#Someone get him a modelling contract

[hexedwinchester]

i know Jared doesn't come from modelling background but damn that man can walk a ramp! 😍😍😍😍

[gyudons]

despicable

updates as of 22 oct

Travis Dermott knew that he would draw attention with his actions in the Coyotes’ home opener against the Anaheim Ducks at Mullett Arena on Saturday. The Arizona defenseman just hoped that the spotlight might shine on the issue that he was addressing, not on him.

“You don’t really want to go against rules that are put in place by your employer, but there’s some people who took some positive things from it,” Dermott said. “That’s kind of what I’m looking to impact.

“You want to have everyone feel included and that’s something that I have felt passionate about for a long time in my career. It’s not like I just just jumped on this train. It’s something that I’ve felt has been lacking in the hockey community for a while. I feel like we need supporters of a movement like this; to have everyone feel included and really to beat home the idea that hockey is for everyone.”

“I won’t lie,” said Dermott, who is playing on a one-year, two-way contract. “From the outside, it’s easy to see that I’m putting my career on the line for something. I definitely went through some emotional ups and downs that night, not regretting anything by any means, but I’d love to have maybe done a couple of steps a little different by making sure that everyone was aware of what was going on before I did it.

“I don’t want to put my teammates or my coaches or my GMs or the equipment managers in any kind of bad light when it’s their job to kind of look out for something like this happening. It was definitely something that I did just by myself and was prepared to kind of deal with whatever repercussions the league decides to push towards that. I’m not going to back off and say that this battle is won, but we’re going to find better ways to do it.”

As Dermott noted, LGBTQ+ inclusion is an issue that he has supported for a long time. Without getting into specifics, Dermott said the issue is personal for him because it impacts people close to him.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t shed tears about this on multiple occasions,” he said. “So yeah, it’s something I’m definitely very passionate about.

“I’ve met a lot of people that from the outside, it looks like they have everything going right in their life and they have a smile on their face every time they talk to you. But sometimes when we get closer to people and get comfortable enough for them to open up to you, you can see that there’s some pretty dark stuff happening to some good people. It doesn’t take too many times encountering something like that for it to really change someone.

“I’ve been blessed to have some of those opportunities put in front of me to really change my view of what being a good person means; what being a good father and a good example and role model means going forward. You really see how people are hurting and it’s because of a system that maybe no one’s intentionally trying to be malicious about, but until you’ve really had that first-person experience seeing people hurting from it right in front of you, it’s tough to kind of take steps.”

It would be a surprise if the league handed down any sort of punishment. The optics alone would add to the public relations damage that the original ban created. Even so, Dermott reiterated his desire to bring the entire franchise into the fold before he takes similar actions in the future, but he also made it clear that he will not be silenced on the topic.

“It’s not like I’m shutting up and going away,” he said. “I know more questions are going to be coming. We’re just going to be as prepared as we can be to just spread love. That’s the thing. It’s gay pride that we’re talking about, but it could be men’s health. It could be any war. It’s just wanting world peace. Everyone’s got to love each other a little bit more.

“Like my parents said growing up, ‘How awesome would it be to be the guy that people look up to?’ That’s what really hit home when I was a kid, especially from my mom. You want to grow up and be that guy. You want to be the guy that’s having the impact on kids like NHL players had on you. If they had been racist or bigoted, that’s going to have an effect on you.

“With how many eyes are on us, especially with the young kids coming up in the new generation, you want to put as much positive love into their brain as you can. You want them to see that it’s not just being taught or coming from maybe their parents at home. They need to see it in the public eye for it to really make an effect.”

[baeshijima]

— stardust

the world is a vast place. in the grand scheme of things, humans are but a speck of dust; much like how you are sure you are nothing but a meagre speck of dust in the world he lives in, forever to be remained unseen. (if only you knew how you are the brightest star he'd ever laid his eyes upon.)

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 1.5k wc, royalty!au, contract marriage/marriage of convenience, fluff, smitten reca bc what would he be other than smitten, a little hint of bittersweet at the end if read between the lines aha...

A/N : ....i have a paper due monday. i havent started it. why do i do this to myself. (reca i love u can u not hear my cries and wails as fic after fic appears in my brain for u...)

Duke Reca of the northern territory; to many he is a well-accomplished noble, a young genius set for greater things, and the owner-slash-founder of the top theatre company. He is an idol — a role model to those who aspire to be more involved in the artistic side of the world.

To you, however, he is an absolute lunatic, the bane of your existence, and your contractual husband.

It's not like you had much choice. It was either: a) remain as a hollow puppet whose strings danced at your family's fingertips, or b) find some way to escape with outside power.

You, of course, chose the second option. Unfortunately, that somehow led to you meeting the young duke when out in the shopping district, trying to escape the suffocating presence of your family's knights accompanying you by running into a secluded alleyway, even if it was for but a momentary breather.

It was a whirlwind of a meeting... quite literally. Bodies flew; clothing tousled; breaths stolen. Well, at least for you it was like this. He, on the other hand, looked right as rain. (Lucky bastard.) You hadn't realised it was him at first, too absorbed in hasty apologies and the numbing bloom spreading across your backside like a wildfire (really, they ought to incorporate more padding in these flimsy clothes!), but when he uttered an apology of his own for not paying attention to his surroundings with an arm outstretched to help you stand, your mind all but blanked. What was someone of his status doing in a dingy alley? Didn't the newspapers report word of his self-confinement, having not stepped foot outside his manor in fervent preparation of his upcoming performance?

No, never mind all that; wasn't this a blatant opportunity being presented to you? An outside power that could help you escape the clutches of your family...

With gritted teeth, all sense of self-dignity was cast aside as you grasped his outstretched hand with both of your own, gazing into his widened eyes with your own narrowed ones.

"Your Grace, I know this is hardly the appropriate time nor place, but please... marry me!" Your words echoed within the enclosed space. Duke Reca blinked slowly down at you, and it was then you realised you never elaborated. "In... in a contractual marriage of convenience, of course."

"Oh?" he grinned, amusement and intrigue twinkling in his eyes. "And what is it you can offer me?"

"I..." Truthfully, there was nothing you could offer which would be beneficial to someone like him who had everything at the tips of his fingers. You were but a speck of dust in his world, merely floating and remaining unseen within his view. But even so, here you kneeled before him, his gaze wholly fixated on a speck of dust such as yourself. If nothing else, you at least had your desperation — a desperation to be your own person. "My lineage may be from that of a baron's, but I am confident I can be of use to you if you would permit it. So long as you accept my offer, I will do anything to aid you, whether that be through practical means or a performance you wish to see."

A beat of silence.

"Ha... haha... ahahaha!!"

And, as if things couldn't get any worse than a sore rear and disgruntled self, you were pulled out of your daze by a pair of gleaming carmine eyes, a maniacal grin, and his body, now kneeled just like you were, so very close to your own.

"That determination... how brilliantly you burn with such an expression!" The sheer glee which bled through his tone sent shivers down your spine, having never realised someone so esteemed had such a side to him. The duke breathed a breathy laugh and slightly backed up, his hands still holding your arms. "Alright, I look forward to seeing how brightly you will shine in your performance, my dear leading actor."

...Was it too late to back out and find an alternative solution?

Admittedly so, for the next thing you knew vows were declared and you were moved into the duke's residence. You could still remember your family's aghast expressions the moment you declared you were marrying Duke Reca and thus cutting ties with them. It was oddly freeing to see their contorted faces reveal their true nature.

Life as the duke's spouse was... something, to say the least. His servants and attendants almost seemed to have shed tears of joy at the revelation of their ever so lonely duke (their words, not yours) finally settling down and getting married, asking you questions such as how you both met, what drew you to their duke, who popped the question first, why you chose him of all people, so on so forth. It was... cosy. Something you admittedly weren't very accustomed to, but found yourself welcoming nonetheless.

One thing you never expected was for the duke to have a little pet of his own; a little toad dressed in a miniature beret and matching suit, at that. Assistant Director is what Reca had called her, and you think for someone so obsessed with the arts he ought to up his naming sense. She was also quite susceptible to compliments, something you discovered when commenting on the little toad's cute attire, with the duke's baffling translation of her bashfulness and her own compliment on your own looks. Apparently. You're not really sure, but you're inclined to believe it ever since she claimed a spot on your shoulder.

As the days-turned-weeks-turned-months bled into each other, you found yourself oddly lost at how well-adapted you have become of your new life and the duke's personality. From impromptu displays of affection both in and outside the manor to sporadic radio silence on his end when wholly consumed by his fervent passion for a project, you sometimes wonder just how you're still alive with the amount of heart attacks the man has given you.

But despite his... eccentricities, to put it lightly, there are times where you can't quite put a finger on certain expressions he would make when he thinks you're not looking. They're unlike his (once again, to put it very lightly) passionate eyes when rambling to you during mealtimes about an upcoming performance the troupe has; unlike the sheer mania he can exude when something truly sparks his inspiration; unlike the playfully smug grin he would give you when swooping down in dramatic flair to press a long kiss to the back of your palm; unlike the rare darkening of his expression that you cannot help but stiffen at when something or someone in the troupe doesn't quite match his expectations.

No. These ones are... soft. A kind of tenderness and unprecedented longing able to be identified if scrutinised close enough. It was evident in the ghost-like touches he would trail along your skin, as though afraid just a little more force would do irreparable damage. It was evident in the attention to even the most minute details, having everything from clothing to food to the decor suited to preferences you yourself never realised you had. It was evident in the way unadulterated fondness leaked through his tone when his unique terms of affection for you slipped through his lips when all was silent and you were supposed to be asleep.

"My dearest star..."

...Much like now, it would seem.

The bed dips by where your knees slightly bend, hidden under the beige covers. A familiar musky scent surrounds you not long after, and you find yourself involuntarily relaxing at the comfort it brings as your head further burrows into the pillow.

You want to stay awake, even if it's just for a second longer, to hear what he has to say to your less than conscious state. But, oh, his fingers threading through your hair and softly massaging your scalp and the gentle touch of his forehead against yours and the subtle comforting warmth that rolls off his body in waves does little to help you fight the sleep which easily takes over.

Oh, whatever! You'll just try and catch what he has to say next time.

Eventually your breathing evens out, only soft snores now heard within the large shared bedroom. Upon noticing this, Reca cannot stop the fond smile which lifts the corners of his lips, nor can he prevent the softening of his eyes as he continues to gaze at your sleeping form.

"My dearest [Name]," he whispers into the dead of night. Even now, several months later, he still cannot believe his luck to have run into you in that alleyway. It must have been fate which made him heed its call, urging him he would discover something sure to escape that terrible slump plaguing him for weeks on end.

Sure enough, it brought him to something irreplaceable; something he has been searching desperately for.

You.

And, with the tenderest of kisses pressed to your forehead that would put even the most sickening romantics to shame, he murmurs words of promise against your skin, an oath he swears to uphold no matter the obstacles which stand before him.

"In this life, I will ensure you have only the best of endings."

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

[writting-stuff-sometimes]

Treat You Better - Lando x Fem reader

Summary: Y/n broke up with Lando a while ago. One night she overhears a conversation that makes her want to protect him.

Warnings: Slightly suggestive, bad words, alcohol consumption.

Word Count: 16K

Notes: Nosey me really wants to know what happened at that nightclub. I hope you like it, and as always, feedback and requests are very welcome.

____________________________________

You hated this situation, you felt so bad for Lando. You couldn't shake away the memory of the model walking in that bathroom with her friend talking about how Lando was going to be the best way to help her career, and that she just had to deal with all the F1 bullshit, his and his friends' childish behavior for a couple of months to get enough contracts, and then she'll try to find true love. Honestly, you couldn't believe someone like her could love anyone but herself.

“I think you should warn him”

“I don’t know. If he still hates me as much as he did when I left, he’s going to think I’m doing it out of spite, or that I want him back”

“And you don’t?” Your bff looked at you with a knowing look.

“Off topic” You took a sip from your wine glass.

“Fine. But don't you think it is super weird? What were the odds of you and her being in London, at the same restaurant, inside the same bathroom as she decided to spill her stupid plan?"

"I must be paying some freaking karma" You sighted drifting into your own thoughts,

"Ok, enough about this, are you ready for tomorrow?"

"Are you seriously making me go?"

"Of course! Y/N, you need something to keep your mind off things and I don't want to go on my own, I barely know the guy"

Ellie had met a DJ through Tinder and he had invited her to a private party he was playing at, in one of the Monaco nightclubs.

As much as you wanted to stay back and melt into the anxiety the situation had put you in for the last month, you agreed because that was the best friend thing to do.

_________________________

You got to the nightclub, it was a launch party for a cosmetic brand. As you were led to the DJ booth, memories rushed back. You had joined Lando for a couple of nights during his DJ era. Fuck, you had missed this, and you missed him. You needed to keep those thoughts away and an open bar seemed like a good solution... or so you thought.

It had been a few hours and a considerable number of drinks when Ellie grabbed your hand and pulled you to talk to your ear, a strange choice since the music wasn't even that loud, it was one of those parties where influencers and models try to get contracts and to get known by PRs.

"Please, promise me we're not leaving"

"What?"

"Please, promise me. I'm having a good time" She pulled the puppy eyes trick, but what was she talking about?

"Ellie, how drunk are you?"

"Look over there" she discretely signaled to a table towards the exit.

What was she doing there? Was Lando there too? You almost panicked, but he couldn't be. He had raced in Baku that same day. Yes, you still knew his calendar by heart. Usually, he would fly back home the next day. This explained why she was throwing herself at some guy on her table.

"Fuck"

"You promised"

"I didn't"

"Please"

You knew this was a bad idea, you already dreaded the girl, and seeing her hump all over some guy, as Lando was away, made your blood boil. You tried to stay and keep her off your mind but it was impossible, there was no amount of alcohol in this world that could make this situation bearable.

"I'm going home"

"Y/n, please"

"If I have to see her dry-hump another guy for two more seconds I might actually punch her"

"Don't go! C'mon"

"Elle..."

"Fine, let me know when you're home"

You hugged your friend goodbye and rushed towards the exit. On your way out her voice caught your ear, that voice you couldn't keep out of your head. Clearly, you had offended the gods.

"Oh no! I'm single at the moment. I'm sooo tired of dating man-childs, like, they're fun but it's so exhausting trying to have a conversation when all they can talk about is themselves and how cool their little toys are"

Before your brain could catch up with your body, you were already making a beeline toward her.

"Hi, sorry, can I steal her for a second?" You faked a smile to the PR as you grabbed Mila by the arm and pulled her toward a dark corner of the club.

"What the fuck? Let me go!" She tried to shake your hand away when she recognized you. You finally let go of her and stood cornering her against the dark wall.

"Listen to me, you're going to stop this nonsense about Lando"

"Why? Does your career need a boost and you want him back?"

"At least I have a career people can talk about, and not just who's going between my legs"

"Fuck you" She tried walking away but you blocked her path.

"No, you're going to listen to me, you little shit. You and your stupid friends can think whatever you want about Lando, but I won't let you damage his image just so you can have your five minutes"

"I don't know what you're talking about" Her shit-eating grin seemed even worse to your alcohol intoxicated eyes.

"Really? So it wasn't you who told one of your friends that you just had to deal with this F1 bullshit for a little while to get enough contracts?" Her breath hitched for a second but then the smug face returned.

"Please" she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. You wanted to punch her stupid grin away.

"Last warning, either you stop this nonsense, or everybody will know what a shitty person you are"

"Honey, no one's going to believe you, they will just think you're a jealous, bitter, ex-girlfriend"

"Are you sure? Have you seen the comments?" You pulled your phone from your bag waving it in her face " You don't seem to have the crowd on your side. So, listen, "honey", you want to date him, be my guest, but stop talking shit about him, he doesn't deserve it"

"Fuck you" She pushed you to the side and walked back to her table. You turned around and people were staring at you, also a few phones were pointing your way. Fuck, this was going to be all over the place.

_____________________________

You were still shaking when you got home. You hadn't been this angry at someone in a long time.

You took a cold shower to ease the heat inside you, took a sweatshirt from your closet, and went to bed.

_____________________________

"I'm surprised you didn't punch her in the face, you're such a grown-up" Ellie sat by your side on the couch.

"I wanted to, bad. But I'm not jail material. What about you? I was expecting Mr. Dj to be here this morning"

"We went to his house"

"And?"

"It was nice and all but you know I don't sleep out-"

A hard knock on the door caused a stinging pain in your head. Stupid open bar.

"I'll get that" Ellie walked to the door as you laid your head back on the couch and closed your eyes trying to ease the hangover pain.

"Please tell me Mr. Dj sent coffee"

"I guess you're in for disappointment" His voice made your heart stop.

You took a deep breath before opening your eyes and leaning back up to look at him.

"Can you give us a minute, Ellie?" He spoke before you could say a word. Your best friend who looked as shocked as you, turned your way. You nodded yes.

"I'll be over there. Nice to see you Lan" She walked to her bedroom and mouthed "Tell him" as she passed you.

"Care to explain?" You could hear a slight hint of anger in his voice, and like the psycho you were, it was making your heart rush. You were always playfully pushing his buttons to anger him enough that it would lead to rough sex, but sex was not the final outcome this time. So you had to take another deep breath to ease the heat inside.

"Y/n?" His saying your name did not make things easier. The space around you started to feel smaller by the second. You stood up and walked towards the kitchen.

"Coffee?" Your voice hoarse, as if you had been screaming for hours.

For a second his mind drifted off topic, your outfit being nothing but an oversized sweatshirt caught him off balance, even more when he realized it was one of his. A buzzing on his phone brought him back to reality and the name on the screen back to the topic.

Mila Where are you, baby?

"No thanks, I'm not here for coffee, I'm here to find out what the heck happened last night?" He followed you but kept a safe distance.

You started working the coffee machine, a cheap way to escape his presence, as a fight took place in your mind, should you tell him? Was he going to believe you?

"Y/N, I don't have all day, why did you attack Mila?"

"I didn't attack her" You finally spoke.

"That's not what the media says, and what the video shows"

"There's a video? You can't be safe anywhere" You joked.

"I'm being serious" He finally walked up to you taking the empty mug from your hand. "What the fuck was that? just because you don't have anyone in your life, it doesn't mean you have to ruin my relationship with Mila"

Low blow, Norris.

"Relationship?! Please, Lando" You spat before you could process the words.

"What? Just because you didn't want a relationship with me it doesn't mean other people won't want it either"

"What made you think I didn't want a relationship with you?"

"Umm, the fact that you ran away in the middle of the fucking night after ONE fight, ghosted me for two weeks, and just sent an "I can't do this anymore" text before blocking me from every single place? I'm not stupid"

"It wasn't just one fight. We had been fighting so much for the last month, and that last time the only difference was the volume"

"But that happens, just because we love each other it doesn't mean everything is going to be sweets and roses"

The word love sent lighting throughout your body.

"Lan, I didn't leave because of those fights. I left because you weren't happy with me, with us" Your eyes started watering, leaving him had been one of the toughest decisions.

"What?"

"You were lying to me, you were hiding. Does that seem like a happy relationship?" He stared at you confused "I knew about your nightclub and dinner escapades when I wasn't going to the GP's. I never minded you going to those things without me, I don't know why you started lying about them?" You could see it on his face he knew he had screwed up.

"But I never cheated or anything, I promise"

"I know, but it felt as if I was keeping you from doing stuff you wanted and that you felt the need to hide from me" You felt like he was being forced to be with you, like you were keeping him from things he liked.

"Y/n, I was so fucking happy with you, I just...I wasn't thinking. I saw how others got in trouble for going out alone and thought, I... I fucked up" He walked closer toward you and shily played with the hem of your sweatshirt.

"Lan -" His phone rang in his hand, Mila's name on the screen shattering the moment completely. You sighed and stepped back "Just be careful, ok?"

"Careful?"

"She might not be what you think she is"

"What are you talking about?"

You bit your lip still unsure about spilling it all out.

"Y/N"

"I heard her at Scully's a month ago. She was with some friends, I was in the restroom when she got in and I heard her tell her friend that she just needed to deal with F1 for a while to get enough contracts" You kept the details to yourself, they felt unnecessary.

He looked hurt but not surprised.

"I'm sorry" You whispered.

"Is that why you were fighting yesterday?"

"Yeah, basically" You weren't sure if telling him the "attack" had also been fueled by seeing her dry-hump two different guys was good, it seemed he had received the message.

"Why would you care?" He softly asked, his green eyes fixed on yours.

"Lan" You turned back to the coffee machine, the noise grounding you and keeping your mind from drifting into the romantic scenarios it was dying to go to.

"Tell me" He took a step closer. You could feel his body heat radiate towards you.

"Just" You knew where this was leading, what he wanted to hear, but you weren't sure you wanted to say those words.

"Bull" His hand landed on your hip. The electricity from his touch made you jump.

"Lando, stop it please" You stepped to the side escaping his touch.

"No" He took you firmly by the waist and turned you around, trapping you against the counter. "Why would you do that?"

"What do you want to hear?"

"Just tell me why did you do that?"

"Please just leave it" You closed your eyes and threw your head back, this situation and the awful hangover were killing you physically and mentally. But all Lando could see was your neck, it was almost begging him to kiss it, but he fought the urge, he needed you to accept you wanted him too.

"No, I don't want to" His voice was almost childlike.

"God Lando, damn it! I did it because I couldn't stand her talking shit about you. Yes, you can be stubborn, annoying, and sometimes such a child that I want to kill you, but you're also a loving, caring, responsible, smart and such a wonderful human being you don't deserve someone treating you like that. Happy?!"

"Yes" He pulled you from your waist and joined your lips.

His flesh touching yours felt like a breath of fresh air. You couldn't fight it anymore, and as much as you wanted to deny it, you loved him, you loved him deeply.

Your hands found their place behind his neck, softly playing with his curls.

His hands traveled down from your waist to your thighs, caressing them and indulging in the warmth of your skin. He then squeezed your ass and pulled you to carry you to the sofa.

He sat on it as you straddle him. He gave one last peck to your lips and started kissing down your chin, reaching that sensitive spot on your neck right below your ear as his arms pressed you harder against his body. Making you moan at the feeling of the bulging sweats under you.

"I've missed you, don't leave me, please" He whispered softly against your skin.

His phone buzzed again inside his pocket.

"Lan, wait" You pushed his head away from your body.

"What?"

"You're with Mila"

A breathy laugh made his chest bounce.

"C'mon, we were just fooling around"

"Does she know that?"

"Now you care about her?"

"It's not her. But I can't be a hypocrite. I don't want the bad karma"

"Fine" He took the phone from his pocket and dialed. After a couple of rings, you heard that damn voice coming from the speaker.

"Baby, I've been calling you for hours, where are you? Lucia and I are waiting for you to go to the marina, I promised her we would tan on the yacht today"

"Mila, we're done"

The line went silent for a few seconds. You could almost picture the shocked face on the other side of the phone.

"What?" Her voice was a thousand octaves higher.

"What you heard. Go find someone else to leach from. See ya" He hung up with the biggest grin.

"Happy?" He said as he turned off his phone and placed it to the side.

"She's going to kill you"

"Good thing I have my own personal bodyguard" He buried his face on your chest, inhaling your scent, he had missed so much.

"Oh, now I'm your bodyguard?"

"Yup, fuck Jlo's bodyguard, now I have the hottest one"

"You're such an idiot"

"As long as I'm your idiot I don't care about anything else"

You pulled him to kiss again. His hands sneaked under the sweatshirt, caressing the soft skin inside it.

"Nice outfit by the way" Hi said against your lips.

You turned to look down at it and then realized you were wearing one of the sweatshirts you had stolen from him. You had worn it nonstop for weeks after the breakup until his scent had faded.

"I'm sorry I stole it"

"It looks way better on you"

He pulled you back to resume your makeout, as your hands played with the curls at the back of his head.

"You've been awfully quiet over here..." Ellie said out loud walking the hallway. "I just want to make sure you've not killed each oth-" She stared at the scene with a terrified look on her face.

"Please tell me you weren't having sex on the sofa"

"You're about a year too late"

"Ew, please tell me that's a lie. I really, really like that sofa and I don't want to have to burn it" She stared at you, disgust all over her face.

