl?”

“Did I stutter?”

“You’re in my house.”

“Did you buy it?”

“I live here.”

“Already?” Both their heads snap towards you, standing in the doorway of the bathroom with an amused expression on your face. Harry takes a few of steps towards you, pressing a kiss to your forehead before straightening back up and stepping away from you. He gestures towards Pansy with an awkward smile, feeling his cheeks go hot when you tilt your face up and lean over to him to kiss his cheek.

“Alright, go crazy.” He finally says, shooting Pansy one last glance behind your back. He watches protectively as you walk out of his room together, Pansy beginning to tell you about a hang out at Theo’s in a couple of days. “I suppose you’re invited too, Potter.” Harry scoffs at Pansy’s words, securing both hands on his hips. You glance over your shoulder to meet your boyfriend’s eye. “Bye. I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Harry huffs when you leave his eyesight, trudging down to the garden, where he is met with equally curious and concerned glances from his family members. “Pansy shows up for three seconds and suddenly I’m not important.” The backyard erupts into fits of laughter as Harry slumps down on one a wooden lounge chair, frown on his face.

“Calm down, lover boy, she’s still yours.”

“And Pansy called y/n her girl! She told me ‘you gonna take care of my girl for me?’ Your girl!? She’s my girl!"

taglist: @hisparentsgallerryy, @liviessun, @rory-cakes, @heebiemcjeebies, @fl0weryannie, @muffinemmaa, @anne061989, @regsg18, @graciereads, @adharaoaklyn, @hawaii2320, @c0ldstvff, @bigbodycity, @starmaniii, @urmom101, @simpfortoomanymen, @ennaholic, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @eunicefrogsandfoes, @dreamamubarak, @quinquinquincy, @vxyselectric, @liliemb04, @crowleythesexydemon, @lovelyygirl8, @matcha-kitty13, @dlljdhsh, @yegrnn, @marauder-era6779, @xadenswhore, @5sospenguinqueen, @esposadomd, @paytonluvxx, @wrenisrad, @lovelyteenagebeard, @mxvoid26, @bxuzi, @dlljdhsh, @aouoo, @isnt-itstrange @fandomhoe101, @user010380, @simp-for-fiction, @sharkers00, @joonbread, @mischivana, @rhettsluvr, @gr1mesgirl

[formulafanfics13]

hello !!! i hope you are doing well, i was wondering if i could request a oscar fic where reader is more curvy then the rest of the wags but she wears like crop tops and shorts and things that she’s comfortable in but over hears people talking about her body so she starts to cover up because she feels insecure and oscar notices and just shows her how much he loves her?? its okay if not !!!

You're Enough - OP81

Masterlist

summary: you've always felt confident in your body — curves and all. you wear what makes you feel good. crop tops, shorts, tiny little dresses. but one overheard conversation in the paddock changes everything. suddenly you're hiding under oversized shirts and long pants. oscar notices. and he doesn't just say something — he shows you exactly how much he loves every part of you.

warnings: body insecurity, fatphobia (overheard), comfort, emotional softness, tender praise, implied smut (soft), body worship, deep intimacy, love confession

You've never been the type to hide. You like soft denim and cropped tanks and bikinis with thick straps and cheeky bottoms. You like the way Oscar looks at you when you spin around in a dress, how his hand naturally lands on the curve of your waist, how his voice goes quiet when he whispers, you're so fucking beautiful.

But the paddock isn't always kind. The WAGs are all perfect. Sleek, symmetrical, slim. Girls who pose for Vogue and sit front row at fashion week. You've never tried to compete with that. Not until you hear it.

It's two journalists. Women. Laughing.

"She's brave, I'll give her that. That crop top didn't leave much to the imagination." "I mean, good for her. But standing next to someone like Kika? I'd die."

You don't even know if they knew you were there. But it lodges in your chest like glass.

You smile politely. You keep walking. You pretend you didn't hear a thing.

The next day, you wear a hoodie. It's 28°C in Barcelona. You say you're cold. Oscar doesn't believe you. He eyes you up and down with a raised brow, but doesn't push. He kisses your temple, helps you pull the sleeves up a little when they slide over your hands.

"You look cute," he murmurs.

You force a smile. 

It becomes a pattern. Oversized T-shirts. Long skirts. Layers that you never used to need. You don't walk through the paddock like you used to, hips swaying, sunglasses perched on your nose. You linger. Shrink. Stay a step behind.

Oscar notices everything. He watches you carefully. Watches how you flinch when cameras pass. Watches how your arms fold across your stomach during interviews. Watches how you avoid photos now, how you hide behind others.

It takes him a week to crack. But when he does, it's soft. So fucking soft.

You're lying on the hotel bed, scrolling through Instagram. He sits beside you, towel slung low on his hips, fresh from the shower. You're still dressed. Still in that awful long-sleeve you've been using to hide the softness of your belly, your arms, your thighs.

He takes your phone gently and sets it aside. "Hey," he says.

You blink. "Hey."

He tilts his head. "Where'd you go?"

You frown. "What do you mean?"

"You're not here," he says. "Not really. You haven't been. Not since Monaco."

Monaco. Where you wore that tiny linen dress and felt beautiful until...

You inhale sharply. "I'm just tired."

Oscar nods. But he doesn't let it go. "Do you not want to talk to me about it?" he asks quietly. "Or do you think I won't understand?"

You stay quiet. His hand slides over your thigh. Warm. Gentle. "I know something's wrong."

It spills out slowly. You don't cry. You just explain. What you heard. How you felt. How you suddenly couldn't stop seeing what everyone else must've been thinking all along.

"I just don't want to make you look bad," you whisper. "Standing next to you. I know I'm not like the others-"

"Don't," he says softly. "Don't do that."

You blink. He moves closer, one hand on your jaw. "Don't compare yourself to anyone. Don't shrink for someone else's comfort. You're not allowed."

"But Oscar-"

"I love your body," he says, like it's obvious. Like it's breathing. "Every fucking inch of it. The way your hips feel under my hands. The way your thighs wrap around me when I'm buried inside you. The softness of your stomach when you curl into me at night. I love it. I love you."

You stare at him. Dazed.

"You're not too much," he says. "You're exactly what I want. Exactly what I crave."

You're trembling when he cups your cheek.

"And anyone who can't see that," he whispers, "doesn't deserve to look at you anyway."

He doesn't rush. He helps you out of your shirt. Lays you back gently. Kisses every part of you like he's saying a prayer. Your arms. Your belly. Your thighs. Your stretch marks. Whispers I love this. I love you. I'm so lucky, like a mantra.

He goes slow. Lets you feel every inch of how adored you are. How desired. He doesn't stop until you're crying. Soft. Safe. Finally seen.

The next day, you wear a tiny crop top. White. Tight. Hugging every curve. Oscar sees you walking through the paddock and beams. His hand finds your waist immediately. He kisses your cheek like he's never been prouder.

[unabashegirl]

Tethered {h.s}

A slow-burning night in Milan turns into something unforgettable when a designer’s assistant and a world-famous artist realize neither of them wants to say goodbye.

Author’s note: This one’s soft, slow, and a little bit starry-eyed — I really loved writing it. Thank you for reading, and as always, your reblogs and comments mean the world to me. 💌 Let me know what you think!

‼️ This fic contains explicit sexual content (18+). Please read responsibly. ‼️

📌 word count -> 8.7K

📌 Please consider joining my Patreon -> Patreon

Harry sat at the end of the long dinner table, half-hidden behind the rim of his wine glass. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above him like a sky of artificial stars, casting shadows that danced over porcelain plates and untouched amuse-bouches. The clinking of forks, the murmurs of conversation in a blur of Italian and French, the low pulse of music in the background—it all felt a touch too loud.

He shouldn’t have come.

He’d flown to Milan for the show, slipped in through the back entrance, nodded politely from the front row, applauded when expected. That had been enough. He’d already planned to slip away quietly, return to the countryside villa in Tuscany where the stone walls were thick, and no one cared what he wore or who he was.

But Alessandro had insisted.

“Just the after party,” he’d said, eyes alight, hands on Harry’s shoulders in a way that left no room for protest. “You’ll vanish tomorrow, tesoro, but tonight? Tonight, you shine.”

And now here he was—boxed into a corner seat, a soft-spoken model chattering beside him about a gallery in Berlin, while the man across the table lit a cigarette without asking. Smoke curled toward the ceiling and Harry breathed it in, sharp and chemical and grounding.

He let his eyes wander.

Golden people. Gold-touched lives. Everyone so sure of themselves, so hungry for attention. Cameras flashed in the corner where someone was pretending not to pose. It was beautiful and hollow and exhausting.

His fingers drummed against the stem of his glass.

“Do you hate it that much?”

The voice cut through his thoughts. Soft, amused, female. Different.

He turned slightly and found you leaning toward him, chin propped on your hand, watching him like you’d been doing it for a while.

“Excuse me?” he said, the edge of his accent curling around the words.

“The party,” you said, lips twitching. “You look like you’d rather be hit by a car than finish that wine.”

He let out a short laugh, dry and surprised.

“You’re not wrong.”

You smiled—tilted and knowing—and lifted your own glass toward him in mock salute. “Cheers to being held hostage by fashion royalty.”

“Cheers,” he muttered, clinking your glass with his before taking a sip he didn’t want.

“Let me guess,” you went on, “you got talked into this by someone you couldn’t say no to.”

He gave you a slow look. “That obvious?”

“Only to the other prisoners.”

He should have noticed her earlier.

Not because she was loud or glittering or trying to be seen—quite the opposite, in fact. She was still, poised, like the eye of a storm. Not the kind of stunning that shouted. The kind that crept up on you slowly, then all at once, like an ache in your chest you only noticed when it was too late.

Her dress was simple. Black, maybe navy, with thin straps and a low back. Nothing flashy—yet it hugged her in a way that made his throat tighten. Her skin glowed under the soft chandelier light, and her hair was pinned up with a few loose strands curling against her neck. She wore no jewelry, except for a thin gold ring on her middle finger and a watch that looked vintage.

Harry blinked. How had he missed her?

He was usually more observant than this. But then again, he’d spent the first half of the night counting down the seconds until he could leave.

Now he found himself leaning in, just slightly.

“You work for Alessandro?” he asked, voice low, suddenly curious. Genuinely curious.

Her eyes, ringed with a subtle sweep of liner, flicked up to meet his. “Mm. Assistant designer.”

“Dream job?”

She tilted her head. “It was.”

Something about the way she said it made him pause.

“And now?”

“Now I’d kill for a glass of water, a hot shower, and a bed that isn’t covered in tulle and half-finished sketches.” She smiled, not bitter—just tired. “But yes. Still the dream.”

He huffed a soft breath of a laugh through his nose. “So, what—you didn’t want to be here either?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Please. I came straight from backstage. I’ve been in four-inch heels since six in the morning. I didn’t even know this dinner was happening until someone shoved a change of clothes at me and said, ‘Smile, you’re going to dinner with celebrities.’”

Harry grinned. “I’m honored.”

“You should be.” She took another sip of wine, then set the glass down and leaned her cheek into her palm again, eyes on him. “But I still would’ve rather gone home.”

He let his eyes linger on her face now, less guarded than before. There was a smudge of fatigue beneath her left eye, just beneath the makeup. Her lipstick had worn off in the center. Her posture was relaxed, casual in the way only people who don’t care to impress can be.

It was disarming.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I think I finally found someone at this table I don’t want to strangle.”

A soft laugh slipped from her lips, not practiced like the others he’d heard tonight. Real.

“Careful,” she said, eyes dancing. “That almost sounded like flirting.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “Almost?”

“You’ll have to try harder, Styles.”

And for the first time all evening, he didn’t want to leave.

They stayed there for hours.

The party thinned out slowly, the glamorous slipping away in pairs and groups, laughter trailing like perfume in their wake. Alessandro blew Harry a kiss across the table before disappearing with someone whose name Harry didn’t catch.

But she stayed.

And so did he.

They talked. About the collection. About the chaos backstage. About their favorite places in Italy—hers, a tiny coastal town she refused to name, as if sharing it would make it too real.

He told her he was tired. Not just tonight, but lately. Tired of being watched. Of being on. Of people calling his name who didn’t know him at all.

She didn’t pity him. She just nodded, like she understood something deeper than he’d said aloud.

At some point, her shoes came off. She tucked her legs beneath her on the velvet banquette, wine forgotten, chin resting on her hand again. Her lipstick had vanished entirely, and the pins in her hair were starting to fall. There was a thread coming loose at the hem of her dress, and she didn’t seem to care.

She was stunning. Devastating, even.

He didn’t flirt. Not really. The mood had changed. Something softer had settled in the space between them—something quieter than attraction, heavier than curiosity. He didn’t want to charm her. He just wanted to keep her talking.

But then her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, sighed. “I’ve got an 8 a.m. fitting. I should—”

“Yeah,” he said, though he didn’t mean it.

She slipped her shoes back on, slow and reluctant, then stood and smoothed her dress. He stood, too, just to feel a little less like a fool.

She reached for her coat, but he caught it first and held it out for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured as she slid her arms into the sleeves.

There was a moment. A brief one. She turned to face him, eyes flicking up to meet his, her breath caught halfway through some unspoken sentence. She looked like she was going to say something more.

But she didn’t.

“Goodnight, Harry,” was all she said instead.

He watched her walk out of the private room and through the ornate archway until she disappeared completely.

He didn’t ask for her number.

And the moment passed.

He was supposed to leave Milan the next morning.

Supposed to escape to the quiet hills of Tuscany, to sun-drenched stone walls and good wine and solitude. That had been the plan.

But now—now all he could see was the curve of her smile under chandelier light. The faintest crease in her brow when she talked about working too hard. The tiny scar on her wrist she hadn’t noticed him noticing. The way she looked at him like she saw him, not the version of him everyone else paraded around.

He couldn’t get her out of his head.

And it drove him mad.

By noon, he’d canceled his flight.

The next morning, Harry sat on the edge of the hotel bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the half-packed suitcase in front of him.

She hadn’t even told him her name.

He didn’t know why that bothered him most. Maybe because it made the whole thing feel like a dream—unreal, hazy around the edges. Like if he blinked too long, he’d forget the sound of her laugh. The way she’d looked at him across the table, unfazed and uninterested in everything except the conversation between them.

He picked up his phone before he could talk himself out of it.

“Alessandro” answered on the second ring.

“Tesoro,” he said in that theatrical lilt that meant he hadn’t looked at the caller ID but assumed it was someone who owed him something. “If this is about last night, I—”

“It’s Harry.”

A beat.

“Ah. Mio caro. You survived.”

“Barely.” Harry exhaled, thumb rubbing against the hem of his T-shirt. “Listen. Can I—can I come by the atelier?”

Alessandro paused. “Why?”

“I just…” He hesitated, then chose honesty. “I met someone. I think she works with you.”

That caught his attention.

“Oh,” Alessandro said, drawing the word out with interest now. “La ragazza. You mean the one with the tired eyes and the sharp tongue?”

Harry’s lips twitched despite himself. “That’s the one.”

“Mmm. She’s good. Too good for us, really. Always trying to fix everything. Always working too hard.” He clicked his tongue. “You want me to give you her number?”

Harry hesitated. “No. I’ll just… drop by. If that’s okay.”

There was a pause on the line. Then Alessandro said, suddenly enthusiastic, “Actually, it’s perfect. I’ve got a few pieces I want to try out. I need a body that photographs like sin.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but smiled. “That’s a yes, then?”

“Come in after lunch. But don’t distract my staff, capito?”

Harry ended the call, stomach churning with something too restless to name.

The atelier smelled like steam, fabric glue, and espresso.

When Harry walked through the glass double doors, heads turned instantly. Conversations stuttered mid-sentence. A model standing near the sewing station almost dropped her coffee. One of the interns gasped audibly and clutched a pin cushion to her chest like a shield.

Harry was used to being stared at. But this felt different—more intimate. Like they hadn’t expected him here, in this space. And truthfully, he hadn’t expected it either.

He wore wide-leg black trousers and a soft ivory button-down left slightly open at the chest. The fabric fluttered as he walked, breezy and effortless. His sunglasses were tucked into the collar. His sleeves rolled up messily to his elbows. Tattoos peeked through like secrets.

He looked like someone who didn’t belong in a workspace—but owned it anyway.

“Dio santo,”Alessandro’s voice echoed from the back of the room. “Someone tell me I didn’t die and go to heaven.”

Harry turned just as his friend appeared dramatically from behind a curtain of unfinished muslin, arms open wide.

“Still so dramatic,” Harry drawled.

“And yet you’re the one walking into my atelier dressed like a poet who fucks.”

Harry barked out a laugh. A few interns nearby did too, before pretending to be horrified with themselves.

Alessandro clapped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him in for a kiss on both cheeks. “You look good. Tired. But good.”

“Long night.”

“Was she that good?” Alessandro winked, already walking him toward the back of the studio. “Come. I’ll make you a coffee. You can tell me everything—slowly, and with descriptions.”

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

Alessandro turned around so fast his oversized rings clicked against each other.

“You what?”

“I talked to her. That’s it.”

“And now you’re here, stalking her at work?”

Harry gave him a look. “Not stalking.”

“Obsessing?”

“…Maybe.”

Alessandro beamed, pleased. “You really are a poet.”

They passed bolts of fabric, mannequins mid-draped, and models half-dressed for fittings. A few assistants whispered and turned away quickly when Harry caught their eye. The space was loud but focused—everyone moving, measuring, correcting, perfecting.

When they reached the back office, Harry paused.

His eyes had caught something.

It was on the worktable—half-buried under fabric swatches, loose sketches, and someone’s espresso cup. A sheet of paper with sharp pencil strokes and smudged charcoal, clearly drawn quickly. Instinctively.

A sketch

Of him.

It wasn’t perfect—his jaw was too sharp, and the slope of his nose exaggerated—but it was him. The shirt he’d worn last night. The curve of his hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. The thoughtful tilt of his head.

It was him, seen through someone else’s eyes.

“She did that?” he asked quietly.

Alessandro leaned in, raised a brow, then laughed. “Dio. She said she couldn’t sleep.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a second. He just kept looking.

She’d shaded the eyes last. It was the only part of the sketch untouched by smudges. Carefully defined. Focused.

As if she’d started drawing a stranger and ended up sketching someone she couldn’t look away from.

“You’re in trouble,” Alessandro murmured, watching him.

Harry didn’t argue.

The sketch sat between them like it had a heartbeat.

Harry’s fingers hovered just above the edge of the paper, not touching, not daring to. It felt too personal—like reading a diary he hadn’t been meant to find.

“She sees things,” he murmured, voice lower now.

Alessandro leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, watching him with interest. “Mmhmm. That’s what makes her so good. She notices what others miss. Details. Stillness.”

Harry swallowed. His gaze lingered on the slope of the sketch’s neck, the way she’d captured the slight tilt of his head. He hadn’t even known he’d sat like that. Had she been watching him the whole time?

“I have to go back to Tuscany,” he said after a long silence.

Alessandro sighed, almost theatrically. “Always running away to your Tuscan hills. You and your romantic recluse act.”

“I need the quiet.”

“And yet… here you are,” he said, gesturing loosely to the sketch, to the space between them filled with something unsaid. “Chasing the girl who kept you talking all night.”

Harry didn’t deny it.

“I want to know her,” he said, soft but firm. “But how do I ask her that? It’s Milan Fashion Week. She’s working herself into the ground. Everyone wants something from someone here.”

Alessandro tilted his head. “And what would you want from her?”

Harry exhaled slowly. “A name. A real conversation. Not the kind that disappears when the wine wears off.”

His friend studied him for a moment. Then, instead of teasing, he said with rare quiet, “Then wait. Let her breathe. You’re not the only one who hasn’t stopped moving.”

Harry gave him a look. “You’re unusually wise today.”

“I’ve been moisturized, well-fed, and slightly tipsy since nine a.m. I’m glowing with clarity.”

Harry huffed a laugh, leaning back slightly, eyes still on the sketch.

The rest of the atelier buzzed around them, models being pinned into half-finished garments, music humming low, scissors snipping in rhythm. But in this small corner of it all, time felt still.

Harry didn’t know her name.

But he knew how she saw the world. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever had someone look at him like that before.

Y/N pushed the atelier door open with her shoulder, arms full of garment bags, phone pressed to her ear, and a headache blooming just behind her right temple.

“No, I didn’t forget the zippers,” she hissed into the phone. “I reminded Martina three times—yes, okay, I’ll check again. I’m literally walking in right now—”

She stopped.

Mid-step. Mid-sentence.

The call disconnected without her even realizing it.

He was there.

Standing near the back of the room, in soft sunlight streaming through the tall windows, his sleeves still rolled to his elbows, one hand lazily tucked into the pocket of his black trousers.

Harry Styles.

From the dinner party.

From the night that hadn’t left her mind since she’d walked away from it.

He was staring at something on the table. Her table.

No—her sketch.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

For a second, the atelier faded. The sewing machines, the models rehearsing runway turns, the steady hum of caffeine-fueled assistants. It all went still.

He looked up slowly. Like he’d felt her walk in.

His eyes met hers across the room. And for a second, neither of them moved.

Then Alessandro appeared beside him with a dramatic little flourish, voice ringing across the floor.

