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iamactuallysocute · 29 days ago

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SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 3

Well, shit happens. You’re not out yet, but you want to be, you want to leave… do you? Part 4 here

cw: mature topics, implied female reader and she/her pronouns used, cursing, Stockholm Syndrome, the usual

AN: SORRY IF I DIDNT TAG U!! I completely forgot about the 50 ppl/post, so so so sorry if I said I’ll tag and didn’t, or you simply just didn’t fit in. I’m like absolutely so fucking sorry plz forgive me :((

Back then, you were feral in the best way, mean in your own sweet way.

Once, you snapped a plate in half just because Abby took a bite off your sandwich.

“Didn’t know it was yours.” he said innocently, bread still in his mouth.

“It had a FUCKING toothpick flag with my name on it.”

“Ohh.” His eyes widened. “That’s what that was?”

And when he reached to take the other half, you smacked his hand so hard the spoon you were holding broke.

Mystery choked on whatever soul-smoothie he was drinking. Jinu didn’t even look up from his book. Baby said, under his breath, “Ten bucks she bites him.”

And then you did.

You bit him.

You actually bit him on the shoulder.

That happened, yeah. Back when you were new to this whole thing.

Another time, you were cornered. Again. This time by Romance, who’d just “accidentally” caught you trying to sneak a text to Huntrix from the balcony with a signal booster you’d constructed out of a fucking spoon and a piece of the TV.

“You really are clever.” he murmured, head tilting, grinning ear to ear the fucker.

“I really will stab you.” you replied, hand curled so tight around the spoon it left a dent in your palm.

Romance leaned closer, as if the threat had been foreplay.

“BACK OFF, YOU ABSOLUTE MOTHERFUCKING ASS!”

Your voice had echoed. Bounced off the marble. Set Baby laughing from the hallway. Even Mystery flinched, staring at you from across the room.

But the best part?

Abby. That giant musclehead. He squeaked. Squeaked like a squeaky toy and actually leapt into Jinu’s arms, the demon leader catching him effortlessly with an expression like this again. Like Scooby into fucking Shaggy’s.

You stopped shouting.

Stared.

Jinu held Abby bridal-style.

Romance shrugged, one brow raised. “You scared him.”

You didn’t laugh, but god, you wanted to. You just turned and walked off, muttering, “Pussies.”

Another time, you were tied to a chair.

Mystery was crouched in front of you. Studying. Not speaking. That kind of silence that made you sweat even though the room was cold.

“You gonna say something, Chewbacca?” you muttered.

He bared his teeth.

“Oh scary.” you mocked. “Do it. Bite me. See what happens.”

He lunged. Fast. Too fast. Grabbed your arm and sniffed at it, tongue flicking the skin.

So you bit him first.

His arm. Hard.

Mystery yanked back, blinking at you like damn. You looked him dead in the eyes(at least where you assumed they were), and said, “Freak.”

He just licked the bite mark.

Abby: “Yeah okay that’s enough. Put her down, Cujo.”

(Guys Abby saw the Cujo movie, god forbid he reads an actual book. Just clarifying :P)

You’d also asked Jinu for two things: conditioner and your favorite body wash. That was it. Easy. Reasonable. Bare minimum.

You walked into the bathroom that day, freshly restocked cabinet, heart fluttering with the idea of a semi-normal shower—

Strawberry Vanilla.

You stared.

Froze.

“STRAWBERRY. VANILLA?!” You shouted so loud it cracked into a squeal. “Who the fuck thinks I smell like that?”

The entire house heard you.

Abby (from the hall): “I thought it smelled nice.”

You stormed out, half-wet, towel wrapped, bottle in hand. You slammed it onto the counter. “Fix. It.”

You’re not that big of an asshole, I promise. If one of the girls or Bobby did this, you’d give them a little kiss on the forehead and say that this was better anyway. But you really did deserve at least this after what the Saja Boys had done to you.

Romance smirked. “It’s very you, though. Soft. Sweet. Lickable.”

You threw it at him. Dead-on hit. Right in the chest.

He didn’t even flinch. “Thank you for the gift.”

At one point, you fought Baby over cereal.

You reached for the last box. So did he.

You stared at each other.

“You don’t even eat, do you?” you snapped.

He raised an eyebrow. Took the box. Walked off.

You tackled him. On instinct. He dragged you across the kitchen. You screamed. Romance howled in laughter from the couch.

Baby was the quietest. And somehow the most infuriating. He never raised his voice, never bothered to engage in your tantrums, but god, did he know how to push your buttons.

Like the time he stole your only pair of clean underwear and used it as a flag on a makeshift fort he made out of couch cushions.

You kicked him right in the jaw. Not even a scream—just BAM.

He laughed. From the floor. Didn’t say a word. Just laid there, one eye squinting at you.

You’d never felt more defeated by a demon in your life.

You did more things too.

Listen. You were trying to explain to them that stealing someone wasn’t ethical. And Jinu had the audacity to look you dead in the eye and say: “Calm down.”

So you picked up the nearest book—some ancient demon text, probably worth thousands—and threw it at his head.

He caught it.

Didn’t flinch.

“Okay.” he said. “Let’s try this again.”

You’d never hated someone so much while also kind of respecting them.

Once Romance walked in on you changing.

He said it was an accident.

Bull. Shit.

You were mid-change, shirt half on, bra off, and he walked in like he was touring a museum.

You screamed. He gasped—visibly excited, not horrified.

Then you launched a slipper so hard it hit him square in the forehead.

“Have you never heard of KNOCKING?!” you screamed.

He blinked. “Oh, sweetie, you didn’t say occupied.”

Cue second slipper.

He caught it.

Blew you a kiss.

You almost passed out from rage.

They liked you like that.

You were this blazing, buzzing lifeform in a house full of centuries-old boredom. You fought them. Screamed at them. Bit them, for fuck’s sake.

But you also laughed. You pouted. You cussed them out and stomped through the house in socks and fury.

They didn’t realize they were falling for you then. Not fully.

But they knew something was happening.

You were making them feel alive again.

Those were the early days.

And they loved you then, too.

Even if they didn’t know that’s what it was.

Now, Romance is standing in the kitchen, leaning half his weight into the counter, and his own damn face staring back at him from the cover of some fan magazine. He’s flipping through it one-handed, sipping from a cup of juice with a neon pink bendy straw.

That straw, has a little heart twist at the top.

He knew you were coming. Heard it. Felt it. Smelled it, which got him a little excited ngl.

You’re halfway to the fridge when you speak. “Is that why you guys always catch me so fast?”

He lifts his eyes from the page. Sees you. Blinks once. Then twice.

That. That right there—that millisecond of stunned silence, where his mouth parts just slightly, and he looks like you hit him with a gentle slap of pure serotonin? That’s the part you clock before anything else. You just asked him a question. Nothing monumental. Not even particularly friendly. But you talked to him, unprompted, and he’s never going to be the same again.

He puts the straw down. Carefully. Like the drink isn’t safe in his hand right now.

“…Sorry, angel. Gonna need you to repeat that.” he says, lazy and smooth, like he didn’t just die and come back.

You open the fridge and don’t look at him when you speak. “Your super senses. Is that why every time I try to escape you guys catch me in like, two minutes?”

There’s a pause. You grab your bottle of water, close the fridge.

When you turn around, he’s smiling. Soft. He shrugs. “A little bit of that. A little bit of instinct. A lot of wanting to chase you.”

“Seriously?”

“Baby, I hear your heartbeat shift the second you think about running. It’s cute.”

“That’s unfair.” you mutter.

He tilts his head. “Awww. You want fair now? In this arrangement?”

You toss the water bottle cap at him. It hits his chest with a pathetic plap. He catches it on the rebound without looking.

He sets the magazine down, finally. His own face smirking back up at him from the page.

“Can I tell you something?” he says, walking closer. “Your voice?”

He’s getting way too close now.

“Mm. You should talk to me more. Or yell. Or whisper. I’m not picky.”

“Romance.” you say, exasperated.

He stops just short of invading your personal space. His body radiates heat, though. His cologne is heavenly. The damn straw is still in his other hand.

“I’d say you’re into me.” he drawls. “But I think you’re still too cute to admit it.”

You stare up at him. Calm. Calm-ish. Mostly tired.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re breathtaking.”

You snort and step around him, heading for the counter. “Do you ever stop?”

He watches you go like it’s a religious experience.

“No.” he replies, still watching. “But if it helps—I do mean it.”

You glance back. That moment of eye contact hits. He actually does look serious, in that boyish way.

It’s infuriating.

It’s charming.

Romance takes a slow sip from his juice again, eyes never leaving you.

He’s a slut for you. Fully, unashamedly. Would bark if you asked. Would crawl if it meant being near you. He doesn’t say that. Not yet. But it’s in every look.

You sit down at the bar stool, finally, arms crossed. “So that heartbeat thing. You can really hear it?”

“Mmhm.”

“So what’s it sound like now?”

“You,” he says softly. “sound flustered.”

You chuck a spoon at him.

He laughs. Loud, open-mouthed, bright. Then slides the straw into his mouth again and winks at you.

And god, you weren’t supposed to be likable.

You were supposed to be a tool, information. Something to be squeezed, drained, used. Never kept.

But somehow… you stayed. And the boys? They stayed with you.

They started to like you.

LIKE like you.

Even worse?

You started to like them back.

Sometimes.

Not always.

(But sometimes.)

Each boy had his own pace, his own rhythm to this falling. And god, they were hopeless about it.

Romance was the first, obviously.

He practically came out the womb with his heart in his dick. But somewhere between groping you during pasta making and nearly passing out at the word thong, something cracked open in him.

He flirted still, endlessly, obscenely, but now, his touches lingered. His compliments turned into confessions masked as jokes. He’d hover too long when you passed, always looking, always watching.

He meant it.

He meant all of it.

Abby, on the other hand, didn’t realize he liked you until he already did. Muscle for brains, sweet in the worst way. The kind of demon who’d pick you up just to hear your little yelp. Who’d lift you off the ground because he liked how your feet dangled.

Once he told Mystery to back off a little—not because he was jealous (though he was), but because you flinched.

That’s weird because he used to laugh at you being scared.

You were small, squirmy, loud, and he liked that about you.

Mystery was different. Quieter. Harder to read.

But he followed you around sometimes. Always right there. Watching. Circling. Once, you turned around and he was just standing behind the couch, staring at you.

When you screamed, he only blinked and said, “Your hair smells good.”

You still don’t know how he snuck into your room that one night and laid on the floor like a dog. Not next to your bed—on the floor. Like your presence alone was enough to settle something beastly in him.

And weirdly? It was.

Baby was a fucking asshole.

No more needed. He laughed at you, made fun of you to the other boys and just didn’t give a fuck in general.

Oh, but he did. He did gaf, but only in his head. In his own little world. You didn’t know. Jinu didn’t know. Mystery didn’t know. Romance definitely had no way of knowing. Even Abby had no idea, though they’re quite close.

Nobody knew of his developing little crush except him and Gwi-Ma.

And Baby wanted to keep it that way.

Jinu, of course, had always been the only one who hadn’t tried to see you naked or use you as a footstool.

But Jinu’s affection was the deepest.

He never called it liking. Never flirted. But he’d watch your face too, not just your ass, khm khm Abby Romance and Baby khm khm. Adjust your blanket if you fell asleep on the couch. His big cat tiger thing followed you like a puppy, choosing your lap over Jinu’s. That said a lot.

Gwi-Ma, always whispering, always pushing around in their heads. Gwi-Ma wanted information. Wanted to twist you into something useful again.

“Softness is a waste.” he’d hiss through their skulls. “She’ll betray you.”

But they didn’t listen.

Not as much anymore.

Especially not when you were sitting on the counter in the morning, rubbing your eyes, hair a mess, and Jinu handed you tea.

Of course, the universe didn’t let you live in peace.

Your misfortunes were daily. Hourly. Unreal.

Once, you tripped on a fucking mug that Mystery had purposefully left sticking out from under the rug just to fuck with you.

He might seem cute because of his lack of talking but he is evil. (Like think about the scene where the girls had to go down on that slide, he smiled too the evil fuck)

You fell, hard, onto Romance’s lap, and instead of helping you up, he sighed and said, “At least buy me dinner first, darling.”

Another time, Baby just straight away fucking tripped you.

Once, Abby told you the front door was unlocked and you booked it, full sprint, only for him to catch you mid-air and giggle about it.

At least the tiger liked you.

You once cried into its fur. You’re pretty sure it purred.

And now, you are in the kitchen, humming softly, bare feet on the tile floor, chopping crisp cucumbers into the glass bowl Jinu had left out for you. Honestly, if there was one person in this goddamn hellhouse who actually listened, it was Jinu. You asked for tomatoes. You asked for spinach. You mentioned craving feta, and he gave you two blocks, one crumbled, one whole.

“Sweetheart.”

You don’t have to turn around, you know Romance’s voice.

“I’m busy.”

“Yeah.” he breathes, eyes laser-locked on your hands slicing up cherry tomatoes. “And dangerous with that knife. Love a woman who could kill me.”

He walks up to you, quiet, but you can feel him.

“What are we making?” he murmurs, leaning too close over your shoulder.

You stab a tomato.

“Salad.”

“Ooooh. Sexy.”

“It’s not for you.”

“What if I told you I’ve been having dreams about you?”

“Wouldn’t care.”

He blinks. “Okay, but they were romantic. Sweet. A picnic under stars. Wine. Kisses. Maybe a little tongue.”

“You licked my cheek last night.”

“Because I missed your mouth.”

You glare.

He clutches the counter like he’s about to faint. “Okay. Alright. I get it. You don’t take me seriously. Nobody does. Poor Romance, too handsome, too charming, too—”

“—horny.”

“—honest!”

You turn back to your salad.

“Romance.”

He blinks. “Yes, my future?”

“Go away.”

You flicked feta at his face.

“OH!” he shouts, catching the crumb with a noise that was absolutely not human. “You want me. I knew it.”

“I want you to leave.”

He’s unbearable. Radiantly idiotic. You can’t stop the snort that escapes you, and unfortunately, he heard it.

“That’s right.” he says, leaning in again, softer now. “You like me.”

“I like the salad.”

“You want a bite of something else.”

You stab another tomato with unnecessary violence.

“Okay.” he says quickly, backing off with hands raised in surrender. “I’ll stop. I’ll stop. I’ll just sit right here… stare at you respectfully… maybe touch myself a little.”

“I don’t care.”

And he sits at the stool next to you, arms folded, chin in hands, watching you build your salad.

And when you hand him a slice of cucumber later, tossed over your shoulder, he catches it between his teeth and whispers, “I knew you loved me.”

You whack him with the spoon.

“I’m so fucking in love with you, it’s disgusting.”

Now it’s later. I mean days later, and the bird with the little hat is absolutely beating your ass at chess.

You’re not even mad about it. It’s kind of an honor, really, to be in a full-length chess match with a bird. You’ve been locked in with him for nearly an hour now, curled up in your spot on the floor in the living room, one knee drawn up and a banana smoothie halfway melted beside you.

You glance at the board again, chewing your straw.

God, he’s good.

He taps his claw—tap tap tap—on your rook. Intimidating. Kind of rude. But you’re used to that energy by now.

“Stop being cocky.” you mumble at him.

The bird cocks his head.

Check.

You sigh. “Fine. You win this round. Want to play again?” you ask the bird, moving your knight back to its start.

The bird lets out a small caw, offended, and flutters its feathers.

“Actually,” comes Jinu’s calm voice. “he’s making room.”

You glance up.

“May I?”

You blink, surprised. “You want to play?”

“I want you to play me.” he clarifies, just a hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “Shoo.” he says to the bird.

The creature gives a sharp, disapproving squawk and hops off the table, landing on the couch with a ruffle of feathers.

You raise a brow at him, curious.

“You’re good.” he says, sitting across from you. “I want to see how you think.”

Not “I want to win.” Not “I want to impress you.”

He just… wants to understand you.

God, how were you supposed to deal with that?

You nod slowly. “Alright. White or black?”

“Ladies first.” he says.

“Okay.” you say, smiling faintly as you reset the pieces. “But I play dirty.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

You take white. He doesn’t even question it.

For a while, it’s quiet. Just the clink of ceramic pieces. The movement of your drinks as you occasionally sip from yours, and he politely declines when you offer him some.

Yes, you did that. You offered him some. Not because you like him, no. You’re just polite. That’s all. I swear. Please believe me.

“You’re calm today.” you murmur eventually.

“I had time to think.” Jinu says, making a move that sets you up for a trap if you’re not careful. “Sometimes quiet is productive.”

“Sometimes quiet is suspicious.” You raise an eyebrow.

He meets your stare. Doesn’t look away. And then, with a small smirk that threatens to ruin you entirely, he says:

“Sometimes quiet is attraction.”

Your hand freezes above your rook.

That was… not what you were expecting. From Abby, sure. From Romance—god, always.

But not Jinu.

“You’re saying you’re—”

“Interested.” he says.

Blunt. Gentlemanly. Warm.

Your pulse stumbles.

You shift in your seat. “Why now?”

“You’re beautiful.” he says first. No hesitation. “But that’s not it.”

You glance away, throat tight.

He makes his move. “I like minds like yours.”

You’re flustered now. Fully. Hot in the cheeks. You counter with your bishop just to do something.

“Romance would’ve tried to kiss me by now.” you say, trying for lightness.

“I’m not Romance.” he replies, eyes never leaving yours.

You believe him. Every word.

When the game ends—he wins, of course, because Jinu is as smart as he is kind—he helps you pack the board up. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t press. Just brushes his fingers lightly over yours once as he passes the rook back.

The touch lingers.

And when he gets up, he says, “Next time, I’ll bring tea. I know you like peppermint.”

Your chest tightens.

You never told him that.

He leaves with a respectful bow of his head.

And somehow, you’re left breathless. From a chess game.

From a gentleman.

(Ignore my ass time skip)

You’re sitting cross-legged in the hallway, sorting through a weird pile of tangled wires and ancient weapon parts they’d dropped in your lap earlier. Nothing major. They did that so you can figure out a way to escape and they can stop you.

“Hey.” Abby says.

“Mm.”

“I’ve been working out.”

“Never would’ve guessed.” you say dryly.

And then, suddenly, there’s a very large, very bare chest directly in front of your face.

Now you look up.

He’s shirtless. Again. His skin gleams like he actually oiled himself for this. Abs carved, arms pumped, veins showing like he just did fifty pushups in the kitchen while whispering your name.

“Wanna feel?”

Your face stays flat. You don’t even blink.

“Come onnnn.” he whines, bending a little, dragging your hand up with his. “Just real quick.”

He places your palm against his stomach—solid as a fucking wall—and flexes. Not once. Like four times in a row. Ripples. Actual ripples. You swear you felt your fingers move from the force.

He wiggles his brows.

“Right? Not even my demon form.”

You don’t pull your hand back, not yet. Instead, you just nod thoughtfully, like you’re evaluating a piece of expensive furniture.

“Cool.” you say finally, as if this is a regular thing that’s just… fine. No big deal. Nice abs. Seen better. Back to work.

You tug your hand back gently, and he lets it go. Then he drops into a crouch beside you, bare chest still glistening, looking over your shoulder at the mess of wires.

“You want help?” he offers, pointing at a connector like he knows what it is. He absolutely does not.

“You’ll electrocute us both.” you reply, not unkindly. You shift to block his hand. “Here, hold this instead.”

You pass him a coil of wire. He holds it with pride. Doesn’t even know what to do with it. But he follows you around now like you’re gravity.

He trails after you into the next room.

“Hey.”

You hum, distracted as you sort through some stuff on the table.

“Touch here?”

He points at his bicep this time. Raised it. Flexed it. Grinned.

You nod, reach out, squeeze once. Return to what you’re doing like it’s no big deal.

And he melts.

Giggles.

You let him have it. You don’t roll your eyes or push him away, not anymore. He’s harmless in that way.

At one point, he’s just following you silently, carrying a basket you didn’t even ask him to, looking so pleased with himself like he’s finally learned to be “helpful.”

“Hey.”

You pause mid-step. Look over your shoulder. He’s holding his own forearm this time, pushing the muscle up like he wants you to test it again.

“Last one, I swear.” he says, blinking innocently. “Promise.”

You sigh through a smile. Walk back. Run your fingers briefly along the curve of his arm, slow, like you’re checking for a pulse. Then you pat it once and move along.

“Still impressive.” you say without turning around.

Behind you, he makes the most pathetic little victorious noise. It’s not even a word. Just this soft, high-pitched “hehhhhh”

You catch him flexing behind your back in the mirror, giving himself a thumbs up.

Now, Baby.

He doesn’t flirt like the others.

Baby flirts by being an asshole. A smug, good-looking little demon who has never said “please” to a woman in his entire damn life.

It’s afternoon. You’re just coming out of your room, down the hall and into the living room where Baby is. Sitting on the arm of the couch. Head tilted back, neck exposed, pale. A lollipop in his mouth. He never chews, never crunches. Always sucks it slow, tauntingly, he knows exactly what image he’s painting.

He doesn’t say hi.

Just shifts his gaze to you, eyes lazy, bored. You make your way past him, his gaze drilling into your back, and just before you reach the kitchen

“Left your door unlocked.” His voice is soft.

“I know.”

A beat. He takes the lollipop out of his mouth with a slick little pop.

“Don’t let me be the one to find that out next time.”

His tone is all implication. You should be annoyed, but it’s Baby. You got used to this.

You sigh. Look over your shoulder.

“You gonna peek?”

He doesn’t answer. Just smiles. Not wide. Not big. Just this tiny, slow-curling smirk that says, “Maybe I already have.”

He’s pissed about it, honestly. That you got under his skin like this. That your laugh lingers. You were supposed to be leverage, a little human assistant with demon-hunting info.

Now you’re his little crush.

He hates that Gwi-Ma still speaks in his head, reminding him he’s not human like you are. Not real. Not worthy. And yet he finds himself around you, the asshole.

He tells himself he’s only watching you for strategy. For weakness. For moments to exploit. HUNTR/X is not quite destroyed yet, mind you.

But then why does it twist in his gut when he hears you laugh at someone else’s joke? Why does he get irritated when Romance sits too close? Why does he hang around?

A shit time skip later, you’re sprawled on the floor in front of the coffee table, trying to untangle a set of cords that were definitely cursed by someone, probably Baby. You’re muttering to yourself. He’s been on the couch behind you for twenty minutes, dozing off, a little lazy eye involved.

“Your hair’s dumb.” he says suddenly.

You pause, blink.

“Thanks, Baby.”

“You should dye it black. You’d look hotter.”

You glance back at him. He’s not even doing anything, as usual. He says it like it’s obvious. Like he’s doing you a favor.

You just raise an eyebrow.

“You think I’m hot?”

“I didn’t say that.”

A beat. Then, like it hurts him:

“You’re okay.”

God, he’s such a brat.

You stand, brushing dust off your hoodie. His eyes do flick to your legs. Fast, but you catch it.

You walk toward the kitchen, and, as expected, he follows. Not close. Just a few steps behind, to be around annoy you.

“Want something?” you ask, opening the fridge.

He shrugs.

You make him a sandwich anyway as you’re done with yours.

And when you hand it to him, he doesn’t say thank you, but you see him looking away before he bites into it.

And under his breath?

“…Good.”

You pretend not to hear it.

He pretends not to care.

For now? He eats your food. Watches you hum at the sink. Imagines—just for a second—what it’d be like to kiss the back of your neck.

(timeskip…yeah.)

It’s evening.

You sit cross-legged, tossing a fabric mouse for Jinu’s massive tiger of a cat.

That cat has paws the size of your face and it’s so hilarious for you for some reason. Big, dumb sweetheart with eyes that follow you. You adore him.

You flick the toy again. He launches.

Footsteps.

You look up, and Mystery, back from god knows where.

But in his hand?

A single flower.

Pink.

Tiny. A little wilted at the edge. The kind fans throw at their feet. A cheap gesture. Something disposable.

Except…

He’s holding it like it’s glass.

He crosses the room with slow, oddly careful steps. Doesn’t say a word. You glance between him and the flower, confused at first—until he stops in front of you. You blink up at him, frozen.

Then he kneels. And places the flower next to you. Right beside your foot.

Not in your hand.

Not in your hair.

Just… there.

Like a cat bringing a kill to your doorstep.

He doesn’t wait for praise. Doesn’t ask how you feel. Just stares, as if checking to see whether you’ll get it.

You do.

Fuck, you do.

Something warm wells in your chest. It’s small. Stupid. It’s just a flower, something he probably picked up on his way back from a meet n greet or wherever the hell these boys disappear to. But the fact that he brought it home—

For you.

It makes something in you ache.

He thought about you.

Of all the things he could’ve done with that flower—crushed it under his foot, thrown it back into the crowd, tossed it at Romance for the joke—he decided to hold onto it. To bring it home. To hand it to you.

“Thank you.” you murmur.

He grunts, stands, walks off.

Just like that.

And tiger, entirely uninterested in this soft moment, chooses that exact second to try to eat the flower.

“No, no—hey!”

You scramble to scoop it up before it’s covered in drool. Mystery glances back from where he’s halfway to the kitchen, eyes following the chaos. And for a split second—

A smile.

You sit back down, cradling the half-crushed flower in your fingers.

God. Your empathy is such a sucker for these boys. Even the quietest of them, the one who growls more than he speaks, who scratches his neck raw when anxious, who once nearly clawed Romance’s face off over a stolen chocolate bar.

He brought you a flower.

And it’s not nothing.

You keep it.

You press it between pages of the book you’ve been reading lately.

Meanwhile, the tiger tries to climb into your lap again. You huff, shifting to make room as he practically crushes your ribs. But you let him. He’s warm.

Yeah, so things started developing like this. You always got hit on but recently you started to get… extra hit on? Well hit on is a sexual term and that’s not all going on, but what I want to say is that they’re trying. The boys are trying and not planning to give you back to HUNTR/X anytime soon.

And… it’s a bit flattering, to be honest.

Aaaanyways, the next day, your feet slap dully against the marble as you drag yourself toward the kitchen, hoodie down to your thighs, no bra, and the expression of a half-dead. You might’ve slept, but it didn’t count.

The living room bleeds into the massive open plan kitchen, and…

“BRO, YOU SLEEP WITH THAT KNIFE UNDER YOUR PILLOW?”

“It’s not a knife, it’s a blade.” Mystery mutters, barely audible, tugging the drawstring on his hoodie.

“Same shit!” Abby barks, stomping across the room barefoot and shirtless, flexing. “What are you, a knight? You got a bedtime sword too?”

Abby’s cackling, slapping Baby on the back so hard the kid nearly chokes on his toast.

Mystery shrugs like they’re boring. You can tell he’s holding back a laugh, though. His mouth keeps twitching.

“DOLLFACE!!”

Arms around your waist.

You’re lifted.

Lifted.

