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spikedfearn · 2 months ago

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Upon the Scarlet Altar

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: On a night when the moon hangs low and your body bleeds for him, he worships you the only way he knows how: on his knees, mouth between your thighs, feasting like you’re the last taste of warmth in a world gone dark. But in his arms—cold as the grave—you find a different kind of fire. One that never dies.

wc: 4.1k

a/n: AHHH you guys—I’m seriously losing my mind right now. Mercy Made Flesh hit 1.7K notes in 72 hours and I’m just sitting here clutching my pearls and screaming into the void like !!! thank you SO much for all the love, thirst, and pure unhinged energy you’ve poured into my fic!! this fic is lovingly (and hornily) dedicated to @oc3anbxbyxoxo who requested remmick eating reader out while on her period!! and, as always, thanks to my number #1 pookie Nat @kayharrisons for beta reading!!

warnings: vampirism, bloodplay, oral sex (f!receiving), period sex, vampire x human, worship kink, possessive undead love interest, overstimulation, blood drinking, body worship, monsterfucking (soft), southern gothic setting, mild dubcon tones (power imbalance), religious/sacrilegious language, explicit sexual content, knife-edge tenderness, unholy devotion, mutual obsession, sex as ritual, canon-typical vampire violence (implied)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

The moonlight spills across the cold stone floor like spilled cream, pale and thick, stretching all the way to the foot of Remmick’s bed. You don’t knock when you enter. You never have to.

He already knows.

He’s there, seated at the edge of the mattress like he’s been waiting all night—shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his hair a soft tangle from too much pacing. There’s a gleam to his eye that hadn’t been there yesterday. Something feral. Something starved.

His nose twitches before his lips curl.

“You’re bleedin’,” he drawls, voice like bourbon left too long in the sun. “C’mere, sugar.”

You close the door behind you. You should be embarrassed. You’re not wearing anything underneath the long black slip you call a nightgown. Not tonight. The silk clings to your thighs, sticking just slightly with each step.

He’s watching. Always watching. Like he’ll die if he blinks.

By the time you reach him, he’s already reached for your hips, already dragging you between his legs. His hands are cold. They always are. But they warm quickly when they cup the back of your thighs and pull you forward until you’re straddling his lap.

“Could smell you from the hallway,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

“Then show me,” you whisper.

His eyes flick up. Crimson. Blazing.

Ravenous.

And then he lays you back.

The mattress dips under your weight, the room heavy with the scent of old wood, candle smoke, and something darker now—something copper-sweet. His breathing doesn’t hitch, doesn’t falter. But it deepens. Slows. Like he’s savoring every second before he lets the hunger off its leash.

Remmick’s palms press to the inside of your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer. His voice, low and reverent, ghosts over your skin.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, thumbing the edge of your nightgown up, baring the soft heat of your core. “Ain’t nothin’ in this world tastes as good as you do when you bleed.”

The shame you thought you might feel never comes. There’s only heat, only want, only the obscene pulse in your stomach as he lowers his mouth with something like worship painted across his face.

“Y’ain’t scared, are you?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the crease of your inner thigh. “’Cause I’m real hungry, darlin’. Real fuckin’ hungry.”

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. “No.”

His grin is all teeth.

“That’s my girl.”

And then his tongue slides over you—slow, deliberate, impossibly soft. He groans like he’s been starving, the sound deep in his throat, his arms locking around your hips to hold you still as he buries his face between your legs.

You cry out.

The first lick is hot and sinful, laced with something carnal and wrong, the wet glide of his tongue tasting the blood he craves, the slick that coats you. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t build slow. He devours—growling against your cunt like it’s the only meal he’s ever needed.

“Christ,” he moans against you, lips already wet with it, tongue circling your clit with obscene precision. “You’re sweeter’n sin like this.”

Your fingers fist in his hair. You’re trembling. The sheets are damp beneath you from your own sweat, from the way your body shudders every time he moans into you like he lives for this.

And maybe he does.

Because Remmick doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs shake. Not when your thighs try to close. Not even when you gasp his name like it’s a lifeline. He keeps going, mouth locked to your cunt, tongue sliding deeper as he feeds and worships all at once.

“Gon’ give you everythin’,” he mumbles, voice thick and slurred with lust, lips slick. “Gon’ make you cum so hard you forget your damn name.”

You already have.

Your back arches, spine bowing off the bed as the wave crests—hot, thick, electric. His name spills out of your mouth in pieces, broken syllables caught between breathless moans, and he drinks it in like it’s part of the offering.

Remmick doesn’t let up.

Even as your hips buck, even as your thighs tremble violently around his head, he holds you down, strong hands keeping you spread and helpless beneath him. His tongue flicks against your clit with punishing precision now, coaxing you past the edge and straight into ruin.

Your vision whites out.

Pleasure burns—too much, too good, a drag across nerve endings that should’ve long gone numb but haven’t, not under him. Not under the mouth of a man who’s been alive for centuries and still claims you as the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

He groans again, loud this time, the sound vibrating through your cunt like a sin. You don’t realize you’re crying until he pulls back slightly, lips flushed red and glossy with blood and slick. The sight should be terrifying.

It’s fucking gorgeous.

“Look at you,” he rasps, dragging his mouth up your body, a smear of crimson trailing from your inner thigh to your hip. “So damn pretty fallin’ apart like that.”

He licks his lips, slow. Lingering.

“Could stay between these thighs all night, baby. Might just do that.”

Your breath stutters when he leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is thick with lust, but there’s something else now—something dark. Territorial.

“Ain’t gon’ want nobody else’s blood, y’hear me?” he whispers, one hand cupping your throat, thumb brushing your pulse. “Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than you when you bleed for me.”

You whimper, your body still trembling beneath him.

And Remmick smiles.

Because you're not scared.

You're in love. In lust. In ruin.

The room is quiet now, save for the rasp of your breath and the low hum of Remmick’s satisfaction as he lays against you, one arm heavy across your waist, his nose nuzzled into your neck like he can’t bear to be even an inch away from your pulse.

You’re boneless, ruined—your legs still trembling slightly as the aftermath rolls through you in warm, dizzy waves.

But he’s calm. Too calm.

Like a beast that’s fed and now lies curled around its prey, not because it’s lost interest—but because it’s claimed you.

His fingers trace idle circles over your belly, smearing faint streaks of blood he hasn't bothered to wipe away. He hums low in his chest, then murmurs against your throat:

“Y’don’t know what you’ve done to me, do ya?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth’s parted, your tongue dry, your body still fluttering in the places he touched and tasted.

He presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, then another, lower—his lips dragging slow.

“You come to me bleedin’ like that,” he drawls, voice syrupy and warm, “an’ expect me to behave?”

You feel his smirk as he speaks against your skin.

“Darlin’, you ain’t just mine. You’re marked. Body knows it. Blood knows it. Every time you ache, every time you get that little twitch in your thighs thinkin’ ‘bout me…that’s me callin’ to you.”

You swallow hard.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, those crimson eyes soft now, almost tender—but still burning. Still dangerous.

“I ever catch somebody else smellin’ you like this…” he shakes his head slowly, almost pitying. “They won’t get the chance to learn from their mistake.”

He says it like a promise.

And then softer, almost lovingly:

“Gon’ take real good care of you. Keep you right here where it’s safe. Keep that sweet little body fed, fucked, and mine.”

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed.

He brushes a knuckle down your cheek, then presses his lips to your temple like you’re something precious. Holy, even.

“Rest now, sugar,” he murmurs, voice velvet-dark. “We got all night.”

Steam curls like spirits from the clawfoot tub as the water runs, hot and fragrant with crushed rose petals and herbs from the garden out back. The scent is earthy, grounding—lavender, rosemary, and something darker beneath it. Something that smells like Remmick.

He’s at your side, one hand steady on the small of your back as he helps you into the water like you’re made of spun glass.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmurs, voice quiet now. Slower. “Let me fix that.”

The warmth envelopes you, and you sink into it with a sigh, limbs limp, head tipping back as your body adjusts. The blood between your thighs has already begun to dilute in the bathwater, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. If anything, his gaze softens.

Remmick kneels behind the tub and rolls his sleeves higher. He dips a cloth into the water and begins to wash you gently, reverently, careful around your thighs, your breasts, your throat.

Like he’s memorizing every inch of you again.

“Still can’t believe you walked into that church that night,” he says, the hint of a smile in his voice, low and fond. “All that fire in you, all that fury. Lord, you had no idea what you were walkin’ into.”

You remember.

You’d been eighteen. Hungry. Lost. Sleeping in the loft of the abandoned chapel on the edge of the forest because the shelter was full and the weather had turned. You hadn’t known the stories were true—not until you’d come face-to-face with the man who didn’t cast a shadow, who stood at the altar after midnight like he’d been waiting for you.

Remmick had looked at you the way God might’ve looked at Eve: not with shame, but with curiosity.

And then with hunger.

“I should’ve run,” you whisper.

He hums. “You did. I let you.”

You’d run through the woods, blood pumping so loud in your ears you could hear your own pulse. He hadn’t chased you—not right away. He’d let the fear bloom, let it take root, let you come back on your own.

You hadn’t been able to stay away.

Maybe it was the way he spoke. Or the way he looked at you. Or maybe it was the way the nights weren’t so cold when he was near.

“I didn’t want you to be afraid,” he says now, dipping the cloth to run it between your legs, slow and careful, like he’s cleaning a wound.

“I was,” you say. “But not of you.”

Remmick nods. He knows.

You’d been afraid of needing him.

And now look at you—body bare and pliant in his bath, flushed from orgasm and bleeding in his water, letting him touch you with those old, cold hands like they’ve got the right.

Because they do.

“You were too damn young,” he murmurs after a beat, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “But you looked me in the eye like you’d seen a thousand winters. Said you weren’t afraid of no man, no monster. Only the ones who pretend they ain’t.”

You smile faintly. “And you never pretended.”

His eyes darken.

“I told you what I was. What I needed. And you still chose to stay.”

You open your eyes, tilting your chin toward him.

“I still do.”

He leans in and kisses you then—not hungrily, not with possession, but reverence. Like you’re sacred. Like he’s praying with his mouth.

And in a way, he is.

Because Remmick never asked for salvation.

He found it anyway.

In you.

The water laps gently around you, soft and warm as skin, swirling faint pink around your hips. His kiss is slow—an ache, a promise, a tether. When he finally pulls back, your lips are damp, parted, breathless, and Remmick is just watching you.

Like he always does.

There’s something about the way he looks at you. Not just hunger. Not just obsession. It’s deeper than that—like he’s memorizing you, like the sight of you is the only thing anchoring him to this wretched earth. Like if he stopped looking, the centuries would catch up to him and pull him down to hell where he knows he belongs.

But not yet.

Not while you’re here. Not while your blood is still warm and your body still pliant and your soul still just out of reach.

He brushes the edge of the cloth over your collarbone next, then your shoulder, dragging it across your chest with trembling restraint. There’s a smear of blood on the side of your breast—his doing—and he wipes it away with the gentleness of a man afraid to break the thing he worships.

“You’re somethin’ holy to me,” he murmurs, low enough it sounds like it’s more for him than you. “Somethin’ sacred.”

You swallow, your throat tight, heart tripping over itself in your chest.

“No I’m not.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe not to the world. But to me? You’re a goddamn miracle.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. All you can do is feel as he pours warm water over your shoulders, cupping the back of your head like he’s baptizing you in blood and roses.

“First time I saw you,” he says, “I thought I’d finally gone mad. Thought I was seein’ a ghost. You walked right through that broken door, moonlight at your back, lookin’ like vengeance and salvation in one breath.”

He sets the cloth aside.

“You didn’t flinch when you saw my teeth. Didn’t cry when I told you what I was. You just looked at me with those big, tired eyes and asked if I was gonna kill you.”

You remember that night. You remember the way your voice hadn’t shaken, even though your knees did. The way his eyes had gone wide—startled, not by your fear, but by your lack of it.

He laughs softly now. “And I told you, didn’t I? Told you I don’t kill what I’m fixin’ to keep.”

Your breath catches.

“Remmick…”

“I meant it,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, to your temple, to the crown of your head. “Meant it then. Mean it now. You’re mine. And I ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”

Your fingers curl in the water. His arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest, the sound of his dead heart silent beneath your ear.

But it feels like it’s beating.

Only for you.

Only here.

The water’s gone tepid by the time he speaks again.

“Time to get you outta there, sugar,” he drawls, voice velvet-thick. “Before I end up joinin’ you.”

He stands, boots echoing soft on the old tiles, and leans over the tub to scoop you into his arms. It’s effortless—like you weigh nothing at all. Your wet skin presses to his chest, and the chill of him—cold, corpse-cold—sinks straight into your bones.

But you don’t flinch.

You never do.

Because even if he doesn’t have blood that pumps or a heart that beats, there’s warmth in him still. In the way his arms hold you like you’re breakable. In the way his mouth brushes your temple like a promise. In the way he carries you through this crumbling house like you’re something he’d go to war for.

You cling to him out of instinct, arms curling around his neck as your cheek rests against the hollow of his throat. It’s icy. Still. But it’s home.

“I got you,” he murmurs, “Always do.”

He steps out of the bathroom and into the dark hallway of the house you’ve come to know like a second skin—your house now, though no one but the ghosts know it. The floorboards creak beneath his slow steps, the wallpaper is peeling, the chandeliers are draped in cobwebs like mourning veils. The wind outside presses against the windows like a lonely thing begging to be let in.

But here, in his arms, even cold, you feel untouchable.

You bleed against his skin.

It’s not until you reach the bedroom—your shared bedroom, with the worn four-poster bed and the rotting wainscoting and the lace curtains yellowed with time—that he speaks on it.

You feel the pause in his chest before the low, filthy rasp leaves his lips.

“Leakin’ all over me, sweet thing,” he mutters with a smirk, voice dipped in reverence and filth. “Leavin’ a trail like you want the whole damn forest to follow your scent home.”

You suck in a breath. The heat in your belly curls tight again.

He sets you down on the edge of the bed, your thighs parting on instinct, your slick skin sticking to his shirt, to the old quilt beneath you. The blood between your legs is thicker now, heavy. He watches it, eyes dark as pitch.

“Lord have mercy,” he whispers, dragging the back of his hand up your inner thigh just enough to catch the wet. His fingers are cool—unnaturally so—but they don’t make you recoil. They make you burn.

“You’re drippin’ for me. Bleedin’ like you want me to taste you again.”

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear.

“You know what that does to a man like me? That warm, dark sweetness runnin’ down your thighs? Ain’t nothin’ on God’s green earth tastes more like heaven than that.”

You shiver.

Not from fear.

From need.

He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your shoulder.

“Don’t you worry, baby,” he murmurs, voice so low it sinks into your skin like wine. “I’ll get you cleaned up again. Real slow. Real good. Might just make you bleed a little more while I’m at it.”

You tremble under his touch.

And Remmick smiles.

Because he knows you’re already his.

He kneels.

Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. You can feel it—what’s coming. The weight of his stare between your legs, the way his cold hands slip beneath your thighs and spread them wider, wider, until you’re completely exposed to him in the dim, flickering candlelight.

His fingers drag slow along the inner swell of your thighs, smearing blood and slick across skin like paint. His mouth parts.

“Christ almighty,” he breathes, voice reverent, his accent rougher now, more ragged. “Look at this mess. Look what you do to me, girl.”

He kisses the inside of one thigh—cold lips on burning skin—then the other. He doesn’t go for your pussy yet. He lingers. Worships. Drags his tongue along the seam of your thigh where the blood’s heaviest, groaning low and obscene as he tastes it.

He licks it up like it’s the finest thing he’s ever touched.

“Could spend hours down here,” he rasps, voice already wrecked. “Feastin’ like you’re my last goddamn meal.”

You whimper, hips twitching, your legs threatening to close—but he doesn’t let you.

“Uh-uh,” he warns, using his strength with ease to keep you open. “Don’t hide from me now. Not when you’re bleedin’ for me like this.”

His mouth finally descends on your cunt.

And this time, he takes his time.

The first pass of his tongue is so slow, so deep, it makes your eyes roll back. He licks a long, deliberate stripe from your soaked entrance to your clit, tasting everything—blood, arousal, need—and moaning like it’s divine.

His tongue flicks against your clit, again and again, featherlight but maddening. Then he shifts—mouth flattening, sucking, lapping at you with wide strokes of his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you.

And god, he is.

You fist the sheets, back arching, mouth open in a silent cry as he moans against your cunt, the vibrations shooting straight through your core. Your blood coats his mouth, his chin, his lips—but he doesn’t care. He relishes it. His hands grip your thighs tighter as he buries himself deeper, tongue fucking into you like he’s trying to crawl up inside and live there.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans between strokes, pulling back just long enough to pant against your slit. “You taste like heaven and sin all at once. Never gonna get tired of this. Never gonna stop wantin’ it.”

He slides a cold finger inside you—then another. Your body clenches hard, the contrast of his freezing hand and warm tongue almost too much to bear. But he knows your body now. Knows exactly how to curl his fingers, how to suck your clit while his tongue and hand move in tandem.

You start to shake.

Your vision blurs.

You cry out, your orgasm building harder than the last, pressure curling, snapping, about to break—

And he doesn’t stop.

Not when you start to sob his name.

Not when your thighs tremble and spasm against his shoulders.

Not even when you cum, shattering hard enough to see white behind your eyelids, your body jerking beneath his mouth like you’re being ripped open.

He keeps going.

Sucks your clit through it. Licks up every drop of blood and slick. Fingers you slower now, more gently, like he’s helping you ride it out instead of trying to end it.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your swollen cunt. “Gave it all to me, just like you’re meant to.”

You’re ruined.

Your chest is heaving, your limbs loose, soaked through and aching, and he’s still between your thighs, still worshiping, still tasting like he’ll never get enough.

And maybe he won’t.

Because you’re bleeding.

And he’s starving.

Your breath hitches—caught somewhere between a sob and a moan—as your legs twitch from the aftershocks, thighs sticky with blood and saliva. But Remmick’s still there.

Still devouring.

Still worshipping.

His tongue moves with aching tenderness now, lazy, slow—almost teasing if it weren’t so reverent. He licks through the mess he’s made, lips parting to mouth at your folds like he’s kissing your mouth, not your cunt. Like every inch of you is sacred.

And even as your hips jerk, trying to pull away—too much, too sensitive—he doesn’t let you go.

“No,” he murmurs, voice low, steady, commanding. “We’re not done yet, sweetheart.”

He pins your hips with those cold, strong hands, mouth descending again.

You cry out, thighs shaking violently, the sensitivity blooming into a new kind of agony—pleasure twisted at the edges, electric and sharp, making your toes curl and your spine bow. The room is spinning. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

But he’s soothing you as he ruins you.

“Shhh,” he breathes against you. “I got you. Just take it. Lemme taste every last drop you’re willin’ to give me.”

You feel your body trembling apart for him again, your stomach clenching, heat pooling low and impossibly fast.

Remmick’s voice is almost gentle now, slurred with arousal and reverence as his tongue drags across your clit.

“Don’t you go hidin’ from me, baby. You know I’ll chase you down.”

He kisses your cunt again, tongue flattening and lapping, nosing against your entrance where your blood is still fresh, still dripping slow. He moans deep in his throat like it’s a vintage he’s been saving for decades, like this moment—this mess between your thighs—is a gift he doesn’t deserve.

And god, the way he sounds when he speaks between strokes—

“Your blood’s hotter’n the devil’s breath tonight.”

Another lick.

“Tastes like lust. Like pain. Like home.”

Another.

“You were made for me, girl. Built to bleed for me.”

Your body coils tighter and tighter, the pleasure sharper now, no longer soft or slow—it’s demanding, relentless, fire at the base of your spine.

And he feels it.

He moans against you as you cum again—louder this time, messier, your entire body going rigid under him as you fall apart a second time, writhing as he holds you open and takes it all.

You’re crying now, softly, not from pain but from being so thoroughly undone.

From how deeply he sees you.

How completely he wants you.

When he finally pulls back, he’s soaked. Lips red, chin slick, eyes glowing like coals. He kisses your inner thigh, then your knee, then the scar on your ankle he once asked about and never brought up again.

You’re limp beneath him, panting, ruined.

And he looks so fucking proud.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, crawling up your body. “My perfect, filthy little thing.”

He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms, curling your spent body against his cold one—and somehow, you feel warmer for it.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your hairline, then your shoulder.

“Sleep now,” he breathes. “Ain’t no one ever gon’ touch you but me.”

And as your eyelids flutter closed, muscles aching, pulse slow and full, you realize this is what he’s given you—what no one else ever could.

Not warmth.

But safety.

Not love.

But devotion.

And in a house filled with ghosts, buried in a forest that forgot its name, you fall asleep knowing you’ll never be alone again.

Not as long as Remmick walks the earth.

Not as long as he’s hungry—and you’re his.