“Amore! You’re late. He’s been waiting.”

“Waiting?” Her voice came out softer than she meant, throat still tight.

Alessandro grinned. “Yes. For you.”

Her stomach flipped.

Harry straightened but didn’t come closer. He didn’t speak yet, either. Just watched her. His expression unreadable, but his eyes were soft. Curious. A little uncertain. The same way they’d looked across the dinner table the night before, in the quiet lull between laughter and the end of something unfinished.

Y/N crossed the floor carefully, trying not to trip over herself—or her thoughts.

She stopped a few feet away. Close enough to see the faint smile at the corner of his mouth. Close enough to see that he was holding the sketch now.

The paper looked delicate in his hands.

“I didn’t think you’d…” she started, then stopped. “I didn’t know you were still in Milan.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be,” he said.

“And now?”

His eyes met hers again. Calm. Clear.

“I changed my plans.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. The atelier felt too loud. The moment too quiet.

Then he held out the sketch to her.

“I don’t usually let people see me like this,” he said. “But you already have.”

Y/N stared at him, pulse fluttering wildly in her chest.

Somewhere near them, Alessandro sighed and muttered, “I swear to God, if you two don’t kiss by Friday, I’m firing someone.”

Neither of them laughed.

They were still staring.

Waiting.

Y/N felt heat creep up the back of her neck.

It was ridiculous—blushing, at her big age, in the middle of Milan Fashion Week, in front of Harry Styles holding her sketch like it meant something.

But he was looking at her like it did.

His eyes dipped back down to the page, then up again, and she knew—knew—he recognized the vulnerability in it. Not just his likeness. Her gaze. How she’d seen him.

She didn’t know how to explain that. Or if she even wanted to.

“Scusate!” Alessandro called out, breaking the tension with the subtlety of a cannon blast. “Enough of the romantic staring. We have clothes to fit and muses to dress!”

Y/N blinked, startled.

Alessandro waved dramatically toward a nearby rack. “The garments for Harry are there—adjustment pile. I need you to help him try them on. And be gentle, he bruises like a peach.”

“I do not,” Harry said mildly, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Go on, go on,” Alessandro pushed, already turning on his heel like he had six more crises to attend to. “Take him to the blue room. Away from the nosy eyes and gossiping mouths.”

Y/N hesitated, then moved toward the rack, pulling out the few pieces with Harry’s name labeled in chalk on the tags. When she turned, he was already beside her.

“Blue room?” he asked, voice low and warm.

She nodded, trying to play it cool. “This way.”

They walked together down the hallway—past racks of sequins and silk, assistants threading needles, interns whispering in corners. She could feel the glances, but no one dared say anything with Harry next to her.

She opened the door to the blue room—a fitting space draped in soft navy velvet, with tall antique mirrors, gold hooks on the walls, and a plush settee in the corner.

It was quiet.

Safe.

She set the clothes on a nearby stool, then turned to him, still blushing but trying not to show it.

“I can step out if you want to change.”

He shook his head gently. “Only if you want to.”

Y/N hesitated—long enough for the air to grow heavier between them.

Then she crossed to the wall and busied herself with unzipping one of the garment bags.

Behind her, she heard the soft rustle of fabric, the click of buttons.

Neither of them said a word.

But the silence wasn’t awkward.

It was full.

Of everything they hadn’t said the night before.

Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the garment bag even after the zipper was all the way down.

She could hear him behind her—slow, unhurried movements as he peeled off his shirt. Fabric slipping from skin. The rustle of trousers. A belt unlooped.

She swallowed and cleared her throat lightly. “We’ll start with the navy wool suit. Alessandro’s trying to decide between that and the double-breasted.”

“Which one’s yours?” Harry asked, voice low and casual, but something in it tugged.

She turned to face him and felt her breath hitch for half a second.

He stood in just his boxers, toned and freckled and barefoot on the velvet carpet. His tattoos looked darker in this light, ink swimming across golden skin. He didn’t smirk, didn’t tease—just looked at her like he wanted to know the answer.

She held out the navy jacket first.

“That one,” she said. “I adjusted the silhouette last week. Softer at the waist. You’re broader than the model who fit it originally.”

Harry stepped forward, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up slightly.

She lifted the jacket, letting him slide his arms into it. He moved slowly, watching her face the whole time. When she reached to smooth the fabric at his shoulders, her fingers brushed the warm curve of his neck.

He didn’t flinch.

Neither did she.

Her hands trailed down to the lapels, tugging gently, then smoothing them flat. She could feel his breath now. Could smell whatever cologne clung faintly to his skin—clean and woodsy and a little sinful.

“Too tight?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he said. “Feels good.”

She glanced up and met his eyes—greener than they had any right to be, soft at the edges.

He didn’t look away.

“Pants next,” she said, trying to gather the tension and place it somewhere more manageable—like professionalism. But her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the waistband of the trousers and held them out.

He stepped closer to take them, and when his fingers brushed hers, it was brief.

But not forgettable.

He turned, and stepped into the trousers. She waited, staring down at her hands as if they might do something stupid on their own.

When he turned back, the pants hung too low at the hips.

“Come here,” she murmured, reaching for a box of pins on the small table nearby. “I need to mark the waist.”

He stepped toward her again, and she knelt slightly, fingers brushing the waistband, folding the fabric gently before pinning it.

His breath caught when her hand brushed the sharp line of his hip.

She looked up at him—so close now her breath stirred the fabric of his shirt.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

He looked down at her, lips parted.

“No,” he said, without hesitation. “Not really.”

The pin hovered in her fingers, forgotten.

Her fingers still rested lightly against the waistband of his trousers, pin tucked into the fabric but forgotten.

Harry was looking down at her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her face. Not in a performative way. Not like a man used to getting what he wanted. More like someone who had stumbled into something unexpected—and didn’t want to move too fast and ruin it.

Y/N swallowed.

She was still crouched just enough to be level with his chest, close enough to feel his body heat roll off of him in quiet waves.

“Not really?” she repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry let out a slow breath through his nose.

“I thought I’d forget you when I left that dinner.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his.

He wasn’t smiling.

“I told myself it was just the wine. The lighting. The moment,” he said, voice soft and steady. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Not for one second.”

The pin slipped from her hand, landing soundlessly on the carpet between them.

Her hand remained against the fold of his trousers, unmoving.

“I don’t even know your name,” he added, like it physically pained him to admit it.

She blinked slowly. Her voice, when it came, was quiet—delicate around the edges.

“Y/N.”

His lips parted. He said it once, just to feel it. Like a secret he’d been dying to be told.

“Y/N,” he repeated. “You said goodnight like you didn’t want me to follow.”

“I didn’t,” she murmured. “Because I didn’t think you would.”

Silence bloomed again, thick and real.

She stood slowly, rising to meet him.

Now they were eye to eye.

The pinned waistband rested between them. Her hands hovered, unsure whether to stay or fall away. But he didn’t move. Didn’t break eye contact.

“You still leaving for Tuscany?” she asked quietly.

He studied her for a long moment. Then, with a small breath:

“Not yet.”

And somehow, that said everything.

Before either of them could say another word—before Harry could reach for her, or she could step back and figure out what to do with the storm suddenly curling in her chest—the door burst open.

“Dio mio, do I have to do everything myself—”

Alessandro froze in the doorway, a bolt of silk slung dramatically over one arm, an iPad in the other, sunglasses still perched on top of his head like a crown.

He blinked at the scene in front of him.

Y/N standing a breath away from Harry, her hands still near his waist. Harry staring at her like she held every answer to questions he hadn’t known he was asking.

Alessandro’s gaze flicked to the fallen pin on the floor. To the tension thick enough to cut with his shears.

“Oh,” he said simply. “Oh.”

Harry stepped back a little, but not far. His fingers grazed the hem of the jacket, suddenly all too aware of how exposed he still was.

Y/N blinked fast, like she’d been yanked out of a dream.

Alessandro didn’t even pretend to hide his smirk. “Should I… come back later? Or bring champagne and officiate?”

Y/N flushed. “I was just pinning the trousers.”

“Of course you were,” he said with a dramatic wink. “And I’m just here for the invisible lining specifications.”

Harry cleared his throat. “You needed something?”

“Oh yes!” Alessandro snapped back into motion, waving the iPad like it held state secrets. “The double-breasted. We need to compare it with the navy one. And also—press people are asking if you’re still in Milan and where you are. I told them you were having a moment of spiritual clarity and couldn’t be disturbed.

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly.

“Anytime, tesoro mio.”

Y/N was already bending to retrieve the pin, carefully smoothing her features back into neutral.

But something had shifted.

Harry saw it in the way her hands moved more slowly now. The way she didn’t quite meet his eyes.

And he hated that they’d been interrupted.

Alessandro handed over the second jacket, still talking, oblivious to the invisible thread still pulling tight between the two of them.

But Harry knew.

So did she.

The rest of the fitting passed in a blur.

Y/N did her job—focused, efficient, eyes trained on fabric, not him. But Harry felt her in every moment. In the way her hand brushed his sleeve when she adjusted the shoulder seam. In the way she quietly handed him a glass of water while Alessandro chattered away about lapels and runways. In the way she never quite looked at him the same after that moment in the blue room.

By mid-afternoon, the atelier had thinned out. Models gone. Garments tagged and bagged. Lights dimmer now, casting warm amber shadows across the floor.

Harry stood near the back hallway, one hand in his pocket, the other idly playing with a pin she’d left behind on a table.

He heard her before he saw her.

Her steps were softer now. Slower. Less hurried.

She turned the corner and froze, a tote slung over one shoulder, her phone in hand.

“You’re still here?” she asked softly.

He looked up. “Didn’t feel like leaving.”

A beat passed.

Then: “You always this persistent?”

Harry tilted his head, lips curling. “Only when I’m interested.”

She leaned against the wall across from him, the distance between them quiet and humming. The hum of two people who hadn’t let go of the moment, even after the door had slammed open and the world had resumed spinning.

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” she said.

“I wasn’t expecting you last night.”

Her eyes flicked up. Met his. Steadier this time.

He took a small step closer.

“I meant what I said,” he told her. “About not being able to forget you.”

She exhaled slowly, as if trying to keep her chest from shaking. “Why me?”

Harry looked at her like it was obvious.

“Because you didn’t try to be anything you’re not. Not last night. Not today. And because I liked the way you looked at me.”

She blinked.

“That sketch,” he said quietly.

Her throat bobbed.

“I didn’t think you’d ever see it.”

“I don’t think I was supposed to,” he added. “But I’m glad I did.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was weighty.

Soft.

Important.

Y/N shifted slightly, hugging her tote tighter to her shoulder.

“I’m not good at this,” she admitted. “Whatever this is.”

Harry smiled. “Neither am I.”

Another beat.

Then she said, voice quieter than before, “I get off at eight.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

She shrugged. “There’s a café two blocks down. No cameras. Good pastries. Better wine.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll be there.”

She turned to go, then paused, glancing back once over her shoulder.

“Wear something less poetic.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling. “No promises.”

And just like the night before, she walked away.

But this time, he had her name.

And a place to find her.

The café sat on a quiet side street tucked behind an ivy-covered wall, the kind of place that didn’t bother with signs or menus in English. Inside, it smelled like espresso, warm bread, and rain-soaked stone.

Harry got there first.

He chose a table near the window—half-shadowed, half-lit by the amber glow of a single pendant lamp above. The table was small. Intimate. Like the whole place was built to protect secrets.

He wore a dark sweater this time. Hair tousled, sleeves pushed up, rings clinking gently as he turned his wine glass between his fingers. He hadn’t touched the drink.

He was waiting.

At 8:04, the door creaked open.

Y/N stepped in, cheeks flushed from the chill outside, her coat slightly damp at the shoulders. She looked like she didn’t belong in the curated dimness of Milan’s fashion scene. She looked like something real walking into a dream.

He stood as she approached.

“You came,” he said quietly.

“You waited,” she replied, slipping her coat off and draping it on the back of the chair. “That’s rare.”

He sat. Watched her settle in. She wore a soft grey sweater, sleeves too long, the neckline a little stretched. Bare-faced, tired, beautiful.

“I wanted to see you like this,” he said, almost without meaning to. “When you’re not working. Not running.”

She tilted her head. “And what do you see?”

Harry considered her for a long moment. “Someone I want to keep learning.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was warm.

Grounded.

The waitress brought them wine, then disappeared like she knew better than to linger.

They talked. About nothing and everything. Favorite songs. Childhood cities. Her first sketch that got noticed. His first panic attack on tour. The kind of conversation that skipped small talk entirely and went straight to the parts people usually hide.

By the time they finished the second glass, the café had emptied out.

A bell chimed quietly as someone left. It was just them now, shadows long, voices low.

Y/N looked down at her glass, fingers tracing the rim. “This feels like a mistake,” she whispered.

Harry’s brows pulled together. “Why?”

“Because it feels too easy. And nothing good in my life has ever felt easy.”

He reached across the table, hand brushing hers. Slowly. Not to hold it. Just to be near.

“Maybe this time it’s not a trick,” he said. “Maybe it’s just… timing.”

She looked up at him.

And for once, she didn’t look away.

Her hand turned, gently curling around his. The touch was light, like a promise not to rush.

He stood then, still holding her gaze, and walked around to her side of the table.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, but not nervous.

He reached for her—slowly, giving her time.

And when she didn’t stop him, he leaned in.

The kiss was soft. Careful. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing just beneath her ear. Her lips parted slightly in surprise, then eased into his like they’d been waiting all day. All week.

It didn’t last long.

But it said everything.

When they pulled apart, her eyes were still closed for a beat longer than his.

“You’re not going to disappear after this, are you?” she whispered.

He smiled, thumb still against her skin.

“No,” he said. “Not this time.”

The has changed everything.

But there was no dramatic shift. No confession. No morning spent tangled in bedsheets. Just a quiet parting in front of the café, a lingering glance, a smile that meant this isn’t over, and the warmth of his hand briefly resting on her back as he helped her into her coat.

But after that, something softened between them.

It began with messages.

Late at night. Between fittings and castings. Between hotel rooms and crowded trams.

H: Still thinking about that lemon tart you didn’t let me try.

Y/N: You could’ve asked instead of staring at it like a Victorian orphan.

H: Are you always this mean to people you kiss?

Y/N: Only the ones who show up in perfect lighting and ruin my concentration.

Then, it became time.

Shared quietly. Without labels. Without plans.

She stopped being surprised when he’d show up at the atelier with espresso and fresh cornetti.

He stopped being surprised when she showed up at his flat on a Wednesday night, hair in a bun, sketchbook under her arm, and no explanation at all.

It became a rhythm.

Late dinners in his temporary apartment—sometimes pasta, sometimes toast, sometimes nothing but red wine and stolen bites of chocolate. They’d sit on the floor with the windows open, music low, the city humming below.

She’d draw while he played her records. He’d watch her from the couch, fascinated by the way her mouth twisted when she concentrated, how her hands smudged graphite across her cheek.

He never kissed her again—not yet.

But he wanted to.

Every time she leaned close to show him a sketch.

Every time she laughed and touched his knee like it was nothing.

Every time she fell asleep beside him on the sofa, curled in his hoodie, toes tucked under his thigh, trusting him completely.

One night, they sat together on the balcony, shoulders brushing, a blanket wrapped loosely around both of them.

It had started to rain—just lightly, Milan glistening below.

She was quiet. Tired. Her cheek resting on his shoulder. The kind of tired that wasn’t just physical, but lived-in. The kind that came from carrying too much alone.

Harry didn’t speak.

He just let her be there.

With him.

He reached for her hand eventually, sliding his fingers between hers without looking down.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she said, voice low and unguarded, “I’m not used to this.”

He turned his head, brushing his lips to her hair.

“To what?”

“This,” she murmured. “The quiet. The kindness. The… waiting.”

Harry gave her hand the gentlest squeeze.

“I’m not in a rush,” he said.

And he meant it.

Because the truth was, he wanted to wait.

He wanted to stay in this moment.

Where nothing had to be said.

Where the kiss still lingered, unspoken.

Where the closeness meant more than anything they could’ve done in a single night.

It started with a headline.

She didn’t even see it first—Martina did, shoving her phone in Y/N’s face as they passed bolts of silk in the atelier’s back corridor.

“Who’s Milan’s Mystery Muse? Harry Styles Spotted Leaving Hidden Flat Night After Night.”

Below it: grainy, zoomed-in photos. A hand that could be hers. A blur of her coat. The outline of Harry’s profile as he stepped into the building’s side entrance.

“Is this you?” Martina asked, wide-eyed.

Y/N stared, heart dropping into her stomach.

Alessandro appeared minutes later, sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, iPad under one arm, espresso in hand. His usual chaotic energy was buzzing on a different frequency now—less flamboyant, more serious.

“I told you to be careful,” he said quietly, pulling her aside.

“I was.”

“Not careful enough. They always find you, cara. Especially when the man you’re seeing has a face made for Vogue covers and half the world on alert.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a second.

“It’s just gossip,” she said. “There’s nothing confirmed.”

“Exactly. Which means they’ll dig deeper.”

Alessandro sighed and placed his espresso down with too much force. “I can’t have drama around the show right now. I love him, but if this leaks further—if they start naming names—you will be the one who pays for it. Not him.”

She knew he was right.

That night, she didn’t go to Harry’s apartment.

She didn’t answer his text.

Or the one after that.

H: Did I do something wrong?

H: Is this about the article? I can make it go away.

H: Say something, yeah?

It wasn’t until the following evening that she finally gave in.

The city was loud outside. Her thoughts louder.

She stood outside his apartment building for ten full minutes before buzzing up.

When the door finally opened, he stood there barefoot, in joggers and a threadbare hoodie, curls pushed back from his face, tired written across his eyes.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did she.

Not until she stepped inside and the door clicked shut behind her.

Then: “They found us.”

Harry didn’t look surprised. “They always do.”

“I didn’t sign up for that.”

“I know.”

“I work here,” she said. “In this world. I can’t afford to be the reason people talk. Not like that.”

Harry crossed the room slowly, voice steady but quiet. “You think I don’t know that?”

She blinked, stunned by the flicker of pain in his expression.

“I’ve spent years keeping people at arm’s length for exactly this reason,” he said. “But then you showed up. And for the first time in a long time… I didn’t want to.”

Silence bloomed between them again.

Then—softly:

“I missed you last night.”

Her chest ached.

“I was scared,” she admitted. “I still am.”

He stepped closer.

“Then stay scared with me,” he said gently. “I’ll wait. I’ll protect it. I won’t let them turn it into something it’s not.”

She looked up at him.

“I told you that I don’t know how to do this.”

Harry gave a soft smile. “We don’t have to know. We just have to keep choosing it.”

Another long beat.

Then, finally, her hand reached for his.

Their fingers laced together. Solid. Sure.

He didn’t kiss her right away — just looked at her like he was taking a photograph. Something in his expression said, This is the moment I’ll think about when you’re not here.

She stepped into his space, heart slamming behind her ribs.

“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said again — softer this time. Like a plea. “Stay. Just tonight.”

The walk to the couch felt like crossing into something irreversible. Neither rushed. Neither said a word.

When he finally kissed her, it wasn’t hesitant. It was slow but certain. Like he knew now — that she wanted him just as much, that she wasn’t going to disappear again.

Their mouths moved like they’d been made for this rhythm. Her hands curled behind his neck, into his hair, pulling him closer. His lips dragged down the column of her throat, over the hinge of her jaw.

He groaned softly against her skin. “You always smell this good?”

She smiled against his cheek. “Maybe you’re just obsessed.”

“God help me,” he muttered, mouth pressed to her collarbone. “I think I am.”

They sank into the couch in a tangle of limbs, heat blooming between them like a spark finally catching. His hands moved with reverence, palms splaying wide over her sides, thumbs brushing beneath the curve of her breasts as if asking, Can I?

She nodded. “Touch me, Harry.”

His breath caught.

He pushed her shirt up, dragging it over her head in one slow motion. She wore no bra. His lips parted like he’d forgotten how to speak.

“Jesus Christ.”

She flushed — and not from modesty. From the way he was looking at her. Like her body was art, something rare and unspeakably precious.

“Come here,” she whispered, pulling him in again.

His mouth latched to her breast with a groan, hand cupping the other as his tongue circled her nipple slowly, then suckled. She gasped, arching into his touch, fingers tightening in his hair.

“Fuck,” she whimpered. “That feels…”

“Yeah?” he asked, voice thick, mouth hot against her skin. “Tell me.”

She grabbed his hand, slid it down the slope of her belly, into the waistband of her jeans.

“Want your fingers.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes flicking to hers as he popped the button open. “Yeah darlin’? Been thinking about this?”

“All week,” she admitted, breathless.

He kissed her hard, groaning into her mouth as he pushed her jeans down, tugging her panties along with them. She kicked them off without grace.

His hand found her again — bare now, soft and slick and so warm.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed. “You’re soaked.”

She jerked in his grip when he dragged two fingers through her folds, teasing over her clit.

“Harry—”

“Shhh,” he soothed, kissing her jaw. “Let me make you feel good. I want to know what you sound like when you fall apart.”

Her eyes fluttered closed as his fingers slid inside — not rushed, just deep. Full. Familiar, but so much better like this.

