#the ways they changed and stayed the same

[biscuitsinsaltwater]

you having fun imagine scenario and story. But then suddenly, as you take a step back and look at the thing as a whole. You realize how much subtle implies and metaphor it have that you take from experience or accidentally create through the event the story make out of.

The problem w writing fiction is that you'll be like tee-hee I'm going to write a story about a fucked up little scenario that's got nothing to do with anything in real life, just some pure messed up nonsense, and then you finish it and take a step back and go aw rats I made a metaphor again

[rawjutsu]

chapter six.

pairing: snow leopard hybrid!gojo x bunny hybrid!femreader

keep up here

the air was still—too still—and yet somehow simmering at the same time. a blackout had rolled across tokyo just as a thunderstorm began to loom, swallowing the city in heat and silence.

which left you with two options: suffer through the suffocating humidity in silence, no a/c, no fans, and zero distractions… or open the windows and risk letting the rain in.

typical tokyo summer.

work had sent you home early, and with the restaurant closed until the power returned, you were looking at at least two days of waiting it out. alone.

satoru, of course, had been adamant about escaping to a motel first thing the next morning, blackout be damned.

“bunny, i really don’t think being stranded in a dark, sweaty apartment is ideal—especially not for me,” he’d said, grinning like he thought this was cute. “c’monnn, don’t tell me you’re scared of the dark?”

you'd rolled your eyes and muttered something about how mopping up rainwater every thirty minutes wasn’t your idea of a chill night.

but he wouldn’t let it go. he insisted it wasn’t safe to stick around. that his rut wasn’t going to be considerate enough to wait for the weather to pass.

“i don’t get it,” you’d huffed. “does this mean you’re always gonna leave when you’re in rut?” then quieter, your eyes dropping to your fidgeting hands— “do you not want to…?”

he’d laughed too quickly, like it was obvious.

“oh, little bunny, trust me—i want to fuck you.”

then he’d shrugged, tone going lazy in that annoying way it always did when he was trying to seem unbothered.

“not that i’m saying i wanna lay you down on a bed of roses and recite haikus or anything, but i also don’t think the first time should be while i’m literally holding back from fucking my entire lineage into you.”

you’d rolled your eyes again, trying—and failing—to ignore the heat that bloomed in your stomach.

“don’t be so dramatic.”

but satoru just shrugged, all smug confidence and unreadable glances, like ‘you’ll see.’ like ‘good luck surviving that decision, babe.’

neither of you had brought it up again. not the almosts. not the nearlys. not the fact that you'd been teetering on the edge of something real for weeks now.

since last night, you’d kept your distance. shared the occasional kiss—soft, chaste, like he was scared you’d shatter. and you hated it. hated how even those gentle touches had you blushing like a middle schooler, legs weak from something as simple as his thumb brushing your cheek.

so now here you were, pacing the apartment and lining the windowsills with towels, sweating through your tank top and underwear, praying the storm wouldn’t hit as hard as the forecast promised.

half the windows were done and you were mid-cursing the broken fan again when your phone buzzed.

satoru.

you answered flatly.

“what?”

“okay,” he sighed, already sounding annoyed. “you win.”

you blinked.

“huh?”

“i’m coming back. just for the night.”

suspicion bloomed.

“i thought you said that was a terrible idea?”

“it is,” he groaned. “i’ve already changed clothes three times in the last hour and it’s not even full rut mode yet. but the power’s out everywhere, the motels are all booked, and honestly? i can’t stop thinking about you being alone in the dark with the windows wide open like you’re inviting every pervert in tokyo to come say hi.”

you rolled your eyes, but a weird little flutter kicked up in your chest.

“i’m serious,” he said, quieter now. “i know i should stay away. but i can’t focus. i can’t sleep. i just… i need to know you’re okay.”

your stomach flipped. you clenched the phone tighter against your ear.

“…just for the night?” you asked, even though you already knew the answer.

“just for the night,” he promised. then added, way too smug, “unless you start begging again.”

you scoffed.

“you’re such a whore.”

“your whore,” he shot back. “be there in ten.”

you hung up, heartbeat obnoxiously loud in your ears.

so much for waiting it out in peace.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

the night dragged.

trying to sleep was a joke. you were hot and sticky, your sheets clinging to you like a second skin. the breeze from the cracked window barely touched you, but it kept knocking your blinds against the sill like it was mocking you.

you groaned, flat on your back, staring into the dark ceiling. every inch of you buzzed.

was satoru asleep?

probably not. he hadn’t even let you near him when he arrived, mumbling something about boundaries and trying to be responsible while looking like he was two seconds from chewing through drywall.

screw it.

you threw off your blanket and padded barefoot to his door, knocking once, then wincing.

“satoru?”

silence.

you sighed.

“i know you told me to stay in my room, but the rain won’t let me sleep, and if i close the windows, it’s too hot, and—ugh.”

still nothing.

then the floor creaked.

the door swung open.

satoru stood there, all six-foot-something of sweat-slick, grumpy snow leopard hybrid, white hair damp, blue eyes narrowed like he’d just been yanked out of a dream. a muscle ticked in his jaw.

“and how exactly do you think i’m supposed to help?”

you offered a sheepish smile.

“can i sleep with you?”

satoru blinked once.

“no.”

“please? i promise i won’t do anything. it’s just—it’d be better if i had someone to cuddle.”

he dragged a hand down his face like he was holding himself back from screaming into the void.

“you really are testing me, you know that?”

you grinned.

he sighed and stepped aside.

“fine. but you keep your hands to yourself. no cuddling. i’m putting a pillow between us.”

“i’ll take what i can get.”

his room was cooler, the big tree outside the window blocking the worst of the storm’s breeze. the occasional crack of thunder rattled the glass, but otherwise, it was peaceful. you hadn’t really gotten a good look at his room before—last time, things had gotten a little… feral.

there was a queen bed, way too much space for two people pretending not to be in love.

satoru chucked a body pillow between you and flopped onto his side with a grunt. you climbed in beside him, suddenly way too aware of the last time you were here, of how different things had been.

you curled into the comforter, nose brushing the pillow. it smelled like him—sandalwood and citrus, and something sharper beneath. something him.

your body exhaled, like it finally felt safe.

and you couldn’t stop staring at him.

he was beautiful. stupidly beautiful.

from the other side of the pillow wall, satoru cracked one eye open and smirked.

“thought you came here to sleep, not stare at me like a creep.”

you flushed.

“i just haven’t really seen you up close like this.”

“you have, bun. very recently.”

“that was different,” you mumbled. “i wasn’t exactly focused on your face.”

he stretched, arm flopping above his head, smug grin pulling at his lips.

“yeah, guess there were more pressing matters.”

you giggled and kicked his leg under the covers, then burrowed deeper into the comforter.

“i’m going to sleep. try not to hump my leg in your sleep, perv.”

satoru looks deeply unamused. “goodnight, bunny.” ⊹ ࣪ ˖

you wake slowly, barely conscious at first—just heavy limbs and hazy heat. but there’s weight on you. arms. strong ones. a thick arm banded tight around your waist, another draped lazily over your belly, fingers twitching against the hem of your sleep shirt. his leg's hooked between yours, locking you in place like a puzzle piece he refuses to let go of.

it’s so warm, too warm, but you don’t want to move. not yet.

your eyes flutter open, groggy and unfocused, and it takes a second to process what’s happening.

satoru.

you glance down, blinking away sleep. yeah. definitely him. white hair messily flopped over your shoulder, face buried in the curve of your neck, and—

oh.

you feel it now. pressed right up against your lower back, hot and hard. his cock, thick and twitching beneath his sweats.

your breath hitches. “satoru,” you whisper, voice barely audible.

he doesn’t respond, not really—just breathes a little harder, the heat of it gusting across the nape of your neck. and then he pulls you in tighter. impossibly close. like his body’s trying to melt into yours.

your brain starts short-circuiting. you should wake him up. you should absolutely wake him up.

right?

he’s not in rut... right?

your heart’s pounding now, but you stay still, caught between logic and the way it feels to be held like this. his chest is firm against your back. his scent—warm, woodsy, a little smoky from whatever cologne he wore yesterday—fills your lungs and scrambles your thoughts.

it feels weirdly intimate. soft, even. you like it.

...maybe you stay. just a little longer.

you shift slightly, trying to get more comfortable—and that’s when he freezes.

muscles tense. breath stalls. his cock twitches hard against your ass.

shit.

“guess that pillow didn’t work,” satoru mumbles, voice low and wrecked, muffled against your skin.

your heart jumps.

you breathe out a quiet, awkward laugh. “no. it didn’t.”

there’s a beat of silence. his breathing’s different now—heavier, ragged. you try to turn to look at him, but his arms are like iron. you push again, squirming a little, but he doesn’t budge.

and then you feel it—his cock, growing impossibly harder, pressed directly into you. your whole body tenses as your ears twitch involuntarily. your instincts are screaming something’s changed.

“maybe i should go,” you whisper, even though it comes out way too breathy to be convincing.

but you don’t get the chance to move.

in one fast, fluid motion, he flips you onto your back. the air leaves your lungs as he looms over you, eyes locking onto yours.

your breath catches.

his cheeks are flushed��deep red blooming across his nose, up to the tips of his ears. but it’s his eyes that truly scare you: pupils blown, glassy, high off of something that isn’t sleep. it’s rut. you know it now. something feral is crawling behind his gaze.

“fuck,” he breathes, like he’s never seen anything so good in his life.

your hands go to his hair on instinct—scratching lightly behind his ears like you always do. you don’t even think about it. just trying to soothe.

and he starts to purr.

not softly, either. a deep, guttural vibration from his chest that reverberates straight through your ribs. he leans into your touch like a cat in sunlight, eyes fluttering shut, nose nuzzling your palm. it’s... weirdly precious. like this dangerous, overpowered predator just turned into your oversized housecat.

he’s not in full rut, you think. he can still be gentle. you can still leave.

so you try. carefully. wiggling your leg out from under his. but your thigh brushes against his cock and—

his eyes snap open.

and they’re different.

sharper. dilated. animal.

his claws dig into your waist, just shy of drawing blood, and you feel a shudder roll through you.

“satoru,” you whisper, panic rising in your throat. “i should go.”

you push against his chest, but it’s like trying to move a boulder. your muscles barely flex before he growls—a low, threatening sound—and pounces.

suddenly he’s on top of you, legs pinning yours, hands slamming your wrists into the mattress. his mouth brushes the skin of your neck, and your breath stops.

he doesn’t kiss.

he bites.

hard.

his canines sink into the crook of your neck, sharp and possessive, and you cry out, your back arching. the pain is blinding, white-hot, but he licks over the wound almost tenderly—tongue rough like sandpaper as he soothes it.

“should’ve left,” he murmurs darkly. “too late now. you’re gonna let me fuck you.”

your brain short-circuits. your breath catches.

heat floods your belly like a dam breaking.

“that’s probably what you wanted, anyway,” he grins lazily, eyes hooded. “bet you planned this. snuck into my bed all soft and desperate... just waiting for me to break.”

“no— i—”

but you don’t get to finish the sentence before he ruts his hips down hard.

you moan, shameless and loud, feeling the thick length of his cock drag against your soaked panties.

his grin spreads, predatory and all-consuming.

“see? can’t tell me this cute little bunny doesn’t want my cock stretching her open.”

you whimper, trapped somewhere between terror and arousal. this wasn’t supposed to happen. not like this. but your body doesn’t seem to care—your pussy’s already throbbing, clenching on nothing.

“satoru…” you plead, voice trembling. “i… i don’t know if i can—”

“you will,” he purrs, low and slow, licking over your neck again. “you’ll take every inch. every drop. because that’s what good little bunnies do, yeah? let themselves get bred by the strongest.”

his claws shred your clothes in one swipe. you gasp as cool air hits your skin, but his touch is already replacing it, dragging calloused fingers down your side like he’s memorizing you.

“all mine,” he whispers. “to fuck. to fill.”

the need to run fizzles and dies. your fear is still there—buzzing at the edge of your awareness—but it’s drowned by the way he looks at you. possessive. reverent. starving.

then he shifts.

kneels beside your head.

he’s huge.

the size of him is fucking inhuman. long, thick, barbed along the ridge of the shaft, designed to lock in and stay there.

you’re squirming now, hips trying to rock up, but he pins you with a snarl.

“you move again,” he hisses, voice trembling with restraint, “and i’ll knot you and fuck you until you can’t walk.”

you freeze.

and you realize where this is going as his cock brushes against your lips.

the scent hits you first—sharp, musky, addictive. your mouth waters before you even process it.

you glance up.

he’s watching you like a god demanding worship.

you open your mouth.

he groans, deep and shaky, as his cock slides over your tongue. thick. heavy. veins pulsing against your lips. he doesn’t wait—his hips roll forward and you gag slightly, your throat resisting the sudden intrusion.

but you don’t stop. you can’t. you let him in deeper until your nose hits the fur at his pelvis, tongue flicking, jaw straining, spit pooling fast.

“fuck, that’s it,” he growls, claws tangling in your hair. “just like that. take it.”

he sets a pace that’s brutal from the start—thrusting into your mouth like he owns it. like he needs it. your vision blurs, tears spilling freely as your throat stretches to accommodate his size.

he’s moaning now, openly. filthy, broken sounds.

“look at you,” he pants. “fucking perfect. made to take me.”

his hand dips between your legs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles. your hips jerk. you whine around his cock.

“get nice and wet for me,” he grins. “i’m gonna ruin this pussy next.”

his thrusts grow erratic. sloppier. you can feel it—he’s close. his cock throbs against your tongue, thick spurts of precum hitting the back of your throat.

with one final thrust, he slams into your mouth and groans long and deep, spilling hot down your throat. you swallow automatically, tears still tracking down your cheeks as you try to keep up.

he pants above you, cock twitching as he pulls out, dragging wetness down your chin.

but he’s not done.

not even close.

he flips you onto your hands and knees, claws gripping your hips like handles. you’re soaked—pussy glistening, begging—and when he sinks in, it’s all instinct.

no prep.

just thick cock stretching you open, forcing a scream from your throat.

“mine,” he growls. “this pussy belongs to me.”

you can only sob out a yes, voice broken by pleasure. he fucks you hard, hips snapping forward with punishing force. you’re dizzy, eyes rolling, brain gone static from how good it feels.

“take it,” he pants. “fucking take it.”

his hands find your ears. tug.

hard.

you yelp, body spasming as your cunt clenches hard around him. pain. pleasure. sensory overload.

“you like that, don’t you?” he sneers. “like being my little fuck toy.”

your body agrees before your brain can. you’re pushing back against him now, desperate, hungry for more.

“i’ll breed you,” he growls. “make you mine. make this body only ever fit me.”

“yes,” you cry, frantic now. “please, satoru, please!”

your walls clench uncontrollably around him, pulsing in time with his brutal thrusts. your breath hitches, high and frantic, as his pace speeds up—merciless, primal, like he’s desperate to mark you with everything he has. his lips press against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just hard enough to leave a sharp sting.

“mine,” he snarls, teeth bared in a feral grin, voice trembling with raw need. “all mine, bunny. you’re my fucking prey.”

your ears twitch, twitching from the tug on your fur, sharp claws grabbing your bunny ears and pulling hard, making you yelp. the pain is fierce, electric, and somehow it only makes the pleasure spike higher, fracturing your brain with every cruel tug.

the overstimulation hits like a tidal wave—your vision blurs, your muscles spasm uncontrollably, and you scream out, loud and desperate, your body trembling beneath him. his hips slam into you again and again, dragging you over the edge and back with ruthless precision.

he leans in, spitting into your open mouth before kissing you like he wants to crawl inside your lungs. and then he’s slamming in harder, deeper, until your thighs shake.

“i’m cumming—fuck, i’m gonna fill you—”

you feel him twitch inside you, his release building, the knot growing and locking you together like a shackle you never want to escape. his growls turn into ragged roars as he spills into you, filling you up completely, marking you with every drop.

but he’s not done.

even as his body shudders in release, he doesn’t pull out. instead, he collapses over you, heavy and possessive, claws still digging into your skin as his heated breath ghosts over your ear.

his voice drops to a low, dangerous rumble. “you’re mine, bunny. every inch of you belongs to me now.”

his hands move slower now, tracing possessive patterns over your skin, claws dragging gently but firmly along your sides, over your hips, reminding you with every touch that you’re his. his scent wraps around you like a living thing, thick and intoxicating, marking you as his.

he nuzzles your neck, teeth grazing softly, licking the sting he just gave you. his tail flicks around your waist, tightening possessively. you shiver, caught between pain and warmth, his wildness still thrumming through his every touch.

“good girl,” he murmurs, voice rough but softening just enough to make your heart pound. “you took it all like a fucking champ.” 

but you’re not listening, not really. your head’s spinning. you’re full—too full—but it’s not enough. not even close. his knot swells inside you, locking in place with a wet, squelching pop, and the stretch is unbearable—delicious—perfect.

and something inside you shifts.

it howls.

your instincts scream at you to move, to breed. and suddenly, you’re clawing at the sheets, hips grinding back against his cock like your body’s acting on its own.

“f-fuck,” you choke. “it’s not— i need more, i need— satoru, i need it deeper, need—”

he groans, pressed against your back, struggling to catch his breath. “you’ve got my knot, baby—‘s all the way inside. you’re locked.”

“then move,” you snarl—voice wrecked and needy. “i can take it, i want it—want you to break me—”

you twist beneath him, ears twitching, hips jerking against his like you’re trying to drag his cock even deeper. the movement sends a jolt through both of you—your pussy clenches, his knot throbs, and a feral snarl bursts from his throat.

“fuck,” he gasps, voice wrecked. “you’re—shit—”

you slam your hips back again and again, frantic, bouncing against the stretch. his cum leaks from your cunt around the base of his cock, soaking both your thighs, but your pussy just clenches harder.

you bite his shoulder.

hard.

hard enough to draw blood.

his roar rattles the walls.

that’s when it happens.

satoru—who’s been in control this whole time, all teeth and rut and possessive growls—loses it. you finally overwhelm him. his body jerks. his claws tear into the mattress. his knot pulses again and again as your cunt milks him, sucks him dry.

“holy fuck— you’re gonna kill me,” he pants, voice breaking, “—fuckin’— you’re milking me—!”

“i want it,” you sob, nails dragging down his back. “give me everything— fill me, fuck me— satoru please, i can’t— i can’t stop—!”

his hips stutter, locked against you, but your grinding won’t stop. your biological instincts have hijacked your body—you’re desperate, soaked, sobbing—clawing for stimulation, for completion.

“i can feel it,” you gasp. “feel it breeding me—”

his cock jerks violently, and suddenly he’s cumming again. no warning, no buildup—just another hot, overwhelming flood. you swear you can feel it in your womb, sticky and endless, and you cry out as your orgasm crashes through you again, harder than the last.

your ears twitch violently. your whole body seizes.

and then—

you flip him.

your strength is nothing compared to his, but he’s too wrecked, too overstimulated, and you scramble on top like an animal. knot still buried. pussy fluttering. sweat-slick and trembling and possessed.

“satoru,” you pant, straddling his hips, hands on his chest. “don’t stop. don’t you fucking dare.”

his eyes are glassy, pupils blown, mouth slack.

but he still growls. “greedy little bunny—”

you slam your hips down, grinding your cunt against the knot lodged inside you.

his eyes roll back.

“you wanna breed me?” you whisper, voice shaking. “then breed me. fuck me until you can’t breathe. fill me ‘til i’m pregnant with your kits.”