"He's joking" You punched his side playfully.

"Promise?" she asked

"Promise"

"Ok. And, as much as I'm happy you two are back together, please take it to the bedroom and give me five so I can be far far away before you start your unholy activities"

"Three is the most we can give you" Lando stood from the sofa carrying you.

"Two" he said kissing your neck and walking toward your bedroom.

"Nooo, c'mon, stop it" Ellie rushed to her room "Just let me get dressed and I'll be out of here, please!"

"You're mean" You smiled against his lips.

"And you're mine" Hi bit your lower lip closing your door with his foot.

"Send me a message when you're done and I can return"

"See you next week!" Lando yelled back. He returned his lips to your neck, removing the only piece of clothing covering you.

"Very funny!" Was the last thing you heard before the front door slammed.

As much as it sounded like a joke, Lando was determined to make up for lost time.

Tag List: @wtrmlnsgr94, @ricsaigaslec, @ironmaiden1313, @formulas-bitch,

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (02)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 4.1k

Aliyah's Notes: rafe triple appearances 👏 i actually rlly like this yk like the pacing and the dynamics are great imo. i hope u all will like it too. reader seems like such a jobless ho in this chap but she's booked and busy yall i promise

As the early morning sunlight streamed through the large windows of your apartment, you stood in front of your full-length mirror, taking a deep breath as she surveyed her reflection. Today was the day—the day you would finally meet Rafe Cameron and discuss the terms of your marriage arrangement. The thought made your stomach flutter with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

Despite your bubbling personality, the pressure of the situation weighed heavily on your shoulders. You had spent the past few days steeling yourself for this moment, and now that it was finally here, the reality of it sent your heart racing.

You glanced at your closet, a vibrant array of outfits hanging neatly. You had planned to wear something that screamed “fabulous”, but time was slipping away from you. You settled on a leopard-print strapless top, pairing it with a denim mini skirt. You slipped on your favorite black heels, which added just the right amount of height and made your legs longer. You grabbed your black Prada bag, a reminder of the success you had fought so hard to achieve.

Despite your nerves, you felt a surge of excitement. This meeting was a step forward resolving your visa issues, and you were determined to make the best of it. You wanted to present yourself as confident, someone who could hold your own—especially when facing someone like Rafe Cameron.

You slipped into the back seat of your private car, offering a quick nod to your driver, Gregory. As the engine purred to life, you felt your heart pounding in your ears, each beat amplifying the weight of anticipation.

When you arrived at the law office, your gaze immediately landed on Nicolas, your lawyer. He stood up from his chair and made his way over, exchanging small talk that felt oddly comforting amid the tension. Together, you entered the meeting room, where Rafe and his lawyer were already waiting for you.

Even seated, his presence dominated the space. His broad shoulders, casual posture, and confident smirk that made him look every bit the arrogant athlete you had read about. His lawyer, Sabrina Rashid, sat beside him, a sharply dressed woman who radiated professionalism. Rafe, on the other hand, looked annoyingly relaxed in a plain white t-shirt and black jeans. 

Well, this made you look overdressed… Embarrassing, but you kept your head held high.

Nicolas gestured toward the table. “Shall we?”

You slid into the chair opposite Rafe, offering a small nod to his lawyer before turning your attention to him. His blue eyes flickered over you, lingering longer than necessary. You could practically feel his ego inflate with every second.

“You’re late,” he drawled, breaking the silence. His voice was as cocky as his expression.

You arched a brow, setting your Prada bag on the table with a soft thud. “Hello to you too—and you’re lucky I showed up at all, considering your reputation.”

He smiled. “Feisty. I like that.”

And so, you cringed at his words. You rolled your eyes, refusing to take the bait. “Let’s get to the point, shall we?”

Nico cleared his throat, clearly eager to steer the conversation to business. “Yes, well, the purpose of today’s meeting is to discuss the logistics of the marriage arrangement—specifically, where you’ll be living, financial obligations, and how this will be handled publicly.”

“Publicly?” you repeated, frowning slightly. “I thought this was supposed to be discreet.”

Rafe shrugged. “I don’t do discreet, sweetheart.”

You shot him a glare. “I am not your sweetheart.”

“Not yet, but wait ‘till we’re married.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by his audacity, but recovered. “This isn’t going to be like that. We’re not doing some fake, lovey-dovey routine for the press.”

Rafe leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “Who said anything about love? I’m talking about looking like a normal couple, someone the media can’t tear apart every other week. It’s all about appearances, sweetheart.”

“Stop calling me sweetheart.”

“Whatever you say,” he grinned. “Plus, you gotta admit, you and I? We’d be a headline every day, sweetheart.”

“Is he serio—”

Nico stepped in before you could respond. “Alright, enough. Let’s get back on track.” He glanced at Rafe’s lawyer, who nodded and opened a folder.

“First item on the agenda: where will you two be living?” Sabrina asked, her tone professional and no-nonsense. “Given that this marriage is primary for legal purposes, we need to establish residency. For it to be legitimate, you will need to live together.”

You shot a look at Rafe, who was already smirking like he’d won some kind of silent argument. “I’m not moving in with him,” you said flatly.

“You think I’m thrilled about having a roommate? Especially one who probably spends hours in front of the mirror.”

You crossed your arms. “I do not.”

Lies.

“Oh, please. You’re a model. You probably have a different skincare for every day of the week.”

“And it’s supposed to be a bad thing because…?” You frowned. “You should take exemple. You look like you wash your face with body soap.”

Nico pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s focus, kids.”

Rafe’s lawyer continued, ignoring the banter. “You’ll need to appear as though you’re cohabiting. If not, immigration authorities will become suspicious, and the arrangement could fall apart.”

You narrowed your eyes at Rafe. “Where do you live, anyway?”

He learned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I’ve got a place in SoHo. Penthouse. Nice view, great amenities. It’s got plenty of space for you to do… whatever it is models do.”

“Funny, I have my place in the Upper East Side. And I am not giving it up.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Upper East Side, huh? Posh.”

“I earned it.”

“Well, we’ll need to figure something out,” Sabrina interjected smoothly. “But you need to live together. In one place.”

Rafe looked amused. “You can have the closet space. I’m a sweet guy like that.”

“How generous,” you muttered, turning back to the lawyers. “Fine. We can do the whole ‘living in one place together’ thing. But I need time off, to stay at my place once in a while.”

Rafe winked. “Wouldn’t want to cramp your style.”

You ignored him. “What about finances? How is this going to work?”

Nico pulled out his own folder. “We’ve drafted a preliminary agreement outlining financial contributions from both parties. It’s important that this marriage appears legitimate, so we suggest pooling certain expenses—utilities, rent or mortgage payments, and shared household costs. This can be done through a joint account, which will be monitored to ensure the marriage looks genuine.”

You could feel Rafe’s eyes on you, and you shot him a look. “A joint account? I hope you’re not expecting me to pay for your post-game drinks?”

He chuckled. “Relax. I’ve got more money than you can spend in a lifetime. The joint account is just for show. But if you want to chip in for groceries, I won’t stop you.”

“Oh, how noble of you,” you replied dryly.

Nico glanced between you and Rafe, clearly trying to keep the conversation on track. “This account will cover all necessary shared expenses—bills, groceries, and any incidentals that may arise from your living arrangements. It’ll help maintain the appearance of a genuine marriage.”

Sabrina nodded in agreement. “Exactly. As for your individual assets, those will remain separate. No need to worry about your personal finances getting tangled up.”

You relaxed a little at that. “Good.”

“And what about public appearances?” Rafe asked, sounding surprisingly serious. “How often do we need to do the whole ‘happy couple’ thing?”

Nico exchanged a look with Rafe’s lawyer. “You’ll need to be seen together frequently enough to make it believable, but not so much that it seems forced. A few key events—charity galas, public outings—will suffice. It’s important that you strike a balance.”

Rafe shrugged. “I’ve got games, events, plenty of opportunities to be seen.”

You sighed. “I have shoots, fashion shows, and meetings. We’re both busy.”

“Sounds like we’ll have to schedule our love life,” he quipped, flashing you a grin that made you want to throttle at him.

You gave him a sweet smile. “Good thing it’s not real.”

He laughed, and for a second, the tension in the room eased.

Nico shuffled his papers. “There’s one more thing to discuss—media coverage. Given that Mr. Cameron is already in the spotlight, it’s important to control the narrative.”

Sabrina continued; “We’ll need to issue a carefully crafted statement once the marriage is official. Something that explains how you met, why you’re together, and addresses any potential rumors before they can spiral out of control.”

“A public statement?” You cringed at the thought.

“It’s necessary,” Nico said. “If this looks like a publicity stunt, it could raise red flags with immigration.”

Rafe leaned back in his chair, looking far too relaxed for the situation. “Don’t worry, we’ll make it believable. I’m great with the media.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what worries me,” you muttered.

He smirked. “Come on, sweetie. We’ll be the hottest couple in New York. Think of the headlines.”

“I’d rather not,” you moved your hands dismissively.

The lawyer continued discussing the finer details of the arrangement—contract clauses, confidentiality agreements, and timelines. You zoned out for a moment, your eyes drifting back to Rafe. Despite his infuriating attitude, there was something about him. Something that made you feel like this might not be the worst decision after all.

“I hope you’re prepared for the spotlight,” he said suddenly, snapping you back to reality. “The media’s gonna eat this up.”

You arched a brow. “Please. I’ve been in the spotlight longer than you have, and with far less drama.”

He grinned. “We’ll see about that.”

You leaned forward, meeting his gaze head-on, the space between you suddenly charged. “I’m not one of your little fangirls, Rafe. You might charm the media, but you’re not charming me.”

His smirk faltered, just for a second, replaced by something darker, more intense. His gaze dipped, lingering on your exposed cleavage, heat flaring in his eyes. You felt a spark, your breath catching as your own eyes betrayed you, flickering to his lips—pink, curved, and way too tempting for your liking. The air between you thickened, crackling with an unspoken challenge, the playful banter giving way to something far more dangerous.

Rafe’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and for a moment, you forgot where you were, the weight of his stare pulling you in. The thought of what it would feel like to wipe that cocky grin off his face—or maybe even taste it—flickering through your mind.

But then Nico cleared his throat, shattering the moment like glass, and you quickly sat back, your heart racing as you wrenched your gaze away from Rafe’s.

“So, we have a deal?” Rafe asked, cutting through the tension.

You glanced at Nico, who gave you a subtle nod of reassurance. With a deep breath, you turned to Rafe and extended your hand. “Yes, we do.”

His hand clasped yours, warm and firm. “Looking forward to being your husband, sweetheart.”

“Looking forward to not being your wife,” you rolled your eyes, pulling your hand back. “This is purely business. Don’t get any ideas.”

“Whatever you say, wife.”

The next few days passed in a blur of contracts, legal jargon, and meetings with Nico, Sabrina, and Rafe. You had signed your life away—well, not really your life, but it certainly felt like it. 

You were lounging in your Upper East Side apartment, scrolling through Instagram when your phone buzzed.

Rafe Cameron.

Just seeing his name made your stomach tighten with a mix of irritation and something else you couldn’t quite place. Hesitantly, you opened the message.

Rafe: “When do you plan on moving in?”

You stared at the screen for a second before typing.

You: “I’m not even packed yet… what the hell.”

Rafe: “What you waiting for? You’re not chickening out, are you, sweetheart?”

There it was again—sweetheart. That nickname got on your nerves, but you were determined not to let him get under your skin (although he already did).

You: “Stop calling me that, and also I have a job and a life. I can’t just drop everything to move into your stinky place.”

Rafe: “I’m offering help.”

You snorted at your phone. Right, because Rafe Cameron would actually help you pack your boxes.

You: “What are you gonna do? Carry my shoes for me?”

Rafe: “If it gets you here faster, then sure. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

Your eyes widened. Was he serious? You couldn’t picture Rafe Cameron, basketball star and all-around cocky jerk, standing in your apartment, packing boxes and loading them into a truck. The mental image alone was laughable.

You: “Wait! No!”

Rafe: “Why no? You need a few more days to decide on what to pick?”

You: “Jerk.”

Rafe: ":)"

You: “And I can’t move in yet. We need to make a public appearance and get married before I start packing and do all the move-in things.”

There was a pause before his response came through.

Rafe: “Fair.”

You: “Excited to live with me, am I right?”

Rafe: “Projecting much?”

You: “You wish.”

Rafe: “Ditto, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes. You quickly clicked on the rolling eyes emoji as a response and threw your phone onto the couch, not wanting to keep talking to him.

The next morning, you blinked your eyes open, greeted by the familiar warmth of your apartment, and for a fleeting moment, you forgot about everything. The visage, the arrangement, the pressure, the stress, immigration, Rafe Cameron—all of it felt distant, like a strange dream.

But then reality settled back in.

You groaned softly, burying your face into your pillow for a second longer before sighing and throwing off the covers. Today was yet another meeting with the lawyers, and you already were over it.

You knew marriage was a lot of papers and documents, but you truly didn’t think it was this much.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you padded across the plush carpet to your closet, glancing at the outfits hanging neatly in a row. Usually, your first thought would be what designer outfit to wear today but you couldn’t muster the energy to care this morning. Today wasn’t about looking fabulous; it was about getting down to business, and you didn’t care how you looked because you’d be stuck in a room for hours with two lawyers and your future husband.

Future husband… God, how weird was it to say that about a man you didn’t even know.

Instead of focusing on it, you reached for a pair of soft gray sweatpants and a simple white tank top. You pulled a thick, cozy grey cardigan over your shoulders, its warmth a small comfort against the stress building in your mind. 

As you made your way to the kitchen, your phone buzzed on the countertop, and for a moment, you thought it might be Rafe. But no, it was just a reminder from Nico about the meeting. You sighed, grabbed a cup of coffee, slipped into the backseat of your car and headed to the law office.

The law office was as sleek and imposing as ever—polished wood, glass walls, and the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air. You stepped into the conference room, finding Nicolas and Sabrina already seated at the table, a stack of papers in front of them. They looked up and offered polite smiles as you entered.

“Morning,” you said, taking a seat and smoothing the sleeves of your cardigan.

“Morning, Y/N,” Nico replied, his tone friendly but businesslike. “How’re you feeling?”

You hesitated, offering a half-hearted smile. “A bit nervous and tired, I guess. But ready to get things moving.”

Nico nodded, glancing at the empty seat beside you before opening his mouth to speak, but Sabrina beat him to it.

“Hello, Ms. Y/L/N, just to let you know—Rafe won’t be joining us today.”

Your heart sank, but you tried not to show it. “Oh? Why’s that?”

“Last-minute practice session,” she explained, her tone casual. “It was unavoidable, apparently. He couldn’t get out of it.”

You nodded slowly, processing the information. It wasn’t that you were angry—just… bothered. This was an important meeting, after all. Even though this marriage was fake, it still involved a lot of big decisions. Decisions you didn’t feel comfortable making without him.

“Okay,” you said after a moment. “I guess we’ll have to catch him up later, then.”

Sabrina gave you a sympathetic look. “I’ll make sure he’s informed about everything. I know it’s frustrating, but Rafe’s schedule can be pretty unpredictable.”

“I get it,” you replied with a shrug, trying to convince yourself it wasn’t that big of a deal. “It’s just... this is important, you know? It would’ve been nice to have him here for this.”

“I understand,” Sabrina said gently. “And I’ll make sure he’s fully briefed on everything. He’s committed to this, even if it doesn’t always seem that way.”

You nodded, still feeling a bit unsettled but trying to brush it off. He was used to a chaotic schedule, and you couldn’t expect him to drop everything for every meeting. But still... you couldn’t shake the slight discomfort gnawing at you.

“Okay,” you said, trying to focus on the task at hand. “So, what’s the plan for today?”

Nico flipped through the stack of papers in front of him. “We’ve got a lot to cover. First off, the wedding itself. We need to finalize a date, and given your visa situation, we’re looking at a timeline of about three weeks.”

“Three weeks?!” you exclaimed, immediately covering your mouth with your hand. It was sooner than you’d expected, but you understood the urgency. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Nico said, waving his hands. “We need to move quickly. The sooner the marriage is official, the sooner we can start the immigration process. And in the meantime, you and Rafe will need to be seen together publicly—on dates, outings, and even social media.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Public appearances... right. How often are we talking?”

“Enough to make it believable,” Sabrina took over. “We don’t want to overwhelm you, but it’s important that you’re seen together frequently. A few key public outings, some posts on social media—it’ll help establish the narrative that you’re a real couple.”

You nodded. “And Rafe’s on board with all of this?”

“He is,” Sabrina reassured you. “We’ve discussed it, and he knows what’s required.”

“Okay,” you said, feeling a bit more reassured but still uneasy. The idea of staging your life for the public was daunting. It wasn’t just about attending a few events or posting pictures—it was about selling the image of a relationship that didn’t exist. And with Rafe not even here for the planning, you couldn’t help but feel a little disconnected from it all.

You smiled faintly. “It just feels... strange, doing all of this without Rafe. I mean, I know it’s a fake marriage, but it would still be nice to have him involved, you know?”

“I understand,” Sabrina said. “It’s not ideal, but Rafe’s committed to this. His schedule is unpredictable right now, but that doesn’t mean he’s not invested in making this work.”

You nodded, trying to take comfort in her words. Maybe Rafe’s absence wasn’t a sign of disinterest—maybe it was just bad timing.

Nico continued, flipping through the papers. “Let’s move on to the wedding itself. Have you given any thought to what kind of ceremony you want?”

“Honestly, I haven’t thought about it at all.”

“Alright,” Nico said, nodding.

“A small ceremony,” you echoed, thinking it over. “It… It could be nice, no? That could work—but shouldn’t Rafe have a say in this?”

“He will,” Nico assured you. “Mrs. Rashid will loop him in on everything. But for now, we need to focus on logistics. The venue, the guest list, the timeline—it’s all about making sure everything looks legitimate to immigration.”

“Okay. Let’s go with the small ceremony, then. But I’d still like Rafe’s input before we make any final decisions,” you said softly, your cheeks warming slightly.

“Of course,” both lawyers said with a smile.

The conversation shifted to the finer details—the venue, the guest list, the timing of public appearances. It felt more like planning an elaborate PR campaign than a wedding, but you tried to stay focused. Every decision was one step closer to securing your future, even if it didn’t feel real.

The meeting felt like a marathon. You exhaled a long, tired sigh, your head spinning with wedding details and timelines. You couldn’t help but glance at your phone again, half-expecting a message from Rafe. But there was nothing. He was at practice, wrapped up in whatever game plan his team was working on.

You adjusted the strap of your tote bag and pulled your cardigan tighter around yourself as you headed for the door. But as you opened it, you stopped short, nearly walking straight into someone standing just outside.

“Whoa—” A familiar voice interrupted your thoughts, and you blinked up to see Rafe Cameron standing there, leaning against the doorframe, as if he had been waiting for you.

“Rafe?” you blurted out, surprise laced in your voice. You hadn’t expected him to be here, especially after Sabrina said he wouldn’t make it.

He straightened up quickly, looking just as startled as you. “Y/N… uh, hey. I—uh, I’m sorry I missed the meeting,” he stammered, his usual confident demeanor slipping for a moment. “I couldn’t miss practice…”

You stood there, momentarily frozen. It wasn’t like him to stutter—and it threw you off. “Oh… right. Yeah, no, it’s fine, don’t worry. Sabrina said you had practice,” you said, trying to brush off the awkwardness.

He shifted his weight, his hands sliding into his pockets. “Yeah, I, uh… tried to make it, but, you know… basketball.”

You nodded slowly, still surprised that he had actually shown up. “Well, the meeting’s over. Sabrina said she’ll catch you up on what we discussed.”

“Right, yeah, I’ll talk to her,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, so... goodbye?”

“Goodbye,” he said, looking down at the floor for a second before glancing back at you. There was a brief, awkward silence that stretched between the two of you. Neither of you moved, though you weren’t sure why.

Finally, Rafe cleared his throat, and his gaze flickered over your outfit. A slow smirk crept onto his face, his familiar cockiness returning. “So... what’s with the sweatpants and cardigan? Didn’t know you had it in you to dress so casually.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the teasing tone. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged, his smirk widening. “Just saying... it’s not exactly the runway look I was expecting from a supermodel.”

You felt a laugh bubble up in your throat before you could stop it. “You’re one to talk, Mr. I-show-up-in-a-T-shirt-to-a-business-meeting,” you shot back, your lips curving into a smile.

Rafe’s eyes lit up slightly, surprised by your reaction. It was the first time you had actually laughed at something he said, and for a moment, he just stared at you, taking in the sound. Cute, he thought to himself, the word slipping into his mind unbidden.

“At least my T-shirt was designer. This,” he flicked his gaze over your cardigan, “looks like something you stole from your grandma’s closet.”

You gasped, feigning offense. “I happen to like this cardigan, thank you very much. It’s cozy.”

He grinned. “Cozy, is it? Guess you’re preparing for the life of domestic bliss we’re about to have. How cute.”

You shook your head, fighting another smile. “Funny—like you even know the meaning of domestic bliss.”

He tilted his head, his smirk never faltering. “Who says I don’t? I could be all about the cozy life. You don’t know me.”

You arched a brow. “Really? You? In sweatpants, lounging on a couch, binge-watching Netflix?”

“I can be a homebody if I want to,” he said, shrugging, though the teasing glint in his eyes told you he wasn’t being serious. “Give me some credits, alright? I can rock sweatpants.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Maybe you will. You’ll be living with me soon enough—” you froze slightly at that reminder, and your smile wavered. He noticed the shift and cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’ll make sure to show up to the next meeting. Promise.”

You gave him a small nod, still smiling. “You’d better.”

He nodded, and for the first time since you’d met, there was no teasing in his expression—just quiet understanding. You gave him one last look before heading down the hall, feeling the warmth of your laugh still lingering in the air between you.

And Rafe stood there watching you walk away, thinking about how cute your laugh was—and how much he wanted to hear it again.

chapter three

[shaiyasstuff]

the marriage contract | rafayel

synopsis : When your mom said, “Come out for dinner.” You expected just a normal meal, filled with laughter and your mom’s usual sarcasm. Not her dropping an atomic bomb on you—she already signed your marriage to the playboy of the century, the Lemurian Heir. content : comedy, fluff, implied smut, arranged marriage!au, model!reader, rich heiress!reader, wealthyaf!rafayel, and just, rafayel being rafayel

“You’re getting married to the Lemurian heir.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Surely, you misheard. It’s the only reasonable explanation.

Maybe it’s the soft clink of silverware, the low hum of jazz from the restaurant speakers, or the fact that your mother said it like she was commenting on the weather.

She flips the menu with one manicured hand, as if she just told you the risotto was good tonight.

A beat passes.

Then another.

“What??” you blurt, half-standing in your seat so suddenly that your thigh bumps the table and nearly sends your water glass toppling.

Your mother doesn’t even flinch. “Sit down. You’re drawing attention.”

“I am attention,” you hiss through gritted teeth, hastily steadying the glass and sinking back into your chair. “What do you mean, I’m getting married? To who?”

“I literally just said—to Rafayel. The Lemurian heir. Don’t make me repeat myself, darling. It’s exhausting.”

You stare at her, your mind screeching to a halt like stilettos on marble. Rafayel.

You know that name. Everyone knows that name.

Playboy. Arrogant. Insufferable.

That Rafayel.

You’ve seen his face plastered across magazine spreads—smirking, shirtless, probably whispering lies into someone’s ear.

He’s the definition of a tabloid headline.

A scandal waiting to happen.

The man has an entire section on social media dedicated to his worst quotes, and a separate one for his abs.

You, a model with a rising career and a deep love for routine, green tea, and sanity, are apparently now contractually obligated to marry the human embodiment of chaos.

“No,” you say flatly.

Your mother finally glances up, her brow lifting with polite disbelief. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, more firmly this time. “I’m not marrying a man who once got banned from a yacht party on his own yacht.”

“That was blown out of proportion,” she replies, waving a dismissive hand. “He was merely expressing himself artistically.”

“By setting fire to the dessert table?”

“Flambé is fashionable now.”

You gape.

