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cowboyschumi · 4 months ago

Text

HEARTLESS

Summary: Lando Norris has entered his heartless era with no intention of leaving it anytime soon. Now he’s hunting for prey on Raya, and that’s where he stumbles upon you.

Author’s note: Y'all really thirst over Mister Norris, my god. English is not my first language. Enjoy the reading lovelies, interactions are much appreciated.

Warnings: Slightly suggestive, cheating mention, cursing ig. Tried to be inclusive, reader's gender is not specified.

————————————————————————

Luisa was the best Lando ever had, everyone knew it including him, but he wouldn’t admit it out loud. The only ones cheering over their breakup were jealous, parasocial thirteen-year-olds.

But that was long ago. He moved on pretty quickly, not exactly beating the cheating allegations. Russian model this, Brazilian actress that… and it was all true. There was no denying. He was really enjoying his singleness, having a blast every heated Sunday. But beyond that? Nothing. He got scared easily by commitment or brushed off any trace of a slight chance of dating someone seriously.

He didn’t know why, this tendency to avoid and escape. Deep down, he knew he was hurt. Not hurt by someone else, though. He did it all by himself, ruining the only real thing he ever had. Fans who cared pointed it out: 'His spark is missing,' 'We miss silly old Lando!'

And after claiming he didn’t want to mature because he was happy where he was, he finally matured. Or at least, he pretended to, showing himself as nonchalant and bold. Expressiveness and cameras were just a performance, because in his daily life, he still acted like a teenage boy, eager to get laid

Anyone with an average experience on dating apps knew they were the worst—a way to boost egos based on looks, only to end up rejected and discarded. Raya seemed different, more polite, you guessed. You weren’t the dating type, but curiosity got the best of you. You wanted to know what the hype was about.

Lando, on the other hand, spent most of his day on that app. Every girl swiped right on him, but he rarely matched with someone he actually liked. He wasn’t too strict about looks, he was more of a 'the bigger, the better' type of guy.

Raya wasn’t Tinder. Access was limited, and confidentiality was a must. That’s why you were really surprised when you got in after an exhausting approval process. Your friends freaked out, screamed, and practically climbed the walls of your apartment—the excitement was real. Maybe even a little more than yours.

"Hand me the phone." I don’t even know all these people you’re swiping left and right on." Your patience was limited, and your friends knew exactly how to test it. They kept using your Raya like it was theirs while you minded your own business, eating ice cream. You had no intention of swiping, and the girls knew it, that’s why they took matters into their own hands.

"Oh. My. God. Shut up."

"That’s Lando Norris!" One of them immediately snatched the phone from your friend’s hands.

"Who’s Lando Norris?"

They looked at you like you had just committed a crime, or like they’d seen a ghost behind you. You weren’t sure if your question was out of place or if it was the fact that you had just spoken with a spoonful of ice cream in your mouth

"You’re kidding, right?" Finally, one of them spoke after a long, awkward silence.

FOMO—a word used by chronically online people to describe the fear of missing out, not knowing what’s going on, feeling excluded. That was exactly how you felt for not knowing who Lando Norris was.

"Formula One driver?" Now the phone was in your hands. You were reading his description with the screen practically glued to your face, like a mom who can’t see a thing unless it’s that close.

"That guy beat Verstappen a few times, right?" That was the only thing you could come up with, just from scrolling through Twitter and catching bits of the news. You didn’t know a single thing about the sport.

And sometimes, famous people liked that: their love interests not knowing anything about them, their jobs, the rumors, or the creepy facts.

Your Raya profile didn’t have anything special, aside from your picture-perfect photos. Celebrities didn’t actually care about you deep down—only if you fit their beauty standards. Being active and checking profiles wasn’t on your to-do list. It was just pure curiosity.

But somehow, you two matched. May the universe know under what circumstances and why.

————————————————————————

"When will I have the chance to meet you?"

His text was blunt, like you already knew each other. Maybe even a little desperate.

"What happened to 'Hello, how are you, my name is…'?"

You answered sarcastically, but truthfully. Not introducing yourselves was kind of rude. But you got the point, Lando didn’t care about who you were or what you had to say. The quicker you ended up in his bed, the better.

He laughed at your text, you had the kind of sense of humor he’d fall for. He wouldn’t lie, he enjoyed how obsessed girls were with him and how quickly the dirty talk escalated with just one message. But to his surprise, you weren’t that easy to win over.

"Haha, sorry. Is dinner fine with you?"

Wow, he was really a bad texter. The driest you’d ever seen, dare you say. Was it a guy thing or just a wannabe mysterious famous person thing? You hoped the conversation would be better in person because, damn, it’d be a shame if his pretty face had nothing to say.

"Send me the addy. I don’t need an F1 driver picking me up, I’d rather pass."

Your fear of speed was a thing.

————————————————————————

Lando was attractive. You weren’t exactly interested, but nervousness ran through your veins. Dates always did this over you—stuttering, sweaty palms, and way too much overthinking. You even considered canceling, but your friends wouldn’t let you.

You were a fashion design student, meaning you had some knowledge of trends and what suited your silhouette. Lately, silky long attires were your go-to for night fits; simple, elegant. You dressed for yourself, for comfort, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the attention and the flattering compliments on your fashion sense.

Monaco was small. Getting anywhere was a short drive, so the Uber didn’t take long. But as you stepped out of the car, your stomach twisted. The restaurant in front of you was huge, glowing with warm lights, yet no people coming in or out. The classic internet trap flashed through your mind—what if there was no Lando Norris waiting for you at all?

“Y/N?”

His voice sounded unsure. He was glued to his phone, shamelessly checking if you actually looked like the pictures he’d been thirsting over on that awful app.

You turned around slowly, mentally cursing yourself, and then your friends. And there he was.

He really screamed Formula One driver. The expensive car gave him away immediately. You had boots on, and he was wearing sneakers, making him not nearly as tall as you expected. You bit your cheek, trying not to laugh at the fact that you were practically the same height.

How were you supposed to act on a date with someone worldwide famous?

Lando leaned in to kiss your cheek, but you instinctively extended your hand for a handshake instead. The night hadn’t even started, and you already wanted the earth to swallow you.

“Shall we?”

He offered his arm, effortlessly charming. Gentleman, innit?

You hesitated before looping your arm through his, still not saying a word. But as you stepped into the restaurant, your stomach dropped.

The place was empty. No other customers. Just you and him.

Your face went pale because there was only one explanation.

He did not…

“Mister Norris!”

A well-dressed waiter greeted him with familiarity. They knew each other. With a simple hand gesture, he led you both to your table. The level of formality made you feel like royalty.

Dim lighting, soft music. A candle flickered in the center of the round table, it had the scent of chocolate, if your nostrils weren’t failing you. The ambiance was undeniably beautiful.

He really outdid himself.

You sat down, eyes narrowing at him. "You did not rent out this whole place just for us."

"Yeah, I did."

Lando chuckled, his smile boyish—like a kid caught red-handed. You playfully shoved his shoulder, you hated surprises and gifts in any format.

Your face burned red, so you instinctively hid behind the menu. Of course, he noticed. He found it adorable.

His foot lightly tapped yours under the table, trying to get your attention. "Are we playing hide and seek now?"

You sighed, setting the menu down just so he could see you roll your eyes. "What are you ordering?" you asked in a hushed tone, like it was some kind of secret, despite the fact that no one else was around.

Your elbows rested on the table as you leaned slightly toward him. He did the same. The tiny candle was the only thing between you.

There was no need for flirtation or innuendos—the tension was already there.

For you two, banter was enough.

————————————————————————

"So, fashion designer, huh?" He asked, cutting his food, trying to throw the conversation toward you.

"So, Formula One driver, huh?" You mocked him, mimicking his tone—because, seriously, that was the most basic question ever. Your background was more than obvious; it was explicitly written on Raya. But you got it—he was just as nervous as you were.

One thing Lando was sure of: you weren’t like his other dates. My god, you were hard to get. An hour in, and there had been no physical contact at all—just chatter, chatter. Not that he was complaining. You were an interesting and undecipherable human being.

"How many girls have you brought here?"

You loved making people uncomfortable with your questions, especially when you already knew the answer—you just wanted to see their reaction. Lando practically choked on his food at your out-of-the-blue assumption.

"W-what?"

It was hilarious how fast he grabbed his water, like he couldn’t believe how unfiltered you were. You repeated the question, and he had no choice but to answer.

"I don’t know… two or three?"

At least he was honest. Or tried to be.

————————————————————————

Dinner happened, to your surprise, quickly—because time moved fast when you were really enjoying yourself, losing track of it completely. Luckily, the Formula One driver caught up with your jokes, knowing exactly how to turn them back on you. Like an Uno reverse card. For you, there was nothing more intimate than teasing each other mutually and just the right amount. Some people couldn’t take a joke, and that was such a turn-off. But Lando simply got you.

Now, you were exiting the glamorous restaurant, shoulders covered by his huge coat. Your laughter was loud, and in just two hours, you had already built inside jokes between the two of you.

"Looking forward to seeing your replacement next Sunday if you catch a cold."

"And I'm looking forward to seeing your pretty face again."

He ended all the joking with a cheeky, flirtatious remark—he knew exactly how to make a girl’s legs weak using nothing but his natural charisma.

"You never shut up, do you?"

And then you did the unthinkable.

Without thinking twice, you pulled him in, your lips merging into one. Your heart was pounding out of your chest, finally releasing all the tension and need that had been weighing on you.

————————————————————————

The car you once eyed as luxurious was now the place where you were making out frenetically. The kissing was obscene, neither of you knew where all that passion came from, but it was addictive.

His firm hands gripped the fabric of your branded clothing, holding your hips in place, not wanting you to make any movement against his lap. It’d be the death of him—he was already suffering a nightmare between his legs.

Your fingers instantly got lost in his curls, tangling and pulling them mid-kiss. Lando’s mouth was practically fighting against yours, turning it into the sloppiest mess. Heaven had never felt this chaotic. You took your time exploring every corner of his mouth with your tongue, while his hands traveled deliberately across your body, wishing there was no fabric separating you two. His fingertips traced you as if you were as fragile as a sculpture, slow and delicate. You melted under his touch, squirming on top of him at the barest touch. It was inoffensive, yet he knew exactly how to caress all the right places.

A shiver ran down your spine as your body suddenly felt colder than seconds ago—a thin breeze brushed against your right thigh. He was sliding up your outfit, eager to go further.

"Easy, driver." A whisper escaped your lips, breathy from all the intense air-exchanging. Your lips brushed against each other, expectant but unmoving. "I know you like adrenaline and fast things, but not tonight."

Fucking on the first date wasn’t your thing, you had at least some dignity. This wasn’t just a hook-up; a few butterflies were already flying around in your stomach, and you despised it.

With half-lidded eyes, he looked up at you, locking gazes. His puppy-blue eyes were now dark with lust. His swollen, glossy lips formed a slight pout. If you kept staring at him—at his pathetic, needy, almost convincing face—you’d be stripping down quicker than lightning.

Trying to put an end to his little show, you placed a hand over his face and shoved him away, cutting off all dangerous eye contact.

"Not tonight gives me a free pass for a second date, according to my understanding." He contradicted you, attempting to sound smart with a cocky grin spread across his face.

"You really are something else, Lando Norris." You did your thing to keep him quiet, preventing any cringey pick-up line from escaping his lips, and restarted the make-out session.

He was relieved that you’d shut him up quickly, because the longer it went on, the more he felt like verbalizing the flying feelings in his stomach.

#f1 #f1 fandom #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula 1 #formula one #lando norris x reader #lando norris #ln4 #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fluff #lando norris fic #cowboyschumi #cowboyschumi writes #f1 imagine #ln x cs

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bueckets · 5 months ago

Text

The Hit List | 02.5

Pairing: fuckgirl!Paige x Mechi Student!reader

Masterlist (TBA) | Part One | Part Two (READ BEFORE 2.5)

Genre: romance, slow burn, enemies to lovers, kinda funny?, they fuck, n its hot n sweaty, cat n mouse

Description: What starts as a game of avoidance turns into something far more dangerous when old grudges and unfinished business crash headfirst into a truth neither of them are ready to face. Armed with a stubborn streak, a boyfriend you're trying too hard to believe in, and a simmering resentment that burns just as hot as desire, you swear you won’t let Paige win.

But when history keeps rewriting itself in glances, in touches, in words that cut too close—you start to wonder if you've had control of the game at all.

wc: 24k, yes, 24k

Authors Note: sorry this took forever, too many words so this is split into two parts (THIS IS part 2 chap 2)

Three Weeks Later

Midterms came and went, dragging you through hell and back. The sleepless nights, the cramming, the fucking Systems Engineering project that nearly made you throw your laptop out a window. It’s over. You survived.

And somewhere in between all of it—Paige Bueckers became just a name again.

Not a person. Not a presence. Not someone orbiting your every waking moment.

Just a name you see online.

A headline when UConn wins another game.

A clip someone reposts on Twitter, her pulling up from three like it’s muscle memory, making it look so goddamn easy.

Her life moves forward at full speed.

The season’s in full swing, meaning the team’s constantly gone—traveling for games, disappearing for days at a time, too busy to be anything but motion.

It’s weird.

Because after that night—after the fucking laundry room, after the way she felt against you, the way her breath tangled with yours—you thought she’d stick. Thought the weight of her would still be there, pressing into your ribs, twisting your stomach every time you caught a glimpse of her across campus. But she’s gone.

Not in the literal sense. You still hear her name, see her in passing, watch her run drills on the court like she owns it. But she’s not here. Not in the way that matters. She’s everywhere else—on screens, in headlines, living a life that no longer overlaps with yours.

And you hate that the only way you see her now is through a fucking phone. A video of her laughing on the sideline, hair damp with sweat, head thrown back like she doesn’t have a care in the world. A post-game interview where she’s loose, confident, rattling off the same media-trained answers like she’s never lost control of anything in her life. She’s fine. She’s thriving.

And the worst part? She probably doesn’t think about you at all.

So you adjust. You fall back into routine. Class. Studying. Work. You go to parties, sometimes. You drink. You dance. You make out with people whose names you don’t bother remembering. You kiss Eli again—once, just to see if it sparks something, if it fills the void she left behind. It doesn’t. It never does.

And then, just as fast as she disappeared—

She’s back.

It happens out of nowhere. One second, you’re dragging yourself through campus, brain fogged with sleep, the winter air biting at your skin, coffee scalding the tip of your tongue. And then—her. Right there. Like she never left. Like she hasn’t spent the last few weeks bouncing between cities, arenas, flashing cameras. Like she isn’t something bigger than all of this.

She’s standing outside the training facility, hoodie pulled over her head, joggers slung low on her hips, a duffel bag hanging off her shoulder. She’s talking to someone—one of her coaches, maybe—but she’s different. Not in the way she looks. No, she’s exactly the same, infuriatingly so. It’s something else, something in the way she carries herself, like she’s spent so much time away from this part of her life that she almost forgot it existed.

Like she almost forgot about you.

Your breath stutters. Your steps slow.

She’s close enough to touch. Close enough to reach out and prove she’s real.

And yet, she might as well be a ghost.

Because when she finally turns, finally glances up—she sees you. You know she does. But there’s nothing. No reaction. No flicker of recognition. No teasing smirk. No raised brow, no knowing glance, nothing. Just a passing look, empty and indifferent, before she turns away.

Like you’re nobody.

Like that night never happened.

Like you never fucking existed.

And it wrecks you. Because for the first time since this whole fucked-up, tangled thing started—

It feels like you lost.

Two Months Later

Dating Eli is easy. That’s the problem.

There’s no push and pull, no fire curling under your ribs, no moments where your pulse spikes so fast you think you might actually combust. There’s no game. No tension. Just quiet, steady comfort. He’s sweet—thoughtful, even. Picks you up for class sometimes, walks you to your dorm even when it’s out of his way, texts you good morning despite seeing you every day. A good boyfriend. The kind you’re supposed to want.

And you? You go through the motions. You hold his hand. Let him kiss you. Let him slip an arm around your shoulders as you walk across campus, even though it still feels foreign. Even though it still feels wrong. But you let it happen because it’s safe. Because he doesn’t make your stomach drop. Because he doesn’t wreck you.

Because he’s not her.

And that’s exactly what you need. Because Paige Bueckers doesn’t know you exist anymore.

She came back from the season like she shed you—like you were just something she outgrew. Whatever happened between you was nothing. A passing thought. A mistake so inconsequential she didn’t even have to acknowledge it. And if she doesn’t care? Then neither do you.

So you lean into Eli.

And when he invites you to a UConn game—something casual, something low-stakes, something he’s excited to take you to—you say yes. You say yes because it makes sense. Because this is your life now. Because Paige Bueckers is just another player on the court.

And that’s all she’s ever going to be.

The stadium is packed, the early spring air crisp, cutting through the warmth of the sun. You follow Eli up the steps, scanning for open seats, the scent of popcorn and hot dogs thick in the air. It’s different from the last time you were at a game. Not indoors, not under the blinding arena lights. The energy is looser, more relaxed, fans chatting easily, kids waving oversized foam fingers.

You take a breath, steadying yourself. It’s fine. It’s just a game. And you’re here with your boyfriend.

Eli finds seats near the middle, pulling you down beside him, arm draping lazily over your shoulders. You lean in, let yourself sink into the warmth of his body, let yourself pretend like this is all normal.

On the court, the team is warming up. Players jog across the pavement, stretching, shaking out their limbs. Your gaze drifts over them, detached, unfocused, not looking for anything in particular—

And then—her.

It shouldn’t feel like a fucking collision, but it does.

Your breath catches, body locking up as if it knew before your brain did. As if some deep, unshakable instinct recognized her presence before you could stop it. Paige jogs across the court, her shorts hanging loose around her thighs, her hoodie still on, dribbling lazily like she doesn’t have a single care in the world. Like she’s untouchable.

Your chest tightens. She still looks the same. Still is the same. And yet—something’s different. Maybe it’s the way she seems even more unreachable now, like she exists in a space just beyond your grasp.

You exhale sharply, force your gaze away.

You’re here with Eli.

You’re fine.

This means nothing.

Eli nudges you. “You good?”

You blink, nodding too quickly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He smiles, presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Get ready. She’s gonna put on a show.”

You force a laugh.

And when you chance another glance at the court—Paige is already looking at you.

But this time, she reacts.

Just slightly. Just enough.

A shift in her eyes. A flicker of something.

And then—she smiles.

Not big. Not obvious. Just the barest curve of her lips, like she knows. Like she sees you sitting there, tucked under Eli’s arm, playing house, pretending like you’ve moved on. And for the first time in months, you know—

She hasn’t forgotten you at all.

You don’t watch the game. Not really.

You hear it—the sharp squeak of sneakers against pavement, the shrill whistle of fouls, the deafening roar of the crowd when UConn scores. You see it—the blur of white and navy jerseys cutting across the court.

But your focus is off.

Because all you can feel is the weight of her presence.

And the fact that she knows you’re here.

It fucks with you.

Because it had been easy to believe she forgot. That she let it go, left you in the past, moved on like you were nothing. But now—now she’s looking at you between plays. Not constantly. Not obviously. Just enough.

A glance while she’s standing at the free-throw line, hands on her hips, chest rising and falling. A flicker of her eyes when she jogs back on defense, scanning the crowd, skimming right past Eli like he doesn’t even exist.

And that fucking smirk when she sinks a three-pointer, lets it hang in the air for just a second before she turns, wiping the sweat off her brow with the hem of her jersey.

It’s deliberate. Calculated.

And it’s working.

Heat curls up your spine, a suffocating mix of frustration and something you won’t name. Your arms lock tight across your stomach, fingers curled into your sleeves. Beside you, Eli cheers, completely oblivious.

You wish you could be.

You wish you could tune her out. Pretend she’s just another player on the court. Pretend she doesn’t get under your skin.

But she’s in your head again. She won’t leave.

And worse—she knows it.

The game stretches on, endless. Every second is another reminder that she’s still there. That she’s not just some passing thought, some unfinished mistake. She’s real. She’s here. And she’s still in this fucking thing with you, even if neither of you are saying it out loud.

By the time the final buzzer sounds, you feel like you’ve been through a war.

Eli’s arm tightens around your shoulders, shaking you lightly. “See? Told you she’d put on a show.”

You nod, force a tight smile, but your chest feels hollow, your stomach twisted into something you don’t know how to untangle.

Because the game might be over—

But this?

This is just getting started.

The crowd filters out in waves, a slow, steady stream of bodies stretching stiff limbs, shaking off the lingering chill, still thrumming with energy from the win. Eli stands, his hand warm around yours as he pulls you up with him, his voice easy, unbothered, spilling into the space between you with post-game analysis—stats, highlights, a play he wants to rewatch later.

You nod when you’re supposed to, hum responses that sound just engaged enough, but none of it sticks. Your mind is elsewhere.

Because she’s still here.

Not with the team. Not caught up in post-game celebrations or media duties. No cameras, no noise, no excuses. Just lingering.

Sweat still clings to the curve of her neck, damp strands of blonde hair curling against her skin. Her hoodie is pulled over her head, water bottle hanging loose from her fingers, body relaxed like she has nowhere to be. But she’s not just standing there.

She’s watching.

Not outright. Not obvious. Just enough.

And Eli? He doesn’t notice.

Because why would he? He’s here with his girlfriend, celebrating a win, caught up in the moment, assuming she’s just watching the team clear out, thinking nothing of it.

You, on the other hand—

You can’t fucking breathe.

Every nerve is stretched too tight, buzzing under your skin, prickling like static, like she’s marking you without even touching you. Like she’s still fucking with you, seeing how much space she can take up in your head before you break.

And the worst part?

She looks fine.

Completely untouched. Unshaken. Not like she’s been thinking about you. Not like this has cost her anything.

And that—that is what undoes you.

Because this was supposed to be over.

You were supposed to be fine.

But here you are. Crumbling.

Eli tugs on your sleeve, easy, unaware. “Come on, let’s head out before traffic gets bad.”

You blink, drag yourself back into the present, nodding too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

One step.

Then two.

And then—

You don’t mean to look.

But you do.

Just for a second.

And she’s still there.

And she smiles.

Not big. Not obvious. Just that same, slow, knowing curve of her lips.

Like she sees right through you.

Like she knows you’re unraveling.

Like she’s won.

It’s three days after the game when the email comes in.

You don’t think much of it at first, just another facilities request forwarded to you through the engineering department—something about a faulty vent system in the women’s basketball locker room. Nothing urgent, nothing particularly exciting, just another task to check off your list between classes and whatever project is currently draining your soul. You’re barely skimming the details as you type out a confirmation reply, promising to stop by that afternoon, when it hits you.

Women’s basketball locker room.

Your stomach tightens.

For a second, you debate forwarding it off to someone else. Someone more qualified, someone with less history hanging in that space. But that’s fucking ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s been three months. Three months since the laundry room, since she pretended you didn’t exist, since you started playing house with Eli like it was supposed to fix everything. Three months of routine, of pretending you don’t track her name through game highlights and Twitter clips, of pretending you don’t feel her presence like a ghost in the back of your head.

You should be fine.

This shouldn’t be a thing.

It’s a fucking vent. You’re going to walk in, tighten some screws, maybe clean out a filter, and walk right back out. No big deal.

And yet, as you step into the building later that afternoon, tool bag slung over your shoulder, the cold press of the metal door handle beneath your palm, you feel something coil tight in your chest, something uneasy and electric, something that tells you this won’t be as easy as you want it to be.

The locker room is quiet when you step inside, the kind of silence that feels thick, like it’s waiting to be broken. The scent of sweat and body wash lingers in the air, fresh from practice, steam still clinging faintly from the showers in the back. Rows of lockers stretch across the room, some still open, jerseys draped lazily over the benches, sneakers kicked off in pairs on the floor.

You exhale slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag as you move toward the vent panel along the far wall. The faster you do this, the faster you can leave. You crouch, fingers working quickly to loosen the first few screws, trying to focus on the movement, the mechanics, anything but the slight tremble in your hands, anything but—

“Didn’t think I’d see you in here.”

The voice is unmistakable.

That low, casual drawl, edged in something sharper, something teasing, something that shouldn’t still make your breath catch the way it does.

You don’t turn immediately.

You keep working, keep your gaze locked on the vent, pretend like your pulse hasn’t just doubled. “Just fixing a maintenance issue,” you say, voice as even as you can manage. “Won’t be here long.”

There’s a pause, a shift of movement, the unmistakable sound of sneakers against tile. She’s coming closer.

“Shame,” Paige murmurs, and fuck, you feel it.

The weight of her gaze. The presence of her body somewhere behind you, close enough to make the air feel different, charged, suffocating.

You grip the screwdriver tighter.

She shouldn’t be here. Not now, not after all this time, not when you’ve spent months convincing yourself she doesn’t matter.

But she is.

And she’s talking to you.

You swallow, working another screw loose, forcing yourself to focus. “Shouldn’t you be at practice?”

She hums, and you hear the smile in it before you see it. “Finished early.” A pause, and then, “Didn’t know you were doing this kind of work.”

Your jaw tightens.

Of course, she didn’t. Because you don’t exist in her world anymore, do you? Not unless she decides you do.

You finally turn, slowly, pushing up from your crouch, letting yourself look at her.

And fuck, that was a mistake.

Because she looks good, better than you remember, the months of training and travel and games only sharpening her in ways that make your stomach twist. She’s standing there in sweatpants and a UConn tee, hair damp from a post-practice shower, arms crossed over her chest, watching you like she’s curious, like she’s interested, like she hasn’t spent three months pretending you were just another passing face in the crowd.

And it pisses you off.

You force a shrug, tilting your head slightly. “Didn’t know you cared what I was doing.”

Her smirk twitches. Just barely. Just enough.

“Didn’t say I did,” she replies smoothly, but the way she’s watching you says otherwise.

There it is.

The push and pull. The old game slipping back into place like it never left, like three months of avoidance didn’t mean shit.

And you should walk away. You should finish the job and leave, act like you don’t feel this, act like she’s just another person in another room.

But you don’t.

Because something deep in you, something bitter and unresolved and desperate, needs to know if this still means something.

So you take a step closer, watching the flicker in her eyes as you do.

“Then why are you standing here?” you ask, voice low, steady, challenging.

Paige doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back, doesn’t flinch, just holds your gaze, her mouth curving slightly, like she’s enjoying this, like she knows she’s getting to you.

“Maybe I’m just curious,” she says, tilting her head. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Three months.

Three months of silence. Three months of pretending. Three months of you thinking you were the only one who remembered, the only one who cared, the only one still feeling it.

And now?

Now she’s standing here, looking at you like she never forgot at all.

You don’t answer.

Because what is there to say? That, yeah, it’s been a while, and yet somehow it still feels like she never left your fucking head? That you’ve spent the past three months trying to scrub the memory of her hands off your skin, only to have them crawl back the second you laid eyes on her again? That seeing her at the game did something to you—something ugly, something desperate, something you don’t want to name?

No.

You won’t give her that.

So instead, you just lift a brow, forcing something casual onto your face, like her presence isn’t making your chest feel too tight. “Yeah. Guess it has.”

Paige watches you for a second longer, and you can see it happening—her weighing the moment, deciding how she wants to play this. Because that’s what she does, isn’t it? She plays. Gives you something, just a taste, just enough to make your stomach flip, before she rips it away.

And you should know better by now.

You do know better.

But then she shifts, weight rolling back onto one foot, arms still folded, her mouth quirking into that slow, almost lazy smirk—the one that’s never meant nothing.

“So,” she says, tilting her head, “are you gonna keep ignoring me, or are we past that now?”

Your pulse stutters.

Your fingers tighten around the screwdriver in your hand.

You weren’t expecting that.

For her to just say it. To acknowledge it, to drag it into the light, the weight of your silence, the way you spent months dodging her like it might actually fix you.

You scoff, shaking your head, turning back to the vent, to anything that isn’t her mouth forming words that fuck you up. “I haven’t been ignoring you.”

It’s a lie.