You shriek and nearly fall out of your own body, but Romance is pressing himself to your back. You’re still squinting, trying to locate your soul you’re surprised they didn’t take yet, and now he’s sniffing your hair.

“You smell like heaven, why do you smell like heaven—?”

“Romance.” you groan, wiggling like a worm.

“Don’t wiggle unless you mean it.” he teases, voice dragging slow and syrupy into your ear.

Jinu doesn’t look up, but you can see him smile.

You lean your weight back until Romance groans and finally lets go, dramatic as ever, dragging his feet behind you like you’re breaking his heart.

You ignore him, walking past Mystery, who’s now sitting on one of the island stools, twirling a fork.

And because you’re awake now, you smile softly, real sweet, and say “Don’t let them bully you, by the way.”

That hush is instant.

Romance pauses mid-whine.

Baby raises an eyebrow.

Mystery looks up.

Abby’s face just looks fucking ridiculous but you don’t see that.

You look straight at Mystery, walking backward now, hands curled around a mug. “You were nice to me. With that flower.”

“Flower?” Abby blurts, straightening. “What flower?”

You sip your coffee with a tiny hum. “Other day. He gave one to me. Didn’t say much, but it was sweet.”

Mystery’s eyes flick toward the ceiling, like he’s praying to be smote where he sits.

And yeah.

Yeah, they’re all a little jealous.

The other three look at him like he just invented kindness.

Romance is having a full meltdown. He kicks at the island counter. Whines. “I gave you my soul and you give him praise?! He brought one ugly-ass flower—”

“It was pink.” you say.

“Fucking peasant flower!!”

He flings himself into a stool, arms crossed, leg bouncing furiously like a brat not invited to a birthday party. You press your lips together, trying so hard not to laugh. You can feel Jinu watching from the kitchen, calm and observant as always. He likes this.

(Geeked vs locked in)

You glance at Mystery.

He doesn’t say anything, but he’s smiling. Just the smallest hint of it.

You’re such an angel.

They’ve gone from kidnappers to roommates to… something worse.

Because now they all want you.

Jinu made it clear.

Crystal.

Over the chessboard and you’re still quite not over it.

He doesn’t waste energy playing coy. No winks. No crude jokes. He just looks at you like you’re the last star in a dead sky and nods when you speak and listens when you ramble and always—always—makes sure you have what you need. Tea when you’re cold. Quiet when you’re tired. Time when you’re overwhelmed.

But behind that gentleman act is intent. Hot, slow, burning intent.

He wants you. No questions. No confusion.

You see it in how he lets the others act like clowns while he waits. Patient. Focused.

Jinu is playing the long game.

He’d never pressure you. He’d never ask for more.

But he wants. God, he wants.

Romance, on the other hand, is hopeless, the fucker.

This man is suffering. Actually getting progressively worse before your eyes.

He tries every second. Every breath. Every glance. From the second you step into a room, he’s on you, with compliments, with whines, with declarations of undying lust.

He’s getting desperate, too.

The more you don’t kiss him, the more he stumbles over his words. He steals Abby’s cookies just to “romantically” offer them to you. Wears low-cut shirts and sprays on three pounds of cologne and leans against counters.

It’d be tragic if it wasn’t so funny.

You’re the first person he hasn’t gotten in one night.

He hasn’t known a crush like this in centuries.

He hasn’t known rejection like this ever.

He’s never known yearning like this.

And Abby. Sweet Abby.

He’s such a slut about it too. He’ll do fifteen pushups near you for no reason. Make you feel him up like I explained earlier. Carry three chairs at once and casually glance at you, waiting for a compliment.

You give him just enough.

Just enough to keep him glowing, to let him feel strong and wanted. You never mock him, never brush him off, and that kindness wraps around his poor demon heart.

He’d die for you. Actually die.

He probably already has, emotionally.

But he’s still an idiot.

Every time you touch his bicep, he smiles so wide. Every time you say “Thanks, Abs.” he goes crazy and kinda cums in his pants on the spot. He waits for your approval. He lives for it.

And the rejection? The casual way you tell him you’re busy? The calm “That’s nice, Abby.” when he deadlifts the couch?

He doesn’t even know what to do with it.

He flexes more. Tries harder. Starts randomly fixing things. Carries you to the other side of the house.

He thinks about crying sometimes. Real tears. Muscular ones.

He likes you so bad it hurts his bones.

Mystery doesn’t say much, but god, he’s trying.

You see it every time he sits just a little closer than yesterday. Every time he watches your hands while you speak. Every time he follows you into the kitchen.

He gave you a flower. That says it all.

He likes you. Probably more than he knows how to name. Probably more than he’s been allowed to like anything in a long, long time. He doesn’t touch you unless you touch him first. He doesn’t stare unless you stare first. But once you do? He locks in.

Baby is a dick.

An asshole. Through and through.

He laughs when the others get scolded. Snorts when you trip over your words. Rolls his eyes when you’re being too nice.

But the second someone flirts too hard with you? He stiffens. Bristles. Frowns. And when you look away? He glares.

He’s the kind of guy who’d pull your ponytail as a kid and then fight anyone else who touched it.

He talks the most shit.

But he likes you. Hates it. But likes you anyway.

And inside?

Gwi-Ma is roaring with laughter.

You don’t know that a demon overlord haunts them with every blush and boner and soft gaze you don’t even mean to give.

You’re their first love in centuries.

And you’re probably gonna eat cereal and tell them they left the fridge open.

It’s so unfair.

And you’re so, so valid.

They deadass kidnapped you, you’re in the right!! You’d be in the right for kicking them in the balls but… but you don’t do that. Maybe that’s why they like you so much.

They’ve lived for centuries. Hundreds of years. They’ve fought, tortured, burned, lured, commanded. They were gods to some people.

And now Romance can barely see straight. He lays awake at night, shirtless and sweating, imagining you brushing his hair back and saying things like “I’m glad I met you.” and stares at the ceiling like a teenager.

He cannot believe you’re rejecting him. Him. And it’s not even malicious. You’re not cruel. You just… don’t give in. You like him, kinda. You smile. But you don’t fall. And god, that’s what kills him the most. That even when you’re being soft, you’re still not his.

Jinu’s pride is intact, barely. He doesn’t beg. Doesn’t make a scene. He has dignity.

You’re… you’re so full of odd little joys. SUP boarding and books and hot sauce on popcorn. He likes hearing you talk.

And he never likes anyone.

He tells himself it’s enough to watch you grow comfortable here. That your happiness is enough. But still. The thought of you sleeping next to someone else—he swallows it. Every time.

Abby is down so bad it’s embarrassing.

The other day you called his arms “strong looking.” Just looking. Not even saying they are. And he almost dropped a weight on his foot from the joy.

He’s never been good with subtlety. Or pacing. Or restraint.

So he follows you around like a puppy. Flexes. Smiles. Lifts things. And then you just say, “Nice.” and go back to reading or doing your normal human things, and he’s left there, muscles and all, with a little crushed heart the size of a dumbbell.

He just wants you to like him.

He knows he was part of kidnapping you.

He knows that’s, uh, bad.

But you being kind to him? Genuinely kind? It makes him ache in places he didn’t even know he had.

Mystery hasn’t felt in so long. But he knows you’re… different. Important. He knows the others want you. And he wants to want less.

But… oh, how much he likes you.

Baby is the worst.

He doesn’t know what to do with you, and you ruin everything.

He wants to slam a wall. Or a door. Or maybe you against a door. But then you say, “Hey, Baby.” all soft, like it’s just another name, and he just… shuts up, no matter how big of a brat he is.

They’ve lived long enough to forget how the beginning feels. Four hundred years. Some more, some less. All of them once human, then not.

They are not okay.

Not a single one of them.

They are demon boys with wicked strength and terrifying power and not a clue how to survive the fact that they’re all in love with a human girl who lives with them because they forced her to.

And you’re rejecting them.

You’re sweet about it. Warm. Thoughtful. Empathetic, which almost makes it worse. You smile at Romance’s flirting and then keep walking. You praise Abby’s arms and then turn back to your book. You listen to Jinu’s calm voice and blink all slow and grateful and then—god, why do you have to do that—and still don’t kiss him.

You don’t mean to tease. That’s the tragedy. You just are.

They’re like boys again.

Real boys. Awkward. Confused. Heartburn and everything. Abby’s trying to figure out what else he can do with his body to impress you, because he has no other tool. Romance is re-writing the same love letter and never giving it to you. Jinu’s building you a bookshelf and pretending it’s just “because you needed one” and Baby’s picking at you for pronouncing this and that wrong just because it means he can hear your voice longer when you argue. Mystery’s thinking about your hands again. He doesn’t know why. He just is. He likes your hand.

They did lock you up. They did kidnap you. They’re the bad guys. They know this. They play around and joke and flirt and build routines with you and pretend it’s fine, but they know.

They know you didn’t choose them.

They know you might never.

And they don’t even blame you for it.

Meanwhile, Gwi-Ma is living his best life.

He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that your rejection makes his hauntings spicier. He could torture the boys so they don’t like you, but the weaker the boys are, the bigger control Gwi-Ma has over them. You’re useful, in this way.

For an example, telling Romance “She said she liked your shirt. Pathetic. She meant the color, not you.” or to Jinu: “The bookshelf is nice. She’ll put her romance novels there and still not touch your dick. Move on.”

Well, he’s not always joking it away. Most of the time he rubs it under their noses that they’re pathetic and failures and whatnot. Gwi-Ma pokes every bruise. Presses every soft spot. And still, they suffer in silence.

And all this leads to…

Backstage. A cooler of sugary drinks no one wants, and five ancient demons in skin-tight pants pretending to be idols.

Romance has one boot on the makeup table and is picking glitter off his sleeve with lazy disinterest. Abby’s chewing on something. Baby’s on his phone. Jinu’s fixing a seam on his jacket with tiny, perfect stitches. Mystery’s sitting on the floor, looking like he’s about to bite someone, which is normal. No one’s really talking.

Until Romance does. “What if we let her go?”

The words hang in the air. Burn in the silence. Nobody breathes.

Baby slowly turns to Romance and mutters, “You hit your head or something?”

Because that’s not a question they ask. That’s not even an idea they entertain.

Let you go?

“No.” Jinu says. Not angry. Not loud. But final. Like mom turning something down.

Abby nearly chokes on his food. He waves a hand, then his whole arm, then his entire torso like he’s trying to physically ward the words off. “No, no. Take it back. No one heard it.”

Mystery growls. Actually growls. Low and feral. Eyes glowing a little.

Baby doesn’t even look up from his phone but scoffs. “Romance is having a stroke. Ignore him.”

Not many words like this he remembers from his looooong long time living, but he really likes this word, for some reason. Stroke.

But Romance is serious. Or half-serious. That’s the worst part. You can always tell with him when something hits a nerve. His voice might come out beautiful, but sometimes, like now, you can just tell by the tone.

He shrugs, leaning back against the table. “Just saying.” he mumbles, chewing the inside of his cheek. “It’s not like she wants to be here.”

Yeah, no shit.

She doesn’t.

You don’t.

You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t ask to be kidnapped, or dragged into their living room, or become someone’s angel just by being decent. You were helping the girls, and now you’re cutting fruit in someone else’s kitchen and being flirted with by demon boys with gorgeous faces and damaged hearts.

Of course you don’t want this.

But they do.

God, they do.

Not the cage part. Not the chains. That was survival. Panic. Guilt still clings to it like dust. But you? They want you. Your laugh. Your sighs. The way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed. Your stupid, wonderful lectures about “proper communication” and your goddamn warmth. Your worth.

So when Romance says it, when he dares voice the thing they don’t want to think about—

They panic.

Because it’s not a question of right and wrong.

Not for them. Not anymore.

It’s a question of loss.

Letting you go would mean living in the silence again. No footsteps down the hall. No spoon tapping against the pot while you cook. No sarcasm from anyone who’s not them, no annoyed eye rolls, no scent of your shampoo clinging to their clothes after they steal your towel off the rack again.

It would mean the house is a house again, not a home.

It would mean—fuck—it would mean being alone again.

And none of them want to go back to that.

So they shut it down. Instinctively. Immediately. Loudly. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s unthinkable.

Because you’re going to like them eventually.

You will.

They don’t say it, but they believe it.

They have to. It’s the only thing keeping them upright.

So they say no. Again and again.

“No, dude.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“She’s not going anywhere.”

They all say it in their own voices, their own rhythms, their own ways of desperate.

Romance doesn’t argue. Not really. He leans his head back against the mirror, looks up at the lights, and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t push it again.

Because he doesn’t want to let you go either.

Not really.

And when the some staff member calls them in, when they’re lining up in sequence and fixing their microphones and checking their in-ears, they’re still thinking about you. All of them.

In different ways.

In different versions of forever.

In ways they don’t dare speak aloud.

And somewhere inside, deeper than they can say, they’re hoping. Hoping you’ll choose them.

Hoping you’ll stay.

Even if they never say the words.

(ashamed of my time skips)

“BABYYYYY WE’RE HOME.” Romance shouts. You’re the first thing he sees. His grin nearly splits his face. They just came home.

“Guess who’s BACK with the TITS OUT!” Abby’s shout follows, just as his shirt hits the floor somewhere by the entryway. Why was it off already? No one knows.

You’re in the sunken living room, tucked into a thick throw blanket, curled up against Jinu’s massive tiger cat.

You lift a hand, a lazy wave. “Hi.”

Jinu is quieter when he comes in. Doesn’t even say anything at first just walks into the room, and sets a bag on the table next to where you’re laying.

“What’s that?” you ask, your voice half-caught in the fur of the beast beside you.

“Stuff I saw. Thought you’d like it.”

You blink.

He’s gone before you even get to answer, the bird following him with a weird sort of offended flapping. It squawks once like it’s scolding him for not letting it deliver the gift itself.

Just as you’re about to sit up, Baby walks by. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs your hair as he passes, fingers slipping through the strands at the end. Touching you when he wants to but refusing to be soft about it.

Asshole.

Your “Ow” is mostly just for show. He snorts without looking back and disappears into the hallway.

“Hi.” Mystery says and oh your god it’s progress.

“Hi.” You look up at him, and just like that, he’s gone too.

And that’s when Romance and Abby both collapse down on either side of you like magnets pulled in too fast. The tiger cat lets out a long, huffing breath when Abby’s thigh brushes against its side—and then the beast melts into him. Practically rolling.

“Awwww, c’mere, big guy.” Abby croons, instantly elbow-deep in thick fur, cooing and petting and making baby noises that no one should hear come from a man that buff. “You missed Daddy, huh?”

“You’re the worst.” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it. Not when he’s scratching behind the cat’s ears and the thing looks like it’s going to drool.

Romance sighs, and leans in until you feel his breath against your neck. “You cuddled up all pretty without us?”

You glance sideways at him. His lashes are too long. His face too symmetrical. The pout is real, exaggerated, stupid. “Get your own cat.” you say flatly.

“Why, when you’re right here?” he replies instantly. “You warm, you purr—”

“Romance.”

“Fine, fine.” But his shoulder brushes yours and doesn’t leave. He slouches a little so his thigh presses against yours. A beat later, he whispers, “You smell really good.” like he’s proud of himself for holding it in this long.

Abby’s still fawning over the cat, rubbing its belly with both hands like a caveman making fire. The tiger groans happily in response.

You roll your eyes and turn your attention to the bag Jinu left. Unfold it slowly.

Inside, a new journal. A set of colored gel pens. A small box of your favorite tea. Lip balm you mentioned once in passing when your lips were dry. And a soft hair tie, black velvet, probably chosen just because it looked nice against your hair.

You stare at it for a long moment.

Hm.

No one says a thing.

You quietly press the back of your hand to your eye and pretend it’s because something got in it.

And when you look up, Romance is watching you. Not joking, not smirking. Just watching.

He doesn’t say anything either.

It feels like something’s shifting.

Not loud. Not fast.

Just… growing.

This weird, stitched-together thing between you and five demons who haven’t known softness in centuries. Who don’t know how to handle it now that it’s here. Who cling to you, some of them physically, some of them just mentally.

Abby has both hands sunk into the fluff, cooing at the beast like a baby.

You can feel Romance shaking with laughter, the fucker. He’s not taking any of this seriously—he never does. None of them really do, but Romance especially lives to push, tease, flirt, inch closer and closer to the line without ever fully crossing it.

It would be easier to write him off if he didn’t mean it, if his warmth was fake. But the longer you stayed here, the more you could tell it wasn’t.

Romance didn’t just flirt because it was fun and because he really really liked you.

He flirted because it distracted him. From the voice in his head. From the pressure in his chest. From the way Gwi-Ma’s claws still tugged at the edges of his mind even here, in this safe, stupid apartment. You’d seen the way his expression broke when he thought no one was looking, how the shine dulled in his eyes when he stared at nothing for too long.

Beautiful, yes. But breakable.

Abby loved the spotlight, loved touching people, he enjoyed a lot of things.

But the guy was always moving. Always laughing. Always doing.

Never still.

Because when Abby stopped?

When he was quiet?

That’s when it caught up to him. Gwi-Ma. The memories. The pressure. The guilt. The voices that reminded him of what he used to be and how far he’d fallen. The blood still under his fingernails. The centuries of doing shit no one would forgive—not even himself.

So he cooed at cats. He flexed his muscles. He grabbed your hand and made you touch his abs.

He needed to be loved. Even if it was just for five minutes.

“I wrote you a song.” Romance says, shirt open—why? Why is his shirt open?—and one knee bent.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Oh my god—”

“I’m singing it now.”

“Romance, no.”

He opens his mouth anyway, so before he can croon a single note, you slap your palm over his mouth.

“Mmmpf.” he mumbles beneath it, eyes crinkling with laughter.

Abby bursts out laughing, forehead pressed to the tiger’s belly. “Finally someone shut him up.”

Romance licks your palm.

“Ew—!”

You yank your hand back, smacking him on the chest. He just grins. The grin that would ruin a weaker girl. The grin that, if you weren’t chronically annoyed and slightly feral from being kidnapped, might actually make you melt a little.

But it doesn’t.

(Not visibly.)

And it clicks again, painfully, how much effort this is for them.

Not the flirting.

Not the games.

But the living.

Existing in this in-between space, pretending to be boys in their twenties when their souls are threadbare and ancient. When there’s something else inside them—someone else—always whispering in the dark.

You’ve heard them at night.

Not just Abby snoring like a lawnmower or Romance mumbling flirty shit in his sleep (which is… hilarious, honestly), but the other sounds.

The low whines.

The way their breathing turns jagged like they’re running.

The muffled words they don’t want you to hear.

Gwi-Ma, obviously, you just don’t know that.

And then Abby, sensing the emotional weight like it’s a fly he must slap with brute force, sits up and shouts, “Okay, let’s play ‘Who Wants to Touch My Abs Again!’”

Romance stares at him for a beat, then mutters “I hate when you say something good before I can.”

You groan, then reach forward and pet the tiger, threading your fingers through the thick blue fur, and when you do, you feel both boys lean in a little closer.

Gravity.

Not prison bars.

Not chains.

Just… gravity.

You. And them. And the warm belly of a tiger-cat who doesn’t care about demon curses or yearning pop stars.

You smile to yourself.

Just a little.

Yeah.

Being a hostage and missing the girls fucking sucks, but this is fun, sometimes.

Uhuh, all until Romance runs a hand up your thigh.

You grab a pillow and hit him with it. A clean hit to the shoulder. It barely moves him. He chuckles, soft and low, then grabs your wrist mid-pillow swing and brings your hand to his cheek.

And keeps it there.

Romance actually nuzzles into it, gorgeous lashes fluttering. “Why won’t you love me?”

“Because you talk like that.”

“Eh.”

Behind him, Abby’s scoffing.

“I’m right here.” he says, hand going to his chest. “Right here. Heart of gold. Literally. Jinu said I needed more iron in my diet and I told him to suck my—”

“Abby.” you cut in.

“Just sayin’.”

You stare at him.

He flexes.

You blink.

He grabs your hand and shoves it straight onto his bicep. Hard. “Go on. Give it a feel.”

“Abby.”

“C’mon, babe.”

And you—you actually just… sigh. Your hand stays there. Because at this point, resisting is more exhausting than just humoring them. And because, god help you, Abby’s abs really are the most offensive thing you’ve ever touched.

“This isn’t going to work.” you say calmly.

“It’s already working.” he replies, smug.

Romance nods solemnly, still holding your other hand on his face like you’re blessing him. “It’s working on me, too.”

“Jesus.”

Then the tiger-cat lets out a snore between you all, paw twitching, tail flicking once. Weird little reality this is. And you don’t deny it. Because denying it would mean you’d have to stop letting them lean in, stop letting Abby trace a line up your arm just to, stop letting Romance’s voice slide along your spine when he sang for you. And okay, his voice was gorgeous.

They aren’t subtle.

But they are sincere.

In their own fucked-up ways.

Romance, for all his dramatics, means it. His flirting isn’t just empty lines. You can feel it in the pause between his jokes, in the breath he holds when you glance at him for too long. In the ache when you say no.

And Abby doesn’t understand subtlety, but he does understand loyalty. When he lingers around you, when he gets all proud just because you let him carry something heavy for you or touched his stomach and didn’t insult him, yeah, that’s affection, demon style. Affection disguised as flexing and teasing and “accidentally” brushing against you whenever he walks by.

You clear your throat, shift slightly, ready to go. “Okay. Cool. Thanks for the… attention.”

“You’re welcome.” Romance says, grinning again. “And also, I love you.”

“Romance—”

“I do. Hey, don’t go—”

Abby chuckles, looping an arm around your shoulders suddenly, dragging you back down, cheek pressed to your temple. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll love you tomorrow when he forgets.”

“HEY—!”

You shove both of them off. The tiger-cat lets out a sleepy growl like even he is tired of their bullshit. You stand, this time successful, stretch, and pretend your heart isn’t beating faster than it should be.

And know that they can definitely hear it.

They’re not human. They play like they are. Joke like they are. But they’re not. Their senses are dialed up so loud it’s a wonder they can function in this apartment without genuinely crashing out.

Take this for an example, hear your heartbeat change when you walk into a room.

You experienced this the first time when you tried to sneak to the door at night, barefoot and silent, you heard it behind you: tap tap tap, the unnecessary footsteps of Baby following you just because your pulse spiked. And he didn’t say anything. Just leaned on the wall in the stairwell and smiled, evil little smile.

They know when you’re aroused. Unfortunately.

They know when you’re scared. Worse.

And they definitely know when you’re lying.

That one was made clear when Jinu once tilted his head and calmly said, “You’re clenching your molars again. Makes your jaw tick. That’s your lying tell.”

And you’d almost launched the TV remote at him.

But they never stop listening. Even when they’re laughing, playing with the cat, arguing about what movie to put on, they’re tuned in. To you. To the wind. To each other. They track one another’s emotional shifts like dogs in a pack. When Mystery twitches, Abby twitches. When Baby goes still, Romance glances at him. When you so much as think about walking toward the front door? You hear someone move before you even touch the knob.

Imagine you’re Jinu, how the fuck do you explain to a hostage that you want to bury your face in their neck just to breathe them in?

Not exactly gentlemanly.

Mystery could pick you out of a crowd of a thousand by scent alone. He knew when you entered the room, even if his back was turned. He’d been trained to track, to hunt, to kill, and now every predator instinct in him was confused—because all it wanted to do was wrap you in his arms and nuzzle into your neck.

Okay, all of them can do this.

Their eyes don’t move much. Their ears do. It’s eerie, sometimes. But you’ve stopped caring.

Mostly.

And the strangest thing? You know they do it for your sake, now.

It’s not just control, not just torture.

It’s protection.

That one time you dropped a glass in the kitchen, quick little break on the floor, you had three demons in the room with you in less than two seconds. Romance was still wet from the shower, hair dripping, towel twisted low around his hips. Abby was shirtless and breathing heavy like he’d sprinted from the roof. Mystery was crouched beside you before you even realized your hand was bleeding, gently peeling your fingers open to check for shards. It was Jinu who pulled the dish towel off the rack and wrapped it around your palm. When did he even get there?

(Baby simply didn’t give a fuck because he knew the others were there. If you and him were alone, maybe he would’ve checked up on you.)

They don’t say they care. But they feel it when your heart gets heavy. They hear it when you cry in your room and try to stifle the sound into a pillow.

And they respond. Not always with words. Never quite the right way. But with presence.

Yeah, they still have to learn the right way, but at least they’re doing something, okay? Fuck’s sake, man.

They don’t know how to be human anymore.

But they haven’t lost you yet.

And now, they’re trying to understand you the way they understand everything else:

By listening.

By smelling.

By memorizing your habits and tells and tension.

You don’t say anything about it.

But tonight, when you pour a second glass of water before bed and leave it out on the counter? You notice it’s gone by morning. And you know someone drank it just because it smelled like your fingers had touched the rim.

Okay, who was the fucking creep?

Anyways, they still throw each other into walls. Sure. Mystery still growls. Baby still glares at your soul and rolls his eyes like you’re beneath him, but in reality, would jump anyone who even looked at you wrong. Abby still flexes and preens, but always backs off when you give him that look. Jinu still doesn’t stop them, fuck him and his cute nose. And Romance… that fuckass is dangerously close to making him falling in love with you YOUR problem.

You caught him once, staring at you over the rim of a cup of coffee. Soft-eyed. Dreamy. Quiet.

You asked, “What?”

He said, “What?”

Yeah. Exactly.

You’re still the prisoner, technically.

Still for information you haven’t given.

Still wearing the metaphorical leash they tug at when they get bored.

But at the end of the day, when you’re curled on the couch, book in hand, one of them reaching over your head to pet the tiger, another muttering about ordering takeout “for the human” you realize something terrifying:

You might actually like it here.

Not the kidnapping.

Not the control.

But them.

Them as people.

And you don’t know when the shift happened. But now when you think about escaping… you pause. Because it wouldn’t just be running away anymore. It would be leaving.

Plus the apartment is nice. Shower with LED mood lights. Big windows you once tried to climb out of to maybe fall into a window cleaner’s little elevator thingy(yes you’re creative like that, you miss the girls) until Baby appeared behind you and said, “Try it. Let’s see what breaks first, your back or your pretty head.”

He smiled when he said it. That kind of smile that makes your stomach drop and your legs run before you even realize what you’re doing.

Your escape attempts stopped being smart after the first two weeks.

You tried the whole “pull the fire alarm” route. Didn’t work. Baby pulled it first, just to prove that it wouldn’t call anyone.

Then there was the “I’m sick” bit. Jinu played along. Got you soup. Got you a thermometer. Took your vitals. And then said, “Your temperature’s normal. But I like that you’re lying to me now instead of them.”

Cool. Love that. Humiliating and oddly comforting all in one.

You once attempted to sneak out during a fake nap. Blanket on the bed, shoes by the door, steps quiet.