“This is a joke,” you say, reaching for your phone. “Is this one of those weird publicity stunts? Did he put you up to this? Is there a hidden camera—?”

“It’s real,” she cuts in, her voice cool and clipped. “And finalized. Our lawyers signed the agreement yesterday. The ceremony is in a month. Try not to look so surprised; this sort of thing used to be standard practice among noble houses. We’re just… reviving tradition.”

You press your fingers to your temples. “We own resorts, Mom. Not kingdoms.”

“Same thing these days,” she murmurs, glancing at the wine list.

You pause. “Wait. Is he even okay with this?”

Your mother’s lips twitch. “He said—and I quote—‘She’s pretty. I can work with that.’”

You nearly fall out of your chair.

“He can work with that?!”

“That’s what he said, yes. I found it charming. Shows he’s open-minded.”

“Mom,” you say, through what you’re sure is a burgeoning aneurysm, “he’s been photographed with a different woman on his arm every week.”

“And now he’ll have just one,” she replies, taking a sip of her water. “Progress.”

You stare at her, chest rising and falling like a storm tide. “I don’t even know him.”

“Perfect,” she says. “No baggage. A clean slate.”

You inhale sharply, about to launch into a very eloquent monologue about autonomy and personal choice when your phone buzzes. You glance down at the notification—and freeze.

Unknown Number.

You free tomorrow at 4? Let’s get this doomed romance started. I’ll bring flowers. Or bribe you with dessert. Whatever works.

You don’t even have to ask who it is.

Your mother looks immensely pleased with herself. “He got your number from his assistant. Isn’t that romantic?”

You turn your phone over and look at her, horrified. “This is blackmail.”

“No,” she says. “This is high society.”

She flags the waiter with a perfectly timed smile.

Meanwhile, you lean back, mind spinning with visions of silver-haired smirking heirs and one very unwanted bouquet.

So this is how it starts.

An arranged marriage.

With him.

You’d rather fight a swarm of seagulls in six-inch heels.

But still…

You glance at the text again, at the cheeky way he signed it off.

—R.

Trouble.

Wrapped in silk and flames and smirking punctuation.

And somehow, despite yourself, the corners of your lips twitch.

Just a little.

—•

Rafayel is attractive, no doubt.

But it’s his insufferable playboy attitude that really irks you.

The door swings open, and there he is—leaning against the frame like this is a cologne commercial, not your new apartment.

One hand in his pocket. Shirt slightly unbuttoned.

Expression set to come hither, like he didn’t just waltz in fifteen minutes late to your very first meeting as an almost-married couple.

“Didn’t know models kept such tidy homes,” he says, gaze trailing over your minimalistic living room. “Where’s the chaos? The broken champagne glasses? The disgruntled photographers?”

“Where’s the punctuality?” you shoot back, arms crossed.

He grins, sharp and unapologetic. “You’ll learn I like to make an entrance.”

“Maybe next time make it through the door on time.”

He steps in, unbothered, and takes a casual look around like he owns the place.

He probably does.

His family has enough wealth to casually purchase countries, let alone condos. He flops onto your sofa, long legs stretched out, hands behind his head.

“So,” he says, eyes flicking to yours, “how do you want to do this?”

You blink. “Do what?”

“This whole marriage thing.” His voice is smooth like honey left too long in the sun—sweet, but dangerous.

“We pretending to be in love for the cameras? Sneaking off with secret lovers behind closed doors? Scheduling monthly dinners so our families don’t throw a fit?”

Your nostrils flare. “That’s your idea of marriage?”

“It’s the practical one. Less risk of broken hearts. Or broken dishes.”

“Thanks, but I’m not interested in being one of your PR arrangements.”

“Ouch,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “And here I thought you were the soft-spoken one.”

“Not when I’m being married off like a parcel.”

There’s a beat of silence, and for the first time, something flickers across his face. Not mockery. Not amusement.

Something quieter. Maybe even guilt.

“I didn’t ask for this either, you know,” he says, eyes drifting to the window. “My family’s been trying to clean up my image ever since I lit that cake on fire.”

You raise a brow. “So the rumors were true.”

He smirks. “Technically, the flambéed cherries caught the tablecloth.”

“Very dignified.”

He chuckles. “You should’ve seen the flames. It was glorious.”

Despite yourself, a laugh nearly escapes.

You clamp it down. Hard.

“We’re not doing this,” you say, shaking your head. “I need rules. If we’re stuck with each other, there needs to be rules.”

“Rules?” he echoes, as if the word is foreign.

“Yes. Boundaries. Expectations. Terms and conditions.”

“Like a contract?” he asks, amused. “How very unromantic of you.”

“Call it self-preservation.”

He sits up, intrigued. “Alright then. Lay them on me.”

You grab a pen and your planner from the table—because yes, you’re that person—and start scribbling. He watches, bemused.

You hold it up.

Rules of Engagement

1. No touching.

2. No flirting.

3. No overnight guests.

4. Shared public appearances only when necessary.

5. No falling in love.

Rafayel whistles low. “Number five. That one hurts.”

“It’s for both our sakes,” you say firmly. “We don’t do feelings.”

He leans forward, taking the paper from your hands. His fingers graze yours. You pretend not to notice.

“Fine,” he says, folding it neatly and slipping it into his coat pocket. “But if you break a rule first, I get to choose the honeymoon destination.”

“We’re not having a honeymoon.”

“We are now.”

You open your mouth to argue—but stop. Because somehow, he’s already standing, heading for the door like he didn’t just derail your entire week.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“To buy toothpaste. If we’re living together, I’m not sharing yours. I draw the line at dental hygiene.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Leaving you standing in your spotless living room, rules in hand, reality crashing down around you.

You’re engaged to Rafayel. Heir of the Lemurian dynasty.

Public menace.

Serial heartbreaker.

And now, your flatmate.

You sigh and flop onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Rule Number Five echoes in your mind.

No falling in love.

Easy enough.

Right?

—•

You’d like to clarify—this is not a date.

You were tricked. Lured.

Bribed with lunch and the vague promise of an stress-free afternoon.

Also, he said dessert was on him, and you, tragically, are only human.

So now you’re walking beside Rafayel, trying very hard not to look like someone who willingly spends time with a lilac-haired demon in designer sunglasses and a smug attitude.

Which is difficult, since he keeps flashing that perfectly calculated I-don’t-care-but-I-look-good smile.

“People are staring,” you mutter.

“They’re always staring,” he replies breezily. “The key is to give them something worth photographing.”

As if summoned by his own ego, a girl in oversized glasses practically skids to a stop in front of you.

She clutches her phone like it’s a sacred relic and looks between you and Rafayel like she’s about to faint.

“Are—oh my god—you’re—can I—?”

“Of course,” Rafayel says, already tilting his head for optimal lighting.

The girl shoves her phone toward you. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”

You blink. Smile. Take the phone. Absolutely do not roll your eyes.

He drapes an arm over the girl’s shoulder, leans in with that practiced grin, and you snap the picture—twice, because she begs for one ‘candid’ and Rafayel, never one to waste an opportunity, dips his chin like he’s starring in a fragrance ad called Sins and Champagne.

“Thank you!” she squeals, bouncing away.

You hand his sunglasses back wordlessly.

“What?” he says as you start walking again. “It’s good PR. Plus, she’ll post that with some ridiculous caption like ‘he’s even hotter in person’ and we’ll both benefit.”

“From your cheekbones?”

“From my brand,” he corrects, slipping the glasses back on. “You should try being nicer to my fans. Builds character.”

“I have character,” you mutter. “I just choose not to market it on sidewalks.”

You arrive at a rooftop café—his pick, obviously.

Something about the natural lighting and imported oysters.

You’d been hoping for sandwiches. Maybe fries.

This place looks like it charges extra for butter.

The waiter seats you, and Rafayel slouches into his chair like he owns the skyline. “Order whatever you want,” he says, tossing the menu aside. “My empire can afford it.”

“Oh good,” you say sweetly. “I’ll take the most expensive dish and two of whatever you hate.”

He laughs—actually laughs.

Not the smug kind. Not the flirtatious chuckle.

A real, amused sound that makes you pause, just for a second.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

“Let me guess. You thought I’d be some breathless heiress desperate for your attention?”

“I was hoping for breathless,” he says, smirking. “The desperation was optional.”

You flick a sugar packet at him. He catches it.

The food arrives—too pretty to eat, but you dig in anyway because being around Rafayel burns calories in emotional energy. A few bites in, the conversation unexpectedly… shifts.

“I hated it growing up,” he says, sipping his wine. “The pressure. The expectations. Every move watched. They groomed me like I was some… polished statue to roll out at galas.”

You arch a brow. “So naturally, you set things on fire.”

He grins. “Exactly. They wanted a prince. I gave them a wildfire.”

You study him, fork paused mid-air.

For a moment, he’s not the Lemurian Heir. He’s just a guy raised in a glass cage, throwing stones for fun and freedom.

“What about you?” he asks. “You’re not exactly low-profile either.”

You shrug, suddenly more relaxed than you expected. “Modeling wasn’t supposed to be a career. I did a few gigs to annoy my parents. Then I actually liked it. Go figure.”

“Why did it annoy them?”

“They wanted me in finance,” you deadpan. “Crunching numbers. Marrying someone boring with a yacht and a title. Instead, I wore latex on magazine covers and dated a drummer who spoke exclusively in song lyrics.”

He chokes on his wine, laughing. “You’re full of surprises.”

“So are you,” you admit. “Unfortunately, most of yours are lawsuits waiting to happen.”

He leans back, watching you with an unreadable expression. “You know, you’re different when you’re not trying to strangle me with your eyes.”

“And you’re tolerable when you’re not being a narcissist.”

There’s a pause.

A comfortable one, oddly enough.

The sun’s lower now, painting his purple hair in warm light.

For a moment, the city noise fades and it’s just the two of you, seated between who you were and who you’re pretending to be.

You don’t swoon.

You just… notice.

Briefly.

He reaches for the dessert menu.

“Rule-breaker,” you say.

He smirks. “I promised you dessert, didn’t I?”

You raise a brow as Rafayel waves down the waiter like he owns the establishment—honestly, at this point, he probably does.

“You realize ordering dessert is a clear violation of Rule Number Five,” you say, watching him flip the dessert menu like he’s reading War and Peace.

“Rule Number Five was about feelings, not fudge,” he says, without looking up. “Unless you’re telling me a slice of tiramisu is going to make you fall in love with me.”

You level him with a look. “You’re not my type.”

He grins. “Not yet.”

The waiter returns, and Rafayel orders two desserts without consulting you.

You don’t even protest.

You’re too full and mildly annoyed and slightly curious what dessert a Lemurian heir thinks will ‘win’ a lunch date that was never a date to begin with.

“Why do I get the feeling you do this often?” you ask, drumming your fingers on the table. “Lunch with models. Public flirting. Slow seduction via sugar.”

“I don’t do public flirting,” he says, affronted. “It’s vulgar. My seduction strategy is much more refined.”

“Oh, forgive me.” You roll your eyes.

“You’re forgiven,” he says smoothly. “Though you should know—this is the first time I’ve taken someone to this place.”

You snort. “You expect me to believe that?”

He leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand, smile still present but softened around the edges. “Actually… yes.”

Something in his voice changes—just a shade quieter, a little more honest.

“I usually avoid these places,” he continues. “Too many cameras. Too many expectations. But I thought maybe… this time, it could be different.”

You pause.

Not because you’re swooning—obviously—but because you weren’t expecting him to say that.

And because it’s unnervingly close to something real.

“I didn’t think you were capable of sincerity,” you mutter.

He shrugs. “I fake a lot of things. But not everything.”

You look at him for a long moment, unsure what to do with the sudden shift in temperature.

He’s still smirking, still smug—but there’s something else underneath.

Something quieter. Like even he doesn’t know how to hold it properly.

The desserts arrive, thankfully breaking the moment.

Yours is a delicate slice of pistachio cake with honey drizzle.

His is a dramatic tower of chocolate and edible gold leaf because of course it is.

You pick up your fork.

He watches you. “What?”

“You ordered this just to show off.”

“I ordered it to see if you’d smile.”

You almost choke. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs again, biting into his mountain of sugar and ego. “You’re always so put together. All edges and clever comebacks. I wondered what you’d look like if you actually enjoyed something.”

You stare at him, stunned.

And, annoyingly… flattered.

Which is worse.

“You’re exhausting,” you say.

“And yet, here you are.”

You do not dignify that with a response.

Instead, you take a bite of the cake—and damn it, it is good. Soft, rich, and just the right amount of sweet.

You glance at him and catch him watching you like he’s won something.

“I’m not impressed,” you lie.

“Of course not,” he says, licking chocolate from his fork. “That’s why you’ve finished half your plate in two minutes.”

You narrow your eyes. “You are a menace.”

“I’ve been called worse. Usually by people who later invite me back.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He laughs again—deep, genuine—and you hate how easily it fills the space between you. Hate that, for one stupid second, you don’t hate being here.

That the sun feels warmer, the silence feels easier, and the sarcasm feels more like a shared language than a wall.

And maybe you let yourself relax. Just a little. Maybe you let your smile slip out, crooked and fleeting.

Not because of him, of course. Because of the cake.

Definitely the cake.

—•

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since your life turned into a weirdly expensive soap opera.

Three weeks of shared living arrangements, awkward press appearances, passive-aggressive coffee orders, and one increasingly complicated non-relationship with the Lemurian heir.

It’s not like you’re counting, of course.

You just happen to know how many times he’s left his socks in the hallway.

Or how many times he’s fallen asleep on the couch after some late-night meeting, suit jacket draped over the armrest like he’s auditioning for a melancholic perfume ad.

You’ve settled into a rhythm. Of sorts.

Which is exactly why the shift—when it happens—feels like slipping on a patch of black ice in heels.

It starts with a knock on your door. Not the loud, arrogant kind Rafayel usually delivers when he wants to borrow something—more like annoy you.

No, this one’s soft. Hesitant.

You’re already annoyed.

“Yes?” you call.

The door creaks open.

He steps in, a little more disheveled than usual.

His tie is gone, shirt half-buttoned, hair a wind-tousled mess.

You blink. “Did you get in a fight with a hurricane?”

“Dinner ran late,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Some board meeting with my uncle. Lemurian politics. Very thrilling stuff. Would’ve invited you, but I figured you’d rather stab yourself with a breadstick.”

“You’d be correct.”

He doesn’t leave.

You glance up. “Something else?”

He hesitates. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

Ah. So that’s what this is about.

You slide your phone out and wave it. “I was working.”

“You left me on read.”

“I didn’t realize I owed you a response to ‘Is the curry still in the fridge or did you emotionally eat it all?’”

“That was a serious question,” he mutters. “I had a long day.”

“And I’m not your personal food tracker.”

His brows knit, and for the first time, the familiar teasing spark isn’t there. Just quiet frustration.

“You’ve been shutting me out lately,” he says. “Every time we talk, it’s like I’m… irritating background noise.”

“Maybe because you are.”

He flinches—just barely. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

There’s a beat. You think maybe he’ll walk away. But instead, he does something worse.

He sits on the edge of your bed.

“I’m trying here,” he says, voice low. “I know I’m not… easy. Or conventional. Or whatever it is you want. But I show up. I stay. I’m not out there making headlines anymore, I’m here—with you. And sometimes it feels like you’re still waiting for me to screw up.”

You cross your arms, defenses rising on instinct. “Don’t act like you’re some martyr. You signed the same contract I did.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect to actually like you.”

That stops you cold.

The air goes still. Your heart trips over itself. You hate that it does.

You laugh—short, sharp, sarcastic. “Well, that’s your mistake.”

He stares at you. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This. Pushing me away. Acting like none of this matters.”

“Because it doesn’t,” you snap. “Because the second I start thinking maybe you’re not the egotistical headline I assumed—maybe you’re real, and messy, and sincere—you’ll remind me exactly why I should’ve kept my distance.”

He’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.

“Has someone hurt you like that before?”

You look away.

“That’s not your business,” you say, but it sounds thinner than you meant it to.

He nods slowly, like he hears what you didn’t say.

“Well,” he says, standing, “I’m not here to be another person who lets you down. But I’m not going to spend the next six months proving I’m harmless just because you’ve decided I’m a walking red flag.”

“Don’t worry,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

He exhales.

And for the first time, you see him really tired.

Not in the usual I partied too hard way.

In the I don’t know what else I can say way.

He turns to leave. Stops at the doorway.

“For what it’s worth,” he says without looking back, “I didn’t touch the curry. Even after the board meeting. Because I thought maybe… you’d want to share it.”

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind him.

You stare at the space he left behind.

Empty plate. Empty room.

And for the first time, your chest feels just a little too full.

You don’t move for a while.

The room feels quieter without him in it. Like his absence took something with it—heat, maybe. Or air.

You stare at your phone for a moment, then at the door.

Then at the fridge.

Dammit.

You find him where you always seem to, sprawled on the couch like he owns the universe, remote in one hand, eyes half-lidded.

The TV is on, muted. A documentary about space or fish—hard to tell.

He doesn’t look up when you step into the living room, barefoot, bowl of reheated curry in your hands.

“I didn’t come to apologize,” you say flatly.

“Didn’t think you did.”

You hold out the bowl. “You were right. I ate half. But I saved enough for two.”

He glances over.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

He takes it anyway, and for a while, you eat in silence.

Shoulder to shoulder on the couch, knees brushing. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just shared proximity. Shared food. Shared silence.

And yet.

“You don’t really like curry, do you?” you ask after a moment.

“I like that you made it.”

You glance at him, only to find he’s already watching you. The light from the TV flickers across his face, casting shadows across the sharp line of his jaw. His silver hair is tousled, eyes softer than they have any right to be.

You look away first.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That.”

“Looking at you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it feels like you’re trying to see me.”

“I am trying to see you.”

You set your bowl down on the coffee table, suddenly tense. “Don’t.”

He leans back, mirroring your posture. Still close. Still too close.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says softly.

You laugh—dry and a little bitter. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“I think you’re afraid of what it might mean to actually trust me.”

The silence stretches like thread pulled taut.

And then—softly, so softly—you ask, “Why are you trying?”

It’s not sarcastic.

Not accusatory.

Just quietly, achingly sincere.

He pauses.

“I don’t know,” he says after a beat. “Maybe because this—you—is the first thing in my life I didn’t win by being charming or rich or reckless. Maybe because, for once, I want something that doesn’t come easy.”

Your chest twists. You hate how much you feel it.

You shift, meaning to stand. Or move. Or just get some space.

But then he catches your wrist.

Not hard. Not demanding. Just… there.

You freeze.

His fingers are warm against your skin. His touch gentle. Uncertain, even.

Your eyes meet.

The moment hangs.

And there it is—that unbearable closeness. That electric, breath-stealing almost.

You hate that your pulse stutters.

That your throat goes dry. That something unspoken curls beneath your ribs like smoke.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he murmurs. “Not unless you want me to.”

You swallow.

Hard.

And then, deliberately, you pull your hand away.

His face doesn’t fall—but you see the flicker of something retreating. The door he cracked open quietly swinging shut again.

You stand.

Smooth your hands down your shirt like it matters.

Like it helps.

“I’m going to bed,” you say.

He nods. Says nothing.

You make it halfway to your room before you stop.

“Rafayel.”

He glances up.

“Thanks for saving me half the curry.”

His mouth twitches. “Anytime.”

You close your door gently behind you, back pressed against the wood, heart pounding a little too loudly in your chest.

You didn’t swoon.

You didn’t.

But god, you almost did.

—•

It starts with a harmless visit.

Or at least, that’s what Rafayel tells himself when he shows up at the studio, hands shoved in his coat pockets, sunglasses perched like armor, and a single iced coffee balanced in the other hand.

The assistant at the front desk gives him a look that says oh god, it’s him again—but hands him a visitor’s pass anyway.

He doesn’t know why he came.

He just… wanted to see you.

Maybe bring you coffee.

Maybe tease you about how serious you get during fittings.

Maybe catch another one of your rare, unguarded smiles when you’re not being ‘the model’ or ‘the reluctant fiancée’ or whatever it is you pretend to be when you’re not curled up beside him eating leftover curry.

But then he sees you.

And you’re not alone.

You’re smiling—laughing—with some guy who’s tall and objectively handsome in a ‘men’s fragrance ad’ kind of way.

Shirt unbuttoned just enough for it to be indecent.

He’s standing too close, helping adjust a clasp on your dress, his fingers brushing the back of your neck.

It’s innocent.

Of course it is.

Rafayel knows that.

But logic is no match for jealousy.

He turns around before you can see him, coffee forgotten on the edge of a table, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

When you get home that night, the first thing you notice is the silence.

The second is Rafayel.

He’s sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes dark.

And glaring.

No sign of the boyish, playboy grin that he usually dons.

You blink. “Hi?”

No answer.

“Okay,” you say slowly, dropping your bag by the door. “Did someone die or did you burn another diplomatic dinner?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“I came by your shoot today.”

That stops you cold. “You what?”

He uncrosses his arms, pushes off the counter. “I thought I’d surprise you. Bring you coffee. Be supportive, or whatever it is couples are supposed to do.”

Your heart stutters. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

He’s pacing now, hands raking through his hair.

You’ve never seen him like this—tense, clipped, frustrated in a way that’s not performative.

“I saw you,” he says. “With him.”

You blink. “Who—? Oh my god. Leo? The other model?”

“Is that his name?” Rafayel snaps. “Fantastic. Now I know what to engrave on the urn.”

You stare. “You’re jealous.”

“No,” he lies. Terribly.

You blink again, slowly. “You thought something was going on?”

He says nothing.

You fold your arms. “Seriously? You’ve been photographed half-naked with actresses for years, but the moment a guy helps me zip a dress—”

“It’s not the same,” he growls.

“Oh? Because I’m supposed to be the good one?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer now. “Because you matter.”

The words hit like a punch.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You matter,” he says again, softer this time. “And I hate that I care. I hate that I see you smile at someone else and feel like I’m about to lose something I never even had.”

You can’t speak.

“I didn’t want to fall for you,” he says. “But here I am. Completely wrecked.”

Silence.

It stretches between you like a live wire.

And then you say the stupidest, bravest thing you’ve said since this whole arrangement started.

“Then kiss me.”

His eyes widen.

“Rafayel.”

You step closer. “If you mean it. If you’re not playing. Then kiss me.”

A second passes.

Then another.

And then he does.

He surges forward like a man starved for something he didn’t know he needed, hands cupping your face, mouth crashing into yours with enough heat to burn.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not careful.

It’s weeks of tension unraveling in one breathless, heated pull.

You gasp against him, fingers fisting in his shirt.

He presses you back against the wall, lips trailing down your jaw, your throat, before coming back up to kiss you again, slower this time.

Deeper.

Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours.

“No more rules,” he says.

You nod, dazed. “No more pretending.”

He laughs, breathless and shaky. “God, I’m in so much trouble.”

You kiss him again.

Because yes—so are you.

And you don’t care anymore.

Your back hits the bedroom door.

You don’t remember walking there.

Or maybe he carried you.

Or maybe time just folded in on itself the second you kissed him.

Either way, the world’s a blur and he’s the only thing in focus.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice husky, lips brushing your jaw.

You smirk, breathless. “Is this the part where you ask for written consent?”

“I like to be thorough.”

You curl your fingers in the front of his shirt and tug. Hard. “Consider this my signature.”

“Very professional,” he murmurs, leaning in again.

His kiss deepens—hotter now, lazier.

Like he’s savoring it.

Like he has all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth and exactly what makes your breath catch. His hands find your waist, thumbs sliding under your shirt like he’s tracing a map.

“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, “I expected you to resist a little longer.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, come on. I’m irresistible. It’s in my genetics.”

You laugh—actually laugh—while he fumbles with your top, cursing under his breath when it gets stuck halfway over your head.

“You undress like a man who’s never taken a bra off without summoning a priest,” you tease.

“It’s a complicated mechanism!”

“Is it though?”

You reach back, unhook it yourself, and toss it onto the lamp. He pauses, visibly impressed.

“Show-off.”

“Amateur.”

He grins—wolfish, cocky, entirely himself—and you hate that it only makes you want him more.

The bed hits your knees.