#period blood is free real estate for vampires #reader said “I'm on my period” and remmick said “delicious”#jesus didn't die for this but remmick would #sinners 2025 #sinners au #sinners fic #remmick #remmick x reader #sinners remmick #jack o'connell

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sugoroo · 8 months ago

Text

ʚɞ warnings: fem!reader, reader plays volleyball, masturbation, oral (f receiving), obsessive behaviour, boobjob, penetration (p in v), 18+ minors dni.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who decides you're going to be his the very first time he sees you playing volleyball on the beach with your teammates wearing those pitiful scraps of material that can hardly be classified as a bikini.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who makes sure to pick up any and every extra shift he can just so he can figure out exactly what times you come down to the shore to practise.

pervy lifeguard!gojo whose new favourite pastime is just to sit in his lookout post, barely paying attention to the water to keep an eye on anybody who may be in potential danger — no, lately, his gaze always seems to be fixed squarely upon you.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who can't help but push his sunglasses up to rest in his hair so he can get a clearer view of you as you move around the sand, the way your scantily-clad body moves whenever you jump to hit the ball over the net just hypnotizing the poor man.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who has to disregard his duties completely to duck into a nearby beach hut when it becomes too much to just watch you, furiously fisting his leaking cock to the delicious mental image of your ass bouncing as you played.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who emerges from the hut looking like an utter mess, snowy locks dishevelled and swimming trunks hanging low on his hips as he stumbles back over to his lookout post. his strange behavior even grants him a few curious look from nearby beachgoers, but he couldn't care less.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who finds his hands clenching into tight fists by his sides when he observes one of the boys from the opposing volleyball team shaking your hand after a match. it's just a sign of mutual respect between players — he knows that.

but that doesn't mean it irritates him any less.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who finally gathers the confidence to actually approach you later that afternoon while you're packing up your things, idly scratching the back of his undercut while he tries to think of a normal way to start a conversation.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who doesn't have to speak at all in the end, because you say the first words for him, greeting him with that pretty little smile of yours that he's only been able to see from afar up until now and outstretching a hand for him to shake.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who can't help but let a pleased grin spread across his lips while he returns the gesture, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction rising in his chest that his own touch on your palm has erased that previous guy's.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who falls even harder for you (if that's possible) during the few minutes he talks with you. it's nothing more than a friendly interaction between two regular beachgoers, but to him, it's one of many more to come.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who feels like he could do an embarrassing victory dance on the sand right then and there when you casually mention an upcoming volleyball competition that you'll be playing in. so you want him to be there, huh?

he nonchalantly responds that he might just be able pop by and watch some of it during his break — as if he isn't already planning on completely abandoning his post in favour of spectating the entire match instead.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who is so full of excitement during the week leading up to the tournament that he just can't keep quiet about it for even a single second. his poor bestfriend lifeguard!geto is beginning to feel like he's the one with the giant, pathetic crush on you at this point.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who would most likely be fired if his boss was to see him right now, sprawled across a bench and watching you compete at volleyball instead of looking out for drowning children in the waves.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who is sporting a not-so-subtle tent in his swimming trunks as he sits there, which he tries in vain to hide by crossing his legs over his lap. i mean, can you really blame him? just look at the way those doughy tits of yours jiggle in that downright sinful bikini top!

pervy lifeguard!gojo who has to clench his jaw to stop from snapping various profanities at the nearby beachgoers who have stopped in their tracks just to witness the match — he's not oblivious, he can see them checking you out just as he is.

but it's different when he does it. why? because you're going to be his soon enough. don't they understand that?

pervy lifeguard!gojo who isn't surprised in the slightest when your team easily triumphs over the other. after all, the opposing team doesn't have you on it. and although he knows little to nothing about volleyball, he can easily declare that you must be the best at it.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who would ideally like to run up to you and gush about how well you performed, but due to the very visible... problem in his trunks, ends up darting into the nearest beach hut for the second time this month to relieve himself because of you.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who is halfway through sloppily jerking his hips up into his closed fist when sunlight suddenly starts to flit through the gap in the door — shit, he was so worked up he forgot to even close it.

rookie mistake, satoru.

pervy lifeguard!gojo whose eyes widen to the size of saucers when he realizes it's you who just walked in through the doorway, shutting it gently behind you. he's about to start furiously apologizing for what you stumbled in on when he notices you don't seem nearly as shocked as you probably should be.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who can only watch in stunned silence as you slowly saunter closer to him, your hands hidden behind your back as they easily untie the strings of your bikini top before letting it fall to the floor.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who releases what can only be described as a pornographic moan at the sight of your freed breasts, his neglected cock twitching beneath his hand as he ogles you without shame. if he had any self-awareness left, he might've been embarrassed of the small trickle of drool oozing from his slackened mouth.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who feels his cheeks flush a shade of red brighter than the leaking tip of his bobbing cock when you purr to him... "do you really think i haven't noticed you checking me out for these past few weeks, mr lifeguard?"

pervy lifeguard!gojo who somehow finds himself living out a scenario lewder than the wildest of wet dreams he's had about you, his jittery hips thrusting erratically between your tits as you keep them pressed together for him with your hands.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who reaches what is undoubtably the fastest orgasm of his life, his sunglasses toppling from his head as it falls back in bliss, messy white locks stuck to his forehead with sweat as he releases a series of broken groans and whimpers.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who immediately joins you on your knees once he's come down from his euphoric high, long pink tongue lolling out to lap up every drop of sticky cum he split on your pretty tits, sucking and nipping at every inch of supple skin within reach.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who just can't stop yapping, going on and on about how perfect you are, how you've been on his mind for what feels like forever, how sexy you look when you're hitting around that volleyball.

it seems the only way to actually shut pervy lifeguard!gojo up is to shove his beautiful face between your legs, the only sounds leaving him now being mewls of enjoyment as he mouths at your saccharine taste through your bikini bottoms.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who is already too lost in you to properly remove the material keeping him from your pussy, instead lazily yanking it to the side with a single finger so he can dive nose-deep into your sweet cunt like he's been dreaming about doing for weeks.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who is just so messy with it, practically making out with your dripping hole as he rapidly delves his tongue in and out, moaning so shamelessly you'd think he was the one getting eaten out and not you.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who makes you cum using only his sloppy mouth so many times neither of you even know just how long you've been cooped up in this beach hut where there's a real possibility that someone could walk in at any given moment.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who can't hold himself back from fucking you anymore — he's waited long enough already, after all. so he's effortlessly manhandling you onto your back as he pushes in, eyes locked onto the sight of your tits still glistening with his saliva and cum from earlier.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who buries his face between the valley of your breasts as he ruts into you like a rabid animal, word after word of slurred praise failing from his lips as he looks up you with those wide, lovestruck cerulean eyes.

god, he's so fucking obsessed with you. getting to finally feel you like this was just the last nail in the coffin.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who somehow cums even harder than his previous climax, the overwhelming sensation of the tight, spongy walls of your cunt pulling him back in over and over again just unravelling his hazy mind with ease.

pervy lifeguard!gojo who has to psychically stop himself from letting out a choked whisper of 'i love you' as he spills his milky seed right into your womb where his cockhead is lodged, seemingly having enough awareness left to know that it's much too soon for that.

instead, pervy lifeguard!gojo settles for fixing you with a dopy grin so wide that both rows of his glinting pearly whites are on full display, murmuring a cheeky... "what do you say we make this a routine after every competition, pretty baby?"

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

pervy yoga instructor!geto <- PREVIOUS.

pervy electrician!toji -> NEXT.

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stargirlygirl · 4 days ago

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you're quiet during it

lads li's (except for raf; separate) x fem!reader

contains: nsfw, smut, unprotected sex, p-in-v, oral sex (f!receiving), p-link for xavier

⭑.ᐟ caleb

at first, it would throw caleb off guard, being the louder one when y'all are devil's tangoing. but it's no issue.

he learns your audial cues: when your breath hitches as you're about to cum, the little mewls that tell him he's doing a good job, and your sweet "more, caleb!" whimpers.

he's also attentive to your physical cues: your back arching as he messily eats you out, so close to an orgasm it's almost painful; your hands tugging on his silky locks when his tongue is lapping your folds; and how your thighs tense up and shake when you're finally swept away by a riptide of pleasure.

and caleb takes pride in hearing how loud he can make you. of course, it's only after an hour or so of overstimulation that you're more talkative and noisy.

he's fucking obsessed with how you cry out, "please, caleb! i can't. n-no more." chuckling against your slick cunt, the lower half of his face drenched in your release, he'll gaze up at you with hazy sunset eyes.

"c'mon, honey. just one more?" he coos so sweetly, rubbing your thigh and all. and when you do give him that one more, you're absolutely silent, lower lip trapped between your teeth as you writhe beneath him. the ecstasy is far too overwhelming for a sound to be made.

when he sucks on your clit harshly, that's when you nearly scream; exactly what he's been waiting so patiently for.

⭑.ᐟ sylus

sylus finds your hushed moans endearing.

i think he definitely teases you when he's eating you out, something akin to, "you're so quiet, kitten. doesn't this feel good?" but he knows you're in actual heaven right now.

when he's on top, thrusting into you so tenderly, i know sylus is groaning and panting in your ear the sweetest things. "you're biting your lip so hard, sweetie. careful—" he pulls your lip out from your chompers with his thumb, "or you'll draw blood."

especially when you're cockwarming him and whimpering softly in his ear, it makes him all the more harder. he'll throb inside of your snug walls, pre-cum leaking everywhere as he rubs your back and murmurs, "don't runaway, kitten, when you're taking me so well."

like caleb, he's got your sounds memorised. but unlike caleb, i don't think sylus pushes you to the edge. i think he'll stop as soon as you yawn, god forbid you do so as he's still rutting into you.

your bf will pull you into a warm cuddle and let you rest for as long as you need. he praises you half-lovingly, half-mockingly, until it's time to get cleaned up.

⭑.ᐟ zayne

i'm imagining this princess and the pauper "you're just like me, i'm just like you" moment between you and zayne the first time you had sex (whether that be oral, penetrative, mutual touching, etc).

because he's... somewhat controlled in the sound domain, he understands that your lack of loud sounds isn't because his performance is lacking (though he needed reassurance initially), but because that's how you are. he's never commented on it or teased you for it. zayne simply relies on consistent communication to ensure you're enjoying what he's doing.

let's say you two have a rare day off and spend the morning in bed. waking up, you're exchanging gentle kisses, which quickly become heated. but since you're both sleepy, it's this lazy kind of lust.

he's in between your thighs, taking you to the far reaches of the universe when he pulls off your swollen clit and asks breathily, "does this feel good?" releasing a low whimper, you nod and push his face back into your pussy.

you can feel his micro-smirk as he eats you out till you're trembling and softly mewling, your thighs clamped around his head.

and when you're spooning, it's tender and slow, zayne sliding every inch in before drawing back. you're wrapped in his warm embrace, panting a little. your bf let's out this cracked whimper as you squeeze around him, close to his end already.

he rasps out, "it's been so long since we've done this." you hum in response, your grip on his scarred forearms tightening before you see the stars together.

⭑.ᐟ xavier

like sylus, xavier finds it cute. with how tough you try to act all the time, it inflates his ego when you're a quiet, shaking mess beneath him.

he likes how your body does the talking. no words are necessary when you're rolling your hips up to his, hands pawing at his trousers in an attempt to take them off.

he'll tease you, "you really did miss me, huh?" but he delivers it in his soft voice.

and you, too needy to register that he's having a go at you, will just nod and whimper a small, "please."

i can't help but think of this p-link.

xav definitely mocks you during sex, asking you in his low commanding voice to be louder and to tell him how good he's making you feel, how much you need him, to tell him anything because he wants to hear your voice. specifically, he wants to hear it break as you try to speak.

and he only grows more demanding as his climax approaches. his sweet pants and moans tangle with yours as you grip his shoulders. holding onto them for dear life, a stuttered cry escapes your lips as he buries himself so deep and cums inside.

masterlist

star girl's final words: sorry if this is rats ass. just something that's been on my mind, which i wanted to get out.

#★’s works #love and deepspace #xavier smut #caleb smut #sylus smut #zayne smut #lads zayne #zayne x reader #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #caleb xia #caleb x you #xavier x reader #lads xavier #lads x reader

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itoshiierae · 2 months ago

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bllk boys as cliché relationship tropes 𝜗𝜚

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

ᡣ𐭩 ft: rin itoshi, sae itoshi, michael kaiser, karasu tabito & otoya eita

ᡣ𐭩 notes: just me projecting my brainrot and assigning the bllk boys cliché relationship tropes bc it’s fun 😋 and if this does well, trust that i’ll be feeding y’all with more!!!! bc yes i do want to see bachira as the golden retriever sunshine bf and reo as the “i’ve been in love with you forever” rich boy 😩🥹

here’s part two!! <33

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

♡ RIN ITOSHI ♡ — “THE GRUMPY ONE FALLS FIRST”

he’s the classic emotionally constipated one who denies his feelings for the longest time. he’s always annoyed when you tease him, but secretly waits for your texts and gets irrationally mad when you’re close with someone else. once he falls??? it’s deep, silent devotion!!!! he memorizes your coffee order. he waits outside your class without saying a word. he won’t admit it, but you’re his entire soft spot.

♡ SAE ITOSHI ♡ — “ENEMIES TO LOVERS WITH MUTUAL PINING”

the eye-roll king. you two definitely started off snapping at each other — too similar, too proud. but behind those sharp comments are glances that linger too long, tension that crackles during arguments, and soft touches that feel like accidents. when it finally breaks???? it’s explosive and painfully overdue. he falls in love with your fire, even if he’ll never say it first.

♡ MICHAEL KAISER ♡ — “PLAYER FALLS FOR THE ONE WHO COULDNT CARE LESS”

this man flirts like it’s breathing — until you show up and don’t fall at his feet. now that drives him insane!!! he starts seeking your validation without realizing it, doing the most ridiculous things to get your attention. and when he finally falls??? he falls HARD. obsessively. positively sickeningly devoted!!!! well, he’ll still act smug, but now he’s the one checking your stories at 3am and blowing off interviews to see you.

♡ KARASU TABITO ♡ — “THE BESTFRIEND WHO’S ALWAYS BEEN IN LOVE WITH YOU”

he’s your chaos bestie who jokes about being your boyfriend but lowkey means every word. he’s the one who drives you home, lends you his hoodie, and always says “just friends, right?” with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. but the moment you actually reach for his hand???? he’s ALL in. no hesitation. you were his all along, and he was just waiting for you to notice.

♡ OTOYA EITA ♡ — “THE FLIRT WHO ACCIDENTALLY FALLS IN LOVE”

he starts off light — winks, late-night texts, compliments that make you roll your eyes. he’s never serious… until he is!!!! until his flirty little grin falters when someone else gets too close. and when he realizes it??? he literally panics. flirts harder. gets jealous. and eventually admits,

“this wasn’t supposed to happen, but i think it’s you. it’s always been you.”

#bllk x reader #bllk #blue lock #bllk x you #blue lock headcanons #bllk headcanons #blue lock x reader #blue lock rin #sae itoshi x reader #rin itoshi headcanons #rin itoshi #sae itoshi #michael kaiser #michael kaiser x reader #otoya eita #otoya eita x reader #karasu tabito #blue lock fluff #rin itoshi x reader

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madamechrissy · 2 months ago

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Escort! Satoru- part five

Pairings- Escort Satoru Gojo x shy CEO F! reader

Warnings- mutual pining like a mf, obsessed ass/whipped ass Gojo, mutual pining, lots of yearninggg, kissing (I KNOW YAYYY) dry humping, teasing, fingering, public play, fluffy and cute- there will be a part six! (final) pretty woman vibes 🤭

<<<Part Four - Final Part>>>

Escort! Satoru finally does it, he asks you on that date, watching the shock in your eyes, the trembling of your lips as you step back, and Satoru feels it then, the hammering of his heart. Is it too late? Should he have reached out again to you after the first night, when you didn't answer? His blue eyes peer at you over those glasses, as the sunlight beats down on your skin, making his cheeks just a little reddened, striking across his pale skin.

Escort! Satoru eases his hands gently off your face, when you swallow nervously - he hurt you so badly that night, the embarrassment of asking him to hold you, dying for a mere kiss on the lips. How could you be so foolish, truly, you had to try to forget him in any way you could, after sleeping with him and knowing he would never be yours, always sharing him, he was just there because of your money and maybe he enjoyed it. But it wasn't more.

Escort! Satoru realizes how much he fucking missed you now, as if some void is filled by your presence, but you lower his hands gently, holding them for a moment. 'I was so...' stupid, you were stupid 'I'm very sorry I asked you for things you never do,' you sigh, looking around, seeing people walk by. 'I should have respected your-' Satoru stops you then, tilting your chin up, your gaze focused on him. 'I should have held you, okay? I'm sorry...' you feel your eyes fill with the tears, as words you've dreamed of are spoken, and they feel just like that- a dream. 'I want a real date, could we?'

Escort! Satoru eyes you when your phone rings, and you look down nervously. 'I have a date tonight, the first in... years' Satoru steps back now, glaring at you. 'With who?' you blink in surprise. 'Why does it matter to you? Do you think after months I wouldn't ever wanna try?' Satoru grips your wrist, thumb brushing against the veins gently, sending shivers down your spine, as he tries to compose himself, he has no right to be so mad, so jealous. 'Fine, then give me a date after' he murmurs, desperate for you, how can he see you and not try? After everything he's been yearning for appears before him, and he knows how badly he fucked up. 'I don't know...' you want to, god you do, but you also know how badly Satoru can hurt you, uniquely. 'Please just, give me a chance to explain myself, to be myself and not...' he trails off, the wind blows gently and a little blossom lands on your hair, which he sweetly brushes away. 'One chance'

Escort! Satoru is furious thinking about anyone touching you, though it's toxic and unrealistic in every aspect. His job was to touch, though he'd throw it all away if you asked, god he would, because he doesn't find joy in any of it. No amount of money fills this emptiness, but he never thought he'd have a chance with you - only to ruin it. 'I'll go out with you this weekend, but you pick the place, and pick me up' you say softly, his heart thuds as he nods eagerly, desperate and pathetic for you - something he's never been until you ruined him with just your energy, your body, that laugh he'd love to have back. Memories of your night fill him then, as he aches to touch you, to know you, to kiss you.

Escort! Satoru plans the date to a tee, but the whole time he's wondering - where are you going, and with who? Would you prefer them over him? Meanwhile you're trying to get through that date, mind wandering, you just tried to open up for the first time since Satoru broke your heart - even if it was your own fault. You try to smile, and enjoy him, a handsome man that surely was perfect on paper, and interested in you. As the night goes on and the drinks pour, you think to yourself, you should try, letting him kiss you at the end of the evening, wondering what you'll feel. It's nice, but it's nothing like just being near Satoru. Frustrated almost to tears, you're laying in bed that night, as the man in your head that you almost pushed down enough, is back front and center.

Escort! Satoru can't stand it, knowing you're on a date, he almost texts you so many times before he caves - 'ready for our date?'- he smirks, hoping your with whoever it was. But you don't answer him for hours, until you finally write him - yes - and that's it, no sweet banter like the two of you had. It's different, had you really already moved on? He trembles as he texts you - 'how was the date?' - and you write - 'it was fine, any jobs tonight? - and that's when he realizes you're mad. The sweetest girl he met is so clearly mad. He hadn't taken a job tonight, and he's cancelled his week, but he gets it clearly. - 'no job tonight, I'm excited to see you' - He's never said that to anyone. You heart the message, emotions catching, excitement but apprehension in equal parts, you just don't know if he's serious, you're so scared to let go again.

Escort! Satoru picks you up that night in his car, some little Maserati sports car that looks like it goes way too fast. You can't act like he's not sexy as fuck as he steps out of it, opening your door and grinning at you, but you try to hold back, smiling with a 'thank you' as you slide in next to him. Satoru's hand craves to press on your thigh, but fuck if he's not nervous, he hasn't had a date since he started this career despite his job being to go on dates, not a real one, not with someone he asked. He's damn near shaking with his nerves, trying to play it off, as he drives through the quiet streets, smiling over at you with a quirk of his lips. 'You look beautiful' his words make you flustered, nervously tugging a bit on the gorgeous dress you're wearing, glittering like the stars in the sky - fuck your very skin itself glitters. 'you're saying it truly this time?'

Escort! Satoru glares now, foot on his break, scowling at you. 'what do you mean truly? you think I didn't mean any of it?' you blink back unexpected tears, looking out the dark tinted window as he drives once more. 'It was your job, that's all, and I told you I took it too far, you shouldn't feel bad that happened. I - ah!' he skids to a stop suddenly, pulling off the side of the road, and unbuckling your seatbelt so fast you can barely register. He's got you on his lap so fast, as cars whirl by, shaking the fucking car and shocking you further, as he handles you like it's nothing. You brace your hands on his chest, so nervous now, hands clenching the black jacket of his tux, breaths faster and faster. 'You are beautiful, I never said that because of a job' he swipes away your tears, lips hovering over yours, as he exhales, breath tickling your lips. 'What are you doing, Satoru?' your whisper is weak, as he drags you even closer, and his eyes dart to your lips. 'What I should have done that night'

Escort! Satoru slams his lips on yours then and there, you feel it like hot, electric shots going through your body when he does, when he's pressing those plush, glossy lips on yours, and you're shattering over him, lost in his kiss. Satoru has never felt anything like it, like finally kissing you, his tongue slipping in your mouth, drinking up your every cry, every gasp, as you roll your hips just right, and he feels the heat he's been dying for against his aching cock. 'Fuck...' his hushed words are met with your little cry, which just has him dragging you down harder, ready to devour every sweet inch of you, but barely being able to drag himself from your lips, gasping as he pulls back, eyes meeting yours, glimmering now. 'Satoru you... kissed me...' you're close to crying now, trembling as he sighs, cupping your pretty face, the one that's haunted him. 'I've wanted to since I first saw you'

Escort! Satoru keeps kissing you, over and over, desperate and messy, you almost cum just from that friction against you, his teeth sinking into your lower lip, as his huge hands press into your skin. 'I need you, fuck I need you sweetheart- god you have no clue' you're easing back, struggling to compose yourself. 'Am I so VIP?' you tease softly, and he feels it then, the soft way you're asking - not judging, but scared. He exhales, resting his head on yours, shaking his head and pulling you down again. 'I'll gladly delete my whole fucking profile, for a chance with you' his words sink in fully. Your cheeks are hot under his gentle touch. 'I just don't... Satoru, you don't have to do this for me. I understand...' He kisses you once more, before your phone rings.

Escort! Satoru glares, and you can't help but giggle. 'Are you jealous?' he just sets his jaw, as you look over and see it, holding the phone with a shaky hand, and he pulls you harder on his cock, having your eyes roll back in your skull. 'Tell him you're on a date' he whispers, gripping you so tight, before easing you to sit back in your seat, kissing you over and over. 'Let's get there, okay?' you're trying to compose yourself, seeing him shift and wince while he drives once more, pouting. 'You enjoying my pain, sweets?' you can't help but giggle again. The date is pretty and serene, the restaraunt on the roof top, swathed in moonlight. Satoru feeds you carefully, the two of you sharing dessert, talking and laughing like the first time he fucking met you - when he knew then, something was so special about you, something he could never pin fully, but he sees it, with how the candle light hits your face, your sweet blush as his hand slips up your thigh.

Escort! Satoru is not happy to learn you've had a kiss, and your amused little smile is quickly lost, when he slips his fingers between your thighs, and you wildly look around, as he smirks at you. 'That's cute, you kissed? did you like that?' he's taunting now, possessive gaze, that you can't get enough of, fuck you want all of him, even though you're scared, so scared to be hurt again. He's pressing his fingers against your panties, which are soaked, watching as your eyes get lidded, hand gripping the thick white cloth, and he slips under then, feeling the heat he'd been dying for, leaning in close. 'Asked you a question, hmm?' you lean closer, hips shifting, jerking as he thumbs your twitchy little clit, making you gush. 'Would you be mad if I liked it, Satoru?' he sighs, slipping two fingers in your slick hole, making you almost moan in the fucking restaurant now. 'You're wet for me, aren't you, all me?' He's curling them now, acting so casual as a waitress refills your wine, and you pray no one hears the squishing noises your juices are making.

Escort! Satoru can't help but suck you off his fingers, right before he makes you cum, and you're throbbing around nothing, wanting. You're clenching your teeth as you watch, as if he's finishing his dessert- and when he tastes you again!? He can barely control himself, eyes dilated while you sink into his tastebuds, ready to finally give you what you want, and need, and deserve, fuck you so good you can't function, and hold and kiss you. Satoru slips his lips on yours in front of the restaurant, and you taste yourself, whining into his lips. Suddenly a girl sees him, a frequent client who'd gotten too obsessed, and walks right up to him, crossing her arms. He eases back in the seat, as you look down shyly, unsure of who she is. 'I'm on a date' his words make your heart flutter now, as she glares. 'ah, so you do kiss? was this some special package, do you know how expensive you are?' you bite back a smile, and Satoru just grins, shaking his head like a little shit. 'It's different, she's my girlfriend.'

Escort! Satoru blushes when you whisper 'your girlfriend, huh?' in his ear moments later, as a very angry client stomps off, and he brushes back your hair, hard body against yours, studying your face. 'Would you... be my girlfriend?'

taglist 1 @shydroid3000 @aducksmokingquack @miya4life @ravenbc @yenayaps @nezukuwu @etsuniiru @ieathairs @kenqki @princess-bblgm @belovedxiao @ninikrumbs @ieathairs @myahfig4 @theelegantpotato @vvaoo @aldebrana @celestep004 @whoisteona @ladyneisa @lililovely78 @gamerhere @wstaley2 @allthesqueaks @slut4donghyuck @maisiefrancesca @yittten @femaholicc @jjknanamin @that-b-word-lol @devastyle @mat-mat-mat @jkslaugh97 @ovela @mxgnolia @rikiswifeyyy @kaayyhunnyy @gojos1wife1 @arabellasolstice @01ve3rz @jud3thedude @firemoonlightfly @vyluvs @artist1936 @kyelikesanime @alygator77 @seternic @qlucoise @mysticranger575 @undermegumisbed

#satoru gojo x you #gojo smut #gojo x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #satoru x reader #jujustu kaisen #jjk gojo #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo smut #gojo x you #divider by strangergraphics #satoru gojo fluff #gojo x f!reader

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bluelockmaniac · 1 year ago

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˖⋆࿐໋ "PLEASE, COME BACK."

★ ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, michael kaiser, alexis ness, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, don lorenzo, oliver aiku, isagi yoichi & otoya eita (honourable mentions). synopsis. your ex-partners are desperate for you and need you back.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 content warning. general: pet names (princess, baby, etc). sae: suggestive. ness: mentions of stalking, obsessive, creepy ngl. reo: parental humiliation, mother reader. oliver: cheating (duh), he gets slapped lmfao.

notes. total word count: 3.3k !! , angsty ? fem!reader .

୨ৎ 𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐑𝐈𝐍

rainy days were the worst, you mused bitterly, recalling how rin had chosen a stormy day, much akin to this, to break things off with you.

you sneezed into your elbow, feeling the tiny droplets of water cascade down, peppering your bare skin relentlessly. you shivered as you sat on a random bench in the nearest park, regretting your decision to skip checking the weather app today.

wrapping your arms around yourself, cold and damp, you anxiously waited for a certain someone to pick you up.

suddenly, the freezing, stinging sensation of the raindrops on your skin ceased. you noticed a pair of legs in front of you and tilted your head up, meeting the familiar gaze of the man you had once called yours. his arm was outstretched, holding an umbrella above your head.