Paige knows it’s a lie.

She steps closer—just enough that you can feel the shift of air between you, just enough that you catch the faint scent of her shampoo, something fresh, something clean, something too close.

“You sure?” she murmurs. “Because it kinda seemed like you were.”

Your teeth clench.

She’s doing it again.

The push and pull. The little tug, just enough to make you stumble, to throw you off balance, to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with.

You exhale slowly through your nose, focus on the screw you’re twisting into place, force your voice to stay neutral. “You seemed fine with it.”

There’s a pause. Just for a beat. Just long enough that you think maybe—maybe—you landed something.

Then—soft, amused—Paige says, “You think that?”

And it’s not fair.

The way she says it, the way it slides under your skin, the way it makes your chest squeeze, makes you feel fucking stupid for believing, even for a second, that maybe she really had forgotten you.

Your fingers tighten around the screwdriver.

She’s playing with you.

And the worst part?

You let her.

You don’t turn. Don’t face her. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

But your voice is quieter when you say, “Why do you even care?”

Another pause.

Then—

“Maybe I don’t.”

Your stomach drops.

It’s so fucking typical. Just when you think she’s giving you something, just when she pulls you an inch closer, she yanks it away.

You clench your jaw, inhale sharply, force yourself to stay still.

And then—because you refuse to let her win this—you huff a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Right. Of course.”

You finish tightening the last screw, closing the panel, standing up. You finally turn to her, tilting your head slightly, forcing something light onto your face, like you’re fine, like she isn’t doing what she always fucking does.

“Well,” you say, slipping the screwdriver back into your bag. “It’s been great catching up, but I have shit to do.”

You move to step past her.

But she shifts, blocking your path.

Not aggressively. Not obviously.

Just enough.

Just enough that you have to stop.

Just enough that you have to look at her.

Paige licks her lips, considering you, and her voice is quieter this time, almost thoughtful. “You don’t like when I do that, do you?”

Your stomach tightens.

You keep your face neutral. “Do what?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Give you something, then take it away.”

You swallow.

Because the fact that she’s saying it out loud—naming it, acknowledging it—makes your chest squeeze so hard it’s almost painful.

You force a shrug. “You do whatever you want, Paige.”

You step around her, adjusting the strap of your bag like the conversation hasn’t just sunk claws into your spine, like you aren’t already burning up from the inside out. You throw one last casual glance over your shoulder, just to make a point, just to show her this doesn’t fucking matter.

And then—

“Is he your boyfriend?”

It’s smooth, deliberate, cutting through the silence with the ease of a well-placed knife.

Your body goes rigid.

Not enough to be noticeable. Not enough to give her the satisfaction. But she notices.

You school your face into something neutral before turning back to her. “Yeah.”

The second the word leaves your mouth, Paige scoffs. Then—slow, quiet, like she’s really thinking about it—she laughs.

It’s not loud. It’s not obvious. But it hits.

It slides under your skin, needles into your chest, presses against something raw and unsettled.

You know exactly what she’s laughing at.

Not at Eli, not really.

She’s laughing at you.

At the fact that you’re standing here, pretending like that word doesn’t feel foreign in your mouth, like it doesn’t taste like something you don’t quite believe.

At the fact that you’ve spent months throwing yourself into a version of reality where he is the answer.

At the fact that she knows—she fucking knows—that if he really was, you wouldn’t be here.

Your throat tightens.

You square your shoulders. “Something funny?”

Paige shakes her head, smirk barely there, but sharp. “Nah.” A pause, her gaze flicking over you like she’s amused, like she’s bored. “Just wasn’t expecting that.”

Your fingers curl around the strap of your bag, tight enough to sting.

She tilts her head slightly. “Does he know you’re here?”

You force your jaw not to clench. “Why would it matter?”

Paige hums, the sound lazy, almost dismissive. “It wouldn’t.”

You don’t know why that lands deeper than it should, why it hits like something solid in your chest.

She doesn’t fucking care.

You exhale sharply, roll your shoulders, force yourself to act like you don’t feel like she just pressed a finger right against something bruised inside you.

“Well,” you say, tone light, detached, like this whole conversation hasn’t just put a fucking stone in your stomach, “great catching up.”

And this time, when you walk out—when you force your feet to move, when you push through the door into the cooler hallway air—you don’t look back.

You don’t have to.

Because you can still feel her there.

Still hear the low echo of her laugh.

Still fucking feel her.

And you hate that it still makes your chest tighten.

The locker room door swings shut behind you, but the conversation doesn’t leave with it.

It sticks.

It clings to your skin, coils in your stomach, presses into your ribs like something sharp and unshakable.

You walk down the hallway fast, like you can outrun the weight of her laugh in your ears, like you can erase the way she looked at you when she said that’s your boyfriend?—like the words weren’t just words, like they were something else, something heavier, something soaked in disbelief and mockery.

You should be over her by now.

But then why does your skin still burn? Why does your pulse still hammer against the inside of your wrist? Why does the way she said it—casual, unbothered, like it didn’t even fucking matter—make something in you want to break?

The night stretches out after that, long and restless. You try to study, but you can’t focus. You try to sleep, but every time you close your eyes, she’s there. Her smirk. Her scoff. The way she laughed like you were a joke. Like he was a joke.

You spend the next week avoiding places where you might run into her, avoiding anywhere that makes you feel like a live wire, avoiding thinking about her—

And it works.

Until it doesn’t.

Because the thing about Paige Bueckers is that she has a way of creeping back in, of making herself known, of pulling you back into her orbit whether you want to be there or not.

It happens at another party.

A packed house, music pulsing through the walls, the kind of night where people are drinking like they’re trying to forget something, where everything feels just a little too loud, a little too bright, a little too much.

You’re standing in the kitchen, fingers curled around a red cup, Eli close behind you, talking to someone you don’t know. His hand is warm where it rests on your hip, an absentminded touch, a casual claim.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

Until you’re not.

Until your eyes flicker past the crowd, past the shifting bodies and pulsing bass, past the open doorway—

And land right on her.

Paige is in the next room, leaning against the wall, head tilted, that lazy, practiced ease draped over her like armor. She’s watching something—someone. A girl. Pretty. Brunette. Standing too close, laughter spilling past glossy lips as she hangs on whatever Paige just said.

Paige isn’t even touching her. Doesn’t need to. Just standing there, looking, smirking, waiting. And the worst part? You know exactly what she’s doing.

Like she could have her if she wanted.

Like it’s not even a fucking question.

Your stomach knots, tight and hot. Not with jealousy—no, it’s worse than that. It’s recognition.

Because you know what it’s like to be on the other side of that look.

You know what it’s like to be wanted by her.

The ghost of it slams into you like a fist to the ribs—how it felt to have those eyes locked on you, sharp and knowing, pinning you down like a game she was already winning. How it felt when she had you right there and she knew it.

Your grip tightens around your cup, fingers digging in like it’s the only thing holding you together. Your breath stutters, the air too thick, the room suddenly too small.

She hasn’t seen you yet.

She’s too caught up in her game, too wrapped up in not caring.

So you do the same.

You force yourself to turn back to Eli, to play your part. You smile, lean into his touch, let him press his lips to your temple like it’s easy, like it’s nothing. Like it means something.

And maybe it works.

Maybe it doesn’t.

Because when you chance another glance—just for a second—

Paige is already looking at you.

And this time—

She smirks.

Slow. Deliberate. Like she’s been waiting for you to look. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Like she knows exactly how much space she still takes up in your fucking head.

And that’s when you snap.

You don’t think.

You move.

Your cup clatters onto the counter, liquid sloshing over the rim, but you don’t care. You slip out of Eli’s reach, push through the crowd—away, anywhere, somewhere with air that doesn’t taste like her.

Your pulse is a riot, hammering against your ribs, deafening in your ears as you shove past people pressed against walls, past laughter and voices swallowed by the music, past the tight, choking heat in your chest.

Your hands are shaking. Your breath is uneven. You need a second.

Just one fucking second to breathe—

And then—

A door swings open, and suddenly—

She’s right there.

Paige.

Still smirking.

Still looking like she has all the time in the world.

Still making your stomach feel like it’s caving in on itself.

Your chest rises and falls too fast, heat crawling up your neck, pooling low in your stomach, everywhere.

She leans against the doorway, casual as ever, the light behind her casting long shadows over the sharp angles of her face. She looks obnoxiously good, like she knows exactly how lethal she is.

She tilts her head. “What’s wrong?” she murmurs, voice low, teasing, like she already knows the answer.

And fuck her.

Fuck her for this.

For knowing you this well.

For still knowing you this well.

You shove past her, shoulder knocking against hers, but she moves at the last second, stepping just enough to block you—

And then—her hand.

Fingers curling around your wrist. Not hard. Not pulling. Just there.

You suck in a sharp breath.

She’s not holding you here. Not keeping you against your will.

But she doesn’t let go.

And neither do you.

The air between you crackles, thick, heavy, dangerous. The weight of something unsaid presses into your ribs, clinging to your skin, wrapping around you like a fucking chokehold.

Paige watches you.

And this time—

She doesn’t laugh.

She doesn’t smirk.

She waits.

And maybe—just maybe—

This time, you’re the one who moves first.

The space between you is electric, charged, something twisting tight in your chest like a live wire ready to snap. The hallway is dim, shadows stretching long against the walls, muffling the noise of the party outside, trapping you in this thing you’ve been running from for months.

Paige’s fingers are still around your wrist, not tight, not forcing—just there, anchoring you, keeping you from bolting like you probably should. Her eyes flicker over your face, searching, waiting, and fuck, you hate how easily she does this, how effortlessly she pulls you back into her gravity like you were never gone at all.

Your breath is uneven. Your pulse is pounding in your throat, but your voice is steady when you say, “What game are you playing at?”

She blinks, just once, slow and measured. Then the corner of her mouth curves, something smug, something dangerous. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

Your stomach drops, rage curling up into your throat so fast it makes your vision go sharp.

You shove her.

Harder than you should, more than just frustration, more than just anger. It’s months of this—of her pushing, pulling, giving you something and then acting like it never fucking happened. It’s her laugh in the locker room, her smirk at the game, the way she looked at you through the crowd like she was daring you to react, to feel. It’s all of it—the way she still owns you and acts like she doesn’t even care.

Paige stumbles back a step, but her hand never leaves you.

Instead, she grabs your other arm, fingers tight around your biceps, steadying herself, steadying you. Her grip is firm, strong, the heat of her palms burning through your sleeves.

Her smirk is gone.

And when she speaks again, her voice is different. Lower. Rougher.

“I’m not playing at a game.”

Your breath catches.

Because it’s not cocky. It’s not teasing. It’s real.

Her hands flex slightly on your arms, like she’s bracing herself, like she needs you to hear this.

And you do.

It sinks under your skin, gets lodged somewhere between your ribs, breaks something open inside of you that you’ve been trying to keep sealed shut.

Your heart is hammering. Your whole body is buzzing, tight, waiting.

Paige is still holding you.

And she’s so fucking close.

You can feel her breath against your lips, can see the flicker in her eyes, the way her chest is rising and falling just as fast as yours.

You don’t know who moves first.

Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s both of you at the same fucking time, colliding like you were never meant to be anything but this.

Your mouths crash together, hot and desperate, months of tension unraveling all at once, burning through every nerve in your body.

Paige exhales sharply against you, hands tightening around your arms before sliding up, up, framing your face, pulling you deeper into it, like she’s afraid you might disappear again.

You fist the fabric of her hoodie, dragging her into you, needing her closer, needing more.

Her body presses against yours, her lips insistent, rough, a little reckless, like she’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.

The hallway feels too small, the walls too close, your hands too desperate where they roam—her waist, her shoulders, the sharp edge of her jaw.

Paige groans softly against your mouth, and it wrecks you.

It fucking destroys you.

Because it’s real.

Because she wants this.

Because for the first time, she’s not taking it away.

You don’t stop.

Neither does she.

It’s all heat, all breath, all want. Paige’s mouth is rough, greedy, like she’s making up for every second you’ve spent apart, every time she pretended she didn’t see you, every time she smirked at you like this was just a game. Her hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt like she’d die if she let go.

You’re no better.

Your fingers fist in her hoodie, tugging her closer, dragging her against you, needing her body against yours, needing her to feel what she’s doing to you. The hallway barely exists anymore—the party, the noise, Eli—none of it fucking matters. Just her. Just her mouth, her hands, the way she kisses you like she’s starving for it.

Then, between kisses, between desperate little gasps, she murmurs it.

“I need you, baby.”

It wrecks you.

Fucking destroys you.

The word slips out easy, unthinking, raw. Not teasing, not smug, not calculated. Just real.

Your breath catches.

Paige must feel the way your body reacts, the way your nails dig into her arms, the way your hips press forward into hers, because she groans against your mouth and drags her teeth over your bottom lip.

You’re moving before you can think.

Paige is pushing you, guiding you back, back, until your shoulder blades hit a door, until she’s fumbling with the handle, barely breaking the kiss long enough to shove it open.

The room is dark, empty. Some random spare bedroom, barely furnished, barely even fucking registered because the second the door slams shut, Paige is on you again.

Her hands slide under your shirt, rough palms dragging up your ribs, fingertips pressing hard, desperate. Your breath is uneven, your body thrumming with something electric, something you can’t stop, something you don’t want to stop.

You don’t think.

You don’t need to think.

You just pull her hoodie up over her head, fingers tangling in the fabric for a second before it’s gone, discarded somewhere on the floor. Paige exhales sharply as you press into her, as your mouth moves against her jaw, down her throat, tasting, taking.

Her fingers slip into your hair, tugging just enough to make you feel it, enough to make you moan against her skin.

“Fuck,” she mutters, voice rough, breathless, like she’s unraveling, like you’re doing this to her.

You are.

And she fucking loves it.

Her hands move lower, sliding over your hips, gripping tight, like she’s anchoring herself, like she can’t stop touching you, like she’s making sure you’re real.

You kiss her again, harder, messier, pushing her back until her legs hit the edge of the bed, until you’re both toppling onto it, tangled together, all mouths and hands and heat.

Paige knows she’s winning.

You can see it in her eyes, the slow drag of them over your body, the way she takes her time, drinking in every reaction like she’s cataloging them, memorizing what makes you shiver, what makes you squirm, what makes your breath hitch in your throat.

She still likes the game.

She still likes to play.

But this time, she isn’t letting you pull away.

This time, she’s going to take everything.

Her fingers skim over your stomach, slow, teasing, just enough to make you feel it but not enough to satisfy anything. Her mouth follows, lips pressing soft, lingering kisses down, down, down, like she has all the time in the world.

Your head tilts back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut, but then she stops.

She stops completely.

The heat of her, the weight of her, everything—just gone.

Your eyes snap open, and she’s just looking at you, smug, comfortable, settled between your legs like she owns this moment, like she knows she has you right where she wants you.

Her fingers trail up your thigh, featherlight, barely there.

“You want this?”

Your stomach clenches.

She knows the answer.

She fucking knows.

You glare at her, shifting under her touch, frustrated, dizzy, so strung out you can barely think. “Paige—”

She smiles. Slow. Wicked.

And then, just as easily, “Say it.”

Your breath shudders out of you.

Because this?

This is her game.

She wants to hear you admit it. She wants to make you admit it.

She wants you to lose.

Your fingers dig into the sheets, your pulse a steady riot in your throat, in your wrists, between your legs where she still hasn’t fucking touched you.

But you can’t play this game forever.

Not when she already owns you.

Not when she already knows.

Your voice is thin when you say it.

“I want you.”

And the second the words leave your mouth—

She moves.

Paige grins, low and satisfied, and then she finally stops playing.

She knows she has you, like she’s been waiting for this moment, dragging it out, savoring every second of watching you come undone beneath her. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t give you everything all at once. No, she takes her time, letting her fingers trace the curve of your hip, pressing light, teasing kisses down your stomach, exhaling slow like she’s enjoying this, like this is just as much for her as it is for you.

You’re burning alive.

Your breath is uneven, your hands twisting in the sheets, thighs already trembling with the anticipation of her next move. But she doesn’t move—not in the way you need her to.

Instead, she just looks at you.

From between your legs, eyes dark, lips parted, expression unreadable, like she’s still deciding how she wants to do this.

Your stomach clenches.

“Paige—”

She presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, slow, deliberate, her nails digging in just slightly when she grips your hips, holding you in place.

“Shh, baby,” she murmurs, and fuck, there it is again.

That word.

Casual, unthinking, sliding out of her mouth like she doesn’t even realize she’s saying it. Like she means it.

You shudder.

Paige notices. Of course, she does.

Her smirk curves against your skin, and then—

She finally stops playing.

The first press of her mouth sends a raw, electric jolt through you, your hips jerking up on instinct, fingers clawing into her hair like you’ll die if you let go. But she’s already moving—already fucking dragging this out like she wants you begging, like she’s savoring every second of your desperation. Her tongue flickers, slow and teasing, pressing, stroking, curling, soaking you with her hunger, her need.

She moans against your cunt like she’s been fucking starving for it. Like she’s been waiting, aching, dreaming of this moment for weeks, and now that she’s got you open beneath her, there’s no way she’s letting you go easy.

She drags it out.

Like she wants to ruin you.

Like she wants to tear you apart and put you back together with her tongue.

Your nails scrape against her scalp, hard enough to hurt, but she only groans, only pushes deeper, her tongue slipping, flicking, thrusting into the dripping heat of you. You’re gasping now, thighs trembling, back arching, breath catching in desperate, broken moans you can’t even bite back. You can feel her smirk, the way she’s reveling in it, the way she’s enjoying every single fucking sound you make for her.

Her fingers press in, spreading you, holding you open, her tongue working, her lips sucking, teasing, devouring—like she’s trying to drink every last drop of you. The obscene, wet sounds of her mouth on you make you whimper, make you grind down against her, make you clutch her hair so tight she groans into your slick heat.

Your body is shaking.

Paige tightens her grip, keeps you there, keeps you spread for her, keeps you exactly where she wants you—helpless, ruined, fucking wrecked on her tongue.

And just when you think you can’t take it anymore—just when the pleasure coils so tight in your stomach it’s about to snap—she fucking speeds up.

And you’re gone.

You don’t know if you scream her name. You don’t know if you sob it. But the pleasure detonates inside you like a fucking bomb, ripping through your body, setting every nerve on fire, leaving you shaking, gasping, falling apart beneath her mouth.

When you finally come back down—breathless, wrecked, soaked and still trembling—Paige is looking up at you from between your legs, her lips swollen, her chin glistening, her eyes dark and wicked.

Paige’s brow quirks up and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours. You’re still gasping, still trembling, your body melted into the mattress, legs spread, thighs twitching from the aftershocks of what she just did to you. But she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t crawl up to lie beside you, doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

She licks her lips, smirks, and says, “I’m not done with you.”

And then she’s moving.

Crawling back up onto the bed, her body sliding over yours, her hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wider before she finally lets her weight press down. Her skin is hot, slick, her breath heavy and sweet, her thigh slotting between yours as she pins you there beneath her.

Then she grabs your tits.

No teasing, no hesitation—she palms them, squeezes, kneads, rolling the soft flesh in her hands like she owns you, like she’s claiming every inch of you all over again. Her thumbs flick over your nipples, once, twice, before she leans down and takes one into her mouth.

The heat of her tongue, the wet pull of her lips—it makes you cry out, makes you arch into her, makes your hands fly up to grip her head as she sucks, hard, her teeth scraping just enough to make your whole body jolt.

“Fuck,” you whimper, thighs clenching around her, but she just chuckles against your skin, her mouth latching onto your other nipple, her fingers tweaking and rolling the one she just left wet and swollen.

Then her hand moves up.

She grabs your chin, tilts your face up, and before you can even process it—

She shoves her fingers into your mouth.

Her fingers, still wet from you, slip past your lips, pressing against your tongue, forcing you to taste yourself as she pushes them deeper. Your lips part around them, your tongue curling against the salty-slick heat of her touch, a soft, helpless whimper slipping from your throat.

Paige groans at the sight, eyes dark, lips parted, her fingers flexing inside your mouth before she pulls them out—

And spits.

Right into your mouth.

A hot, wet drop onto your waiting tongue, mixing with your taste, with the slickness she just forced you to swallow.

“Swallow it,” she breathes, her voice thick, rough, her fingers trailing down your throat as you do exactly what she fucking tells you.

And then her hand is between your legs again, fingers slipping through your soaked, throbbing heat, pressing in, pushing deep—

Fucking you all over again.

Paige’s fingers drive deep, knuckles sinking into the wet heat of you, her palm grinding against your swollen clit as you gasp, as you choke on the pleasure, your body arching into her touch like you can’t help it. Like you’re made for this. Made for her.

"Fuck—yeah," she groans, watching you, watching the way your body reacts to her. "You feel that? Feel how fucking good I make you take it?"

Your breath stutters, your hips rolling down against her hand, your mouth falling open, nothing but desperate little whimpers spilling from your lips.

Paige smirks, dark and wicked, pressing in deeper, curling her fingers just right, just enough to have you fucking shaking. "Bet he never got you this wet, huh?" she taunts, her voice thick with heat, with possession. "Bet he never made you moan like this."

Your fingers clutch at her shoulders, nails digging in, your head tilting back against the pillows as she fucks into you, slow but deep, deliberate, like she’s making a point. Like she’s proving something.

"You wanna lie to me?" she murmurs, lips brushing your ear, her breath hot against your skin. "Wanna tell me he’s ever made you come like this? That he’s ever had you dripping down his fingers like a desperate little slut?"

You whimper, shaking your head, unable to speak, unable to do anything but take it.

"That’s what I thought," she breathes, grinning against your throat, her teeth scraping over your pulse before she drags her tongue along your skin. "That little boyfriend of yours wouldn’t know what to do with this pussy if it fucking begged him."

She pulls her fingers out, slow and teasing, leaving you empty, aching—only to shove them back in, hard, deep, her palm slapping against your soaked skin as you sob, as you fucking fall apart.

"He ever make you scream?" she growls, fucking you rougher, faster, her fingers pressing against that spot inside you that makes your whole body jolt. "He ever make you soak the sheets like this?"

Your back bows, pleasure slamming through you, your nails raking down her back.

"You’re fucking mine," Paige groans, her mouth on your jaw, your throat, her tongue tasting the sweat on your skin. "This pussy? It’s mine now. Say it."

You barely manage to breathe out the words—"It’s yours"—before she presses her palm against your clit, her fingers curling just right, and you break.

Pleasure rips through you, white-hot and shattering, your whole body shaking, your vision going hazy as you come, as Paige fucks you through it, as she watches you, revels in it, grins like she just fucking ruined you.

And she did.

She fucking did.

——-

You wake slowly, the kind of slow that doesn’t feel like rest. The kind that feels like being pulled from something deep and heavy, like your body’s been wrung out and put back together all wrong. The sheets are soft, warm, unfamiliar, and there’s a weight draped over your hip—solid, steady, too much. Your breath stutters before your brain even catches up.

Paige.

She’s there.

Heat ghosts against the back of your neck, steady and unhurried, the rhythm of her breathing lulling, like sleep still has a hold on her. Her arm is slung around your waist, fingers curled lazily against your stomach, like she belongs there. Like she’s never left before.

And that—that is what makes your chest tighten.

Because this isn’t just some drunken mistake. This isn’t heat or tension or something you can chalk up to unresolved bullshit. This is her in your space, in your bed, in the quiet after. And she’s never stayed before.

Your pulse kicks up, your fingers twitch against the sheets. Last night slams into you all at once—the scrape of her teeth, the press of her hands, the way she looked at you, like she was done playing. Like she wasn’t giving you a choice anymore.

Your stomach clenches.

You don’t know what to do with this.

With her.

So you move, slow, careful, trying not to wake her as you shift out from under her arm. But the second you pull away, Paige stirs, her breath hitching, her grip tightening for just a fraction of a second before her eyes flutter open.

She blinks at you, still groggy, still soft, and for one, dangerous moment, she doesn’t say anything.

She just looks at you.

And you can’t breathe.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the softness vanishes.

Paige stretches, rolls onto her back, runs a hand through her hair, like she does this all the time, like she’s just woken up from any other night, not this one.

“Morning,” she mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You swallow, force yourself to move, force yourself to sit up and swing your legs off the bed. You don’t look at her.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “Morning.”

You feel her watching you.

Feel her waiting.

For what, you don’t know.

But when you stand, reaching for your clothes, Paige finally speaks again.

“You leaving?”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt.

You could stay. You could let this morning linger, let whatever this is stretch out just a little longer.

But the longer you stay, the harder it’ll be to pretend like this isn’t something.

So you nod, still not looking at her. “Yeah.”

Paige exhales through her nose, shifts behind you, and you expect her to let it go, to brush it off like she always does.

Instead—

“You gonna tell him?”

Your stomach drops.

You don’t need to ask who she means.

Eli.

The name rings in your head like a warning, like something cold and sharp, and you hate that she’s the one who brought it up, that she’s the one forcing you to look at it when you were this close to just leaving without dealing with the weight of it.

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second before turning to face her.

Paige is propped up on one elbow now, watching you with something unreadable in her expression, like she’s testing you, like she’s seeing if you’ll break first.

You lick your lips, pulse hammering. “That’s none of your business.”

Paige’s lips twitch, and for a second, you think she’s going to let it go.

But then—

She scoffs. Shakes her head. Leans back against the headboard with a lazy, almost bored kind of smirk.

“Right. Forgot you’re still playing house with him.”

Your whole body goes rigid.

She’s doing it again.

Tugging at you, pushing you, seeing what you’ll do.

Your jaw clenches, fingers fisting into the hem of your shirt. “I’m not playing anything.”

Paige hums, unconvinced. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Something inside you snaps.

Because how dare she?

How dare she act like you’re the one playing games when she’s the one who ignored you for three months? When she’s the one who smirked at you across a fucking stadium like she knew she had you? When she’s the one who—

You exhale sharply, shaking your head, forcing yourself to breathe.

This is exactly what she wants.

So you don’t give it to her.

You pull your shirt over your head, reach for your shoes, straighten up.

Then, voice even, you say, “This didn’t mean anything, right?”

It’s a test.

You can see the flicker in her eyes, the quick way her throat bobs as she swallows.

But it’s gone in an instant.

Paige shrugs, casual, careless, like she’s already over it.

“Right,” she echoes. “Just a good time.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t know what answer you wanted, but that—

That wasn’t it.

You nod once, sharp, then turn for the door.

And this time, you don’t fucking stop.

The door slams behind you, the force of it rattling down your spine, but you don’t stop moving.

You storm down the hallway, your breath sharp, hands curled into fists, every nerve in your body buzzing like a live wire. You don’t let yourself think. Thinking would mean feeling, and you can’t—won’t—give her that.

Not after what she just said.

Not after this didn’t mean anything, right?

Not after she agreed with you.

Just a good time.

That’s all it was. That’s all she wants.

You push through the front door, stepping into the cold air outside, your breath coming fast, too shallow, like you just ran ten miles. You shove your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie, fingers curling against the fabric, trying to ground yourself, trying to—

Your phone rings.

Or at least, you think it’s your phone.

The vibration against your palm jolts you, and you pull it out, ready to decline the call, ready to shut the entire fucking world out.

But then—

You see the name.

Taylor.

Your breath catches.

Your chest tightens.

The cold bites at your skin, but suddenly, it’s like everything else stops.

Because this isn’t your phone.

This isn’t your hoodie.

You look down at yourself, the oversized sleeves, the familiar weight of the fabric, the scent clinging to it—her scent.

Paige’s hoodie.

Paige’s fucking phone.

And Taylor is calling.

Your stomach lurches.

Right back where you started.

The phone keeps ringing, vibrating steadily in your hand, demanding something from you that you can’t give.

You stare at the screen, at the name that shouldn’t be your problem, at the proof of what Paige just walked away from.

And something inside you snaps.

You spin on your heel, shoving back through the front door, retracing your steps, moving fast, fueled by something you don’t even have a name for.

You don’t knock.

