#reminder to self to write that down LMAO

[absolventiia]

HE DOES NOT DIE A HERO.

#absolventiia is a multi - muse ft. prince aurane targaryen, an original character from grrm's a song of ice and fire. psd credit.

[pro-sipper]

While we're talking about how triggers aren't one size fits all, can we also talk about how sometimes they're just plain stupid??

I can read, write, and watch rape scenes with minor discomfort, but a dubcon drunk makeout scene in a TV14 show made me shut down and turned me off of the show for a month because it reminded me of something that happened to me.

I can watch gore, body horror, and slashers galore with no problem, but watching people slice loaves of bread with razor blades on Bake Off made me feel sick because it reminded me of my own self harm.

Does it make sense? No. But that's just how it is for me. No two traumas are the same, and it's so selfish to think that someone exploring something traumatic in fiction, in any way, is a reflection of you and your situation.

You own what happened to you, but you don't have a monopoly on trauma lmao. You don't get to dictate how people write about these things. And you don't get to decide who is and isn't valid based on how they explore difficult topics in FICTION.

[whambamsami]

smile, you're on camera! pt. 2

pt. 1

summary: basically only porn lmao

warnings: 18+, smut! like the whole thing is smut!

note: this is legit the third thing i've ever written, and my first time writing actual smut! definitely have a bit to learn haha but i had fun! not proofread at all so if there's any plot holes/errors im sorry <3

If he could hear your heartbeat before, you couldn’t imagine it now. 

You slid off your bed, fixing your nightgown, and made your way to your door. The very door that was the only barrier between you and Bucky’s apartment. Your hands were shaking, your throat tightened, your legs frozen. 

But ugly thoughts started to swirl in your brain. 

What if he was just toying with you?

Your grip on your doorknob was so tight your knuckles were turning white. 

You couldn’t do this. 

Could you? 

Regardless, you had two options; you could chop this up to his usual flirty banter, or you could finally relieve yourself of the tension that had been bubbling between you and Bucky since you could remember. Just once, to get him out of your system, you tell yourself. 

There was a third option that seemed much more appealing and within reach than the other two. 

You could pour yourself a fucking drink. 

You released the door, took a shaky breath, and pivoted toward your fridge, reaching numbly for the chilled martini glass you always kept in your freezer in case of emergencies. 

This absolutely qualified as an emergency.

Before you could even uncap your cheap vodka, there was a knock at your door. 

You didn’t need to guess who it was.

You froze, standing perfectly still. Maybe he didn’t know you were in here. 

“Sweetheart, we both know I can hear your heartbeat from all the way in my apartment. You think I don’t know you’re in there?”

Goddamn supersoldier serum. 

You don’t move. 

You hear him again, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Please?”

Well, now it would just be improper to not hear him out. 

You put your martini glass on the counter, wipe the condensation off your hands unceremoniously, and open your door. 

Bucky absolutely dwarfed you, his looming figure almost too tall and broad to fit in the frame. He had to duck his head a bit to enter your apartment. Was he always this…big?

He took a step toward you, looking entirely too calm considering your last conversation. 

“Y’know, I may be over a hundred years old, but even I know that it’s considered rude to ignore someone’s texts.”

Another step toward you. You take one step backward. 

“Yeah, well, eavesdropping is considered rude too. What happened to privacy? Where’s your shame, Barnes?” you counter, praying he’d be so distracted with your usual banter to notice just how much you were flushing. 

Another step forward. Another one back. You can feel the cool marble of your kitchen counter through your paper-thin slip sleep dress, and you were reminded of just how little was between your too warm, too desperate body and Bucky. 

He tilts his head, giving you that easy smile that always has you weak in the knees, and weaker in between them. He leans in and places his vibranium hand next to you, bending down to give you a better look at the predatory glint in his eyes. For a second you wonder if he was smiling or baring his teeth, flashing his canines, reminding you who was really in charge.

“You’re right, sweetheart. Where are my manners? It was awful rude of me to interrupt your private time.” his mild Brooklyn accent was thicker than usual, you think to yourself, before he wipes any thought in your mind by innocently asking “is there anything I can do to make it up to you? I do happen to be a professional in the area.”

Your lips part for just a second. You hope he doesn’t catch it. 

But nothing gets past Bucky Barnes.

A self-satisfied smirk dances on his lips as he puts his flesh hand next to your hip, caging you against your kitchen counter. 

The White Wolf was closing in on his prey. 

“What’s wrong, doll?” he purrs, eyelids lowering, “you don’t play well with others?”

You could taste the mint on his breath, could smell the woodsy warmth of his cologne. 

You open your mouth to say something, but you can’t find the words. You can’t find any words. The only thought running through your mind was about how his arms felt next to you, how close he was. 

One metal, one flesh. One radiating heat, the other as cool as the long-forgotten martini glass that still stood perched behind you two on the kitchen counter.

You’d read somewhere once, that going from hot to cold too fast was bad for the human body. That it could give you a heart attack. You never knew if that was true or not, but it worked as an effective warning to ensure you didn’t spend too much time in your friends’ hot tubs on cold winter nights. 

Tonight, you wondered if it was true. If Bucky’s contrast of hot and cold touch would overwhelm your body and you would just die right there. 

There were definitely worse ways to go. 

His voice brings you back to Earth.

“Tell me to stop," he mumbles, lips ghosting and noses bumping, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

His hands found your waist. Gentle but firm. Grounding. Tempting.

You knew he would leave, if you told him to. He sounded so earnest. So genuine. Vulnerable. 

Could he not see that you wanted this?

Your eyes found his. 

You could see it. The cracks in his restraint. Like he was forcing himself not to close the distance between you until you said the words.

He wanted you. 

Badly.

Your voice came out softer than you’d expected it to. 

“I’m not going to.” 

His restraint shattered.

His eyes darkened, his grip on you tightened, and he wrapped his vibranium arm around your waist and pulled your body against his, his other hand cupping your face, drawing you into a searing kiss.

You could practically taste his want. It was everything you had both held back, built on endless nights you’d nearly crossed these lines. He started softly, sweetly, as gentle as fresh-baked meringue. 

That didn’t last long.

He pulled away, just barely, and you could hear him murmur something like “...waited so fucking long for this…” before he was diving back in, deeper than before. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his red henley shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. It was raw. Unfiltered. Desperate. His lips were on yours like he’d dreamed of this, like he was afraid it might be the last time he’d ever kiss you, that maybe, if he did a good enough job, you might let him touch you a little longer. 

His hands were everywhere, grazing your exposed spine, his thumbs digging into your hips. 

Bucky broke the kiss for a moment, and before you could protest, he was grabbing you behind your knees and hoisting you up to sit on your kitchen counter like you weighed nothing. 

You let out a small squeak of surprise that had him grinning against your lips, capturing them again, swallowing the sound. 

One of his knees nudges between yours, opening you up to him. Your thin silk gown rides up on your thighs, exposing even more of you to his gaze, feeling so vulnerable your first instinct is to squeeze your legs shut. 

But he’s quicker. 

His vibranium hand stills your movements, cool in contrast to the heat permeating the room.

“You’re not going shy on me, baby, are you?”

His voice rumbled, leaning forward to let his lips graze your neck. You shiver at his touch, arching into him instinctually. You could feel him chuckle against you, could feel his stubble scratch you gently as he nipped at your collarbone, pulling a soft gasp you couldn’t stop if you wanted out of your lips. 

“Oh, where’s that mouth now, sweetheart? You sure had a lot to say earlier,” he croons, almost mocking you, stepping in and pressing his hips into yours, “Does something have you frustrated, doll? C’mon, use your words...”

You shoot him a glare, trying to gather enough air to speak, to fight, something-but then he shifts that same thigh upward. Pressure. Heat. Friction.

“God, Bucky...” you whisper, only half aware you’ve even said anything, so caught up in the effects he’s having on you.

And you can just feel the cockiness radiating off of him.

“Thought so,” he kisses your pulse point before grazing his lips on your earlobe, “I’ve been paid to fake reactions before, sweetheart...” His teeth graze your skin. “But that right there? That was real.”

You gasp, fingers curling against his chest.

“You’re such a-”

“Careful,” he murmurs, nudging his knee higher, eyes glittering. “You’re talking like you don’t want this. But your body’s saying something very different.”

He grinds just enough to draw a moan from your throat-a sound you did not mean to make. The second it escapes, his smile turns downright dangerous.

“Ohh,” he coos, lips ghosting over yours, “was that a moan? That little sound right there? That’s my favorite.”

You grit your teeth, trying to remember whatever point you were so desperate to make.

“I’m not some...fan,” you snap, even as your legs tremble around his. “You’re not going to ruin me with some pornstar act-”

His brow arches, slowly, like you’ve just dared him to try.

“Is that what you think this is?” he breathes, pressing his body tighter to yours. “Some act?”

His lips brush your jawline, teasing, lingering just enough to have you melting into him.

“If this was a scene,” and his hands tweak your hard nipples, hard enough to make you squeak, “I’d already have you on your knees. You’d be looking up at me with those pretty lips parted, mascara streaked down your cheeks, and you’d be begging.” and he soothes your tender breasts, sucking gently on each.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, thumb trailing down your bottom lip, his voice dropping even lower.

“But I’m not acting, sweetheart. And neither are you.”

You want to deny it. You really do. But his hand slips between your thighs again, two fingers trailing lazily along your soaked center, and your hips buck against him without permission.

“Still wanna argue?” he rasps.

“Y-yeah-” you force out, though it comes out more like a moan.

“God, you’ve got a mouth on you,” he chuckles. “I can’t wait to make you lose that bratty attitude.”

Then he’s kissing you-finally-a kiss that’s deep and consuming, like he’s making a point. He bites your lip, then soothes it with his tongue, one hand holding your jaw, the other slipping lower...lower...

“Gonna ruin you, doll,” he whispers against your mouth. “And when I do, it won’t be for the cameras. It’ll be just for me.”

And he’s got you in his arms, licking and nibbling at your throat as he carries to the bedroom. 

He’s got you on the bed, flat on your back, your flimsy slip dress tossed in the corner of your room. He looms over you, solid and intimidating and so goddamn cocky it’s unfair. 

You try to push at his chest again-weakly this time, more for pride than anything else.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you manage, breathless. “You do this for a living-” 

He stills. Just for a moment. Then he lets out a dark, slow laugh.

“Sweetheart...” His vibranium hand runs up your bare thigh, gripping tight at your hip. “If I was working right now, you’d already be cumming on camera, three times over, moaning my stage name like it meant something.”

Your breath catches. 

“This?” he growls, kissing down your neck, biting just where your throat meets your shoulder, “This is personal.”

Bucky hooks his hands in your panties, not waiting for you to lift your hips before he’s yanking them down your legs. He settles between your thighs, keeping his eyes on your face, like he’s dying to see your reactions. His fingers trace the slick seam of you, slow and patient, watching you squirm with a look of practiced delight.

“Besides,” he adds, dragging a thumb over your clit with wicked precision, “you think I fuck just anyone off the clock?”

“That’s the thing about my job, baby,” he says, leaning down until you can feel his breath ghosting over your core. “It takes a lot to impress me.”

And then his mouth is on you.

Hot, slow, experienced. He eats you like a man with no intention of stopping. Like someone who’s studied this, who knows the rhythm, the angle, the pressure. Like a goddamn professional.

You’re quick to cover your mouth with your hand, muffling what was sure to be another humiliating moan begging for more of whatever he’s willing to give, but he catches it, pulling back to grunt up at you, 

“None of that, doll. I want to hear every pretty little sound I pull out of you. I want to hear how you sound when you soak my face.”

“F-fuck-” you manage to stutter, legs trying to close on instinct.

His vibranium hand keeps you wide open, pinned in place.

And he dives back in, spurred on by every mewl he rips from you, circling your clit with his tongue before sucking you in, easing a finger into your tight, needy body, and curling expertly before adding another.

You’re arching into his mouth, barely in control of your own body as you feel your orgasm building fast.

“I’m- Jesus, Bucky, I’m close- you whimper.

He pulls back, replacing his mouth with his cool vibranium fingers, the contrast making you cry out.

“Y’close, sweet girl? Hmm? Show me how good you can be for me. Show me how pretty you are when you cum.”

And you do.

Your orgasm rips through you, gushing over Bucky’s fingers as he groans at the sight.

His fingers don’t still, continuing their torturous circling and pumping, and you hiss at the sensitivity.

“Sensitive, Bucky..”

“Oh, sensitive, are you?” he purrs, dipping his head once more between your legs, “I think you can give me one more, yeah? God, you taste so fucking good...” and he’s back to his onslaught between your trembling thighs, ignoring your pleas for him to ease up.

Your second orgasm comes entirely too fast, and you snap with a gasp of his name.

As you lay there, desperately trying to catch your breath, you’re dimly aware of him sitting back on his knees and freeing himself of his clothes, his tanned, muscular body now fully on display. 

You shouldn’t have been as shocked as you were about his size. He was a pornstar, after all. But taking a full look at his manhood as you reeled from the two orgasms he had pulled out of you, you couldn’t help but to gasp at the sight of him. Long, girthy, his red tip already leaking precum. 

“See something you like, baby?” he teases, rising over you again, “Don’t let me distract you.”

“You’re a smug asshole.”

He grins, unbothered, dragging the tip of his cock through your slick folds with a low groan.

“Yeah? You say that now. But let’s see what you’re calling me in five minutes.”

And then he thrusts in. All of him. Deep. Thick. You arch up with a cry, nails digging into his shoulders, so full it knocks the air from your lungs.

He doesn’t move. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, watching your face.

“What was that, baby?” he whispers, brushing hair back from your sweaty forehead tenderly. “Didn’t catch it.”

“I-I hate you,” you gasp, even as your hips rock up to meet him.

He groans. Deep and real and possessive.

“You love me like this.”

Then he starts to move. Slow, grinding thrusts at first, acclimating you to his intimidating size. His hands pin your wrists above your head. His mouth is everywhere. Your neck, your jaw, your lips.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he grunts, more to himself than you. 

His hand pressed on your stomach, down to the bulge from where he was fucking into you, deeper than you ever felt possible. 

“You feel that?” he purrs. “No camera. No crew. Just you. Me. And the way you’re taking me like you were made for it.”

You’re whimpering now, babbling his name, shaking apart beneath him, just doing your best to keep up.

“You think I fuck like this at work?” he growls. “No one gets this, sweetheart. No one but you.”

He’s pounding into you, merciless, all while leaving sweet kisses on your cheeks, rubbing soft circles around your clit. The contrast was maddening. 

“Cmon, doll, just one more for me, I know you can do it, can feel you squeezing tight around me,” he coos, speeding up his thumb on you, making you squeal. You could feel it, the sensitivity almost blinding, “Just one more baby, I know you want to be good for me, don’t you? Don’t you want to make a mess all over my cock?” 

When you cum, you practically scream. It was almost violent. You cried out for him, not even sure what you were begging for at this point, pussy milking him as you rode out the most intense orgasm you’d ever experienced, Bucky fucking you through it. 

You barely had time to catch a breath before he was capturing your lips in another kiss.

“God, doll, you did so good f’me, taking me so fucking good, gonna fill you up, baby, gonna- fuck-” 

You could feel him twitch inside you, just seconds before he let out a low moan, pumping hot white streams of seed as deep as they would go, murmuring sweet nothings against your lips as he emptied himself into your poor, overstimulated pussy. 

For a moment after, you laid together, exhausted, tangled in one another and reveling in what you had just done to one another. 

Then he’s wrapping you up in his arms, pulling you flush against his bare chest, kissing your bare shoulder sweetly. 

And then you feel his cock begin to harden against your quivering thigh.

“What, did you pop a Viagra before this? How are you not exhausted?”, you exclaim, gesturing to his crotch incredulously, making him laugh.

“Super soldier serum. Extra stamina. Which is perfect, because I didn’t focus nearly enough on those perfect tits of yours in round one.”

You blush softly. “How am I supposed to keep up with you? You’re like a… a genetically enhanced pornstar. How is that fair?”

He grins wickedly once again. “Aw, don’t be like that, doll! I just gotta break you in you a little, is all.”

“...break me in?”

“Yeah, train you. Get you used to me. Now let me eat that pretty pussy again, and then I want to see you ride my cock like you’re on camera.”

[rafecameronssl4t]

hey for forced marriage can u do smth w like Rafe and reader being intimate and yk doing it (ik u don’t write smut) but like the aftermath of it and they walk down and sees readers brothers there and they heard everything 😭😭

Unexpected audience || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: LMAO I LOVE THIS

Warnings: suggestive content in the beginning

Word count: 1,846

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

The late afternoon sun cast golden streaks through the wide bay windows of the estate’s master bedroom. The luxurious room, with its ornate furniture and heavy velvet curtains, was a picture of elegance—except for the tousled state of the bed, the tangled sheets, and the discarded clothing strewn haphazardly across the floor.

You lay sprawled on your back, the ache in your legs a sharp reminder of the events earlier. Your breathing was finally evening out, but your skin still carried the warmth of Rafe’s touch. He lounged beside you, propped up on one elbow, a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face.

“You’re quiet,” Rafe teased, brushing his fingers lazily over your bare shoulder. His voice held that signature cockiness that both infuriated and, to your dismay, enticed you. You turned your head to glare at him, but the expression lacked its usual bite. “Don’t start,” you muttered, brushing a strand of hair away from your flushed face.

“What?” he said, feigning innocence, though the wicked gleam in his blue eyes gave him away. “Can’t I check on my wife after thoroughly—”“Rafe!” you interrupted, throwing a pillow at him, which he easily dodged. He chuckled, catching your wrist and pulling you closer.

His lips brushed against your temple as he murmured, “I’m just saying, I think we set a new record. That was impressive, even for us.” You groaned, pushing against his chest as you sat up, wincing slightly. Your thighs burned, and your body felt like it had been through a rigorous workout.

“Yeah, well, now I’m paying for it,” you grumbled, tugging the sheets around yourself as you stood. Rafe’s eyes trailed down your body shamelessly, his grin widening as he leaned back against the headboard, hands clasped behind his head. “A little sore, huh? I guess I got carried away.”

You glared at him, though your cheeks burned and your lips twitched upward. “Carried away? You were like a damn animal.” “And you loved every second of it,” he countered smugly. You huffed, wrapping yourself in a silk robe and shooting him a withering look as you attempted to walk toward the door.

Attempted being the keyword—your legs wobbled, forcing you to steady yourself against the dresser. “Need some help?” Rafe teased, casually pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. “No,” you snapped, tucking your hair behind your ears with an irritated huff as you pushed toward the door. Rafe trailed behind, his amused gaze lingering on your slight limp.

You catch sight of his expression through the mirrors in the hallway. “You don’t have to look so smug,” you muttered over your shoulder as you descended the grand staircase. “Oh, but I do,” he replied, his voice dripping with amusement. “Especially since you’re walking like that.”

You shot him a warning look, but before you could retort, your eyes landed on the living room. There, sitting stiffly on the elegant leather couch, were your brothers—William and Edward. They looked up at the sound of your footsteps, their faces betraying a mix of discomfort and barely concealed horror.

Your heart sank as realisation dawned, your cheeks flushing a deep crimson. “Oh… my god,” you whispered, frozen in place. Rafe, of course, was anything but mortified. Instead, his smirk grew wider, and he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you close as if to emphasise his claim on you. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” he drawled, his tone laced with that infuriating confidence.

Neither William nor Edward said a word at first, their eyes darting between the two of you. It was William who finally broke the silence, clearing his throat awkwardly. “We, uh… didn’t realise you were… busy.” Your cheeks flamed. “How long have you been here?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. Edward, always the more vocal of the two, leaned forward with a sharp glare.

“The whole time,” he said flatly. “And believe me, we didn’t have a choice.” You felt like the floor might swallow you whole. “Oh my god.” Rafe’s hand tightened on your waist, his smirk widening. “Well, this is awkward.” “Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Edward snapped, his jaw tightening.

“Do you two even realise how loud you were? The whole bloody house could hear you,” he added, his voice dripping with frustration. You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Kill me now,” you muttered, mortified beyond belief. Rafe, however, seemed to be enjoying himself. “Come on now,” he said smoothly, his tone light. “Don’t exaggerate. It wasn’t that loud.”

“Jesus Christ,” William muttered, throwing his head back against the couch as he rubbed his temples. Edward, meanwhile, avoided your gaze entirely. Rafe wasn’t finished. “Why should she be embarrassed?” he asked, his smugness palpable. “She was just… enjoying herself. Right, sweetheart?”

Your head snapped toward him, your hand connecting with his chest in a firm smack “Rafe!” William raised a hand, cutting off whatever Rafe was about to say next. “Please, for the love of god, stop. We don’t need details like that of our little sister.” Your face burned hotter, and you glared up at Rafe, who was grinning. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”

Rafe shrugged, his grin unrelenting. “A little.” You huffed, tightening the belt of your robe as you crossed your arms. “Why are you even here?” you asked sharply, surprising yourself with your tone. “And why aren’t you in the drawing room? Anita would have told you to wait there.”

William’s brows shot up, and Edward blinked. “We were sitting there for ages,” Edward finally said, his tone dry. “So?” you shot back, unimpressed. William and Edward exchanged a look before Edward sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Could we maybe go somewhere else to speak?” he offered.

You nodded quickly, desperate to escape the tension. “Fine. The study,” you said, already turning on your heel and heading for the door. As you walked, you caught snippets of their conversation. “I told you we should have just left,” William muttered, his tone sharp. Edward rolled his eyes. “Let it go, William.” But William wasn’t done.

“No, seriously,” he said, his voice louder this time. “The entire house could hear you two. It’s not exactly something we wanted to sit through.” You whipped around, glaring at him over your shoulder. “You think I wanted this either?!” William rolls his eyes, shaking his head as you turn your head back around. “This is the worst day of my life,” you mumbled to Rafe who was beside you.

He, of course, was unfazed. “Relax,” he said with a shrug. “We’re married. It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong.”William, hearing your conversation, spoke up. “Just because it’s not wrong doesn’t mean we want to hear it!” Before you could respond, Edward interjected, his tone more conciliatory. “Alright, enough. Let’s just… get to the study.”

He glanced at you with a small, apologetic smile, but you could still see the discomfort in his eyes. As you entered the study, you shot one final glare at Rafe, who looked far too pleased with himself. “You’re insufferable,” you hissed under your breath.

[s1rawb3rry]

Out of my Hands!

Synopsis: In the high-pressure world of motorsport, an engineer and her star driver at Ferrari fall into a connection as electric as the circuits they race on. But when one mistake on his part threatens to fracture everything between them — on and off the track — the race isn’t just for championship, it’s for redemption as well…

Pairing: F1driver!enhypen jay x engineer!reader

Genres: “second chance” romance, established relationship, forced proximity, F1 driver AU (?)

Warnings: jungwon mention lol, possible F1 racing inaccuracies, sun (jay) x moon (y/n), sub!jay x dom!yn, contains smut (mdni), is actually v smut heavy lmao i used this as an excuse to write subby jay (i love him sm), smut with plot, rom com if you squint, happy ending i pinky promise, angst-smut-fluff (in that order), body worshipping to the fucking max, fucking a closet, oral (f!rec), hes a munchhhh, hes v stupid but v adorable, jay is so unbelievably in love, yn is a little mean tbh sorry (not sorry), will probably add more 

Word count: 7.6k 

a/n: here's the little request from my anon hehe i hope you like it hun <3 just a reminder for all my girliesss it's unacceptable for your partner to forget your anniversary! This is pure fiction!

Taglist: @seungsoftly @xylatox  @orxngebloods @yooonjnng @jaehoodies @hoonieyun @heesmiles @hoonsluvr @flowerwinds  @cunty4hee @bambieheeseunglee @luvashli @eczlipse @sunnygirl-kait @leehsngs @enhaeil @bxcndd @firstclassjaylee @sumsumtingz @heekolazz @amazzwon  @goldenretrieverjakezgirlbaby @hazelira @princesslenars @heestoleurgirl @stariekis @morganaawriterr @luvashli @heekolazz  (comment if you want me to add / remove you from the list <3)

⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯

Two days.

That’s how long it had been since I last spoke to him, not a single word. Just silence — sharp and deliberate, the kind that crackled louder than any screaming engine. The smothered quietness was louder than any fight we’d ever had. And yet, duty calls — making us stand in the same garage, breathe the same air, surrounded by the same chaos that usually held us together. But this time, everything was unraveling faster than he could hold it together.