“y/n…” rin's voice was quiet, barely audible over the splattering rain.

your eyes widen, quickly darting down to stare at your empty lap. your fingers gripped the bench tightly. "hi," you mumbled, the word barely escaping your lips. this was probably the first time he had ever initiated a conversation with you; in your past relationship, that had always been your role. what was he doing here, anyway?

as if reading your mind, he spoke up awkwardly, “i just finished my afternoon jog…” he paused, shuffling his feet slightly. “do you want a ride?”

you finally looked up at him again, shaking your head subtly. “no, thank you... i'm waiting for someone right now.”

“ah, i see.” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. he internally cursed himself for his clumsy attempt and for possibly making things worse by asking in the first place.

a few moments of uncomfortable silence passed between you, but when the tension was too unbearable to handle, he broke the silence.

“i'm… fuck, i'm sorry, okay?” he lowered his head, biting the inside of his cheek in frustration. “for everything in the past. for always ignoring you and neglecting you... if you want, we can–”

the loud honking sound of a car in the distance caught the attention of both you and rin. his brows furrowed in confusion as you stood up and walked a few steps towards the car, throwing him a faint smile.

“ah, it seems like my boyfriend is here.”

୨ৎ 𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐄

by no means was your relationship with sae horrible; in fact, it was quite the opposite. he consistently spoiled you with gifts and favourite snacks, treated you better than his teammates and the public, and always made you feel like the only girl in the universe.

so why had you both mutually agreed to call things off? the challenges of a long-distance relationship became overwhelming.

his frequent travels abroad for football games and the substantial timezone difference made regular communication difficult. every time you called, he would be asleep, and by the time you woke up, you’d see numerous missed calls from him.

nonetheless, it was safe to say that there were still lingering feelings between you both.

you sat down on your plush couch, turning on the television. immediately, the exclusive football channel that your tv always seemed to be tuned into appeared, and this time, it featured a live interview with your ex-boyfriend.

“sae…” you whispered softly upon seeing him.

it seemed as though the interviewer had already wrapped up the important questions, and was now delving into more personal topics.

“thank you, itoshi-san. next question, is there anything in particular that you enjoy doing?”

the football prodigy rolled his eyes and sighed audibly. with a blank expression, he replied, “my girlfriend.”

you felt your face heat up at the suggestive implication, pressing your hands to your warming cheeks– he had never had a girlfriend besides you and had promised he wouldn’t date anyone else. he was talking about you.

to make matters worse for your fragile heart, sae stared right into the camera lens with a subtle smirk, as if he knew you would be watching. the shallow stirring in your heart has confirmed what you already feared: you hadn’t gotten over him, and you knew you never would.

silence louder than a roaring engine filled the enclosure, before the interviewer broke the awkward stillness. “... s-sorry?” the lady was clearly caught off-guard, blinking at him once, twice.

sae scoffed impatiently, “did you not hear me the first time?”

“a-ah, yes, of course.” the woman stammered quickly, trying to recover her professionalism. “you... enjoy doing your girlfriend, yes.”

“used to,” he muttered under his breath, but the interviewer caught it.

“oh, i'm sorry,”

“yeah.”

unfortunately, the lady decided to press on, pushing her luck to pry more information from him. “so, itoshi-san, why did you break up with your girlfriend? could you provide your fans more information regarding your love li–”

he frowned deeply, shoving his hands into his pockets and abruptly standing up to leave, his manager pathetically following behind him. “shut up. you're annoying, leave me alone, ugly.”

later that day, you received a text message from sae.

'i need you back asap. i can help you settle here in spain and i'll pay for the plane ticket and shit.'

you would have never responded so quickly to a single text message had you still been in the long distance relationship. but, you still had a life here– your family, your childhood memories. you hesitated, leaving him on read for now, until you could think of something to reply with later.

a few weeks passed.

୨ৎ 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑

in a way, you blame yourself for thinking you could play the ‘i can change him,’ game. despite this, your efforts, though minimal, were somehow significant. he became increasingly dependent on you, seeking your comfort whenever he was upset over a game or haunted by memories of his harsh past.

he particularly loved resting his head on your comfortable lap as you raked your fingers through his blond hair, or when you kissed the tattoo on his neck, assuring him that everything would be okay.

but it had become exhausting. too repetitive. irritating, even. his daily venting sessions had taken a toll on your mental well-being, and you simply could not bear it any longer.

unfortunately, the breakup ended on bad terms, with both of you hurling insults and belittling each other.

you happened to run into him at the airport. quickly, you shifted your gaze away, hoping that he had not taken notice of you. but luck seemed to mock you, and you could already hear his distinctive footsteps approaching.

"hey," he said nonchalantly, tapping on your shoulder to get your attention. “look at me, talk to me.”

your expression wavered as you hesitantly met his gaze, pursing your lips unsurely. “hi, michael,” you muttered softly.

a shallow line etched between his brows. “michael? you know that's not my name. say it properly.”

“it's not micha anymore, though,” you retorted, turning and walking toward the airplane boarding aisle as the passenger announcement was made.

“tch,” he scoffed, quickly making his way to his team, who were boarding the plane from the exclusive gate reserved for the elite football team of bastard münchen.

it was unfortunate that he had to board the same plane as you, but this was just a layover for you- you still had another flight to take before reaching your final destination.

closing your eyes, you leaned your head against the circular window, drifting off to sleep. when you slowly opened your eyes, however, you were not met with the kind gaze of the old lady who had been sitting next to you.

instead, you found yourself staring into a pair of cerulean eyes. he rested his chin on his hand, his elbow propped up on the armrest, watching you intently.

instantly, your eyes flutter fully open and a hurried gasp escaped your lips. “m-michael, you scared me,” you stuttered.

he rolled his eyes, turning his gaze away. “the old hag was more than happy to sit in the exclusive seats section,” he muttered simply.

“i still haven't forgiven you,” he added, his eyes darting back to you. “but, fuck, come back already. stop being so stubborn.”

you sighed softly, taking his hands in yours. “michael, your rants aggravated my own anger issues. it literally wasn't good for my mental and emotional health.”

he mumbled something incoherent under his breath. when the plane finally descended one minute later, kaiser stood up, opening the overhead compartment above your seat, and handed you your two small suitcases.

placing his hand on your cheek, he leaned down to press his forehead against yours. “...don't block my number. i still want to see you. and talk to you.”

you nodded reluctantly, thanking him for the suitcases. as you looked at him once more before walking away, you spoke softly,

“please, consider going to therapy, micha.”

୨ৎ 𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒

what's better than returning home, exhaustion from work gnawing at your bones, only to find your ex-boyfriend lounging comfortably on a couch in your living room as if he owned the place?

you froze mid-step, breath catching in your throat. “alexis, what the fuck?” you spat angrily.

“y/n!” he immediately sprang up, his face lighting up alarmingly as he flashes you an innocent smile.

he casually strides towards you– as if he had no concept of personal space– and holds up a familiar DVD case. “schatz, remember this? i thought we could watch it, since i remember it was your favourite…”

your pulse quickened, instinctively stepping back. but, ness intercepted, possessively coiling his arms around you and enveloping you in a firm hug. his grip tightened slightly as you attempted to withdraw– but he was careful not to hurt you.

ness buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. “you'll watch it with me, won't you?” he smiled, his warm breath grazing your skin.

"alexis, how the fuck did you even get in?" you demanded, mustering the strength to break free and pry his arms off, snatching the remote and turning off the television.

he pouted, "i had the spare key you gave me! now won't you—"

“you're just as creepy and obsessive as ever,” you shot back, feeling intruded and unsettled, “there's a reason i broke up with you.”

his expression crumbled and his fists clenched tightly at his sides. “d-don't say that, remember all the good times we had? we belong together!” his voice quivered with desperation as he leaned pathetically against the wall.

“yeah, i thought so too,” you countered, “until i caught you, lurking in the corner of my eye, watching me with a friend at the mall.” you gestured towards the door. “leave, now, and give me back the damned key.”

tears formed in his eyes, threatening to spill over as he reluctantly handed back the key. his fingers lingered against yours for a moment longer than necessary. he stepped out of your apartment and threw a weak smile at you over his shoulder. he whispers, “i love you, and i always will.”

you slammed the door shut.

୨ৎ 𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐎

you heard the doorbell ring as you were occupied with chopping tiny pieces of carrots for your young daughter. with a sigh, you set down the knife on the cutting board, wiping your hands on your apron and reluctantly heading towards the door.

there was no need to check the peephole; you instinctively knew it was your ex-husband, reo.

his monthly visits to hand over the child support had become a begrudgingly predictable routine. you swung the door open, and immediately, his desperate gaze met yours.

“y/n—” he started, but you cut him off with an uninterested glare.

“she's on the play mat in the living room. put the check on the table.” you said indifferently, already turning back toward the kitchen. before you could take a step, his fingers gently wrapped around your wrist. it's nothing you didn't expect, however; it happened every single month.

“reo, let go,” your voice was firm yet tired.

“baby, please,” he insisted, pulling you towards his chest and embracing you tightly. you felt the warmth of his body against yours, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne. “i miss you. i really do. do you know how painful it is for me to slowly watch you become a stranger?”

you remained motionless for a moment before shaking your head, gently pushing him away. “no... just no,” you asserted softly, “your parents always humiliated me during our marriage— whether it be in front of guests at social events or large family dinners. i've never felt enough. and worse, you've always ignored it.”

his face twisted into one of guilt as he attempted to draw you back into his embrace. “i promise i'll–”

“reo!” your strangled voice accidentally yells out. “put the check on the table and leave!” the words leave your mouth impulsively in frustration.

you quickly brought a hand to your mouth, then clutched your chest, taking a deep breath to calm yourself as tears welled up in your eyes. in a quieter tone, you pleaded, “reo, please, just leave…”

albeit reluctantly, he complied, retreating with a heavy heart. but, as per the habitual routine, he returned the next month, pleading for your forgiveness and begging to be taken back.

୨ৎ 𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐈 𝐒𝐄𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐎

dating nagi was tedious, and even that was an understatement.

"seishiro, i'm seriously considering blocking you if keep calling me every single day, begging me to take you back."

you exasperated, frustration clear as you sat on your bed with the phone on speaker, going through your nighttime skincare routine. you could hear nagi exhale deeply on the other end.

“... 'mm, angel, please,” he whined, his voice growing louder and more desperate. “i miss you, i'm all alone, my apartment's a mess and—”

you scoff, tossing the moisturizer tube onto your bed as you swabbed some onto your face. “your apartment's a mess? i wonder why that is… almost like your girlfriend was doing all the work around the house for you?”

a soft, frustrated groan escaped his lips at your sarcasm. he swallowed hard, his voice cracking, “listen, baby, 'm sorry for takin' you for granted, i want you back in my arms, i want to cuddle w'you like we used to. please, forgive me.”

a long pause hung heavy in the air, his breath hitching in his throat as he waited for your reply, hoping that you'd use what's left of your love for him–if any–to forgive him and return. with a tired sigh, you finally spoke up.

“... no, seishiro. i'm tired. being with you felt like a chore, to be honest. i was the one looking after you– making sure you ate your breakfast and lunch, doing your laundry that's scattered everywhere in your apartment, even reminding you to get off your video games. i'm not your mother...”

you let out all your pent-up frustration once and for all, hoping this would finally put an end to his persistent calls. it was clear you had reached your limit, knowing deep down that you deserved someone who appreciated your time and effort.

“seriously, why don't you get yourself a maid? dating you was a hassle.”

you stated firmly before hanging up on him.

“dammit, angel…” nagi sighed defeatedly, his slumped body flopping down onto his bed. he lazily tossed his phone aside, feeling drained and overwhelmed. “i'm too tired for this.”

୨ৎ 𝐃𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐙𝐎

“pleaase, come backkk,”

great. the last thing you had wanted today was to run into your ex as you stood in line at the popcorn stand. you wished the ground below you would rupture and swallow you whole as he clung onto you shamelessly, drawing the attention of those around you.

“please, baby, i need you!” he whined. you felt the embarrassment from his dramatic display heat up your cheeks, shifting uncomfortably as you mouthed apologetic words to the vendor lady.

“stop it, get off me, you're embarrassing me!” you hissed softly, trying to push his head away. his grip was too strong, maintaining his hold on you as his grin widened, revealing his shiny set of golden teeth.

“only if you get back with me?” he bargained, stepping back anyway as he sensed your growing irritation (and embarrassment).

you crossed your arms, shooting him an accusatory glare. “no way in hell. and you don't need me— you were after my money all along, weren't you?”

“t-that's... come on, don't be like that,” he stammered, his face paling as he avoided eye contact.

“you've only ever seen me as your personal walking credit card, hm?” you continued, “thank you, you've drained me of all my money.”

he watched as you received your medium-sized popcorn bucket, thanking the vendor with a polite nod before turning to leave. the lady called out his name, his own popcorn waiting on the counter, still unpaid for.

his head snaps back to you, that absurd, signature smirk curling on his lips, “wait, y/n, aren't you going to p–”

without turning to face him, you muttered under your breath, “no, i'm not paying for your popcorn.”

୨ৎ 𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐈𝐊𝐔

you felt a large pair of hands gently rest on your shoulders, giving them a slight squeeze. you stopped swirling your glass of wine, tilting your head up to meet a pair of beautiful, heterochromic eyes.

unfortunately, those eyes belonged to your fucking cheater of an ex.

“don't touch me, jerk,” you spat, cocking your head back down as you brought the glass to your lips and took a sip of the crimson drink.

he chuckled lowly, patting your head before shamelessly taking a seat beside you. wrapping his arm around the backrest of the sofa, he pulled you closer.

“c’mon, princess, don't be like that,” he winked, taking a sip of his own drink. he paused as he took in your irritated expression. “...are you really still mad at what happened a year ago?”

you shot him a dirty glare, and he immediately raised his hands in front of him in mock surrender. “sorry, sorry, i was only kidding.”

you finally downed the wine, standing up from the soft comfort of the sofa. before you could move away, his fingers encircled your wrist, pulling you back onto the couch, causing you to lean onto him with your hand on his chest.

“okay, but seriously, baby,” he said, delicately gripping your chin between his fingers and leaning in until his lips hovered right above yours. “i really messed up, i'm sorry, i swear she didn't mean anything, you're the one for m–”

“what the fuck do you think you're doing?!” you yelled, slapping his cheek hard enough to whip his head toward the dance floor where numerous women in skimpy outfits were dancing. his gaze lingered on their movements for a while before he felt you pulling away from him.

“yeah, i'm sure you're toootally torn up about it, huh?” you scoffed sarcastically, “keep your eyes wandering, i can see you're overflowing with regret.”

“baby, i only care for y–”

“your sincerity is blinding.”

˗ˏˋ 𝗛𝗢𝗡𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗔𝗕𝗟𝗘 𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 ˎˊ˗

𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐈 would never push you to the point of discomfort or pressure. instead, he’d approach you casually, genuinely apologizing for any past incidents that might have upset you enough to end things. if you both decided on a mutual break up, then he would definitely try to preserve your relationship to at least that of friends. his main focus would be rebuilding trust between you two, hoping that time and space would allow you both to reconcile in the future. overall, it would be very unlikely for him to verbally express how desperate he is for you, but subtle physical touches are a different topic.

𝐎𝐓𝐎𝐘𝐀 would literally show up at your doorstep, begging on his knees for you. he'd be desperately pleading for your forgiveness– he really didn't want to reveal that he had initially been dating you because of a dare, or rather, a bet from his friends. it just slipped out forcefully. he just really, really, really needed that ps5. despite the bet, his feelings for you had genuinely developed over the five-month dating period. however… to earn that prize, he was required to expose his original intent, resulting in heartbreaks, tears, insults, and many “i hate you”s from your side.

6K notes · View notes

kunareads · 4 months ago

Text

always, forever

choso x reader

obsession is just another form of devotion. and no one is more devoted to you than choso is.

masterlist

wc: 6.8k

um. i apologize in advance. this version of choso is very special to me and so is this reader, which is why it took so long to finish. i love them!!

content: stalker!choso, obsession, toxicity, dark romance, power dynamics, yandere in many ways, unchecked limits but not dub/noncon, choking, slapping, biting, bruising, spitting, restraints, praise, ownership, unprotected p in v sex, oral (f! receiving), religious undertones, worship/devotion, subspace, u and choso are NOT normal about each other like at all

18+ please <3

choso has always been good at paying attention.

people don’t expect that from him. he’s quiet, watchful, the kind of presence that blends into the background. most people assume it means he’s not listening, that his stare is vacant instead of calculating.

they don’t understand. he notices everything.

he notices when you use a new mascara. he notices how you reach for your phone when you hear a notification, even when it’s not yours. he notices the way your lips part before you laugh, how you tilt your head when you’re listening, the way your eyes linger on someone when you want them to stay.

he notices because it’s you. and you make it easy for him. you’re open, unaware.

it’s normal, the way he watches you.

he’s your friend. you trust him. you say his name when you see him.

morning, choso.

his chest tightens every time. it fits there, in your mouth, like it belongs to you.

would you still say it like that if you knew what it did to him?

your friendship is easy. you text him late at night when you can’t sleep. you pull him into conversation when he’s too quiet in a group. you lean against him when you’re tired, press your fingers to his wrist when you need his attention.

you let him in.

so it only makes sense that he knows you better than anyone.

he doesn’t think it’s strange that he watches you leave your apartment every morning. or that he walks the same route. or that he knows how long you’ll pause before crossing the street. this is part of his day, too.

he doesn’t think it’s odd that sometimes, he gets close enough to touch the loose thread on the back of your coat. or the nape of your neck.

once, you dropped your phone and bent over to pick it up. if you had turned around then, he would’ve been right there. standing too close.

but it’s not stalking. he’s not obsessed. he’s just making sure you’re okay.

+++

choso likes keeping things.

it started small. innocent.

a receipt left on the table after lunch. a pen you let him borrow. a candy wrapper, the foil crinkled between your fingers when you pressed it into his palm. he didn’t mean to keep them. he just…never let them go.

then, a bit more personal.

a cherry chapstick left in his car. an earring you thought you lost—he remembers watching it fall, small and shiny and delicate. a tissue, blotted with lipstick.

none of it was on purpose.

but you leave so many pieces of yourself behind. you’re careless, in a way that only makes sense to him. he had to start paying attention.

the things he keeps now are less accidental.

a bracelet you thought you lost. a nearly empty perfume bottle. strands of your hair, pulled from his hoodie after you borrowed it. a bloodstained tissue, from the time you cut your finger cooking for mutual friends.

your voice in his head hours after you’ve spoken. your fingerprints burning his skin like you meant to leave them there.

a photo of you sleeping. that one’s his favorite. a little secret, tucked between pages of a book. a moment you don’t remember, but he does. proof.

he knows things about you that you’ve never told him.

he knows your passwords. your wifi login. how much money is in your bank account.

he knows what you search for late at night, when your body is warm and restless. he knows what you watch twice, what you turn the volume up on, what you come back to later. sometimes, he watches with you.

at the bottom of his drawer, there’s a single zip tie. red and sturdy, waiting. it isn’t yours.

but it makes him think of you.

it’s not wrong. he’s just keeping you safe.

+++

afternoons are harder.

your lunch breaks are less predictable than your mornings, but even your unpredictability follows a rhythm. sometimes you run an errand. sometimes you meet a friend. others, you stop into a cafe, settle by the window, scroll through your phone between bites.

today, it’s the latter.

he leans against a brick wall across the street, observing you through the glass. you’re alone, stirring sugar into your drink, the sleeve of your sweater pulled over your hand.

then some guy slides into the seat across from you.

choso doesn’t recognize him. doesn’t care to.

the guy says something. you laugh and tilt your head, play with the edge of your napkin as you talk.

he’s seen you like this before—warm, engaged, giving. he knows it’s nothing. he knows that. but the sight still twists in his chest.

it’s not about fear. he doesn’t worry about losing you. that’s impossible.

it’s about keeping you.

about being on the receiving end of that smile. your attention, your laughter—they belong to him. no one else deserves them. they don’t know what to do with them anyway. they don’t hold them the right way, don’t understand how dangerous it is to waste them.

if he walked into the cafe right now, crossed the room, took your wrist—would you let him?

he imagines it. leaning close, lips brushing your ear. let’s go home.

your breath catching. your body tilting toward him on instinct. your little nod.

but he won’t do that. you have to come first.

he remembers the last guy. the one who texted too much, who made you laugh too easily. the one who stopped showing up.

he got the message. you didn’t even notice he was gone. but choso did. he noticed every second that passed before you stopped checking your phone, before you moved on like he never existed.

how long before this one needs a message, too?

his hands flex in his pockets. he takes a step forward. but he exhales, lets it go. he turns before the thought can take root, before the want takes shape and he can’t push it down.

he walks away, but the feeling doesn’t.

+++

when evening comes, choso’s right back where he belongs—watching your apartment from a distance, waiting for your windows to light up.

you should be here by now. he’s been standing here long enough for his body to register the cold. long enough for his pulse to slow.

he waits. this is easy to do when it’s for you. when he knows that, eventually, you’ll come home.

it’s fine.

maybe you stayed late at work. maybe you lost track of time. maybe you ran into someone.

it happens.

his fingers tap against his thigh once, then again. then again. a pattern, his body tracking the time even if he doesn’t mean to.

twenty minutes.

a car passes. the street lamp flickers.

his jaw tightens, but his breathing stays even. it’s not impatience. not paranoia. just an understanding of how things are supposed to be.

thirty minutes.

the cold bites at his knuckles. his fingers flex. the rhythm on his thigh picks up.

forty minutes.

his hand stutters.

something’s wrong.

he doesn’t decide it. he doesn’t even process it. the knowledge just settles, heavy and absolute. instinctive. like sensing a storm before the clouds roll in.

his hand slips into his pocket.

your key fits nicely between his fingers.

he crosses the street.

+++

your apartment smells exactly like you: floral, a little sweet, undeniably familiar.

he moves through your space, cataloging. your blanket on the couch, waiting for you. the unopened mail stacked neatly on the counter. a single glass in the sink. everything is where it should be.

but something’s wrong.

his eyes flick to your bookshelf. the order is off. books are misaligned, there are gaps where there shouldn’t be. choso’s not even sure you’ve touched these shelves before—they’re always perfectly neat, always the same.

his gaze dips lower. a box, tucked away. not well enough.

he hesitates.

then he crouches, pulling it out, fingers ghosting over the lid. he doesn’t know why he holds his breath as he lifts it.

the first things he sees make him smile, just a little. a matchbook from a bar you both went to. a concert wristband, still looped closed. he carried you on his shoulders that day. a pin he gave you once, the clasp slightly bent.

his hand skims over them. he’s always known you were sentimental, but seeing it like this—seeing himself in it—makes something in his chest loosen. he thinks you’re cute.

then, a polaroid. the two of you, smiling. a moment he remembers. he runs his fingers over your image.

underneath it, another. just him.

he stares for a second before setting them aside.

the hoodie string he thought got lost in the laundry, coiled in the corner. a cigarette butt, flattened at the tip. his brand.

when did you find out he smokes?

his hands move slower now, pulling each item from the box, laying them out beside him.

a receipt—his, not yours—crumpled, then smoothed back out. a lock of his hair, neatly tied with a ribbon. his scalp tingles like he can feel where it was taken.

more photos. him again, but he’s not posing this time. stepping off a curb. shopping for groceries. sleeping.

his heartbeat pounds in his throat.

his fingers graze a slip of paper, the ink faded but still legible.

choso is restless today. he doesn’t talk much, but his weight shifts when he gets impatient. his breathing changes when i touch him. he watches me more when he thinks i won’t notice. i always notice. i wonder if he knows how soft his voice goes when he says my name. i could listen forever.

his fingers press into his thighs, his breathing slows, his mind splintering at the edges.

it’s not the same as him. it’s not.

he reaches the last few items in the box.

a mirror, small enough to fit in his palm. his name in lipstick, smeared over the glass where a finger had brushed.

a knife. the one that should be at the back of his nightstand drawer.

the room presses in around him. his body stills. his thoughts feel slow, thick.

he’s missing something. he must be.

before he can decide what to do with it, the door unlocks.

choso stays frozen where he is. his breath pulls in his throat.

you step inside, closing the door behind you. your movements are easy. fluid. unbothered.

there’s no shock, no fear when you see him. no gasp or startled jolt. you don’t even hesitate.

you walk to the living room entrance and stop there.

and instead of asking why he’s in your apartment, looking through your things, you just look at him expectantly.

his fingers tingle.

you shouldn’t be this calm.

his gaze moves over you, searching for a flicker of guilt, a flash of panic—something.

but you’re steady. unblinking. he feels like prey.

is this a test?

the silence stretches, taut and thin, and something inside him bends with it. part of him already knows where this is going.

he should say something. ask something, demand an explanation. how did you get those pictures? his knife? his fucking hair?

but his breath is caught somewhere between inhale and exhale.

you tilt your head. the corners of your lips curl upwards.

and then, lightly, “you found it.” your voice is sweet, but underlined with a tone he’s never heard before.

his stomach clenches. his fingers tighten around the box.