You don’t hesitate.

You shove the door open, expecting her to be there, expecting her to still be sitting on that bed with her legs spread and that fucking look on her face, smug and satisfied and untouchable.

But she’s gone.

Just fucking gone.

Like she was never here at all.

The phone stops ringing.

Silence.

You stand there, chest heaving, hoodie too big on you, your fingers still curled around a phone that doesn’t belong to you.

The phone is still warm in your hand.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a piece of plastic, just a screen with a name that shouldn’t be your problem. But it is. The weight of it presses against your palm, solid and damning, the name Taylor burned into your retinas, a fucking mockery of everything that just happened.

Paige left.

Vanished like this was nothing, like she didn’t just dig her fingers into you and pull you under, like she didn’t just whisper your name against your skin, like she didn’t just look you in the eye and say just a good time before slipping away like a fucking ghost.

Like she didn’t just ruin you.

And if she thinks she gets to walk away from this untouched—

She’s wrong.

Your feet move before your brain even catches up, before you can think about how reckless this is, before you can stop yourself from doing exactly what she wants. Because you already know where she is.

Where she always is.

The athletic facility is quieter than usual this late at night, the halls dimly lit, silent except for the distant hum of vending machines and the soft squeak of your shoes against the polished floors. But the second you push through the doors to the locker room—

The silence shatters.

Laughter.

Voices overlapping, casual, easy, still thrumming from practice, still buzzing with energy. The kind of normalcy that makes your blood boil, because your world is fucking spinning and yet—

She’s here.

Paige is here.

Leaning against the lockers, towel draped around her neck, a lazy grin curling at her lips as she listens to something one of the girls is saying. Loose. Relaxed. Unbothered.

Like she didn’t just leave you standing in the wreckage she made.

Heat slams into your ribs, a pulse of something violent and ugly crackling under your skin. Your fingers tighten around the phone, nails digging in, breath sharp and unsteady. And before you even fully register what you’re doing—

You move.

The door swings shut behind you with a slam, the force of it cutting through the noise, making heads turn, making conversation die mid-sentence.

Paige doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

But her shoulders go rigid for half a second before she shifts—casual, calm, fucking unhurried.

Like she already knows it’s you.

Like she felt you coming before she even looked.

And when she finally does—

The smirk is already forming.

Already settling into place like armor. Like a mask. Like she thinks she still has control of this.

But she doesn’t.

You stop in front of her, too close, way too close, enough to make the other girls shift where they stand, enough to make the laughter fully die out, enough to make the air feel thick.

Paige stays leaned against the lockers, pretending, but her eyes flicker over you, sharp and calculating.

Assessing.

Waiting.

So you don’t make her wait long.

You lift the phone, hold it up between you. Let her see it. Let her know why you’re here.

And then—voice low, rough, barely steady under the weight of your fucking anger—

“You think you can just fuck me and play me while your girlfriend still calls?”

The reaction is instant.

The shift in the room is immediate.

Someone swears under their breath. One of the girls lets out a quiet oh, shit. Another shifts awkwardly, eyes darting between you and Paige like they just walked into a fucking war zone.

But you don’t look at any of them.

You only see her.

And Paige—

For the first time, she doesn’t have a comeback.

Her lips part slightly. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Her fingers twitch just slightly around the towel slung over her shoulder.

It’s subtle.

Barely there.

But you see it.

The hesitation.

The way she’s trying to catch up to you, trying to find the right move, trying to figure out how to pull back control.

But there isn’t one.

Because this time, you’re the one leading.

This time, she’s the one who doesn’t know what to say.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, pressing into your ribs, into your throat, into her.

Then—slowly—Paige exhales through her nose, shifts against the lockers, expression smoothing into something blank, something unreadable.

She tilts her head slightly, eyes flickering over your face, voice deceptively soft when she says—

“You done?”

Your stomach twists.

Not with pain. Not with embarrassment.

With rage.

Because she isn’t sorry.

She isn’t guilty.

She’s just pissed that you called her out in front of them.

Your grip tightens around the phone, your pulse hammering in your ears, and for a second, you think about throwing it at her.

Then, just as quickly, you step forward—lean in close, so only she can hear—

And whisper, voice like a knife—

“You’re a fucking coward.”

Paige’s jaw locks.

Her whole body tenses.

And that—

That’s how you know you landed a hit.

You hold her gaze a second longer, long enough to make sure she felt it, long enough to see the way her breath catches, the way her fingers twitch, the way she’s fighting to stay still.

Then—

Without waiting for a response—

You shove the phone against her chest.

She catches it automatically, fingers closing around it, but she doesn’t look down.

She just looks at you.

Expression unreadable.

Eyes sharp, dark, burning.

You should look away first.

You should be the one to turn and walk out.

But you don’t.

You hold her gaze.

Daring her.

Challenging her.

Waiting.

For what, you don’t fucking know.

But you can feel it.

Feel something shifting, feel something breaking, feel something coming.

And for the first time—

You think Paige might feel it, too.

But then—

She swallows.

Nods once.

Slips the phone into her pocket like it doesn’t matter.

Then—voice low, smooth, too fucking even—

She says, “See you around.”

Like this was nothing.

Like she didn’t just lose.

Like she’s already planning how to fucking win.

This is war.

901 notes · View notes

lemonlover1110 · 5 months ago

Text

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬

Satoru Gojo

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f!Reader

Summary: Your best friend gets a new boyfriend, and you come to see him in a different light.

Warnings: MDNI, Angst, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Hair descriptions for reader

*This is a commission for @mew4-ever18, it's the prequel to Pretty Little Liar! If you haven't read it yet, I recommend reading it after this🙂‍↕️ Anything that doesn't match up, remember that this is written after Pretty Little Liar

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

“Hey, Le–” You begin, but you stop yourself when you see your co-worker is chatting with someone. You aren’t all that familiar with the building, but you’re here to work on a new system for the corporation’s computers. You aren’t familiar with the people, therefore you have no idea who Levi talks to.

You stare at the man, sitting down on a chair as if he owned the place. He clicks a pen over and over again as he speaks with Levi. You take note of his unusual white hair color; strange for a man like him, considering you’re around the same age. He certainly doesn’t belong in the IT department.

You make brief eye contact with his bright blue eyes before turning your attention to the computers… You almost feel flustered at the brief interaction– Something that can barely be considered an interaction. You listen in on the conversation,

“When are you coming over, Satoru? My wife is thrilled for you to meet the kids.” Levi speaks, and Satoru shrugs in response. The name makes you furrow your eyebrows… Satoru, you feel like you’ve heard the name before.

“I’ve been busy, Levi. I barely have a moment to myself.” Satoru responds, making Levi click his tongue. It’s almost as if Levi doesn’t believe it.

“Right, busy. That’s why you’re here.” Levi replies as he joins you to work on the computers. Satoru chuckles, and you feel your face get warm. He has a cute laugh at least. You know you won’t be bothered by him snorting as you work.

“I don’t know, Levi. He looks pretty busy to me.” You joke, making both men laugh. They continue their conversations as you work. It’s pretty trivial, nothing that’s noteworthy to you until Satoru speaks up,

“They’re using the café for some stupid shit on Friday.” Which sparks up your attention. You remember your best friend, Ali, mentioning something about a meet and greet. An event that she’s been obsessing over because her rival is showing up. “Something about influencers meet and greet. I can’t imagine being so obsessed with someone that you’ve never seen, that you’ll pay to meet them.”

“You’re so judgy, Satoru. Maybe use that opportunity to get a girlfriend.” Levi answers.

“Like hell I’d pay to meet someone.” Satoru quickly responds, making Levi roll his eyes.

“Your father owns the building, I’m sure you can get in without a hitch.” Levi responds, making your eyes widen. You stare back at Satoru, and his eyes are as wide as yours. His cover has been blown, all thanks to Levi.

“I’m not–” He begins, but you shake your head as a chuckle escapes your lips.

“Your secret is safe with me.” Your fingers do a zipping motion across your lips, which makes a subtle smile appear on his lips.

“Your hair is really pretty by the way.” He says, eyes staring at your curly brown hair. You smile at him, muttering a barely audible thank you, before turning around and focusing on your job. They chat for another minute before Levi tells him,

“Go back to work, Gojo. We don’t need your dad coming down here and turning the place upside down.” Which makes Satoru cross his arms and pout as if he were a child. You look back at him and laugh at his reaction.

Satoru makes a joking comment before standing up and leaving the place, finally going back to his job.

“I can’t wait for the weekend, I’m tired.” You comment as you chop up some vegetables, getting dinner ready for you and your best friend. Ali sits in the living room, staring at her phone.

You can only assume that she’s editing some pictures to post. She’s so close to two million followers, and she’s posting just about anything to get attention. Or maybe she’s looking for outfit ideas, considering she’s going to be at the same place as Mai– She’s only reminded you over a hundred times that Mai’s her rival. One thing about Ali, she’ll make sure to stand out.

“Did I tell you what happened at work today? Some guy had an accident and they had to call an ambulance.” You continue talking, only to be met by hums. At least she’s listening, that’s what you tell yourself. You know that she’s busy and nervous for the event so you can’t blame her for not paying much attention.

You continue talking to her, not met by a single word from her. Not until you say something that catches her attention, “I also met the COO, I think his name was Satoru?”

“Gojo?!” She quickly questions, and you nod in response. She seems excited at the response, as if she knows exactly who Satoru is.

You furrow your eyebrows before asking her, “Do you know who he is?”

“Of course I know who he is! He’s the most eligible bachelor in the city– Not to mention he’s our age.” She explains, and you’re surprised to see her so excited at the mention of Satoru. You should know by this point though. It’s even more surprising to hear her say, “Did you guys talk? What happened?”

“Oh, there wasn’t much to say. Him and my coworker were just talking about the event on Friday and that’s about it.” You tell her, and there’s a spark of hope in her eyes. She doesn’t have to ask before you gently let her down. “I don’t think he’s going… He did say he’s busy.”

“Oh.” Her excitement quickly turns sour, and you can’t help but feel bad for your best friend.

“But maybe you’ll bump into each other! Satoru is really sweet, he complimented my hair.” You share, a bit of a dumb smile on your lips as you recall the moment. He’s really handsome, and to be complimented by him is utter flattery.

You fail to notice how Ali rolls her eyes, a complete look of jealousy taking over her face. She lets out a small sigh before telling you, “Oh, dear. You’re just naive.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” You innocently reply, and there’s a pitiful look in her eyes. It’s as if she feels sorry for you.

“I’ve heard he does it to everyone… He’s a bit of a flirt.” She answers, and you raise your eyebrows. You let out a low chuckle before nodding in response.

“I wasn’t thinking much of it.” You reply, though your flattery fades away in a matter of seconds. She’s right, why did you even think much of such a simple compliment?

You continue talking, and as the conversation shifts from Satoru, she loses her interest once again.

Satoru doesn’t really care for coffee, but right now he can’t keep his eyes open. He needs to drink something to stay awake. He tried to slack off with Levi, but it seems that Levi would rather help his wife than help Satoru avoid work.

Satoru gets to the first floor of the building, and sees the line to enter the café. It’d be more time effective to get into his car and drive away, but he won’t do that. Satoru technically owns the building, so he should be able to skip the line without a problem. He ignores the complaints and yells from the people in the line.

Security lets him in without an issue, considering he’s very easy to recognize. One must be living under a rock to not recognize who Satoru Gojo is.

The man plans on simply getting a coffee and leaving. Before his plan can even start, something catches his eye– Someone. They make eye contact before she turns her attention to a fan. She smiles brightly at them, tucking a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.

He should just get his coffee and leave, she’s not the type of woman that Satoru would go for. The self-absorbed type. The type that he’d go after just for sex– It’s not that Satoru doesn’t like women that are self confident, he just doesn’t like when they can only talk about themselves.

Even with his internal dilemma, he decides to step toward her. They grin at each other before she speaks up,

“Hey. Here for a picture?” Which makes him chuckle. He ends up nodding, because he’d be a fool to say no to her. The same man that was talking bad about the event is now glad that it’s happening in this building.

He leans down to take a selfie with her, both of them smiling brightly at the camera. There’s someone else waiting to meet her, but they can wait. Her attention is completely on Satoru.

“I’m Allison by the way.” She tells him, extending her hand for Satoru to take. He laughs again, taking her hand. It was easy for her to know that Satoru had no idea of her existence… But he still wanted a picture.

“I’m Satoru.” He introduces himself, and he knows that she knows who he is. The man looks back at the line that is waiting to meet the woman, and he asks, “Am I holding up the line?”

“Oh, no!” She doesn’t skip a beat. It’s clear that she doesn’t want the man to leave so soon, not until she gets his number. “I mean, I’ve got all day.”

“I wouldn’t want some of the men in the line to–” Satoru looks back at the line, filled with grown men that are here simply to talk to Ali. He’s definitely interrupting, but she doesn’t seem to care so why should he? “Ah, who cares in the end? I’m talking to a very gorgeous woman, to hell with them.”

“I’m flattered.” She answers, and they continue their conversation. Other people in line grow desperate, a meet up that’s supposed to last two minutes has been extended by eight minutes. It’s not ending anytime soon either.

After a couple more minutes, Satoru hands her his phone, telling her, “How about you give me your number so we can talk a bit more?”

“I’d love to.” She smiles, not hesitating before giving him her number. She smiles, knowing that this is just the beginning of something wonderful with Satoru.

It’s nothing serious. Satoru just wants to meet up with Ali for one thing and one thing only. It’s not like he’s deceiving her as he texts her, Satoru makes it clear that she knows that he only wants sex. She’s clearly fine with it, from what he can tell.

They agree to meet up at a hotel that isn’t too far from the café. Neither of them have to drive too much to meet up with each other. Satoru’s penthouse is nearby, but that’ll just turn things more personal than what they need to be.

Satoru gets to the hotel, where he finds Ali waiting in reception. She’s eagerly looking around, excited to lay her eyes on him. He smiles at her when she finally sees him. Ali doesn’t waste a single second on walking over toward him, opening her arms to hug him.

“I hope you weren’t waiting long.” Satoru comments, as his hand grabs hers. She shakes her head, assuring him that she wasn’t there for too long.

“Shall we go?” He asks, and she nods in response. She makes conversation, while Satoru prefers to stay quiet. He’s not trying to hide the fact that he isn’t looking for something more.

He’s at the hotel for sex. He doesn’t have to engage in conversation because he’s made his intentions clear.

And even with his very clear intentions, when he wakes up in the morning, he still takes her to breakfast. He feels a twinge of guilt as he watches her sleep beside him. He doesn’t know what it is– Perhaps it was something she said last night that makes him feel like this.

He’ll take her for breakfast before giving her a proper goodbye.

Ali comes home a little past noon, wearing the same clothes as the previous day. You can’t help but notice immediately when she walks through the door. You’re not one that keeps tabs on her, after all, Ali is grown– But you can’t lie, you were worried. She had failed to tell you about any plans after the event, and she didn’t answer any of your messages.

“I’m home!” She sings, clearly elated about something. You can already form the picture. One of her fans was more handsome than she intended and she couldn’t help herself. You’re happy for her.

“Glad to see you’re okay.” You tell her, not caring to look up much from your phone. You know her, she’ll end up locking herself in her room for the rest of the day to catch up on sleep. You think you have her all figured out until she sits beside you on the couch. You look up at her, curious. “What happened?”

“Do you remember Satoru Gojo?” She can’t hide her smile. You nod in response, furrowing your eyebrows as you think about him. In what possible scenario would they– No. No no no. “He went to the meet and greet yesterday and he asked for my number!”

“That’s great, Ali!” You tell her, a little shocked about it. You would’ve sworn that he’d never show up to the meet and greet, but it seems that he changed his mind at the last second. However, the story clearly doesn’t stop there, otherwise she wouldn’t be wearing yesterday’s clothes.

“We kept texting all day before we agreed to meet up at a hotel and let me tell you!” She excitedly continues, but your interest is quickly lost. You don’t want to hear about Ali’s wonderful night with Satoru. You love her to death, but you don’t need the details of her sexual life. “He’s so passionate, my goodness! He kept going all night and–”

She continues, and you feel queasy at every detail. Ali just can’t keep stuff to herself. You won’t lie and say you aren’t a bit disappointed as she tells you everything. It means that Satoru is completely off limits now. Though, you don’t believe that you ever had a chance with him.

You’re happy for her, especially when she says, “He’s the man of my dreams, I’m telling you. We’re destined to be together.”

“I’m so happy for you, Ali.” You respond, and she has a hint of smugness in her expression. It’s not something you pick up on.

You swear that she tells you out of pure excitement since she’s your best friend, and you’re her best friend as well.

Something that was meant to be a one night stand has turned into something more. It has no labels, that’s something that Satoru makes clear; something that Ali complains to you about every other day. Every single day she mentions Satoru, without failing to bring up how lucky she is.

It’s been two months, and Ali is expecting some sort of commitment from Satoru. She knows she can’t force it, but she’s slowly growing impatient. It’s something that has become clear to Satoru as well.

Satoru intends to let her down gently, but there’s never a right time. He’s walking her back to her hotel room after a very eventful day.

There’s never a right time because they spend a lot of time together. Very stupidly he decided to invite her overseas for her birthday. He’s not committing to her, but he’s very much giving her mixed signals.

“You know, Satoru, I love spending time with you.” Ali suddenly says, and Satoru’s eyebrows perk up. He’s about to ask why, but she reads his mind. “You make me feel seen… Usually when I’m with a man they make me feel like I’m some sort of object…”

“I’m glad that you feel that way around me.” Satoru weakly smiles, feeling his ears get red. She says that as if Satoru isn’t similar to them. They’re just hooking up.

They get to the door of her hotel room, and she proceeds to kiss his cheek. She squeezes his hands as she tells him, “Thank you for seeing me as someone more than just–”

“You don’t have to mention it.” He unintentionally cuts her off. He doesn’t want to hear it, knowing that he’s not as different as she claims he is.

“Thank you for inviting me out here. This place is truly beautiful.” She smiles brightly at him, unable to hide her happiness. “Bringing me here for my birthday was really thoughtful, I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You don’t have to repay me.” He assures her, placing a kiss on her forehead. He’s meant to let her down gently because he’s allowed this relationship to stray too far… But dumping a woman on her birthday? “Happy birthday, Ali.”

“Will you join me in my room? I want to watch a movie.” She asks, and Satoru bites down his lip before nodding in response. She opens the door to her room, and he sighs before speaking up.

“Ali, would you like to be my girlfriend?” It sounds forced and something he’d say out of pure guilt. Any other woman would be able to pick up on it by his tone, but Ali does not care. Her face lights up and she throws her arms over Satoru’s shoulders. She kisses him, her wordless answer to his question.

A label-less relationship has suddenly obtained a label. The last thing that Satoru wanted.

Ali invites you out the moment she gets back from her trip. You assume it’s her way to apologize for leaving you stranded. You had a special birthday surprise for her, only to find out that she was out of the country by her social media. Ali has a bad habit of leaving you in the dark.

She’s making it up by inviting you to a restaurant that’s absolutely out of your budget. You can’t believe your eyes once you’re outside of the place. You’ve heard of it before but you knew it was well out of your price range. She’s most definitely inviting you here to apologize since she sensed you were being a little cold with her lately.

You give your car keys to the valet and make your way into the place. You can’t help but feel a little out of place once you walk inside, but there isn’t much you can do about it. You give the host Ali’s name, and you’re quickly guided to the table.

Your eyes fall on her, a smile coming to your lips as you see your best friend. However, the smile quickly fades when you see that she isn’t alone. It strikes you that this isn’t an apology, but rather her introducing you to her boyfriend.

You can’t lie and say that you aren’t disappointed, but it’s easy to brush off. You’re still here with her, it shouldn’t matter.

“Hi.” You greet them, eyes lingering on Ali. You briefly look at Satoru, and you can tell that he doesn’t remember you. You were just a face that he once saw at work, you’re not hurt in the slightest.

“You’re finally here!” Ali exclaims, as if she’s overcompensating for something. Something you fail to pick up on.

“Yeah, there was a bit of traffic.” You tell her as you take a seat across from her and Satoru. Ali grins before she begins to introduce the two of you.

“Satoru, this my best friend.” She signals towards you, telling him your name. There’s a frown on his face, trying to recall where he’s seen you before. You almost feel embarrassed because you remember exactly who he is, but he can’t even remember if he’s seen you before.

Ali can’t wipe the smirk off her face as she introduces you to her boyfriend. She makes it clear that things are more than official now– She emphasizes the word as if she had forgotten to tell you, “And this is Satoru, my boyfriend.”

“Nice to meet you, Satoru.” You wave at him, forcing yourself to smile. You’re a bit unprepared for all of this, considering Ali didn’t give you a heads up about meeting her boyfriend. Alas, you can’t flee now.

“We’ve met before!” He exclaims, suddenly remembering you. So it’s you. You’re the friend that couldn’t join on the trip because Ali claimed you were too busy. “You don’t remember? I was in the IT department slacking off– Well, I wouldn’t say slacking off but–”

“Yeah, I remember you.” You cut him off, a low chuckle leaving your lips as he runs down the events. It’s not the only time you’ve bumped into each other. Not too long ago you saw him in a meeting, but he was too busy with work to notice you.

“I’m surprised you were too busy to join us on the trip, I didn’t think that your job was too demanding.” He brings up, and he feels Ali’s hand wrap around his wrist, squeezing. It seems like he’s overshared. You furrow your eyebrows, confused with what he says.

“Huh? What do you mean?” You question, and before Satoru can further explain that you were invited on Ali’s birthday trip but you turned down the offer, Ali butts in.

“The trip was just so last minute so I assumed that you couldn’t come.” She explains, and you feel another wave of disappointment washing over you. You try to understand though, you know Ali is awful at communicating certain things.

“Oh, I get it. Don’t worry about it.” You laugh it off. Awkwardness comes with the silence that ensues. Satoru looks around for the waiter, but he’s nowhere in sight.

“I love your glasses, by the way. Is that a new frame?” Satoru asks, not liking the awkward silence. You feel your face get warm at the compliment but before you can answer, Ali speaks in your behalf,

“Aren’t they cute? I picked them out for her!” She quickly takes credit. “She called me for help! Poor thing looked lost.”

“That’s why I have you around.” You respond, and she laughs. She pulls out her phone, and quickly begins to take pictures for her Instagram story.

“My followers will love this.” She comments as she gets you and Satoru in a shot. It’s truly not a meal with Ali until she pulls out her phone to post everything.

You’re back in Satoru’s workplace before you know it. You’re there to do a system check, something that doesn’t require you to deal with Satoru. You don’t want to say that you’re overjoyed that you’re not dealing with him, but you certainly aren’t upset about it.

Ali drags you along with her to almost everything that deals with him. Long story short, you third wheel a lot. You’re rightfully awkward around him, and you don’t want to deal with that feeling in a workplace setting. Perhaps things would be different if you got to know him in a different setting, but you’d prefer to keep things with him as minimal as possible.

Your prayers aren’t heard though. The moment that you step into the building, you make eye contact with him. You attempt to ignore him, acting as if you didn’t see him as you begin your job. He gives you that courtesy, and leaves you alone since you so clearly don’t want to be bothered.

Satoru leaves you alone until you bump into each other in the break room. When he sees you again, he wants to talk to you.

“How’s work today?” He asks, and you know that he’s directly talking to you since there’s no one else around.

“It’s fine.” You answer rather dryly, and he notices. It’s not intentional, you’re just focused on your job. “How about you? Are you down here slacking off?”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” He laughs as if he’s been caught doing something that he’s not supposed to be doing. You’re right, you’ve caught him slacking off.

“Mr. Gojo, your office is not on this floor.” You remind him, and he feels a bit embarrassed. Right, the giant detail that he’s overlooked. “Levi is a bit busy, you can come in a couple of hours though.”

“How about you? Are you busy?” He asks, and you are but you’re also looking to take a longer break; you’ve got the perfect excuse lining up, the COO needed you so you couldn’t refuse.

“Why do you ask?” You reply, and he puts his hands in his pockets as he looks around the room. Once he sees that he’s free to say whatever he wishes, he answers.

“How about I give you a tour of the building? I know that you’re not here often.” He offers, and you take a moment to think about it. You already know the building pretty well, the parts that you don’t know don’t concern you. You still think about it.

“Mr. Gojo–” You begin, only to be quickly interrupted by him.

“Please, we’ve spent enough time together. Call me Satoru.” He corrects you, and you hum in response.

“Alright, Satoru, show me the place.” You agree, only for him to grab your hand and drag you out of the break room without hesitation. He does not think about how things might be awkward afterward, Satoru simply lives in the moment.

“Alright you two, look at my phone.” Ali is practically shoving the camera right in your face to get the perfect shot. She needs to show off to everyone how great she is at managing her romantic and social life– She’s not the type of woman that puts a man over her friends.

“Alright, babe. Put the phone down.” Satoru tells her after what feels like the millionth picture. He planned this lovely picnic, only for Ali to only care about showing her followers. He likes Ali, but there’s just something about her that Satoru doesn’t like… Unfortunately, relationships can’t be perfect.

“Just one more!” She claims, making Satoru click his tongue. No matter what he says, Ali won’t put the phone down.

“Thank you for joining us. I would’ve sworn that at this point you’d be sick of us.” Satoru says as he passes you a sandwich. You laugh.

The only reason you joined was because you thought you’d be spending time alone with Ali. It’s rare to catch her alone nowadays since she’s usually with Satoru. It shouldn’t have surprised you to find out that the picnic was with Satoru; you weren’t even annoyed when you found it, as a matter of fact, you were happy to find out he was tagging along.

“Oh she’d never betray us, she’s like our loyal pet.” Ali comments, and you feel your face get warm of embarrassment. You can’t help but feel ashamed by her comment.

“Ali, apologize.” Satoru quickly tells her as a frown comes to her face. She crosses her arms, before asking,

“Why should I apologize?”

“It’s fin–” You begin but Satoru cuts you off. He’s not going to let her words slide.

“Because what you said was rude, she’s your best friend.” He’s getting upset about this, his tone of voice giving it away. Ali scoffs, not seeing anything wrong with her words. Why should she apologize when it isn’t a lie?

“You said it, she’s my best friend. I know her better than you do and I know that she’s fine with it.” She argues, and you’re almost praying for the ground to open and swallow you whole. Being here is already weird enough, but to watch them argue? You swear this is the last time you tag along without asking Ali about all the details.

“Do you not see how rude that is? You invited her, she didn’t beg to tag along.” He points out, which makes her roll her eyes. “You’re the one that usually invites her, you can’t say that about someone that never asks to join.”

“Fine!” She shouts, giving up. It usually means that she doesn’t have a counterargument. Additionally, if the argument escalates further then Satoru might just cancel the trip that they have for the weekend. She looks directly at you and forces herself to say, “I’m sorry for calling you our loyal pet.”

“It’s fine, I know you didn’t mean anything rude by it.” You reassure her, feeling completely and utterly embarrassed by this whole situation. Ali gives Satoru a weird look before she grabs herself something to snack on.

Things begin to change between you and Ali, and it’s all your fault. You’re refusing to hang out with her because you know that Satoru is going to be there. It’s not that you dislike him, on the contrary, you think he’s the perfect man for your best friend. But you can’t help but feel like there’s a weird dynamic whenever you’re third-wheeling.

Luckily, Ali doesn’t seem to notice that you’re distant. She’s too preoccupied with Satoru. You’re more than fine with it, as long as you don’t have to explain yourself.

It does kind of suck that you’re barely seeing her since you can’t ask for a small favor. Taking the bus is not the end of the world, but waiting for it while it’s raining is an annoyance to say the least. It’ll take at least five more minutes for the bus to come by. Your car just had to break down during the rainiest time of the month.

You’re watching all the cars go by, eyes focusing on a sports car that is all too similar to Satoru’s. It’s not an usual car to find in the area, so you don’t assume it’s Satoru– Not until the car pulls up at the bus stop and the window rolls down.