He fucked her slow with his hand, thumb circling her clit in just the right way, his mouth on her neck, whispering praise between every shaky breath.

“You’re perfect like this, d’you know that? So fucking beautiful, so tight around me…”

Her thighs trembled. “I’m close—oh my god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come for me, baby. Come on, let me see it.”

She shattered in his arms with a gasp, legs clenching, hips bucking into his hand.

He didn’t pull away until she whimpered from the sensitivity.

Then he kissed her — deep, open-mouthed, like he was starving.

“Need to be inside you,” he rasped, forehead pressed to hers. “Need it so bad.”

She reached down, palm brushing over his bulge through his boxers. “Then take me.”

He didn’t move for a moment — just looked at her like she’d handed him something he didn’t deserve.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Harry. I want all of you.”

That broke him.

“Condom?” she asked softly, already reaching for her bag.

“I’ve got it,” he murmured, voice tight, kissing her jaw as he stood long enough to grab a condom from his wallet, yanking his boxers down, cock flushed and leaking, so hard it looked painful, “Been carrying one around like an idiot. Just in case.”

She laughed—quiet and breathless.

She sat up, breath catching as she watched him roll it on. “Jesus.”

Harry laughed, low and wrecked. “Don’t look at me like that or this’ll be over too fast.”

He climbed back over her, kissing her lips, her jaw, her throat.

“Tell me how you like it,” he whispered against her skin. “Tell me what feels good.”

“I don’t care,” she gasped. “Just—want to feel you.”

He nudged at her entrance, pushed in slow — so fucking slow — and cursed as her body stretched around him, taking him inch by inch.

“You’re—fuck—you feel unreal.”

Her hands fumbled for him, needing to hold something as he bottomed out.

They stilled together, both breathing hard.

Then he began to move.

Rhythmic, smooth, dragging every ounce of pleasure out of every stroke. She whimpered beneath him, gripping his arms, nails biting into his skin.

“Faster,” she whispered.

“You sure?”

“Yes, god—Harry—please—”

He obeyed.

The sound of skin on skin filled the room, along with her moans, his low grunts, the sharp edge of his voice every time he said her name like a prayer.

She pulled him down, kissing him desperately. “Don’t stop. I’m—shit—I’m gonna—”

He reached between them, thumb circling her clit again, and she came with a sob, clenched around him so tight he had to stop moving for a second.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

“Got you,” he groaned, thrusting once, twice more before spilling into the condom, his body going rigid above her, head bowed, hair falling into his face.

When he collapsed beside her, he pulled her into his arms immediately, breath still uneven.

They stayed that way for minutes — nothing but skin and breath and warmth.

She pressed a kiss to his chest.

“I think we just broke the world,” she whispered.

Harry laughed, hoarse and happy. “I’d do it again.”

Y/N woke slowly.

Not to an alarm. Not to the click of her heels across the tiled hallway of the atelier. Not to the dull ache behind her eyes from lack of sleep or too much wine.

But to warmth.

Soft sheets. The smell of Harry’s skin. Her cheek pressed to his chest, his arm curled securely around her back, his fingers tangled in her hair like he hadn’t let go all night.

She blinked, heart heavy with something she didn’t know how to name yet.

Harry was still asleep — or half-asleep, at least. His breathing was slow, steady. His lips slightly parted. The corners of his mouth curled just enough that she could tell his dreams weren’t bad.

She watched him for a long moment.

The room was bright now. Morning light poured in through the slatted blinds, casting soft golden stripes across the hardwood floor. His coat was still draped over the armchair where she’d thrown it. One of her earrings glinted on the floor. Her clothes were in a heap by the couch.

They’d never made it to the bed.

She smiled to herself.

Carefully, she shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to get a better look at him. The angles of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the tiny pink scratch near his shoulder she hadn’t remembered leaving.

Her heart ached. In the good way.

Harry stirred, lashes fluttering open.

She expected something groggy, a mumble, a sleepy blink. But his eyes found hers almost instantly.

Like he’d already known she was there.

“Morning,” he rasped.

She bit back a smile. “Morning.”

He stretched beneath her, groaning softly. “What time is it?”

She shrugged. “Does it matter?”

His hand slid down to the small of her back, palm spreading wide, warm and grounding.

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

They stared at each other.

There was no rush between them. No awkward tension. Just a stretch of silence that felt more like understanding than anything else.

Y/N broke first. “Last night…”

Harry raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think I can go back to pretending it didn’t mean something.”

He studied her carefully. “You thought I could?”

“I don’t know,” she said, honestly. “You’re used to this. The press, the afterparties, the camera flashes. I’m just… me.”

“You think that matters?”

She looked down. “It should.”

Harry reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’ve had a lot of people in my life,” he said quietly. “People who wanted things from me. People who stayed as long as the lights were bright.”

She looked up again.

“But you?” His thumb brushed her cheek. “You were gonna disappear. Not because you didn’t care, but because you did. Because you were scared. And you still showed up anyway.”

“I didn’t want to,” she said, voice cracking. “I wanted to go back to my apartment. I wanted to shut the world out.”

“But you didn’t.”

She shook her head. “No.”

Harry exhaled, like something in his chest had been unknotted.

“Then stay,” he said.

She stilled. “What?”

“I don’t mean just today.” His eyes locked with hers. “I mean… stay. With me.”

Her heart was thudding now — a steady, pounding rhythm in her ribs.

“I’ll go back to Tuscany,” he said. “We can lie low if we have to. Or stay in Milan, if you want that. You don’t have to give anything up that you’re not ready to. But if you are… if you’re willing…”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his. Their noses brushed. Their breaths synced.

“I’d leave it all behind,” she whispered. “I’d walk away from everything if it meant I could wake up like this everyday.”

Harry closed his eyes, pulling her closer.

“Then let’s not waste another fucking second.”

She laughed — breathless and warm and a little teary.

“Okay.”

And just like that, without fanfare or declarations, something between them clicked into permanence.

Not a fairytale.

But a beginning.

Let me know what you think

[theanglesstories]

polytrix x fem!reader

kpop demon hunter

For Their Eyes

At first, you tried to ignore it.

You were used to the side-eyes.

Used to the fancams that conveniently cut you out of frame.

Used to the way fans cropped you from photos when HUNTR/X posted group selfies with you in the background.

But this was different.

The post went viral within an hour.

It tagged all three girls.

@Mira_HUNTRX

@Zoey_HUNTRX

@Rumi_HUNTRX

The caption oozed fake confidence, sweetened just enough to make it sting:

"I’d be a better fit for you than her.

At least I look like I belong next to you."

Attached were four photos. All high angles, tight dresses, glossy lips—posing for attention, angled perfectly for likes.

And it worked.

The post blew up.

People shared it.

Some agreed.

Some called it out.

But either way, your name trended.

Again.

Usually you’d tell the girls when stuff like this happened.

Usually you’d let Mira handle it—her calm PR voice, her polite-but-deadly comebacks.

Or Zoey—her snarky TikToks that shut people down with a grin.

Or Rumi—who never raised her voice, but somehow made people feel guilty just by looking at them the right way.

But this time?

This wasn’t for them to fix.

This was for you.

You scrolled through your private gallery.

The folder you kept but never posted.

Not cheap thirst traps.

Not idol-slick selfies.

Silk.

Soft light.

Power.

The photos were quiet confidence—your back arched in just the right way, gaze over your shoulder, satin slipping off your collarbone.

You picked three photos.

One in black silk, half-smiling like you knew a secret.

One in red, smooth and sharp, clean lines and elegance.

One with your back to the camera, head turned, gaze calm and steady.

You captioned it in Korean and English:

“Don’t worry. I already belong here.”

You didn’t tag the fan.

You didn’t need to.

You tagged Mira, Zoey, and Rumi.

And hit post.

The reactions were instant.

Fans gasped.

Stans screamed.

Some doubled down.

Some deleted their tweets.

But most?

Most shut up.

Because the pictures said everything you needed to say.

Zoey saw it first.

Her phone buzzed mid-stretch, and she fumbled it onto the couch, eyes wide.

“Oh my god” she whispered, mouth open.

Mira glanced over from the kitchen, brow raised.

“What?”

Zoey shoved her phone at her, barely able to contain the grin.

“Look at this.”

Mira took the phone.

Her jaw tightened slightly—but it wasn’t anger.

It was something else.

Her pulse picked up.

She scrolled, slow, eyes tracing each image, her lips pressing together—sharp, soft, possessive.

Rumi leaned over Mira’s shoulder, tea cup forgotten in her hands.

She read the caption out loud, voice barely audible.

“Don’t worry. I already belong here.”

Her breath hitched.

Her lips curved into a small, secret smile.

Zoey laughed, breathless.

“She bodied that fan without saying a name.”

Her eyes sparkled.

“Did you see that back arch?”

Mira set the phone down carefully, but her eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“We’re going to find her,” she said softly.

Her voice left no room for debate.

You were still in the spare room when they came in.

Your phone buzzed nonstop on the nightstand.

Mentions. Notifications. Noise.

But you sat still, wrapped in Mira’s hoodie, stomach tight, heart racing.

The door opened.

Mira came in first, her gaze locked on yours.

Zoey followed, practically vibrating with excitement but keeping it soft—because she knew you.

Rumi knelt in front of you, her hands warm on your thighs.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Mira asked, crouching close, eyes level with yours.

Her voice wasn’t sharp. It was gentle. Protective.

“I didn’t want you to have to fix it again,” you whispered.

Your throat tightened.

“I wanted to fix it myself.”

Zoey dropped onto the couch beside you, her arm looping around your waist, pulling you in.

“You did fix it,” she whispered against your temple.

Her breath was warm. Her lips curved into a grin.

“And you looked so good doing it.”

Rumi’s fingers traced soft patterns on your leg.

“You don’t have to fight alone,” she whispered, eyes calm, steady.

“Not when you have us.”

Mira cupped your chin, tilting your face toward her.

Her thumb brushed just under your bottom lip, her eyes soft but sharp.

“You looked hot in those photos,” she whispered.

They pulled you into the living room, letting you collapse into their arms.

Zoey kissed your neck, murmuring compliments into your skin.

Mira’s hand stayed at your waist, grounding you, steady.

Rumi curled into your side, her lips brushing your shoulder.

“You’re ours,” Rumi whispered softly.

Mira’s lips grazed your temple.

“You definitely belong here.”

Zoey’s grin turned playful again, her hands sliding under your hoodie, fingertips warm.

“And next time,” she whispered, mouth close to your ear, “we’ll take the photos together.”

[theegoldenchild]

Chapter One: Dreams or Nightmares

Authors Note: Yeah so… I have a habit of starting something new while working on something else… Enjoy my coochie muffins!

Warnings: 18+ | Angst | Slow burn | Smokie Smoke is MEAN :/ but it’s lowkey justified | Stack is a grown toddler | OC x SmokeStack Twins | Of course this story is going to be freaky. Can’t you tell by the header?

By the time Alexandria Watkins stepped into her penthouse, the night had settled over Los Angeles like a veil of lies, thin enough to let the city’s light bleed through, but heavy enough to feel suffocating if you stood still too long. The glow from her skyline view flickered across the glass walls like a heartbeat, pulsing with the life of a city that never slept, even when she desperately needed to.

The soft click of the door behind her was the only sound in the apartment. No greetings, condescending voices, clinking glasses or microaggression congratulations. Just pure silence.

Her heels tapped against the polished marble floor with a rhythm that felt foreign to her ears now, echoing in a space designed to impress but not to comfort. The second the lock turned behind her, something in her spine gave out. Not physically… but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Her shoulders dropped, her posture dissolved, and the woman she carefully performed as all night unraveled in deliberate threads.

She stood there, motionless, for a long moment. Still in the shimmering midnight-blue gown that clung to her figure like it had been painted on. Still wearing the smile she’d forced through every conversation, every camera flash, and every tight-lipped exchange with producers who wanted to “talk numbers” but kept looking at her breasts instead of her eyes. Still reeking of expensive perfume and polite applause and the sour, invisible stench of a man who’d embarrassed her in front of everyone.

Adam.

The name tasted rancid on her tongue. She had watched him. All fucking night. Watched his hand linger just a little too long on the curve of his assistant’s hip. Watched the corners of his mouth tilt in that smug little smirk he used when he wanted to make someone feel chosen. She’d seen it before, back when it was still being used on her. The worst part was that no one knew about their split. Not her manager, her PR team, or even her friends. No one knew she and Adam were done. And this wasn’t their typical fight or just “taking a break.” No, they were completely finished. And because no one knew, she didn’t have an outlet to vent her frustrations.

Admitting the breakup out loud meant opening the door to questions, pity, and sly whispers that she couldn’t afford to trail behind her name right now. Not when her first major film was finally on its way to the theaters. Not when people were beginning to call her “a force.” So she smiled through it all. She nodded, posed, and she swallowed the humiliation like a jagged pill and let it catch in her throat while she played the part of the adored, the accomplished, and the unbothered.

But now that she was home, she peeled it all off.

The zipper groaned as she yanked it down her back, the fabric loosened like a secret exhaled into the dark. She stepped out of the gown with a quiet grunt, letting it collapse onto the floor in a puddle of sequins she would tend to in the morning. Her skin prickled with leftover adrenaline and her breath was shaky with the effort of keeping herself composed for hours on end.

She moved in silence letting the soles of her feet guide her to the kitchen. Her mid-back, jet-black curls still held the memory of tight red carpet glamour and were finally frizzing at the edges. She reached up and roughly gathered them into a pineapple bun at the crown of her head, letting the weight of it sit heavy. Loose curls spilled over her forehead and temples, framing her face with a messy kind of honesty she hadn’t allowed herself all night.

She walked over to a dining chair and grabbed her favorite shirt that was draping over the side. It was an old, oversized thing with faded lettering from a film festival she’d once been too broke to attend but swore she’d headline one day. She tugged it over her naked frame, relishing in the cotton softness against her bare skin. Her nipples hardened beneath the fabric and the chill of the penthouse finally caught up to her now that her mask was off. Next came a pair of fuzzy socks. They were pink and mismatched and one of them had a tiny bleach stain near the toe. Nothing about them screamed “Hollywood,” and that’s exactly why she loved them.

She wandered to her bar cart and selected the darkest red she owned. Didn’t even glance at the label. She poured it into a glass that was definitely too big for a single serving and brought it to her lips. “I need a fucking vacation,” she spoke like the words tasted as bitter as her drink of choice.

She moved to her couch that was a wide, curved velvet thing the color of dried roses, plush and dramatic and far too large for someone who spent most nights curled up alone. She dropped onto it unceremoniously, the wine sloshing a little in her glass as she pulled her legs under her and reached for her phone.

The screen lit up and showed multiple missed calls.

Adam.

Five of them. One right after the other.

Persistent bastard, she thought, rolling her eyes before tossing the phone across the room. It hit the far end of the couch with a dull thump and tumbled between the cushions like it had the good sense to be ashamed of itself.

For a moment, she just sat there breathing and letting her mind wander. The city beyond the windows kept moving. Cars zipped across the hills like fireflies. Somewhere, someone was proposing. Someone else was crying in an Uber. Someone was having the best night of their life. And Alexandria was just… here. She wasn’t crying or screaming like a typical heartbroken woman, but she also wasn’t okay. She felt suspended in a quiet that felt like it might devour her if she let it.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of the wineglass. Her throat burned from the heat of the alcohol, but she took another sip anyway. This kind of pain was something she could understand. She leaned back, closed her eyes and let her mind continue to drift. Not to her film, not to the critics, not even to Adam—but to something else. Something unreal. Something dangerous. The only thing lately that made her feel remotely alive: Smoke and Stack.

Two fictional men from a movie she’d watched too many times. Characters she’d written about late into the night, fingers flying over her keyboard, breath caught in her throat as she imagined the rough timbre of their voices, the weight of their hands, and the danger in their eyes. Alexi’s lips parted slightly as the thought lingered. She finished the rest of her wine in one long unapologetic gulp and let the glass fall to the plush carpet with a careless thud. It didn’t break, because nothing ever did in her world unless she wanted it to.

She pushed up from the couch and drifted toward her bedroom. The lights were low, casting soft shadows across the white oak floors of her bedroom and modern art hanging on the walls. Her bare thighs brushed against the hem of her oversized shirt as she moved, wine-warmed and restless. There was something electric building beneath her skin. A low hum of obsession that refused to quiet down no matter how tired she pretended to be.

She climbed into her California king bed and dragged her laptop onto her lap. The screen lit up painting her mahogany brown face in pale blue light, highlighting the dark crescents under her eyes and the soft crease between her brows. Her desktop background was a still from Sinners—the one where Smoke and Stack lean against the car and share a cigarette, their silhouettes outlined in danger and vengeance. That scene had branded itself into her memory the first time she saw it. And the second… And the fiftieth.

She opened her latest fanfic doc and began typing.

Ryan Coogler deserves every fucking award for what he did with these two.

No, seriously.

This man cracked open some dusty-ass door in my brain and summoned two men who’ve ruined every real man for me. I’m a writer. I create characters for a living. I’m good at it. But I haven’t been this crazy about a fictional man since I was watching Black Panther on repeat wishing Erik would climb out of the TV and claim me.

Her fingers flew across the keys, each word pouring out of her like a confession. She wrote about the way Smoke’s hand flexed around the grip of his pistol when he got angry. The glint of Stack’s gold tooth when he smiled right before doing something that should’ve landed him in Hell. She gave them more than just lines. She gave them purpose, pain, and power. She breathed life into every slow-burning stare, every drawled threat, every moment of brutal tenderness between them and the girl who could finally bring them to their knees.

The wine made her bolder and the silence made her reckless. She didn’t stop writing. Not when the clock struck midnight. Not when her eyes began to sting. Not even when her fingers began to cramp. She kept going until the lines between her fantasy and her reality blurred into something deliciously sinful. And finally once exhaustion took over, her laptop slid off her lap and landed beside her on the bed as sleep took her.

The sound that woke her wasn’t gentle.

It was sharp, metallic, foreign and completely out of place in the curated calm of her penthouse. Something slammed against the marble floor in her kitchen, followed by the distant scrape of movement. Then came the unmistakable clatter of glass hitting the ground.

Alexi’s eyes snapped open. Her room was a cave of shadows, faintly illuminated by the screen of her sleeping laptop. Her limbs were stiff from sleeping half-upright, her shirt twisted around her body, her curls now a wild mane around her face. For a moment, she thought it had been part of a dream. Until she heard it again. A heavy footstep… one… two… maybe three.

Every nerve in her body lit up with fear and she scrambled out of bed, disoriented with her heart thundering in her chest. Her eyes quickly scanned her room in search of her phone. She needed it to call help, she needed to—

“Shit.” Her voice was a strained whisper as she remembered how she threw her phone angrily after seeing Adam’s missed calls. It was somewhere across the living room possibly dead and definitely out of reach. Barefoot and breathless, she moved to her closet and yanked the old aluminum bat from behind her coats. It felt ridiculous in her hand, like a toy. But it was better than nothing.

Her penthouse was extra silent now, the kind of silence that pressed against the walls like it knew something she didn’t. She crept down the hallway and every step felt like a mistake. And then she saw the light spilled across the polished floor from the kitchen. Her breath caught in her throat as she inched closer with her bat raised. She peered around the corner—and froze.

Two men stood in the center of her kitchen. They weren’t dressed like intruders. No masks, no frantic searching for valuables. No tools or backpacks or signs of panic. They were dressed like legends.

Both wore deep black three-piece suits that looked pristine, heavy, and cut in a style that belonged to another era. Smoke’s jacket hugged his frame, shoulders broad, chest commanding. Stack’s coat was open, revealing a pressed vest and blood-streaked white dress shirt beneath. Their shoes were scuffed but polished. Their suits were tailored, but dusty. Like they’d walked through a battlefield in their Sunday best. And in their hands—pistols. Not modern handguns. They both had antique revolvers, polished to a dull gleam, gripped tight like they were still warm from being fired.

Alexi’s bat hit the floor and her heart seized as she felt her legs lock. This was too much and her brain refused to process what was going on.

Smoke, who was standing closest to the stove, looked up first. The dim light in the room made him look larger than life. His stare was menacing and he looked like chaos with a pulse even in a state of confusion. Next to him, with a slightly looser and cockier silhouette stood Stack. He was fiddling with a pot and glanced up from it like it just swindled him out of money. “What in the cotton pickin’ hell…” Stack’s voice bristled, caught between doubt and fascination. “This ain’t no Mississippi.”

They both turned toward her at the same time. A lost breath left Alexi’s lips unsealed. Her vision blurred and her knees wobbled. And then she did what anyone in this situation would do… she laughed. It started in her belly, light and breathless, then exploded upward into her chest until it cracked out of her mouth in full, echoing peals.

“Oh my God,” she choked, gripping her stomach. “Oh, this is a good one.”

Stack looked over at Smoke with a face full of confusion. “Is she alright in the head?”

“This is definitely a dream,” Alexi said between gasps, wiping tears from her eyes. “Jesus, I really outdid myself this time.”

Neither man moved. Their pistols stayed lowered, but ready.