“fuck—”

he surges up, grabs your throat, and kisses you like he’s dying.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

and that’s how it continues for about a week.

you’re not technically in heat —not really—but something in your body doesn’t care. some dumb, bunny instinct still has you grinding against him in your sleep, nuzzling at his neck until his rut takes over again and he’s flipping you onto your stomach and stuffing you full all over again.

you swear you’ve forgotten what it feels like to not be bred.

your pussy's raw. sore. at some point you physically can’t take it anymore, so you shift to blowing him on your hands and knees —lips puffy, throat ruined, ears twitching as you moan around the thick weight of him because you're still needy and he’s still in rut.

satoru, for his part, is equally feral—grabbing at your ears, bucking into your mouth with glassy eyes and cum-drunk groans.

by day five, you’ve both stopped pretending to be normal.

by day seven?

you finally come back to yourselves.

you’re curled in his bed, limbs tangled, skin flushed and sticky with the fading scent of rut and everything in between.

your ears twitch as you blink up at him, chin resting on his chest. he’s warm under your cheek, heartbeat slow, lazy fingers tracing idle shapes on your thigh.

satoru groans softly, voice rough with sleep and exhaustion. “i think i almost died.”

you snort. “you almost killed me.”

“yeah, well,” he mutters, tilting his head to nose at your temple, “it’s your fault for sneaking into my bed smelling like a walking wet dream. bunny pheromones are, like, a war crime.”

“cry about it,” you mumble.

“already did,” he yawns dramatically. “i’ve been crying cum. for days. i’ve never been this dehydrated in my life. my balls are hollow.”

you giggle, face burying into his chest as you shake with laughter. “shut up, you were loving it.”

“i was,” he agrees proudly. “still am. 10/10, would breed again.”

you swat at his stomach, and he catches your wrist lazily, kissing your knuckles. then, more seriously, “...you okay?”

your smile softens.

“yeah,” you say quietly. “i’m good.”

he nods.

you both fall into silence again, the kind that’s comfortable and full of unspoken things. his arms pull you closer, protective and warm, and you nuzzle against his chest with a sleepy sigh.

“...worth it,” you whisper.

satoru hums. “what?”

you lift your head, ears drooping as your eyes meet his. “letting you almost maul me. worth it.”

his grin is slow. sharp. smug.

“i told you,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead like he didn’t just wreck you for a solid week. “strongest dick alive.”

“you’re so annoying,” you mutter—but you’re smiling.

because he’s still here. holding you. whole again.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Sylus' non-mc fiance. Hidden Child au. part2

Imagine meeting you was never part of the plan.

Imagine he walked into that club on a whim. He hadn't stepped into a place like that in years. It wasn't his kind of scene anymore. But Mephisto had been running his mouth about something in Zone N109's underbelly, about a person worth watching. So Sylus went. Not because he cared. But because something about the way Mephisto kept talking made him want to shut him up.

Imagine seeing you. He didn't catch your name. Not at first. Just a blur of tired eyes, practiced laughter, that hollow sound people wore like armor. You looked like someone who had learned how to survive not to live, just survive.

Imagine he wasn't supposed to get involved. But then you looked at him. And he stopped. Completely.

Imagine he didn't know why he brought you home. He didn't know why he stayed after the first night when it had always been just one and done. But when the sun started to rise and you stirred under the sheets, Sylus found himself watching you breathe. And before he could stop himself, he said the words. "I need a lover."

Imagine you looked half asleep, confused. Still dreaming, maybe. But you said yes. And Sylus felt something tighten in his chest.

Imagine he didn't understand it. He didn't want to understand it. But something about the way you agreed so quietly, so unflinchingly felt like the beginning of something he couldn't name.

Imagine maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was fate. But he gave you his name. Left you his black card. Told you to quit your job and wait for him. And two nights later you did.

Imagine years passed. Sylus kept you close. You were at his side at galas, exhibitions, political dinners. You smiled when you had to, played your role to perfection. Wore everything he gave you. The diamonds, the silk, the title.

Imagine you never asked for more. But he saw it. In your silences. In the way your eyes lingered when he wasn't looking. You didn't just play the part. You were waiting. For something. For him. And Sylus, heartless, calculated Sylus didn't know how to give you what you wanted. So he gave you what he could. Everything but love.

Imagine the night it changed.

Imagine you were curled up on the couch in his office, asleep again. Waiting for him to finish work. The storm outside was relentless, thunder shaking the windows. But you were still. Peaceful. And something broke inside him.

Imagine he stood there for too long, staring. Realizing. If you ever left, he wouldn't survive it. So he walked over. Pressed a kiss to your forehead. Sat beside you and, for once, stayed until morning.

Imagine he always thought he'd know when it happened that falling in love would feel like lightning, or fire, or blood. Something violent. Something impossible to ignore. But it didn't.

Imagine it felt like this. You standing in his office, biting your lip, eyes lowered in guilt because you touched that painting. The one he told you not to. The only thing in the room he had once considered untouchable. "You touched it?" You flinched. "No- well yes..." He narrowed his eyes. "What did I tell you-?" "It was an accident! I didn't mean to-" You cut yourself off, lips pressing shut. As if you were swallowing more than just words. Something about the way your hands curled into fists. Like you were protecting someone. You always did that. Even when it wasn't smart.

Imagine in that moment, Sylus knew it wasn't just the painting. It was you covering for those goddamn twins, wasn't it? He should've been mad. He was mad, in a way. But not at the painting. Not at you.

Imagine he was angry at the part of him that hesitated. The part of him that looked at you. Wide eyed, apologetic, still standing in the same room with the same warmth you always carried and couldn't bring himself to yell. He didn't want to hurt you. Not even with words. And that scared the hell out of him.

"I see." You looked up. "Look, Sylus- I'm really sorry-" "Get out." You froze. "Don't come into my office for a while." Your shoulders dropped. And for the first time in years, Sylus regretted something immediately after saying it. Because he saw how it broke you a little. And that was when it hit him.

Imagine he loved you. Not because you were perfect. Not because you played your role flawlessly. But because you touched the one thing he thought he'd never let go of and instead of rage, all he felt was fear.

Imagine the fear that you might think he loved someone else more. Fear that he might lose you over it. Fear that the past might have the power to hurt you. He sat with that fear for days. For a week, exactly. And then he removed the painting.

Imagine a week later, you walk into the office again. He barely looked up from his desk, but he saw you pause. Saw your eyes search the wall. "Where's the painting?" You blurted, and then instantly winced. Sylus leaned back in his chair. Calm. Controlled. Heart beating faster anyway. "I had it removed." You looked at him like he just confessed to murder. "What? Why?"

"It doesn't fit the style of the room." He said smoothly, voice level. "Don't you think?" You blinked. "We- well yes..." His office was all deep wood and shadow, the kind of place people whispered about. The painting never matched. He just kept it because... Because it used to matter. But not more than you. "Shall we go look for a replacement?" You blinked again. "I'm sorry- what?" "The painting. Let's find another one."

Imagine he didn't tell you it was because of you. That he couldn't stand the idea of you walking into this room and being reminded you didn't come first. He just stood, adjusting his cufflinks. "Also, Luke and Kieran said there's a new restaurant nearby." "...Sylus, are you asking me out?" There was a pause. A long one. Then. "Aren't you my fiancée?" He asked, brow raised like it was the most natural thing in the world. "There's no need to state the obvious." Your jaw dropped. Again. Sylus almost smiled.

Imagine Sylus realizing quietly, fully that he would burn his past to the ground if it meant you stayed. That this wasn't about paintings, or power, or control. It was about you. He loved you. And for the first time in his life he wasn't afraid of it.

Imagine the way the past came back. MC. They said she was alive. Impossible. Sylus remembered the grave. The cold hand. The dirt beneath his nails. The silence that came after her death. The way it hollowed him out. So who the hell was this woman claiming to be her?

Imagine he didn't tell you. He couldn’t. Things between you had just started to shift. You smiled more. Laughed around him. Touched him without flinching. You were finally letting him in. And he was finally reaching back. He couldn't risk losing that. So he investigated alone.

Imagine letting MC in. He didn't believe her.

but Imagine if pretending to care meant uncovering the truth then so be it. He let her believe. Let her call him love again. Let her think she was winning.

Imagine all while keeping you in the dark. Because you were different. You were real. And if he could just end it cleanly, silently... He could return to you. He could fix what he hadn't even realized was broken.

Imagine she asked him to kill you. Just like that. Like it was nothing. His blood went cold. She said it sweetly. Too sweetly. Like a test. Like she already knew what he'd say. Sylus laughed. Told her it was already done. That it was handled. She believed him. But in his mind, he was already planning her death.

Imagine by the time he had taken care of it, it was too late. You found out. You ran. And Sylus had tore the city apart looking for you. Sent his men. Called in every favor. Burned connections he'd spent decades building. But you were gone. Gone like smoke. Gone like vengeance.

Imagine he would've traded everything just to see you again. Just to tell you it wasn't what it looked like. That he loved you. That it had always been you.

Imagine nearly dying changed nothing. There was a hit. A trap. A bullet in the spine. And then, nothing. Four years. Four fucking years in a coma. And when he woke up, everything had moved on. Except him.

and Imagine you were still gone.

Imagine being dragged to a gala. Some formal garbage he didn't want to be part of. The suit was old. The tie loose. The glass of wine untouched. He was halfway out the door when something small collided with his leg. A child. Crying. Hood pulled low. Tiny hands over his forehead.

Imagine Sylus didn't care for kids. Never had. But something made him stop. Made him kneel. Made him look. And when the boy looked up with wide red eyes. Sylus stopped breathing.

Imagine realizing the truth. His eyes. Your hair. His blood. His son.

Imagine you appeared. Frantic. Breathless. Alive. You called to the boy. Rushed to him. Knelt beside him and checked his hands, his face. Pulled down the hood. And Sylus couldn't move. You looked at him. Really looked. And didn't recognize him.

"Sorry." You said gently. "I hope he didn't give you trouble...?" He answered, voice cracked. "Sylus." You blinked. "Right. Sylus." Like it was nothing more than a name. "Then if you'll excuse us." You added, guiding the boy by the hand. And you walked away.

Imagine the way Sylus stood there for minutes. Hours. Maybe years.

Imagine he had murdered kings. Crushed empires. Ripped the heart out of anyone who dared touch what was his. But for the first time. He didn't know what the hell to do. Because he had just seen everything he had ever loved and you looked at him like he was already dead.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: I deliver his pov.

[suliigwp]

IT TAKES TWO— TO TOXIC

max verstappen x reader | angst

SULI: it was a little hard for me to finish this cus I was feeling quite bad if ykyk lol but I did finish it— this is part one, I have the second one planned... Hope you guys like it — this is set in MV33 era. PART ONE.

SUMMARY: you two were young, didn't know what you were doing, didn't know how to handle something so serious both of you got yourselves into.

WORD COUNT: 4,987

WARNINGS: Sexual Scenes, 19yo. Having sex, Swearing, Toxic Situationship, Jos Verstappen.

It was nearing one in the morning, and you were still wide awake—though not by choice.

Your tiny apartment off campus was dimly lit by the glow of your desk lamp. The pages of your criminal law textbook were starting to blur as your highlighter hovered over the same line for the third time. The coffee you made at eleven had long gone cold. You’d been wearing the same hoodie since yesterday. Your legs were tucked underneath you, bare skin chilled against the worn couch, and a dull ache pulsed behind your eyes from reading too long.

You didn’t even hear the first knock.

Just a faint, distant tap. Then another. Then again—sharper this time.

You frowned, paused your music, and turned your head slowly toward the source. The window. The one by your kitchen table.

You already knew.

With a sigh heavy enough to carry a storm, you got up, heart already pounding as you pulled the curtain aside.

There he was.

Max Verstappen. Hoodie pulled over his messy hair, a smirk already ghosting his lips. One hand shoved in his pocket, the other lightly rapping his knuckles against the glass.

Like it hadn’t been four days since you’d heard from him. Like he hadn’t vanished after his last race without even a text. Like he belonged here.

You unlocked the window, sliding it up just enough to hiss, “Are you serious?”

He grinned. “You gonna let me in or make me stay out here with the raccoons?”

You gave him the coldest look you could manage. He climbed in anyway.

He landed softly, moving through your apartment like muscle memory. Like he still remembered the creak in the third floorboard or where your slippers always ended up. He shook out his hoodie, dropping it on the back of a chair, and straightened up, looking around like something had changed.

Nothing had.

Not really.

"You look tired," he said, nodding toward the scattered textbooks. “Midterms?”

You blinked at him. “Don’t.”

Max looked at you then. Really looked. You hated that he still had that effect on you—like you were some kind of puzzle he never quite solved, like he’d missed something and was always chasing the answer.

“Four days, Max,” you said flatly. “Four days and not even a message.”

“I figured you didn’t want to hear from me,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer.

You backed away.

“Stop doing that. Just... dropping off the planet and showing up whenever it suits you. I’m not a stop on your way home from the airport.”

He raised a brow. “I didn’t come from the airport.”

You crossed your arms. “Where, then?”

“Hotel,” he said. “Dropped my stuff off. Thought about sleeping. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You hated how fast that cracked your composure.

You hated him for knowing it would.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said, voice lower now. “This doesn’t mean anything, Max. You don’t text me. You don’t call. You don’t want anything real. You made that pretty fucking clear.”

He was right in front of you now. So close you could smell his cologne, the rain on his jacket, the faint scent of grease still clinging to him from the garage. You didn’t move.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know I fucked everything up.”

“You didn’t fuck anything up,” you whispered. “Because there was nothing to ruin.”

His hand brushed your wrist. Just a touch. Gentle. Familiar. Dangerous.

“Then tell me to leave.”

You opened your mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.

Because you didn’t want him to.

Because part of you still ached for him, no matter how much it hurt to admit it.

So you didn’t say anything.

And he kissed you.

Hard.

You gasped against his mouth, stumbling backward until your hip hit the edge of the table. His hands were under your hoodie in seconds, fingers finding your waist like they never forgot where they belonged. You let yourself melt into it for one stupid, selfish second—his body pressed against yours, his breath warm on your skin, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his t-shirt like you needed to hold onto something.

“You’re not staying,” you mumbled against his lips, but your voice was already trembling.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “I never do.”

But he was already kissing you again. Pulling you closer. Lifting you up until your legs wrapped around his waist and he carried you to the bed like he hadn’t done this before—but like he wanted to do it right this time.

Later, the room was quiet.

You were curled under the blanket, back to him, staring at the wall. His arm was draped over your waist, fingers tracing mindless shapes into your skin.

“You make me feel crazy,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer at first.

Then, finally, a whisper: “You drive me insane too.”

You turned, just enough to see his face in the dark. His expression unreadable. His mouth drawn into a tight line like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how.

“Do you even care what this does to me?” you asked, and your voice cracked.

Max looked at you, and for once, he didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

And then he stood.

He got dressed slowly. Pulled his hoodie back over his head. Grabbed his keys. And without another word, he slipped out the window and disappeared into the night.

You lay back, eyes burning.

You told yourself next time, you wouldn’t open the window.

But you knew you would.

…

One of their good nights—late, quiet, unguarded.

It was 2:13 a.m. The streetlights outside her apartment blinked slowly against the curtains.

She should’ve been studying. She still had case briefs open on the floor, a half-highlighted textbook on her desk.

But he was on her bed—half-asleep, shirtless, hair still damp from the shower she made him take after sneaking in.

She sat cross-legged beside him, highlighter in one hand, the other idly tracing the line of his shoulder blade.

“That can’t be comfortable,” he murmured.

She looked down. “What?”

“Sitting like that. While you study. You’re gonna destroy your back.”

She raised an eyebrow. “This from the guy who gets thrown around in a car at 300 kilometers per hour.”

“Still. Come here.”

He reached out lazily and pulled her in by the wrist until she was lying across his chest.

Her cheek pressed against the warm skin just above his heart. It was beating steady. Softer than she expected.

She closed her eyes for a second.

“You know this is stupid,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

“It’s going to end badly.”

“Probably.”

“So why are you still here?”

He didn't answer right away. Just curled his arm tighter around her back. His thumb moved in small, slow circles against her spine.

“Because when I’m with you,” he whispered, “the noise shuts off.”

She stilled.

“And that never happens for me. Ever.”

The room went quiet. Her hand moved up to rest just beneath his jaw.

He turned his head slightly. Kissed the top of hers.

“Just stay,” he said. …

The office was too quiet.

You’d been staring at the same corner of the window for five minutes. Your fingernail scraped the edge of your paper cup like it might crack under your thumb.

Your therapist waited.

She always waited.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” you said finally.

You knew it was a lie. But you said it anyway.

Across from you, she gave you a gentle nod. “That’s okay. We can figure that out together.”

You rolled your eyes. You hated that kindness. That soft, neutral patience. You weren’t used to it. You didn’t trust it.

“I’m tired,” you said, more sharply this time. “Of pretending like I’m fine with everything. Of trying to be fine when clearly I’m not.”

She leaned forward a little, still calm. “Is this about Max?”

Your stomach clenched.

You shrugged, trying to look unaffected. “It’s always about Max.”

Silence again.

You looked down at your hands. Your nail had finally broken. You picked at it like that was more important than this conversation.

“He’s not even... He’s not my boyfriend. He never was. He’s just this—this stupid habit I can’t quit.”

“Do you care about him?”

You swallowed.

“That’s the problem.”

The words fell like they’d been waiting to escape for weeks.

“I care too much. And I hate it. I hate how easily he gets to me. I hate that he doesn’t have to try. I hate that he doesn’t even want the same things, and I still let him in.”

“What do you want?” your therapist asked, gently.

You blinked.

“I want him to feel it,” you said slowly. “I want him to know what it’s like to not be enough.”

There it was.

Your throat felt tight. Your hands were suddenly too hot. You crossed your arms and sat back in the chair like the confession hadn’t cracked your ribs open.

“I’ve done everything right,” you said. “I work hard. I don’t get attached. I study. I keep my shit together. I try to be good, and I try to be calm, and I try to be the better person—and it never fucking works.”

“So what would happen if you stopped trying to be the better person?”

That question landed hard. You looked away.

Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Then maybe he’d finally hurt like I do.”

…

It was late. Again.

You didn’t ask how he got in this time—whether it was the window or the spare key you hadn’t had the guts to take back. You were in the kitchen, barefoot in a t-shirt and shorts, when he walked in like he owned the air you were breathing.

Your spine straightened.

“You’re back,” you said flatly, not even looking at him. “Must’ve run out of other places to go.”

Max dropped his bag without answering. He stood in the doorway like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

“You’re pissed,” he said, voice quiet. Too calm.

You snorted. “You disappear for four days, show up in the middle of the night like it’s your fucking right, and you think I’m pissed?”

You turned then, and he looked just as tired as you remembered. Maybe worse. Red-rimmed eyes, messy hair, jaw clenched tight like he was swallowing everything he wanted to say.

“You didn’t text either,” he said. “Don’t act like it’s one-sided.”

You stared at him. That stupid, familiar twist in your chest burned.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He stepped closer. “Why? Because I don’t grovel when you go quiet for days?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Because I don’t have time to babysit a man who doesn’t know what the hell he wants.”

The second it left your mouth, the air in the room shifted. He laughed—but there was no humor in it. Just that mean, sharp, cutting edge he knew how to wield when you touched a nerve.

“You think I don’t know what I want?”

“Clearly you don’t.”

“No,” he said, stepping into your space. “I think I do. I think you just like pretending you don’t care.”

He was close now. Too close. And your voice dropped.

“Don’t act like you love me, Max.”

He didn’t flinch.

But he didn’t back away either.

“You’re not special,” you added coldly. “You think you are, but you’re not. You’re just another boy who thinks wanting me is enough.”

