#Liquid Handling Consumables

[cotaus-biomedical]

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[fawniette]

can’t stop thinking about sukuna who has such a nasty size kink, always noting the drastic difference in size between you two as he towers over you and his wide frame doubles yours, how you couldn’t handle a guy like him, that he’d ruin you. he’s just so shameless about it, and he can’t help but love the way you try to hide how nervous he truly makes you.

it gets his cock rock hard, wanting nothing more than to stretch you out as you struggle to take his cock, to ruin you completely as you come undone beneath him, all because he knows he’s just way too big.

so, when he’s finally pulling out his cock from his boxers with a spring, watching you with intent eyes and a lazy smirk on his lips, you can’t help but feel the nervousness creep into your stomach. he was huge. you weren’t even sure how you would make it fit, but before you could open your mouth, sukuna notices the expression on your face, gently laughing before reassuring, “don’t worry, sweetheart. i’ll make it fit.”

but when sukuna finally manages to relax your body with the circular movements of his digits, he already has you a whining mess just from his pink, mushroom tip stretching out your entrance. he thinks it’s cute the way your back arches as your pussy slowly sucks him in, muttering against your ear with a hiss, “jus’ relax for me.. squeezing me real tight here.”

but when you moan out his name with a shallow breath, he can’t help but give in to his urges to snap his hips forward, groaning out as your pussy takes him in and stretches to accommodate his size. you’re gasping out as you claw at his back, crying out, “fuck!”

“i know, i know.”, sukuna breaths out, struggling to keep his composure as your pussy clenches around him so tightly, causing his cock to throb agonisingly against your walls. he throws his head back as he starts rocking his hips back and forth, pressing down on your stomach to feel how deep he is, “you feel that? feel how deep inside i am? fuck.. atta girl.”, he praises as he continues to abuse your gummy walls, your moans and whines like music to his ears.

he didn’t think you’d be taking him so well, crying out his name as he bottoms out inside of you and kisses your cervix with the snap of his hips, groaning deeply as he reaches to circle over your clit with the pads of his thumbs, “takin’ me so fucking well..”

“kuna..”, you moan as he continues to snap his hips forward over and over, his pelvis colliding with the curve of your ass while stimulating your swollen clit. your pussy swallows him up and sucks him in as the curve of his cock kisses that sweet spot of yours, a burning pleasuring building up in your stomach that has your face contorting.

“fuckin’ take it, baby.”, he grunts, his hands moving to grip your hips and fuck you completely dumb on his cock, your moans coming out as babbles and whimpers as your eyes roll back, “c’mon, give it to me.”

and as his cock throbs against your stimulated walls with one last thrust, you feel your body consumed with an euphoric sense of pleasure. you couldn’t control yourself as you come undone beneath sukuna, crying out as you claw at his back. the way your pussy continuously flutters around his cock has him hissing out with a bit build up before quickly pulling out and pumping his shaft with his fist where his cock sporadically litters his hot, thick liquid on your stomach, breathing out as his release washes over him.

you looked a mess, completely ruined and tainted with your chest heavy and your legs shaky with his cum covering you like he’d just marked his territory. sukuna can’t hold back the smirk on his lips as he leans down to kiss your temple, feeling his sensitive cock twitch at the way he’d just ruined you.

[seresinhangmanjake]

About Time

Tyler Owens x Childhood Friend!Reader

Summary: You’ve been Tyler’s best friend since childhood, but a near-death experience makes him realize he feels much more for you than friendship and he shouldn’t have allowed himself to deny it for so long. 

Warnings/Notes: cursing, mild angst, mostly fluff, typos

Words: 2300

Masterlist

It was when he almost lost you that Tyler knew he was in love with you. When he was forced to play tug of war with the violent winds to keep you in his arms. When he felt your chest move against his with your shallow, rapid breaths. When he heard his name, a soft whimper from quivering lips. 

“T–Tyler…”

He tightened his grasp on your waist and mumbled, “I got you, darlin’. Just don't let go.”

At that moment, he didn't know if he could protect you, but the alternative was an unbearable thought. Living without you was unimaginable, unacceptable, so if the winds planned to take you, they would have no choice but to take him, too. Then at least you'd be going together. 

He’d always felt something for you, and he understood that he probably always would, but he'd been unwilling to give it a name more intense than a teenage crush that just happened to last well past its expiration date. And while your perpetually growing beauty and intoxicating laugh made it hard for him to tame what he continued to feel, he’d managed. 

But that fear of imminent death—more potent than ever—tapped into the depths of those feelings he’d been swallowing for more than a decade. The abuse of pelting rain and flying debris paled in comparison to the overwhelming storm breaking free from the neglected portion of his heart. 

Once disaster moved along, you looked up at him with wide, weary eyes, and he couldn’t think clearly past the repetitive chanting in his head: ‘I love you, I love you, I love you’. Adrenaline was rushing through his veins, overpowering every other sense of logic and reason. He pushed strands of damp hair from your face, cupped your cheeks, then leaned down and sealed his lips to yours in a deep kiss. The first kiss. A kiss that typically has a much better outcome than what followed.

He hasn't seen you since that day. A week has come and gone and not one glimpse of your face, and now he’s more desperate for the sight than he’s ever been before. Missing you when you’re not around is far from new, but having released his feelings, the all-consuming sensation is worse. It’s harder to tolerate.

You're avoiding him, he knows it, but he supposes that can happen when someone kisses their best friend with no prior discussion of deeper feelings. It's not what he would do were the situation reversed—he'd still be all over you, kissing you back, smiling, never letting you go—but you've chosen to handle things quite differently, and in doing so, has left him no choice but to respond accordingly.

—

“Mornin’,” you hear, nearly dropping the pail of milk you’d been collecting all morning. Eyes darting to your right, you find Tyler sitting in one of the living room's quilted armchairs. Your heartbeat stutters. 

When you turn your head to the left, your mother is leaning against the kitchen countertop, her fluffy robe tied around her body and a cup of steaming coffee in her hands that she brings to her lips as she reads the newspaper splayed out beside her. 

“Mom, what is Tyler doing here?”

She glances up, swallows, and swipes her tongue across her bottom lip to catch the remnants of caramel-colored liquid. “Oh gosh, dear, he must've snuck in,” she replies, feigning ignorance. “But I’m not one for kickin’ anyone—especially not a fine, young man—off my property, so I guess he’ll just have to stay.”

With a huff, you set the pail down on the breakfast table, knowing your mother will take care of it, and shoot her a glare before making your way to the living room. Tyler stares up at you. You cross your arms and nudge your head toward the storage barn just behind the house where the two of you used to hold your late-night meetings when you were children, and later, teenagers. Many nights you spent in that barn after Tyler had snuck out of his parent’s house and chucked a pebble at your window to wake you. 

Tyler nods and follows you out the back door to the large structure that protects your privacy from the prying ears of the woman inside the house. 

“We gotta get you a new phone, darlin’,” Tyler says to your back once you're enclosed in the barn. “The one you've got doesn't seem to be receiving my calls…or texts…or elaborate voicemails.”

“Tyler…” you sigh, twisting to face him.

“You know we gotta talk about it,” he says. And he’s right, despite how the complicated element introduced into your relationship is entirely his fault and so you shouldn’t have to owe him the time of day until you're ready to give it. “You didn’t have to run away from me.”

“I didn’t run.” Tyler’s eyes follow the movement of your arms wrapping tighter around yourself and he swallows hard. “I walked.”

“Speed-walked,” he counters. “Borderline jogged.”

You groan, your tense shoulders sagging. “Tyler listen, I just–”

“Do you really think disappearing on me was a fair thing to do?” he interrupts. “I’m your best friend.”

Your jaw drops at the audacity. Not surprising, really; Tyler’s always had a way of wording things that gets under people’s skin, but out of the two of you, he is the last person who should be doling out the criticism. 

“Fair?” you huff. “You’re the one who–”

“I mean, what was so wrong with it?” Long fingers slide through his blond hair. “Can you honestly say you’ve never thought about me in that way? It hasn’t crossed your mind once? No sex dreams? Nothin’? ‘Cause I’ve been wrestlin’ with it since fuckin’ high school, but ok, sure, fine.”

“Ty–”

“And I know it was unexpected but was it really that shocking? Don’t you think we’d be good together? I think we’d–”

“For fuck’s sake, Tyler, will you let me talk!” you snap, your voice carrying throughout the barn.

If you were trying to preserve your privacy, you’ve definitely failed now. Half of town probably heard you and they’re nothing short of a mile away, but at this point, Tyler has pushed you well past caring. Let them hear. Let them know what’s going on between you. They all saw him kiss you anyway.

“We nearly died,” you continue. “People around us did die.”

Tyler’s face breaks down and you instantly regret your words. You know he stuck around after you left. You know he helped everyone he could in the aftermath of disaster while you let your emotions override your system and ran home to cry to your mother over how he just rocked what was your very steady relationship.

“Look,” you sigh. “Even if I wasn’t thinking about death—and that is a massive ‘if’—I told myself a long time ago that you are my friend, just my friend.”

Tyler’s hands settle on his hips. His eyes fall to the floor and his back teeth clench. “Why?”

“Because I repeated it so many times in my head that it solidified,” you tell him, throwing your arms up. “You know why Bradley dumped me last year? And Pete a couple years before that? And Bobby back in high school?” you ask. “Because of you. They all sensed this weird…energy…from you. All of them. Do you know how many times I had to tell them they were crazy? Do you know how many times I had to tell myself that I was crazy whenever they brought it up to me and I actually considered the possibility of you feeling that way?” 

You know exactly how many. Bobby had mentioned it five times before he decided he was done; broke it off with you right before prom and scoffed when he saw that Tyler had stepped up as your date. Pete was shorter-lived; asked you about Tyler three times before he said he could see which way the wind was blowing and had no interest in getting in between anything. And Bradley held the record at seven, each time making the fight outdo the one prior before he was simply fed up with the friendship you refused to sacrifice. Three boyfriends have ditched you solely because of Tyler, and fifteen times you had to talk yourself down from the jolt of excitement you got from imagining him loving you.    

Taking a deep breath, you say, “You don’t just get to kiss me and not let me sort out my thoughts for five damn seconds.”

Tyler’s head snaps up, jaw ticking and eyes blazing. “Five seconds?” he spits. “I haven’t seen you in a week. That’s the longest we’ve gone since I graduated.”

“This isn’t just about you; how you feel; what you think; what you want.”

“Then what are you tellin’ me?” Tyler asks.

The light quiver in his voice unnerves you. Not because you aren’t used to him expressing himself to the fullest—and if he’s ever going to be vulnerable with anyone, it’s with you—but that quiver is typically the trigger for you comforting him, taking him into your arms and holding him, letting him wrap himself around you until he feels better and is ready to stop. For some reason, you never noticed how long he would stay tied to you when you gave him the chance. 

“Are you feelin’ like this is it?” he continues. “Are you wantin’ us to be done?”

And suddenly, you’re irritated again. You can’t stop the roll of your eyes. In no universe would you ever be done with Tyler Owens, and the fact that he would entertain otherwise is asinine. “Don't be dramatic.”

“Well, what do you expect!” he shouts. “You’re actin’ like I’m about to lose you!”

“I didn’t say anything like that!”

“But you're mad that I kissed you!”

“Damn it, Tyler! I am not!”       

Green eyes widen, his breaths heavy from his heaving chest. His mouth opens then closes then opens once more. “You’re—” He licks his lips as you watch him grasp for words. “Then why haven't you called me back?”

You shrug. “I don't know. We've never fought before, and I thought you'd be pissed that I walked off, which clearly you are, so…”

“That’s not true,” he says, moving to take a step closer to you before thinking better of it and staying put. “I haven’t been pissed, darlin’, just terrified. And missing you. And…wanting you.” Heat flares your cheeks, forcing you to tear your eyes away from the desperation in his. “But I’m sorry. I wasn’t tryin’ to…I mean, you left and I thought…”

You shake your head. Whatever he let himself think, he was wrong.

The silence that settles over you is thicker than you're used to in his presence. You're used to laughter and jokes, sweet comments and banter. Tension zings in the space between your bodies, but it's pleasant, electrifying, invigorating. You feel the full impact of everything that was tucked underneath the stress and anxiety of barrelling through such a hard conversation. 

Tyler feels it too. His face shows it. His eyes you can only describe as heatedly glittering as he stares at you staring at him. His brows are pinched from frustration of a different kind. It's his lips, though, that reveal his thoughts better than any other feature. They're softly parted, glistening from a swipe of his tongue like he's ready to lock them to yours at any second. Like he needs to be ready just in case you give him the go-ahead so he can kiss you before you dare rescind your permission. 

“What are you thinking?” you ask, words quieter than you meant for them to be, but Tyler hears you.  

His chuckle is short, half-formed, partially overtaken by the exhale of a breath. You detect a slight tease, as if you should already know the answer to that question. 

“That I wanna kiss you again,” he says. “So fuckin’ bad.”

The corners of your mouth struggle not to quirk upward. “Tyler.” He hums. “You know what it means if we do this, right?”

He nods. “We can’t go back,” he says. “But darlin’, I don’t wanna go back. I wanna keep on goin’...with you.”

“Everything will be different.”

“Not everything. We're still us, we'd just be kissin’ and touchin’ and, you know, doin’ other stuff,” he replies with a smile. “Hopefully.”

You picture Tyler standing before you as you have secretly wished you could have him for years—bare and muscled and grinning and telling you he loves you—and for the first time, you aren’t awash with guilt and shame. It feels right to think of him like this. Natural. There’s a soothing ocean of serenity flowing under the flames of desire, and it hits you that this was probably inevitable. All the pieces were there—friendship, trust, love—all there was left to do was act on it. 

“You won't change your mind?” you ask, stepping to him. 

At your question, distress takes over Tyler's face, but it melts into a grin once he notices your smirk. He closes the remaining distance between you and takes your hand, carefully interlocking your fingers. 

“No chance,” he tells you. 

“Ok,” you say, nodding. “Well, if you’re absolutely sure, then I guess it’s ok if you kiss me agai–”

Your chuckle is muffled against his lips. His fingers untangle from yours and he guides your hand to rest on the back of his neck so he can cup your cheek. His free arm coils around your waist, pulling you in closer, and your body melts into his. Your brain fuzzes. You lose all awareness of your surroundings. You think you might just stay like this forever.

----

Tag List (if you wanna join)

[bear-yawns]

　𝗢𝗙 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗚 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘.　kimi antonelli · #12

　　　kimi has been trying to get your attention for years, frustrated at the fact that you only seem to recognize your brother's race results. is he really that invisible to you?

genres : fluff ... slight enemies to lovers ... reader is ollie's sister ... kimi antonelli x fem!reader.　request : anon for kimi + "did i... did i kiss you last night? i can't remember." for the 100 event　word count : 2.1k.　warnings : alcohol consumption (both reader and kimi get drunk) ... good old liquid courage helping reader out (could be read as underage drinking depending on the laws, but in australia and italy its both 18 so let's say it's not underage drinking lmao).　 note : i started writing this ages ago like literally right after australia and it's taken me this long to revisit the fic and finally finish it </3 but it's here now so yay!!　　　( masterlist )　( taglist )

Kimi woke up with a buzzing headache. He had to attribute it to the alcohol consumed the night before while celebrating his race result in Melbourne. Twelve points scored on debut. It was certainly an astounding feat. Even now, articles were still being released praising the performance of the eighteen year old. Kimi couldn’t be happier. With a race as unpredictable as that to start out the season, any driver would just be happy to finish it without crashing. Almost getting a podium felt amazing.

Even with the pain burning across his forehead and slight ringing in his ear, Kimi couldn’t help but smile as soon as he woke up. Simply put, yesterday had been everything he could’ve dreamed of. There was still so much more to work towards, but just for now, he felt totally weightless, like he was floating through the clouds. Nothing could touch him. Nothing could bring him down from this high. For once, Kimi felt on top of the world.

That was, until it all came crashing down as soon as his eyes fell on you.

So much for nothing being able to bring him down from his high.

Anyone who had ever seen you and Kimi in the same room knew that you didn’t quite get along well. It wasn’t extreme hatred or anything, but you had always gotten on each other's nerves since you were little. Worst of all, you just couldn’t seem to stay clear of the other. 

Being Ollie’s sister, you were always there at races in Prema and even now in F1 as well. Kimi could not evade you. He saw your face everywhere.

He got along well with Ollie, but he often wondered how you could even be related to him. You were so different. Ollie was hardworking and precise while you always seemed laidback without a care in the world.

It didn’t stop you from being put together. Somehow, you were always effortless with whatever you did. Kimi never knew if you were trying hard or if everything just came naturally. The public loved to plaster the words prodigy next to your name. As someone who had been called a prodigy himself for many years, maybe there was something about you that intimidated him.

Perhaps he felt threatened by you— by your seeming perfection throughout every challenge. He knew how much he truly struggled to live up to the expectations set for him; how filling a seat that used to belong to Lewis Hamilton was pressure he wasn’t ready for. Until the race in Melbourne yesterday he was so sure he would crack under it all as soon as he got into the car. 

Some days he felt that maybe he just wished he was a little more like you. You were in the same situation at times; both of you had lots of expectations thrown at you, and endless pressure to perform under the hardest circumstances. Maybe he wasn’t made to handle the pressure. He didn’t want to find himself crumbling under it all when someone like you would surely shine. 

Besides your connection to Ollie, you had no real spot in the world of Motorsport. You didn’t drive, nor were you interested in engineering or strategics. Yet whenever you were outside of your own world, you found your way into Kimi’s. You were always there at races— often one of the first faces he saw when he stepped out of his car. He didn’t know why his eyes always seemed to find yours before anyone else's, or why he couldn’t get his brain to stop being annoyed whenever he did see you in the heart of the crowd. He felt relieved when you missed a race, as if it was finally a time for him to relax and not care about the result. But then the obvious questions arose in his brain. 

Why did he care about you being there? Why did he hate to see you cheer so proudly for your brother? Why did it sting when you didn’t cheer him on the same way?

But those questions were all old in his mind; all had their chance to linger for months and drive him slowly mad when he realized he wasn’t ready to face the answer. The main question that plagued Kimi’s headache-stricken brain right now was how the hell you had ended up falling asleep in his arms. 

Your head lay against his bicep, effectively trapping him. There was no way he could get up without disturbing your sleep, and for some weird reason a part of him was screaming to let you continue dozing. So he did. He lay completely still, eyes tracing the outline of your figure, quieting his breaths that seemed deafening against the silence of the room, as if they too might wake you up.

You were still in the outfit you wore the night before to celebrate the first race of the season, cheering on your brother of course. And even though your hair was a bit messy and your face bare of any makeup, you looked perfect in Kimi’s eyes. So full of life even though you were fast asleep. So comfortably situated in his arms as if you were meant to be held by them, even though this was certainly the first time he had been this close to you. 

The moment should’ve been peaceful, but to Kimi, it was anything but. His thoughts were racing faster than his car could go on track and he gulped as denied feelings he had kept down for so long floated up again. He tried to press them down once more, hide them for a while longer. Once you woke up he could make sure you pretended none of this ever happened and life would go back to normal. But he wasn’t sure he could do that— wasn’t sure that reality would be one he was able to accept. 

As his headache cleared and the events of the previous night settled in his memory a bit more intelligibly, he remembered exactly how he had gotten here in this bed with you securely in his arms. 

He had been a bit tipsy. Not fully drunk, but definitely enough to not think quite clearly. And you had been overconfident in finding yourself in places you shouldn’t have been. Such as, attached to Kimi’s arm; lips finding their way onto his. 

At least, he was nearly sure that had happened. He vaguely remembered the taste of tart cherry on your lips that was likely from whatever you had been drinking during the party. And you must have refused to leave his side to go back to your own hotel room to have ended up in his arms the entire night. 

And at that realization of his, your eyes fluttered open. You stared at him for a second, first in shock, and then in realization. You gasped and sat up straight, finally letting Kimi relax the muscles he had tensed to keep still.  

“Did I… did I kiss you last night? I can’t remember.”

Kimi’s breath hitched. So he wasn’t just making that part of the night up. His silence was enough of an answer for your question. 

“I’m sorry. I must’ve been more drunk than I realized,” you whispered in embarrassment, slipping a bit further away from Kimi once you realized just how close you had been lying to him. He bit back the words on his tongue that wanted to tell you to stay where you were, that he didn’t mind the closeness. 

“It’s fine. It was just one kiss,” Kimi assured quietly. 

“Are you sure it’s fine? You don’t sound sure,” you said pointedly. And you would be right about that. Kimi really wasn’t sure it was fine; not about the kiss, but how he wished it would happen again. How he wished it wasn’t just one kiss. How he wished that it hadn’t just been a drunken mistake on your part. Was it fine that he felt this way?

Kimi took a breath, “Why did you kiss me?” 