Alexi took a few steps forward, still smiling. Her oversized shirt hung just off one shoulder, exposing smooth brown skin and the curve of her collarbone. Her fuzzy socks slid slightly across the tile as she moved. “Usually when y’all show up it’s way more romantic,” she mused. “Lot more kissing and licking. But you look good.” She eyed them slowly, boldly. “So… who wants to take a turn first?”

That stopped everything. Smoke’s brows furrowed sharply. Stack’s head tilted, confused and vaguely entertained. Neither man smiled.

Alexi raised her arms, twirling once. “I’m guessing this is my subconscious playing out one of the older drafts. The suits? The guns? You boys here to teach me a lesson?”

Stack blinked. “…Elijah, is this woman touched?” Smoke didn’t speak. Instead, he slowly raised his pistol and leveled it at her forehead.

Alexi didn’t even flinch; she just grinned wider, like the muzzle of a gun was a compliment. “Dramatic. I like it. You gonna rough me up a little, Big Daddyyyy?”

Stack’s jaw twitched. But Smoke’s stare stayed fixed. His voice was even and he didn’t find this exchange entertaining. “You got five seconds to tell me where we is,” he said. “Or I’ll put a fuckin’ bullet in ya pretty lil’ head an paint this shiny floor red.”

The words landed like a slap and the amusement drained from Alexi’s face. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a scene. The gun pointed at her was real and the man holding it was not playing with her. Her breath caught as she blinked in confusion. “Wh… what?”

Smoke took one step forward. “Four.” The weight in his voice was unbearable, like judgment and death wrapped in bourbon and thunder.

Alexi’s hands shot up, her words tumbling over each other. “W-WAIT! You’re in Los Angeles. You’re in my penthouse—I swear—I didn’t bring you here—I don’t know how you got here—”

Stack tilted his head slightly and he squinted. Suspicion threading his glare. “Los Angeles? We out west?”

“Y-Yes! And it’s 2025,” Alexi whispered.

That stopped them… kind of. Smoke’s pistol faltered, just for a moment. Stack turned slowly, scanning the space again. He took in the high ceilings, the clean, sterile light, the floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a skyline like stars poured into glass.

“This…” Stack muttered, “this really ain’t Mississippi.”

“I know,” Alexi rambled, overwhelmed. “Because you’re not supposed to be here. You’re fictional.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked and his finger hovered over the trigger.

Stack blinked. “Fictional?”

“You’re from a movie!” she cried, chest heaving. “A movie called Sinners! I wrote about your characters. I know everything about you… your birthday, the scar behind Stack’s ear, the way Smoke clenches his jaw before he kills someone… I-I didn’t make you but I definitely added on to who you are.”

Stack looked like Alexandria had grown a second head.

But Smoke… Smoke just stared. His eyes darkened, not with fear. “You sayin’ we dead?”

“No!” she said, backing up. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I just… I was writing… I fell asleep—”

Smoke took a step forward, gun still in hand.

Stack caught his arm. “Smoke,” he said quietly, “if she’s tellin’ the truth…”

“We ain’t in Clarksdale no more,” Smoke spoke through clenched teeth, tone sharp as a switchblade before lowering the weapon. His eyes still fixed on Alexi.

She collapsed to the floor, hands shaking. The sterile floor was cold against her skin, a cruel contrast to the heat flooding her body. Her knees hit first, then her palms. She didn’t care how she looked, didn’t care that her oversized shirt had risen high on her thighs or that her body was quaking with disoriented doubt. Her mind was a cyclone of disbelief and rising terror.

Smoke was still watching her silently and unblinking. Like a wolf trying to decide if the rabbit at his feet was already dead or just playing dumb.

Stack lowered his pistol completely now, sliding it into the shoulder holster beneath his jacket as he took a cautious step forward. There was a strange glint in his eye that wasn’t cruelty or even suspicion, it was akin to childlike intrigue. A hunter trying to figure out what kind of trap he’d just stepped into.

Alexi’s brain itched for answers. Her voice came out thin and breathless. “This isn’t possible.”

Stack crouched slowly, resting his forearm on his knee, eyes level with hers now. His voice, when it came, was low and coaxing, a balm compared to his brother’s edge. “Start from the top, sweetheart.”

“I told you.” Her voice cracked. “You’re from a movie. A film called Sinners. It came out this year… 2025. You’re both in it. You’re fictional characters played by a really talented actor. But I’ve been writing stories about you… in my spare time. Fanfiction… A lot of it.”

Smoke’s lips curled around the word like it was poison. “Fiction.”

“I didn’t mean to bring you here,” she rushed on, words tumbling over themselves. “I don’t know how you got here. One second I was writing about you, and the next…” She looked up, eyes wide and unfocused. “There was a crash,” her voice slipped out like a ghost. “And then you were here.”

Smoke scanned the room like it might offer him answers. His fingers flexed around the grip of his pistol, but he didn’t raise it again. “This some magic shit,” he grumbled low, letting the words barely escape.

Stack let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You been writin’ spells, baby girl?”

“No!” Alexi shot back, sitting up a little straighter. “I write romance. Angst. Sometimes smut… maybe a lot of smut… B-But I don’t write portals!”

That made Stack blink. Then his eyes drifted to Smoke, who looked like he was resisting the urge to shoot the floor just to hear something familiar.

Alexi dragged herself back to her feet, wobbling slightly as she leaned against the kitchen island. Her voice dropped, quieter now, the fear finally catching up to her. “How did you get here?”

Smoke’s voice cracked like embers in the dark. “Last thing I ‘member, we was collectin’ on a debt.”

“Lil whiskey runner out in Lambert’s Creek,” Stack added. “Owed us for three weeks. Thought he could run.” His eyes narrowed, distant. “We was just about to make an example of him.”

Alexi’s heart skipped. “And then?”

“There was this… sound,” Stack said, frowning. “Low. Wrong. Like thunder inside ya’ skull. Next thing we know, we here. Bright lights an a kitchen full of glass that ain’t hold no food.” Alexi’s gaze darted to the kitchen island where a few pieces of broken glass glittered on the floor. She followed Stack’s gaze to her refrigerator, to the sleek stovetop, to the glowing digital clock above the oven. “Where we come from,” he muttered, “none of this shit exists.”

Smoke leaned against the counter now, finally slipping his pistol into the back of his waistband. His voice was dangerous like there was a blade behind every syllable. “An you expect us to believe we just appeared here ‘cause you was scribblin’ stories ‘bout us?”

“No,” Alexi whispered. “I don’t expect you to believe anything. I can barely believe it myself.”

There was a long, heavy pause. Then Stack, always the lighter of the two, turned his head and looked at her with something like wonder. “If you did write us… that mean you wrote this, too?”

Alexi blinked. “This?”

He gestured at his own body, then Smoke’s, then the suits. “These clothes. These scars. The way he talk. The way I smile.”

She swallowed hard. “I… yeah. I mean, I took inspiration from the movie, but the rest… yeah. I wrote all of it.”

Smoke’s eyes were flint. “Then you better explain why you brought us here. ‘Cause I don’t take kindly to bein’ yanked outta my life foe’ a lil girl daydream.”

Alexi cut her eyes to Smoke and her lips were still trembling with a mixture of emotions. “I didn’t bring you here on purpose! You think I would’ve done this to myself voluntarily? I thought I was dreaming when I saw you. Hell, I still think I might be dreaming.”

Stack smirked. “What kinda dreams you usually have ‘bout us?”

Alexi didn’t bother answering. Her silence said more than words could. Smoke’s gaze cut between them, and the heat in the room thickened. “You… you’re not gonna hurt me, are you?” That question hung in the air like a lit fuse.

Stack tilted his head and greedily took in Alexi’s figure. “Depends.”

“On what?”

Smoke answered, his voice a low, lethal hum. “On whether you keep lyin’.”

“I’m not,” she huffed, dragging the words out like a spoiled child. “I swear I’m not.”

The silence that followed was long and awful. Then, at last, Smoke exhaled deeply and reached up to loosen his tie. It fell away from his collar like a sigh. “We need answers, lil girl,” he said. “An ‘till we get ‘em, we stay here.”

Alexi’s brows lifted. “Wait. Stay? As in… here? With me?”

Smoke didn’t bother answering her right away. His eyes cut sharp across the room before taking in every inch of her. Weird colored socks planted stubbornly on a weird floor, arms crossed tight over her chest in a weird looking nightgown, and a mouth twisted in disbelief like she didn’t know how to address a man like him. She wasn’t like any woman he was used to dealing with and he was becoming more annoyed by the second while pulling off his coat.

Alexi’s breath snagged. “You can’t be serious,” she blurted. “This isn’t a boarding house. I don’t even… WAIT! Look, I can pay for you to stay somewhere else, okay? I’ll get you an Airbnb—nice view, clean sheets—”

“Air… what?” Stack murmured, his brow crinkling.

“‘Bee an bee,’” Smoke echoed, low and disinterested. He tossed his coat over the back of her pristine couch, already turning away like her words were gnats buzzing near his ear.

“It’s a rental! A place to sleep that isn’t my home!” Alexi whined, spinning on her heel to follow him as both men began to move through her penthouse like they owned the place. “You can’t just… HEY! STOPPP! This is MY space!”

But they didn’t stop. Stack’s polished shoes tapped across her floor as he trailed his twin, fingers giddily gliding across her countertops, poking into drawers, plucking items like a child in a toy store. He turned her electric kettle upside down and shook it like it owed him money. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s not a weapon, it’s for tea!” she barked, yanking it out of his hands. “Jesus! Stop touching everything!”

Smoke said nothing. His steps were slow and deliberate and his gun was already back in his hand. Not pointed, but heavy and ever-present in his palm as he swept into her hallway.

Alexi stormed after them, her oversized shirt swishing angrily around her upper thighs. “You’re both out of your damn minds! I don’t know what sort of Wild West fantasy you think this is, but this is my apartment and you are not allowed to just squat here!”

“You talk too much,” Smoke muttered, tone dry as dust. “Shut the fuck up.”

She halted mid-step. The words cracked across the air like a whip. He didn’t even glance back, just opened a door, peeked in, checked corners, and moved on. He treated her like she was background noise… like she wasn’t even there.

Stack turned to her with a lazy shrug. “He don’t mean it, sweetheart. He just don’t like unknowns. Ain’t nothin’ personal.”

“This is personal,” she growled. “He’s in my goddamn home with a gun telling me to ‘shut the fuck up’!”

“Exactly.” Smoke’s voice came from further down the hall now. “Which mean it’s mine an you listen to me ‘til I say otherwise.”

She chased the sound, catching up to find him standing outside her bedroom. Smoke’s hand reached for the doorknob and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“No!” Alexi darted forward and threw herself in front of the door, planting both hands on the frame like her, ‘pilates every other Tuesday’ body could stop him. “Absolutely not. You DON’T get to go in there.”

Smoke’s gaze slid down to meet hers, dark and silent. She could feel the air constricting, coiling tighter and tighter. Then, without giving another warning he raised his pistol and the barrel kissed her forehead. She felt her soul leave her body as her spine went rigid, her heart started to hammer like it was going to jump out of her chest, and her throat became dry as ash.

“Move lil’ girl.”

Her voice caught in her throat, but she held her ground. “I told you… no… you don’t get to go in there… And I’m not a ‘lil’ girl!”

Stack, behind him, tilted his head in interest and instigated the situation. “Maybe she got a man in there, Smoke”

“If she do, I’ll shoot him,” Smoke said flatly, eyes still locked on Alexi’s.

“I live alone,” she hissed. “There’s no one in there. It’s just my space and it’s private.”

His finger ghosted over the trigger. “You want me to believe you?” he asked, voice as sharp and filled with disbelief. “Then you let me see foe’ myself.”

She didn’t flinch. Not even as the cool metal pressed deeper into her mocha skin. Her eyes blazed. “You want answers?” she whispered. “Then stop acting like a fucking villain and ask like an adult.”

For the first time, something flickered in his stare just for a breath. Recognition, maybe. Or rage. Who knows. But it vanished just as quickly as it appeared, swallowed by that same calm brutality. “Stack,” he said.

His brother moved up beside them, suddenly all charm gone from his face. There was a hidden message in the way Smoke said his twin's name. He was watching her too now. Serious and coiled like a predator ready to toy with its prey.

She stood alone, but she still didn’t move.

Smoke exhaled. “Three seconds.”

“Or what?”

“One—you get shot. Two—ya’ door get kicked in. Three—”

“Stop!” she shouted, stepping aside at last. Fury, fear and exhaustion came crashing down all at once. “Just… go. But if you break one thing in there, I swear to God…”

Alexi stood just outside her bedroom, arms stiff at her sides while her fingers twitched with the effort of not clawing the doorframe. From inside, she could hear the low thump of drawers opening, the scrape of hangers sliding across the metal bar in her closet, the rustle of fabric being disturbed by hands that didn’t belong in her space.

And then, she heard a sound… that sound… a faint high-pitched hum. Followed by silence so sharp it pierced the air like a sword. Her blood froze before she shoved open the door. Smoke stood in the center of her bedroom, a hulking shadow in the lamplight, backlit by the faint silver spill of moonlight and city backdrop through the sheer curtains. In one hand, he held her pink vibrator. The long, curved silicone shape looked obscene in his large palm. It was out of place, too modern, too intimate. His thumb rested on the base, where a single button still glowed faintly red.

He was staring at it. No—studying it. Like a weapon. Like a quantum physics equation that needed to be solved.

“PUT THAT DOWN!” Alexi’s voice tore from her throat before she even knew she was moving.

She lunged for him, arms outstretched, but Smoke being a soldier was faster and stronger. His arm extended smoothly, raising the toy just above her reach and he didn’t even have to shift his weight. She collided with his chest, hands scrambling to reclaim what was hers, but it was like hitting a wall of stone.

“Back the fuck up,” he warned, low and quiet.

The air in Alexi’s throat snagged like silk on thorns. She took an instinctive step back, eyes flashing. Her heart was slamming so hard against her ribs she could feel it in her neck.

“That’s mine,” she hissed. “It’s private.”

Smoke’s eyes drifted back to the toy. The faint buzz had stopped, but his attention remained fixed.

“What is it?” Stack’s voice came from behind her now. His posture was still lazy but his eyes were sharper than before.

Alexi’s cheeks flamed. “It’s none of your business.”

Smoke didn’t even look at her. “It move,” he said, almost to himself. “Got a hum in it. But it ain’t no weapon. Ain’t no blade. Ain’t got no trigger.”

“It’s not a weapon,” Alexi spat, arms crossed tight over her chest. “It’s a damn vibrator.”

Stack squinted. “A what?”

Smoke finally looked at her. Really looked at her. His eyes moved over her like a clock ticking down. He finally noticed the oversized shirt clinging to her curves. Her bare legs that looked soft enough to sleep on and that fire in her glare.

He held up the toy. “What’s it foe’?”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Alexi clenched her jaw, heat crawling up her neck, and said through gritted teeth, “It’s for pleasuring yourself.”

Smoke blinked once before tilting his head, as if trying to make sense of a foreign language. “Pleasurin’ yaself?” he repeated, voice flat.

“Yes,” she said, arms folded tighter. “It’s mine. It’s for me.”

A beat of silence passed and then Smoke laughed. It was a quiet, joyless sound that didn’t touch his eyes. He took a step forward, still holding the device, and stared down at her like she was some kind of sick joke.

“You that pretty,” he said, voice like bloodily thorns, “a you layin’ up in this glass box gettin’ off with toys?” Alexi didn’t respond and he pushed the issue further. “Ain’t got a man?”

She rolled her eyes, but her voice cracked. “No.”

“You fuckin’ lonely,” he muttered, more to himself than her like he finally cracked a code. His mouth curved, not into a smile, but something darker. “Makes sense. That why you keep talkin’ to me like I won’t put a bullet in your fuckin’ skull? Must be why you brought us here.”

Her nostrils flared. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, voice low. “No man in ya’ bed. No discipline in ya’ mouth. No sense in ya’ head.”

Alexi laughed at Smoke's audacity. “You think I need a man to control me?”

“I think you need somethin’,” he said, stepping into her space again. “You act like a damn child. Spoiled. Loud. And very disrespectful.”

Alexi’s spine stiffened. “I don’t owe you shit,” she barked. “You teleport into my house, you threaten me, you wave guns around like it’s 1920 and I’m supposed to what? Shut up and smile? Be grateful you’re ransacking my room instead of putting a bullet in my head?”

Smoke didn’t blink. “I’on like the way you talk.”

“And I don’t like the way you breathe, nigga,” she snapped. “Wanna start counting again?”

Smoke’s voice dipped into a register so cold it made the air shift. “You ain’t nothin’ but a beautiful waste of woman. I see why you lonely.”

A slap came from her hand and it landed across Smoke’s cheek before she even realized she’d done it. The sound cracked like a whip in the air. Stack, who was standing behind Alexi, went completely still and Smoke didn’t flinch. He sucked his teeth slowly, then turned his face back toward her, eyes narrowing just slightly. He didn’t raise his hand. Didn’t reach for his gun.

But the air between them died. And when he spoke, it was quiet. Razor-sharp. “You value ya’ life?”

Alexi swallowed, but didn’t look away. Her lips were still parted, her chest heaving with breath.

“You wrote me,” he said, voice low and lethal. “That’s what you said, right, lil’ girl? You wrote me.”

Her throat tightened.

“Then tell me,” he continued, gaze slicing through her like a scalpel, “did you write that I’d let a woman lay hands on me an live?”

She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“I killed a man for talkin’ outta turn,” he said, almost conversational now. “Slit another’s throat for steppin’ in my way. Shot a boy through the eye just ‘cause I ain’t like his stare. You think I wouldn’t kill you for hittin’ me?”

Alexi took a step back and was met with the muscled wall of Stack.

“You think I give a fuck ‘bout ya’ softness? Ya’ lips? You think ya’ little bare legs an smart mouth make you untouchable?”

Stack’s voice cut in low but thunderous. “Smoke.” And then he stepped forward keeping his eyes on his twin. “That’s enough.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked. His eyes were still on her.

“She don’t know where the line is,” Stack said, voice like gravel. “But we do.”

Smoke’s lips parted. A breath passed between his teeth like a dragon cooling itself down before setting a city ablaze. Then he turned and dropped the vibrator on her bed without looking at it. Let it fall limp and silent into the rumpled sheets like it was nothing more than a joke that had run its course. Alexi stood in the same spot, her heart pounding so loud she could barely hear anything else. Her palms were damp. Her knees were shaking.

Smoke passed her like a shadow, shoulder brushing hers as he moved. Stack lingered a moment longer. His gaze, once playful, was sharp and focused. He looked at her not like a fantasy but like a woman who had just stepped into the jaws of something she couldn’t tame.

“You talk like you ain’t ever been put in ya’ place,” he said quietly. “But if you keep on, sweetheart… one of us might teach you.” Then he followed his brother into the hallway, and the door closed behind them.

Alexi stood alone in the middle of her bedroom, the silence wrapped tight around her throat. She knew something had changed. She hadn’t just brought killers to life. She had summoned storms.

.

.

.

.

.

Authors Note: TOLD YALL KNEEGAS I WOULD FIGURE OUT HOW TO BRING THESE MEN TO LIFE… OC might be a self insert *cough* or not *cough*

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed for this series… yes… I said series…)

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theethighpriestess @imagining-greatness @hearteyes-for-killmonger @blackpantherismyish @theogbadbitch @queenofklonnie22 @underated345-blog @bxrbie1 @harleycativy @hermyowney @kcundercover0 @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @gtf-o-m-d @merranerra @afroslacks @wingedpeachjudgegiant @smutattack @solarssins @xoxodaedreams @rolemodelshit @chrisevansmentee @honggihwa @softy212 @michifilmz @hon3yjaxx @ladymac82 @fruitypatooties-blog @whysoceerious @deexoxomuah @nanamiismine @monstaxmomma0 @a4g3lstarfire @blk-afrodite @melodyofmbaku @championshipshade @aretasreads @nubiagurllll @wabi-sabi1090 @swiftscepterdragon @midnightmemoirsofher @plan3tch1ld @dutifullythoughtfulenthusiast @iceyyycapsicle @honeytoffee @joonseuph0ria @desire4ella @li-da-savage

[kunareads]

brat | track two

talk talk featuring satoru gojo

producer!suguru x popstar!reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 7.2k

content: best friend + safe zone!satoru!!! drugs (implied)/alcohol use, club-hopping / SMUT (so much of it but it's necessary i promise), studio sex, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected p in v, voyeurism, exhibitionism, threesome / soft angst if you squint

taglist is closed! 18+ please <3

Buzzfeed Music — COKE, CROP TOPS, AND COLLABS: THE WILD NIGHT THAT MAY HAVE GIVEN US THE SONG OF THE SUMMER

Page Six — BRAT PACK SPOTTED: GETO, YN, AND GOJO HIT THREE CLUBS IN ONE NIGHT, LEAVE TOGETHER

Fader — TRIPLE THREAT: YN, GETO, AND GOJO TURN HEADS ON A NIGHT OUT. COLLAB INCOMING?

the first club of the night is designed to be documented. manicured skyline, hand-selected crowd, the kind of party that wants to be watched.

you arrive on suguru’s arm, late and camera-ready. there’s a lull when you enter—a breath of recognition that follows the two of you like smoke. you’re barely past the threshold when you see him.

satoru, lit up like a match.

white hair glittering, sunglasses on at 10 PM, wearing the same grin he’s had since you were nineteen. he ditches whoever he was charming mid-sentence and heads straight towards you.

you don’t wave, but your smile gives you away.