The Ferrari garage buzzed with preparation for the Monaco Grand Prix. The hum of telemetry monitors was constantly glowing with live delta updates, ‘+0.156 vs. previous lap’ blinked on screens with clinical precision. Other engineers around me murmured about tire temps and brake wear.

“The front-left’s still running hot, Y/N,” one of the newer engineers reported, eyes flicking between the tablet in his hands and the tire data streaming across the screen. You could hear the respect in his tone, but also that nervous edge — the kind that comes with not quite knowing if you’re allowed to speak yet.

“Mm, I see it,” I said, already scanning the heat map on my own monitor. The wear pattern wasn’t dramatic, but the temperature spike had been creeping session by session. “We’ll swap compounds for FP3,” I added, calm but decisive. “Harder mix should stabilize temps, and I want the pressures adjusted by half a psi.”

He nodded quickly, already tapping in the update as the mechanics rolled out tire trolleys and the metallic clatter echoed off the concrete walls. The chaos of the usual pre-race rhythm filled the garage — sharp, fast, alive. It was the soundtrack of our lives, something that usually settled in the bones like second nature. But today, it pressed down heavier, as if even the noise knew something was off.

I kept my usual composed self — steady, measured, always perfectly in control.” Which is the exact opposite of the storm brewing inside Jay, who stood a few meters away, shifting on his feet while being suited up in red. But I could feel his gaze, I always could. 

His arms were crossed over his chest like he was holding himself together with the tension and friction alone. I knew it hurt him to see me speak to others like everything is normal but not utter a word to him. The reigning world champion, the golden boy of Formula One — millions in sponsorship deals and beloved by fans — is completely helpless. 

The low hum of monitors and the muted chatter of engineers, mechanics and technicians filled the garage — numbers updating in real time, tire compounds being swapped, heat maps pulsing across displays. The sharp scent of hot rubber and engine oil hung in the air. And still, none of it seemed to register with him. Not the car. Not the lap deltas. Not even the swarm of cameras lingering by the paddock entrance, hoping to catch his shiny-boy smile. They’d get nothing either way because he wasn’t really present with them. He was somewhere inside himself, unraveling slowly, quietly. And I knew exactly why.

Because I hadn’t said a word to him in forty-eight hours.

I could feel his stare occasionally, lingering like static on my skin, but I didn’t turn. My eyes stayed glued to the downforce distribution map in front of me, fingers casually adjusting the torque simulation overlay, just going through the motions like I wasn’t breaking my own heart. 

If I looked at him, I’d remember every part of him I still ached for — like the way his smile would start slowly, tugging at the corner of his mouth before blooming fully, blinding and boyish. How he always leaned into me just a little when we talked, like his body couldn’t help but reach for mine. And the way his hands trembled after a race, adrenaline still spilling out of him — only ever steady once they were wrapped around me. 

We met a year ago, when I was first assigned to his vehicle design team — a technical partnership on paper, a set of credentials matched to a championship-winning driver. It was straightforward and professional. But from the moment he walked into the garage, there was an unmistakable pull that was almost like gravity. He’d saunter in with that trademark charm, all easy smiles and too-pretty eyes. I admired how he has a habit of pushing his car, and himself, to the edge of physics. Even if it made me want to strangle him half the time.

It shouldn’t have worked — but it did. We work perfectly together.

What we have isn’t a secret, just privately ours. Away from the cameras, away from the paddock politics and sponsor demands. Jay was always careful with it, with me. Always made sure I never felt like a footnote in the shadow of his spotlight. Even when the weight of being the reigning world champion began to bear down on him — every appearance, every test run, every simulator hour — I never doubted he cared.

However, caring wasn’t the same as remembering. And on the night of our first anniversary, he didn’t.

We’d just wrapped a grueling 14-hour prep session — final calibration meetings, last-minute aero tweaks, and endless briefings. His world was racing, tunnel-visioned, every second accounted for in his pursuit of perfection. I knew the weight he carried. Knew how much pressure came with defending a world title. I’d seen it in the lines beneath his eyes, in the way his fingers twitched against his thighs even when he was still.

So I told myself I understood, that I do not expect much. But when I walked into the garage that night of our anniversary, still smelling faintly of burnt rubber and carbon fiber, and saw him bent over data sheets, not even glancing up — I knew.

He forgot. No flowers. No message. Nothing. Nada.

And when he found out by himself that he forgot — there were no tears, no dramatic exit, no slammed doors. It was like he hadn’t noticed he was walking on a tightrope until it snapped. He stood there stripped of the easy polish he wore like a second skin, and asked — softly, earnestly — if there was any way to make it right.

However, it wasn’t only the feeling of disappointment I felt, but also the weight of being invisible in the one place I thought I never would be. He remembered tire pressures and compound cycles and brake bias down to the decimal — yet somehow, not this.

I just told him I needed space. And when I said it, I watched his whole face change — He looked gutted. Like the words knocked the breath right out of him. His voice cracked when he asked, “How much?”

“I don’t know yet.” i responded. I meant to sound firm, but I'm not sure if I conveyed that. The silence wasn’t out of spite of him or as a punishment. But because I didn’t want to shrink myself to fit into the background of his life. Not when I’d stood by him, through every pit stop and podium.

He didn’t try to argue or try to talk me out of it. He just nodded slowly, like he was trying to respect my words even as they cut him open.

And I was trying. God, I was trying — gritting my teeth, white-knuckling the line I’d drawn, even though every part of me was screaming to step over it. Every shift of his boots on the concrete, every sigh from his chest, chipped away at my resolve.

Every fiber of me was aching to reach for him. I missed the way he’d find me in the chaos of the garage, eyes soft even when his voice was sharp from that driver’s rush like I intensively calmed him. The way his fingers used to find mine under the briefing table, brushing knuckles in quiet touches when the room was too loud with strategy calls and tire compound debates. I even missed that smug little whisper he’d drop when he leaned in just close enough — pretending to fuss with his earpiece during the final checks, but really just looking for an excuse to be near me. Just low enough so no one else caught it, his voice thick with that familiar tease, “still my favorite shade on you.”

It was ridiculous, really. Didn’t matter what lipstick I wore that day — scarlet, berry, nude — I could swear he had a different favorite every morning. And those quick, almost impatient kisses he’d press against me before striding out to the grid, always with that faint smudge of my lipstick still teasing the corners of his mouth.

But I reminded myself: I was the one who asked for this space, I had to honor that.

“Jay, it's time.” The call came sharp and sudden over the radio: Jay was needed for a test run. The garage suddenly shifted — tires rolled, tools clattered, and the hum of anticipation filled the air. The team moved with practiced precision, but the chatter… it was different today.

Everyone noticed immediately. Two days without a single word between Jay and I was an unspoken record. They knew how we usually were — quiet smiles, casual touches, the kind of softness that didn’t need announcing. So this silence? It spoke volumes. They weren’t subtle about putting two and two together.

“Hey,” one of the engineers — Jungwon, always the first to break tension — leaned over, glancing my way as he wiped grease off his hands. “Is he… okay?” He asked, referring to Jay. 

I met his eyes briefly, then turned back to the screen in front of me. “He’ll be fine,” I said, voice steady and flat, though inside I was anything but.

Jungwon nodded slowly, unconvinced but trusting. “It’s just… two days? That’s new for him.”

The telemetry graph overhead flickered with live data again — sector times, tire temps, brake wear. Numbers, curves, pulses of color that painted a perfect picture. But none of it matched with what we were seeing, because no matter how precise the car was running, Jay’s driving was the real glitch in the system.

“Bring the car in for pit lane after the run,” I said to the team, eyes still on the telemetry, “i want to do some tweaks.” I lied, the car is fucking perfect. However, with no hesitation, they all gave me small nods. 

He loves me, I know and believe that. Truly, maddeningly, desperately in love. From the moment we met, it was like his heart found a home and decided mine was it. Without me he's all noise and no direction — like a car with no grip, spinning in the same corner over and over again. He’s a puddle in my hands, always was. And in these past two days, I’ve felt every quiet attempt he made to reach me, I can read him like a book. I see it in the way he stands too long near the telemetry table where I’m working. I catch the way his hand twitches toward mine before he remembers. Or the way he leans in out of pure instinct when we pass too closely.

Jay, the reigning champion, the media darling, Ferrari’s golden boy — reduced to a man struggling to remember how to breathe without me reminding him.

And yet, he never pushes.

Every morning, my coffee has been sitting on my station before I arrive. Just the way I like it — two sugars, no lid, sleeve already on. Whenever I step out of my hotel room or get back at night, there’s a fresh bouquet waiting outside my door — peonies, or roses, or marigolds, or tulips. Wrapped neatly with the team’s garage tape. All these gestures never had a note or a name or anything, but I didn't need it to know who they were from.

He never knocked at the door either, but his actions — conscious or subconscious — spoke how he felt. The guilt bleeds off him, he wears it in the slump of his shoulders when I walk past. In the way his fingers tighten around his gloves like there’s something else he wants to hold. In every look he shoots me when he thinks I’m not watching, eyes full of ache and apology and that quiet ‘please’ that he never says out loud but I hear anyway.

Jay pulled the car into pit lane with a smoothness that, to the untrained eye, might’ve looked fine. But to us — to the team that knew his driving like gospel — it was obvious something was off. He unstrapped himself with methodical hands, slower than usual, and stepped out of the cockpit, fireproof gloves already tugged halfway off as he handed his helmet to one of the mechanics.

His race suit clung to him, streaked in sweat and dust from the circuit. Normally, after a run, he’d have that boyish glint in his eye, shoulders loose, lip curled in a smug half-smile as he asked about throttle trace and corner exit velocity.

But today he looked like a man dragging his heart behind him.

“Jay,” one of the technical directors called out as he approached. “What’s up, son?” the director asked, slapping a hand gently to Jay’s back as they started walking toward the engineering bay. “You’re lifting too early. Car’s fine — hell, it’s better than fine. But you look like you’re driving through a fog.”

Jay blinked, then shrugged with a tight-lipped expression. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. I could feel his eyes flick over to me before quickly darting away, like even looking in my direction burned.

Miserable didn’t even begin to cover how he looks.

-*-

That night, the garage was quieter than usual, the usual roar and chaos of the paddock fading into a low, distant hum, as if the whole world was exhaling after a long day. The faint scent of burnt rubber and engine oil clung stubbornly to the air, a reminder of the day’s relentless pace.

The heat of Monaco clung to the space like a thick, invisible blanket — heavy, stifling, and impossible to ignore. It pressed down on everything, curling into the edges of the garage, seeping into concrete walls and steel beams. I shifted in place, uncomfortable in my worn-in denim shorts that are sticking to my thighs with every move. The waistband dug just slightly as I leaned forward, a sheen of sweat gathering at the back of my knees.

Most of the team had already left or were wrapping up their own tasks elsewhere, but I stayed behind, focused on finishing up Jay’s gear prep. His equipment was a silent extension of him — every buckle, every clasp needed to be perfect. This was his armor, and I was the one tasked with ensuring it fit just right.

The HANS device still wasn’t quite where it needed to be, not by my standards. I set it down and glanced up as Jay lingered near the entrance, hesitant. “Jay,” I said quietly, almost commanding. “Come here. Let me check your HANS.”

When our eyes met, something flickered in him — hope, or maybe desperation. For a moment, he seemed to brighten up, like the mere act of me talking again was a small victory. But I was still a block of ice, my expression unreadable, carefully guarded.

He nodded without saying anything, and slowly setting his helmet somewhere. Strands of his dark hair clung damply to his forehead, plastered by the long hours under the sun and the strain of the test run. He lowered himself onto the stool in front of me without a word, his movements quiet.

He was still wearing his Nomex shirt which looked like it was painted onto him. The material clung to his body, damp with sweat, outlining every sharp line and sinew beneath. It hugged the swell of his chest, stretched over his shoulders, and clung to his biceps, the fabric pulled taut with every breath and subtle movement. The collar was tugged halfway down, exposing the clean slope of his throat. 

As I leaned in to clip the device into place, my fingers brushed along the edge of his jaw — light, barely a whisper of contact, but electric all the same. The stubble there was coarse against my skin, familiar. It should’ve been a clinical motion, routine, muscle memory. His gaze locked with mine, eyes dark and searching, filled with something unguarded and raw.

“I miss you,” he said softly, voice barely more than a whisper. His lips trembled as they moved gently, pressing a tentative kiss to my wrist, then my palm. I didn’t speak at first. I just looked at him — really looked. The flushed pink in his cheeks from the heat or the yearning, I couldn’t tell. The way his eyes had gone heavy-lidded, hooded. 

He looked wrecked. Needy. Not the Jay the cameras knew, not the star boy of the paddock — but mine. Just mine.

I slowly unclipped the HANS device and set it aside behind me with a deliberate click. The air between us buzzed, electric. I could feel the tension vibrating in his fingertips as they hovered just near my knee, waiting.

I leaned down slightly, voice low. “Show me, then.”

His breath caught, and before I could blink, his hands were at my waistband — unbuttoning my shorts with tentative, shaking fingers. He stripped them down in one smooth motion, panties sliding down with them to the garage floor, pooling around my ankles. Without hesitation, his hands smoothed up my thighs like prayer. Reverent. He kissed the inside of my knee, then higher, and higher still, each press of his mouth more devoted than the last.

“Tell me what to do,” he whispered against my skin, voice breaking like a vow. “I’ll do it. I’ll fix it. I swear.” I looked down at him — still kneeling, still in his sweat-drenched Nomex, chest heaving like he’d just finished a full race stint. But this? This was his real endurance.

His hands curled around the back of my thighs, placing them over his shoulders with that practiced ease, thumbs brushing reverently along the curve just under my hips. His head dipped, the collar of his Nomex shirt tugging just a little further down, sweat still glistening along his collarbones as he exhaled against my skin.

He traced my clit with his lips like he owed me something, “Fuck, I’ve missed you. Every part of you.”

I didn’t guide him, I didn’t have to. He recalls every soft spot, every sound that caught in my throat, every twitch of my fingers as they tugged in his hair — not tender, but possessive. Testing him. Tethering him.

“Jay,” I gasped, my voice barely recognizable as my own. He looked up at me through his lashes, lips wet and parted, swollen. “Don’t stop.”

His grip on my thighs tightened — not painful, no, never — but full of desperation, like letting go meant losing me all over again. Every movement of his mouth was frantic, like an apology written in tongue and breath.

When that heat coiled in my stomach and snapped, one of my hands flew behind me to brace against the workbench, the other buried itself in his hair, yanking just enough to make him groan against me. 

He didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, as if the taste of me was his salvation.

When he finally pulled back, I could properly see those glassy eyes, faint sweat caught on his soft curls that clung to his forehead. But instead of leaving, he rested his head against my inner thigh, breathing hard, grounding himself like he needed the contact to keep from falling apart entirely.

My slick was still glistening on his chin, dripping slowly down his jawline. He made no move to wipe it away, too intoxicated by my taste to wipe it off. His eyes closed slowly like the world had finally gone quiet in his head.

A man of many talents, my Jay. Precision braking, top-speed control, knew how to make me come — except remembering dates, apparently. 

- ᯓ -

The next morning arrived laden with humidity and tension, Monaco’s sun already spilling searing and merciless over the paddock before the engines had even started. I stood by the telemetry monitors, eyes trained on the scrolling data, but my attention kept wandering back to him.

Jay stood beside the car, half-listening to the race engineer walk through setup changes, nodding absently, helmet tucked under his arm. His race suit clung to him in the heat — red and branded, gleaming as usual — but his posture gave him away. There was a subtle stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw set rigidly.

In every post-breakup interview, every carefully worded press conference, I spotted the moment his fingers drifted up to tug gently at the curve of his ear. It’s a nervous tic he’d never quite managed to shake. He only did it when he was dodging something real — an uncomfortable truth, an emotional landmine, or just when reporters prodded a little too close to the subject of us. 

‘You’ve had a stellar season, but are there any concerns heading into tomorrow’s race?’

‘You looked a little frustrated after FP2 — is there something off with the car or just track conditions?’

Tug.

‘You’ve always credited your inner circle for keeping you grounded. Everything alright mentally heading into this one?’

Tug.

I had watched it unfold on screen more times than I could count — his picture-perfect media-trained mask, every answer crisp, charming, noncommittal. But the nervous tug of his ear was his tell, the soft confession his mouth never made.

It didn’t fool me. It never had. I knew the difference between race nerves and something deeper. He was thinking about me, and he knew I noticed.

He was back in the garage after his morning media rounds and microphones shoved in his face, the sharp scent of heat and engine oil trailing faintly behind him, laced with just a hint of cologne clinging to the collar of his undershirt — one I recognized instantly. He moved through the space like someone half-present, greeting a few crew members with nods, polite but distant, eyes scanning out of instinct more than curiosity. 

I didn’t look at him at first, I just did what I always did. I focused on the checklist in front of me, fingers moving over gear I could prep in my sleep. Torque specs, harness calibration, tire temps — all second nature by now. If I kept my hands busy, maybe the ache in my chest wouldn’t claw its way upward.

Around us, the team operated with quiet efficiency. A couple engineers moved toward the car, final checks being logged off with tight nods and murmured confirmations. One of the techs helped him shrug into his race suit fully and zipped it up, another crouched to help adjust the cuffs around his boots.

My hands moved on autopilot, finding his gloves on the workbench without needing to look or think. I folded them the way he liked: neatly, palms down, index fingers tucked in slightly, so they didn’t crease awkwardly when he slipped them on. The small reflex remained in my body, no matter how much I tried to unlearn it. It’s a habit stitched into my bones after months of doing it for him.

He stood there in front of me in full gear, helmet on, waiting. Not for the gloves. For something else — for the kiss.

It had started as a joke, once — something stupid and impulsive in the rush of his early podium days. I had leaned in and kissed the visor of his helmet before a race, laughing as my lipstick left a perfect red print over the clear polycarbonate. He won that race. And the next. And the next. And suddenly, it became a ritual — not a superstition, he’d insist, but something more sacred. “It’s not just the kiss,” he told me once, helmet already strapped beneath his chin, gloved hands resting against my waist. “It’s you. You win the races. I just drive.” He swore by it too, that faint kissprint above his line of sight calmed him, makes him focus, like he was already halfway to the checkered flag. He never raced without it. 

Until now.

I handed him the gloves wordlessly, ignoring the way he tilted his helmeted head slightly forward like instinct. And when I brushed past him, his shoulders tensed because the kiss didn’t come. He froze and looked away like he could swallow down the sting.

“I can race without the kiss,” he said. “I just… don’t want to.” His voice cracked like worn leather.

Just then, the garage radio crackled to life, slicing the tension with mechanical precision: “Car 17, radio check.”

He blinked and turned slightly, fingers lifting to adjust his earpiece below the helmet. “Loud and clear,” he answered, but his voice was tight, strained. He gave a quick nod to the race engineer, murmured something clipped in return, and then turned on his heel, the movement precise but not relaxed like usual.

Honestly? After seeing him like this — so tormented, so stripped of that usual indestructible veneer, the one he wore so convincingly that even the cameras believed it — it did something to me, like a needle under my ribs. I had already forgiven him. Last night something cracked open in me, and the light had started to creep back in before I even realized it. 

Seeing his restless hunger for my attention, still looking at me like I was the only way he remembered how to breathe… it poked at something low in my stomach. I could feel it coil every time his gaze flicked toward me, aching, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands unless they were on me.

And maybe that’s why I let it drag out a little longer. Just a little.

He made it too easy, like he couldn’t help himself. His body spoke volumes, louder than anything he’d said out loud. I wasn’t really being cruel… I just wanted to see how far I could push before he unraveled completely.

The pre-practice runs had already started, tires shrieking in bursts as Jay darted around the track — or tried to. I watched the monitors in silence, arms crossed, the sound of engines blending with the low hum of telemetry feeds.

“Telemetry is fine. Car is good,” one of the engineers mumbled beside me, his eyes narrowed at the stream of data pouring across the screen. His voice was clipped, laced with confusion. “But he’s still lifting too early, way too early.”

Another voice chimed in behind me, sharp and uneasy. “Throttle trace is inconsistent. He’s overthinking in sector two.” I’d seen this before — not often, because Jay was usually a machine behind the wheel. But when something emotional had its claws in him, it bled into everything.

“Driver feedback doesn’t match what we’re seeing,” someone muttered further down the pit wall. “He said brake bias is off—”

“But it’s not,” I cut in before I could stop myself, eyes fixed on the track display. “It’s him. Not the car.” No one argued back at me, they knew I was right. I knew my work was flawless.

A static crackle split through the comms: “Box, box, Jay. Let’s reset.”

A few more laps ticked by, each one dragging like an exhale held too long. The kind of silence that felt heavier than any noise — not because no one was speaking, but because everyone was waiting for something to snap back into place. But it didn’t. Jay was off. I could see it in the throttle curves, the braking points, the hesitation creeping into corners he used to crush. He wasn’t himself.

Then I heard his voice, faint and scratchy over the comms. “Coming in,” he said, just that, layered in a quiet kind of defeat that settled into my chest like weight. The static gave way to the overhead broadcast. The announcer’s voice cut through the background hum of the garage: “We’re on a 30-minute hold before second practice resumes.”

Jay pulled into the bay a few seconds later, the car rolling in clean but the atmosphere around him anything but. He was already wrestling off his gloves by the time the engine cooled — slow, mechanical movements like he wasn’t really present. His helmet was off, hanging from his hand, his hair matted to his forehead from the heat.

“What are you doing?” one of the assistant directors barked, arms flung wide in frustration. “The race is tomorrow, Jay. Tighten the fuck up.” but Jay didn’t flinch, just went to sit somewhere.

He wasn’t driving like the car was part of him anymore. He was second-guessing every movement, every intuitive knee and arm jerks that used to come without thinking. His mind was clouded, heavy, pulled somewhere else. To me.

And maybe the cruelest part wasn’t just knowing it — it was also knowing how easily I could fix it. 

He sat on the edge of the bench beside the telemetry table, silent, water bottle in hand. His lips were parted slightly as he took small, unfocused sips, his eyes glued to the industrial fan spinning nearby like it might give him answers. But he just looked… hollowed out. Like someone had scooped the fire out of him and left the shell behind.

God.

Fuck.

Fine.

I let out a sharp exhale through my nose once I noticed how the team was too focused on whispered commentary and screen replays. “Jay,” I said, just loud enough for only him to hear. “I need your help with something. Now.”

He blinked slowly, stunned, like his brain couldn’t quite catch up with my words fast enough. But something flickered and rushed in, filled the space behind his eyes, and before he could think too hard about it, he stood and followed me without a word. Just like a lost kitten.

I led him down the narrow hallway, the hum of the garage fading with every step. We passed racks of spare parts and stacks of unused tires wrapped in warming blankets, the faint ticking of cooling engines echoing through the stillness. 

I knew the sound of his footsteps behind me — cautious but eager, like he wasn’t sure if he was walking into forgiveness or fire.

The storage room door creaked slightly when I pushed it open. I stepped inside, the dim light flickering overhead like it, too, was unsure of what this was. He followed me in, breath hitching when the door clicked shut behind us.

“Y/N…” he started, voice rough and uncertain. I turned slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make his chest rise harder with the weight of it. “You really think I don’t know how you operate, Jay?” I asked, stepping into his space. I was close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him, see the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

Just one more push to his buttons. Just one more time.

I tilted my head just slightly, lips brushing his — not quite kissing, just grazing. Enough to make him chase it. “You drive like shit when you’re heartbroken,” I breathed against his mouth.

That did it for him, his hands that were already on me tightened their grip. A quiet groan escaped his throat when his lips crashed against mine in something too messy to be called a kiss.

His hands were everywhere — roaming like he couldn’t decide which part of me he missed more. One palm flattened over the curve of my lower back, while the other gripped my hip with bruising certainty. He squeezed my ass like he was trying to re-memorize the skin he already knew by heart.

Clothes peeled away fast, forgotten. His hand palmed its way between us to pull at the waistband of my shorts, rough from haste. My back arched against the wall with a moan from me once his cock sank into me. His fingers dug in, dragging me down harder onto him with every thrust.

I gasped as his other hand slipped beneath my thigh, hooking under my knee and hauling my leg up, opening me wider for him. The shift had me taking him deeper, impossibly so. “God, you feel so—” he choked out, voice unraveling into a groan.

He moved his pelvis like he couldn’t stand the thought of space between us. Every roll of his hips, every bruising grip, every trembling inhale was a silent plea. 

His fingers laced through mine, lifting them to his lips mid-thrust like he couldn’t stop himself. “You steady my fire,” he murmured, his mouth warm and shaking slightly against my knuckles. The way he looked at me made my breath catch. “You know that, right?”