You were hesitant to answer. Some anxious part of you didn’t want him to know how long you had wanted to kiss him before this; how many months you had spent harbouring a secret crush on him. You went with the half truth. 

“I guess I just wanted to congratulate you on your race result. Your drive was incredible yesterday.” 

Kimi could tell that wasn’t the entire reason.

“You never seemed to care before now. You only ever celebrated Ollie’s achievements, even when I scored higher than him,” Kimi reminded you, sounding a bit hurt even though he didn’t mean for it to come across that way. “Has it changed now that I made it into F1?” 

“Ollie’s my brother—” 

“So I have to become family just to get you to cheer for me?” 

You sighed, “I didn’t mean it like that. I was happy for you before this race. In all of F2 I did want you to succeed as well,” you defended, explaining the situation you hoped you wouldn’t have to touch on. Your feelings around Kimi were complicated. 

“If you were happy for me, why did you never show it? I thought you hated me all this time because you never spared me more than a glance. I tried so hard to get your attention at the beginning and prove that I was an amazing driver like they all said I was, just for you to not even look at me. I was happy whenever you weren’t at a race cause it felt like I could finally breathe and drive just for the team without you on my mind for once.” Kimi was rambling at this point, his voice frustrated but earnest and still somewhat soft. Even if he was upset with you, he couldn’t raise his voice. And before he realized it, he had spilled much more than he ever meant to. He went quiet when he realized your eyes lingering on him, observing him so carefully. 

“All this time, you wanted my attention?” you asked. 

“It was all I wanted.”

You let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, covering your face with your hands in disbelief at the truth. It was comical, really, just how badly you both had misjudged each other. 

“So all this time… you were trying to impress me? And I was trying to avoid you because I thought it would be easier than getting close to you,” your voice got quieter as you trailed off. “I knew I could never stay friends with you. I’ve liked you for so long. That’s why I kissed you last night, Kimi,” you confessed, nervous but somewhat at peace with how everything was coming to light. It was nice to not have to hide it anymore. Even if he rejected you immediately, you would be at peace with it.

Kimi went quiet at your admission. You watched his adam’s apple bob down in a rushed swallow, his eyes darting away from your face as heat crept up his neck. You looked down at your hands, nestled in your lap above the covers. Your fingertips fiddled with the duvet on the bed, picking at the soft fabric absent-mindedly.

“So… what happens now?” he asked. Your eyes met his— those golden brown irises that always stuck in your mind, taunting you, teasing you, torturing you.

You took a breath, “I’m not drunk anymore, so there can be no excuses this time. If I kissed you again right now would you—”

You never got the chance to finish your question, much less prepare for the suddenness in which Kimi’s lips found their place on yours. With your mind clear of the alcohol and the atmosphere being the complete opposite of last night, you allowed yourself to truly enjoy the feeling, knowing it would stick in your mind forever. You could barely recall what the kiss last night felt like, but you were sure it couldn’t hold a candle to the tenderness with which Kimi kissed you now.

His hand on your jaw, thumb ever so lightly stroking your skin to the same rhythm his lips danced on yours to. His patience was contrasted with your eagerness as your fingers laced through his hair, pulling him closer to you, deepening the kiss in whatever way you could.

At that moment it felt like nothing else mattered. Not the countless headlines and articles about Kimi’s incredible debut, not the next designer brand deal you would shoot for, not even the possible aftermath of you and Kimi becoming a thing. You didn’t care about how your brother would react or if he would approve or not. It wasn’t his place to butt in with an opinion either way. You knew from the way that Kimi kissed you that he was yours now, no matter what anyone said. Nothing could make you happier than that realization. 

Perhaps it wasn’t just Kimi floating on cloud nine, for there seemed to be another result even more satisfying than finishing P4.

kimi taglist: @divierses,, @lxvemaze,, @revelauver

[leclerc-hs]

tides of us pt. 2 - ln4

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader summary: in which you and lando are stuck in a swell of unknown territory and feelings. warnings: language, NOT PROOFREAD, smut under the cut!!!!, kinda toxic but really they just don't know how to handle emotions. ANGST word count: 12.1k... author's note: SURPRISE!! she's a long one. PLEASE let me know what you think as I love to hear from you all. hearing your thoughts is what keeps me going!!

part 1

“Oh my fucking god…Don’t stop.”

You couldn’t remember the last time a one-night stand had felt this intense…or more accurately, the last time a fleeting, ‘one-off’ encounter had inexplicably morphed into something far more complex, something that seemed to repeat itself, each meeting even more consuming than the last.

A recurring one-night stand, if you even dared to label it that.

Since that morning on the yacht, weeks ago, everything had shifted. Kind of. You still fought like fucking hell. With the new addition of an unrelenting cycle of burning, sensual fucking. Each time more addictive than the last. You couldn’t stop, no matter how often you told yourself you hated each other.

His fingers would graze your skin like flames licking at dry wood, igniting a trail of heat that spread through every godforsaken inch of you.

It made no sense. None of it did. It was supposed to be nothing. Just a one-time thing. In fact, it wasn’t supposed to be anything at all.

You hated each other. You should still hate each other. 

Yet, here you are. With your face pressed hard against the cold, smooth surface of the wooden dresser, and his arm a relentless, possessive presence against the small of your back, locking you in place. The weight of his touch had you pinned, forcing your eyes to meet the reflection of the two of you in the mirror, as he  buries his cock so deep in you that he manages to hit that spot in your tummy just right.

Lando’s usual blue-green eyes, so often bright and full of life, were now a dark, smoldering shade that seemed almost unnatural, like a storm gathering on the horizon. 

They no longer sparkled with mischief but instead had deepened into pools of liquid steel, so intense that they appeared to consume the very light around them. His heavy-lidded gaze pierced through the reflection, burning you with an unsettling heat, as though he could see straight through your skin.

The smirk curling at the edges of his lips was effortlessly wicked, a sly, knowing expression that held a thousand secrets. It was enough to make your breath hitch and your eyes narrow, instinctively wanting to do nothing but smack that fucking smirk right off of his beautiful face. Wait what?

Lando, like you, is wrecked. A complete mess of desire and restraint as he feels his body on the verge of trembling with each stroke of his cock into your tight cunt. His body was aching with an intensity he hadn’t expected, a hunger he couldn’t suppress, no matter how hard he tried.

“M’fucking god,” You outright moan.

Lando groans, dragging his fingers upwards to the back of your neck, digging into the skin of it hard enough to bruise. His cock throbs inside of you, and fuck…he’s obsessed. 

“Yeah?” His teeth graze his bottom lip as he angles his hips to somehow hit you deeper, and you swear you might just come on the spot.

“I’m gonna-“

The sudden shift in motion takes you by surprise, a fleeting moment where you feel weightless, suspended between his raw strength and the gravity of the world around you. His presence is consuming, an irresistible force as he lifts your head from the dresser, his touch firm and sure. Your back presses against the solid warmth of his chest, the heat of his body radiating through you, grounding you in his unyielding embrace. His grip tightens, pulling you even closer, and before you can fully process it, you’re falling, swept toward the bed that had once seemed so distant.

The soft sheets welcome you, cushioning your fall, but his hold remains steadfast, his arms wrapped around you with an unrelenting force as he hovers. There’s no escape, only the sensation of being claimed.

He glides the head of his cock between your slick folds, teasing you, and you swear you might punch him if he doesn’t do something soon.

“Lando, if you don’t-“

“If I don’t what?” He interrupts, his voice a smooth, teasing drawl. His lips curl into a smirk, the flicker of mischief in his eyes dark and mocking, as if daring you to finish your thought. The weight of his gaze lingers, intense and unreadable, leaving you caught between the sharp edge of his challenge and the magnetic pull of his presence. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin, as if savoring the moment, waiting for you to make your move. “Beg.”

The frustration in your eyes is undeniable, a flickering fire that burns with defiance. Lando notices it instantly, the way it sharpens your features and tightens your jaw. And despite the teasing edge in his tone, despite the challenge he laid out before you, something stirs in him.

He feels a familiar ache deep within him, a pull that tightens his chest in a way he hadn’t expected. It’s not just the defiance in your eyes, but the way your flushed cheeks betray the heat of the moment, the wild strands of your messy hair that fall across your face, adding to your raw, untamed beauty.

For a split second, the teasing smirk fades from his lips, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. His eyes linger on you.

“You’re such an ass,” You groan, grinding your hips in hopes the friction of his cock against your folds would be enough. But it isn’t.

The smirk on Lando’s lips is back almost instantly.

“Just beg, baby.” Lando’s voice rumbles, low and commanding, the words slipping from his lips with an effortless authority. He trails one hand to your breast, his thumb rubbing smooth circles around your nipple in the meantime.

The nickname hits you like a wave. Your stomach flutters almost instantly, a flutter of warmth spreading through you, as if his voice alone has the power to unsettle every nerve.

“Please,” Your voice is low, sounds so small.

“What?” Lando pinches your nipple. “Could you repeat that? My hearing’s quite shit.”

“Lan, are you fuckin-“

You don’t get to finish your sentence as Lando stuffs his cock back into you with a harsh slam of his hips.

“No. I’m not fucking kidding.” He grunts into your ear, his voice dropping an octave. “Say my name again.”

It’s not until he lifts your hips a fraction of an inch off the bed, his cock hitting that spot just right all over again, that had you nearly shouting.

“Lan, I’m gonna-“ Your voice falters, trembling with the weight of him. Your fingers dig deep into the hard muscles of his biceps, nails trailing harshly against his skin, leaving faint red marks in their wake. The sensation is sharp, almost painful, but he doesn’t flinch. In fact, he smiles.

His breath quickens, but there’s no sign of retreat. If anything, he leans into it, relishing the pressure, the intensity. He doesn’t care if it hurts; the marks you leave are a reminder. A brand, of sorts. And in these moments, he finds comfort in the sting.

“Yeah, c’mon.” He urges, his voice a low, rough growl that sends a shiver down your spine. His breath is warm, brushing against the curve of your neck, stirring the hairs there to life. You can feel the heat of him close, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The proximity, the tension, it’s intoxicating.

He know’s exactly what he’s doing. Pushing, coaxing, his presence a magnetic pull that constantly threatens to unravel you.

He knew, without a doubt, that the moment his lips met yours, it would be the tipping point— the one thing that always sent you spiraling, completely undone. It was a delicate, powerful thing.

But this time, as he barely brushed his lips against yours, lingering just long enough to make you ache for more, and then pulled away, he caught it. The flicker of pain in your eyes. It was subtle, but undeniable. 

“You like it when I fuck you like this?” Lando groans as your walls tighten around him from his words. “Yeah?”

You nod, your pupils dilated and cheeks flushed red.

“You just wanna come all over m’cock, hm?”

The words claw at your throat, the struggle of needing to come becoming almost too powerful. 

“Please.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw, right by your ear, and it has you groaning out. “You’re so fuckin’ hot when you get like this.”

“Please, please, please.” You begin repeating, not caring how pathetic you sound. “Need t’come.”

“So needy and pliable.” He groans hotly into your ear. “My own personal fuck toy, yeah.” He begins to laugh, and it has goosebumps rising on your skin almost instantly.

“Shut up and make me come.” You’re so close. Right at the tipping point.

He drags his fingers up your neck, curling around your chin with a grip just firm enough to assert his dominance. His touch glides along your jaw, and he presses the pad of his thumb against your lips, before gently slipping it into your mouth.

“This pretty, filthy fucking mouth…” he groans, his voice hushed with desire as he pushes down against your tongue, feeling you suck in response.

He wastes no time, pulling his finger from your mouth, dragging it down and pressing roughly against your clit. Without warning, his mouth crashes against yours, hot and demanding. His tongue forces its way inside, urgent and unrelenting. The kiss is frantic, messy, as if he can’t get enough, the raw need palpable in every movement.

His cock throbs inside of you and he swears he never wants this to stop. Wants you wrapped around his cock with every waking second for the rest of his life.

The white hot-sticky pleasure consumes you, as your groan vibrates right against his tongue. The sound you make is guttural, as you arch into him as much as you can in this position with your legs twisted so tightly around his hips as he continues to fuck you through it.The mixture of his cock fucking into you, and the pad of his thumb circling right against your clit had you on sensory fucking overload.

No matter how much you squealed and groaned against his tongue, he didn’t let up. Didn’t stop. He swallowed every moan, every squeal, every push of your tongue as it lapped against his. 

His other hand loops into your hair, holding it tightly as you continue to arch off the bed, keeping your head against the mattress until he has to pull out, frantically pulling his tongue from your mouth with a loud ‘pop’ and fisting his cock until hot spurts of his white come cover your belly. The sight of you covered in him had his head falling back with a loud groan.

His skin is flushed red, down his neck to his collarbone. And you can’t help but admire hot fucking hot he looks with his lips parted open and eyes squeezed shut. There’s so much of it, oozing and pooling over your skin that you feel your cunt clench and ache at the sight.

He collapses on top of you, no care in the world as his come smears against his own skin in between the both of you. He pulls you in for one last kiss, his tongue hot against yours, pushing against yours in slow, languid motions before pulling off. His hands trail your face, pushing your hair back as you give him a soft sleep smile that makes his heart clench.

And he smiles right back.

-

“Y’know, I probably could’ve done that faster if you let me help.”

Lando leans over your shoulder, peering at what you’re doing, his breath warm against the side of your neck. The heat of him is impossible to ignore. So close that you can feel the faint press of his chest against your back.

Without missing a beat, you keep chopping, casting him a sideways glance. “You? With a knife? Yeah, I’ll pass.”

Lando’s eyes widen in mock offense, his lips curling into a smirk. Before you can react, his hands settle lightly on your hips, fingers grazing just enough to send a shiver rippling through you. The touch is effortless, familiar. Like he belongs there.

“I can cook, y’know.” He murmurs, leaning in closer, his voice dipping just enough to make your pulse stutter.

His chest brushes against your back, and despite yourself, you falter for half a second, the rhythm of your chopping momentarily thrown off. You force yourself to focus, but it’s getting harder when every slight movement of his sends a spark of warmth through you.

“Oh, yeah?” You challenge, a teasing edge to your voice. “And when was the last time you actually cooked something?”

Lando’s fingers flex at your waist, his grip tightening just slightly in a silent dare. When you glance up, you catch the glint in his eyes. Mischievous, knowing, and suddenly the kitchen feels much, much smaller.

“That pasta the other night,” he quips, far too quick with his answer.

A laugh bubbles up before you can stop it. “I said cooked, Lando. Not burned.”

He gasps, scandalized, but the grin tugging his lips gives him away. 

“Wow. No faith in me whatsoever.”

You smirk, setting the knife down and finally turn in his hold. His hands don’t leave your hips. In fact, if anything, they tighten just slightly, as if anchoring you in place. His face is close, impossibly so, and the teasing glint in his eyes is shadowed by something softer, something warmer.

“I have faith,” you admit, tilting your head “Just…not in your cooking.”

His lips part in mock outrage, but you catch the way his gaze flickers, tracing the curve of your mouth before meeting your eyes again. “Alright, now you’re just rude.” He murmurs, voice lower than before.

You roll your eyes, but the way your breath catches betrays you. “It’s honesty.”

Lando hums, fingers soothing slow, absentminded circles over your hips. “Mmm. I think you just like making fun of me.”

You grin. “That’s a given.”

His fingers twitch, his grip shifting just enough to pull you the slightest bit closer. Your hands instinctively lift, catching at the front of his hoodie, and his smirk deepens like he just won some kind of silent challenge.

“Y’know,” he muses, voice ripping into something dangerous, “if you don’t trust me in the kitchen, I could always just…” He leans in, lips barely brushing your jaw, slipping his hands up your skirt as he whispers, “…stay right here. Supervise.”

The warmth of his breath sends a shiver racing down your spine as a small moan slips past your lips when his fingers rub gently against your covered core. And you can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, “For safety reasons.”

You swallow hard, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his hoodie. “For safety reasons,” you echo, pretending to consider it as his fingers push past the thin fabric, finding your clit with ease where he rubs gentle tiny circles that has you careening forward into his hold.

“Always fuckin’ soaked.” He groans, pushing two fingers into you and scissoring them. 

Lando grins, tilting his head as you fumble slightly from the pleasure. “Can’t have you getting distracted, can we?”

Safe to say, you were very distracted. And dinner was not cooked, but burned.

-

It was one of those rare, peaceful weekday afternoons where Lando was home between races, sunlight streaming through the windows of the grocery store, the air cool and crisp with the faint hum of background music. You hadn’t planned on going shopping with Lando, but somehow, here you were, pushing a half-filled cart together down the aisles.

Lando was usually a whirlwind of energy, but today, he was relaxed, strolling beside you with a lazy grin as you both debated over which brand of cereal was the best.

“No way,” you said, holding up the box of Honey Nut Cheerios. “This one is clearly superior. It’s simple, timeless.”

Lando shot you a look, his eyebrow arching with playful disbelief. “Timeless? It’s just Cheerios.” He grabbed another box from the shelf, one that was all brightly colored with pictures of fruit and some kind of sugar dusting. “This is the one to go for.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You just wait,” he reaches to grab another item of the shelf. “You’re gonna try it and you’ll be converted. I’ll even let you have the first bowl.”

“Oh, really? Your Highness is willing to share his precious cereal?” You say sarcastically, but the playful tone gave it away—you were just as amused as he was.

“Of course,” Lando replied, completely deadpan.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m honestly kind of impressed by your cart,” Lando says, peering into the basket with a playful smirk. “You’ve got, like, actual food in there. What happened to the usual ‘chocolate and chips for every meal’ routine?”

You made a face, swatting him lightly with a bag of coffee beans you’d picked up. “Excuse me, I am a grown up. I have vegetables in there.”

“Sure, sure. I’m here for the snacks. You know, real food.”

You rolled your eyes but the smile never left your face. “Yeah, whatever.”

-

The restaurant was alive with energy, a steady hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the air. Your group had been seated at a long table near the windows, overlooking the city skyline, the kind of view that made for a perfect, relaxed evening.

Except for the fact that Max and Pietra had made it their mission to set you up with someone tonight.

You should have seen it coming. The way Pietra had been watching you all evening, the knowing glances exchanged, the hushed whispers right before dinner was served. Now, as Pietra leaned in across the table, her eyes twinkling with mischief, you braced yourself for whatever was coming.

“Okay, hear me out,” she began, swirling her wine glass between her fingers. “Alex—tall, handsome, and completely into you. You should at least talk to him.”

You let out a slow breath, pushing your fork against the edge of your plate. “I’m good, Piet.”

Max, ever the instigator, smirked as he cut into his steak. “C’mon, he’s a great guy. And single.”

Across from you, Lando let out a soft scoff, barely audible over the clinking of plates and low chatter. You glanced up at him, catching the quick flicker of irritation in his expression before he masked it with practiced indifference, taking a slow sip of his drink.

It was dangerous, this game you were playing, pretending there was nothing between you when, in reality, there was everything.

Because no one knew.

No one knew how hard Lando kissed you breathless against his front door, hands gripping you with bruising intensity. No one knew that less than twenty four hours ago, his mouth had been on your skin, his voice rough and desperate as her murmured your name. No one knew that after weeks of sneaking around, you still hadn’t figured out how to stop yourself from wanting him.

And Lando was pretending right along with you.

But right now, as he sat there, his fingers drumming against the base of his wine glass, jaw set a little too tightly, you could tell it was wearing thin.

“Oh, and you know who else would be perfect for you?” Pietra continued, completely unaware. “Nick. He was asking about you the other day.”

Lando’s grip on his glass tightened slightly. “Right,” he muttered, his voice neutral but edged with something sharp. “Because that’s exactly what she needs.”

You shot him a quick look, wondering why he was behaving this way. You weren’t dating.

This wasn’t supposed to be anything more than what it was—just late nights, whispered moans, the heat of his body pressing into yours when the rest of the world wasn’t looking. It wasn’t supposed to spill over into moments like this, where his voice took on an edge at the mere mention of someone else being interested in you.

But here he was, jaw tight, shoulders tense, barely touching his food as Pietra and Max continued.

“She needs someone good for her. Someone who actually wants to be with her.” Pietra chimed in, not picking up on the energy of the table.

You felt your stomach tighten.

Lando huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly as he swirled the wine in his glass. His lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable.

“Maybe she doesn’t want that,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet yours. There was something unspoken there, something only you could decipher.

Your throat went dry.

“Well, maybe she should.” Max cut in, oblivious to the silent storm brewing across the table. “I hate what he did to you. I don’t want to see you closed off.” Max looks at you with a soft smile, sincerely.

Pietra nodded in agreement. “Exactly! So, Alex or Nick? your pick. Both are great options.”

Lando exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning back in his chair as if distancing himself from the conversation entirely. His hand ran along his jaw, irritation flickering across his face before he smoothed it over with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, voice light but forced. “She should definitely go for it.”