His hands curled into fists. You turned your back.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “I’ve actually been trying. To be good for you. To keep up.”

You exhaled a laugh—hard and hollow. “Trying?” you repeated, venom in your tone. “You flirt with every girl in the paddock. You disappear. You show up like this and expect what? Gratitude? You’re a little boy playing at being serious.”

Max’s face darkened. “I didn’t know there was a checklist.”

You walked past him, brushing his shoulder. Intentionally casual.

He was breathing harder now. You didn’t stop.

“I don’t need you to try,” you said, twisting the blade. “I don’t need anything from you.”

“Then why do you let me in?”

You turned slowly, arms folded, jaw tight.

“Because you're easy.”

His face changed.

“Because you make it easy to forget how alone I am. Because you’re stupid enough to come back every time. Because I know how to use you.”

He didn’t move. You could see it happening behind his eyes—that part of him cracking, splintering, trying to patch itself back together before you noticed.

But you wanted him to feel it. You wanted him to know he wasn’t the only one who could cut deep.

“I’m not stupid,” he said.

You stared at each other. Breathing hard. The silence stretching thin.

He nodded— like he understood, or tried to make himself understand.

“You’re right,” he said. “This is easy. Because it’s nothing.”

Then his hand reached up. Brushed against your jaw. And just like that, the whole thing snapped.

You kissed him first—angry, teeth, heat. He kissed you back like he wanted to make you pay for it.

Your hands were in his hair, dragging him in. His mouth was rough, relentless, like he was trying to forget everything you’d just said. He shoved you back against the wall, and you clawed at the hem of his shirt. It hit the floor. So did yours.

He lifted you in one movement. Your back hit the bedroom door.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whispered, as he kissed your throat.

“No,” he muttered, voice raw. “Just fucking convenience, right?”

You ripped his hoodie off, fingers tangling in his shirt, clawing it over his head. He pushed you onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress, lips never leaving yours.

“You hate me?,” he breathed, as he pulled your shorts down.

“I do.”

“Liar.”

He shoved your knees apart, dragging his fingers up the inside of your thigh slowly—like he was daring you to stop him. You let your head fall back as he sank two fingers inside you without warning. You gasped.

“Still so fucking wet for someone you hate,” he growled, curling them.

You moaned, one hand gripping the sheets, the other fisting his hair.

“You’re and idiot if you think it's because of you,” you said again, like you did most nights.

“Keep saying it,” he said, “see if I believe you.”

You pulled him in, and the moment he lined up, there was no pause. No tenderness. He pushed into you in one sharp, brutal thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

“Fuck—Max—”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Take it.”

His rhythm was relentless. Angry. Your bodies colliding with enough force to shake the frame. You kissed like you hated each other. Touched like you couldn’t stop. Every time you cried out, he swore under his breath like he was falling apart.

“I fucking hate you,” he whispered into your neck. “And that's the only thing that makes this enjoyable— fuck.”

You choked out a sound that could’ve been a sob. Could’ve been a laugh.

“That’s what you’re good for.”

He pulled your wrists above your head, pinned them there. His mouth met yours again, slower now, but more vicious. Tongue, teeth, lips. Bruises bloomed along your collarbone. His name left your mouth like a confession.

You came around him with your body arching violently, and he followed right after, groaning against your throat like your skin was the only thing keeping him from shattering.

…

The debrief room was empty when Jos walked in.

Max sat alone at the small table, still in his fireproofs, elbows on his knees, sweat drying at his temples. He hadn’t spoken to anyone. He hadn’t taken off his race boots. He just stared at the floor like it might change what happened out there.

He heard the door open.

Didn’t look up.

He didn’t have to. The air changed when Jos walked in. Always did.

The silence dragged.

Then, quietly—flat and surgical:

“P7.”

Max swallowed. Didn’t speak.

“I watched that lap twice. You braked too early into Turn 9. You hesitated on the exit.”

Still, Max said nothing.

Jos stepped closer. Voice still calm. Still cold.

“You don’t trust the car. Or you don’t trust yourself. Which one is it?”

Max blinked once. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached.

Jos walked a slow circle around him. Not pacing—hunting.

“I warned you,” he said. “Didn’t I?”

Max stared at the floor.

“That girl—what’s her name? The one you sneak off to every time you’re home. She’s in your head. And now?” He gave a humorless chuckle. “Now she’s in your driving.”

Max finally lifted his eyes. Just for a second.

That was enough.

“You think I don’t see it?” Jos said, sharper now. “The late nights. The missed sim sessions. The soft hands on track. You’re slipping, Max.”

Silence.

“And for what? Some law student who strings you along when it’s convenient? Who wants to feel important because you’re hers?”

Jos leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re a world champion. Act like it.”

“Or walk away now—before you humiliate yourself further.”

Max’s throat worked, but no sound came out.

He couldn’t look at him.

Because Jos wasn’t wrong—not in a logical way. Not in the way Max had been taught mattered.

And worst of all?

Jos didn’t yell.

He didn’t even raise his voice.

He didn’t have to.

Max nodded once. Small. Robotic.

Jos didn’t say goodbye. Just left him sitting there—small in a room that suddenly felt too big.

…

TWO MONTHS LATER

The rooftop was already buzzing. Warm amber lights stretched from one end to the other, strung between trees and wrought iron posts like constellations of people wealthier and weathier than each other. Champagne clinked against crystal. Laughter drifted like perfume. Everyone looked like they belonged.

She didn’t.

Still, she moved through the crowd like she had somewhere to be. Like she wasn’t already scanning every face before she even made it to the bar.

A friend had dragged her here. Said she needed to “come back to life.” She’d laughed at that—come back to life from what?

She accepted a glass of something dry and cold from a passing tray and forced herself to sip. The music was light jazz, layered under the hum of conversation and the occasional stiletto on tile. Her heels clicked softly as she stepped away from the crowd and toward the edge, where the view swallowed the coastline whole.

And for a minute—just a minute—she almost relaxed.

She took a breath. Closed her eyes. Let the wind lift her hair off her collarbone.

You’re fine. It’s fine. He’s not here. It’s Monaco. You’ll never see him again.

She turned to face the party.

And then—

there he was.

It felt like a blow.

Like the air had been sucked out of the rooftop and into her lungs all at once—too much and not enough.

He stood maybe ten feet away, a little to the left. Backlit by gold lighting and the soft, artificial warmth that made everyone glow. Dressed in black. No tie. Shirt open just enough to show skin. One hand curled around a whiskey glass.

The other?

Resting on the waist of a girl she didn’t recognize.

Blonde. Long legs. One of those bright, effortless smiles that made people look twice. She was saying something—leaning in too close—and Max was grinning. At her. With her. Like it was easy.

Her chest tightened. Not dramatically. Not like in the movies. Just… pressure. Like the zipper on her dress had suddenly been pulled too tight.

He hadn’t seen her yet. Or if he had, he was doing a damn good job pretending he hadn’t.

She couldn’t look away.

There had been a time—not long ago—when that hand had rested on her waist like that. When his smile only softened when he looked at her. When he whispered things meant only for her in the dark of her apartment, skin to skin, breaths tangled like confessions.

Now he was here. With someone else. Laughing like he hadn’t gutted her. Like he hadn’t left her in silence.

Like she’d never existed at all.

She took a slow step back. Then another. Her fingers gripped the flute so tightly the stem might snap.

Someone brushed past her shoulder, and still she didn’t move. Just watched.

And then—he looked up.

Eyes straight to hers. No warning. No build-up. Just bam—eye contact like a slap.

She didn’t flinch.

He did.

Barely. But enough. The shift in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. He knew. He remembered.

His smile faltered. His shoulders squared. He said something to the girl—quick, quiet, brushing her hand away like it burned.

And then?

He just looked at her.

No expression. No excuse. No apology. Just stood there, like a monument to everything he wasn’t brave enough to say.

The noise of the party dulled around her. Her vision narrowed. All she could see was him, and all she could feel was—

Nothing. Just hollow.

And that was worse.

Because once upon a time, she’d wanted to scream at him. To cry. To beg. To understand.

But now?

She just wanted to leave.

So she turned, slow and deliberate, and walked away. No drama. No words. Just her spine straight and her heartbeat in her ears.

He was smiling. He was touching someone else. He looked well.

And she stood there like a fool with a champagne flute and shaking hands, trying not to throw up on her heels.

So when the guy from earlier—Luca, or maybe Leo—brushed past her again with that smirk and a flirty little, “You changed your mind yet?”

She smiled.

“Actually, I did.”

She took his arm.

It was too easy. He was tall, attractive, probably rich. Wore his confidence like a linen blazer. He looked at her like she was the most interesting thing in the room—and for once, that’s exactly what she wanted.

But it wasn’t about him.

Not even a little.

They moved through the crowd slowly, deliberately, like something worth watching.

She let her hand rest on his chest. She leaned in when he spoke. She laughed at nothing.

And then, like a magnetic force pulling her spine to attention—

She felt it.

Eyes.

Heavy. Unrelenting. Burning into her like headlights on an open road.

Max stood where she’d left him. Same black dress shirt, same perfect hair. But now?

He was still.

The girl who’d been beside him was gone—just an empty space and a lowball glass in her place.

And Max was staring.

Across the entire rooftop, through the sea of fake smiles and soft jazz, straight at her.

Jaw clenched. Expression blank. That specific kind of rage that looked calm to strangers but sent her heart racing because she knew better.

Let him feel it.

She turned slightly in the other guy’s arms, just enough to face Max.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she leaned in and said something into Luca’s ear—something low and meaningless. It didn’t matter what.

He grinned. Handsy. Confident.

“You’re trouble, aren’t you?” he murmured against her hair.

It took exactly eight seconds of watching her drape herself all over that guy for Max to lose it.

He saw the laugh—the way she tilted her head, all neck and soft skin. The way she pressed her hand to the guy’s chest like she owned him.

And when the guy leaned in and kissed her?

Max didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

He moved.

Straight across the rooftop. Fast. Focused. Unforgiving.

People noticed. Someone called his name. He didn’t care.

“What the fuck is this?”

His voice hit her sharp—cutting straight through the crowd like a shot fired.

She pulled back from the guy, slow, and turned to face him.

“Don’t start with me.”

“Start? You’re the one playing games like some bored little brat.”

“Go back to your blonde,” she snapped. “You seemed perfectly fine thirty minutes ago.”

“Don’t fucking mention her.”

“Oh? Why not?” she spat. “Did I ruin your perfect night with your arm candy? Sorry, Max, I forgot I’m not allowed to exist anymore.”

The guy beside her shifted. “Is there a problem—”

“Stay out of it,” Max barked without even looking at him.

“Jesus,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You think you still get to talk to me like that?”

“I think you’re acting like a goddamn child.”

“And you’re acting like you have a say over my actions.”

The slap still echoed when he grabbed her arm.

Not roughly. Not gently either.

Just… firmly. Like he was done holding back.

“We’re not doing this here,” Max said, voice low and dangerous.

“Get off me—”

“Now.”

“Let go of me!” she barked, heels scraping across the tile as Max dragged her down the hallway just off the rooftop terrace.

He didn’t. Not until they were far enough from the music, the chatter, the pretty fucking people pretending they didn’t just witness a public meltdown.

The second they were alone, he spun on her.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

She shoved him hard in the chest. “Don’t touch me like that ever again.”

“You’re lucky that’s all I did! What the fuck was that?”

She laughed—a sharp, bitter, fuck you sound.

“You mean the part where I kissed someone? God forbid I get a taste of how it feels to be you.”

“I don’t parade people around to get a fucking reaction.”

“No, you just disappear and show up with some blonde on your arm like you didn’t ghost me for months.”

“Are you still crying about that? Jesus Christ.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole.”

“And you’re still obsessed with me. Look at you.”

“Obsessed?! I didn’t even know you were gonna be here, Max!”

“Yeah? That why you’ve been eye-fucking me all night while hanging off some guy who couldn’t even spell his own name?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“No. You want to act like a child, I’ll treat you like one.”

She got in his face then. “Try me.”

“You don’t want that.”

“No, you don’t want it—because the second I hit back, you fold like a little bitch.”

He stepped closer.

“Keep talking, princess. You’re a fucking expert at running your mouth until someone actually calls you on your shit.”

“Says the one who ran away.”

“I ran because you were a ticking fucking time bomb!”

“YOU ran because you’re a coward!”

“I ran because I was sick of pretending I wanted more than just fucking you!”

Silence.

“You fucking bastard!” She lunged at him, open-palmed fists pounding at his chest, arms, shoulders—anywhere she could reach. He didn’t block it. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there while she screamed.

“You really think you’re some gift to the world?! You think I was lucky to be used like that? You think that makes you a man?!”

“Don’t fucking twist this,” Max growled.

“Twist it? I lived it! I bled for it! I broke for you, and you’re standing here like it was all some joke?!”

“You’re not the only one who got fucking hurt!” he roared, finally shoving her back just enough to breathe. “You think I didn’t hate myself every time I left your place?! You think I didn’t feel like shit every time I lied to myself and said it was casual?!”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you stay?!”

“Because you made it impossible!”

“No, Max—YOU made it impossible. You needed me to be a fucking lifeboat while you drowned in your daddy issues and your career and whatever the hell you blame the world for, and the second I needed YOU—gone. Like a fucking ghost.”

“Oh shut the fuck up about needing me. You needed control. You needed power. The second I stopped crawling, you didn’t want it anymore.”

She shoved him again, harder this time. “You are so fucking delusional! I didn’t need control. I needed someone who didn’t treat me like a goddamn distraction.”

“You were a distraction! You were the only thing I couldn’t shut off!”

“Then you should’ve told me that before you shoved yourself inside me like it meant something!”

“Don’t do that!”

“Why not?! Too real?! Or too fucking true?!”

“You never cared about me!” she screamed. “You just liked that I made you feel wanted!”

“And you just liked that I hated myself more than you did!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you too!”

“Hey! Enough!” Carlos burst in, grabbing Max by the shoulder, yanking him back so hard he nearly stumbled.

“Get your shit together, man. What the fuck are you doing?!”

At the same moment, Rebecca slipped between them, arms out, shielding her like a wall.

“Hey, hey—look at me. You’re done. That’s enough.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she snapped, eyes wild, voice still shaking.

“I’m not touching you,” Rebecca said calmly. “I’m standing between you and another goddamn breakdown.”

Max tried to surge forward again, eyes burning. “You think I liked walking away?! You think that was easy for me?!”

Rebecca held her ground. “You’re not saying anything that’ll fix it now!”

“Let him say it,” she spat. “Let him say every shitty little thing he’s been dying to throw in my face.”

“No,” Carlos said. “Because he’s not thinking. He’s not feeling! He’s burning everything to the ground because he’s afraid you’ll beat him to it.”

She blinked. Swallowed. Shook her head hard. “Don’t do that therapist shit right now.”

“Then go,” Rebecca said softly, still in front of her. “Come on. Let’s just go.”

“You’re not walking away from me again,” Max said, still breathing hard.

She looked over Rebecca’s shoulder. “Watch me.”

Then she turned and walked out. Rebecca followed.

Carlos waited. Watched Max.

“That’s twice now,” he muttered. “You gonna make it three?”

Max didn’t answer.

He just leaned back against the wall, dragged both hands down his face, and whispered—

“Fuck.”

PART TWO INCOMING...

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress @suibianupyourass make sure you can be tagged!

[cleolovesrin]

hii there, i saw that u have reqs open & it's a first to see someone writing for dom!reader

can i request sub rin with reader who likes to tease him?

WHAT A MEANIE!

Rin is the type of man to be short tempered. But what if his own lover loves to push his buttons?

Sub! Rin Itoshi x Dom! Male! Reader

CW: aged up characters, you and rin r a couple, dry humping #bringbackdryhumping, fucking through clothes, monstrous amount of lube, breeding, degradation, dacryphilia (as always), anal sex, sloppy sex, ass slapping, size difference if you squint, lmk if i missed other warnings!

MINORS DNI. Not proofread, will encounter grammar and typo errors

Rin is known as a feared man, everyone would walk on thin ice whenever he’s in the same room with him. The moment gets upset over something, he’s already cussing them out and is a second away from punching them straight in the face.

And the only person keeping him sane was you— his lover. You’d been his best friend way before he turned this cold, but nonetheless of his change— you still stayed by his side until adulthood came and both of you had been a couple for years.

You had a teasing personality, people already hate it whenever you’d have a conversation with them. Knowing that you’re going to be teasing them to death. You enjoyed teasing, especially when it’s your lover. Seeing him get agitated and flustered riled you up.

“J- Just put it in!” He groaned out in anger, his face red as he turned around at you with a scowl. But you just chuckled, continuing to knead his clothed ass.

When you meant you enjoyed teasing him— you meant you enjoyed seeing him on all fours in your bed while you stationed behind him. Both of you were fully clothed, which made Rin irritated. The lack of skin contact drove him crazy, his skin was begging to be free, to feel your skin, to be touched without any barriers of fabric.

He was growing frustrated, you were growing amused. Seeing him wiggle his ass impatiently made your boner harder. The fabric of his pajama hugged his ass so perfectly, its muscles were stretched nicely as he arched his back onto the bed. The round shape of his ass only made your mouth drool. You wanted to pounce on him already, but you knew your day wouldn’t be complete if you won’t tease him for a while.

“Your ass is so perfect, baby…Did you workout your glutes more for me, whore?” Your palm collided with his ass, completely enjoying how it bounced every slap. Rin whimpered at the collision, glaring at you as you slapped his ass again. Playing with it like a stress toy.

“Are you gonna put it in, or what? Your lukewarm teasing isn’t working.” Saying that as if his face wasn’t red as a tomato while his voice was growing whiny every passing second.

“Oh please, I can hear your voice getting whiny. You that fucking desperate?” Your large hands squeezed his ass cheeks, spreading them apart. Rin moaned as he felt your hands toy around his clothed ass even rougher. Shaking his head immediately when he heard your response.

“I- I’m not desperate… Stop teasing.” Rin whined out, his hips bucking the air as his dick screamed for any physical contact. Throbbing underneath his pajamas. You grabbed his hips, holding it firmly and roughly.

“What? I’m not teasing! Just showing you what I’ll do later, like this—“

Your hips thrusted hard, clothed cock hitting his clothed ass. Rin screamed out a choked moan, his ass bouncing as your hips slammed into him. Then he whimpered, still not feeling your cock. Your hands dug its fingers deeper to his ass’ skin— spreading his clothed cheeks apart again.

“Just showing you how hard I’ll pound into you later.”

You collided your hips with his ass once again, harder than before. His ass rippling again as your clothed boner nestled in between his ass cheeks. Rin whined, feeling your huge boner graze his ass along with your painful fingers spreading his ass apart.

“See? Ain’t it fun, you’re practically prepping here, you know?” You slammed your hips again, and again, and again. Then grinding both your clothed crotches against each other. Completely lost in the sight of Rin’s ass bouncing and your boner digging deep between his clothed ass cheeks.

Your hips humped against his roughly, letting your clothed cock slide in between his ass. The rough fabric of your pajamas grinding against each other, Rin’s pajamas growing a wet patch on his crotch. His pre-cum seeping through the fabric.

Rin moaned at the feeling of his balls and ass get stimulation from your clothed cock, rubbing into them roughly. He arched his back, trying to push back onto your dick. Needing to feel more of your length.

Your lover struggled to keep composure, feeling every bit of his agitation slowly turn into arousal and humiliation. He could feel your hard dick through both your clothes, it felt so big— he immediately wanted it in him. His mind wandering imaginations, like how’d you pound your dick inside him like how you were teasing him right now.