“look who finally showed up,” he calls, already too loud.

“had to give you time to clear out the influencers.”

“you’re welcome.” he winks. “been doing your job all night.”

beside you, suguru’s already sipping on something clear and expensive.

“hi, suguru,” satoru drawls, eyes bright with mischief. “you miss me?

suguru takes another sip. pauses. “not even a little.”

“so yes,” satoru beams.

suguru just huffs a laugh in response like he knows how this goes.

satoru grabs your hand and spins you like you’re in a ballroom. “you look fucking hot.”

you lean in like it’s a secret. “i know.”

he grins, delighted, and the three of you dissolve into it—feeding off lights and noise and attention you didn’t have to ask for.

satoru waves at photographers, blowing kisses and posing for anyone who calls his name.

people gravitate to suguru despite how little he gives them, caught by that amused attentiveness that makes them forget their own names.

you pause at a branded backdrop. someone with a ring light asks if they can get a quick shot for socials. someone else holds their phone up, already filming: “fit check?”

“gaultier,” you say sweetly. “my bag is dior, but i’m not really sure where the jewelry came from—you’d have to ask suguru.”

a neon-lit photo booth glows near the bar. satoru sees it first and grabs your hand, already moving. you catch suguru’s wrist as you go. the flash pops three times: your tongue out, then suguru flipping off the camera, then them kissing your cheeks while you squeeze your eyes shut and smile so hard it hurts.

a cocktail appears in your hand—too fruity, not nearly strong enough. you slap satoru's hand away when he tries to steal it. “mine,” you say. he pouts, so you feed it to him from your straw. suguru mutters something about children.

the “dance floor” is mostly mood lighting, camera drones floating like ghosts overhead. satoru pulls you into it anyway. you dance for one song before passing him off to someone more eager. suguru mouths something sarcastic from where he stands—traitor, maybe—and you twirl your way back to him, grinning.

@/cultgeto (story) 📸 : satoru sipping your drink from your hand 💬 : @/cultyn @/gojos

the next stop is haze and bass that hits your chest before your ears catch up. low ceilings, red lights, fog machines in overdrive. no branded ice buckets or polite spacing between bodies.

you love it instantly.

the three of you are recognized on arrival—cheers, waves, a group of girls jumping up and down—but no one asks for photos or signatures.

satoru finds an empty stool at the bar and slaps his hand down, offering it to you like a throne. he’s already unbuttoned two more buttons than earlier, hair wild like he’s been in wind or trouble. probably both.

you take the seat with a dramatic curtsy and blow him a kiss. he catches it, fake-swooning into suguru’s shoulder like he’s just been shot.

suguru just looks at him, mildly debating whether to let him fall. he lifts a hand instead, rings brushing the back of satoru’s neck, almost affectionate. his mouth twitches like he might be smiling.

with all the subtlety of a fire alarm, satoru flags down the bartender. nine shots of tequila are lined up quick, glowing under red lights.

“we’re celebrating,” he shouts.

“celebrating what?” you ask, resting your elbows on the bar.

he shrugs. “being hot and alive?”

you clink your glass to his, then to suguru’s.

the first shot burns. the second fizzes. suguru kisses your head before the third, and it goes down too easy. your skin starts to hum, like your body’s picking up signal. the room softens at the edges, melting just for you.

satoru’s gone a second later, pulled into the crowd by something shiny or loud or both.

your stool spins—suguru turning it until your knees slot between his.

“he’s already drunk,” you say, trying not to laugh.

“so are you,” he says, planting a kiss to your cheek.

you don’t disagree. the music shifts—heavier, sexier. suguru’s hand steadies you as you slide off the stool. the crowd presses in and you let it, head tilting back and shoulders going loose. no room to be shy. suguru steps behind you, one hand at your hip as the other traces up your side.

you turn your head, looking for satoru. he’s ten feet away, tangled in a group of strangers and dancing with a girl in silver boots, pouring liquor into someone else’s mouth. of course he is. he’s laughing, putting on a show, but his eyes find you. you match his rhythm, grinding back into suguru.

suguru leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“if i told you not to let him touch you,” he starts, “would you listen?”

you look back at him—oh?—and giggle. he doesn’t need an answer. he marks you anyway, teeth catching skin on your neck. it’s a brand, not a warning. you smile at the feeling. you knew he’d like that.

across the room, satoru observes, lips curled up like he knew this would happen. you keep dancing, arms outstretched and fingers flexing like you’re calling a puppy. the crowd parts as he starts toward you, drink in hand, grin pulling wide like he knows he’s walking into trouble.

when he gets close enough, you snatch the glass from him.

“this for me?” you ask, sipping slow.

“obviously,” he says. “i’m a giver.”

you hum, handing the half-finished drink off to suguru. he downs the rest without blinking, sets the glass on a nearby ledge.

“so obedient,” satoru coos.

he raises a brow. “you say that like you’re not worse.”

“i am,” satoru agrees brightly.

you smirk and shake your head, fingers curling into his shirt like you might pull him in—but instead you twist, catching suguru’s wrist in the same movement.

“bathroom break,” you announce, already walking. “come on.”

@/gojos (story) 📸 : mirror pic of all three of you in a bathroom—satoru taking the photo with a rolled bill tucked behind his ear, you fixing your lipgloss, suguru tying his hair back 💬 : band meeting

@/cultyn (story) 📸 : blurry photo of satoru and suguru smoking while walking toward the car ahead of you on a sidewalk

there’s a line down the block for the third club, but the bouncer nods the three of you in as soon as you exit the car.

it’s more intense here. strobes flicker slow enough to warp time, fast enough to keep you disoriented. bodies blur into one another. the floor feels like it’s bleeding.

you’re not sure who’s leading anymore.

suguru’s flushed, and your earrings are missing (he pocketed them twenty minutes ago). satoru’s shirt is fully unbuttoned now. his pupils are blown wide. so are yours. so are suguru’s.

satoru leans in to say something—and nearly crashes into a speaker. suguru catches him by the collar, steadying him with one hand and wiping under his nose with the other.

“you’re not cute enough to get away with that on camera,” he says, not unkind.

“yes i am,” satoru beams, eyes sparkling.

then he spins away like he’s proving it. disappears into the crowd for all of five seconds before materializing behind the booth, arms flung around the current DJ like they go way back.

suguru’s slower, tugging you along with two fingers curled into your belt loop. someone offers him a set of headphones and a password. he nods like he already knows.

you and satoru are already dancing. you’re in his arms before you realize—twirled into him, caught at the waist with his hands all over you like he forgot how to be subtle. the bass kicks up behind you—suguru’s doing it on purpose.

you're not sure how long it's been when you both reach for him. he resists for a second, makes you pull, but you end up caught between them anyway—hands at your waist, your ribs, your throat.

the lights shift: red to blue to violet. suguru’s palm curves around your stomach. satoru’s thumb drags across your bottom lip, smearing whatever’s left of your gloss. you lean back into suguru and tilt your head toward satoru’s mouth, not closing the distance.

someone calls your name. a flash goes off. none of it touches you.

“we’re gonna start a rumor,” satoru laughs.

“let them,” suguru murmurs, fingers skating past the hem of your top like a dare.

the bass shifts. your hand finds satoru’s jaw. the other curls into the chain at suguru’s neck.

satoru’s eyes flick down. he looks like he might do it—close the distance, taste you, start something. suguru’s breath ghosts against your throat like he’s already imagining it. you hold your breath, the moment hums with potential, and then—

“we should go,” suguru says, low and even.

automatically, you let go of his chain and reach for satoru’s hand. his fingers thread through yours as suguru’s palm finds the small of your back, guiding you both through the crowd.

the air outside is warmer than you expect—balmy and unbothered by the hour. the street hums low around you.

suguru finds a barricade like it was waiting for him, leaning back with his usual ease to light a cigarette. satoru slots behind you like a missing piece, arms over your shoulders, still bouncing like the music never stopped. you close your eyes and tip your head back into his shoulder.

“parle-moi, chérie,” satoru teases.

you giggle. “absolutely not.”

he pouts, swaying you side to side like a lullaby. “habla conmigo?”

“only if i get to use my secret made-up language.”

“doesn’t matter,” he says with a smile. “just talk.”

suguru exhales smoke. “no one understands either of you.”

you both laugh, and for a moment, everything holds. the three of you in borrowed warmth. smoke curling into still air. the city too preoccupied to interrupt.

then your phone buzzes in your hand—once, twice, then all at once.

a flash goes off. shouting.

“they found us,” satoru says, grinning like it’s a game.

the crowd closes in fast: paparazzi, a few screaming fans, a handful of quieter ones hanging back with their phones half-raised, like they just want proof they were here. the boys don’t flinch. the car’s already waiting.

suguru flicks his cigarette away. satoru’s hand finds your shoulder, calmly steering you like this happens every night.

halfway through the crush, someone gets too close. not aggressive—just a man with a phone, angling for a shot. you barely notice, but suguru's hand is immediate, pulling you a step back into satoru’s space. he moves forward, stepping between you and the outstretched arm with a look that doesn’t invite argument.

“don’t,” he says.

the man stammers something—sorry, maybe—but the moment’s already over. the driver opens the back door. satoru’s hand finds the small of your back, guiding you in without letting go. suguru slides in after, the door clicking shut behind him.

“studio’s closest,” he says, settling.

“let’s go,” satoru echoes.

you sink between them, breath catching up to your body. a laugh escapes you—quiet, stunned, not entirely sure why.

that could’ve gone differently.

“that was cute,” you say. “you guys almost looked coordinated.”

@/ynswife: do they know we can see them???

@/gojojojo: yn and satoru being besties is terrifying because neither of them has ever faced a consequence in their life

@/suguruowned: satoru is fun hot messy and suguru is scary hot mean and yn is all of the above

the studio is humming when you arrive, LEDs casting everything in soft pink. the three of you spill through the door, glitter-streaked and flushed, riding a high that’s more chemical than natural and definitely not wearing off anytime soon.

you kick your heels off by the door. satoru tosses his sunglasses onto the nearest surface. suguru sinks into his chair like he’s been missing it all night, the backlight from the boards catching on his rings as he starts scrolling through files.

a beat kicks up under the speakers, then dies. another takes its place—lighter, too slow. he lets it breathe. scratches it, then moves on.

you grab two mics and join satoru on the floor, sprawling out across cushions and cables. a stack of paper scraps sits between you—lyric fragments, setlists, a crumpled parking ticket. you’re already giggling, trading nonsense into the mics like they’re toys.

“talk to me in spanish,” satoru says, chin tilted back like he’s communing with the ceiling.

“hay una fiesta en mi casa,” you purr. “vengan, será muuuuy divertido.”

satoru nearly chokes laughing. “wait, wait—j'ai perdu mon téléphone,” he adds, deep voice turning airy. “mais tu sais quoi, ça valait la peine—”

you’re both laughing too hard to finish the line. satoru drops the mic onto his chest, grinning up at the ceiling. you lean back onto your elbows, breathless.

and then—unserious and perfectly on-key—he sings.

“are we getting too close?”

you snort. “shut up.”

he just winks at you. “you’re leaving things in my head.”

a lazy finger comes up to point at suguru. “i’ll be honest, you scare me.”

“my life’s supposed to be a party.” he pouts like he means it.

you toss your head back, giggling. suguru finally turns, amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth. “you done?”

“almost.” satoru sits up to dig through his phone. “i actually brought something.”

you blink at him. “like… to share with the class?”

he hands the phone to suguru, already playing. it’s rough. recorded in the back of a car, probably, but it’s there.

the more i know you, the more i like you can you stick with me, maybe just for life? and say what’s on your mind?

you sit up and grab your mic again. your voice slices through the air.

talk to me in french, talk to me in spanish talk to me in your own made up language doesn’t matter if i understand it

suguru lifts a scrap of paper while you sing and holds it up: talk right in my ear, tell me your secrets and fears.

you grin when you see it, saying the words without breaking rhythm.

from there, everything just… clicks.

satoru moves into the booth and gets the post-chorus down quick, making faces at you through the glass. you improvise your second verse. a lot of it’s nonsense that you’ll have to revise later, some of it hits.

you twirl barefoot across the room as you sing, eventually dropping into suguru’s open lap. he doesn’t react, just adjusts you with one hand on your waist, the other still working.

it plays back. you and satoru throw harmonies over each other and ad-libs where they’re needed. somehow, it works.

your high melts into something honeyed and warm. you curl up in suguru’s lap, mic abandoned somewhere behind you as you listen to satoru record one last take. his voice is lazy on the mic now, edges dulled by laughter. when it ends, he peels off the headphones and wanders back into the room.

suguru spreads his knees a little wider under you and tips his head back, eyes tracing your profile like he’s thinking about what to do next. you shift slightly, gaze trailing to satoru as he drops onto the couch with no urgency, legs wide, glitter clinging to his collarbones.

his eyes are half-lidded, but they don’t leave you—not when suguru’s hand starts to trail up your thigh, or when he brushes your hair back to kiss the spot below your ear.

you exhale slow.

suguru’s palm presses low on your back, guiding your hips into a slow roll. he's warm beneath you, just hard enough to feel. you follow, like you always do.

“you’re being mean,” you whine.

“am i?” he replies with a smirk.

you grind again, filthier this time—enough to tempt.

“you want him to watch,” he says, dragging his teeth against your throat. “or join?”

you tilt your head like you’re thinking about it. his teeth catch your jaw as you rock again, a little deeper. a little more obvious, like you want to be seen.

his hand tightens at your waist, the other in your hair as he pulls you into a kiss—deep and addictive, tongue and teeth and something filthy at the edge. he kisses you like he always does: like he owns you.

like satoru should know that already.

and you don’t stop. don’t even flinch when you feel satoru’s eyes burn hotter from across the room. you let it feed you, kiss suguru slow with your hips in motion, more intentional now.

when you finally pull back, your rhythm has slowed to a lazy, taunting grind. your forehead rests against suguru’s, gaze sliding sideways.

satoru looks like he’s buffering.

you hesitate just long enough for suguru to catch it.

“it’s okay, baby,” he says, quiet against your jaw. “go ahead.”

you didn’t think you needed his permission. but the second he gives it, something in you loosens. you kiss him once—tender, grateful—then slip from his lap.

he doesn’t stop you. just reaches for your zipper, unfastening it with one practiced pull. your skirt slips down your legs and his hand trails after it, light and reverent.

then he leans back with his arms crossed, watching you walk away from him like a gift he’s given.

you hook your thumbs into your panties as you go. they cling for a moment—slick stringing between your thighs—before dropping to the studio floor.

satoru’s eyes track every movement. “you sure?” he asks.

“are you?”

that makes him laugh. “come find out.”

without breaking eye contact, he pushes his jeans down like he has all the time in the world. he’s already hard, heavy and flushed against his abs.

your stomach flips unexpectedly, and you pause. not because you don’t want it, but because this is satoru. your enabler. your softest place to land. your favorite.

he sees it, hands finding your thighs. “hey,” he says, catching your eyes. “we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

“i want to,” you say.

and you do. you trust him. you always have. and it’s easy—so easy—to give that trust shape now. to let him hold it.

“how do you want me?”

his eyes snap up to yours like you broke something in him just by asking.

but it’s suguru who answers. “turn around.”

you do. without hesitation.

climbing into satoru’s lap backward feels obscene—deliciously so. you like it. you like the way suguru sits up straighter when you do, like you’re the show now. nothing hides the way your ass fits satoru’s lap, or the way you reach between your legs to guide him in.

satoru groans as you sink down—one long, steady exhale like he wasn’t ready. like he didn’t expect you to take all of him. you gasp at the stretch, gripping his knee to steady yourself.

“oh fuck,” he pants.

you grin over your shoulder. “you sound pretty.”

“don’t start,” he grits out, but he’s smiling through it.

you settle with a shiver, feeling impossibly full. he’s so thick and so deep that you can’t help the whimper that slips out. his hands trace up your sides, firm but patient.

across the room, suguru watches—silent, eyes fixed on the way you take him.

so you move. each rock of your hips draws a sound from satoru’s throat and a matching one from yours. he meets every grind halfway like he can’t help himself.

you keep your eyes on suguru. not for his approval, just to show him: look what you made.

“jesus,” satoru groans. “he’s gonna let me die like this.”

you moan, breathless and giddy. you can feel slick running out of you, every drag against your walls, the ache where he's stretching you.

“he’s making me earn it,” you whisper.

he presses a kiss to your spine. “you never had to.”

and at that—finally—suguru takes his time crossing the distance. your body stills when he drops to his knees in front of you, heart tripping in your chest.

suguru spreads you wider, palms firm, fingers digging in. then, his breath against you. you moan before he even touches you. your head falls back onto satoru’s shoulder, chest rising and falling hard.

“easy,” satoru murmurs, one thumb stroking your waist.

“keep going,” suguru murmurs. it’s unclear who he’s talking to.

and when he finally licks—a slow drag of his tongue where satoru stuffs you—you cry out, whole body jolting forward.

satoru catches you, groaning. “jesus—”

“oh—fuck,” you gasp.

suguru doesn’t ease into it. he eats you like he’s been thinking about this all night. like this was the point. he’s confident, focused, working your clit between thrusts, letting your slick smear across his face.

“shit—she’s—she’s squeezing me,” satoru chokes out. and you feel how hips jerk up without permission, how he pulses inside you every time you moan.

you’re gasping now. your body gets caught in the rhythm—rocking forward and back as they take you apart in tandem. satoru fucking up into you like he needs it, suguru’s mouth locked between your legs like devotion.

your mouth falls open, silent at first, then full of noise—moans, whimpers, babbled nonsense.

“he’s—fuck—he’s—”

“yeah, princess,” satoru laughs, half-mad. “we know.”

suguru doesn’t let up. not until your whole body is vibrating, until your moans give out into sobs, until you’re clenching around satoru with your nails biting into his thighs and your head thrown back.

“oh my god, i—”

everything seizes, then lets go—a brutal, blinding pleasure ripping through you like a flood. you come hard. loud. body arching between them—into satoru’s chest, into suguru’s mouth, into the heat of being seen.

“fuck—fuck,” satoru breathes, arms crushing around your waist. “you’re—jesus, she’s fucking milking me—”

suguru groans low into you, vibrations rolling through you. he doesn’t stop, just eases you down until he catches the last tremors with his tongue. soothes you, like he’s not half the reason you just came apart.

you collapse into satoru, skin flushed hot. he’s panting hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder like he’s trying to stop the world from ending.

“fuck, i’m—” he starts. “don’t move.”

his voice cracks. he’s holding it in.

and you can’t do anything about it. not yet. your legs shake, head spinning too much to move, let alone help.

but suguru can.

his hands trail up your thighs as he stands. he leans in, close enough that it forces you even further back into satoru, and kisses you. slow, claiming. a filthy, reverent thing that tastes like you. it hits you again that he just had his mouth on you while you were full of satoru.

the thought makes you gasp into it. he strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“off, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “let me handle him.”

you nod and he helps you lift, easing you off of satoru. you and satoru both whimper at the drag.

“arms up,” suguru says.

you obey, let him tug your top off gently. he doesn’t even glance at your chest, just presses a final kiss to your temple before settling between satoru’s legs.

satoru stares at you now, eyes glazed. you’re still catching your breath, but you press close anyway—one hand on his chest, the other at his jaw. you kiss his cheek, trace the slick curve of his abs. suguru strokes him once, then again. his eyes flutter shut.

“don’t cum yet,” you murmur, lips brushing his throat.

his jaw clenches. “i’m not gonna last.”

“mm,” you hum, smiling against his skin. “you can take it.”

and then suguru takes him into his mouth.

satoru moans—loud, broken. his hips jerk, but suguru is already there, holding him still with one hand. he sucks him slow and deep, tongue pressing firm beneath the shaft. satoru tries to chase it, hips straining up against suguru’s hand, desperate for more.

“fuck—please—”

suguru pulls off. “stay still.”

“can’t,” satoru pants, flushed to his ears. “please—fuck, please, just—”

you lean in close, running a thumb over his lips. “you gonna cry for him?” you whisper. “gonna beg?”

his eyes flutter open to meet yours. they’re glassy. gone.

suguru licks the underside lightly. up and down.

“please,” satoru breathes, begging you now. “please let me cum. i can’t—i can’t take it, fuck, i need—”

you glance down, meet suguru’s eyes, and nod. “then go ahead,” you say to satoru, voice sugar-sweet. “let him taste it.”

suguru doesn’t hesitate. he sinks back down and takes all of him—and satoru’s eyes roll back, one hand flying to find your arm as he spills down suguru’s throat with a sound like he’s breaking.

you stay quiet, holding him through it, letting him fall apart the way you did. you stroke his chest and his hair. press slow kisses to the side of his face.

suguru rises slowly.

satoru's head is tipped back, still panting, lips parted like he’s tasting the afterglow. he doesn’t even flinch when suguru leans over him.