You hated the way that sentence made you feel.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have felt like a challenge, like a dare, like a knife pressed just below the surface of your skin. It shouldn’t have sent that ugly twist of frustration curling deep in your stomach, because this is exactly what you wanted…right?

Lando meant nothing.

That was what you had been telling yourself for weeks. That was what you reminded yourself every time you left his bed before the sun came up, every time you pulled your clothes back on in the dark while he watched you from half-lidded eyes. Every time you walked past him the next morning and pretended like your body didn’t still remember the way his hands had pressed into your skin.

So you swallowed, forcing a smile, forcing yourself to meet his gaze with something sharp and detached, as if this didn’t affect you at all. As if his words hadn’t just buried themselves under your skin like a splinter you couldn’t dig out.

You lifted your glass, took a slow sip, and shrugged.

“Maybe I will.”

The words left your lips smoothly, but they tasted bitter. You weren’t sure why you said it—maybe to push him, to see if he would finally break that carefully crafted mask he always wore. Maybe you wanted to see him react the way you always did when he threw careless words in your direction, pretending this was nothing, pretending you were nothing.

Or maybe you just wanted to hurt him the way he was hurting you.

“Good for you, then,” he murmured, his voice light but laced with something sharp. “Hope he can keep up.”

It was the kind of sentence that said so little, and yet everything. 

Before you could even muster a retort, Pietra clapped her hands together, full of chaotic energy and romantic optimism.

“Oh! A triple date!” She beamed, eyes darting with excitement. “Max and I, you and Nick, Lando and..well, we’ll find someone for him.”

You blinked.

The shift in your stomach was instant and brutal, like someone had reached inside and twisted. A slow, churning weight settled deep in your gut, spreading tendrils of cold through your limbs. Your grip on your glass tightened, fingers suddenly clammy against the delicate stem.

No way.

Your brain was scrambling to keep up, but your body had already gone tense, like it was bracing for impact.

Then Lando spoke.

His voice was smooth, measure. Calm. But there was a tautness underneath, something too rehearsed, too clean.

“I already have someone in mind.”

The words dropped like stone in the center of the table, sinking into the middle of everything and pulling it down.

Pietra, sitting across from you, blinked. You watched her process the words like they hadn’t quite made sense at first. Her eyes brightened with interest as she leaned forward.

“Oh?” She said, her voice lifting with genuine curiosity, her wine glass cradled between both hands.

You barely registered her.

You could feel Lando’s gaze before you even looked. Heavy. Steady. Deliberate. It was the kind of look you felt on your skin before you even met it with your own.

He wasn’t lying. Not exactly. But he wasn’t telling the whole truth either. He was saying it without saying it.

Pietra was still smiling. “You didn’t tell us you were seeing someone!” She said, laughing lightly. “Who is she?”

Max raised his brows beside you, clearly intrigued. “Since when?”

Lando glanced back to them slowly, taking his time, like he was weighing each word like it might explode if he said too much. His posture was relaxed, almost bored, but his eyes. God, his eyes were sharp. Watching. Waiting. Calculated.

“It’s…new,” he says, his voice light. Too light. The kind of casual that didn’t sound casual at all. “We’ve been keeping it quiet.”

Quiet.

New.

Not real.

Your throat tightened.

You dropped your gaze, locking it on the soft white tablecloth like it was the only thing anchoring you to the moment. There was a tiny crease in the fabric, a barely-there fold near your fork, and you fixated on it, traced it with your eyes, anything to avoid looking up. Anything to avoid him.

Because if you did—if you met his gaze— you knew you’d say something you didn’t mean. Or worse: something you did.

Quiet.

Like the stolen moments at his flat.

Like the way he’d kiss you and pull you in when no one else was looking.

Like the way he’d pull you close and whisper things into your ear that he never said in daylight.

New.

Like he hadn’t already carved himself into you.

Like this hadn’t been happening for weeks. 

Like he hadn’t looked at you last night like you were something exquisite.

Not real.

It was supposed to be pretend. Supposed to be physical. Easy.

But you knew the truth. And so did he.

“Anyone we know?” Pietra asks brightly, laughing a little as she sips her wine, unaware of the way your entire world was caving in, breath by breath.

Lando didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let the silence stretch.

Thick. Heavy. Measured.

You didn’t need to look to feel him watching you again. It prickled down your spine. Crawled under your skin. Sat between your ribs like heat.

“Maybe,” he says, voice dropping a notch lower. Smooth. Controlled. Dangerous. “Maybe not.”

A faint shrug followed. The ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth…just enough to make it hurt. And then, he looked away.

The conversation moved on, but you didn’t.

You didn’t remember dessert. You didn’t taste the wine. The jokes around you blurred, distant and hollow, like they were happening underwater.

-

He didn’t know when it stopped being casual. Only that it had.

The second you walked into the restaurant—dressed in that effortlessly unfair way, that dressing hugging you in all the places his hand did. Lando knew he was completely, utterly fucked.

He watched you walk in beside Nick, your laugh soft, your eyes flicking up toward the warm lighting overhead as you took in the space. You looked calm. Gorgeous. Untouchable.

You didn’t even glance at him.

That was the first hit.

You took your seat at the far side of the table, next to Pietra, and right across from him. And beside you…Nick, all easy smiles and buttoned up charm. The guy had clearly tried tonight. Collared shirt. Fresh shave. Perfect posture.

Lando didn’t care.

What he cared about was how close Nick was sitting to you. How he leaned in when he talked to you, how he looked at you like he thought he had a chance. Like he deserved one.

And Lando couldn’t say anything.

Because next to him sat Sofia. Sweet. Funny. Stunning. The kind of girl everyone expected someone like him to be with. She laughed too loud at things he didn’t find funny and touched his arm too often like she was already claiming him.

He smiled at all the right moments. Said all the right things. Played the part.

But the entire time, his attention kept drifting back to you.

You, sipping your wine slowly.

You, pretending you didn’t feel his eyes burning holes into you across the table.

You, biting your lip to hide a smirk when Nick whispered something in your ear.

He fucking hated it.

He hated how he could still feel the weight of your legs around his waist from the week before.

Hated that his mouth still ached with the memory of your name breaking in his throat.

Hated that while everyone else saw this dinner as casual, he was sitting there fighting not to drag you out of the restaurant just to remind you that he was still the one who knew your body better than anyone else ever would.

At one point, Nick reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Lando’s jaw clenched. Hard.

He reached for his wine, a little too quickly, the glass nearly tipping as he took a long, slow sip. Sofia turned toward him, asking about the last race. He answered, but his voice sounded distant even to himself. His eyes had drifted again.

Right back to you.

Because you were glowing in the candlelight.

That was the worst part.

The soft, amber glow danced across your skin, catching the high points of your cheekbones, curling like warmth around your collarbone, and flickering in the shine of your eyes. You looked soft. Beautiful. Untouchable.

Radiant.

Like nothing was wrong. Like none of this was hard for you.

Like you weren’t unraveling from the inside the way he was.

You laughed at something Nick said, threw your head back, eyes crinkling, your fingertips brushed against Nick’s hand, and Lando swore he felt it in his fucking chest.

A clean hit. Center mass.

It wasn’t even about Nick. Not really. It was about you. About the way you smiled like someone hadn’t just lit a fire under the table. About the way you looked at Nick with polite interest instead of the burning heat Lando had seen in your eyes a hundred times when you looked at him.

He didn’t want to do this anymore.

He didn’t want to sit there with Sofia’s fingers trailing slowly up his thigh like she thought she had any idea what he needed. Like she hadn’t been talking for ten straight minutes while his pulse thudded beneath her touch, not from desire but from restraint.

He didn’t want to smile and nod while she laughed at stories he barely remembered telling, all the while watching you lean in closer to another man.

He didn’t want to play pretend anymore.

Not when his hands still ached with the memory of your body.

Not when your voice was still stuck in his head from the other night, low and wrecked and saying his name like it meant something.

Because it had meant something.

He didn’t know when it stopped being casual. Only that it had.

Somewhere between the first kiss and the first time you said just sex.

Somewhere between the time you stole his hoodies and didn’t give them back and the time he kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep.

Somewhere between all the things he wasn’t supposed to feel— but did.

And now, watching you lean into Nick’s shoulder, your lips parted like you were about to say something else clever and teasing and not for him.

He felt sick. 

Angry.

A quiet, simmering kind of rage that sat just beneath the surface, coiled tight in his chest like a spring ready to snap. Not the kind of anger that you yell with. The kind that burns through your bone.

Because Nick was sitting there like he belonged next to you. Like he deserved your attention, your laughter, the soft little smile you gave him when he held the chair our for you. Nick, who didn’t know the first fucking thing about you. Who hadn’t memorized the exact sound your breath made when you were trying not to moan, or the way your fingertips trembled when you let your guard down. 

And you were letting it happen.

Worse—you were playing along.

Lando wanted to leave. Wanted to drag you with him.

Wanted to take you outside, press you against the car, and say everything he’d been choking on…

Don’t look at him like that

You’re mine.

I hate this.

But he didn’t.

Because it was casual. Right?

-

This wasn’t silence. This was screaming without sound.

The ride back to Lando’s felt endless. A tension wound so tight it made the air between you brittle. The kind of silence that made your skin itch. That pressed against your chest and made it hard to breathe.

Lando hadn’t even given you a choice.

“I’ll take you home,” he’d said, sharp and possessive and final.

And you didn’t argue. Because technically, he was right. You were staying with him.

Your things were still scattered in his guest room, your toothbrush still sat next to his like none of this was falling apart.

Lando didn’t look at you once during the drive. His fingers gripped the wheel so tightly you could see the tendons flexing beneath his skin, his jaw clenched like he was holding his entire body together by force.

The lights of the city washed over him in streaks…cool and gold and flickering, softening the hard line of his profile.

You stared out the window, eyes burning, refusing to let anything fall. Not with him next to you, pretending like he hadn’t gutted you.

You hated him.

You hated the way he looked you across the dinner table like he owned you.

You hated how he let Sofia touch his arm, laugh at his jokes, smile like she had any idea what it felt like to really be looked at by him.

You hated that he sat beside someone else and still had the audacity to act like you were the one who crossed a line.

And worst of all, you hated that it worked.

That his gaze still made your stomach twist.

That your hands still ached with the need to reach for him.

That even now, even after this, a part of you still wanted him.

By the time the car slid into the garage, your blood felt like fire in your veins.

You stepped out before he could say anything, storming past him and into the apartment, heels sharp on tile. The door slammed behind you.

You didn’t even make it halfway down the hall before his voice followed you—low, cold, frayed at the edges.

“You really couldn’t wait to laugh at everything he said, huh?”

You stopped. Slowly turned.

Your voice came out too calm. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He stood there in the entryway, eyes dark, fists clenched at his sides. “Pretend it didn’t drive me insane?”

You scoffed. “You don’t get to do that, Lando. Not when you had her clinging to you all night. Not when you chose to bring her and do this.”

“She means nothing.”

“Then why bring her?”

“Why bring him?”

You stared at each other, chest heaving, the pain stretching taut between you like wire.

He steps forward, slow but dangerous, like something barely caged. “I brought her because I couldn’t stand the thought of being there and watching you with someone else.” His voice cracks, raw and ragged. “Because I thought maybe if I saw it for myself, I’d feel nothing.”

You swallowed hard. “And?”

His eyes locked with yours. “I felt everything.”

That was all it took.

You were on him in a second, fingers tangled in his shirt, mouths crashing like a car wreck. It wasn’t a kiss—it was a breaking point. Desperate. Vicious. Full of fury and need and heartbreak.

He backed you into the wall with a grunt, your hands fumbling at his buttons, his teeth dragging along your jaw like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or devour you.

Your breath hitches as he presses his forehead to yours.

“I hate this,” you whisper, “I hate you.”

“I know,” he murmurs, voice gutted. “I hate you too.”

And then you were kissing again—angry, breathless, clinging like you were trying to hurt each other with how badly you still wanted this.

You didn’t make it to the bed. You didn’t need to. Because this wasn’t about comfort. It wasn’t about love.

It was punishment. It was grief in the shape of bodies.

He fucks you hard against the wall of the hallway, your lace panties pushed to the side, his belt barely unbuckled as his pants are shoved down just enough so that he can stuff his cock into you.

It was every unspoken thing you said through bitten lips and bruised skin.

And afterward, as you lay tangled in the mess of it—neither of you moved.

You didn’t look at him. And he didn’t touch you. 

But in the silence, you felt everything. 

And it hurt more than it ever had.

-

The tension in the room was suffocating, thick enough to choke on. Conversation that had once flowed easily now hovered in awkward limbo as every pair of eyes flickered between you and Lando, watching the sparks ignite into something dangerously close to an explosion.

You sat on one side of the couch, arms crossed so tightly it felt like it was the only thing holding you together. Across from you, Lando lounged back like he had all the time in the world, legs stretched out, fingers drumming idly against his knee. The picture of nonchalance, except for the telltale clench of his jaw. 

“I swear to God, you are the most self-absorbed, arrogant asshole I’ve ever met,” you bit out, your voice dripping with irritation.

Lando scoffed, eyes flinging under the warm light. “Oh, I’m arrogant? That’s rich, coming from you.” He leans forward slightly, head tilting, tone mocking. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk? It’s exhausting.”

A sharp laugh escapes you, humorless. “Sorry I don’t let your little asshole comments slip by.” You leaned forward, heat rising to your face. “God forbid, someone doesn’t worship the ground you walk on for five fucking seconds.”

Across the room, Max raises an eyebrow, shifting uncomfortably. “C’mon guys, seriously? This again?”

Neither of you acknowledge him.

Your ands clench into fists against your thighs. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Lando shot back, grin widening, “you’re always right fucking here.”

The room went still. You make a move to stand up, no longer wanting to be near him.

“Nothing about this is funny, Lando,” you seethe. “But I guess that’s all you ever do, right? Crack a joke, act like nothing fucking matters—“

“Yeah?” Lando cut in sharply, eyes narrowing. “And you act like you don’t care when you obviously fucking do. No wonder your ex left you.”

The words slice through the air like a blade, cutting through the noise, through the tension, through you.

A suffocating silence falls over the room, pressing against your chest like a vice. Your pulse pounds in your ears, drowning out the quiet gasps and awkward shuffling around you. Max shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting between you and Lando. Pietra sucks in a sharp breath but doesn’t dare say anything. Keegan leans back, his drink momentarily forgotten in his hand.

But you don’t register any of them.

Your entire world has narrowed down to Lando, sitting across from you, shoulders squared, chin tilted up in defiance, that sharp, reckless fire still burning in his gaze. He knows exactly what he just did. He threw a dagger straight to the heart and hit his mark. And he’s daring you to react.

You swallow hard, the initial sting of his words curdling into something darker, something lethal. Your hands tremble at your sides, but not with hurt. No. This is rage, white-hot and searing, clawing up your throat.

Then, Lando sees it. The barely-there quiver of your lip. The way your breath catches for just a second too long.

And in that instant, it hits him.

His expression falters. His cocky smirk flickers, like a candle struggling against the wind. Realization slams into him like a freight train, knocking the air from his lungs. His posture stiffens, and for the first time tonight, he looks uneasy.

“Wait,” he blurts out, moving to sit up. His voice softer now, tinged with something close to regret. “I’m sor—“

But you don’t wait to hear it.

You’re already on your feet, already walking away, your movements sharp and deliberate. You refuse to let them see your face, refuse to give Lando the satisfaction of seeing just how deep his words had cut.

The air feels too thick, too heavy, pressing in on you from all sides. You need to get out. Now.

“Wait,” Lando tries again, his voice more urgent this time, but you don’t slow down,

You make it to the front door in four strides, wrenching it open without hesitation. Cold air from the hallway rushes in, biting at your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the burn in your chest.

And then—

“Fuck,” Lando mutters.

The sound of your name leaving his lips is the last thing you hear before the door slams shut behind you.

-

The apartment felt suffocating, the air thick with unspoken words and a tension that had been building for days.

You stood in the doorway of the living room, watching Lando as he sat on the couch, his body sprawled lazily, but his eyes not quite focused on the screen of his phone. The silence between you two felt heavier than it had in days, thick like the humidity before a storm.

You took a deep breath, the weight of your decision settling like lead in your chest. You’d been avoiding this moment, dancing around it with every silent exchange and every time you deliberately didn’t look him in the eye.

You needed to leave.

“Lando,” you said, voice steady but quieter than you wanted it to be.

He didn’t immediately look up. He just shifted on the couch, adjusting his position, still fixated on the phone in his hands. The faintest sigh escaped your lips.

“Lando,” you repeated, this time a little louder.

At your tone, he finally glanced up, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of curiosity and that same old guardedness you’d gotten used to over the past few days. His lips parted, like he was about to say something, but then his expression faltered.

Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. “I’m moving out,” you said, the words tumbling out faster than you could stop them.

There was a beat of silence, a long, drawn-out moment where neither of you spoke. Lando’s gaze flickered, searching your face, but he didn’t seem to fully understand.

“What?” He asked, his voice flat, as if the words were foreign to him. “What do you mean, moving out?”

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your chest ached as you looked at him, trying to stay calm. “I’m moving out.”

Lando blinked, but his eyes never left you. There was no anger, no defensiveness—not yet. Instead, there was this cold detachment, like he was trying to keep himself from feeling anything at all. His jaw clenched, but the words didn’t come right away.

“Right.” His voice was quieter now, like he was speaking to himself. “I see.” He leans back against the couch, his posture casual, but there was a strain in the way his arms crossed over his chest. His lips pressed together in a thin line, and for the first time in a long while, you saw the cracks in his usual cool demeanor.

It was as if he was trying to shrug off what you’d just said, to act like it didn’t matter. But you saw through him. 

“You’re acting like you don’t care,” you said, the words cursing through the room.

His eyes flickered for a second, the mask slipping, but then he quickly recovers. He gives you a hollow smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes, and then shrugs. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” He said it flatly, like it was something he’d rehearsed, something he thought he should say. “But if that’s what you want, then fine. Whatever.”

You tried to ignore the sting that spread through you. It’s not like you were dating, you told yourself. You weren’t together. But that didn’t make the hurt go away. 

“Right.” Your voice cracked, and you quickly swallowed down the bitterness that was threatening to break free. “I’ll be out by the end of the week.”

-

The weeks had passed in a blur. The days filled with endless work, deadlines, and a weight of responsibilities that distracted you enough to almost forget about him. Lando. The sting of that last conversation with him had faded, but it was still there, lingering in the back of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

Things didn’t go back to how they were, but they didn’t stay as tense either. It was like a slow, reluctant return to some kind of normal, where the pain of the past still lingered, but you were both too stubborn to let it completely define everything.

You existed in this weird limbo, where you’d exchanged a few awkward words here and there for the sake of your friends, but never anything that went deeper than the surface. You spoke in the way that people who once had some sort of bond but now tip toe around each there did. Casual, clipped, and a little too guarded.

It wasn’t fun. Hell, it wasn’t even close, but it was manageable. And sometimes, that was all you could ask for.

One night, your group of friends were hanging out at a local bar, the usual crowd. You were sitting on a bar stool, nursing a drink that wasn’t quite strong as you’d like it to be, but it would do. Across the room, Lando was in the middle of an animated conversation with Max, his hands flying through the air as he gestured with the same over-the-top energy he always has when he’s passionate about something.

The laughter in the room was warm, but it felt distant. 

Later, as the night wore on, you found yourself standing near the pool table, watching the others play. Lando came over, tossing his jacket on the back of the nearby chair. The energy between you was familiar enough that you didn’t hesitate to speak to him, but also it felt strained.

“You still suck at pool,” you said, your tone more playful than it should’ve been, but it was the kind of jab you used to throw without second thought.

Lando smirked, leaning agains the table with an exaggerated cocky posture.”You wish,” he replied, his voice laced with that same arrogance you knew all too well.

You chuckled, but there was no real warmth behind it. Just the act of getting through the conversation without letting things get too weird.

And yet, there was still something in the way he looked at you. A flicker of something that wasn’t quite indifference. Maybe a hint of regret. Maybe it was something else.

-

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t some big, dramatic moment where everything was fine again. Instead, it happened gradually, in the quiet in-between moments, in the casual interactions that didn’t feel like landmines anymore.

At first, it was just existing in the same space without tension suffocating the room. Group hangouts weren’t as unbearable, and the awkwardness that once weighed down every conversation started to fade. You could talk again without it feeling forced, without the sharp edge of unresolved anger lingering between you two.

Then, one day, Max invited everyone over for a movie night, and you barely hesitated before showing up. A few weeks ago, you might’ve thought twice, might’ve made up some excuses to avoid another night of dodging Lando’s presence. But this time, it felt…easier.