“Do you need a ride home?” You hear his voice before your eyes land on him. You bite down your lip as you look around the place. You really want to turn Satoru’s offer down, but the bus is nowhere near and the rain is not stopping any time soon.

“Yeah.” You end up accepting, opening the car’s door. You do have an umbrella, but it can only do so much against the heavy rain. You apologize for getting his car all wet as you get in, and he assures you that it’s fine.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were taking the bus?” Satoru asks as he begins to drive. As you open your mouth to answer, he speaks again, “Granted, we haven’t been seeing each other much.”

You chuckle. He turns on the heating, noticing that you’re shivering the moment you get into the car. He picks up on the small details and you hate it. You’re truly happy for Ali, but you hate that Satoru makes you feel so wonderful.

Perhaps the reason why you’re distancing yourself doesn’t have to do much with them but rather yourself. You’re slowly seeing Satoru in a different light and you could never forgive yourself.

“I don’t want to be a burden. I can imagine you’re sick of me.” You comment, attempting to pass it off as a joke when a laugh escapes your lips. He doesn’t find the humor in it.

“I miss you! When you’re not around Ali’s phone is all over me.” He jokes, and while you’d usually laugh, you can’t. His words weigh heavy on your heart. Why the hell would he tell you that he misses you? Does he not know what that does to a woman? “There’s a new dessert shop opening up soon, we should go there soon.”

He’s gotten to know you too well, that’s why you’re avoiding them. He’s Ali’s boyfriend, you’re overstepping a boundary. As a matter of fact, you shouldn’t be in his car. You feel awkward next to him– As if your heart was about to beat out of your chest. Your stomach churns every time that you look at him.

You frown as you look at him, suddenly feeling nauseous. You’ve come to a sudden realization. But no, it can’t be. No no no no no! You refuse to accept it.

“Hey, are you okay?” Satoru questions when he realizes the frown on your face as you stare at him. “Did I do something? Are you mad?”

“No, you’re fine! I just swore I saw something on your window.” You try to play it off, which he thankfully believes. You’re not in the mood to explain to him what you’re thinking of.

How awkward would it be to explain to him that you have a crush on him? Telling your best friend’s boyfriend about your weird feelings is the last thing you want to do.

You were planning on avoiding Satoru and Ali like the plague, but you started overthinking. Wouldn’t they notice something is up with you if you constantly ignore them? So you keep things to a minimum with the pretense that you don’t want to cut in. It’s nearly impossible to almost always avoid them, considering Satoru is almost always at your place.

You find yourself outside your apartment more often than usual. You’ve come to learn their schedule, and you’ve started to run errands whenever Satoru is around the apartment. It just never occurred to you that Satoru wasn’t abiding by a schedule, and that you’d bump into each other elsewhere.

You freeze in the middle of the grocery store when Satoru calls out your name. You curse yourself and pray that Ali is with him. You don’t want to find yourself alone with Satoru– You wouldn’t act out on your crush, but you still don’t feel comfortable at the thought of being alone with him.

“Hey, Satoru… What are you doing here?” The terrible question leaves your lips as you turn around to face him. Why else would he be here? He’s a human, he needs to get groceries to survive.

“Just getting some stuff for tonight. You’re coming to the dinner party, right?” Satoru questions, and you raise your eyebrow. You have no idea what he’s talking about. But instead of questioning him further, you simply shake your head. He sighs, “Ali insisted we host something for my birthday.”

“Oh, is it your birthday?” You ask.

“In the next couple of days.” He answers. “I thought Ali would invite you.”

“If I’m invited then her other influencer friends get jealous.” You remind him, and he clicks his tongue. They’re all so superficial, he’d much rather have you around over them.

“I already feel the headache coming on.” He jokes, making a low chuckle leave your lips. You begin to walk through the aisles, and the man walks by your side. He’s unknowingly complimenting you, which makes you want to drop to your knees.

“I really don’t know why she’d invite them and not you? I’d love to have you around, but them…” He says, and you laugh. You almost laugh at his every word, it’s a dead giveaway; but Satoru doesn’t notice. At least you think he doesn’t.

“Some of them are nice!” You tell him, but he’s not too sure that your words will uphold. Sure, they might be nice but they’ll all be too focused about themselves. They’re more than likely very similar to Ali– Which isn’t a bad thing, but sometimes Ali can only think about herself.

“Right.” He scoffs. You notice that he’s not picking up anything while he walks alongside you, making you wonder if he’s done with shopping. Or perhaps he’s simply forgotten that he’s here to shop.

“Are you done?” You ask him, and he looks back into his basket. He doesn’t even have half of the stuff he came here for.

“Shit…” He mutters, realizing he has to go through all of the aisles again. He pats your back before telling you, “Alright, I’ll leave you.”

“Bye, Satoru.” You wave at him as he begins to walk away. There’s a stupid smile on your face as you stare at him. A smile that quickly fades away when you remember that Satoru is Ali’s boyfriend.

“Alright, you have to be nice. We’re meeting his friends.” Ali tells you as she uses her phone camera to check her makeup. She wants to make the best impression on her boyfriend’s friends.

“I’m always nice.” You tell her, as the elevator takes you up to Satoru’s penthouse. It’s the first time you’re invited to his place, and you wonder how it looks. Is it cold and empty? Or is it welcoming? Considering he’s almost always at your place, you’ve already made your conclusions.

“These are like his very close friends so you know things are getting serious.” Ali comments, making sure that you remember how her and Satoru are an item. There’s not a second in the day where she’s not reminding everyone. It’s almost as if she doesn’t believe it herself that she’s with Satoru.

“Things are going to go great, Ali. Don’t worry about it.” You reassure her, and she takes a deep breath. The elevator doors open, and you grab her hand to comfort her, giving it a light squeeze. You step into the penthouse, looking around the place. It’s empty, just like you imagined it– Sure, it has furniture but it just feels empty.

“They’re in the kitchen.” Ali points to where she hears the laughter. You follow her to the kitchen, noticing that the laughter dies down the moment she enters the room.

Satoru walks to her side, taking her hand into his own as he faces his friends. He grins before he tells them, “Suguru, Shoko, this is my girlfriend, Ali.”

“Hi, Ali.” Suguru smiles, waving at the woman. Shoko doesn’t exactly greet her, but she does try to smile at her with a subtle wave.

“Hi, guys! It’s so lovely to meet you!” She acts as if she’s known them all of her life, going over to them and hugging them. Her hug isn’t rejected, but it isn’t necessarily well received.

You awkwardly stand by the door, feeling completely out of place. Ali came to you with the pretense that she needed you for moral support, and you couldn’t just reject her; right now you’re mad at your decision though. Your weekend plans are ruined.

“And this is,” Satoru introduces you to his friends as well, when Ali is done giving out her awkward hug. You wave at his friends, not as confident as Ali to go to them and hug them.

“So nice to meet you.” Shoko finally speaks, earning you a side-eye from Ali. You don’t notice it, instead you focus on Satoru’s best friends.

“I love your shirt, Shoko.” You comment, and she thanks you as she looks down.

“Do you listen to them?” She asks you, and you nod in response. It leads to a conversation about your favorite songs, a conversation that Suguru chimes into. Ali can’t join in since she doesn’t know the band, therefore she can’t add anything useful.

Ali feels left out, and she hates that feeling. Therefore, she’ll force herself into the mix

“You know who I love!” She begins, only for Shoko to coldly look back at her. Shoko raises her eyebrow, and Ali begins to speak. An artist that’s completely unrelated to the initial genre; frankly, someone that isn’t well liked around the room.

An awkward silence ensues when Ali stops talking, which makes Satoru intervene. The man clears his throat before speaking, “How about we go to the living room?”

To which you all agree to.

Conversation flows smoothly when you’re speaking to Suguru and Shoko. You expected to feel left out for the entire night, but surprisingly you get along fine with the duo. You can’t help but notice that Ali’s being left out, so every now and then you ask her a question that fits into the conversation. However, she doesn’t have much to offer.

“So what do you do?” Shoko asks you as she cuddles up to Suguru on the couch. You’re sitting on the floor, watching as the couples begin to snuggle up. It’s getting colder in the penthouse, so rightfully they’re seeking warmth.

“I’m a tech analyst. I occasionally work with Satoru’s company!” You share. “I’ve been to it maybe a handful of times.”

“Is it fun?” She questions and you laugh, which answers her question. “At least it’s a real job.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, and Shoko chuckles, shaking her head. She refuses to answer, though it should be clear she’s talking about Ali.

You look around the living room, watching as Shoko and Suguru snuggle up, as well as Ali and Satoru. You don’t feel as awkward as you should be since you’re used to this sort of thing. It isn’t the first and it won’t be the last time that Ali invites you to something for couples only.

“Awh, look at you. You look so lonely.” Ali takes a pitiful tone as she speaks to you, and suddenly a weird shame consumes you.

“What are you even saying? She’s with us.” Shoko immediately defends you, taking a harsh tone as she looks at Ali. “She doesn’t need a significant other.”

“Right, all a partner does is–” Suguru begins, which earns him a quick glare from Shoko. He bites down his tongue, deciding to not get himself in trouble. Suguru ends up clearing his throat before saying, “At least she’s making interesting conversation.”

“It’s getting late!” Satoru chimes in, not wanting to escalate things further. He quickly picks up on the fact that Shoko doesn’t like Ali, and he feels like Ali reciprocates that feeling. “I’m sleepy.”

“He’s kicking us out, Shoko.” Suguru says, sticking his tongue out at Satoru. The couple stands up, and you awkwardly remain on the floor. You regret accepting Ali’s proposal of staying the night.

“Aren’t you busy tomorrow? I don’t want you to be too tired for your plans.” Satoru tries to make it seem as if he isn’t kicking them out, when in reality he is. He doesn’t want things to escalate, and Suguru can tell which is why he doesn’t say anything else.

“Right, busy. Sunday morning. We’re going to church or whatever you do.” Suguru says as he’s led to the elevator by Satoru.

You take a quick look at Ali, seeing the upset look in her face. You’d usually comfort her, but you know that she isn’t in the mood for comfort. She needs a moment alone, which is why you stand up.

“I’m going to sleep.” You tell her, trying to smile at her. She simply hums, not even looking in your direction.

You wake up earlier than usual, unable to sleep for longer since the room you’re sleeping in isn’t your own. It’s odd, considering that the bed you lay on is the most comfortable bed you’ve ever touched. Last night’s events weigh heavy on your mind, contributing to the lack of sleep. You wonder if Ali is still upset with you, or if the sleep has cooled her off.

You get up from bed, and get out as quietly as possible. You don’t want to make a loud noise and wake up the happy couple– Although you doubt that any noise will reach them from how big the penthouse is.

A big yawn escapes your lips as you walk to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee. You freeze when you enter the kitchen and bump into Satoru. Your eyes widen when you realize he’s shirtless.

“Oh!” You can’t help but exclaim, as your eyes look him up and down. He’s only wearing gray sweatpants. Your face is turning hot, feeling almost like a complete virgin. You make eye contact with him, and the man looks at you utterly surprised.

“I’m sorry.” He quickly apologizes, and you dramatically turn around. He’s just shirtless, it’s not the end of the world. But you swear you took a peek at his underwear.

“No, it’s your home. You’re okay.” You trip over your words as your hands cover your face. He notices that your reaction is a tad bit dramatic. He won’t judge you for it, you have your reasons to react the way you do.

Before Satoru can utter another word, you’re out of the kitchen. Satoru furrows his eyebrows, as his eyes land on the box of macaroons that you got him for his birthday. Ali simply a watch, one that he already had in his collection. You took note of what he liked and went out of your way to get it for him.

It dawns on him. The reason why you reacted the way you did is because you like him. Luckily, Ali is asleep so she won’t notice a thing.

“Satoru, what are you doing?” You ask before he cups your face and kisses your lips. He’s kissing you so hungrily. He’s full of passion, as if he’s been waiting for this moment for a long time.

When did he get into your room?

“I need you.” He tells you between kisses, his hands going under your nightgown. He’s getting risky. Where did all of this come from? One moment he was cuddling up with Ali and then the next he’s kissing you as if you were his. You should fight back since you know it’s wrong, but your body melts.

You can’t do anything as Satoru kisses you, except give in. His lips move lower, going to your neck as his hands go higher. Before you know it, he’s playing with your panties. He teases your pussy, and you feel your breath get caught up in your chest as he gets more risky.

“We shouldn’t, Satoru.” Your voice is barely audible, easy to slip past his ears. You won’t repeat yourself because you don’t want him to stop.

He pushes your panties to the side, two fingers running through your folds. His fingers press against your clit, nearly making your eyes roll to the back of your head. He’s sucking on your neck, on that sweet spot that makes you weak. He already knows his body as if it were his own.

“Oh–” You gasp as he pushes a finger inside of you. You can’t believe this is happening– Oh how wrong is it? Poor Ali. But guilt isn’t the most prominent feeling in your mind, which means it’s ignored. A second finger quickly follows, and you swear you’re in heaven.

“I need you so badly.” He sounds breathless, utterly desperate. He curves his fingers, hitting just the right spot. You moan his name, quickly slapping your hand over your mouth. You don’t remember if Ali is nearby or not, but you don’t want to risk it.

His thumb is playing with your clit, feeling your whole body turn to putty. You can’t stop now. You need to feel him in every possible sense.

“Please…” You mutter, your body craving more. You can’t use your words, it simply makes things wrong. He reads your mind, pulling away and taking his shirt off. You can’t help but run your hands down his well toned torso. This is so wrong but you can’t bring yourself to stop.

Your hand reaches the waistband of his sweatpants, biting down your lip before you pull down. That’s where you lose control again, Satoru taking charge.

“Just relax, okay? I’ll take good care of you.” Satoru tells you as he puts you on your stomach, facing away from him. He fully lifts up your nightgown to get a good look at your ass. He slaps your ass before running the tip of his cock through your folds.

He slowly pushes himself in, and you bury your head into your pillow. You can’t make a noise as his thick cock fills you up. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head as he bottoms out.

“Can you handle it, pretty girl?” He asks, giving you a moment to adjust to him. Your answer comes out muffled by the pillow, but luckily he can understand the yes that leaves your lips. He begins to move slowly.

Why is this happening? Not that you’re complaining. Guilt will eat you alive later, but you’re living in the moment. How could you not live in the moment when Satoru is fucking you?

“You feel so good.” Satoru moans, and you can’t hold yourself back on being as enthusiastic as he is. He’s hitting all the right spots, making your body feel euphoric.

You’re too in your head that you almost miss that the door opens– The door opens?! You immediately know it’s her, and you can’t stop. How will you explain it to her? No, no no no no! You seriously can’t be doing this to your best friend.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” You hear, and suddenly she’s shaking your body. Your mind is snapped out of your subconscious when she yells, “Ew! You’re drooling!”

Your eyes slowly open, and you feel the guilt pit in your stomach when you realize you were having a dream about your best friend’s boyfriend. A very explicit dream to say the least.

“Ali, what do you need?” You question with a raspy voice, clearly just woken up from a very fantastic dream. No, not fantastic. A bad dream.

“You went to sleep really early last night. Don’t you think it’s time to wake up?” She reminds you. You remember getting home from Satoru’s place, and heading straight to your room. You spent all day in bed yesterday, almost as if you had a cold. “Plus, you told me you’d cook for me for my diet!”

“Oh, right… I forgot.” You respond, your hand wiping the sweat on your forehead. You look her up and down and ask, “Why are you going on a diet again!”

“It’s essential that I maintain my figure! I make a living out of this, you know?” She answers, and you give her a subtle nod. She ends up leaving your room to wait for her breakfast patiently.

A sigh leaves your lips, the tough reminder that you’re not only in charge of dinner anymore but breakfast and lunch as well. You’ll do it for her though, she’s your best friend.

You bounce your leg as you sit near Satoru and Ali. The couple snuggles up as they watch a movie. They forced you out of your room and made you join them, but you can’t even focus on the screen.

Satoru is the first to notice, considering you’re acting weird around him. He keeps looking back at you, wondering when you’ll calm down. You’ve never acted like this around him before… Was the shirtless incident that bad?

He gets that you like him, but you don’t have to be so tense and nervous all the time. He won’t try a thing, he’s not that kind of guy.

“Do you want some popcorn?” Satoru extends the bowl towards you, and Ali immediately shushes him. She acts as if she can’t rewind ten seconds to hear what she missed.

“I’m okay, thank you.” You awkwardly smile at him before quickly looking away. You won’t even dare to look him in the eye. You end up standing up from your seat, telling the couple, “I’m not feeling too well–”

“Just go.” Ali interrupts you, not caring too much that you want to go back to your room. It was Satoru’s bright idea to invite you along. She won’t mention it to him, but it’s annoying that he wants you to include you in almost everything.

Ali pauses the movie when your door closes, looking at it and then back at Satoru, “She’s acting weird.”

“What do you mean? She just looks tired to me.” Satoru acts confused. He knows Ali enough to know that the woman has a tad bit of a jealousy issue. If he were to tell Ali about his finding, she wouldn’t react in a rational manner.

They both know that you wouldn’t even dare to make a move on Satoru, but that won’t change a thing. Which is why Satoru chooses to bite his tongue.

“I don’t know. I don’t care too much anyway.” She ends up shrugging, resuming the movie.

“Happy birthday!” Satoru cheerfully congratulates you the moment he sees you. It took a while considering that you’ve been in your room all day.

“Thank you, Satoru.” You’re a little surprised that the man knows, let alone, went out of his way to congratulate you. You smile at him, as he holds his index finger up.

“I got you something, hold on. It’s in my car.” He practically runs out of the apartment, leaving you to look around the place. Ali is in her room, so you can’t ask her what Satoru got you.

You feel weird as you wait for him. All you can think about is the dream that you had not too long ago, and guilt fills you up. Ali’s your best friend, you shouldn’t like her boyfriend. You take a deep breath to calm down the mix of emotions that suddenly consume you.

“Here it is.” Satoru comes back, not even a minute later. He holds the pink gift bag, and extends it so you can take it. You thank him, too shy to open the gift in front of him. “I hope things can go back to how they were.”

“Huh?” You question, even though you know exactly what he talks about.

“Things have been weird between us… I don’t know what happened.” He responds, and you’re left speechless. You aren’t sure how to answer. Before you can answer, he signals toward the gift, “Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

“Yeah.” You put the gift bag on the counter and take the tissue paper out before your eyes fall on the gift. You smile, pulling out the wireless headphones. “Thank you, Satoru. These will come in handy.”

“I hope so! I got them when I remembered your job.” He explains, and you can’t help but smile. He finally sees a sincere smile on your face, something that he hadn’t seen in a while. “There’s something else in the bag.”

“Oh?” You furrow your eyebrows in confusion as you look inside. There’s a small blue box inside, and you feel your heart skip a beat as you look at it. You feel too self conscious to open it in front of him. “You didn’t have to, Satoru.”

“You’re my friend! Of course I had to.” He claims, signaling you to open the box. You bite down your lip before doing what he wants you to do. Your eyes glimmer at the sight of a beautiful charm bracelet.

“It’s so beautiful!” You exclaim, right when Ali exits the bedroom. She looks at what you hold in your hand, and then at Satoru. “Thank you, Satoru. I love it.”

“It’s no problem. Happy birthday.” Satoru responds, just as Ali’s arms wrap around him. He hugs her back, but his gaze remains on you. “What are you doing tonight? Are you going out?”

“Tomorrow night. I’m not doing anything tonight.” You answer.

“How about we take you to dinner!” He offers, and Ali gives him a cold stare. A stare that goes ignored by him.

“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve done too much.” You awkwardly respond, getting reminded that he’s Ali’s boyfriend as she hugs him. If you didn’t know any better, by the way she acts, you’d say she’s jealous.

“We insist. It’s your birthday.” He replies. “Go get ready, we’ll wait for you here.”

You argue a bit more with him before you finally accept. You go to your room with gifts in hand. When you’re out of sight, Ali can’t help but comment, “Didn’t you do a little much?”

“What do you mean? That’s your friend.” Satoru responds, and she sighs. He ends up letting go of her and asking, “What’s wrong?”

“It feels like you’re putting more thought into her birthday than mine.” She crosses her arms, getting pouty about it. Satoru should’ve known, Ali gets upset when the attention isn’t all on her. He doesn’t like to admit it, but she’s a bit selfish. “You’re doing more for her than what you did for me.”

“I took you overseas and gave you many gifts.” He reminds her, but that’s not enough for her. “Can’t you just be happy for your best friend?”

“Fine.” She clicks her tongue, and she ends up stomping away. She has to get ready.

Your birthday dinner starts off awkward, but it slowly gets better. Overall, you enjoy it. The food is delicious and the company is great. You still can’t help but feel like Ali is upset with you. You’re not sure what you did wrong, but she acts weird.

She ignores you the next day, or gives you the most basic answers to any question. You wonder if she’s upset with you because Satoru gave you a birthday gift but… How are you at fault for that? It can’t be that. You try to talk to Ali at night, but she’s with Satoru and you don’t want to interrupt anything.

You end up going to bed without speaking to each other. Maybe you’ll patch things up tomorrow before Shoko and Suguru come over.

You’re woken up by strange sounds in the middle of the night– The sounds seem distant until you listen closely. You furrow your brow, trying to make out the strange noises until you figure out what it is, then you just want to bury your face into your hands out of pure embarrassment.

“Oh, it’s so good, Satoru!” Quickly followed by “Like that! Just like that!”

And as you keep listening to it, you feel tears well up in your eyes. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s guilt because you like the man Ali is in bed with right now; or perhaps it’s because you know that you’ll never be with him.

You sniffle, reaching over for the headphones that Satoru got you and putting them on, deciding to listen to some soothing music to fall back asleep. You’ll listen to just about anything to block out that sound.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen gojo #satoru gojo #gojo saturo #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo jjk #jujutsu gojo #gojo satoru smut #gojo x you #jujutsu kaisen satoru #satoru smut #satoru angst #gojo angst

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thewriteadviceforwriters · 11 days ago

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🖋️ You Don’t Need to “Write Every Day” to Be a Real Writer (and Other Guilt-Crushing Truths)

Let’s make this one loud: 📣 You are not a failed writer because you didn’t open your Google Doc today.

We’ve all heard the advice, write every day, build the habit, protect the streak, treat it like brushing your teeth or doing crunches or whatever metaphor productivity Twitter is pushing this week.

But here’s the thing: You are not a factory. Your brain is not a faucet. And writing isn’t a moral behavior.

─────── ✦ ───────

🚫 Daily Writing is Not a Badge of Legitimacy

The "write every day" rule? It wasn’t invented for you. It came from a very specific kind of writer.... usually full-time, no kids, no chronic illness, no 60-hour day job, no executive dysfunction, that lives in a world made of schedules and uninterrupted mornings.

You? You’re probably doing your best between classes, during night shifts, after crying, before therapy, while microwaving pizza rolls.

If you’re writing at all, you’re already in the game. No daily streak required. No blood oath to the Scrivener gods. You don’t need to bleed ink to prove you’re real.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧠 Writing is Mental, Even When It’s Invisible

Plotting in the shower. Thinking about your character’s tragic backstory at red lights. Whispering fake arguments into your Notes app at 3am. Staring at the ceiling replaying one scene until it rots.

It all counts.

Writing is thinking, not just typing. That mental compost pile? That’s how the good stuff grows. You don’t owe your worth to a word count. Some days, the work looks like a blank page and a brain on fire.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔄 Rest Is Part of the Process, Not a Detour From It

Let me say this plainly: Burnout is not proof of effort.

You are allowed to pause. You are allowed to stop mid-project. You are allowed to write in bursts. You are allowed to write for a week and disappear for a month.

Writing is a relationship. It has seasons. It expands and contracts. You are not a robot with a daily quota, you’re a person carrying a whole fictional world inside you. Let yourself be human.

─────── ✦ ───────

📆 Consistency Helps--But Define It For Yourself

Do some writers thrive with routines? Sure. But routine =/= daily.

Try this: → “I write every weekend morning when I can.” → “I jot down notes during my commute.” → “I commit to one hour a week, guilt-free.” → “I take two weeks off after every chapter.” → “I only write during November and spiral gloriously.”

Build a rhythm that actually matches your energy, not one that shames you for not vibing like a full-time author in a lakeside cabin with nothing to do but word vomit and sip tea.

─────── ✦ ───────

💌 You’re Still a Real Writer (Even When You’re Not Producing)

You don’t need:

a finished draft

a daily goal

a growing WIP

a thriving project

a clever new idea

…to be a writer.

You only need:

the drive to tell a story

the will to try again

the love of the craft, even when it doesn’t love you back

You’re a real writer if you write sometimes. You’re a real writer if you write badly. You’re a real writer if you wrote once and it changed you.

─────── ✦ ───────

✨ Guilt Kills Stories Faster Than “Laziness” Ever Will

You’re not lazy. You’re probably: → Overwhelmed → Tired → Burnt out → Depressed → Distracted by survival → Caught in perfectionism’s death grip

And the guilt? It doesn’t make you more productive. It just sinks its teeth into your confidence until you start to believe you’ve “fallen behind” on something that’s supposed to be yours.

The best thing you can do for your writing life? Protect your joy. That spark. That curiosity. That itch to build something from nothing.

That matters more than any streak.

─────── ✦ ───────

📣 Final Truths (Pin These to Your Soul):

Missing writing days is not failure.

Your process is not wrong just because it’s not loud.

You are not in a race.

You are not a fraud.

You are allowed to come back whenever.

Writing is not a productivity metric. It’s a craft. It’s a calling. It’s a weird little ritual.

And it’ll still be there when you’re ready.

See you on the page, whether that’s tomorrow, or next week, or next season.

—rin t. // thewriteadviceforwriters // chaotic writing realist. anti-guilt gremlin. your local plot ghost.

📜 prompts for gothic girlies, literary lads, and cursed creatives

🕯️ download the pack & write something cursed:

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htaesan · 2 months ago

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　ᅠ 💬　ᅠ EGG-TUALLY IN LOVE WITH YOU 　　───　ᅠ ( han taesan )

𝓹recis ⠀ : ⠀when the famous campus sweetheart, you, agree to taesan’s joking reply on your post, none of you expect the impulsive prank to spark a real, fluttering connection. what blossomed from a late night twitter exchange between a psych major who’s actually reserved and a basketball prodigy (who also happens to be her junior), turns into secret texts, awkward coffee dates. threaded into these events, an unexpected friendship begins. and in a campus full of noise, sometimes, the loudest feelings appear quietly, typed at 2 AM.

　　　ᅠ 한태산 ⠀⠀◜◡◝ ⠀⠀𝒇 reader ⠀wc tba ⠀ genre smau fluff attempted crack secret admirer university au ⠀ contains mentions of food profanities some ocs etc ⠀ tagging @a-dream-bookmark ,@/k-labels , @k-nets , @k-films , @sgz-net , @onedoornet

　　　ᅠ note ᅠ from ᅠ 𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐈 ! ᅠ hi SO i suddenly got an idea wave when i saw my wifey soph’s update for her current smau!!! GUYS GO AND CHECK IT OUTTT!!! you will not regret it i promise. this is also my first time in a long while doing a long smau like this (i properly drafted it this time!!) so bear with me, yeah? ><

( " 0 ﹏ 0 ) ⠀ STATUS ★ COMPLETED! ⠀⠀ UPDATES TUES&SAT 9 AM GMT+8

　　　ᅠ ＞︿　　please leave feedbacks 　　& 　　reblog 　　

　　　ᅠ FACECLAIMS: baek jiheon as y/n, kim jiwon (ive’s liz) as jihye, minju as minju, and boynextdoor members as themselves.

ℛEMINDER : NO spam liking. i will give you a virtual hug if you spam REBLOG. chapters might be added or edited along the way.

　💬 　CHAPTERS

　　　ᅠ 　　───　ᅠ( profiles )

00 → hot girl effect.....?