I swallowed hard, a sound catching in my throat as his hips pressed deeper into mine. I couldn’t answer — not with words — just a soft whimper and the way my legs tightened around him in response, pulling him impossibly closer.

He drank in every sound I made like it was water after drought, his lips ghosting down my jaw, over my shoulder, anchoring himself in the softness I tried so hard not to show him anymore.

I couldn’t think, barely holding on to a single coherent thought as he moved against me. Every part of me felt stretched tight, strung up in the kind of tension that hummed just under the skin, raw and unrelenting.

Jay wasn’t being gentle. No, he was desperate with it — like he needed to feel every inch of me to stay grounded. 

The pressure coiled low in my stomach, slow and burning white-hot. It was too much and not enough all at once. My breath hitched as my nails dug into the back of his shoulder. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, chasing something just out of reach. And still, he was murmuring things under his breath — words I couldn’t quite catch, but felt more than heard. 

Heat shattered through me, sharp and overwhelming, like a wave crashing over every nerve ending. My breath was caught between a gasp and a moan as I came around him, my muscles clenched tight and then shuddered. 

His breathing was still uneven, chest pressing firmly against mine as we stood locked together. My fingers traced slow, wandering circles along the tense muscles of his back, feeling the heat and pulse beneath my touch.

A moment or two passed when then it just bubbled up in me — a laugh. Small at first, then unstoppable. I buried my face in his shoulder, trying to suppress but can’t quite manage.

Jay shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to glance down at me, confused and a little alarmed. “What’s so funny?” he asked, voice still rough around the edges, hair a total mess.

I bit my lip, still grinning. “I forgave you like… maybe ten bouquets ago.”

His brows furrowed. “Wait, what?” he blinked, trying to do the math. “You’re kidding.”

I shook my head, still laughing. He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half an exhale of disbelief. “Oh, you’re evil,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to my shoulder with a groan. “Cruel, evil woman.”

- ᯓ -

I was late. Of all fucking days to be running behind, today of all days — the race day. 

The roads to the circuit felt like they stretched on forever, endless. Every red light taunting me, every delay was a reminder of how close I was to miss the beginning. My heart pounded as I dashed through the chaos of the paddock, adrenaline mixing with a creeping panic. Every second wasted was another second I wasn’t at the track, wasn’t with him. My phone buzzed — phone calls and messages — none from him. What he didn’t know, and couldn’t know, was that I was racing against time just to get there. 

I barely caught my breath as I rounded the corner into the paddock, the thrum of engines and radio chatter crashing over me like a wave. I nearly tripped over the edge of my own boots, one hand steadying myself on the garage frame as I spotted Jungwon adjusting his headset.

He turned, brows lifting in surprise. “You made it,” he said, pushing his mic aside. “He’s already in the car. They’re rolling him out.”

My heart jumped, a mix of guilt and adrenaline pulsing through me. “Can I watch from the track?” I blurted. “I mean — pit side. Not from the monitors. I want to see him… really see him.”

Jungwon tilted his head. “You mean instead of the garage feed?”

“Yeah,” I nodded quickly, fingers twitching at my side. I’ve watched every lap of his from behind a screen. Every corner, every throttle trace, every sector split. But I don’t want to see him through data right now. I want to see him, live.

He studied me for a second, then gave a short nod toward the track edge. “Go. You’ve got two minutes before lights out.”

I thanked him under my breath and jogged toward the barrier that edged the pit lane. My lanyard flipped in the wind behind me, chest rising and falling too fast as the distant red blur of Jay’s car rolled into formation.

The moment his car rolled into view, a loud wave of sound exploded from the stands. The roar of his name wasn’t just noise; it was devotion, hundreds of voices rising all at once like a war cry for their champion. I felt it deep, the way the energy cracked through the air and wrapped around the track. They loved him, adored him. And as the scarlet flash of his livery passed, I could swear he soaked it in like fuel.

The lights went out, and with it, everything else in my head did too. The race started with the world narrowing to the sound of engines screaming down the straight, tires clawing at asphalt, and that flash of red — his red — slicing through the chaos. I watched him push, fight, every inch of the track a battleground for more than just speed.

Every corner he took with the kind of hunger that couldn’t be engineered. He was relentless, dancing that dangerous edge between brilliance and madness. And as the final laps blurred past, I realized I hadn’t unclenched my hands in minutes.

Then, just like that — it was over.

The finish line came fast, sudden and final. The scoreboard lit up a second later, and the numbers punched the air out of my lungs, flashing the impossible results that no one expected: a tie. 

Meaning there was one more round. One more chance.

My chest tightened the moment I saw him. Helmet off, fire suit unzipped halfway, sweat clinging to the curve of his jaw — he looked utterly wrung out. His eyes scanned the paddock like he was searching for something he couldn’t name. Like he was still racing, even after the car had stopped.

He sipped from a water bottle someone handed him, barely swallowing before pushing it away. The crew buzzed around him, adjusting things, calling out data — but he barely registered them. I could see it in the way he stood, like his body was here, but his mind was miles away.

He didn’t know I was here yet.

Until I stepped into his line of sight. His shoulders dropped, like some invisible anchor had finally been cut loose. Relief hit him so hard, he stumbled toward me without thinking — like instinct, like gravity.

“Hey,” I whispered, catching him as his arms wrapped around me tight.

He buried his face into the crook of my neck, breathing me in like I was the only clean air he’d had all day. I stroked the back of his head, gently, grounding him.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here before the first round,” I murmured against his hair. “I got caught up, the traffic — everything. I was late. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh...” His voice was hoarse but sure. “You’re here now. That’s all I care about.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, soft eyes flickering.

Then someone called out from the other end of the paddock — “Jay, you're up. Let’s go, round two!”

He sighed, long and quiet, as he adjusted the strap of his helmet. I could tell that he wasn’t entirely ready to walk away, but he was about to with seconds ticking against his chest.

“Wait,” I whispered as I reached out, lightly touching his arm.

He paused mid-step, turned back toward me. Even though I couldn’t see his face through the tinted visor, I knew him well enough to feel the way his breath caught. That slight hesitation in his stance, the tilt of his head — like muscle memory pulling him back to me.

I stepped in close and lifted myself just enough to lean in, lips pressing against the visor in a kiss — right where my lipstick always left its mark. “Be safe,” I murmured, letting the words settle between us. “And win.”

He didn’t speak, just a firm nod, then his gloved hand found mine and gave it a gentle squeeze, like a silent ‘thank you’. Then he jogged off toward the car, his steps lighter — like he’d just been handed something back, like a reborn man.

I watched him leave — not as his engineer, not as a strategist or teammate — but as someone who knew the rhythm of his breath better than telemetry ever could. My chest felt tight again, like my heart was being held between two trembling hands, trembling with awe, with nerves and with love tucked in the space between every beat.

I’d made my way back to the viewing area, blending in with the sea of spectators. Just one among thousands, waiting for that light to go out. The countdown felt like it echoed inside me.

Three. 

Two. 

One.

The start lights disappeared again for the last time today, and the roar of the engines came back. His car launched forward, surging like it had been waiting to be unleashed, finally. The corners he took now are done with surgical precision, every overtake like a challenge flung down and answered without mercy, every sector time had my heart climbing higher into my head. 

He wasn’t just fast, he was fierce. Clean lines. Ruthless moves. This wasn’t just him racing — this is him alive in that car, completely himself again.

Each lap was a war of nerves. Each sector bled seconds. When the checkered flag waved and dropped, it was like the entire circuit inhaled at once.

He won.

For a second, I didn’t hear the explosion of cheers around me. It was like I’d gone under, submerged in disbelief and wonder. I was still watching the scoreboard, hands over my mouth, eyes wide. Then the noise came rushing in all at once like a wave of sound. Applause, shouting, all strangers around me screamed his name and I smiled through my shock, hands still pressed to my lips.

Somehow, I knew what he believed with every fiber of his being that the kiss — that little touch of lipstick on his visor — had something to do with it. 

The cameras cut to parc fermé, but he didn’t go to the others. He didn’t even look toward the podium gates. With his helmet in hand, freeing his wild hair, gloves forgotten, Jay ran.

He bolted straight past the team, past the press, past the sea of microphones and congratulations, the kind that usually dragged him in. He didn’t stop, he didn’t even hesitate. He made for the barrier like it was the only thing keeping him from breathing.

Then — he leapt over the pit wall.

Security shouted, startled. A few mechanics turned in confusion. But I saw him, eyes locked on mine like he’d never looked away. The world blurred around us.

He reached me in seconds, arms crashing around my waist, lifting me off my feet with the full weight of everything he’d held in. And when he buried his face in my shoulder, it wasn’t just relief — it was release. 

“Don’t ever make me race without the kiss again,” he choked out, breath coming fast, smile blooming with that stupid, boy-ish recklessness I’d fallen for in the first place.

His earpiece was still buzzing: “Box for podium protocol, Jay. Jay? Jay — where the hell did he go?”

I laughed, half-shaking, half-melting into him. My hands slid into his sweat-damp hair, curling around the base of his neck, pulling him back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You don’t need luck,” I whispered.

He smiled, forehead resting against mine, sweat-slick and beaming, his eyes shining. “Yeah,” he breathed, “you’re right. I don’t need luck.” His lips brushed against mine, soft and sure, “I need you.”

[nicromancytarot]

ALL ABOUT YOUR FUTURE SPOUSE 18+ themes, lots of information!!

This is a general reading based on a collective of people. Take what resonates and leave what doesn’t. If you don’t feel the pile resonates with you, don’t be scared to try another, if it still doesn’t feel right, that’s ok! Maybe our energies aren’t as connected and my readings are not for you.

I do these strictly for fun and educational purposes. I don’t change for these readings and I do not fake readings. I would tell you the cards I got but I pull like 15-20 cards each reading and that just slightly a strenuous task to write them all down lmao.

(This took me 3 days lmao, please like, follow and reblog)

PICK A CARD READING

I asked my spirit guides what you need to know about your future spouse, pick a pile to find out!!

Pile 1 ———> Pile 2 ———> Pile 3

PILE 1 (TW sexual abuse)

“I need to take time for myself” “let’s take this to the next level” “i don’t want anyone else”

Their appearance

I’m seeing lighter hair, light brown to a blonde-white, I’m seeing they may have muscles, or just a nicely toned body. It also looks like their back may be very prominent to their appearance, they may work out extra to achieve really nice back muscles. They could honestly have a large top half and skinny bottom half (Miguel O’Hara for example.) I’m seeing someone quite tall, they may have an interesting shaped head, like not in a bad way, it might just appear more prominently on them. For a guy, long third leg.. (They allowed me to say this one.) Possible big ears, or maybe even wears earrings or something to highlight them. The right side of their face is the best for them lmao, they might pose showing their right side for pictures.

About them

They‘ve have been through some hardships in their life, they’ve been fucked over pretty bad in the past, and while they don’t like to dwell on it, I wanted to bring it up. It’s seeming like they may have gone through sexual assault, I’m seeing that they used to appear quite sexualised in the past, something they did themself, however, someone close to them felt valid enough to abuse their power and cause harm to your partner through their self-expression. This hurt your partner a lot, they’re still healing, I’m heading “please take your time with me” when it comes to sex, they have some extreme vulnerability about it, they need you to understand that; they’re begging me not to sexualise them, and they’re asking you nicely to do the same, give them the respect that someone thought was ok to steal from them.

Due to this mass betrayal, they appear very closed off to new love, they have a lot of people that want them, and fawn over them, but this situation has completely made them turn a blind eye to those who see them. It will take you a while to crack this person open, however once you do, it will be more than worth it.

They will be very slow to start this connection with you, but once they are sure that you can be trusted, and they feel safe around you, they will set up camp by your side, and they don’t plan on leaving.

Their career

They’re very financially successful, but I see that this took them a while, I think they began building up financial abundance due to wanting their family to be there for them, and take notice in their achievements.

In work I think they may be underestimated, appearing as the lioness, I can only be reminded of the over glamorisation of lions, and the societal irrelevancy of lionesses, even though they do more for the lion population than the lion, as a collective do for themselves. Unfortunately this being said, I see they are idolised for their body, rather than their talents (I’m getting Sidney Sweeney, and Vinnie Hacker for this, both talented people, who are only seen as pieces of meat, or some type of chew toy.) Your person is really disrespected and it’s making me so mad, man. They’re trying their hardest to break out of the stereotype, however I feel as though there are colleges of theirs that constantly sexualise them, making them feel very uncomfortable. Again, I’m getting the same message as before, they are yearning for someone to treat them like a human being, and not just a vessel of sex organs.

Their family

Mentioned prior, they do not have the best relationship with their family, I think there’s some deep-rooted and ínstense trauma from possible childhood, I see they were the type of child to get all perfect grades to try and impress, and make their parents proud, however I don’t think it worked. Their parents seem very self focused and absorbed in their own life, and business.

They assumed that becoming even more successful, making a name for themself, earning masses of money would make their family proud, but it never worked.

They may have cut their family out of their life, or they are considering it. If they don’t decide to cut their family off, it most likely comes from hope and fear, they are scared that their family won’t notice all their biggest achievements if they cut them out, and they hope that eventually they will be able to achieve something big enough so their family is proud of them. They blame themself a lot for “not being enough” and not making them proud.

How they are in bed

I was not able to get much for this, but I do see that they need to really be able to trust you fully before getting into bed with you, they need a lot of time and reassurance, they really need you to understand their fears. The first time you guys have sex, you may unintentionally bring up some hidden wounds, they’re telling me to tell you not to worry, they’ll look into your eyes and it’ll be gone. They may need eye contact the first time, they need that constant reminder that it’s you, and that you won’t hurt them.

They gave me a few explicit messages, so for that I got

“Cum on your face”

“Make a sex tape” (I feel like they would burn this onto a hard drive and keep it in a place only they know about, only showing you if you asked them to.)

“Food play”

When I got these messages, I had a fan on so I needed to put the papers under something so they didn’t fly away, I unknowingly put them under the chariot card, so I’m really getting again that you will need to work for this. The chariot was also the only sexual illustration I got.

Another thing is that they don’t want you telling your friends about your guys sex lives, they don’t want more people to sexualise them.

They also may finish very fast the first time, this could be out of sensation since I don’t think they would’ve had sex for a very long time by the time you guys meet and start dating.

Their love language

Acts of service, they enjoy doing things for the people that they care about, unfortunately it seems this has stemmed from their neglecting childhood, they feel as though they must do something for someone to feel loved. They do not quite understand that love is not a give to receive, you may have to be the one to teach them this. Your future spouse only believe people will love them if they do something for that person in return.

Quality time, they like to be with the people they care about, i’m seeing two people sat in silence on some arm chairs, one person is resting their head on their arm while scrolling aimlessly on their phone, meanwhile the other is reading a book, holding it with one hand as the other plays with the hand belonging to their counterpart, their fingers tracing the skin of their lover’s hand gently, fingers only just intertwining.

Their shadows

Your future spouse does not see their own self worth, they do not value themself as a person, or even a creator, whatever they do in life, they are a very creative and diverse person, yet they don’t feel that way. It’s as if they suffer from imposter syndrome, they never feel worthy of their achievements, because no one ever made them feel as though their success mattered.

They can be very closed off with their feelings, they become resentful towards their emotions and just wish they could rip the feelings from their body. They may say things they don’t mean in the moment, mostly because they don’t feel worthy of your love, but as soon as they realise what they have done, they will bring you to their chest and hug you tightly.

This reaction will never escalate further than a shout of anger.

I sense they might refuse therapy, you may have a lot of arguments about this, they try to tell themself that they do not need therapy, but this is mainly because they fear they will be laughed at, for coming to this person with trauma that even they struggle to understand, even after having gone through it. I would encourage you to try your best to get them to go to therapy, maybe even both of you together so you can get to know each other on a more intimate level.

Please be gentle with them my pile 1, they are truly a blessing of a soul.

PILE 2

“I’m not ready” “you’re too good for me” “let’s take this to the next level” (you may have been attracted to pile 1, if so maybe go check it out.)

Their appearance

Lighter hair, for a select few of you, it’s black. I think they might have longer hair, and like to wear it up, or they enjoy covering their head with a hat or other accessories. I’m getting medium height, maybe even shorter than you, or possibly only a little taller than you. I think they enjoy dressing more provocative, perhaps having shirt buttons undone, or just not wearing a shirt at all, they really like their body, and they know they have a good one. If they have abs, I would say they are there but quite faint, not toned, just enough to show. Their hair could be curly, or it’s just the first thing you notice when you meet them. I’m getting pirate vibes, they might dress up more like a pirate honestly, buttoned down blouses, a bandana on their head, their hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. The area of their nose, lips, philtrum, and chin is very prominent, a main focal point on their face. Their eyes make them look tired and drunk, the classic sleepy eyes. They may wear a lot of jewellery, specifically gold. Their skin seems more into the tanner tones for the dark haired individuals, they may be part of the latino/a community. For the people with lighter hair, I see they could be based around Europe.

About them

I hate fuelling delusions like this, but multiple cards are pointing to this person being an ex, it seems like they had your heart at one point and came back for more, after having messed up the first time. They do seem very remorseful for their previous mistakes, they want you to know that they were naive and selfish, they didn’t know how to treasure something as important, and valuable as your love, however they want you to know that they are ready now. I see they could have cheated on you in the past, left you for another person, or just been toxic with you, and just treated you badly. Please take in mind that I do not want you to get back with any super shitty ex, you have free will so don’t do that, however I do think this person has changed for the better. With the chariot, and hanged man, I’m seeing they worked on themself to be able to be good for you, it may have taken them a few years.

For those of you who’s future spouse is not an ex, I would say that the first time you guys met, there was a sense of competition and it turned you completely off from them, or they just came across rude, and arrogant while trying to impress you, and you just weren’t feeling it. They’re coming back around to show you how serious they actually are about making this relationship with you work. They will need some time, one sided enemies to lovers lmao.

Their career

I feel as though they have a good amount of material wealth, they seem to have everything they could desire, they could be a little bit of a workaholic, which possibly can cause some drama between you, you will need to remind them of how important spending time together is, they will listen, they are always willing to compromise with you.

Their job is one filled with a lot of competition, I’m honestly getting technology, they could work with technology, they could be under a tech company position, or maybe they even work from home doing their own thing on their computer.

They can appear secretive when it comes to their job, they’re not trying to keep it a secret, or hidden from you, they simply just don’t really think to talk about it that much. Lowkey, they could be a moderator for some type of famous streamer, (lmao??) or they could work in a position where they help people with managing publicity, like an agent or something.

This job does seem interesting, but it does come across a little like they do it more so for the money, than for an actual enjoyment that they find. Some of them do enjoy their job, but I don’t think they would stick with it, if it didn’t offer them the money and exposure that it does.

Their family

I honestly feel like it was their family’s influence that got them to start working on themself, I get the sense that their mother was possibly the one to force them into therapy, she may have even sat through his first session lol.

I think he’s mainly closest to the woman in his family, I’m getting a close friendship with their 1-2 sisters, possibly older, rather than younger. Im getting that they see them a little puppy that needs training, if you guys get into an argument, and they go to their sisters, the oldest one would be quick to correct your future spouse on their mistakes, and convince them to talk to you again and apologise for whatever they did.

Their family love you, if it’s a second chance scenario, they are so happy that you guys get another chance at loving each other, they truly want you to stay part of their family.

I’m seeing a young girl, possibly around the age of 5-6, you will be very close to her, I’m feeling it’s a niece or cousin, who is constantly around when you visit the rest of the family.

How they are in bed

They honestly appear quite vanilla, all bark no bite to be honest, they will say the flirtiest things to you, and they appear quite sexual, but once you get into the bedroom, they become all shy and reserved, there is a potential for you to bring them out of their shell however.

I’m seeing that sex for them is more-so about their own pleasure, they can seem a bit selfish during sex because of this, they may also see it as a way to compete with others, I’m hearing “I have them in a way that no one else ever will,” they may deal with a little bit of jealousy when it comes to your relationship, they are you as a very desired person, so they worry that someone will steal you away from them, being intimate with you is like proof to them that you are there’s and no one else could have you in such a compromising position.

They may finish really fast, I’m seeing someone who is struggling to keep their attraction in, the way your eyes penetrate into theirs will have them a stuttering mess, unexpectedly pushing them to their climax, though I feel like you will be nowhere near your own. You may need to help them with how to pleasure you, so you also reach your destination!

They could be a virgin, they don’t seem very experienced, they may have even waited for marriage, so this could be the night of your wedding.

They’re on top, it makes them feel more masculine and in charge of the situation, I also think they need to be able to pick their own pace to make sure they don’t overwhelm themself the first time.

They will be bursting with anticipation every time you initiate something with them.

They may have a desire to watch you touch yourself, they know about the important places of pleasure for people of your gender, however they don’t know exactly how to treat those places, so they may ask you to touch yourself to show them, this could lead to an intense session of mutual masterbation, for the select few of you, this will come before your wedding, they’ll ask you about how they should pleasure you on your wedding night, and you will show them, they will get into the mood as well and join you in the bed, this will almost make them cave in and take you there and then.

“Pull my hair”

“You make me so hard/wet”

“Let me taste”

Their open to whatever you’re into, just give them time to adjust to the new sensations of sex first, before you spring any random kinks onto them.

Their love language

Physical touch, they enjoy being around you and putting their hands on you at any chance they get, they like to hold your hand, to wrap their arms around your waist, they just like how you feel under their touch, if they feel like they’re working too much, they will invite you to sit with them, possibly on their lap so they can have you with them.

They like their bare skin to touch yours, I don’t think they sleep with much on, maybe shirtless with a pair of underwear, they will press their front of your back, making sure their bare chest hits your bare back, and back of shoulders.

Gift giving, they like to buy you things, I think it’s in a way of trying to make up for how they treated you in the past, they use their money to prove to you how serious they are about you and their relationship with you, they’re very possessive of their material wealth, so sharing it with you is something massive, and unexpected. If you see something in the store window, they’ll notice you even as much as glanced at it, and they will make sure it belongs to you in no time.

Their shadows

Their can appear a little selfish at times, I think they’ve had to protect and defend themself all their life, so now they feel as though shutting people out and not letting them in is the best answer to cure and keep away any upcoming insecurities.

Your future spouse needs to lose things to understand how much they actually mean to them, they don’t appreciate things enough until it’s taking away from them, luckily for them, they tend to work hard enough to manage to get this back, ensuring that it will never be taken away again.

Their downplay their transformations, they don’t exaggerate, but honestly the complete opposite, they feel as though their past and their future and two completely different identities, they need constant reminders that their success is still their success, no matter how long ago it was.

PILE 3

“I don’t want anyone else” “do you feel the same?” “you’re the only one I want in my life” (again, you could’ve also been attracted to pile 1, I wouldn’t recommend going back up however, I think it may have been the warning that caught your eye rather than the pile itself!)

Their appearance

I’m getting chestnut brown, to black hair, for a woman, it’s casts down her back, quite long. For a man, It’s around medium length, maybe just above their shoulders. Their back is very prominent in this pile, I feel like they have nicely defined back muscles, however I do not think they are an incredibly muscular person. They could honestly dress more punk/emo, wearing black leather jackets which are decorated, and bedazzled with silver spikes, I do see a possibility for a more alternative style for men, feminine outifts for women, types of styles that accentuates their hips and bust.

They might like going outside a lot, they’d be the type to suggest a camping trip, so they wear clothes that are suitable, and durable for being outside for extended periods of time. Big black boots is another thing I’m getting, their hair could also be spiked up for a select few of you. (I’m honestly picking up Johnnie Gilbert similarities for this pile, maybe Johnnie’s future wife is watching, and they just don’t know, that’s crazy.)

About them

They know better than to overwork themself, they may be the type that needs to mentally recharge after being around people for too long, they also seem to take in a lot of energy when around people, they’re like a little portable charger, however this does mean that they get burnt out very quickly. Luckily, they are not one to ignore the signals of their body and mind, so if they need to rest and be alone for a little, they will do that, this can however make them appear a tad aloof.

I don’t think they’re the best at expressing their emotions, they keep them hidden for a reason, I believe out of fear of judgment, or getting hurt again. I’m seeing someone who may have been cheated on by an ex partner, I don’t imagine they got closure on whatever this situation was, if it wasn’t cheating, it was some type of intense betrayal. They may appear a bit condescending at times, this is their way of trying to push you away before you find out about their feelings, they weirdly think you will leave them or condemn them for showing any natural, human emotion.