“i left it there for you.”

his mind fumbles for an answer, a reason this isn’t what it looks like. but nothing comes.

it’s exactly what it looks like.

you left it there. for him.

he should be horrified. he should recoil. but the pieces fit too well. the truth clicks too easily.

you’re just as bad as he is.

realization winds through his ribs like smoke. relief follows soon after, dark and cool.

he places the box down beside the scattered items with an exhale. his arms are looser now, his muscles relaxing.

he understands.

he stands and takes a step forward. then another, tilting his head, voice low. “say it.”

amusement glints in your eyes, your lips parting slightly.

“you first.”

him first.

choso doesn’t move, neither do you.

but something shifts—pulls—like gravity bending around you. his hands flex at his sides, his jaw tightens against the weight of the moment.

then, finally, he reaches for you.

one hand cups your jaw, the rough pad of his thumb grazing over your cheek. the other slides down, curling around the delicate skin of your wrist. he presses your pulse, just enough to tell you he’s here.

he lifts your hand, turning it, bowing his head in quiet worship.

his lips brush the inside of your wrist, featherlight, careful.

warm breath fans over your skin, then his teeth, sending a tremor through you.

the scrape of enamel blurring into the glide of his tongue is overwhelming.

he feels the way your fingers twitch against his palm, hears the sharp inhale you try to bite down. his thumb rubs slow circles into your cheek.

he lifts his head, moves in, and then he’s kissing you.

it’s needy. built from tension too thick to hold any longer. heat and teeth and hands—one pressing your wrist behind your back, the other sliding to the base of your skull, pulling you close, closer.

you give it back to him—your free hand tangles into his hair, nails scraping. his hair ties come loose one by one, and you slip them down over your wrist. a quiet keepsake. for later.

the moment is raw and unsteady. his mouth explores, breathless against your jaw, then lower. his teeth scrape below your ear, testing, waiting for a reaction.

you press forward, not willing to stop this.

he exhales against you, then moves, walking you backward until the edge of your desk presses into your spine.

his belt slips from his waist in one motion. the leather slides over your skin, smooth as his hands work, looping, tightening, adjusting.

he pulls it snug, your wrists now pinned behind your back, the press of leather holding you in place.

he thinks of the zip tie in his drawer. red, uncut, waiting.

not tonight.

then he lifts his gaze, eyes searching.

“you could stop me.”

it’s a door cracked open for you. you could stop him. he’s telling the truth. if you pulled away right now, if you said no—he’d let you go. because taking was never the point.

but the thought of stopping him doesn’t even form properly.

how could you?

you don’t pull away. you don’t resist at all. instead, you tilt your chin up, watching him.

and then, a smile.

something inside him aligns, seamless and final. everything before this was waiting. his mind quiets. the constant restlessness, the gnawing hunger—gone.

you’re his. you always were.

he tightens his hold for just a second before taking a step back.

the sight of you, wrists bound, waiting for him—he just needs to see it. needs to convince himself it’s real, to prove that this isn’t just another fantasy unraveling in the dark. that he’s not imagining the way you’re looking at him right now.

he drags his gaze over you, memorizing. you look exactly how he imagined you would. better.

you shift, testing the belt. not to escape, just to feel it.

his eyes track the movement, feeling the pull of you. he exhales, slow and controlled, and moves back in.

his hands travel over you, pushing your shirt up, fingers pressing, tracing. his lips aren’t far behind. he takes his time, dragging heat and teeth and intention over you. marking you.

his fingers slide lower, brushing your inner thigh. he watches the flutter of your lashes, the pull of breath in your throat.

then softly, “i should keep you like this.”

a pause. his fingers move higher.

“tied up.”

a flick of his fingers through layers of clothing.

“waiting for me.”

how long would you last like this? how long before you’d beg?

the longer your wrists stay bound, the deeper the inevitability settles into you. you lean into it, let it take root.

he drags a thumb over the waistband of your pants. he undoes the button. lowers the zipper.

you don’t help him. you can’t—and that’s the point.

his fingers press into your hips as he works the fabric down. your panties follow. you watch as he stuffs them into his pocket and drops to his knees before you.

his hands settle against your thighs, and choso lets himself feel the gravity of this. it’s hypnotic, the way you open up for him, the way you let him take what’s his.

he’s craved this. dreamt of it. and now you’re here. bound, vulnerable. every version of this moment was different—except for one thing. you always looked at him like this.

he half-expects to wake up still standing across the street, waiting for the glow of your windows.

but this isn’t a dream.

he dips down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss above your knee. then another, and another.

you want to touch him. to twist your fingers in his hair, to pull him closer, to feel his shoulders flex under your hands.

he takes his time. works his way up, teeth scraping, tongue flicking against sensitive skin. he closes his eyes as he breathes you in, but he doesn’t give you anything.

a sharp nip to the crease of your thigh. a lazy drag of his tongue there. he kisses right above your clit—so close, so fucking close, but not enough.

you whine. you need him.

he smirks. “you open up for me so easily.”

his tongue presses flat against you, slow at first, moving through the heat of you. you let out your first unrestricted moan.

then deeper. more.

he groans into you. “shit—” he drags his tongue through your slick again, his mouth starting to water. he savors your taste, taking his time, patient and thorough.

his mouth covers you completely, sucking, dragging you higher, working you open. you’re moving, pressing closer, needing more. the slow build makes you dizzy.

but just when your breath stutters and your thighs start to shake, he pulls away.

your head jerks, a whimper slipping out, raw need spilling over.

but he just slides his fingers through your opening, coating them, spreading it.

“you shouldn’t let me do this,” he says, but he’s already lifting his fingers to your face. his lips curve. “but you’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?”

when you take his fingers into your mouth without hesitation, fire surges in his chest.

his pupils blow wide, his breath catches. he pulls his fingers out, spreading them over your lips, your jaw, rubbing wetness in, watching it shine under the dim light.

“so fucking pretty like this.”

he buries his face back between your thighs with a moan. his tongue moves rougher now, making up for all the time he’s spent wanting and waiting.

you can’t move, can’t do anything but sit there and let him have you.

the pleasure builds too fast, too sharp, and you realize—he’s dragging you over the edge whether you’re ready or not.

his hands, his mouth, his breath—you swear you can feel him everywhere. on your skin, under it. in your cells, unraveling you from the inside out.

he keeps you spread open, his tongue fucking into you until you break.

you come undone, sharp and shattering, your body arching and your vision flickering. he growls against you, greedy, drinking in every sound you make and every drop of your release.

you tremble, breath coming in jagged, desperate pulls, aftershocks rolling through you.

he doesn’t stop until he’s done. until he’s sure he’s tasted everything you have to give. only then does he pull back, breathless, flushed, his face slick with you.

his hands don’t leave you. one stays firm on your thigh while the other drags up your body—slow, possessive, tracing the marks he’s already left behind.

his lips follow the same path. butterfly kisses at first, soft and fleeting. a press of his mouth to your hip, your stomach, your ribs, his breath warming your skin.

by the time he reaches your chest, he’s standing again, crowding you. his mouth teases each of your nipples, then moves up to your collarbone, your throat, then your lips—deep and heady, like he’s sealing something in place.

you taste yourself. it should be filthy, humiliating. but the way he does it, the way he runs his tongue against yours with so much care, like it’s meant to be this way—you shudder, melting into it.

his hands move behind you. he unfastens the belt, unwinding it with slow precision. your arms drop, the tension leaving so suddenly that a tremor runs through them. before you can move, he catches your wrists, holding them gently.

“you okay?” his thumbs smooth over the tender marks.

you nod and smile, just slightly, but it’s enough. he takes in the gesture, tucks it into the little box in his mind reserved for you.

his grip on you changes—firmer, more intent. the next kiss is messy, the way he presses into you, the solid weight of him between your thighs.

you feel him, hard and thick, putting pressure on your core through his jeans. he rolls his hips once, and the friction pulls a moan out of you.

your fingers twist into his hair, pulling so tight it must burn, but he keeps moving against you. he whispers your name, a quiet, broken sound.

does he even hear himself? does he know how much weight it carries, how needy he sounds when he says it? what it does to you?

you push.

your teeth catch his lower lip, biting down hard. enough to hurt, enough to bleed. you drag your tongue over it, tasting him, wanting to thank him for giving this to you.

he moans, growing desperate and grinding into you again, gripping your thighs, holding himself back. “you make me insane.”

before you can answer, he moves.

he lifts you effortlessly, walking you through your apartment like he’s lived here forever. his mouth is everywhere—kissing, biting, tasting—as he presses you against a wall, a doorframe, and finally the bed.

he sets you down. his hands move to his shirt, pulling it over his head in one motion, muscles shifting under his skin. his pants follow, and then he’s back, sitting and reaching for you, drawing you into his lap and guiding your legs around him.

he moves one hand down to run his length through your slick, wetting himself up before easing you down onto him.

he’s thick, almost too much to take, and you whimper softly as his fingers slide up your sides, grounding you.

“you’re okay,” he coos. “you’re doing so well, pretty girl.”

he doesn’t rush you, doesn’t move at all to speed the process. he just watches you, takes you in, drags his hands over your skin like he finally has what he wanted.

his arms wrap around you when you eventually sink all the way down. he wastes no time rolling his hips, feeling you, reveling in the way you whimper at the stretch.

the position is deep, intimate, almost tender. but the way he holds you, the way he grips and takes and owns as he drags you down and snaps his hips up to meet you—there’s nothing soft about it.

you pull back enough to look at him, really look, and it makes your stomach churn.

he belongs to you. you love him. you love him too much. more than is reasonable, more than is safe.

you want him to know what this feels like—the unbearable ache, the madness, the constant need that grips you so hard you don’t know what to do with it.

before you even realize what you’re doing, your palm cracks against his face.

his head jerks to the side, his jaw tightening as something dark flickers in his eyes.

he stares, breath measured, holding something in his throat. the red on his cheek spreads like watercolor, stark against the black ink on his skin. a smile tilts at his lips.

”again.”

so you do it again.

his hand slides to the back of your neck as he lets out a breathless laugh, his other arm locking tighter around your waist, forcing you up and down, over and over again.

he’s fucking lost in it. in you, in this, in the way you give and take and ruin.

your body is stretched open, raw and aching, so fucking full, drunk on the way he claims you, the way he needs you.

then, lower, slurred against your skin, “please—baby, spit in my mouth.” half-lidded eyes lift to yours, and you realize he’s not just asking. he’s offering himself up.

you’re pulling his head back by his hair before he’s even done speaking.

his lips part, tongue barely peeking out, ready and waiting.

you let it drip into his mouth, and he groans like you’ve blessed him as he drags you into another desperate kiss.

it’s not enough. it’s never fucking enough. you need more.

“tell me you love me.”

it tumbles out, raw and unguarded. you both know it’s not a request—it’s a demand. a life sentence. a tether neither of you will be able to break.

his answer is instant. “i love you.” it lands like a vow, like a promise. like knowledge he was born with.

it floors you. tears brim in your eyes, and before you even process what he’s just given you—“i love you, choso.”

you love him. you love him. and that destroys him. his name belongs here, with you. always has.

his arms crush you, a vice around your body. like he could break you open and crawl inside, stay there forever. his thrusts turn brutal, desperate, unhinged, carving you into his shape.

he wants to say something, but nothing comes. just you, just this.

because the realization is too much.

because he never thought he’d hear this from you. never expected to be allowed to have this, to keep this.

because he’s been content just knowing you, quietly keeping you safe.

but this? this is something else entirely.

his grip tightens, almost desperate as his rhythm grows rough, erratic. your name spills from his lips like a prayer, over and over, his body going tight.

he moans freely against your skin, holding you flush to him as he buries himself deep, spilling into you. he’s locked around you, unyielding, trying to hold the moment in place, trying to stop time itself.

and it undoes you.

the warmth of him pressed into you, the way he swells inside you as he releases, the way he stays, like he belongs there—it sends you spiraling.

you tighten around him like a vice, gasping his name, sinking your teeth into his shoulder as your body locks up. your nails rake down his back, desperate, needing to mark him, keep him, to ruin him the way he’s ruined you.

his breath stutters, still drowning in his own pleasure, but he cradles your head, fucking you through it. “that’s it, pretty girl. let me feel it.”

and you do. you give him everything. every wave, every pulse, every broken sound as the feeling rolls through you. your body trembles in his arms, spent, oversensitive, but he just holds you, smoothing a hand down your spine, pressing slow, grounding kisses to your temple.

he pulls out of you, a slow retreat. the absence leaves you aching, still open for him, your combined juices leaking out.

time slows. your heart pounds against his. the heat between you lingers, warm and hazy. his fingers trace lazy patterns over your skin, letting you relax into him as you both come down.

once you’ve both settled, he lifts you off of him carefully, reluctant to let go. his hands guide you, breathing you in, smelling sweat and sex and something unmistakably yours.

his thumb drags down your back. he watches the way your body responds, still trembling, still open. he fits a pillow beneath your hips, shifting you into place.

he hovers, kissing you—over your shoulder, your spine, the side of your ribs, soft but weighted. his body follows, pressing you under him, where you belong.

“you’re not done yet.”

a shudder moves through you.

his lips press between your shoulder blades, lingering, exhaling before he pushes back into you.

the position lets him sink deeper than before. the stretch is slow, unrelenting, and you let out a low moan into the mattress.

his groan is rough, his voice wrecked. “you take me so fucking well.”

his pace builds—deep, ruthless. he’s everywhere, taking you apart, remaking you in his image.

you feel his teeth on your shoulder. his teeth on your neck. his tongue dragging fire over your skin.

you’re too sensitive. it’s too much. you reach back, trying to slow him down, but he’s faster. he grabs your wrists and pulls them behind you, dragging you upright into him like a puppet on strings.

your body bows into his. his breath is hot against your ear, his lips brushing over your jaw, your cheek, your throat.

his hands pull you down onto him again and again, pushing you beyond yourself.

fingers trace your collarbones, his thumb finding the soft dip in your throat before he wraps his hand around it. he doesn’t squeeze—not yet. but he feels the way you clench slightly around him.

“you like this?”

a whimper escapes you—not an answer, but enough of one. your hips rock back, body moving on instinct.

slowly, methodically, his fingers flex around your throat, measuring, testing.

then he closes his hand, cutting off everything but him.

your breath is gone.

everything stills. the world narrows—collapsing to the points where his hand meets your throat, where he’s buried inside you.

you clench around him hard as your limbs go weightless. a slow, creeping quiet drags you under, like slipping underwater.

you can feel your own pulse weakening under his hand. you can feel the numbness creeping up your spine, feel your eyes roll back, feel how completely you trust him to guide you.

he could kill you like this. is that what this is? a kind of offering? if he asked, would you give him even that? you both know the answer. he could demand your life right now, and you’d hand it over. just like he would if the roles were reversed.

he’s studying you, observing every reaction, watching you slip, mentally recording the sounds you make as you fight for air. his thumb strokes your jaw, coaxing you deeper.

and in the haze, you think:

he’s made you something sacred, something holy. a body to bow down to, a name to whisper between gasps. if this is devotion, you’ll kneel. if this is love, you’ll let it kill you.

everything is soft—your vision, your breath, your body. he’s siphoning the world away, tightening his hold even more. the floor drops out, and you’re falling, though you don’t know for how long or to where.

he lets go.

your body seizes as air floods your lungs, a shuddering inhale that rattles in your chest, half sob, half plea.

an orgasm overtakes you without warning or control, tearing a ragged cry from your throat. your vision flickers, your body spasms around him, but he doesn’t slow down.

“oh, fuck—” his voice is ruined. his hands keep you open for him as he fucks you straight through it. “keep fucking cumming for me, pretty girl.”

you try to squirm away, the pleasure making you hot, blinding you, too much.

“no—no, stay here,” he grits out. his palm spreads over your nape, forcing you down, shoving your face back into the mattress to take it.

he fucks you like a punishment, like a gift, dragging more sounds from your lips and tears from your eyes, letting you feel everything—every thick push, every deep stroke, every pulse of him inside you.

you were made for this. you were made for each other. shaped by each other’s hands, bound by each other’s will.

your body can’t decide if it’s too much or not enough, because somehow—somehow—you’re cumming again, clenching so hard around him he’s nearly forced out of you.

your body breaks open, pouring out and soaking the sheets, soaking him, feeling the delicious release as the force of it drags you under.

his breath stutters, his grip bruising as he chases it. he buries himself, spilling inside you, filling you and leaving something permanent behind.

his forehead presses against the back of your neck. his body stills, but his arms tighten around you, sealing you in the moment with him.

because this is it.

if you ran, he’d find you. if you fought, he’d break you down, drag you back, make you forget why you ever wanted to leave.

his fingers slide into your damp hair, pushing it off your forehead. he tilts your face just enough for his lips to brush your temple.

his breath is soft, warm when he whispers, “thank you, pretty girl.” you don’t know what you’ve done.

+++

you’re drifting. the world is muffled, distant, like sound traveling through water. your limbs don’t work, your mind doesn’t move. you just exist—empty, light, gone.

somewhere, you know choso is holding you. you can feel his warmth at the edge of your consciousness, an anchor you can’t quite reach.

but you’re safe here. his.

his hands shift, adjusting you away from the mess on the bed. you hum—more of a breath than a sound—pliant in his grip.

“baby?”

no response.

his thumb presses lightly into your jaw, trying to coax a reaction, but there’s nothing. your body is slack in his hold, breath coming too slow.

his stomach dips, sharp and visceral. his hands are calm when he cups your face, but his breath isn’t. his heart isn’t.

his fingers press against your wrist, searching for your pulse. still there. slow but steady.

but you don’t move. you don’t even look at him.

“baby, you with me?”

a hum, noncommittal, far away.

it’s not enough.

his throat tightens. his hands shake, just barely.

what if he went too far? what if you don’t come back?

the realization curls like smoke under his ribs.

he smooths your hair, tilting your chin up, a thumb stroking your cheek. “i need you to look at me, pretty girl.”

nothing.

“please.” his voice breaks on the word. he presses a kiss to the top of your head, breath shaky, exhaling slow. grounding himself before he grounds you.

“okay,” he murmurs, softer now, steadier. “okay, baby, i got you.”

his lips rest against your temple. he breathes you in. your breath, shallow and warm against his skin. the quiet rise of your chest against his. your weight, soft in his arms.

his stomach clenches. he shouldn’t love this, not like this, not while you’re gone. but part of him does—how tender you are, how easy you are to hold, how completely you’ve let him have you.

his thumb brushes over your parted lips. something possessive curls inside him, unshakable.

“you’re so fucking beautiful.” he kisses the words against your skin, the bruises on your neck, the fading heat where his grip had been. his lips ghost your forehead, your cheek, your jaw.

“need to clean you up, baby. can you move?”

nothing. you don’t even try.

you just burrow closer, pressing your face deeper into his chest, a quiet little sound slipping from your throat.

his breath catches. something pulls. twists.

you don’t want to move. you don’t want to leave him.

his fingers splay across your stomach, feeling the steady rhythm of your breath. he strokes a hand up your side, cups the nape of your neck, presses his lips your pulse point.

“you don’t have to.” he exhales. “i’ll take care of you.”

he lifts you, cradling you against his chest as he carries you to the bathroom. the warmth of the room contrasts the cold counter when he sets you down, but you don’t seem to register it.

unease tugs at his ribs, but he tamps it down, turning the faucet and watching steam rise from the bath.

when he settles you into the water, you lean into the warmth lapping at your skin.

something sharp lingers in his chest. he wants you back.

he strokes your hair back. his voice is soft, but there’s something dark beneath it.

“stay with me, pretty girl.”

choso washes you like he’s caring for something fragile. strong hands smooth over your arms, your back, your legs. each touch is a silent plea.

“breathe, baby.”

the words feel distant, like they’re coming through a thick fog, but something in you listens. you inhale, slow and deep.

“just like that. you’re safe.”

the haze clings to you, wrapped around your limbs. but beneath it, you feel him.

“you were so good for me,” he says, almost to himself. “so perfect.”

he wraps a fluffy towel around you, pulling you into his chest. your head tips forward, resting on his shoulder. a small shift, a silent seeking.

his stomach tightens. “i got you,” he says, voice softer now.

he carries you back, setting you on the bed. the world fades in and out, but the weight of your body is returning. the first thing you register fully is him.

he dresses you—clean panties, soft shirt. his touch is attentive, reverent, but his mind is restless.

he needs you back.

his hands are calm as he pulls the fabric over your head, but when your fingers twitch against his bicep, the lightest touch, something in him holds its breath.

“that’s it, baby.” his voice is raw, aching. “come back to me.”

the haze thins, peeling away in pieces. awareness pulls you in slowly, settling, anchoring.

you exhale. stretch.

choso watches, still, silent, breath held.

your lashes flutter. your gaze lifts.

and then you meet his eyes.

his whole body exhales, something releasing inside him.

“there you are.”

it’s quiet, almost a whisper, but his voice is full of something raw and undeniable.

the weight of what just happened settles in his chest.

it’s not regret.

it’s proof.

that you need him. that you trust him. that you belong to him.

you always have.

and when your fingers curl weakly into his shirt, holding him there, he wavers, unsteady.

you’re back. fully. you feel the soft fabric of the shirt against your skin, the scent of clean laundry, the steadiness of your own breath.

and him. always him.

choso watches you, unmoving, like you might disappear if he blinks.

your lips part, about to speak, but you don’t get the chance.

he’s kissing you. slow, deep, and final.

his lips move against yours like he’s sealing something permanent, like he’s branding you. a promise. there’s no hesitation, no question or room for doubt.

he feels it now, how irreversible this is. you were supposed to run. even if you wanted him, even if you eventually let him, you were supposed to pull away just once, just enough for him to know that there were lines between you. but there aren’t. you didn’t. you never even thought about it.

his fingers drift over the marks on you, pressing gently on them like he can make them deeper. “mine.”

you tighten your hold on his shirt, anchoring yourself to him, and when he pulls back, you whisper—”say it again.”

his breath hitches. then, lower, rougher, “you’re fucking mine.”

he kisses your jaw, your cheek, following the words with his mouth, speaking them into your skin like a prayer.

you exhale and nod, soft and small. you don’t even have to say anything. he sees it in your eyes.

you’re his.

something breaks inside him. something desperate, something he’s been holding back for so long that he didn’t even realize it had slipped.

he presses his forehead to yours, breath shaking, and then—

“you’re never leaving me.”

it’s too dark to be sweet, too honest to be a threat.

his eyes sting. and you see it, in the way his hands tighten around you, like he’s holding onto something fragile, something precious. not just you, but the knowledge that he has you now, that he can’t ever lose you. he’s afraid.

you could still ruin this. you could say something else, shift the balance, make it so he has to do something drastic.

but instead, you smooth your hands up his chest, over his shoulders, curling around his neck, grounding him.

“i never wanted to,” you tell him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

his grip tightens. “you mean that?”

it’s a question. but you both understand that he’s not asking if you mean it.

he’s asking if you understand what happens if you don’t.

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meo-eiru · 3 months ago

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Hello everyone!

So as you might've noticed I wasn't that active these past few days, which was partially due to all the laptop problems I've been dealing with, but I'm here to announce there was one more reason!

🎉🎉I'm making a manga yayyy🎉🎉

Well to be more specific, I'm attempting to join a manga contest in Japan, with none other than this guy right here, who's name is now officially 黒崎レン (Kurosaki Ren)

Now I'm not going to spoil anything about the actual story, but I have an entire chapter planned with a script (it took a while since I had to write it all in Japanese), now I just need to finish actually drawing everything

Because of that I'm unfortunately not going to be very active until around April 5th, I'll try to answer asks here and there but won't be able to post many drawings other than maybe some WIPs of the pages I'm working on.