Lando was already there when you arrived, sprawled across the couch in the way he always was, one arm slung lazily over the backrest, his legs taking up more space than necessary. He barely looked up when you walked in, just gave a quick nod and a muttered, “Hey,” like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

Weeks later, you were at a dinner with friends, and without thinking, you slid into the seat next to him. It wasn’t a conscious decision—you weren’t trying to prove anything, weren’t trying to reclaim something lost. It just…happened. And he didn’t tense up. Didn’t shift away. He just leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table absentmindedly as he listened to the conversation.

At some point, you made a comment that had the table laughing, and Lando snorted, shaking his head before muttering, “Still annoying as ever.”

It was teasing, lighthearted. The kind of jab he used to throw away all the time. 

“Yeah, well,” you shot back easily, stealing a fry form his plate like it was second nature, “you’re still an asshole.

-

Lando Norris had finally done it. After 110 race starts and 15 podiums, he clinched his first Formula 1 victory ever. The McLaren team erupted in celebration, the garage a blur of orange and blue as the mechanics and engineers reveled in the long-awaited triumph.

You watched from the sidelines with Pietra and Max, the roar of the crowd vibrating through your chest as champagne sprayed across the podium. Lando stood at the top step, his grin so wide it could have split his face in two. You should have looked away, should have focused on the bigger moment at hand, but you couldn’t tear your eyes off him.

Not when his eyes flickered toward you, just for a second.

The after party was chaos. A whirlwind of lights, music, and expensive champagne flowing as if the entire world had been waiting for this night. Everyone was drunk on victory…especially Lando, who was making his way through the club, grinning as he accepted every congratulatory slap on the back, every cheer raised in his name.

You stayed back, nursing a drink, watching from the shadows. It had been weeks, months, since you’d really talked. Since things between you shattered into something so complicated, neither of you had really figured out how to fix.

But tonight, the past felt different.

“Didn’t think I’d see you hiding in a corner,” Lando drawls, dropping into the seat beside you, eyes bright from alcohol and adrenaline.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t think you’d come looking.”

He scoffs, running a hand through his messy curls. “You’re acting like I haven’t been waiting for you to come congratulate me properly.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches. “Fine. Congratulations, Norris. You finally did it.”

He smirk softens into something more genuine, something real. “Yeah. I did.” He pauses, watching you, his knee knocking against yours. “You proud of me?”

The question caught you off guard. You hesitated, then let out a breath. “Yeah, Lando. I’m proud of you.”

The words settled between you, something shifting in the air. You should’ve walked away then, should have left it at that. But instead, you stayed.

And later, when the party started winding down, when the night had blurred into warm laughter and lingering touches in secrecy, when Lando leaned in, breath ghosting over your cheek as he murmured, “Come with me,”— you didn’t say no.

You should have.

But instead, you let him take your hand, let him lead you through the dimly lit corridors of the hotel, the air thick with something heavy, something inevitable.

The door barely clicked shut before Lando was on you.

His hands found your waist, rough and desperate, pulling you against him in one swift motion. His mouth crashed onto yours, all heat and hunger, like he had been waiting for this for far too long.

It was messy, rushed, pure heat and desperation. He tastes like whiskey and something inherently him, something you had no business still craving. 

You gasped against his lips, fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just hard enough to make him ground. He presses you back against the wall, his body slotting perfectly against yours, the hard planes of his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath.

“Tell me to stop.” He mutters against your lips.

You could have.

You should have.

But instead, you pulled him back in, whispering against his skin, “No.”

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, his voice low, strained, as his lips moved to your jaw, then your neck, leaving a trail in their wake. “Missed this.”

Your nails scrape down his back, feeling the way his muscles tensed under your touch. “Shut up,” you whispered, voice just as wrecked as his.

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, and you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the way he groans at the contact. He stumbles backwards until you hit the bed, the mattress dipping as he hovers over you, his breath heavy, eyes dark and hooded.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” He admits, voice thick with want, his fingers tracing along your skin as he leans down, capturing your lips again.

His forehead rests against yours for half a second, his breath uneven, before he pulls back just enough to really look at you.

“This is just sex,” you said first, voice barely above a whisper, but firm. A boundary. A reminder.

Lando’s lips twitched, like he wanted to say something. Instead, his grip tightens slightly, fingers pressing into your skin like he needed the anchor. The reminder that you’re really here. Under him. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice rough. “Whatever you say.”

And yet, the way he kisses you after—slow, deep, like he was memorizing every inch of you—made it feel like a lie.

-

It had been weeks. Weeks of avoidance, of pretending that last time had been a lapse in judgment rather than the inevitable. Weeks of stolen glances across rooms, of brushing past each other like it didn’t mean anything. Like you hadn’t memorized the feeling of his hands on your skin, the way he groaned hotly in your ear as he whispered your name in the dark.

And yet, here you were again. 

The door had barely closed behind you and already the air felt different. Dense. Loaded.

You were only supposed to drop off a hoodie. That was the plan. A thin, pathetic excuse, but you told yourself it was fine. It had found its way into your suitcase after that night—the one that bled into morning, where you left his bed before the sun rose, skin still warm, mouth still tasting like him.

Now you stood in his living room, holding that hoodie too tightly. Your knuckles white around soft, worn fabric.

You hadn’t planned on staying. But neither of you were moving.

Lando stood just a few feet away, barefoot, fresh from the shower. Damp curls hung over his forehead in messy, lazy waves. The soft black t-shirt clung to his chest, still damp at the collar, and his grey sweatpants sat low on his lips like a careless invitation.

He looked effortlessly undone. And completely unreadable.

He wasn’t relaxed. Not really.

Your pulse fluttered.

The silence between you stretched long and thin, tight like a pulled wire. One wrong word, one wrong breath, and it would snap.

You swallowed. The words in your throat tasted like regret.

“I just—“ you started, holding the hoodie out like it was a peace offering. “This was yours.”

Lando didn’t move to take it.

His eyes flicked down to it, then back to you. “You came all the way here for that?”

There it was. The challenge. Quiet. Sharp.

Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric. “It was in my bag.”

“Right.” A beat passed. “You could’ve just texted.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry. “I know.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

He took a slow step toward you, not enough to close the space, but enough to make your heart stutter.

You hated how his presence still made your skin feel electric.

Lando’s voice dropped, softer now. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

His eyes search yours like he was trying to solve you, like he already knew the answer and was waiting for you to admit it.

You let the hoodie fall from your hands. It hits the floor soundlessly and he wastes no time.

He crosses the rest of the distance in a single stride, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist.

It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate. Like he was punishing you for staying away. Like you were punishing him for letting you.

You melted into it anyway. Because you didn’t come for the hoodie.

You came for this.

-

It didn’t change.

Even after all this time: weeks of distance, of pretending it never happened, of triple dates and fake smiles and sleeping in separate beds…it still hadn’t changed.

You and Lando were right back where you started.

Back to silence thick with want.

Back to tension disguised as indifference.

Back to hooking up in secret like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did. God, it did.

You had told yourself it would be different this time. That avoiding each other meant you were finally doing the right thing. That letting him go would mean letting this go, the late nights, the whispering moans muffled into his mattress, the lingering touches that felt too much like wanting.

But here you were.

Back in his bed.

Back in the dark

Back in his arms.

Hooking up in secret like it didn’t matter.

Like your hands didn't shake when they touched him.

Like his mouth on your skin didn’t ruin you every time.

His mouth hot against your neck, your fingers fisting the sheets like they were the only thing tethering you to sanity.

You had tried to stay away. You had tried to be good. But when his hands found your waist and he kissed you like he needed you, every reason, every rule, every line blurred until it vanished.

“Fucking christ,” he whispers against your skin, voice low, like he even hated that this felt so right.

Your nails dug into his shoulder. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I know,” He murmurs, breathless, forehead pressed against yours. 

“Tell me you missed it,” he rasped, lips dragging down your throat, his voice already wrecked. “Tell me you still fucking want me.”

You gasp as his teeth graze the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “You already know I do.”

He groans, low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. His hands were everywhere. Your thighs, your ass, the back of your neck…gripping, pulling, desperate like he was trying to commit you to memory.

Clothes came off in frantic, uneven tugs. His mouth found yours again and again, each kiss dirtier, deeper, messier than the last.

“This means nothing,” you whisper between kisses, your voice shaking as his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties.

“Bullshit,” he breathes against your mouth. “You feel like mine.”

And you did.

Right then, you did.

Because Lando touched you like he owned you.

Fucked you like he was trying to erase every other man from your body.

Kissed you like he was starving for something he’d been denying himself for too long.

And when it was over, when your bodies were tangled in the sheets, skin flushed, and slick with sweat, chests rising and falling in sync. You didn’t say a word.

-

The door doesn’t just click shut behind him, it slams, rattling the walls and sending a violent tremor through your chest. The sound rings in your ears, sharp and final, like the crack of a gunshot.

The silence afterward is deafening.

Your breath comes in short, jagged bursts, chest heaving like you’ve just sprinted a mile. Your fists are balled at your sides, nails digging so deep into your palms you’re almost positive you’ve broken skin. But the sting doesn’t register. You’re too far gone.

The anger is molten in your veins. It scorches. It consumes.

How dare he?

How dare he look at you like that? Say that to you? Act like you’re the one who’s done something unforgivable. Like you betrayed him. Like you stabbed him in the back just for having a fucking conversation with another guy at an event you didn't even want to go to in the first place.

“If you want to whore yourself out to the world, be my guest. It’s not like we’re together anyway.”

The words slam into your skull like they’re on repeat, looping endlessly, cruel and cutting and so beneath him.

The inside of your mouth tastes like blood from biting your tongue too hard. Trying not to scream when he said it, trying not to cry.

But now?

You want to throw everything in sight. Smash every glass, every plate, everything that he’s touched. You want to tear apart the sofa where he kissed you last week like it meant something. You want to rip your own skin open just to let the fury out. 

Instead, you reach for the closest thing.

A glass on the counter.

Heavy. Clear. Innocent.

You barely register your arm moving before you hurl it at the wall with everything you’ve got.

The sound is instant. Shattering. Violent.

Glass explodes across the hardwood like a thousand tiny pieces of your own rage, catching the light as they scatter, beautiful and broken.

But it’s not enough.

The ache in your chest is too deep. The burn in your throat too raw.

You move. Fast. Pacing the kitchen like a wild animal, hands raking through your hair, pulling, scratching at your scalp as if you could dig the fury out from under your skin. But it lingers. It festers. 

It builds

Because how fucking dare he?

He just wanted to be the victim. Wanted to twist it into something that made you the villain. As if he hadn’t been the one who pulled away the second things started feeling too real.

Your eyes sting—but no tears come. You won’t let them.

You face faster, chest tight, heart racing. The apartment feels too small, too suffocating. And underneath all the rage, all the fire—beneath the storm you’ve become—there’s something else.

Buried deep. Almost too deep to recognize.

A sliver of something raw. Something real.

Hurt.

Because for all his flaws—all the fights, the secrecy, the push and pull—you wanted him. You still do.

And now, all you can think is:

If he wants to believe you’re some villain in his story—

Maybe it’s time you start acting like one.

-

The club is a mistake.

But right now, you want to make mistakes.

You want to be reckless. You want to be wild. You want to be seen.

The bass pounds like a heartbeat, steady and hard, syncing with the blood roaring in your ears. The room is alive—neon flashes streak across sweat-slicked skin, strangers press against each other like they’re starving, and the air smells like spilled drinks and something sweet and desperate.

Its the perfect place to forget.

Or pretend to.

Your dress clings to you like it was sewn on, your make up still flawless despite the storm you barely survived earlier, and your glass is already half-empty, liquid courage numbing the parts of you that ache too much to name.

You don’t think. You just move.

The guy with a sharp jawline and the too-easy smile finds you on the dance floor, and you let him. His hands slide down your waist, anchor you to the rhythm, and you let yourself fall into it. Not because you want him. Not really.

But because you know exactly who is watching.

Leaned against the bar like he owned the night. Curls a little messy, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his shirt carelessly unbuttoned just enough to make you burn.

Sofia tucked into his side like she belonged there.

Her hand on his chest. His smirk. His laugh.

You nearly choked on it.

Because it wasn’t just a random girl. It was her.

And he looked like he was enjoying it. Like he hadn’t just stormed out of your apartment, like he hadn’t called you something cruel and cold and unforgivable.

Like you hadn’t spent the last two weeks trying not to cry every time someone mentioned his name

Fine.

You can play that game too.

You turn toward the stranger, lips brushing the shell of his ear, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like a scene pulled straight from a revenge fantasy. His hands skate lower. His mouth finds your jaw.

But your eyes stay locked on Lando.

And he’s watching.

You can see it from across the room. The way his jaw clenches. The way his drink stills in his hand. The way Sofia keeps talking, oblivious, while his eyes are glued to you like you’re gravity itself.

You lean into the stranger’s mouth, laugh at something he says even though you don’t hear a word. You press your body closer, let his hands wander.

And Lando snaps.

You see it in the twitch of his brow. The way he straightens. His drink hits the bar a little too hard, liquid sloshing over the edge. He says something to Sofia…quick, dismissive. She frowns. He doesn’t explain

He’s already walking.

Straight toward you.

Your breath catches, but you don’t back down.

Lando’s chest collides with yours before he even says a word, a hand curling around your wrist as he yanks you, gently, but firmly, away from the guy, who looks like he’s about to protest until he sees Lando’s face.

“Don’t,” Lando mutters over his shoulder, eyes never leaving yours. “She’s not interested.”

-

This wasn’t forgiveness. This was combustion.

The bass of the club still pounded behind you like a heartbeat, muffled now by the thick walls of the dim hallway Lando had all but dragged you down before pushing you into the private lounge. Your back hit the wall hard enough to rattle the frame of the private lounge door, but you didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.

He stood in front of you, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile, his hands braced on either side of your head, trapping you in. Not physically. Emotionally. Because it was always like this with him. His presence bigger than his body, his silence louder than any scream.

He was staring at you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or tear you apart.

And you felt just the same.

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” you hissed, voice shaking with the fury that had been burning in you since the moment he’d walked into the club like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t ghosted you for two weeks, like he hadn’t looked you in the eye and accused you of being disposable.

Lando’s jaw clenched, his eyes dark and dangerous in the low light. “Don’t.”

“No. You don’t get to stand here and act like I’m the one who crossed a line,” you spat. “You left. You disappeared. You brought her like I meant nothing. And now you’re pissed that I danced with someone else?”

His breath came faster. You saw it. The flicker of guilt, of pain, of jealousy he didn’t know how to hide.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he said, voice rough, almost hoarse. “I was angry. I said it because I knew it would hurt.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well. Mission accomplished.”

His hands slammed against the wall, framing your face but never touching you, and you hated how it made your heart stutter. Hated that even now, even when you wanted to slap him across the face, your body still leaned into him like muscle memory.

“You think it didn’t kill me?” he growled, his voice low and guttural. “Watching him touch you? Watching you pretend like I didn’t exist?”

“You don’t get to say that,” you snapped, eyes burning. “Not after what you said. Not after two weeks of silence. You can’t just show up and expect me to—”

“I didn’t know how to talk to you,” he cut in. “I didn’t know how to look at you and not fucking want you.”

The confession hit like a thunderclap.

Your breath caught, and the weight of everything unsaid; every word buried under bitterness and pride—rose to the surface, choking the air between you.

Your voice cracked. “You think this is just wanting?”

Lando didn’t answer.

He stepped forward instead, one hand curling around your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he couldn’t help himself. His forehead dropped to yours, breath hot against your mouth.

“I hate this,” he whispered. “I hate how much I still want you. I hate that I can’t get you out of my head.”

“Then walk away,” you whispered back.

But he didn’t.

He kissed you.

It was fire. All teeth and desperation, mouths crashing together like neither of you cared who got hurt in the process. His hands were on your waist, sliding under your dress, gripping your hips like they were familiar territory…because they were.

Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging hard, earning a low growl from his throat as he pressed his body into yours.

Clothes were tugged aside, not removed. This wasn’t soft. This was reckless. This was months of frustration and fury and ache pouring out in frantic touches and bruising kisses.

He hoisted you up against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist, your back arching into him as his mouth moved to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he murmured, voice ragged and low, the words slipping from his lips like a dare, like he already knew you wouldn’t.

His breath was hot against your cheek, his hands trembling slightly where they held you like you were something breakable. And for the first time in weeks, you saw it.

The fear. The want.

The truth he had tried so hard to bury under anger and distance and pride.

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Because you did feel it.

You always had.

Instead, you reached for him, fingers curling around the back of his neck as you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. The space between you vanished, not just physically but completely, like there had never been a single inch there to begin with.

Your voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. “I never stopped feeling it.”

Lando exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months. His eyes fluttered shut, and you felt the tension in him loosen, melt, unravel. His hand slid up your back, holding you tighter, anchoring himself to you like he didn’t trust this to be real.

“You scare the shit out of me,” he said quietly. “You make me want things I told myself I wasn’t allowed to want.”

You smiled, small and soft, but real. “Then stop pretending you don’t want them.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you again, but this time it wasn’t desperate or punishing. It wasn’t angry or messy or anything born from frustration. It was slow. Careful. Like he was learning you all over again. Like he finally understood what it meant to have you in his arms.

Like he didn’t want to lose it this time.

And you let yourself fall into it.

Because for the first time, it didn’t feel like running.

Or hiding.

Or a mistake waiting to happen.

It felt like home.

[dmitriene]

you're a young recruit, and army can often be something too much for even stable mental health, no matter how strong of a person you are, and sooner or later, you too had to face the fact that frequent exertion makes you gradually break down, being on the verge of an abyss that slowly consumes you like a liquid tar.

simon riley is more experienced, a lieutenant, a leader and a person who has seen more than many others and people like you, making him move as quietly as a predator, think ahead and always look behind his back, but he knows how to keep an eye on his people, and he sees that something is wrong with you, churning concern brimming in his honeyed eyes as he stalks your form.

he sees the unshed tears that you swallow and whisk from your eyes with the hasty flutter of your eyelashes, sees a slight shaking in your hands and how hard you swallow when something goes wrong again, someone scolded you, or just sent you to do something, although it's hard for you to even take a step, and simon feels that you're about to break.

you crumple in the storage room, some soldier sent you there to fetch important stuff, and nothing foreboded trouble until you were simply left alone in a narrow room, able to let the tears flow from your eyes, striving down your warming cheeks, as you slowly sank to the floor, curling in yourself, not having time to really hear someone else's heavy footsteps before a shadow covers you.

simon watched you all the time, from the sidelines, careful and attentive, and when he spotted that you're gone, he hurried to catch up to you, as if instinctively knowing that he would find you curled up, sobbing into your knees in a dark room, so when he goes inside, he kneels down carefully, letting his broad form swallow you instead, cradling your body gently to his sturdy chest, wrapping warm arms around you that settle on your ears.

you don't startle or neither fight, you know it's him, in the tart smell of gunpowder and smoke that emanates from his gear, making you nuzzle closer, dissolve into his body as he croons muffled reassurances, handling you like something precious, and when your sobs morph into little sniffs, body limp with gnawing exhaustion, simon scoops you up and offers to rest in his chambers.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[heartbeerry]

i got a soft spot for you / r. c | part one

pairing: rafe cameron x female reader

part one / part two / part three

cw: exes to lovers, angst, rafe redemption arc, brief mentions of alcohol/substances, some swearing, there's sweet and fluffy reconciliation at the end.

summary: y/n breaks up with rafe due to his problem with alcohol/substances. summer passes by and they find themselves at the same place one night. rafe is determined to prove he's changed for the better.

inspiration: soft spot by keshi

♫ i don't go out, but i’ll do it for you

you never liked it when i drink too much

i hate to dance, but i’d dance with you

'cause i’d do anything to feel your touch...

. . .

the condensation from the full glass of whiskey pooled in rafe's grasp.

he hadn’t had a drop, instead opting to swirl the amber liquid in a circular motion. he let out a small sigh as he ran his fingers over a fresh buzz cut.

it was his first night out in weeks, his inner circle dragging him from his house to "let loose". once arriving at the bar, one of them shoved a glass in his hand and left him to stew in a faraway corner.

rafe was heavily considering taking a sip, giving in, letting all of his progress go to waste.

that is until he spotted you from across the room.

his heart clenched at the sight of your smile, directed towards a group of your friends. you looked happy. without him.

it had been an entire summer since the break up and you were clearly handling it well.

rafe on the other hand, was in pieces.

unbeknownst to you, he had been diverting all of his frustrations into getting clean.

he moved towards the spiral stairs to get to the upper level without catching your gaze. he knew your fun would end if you caught sight of him.

rafe's stomach bunched in knots as his hand gripped the railing. he was stumbling, failing at pushing down the onslaught of thoughts threatening to consume him.

"don't you think you've had enough, babe?" you nudged rafe's shoulder, unable to disguise your concern. he hated when you looked at him like you were almost afraid of what would happen next.

you were at a pool party and rafe's inebriated state was resulting in hushed whispers throughout the crowd.