Their hardworking in all areas of their life, mainly self improvement, they want to become the best version of themself, so their partner can be comfortable with them. I do see that they will have a dramatic change of circumstance, or just who they are as a person, around the time that they meet you, which would be done for you, or for some of you, they will improve themself right before you guys meet, this change in their life will bring you to them.

Their career

They have a job where their workload and work time is flexible, they have the ability to not work one day, and pick up the work the next day if they so please. This is good because it means they will be making sure they always have time for you, to make you feel appreciated.

Their job is focused around nurturing responsibility, they are a leader of their area, but not a leader overall, they may have some type of job where they have to be a role model for people of a younger age, mild fame or influencing is showing strongly (bro which one of you are Johnnie’s wife, this is getting too specific.)

The job brings in a lot of material abundance, I don’t see they have to worry about too much, other than understanding that their work can be overwhelming, and that they need to pace themself, allowing themself to take breaks is super important with this pile.

It’s a job that offers them long term stability, and more money with the higher their position gets, if this person is mildly famous, or some type of influencer, the more fame and fans they gain, the more money they will be raking in, however they do need to remember where their loyalties lie, and always make sure to appreciate the fandom that gave them what they have now.

Their family

Their family are so different from them lmao, like polar opposites, I’m seeing the sweetest mother who always makes baked goods, sometimes they can appear a little interesting, but taste good nonetheless. Their father calls them by a nickname which your future spouse hates, their father is really sweet, I’m getting someone a little more laidback, who would rub your partners hair to mess it up for absolutely no reason.

You will feel very welcome into this family, they do not discriminate since their son/daughter/child has gone through some intense stuff in their life, and they are just thankful that you are able to bring them security, and safety, your person could’ve struggled badly with mental health, and it may have worried their family, so their parents are super happy that you’re able to keep them happy. However, please remember that someone’s mental health is not your responsibility solely.

How they are in bed

I don’t think they would’ve had sex for a while before you guys got together, I think they may have done some type of sexual cleanse, they were possibly a fuck boy/girl in the past, so they quit it to help themself improve and be the best version of themself.

They may need a little while to really get ready to be intimate with you, it might come as a conversation that the two of you share, explaining that you would like to have sex with them, and them setting a date for it so nothing can go wrong. I see them prepping by shaving their entire body lmao, they’re going all out, if it’s a man, they’re going to get so many cuts in all the wrong places, and they will definitely complain about it to you. They do expect you to be as prepared as they are, so get yourself ready, find yourself a nice, new perfume and get to it.

I do not think they will have sex with you outside of the relationship, I feel as though they have so many sexual requests from people, it makes them feel only valuable for their body, they don’t want to be seen as just a warm body that you get to lay under, the first time you are intimate with them. You have to prove yourself before sex, and even then, it may take a while. I’m getting around eight to ten months after dating, they really don’t want to be fooled and used for their body, especially after their sexual cleanse.

They like to be on top, they may honestly end up sweating and shivering at the end of it, like that one scene from Titanic when Jack is shaking in the carriage while laying on top of Rose with a blanket.

The sex will get progressively more rough and interesting over time, but the first time is just pure love making.

“Look into my eyes”

“Fuck you silly”

“Tie you up”

I’m getting that they will need aftercare more than you will, while both of you will be giving it to each other, they are a lot more in need of it, I feel like you would be fine to just go into the kitchen and make yourself something to eat, meanwhile they desire to be in your arms for the next couple of hours.

Their love language

Physical touch, they need to be at least holding your hand at all times, they would lowkey like to wear a lipstick stain you created on their cheek or jaw, they like people to know that you are theirs, and they are yours. They may also really like when you give them hickeys, they will absolutely allow those to be on show for everyone to see, they are too proud to hide them. They like to hold your stomach? Perhaps it’s when you sleep, they like to rest their hand on your stomach, or perhaps they want to get you pregnant, they may be very serious about having kids sometime in the future.

Words of affirmation, they really appreciate when you tell them how good they look, or how the outfit they’re wearing is amazing on their body. They specifically enjoy your compliments, you have a way with explaining things, that makes it seem so much more authentic and honest, they trust your judgment a lot. I do see they have a tendency to feel very insecure, and although so many people tell them how beautiful they are, your future spouse struggles to believe them, thinking it’s some kind of sick joke, but they know you would never joke or make fun of them about that. You’ll be very surprised to find out about their insecurities, you may even think they’re playing with you the first time they mention it, this could make them feel invalidated, so be careful how you tackle this!

Their shadows

They constantly ignore their problems, they have an “out of sight, out of mind” way of thinking, which is just barbaric because it means they don’t sort through their issues and instead push them out of the way. You may need to help them with healing from some past trauma, and realising that they are allowed to feel hurt and anger from those past situations, as they were not at all ideal.

Your future spouse is quick to push people away when they feel as though they’ve said too much, and opened up more than they desired to, due to this, there may be a few times when you feel helpless, and they seem helpless, this is something you can work through together.

They get very defensive, very quickly, if you say something that unintentionally triggers them, they will shut off, going into some type of hermit mode until they feel ready to talk about whatever it is that bothered them.

[prettieinpink]

REBRANDING YOURSELF

COLLAB WITH THE HOTTIE????!!!!!!! @honeytonedhottie. LMAO NOT US PLANNING THIS IN LIKE DEC THEN RELEASING IN APRIL. I luv you so much ur my fav moot. moots who collab together, stay together. Check out her post on her page too, as usual, she makes the best points so y'all better listen.

Rebranding is a process in which you redefine who you are and how others perceive you. Each journey of rebranding yourself is personal and individual. When you rebrand yourself, you further align yourself with your higher you. This post is a guide to getting started on your journey!

UNDERSTAND YOUR CURRENT SELF.

So, take a step back and think about who you are as an individual right now. What are your values and beliefs? Does your external self reflect your inner self? Are you comfortable in your current environment?

These questions and more will help to see which aspects of your life you may need to redefine. See if there’s anything that doesn’t align with your higher self. 

After that, pick those aspects that need to be redefined. Why do you want to change this? How has this been impacting you internally/externally? Does this aspect stem from your environment or yourself? See why this aspect needs to be improved. 

DESIGNING YOUR BRAND

This is more of a fun step! So, using your aspects design how you want that specific thing to look and feel like. Avoid being vague or non-specific. Try to put in as much detail as you can for each aspect. 

If you’d prefer, you don’t have to use ‘aspects’ and instead use your life generally. This is your redesign, so do whatever is more comfortable and achievable for you.

ASPECTS

Health

Social life

Career

Hobbies

Family

Finance

Spirituality

Personal development (mindset, goals, improvement)

Self care

Culture

Well-being

Things to include

Achievable goals

How your environment looks like

How your daily life like

How you see yourself

What do you feel after

Why this is alignment within yourself? 

You can do this any way you want. The one I would recommend for redesigning your life would be a vision board, preferably a physical one. If you don’t want to do that, there are still a lot of options such as writing it down into a pretty poster, creating a playlist that will reflect your brand, creating a pretty list, or having sticky notes around your room as reminders. 

Be creative and detailed with this. You should spend at least an hour if not more trying to redesign your life/aspects.

CREATING GOALS

Goals are so important, especially when we are moving in a different direction than we were before. As we’ve got the current status of who we are and what we want to be, creating goals should be easy. 

Make your goals visible. Put a sticky note on your mirrors, put it as your laptop background, put a reminder on your phone, listen to a playlist that motivates you of your goals or anything else that will constantly remind you of your goals. 

Other than that, remember that goals have to be achievable, mindful, and flexible.

ESTABLISHING HABITS

Habits are so important to rebrand yourself. Habits make up your identity. The way you act, speak, and do daily, can subconsciously influence you to be someone who isn’t in alignment with your higher self.

 As much as it’s important to establish new habits that align with you, you have to root out the habits that are pushing you off track from achieving your goals. 

The good thing is that you can do both at the same time. Replace those old habits, with brand new ones. For example, when you open your phone first thing in the morning instead of opening up TikTok, get YouTube opened and start a 5-minute meditation to start your day.

However, just because a habit is beneficial for you, it doesn’t mean it is in alignment for you. For many people, they prefer to read books as a productive alternative for leisure, however, you may not be able to read a book and focus. In that case, you may want to watch an educational video instead. You’re still getting the benefits, but just in a different way. 

STEP FIVE: IMPLEMENTING YOUR BRAND DAILY

Think about all the little details of how this person would act, from morning until night. Embody their actions, words, aura, and vibes. This is when having a visual of your goals is good, so you can see what you need to do.

This includes no longer indulging in things your higher self wouldn’t do. Regardless of how much comfort, entertainment, or dopamine something gives you, you have to let it go if it is destroying your mind. 

I way I recommend implementing your brand daily by creating a daily routine that focuses on a different goal each day of the week. E.g:

Monday - Practicing being mindful (meditation, journaling, connecting with your religion)

Tuesday - Fitness (pilates, weightlifting, hot girl walks)

Wednesday - Socialising (going out to meet new people/connecting with old friends)

Thursday - Productivity (Schoolwork, studying, business, workplace tasks)

Friday - Self-care (taking a slow day however you’d like)

ta-daa!! thanks 4 reading. now go follow @honeytonedhottie 💕😍

[brain4stew]

HI so uhh this is gonna be a really short one probably but i really liked the puppeteer reader you made a while back and i was wondering if you could write about the survivors and killers accidentally knocking them over, watching them flail around and not getting back up at all and they're just.. struggling to get back up and they just end up kinda tripping themself over and flailing again everytime they get close to standing up, maybe even accidentally flinging themself all over the place

i dunno, the thought of them flailing when knocked over was funny to me

but please take your time!! don't feel obligated to do all of them if you're not feeling up to it!!! have a great day!!

((also im kinda freaking out if i accidentally asked this twice there was some kinda error with submitting this))

OMG YOU AMAZING SOUL.

The amount of times I could not get up in SWEH because of the stupid bricks and all that, getting flung left and right, knocked down left and right, and could barely even get on my feet LMAO.

It also reminds me of how people spin their avatars in shiftlock, to try and get up faster, but ends up flipping themselves a lot before standing up!

I’ll see what I can do with this request of yours anon!

The post anon is talking about is this one.

(Reminder that the characters might be ooc as I do not know their exact personalities and actions and all that!)

Survivors and killers reacting to “puppeteer” reader getting knocked over by them, and can’t get up.

Chance. 🪙

This guy… This gambler…

He was probably flipping his coin, and accidentally bumped into you. He was confused of course.

Before he saw you flailing on the ground, trying to get back up again. He thought you’d get up on your own as you usually did, but… No.

You were still on the ground, flailing around and trying to get up. At one point you became stiff as some board, and spun around a while, before flipping yourself on accident, causing more flailing and so on.

…The laughter he couldn’t hold in is hilarious. He’s laughing, full on tears in his eyes, as he watches you and laughs at your unfortunate self…

He does feel guilty for accidentally knocking you over but… This is gold…

Elliot. 🍕

This poor guy… He was just making pizza, while you were watching…

When he went to get something, and accidentally knocked you over!

He panicked of course, seeing as you fell to the floor and was flailing around, trying to get back up again.

He watched and watched, waiting to see if you actually need help.

When you became stiff as a board, and were spinning around, he couldn’t help but think of when he spun the pizza dough like that before.

Until you accidentally fling yourself, and start flailing again…

…Oh my days… He’s trying so hard not to laugh, but… Oh…

007n7. 🍔

He was just checking his C00lgui, before the gui accidentally whacked him, causing him to bump into you on accident.

Safe to say that he was panicking, watching you flail around, trying to get back up again…

He was about to crouch down and help you up, before you went stiff as a board, spinning around, before accidentally flinging yourself.

…Oh the panic he has as he sees you flail around yet again… He thinks that it was his C00lgui’s fault, and wanted to apologise to you, but…

You just won’t stop flailing and flinging yourself!

Guest 1337. 🪖

He was just training as usual… Training to get used to different attacks from killers, before he accidentally bumped into you.

He paused his training, immediately glancing over at you, as he watches you fall and flail pn the ground.

He was about to help you, but you went stiff and spun around on the floor, before flinging yourself on accident.

He’s… Shocked to say the least… How did you manage that…?

He continues to watch you flail, stiffen, and fling yourself… Before he actually laughs a bit. He finds it a bit amusing, even in this realm…

Builderman. 🔨

You know him… Tinkering away with his projects and all that…

When he was reaching for his wrench, he accidentally whacked you in the face.

He was shocked of course, and immediately turned to check on you, before pausing as he sees you… Well…

Flailing on the floor, trying to stand up. When you go stiff, he panics, before blinking in confusion and shock, as you suddenly spin, before getting flung.

He’s… Confused… But it brought a small smile on his face when you did the same and same over again…

Shedletsky. 🍗

He probably wouldn’t see you, he’s busy… Munching on fried chicken…

So when he accidentally bumps into you, he doesn’t notice for a good moment, before he sees you get flung.

He almost dropped his bucket of fried chicken, and the chicken leg he was eating.

He also almost chocked on the said fried chickens when you flailed, spun, and got flung on basically repeat.

He finds it hilarious.

Twotime. 🗡️

This they/them creature is so stupid I hate them. /hj

They accidentally knocked you over when they were practicing their stealth + dagger trick.

They practically zoomed past you, and accidentally bumped into you on accident.

They stiffened up at that of course, and turned almost immediately, almost falling over themselves.

Before they still as they see you, on the floor, flailing, stilling then spinning, before flinging yourself.

They’re so confused by what’s happening that they don’t know what to do. Should they help? Should they ask the spawn? Should they pray to the spawn?? WHAT SHOULD THEY DO??

But upon seeing you flail, stiffen and spin, then getting flung on repeat, they smile a small genuine smile. Shaking as they try not to laugh.

Noob. 🥫 (pls pretend the can is bloxy cola.)

They’re naturally jumpy, so when you appeared behind them, they accidentally threw one of their bloxy colas at you.

When they noticed what they did, they scrambled and repeatedly said sorry.

They watched as you flailed, stilled, spun, and got flung on repeat.

They were worried of course! Before… They laughed. A soft small laugh. They found it funny, how you couldn’t exactly get back up again.

It reminded them of how Guest 666 would act when they couldn’t stand up sometimes, when they got knocked down.

Dusekkar. 💨

This pumpkin man, was just casting magic, to see how long he can hold the magic, and all that.

Before it went out of control for a few seconds.

A zap hit you. Causing you to fall over.

He was apologetic and worried. Are you alright? Did you get hurt? WILL you be alright?

He sees you on the ground, flailing around, stiffening, before spinning, and then accidentally flinging yourself. Before it happens again, again and again…

He stifles a laugh, before helping you, by using his magic. But you’re just, flailing and spinning then…

…Oh boy…

Taph. 💥

OH THIS POOR GUY…

They were just checking on their tripwire’s wires, and their subspace tripmine.

Before one of them suddenly exploded, blinding the both of you.

He stumbled back in shock and surprise, accidentally bumping into you, and knocking you over.

When they get their vision back, they glance at you, or where they thought you’d be, before glancing down.

He’s panicking, signing, asking if you’re okay.

You’re just there, just… Flailing, stiffening up, spinning before flinging yourself on accident.

They stare blankly at you for a few moments, before they start shaking, putting their hands over their mouth, stifling their laughter.

1x1x1x1 (1x4). ⚔️

This being of hatred wouldn’t exactly notice you at all. They’re more focused on trying to figure out how to kill the survivors, without much struggle, and quickly.

So when she was killing one of her minions, she kicked it away out of frustration. The said minion hit you, and made you fall over.

He’s surprised you were behind the minion. He watches you from where he’s stood, watching as you flail around and stiffen up a moment. It reminds him of the survivors… Before you spin and get flung that is.

She’s shocked, moving out of the way whenever you get flung towards their direction.

…Maybe this’ll be a decent way of dodging training for them… It’s unexpected to where you get flung to anyway.

He does laugh though at your unfortunate self.

John Doe. 1️⃣0️⃣1️⃣1️⃣1️⃣0️⃣

He’s forgetful in general, what’d you expect from him at this point…?

He accidentally knocks you over with that spike arm of his.

So when he sees you flailing around on the floor, stilling before spinning, then flinging yourself on accident…

He just tilts his head in confusion and slight amusement, as he watches you.

He isn’t helping though.

Jason. 🔪

He doesn’t notice if he accidentally knocked you over. His mother would have to tell him.

So when he does accidentally knocks you over when going to his room, to check up on his mother. His mother tells him that he accidentally knocked you over.

He of course stands still for a moment, before turning and looking at you, watching you flail around, stiffen, spin, then accidentally fling yourself on repeat.

He watches for a while, not knowing what to do, before his mother laughs, and tells him to help you up.

He does, helping you up, not knowing why his mother laughed. But, if she’s happy, he’s happy.

C00lkidd, Pr33typrincess, Bluudud, Mafioso. 🔥

C00lkidd was running from the others, as they were playing tag. (- Mafioso, he’s babysitting them atp).

C00lkidd accidentally ran into you, causing you to fall over.

Every one of them paused what they were doing, and watched you. Hell, even Mafioso’s goons paused what they were doing, just to watch you.

You were flailing around on the ground, stiffening then spinning, before flipping yourself on accident. And repeating the process.

Bluudud was laughing, and so was Mafioso’s goons, hell, even Mafioso himself laughed.

Pr33typrincess was a bit worried, before she also laughed a bit, trying to keep up her Princess like attitude, by covering her mouth with a hand.

C00lkidd was tilting his head in confusion at you, before he also laughs himself.

After a while, Mafioso told some of his goons to help you. Which they did, but you were still flailing around a bit, which made it even worse for everyone, as they were laughing more.

Noli. 👾

…This meme guy doesn’t take anything serious at this point. Maybe when he’s chasing survivors in rounds, yeah, or not… But still, you get the gist.

So when he accidentally knocked you over, and watched you flail for a bit, before stiffening up and spinning, he instantly knew what was up. It happened to him and 007n7 before, so he already started laughing.

But when you accidentally flipped and flung yourself? And repeated the things? Oh boy, the distorted loud laughs he lets out is awful…

He watches for far too long, that the Spectre didn’t even bother to put him into his scheduled killer time.

He helped you of course… But not after recording you of course… 😇

Azure. 🪻

They wouldn’t notice exactly, unless their tendrils get unexpected kicks/hits/wind.

So when they do accidentally knock you over, they don’t notice. But when you’re flailing around, they notice, as their tendrils react to the feeling of something, or someone hitting/kicking their tendrils, and unexpected wind.

They turn and glance down at you, watching you flail, stiffen, spin then flip yourself and fling yourself on accident.

They’re shocked, but they laugh after a few seconds, a genuine laugh ever since what their partner did to them.

They watch as you repeat it for a while, before they help you, by using their tendrils to help you up.

You’re still flailing and struggling to stand, but they help you. Although… They’re still shaking from laughter, and looking away from you to not full on laugh again.

Guest 666. 👹

They would also not notice entirely, due to their height…

So when they accidentally knock you down, and hear a distorted laugh, coming from none other than Noli. They glance to Noli in confusion, tilting their head, before following his eye of sight.

That’s when they see you, on the floor, flailing, stiffening, spinning, flipping and accidentally flinging yourself.

They’re shocked and confused, but a low rumble of a laugh escapes them, as they watch.

Before they decide to help you. Grabbing you with their claws, or their tail, and helping you up to your feet.

You’re still flailing around and struggling to stand properly, but they help you, laughing still.

(A/N: if I forgot a tag, remind me, because I can’t tell if I got all of them or not with HOW MANY TAGS THERE ARE. LIKE HOLY?!)

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

Rapunzel

In Which: After receiving a reminder of your life before Seonghwa, you've become defiant again. He tries a gentle approach, then a not so gentle approach, then you make him get mean.

❥Yandere Park Seonghwa x fem reader

Baby Series !

♫Baby Playlist♫

18+. MINORS WILL SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST IF THEY TOUCH MY BLOG.

➯a/n: the long awaited, dreaded, anticipated — the window escape... omg seriously yikes i can't tell you how many times i cried while writing this. it's the longest any chapter has taken me and you can probably tell why, it's a very very fucked up chapter, enjoy !! ➯a/n2: seriously after this i swear i'll PROGRESS the story lmao

♡'･ᴗ･'♡genre: yandere, ANGST (and fucked up comfort)

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: DEAD DOVE I CRUSHED IT (just like babys foot-), captivity, baaad physical violence against reader: slapping / spanking / legs scratched / foot crushed (off screen), hwa insults reader; calls her: little girl / brat / stupid, forced nudity, forced little space, heavily implied that readers ex s/a'd her but never explicitly stated, trauma bonding, panic attack brought on by being locked in a dark closet, reader is canonically afraid of the dark, seonghwa is way too good at lying to the police, seonghwa is INSANE and MEAN when he's pushed too far, mind breaking, the beginnings of stockholm syndrome, kissing in little space, san and mingi are OFFICIALLY accomplices (they stop reader from escaping), not even slightly proof read i couldn't handle it 😭

➯disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and does NOT represent a healthy little and caregiver relationship, or a healthy relationship of any kind.

♡masterlist + navigation !♡

˗ˏˋbaby-yaaaˎˊ˗ @maplelilly05 @m00njinnie @tinyteezer

₊‧⁺stardust˖⋆ @sousydive @sunnysidesins @onyxmango @devilzliaison @ateezswonderland @queenofdumbfuckery @emilysecresy

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

    "Rise and shine, My Baby."

     Two weeks, three days, and a handful of hours.

     "Five more minutes," you grumble as you press your face deeper into your stuffed raccoon. You don't want to face the day yet. You don't want to face Seonghwa yet.

     You can count the number of hours you've spent out of little space during these past weeks on your fingers. Every time you think you might be coming back to your grown self, to a mind-space where you can be angry and violent and fight your way out — Mommy was there to make you feel tiny again.

     Instead of angry, violent, and trying to escape; you were mostly confused, scared, and frustrated.

     And you had no other way to cope other than to fall deeper into your little space. It has been an inescapable loop.

    "C'mon, baby-doll," he lifts your sleepy form from the false comfort of the blankets, letting you drag your stuffed animal with you. "Time to wake up."

    Mingi is already at the table, eating quietly with his head down as Seonghwa carries you to the table; the stuffie dangling as you hold its hand. "Morning Mingi," he says as he sits you down carefully.

   Remember your manners, Baby.

    "Mornin' Ming." You whine as you rub your eyes. You wait with your head down, leaving you and Mingi as some sort of warped mirror to each other.

You aren't allowed to look him in the eyes. You aren't allowed to look anyone in the eyes. Only your Mommy.

"Here you go, love bug," Seonghwa hums as he sits next to you, sliding you a bowl of oatmeal and fruit.

When you go to pick up the spoon, he grabs your wrist — not roughly, but purposefully as he looks at you pointedly. He lifts an eyebrow.

"Tha- thank you, Mommy."

He lets you go and smiles softly, "you're welcome, Baby."

A knock at the front door makes everyone freeze.

None of the members bother to knock. They all have keys, they waltz in whenever they want.

"Stay there," he points to you sternly as he hurries to the door, giving you one last glance before leaning to the peephole.

His heart drops to his toes.

"Who is it?" Mingi asks as he leans with you over the table-top.

His jaw tightens as he cracks the door just slightly, keeping the chain in place. "Can I help you?"

"Park Seonghwa?" The cop on the other side of the door lowers his hand from where he was about to knock again.

He gulps, nodding slowly, "yes."

"Do you know a Miss (L/n)?"

Seonghwa can hear you gasp quietly, followed by Mingi's hand slapping over your mouth and a 'sorry' whispered soon there after. "Uh... I'll join you in the hall. My roommate is sleeping on the couch. Just a moment." When the cop nods understandingly, he closes the door quickly.

He runs over to you both quickly and rests his palms on your cheeks, squishing them firmly as he stares into your eyes. "You're my good girl, right?" 

    "Is that the pol-"

    "Right, Baby?" You nod against his hands, and he forces a smile as he coos, "you are. I'm going to step outside, and you're going to go wait in Ming's room, okay?"

    "Yes, Mommy..."

    You squeak as his lips suddenly meet yours, and you hold onto his wrists as a lifeline as he kisses you like it's his last chance to ever do so.

    For all he knows, it might very well be.

    A soft knock at the door makes him pull away. With a sigh, he turns you toward the hallway softly and hums, "go on, Baby. Ming will be right there."

    As you dazedly wonder down the hallway, he looks towards Mingi: who has his head down and is fidgeting with his hands. He looks torn.

   "Mingi?"

    His head snaps up, looking towards Seonghwa with wide eyes.

    "Don't do something you'll regret. You get it?" He sets his hand on his shoulder, looking into his eyes intently, "just go and keep her distracted, okay? Keep her little."