Now I'm not an expert in drawing manga, I've only drawn a one shot once, so please keep your expectations low. But I'll say mutual obsession enjoyers might like this one😉

#notice #important notice #announcement #please bear with me until I'm done with this personal project #it'll definitely be life changing if I succeed #so I hope you guys also like it when it's done!!#artists on tumblr #yandere #male yandere #digital art #sketch #my oc #oc #manga #yandere manga

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julietsf1 · 6 months ago

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The Idiot I Call Mine - Lando Norris x BestFriend! Reader

summary: best friends are supposed to share laughs, inside jokes, fries and the occasional late-night drive. what they’re not supposed to do is flirt like it’s a competitive sport or make you question every unspoken rule of friendship. at least, unless your name is Lando Norris apparently. (7.1k words)

content: fluff! friends to lovers; flirty dynamic; mutual pining

an: whaaat? a fic about another driver? yes loves. this is me coming forward as a secret Lando fan. I hope you'll enjoy as much as I did writing this :)

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Lando Norris has this annoying habit of always being right. It’s not even about anything important—it’s just little things. Like the time he guessed exactly how long it would take before I caved and ordered dessert, or when he said I’d end up watching a rom-com tonight even though I claimed I wanted “something deep and meaningful.”

“See?” he said smugly, leaning back on the couch as the opening credits of The Holiday played. “I know you better than you know yourself.”

“Hardly,” I shot back, tossing a piece of popcorn at him. “You just know I have a weak spot for Jude Law. That doesn’t make you psychic.”

“No, but it does make me an excellent best friend.” He winked, plucking the popcorn off his lap and popping it into his mouth like the show-off he was.

I rolled my eyes, pretending I wasn’t fighting a grin. Lando and I had been inseparable for years, the kind of best friends who finished each other’s sentences and shared a borderline unhealthy obsession with late-night McDonald’s runs. But lately, something had been… different.

Not bad, exactly. Just different. Maybe? I wasn’t even sure to be honest.

“You’re staring again,” Lando said, breaking into my thoughts. He was sprawled out on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest in a way that felt entirely too casual and yet completely deliberate. His green eyes sparkled with mischief, and his smirk was the kind that could make even the most confident person question their sanity.

“I wasn’t staring,” I lied, grabbing a handful of popcorn and shoving it in my mouth for good measure.

“You were absolutely staring,” he teased, leaning closer. “What’s on your mind, hmm? Thinking about how devastatingly handsome I am? It’s okay—you can admit it.”

“You’re such a joke,” I said, trying to sound unimpressed but failing miserably. “Devastatingly handsome? Please. You look like you just rolled out of bed.”

“Exactly,” he said, flashing a grin. “And yet, here you are, spending your Friday night with me. Interesting choice.”

“I’m here for the popcorn,” I deadpanned, though even I didn’t believe myself. “And because you begged me.”

“I didn’t beg,” he protested. “I suggested strongly. There’s a difference.”

This was us—lighthearted insults, jokes at each other’s expense, and an ease in our conversations that felt like home. If there was something different lately, I told myself it was just my imagination running wild.

“Speaking of choices,” I said, leaning back against the couch. “What’s the deal with you and your phone wallpaper?”

“What about it?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“Oh, come on, Lando,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “You really expect me to believe you just happened to pick a picture of me for your wallpaper?”

“It’s a great photo,” he said with a shrug. “You look happy. And let’s not pretend your wallpaper isn’t me.”

I froze, caught. He was right—my wallpaper was him, but that wasn’t the point.

“That’s different,” I said quickly. “You look stupid in yours. It’s funny.”

“Ah, so I’m your personal clown now?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock offense. “Good to know my humiliation brings you joy.”

“Always,” I said sweetly, tossing another piece of popcorn his way.

The movie played on in the background, but neither of us was really paying attention. We were too busy pushing each other’s buttons, like always.

“Hey,” Lando said after a while, his tone a little softer. “You’re coming to dinner at Mum’s next weekend, right?”

“Do I have a choice?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not really,” he said with a grin. “She’s already planning the menu. Something with pasta, probably. You know how she gets when you’re coming over.”

I smiled despite myself. His family had always treated me like one of their own, and his mum had a knack for making me feel special in ways that were both comforting and overwhelming.

“Well, in that case,” I said, pretending to think it over. “I guess I can clear my schedule.”

“Good,” he said, nudging me with his elbow. “I’d be bored without you there.”

It was moments like this—simple and familiar—that stuck with me longer than they should. The way he said things so casually, as if they didn’t carry any weight, even when they somehow did.

“You’ve got something on your face,” I said suddenly, trying to distract myself.

“Where?” he asked, leaning closer.

“Right there,” I said, tapping the corner of my mouth.

He smirked, deliberately licking the spot where I’d pointed. “Better?”

“Ugh, you’re insufferable,” I said, shoving him away. But I was laughing, and so was he.

“You love it,” he said, and for once, I didn’t argue. Because maybe I did.

As the night went on, the teasing continued, each remark more loaded than the last. By the time the credits rolled, I wasn’t sure if it was the movie or Lando’s lingering glances that had me feeling so off-kilter.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” he said, breaking the silence as he stood to clean up the popcorn bowl. “Something on your mind?”

“Just thinking,” I said vaguely, not meeting his gaze.

“About?” he pressed, leaning against the counter with a smirk that said he already knew the answer.

“Nothing important,” I said, grabbing my phone and pretending to scroll.

“Liar,” he said, his voice playful but probing. “You’re terrible at hiding things, you know that?”

I glanced up at him, my heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it had been doing lately. He was standing there like he had all the time in the world, his green eyes locked on mine, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

“Goodnight, Lando,” I said finally, brushing past him on my way to the couch.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he called after me, his voice laced with amusement.

…

“You know, for someone who claims to be an athlete, you spend an alarming amount of time eating,” I said, glancing at Lando over the top of my menu.

“Carbs are fuel,” he replied, flashing me a grin. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand that we could’ve gone somewhere normal instead of whatever this place is,” I said, gesturing to the overly fancy restaurant. The kind of place where the wine glasses sparkled brighter than the chandeliers, and the menu was full of words I couldn’t pronounce.

“You’re so ungrateful,” he teased, leaning back in his chair. “Do you know how hard it was to get a table here? I had to name-drop myself.”

“Wow,” I said dryly. “The struggle.”

“Exactly. And now you’re here, about to enjoy the finest pasta in town, thanks to me. A little gratitude wouldn’t kill you.”

“Gratitude? You dragged me here under false pretenses. You said this was a ‘low-key spot.’”

“It is low-key,” he argued, gesturing around. “For Monte Carlo standards.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop the smile creeping onto my face. This was just how things were with Lando—effortless, easy, and borderline ridiculous.

“Alright, what are you getting?” Lando asked, lowering his menu.

“Fettuccine Alfredo,” I said without hesitation.

“Of course you are,” he said, smirking. “Predictable.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I shot back. “What are you getting, then? Something groundbreaking? Life-changing? Revolutionary?”

“Tagliatelle al tartufo,” he said with a mockingly posh accent.

“Wow,” I said, feigning awe. “Truffle pasta. You’re really pushing the boundaries, Norris.”

“Don’t be jealous just because I have sophisticated taste,” he replied, the smirk never leaving his face.

“‘Sophisticated’ is one way to put it,” I muttered, pretending to study the menu again. “Another is ‘pretentious.’”

“You’ll be begging for a bite,” he said confidently, setting the menu down.

“Please,” I said, scoffing. “You’ll be stealing mine before the plates even hit the table.”

He leaned forward, his grin widening. “You know me so well.”

The food arrived soon after, and, as predicted, we switched plates halfway through without even discussing it. It was second nature by now, like so many other things about us.

“You know,” Lando said, twirling a forkful of fettuccine, “if this whole racing thing doesn’t work out, I could be a food critic.”

“Sure,” I said, deadpan. “Because people are dying to know what Lando Norris thinks about pasta.”

“They would be,” he said, undeterred. “My palate is unparalleled.”

“Your palate consists of pizza, chicken nuggets, and whatever I’m eating,” I shot back.

“And yet, here we are,” he said, gesturing to the table. “Me, enjoying this culinary masterpiece, and you, enjoying my company. Life is good.”

It was shaping up to be another night of easy conversation and mindless teasing until a voice interrupted us.

“Lando?”

I looked up to see two women standing at the edge of our table. They were both tall, blonde, and effortlessly elegant, the kind of women who looked like they belonged in a magazine spread rather than real life.

“Oh, hey!” Lando said, his face lighting up in recognition.

I glanced at him, watching as his entire demeanor shifted ever so slightly. He straightened up, his grin widening just enough to make my stomach twist.

“We haven’t seen you in forever,” one of the women said, her smile bright and practiced.

“I know,” Lando said, leaning back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. “It’s been a while.”

“You look great,” one of them said, her smile bright as she leaned in a little too close.

“So do you,” Lando replied, his tone polite but just warm enough to make me suddenly very interested in my water glass. The conversation floated around me, full of laughter and inside jokes I didn’t understand.

“And who’s this?” one of them finally asked, her gaze flicking to me with polite curiosity.

“This is Y/N,” Lando said, gesturing toward me with a casualness that felt too deliberate. “My best friend.”

Best friend. There it was again.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Likewise,” she replied, her tone perfectly pleasant.

They didn’t linger much longer—just enough to leave their mark before excusing themselves with a wave and a promise to “catch up soon.”

“Old friends of yours?” I asked once they were gone, my voice light but with a slight edge.

“Something like that,” Lando said, taking a sip of his water.

“Something like that?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged, his smirk returning. “They’re sisters. I, uh… may have had a thing with both of them. At different times, obviously.”

My fork froze midair. “Both of them?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, laughing. “It’s not that weird.”

“It’s incredibly weird,” I said, shaking my head.

“I mean, it didn’t overlap or anything,” he added, as if that somehow made it better. “But yeah… sisters.”

I stared at him, equal parts amused and horrified. “That’s… impressive? I guess?”

“Thank you,” he said, grinning like he’d just been handed an award. “Think I should call them again?”

“Sure,” I forced a laugh, stabbing at my pasta. “And then ask if they have any other sisters you might’ve missed.”

He chuckled, clearly oblivious to the sarcasm in my tone. “Good idea. Always room for a hat trick.”

My stomach churned uncomfortably, but I didn’t say anything. Instead, I focused on my plate, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way my mood had shifted.

…

The paddock was its usual chaotic self—teams rushing to prepare for practice sessions, fans peering over barriers for a glimpse of their favorite drivers, and media personnel darting between interviews. I decided to escape the madness for a bit, heading toward the staff catering building for a much-needed coffee.

The line was mercifully short, but as I joined it, I noticed someone already waiting near the front. Tall, dark-haired, and wearing a Ferrari polo with his name—Marco—stitched neatly on the chest. He turned slightly, catching my eye and offering a polite smile.

“Busy morning?” he asked, his tone warm and conversational.

“Something like that,” I replied with a small smile. “You?”

“Always,” he said with a soft chuckle. “But coffee makes it manageable, no?”

I nodded. “A universal truth.”

Marco stepped aside to let me order, a gesture so casual it almost went unnoticed. As I gave my order to the barista, I felt him glance at me again—not invasive, just curious.

“So, not Ferrari,” he said after I stepped back to wait for my coffee.

“Is it that obvious?” I joked.

“A little,” he admitted, his grin widening. “You’re far too relaxed to be one of us.”

“Should I be offended or flattered?” I asked, tilting my head playfully.

“Flattered,” he said easily. “Relaxed is a good thing.”

We fell into an easy rhythm as we waited. Marco was effortlessly charming, asking questions without prying and tossing in a few self-deprecating remarks about Ferrari’s chaos.

“You’re here with a team?” he asked eventually.

“A friend,” I said vaguely.

“Lucky friend,” he said, his tone light but genuine.

I laughed softly. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

Marco opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a familiar voice cut through the hum of conversation.

“There you are.”

I turned to see Lando approaching, his expression relaxed but his eyes sharper than usual.

“Hey,” I said, surprised. “I thought you were doing media.”

“Finished early,” he said, stepping closer. His gaze flicked briefly to Marco, who stood quietly by my side. “And I figured I’d find you here.”

“Good instincts,” I said lightly, though something about his sudden appearance felt… deliberate.

Marco offered his hand to Lando, ever polite. “Marco. Ferrari engineering.”

“Lando,” he replied, shaking his hand. “McLaren driving.”

Marco chuckled. “I know who you are. Good to meet you.”

“You too,” Lando said, his tone friendly but with an edge I couldn’t quite place.

The barista called my name, and I turned to grab my coffee, giving them a moment to exchange polite words. By the time I returned, Marco was stepping away with his own drink.

“Enjoy the rest of your day,” he said, offering me a small wave before disappearing into the crowd.

Lando watched him go before turning back to me. “Who was that?”

“Marco,” I said simply.

“And what was Marco talking to you about?” he asked, his tone too casual to be entirely innocent.

I raised an eyebrow. “Coffee, mostly. Why?”

“No reason,” he said quickly, taking a sip of my drink.

I studied him for a moment, noting the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird,” he said defensively.

“You’re definitely acting weird.”

Lando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, fine. I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, genuinely baffled.

“He was flirting,” Lando said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I blinked. “He was being nice.”

“Nice,” Lando repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. “Sure. That’s one way to put it.”

“Lando, he’s just a guy who works for Ferrari,” I said, shaking my head.

“Exactly,” he said, as if that proved his point.

There was a beat of silence as I processed his words.

“You sound jealous,” I said finally, testing the waters.

“Jealous?” he scoffed, though the flicker of something in his eyes gave him away. “Hardly. I just think you can do way better than some guy who chats you up in the coffee line.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” he asked, smirking now.

“Yes,” I said firmly, though the warmth in my chest betrayed me.

We walked back toward the McLaren garage, his mood lightening with every step. By the time we arrived, he was back to his usual self—chatting with the mechanics and laughing at some joke I’d already missed.

But his words stayed with me, replaying in my mind as I sat down with my coffee. My coffee which Lando had somehow already drank half of.

…

The McLaren lounge was a rare oasis of calm in the chaos of a race weekend. Engineers hustled past the windows, radios crackled with updates, and somewhere in the distance, an engine roared to life. But in here, it was all plush couches, soft lighting, and a distinct lack of urgency.

I was curled up on one end of the couch, flipping through a magazine, while Oscar and Lando lounged on the other side. Lando, as usual, couldn’t sit still. He was draped sideways over the armrest, absently spinning a water bottle in his hands.

“Alright,” Lando announced, breaking the comfortable silence. “Would you rather fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses?”

I looked up from my magazine, narrowing my eyes. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

“It’s an important question,” he insisted, his grin wide and mischievous.

I pretended to ponder for a moment. “One horse-sized duck. Definitely.”

Lando gaped at me like I’d just declared something outrageous. “Terrible answer. Absolutely terrible.”

“It’s the smart answer,” I shot back, sitting up straighter. “You outmaneuver one big target instead of exhausting yourself trying to wrangle a hundred tiny ones.”

“Do you even know how terrifying a horse-sized duck would be?” Lando asked, his voice rising in mock disbelief.

“And do you know how terrifying a hundred duck-sized horses would be?” I countered, raising an eyebrow.

Lando leaned forward, his grin widening. “Oh, come on. You’re telling me you’d rather face one giant, angry duck with a wingspan bigger than this couch?”

“Absolutely,” I said confidently. “Ducks aren’t that scary.”

“They can bite, you know,” he shot back, gesturing dramatically. “One snap, and you’re done for.”

I smirked, leaning closer. “I think I’d survive. Besides, I have a secret weapon.”

“What’s that?” he asked, his eyes narrowing playfully.

“You,” I said, deadpan. “I’ll just toss you in its path and run.”

Lando gasped, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. “Wow. That’s cold, Y/N. I thought we were a team.”

“We are,” I said, grinning. “But only if you pick the right answer next time.”

For a moment, he was quiet, his grin faltering just slightly as he met my gaze. It wasn’t much, just a flicker of something softer beneath the banter. But it was enough to make my stomach do that annoying little flip I’d been trying to ignore.

“Lando,” Oscar interjected, his tone casual but pointed. “You’re staring.”

“I am not,” Lando said quickly, his ears turning the faintest shade of pink as he looked away.

“You are,” Oscar said, leaning back with a smirk.

“You’re imagining things,” Lando muttered, crossing his arms.

Oscar snorted but didn’t press the issue, instead grabbing his phone and scrolling through it idly. But the look he shot Lando wasn’t lost on me—or Lando, for that matter.

As the banter settled into silence, I decided to grab a drink from the catering area, leaving the two of them alone.

The moment the door swung shut behind me, Oscar struck. “Mate, you’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

“About what?” Lando asked, feigning innocence as he fidgeted with the water bottle.

Oscar didn’t even look up from his phone. “About Y/N.”

“What about her?”

Oscar set his phone down, leveling Lando with a knowing look. “You’re acting like a lovesick puppy every time she’s around.”

Lando scoffed, though the tips of his ears betrayed him again. “That’s ridiculous. We’re just friends.”

“Sure,” Oscar said, dragging out the word like he was savoring it. “That’s why you light up like a Christmas tree whenever she walks in the room.”

“I do not,” Lando said defensively, but his voice lacked conviction.

“You do,” Oscar replied, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. “Mate, you’re glaring holes into the back of her head every time she talks to someone else. And don’t even get me started on how you were watching her during the duck-and-horse debate like she’d just solved world peace.”

“That’s—” Lando started, then stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not like that.”

“Right,” Oscar said, his smirk firmly in place. “It’s exactly like that, but go off.”

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly searching for the right words. “It’s… we’ve known each other forever. It’s Y/N.”

Oscar nodded, as if that made sense, but his smirk didn’t waver. “Don’t you think it would be time to change that soon? You two are exhausting.”

Lando shot him a look, but there was no real heat behind it.

“I’m just saying,” Oscar said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “You’re completely gone for her. Admit it already.”

Lando groaned, leaning back against the couch and running a hand through his hair. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said, grinning now. “But I’m right.”

Lando didn’t respond, his gaze drifting to the door where I’d just left. And for the first time, he let himself wonder if maybe—just maybe—Oscar was onto something.

…

The moment we walked into George’s celebration, the energy hit like a wave. The room was packed with familiar faces—drivers, engineers, and friends—dressed to the nines in that effortless way people in motorsport always seemed to manage. String lights twinkled across the ceiling, soft jazz played over the speakers, and a steady hum of conversation filled the air.

“You’re going to owe me for this,” I teased, glancing at Lando. “Dragging me here after wasting twenty minutes deciding between two identical shirts.”

“They weren’t identical,” Lando replied with a roll of his eyes, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back as we weaved through the crowd. “One had a darker stitch.”

“Completely life-changing,” I said dryly, though I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.

“See? You get it,” he shot back with a grin, steering us toward a booth near the bar.

The way his hand lingered, warm and steady, was something I tried not to think too much about. It was just Lando being Lando—playful, touchy, and completely oblivious to the little flips my stomach insisted on doing whenever he leaned too close.

We found our way to a booth not far from the bar, where Alexandra and Charles were already seated. Charles was gesturing animatedly about something, while Alexandra sat with her usual poised grace, sipping champagne. When she saw us, her face lit up.

“Enfin, vous êtes là !” Alexandra exclaimed, waving us over. (Finally, you’re here!)

“Lando a changé de chemise trois fois,” I replied, throwing him a look. (Lando changed his shirt three times.)

Charles chuckled, leaning back with a smirk. “Toujours dramatique, hein ?” (Always dramatic, huh?)

“English,” Lando whined as we slid into the booth. “You’re ganging up on me in French. It’s not fair.”

“Pauvre bébé,” I teased, patting his arm lightly. (Poor baby.)

“Whatever that means,” he muttered, though the grin tugging at his lips made it clear he wasn’t upset.

The conversation flowed easily between the four of us. Lando, of course, dominated the chatter, weaving an elaborate story about George’s awkward rookie days. His expressions were so animated, his gestures so over-the-top, that even Charles—usually the calm and composed one—was cracking up by the end.

“That’s not true,” I said, nudging Lando with my elbow. “You’re exaggerating again.”

“I’m not!” he protested, his green eyes wide with mock innocence. “It’s all true. Every word.”

“Sure it is,” I replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Back me up here!” he said, turning to Charles.

Charles raised a brow, taking a deliberate sip of his drink. “I wasn’t there, but… I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Alexandra laughed softly, glancing at me. “Toujours l’acteur dramatique, ce Lando.” (Always the drama actor, that Lando.)

“Hey,” Lando said, pointing at her. “I know that wasn’t a compliment.”

I smirked, leaning closer. “It absolutely wasn’t.”

He gasped dramatically, his hand over his chest. “Betrayed by my own friends. I’ll never recover.”

“You’ll survive,” I said, brushing him off, though the warmth in his gaze lingered just a beat too long.

Lando eventually excused himself to grab drinks, leaving me to chat with Alexandra and Charles. As soon as he was out of earshot, Alexandra leaned in, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Il est tellement évident qu’il a un faible pour toi,” she said softly, her voice full of amusement. (It’s so obvious he has a thing for you.)

“Quoi?” I asked, my cheeks heating instantly. (What?)

“Ouvre les yeux,” she said, smirking. (Open your eyes.)

Charles chuckled, sipping his drink as he watched the exchange. “C’est écrit partout sur son visage.” (It’s written all over his face.)

“Stop,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re imagining things.”

Alexandra raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, her expression saying everything her words didn’t.

At the bar, Lando was cornered by Carlos, who leaned casually against the counter, his expression smug.

“You know,” Carlos said, his tone casual, “you’re not very subtle.”

“What are you talking about?” Lando asked, though his focus kept drifting toward the booth where I was sitting.

Carlos raised his drink, gesturing toward me. “You’ve been staring at her all night, hermano. Why don’t you just tell her how you feel?”

Lando stiffened, his grin faltering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just tell her,” Carlos said, swirling his drink lazily.

“It’s not that simple,” Lando replied, his voice quieter now.

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because if I mess this up, I lose her,” Lando admitted, glancing toward our booth.

Carlos tilted his head, studying him. “You’re scared. That’s what this is.”

“Of course I’m scared,” Lando muttered, running a hand through his hair. “She’s my best friend. If it doesn’t work—”

“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” Carlos interrupted, his voice softer now. “But you’d better do something soon.”

Carlos’s smirk softened slightly, but before Lando could reply, Liam Lawson appeared at the bar.

“Who’s the girl with Charles and Alexandra?” Liam asked, nodding toward the booth. “She single?”

Carlos grinned mischievously. “Yeah, she is—go for it.”

Lando’s head snapped toward Carlos, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Carlos.”

“What?” Carlos said, feigning innocence. “Just giving the kid a shot.”

…

Liam approached with the kind of confidence that only a Red Bull driver could pull off.

“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat across from me. “You’re Y/N, right?”

I blinked, momentarily surprised but recovering quickly. “That’s me. And you are?”

“Liam Lawson,” he said, extending a hand.

I shook it, his grip firm but not overbearing. “Nice to meet you.”

“How do you know George?” he asked, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table as if he had all the time in the world.

“Through Lando,” I replied, keeping my tone polite but measured. His easy demeanor was almost disarming, but there was something about the way he looked at me that made me hyper-aware of my surroundings.

“Ah, Lando,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Lucky guy. You two seem pretty close.”

“We’ve been friends for a long time,” I said simply, taking a sip of my drink and trying not to overthink his comment.

“Well,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “his loss if he hasn’t made a move yet.”

That caught me off guard. My gaze flicked to his, searching for any hint of a joke, but he was entirely serious—or at least good at pretending to be.

“Excuse me?” I asked, my voice betraying my surprise.

Liam grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. “Just saying. If I were him, I wouldn’t be sitting over there, letting someone else steal your attention.”

The comment was bold, and I didn’t quite know how to respond. My thoughts were a mess of confusion, flattery, and something else I didn’t want to name. Before I could formulate a response, the familiar sound of Lando’s voice cut through the air.

“Liam,” he said smoothly, stepping up to the table. His tone was calm, but his green eyes held a sharpness that made me sit up a little straighter.

Liam glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

“Christian’s looking for you,” Lando said, his tone casual but firm. “Something about debrief notes.”

Liam frowned, clearly reluctant. “Now?”

“Yeah,” Lando said, nodding. “He seemed pretty keen.”