Except… the second you reached for the handle, Mystery was just there. At the edge of the hallway, glowing yellow eyes behind his hair, munching on a grape like he’d expected it. He didn’t speak. Just growled low in his throat.

You went back to bed after that. Slowly. Carefully.

But escape isn’t the only thing you’ve been accidentally doing.

You’ve also been noticing things. Unfair, stupid things. Like the time you walked into the kitchen to grab water and Mystery was reaching up to the top shelf, shirt lifted, and he had insane fucking biceps. The veins. The stretch.

Or the time you were making tea and Romance wandered in, yawning, scratching his stomach, and half-singing a song under his breath and you realized his voice was better than Jinu’s. Not as trained. But raw. Sexy. Real.

The kind of voice that could sing you out of your clothes if he tried even a little bit.

(He did try. A lot. Constantly. But that’s another issue.)

You noticed that Abby stretches like a fucking gymnast and watches himself in the mirror doing it. He caught you watching once, smiled, and flexed harder. You didn’t even pretend not to look. What’s the point? He knows.

You noticed that Baby actually hums to himself when he thinks no one’s listening. Usually lullabies. Soft, strange things in a language you don’t know. Probably not human. And he’s never once acknowledged it.

The apartment’s big, but not big enough. There’s always someone in your space. Always brushing past you. Always invading. Romance flopping on your bed while you’re trying to read. Abby coming in while you shower “just to check if the temperature works.” Jinu folding laundry for everyone—including you—like it’s totally casual, even though you didn’t ask him to touch your underwear.

They treat the living room like… they don’t treat it. Empty ramen bowls from late-nights. The cat, all massive pounds of him, belly up on the dining table. Abby doing push-ups in doorways. Baby watching The Bachelor.

But despite all this, the weirdest thing is how… livable it’s become.

They don’t always get human things, but they’re trying.

They open doors for you. Bring you random things. Offer you pieces of fruit they’ve already bitten.

Maybe they don’t know how to be normal. But you’ve seen something in them that’s worse than evil.

Loneliness.

Romance jokes to hide it.

Abby flexes over it.

Mystery hides in shadows to avoid feeling it.

Baby? Baby pretends he doesn’t care.

Jinu stares at you like you’re the only human left worth knowing.

So yeah. You still sleep with your door locked.

But you’ve stopped hating them for what they are.

They’re not your friends. Not yet.

But maybe… maybe they don’t want to be your captors anymore, either.

That partly could be because captors don’t do shit like them.

For an example, once Baby had a whole ass ritual/summoning/sacrifice/fuckknowswhat in the living room. Like, the air shimmered black. The coffee table disappeared. The carpet started curling at the corners.

You blinked.

He blinked.

You: “I just wanted the remote.”

Baby: “It’s in the void now.”

Mystery walks in, nods like this is fine.

Abby walked in just to say “Yo—how do I get my protein bar back then???”

They laughed about that for three days. You’re still not sure if Baby got bored or if Jinu did something to stop the ritual. Either way, you’re pretty sure the bathroom mirror winks at you sometimes now.

Once Abby accidentally ripped your bedroom door off its hinges trying to “gently knock.”

It was 8 a.m. You were asleep. Then—BANG. The whole fucking door gone. His sheepish voice after: “My bad. Thought it was stuck.”

He did install a new door later. You caught him Googling “how to be useful when you fuck shit up.” It was… weirdly sweet.

Now that we’re talking about shit that happened, Jinu caught you crying over a baking fail once.

You tried to make banana bread. It didn’t rise. It cracked in weird places. You’d been feeling off all day and this—this stupid bread—was the final straw.

You stood there in the kitchen, eyes welling up, and Jinu just… walked over. No questions. Just grabbed a second bowl, a fresh set of bananas, and started making one beside you.

Didn’t say anything.

You sob-laughed and kept going.

His came out better. Of course. But he told everyone yours was his. Said he couldn’t eat his own cooking because it was “too good” and he’d “get arrogant.”

Liar. Beautiful, kind liar.

Also, Abby used you as a bench press weight.

You were lying on the couch. He walked over. Picked you up. Proceeded to bench press you. You just laid there. Limp. Exhausted.

Later, he asked you to spot him while he did pull-ups on the doorframe. “Just in case I fall. I won’t. But, you know. In case.”

He just wanted you close.

Also, they all dogpile when they wrestle.

Yes. Wrestle. Apparently, male demons are like teenagers.

Abby started it, of course. He always does. Tackled Romance in the hallway. Said something like, “You were staring at my girl’s ass too long.”

Romance: “You don’t even HAVE a girl.”

You, from the kitchen: “Please don’t do this.”

They did it anyway.

Mystery joined five seconds in, unprompted, launching from the stair railing like a fucking jungle cat.

Baby stood watching it for a whole minute, then shoved his boba in your hand and muttered, “Hold this.” before leaping into the mess, knocking Romance flat on his back.

You did not hold the boba.

You drank it.

Jinu is kind of above them in this perspective, because he doesn’t fight unless someone started it. Sure, he likes launching Baby into walls, but it doesn’t really happen if Baby doesn’t start harassing him in the first place.

Also, you learned Romance talks in his sleep.

And not just talks—whispers. Sweet things. Dirty things. “Touch me there, baby.” “You smell like flowers.” “Say my name again.”

Once you bought it up and, “You could’ve just joined in.” he said. “Missed opportunity.”

You have not been in the same room with him after 1 a.m. since.

The weird thing about demons is they don’t really hide when it’s just them. Not when they’re comfortable. Not when they feel safe. And unfortunately—for your sanity—they’re starting to feel very, very comfortable around you.

They’ve stopped trying so hard to pretend to be fully human, at least in the house.

It started small. A glimpse of color under the collarbone. A strange purple sheen curling down Abby’s back when he turned to grab a soda out of the fridge shirtless. Then a jagged streak down Romance’s hip bone.

The patterns, at first, just peeked out. Not enough to say anything. Not enough to ask.

Now they’re just walking around like it’s normal. Like you’re one of them.

And it’s not just the bodies.

It’s their faces.

Romance, who never gave a fuck about subtlety, started keeping his marks visible more often than not. Purple vines around his cheekbones, curling like smoke into his temple and under his jawline. It makes his flirty, slow-spoken words even worse. He knows he looks good with them on. He’s seen you glance—he lives for it.

“Does it bother you?” he asked one night. Shirt unbuttoned. Mark on his throat glowing slightly when he leaned against the doorway while you tried to do the dishes.

You didn’t answer. Because the real truth was: no, it didn’t bother you. Not even a little.

You caught Abby flexing in the hallway mirror with the markings all down his shoulders and arms. When he saw you looking, he turned a little, just so you could see his back. The marks crawled up his spine like claws. He didn’t say anything. Just winked. Held out his hand for you to trace one. You did. No questions. No words. Just touch.

Even Jinu had begun letting his slip. You noticed he wore low collars more often now.

You’d once caught Mystery sitting on the floor with the tiger curled in his lap and the marks pulsing across his throat like a heartbeat. He looked so calm—but so dark.

Baby hides them the least now. They cut across his pretty boy skin, sharp down his jaw, curling onto his hands. He rests his chin in his palm when you sit nearby, fingers twitching, tapping, eyes flicking to your legs.

They’ve stopped pretending for you. That’s what it is.

Now, take this. The apartment is quiet. It’s the middle of the night.

You like it best like this. The kitchen’s softly lit by the overhead stove lamp, and your little yogurt bowl is in your hands. A little honey, a handful of berries Jinu actually remembered to bring back (you didn’t even have to remind him twice, bless), and just a dusting of cinnamon. You stir it slowly, lazy, humming something under your breath as you lean against the counter.

It’s your moment.

It’s peace.

Which is exactly why Abby comes in, the wet slap of feet on tile. Shirtless and barefoot, towel low on his hips, still damp from the sauna or a shower, you can’t really tell. But what really catches you is him. His skin. It’s not just wet. It’s marked. The ones you’d been seeing on them lately.

Purple lines curl over his torso, glowing just faintly beneath the surface. One coiles down his collarbone. One across his ribcage. A few wrapped around his forearms. He’s technically in human form, but only technically. This isn’t fully mortal. This is… something between.

“Don’t stare, sweetheart.” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m shy.”

Your eyes trail up before you even think twice. Broad shoulders, sharp collarbone, water dripping down one bicep. Towel riding low, one V-line on proud display. The pulsing marks just highlighting all of this. He leans his elbows on the counter next to you.

“You’re not covering them tonight.” you say, nodding toward the patterns. Not accusing. Just curious.

He scoops your spoon right out of your hand and takes a bite from your bowl.

You don’t say anything about it.

You just… tilt your head, wait.

“They’ve been spreading.” he says after a moment, licking the spoon before sticking it right back in the bowl. “Last few decades. No big deal.”

You stare at the curve of one mark near his neck, curling around his collarbone. It’s not ugly. It’s almost beautiful, actually. Alive and crawling. You trace it with your eyes.

“How long?” you ask.

“Three hundred years, give or take.”

You let that sit. He does too.

And he eats another spoonful of your yogurt like it’s his god given right.

You glance at the bowl, then up at him.

“You know that was mine, right?”

He grins. Cocky. Wide. Unbothered. “You don’t mind though.”

…You really don’t.

He shifts, weight leaning in your direction now.

“They hurt?” you ask, soft, eyeing one that flickers faintly when he moves his arm.

He takes a breath through his nose. Considers.

“Nah. Not unless I fight too long. Or resist the shift.”

You can imagine that. Abby, purple lightning under his skin ready to snap. You’ve seen it, once or twice, the blur of the line between his human form and whatever lurks just beneath it.

You dip your spoon back into the yogurt. You let him keep eating it, not even bothering to reclaim it. He’d just take it again anyway.

“You don’t care I’m half-demon in your little kitchen?”

They started calling the kitchen your kitchen. Not in a sexist term, though it’s not far from them, but this time because it’s mostly you who spends the most time there. God, you’re sweet.

You blink at him. “I mean… you’re all demon. But also? It’s just yogurt, Abby.”

He laughs.

And just like that, he leans a little closer. Arm brushing yours now. Like you’re just… two people. You, and the demon boy covered in violet war paint, bare-chested and still dripping from his shower, your spoon in his mouth.

“You’re weird.” he says, eyes on you. “In a good way.”

“Mm.” you hum. “And you’re naked in the kitchen.”

“Towel counts.”

“If you say so.”

He grins again, like he’s proud of himself.

You hand him the bowl. Let him finish it. He lights up like a puppy.

And you just keep staring at those patterns. The ones that have been spreading for centuries. That he doesn’t even bother hiding tonight. That mean something deeper—something ancient and clawed and hungry—but right now, they’re just lines on a tired body, one that’s spent too long at war.

You don’t ask what they mean. You don’t have to.

Because here he is, a half-shifted demon, warm in the kitchen, stealing your yogurt and leaning against you.

You let him.

You absolutely do.

And you felt it—that moment where something should have happened. Should have escalated. Should have gone somewhere. But it didn’t. It just… hummed there. Buzzed between you, the tension.

And you knew what that meant.

“I’m going to bed.” you say simply.

He straightens just a bit, towel staying low, muscles flexing. “Wha—Now? But I just got here.” His voice is still cocky, still laced with teasing, but there is something under it. Something real and desperate that has no business being there.

You don’t even look at him when you walk away, just call back over your shoulder with a little smile, “It’s literally 2 a.m., Abby.”

“…Good night.”

Desperate. Not even whispered. Pushed out of him.

You stop. Not for long, just a beat. A hesitation. A pause that gives too much away.

You turn your head, not fully, just enough that he’d know you heard. That you’re not ignoring it. “Good night.”

You watch it hit him. Watch the stupid way his lips curl into something almost embarrassed, almost like pride. And for once, he doesn’t follow you. Doesn’t chase or push or flex one more time.

He just stands there in the kitchen, lit by the fridge light, with demon marks on his skin and your voice torturing his brain.

And as you walk back to your room and close the door behind you, you close your eyes too just long enough to admit to yourself that…

He’s… pretty.

You hadn’t let yourself really see it before. Not like this. Not when he wasn’t grinning like an idiot or flexing for attention or tackling Mystery for fun. Not when he was quiet, not when the glow of those demonic scars made him look like something painted by candlelight. Not when his voice cracked with something a little too genuine for a monster.

You crawl into bed, lights off, heart weirdly soft. Your sheets are cool against your skin, your pillow smelling faintly like the lavender water you sprayed when you first got here.

You’re supposed to hate them. Supposed to fear them.

And yet…

He’s pretty when he tries to be human.

They all are.

Amazing little memes made by someone I absolutely fucking adore but asked not to be tagged:

Love u baby💋

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #saja boys #saja boys x reader #kpdh x reader #the saja boys #kpdh x you #abby kpdh #abby kpop demon hunters #baby kpdh #baby kpop demon hunters #romance kpop demon hunters #romance kpdh #jinu kpop demon hunters #jinu kpdh #mystery kpop demon hunters #mystery kpdh

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isasweetie · 9 months ago

Text

in which you’re forced into having a talk with your ex-boyfriend, rafe cameron, on the boat ride to morocco.

being a pogue and rafe cameron’s ex was not easy. although you dated shortly before he killed peterkin, and you were sure he barely even remembered your favourite colour, seeing him blatanly disrespect you and his friends, and go down a path you tried so hard to prevent him from, was hard to watch. but now he’s picked himself up since ward died. you thought you had another chance to at least be on good terms. sending flowers and a card to tanneyhill when ward died, smiling at him when you’d see him around. it didn’t work, he still hated you and your friends.

fortunately, he redeemed himself ever so slightly by volunteering to take the pogues to morocco. rafe had to find chandler groff, you guys wanted the blue crown. it was perfect.

until jj punched him, that is. he knocked him out cold. with a scolding “jj!” coming from majority of the pogues, including you, jj carries him down into the downstairs washroom and ties his wrists to a pole. they don’t trust him, which is fair. you don’t either — you shouldn’t, anyway.

rafe was down there quietly for a mere half hour until he woke up with a groan from his head hitting the ground earlier, followed up with yelling once he realizes he was stuck down there.

all touching your noses and saying ‘not it’ the minute pope suggests someone going down there to check on him, you’re the unlucky one who said it last. shutting up your protests, john b gently coaxes you downstairs, saying things like, “you used to mack on him”, “this is good, you know him”, “he won’t hurt you,” john b leaves you downstairs once you make it to the door of the bathroom. knocking gently, you timidly ask, “can i come in?”

there’s no answer. you can picture him. wrists tied, brows furrowed, eyes closed tightly as his head leans against the wall and towards the ceiling. his gorgeous stressed face. you slowly open the door, peeking your head in. “hi,” you say gently, timid around the scary and aggressive man you have the curse of calling your ex.

“…hey,” rafe says, voice rough as he shuts his eyes tight.

unsure what to say, you awkwardly stand there and stare down at him. “um, i brought asprin,”

“right, right, like i can fuckin’ swallow it. what, you gonna throw it in my mouth like a.. seal or something?” sassy, his upper lip lifts a bit as he thinks about it and isn’t very fond of the idea.

a second of silence as you figure out what to say. “…um, ill just set it down here,” you say, putting the container down beside him. “sorry about your head.”

“yeah, uh, your little boyfriend can’t control his fists, huh?”

“…not my boyfriend,” you correct softly, though you’re not sure why you feel the need to tell him that. “but no one really.. trusts you, rafe, so you kind of brought this on yourself—“

he quickly interrupts you. “bullshit. you know why that’s bullshit? because i was helping. who got you this boat, huh? me. i did. rafe. i’m the reason that you guys aren’t swimming, or some shit, to north africa. i’m being helpful and understanding, and this is what i get. you think that’s fair?” when you’re stood there in silence at his sudden raised voice, he repeats, “you think that’s fucking fair, y/n!?” he kicks a can in anger.

it’s like you’re his girlfriend again as you sit down next to him instantly instead of running. you get deja vu to the time three years ago when he was high on coke and got kicked out of the house. everyone ignored him except for you. “..um, okay, i’m gonna give you some asprin,” you say softly. “help your head. open,” you tell him, grabbing a pill as he gives you a look but opens his mouth. you pop it in his mouth and he dry swallows. “there.”

you two share a look. you don’t think it’s a bad look by any means. he looks frustrated still, but there’s an underlying gentleness in his eyes, as if he registers you’re still the same girl you were when you two were together. “…and, um, for the record, i don’t think it’s fair that you’re down here. you helped us, thats.. nice.”

the word ‘us’ when referring to you and the pogues makes him feel weird. “i don’t get why you hang out with them,” he mutters as he looks at the ground. “tried so fucking hard to keep you away from them when we were.. together.”

“i know,” you whisper, your gaze dropping as well, to his tied wrists. you feel awful. “trust me, your warnings still play in my head when i’m with them sometimes,”

“you remind me of sarah.” he says. you’re not sure what that means.

“you hate sarah,”

“nah, nah— i don’t hate her. hate who she’s turned into,” he adjusts himself. “she makes me sad. i’m sad for her, alright? she had so much potential.“ he shrugs. “but there’s no saving her. she’s in too deep,” he looks back up at you again. “i think there’s saving you, though,”

“…this is weird, rafe,”

“how?” he asks.

“because in the years we’ve been broken up, you’ve never talked to me about this. feels like it’s a… trick or something,”

“it’s not a trick,” he assures, voice still rough. “look, i’m out half a mill, i’m tied up in a bathroom, i’m probably gonna.. die or something. i got nothing to lose, may as well tell you my concern,”

“um, i appreciate it,” you say gently, unsure how to respond. “and i’m gonna go back upstairs.”

“hey— no, woah, woah, woah,” he stops you quickly. “stay. okay?”

“i should go up and help with dinner, though—“

“no, stay. i— i want you to stay, okay? i don’t wanna be down here alone, and i want you away from the pogues,”

he doesn’t wanna be alone. you feel bad for him all over again, nodding gently as you sit back down beside him. you always were so good for rafe.

you’re not sure how long you’ll be down here with him. maybe until it’s late at night and he’s asleep. so gently, after about five minutes of silence, to ease some of the tension and pass the time, you murmur a, “truth or dare?”

rafe just smiles.

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fushitoru · 10 months ago

Text

so i know who i'm looking at! a sukuna ryomen oneshot

pairing ⸺ ghostface!sukuna x reader

summary ⸺ on halloween night, you get a strange phone call from a man with a distorted voice right as you're chilling while babysitting yuuji. you get an ultimatum: perform for him, or risk your and yuuji's lives.

warnings ⸺ smut, fluff (at the end), pre established consent but dub con just in case, cream pie, lots of degradation and praise, “good girl,” oral sex (m!recieving), recording and pictures, suggested infidelity (but it’s not actually infidelity), exhibitionism, reader gives him a show in exchange for her life, rough sex, semi-public sex, established relationship, mdni, pls help me find artist for credit :(

next. week two

kinktober masterlist | general masterlist

you stretch, yawning as you adjust the blanket you had on you to cover you and give you warmth on the chilly october evening. gazing forlornly at the balcony window outside, you see kids and college students alike in their halloween costumes visiting homes for treats and bars for booze, respectively. tonight was a night you were supposed to get dicked down by your boyfriend in the bathroom of a frat, but you’re stuck instead with a last minute call to babysit yuji because he’s sick.

you love the kid too much, like he’s your own baby. which is why you couldn’t refuse playing babysitter, even if that meant forgoing pictures for your instagram with the slutty angel costume you had bought a month who in anticipation of halloweekend. instead, you’re tucked in and cozy, watching scream for the nth time just to fangirl over how hot ghostface is.

so you’re in your tank top and boy shorts, relaxing and chilling (that is, as much as you can while locked in on your movie). and, as if on cue, the moment the phone rings in the movie, the itadori household’s phone number gets a call.

you jump at the noise, a bit on edge because of the movie and definitely regretting the idea of setting the living room pitch back in spirit of mood lighting. groaning (albeit a bit freaked out), you get up to answer the call, as yuji babysitting protocol required that you answer any call in case it may be an emergency.

picking up—but a bit on edge—you drone, “itadori household, how can i help you?”

there’s heavy breathing on the other end and you hate your scaredy cat tendencies because your heart is picking up at the distorted and low pants. “h—hello?”

“hey.” the voice is low, just like the breathing, and for a moment, you hate your brain for immediately recalling the nsfw audios you watch to masturbate because the guy on the phone sounds exactly like them. it’s a little freaky that you’re getting such a weird fuckin call at this time, but regardless you persist, in case this was relevant. you kind of need this job.

feigning cheerfulness, you ask, "what can i get ya?" as your fingers absently toy with the thin strap of your tank top. the cool air from the nearby vent sends a shiver across your skin, but the silence on the other end of the line is more unnerving. you're met with nothing but heavy breathing, and each exhale seems to scrape against your eardrums.

shifting uncomfortably, you feel the sweat beading at the nape of your neck as impatience builds. your fingers tighten around the receiver. "are you gonna talk or should i hang up?" you finally snap, agitation bleeding into your voice.

but before you can slam the phone down, he speaks.

“what’s your favorite scary movie?”

a groan escapes you, the kind that rises from deep in your chest, exasperation overtaking any lingering nervousness. "look, buddy, this is soooo corny. like, i was literally just watching scream, so you’re not doing shit. if you wanna prank call a girl, try somewhere else because—"

“you got a boyfriend?”

“i do,” you quip back quickly, a hand on your hip as you stand straighter, eyes flicking to the doorway of the kitchen. shadows dance in the dim light, your heartbeat subtly picking up pace. you move to hang up the phone, more irritated than frightened now. “so you better not try anything funny and waste more of your time, you fu—”

“but he’s not sleeping upstairs with the kid?”

the world freezes. you pause, the phone hovering mid-air. what did he just say? your pulse quickens, each thud louder than the last as dread claws at your chest. "what?"

a laugh, deep and guttural, slithers through the receiver. it’s the kind of laugh that makes your stomach drop and your legs feel weak. his voice is smooth, velvety even, and it curls around your ear like smoke. despite the creeping fear, something primal makes your thighs clench involuntarily. “okay, now that i’ve finally got your attention, let’s try this again. what’s your name, baby?”

that word—baby—the way he drags it out, rich and slow, makes your heart stutter, even as fear wraps tighter around your ribs. you grip the edge of the counter, nails digging into the cool surface. “why do you wanna know?”

“so i know who i’m looking at.”

the room spins. your breath falters, shallow, barely there. it’s like the walls are closing in, and your throat feels thick with fear. you lick your dry lips, throat tightening painfully. “wha—what do you mean?”

a soft coo hums through the phone, mockingly sweet. “no need to be afraid, pretty baby. you don’t want the kid upstairs to die, do you?”

your blood turns to ice. the words don’t make sense at first, but when they do, it feels like the floor’s been yanked out from beneath you. your mind races, every nerve in your body screaming. “what the fuck? is this some kind of prank call? this isn’t funny.”

but the man just continues, as if he didn’t just say something so horrifying that your stomach churns. his voice remains steady, eerily calm. “the kid, how old is he? five, six? he’s dozin’ off in those stupid iron man pj’s of his.” you swear you can hear his smile through the phone, a wicked curl of satisfaction. “and i love those shorts on you. parading your ass around like the slut you are. how’d your boyfriend leave you alone tonight?”

the walls feel like they’re closing in. a cold sweat breaks out across your skin, and suddenly the room feels too small. your eyes dart toward the darkened stairs. every creak of the house becomes louder, sharper. the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as you swallow, mouth dry as cotton. it feels like someone is watching—someone who shouldn’t be there.

for a second, you digest the information he’d bestowed upon you—information about yourself. not-so-subtly freaking out, you get out a “please, please don’t do this.”

“then gimme a show. follow what i say.”

“o—okay. what do you want me to do?” you’re trembling, your realize, in your fear. or was it arousal?

“come closer to the window,” the voice purrs. you tentatively walk up to the balcony window facing the itadori garden, awaiting instructions as you stand shivering with the chill of the air.

“now,” the voice instructs, “take your top off. gimme a show, alright? better see that fucking back arch when you’re talking it off like filthy stripper slut you are.”

you whimper in humiliation but follow his instructions anyways, slowly becoming more and more of a slave to your arousal, caused by his assured and suave voice. when you take your tank top off, back arched just like he asked, the man groans and you hear distant squelches on the other side of the line.

“good girl. now when you take that bra off, pull up your cups, but don’t take it off, leave it bunched. those tits better bounce for me.” pulling up the cups of your bra, your tits recoil and bounce and the squelching gets even louder as you feel eyes rove over your tits. “fuck, i love those tits. get on your knees and bounce em for me like you’re riding cock.”

you clench so hard as you move to do as he says. part of you is soooo aroused to be forced around like this, so you’re easily giving him the show that he wants, getting on your knees and moving your chest so that they start rhythmically bouncing, synced up with the squelches you hear in the other side of the phone.

“stick your tongue out. drool on your tits.” you moan, your tongue lolling out as a glob of spit starts trailing down your body.

“fuck!” he exclaims, aroused by the sight. “you like being bossed around this baby? like my little bitch?”

“no!” you sob, tears springing out at the utter humiliation you were experiencing. “please let me go, please don’t do anything to yuji!”

the voice chuckles. “really? i think you’re lying, baby. i know that pussy is wet while you’re giving me a show. matter of fact, why don’t you show me? make sure i get a really good look at that cunt, okay?”

slipping your shorts off, you turn so that your backside is facing the lawn and uncover your traitorous pussy—glistening wet—to him. taking a few steps back, you breathe heavily—like the person on the other side of the phone—as you press your pussy against the glass, the heat and humidity originating from your inner walls fogging the area on the glass. you hear a snap! on the other side, indicated that he had taken a photo. eyes widening in panic, you ask, “what are you doing? please, i’m doing whatever you wa—”

“i can’t let everyone think you’re some innocent virgin, can i? parading your ass and pussy for me, when anyone in the neighborhood can see? matter of fact,” and you start panicking at his next words, “i’ll post this online if you don’t grind that ass back for me.”

you swallow and start to do as he says. the glass is cool as you rub your folds along it, your slick dirtying the glass as you move your folds on the glass door. of course, the glide isn’t smooth—your clit keeps catching on the glass, but the fact that you’re bare to the world, any stray eyes being able to see you on display arouses you to no extent. you’re ashamed of being aroused at having to perform for a stranger, but you continue regardless and clutch the phone in your hand as he speaks to you again.

“the fuck you so wet for?” the voice mocks you. “you get off on this shit?”

“fuck you,” you moan, continuing to rub yourself. “i hate you.”

the man laughs meanly. “for someone you hate, you’re getting pretty wet for me, baby.” the sounds of him stroking his dick are even louder as you grind against the door at the same tempo that he moves his hand at, grunting as you continue moaning into the mic. “look at how you’re clenching—good girl. want me to come in and make you cum?”