“P- Please— Jus- Just put it in—! Fuck! Ngh, please!” Rin felt his cold facade crumble, growing impatient for your cock. You slapped his ass hard and slammed your hips onto him hard for the last time. Hands grabbing his green hair and pulling his body up, he moaned whilst he felt the hem of his t-shirt get pulled up. His upper body now bear.

He whined as he felt the cold air hitting his skin, his nipples growing hard. Your mouth found its way to his neck, marking every crevice of his skin until it’s stained with hickeys. Making sure to bite and suck on the sensitive parts of his skin, making Rin whimper. The overwhelming feeling of you cock grinding against his needy ass and your mouth sucking, biting, and licking the sensitive areas of his neck.

Your hands made its way to his nipples, both hands twisting both his nipples roughly all at once. Rin moaned in pain, arching his back to push his ass back to you and his chest to your hands. You squeezed his pecs, twist his nipples, and slapped it again and again. Playing with his chest until he cried from the underwhelming pleasure.

Then suddenly, you let go of him all at once. Pulling your hips, mouth, and hands away. His body falling forward to the mattress below you. He whined while he turned around from the sudden abandonment of touch, seeing you grab the lube from the nightstand. His heart beating loudly as he realized what was about to happen.

You pulled down your pants and underwear, your large cock bouncing out. Laying it in between his clothed ass. Letting out a teasing chuckle once you saw Rin realize your teasing wasn’t over.

“[n- name]…Put it in, please.” Rin whined, his hands clutching onto the bed sheets like a life line. His heart wildly beating from anticipation as your huge and long cock reached his lower back when you placed it between his ass.

“And let you have all the fun? Nuh-uh.” Your said the last word in a sing song tone. Making Rin whine out in frustration, wiggling his clothed ass against your cock.

Your fingers wrapped around his ass once again, spreading the cheeks apart, making your dick dig deeper between his ass cheeks. You opened the bottle of lube— pouring a generous amount of it on your bare cock and his clothed ass.

Rin shuddered when he felt the cold slick of lube seep through his pajama. You thrusted your hips, your cock sliding between his wet, clothed ass roughly. You groaned in pleasure, his ass felt so good it could honestly make you cum.

Your fingers pushed his ass cheeks together, squeezing your cock in between them. Thrusting rougher and harder— turning his ass cheeks into a flesh light. Pouring more lube, and thrusting faster. Squelching noises and the slapping of your hips against his filled the room.

Along with Rin’s moans and whimpers as he relished the feeling of your cock slide and graze on the rim of his hole. His ass felt so wet from your pre-cum and lube, it wet the fabric until it was practically see through. Revealing the crevices of his ass and small dick, especially now that he wasn’t wearing anything under his pajamas.

“H- hah, you didn’t even bother to wear any underwear. What a slut.” You slapped his ass, seeing out bounce and tremble under you. You gathered saliva in your mouth, spitting on his ass. All the liquids from previously mixing together as you grind your cock against his ass.

Rin felt his mind turn to mush, he was too humiliated and pleasured. The overwhelming feeling of your teasing along with the underwhelming pleasure you gave him fucked his mind dumb. He opened his panting mouth further, his tongue slipping out while drool dripped down on it. His mind finally entering a sub-space.

“I- I’m your slut! Y- yes, just fuck me so good with your dick— Mgh.” His hips moved in sync with yours, moving like a slut as he rocked it back and forth. His back arching beautifully as he moved so erratic. Chasing his own pleasure as if your dick is actually inside him.

“Sh- shit.” You moaned out, thrusting harder then pulling away to pull his pajamas down swiftly. Your cock resuming thrusting in between his now bear ass. Grabbing lube again and pouring a lot in between his ass, the squelching noise and skin slapping turning louder and sloppier.

Rin whimpered as his skin felt the cold, thick lube and your veiny cock, he bounced his hips harder, the feeling of your large cock graze against his finally bear ass made his tip spurt out a thick white liquid. His legs quaked as his orgasm came crashing down on him, cumming untouched.

“H- hah, look at you. Begging me to put it in, but you just came without anything in you.” You groaned out a tease, continuing to thrust your cock between his hips. Rin’s legs trembled, still feeling the aftershocks of cumming and your dick rubbing against his hole. He felt so pleasure, yet at the same time it didn’t feel complete. His mind spiraling at the sensation.

“Look! Like hotdogs between buns. What a slutty buns, hah.” You chuckled, still teasing him while your dick nestled between his asscheeks. His round skin shiny from the liquid spread across.

“Mm- Mmmh— ! Put it in— Please!” He moaned out, begging with desperation. His previous orgasm messed his thought process, he couldn’t grasp to keep his legs ip properly. He couldn’t kneel properly, his trembling knees slipping against the sheets.

You grabbed the lube, pulling your dick away for a second. Spreading his lubed ass apart, revealing his twitching hole. His desperation was evident by how slick and hungry his hole was, twitching aggressively— as if trying to beg for your cock inside. You squeezed more lube onto his ass, the thick liquid spread across his cheeks and hole. He let out a whimper as he felt the cold lube drip into his hole.

“Say ahh,” You mocked him, your tip pressing against his hole. Pushing an inch inside. His body twitched as he felt your cock’s huge tip.

You grabbed his hair and pulled his upper body, his head now laying on your shoulders as your tip teased him. He faced you. You kissed him— then shoving your tongue inside his mouth. Rin moaned on your mouth, his lips trembled while he struggled to keep up with the kiss. Your tongue exploring the inside of his mouth, wetting everything inside while he moaned weakly into the kiss.

You pulled away, pulling his head back. Then you gathered saliva in your mouth, spitting inside his gaped mouth.

“A- aahh.” Rin stuck his tongue out even more, drool dripping down his pink tongue. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, completely lost inside the feeling of your tip.

“Fucking slut, can’t even stop cumming untouched.” You slapped his ass one last time before shoving in your length. Rin’s eyes widened, tears falling down even more. Getting more stretched out as your length slid into him.

You slid your dick in until it reached hip to hip with your lover, your crotch making contact with his ass and your whole length nestling in him. The man below you whimpered, his legs trembling from both pleasure and pain of your cock now trying to ease in him.

The squelching noises of his lubed up ass filled the air while you moved slowly. He moaned along your movement, after longs hours of teasing— your cock is finally inside.

“H- harder, please.”

“Gladly.” Both your hands slapped his ass then gripping it to spread apart. Your grip was so tight it could lift up all his weight. You shoved your cock full inside him again— except harder this time.

You pulled half your length out, then slamming your hips back into him. Your thrusts getting rougher as your dry humping earlier.

And it sent Rin to heaven— his prostate getting hit with every thrust. Your thrusts had his tongue rolled out, cross his teary teal eyes, and scream out your name like a chant.

“[n-name]! O-oh my— Please—! A- aaah! Nghh! It’s shoo big!” Rin screamed out, a whimpering mess whilst you pounded into his boy pussy. His hole squelching every thrust, and his ass bouncing every slam of your hips.

You lifted his trembling frame, thrusting harder and rougher. Your grip on his hips controlled his ass, moving it back and forth in sync with your thrusts. Making the one and only Rin Itoshi into your personalized fleshlight.

“I- I’m cumming! Don’t stop! P- please!” Rin arched his back, your dick digging dip into him as you fully controlled his whole body. His body that convulsed with your every thrust. He moaned and screamed out your name continuously— the overstimulation from your cock turning his mind dumb.

“Cum all you want, my greedy little cum dump.” You shoved your lengthy into him. Every thrust felt like you reached the deepest part of his inside. Hitting all the spots you needed to reach. From his prostate, to his most painful spot, and to his cervix. Everything was reached and beaten up by your huge cock.

His insides and mind turning into mush completely. He felt like all his organs were rearranged, by how rough and deep you’re going in. His hands pressing down the large dent in his stomach you created from your huge length.

“Y- yes! I’m cumming— ngh—! I’m your greedy fuck—! Cum slut! A- aah!” He screamed out, his back arching hard, his nipples grazing the bed sheets with your rough thrusts. His tip squirted out another round of cum. Its white and slightly thick cum escaped his small dick.

You moaned along with him. Your thrusts going harder and faster as you felt your dick tense inside him. The man below you weakly screamed, overstimulated as you fucked him even after cumming so hard.

Your hips pounded into him messily, chasing your orgasm. His limp body bouncing back and forth from your thrusts. His body felt like your sex toy, completely limp and used to your own desire. He didn’t protest with your rough treatment, just moaning weakly and taking all the pleasure and pain like a good slut.

Your hips slammed in him one last time. Digging deep inside, your heavy balls slapping on his ass so loud. The slap echoed inside the room, along with Rin’s whimpers as he felt your load unleash inside him.

Your cock pushed out all the cum it has been holding. His warm, tight, and pink wall getting painted white with your thick cum. His hole leaked from the amount you came, flooding his insides until it overflowed out his hole. The thick cum dripping down his ass to his balls, staining the sheets underneath you.

“Shit. So fucking good for me.” You pulled out, your cum gushing out his hole even more. Making Rin whimper out as he felt his hole clench around nothing but your sloppy cum and lube. You slapped his ass, seeing his wet skin and dripping hole bounce from your palms.

You chuckled, slapping it again. Completely mesmerized at the view.

“Stop teasing…” Rin whispered, his face red and flustered from your endless teasing.

“You looked like a glazed donut.” You snorted— foundling with his ass as if he was a toy. He let out a meek whine, trying to pull his ass away. But you pulled it closer, slapping it one last time.

“Let’s give this cute cum dump a bath, yeah?” You carried your lover bridal style to the bathroom. Kissing his cheeks gently, while he blushed cutely.

“J- just forget I said that. Don’t be Lukewarm. H-hey, don’t laugh…stop teasing!”

[stinkyallegations]

PatheticYandere!Al x Reader 

Trigger warnings for: Obsessive, possessive and pathetic behavior (do not read below the cut if you cant stand a pink haired pathetic stalker dedicating his life to you </3), mentions of non-consensual photo/video taking, theft of personal items, stalking, paranoia, self-hatred, mentions of abusive relationships and the usual yandere shit. 

The following includes spoilers from @kleinv01, of which and its characters all belong to Himeiro. 

WordCount: 1200+ 

Wake up, go to work, come back home, work, sleep, wake up, go to work, come back home, work, sleep... 

That was all he had in his life, if you didn't exist.  

But you did, and he was very grateful that you existed. 

Countless sleepless nights, money that he rarely to never got to enjoy himself before it vanished into thin air, people all around ignoring his presence... It was all worth it thanks to your existence. 

He didn't need sleep if he got coffee, energy drinks and camera feed of your daily life 24/7. Money was never an issue for him if he got a roof over his head, clothes to wear, food to survive and of course, your favorite snacks to gift you every single day. Even the least noticeable change of your facial expression upon finding what he had left you brought him joy for the rest of his day. Not to mention, other people including you acting as if he wasn't there only made the light you shine upon him feel brighter, as there was no one else in his way. 

Except for one thing. Your android "boyfriend" that you apparently held close to your heart and cherished to the point you skip work sometimes. Al knew, because he watched you interact with that android, every waking day. Although you never questioned how you still had your job with that workaholic boss of yours not firing you after all those days you stayed home. Not that you would believe him if Al admitted having befriended your boss to keep your job for you. 

Oh, what he wouldn't do to be in that android's place. He was aware that he wasn't the greatest at verbal communication. But he was also aware that he was willing to do anything for you, and that included being the best partner you deserved. He wouldn't want to be a burden to you with his pathetic lifestyle. He wouldn't want to trouble you, ever! He had to settle down by only hacking through the android's app once or twice a week to wish you a great day here, a good night there. 

Al would admit having thought about controlling the android entirely at one point. He had the knowledge to do it for sure. Who else had illegally copied keys to your apartment, all of your passwords memorized, your social media posts all archived on a different private account dedicated to you, terabytes worth of photos and videos of you going through your day, some items that you definitely did not need any more like your hairbrush that you forgot to clean after you brushed your hair... He always wanted to know what your hair felt like between his fingertips. You being generous enough to show that you don't need it any more with strands of your hair attached to the brush made him the happiest man on Earth that day. How thoughtful of you to gift him something directly from you. 

Your toothbrush? Oh, it smelled heavenly. Maybe if he used the one that had the privilege to touch your mouth, he could be one step closer to being worthy of your love. Al could bet his life on the fact that things you touched were different, forever. Even if they were made by ordinary people, a deity like you must have had a positive effect on them. He was sure.  

Desperate. He was having rough days at work back-to-back. He needed the peace you gave him just by being in the same office and breathing the same air with him, but you called in sick today. Just like the other day. And the day before that. At some point during his frequent visits to your place without you knowing, he was so desperate to the point that he changed his usual route to your bathroom where your laundry basket was placed. 

Oh. What a coincidence that he found the underwear he saw you put on through the cameras this morning, thrown into the basket along with the worn-out t-shirt that you recently turned into your new sleepwear. 

You know, Al never thought it would come to this. He never would have. Sure, it has been years of him yearning for your littlest parts. It was only admiring someone a year older than him at first, or so he thought it was. However, after several years of “admiring” he has been doing behind your back, one day he found himself pinning a life-sized poster of you on his wall, just the right place where he can see your flawless face the second he wakes up. You were the only sunshine he needed. The second one was when you got the job you have now. He even skipped a grade to be able to share classes with you when you two were in the same school. You didn’t really notice him back then, either. He payed no mind. Nothing you could do would be less than perfect anyway. Maybe you ignored him in school so the two of you could become colleagues. That was definitely it. Could this be an invitation? 

When he saw you getting closer to your apartment through the GPS, he clumsily put all his new “treasures” into a plastic bag, the one you carried groceries with this morning to be exact. He hurried back to his place as he clutched the bag near his chest. When he arrived at his apartment, there was nothing that could stop him from putting your shirt on his softest pillow.  

He had already been dreaming of cuddling you, your scent drowning him, slowly yet surely driving him to madness. He wouldn’t mind becoming a lunatic if it brought you along with it. 

He dreamed about all those times you greeted him in the morning. Every “good morning” that spilled from your lips reached his ears as if they were sung by angels from far away. Warm, yet somehow pitiful. Those dreams turned into nightmares as he couldn’t return it though. He tried to do it the first couple of times. It wasn’t his fault he was mesmerized; a simple “morning” couldn’t even come out of his mouth.  

You didn’t deserve someone as hopeless as him. Maybe “Klein” was the better option after all. Tall, strong, not shy to stand his ground... Only if he was half of what that android was.  

He should just continue being an extra pair of eyes for you, he thought as he hugged the makeshift body pillow of you. He didn’t have any ill intentions. Never.  

All those years of watching you suffer under some bastard’s control back then; he watched you slowly wither. Only if he could gather the courage to face you, to tell you he wants to take care of you, to protect you. He would have done it, if he had only a quarter of what Klein had, your affection included. You would have thought he was some freak that stole your personal belongings and leftover food that had your saliva if he confronted you though. He wouldn’t want that. He just wanted you to be healthy and happy. 

If buying you your favorite snacks and drinks every single morning could at least show how much he cares for you and how much he could sacrifice for you to eat, he would spend every single second he had left on this planet to work and earn more money to buy more. Sometimes he wonders if you already know the reason why he gets extra projects from Mr. Dolores in the first place.  

You don’t have to know. You just deserve to be happy, to have blessed his life with your presence. 

[sharieb]

Can I request headcanons where Lads men accidentally overhear Non MC Reader telling MC that you do like him but it's definitely unrequited please? - 🌕 anon

Didn't Mean for You to Hear That

Setup:  After a casual hangout, out and about, you confide in MC privately; however, a certain someone overheard your conversation.

Pairing: LADs x Non-MC! reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

The hangout starts lively, ending with an impromptu street food crawl through the buzzing heart of the city.

Zayne tags along at first reluctantly, but you coax a few smiles from him between skewers of grilled dumplings and fried lotus.

As the others peel off, you and MC slip into a quiet promenade garden hidden behind a noodle stall.

You find a bench beside a koi pond. The lantern light makes the water ripple like stardust.

You exhale slowly. "Zayne’s incredible. But I know I’m not the one he turns to when he’s tired. I’m just someone he patches up and sends on their way."

MC frowns. "You think he lingers around everyone that long after stitching them up?"

You shrug. "He’s just kind. And I’m lucky to be part of his routine. That’s all."

Beyond a swath of night-blooming lilies, Zayne stands still, the shadows cloaking him. Routine?

He swallows hard. You think I bring coffee to everyone who comes in with a paper cut?

He grips the bench post. The urge to step out wars with his instinct to stay silent.

The next time you’re scheduled for a check-in, the appointment’s changed. Zayne greets you with your favourite coffee already in hand.

He meets your eyes. "I don’t keep you around because it’s convenient. I want you here."

During the examination, his touch is softer. His fingers linger just a second longer. He doesn’t ask why your pulse is fast.

After a tense supply run, the group winds up at a rooftop bar on the edge of N019, half-abandoned, still somehow fully powered, with static-ridden speakers and sputtering neon signs.

Sylus is the one who suggested the place. You think nothing of it, even as he looms near the edge, watching more than speaking.

You and MC eventually find yourselves pressed against the rusted railing, stargazing beyond the blinking skyline. You murmur, "I like him. Really like him. But let’s be real, guys like Sylus don’t destroy kingdoms for someone like me."

MC replies without missing a beat. "He lights fires just by breathing next to you."

You laugh. "That’s just who he is. Dangerous. Beautiful. Temporary."

By the stairwell, cloaked in shadow, Sylus stills. The word lands with venom. Temporary?

His jaw tightens. You think I wouldn’t tear the city down if you asked me to stay?

He says nothing. He walks away into the dark before his voice could betray him.

Days later, your inbox pings with an untraceable message.

It opens with static, then a haunting jazz loop. Then his voice:

"You’re not temporary. Don’t ever say that again."

After that, Sylus returns to acting the same, but never quite leaves the room you’re in. Never let you walk ahead alone.

The group got a rare aligned break to watch the planet rise from a sky-high station platform on Skyhaven.

Caleb brings cinnamon cocoa, wrapped pastries, and a blanket "for everyone" that he keeps folding just over your side.

After the others leave, you and MC linger on the transparent glass stairs overlooking the clouds.

You hug your knees and whisper, "You know… he was my high school crush... still kind of is. But now he’s a Colonel. I’m just a classmate from before."

MC side-eyes you. "He just sacrificed the last cookie to you like it was a noble death. That doesn’t feel casual."

You laugh weakly. "It’s nostalgia. He remembers the past, not... me now."

Caleb stands a level above, half-hidden near the lift. He doesn’t move. Still your crush? And you think I only see who you were?

His hands clench around the edge of the railing. Images flash: your hand wrapped around a toy plane, your voice calling his name, your eyes today, wiser, more tired, more beautiful.

That night, you find a model plane on your bed. Not new. One he saved. Painted again.

A tiny banner reads: "Some flights take longer to come back around. But I never stopped tracking yours."

The next morning, he waits at the mess hall like always. This time, the seat beside him is saved with a second thermos.

When you sit, he doesn’t bring it up.

But when you break your cookie and hand him half, he says, "Save me the wing, yeah? You always liked the middle."

Group hangout begins with indie bookstore hopping, laughter over mismatched recommendations, and ends at a quiet tea house with soft jazz and steamed windows.

The group splits off. You and MC take a detour through a neon-lit park on the way home, arms full of pastries and warm drinks.

Xavier claims he needs to catch the train before rush hour and ducks out early.

You and MC settle on a bench under a humming streetlamp. The hum feels like a secret keeper.

You sigh: "I like Xavier, but he doesn’t like me like that. He’s sweet, but I’m not the one he loses sleep over."