01 → real love is violent support 🤍

02 → “hello seonbae, nice coffee cup you got there”

03 → IT’S OFFICIAL, WE GOT A SONG

04 → do you have a death wish ☺️

05 → i’m not good with words, but i’m good at songs and dribbling

06 → dude you come and she leaves

07 → is this all WE get???? 💔💔💔

08 → 10/10 would recommend

　　　ᅠSEND AN ASK OR COMMENT DOWN BELOW TO JOIN THE TAGLIST.

　　　ᅠ𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

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sparknoteslitmemes · 2 years ago

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#les miserables #spark notes twitter #spark notes #spark notes meme #spark notes killing the queue #literature meme #les mis #victor hugo #javert #inspector javert

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mysteria157 · 11 months ago

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Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

CW: Profanity, Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Missionary, Doggystyle, Fingering, Oral (m! receiving)…

WC: ~10k (grab your snacks)

Summary:

Nanami runs into a problem that every man dreads.

Now, you find yourself navigating the treacherous waters of his bruised ego and growing hysteria, armed with nothing but your unwavering love and a seemingly endless supply of patience, as you try to help him overcome this unexpected hurdle.

Notes: Hello! Trying to get back into the swing of writing again after so many weeks on a break and naturally Nanami is who I gravitate towards. I thought this one shot would be a funny idea, and as someone once told me, I wrote this with “my c*it on the keyboard.”

Please do not ask me for more related to this story. This is just a one-shot of a random idea, please enjoy it for what it is lol. Thank you all for understanding!

Reblogs, likes, or comments are always appreciated! Happy reading!

Dividers: @cafekitsune | Header: made by myself

Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter |

“Fuck, Kento,” you breathe, fingers digging into the satin of the pillow case beneath your head.

The soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp bathes your intertwined bodies in a honeyed light, casting shadows that dance across your rich brown skin. Nanami’s lips, hot and insistent, trail a path of fire down your neck, pausing to lavish attention on the sensitive hollow of your throat. He drags his teeth along your clavicle, brushes his lips between the skin of your breasts. A breathy moan escapes you as his tongue traces lazy, deliberate circles around an already-sensitive nipple, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins.

His hands, strong and sure, yet infinitely gentle, knead the soft flesh behind your knees, coaxing your legs to open wider, allowing him to sink deeper into the welcoming heat of your body. The blunt head of his cock grazes that sweet spot inside you with each measured thrust, and you can’t help but arch your back, silently begging for more.

Your hair, messy from his fingers, frames your face in a splatter of curls, some clinging to the sheen of sweat on your cheeks. The sight of you like this—open, wanting, completely his—nearly steals the breath from his lungs and makes him double down his efforts.

It’s been weeks since you’ve had this. Weeks of Kento stumbling home late from working overtime, collapsing into bed still fully clothed. Weeks of missed connections, family obligations, and movie nights cut short with you both passing out on the couch. But tonight, finally, you have each other, free from the demands of the world outside.

As Nanami moves within you, his honey-wheat hair, usually so perfectly styled, falls in soft, tousled waves across his forehead, clinging to the perspiration that glistens on his brow. The strong line of his jaw is taut with concentration, a muscle jumping beneath the skin in a way that makes your fingers itch to trace its contours. His eyes, normally a cool, observant umber, now burn with a fierce intensity, a volatile mix of desire and something else, something harder to define.

But even as you lose yourself in the rhythm of your lovemaking, in the exquisite slide of skin against skin, you can’t help but notice the weariness etched into the lines of Nanami’s face, the slight tremor in his hands as they map the contours of your body. He’s been working himself to the bone, pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion, and it shows in the tension of his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. You had tried to get him to sleep when he sagged through the front door, but he was insistent, clawing at your too-big t-shirt, silent and too stubborn to listen to his body as he licked into your hot mouth.

He’s so tired. Mind still running through quarterly reports and half-completed project plans. But he won’t let that deter him. He’s determined to focus—to savor this moment, to lose himself in the intoxicating scent of your skin, to surrender to the tremors that course through him as your fingers ghost up his back. You marvel at the play of muscles beneath his skin, at the flex and release of his broad shoulders with each movement—a reminder of the strength he usually keeps so carefully controlled.

But as he leans in to capture your lips, that traitorous whisper of doubt in his mind grows in volume. That exhaustion that melted away from your touch has retreated to within him, to course through the blood in his veins and manifest again in its own, evil way at the apex of his thighs. Nanami’s movements falter, his rhythm turning erratic, unsure. You feel a change in him, a hesitation that wasn’t there before, and your heart clenches with concern. His brow furrows, his lips pressing into a thin line as he tries to hold onto the moment, to keep the passion burning between you. The confidence that usually radiates from him when you are both between the sheets seems to waver, leaving in its wake a man grappling with an unfamiliar sense of inadequacy.

He doesn’t want to believe it. He refuses to acknowledge the treacherous thought creeping into his mind. His cock, moments ago hard as a rock and pulsing within you, is betraying him. He digs one hand into the pillow beneath your head, fingers tangling in your curls, savoring the sharp gasp you shake out, desperately willing himself to focus on your heat, on your breath ghosting across his face—anything but the waning firmness of his erection.

With a low grunt, he thrusts deeper so there’s no room for his cock to leave you. The movement is sharper than usual, a force that has no trace of his care behind it and it immediately makes you blink through the fog of pleasure in your mind. You notice the change, concern filling you as you take in the tumultuous emotions on his face. His blonde hair falls in thick tufts over his forehead, brushing against the deepening crease between his eyebrows.

“Ken?” Your voice is soft, a gentle caress. You bring a hand to his cheek, and he leans into your touch as if your soft skin might anchor and keep him focused. “Is everything alright?”

Everything is far from alright.

It’s a nightmare scenario that Nanami can’t bring himself to voice. But he knows you feel it. Instead, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants against your vanilla skin, his fingers digging almost painfully into the flesh of your hips. He drives his hips deeper, angling upwards, trying desperately to lose himself in your pliant body.

But with his next thrust, the cruel truth becomes undeniable. What was once hard steel is now unbearably soft, slipping out of you as his hips collide with yours. Your gasp mirrors his shock as he jerks his head up to meet your gaze. The mortification in his eyes is palpable, a stark contrast to the passion that burned there mere moments ago.

“Ken, it’s okay—” you begin, but he’s already retreating, both physically and emotionally, his walls slamming back into place, shutting you out. You can practically see him retreating into himself, his shoulders hunching, his jaw clenching with a stubbornness of wounded pride.

“Hey, no, we aren’t doing this,” you insist, voice firm and laced with quiet determination.

You reach for him, your fingers wrapping around a thick wrist, anchoring him to you. You’ve spent years chipping away at his defenses, learning every facet of his being, and you refuse to let him shut you out now over something like this. This isn’t just embarrassment—it’s a fundamental shaking of his self-image, a crack in the foundation of who Nanami believes himself to be. An affliction that every man prays to the gods never finds them.

Limp dick.

You gently pull Nanami back to rest between your thighs, his weight a comforting shield against the cool air of your shared bedroom. Your fingers weave through his hair, feeling the tension thrumming through his body as he settles against you.

“Kento,” you murmur, your voice a low, soothing melody in the quiet room. “Look at me.”

He stills for a heartbeat, two, before raising his head, his eyes meeting yours. In their depths, you see a swirling maelstrom of emotions—frustration, embarrassment, shame. He’s tousled hair and flushed cheeks, an overwhelming exhaustion and stress etched beneath his eyes.

“It’s okay,” you breathe, cradling his face in your hands. Your thumbs trace the high arch of his cheekbones, feeling the heat of his skin. “This happens. It doesn’t change a thing—not how I feel, not how much I love you, none of it.”

Nanami’s jaw clenches under your palms, the muscle pulsing, a physical manifestation of the turmoil brewing within him. His gaze falls, unable to hold yours, as if the weight of his perceived failure is too much to bear. “I should be able to—”

“To what?” you interject, your voice gentle but firm. “To be some infallible sex god?” A soft laugh escapes you, your lips curving into a tender smile. “To never have limp dick?”

Those warm eyes glare at you, not at all amused by your light-hearted but poignantly accurate joke. “Now is not the time for a joke,” he grits out, his voice tight, strained.

“Now is exactly the time for a joke,” you counter, your thumb tracing the slight cracks of his bottom lip. You can sense his next moves, your body attuned to his very soul, feeling his inclination to withdraw, to roll over and brood, to let this momentary setback fester into something more. You tighten your thighs around his waist, refusing to let him drift away. “How long have we been together, Kento?”

“Three years.” His answer is immediate, automatic, a testament to the depth of your bond.

“And in that time, has this ever happened before?”

Your eyes lock—a silent battle of wills, logic against stubborn pride. He understands your point, recognizes the truth in your words, but his stubbornness matches your own. “No,” he admits, the word a reluctant concession.

“You’re human, Kento. Wonderfully, beautifully human, and the sexiest man I’ve ever known. Performance issues or not.”

He scoffs, but you feel his shoulders slacken, his body melting into yours as he exhales, the tension slowly bleeding from his muscles. His arms tighten around you, calloused hands splaying across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, as if your touch alone could chase away the demons of self-doubt. Those beautiful golden strands tickle your cheeks as he nuzzles closer, his breath warm against your neck.

“Is that so?” he finally murmurs, and you can hear the small smile in his voice, a welcome change from the earlier tension. For as reserved as he is, Nanami preens under any sort of compliments you give him, a chink in his armor of cool composure.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, your hands sliding down to appreciate the firm planes of his back. “It’s a shame, really. You attract too much attention. I’ve been too generous with how long I let you out of the house.”

You feel more than hear his soft chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. Nanami pulls back slightly, his dark eyes meeting yours. The vulnerability from before hasn’t completely faded, but it’s tempered by a familiar spark of determination kindling in their depths. You don’t know if the subject has completely dropped. But for now, he doesn’t seem to dwell on it, content to focus on you instead.

“Well,” he begins, his voice dropping to that deep, velvety tone that never fails to send shivers cascading down your spine, “I should ensure your satisfaction. Maybe then you’ll extend my hours outside.”

Before you can respond, he’s moving. He sits up on his knees, hot hands wrapping around your waist before yanking your hips closer to him, a delicious show of strength that has your breath catching in your throat. Your giggle of surprise quickly morphs into a gasp as his lips find that sensitive spot just below your ear, tongue sliding against the skin before it trails down the rest of your body, leaving a path of desire that makes you shudder against him.

You expected a period of adjustment, a gradual return to the easy intimacy you and Nanami had always shared. But as time passed, you began to notice a shift, subtle at first, but growing more pronounced with each passing day.

That first sign of something odd presents itself on day three since that night, a quiet Saturday morning that dawns with a gentle golden light filtering through your bedroom curtains. You wake up to find Nanami’s side of the bed empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Puzzled, you pad into the living room, your bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floor, your eyes roaming the space for any sign of him.

Nanami sits at the dining table, surrounded by a veritable fortress of books, their spines forming a colorful barricade around his hunched form. His laptop glows in the morning light, casting his features in a pale blue hue, multiple tabs visible on the screen. He’s hunched over and shirtless, his bare back a canvas of dark moles, constellations you’ve traced countless times with reverent fingers, your lips mapping a path between each celestial point.

As you circle the table, drawing closer to his absorbed form, you’re struck by the intensity of his concentration, the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw. His fingers fly over the keyboard with a single-minded purpose, a man on a mission, lost in a world of his own making.

“What are you doing up so early?” you ask, running a hand through the short, silky hair at his nape.

He glances up, and the determined glint in his eye catches you off guard. “Research,” he replies simply, as if that single word explains everything.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you lean in to examine the book titles scattered across the table, your brow rising with each passing second:

Male Sexual Health

Nutrition and Libido

Stress Management for Peak Performance

What the—?

A mix of emotions bubbles up inside you—amusement at his determination, concern for his state of mind, a touch of exasperation at his stubbornness. Part of you wants to tease him mercilessly, to watch that adorable flush creep up his neck, to see him squirm under your playful attention. But you bite your tongue, sensing the fragility of the moment, the rawness of his exposed insecurities.

“Ken,” you begin, your voice a delicate balance of understanding and concern, “is this about what happened the other night? I thought we talked about this, baby.”

“We did,” he nods, not looking up from his screen. “And I appreciate your understanding. But I can’t let it happen again. I’m going to fix this.”

There’s so much you want to say, so many reassurances you want to offer. You want to tell him how normal this is, how surprised you are that it hasn’t happened more often given his grueling work schedule. But you bite your tongue, sensing that this is something Nanami needs to process on his own.

“Don’t you think this might be…a bit much?” you try one last time, your fingers tracing soothing patterns on his bare shoulder, careful not to make him feel defensive and push him further into his own head.

“Nothing is too much when it comes to satisfying you.”

And with those words, spoken with such conviction, such raw honesty, your heart swells, a tidal wave of love and affection crashing over you. He won’t be swayed, and there’s no point in trying to argue with him when he’s set on something. You can’t help but sigh fondly, running your fingers through his hair again, your nails gently scratching his scalp in the way you know he loves. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment, a low groan of appreciation rumbling from his chest as he guides your fingers to just the right spot.

As Nanami launches into an explanation of the benefits of Ashwagandha root, his fingers running along a line of text in one of the magazines, you can’t help but shake your head affectionately. You love this man, even (or perhaps especially) when he’s being ridiculously over-the-top, his determination to be the best partner he can be, even if it means diving headfirst into a world of herbal remedies and performance-enhancing techniques.

The days slip by, each one blurring into the next, a haze of normalcy tinged with an undercurrent of unease. It’s not until the morning of day ten that the true extent of Nanami’s newfound obsession becomes impossible to ignore.

The soft schick of his razor fills the bathroom, a rhythmic counterpoint to the rush of running water. He stands before the mirror, shirtless, a towel draped over his broad shoulders to catch stray flecks of shaving cream. You watch, transfixed, as he meticulously glides the razor along the sharp line of his jaw, each stroke precise, measured.

You stand beside him, your own morning ritual underway, massaging a rich, creamy lotion into your melanin-kissed skin. Your favorite scent of vanilla fills the air, mingling with the crisp, clean aroma of Nanami’s shaving cream. It’s a familiar dance, this shared moment of grooming, of preparation for the day ahead.

But as you reach for your leave-in, your eyes catch on something new, something that sends a jolt of surprise through your system. There, amidst the clutter of skincare products and toiletries, sits a new addition to the growing collection of bottles on the counter. The mustard-yellow label boldly proclaims: “Maca Root: For Vitality and Stamina”.

“Ken?” you murmur, plucking the bottle from the counter, your eyebrows dipping in confusion. “What’s this?”

Nanami’s eyes flick to yours in the mirror, his hand pausing mid-stroke, the razor hovering just above his skin. “Just a supplement,” he evades, his voice carefully neutral, a forced casualness he uses to avoid arguments he won’t win that always sets your teeth on edge. “For…overall health.”

You turn the bottle in your hands, eyebrow arching higher in disbelief with each word you read as you take in the bold, almost aggressive labeling. Your gaze darts to the other bottles littering the counter, a growing sense of unease settling in the pit of your stomach as you take them in for the first time.

“Uh-huh. And the Zinc? The Ginseng? The…” you squint at another label, your voice dripping with skepticism, “L-arginine? All for ‘overall health’ too?”

He clears his throat, his gaze darting away from yours, focusing intently on his reflection as he studiously avoids your probing stare. “That’s right.”

“Baby—” you begin, but he cuts you off, setting down his razor with a definitive clink and shutting the water off, turning to face you fully.

The sight of him, bare-chested and gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light, sends a bolt of desire through you, a hunger that’s been left unsatiated for far too long. The thick cords of muscle that stretch across his chest and arms, the taut planes of his abdomen, the trail of dark blonde hair that disappears beneath the low-slung waistband of his sweatpants—it’s exquisite torture, a feast for your senses after days of famine.

But there’s a tension in the set of his shoulders, a skittishness in his gaze that sets off warning bells in your head.

“It’s the research I’ve been doing,” he admits, almost apologetic as he pulls the towel from his shoulders, wiping away the last traces of shaving cream from his jaw. “From what I’ve read, these have proven benefits for…various aspects of wellbeing.”

He seems almost afraid, as if he’s bracing himself for your reaction, steeling himself against the inevitability of your displeasure. Fortunately for him, the words are like a match to kindling, a spark that ignites a flame of mischief in your belly. You step closer, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, the supplement bottle forgotten on the counter behind you.

“Various aspects, huh?” you tease, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper. This moment—when he smells of fresh soap, shaving cream, and mint toothpaste before cologne masks his natural scent—is one of many favorites. It’s one of the most arousing forms of Nanami Kento before he slides on his work clothes and gives the world a straight face and measured words. “Care to demonstrate some of these benefits?”

Your fingertips trace the muscles of his chest, slide along his skin with more purpose, your nails dragging lightly over his nipples, a teasing hint of pain that you know drives him wild. He inhales sharply, his muscles tensing beneath your hands, his jaw clenched tight, a reaction that’s as familiar to you as your own heartbeat.

For a moment, you think you have him, that he’ll give in to the desire that darkens his eyes, that he’ll roughly bunch your skirt up around your waist, hike your legs up and around him and make the bathroom mirror knock against your back until you’re gasping out his name as you tighten around his cock.

But then he’s stepping back, his hands coming up to gently catch your wrists, pulling your hands away from his skin.

“We’ll be late for work,” voice strained, conveying his own battling desire. He brings your hands to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the delicate skin of your wrists, your forehead, your mouth.“Let me make you breakfast instead.”

And then he’s gone, slipping past you and out of the bathroom, leaving you standing alone, frustration and disappointment warring in your chest. Your gaze falls on the supplement bottles, a physical manifestation of his growing hysteria, and for a moment, you’re seized by the urge to sweep them all into the trash, to rid your home of these unwelcome interlopers.

But you resist, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, your fingers pinching the bridge of your nose as you silently repeat the mantra that’s become your lifeline in recent days: I love him. I love him. I love him.

But as you square your shoulders and stalk out of the bathroom to start your day, you can’t shake the feeling that something’s got to give, that this tenuous balance can’t hold forever.

Day seventeen. It feels like an eternity, a cruel and unusual punishment for a crime you didn’t commit. You’re a prisoner in your own home, trapped in a world where the man you love is just out of reach, tantalizingly close but impossibly distant.

Seventeen days too long when you live with a man as loving, kind, and attentive as Nanami Kento. Seventeen excruciating days since the concept of getting dicked down was a given, a pleasure you could indulge in whenever the mood struck. Now, you’re reduced to grasping at sloppy seconds, thirds, fourths—anything for a crumb of cock, a fleeting taste of the intimacy you crave.

You’ve become a connoisseur of stolen moments, of fleeting glances and brushing touches that once held the promise of so much more. A shared look in the bathroom mirror that used to lead to soapy sex in the shower. The brush of his hand against the small of your back as you pass in the hallway, a touch that used to lead to him pulling you flush against his body, his lips claiming yours in a searing kiss. Now, you’re like an addict, desperately chasing the ghost of a high, sucking at nicotine-stained fingers for the essence of a hit.

In a last-ditch effort to reignite the spark to show him just how much he’s overreacting, you’ve taken to wearing his shirts around the house. You leave the top buttons undone, a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage on display, the hem riding high on your thighs to reveal the faint marks that he likes to lick against. But each night when you reach for him, Nanami simply presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips trailing a path down your body in a reverent exploration, worshiping you with his mouth and fingers until you’re trembling and spent.

But never with his cock. Never with the part of him you crave most, the part that once made you feel so deliciously full, so utterly claimed.

You feel dramatic when you think about it because it always brings tears to your eyes, hot and stinging with frustration and despair. Like you’re a petulant toddler wanting a cookie that’s been sitting on the counter all morning.

You’ve never been one to let a man dictate your life, to let his whims and insecurities hold sway over your own desires. But Nanami has always been a man to put you above and beyond anything before himself. If the women of the world knew what they were missing, if they could experience even a fraction of the pleasure Nanami Kento can provide, they’d be falling to their knees in supplication, just like you.

How far you’ve fallen.

And how little you care.

Tonight, you vow, will be different. You slip into the silk nightgown he loves, the one that clings to your every curve like a second skin, the baby blue fabric whispering against your heated flesh as you step out of the bathroom. Your heart races with anticipation, your body thrumming with need as you picture his reaction, the way his eyes will darken with desire, the way he’ll pull you into his arms and finally, finally give you what you both so desperately need.

But the bedroom is empty, the sheets still neatly made, mocking you with their pristine perfection. You frown, a sense of unease settling in the pit of your stomach as you pad down the hallway, your bare feet whispering against the cool hardwood. As you approach the kitchen, a pungent, almost medicinal smell hits your senses, growing stronger with each step, mingling with the whir of a blender.

You round the corner and freeze, taking in the scene before you. Nanami stands at the kitchen counter, surrounded by an alchemist’s array of strange-looking roots and powders. The blender in front of him churns away, filled with a murky-greenish-brown liquid that looks more like something out of a horror movie than anything fit for human consumption.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice thin and strained, confusion and exasperation warring for dominance in your tone.

He looks up, startled, nearly knocking over a jar of what looks like dried herbs. “It’s…a health shake.”

You want to argue, to shake his shoulders and scream that this has gone too far, that he’s lost sight of what really matters in his quest for some unattainable ideal. But the determination in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way he grimaces as he chokes down a sip of the vile concoction—it all speaks to a desperation that breaks your heart even as it fuels your frustration.

As he takes another sip, nose twisted to the side to avoid the foul smell, his eyes catch your frame. They roam over you, taking in the nightgown, giving you the exact reaction you pictured before coming out here.

For a moment, you see that flicker of desire in his eyes that you’ve been craving.

But then it’s gone, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like guilt.

“I’ll come to bed soon,” he promises, grimacing through another sip of his vile brew. “Get some rest. I know today was rough at work.”

His words are like a knife to your gut, a reminder of the distance that’s grown between you, the way his obsession has consumed him so completely that he can’t even see the pain it’s causing you both.

All of this, because of one night.

You press your toes into the hardwood, your fingers twisting in the hem of your nightgown as you fight back the tears that burn the corners of your eyes.

“You…you don’t want to come to bed with me?” you whisper, hating the way your voice breaks, the way the hope that once buoyed your words has been replaced by a hollow, aching despair and annoyance.

“I want to finish this and catch up on a few things for work before I come to bed.” His gaze slides away from yours, unable to meet the hurt and frustration in your eyes. Unable to see just how in his head he has become with all of this. “It’ll be a little while. Sleep for me? Please?”

The rejection, however gentle, leaves you feeling exposed and bereft, a physical blow to your gut. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak anymore, and turn to head back to the bedroom, your vision blurring.

There’s so much more to this than just you wanting to have sex. You want to be supportive, to give him time and space to work through whatever this is. But you hate just how disillusioned he has become. His gaze and his touch are tainted now—held back by shame and fear of disappointing you. And you can’t help but feel like this is getting more out of control instead of getting better.

You love him, more than anything. But right now, listening to the distant sounds of him choking down that awful-smelling shake, you’ve never felt further apart.

It all comes to a head on day twenty-five. The day dawns like any other, the sun’s warm rays filtering through the windows of your shared apartment, casting a soft glow on the well-worn furniture and the mementos of your life together. It’s your day off, a rare respite from the chaos of the work week, and you find yourself moving through the space with a sense of purpose, straightening and cleaning, trying to bring order to the disarray that seems to mirror the state of certain parts of your relationship.

As you work, your mind wanders, replaying the events of the past month like a melancholy film reel. The distance, the tension, the way Nanami has been pulling away from you, retreating into himself in a desperate attempt to fix what he perceives as a fundamental flaw in his being. Insisting that he won’t let this happen again even though he won’t actually fuck you.

It’s a weight that’s been bearing down on you both, a shadow that’s slowly suffocating the light and love that once filled every corner of your lives.

Your feet carry you to the bedroom, to the closet you share. As you reach for Nanami’s side, intent on straightening his crisp dress shirts, your hand brushes against something unfamiliar, tucked away in the shadows. Curiosity piqued, you pull it out, revealing a plain, unmarked brown box.

For a moment, your heart stutters in your chest, a cold fear gripping your insides as you lift the lid, praying that it’s nothing that would point your partner in the direction of infidelity. But no, you shake your head, banishing the thought before it can fully form. Nanami would never betray you, never seek solace in the arms of another because there’s only has and ever been you.

It makes complete sense in your head, but lately—

You yank open the lid and gape.

Inside, nestled among crumpled tissue paper, are items you never expected to find in Nanami’s possession. Your fingers tremble slightly as you examine them—a cylindrical pump, clear save for the rubber base, and an orange prescription bottle, its label stark against the translucent plastic.

You stare at the objects, your mind whirling with a chaotic storm of emotions. Shock, disbelief, a rising tide of frustration and despair. This isn’t just Nanami being health-conscious anymore, not just a passing phase or a well-intentioned attempt at self-improvement. This is something deeper, something more desperate, a manifestation of the fear and inadequacy that’s been eating away at him since that fateful night.

Carefully, you replace the items, your movements mechanical, your thoughts a jumbled mess. A part of you wants to laugh, to find the absurdity in the situation, to release the tension that’s been building in your chest like a pressure cooker. But you can’t bring yourself to even stifle a giggle, the weight of your worry too heavy.

You sink down onto the bed, the cool sheets soothing the heat of your legs, and draw in a deep, shuddering breath. The weeks of distance, avoidance, the way Nanami has been retreating further and further into himself, straying more and more from reason. There’s so much more to your relationship than just sex, but it’s a big part, a well-practiced part that you both can be your rawest selves during.

But all of this is a spiral that’s slowly dragging you both down, a vortex of unspoken fears and mounting frustrations on both ends.

And in that moment, surrounded by the remnants of your shared life in your apartment, the photos and trinkets that chronicle your love story, you know that something has to give. And it looks like you’ll have to take matters into your own hands. This ends today.

Tonight, when Nanami gets home, you’ll address this head-on. No more dancing around the issue, no more swallowing your grievances in the name of patience and nonexistent understanding. It’s time to remind him of who he is, of the man you fell in love with, the man who’s always been more than enough for you.

The sound of the front door opening pulls you from your thoughts, the soft shuffle of Nanami’s footsteps echoing down the hallway. “Love, I’m home,” he calls out, his voice weary but warm, a balm to your frayed nerves.

He appears in the doorway, his tie loosened, speckled black on yellow draped over his shoulders, the top buttons of his blue shirt undone. His glasses are gone, discarded in his haste to shed the trappings of the office, to leave the stresses of the day behind. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his eyes softening as they land on you, a reverent smile playing at the corners of his lips. “So beautiful.”

Your heart flutters in your chest at his words, at the love and adoration that shines in his gaze, even though you’re in a ratty t-shirt and shorts, your curls thrown into a careless and messy bun.

“You always speak as if it’s the first time you’ve ever seen me,” you tease, tilting your head back to accept his kiss, a chaste press of his lips that nonetheless ignites a spark of longing in your core.

“Because it’s true,” he replies simply, his fingers brushing a stray curl behind your ear. “I’m going to shower.” He sounds despondent, unbelievably ragged with the weight of the day clinging to him like a second skin.

“Rough day?”

“A very rough day, my love,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair, disrupting the sharp part that he makes every morning. He reaches a hand out to you, an invitation, a plea for your company. “Join me?”

The bathroom is a sanctuary of steam and heat, the air thick with the mingled scents of your body washes—cucumber melon and sandalwood. You perch on the counter, a fluffy towel wrapped around your body, watching as Nanami goes through his post-shower routine, his movements methodical, almost meditative.

Water droplets cling to his skin, tracing tantalizing paths down the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, your fingers itching to follow those rivulets, to map the contours of his body with your lips and tongue.

“Let me,” you murmur, your voice husky with repressed longing. Your legs spread, the open lapels of your towel exposing a creamy brown thigh that Nanami’s eyes flicker to before he meets your gaze. You reach for him, pulling closer until he’s standing between your parted thighs, the heat of his waist seeping through the thin barrier of your towel.