“real fucking cocky,” you hiss into the phone, “really fuckin cocky of you to think you can make me cum. with the way you had to threaten me, i just know you have a micro.”

as soon as you say that, the call hangs up and you look at your screen in confusion. that is, until you feel hands on your bare hips, knees–covered in black fabric—pressing against the junction between your thighs. “say that again,” the voice whispers.

you turn, eyes wide and heart speeding up as you turn to see the very figure that showed up in your movie. reminiscent of the killer, a tall man in a mask is hunched over you, now moving his hands to grip at your hands. “let’s take this to the bed, shall we?”

“oh shit,” ghostface curses, continuously snapping photos of your lips, the flash going off in the dark room. “look at this,” and he brings the camera closer and closer to your pussy, using his other hand to spread your lips as you helplessly lie on the bed, forced to spread your legs for him. “this pussy clenches everytime the flash goes off!” and he’s laughing, mocking you as slick leaves your hole in drops as the utter way you’re being humiliated. he grabs your cheeks roughly with the hand that was spreading your nether regions, squeezing them together and focusing the camera on your face. “this is the slut i’m going to fuck. gonna suck my cock, right?”

“mhm,” you whimper, resigned to your fate. making quick work of his robe, he takes them off completely, still leaving his mask in place. as he uncovers his pelvis, your eyes immediately rove over the hardened muscles on his abdomen. there’s a pink happy trail leading down to his dick, which is furiously red and standing. he grabs it, pumping the length as he moves closer and closer to your face until his precum is smearing against your face.

“fuck,” he curses, as he takes in the sight of your teary eyes looking up at him dumbly, lips puckered as he slaps his cock against your cheeks until your cheeks are turning red. you’re giving kitten licks to his tip every time he alternates between slapping your two cheeks, not knowing what do to with yourself except focus on your oral fixation telling you instinctively to suck his cock. he then uses his fingers to pull your mouth open and slowly feeds his cock inside, eyes rolling back as soon as he feels your warm breath and hot tongue encompass him.

you’re sucking at his tip and alternating between licking the rest of his dick, and he’s lost in the tight, wet heat of your mouth hollowing around him. you then prop yourself on your knees, using your hands to grab and play with his balls, stimulating him even more and causing him to rip out of your mouth and growls, “on your hands and knees. now.”

he doesn’t give you sufficient time to turn around and fully adjust in your position as he’s slamming into your roughly, the wet plush of your pussy too enticing. because you didn’t see it coming, your face is smushed against the pillow, and he grabs at your hands, using his free hand to hold them together at the small of your back.

“you like my cock, baby?” he pants, sweat beginning to run down his torso. when you don’t respond, he lets go of your hands to smack you consecutive times on your ass. “answer me.”

“i love it sooo much,” you babble, too lost in the pleasure to form more coherent thoughts as you ramble. “it’s splitting me—oh my god.” your eyes roll back—in pain or pleasure, you can’t decide—as his cock kisses your cervix. the masked man keeps thrusting in you, the sounds of his hips smacking into yours echoing throughout your room in a series of plap plap plap’s.

“yea? fuck, i’m so close. you wanna live baby?” he grabs your hair and pulls, giving you a sloppy wet kiss on your cheek. “let me come inside. you’ll let me dump my cum in you, right?”

you only clenched tighter at his words. “please,” you sobbed. “please come inside. please paint my walls. i want your cum so bad.”

you were so close, staving off your orgasm until he filled you up. at your words, the intruder laughed mockingly and kept thrusting into you, but the telltale sloppiness of his hips indicated that he was close. “god, what a slut—” he was interrupted by his own climax, and as soon as the thick ropes of cum filled you, you came with a squeal, your back arching impossibly further as your thrashed on his dick because of the intensity of your orgasm. both of you rid it together, panting as you came down.

he pulls out of you, and before you can catch your breath, the man flops his entire weight on top of you, making you laugh as you let out a startled exclamation, “ryo!”

you squirm beneath him, trying to push him off, but it’s futile. he’s far too big and heavy, and he knows it. with a low, lazy chuckle, your boyfriend, sukuna ryomen, removes his mask—tossing it carelessly onto the floor—before nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. his breath is warm against your skin, and you can feel the heat radiating off him as his chest rises and falls in rhythm with your own.

“did you enjoy that stupid thing you wanted, brat?” he mumbles, slightly panting in exhaustion.

his words are snarky, but you can hear the affection laced beneath them. your heart swells with a sudden rush of warmth, the fondness you feel for him almost overwhelming. it’s moments like this—where he does something ridiculous just because you asked, despite all his grumbling—that remind you why you love him so much.

you wrap your arms around his broad back, fingers trailing lazily up and down his spine as you press a soft kiss to the top of his head. “you didn’t have to go all out, you know,” you whisper, smiling into his hair. “but i really appreciate it. you’re kind of the best, even when you pretend you’re not.”

ryomen grunts, but there’s no bite to it. he tightens his hold around you, his large frame practically cocooning you in warmth. you feel his lips brush softly against the skin of your neck, a tender gesture that contrasts with his usual roughness.

“yeah, well... you’re lucky i love you, freak,” he murmurs, voice low and husky. despite his usual bravado, there’s something undeniably soft in the way he says it, as if the words are meant just for you.

you hum contentedly, feeling the weight of his body press you into the mattress. it’s comforting, like being wrapped in a warm blanket. you trace circles on his back with your fingertips, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment, where it’s just you and him—no roleplay, no teasing—just the quiet aftermath of love.

“lucky, huh?” you tease back softly. “i’d say we’re both pretty lucky.”

ryomen huffs a quiet laugh against your skin before lifting his head slightly to look at you, his dark eyes soft in the dim light. then, he gets up and makes a move to walk out the door. at first, you thought he was heading towards the bathroom door to give you a towel to clean you up, but he’s heading towards the door—soft cock swinging, butt naked—and you’re only left in confusion as to what he’s doing.

“ryo, where are you going?”

“fixin myself a sandwich, i’m hungry,” he grumbles over his shoulder, leaving you dumbfounded. you’re left sitting on the bed as he continues the trek down the stairs to satiate his post sex hungries.

“hey!” you shriek, “your balls are out! what if yuji sees?”

later, when yuji walks deliriously into the kitchen to see his uncle’s cock and balls, he almost wishes he could fully succumb to his fever.

next. week two

kinktober masterlist | general masterlist

a/n hehe i love fluffy sukuna. consider joining my kinktober taglist if you'd like!

taglist:

@sugoroo @ryutotsukai0824 @sharkubi @lisvanrouge @mxlktae

@samisfunky @achbbys000 @xd3pr3ss3dx @jottositto

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the-eng1ne · 1 year ago

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good god i am so sick rn

#engineposting #i basically just have a sore throat & a bad cough #i got the sore throat on saturday and it just got worse from there #but man. i went into college on monday and my teacher heard my voice and was like george GO HOME #i sound like i smoke a pack a day rn #and bc my sinuses are majorly clogged its giving me sooo many headaches #so. im working on my project from home this week. which is kind of scary bc its due NEXT WEEK.....#imean im basically almost done #although ive made peace with the fact that im never getting assets from saph so it will forever look like shit #i also need to put in some like . bare minimum audio and then write abt it in my design doc ugh #bc saph was also supposed to do audio but. well. suffice to say thats not happening #im so anxious abt the prohect tho. i really really want to actually go in to college to do work bc id get more done than being in my room #(im easily tempted by a 30min nap)#but i sound like ive contracted the plague so idk if my teacher would let me come back #maybe ill use a mask and bring hand sanitizer and just tell people to not come into my lil laptop cubicle #but yea im anxious #bc i REALLY Want to get a distinction on this project and i thiiiink i might do #but the grading criteria is so vague i literally have no idea if i will or not #i mean ive put a hell of a lot of work into both the coding and research and design doc so im praying its enough #this course might be the first time ive worked So hard at something simply bc i wanted it and not bc i felt like i should

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allfearstofallto · 6 months ago

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Breaking up with Mafia! Childe is a nightmare. You've never met a man so insistent, so stubborn, so damn near depraved in the way he refuses to acknowledge that you no longer want to date him. It's almost psychotic, his actions and how he still treats you as if your his, even though you've long since cut things off with him. Or at least tried to.

He always shows up at your place, at your new job, or calls with a number that you don't know. Always finds a way to sneak his way back into your life, even when you so desperately try to push him out. That blue sports car will be parked out front and you'll feel all the blood drain from your body, a chill running up your spine.

Knuckles usually split and bleeding, bruises on his face, he wore a charming smile that spoke of an inherent sadism, parading his wounds like a trophy. He always smelled of the particular brand cigarettes he smoked, the ones that would hang from his lips while he waited for you. He'd put it out whenever he met your gaze though, against the wall or on the concrete pavement of the ground, claiming that you were much too pretty to smell like tobacco.

He always paid in cash and never told you what his job was, just danced around the topic with a dark chuckle that spoke a thousand words.

"I can afford you, can't I?" He'd ask, his tone playful, but there was a dark look in those hollow blue eyes that told you to pry no further.

When he opened his wallet, you'd see nothing but large, crisp bills. No cards or identification. Maybe a picture of you tucked into one of the pockets, one that you don't remember taking though.

He wasn't typically the type of guy you'd date. Physically he was. All playboy smiles and fluffy orange hair. Lean build and sultry voice. You felt pressured to give in to him, mostly because of his persistence. And even more pressured to stay.

"I'd never hurt you," he'd say as you tended to his bleeding lip, watching the way he barely winced as you dabbed the alcohol wipe to his wound. He just fell, he assured you.

A fall?

Right.

That's why he was holding your wrist with his hand. Clenching his long fingers so tightly around you, like you'd run away the second you let go. Insisting that you were safe with him and that nothing would ever harm you. When asked what he was keeping you safe from, he'd just give you a cheeky grin.

"My clumsiness," he hummed. His words had a scary amount of whimsical joy behind them as he placed his elbows on his knees, holding his head up with his hands, blue eyes looking at you in pure adoration as you continue to clean his wounds in a deafening silence. The only other sound being your rapidly beating heart.

AN: Had to get the idea out of my head!!!!

#maiistalking<3 #genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere childe x you #yandere childe x reader #yandere childe #yandere male #yandere mafia #mafia au #tw yandere

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shiftthemoon · 7 months ago

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reality shifting isn’t hard. you’ve been told it’s hard because everyone’s too scared to admit it’s not. they cling to their 800-step methods, their must-have crystals, their perfect conditions because they think that if they let go of that control, they’ll fail. but here’s the thing: the more you try to control the process, the more you convince yourself it’s out of your control. and that’s the problem. that’s why so many people feel stuck. shifting isn’t some big, far-fetched thing. it’s just you. it’s always been you.

we’re conditioned to think we’re powerless. think about it—school, work, society, all of it drills this idea into us that everything has to be proven, earned, validated. so, when you hear about shifting, your brain freaks out and says, wait, wait, this is too easy, this can’t be real. and then you spiral. you overcomplicate it. you make yourself think you need the “perfect” script, the “right” subliminal, or that you have to meditate for three hours while the stars align perfectly. like, no… you don’t. all of that? it’s fluff. it’s noise.

at its core, shifting is belief. just belief. no, really, let that sink in. you don’t need to “do” belief perfectly. it’s not something you master through sheer willpower. it’s something you already have. you’ve believed in things your whole life. you believed in gravity without needing proof. you believe your favorite songs are beautiful without needing to explain why. belief is natural. it’s effortless when you stop overthinking it. that’s the energy you need to bring to shifting—trust. trust that your mind knows what it’s doing, and that if you let it, it will take you there. every single extra thing you pile on? the overthinking, the doubt, the need for guarantees? that’s what’s slowing you down. not the “lack of progress,” not some mythical “block”—it’s you convincing yourself it’s harder than it is.

and let’s talk about social media for a second. oh my god, the shifting community on social media… i get it. it’s comforting to see other people on this journey. but let’s be honest—how much of that content is actually helping you? like, really? 90% of the time, scrolling through shifting advice isn’t inspiring; it’s overwhelming. everyone’s got their own opinions, their own “best methods,” their own rules. one person says scripting is a must, another says it’s a waste of time. one person swears by affirmations, another says visualization is the only way. and before you know it, you’re sitting there questioning everything you thought you knew, wondering if you’ll ever get it “right.” spoiler alert: you already know how to shift. you don’t need a thousand voices telling you what to do. in fact, the more you listen to them, the harder it becomes to hear yourself.

take a break. seriously. log off the apps. give yourself space to breathe and think. ask yourself: why do i want to shift? what’s stopping me? what feels right to me? no tiktok trend, youtube guide, or reddit post can answer those questions for you. only you can. and i know that sounds scary. we’ve been conditioned to think we need external validation for everything, but shifting is a deeply personal thing. you don’t need a step-by-step tutorial. you need to trust your instincts. that’s it.

and let me be clear: i’m not saying methods or subliminals are bad. they’re fine if they help you feel aligned. but they’re not what makes shifting happen. you are. methods are just tools. if you use them, great. if you don’t, that’s great too. because the truth is, shifting isn’t about doing things “right.” it’s about letting go of the idea that you need to.

so let me break it down for you. the only things you really need to shift are:

1. a desire. you have to want to go to your desired reality. no brainer, right?

2. belief. this is the big one. you have to trust it’s possible. no “what ifs,” no “but hows.” just trust.

3. persistence. if it doesn’t happen right away, that’s okay. don’t give up. if you’ve ever learned to ride a bike, you know that falling doesn’t mean you can’t do it—it just means you’re learning. shifting is the same.

that’s it. no fancy rituals, no endless research, no “perfect” conditions. the process is simple because it’s natural. you’ve probably done it before without even realizing it— the only reason it feels hard now is because you’ve convinced yourself it has to be.

stop making it harder than it needs to be. shifting isn’t this unattainable, mystical thing reserved for “chosen ones.” it’s something anyone can do. you can do it. your mom can do it. that anti-shifter lurking in every crevice of shiftblr could do it. you’ve always been capable. but you have to stop getting in your own way. stop doubting yourself. stop relying on others to tell you what’s possible. this is your journey. own it.

and above all, be patient. shifting is not a race. it’s not about how fast you can get there or how perfect your dr is. it’s about trust, intention, and focus. log off, tune into yourself, and let it happen. shifting has always been yours to claim. it’s not something you need permission for. it’s not something you need to earn. it’s just you, your mind, and your belief. always has been, always will be.

#shifting #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting community #loassumption #shifting tips #shifting antis dni #shifting script #law of assumption #reality shifting tips #quantum jumping #shifttok

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stzrgirl4norris · 1 month ago

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A Case Of You - LN4

Lando Norris x Psychologist!Reader

Summary: When McLaren noticed their precious golden boy driver was struggling to take his Championship seriously, they decided to hire a new psychologist to "fix" whatever problem he had. Turns out, the problems were about to become even more real.

Word Count: 9k

Warnings: smut, praising, degradation, softdom!lando.

(I am aware this is unprofessional and no psychologist would ever act in such way, this is purely for writing and entertainment purposes, I don't mean to disrespect anyone's profession or career 💙)

Lando didn’t want to admit it, but he had his knees shaking. As he walked the long corridor towards the room right at the very end, he was certain his legs were going to give out at any point. It wasn’t an unfamiliar path, he has done that for many, many years. But never after stupidly crashing against his teammate during a race in a fit of frustration. Never when he had everything to lose.

Zak Brown’s door was open, inviting him to come in. Lando felt like he was walking into his death sentence. He had no idea what waited beyond that door, maybe a lecture, screaming, someone telling him they would give the priority to Oscar, or that the contract wouldn’t be renovated - all those possibilities terrified his sleep.

However, coming into that minimalistic decorated room, he definitely did not expect to find a girl, sitting on a chair around the glass table, right in front of Andrea and Zak, catching a smile in both men’s faces.

“Well, hello, Lando! Come in!”

Usually, Zak’s fatherly voice would feel like a warm hug, but instead it sent shivers down Lando’s spine. Stepping into that room, he knew that whatever was waiting for him was a worse punishment than all the scenarios his anxiety drew in his mind.

You were sitting legs crossed in that chair, dressed in a fitted pair of jeans and exceptionally boring white t-shirt, a pair of ballet flats covering your feet. You didn’t stand up when the driver walked in, but gave him a polite smile.

“Hi, guys.” He didn’t sit, standing with his hands in his pockets next to your chair. “You wanted to talk?”

His eyes wandered towards you, waiting for you to leave and give the men privacy. But you didn’t move a single muscle.

“Yes, we did, sit down, please.”

Zak’s voice wasn’t scary. He seemed relaxed. Happy, even.

Lando sat on the chair by your side. He didn’t know whether to look at his bosses in front of him or to your cryptic figure.

“How are you, Lando?” Andrea finally directed himself to the driver, smiling like he was family.

“I’m good…” He was going to wait before saying something, but patience wasn’t Lando’s biggest asset. “Who is she?”

“Lando, this is YN.”

Zak introduced. You noticed how nervous the british boy was by your side, shoulders tense, neck rigid as if he slept on top of a hard mattress.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” You tried to give him your sweetest, most welcoming voice, to get him to relax a bit.

Funny thing is, Lando was sure he knew you from somewhere. Your face was strange, but your name sounded familiar. However, his mind couldn’t place the puzzle together.

“Hi?”

“She’s here to help you.”

And then it clicked. Lando has been complaining about his race engineer since race number two, definitely a bit more after Miami. He hated how bad he was getting screwed up with poor strategies this season, it was something he brought up every single team briefing, shamelessly. Suddenly, the brit gave you a big smile. Surely you must be everything he asked for, smart, intelligent, competent… And cute. It was his dream coming true. Maybe he should mess up a bit more if this was his “punishment”.

“Oh… I see… I feel bad for Will, though. Has he left already? I’d like to say goodbye, thank him for his work.”

“Will?”

Both Andrea and Brow had question marks all over their faces, thinking their driver had gone insane all of the sudden.

“Yeah… She’s my new engineer, right?”

Stella’s lips curled into an awkward smile, but Lando refused to believe he got it wrong.

“Look, boy…” Zak straightened his body to the chair, arms coming over the table, with that serious face Lando hated. “What happened on Sunday finally made Andrea and I sit down and talk. You and I have been together on this journey since 2019, you, more than anybody, know how hard we worked to give you a competitive car…”

Lando was breathing hard, unable to hide his discomfort, chest moving up and down quickly and rapidly.

“And now that you have it, you’re throwing your opportunities away.”

Andrea’s voice cut Zak’s speech with a sharpness that hurt. It was cold, too honest, too real.

“You’re unfocused, Lando. You get so desperate you make mistakes. I know that you want to win without changing yourself. I know that you’re a nice guy and don’t want to act like a douchebag. But right now, your self depreciation and lack of confidence is shoving you down a dark hole.”

Zak continued, finally managing to let out the words he carefully composed. You looked over to the driver on your left side, he was trying his best not to show any emotion, and failing, because you could see the ghost of a tear forming on the inside corner of his eyes, and his hands rubbing his knees with pressure.

“That’s not what I–”

“It’s time to face the harsh truth, Lando. It’s time to wake up.”

He looked from Andrea over to you. Eyes settling without the joy they had before.

“What the fuck is she doing here?”

“I’m your new psychologist, Lando.”

Lando looked over the men across from him and let out a sarcastic chuckle, a dry laugh, dismissive.

“You hired me a twenty year old therapist?”

In Lando’s mind, there was no way you were good at your job. You looked young, too young to have experience. He probably had more years of dealing with anxiety than you had working. There was no way McLaren would put their trust in someone like you.

“YN was working with Ferrari last year, I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”

His mind was clear. He did hear about you. You were a legend in Ferrari, Charles and Carlos always mentioned how sharp and good their team’s “psychologist” was. Lando always thought it was a dumb concept for a team to have a therapist, but no one ever mentioned saying a bad word about you. Until you made Vasseur cry in a meeting after he decided to let go of Carlos Sainz.

You were the golden girl, the genius behind the well being of the team, that was, of course, until you told the boss something he didn’t want to hear, then you were cut like disposable garbage. You didn’t take it to heart, you understood it perfectly. In fact, you didn’t expect a different behavior from the men in this sport.

When Zak Brown got caught in this tricky situation between Lando and Oscar, your name was the first one that popped. You were the solution to all his problems. A weapon. And even though you told both team principals that you can’t just fix people, it’s more complicated than that, they still viewed you as the secret to get Lando to focus again. Bring him back to his juvenile confidence and personality that wasn’t depressing or too harsh.

You knew Lando. Not directly, but you, sometimes, got the chance to observe him and draw very shallow conclusions. You didn’t see a boy who was lazy, or fragile, you saw a driver who cared too much and put so much pressure on himself that he lost his passion for the sport. Your goal wasn’t to fix Lando’s attitude, you wanted him to gain his sparkle back, and if that meant he would leave the job or McLaren for good, then so be it. But Zak and Andrea didn’t need to know that last part.

“I’ve heard she was fired from Ferrari, yeah?”

“It was their loss.”

Lando bliked, incredulous.

“I don’t fucking need a therapist, guys. I am just fine. Sure, yeah, I fucked up on Sunday, but I apologized and it’s not going to happen again.” His words were dry and uncaring, Lando was pissed. And then he turned to you, eyes frosty. “You can go make someone cry over Red Bull or Mercedes, I don’t care.”

“This is not a choice, boy. You are going to work with YN until the end of the season. The contract is signed, it’s done. This meeting is just to simply let you know.”

Lando sighed, hands running through his curls in frustration.

“This is a fucking joke.” Being fired would feel better.

“And if you don’t show up to talk to her at least once a week, we’re going to be forced to make Oscar a number 1 driver.”

No one out of the men noticed how you rolled your eyes. This type of behavior was everything you fought against. No one should be forced to talk or go to therapy, it was the opposite of productive. You realized you had a great deal of work ahead of you, not just with Lando, but with everyone on that team.

Lando was speechless, furious, and the smell of your perfume was making things worse.

“Are we done?”

Zak turned his attention to you, who were sitting still, unfazed by the display of feelings by the boy next to you.

“YN, do you want to add something?”

Lando rolled his eyes, refusing to look at you. Yet, you still turned your body towards him.

“I want to make a deal with you, Lando.” He hummed in response, staring at his feet like a child getting lectured by their parents. “Give me a chance for the next two races until summer break. You can meet me tomorrow, here, for our first session. Then, we can see each other every Friday before Free Practice and every Sunday after the race. After summer break I’ll let you choose whenever you want to talk, no forced sessions, I don’t want that. And if you absolutely hate me, I’ll let you kick me out before summer break.”

Lando took a deep breath, eyes closed. He firstly looked at the men in front of him, both physically unaware of your conditions, taken by surprise - which he loved to see. Then, his attention focused on you, with your perfect grin smile. Lando Norris loved a challenge, and he would love to prove to everyone that you were not the next Freud and he didn’t need saving.

“Ok, fine, whatever.”

You smiled, victorious. Zak clapped his hands, getting up from his seat, followed by Lando, who just stormed off the room without saying any proper words.

This one was going to be interesting.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · [next day] · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He’s late. Deliberately so. You knew it was on purpose, that he would do anything to get you to give up. But you could be as persistent and stubborn as him. There was no apology when the door creaked open, just the confident footsteps that weren't rushed. No guilt, no embarrassment, only sheer arrogance.

Lando Norris walked in like he owned the oxygen in the room, like he was doing you a favor by showing up at all. You didn’t move, didn’t even lift your gaze, keeping your eyes on the wall clock with mechanical indifference.

His eyes scanned the office, and you tracked every shift in his expression. The tiny furrow between his brows at the absence of any art, the twitch at the corners of his mouth when he saw only one chair, leather, black. Minimal. Impersonal. Surgical.

He failed to realize he was being read by the second he stepped in.

“No couch?” he murmured, finally. “Thought shrinks were supposed to have a couch.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who reclines easily.”

That got him a reaction - barely perceptible, though - only the curl of a lip and a faint twitch in his jaw. This was good, you wanted him slightly off balance.

Lando hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he sat, legs sprawled and arms folded, trying with his posture to adopt control. He wasn’t comfortable, he was performing. His breathing was calm, but his jaw was tight, a classic misdirection. He had been coached, media-trained, he knew exactly how to be a mirrorball, how to give people the exact version they needed to see.

Then, nothing. Not from him, not from you. The clock ticked; one second… Two…. Fifteen… Forty. By the time a full minute has passed, Lando started to fidget. Not enough to look restless, just enough to betray that he knew silence was a tactic. You, however, let it stretch a beat longer before speaking.

“They told me your problem was anxiety.” Your voice was smooth, analytical. “But… I just think you’re bored. Am I correct?”

His jaw tightened, eyes flashing to yours. That irritated him, mainly because you didn’t open the file that sat lonely over the table.

“You always diagnose people before they speak?” he shot at you, sharp edged.

“This is not a diagnosis.” You leaned back in your chair, hands folding together neatly in your lap. “I’m just stating what I see. You’re not here to talk, you’re here to check an obligation. Probably resentfully.”

“What, do you want me to cry?”

“Would that be productive for you?” You tilted your head.

“You tell me.”

You watched Lando with that same unnerving calm, enough to catch something charging behind his eyes.

“You like to provoke, Lando. I get it, it’s safer than being honest. That’s fine. Just know it’s not original.”

Lando let out a low, incredulous laugh and ran a hand over his face. He was amused, frustrated and profoundly annoyed.

“I get it…” he started. “You’re clever. Observant. Is that your thing?”

You didn’t answer, unfazed by his arrogance.

Lando shifted, legs drawing slightly closer together. Less performative now, less certain too. He didn’t know why he expected you to be… softer. Maybe the black turtleneck, maybe the voice… It was low, not quite monotone, but measured, like someone who doesn’t waste syllables. He couldn’t read you and that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. You didn’t look impressed, not with the name or his status. You weren’t trying to fix him, not even trying to understand him. You were studying him., like a pattern. And fuck, he hated that.

“I’m here,” he said, eventually, shrugging. “Isn’t that the whole thing? I show up, you take notes and I nod when you say something deep.”

You didn’t blink.

“That’s the thing about taking notes, it implies compliance. But you walked in late, challenged the setting, and haven’t said a single word.”

“You haven’t asked a single question.”

You paused. Watched him.

“What do you want people to see when they look at you?”

Lando froze. Not because the question was profound, but because you asked it like you already knew the answer. And he didn’t.

“I don’t care what people see.” he lied.

The lie was in the deflection, the cocked eyebrow, the way his gaze slided to the wall instead of holding yours. Lando cared, desperately. In both the typical and nontypical way. He wanted adoration and control. He lived for the power over how the world digested him.

“You care more than you want to admit.”

Lando was bleeding from wounds he neglected. He wasn’t restless. He was untethered. That was different. He put himself on autopilot and called it ambition. You’ve seen this before, athletes who mistake identity for devotion, who confused success with passion. Lando was burned out and he was empty. And he knew it. But saying it out loud would shatter the version of himself he liked to pretend it was real.