    "O-okay, Hyung," he nods, though his face still clearly shows how he's stuck between wanting to listen to him and wanting to tell the police outside the door everything.

     Seonghwa can see that, and he gives him a shove in the direction he wants him to go by hugging him tightly. "Thank you, Mingi."

    Another knock.

  He runs back to the door quickly, taking a glance towards Mingi and sighing relieved as he watches his figure disappear down the hall.

   He unlocks the door and moves the chain, slipping out quickly and closing the door behind him before they can see inside. "Sorry," he bows a bit, "sorry, I had to- to take something out of the oven."

    The older man nods, a bit suspicious, but he takes the excuse anyway. "So, you know a Miss (L/n)?" He asks, clicking his pen.

   "Oh, yeah. We are- sorry, we were dating." He's so nervous. He's thankful he's taken acting classes. If he weren't always in the spotlight, he thinks he would have crumbled the second he spoke to the cop.

    "When was the last time you had contact with her?"

   "Uuuhm." About a thirty seconds ago. "About three weeks ago maybe?"

    "Was this in person?"

    "Yes, I went to her apartment..." Act innocent. Act dumb. Say something! "Is- is she in trouble or something?"

    The cop looks up from where he's writing on his small note pad. "Have you had contact with her since you were at her apartment?"

    "No, sir. We had just broken up, she said she wanted space — is she okay?" Of course you're okay. You're just inside.

    "Unfortunately, Miss (L/n) is missing."

"...what? Missing how?"

"Missing as in nobody knows where she is, Mr. Park. That's the general definition, isn't it?" The cop raises his eyebrows, tapping his pen against the paper. "Apparently, you're the last one to see her."

Shit. Fuck. Shit-fuck. Why isn't his brain keeping up? "But that was so long ago... You're just now investigating?"

"To be completely honest, Mr. Park," the cop shrugs, "we had no reason to believe she was truly missing until a week after she was gone. But her friend was very insistent that she would never just skip town, and now we believe her."

Seonghwa has to take a few deep breaths. "What- I'm sorry, can I ask what changed?"

"Unfortunately, we found her ex-boyfriend a few days ago."

He blinks. Oh, he's not supposed to know about your ex — "he doesn't know anything?"

"He's dead." The cop watches his reaction closely, and thankfully he's in his mind enough to respond appropriately.

His jaw slightly dropped, he looks down at the floor. "Oh..."

"Did you know him? Lee Namsun?"

"Uh," he shakes his head, "no, not personally." He's onto you. He's onto you. He's onto you. "Do- do you think she's dead?" He bites his tongue hard enough to make a thin layer of tears build up in his eyes.

The cop sighs as he tears up, and he reaches over to pat his shoulder, "don't worry, son. We have no reason to believe that."

"Thank goodness," Seonghwa wipes his eyes. Thank goodness he bought that.

"I have just a few more questions, then I'll let you be."

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

"You won't tell me what you talked about?" You ask Seonghwa for the fifth time. Sitting on the unmade mattress, holding the bedsheet; supposed to be making the bed but instead looking at him beggingly as he folds laundry.

"Baby," he groans, glancing over to you sternly, "drop it. This is the last time I'm going to say it. Forget about it."

"Did he mention Yejin? I'm sure she's worried about m-" He drops the shirt he was folding and turns to face you with an angry look.

Oh, crap.

Not only were you annoying him, now you've broken a rule. 'Don't talk about before.' Meaning, forget everything that happened before he 'brought you home.'

"I'm sorry, Mommy." You blurt out quickly, hugging your knees to your chest.

"How many times have I told you-"

"I'm sorry! I miss her!" You're crying before you even know what's what, thick tears streaming down your face, "I just miss her..."

You flinch as he steps forward, anger barely concealed on his face.

"It's okay, Baby," he sighs as he sits next to you, dragging you into his lap. "I know you miss her. She was a good friend, but you know what I say, right?"

"Mommy is the best friend." You whisper through your tears.

"That's right, angel~" He cups your face softly, rubbing away your tears with his thumbs. "Mommy is the best friend. You don't have to have any others when you have me." There's a long pause, and then, "and what about Ming? Isn't he your friend too?"

"...Yeahm." You shift in his lap, picking at the patches on your shorts.

"I know you miss Yejin. But you don't need her. You have Ming, have all of us. You have Mommy~" And, more importantly, Mommy has you.

"Yeah," you say shortly, blinking away the remainder of your tears, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, but..."

"I know." Your head hangs low, soft sigh escaping your lips. "Only five?"

"Only five, Baby. Will you be a big girl about it?" Hesitantly, you nod before climbing out of his lap quietly.

"Do you have to-" You get cut off as he pulls you forward, wrapping his arm around your waist and burying his face in your stomach.

"Yes."

His palm hits your behind, making you yelp and grab onto his hair. "Ow!"

"I know, starlight," he says with another harsh smack. "I know it hurts." Smack!

"Wait, wait-" You'd think you'd be used to getting spanked by now. You've acted out a good amount, so you've had your fair share of spankings.

But his hands are so large. And he doesn't hold back. And it's humiliating.

"But that's the point." He mumbles into your stomach before looking up. "What were you going to say?"

"I d- I just wanted to say I'm s- I'm really sorry for breaking a rule..."

"Are you stalling, Baby?"

"Nuh-uh!" You yell, quickly slapping your hand over your mouth. Raising your voice is another big no-no.

He knew that the police visiting the apartment would send you back to 'brat-land', as he calls it.

And you've been making such good progress, too...

Such a shame.

"No! No!" You yell some more as he pulls you to the bed, already knowing you've earned yourself more punishment. "Mommy, please! I'm sorry!"

"Are you? You're sorry, Baby?" He groans while shoving you face down into the mattress, pining you with his knee on your back.

"Yes!"

"Then why are you still screaming like a brat?" His insult hits your foggy brain right where it hurts, making you dig your fingers harder into the bed as he yanks your shorts down.

"...'Cause you're hurting me, M-"

"I wouldn't have to hurt you if you behaved. I'm sorry, angel, but clearly you need a reminder of the rules. Two in one day? I thought we were past this..."

He pushes your head to the side softly and traces your cheekbone with his knuckles. "Why are you acting up, Baby? Because you miss your friend?"

"I- Because- Just-"

"Baby-ya..." He pouts — and you'd almost think he was feeling sorry for you if he wasn't still pinning you to the bed with your panties exposed. "Tell me. I won't be mad."

No, of course not. He's going to be furious.

"I miss my life..."

He presses his lips together, nodding slowly. "What do you miss about it?"

You watch him with wide, fearful eyes. He's urging you to talk about it? You aren't allowed to even bring it up.

"I miss... my bed- ow!" You try to bury your face back in the bed when he smacks your bottom suddenly, forced to keep your head sideways as he holds you.

"What about our bed, hm? Isn't it comfy?" His anger is about to boil over, you can see it in his eyes through your unshed tears as you look up at him. "Don't you like cuddling with Mommy?"

"I do," you nod quickly, "I love our bed, Mommy. I like your cuddles." He needs so much validation it's almost impossible to give him it all. Especially when you're feeling big and feeling disgusted at the words you force off your tongue.

"What else do you miss?" Oh, this is all a way to get you to admit you don't need your old life. He's done this before. He doesn't really care about what you miss — what he's stolen from you. "I asked you a question, precious."

"M-" You close your eyes, breathing out heavily, "Miss Lee."

You bite back the whine as you earn yourself another smack. "Why?"

"She was kind to me."

Two smacks, this time. "And we aren't? Doesn't Sannie give you extra TV time? Hm? Doesn't Ming color with you? What about me?"

"I'm sorry, Mommy. I don't mean-"

"Am I not kind to you? Do I not take care of you? I don't worship the ground My Baby walks on?"

His words are making your gut churn in knots. Because they're true; at least to some extent. He does take care of you. He does adore you. More than anything. All he expects in return is your love — and complete submission.

"I'm really sorry, Mommy. You do take care of me. You- you are kind, you're the best." You pull your hands up to your face, hiding in them as he sighs. "I'm sorry I'm a brat. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, little angel," he whispers as he rubs your head, "don't cry." But how could you not? "Catch your breath, and let's get this over with. I don't like hurting you, Baby. Please, don't draw this out..." As if he can't just stop at any point. As if he has to do this.

He lets you push your face into the mattress when you move again, taking slow breaths to calm himself down. "I'm sor-"

"I know, Baby. You said you would take your punishment like a big girl, are you still going to do that?"

Sniffling, you press your forehead to the bed, resting where he can hear you; because you know the drill. "Yes, Mommy."

"What are the rules, Baby?" He'll ask you, every time you end up in this situation. Which, even in this short amount of time, has been too many times to count. Sometimes, during the first few days, it was multiple times a day because you were just so disobedient.

"Don't look other people in the eyes." And you'd go through them all.

Smack! Getting a hit for each one; making sure you'll remember it when you sit down later.

"Don't talk back."

Smack!

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

"You okay?" San asks quietly as he sits across from you at the table. He didn't miss the shouting the hour before, and he surely didn't miss the pillow under you.

"Fine." You say shortly, stabbing your fork into your food.

You aren't in little space. Even though Seonghwa has been trying to get you there ever since you scrambled up after your punishment and pulled up your shorts without a word.

You aren't in little space; so you're angry and violent and you want to bolt for the door. But that's never worked for you before. After the first time, Seonghwa even stopped counting that as an escape attempt because you were snatched up so easy as you fought with the dead bolted door that could only be opened with a key.

"Eat your food, Baby." He says from the kitchen, wiping down the counters.

"I'm not hungry."

"How much did you eat?"

"Enough."

"How many bites?"

"A couple."

San and Mingi listen to you go back and forth, eyes glued to their own plates. The younger man flinches when your raise your voice —

"I said I'm not hungry!"

"And I told you to eat. Don't make me come over there and feed you myself. Stop being so difficult, do you want another punishment?"

"I hat-" You stop yourself quickly as his head whips around, correcting your near fatal mistake. "I'm so mad at you!"

"Go to our room, love."

And you're glad to do just that, stomping off. "And don't slam the door!" He shouts just as you push the door closed loudly on purpose.

You slump to the floor quickly, swallowing back your tears as your sore behind collides with the hardwood. Swiping up the stray that makes it down your cheek, you look around the room.

The bed is still unmade. He had held you after your punishment, shushing you softly until you calmed down despite pain and lingering humiliation. And by the time your tears had stopped; it was lunch time.

You push yourself up to make the bed so that he doesn't come back and get mad that your chore isn't done — before you realize what you're doing and scoff at yourself. Yanking up the blanket, you look down at the soft fabric.

And then your eyes trail to the window.

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

He knocks again before he enters the room, already having waited long enough for you to answer. "Baby, you shouldn't ignore-"

His heart jumps to his throat as he notices you aren't in the room. And the sheet is tied to the bedpost closest to the window. And the window is open —

"Baby!" He yells as he runs to the window, eyes wide and teary as he leans over the ledge.

And there you are, hanging just out of his reach in the alleyway. Thank goodness his window doesn't face the road, or he'd be screwed; even more than he is now. "What are you doing?!"

His hands scramble to grab the fabric, fighting with gravity to pull you back up. "San!" He screams as loud as possible, "Mingi! Help!"

He's never had to witness you in any danger that he hasn't been in control of. He's about to pass out from fright. From pure heart-shaking fear.

"Hyu- oh, shit!" San runs in quickly, wrapping his hands up in the fabric and pulling you up even as you protest.

Mingi is right behind them, eyes wide as saucers and his heart about to slam out of his chest. He reaches between them quickly and grabs your arms as he watches your fingers twitch, knowing what you're about to do. "Don't!"

But you do anyway; you let go of the sheet and the two elder members fly back as they yank it inside the apartment. Mingi almost falls forward, straight out the window with you, if not for letting go of one of your arms and grabbing the wall. Leaving you dangling precariously from the third story with nothing but his grip on your forearm keeping you from the drop.

"Let me go! Mingi, please! Just let me go!"

His breath catches in his throat as you say his name. His full name. Not 'Ming'. Grown-up to grown-up, you're begging him to let you fall rather than be back in the apartment.

He doesn't have time to think about it as San wraps his arms around his waist and starts using him as leverage to pull you higher and higher until Seonghwa eventually gets his arms wrapped around you and pulls you back in.

"Oh, Baby!" He sobs as he falls to the floor with you, "My Baby! Why did you do that? God, my sweet girl..."

You start to cry with him, face in his shoulder as your cries shake your body; held tightly in his arms. Your own wrap around him before you can stop them.

"L-let me see you," he breathes shakily, cradling your face in his hands; tilting you this way and that, "are you hurt, Baby?"

Mingi backs into San, hand seeking his and finding it quickly to wrap their pinkies together. They already know what you were trying to do. Seonghwa is lagging behind because his brain is stuck in the panic.

"You're okay? Yeah?" He sniffles, wiping his eyes quickly before his arms are right back around your shoulders and crushing you to his chest. "Oh, I was so scared... You-"

It clicks. Just like that.

His breathing gets shallow and his hands tighten around you, "what were you doing?" He asks lowly; and you only cry harder. You don't even want to imagine the punishment you're going to receive.

He pulls you up, throws you to the bed without care, and slams the window shut before turning to the others. "Get out." Mingi shrinks into Sans side as he stands semi-tall.

"Hyung, don't hurt her... Please, take a secon-"

"Get the fuck out before I strangle you!"

Everyone jumps into action: San backing away quickly with a heavy heart, Mingi pulling him out of the room with just the same, and you lift yourself on shaky arms; crawling to the corner of the bed.

Seonghwa stands at the door for a moment after he slams it. The sound of your cries usually breaks his heart, but right now they make him even angrier. You're crying? After you tried to leave him? After you tried to leave in such a dangerous way?

"Get over here."

"N-no, ple-"

He's on you in a second flat, yanking you to the middle of the bed; straddling your legs and pinning them to the bed as you try to kick away. "I can't fucking believe you, Baby." He sneers as he fights with your shorts so hard that the button pops off.

When you notice what he's doing, you start screaming even harder. "No!! Stop! Stop!!" You haven't screamed like this since the first night, and you know that the others in the apartment can hear you. You'd be surprised if the members in the apartments above and below you don't hear. "You liar! You lied to me! You promised you wouldn't be like him! You promised me!"

And he plans to always keep that promise. He just wants you to feel as vulnerable as he did watching you dangle out of the window by a goddamn sheet.

In one swift pull, he's rid you of your shorts and underwear, back on top of you before you can scramble up. "Please, don't! Mommy, Mommy!"

"Stop screaming. I don't want to hear it." He's never going to cross that specific line, but you can think he will for a little longer. Maybe a bit of terror will do you some good. "Get your ass up," he pulls you by your scalp, making you hiss.

Standing on wobbly knees, you don't have any choice but to let him peel your shirt away; leaving you trembling and naked. When you go to wrap your arms around yourself —

Seonghwa slaps you. You freeze, both in disbelief and fear. He's never slapped you. It hurts so much more than spankings. It makes your knees buckle under you; and he lets you fall to the hardwood with a thunk.

"D-" You stutter as you bring a hand to your cheek, the other holding your weight as you sit on your hip. "...Did you just slap me?" Your shock has stopped your tears, leaving you to look up at him in confusion.

He crouches in front of you, ignoring your words completely.

"What the hell was that?"

His tone is so level and calm that your heart stops. Your tears are back full force, and you're blubbering like an idiot; unintelligible pleas and apologies until he slaps you again. You face the floor, biting your lips to stop your sobs.

"You're un-fucking-believable, do you know that, Baby? I'm so disappointed in you. After everything we've been through? Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Of course, when you try to say anything, it comes out as a pained cry; holding your freshly slapped cheek in favor over the other one.

He tuts his tongue, "I didn't think so." You can't fight his arms as they wrap around you and haul you up, even if you tried.

He pushes open the sliding closet door and shoves you inside. "Think about what you've done." Is all he says before he closes it.

You're so frazzled, caught off guard, that he has time to jam the door before you try to slide it open. "Mommy?" You slap the door, looking around the pitch black space. "Open the- please! Don't leave me here!"

You sit quickly, rubbing your face before you hit the door again, weaker, "please? Pl- put me in the corner, I swear I won't- won't move. You know I'm sacred of the dark..."

He knows. Of course he knows. That's part of the reason you're in there. When he opens the door and the first thing you seen in hours is his face, you'll associate him with safety — even after what he does to you.

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

Your head is pounding as you rest it against the door. Your hands shake as you hold yourself. The tips of your fingers are numb with a lack of oxygen, just now calming down after hyperventilating for the past hour.

You don't know what to think. What to feel. You just want Seonghwa to open the door.

You feel phantom touches that aren't there after a while.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you bring your thumb to your mouth to comfort yourself.

You want nothing more than to be out of this damned closet. You're starting to feel small, starting to regress even though you try to fight it off because you know it will only make matters worse.

You begged for a while before you realized he was either ignoring you — or left you. He never leaves you. Not when you're upset.

But he did today.

The door slides open slowly, and you barely catch yourself on your hands. "Mommy?" You ask as you look up quickly, meeting his dark eyes as you crawl out of the cramped space. "Mommy! You came back." You hug his leg tightly, uncaring of your nudity after so long. Uncaring of anything.

Not even noticing the hammer in his other hand as he pets your head softly. "Of course I did. Silly girl." His voice doesn't carry its usual playfulness when he calls you that. His tone is still flat, but you don't mind as long as you can hear it. As long as you can hear anything other than your own echoing breathes.

You cling onto his pants as he leans your head back, "are you ready to apologize?"

"Yes." You gulp, eyes finally finding the tool in his hand, "wha-"

"Get to it, then."

And you do, forcing everything else off your mind as you let go of him; getting on your knees to quite literally beg for forgiveness.

He lets you grab onto his pant legs, a bit of a smile trying to tug its way into his lips as you try to keep some part of him adhered to you so he can't disappear again.

"I'm really sorry, Mommy... I was- I acted out because I was upset. I don't know what I was thinking. I k- I should know better. Please don't stay mad at me. Please? I'll never do anything like that again, and- and I'll never complain, I'll eat all of my food and I pr- I swear I'll be good! I won't be a brat, Mommy- please, don't put me back in there! I'll be good! I'll be so good!"

Even though you had hours to think about what you wanted to say — you start losing your words as he doesn't say anything. He just lets you keep on begging until he hears what he wants to.

"-and I'll never talk back, I'll always do what you say- just say something! Mommy, please, say something?" You tug on the fabric with a pout, "I'll take all of my punishments like a big girl and I won't fight you on them-"

"Is that right?" He finally speaks, heart softening with each of your words. "You'll take your punishments like a big girl?"

"Y-yes." You stutter as your brain reminds you of the weapon in his hand.

"You know I'm always fair with you, right? The punishment fits the crime. Isn't that what I say?"

You nod slowly, letting your hands drop to your sides.

"Listen closely," he leans down and looks right in your eyes, "don't try to run away. Or you won't be able to walk. Walking is a privilege, Baby."

"Wait, hold on a s-" You try to crawl backwards into the closet you dread so badly as the puzzle pieces fit together in your mind.

He throws the hammer onto the neatly made bed, both hands clawing at your legs — clawing. Nails scratching up your skin as he pulls you back out into the light. Nowhere for you to hide.

"Don't be a liar now," he pouts down at you as you thrash, but it isn't his genuine pout and you can feel it, "you said you'd be a big girl about this!" And you're proven right as he drags you out by your ankles as he yells. "We always keep our word, Baby!"

He crawls over you, pinning you to the hardwood and slamming your hands down with a death-grip on your wrists when you try to slap at him.

He ignores your cry, "are you ready to keep yours?" You shake your head, fast. You'd rather be a liar than get a hammer to your legs at the hands of an angry Seonghwa that you hardly recognize. "No?" He huffs a small laugh, "no? You have some serious nerve, little girl."

Your heart shatters; stuck in a million pieces in your chest as he calls you that with such... venom in his voice.

"You're scaring me..."

"Am I? I'm scaring you, Baby?" He raises his eyebrow, gesturing to the window, "that! That was scary! Seeing My Baby dangle out of the fucking window like goddamn Rapunzel! Do you know what was going on in my mind? Do you have any idea!?"

You can only shake your head, choking on your sobs.

"No. You don't. You don't know- do you know anything?" He groans as he reaches and gets the hammer. "One thing you're going to get through your thick, little head-" You scream as he lifts you up, back on the bed without a struggle.

"You don't get to leave me."

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

You must have blacked out, because the next thing you know; Seonghwa has his arms around you and your foot is filled with a pain that spreads through your entire body.

You let out a wheezing breath, eyes screwed shut tightly and hands shaking as you hold onto the sleeves of his t-shirt.

You don't have the wits about you to notice him wiping his eyes before he lifts you up wordlessly and carries you into the hall; still naked as the day you were born. You would be mortified if you could focus on anything other than the throbbing in your foot.

Thankfully, San and Mingi seem to be hiding. You make it to the bathroom without incident, eyes glazed over as he sets you on the counter.

He's silent as he digs out a bandage wrap, not a word spoken as he wraps up your swollen and discolored foot. He sighs as he stands up, spreading your knees to stand between them.

"Hurts really bad, doesn't it?" He searches your eyes as you force yourself to look up at him; nodding carefully. "Good. Maybe you'll think about that next time you decide to act so stupid."

The million pieces of your heart break apart and fall into your stomach.

Stupid. Stupid.

"Next time, I'll break your leg." His words don't reach you; still stuck on him calling you stupid.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stu-

"I didn't mean to be stupid." Your voice trembles, your chin wobbling as tears try to fight their way out. You bring your arms around yourself, hiding your chest as you start to shake with emotion.

His eyes widen slowly.

Like he's finally come back to himself. "Oh, Baby, no... No, that's- I didn't mean that. You aren't stupid, sweet girl. You just did something stupid. That doesn't mean you are."

He's putting his arms around you again, slow and gentle; rubbing your back in comforting circles as you immediately wrap yours around him and cling to him for dear life.

"I'm sorry, Baby, I didn't mean it like that." He's forced to look in the mirror behind you as he hugs your quivering form. Until he closes his eyes, that is; unable to bear it. He leans his head against yours with tears of his own slipping down his face. "Didn't you think about what could have happened? We live on the third floor, angel... You could have gotten so hurt. What would I have done if you- if-"

He has to stop himself. He can't think about that.

"Come on, starlight," he whispers as he carefully pulls you into his hold, "let's get you some pain meds and some comfy pajamas, yeah?"

"P-please?"

You've fallen far, far into your little space. Everything is far, far too much to handle. You're in pain, both physical and emotional. Seonghwa is gone from completely horrifying and mean to the sweet and caring person you fell in love with. And it makes your head spin.

"Of course."

The pajamas are soft, and so is his touch as he helps you into them. He gives you the medicine as promised, and for once — you take the pills he hands you willingly. Washing them down with a sip from your bottle and waiting for them to kick in while he rubs your head slowly.

He multitasks, heating up a pot of soup while he massages your scalp slowly; never leaving your side, keeping you on the counter next to the stove. Always within reach.

Thunder rumbles outside. You hold onto his sleeve a little tighter. "Mommy?"

"Yes, Baby?"

"Can- maybe can I eat in our room, please?"

He thinks for a moment, rubbing the back of your neck gently. "Okay, you can eat at my desk, how about it?"

"Thank you," you lean and give him the quickest, smallest kiss to the cheek. But he still smiles.

He carries you first, sitting you in his chair before going back for the food. He holds the spoon, and you don't fight him on it as he leads it to your mouth and then back to the bowl until it's empty.

"Are you getting tired, angel?" He asks as he sets it down, rolling the chair to the bed so you can crawl in.

"Yeahm..."

"Let me get your blankey, you can have a nap." He knows you won't argue, and you don't. You simply fall onto your side of the bed and curl up, grabbing your stuffed raccoon with a yawn.

The medicine has you a bit tired, but mostly it's from your emotional exhaustion.

You melt into him as he cuddles up behind you, draping you both in your favorite throw blanket.

"I love you, Mommy."

It gives him pause. Then a wide smile spreads on his lips. It's the first time you've said it first. And he knows it's probably just because of your fragile state; but he'll take it.

He'll take anything when it comes to you.

"I love you, Baby."

❝rapunzel❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

[sxorpiomooon]

What does your older self wants to say to you? A pac reading<3

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check out my other pacs and astrology stuff!!