"i know when to stop, y/n. don'tcha worry, let's just have sum good ol' fun." he slurred back. then, before he could take another sip of his beer, rafe was tripping over his own two feet into the pool, bringing you down with him.

rafe felt hot wet tears line his lids as he recalled that night. the night that broke all of your resolve. the next morning, you were packed up and out of his life. he couldn't blame you, he knew he was a disgrace.

it hadn't been the first time his drunken state had caused a problem in your relationship. but to you, it would be the last.

the already raw revelation stung all over again as rafe looked on over the dance floor from the upper balcony of the bar. you looked amazing, absolutely perfect and - were now being chatted up by some glorified finance bro.

rafe could tell the guy was asking you to dance, by the sheer shit-eating grin on his face as he placed an outstretched hand in your direction. when he saw you hesitate, his heart lurched, begging you to decline.

the moment dredged up another memory - this time, one he couldn't dare to misremember.

"come on, baby," you grin, tugging gently on rafe's ring clad hand. "i really want to dance, everyone is already on the floor!"

rafe beamed up at you, your infectious smile giving him the necessary energy to get up from his seat.

he would rather soon drop dead than attempt to dance, but the look on your face was immeasurable and he would never give up the opportunity to feel your touch.

that was just a month into your relationship, but rafe knew. he knew he was wrapped around your finger as he ambled across the dance floor at your cousin's wedding with the dexterity and grace of a newborn fawn, your laughter filling his ears.

rafe all but threw the glass down on a nearby table, whiskey sloshing from the rim. he jammed his palms into his eyes, willing himself to use the breathing exercise you taught him for when his anxiety rose to a dangerous level.

when he removed his hands from his face, rafe wished to be anywhere else. the deepest depths of hell would be more appealing.

on the floor below, you were in the middle of that mellifluous laugh as your new dance partner was spinning you in circles.

rafe scaled the stairs to the back entrance, battling the pure anguish in his chest.

he couldn't breathe.

swinging the door open, rafe stepped into the humid night.

. . .

i’m wrapped around your finger and i can't stop

you know i got a soft spot for you... ♫

part two

[starshipsofstarlord]

honey suckle

summary. daryl gets lost in eating his favourite meal between your legs

warnings. smut, oral (female reader receiving), fingering, squirting, swearing, pet names (babydoll, darlin’), some and implied aftercare

divider credits. @cafekitsune

It was one of those excruciatingly delicious nights when Daryl had returned home from a long run with Aaron, he was ravenous to be as close as possible to you, and so here he was, large hands splayed on your thighs as his head lay between your legs. His hair was tousled to a haphazard degree, the waved brunette locks splaying in every direction as your fingers sunk into their roots, tugging at the strands in your grip, which only egged him further on.

His face was practically buried in your centre, tongue sliding relentlessly through your folds and swirling with educated concentration around your throbbing clit. You were sure his cheeks were smothered in your aroused essence, however you couldn’t see as he didn’t lift his head once, caring not for breath, his only priority was to taste you for as long as you could handle it.

If he had all the options that rotated the planet at his hands, he would never let up, he would die a happy and breathless man from suffocating himself in your addictive cunt. But even then, after he was a corpse from being delirious to be drowned in your sweet juices, you would be angry at him, needing more from his chapped lips and sinful tongue. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The fall was enclosing at your dispense, your heightened pitch indicated so, as did the clenching of your walls that his tongue thrusted in and out of.

Each of his taste buds were consumed with your aroused honey, and even as you came, he lapped without hesitancy, cleaning up your wetness only to create more to flee from your slick entrance. Your mouth was agape in sensational and pure distress as you thrashed your legs around like a maniac, until you wrapped them around his head, feet locking at the back of his neck.

“Need one more from ya babydoll.” His gruff voice that carried the dry lustre from his smoking habits vibrated against your lower lips, causing you to release an elongated squeal. You weren’t entirely sure if you had one more in you, this felt like it had been going on for hours, and although you were never complain about such circumstances, your body was growing exhausted.

But you would do it for him; one more couldn’t hurt, so as he settled three fingers into your walls, your hips bucked at the intrusion. He’d only been using his tongue the entire time, although it seemed you were drenched enough for them to slide in without much effort, he held them still so that you could adjust to the full feeling, peppering languid and wide kisses against the heated skin of your thighs.

His kisses moved left, closer to your stuffed mound, as he began to rotate his fingers inside of you, twisting his wrist as your eyelashes involuntarily fluttered, and deep mewls of pleasure surpassed from your bitten lips. Until finally, his mouth transcended you to another planet, far beyond the reality that you had harshly adapted to, as his lips suckled around your clit, his fingers scissoring in and out of you.

You were hypnotised in the sensations that were floating from your head to your curling toes, you were starting to feel dizzy, a heavy feeling that left you practically unconscious, as you faded in and out of your surroundings. Even when you opened your eyes, straining them to do so, the bedroom was blurry to your sights, and you bit at the air, failing to warn Daryl of the pressure that was growing by the second.

“Ah fuck.” Daryl groaned as a gushing stream that you hadn’t been aware was on its route to escape from your aching cunt, the liquid bursting in Daryl’s direction and coating his face. However he didn’t let up, even as he removed his fingers, leaving your walls clenching from the empty feeling, as he stroked his tongue in long lines up and down your pussy. “Gotta clean yer up.” He muttered almost to himself, as he dared not waste a drop.

You just laid there, breathless and cross eyed even as he finally removed himself, leaning up to stroke your face. “Yer did real good darlin’, so fucking good for me.” The starving man spoke, licking his lips as he started down into your eyes. He reached down, grasping your hips that had invisibly restrained themselves against the bed, as he picked you up, treating you like porcelain as he carried you in his big arms to the shower. He turned the water on, grasping a cotton rag from the side as he sturdied your weight against his, your back facing his front as he began to clean you up whilst the water was warming up.

[meo-eiru]

I was wondering, when Silas realises he is attracted to darling, does he get more needy? You mentioned that he (at early stages) can't differentiate between his pleasure and the need to feed/help darling. But when you are theoretically "together" will he be like, super shy all of a sudden because he realises he wants something "not pure" done to darling?

(sending love to you author 👉👈)

On the grand scheme of things there won't be an incredibly big shift in his demeanor, since actions such as breastfeeding you or making you consume his bodily liquids were already happening due to his inner feelings being mixed in.

But he is very shy when it comes to receiving pleasure from you if it's not under the pretense of platonic affection. He loves loves loves pleasuring you. The sounds and faces you make are all so adorable and endearing to him. But he doesn't know how to handle being in the receiving end of things. It's just so new to him, he doesn't know how to ask for it when he's needy.

Before he was unconsciously seeking that pleasure through making you suck on his tits or drink his semen directly from the tap. They were ok before he was doing those for you. He didn't understand the meaning of that warm feeling in his stomach at the time. Now he knows. And he doesn't know how to handle it.

He just can't ask you to do those acts not for your benefit but for his pleasure! It... It feels so indecent, so naughty, so dirty, so lewd.

You'll have to be the one to take the initiative with these things at least for a few months. Each time he'll break into tears from a mix of embarrassment and pleasure. He's always cute but there'll be this extra adorableness to him during this period so do cherish it

[mydearestbeloved]

Chapter 26 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

Content Warnings: This chapter is Red, Igris, & < Devourer > butterflies-centric—sorry, little to no JinwooxReader in this one; this chapter also contains some elements of gore—this is a work of fiction and I do not condone or glorify violence in real life; my attempts at magical anatomy—'cause college is still kicking my ass when it's the holidays, so I must apologize if this chapter might be boring; & experimental writings—a.k.a. me trying out a different style of being more descriptive and new p.o.v.s shifts.

See more in the < End Note > in case the descriptions in this chapter do not deliver as well as I had hoped + extra funsies.

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

——oOo——

{ < Children of ‘Trial Player’ >

File 001# - Quick Status Window

< Red >

Lv. MAX

"The Ducchess"

Would you like to initiate < Title Change >?

<<Yes>>   <No>

Initiating < Title Change > . . .

< Red >

Lv. MAX

“The Devourer”

< Title Change > successful!

Specialty Passive Skill: < Crimson Carnage > is activated!

*In the duration of < The Feast >, user will gain 3× the energy and experience points from consuming lifeforce. Both can still be distributed to fellow < Children of ‘Trial Player’ >.

Stats: < HP >, < Stamina >, and < Mania > are now boosted.

Special Note: “Sustain the flesh, blind the soul.”_ }

——oOo——

At the center of the morbid tableau, Igris saw her.

A study in grace—a slender silhouette clad in velvety white and traces of black, the intricate patterns of her wings shimmered like molten rubies on flowing sleeves and coat tails. Every little movement was deliberate yet seamlessly flowed amidst havoc, out of place yet undeniably captivating.

Amid the blood-soaked carnage, she seemed untouched by the grime and chaos. Unhurried steps so light, the heels of her boots left no imprint on the sodden earth. She weaved through devoured carcasses left and right with the same grace as she would have when flying in her butterfly form.

A rapier on one hand, her crimson eyes, languid yet sharp, fixed on the dungeon boss his Liege had felled—once a towering centaur-like beast, its body now laid on the ground with its neck slashed open. Red approached its head, its purple blood pooled under, yet there was not a single splash when she stepped on it, only calm ripples.

The thin silver blade emitted wisps akin to flames as she got close enough. At the same level of its eye, it was clear that the beast’s vacant optic that stared into the void was larger than her head.

Shing!

Igris caught the quick circular slash of metal, and at first, there seemed to be nothing amiss. At least until—

Gush!

Viscous liquid burst out like a jet stream, becoming a heavy downpour as it fell. In a split second, Red’s figure was swallowed by the waterfall, the blood pooling underneath widening in size.

It was not until a few seconds later that the curtain of purple lifted enough for everyone to finally get a glimpse, the outline of the figure in it. As the stream progressively lessened in its intensity and amount, Red didn’t move a single step from her position, and it was revealed later that she remained as pristine as ever, not even her pants were soiled by the icky violet. She stood there under an umbrella where her rapier had been, the white material unstained as the droplets of blood dripped down from the lace decorated with red gems.

When the outburst of blood around the beast’s eye finally ran out, the remaining little amount of liquid cascading down the orb, the unseeing eye shifted. Red took a step to the side as the beast’s eyeball rolled out of its socket onto the purple ground, following it were the blood vessels, nerve optic, and tendons with their detached ends cut short.

When the eyeball stopped rolling, there was a swarm of butterflies at the ready, and soon, the globe was surrounded and began to be gnawed on by the voracious insects.

Red remained unbothered. She went to close her umbrella, and then pulled at its handle, revealing that it was a scabbard as the thin blade came to view once again. The umbrella disappeared in red wisps as Red jumped onto the beast's massive head and began to chop away. First at his antlers, the bony branches fell to each side with its cut-edges blackened, and began to glitch away until the whole antlers vanished into air, presumably stored into your inventory.

Igris also caught her next slash: a horizontal one, and then a vertical that was instantly followed by a backflip—Red landing on the beast’s upper body behind the detached head.

Something similar to before happened, it took a few seconds after the initial swing of her blade for the blood to burst, first from the horizontal cut that detached the snout and the next was from the rest of the head splitting into two halves right in the middle. Igris recognized this delayed reaction, it was the body that didn’t realize it was cut the moment it was when the cut was done far too quickly for it to respond in time.

Igris knew this because he was also capable of doing such. However…

The rapier was not a blade meant to slash like other swords typically. It was meant for prioritizing speed and precision, capitalizing on its user’s dexterity and finesse. And Red had proven she had all of these qualities when she had done exactly thrusting attacks when they fought together moments prior.

A rapier was a sword meant to pierce.

So how in his Liege’s name did she was able to cut through flesh and bones so easily with that same slender and pointed blade?

The only possible explanation Igris could think of was the use of magic, the red wisps as the proof. It was not unlikely for swordsmen and swordswomen capable of magic to use them to enhance their attacks, be it the body or the weapon itself. Perhaps she used magic to give the blade sharper edges and fortified it to not break under heavier pressure? Then she also needed more strength to accomplish that clean cut.

But was that all there was to it when her stances were just as odd?

As though caught in an endless waltz, even in combat, Red’s steps were odd. It wasn’t practical; it was theatrical, the combination of sheer extravagance and fluidity of it all.

It wasn’t the typical disciplined efficiency of a warrior’s training. No, her movements carried the flair of high society, the sway of aristocrats at frivolous galas.

{”I am aware that you do not fancy such occasions,”}

It reminded Igris of the rare instances when he had been forced to attend those annoying noble gatherings in life—when he could’ve been fighting on the battlefield instead—standing stiff and indifferent at the edge of opulent ballrooms, enduring the swish of gowns and the hum of violins for the sake of duty.

{An upturned of plump lips glistened, as though painted by blood, something he was more familiar with—}

Or perhaps it was more akin to the high-end performances he had glimpsed while on patrol, the kind that packed theaters and sparked envy among the masses unable to afford. The kind where tickets were scarce and disputes over seating made so much ruckus and his duties more complicated—stagnating his training, the progress to his goal—in the past.

{”However…” An extended hand delicately hidden under satin glove.}

Those fleeting moments were far from meaningful to him, but they had left enough of an impression for him to recognize the same artistry now.

Her moves weren’t a metaphorical dance of the blade, the way swordsmen sometimes fought with an almost artistic rhythm.

No, Red was dancing—truly dancing.

{—she was more familiar to him than anything else in this godforsaken room.}

Every pivot was a pirouette, every sweep steeped in poise, every sway she put her heart into it. A face so serenely doing her calling, not caring who was watching or what the world might think of the unconventionality. She moved as though the battlefield was her stage and she its prima ballerina.

And, to Igris’s astonishment, it worked—brilliantly, might he add.

{”Can you humor this lady just once,”}

A match, a complimentary to his own.

He had never seen anything like it before.

{”Sir Knight?”}

“How fascinating.”

Even before Red had taken her current form, Igris had always been intrigued by the red butterfly that had inexplicably taken a liking to him—or so you had claimed.

To him, she had always carried an air of refinement that set her apart. Every flutter of her iridescent wings was not without purpose, Red had always been peculiarly polite and oddly dignified for a summon. When the shadows discovered they could communicate with the butterflies—a feat made possible, apparently, through a telepathic mechanism Igris only vaguely understood as a mix of their mimicry of shadows and some illusions—Red’s demeanor stood out for her articulate and courteous responses.

Now, that same poise radiated from her in full force.

As Red continued to cut away the dungeon boss’s body into smaller pieces so the other butterflies would have an easier time to eat, an acrid smell wafted. Igris caught the sight of blackened spots and edges on some chopped fleshes. Only when a bone fell with its cut-side directly visible to him did Igris have his answer.

Fire.

The surface of the cut on the bone was completely blackened—no, charred.

Not every chopped part was; the fleshes mostly remained fresh which Red might have enough strength to cut through. But when it came to a harder material like the bone, the cut was always completely burned. And the fleshes that did have that discoloration must’ve been the skeletal muscles, the closest one to the bones—that meant Red had control over when and how much heat was needed.

Red landed back on a puddle in the ground with grace—again, no splash, just ripples—her rapier disintegrating into the same red wisps as her magic, the motion was like a ballerina’s reverence. As the dungeon’s boss body fell in neat cubicle pieces behind her, the red butterflies closing in to eat like a curtain-call.

A step accompanied by a ripple.

Another followed.

Red walked towards a minion’s corpse, significantly smaller than the boss’, but was still noticeably larger than her own. While the body below the neck was already getting chewed on, the head was left untouched. With deliberate care, Red knelt beside it, her tailcoat pooling around her like spreading wings.

Right hand took off the left’s glove, the remaining other pulled by teeth until the delicate and pale fingers underneath was revealed. As both pieces of dark leather vanished into thin air, black nails trailed along the beast’s jawline in an almost gentle gesture, as though caressing a long-lost lover.

She began to hum, a calming melody that sent chills through Igris. It wasn’t a tune he recognized, but there was something uncomfortably intimate about it, as if she were singing a lullaby for a child.

A small ornate dagger materialized, fingers curling around its handle in firm. The ornate blade gleaming in the muted light as she raised it high—

Stab!

Igris flinched—a reaction he hadn’t experienced in years—as the silver tip plunged into the beast’s unseeing eye.

Similar to the new… feeding routine of the butterflies, he had no problem with the act of stabbing itself—it was the way the scene unfolded, like an oil painting came to life. The illustrated content long debated between the brutality it actually depicted behind strokes of beautiful paints, pure white among vivid reds and deep shadows.

Red pulled the dagger free with practiced ease, and with it came the beast’s eyeball.

The strings of optic nerve and blood vessels stretched from the force; the other end clung stubbornly to the socket. With a flick of her wrist, they broke in the middle, the orb held aloft like a precious gem while the bundle of fibers dangled from it, swaying like a clock’s pendulum.

The dagger, now acting as a makeshift fork, brought the eyeball to her lips. Her sharp canines peeked through as she bit into the orb. A brief sight—a single rivulet of viscous fluid trickling down the corner of her lips to her chin—was almost immediately hidden behind a palm, as if the act of showing the sight itself was most impolite. An accidental stroke in the otherwise masterful portrait.

Despite the slight hiccup, Red maintained her composure. The dagger in her right replaced by a materialized handkerchief that she dabbed over her lips daintily, catching any stray pieces as she quietly chewed. Her carmine gaze closed to savor, as though she were merely fine dining at a dinner gala, the orchestra of carnage its backdrop.

“Hm...” She swallowed delicately, her voice a dulcet whisper that carried through the stage. “A bit too earthy for my taste.”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a serene smile, and the usual sight of her upturned lips would’ve been captivating—it was still—but now, Igris didn’t think just one word would do the scene in front of him their due.

“Well?” Red turned her head slightly, vermillion orbs opening with a glint.

“What do you think, children?”

——oOo——

The red kaleidoscope seemed to simultaneously pause mid-feast, a brief change in their pattern, a different flutter. Distant bells in the wind, like twinkling stars given voice.

Chime. Chime. Chime. Gurgle. Chime—

‘Gurgle’?

A tremor ran through the swarm. Their luminous bodies wavered, light bending strangely around some, as if space itself recoiled. The chimes grew discordant, warping into something wet and bubbling, like air escaping through viscera.

Squish…

A single butterfly convulsed midair. Tiny form curling in on itself, shrinking—no, collapsing. Wings folded inward with a schlk, dissolving into a raw essence of erratically pulsing mass of light. And from that quivering cocoon, something grew.

SQUELCH!

A spine unraveled; a spider’s threads pulled taut from unseen tether. Bones spiraled into existence, each piece of vertebrae locking into place with a sharp click. From there, the thin golden tendrils further expanded the structure like a time-lapsed birth—simultaneous yet seamless.

Upward, forming the trachea, jawbone snapping into place with a muted crck. The smooth curve of a skull, hollow sockets yawning open, vacant.

Downward, the pelvis solidified, grinding against before anchoring the extending femurs and other bones that would shape the legs, feet, and toes. Similarly for the upper extremities, from the shoulder bones, lengthening arms, hands, and down to the phalanges that made up each finger.

Inward, ribs sprouted from the spine’s embrace with a slow, deliberate snap-snap-snap, spreading like curved thorns, forming a cage locked by the sternum. And nestled within that hollow prison, a small thing took shape, suspended in the air just like the rest, a crystalline jewel held between unseen fingers.

Motionless—silent.

{How far can an imitation of life go?}

Like roots seeking soil, nerves branched out, mapping, in search of something to anchor to. Alongside them, veins crawled along the ivory framework, seeking to create the intricate web to feed, growing from that very same confined still-mass at the center.

Like ink spreading through water, a deep crimson bloomed then—

Ba-dump.

A pulse rippled through the arteries as blood surged outward, painting the spectral shifting-mass with life as raw organs came into being. Lungs, pinkish and fragile, swelled as if on the verge of their first breath, filling the rest of the ribcage. A brain placed snug within the skull where the eyeballs popped in their sockets. The liver slid into place with a damp plorp, intestines coiled like serpents, slick in the dim settings.

The stomach, kidneys, and so forth, each instrument settled into their place perfectly between the smooth walls of bone while sinew knitted around them like a loom at work over shifting joints. Nerves and veins threaded through all as muscles stretched over them in a weave where limbs twitched to life. True skin followed suit from behind, covering the exposed curves of the body and face with the same abnormal growth, each feature smoothed into an eerie, flawless symmetry.

For a time, what were under were still just as see-through even with the steady appearance of the outermost layer. At least, until the translucent skin neared its completion of sealing over the body. What should be the healthy complexion creeping in as the flesh and dermis closed over the last exposed area—a last glimpse over the beating heart.