The McLaren driver jerked forward slightly.

“Don’t make this about media or fame or whatever sob story you think I’ve got locked in here.” He tapped his temple like it’s all just noise. “I’m not your pet project.”

“I don’t work with pet projects,” you replied.

“I’m not suffering either,” he muttered.

“I never said you were” You leaned forward, elbows on the desk now, eyes locked with his. “You used to be very active on social media.”

“Is that your diagnosis?” he shot back. “Not chronically online enough for you?”

“No. My diagnosis is that you’re pretending you love a version of your life that doesn’t feed you anymore.”

Lando stood up suddenly. Chair scraping against the floor, loud and sharp.

“This is bullshit.”

You watched the door, but he didn’t walk out. Lando wanted to escape, but not necessarily the room. The problem wasn’t you, it was the implication that someone might see the things he worked so hard to bury.

“You’re not scared of failure,” you continued, voice like velvet draped over a blade. “You’re scared of regretting wasting all your best years for nothing. And you are definitely scared of letting all those people down.”

He opened the door without a word, slamming it a second later. The escape wasn’t convincing.

You let the silence settle again, knowing you’ll have much fun over the next few days.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·[race weekend - austria]· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Hospitality units always smelled like nerves wrapped in espresso. The chill of the air conditioning never quite masked the heat of performance anxiety, or the mechanical rhythm of branding disguised as purpose.

You stood in the far corner. Out of the camera’s eye and journalists, just watching.

Lando moved like a pattern– smooth, repetitive, curated to look casual. But there was nothing casual about the way his fingers wrapped his gloves. Same stretch, same angle. Peel. Rewrap. Tighten. Peel again. His brow furrowed just slightly when the tape didn’t lie flat. Left hand. Right hand. Repeat.

He hadn't spoken to you since the session. But, again, you didn’t expect him to. However, the thing about tension - real, buried, humming tension - was that it always found a leak.

You watched the next cue: pacing. Not frantic, but measured. Four steps forward, pivot, four steps back. Always the same distance, as if he needed to feel in control of something. His headphones were clamped around his ears like they were a shield.

You recognized it. The compulsions, the rituals dressed up as preparation. Superstition repackaged as focus. And you weren’t the only one watching. Oscar stood near him, arms crossed, sipping a bottle of water. Familiar and easy. The kind of closeness that came from years of knowing without having to ask.

“Every ritual becomes a prison if you don’t know why you need it.”

The silence broke like glass.

Oscar blinked, while Lando froze mid-wrap. He pulled his headphones down slowly. Not confusion, calculation. The air changed. The brit looked at you like you’d stuck a finger in a live wire just to see if he’d twitch.

“What did you just say?” he asked, low.

You didn’t repeat it. You just held his gaze. Oscar shifted slightly, as if he could already sense the storm brewing behind Lando’s collar.

Lando took a step toward you. Not aggressive, but he was trying his best to be intimidating, however, keeping it cool for Oscar’s benefit… And for his own.

“You really think it’s okay to psychoanalyze me in front of someone else?”

“I am not psychoanalyzing you.”

“Oh, right,” he said, voice laced with something between a laugh and a threat. “Because everything you say is just an observation, right? Unbiased. Clinical. Above it all.”

“Why are you angry?”

He stepped closer. Close enough that you could see the flare in his nostrils, the slight tremor in his fingers. He hadn’t finished taping his gloves, left one still loose, unfinished.

“You know what I think?” he asked, voice quiet now. “You like watching people suffer. You like peeling them open so you can feel powerful. That’s not therapy, you’re just a sadist with a degree.”

Oscar’s head turned sharply, looking away, he was uncomfortable to be witnessing this private moment.

“You tape your gloves the same way every time, wear your headphones like a shell, repeat the same pattern until it feels like certainty. That’s not preparation. You look like you’re about to enter the Coliseum.”

His face twitched. A flinch disguised as a smirk.

“You’re invasive,” he snapped. “Cold. A fraud.”

There it was. The crack. Small, but enough. And then he was walking away, jaw clenched, headphones swinging from his hand like a weapon he didn’t get to use.

Oscar lingered, gaze flicking between the empty space where Lando stood and you.

“Sorry about that, Oscar.” you said softly, for him and only him.

Oscar didn’t speak for a long moment, until he nodded. Half a shrug, half something softer. Like maybe he understood, or maybe he wanted to say something for a very long time. He followed after Lando. And you stood still, alone in the echo of tension you’d helped create.

Back in his driver room, Lando ripped the glove tape off like it had personally betrayed him. Meanwhile, Oscar leaned against the wall in the lounge, arms folded, a frown just under the surface of his quiet.

“You want to talk about it?”

Lando scoffed. “She thinks she knows everything. Thinks she can just say shit like that.”

“She didn’t say anything wrong.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lando turned, sharp.

“You do that thing with the gloves every single time. If the seam’s off, you start over. Every single time.”

“It’s called routine.” Lando paced, jaw tight.

“It’s called panic management,” Oscar said, soft but steady.

“She’s not a therapist,” Lando muttered.

“She is,” Oscar said. “And a good one.”

“Whose side are you on?”

Oscar didn’t reply. Just looked at him with those calm and familiar brown eyes that earned him a friendship over the years.

Lando exhaled, hard, giving up resistance.

“It’s not about the gloves.”

“I know.” Oscar nodded

And Lando didn’t say anything else. Because the gloves were just the tip of the iceberg, he just didn’t want to know what would happen when his cracks gave away completely.

Later that day, you found yourself in your hotel room, staring at the untouched file open on your laptop. Lando’s name at the top, followed by blank fields.

You could have written paragraphs. Pattern recognition, emotional triggers. But you didn’t. Because the truth was, he wasn’t wrong. You did strike without permission. You did expose him in front of someone he trusted. And you had felt something when he looked at you like that.

But he wasn’t wrong, and neither were you. You weren’t there to be liked, you were there to be honest. Even if it meant pressing a finger to the bruise no one else would touch.

You closed the laptop, silence settling around you, an enormous clue that you had to make things right.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After the race that weekend, the paddock was nearly empty. Race was over, the press was done, the champagne dried.

You sat in the reserved team debrief room, the one tucked behind closed doors, unbranded, meant for sponsors and strategy meetings. This time the lightning was cold and there were only two chairs.

You didn’t check the time. You already knew he was late. On purpose. He made you wait, and you let him.

When Lando finally walked in, his race suit was peeled to his waist, fireproofs sticking to his skin, curls damp from the helmet. He shut the door behind him like the silence was part of the conversation.

You didn’t move and he didn’t sit.

“You’re early,” he joked, humourless.

“I’m always on time,” you replied.

“Bet that gets lonely.” He scoffed under his breath.

“Still angry?” You tilted your head.

“Nope.” He leaned against the wall instead of taking the seat. Arms crossed in a casual posture, unlike his eyes. “I’m curious… You said last time I was afraid of losing control, of the illusion cracking.”

You didn’t nod. You didn’t confirm. Those weren’t the words you used, it was just his confirmation bias working in your favour.

Lando moved closer.

“You always talk like you’re above it all. But you’re just as invested in being unreadable as the rest of us.”

“That’s not the same as pretending.”

“Isn’t it?” His mouth curled into something that almost looked like a smile, if you tilted your head the right way. “You ever think the reason you see through people is because you’re terrified someone might actually see through you?”

You didn’t answer.

Lando sat, finally. Elbows on knees. Exchanging his gaze between his hands and then back at you.

“You watch everything. Like you’re writing it all down in that head of yours. Every flinch, every tell. You think you’re safe because you’re the observer.”

“Sure, yeah, observation is a form of protection,” you admit, quietly, but unmoved by his attempt to getting you to crack.

“So is control,” he countered. “So is ritual.”

You said nothing, allowing the silence to grow, not giving him anything else. You weren’t the patient here.

He leaned back now, arms draped across the chair, but the tension had coiled itself under his skin. You could see it in the muscle twitch in his jaw, in the faint red line where the helmet had pressed too tight. His foot tapped, tap-tap-tap against the floor before he caught himself.

“I came in sixth,” Lando said it like it meant something different in this room than it did out there.

“I know.”

“I should’ve done better.”

“Why do you think that?”

He gave you a raised eyebrow in response.

“That’s my job? I should do good at my job.” he muttered.

“Is this all racing is for you? A job?”

You noticed how he tried his best to stay in his place instead of getting up and leaving.

“I’ve been thinking, you’ve got all these stories, all this insight. But no one really knows anything about you, do they?” Lando leaned closer. There was heat inside of him now. He was attacking this conversation like a challenge. “So let’s trade…” he started. “Why did Ferrari get rid of you?”

The question dropped like a loaded gun on the table, but your breath stayed steady.

“What have you heard?”

“That you said something about Sainz or Leclerc that made Vasseur cry.”

You slowly leaned into his space, where the tension turned into static, just enough to let your voice’s vibration reach his skin.

“I told Vasseur that replacing Carlos Sainz with Hamilton wasn’t going to fix all Ferrari’s problems.”

“But replacing Leclerc would?”

There was silence, excruciatingly loud. You leaned back and met his eyes. For the first time, the green wasn’t angry, they were searching.

The implication hung between you. You didn’t need to say more, and, frankly, Lando wouldn’t ask. You cracked the door open, and he had to decide whether to walk through or close it forever. But he couldn’t even offer you a smirk. Instead, his voice dropped to something quieter, however, not soft or gentle.

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

“That’s not my problem,” you said. “I’m not here to be done with.”

He stared at you for a long time.

“Your presence is too much,” he stated. Then, after a beat, “But I don’t… hate it.”

It wasn’t a confession, but it was very close. The weight of something unnamed, curling in the silence like smoke.

“Lando, you need to understand that out of everyone in this team, I am the one you can be sure will always stand by your side.” You shot at him, emphasizing the correct words with precision.

He stared at you for a beat too long. Jaw tight. Breathing uneven, as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scream.

“And what if I don’t want anyone to stand by me?”

His voice was sharp, but there was something underneath it, like the truth didn’t sit right in his chest, so he spat it out before it suffocated him.

It stung, but you smiled.

“Well, you still have to endure me for another week.”

He didn’t answer, but this time, when he left the room, he didn’t slam the door. Instead, Lando closed it like he was leaving a secret behind.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·[Silverstone]· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The rain at Silverstone didn’t just fall, it poured. As if the track itself was exhaling all the pressure of the weekend in one weather rebellious event. You watched the storm without blinking, your reflection a ghost on the garage’s monitor screens.

You were soaking wet after getting caught by the storm on your way to the paddock, not like you moved to dry yourself, or brought an extra set of clothes. You stood like you were part of the infrastructure, just another column holding up the roof, head tilted, jacket hugging your body uncomfortably.

And then he found you. Lando. You didn’t look at him, not at first, but you felt the moment he crossed into your atmosphere. That internal barometer dipped. The air tightened.

You were there. Of course you were. Like you anticipated the storm, the delay in free practice, to give you two more time to talk. And when he saw you, soaked through, still as stone, every word he rehearsed to annoy you fell flat. So he said the first true thing that came to mind:

“You don’t look waterproof.”

You arched a brow.

“No shit.”

His lip twitched. He wasn’t expecting a reaction. Not out of this.

He moved closer, not deliberately. But close enough that he could see the rain collecting in the hollow of your throat. See how you hadn’t bothered to wipe the mascara smudge beneath your right eye.

“I thought psychologists would rather stay dry in their boring glass rooms.”

“It’s nice to remind myself that I am not a robot sometimes,” you softened. Lando almost laughed at your stupid joke. “Why are you here?”

“Jesus, woman, does everything need to have a reason for you?”

“Everything usually does.” You looked him dead in the eyes, the green morphing into some kind of grayish-blue. “Especially to you.”

Lando let the tension between your words sit tight and occupy space. You said it clinically, objectively, but he felt a weird weight in it.

“Are all therapists hard to read like you?” he asked, not provoking, just out of curiosity.

“You are aware that I’m a human being, right, Lando?”

Your eyes locked. There were only a few inches between you. The sound of rain was hammering metal. There was so much noise around, the buzz of garage equipment, engineers in motion. However, the stillness between you was louder than anything.

He reached up, adjusting the strap on his fireproofs. It was a pointless gesture, something to do with his hands. You caught the tell.

“Does it help?” you asked.

“What?”

“The fidgeting.”

“Does watching me do it turns you on or something?” He chuckled.

“No,” you said softly. “That would be unprofessional, wouldn’t it?”

You weren’t sure when his hand brushed against yours. It wasn’t incidental. You could pretend it was, but that wouldn’t explain the way his knuckles lingered, warm and damp from the rain, grazing yours with the kind of reverence that didn’t belong in a place like this. In a garage that smelled like rubber and nerves and burnt ambition.

No. That touch was intentional in denial, criminal in restraint. The backs of your fingers barely touched, it wouldn’t even register on a thermal camera, but it set your blood to boil. You didn’t move away. Neither did he. His pinky curled ever so slightly and now the side of his hand was flush against yours. The contact was so small it could be dismissed, but so intimate it felt indecent.

Lando tilted his head, just a little, like he was trying to read a language only your body spoke.

“You always this quiet when someone touches you?” he murmured.

His voice was lower than it should’ve been. Close. Not quite a whisper, nor quite a dare.

“Depends on who’s doing the touching.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes. Something feral and curious. Something he hadn’t quite decided to like or hate yet.

Lando didn’t move away. His breath was shallow now. Your hand still against his. Your shoulder close enough to his chest that you could feel the residual heat radiating off his suit. You could’ve said a thousand things. You could’ve asked him to step back. You could’ve told him this was a line you shouldn’t cross. But instead you said:

“You’re not angry anymore.”

He laughed, a bit shy.

“No. Just…” He paused, then swallowed hard.“…tired of pretending I am not intrigued by you.”

Your throat went dry. And for a moment — just one charged, godless second — you thought he might do it. Close the inch. Close the lie that this was being professional.

You leaned in by a breath. He did the same.

“Lando?”

The engineer’s voice sliced through the air like a barbed wire. The moment collapsed in on itself. You both jerked back — too fast. Like teenagers. Like something shameful had almost happened.

Lando cleared his throat, then ran a hand through his damp curls.

“Yeah?” His voice cracked. He didn’t fix it.

“They need you in sim.”

He nodded. Didn’t look at you again — not right away. But when he finally did, it wasn’t angry. Or smug. It was longing.

You watched him go and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. But your hand still burned where he touched it. And his did too.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·[post-race session]· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The air in the room felt heavier after the race. Dense, like it had gathered the weight of everything unspoken between you and the british driver. This was the final session, the last one before summer break, the last time you’d see him. You had both been counting down to it. Dreading it, maybe. But for different reasons.

The clock on the wall ticked too loud. The afternoon light couldn’t reach the inside of the room. You had set everything up like always: notebook open, pen placed carefully on top, two glasses of water. Predictable. Safe.

And then the door opened. Early. You looked up only to find Lando. No easy smile, no cocky quip. Just him. Quiet, raw in the edges, like something tender had been scraped open beneath the skin. His hair was still slightly damp, curling loosely at the ends. He wasn’t wearing the usual team hoodie, just a soft, thick gray hoodie, too oversized to his frame. His eyes found you and didn’t move away this time.

“Hey,” his voice was lower than usual, rougher.

“Hi.” Your voice came out thinner than you intended.

He walked in slowly, almost like he was afraid of startling you. Sat down on the carefully pulled chair, closer than usual. The chair creaked. His knee almost brushed yours under the small table. He didn’t lean back like he usually did. No forced posture of indifference. He just sat there and folded into himself, hands clasped in front of him.

You studied his face — the subtle tension in his jaw, the faint dark circles under his eyes, the way his thumb kept rubbing over his knuckle. You recognized it. The exhaustion of someone who’s been carrying too much for too long.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” Lando finally said, barely above a whisper. “Kept thinking.”

You stayed quiet. You knew better than to fill the space.

His eyes darted to you briefly, then back to his hands.

“I’m tired of pretending it’s fun all the time,” he exhaled. “Like, I know everyone wants the show, the jokes, the stupid fucking memes, the smiling… But sometimes I wake up and I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to… entertain.”

Your throat tightened.

He kept going, words spilling now.

“I used to love it. Racing, I mean. Not the circus. The driving, the feeling of… flying. But lately I —” His voice broke for half a second. “— I keep wondering if I’m losing it. If it’s slipping. Like, are these my good years or do I have none? Because, Oscar is fucking thriving out here, winning every damn race, and I feel so-”

He stopped himself. Looked away. You didn’t move. Not yet. You could feel the sharp edges under his words. The fear sitting behind the frustration.

“Average?” you completed, softly.

Lando flinched, just slightly. But there was relief in the honesty of it. He nodded once, eyes still averted.

You exhaled slowly. Let the moment hang.

“Lando...” Your voice was steady, almost a whisper, but firm. “Who you are is not measured by what Oscar wins. And it’s not measured by what they say about you, either.”

You watched him closely. His jaw tightened. His shoulders pulled inward, like he was bracing for the familiar storm.

“The public, the comments, the headlines, the noise… They turn every race into a ranking of your worth. They decide who’s rising and who’s falling. Who’s beloved and who’s mocked. But that narrative isn’t truth, Lando. It’s projection. It’s temporary.”

He blinked, hard. His hands rubbed over each other, fingers fidgeting.

“When you start believing that every mistake confirms what they say… that you’re not good enough, that you’re falling behind, that you’re a disappointment, you hand your identity over to people who don’t even know you. Oscar isn’t your measuring stick. And neither are they. You’re not broken because you care about how they see you… But you’ll break yourself trying to make them love you. They don’t get to decide your value. You do.”

His breathing slowed, as though the words were unraveling something tight inside his chest.

“You’re allowed to want more, Lando. You’re allowed to feel frustrated. But you’re not failing because someone else is thriving. That’s not how worth works.”

Lando gathered the courage to look over you. The look in his eyes was as if something had collapsed and bloomed all at once.

“I care too much,” he whispered. “I know I do. About what people think. About what it means. About being enough. And I fucking hate that I care.”

You swallowed hard.

You felt your own walls shift then. The carefully cultivated distance bending under the weight of his vulnerability. Then, very slowly, almost before you realized you were doing it, your hand lifted. You reached across the small space between you and your fingers found his, resting lightly at first, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to touch him. His knuckles were warm under your skin.

The contact was small, professional enough that you could pretend — if you wanted — that it meant nothing. But it lingered. Longer than it should have.

His head lowered slightly, almost imperceptibly leaning into your hand, like he was starving for that single point of contact. Like it anchored him.

The room was thick with something neither of you named. And for the first time since this had begun, you felt a door opening.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” he murmured. “Weak.”

“You’re not weak.” Your thumb moved, the tiniest stroke against his knuckle, deliberate now.

His eyes closed for a second. You watched his lashes flutter, his breathing slowing, deepening like he was grounding himself in your touch.

“I don’t want this to end,” he said quietly, barely audible.

You should have pulled your hand back. You didn’t. Instead, his fingers intertwined yours, fitting perfectly in between, charging your touch with heat. And you realized you didn’t want it to end either.

The door closed behind him and you sat there for a long moment breathing into the silence trying to collect yourself but your pulse kept rising, your fingertips still tingling from where you touched him as if his warmth had branded your skin and maybe it had. Maybe that was the problem.

You stood slowly. Your legs unsteady like you had walked too close to something dangerous and inhaled too much of it. The weight of the session still clinging to your bones, but there was something else now, something heavier, hotter, curling at the base of your spine

You went immediately back to your hotel. The elevator was quiet. The hallway even quieter. The muted beige carpet, the soft overhead lights, the stillness of expensive sterility, and, yet, your head felt loud, like static roaring under your skin.

You walked faster, as if outrunning the friction inside you. Then you heard it behind you. Your name. Not loud, but enough to stop you, like gravity, like an invisible hand wrapping around your wrist, pulling you backwards. You closed your eyes once, briefly, because you already knew it was him.

You turned slowly. Lando stood a few steps behind. Hands in the pockets of that same thick hoodie. His hair a little more unruly now. His eyes locked on you, not playful, not teasing, just burning quietly, as if something inside him had finally slipped free and he couldn’t put it back.

“You shouldn’t be here” your voice came out low barely steady “This isn’t appropriate.”

Lando didn’t answer at first, he just stared and in that stare was everything you weren’t supposed to acknowledge. The unraveling threads, the slow smoldering pull that had been tightening between you for weeks, maybe from the very start. And you felt it humming under your skin, tightening your throat.

“I know.” he said, voice rougher than you had ever heard it, like sandpaper. “I know it’s not”

And still he didn’t move, didn’t leave, didn’t let you breathe.

You should have walked away. You should have shut it down. You were trained to. But you didn’t. Instead, you stood frozen, watching him watching you, and it felt like standing in the middle of a fuse burning too close to the detonation.

“Lando” you said again softer now, but there was a fracture in your voice, one you couldn’t quite control “Don’t do this.”

He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the heat of him radiating in the small sterile space between you. And you hated yourself for not stepping back. Because part of you wanted to lose the grip you kept white-knuckled for so long.

“I’m not the only one doing something.” he whispered, “Don’t pretend you don’t feel it too.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny, to push him away with words, but nothing came out. Because the truth was bleeding too loudly under your skin. You wanted him. God, you wanted him more than you wanted to keep control, more than you wanted to stay professional, more than you wanted to stay safe.

Lando saw it in your silence and that was when he moved the last inch between you. His mouth crashed into yours, like something inevitable. Brutal, desperate. His hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish, like he was anchoring himself. And you answered it with a sharp intake of breath. Until you were kissing him back, hard, urgent, teeth and tongues clashing. It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t tender, it was weeks of restraint collapsing in the smallest space possible.

It lasted seconds, or minutes, you couldn’t tell. But when you finally broke apart, you were both breathless, chests heavy, wide-eyed, like neither of you fully believed you had actually crossed the line.

“This shouldn’t have happened. This was a mistake.” you managed to say, but your voice shook when it left. And the way he looked at you made your stomach turn into knots, because he didn’t believe you.

“It’s only a mistake if you want it to be.” Lando stated quietly. Daring you to pretend and go against your urges.

You stared at him. Your back against the hotel door. Your heartbeat thundering in your throat. You wanted to pull him in and you wanted to slam the door shut on this whole thing. Both impulses fighting like wild animals inside you.

Instead you turned the handle, opened the door behind you, letting the warm dim light spill out into the hallway.

“If you walk in here,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “I stop being your psychologist.”

Lando didn’t move for a second but his eyes never left yours, sharp, unflinching, full of something dangerous and hungry.

“I never planned for you to be my psychologist after summer break, either way.”

And for a moment the world hung perfectly still between you.

You didn’t know who moved first, or if you even had time to decide, because suddenly he was in the room and the door clicked shut behind him. The space shrank around you like the air had been sucked out, and all you could feel was him standing too close, too warm, too dangerous.

Lando was watching you like you were something fragile about to break, but his hands found your hips anyway. It was like being pulled into a current too strong to resist, like your whole body had been waiting for this to happen no matter how many times your mind said no.

Your back hit the wall softly, but it was enough to make you gasp, and that sound broke him. Whatever thin thread of patience he had left, it snapped. His mouth was on yours again, hungrier, rougher, his teeth grazing your lower lip, and you let him, because you were tired of controlling everything, tired of carrying the weight of being careful and detached and safe.

Lando’s hands slid up under your blouse, fingertips skating over your ribs as if memorizing every line of you, like he didn’t want to waste a single inch. Your skin burned under his touch. You arched into him without meaning to, and you felt him groan, low in his throat, against your mouth.

“Fuck, you’re driving me insane,” he whispered, lips brushing yours, his breath hot and uneven. “I tried to be good. I really fucking tried.”

You didn’t answer, because your hands were already tugging at the hem of his hoodie, pulling it over his head in one desperate motion. When it was gone, you stared for a beat at the way his chest rose and fell, his skin flushed with heat, the sharp lines of muscle under soft light. And then he was pulling your blouse over your head too, fingers quick and frantic.

“But you look so perfect for me,” he whispered almost reverently, hands sliding down your sides, thumbs grazing the soft curve of your waist. “Need to make you mine.”

The moment your skin met his fully, it was like setting fire to something too dry, too starved to survive. Lando pressed his body against yours, pinning you against the wall, one hand threading into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss down your throat. Slow at first, tasting you like he wanted to savor every pulse beneath your skin.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as his mouth reached your collarbone and lower, teeth grazing the swell of your breast. You hissed softly, feeling your control unraveling into ribbons falling at your feet.

“Lan…”

“Say it,” he rasped against your skin, his voice hoarse, possessive. “Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“I want you to fuck me, Lando. Right here.” You barely recognized your own voice when it came out, breathless and shaking.

He groaned at that, like the words shattered something inside him.

“I knew it,” he whispered, voice sharp with need. “I fucking knew you wanted this. Tell me to stop.”

He whispered again, voice raw. But you couldn’t, because you didn’t want him to stop. You never wanted him to stop.

Instead, you pulled him closer, fingers curling into his hair, guiding him lower. Lando followed gladly, dropping to his knees like he belonged there, like he had been waiting for this moment as long as you had. His hands gripped your thighs firm enough to bruise, and then his mouth was on you, hot and wet and perfect.

“Fuck, you’re so wet.” he groaned, voice muffled against your heat. “All this because of me, baby?”

Your head fell back against the wall, a moan escaping before you could catch it, and his tongue worked you open with deliberate strokes, patient at first and then increasingly greedy. You bucked into him, your legs trembling under the weight of it all.

“God, yes… just like that,” you gasped, one hand slamming against the wall behind you, the other tangled tight in his curls, holding him there like an anchor, like you needed him to keep you from falling apart completely.

“Look at you falling apart for me,” he murmured, pulling back just slightly to meet your gaze. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.”

He groaned into you, the vibrations making you cry out again, and his fingers joined his mouth, two of them sliding inside you easily, curling up to find the spot that made your knees buckle.

“Lan… Please, I’m so close…”

His tongue flicked relentlessly against your clit, sending you spiraling faster and faster until you came hard against him, shaking, breathless, the world splintering at the edges.

“There she is. That’s it, baby. Give it to me.”

But he didn’t stop, not really. Even as your body trembled, he kissed his way back up your stomach, your ribs, your throat, catching your mouth again like he couldn’t stand not touching you for even a second. You tasted yourself on his tongue as he pressed you harder into the wall.

“I need you,” he rasped against your lips, and you nodded, because so did you. “You think I’m done with you? We’re only getting started.”

You barely made it to the bed, his hands on your waist guiding you backwards, his pupils blown wide, his breathing ragged as he stripped out of the rest of his clothes. You followed, shedding everything like armor, until there was nothing left between you except raw need.

He hovered over you for a moment, one hand cupping your cheek, thumb tracing your lips like he was trying to memorize you one last time before you both crossed the line completely.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So messy. So perfect. Gonna save me, pretty girl?”