Then you’re down, tangled in sheets, heat blooming across your skin like wildfire. Rafayel moves like he’s memorizing you with his hands, like he’s collecting data for some unholy research project titled Ways to Ruin Her on a Tuesday Night.

And okay, fine, you’re definitely not not enjoying it.

“You’re staring,” you murmur as he hovers above you, breath uneven.

“I’m admiring.”

“Same thing.”

“Not when it’s you.”

For once, the sarcasm fades. Just a flicker.

Because the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re something rare, something his—makes your chest ache.

You reach up, fingers tracing his jaw. “You’re so smug.”

“You like me smug.”

“I tolerate you smug.”

“Mm.” He kisses your collarbone. “Let’s see what else you tolerate.”

What follows is a blur of heat and friction and whispered curses—mostly yours.

He’s infuriatingly good at this. Predictably. And yet, somehow, every touch feels more like discovery than performance.

No games.

No roles.

Just him. Just you.

And the sharp, dizzying ache of something that might be real.

Later, when you’re tangled together under your ruined sheets, the room heavy with silence and post-storm warmth, he says, “You know I’m never letting you go now, right?”

You hum against his shoulder. “Good thing I’m contractually obligated to stay.”

He snorts. “Romance. Alive and well.”

You grin. “Just wait until I start stealing all the covers.”

He laughs quietly, arm tightening around you.

And for the first time since this whole mess began, you think, maybe this won’t end in flames.

Maybe, just maybe, you’re already home.

—•

You wake up to an empty bed.

For a second, it feels normal.

The way sunlight filters through the curtains, the warmth lingering on the sheets, the scent of something distinctly Rafayel—cologne, mischief, and sandalwood.

But then the silence registers.

And the fact that his side of the bed is cold.

You sit up, heart doing that annoying thing where it tightens even though nothing is technically wrong.

You find him in the kitchen.

Leaning against the counter, mug in hand, hair mussed, jaw tense. He’s staring out the window like he’s waiting for the apocalypse or a dramatic soundtrack to kick in.

“Hey,” you say, voice still rough with sleep.

He doesn’t look at you.

You pad in barefoot, wrapping one of his shirts tighter around your body.

“I checked the mirror,” you add. “Still stunning. You can stop brooding now.”

Nothing.

That’s when the dread creeps in.

“Okay. Are we pretending last night didn’t happen? Because I’ll need time to emotionally detach from the blanket fort we made with our bodies.”

His jaw clenches.

You stop teasing.

“What happened?”

He finally looks at you.

And it’s not the same look he gave you last night—hungry and tender and slightly awed. This one’s guarded. Cold around the edges.

“You got a call.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“From Leo.”

You frown. “The model?”

He nods once. Tight.

“Oh my god, are you still on this?”

“He called you babe.”

You stare. “He calls everyone babe. He calls his cat babe.”

“You smiled.”

“I smiled?”

“You were different with him.”

You set your mug down with a sharp clink. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

“I let myself believe it,” he says, voice low. “That this was real. That maybe we weren’t just playing house until our families got what they wanted. But maybe that’s all this is. A beautiful lie.”

You freeze.

It’s not what he’s saying—it’s what he’s not saying.

It’s the fear in his eyes. The old wound resurfacing in a prettier suit.

“You think I’d sleep with you, laugh with you, fall asleep in your arms—just for show?”

“I don’t know,” he says. And that’s worse than if he’d said yes.

The silence feels colder than his words.

You exhale shakily. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust myself,” he corrects. “I’ve ruined everything good I’ve ever touched. Why would this be any different?”

Your voice is quiet. “Because I’m not them.”

He looks at you like he wants to believe that.

But can’t.

Not yet.

“I need air,” he mutters.

You move aside as he brushes past.

The door closes behind him.

And for the first time since all of this started—since the first headline, the first sarcastic quip, the first rule scribbled in your planner—you feel completely and utterly alone.

Hours pass.

You don’t call.

You don’t text.

You want to.

God, do you want to.

But some stubborn part of you—some still-bruised fragment—refuses to be the one to chase him.

If he wants to walk away from this, from you, he can.

You’ve survived worse.

Right?

…Right?

—•

The door creaks open just past midnight.

You’re on the couch, pretending to read a magazine.

You don’t look up.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then.

“I’m an idiot.”

You flip a page. “We agree on something.”

“I panicked.”

You close the magazine.

He steps further into the room, looking wrecked. Hair windblown, shirt rumpled, regret in every inch of him.

“I saw something that scared me,” he says. “And instead of asking, instead of trusting you, I lashed out.”

You stand, arms folded. “You think that fixes it?”

“No,” he says. “But maybe this will.”

He pulls something from his pocket.

Your planner.

The one with the Rules of Engagement.

He opens it, flips to the page with your old list, and crosses out the last rule.

“No falling in love,” he reads aloud. Then draws a thick, dark line through it. “Too late.”

Your heart skips.

He looks up at you. “I’m in love with you.”

It’s not smooth. Not polished. Not smirking or smug.

It’s raw.

Vulnerable.

Terrified.

You cross the room slowly.

Take the pen from his hand.

And next to where he crossed it out, you write, “Me too.”

When you look up, he’s already pulling you into his arms.

This kiss isn’t fire—it’s gravity.

Like you were always meant to fall.

And finally, finally, you stop fighting it.

—•

The wedding is in three days.

The guest list is ridiculous.

The venue is twice as ridiculous.

There’s a seven-tier cake named after constellations and an entire chandelier that had to be flown in with a crane.

And you? You’re on the windowsill, veil forgotten, staring at your phone like it might offer clarity.

It doesn’t.

The door creaks open behind you.

You don’t look. “Nice of you to show up.”

“Thought I’d be mysterious,” Rafayel says. “You know. Add drama.”

“You’re late.”

He steps beside you. “I was going to call it off.”

That gets your attention.

“What?”

“The wedding,” he says. “I didn’t want you marrying me out of obligation.”

You stare. “I wasn’t.”

“I know. But I panicked. Because this is the first time I actually care what someone thinks of me.”

He pauses.

“I love you,” he says. “And it scares the hell out of me.”

You take a slow breath.“I choose you, Rafayel. Not for the headlines. Not because I have to. But because somehow, you’ve become the only place I feel like myself.”

He looks like you just handed him the stars.

The wedding was pure chaos.

Too many cameras. Too many roses.

Rafayel’s suit shimmers ever so slightly—he claims it’s subtle.

A drone nearly crashes into the flower arch during your vows.

But none of it matters when he squeezes your hand and says, loud enough for the world.

“I choose you. No matter how many rules we break.”

You can’t help smiling.

“Even when you leave your socks everywhere?”

There’s laughter. There’s confetti. There’s a signature cocktail named after your first public argument.

You slip away from the reception to breathe, heels dangling from your hand.

Of course she finds you.

Your mother, dressed immaculately, holding a champagne flute like it’s part of her anatomy.

“I told you so,” she says, smug as ever.

You groan. “Seriously, Mom?”

“I told you you’d like him,” she says. “Eventually. Once you got over your tragic taste in musicians.”

You stare. She sips. And walks off, victorious.

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself.

Then Rafayel appears—tie undone, hair a little messy, smile all soft edges.

He holds out his hand.

You take it.

And just like that, everything falls into place.

“Do you like curry now?”

“No.”

masterlist

[emo-batboy]

Things Battinson Totally Did During His First Year of University

Using Unhinged or Odd Things I Also Did as a College Freshman :D

Note: for this list, let’s believe Bruce was living in an (admittedly expensive and swanky) dorm because it is required for first-years, especially those entering at a young age, and Alfred told him he needed to make friends. Also yes I did every single thing on this list. I never claimed to be a role model

Bruce, to his TA: I’m so sorry I’m late to class. I gave blood a few hours ago and almost fainted on the way here, but it won’t happen again.

Signs up for a class called “Age of Dinosaurs” despite it not being required whatsoever and proceeds to work his entire schedule around it

Bruce: Your mental health is super important. If you think you should see the on-campus therapist, go see them. Friend: Fine. I’ll sign up for therapy if you sign up for therapy too. Bruce: Hold on-

Finds a loophole in his housing contract that allows him to get a pet frog, calls him kermit :)

Gets a second frog because Kermit was lonely, names it Constantine after Muppets Most Wanted, then realizes that they’re gay for each other. Wonders if the rainbow-colored rocks he got them triggered anything

Swings dramatically between calling Alfred every single day and ghosting him for weeks, cries when he realizes what he did

“Accidentally” joins the student body council, doesn’t know what he’s doing, gets re-elected anyway

Molds a dragon out of Laffy Taffy instead of doing his work

Bruce: *joins Honors, gets all A’s, takes the max amount of classes, has several minors, overachieves* Also Bruce: I’m a failure.

Breaks into a building after hours to study because NO ONE KNOWS HOW TO SHUT THE FUCK UP AT THE LIBRARY

Bruce: I will not get seasonal depression this year. Bruce: *gets real and seasonal depression that year*

Meticulously schedules his day with a color-coded planner because if he sits down for too long, the thoughts will consume him

Gives a presentation to his rhetoric class on how much he likes Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse (it is 20 minutes long)

Successfully allocates funding from the student body council to pay for free feminine products in the dorms OUT OF SPITE because someone said it couldn't be done. fuck you, Andrew

Bruce: It is not an all-nighter if I go to sleep before my first class. Friend: It is 7:30am, the sun is in the sky, and your first class is at 12:30. Bruce: But I am getting sleep.

Refuses to go anywhere without his backpack because what if he needs three notebooks at once

Loses over 20 pounds because ✨stress✨ and scares the shit out of Alfred when he comes home for Thanksgiving

Argues with his TA over the one (1) question he got wrong on his Dinosaur exam

Bruce, calling Alfred: Hello father figure. How do I do taxes? Do I have to do them myself? Also, I think I’m having a panic attack.

Joins in on a charity arts-and-crafts project that gives kids books with matching activities made by volunteers, proceeds to commandeer the project because “it’s not color-blind friendly” and rewrites the instructions for everyone

Makes a murder wall

Goes to one (1) sports game and proceeds to leave in the first ten minutes because it’s way too loud wtf is wrong with people

Professor, addressing the lecture hall: I dare you to write an essay about these two sentences. Bruce: *writes an essay about six words, gets a 100, never even read the book*

Crawls into the ceiling for some alone time

Ghosts someone after a date because he’s too scared to tell them he didn’t know it was a date in the first place and now he feels bad

Classmate: How tf does he walk across campus that fast? I go in the same direction he does on my bike, and he’s always ahead of me. Bruce: *is gay sprinting to Dinosaur class*

Refuses to let others use his Favorite Pen TM

Constantly gets mistaken for a Grad Student because he is “so wise and mature” (bestie, that’s the autism)

Alfred: *casually mentions he got into a car accident through text* Bruce: *replies with a meme while hyperventilating because he doesn’t know what to do with that information??!*

Wears a suit to one of his finals

Regularly eats non-organic food for the first time in his life, proceeds to learn about several allergies Alfred forgot to mention he has

Writes “What is a Hot Pocket?” in calligraphy and proceeds to laugh his ass off alone in his dorm because he is so exhausted he’s reached the point of delusion

Locks himself out of his dorm right before class, frantically asks the floor group chat if someone can help, proceeds to tell the nice gay man on the floor who saved him “I love you” because his social skills have hit rock bottom

Makes a little music album display next to his desk for his favorite band (Nirvana) His friends call it a shrine, and they are technically correct

Has a blacklist of people he refuses to interact with because Reasons

Counselor: What do you want to do when you graduate? Bruce: *gestures vaguely*

Refuses to take the bus because there are people in there and he doesn’t like those

Loses one of his frogs, how tf did he do that, they’re fully aquatic, oh fuck, this is probably why they got rid of that loophole a year later because unbeknownst to Bruce, he accidentally started a frog revolution in the dorms, btw he SWEARS he did not mean to do that

Has two trash cans in his room: one for the Good Garbage, and one for the Bad Garbage. Only Bruce knows which is which

Bruce: *writes a creative piece about a ship’s final thoughts as it sinks, bringing its passengers down with it* TA: Absolutely lovely, Bruce, but are you okay?

Goes on Night Walks, keeps himself safe by maintaining a level 12 resting bitch face at all times

Earns the nickname “8th floor cryptid” after pacing the halls at 3am when it’s too cold for Night Walks (honestly tho how tf didn’t he get the nickname earlier?)

Bruce: Do you think a depressed person could do this? Bruce: *has a manic episode*

Okay that's all love you BYE

[signedkoko]

Oo could I request romantic Vees with a reader who's this famous singer/idol in Hell? (Think, way more than Fizzarolli-level famous)

Valentino | Velvette | Vox [Romantic]

In which you are one of the most popular performance artists in all of hell. Reader is female.

Your name was more than just 'known'; it was plastered along buildings and chanted by millions

He was always scouting for personalities, following trends in people to see who he could drag down into his vicing grip

But you were untouchable, the first thing he couldn't command to their knees before him

Even so, if Val wanted to meet you, he could, and it was extremely new to the overlord to have to go out of his way to meet someone, but he felt it was worth it

He claims it was because you had possible talent, but those closest to him know he had a bit of a celebrity crush

Valentino is not one to be nervous; he would be direct when telling you that he wanted you, again and again, until you eventually granted him at least one night out, just the two of you

Once he has his chance, he'll pull out every stop just to hear you say that you'd like to see him again

He gets so distracted with you that he forgets the part about getting you into his company, eventually brushing it off by saying you 'didn't suit what he was looking for'

Avoiding being under his contract meant he could never command you, which meant he never had anything to be angry with you about

According to him, you were a role model for all the demons he owned

Famous stars require famous stylists, and who better than Velvette?

You'd actually reached out to her personally, since a lot of her work inspired your current stylists, and you wanted an upgrade for your tour of hell

Idol's like you were the exact thing people like Velvette dreamed of having in their portfolio, and she insisted on meeting you so she could see what you were looking for

In all her years, she'd never met an idol so genuine—most were snobbish, greedy, or just told her to 'do whatever'

You came in with photos of things you liked, hell, even fabrics you preferred, and a set list of what your songs would look like in order

She was already in love

You get her personal creations, and she insists on being the one to tailor you herself

" Only the best for the best, right? "

She can feel her bitchy attitude melt, and though she gets extremely bothered when anyone interrupts your sessions together, you ground her

It's not long before you two become official, and while she can't follow you into the deeper rings of hell, she will always be sure to watch your performances in the background while she works

She constantly calls you 'doll', because she's always dressing you up

Influences, aristocrats, idols—none of it was new to the king of social media

Everyone contacted him for their social management, or his team, at least

He didn't do much of the personal work himself; he had far too much on his plate, but he always checked on who was requesting his services

Mostly for the ego boost, knowing the image of so many self-proclaimed "stars'' relied on him

But there was also a list of people he wanted to work for, a list that brought his ego back down and told him he hadn't met his goals yet and had to try harder

You were at the very top

He'd seen a plethora of your performances recorded and reuploaded: best takes, most underrated performances, and unforgettable sets

But he'd never had the chance to see you live until he got a PR package regarding your newest album release

Him? It was certainly interesting to...no shot, you sent him hidden tickets for 'friends only'

He is not fangirling except maybe a bit; he's already cleared his schedule that evening so he can get there and making sure his outfit is cleaned up and ready

Your performance was out of this world, and he is beyond pleased when he is invited backstage to speak with you

There you were, taking off your earrings in your dressing room, smiling at him as if you were old friends

" How was the performance? I'm so glad you came. "

For a moment, hes almost worried you have the wrong person; he seems uncertain of what to say until you continue

" I heard you are hard to win over, so I figured I'd go all out before I ask if you'd consider running my new album compaigne? "

He acts cool, but when he gets home that evening, he is pumping his fist in the air and screaming

Author's Note - I was thinking lilith-level famous, you are THAT girl... Thank you for requesting! I went for a fem! reader because it was no specified

[erodasfishtacos]

My Heart's in Overdrive (& You're Behind the Steering Wheel)

prompt: harry can't catch a break, can't give an explanation, and can only watch how things play out

word count: 3.5k

warnings: angsts, descriptions of anxiety, anxiety attacks, depression

author's note:

I upload a piece of writing every 1-2 days.

There are multiple other parts of this up and will be updated this month

I recently started a second tier called The OG Tier where 2

one shots (1-4kish) are posted a week.

There are currently 350 + pieces available to read

Tier I - $3 USD where you get access to main stories, everything except the mini one shots.

Tier II - $5 USD where you get access to every piece of writing!

you can check it out here

first FIFTEEN to click here can get a free $5 membership for a month!

-

PART I & PART II

Harry was spiraling.

His mind raced as he tried to formulate an escape plan from the PR date with Tessa. 

He had no recollection of signing the contract, yet there it was, his signature staring back at him like an ironclad promise when Sonny forwarded it to him after getting off the phone call. 

He must have agreed to this at some point, perhaps in a moment of weakness or sheer oversight but he really tried to avoid these types of things.


Even when YN wasn't back in the picture, Harry never enjoyed going on scheduled dates with more pressure than when there aren’t paparazzi and PR teams breathing down his neck.

Regardless, it was binding, and now he had to figure out how to explain it to YN.

God, YN. How was he supposed to tell her? 

Every time they seemed to make progress, something always pulled them back, and this time, it was his fault yet again.

It was like a cruel cycle, one where YN put in all the effort, consistently showing up, prioritizing their relationship, while he let his career obligations dictate their course. 

He wanted to be the kind of partner she deserved, someone who balanced it all effortlessly, but he just kept failing.

Now, he felt caged, not by steel bars or shackles, but by ink on paper—contracts, commitments, and obligations he had no way of breaking without severe consequences. 

The industry was ruthless, and if he backed out, he would be dealing with more than just YN’s disappointment. 

Legal battles, financial repercussions, and a tarnished reputation loomed over him like a dark cloud. 

He couldn't afford to be reckless, not when so many people depended on him.

But YN deserved more than this. 

More than him constantly expecting her to understand, to be flexible, to accept being second priority. 

He had leaned on that grace too many times before, and each time, it chipped away at their foundation.

When he tried to call her, it went straight to voicemail. 

A sinking feeling settled in his gut as he checked their text messages and saw that she had put her phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’ for the night.

Fuck.

He couldn’t tell her over text.

How would he even phrase it?

Hey, thanks for the phone sex. By the way, I have a PR date tomorrow morning. Forgot to mention it, but don’t worry—it’s just with the face of Levi’s and totally meaningless.

Yeah, that would go over well.

He wasn’t stupid.

He remembered the comments she had made about his dating history, about his pattern of dating models. 

He could already picture the look on her face when she found out. 

It wasn’t just about the date—it was about what it represented, about the ways it reaffirmed her fears, her insecurities, the ways he had hurt her before. 

This wasn’t just another misstep. 

It was another confirmation that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as important to him as she should be. 

And that wasn’t true. 

It wasn’t. 

Because if they had been talking at the point, Harry would have never signed something like that.

Ever ever ever.

But how could he convince her of that when everything pointed to the opposite?

A tightness gripped his chest, his breathing becoming shallow as his body flooded with panic. 

The weight of it clawed at him, rising up his throat, making his entire body feel like it was on fire. 

He recognized the signs of an anxiety attack before it fully took hold. 

Without thinking, he moved off the bed and into the bathroom, turning the shower on. 

The water was lukewarm, leaning towards cold as he stepped under it, grunting at the ice pelting against the heat of his tender skin.

He needed to ground himself, to regain control, but it wasn’t working.

YN. 

He needed YN.

She was the only one who ever knew how to de-escalate him. 

The only one who could tell when he was getting overwhelmed before he even noticed it himself. 

She had always been that person for him, the calm in the storm, the one who never wavered.

++

YN had always been the calm one, the emotionally regulated anchor in a world that often felt crazy and unpredictable. 

No matter how chaotic the situation or how intense the emotions around her, YN remained a steady presence, someone who could be relied upon to bring balance when everything else seemed to be falling apart.. 

Where others might react impulsively or allow their emotions to take control, YN always found a way to maintain her composure. 

She didn’t rush into decisions or speak without thought; instead, she took the time to process her feelings, allowing herself to fully understand them before responding.

While her friends were often swept up in the storm of their own inner worlds—tossed between the highs of fleeting joy and the lows of uncertainty—YN remained anchored. 

People often marveled at her ability to handle even the most difficult situations with such ease.

Whether it was dealing with a personal conflict, facing an academic challenge, or simply navigating the everyday ups and downs of teenage life, YN always seemed to handle everything with poise. 

Her ability to stay calm in the face of stress wasn’t just a skill; it was a natural part of who she was, a defining characteristic that made her not only emotionally mature for her age but also incredibly wise beyond her years.

Sometimes, YN would get called ‘possessive’ or ‘jealous’ by other girls, and while the words stung, they never quite understood the reality of the situation.

 The assumptions made about her stemmed from one simple fact—no one else ever really got a chance alone with Harry.

 It wasn’t for lack of trying on their part; they all wanted their opportunity to charm him, to see if they could catch his attention, to experience what it would be like to have his undivided focus on them for even a few minutes. 

But it never seemed to happen.

YN was always there, ‘hogging’ him, as they put it, as if he were a prized possession rather than a person with his own agency.

But that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

What they failed to see, what they never took the time to understand, was the unspoken language that existed between YN and Harry. 

They didn’t notice the small, intimate moments that passed between them, the subtle ways they reassured one another, the effortless way they navigated social situations as a unit. \

They didn’t see how, upon arriving at the bonfire at their friend’s house, Harry had gently tugged YN’s hand before she could wander too far, his fingers latching onto hers with a kind of desperation that most people wouldn’t have caught. 

His voice, laced with the kind of nervous energy that only she could recognize, had been quiet but firm when he murmured, “Nut, don’t go too far, please.”

And she understood. 

She always did.

 She didn’t roll her eyes or dismiss his worry. 

She simply nodded, offering him a warm smile that told him she wasn’t going anywhere. 

“I won’t,” YN promised.

Years later, when Harry looked back on this time in his life, he would be struck by how profound their communication had been, how mature their connection was despite their age. 

They had operated on a level far beyond their years, always seeming ot balancing each other out in ways that most adults still struggled to achieve.

“What’s your number?” She had asked him then, her voice soft yet steady, knowing exactly what he needed without him having to say it outright.

“A five,” Harry had replied quietly, almost ashamed to admit it. 

There had been a time when he resented the question, when it made him feel weak, as though acknowledging his anxiety somehow diminished his strength as a man. 

He had been conditioned to believe that vulnerability equated to weakness, that expressing discomfort was something to be embarrassed about. 

But YN had helped him see the truth—that it was okay to feel this way, that it didn’t make him any less of a man.

If anything, it made him stronger.

YN would always remind him in a teasing but truthful tone, “Vulnerability is sexy.”

Despite his social anxiety, Harry never let it stand in the way of being there for YN. 

If someone was giving her a hard time, he wouldn’t hesitate to step in. 

If she needed defending, he was her first line of protection. 

His anxiety never existed in those moments because his love for her was bigger than the fear that usually controlled him. 

He put her first—always even when it meant pushing his own emotions aside.

And yet, he hadn’t realized just how much she had helped him, just how much he had relied on her, until she was gone.

He got too comfortable.

When they broke up, everything unraveled. 

Suddenly, he was alone in social situations, navigating unfamiliar territory without the safety net she had unknowingly provided. 

There was no buffer anymore, no one to subtly swoop in with an excuse when things got too overwhelming, no one to read the slight changes in his demeanor and pull him aside before the panic took hold.

Instead, he was left to face it all on his own, and the weight of it was crushing.

It wasn’t just the heartbreak of losing YN that drained him; it was the combination of grief and his anxiety spiraling unchecked.

It became a vicious cycle—his anxiety feeding into his depression, his depression making his anxiety worse. 

Every social event, every team function, every new situation felt unbearable without her presence beside him. 

He hadn’t even begun to recover when he attempted therapy, but that, too, had left him feeling even more lost.

The therapist’s skepticism had been like a slap to the face.

“If you are as anxious as you say, why would you ever choose to be a professional football player?”

The question had floored him.

He hadn’t known how to answer it. 