With gentle fingers, you work through the rest of his skincare routine—toner, serum, smoothing eye cream over the delicate skin beneath his lashes. The domesticity of the moment, the intimacy of caring for him like this in whatever way you can, it’s a way to show him that you’re here—that you’re not going anywhere, no matter how lost he may feel.

Your fingertips glide over his skin, applying the last of the face cream with gentle circular motions. As you finish, your hands move to his damp hair, brushing the strands away from his forehead. The strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the subtle crinkles at the corners of his eyes that crease faintly when he smiles.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him closer, a soft smile playing on your lips. Nanami’s hands come to rest on your waist, his thumbs tracing small circles on your towel-covered skin.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, thickly. His eyes, those warm pools of mahogany, are soft with gratitude and affection.

“Always,” you whisper back, your heart swelling with love for this man.

Nanami leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. It’s meant to be a simple gesture of gratitude, but something shifts in the air around you. Whether it’s the intimacy of you both so close or the heat on your skin—the kiss deepens, slow and exploratory, as if you’re rediscovering each other after a long absence.

Your fingers thread through his damp hair, tangling in the strands as his hands tighten on your waist. Your tongue slides along his bottom lip, tasting the coffee he must have had on the way home, the hint of want that he wants to crumble into. He returns with equal fervor, pressing closer to you, sliding his tongue against yours, shivering from the soft moan that shakes from your wet lips when you both finally break apart. A gossamer thread of saliva connects you before he pecks your lips one last time. Nanami’s chest rises and falls deeply, coiled masculinity oozing from his pores, tangling with the downy hairs on his chest.

“Kento,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper, “we…we need to talk about what’s been going on.”

Your hands train down his chest as you speak, mapping the familiar terrain of his body. Beneath your fingertips, his heart thunders like a trapped bird, betraying the melting calm facade he’s trying to maintain. The defined muscles of his abdomen twitch under your touch, a visceral reaction he can’t control.

“The magazines, the supplements, the smoothies,” you continue, gentle but firm. “This has gone too far. One off night, Kento. That’s all it was. Yet here you are, acting like you’re broken, like every moment we’ve shared before was somehow lacking.”

Nanami tenses, his body coiling like a spring beneath your hands. But you’re not letting him retreat—not like that night—and certainly not right now. Your legs wrap around his waist, the gap of your towel widening as you yank him closer, anchoring him to you, skin to skin.

“You think that I would look at you differently?” you murmur, catching his distressed eyes every time they try to evade your gaze, willing him to understand. “Think I would think of you as a failure? You like logic, Kento and I’m telling you the facts. You were tired, case closed.”

“But I—” he starts, his voice rough with emotion, eyes narrowing in frustration as he tries to defend himself. You silence him with a thumb to the plump skin of his bottom lip, tracing the divots of soft, pink flesh.

“You’re the healthiest man I know, Ken.” Your other hand drifts lower, brushing through the trail of dark golden hair that disappears beneath his towel. “You take such good care of us. And you never, ever fail to satisfy me.”

His breath catches as your fingers ghost over his hipbones, alternating between soft cotton and the sharp cut of his skin. “One night doesn’t change that,” you whisper, the hand on his face sliding to card through his hair, you lean in to press your lips to the strong line of his jaw. His fingers dig into your waist from your touch, Adams apple bobbing against your gliding lips as he swallows the burning desire that’s slowly searing him from the inside out. “It doesn’t make you any less amazing, any less desirable.”

You pull back, meeting his eyes. In their warm depths, you see a swirling mix of vulnerability that makes your heartache.

“I just…I don’t want to disappoint you again. While I know that you don’t care, being unable to provide for you fully is something that I never wanted to experience.” The confession is thick in the air, sloshing with what remains of the steam from the shower, coating your skin.

“Oh, Kento,” you sigh, pressing your forehead to his. The scent of his skin—clean soap and something uniquely him—envelops you, offers that blanket of protection that you couldn’t imagine going away. “The only thing disappointing me is how you’ve been pulling away. I’m tired of you feeling inadequate when you’re anything but.”

You pause, weighing the options in your head before you take a bounding leap, throwing care to the wind. Slowly, deliberately, you slide off the counter, your body brushing against his as you descend. The cool tile of the bathroom floor contrasts sharply with the heat radiating from your skin.

Kneeling before him, you look up, your gaze never leaving his. Hands slide up thick thighs, the hair on his legs brushing against your fingertips as you travel further toward the rigid heat of where you need him most. The hitch in his breath is faint, almost nonexistent when your fingers toy with the towel’s edge around his waist. You only wait a moment, three seconds too many as your hand undoes the tight knot and the towel pools at his feet and your knees on the floor.

He’s just as he always is—thick and heavy from your proximity alone, hard and filled with the blood that pumps wildly in his veins. When you wrap your hand around him, the heft of his cock makes your cunt squeeze. You know exactly what it feels like to have the most intimate part of him carving out your insides, and god do you need it right now.

You give only one stroke and the effect is instant; Nanami hisses, fingers flexing at his sides, extending and then curling in a fist as a means to keep his hands to himself, the head of his mushroom tip red and prickles with a thick gathering of precum. Just the sight makes your mouth water.

“I found those things in your closet, you know,” you purr softly, stroking him at an excruciating pace. “You actually think you need something like that, baby?”

A flush creeps up Nanami’s neck, blooming across his cheeks in rushing embarrassment even though his pupils are dilated from the sight of you on your knees. He opens his mouth to speak, fumbling for words that choke around another hitch with your next stroke.

“You don’t feel like you would need something like that.” And you don’t wait a second longer, opening your mouth, dragging the flat of your tongue up the backside of his cock. Each taste bud slides against rigid bumps of veins, gathering with more spit as he groans from your attention. You offer a gentle kiss to his tip, licking the salty taste of his precum from your lips. “You sure don’t taste like you would need something like that.”

The rise and fall of his chest is quickly leaving the pace of steady, his eyes locked on you and jaw flexing with growing desperation. You squeeze his cock on an upward stroke, your own body beginning to heat up just from watching him fall apart.

“Look at you now,” you tease, widening the gap between your knees, the heat between your legs radiating against your ankles. “You don’t look like you need help. Responding so beautifully to me. Not a hint of hesitation.”

The velvety hardness of him in your palm twitches from your words, hard steel that’s blazing hot, and just the sight of him above you is more than enough for a whine to build in your belly, an innate urge to have any part of him inside of you.

Nanami’s eyes flutter, long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones as you lean in. When you finally take him into your mouth, your name falls from his lips like a prayer, brown eyes rolling halfway to the back of his head, eyebrows furrowing in equal confusion and pleasure.

You’re too eager to give him time to adjust—tongue swirling around the crown of his head and softening underneath him before building a nice, slobbery rhythm. In and out, in and out. Every stroke of your mouth around his cock makes your mouth water even more and your body relax, the dig of the tile on your knees forgotten.

“Fuck,” he pants, the rare curse slipping from his lips as one hand comes to rest gently on the back of your head. You hum in appreciation—in encouragement—building his confidence to squeeze the curly strands. The vibration of your hum of attention causes Nanami’s hips to buck involuntarily and you let your throat relax without thinking, let him hit the back before you swallow around him. “I-” he bites his lip, groaning from deep in his chest.

The heat of the bathroom is suffocating, your neck covered in curls prickling with sweat, sliding down your clavicle and onto the towel around your breasts that’s quickly loosening. Or maybe it’s your own body burning from the inside out, your blood pounding and surging to your core, swelling with arousal that leaks from you without even touching yourself.

And you’re dripping. The hand not at the base of him—stroking what you can’t swallow—reaches between your thighs, rubbing a clit that’s sopping wet with slick that drips between your fingers and onto the tile floor.

It doesn’t take long for that familiar ache to build in your jaw, a growing reminder of the thick cock between your mouth. But his throaty moans keep you going, keep your cunt pulsing and squeezing around the two fingers that quickly slide inside of you.

Nanami’s eyes, dark with desire, take you in—your messy hand twisting at the base of his cock, the hint of saliva on your chin, the prickle of tears at the corners of your eyes from the way he keeps hitting the back of your throat. Only he gets to see you like this. Only he gets to be with someone who will stop at nothing to make him feel supported and loved over something as trivial as a night of bad luck.

“I…you’re…” he gasps, unable to complete his thoughts when you moan around him. “Please just—just keep…don’t stop…don’t—”

As the tension builds, Nanami’s control begins to slip. His thrusts lose their measured control, the hands in your hair tighten, the quick breath from his mouth becomes tight as he bares his teeth and fucks your mouth. His abs are glistening with sweat, tight and flexing as he fights to stay sane.

You’re ready to burst from the seams, pleasure coiling at the base of your spine with each curl of your fingers inside of you, moans tight and sporadic in a familiar sign of your impending orgasm.

It’s when his eyes catch you fingering yourself that his control snaps in half, setting him off. He’s grabbing at you, yanking you from your knees with a strength that shocks you, your towel finally falling off your body and exposing you to the heat of the bathroom. Before you can protest, Nanami moves in a flourish, the last threads of his control dissolving at the shocked but excited gasp that leaves your lips.

In one fluid motion, he spins you around to face the bathroom mirror. Your breath catches at the sight of you both—flushed, desire-drunk, tanned and freckled muscles pressed against your back. His eyes meet yours in the reflection, a primal hunger burning in their depths, black eating away the warm brown.

The press of his cock against your lower back makes you arch your back, leaning over the counter without a second thought, taking him in through the mirror. His hands roam over your body with renewed confidence, cupping the heaviness of your breasts, sliding down tiger-striped brown skin to grip your hips. His eyes trail over the mess of curls on your sweaty back, the curve of your ass, the glistening of your cunt as it catches in the bathroom light.

He looks focused, almost angry—determined to make sure he does exactly what he’s supposed to do. Your body shivers in anticipation. This is the Nanami you’ve been missing—strong, confident, and utterly, deliciously yours.

Without preamble, you part your legs more, opening yourself up to his leering gaze as he watches you slide two fingers through your sopping folds. “I need you,” you whisper, your other hand kneading the flesh of a breast, pinching the nipple to make you arch your back more into him.

He presses forward at the sound of your voice, a beacon for him to bring you whatever you desire. “You have me.”

You feel him, hot and hard against you, and you can’t stifle the moan that escapes you. “All of you Kento,” you whimper, pushing back against him and stroking your clit faster, your slick sliding down your fingers to the center of your palm. “No more holding back, no more doubts. Show me how much you want me.”

In the mirror, the trepidation in his eyes, the worry between his brows. The disappointment from that night is surely playing in his head, teasing him evilly that he will never be able to make love to you again. But you won’t let him feel that way again, you’ll never let him feel inadequate. So you turn slightly to reach behind you, smooth a hand up the side of his face, caressing his jaw, angling your head to the side to kiss him softly. “You’re perfect,” you breathe, the words barely a whisper between you both, the perfect combination to relax the subtle tension in his shoulders. “So perfect for me, Kento.”

He releases a shaky exhale against your lips from your words, the vibration traveling through your body where you’re pressed together. With one hand braced on your waist, the other guiding himself, his eyes not leaving yours, Nanami pushes into you slowly. Finally. Twenty-five days too late and the feeling of completeness, of absolute rightness, is overwhelming. It’s as if a missing piece of you has been slotted back into place.

You whimper, panting into his mouth, sliding your lips messily against his. Your body stretches to accommodate him, a delicious burn that makes your toes curl and your cunt pulse around him.

“Oh fuck, Kento,” you keen, “you’re so fucking big—fill me so well—” His hips snap forward, cutting you off, a sharp cry punching from your lungs.

“I-I shouldn’t have—” he pants against your lips, ready to apologize from the force but you don’t let him finish.

“Yes,” you encourage, your voice breathy from the delicious zing of pleasure that throbs between your legs. “You feel amazing, Ken. So perfect.”

He shivers from your words and starts a slow, almost tentative rhythm. But your continued praise spurs him on. His thrusts become more confident, more forceful, driving you both higher in the stifling heat of your bathroom.

The room fills with the sounds of sex—the slick smack of skin on skin, breathless moans from his full lips, whispered praises from your mouth.

“So good,” you moan softly. “You feel so good inside me.” The hand on your clit resumes its pace, wanting Nanami to be fully immersed in focusing so he can get past this terrible roadblock in his mind.

“More,” he demands, kissing you deeply, the side of your jaw, nibbling your ear, begging you silently for more love and praise. “I-I have to know I’m doing well. That I’m making you feel good—"

“You are,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips as he hits that spot deep inside you that makes white spots blot the edges of your vision. “You are—you are, Kento—shit fuck me harder. Give it to me.”

He bends to your will immediately, the pull of your voice—of your demands as easy as breathing, and he’ll give whatever it takes to make sure he can lay everything at your feet. “Fuck,” he groans, digging his fingers into the meat behind your knee, yanking it up onto the counter and you’re opening more, wider for him to slide in further.

It’s messy and animalistic, a building of sweat between your sliding bodies, a gradual intensifying thrum between your legs with each smack of his balls against you. Your body jerks with each thrust, pleasure scratching down your skin with sharp nails as your mind grows hazy, mouth falling open as the tip of his cock kisses that sweet spot inside of you, over and over and over with each inward stroke. The hand on your clit flies up to grab the sweaty porcelain of the sink in front of you, fingernails digging into the rubbery sealant along the sides. The other hand reaches back to tangle your fingers in his hair.

You’ve gone almost a month without him in the most primal way and your body is struggling to keep up. Your lungs struggle to pull in enough air, your slick-coated fingers slip against the sink, your hips burn from the open angle of one leg up on the counter.

But you can’t bring it in yourself to care, too deep in bliss to worry about your wellbeing, the pressure at the base of your spine building and building, molten pleasure bubbling in your gut as you feel yourself teetering on the edge.

“That’s it, baby,” you gasp as you both climb together, meeting his thrusts as the tension coils tighter in your core. “You’re so strong. Love me so well. Fuck me so well.” Nanami groans harshly, shivering from your praise, reaching down to stroke your neglected clit, and you tense around him, choking at the pleasure that wraps around your throat, your cunt pulsing as it tries to swallow his cock and never let it leave.

You watch in the mirror as Nanami loses himself in the moment, all his doubts and insecurities forgotten. His face is a mask of pleasure and concentration, his body moving with a grace and power that takes your breath away. His hips falter, stuttering briefly to signal his match of mounting pleasure. He leans over you, his face in the crease of your neck, body bowing over to make you press further into the counter, teeth grazing your skin as he groans and pants against you with feral need.

He presses his fingers harder against your clit, rubs with a practiced motion and you’re tensing against the counter, scrambling for purchase on the sink as high-pitched keens shake from your throat. “Fuck right there, Kentooo,” you moan tightly. He moans harshly into the skin of your neck, relishing in the way your hot and wet walls tighten around him, doubling down, the fingers on your waist digging crescent moons into your skin. “Make me cum. Oh fuck, make me cum pleasepleaseplease—”

The hand in his hair tightens around silky strands, your body tenses up, your nose scrunching, pleasure pulsing and building in your cunt as you climb and climb and climb until you shatter.

A cry of his name, loud and primal, rips from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Ecstasy floods your system in overwhelming waves, each one threatening to pull you under. Tears gather in the corners of your tightly shut eyes, born from the sheer intensity of your release.

And like always, your pulsing walls are the final push Nanami needs. He thrusts into you harshly with deep punctuating strokes until his balls draw tight, fingers digging deeper, a deep, guttural groan shaking from his body as he finally climbs up that wall of shame and follows you over the edge, his release pulsing hot and deep inside you as your body continues to shudder with aftershocks.

Nanami doesn’t have the energy to pull out, collapsing onto you without grace. The cool counter against your cheek is a balm for your burning skin. As you both come down from your high, trembling and panting, you stroke his scalp with the hand still twisted in his sweaty hair, fading spots behind closed eyelids painting your vision.

After a few moments, Nanami stirs, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder before carefully withdrawing from your body. You whimper at the loss, but he soothes you with another soft kiss on your temple. You hear the sound of running water, the tub filling slowly as Nanami retrieves a warm, damp washcloth.

With tender care, he cleans you up, the soft cloth gliding over your sensitive skin. His touch is reverent, worshipful, as if he’s handling something precious beyond measure, and you melt further onto the counter. Once you’re clean, he guides your leg down from the counter, massaging the muscles of your hips and thighs to ease any lingering tension.

You let him lead you to the tub, sighing in bliss as you sink in the hot, soothing water. Nanami climbs in behind you, pulling you back against his chest as he settles you between his legs. The heat seeps into your aching muscles, the steam smelling faintly of lavender, the gentle lapping of the water against your skin a soothing lullaby.

For a long moment, you simply rest together, your head tipped back on his shoulder, his arms wrapped securely around your waist as a thumb strokes the skin. The bathroom is quiet, save for the occasional drip of the faucet and your slow, even breathing.

Your mind drifts to the vulnerability you’ve witnessed in Nanami, the raw, unguarded moments he’s bared his deepest fears and insecurities. And only you will be the one to see that. You’ll be the only one to build him back up when he’s stripped down, to remind him of his worth, to love through every storm. Even storms that are as weak and barely damaging as limp dick.

“Thank you,” he finally speaks, rich voice vibrating against your skin, filling you with warmth from the inside out. He nuzzles his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply as if to memorize the smell of your leave-in. “For being patient with me…for being supportive…” You feel the tension drain from his body as he exhales, slowly, as if he’s releasing the last of his worries into the steam-filled air. “I love you. Deeply.”

You smile softly to yourself at the declaration and turn your head to meet his gaze, your eyes sparkling with a mix of adoration and mischief.

“This wasn’t an easy assignment you know,” you tease, your voice lighthearted even as emotion threatens to overwhelm you. “I expect payment for my unwavering devotion.”

Nanami’s eyes, hazy with post-orgasmic bliss, roll playfully, a smile tugging the edges of his lips. “What’s my bill?”

"Moissanite,” you declare matter-of-factly, nestling back against his broad chest with a contented sigh. “The carats are up to you, but—“

“A gold band,” Nanami interjects, warm with affection and certainty. “Emerald cut. I have it memorized, my love.”

He punctuates his words with a tender kiss to your temple, his arms tightening around you as if he never wants to let go. Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, a kaleidoscope of butterflies set free by his words.

“The box in the closet? Throw the penis pump and the Viagra in the trash,” you add, playfully jabbing your elbow into his side. “You won’t be needing those anymore.”

Nanami’s laughter rumbles through you, a deep, satisfying sound that fills the room and washes over your skin like a physical caress. “And if I want to be prepared, just in case?” he counters, his tone light and teasing.

“You’re 28, not 50,” you remind him, your own laughter mingling with his.

“Humor me.”

“I guess I could gather up all the magazines, powders, supplements, and various “aids” and present them to you in a nice box for you to use one day. Of course, you’d be single, so I’m not sure what good they’d do you then.”

Nanami’s body shakes with mirth, his breath puffing warm and sweet against your hair. “In the trash they go.”

You hum in agreement, an eyebrow raised before you tilt your chin. And like always, because you never have to ask, Nanami obliges, his lips slanting over yours in a slow, deep caress that steals your breath and fills your heart all at once.

Thanks for reading!

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viennakarma · 1 day ago

Text

Hope is a dangerous thing (for a woman like me)

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: When you hear Lewis' love grievances, while your own heart breaks, your own secrets spill out.

Word count: 5.5k

Tags: female!reader, best friend reader, unrequited feelings, pining, confessing feelings, reader needs a hug, lewis is a mess, hurt no comfort, complicated feelings, arguing, no happy ending, not beta read

Relationship: Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Note: Oh, look at me, posting twice in a week???? This is full angst, don't ask me how it came to be, I just had to take something off my chest I guess. I'm sorry if it's confusing or all over the place, emotions do be like that sometimes. Comments and feedback are welcomed.

Find me on Twitter! | BUY ME A COFFEE ☕️

You and Lewis had been friends for so many years, more than a decade now. You had met through work, right when he started diving into his musical side. Back then, you were one of the most sought after musical producers and songwriters in America. You had met by chance through a mutual friend, and had gone into a studio right after, writing and recording some songs. The rest was history.

With a consolidated career now, you could afford to pick and choose whatever projects you wanted to work on, enjoying most of what life could offer. You were happy on all fronts, friends, family, career. But there was one single thing that never fixed itself.

Your love life.

Your last real, long term relationship had ended around four years before, after you were cheated on. Back then, you were a wreck. And Lewis, bless his heart, was a true angel throughout your low months after the breakup. That was the exact moment you two stopped being friends, and became best friends. He helped and supported you through the whole suffering after your breakup, and at the end of that year, you were the one supporting him after that god forsaken championship.

That was when everything changed for you.

That was when Lewis’ unwavering support changed everything about how you viewed him. How he became more than just your friend, and you couldn’t help but start to fall in love with his bright eyes and easy smile.

You had promised from the beginning that your friendship with Lewis was as real as it gets, and it was genuine. For a while, you hated yourself for that, for falling in love, for running your own view on that friendship that meant so much for both of you.

Now, now you had to watch him fall in love with someone else…

And the worst part? Was watching that someone not reciprocate his feelings. To break a heart that you’d give everything you could to have in your own hands, to cherish, to love.

Your own heart was in his hands, breaking alongside his, silently. But he didn’t need to know that, right? No, you were the best friend who he’d vent to, for advice, for support. And you would be exactly that.

You kicked the ground under your boots, both of you sitting on swings side by side in an old, almost abandoned park. You had lived in a flat right in front of that park many years before, and whenever you and Lewis wanted to talk, you’d go there, under the big willow tree, that offered some sort of privacy for deeper conversations. You had long moved away from that neighbourhood, but somehow, you’d always find yourselves back there, sitting on the rusty swing under the willow tree.

Lewis was hurting, spilling his heart out for you about the person he’d been pining for was ignoring him. The woman he’d met a couple of months before, who he’d been trying to win over was now ghosting him, and had recently shown up publicly with another famous athlete. You had tried to help, really, helping him find out her preferences, picking gifts and giving ideas on how to proceed. But she had apparently found someone else now.

You had watched all of it, from the first moment Lewis told you about her, eyes sparkling, to now, when the spark had faded into disappointment, heartbreak. As much as it hurt to watch him look at someone else with that admiration, it also hurt to see him hurting. But this is what friends are for, right?

“It’s not that she is busy,” you murmured, placing a comforting hand on his knee as he stared ahead, the rustling leaves of the willow. “She just isn’t willing to make time for you. She’s not the kind of person who’s going to see what’s right in front of her.”

Brutal honesty—that’s what he appreciated about you. No sugarcoating. Just honesty.

Lewis looked over at you thoughtfully, then turned his gaze back to the leaves. “Is everyone’s love that fleeting?” he asked softly, the pain in his eyes as clear as the moonlight.

Your feelings for him refused to fade, no matter how hard you tried to bury them. But you couldn’t tell him. After all, he was your best friend, right? And some things… some things were better left unsaid.

“No…” You paused thoughtfully, staring at the tree too, “not everyone’s.”

Lewis glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, arching an eyebrow at your cryptic response. He knew you were holding back something—something you weren't talking about. He was used to reading people, but you'd always been an exception. Sometimes, it was like trying to decipher a puzzle he couldn't seem to solve.

Lewis exhaled, kicking the ground like you had done under the swing, watching the dust rise and settle again, then gazing away into the still night air before turning to face you fully.

"Care to elaborate?" he prompted, the hint of a challenge lacing his tone.

“No,” You said softly, shaking your head, “there’s someone genuine out there for everyone, I guess. Or better, I hope…” You swallowed thickly. You knew none of that sounded like you.

His gaze lingered on you, studying the way you refused to meet his eyes, how your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve. He knew there was more to this than you were letting on.

“Hope, huh?” He let out a mirthless chuckle, a hint of sarcasm coloring his words. "Since when did you get so damn optimistic, eh?"

He leaned back, hands flexing against the chords of the swing, his expression hardening a fraction.

“It isn’t like me, is it?” You chuckled, shaking your head. You had always been more cynical between the two of you, a realist, Lewis always says. And he was usually the optimistic one, you two balancing each other out on the friendship. Honesty and genuineness had always been a foundation to your friendship. Even if the truth sometimes hurt.

“Damn right it isn't.” He couldn’t help the hint of a smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, eyes softening despite the heavy atmosphere between you.

He seemed to pause and think for a bit, “Why the sudden change of heart?”

He didn't believe for a second that you'd suddenly become an optimist out of nowhere. There was something beneath the surface, a reason behind your hope.

“I didn’t have a change of heart. I just think you’ll be fine, and you’ll find someone better than her…” You shrugged softly, the swing moving a tiny bit with the movement.

He rolled his eyes, the smallest hint of a laugh escaping his lips. “Oh, so you just suddenly got all optimistic about my love life, is that it?”

He watched you carefully, studying your averted gaze. Your words said one thing, but your body language told another story. Something was off.

Lewis shifted closer, his knee just barely bumping against yours. “Come on, spill it,” he said, nudging you lightly. “You’re acting even more cagey than usual. What's really on your mind?”

“Maybe I should start doing something about mine too,” You said, somberly.

“Your love life?” He asked, as if he had misheard you. His eyebrows lifted in mild surprise, and a hint of curiosity crept into his gaze. “So there is a special someone, eh” He leaned in, resting his forearms on his knees. “And here I thought I had all the juicy secrets.”

“No, I… I don’t know.” I laughed at his little joke, kicking the grass absentmindedly, “The other day, Sean asked me out.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by that bit of information.

“Sean, huh?” Sean was a friend of his, merely an acquaintance to you, Lewis himself had introduced you two. He’d always known you were popular among his friends, you had a way of charming everyone you met, despite refusing almost all of them and never really getting into a relationship with any of them. Trying to feign nonchalance, he shrugged casually. “And what did you tell him?”

“I refused, let him down gently. He’s a great guy, and would be a great boyfriend too. But… I don’t feel him like that,” You explained, that part was genuine, you just left out the reason why. The reason sitting right beside you.

He nodded slowly, processing your words and trying to understand the sudden relief washing over him. But a part of him couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit protective. You’d been through so much together, and the thought of you with someone who wouldn’t value the great person you were...

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and put on a nonchalant facade. “Why not? Sean is a solid pick.”

“I don’t see him like that.”

He studied you silently for a moment, watching the way your expression remained stoic. You wouldn’t look at him, instead staring fixedly at the grass beneath your feet.

His gaze darted from your face to your hands, clenched tightly on the plank of the swing at your sides. Clearly, there was more to this than just “not seeing him that way.”

He tilted his head, his voice quieter as he asked, “Is it because you've got someone else in mind?”

You just shook your head, holding back as always, hiding it, putting those damn feelings deep down, hiding them deep in the place where they were rooted, somewhere between your heart and lungs, fighting to come out like a dam about to break.

Lewis, though, couldn’t resist the urge to push a little further. The fact that you wouldn’t open up made him all the more curious. He shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours again.

“You know you can't keep secrets from me, right?” He said, his tone a mix of playful teasing and genuine concern. “Come on,” he nudged you with his elbow, “just spill it. Who’s the lucky guy who’s got your heart all tangled up?”

Something in your stomach froze. Like a train derailing, you felt the conversation turning to a point that could slip out of your control, so you tried to finish it, to lead it back to him or at least, to end the subject of your love life.

“It’s a mess. You don’t want to know about it. Bottom line is, he doesn’t want me,” You said with an exhale, but it didn’t ease the tightness in your chest.

Damn.

Those words cut through him like a knife, stabbing him square in the gut. It took all his willpower to keep his expression blank, hiding the sudden wave of emotion that washed over him. He was your best friend and he never, ever wanted you suffering for whatever reason. He cursed himself internally for caring so damn much, for feeling his heart ache at the thought of you pining for someone who didn’t want you.

“And how do you know that? Have you asked him?” Lewis continued pushing despite knowing you well enough to catch on your failed attempt to diverge the conversation.

You froze for a moment, staring ahead as you built up the courage. Like hanging from the edge of a cliff, losing grip as you slip down to a fall. This is it. This is the moment you rip the bandaid and change your friendship forever.