You didn’t give him a chance to hesitate. You reached for him, pulling him down until his body was flush with yours, skin to skin, heat radiating between you.

“You act so cold in that little office, and now you’re begging for my cock.”

You guided him to you slowly, his cock pressing against your entrance and then sliding in, deep, inch by aching inch, until he was fully inside you, and you both gasped at the sensation of finally, finally being exactly where you both wanted.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned into your ear, his voice ragged, desperate. “So fucking tight for me.”

He held still for a moment, forehead resting against yours as you both adjusted to the overwhelming intensity of it all. Then he started moving, slow, deep thrusts that made your breath hitch with every roll of his hips, filling you so completely it bordered on unbearable.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your nails raking down his back as his pace quickened, desperation bleeding into every movement, into every sound, into every gasp that filled the space between you.

“Tell me how much you need me,” he panted. “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

“Please… fill me up, Lan. I want to feel you everywhere.”

The hotel room around you disappeared — the walls, the ceiling, the world itself — nothing existed except this, except him, except the impossible friction building higher and higher until you were both on the edge again.

“This pretty little cunt was made for me, yeah?” he growled, his voice dark, his thrusts rougher now.

“Yes,” you moaned, your voice breaking apart as the coil inside you tightened. “Fuck… ruin me. I want you to ruin me.”

“Is that what you want? To get ruined? To be treated, finally, like you’re not above anyone?” You nodded your head frenetically, unable to hold back the sighs escaping your lips. “You shouldn’t be treated like a superior when you look this good underneath me.”

He whispered your name over and over, like a prayer, like an apology, like he couldn’t believe you were real, his voice broken and raw as his pace grew erratic, hips snapping into you with reckless desperation.

“Fuck, you’re perfect… you feel so perfect… so fucking tight around me,” he groaned, the words rasping against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Taking me so fucking well, baby. God, I can't… you make me lose my fucking mind.”

You clung to him with everything you had, nails digging into his slick back as the coil inside you tightened to a breaking point. His hand slid between you, fingers finding your clit without hesitation, circling it with frantic precision.

“Come for me,” he begged, voice strangled. “Please. I want to feel you lose it around me. I need it.”

The pressure snapped, beautifully, violently. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave you couldn’t control. You cried out his name, arching into him, your whole body trembling beneath the force of it, and it pulled him over the edge with you.

“Fuck, yes, that’s it. That’s my girl,” he groaned, burying himself deep one final time, his whole body shuddering as he came undone inside you. “You’re mine. You’re fucking mine.��

For a long time, neither of you moved, both panting, limbs tangled, hearts racing in sync, your skin damp with sweat, your bodies heavy against each other. His head fell into the crook of your neck as he tried to catch his breath, as though even now he couldn’t let you go.

You could still feel him pulsing inside you, the heat of him deep, claiming you in a way words never could. It was reckless. It was dangerous. It was everything you had told yourself you wouldn’t do. And still. You didn’t regret it.

But even as your breathing started to steady, you felt him twitch inside you, still hard, still desperate. His hands gripped your hips tighter, like he wasn’t done, like stopping now would destroy him completely.

“Lando…?” you whispered, breathless, but he didn’t answer.

Instead, Lando pulled out slowly, just enough to make you whimper at the loss, before slamming back into you in one ruthless, unforgiving thrust that made your back arch and your breath catch in your throat.

“Shh,” he rasped against your ear, voice darker now, something raw and cracked leaking into his words. “I’m not fucking done with you.”

You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, your entire body already overstimulated and trembling, but you couldn’t stop him — didn’t want to stop him.

Lando started fucking into you hard, fast, the bed creaking beneath you as his frustrations bled into every violent snap of his hips.

“You think you can drive me crazy like this and I’ll just stop after one round?” he gritted out, his jaw tight. “I’ve been losing my fucking mind over you.”

He cut himself off with a brutal thrust that punched the air from your lungs.

“It’s too much– I can’t–”

“No, baby, you can. I know you can, come on. Be a good girl for me.”

You choked out, dizzy, overwhelmed, your head thrown back into the mattress. His hands grabbed you from under your knees, forcing your legs up, folding you open for him completely as he pounded into you even deeper, rougher, like he needed to break you apart just to put you back together again.

“Look at you,” he snarled, his face flushed, sweat dripping from his hairline, eyes wild. “You’re so fucking desperate for me now. Such a good little mess under me.”

He growled deep in his throat, bending forward to bite into the soft skin of your shoulder, marking you as his. His thrusts became animalistic, grunts tearing from his chest as he fucked you like this was his only way to survive.

“Fuck…yes…take it. Take all of me,” he groaned into your skin. “You make me so fucking crazy, baby. You make me lose my fucking mind.”

You could feel yourself tipping again, that sharp edge pulling tighter with every brutal stroke, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every hard thrust. His dirty words filled your head, flooding your senses until you couldn’t think anymore. You were nothing but sensation, nothing but him.

“You’re gonna come again for me, aren’t you?” he demanded, voice strained. “Gonna milk my cock like the filthy girl you are.”

“Yes, yes. Fuck, I can’t—” you cried, barely able to form words anymore as the second orgasm slammed into you, harder than the first, your whole body convulsing around him.

He cursed under his breath, losing all rhythm as your spasming walls dragged him over the edge with you. His hips stuttered, cock pulsing deep inside you again, filling you until you felt the hot, wet rush of him coating your walls.

Lando hissed through gritted teeth, hands gripping you like he was terrified you might vanish beneath him.

The driver collapsed on top of you, panting, trembling, both of you soaked in sweat and flushed beyond repair. The world spun around you, but all you could feel was him. Still inside you. Still holding you like his entire sanity was hanging by a thread.

For a long time, all you could hear was your combined breathing, sharp and uneven, hearts still racing wildly against each other’s chests. His lips brushed your temple, softer now, but no less desperate.

His lips brushed your temple, softer now, but no less desperate.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you,” he whispered, voice cracked and raw. “I don’t want to.”

But even as the words left his mouth, you felt him harden inside you again, impossibly fast, his cock still buried deep, twitching with need.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his hips started to move once more, slow at first, a deep, grinding roll that made you gasp.

“You feel that?” he murmured darkly, his lips dragging along your jaw, voice thick with obsession. “Still so fucking tight. Still squeezing me like you’re begging me to fill you again.”

Your body was beyond exhausted, every nerve ending raw and oversensitive, but the feel of him, the low growl in his voice, the way he looked at you like you were his entire world, it set you on fire all over again.

“Lando… I–”

“Shh.” His hand wrapped around your throat gently but firm, forcing your eyes on him. “No more thinking. Just take it. Let me fucking use you, baby. You need this just as much as I do.”

His thrusts turned brutal again, sharp, unrelenting, his frustration bleeding out with every savage snap of his hips. The bed groaned beneath you, headboard slamming softly against the wall in rhythm with his movements.

“Fucking hell… All this time I’ve been losing my mind watching you act untouchable,” he growled, the words pouring out like venom as he fucked deeper, harder. “Provoking me like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. Wearing those tight little skirts, standing so fucking close… you knew, didn’t you?”

You whimpered, completely wrecked under him, your hands gripping his biceps like they were your only anchor.

“Say it,” he demanded through clenched teeth, voice shaking. “You knew what you were doing to me.”

“I…I knew,” you sobbed, your voice high and broken. “I wanted you to want me like this.”

“You wanted me fucking obsessed,” he snapped, hand tightening around your throat just enough to make you dizzy, his eyes dark with something dangerous. “Well, congratulations, baby, you got me. You fucking got me.”

He slammed into you mercilessly, raw and possessive, sweat dripping from his brow, his teeth gritted as he chased another high like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“You’re mine,” he hissed. “Every fucking part of you. This perfect cunt? Mine. These sounds you make? Mine. That sweet face when you’re about to break? Fucking mine.”

Tears blurred your vision, from pleasure, from overstimulation, from the overwhelming weight of his voice, his body, his claim. You felt like you were floating somewhere between pain and ecstasy, the brutal rhythm pulling you under again.

“Touch yourself for me,” he ordered, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “Come on. Rub that little clit while I ruin you.”

Your hand shook as you obeyed, fingers finding the swollen bud, barely able to keep a rhythm with the way his cock was splitting you open with every relentless thrust.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl,” he praised, voice breaking, filthy and loving all at once. “Look at you, taking me like you were made for it. You’re fucking perfect, you hear me? I don’t care what anyone says. Never letting you go.”

The pressure coiled fast, too fast, your entire body a live wire beneath him.

“Lan…I…Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Come again,” he demanded, snapping his hips harder. “Fucking soak my cock while I fill you up one more time.”

You shattered with a scream, your body convulsing violently, walls clenching around him so tight it dragged him over the edge with you instantly. His thrusts grew erratic, desperate, hips grinding deep as he emptied himself inside you once more, his growl low and primal as he spilled every last drop.

“Fuck yes, baby, take all of me.” his voice cracked into a moan, breath ragged as he collapsed on top of you, trembling.

For a moment, it was pure chaos, shaking limbs, wet skin, breathless sobs, broken words whispered into flushed skin. His fingers tangled into your hair, forehead pressed to yours like he was trying to crawl inside your body, like even this wasn’t close enough.

“You’re never leaving me,” he whispered, voice hoarse and soft, trembling from exhaustion and raw obsession. “You hear me? I’ll fucking lose my mind if you ever leave me.”

You couldn’t speak. You could only nod, clinging to him with what little strength you had left, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

When your bodies finally stilled, the room was drenched in sweat and shadows, the silence punctuated only by the harsh rhythm of your breathing. His chest rose and fell against your back as he held you, like if he let go, you’d vanish into the night.

Neither of you spoke. Words felt dangerous now. Fragile. Useless.

Lando’s fingers traced slow, reverent circles on your thigh, his touch softer than it had been all night, almost childlike in its tenderness. But beneath it, you felt the storm still simmering inside him, wild and unresolved, because this hadn’t been just sex. Not for him. Not anymore.

His voice finally broke through the quiet, low and hoarse, as if it physically hurt him to speak.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” You swallowed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. He shifted behind you, his grip tightening. “Don’t do that,” he whispered. “Don’t go silent on me. Not after this.” His lips brushed your shoulder. “Please.”

The desperation bled through his voice in ways he couldn’t control — the thin veneer of control he always wore around everyone else completely shattered now. You were seeing him entirely raw, entirely exposed. No podium smiles. No charming interviews. Just Lando, young, reckless, obsessive, scared.

You turned your head slowly to meet his eyes. They were wide, feverish, and almost glassy. He already knew.

“I don’t know if I can stay,” you whispered. The truth tasted bitter in your mouth. “We crossed too many lines tonight.”

His brows knitted together, the panic blooming fast beneath his carefully masked expression.

“But you wanted this,” he rasped. “You wanted me. You want me.”

Your throat tightened.

“That doesn’t mean it’s right.”

“I don’t fucking care if it’s right,” the boy snapped, voice rising for the first time, raw emotion cracking beneath it. “I care about you. About us. Don’t hide behind your rules now. You think I can just go back to pretending after this? After finally touching you, tasting you, having you?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, inhaling sharply, trying to hold yourself together as his words cut into you. Lando was right. You had wanted him. You still did. Every fiber of your body screamed for him. But that only made it worse.

“Lando… it’s not that simple.”

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as frustration burned in his chest. He sat up abruptly, scrubbing his hand through his damp hair, pacing at the edge of the bed. The sheets slipped down your bare body as you watched him, your pulse pounding.

“You’re scared,” he said bitterly. “You’re fucking terrified.”

“Of course I am!” The words tore out of you louder than intended. “I’m your psychologist, Lando. I have a professional obligation—”

He spun toward you, eyes sharp and dark.

“Not anymore.” The air went still. You blinked. He softened almost immediately, his chest heaving. “Don’t make this the end. Don’t let tonight be… nothing.” His voice broke. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll never tell a fucking soul. Just don’t walk away.”

The weight of his desperation suffocated you. His words, his eyes, his entire body language screamed one thing louder than anything else: I need you.

But your mind was already pulling away, because you saw the inevitable consequences spiraling ahead like some cruel domino effect that neither of you could stop once it started.

Lando reached for your hand, gripping it like a man gripping a lifeline.

“You don’t have to fix me anymore. Just stay.”

You let him hold your hand, let him believe — for one more fleeting second — that this could somehow work. That this night could exist safely outside the world you both belonged to. But deep inside, you already knew.

You squeezed his hand softly, your voice barely a whisper.

“I need time.”

His face fell, just slightly. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, nodding like he understood. But you saw the panic still swirling under his skin, fighting for breath.

Later, while the early dawn crept through the thin hotel curtains, casting pale blue shadows over his sleeping face, you stood at the edge of the bed and watched him. Peaceful for once. Quiet. Unaware. His curls messy across the pillow, his bare chest rising and falling with slow, vulnerable breaths.

You memorized him like that.

By noon, the letter sat on the office desk.

“Effective immediately. Due to personal and ethical conflicts, I resign my position.”

You didn’t check your phone. You couldn’t.

You disappeared into summer break like a ghost slipping through the cracks of a world that had grown too dangerous. Away from paddocks. Away from McLaren. Away from him.

And yet, as the days stretched long and silent, as you stared out at unfamiliar skies in unfamiliar cities, you knew his hands still lingered on your skin, his words echoing like a heartbeat beneath your ribs.

You had left. But he wasn’t done.

Neither of you were done.

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #f1 writing #lando norris #lando norris fanfic #f1 #lando norris smut #lando norris x you #lando x reader #lando x y/n #lando x you

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thecoochiefairy · 12 days ago

Text

pistachios. toji + onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 12.9K word count. blackfemoriginal!reader, crossover!fic, best friends!tojixonyankopon, contractors!tojixonyankopon, husband!tojifushiguro, countryboycoded!toji, contractor!toji, grumpy!toji, sweet!toji, dominant!toji, countryboycoded!onyankopon, contractor!onyankopon, grumpy!onyankapon, sweet!onyankapon, dominant!onyankapon, threesome, black woman, vaginal penetration, rough sex, lil bit of sweet talkin’, hair pulling, creaming, choking, squirting, praising, LOTS of dirty talk/aggressive dirty talk, size kink, condomless sex, creaming, slapping ass/face, kissing, just a fine ass black + japanese man, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ hi, it’s your favorite pisces’ favorite pisces—teehee. hope you missed me. anyways, just gonna’ say right now this isn’t a nascar fic, i trashed the idea and just came up w/ something more—me, i guess? i think i like this one. i felt a lil’ rusty, so idk what nasty factor it might hit. but both my men in the same universe? oh yeah. oh yeah. anyways, i will also say the link/visuals are unfortunately not black links in specific, but it does a good job of conceptualizing what i envisioned in my mind. and if you’re nasty, you’re fully aware of who owen grey + small hands are ;) LMAO. aight, i kept thinking of deeper by PARTYNEXTDOOR, so you can put that on a loop if you’d like. enjoy. love you.

visual.

HOW DID YOU END UP HERE?

You kept asking yourself that question as your puffy lips poked in a pout, round eyes flickering in between the looming frames above you. Your freckled cheeks flushed as they glared in return of your angelic face—and then, impurely so, you crawled to them.

You couldn’t have been that naive. Not to realize their plan, or how long they’d been onto you. But none of this was your plan at all. It just—happened.

You’d been married to Toji for four years now, falling in love the moment he approached you in the streets of Tokyo, Japan. You were studying abroad in grad school, telling him that you’d been working on your masters degree within Administration, to which he replied that he shared a business with his partner—a contractor, he was.

You would never forget that initial interaction. The onyx of his hair tousled in a flawless way, matching the natural frown of his full eyebrows each time he watched you speak.

He allowed you to ramble off with low hums of ’Mmm’, even with it being the first conversation between the two of you. And to be honest, it made you nervous. From the warm ivory of his complexion that was coated with tattoos, being so many that they traveled beneath the white tee he wore, to his frame that was tall, lean, and built—the cadence of his deep voice, a gruffness to his tone as a cigarette sunk between the side of his full lips—He was like no other.

But you feigned an innocence he couldn’t pull from. The deep ginger curls draping around your freckled cheeks flushed as he spoke to you, round eyes beaming from beneath your lashes—you wore a cherry blossom within your tresses, pale pink mini dress clad around your curvy figure as you held textbooks beneath your arms. Your giggles, your smile, all those things made you like no other even more so.

He wanted you.

You both resided in New Orleans as his business was the most successful there, receiving a multitude of clients after Hurricane Katrina hit the city years before. Behind that scary demeanor was a man with wholehearted compassion—He helped others create their new homes after losing their old ones, becoming known as the most popular contractor along the West Bank. But of course, he had a little help along the way.

He offered you a job as his business’ consultant manager, able to give feedback on their personal brand as contractors, as well as answering emails and phone calls—but here’s where the issue began.

Onyankopon.

The first time meeting him was entirely friendly, even when his looks might’ve had your stomach do a flip. To the heavy New Orleans twang that slipped between a few creole words as he spoke to you, to the strength of his hand when he shook yours. The sepia of his smooth skin complexion shined in cocoa butter, strident jaw clenching as he shook the small frame of your palm.

You’ little as hell, you remember him telling you.

He was an extreme contrast to Toji—open faced grills within his mouth, teeth straight and white each time he smiled or laughed. His lips were a deep pink, full, kissabl—

Teeth. His teeth were nice.

Your eyes ran across the neatly braided cornrows, broad frame covered in tattoos that moved when he flexed his muscles. In that moment, he’d lifted his shirt to wipe the moisture of sweat from his forehead, goatee wafting a shea butter scent from the follicles—but you couldn’t even finish reading his body over, as your eyes fell right at the sculpt of his abs, Bible scriptures thumping across the flesh as he grunted from the heat of outside. And like an idiot, your reply was—

You have big hands.

Yeah, you were fucked.

Well, at first you weren’t. Onyankopon had been the best man in your wedding, constantly coming over to the house, even dozing off on the sofa as you laid a blanket over him. You and him had a good enough rapport with Toji being the common denominator—so the question was, why did you have the inkling to fuck him?

This wasn’t cheating, right?

Regardless of Toji and Onyankopon growing up together, they were extremely different—Toji was more aggressive, outspoken, able to soften his hard corners the minute he was with you. On the other hand, Onyankopon was sweet, observant, quiet, and stoic—he was the action, while Toji was the mouth piece.

So back to the point—this definitely wasn’t cheating, right?

Okay, but you loved your husband. He was there for you throughout all your highs and lows—He was patient, affectionate, hard-working, all the things you wanted within a man. He was the only man you’d ever been with—sexually, romantically—so you couldn’t understand why your brain was thinking about how big Onyankopon’s hands were—

Anyway, this was your husband’s fault. You couldn’t blame him for loving Onyankopon like a brother, but you could blame him for bringing him around more than he should have. He was like a villain to your origin story. Working out with the both of you at the gym, going out with you late at night, hanging around you just as much as your husband did. To make things worse? He was so. Damn. Nice. Opening the door for you, taking your hand as you needed to walk up the stairs, always asking how you felt throughout the day when your husband wasn’t able to do so.

It’s not that you wanted him, per se. It was the mixture of both your husband and him within the same room, deep voices talking shit to one another, laughing, eyeing you as you walked past, made dinner, giggled shyly when they both called for your attention—you weren’t trying to make it obvious that he made you a little fuzzy, but the narrow of your husband's eyes might’ve said otherwise.

Now? You were fucked.

Here you were now, sitting along your miniature desk as you did emails during the business’ new project. Both men were working on a house within Uptown, a two story home where the family wanted an all white kitchen. You were in between phone calls and looking over shop drawings to make sure the infrastructure was to the family’s desires, claw clip within your curls as they draped in between your fingers, sighing as the paper work had you a bit tired.

Your eyes wandered over to your husband standing on the opposite side of the room, ear leaning into the screen of his phone as he tugged construction gloves from his large palms—Onyankopon on the opposite side of him, plummeting his hammer into the wall above. You watched both men for a brief moment, as they both wore forest green long sleeves, tugging to the muscular frame of their shoulders and abdomen.

When you heard the click of Toji’s lighter, your eyes rolled.

“Please don’t smoke in someone else’s house, Fushiguro.”

Of course, that natural frown appeared seconds later. Your husband’s eyebrows lowered, wrist knocking down as he shook off the ash collecting at the tip of his cigar.

“‘Bout to go outside” he grunts to you, “The wife said she wants white oak instead of maple for the counter.”

Onyankopon hadn’t turned towards either of you, but he did stop his hammering, a low breath huffing from his lips as he grunted in return, “Why she ain’t say that shit earlier? I’m finna’ get started on the window.”

Toji releases a puff of smoke, “Husband said he’ll pay double.”

“That don’t’ make it any less work.”

Your husband’s grey eyes peered over his slightly irritated friend, a glint within them as he leaned forward, blowing smoke towards Onyankopon.

He now fully turned from where he stood, brown eyes stabbing every inch of Toji’s body—his low voice warns, “Chill out, nigga. You see I’m tryna’ figure out what I need to do.”

Both men always had an interesting dynamic—one could be playful, while the other couldn’t be at all. It was always easy for Toji to rile up Onyankopon.

“You’re mad ‘cause more money ‘bout to go in your pocket?” Toji raises an eyebrow, “Quit whinin’.”

Onyankopop turns to face the wall, hand holding onto the hammer, “Ain’t nobody whinin’. Stop talkin’ to me.”

Toji glances back at you from the other side of the room, a wink being sent in your direction.

You roll your eyes at the both of them, “And where does she think we’re gonna find White Oak at nearly six in the afternoon?”

“She’s tryna’ change everything to white oak,” Toji clarified, “Countertops to white granite, cabinets to off white.”

That’s when Onyankopon tosses the hammer beside his boot. He crosses his arms to lean his back along the wall, face hard from this conversation.

“She might as well do a whole new renovation,” he mutters.

“You’ the only one complaining.”

“Don’t mean I ain’t right,” Onyankopon counters, “Shit don’t’ make sense. We got three more days before the contract is up, and now she on some’ HGTV bullshit.”

“‘Can’t complain if that’s what they want.”

Onyankopon turns towards you.

“How’ you feelin’ about this?”

You blink at the question, not wanting to be in the middle of one of their usual disputes. You tug a ginger curl behind your ear, scrunching your nose to adjust the tip of your glasses.

Your voice is soft, “Onyankopon’s right, baby. I think it’s a little late for changes in renovations when you’re already halfway done with the kitchen.”

You see your husband's jaw tighten at your confirmation, his back straightening as he glances between the two of you. Even if he didn’t agree, he had to understand his partner's point of view.

“I hear both of you,” Toji glances at Onyankopon, “What you wanna’ tell them?”

“Finish the current cabinet set up, make the kitchen white, and she can set another appointment if she wanna add other shit.”

You glance down to the paper beneath you, pen flicking beneath your fingers, “We still need more maple—think you can make it to Home Depot before they close?”

Toji gives a nod of approval, stomping on the butt of the cigar he was trying to finish, “I got it. Gonna’ head that way.”

Onyankopon's eyebrows raise in surprise, “You goin’ by yo’self?”

“Why? You gonna’ kiss and make up with me now?”

Onyankopons’ eyes narrow, “Ain’t nobody kissin’ yo’ overgrown ass, nigga.”

“You sound like a damn teenager.”

“‘Cause I’m arguin’ with one.”

“Can you tell me you love me and stop arguing, please?” you tilt your head, “Come gimme’ some love.”

The smallest smile might’ve found Toji’s mouth.

“You want love?” His footsteps approach your desk, heavy on the wooden floor, “You want some love, huh?”

His large hand runs up the length of your shoulder, fingers finding your neck as he pushes your chin up, “You hearin’ me?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pulling him lower by the bicep of his arm, “Don’t be long,” You rub your nose against his, “You love me?”

Toji brings his other hand to the other side of your neck, thumbs grazing your cheeks with that signature smirk on his lips, “You know I do.”

He pulls your face towards his, gruff as he questions, “You like when I tell you that?”

You’re met with the familiar taste of his mouth, tongue exploring yours as he sighs through his nose, hushing your small giggle through the kiss.

“Aight,” Onyankopon interrupts, “Y’all know Home Depot finna’ close, huh?”

Toji raises his middle finger in the direction of the other man, giving you a couple more pecks—his hand lingers along your neck when he turns back to his friend, “You’re still over there cryin’? Let me kiss my woman.”

He then stands to his full height, “‘Need anything from me before I leave, wifey?” he sarcastically questions Onyankopon.

Onyankopons’ eyes roll up in the direction of the ceiling, hand moving to rub the bridge of his nose. “Just gon’ head, Fushiguro.”

“Have those emails ready for me,” He gives a kiss to your forehead, “Behave.”

He then extends back up once more, “Watch my woman for me, bastard.”

“I always do,” Onyankopon murmurs, “She’ good with me.”

And with that, the door closed.

You didn’t expect your husband to be gone for almost two hours. He wasn’t answering the phone, and the heat seeping into the home had you ready to call it quits. Your fingers were lazily typing across the keyboard, flickering up to Onyankopon every once in a while.

You softly ask, “Did he text you back?”

Onyankopons’ brown eyes glance up from his own set of papers.

“Nah,” he replies, “I called him, ain’t answer.”

You pout your lips at the news, now knowing Toji was really taking his time.

Onyankopon notices your face.

“He ain’t dead, shawty. Nigga prolly’ searchin’ for the best maple wood in all of New Orleans. He’d overwork himself before givin’ a bad service.”

The words make you smile a bit, knowing your husband just as much as he did.

You say, “I’m sorry. I just hate when he goes awol—I probably sound annoying.”

Onyankopon lets out a low chuckle, one that rumbles through the release of his chest. His attention was now on you instead of those papers, leaned forward in his chair. His shoulders seemed to expand in size.

“Youn’ sound annoying, just worried,” He leans forward more, “He ain’t good at checkin’ the time when he be runnin’ errands.“

He looks back down at his work, a moment of silence passing before he glances up again,

“You ain’t hungry, are you?”

Your eyes find themselves back to his face, realizing how long you’d glance over his muscular frame.

“Hm?” You process the question, “Um—no, I’m fine. I don’t like to bother you guys about food while you’re working and I’m just sitting, y’know?”

You adjust your glasses once more, “I’m fine, really.”

Onyankopon squinted his eyes in the direction of you, eyebrows cocking up when he asked, “You ain’t eat nothin’ today?”

His voice was like honey. Sweet, with a deep rumble, and it didn’t help the fact that he was giving you his full attention.

“You know you ain’t no bother to me. I can go grab you sum’.”

The thing was, you were hungry. Toji was sweet enough to have pack you a lunch earlier, one that you’d already scarfed down and hadn’t thought about until this moment. You weren’t sure why you couldn’t just say all that, but maybe it had to do with the way he looked at you.

Something him and your husband had in common—it was that damn glare they kept upon their faces, whether they were happy, upset, or just fixated on something. You hated to say that the sight had you shifting within your chair.