MC leans in, trying to read your expression. "He zones out whenever you talk. That has to count for something."

You smile weakly. "I think I make him comfortable, not... curious."

Behind you, half-concealed by a park pillar, Xavier stands frozen. You think I sleep easily because of you? I haven’t slept in weeks.

His breath hitches. So many nights he stayed up replaying your laugh, every shared glance. But he’d convinced himself you didn’t notice.

Later, he sends you a meme over text, with a comment that sounds light but holds tension beneath.

The next time you stop by the tea shop, the barista hands you your favourite order, already paid for. "By someone with blue eyes and a weirdly specific smile," the barista told you.

That night, Xavier watches your name flash on his screen and locks his phone before he can say too much.

The day winds down with the group meandering through an open-air mural alley by the shore, where art stalls display driftwood paintings and watercolor skies.

Rafayel is in his element, pointing out brushstrokes, teasing meanings behind abstract pieces, gifting you a souvenir sea-glass charm.

When the group splits to grab food, you and MC stay back near a quiet stone bench by the surf.

The ocean laps gently against the dock pylons below. You sigh, leaning forward.

"He’s so beautiful it hurts," you admit. 

"But he’d never see me that way. I’m not special."

MC laughs under her breath. "You’re literally the only person he painted in conversation tonight."

You shake your head. "That’s just Rafayel. Intense. Fleeting. He loves everything for a moment."

Around the corner, hidden near the faded staircase to the tide-walk, Rafayel leans against a mural with crossed arms. Fleeting?

The word slices deep.

He bites his tongue, staring out at the sea. You think I’m not serious about you? I memorised your laugh before I even knew your name.

That night, he doesn’t go home. He sketches by the sea, haunted by the truth you believe.

The next morning, a small framed canvas leans against your door. It’s the view you had from the bench, painted in aching detail.

Behind it, a card: "Some things don’t need to be said aloud. But I’ll still show you. – R."

When you see him again, he doesn’t bring it up. But he stands a little closer and asks questions with his eyes instead of words.

[chococolte]

hello! this is my first time requesting something so sorry if i make any mistakes

can you write for reader teasing them? like not in a making fun of them in a way but yk randomly leaving kisses on their neck, brushing your hand against theirs, putting your hand on their thigh, lifting up their chin and staring at them while smirking and stuff? the characters i would like to request are (yandere) zhongli diluc kaeya and alhaitham but feel free to add or change the characters im here for anything you write for 😭

in all honesty im in LOVE with your work like literally you’re def my favorite genshin writer the way you use your words is just 🤌🤌 cant get enough of your writing, hope you never stop writing here 😭

word count. 3.4k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. i'm so sorry i took forever to write this but hii thank u!!!!! this is my first non-sagau work in a bit and these r a bit shorter so i hope its okayii !! also i added neuvillette rubs my big greedy bellay

zhongli

Zhongli knows you have to be doing it on purpose.

It's torture. Sweet, blissful torture, but torture nonetheless.

Every time you touch him, it feels like heaven, and the fact you pull away so quickly feels like you're leaving a searing brand on his skin. He clings onto the burn, buzzing under his mask of perfect composure; desperate to keep the sting, and desperate more to keep you near him. 

You kiss his neck without a word. You brush your hand against his as if it’s nothing. Your lips whisper against his skin with the softest touch, your warm breath a murmur, and Zhongli has to wonder why you insist on torturing him like this. Each time, you pull away fast enough he barely has a chance to register it. Those few seconds, he sits still, reeling— biting his tongue until it settles in, and once it does, he resists the urge to pull you back, his fingers twitching. 

Zhongli wants to. He wants to so badly it hurts to keep himself still. He wants you closer. He wants you to touch him, and he wants to touch you, and he doesn't want anyone else to have you or feel even a semblance of the way he does. 

His knee bounces without him realizing it.

Zhongli's expression stays the same, every muscle a disciplined quiet. His eyes have a certain quirk to them, crinkled and soft, but it’s the twitch of his knees and the glaze in his eyes that speak of the barking of emotions in his chest, and somehow, even with millennia of control, he’s not aware of how pathetically it gives him away. 

All he knows is that he wants to keep looking at you. He wants to ask you to do it again, even if it’s slow and teasing and agonizing and far from what he really wants from you. He wants to ask you to never do it to anyone else, even if he knows it’s selfish, and then he wants to press soft kisses to your skin until his mind stops buzzing and his lips are bruised— until he’s sure you’ll never make the mistake of entertaining someone else.

Zhongli clenches his fists until his nails pinch into his skin each time he thinks of that sickly possibility. Then he relaxes once he remembers you would never do such a thing to him. 

Even if it hurts to keep himself still, he wants more. More than you could possibly give him, but he wants anyway. He wants all of you.

Sometimes, he likes to wait for it. Zhongli watches you, a strange eagerness choking him as he waits for you to finally look his way. His chest feels full of something. He doesn’t know what it is— an indescribable emotion that turns him into a mortal’s pawn. He just wants you to glance over and notice he exists, and then he wants you to play with his heart some more, just to hear you laugh when you pull the reaction you want from him.

Whatever you do to him, he likes it. He likes that you do it to him and not anyone else. He likes that this part of you, teasing and cruel, belongs to him. 

The thought of you acting this way with anyone else makes him ill, which isn’t a word he uses lightly.

Zhongli knew himself before he met you. You make a stranger out of him, but even with the light of you blinding his senses, Zhongli feels the same sickly jealousy. He wants all of you. He doesn’t want anyone to experience even a fraction of the things you make him feel. 

If that makes him selfish, then so be it. If it makes him terrible, then he is. 

You set your hand on his thigh and give it a light squeeze. Then you're pulling away, and he misses the warmth of your palm instantly. He almost wants to laugh. You tease him because you have no idea of what he would do to keep you near him. 

Zhongli grabs your wrist, pinning your hand back against his thigh.

"Stay," he rumbles lowly, soft enough for only you to hear. He squeezes your hand and tries to engrave the feeling into his mind.

There's more he wants to say. He wants to tell you to touch him more. He wants to tell you about every dark, disgusting part of himself and still have the assurance of your presence— but he knows that if he spoke the full depth of what he feels for you, you'd pull your hand back in an instant. So, instead, he only asks for you to stay.

Your finger brushes against his inner thigh, and he purrs.

diluc

Diluc has to stop himself from begging you to keep touching him each time you do.

It's pathetic, and not exactly in a sad, pitiful sort of way, so he bites his tongue until you pull away and leave him aching for more.

It does nothing to kill the urge.

The touches are nothing. They're little things, the barest of skin-to-skin contact— you hold his hand for a few seconds longer than necessary, brush your fingers against his, touch him when you don't need too— sometimes, you hold his thigh underneath the table where no one else can see, and he just has to sit, unable to make a noise, unless he wants to completely ruin your perception of him.

He already has, if the way you smirk when he audibly shudders is any indication.

Diluc never thought of himself as someone so weak. You don't even have to touch him for the bundle of nerves in his stomach to flutter; you could smile, and it would do the same to him as you kissing his neck.

If it were anyone else, his reactions wouldn't be nearly so prevalent. No, he couldn’t stomach it if it were anyone else.

But it's you, he thinks, so it's inherently different. It's you, so how he'd react with anyone else is meaningless, because he would never allow anyone else to get as close to him.

It still doesn't keep the indignation from bubbling up when he, once again, proves how incapable he is at properly reacting to anything regarding you. It wilts just as quickly as it arises, though; he imperceptibly leans into your touch, unable to truly complain and lacking the desire to.

It's the fact that you do it so casually. You know exactly what to do to get the reaction you want out of him, and he preens under the attention, then gets upset that he does at the same time that he's eagerly leaning into your touch, before you torture him by pulling back.

Each time just makes the ache worse. Strangely, Diluc can't say that he hates it.

He wonders, like he always does in the silence, if you do this to anyone else.

Diluc sits with the thought for a moment before realizing very, very quickly that he hates it. It makes him sick, imagining you so much as brushing hands with someone else. Innocent touches to anyone reasonable, but it makes him want to pinch and tug at his skin until it bleeds.

He wishes he could tell you. He wishes he could ask you, at least, if he’s special, or if this is just some sort of game to you. Maybe you only like him because of how powerful it makes you feel. Maybe you just like the gifts. Maybe you just like the way he looks at you, because Diluc is self-aware enough to know he can’t hide it properly. 

Diluc would kneel and kiss your feet if it gave him any sort of assurance of being at least somewhat important to you. He would do more if it meant he knew whether or not this was real to you. 

His dignity is meaningless in front of you. He can’t say it bothers him. 

You lift his chin with your finger, forcing him to meet your gaze.

His lashes tremble. His skin feels like it's on fire. He can feel his blood pumping through his body and his heart in his ears, rushing like nothing he's felt before.

He loves you. He loves you in a way he knows is far from innocent or pure. He loves you enough to want to keep you forever.

It's terrible, what you do to him. Worse still is what he knows he'd do if you did it to anyone else.

kaeya

You have no idea what you do to him, do you?

Kaeya thinks that, if you did, you wouldn't be nearly as willing to play with him as you are now.

You kiss his skin and then pull away before he has the time to react. You do it so casually he has to wonder if you even know what you’re doing at all. He can’t decide whether he loves or hates it.

In a way, it sets his skin aflame. It makes him think that you might actually care for him; in a way that’s uniquely his, one he doesn’t have to share with anybody else. But it also makes him wonder if maybe you just like toying with him; maybe you just like seeing him twitch as he suppresses every urge to do it right back to you. 

Maybe you like knowing how much power you have over him, if you realize it at all. 

Kaeya doesn’t know what he thinks. All he knows is that it feels nice when you touch him, even if the contact only lasts for a moment. He knows he hates it when you pull away. All he knows is that he wouldn’t mind if you touched him more, and if you wanted him to, he would never let himself be touched by anyone else again. He knows he hates how weak you make him and how, if only you would ask, he’d be willing to do anything. If it meant he could have you, selfishly and entirely, then Kaeya would curse his bloodline and shirk his duty. 

If it meant you would love him even a modicum of the way he loves you, he would depart with all of the things that make him up. 

You brush your skin against his, and for a moment, Kaeya thinks he sees stars. It’s a terrible thing. A weak thing. Worse still is the smile on your lips. It makes his heart clench painfully in his chest.

When you touch his thigh, he wonders if this is how he finally dies. He hates how he can still feel your touch even after you pull away, the heat of your palm still warming his skin. 

Then, because his mind can’t let him have just one thing, he imagines you with someone else. It’s a human thought. Even if he had you all to himself, he would still be plagued with the same visions. Kaeya sees you touching another with the same tenderness, kissing their throat, intertwining your fingers and holding their warmth, and then he sees you smiling— except you look happier, and he knows it’s the sort of happiness he could never bring you— and then all he knows is agony, because he knows he could never let you have such a thing unless it was with him. 

He knows he’s greedy. He knows he’s selfish. He knows that you deserve someone less sick than him, but he can’t bear the thought of living in a world where you’re anywhere but by his side. 

“Are you like this for anyone else?” he asks once you’ve laid a soft kiss against his neck, unable to stop himself. There’s a gross vulnerability in his tone that he wishes he could tear out. 

“You know it’s just you,” you say. 

Kaeya knows that. He just wants to hear you say it. 

“Say it again,” he says, and despite himself, looks at you like you’re something eternally precious to him. You are. He can’t help but be afraid of you knowing that.

“I’m only like this with you.” Your fingers are in his hair now, brushing along the nape on his neck.

“Good,” Kaeya says, and this time, he decides to believe you.

al-haitham

Al-Haitham freezes each time you touch him. 

It’s not that he doesn’t like it. Rather, it’s the amount of restraint he has to use to keep himself still. 

You kiss his neck like it's nothing, pulling away fast enough that he has to wonder if you even know what you're doing. The glint in your eye says you do. The fact that you don't realize what exactly it does to him tells him otherwise.

If you did, then you wouldn't do it as much, especially where other people can see. The surge of emotions that sparks in his chest can't be compared or defined by any human word.

It makes him feel dizzy. It makes him feel wide awake. It makes every thought slow like they're deep in a mire at the same time it causes another hundred to take their place. It makes him, strangely, want to laugh, adrenaline rushing off the high of your attention. It makes him want to whisper every single one of his thoughts and sickly desires into your ear until you never look at anyone else again.

Al-Haitham's body pulses and his veins burn. The fact that each touch could so easily be considered innocuous, if only he didn't already know that their purpose was to make him squirm, just makes his heart all the louder in his ears.

His expression stays neutral each time. The only thing that speaks to his utter depravity is the way his hands slightly shake, itching to touch you. He's unsure if you notice.

If you knew the sorts of things he thought about involving you, you wouldn't want to kiss him at all.

Good, then, that he has no intention of ever telling you; not when he can't be assured you'd stay by him. So, instead, Al-Haitham sits still and accepts it, withholding himself from acting out on his baser urges.

It's particularly difficult when you laugh afterward, maybe enjoying the way he doesn't do anything to stop you. His silence says more than his voice ever could. He doesn't push your hand away when you press it against his thigh. He doesn't tell you to stop when you kiss his neck, even when you do so in the Akademiya's library, rather enjoying the attention it brings.

It feels like you're claiming him. The way no one can believe he lets you do it, in a way, feels like he's claiming you. After all, how could people see such a sight and still think they have any right to you?

Rarely does Al-Haitham ever feel insecure. He feels no sense of shame when you kiss his neck in public, or when you less than subtly grab his thigh under the table. You pull away the next second, and he has to sit with the brand of your lips and your touch, trying to hold onto the sensation for a little while longer while his face stays impossibly still.

But sometimes, he imagines you doing the same thing to someone else. It's a reminder that people other than you exist, and he finds he doesn't quite like it. No, he hates it. The mere thought disgusts him. What need do you have for anyone else when he's right here?

"You only do this with me, correct?" he asks, and it's the first time he’s even referenced your actions at all in conversation. There's a strange note to his tone, and even Al-Haitham can't quite place it.

"Only you," you reply easily, mirth coating your voice. You press another kiss to his neck to accentuate your point.

"Good," he says, his eyelashes fluttering.

neuvillette

The first time you touch his thigh, Neuvillette is struck dumb.

He wasn't expecting it. Without thinking, his leg bounces, and you laugh. Neuvillette’s breath catches in his throat, and he clenches his jaw to stop himself from making a greatly inappropriate sound. 

You tear your hand away the next instant. He misses your warmth immediately and almost asks for you to touch him again— before he remembers that asking such a thing is improper— so instead, he nods politely with a strange feeling in his chest.

Even that, he knows, is not the proper response, but you daze him; everything slows for the brief moment you decide to bless him with your touch. His idea of proper would have been grabbing your hand and keeping it there, just to feel you for a little while longer.

Neuvillette has never experienced anything similar before. He struggles to understand his emotions and the way his body responds. He doesn't quite understand why his heart picks up when you brush your hand against his, or why he has to remind himself that he can't just grab you and intertwine your fingers without asking, nor does he understand why he wants to do so in the first place. All he knows is that being in your presence reduces each of his thoughts to their barest components— images of you, you, and you.

He finds that he doesn't hate it. Even when you do it in front of other people, which just makes the journalists in Fontaine buzz with noise and curiosity. That, he notices rather quickly, pleases him and soothes some dark part of his subconscious that cries like a selfish serpent each time you look at anyone else.

Let them see and let them whisper it amongst themselves if in the end it proves that he's yours, and let them write their tabloids if it means everyone knows not to try and take you away from him.

That, he finds, is his greatest fear.

Kissing his neck provokes similar reactions. His eyelids flutter shut, and his fingers tremble with the numerous wants running through him, each equally adept at destroying him and equally indecipherable. It's a display the complete opposite of what he should project as the Iudex, yet he can't find it in himself to care, not properly.

It's you. It's you. It's you, and your every touch feels like rebirth, and he terribly, selfishly, doesn't want anyone else but him to experience it. 

Neuvillette knows you do it to provoke a reaction out of him. It’s on purpose. You like seeing the falter in his step, hearing his breath catch in his throat, and you like knowing you’re the cause. Part of him wants to deny you the satisfaction, if only to see you press harder, touch him more, if it means watching his mask fall. The rest of him just wants to give it to you. 

You make him weak. You make him selfish. You make him feel like a mortal man. 

“Am I special to you?” he finds himself asking. The words don’t feel like his, but they’re wrenched from his throat all the same; coated in that terrible, terrible vulnerability he wishes he knew nothing of. 

Strangest of all was that you weren’t touching him. There was no teasing laughter, no gentle brush of your fingers. The two of you sit in comfortable silence, and he asks because he can’t stand not knowing. 

He can’t stand the thought of just being a thing to you. 

“Of course you are,” you reply easily. You close the gap between you to brush some of his hair out of his face, and the touch feels electric. 

Of course he is. 

“You are special to me as well,” he says, trying to keep his thoughts off his face.

What would he have done if you’d said no? 

Neuvillette isn’t sure. All he knows is that he detests the very thought. He detests the thought of not being important to you. He detests the thought of your relationship merely being something you do to entertain yourself, even though he would gladly be entertainment if it was all he could be to you. He detests the thought of someone else being in his place, feeling your touch— he’s disgusted by the notion that all of what you give him could so easily be given to someone else.

What would he have done if you’d said no? 

Neuvillette realizes that what he would’ve done is not anything you would like. 

[oscpstri]

second date | piastri

piastri x fem interviewer!reader, 1.06k

you loved it the first time so he's back for more. welcome back to chicken shop date! where you take the world's hottest stars on the most awkward dates. today's reoccurring menu consists of the same crisp chicken tenders, the same greasy fries, and a now-comfortable oscar piastri.

INCLUDES: fast-paced dialogue, many cuts, not a full-block thing, funny car jokes (please laugh), they don't really eat, osco is now finally biting back, this one is longer i promise, reader is a ferrari fan, ferrari slander teehee, the team not the drivers, obviously

NOTE: inspired by chicken shop date by amelia dimoldenberg! you guys loved the first one and i definitely felt it was too short, so i made another because why not

PART ONE: CHICKEN SHOP DATE

( masterlist | more OP81 )

"You're back," you start, blinking at the man in front of you. The air still smelled like grease and chicken and the table you sat at months ago stayed the same. The only difference was the fact that Oscar Piastri no longer sat at the edge of his chair in regret. Instead, he sat up and looked at you with a cheeky grin, hands already finding their way to his drink. "Ready for this second date?"

Oscar lets out a breathy chuckle, looking down at his lap to hide the smile. "Not really."

You smile wider at this, nibbling at a fry. "Good."

"So how's life been since the last date?"

Oscar clears his throat at the question, raising his eyebrows in thought before looking back up at you. "Good, actually."

"I heard you're leading the championship now," you say, raising both eyebrows with a grin. "Some could say I'm your good luck charm."

Oscar only smiles at this, shaking his head in disbelief before picking up a tender. "They'd be liars."

You narrow your eyes at the Aussie, accusingly pointing a fry towards him. "You're lying."

"Do you have any pre-race rituals?"

Oscar looks up at you from his box, a thinking frown appearing on his face. "Not really."

You stop chewing, blinking in confusion. "So I haven't changed your life... at all?"

"Not positively."

You look at him with pursed lips, a comedic silence coming between the both of you.

"Good to know."

"Do you usually eat here?" Oscar asks, eyeing the food you were eating.

You wipe your mouth with a napkin, swallowing your food before looking back at him. "No. Why? That good?"

"No," Oscar shakes his head, "That bad."

You choke on your food, looking around at the empty shop. "You can't just say that."

"I didn't mean the food."