Pile 1-

you need to let go, this is so funny to me given the pile that you guys have chosen has a tattoo of "amor fati" which literally means this. If you've chosen this pile you might have an anxious attachment and some of you need to go off a relationship that you are holding. A japanese song is playing in my head? Sometimes you only hold onto things very tightly because deep down you know that the moment you let go they are going to leave you. Your older self wants you to let go of such relations one particular scenario that I'm getting is of someone being in a toxic relationship being completely dependent on their significant others knowing that the other person might not choose to stay with them once they let go or once they are given the choice to do so. Stop being dependent on people and allow them and give them the space for them to leave you if they wish to do so the only way to understand how much they love is by giving them the space to leave then only you know that they truly do love you. The other people in this pile need to know that all relations require space and time for both individuals to grow individually too. Only when you have enough space and time to grow individually you can contribute something to the relation. Some of you might have ashlesha nakshatra. Also take care of yourself by yourself your older self really wants you to take care of your hair lmao I keep hearing "wash up wash up" I'm also seeing fishes for some reason those orange ones I don't know what they're called? You might love them now or definitely own them in the future. Your older self also wants you to know that the cycle ends with you. Breaking off from the generation trauma cycle seems to be a very important theme here. I see y'all are already very cool but are even cooler in the future man I'm not gonna lie I also keep hearing alt for some reason whether it's for songs or fashion but y'all are gonna be fucking cool in the future man. Be resilient I have full faith in you pile 1 do it for the super cool you. I also see this pile moving out of this house if they haven't alr I keep getting japan again and again but y'all gonna live a pretty great lifestyle also reminded of lucky from the blue sisters novel? Thankyou!!

Pile 2-

this pile might have the tendency to overreact at that exact moment when they are faced with a problem. Their emotions at times might make it hard for them to actually get a good grasp on the situation. Your older self wants you to learn to differentiate between illusion and intuition lmao. I also had a vision of someone journaling so I think the older self might want you guys to write it down before reacting or coming to a conclusion on any sort of situation. I also think that writing it down might make it easy or better for you to feel and understand your emotions better and the problem as well. This pile also needs to focus on their unconscious mind? If you are manifesting something you might have some biases already that you need to pay attention to. This pile might also easily interpret things and get confused. Your older self wants you to follow your heart I heard "it will lead you to the right path" and right after this "sometimes to run is the brave thing" played in my head from its time to go by Taylor swift. You need to act on whatever feelings you have some of you might write and be confused about whether it's good or not or some confusion related to it here's your answer- it is<3 go ahead and follow your heart pile two it will never lead you to the wrong path in the long end. I also heard "beauty and art is everywhere" this pile needs to follow their passion. Lord this is ending on such a good note. Your older self also wants you to know that you should not fear bc all your hardwork will pay off<3 all your hardwork and sacrifices will pay off and you'll get the success that you desire and want. This was also a pile that I chose and I needed to hear this<3

Pile 3-

The time or whatever you are going through will not be wasted. The journey is there to prepare you and give you the experiences that you need to get to the level that you want to achieve in your life. This pile might be going through some hard things. This pile also needs to know that you cannot force anyone to grow early or to change early or hurry up some process everything has its own time be patient a delay does not mean a no. This pile also needs to come face to face with their problems and fear only then they'll be able to move past it. "The only way out is through" "change is the only constant thing in life" "no one else can do it for you" are the things that I'm hearing. This pile knows what's needed to be done but might fear the unknown. A big transformation that is much needed is coming after that I see a wonderful new beginning for you<3

thankyou!!

[dior-luxury]

HI

💐 here to confess my love because your twst ficlets are SO FREAKIN GOOD I AM LITERALLY FCKING DYING RN (out of love!)

My humble self has come to beg for yandere lilia bc i am a hopeless lilia simp 🙂‍↕️

If the inspo hits and you are so inclined, please feed the poor starving peon crouched outside your doorstep. They are probably not feral, but they havent eaten in days, and may faint for several hours after consuming a single morsel of food.

But also no pressure! I honestly just also want to pick your brain for this cuz you’re SO GOOD at writing him in character

Lilia Vanrouge As A Yandere

( ✧ ) ────── yandere stories . yandere/angst - f!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] lilia vanrouge

- [𝐩:𝐬] Yandere Behavior . Gaslighting and Isolation . Mind Control/Memory Alteration . Romanticized Toxic Behavior . Power Imbalance . Implied Imprisonment . Dark Fantasy Themes . Ambiguous Consent . Potential Identity Loss

Note: Tried to keep it creepy but still true to Lilia’s charm- y’know, “haha I might’ve kidnapped you but I’m still adorable” energy. Hope it gives you chills and also maybe a little “wait why is this kinda hot tho” moment LMAO 💕 Let me know if you want versions with other characters!! ♡(｡•́‿•̀｡)

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia Vanrouge is ancient, powerful, and deceptively playful — a fae who has watched centuries pass like falling cherry blossoms. But even immortals are not immune to obsession, especially when their hearts — long dormant — are unexpectedly stirred. And when an immortal falls in love, they fall forever.

You were just a human — mortal, fleeting, fragile. But Lilia found you fascinating.

At first, it was innocent. You made him laugh. You were kind in a way that reminded him of simpler, long-forgotten eras. He would appear unexpectedly around you, draped in upside-down smiles and playful banter, his glowing eyes always glinting with something unreadable. You thought it was harmless attention.

You were wrong.

He was watching.

Lilia didn’t need to sleep like you did. So during the deep, quiet hours of the night, he’d wander — to your dorm, your classroom, even your dreams, using faint, ancient magic to peek into the worlds behind your eyes. Every expression you made, every person you smiled at, every fleeting interaction — he catalogued it.

You never noticed the bats near your window at night. You should have.

Things escalated slowly.

Lilia began appearing wherever you were — always just in time to “protect” you. A spilled potion in alchemy? Lilia was there. An overzealous duel from an NRC student? Lilia stepped between, laughing while he disarmed them. He said he was just helping, but there was something sharp in his gaze when others got too close to you.

At first, you thought it was your imagination. Then your phone began behaving oddly. Messages unsent. Calls dropped. Friends pulling away after odd, brief conversations.

“Are you lonely, little bat?” he’d ask with mock pity, holding a tray of snacks or a handmade charm. “Don’t worry. I’ll always be here.”

He didn’t look like he was joking anymore.

Lilia’s obsession is sweet — like a poisoned wine.

He still jokes, flutters around, and teases. But now there’s an edge to it. He refers to you as his. He leaves you gifts that seem impossible to procure: relics from the Briar Valley, enchanted music boxes that sing only your name, or petals from flowers that bloom once every thousand years.

When you try to talk to someone about it, strange things happen. People don’t remember your conversations. Even Crowley avoids eye contact when you mention Lilia’s name in a fearful tone.

You begin to suspect he’s altering memories. His magic is old — deep-rooted, almost forgotten by modern mages. You're not sure how much of your life is still your own.

And then you wake up one morning to find an old lullaby playing softly in your room — one you never learned, but find yourself humming anyway.

He’s been whispering it into your mind at night.

Eventually, he tells you.

Not in a romantic flourish, but in the still quiet after a storm, when he’s rescued you (again) from a danger you suspect he may have orchestrated.

“I’ve lived long enough to see empires fall and rise. But nothing has captivated me as much as you,” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers cold and gentle. “You don’t understand what that means to someone like me. I’ve chosen you. That doesn’t happen more than once in a few millennia.”

You try to pull away. He only smiles.

“You’ll understand. In time. Humans always break so easily… but love can make you last.”

He kisses your forehead. And you swear you feel a mark burn there, invisible, but real — an ancient fae seal claiming you.

Lilia wouldn’t keep you in chains — not literal ones.

No, he’s too refined for that. Instead, he builds you a world where you don’t want to leave.

A hidden part of NRC’s grounds, warped by old fae magic. Days feel like dreams. You stop remembering time — memories blend, feelings shift. Lilia is always there: doting, smiling, grooming you into someone perfect for eternity.

Your dreams start to end in his voice. Your fears vanish — because you can no longer recall what they were.

Even if you tried to escape, you’re not sure where to go.

Because by now, you aren’t even certain who you were before he loved you.

You age. He does not.

But when your body grows frail, Lilia offers you a choice — sealed with a kiss, bound in blood and starlight.

“Become mine. Truly. Let me preserve you… as I have always longed to.”

You hesitate. Just for a moment.

He smiles.

You no longer dream of the outside world.

You no longer remember why you ever wanted to.

[bunji-enthusiast]

Bunji hear me out 🙏🥺👀. So imagine a satoru gojo!reader in the invincible. Mark down bad for her (you've seen the girls cosplaying him 😍👀) , homegirl would just be out saving lives just for the fun of the game . Ciecil would hate to see gojo!reader coming since most know how much gojo hates the higher ups in jjk and feel like she'd just love messing with him . Anissa and conquest trying to be funny with her man mark end up split on the ground . Invincible war ending before angstorm levy can try another one of his villain monologues . Please bunji 🙏🥺

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐨

Mark Grayson x Fem!Gojo!Reader (something’s there lol)

Summary || your existence was something unexpected, both infuriating to most, but also a pillar of strength when needed.

Note // superrr tired, but I liked writing this one. I only addressed the events that occurred with Anissa in the show, Invincible War and Conquest happen right after eachother (I’m too pussy to write those things just yet lmao).

Mark was sent by the Coalition of Planets to investigate a dimensional rift. He expected a universe-threatening villain. Instead, he crash-landed in the middle of a battlefield where [Name] Gojo was already handling things—casually levitating mid-air, arms crossed, while cursed spirits vaporized trying to land a hit.

Mark tries to step in to help. You stop him with a finger to his chest and a smirk: “You’re cute. But also in the way.”

Mark is stunned. Not just by your power, but your vibe—like you knows your the strongest and wants him to watch you prove it.

He respects strength, but he’s not used to someone being so… cocky about it. Meanwhile, you find his earnestness both adorable and a little exhausting.

Mark is the heart. Your the sharp edge. You fight for fun, for pride, because it’s a game of domination. Mark fights because he has to. It leads to arguments—but also epic synergy in battle.

People mistake you both for a couple constantly—Mark’s flustered, you lean into it. “Can you blame them?” You says, ruffling his hair. “You’re always chasing after me.”

Mark offers to fly you somewhere. You pretend to be impressed… then levitate beside him just to make a point. Next time, you ‘forget’ and lets him carry you bridal-style through a sky battle just for the bit.

Battle banter consists of something like this:

Mark: “We should try not to kill them!”

You: “They tried to kill us. You’re too soft. Want me to toughen you up, sunshine?”

Mark: “Please don’t call me that.”

Your sparring sessions are practically relationship therapy. You like pushing his limits; Mark wants to prove he can beat you. He never does—but he does improve. And you notice.

Mark reminds you of your younger self—before the arrogance fully settled in, back when you still had Suguru. His compassion gets under your skin in ways that surprise you. You sees potential in him, maybe even a kind of moral compass. Not that you’d admit it.

It’s painfully obvious. He’ll deny it to his dying breath, but he always stands a little too close, always looks a little too long. The others tease him. You just raise an eyebrow: “He blushes when I breathe near him.”

You both lost someone close—Mark with his father’s betrayal, you with Suguru’s fall. One night, during a rare calm moment, Mark asks if you ever wonder if you could’ve saved him. You go quiet. Then: “Every day.”

You claim your stronger than any Viltrumite. Mark says “no way.” So you make him hit you with everything he’s got. He does. You smiled through it.

Mark wouldn’t stand a chance. You would absolutely dominate the relationship. Not in a cruel way—but you loves being the most powerful being in the room, and Mark would lowkey love being the guy who got you to open up.

You call him “baby Viltrumite.” He calls you “Queen of Chaos” when he’s flustered.

Your the kind of couple that people warn you about: loud, passionate, terrifyingly good at fighting, and stupidly in love beneath the surface tension.

The golden light casts long shadows over the ruined shoreline. The cruise ship lies grounded, metal groaning as rescue crews scramble to help the injured. The monster’s corpse still steams in the distance.

You watch from a short distance, arms folded, your tight black shirt speckled with ocean spray and blood that isn’t yours.

Mark’s voice is raised now, his fists clenched. “You don’t get to lecture me about humanity! You don’t care about this world!”

Anissa steps forward, calm, firm, a little too sure of herself. “I care enough to warn you. Earth is weak. You are weak. You’ll understand soon, Mark.”

The tension snaps.

Mark lunges at her, anger driving his punch. Anissa blocks, but just barely—he’s stronger now, more focused, more dangerous. Still, she’s older. Sharper. Viltrumite-born.

The two of them collide like thunder, fists cracking like lightning across the sky. Sand explodes in geysers as they slam into the beach, sending terrified civilians scattering for cover.

Then—

Time halts.

A shimmer in the air. A stillness. And suddenly, you’re there—standing between them.

Mark’s fist stops just short of your shoulder.

Anissa’s next strike halts midair.

Both of them freeze.

You tilt your head, smiling that lazy, arrogant smile of yours. “Wow. You two really know how to ruin a sunset.”

“[Name]?” Mark stammers, stumbling back slightly. His expression softens—for a moment, relief flooding his face.

You glance at the crushed sand around you, the frantic screams from nearby civilians, the cracked pavement where someone nearly died. Your smile fades.

“You wanna break each other’s bones, fine. But do it without turning humans into collateral damage.” Your voice dips. Cold. Sharp. “I don’t do messy team-ups.”

Anissa narrows her eyes. “Who are you supposed to be?”

You blink, and suddenly you’re inches from her. She didn’t even see you move.

You lean in, eyes gleaming behind your bangs. “The reason you’re still breathing.”

And with that, you tap her chest—nothing more.

She flies backward like a meteor, skipping across the waves with a deafening crash. The ocean hisses around her impact site, the water parting from sheer kinetic force.

Mark stares, slack-jawed. “…I had that under control.”

You shrug, stepping back beside him. “Sure, sunshine. But you were taking way too long.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, then sighs. “She said I was her ‘first warning.’ That the others are coming.”

Your expression hardens. For a brief flicker, your usual smugness cracks.

“Let them.”

Your voice is quiet. Final. Like you already know how this ends.

Now, the air smells like salt and ozone.

Rescue drones hum overhead. EMTs load the last few injured passengers onto stretchers. The wreckage from the cruise ship smolders in the distance, but the beach is mostly cleared now, thanks to your timely arrival. Civilians lived. No one got flattened. Clean work.

Mark stands near the water’s edge, hands on his hips, bruised, scuffed, and visibly rattled. He’s still watching the spot where Anissa vanished after your hit sent her flying halfway into next week.

You appear beside him without warning—no sound, no shift in the air. Just there.

He flinches. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

You smirk. “Only the cute ones.”

Mark groans, scrubbing his face. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you gesture to the mostly intact beach, “incredibly effective.”

He exhales slowly, his shoulders sinking. “Thanks. For saving the people. And… probably me.”

You glance at him sidelong. “That was your thank you? You sound like someone just told you your dog ran away.”

Mark chuckles softly, but there’s no humor in it. “She said they’re coming. Stronger ones. That I should’ve joined her. She sounded so sure I’d break eventually.”

You pause.

Then you reach out and flick his forehead—lightly, but enough to snap him out of the spiral.

“Hey,” you say, voice low. “You’re not breaking. Not while I’m around.”

He looks at you, really looks. There's weariness in his eyes, that deep-soul tiredness he carries after every fight where the odds were rigged from the start.

“But you won’t always be around,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you walk ahead a few steps, letting the waves lap at your slippers, arms crossed. The wind whips your hair, your silhouette sharp and untouchable against the dying sun.

“I don’t stick around for many people,” you finally admit. “Most aren’t worth the trouble. Too weak. Too scared. Too boring.”

You glance over your shoulder at him.

“But you… you keep getting up.”

Mark’s brows lift slightly.

“You think that makes me strong?”

“I think it makes you stupid.” A beat. “But the right kind of stupid.”

He laughs, a little more real this time.

Then—more hesitantly—he steps up beside you. “So what now?”

You shrug. “Now? We prepare. Train. Fight. Win.”

Mark nods. Then, quieter: “And if we don’t?”

You flash him a wicked smile, eyes glinting. “Then we make sure the world remembers we went down swinging—and looking damn good doing it.”

He laughs again. Then looks at you for a long moment, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I meant what I said earlier. You scare me sometimes.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Flattery’ll get you everywhere.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “Yeah. I figured.”

[loveanddeephistory]

LaDs x honors student

I am working on my honors undergrad thesis. And I am suffering. Here's another self indulgent not proofread headcanon list on how the guys would support someone on an honors project/masters/ whatever you personally want to supplement it for.

Get that degree babes these men would support you

Mild content warning for Sylus's section because of guns but. We've all seen him cleaning his gun in the Destiny Cafe soooo

WC; 2.2k

Again, not proofread, just whipped this up while glaring at my thesis lmao

Xavier

Bro has gotten how many degrees by this point???? Don't know if he was necessarily in an honors college but he was absolutely smart.

He sympathizes with the stress. But he will NOT allow this thing to get in the way of your sleep.

If you stay up an hour or two past when you normally go to bed expect him to be sitting on the couch or dozing off beside you in the library while he waits for you to reach a stopping point.

What he will NOT allow is you pulling an all nighter. It doesn't matter how close the deadline is, you're not skipping multiple nights of sleep.

"The project will be there in the morning." He tries to gently chide you, guide you to bed once you hit save and confirm it's gone through. If you try to resist? That's when he'll remind you that as soft as he is he can and will just pick your ass up.

He saves your work for you, puts a bookmark in the book you almost fell asleep in, and scoops you up in his arms. Whine, complain, and grumble all you want. He's taking you straight to the bathroom. Help you freshen up, brush your teeth, wash your face. Then it's straight to bed.

It doesn't matter how determined you are. You won't write your best work falling asleep every two seconds. Besides, the second you feel him curling up behind you, his arms wrapped around you so sweetly? How can you stay awake a second longer?

Expect him to try to make you breakfast in the morning. You gently persuade him to just make the coffee or tea while you make breakfast.

He was right, after all. Sleep gave you the fresh start you needed. Everything was saved and a good night's rest gave you a new perspective on what you were writing about.

He's there with you at the library for reading dates while you research, he'll pick your brain if you feel stumped about a certain section. Or just be quiet so you can rant about your mentor before collapsing into his chest for a much needed hug.

And trust, he's there when you present it. Fresh flowers from Jeremiah wrapped in a dainty bouquet. The ribbon your favorite color. Seeing you so confident and proud of your work makes him glow. Literally. As you find his face there are little orbs of light floating around. Expect celebratory hot pot for dinner when you're done presenting, a long awaited celebration of all the hard work you've done.

Rafayel

Rafayel isn't good about deadlines. You and Thomas often need to hunt him down and lovingly badger him into completing things on time. But when it comes to you? He can be a damn drill sergeant.

He knows how important this is for you. He knows you've worked your ass off for this. He sneaks out of exhibits and galleries to bring you your drink of choice, he'll set up an easel or sit down with his sketchbook to body double for you while you work. He gives you fleeting glances, of course. He can't help but draw you. You look beautiful so focused, so determined. Don't be surprised if his next few sketches of you are you in various positions, working away.

He makes sure you drink enough water, and if you're having a hard time finishing working he'll stay on a call with you until you're ready to finish up and call it a night. You're not burning out or passing out on his watch, no sirrrrr

If you're struggling with a certain portion, be it how to phrase something or you just don't understand it, he might offer to call someone up if he knows someone who could help. Is your project on microbiology? He had a former student at his adjunct professor job who might be able to help. History? He'll call in a favor from the history profs he knew.

That being said, he knows you're stubborn, and want to do it yourself. So if he can help best by just listening, then that is what he'll do.

He is so proud of you. His cutie, his beloved, is so smart. He's fascinated and astounded by whatever it is you do, regardless of whether or not it's an interest of his.

Your passion is so beautiful.

But he won't let you burn out. If he can tell you're getting close to the end of your rope he's whisking you away for a vacation. If your mentor tries to give you shit he'll just wave it away as a research trip! See? They're hard at work anyway.

They don't need to know that he's squirelling you away to a private beach where you two can be uninterrupted. Inspiration comes in many forms, after all.

He ensures you're drinking enough water and taking ample breaks. And, surprising no one, you still get it done.

He's there, front row. Your favorite flowers ready. He mingled with your professors and board before you present, and he's simply radiating pride.

During applause don't be surprised if he's leaning over to someone else, pointing at you, bragging about how smart his cutie is.

Zayne

Zayne's torn. On the one hand, he recalls the many sleepless nights in the library during medical school. He knows what it's like to study hours upon hours. But he also knows a lack of sleep, nutrition, and water will impede your progress.

So he tries to find a balance. In between patients at the hospital he'll text you reminders to take a break, get something to eat, and drink something other than coffee.

On his few days off if you're still hard at work he'll join you. Bring his laptop to work, even though you scold him for working on his day off, just so he can body double with you. He'll spoil you with a coffee or box of study sweets of your choice- so long as you agree to drink enough water while consuming them.

He texts you reminders to get a good night's rest, and scold you if he catches your eye bags looking a bit deeper.

If you're still working when he gets out from a late night at the hospital expect to be treated to a late night dinner/early breakfast. Just an excuse to spend time together in your crazy schedules.

If you ask him to look over your work don't be surprised if he's merciless. Pointing out every citation error, every typo, every grammatical error, every flaw. His goal isn't to make you cry (though it would make me cry ngl) he just wants this to be as perfect as you are. He'll help you figure out the citations, go back and forth with you on your interpretation of a source until your reasoning is rock solid.

That being said if Zayne sees a single tear of frustration expect some more macarons.

A benefit? If you need to actually defend this project no one will be as bad as your own boyfriend. And at least your boyfriend would apologize if he took it too far, a board or peer will not. They also wouldn't give you a hug and some macarons.

He clears his calendar as far in advance as he can as soon as he knows what day you're presenting. No surgeries, no patients, no nothing. He's completely cleared off.

So that day is entirely yours. He's dressed sharp, sitting front row. To anyone else he's the picture of the calm, stoic, handsome doctor they all know he is.

When you catch his eye you notice the tiniest nervous twitch. All he wants is for this to go well for you.

It's flawless. You speak comfortably, confidently. You claim your work and research with pride. And as everyone is allowed to question you, Zayne poses the perfect questions to make your project look even more impressive. He allows you to go even deeper into the research you didn't have time to touch on, impressing everyone even more.

It's perfect. You excel, and you beeline to him when it's all said and done.

Zayne couldn't be any more proud.

Sylus

There are plenty of conventional ways he can, and does, support you.

Body doubling, encouraging you to rest, making sure you eat well, drink enough water.

"Sylus, I might need you to hold a gun to my head to get this thing done."

That was one he could not and would not do.

"That's... a little extreme, sweetie. I have another idea."

And thus, the 'cleaning a gun in broad daylight' thing was born. It initially came out of a mutual inside joke, primarily in the seclusion of his own private library or your home. But it did become a surprising amount of motivation, so you just keep doing it.

Sylus hunts down every book and study you need for your project. Five hundred dollar book only available to student of a university multiple countries away? It's already on the way. Book that only is in one language you can't read? He's already got it and is helping you translate.

You wonder if you should include a footnote for him as your translator, but he waves the idea off. You sneakily change your dedication instead.

He makes sure you eat your meals, drink enough water. He's dragging you off to bed. You've adapted to his schedule, more or less becoming nocturnal. So that just means as the sun is rising he is dragging you to bed regardless of how energetic you may or may not feel.

Want to unwind with a glass of wine? Do a face mask with him? Gladly.

The work is long, hard, and arduous. But you make it.

The day you present everyone is warily eyeing the massive man with an even bigger bouquet of flowers. He did his research, each flower representing success, overcoming obstacles, intelligence, and wit.

He put so much thought into it. He had taken such good care of you. So you unveil your work, and click the powerpoint to the first slide. The dedication.

"Dedicated to my beloved crow; thank you for supporting me in everything"

You don't drop his name, for safety reasons. But as you present your project to the board, your mentor, your peers... your eyes always fall to him. Those ruby red eyes a little wider than normal. Instead of his cocky, self assured look, he seemed truly touched.

You had dedicated the culmination of your academics to him.

Caleb

Being away at the DAA was the worst. He couldn't come and support you in everything.

But he did everything he could. When he was in town you weren't touching the kitchen at all. He'd be making you balanced meals, checking your water intake, and making your coffee machine outright vanish if you've had too much caffeine. If he wasn't in town, he asked old friend to check in on you.

Sleepless night? He'd sit on the phone with you until you dozed off. Frustrated with a chapter not going your way? He'll let you rant until you run out of breath.