Your face flushes a bit, “I’m okay, Ony. Thank you.”

You might’ve been crazy. You swear you saw the corner of his mouth lifting at the nickname, but it happened too fast— it had to be a trick of the sunlight.

“You sure?”

The concern he displayed was always so pure, it made you wanna kill him.

You nod, “Promise. I’m just gonna finish my emails,” you nearly fumbled your words, “I have a couple more to do.”

“Youn’ gotta overwork yo’self, Mama. You can stop if you’ exhausted,” he gently adds, “Toji gon’ be out for a minute.”

There was that look again, the one that felt deep within your body, like you were entirely naked in front of him.

There was also the fact that your heart was pounding. It was either a heart attack, or you were going to spontaneously combust—

“You’ warm?” He questions, “You sweatin’.”

You quickly glance down your body, noticing the sheen of your skin. The soft yellow halter dress you wore hugged along your wide hips with the mixture of sweat—but nothing was worse when you realized your nipples seeping through the fabric up top. You weren’t even cold.

You run your fingers through your hair, pulling your curls farther away from the back of your neck. You awkwardly giggle, “‘S just really hot in here.”

The corner of his mouth definitely twitched up that time, like he had an idea of what was happening to you right now. He probably didn’t. You hoped he didn’t.

You could see the muscles of his arms flex when he shifted in his chair, fingers of his left hand scratching along his facial hair.

“It is,” he agrees, “Imma’ finish up this window.“

When he stands from his seat, you then hear, “You need me?”

You blink, eyes flickering over him as your mouth goes dry, “Huh?”

“I said, you lemme’ know if you need anything, aight?”

You were losing it.

“Okay,” you force the most normal smile, “Got it.”

This had to be your personal hell. It might’ve been enjoyable for anyone else, but this was the worst thing you could’ve witnessed. You were trying to finish your work, but you found yourself…glancing above your computer.

Onyankopons’ hands were rough, strong with large palms as he held up the thick glass window, the muscles within his arms flexing from the power of it. A few beads of sweat fell within the crevasses of his chest, dripping down and soaking into his shirt, tight from how it stretched across his body. His dark brows were focused, tongue running across his lips as his jaw was set, feet were slightly spread apart, like a soldier, stance strong—God, he was so strong.

His hair was braided back, sweat beading and traveling down his temples, face focused on the work in front of him. He gave a loud huff as he nailed in the window frame, face scowling as his biceps flexed.

Lord Jesus.

But oh, you must’ve been in the seventh ring of hell when he tugged that shirt off of his body. He’d begun playing music to keep himself distracted, but if only he knew.

The tattoos that lined his arms and chest were now on full display, shiny with the sweat. His chest and abs flexed from the work of lifting heavy objects, the thick length of his tatted neck and shoulders flexing from the movements.

And then, so attractively, he rolled his neck back, grunting as he lifted the weight of the glass once more.

You felt dizzy.

Your cheeks flushed as you watched him, eyes staring almost dreamily. There was nothing more attractive than a man working hard, sweat pouring down his body as he pushed his strength to the limits. It made you—imagine things. Your body throbbed at your thoughts, a small frown coming between your lips at the sight.

But that frown quickly erased, as your heart nearly dropped into your ass the moment you heard the door unlock. You hiked your body up to the perfect sitting position, scattering your fingers for your pen as you scribbled random words along the bottom of your papers.

You couldn’t even look in Toji’s direction.

Your husband could’ve called out your name, but you still wouldn’t have looked over. So when Toji appeared beside your desk, his strong arm draping over your shoulders, the weight nearly startled you.

“Babydoll,” he rasped, “What’s goin’ on? You need some water?”

Your eyes glanced at Onyankopon.

Kissing Toji’s jaw, your face flushed as you deflected, “The Louisiana heat is dire—what took you so long, baby?”

Toji’s eyebrows quirked up at your sudden affection, catching the tense in your body. However, being your easily distracted husband, he loved when you wanted to be on him. His hands rubbed over your arms, attempting to soothe you a bit.

“The closest Home Depot didn’t have the wood in stock,” he murmured, “Damn near traveled the entire state.”

Your hips had always been your sensitive spot, lower body shivering a bit as he began to rub there. You found yourself wanting to hold his face, tugging his body to be closer as you told him, “‘Missed you, Toji.”

His grip was light, a thumb brushing along the curve of one of your eyebrows.

“Yeah?” he murmured back.

He noticed the way you tried to look elsewhere.

His fingers came to grip beneath your chin, gently forcing your attention back to him.

“Eyes,” he reminded, “Need em’ here.”

Your husband was a lot of things, but oblivious wasn’t one of them.

“I’m just a little tired,” you found something to say, your hands rubbing at the smoothness of his jaw, rubbing his neck, rubbing everywhere to distract him.

Toji leaned into your touch, but not much. It made your heart beat more.

“You sure that’s the only thing?”

You nod, “Mhm.”

His frown flickers your face once more, but the warmth of your palms was all too soothing. His mouth grunted along your throat, “Missed you too,” kissing pecks along the warm flesh. Your fingers sunk into his hair as you giggled a bit, leaning your head back for him to keep his affection going. But in that moment, your eyes might’ve glanced at Onyankopon once more.

If only you’d realized that your husband noticed.

Finishing off the night was another hour later, as you’d both said your goodbyes to Onyankopon, quickly making it home to wash off the heat of the day. You sat in the vanity your husband had built for you, angles carved within the gold trim of the mirror, lights attached to the surface below to do your skincare or makeup.

As your husband was within the shower, your mind wandered. You’d hoped today’s little hiccup was a spur of the moment, and that you’d become a bit delirious from the heat. However, you still thought about the way Onyankopon looked at you, and something in that still had your thighs squeezing together.

“Pretty girl,” you hear your husband call, the bathroom door opening to reveal him within a towel—it hangs low on his muscular hips, abs sweltering in water, upper body flexing as he dries the damp of his hair.

“You finished up those emails earlier?”

Shit.

The tips of your fingers swiped along your cheek with oil, your eyes briefly finding his as you replied, “Um—No, I didn’t.”

Toji raised an eyebrow in your direction, not used to hearing your denial of finished work.

“What happened?”

Your body shivered under the intensity of his gaze, the heat of the shower steam slowly crawling into the room.

“Got distracted with a couple of phone calls,” was your lie, “Want me to finish them before bed?”

“You seem distracted now,” he points out, “‘Can barely make eye contact with me.”

“You’re the most handsome man in the world,” you hum, “What can I say?”

Toji huffs a chuckle.

His gaze still hardened on you, studying you with those all-seeing eyes of his. You kept your head turned, face flushing again, fingers moving along your facial products as you pretended not to feel it. That’s when you hear him again.

“Let me ask you somethin’.”

Your heart immediately started beating, turning towards him with raised eyebrows.

You tug a curl behind your ear, “Yeah?”

Toji leaned his hip along the edge of the sink, towering over you even with feet away.

“How you feelin’ ‘bout Onyankopon?” he flatly questions, “You like him?”

Your eyes blink at the question. You tilt your head, “You’ve been friends for years. Why wouldn’t I?”

Toji lets a low hum escape his chest while his thumbs hooked at the hips of his towel. His biceps flexed from the position.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral.

“What are you asking, then?”

“To be honest with me.”

Onyankopon wasn’t a topic he treaded lightly on, especially when it concerned you. He wasn’t a possessive man by any means, but any question he asked, he wanted the truth.

He repeats, “You like him?”

“I don’t—“ you went to argue, but his eyes stopped you.

So you try again.

“That’s a bit of a weird question to ask, Fushiguro.”

The corner of Toji’s mouth twitched with a frown at you dodging the question. His eyes, however, kept you in a hold.

“Nah,” he disagreed, “It ain’t.”

You sat there quietly, thinking about lying like you’d been doing all day. But the guilt of lying to him felt heavy in your chest.

So, with the slightest of hesitance, you softly admitted, “I do.”

You then follow up with, “But it’s not…like that.”

“Make me understand.”

You shifted in your chair, legs crossing as you attempted to keep your gaze from drifting.

You replied, “I don’t like him in a romantic way. I just—“

Your teeth scrape at your lip a bit, “It’s just a little fantasy, you know? That’s all. I would never act on any of my emotions, Toji. You know that.”

His expression was unreadable.

“Right?”

You wanted that confirmation, swallowing hard. Toji studied you, jaw shifting in the silence that fell.

You then added, “You’re the one I married.”

He replied, “That don’t’ answer my next question.”

“What question?”

His next words had the silence in the room deafening.

“Your fantasy. Talk me through it.”

Your mouth parts to speak, but no words escape you.

“What?”

“Tell me about your fantasy,” Toji repeated, “Don’t act like you don’t understand what I’m askin’ you.”

You felt heat creep back up your body, your cheeks practically on fire.

“There’s nothing to tell, baby. It’s—silly.”

Toji’s jaw ticked.

“You think I’m mad at you?”

You question, “Are you?”

“I’m not. Shit ain’t silly if you’re flustered like this.”

He then repeats, “Tell me.”

You swallowed, fiddling with your manicured fingers.

“Promise you won’t be mad?”

He huffs, “I just told you I wasn’t, babydoll. C’mon.”

Your legs moved together awkwardly, fingers still fiddling, “When I see the two of you being together, working, just—doing stuff, I imagine…”

Toji waited, watching you fidget.

“Sexual stuff, Y’know? My mind just gets a little dirty.”

“You think ‘bout him fuckin’ you?”

“Toji.”

“You think ‘bout him fuckin’ you while I watch?”

“Fushiguro!” you squeaked, “Jesus, no. I think about the both of you,” you clarify, “That’s all!”

You stand from the chair, going over to lightly wrap your arms around his neck—you’re breathless as you whimper, “Please stop asking me this. It’s a stupid thing, okay? I love you. I’d never do anything with anyone else.”

“Is that somethin’ you want?”

“What?” you frown, “What do you mean?”

“You want me and him? You wanna take that?”

You knock your head into his chest, throwing your hands over your face as you squeak again, “Baby!”

The corner of Toji’s mouth lifted with amusement, “I’m just askin’ a question.”

You felt mortified.

You were stubborn in keeping your face covered, muttering out, “No, Fushiguro. Please. Stop.”

You could feel his chuckle against your head, deep within his chest as his arms wrapped around your waist.

“You’re so shy, woman.”

“You’re insane,” you murmur, heart thumping in your chest, “Why aren’t you mad? How aren’t you mad?”

“Don’t really have anythin’ to be mad ‘bout,” Toji murmured, squeezing at your waist, “You like the idea of it; ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

“I feel insane,” You reply.

“Shit is kinda’ cute, honestly.”

“Toji,” You smack his bicep, “Stop.”

“Ouch.”

His hands gripped at the full flesh of your ass, forcing you to hold around his neck as you sat on the sink countertop.

“You done with your lil’ tantrum?”

You roll your eyes, “My husband is tryna’ have me admit to wanting to fuck his best friend. I think my reaction is pretty valid.”

His lips brushed up your neck, voice deep, gruff with his reply, “Ain’t nobody said nothin’ ‘bout all that, huh?” Your legs hooking at either side of his hips, holding him between the warmth of your thighs.

“Can we stop talking about this?” you question, “Why can’t you just say I’m pretty and that you love me? Why do you have to make my life harder?”

He smirked at your complaint. He then responded with, “I think you’re the prettiest thing in the South; you know that.”

His strong hands were already tugging the fabric of your night gown, palming at the soft flesh up your thigh. You grip at his hair, fingers twisting within it.

“You know I love you so damn much,” he grunts, nose running along the curve of your neck, “You’re mine.”

You pucker your lips out, awaiting a kiss.

Toji gives you what you want, of course. He groaned from the sensation of you tugging down on his bottom lip, sucking on it with a pop as he pulled away.

You run your tongue along your lips as you giggle, “Mkay.”

You then sigh, “Wanna go to bed? Get a little—freaky?” you playfully wiggle your brows.

“Yeah. Lemme’ call up Onyankopon first—“

You smack his chest again.

The next couple of days were better than you imagined. It was a resting period, both you and Toji spending most of your time sleeping, cuddling, watching shows, and overall rejuvenating one another in preparation for work the next week.

Your time off had gotten infinitely better when your husband received a phone call from a client within the Garden District—who he thought wasn’t interested in his services—but when he offered triple Toji and Onyankopon’s pay rate, it seemed otherwise. You whisper screamed as you jumped on the bed above him, your feet thumping on either side of his legs as he talked business, watching as he tried to hold off his chuckle.

Here’s when things got weird. Later that morning, Onyankopon planned to come over for a football game, as you’d also agreed to cook in celebration of your big contract coming up. It was a usual routine—football, gym, coming back home to cook.

But something about today’s routine felt…different.

Toji and Onyankopon. The combination of the two was something you could usually handle, but when you came downstairs that morning for coffee, you felt an energy coming off of them. You were usually comfortable in their company. Toji was his rough, crass self, but nonetheless a loving husband. And then there was Onyankapon, who was usually the sweetheart.

But now, you felt as if their attitudes had shifted. They’d been quiet and watchful since you’d entered the kitchen, eyes following your every single move. That’s when you realize—they were watching you like you were their prey.

“Good morning?”

Your voice was sweet, nervous. You waved as if they weren’t ten feet away.

Both men replied with their own version of a greeting, their eyes locked on your form as you moved to grab a cup of coffee. You could feel the heat of their stares.

It was almost—too silent.

If that wasn’t weird, this definitely was. The energy picked up around the afternoon, both men gulping down a beer together as their low tones barked at the television, watching the game at its peak. You’d finished up with those emails you were supposed to finalize, snuggling yourself into your husband as you leaned your upper body into his, Onyankopon beside you while continuously watching the game. Your eyes were a bit droopy as you weren’t as interested, sinking your face deeper into Toji’s abdomen. And that’s when it happened—you felt Onyankopon graze his fingers along your hip as he spoke to your husband about the game. Your eyes went wide.

Onyankopon’s voice was gruff from football games and beers, but his fingers were steady as ever against your skin. Both men were locked onto the screen as if your reaction was nothing important—All the while, you felt your heart thumping under your rib cage.

Your clit throbbed.

Then, it was your husband's turn. Toji’s hand was a stark contrast to Onyankopon’s; rough, large, calloused, and much thicker. His fingers cladded onto your ass, pulling your body back so you were nestled further between the two.

“You think LSU’s gonna’ make an upset today?”

“Ain’t no way them’ niggas beatin’ Georgia,” Onyankopon shook his head, “I’m reppin’ my state, but they’ be drawlin’.”

“You always goin’ too hard for the opposition,” Toji countered, “Gotta’ be more confident in the home team.”

“You ain’t even from Louisiana,” Onyankopon sucked his teeth, “Why you defendin’ niggas like they’ payin’ you to say allat’?”

“I ‘been here for sixteen years now. Chill.”

They’re both touching. Again.

Your heart felt as if it was being squeezed between two giant fingers. You’d tried so hard to keep your focus on the game, but Onyankopon shifted forward in his seat, leaning more of his body closer to your ass. Toji shifted his legs apart, forcing you to lean a bit more onto Onyankopon.

Your heart palpitated.

“You wanna’ go against this bet or not?”

Onyankopon was still rubbing at your hip. He grunted at Toji’s response, “Don’t get yo’ ass beat.”

“Beat this bet, Pussy.”

“Who’ the pussy?”

“I’d say the man who’s ‘bouta lose fifty dollars.”

Your ass was right on top of Onyankopon’s thigh at this point.

You inhaled a shaky breath, feeling a bit dizzy at the scent of them. Toji smelled like nature; earthy, woodsy. Onyankopon, however, smelled like musk and some type of cologne. You weren’t sure which one you liked more, their argument now completely muffled to your ears.

They were trying to kill you.

Maybe it didn’t actually happen that way. Your mind fed on those delusions as you stood within the gym later that day, zoning out each time you waited to do your rep behind both men. You’d always worked out with them, learning different techniques that left your body sore afterwards—but once again, today was different.

They were both rough with their work outs, grunting whenever they’d throw down a set of weights. Chests’ heaving, sweat collecting, they were hot. But today, the attention was on you.

To top it off, they were still touching.

The way Onyankopons’ fingers would graze over your waist as he helped you with your sets, how Toji’s hand smacked your ass as you walked past them—You couldn’t handle them.

It all led into the night—once everyone was refreshed and showered, you were within the kitchen cooking one of their favorite meals—steak, loaded potatoes and broccoli. You were comforted by the candles lit along the house, a glass of wine easing your nerves from the entire day. Your ginger curls draped around your face and past your hips, pale yellow halter top and matching capris hugging the fat of your ass, frilly sock beneath your golden heels to match the jewelry on your caramel skin. You were currently seasoning your steak, eyes briefly flickering to the patio door halfway open as both men smoked a blunt together. You watched them.

Toji was dressed in those loose, dark cargos that hung off of his hips for dear life, a white muscle shirt stretched to its limit across his biceps and over the chest. Onyankopons’ pants were black, and his shirt was navy blue. They're both huge.

A slight breeze drifted through the cracked patio door, blowing into the house and mixing with the scents of Toji’s—and now their—smoke.

Their shoulders flexed as they passed the blunt back and forth, laughter and low conversation heard through the glass. They were both so handsome, so attractive, so rough compared to you.

Your eyes briefly met theirs from the doorway, Toji’s eyes that dark grey, Onyankopons’ a lighter brown.

They were looking at you. No other way to describe it. They were looking at you.

The sight made you a bit wobbly. Nonetheless, you waved through the window at the two, dimple poking with the soft smile you gave them.

Your husbands’ fingers rubbed at his jaw while Onyankopon cracked a smirk, waving back at you in return.

Okay.

When they made it back inside, you were in the middle of cutting your potatoes up—you hummed, “Everything okay?”

Toji’s gaze was focused on your hands as you chopped the vegetables, but it eventually flickered to your face as he replied, "Good, just missed you out there.”

Onyankopons’ head tilted your direction too, eyes scanning you from head to toe, “You look good,” He complimented, voice raspy.

You blushed at his compliment. Accepting the kiss Toji gave along your cheek, you’re distracted as he tugs his finger through your curls—you giggle a bit, “Just wanted to look pretty for tonight—you guys look nice too,” you turn your face to kiss at your husbands lips, “You guys hungry?”

Toji leaned in for another kiss, sucking your lower lip between his teeth as he multiplied his pecks. You rubbed your fingers along his shoulder, turning your face up for his mouth to find your jaw. You weren’t used to your husband giving this kind of affection in front of his friend.

“Starvin’,” Toji grunted.

Onyankopons’ eyes stayed on you, tongue running along those large lips of his, “You always lookin’ pretty, Mama. You know that?”

The pet name made your thighs want to clench.

“Um—“ you giggled once more, holding Toji’s jaw to keep him in place, “Thank you, Ony. I should be done with dinner soon, okay?”

“Don’t take too long,” Toji murmured along your neck, “Can’t keep my mouth off’ you.”

His hand smacked the fuller portion of your ass, sending it jiggling beneath your capris.

Onyankopons’ tongue ran along his lips, “Aight. I’m waitin’ on you, girl.”

That sentence weighed in your chest.

Toji went upstairs to find another lighter, leaving the two of you downstairs—alone. You hummed the low instrumentals of your music, beginning to slice the stems of your broccoli. You gave Onyankopon a small smile as his eyes found yours every so often, tugging your hair out of your face as a way to distract how anxious you felt.

You softly ask, “How’d you spend your days off?”

Onyankopons’ eyes followed the movement of your fingers through your hair, watching the way your neck exposed when you threw it back. His arms folded over his chest, the veins within his forearms prominent from the action.

“Shit was aight,” he replied evenly, “‘Nigga just caught up on some sleep. You?”

You hummed, attempting to look for another cutting board, “We caught up on a couple of shows, cuddled, mushy shit that married couples do,” you shake your head.

You then ask, “How ‘you feel about the contract in the Garden District?”

The corner of Onyankopons’ mouth twitched with a small smile, eyes lingering on the way your hips shifted.

“Feels good to have contracts comin’ left and right,” he replied, “Blessed, essentially. Y’all’ been on my ass since the last project, so I’m ready to start sum’ new.”

You turn your head towards him, hair draping over your shoulder. You roll your eyes, musing, “Y’know it’s not like that, Onyankopon. Toji is just—despite the things clients ask for, he wants to go above and beyond that. Not saying you don’t, he’s just—particular, you know?”

Onyankopons’ eyes were practically glued to you as he replied, “Yeah, nah, I ain’t mean it like that. I know how Toji gets, that’s just part of the process,” His head cocked, “He just get’ too caught up sometimes.”

Onyankopons’ eyebrows lifted, “How you’ be puttin’ up wit’ him?”

“The same way you do,” you softly giggle, “We both love him. It’s a thing we seem to have in common.”

He chuckled in return, your attention moving back to finish cutting your broccoli. After a few moments of silence, your eyes flick back up to him—you call, “Ony?”

You think on your words.

“I just wanted to say—thank you, for being such a good friend to him. He doesn’t have anyone in his life outside of me, and having such amazing emotional support, he’s happier when you’re around. It means the world.”

Onyankopons’ expression changed with the way your voice softened, something warm, comfortable, almost intimate coming from the way you talked about his friend, his best friend for that matter.

His voice was softer in reply, “Of course, Mama. Toji’s family to me. Couldn’t ask a nigga for a better person to have in my corner.”

After a moment, he then questions, “What ‘bout you?”

You blink at the question, “What about me?”

“You’ happy to have me around?”

The question makes your heart thump. You sigh, “I’m always happy to have you around, Ony. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Ion’ make you feel no type of way?”

You blink.

“Of course not.”

There was something about his tone that made your nerves tighten. The way he looked at you was different from the way Toji did, but it had your heart thumping the same.

“No,” You reply, “You’ve been nothing but sweet to me since day one.”

He spread his legs a bit, abdomen flexing as he did so.

Onyankopons’ head tilted, “Just sweet?”

You swallowed, nodding.

“Yeah.”

His fingers flexed as they rested in his lap. You turned your back to him, beginning to cut the remaining broccoli.

“Nothin’ else?”

Your neck prickled at the way his voice dropped.

You shook your head, keeping your eyes locked below. But that’s when you hear—

“I see how you be lookin’ at me, girl.”

Your hands clenched around the knife.

When your eyes find his, that’s when your body tensed—your hands quickly dropping the knife as you feel a slice along your index finger. You held your hand towards your body, scrunching your face at the discomfort.

Onyankopons’ chair made an obnoxious noise as he shot up from his seat—It seemed he was across the room in a second, towering over your body as he took hold of your injured hand. His hands were large, long fingers circling all the way to your wrist as he assessed the wound.

“I—I wasn’t paying attention,” You murmured, “I got distracted. You—“

And then, he’s sucking.

Your eyes widened as Onyankopons’ lips engulfed the wound on your index finger, tongue licking the area with zero hesitance. It was the last thing you expected him to do.

“Ony—“

“‘Gotta be more careful, Mama.”

His tongue runs across his mouth as he pulls back, as if savoring the taste of you. Your lips parted, your chest heaving as his lips hovered along yours.

“You got a taste on you, girl.”

You could’ve died right there. That’s when you hear the heavy thumps of your husband coming downstairs, your face hot as he eyes the two of you in closer vicinity.

He questions, “You good, baby? What happened?”

You felt dizzy under both of their heavy gazes. You swallowed again, nodding.

“She cut her finger,” Onyankopons’ replied evenly, “She wasn’t payin’ attention.”

And as both men conversed normally after that, that’s when you realized—they were in fact trying to get you.

Your mind was elsewhere during dinner. The wine had your brain fuzzy, keeping yourself quiet as you watched both men talk shit between one another, per usual. Everything up in this moment began to click—the day you watched Onyankopon, the conversation with Toji, the weird interactions between the two all day—at this point, you were just waiting for something to happen.

“Yo’, you remember when we went into that adult store up on Bourbon street? Niggas was weird,” Onyankopon chuckle, “Never went back after that.”

Toji huffed, nodding in agreement, “Dude was tellin’ us ‘bout wantin’ to be a dog. I’m not judgin’, but I didn’t wanna hear all that.”

Both men laughed. Your fingers tapped against your glass nervously.

Toji then turns, “We went to one a couple years ago, huh, babydoll?”

You blink at Toji’s words, snapping out of your thoughts when your husband addresses you.

“Yeah,” you laugh a bit, “Yeah, we did.”

Toji chuckled once more, “We were in there for hours.”

Your eyes widened, “We were not in there for that long!”

Onyankopons’ head tilted, “What were y’all doin’ in there, applyin’ for the job?”

You roll your eyes, “Funny, but no. I just wanted to find something—sorry, you don’t wanna hear all that,” you shook your head, “It’s a little TMI.”

Onyankopon raised an eyebrow.

“Try me, I ain’t gon’ freak out.”

You inhaled a deep breath, giving in. You sat up in your seat, clearing your throat as you fiddled with the stem of your glass.

“I was just—browsing,” you giggle, “I was looking for a dildo, but the ones they had were a little too big for me. Like, seven or eight inches.”

Toji and Onyankopons’ heads tilted, expressions staying the same, but you could see it within their eyes that there was a change. Toji’s eyes darkened, lips pressed together. Onyankopons’ jaw flexed a bit.

And then, Onyankopon chuckles.

It sends a chill through your spine, one where you didn’t understand what was exactly funny. Your eyes run across him the same way you did a couple days ago—cornrows, strident face, full goatee. You almost missed his next set of words as he looked at Toji.

“She ain��t gon’ be able to fit me.”

You felt your entire body freeze.

Toji’s jaw clicked in return, “Nah, she will. She be takin’ my shit real good now.”

Were you going into shock?

You could’ve melted into the chair. Toji murmured, “My pretty ass woman. Always so shy.”

“She’ more than shy,” Onyankopon murmured in return, his tone low, “Ain’t that right, pretty girl?”

Your body felt like it was about to light on fire from the inside out.

“I—“

“What’s wrong, Mama?” Onyankopon questions, “Youn’ want me no’ more?”

Your mouth dropped open.

Toji grunted, “Words, baby. We need to hear you.”

And there it was. The arousal in your body ignited like a flame in that very second, becoming wet. You looked between the both of them, and suddenly, you were trying desperately not to break.

“Toji,” you pouted, “I—“

“Nuh-uh,” Toji clicked his teeth, “We don’t pout. You gotta’ speak up, don’t you?”

His gaze was intense, his lips slightly upturning as he watched you flounder around yourself. You had never felt so vulnerable in your life as both men’s eyes kept you locked on the chair—no escape.

Onyankopon gave a low groan in return, “Use your words, Mama. I love hearin’ that voice.”

Your chest rose and fell faster, feeling like you wanted to rip your skin off.

Moral to the story? You were absolutely, positively fucked.