It wasn’t that he had chosen this career because it was easy for him—it was that football was the one place where his anxiety didn’t control him. 

On the field, he wasn’t the nervous guy struggling to make small talk at a team dinner. 

He was fast, he was focused, he was powerful. 

Football had been his escape, the only place where his mind quieted long enough for him to feel normal. 

But the therapist hadn’t understood that. 

Instead of helping him work through his struggles, they had made him doubt himself even more.

After that session, he never went back.

His anxiety continued to gnaw at him, unchecked, until it became suffocating. 

The only thing that seemed to help, even just a little, was the cold water. 

Showers, swimming pools, ice baths—it didn’t matter, as long as he could feel the chill against his skin. 

The shock of it helped calm his body down, helped pull him back from the brink when he felt like he was drowning in his own thoughts.

Still, even as the water rushed over him, he couldn’t escape the feeling of being completely and utterly exhausted. 

His breathing was just as heavy as if he had just sprinted the length of a football field, chest heaving, throat dry and burning from the lack of oxygen making its way into his lungs. 

No matter how much he tried to steady himself, to ground himself, it never felt like enough.

And maybe, deep down, he knew why.

Because without YN there to remind him to breathe, to hold his hand when the world felt like too much, he was still learning how to do it on his own.

++

Sleep didn’t come easy that night. 

Harry tossed and turned, his mind restless, his body unable to settle. 

Every few minutes, he reached for his phone, checking and rechecking to see if she had texted back. 

The silence from her end was deafening, and with every passing hour, his anxiety only deepened.

The breakfast date was scheduled for eight-thirty in the morning at a local restaurant that was well-known for being a hotspot for celebrities. 

It was the kind of place where paparazzi loitered, hoping to catch a scandalous photo or an unexpected encounter between two famous people.

 Despite the many times Harry had heard of it, he had never been there himself.

He knew that YN loved a lay-in on the weekends, often staying in bed until nine or even ten if she had the chance.

 But he was praying desperatelythat maybe, just maybe, she had woken up early today. 

That maybe she’d see his message, hear his call, and give him the chance to explain before the media twisted everything into something it wasn’t.

And then, as if the universe had conspired against him, a series of unfortunate events began to unfold. 

Harry considered himself a person with relatively good luck, but today—on the one day he needed it the most—luck was nowhere to be found. 

He needed a favor from fate more than he needed to throw a game-winning touchdown during the playoffs, but fate had other plans.

He had anticipated the presence of paparazzi. 

That was the whole point of this arrangement, after all. 

But what he hadn’t expected was just how many would be waiting for him. 

The scene outside the restaurant was overwhelming—swarming with photographers who acted like vultures circling fresh roadkill.

They were shoving at each other, pressing themselves against his car before he even had the chance to park properly. 

And, of course, because they wanted the best possible photographs, he had been instructed to park at the very front of the restaurant—completely exposed. 

Normally, in situations like this, celebrities were offered the option of a back entrance, a discreet way in.

But not today.

Harry’s anxiety, which had been simmering since the night before, was now reaching a boiling point. 

The flashing cameras, the deafening shouts, the lack of personal space—it all pushed him closer and closer to the edge. 

The paparazzi operated with the delusion that they were untouchable, fearless even in the face of a towering quarterback with broad shoulders and the muscle mass to back up his size. 

They had the upper hand, and they knew it.

Then, the bystanders started to notice the commotion. 

Pedestrians, people who had merely been passing by, suddenly realized someone important was in their midst. 

Like moths to a flame, they gravitated toward the growing mob, adding to the chaos.

In the frenzy of trying to get into the restaurant without causing a scene—or worse, someone getting hurt, Harry never heard his phone ring. 

The noise was too much, his mind too wired, his body too overwhelmed to even register the vibration in his pocket.

By the time he finally made it inside, he was on the verge of hyperventilating. 

But he hid it well. 

No one—not the restaurant staff, not the other patrons would be able to tell just how much he was struggling. 

Only YN ever saw through the cracks in his composure.

The restaurant’s owner greeted him, shaking his hand and immediately launching into a conversation about football. 

It was always football.

Harry nodded along, forcing himself to appear engaged even as he mentally tried to steady himself. 

He was then guided to a very public table on the outside patio, where cameras could easily document every second of the staged date.

Tessa hadn’t arrived yet. 

That, at least, was a small mercy. 

He had a few minutes to collect himself before he had to endure the part of the morning he was dreading the most.

Harry pulled out his phone, fully expecting to see nothing from YN.

But to his surprise, there was a missed call.

8:23 AM.

His heart lurched as he immediately pressed her contact, anxious for her to answer. 

He needed to explain himself. 

Needed her to hear the truth. 

But the call rang once before going straight to voicemail.

His stomach dropped.

She had sent him to voicemail.

How could she already know?

Then, a text appeared on his screen:

YN: Sorry! I’m about to head into a deep tissue massage appointment to work on these aches from the accident. My shoulder’s still twinging a bit!! I’ll call you when I get out! (:

Relief flooded through him, though it was short-lived. 

He wanted to reply immediately, to ask for just a minute of her time, but before he could type out a message, his ‘date’ was arriving at the table.

++

The date was going terribly.

Harry couldn’t focus on anything Tessa was saying. 

His mind was elsewhere, his eyes constantly flicking to his phone.

He was hyper-aware of the paparazzi, more so than usual, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself to feign interest in the conversation.

It didn’t take long for Tessa to notice.

With a scowl on her face, she clinked her fork against the plate in frustration.

“You could at least try to be interested in what I’m saying. We’re on a date, and you’re not treating it like one.”

Harry blinked, setting his phone down. 

His usual cool, composed demeanor was nowhere to be found when he replied sharply, “I’m not treating it like a real date because it isn’t. Public Relations managers don’t set up dates—they set up business opportunities that make them money.”

Tessa’s expression tightened, though she was careful to maintain an air of professionalism. 

Cameras were everywhere, after all.

“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath, low enough that only he could hear.

Harry scoffed, running his tongue over his teeth, “If you typically start relationships with a signed contract, I guarantee you that’s not a great start.”

His stomach churned. 

He could barely take more than a few bites of his meal without feeling nauseous.

The rest of the breakfast was as awkward as expected. 

And yet, they still had to end it with a hug and a kiss on the cheek—nothing inherently intimate, but in the context of this situation, it would be spun into something far bigger than it was.

The moment he was in his car, he peeled out of the parking lot, desperate to get away from the flashing cameras.

But the entire drive home, he was texting.

H: Please, please call me when you’re out of your massage.

H: Nut, I will explain everything to you. I promise.

H: It wasn’t anything. I promise I have an explanation.

H: Call me, please.

For the first few hours, he tried to remain optimistic.

But Harry knew deep tissue massages didn’t last four hours.

By that point, he knew. 

She had seen the photos.

He tried calling.

It rang twice, offering a flicker of hope—but then it stopped. 

She hadn’t blocked him, and while he hadn’t truly believed she would, the lack of an answer still cut deep.

Then he went online.

The breakfast date was trending in the top ten by the afternoon.

The photo of him kissing Tessa’s cheek was the headline image.

So she had seen it.

Harry knew blowing up her phone wouldn’t help. 

He needed to respect her boundaries.

She clearly didn’t want to talk to him.

But he just wanted a chance to explain.

If they weren’t in different cities, he’d be at her door. 

And if he didn’t have a meeting later that he cannot bail on, he’d be on a plane to her by now.

Harry gets this heart-wrenching feeling, and he’s really never felt it but once before.

That had been when YN had ended things with him.

[sukunasweetheart]

👀👉🏾👈🏾 Sukuna x Reader ex's to lovers?

wowowow i cant believe im doing like another celebrity au again but here goes nothing ahaha...

i love this trope, i ended up writing a WHOLE, lengthy ass, detailed plotline on it i hope u dont mind <3 (A WHOLE WHOPPING 6K WORDS YALL)

prepare for hella angst, OOC sukuna, insecure fem!reader, ghosting, messy break up, conflicting and complicated feelings + sexual tension and then intense smut @ the end (make up sex)

imagine sukuna being like, an amateur model-turned-actor, with you being his highschool sweetheart, who was there to support him since day one

a very happy, fulfilling relationship for the most part-- until he starts gaining huge amounts of popularity.

youve always known that he was meant and born to reach sky-high levels of success, and you were certain he was going to make it one day

but things get rockier by the second, and insecurity is such an ugly, ugly thing

seeing him model with other beautiful celebrities, acting in roles where he had a love interest to kiss and fondle, reading those gossip scandal articles involving him and another party every few months or so-

it all got too much for you.

all you needed was some reassurance... but young and vivacious sukuna, drunk on this fame and attention, failed to recognise that and left you feeling neglected.

not on purpose tho, he's never engaged in infidelity, he's never gazed upon someone else with lust or love on his mind - he was using everyone around him as a stepping stone towards his own career

sukuna's known you since forever, and he was confident that you knew his affection for you was unwavering... so he failed to understand where you were coming from whenever you brought these things up

arguments after arguments after arguments

the worst part of it was that he wanted to keep his relationship with you a secret. saying something about how having a significant other would slow his progress in his career down... the decision was urged on by the entertainment company that he was in a contract with

it hurt so damn much when he was being interviewed on tv about his romantic life, only for him to tell the world he was single.

it leads to more arguing.

of course, as a rising celebrity, he was quite awfully busy with many business trips and attending a lot of parties and galas

another terrible fight occurred right before he had to leave for a flight overseas but by then, youd pretty much already decided that you were going to leave him

you basically ghosted him, packing all your belongings overnight, blocking his number and all his social media accounts, making sure even all yours and his mutual friends didn't know of your whereabouts. you're going to start fresh. and give him no closure.

it was petty revenge, and maybe immature of you, but you were just as young as he was, and you wanted him to hurt as badly as you were hurting back then.

sukuna's still overseas, having just come back from another fancy gathering and is fresh out of the shower, in his hotel room... he decides he's gonna try and give you a call, but ofc you don't pick up

he sighs and convinces himself that he'll sort things out with you later when he gets back, not knowing that there won't be a 'later'.

meanwhile you're dragging a suitcase out of the apartment, taking a taxi somewhere else far away, crying as you pass by giant billboards that have pictures of sukuna plastered all over

he feels like such a faraway person now. no longer someone who you used to cuddle closely in bed, or hold hands with. you're not even sure of who you are without him anymore.

you could imagine his reaction when he came home, only to find your entire existence missing. seriously, it was like you were never there. you left nothing of yours behind, and the place was cleaned spick and span, not a hair of yours to be found.

when was the last time sukuna felt so panicked?? this dull ache in his chest, as he spams you calls and texts that never reach you

he contacts mutual friends in rotation but everyone is absolutely clueless... he considers filing a missing persons case but then a trusted friend of yours tells him to not look for you... and that you wanted them to relay a message to him, just a simple goodbye.

what the fuck are you talking about?

oh, here comes a severe headache.

his mind is whirring with overlapping memories, thoughts, regrets, thinking about any clues that might give away where you couldve gone, but theres simply nothing

the shock moves into sorrow, then denial, and then it turns to anger. does he mean nothing to you? so much so that youd abandon him without saying a word?

its like he was going through the five stages of grief, but for someone who he knew was still alive..

eventually, he finds a rebound out of spite. if youve left him, then it's means he's free and single, right? he gets himself piss-drunk, and beds another, only to wake up feeling absolutely disgusted. it feels like... it feels like he's cheated on you. even though you're already gone. he's just a mess of conflicting emotions, and it lasts for so long.

the reason why he doesnt hire someone or use some other underhanded method to actually look for you is because of a weird mixture of both his pride and feelings of insecurity, thinking that maybe, just maybe, you do deserve someone better, someone who understands you more... (and he's also fearful that someone like you, might've already found love somewhere else, and he's definitely not confident that he'll be able to act maturely if he sees its true)

eventually, acceptance does come... but does it really?

i like to think he went through many failed relationships, his partners always leaving him upon witnessing him getting intoxicated and calling for none other than your name in his state. someone who no one around him knows anymore.

years pass, and time really does allow you to forget. for both you and sukuna alike. in your mid thirties, both of you are single at this time.

you've been busy with your new job at some company (dont ask me, i was too lazy to decide what kind, so u guys can make this one up bye), and he made sure to keep himself busy as well. no time for fleeting romance.

of course, until fate does that weird thing where it pushes people together again... a new project lands in your lap, where it involves some kind of collaboration with THE celebrity, ryomen sukuna. of fucking course.

you really did desperately try to get it off and pass this off to some other colleague but they insisted your involvement was necessary. what are you supposed to do? you almost decide to quit... but this job means a lot to you... you can't just throw everything away because of an ex... right?

and, oh my god, when the first meeting does happen, involving the celebrity himself, you and a couple other coworkers to discuss the project, sukuna sees you and his brain short circuits for a moment.

he starts doubting his own vision, and then he reminisces, in the middle of whatever the fuck everyone else was talking about during the meeting.

"... Mr. Ryomen?" one of the other participants ask.

he clears his throat, regains his composure and regathers his focus. he's an actor for god's sake. and he starts speaking, with thoughts of you in the back of his mind. about how much youve changed, but also remained exactly the same...

during introductions, you shake his hand and act professionally. his eye twitches. will you continue to pretend not to know him even afterwards? should he talk to you separately after this? no... doing that would mean he's the desperate one...

when you saw sukuna hesitating, part of you felt relieved. so you're not the only one getting freaked out. you don't expect him to acknowledge you anymore, though.

after the meeting, he walks out feeling confident that he's going to ignore you back, if this was the kind of game you're going to play with him. you mean nothing to him, just as he means nothing to you.

but he remembers the shock that went down his spine at the feeling of the warmth in your hand. he watches you take an elevator by yourself, and tries to make a split second decision on whether he wants to let you go, or if he wants to chase you down.

he probably shouldn't bother.

but he impulsively speed walks down towards you, anyway.

youre startled when the elevator doors are blocked from closing just at the last second, with someone's arm coming through between. your heart skips a beat seeing that it's none other than sukuna.

what is this sensation? this mix of fear and... excitement. you should be unperturbed. you're over him. he's someone from the past. you're buzzing with these feelings, but there also comes a creeping resentment that finds its way to you again, as you try to remember why you left him in the first place.

he unclicks whatever level you were heading to, and clicks on the highest level instead. he's gonna take you to the rooftop of the building, where he can confront you peacefully.

"Mr. Ryomen? Is there something wrong?" you ask him. still feigning ignorance. like salt to a wound. you know its another petty move from your part, but you can't help yourself.

"Don't call me that. You know damn well why I'm here," Sukuna drawls, sounding more sad than angry. they've really become strangers.

you grow silent, being hit with a pang of guilt. deep down, you knew you shouldve handled it more maturely than that. he deserved closure, and you needed it too. but isn't it too late for all that now?

the conversation flows tense, but unravels slowly. there's still a lot of questions being withheld though. he wants to ask you how youve been. were you able to sleep peacefully after you left him? why did you have to leave in the worst way possible?

a familiar headache creeps up.

simultaneously, the anger finds its way in his heart all over again. he knows he didn't do much good towards the end of their relationship either but ghosting him was plain disrespectful and childish.

you surprise him when you give a sudden heartfelt apology.

you tell him that you know apologising now after all these years is frankly almost meaningless but still, he didnt deserve to be left behind in that kind of way. you admit that you should've communicated with him properly that you were breaking up with him.

he's left kinda speechless, bc he was so ready to be all snarky to you after everything.. he's still mad, but he can't really say shit anymore without sounding like too much of an asshole.

truth be told, if you did stay around to tell him that you were breaking up with him beforehand, he probably wouldn't have let you go... where would you guys be now, if you never separated?

"i've always wanted to apologise. it's been weighing on me ever since i left."

...and yet, you didn't ever think to call or text him even once afterwards? he never changed his number in hopes for that, and he hates himself for it.

"i understand that you hate me now, but let's try to get through the collaboration without trouble. and then we can part ways again."

that one pierces his heart, like a bullet. you haven't said anything technically wrong. he should hate you. or at least, he should feel indifferent by now. and yet... the way that you automatically assume so irks him badly.

"do you really believe that i hate you? aren't you the one that hates me?"

it's a stupid fucking question. what the fuck is he even saying? he wants to kick the elevator door.

"...i left because i thought you hated me, that you didn't need me anymore. and i tried to convince myself that i hated you too. but that couldn't be further from the truth. even now, i don't ha-"

before you can say any more, the elevator doors open, and a small group of employees are standing outside them, looking curiously in at you and sukuna. then, they realise who he is. they come flocking in, asking for autographs and pictures.

you quietly slip out of the crowd, and after giving one quick glance at sukuna, who visibly wants to pursue you again, you walk away to avoid gathering attention on yourself. wait-! dammit- he thinks.

he can't chase after you. he can't call out for you to stop. he can't push all of these people away. if he did, it will cause rumours and unfavourable articles to fly out. let's try to get through the collaboration without trouble. his own fame becomes another obstacle between you and him.

back then, you were his whole world, yet somewhere along the path, he started to fail in making you feel like it.

he watches you take the fire exit towards the emergency stairs, while he's surrounded by overbearing fans who beg for his attention. you're going to have to walk down in your heels, all because of him. as he catches the final glimpse of you, as he's reluctantly dealing with his fans, he begins to understand, a little bit. he didn't want to understand why you decided to leave him. but he does now. a little.

a couple of stairwells down, you eventually pause for a moment and sit down on the last step to take a breather. you wipe your sweaty palms against your skirt. the familiar tug at your heart, in which your insecurities come flowing back to you, seeing him surrounded. you need to build higher, stronger walls around you from now.

when sukuna is done on his end, and sends them off down the elevator, he goes off to check down the stairs you went, but you've already booked it. slipped right through his fingers. you were about to say something important. with unresolved feelings, sukuna also takes the stairs down, with a heavy heart. each step down brings him another old, nostalgic memory of you to him.

from then on, the more he interacts with you during work-related matters, the more apparent it becomes that he still harbors feelings for you. he tries to ignore it, push it back down, but it only returns twice as overwhelming.

your voice. the way you smile. the scent of your perfume. exactly the same as back then. yet, he also observes the changes that have occurred in you; how you act, speak and the kinds of words you use, as well as seeing you in such a professional setting rather than personal - everything is coming together to allure him more, and he's in a state where he's unable to resist this attraction, but also unable to act on it, because he's not sure how you'd react to it.

he knows it's not just him getting drunk on nostalgia.

the next time he catches you alone, he makes sure to tell you that he doesn't hate you like you believe he does. you'd never admit it, but that gave you butterflies in your stomach.

in fact, everything sukuna does, even just locking eyes with you for a few seconds, is enough to make your heart rate increase, intensifying when he looks at you almost like... almost like he wants you. you must be imagining things.

he finds himself doing uncharacteristic deeds, like sending coffee for all the staff members. his manager passes them out to everybody, including you. he doesn't know if you still like your coffee the same way as he remembers, but he makes sure that yours is a little different, a little more specific than everyone else's, in hopes that you'll notice these small gestures of his.

over the course of the project, he inches closer to you, ever so slowly. but you don't seem to budge. even worse, you seem to be avoiding him as much as you possibly can. you avert your gaze from his. stagger away when he gets close.

he brings it up on one occasion, when he's able to approach you at the back of the building, where there's no one around, and no watchful eyes of a nosy audience. it's definitely frustrating and unpleasant- when he wants to speak with you, he has to keep distance in case another scandal rises. he doesn't want to drag you into the spotlight, without knowing if you're okay with it first.

sukuna only really talks to you when there's nobody around. maybe he's being considerate of you, but it gives you the impression that he doesn't want to be seen hanging around with you. it makes you remember things you don't want to. it makes you remember that being with him now requires a courage that you're not sure that you have. at the very least, you know you definitely didn't have it back then.

you keep conversations short with him, and try to leave. but he keeps at it persistently. what is he trying to do? is he toying with you?

"you're acting like you want us to get back together. don't do things that'll make me misunderstand," you tell him. you were trying to provoke him. expecting him to deny it harshly and back away, because you knew he was prideful- he'd never be caught being hung up over an ex.

"...and? what if i told you that i do want that? would you stop avoiding me then?" he takes one step forward, and you take one back, proving his point.

why is he pushing aside his ego for you? where did all his arrogance go off to? this isn't how the sukuna in his twenties would've responded. his answer makes you waver, and you don't appreciate that. you try not to show it.

"no. i'd only begin to avoid you even more. so don't start."

"i'm not," you deny, but your voice betrays you. he clings onto that.

"why? ...afraid that you'd cave in to me?"

like the way he's already pretty much caved in for you?

"you don't sound very convincing."

"...would you want someone who'd choose their career over you?"

that stops him in his tracks. he has nothing to say to that. because he did make that mistake. where he prioritised his job over your feelings.

"i don't hate or blame you for that anymore, sukuna. but you have to understand... i don't want to go through that pain ever again. i don't want to hold you back. we both deserve more compatible partners."

your own words sting yourself, and you try to go again right after saying that, because it's getting too much for you. his hand flies out to grab yours out of instinct, to stop you from leaving. leaving him again.

it's really not like him to be the clingy ex, pathetically begging to be taken back, but he's willing to throw such pride away if it means you'll be appeased. if you'll let him back into your life again.

"don't say that. you never held me back-- you were my home and my everything, and i was the one that started to take you for granted," he says gently, his low voice laced with sorrow, so uncharacteristically. you've only ever heard this kind of tone from him once before, and it was when his grandfather, who was like a parent to him, had passed away. his thumb brushes over your hand.

"give me another chance. this time i'll let the whole world know about us. about how much you mean to me."

he gets in close ever so slowly, and you let him, for only a moment, before gently pushing him away, with a hand on his chest.

sukuna hitches in a breath, heart sinking to his stomach. he wants to embrace you so, so, so bad. he needs your warmth. always has been. always will. but he sees that you're unrelenting, which breaks him.

"no, stop... i'm sorry, i can't."

you're still scared. you keep thinking about how lonely you felt when you were with him, at least right before the break up. seeing him laughing through the tv screen. alone in the living room. and all the arguments.

your hand slips out of his, and he lets you go. he feels empty when you walk away. hollow. the similar feeling he felt when you first left him, but less anguish and more despair. when he gets home, he tries to drink those feelings away. something he rarely does. old regrets and heartaches return, and he drinks until he passes out.

while he drinks, you weep. crying into your pillow, wondering if you're doing the right thing. wondering if this is how it's supposed to be. terrified of being with him again, but also terrified of losing him, like a hypocrite.

from then on, sukuna keeps a respectful distance from you... no longer trying to make approaches in secret, no longer pursuing you every chance he gets. but he still sends out coffee. even provides snacks to the crew. little do they know, they're the kinds of snacks that he knows you loved. hopefully, you still do. he'll keep his distance because it's what you want, but he wishes to keep doing these little things for you. subtly.

and you notice it, too. you have vivid memories of telling him about your favourites and preferences back then, and you recognise what he's trying to do. you drink the coffee. and you always grab a handful of the snacks. you do appreciate it. it makes you happy that he remembers. on a few occasions, you turn to look at him, only to witness him looking away at the last second.

it's not too long before the project is successfully finalised, and all their efforts have been rewarded. a celebration is due, and your boss throws a party at a fancy hotel for everyone to enjoy themselves at. sukuna had stopped going to so many gatherings and parties quite a while ago, but he attends knowing that you'll be there as well. he'll see you for the final time before he'll lose any excuses to be around you ever again. it'll be the final night.

you exchange a few words with him at the venue, but the two of you leave each other to mingle with other groups reluctantly, to avoid suspicion. both of you are quite tense all throughout the night, sipping on some wine to ease it, but it still doesn't relax the tension you feel, no matter how far away sukuna stands from you.

a few hours in, and you decide to excuse yourself early to head up into your designated hotel room. your boss covered the expenses for a night, and it would've been a waste to decline it, so you decided to stay. sukuna isn't around anywhere at the venue anymore, so you assume he's already left. you thought about saying farewell, but it didn't seem appropriate after you flat out rejected him. you still have doubts about the decision. because you miss him. but what's done is done, and you can't take back what you've already said.

however, getting to the hotel elevator, you notice he's standing there, with miraculous timing. you awkwardly "hey" him, and he says it back, hands in his pockets.

the two of you step inside when it arrives, and the thick tension remains.