{If you lie long enough—}

As naked as a newborn, a maiden’s bare feet kissed the slick, viscous blood pooling beneath. The deep purple clung, stark against the rain-watered surface, too pristine, like a being sculpted rather than born. Her wings, now immense as they adjusted to the owner’s new form, stretched one final time before shuddering. As if exhaling their last breath, the glittering membrane melted into the smooth planes of her back, disappearing as if they had never been there.

As if the one left standing was undoubtedly just a mere human.

And more followed.

A notable number of butterflies went through the same collapse. Delicate bodies unraveling, twisting, blooming like life in fast motion. Their arrival was heralded by the symphony of growth—cartilage cracking, skin sealing with quiet, wet whispers, the sickeningly organic sounds of something becoming, of creating features to each of their own.

Save for the rain, the silence of a field of mannequin settled after.

Until one threw her head back, auburn locks following her every movement, a new set of green eyes catching light under the drizzle.

The undeniably rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, making motions with her rosy lips—the sound light and airy, almost melodic.

{—won’t it become the truth?}

Following the lead, a second one, black of hair, brown of skin, and hazel for eyes, also started tittering. Joined by a third, white-haired and red-eyed, clapping gleefully. A fourth followed, and then a fifth, sixth, and the rest—small delighted laughs that grew louder and louder—a crescendo.

The first to move wobbled slightly on her feet, crouching beside the nearest carcass, fingertips tracing its ruined hide with something akin to fascination. Then, with a motion of deceptive ease, the beast’s skin peeled away with a wet rip.

She stumbled back, losing her balance and landing onto her haunches with a childlike-“Oof!”, even as the spray of warm, sticky blood came into contact with her side. She clutched the torn chunk in her bloodied cradle—like a prize, fresh crescent marks forming under digging nails—uncaring of the fleshy part still dripping onto her lap.

She lifted it to her mouth, a peek of growing canines between parted lips before teeth sunk into meat and tore them away under. Icky purple painted her chin, ran down the pale column of her throat as she chewed, staining the pristine surface that magic had so carefully perfected.

The very first taste on her tongue, of iron thick and rich.

When she eagerly swallowed, the others followed.

The butterflies—those still in their original form—perched alongside their newly reborn kin. Together, the feast began anew, of chimes and tearing flesh, of lips smacking against dripping muscles, of mirthful hums between gulps. Until each was bathed in the mix of blood and rain, violet dripping from fluttering wings and tresses from head to toe.

And at the center of it all, Red’s smile lingered, sealing her sight once more—content.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [25/02/2025]

I'm back y'all! 🥳

For a short while at least. 🥹

I might've gone overboard writing the descriptions for this one. 😅 I'm not so sure on how well I am at describing action sequences, I still want to add them, so I'm learning as I go! 🫡 And so sorry if the magical anatomical sequence felt like a lesson, it's definitely NOT a real-life lesson okay? Please note the ✨️fantasy✨️-elements!

I'm already out of ideas on what more to edit to make this chapter better, so let me know your thoughts on this! 🥰

And just for clarification, what I want to depict for Red's fighting style is not true swordmanship. Igris stated that her moves are more theatrical, not efficient. The butterflies are not meant to surpass the shadows in direct combat, with few exceptions. They can hold their ground long enough if push comes to shove. 🦋💀

As for Red's dance-based fighting style, I would like to add that it will not be copy-paste Cha Hae-in's. I would like to think Hae-in's is like "she fights like she dances", while what I want for Red's is more like "she uses dances to fight". This will correlate to Red's other title by the system that will be revealed in the future, but what I can say now is that Red won't have or in any way take Hae-in's title. Our lovely Hae-in will still be the only one nicknamed "The Dancer" as she deserves, and I will NOT take that away from her 😤❤️

I also took my chance on writing Igris' backstory from what we know of him right now, mainly from the brief info I got from reading the Solo Leveling: Arise wiki, so plus some creative liberties to match the story. I DO NOT play the game—interested, but don't exactly have the time to try it out—so feel free to send corrections if I got any info wrong. 🙏

Anyone interested in theorizing what's up with Red and Igris? 🤭

Also, I mentioned 3 new humanoid butterflies here with more physical decriptions than the rest, but still less than the leaders of kaleidoscopes (the main 8 butterflies, i.e. Red, 'Bel', Trick, Neonie, Blanche, Sol, Gale, & Aria).

The 3 mentioned here—

Auburn-haired, green eyes, with olive skin;

Ravenette, hazel eyes, with brown skin;

White hair, red eyes, albino

—are meant to be background characters kinda easter egg. So, for funsies, can any of you figure out which 3 shadows soldiers these butterflies are supposed to be counterparts of?

Hint: They are only mentioned in the Solo Leveling anime's media, as far as I know. 🤔

And last but not least, in celebration of this chapter being Red-centric, a dear friend of mine and fellow beloved Reader of Trial Player AU, @eternadreeblissa, who somehow predicted this chapter being Red-centric (just kidding, but it's still very good timing since I don't remember ever spoiling her on this chapter until AFTER she sent her gift), sent me this absolutely fucking gorgeous panel of Red from Chapter 20 😍

I'm dying from happiness ASDFGHJKL

Boo, I love you so much. ❤️❤️❤️

Please check it out y'all! And better yet, check out her blog, her arts are so 🩷❤️🖤

Feedbacks are very much appreciated. Thank you for reading. 🙏💕

[kunikuyu]

"A reward for someone so good." Hashira Series!

Part 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Uzui Tengen x Male! Reader

Warnings: MINORS DNI, NSFW, read as afab reader, Dom! Uzui x Sub! Reader, use of explicit words, worship kink, master kink, Tengen has an open relationship with his three wives, cockwarming, drunk sex.

Summary: Pillar training has begun, much to your delight. Of course, as a hard-working and strong person, you can handle any challenge. Even if it's fighting a hashira. And in a way, they all see some value in you, and want to reward you for it.

How did you end up like this? Thrown on top of Tengen, who now had his arms hugging your waist as he fucked you violently? Your brain had already melted and consumed with pleasure, you don't even remember what happened in the beginning.

From what you think you remember, it all started quite normally...

.....

"[Name]! It's been a long time since we've seen each other, my man. I see you've gotten tougher and flashy." You had just arrived at the area where Uzui's training was going to take place. You were even excited because the tallest man had already been your partner on some missions and you ended up creating a friendship. You knew that hashira's full capabilities, and you were eager to fight alongside him once again.

Turns out it was pretty fun, at least for you. Seeing Tengen active even after he lost his hand and one of his eyes is exciting, and you can learn even more from him. As for your training partners... They weren't doing very well.

While they were getting injured and trying to improve their physical resistance, you had already been released for the next training. But before that, Tengen told you to spend the night in his room. For what? You have no idea. Yet.

....

Tengen opens the bedroom door after hearing some almost silent knocks. He already knew you were arriving before he even knocked on the door, but he didn't want to seem anxious and already be at the door waiting for you. When he opens the bedroom door, you look kind of carefree and calm, looking at something not so important next to the door.

"Oh, hi Tengen-Sama!" You say to the man standing in front of you, greeting him with a smile on your face. He looked slightly nervous, which wasn't really his style. You chose not to talk about it, though.

He closes the door, and invites you to sit next to him. At no point did you see the tallest man's three wives, which made you curious. Before you can ask, he answers you. "Hinatsuru, Suma and Makio are in another room, they are already asleep." "Oh I see." You were going to say more, but you were stopped when Tengen took a huge bottle of alcohol and poured some into a glass, giving it to you right away.

You silently thanked him, and after he poured the liquid for him too, you drink together. Some conversations were exchanged and glasses were refilled several times, resulting in rosy faces and jokes you would never make if you were both sober. They ranged from phrases like "I like taller guys" to "I would have sex with you, no problem." And you didn't care about it anymore, the drink consumed you once and for all.

"I'm not kidding man, I'd fuck you right here and now." "Then why not do that? I wouldn't mind having you inside me."

.....

Ah yes, now you remember. It was just a stupid conversation, which turned into the most incredible fuck ever. Your sweaty face, your skin completely marked by bites and hickeys, all done by the same person. He seemed to like seeing you like this, and in a weird way, he saw it as the purest art. Your body was like a sculpture to be modeled, and he was a god destined to sculpt every detail that filled your skin.

"M-Master Tengen... I..." You wanted to say that this was the best experience possible, and that your body was being overwhelmed with so much pleasure. But nothing understandable comes out of your mouth. His cock was completely buried in your cunt, filling every space inside.

"... Your voice is so beautiful, thick for someone so delicate." He said, as his fingers roamed your body in search of something warm and wet. Once there, he couldn't help but massage the area, bringing you even closer to a climax. He didn't want to cum before you did.

You had already finished in Uzui's hands, but he wasn't finished yet. A few deep thrusts were made before you felt Tengen's cum invade your body. At this point, you didn't even care if you ended up pregnant, only the pleasure was important. ((spoiler, you didn't end up pregnant))

....

You had been clinging together all night, Tengen's cock still inside you. He didn't want to take his dick out of you, because he thought your insides were too warm.

"Man, we need to drink together more often."

"For sure."

Bonus lines!

"Man, what a headache. Are you sure there was only sake in that one?"

"... I have no idea."

[cotaus-biomedical]

16 strict quality control measures ensuring precision pipetting performance in pipette tip production.

At Cotaus, we understand that the accuracy and reliability of laboratory results depend on the precision of every tool used. That’s why our pipette tips are produced under the strictest quality control standards, ensuring they meet the highest performance benchmarks for accurate pipetting. From the selection of materials to the final inspection, every step of the production process is carefully monitored to guarantee consistency, durability, and precision. Let's see How we do.

1. Tips' volume accuracy and precision

Cotaus each batch of pipette tips undergoes volume calibration to ensure they fall within the standard tolerance range. Random samples are taken from each batch and multiple liquid aspirates and dispenses are performed to check the consistency of the tip’s volume accuracy and precision.

2. Tips' dimensional consistency

Random samples are taken from each batch to test the tip’s dimensions to ensure they conform to standard specifications(Uniformity of product dimension≤0.15), ensuring consistent inner and outer diameters, length and shape to prevent fit issues.

3. Tips' physical integrity

The tips are checked for cracks, air bubbles, or any physical defects that might affect their pipetting performance or lead to contamination.

Pressure and bend tested to ensure they can withstand normal operating pressure and bending without breaking or deforming.

4. Tips' airtight seal and fit

Verifying that the pipette tips fit securely onto pipettes or automatic liquid handling platform, ensuring no air leakage during aspiration or dispensing. Ensure the tips are compatible with various pipette brands and robotic liquid handling systems, ensuring no loosening, slipping, or improper fit.

5. Tips' concentricity

Using precision instruments such as laser scanners or coordinate measuring machines (CMM), to check the roundness of both the inner and outer diameters. Cotaus pipette tips require concentricity errors within ±0.2 mm.

6. Tips' perpendicularity

Using specialized perpendicularity testing instruments to check the angle between the tip's bottom surface and its central axis. The error is typically required within a tolerance of 0.5 millimeters or less.

7. Tips' liquid retention and low-residue testing

Special surface treatments are applied to ensure the inner surface of the tip is smooth and reduces liquid retention, especially when handling viscous liquids. Measurement of liquid residue left in the tip after aspiration and dispensing, particularly when handling small volumes, to ensure minimal liquid carryover.

8. Tips' retention force

Measuring the force required to attach and detach the pipette tips, ensuring they are neither too tight (difficult to remove) nor too loose (which could cause aspiration issues).

9. Tips' surface smoothness

Ensures that both the inside and outside surfaces of the tips are smooth, with no irregularities or roughness, testing for smooth internal and external surfaces to minimize sample retention, avoid contamination, and enhance the efficiency of liquid transfer.

10. Tips' sterility

Ensures that sterile tips are sealed properly during packaging to prevent contamination. Cotaus disposable tips utilize electron beam sterilization which is a safe and efficient method that leaves no chemical residue.

11. Tips' resistance and CV values

Resistance testing ensures the durability and performance of the pipette tip under different physical and chemical conditions. CV testing evaluates the precision of liquid transfer by measuring the consistency of the tip’s performance, ensuring high accuracy and low variability.

12. Tips' material durability

Adopt imported medical-grade polypropylene (PP) materials to ensure the dimensional stability of the tips, Cotaus ensures consistency in the material used to avoid discrepancies in dimensions or performance that could affect pipette accuracy.

13. Tips' manufacture equipment

Cotaus owns 120+ automated manufacturing assembly lines, using high-precision injection molding machines to ensure dimensional consistency and accuracy of the tips, improving efficiency and reducing human error.

Cotaus owns a mold manufacturing company that produces high-precision molds for pipette tip production, ensuring accurate shape, size, concentricity, and perpendicularity.

Quality control equipment including precision balances and measuring devices, laser measurement instruments, automated inspection systems, etc.

14. Tips' production environment

Manufactured in a 100000-class dust-free workshop to avoid contamination from dust, particles, or contaminants.

15. Tips' QC Standards

Ensures the tips comply with quality standards (ISO13485, CE, FDA), guaranteeing their performance, precision, and reliability.

16. Tips' production process management

ERP Systems manage raw materials, production scheduling, inventory, and shipping, ensuring a smooth and timely production process. Critical production parameters and quality inspection data are recorded and stored during production, providing traceability for each batch of tips and facilitating post-production quality tracking.

[4kozy]

her sinking sun

megan. ( i watch it die )

━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━

━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━

pairing | megan x gn!reader

genre + wc | angst + 4.2k

tw 🔸 | no happy endings, toxic relationship, language, implications of attempted SA ( not by reader or megan ), exes to STILL exes, implied alcoholism…

an | instead of sleeping i chose to write this…😀 and it was worth it cus megan is REALLY bias wrecking me rn..

syn | there’s no comfort in an ex, that’s universal, but for megan, there’s no comfort in the familiar and unfamiliar all the same. megan stopped going to parties. she stopped going to everything.

you never unblocked her number.

━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━

Megan didn’t know what to handle first.

The most pressing matter at the moment was keeping herself busy enough to ignore the second thing. You.

You, radiant as ever, effortlessly demanded control of the of the function, all eyes on you as you swayed, lights and sounds almost hypnotized by you, like the people around here.

It was full of shit.

Her jaw clenches. 

Her grip on the plastic solo cup tightens.

Megan swirls her drink around and rolls her eyes. 

She was never the sharing type.

And it wasn’t as if this was a first-time occurrence, no.

Megan went to every single frat house, every club, every single school event, just hoping you’d be there and getting insanely jealous when she saw you with anyone else.

She knew she was supposed to be letting go; she knew that she was supposed to be moving on and finally getting somewhere, but the heartbreak was all-consuming.

It was the sort of heartbreak that haunted her every action–the sort of heartbreak that showed itself when she was brushing her teeth, and your toothbrush wasn’t there anymore.

The sort of heartbreak that showed itself when she went through her half-empty closet, or when her bed was still messy after an hour of being awake because you weren’t there to make it up again.

The sort of heartbreak that showed itself when breakfast wasn’t made in the morning, when for weeks afterward she would bring home two orders of takeout on instinct, when she would hold her pillow and pretend that she’d lose you if she didn’t.

Even when you were already gone.

It was the heartbreak that sought her out, making her legs move before her brain even caught up to her body. Making her drink until she can’t think anymore.

And here she was; foggy-brained, sad, and so incredibly angry she didn’t know what to do.

How could you be so happy when she’s so miserable? How could you be prospering alone when you were always better with her? 

Megan tips her head back and downs the rest of the second drink–a pretty nasty concoction from hell–not that that seemed to register at the moment.

All she could think about was the fact that it was like you were made for this. Like you were made to be unleashed–no attachment, and no responsibility to anyone. It was almost as if she were a failed experiment, a test to settle down, and one you’d given up when it wasn’t what you wanted anymore.

She finds herself moving to the drinks again.

Megan’s vision is blurred at the edges by the time she’s done with her fourth of the night, figuring that the rest of the evening would consist of bad decisions dunked in unmarked fluids, and desire coated in deep-seated rage.

She knows it’s a bad idea to get drunk at a party with your ex.

She just doesn’t care.

It’s not enough to brood in silence, sitting on the sidelines amongst a similar crowd, no. 

Megan secretly hopes for the liquid courage to take hold of her, get her petty and loud, with too much confidence and too few inhibitions.

Megan secretly hopes to scream at you until her throat bleeds and her lips crack. Hopes to god that you cry, maybe even try to fight her. Maybe, you’d run out, sobbing. 

Her body trembles beneath the weight of her fantasies.

It’s immature of her, dark, and completely out of character. She realizes that.

It isn’t normal; wanting to hurt you so bad that you hurt her. Wanting so desperately to elicit a reaction of any kind from that nonchalant façade of yours.

It isn’t normal. 

It’s Megan.  

It’s Megan: raw, real, and unashamed. It’s Megan at her worst, so pathetic that she came out to a place she’d know you’d be at, just to imagine throwing off that demeanor of yours.

Somewhere, anyway, at the bottom of the punch, there’s a truth. One that she wasn’t willing to admit without a tad in her system.

A truth that may have sobered her up immediately, if it weren’t for her strange determination to ignore it.

She was still in love with you, and God forbid she ever admit it.

The liquor still hadn’t kicked in by the time she hit the dance floor. 

Megan’s not dumb. She knows she’s pretty, and even better, she knows how to use it, choosing a random man to grind on, after seeing his okay with it. He’s handsome enough with the bright lights off and the drink in her system. He’s handsome to take her mind off things. 

Enough to make you jealous, perhaps.

Her eyes meet yours across the sea of warm bodies. Still, you look as gorgeous as ever, and even worse, there’s no visible reaction from you.

Megan’s soul fractures–body thrumming with panic, with want, and with everything left unsaid between you two. Etched into her being was you; in all things she did, aware or not.

All the pieces of your past, all the pieces of you that she keeps locked away, in the darkest depths of her body, all the parts of herself she’s hidden away–they all float to the surface, like a corpse.

Every secret that was kept, every misunderstanding like a shock to the heart, every touch like an apology, and every lie like a band-aid on a bullet wound.

Nothing could fix it. Not what both of you had broken. The foundation of your relationship was damaged before it had even begun, the question always being “how does it end for them,” rather than “will it?”

All the delusions shatter. Her breath hitches in her throat. Face stuck in a nervous expression. She couldn’t even bring herself to narrow her eyes at you.

Megan is always so pathetic when it comes to you. How could she even imagine putting you through any of that?

You two only lock eyes for a moment. You never stare for too long–just enough to hook anyone unlucky enough to catch a glimpse.

She’s been hooked for years.

Ever since that fateful day in her Junior year of high school.

She can remember vividly–it was a Friday afternoon. 4th period, dance.

To your credit, you weren’t bad for a beginner, being good enough to grab the attention of your shared instructor and her.

You had only taken the class for an art credit, falling in love with it over time. To Megan, however, it was her whole life. Ballet and tap at 3, dance competitions at 6 onwards, and now her junior duet for the dance recital.

It was after her run-through with Daniela that you spoke to her for the first time. “Woah… That’s amazing! When’d you start dancing?”

Megan, covered in a sheen of sweat and exhaustion, gawked at you.

She didn’t respond for a minute, gulping down the rest of her water in 4 swallows.

“Since I was 3, you?”

You smile thoughtfully. “Just started. Although I couldn’t dance like that in a lifetime.”

Megan chuckles, panting a tad. '‘s just practice. I’ve been at it for a while.”

She takes a seat on the floor to rest, and you follow, choosing to listen to her ramble on about her dance career. You know it’s not to make you feel bad, judging by the very genuine excitement on her face.

It’s a chance for her to catch her breath, and she does it with you. 

Somebody that she is quite unfamiliar with, yet getting comfortable with anyway.

Megan’s never done it before.

Sure, she’ll make small talk, habitually continuing a conversation with anyone she meets, but it’s not like they like to talk with her that long.

She’s learned that she has quite the habit of firing off at the mouth, every thought spilling out as soon as it comes to fruition. It makes people want to exit the conversation as soon as possible.

But not you.

You sit there and listen attentively, making eye contact. She can see the care, or at least a lite version of it, operating within you, with every word she speaks and every breath she takes.

“I think you’re really good,” you say after she finishes. “I think you’re incredible.”

It’s soft, a compliment so delicate that she’s afraid to respond–so she doesn’t, choosing instead to let it hang in the air, acknowledging it with a hum and a firm nod.

“Megannnn… One more time, please? We just need this move synced up!” Daniela said, albeit a bit too loudly.

“That’s me,” she smiles, grunting lightly as she stands up. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” you say. 

She doesn’t realize that you spent the final moments of class watching her.

Weeks later, you’re still finding ways to keep watching her and talk to her.

If you saw her around school, you’d walk her to class. If you saw her at lunch, you’d eat with her. If you saw her pull into the school parking lot, you’d park right next to her ( much to the dismay of its original owner ).