Your round eyes stared from above, fluttering between two looming frames that glared back down at you—the difference now? They were naked, and so were you. Your palms covered the swell of your nipples, ginger curls draping over your curvy body in a way that almost made you look otherworldly. You chewed at your baby pink lips, horny, curious.

They were so big.

Even within the bedroom, both men shared many differences—Onyankopons’ dick was massive, thick and veined at the top, long from the base. The complexion of his skin was beautiful and even, all the way down to his deep pink tip. Toji’s, however, was a bit more manageable—he wasn’t as wide, but was about a bit longer, his tip a softer pink as his chest rose and fell in a harsh manner, watching you.

“Show how pretty your shit is, baby.”

Toji’s voice. It echoes in your mind, low, gruff, and rumbling.

But that didn’t keep you from listening—even if you were a bit shy, you turn yourself to face the opposite of them—your back perfectly arches lower onto the bed, cheek pressed into the sheets as you spread your pussy open—your folds were in fact pretty, rougè, glistening beneath the dim lights of the room.

“There we go,” Onyankopons murmured, fingers moving to grip at the full bottom of one of your ass cheeks. When he spanked there, your body trembled in return, folds clenching around nothing,

“Look how muhfuckin’ pretty you are.”

You whimpered into the sheets. Toji gave a low grunt of his own, hand coming up to grip at your other cheek harshly, spreading you open more for them to see, “Fuckin’ hell, baby.”

Your back arched a bit more at the feel of your husband, stomach pressed into the mattress as your body quivered.

That’s when you felt a thick, heat prodding at your entrance. He’s slapping his tip on your folds.

You clenched once more—your nerves were on fire from just the sensation alone, feeling of his thick, slick head smacking down.

“Which one’ you feelin’, huh?”

“Toji,” you whimpered quickly, “Feel you, baby.”

“Just me,” Toji rasped, “Always mine. Ain’t she?”

Onyankopons’ voice was behind you, “Yours entirely.”

You felt your back stiffen to keep in the mewl you were about to let out—your eyes continuously fluttered, cheek still smashed against the sheets.

“Now you listenin’,” Toji murmured, “All good girls do that, huh?”

Onyankopon chuckled behind you; the bed shifted as he spread you even further.

“C’mere. Show me some love,” your husband husked.

That's why it was your favorite term—it was something you both used, as you either wanted the sweetest affection possible—or he was planning to rut his dick at the back of your throat. Your body was still shivering as you turned, your teeth grazing over your bottom lip as his hand found your chin.

Your round eyes glaze up, “Lemme’ have a kiss, baby.”

“Needy ass.”

His thumb swiped over your mouth, pulling your bottom lip with him as he watched your lips pucker, waiting for him to meet you.

“Just pretty as hell.”

His lips touched yours for a second, his tongue sliding inside your mouth to taste you. You returned the kiss, sliding your tongue around his mouth messily, panting when you pulled back—it made you throb everywhere, your mouth then lowering itself to latch onto the edge of his tip. The scent of him, the flex of his pelvic bone, you moan against him, sliding your fingers across his muscular abdomen.

“I know you’re excited baby—watch them’ teeth,” He growled, his head tilting back as the grip in your hair yanked your head further down his length, “Careful.”

You moaned around Toji’s dick once more, taking him just a little bit deeper into the confines of your mouth as he huffed. You could barely get halfway, your hands moving from his abdomen to rest on his muscular thighs, nails biting into his skin as his fingers kept you moving, the schluck of your mouth already creating a sound within the room. Your eyes cast to Onyankopon who watches, keeping his palm steady around his own dick, vision narrowing at the sight.

A string of saliva follows your full lips, your mouth pulling halfway off as your fingers wrap at the base of him, rotating your palm. Your voice, it’s higher in this scenario—your curls drape your body as you mewled, “Didn’t mean to hurt you, Daddy.”

Toji’s chest rumbled with a low chuckle, his hands gripping at your hair as you ran your tongue across his slit, spreading pre-cum across his tip before your mouth sucks, “You’re fine, baby. ‘Know you ain’t mean it.”

Toji then grunts, his face twisted back in pure pleasure, “Wanna’ see that pretty face a lil’ more.”

His other hand came down to grip along the side of your cheek, running his thumb along your jaw, “Tongue out at me. Show me how good my girl is.”

You didn’t hesitate to do as you were told, your mouth sliding backwards off of his length, tongue poking out to press just below his head.

Toji groaned, “Shit.”

You moaned in return, the sound muffling around him as your eyes locked on his. Your husband wasn’t always the most vocal man, letting you do most of the talking in bed—but to see how elated you were to have an audience, Toji let out a deep moan once you began to take him again, sliding him all the way to the back of your throat.

His hips pushed forward, slapping up against your chin as your mouth worked him—You looked up from beneath your eyelashes, eyes growing watery with the back of his tip hitting your throat. Your eyes found Onyankopon’s again, giving him a show.

Onyankopon’s jaw clicked at the sight.

Toji’s hands grip onto you, his face almost viscous in the look he gave. His voice came out in a hiss, “She ain’t stoppin’ no time soon.”

Onyankopon grunts at Toji’s words, the veins in his hands becoming more visible, “You’ doin’ a good job, girl—shit.”

“She’s doin’ a good job, huh?” Toji repeated, his free hand raking into your hair again, “You see that? My baby givin’ her all right now.”

All you could do under his grip was moan, nodding your head through its back and forth.

“I’m watchin’,” Onyankopons replied, his neck flexing from how he held himself. His fingers wrapped tightly around the base of his length, “I see you real good. Pretty ass bitch.”

Your face was a mess at this point. The makeup you had on earlier was smeared all across your mouth, your eyes still holding Onyankopons’ while Toji continued to move your head with his strong, large hands.

He grunted through his teeth, “She gettin’ better?”

“Yeah. Her mouth’ good as hell—I’m tryna’ feel that shit.”

Onyankopon wags his dick beneath his palm, “You gon’ let me?”

That’s when you slow your movements—your eyes peer back to the heft of his length, nearly the size of a monster you weren’t sure you could manage. At the same time, there was a slight hesitance in your eyes—simply because of who he was to you, and the last thing you wanted was to make your husband jealous.

Your lips swelled as you ran your tongue against them, eyes flickering up to Toji—your voice is soft, “Can I?”

Toji’s face flickered with something, but it quickly smoothed once he met Onyankopon’s dark eyes. A moment passed between them—a beat, or maybe two—your husband inhaled then exhaled, his features smirking slightly as he gave a single nod, “Go ‘head.”

“I love you,” you moan, sliding your tongue across Toji’s tip once more, “So much.”

It was a reassurance for him.

“I know you do,” Toji replied gruffly, his grip in your hair slackening once you move towards Onyankopons’ now exerted dick—it nearly slaps you in the face. You tugged at your lip once more, eyes eagerly facing up to him.

You weren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Your fingers didn’t even wrap around him all the way.

Your hands come up to grip at the flesh of his quads, fingers digging into his skin as you flattened your tongue over the sides of Onyankopons’ dick, “Gon’ make me feel good, Mama? This what you been wantin’?”

You nod eagerly, feeling the way it twitched against your face. It jumped, too.

Your eyes widened. Your mouth was almost too small, or he was too thick. You moaned around his tip, sucking through the immediate fullness of your cheeks. Somehow, this felt rewarding.

You bobbed your head once, twice—He groans, his hands twitching against his thighs as he lets you try and take him, “There you go—that fuckin’ mouth.”

Onyankopon gritted his teeth; your tongue continued to slide up and down his length, sucking and swirling at his tip, wanting all of him in your mouth. Toji watched you, and he noticed something—the way your eyes rolled, as if this was in fact all you wanted. You were nastier, sloppier with the man opposite of him.

You moaned around his head, loudly, and Toji’s jaw clicked. You were careless—filthier with Onyankopon.

“Keep talkin’ to her,” Toji grunts, “That’s the shit she likes.”

Onyankopons’ hands finally settled on both sides of your throat, a rough grip on your chin with his thumbs—he moaned heavily, eyes flickering down towards you, “Pretty ass face, Mama. You suckin’ me up like a fuckin’ pro.”

You moaned in response, “Tastes so good.”

“Keep takin’ that shit, baby.”

Toji’s voice was all around you.

Onyankopon pushed his hips forward, a small shlupp was heard as you gagged. His fingers pressed against your cheek, feeling the curve of your stuffed mouth when he ran his thumb over the flesh, “Yeah? How it’ look?”

Without a second to waste, you let his tip pop out of your mouth, tongue poking out as you moaned, “‘Look so good. So handsome, Papa.”

You could hear him growl at the pet name, your face becoming more of a mess from how spit dripped over your chin. You were in a daze.

“Look in her eyes,” Toji instructs, “Look into them when you speak, too.”

Onyankopons’ eyes flicker down to meet your own once more, “Like that?”

You nod eagerly, lips swollen and puffy as you nod, “Mhm.”

“Always keep them’ eyes on her.”

Onyankopons’ mouth twitched into a smirk. They were brown; dark, a color you could get lost in if you looked long enough. They were bright despite the dimness of the room, holding nothing else but you.

His grip on your face got tighter as you slid your mouth back onto his length. You moaned again, feeling so full, “So big, Ony.”

You were becoming confident, a point you hit when you were so horny that it made you delirious—here it was. The sight of you was blinding—your mouth was engorged with the space of his dick, cheeks bulging as your eyes rolled shut blissfully. That's when you tugged Onyankopon from your mouth, tongue lolling out as you mewled, “Spit on it.”

And he did—he lowered his mouth, dropping saliva between your lips—he found himself kissing you seconds later, feigning to taste you. It was good, so good. Your body rose up to press against his as your fingers found his shoulders, nails digging into the skin as you moved forward on your knees to get closer to him, your head tilting further back so he could slide his tongue into your mouth. You sucked each other’s mouths.

That’s when it happens—when you lower back down to find the fat of Onyankopon’s dick, you slap it on your tongue so loudly that it echoes—Toji grunts in an irritation, “Don’t be fuckin’ cute.”

You giggled, running your tongue over Onyankopon’s length, sucking his balls into your mouth.

“Just wanted to taste him, Daddy.”

Onyankopon darkly chuckled.

That's when you hear Toji’s, “Yeah?”

He grunts, “Quit playing. Lay on your back, miss your pussy in my mouth.”

Onyankopons’ voice cut through the room, “Lay that ass down.”

At both of their commands, you listen. Your heart thumped within your chest as your back made contact with the bed—you hear Toji’s, “Come hold her legs—she be runnin’ from my mouth,” he grunts.

You whimper, “Sensitive, baby.”

Regardless, Onyankopon was behind your head—he hovered over to pull your legs back, holding you by your ankles as he spread you apart.

Your fingers were already sinking in your husband's hair below, clenching the tresses between your fingers—his tongue spread across your folds, sliding saliva all across the flesh.

Toji groaned as he felt your legs already trembling, your eyes rolling as Onyankopon kept your legs open. You tug at your lower lip, voice high pitched, “F—fuck, baby. Missed your mouth so much.”

He grunts, his mouth still pressed against your clit. Your legs squirmed, toes clenching as his tongue slid across your entrance, “Taste so good.”

You moaned in response, writhing—you were more sensitive the more his tongue slipped against your clit, swirling around it in slow motions. Your chest rose and fell, feeling the heat of both men’s touch. You whimpered again, hips wriggling under the pressure of Toji’s hands over your pelvis, “Toji,” you moaned, “It—ooh.”

He warned against your folds, “Stop movin’.”

Onyankopons’ grip on your ankles was borderline bruising, his dark eyes flickering down to watch how Toji’s mouth lapped at you. Each time you moved, he spread your ankles even farther.

“Look at the way he just in yo’ pussy,” Onyankopon grunts in your ear, “Bouta’ have a nigga drownin’ in yo’ shit.”

Your thighs trembled like crazy at the sounds your pussy made, almost as if Toji were blowing bubbles across the flesh. You pouted beneath yourself, “Fuck,” you mewl, “That feels so good.”

Toji’s took one long, slow, lick over your clit. He grumbled in return, “Pussy messy as fuck, baby.”

Your back arches. You lift above to take a look—Onyankopons’ eyes were staring down, watching. You could see the veins in his arms throbbing as he gripped your ankles.

“God damn,” Onyankopon murmured, “Yo’ pussy finna’ get sucked up by my mouth. That shit lookin’ edible.”

The combination of Toji’s mouth and Onyankopon’s words, your pout deepened on your face.

Toji didn’t hesitate to bury his face all into your folds. Your legs were trembling dangerously at this point, watching as he ate you like a starved man. To make matters worse, Onyankopons’ breath was hot in your ear as he continued to hold your ankles, eyes still locked on your husband between your legs—your chest rose and fell, the sensation of Toji’s mouth against you becoming almost too much to handle. You groaned, “Oooh,” legs trying to snap closed, head falling back against Onyankopon’s shoulder, just moaning within his ear.

“You smell so sweet,” Onyankopon murmured, “He eatin’ that pussy,” Onyankopons growled in your ear, “Shit look’ good as hell with his face in it.”

You whimpered at his words.

Onyankopons leaned forward just a bit, mouth almost pressed against your ear, “I’m missin’ yo’ mouth, babydoll.”

He tugs your hair from around your cheeks, looming above you as his dick slapped across your entire face—his tip is sliding between your mouth, making you whimper even deeper as Toji continued eating at you from below.

Onyankopons’ dick was bigger upside down. You moaned around it, making it hit the back of your throat with every quick thrust he made—he grunted, “You doin’ so good, pretty mama. Finna’ have a nigga put his shit in you.”

Your hands reached back, digging into his hips so you could pull him all the way in, “Fuck, girl, Yo’ throat bulgin’.”

Toji continued eating you from below; the mixture of him and Onyankopons had your eyes watery, legs shaking as if you’d been tased. Every other word out of your mouth was a moan that went directly onto Onyankopon’s dick.

That’s when you pull him from your mouth, sliding your tongue on the sides of his length—you whimper below him, “Want it in me, Ony.”

He pulled you down to where your nose was pressed to his pelvis—he groaned within your mouth, “That ain’t how you beg,” he grunts.

“Please, Ony. Please.”

He growled from the sound of your begging, “You want it that bad?”

You whined onto his dick, “‘So bad.”

A smirk appeared across Onyankopons’ face. You could hear Toji’s slurrpp between your legs, still tongue deep along your pussy. But the moment he heard you begging from below, his mouth pulled away, leaving you cold. It had you whimpering at the loss.

But then, Onyankopon’s mouth was on you. And it was nowhere near the same.

He wasn’t as soft as Toji. His long tongue swirled around your clit—you moaned again, feeling it slide against the flesh harshly.

You gripped at his cornrows, legs shaking in his grip again, “Oh, Ony.”

He lapped at your clit, “Can’t hear you,” he muffled.

Toji was behind you now, holding your legs in place of Onyankopon. He moaned in your ear, “You look so good, baby, spread all open like that.”

“I can’t,” you whined, “Put it in me.”

Onyankopon’s head dipped lower, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking. You were practically vibrating. You lean your head on your husband's shoulder, accepting the kiss he gives you, whimpers muffling into his mouth.

“I love you,” you kept whimpering, “Love you so much, Fushiguro.”

“I love you,” he murmured back onto your lips, “I know.”

Your body tensed the moment you felt Onyankopon’s tip sliding across your folds—you’d wanted it so bad, but actually feeling him weigh against your lower body, you shivered. His upper body loomed above your own as Toji stayed behind, Onyankopon’s lips coming to slide his tongue into your mouth, both men close to your face now.

His dick is sliding between your folds again, again, making them spread apart every few seconds. His forehead presses to yours in such a domineering way—the silence that falls between the two of you feels heavy as his tip begins nudging into your opening—it swallows itself inside, your mouth immediately frowning at the discomfort you feel. Onyankopon sucks the softest kiss on your mouth, grunting as he sinks even deeper. Your eyes rolled, body trembling as you pressed your forehead farther into his. Your fingers found his upper back, nails digging into the flesh as your body responds in all different ways—but it was so good, the tiniest whimper parts from your lips as you lightly squirt on his tip. You’d never done that before, as you creamed more than anything.

“Pussy tryna’ push me out,” Onyankopon grunts on your lips, moaning into another kiss, “That’s how you cummin’?”

“Baby,” Toji moaned, “That was so fuckin’ good. Ain’t even started yet,” he tugs your hair from your face, sucking his mouth against your throat. Your body shakes, gasping as tears seeped from your eyes. You whimpered to Onyankopon, “Oh my god.”

You could hear yourself—you were whiny, sensitive and too full. You mewled again, feeling your stomach clenching as your eyes rolled back. Onyankopons’ face was dark, “You tight as hell,” pressing his forehead more into yours, “You gon’ open up for me?”

A weak, “Uh huh,” comes from your lips.

You could feel him trying to be steady, not wanting to hurt you, but at the same time, his eyes were hooded, lust within them—“Tryin’,” he murmured. His hips stilled for a moment as he slowly, gently slid more of his length deeper into you. You moaned, loud enough to echo off of the wall, “Ugh, fuck.”

Your mind was going blank. His head fell back, “You takin’ me so good,” Your back kept arching, legs quaking. Toji was right there, caressing your scalp to soothe you. You were releasing sounds you’d never made before, moaning deeper each time Onyankopon pulled out to slide himself in more—the slap of his hips against the back of your thighs has your eyes rolling, your face screwed up in pleasure, nodding against his forehead as all you could do was cry for him.

Your legs were shaking too much, to the point Toji gave Onyankopon a glare, “Slow down.”

Onyankopon gritted his teeth as if to focus, trying to not give in to all of the sounds you were making.

“Can’t,” he grunted—Your body kept squirming, legs spreading themselves more open for him, “F—fuck,” he cursed. He was grunting and moaning just as much as you were now.

“Talk to me, Mama. I’m hurtin’ you?” Onyankopon gruffs at you. You find your hand at the nape of his neck, lips closer together—you mewl to him, “Feels sooo good,” your voice was soft, “‘M okay,” you promised to both of them.

Toji was trying to spread some comfort for you, “Look at me, breathe,” his voice was low, his hand reaching forward to touch your cheek. He gave you what you wanted; he leaned his face against your own, “Look at me, pretty baby. Breathe.”

Your entire body listened to your husband’s commands. You took in a deep breath in response, your body calming a bit as he murmured sweetly against your face, “That’s it, good girl.”

A little easier to process with your husbands’ fingers caressing your cheek, you whimpered, “Please,” you whispered on his lips, “Don’t stop him.”

You spread your legs wider—your eyes rolled at the sensation, reaching your hand up to Onyankopon’s face to pull him into a kiss, moaning into his mouth.

Onyankopon growled, holding onto your chin so he could suck on your bottom lip. Toji’s thumb was wiping at your cheek, swiping away tears that you didn’t even realize you were shedding.

He pressed his forehead back to your own, mouth still connected in a sloppy kiss, “Don’t move,” Onyankopon murmured against your face. You felt both mouths kissing somewhere along your body, and that pleasure could’ve engulfed you into an explosion.

But oh, they had so much more to give.

Maybe you did too. Your shaken legs had found themselves crawling along the bed, doe eyes becoming a sultry slender as you crawled towards your husband— your curls evaded your entire body as you slid your hands across his chest, grinding yourself along his lap to gain his attention—you tell him, “I missed you, baby.”

“Missed you too,” Toji murmured in return, unable to keep his eyes off of you. His large palm slid across your hips, another palm reaching around to smack his tip between your folds from behind. You giggled, hair swinging to one side of your body as you circled your hips atop of him, “You wanna put it in me?”

Your hands slide across your nipples, making sure to keep Onyankopon’s attention as your hand finds the tip of his dick beside your body—you whimper to your husband, “Want you so much, Toji. Talk to me.”

Onyankopons’ hands found their way to your arms and shoulders, squeezing the flesh there—One of your hands reached up onto Onyankopons’ face, running your fingers against his facial hair, moving to slide your index finger onto his lips.

“You been’ havin’ fun,” Toji grunted to you, “Come fuck me.”

“Always thinkin’ ‘bout you,” you moaned, your hands leaving behind Onyankopons’ face to slide back onto Toji’s shoulders. Onyankopon grunted, “She need’ you—Drippin’ all over the sheets and shit.”

You’re guiding yourself down, sinking onto his dick in a way that has your husband leaning his head back onto the bed, clutching your hips within his palms. Toji’s groaning through full lips, eyes narrowing up to you as you’re already bouncing your ass down onto his abdomen. You giggle through a moan, leaning towards Onyankopon with angelic eyes, sticking your tongue out to await for his mouth.

Toji growled from below, “Look at you,” while Onyankopons’ hand pushed a few of your curls aside with a low chuckle, “Cute as hell.”

Onyankopon’s tongue slithered within the confines of your mouth, hand sliding behind your neck to keep your face close to his—your attention went onto your husband, your hips rotating, circling above him—you take one of his palms, sliding it up your body as you suck his index finger into your mouth, moaning around it.

“Jesus,” Toji growled, “‘Gonna’ have me bust early, baby,” He grunted out, “Keep it up.”

You shake your head, “Don’t wanna cum without you,” you whimper—so you lean back to your side, finding Onyankopon’s dick between your lips—you’re sucking, keeping your hips moving for Toji, but your attention elsewhere.

Onyankopons’ hand was resting atop of your forehead, his fingers buried into your hair. You moaned around him again, one hand wrapped around his length and the other caressing Toji’s chest. Your husband was becoming more aggressive below you, his hands finding themselves beneath your thighs to guide you.

He takes one hand to find your throat, snatching your face in his direction. He grunts to you, “I know you’re hearin’ me. Come fuck me, girl. Bounce on my dick like you missed me.”

You have your attention fully on him now—you whimper, “Sorry,” all while you press your feet flat along the bed, tossing your hair along one side of your body as your palms pressed against his chest—your ass trembles each time it claps along his abdomen, a wetness drenching his flesh, the sight of you like hell wrapped up in beauty.

“I love your dick sooo much,” you promised to him, ass clapping at this point, “Love you, Fushiguro,” you whimper, spreading your cheeks from behind, wanting him deeper each time you dropped down.

“I know you fuckin’ do.”

His palm spanks against your asscheek. It jiggles beneath the impact, Toji’s hands finding your hips again to hold you in place.

“Keep fuckin’ me like that.”

Your legs were shaking as Toji’s hips moved to meet your own, bouncing you up and down himself.

Onyankopon was behind you, finding his palms along your hips as he helped you—your eyes rolled, mewling as you allowed him to guide your body down.

Your fingers found your clit below, shoulder shivering as Onyankopon licked up the back of your neck, “O—Ooh,” you moaned, “Please.”

You mewled at both men, your body quaking as your hands slid up behind you, fingers grazing over Onyankopon’s hair. You sloppily slow your tongue in and out his mouth, tugging his head back as you whimper to him, “Put it back in.”

You lean down to find Toji’s

mouth within a deep kiss, hearing his murmur of, “‘Go head, wanna watch you cum.”

Your curls draped across his chest as you tugged his dick from your folds, back arching as you grind your lower body for Onyankopon to take you from behind—you whimper to him, “Want it. ‘Want it, Ony.”

“Been patient,” Onyankopons’ husked, “Come drop that shit on me.”

His hands found both of your asscheeks again, spreading them open. You moaned over your shoulder, the taste of your own skin delicious as he slid himself between your folds, deeper than he’d been before. The giggle you give is elated, eyes rolling as you’re messily bouncing your ass back onto his dick, you’re groaning, “Fuckkk.”

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Toji groaned from below, watching you take it from behind, “Greedy as fuck.”

Onyankopon collected your hair beneath his fist, tugging you back gently while allowing you to fuck yourself onto him—he glares down, “You’ loud.”

“You feel so good,” you couldn’t stop repeating, your hands pressed into Toji’s shoulders to lean back more, arching as you continued to take Onyankopon as deep as you could, “Feelssogood.”

“Givin’ you what you been wantin’,” Onyankopon growled behind you, "Look how good you look takin’ this dick, pretty mama.”

You tried to keep your eyes open, but each time you moved with him, pleasure was rising from somewhere deep within you that had your vision becoming blurry. You were drunk at this point.

“You feel so good in me,” you repeated one more time—it’s the softest you’ve ever spoken, squealing in a way that your body showed exhaustion. You were just taking him now, Onyankopon’s dick becoming drenched in your cream. You pouted, sobbing lowly through your sniffles.

Neither of them had ever seen a reaction out of you like this—you were so sensitive, too sensitive, too open. Onyankopon pounded into your messy, soaking wet pussy from behind, “You gone. Takin’ my dick without even askin’ for it.”

His palm slides along your neck, gently tugging your face back to look into his eyes—you could hear Toji’s grunt of, “So proud of you, baby.”

You sob softly in return again, keeping your eyes against Onyankopon’s as he tugs you back and forth—you’re so full of him, you can barely feel it anymore. Your voice was deeper, an inhale shaky in your throat, exhaled as you cried real tears.

You were so far gone. Toji’s one hand fisted the tip of his dick, other fingers running through your hair, giving you a gentle pull to keep your face from hiding.

“How you feelin’, baby?” he keeps his voice low, gentle.

You could barely speak—you were so busy crying from pleasure, your hands found his face as you whimpered through tears, “I’m gonna cum,” you trembled, “Gonnacum.”

You were so beautiful like this. Crying and whimpering for them in such an exhausted state, so full that they were ready to cum with you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You gon’ cum all on me, Mama?”

Onyankopon’s voice.

You nod again, breathless, “Mmm-hmm,” through tears. Toji presses his forehead against your own, allowing you to respond any way you needed to.

Toji pressed a small kiss onto your face, “Good girl. Keep goin’. Almost,” he encouraged you in the most gentle tone possible.

Onyankopons’ breathing was a lot rougher now, the sound of his pelvis smacking against your ass filling the room. He was holding onto your hip with one hand, while the other held the back of your neck, watching his dick being coated by your cream.

You moaned between your tears, voice hiccupping with every pound he delivered. He kept mumbling words from above you that couldn’t decipher, but Toji was still there to calm you.

The room was a chorus of skin against skin, your mewls getting even higher in pitch with how full you felt at Toji’s hands on your face—the warmth of his own cum spurted on your stomach— you were babbling, your body wilder, your toes curling. You squirt again, gasping into a rough kiss with your husband. Onyankopon’s tongue is sliding across your lower back, moaning as you feel a warmth in your pussy—he cums with you.

Your body feels sore, as if you’d just ran a marathon. You quiver when Onyankopon pulls himself out, feeling the cum dripping from your pussy—and somehow, through everything you’d just done, that makes you bury your face within Toji’s shoulder, cheeks flushed as you masked your face.

When your brain sobered over the events of the past couple of days, you still couldn’t believe it—Would it happen again? Was this a one time thing? Only the future could tell.

As your round eyes glanced between both men, the only answer you received was a deep, low, chuckle.

And that’s how you ended up here.

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