"i'm surprised. i thought you'd be staying around longer for the party," you tell him.

he can't tell you that he found it unbearable, to see you hanging around other people, but being unable to get closer to you himself.

"i just got a bit tired," he lies. "did you have a lot to drink?"

"not at all. i had a few glasses, but i'm still sober."

"same here."

as the lift gets closer to your level, you get antsy, thinking about what to say before you leave, but your thoughts get interrupted when he asks you something abruptly.

"...can i walk you to your room? for the last time."

you swallow thickly on nothing, and feel how your chest aches at the words. last time.

"alright. sure," you say.

he wasn't expecting you to say yes, but he's glad you're letting him stay beside you a little longer. you're staring at the elevator doors, but he's looking at your face from the side. if only the lift would malfunction and stop, right here.

but it doesn't, and soon, he's really walking beside you as you get to your hotel room door, in silence. you unlock it using your key, and then that's it.

"thanks for walking me here," you say rather sheepishly. the thought of him wanting to spend even a few more seconds with you... your hold on the door knob is tight as you stand, face turned around to look at him. it's taking everything in you to stand your ground. last minute guilt and regrets are bombarding your thoughts, and...

"i'll say this now because i probably won't get another chance again," sukuna starts, looking directly into your eyes. his eyes are mellow, and he looks wistful.

"i'm sorry. i realised i never apologised, even though that's the first thing you did for me," he starts. he knows there's a mountain of reasons he is apologising for, but he decides he'll keep this short for your sake.

".. i can't lie to you and say that i wish for your happiness with someone else. 'm not that nice." you know it the best. and you understand, because you don't think you'd be able to withstand seeing him happy with someone else, either.

"find your happiness elsewhere, thanks," he grunts humorously. for god's sake. he's never been good at things like this. being heartfelt. at least it made you chuckle a bit. his expression of indignation melts away into a melancholic one again.

"i still love you." (always have, always will.)

you fight back sudden tears, and your throat begins to ache. sukuna unclenches his fist, and tries to relax himself more.

"and...i'll miss you," he breathes the phrase out. says it so quietly, like it hurts for him to say. (i don't want to let you go.)

something snaps within you and everything starts to scream at you to take everything back, and stop him from going away. don't go- don't go- don't go-

"...goodnight."

he notices your wet eyes, and he has to fight back against the urge to reach out and wipe it away. to rescind his farewell, and pull you into his arms again - forcefully, if he has to. he needs to leave, before he loses control.

you're panicking, and your vision is swimming, and you don't think you'll ever be happy again if you let him go like this-- you're gonna be heartbroken in the worst way imaginable. you want him back, and you know you're being unreasonable after turning him down like that, but you don't care anymore. you want to go against your fears. you want to try being with him again.

before you can stop yourself, your hand catches onto the hem of sukuna's sleeve, seconds before he takes another step away from you.

his eyes widen, and he looks at your grip on his sleeve, like he's checking to see if it's real, and he's not making this shit up in his mind. his heart beats impossibly fast. his hopes skyrocket. the world decided to have mercy on him.

"...you're being unfair, grabbing onto me like this. after i went through hell just now, trying to say goodbye." he's being awfully patient right now.

you don't respond, only silently weeping.

he waits to see if you'll let go, whether this was just an act out of a temporary fickle in your heart, but your grip remains tight, and you're now just looking up at him with tears rolling down, eyes glossy and desperate, pulling at his heart strings. you only let go when he comes back to you, not hesitant to brush his thumbs across your face now, wiping the wetness away.

"what do you want me to do? tell me, and i'll do it. leave? stay?" sukuna coos at you, like he's always done before, waiting patiently until you've calmed down enough to respond properly.

"i shouldn't... i shouldn't let you in. not after how much i'd pushed you away," you whisper. today was supposed to mark the end of it all.

he doesn't even give a fuck about that anymore. what matters is now.

"...but do you want to let me in?"

"...yes," you hic.

he takes a couple of steps forward, making you step back with him, his hand on your waist to make sure you don't trip on the way. he goes past the doorway and into your hotel room slowly. one- two- three- steps. he closes the door behind him quietly.

"and..? what next?" he asks in a low voice, standing close to you, one hand still remaining on your waist, and the other on your upperarm.

"i... i don't know. i just need you," you mumble, looking up at him, eyes red from crying and half-closed. your hands inch up along his back, grabbing handfuls of his suit jacket. sukuna hitches in a breath and something dark flashes across his eyes. they reflect his desire, his almost carnal desperation for you-

"forgive me. i don't think i can hold myself back, anymore."

he captures your lips in his, and groans shamelessly into you. you grip onto him tighter, heart beating so rambunctiously that you fear he can hear it too. it feels too good. the moment he reached you, it felt like the final piece of a puzzle clicking in to complete a full picture.

you part your mouth, and he wastes no time in slipping his tongue inside, kissing you in the way he knows you love, in the way it makes your lips tingle, and, oh god, even after all these years, he still knows how to get you going like no other.

sukuna tastes the traces of wine on your tongue, and even better, he tastes you, the one he'd been missing and craving all this time, the warmth of your skin and touch, your scent, just everything about you, you, you.

he backs you towards the bed, without breaking this breathless, hungry kiss, where he softly lays you down, with him being above you, chest to chest, arms supporting his weight. he momentarily pulls away from you simply just to breathe, and the two of you gaze at each other for a hot second, full of love and lust, breaths overlapping one another. he attempts to ask you "do you still wanna continue?" just in case, but before he gets to say a word, you grab him by his tie and pull his lips to yours again, beginning to loosen it and take it off.

he understands that you want it, now. you successfully manage to untie it, somehow, with just willpower alone, and you start aiming for his buttons next, undoing them one by one. your actions send sparks down to all of his limbs, and he feels so fulfilled by your desire of him, being as intense as how he obsesses over you.

soon after you're done with it, he takes them off and chucks his own clothes away, rendering him half-naked. your hole clenches around nothing at the sight once he pulls away again, his firm muscles and the same old tattoos that you vividly remembered the patterns of. you greedily run your palms across his pecs, eyes turning to hearts. he smirks at you.

it's his turn now, and he doesn't hesitate to start undressing you as well. sukuna gets dizzy at the thought of being able to feast his eyes on your body. he dives in to keep kissing you, and then begins to unbutton you with such speed, it almost startles you.

it's off. your breasts are out in the open now, and sukuna has his fill with massaging them with his large hand, having missed them so much. his palm feels so hot, and your nipples pebble up at his touch, making you gasp into his mouth.

his kiss moves over to the side of your face, it glides down your neck, shoulders, and eventually reaches the swell of your chest. your fingers brush through the pink of his hair as he does so, and you purse your lips together, basking in the feeling of his warm kisses littering your skin. he leaves you hickeys-- the same shape and size and same locations as he used to even during your days in highschool, and you chuckle to yourself at the thought.

it's not long before he's loosening your skirt and slipping your undergarments down, getting rid of your slick-stained panties, much to his satisfaction. sukuna rubs a thumb over your aroused clit, and you whimper, having missed the touch of a man- his touch specifically.

"fuck... you're so wet.... all for me?" he asks, proceeding to slip two fingers into your weeping hole. you arch your back at the feeling, how his thick digits scissor inside of you and press up against a particularly lovely spot. he watches your every response as he does so, watching how you moan because of his touch, and how you're grabbing at his wrist because it's getting too intense. his cock prods uncomfortably against his pants. you're producing so much slick, and his fingers are getting absolutely drenched.

when he takes them out, you whine a little in disappointment.

"i know, i know. i'll give you something better," he whispers, kissing your cheek.

he unbuckles himself, and lowers his boxers to reveal his aching dick, tip wet with precum, veins bulging out the sides. looks the same as you remember. he pumps it a couple of times with his hand that's still covered with your slick, and he twitches. this isn't a dream, is it?

"oh god, please, i need it-" you plead, your hole feeling eager and empty.

"it's all yours," he mumbles. your begging makes him lightheaded as he lines himself up at your weeping cunt.

"i'm all yours."

when he sinks in deep to the hilt, you cry out at the fullness, as his tip pushes the spot inside you that had been feeling so lonely for years. your hands finds themselves against his back, feeling for his tight muscles.

"shit- 'm gonna lose my mind," sukuna groans as he gives a few shallow thrusts into you, cock so hard and throbbing wildly as your plush walls clamp on him and coats him with your arousal. he grabs one of your hands from his back and interlocks his fingers with yours against the mattress, before leaning down to bring his lips against the side of your neck.

"oh, thank god... thank god, you changed your mind. i love you. i would've been so fucking miserable without you, doll. for the rest of my life," he croons, breath fanning so close to your ear. you shudder at the tone of his voice, tearing up again, mixed with pleasure and relief, and you grab his hand tighter.

you turn your head a little more to the side, making it easier for sukuna to bite and suck on the sensitive skin of your neck, as his thrusts increase in speed, nudging your g-spot with every movement.

soon enough, he's bringing his attention back to your tongue, which he caresses with his own, nibbling on your lower lip, maintaining this same perfect pace in his thrusts that brings you closer to your orgasm.

"sukuna- i'm- i'm gonna-" you say breathlessly.

but he merely kisses you again, swallowing up any words you could say or moans you could let out, not minding the gasps and whimpers that you make.

sweat beads on his perfect body, and he makes out with you through your high, groaning back when he feels your walls flutter around him. he's close. even once you've finished cumming, he begins to pound into you quicker, wanting to get to his own orgasm. you claw at his back, crying out in pleasure, as sukuna's tongue lathers your jawline.

he wants to breed you so fucking bad. but no, that'll have to wait. he can't do something to jeopardize your trust in him. he'd rather die than endure another second of being distanced from you again.

right before he's pushed off the edge, sukuna pulls out and desperately jerks himself off above your stomach, panting as his cock throbs in his hand with every spurt that coats you, feeling so hot against your tummy.

you feel a twinge of disappointment, because you also wanted to feel that in your womb...

his dick twitches weakly after being spent, and he breathes heavily, liking the sight of you being covered in his seed for another time. (and many more from now.)

" 'kuna... it's a safe day for me today," you suggest to him without thinking. "i want it inside me..."

the phrase is enough to get heat pooling in his abdomen, and he feels himself get hard all over again.

"you sure, doll? if it's what you want, i'll..." he begins to say, almost flustered by your suggestion. you know you shouldn't say this next line, but it's so easy to get carried away with this man... get caught up in the heat of the moment.

"i want your babies so bad."

you've hit his switch. sukuna growls and puts you into a mating press instantaneously, making you squeak.

"no takebacks," he mutters dangerously, beginning the second round.

the night is long, but heavenly, as soon after he dumps everything he has into your womb, then proceeds to eat you out, making you cry for the third time before sunrise.

when you're awake, it's already heading past midday, and you're relieved to see that yesterday's happenings were not a dream, seeing as the large man is sleeping with an iron hold around your body, as if subconsciously afraid you'd leave him before he woke up again.

he awakens from his slumber to your light, feathery touches on his face, which puts him in a good mood from the moment he opens an eye. it was the scenario he's always dreamed of. waking up next to you, smiling.

there's much to talk about. about what's to come next, future plans, worries, and things they need to do to make amends for all the lost years between each other. but you decide to take things slow.

back to bullet points again bc im lazy to write it properly now

you spend the weekend w him at the hotel and stuff, just playing eating and sleeping, catching up yk

he tells you on his own accord that he wants to let everyone know that he's with you now, but he's worried that it'll bring backlash to you but you tell him you're going to be brave and take it, bc you WANT everyone to know

anyway prepare for turbulence

but everything'll be alright bc hes with you

im thinking about how mopey he'll be when you have to separate from him bc you each have your own homes rn, hes always asking you to come over or if he can come over to your place

and he'll be begging you to move in soon, like old times (he lives in a rich man house now tho)

and also thinking about how its a fresh start, but they also go through old memories and now reminiscing isnt painful anymore bc yall are back together

sukuna also says he's stopped doing romance genres in acting bc he had felt annoyed acting in lovey dovey scenes when his own love life used to be in shambles all the time

and bc hes at a point in his career where he has more choice in choosing between scripts that are offered to him, he's going to continue to decline the ones that have love interests, it doesnt affect him that much anyway

he's just being more considerate of your feelings now... and you promised him that you'll never just disappear like that again when you're upset haha...

sometimes when you still have a few disagreements with him, he keeps subtly checking up on you (hes traumatised, leave him be)

lots of facetiming when he has to go overseas for filming purposes <3

okay, thats all, bye <3

Masterlist

[4unnyr0se]

❥ sfw & n$fw headcanons - yuu nishinoya & morisuke yaku

warnings: timeskip! characters, fem! reader, they're sweetiepies, noya is actually a freak, roleplay, switch! noya, hickeys, spanking, mentions of unprotected sex, dom! yaku, slight breeding kink with yaku, cowgirl, doggystyle, they love you so much

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 2k

a/n: im sorry if yaku is ooc i wrote this at 2am and i do not feel like editing anything. n$fw is censored because i would like to keep my blog lmao

Yuu Nishinoya - SFW

❥ Absolutely whipped for you the second he lays his eyes upon you. You could be doing anything, literally anything, and he knew right then and there that he would die for you, no questions asked.

❥ He doesn’t really care what qualifies as a “date” as long as he gets to spend time with you. You could be folding laundry together, and he thinks it’s the most romantic date you’ve been on because you’re with him and you’re his entire world.

❥ Spontaneous. Gifts. He’ll send flowers to where you work, give you cool rocks he found while hiking or doing some other such thing, making you a care basket full of your favorite chocolates and snacks, contracting Sugawara to help him write love letters (writing is not his strong suit but he still wants to do it.)

❥ So much food, like…just so much food. You’ve been to every restaurant in town at least twice because that boy loves to eat. Even if you aren’t a big eater, he’ll still make sure you get three meals a day plus snacks. And if you struggle to eat, he’ll be so happy even if you only eat a little bit off your plate.

❥ Quality time and physical touch are his love languages, so expect to be getting kisses often. Pecks on the cheek in public, his arms wrapped around your waist from behind as you wash dishes in the sink. And if he’s jealous? He has no problem making out with you in front of people because you’re his, and the world should know.

❥ Speaking of physical touch, this man will not stop holding your hand. At least one part of him is touching a part of you at any given moment when you’re together as if he’s afraid you’d float away if he let go.

❥ Hella clingy, this man is incredibly clingy. If you get up to use the restroom when you’re cuddling, he’s waiting outside the door for you to come back so he can kiss those beautiful lips of yours. He just can’t get enough!

❥ Obsessed with you and everything that you do. Did you sneeze? He’s on the verge of tears because you look so fucking cute when you sneeze. Did you buy a new outfit? He’s throwing a tantrum until you model it for him so he can shower you with praise. Noya worships the ground you walk on and them some. 

❥ Lowkey possessive but in a good way. Deep down, he’s worried that you’ll leave him for someone taller or better than he is, so he gets a tiny bit jealous when he sees someone talking to you that he considers a threat. Of course, you’re free to do whatever you like. He would never tell you what you can and cannot do. He respects you too much for that. But he will talk to you about his feelings because he’s mature like that.

N$FW

❥ So. Many. Hickeys. This ties into the part of him being possessive. He wants to let everyone know that you’re his, and what better way to show you off than by parading you around town with your neck and chest covered in little red and purple bruises? You’ve nearly gone bankrupt on buying just concealer because once a hickey fades away, a new one will take its place in no time at all.

❥ Literally anything the two of you do will end in him fucking you or vice versa. If you bend down to pick something up, his hands are groping your ass, and he’s pulling down your panties and shoving his fingers into your pussy, all the while whispering the filthiest things in your ear. 

❥ This motherfucker whines and whimpers, and he’s so incredibly loud about it. The second he shoves his dick inside, he becomes a babbling, pussydrunk mess that’s only focused on you cumming all over his cock.

❥ Noya is 100% a switch who doesn’t lean towards being submissive or dominant. He just does whatever you want him to. Do you want him to fuck you stupid for hours on end? He’s down for that? Do you want to tie him up, blindfold him, and ride him until he can’t think. Also completely down for that. 

❥ Endless stamina. As long as you’re up for it, he can fuck you for the entire day. He simply doesn’t believe in a recovery period on his end. He’ll fuck you from sunrise to sunset. All you have to do is ask.

❥ Tits man 100%. Noya loves tits, no matter the size or shape. If you have huge tits, he’s fondling them as he takes you from behind. Medium-sized tits? He sucks on them as you ride his cock, relishing in the taste. Small tits? He plays with your pert nipples as he fucks you missionary. All tits are good tits in his eyes

.❥ Highly experimental in the bedroom. He’ll try anything and everything if it means you both get to feel good. From you pegging him to him filming your third orgasm of the night, he’s down for whatever. The only things he isn’t okay with are hitting you (impact play) and sharing you with others. He will casually slap your ass but that’s as far as he’ll go. He just can’t bring himself to hit you, even if it turns you on.

❥ Could eat you out for literal days and not get tired, not even for one second. He wants you cumming on his tongue and pulling on his hair as you beg him for more, and he’ll give it to you.

❥ Focuses on your pleasure, not his own. You’re his goddess and he’d do anything to serve you, anything to make you cum again and again.

❥ Has a whole index of kinks, but his top ones are roleplay and passionate sex. Dress up as a teacher, and he’ll cum in his pants, begging on you to punish him for failing your class.

❥ Loves to make love to you.

❥ “Yeah? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers, angel? M’gonna make you cum so fucking much for me, my perfect angel.”

❥ “Fuck, you’re so fucking tight. Can’t get enough of this dick, can you baby? Gotta fuck you stupid.”

❥ “More, I want more! I’ve been so bad, I deserve to be punished, ma’am!”

❥ “Talk to the camera for me, angel. Tell the camera how many times my cock made this pussy squirt all over the sheets.”

❥ “Gonna fucking cum inside, can’t pull out. Oh, fuck, baby, you’re fucking milking me dry, shit.”

❥ “Faster, fuck me faster! Wanna fucking cum so bad, please! I’ve been good, right?”

Morisuke Yaku - SFW

❥ Loves when you get an attitude with him because he also has an attitude. He loves when you talk back to him and when you tell him how you really feel, it’s just so refreshing. Honesty is very important to Yaku.

❥ You and Yaku basically continue to mother Lev well after you’re both graduated. Lev will call and text you for advice and you’ll gladly help him, even if Yaku gets a little jealous that you’re paying more attention to the oversized Russian than you are to your own boyfriend.

❥ Takes you on the most romantic restaurant dates ever. He has professional athlete money, so order whatever the hell you like! If you want five lobsters, get five lobsters. As long as his baby is happy.

❥ Spoils you rotten, but he won’t ever admit it. If you point out a cute necklace that you saw in a magazine, it’s there when you wake up the next morning. Yaku will pretend to not know how it got there, but he knows, obviously. Expect lots of expensive gifts when you’re dating, especially from designer brands. Half of your closet is Chanel and you sure as hell aren’t complaining.

❥ Not that big on PDA, but will wrap an arm around your waist in public. Since he’s a well-known libero in the Russian Volleyball League, he gets approached on the street sometimes. He doesn’t want to draw too much attention to himself (especially if you hate getting attention from strangers, so he holds off on kissing you until you’re in the privacy of his penthouse apartment.

❥ Pleads and begs until you adopt a cat together. He just wants a cat with you, any cat will do. It can be a cat you found in a dumpster or a cat that cost someone’s entire yearly salary, he just wants a cat to raise with you by his side.

❥ Wraps his arms around your waist as you cook and leave kisses on your neck. Whether you’re taller or shorter from him, get ready for hugs and kisses from behind.

❥ If you struggle with your body image, he’ll kiss away all your insecurities. His lips will be on yours for hours as he tells you how perfect you are, and how much he loves you. He’ll kiss away your tears as you start crying as well, because to him you are perfect.

N$FW

❥ Not very vocal in bed, but he does make plenty of grunts and groans. The only time you’ll ever really hear him moan is when you bite down on his incredibly sensitive neck, which will make him cum on the spot.

❥ Advocate for safe and healthy sex but prefers to hit it raw. He’ll use a condom if you want him to, he isn’t a monster. But the way you react when his cum fills out of your womb makes him want to wife you up and fuck you every single day.

❥ Designer lingerie is his weakness, especially the ones with garters that squeeze your thigh beautifully. If you wear red lingerie around him, be prepared to not be able to walk tomorrow because he will ruin your pussy.

❥ 100% a pleasure dom. Nothing makes him happier than knowing that he fucks you so good each and every night that you can’t even get off without his help anymore because that’s how much he loves to fuck you.

❥ Ass man. His hands will be on your ass all the time and you just have to accept it. He loves to fuck you from behind because he’s mesmerized by the way your ass moves as he fucks you. His favorite position is doggystyle.

❥ A weird turn-on for him is when you walk around wearing his jersey. He fucking loves it when you wear his jersey, and he can see your lacy panties poking out under the shirt, it drives him wild. If you wear his jersey, he gets an instant boner.

❥ Sit. In. His. Lap. Sit in his lap and dry hump him. He needs it so badly. He loves watching as you struggle to get off on his thigh. You look so cute when you’re desperate.

❥ Definitely a brat tamer. He loves it when you have an attitude because he gets to fuck it out of you later, spanking you as he tells you how much of a brat you are and how you need to learn your lesson. You never do.

❥ Mirror sex. He’s mesmerized by how adorable you look in the mirror as your pussy struggles to take his girthy cock.

❥ “Yeah? Look at yourself in the mirror, princess. Look at how your slutty little pussy is taking me. You’re such a little slut, you’re my little slut.”

❥ “Did you think you could just walk around in my jersey and nothing else? Bend over, princess, right fucking now.”

❥ “I’m so fucking close, shit. You want me to cum inside you, princess? Want me to fill you up and give you my babies? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

❥ “Fuck, you know what red does to me. So fucking slutty for me, babygirl. Now get on the bed and spread those legs nice and wide like a good girl.”

❥ “Take it, fucking take it. That’s my good girl. I love it when you behave for me, princess. Can I get another one of you, my love? I think you can handle another orgasm.”

❥ “You look so pretty when you cum, princess. Do you like how your Morisuke makes you feel? Use your words, princess.”

[covenofagatha]

Do I wanna know? (Part 4)

The final two weeks before Agatha moves to Albany

Word count: 5k

Warnings: mentions of sex, fluff

The following Sunday, Agatha drives you to Albany so you can look at apartments with her. She found three online that she really likes and is hoping that she can sign a lease today. 

Since her new job starts next week. 

You’ve never exactly known what she does for a living — you never really cared to ask when she was married to your dad and once you got together, she just kind of assumed that you already knew — so you have to ask about three times for what this new position entails so you can try to work it out. 

So far you’ve gotten that she advises the company on how to raise capital, financial modeling, legal and compliance issues, and general advice. She did try to explain what she does when you found her looking over a contract one night, but it went so far over your head you didn’t realize she had stopped talking until she kissed you to bring you back to earth. Agatha did say investment banker once, but even with all the job descriptions, you’re still not sure you actually understand. 

“All right, here’s the first one,” she says, squeezing your hand that’s interlocked with hers over the center console, and parallel parking on the street in front of a high-rise building with floor-to-ceiling glass windows. You peer into the lobby to take in the crystal chandelier, dark floors, and mahogany wood panels on the wall by the elevator. “See, it’s not that bad of a drive. As long as you leave pretty early Saturday morning, you should be able to get here in under two hours.” 

You look at her and shoot her a smile. Agatha’s been overly nice to you the past week, telling you how pretty you are and how lucky she is and buying you flowers and cooking you all your favorite foods, so you’re trying to just sit back and appreciate it. 

She took the job. You told her it was okay. All that’s left to do is accept it. 

“It’s really nice,” you tell her, turning back to the building. “It’s in a good area, too.”

Agatha turns the car off and unbuckles her seatbelt. “Only about ten minutes from the office, so even better. And it’s not too far from the interstate for traveling to and from here.”