If you saw her struggling on assignments, you’d spend hours of your day guiding her through them: no infantilization, no complaints, and no throwing it back in her face either.

You wouldn’t label it a crush, no, more like an intense, barely-concealed interest.

And who could blame you? The way she moves is mesmerizing–movements practiced and intentional. Each one is just as 100% as the last. Not one feeling out of place.

Her disheveled appearance is proof that she takes it seriously.  

Megan’s hair is tousled with effort, despite making things look effortless. Her cheeks are pink and full with gasps of air after her third run of her duet today.

It’s a week till the recital, and you guys have moved to the stage.

She’s bathed in a sharp blue light, the kind that makes her eyes pierce, and every line of her body jumps out.

You rush up to her with vigor, grin so wide, it’s scary. “Megan, that was perfect–“

She doesn’t return your enthusiasm. “I fucked up, pretty bad,” she puts her head in her hands with disappointment. “If it weren’t for Dani sliding out of the way, I would’ve hurt her.”

You wrap your arms around her, ignoring the wetness on her skin, mixing with yours. She’s not crying, but you can feel her heaving with fatigue, burying her head into your shoulder.

You’re glad she’s taking advantage of your silent offer.

“Let’s eat?”

You and Megan stay after school, sitting in the auditorium all by yourselves, feasting on your lunch, watching Fantastic Mr. Fox without a care in the world.

She looks at you with the corner of her eye as her pinky locks with yours. You pretend not to notice.

You make a mental note to pack more.

You also make another mental note: it is a crush. It walks like one. It talks like one. It must be one.

5 days until the recital, and the group showcase was starting to fall apart under the pressure.

It was a simple mistake at first, a freshman missing her spot by an inch. Then it was a different one moving in the opposite direction. Then, it was three girls missing the final pose.

Safe to say, everyone was getting a bit annoyed and overwhelmed–none more so than Megan.

Megan, who’d, without fail, find a reason to doubt her ability.

She was a proud girl most of the time, obnoxiously eager and kind, but it’s clear the nerves are taking their toll on her.

You’ve noticed she gets in her head, like something won't allow her to be content with what most would consider stellar.

For Megan, it wasn’t enough to be ‘stellar.’ She had to excel, each performance needing to surpass the last, just for her to accept it. You wouldn’t have known why this fierce determination existed, not at the time. 

There was a lot she struggled with.  A lot of English and Math tests, bombed. A lot of parent-teacher conferences. A lot of let downs, no matter how hard she tried.

Dance was something she refused to fail.

She chooses to go through the motions again, without Daniela, who had left to go handle something.

Like clockwork, you bounce up to her when she’s done, tired but ready to talk once again. “Hey, you wanna go tak–“

“I’m fucking busy,” she interrupts, stiffly. 

You try not to let the shock show.

There’s an awkward silence in the air. Tension you choose not to call into question by retorting.

You leave her portion of food next to her bottle.

2 days until.

Megan’s been going at it for hours on end.

You sit in a chair in the audience, watching her play back the music over and over again. There’s frustration carving into her features as you watch her stumble over a slow part of the choreo for nearly 15 minutes. You haven’t talked in a while.

“Fuck! I–“ her shoulders slump.

You’d give yourself a good 6 seconds of waiting before you find yourself right next to her.

You two are back-to-back, choosing to give her just enough space so that she’s not also overstimulated with your presence as well.

It’s just you and Megan, in a deep silence, filled with all the pain, sweat, and tears she’s poured into her craft. In a silence that talks, and tugs on you, like it has a vessel of its own.

She breaks it. “I’m sorry for snapping at you the other day. It’s just…” she trails off, her voice pulled taut and thin. 

She thinks about all the times you’ve gone out of your way to show her that she meant something to you.

There’s a quiver in her body before the words shoot out of her like vomit. “I’m just being a jackass. Shouldn’t have jumped at you like that. You were only trying to help, and I–I don’t want to push you away, I know we’ve only known each other for a while but, I really do care, and I don’t want you to think you’re disposable, ‘cause you make me feel better all the time and–I… I was just frustrated, that's all. I get if you’re upset with me–I was an asshole and–“

“I’m not mad at you, silly,” you sigh, leaning your head back onto her shoulder. “I wish you had let me bear your burden with you. I care too,” you whisper, threading your fingers together.

She sniffles.

“Promise, you can rely on me next time. You don’t have to be by yourself,” you say, after a moment has passed.

“Okay.”

That’s how you are for a long time. Quiet and content with each other’s presence. At least until her stomach grumbles.

You take her out to eat with you, choosing to stop at the Zaxby’s nearby campus and watch Drag Race.

Day of the recital.

Megan’s whole attitude changed, now completely and utterly enraptured with the idea of nailing the entire showcase. 

The crowd was roaring, the whole group dance went amazingly. You were so excited, you could barely think. Until Megan took you into a tight embrace, congratulating you on how well you did.

She ignored the butterflies in her stomach. Barely regulated the urge to say “I couldn’t take my eyes off you the whole time, even while I was up there with you.” Forced herself to be okay with a squeeze instead of a more…passionate display of affection.

She settled with a “You did great out there.”

You giggled, joy overtaking your features, as you pulled back for a bit to look at her.  She’s ethereal, blue lighting coating her face once again.

She always is.

“And you’re gonna do even better,” you punctuate your sentence with a gentle press of your lips to the corner of her mouth. “Good luck–not that you’ll need it.”

Megan beams, eyes twinkling with pure pleasure. “I’ll take any kind of luck from you, Yn,” she grazes her fingers across your back, eyes fluttering between yours and the same lips you’d just ‘sort-of-actually-probably’ kissed her with.

If it weren’t for Dani whisper-yelling for her, by the way she had licked her lips and gradually closed the distance, you were sure she was going to kiss you.

You’re not sure you would’ve stopped her either.

“That’s me,” she mumbles, eyes closing with a flicker of annoyance. Megan wore her emotions like she wore her insecurities, exposed and without shame. You feel yourself swoon internally. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah, you will.”

You chose to sit with the spectators to watch her junior duet. Although the way you kept following Megan was more of a solo.

It doesn’t take much longer for you guys to start dating.

3 years.

That’s how long you wasted Megan’s time.

That's how long you pretended to reciprocate her love. How long you humored her yearning.

The alcohol completely takes control now, her body now a puppet to her subconscious.

Megan doesn’t even realize she’s on her way towards you, in the corner of the living room, laughing with your friends, and not her.

It makes her blood boil.

She’s on the edge. On the precipice of losing her sanity. The world starts to fall away with each step, bringing her closer to you.

She’s got tunnel vision: all she can see is you.

Still beaming as if you didn’t see her coming that way. As if you didn’t see her with someone else earlier.

“We need to talk,” Megan slurs, crossing her arms tightly.

You stare at her quizzically. “Megan,” you sigh, rubbing your temple. “You’re drunk.”

“You think I give a fuck?” she hisses, nails starting to dig into her skin. “I wanna talk to you.”

Your friends give you a look, and then her, and then you again. You take the silent okay to drag her elsewhere.

You’re standing in a dark hallway when she starts rambling.

“I just don’t get why you don’t care,” she scoffs, pointing at you. “All that time, and you just don’t care? I don’t get it.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s why you couldn’t stop glaring at me all night? That’s why you so desperately needed to speak to me?”

Megan swallows thickly. Her heart is pounding. “Don’t do that. You know it’s more than that. You know me.”

“No, I don’t. Haven’t known you for a while actually–it’s pretty new to me, the whole ‘follow-me-around’ shit. Look–Megs, you’re drunk as hell,” you groan, turning to leave. “I’ll see you around, okay? Let’s talk when you’re sober and ready for it.”

She snatches your wrist, pulls you back with a pathetic whine in her voice. “No, don’t–I did it all for you… Don’t you understand?”

You have half a mind to leave this where this is–unfinished, like everything else. But a stronger part of you, the part that can feel her yearning, the part that can tell the feelings left to linger are bubbling up, stays.

“I don’t want you to leave, ‘M sorry,” she hiccups. “I want you to listen to me again.”

“You just left me. You ghosted. You don’t get to leave me without giving me a reason this time, please.” Megan’s pleading, big, puppy eyes reel you in.

You’re at a loss for words. 

You don’t know what to say. 

So you don’t say anything.

But she does.

“3 years of my life with you? And you’ve got nothing to fucking say?” she starts crying. “I sacrificed so much for you–I still do, I–I think about you all the damn time, and you have nothing to say to me?”

You sit there ashamed and quiet. 

“I’m still so obessed with you, and it hurts me so bad. You hurt me so bad. Why would you even– knowing I… I don’t understand?! And you won’t explain shit–won’t even look me in the eyes,” she sobs, with every muscle in her body, gut wrenching up, like her face, with nothing but pain covering her features.

You don’t know what to do.

“I didn’t wanna… I didn’t want this–I wanted it to be painless–for you,” you tear up. “I’m sorry I got you caught up in it.”

Megan can feel her throat closing up. She can feel every hair on her body raise with misery, weariness, fury: every single emotion she’s felt since it happened.

“You’re not sorry. You don’t even care! You’re a coward. All you ever do is run away,” she yells, tossing your hand to the side as she storms away.

“Megs, stop I–“

She whips around, with bloodshot eyes and trembling. ‘What?’ is the unspoken word this time. 

You don’t have the guts to say anything.

When you get back to your people, the party has only kicked up in gear, music blaring like warning sirens you dismissed, and bodies packed together with a loud uneasiness.

You want to say it’s easy to forget about it. To feign blissful ignorance while you get lost in the mob of people.

They rock back and forth, slamming into you like harsh tidal waves.

You try to ignore that, too.

All you ever do is run away.

The thought isn’t cast out to sea.

It replays in your head, even when you’re attempting to brush it off. That strong part of you, the regretful, buried part, knows she’s right.

That part knows you’ve been running for a while. 

Things in your relationship were amazing–trying to be this nurturing person that you knew Megan deserved. You knew deep down it wasn’t you, but it was someone you wanted to be. 

They say, “fake it till you make it.” You made it nowhere. And it’s not like you didn’t love her–far from it, actually. Love wasn’t the proper descriptor; only something stronger would do. Worship? Too crazy–that wasn’t accurate. Devoted? That was the word.

You were devoted.

Committed to everyday being all about how you could change for Megan. 

You were selfish by nature. None of the things you were doing, let alone saying, made sense to you.  It didn’t make sense to anybody but her.

It pissed you off to no end.

All you ever do is run away.

All couples argue.

Most make up.

Megan had told you that you were acting off, and you lashed out. For once, words flung at her, piercing her with every insult and complaint.

By the time you were finished, she was standing there in tears, head down in that same way she always did when she was hurt.

She went to your shared room, expecting you to follow her quietly and slip into bed with no words like you usually did. 

When you didn’t, she tried to convince herself that you’d be on the couch.

When she heard the door slam, she didn’t bother chasing, already quite aware of what you’d done.

All you ever do is run away.

Texts and missed calls flooded your phone, all from Megan–the girl you’d abandoned just last night.

You stare at the notifications with an unreadable expression.

By the time you’d read through everything, your mind was set. 

It would be easier for both of you this way.

Her contact is blocked and deleted the next morning. ( But you still remember her number by heart. )

All you ever do is run away.

You know you’re a coward–you ran away here, too. You couldn’t take accountability for anything you did, even when it was tearing her apart. Even when it was sitting right in front of you.

There were no more chances, no more opportunities to try to fit the pieces back together. You and Megan were over.

“No… I–”  A loud, drunk, raspy voice breaks through the rave music.

That voice would never not stand out to you. Always distinguishable, always recognizable, always–Megan, slumped over on the couch with the guy from earlier all over her.

He’s touching her, dangerously close to places he shouldn’t be, right in front of everyone.

This time it doesn’t take 6 seconds to be by her side, though. You’re there instantly, sailing across the room to her aid.

You shove him backwards, hard. But you don’t think to even make sure he stays down,  only focusing on her. Still, she’s beautiful, even after all the drama tonight.

The guy grabs you, Lucas, as you later learn his name to be, invading your personal space too. “Fuck’s wrong with you?”

You don’t answer, still murmuring under your breath. You’re pissed, jaw clenched and fist tense with poorly-disguised rage. 

“Bitch, I was–“

Your fist flies into his nose.

There’s a crack.

Then there’s a silence. 

No more music, no more… anything.

“Don’t you ever, ever, touch her again,” you voice cold and bitter.

You lift Megan up and finally leave the party, for the first time in a long time, being honest with yourself. You wanted, needed, to protect her. You were always that person. The one you thought you were pretending to be for Megan. All the time, every single day.

All this life-of-the-party shit was a lie. You knew Megan was watching. You wanted Megan to see who you thought you were. Somebody that she’d already seen past.

There was no running away from it.

Just depressing how long it took you to realize. 

yn

i know you of all people would hate to hear from me but please come pick megan up.

she’s super drunk and i’m worried about her dani.

we’re here ( xxxxx )

Doesn’t take long for Daniela to show up, tire marks trailing behind her red mustang. 

“Put her in the backseat, please.” Daniela sighs, partial relief and exasperation.  

You comply, lightly lowering Megan before she grabs you, whispering into your ear. “I never stopped.”

'Loving you' is the phrase that goes unsaid.

You want to ask why she didn’t go after you that night. Want to ask why she still cares.

You don’t.

She gazes into you. You feel compelled to return it. “Neither did I,” you confess weakly.

By the time you closed the door, they were speeding off.

Megan stopped going to parties. She stopped going to everything.

You never unblocked her number.

━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━

[wandixx]

"There is only so much you can for the dead" part 2

continuation to this, I should probably make an original title at some point

trigger warnings: graphic describtion of Danny's death

Moments of blissed, deadly stillness felt unfairly short. It was less than blink of an eye, less than a drop of darkness after he asked Team for the last time to leave and before he woke up, in exactly same state that he was when portal spat him out. He could barely perceive his limbs, and what he could, was consumed by agonising pain.

Fuck, he hated Death Days. Absolutely horrible experience.

His nerves were on fire, electricity dancing and burning across them. His veins and lungs and nostrils and ears and stomach and eyes and mouth and every little crevice of his body was filled with ectoplasm, like liquid fire and evaporated ice, drowning him at every attempted breath. He was crushed by an unimaginable weight, at the same time as his body exploded. He was just coherent enough to feel his bones breaking, cells bursting, his very molecules being rearranged and destroyed and rebuilt but not coherent enough to tell if his scream was anything louder than a whimper.

He was in the middle of the crowd that screamed louder than he could handle, as if every person who ever got to Ghost Zone used this exact moment to let out all of their anguish, hands dragging and pulling and squeezing and brushing at every inch of his skin. He was alone like no one was ever before, in silence that was deafening. He could be stomped to death any second without anyone turning his head, and so separate from everything that he could be only existing being.

He couldn’t help but wait for Death, merciless and brutal, whose twisted children invaded his bed time stories since he could understood words, whose corrupted children he was taught to hate. She was hideous and horrifying, but against everything, she was familiar and he wanted, needed, to see one intimate face in the situation that was so wrong, wrong, wrong. He waited for her to rip his last breath away so everything would stop.

If he had a scrap of himself that could feel worse, it’d cry when he felt her getting away from him, slipping between the fingers that were both tense and limp, impossible to control but possible to feel, broken and twitching. She was getting away but pain wasn’t lessening, maybe even getting worse, to the point where it was only thing that filled his brain.

And then it all stopped. No pain, not even any left over typical to how injuries worked, just a moment of weird pressure against his palm (just like the button), that soon stopped too.

He was in his human form, but in the hazmat he wore just before the accident. Something was wrong about it all. Something in his body made it feel like not his. Something in his chest was too light and too quiet and some intrusive thought made him want to claw on his rib cage until he ripped it open and realized what was missing.

Breathing seemed to easy, enough that he got lightheaded. It got a lot harder when he realized.

He couldn’t feel his core.

Before he managed to come to terms with that, there was a gentle pressure on his hand again.

And the pain returned.

*-*-*

Danny didn't wake up abruptly, with a choked scream and phantom burns. He also didn't wake up slowly, not in the nice, relaxed way at least, when the line between dream and reality is blurred beyond recognition. He woke up in pain, feeling like he wasn't even sleeping before, just… somewhere else while his body was destroying itself again for what felt like decades.

It took some effort to connect with his body after he woke up. To be able to move even a finger. Even longer, to open his eyes. Actual ages to sit up without urge to scream.

After seeing the absolute wreckage of the room, he kinda wished it took him longer. It looked like a warzone. Electrical burns on the walls and ceiling, random puddles of bubbling ectoplasm eating away anything they touched like an acid, and what little stuff there was before, was almost all broken beyond recognition, either by whatever force was doing its thing during his death day show or ecto. When he looked at it a bit more, it seemed to go in spiral around him.

It was kinda sad that the cookies went to waste like that. He was curious who brought them in though.

Thank fucking Ancients that Team listened to him and nobody was there when the whole mess was going down. They would probably join him on the other side of the veil otherwise.

He saw it all only because of his ghost enhanced in dark vision (thank Ancients he stayed in the ghost form) because apparently his Death Day shorted out both main electrical circuit and the emergency one. Thankfully, according to his ears, it only reached this and rooms next to him, instead of the whole Mountain.

Fuck. He really hoped Robin gave him some sort of back-up back-up room because otherwise he was dead. Or well, dead-er.

He rolled out of the bed, barely catching himself from smacking on the floor like a sack of potatoes. Though some would argue he didn’t catch himself if only his face didn’t fall to the floor like the sack of potatoes.

Only then he caught sight of big, ecto-green circle that embed itself into the wall right over the bed. It had familiar vibes. Really familiar…

He had to tell the Team about it yesterday.

*-*-*

M'gann was sitting on the needles, just like everyone else. Sure, Phantom asked them to forget about him and essentially ignore whatever was happening to him, but there was no way they'd actually be able to do it. Case in point, first time alarms about shorting out of the electrical circuit in the room. They run there so fast that they had door open to see what was wrong before the absolute onslaught of electricity and ectoplasm and something else turned off the alarms thirty seconds later. Truth be told, they couldn’t do much, not without risking becoming second ghostly member of the Team, they’ve been there and ready. Conner tried to come in anyway, with his invulnerability and such, but they had to drag him out when despite extensive dodging he got hit five times by the time he got two steps into the room. Also, there wasn’t really anything he could do to help.

So they just spent last almost twenty hours alternating between different things to keep themselves occupied enough to not fall asleep and distract themselves from quilt but not enough to not be able to drop it at the moments notice if it was needed. First plan was to nap in shifts if it was necessary but it quickly became apparent that sleep was impossible with how worried everyone was and when M'gann proposed to just shut down their brains with her powers, everyone got really defensive. Well, no was no. So they just sat, at the moment in awkward silence because every topic that wasn't Phantom felt too inane and every topic that was Phantom felt too… just no. No name for why, just no.

M'gann was about to get up to make another batch of peanut butter and oatmeal snacks that took few minutes to make and could be dropped at any second, when Conner practically jumped in his seat, tilting his head to hear better. Robin perked up from whatever he was doing on his wrist computer at the same time.

"Phantom left the room!” they exclaimed at the same time, jumping out of their seats.

This head start didn’t matter by the time everyone ran or flew out to the corridor, racing against clock to the room where they left Phantom. It didn’t seems so before, but now M’gann just cursed their past selves for not waiting somewhere closer. There wasn’t really any place where they could stay instead, unless they set camp right outside his door, but it still. They should be there five minutes ago, like Wally, who obviously run off.

They heard Wally speaking before they’ve seen him.

“Hey, hey calm down. It’s fine, they’ll be there in a second, just chill. They’re right after me, whatever happened, we’ll help you in just a moment, you don’t have to run. You’re barely standing. Phantom, calm down”

M’gann barely made it around the corner and she thought she had seen Kaldur actually smacking into the wall. He brushed it off.

Phantom looked beyond rough. It seemed like Wally, who had ghost’s arm across his shoulders, was only thing holding him up. His feet were firmly on the ground, not in his usual way, when he looked just a breeze away from flying, but in this fully human way, which was unsettling. His face was gray instead of his usual almost tan, eyes wide and terrified.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he muttered, not looking at anyone in particular “I’m sorry, I’m sorry”

“Phantom, it’s fine. It’s fine, we know about the room, it’s fine,” Robin said, trying to placate him. It didn’t quite work. Ghost was on the verge of hyperventilating, which was a bit weird to see on someone for who breathing was voluntary.

“It’s not about room”

“I’m sure it’s fine anyway”

“It’s anything but. I’m sorry-”

“Shut up and tell us what happened if you’re so sure we will be pissed”

“Artemis!”

“Portal”

“What about it?”

“Portal is what killed me.”

M’gann didn’t like how the whole situation looked before, but it suddenly became much worse.