Oscar tilts his head with a teasing grin. Meanwhile, you give him a blank stare.

"Funny."

"I saw you're a big Ferrari fan." Oscar directs the conversation. You glance at him, impressed.

"How'd you know that?"

"Instagram." He shrugs as he says it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"How's the Tifosi experience?"

You blink at him. "My head hurts just thinking about it."

Oscar laughs at this. You only blankly stare at him in return, throwing a half-eaten fry in his direction.

"You're part of the headache. Stupid McLarens."

"You won F2 and F3. You think you'll win F1?"

Oscar sets down his drink, pursing his lips. "Definitely."

You purse your lips as well, tilting your head sarcastically. "You think you'll do that with your current team?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oscar blinks in confusion. You only raise two eyebrows at him like he knows exactly what you mean, taking a bite out of the tender you were holding.

"Check the stats."

"The stats are fine?"

"Why did you come back?"

Oscar shrugs. "Part of my contract."

You stare at him with cold eyes. He only stares back like he was serious about his reply.

"That wasn't part of the script."

"I don't think any of this is part of any script."

"How many likes for you to do this again with me."

Oscar leans back in thought, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks up at the ceiling as he ponders upon an answer. You raise an eyebrow at his antics.

"Honestly... no amount of likes will make me do this again."

Your smile drops at this, staring at the F1 driver deadpan. "Are you serious?"

A grin appears on Oscar's face, "No."

"Have you ever considered switching to Alpine?"

You couldn't tell, but you swear you saw Oscar's eye twitch a little at the mention of his lower formula team.

"Why would I do that?"

You shrug, "For the funsies."

A beat of silence washes over the both of you.

"Have you ever considered switching to McLaren?" Oscar quips.

You smile at his rebuttal, "Only if it comes with a signed Oscar Piastri hat."

The driver nods once before sticking his hand out across the table. You take it and shake his hand, nodding in sync.

"It's a deal."

"Your PR team must love you. You typically stay out of trouble."

Oscar nods at this, glancing over to behind the camera where a handful of his team stood. "Yeah, they tend to sleep well."

You hum at this. "Maybe it's out of sheer boredom."

"You're manager is a former Red Bull menace. You give 'nervous intern at the media day' vibes."

Oscar furrows his eyebrows at this, not knowing whether to be offended or amused.

"I prefer the term calm."

You tilt your head at this, pursing your lips.

"You're a LinkedIn post. Mark's a gossip headline."

"Do you often publicly reject job offers?"

Oscar immediately knew what you were talking about, a breathy chuckle escaping his mouth.

"That was... complicated."

"Right. You rejected them like they were an ex texting at 2 AM."

"Do you ever miss the days when you were a highly rated junior instead of a highly judged rookie?"

Oscar takes a sip at this, blinking in confusion. "That's dark."

"It's the truth."

"You know," you start, taking a bite out of a fry. "I love your mom."

Oscar raises his eyebrows like he wasn't surprised. "Most people do."

"Like, if I had to choose between dating you or getting a Christmas card from Nicole... I'd choose the card."

Oscar clicks his tongue at this, leaning back in his seat. "Yeah, I would too."

"Everyday you prove to be the least favorite Piastri."

Oscar looks at you with a deadpan look. "Very original."

"You definitely aren't the original I'll tell you that much."

"Rate this date out of 10. Be honest."

Oscar sits quietly for a beat, munching on his fries as he thinks about the question. You sit there with a small smile, expecting the best from the man in front of you.

"Well, the food is an 8. You're... definitely present."

Your smile falters. "Still rude."

[petalborn]

a.n. ahhh this was like my first time writing anything in over two years. based on this anon sent to me by @thyme-in-a-bubble. I think this was the fastest Ive ever typed anything.

Summary: You are a casino girl at the country club Rafe owns. He’s obsessed with you and can’t wait to get you alone. Loves how nervous you get when it’s just the two of you.

word count: 2.9k

cw: 18+ , run of the mill smut, maybe a little primal play? like very little, afab reader as always, not totally proof read, possessive rafe

Being new in town, everyone gave you the same three pieces of advice: avoid swimming at the wharf at night — the cops will show up every time. A country club membership? Not worth it. And for the love of everything, no matter how tempting, stay away from Rafe Cameron. People spoke about him as if he were some urban legend amongst the town. As if a mess of danger and chaos followed him everywhere. They were right.

But it’s been six months, and the job at Duck Woods was the only gig you could snag that actually paid the bills. And even though they were right about Rafe being absolutely terrifying… you couldn’t help but notice how dangerously handsome he was. Worse than that, he was generous (too generous) with the tips he left you after every poker night.

Unbeknownst to you, Rafe had picked up a fixation with you. From the moment he saw you walk in carrying his drinks and cigars on that little silver tray— it was like you made him hungry. He knew he had to have you. There was something primal about the way he looked at you, and you certainly felt it. The way he peered over his drink glass at you as you walked about the room. It made your stomach coil, almost nauseously. Did he look at everyone like that?

You tell yourself it’s harmless. That it’s just the way he looks at all the girls in the casino— That the blue striped bills Rafe always so carefully slips under the strap of your dress is just pocket change to him. The feel of his warm calloused fingers ghosting against you are nothing to be worried about. Despite the way it always sends a chill over your body. You’ve heard the stories. He’s dangerous. Some would even say he’s a creep. A player.

So you do your best to stay stoic when he’s around, especially tonight, when he seems bolder than ever. He’s always tossed you careless compliments, called you ‘doll’ just to see you flustered. He loves pushing your buttons. Loves knowing that for the price of a stack of bills he tossed at the hostess, you’re his for the night. Not your body, not yet, but your attention. Your obedience. Your time.

Tonight, though? Tonight, Rafe wants more. Tonight, you’re going to be his. Completely.

He’d been playing poker for hours. You came in to give that final warning that the bar was closed. No more drinks to be served and he couldn’t help but smile. Waving off his comrades, but he himself stayed seated.

“Mr Cameron.” You speak plainly, waiting for him to get up and head towards the exit. It was a long night, and you were looking forward to getting those god awful heels off.

“Hm?” He hums, leaning back in his chair. The white button up he wore half open and untucked. His fingers slowly dragged around the stout glass that was once full of dark brown liquor.

“We close in five minutes.. Everyone’s going home.” You speak to him carefully, having seen how quick he is to anger.

There was a chilled feeling that came with the way he looked at you when you said that. A long moment of silence as he exhaled his still burning cigar. Your hands fidgeting with the hem of your dress. He could see the intimidation on you. The discomfort that came with being totally alone in a room with him. The nerves only grew the longer he sat silent. He did it on purpose— Enjoyed watching it stew inside you. Though you hid it well, it was like you were his prey. The hunger bubbled inside him as your nerves did in you.

Finally after what felt like ages but truly was only about forty-five seconds, He smiled. It was coy and charming. “We’re still here.” He retorted.

“Yeah…” your voice trailed off a second. “.. We are— but my shift is over soon and I’ve got to lock up.. so It’s time for you to head home too.”

Something about you telling him to leave made him chuckle. Your eyes taking note of the way his abdomen muscles flexed under the taught white shirt that covered his body. Looking at him puzzled, you shift on your feet a bit. Was he seriously gonna give you a hard time?

“Doll, I own the place. I will leave when I’m ready.” Rafe spoke, licking his bottom lip after.

A little breath escapes you, unsure what to do. If he owns it, then you can’t kick him out. But the manager said you had to lock up and be out by 3am. On. the. dot.

“Um. Okay. I’m sure you have keys. Have a good night Mr. Cameron.” Deciding not to fight it, you walk over to the poker table to grab his empty glasses. Ready to let yourself out.

As your hand reaches for the empty glasses, a calloused hand grabs your wrist tightly causing you to gasp. Frozen in your stance, you look at him. Heart suddenly racing.

“What’s the rush?” He smiles, gripping your forearm firmly.

“i-“ You start, swallowing thickly before finishing your sentence “My shift is over, it’s time for me to go home. My boyfriend is waiting.”

You lied. You don’t have a boyfriend. Rafe knew that too. Something about your quick defensiveness amused him.

“But I want you to stay a little longer, doll. Can’t you do that for me?” His voice was smooth, despite the several drinks he had sucked down tonight he did not seem all that drunk.

Taking a chance, you attempt to wriggle your wrist out of his grip. He lets go as you do, revealing a faint handprint and tenderness where he held you. Despite how horrified you were at this exchange, something about the way he looked at you made you wanna comply with his request.

Silence hung in the air. His hand reached for the hem of the dress you were. Fingertips tracing the skin of your thigh very lightly.

“Stay a bit longer.” Rafe repeated.

His fingers on your skin sent a heatwave over your body. Still standing before him, you looked down as he tried his luck some more. Fingers ghosting just beneath the hemline of that already short outfit that you’d been forced to wear for poker nights.

“I need to go home.” you attempt to sound firm but your voice trembles.

He carries on allowing his fingers to dance on your soft skin. “You know. “ he starts, “You are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. Wanted you since the first time I saw you.”

His candor makes your body tense up. You’d be lying if you didn’t find yourself attracted to him too. but the rumors of what he’s done in town echoed in the back of your mind.

“Mr Cameron.” you speak, but he stops you by waving a hand.

“Rafe.” he corrects you.

“Rafe” you repeat.

Just that word on your lips makes him groan. The bulge in his pants twitching, though you’ve yet to notice.

“That’s right, pretty girl.” he smiles, finally standing up from his seat. Towering over you with piercing blue eyes. “We have more games to play. You can go home after, mmkay?”

With just a few inches between you, you wondered if he could hear the way your breath quickened. Looking up at him wide eyed, like a doe caught in the middle of the street. You don’t respond. You can’t.

“What’s the matter, doll?” he speaks softly, the smell of smoke, cologne, and liquor wafting off him.

“You make me nervous.” You admit and it makes him take a breath. Those words like music to his ears and you can see it on him.

His hands come to your hips, bringing his body closer to yours. Turning you so you end up stuck between his body and the game table.

“Good.” his tone gruff, leaning down to speak by your ear. “Does this scare you? being left alone with me?”

You mumble a “yes, sir” which you were taught to say to all high paying customers.

“Wanna know something?” Rafe whispers, his lips grazing the skin of your jaw.

You felt frozen. confused even. Everything about him drew you in. His voice. His smell. His appearance. But fuck why’s he so scary?

“Hm?” you reply, feeling his slide down to the edge of your dress again. This time, he starts to hike it up.

“I want to fuck you.” He breathes. “Right here. and I think you want that too.”

Your body stiffens again. You did want it. God, you didn’t even realize how much you wanted it until he said that. Despite wanting it, fear coursed through you.

“But”

“But, what?”

“We can’t.” you try again, all the warning bells ringing in your brain telling you to stop him before it goes too far.

He lifts his head up to look at you, one of his hands coming up to the side of your face. His thumb on your chin. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.” His words come out harshly and quickly, making you flinch a little.

That little reaction making his cock ache. With the change in position, you could feel it now. Feel it growing against your thigh. Feel it twitch with need for you.

Still lost on words, you don’t say anything, just look at him. His grip on your chin tightens a bit. Leaning down so he’s close to your face. “You’re cute when you’re scared.” He taunts.

The amusement in his grin causes you to stir under him, accidentally letting your thigh cause friction against his bulge.

“Rafe.” you breathe, still torn between giving in and trying to push him off.

“Tell me again.” He insists, his thumb sliding over your bottom lip, other hand beginning to inch up your thigh. finger tips ghosting across your covered core.

“Tell you what?” you speak breathlessly.

“Are you scared of me?” he questions, feeling the heat coming off your covered cunt. Index and middle finger pressing a little firmly into it.

The words get caught in your throat with the rest of your breath. A whimper and a nod being all that leaves you. That alone tips him over the edge.

“Fuck, that makes my cock ache” he practically moans out before leaning down, his lips crashing into yours with a roughness you didn’t expect.

The kiss is ravenous. He’s been dying to taste you and it’s even sweeter than he’d have thought. While his lips and tongue worked against yours, his fingers continued to explore your lower half. Slipping into your underwear, his thick calloused fingers slip in between your wet folds. Sliding back and forth, exploring every inch before focusing in on the sensitive button at the top. His fingertips make swift circles around your clit— Had your mouth not been occupied by his, the room would be filled with your sounds of pleasure that muffled between his lips and yours.

You held onto him desperately, your mind going foggy with each passing second. Rafe was all you could think about. You needed him more than you thought possible.

“Rafe” You mumble against his lips, desperate for more from him. Your cunt pulsing against his fingers, aching to be filled.

“What is it baby?” He asks, fingers not letting up from toying with your clit. Enjoying the sounds that it’s drawing from you.

Your hand goes between the two of you, feeling brave as you press a palm flat against his bulge. Eyes stuck on him as you do. “Need you.” You whisper.

Those two words were all he needed. He gave your pussy a few more strokes before pulling his hand out, taking the time to lick his fingers clean before undoing his belt. In too much of a rush to worry about stripping either of you, all he did was push your dress up and your panties to the side. He unzipped his pants, pushing them down enough for his cock to fall out. It was thick and heavy. The meaty tip showing bright red, and pooling with pre. He caught a glimpse of the way you stared at him.

Amused at the eagerness now in your eyes, watching his hand give himself a few quick strokes before closing the distance between the two of you again.

“Tell me what you want.” He instructs while the fat head of his cock taps up against your cunt.

That alone makes you shiver. Your pussy clenches around nothing, desperate to feel him in you. The taunting from him not helping in the slightest. You whine and exhale, gripping the sides of his white shirt trying to pull him in closer. His cock head budding right up against your opening. So ready to slip in but he refuses to give you the satisfaction until you tell him what he wants to hear.

“I want you, Rafe. I want you to fuck me— Please, fuck me.” Your words leave you pitifully. Just full of so much desperation it’s practically oozing out of you.

As much as he wanted to make you beg some more, he also could no longer resist. With no warning he pushed completely into you with one swift movement. The initial stretch burned, a loud gasp bounced off the walls as your body took the intrusion.

“Fuck” he grunted, “Pussy’s so fucking tight.”

He waited only a second or two before beginning to rut into you. His thrusts were quick and steady. One arm wrapped tightly around your waist to keep you close while the other held onto your thigh so tightly you were sure to see a bruise tomorrow.

His forehead pressed against yours, the room filled with the sounds of what was happening. Your pitched moans and barely strung together sentences. His grunts and groans of how much he’d been dying to make your pussy his. The wet squelch of your pussy taking every single inch of him, over and over. Desperate for him to keep going. Hungry for as much as he could possibly give you.

“oh my god, rafe” you breathed out, fingernails digging deeply into his sides. Pussy clenching tightly around his cock— The pit of your tummy beginning to burn with each time the thick head of his cock pressed into the spot that made you see stars.

Through it all he never stopped looking at you. His piercing blue gaze somehow being the most intoxicating part of this whole ordeal. Arrogance coated his expression the way he ravaged you. The way he watched your face contort. The way your pussy was now his. Just like he’d intended.

“Been dying to get you like this.” he spoke to you, one hand reaching to find your clit again. The added sensation practically makes you squeal. Your climax rushing at you full force. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you. Every time I saw you. Needed you. Needed this pretty pussy. Knew it would stretch so good around my cock.”

The words he spoke only brought you closer and closer to the edge. You could tell by the way his cock twitched inside you.

“Gonna cum.” You choked out, lower half starting to tremble as you got dangerously close to your edge.

“It’s mine now, you know?” He ignored your warning, his thrusts becoming rougher. “This pussy is mine. say it.”

“Rafe” You hiccuped, barely able to think about what he was trying to get you to repeat.

When you didn’t repeat it, he only got rougher. Taking his fingers off your clit. Both hands grabbed your hips to begin drilling into you. Groaning at you through tight teeth. “Fucking say it.”

Overwhelmed by your orgasm that seemed to finally be hitting, the words came tripping out of you. Your body practically writhing against him. His thrusts remain harsh and steadfast through your peak.

“It’s yours. I’m yours. My pussy is yours.” You spoke through your daze, saying what he wanted and even a little more.

“That’s right. Good fucking girl” He gritted.

Not long after, as your orgasm, Rafe had his. Pulling out of you quick enough to make you wince— He took hold of his cock, giving it a few quick strokes. Expelling his mess right onto your pussy. Hot white ropes landing against your spread lips.

Once the two of you finally came to, he grinned. Reaching down he pulled your panties back across your cunt. Leaving the mess he made on you, for you to wear home. After that he pushed himself back into his pants and got himself sorted. Giving you a hand off the table he had pushed you up onto.

Once the two of you were decent enough, he reached into his pocket for a cigarette. Lighting it, taking a drag and studying you for a moment. You still seemed a bit flustered. Trying to make sense of what exactly just happened. Already worried about if you’d even have a job tomorrow. Just like always, he found himself amused with the whole thing.

Finally speaking up since he could tell you weren’t going to. “See you again soon.”

You let out a breath. “Yeah.. maybe.” You replied to him, unsure if what you just did was a mistake.

“It wasn’t a question.” He smiled, blowing smoke in your direction.

Those words reminding you of just why you got warned against going around him. Not only did you entertain him. You gave yourself to him. You were his now.

[girlinterupptedsblog]

☆Rafe hated you, made fun of you. So you got him hooked and fucked him over.

HA HA CHECKMATE BITCH

Warnings:(18+ only, hate sex, toxic, manipulative, reader being brat)

You always hated Rafe. That smug face. That lazy, cocky grin like he owned the island and everyone on it. Always looking down on you. You didn’t pretend to be something you weren’t. And he hated that about you. Or maybe he just hated everything about you in general.

The night of the Boneyard party changed everything.

You had shown up in this ridiculous vintage red slip dress. It clung to your body like it was painted on, delicate lace at the top, satin hugging your every curve. You wore it for yourself—because you liked the way it felt on your skin. But the second Rafe laid eyes on you, he had to say something.

"Jesus Christ. What thrift store did you dig that out of? Looks like your grandma's nightgown."

He said it loud enough for his little entourage to hear. They all laughed. You rolled your eyes. But you caught it.

That look.

The flicker of his eyes dragging slowly down your body. The way his jaw flexed as he took you in. His hand casually resting in front of his jeans.

He wanted you. That was obvious.

And that pissed him off more than it did you.

So he tried to humiliate you.

Bad move.

You didn’t forget it. You promised yourself he’d pay. And you always kept your promises.

The plan wasn’t hard.

Rafe was easy to read. You just had to let him think he was in control.

A few run-ins later—short skirts, lip gloss, whispered jabs back at him—you had him. Not completely. He resisted, like a stubborn bastard who couldn’t admit what he wanted. But the tension snapped one night in the Tannyhill garage.

He was working on the boat, shirtless, grease-streaked, pissed off.

"You come here to stare or you gonna be useful for once?"

You walked right up to him, slow and deliberate, and let your fingers trail over his stomach. "Useful like this?"

He cracked.

He bent you over the hood of Ward’s Range Rover. You got him where you wanted him. He was rough, hard, furious—like he hated you. Like you hated him.

And you did. But it felt so fucking good.

From then on, it didn’t stop it went on like loop.

You were fucking Rafe everywhere anytime.

The Tannyhill guest room, when no one was home.

Bathrooms at parties. Backseat of his truck, fogged windows and all.

Once, on the beach after a kegger, he made you cum with his hand down your bikini bottoms while his friends laughed and lit fireworks ten feet away. You bit your lip so hard to keep quiet, you tasted blood.

Another time, he pulled you into the pantry at your place during a house party. Pushed you against the shelves, canned goods rattling as he fucked you from behind. Told you you were his dirty little secret.