Another thing she’s been doing is talking about how much you’ll be able to come visit and vice versa. It should be reassuring, but it just feels like she’s overcompensating slightly to make the move sound better than it is. 

It’s not fair to still be upset because Agatha is trying. And you are feeling good about this, you feel secure that what you two have is real and strong, and you’re going to start working on your application to the University at Albany this week. If you get in, you’ll start in January, which really only means four months of long distance, and you know you’ll both make an effort to see each other on the weekends and during breaks. 

When you put it like that, the pit in your stomach lessens. Your tendency to overthink and blow up problems in your head is definitely something you need to work on. 

The moment you step out of the car, the first thing you notice is the smell, almost like rotting plants and sewage. You wrinkle your nose and Agatha walks around to you, the same expression on her face. 

“Think you’ll ever get used to that?” you joke and she solemnly shakes her head. 

“Guess I’ll just need to bury my nose into something else until I forget it,” she says with a wink and you laugh before following her up to the glass door of the apartment complex. 

There’s a man sitting at a desk, maybe about ten years older than you and wearing a flannel shirt, typing something at his computer, and he doesn’t look up at you until Agatha clears her throat and taps her fingers on the counter. 

He raises a bushy eyebrow, unimpressed and annoyed that someone dared interrupt him. “Can I help you?” 

Agatha tosses her hair back over her shoulder and straightens up. “My name is Agatha Harkness and I made an appointment to see a two-bedroom.” 

The man sighs and taps his mouse. “Yo, Dottie,” he calls, swiveling in his chair to face an open door to the right of him, “I’ve got a ‘Harkness’ here to see the two.” Whoever Dottie is, you hope she’s friendlier than this man. Even his mustache seems to be frowning at you. 

A tall, blonde woman steps out of the room, beaming brightly at you two, wearing a brightly colored floral dress. She walks around the desk, shakes both your hands, and introduces herself. 

“Wonderful, wonderful,” she claps her hands together and you wince at the loud sound in the otherwise-silent lobby, “let me get the keys and then I’ll show you and your daughter the model apartment on the seventh floor and then the one that’s open, which could be yours! We also have some specials on leases if you sign one within twenty-four hours of your tour, which I’ll go over after this.” 

Dottie waves you along and you catch Agatha’s eye behind her back, mouthing your daughter? at her with an amused smirk. Agatha playfully rolls her eyes and swats your arm. 

You still remember the first time she took you out in the spring, when the waitress had assumed you were a couple. You had choked and almost died from coughing so hard, flabbergasted at the thought that anyone would look at you two and see anything other than a mother and her daughter, even if she was your step-mom. 

But now, it kind of bugs you that someone does see you that way. You’re almost tempted to see what Dottie would say if you kissed Agatha or if Agatha squeezed your ass. 

Dottie’s rambling about the safety features of the elevator as she presses the button and you stare at the reflection of yourselves in the bronze doors, blurring the sound of her voice out. You watch Agatha nodding attentively and you probably should be paying attention, but you just can’t. 

Something about looking for apartments with Agatha seems so surreal. You had helped her pick out the one in Westview and it felt like you were picking out a place for the two of you, even knowing you were going to live at the dorms. 

But now, you’re picking it out for her and she’s breaking her lease on the apartment you shared. 

It’ll be back to being both of yours in January, you remind yourself. 

The elevator doors slide open and the three of you step into it, the tile a fancy black marble with gold cracks and the walls a dark wood with the top half covered in mirrors. Dottie touches the fob to a pad and then presses the button for seven. 

“It only lets you get to the floor that you live on, and the roof for the pool and the game room. We take our security very seriously,” she explains and Agatha hums before looking at you for your approval and you nod like you’ve been paying attention this whole time. 

She takes you down the hall and pauses in front of a door, fumbling with the key ring and then finally inserting one into the lock. She pushes it open and lets you and Agatha step in first. 

The floor is a cool gray color, all white walls except for the blue accent in the living room, and it’s pretty spacious. The kitchen has an island with quartz countertops that match the other counters against the wall, all stainless steel appliances, a double oven, and a hood over the stove. The backsplash is green and blue and gray tiles. There’s a deep sink and three pendant lights over the island.  You have to admit it looks really good.

“Wow,” Agatha says, tracing her fingers over the countertop and crossing the threshold into the living room, where the floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city of Albany. It’s the model, so there’s comfortable-looking couches around a coffee table and a rug, facing a television on an entertainment center. Even with all the furniture, it’s easy to imagine exactly where Agatha’s stuff would go. 

You follow her into the first bedroom, the bigger one. It has the same windows as the living room and your only thought is that Agatha will certainly need to invest in some curtains if she picks this place. It’s a huge room; Dottie tells you that the bed in there is king-sized and there is still plenty of space for the nightstands and lamps and dressers. The walk-in closet is probably half the size of your dorm room right now, and there’s a standalone shower next to a tub across from the double vanity in the bathroom. 

“This is nice,” Agatha whistles and you nod your head in agreement. 

“Let me show you the other bedroom,” Dottie says and leads you to the other half of the apartment. “This door closes off the hallway to the second bed and bath, so plenty of privacy. Will your daughter be living with you?” 

It’s hard not to laugh when you and Agatha glance at each other out of the corner of your eyes. “Um, no, I go to college in New Jersey. But I’ll be visiting a lot,” you answer, and then, just for the fun of it, add: “How thick are the walls, though? Like, apartment to apartment.” 

Agatha stifles a laugh that turns into a cough and Dottie looks back over her shoulder. “We don’t get a lot of noise complaints. If you’re worried about the TV being too loud, it shouldn’t be a problem because the living room is in the middle of the two bedrooms. But if you’re watching something in either bedroom, there’s a chance a neighbor might be able to hear a bit of it.” 

“That’s exactly what I was worried about,” you mumble and Agatha nudges you, even though she’s smirking too. 

The second bedroom is a bit smaller than the other, but still a good size. This one has a window-sill and only one long window and the closet is only about half as big. The bathroom has an alcove tub and matching countertops to the other bathroom and a lot of cabinet space. 

Dottie also shows you the three extra closets for extra storage and then takes you to the empty apartment on the ninth floor. 

Agatha walks around, gesturing wildly with her hands and pointing out where things could go, while you trail after her like a lost puppy, occasionally adding a yeah and I like that and I think that’ll look really good. 

Seeing her plan the space feels like a hammer in your gut going it’s happening it’s happening it’s happening over and over again until it almost overwhelms you, but Agatha is so engaged in it that she doesn’t even notice. You’re being completely irrational. Everything is fine.

“So, what do you guys think?” Dottie asks when Agatha finally stops and comes to stand next to you as you’re leaning on the island and picking at your fingernails. She puts a hand on your lower back and you stiffen, eyes darting up to look at Agatha, who’s looking back at you inquisitively. 

“Could you give us a second, Dottie?” It’s clear from Agatha’s tone that it’s not a question and Dottie gives you both a tight smile before leaving the apartment. 

You rub your forehead, trying to stave off a headache you can feel slowly budding, and walk over to the windows. Her footsteps are soft and then she’s wrapping an arm around you to pull you into her and kiss your head. 

“You know what I’m thinking about?” she asks and you hum inquisitively. “Fucking you against these windows so anyone down below could look up and see how well you take me. See how good of a girl you are for me.” 

A burst of heat flashes through you but you smirk, not being able to pass up the opportunity to make a joke. “That’s quite an inappropriate thing to say to your daughter.” 

Agatha snorts. “Good thing Dottie isn’t here.” And then she softens against you. “Do you like this place?” 

You shrug. “It’s pretty nice. Aren’t we going to go look at the other places though?” It’s a stupid thing, but you feel like it’s not real until she signs a lease. And maybe you just want to keep it not real for a little bit longer. 

She makes an equivocal sound. “This one did look the nicest online. And honestly, I really like it. I can definitely see myself living here. I can see us living here.” 

“Okay,” you say softly, melting on the inside. As long as she’s picturing you here with her, you’d be good with anywhere. “I think this is the place, then. Let’s go tell Dottie, mommy.” You go to move but instead, she turns you by the shoulders and grabs your cheeks, pulling you in for a long kiss and then gives you another one for good measure. 

“You are so perfect,” she says against your lips. “I l—” 

The door opens and you jump back from Agatha and whirl to find Dottie standing there. Your cheeks heat up, but she doesn't look scandalized so you’re guessing she didn’t see anything. “How’s it going in here, ladies?” 

Agatha gives you one last look-over, giving you all the time in the world to object, but you just swallow hard and nod. “Dottie, we’ll take it,” she says and you plaster a smile onto your face when Dottie gasps and exclaims excitedly. 

She ushers you back to the lobby and leaves you sitting at a desk while she runs off to go print out papers. You’re tapping your foot impatiently when your phone buzzes. 

Thinking it’s just one of your parents — you didn’t actually tell either of them that you were going to New York — you pull it out of your pocket. 

Hey, it’s Carol. Want to get dinner tonight? You vaguely remember giving her your number the night of the party last week. You’ve only seen her once or twice since then and the first time, she asked how you were feeling, and the second time, she shot a finger gun at you. 

“Who’s Carol?” Agatha murmurs, having leaned over your shoulder. You fight the instinct to turn your screen and type back, Sorry, out of town tonight. Rain check? before slipping it back into your pocket. 

“Just this girl that lives in the dorms. She was the one who drove me to your place when I was hammered last Sunday.” 

“Ah.” She’s opening her mouth to say something else when Dottie comes back over and plops down a thick packet and starts rattling off the rules of the complex, the extra fees, and where to sign. Dottie says because you’re not living here full-time, you don’t have to fill anything out and you inwardly sigh in relief. 

Agatha barely looks at the papers before signing her name in big cursive letters and you can’t help but long for that kind of financial security and stability, where you don’t even have to worry about the cost of rent. When you do transfer and if you do end up living with her at any point, you know she won’t let you pay for anything, but you make a mental note to start looking at jobs, maybe even just part-time, so you can buy her things with your own money. 

“Perfect, let me just run a quick background check on you, make sure your credit is good, and then I’ll get back with you. And you want to move in…?” 

“Next Saturday would be great,” Agatha says and your foot starts bouncing even more erratically. Dottie leaves to go back into the office and Agatha’s head drops back to look up at the ceiling. “That means I need to set up electricity, water, internet, I need to schedule movers, I need to talk to my complex.” She groans and sits back normally, rubbing her face with her hands. 

You’ve done the whole moving thing a few times and it absolutely sucks so you reach over to pat her leg. It’s the first time you’ve seen her even the slightest bit overwhelmed with all this and it’s honestly refreshing. “I’m here. Anything you need, I want to help.” 

She gratefully smiles and leans across her chair to give you a kiss on the head. “How did I get so lucky?” 

“Um, you married my dad.” Agatha wrinkles her nose but laughs anyway, resting a hand on top of yours that’s still on her thigh. It’s an anchor for both of you and neither of you move until Dottie comes back about five minutes later. 

“All right, you guys are all good! We will see you next week. Any more questions?” 

Agatha stands up and shakes Dottie’s hand. “I think we’re okay. Thank you so much for all your help.” 

The drive back to Westview is filled with mindless chatter and no mention of the move. You make plans for the week — you’ll stay with Agatha every night, she’ll cook dinner, movie night on Tuesday, picnic in the park on Thursday. She knows that school is starting to pick up for you, so it goes unspoken that you’ll be doing homework with her. 

“And of course, plenty of sex,” you add when she asks you if there’s anything else to plan for. 

“Oh, sorry, was that not implied?” Agatha simpers and her hand sneaks its way into your lap, dipping under the seat belt to play with the elastic of your leggings. 

You let her slide inside and let out a small moan when she brushes a finger against your clit through your underwear. “Better keep your eyes on the road, mommy,” you say tightly.

“I can multitask.” 

She rubs your clit and you shift in your seat to give her easier access to you. It’s an odd angle — her wrist is bent in a way that is surely uncomfortable — but Agatha is determined to make it work. She teases you slowly and before long, you can feel how wet you’ve become. Your breathing has deepened, cheeks hot, and you start to roll your hips to get more stimulation. 

“Mommy, please,” you beg, and she looks over at you to say something when the car in front of her stops suddenly. Your stomach lurches. “Watch out!” 

Agatha slams on the brakes, sending you both flying forward, the seat belt putting an immense amount of pressure on you, and she yanks her hand out of your pants to put her arm in front of you. 

The car screeches to a halt about two feet from the one in front of you. You’re both panting and Agatha tosses her hair back before assessing you. 

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly. You nod, still gripped by a cold sweat. She takes a deep breath and puts both hands on the steering wheel when the cars begin to move again. “I think we’ll save car sex for another time.”

You huff out a laugh in agreement. “It went pretty well that one time. But we were in a parking lot on the way to get pizza in rural New Jersey, not on an interstate in New York.” 

“Who would’ve thought there’s a big difference,” Agatha quips and the tension from almost getting into a wreck lifts the more she drives. You’re back to giggling and talking in no time, although you both keep your hands to yourself. 

The rest of the day passes quickly, with Agatha busy setting up everything she needs for her new apartment while you finish up some homework for the upcoming week. 

On Tuesday, you’re leaving your dorm after your third class of the day to go to Agatha’s for the night when you run into Carol. She brightens when you see her and you give her a quick smile, determined to keep moving. 

“Hey, where are you off to? You still owe me that dinner,” she says, catching you by the arm. 

“Yeah, sorry, this week is going to be a little tough,” you tell her apologetically. “My…girlfriend is moving on Saturday so I'm just trying to spend as much time with her as I can.” You’ve never really had to define your relationship with Agatha, but it seems natural to call her that. 

A stormy look flits across her face before she’s back to normal. “The same girlfriend who broke up with you?” 

You hadn’t exactly found the time to fill her in on the whole story. “Turns out she wasn’t cheating, it was me jumping to conclusions. She had a job interview in Albany and she got it! So she starts next Monday.” 

“Be careful with long distance,” Carol warns, instead of being happy for you like you thought she would be. You raise an eyebrow. “It always starts out so nice and happy and everything is okay…but then the distance sets in. Texting and calling aren’t the same as just being able to see them and talk to them in person. Traveling becomes exhausting. The traffic makes you mad and then you’re in a bad mood and you can only think about the drive back and—”

“Stop,” you snap, stepping away from her. This is possibly the worst thing you could hear right now and you can’t take it any longer. “That’s not how this is going to go, okay? Agatha and I are different. We’re solid. And besides, it’s probably only going to be like this for a few months. She trusts me and I trust her. We’re going to be fine.” 

Carol scoffs, a cold look in her eyes. “You trust her? Is that why you were so quick to believe she was cheating on you?” 

The blow knocks the wind out of you and you just stare at her blankly. Who the fuck does she think she is? 

She softens, realizing that she cut deeper than she intended to. “Shit, I’m sorry. This is your relationship and I should’ve stayed out of it — I’m sure you’re right, okay? You guys will be fine.” 

But you don’t want to hear anymore from her, so you turn on your heel and walk to your car. The rest of the night, you’re a bit out of it and you can’t stop cursing Carol for putting those thoughts in your head. 

The next few days fly by in a blur with classes and homework and avoiding Carol around campus, but your evenings are absolutely perfect with Agatha.

She keeps the light low in the kitchen while she cooks for you each night while you sit at the table and ramble on about whatever you’re learning. She hums at all the right times, but when you take a break to look up at her, she’s staring at you with a fondness in her eyes that you’ve never seen before. 

Each time it happens, you think it must be what love looks like. 

Growing up with parents that should’ve been divorced, you never had a good model for what love was. You used to think that everyone’s parents were like yours — cold, didn’t actually like each other, and just stayed together for their children. You thought that love meant complacency, or even that maybe there was no such thing as it. 

You weren’t sure if you’d actually be able to fall in love and be loved back. But with Agatha, there’s an intimacy your parents never had. You didn’t know what that was like until her. 

And you know that you love her more than anything in the entire world, and when she gives you that look, you think she might feel the same. 

The three words are constantly on the tip of your tongue, but for some reason, you just can’t say them again. You don’t even say it when she makes you cum, which is a lot of times over the week. 

She bends you over the countertop and fingers you. She shoves you against the wall after you get back from your picnic on Thursday, gets on her knees, and eats you out. She makes you sit on her strap while you finish your essay and then pushes you onto all-fours and pounds into your pussy until you’re crying. She fucks you in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the hallway, in the living room — even in her car and your car. Both while you’re safely parked in an abandoned lot, of course. 

It’s like she’s determined to give you as many orgasms as she can before she moves, and she’s doing an excellent job of it. 

Saturday, after everything gets moved into the new apartment and you’re finally done unpacking most of the stuff, Agatha takes you to a fancy Italian steakhouse in Albany. The atmosphere is romantic, with classical music playing softly and candles lit at every table. Agatha looks absolutely stunning in a tight black dress and curly hair, and you’re wearing your best outfit as well. 

“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” she asks and your cheeks heat up as your head ducks down shyly. 

“Once or twice,” you answer coyly, finally meeting her gaze again. 

She holds out her hand across the table and you take it, feeling the normal electricity that her skin on yours always gives you. “We’re going to be okay, you know that, right? I know you’re more worried than you’re letting on. I know how you’re feeling — I know how easy it is to get swept away with doubts. But I really appreciate you telling me to take this job and I promise we’ll be okay. I care about you far too much to let anything happen to this.” 

You nod and squeeze her hand. “I do know. I feel the same.” 

“Oh — that reminds me. I got you something,” she says and digs around in her purse before pulling out a small black box with a red bow neatly wrapped around it and handing it to you. “You might want to open it beneath the table. Might be embarrassing if someone sees it.” 

Brows furrowing in confusion, you dip the box under the white tablecloth and undo the bow quickly before lifting off the lid. Your mouth falls open and your eyes shoot up to meet hers. 

“Agatha,” you hiss, flushing. 

Resting on stretched out cotton in the box is a small, purple vibrator, curved to be able to rest on your clit while also vibrating against your g-spot, with a gold engraving along the side that goes inside you: Mommy’s cunt. Your clit throbs.

She holds up what looks like a small key fob and presses a button and the toy starts vibrating. You drop the box into your lap while gaping at her and she smirks triumphantly. “Works from anywhere in the world,” she says casually and your stomach sears with heat. 

“Oh, fuck,” you rasp. You’re suddenly feeling very excited about this move. Something about the distance, about the anticipation and the teasing and the pining that it will bring, doesn’t seem so bad anymore. 

Suddenly, the food can’t come fast enough and then you’re both in the car, Agatha speeding while you sit on your hands so you don’t distract her, and then she throws the car into park and you both race into her apartment. 

Her mouth finds yours the moment you step through the door, pushing you against the wall as a muffled oomph slips out of you, and she sucks on your tongue and then bites your bottom lip and then kisses her way down your neck. Your brain is going foggy and your underwear is soaked and you quickly tug her into the bedroom. 

Agatha tears off her dress and then pounces on you, knocking you onto your back on the bed, hands coming up to cup your breasts and you keen. 

“God, Agatha,” you groan and she scrapes her teeth against your neck. It’s so good, but it’s also your last night before everything changes. “Wait, fuck, stop.” 

She jumps back like she’s been burned. “What — is everything okay?” 

You nod, panting, and run your hands up and down her hips. “Yeah, everything’s great. I just…can we just cuddle tonight? I just want to be close to you.” 

Agatha runs her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip, her eyes going glassy for a moment before she blinks, and she chokes out, “Of course, honey. Whatever you want.” 

Smiling gratefully, you take off your clothes and slide under the covers next to her so you can feel all of her warm skin against yours before she tucks an arm around you. You nuzzle into her body and your face twitches with restrained emotion. 

“I’m going to miss you,” you say softly and she presses a kiss to your head. “I know it’ll be okay though. I’m almost done with my application to the University at Albany.” 

She hums and kisses you again before breathing in your scent deeply like she’s making sure she doesn’t forget it. “I have no doubt you’ll get in. And then it’ll be us in our own little world.” 

“That’s right.” 

The two of you lay like that for what feels like hours, and eventually, Agatha’s breathing starts to even out. A quick glance up at her face confirms that she fell asleep. 

You know you should too, but you’re reluctant to let this moment go. Right now, it feels like you’re frozen in time, just the two of you. 

So you stay up as late as you can, just soaking in the feeling of her. 

@lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @vyvvycg @m1vfs

[ssentimentals]

come and get your love {kim mingyu}

pairing: kim mingyu x fem!reader

prompt: arranged marriage! AU, in which mingyu is a popular dj and fem!reader is a famous news reporter. it gets worse before it gets better.

warnings: none! it's not the usual sweet/fluffy stuff everyone is used from me though.

one.

mingyu stares at the window and wonders if he's ever heard of someone jumping out from the sixth floor. surely someone did, right? and they probably stayed alive, right?

'focus.' wonwoo hisses next to him, jamming his elbow hard to mingyu's right side.

mingyu blinks back to the present, looking at the contract in front of him. his sign looks almost foreign on it and to be honest the more he looks at it, the more this whole 'jumping out of the window on sixth floor' idea starts looking great. mingyu turns his head and his gaze lands on you. the only person here with who he's unfamiliar and isn't this ironic? how most unfamiliar person for him in this room is about to become the closest person to him in his life?

'thank you.' your voice is clear and you even muster a smile to the lawyer. a fake one, but still a smile. 'can we get going now?'

'where are hurrying, oh the love of my life?' mingyu asks, raising his voice to sound more dramatic. 'my legal wife, my petal-' wonwoo elbows him hard but mingyu keeps going. 'don't you want to get to know your husband more?'

mingyu waits with baiting breath for your reaction. it's a test from him, sort of. depending on how you'll react he is going to correct his behavior later on. your eyes bore into him with no emotion, nothing on your face betrays how you're feeling. staring at him for few seconds, you simply stand up and walk away, not gracing him with any kind of reply. wonwoo sighs like he's dying next to him but mingyu pays him no mind; he saw your eyes and despite how well you tried to hid it, he saw it - emotion. and he is going to see it again.

two.

'is that wall really that more interesting than me?' mingyu asks, turning towards you. 'it can't be.'

he watches as you slowly turn, facing him. it's been a week since he last saw you and now that you two are back together for fittings, he can't help it. mingyu is not sure what's wrong with him but something about you makes him itchy. he wants to poke you, annoy you, ask you questions, talk to you - anything to get your attention. and when he has it now in form of your raised eyebrow, he can't help but grin. 'so. anything you want to ask from me, my wife?'

your lips twitch and he spent too much time with wonwoo to be able to recognize when someone is trying to hide a smile - it's exactly what you're doing right now. he probs even further: 'i wonder if you're one of those sirens. do you think your voice will lure me in and that's why you're staying silent?'

you uncross your legs and his eyes zero on that motion, focusing a bit too hard on how pretty and long they are. how good they look in those black straight jeans. how nicely they'd look wrapped around-

'it is,' you say, voice not as cold as last time but still rather emotionless. 'the wall, i mean. it is more interesting than you.'

mingyu fakes a gasp, clutching at his chest in an horribly outstaged offence. 'i'll have you know, i'm plenty interesting.' there's a smirk in the corner of your lips and it's such a sexy look on you that mingyu gets thrown off for a second. 'c'mon, ask me something.'

you sigh like he's the biggest annoyance in your life but mingyu sees the way you're biting your inner cheek in order not to smile and he's winning. he's so, so winning. 'mingyu,' you start and he likes the way you say his name. 'are you very upset that there'll be no more parties on ibiza with some hot models for you? now, that you have a wife?'

mingyu blinks. icy chills run down his spine and it's a struggle to keep his expression neutral. 'keeping tabs on me, wifey?' he asks, going for lighthearted but he's too tense to make it look natural.

you roll your eyes, huffing. 'no need to, you're doing a great job by being on every single news portal yourself.'

and it's true, that's the thing. mingyu is a popular dj, of course he's where the party is and yes, in the nice company of pretty people most of the time. but the way you said it - like he's some dirt on your shoes, like you think his whole life is only this, like you know him already when you don't know a damn thing about him - makes him angry. livid, even. he should say something back, something equally bad, but then designer walks in and you two are picture perfect couple again. mingyu kind of hates it. he also hates how he can't even hide the awe in his eyes when you walk out in a white dress, looking stunning.

three.

thunder rolls in with all its might, showing exactly why all flights are cancelled. mingyu watches how mother nature reminds everyone who's actually in charge here, while you're busy stressing out at the background. he turns, focusing on the way you zip and then unzip your bag, grabbing laptop from it with a big sigh. before he can even think it through, question is out of his mouth: 'how can i help you?'

you freeze. you look shocked when you turn to him and he doesn't blame you - it's weird to ask that when both of you are not speaking terms exactly. 'what?' you ask, stuttering a bit. it's kinda cute. 'you want to help me?' mingyu nods. 'why?'

god, you really never want to make anything easy for him, do you? 'because maybe i'm not an asshole you think i am?' mingyu tries but you don't budge. 'fuck, okay. is this how our marriage-'

'fake marriage,' you but in.