He's so proud of you, but he's so worried about you. He knows what it's like to be an academic overachiever, he remembers how close to burnout he was. And he's not going to let that happen to you. He swears it.

He treasures each phone call. Each rant, or when he needed to be your duck to just sit and listen while you figured it out on your own. He could hear the clarity come into your voice when you finally managed to figure it out on your own. He swells with pride. He knew you'd grow up to be confident and strong, but there's a part of him that's relieved that you still need your gege after all these years.

He gets time off for the presentation. He has it entirely blocked off on his schedule, the whole week. He comes in and gives you a back breaking hug, thrilled and relieved you're in his arms once again. He's your practice audience as you prepare to present. He cooks your meals as you remind yourself of a citation for the twentieth time.

He just ruffles your hair while putting a plate in front of you. "That's enough for tonight, pip-squeak, you'll remember."

The day finally arrives. He drops you off to speak with your mentor one last time before sneaking away. He manages to get that special limited edition plushie holding a diploma you'd been eyeing, along with flowers. And your favorite sweets, for good measure.

He has a front row seat, your gifts hidden in a bag. And he damn near tears up as you present.

You're all grown up. No longer the scared little kid he'd defended all those years, you're able to defend yourself now. But every time you'd start exhibiting a nervous habit, you'd just have to look at him. His steady presence allowed you swallow, hold your head higher, and resume.

Gege will always be there for you. You know that. No matter what.

[sceletaflores]

"Dependence Is Weakness, Darling."

pairing: older!patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: it wasn’t just the cigarettes or the lighters. it was the way you still find yourself thinking about him. patrick, with his tangled emotions and overwhelming presence, had left an inescapable mark on your life. and as much as you wished it, he wasn’t someone you could easily erase from yourself.

—or: it's been a little over twelve years since you've seen patrick zweig.

word count: 7.8k (hopefully this is long enough lol)

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, p in v, rough sex but in a loving way, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), semi-public sex (fucking in a car, you know i had to...), angst, swearing, cigarette smoking as a love language, slight mommy issues lmao, hints of mean!reader cause i still live for that shit, love confessions, rain scene cause i'm corny as hell, porn with SOOOO much plot, no use of y/n.

author's note: this might me the filthiest thing i've ever written lols. i actually DID get a couple asks for some more angsty patrick fics and ofc i love writing angst i'm just a girl i live for that shit. look at me doing what was asked of me and not just whatever i wanted! i'm a giver, what can i say. this fic was revived because of a few anon's who demanded it and i'm so glad they did. you guys got me to give this a second chance and i'm so proud of how it turned out. extra special shout out to @bii-aan-ckaa who fiercely advocated and waited very patiently for this! i'm so obsessed with you and your beautiful kind words. hope you love it! mwah xoxo.

Fifteen minutes. 

That’s how long you can stomach sitting in the sticky booth of the bar watching Patrick Zweig flirt with a woman you don't recognize across the dimly lit room. Fifteen measly minutes until you were giving your friends some lame excuse of needing fresh air and leaving the table to escape out into the alley.

It’s been a little over twelve years since you’ve seen Patrick. A little over twelve years since you turned your back on him with tears spilling down your cheeks and your favorite racket a mangled, smashed mess gripped tightly in your shaking hand as you walked out of his life forever. 

Or at least what you thought was forever, you guess you were wrong.

To put it lightly, your relationship with Patrick was…complicated. You met him the summer before you started at Stanford. He was tall with green eyes and curly hair and he was kind of an asshole but he made you laugh, so you let him fuck you anyway. At the time, you thought that was it. One really good fuck with a really hot guy you’d never see again.

You thought you were hallucinating when you saw him on the campus courts two months later, when he sauntered up to you with an unmistakable “I know what you look like naked” smirk on his face. He was just as tall and had the same green eyes and the same curly hair and was an even bigger asshole than he was before. You still let him fuck you anyway.

You never thought you’d get sucked into the storm that was whatever the fuck was going on between Art, Patrick and Tashi. Never thought that it would completely ruin your self esteem, your tennis, your everything.

You weren’t particularly close to Art or Tashi in college. Sure, you were all in the same circle. That didn’t make you best friends. Art was nice enough, but he never went out of his way to talk to you. You and Tashi were on the same team but that didn’t mean anything. You respected the hell out of her and her game, and you could tell she felt the same. Even with that respect, there was still a tiny part of you that resented her. 

She was number one, the pride and joy of Stanford, had a constant slew of brands and scouts up to her ears. It seemed like no matter how hard you worked that she would always be number one. It felt like you were always just inches behind her.

Clawing and scratching your way through the ranks since you were twelve to be second best was never the plan. Your mother made sure to remind you of that every chance she got.

Then slowly, she started beating you at more than just tennis. Patrick wanted her, it was more than obvious. At first you didn’t care, he wasn't your boyfriend. He was just a guy you fucked, he could do whatever he wanted. You were friends. There wasn’t a problem.

When you realized you knew more about Patrick than just how he worked dick, then there was a problem. 

At first, all the things you knew about him were boiled down to the vulgar little tidbits you’d notice when he fucked you. You know that he has a birthmark on his lower back. You know when he’d be close because he’d always bite your shoulder before he came. You know his favorite position was really missionary even though he told everyone it was doggy.

Knowing all that was fine.

You also know that he’s allergic to kiwi. You know that he only holds his cigarettes with his thumb and his pointer finger. You’d always know when he was nervous because he’d start tapping his fingers on his thigh. You know that when he’d listen to music he loved, that his right hand would drum along to the beat just a little bit faster than his left would.

You knew all those things because you were falling in love with him, and Patrick Zweig is not someone you fall in love with. Especially not with Tashi Duncan in the picture.

You tried your best to push it down, to pretend you weren’t hurt every time Patrick chose Tashi over you. When he’d miss your games because he was with Tashi, when he’d blow you off to go meet Tashi, when he started to stop returning your calls or replying to your texts. All things you never cared about before started slowly eating at you. You felt awful most days, holed up in your room wallowing in self-pity. Your GPA was steadily dropping as the semester went on. Even your tennis started slipping, and you lost your winning streak to a fucking scrub. When you finally cracked and broke down to your mother over the phone one night she just scoffed.

“Well what did you think would happen when you started to depend on that boy? Dependence is weakness, darling.”

Dependence is weakness. You blocked Patrick’s number that same night.

It all came to a head when he blew up at you after Tashi’s injury. Everyone was pretty shaken up about it. You’d never forget the way it buckled, the way the sharp snap rang through the court, the way she fell to the ground screaming. You’d never seen her cry before. 

Patrick found you later that night, all alone on the practice courts trying to burn the day out of your mind by serving balls till you collapsed. It was the first time he talked to you in weeks. He was pissed. Screaming at you, calling you every nasty thing he could think of, getting up in your face. It was a fucking mess. You both said some things that should have never been said, but it ended when Patrick accused you of somehow being the cause of all of it.

“You hate Tashi, fucking hate her. You wanted something like this to happen. I bet you’re just over the fucking moon that she’s finally out and you can take her place. You can finally be number one seed and you're fucking ecstatic, aren't you? You’re so fucking pathetic, so desperate for validation. Maybe if mommy paid attention to you for once, you wouldn’t be so fucking needy. You're just a sad, delusional fucking runner-up, grasping at whatever shreds of importance you think you still have.”

You stood there, stunned by his outburst, each word hitting you like a physical blow. It was insane, nothing but Patrick blowing things way out of proportion in the midst of his anger.

You wanted to scream, to deny it vehemently, but the hurt and frustration choked off your words. Tears welled up in your eyes, a mixture of anger and heartbreak swirling in you. Vision blurring out everything but Patrick's face twisted up with rage as he glared at you, his words lingering in the air like poison. 

You told him about your mother because you thought you could trust him. You thought he was the only person that really understood you, his dad was a piece of shit too. Him using something so delicate as material to hit you where it hurts was the last straw.

You blew up, all the things you’d been keeping bottled up for months finally boiled over in you swinging your racket down on the green concrete over and over until there was nothing left of it to break. You didn’t even look at Patrick as you walked away. You never saw him again.

You’d love to say it was also the last time you thought about him, but that would be a lie. As much as he hurt you, and as much as you hated him for it, your mind refused to let you forget him.

You still smoke Camel Blues because that was your guys’ brand, even when you should have quit years ago anyway. You still buy the same color lighter, pink. You tell yourself it’s nothing more than an easy choice, that it’s a good color. It’s not at all because you can still hear Patrick’s teasing voice in the back of your head bitching, “I can’t believe you make me use a pink lighter.” when he always forgot his and had to borrow yours. 

It’s not based on a compulsive need to be reminded of him every single time you use it. It’s just convenient, okay.

You know deep down that they were the only remnants of a past that you still couldn’t fully let go of. As much as you tried to bury those memories, they lingered, melded into the corners of your mind like stubborn stains. 

It wasn’t just the cigarettes or the lighters. It was the way you still find yourself thinking about him. Patrick, with his tangled emotions and overwhelming presence, had left an inescapable mark on your life. And as much as you wished it, he wasn’t someone you could easily erase from yourself.

Even twelve years later you’re still trying to convince yourself that dependence is weakness, that you were better off without him. But sometimes, in the quiet moments like this when the smoke curls from your cigarette and the pink lighter flickers in your hand, you wonder if he ever thinks of you, if he regrets how things ended between the two of you.

Maybe it's not that you can't escape Patrick's grip on you after all these years, it's that you just won't.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don't hear the heavy door to the bar swinging open, or the sound of gravel crunching underneath approaching footsteps.

“Holy shit,” a deep voice rings out from your right, “someone pinch me.”

Your whole body tenses, your cigarette freezing a few inches away from your lips. Something like fight or flight starts to quietly buzz beneath your skin. You’d recognize that voice anywhere, even despite the gruffer, more grown up tone that wasn’t there the last time you heard it.

Your heart’s already kicking into overdrive when you finally start to hesitantly turn your head, time almost slowing down as your eyes sweep over the alley. You kind of don’t want to believe that your luck is this shitty. That maybe it was all in your imagination, that you were thinking about him so much you were starting to hear things that weren’t really there, that he was still back in the bar feeling up that blonde girl. But it can never be that easy, and sure enough, there he is.

Patrick Zweig is standing a few feet away from you with both hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and a wide, achingly familiar grin lighting up his face.

You’re quiet for a few long moments, completely shocked into silence. Your mind races with a million different things you want to say but can’t find the voice to. You should be causing a scene. You should be losing it, screaming, crying, throwing things, slapping him hard across his unfairly handsome face. But you don’t, too surprised to even move. 

Patrick speaks again, taking several steps towards you. “It is really you, right?” he asks, eyes wide and mouth pulling into an easy, lopsided grin. To anyone else, the laid back, carefree tone he was going for would sound genuine. You can barely pick up on the stunned, almost breathless edge lacing his words, like he also can’t believe you’re standing right in front of him.

He steps into the light shining from a dingy lamp above the door, it basks around him in a yellow orange glow.

Same eyes, same ears, same Patrick.

For years you’ve thought about this exact moment, what you’d say if you ever saw him. You lose all of that practice the closer he gets. He’s less than a foot away from you now, an expectant look on his face. He’s waiting for you to say something. 

You feel like running, like stubbing your cigarette on the pavement and making a break for the door. You already ran from him once, but old habits die hard. 

You don’t run, you refuse to take the easy way out. You’re a grown woman, you’re stronger than you were in college, you’re going to the goddamn Olympics. It’s only Patrick for Christ’s sake.

“What are you doing here?” It sounds harsher than you meant, but that’s probably for the best. He doesn’t deserve kindness from you. 

“Tennis.” Is all he says, fishing out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. Camel blues. “What are you doing here?” He parrots back, smacking the bottom of the carton, plucking the one that shakes out between his long fingers. “I’d think that Miss. Team USA would be too busy for bar crawls.”

You bristle, eyes narrowing skeptically. You can’t tell if he’s making fun of you or not. “It’s not a bar crawl,” you shoot back childishly, feeling defensive under his heavy gaze. “We’re celebrating.”

Patrick just nods, letting out a small hum in lieu of replying. He's close enough now that you can see gray strands streaked through his hair. He looks older, a few barely there wrinkles creasing his skin as he pops his cigarette between his lips. “Got a light?” he asks around the filter, holding his hand out expectantly before you even answer.

It’s still just as annoying. You roll your eyes, sighing dramatically as you fish your lighter out of your skirts pocket. You place it in the open palm of his hand, ignoring the fireworks that go off at the base of your spine when his fingers catch on your wrist as you pull away.

He mumbles out a half-assed thanks, cupping his hand around the flame to shield it from the wind. If he notices the color, he doesn’t say anything. It feels wrong that he doesn’t tease you about it, staying silent as he tosses it back to you when his cigarette finally lights. You ignore the hurt blooming in your chest as you pocket it.

Patrick takes a deep inhale, the tip of his cigarette burns bright red. The way his lips wrap around the filter has heat spreading through you. “Shocked you’re still smoking,” he waves his free hand at you vaguely, smoke flowing from his lips as he speaks. “It’s not super admirable.”

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s really how you want to start this?

“Start what?” he asks coyly, leaning his shoulder too close to you against the brick. He’s playing dumb, the smirk on his face gives him away. 

You say nothing, not trusting yourself to speak. He has a beard now, sort of patchy and fairly new looking. You wrinkle your nose up at it. 

It doesn’t surprise you that he’s acting like this. All calm and collected like he’s catching up with an old friend, like he didn’t say all those horrible things to you. As if every single word he said that night isn’t still engraved in your mind and carried with you through your whole career. 

Patrick’s quiet for a bit, taking another slow drag. “Have you seen either of them?” His voice is hesitant, like he’s treading the water of your boundaries by bringing this up. “Or am I your first?” He lets the innuendo hang in the air, trying to joke his way through something neither of you really want to talk about.

You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes trained on the part of the street you can see through the alleys opening.

You don’t need to ask who “them” is.

You just shake your head no, not wanting to have to say anything out loud and make this into a whole thing. The smoke from your cigarette swirls through your lungs, warm and familiar. 

You’ve seen them both at multiple tennis events. Things like matches, and galas, and charity auctions. Hell, they watched from the stands when you won Wimbledon for the first time. You just make sure and avoid them like the plague, always running the other direction the second you see a short bob and cropped blonde hair.

You’ve been in the same room with them countless times over the years but you might as well have been in separate worlds. The only “contact” you’ve had with them since you all graduated was weirdly ominous.

Art followed you on Instagram after you got your third career slam, but he doesn’t like any of your posts. You’re one of the mere twenty accounts in his following. You never followed him back. 

Then, when your career first started taking off, the press somehow learned about your past with Tashi. They started using it to their advantage when picking headlines for any pieces written about you. “The only woman in the world to beat Tashi Duncan!” It pissed you off to no end. It was stupid, a way to get clicks on their sad little gossip sites. And it wasn’t even fucking true.

They finally stopped when you threatened to sue their asses. Apparently, Tashi noticed.

She sent you flowers. You threw them out.

Patrick nods back, taking his own slow drag. The sound of traffic hums in the background, the music from the bar bleeding through the wall mutely. 

“Congrats on that,” he says casually, looking you up and down slowly. You fight not to squirm under his gaze. “On making the team. That’s some serious shit. I always knew it’d be you, out of all of us.”

It’s a blatant lie. You were always four out of four in college, the one person in the group with the least potential for stardom. If it wasn’t for Tashi’s injury, she’d definitely be in your place — on top of the world.

He’s trying to pacify you, to butter you up. All it does is grate on your nerves and leaves a sour taste in your mouth. 

“Did you just come out here to interrogate me? To mess with me?” you ask sharply, frustration starting to get the better of you. “Do you want a fucking autograph or something?”

Patrick laughs, throwing his head back. “Nope, I wanted to catch up. It's been a while.” he shrugs, eyes darkening ever so slightly. “I just know how much you like talking about yourself, that’s all.”

You pause, picking up on the clear implication of his words. “Excuse me?” you question, turning towards him.

“Just saying,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “When we were younger everyone always thought I was this arrogant, cocky, self obsessed prick…” he trails off, an infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. It does nothing to soothe you, only adding fuel to the fire of your anger. “And they were all right, I was. But, that’s also exactly what you are right now.” he finishes, tapping the ash off his cigarette.

You feel it, all the emotions swirling inside you of at seeing Patrick again threatening to burst. Anger and misery waging a war in your stomach. The wind is starting to pick up around you, making goosebumps break out over your skin. The fabric of your skirt swishes around your thighs. You feel clammy, but it has nothing to do with the temperature drop. 

“Was?” you ask, condescending and mean, crossing your arms across your chest defensively. “You really don’t think you’re still all of those things?”

Patrick chuckles, shoulders shaking with amusement. He goes to say something, but you beat him to it. “I’ve changed, Patrick.” you say sternly, brows furrowing in displeasure. Your tone is hard, frustration seeping into your words. Considering the last time the two of you spoke, this was almost going well. It’s just like Patrick to ruin something before he needs to.

You know distantly that you could deescalate the situation, but maybe you’re more alike than you thought. Maybe you’re just too greedy to keep the peace. “So fucking sorry that I’m not the same person I was in college, but I actually chose to grow up.”

Patrick snorts, exhaling a plume of smoke through his nose. “Yeah, clearly.” he mutters under his breath, it’s condescending and sarcastic. It pisses you off.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask sharply, cigarette now forgotten and steadily burning away at your side. 

Patrick shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You’re still so lost. I sure as shit don’t have a red, white, and blue track suit hanging in my closet, but at least I know who I am.” He doesn't sound angry, only sure of himself, like he may have been thinking about this for a while. His face is passive, body relaxed as he leans against the hard brick.

Your jaw clenches, anger running hot through your veins. He doesn’t know anything about you, hasn’t for over ten years. He doesn’t have the right to try and talk down to you, not after all the hard work you put in to get to where you are.

“My wrist alone is worth ten million. What are you worth now, Patrick?” You’ll be embarrassed about bringing up status later, you always try to stay as humble as possible, but you’re too mad to care. You just need to hurt him, to hurt him like he hurt you. You’d heard from a friend of a friend that Patrick’s parents cut him off a while ago, that he’s been slumming it ever since. “I know exactly who I am, I’m a fucking Olympian.”

The venom in your tone is sharp, each word from your lips like a knife stabbing through the tense air trying to draw blood. “You’re a fucking nobody, Patrick. You’re irrelevant. Washed up. Buried. Forgotten.” You pause when your voice starts to shake, taking a deep inhale of smoke to try and calm yourself. Your hand is shaking too, ash falls from the burnt out tip down to the gravel. Patrick just watches you, his expression doesn’t change. Smoke billows from between your lips, blowing away with the wind. “We’re not on the same level, not anymore.” 

Patrick’s unfazed, staring back at you with his cigarette dangling from his lips. He takes it between his fingers, letting his arm drop to hang at his side. “I’ve been thinking about you.” he says casually, head lolling to the side lazily. He looks at you through his lashes, eyes sweeping over your face slowly. “I was just thinking about you, and now you’re here. Right fucking in front of me.” he shakes his head with a dry laugh. “You look…” he trails off, green eyes taking in every inch of you. “You look amazing.”

Your pulse flutters wildly, you feel so light headed, like you could pass out any second. “I’ve missed you, missed you everyday since that night.” His expression is that same half cocked grin from before, all smooth bravado and easy smiles as if he’s not staring at you like you’re the very blood coursing through his veins. All the air drains from your lungs, mind racing what feels like a thousand miles per second. 

He sounds like he means it. He looks like he means it. He can’t possibly mean it.

A loud chant ringing through your skull is the only coherent thing screaming through all the mess. Don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it, don’t fucking fall for it–

“Well I don’t miss you.” A lie. “You were nothing to me, Patrick.” Another lie. “You were just easy dick.” Your stomach twists painfully, like your body is physically trying to stop you from lying to yourself any further.

His face stays neutral, it frustrates you to no end that you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Patrick had a terrible poker face in college, you could read him like a book with a single glance. It was one of your favorite things about him, how expressive his face always was.

Now he’s just staring down the bridge of his nose at you passively, the picture of indifference. It’s another reminder of how long it’s been, that he’s lived a whole life without you in all that time. He takes a long drag off his cigarette, never breaking eye contact with you as he does.

His lips are slick and pink, just how you remember them. The beard isn’t so bad, it makes him look more rugged, more like a man. It’s the most drastic change in his appearance, far different from the smooth skinned pretty boy he was before.

He exhales, a long stream of smoke blowing past your ear. “What are you still doing here then?” he muses with a small shrug. He leans in even closer, slowly, like you were a cornered animal he didn’t want to spook. You can smell him, something woodsy with a hint of musk. You can see the clusters of freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose, almost completely faded. “If I’m nothing,” he clarifies, simple, easy. “Why are you here?”

It’s a loaded question, one he obviously knows the answer to. It’s a dick move, forcing you to confront what you’re really feeling. Your eyes start to sting, complicated emotions welling up in your throat. “Fuck you Patrick.” you whisper weakly, all the bite in your tone getting lost in your dejection. Your lip wobbles warningly, you try your best to stifle it. You refuse to cry in front of him.

Patrick’s face does something funny, turning his eyes to the sidewalk. “I need someone like that again. Someone that isn’t afraid to fucking check me, that wants me to do better and not because they just see a check or a legacy or whatever the fuck else my parents expected from me. Someone that wants me to do better because they actually believe in me.”

The honesty in his voice takes you by surprise. He gets more worked up the longer he talks, chest rising and falling a lot faster than before. Rare vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his hardened exterior.  “I fucked up that night, I know. Now my life’s a fucking mess, and I need someone to help make it make sense again.“ 

You scoff thickly, shaking your head in disbelief as you fight back tears. “And I’m that person?” you ask skeptically, brow raised in question.

“You always were,” he replies easily, his face forming into a sad smile. He almost sounds like his old self. Your brain flashes the image of Patrick leaning outside the door of your science lecture, waiting to walk you back to your dorm. He’s smiling wide enough to show teeth, looking down at you with brilliant green eyes, just like he is right now.

Suddenly, he wasn’t the boy that broke your heart on a tennis court twelve years ago. 

He was the boy that held your hair back when you threw up after drinking too much at a frat party and still stayed the night even though you didn’t hook up, his chest pressed against your back like a security blanket the whole night. He was the boy that let you make friendship bracelets on the handle of his favorite racket, and secretly kept the one you made for him braided around the neck for weeks until you finally noticed the fraying blue strings still in place when he forgot his tennis bag at your dorm room one night.

Suddenly he wasn’t anything but the boy you fell in love with when you were eighteen years old.

You swallow hard, heart pounding against your ribcage. Your cigarette falls from the slack grip of your fingers, plummeting to your feet where it burns out on the pavement. 

It’s like you lose control of yourself, like all your morals get shot out of a cannon into the sun. You’re lunging forward before you know what you’re doing, fisting the fabric of Patrick’s shirt and pulling him down to meet you halfway. Your first kiss with Patrick in twelve years.

It’s a mess of teeth clashing together roughly, with way too much tongue and spit to be classified as romantic. It’s desperate. It’s angry. It’s fucking filthy and it’s exactly what you need.

Your tongue forces its way between Patrick’s lips when he gasps in shock, mapping out the familiar territory of his mouth like muscle memory. His big hands fly up to hold onto your hips as he eagerly returns your kiss, pressing you up against the brick and sucking your tongue lewdly. He tastes like smoke and bottom shelf whiskey. You moan into his mouth, wetness starting to seep through the thin material of your panties.

You stay like that for a while, just kissing until Patrick slides the hard line of his cock against your hip strategically. You moan at the size of it pressing onto you through his jeans, breaking the kiss to inhale a couple lungfuls of air. “You’re not fucking me in an alley.” You say bluntly as he trails wet kisses down the side of your throat.

He laughs, nipping at your collarbone teasingly. “My car’s a block away,” he offers between kisses.

You think about it for a second. Deciding on whether or not you’re going to let Patrick fuck you in the backseat of his car like you’re two horny teenagers and not full grown adults.

“Lead the way.” Is all you say, finally letting yourself smile when Patrick starts to drag you away from the bar. 

You shoot your friends a quick text letting them know you decided to head home early, already in the uber you ordered when you’re actually letting Patrick drag you across a blessedly empty parking lot to an old SUV parked in the middle. A completely one-eighty from the Porsche he used to drive.

He takes a second to press you against the door, capturing your lips with his again. It’s a slower kiss, sweeter than the one you shared outside the bar. You feel butterflies erupt in your stomach when he cups your face, gently rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone. He fumbles blindly for the car door with his other hand, pulling it open and pushing you into the back. He follows closely, climbing in and shutting the door behind him.