“open your mouth.”

satoru obeys instantly. suguru slides two fingers in, deep and smooth, curling just slightly against his tongue. satoru moans, eyelids fluttering.

“can’t believe how fucking good you look like this,” suguru mutters, shaking his head like he shouldn’t be surprised.

he pulls his fingers out enough to slap his cheek—once, twice—then pushes them back in, slower, watching satoru suck them down greedily, whining around them like he needs it.

and you can’t help yourself. you lean in and kiss him, right over suguru’s hand. hot and messy, tongues tangling over the taste of suguru’s skin. your moan gets lost in his.

suguru’s breathing goes shallow as he watches you pass him back and forth. you’re all too gone now to pretend you don’t like it—this quiet collapse into each other.

satoru lets go with a hum when suguru finally pulls away. you pull back too, heat pooling when you see him—flushed and debauched, white hair sticking to his forehead, blue irises intruded on by dark pupils.

and he’s staring at you like you hung the moon.

when you look up, suguru’s watching you too.

his gaze moves down your body like he’s replaying things—your moans, the way you came apart on his tongue, the way you kissed him after. and now, soft and open, you hold his gaze without flinching.

he hooks a finger under your chin. kisses you again—slow and sweet, like a promise—before stepping back to undress.

behind you, one hand finds your waist. when you turn to satoru with soft eyes, he opens his arms without a word. you crawl into him and he pulls you close, turning you in his lap until you’re comfortable with back to his chest and your thighs falling open.

“hi,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder.

your lips curve as you lean your head back. “hey.”

suguru steps forward.

his hand trails up your thigh, thumb circling your entrance, eyes stuck on the way it flexes under his touch. he strokes himself once, twice—then lines up and sinks into you with one smooth, claiming thrust.

you cry out from the stretch, head snapping forward before satoru’s hand finds your forehead to guide you back to his shoulder. “breathe,” he whispers at your ear. “you can take it.”

and you do. you take all of him.

he draws it out at first—deep, dragging strokes as he gives your body time to catch up. your hand drifts mindlessly to where he fills you, just to verify the ache.

“you missed him, huh?” satoru says, teasing and soft, pressing a kiss to your hair. “he missed you too.”

suguru groans, snapping his hips harder. the rhythm builds like ritual.

each thrust lands heavy—the wet slap of skin filling the room, obscene and constant. he fucks you like he’s putting something back where it belongs.

and he can, because he knows you too well. knows the spot that makes you gasp, the angle that makes you cry, the pace that makes you go stupid.

your thighs tremble where they’re spread. you can’t hold still—can’t even try. every thrust shoves you into satoru, rocking you like a ragdoll. your fingers claw for anything—his thigh, suguru’s wrist, the edge of the couch—but nothing holds.

“god, she’s taking it,” satoru groans, awestruck.

“she always does,” suguru growls. “she fucking loves it.”

and you do. you can’t say it, can barely breathe, but you do. every thrust punches a new sound out of you—choked moans, gasps, desperate little whines.

suguru spits into satoru’s hand. you barely register it until you feel it: slick fingers rubbing against your clit in tight, filthy circles that make your eyes roll back.

“don’t stop,” you pant. “please don’t stop—”

satoru’s mouth brushes your ear. “you sound so fucking sweet like this.”

you nod, frantic, but it’s not enough. you’re falling apart, and all you can do is clutch at them like they might keep you together.

“fuck,” you gasp. “fuck, please—please—”

you’re not even sure what you’re asking for.

suguru grits his teeth and drives deeper. satoru kisses your temple like a blessing, fingers unrelenting. your whole body writhes in their hands. too full, too raw, too much.

and satoru must feel it—how your muscles flex without rhythm, how your breathing breaks out of sync.

he looks up. “you got her?”

suguru doesn’t answer right away. instead, he stills. stays buried deep as he leans in, his chest pressed to yours, foreheads meeting.

the shift is jarring—your body clenches around him, desperate for friction, for something. but you freeze with him, pulled under. the world drops out as his breath brushes your lips. your chest heaves. your hands find their way around his neck like prayer.

when he speaks, it’s just for you.

“i got you,” he breathes. like a secret. like a promise.

and something in you cracks.

it’s rare, this softness between you.

and for a second—just a second—you almost pull away from it. not because you want to, but because that’s what you do with each other.

but he’s here, holding the tenderness. holding you.

because he knows. of course he does.

“hey,” he whispers, brushing his nose against yours. his thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to hold you there. “stay with me.”

you nod, barely. your eyes well up.

“say thank you.”

your throat tightens.

“thank you,” you breathe. quiet. shaking.

he hums, half-praise, half-moan. his hips roll once, just to feel you clench.

and then, so quiet you almost miss it, satoru whispers. “say it again.”

“thank you.” higher this time. fragile as you hold suguru’s gaze. “thank you, thank you—”

you’re not sure if you’re thanking him for fucking you like this, or for holding you here, or for the way he always, always, knows how to bring you back from the edge without letting you fall.

but it works.

suguru groans at the sound of it. kisses your cheek like you’ve ruined him.

then he moves again.

he fucks into you with intent now—like he needs to finish what he started, needs to feel you fall apart around him. his thrusts grow deeper as satoru’s fingers find your clit again, circling in perfect rhythm. they both know exactly how close you are. they’re pulling you under together.

“oh my god—”

“come on, princess,” satoru murmurs. “give it to him.”

suguru groans at the words. he’s close—so fucking close—but he’s holding it. waiting for you.

your breaths come short, whole body pulling taut now, like you’re being wound too far.

his hand finds your throat—not to choke, but to anchor. his thumb presses up under your jaw as he leans in, lips ghosting over your cheek.

“you’re right there,” he murmurs. “i feel you. give it to me.”

your heart squeezes. and when your head tips back, your mouth open in a moan—

satoru kisses him.

he slides his free hand behind suguru’s neck, pulls him down into it, and kisses him over your head. open-mouthed and frantic and needy.

it lands like a spark.

suguru moans into it. he kisses satoru back like he’s starving for it—biting at his lip, hips still slamming into you like nothing else exists.

your orgasm hits you so hard you go silent.

your body locks up—mouth open, no sound—until a sob breaks free from your throat, raw and desperate. tears spill over your lashes as you writhe, clenching so tight it nearly forces suguru out.

but he chases it. moaning into satoru’s mouth, fucking you through your orgasm and straight into his own. his pace falters, his breath catches, and then he’s spilling inside you, hips rocking through it like he can’t stop, like he wants to stay.

no one moves right away.

suguru's hand strokes your cheek. behind you, satoru exhales—his arms relax just enough to let you breathe deeper as his smile curves at your temple.

eventually, suguru pulls out slow, kissing you when you whimper. he stands, silent as ever, and slips from the room.

you melt fully into satoru, exhaustion settling as your eyes slip shut.

he brushes damp hair from your face and laughs quietly. “you two are so in love it’s disgusting.”

you swat at his chest, eyes still closed. “you’re projecting.”

“no, really,” he giggles. “you should see your face right now.”

“can’t,” you mumble. “sleepy.”

“mhm. poor baby.”

you would’ve hit him again if your arms worked.

the couch shifts. suguru’s back—barefoot, still shirtless—carrying three water bottles and two soft t-shirts over his shoulder. he sets them down, kneels beside you.

“gonna clean you up.”

he uses a shirt, dabbing gently between your legs like he’s done it a million times and will do it again. you flinch, but he hushes you immediately, murmuring praise you can barely hear. when he’s satisfied, he slides the clean shirt over your head, guiding your arms through like you’re delicate.

you slump back into satoru, half-asleep. suguru lifts a water bottle to your lips. you sip twice. he sits beside you, drinking the rest of his, and for a while, no one speaks.

then satoru, voice muffled in your hair: “we’re not sleeping like this.”

“we could,” you whisper.

“we shouldn’t,” suguru replies, already moving.

satoru stands and lifts you gently into the producer’s chair. you hear the soft clinks of the frame, the rustle of blankets pulled from the closet.

as soon as the couch is pulled out, you crawl into it. suguru slides in beside you, and you curl into him like you always do.

satoru groans dramatically when he joins, rearranging until he finds the perfect position: his head pillowed in suguru’s lap, one arm flung across your waist.

for the first time all night, everything is still.

you’re asleep first.

satoru’s not far behind—he mumbles something into suguru’s lap, then goes quiet. his breathing evens out quickly, mouth parted, fingers twitching once at your waist like he’s dreaming something warm.

but suguru stays awake.

he doesn’t know why. maybe it’s the weight of both of you on him. maybe it’s the part of him that always watches, always waits.

his fingers trace slow circles against your back. your cheek is warm against his chest, one leg draped over his. you look peaceful like this. like the sharp edges that usually cling to you have melted clean off for tonight.

part of him aches.

he doesn’t resent it at all. he knows how you are with satoru. he has for years.

how you lean into him without thinking. how you smile easier, laugh without checking yourself first. how your chaos and his collide in ways that never spark danger—only more light. you don’t guard yourself with satoru because you’ve never had to.

it’s not a competition.

he’s told himself that more than once.

but you’ve never given suguru that kind of ease without a fight.

and god help him, he likes it.

he likes that every soft thing you give him feels like a win. that you make him work for it. every laugh, every let-down guard, every tender moment—he’s had to fight you for those.

but tonight—

you gave it to him without the war first. like it didn’t cost you anything. he can’t stop turning it over in his mind, trying to understand what changed. what he did. and whether he can do it again.

his hand keeps moving along your spine, slow and steady. a silent tether.

because he can���t ask you. not without risking the quiet. and maybe he doesn’t need to.

because at the end of the day, you’ll flirt with the whole world. you’ll light up every room, throw yourself across stages and hearts. you’ll let satoru make you laugh until you’re gasping for air, let him be the reason you catch your breath instead of losing it.

but you’ll still end up here, in suguru’s arms.

you’ll still call him first.

that’s just the game.

he’ll keep playing for as long as you let him.

@/deuxmoi BLIND ITEM: a certain pop darling, a white-haired chaos agent, and your favorite producer’s favorite producer were seen stumbling into a studio after hours last night. security’s been posted up since 2 AM, and nobody has left ten hours later.

you wake slowly.

your body aches in that full, molten way—spent, sated, soft at the edges. you blink through the quiet, eyes adjusting to the haze bleeding through the studio’s curtains.

across the room, suguru is already up.

he sits in his chair, shirt on, sweatpants slung low. his hair’s messy, like he raked his fingers through it and gave up halfway.

he’s staring at his phone, thumbs moving: swipe. pause. tap. type.

you almost miss the tension at first. but then you catch it: something flashing across his face. gone too fast to name, but you saw it. not a frown, not quite surprise. more like confirmation. like he received something he knew was coming.

he doesn’t know you’re awake. tap. tap. type.

you stay still. your heart ticks up anyway.

it’s probably nothing.

probably some brand deal he doesn’t want. or an annoying scheduling conflict. some PR request, a time zone fuck up, a half-buried deadline. something normal.

you tell yourself all of that.

but it echoes anyway. lingers like static—soft but charged.

the spell breaks when satoru stirs beside you.

his arm flexes over your waist, searching until his hand finds the bare skin at your hip. his fingers curl there, loose and lazy, and he hums—eyes closed, voice rough.

“c’mere.”

you shift without thinking, curling into him. his nose nudges your shoulder, mouth brushing your skin.

suguru looks up. he softens at the sight of you relaxing, satoru smiling into your neck like he’s dreaming.

then satoru mumbles into your hair: “did we record something?”

you blink, your brain still syrupy. “…yes?”

suguru’s already moving. he sets his phone down—screen dark, face down—and reaches for his laptop. the screen wakes with a soft glow. a project is already open.

music bleeds through the speakers.

the intro is unfamiliar—then satoru’s voice, airy and laced with heat. a low beat that hits hard. your voice looping over it: talk to me in french, talk to me in spanish.

it’s better than you remember—sharp and sexy and fun. by the outro, you’re sitting up and grinning so wide it hurts.

“we sound fucking unreal,” you say, turning to face them.

suguru doesn’t look at the screen. he looks at you.

“you are.”

your stomach flips.

“get a fucking room,” satoru groans, dragging the blanket over his head like it personally offended him.

a laugh escapes you. and when you meet suguru’s eyes again, you’re still smiling.

so is he.

and the tension from before—whatever it was—doesn’t vanish. but it recedes.

[wonderjanga]

Billy’s Homelessness

Being a homeless kid has its perks, Billy supposes. He’s picked up tips and tricks from other kids and even adults during his time. It’s practically second nature to him at this point. Only thing is, the fact that it’s second nature in the first place is what can come back to bite him in the future.

Like lock picking. He’s good at it, and it’s not something he’s particularly proud of, but it’s helped him when he’s needed it most. He’s gotten shelter from blizzards, sleet, and rain with this skill. That’s why when Billy, Flash, GL, and Supes got locked in an all yellow room with red sun lamps and a locked door.

Supes, GL, and Flash: *all discussing how to get out* Marvel: *leans down in front of the keyhole of the door*

Supes: “Alright Flash, vibrate through the door-”

Marvel: “Done!” *opens door*

*silence*

GL: “How’d you do that?”

Marvel: “I picked the lock.” *walks out and immediately gets shot in the face by one of the guards*

Then there’s pickpocketing. He’s also unfortunately good at this. Freddy says he’s better though. Billy isn’t about to make a contest out of it. Batman found out about this particular talent when both him and Billy went undercover for a mission to uncover the scheme of some foreign politician.

Batman: *as Bruce Wayne* “That’s the man.” *subtly gestures to him*

Marvel: “Him? Okay… What do you wanna do?”

Batman: “First, we need to properly identify-”

Marvel: “Oh, okay.” *walks over to the man, passes him, then comes back to Bruce* “Here.” *places the man’s wallet in Bruce’s hand*

Batman: “…that he was involved in the crimes.”

Marvel: “Oh.”

*silence*

Batman: *opens the wallet anyways and starts looking through it*

Marvel: “Do you want me to put it back?”

Batman: *puts one finger up to Marvel’s face while he continues looking through the wallet*

Marvel: *deflates slightly* “Oh, okay.”

Batman: *pulls out a clue from the wallet* “Put this back, chum.”

Marvel: *scurries off to put the wallet back*

Bruce then heavily lamented how Marvel knew how to pickpocket so well. Cause the thing is, Marvel’s like six feet tall. (Had to make him a little shorter guys. My bad.) A man like that had no business doing that so well in a bright red sweater and yellow hat.

Then, there’s the avoiding cops. He rarely sticks around for them. He does not mess with them. He’s had too many bad experiences as Billy for it to translate well to Marvel. Whenever one tries to talk to him, he’ll say the bare minimum as politely as he can and fly off. Sometimes, if he knows it’s a cop who’s harsher on the homeless than most, he’ll act polite(passive aggressive) and then give them a nice, firm(crushing) handshake. One such incident was when a cop asked for a photo:

Cop A and Marvel: *posing for a photo by shaking hands*

Marvel: *smiling at the camera, his grip tightening on the hand*

Cop A: *awkward laugh* “That’s a tight grip you got there, Captain.”

Marvel: *lightens his grip, looking down to Cop A’s name tag: Richard* (This isn’t Nightwing guys) “My bad, dick.”

Cop A: “Excuse me?”

Marvel: “Oh no no no, not like “dick,” Dick.” *grip tightens again* “Not like some spineless, lowlife piece of shit from the bottom of my boot that gets scraped off onto a bigger pile of shit, kind of dick.” *smiles the whole time as he speaks* “No, like your name, officer, Dick.”

Cop A: “I prefer Richard.”

Cop B: *takes photo*

Also, anybody who gets that reference gets a kiss. Man or woman. It doesn’t matter. I don’t make the rules. By the way, someone definitely recorded that entire interaction and #passiveaggressivecap ended up trending on twitter.

Then, there’s the time Supes came over to Fawcett to hang out. They were chilling on a rooftop talking when down below they both saw a teenager steal food from a seller.

Supes: *doesn’t see Marvel move* “Aren’t you gonna stop that kid?”

Marvel: “Uh… no. He’s homeless. He clearly needs it more than we do.”

Supes: *blinks rapidly but then remembers he’s not in Metropolis and can’t really tell Marvel how to run his city* “Okay then.”

[itsaintmebabe]

my boyfriend's pretty cool

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ pairing: oscar piastri x reader

summary: oscar loves his girlfriend

notes: lowkey just got really bored and the imola gp had me wanting to make an oscar fic so here it is!!

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / social media au / fc: christina nadin

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 516,093 others

yourusername so proud of my baby!!!

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user6 you mean our baby??? be fr rn

user23 no bc he looked into the camera like “hi babe” during the cooldown lap i SAW IT

user18 his biggest flex is not the trophy. it’s being able to call YOU his gf and he KNOWS IT

oscarpiastri i was sweating and it wasn’t the heat it was you in that outfit

↳ user9 this is the man everyone thinks is nonchalant btw

user10 sources say oscar asked to skip debrief just to go kiss you (unconfirmed but i believe it)

alexandrasaintmleux most gorgeous girl

↳ yourusername forget charles and come give me a kiss

↳ charlesleclerc i don’t even have anything to say anymore

liked by yourusername, mclaren and 1,683,924 others

oscarpiastri productive weekend

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user15 is it really an oscar post if there’s not a pic of y/n

yourusername ride to survive or whatever it’s called

↳ oscarpiastri baby😭

↳ user5 y/n has oscar’s pr team sweating

user46 oscar would probably let y/n run him over with the MCL38 and say thank you

user11 i just know he picked that pic of her first then the ones of him with the trophy

↳ oscarpiastri and what abt it

↳ user13 oscar is apart of the sassy man apocalypse confirmed

mclaren this is no longer an F1 driver account it’s a fanpage for his girlfriend and we respect it

liked by oscarpiastri, lando and 734,204 others

yourusername got him into a button up shirt for one day and i’m cherishing it forever

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user21 everyone say “thank you y/n!” for the new oscar pics

user18 why is he sitting there like “my gf made me pose but i’m secretly loving every second”

↳ yourusername can confirm he literally whined abt me taking the pic but then posed

↳ oscarpiastri i only posed because you looked so excited to take the picture

↳ user87 i’m jumping off a bridge

user23 polite cat oscar returns

user10 drop the skincare routine PLEASE

user7 i don’t want a relationship. i want whatever the hell THIS is

liked by yourusername, lando and 1,280,452 others

oscarpiastri some time with my girl in miami before this weekend

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user37 can oscar fight???

↳ oscarpiastri i can and i will

user19 con😭gra😭tu😭lations😭

user34 “my girl” ??? oh we’re USING PRONOUNS now??

user27 he’s acting like we’re not hanging on by a THREAD every time he posts her

yourusername baby i told you not to the post the second pic of me

↳ oscarpiastri and i ignored you respectfully because you look hot

↳ user51 she said don’t and he said “ok but i’m in love actually”

user46 why is she with someone who probably says “do you still want that coffee thing?” 🙄

↳ oscarpiastri no, i say “your iced oat latte’s in the cup holder, baby.” try harder.

yourusername has added to their story!

liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren and 628,429 others

yourusername three in a row!!!

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user16 the side eye is LETHAL he wanted out of those interviews

user29 he’s winning on track and in life tbh. get you a supportive baddie like y/n

user4 this was posted with so much girlfriend pride i felt it in my soul

oscarpiastri if you think this post’s good, you should see the celebratory kiss i got after

↳ user31 SIR

mclaren y/n’s camera roll deserves a podium of its own

user43 we get it girl. he races fast and he loves you. enough.

user82 girl drop the real caption. i KNOW it was originally “my winner and my dinner” before you changed it

↳ yourusername ur right i should’ve left it 😔

oscarpiastri some of you in the comments wish you were me. i don’t blame you.

[iydiamartinx]

THE ART OF RESTRAINT II

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @iydiamartinx word count: 2.3k synopsis: At Gotham’s most exclusive gala, your calendar shoot with Bruce Wayne has made you the center of attention. But when admiration turns inappropriate, Bruce intervenes… and stakes a claim that ignites everything you’ve tried to bury. a/n: Due to popular demand here is part 2! Also I think I might make this a series, what do you all think?

A month later, Gotham’s elite gathered beneath chandeliers and champagne towers, draped in couture and cloaked in vanity. The Gotham Foundation Gala had always been an affair of power, legacy, and whispered deals between glasses of merlot.

You and Bruce were always considered the most powerful and wealthiest donors in attendance but this year, thanks to the calendar shoot, the two of you were the main attraction.

You in black silk, the fabric hugging just the right places and cut high all the way to the thigh. You in heels sharp enough to draw blood. You standing beneath towering canvases of the now-infamous calendar shoot—each photo blown up and framed like art, lit from below in gold.

There you were, pinning Bruce Wayne to a bed with a mouthful of fire and a stare that had made half of Gotham’s boardrooms sweat.

And beside it?

Another photo: Bruce above you, hand at your throat, the whisper of his lips nearly brushing yours, both of you suspended in a moment so thick with tension, it still made you hot under the collar.

Compliments followed you all night.

“You looked incredible in those shots—was it really staged?”

“Don’t you two have insane chemistry?”

“I’m shocked the sheets didn’t catch fire.”

You smiled politely. Nodded. Deflected.