Liam hesitated, his gaze flicking between me and Lando like he was weighing his options. Finally, he sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “Alright. Nice meeting you, Y/N.”

“You too,” I replied, watching him leave with a mixture of relief and something I couldn’t quite pin down.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Lando lingered for a moment, his hands shoved into his pockets as he avoided my gaze.

“That,” Charles said, his tone thick with amusement, “was the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard.”

Lando shot him a glare, his ears turning faintly red. “Mind your own business, Charles.”

Charles just smirked, raising his glass in mock surrender. “Whatever you say.”

I didn’t say anything, but a flicker of suspicion settled in the back of my mind.

Had Lando just…? No. That would be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it?

“Let’s get a drink,” Alexandra said, pulling me to my feet.

…

As Alexandra and I made our way back toward the booth, she nudged me gently, her eyes glinting with curiosity.

“Lando looked like he was about to breathe fire earlier,” she said casually, sipping her drink.

I laughed softly, trying to deflect. “He’s always protective. It’s nothing.”

“Protective?” Alexandra repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That was not protective, chérie. That was jealousy.”

I opened my mouth to respond but stopped short as we neared the booth, Lando and Charles’s voices filtering through the hum of the room.

“It will just be awkward, mate,” Lando said, his tone low and almost resigned.

“Just talk about it,” Charles replied simply.

“It’s not that simple,” Lando muttered. “She will never be more than just a friend.”

The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. My chest tightened, and the air around me seemed to still. Alexandra’s hand touched my arm gently, but I barely noticed.

“I— I need some air,” I managed, turning away before she could respond.

The ache in my chest grew with every step I took, his words echoing in my head.

She will never be more than just a friend.

And just like that, everything I thought I’d imagined felt painfully real.

…

I turned my phone face down on the table at Gigi’s, willing myself not to glance at the screen again. The missed calls from Lando were piling up, his name lighting up my notifications every half hour like clockwork. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to him—I did. But every time I thought about his voice, his laugh, his damn words, the ache in my chest tightened.

She will never be more than just a friend.

I shook my head, forcing the thought away as the waiter arrived with my order. The smell of rich, cheesy pasta wafted up, comforting in the way only food could be. I twirled a forkful absentmindedly, hoping the carbs would somehow fill the space that had been hollowed out the night before.

The familiar growl of an engine outside pulled my attention from my plate. I glanced toward the window and froze.

The unmistakable silhouette of Lando’s Miura parked just outside, sleek and shining even under the soft glow of streetlights. A moment later, the door opened, and there he was, stepping out effortless as usual—but his expression wasn’t the easygoing grin I was used to. He looked… worried.

Before I could decide what to do, he spotted me through the window, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. He pushed through the door, his eyes locking onto mine immediately.

“There you are,” he said, relief evident in his tone as he approached my table.

I blinked, caught off guard. “Lando? What are you doing here?”

He pulled out the chair across from me, sitting down without asking. “Looking for you.”

My heart twisted. “Why?”

“Because you’ve been ignoring me all day,” he said, his voice quieter now.

I looked away, focusing on my fork. “I had my phone off that’s all.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

“I knew I’d find you here,” he said finally, his voice softer but steady.

I glanced up, frowning. “What?”

“You always turn to cheesy Italian food when you’re upset,” he said with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s your thing.”

The casual observation caught me off guard, a mix of warmth and frustration bubbling in my chest.

“So what?” I said, my tone sharper than I intended. “You’re some kind of expert on me now?”

He sighed, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. “Y/N, I know you better than anyone. And I know something’s wrong.”

I didn’t answer, twisting my fork in the pasta and pretending to be engrossed in my meal. But the usual comfort it brought was absent, replaced by the uncomfortable weight of his gaze.

“You’re not yourself,” Lando said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, my tone clipped.

“Don’t lie to me,” he replied, his tone more serious than I was used to.

I set my fork down, the clink of metal against porcelain louder than it should have been. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

His eyes softened, his frustration giving way to concern. “Y/N…”

“Lando, I’m fine,” I interrupted, though the words felt hollow.

He didn’t push further, but I could see the gears turning in his head. He sat back, glancing down at my half-finished plate of pasta before gesturing to the waiter.

“Can we get the check, please?” he asked, pulling out his wallet.

I frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Paying,” he said simply, standing as the waiter approached.

“For me?”

“Yes,” he said, looking down at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “Come on.”

“Come on where?” I asked, my brow furrowing.

“You’ll see,” he said, extending a hand.

I hesitated for a moment before letting him pull me to my feet.

The warm night air hit us as we stepped out of Gigi’s, the soft sound of waves in the distance mingling with the faint hum of the city. Lando didn’t say anything, his grip on my hand firm but gentle as he led me toward Larvotto Beach, just a short walk away.

“Lando, seriously,” I said as we reached the sand. “What’s going on?”

He stopped, turning to face me, his green eyes brighter under the moonlight.

“We need to talk.” he said simply.

And just like that, my heart started racing, even though I had no idea what he was going to say.

The beach stretched out before us, quiet except for the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore. The city lights glittered faintly in the distance, their reflection dancing on the dark water. Lando walked beside me, his shoulders tense, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.

For once, I didn’t fill the silence. I didn’t trust myself to. My thoughts were a whirlwind—last night’s overheard words still fresh in my mind, colliding with the unexpected intensity of this moment.

We walked like that for a while, the sand soft beneath our feet, until Lando came to a sudden stop. He turned to face me, his green eyes catching the moonlight in a way that made my stomach twist.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

I crossed my arms, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. “Try the beginning.”

He huffed out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “The beginning’s too far back. I’d be here all night.”

“Good thing I don’t have anywhere else to be,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

For a moment, he just looked at me, his expression softening. “Y/N, I have a lot of friends. Like, a lot of friends.”

I blinked, confused. “Okay?”

“But none of them get to me the way you do,” he said, his voice dropping.

I stared at him, my breath catching. “What are you saying?”

He glanced out at the water, like he was searching for courage in the rolling waves. “I mean… you’re not just anyone to me. You never have been. You’re the first person I think of when something happens—good or bad. And the idea of upsetting you? It’s unbearable.”

My throat tightened as his words sank in.

“Like today,” he continued, his voice cracking slightly. “You ignored my calls, and I couldn’t stop thinking about whether I’d done something wrong. Whether I hurt you somehow. Because if I did…” He stopped, exhaling sharply, and shook his head. “I can’t stand the thought of you being upset because of me.”

I didn’t respond, too caught up in the flood of emotions his words were pulling from me.

“When you’re upset, it breaks my heart,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “And when you laugh… it’s like my entire day gets brighter. When you’re sad, it feels like my world’s falling apart.”

“Lando,” I started, but he held up a hand, shaking his head.

“I’m not done,” he said, his words tumbling out now, faster and more frantic. “I’ve been feeling like this for so long, and I thought I could just push it aside or pretend it didn’t matter, but it does. It matters so much. And if I messed up—if I’ve ruined this somehow—I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“You didn’t—”

“I’m in love with you,” he blurted, his eyes locking onto mine. “I think I’ve been in love with you for a while now, but I’ve been too scared to admit it. And I know this might change everything, but I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way.”

I froze, his confession slamming into me with the force of a tidal wave.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know if this makes sense. I just… I can’t lose you, Y/N.”

Without thinking, I stepped closer, grabbed his face, and kissed him.

For a second, he was completely still, caught off guard. But then he kissed me back, his hands slipping to my waist as he pulled me closer. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, but it deepened quickly, making the world around me disappear.

When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine, both of us catching our breath.

“So… I’m guessing you feel the same?” he asked, a small, nervous smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re so slow sometimes,” I murmured, shaking my head with a laugh.

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” I said, smiling.

The relief on his face was almost comical. He pulled me into a hug, his arms wrapping around me tightly like he never wanted to let go.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for so long,” he murmured into my hair.

“And I’ve wanted to hear it,” I admitted, my voice muffled against his chest.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his brow furrowing slightly. “But… yesterday. Did I say something? Did I—”

I hesitated, my stomach twisting. “I overheard you talking to Charles.”

His face paled. “Oh.”

“You said I’d never be more than a friend,” I said, my voice wavering.

Lando winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “God, Y/N, that’s not how I meant it at all. I said that because I thought I didn’t stand a chance. Like… you’re so important to me, and I didn’t want to mess up what we already had by wanting something I thought I could never have.”

He looked at me with a mix of regret and hope. “I’m an idiot. It wasn’t because I didn’t want more—it’s because I didn’t think I could have it.”

“You are an idiot,” I said, my lips twitching into a small smile. “But you’re my idiot.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Yours, huh? Bold claim.”

I tilted my head, my grin widening. “Think you can find someone else to deal with you the way I do?”

He raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Deal with me? You mean worship my charm and tolerate my perfection?”

“Oh, please,” I shot back, rolling my eyes. “The only thing I’m worshipping is the patience I’ve built up putting up with you.”

His hands slid to my waist, pulling me slightly closer, his smirk turning more mischievous. “You love me. Admit it.”

“Not a chance,” I said, even as my pulse quickened.

His gaze dropped to my lips for the briefest moment before meeting my eyes again, his voice softening but still teasing. “You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

Before I could respond, he closed the gap, kissing me again with a fierceness that took me by surprise. This wasn’t the hesitant, nervous kiss from before. It was confident, teasing, like everything we’d been holding back had finally snapped into place.

I kissed him back, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer. His hands tightened on my waist, grounding me as he smiled against my lips, murmuring, “Still denying it?”

I broke the kiss just long enough to catch my breath, raising an eyebrow. “You think one kiss is going to make me fold?”

“Two,” he said smugly, leaning in for another without waiting for an answer.

I rolled my eyes but didn’t stop him, meeting him halfway this time. His lips curved into a grin mid-kiss, and I could feel his stupid, insufferable smugness radiating off him.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked when we pulled apart, my voice laced with mock annoyance.

“Unbelievably,” he replied, his grin widening as he rested his forehead against mine. “And don’t pretend you’re not.”

“Maybe I am,” I admitted, smirking. “But if you keep talking, I might start regretting it.”

He laughed, pulling me closer. “Alright, no more talking. For now.”

“Good,” I said, leaning in again, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore fading into the background as everything else fell away.

The weight of everything unsaid was gone, replaced by the warmth of realizing we’d both been fighting our way toward the same truth: we’d always belonged to each other.

When we broke apart, Lando’s grin turned mischievous, and I immediately knew he was up to something. Before I could react, he scooped me up effortlessly and started toward the water.

“Lando! Don’t you dare!” I shrieked, squirming in his arms as laughter bubbled out of me.

“Payback for all those times you called me an idiot,” he teased, stopping just as the waves lapped at his shoes.

He finally set me down, his smirk smug and unapologetic. “Admit it. You love me anyway.”

Figures. I’m in love with someone who steals my fries and once confidently argued that dolphins were just “sea dogs.” I wouldn’t have it any other way though.

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #lando x you #lando norris one shot #lando norris imagine #ln4 x reader #ln4 imagine

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ice-man-goes-bwoah · 2 months ago

Note

Remmick x reader, established relationship, Fluff (maybe some NSFW)

Imagine Remmick and reader enjoying each other’s company while laying together. Soft kisses, nails lightly raking through hair, and soothing touches.

Perhaps teasingly reader lightly bites Remmick’s neck, since he always does this to reader they wanted some payback. Might or might not have known that it would rile him up.

(Would love to see some feral softness from Remmick if that makes sense lol)

Gender neutral pronouns please :)!

Have a great day/night!

P.s glad to see my request/asks are enjoyed! Love your work :D

Drunk on you||Remmick x GN!reader

Summary— reader and Remmick are obsessed with each other.

Word count-1180

Warnings-Explicit sexual content Mutual masturbation (gender neutral reader x male character) Bloodplay-adjacent themes (post-feeding cleanup, references to blood) Vampirism (turned!vampire reader) Established relationship Oral teasing and heavy kissing Soft domination tones (gentle aftercare, power dynamics rooted in emotional trust)Reader is described with fem anatomy Semi-public setting (clearing in the woods, but secluded)

A/n — this can be read as male,female and gender neutral.

A/n#2– oh yes anon I love it when you’re in my inbox!!!

The forest still thrummed faintly with the echoes of the hunt moonlight threading through the trees, the air rich with the scent of blood and pine. The adrenaline had faded, but a different kind of hunger lingered in its wake.

You leaned against a moss-covered boulder, cheeks flushed, laughter bubbling out of you in lazy bursts. The blood was still tacky at the corner of your mouth, but you didn’t care. You felt wild. Sated. In love.

Remmick watched you from a few paces away, one hand braced on his hip, the other dragging a cloth slowly over his jaw. There was something dangerous and stupidly tender in the way he looked at you like he still couldn’t quite believe you were his. Like the sight of you drunk on blood and moonlight knocked the wind out of him.

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” you teased, eyes half-lidded as you sauntered toward him, hips swaying lazily.

“You’re glowing,” he murmured. “Like you just remembered how much you love chaos.”

You laughed and slipped your arms around his neck, tugging him closer. “No, not chaos. Just you.”

His breath caught as your lips brushed against his blood-slick and soft and your body pressed flush to his. “You made me. Isn’t that the same thing?”

He chuckled under his breath but didn’t let go, his hands settling on your waist. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Drunk,” you corrected with a sleepy smile. “On you.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time, tongue slipping against his with a faint metallic tang still lingering. He groaned into it, fingers tightening just enough to make you whimper.

Eventually, he pulled back. “Come here,” he said softly, guiding you to the old blanket spread near the fire he’d built. “You’re still a mess.”

You sat down without protest, your body humming, eyes glassy and soft. Remmick knelt in front of you with the cloth again, warm now with water from his flask.

His touch was almost reverent as he cleaned your blood from your jaw, your collarbone, the smear on your neck. You watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face.

“You always do this,” you murmured. “Clean me up like I’m something precious.”

“Because you are,” he said simply, voice rough. “Because I remember what it was like right after I turned you. You were fire. You were fury. I didn’t know if I’d get you back.”

You cupped his face gently, thumb tracing over his lips. “But you did. I came back. I chose you.”

He kissed your palm, then your wrist, slow and deliberate.

The tension shifted between you then not urgent, not frenzied. Just heat and safety, blooming slow and low.

You pushed him gently back until he was sitting against the base of a tree, and you crawled into his lap, straddling his thighs. The kiss that followed was softer, your fingers threading into his hair, hips rocking forward just enough to make you both gasp.

“Touch yourself,” you whispered against his mouth. “Wanna watch you.”

His eyes darkened. “Only if you do too.”

You nodded, lips parted as you reached between your legs, hiking your skirt just enough to slip your hand beneath. He did the same, dragging his belt loose with a soft groan, pants undone just far enough for his cock to spring free already hard, leaking at the tip.

You both moved slowly at first, hands buried beneath fabric, matching pace and rhythm. You moaned into each other’s mouths, the fire crackling nearby, the trees your only witnesses.

Watching each other, teasing touches, shared gasps there was something sacred in the act, something unspoken and deeply yours. His eyes never left yours as you rubbed lazy, wet circles over your clit, back arching, while his fist tightened around himself, hips stuttering.

You leaned your forehead to his, breath ragged. “Love you. So much it hurts.”

His other hand gripped your waist, steadying you as he groaned your name. “You’re mine,” he rasped. “Always.”

You both came within seconds of each other soft cries swallowed in kisses, bodies trembling, breaths shallow and fast.

Afterward, you stayed curled up in his lap, limbs tangled, your cheek against his shoulder, fingers tracing lazy shapes over his chest.

“You gonna clean me up again?” you mumbled, half-asleep.

He huffed a laugh, already reaching for the cloth again. “Yeah, sweetheart. Always.”

#faiths inbox #remmick x y/n #remmick edit #remmick x fem!reader #remmick x you #remmick x reader #remmick smut #remmick sinners #remmick #Remmick x male!reader #Remmick x gn!reader #sinners movie #sinners 2025 #sinners #sinners x reader #jack o’connell smut

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juliettejwnewinesa · 16 days ago

Note

can u please do a fic with sieun x a reader who have big boobs and he can’t stop looking at them?😞

Title: Can’t Look Away Pairing: Yeon Si-eun x Fem!Reader (Y/N) Rating: 18+ Content: oral (f receiving), breast fixation, slight dom!Sieun, teasing, obsession, heavy eye contact, possessiveness, creampie, lots of focus on boobs, mutual pining explosion

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It started with the tank top.

Y/N didn’t think twice when she tugged it on that morning — thin, barely-there cotton, no bra. They’d both been lounging around the apartment all weekend anyway. She wasn’t expecting company. But the second she walked out of her bedroom and caught sight of Si-eun on the couch, her stomach twisted.

He was looking at her like he’d never seen her before.

Or maybe like he’d been trying not to look for a very long time — and something inside him just finally snapped.

His jaw tightened. His eyes dropped for a half-second — too long. She watched his throat move as he swallowed, and then he looked away completely, like if he didn’t, he’d do something stupid.

She raised a brow. "Something wrong?"

“No,” he muttered quickly, far too quickly. “You’re—fine.”

But his hands were clenched into fists in his lap. His face was red.

She smirked. "Sure I am."

Y/N walked past him slowly, making a show of reaching up to stretch on her toes, pretending to grab something off the top shelf. Her tits shifted under the thin fabric — no bra, no shame. She could feel his stare burning a hole in her back.

“Are you—” His voice cracked. “Are you seriously not wearing a bra right now?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “I’m home, aren’t I?”

Si-eun didn’t respond. His eyes were glued to her chest now, shamelessly. Like he was starving. Like he’d been dying to look for months and finally couldn’t pretend anymore.

“…You’re making it really hard to be respectful,” he said hoarsely.

Y/N turned, taking a step closer. Her tone was teasing, but her heart thudded loud in her chest. “I didn’t realize looking was so disrespectful.”

He let out a bitter laugh, leaning back into the couch like he was trying to escape. His thighs spread, and she couldn’t help but glance at the thick, very obvious bulge tenting his sweats.

“I’ve been trying not to look, Y/N. For so long. But you’re always—” He gestured weakly at her chest, breathing heavy. “You wear the tightest shit and just… bounce around the apartment like it’s nothing.”

“I don’t bounce.”

“Yes, the fuck you do.”

She grinned, heat pooling low in her belly. “So look.”

His eyes snapped up to her face, stunned.

“I’m serious,” she whispered. “If you want to stare, stare. I don’t mind.”

His mouth parted like he wanted to say something, but instead, he surged forward and grabbed her waist, pulling her down onto his lap. She gasped — and then his mouth was on her neck, his hands sliding under the hem of her shirt to cup her tits, thumbs brushing over her nipples.

“Oh my god,” he groaned against her skin. “They’re so soft. I’ve been losing my mind, Y/N.”

Her head fell back as he palmed them roughly, squeezing like he couldn’t believe they were real. His cock was hard under her, twitching against her ass with every grind of her hips.

"You have no idea how many times I jerked off thinking about these." His voice was ragged, almost angry. "No idea how many times I had to stop myself from staring when you wore those stupid little pajama tops."

“You could’ve had them any time,” she whispered.

That made him freeze. He pulled back to look at her.

"You’re serious."

“I’ve wanted you just as long, Si-eun.”

Something in his expression snapped. He yanked the tank top up and over her head in one swift motion, groaning low in his chest when her tits bounced free.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

He ducked down and latched onto her nipple with a low growl, sucking hard, tongue swirling in slow, messy circles. His other hand massaged the opposite breast — not gentle, not shy — like he needed to feel every inch. She gasped, rocking against him harder.

"You like that?" he muttered, lips wet, still attached to her skin.

“Yes,” she breathed, clinging to his shoulders. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. If anything, he got rougher. His tongue flicked and dragged, his teeth grazing just enough to make her whine. When he pulled back to catch his breath, a trail of spit connected him to her nipple. His eyes were dark, almost feral.

"You look so good like this," he murmured, voice low. “All flushed and needy. Mine.”

She shivered. “Then take me.”

That was all he needed.

Si-eun flipped her onto the couch, yanked her shorts down in one go, and shoved her legs apart. His mouth was on her in seconds — licking, sucking, tongue moving in circles until she was shaking. And the entire time, his hand never left her chest. He was obsessed, thumb rubbing her nipple while his tongue worked below.

She came hard, crying out, legs trembling around his head.

Then he climbed up, finally yanking his sweats down, and her eyes widened — thick, flushed, already dripping with precum.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you like this?” he asked, lining up with her soaked entrance. “With your tits bouncing in my face?”

She nodded frantically. “Please.”

He slammed in all at once, groaning loudly. His hands immediately went to her chest, gripping, kneading, like he couldn't help it. She was soaking, clenching around him, overwhelmed.

He watched them the whole time he fucked her — wide-eyed, transfixed, like nothing else existed. Every time they bounced, he groaned louder, hips snapping harder.

“Look at them,” he panted. “Fuck, I’m gonna come—gonna come just from watching them—”

“Do it,” she begged. “Come inside me.”

He did. With a deep, choked moan, he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside, grinding through it, still staring at her tits as they bounced with every pulse.

When he finally stilled, chest heaving, he collapsed onto her.

After a long beat of silence, he muttered into her neck, “I’m never gonna recover from this.”

Y/N laughed breathlessly, combing her fingers through his hair.

“And I’m never wearing a bra again.”

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thewritingfairy · 17 days ago

Text

↪ 17. A deck of cards

PREV PART I've yet to completely decide on the route of the good ending so at the end there is a poll where you basically chose the plot, but I might make outtake chapters with the other routes in a condensed form trigger warnings: (past) violence, (past, kinda) medical + physical + emotional neglect, DRUGGING, delusional batfamily, anger, tell me if I missed any! main m.list series m.list bad ending m.list

Dick had never felt this anxiety, not when Jason was kidnapped by the Joker, not even on his various undercover missions. Jason and him smashed the head in of a civilian, one you care deeply about. Fuck, he never harmed a civilian to this extent and Jason didn’t even seem to care. He was just going through the day as if nothing happened.

When they told Bruce what he did, he seemed almost proud. Glad that his two eldest sons are finally taking matters in their own hands, especially since you aren’t coming around. Why can’t you just fall in line? If you had just fallen in line Dick wouldn’t have become all he fights against. Can’t you see?! This is all your fault!

But Duke’s reaction solidified that they fucked up.

“What the fuck have you done?!” He shouts at them, getting right up in their faces. Honestly, at this point this is the whole relationship they have with Duke. He barely tolerates them on the field and they might have even burned that bridge. “What did you think would happen if you went after (Name)’s friends?! That they wouldn’t realise it was you two?!”

Jason groans, he should have threatened them more. He should have made sure they couldn’t speak after that little confrontation. “What does it matter?!” Jason shouts throwing his hands up like he’s a toddler. “Those friends are a terrible influence on them!”

And Dick can’t help but agree, he truly wants to feel guilt for what he did but he just doesn’t. He doesn’t because all they have done is try and get the family back together. All they have done was to protect you and if you can’t see that that’s your fault. “Please,” Dick spat out as he takes in Duke’s expression. “I know you agree with us, you wince every time (Name) brings up your so called mutual friends. You grimace every time you need to see them when they aren’t looking!”

Duke laughs, he just can’t help it, Dick is trying to establish a connection to him. Sure, he doesn’t like your mutual friends as much as you do, but that’s because he has just joined the friend group. He just needs to warm up to them, right?

Still Duke doesn’t know what to say back, because Dick is right. He does grimace and winces every time you turn away after talking about your plans with them. So he turns to Bruce who looks obviously confused. “Good luck cleaning up your sons mess after you clean up your own,” he says in a mocking tone. “tampering with your own child’s medication, how low can you get?”

Bruce tampered with your medication. Your father tampered with your medication. You knew he was a piece of shit, you knew that he was starting to feel entitled to managing your health, but to do this? Is he a fool? He could have killed you had your doctor not been suspicious, you’re lucky he won’t report it to the police because if there is anything you don’t need it’s a police investigation. At least not for now.

You will need one eventually, but not until the court of public opinion is on your side. Bruce could easily pay of anyone he wants to, and everyone in Gotham seems obsessed with upholding the Wayne name (well almost everyone). If you do not have the public’s support nothing will happen even if you find some criminals that don’t care about the Wayne name.