You rode him in the driver’s seat of his dad’s Mercedes while the engine was running. Came so hard your moans echoed off the windshield.

He was good. Annoyingly good.

You couldn’t lie—he hit every single spot like he had your body mapped out.

And somewhere in the mess of lust, something shifted. For him, not you. It was all going the way you hoped it will. Stupid little boy.

He started calling you. Texting all the time. Showing up unannounced. Getting possessive. Picking fights with guys who so much as looked at you.

"Were togheter right?," he growled one night, arms locked around your waist as you straddled him. "Say it."

You didn’t say it. You kissed him. Rode him like he was just another toy in your revenge chest.

But he thought it meant more. He started saying things. Asking if you wanted to stay the night. Telling you he liked waking up with you next to him. That maybe you should stop messing around and just be his.

That’s when you knew you had him.

Hook. Line. Sucker.

You waited until the next big party to end it.

You wore that same red dress.

Rafe came over immediately. Grabbed your arm, pulled you aside.

"You’re doing this on purpose."

You tilted your head. “Doing what, Rafe?”

"You know exactly what." His voice was low, tense. “You think you can just walk around like that? Looking like—”

“Looking like what? Like someone you fucked all over the Outer Banks for the last two months?”

He flinched. “You’re not funny.”

“No,” you smiled sweetly, voice syrup-thick. “But you are.”

And that’s when you dropped it.

“I don’t want you anymore, Rafe.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I’m bored. You were just a good time. Revenge, really. Just so i can prove it to myself. You aint what i want. You just arent it. And you dont even fuck as good as i hope you would. Shame.”

His face dropped.

"That’s what this was?" His voice cracked with disbelief.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“All of it. Every single time you came inside me thinking I wanted you? I was just thinking of how pathetic you looked trying to make me yours.”

Then you turned and walked off. Left him standing there, fists clenched, mouth open, humiliated in the firelight.

You won.

Later that night, you got a text.

“You think this is over?”

You smiled.

"It is for me."

But you knew it wasn't for him.

Because Rafe had never been dumped before.

And he’d never been played.

Too bad. That’s what made it so delicious.

You’d burned him with his own lust.

[starlinggirll]

a/n: this is short and sweet because im going on a trip today! ill try to be active but i'll doubt ill be able to write. didnt want to leave you all with nothing!

the moment he saw you at the club he was hooked.

loud, obnoxious, slutty.

everything that tashi wasnt.

he was up for a change since his divorce, plus he always felt inferior when he was with tashi...you were his chance in being as rough and demanding as she was.

but what he didn't expect was him loving it. loving the way your pussy clenches when he calls you a slut while fucking you in his bed. loving the way tears roll down your cheeks as he forces your head down to take his cock deeper into your throat.

but he also loves the soft side of things. the aftercare, the hangouts...the soft touches while cuddling. he shouldn't feel so attached to you; your act is clear as day.

you're only here for the money.

and he's only here for the sex.

so why does he feel a pang each time you leave his place after a long night of sex?

"how much money for you to stay the weekend?" he mumbles as he crosses his arms behind his head. watching as you put your clothes on after hours of sex. a faint grin forms as he notices your wobbly legs.

"stay? like in here?" you giggle, brushing it off as a joke. "yeah. i can pay you $2000 a day." he says casually, too willing to throw away money for you.

"yeah right." you fish under his bed in search of your panties before you feel yourself getting hoisted up. "hey! stop!" he plops you beside him, his arm wrapping around your shoulders tightly.

"you're staying." "but i dont even-" "ill buy you clothes. food. anything you need."

you press your cheek against his peck, a pout on your lips. "dont act like you dont want to? what are you going to do? go fuck another man?"

"that's none-" he cuts you off, again. "it is my business. it turned my business the moment i fucked you." he says matter of factly, nuzzling his cheek against your forehead. your cheeks burn, but you dont answer.

instead you curl up further into his arms, draping your arm across his chest. "plus," he starts again. "no way you're sleeping in this state. you can beraly hold yourself up." he taunts, giving your ass a loud smack. but you beraly react, too deep into his arms to care.

he sighs, smiling. like a real a smile, a smile he hasnt let out since his divorce. and maybe, just maybe, you're it.

you're his person.

a young girl that has her life ahead of her. years of experience waiting for her. but he wont let you do that; wont let you be touched by someone else.

its like the same fixation he felt with tashi back in college. but this time he's in control, he wont let you get away from him.

thankfully for him tho, you look like you have no means on leaving. not with you sleeping so peacefully against his chest. not with your naked body pressed against him.

he kisses your forehead softly before giving your ass another squeeze. leaving his hand there while using his other hand to pull the blanket over both of you.

he closes his eyes, ready to rest.

because he knows the weekend is going to be full of sex, love, dinners, shopping. everything that you could ever want.

[manonsmartini]

Play Pretend — Sophia Laforteza

✒️ Fake dating · Rivals to lovers · Theatre au · Mentions of classism/nepotism · Coming-of-age vibes · Narration-heavy

Summary: Two rival theatre actresses agree to fake date for publicity. But as rehearsals blur the line between performance and reality, old resentment gives way to unexpected longing—and neither of them is acting anymore. (3.9k words)

You should’ve known she’d be casted.

The moment the audition notice went up for “Bahaghari,” a new independent sapphic play, something in your chest tightened. Not from nerves, at keast not entirely. It was mostly from experience. You could already picture the poster: your name in lowercase, hers in bold, stylized font. Laforteza. Even her last name performed.

You weren’t surprised when the cast list confirmed it. Sophia Laforteza, lead. Again.

Still, when she walked into the first table read, wearing a denim jacket too clean to have ever been secondhand, your stomach curled.

“Hey,” she said softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. She smiled like you were friends. Like history hadn’t built a wall between you.

You gave her a nod. Not cold. Not warm. Safe.

She sat across from you. Of course.

Her script was neatly annotated. Color-coded. Yours was a mess of scribbled notes, receipts, and coffee stains. The kind of chaos that comes from juggling rehearsals with part-time shifts and cramped apartment living.

The director began introductions. Sophia’s gaze stayed on you. Always just a second longer than necessary.

Sophia didn’t expect her voice to tremble when she introduced herself, “I’m Sophia. Uh, playing Eliza.”

She tried not to look at you, but the gravity pulled her in anyway.

In her eyes, you hadn’t changed. You still wore that tired confidence like armor. Still carried yourself like you belonged, even when the world refused to make space for you.

Sophia wanted to tell you how much she admired that. But she couldn’t even ask how you have been without sounding fake.

You didn’t smile. you never smiled at her. Not really.

Back in your teen years, Sophia used to sneak into small black box performances just to watch you. You were electric then—untamed, magnetic. It made Sophia ache in ways she didn’t understand at fifteen. Her mother called it envy.

It wasn’t.

Sophia looked at you now and felt the same ache. But deeper. Sharper. Lonelier.

The read-through was fine. Good, even. Lines flowed. Blocking made sense. The chemistry was there. You hated that it was there.

Afterward, during the production meeting, the director floated a suggestion.

“Since this is an indie production, we’ll need help promoting. Socials, vlogs, maybe some behind-the-scenes stuff. You two are the romantic leads… it wouldn’t hurt to build a little hype. Nothing crazy. Just—something authentic. Flirty. People love queer stories that feel real.”

Someone joked, “You two should fake date for clout.”

You laughed. A dry, incredulous sound. But then Sophia—of course she smiled, like it wasn’t the most ridiculous idea in the world.

“I mean,” she said, “if it helps the show.”

You wanted to say no, to walk out. But this play could change your trajectory. A breakout role. Finally.

So you said, “Fine. Just don’t get used to it.”

Her smile faltered for a second. Just a second.

Sophia held onto the softness of your voice when you said “fine.” Even if the rest of you was stiff and closed off. She told herself it was just for the play. Just press. Just art.

But at night, she replayed rehearsal moments in her head. The way your voice cracked at the end of scene four. The way your fingers brushed hers during a blocking adjustment. None of it made it into the script notes. But all of it mattered to her.

She posted a photo of you both drinking iced tea on the studio floor. Captioned it “Post-rehearsal recharge with my favorite scene partner 🤎”

You didn’t like the post. You didn’t comment. But you let her take the picture. She told herself that meant something.

You hated how well she played her part. The charm, the sweetness, the effortless smiles that made fans believe she was just like them. You’d worked your whole life to be seen; to be taken seriously. Sophia just existed and the world watched.

Still, when she wrapped her arms around you for a behind-the-scenes photo and whispered, “Tell me if I’m overstepping,” something in you flickered.

You didn’t pull away.

It’s past nine when rehearsal ends, but Sophia lingers in the back corner of the studio, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her script spread out in front of her. Everyone else has gone. Even the director.

You’re supposed to leave too. You have work in the morning. A borrowed train card in your coat pocket and a half-eaten granola bar in your bag. But something keeps you still.

She doesn’t know you’re watching.

Sophia hums softly, tracing her highlighter over the same line three times. Her hair is a little frizzy at the crown—humidity or sweat, perhaps both. Her sneakers are scuffed at the toes, which surprises you. You thought she replaced things the moment they wore down.

Then she speaks. Not the script. Her own words.

“God, I always trip over this one,” she says to no one, “The part where Eliza asks if love is supposed to feel this lonely.”

Her voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. Not projected, not polished. Just… her. Small and honest.

You step closer without thinking, “Isn’t that the best line in the whole play?” you ask, voice half a whisper.

Sophia startles slightly, looking up. She blushes, embarrassed, but she doesn’t hide the script.

“I guess I’m still trying to figure it out,” she says. “What that kind of loneliness feels like.”

You sit down beside her, keeping a respectful distance.

“You’ve never felt it?”

She shrugs. “I’ve felt… pressure. Expectations. But being lonely? I don’t know. Maybe I don’t let myself stop long enough to notice.”

You look at her then—not the theatre darling, not the girl with inherited grace—but someone who’s tired. Someone who keeps trying to earn a place she was already given, because she’s scared of what it would mean if she didn’t.

She turns to you suddenly, eyes earnest.

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“Do you actually think I don’t deserve to be here?”

The question guts you. She’s aware.

You want to say yes. You want to cling to the narrative that keeps you safe—that she has it easy, that you’ve worked harder, that her softness is a mask.

But she’s not soft right now. She’s real.

You take too long to answer.

“I think…” you begin, voice careful, “I used to think you were only here because of your last name. And maybe part of me still does. But tonight—when I watched you during your scenes… I didn’t see your mom. I didn’t see the version of you I thought I’m bitter about.”

Sophia stares at you.

“I just saw you,” you say. “And honestly, it kind of ruined everything.”

You don’t realize how close you’ve leaned in until your knee brushes hers. She doesn’t move away. Both of you didn’t move closer though, but still, something shifts in your chest.

And for the first time, it’s not resentment blooming there.

It’s something warmer. Depending on how things played out, it was something dangerous.

In rehearsals, things shifted. Dialogue blurred. Stage kisses lingered. You told yourself it was method. Told yourself you didn’t notice the way she looked at you during every monologue, even when the script didn’t call for it.

She gave too much. She made you feel too much.

And the worst part? You started to believe it wasn’t fake. That maybe, just maybe, she was reaching for something real.

She stayed late after rehearsal one night, pretending to adjust lighting gels. Sophia sat on the edge of the stage, legs swinging, watching you work with quiet reverence.

She wanted to tell you everything. That her mother hated this play. That she hadn’t taken this role to impress critics or directors or social media.

Sophia had taken it for you. For the girl who once made her cry from a single monologue whispered in the dark.

Instead, Sophia just said, “You were incredible tonight.”

You didn’t look at her. “You say that every night,” she replied.

Sophia swallowed the lump in her throat, “That’s because it’s always true.”

You hear her name before you hear the words.

“…her mom’s helping fund the whole thing anyway. Sophia’s doing it for exposure.”

You’re standing in the hallway outside the rehearsal studio, holding a cracked water bottle and three hours of exhaustion in your bones. The voices belong to two crew members—chatting, careless. They don’t know you’re there.

“She doesn’t even need this play. But it’ll look good on her resume. And honestly, she and the other lead—what’s her name?—they’re not even close. It’s probably just for the clout.”

They laugh. You stay still. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… tired. Tired because you already knew.

You’ve always known Sophia could walk into any room and people would part like she was born to be there. You, on the other hand, had to learn how to take up space without asking permission.

You push open the door to the studio. She’s already there, sitting on the floor, tying the lace on her shoes. She looks up at you with that open face, soft eyes. Like she doesn’t know what it’s like to beg for a chance.

You sit across from her, silence thick between you.

“We need to run scene seven again,” she says gently.

You nod. No small talk. No fake couple chatter. You just want to get through rehearsal and go home.

Sophia felt it the moment you walked in. The distance. Like a wall had been rebuilt overnight and she had no idea how or why.

She watched you move through rehearsal like your body was a room she wasn’t allowed in. The chemistry was still there—technically. You hit your cues, you said the lines. But your eyes didn’t linger. Your hands didn’t tremble when they touched hers.

She didn’t know what she’d done. Afterward, she tried to catch you before you left.

“Hey,” she said, breath catching. “Did I… do something?”

You turned around, eyes dull with something like disappointment.

“You’re not doing this for the art,” you said quietly. “You’re doing it because you can. Because this play is convenient for you. You get to be praised for showing up. The rest of us have to scrape to get noticed.”

Sophia opened her mouth, then closed it. There was a pressure in her chest that she didn’t know how to name.

“It’s not like that,” she said. “I care about this. I care about—”

You looked at her, tired and small, “Don’t pretend you care. It’s insulting.” And without wasting another second, you left.

She stayed in the empty studio for a long time, staring at the spot where your shadow had been.

You knew you were cruel. The words came out sharper than you intended. But something broke when you heard those voices. And it had been building for weeks.

The touches. The long glances. The way Sophia looked at you like she was seeing something beautiful, something important.

You’d almost believed it. And that was the worst part.

You’d almost let yourself fall for someone who was only pretending.

The next few rehearsals are quiet. Efficient. Cold. You don’t post any more photos. You stop responding to on the old ones. Fans still tag you in edits, calling you soulmates, calling you perfect. You want to tell them they’re wrong.

But you don’t.

You just rehearse. You cry when the script tells you to. You kiss her when the scene demands it. And each time, you pretend not to feel her lips shaking.

The theatre was cold tonight. The kind of cold that settled in your bones, even under stage lights.

Sophia sat in the wings, out of sight but close enough to hear your breathing through the lav mic clipped to your collar. Her own hands were still trembling from the last scene. Her cheeks hadn’t quite cooled from where your lips had barely touched hers.

It was just blocking. She told herself that over and over.

Now came scene ten. The monologue.

She’d read it a hundred times in the script. She knew each word like a prayer. But the moment you stepped into the stage light and took that first shallow breath, Sophia felt something shift.

You were quiet for a moment, and then you began.

“I waited. I waited for you to choose me. But you never looked my way unless there was a script between us.”

Your voice cracked—not theatrically. Not with intent. It cracked like a dam splitting down the middle.

Sophia leaned forward, instinctively.

She knew the lines. Knew how your voice was supposed to rise at the fifth line, soften at the eighth. But you weren’t following the beats anymore. You were unraveling them.

“I pretended it didn’t hurt. I told myself you touched everyone that way. That your eyes just… looked through people. But I wanted to believe you saw me.”

Sophia’s throat closed.

The others backstage watched, riveted. A few whispered, awed at your delivery. But Sophia couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Because what if it wasn’t just acting?

What if the shaking in your hands, the way your chin tilted up like you were trying not to fall apart—that wasn’t performance?

What if you meant it?

Your eyes were glassy now, but your voice held steady.

“I don’t want to be someone you just practice love with.”

The silence after that line stretched too long.

No one called “line.” No one stopped the run.

Sophia pressed her palm against her chest. It hurt. It physically hurt.

You stood there, shoulders drawn tight like you were holding yourself together with sheer will. Your breathing uneven. And then the tears came. Slow, silent, real.

Sophia bit the inside of her cheek. She wanted to run onstage and hold you. Break the scene. Break the rules. But she stayed hidden, letting the stage keep its illusion.

Letting you cry without her.

When the lights dimmed and the scene ended, applause broke out from the tech crew and the assistant director. Someone called you a genius. Someone else said it gave them goosebumps.

Sophia didn’t say anything.

She stayed in the wings, hands clenched in her lap, until you walked past her without looking.

She wanted to believe it was just the script that broke you.

But she knew better.

Opening night is a week away, and Sophia hasn’t slept properly in days.

She doesn’t tell anyone that she cried in her car after the last full run. Or that she nearly walked off stage when you performed your monologue with tears that didn’t feel fake.

She scrolls through old photos on her phone, the ones she never posted. A photo of you eating rice crackers in the dressing room. You mid-laugh. You resting her head on Sophia’s shoulder, eyes closed, trusting.

She wanted it to be real. All of it.

She wanted to say it.

That she didn’t care about the press or the PR. That this wasn’t just about building chemistry for a role.

She had fallen. Quietly, painfully, completely.

But now, she didn’t know how to prove it without making things worse.

Sophia’s mother calls, asking her how the show is going. Tells her not to get too attached to independent work. Says these things don’t last.

Sophia almost asks, “What if someone I love is in it?” But she doesn’t. She couldn’t.

She just stares at her reflection under the dressing room lights, wondering why honesty always felt harder than performing.

The lights feel warmer than they did during tech. Brighter. Hungrier.

Sophia stands in the wings, watching you center yourself before the opening scene. The theatre isn’t packed, but the front two rows are full—students, critics, some of your friends from school. Her mother is not here. She didn’t expect her to come.

Sophia’s heart beats too loudly for the quiet around her. She’s run the scenes, the lines, the beats, but nothing could rehearse the weight she carries now.

She’s been pretending all her life. Except for tonight, she really doesn’t want to. Not on this stage. Not with you.

You tell yourself it’s just another performance. That the scene ahead, the final confession, the one where Eliza lays her heart bare, is only a scene.

But your palms are cold. Your mouth dry. And when Sophia walks out to join you for scene eleven, something in your chest stirs and refuses to settle.

She’s radiant tonight. Not polished, not perfect. Real. Her hair tucked behind her ears, a nervous tremble in her fingers. Her eyes meet yours as she takes her place across from you, and for the first time, she doesn’t look like a rival.

She looks like a girl trying not to fall apart.

She was supposed to follow the script. The stage manager whispered the cue. The line was ready.

But when you turned to her, eyes already glassy, Sophia felt her breath catch. She had watched you cry in rehearsal. Had felt every word you poured out like it was her own confession. And now, standing this close, she couldn’t lie anymore.

Not even with a script.

So when the moment came for her to speak, Sophia went off-book.

“You think I don’t care,” she said, softly, shaking. “But I do. I care so much I forget how to breathe when you look at me.”

Someone backstage inhaled sharply.

You didn’t flinch. You stayed in it. Listening.

“I took this role because of you. Not to prove anything to anyone. Just so I could be near you. Just so I could… maybe matter.”

The audience didn’t know this wasn’t scripted.

Sophia didn’t care.

“It was never just play pretend,” You watched as Sophia’s eyes glazed with unshed tears and what looked like bold honesty, “It was never just an act for me.”

She breaks character. You can feel it. Not in a way that ruins the scene—no, in a way that makes it more alive than anything you’ve ever performed.

She’s speaking to you, not your character. Sophia, not Eliza. And something cracks open inside you.

“I thought you were pretending,” you say, voice quiet but steady. “I thought I was the only one who didn’t know how to fake it.”

Sophia’s breath catches. You step closer.

“Turns out… you were the only one being honest.”