You were swirling your drink near one of the gallery displays—your own photo looming behind you in all its controversial glory—when a man stepped into your periphery.

Tall. Well-dressed. Mid-forties, maybe. Clean-cut and confident in that way men get when they think their money makes them interesting.

“You know,” he began conversationally, his tone easy, “I don’t usually like these calendar stunts.”

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised.

“But this year?” His gaze flicked to the framed shot of you straddling Bruce, lips nearly touching. “I might frame that one for my office.”

You offered a tight smile, the kind that conveyed your disinterest with causing such a scandal you would be plastered over the front page of the news. 

“You’ve got half the room talking,” he continued, holding out a hand. “Daniel. I run acquisitions over at Monarch Holdings.”

You took his hand briefly. “Pleasure.”

“Is he here?” Daniel asked, nodding toward the photo. “Wayne.”

“He was as much a part of this as I was, so yes—he’s here.” Unfortunately. But you didn’t tack that part on. Instead, you simply nodded toward where he stood, surrounded by a cluster of socialites, all of them fawning as he gifted them one of his signature, devastatingly charming grins.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, the stem of your champagne flute pressing tighter between your fingers—just enough to betray the irritation you refused to show on your face.

“So,” he said, eyes narrowing just slightly, “are you two…?”

You gave a bland smile. “Are we two what?”

He laughed like he hadn’t been fishing. “You know what I mean. That shoot didn’t look staged.”

“That’s the job,” you replied coolly. “To make it look real.”

“Right,” he said, eyes still on you. “Well, it worked. Hell of a performance. Intense. Sexy.” He took a sip of his drink, then leaned in just a little. “He’s a lucky man to have had this opportunity with a woman like you.” His eyes raked down your figure, slow and deliberate. “You belong on camera. Honestly, if you ever wanted to do something a little more… private, I know a few people who’d pay a fortune to see it and wouldn’t mind seeing you in something even racier. Hell, I’d fund the shoot myself. Bet you’ve got a few poses he couldn’t pull out of you.

You blinked once. Your eyes narrowing into slits.

The chill in your stare should’ve been enough.

The audacity of this man, propositioning you like you were some whore.

You were one of the richest, most powerful women in the city—your name carried more weight than some entire empires. You had more money than you knew what to do with—the only reason you agreed to the shoot and didn’t tear your assistant a new one was because the proceeds were being donated to the less fortunate. And yet, here he was. Looking at you like you were a toy he could buy. Like some bored little trophy to pose next to him at the next shareholders’ gala.

Your jaw tightened. The words burned behind your teeth, sharp and exact, already forming—

But before you could let them fly, you felt it.

A presence at your back.

Broad. Warm. Unmistakable.

A hand rested at the small of your back—large, steady, and maddeningly familiar. His palm pressed gently against the silk of your gown, anchoring you. Possessive in the subtlest way. Protective in the most public one.

You didn’t have to look.

You already knew who it was.

“I’ve always admired ambition,” Bruce said, stepping into view with a glass of champagne in hand and the kind of effortless grin that made people underestimate him.

His eyes met Daniel’s. Calm. Almost friendly.

“But approaching another man’s date in front of a twelve-foot photo of them practically making out?” Bruce tilted his head, faux-impressed. “That’s bold.”

Daniel blinked. “I didn’t realize—”

He stepped in a little closer, casual and unbothered. The warmth of his hand still lingered at your back.

“Oh, it’s alright,” he said with an airy wave of his glass. “You couldn’t have known. We’ve been keeping things quiet.”

You fought the urge to bristle.

The words we’ve been keeping things quiet scraped against every instinct you had. You wanted to cut in, to correct him, to remind everyone in earshot that there was no we.

But you didn’t.

Because as much as it made your blood simmer, Bruce was helping you—even if you hadn’t asked for it. Even if you didn’t need it. And calling him out now, in front of half the gala, would only turn eyes and whispering mouths on both of you and not in a good way.

“You know how it is—mixing business and pleasure,” he went on, voice dropping just enough to feel like a secret. He leaned in slightly, as if confiding something scandalous, though every word was meant to be overheard. “Gets messy. Especially when other people try to insert themselves where they don’t belong.”

“I do applaud the attempt, though,” Bruce said lightly. “but the truth is… most men wouldn’t know what to do with someone like her.”

Daniel opened his mouth, perhaps to disagree but Bruce didn’t give him a chance.

“Just friendly advice,” Bruce added, with a wink and a sip of his drink. “I’d hate to see you step into something you can’t afford.”

Dan’s smile froze.

For a moment, he just stood there, caught in the pause between realization and retreat. The veneer of confidence he wore so easily began to splinter, cracking beneath the weight of Bruce’s words—a quiet reminder of exactly who you were, and more importantly, who he wasn’t.

He shifted his drink, fingers tightening slightly around the glass. Cleared his throat. Laughed—too light, too forced.

His eyes flicked between you and Bruce, searching for a foothold, for some hint that he hadn’t just been publicly dressed down by Gotham’s most powerful man for daring to proposition a woman so clearly out of his reach.

Bruce didn’t blink.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t give him an inch.

Eventually, Dan let out an awkward chuckle and took a careful step back. “Didn’t mean to step on toes.”

“You didn’t,” Bruce said, smooth as silk. “But it’s best to watch your footing anyway.”

Dan took the out and disappeared into the crowd, ego limping behind him.

The moment he was gone, you turned to him, jaw clenched.

“What the hell was that?”

He took a sip of his drink, looking far too pleased with himself. ““Just offering an innocent man a word of warning,” he said, his expression was all practiced innocence. “He seemed a little too eager to bring the devil into his bed.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting the urge to slap the glass out of his hand. “You were marking your territory like a dog in a tux.”

He smiled. “A charming dog in a very expensive tux.”

You grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the crowd, weaving between silken gowns and murmured gossip until you found a quiet corridor near the ballroom’s edge. You shoved him through the first unlocked door you found—an unused sitting room glittering with old portraits and low lighting. 

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, muffled by velvet walls and the hum of distant music. 

You turned on Bruce before he could say a word.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

He stood there, cool and collected, the very image of effortless wealth and unbothered masculinity. The undone bow tie at his collar made him look almost disheveled. Almost. Just enough to make your jaw clench.

He set his glass down calmly, unbothered. “He was a jackass.”

“That’s not your call to make,” you snapped, voice rising, heat flooding your cheeks. “We’re not together. You don’t get to claim me like that.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t see you stopping me.”

You glared. “I was about to.”

You both knew that was a lie.

His smirk said it all.

He stepped closer, closing the space like it didn’t exist—until you could feel the heat of him again.

“So do it now,” he said softly, voice like smoke. “Tell me to stop.”

You stared up at him, fury and something else flickering behind your eyes.

“God, you’re insufferable,” you muttered, fists clenched. “You can—”

But the rest never came.

Because the next second, his mouth was on yours—hot, demanding, claiming.

It was months—no, years—of tension, weeks of silence, and one steamy photoshoot slamming into you like gravity. He kissed you like he’d been waiting—like he’d been starving—and you answered without hesitation, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket as your back hit the wall.

He tasted like champagne and fury. His mouth crashed against yours with months of tension behind it. His hands found your hips, your thigh, your waist—hoisting you up with barely a grunt. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair as he pressed you harder into the wall.

Your dress hitched up as one of his hands trailed dangerously high. His jacket slipped off his shoulders. The kiss deepened. Frantic. 

It was messy and heated. 

All the unspoken tension that had stretched between you for years—every boardroom standoff, every argument, every glare that lingered with too much heat—snapped in an instant, and now you were pouring it into each other like gasoline on a lit match.

If only the photographer could see you now.

“You’re impossible,” you gasped against his mouth, barely able to catch your breath between kisses.

“So are you,” he muttered, voice rough with want, dragging his mouth down the curve of your throat. “So damn impossible.”

Then he found it—your sweet spot—and latched on, sucking hard.

Your head tipped back against the wall with a quiet, broken whimper as pleasure bloomed hot and dizzy beneath your skin. Your nails scraped down his chest, dragging across fine fabric and hard muscle, just to ground yourself.

You were lost in it—In him, his mouth at your throat, your legs locked around his waist—when the door creaked open. 

Laughter spilled in.

“Oh—oh my God.”

Both of you froze.

And there they were: three socialites standing in the doorway with wide, sparkling eyes and champagne flutes frozen mid-air. One covered her mouth in dramatic glee. Another whipped out her phone. Behind them, of course, stood Dan, red-faced and horrified, looking like he wished the marble floor would swallow him whole.

Your legs were still locked around Bruce’s waist.

His hands were still on you—one gripping your thigh, the other splayed possessively against your lower back, as if even now, he had no intention of letting go.

Your lipstick was halfway to nonexistent, the rest smeared across his mouth.

And then there was the mark.

The very visible, unmistakable claim he’d left on your neck—dark, blooming, and already turning heads.

There was no hiding what you two were doing.

The girls giggled like it was the juiciest scandal they’d ever seen and pulled the door shut behind them, their laughter echoing off marble.

You exhaled sharply, head thudding back against the wall.

Bruce’s forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard—still tangled in the heat of what almost happened, and the reality of what did.

You shoved lightly at his chest.

He let you.

Then his hands slid to your waist, steadying you as he helped you down. His hands didn’t linger.

He fixed your hem without being asked, then straightened his jacket.

Then Bruce cleared his throat and brushed a thumb along your cheekbone. “So… dinner?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just turned, reaching down to grab your fallen clutch. You swiped your thumb across your smeared lipstick, and headed for the door.

At the threshold, you paused.

“Pick me up at eight,” you said, trying—and failing—to hide the twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Saturday.”

Then you turned and walked out, heels clicking like a gavel against the marble floor.

Behind you, The Bruce Wayne stood grinning like he’d just closed the biggest deal of his life.

And maybe… he had.

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Tag List: @jeudieohvjdjtg

[fresitasmoribund]

Between His Lens, Between Your Legs

-`♡´- pairing: Poly!Wolfstar x Fem!Reader

-`♡´- summary: You’ve never done a photoshoot in lingerie before, much less with another model. Luckily, Sirius and Remus make you feel more than comfortable.

-`♡´- contains: model!sirius, model!reader, photographer!remus, established wolfstar, modern au, praise, smut (oral, fem receiving), soft dom remus you have my heart

-`♡´- masterlist

-`♡´- word count: 2.8k

-`♡´- a.n: the smut is mostly at the end. part two to this fic kinda

You step out into the bedroom, your see-through babydoll dress swishing softly around your thighs. The silk stockings and garters you wore beneath it added to the playfulness and elegance of the shoot. For a moment, you hesitate – your breath catching as you meet Sirius' gaze.

Sirius' lips slowly curve as he takes you in. “Aren’t you a vision?”

Remus nearly drops his camera when he looks up to take a proper look at you. He clears his throat, quickly glancing down and feigning adjustment of his settings before taking another brief glance at you and offering a tight, polite smile.

“You look incredible.” His praise settles something inside you, steadying your nerves for only a moment.

 Sirius leans forward and tilts his head, surveying his boyfriend’s reaction – a quiet exchange dancing between them. A muscle in Remus’ eyebrow twitches, causing Sirius’ nose to scrunch in a teasing, amused way – as though holding back a smirk. With an almost imperceptible sharp look, Remus shuts down whatever Sirius was seconds from teasing him about.

"Let's start, then." Sirius preens, passing you with a wink.

Sirius was seated on the edge of the bed, scrolling lazily on his phone as he waited for Remus’ direction. You move behind him, your hands stretching to rest on his shoulders. His reaction is instant – with his face lighting up as he glances up at you over his shoulder. He sets the phone aside to reach up and lightly grab your hands.

“Stay just like that,” Remus instructs as your fingers curl over Sirius’ shoulders. The camera clicks, capturing Sirius’ easy charm and the way you hope your posture exudes a sensual allure. You shift – initially not meaning to – letting your hands smooth over the expensive cotton covering his chest. Sirius follows your lead effortlessly, turning his head just enough to make the moment feel more natural.

“Perfect,” Remus murmurs, stepping to the side to adjust his angle. “Keep going.”

The simple command to "keep going” had lead to even more provocative poses. You lay horizontally across the bed, propping yourself up on one elbow, your other hand resting delicately on the bedspread. One leg crossed over the other, the line of your garter and stockings perfectly accentuated.

Sirius kneels behind you, his weight balanced casually as he watches you settle into the pose. You can feel the warmth of his presence without needing to look back, and your mind goes fuzzy again. The anxiety from earlier begins to creep back in, taking you out of the confidence that you were finally picking up on.

The sudden knitting of your brows causes Remus to pause and lower his camera. He takes a half-step forward, preparing to ask if you need a break. But you take the initiative, grabbing Sirius’ tie and pulling him closer. He blinks, his hands instinctively coming to rest on your hip to steady himself. All you can think about is the warmth from the contact – the warmth of his hand twitching against your skin involuntarily.

“Sorry,” he mutters reflexively, though the apology softens by a grin when he sees the mischievous glint in your eyes. His voice threads with approval as he purrs, “Look at you.”

The corners of your lips twitch. “You said to commit – so I am.”

His grin softens, veering into something more genuine.

“That I did.” His gaze dips to where your fingers still grip his tie, and his voice drops to a whisper. “You’re doing well.”

After a few clicks and flashes from the camera, Remus clears his throat softly.

“That’s beautiful,” he says. “But less chatter, more action.”

Sirius barely glances at Remus, his focus locked entirely on you. “You heard the man.”

You roll onto your stomach, bringing Sirius down with you. After the hours of working with each other, you’re at that point where what would’ve been mortifying is now… comfortable. At least, as comfortable as posing in your underwear for a camera can be. His forehead presses onto the side of your head, his breath warm against your cheek when you arch into him. He moves his hips back before you can truly feel him, and you quickly push down your disappointment. You try to hold the pose as the camera flashes furiously, but every inch of your body felt alive with tension. Sirius was so close, yet clearly afraid to press too hard.

“Closer,” Remus commands, the instruction soft but firm and traveling straight down your spine. “Let it be real.”

Sirius hesitates for what seems to be the first time as he gingerly shifts forward. The air in the room grows thick when you feel his hardness pressing against you. It’s a natural reaction, you tell yourself. Just like mine is.  You were prepared for this – your agent and the countless articles on photoshoots like these had told you so. You just weren’t prepared for the reality of the persistent ache between your thighs, and his very real erection. Remus hums in approval, and you’re not sure if he’s unaware or purposefully fueling the fire between you and the body above yours. For your own sanity – you hope he’s unaware.

“Exactly like that,” Remus adds, his tone somehow grounding you while making your pulse race even faster.

The rhythmic hum of his camera fills the air, punctuated by the occasional beep. The sound echoes inside your mind, blending into the rapid beating of your heart and the warmth spreading across your chest. You’re not even sure when you rolled onto your back – but you were aware of how this looked. Sirius leaning over you, his hand grazing your waist as you stretch beneath him.

Your arm rests on his shoulder, and your leg bends, brushing against his hip. His weight is carefully distributed, making sure not to push any boundaries you are disappointed in the existence of. Sirius tilts his head, his dark hair falling into his face – and for a moment – it is impossible to tell whether it is part of the pose or something entirely unscripted. His hand slides an inch higher on your waist, rucking up your sheer garments under his fingers. He moves his hand as to not touch your skin, his thumb brushing a lazy circle through the delicate fabric.

“This okay?” he asks quietly, and you can hear the apologetic note in it that made your chest tighten.

You nod almost immediately as you meet his gaze, your breath hitching. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

His lips curve into a small, almost shy smile that was as uncharacteristic as it was sweet.

“Good. Tell me when…” But his voice trails off. You know what he means; you don’t want him to stop.

“Alright,” Remus’ voice cuts through the charged silence, and there was the faintest edge of amusement there. “If you’re going to continue looking at each other like that, you might as well stop pretending it’s for the camera.”

Sirius freezes, his gaze flicking toward Remus, though his hand doesn’t move from your waist. You are just as still – heat flooding to your cheeks as you attempt to process what had just been said.

“Excuse me?” Sirius says after a beat, his usual quick wit faltering.

“You heard me,” Remus replies, stepping out from behind the camera. His movements are smooth and unhurried, and the calm in his voice was somehow more disarming than if he’d made a joke. “Go on. You’re already halfway there. Might as well finish what you’ve started.”

The words hang in the air, but nobody moves. Sirius opens his mouth as if to respond. But then his attention is brough back to you. His expression is unreadable, and you trust that yours is too.

“Be honest with me,” he whispers, removing his hand from your waist to give you room to flee. “Because I don’t want to stop unless you do.”

You’re stunned into silence as you search his face for any sign of doubt or humor. But there is none – just a quiet patience that makes you feel safe, even as your nerves web with the undeniable pull of desire. Slowly – tentatively – you lean forward, your lips brushing against his. Sirius tilts his head, deepening the connection and igniting a spark in your chest. Warmth travels through your entire body, his hand going back to squeeze your waist. Your head dips back onto the mattress as your tongue moves against his.

“That’s good,” Remus murmurs. The approval in his tone makes you shudder, and you pull back just enough to glance at him.

His gaze softens – not just on Sirius but on you – and before you can process it, he moves toward the bed. He kneels beside you, his fingers brushing along your cheek.

“You’re captivating,” he said with a faint smile. “The way you move together—it’s mesmerizing.”

Your lips – already wet from Sirius’ kiss – part as he leans in to bridge the gap. It’s feather-light at first until your lips move against his. In response, he presses closer – though still contrasting with Sirius’ heated energy. Remus’ kiss is a steady, powerful pull that reaches further than your lips. Sirius’ thumb continues to trace small circles at your waist against the rising tension.

“Absolutely breathtaking,” he said, his eyes flicking between you and Remus.

When Remus finally pulls back, his lips hover close to yours. His expression was awash with a reverent wonder that makes your pulse skip.

His hand cups your cheek gently as he whispers, “Does this feel right to you?”

Swallowing, you nod, words barely finding their way past your lips. “It does.”

At your affirmation, Remus smiles and turns his head toward Sirius. The two of them exchange a look that speaks volumes – more than words can convey – before Sirius eases back onto his heels.

“Alright, lovebirds,” he teases lightly. “Move over, yeah?”

You laugh softly, nerves and excitement blending into a flutter in your chest. Sirius shifts back on the bed, bringing you closer as his hands plant firmly on either side of your thighs.

“Raise up a bit for us, gorgeous.”

You push yourself up on your elbows as his words dip low enough to have you exhaling shakily. The weight of their attention settles over you as Remus moves onto the bed more fully. His hand rests lightly on Sirius’ shoulder before he places it over yours.

“Look at you,” Sirius admires, his eyes raking over you. “Utterly stunning.”

Remus’ hand slides down your arm, his thumb grazing over your wrist as he adds, “And so patient with us, too. You’re lovely.”

Your heart races, your mind now gone to mush from arousal. But a part of you still hesitated.

“You’re both okay with this?” you ask, your voice barely above a breath. “I don’t want to ruin anything…”

“You’re not—” Remus’ thumb stills its movement as he briefly looks to Sirius. “We want this – if you do.”

Sirius gave a small, almost nervous smile, his voice unusually tender.

“We’re in the same boat here – this is uncharted for us, too. We’re… figuring it out as we go. But we’re here with you. If you want to stop, just let us know.”

Their reassurances melt the last bit of doubt you’ve been holding onto. You’re unsure of how to respond without sounding too desperate. Sirius brushes his thumb along the curve of your knee as the cogs whir in your mind.

“I’m here,” you finally say, attempting to meet both of their gazes. “For this. I mean… yes.”

Sirius’ grin widens, his hands sliding along your thighs, stopping just short of the undergarments that barely covered you. Remus shifts closer, his hand steadying your back as he whispers against your ear.

“Let us take care of you.”

The weight of their attention – their words, their touch – it is almost too much, yet not enough. Your chest rises and falls quickly, your body caught between nervous anticipation and desperate want.

The fabric of the babydoll dress feels weightless against your skin, but under their gaze, it might as well have been nothing at all. Sirius’ hands skim along your thighs, his fingers curling around the hem where the gauzy fabric met bare flesh. He wets his lips – betraying his worry – his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“Please,” you urge him.

The moment stretches until Sirius moves, lifting the hem higher. The cool air ghosts over your skin as the thin garment slides up and over your head, leaving you in little more than lace and silk. His hands hover just shy of your hips, his restraint is evident.

Remus brushes the back of his knuckles along your jawline, tilting your face so your eyes meet his. He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “So beautiful.”

A tremble runs through you as Sirius lowers himself onto the bed. His eyes are calculating and somehow still wild, his fingertips tracing an idle path down to the curve of your thigh. “Still with me, Moony?”

“Always,” Remus replies. His hand slides to your cheek, thumb brushing over the apple of it as he guides your attention back to him. The corner of Remus’ mouth quirks up when he notices your needy expression. “Go on, Padfoot.”

Sirius lets out a breathy laugh, his grin holding all its usual mischief. “You’re really enjoying yourself up there, aren’t you?”

Remus chuckles but doesn’t take to the bait, his focus staying on you.

“She deserves to feel worshipped,” he says simply, his fingers continuing their gentle path along your cheek and jaw. “And you need to stop talking and start showing her.”