You need to find someone to leak the files you have on your family without it being traced back to you or should Duke do it so that he stays out of the crossfire? No matter what you do your family will know, but the public shouldn’t. They need to feel as if you are the perfect victim even if there is no such thing, because otherwise they will put the blame onto you.

The only thing you wouldn’t destroy is the Bat-family’s reputation, not when Gotham still needs them. But that doesn’t mean you can’t make their life harder.

That’s the only mercy you’ll show them.

After you got permission to take photo’s of Willow’s and Warren’s injuries you started documenting everything, the test results that came back on your medication and the possible outcomes of Willow’s injuries. Your brothers are lucky she didn’t have a haemorrhage, because if Willow died you wouldn’t be this kind. You would have burned the manor down with all of them inside.

You would have askedthe Penguin to connect you to Slade, a terrible man who kills with no mercy, one of your favourite customers. Incredibly polite, just a tad bit too obsessed with Nightwing for your liking and most of importantly, he can be bought.

But you aren’t going down that route yet.

You just need to convince Penguin that it’s worth attacking your family with a social media bomb. That it’s worth to dismantle the Gotham Elite and to not ignore Bruce Wayne, even with all the ‘good’ he does as himself.

You don’t have a concrete plan yet, that much is obvious. You still need to figure out a way to get out of that house without Bruce being able to claim that you ran away or have been kidnapped….

Just look at the deck of cards in your hands, you might have to use them all or perhaps one bluff will be enough to burn that house of deceit down.

NEXT PART short for poll's sake

taglist (CLOSED): @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret

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lazysoulwriter · 1 month ago

Text

caught up on you. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: FWB-to-feelings, secret relationship tension, public kissing, swearing, making out, reader in the industry (open role), mutual pining, Pedro being obsessed™

---

You were never supposed to kiss in public.

That was the rule. Your rule, actually. Pedro agreed to it without complaint, the way he always did.

"No PDA," you’d said, back when this all started. "We work together. You’re… you.”

And he is. Pedro Pascal — everyone’s favorite. Internet boyfriend, Hollywood heartthrob, fan favorite at every event you attended side-by-side. You, on the other hand? Behind the scenes. Just part of the crew. And you preferred it that way.

FWBs. Fun. Comfortable. Off the radar.

But now? Now he’s standing in front of you after a month apart, fresh off a flight from Prague, hair messy, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, and looking at you like he might die if he doesn’t touch you soon.

“Hi,” you say, hugging your clipboard a little tighter. “You’re early.”

He’s already walking toward you. “Couldn’t stay away.”

And then it happens.

No warning. No build-up. Just his mouth on yours — warm, familiar, home. His hands slide around your waist, his nose brushing yours, and the kiss deepens like he doesn’t care if the whole goddamn world is watching.

Because they are.

You hear the shutter first. Then the sharp click-click-click that only means one thing.

Photographers.

You pull back like you’ve been electrocuted, hands pressed to his chest. “Pedro.”

He blinks, lips still parted. “Shit.”

“Shit,” you echo, glancing around. You’re in the studio parking lot. Broad daylight. Crew members just a few feet away. Someone with a headset is definitely watching.

You take a breath. “You weren’t supposed to do that.”

“I know.” His voice is low. Regretful. But his eyes stay on you like he’s memorizing the moment. “I just… missed you.”

You pause. Let that sink in. Let yourself feel it — the way your chest clenches, the way your body still leans toward his even when your brain is screaming boundaries.

“You could’ve told me that inside.”

“Wouldn’t have been the same,” he says softly. “I needed to feel it.”

You look away. Your lips are still tingling. Your heart is doing something dangerous.

You’ve always kept things separate. Private. Untangled.

But now the internet is going to know. Your coworkers are going to know. Everyone will know. You’re not even mad.

Later that night, after the chaos calms, after the photos are already making the rounds online — “Pedro Pascal spotted kissing mystery woman at LA studio lot!” “Is this his new girlfriend?” “She works with him, right??”

— he texts you:

PEDRO: I’m sorry for ruining our cover. But I’m not sorry I kissed you. I’ve missed you like hell.

You stare at the screen. Heart in your throat.

Maybe it was never just casual.

Maybe it was never just sex.

Maybe… it’s time to stop hiding.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal fanfics #pedro pascal fics #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal blurb #pedro pascal blurbs #pp #x reader #fanfic #imagines #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal cute

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yukkiji · 14 days ago

Text

miss second place

oikawa tooru is always first — in volleyball, in school, and in everyone’s hearts. she’s second, but fiercely competitive and determined to keep up. their rivalry is electric, but beneath the teasing and tension, something deeper stirs.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. oikawa tooru x fem!reader ft. seijoh 4

genre: fluff, romance, slowburn, academic rivals to lovers

wc: 8.9k

author's note: i'll consider this as one of my personal faves since academic rivals is one of my favorite tropes and this was so longggg but i hope you guys will enjoy it <333

the clock flashes 7:48 p.m. in angry red digits—mocking, almost. this is well past the hour anyone with a shred of sanity would still be in school, let alone buried under a mountain of paperwork.

the student council room glows in soft lamplight, golden and too calm for the storm in your head. folders are splayed out in organized chaos, pages fluttering as you scrawl in tight, no-nonsense lines. your pen moves like a weapon.

then—like clockwork, or a curse—the door slides open.

"still slaving away, miss second place?"

oikawa tooru’s voice cuts through the quiet, smooth and irritating, like expensive cologne hiding something rotten underneath. you don’t have to look to know the exact smirk on his face. you can feel it.

your pen freezes.

"get out, tooru."

he doesn’t. of course he doesn’t. he sinks into the seat across from you like he owns the place, his seijoh jacket barely hanging off one shoulder, hair damp and tousled just right—like some overachieving drama prince straight from practice. even now, a faint sheen of sweat clings to his neck in a way that makes you want to look away and stare all at once.

you hate him. you really do.

"this room is for student council members only," you snap, eyes still on your paper.

"good thing i’m special." he props his chin on one hand, lashes fluttering in mock innocence. "joint authority, remember? besides, aren’t you tired of playing president all alone? i came to keep you company."

you finally glance up, and yes—there it is. that grin. the one that says he knows exactly how far under your skin he is.

"you’re not helping. and your definition of 'company' feels more like pest control."

"then it’s working." he leans forward, voice dropping just enough to make your pulse twitch. "wouldn’t want you to collapse from overwork before i get the chance to beat you on next week’s midterms."

you don’t hesitate—you grab the nearest piece of scrap paper, crumple it, and peg it at his annoyingly symmetrical face. it hits him square on the cheek, and he jerks back with a dramatic flinch like you’ve stabbed him.

"get out, pretty boy, or i’m telling hajime you’re still here after hours."

that gets a reaction. he presses a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him deeply—emotionally, theatrically.

"that hurts, prez," he says, lips curling into a mock pout. "using my best friend against me? i thought we had something special."

"we do. it’s called mutual disdain."

he grins wider, as if that’s exactly what he wanted you to say. "funny. that’s my favorite love language."

as if on cue, your phone buzzes on the desk. you glance down, thumb flicking the screen open.

iwaizumi hajime: please tell me oikawa didn’t sneak into the council room again also tell him to shower before he starts flirting, he smells like gym socks and ego

your brow twitches.

"speak of the devil," you mutter, holding the screen up so oikawa can see. "your handler says it’s bedtime."

oikawa squints at the message, then gasps—actual, audible gasp.

"rude. gym socks?" he whines, sniffing his sleeve like that’ll help his case. "i smell like victory. and maybe just a hint of mango body wash."

"you smell like someone who thinks cologne is a substitute for personality."

"you wound me again." he sprawls back in the chair like he’s auditioning for a tragic romance. "first the paper attack, now this? one day, you’ll admit you’re obsessed with me, and i’ll pretend to be surprised."

"when hell freezes over."

"can’t wait, miss number two."

he winks, and it takes everything in you not to launch a stapler this time.

she remembered the first time he called her number two.

she was six, standing next to the gold-framed board of top test scores in the elementary school hallway. his name was at the top—bold, smug, infuriating. hers was right beneath.

oikawa had turned to her with a dazzling smile and said, "you’re pretty smart, number two."

so she’d kicked him in the shin.

he cried. she got detention. balance, briefly, was restored.

but he kept calling her that. every year, every test, every time she pushed herself just a little harder—he was always a step ahead, always grinning like he knew. like it was some private joke only he was in on.

and now here he was, still grinning across a student council desk stacked with forms and expectations, like he hadn’t haunted her entire academic life.

"still holding onto that nickname, prez?"

his voice yanked her back to the present.

you glare.

"you mean the one that got you kicked in the leg? yeah, fond memories."

"worth it," he says, leaning back like he’s proud of the scar you definitely didn’t leave. "you gave yourself a villain origin story, and i got a fan for life."

"delusional. impressive, but delusional."

"comes with the genius territory."

you chuck another crumpled paper at his head. he dodges—barely—and laughs like he’s won anyway.

you hate that sound.

you really hate how much you don’t.

it wasn’t always like this. or maybe it always was.

another memory surfaces before you can stop it—middle school, kitagawa daiichi, the golden age of bad haircuts and worse attitudes.

he’d just been named volleyball captain. you’d just topped the midterms for the first time in years. for once, your name was above his on the results board. you still remembered the silence when he walked up to check the list, eyebrows raised.

"look at that," he’d said, mock-shocked. "the earth’s off its axis."

you’d smirked. "guess it was bound to happen. number one fits me better anyway."

he opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could, iwaizumi’s firm voice cut through the tension.

"enough, tooru." iwaizumi stepped between you two, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "you’ve been going at this since elementary school. if you don’t stop, i’m telling coach to bench you."

oikawa scowled, but iwaizumi’s stare didn’t waver.

you exchanged a brief look with iwaizumi—part gratitude, part shared exhaustion.

oikawa sighed dramatically, but the edge in his eyes softened just a fraction. then he looked at you—really looked at you—and smiled, slow and unreadable.

"wear it while you can," he said quietly.

you’d thought about that moment more than you’d admit. not just the words, but the way he’d said them. like it wasn’t war anymore—like it was something closer, messier.

but of course, at the finals of your third year, oikawa was number one again—snatching the top spot effortlessly and infuriatingly like it was always meant to be his.

.and the rivalry didn’t stop there.

it followed you into high school like a shadow you couldn’t shake. he went all in on volleyball with iwaizumi at his side, carving out his name on the court with that same relentless brilliance that always kept him just one step ahead.

and you? you went for student council. naturally. there were fewer scoreboards, but the stakes were still high-recommendations, university prospects, the unspoken war for who would stand tallest by the end of it all.

by third year, the stage was set.

he was the captain of the seijoh volleyball team. you were the student council president.

two crowns. two thrones.

two people still acting like the world might stop turning if the other one ever admitted defeat.

and yet, somehow, despite all the years and fights and thrown stationery, oikawa tooru kept finding excuses to wander into your territory.

like now—his jacket slung over one shoulder, hair tousled from practice, that smug glint in his eyes making itself comfortable across the desk from you.

"you’re really going to keep pretending i don’t make your evenings more exciting?" he stretches like a cat, obnoxiously casual. "i bet the paperwork misses me when i’m gone."

you give him a flat look. "i bet your team does too. shouldn’t you be terrorizing first-years or something?"

"they’re fine." he leans in, eyes dancing. "besides, this is way more fun. watching you pretend you don’t enjoy the company."

you toss another crumpled paper at his head. he doesn’t even flinch this time.

and still—he doesn’t leave.

"you know," oikawa says, tapping his fingers against your desk, "you’ve never denied having a crush on me. statistically speaking, silence is admissi—"

the door slides open.

"knew it."

iwaizumi stands there with a look that could flatten a first-year.

"my gut told me you weren’t home yet and i was right." he steps fully into the room, arms crossed. "why am i not surprised you’re harassing the student council president after hours again?"

"harassing?" oikawa gasps, clutching his imaginary pearls. "i was keeping her company! she's lonely—"

iwaizumi walks over and grabs him by the collar.

"no, she’s busy. you’re the lonely one."

"rude!" oikawa protests, letting himself get hauled up like a sack of potatoes. "at least let me say goodbye!"

iwaizumi ignores him completely, nods politely in your direction.

"sorry. won’t happen again."

you raise an eyebrow.

"it will."

iwaizumi sighs. "yeah. i know."

oikawa, being physically dragged out of the room like some overgrown cat, turns his head with a grin and calls out:

"goodnight, number two~!"

you chuck a pen at the closing door. it bounces harmlessly off the frame.

you don’t miss the way your lips twitch—just barely—before you shake your head and dive back into your paperwork.

oikawa trudged down the hallway, iwaizumi’s grip still firm on his collar.

"you really don’t know when to quit, do you?" iwaizumi muttered, voice low but steady.

oikawa shrugged, flashing that trademark grin. "where’s the fun in quitting? besides, she was actually... tolerating me tonight."

iwaizumi scoffed. "tolerating you is the bare minimum. you’re lucky she didn’t throw a stapler."

oikawa laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. "true. i’ll take it as a win."

they slowed near the exit. iwaizumi glanced over, eyebrows raised.

"you’re really still hung up on her, huh?"

oikawa’s grin faltered just a bit, eyes darkening with something more complicated. "yeah."

iwaizumi shook his head, a rare softness in his voice. "just don’t mess it up, crappykawa."

oikawa smirked again but said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them as they stepped out into the cool night.

the next afternoon, you stood just outside the gym doors, clipboard in hand, trying to look casual but failing spectacularly. you needed to watch their practice—study their form, their movements, everything—so you could finalize the program for the upcoming school festival. it wasn’t like you wanted an excuse to see oikawa again, but if you did, this was as good as any.

oikawa was in the center of the court, barking orders with that usual mix of charm and command. iwaizumi was by his side, steady as ever.

the moment oikawa spotted you by the bleachers, his whole aura shifted—like a dog finally spotting its owner after a long day. his usual confident grin softened into something warmer, and his eyes locked onto you with unmistakable recognition.

iwaizumi, noticing this change, let out a long, exasperated sigh. he glanced sideways at oikawa, who was already weaving through the players and heading straight toward you without a second thought.

iwaizumi muttered under his breath: "here we go again."

“oi, miss number two, you’re here to watch me?” oikawa called out with a cheeky grin as he closed the distance.

you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “tooru, where’s the form? i’ve told you so many times to get it to me for the festival.”

he scratched the back of his neck, flashing a sheepish smile. “well, you see... i haven’t finished it yet?”

your patience snapped. “are you serious, tooru? i reminded you all last week.”

he held up his hands in mock surrender. “i’ll give it to you personally—later. or tomorrow.”

you narrowed your eyes. “that’s exactly what i’m trying to avoid. i don’t want to deal with you more than i have to.”

“promise, i’ll give it to you.” oikawa said, his grin softening just enough to sound sincere.

you let out a long sigh, feeling like you’d run out of options. it took every ounce of patience not to strangle seijoh’s volleyball captain right here in front of his teammates.

“i’m dead serious, tooru.” you warned, eyes locking with his. “this is the last time i’m asking.”

“not gonna stay to see my greatness?” he teased, voice dripping with mock confidence as you reached the door, already turning to leave.

“heck no,” you shot back without missing a beat, pushing the door open with a smirk.

as you stepped out of the gym, the cool air hit your face, a welcome relief from the noisy chaos inside. just behind you, iwaizumi barely held back a grin as he grabbed a volleyball and flung it straight at oikawa.

“stupid,” he snapped, voice low but amused, “you already finished the form last week.”

oikawa caught the ball with an exaggerated wince, clutching his chest dramatically. “that hurts, iwa-chan,” he said, voice thick with mock offense. “and besides, it’s kind of cute to see her reaction.”

iwaizumi rolled his eyes, grabbing another ball and launching it at him without hesitation. “yeah, well, quit wasting time and give it to her already.”

oikawa dodged the second ball with a laugh, shaking his head. “fine, fine. next time, i swear.”

iwaizumi’s glare softened just a little as he watched his friend, then glanced after you, who was already walking away, clipboard pressed to your chest.

from the sidelines, hanamaki and matsukawa leaned casually against the gym wall, arms crossed, watching the whole scene unfold with amused grins.

hanamaki nudged matsukawa, smirking. “so this is what it feels like to watch a romcom with a slow burn,” he said, eyes following oikawa’s playful dodges and iwaizumi’s half-exasperated throws.

matsukawa chuckled, shaking his head. “yeah, all the teasing, the back-and-forth… i swear, if they had a soundtrack right now, it’d be some dramatic love theme playing nonstop.”

hanamaki laughed softly. “and you just know they’re both secretly enjoying every second of it, even if they’d never admit it.”

matsukawa’s grin widened. “at this rate, the whole school’s waiting for them to actually drop the act and say what’s really going on.”

they shared a glance, silent agreement passing between them, like two longtime spectators watching a match far more interesting than any volleyball game on the court.

“slow burn or not,” hanamaki said with a sigh, “this is definitely one for the books.”

as dusk settled over the school, the student council room lay bathed in the soft glow of fading daylight. the usual hum of activity had long since faded, replaced by a stillness that felt almost sacred. papers were strewn across the desk, pens resting where they had been abandoned. and there, slumped over the wood, you were fast asleep—exhaustion having finally claimed you.

outside the sliding door, oikawa stood quietly, the folded form clutched carefully in his hands. the room was unusually silent, heavier than usual, and for a moment he hesitated. but then, with slow deliberate steps, he pushed the door open, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet.

he found you exactly as he’d expected—head resting on your folded arms, chest rising and falling in steady, tired rhythm. something softened in his usually mischievous grin. without a word, he shrugged off his seijoh jacket and gently draped it over your shoulders. the fabric settled warmly around you, a quiet shield against the chill of the evening.

unseen by oikawa, hanamaki and matsukawa lingered just beyond the doorframe, having followed him silently. hanamaki’s eyes widened in surprise as he whispered, “did you just see that? tooru put his jacket on her.”

matsukawa nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “he’s got layers, huh? who knew?”

before they could say more, iwaizumi appeared, arms crossed and wearing his trademark disapproving glare. “cut it out, you two. give them some space,” he ordered, tugging them gently away.

back inside, oikawa carefully placed the folded form on the desk beside you. he lingered a moment longer, eyes tracing the peaceful lines of your face. then, with a faint, almost shy smile, he quietly stepped out, sliding the door softly behind him.

the sound of the door clicking shut stirred you from your sleep. you blinked blearily, the room still dim but quiet once again. then, a soft warmth caught your attention—a weight across your shoulders that wasn’t there before.

you lifted your hands, fingers brushing against the familiar fabric of oikawa’s jacket wrapped gently around you. a slow smile spread over your tired face, the silent gesture lingering in your mind as you reached out to the neatly folded papers beside you.

the rivalry, the teasing, the endless back-and-forth—it all melted away in that moment, replaced by something quieter, something real.

and for once, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, the hardest battles led to the sweetest victories.

midterms season finally arrived—the unavoidable trial before the school festival’s bright chaos. you barely remembered what a full night’s sleep felt like, caught between finalizing festival preparations and cramming for exams. exhaustion clung to you like a shadow, but beneath it all, a quiet confidence simmered.

this time, you told yourself, it would be different.

you were pumped, ready to finally see your name soaring above oikawa’s on the class rankings—a victory long overdue. every sleepless night, every rushed note had been worth it. today, you thought, today would be the day the score finally tipped in your favor.

well, that was what you thought.

now, here you were—standing in front of the cold, unforgiving bulletin board, eyes scanning the list you’d been waiting for. your heart sank the moment you saw it: your name, again, just below oikawa’s.

but what stung the most wasn’t that you’d lost—no, it was the margin. one point.

one. single. damn. point.

a flush of frustration and disbelief rushed through you, hot and sharp. you had pushed yourself harder than ever this time. late nights, skipped meals, endless revisions—all for this? to fall short by a fraction that felt like a cruel joke?

you clenched your fists, the bitterness bubbling beneath the surface. how did he do it again? how did he always manage to stay one step ahead, grinning like he owned the game?

the weight of the rivalry pressed down on you heavier than ever. and in that moment, the silent promise you’d made years ago—to beat him, no matter what—felt more urgent, more necessary, than ever.

fuck.

from behind you, the murmur of students drifted over—mostly girls, their voices bright with excitement and praise.

“oikawa’s number one again! no surprise there.” “he’s amazing, isn’t he?” “i heard he stayed up all night studying for this!”

their words stung sharper than you expected, a chorus of admiration that only deepened the ache of coming in second—again.

you forced yourself to breathe, to steady the storm inside. but the familiar voice cutting through the noise was unmistakable.

“hey, number two,” oikawa’s teasing drawl came from just behind you, his grin smug as ever.

and just like that, the tension that had been building snapped into something sharper, more combustible.

“don’t talk to me, oikawa,” you said sharply, your voice low but slicing through the chatter like a razor.

without waiting for a reply, you turned on your heel and strode away, each step heavy with the weight of frustration and bitter disappointment. behind you, oikawa stood frozen for a moment, his usual cocky smirk fading into a flicker of confusion.

hanamaki appeared beside him, arms crossed and wearing an amused yet knowing grin. “i guess the prez finally broke down, huh?” he said quietly, nudging oikawa with an elbow.

oikawa ran a hand through his tousled hair, his grin slowly returning but tinged with something softer, almost reluctant.

“yeah,” he admitted, voice low. “maybe this time, it’s not just a game to her.”

just then, iwaizumi and matsukawa joined the group, having caught up after following the scene. iwaizumi’s usual stern gaze softened as he looked at his two friends.

“you’ve been pushing her for years, tooru,” iwaizumi said, arms crossed, voice steady. “maybe now she’s finally pushing back.”

matsukawa nodded, a small smile on his lips. “she’s tougher than she looks. and she’s not someone you just toy with.”

oikawa’s eyes flickered back toward the direction you’d gone, narrowing thoughtfully. “for me, it’s never been just a game. it’s how i make sure she always notices me.”

hanamaki shook his head with a chuckle. “you’ve been poking the bear for so long, tooru. you might finally find out what happens when she fights back.”

iwaizumi added, “you might want to be ready for that. she’s not the same girl you knew in middle school.”

there was a pause before hanamaki nudged oikawa again, a teasing grin on his face. “because you should’ve just told her what you really felt, tooru.”

oikawa’s gaze lingered on your retreating figure, a mixture of admiration, respect, and something almost like awe settling into his eyes. “i don’t know if i’m ready for that,” he confessed quietly.

but even as he said it, the weight of the rivalry hung heavy in the air—an unspoken truth between them all. a fragile line between competition, irritation… and something far more complicated.

instead of heading to practice like he usually did, oikawa found himself walking toward the student council room, a strange pull guiding his steps. the hallway was quiet, the usual buzz of activity replaced by an unfamiliar stillness. when he pushed open the door, you weren’t there.

he frowned, then glanced at the small window near the ceiling. without hesitation, he made his way up the stairs to the rooftop—because he knew you.

he knew that when the weight of everything got too much, this was where you’d retreat. where you could breathe, away from deadlines, expectations, and the constant pressure to be perfect.

when he reached the rooftop, he found you sitting alone, legs drawn up to your chest, eyes staring off into the distance like you were somewhere far away.

for a moment, oikawa just watched, the usual confident grin replaced by something softer—almost protective. he wasn’t sure if you wanted company, but he wasn’t about to leave you here alone. not today.

“leave me alone, oikawa,” you said without looking up, but you knew it was him.

he froze, a flicker of surprise crossing his face—because you usually called him tooru, not by his last name.

the shift in tone, the distance in your voice—it hit him harder than he expected. for once, he wasn’t sure how to break through the wall you’d put up.

“are you—”

he barely got the words out before you cut him off, sharper this time.

“i said leave me alone, tooru.”

you finally looked up at him then, eyes tired, voice strained—not angry, but worn down, like something in you had finally snapped under the pressure.

and oikawa—he wasn’t used to that tone from you. not the teasing, not the competitive spark. just… exhaustion. disappointment.

for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else, but the words died in his throat.

you stared at him, and something in your chest cracked open—because he was just standing there, still looking at you like you were supposed to be fine. like you could keep doing this. like you hadn’t been breaking little by little.

“you know what’s worse than losing to you?” you said, voice trembling at the edges. “it’s how easy you make it look. like you don’t even try. like you don’t lose sleep. like you’re not terrified of not being enough.”

oikawa blinked, stunned silent.

you looked away, laughing bitterly. “you walk around like everything falls into place for you. and maybe it does, maybe it always will—but i have to fight for every little thing. i have to be perfect or it's not enough. i have to keep up or i’m a disappointment.”

your hands curled tightly into fists.