But you hesitated.

Years of friendship, years of loving him genuinely as a friend, and more recently, loving him as a man. Were you really ready for the impending change in your dynamic? In the most probable odds, you’d confess and he would say he doesn’t love you like that. In the least probable odds, the one you so desperately wanted to be true, he’d say he felt the same, or at least, he’d be open to try something more.

He noticed the shift in your demeanor, the way you froze in place. It raised a hundred different alarms in his mind. Something was going on, something big. He'd never seen you like this before. Lewis leaned in slightly, his gaze intense on your face, as if trying to read the thoughts silently screaming behind your blank expression.

“Hey…” he said softly, like speaking to a wounded animal, a tone he only used when he knew you were sad, his voice lower than usual. “You look like you want to say something.”

“He’s- he’s pining for someone else,” you said slowly, about the man you were in love with. About the one who, to him, was a faceless figure, and to you, it was the pretty brown eyes looking back at you with such softness, such care, that the knowledge everything was about to irrevocably change tore something in your chest.

Lewis felt for you, truthfully, suffering for whatever reason was the last thing he wanted for you. He let out an annoyed scoff, not at you, never at you, but at the man that dared to break your heart.

“Sounds like an idiot, if he’s chasing after someone else when you're right here.”

You knew Lewis was just cheering you up like he’d always done. The kindness and care he has always had for you, as your best friend.

“Idiot…” You repeated, whispering to yourself, realization that the moment was there, and you had to just- just say it, “The man I’m in love with… He doesn’t see me like that. He’s suffering for someone who doesn’t want him, confiding in me while I break my heart trying to fix his own.”

Finally, you stared at Lewis, your face saying everything your mouth couldn’t. Your eyes, shining in fear, longing that burned bright and the words that were stuck in your throat. Confessing the feeling you were forcing yourself to.

His heart skipped a beat as he met your gaze.

The intensity in your eyes, the raw emotion pouring out of you—it was a punch to the gut. He could see the pain you’d been hiding, the suffering you’d been going through while playing the role of a comforting friend.

It was at that moment that it clicked. He understood the weight behind your words, the silent confession you were making. He swallowed hard, the realization hitting him like a truck. You were talking about him. The man you were in love with was Lewis.

He felt a rush of emotions: surprise, disbelief, and yes, a hint of dread. But that was quickly suppressed by doubt. You were friends, just friends, and nothing more. Had been friends for the longest time, and the fact that you could have feelings for him, never even crossed his mind as a possibility.

He’d watched you date other people, he had seen you being happy, being adventurous, having fun, meeting people. But here you were, confessing your feelings for him, the dumbass who’d been pining after someone else.

You were burning in a new kind of shame under his gaze now, the words you dared to say now out in the open, impossible to take back, impossible to not be under his scrutiny. It was too late to back down now, what was left was just damage control.

“You don’t have to say anything…” You said, voice thick with all the unsaid feelings.

He shook his head, trying to find words, to grasp at what now was his reality. His best friend was in love with him and how goddamn stupid he’d been for chasing after a dead-end romance.

“You can't just drop a bomb like that and then tell me not to say anything,” He whispered, looking confused.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything. I don’t want to lose you, even as a friend...” You whispered, a lump lodged in your throat. Because your feelings for him meant nothing compared to your friendship.

The possibility of losing your best friend, of losing his random hours calls, late night trips to any store you two could get snacks and sweets no matter the country you were in, studio sessions just you and him playing around with music, lyrics and melodies. The thought of losing the man who’d held you when you thought you were going to dissolve in a pool of tears, the one that held your hair when you threw up, the man you held when the weight of the world landed heavily on his shoulders… The thought of losing that was more heartbreaking than any unrequited love.

“I can’t lose my best friend, Lewis…” You whispered and his heart broke in a completely different way.

“You're not going to lose me, you idiot,” he said gruffly, but there was that hint of affection in his tone. “I just... I need to process this.”

He was struggling to maintain his cool, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. This changed everything inside both of you, but he also didn’t want to lose the most consistent friendship he had in a long time.

“It’s okay, take however long you need,” You forced a smile but your stomach dropped with dread. Dreading to lose everything and even your friendship. You stood up, adjusting your coat, “it’s late, we should probably head home.”

He watched you stand up and adjust your coat, a pang of unease shooting through him. He knew you were masking your pain, forcing a smile like you always did. He hesitated for a moment, torn between wanting to pull you back and needing to sort out his own thoughts.

“Wait,” he said, his voice soft as usual, “Can we... Can we talk about this again tomorrow?”

He needed time to process everything, to figure out what the hell he was feeling. But the thought of losing you, of pushing you away, was excruciating.

“Yeah, tomorrow night…” You nodded, taking a step back, “Good night, Lew. Don’t hate me, yeah?”

His chest tightened at your words, the thought of you thinking he would hate you. He couldn’t stand the idea of that, not when you meant so damn much to him.

“I could never hate you,” he said firmly, his voice rough. “Don't even think for a second I could.”

He took a step forward, the urge to reach out and pull you into a hug almost overpowering. But he stopped himself, his hands clenching tightly at his sides.

You nodded for a moment and left.

He watched you walk away, his mind swirling with a million thoughts and emotions. The night felt unbearably long as he tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was your face.

The look in your eyes when you'd confessed your feelings, the hope, the fear, the vulnerability. It was seared into his memory, playing on repeat in his mind.

The next day felt like the longest damn day of his life. He went through the motions, going through his routine, meetings, calls, planning schedules, but he was on autopilot, his mind elsewhere.

His usual sharp focus was replaced by a constant, nagging awareness of you. He found himself stealing glances at his phone hoping you’d text, searching for your number in his contact list, thumb hovering the little call button, hesitating, even though he knew he needed time to process everything.

The hours dragged on, the weight of unspoken words and unprocessed emotions almost unbearable by the time evening finally rolled around. That night, as he drove to the same park, his thoughts were still a mess.

As soon as Lewis arrived, he spotted you from a distance, sitting under the same tree where you’d had your conversation the night before. The sight of you sent a jolt through his chest. He took a deep breath, steeling himself before walking over. His heart was hammering against his ribs, his mind a swarm of nervous thoughts.

He stopped a few feet away and simply stood there for a moment, his gaze fixed on you. "You waited for me."

“I arrived not too long ago,” you told him with a tired smile after a restless night, after your confession had consumed you with guilt the whole night.

He nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the slight trembling. He took a deep breath before taking a seat next to you, on that same swing, settling down with a few inches of distance between you.

The quiet night air was filled with tension, a palpable weight settled over the two of you. He was acutely aware of your presence, hyper-aware of every move you made, every small intake of breath.

“So…?” You nudged him when the silence became unbearable.

He shifted, his eyes fixed on the grass beneath his shoes. The question hung in the air, and he knew he had to address the elephant in the room. He took another deep breath before finally looking up at you, his gaze steady despite the storm of emotions roiling inside.

"I've... I've been thinking about what you said last night."

He paused, choosing his next words carefully. He wanted to be honest with you, to lay his feelings bare, but he was scared of losing your friendship too, his feelings were all over the place and he wanted nothing but to reassure you, reassure you about how much you meant to him.

"It's a lot to process," he continued, his voice rough. "You... you surprised me, you know. I didn't..." He let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't think you'd ever feel that way about me."

“I know. I’ve been keeping it hidden.”

He looked at you, surprised by the admission. He'd had no idea you'd been keeping your feelings secret for a long time. “How long?” he asked quietly, unable to keep the question from his lips. "How long have you felt this way, and I was too blind to see?"

“A few months after my breakup four years ago. The support you offered me through my dark times… it meant so much. You’ve got no idea.”

He was taken aback by that response. Four years… four damn years, and he hadn't had a clue. He thought back to that period, the memory of your darker days, clinging to him like he was your life saving boat, letting him hold you to ease your heartache. He'd had no idea you'd been feeling something all along.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. All this time, you'd been harboring these feelings, and he'd been completely oblivious. It made him feel like an absolute idiot, like he'd missed the most obvious thing right in front of him. He clenched his jaw, his expression hardening with a mix of anger, frustration, and a pang of guilt.

"Four years...?" he repeated, his voice tight. "That's a long bloody time to keep something like that bottled up."

“I’m a pro,” You tried a silly joke, but your eyes watered.

The sight of your eyes watering, the sound of the tremor in your voice—it was almost his undoing. His heart clenched in his chest, the urge to reach out and pull you close nearly overwhelming him. He gritted his teeth, fighting against the wave of emotions threatening to spill over.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" he said gruffly, his voice thick with emotion. "Four years. Why the hell didn't you say something sooner?"

“You never gave any indication that you felt the same. And as of recently, you fell in love with that woman that rejected you… I… I don’t even know why I blurted it out last night.”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead in frustration. He hated how damn right you were. He'd never shown any indication of returning your feelings, and then he'd gone and pined over someone else like a moron.

The irony of it all hit him like a truck, the realization of how blind he'd been. Having his heart broken by someone who didn’t reciprocate his feelings while doing the exact same to you.

His jaw clenched, his voice gruff and rough. "You blurted it out because you couldn't keep it in anymore, because it was eating you up inside," he said quietly. And he knew you, god, he did. He knew you well enough to know you were always one to keep to yourself and mature your ideas. He just never expected it to happen about him.

He shifted closer, closing a bit of the distance between you. The urge to reach out and take your hand was almost overwhelming, but he held himself back.

Lewis wanted to tell you everything, to make you understand how damn stupid he'd been. How he'd thrown away years worth of potential with you, focusing on someone who'd never wanted him in the first place. He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

"I was a fool. A complete and utter fool. I let myself get so wrapped up in someone who didn't even want me."

“It’s fine. I’m your friend, you had no obligation to see me as a potential romance,” You tried to comfort him.

He gritted his teeth, his jaw flexing with suppressed frustration. You were being too understanding, too damn reasonable, and it was killing him. He couldn't stand how easy you made it seem, how you were just willing to brush off your feelings and continue being friends, like it was nothing.

"It's not fine," he said firmly, his voice a low growl. "Stop trying to downplay it. You feel something for me. Something more than just friendship."

“I’m not the first and won’t be the last. It’s not a big deal.”

He clenched his fists, his frustration reaching a new level. How could you be so goddamn casual about it? It was infuriating. You were downplaying your feelings like they were insignificant.

"Stop it," he grated out, his jaw tight. "Don't you bloody tell me it's not a big deal. It is a big deal, damn it. You've been harboring feelings for me for four years, and you're acting like it's nothing?"

He wanted to shake some sense into you, to make you understand just how maddening your nonchalant attitude was. He wanted to shout, to tell you that it bloody well mattered. But instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to rein in his rising anger.

“Four years,” he repeated again, his voice a low, hard whisper. "You've felt like this for several damn years, and you've been bottling it up all this time, pretending it doesn't matter… and you have the audacity to tell me it's not a big deal."

“Why are you angry?”

He clenched his jaw, his irritation flaring up once more. He couldn't fathom how you could ask that question with a hint of innocent confusion in your eyes.

"Why am I angry?" he growled, the words coming out in a tight whisper. "You're asking me why I'm angry? Because you've been harboring feelings for me for four bloody years, and I've been too damn blind to even realize it. Because you've been suffering in silence, hiding your emotions like it doesn't matter."

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration etched across his features.

"You've been hurting, and what have I been doing? Pining after someone who doesn't want me. I've been chasing after a lost cause, while you've been here all this time, watching and hurting, and you still act like it's nothing. Nothing," he repeated, his tone growing more intense with each word.

“Your friendship means a lot to me, has always meant. And if I get to have a little bit of you through it, then so be it,” you whispered, like you were pleading, like you were afraid he’d end your friendship. But your reasoning only made him angrier.

Angry to find out he wasn’t as attuned to your emotions as he thought. Angry at himself for unknowingly hurting you while he pined for someone else and confided in you. Angry because he knew now things were changing forever.

The words felt like a stab to the goddamn heart. You were willing to settle for friendship, to take whatever scraps of his affection and attention you could get. It was maddening. He wanted to yell at you, to tell you that you deserved better. That he was a damn fool for not seeing what was right in front of him.

But instead, he gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching.

"You deserve more than a damn little bit of me. You deserve it all."

He shook his head, a bitter scoff leaving his lips.

"You're settling. You're settling for friendship when you should be demanding more, expecting more. I can't stand it… the way you're just… settling. Just taking what I'm willing to give you, because you think it's all you can get. It's bullshit. It's absolute bullshit."

You stood up, pacing before him, “I’m doing the best I can with the hand I was given.”

He watched you pace, his frustration growing even more. You were so damn resigned to your fate, accepting whatever scraps he happened to give you. He stood up too, his expression dark as he faced you.

"The best with the hand you were given," he repeated, his tone laced with bitter incredulity. "You're acting like you're trapped. Like you don't have any bloody choice. Like you're just a damn victim, forced to accept whatever I throw your way. It's bullshit, and you damn well know it."

“What’s the other choice, Lewis?!” You snapped at him, “Walking away? Abandoning the man I love?”

He stiffened, the sound of your voice cracking with emotion hitting him like a hammer to the chest.

"Yes! Yes, damn it!" he exploded, the words exploding out of him like a dam breaking. "That's the other option! Walking away, finding someone who would see you for who you are, who wouldn't treat you like a goddamn afterthought. Someone who would love you the way you goddamn deserve!"

You silenced, pressing your lips as his words landed right in your chest like a knife, “Is that it, then?”

The sight of your silent response, the way you recoiled at his words… it made his heart ache. But he couldn't back down now, not when he was finally airing his frustration. He took a step closer to you, closing the distance between you.

"Yes, damn it! Yes, that's it! Stop settling for scraps. Stop accepting whatever bullshit you get from me. You deserve someone who's going to put you first."

“And you won’t?” Your voice was small, the question hung in the air like a goddamn dagger, Lewis’ heart twisting in his chest.

He wanted to deny it, to protest, to say that hell yes, of course, he would put you first. But he couldn't. Not when he'd been such a damn fool, not when he'd been blind and stupid for so damn long. Not when he had already hurt you for so long. He looked away, clenching his jaw for a moment.

“No,” he finally answered, his voice coming out in a hoarse rasp. “I won't.”

You rubbed your forehead, nodding as your lips quivered. He watched you rub your forehead, the way your lips trembled betraying the pain you were trying to hide. Lewis wanted to reach out, to pull you into his arms and take away all your pain. But he didn't. He was the goddamn cause of it in the first place, the reason you were standing there, struggling to keep it together. Instead, he clenched his fists at his sides, silently cursing himself for being such a dumb ass.

The silence was swallowing you both whole, like a black hole sucking the light from your friendship right before your eyes. It hurt like a knife twisting. You had thought your worst heartbreak had been in the past, but now, as you watched your person slip away right between your fingers… that was a new low.

“Hope really was out of character for me, right?” You smiled, looking at the ground. Your attempt at a smile, the way you averted your eyes to the ground… it was like a punch in the gut. It hurt like hell, seeing you trying to put on a brave face when he knew he was tearing you apart.

He wanted to deny it, to say that hope wasn't out of character for you… but he knew it would be a lie. You never lied to each other, that was the rule. He gritted his teeth, the words coming out in a rough whisper.

"Yeah… hope's pretty out of character for you."

“I’m sorry I ruined everything,” You whispered, still holding yourself up, somehow, barely hanging on, “I’ll see you around.”

Lewis watched you walk away, his heart in goddamn shreds.

He wanted to reach out, to stop you before you disappeared… but he didn't. He just stood there, frozen in place, watching the one person he cared about the most walk away. Once you disappeared, he finally let out a ragged breath, grunting to himself in frustration.

And he knew, things would never be the same again. That's what hurt the most.

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 #f1 #formula one #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton fanfic #lh44 #team lh44 #lh44 imagine #lh44 x reader

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doujindungeon · 3 months ago

Text

while anticipating le sserafim's new single and working on my upcoming follow-up to my gr63 two-shot, this post about sakura came up on my feed this past week and i haven't stopped thinking about it since 🙆‍♀️

premise: you're pop's main it-girl and at a recent meet & greet during your world tour, one of your biggest fans gifts you a crazy expensive ring while posing a single request to you:

"please do not marry anyone who dares to propose to you with a ring cheaper than this!"

while this amuses you to no end, your f1 driver boyfriend doesn't take this lightly.

features: lewis, carlos, george, fernando, charles

Lewis

"What's that you got there, love?"

There was a distraction that Lewis just couldn't ignore anymore. Though he was all tender smiles and lovestruck eyes while gazing fondly at you through his phone screen as he waited for his first class flight to take off, the shining glimmer off of your finger set off his curiosity.

Your giggled explanation, however, only sparked and stirred the flames of fierce determination within his soul.

"Quite the request, huh? Fans these days." He chuckled in response with the shake of his head.

It wasn't long until it was time for his flight to depart and for the both of you to say your goodbyes.

"I'll be seeing you in a bit, lovely. Can't wait to have you in my arms again," he remarked with a wink.

As soon as your call ended, he then proceeded to switch over to his text messages, finding his recent conversation with his Cartier rep from a few days ago before quickly tapping out:

add another diamond on it please thank you

Carlos

"...huh?"

Kicking off the covers and rubbing the grogginess out of his sleepy gaze, Carlos squinted hard at his phone screen as he stared at pictures from one of your most well-known fan account pages.

What started off as a calm browse through his social media feed turned into a spike of raw adrenaline as he saw a myriad of photos showing your overjoyed expression while you flashed your brand new ring at the camera.

While undisclosed to even you, he liked following some of your fan accounts since they usually featured some gorgeous candid photos of you--visuals he constantly sought to see, especially while he was abroad for races.

Now, however, seeing that the admin of this very account was the one to gift you this ring with the insistence that you do not settle for anyone unworthy, he let out a huff while his eyes shifted over to his bedside table, where his Richard Mille watch lay.

His gaze returned to the photo on his phone screen, making note of your bare fingers.

He was certain he could guess the size of each one, much like he was just as determined to get you enough rings to exceed the cost of his watch.

George

"Oh bugger..."

Hopping onto Twitter and seeing an ungodly amount of mentions made to his account incited a sense of foreboding dread within George.

However, realizing that the profiles of these tags all mostly featured pictures of you, his apprehension turned to cautious curiosity. With all the countless posts, it was impossible to sort through them all, yet there was one tweet that encapsulated what the sudden fervor from your fanbase was all about:

cant believe the george russell subplot this season is having to go band for band with his gf's fanbase 😭😭😭😭

Instinct had him wanting to ask the likes of Alex and Lando exactly what "band for band" meant, but with a mere scroll down his mentions, pictures of your preciously awed expression while holding up an incredibly ornate ring from a fan explained everything he needed to know.

Pressing a hand over his racing heart, he sighed with utter relief.

Nothing too crazy both for his sake and yours, just an extreme expression of fan adoration to you.

Cute.

But what won't be cute would be the absolute behemoth of a diamond that he would make damn sure will be sitting prettily on top of your engagement ring.

Fernando

"She was given what?"

By this point, Fernando had been posed all sorts of outrageous, off-topic questions during press interviews leading up to the race, but this one--above all--felt the most annoying to hear.

While he knew the reporter was just merely doing his job as he elaborated on details from your recent concert, there was something bothersome about some random stranger essentially challenging him in his own relationship with you.

Still, with years and years of PR experience, he pursed his lips slightly in thought with a nod. "...Ahh I see."

With a small lift of his shoulders, a chuckle soon escaped him as he concluded with, "Well, what's not to love about her, no?"

Though the reporter tried to have him delve deeper on his response, Fernando was already shifting focus back to the recent race, a calm smile on his features even while his competitive spirit was already set ablaze to an uncontainable inferno.

This was a matter where frugality had to be damned. Like hell he was going to be outdone by one of your fans.

You were gonna come home from tour to a brand new ring quadruple the price!

Charles

Charles had no words just say, just a sorrowful melody to play.

Within the dimly lit shadows of his exquisite piano room, his fingers took the anguish in his heart to the ivories of his instrument.

A glimpse at social media, the bashful smile on your face, the sparkling ring on your finger--it was just too much. Without delving further, he took off to the depths of his magnificent mansion where he had since holed himself up within the comforts of his piano room to console his heartbreak, wondering how he was to go on with his relationship with you now in disarray.

But when his wrist started to cramp from continuous play, he was on his phone once more, reluctantly going through social media to see just who in the hell proposed to you--

He blinked at his screen.

A fan merely gifted the ring to you, asking that only someone worthy and wealthy take your hand in marriage in the future.

His hand suddenly came to rest against his forehead as he started to laugh at himself.

Cackle even.

"I'm so stupid," he sighed out loud with a grin, relief washing over his features as he stood up and proceeded to finally exit his piano room.

While texting his affection to you over yet another brilliant concert successfully held some countries away, he was already making plans as to which jewelry stores in Monte Carlo he would pay visit to today.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x you #fernando alonso x you #fernando alonso x reader #george russell x reader #george russell x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula one x reader #formula one x you #f1 imagine #reader insert

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theseh00perscanh00p · 5 days ago

Text

Coaching Violation: Part 10

paige x azzi

a/n: I do genuinely apologize in advance...

word count: 3.9k

Sparks Media Day — Two Days Post-All-Star Break

POV: Paige

The media room smelled like old coffee and tension. Paige sat at the center table, shoulders square, lips tight, blazer pressed like she was trying to iron out the heat rising around her. To her left sat the assistant GM. To her right — an empty chair meant for the next player interview.

The season had been strong. 20-6 record. Defense finally clicking. Azzi stepping into her rhythm again. They should be talking about the basketball.

But they weren’t.

They were talking about a fan’s blurry throwback photo that somehow — through the internet’s uncanny ability to detect chemistry at 240p — had become an Exhibit A.

A journalist cleared his throat.

“Coach Bueckers, I wanted to ask about something circulating online—”

Paige didn’t flinch. She’d been coached for this. By PR. By Nika. By her own damn reflection in the bathroom mirror twenty minutes ago.

“Something from All-Star Weekend last year,” the reporter continued. “There’s a photo going around that seems to show you and Fudd… close. There’s speculation you were involved before her trade to L.A. Can you comment on that?”

She smiled. Tight. Measured. PR-safe.

“I don’t comment on speculation or personal matters unrelated to the team.”

Next question.

Another reporter: “There’s also been some chatter about your response to fouls on Fudd during games being more intense than usual. Do you feel you’re able to maintain professional boundaries with your players?”

She stiffened — just barely — but enough that the assistant GM looked over.

“I care about all my players,” Paige said carefully. “Azzi is one of our stars. She takes hits. I react the same way I would for any player putting their body on the line night after night.”

Next question.

A third one. A woman in the front row, tablet balanced on her knee. “Do you think being so young, and recently retired from playing yourself, makes the boundaries harder to maintain? Especially with players you might’ve known previously?”

That one cut deeper.

Because it wasn’t just about Azzi anymore. It was about her competence. Her job. Her authority. Her integrity.

Paige leaned into the mic. Voice steady.

“I may be young, but I take this position seriously. I didn’t come into coaching on a whim. I know what this team means — to the city, the league, the fans. And I know the boundaries expected of me. I hold myself to them.”

The room went quiet for a second too long.

Then the GM stood up, offered a half-smile. “Thanks, everyone. That’s all we have time for today.”

Later that night – Twitter trending bar

#BueckersAndFudd

“Paige’s face when they asked about Azzi said it all.”

“Somebody better hand them an Oscar if this is just a ‘professional’ relationship.”

“Girl was blushing like a high school sophomore caught passing notes.”

Sparks Locker Room – Post-Practice

Azzi’s POV

The laughter in the room had thinned out. Most of the team had already hit the showers or started trickling out toward the parking garage. But Azzi sat still at her locker, towel draped around her neck, fingers idle on the laces of her shoes. Her phone was face down beside her. She didn’t want to check it again — didn’t want to see more tweets, more headlines, more grainy speculations about her private life blasted out for the world to dissect.

Across the room, Rickea pulled her hoodie on slowly, watching her.

“You good?” she asked, tone quieter than usual — not her usual teasing lilt, but something grounded. Intentional.

Azzi didn’t look up. “Not really.”

Rickea didn’t push. Just waited, leaning against the locker beside her.

Azzi finally exhaled, chest heavy with the truth that had been clawing its way up her throat for days. “I feel like I can’t even breathe without it becoming a headline. Like… every glance, every reaction — it’s like they’re watching and waiting for us to mess up. And I’m so tired of pretending.”

She sat back against the bench, staring at the ceiling for a moment like maybe if she didn’t look at anyone, it wouldn’t feel so real.

Rickea was quiet for a beat. Then, seriously:

“So Coach is P — You Know The One.”

Azzi blinked. She turned to look at her.

Rickea gave a half-smile, not mocking, not smug. Just… kind. “I mean, I want to act surprised. I really do. But truth is? We’ve all kind of known for a while.”

Azzi’s throat tightened. “What do you mean known?”

Rickea sat beside her now, resting her arms on her knees. “The way y’all move? It’s subtle, but it’s not invisible. The way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching. The way your mood changes after her one-on-one meetings. And let’s not forget the infamous hoodie moment.”

Azzi opened her mouth, but no words came. Her heart was in her ears.

Rickea continued, gently, “We didn’t say anything because it never felt like it was messing with the team. Never felt like you weren’t present. Never felt like she was giving you unfair advantages. We all agreed — quiet respect.”

Azzi rubbed the back of her neck, suddenly flushed. “So everyone…?”

Rickea nodded. “Yeah. Rae. Z. Even KK — though she pretended not to for a while. Said she didn’t want to make assumptions.”

Azzi let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “I thought we were being so careful.”

“You were,” Rickea said. “But when people care about each other like that? It shows. It leaks out, even when you try to stuff it down.”

Azzi’s eyes brimmed, not with embarrassment — but something between relief and fear. “You guys didn’t think less of me?”

Rickea shook her head firmly. “No. We thought more. You’ve been solid. She’s been solid. It’s complicated, sure. But it’s real. And we saw that.”

Silence settled for a beat between them — thick but not uncomfortable.

Azzi smiled faintly, swiping beneath one eye. “I’m really bad at this undercover thing, huh?”

Rickea laughed. “Girl. You left practice last week with her initials still pressed into your cheek from her bracelet. KK saw it and just walked out.”

Azzi groaned, hiding her face in her hands, but she was laughing now too.

“Just…” Rickea added, a little softer, “take care of each other, yeah? We got your back. But the outside world? They’re a different beast.”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. We’re trying.”

Rickea stood, bumped her shoulder, and grabbed her bag. “Try louder. Or at least… smarter.”

Azzi watched her walk out, heart still hammering — but in a different rhythm now.

A little steadier.

A little less alone.

Azzi’s Apartment – That Evening

Paige’s POV

Paige stood barefoot in the middle of Azzi’s living room, slowly drying her hair with the towel Azzi had tossed her after her shower. The scent of something warm and sweet drifted in from the kitchen — Azzi had lit one of those cinnamon candles she loved. It smelled like fall even though it was July. Comforting. Familiar.

Azzi walked out from the kitchen with two glasses of cold water and passed one to Paige without a word. She looked… calm. Lighter than usual. And Paige clocked it immediately.

She narrowed her eyes, settling on the couch. “You seem suspiciously at peace. Did something happen?”

Azzi plopped down beside her, curling one leg underneath herself. “Rickea knows.”

Paige blinked. “Knows what?”

Azzi gave her a look. “Paige.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, then Paige dragged a hand down her face.

“Shit.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Not mad?”

“No,” Paige muttered. “Just… I knew KK had been clocking us like the damn Spanish Inquisition. I figured if she knew, someone else had to be close behind.”

Azzi smiled softly. “Well. Apparently it wasn’t just Rickea. She said the whole team kind of knew. They just didn’t say anything.”

Paige froze. “The whole team?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah — though she was allegedly trying not to make assumptions.”

Paige groaned and slumped further into the couch, arms crossed. “I told you we were being too casual in the film room last week.”