'fake marriage is going to be?' mingyu asks. 'we will not talk to each other and you will react like i'm trying to poison you every time i bring you tea? aren't you tired of this?' mingyu moves closer to you. in this huge hotel room you look so small, especially when you wrap arms around yourself like you're doing now. 'our flight got cancelled, but you're stressing out here like our wedding did. i asked a simple question and you're acting like-' he throws his hands in the air, loss of words. you stare back at him, guarded and he suddenly wants to give up. 'actually, nevermind. i'm going to take next room, text me if there'll be any updates about flights.'

mingyu is.. emotionally drained. whenever he tried to take steps towards you all he was met with was a concrete wall. he knows your first meeting could've gone better but the way you're shutting him down is brutal. he grabs his bag and moves to another room, when you softly call out his name. and maybe he shouldn't give in so easily, but it's you and he's ready for anything to get you to talk to him.

'i'm sorry,' you mumble quietly, looking up and meeting his gaze. 'i just- flight is cancelled and we will be late for all our appereances tomorrow and people will be angry-'

'they all will wait,' mingyu interrupts. is this what got you so stressed? you thinking that some people will be angry at you? mingyu instantly despises this idea, you thinking that some people have this power over you. 'they will wait however the fuck they need to wait for us, okay?' a suspicion creeps in his mind. 'did someone say something to you?' the way your eyes widen is an answer enough. 'who?' mingyu asks, raising his voice a little. 'tell me who.'

his voice and tone is firm enough for you to just give him your phone with a message thread with one of the directors of tv channel open. mingyu reads through the messages and grits his teeth so hard, his jaw clicks. 'let me talk to him,' he looks back at you, pleading for you to give permission. 'please. no one should ever talk to you in this way. let me talk to him and i will remind him his place.'

mingyu probably looks very scary right now, but he doesn't care; how dare someone speak to you like that? how dare someone make you this stressed? you nod and mingyu quickly goes to get his phone, typing number of that director. he walks out to call him without noticing sincere small smile playing on your face.

four.

it goes better after that. you two are talking and it's a big win for mingyu. one week full of tv appereances and interview recordings flies in a blink of an eye with your company, especially when you open up to him more and more. mingyu thinks marrying someone who is this smart and funny is not the worst thing in the world.

five.

two weeks till the wedding and mingyu takes you out on your first real date. or well, you don't know yet that this is a date but he's about to drop that bomb soon. the restaraunt is nicely lit, food is delicious and the way candle lights dance on a naked skin of your shoulders in this dress makes him a bit dizzy.

'is this a date?' you ask, looking up at him when waiter brings dessert.

mingyu likes having your eyes on him. he always wanted your attention and now that he has it, he never wants to lose it. he reaches out for your hand, smiling when you let him interlace your fingers together. 'yes, for me. i'd love it if you'll treat it as one, too.'

your eyes are mesmerizing. how mingyu is supposed to concentrate on anything else when you're looking at him like that? your thumb gently caresses his skin. 'it's a date for me too.'

six.

it's all very new. mingyu is not in a rush but he really doesn't want the first time he kisses you to be the wedding so yeah, maybe he is in a rush. it's not like you're complaining though.

'easy there, cowboy,' you giggle, when he pushes you against the door of his bentley. 'what's got you so worked up?'

'you in this dress,' mingyu mutters, leaving small kisses on your neck. 'you dancing to my dj sets. you being next to me. you, just you.' mingyu stops right in front of your lips, practically vibrating with need to learn your taste. 'let me. fuck, please let me, i-'

you kiss him first. and it's everything he thought it'd be and then some more. mingyu kisses back, devours you whole against that car and leaves a stinging bite on your lower lip when he finally pulls back. he brings your foreheads together, breathing heavily. 'we could've been doing this from the start if you didn't act like you had a stick up your ass.'

'fucker,' you mutter, slapping his bicep but with no real heat behind it. 'get off me.' you push him gently and when mingyu steps away, you smile. three days till the wedding and mingyu already is not sure how he's going to survive them without your kisses. 'thanks for the night, mingyu. you were amazing up there.'

mingyu preens, something warm fills his body at your praise of his skills. he knows he's a damn good dj but hearing this from you means so much more. 'i'll see you tomorrow?' he asks, smiling.

you burst out laughing. 'yes, mingyu, i'm not going to skip my own wedding.'

mingyu grins, not wanting to admit how relieved he is to hear this. 'just checking.'

seven.

true to your word, you don't skip the wedding. you are there, looking like an angel in the white dress, making mingyu's heart want to jump out of his ribcage. you kiss sweetly by the applause from everyone and mingyu holds you tight during your first dance.

'forever with me, aren't you excited?' mingyu asks, gently swaying you.

'two years by the contract don't sound like forever,' you say, grinning. 'getting a bit ahead of yourself, mister.'

'what can i say, i'm very confident.' mingyu spins you once, twice and then pushes you back into his arms, right where you belong. 'your heart eyes are giving you away, by the way.'

your laugh is quickly becoming his favorite sound. he smiles too at your giggles. 'you're not exactly being subtle either,' you say playfully. 'happy that you got me in the end, mingyu?'

mingyu leans in, capturing your smile in a sweet kiss. cameras are going crazy and people around are clapping, thinking that it's all fake but it's the single most real thing in his life. 'you have no idea how.'

a/n: this was a request from anon like month ago and i got around it only now, i'm sorry :( hopefully whoever requested this is happy with how it turned out, cause i kinda like it <3 - nini

my other seventeen works are here

my formula 1 works are here

[twstedreamweaver]

Missing Magazines

Octavinelle with a Fashion Model Reader

How would the Octavinelle boys react to you being a model? Based on the premise that you, the reader, are a model and are featured in a popular fashion magazine that Sam sells at the school - except when you go to buy one, you realize that someone bought out almost all the magazines. Who could it be?

Things to mention: Azul never stopped signing contracts with people and the Octotrio are still shady. Reader is slightly different from canon Yuu. Also, this is my first fanfic, so I apologize in advance for any inconsistencies with POV! Twisted Boys featured: Azul, Jade, Floyd

The warm sun was a welcome surprise after several dreary weeks of intermittent rains and grey skies. Throngs of students were happily milling about on the central lawn, some boys from Savanaclaw were throwing a Spelldrive Disc like a frisbee, and you spotted some Ignihyde students actually touching grass for once.

With the passing of the Spring rains, Night Raven College seemed to spring back to life with the touch of a little sunshine.

And just in time for the release of the summer edition of one of the top magazines in Twisted Wonderland, Fleurs de la mode. However, this edition was special - it was your first official modeling gig for a fashion magazine.

Admittedly, when you were first scouted by a modeling agent at the NRC's Song and Dance Championship, you were hesitant (I mean, after dealing with the outrageous amount of con artists at NRC, who wouldn't be skeptical), but the Fleur City Associates modeling agency turned out to be legitimate. After some back and forth with your agent, and several gigs later, you got the opportunity to model for a popular fashion magazine on account of your unique "otherworldly'" flair, which you assumed was a weird compliment from one of your managers. Regardless, your nerves had long since worn off with the first paycheck (thaumarks are hard to come by) and now you were excited to see your hard work in print.

"Welcome back, my little imp." Sam waved from behind the counter. "What can I conjure for you today?"

"Good morning, Sam!" You smiled, "I heard that you just got in the newest edition of Fleurs, could I buy one off you?"

Sam gave you a peculiar look, before smiling - wait, was that a trace of a smirk?

"I do apologize little imp, but I am fresh out of stock. Those magazines flew off the shelves this morning."

"Wait, but didn't you just open like thirty minutes ago?"

You were a bit disappointed. On one hand, you didn't really need the magazine, but on the other hand, it would've been nice to have at least some proof of your accomplishment in this strange world. At a school where magic was the highest priority, it was nice to finally be known for something that wasn't just your lack of magic ability.

"Yes but, eh hee hee, it seems the magazine was quite popular this time around." Sam snickered. You sighed.

"However," Sam continued, "You've lucked out this time little imp, For the same price as a magazine, I can tell you who bought out half my stock. I'm certain that you can get one from him for free!"

"Thanks Sam, for the, uh, considerate offer, but I think I'll pass!" You remarked, trying to think of who might have bought out such a large stock of magazines.

"Are you certain, my little imp?" Sam leaned over the counter, smiling, a bit too maliciously for your liking. "Don't you want to see your magazine debut firsthand?" Huh?

You were only featured on a few pages, so how did he even know you were in there? Did he actually read the fashion magazine? Looking at his attire, you find that highly doubtful.

"How'd you know about that?" You inquired, trying not to sound overtly suspicious.

"Why else would so many imps be standing in line outside my shop at seven in the morning?" Sam, for sure, was smirking this time.

No way. How did this get around? You felt your face go hot, suddenly embarrassed. Hold on, you reasoned with yourself. Vil is a model too, along with some other Pomefiore students, so students modeling shouldn't be a shock to anyone!

But if the reason the magazines sold out so quickly was - that is, if Sam's not tricking you - because of your shoot, then why would anyone buy half of the entire stock? Especially at Sam's ridiculous prices.

You sighed; you'll figure this out later.

"I'm good, Sam. Thanks for the offer, but I've got to get going to my next class." You quickly backed away from Sam and ducked out the front door before he could cut you off with another suspicious offer.

"Come back anytime little imp!" The door swinging shut behind you as Sam big you goodbye.

God, was there a single good person in this school??

Wait, a realization suddenly hit you. The guy who bought half the magazines, was it-

——-

You practically stomped across the school, through the mirror room, and into the Octavinelle dorm.

You didn't lie to Sam earlier; you really did have to go to class. And then after four classes and nearly eight hours, you had to go to club. So, now it was practically late afternoon, and you were only now on your mission to hunt down the buyer of some 60+ magazines.

The moment you stepped inside Mostro Lounge, two tall, ominous figures seemed to materialize directly beside you.

"Hello Jade. Hey Floyd."

"Shrimpy!" Floyd exclaimed, before wrapping his long arms around your torso and squeezing tightly.

"Now now, Floyd," Jade smirked, "Let's not squeeze the life out of our little Prefect."

"I'm here to discuss some things with Azul." You told the two 6-foot-tall eels.

You must have sounded agitated because Floyd and Jade quickly took the hit and grabbed onto each of your arms respectively and dragged walked me to the VIP room.

"Now then, who are we to interfere with your business affairs?" Jade let go of your left arm to open the large, ornate VIP room doors.

"Only VIP access for our Shrimpy!" Floyd exclaimed, striding into the VIP room where some student was groveling on his hands and knees, begging Azul for something. I noticed that he had a small anemone sprouting from his head, looks like Azul got another freshman. Grinning, Floyd roughly grabbed the poor student by his shirt collar and unceremoniously threw him out the door.

Jade sinisterly smiled at the boy, before bending down to say something in a hushed tone, causing the boy to squeal and shuffle away frantically. Jade smirked, stood, and walked over to stand beside the seated and slightly flustered Azul, as Floyd slammed the doors.

For once, and to my astonishment, Azul, usually the pristine image of a savvy businessman, looked a little nervous.

You were surprised that he didn't even object to Floyd tossing his client (more likely his victim, given the anemone) out.

Azul pursued his lips and tented his fingers on the table, before taking a breath and seeming to regain his composure.

"Why, (Y/N), to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?"

Azul typically spoke formally and eloquently, but given your and his relationship as friends, his behavior was a little, unusual. Something smelled fishy, and it wasn't the fish swimming outside or the mermen in the room.

You chalked it up to your own misunderstanding of the situation, or to Azul already going into business mode to prepare for what was coming.

"I'm here about the Fleur magazines you bought."

For a brief second, the three (well, more like two, Floyd just seemed slightly humored) seemed to go pale. Azul gave you a blank stare, mouth slightly open, and Jade turned away to focus intently on the wall with a trace of a grimace on his face. Floyd chuckled and looked at Azul.

Weirdos. What is up with them today?

"You're reselling those Fleur magazines for a profit, aren't you?" You continued on.

A brief moment passed. Jade turned back to look at you and Azul quickly snapped back to reality with a small laugh and a smirk.

"Yes! Why, you deduce correctly, Prefect, I did buy the remaining stock in order to resell them. They're quite in high demand, given your popularity amongst the student body."

"I apologize if you wanted to buy one, but I couldn't miss such a lucrative and perfectly legal business opportunity!" Azul cloyingly apologized, gesturing with his hands in a show of mock apology.

Floyd and Jade nodded along in fake sincerity. Seems you guessed right after all.

"Okay, seeing that you're admitting it, I'm not really that mad. But, also, seeing that you're going to profit off my face, I have a proposal."

The three leaned forward. "Do go on," Azul nodded.

"I can sign my picture in one of the magazines, so you can ramp up the price, and, in return, I can get a free magazine."

"Done!" Azul exclaimed, magically flying over a contract to you. You have no idea how he managed to write one so fast, because it seemingly materialized out of thin air.

The contract wasn't wordy and there were no terms and conditions. You suppose it makes sense given how simple the agreement is, but it still seemed quite hasty.

Regardless, after reading it over twice - it is Azul after all - you signed, and Azul magically lifted the contract and pen into his hands and swiftly slid them into some drawer.

While you were reading the contract, Jade quietly ducked out before returning with two magazines in hand. He hovered over your shoulder, before flipping one magazine open to reveal one of your swimsuit model pictures and setting it on the table for you to sign.

You signed, although it felt a little weird autographing something, but it was best 'business' proposal you could come up with.

Jade handed you the other magazine and Azul stood up. You still find the height difference between him and Tweels humorous, although Azul was still taller than you, so you didn't have much room to judge.

"It's a pleasure doing business with you, (Y/N), as always." Azul smiled, fumbling with something out of view in his desk drawer. "Have a good night."

"Want a drink Shrimpy?" Floyd inquired, placing an arm on your shoulder, turning you away from Azul.

"I would be more than happy to make something to your liking." Jade agreed, leading me out of the room. "On the house." He quickly added.

"As much as I'd love to, I have a tutoring session with Riddle. He saw my grade on last week's midterm and almost exploded on the spot."

"Aah, I haven't seen Goldfishy in a while." Floyd wondered aloud. "Hey, Shrimpy," He smiled, "Let me come with ya."

"Absolutely not," Jade remarked with a cold smile that did not reach his eyes, "You have a shift to work Floyd." You have always found the difference between their personalities amusing.

Remembering your appointment, you whipped out your phone to look at the time. Oh no. You had five minutes.

"Shit, I got to go, see you guys later!" You waved and ran off, terrified that you might actually witness Riddle explode this time.

"Goodbye, (Y/N)." "See ya, Shrimpy!"

Two sets of mismatched eyes intently followed you out the door.

------

"JADE." Azul practically screeched, slamming his hands on the table. "Do you know how BADLY that could have gone? Are you insane? You're lucky the prefect thought I was trying to resell them!"

"We're lucky." Jade corrected, carefully and meticulously removing pages from a Fleur magazine at a Mostro Lounge table. Azul threw his hands up in frustration.

"Hey, Azul, I never heard you objecting." Floyd rolled his eyes. "And why are you so embarrassed anyway; you're puffing up like a pufferfish."

"Well now, we have to sell the magazines." Azul huffed to himself and sat down besides Jade and the stack of magazines. "So, stop tearing the merchandise!"

"No." Jade snapped angrily. Realizing, Jade quickly collected himself and returned to his typical collected attitude, resuming his carefully removal of magazine pages, "There is a clear solution - we sell the magazines, just without certain pages featuring the prefect."

Azul stared, deadpan at Jade, clearly exasperated. "And just what are you going to do with half a hundred pictures of the prefect?"

"Remind me, who took one of the magazines after I bought them for 'personal use'?" Jade sneered, meeting Azul's stare, causing Azul to blush and begin stuttering excuses.

"I still don't get why we can't just tell Shrimpy." Floyd shrugged, leaning back in his chair, holding up one of the torn-out magazine pages of (Y/N) standing on a beach, hair blowing in the (fake) wind, dressed in a one-piece swimsuit, with a chic cover-up.

"Absolutely not!" Jade and Azul shouted in unison.

Thankfully, the Mostro Lounge was closed, and no one could hear the three mermen squabbling late into the night.

[12woso12]

Angry Woman

Part 1

TW: Does have some very heavy topics so look after yourselves and don't read if you don't want to

You were 21 years old and completely new to London. Having grown up in the North of England, everything felt backwards...including Arsenal. At 15 you were Manchester United's wonder kid. You were scoring goals for the senior team at a rate that no teenager had managed before.

The day of your 18th birthday you captained the U21 Lionesses in a European final and scored the winning goal. And at 19 you made your senior Lionesses debut.

Defenders hated you.

Forwards wanted to be you.

And your fans?

Well, you weren't sure if they wanted to be you, screw you or take you out for coffee. You were on the front page of every newspaper in the UK, whether you were modelling, showing off your football prowess or caught in public with your popstar boyfriend, the public rarely ever escaped your face.

When you made the shocking transfer from Manchester United to Arsenal, the entire footballing world halted in its tracks. You were United's star pupil, if fans were shocked at Alessia's transfer, then they were in utter disbelief at yours.

You would have died for United.

You walked through hell to wear that red shirt every week.

Literal hell.

From the outside you were golden. Everything about you shone passion and potential, you were praised at each turn, awarded with each goal or neat piece of trickery. The only thing missing from your game was an ability to control your temper. It wasn't as if you were a mean person, you wouldn't hurt people maliciously. You just...lost control.

The media gave you some lenience when it came to your rage. The tabloids blamed it on your unstable childhood, bouncing around foster home to foster home with no real family to call your own. Pundits could be a little harsher on you, the older you got the more they would criticise your inability to reign in your rage on the pitch. It had been okay when you were a hormonal teenager, but now at the ripe old age of 21, you were picking up a lot of heat for it.

You never really bothered to listen to the voices outside your bubble at United. Sure, you were a little more enthusiastic on the pitch than was acceptable but it was your only outlet. Football was your only source of therapy, your only way of forgetting what was going on away from the pitch.

Your anger didn't come from your fucked childhood.

It didn't originate from a dead family or a famous boyfriend who snuck around behind your back.

Your anger came from a place much darker.

Hell.

To you, United behind closed doors was hell.

It started the moment you begun to get senior minutes at United. You were barely 15 and still wore thick braces, the kind of braces you would see the high school nerd get bullied for in American coming of age movies. Looking back, that's what confused you most. How could someone like that be so interested in someone like you?

He was a god. A saviour. A husband. A father.

David Coben was 45 years old when he first touched you. And he was 51 when you finally stood up to him. He used to tell you that you were special, that you wanted him to touch you, to do things to you that no one had done before. He prayed on a vulnerable girl with no family to protect her. At first you screamed and cried and tried your hardest to avoid him... but he never failed to find you. Whether it was in a private corridor after a match or in the isolation of your hotel room on away days. David Coben always found you. And worst of all, he always got what he wanted.

If you refused, he'd tear up your contract with United himself, that's what he told you. And at 15 years old without having built a strong name for yourself it seemed impossible to leave United for something more successful.

So, you stayed.

And you told no one.

You became a star, a constant talking point in woman's football. Your fame shot to new heights when you started to date a pop star and that's when the modelling jobs began to pour in.

And suddenly, you were rolling in money.

But you still took everything that David gave to you. And then you took it out onto the pitch and gave the world a new talent to obsess over. The older you grew, your game became better but your anger became near catastrophic. It wasn't until you finished a season with 5 red cards and a serious telling off from Sarina Wiegman at your latest England camp that you decided enough was enough. You couldn't do it anymore. You had to say no.

That's when you moved to Arsenal.

[annefolklore]

Just thinking about soft and loving sex with Bakugo.

Like just imagine he starts to softly cry because he’s never been genuinely praised (outside because of his quirk) and intimate like that with someone. Like when you say I love you while looking at him through his eyes, they actually start watering

Warnings: afab reader, you call him baby and he calls you sweetheart, missionary position if you squint.

! Minors dni !

“Katsuki?” You muttered when he backed up a bit to breath air.

The way his name rolled on your tongue on itself was enough for Bakugo to feel this strange but welcoming warm feeling in his stomach. Your puffy lips from kissing each other, were parted as you breathed and moaned at each of his slow but deep thrust into your heat and the blond couldn’t stop himself from pecking them before answering with his deep voice

“Yeah?”

But you were already zoning out because of his mesmerizing face, because let’s get this straight: Katsuki Bakugo is a beautiful man. Handsome or sexy weren’t good enough to capture his features. From the sharpness of his jawline, his plump pink lips to his captivating crimson eyes, he sure was a piece of art to look at. No wonder he has contracts with multiple modeling agencies for him to be their new front page on magazines.

But these photographers could never really capture you fiancé’s beauty. There is just something about him doing simply…nothing. It could be the way he adjust his glasses when answering emails on his laptop, or him ruffling his hair in the morning in front of the mirror with this tired expression. Or maybe how he smiles when you say terrible jokes while shaking his head. There’s just something with you man that’s breathtaking!

Let’s not even start about his personality! Everyone may describe him as this loud brute, but with you?…Girl that’s another story.

“I love you” you softly say, looking at the ruby orbs a few centimeters from your face.

Oh you love this man and he loves you more even if you guys playfully argues about which one of you loves the other more.

And Katsuki? He loves you so freaking much, he cannot explain it. At the beginning of the relationship, it even scared him a bit about how much he would think about you and care about you opinion on things.

He loves the way your eyes lit up when he shows you the new hairstyle he wants to try and how they sparkle when he comes back from the barber. He loves how you steal his shirts and hoodies to wear as if they’re your own. He loves how you’re always thoughtful about the gifts you give him even though your presence is the best gift he ever had.

But what Bakugo love the most about you isn’t even your features. It’s how you’re always praising him even for the smallest things and how it’s not often about his ability to make explosions.

“You love me?” He echoes and his voice cracks a little.

It wasn’t a secret that Bakugo’s quirk was powerful and that’s why people even talk to him in the first place. “You’re so strong” they said. “I wish I had your quirk” they said. And Katsuki had grown tired of it. Yes, he’s impressive and mighty…but what else? No one tells him how they appreciate him. No one put his name and funny in the same sentence, unlike his friend Kaminari. No one calls him sweet like any other heroes…but you.

You nod your head and your eyes were filling with water, encircling his neck with your arms . “So so much” you continue before joining your lips with his again for a delicate kiss and his tongue immediately went to yours.

Why you were crying? Because you couldn’t understand how nobody ever saw Katsuki as him. He’s so much more than being Dynamight and it just breaks your heart how he never heard such endearing words from somebody else.

“I love you so much, baby” you moan when he perfectly hit again your spongey spot inside of you.

No matter how many times you’d say that sentence in a day, Bakugo will never grow bored of it. He finally has someone who loves him. His warm and calloused hands quickly enveloped your own when he felt his own eyes starting to water. It wasn’t like when he was a teenager, crying late at night because he wasn’t enough. No, this time, it was because he realised that he finally has what he wishes for the most: someone that truly loves him.

“I love you too sweetheart” he whimpers in your ear, at the edge of his orgasm and he could feel you being there too. “So fucking fucking m-much” he moans as he makes his last thrust harder.

He moans your name as he comes inside of you and your heat spasm around his thick member. Katsuki continues to thrust into you to make the pleasure last longer before he lets himself fall on top of you.

Deep breathing was the only sound in the room as you guys catch your breath.