“so yeah. maybe i get annoyed when you call me number two. maybe i’m tired of always coming in second to you. maybe i’m just—” you swallowed hard, voice dropping, “—tired. of being not enough.”

you didn’t mention the way your parents' voices echoed in your head when you saw the results. you didn’t say how silence at home cut deeper than any scolding. you didn’t say how that one point wasn’t just a number—it was everything they’d use to remind you you weren’t quite there yet.

you just sat there, all of it pressing down on your shoulders like stone, unable to look at him anymore. afraid that if you did, the whole damn dam would burst.

“so tooru,” you muttered, each word sharper than the last, “if you’re just going to stand there to make fun of me…”

your voice cracked, but you pushed through it, jaw clenched as you finished, “just leave me alone.”

you didn’t even have the strength to look at him as the words left your mouth.

oikawa stood there, frozen. every instinct in him screamed to pull you into a hug, to tell you he wasn’t here to tease you, that he never meant to push you this far.

but he knew better.

this wasn’t the moment for that—not when you were breaking, not when the weight you carried wasn’t his to fix.

so, for once, oikawa tooru said nothing.

he stepped back.

and left.

the days leading up to the festival were unusually quiet. for once, no one barged into the council room with a smug grin and half-finished forms. no teasing voice echoing down the halls, no smug remarks about “miss number two.”

just silence.

just… peace.

and it was unbearable.

at first, it was a relief—you had time to breathe, to focus, to finalize the logistics of the festival without anyone pestering you. but the silence kept stretching. and it started to feel less like peace and more like absence.

you hadn’t seen oikawa since that day on the rooftop. no smirks, no casual visits, no fake apologies to buy himself more time on deadlines. he wasn’t even showing up to drop off paperwork anymore. it was always iwaizumi now. and while you appreciated iwaizumi’s quiet efficiency, the lack of chaos—the lack of him—gnawed at you.

and maybe, just maybe, you regretted it.

not the part where you said what you felt. but the part where you pushed him away like it was all his fault. because deep down, you knew it wasn’t.

you were tired. you were under pressure. and he’d just happened to be standing too close when everything finally boiled over.

so now the silence didn’t feel like peace anymore. it felt like distance. and maybe, just maybe… that hurt more.

on the other hand, oikawa wasn’t doing much better.

he tried—god, he really did. he showed up to practice on time, yelled at his team to run blocking drills again and again, even flashed his usual smile at underclassmen when they passed by the gym. but it was hollow, all of it. like watching a performance after the actor forgot his lines.

he hadn’t seen you since the rooftop and he hated how much he noticed.

every time he walked past the student council room, his eyes would flicker to the door, just in case. every time someone mentioned the festival, he half-expected your voice to cut in and scold him about paperwork, about deadlines, about how he was being irresponsible again.

but it never came and the silence started to echo.

his teammates were the first to catch on.

“you’ve been setting like a demon,” matsukawa groaned after taking a ball straight to the chest. “and not in a cool, cinematic way. in a ‘tooru’s got trauma’ kind of way.”

“did you two fight?” hanamaki asked, handing him a water bottle like he was ready to stage an intervention. “or did she finally punch you in the ego like we always hoped?”

oikawa didn’t answer. he just took the water bottle and drained half of it in one go, muttering something about increasing practice intensity.

but they weren’t wrong.

he was more irritable, more tightly wound. the usual charm that masked his stress was cracking around the edges.

iwaizumi, always the most observant, cornered him after practice. they sat on the bench outside the gym, the sun just beginning to dip into the horizon.

“you want to see her, don’t you?”

oikawa didn’t look up. he just ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more than usual. “of course i do. but…” he exhaled slowly, voice quieter, “she told me to leave her alone. and she meant it. i know she did.”

iwaizumi studied him for a moment before replying. “you’re not as good at backing off as you think.”

“yeah, well,” oikawa muttered, giving a weak smile, “turns out i’m even worse at staying away.”

silence settled between them for a few moments.

“you think i’m an idiot, don’t you?”

“always have,” iwaizumi said dryly. “but this time, it’s not because you’re stupid. it’s because you think not showing up is what she needs, when what she probably needed was for you to just be real with her.”

oikawa looked over, eyes flickering with something sharp.

“you think i don’t want to be real with her?” he said, frustrated. “you think i haven’t wanted to tell her everything since—” he cut himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. “but i never know how. with her, it’s always been this game. this rivalry. it’s the only way i knew how to stay close.”

matsukawa, who had wandered over quietly behind them, chimed in, “you could’ve just told her what you really felt, tooru.”

hanamaki followed soon after, tossing a towel at his captain. “maybe if you stopped flirting with sarcasm and actually said something genuine for once, you wouldn’t look like a kicked puppy every time someone says her name.”

“shut up,” oikawa grumbled, but the towel stayed draped on his lap, unmoved.

he leaned back on the bench, staring up at the sky as it deepened from orange to dusky purple.

“i screwed it up, didn’t i?” he said softly.

iwaizumi didn’t say no. instead, he stood up, clapped a hand on oikawa’s shoulder, and said, “not yet. but if you keep doing nothing, you will.”

and with that, the rest of the team walked back into the gym, leaving oikawa alone with his thoughts, a half-empty water bottle, and the hollow ache of wanting someone who asked him to leave.

two days before the festival, the student council room buzzed with low conversation and rustling papers. you were buried in a stack of checklists when the door slid open with a quiet thunk.

“knock knock,” iwaizumi said, holding a folder in one hand and a slightly apologetic look in the other.

you looked up, immediately straightening in your seat. “hey, hajime.”

“here’s the paperwork for the volleyball booth,” he said, placing it gently on your desk. “updated layout, activity proposal, and the final sign-ups. all signed and stamped.”

you blinked. “he actually finished it?”

iwaizumi nodded, then hesitated. “yeah. he did. few days ago, actually. i’ve just been delivering it.”

your hand paused mid-reach over the papers, fingers hovering. “…oh.”

for a few seconds, the room was too quiet.

then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you asked—softly, almost too casually,

“how’s… oikawa doing?”

iwaizumi looked at you for a moment, unreadable. not judging, not surprised. just watching.

“same as usual on the outside,” he said finally. “but quieter. doesn’t talk as much unless it’s volleyball. hasn’t been teasing the first years. or us. which is how we know something’s off.”

you nodded, lips pressed into a line.

“he hasn’t come by.”

“he’s giving you space,” iwaizumi said. then, after a beat: “and it’s killing him.”

your eyes dropped back to the folder. the clean signatures. the neat organization. it wasn’t like oikawa to be so tidy. it wasn’t like him to be distant, either.

and even though some part of you still felt the sting from midterms, another part—a bigger part—missed the way he filled the room with noise.

you cleared your throat. “thanks for the update.”

iwaizumi nodded, already heading for the door.

but just before he left, he paused, looked back, and said, “if you’re still mad, that’s fine. but if you’re not… maybe let him know.”

you looked down at the folder on your desk, running your fingers along its edges, thoughts swirling like an untamed storm. hajime was halfway to the door when you called out quietly—almost too quietly.

"iwa."

he stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.

you swallowed, eyes still fixed on the paper. "i'm not… really mad at him."

the words felt heavy, like they’d been sitting on your chest for days.

"i was frustrated. overwhelmed. with everything. the festival, midterms, and…" you exhaled, shutting your eyes for a moment. "it wasn’t about him. not really. i just… took it out on him. and i hate that i did."

iwaizumi stepped back into the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him. he didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, arms crossed, looking at you with that quiet, grounded calm he always carried.

"he knows," he said simply.

your eyes flicked up to meet his. "what?"

"tooru. he knows it wasn’t really about him," iwaizumi said, walking closer. "he gets it. probably more than he lets on. you think he doesn't notice when someone’s under pressure? he does. especially when it’s you."

you let out a shaky breath, blinking faster now. “he must think i hate him.”

iwaizumi’s lips curled into the faintest smirk. “he’d let you kick him in the shin and still ask if you wanted his last milk bread. you think he’s scared of you being angry?”

“…i did kick him once,” you muttered.

“he still brings it up,” iwaizumi said dryly, a trace of amusement in his voice. “point is, he’s not mad either. he’s just waiting. giving you time. because, you know…” he paused, shrugging a little. “he cares.”

you sat back in your chair, heart squeezing at that.

you weren’t ready to face tooru yet—not completely. but knowing he understood, knowing he was waiting…

it softened something in you.

"thanks, hajime."

iwaizumi nodded, then turned for the door again.

this time, before stepping out, he added without looking back, “just don’t take too long. he’s unbearable when he’s love-sick.”

you blinked. “love-sick? impossible. this is oikawa tooru we’re talking about.”

iwaizumi let out a soft snort. “yeah, well. apparently it’s a condition reserved exclusively for you.”

your breath caught just a little at that. but iwaizumi didn’t linger—he slid the door open and stepped out, leaving you with a folder full of finalized volleyball booth forms, a heart that beat a little too loud in your chest, and the ghost of a smirk on your lips.

when the next day arrived, it was your job to make sure everything was in place—from the booths to the decorations, from the schedules to the last-minute details. the entire school buzzed with energy, but you moved through the halls with a sharp, watchful eye, checking and double-checking every corner of aoba johsai.

you stopped in front of the classroom assigned to the volleyball club. their booth was set up like a cozy cafe, the sweet scent of cakes and fresh breads wafting through the door. colorful signs and neatly arranged pastries made it look inviting—and, knowing oikawa, probably perfectly planned to attract as many visitors as possible.

“iwa, i’ll be ba—” oikawa’s voice stopped abruptly as the door swung open and he caught sight of you standing there.

his usual confident grin flickered for a moment, replaced by something softer, something unreadable.

you met his eyes without hesitation, your clipboard lowered by your side as the buzz of the festival preparations faded into the background—just for a moment.

“hi prez, iwa’s inside if you want to check the booth,” oikawa called over his shoulder, already halfway out the door.

before you could say anything, he was practically sprinting down the hall, leaving a faint trail of his usual confident energy behind him—but this time, tinged with something like nervous excitement.

from the side, you caught the familiar voices of his teammates chuckling.

“he’s hopeless,” hanamaki muttered, shaking his head.

“always running away when it counts,” matsukawa added with a grin.

iwaizumi just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “that’s tooru for you.”

you stepped into the classroom, taking in the cozy setup. the tables were neatly arranged with trays of cakes and breads, decorated with colorful signs and cute little details that only oikawa could come up with. the volleyball club members were bustling quietly, making final adjustments and sharing quick smiles.

everything was in place—ready for the festival.

you let out a small breath of relief. it wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs, and that was enough for now.

as you scanned the menu, your eyes caught a particular cake that hadn’t been on the original list they’d given you.

“hey, haji,” you called softly, “did you add a new cake to the menu?”

iwaizumi glanced over your shoulder, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “oh, the strawberry cheesecake? that was tooru’s last-minute addition. said he knew you liked it.”

you couldn’t suppress a small smile, a mix of annoyance, flattery, and something softer swirling inside you.

“everything looks good. i’ll swing by again tomorrow to check on things. good luck,” you said, patting iwaizumi’s shoulder before turning to leave.

unbeknownst to you, oikawa had been quietly lurking in the back, slipping in through the other door just in time to catch your entire conversation. his eyes sparkled with a mixture of mischief and something more vulnerable.

just then, hanamaki and matsukawa appeared around the corner, grinning as they noticed oikawa caught off guard.

“look at captain,” hanamaki teased, nudging matsukawa. “caught red-handed.”

matsukawa laughed softly. “he’s hopeless, but you gotta admit, it’s kind of sweet.”

iwaizumi shook his head, a smirk on his face. “yeah, and now he’s stuck with us watching his every move.”

oikawa shot them all a playful glare but couldn’t hide the small smile creeping onto his face. beneath the teasing, there was an unspoken hope—that maybe, just maybe, she noticed the little things after all.

the day of the festival came with bright skies, loud chatter, and students from different schools pouring in through the gates. the energy was high, the booths alive with color and movement. everything was in place and no major disasters were happening—no missing materials, no last-minute emergencies, no clubs on the brink of combustion. for once, things were smooth.

you could actually breathe.

you allowed yourself to think—just for today—this might actually be a success.

as promised, you made your way to the volleyball team’s booth. it was buzzing with activity, a line stretching outside the classroom door. inside, the scent of fresh bread and sugar hung in the air, warm and inviting. students sat at desks turned café tables, enjoying cakes, drinks, and breads with cute handwritten menus propped up in front of them.

when it was finally your turn, you scanned the menu only to frown slightly.

“strawberry cheesecake’s sold out already?” you asked.

hanamaki, who was manning the small counter for now, gave you a cheeky grin. “sold out in the first hour. some girl bought two whole slices just because tooru made it.”

you rolled your eyes. of course.

“fine. i’ll just get the milk bread,” you muttered, fishing out your ticket stub to pay.

before hanamaki could ring it up, oikawa appeared from behind the divider with a tray. “make that one milk bread,” he said, carefully placing the warm pastry down, “and one iced choco.”

you blinked. “i didn’t order a drink.”

“but you like it with milk bread,” oikawa said with a soft grin. “iced choco, three cubes of ice, no whip, no syrup—just the way you like it.”

your lips parted slightly in surprise, caught off guard by the memory he held onto so casually. before you could speak, he added, “on the house. it’s festival day, after all.”

from the side, matsukawa leaned toward hanamaki and whispered, loud enough for you both to hear, “and the captain strikes again with his signature move—attention to detail.”

hanamaki fake-gasped. “devastating. truly swoon-worthy.”

oikawa shot them both a glare, but his gaze flicked back to you, a little more unsure now. “i mean, only if… you want it.”

you stared at the tray for a moment. then, with a soft sigh, you took it from his hands.

“thanks… tooru.”

and just like that, his smile returned—easy, bright, and just a little shy around the edges.

when the night had long fallen over aoba johsai, the warmth of the festival fading into the cool hush of a late autumn breeze. students gathered around the bonfire in the courtyard below, laughing, dancing, soaking in the final moments of what would be their last school festival. you should’ve been down there too, smiling with them, celebrating a job well done.

but instead, you were on the rooftop—your usual place of quiet, a little peace above the noise. it had been your biggest undertaking as student council president, and now that it was done, the adrenaline had left you all at once. the silence wrapped around your shoulders like a blanket. you let it.

the door creaked open behind you.

you didn’t even need to look.

“oh. you’re here,” oikawa’s voice broke the stillness, a little softer than usual.

you turned slightly, surprised to see him holding a white pastry box, tied with a neat ribbon—turquoise, like your school color.

“i come bearing gifts,” he said with an awkward little smile. “not to bribe you. well… maybe a little.”

he handed it over. curious, you undid the ribbon and opened the lid.

a whole strawberry cheesecake. not a slice. not a portion. a full, homemade cake.

“you made this?” you blinked, brows raised.

“kind of.” he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away for a second. “i had help. but most of it’s me. i remembered you liked it, so…”

you stared at the cake, then back at him. your lips tugged into a small, exasperated smile. “you’re unbelievable.”

he gave a tiny, nervous laugh, stepping beside you to look out over the bonfire-lit courtyard. for a moment, you both just stood there, watching the flicker of the crowd below. no teasing. no snark.

then he spoke again—quieter this time. “i wanted to tell you something.”

you turned your head slightly, his profile silhouetted by the soft lights coming from below.

“this might sound… stupid, and honestly, i probably should’ve said it sooner,” he muttered. “but i like you.”

you froze.

his voice didn’t waver—but it was gentler than you'd ever heard it.

“i’ve liked you for a while now. probably since you started beating me in rankings,” he added, with a short, self-deprecating chuckle. “you’re smart. and annoying. and really, really good at making me want to try harder.”

you didn’t speak. you couldn’t. the words landed somewhere deep in your chest.

“i’m not asking for anything. i know you’ve got a lot going on,” he said quickly. “but i just… i didn’t want to end high school without telling you. no pressure. take your time, or don’t say anything. i’ll be okay.”

you looked at him, really looked at him—his stupidly pretty eyes, the nervous line of his jaw, the way his hand gripped the railing like it was keeping him steady.

and for the first time in weeks, your heart wasn’t tangled in frustration.

it was warm. uncertain, but warm.

“okay,” you whispered.

you didn’t need to say anything else.

he smiled, and it was softer than any expression you’d ever seen on him.

maybe it wasn’t the beginning of something.

but maybe, just maybe, it could be.

oikawa’s confession stuck with you for weeks.

he didn’t bring it up again—not once. he didn’t push, didn’t pry, didn’t even hint. he went back to being his usual self: annoying, dramatic, always flashing you that ridiculous grin whenever you passed by. and yet… somehow it felt different now. like there was a second meaning hidden under his usual antics. a quiet kind of hope he carried behind every smirk and every stolen glance.

but his presence started to thin.

with the spring qualifiers looming closer, the third-years of the volleyball team were drowning in practice. late nights, early mornings, extra laps, countless drills. it felt like the whole team moved like a single heartbeat—driven and relentless. tooru, especially, seemed to be running on nothing but sheer will and obsession. and just like that, he became harder and harder to catch.

then the match against karasuno happened.

the result hit like a brick to the chest. aoba johsai lost. after everything—they lost. and with that, their journey as third-years was over.

you didn’t go to the game.

you wanted to, but duties piled up and the nerves clawed too sharp in your stomach. but when the final score came in, when you saw the hushed disappointment written across the school’s group chat, the ache bloomed deep in your chest. not because they lost—because you knew how hard they worked. especially him.

so you went to the gym that evening, hours after the game had ended.

it was dimly lit, with only a few lights turned on above the court. you stepped inside quietly, heart hammering in your chest.

the third-years were still there.

iwaizumi sat on the bench, towel around his neck, staring blankly ahead. matsukawa was on the floor, lying on his back with an arm covering his face. hanamaki was tossing a volleyball up and down without really looking at it. sawauchi and yuda were leaning against the wall in silence. shido sat by the door, legs stretched out and eyes shut like he was trying to block the world out.

and oikawa was in the center of the court, kneeling beside a ball, head bowed. still.

none of them noticed you right away.

not until your footsteps echoed.

iwaizumi looked up first. "hey," he said, voice hoarse.

"thought i’d check in," you said gently, eyes sweeping over them. "i figured you’d all still be here."

matsukawa let out a dry chuckle. “we don’t know what else to do.”

hanamaki offered you a half-hearted smile. “hey prez. sorry you had to see us like this.”

you shook your head, walking slowly across the court. “no. you don’t have to apologize. you all did your best.”

oikawa hadn’t moved.

your eyes landed on him, and something in your chest twisted.

“tooru,” you said softly.

his head lifted slightly at your voice, eyes dull with exhaustion and something heavier. pain, maybe. disappointment. loss.

you knelt in front of him, lowering yourself to his level.

“you played great,” you murmured. “all of you did.”

he shook his head, voice barely audible. “it wasn’t enough.”

you reached out and gently placed your hand over his, squeezing. “it mattered. to all of us. to me.”

he looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment the weight in his eyes cracked just a little.

“you came,” he whispered.

“of course i did.”

from the bench, hanamaki cleared his throat. “i swear to god if you cry, i’m leaving.”

“shut up,” oikawa muttered, his voice cracking anyway.

matsukawa smirked. “don’t act tough, we’ve all cried already.”

iwaizumi stood up, tossing his towel over his shoulder. “c’mon. let’s go get something to eat. my treat. we’re not dying here in this gym.”

as the others got up slowly, gathering their bags and their broken spirits, oikawa remained where he was for a second longer.

as the gym slowly emptied, one by one, the third-years dragged their bags over tired shoulders and shuffled toward the exit. the sharp echo of footsteps and the soft scrape of shoes against polished floorboards filled the space before fading into the distant hum of the overhead lights.

iwaizumi gave you a subtle nod as he passed, the kind that said take care of him, a quiet trust passed between you without words.

hanamaki and matsukawa lingered by the door for a moment, exchanging glances full of knowing amusement and concern. hanamaki smirked and whispered something to matsukawa, who snorted softly. you caught the words—rom-com timing—and it made you smile despite the heaviness hanging in the air.

sawauchi, shido, and yuda trailed after them, their footsteps gentle and respectful, fading down the hallway until it was just you and oikawa left in the cavernous gym.

he hadn’t moved from the center of the court. the dim lighting cast long shadows over his hunched frame, kneeling on the hardwood with one hand curled lightly around a scuffed volleyball as if it were the only anchor keeping him grounded.

his back was tense, shoulders tight as if carrying the weight of disappointment itself. his gaze was fixed on the floor, lips pressed into a thin, strained line that barely contained everything he wasn’t saying.

you crouched beside him again, this time closer—close enough to feel the slight tremor in his breath, the faint pulse of his wrist beneath your fingertips.

“tooru,” you said softly, barely louder than the quiet hum of the empty gym.

he didn’t look up. didn’t even flinch.

“i know this isn’t what you wanted,” you whispered, voice steady but tender. “and i know how much you gave—how much you always give.”

his fingers twitched. slow and uncertain, you reached out, letting your hand cover his. the warmth of your skin was a small lifeline in the vast silence.

“you don’t have to smile right now. you don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt—not with me.”

his breath hitched slightly. “it’s just—i tried so hard. i really tried.”

you squeezed his hand, slow and reassuring. “i know.”

his voice cracked like a fragile thread. “i wanted to make it. for us. for iwa-chan. for the team. for—”

“for you,” you finished gently, your voice catching with the weight of the moment. “and you did. you made something incredible.”

finally, his eyes met yours.

they were rimmed red, eyelashes heavy with unshed tears, raw and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen from him before. his face was a map of heartache and stubborn pride, and your chest tightened as empathy and something deeper welled up inside you.

“i lost.”

“you didn’t,” you whispered, leaning in just a little, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. “you gave everything. that’s not losing, tooru.”

his breath hitched again, eyes searching yours, desperate for some kind of truth to hold onto. and for once, he didn’t have a witty comeback or a sharp retort—just silence.

and so you closed the distance.

your lips pressed to his—soft, tentative, trembling slightly with all the words you hadn’t spoken, all the feelings you’d kept locked away. for a heartbeat, he froze, caught off guard by the gentle weight of your kiss.

then he melted into it, his hand lifting to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading into the strands of your hair like he never wanted to let go.

the gym around you faded—no cheers, no confetti, no grand finale. just the quiet, steady rhythm of two hearts finding each other in the dark.

when you pulled away, his eyes were wide, shimmering with emotion, lips parted slightly as if tasting the moment again.

you smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“no pressure, right?”

a soft, raw laugh escaped him. “right.”

“good,” you murmured. “but next time, let me cheer for you before the game.”

“deal,” he breathed, voice thick with something like hope.

and this time, he leaned in first.

bonus scene.

hidden just outside the gym door, hanamaki, matsukawa, and iwaizumi leaned casually against the wall, trying to keep their expressions neutral—but the amusement and relief were obvious in their eyes.

hanamaki was the first to break the silence, letting out a low, impressed whistle. “finally. about time those two stopped dancing around each other like it’s some kind of complicated volleyball drill.”

matsukawa chuckled, nudging iwaizumi with a grin. “guess that means we can officially retire from matchmaking duty, huh?”

iwaizumi gave a tired but genuine smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah, i can finally live in peace… at least until the next disaster.”

hanamaki smirked knowingly. “don’t get too comfortable, hajime. now that they’re official, you’re basically their go-to therapist for all the drama.”

matsukawa laughed, crossing his arms. “and oikawa? he’s probably gonna come back swinging with ten times the teasing. no way he’s letting this slide quietly.”

iwaizumi sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “i’m doomed.”

they shared a look, the quiet camaraderie between them filling the space. then, breaking through the muffled sounds from inside the gym, came your sharp, amused voice.

“hey! i can hear you, you know!”

hanamaki’s grin faltered for a moment. “oh, busted.”

matsukawa laughed openly. “guess we weren’t as stealthy as we thought.”

iwaizumi threw his hands up, chuckling. “and here i thought i was done with the chaos.”

the three exchanged a glance, laughter bubbling between them as the gym’s silence returned. footsteps echoed softly inside, and through it all hung the unmistakable warmth of something finally falling into place—something worth waiting for.

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