Azzi laughed. “You literally passed me a post-it note that said ‘come over later?’ like we were in high school.”

“Okay, well you sent me a winking emoji during warmups.”

Azzi shrugged. “I was being motivational.”

Paige side-eyed her. “You were being reckless.”

Azzi leaned over, her voice teasing. “You liked it.”

“Maybe.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, sipping water, the laughter settling into something softer.

Paige finally let her shoulders relax. “You know… I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like — for someone to say something, blow it all up. I’ve been holding my breath for weeks.”

Azzi glanced at her. “Still holding it?”

“Not as tight,” Paige admitted. “But it’s still there.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “Yeah. Me too.”

Another beat.

Paige turned, the vulnerability there, just under her voice. “Does it scare you that they all knew?”

Azzi shook her head. “Honestly? It kind of makes me feel… protected. Like they’ve been letting us figure it out in our own time.”

Paige smiled at that — a small, grateful one. “Yeah. That’s a good way to put it.”

Azzi tucked herself closer, her leg brushing against Paige’s. “We’re not as slick as we thought, huh?”

“Apparently not.”

“You mad?”

“No,” Paige whispered. “Relieved, kind of. Also mortified.”

Azzi chuckled. “We’ll get better at this.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Better at hiding?”

Azzi met her gaze, soft and unflinching. “Better at not being afraid.”

That landed.

Paige leaned in, pressing a kiss to Azzi’s shoulder. Then rested her head there, eyes closed.

Maybe the team knowing wasn’t the apocalypse.

Maybe it was just… the next step.

Sparks Training Facility — Executive Conference Room

The room was cold — in that artificial, corporate kind of way. All glass walls and steel chairs. A framed jersey on one side, a flatscreen on the other. Nothing cozy. Nothing forgiving.

Paige sat in one of the high-backed chairs at the long oval table, legs bouncing under the surface, doing everything she could not to show her nerves. She’d been in pressure situations before — buzzer-beaters, championship finals, career-defining moments.

This was different.

This wasn’t a game.

Across from her sat the Sparks’ General Manager, Karen Sumner — calm, unreadable, her fingers steepled in front of her. Beside her, via video call on the mounted screen, was Director Lauren Delgado from the WNBA league office. The League.

This wasn’t just an internal slap on the wrist.

This was serious.

Karen cleared her throat first. “Coach Bueckers. We appreciate you joining us on short notice.”

Paige nodded. “Of course.”

Lauren on the screen gave a tight-lipped smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll keep this direct, out of respect for your time — and for what’s at stake.”

Paige’s stomach dropped. She kept her face neutral. Barely blinked.

Karen continued, voice even. “As you’re aware, there’s been a noticeable increase in media scrutiny surrounding your personal conduct. Specifically as it pertains to your relationship with one of your players — Azzi Fudd.”

Paige didn’t flinch. But she didn’t speak either.

Lauren leaned in on the screen. “We’ve seen the photos. The timelines being stitched together. A resurfaced video clip here, a blurry parking lot photo there… nothing definitive. But enough to raise flags. Enough that we’re getting calls.”

Karen sighed quietly. “And calls lead to questions. And questions, if left unanswered, can lead to investigations.”

Lauren took over again. “Let me be clear. If a romantic relationship is occurring between a head coach and a current player on her roster, that would constitute a direct violation of the WNBA’s Coach-Player Conduct Code.”

Paige finally found her voice — careful, measured. “There’s nothing official to investigate.”

Lauren’s eyebrow arched. “That’s not a denial, Coach.”

Paige clenched her jaw, pulse ticking in her temple.

Karen glanced between the screen and Paige, then said, gently, “We’re not trying to accuse you. We’re trying to prevent a PR wildfire. If something is happening — if there’s anything that could be construed as misconduct — you need to either disclose it and recuse yourself from coaching that player… or stop it.”

The word stop hit harder than it should have. Paige kept her expression stone still.

Lauren folded her arms. “We’ve seen reputations sink over less.”

Karen nodded. “And you’ve worked hard to build yours. The players believe in you. The city is rallying behind you. Don’t throw it away for a headline.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Paige swallowed.

“Understood,” she said. “But like I said… there’s nothing official to investigate.”

Karen let out a small sigh — relief or disappointment, Paige couldn’t tell. “Then that’s the end of this meeting. But let me be clear — one more rumor, one more photo, one more anonymous tip? And this becomes league business.”

Lauren gave a stiff nod from the screen. “Keep it clean, Coach Bueckers. We’re watching.”

The call ended.

Karen stood and walked Paige to the door.

Just before she opened it, she paused. “I know how much this job means to you. Be careful with it.”

Paige nodded once.

But inside?

Her hands were already shaking.

Paige’s Apartment — That Night

She hadn’t even turned the lights on.

Just the soft blue of the TV, volume low, flickering across the walls like a pulse she couldn’t match. A half-eaten dinner sat cold on the coffee table — something she ordered and forgot to eat. Her phone was face-down beside it, buzzing once, then again. Azzi’s name.

She didn’t answer.

Not because she didn’t want to.

Because she did.

Because that was the problem.

She ran both hands over her face, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes until she saw stars. Then let them drop into her lap, blank stare fixed on nothing at all.

This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

After the drive-in date… after the subtle glances during practice that had softened into something warm and giddy… after the night she asked Azzi to be hers, officially, finally, actually hers — things were going smoothly. The team hadn’t just accepted them, they’d almost made a silent pact to keep their mouths shut. KK hadn’t said a word since her initial raised brow months ago. The locker room felt normal. The chemistry? Untouched.

It was working.

She thought they’d made it work.

But today, sitting across from the league director and her GM, watching them say words like investigation and violation and don’t throw it away — all she could think was:

You really thought love would be enough, huh?

Her laugh was hollow. Mean.

Because she had thought that. Naively. Stupidly.

She thought if they were careful, if they stayed present, if they kept winning — none of it would matter. That they could live in their little hidden corner of the world, full of forehead kisses and fingers laced under tables and whispered late-night FaceTimes like they were the only two people alive.

But this wasn’t a romance movie.

This was professional women’s basketball.

And she was a coach.

And Azzi?

A player.

Her player.

Paige dropped her head back against the couch cushion and let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a sob. It caught in her throat before it could fully become either. Her eyes burned. She blinked up at the ceiling, trying to will herself back into some kind of clarity.

But her thoughts kept looping.

What if I just made everything worse for her? What if loving her makes me the problem?

The knock on the door made her flinch.

Sharp. Quick. Familiar rhythm.

Azzi.

Paige didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

A second knock. Softer.

“Paige?” her voice came through, muffled.

Still, nothing.

The silence in the apartment wrapped itself tighter. Paige stood, finally, but didn’t go to the door. She paced. Back and forth. The way she used to when she was coming off the bench cold, unsure if her shot would fall. Only this wasn’t a game.

This was her life.

And her life felt like it was crumbling underneath her feet.

Because no matter how good it had felt — the hand-holding, the hidden smiles, the sleepy mornings curled up in Azzi’s bed — this wasn’t just about them anymore.

It never was.

The league wouldn’t protect them. The press wouldn’t stay quiet. And if things spiraled?

She’d lose her job.

Azzi would lose her peace.

She stared at the door, heart breaking in slow motion. Her hand hovered over the knob. She wanted to open it. Pull Azzi in and tell her it would all be okay.

But for once, Paige wasn’t sure if it would.

She wasn’t sure about anything — except the one thing that scared her the most:

Being honest and truthful about how she felt about Azzi.

Paige’s Apartment – Hallway

Azzi’s POV

The knock didn’t echo. Not like it did in her chest.

She stood outside the door, still. One hand loosely curled by her side, the other gripping the strap of her bag a little too tight. She stared at the wood in front of her like it might crack open and spill answers.

But nothing happened.

Just silence.

And Azzi let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“Oh, how the tables have turned,” she whispered to herself.

Because here she was.

Knocking.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Just like Paige had, months ago.

Back then, Paige had stood in the hallway of her hotel room, vulnerable and unsure, waiting for Azzi to open the door and let her back in.

And now?

Azzi rubbed her knuckles, still warm from the knock. Now she was the one on the other side. In the same place. With the same ache.

Funny how life worked.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not after everything. Not after the soft mornings, the stolen smiles, the real dates that made her feel less like a secret and more like a choice.

Not after last week, when Paige kissed her like she was choosing her again and again and again.

But today at practice?

Paige had barely looked at her. Had barely said more than a few clipped sentences. She was— closed off, unreachable, and trying way too hard to hide the hurt.

Azzi had known something was wrong.

Then Rickea told her about the league meeting. About the media starting to circle. About the very real threat that everything they’d built could be taken away.

And Azzi’s stomach dropped. Because none of this was just about feelings anymore.

This was Paige’s career.

This was their life — under a microscope now.

But still… Azzi had come here. She couldn’t sit with the weight of it all alone. She needed to see Paige’s face. Hear it from her mouth. Figure out where they stood — or if they even stood at all.

She raised her hand again, hesitated. The metal of the door number gleamed in the dim hallway light.

Still nothing.

No movement.

She pressed her ear lightly to the wood. Silent.

Her chest tightened.

Maybe Paige wasn’t home.

Maybe she was inside and just didn’t want to open the door.

Azzi swallowed hard.

Don’t do this to yourself.

But still… it stung.

To care this much and not know if it was safe to.

To be all in, and wonder if Paige was halfway out.

She looked down the hallway. Could just leave. Could pretend this never happened. Let Paige come to her when she was ready.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that if she walked away now, something between them might crack for real.

So she stood.

One more minute.

Two.

Just her and the hum of the hallway light.

And then—

The door lock clicked.

Her breath caught.

The handle turned, slow.

Azzi straightened, pulse hammering in her ears.

The door creaked open just a sliver. Then a little wider.

And there was Paige — in sweats, eyes tired, skin washed in the soft blue of her living room TV. She looked like she hadn’t slept. Like she’d been carrying the weight of everything too long and too quietly.

Azzi stepped forward, voice barely above a whisper.

“You gonna let me in?”

Paige’s mouth parted. Like she wanted to say no. Or maybe yes. Or maybe just fall into Azzi’s arms and not say anything at all.

Instead, she nodded.

And opened the door.

Paige’s Apartment – Living Room

Paige’s POV

She didn’t plan to say it. Not like this.

Not with her chest caved in and her palms shaking. Not when it felt like the world had already decided they were the problem.

But Azzi was standing in the middle of her living room — arms crossed like she was holding herself together — and Paige couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“I love you.”

The words broke free before she even realized she’d said them.

Azzi’s head snapped up.

“What?”

Paige stepped closer, heart thudding against the inside of her ribs.

“I love you, Azzi.”

She meant to stop there. To let it land. To give Azzi the space to respond.

But she couldn’t.

Because if she stopped talking, she might break.

“I love you so much,” Paige said, voice cracking, “that I’m willing to walk away from all of it — everything — if it means protecting you.”

Azzi’s face contorted, confused. “What are you talking about?”

Paige swallowed hard, barely able to breathe past the lump in her throat.

She shook her head. “If this turns into an investigation — if the story gets worse — they’ll come for us. They’ll come for me. But they’ll come for you too. And I can’t let what we have ruin your career.”

Azzi blinked, stunned. “Paige…”

“You still have so much more to give to this game,” Paige whispered, stepping closer. “You’re just getting started. And I owe it to you — to us — to protect that. Even if it means walking away.”

“No.” Azzi’s voice was a soft protest. She reached out, fingertips brushing Paige’s arm. “No. Don’t say that.”

Paige closed her eyes. “I have to.”

“No, you don’t.” Azzi’s voice trembled now. “We can keep it quiet. We’ve been doing it. We can just—try harder. Be smarter. We can, Paige.”

But Paige opened her eyes, and there was something wrecked and resolute in them.

“That’s the thing,” she said quietly. “A love like this… it can’t stay hidden forever.”

Azzi’s face folded into a frown. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” Paige hesitated.

Azzi took a step back, as if bracing. “Paige. What does that mean?”

But Paige didn’t answer — not yet.

The words sat in her chest like a storm.

What she was about to say next could change everything.

And just as she opened her mouth—

A knock.

Sharp. Sudden. Echoing through the apartment.

They both froze.

Paige’s eyes darted to the door. Azzi’s breath caught.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Neither of them moved.

“Paige?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “It’s— It’s GM Sumner. Can we talk?”

Azzi’s hand fell away from Paige’s arm.

Paige didn’t look away. Not yet.

Azzi stared at her, eyes glassy.

“Tell me this doesn’t mean what I think it means.”

But Paige still didn’t speak.

The third knock was softer.

More final.

#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd

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ro-is-struggling · 1 year ago

Text

The Chase || Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Requested by anon: "reader constantly calling geralt the white wolf or just wolf during sexy time and him breeding his pups in her bcs of it???"

Summary: Geralt always tried to keep the wolf inside him caged in order to control his animalistic impulses, but with you that didn't seem to be required at all.

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI! Porn without plot, public sex (technically since they’re in the woods), rough sex, penetrative sex, fear play? (not really, but Geralt does chase the reader through the woods so maybe? adding it just in case!), scent play, size kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, biting (like there’s so much it’s a warning in this fic), fingering, possessiveness, a little fluff at the end, fem!reader

English is not my first language

Word count: 3300

Notes: This is definitely NOT inspired on THAT scene from beauty and the beast that has been going around twitter all week, nope, not at all

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Geralt was used to being called 'wolf' or 'white wolf'. It was a nickname he'd had for most of his life and was constantly used by Vesemir and the other witchers. He never thought much about it, just like his own name, he had it so internalized that he automatically responded when someone called him by those nicknames.

That changed, however, when you came into his life. There was something in the way you pronounced those words that awakened a primal feeling in him. It was in the way you looked at him, eyes defiant and playful, waiting to spark a reaction from him. It was in the way your lips moved, always ending in a mischievous smile, and in the sound of your voice, sweet and seductive, inducing him to madness, pushing him to his limit.

Everything about you awakened in him an urge to possess you, to mark you as his so that everyone who saw you would know you belonged to him. He had to make an effort to stop his needy hands to caress your skin, and contain the desperation of his lips to kiss your neck and mark it with his teeth. He didn't care if there were people around him, they all ceased to exist when you called him wolf.

It didn't help his situation that you always played dumb, pretending not to understand the power you had over him. But Geralt knew it was all an act. He knew that you were well aware of the effect that the utterance of that nickname had on him. And you used it as a weapon, a way to get a response from him when you wanted to play. And today you were in a very playful mood.

"What is it? Is the wolf scared of losing?" you teased him, trying to persuade him to take the bet. It was a simple race through the woods, just get from point A to point B as fast as possible to win. Only you had no intention of winning. All you were looking for was the thrill of the chase.

Geralt gave you an unamused look, taking a deep breath to calm the revolt that your use of that nickname had awakened in him. But then, he sensed your perfume in the air, mixed with the intoxicating scent of your arousal. His look completely transformed, frown relaxing into a firm, intimidating expression. The game was on.

"Oh you don't want to play that game, bunny." He warned you, giving you one last chance to change your mind. Once the race started, he wasn't sure he would be able to stop. He could already feel his insides vibrating with anticipation, the chained wolf fighting to break free. He had been locked up for too long, his needs ignored and repressed, so when he let go there would be no turning back. He was hungry and you were offering yourself to him without hesitation. How could he refuse?

You approached him, taking the sword he was sharpening out of his hand and bending down so you could look him in the eye. Your movements were slow, sensual, captivating your lover's gaze. Geralt's eyes got lost in your cleavage for a moment, admiring the exposed skin of your neck and the valley of your breasts as he suddenly began to salivate with need. His pupils widened, staring at you with yellow eyes turned almost completely black with desire. He could barely contain himself and that only increased your arousal.

"I'm not afraid of you." you said, and Geralt held back the urge to tell you that you should be. "Are you, wolf?"

He stood up and suddenly his imposing figure towered over yours, forcing you to tilt your head up so you could look at him. He was so much bigger than you, so much more agile, that it was ridiculous to even imagine you could beat him in a race. But, again, that's not what the game was about.

Geralt leaned in towards you, his lips brushing your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin. "When you lose and you're on the ground begging for mercy, I just want you to remember that you asked for this." he whispered, defiantly, sending a shiver down your spine.

He looked at you and you knew it was time to run. He gave you a head start, knowing he could catch you without even trying —not only because he was faster than you, but also because you had no real intention of winning that bet. He watched you run through the trees, admiring the way your hair moved in the wind. Only when you disappeared over the horizon did he start to move. He walked at a slow pace at first, sharpening his hearing to follow the sound of your footsteps. But when he caught the scent of your arousal, he couldn't help but pick up his pace. It was like a drug to him, an intoxicating scent that messed with the hormones of the big, bad wolf he had set free.

Geralt let the scent of your floral perfume mixed with the sweet nectar hidden between your legs guide him towards you, an invisible force drawing him closer and closer to his prey. When he reached you, he found you hiding behind a tree, taking advantage of the moment to catch your breath. He heard you gasp as soon as you sensed his presence, holding your breath to avoid making your position known. Geralt smiled to himself, finding your small efforts to remain hidden adorable.

"You can't hide from me, bunny." He spoke, approaching you slowly. "I can hear the sound of your quickened breathing from miles away... smell the scent of your arousal... you want this, so why don't you come out and get this over with."

Geralt was offering you a truce, a chance for things not to escalate any further than they already had. Any sane person in your place would have taken it, it was the reasonable thing to do after taunting the wolf like that. But you were not just anyone. You wanted to face the consequences of your actions. You wanted to face the white wolf that Geralt tried so hard to keep in line. You wanted him to do whatever he wanted with you, that was the point of the game in the first place.

You came out of hiding with your hands up in a feigned sign of surrender. Geralt walked a few steps towards you, eyeing you with suspicion. You held his gaze, trying to hide your true intentions. But in the end the smile on your lips betrayed you, letting him know that you didn't plan to give up easily before you had a chance to run.

You barely made it a couple of steps before you felt the warmth of his body against yours, his arms wrapped tightly around you to keep you from escaping. You squirmed in his grip, trying to free your arms from his strong hold, but it was pointless. Geralt was much bigger and stronger than you, so you weren't going anywhere if he didn't want you to. He pressed you against him, pinning your back to his chest as his hands intertwined over your stomach, effectively imprisoning you against his body. You felt his nose against your neck, sniffing your scent with animalistic desperation. It made you tremble, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your heart pounded with anticipation. You pressed the curve of your ass against the bulge growing in his pants in response and you felt Geralt’s chest vibrate with a repressed moan.

"I got you." he growled against your skin before sinking his teeth into the sensitive area of your neck. "You're mine, bunny. Mine."

"I'm yours," you moaned, relaxing into his arms, tilting your head more so he could have better access to your neck. You wanted him to mark you. You wanted him to claim you as his own. "Please, take me." you begged. It was an airy whisper, but Geralt heard it with perfect clarity. And your consent was all he needed.

In a matter of seconds, your back was pressed against the grass as Geralt hovered over you. His hands were all over your body, lifting your skirt and unbuttoning the ties of your top to expose your breasts. His lips kissed every inch of exposed skin, but there was nothing romantic or sensual about it. It was rough, desperate, Geralt sucked your skin with the intention of leaving marks, sinking his teeth into your flesh as he growled that you belonged to him. It was too much and yet not enough. The pleasure coursing through your body was almost unbearable, but you needed more, you needed to feel all of him.

"You knew exactly what you were doing... calling me that name, making me chase you around." Geralt inserted a finger inside you without warning, earning a moan from you. You were so aroused, so desperate for his touch, that he had no trouble at all pushing deep into your core, moving his digit with ease and reaching up to brush against that sensitive part inside you that turned you into a moaning mess. "This is what you wanted, didn't you bunny? You wanted your big, bad wolf to chase you around and pin you down right in the middle of the woods, huh?"

"Y-yes, f-fuck." you managed to blurt out between moans and quickened breaths. Geralt inserted a second finger inside you and the air got stuck in your throat as the pleasure overwhelmed you. He increased the pace of his movements, showing you no mercy as his fingers moved in and out of you in desperate, almost aggressive movements. You could feel the knot in your stomach tightening, ready to snap at any moment.

"You awakened the wolf on purpose. This is exactly what you wanted, didn't you?" he growled in your ear, playfully biting your ear lobe. You could only reply with an incoherent moan, closing your eyes to focus on the pleasure coursing through your body. But that wasn't enough for him, Geralt wanted to hear you say it. "Answer me!" he demanded and you were forced to open your eyes just by the authority in his voice.

"Yes! I-I wanted this, I-I wanted the wolf to fuck me. Please..." Geralt smiled showing his teeth and you couldn't help but think how much he resembled a real wolf when he looked at you like that. His lips were slightly swollen and covered with saliva after working on marking your skin, his pupils blown wide with arousal. He was looking at you like a wolf looked at its prey, desperate to jump at you and devour his meal.

"Beg for it." He said through gritted teeth. He removed his fingers from inside you, leaving you empty and unsatisfied. It took your pleasure-clouded mind a few seconds to process his words, too focused on the high you'd lost to let out anything more than whimpers of frustration. But that was exactly what Geralt wanted. He wanted to see you completely desperate, surrendered under his body, begging for his touch.

"Please, wolf, I need you... I need to feel you inside me, please." You begged him, looking up at him through your eyelashes. He took his fingers covered with your sweet nectar into his mouth, sucking them clean as he moaned around them. It was the hottest image you had ever seen. He was so focused on the taste of your arousal touching his tongue that for a moment you feared he might not be able to hear your pleas for attention.

“I’m yours to take… please, wolf. I need you.”

The pathetic desperation in your voice was enough for Geralt. He wasted no time, freeing his cock from its confinement and thrusting it into you in one swift movement that left you breathless. He was big and even though your arousal was seeping down your thighs, it always took you a moment to get used to the way he stretched you. He showed you some mercy, giving you a few seconds to adjust while he enjoyed the way your walls closed around his cock. Nothing compared to the warm feeling of your walls wrapped around his cock, pulling him inside you, inviting him to stay. It was the closest he had ever been to heaven, if there was such a thing.

Geralt let out a grunt as you began to move your hips against him, urging him to move. He placed his hands on either side of your head, effectively imprisoning you under his large, imposing figure. Then he gave you a sloppy, wet kiss, biting your lower lip before moving closer to your ear. "Just remember you asked for this." He whispered, sealing your fate.

The rhythm he set was fast and rough, his hips moving against yours desperately. The sheer force of his thrusts was such that you had to cling to his body to keep from sliding upward each time he entered you. It hurt a little, but in the most delicious way. He hit that special place inside you with every thrust of his hips, turning you into an incoherent moaning mess that could do nothing but dig your nails into his back in a desperate attempt to keep you grounded. Pure pleasure coursed through your veins as you felt Geralt pressing deep inside you, filling you and claiming you as his. Your sweat covered skin was on fire, only finding relief when the witcher's cold medallion that dangled over your face made contact with your body.

"Scream! I want to hear you, bunny. I want to know how good I'm making you feel." Geralt demanded and your body instantly obeyed, as if he was the true owner of your mind. "That's it, don't hold back. No one is going to find us here, you can scream all you want. It's just me and you."

The forest filled with your moans and Geralt's animalistic grunts. He couldn't contain himself, seeing you underneath him with your tangled hair full of dry leaves and your watery eyes full of pleasure was too much for him. He couldn't stop the fast rhythm of his hips even if he wanted to. The wolf inside him wanted to ruin you completely, to mark you as his and make sure you were never satisfied with any other man but him. You belonged to him, now and forever.

"You wanted this, you craved it... my little bunny, desperate to get fucked like a bitch in heat." He growled against the skin of your neck, sinking his teeth into the sensitive area below your ear.

"Yes! F-fuck, please... I'm so close." You begged him, feeling the familiar tingle spreading in your stomach as your toes curled. His fingers traveled to the little bundle of nerves pulsing between your legs, stroking it with rapid circular motions that increased your level of desperation. You were so close to your relief it was almost painful, but you wanted to wait, to hold back your pleasure so you could explode alongside Geralt.

"You want me to fill you up, mark you as mine, huh? Breed you with my pups so everyone knows you're mine?" It was an empty promise and you both knew it. Geralt was sterile and no matter how much he wanted to, he could not father a child. But that didn't make his words any less arousing. The idea of being his and having his child growing in your belly to prove it was so enticing that you couldn't help but entwine your legs around his waist as a way to make sure he didn't slip out from inside you.

"Yes, please! I'm yours, I always will be and I want everyone to know!"

"That's right, you are. And I'm yours." Geralt grunted, leaning his forehead against yours to look you in the eye as he quickened his movements, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased the sweet relief. "Can you feel how deep inside you I am?" He took your hand and pressed it against your lower belly, where you could feel the bulge of his cock moving inside you. "I'm going to shoot my seed so deep into you, you'll carry it inside you until your belly starts to swell up with my pups inside it. Is that what you want?"

"Yes! Please, give it to me, wolf! I need to feel you, please." You begged with your last breath, almost bursting into tears from the intensity of the pleasure you felt.

Two more thrusts were all it took for Geralt to push you over the edge. You came with a cry of his name, nails digging into the sweaty skin of his back as your warm walls tightened around his cock, forcing him to stay inside you. That was enough to trigger his own relief, his cock twitching inside you as he shot his load deep inside your cunt, painting your walls with pearly white ropes of cum. And yet, he continued to thrust inside you, making your body shake from the overstimulation. He wanted to make sure his seed stayed inside you. He wanted to be able to smell the mix of his relief and yours on you for the rest of the day.

When he finally pulled away you groaned, feeling empty. Geralt let out an airy chuckle as he dropped down next to you, struggling to catch his breath. He pulled you close to him, wrapping his arms around you and resting your head on his chest. Even after all that, he still needed to hold you close, to feel the warmth of your body against his.

You stayed like that until your breathing returned to normal, reveling in each other's closeness. You were so relaxed in his arms that you might well have fallen asleep if not for Geralt breaking the peaceful silence by clearing his throat.

"We should head back." he murmured, his fingers tracing imaginary lines on the exposed skin of your arm.

"I would if I could move." You joked as you began to feel the pain in your tired muscles. You didn't regret anything, though.

"I'm sorry."

You lifted your head from his chest to look at him, giving him a smile to ease the guilt he might be feeling for hurting you. "Don't be, you did exactly what I wanted you to do." You reached up to kiss him and he gladly reciprocated, cupping your cheek with his free hand so he could deepen the kiss.

However, he pulled away faster than you expected. You whined again, but he ignored you, getting up from the floor and shaking the dirt off his clothes. "It's getting late, we need to go." He said and you huffed. You weren't ready to move yet.

"Geraaalt" you complained, pouting. He looked down at you, ready to scold you, but was distracted by the sight of his artwork in all its glory. Your sweat-covered skin glowed under the afternoon light, highlighting your beauty. Your body was covered in his teeth marks and a trail of reddened hickeys trailed from your neck to your breasts and disappeared under the fabric of your dress. You carried his scent on your body, his seed inside you and his teeth marks on your skin. That alone was enough to awaken the wolf inside him once again, though he held back.

"You look beautiful." He said, kneeling beside you to help you knot the ties in the front of your dress, hiding your breasts and the marks he had made behind the fabric.

The softness in Geralt's eyes was such that you felt the need to hide your face, feeling embarrassed and somehow more exposed than when you were having sex. However, he didn't give you time to react as he quickly pulled you into his arms and made his way back to the hut. You relaxed in his arms, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck and snuggling against his shoulder.

"I love you." you said in an almost inaudible whisper. It was as if you were speaking more to yourself than for Geralt to hear you. As if the words had escaped your lips as you were lost in thought.

But Geralt's hearing was exceptionally good. And he couldn't help but smile to himself as he heard those words.

#geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x fem reader #geralt of rivia smut #geralt x reader #the witcher x reader #the witcher smut #geralt of rivia x reader smut #geralt of rivia imagine #henry cavill #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher netflix

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