The words have you squirming just as Sirius lowers himself further, anticipation curling in your stomach. He kisses the inside of your knee first, the softness of his lips igniting a spark that travels up your leg. His hands splay over your thighs as he presses a trail of slow kisses higher. Remus’ voice stayed low in your ear, his words the soothing counterpoint to the fire Sirius was stoking.

“You’re doing so well.” His lips brush the shell of your ear.

Your breathing hitches as Sirius’ mouth finds the sensitive skin just above the edge of your lace underwear. His hands slide down your thighs, steadying himself as he presses his lips just above the waistband. His eyes flick up to you when you whimper – dark and full of intent – before he glances at Remus.

“Like this?” Sirius asks almost playfully.

Remus’ hand slides down to your shoulder, squeezing gently. “Perfect.”

Sirius’ lips continue their descent, his hands anchoring you in place as he draws closer to the dampened spot on the smooth silk of your underwear. You shiver when his breath hits your arousal and finally let out a moan when he slowly licks a stripe over the fabric.

“Does this feel good?" You ignore the teasing lilt in his voice as he asks you this.

You nod, a breathy “Yes” escaping before you can second-guess yourself.

Sirius chuckles under his breath before lowering his head again, lapping and tasting you through your garment. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting them slightly to give himself better access. The intimacy of his touch sends a wave of heat through your body, and you can’t help the soft sounds that tumble from your lips.

You can’t find the concern to care that this isn’t even your lingerie that you’re wearing – they were only for the shoot. But Sirius’ tongue is so hot, and the fabric is so delicate that you’re starting to get dizzy. Remus whispers praise in your ear as Sirius continues his ministrations, Remus’s thumb brushing along the corner of your mouth.

Sirius raises his head from between your thighs to briefly fumble with pulling your underwear to the side. You weren’t prepared, and the barest hint of air against your folds has you whining. He doesn’t waste another second, gliding his tongue along your slit. You hadn’t even noticed that Remus had pulled your hair back to press his lips and draw softly at your neck. Your eyes flutter closed, consumed by the sensations. When you moan again, you’re met with the vibrations of an open-mouthed hum against your heat.

Sirius’ lips finally wrap around your clit, sucking gently, and it’s completely overwhelming. Your breaths come out in quick pants at the heat and deliberateness of his mouth, each movement precise yet filled with a hunger that’s impossible to ignore. Your hips rise to meet his mouth when he pulls away for only a second. Remus catches the movement, his hand slipping to your back to support you, still guiding his lips against your skin. You’re not even sure how you’re still sitting up.

After a few seconds of bliss, Sirius raises his head again, causing you to groan and Remus to chuckle.

“We aren’t keeping you from another shoot, are we, darling?” he asks, the roguish curve of his lips glossy with his spit and your arousal.

“No,” you respond, shaking your head after finally catching your breath. “No, you’re not.”

[mainstreamangel]

Hi! Not sure if u write for georgia amoore or if u write smut, but could i request a fic in which reader gets flirted with at a mystics home game, georgia gets a bit jealous and takes her home?

TOO SWEET

summary: while courtside at your girlfriend’s game, a brave soul dares to flirt with you.

warning(s): slight angst, hurt/comfort, reassurance sex, smut—minors dni.

masterlist / washington locker room

you were courtside at your girlfriend, georgia amoore's game. though she wasn't actually playing (due to her acl tear and recovery), you still showed up to support her teammates. you wore her jersey anyways, of course.

when you first walked in with her, the media documented both of your appearances. you politely waved and posed for cameras, showing them your game day fits. and even before then, you made georgia make a tiktok with you showing your outfits and lip syncing to 'the alchemy' by taylor swift.

now here, you were chatting with one of the girls next to you. she claimed to have flown from florida to come see the mystics in their mystics-wings matchup. she said she had been a fan of georiga's for a while and watching your relationship through social media always brought her joy on days she felt down.

you felt honoured that you could bring a smile to young fans' faces, and that georgia continued to inspire despite being out for injury.

you've definitely helped her through a lot of the recovery and encouraged her through the hard moments.

the seat on your right had been empty right up until tip off. a woman, about the same age as you, maybe older, sat down in that seat. she looked out of breath.

"hey, you alright?" you whisper towards her.

"yeah, thanks. traffic sucks though...coming this way." she tosses her bag under her chair and gives you a quick smile. though she takes a double take and stares at you for a bit.

"what? is there something on my face?" you ask, starting to touch around lightly to avoid smudging your makeup.

"no, i just- uh nevermind." she turns her head away from you to look at the court. wings have the ball.

georgia glances behind her just quick enough to catch that girl staring. she watches as the woman snaps her head away from you, their eyes meeting for a split second.

she shook it off thinking it was nothing. georgia stood up and smacked her gum, yelling: "GET THEM."

later into the game you sat back down after cheering for a 3. the woman next to you struck up a conversation again.

"you a big fan?" she asks.

"huh? oh yeah." you casually wave at her, yelling when a foul is drawn.

"you uh you come here often?" she asks again.

this time you don't hear her. georgia turns back around when she hears your cheers. she sends you a smile, her gum stuck between her teeth. you give her a thumbs up and make a heart with your hands before looking back to the court. georgia shifts her gaze ever so slightly and sees the woman looking at you again.

she furrows her brows trying to read the girl's facial expression. it was like... lovingly awkward. but then, georgia watches as the woman keeps taling to you, you seem uninterested and quite frankly a bit annoyed. but it didn't help that she was feeling a little jealous. with her injury she hasn't been able to show off to you or impress you and the fans.

she didn't know when she was going to be back on the court, and certainly she was out for the season. you catch her eye again and mouth 'i love you' to her which makes her completely light up. she gives you a goofy grin and a sly smirk towards the girl.

the girl seems to have given up for now and as half time comes around, georgia is nominated to throw out t-shirts to fans and sign autographs. georgia grabs a couple bundles of shirts with rubber bands, chucking them to fans of all ages. she snaps her head to the sound of your voice. she sees you waving her over, and before she knows it her legs are carrying her over with a smile on her face.

"hey love, this is caroline. she's a huge fan of you. she came all the way from florida." you tell georgia, wrapping an arm around her.

georgia smiles and hands her a shirt bundle. "hey, thanks for your support. washington is a long way from home huh?" she asks, accent thick.

caroline looks in awe as if she can't believe that georgia is actually talking to her.

"you're my favourite player, i admire you so much. i- i can't even explain how much you've inspired me and changed the game for me." she rants.

georgia just laughs and extends her arms to give her a hug. she gratefully accepts the hug and starts to feel tears falling down. you pull a tissue out of your pocket and wipe away some of her tears. caroline's parents are recording every interaction and the arena coos at the interaction too when it's shown on the big screen.

you feel a tap on your shoulder and turn to see the woman again. you're starting to feel quite annoyed but you think maybe she just wants to make friends here.

"hm?" you ask.

"i was just wondering if maybe i could get your number? you're really pretty and i'd love to take you out some time." she fiddles with her fingers a bit.

before you could let her down easy, geogia thanks caroline, handing her, her sharpie back and strutting over to the both of you. georgia isn't as tall as most basketball players so she was about the same height as the woman.

"nah she's not interested." georgia stretches her body to make her look a bit bigger.

you side eye her antics and internally laugh at her slim figure.

the woman looks at georgia with a questioning look. she turns to you and asks, "does she speak for you?"

you nod, leaning your body against georgia's. "yeah, sorry. she's my girlfriend." you look at georgia and give her a loving smile.

the woman displays a horrified expression. "i am so sorry." she turns around and grabs her belongings before rushing out of the arena. you laugh nervously.

"uh, okay.. that was weird." you say, distancing yourself from georgia.

she stays silent for a moment before looking at you. "you weren't interested right? i just don't want to seem like that decision wasn't yours." she says just above a whisper.

you shake your head. "i promise you i was not interested. i love you and only you." you walk closer to her and get close to her ear. "when we get home i'll show you how much i'm interested in you." you graze your lips against the shell of her ear before watching halftime come to an end.

the moment you get back to your place you slightly pressure georgia into walking backwards while you sloppily make out with her.

"fuck, [name]. i felt like i wasn't able to show off and show you that i could be better than that girl today...because of my acl." she breathlessly states in between kisses.

you halt your movements and place your hands on her face. "babe, you listen here. i want you and only you. you're going to come back from this and you'll come back better than ever. right now just let me show you how perfect you are for me." you place one last kiss on her lips and guide her to your shared bedroom.

everything was left from this morning and you gently sit georgia on the edge of the bed. you get down on your knees and look up at her with vulnerablity in your eyes. "may i?" you ask softly.

georgia tilts her head back to let out a shaky breath. "fuck, please."

the corner of your lips quirk as you guide georgia's shorts down, her bucking her hips up slightly. you toss her shorts somewhere random and kiss the inside of her thigh. then you lay your head on the side of one of her thigh's and close your eyes.

"what're you doing?" she asks quickly.

"just taking in that i get to worship my absolutely perfect girlfriend." you open your eyes and give her a loving look.

she shakes her head and reaches one of her arms to guide your head towards her centre. you gently kiss her clothed cunt, eyes fluttered as you watch her exhale sharply. you lean up and leave kisses on different parts of her lips and leave sloppy kisses on her neck.

"stop teasing already." she whines.

you smile and leave one last kiss on her collarbone before sinking back down to her core. "may i?" you ask, again. she nods and assists you in removing her boxers.

once she's exposed to you, you let yourself take in the sight. she's dripping. you take a finger and gingerly swipe it through her wet folds. she lets out a quiet moan, causing you to smirk at her.

"you're so perfect, i promise you. there is no one else for me, no one. not another basketball player not a courtside fan. georgia, please let me taste you.. fuck." you plea. she quickly nods and guides your head to her pussy.

you shift one of your hands to circle her clit slowly while kissing the inside of her thighs. she starts to let out louder sounds, trying to stifle them with her free hand. you let go of her and bring it to grab her wrist. she whines at the removed contact, looking at you with a glint of frustration in her eye.

"let me hear you. let me hear how perfect you were created." you kiss her quickly before attatching your lips to her bud.

the grip on your hair tightened as she pushed you further into her soaking cunt. you let out a muffled moan, letting your eyes droop. if this was how you went, you'd thank georgia in every universe.

"fuck georgia." you let go of her and move your hand. you look at her and she nods. you insert one of your fingers into her slowly, letting it curl at the spongey part. she lets out a sharp moan at the new sensation, your name falling from her lips like a religious prayer.

"i can't tell you how perfect you are georgia, even past a phenomenal baller, you're kind, you're beautiful, you were made—crafted by some higher power, georgia i love you so damn much. no one could ever take me away from you." you smile, cheek squishing against her thigh.

you hold open her legs every time she tries to close them. "please don't shut me out, baby." you pout.

"fuck [name]. i'm so close." she whines. "faster please."

who were you to deny her? you insert another finger and pump her at a faster pace. you wrap your lips around her clit and start to gently suck, stimulating her as much as possible to bring her over the edge.

"you're so perfect baby, let go f'me." you mutter with a sloppy kiss.

georgia's eyes roll to the back of her head as she lets out a soundless breath. you help her ride out her high, still encouraging her with reassuring words.

"i love you." you give her one last sweet kiss before heading to the bathroom and retrieving a warm wet cloth.

running it through her folds and around the area, you gently clean her up and toss her some of your clothes, which she greatly accepts. she clothes herself and grabs you, bending you down towards her sat figure. she gives you a long sweet kiss, and when she releases you, she says: "thank you, i really needed that. and i know you wouldn't intentionally flirt with anyone i just, haven't been myself since the tear." she gives you a saddened look.

you peck her nose and smile. "you're going to come back from this. i promise you."

she nods and smiles too. "what's for dinner?"

you shake your head and kiss the top of her head before walking back into the bedroom. "whatever you want babe. i already ate."

@spideygoop @numberonepartyanth3m @phoenix32711 @we2222 @sevikasleftbicep @em-nems @addymmt @swiftie4evr @fandoms-bythedozen @pathecat14 @victoria149796 @fiction67

[floraliike]

K-pop Demon Hunters | Fanfic ⋆☕︎ ˖

SAJA BOYS °˖➴ ... as your possessive boyfriend

(m.list) | separate

Jinu—

🧁You're at a crowded industry event, and someone unfamiliar gets a little too close, lingering while talking to you. Jinu, who was across the room, will subtly but swiftly appear by your side, his arm sliding around your waist in a firm, undeniable claim. He'll offer the other person a polite, almost too-bright smile, his eyes holding a clear message: She's with me. Later, he'll whisper, "You're too captivating. I have to protect my treasures."

🧁 You're showing Jinu a new piece of jewelry you bought. He'll admire it, then gently take your hand, his thumb tracing a pattern on your pulse point. He might then subtly intertwine his fingers with yours, or rest his hand over yours for the rest of the conversation, a silent declaration that this hand is already claimed. "My touch suits you better than any metal."

🧁Someone compliments your outfit, and Jinu, though appreciative, will immediately follow up by saying, "Yes, but you should see the real masterpiece it's covering." He'll then give you a knowing, possessive look, hinting at the intimacy that only he gets to witness.

🧁You're sharing a funny anecdote with the group, and everyone's laughing. As you speak, Jinu will often reach out, his hand finding the small of your back or resting on your hip, his touch light but constant. It's his way of ensuring everyone knows who you belong to, even in a casual setting.

Abby—

🍪 You're casually chatting with a male staff member, and Abby, from across the room, catches your eye. He'll give you a slow, possessive smirk, then deliberately walk over, his gaze unwavering. Without a word, he'll loop an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side, his body language screaming hands off. "Ready to go, jagiya? You look like you need a break."

🍪 You receive a gift, a small token of appreciation from a colleague. Abby will examine it with exaggerated care, then place it on a shelf, before pulling you into a tight hug. "Nice, but my gifts are better. And I'm the best gift you'll ever get, aren't I?" His embrace is a clear act of claiming.

🍪 During a photo shoot, the photographer directs you to pose in a way that highlights your curves. Abby, who’s usually confident, will suddenly hover nearby, his eyes fixed on the photographer. After the shot, he might casually step in front of the camera, obscuring the view, before gently adjusting your clothes. "Perfect. Now, maybe something a little more... private?"

🍪 If you're out in public, Abby has a habit of keeping you close. His arm is always around your shoulder or your waist. If someone accidentally brushes past you, he’ll shift his body, subtly shielding you, his presence a constant, comforting barrier. "Stay close. Don't want to lose you in the crowd."

Romance—

🍩 You're engaged in a lively conversation with a male admirer at a social gathering. Romance will glide over, effortlessly inserting himself into the conversation. He'll place a hand casually on your lower back, his fingers subtly splaying across your hip, his touch a silent declaration of ownership. He’ll engage in charming banter, but his eyes will hold a warning for anyone getting too close. "My dear, you're the most captivating person here, naturally."

🍩 You're wearing an outfit that's particularly flattering and shows off your figure. Romance will make sure to be physically close to you all night. His hand will frequently find your waist, guiding you, or his arm will be draped over your shoulder, pulling you into his side. He'll whisper compliments about how beautiful you look, his voice a low, possessive murmur. "Only I get to truly appreciate this view."

🍩 Someone attempts to take a photo with you, stepping between you and Romance. He'll smoothly step forward, positioning himself directly beside you, his arm sliding around your waist or your shoulders, ensuring he's prominently in the frame. His smile will be dazzling, but his possessive grip undeniable. "Always together, wouldn't you say?"

🍩 You’re laughing heartily at someone else's joke. Romance will listen, then lean in, his lips brushing your ear. "My dear, I know much better ways to make you laugh. And scream." His voice is low, seductive, a clear insinuation that your laughter, and more, belongs to him.

Mystery—

🍮 You're talking to a colleague, perhaps leaning in slightly to hear them over the noise. Mystery will appear silently behind you, his hand settling firmly on your shoulder, a subtle but strong weight. His presence alone is usually enough to signal that you are claimed, his gaze steady and unwavering. "Ready to go?" he might ask, his eyes piercing.

🍮 You're admiring a piece of art or an exhibit, and someone else tries to strike up a conversation with you. Mystery will step closer, his body subtly blocking the other person's direct line of sight to you, creating a small, exclusive space around you both. He might not say anything, but his presence is a clear boundary.

🍮 If you're wearing something that shows off your legs or figure, Mystery's gaze will be almost unblinking. He'll make sure to be beside you, his arm often linked with yours, or his hand on your lower back, allowing only him to appreciate the view. "You look good. Very good." he might simply state, his voice low and possessive.

🍮 During a group photo, if someone tries to stand too close to you, Mystery will subtly shift his position, pressing his hip against yours, or nudging you closer into his side, ensuring there's no room for anyone else between you. His arm might then drape around your waist, a clear sign that you are his.

Baby—

🥧 You're laughing hysterically at another guy's joke, and Baby's smile will falter slightly. He'll then bounce over, his arm immediately wrapping around your neck in a playful but possessive lock, pulling you close to his side. "My jokes are funnier, love" He'll then kiss you until you're gasping for breath and begging for mercy.

🥧 You're sitting with the group, and a friend accidentally brushes your leg. Baby, who was previously absorbed in his phone, will suddenly put it down, his leg immediately pressing against yours under the table, hand on your thigh, a constant, warm presence.

🥧 You receive an enthusiastic hug from a fanboy. Baby will immediately pounce, pulling you towards him. "Let's keep some space here" His grip will be surprisingly tight around your waist.

🥧 You're admiring another male idol's new, expensive jacket. Baby will pout dramatically. He’ll then tug on your shirt, pulling you away, your attention back on him. "If you want one like that just ask me" He just wants your focus solely on him.

[natalianovnas]

Omg the part 2 of the fake marriage story was so great!!! Loved it sm!! I can’t help but think that the aftermath of all this will be like, reader now going to events and stuff with Wanda right, and being this style icon. So like, I think it would be sooo cool if you maybe one day could write about their adventures around the world and everyone loving reader and calling her the new it girl

. . . 𝚂𝚃𝚈𝙻𝙴 𝙸𝙲𝙾𝙽, 𝚂𝙸𝚉𝙴 𝚉𝙴𝚁𝙾 — w. maximoff

♫︎ - fashion , britney manson

reader stepping into the spotlight beside wanda—not just as her wife, but as her equal. not a shadow, not a footnote—a style icon, a public darling, the new it girl. the media eats it up, social media worships her, and wanda? she’s standing back, watching the world fall in love with the woman she’s already obsessed with.

It started with Paris, a fashion charity gala.

You wore vintage Dior with pearls at your throat. Wanda wore sleek Givenchy with a double-breasted coat draped over her shoulders. But it wasn’t Wanda the photographers screamed the most for that night.

It was you.

“Who is Maximoff’s wife?”

“The new IT girl.”

“Style icon? Soft power genius?”

“She wore a backless gown like she didn’t care who was looking.”

Wanda, watching from the car that night while you posed outside, going absolutely feral, but hiding it behind sunglasses and a smirk.

Then came Milan.

You wore head-to-toe Prada. Someone from Vogue Italia asked if you were a model. You politely said no. Wanda added “not professionally” with a little tilt of her head.

At the gala dinner, someone referred to you as “the stylish Maximoff.”

Wanda butted in playully, “Excuse me, I’m wearing custom.”

“You are. And you look like a villain in the best way.”

“Flatter me again and I’ll cancel tomorrow’s meetings.”

You blushed with shyly smile.

Tokyo followed. Then London to Morocco and so on.

You didn't just follow her and stood there in meetings, you answered questions with wit and elegance. You knew what you were talking about—and you weren’t afraid to tease Wanda publicly.

One clip of an interview that went viral:

“What’s the secret to working with your wife?” the interviewer questioned.

Wanda replied, smiling a little too hard at you. “Respect and timing. She reminds me when I’m being too—”

“Bossy.” You butted in with an equal grin. “You’re thinking of the word ‘bossy.’”

The Sokovian chuckles, “I was going to say efficient.”

Thousands of quote tweets. Millions of views.

“Wanda Maximoff being down bad for her wife is my Roman Empire.”

Social media dubbed you soft girl royalty. You were known for stealing Wanda’s jackets, always holding her hand first, giving interviews in silk blouses and whispering something in her ear mid-event that made her blush—something no one else ever heard.

Style blogs:

“Her looks are equal parts old-money elegance and effortless sapphic power.”

“A minimalist muse with maximalist energy.”

“She wears quiet luxury like it was made for her and Wanda Maximoff lets her. That’s power.”

And Wanda? She was smitten, beyond hopeless.

She would step back and watch you. At red carpets. At conferences. At dinners.

Always a step behind—not because you needed her to, but because she wanted to see you shine.

“They love you,” she whispered one night, slow-dancing with you on a balcony in Madrid.

You looked up at her, champagne in hand. “Do you?”

“I adored you before they even knew your name.”

Later that year,

Vogue ran a joint cover, the headline being : “Maximoff Wives: How Power Meets Elegance.”

The subheading:

“They changed the game. One did it with money. The other? With a glance.”

The cover? Wanda in a tailored black tux. You in her lap, wearing red silk with one hand on her jaw while looking directly into the camera like you owned it.

And maybe… you did.

. . .