“My Death Day made another one”

[heavensenteden]

✎ unraveled by you | nsfw fic 🔞

☆彡

hi guys hehehe, I'm stuck with the visual novel brain rot so I wrote about casper cause beyond the bet was delicious and I craved more of him ;P

anyways, this is cross-posted from my ao3 account and dedicated to my wife who watched me write this in my psych class (your future therapist writes fanfic I know)

link to ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62269831

word count: 3304

pls minors dni and dnr ⭐️

cw: crying, overstimulation, strap ons, sub!casper

👻˖ ִֶָ 𓂃⭒

Sprawled across the bed, Casper clung to the sheets as if they were the only thing grounding him in this moment. His voice, hoarse and uneven, spilled out in helpless murmurs, each word trembling with longing. His half-lidded eyes flickered weakly, his mouth open as if he wanted to speak, but no words left his mouth. 

He reached out, fingers curling into the empty space around him, searching for something—someone—but finding only the plush comforter on your bed. He couldn’t do anything while he was under you, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

The reaper’s skin was completely flushed, soft pink and red contrasting dramatically against his normally pale– almost white skin. He was exposed to the gentle caress of the air conditioning within the bedroom the two of them were currently in. 

Your wandering hands glided smoothly over Casper’s soft, unblemished inner thighs, the sweat with the remnants of his previous releases, clinging to your fingertips. Every deliberate touch left him trembling, helpless beneath your teasing, his body betraying him with shivers of overstimulation. He’d unraveled beneath you completely, spent from four rounds of you teasing and making him cum, yet the aching emptiness in his untouched hole left him yearning for more than your hands or mouth.

"E-Enough..." Casper's voice wavered, hushed and hoarse, each syllable trembling with desperation.

As much as he adored you, your touch like fire across his skin, the way your presence consumed him wholly, he couldn’t handle another round of your relentless teasing. Not now. All he craved in that moment was to be pinned against the mess of your crumpled sheets and to be fucked, hard and fast, no space left for a single thought or breath. Your lips lazily pulled into a seemingly innocent smile. 

"You've tired out, and I still haven't come once my little reaper…" you purred, flashing your underwear to him from beneath your small skirt, your fingers dipping down beneath the thin, soaked fabric as you shoved it to the side, pumping your fingers in and out slowly, ensuring Casper was watching every single movement.

A soft moan escaped as you shamelessly pleasured yourself right on top of him, teasing him once more without a care, and after a moment, you withdrew the same hand– glistening with your own arousal, and held it up to Casper’s mouth, gently pressing them against his soft, supple lips.

“Open please.” and he did. The sweet boy took your fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them, savouring the sweet taste from your pussy as if it was the world’s best treat, looking up at you with those pretty needy red eyes as he released your fingers, a trail of saliva left behind.

Casper’s lust-filled eyes followed your every move, dark and hazy with desire as your hands traced along his trembling thighs. The salty-sweet liquid trickling from his tip glistened in paths down to meet the thin sheen of sweat clinging to his flushed skin. With a teasing smirk, you let your pointer finger glide through the sticky trail, drawing soft patterns that left his thighs quivering under your touch.

Just when your hand was about to reach Casper’s leaking cock, said male's legs jolted slightly, squeezing his legs shut to somehow stop your hand from touching him anymore.

"N-No, no.. No more.." He whimpered, his sweat-matted hands clenching tightly onto the sheets as he shuddered. You tilted your head calmly, removing your hand out from in between his thighs. You lifted your fingers to your own mouth, licking the cum right off the tips. Casper’s head hung in shame; his embarrassment was obvious, even when you could not see his reddened cheeks.

You cupped the reaper’s chin, tilting his head up toward you, leaving no room for protest as your gaze locked onto his. “Are you really sure you want me to leave you like this? Sensitive, needy, and so, so bothered?” you cooed sweetly, the words dripping with mock innocence. Soft kisses followed, starting at his temple and trailing down, your nose brushing against his heated skin with deliberate tenderness until you were nuzzled into the crook of his neck, lingering, waiting for his answer.

Casper let out a shaky sigh, his back arching instinctively into your touch. His body betrayed him, trembling from exertion and burning with unfulfilled desire.

You couldn’t help but savor the sight before you: the reaper’s lip quivering, his thighs trembling, and his hands reaching aimlessly for something to ground himself. Droplets of sweat ran down his temples, his body flinching and twitching at even the slightest touch. He was utterly, beautifully wrecked for you. Perfect.

“P-Please... Sunshine, I…” His voice faltered, the plea dying on his lips as his chin remained firmly in your grasp, holding him exposed and vulnerable.

A sly smile tugged at your lips as you trailed your nose back up, lightly grazing his ear before nipping at the sensitive lobe. The sharp intake of breath you earned was music to your ears. “Please... what, Casper?” you murmured, your voice dropping into a low, sultry rumble that sent shivers down his spine. Each word carried with it the heat of your breath, ghosting over his bare neck.

Casper’s arousal spiked, a desperate whimper escaping his lips as his hips bucked forward, grinding helplessly against your thigh. God, he wanted it so bad, but the thought of having to beg made his chest tighten and his pride rebel. Yet, the way you teased him, the way your words wrapped around his resolve, made him wonder how much longer he could hold out.

Your intimate moments were always a balanced mix of merciless pounding and brat taming or soft, tender love-making. Dominance shifted fluidly between you depending on the mood, but this? This was something entirely different. 

The blend of teasing caresses and sweet nothings thrown into the mix left him desperate for you, caught between the soft cruelty of your restraint and the aching need building in his body. His cock and chest, evidence of your torment, leaving him trembling and needy for more.

“Y-You know... Sunshine…” His stammered words hung in the air, his voice cracking with frustration and embarrassment. Lowering his head in shame, he tried to hide his flushed face as you finally let go of his chin. But the moment was short-lived. As soon as his hips shifted, seeking relief, you caught him, your hands firm as you forced him still. Despite the heat pooling in your core at his boldness, you weren’t about to let him get away with it.

Your fingers brushed through his damp, white locks, the strands clinging to his sweat-slick forehead as you cocked a brow, feigning obliviousness. “Oh?” you mused, your tone laced with mock innocence. “Maybe... if you ask nicely, I’ll remember what it is you’re talking about.”

A teasing smile curled your lips as you leaned in, planting a soft, deliberate kiss just behind his ear. The reaper shuddered, clenching instinctively as though imagining the fullness he craved so badly.

He knew exactly what you were doing. He knew what you wanted.

And as much as he hated the thought of giving in, he couldn’t wait any longer. Not with the way his body screamed for release and your every touch ignited him further.

I... I want you to... fuck me... hard." His voice cracked, hips grinding desperately against the sheets, the raw need in his words sending a thrill through you. Your once innocent smile quickly morphed into something far more mischievous.

"How exactly do you want me to do it?" you asked, your voice low and teasing, your hands firmly gripping his hips, holding him in place.

You leaned in, your breath hot against his ear as you spoke, your words wrapped in seduction, coaxing soft throbs and twitches from him. Every teasing second was a slow burn, building anticipation.

"J-Just do it already... fuck—Sunshine!" His whine was desperate, eyes squeezed shut as he wriggled in your grip, hips grinding helplessly, overwhelmed by the mix of pleasure and frustration. His voice faltered on your nickname, caught between longing and the overwhelming need for you.

"Hm, well, since you've been so good for me, my love, I suppose I'll give you what you want." You pulled back just enough to let your breath cool his heated skin, watching him tremble in response. The tension in the air was palpable, and his body was already on edge.

"On your feet. Now." The command was sudden, firm, and a part of him loved that. He struggled to rise, his legs trembling as he shuffled across the bed, knees buckling under him, but he didn't dare touch himself. He knew the consequences, your endless teasing would make him wait longer, and he couldn't bear that.

As you rose from the mattress, you made your way behind him, your hands steady as you pushed him forward with one swift motion, pinning him against the bed, bent over for you. A soft whine escaped his lips, and his cheek pressed into the plush surface of the bed, eyes closed tight, body instinctively reacting to your dominance. You wasted no time shedding your underwear, letting the fabric drop to the floor in one smooth motion.

"Stay. Be good for me, baby. Won’t you?" you purred, your lips brushing gently against his neck before stepping back, grabbing the belt-like contraption. The click of it snapping into place as you tugged on the buckles and straps, nestling against your hips, made him shiver—not from the cool air lazily blowing from your AC unit, but just from the anticipation of what was to come next for him.

Once you were ready, your gaze turned back to him, scanning him for any sign of discomfort. You wanted this to be just as much about him enjoying it as it was for you.

"Do you need any more preparation, baby? Or do you feel ready?" you asked softly, your fingers tracing the outline of his hole, applying gentle pressure that made him tremble with pleasure.

"N-No, I’m ready... please, please, Sunshine..." His plea came out as a desperate groan, his body arching, pressing back against you, seeking more. He could feel the artificial cock pressing against him, making him tremble even harder.

You kissed his neck again, soft and sweet, before turning his face toward you, claiming his lips in a kiss that left him breathless.

"Get ready. I might go a bit more rough than usual," you warned, teasingly pressing just the tip inside, feeling him shiver under your touch. His breath caught, soft groans escaping him as you pulled out again, heightening his frustration.

"Yes, yes..." His voice was barely a whisper, a breathy whimper as you continued to tease him.

Slowly, carefully, you eased into him, the gentle pressure sending waves of heat through him. He gasped, his body still, frozen in the moment, mouth agape in silent ecstasy. You checked in with him, making sure he was ready for what would come next, and when you got the green light, you gave in to the brutal pace, each movement building to an intensity neither of you could hold back.

You let out a low, satisfied snicker as incoherent curses spilled from Casper’s lips. His grunts and groans echoed around the room, weakly tugging at his wrists, trying to escape your hold. But you didn’t relent, your grip on him unyielding, halting any movement.

"Is this... ah– what you wanted, my little reaper?" you breathed, pressing deeper into him, the thick length of you creating that delicious friction against his needy hole.

"Keep your back arched for me... Yes, just like that, good boy." Your eyes glinted with hunger, watching him obey, his ass pushing back against you with each thrust, the rhythm never slowing, never faltering.

Casper couldn’t form coherent words, he could only nod fervently, his moans and whimpers spilling out, each sound a perfect response that stroked your ego. With every thrust, his cheeks slapped against your thighs, the rhythm of it a sensual symphony. Each movement drew out a desperate moan, his body trembling as his drool dripped down his chin. It felt so good, and you knew deep down that no one else could make him feel this way.

"S-Sunshine... fuck, augh... Mmph!" His voice cracked, his desperate sounds only pushing you to thrust harder, deeper, fucking into him mercilessly.

You latched onto the tender spot at the base of his neck, biting down and sucking on the fading bruise from a previous round. You knew exactly where his pleasure points were, and using that knowledge, you broke him with ease.

A strangled cry left Casper’s lips when you hit the spot again, his eyes snapping wide open, the flood of pleasure making coherent thought impossible. He gasped and shuddered as you stroked his sweet spot with the tip of your cock, the sensation pushing him closer to the edge. A long, desperate cry of pleasure tore from him.

With a soft laugh, you shifted positions, pulling Casper off the bed for a moment. No longer was he bent over; now, you had him laid back, surrounded by a fortress of pillows and plushies against the headboard. You leaned in close, teasing him, your hips snapping against his with a brutal rhythm, thrusting deep into his already leaking hole.

"Did I find it?" you whispered, taunting him as you thrust once, twice, three times. Each hard push earned a pleading, broken sound from him, those sweet, desperate noises you loved. You knew you were getting closer, the sounds of his pleasure telling you that you were breaking him down, bit by bit. This was too good.

Tell me how it feels when I do this," you murmured, thrusting deep into his hole, hitting his prostate with a force that made him gasp.

"Ugh... Ahh..! S-Sunshine! Please, keep d-doing that..." His voice trembled, turning his head to the side, covering his face with an arm as his cheeks flushed a deep red.

“Let me see you, my little reaper... be a good boy for me, won’t you?” you cooed softly, coaxing him to move his arm away from his face. You reached out to intertwine your fingers with his, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his hand. For a moment, you slowed, grinding into him with sweet, deliberate movements, drawing soft moans and gasps from his lips.

“Mm… S-Sunshine, please... I’m so c-close...” His breath hitched, his body trembling as you held his hand, your other hand slipping under his thigh to support the new pace you set.

The pounding resumed, deep and steady, aimed directly at his sweet spot. Casper’s legs shook with each thrust, his body a mess of pleasure as he cried out your name, breathless and desperate.

"You’re so needy, my little reaper... you like it when I fuck you, don’t you?" Your voice was soft, almost teasing, as you watched him melt under your touch. His legs trembled more, his body quivering with every deep, satisfying thrust that hit him right where he needed.

"Gonna come... Hah... Hah... Sunshine!" His voice cracked, his body shaking violently, tears slipping from his eyes as they mixed with the sweat on his flushed face. A sob escaped him, raw and broken, and it sent a shiver up your spine. Forget what you'd said earlier—this sound, the sobs mixed with pleading moans, was your favorite. You had broken him completely, his body now a vessel for nothing but pleasure. Your thrusts grew erratic, but you never lost your aim, always hitting his prostate.

"M-Me too..." you whispered, breathless, eyes fluttering closed as you focused on the sound of flesh against flesh, the wet squelches, and the way his body responded to your every move. The pressure in your own body mounted, your hips moving faster as you neared your release.

Casper came first, his body spasming violently from the overwhelming sensation of cumming for the fifth time that night. His back arched up off the bed as a long, desperate whine echoed throughout the room. His cum spilled from his tip, pooling onto his toned stomach. You didn’t stop, though—your pace remained frantic as you fucked him through his final orgasm, watching as his body twitched and shivered from the overstimulation.

“F-Fuck, Cas, I-I’m so close, baby...” you moaned, breathless and frantic, your body tightening as you felt yourself teetering on the edge. Casper’s cries only pushed you further, the overstimulation driving you wild.

Your hips faltered, and you finally came, your body shaking as you rode out your orgasm, your lips parted and slightly red from biting them.

Both of you were breathless, unable to move, lying there in the same positions for a moment, letting the aftershocks of your climax pass. Casper’s body collapsed back against the pillows, and you took a few moments to catch your breath. With shaky hands, you unlatched the strap from your hips, carefully undoing the straps and buckles before placing it at the end of the bed. You slumped down beside him, exhausted, your body still humming with pleasure.

--

You nuzzled your nose against Casper’s neck again as you had both returned from the bathroom to the freshly made bed. "Sorry, sorry, I must've gone overboard. You've never collapsed like that before." You chuckled softly, your voice warm with concern as you gently massaged his sore body, moving from his legs to his back.

Casper grumbled, shifting slightly to face you as you finally settled beside him. "No... I liked it. My ass hurts, though," he muttered, sounding both sheepish and a little embarrassed as his face grew red.

You couldn't help but smile at the sight of him, even in his frustration. There was something endearing about his pouting expression, and the way he tried to hide it only made him more irresistible. His usual sleepwear now that he lived with you — a black tank top and shorts — clung to his toned body, and for a moment, you just took him in, appreciating the sight of him beside you.

Casper, feeling your gaze on him, buried his face into the pillow, his cheeks flushed in a mix of embarrassment and pride.

"Oh, c'mon," you teased, your voice playful. "You're such a baby, Cas. Can I not appreciate your cute face and body?" You slipped under the covers next to him, pressing your chest gently against his front. Your arm snaked around his waist, pulling his body closer to yours, the warmth between you soothing your souls. With a heavy sigh, he lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours with a longing softness that made your heart ache.

"Just don't say those things out loud..." he muttered, his voice low and shy.

You smiled brightly, tilting his chin up gently so you could kiss him. The kiss was brief but filled with tenderness, and just as you pulled back, you murmured against his lips, "Whatever you say, my little reaper ."

Casper's eyes fluttered shut, a soft yawn escaping his lips as you nestled into his neck, your favorite spot. You felt his body relax against yours, his breathing steadying as he began to drift into a peaceful daze. You closed your eyes too, content and wrapped up in the warmth of the moment.

"I love you," you whispered, your voice soft and sincere.

Casper, already half asleep, smiled gently. He shifted slightly, his hand reaching out to hold yours. "Love you more..." he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion, but never lacking affection. As you both lay there, tangled in the sheets and each other’s warmth, you drifted off to sleep together, grateful that he had hacked into your laptop all those months ago.

👻˖ ִֶָ 𓂃⭒

[therandompagesblog]

Hunting Your Soul Chapter 1 💀Chan💀

Trigger Warnings: Slavery, Abuse, Manipulation, Feeding, Misogyny, Killing, Obsession, Stalking, Obsessive, Sexual Desires, Sight impairment, arousal, MDNI

The groans and screams of pain around the wooden walls were starting to get on my nerves. It wasn't as exciting as it usually was for me. Killing. I loved the hunt and the chase of weak humans. Tormenting their pathetic little souls. I loved to compel them. Make them feel aroused as I sunk my teeth into them. It was a fun obsession. It would start in the night as I woke up from my slumber. Gasping for blood. Feeling the need to feel the hot thick red liquid down my throat. Luckily for I, there was a body. A regenerating body. Tied to a machine. The body would repair itself. Heal itself with the help of my venom. So, every night I got to have my fill. But. If the body had not regenerated quickly enough, my body would shudder. In anger. Despair. Hunger. I would then run, out of desire. To the cells where the lucid humans would live. Trapped in a cage by me. It was fun. It was fun because they needed me. Their pathetic little hearts craved me to bite them. Their hearts would beat sadly when I was not around. When I didn't want them. When I visited them they would cry out in excitement and pull at me. They would scurry to the bars to see me so I would play with them. Bite them. They were my little toys. My little blood whores. I probably should let them out but it was much more fun when they were inside. That was my usual day. Feeding. Hunting. Killing. All until I found something. Something different. It called to me. It wanted me. It yearned for me. This pretty little heartbeat yearned for me. It was purely coincidental how I found this heartbeat. It was purely coincidental how I did not want to hurt it.

The heartbeat I found was a woman. A woman walking back from the library. She was young. Early twenties maybe. She wasn't afraid of the dark and the creatures that watched her. But I hated it. I hated the way the creatures watched her in the night. I wanted to be the only one who watched her. The one who haunted her. The one who hunted her. I followed closely behind her as she clutched her tote back and pulled her coat closer. She was cold. As she should be. Humans were tastier when they were cold. Their blood cells were working overtime to keep them warm. Pumping more blood around their weak little bodies. Except this little heartbeat looked strong. She looked as if she could handle the dark. Could handle me. I would make her handle me. I would make her play my games. I would make her heart run faster than it had ever done before. I would make her heart crave every inch of me and then I would abandon her. I would make her heart cry and break. I would make her heart feel isolated. Then I would come back and apologise. Tell her heart I was sorry. I would listen to her heart repair itself and forgive me. Then I would do it again and again until she feared I would leave her forever. Her heart would get sick and anxious. It would become deprived and weak. It would hallucinate with paranoia. Become drunk off of fantasies I may never provide for her. Except I would fulfil every fantasy I had of her. That she had of me. I decided then. That night she was going to be my special little heartbeat! She was mine to consume.

Did I feel bad when I returned to my sanctuary? No! I was excited! Ecstatic even as I thought about the hunt. I lay on my bed hissing and growling as I thought about my newest little heartbeat. Her dark black hair fell to her shoulders. Her small frame that was easily breakable. Her dark brown eyes that hid behind her glasses. Those glasses. I hissed in delight. Her glasses told me she was slightly sight impaired. The thoughts of her blindness aroused me. I could blindfold and impair her as she ran around my compound in fear. Hoping to find me. She was going to be so much fun. Unlike my other little heartbeats.

My other little heartbeats were crying. They have not been bitten in three days. Tonight I did not want to bite them. I did not want to taste their tainted wine. There sweat. There blood. I wanted to taste her in all of the darkest places. I wanted to lick her balls of sweat. I wanted to brush her hair back with my claws as I licked her face clean. Swapping her sweat for my desirable spit. I wanted to pierce her throat with my fangs and leave a black mark. I wanted to pierce her behind her ear. Then down by her shoulder blade and drink from her. I wanted to taste her saccharine wine. I wanted to strip her from the clothes that covered her dignity. I wanted to cover her body in my claw marks as her heart begged for me. I wanted her hips to bleed for me as my tongue would swirl around her. Painting her with blood. I wanted her to bleed her womanly blood. I wanted to taste the sweet congealed concoction of her purity. Her femininity. Most of all I wanted to fuck her under a rainfall of blood. I wanted her to bathe in blood.

She was going to be mine either way. I would watch her and haunt her until she was ready. I was going to train her strong little heart to become weaker. To become dependable on me. I was going to train her to be a good little heartbeat that needed her master. Needed her owner. Needed her vampire. Needed her Chan.

18+ Taglist for those who are not turning back

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