Patrick’s back on you in less than a second, yanking at the buttons of your shirt impatiently, fingers too big to work them through the holes as fast as he wants to. He lets out a frustrated growl, grabbing both sides and pulling hard. The buttons all go flying in different directions, landing in different spots around you.

“That was three hundred dollars,” you mumble against his lips, not wanting to stop kissing him for even a second. He looms over you, broad and all encompassing. He sits up to yank his own shirt over his head, tossing it aside and popping open the button of his jeans.

“You can buy another one,” he says simply, shucking his jeans and boxers off all in one go. His dick is long and lovely, tip red and drooling pre-cum that drips all the way down to his balls. Your mouth waters, desperate to taste it, to feel the weight of it on your tongue and down your throat. You push it to the back of your mind. There’s no time for that, both of you too keyed up to do anything other than fuck.

Patrick leans down, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make you moan. He turns his attention to your pulling skirt down, panties going with it and getting tossed onto the floorboard carelessly. His eyes zero in on your bare pussy, wet and on display. The cool air shocks your system, making you want to press your thighs together but Patrick’s hands keep you spread open.

“Fuck,” he whispers quietly, moving to roll the knuckle of his right index finger over your slick entrance, just barely rocking it into you. You gasp, your whole body trembling with need. “Just like I remember.” He mutters to himself, pushing in the smallest bit deeper. 

Your leg kicks out, patience starting to wear thin. “C’mon, Pat.” you mewl sweetly, bucking your hips up in a clear invitation. “Fuck me.”

Patrick shifts up onto his knees, silently shuffling closer to your spread thighs. His cock juts out from his body, so thick and heavy that it doesn’t point straight up, instead hangs angry and red between his legs. His big hands slide halfway up your thighs, you shiver at the way they skirt across your skin lightly. He presses you backwards by them, leaning over you with your legs slung across his shoulders.

His cock drags across your inner thigh, trailing a sloppy line of pre-come as it does. You nearly wail, wrapping your arms around Patrick’s broad shoulders as you beg for him to give you what you want.

“God Patrick! Put it in. Please, put it in. Let me have it, please, fuck–,” you beg frantically, arms tightening around his shoulders like you’re trying to drag him impossibly closer to you. He goes willingly, burying his nose in the soft skin of your neck. He presses a small kiss directly over your pulse.

“I’m gonna give you this cock, baby.” he whispers lowly, hot lips brushing against your skin with every word. He slides the head of his cock through your wet folds, stopping to rub it over your swollen clit a few times. “Gonna get all up inside you and fuck you exactly how you like.” He slides the length down, letting his tip catch on your empty, clenching hole.

You’re so damn worked up, writhing and pushing back and begging Patrick to just fuck you already, that you can’t take anymore teasing. Your hole contracts around the tip of his dick like it’s trying to suck him in. He sinks in deeper, slowly feeding every thick inch into your aching cunt.

“God,” Your name falls from his lips in a shuddery breath that fans over your fluttering pulse. “You still smell the same.” It’s the same stunned, breathless tone from when he first saw you. He presses his face cheek to cheek with yours, the rough texture of his beard scraping against your skin. 

Patrick moves his hips against you slowly, deep strokes that drag every thick inch of him against the walls of your cunt. The tip of his cock stabbing that sweet spot inside you that makes stars glow bright on the ceiling of his car each time you blink. The angle has his balls pressing against your cunt as he fucks into you, the excessive pre-come leaking from his tip mixing with the sticky wetness of your juices leaves an obscene ring of creamy white around the spread hole of your cunt. It sticks wetly to the base of Patrick’s cock with each thrust, shining back at you on his skin when he pulls out.

The slow thrusts feel amazing, but you know it’s not enough. You need him to pound into you, to bully his big cock into your cunt like he’s getting back at you for shutting him out. You need him to fuck you. 

“Harder, Pat…” you whine breathlessly, clawing desperately at the polyester seats.

He groans loudly, hips immediately speeding up, getting rougher, meaner. He leans up to get more power behind his thrusts, breaking your tight hold on his shoulders. “This is where you belong,” he grits out, sweat dripping from his forehead to fall onto your heaving chest. The sharp smack smack smack of his hips bruising your ass gets louder, the lewd noise filling the car. “Where you should have been this whole fucking time, spread open on my cock.”

The only thing you can even get out anymore are pleading whines and loud moans of Patrick’s name as he pounds into you like he’s trying to kill you. The harsh snap of his hips inching you further up the backseat until your head’s knocking against the doors handle on each mean thrust. Your feet bounce by his ears, body almost completely folded in half so all you can do is lie there and take it.

The car rocks steadily, anyone who spares a glance at the SUV will know what’s going on inside. 

Patrick sneaks a hand between your legs, fingers sliding over your swollen clit. You scream, throwing your head back in pleasure as the calloused tips over his fingers work you over. “Fuck yeah,” Patrick mutters, turning his head to lick and bite at your ankle. “You’re so fucking sexy, so fucking beautiful. I missed you so much, missed this pussy.” His voice is pinched, hips fucking into you impossible faster.

The wet squelching noise of your cunt is filthy, splattering against Patrick’s heavy balls with each thrust. “I know she missed me too, didn’t she baby?” he taunts, eyes wild and blown out. “Taking my cock so well, squeezing me so fucking good.”

“Close,” you gasp out. Patrick pitches forward, licking into your parted lips as he rubs tight circles over your clit faster. He kisses you sloppily, smearing spit all over your lips and chin. His sweat drips onto your face and mixes with your own, it should be gross, but it makes you even wetter. The primal part of your brain overjoyed to be claimed by him. He lifts his fingers up the tiniest bit, smacking them over your clit with the smallest amount of force.

Your orgasm hits you suddenly, back arching off the seat wildly as you gush around his cock. You claw at his back desperately, nails raking down his skin hard enough to leave angry red welts in their wake.

“Shit– that’s good, milk it out of me baby, work for this fucking load.” he groans, hips not slowing down as he chases his own release. His breath puffs over your skin, the rhythm of his hips starting to falter the closer he gets. You whine, trying your best focus on clenching your cunt over his cock in your fucked out state. “That’s it, baby– God – you’re gonna make me come, squeezing me so tight I can barely fucking move…” he growls, teeth sinking into your neck hard.

You hiss sharply, nails digging into his skin as the pleasure starts to become too much. He licks over the bite mark, like he’s apologizing. “Gonna fucking come inside you, fill you up so good, fuck–”

His rambling dissolves into a loud groan, hips giving one last thrust as he buries himself as deep in your cunt as he can. You feel rope after rope of warm come flood your insides, painting your walls with it. It feels like hours, him unloading into you with cut off moans and grunts. 

You're still desperately trying to catch your breath when he finally starts to pull out of you as gently as he can. The red tip of his cock popping free lets the river of his come leak out from your abused hole, spilling out of you to drip onto the car’s seat.

Patrick curses at the sight, scooping the white, creamy mess onto his fingers so he can fuck it back into you. You hiss at the over stimulation, thighs squeezing together around his hand. Your chest is still heaving, breathing erratic as you slowly come down from your orgasm. Patrick tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, smiling warmly as he takes you into his arms and shifts around until he’s sitting up against the door with you curled into his chest.

The windows are steamy, melting all the streetlights outside into a swamp of warm colors on the glass. They shine through the car like sunlight piercing through a stained glass window. You feel light and hazy, like you’re in a dream. Patrick’s body grounds you, firm and familiar against your back. It’s quiet for a long time, only the sound of soft breathing fills the car. You're scratching your nails through the hair on Patrick’s chest when he finally breaks the silence.

“There’s…” he says into your hair, trailing off near the end. He’s idly tracing shapes on your lower back. A circle, a square, a circle, a diamond, a square, a heart. “There’s this challenger in New Rochelle in a couple weeks, I’m entering it. You should come.” 

Your heart drops, the delicate cloud encompassing you and Patrick forcefully ripped away in less than a second. You’ve already heard of this challenger, seen all the publicity it’s been getting since Art’s name came up in the conversation surrounding it. The ‘Phil’s Tire Town Challenger’ is all anyone can talk about. 

If Art’s there, she will be too. Sitting in the stands in a classy Ralph Lauren two piece, watching her husband and Patrick on the court, looming over the two of them for the first time in years. You can’t stomach the thought of seeing her. You can’t stomach the thought of Patrick seeing her, terrified that the second she spares him a glance you’ll be right back where you were in college, an afterthought left in the dust for something better.

Your stomach lurches violently, you feel nauseous. The heat of Patrick’s backseat becomes almost unbearable, making it harder to breathe. You rip yourself away from him, tearing through the backseat to find your clothes. 

Patrick startles, sitting up with a concerned look on his face. “Jesus, what's wrong?” You can feel the warmth of his hands hovering over your back, not sure if he should touch. “What did I do?”

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Your throat feels tight, chest constricted and heavy as you try to take in lungfuls of air. You tug on your skirt and panties haphazardly, grabbing the first shirt you find strewn across the car's floor and yanking it on. You know it’s not yours but you don’t care, too busy trying to shove your shoes back onto your feet and push open the door all at once.

Patrick questions you the entire time, voice confused and insistent as you tumble out into the parking lot. The cool air feels like a life jacket, the smell of rain fills your nose as you try to steady your erratic breathing. You’re still trying to tug your right shoe on as you start to speed walk away from his car.

You can hear the sound of feet slapping behind you on the pavement as you walk. A strong hand wraps around your bicep, whipping you around. Patrick only has his pants on, shirtless and barefoot in his haste to catch up with you.

“What the fuck are you doing? What’s wrong?” He sounds genuinely concerned, his eyes searching your face closely. It makes tears burn hot at your waterline, blurring your vision and falling to trickle down your cheeks when you try to blink them away.

“This was a mistake, Patrick.” your voice is thick with emotion, you try to wrench your arm out of his grip. He doesn’t let go, not squeezing tight enough to hurt but to try and keep you in place. You need to leave, to get as far away from Patrick as you can before you’re in too deep. “Please, let go.” Your voice is small, shaky and weak and so unlike you. The panic from the car is still wrapped around you, growing tighter every second you spend with him.

Patrick shakes his head wildly, raindrops slowly start to fall onto his bare shoulders. “No, fuck no! We can talk about this. We just need to talk–”

“Patrick stop!” Your voice cracks embarrassingly, loud and desperate as you double your efforts to free your arm. “Please just let me go!”

You don’t know if it’s the way you said it or the look on your face, maybe it’s a bit of both, but something makes Patrick let you go. Dropping your arm from his grip and letting his own hang limply at his side.

Rain starts to come down all around you, large drops hitting your skin and soaking the cotton of your shirt. You let yourself meet his eyes, they're sad in a way you’ve never seen before. The green turned dull and lifeless. It looks wrong on him.

When you can’t stand the hurt look on his face any longer, you leave. Walking away deeper into the rain, small puddles splashing up around your shoes with every step. You hope Patrick doesn’t follow you, that he lets you go. You’re doing him a favor by making the choice for him, it’s easier this way.

“You know, I think I really loved you.” He calls from behind you as the rain really starts to pick up. His voice almost gets swallowed by the thunder, you wish it would have. 

Against your better judgment, you look back. Patrick hasn't moved, still standing in the middle of the parking lot. The rain is making his hair stick to his forehead, starting to seep into the denim of his jeans to darken the gray. 

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, voice tiny and pathetic. Patrick probably couldn’t even hear you over the wind whipping through the air. He stares back at you, there's too much distance for you to see the look on his face. You turn on your heels and keep walking.

It’s nostalgia in its sickest form, the dark familiarity of the situation washing over you with the rain as you walk away from Patrick again. Ignoring every call of your name and desperate pleas for you to come back is new, you can’t tell if it hurts more or less than the silence of last time.

You wrap your arms around yourself, tears mixing with the trails of rain running down your cheeks. It’ll make it easier to convince yourself later on that you weren’t really crying, that it was just the rain. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and this will all be behind you. Patrick will be fine, he doesn’t really love you. In a few weeks he’ll go to the challenger and forget all about you. 

You hear your mothers voice ring out in the back of your head as you walk.

"It's for the best, my love. Dependence is weakness."

You hope to God that she's right.

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[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

SOME TYPE OF SKIN (1).

PAIRING — billy russo x reporter f!reader

CONTENTS — ficlet; fluff; tiny bit of angst if you squint really, really hard; a dash of pining; references to some canon-typical violence; some very mild innuendo.

SUMMARY — after a harrowing experience, billy surprisingly takes the matter of your personal safety into his very own hands.

WORD COUNT — 1.6k

NOTES — so I decided to write something short and fun for @elixirfromthestars’s cinema writing challenge and honestly, i’m not 100% satisfied with this (when am i ever tho?) but also trying not to overthink this too much. please excuse me while I continue to scream into the void about this stupidly beautiful man. I apologize in advance for the person I have been and am going to be for the next few weeks; ben barnes has such a firm grip on my fucking throat lmao 🤭

✩ masterlist ✩ library blog

When he asked you to meet him here at Anvil headquarters so you could finally interview him for that story in the Bulletin, this isn’t exactly what you were expecting. 

Instead of being seated in his second floor office overlooking the main part of the warehouse, you’re standing in the basement dressed in your crisp white blouse, hastily pressed pencil skirt, and low heels. You toy with the press pass hanging around your neck, unsure what to do with your hands. 

Your interview subject, however, seems quite relaxed save for the slight wrinkle between his dark brows as he very deliberately lays out several objects on a table in the middle of the room. He’s switched out his usual sharp business attire for a green pullover that looks soft to the touch, dark cargo pants, and a pair of combat boots. 

It takes you a few seconds to find your voice, because does he have to recline against the damn thing like that? He looks tall and lean, but damn it when he’s like this, showing off the corded muscles in his arms and shoulders, you cannot doubt that he’s an ex-Marine. 

“Russo?” 

“Hm?” He hums distractedly. 

“Are those knives?” 

Well, that gets his attention. He lifts his head and finally makes direct eye contact, and a shiver shoots down your spine. 

“Yeah, they are,” he confirms casually, as if you’ve just asked him if the sky is blue. He leans his hands on the table, shamelessly giving you a slow and careful once over before he frowns a little. “You’re gonna have to change.” 

“I feel compelled to tell you Karen knows I’m here,” you say quickly, raising an inquisitive eyebrow when he just chuckles like you’ve said something adorably funny. “Also, I thought we were doing an interview?” 

Billy Russo stares expectantly at you for a few seconds, lips slowly turning upward into a mysterious smile that you know has captured hearts all over the city. 

But you won’t fall for that, will you? 

Nope. Not in the slightest. 

“Nah, not yet anyway. Sorry, darlin’.” 

Ignore that! You scream mentally, but your brain does not cooperate. “Then what am I doing here, Lieutenant?” 

Whoops. His head snaps up again, his already sunless eyes getting darker by the second. Without breaking the intense eye contact, he just gestures around the room as though it’s oh so obvious. 

“Self-defence training.” 

“And why would I need—ugh, I don’t have time for this, Billy.” You heave a sigh, dropping all pretenses now, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. 

You’ve always known that Billy marches to the beat of his own drum, ever since the two of you met when Karen introduced you a few months ago while you were researching for a story about army veterans—a friend of a friend’s, she’d said, but never elaborated—but this seems excessive. 

“You wouldn’t have come if I were honest,” he says, his smile falling away in an instant, the glint of amusement in his eyes disappearing like smoke in the wind. “I don’t need to remind you of the… unpleasantness that happened last week.” 

“And yet here we are,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m fine.” 

“You were attacked,” Billy corrects, walking around the table to perch himself on the edge closest to you. You roll your eyes; as if you’ve forgotten. Getting ambushed in front of your apartment by two masked assailants isn’t exactly an easy thing to forget. 

“Everything worked out, didn’t it?” You uncross your arms and saunter over to the table, ignoring the heavy weight of his gaze on you. And it really had! 

Just as one of your would-be kidnappers, whatever it was they wanted, hit you in the face in retaliation for you kicking him in the shins and biting the other on the arm, your neighbour had come out of the apartment building just in time and began screaming bloody murder. They had no choice but to drop you and run, leaving you dishevelled and bruised, but otherwise fine, on the sidewalk. 

“They could come back,” Billy points out, since they obviously didn’t get what they’d come for, the same thing the police had said when they arrived just minutes later. You didn’t think much of it, though. Karen had had her fair share of run-ins with such undesirables, and she assured that this just meant you were pushing precisely the right buttons as a reporter. 

Even so, she still urged you to call Billy for protection.

You wonder if he gets all of his clients to undergo this self-defence training, or if he always personally offers to instruct them.

“Can’t guarantee it won’t happen again,” Billy doesn’t seem to want to take no for an answer. The two of you stare for a moment, engaging in a silent battle of wits that you, of course, end up losing when you’re the first to look away. He nods at the various knives and daggers strewn across the table. “C’mon, pick one and we’ll start small.” 

“Small?” You squeak as you eye the particularly ornate handle on one of the knives that honestly looks more like a short sword. 

“Aw, don’t be scared,” Billy chuckles and pats you on the shoulder, watching with those hawkish eyes of his as you consider your options. “This is a safe space.” 

Is it though? You wonder as you pick up a small dagger closest to you. “Wouldn’t guns make more sense since I’m not exactly trained in hand to hand combat?” 

“I am training you. And you’re not ready for guns yet,” Billy grins when you unsheathe the dagger, eyes widening just a fraction at the way the blade glints in the light. “‘Sides, picturin’ you with a knife is way hotter. You gonna wear a thigh holster?” 

You flick the tip of the blade in his direction, “Watch it, Russo. I’m armed.” 

But he just laughs, a sound that comes with a dangerous surge of pride in your chest, “That’s not how you hold a dagger.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you bristle, cheeks warming and trying not to watch, enraptured, as he stands up to his full height, his boots thumping heavily on the concrete. 

“Careful,” he warns, but he sounds more amused than offended as he closes the distance between you in just a few small strides. “You’d better play nice if you still want that interview.” 

But there’s nothing professional about the way he steps behind you, the way his arms pull you back against his chest, or the way his hand lands on yours to adjust your grip on the dagger’s handle. 

“Not all of us can be badass ex-Marines, can we?” It takes everything you have not to stammer, not to gulp nervously when you feel the calloused ridge of his trigger finger caressing the same spot on your own hand. 

“Yeah, well, I believe in you,” you can hear the smirk in his voice as his free hand comes down to rest on your hip, warm and heavy as it guides you slowly into a proper stance. “Bend your knees a little.” 

“Pretty sure I hired you so I wouldn’t have to take matters into my own hands like this,” you huff in annoyance, grumbling but following his instructions anyway, feeling a bit silly doing this in your work clothes. He never did give you a chance to change. 

“Please, you couldn’t afford me,” Billy murmurs so low against your ear that it sends a shiver down the side of your neck, all the way to a certain part of your anatomy you refuse to acknowledge at the moment, his beard slightly rough against your cheek. Is he doing this on purpose? “Also, did you technically hire me if I’m doing this pro bono?”

“Yeah, and on that note,” you grow bold when he squeezes your hip in encouragement, leaning back against him with your arm extended, your hands joined together, the tip of the dagger’s blade angled upward at an imaginary assailant. “Why are you? The Billy Russo I know never works for free.” 

You see, you know precisely the kind of man Billy is. He would never invest this kind of time and energy into something like this, not unless he had something to gain from it—

Even without looking back, you feel his dark obsidian gaze on the still healing bruise that’s formed on the side of your face. His fingers tighten around yours, there’s a slight hitch in his breath you can feel with his chest pressed to your back, and the hand on your hip slides forward and around to your other side in an almost embrace. Protective, possessive, and maybe even a little petrified.

—or unless he had some type of skin in the game. 

And suddenly, despite the way you’re dressed and your hilarious lack of experience, you start to feel pretty invincible. You allow yourself a proud grin, squaring your shoulders so you stand a little taller in his arms.

They fall instantly, however, when Billy steps away and moves to stand directly in front of you. You feel immensely colder at the loss of proximity. 

“Alright, let’s see what you got,” he’s smirking again, all that vulnerability and whatever warmth you sensed in his body language once again hidden away behind a layer of arrogance and swagger. He beckons you with a come here gesture of his hand. 

“What?” You blink. 

“I’ve just broken into your apartment,” he states matter-of factly, “what do you do?” He coaxes you again with another wave.

“But wait!” You almost shriek, your bout of confidence once again faltering. “You didn’t even teach me anything yet!” 

“I need to see where you’re at first before I can teach you, darlin’,” he’s still smirking, half condescending and half amused, and your hands twitch to fling the knife at his stupid head.

“I’m at nowhere! I’ve got nothing! And you don’t even have a weapon, I could slice your damn face off!” Or worse, scar it. 

Billy laughs again, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners. “Oh, sweetheart, you can certainly try.” 

to be continued…

PART 2 »

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[gldexpnce]

Honestly i really loved your writings and i would like to requests a yandere giorno scenario with a s/o who is a painter and acts quite cold and unbothered towards giorno once he kidnaps her. But one day she decides to ask him for some oil paint supplies to pass the time and ends up painting a portrait of giorno since he was the only good reference to paint. How would he react to the sudden gesture? (I think it would be quite a good scenario since valentines day just passed lmao)

a/n: hello my dear :3, thank you for the request!! i love the idea of giorno with a colder s/o, since she is harder to read he's more willing to cling to whatever is revealed of her interest!! i'm so sorry for the late update but i hope you enjoy this piece! i was literally listening to laufey songs when i was writing this.

tw: this will contain mentions of kidnapping and as always, yandere content ! goodies under the cut :3

image by アリナ on pixiv

GIORNO GIOVANNA

giorno expected you to put up a fight when he informed you that you would not be leaving his villa. when you didn't, it stunned him. that still didn't make the coldness of your gaze sting any less than a slap to his face.

despite the setback, he made sure you had everything you needed inside his home. he had a dedicated room where you had your paints and a beautiful view of the expansive gardens. it was there that you had your solace.

you'd spend hours in that room, away from him. you only really came out to eat, but you dedicated all of your time to art. he respected your skills, after all, that is how the both of you met.

he'd been a lover of the arts for quite some time, and when he heard of an aspiring artist hosting a gallery exhibit, he wanted to see it for himself. when he entered that gallery, he was enraptured with the way you painted. even as something as simple as a still life portrait, or paintings of outside scenery, you captured the life of it. most paintings he found, lacked the vibrancy of life, oh but you. dear you. you captured it all.

perhaps that is why he was struck by the idea of you. being able to capture life so accurately, you certainly must be full of the vibrancy you so easily painted.

again, he was surprised. you weren't what he imagined at all. that was the beauty of you. you never failed to surprise him.

he was able to coerce you into his villa with the promise of a stable place to live. it is hard for artists to make a living nowadays, so you'd be remiss to deny such a generous offer from a rich benefactor, even if you had doubts about his intentions

it had been several months since that fateful day and unexpectedly, you graced him with your presence, willingly. you stepped into his office and if he squinted, he could sense the trepidation in your words.

"signore giovanna, i'd like to request some oil paints", you briskly turned around and left.

this is new. even if he did want to gently remind you to call him giorno, he didn't have the heart to scold you, after all, this is a first!

you'd normally never make requests. if giorno noticed your paints, watercolor or medium otherwise, were running low, you'd find a new set unopened by morning. this is your first request and he is determined to only give you the best of oil paints. he even personally gave them to you, he had the wrapping themed for valentines day since you had asked for it a hairsbreadth away from the holiday. he's nothing if not a romantic.

in another unexpected surprise, you asked him to come with you to your art room. you asked him to sit down on the chaise below the window. he wonders what exactly you had planned. all his questions are answered though as you sit behind your easel and begin to paint. he waited for you patiently, holding his pose as you sketched him out and then painted.

he studied your collections intensively throughout your permanent stay. he never once saw a portrait of a person or a self-portrait for that matter. there's a small stutter of heartbeat when he realized that he is your first portrait.

"i'm finished", you get up and back up a step to look at your work. giorno got up as well, standing beside you.

there was that stuttering heartbeat. he feels the heat rush up his cheeks. you captured him beautifully. from the look in his eyes to the curls of his blonde hair, every detail is meticulous. he was almost taken aback by the beauty of it.

he didn't outright ask you, but you answered him anyway, "i wanted to paint you since you were the best subject for it"

out of the corner of his eye, he swore he could see the faintest smile on your lips and the beautifully fond look in your eyes.

this is a step, small to you but a leap for him. your walls are cracking chip by chip of his hammer and he is determined to see it crumble.