Your voice trembles at the end—not from nerves, not from fear, but from something else. Something deeper. Like you’ve been holding your breath through the entire show, through every shared glance and staged kiss and carefully measured silence.

And now, finally, you’re exhaling.

There’s a beat of stillness after the line. Just the sound of your heart in your ears, and the faint hum of the lights above. The theatre is quiet. No movement from the wings. No music cue yet. It’s as if the world is holding its breath with you.

And it felt like a singular beat was released, just as Sophia takes a step closer to you.

Her eyes are glassy, but steady. Her hand lifts slightly, like she’s about to reach for your face—then pauses, giving you the chance to lean in first.

You do.

You close the space between you, carefully, slowly, as if you’re afraid the moment will shatter if you move too fast. Her lips meet yours, soft and tentative, like a question. And when you don’t pull away, when you kiss her back, real and certain, she answers you with a quiet exhale against your mouth, like she’s been waiting years for this.

The kiss deepens just enough to make your knees go a little weak. It tastes like unsaid things. Like hope. Like a promise. And when it ends, your foreheads touch.

Neither of you speak. There’s no need.

The lights dim to black, warm and slow, swallowing the stage in silence.

But long after the applause begins, long after the final cue fades, you’re still holding her hand.

And this time, it’s not for the audience. It’s for her.

The applause has faded. The stage is empty now, the kind of quiet that feels sacred. Crew members murmur softly as they strike the set, careful not to disturb what lingers in the air.

Sophia doesn’t leave.

She stands just outside your dressing room door, still in costume, arms crossed tightly across her chest—not in defense, but like she’s holding something in. Like if she lets go, the weight of the night will spill out of her all at once.

She’s rehearsing things in her head. Words she never found the courage to say, over and over again, hoping they don’t fall apart when they finally leave her mouth.

She doesn’t know if you’ll even want to see her.

The door creaks open.

You step out slowly, your coat draped over your shoulders, cheeks still faintly flushed from the last scene. Your lipstick smudged slightly. Your hair a little messy under the dressing room lights.

You look up and suddenly you’re faced with the one girl who has been invading your mind.

She sees it hit you—that she waited. That she didn’t leave.

Neither of you speak. For a moment, all you do is look at each other.

Her eyes are red-rimmed but clear. Open. Unafraid.

Yours are tired, but there’s softness in them. Searching.

And then something in you gives in.

You close the space between you without hesitation. No lines to guide you. No camera. No direction. Just instinct. Just want.

Your lips touch hers.

Gently at first, like you’re asking permission. And when she kisses you back, it’s with everything she’s been holding in for weeks—but in actuality, it has been years.

It’s slow. Tender. A little unsteady. Like you’re both learning how not to hold back for the first time in a long time.

When you finally break apart, her hands are still holding your waist, your fingers still curled in the collar of her shirt. Your foreheads rest together, eyes closed.

Neither of you rush to speak. But she does first, voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” The words tremble, not from doubt—but from relief.

You breathe out softly, your nose brushing hers, “Then don’t.”

She lets out a quiet, shaky laugh, like she wasn’t expecting you to make it that easy. Like she’s still scared she’ll wake up tomorrow and it won’t be real.

But it is real.

You tilt your head back slightly to look at her. And this time, when you smile, it’s not guarded. It’s not polite. It’s not for anyone but her.

“I kept trying to hate you,” you say, voice low. “For all the chances you had. For everything I didn’t. But it was never hate. Not really.”

Sophia blinks slowly. You feel her breath catch.

“I know,” she says. “I was scared you’d never believe me. That you’d never see who I actually was underneath all the… all the things people think I am.”

You rest your hand on her cheek, thumb grazing the corner of her mouth.

“I see you now.”

And you do.

You see the way she’s always looked at you, not with rivalry, but awe. You see the nerves in her fingers, the softness in her voice when she forgets she’s performing. You see her: Sophia, not Laforteza, and the girl in front of you is not some distant star.

She’s yours.

Maybe not fully. At least not just yet. But enough to hold onto, knowing full well that she would gladly give herself to you.

Sophia leans in, gently brushing your lips again like she’s making sure it wasn’t a dream.

It isn’t.

You stay like that for a while. Holding each other. No lights, no lines, no cameras.

Just the truth. Just this. Just her.

[aetherograph]

#also I’m not a folklorist but ‘the piece of folklore is adapted by its folk to remain relevant to their lives’ is#from my limited understanding#kinda a huge part of how folklore works#you riff off the old stuff to keep it fun and interesting#right?#even the same story will be adapted for different audiences sometimes even by the same storyteller#folklore @tuulikki

"I'm not a folklorist but" is a red flag that you need to realise you do not have enough education to actually have an opinion on the matter. Please do more research into folklore and the problems with Christians stealing folklore from non-Xtian cultures and NOT using their own, which is just as rich and old but which they dismiss as being "for babies" and "boring" because they grew up with it.

I am a storyteller and of a religious minority whose folklore is CONSTANTLY and consistently stolen and appropriated by Christians as being free for them to use without understanding the embedded cultural lessons in the stories. I watch Christians do this ALL THE FUCKING TIME, and its getting bad again with the enormous popularity of the adaptation called "Epic".

Adapting a story for different audiences does not mean the lesson and cultural values within the story, that are part of the culture that tells it, are going to be changed or SHOULD be changed. Folklore is a record of a culture's history as much as it is a way of passing on cultural values--which do not change, because they are, and I cannot emphasise this enough, WHAT MAKES UP A CULTURE.

For example: The stories of Anansi define who the Akan people are; even as their people were stolen and transported across the sea during the slave trade, their culture in the form of their stories stayed with them, and were passed on to their children and grandchildren. These stories can be used to trace people back to their homes that they were stolen from. The stories of Anansi are not interchangeable with other stories and cannot and should not simply be changed in order to "be relevant to other audiences", they are Anansi Stories.

We listen to and read folklore to learn about other cultures, to learn about other people in other neighbourhoods. Folklore that is not yours should not be treated the same, just like you don't treat your possessions the same as other people's. You don't just decide what someone else's heirlooms mean, you listen to them tell you what they mean. That's what I'm saying.

I see a post going around lately of someone thinking it's a profound statement to say ALL "fairytales" are "about being kind" and ALL of them are about the underdog winning when I know that is factually not fucking true, because I've fucking studied folklore from all over the world and time for DECADES and part of why I love to study it and never get sick of doing so is that it's all so DIFFERENT and it's the BEST way to tell what a culture thinks is important and what is their definition of "normal behaviour" and "abnormal behaviour" and the whole function of folklore is that it's a body of stories told by that culture to that culture, for the purpose of keeping their culture alive by explaining and reinforcing their values, whatever they are--it reinforces normal things to ridicule, to approve of, to disapprove of, to eat, to do, and everything else that makes up a culture.

When you tell a story to an audience, it's different every time. But that doesn't mean it's TOTALLY different. It's more like how when you see a play, every production of that same play is different. Different actors, different interpretations of the words of the story--but the same story, the same words. Now, when I tell a tale, sometimes some of the words come out differently, or I try a different phrase to describe something; but there are details of a tale you cannot change, and it is the work and the profession of the storyteller to know what they are, and to know why they don't change. And that's not something I can lay out to you scientifically or something, it's just something you learn if you listen to storytellers and learn from them, if you understand your culture is not the default in a very real, tangible way by interacting with LOTS of different people from LOTS of different cultures, and learning their stories and listening to their stories told.

And the Christians ripping these tales out of their context, and deciding they don't NEED context because "the story is timeless", is the biggest and most consistent problem I run into over and over, like that Christian up there. Folktales do NOT "shift to match current social values". Folktales define what the social values are. But if you're stealing stories from other cultures because you think your own aren't good enough or shouldn't be tampered with, and then forcing those stories to mean whatever you WANT them to mean... you're a fucking colonizer and I'm gonna throw your phone in a septic tank.

Some of you are getting a little bit too Joseph Campbell with folklore, acting like every single folktale has the same lesson, the same story, acting like folklore is somehow counterculture when it's very much culture, as in, "teaches and enforces mainstream ideas of the culture that produced it."

Guys I LOVE folklore; that's why this bullshit about "it's always about being kind is clever and being clever is being kind" type of new age illiterate hokum is making me real fuckin tired.

Have you actually, you know, been told or read any old folktales? Or are you reading fanfiction of them, or relying on your memory of disney movies?

The POINT of folktales is that they model and teach all the DIFFERENT values and mores of a culture. They are entertaining, but they have purpose in a way that modern fiction doesn't, because folktales carry culture forward, teach it to the next generation.

"When we told ourselves our past with stories, explained our present with stories, foretold our future with stories..." isn't just a beautifully-written piece of dialogue, it's true.

Kindness is not the only fucking value or moré a culture has, if they have it. Kindness isn't even DEFINED the same way across all cultures. There is no universal cultural truth. Some stories teach kindness, others teach cleverness, or humility, or obedience, or hospitality rules, or duty, or any number of things! To say all folktales are actually about kindness does them a HUGE disservice and insult!

[beargyu313]

Let’s not do this again .ೃ࿔ *:･

⋆✴︎˚Summary: you’ve known Riki since you were little, but as the years pass they force you apart. You never knew running into him after two years would make you meet the worst version of yourself.

⋆⭒˚.⋆Word count: 13k

CW: This story explores messy, flawed characters—read with caution.

 *ੈ✩‧₊˚Tags: angst with happy ending, smut, childhood friends, brat tamer Niki, subtle degradation, cheating, blackmailing, possessive behavior, sex as retribution, jealousy, angry sex, fluff at the end

જ⁀➴a/n: This was way angstier than I intended idk what happened taglist: @mrsjjongstby

mdni smut ahead, masterlist

You have known Riki your whole life. Being neighbors meant you saw each other often. And all it took to spark a friendship was him sharing his candy with you on a cold September day.

You still remember it, as if it happened yesterday. First day of school, overcast weather, and your chest tight for no real reason.

After school ended you went to the playground. And your younger neighbor was already there. He didn’t understand why you were sad, but he knew he wanted to make you smile again.

He just sat down beside you and placed the wrapped sweet in your hand. Like it was obvious that he wanted to make you feel better. That he would.

After that, it was always just you two. Matching Halloween costumes. Staying up too late on Fridays. Trading secrets. You had other friends, but Riki always came first. He felt like home.

As you two got older, things shifted. But not in a sudden, dramatic way. It was slow. Soft. The kind of change you barely noticed — until one day when you kissed him, and it didn’t feel wrong.

On his 18th birthday, you two had sex for the first time. It wasn’t planned. But it also wasn’t a surprise. That was the thing about you and Riki, everything just sort of happened.

He’d touch your wrist a certain way, and you’d end up in his lap. You’d fight, and then you’d make out in silence.

You weren’t a couple. But you weren’t just friends either.

Then Jungwon came along. Same age as you. Same classes. Smart, kind, charming in the right ways. It made sense to date him. To say yes to something real. Something normal.

So you did.

And for the first time, Riki wasn’t there. He hated it. Tried to act indifferent. Played along at first. But you could feel it. The resentment. The anger. The disbelief that you’d actually leave him behind.

Because here’s the thing… Riki thought you’d pick him. He thought he was your endgame. But you didn’t. And he never forgave you for it.

But you still dream about his mouth sometimes. You still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, especially on cold and foggy days that reminisce the early autumn weather.

And no matter how much time passes… you can’t move on. Even two years later, as you’re getting ready for a party you think about him as you look out at the blinking city lights hugged by the mist and fog.

You hug your bare arms, already wearing the backless ruby dress, matching with Jungwon’s shirt.

He steps out of the bathroom, his blonde hair impeccably styled into fluffy bangs. You force a tight smile as you look over him.

“Ready?” he asks you, holding his hand out.

You take his hand, “almost,” you say, spritzing the final beats of perfume and then you’re leaving.

The party was glamorous. Screaming Park Jongseong. Flashing lights, gold hues dominating the ballroom, at least five different types of wines to choose from, and you think you can even spot a champagne tower through the crowd of people dressed in fancy clothing. You grab onto Jungwon’s hand tighter as he happily leads the two of you to Jongseong. This is why you like Jungwon, he grounds you.

You’re still taking in the room once you reach Jongseong, you exchange greetings, let Jungwon take over the conversation with his lifelong friend, and then it’s like time freezes.

Right across from you, you spot him. Your heart beats harder in your chest as you stare. It can’t be him. Can’t be your Riki. This Riki was taller, broad shoulders, somehow intimidating. Which was weird because the Riki you remember always felt like home.

He still hasn’t noticed you. He was too busy smiling at a girl hanging off of his arm. Unknowingly your jaw clenches at the sight. What was worse even, you knew the girl.

Rei.

Sweet, kind Rei. She and Riki used to be classmates back in middle school. You never would’ve guessed this was Riki’s type. Selfishly you wanted, or hoped, he would chase the ghost of you in every girl he meets.

Same as you did, looking for traces of your Riki no matter where you were.

That’s when he spots you. And you quickly avert your gaze, cheeks burning at your shameful thoughts. You reach for comfort, for Jungwon – still in deep conversation with Jongseong – and he wraps his arm around your waist and you melt. A little. But it’s enough.

That’s when you hear what they’re talking about. And your blood runs cold.

“—still won’t tell anyone what the occasion is,” Jungwon is saying, laughing under his breath. “A little dramatic even for you, don’t you think?”

“Come on,” Jongseong grins, swirling his champagne. “I give you flowers, live music, gold everywhere — and you complain?”

“I’m just saying,” Jungwon tilts his head, “I’ve seen people throw royal galas with less mystery.”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Jongseong smirks. Then like it’s nothing, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a velvet box. Flips it open.

“Oh my god,” you breathe before you can stop yourself.

Inside is a ring. Elegant, shimmering. Oval diamond, flanked by two smaller stones.

Jongseong’s grin widens.

“So you’re—?”

“Yup,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “She said yes last week. Tonight’s just the warmup.”

Jungwon lets out a low whistle. “That’s what this whole thing is?”

“Soft launch,” Jongseong winks. “Dinner on Sunday’s the real reveal. Only close friends.”

You nod slowly, still a little stunned. That was the thing about men like Jongseong — everything was glossy, fast, and expensive. Even the life milestones felt like magazine spreads.

He notices your hand still looped through Jungwon’s, and his smirk returns, sharper now.

“What about you two, huh?” he drawls. “Two years and counting, right? When are you putting a ring on it, Mr. Romance?”

You force a laugh. “Don’t start.” And you can feel the bubble of anxiety growing again.

“Seriously,” he nudges Jungwon. “You gonna make her wait for a diamond or what?”

Jungwon chuckles. “I’m pacing myself.”

Jongseong raises a brow. “Yeah? Careful. Someone might steal her first.”

The words land strangely. Too pointed. You’re about to respond, to deflect, tease back but your gaze drifts again.

And across the room, Riki is still in your line of vision.

He looks happy. Or at least, he’s playing the part well. You watch as he leans down, lips brushing Rei’s ear, saying something that makes her giggle before she kisses his cheek. And you wish the ground would swallow you whole.

For the rest of the evening you can feel his eyes on you. You don’t see him look at you, but you know he’s watching you. His presence is like a dark cloud. Following you across the galla no matter where you go.

You can feel yourself getting drunk. Whether it’s on his attention, or the alcohol you don’t know.

Later, maybe an hour in, you see Jongseong cutting through the room, dragging Riki behind him. Jungwon straightens beside you, smile returning.

“Come meet my business savior,” Jongseong announces proudly. “Guy practically rebuilt the whole backend in a week. Couldn’t survive without him.”

Riki stands next to him, hands tucked in his pockets. His hair is a little tousled, jaw sharper than you remember, but he gives the same bored nod he always used to when being praised.

Jongseong gestures between them. “Jungwon, this is Nishimura Riki. Riki, this is my oldest friend in the world.”

Jungwon eyes him curiously, then tilts his head. “Wait... have we met before?”

There’s a beat. A flicker of something passes through Riki’s eyes.

And then, calmly he motions to you and your stomach swoops, “We used to be neighbors.”

Disappointment shoots through you.

“Oh—” Jungwon turns to you. “That’s right. You did say your old neighbor moved back to the city.”

You don’t remember saying that. Maybe you did.

You look between them, nodding softly. “Yeah. We go way back.”

Riki doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to.

But then Jongseong is waving over a waiter, and suddenly there are flutes of champagne being passed around, and someone’s asking what everyone’s drinking.

Without thinking, you grab a glass of Hibiki from the tray and hand it to Riki.

You don’t ask if he wants it. You don’t need to.

He takes it without hesitation. A soft hum of thanks.

Then, like nothing’s happened he says, “You still drink brut rosé?”

You blink. You’re holding that exact glass in your hand. Your cheeks warm.

“Guess some things don’t change.”

He smiles at that. Barely. Just a flicker. And still not once do your eyes meet directly.

You’re in a progressively worse mood as the week unfolds. Nothing obvious. Not the kind anyone can name. Not even Jungwon.

You still kiss him goodbye, still laugh when you’re supposed to, still hold his hand in public like it means something.

But your head’s somewhere else. Your body moves through the days like clockwork, while your mind stays circling back to a half-smile and a glass of Hibiki.

You lock the door to your bathroom. Turn on the faucet. Stare at your reflection. You swore you’d be fine. Swore he was the past. But your mascara’s starting to get smudged and your hands won’t stop shaking.

And worst of all you still want him. Not in memory. Not in fantasy. You want him now.

You bite your lip until it bleeds, desperately pushing down your arousal. But your thoughts keep betraying you throughout the week. Little things. Like if he has any new kinks, any new fantasies he wanted to try out. Maybe something Rei doesn’t want to do. But you would. You were always down for whatever he wanted.

An invitation comes a few days after the party. A private dinner hosted by Jongseong’s family. Only close friends and immediate relatives.

You don’t want to go. But Jungwon lights up at the mention.

“I think we should,” he says, smiling. “It’ll be nice. Just family, you know?”

You nod. Smile back. Pretend your stomach doesn’t drop.

The party’s held at a hotel you’ve only seen in magazines. Huge mirrored ceilings, white orchids adorning the room, the kind of ambient lighting that makes everyone look beautiful. Jongseong’s fiancée is radiant, warm in a way that’s clearly rehearsed, but still charming. Her and Jongseong’s parents sit near the head of the table. Jongseong’s sister flirts with a waiter.

You’re seated across from Riki. Of course you are.  You’re seated just barely enough to avoid conversation. Close enough to feel the weight of his stare.

The table is long, candlelit, buzzing with low conversation and vintage jazz from invisible speakers. Jongseong is laughing with his fiancée’s father. Someone makes a toast.

Rei leans into Riki’s side and loops her arm around his, she’s glowing in soft pink. Like a cherry blossom come to life.

You want to bite something.

It’s awkward between you and Riki. Too quiet. Eye contact too fast, too sharp. Every glance feels like a threat.

Rei is talking about something — her job? A skincare line? You’re not listening. You’re watching the way Riki cuts into his steak. The way he drinks water with his left hand. The slight curve of his mouth when Jungwon says something flirty in your ear and you laugh.

Riki doesn’t say a word, doesn’t flirt. But he keeps refilling your glass.

Twice. Three times. Brut rosé, always.

Your leg brushes against his under the table once. He doesn’t move it. You’re not sure if you’re even breathing. The room is suddenly too warm. Or maybe it’s you.

Still the dinner drags.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom.  You don’t expect him to follow. But the moment the door clicks shut, you hear it. Footsteps. Then the quiet lock turning.

His reflection appears behind you in the mirror.

You don’t turn around.

“You looked real domestic tonight,” Riki says, voice low. Flat. Like a dare.

Your breath catches. You grip the sink tighter.

“Still playing house? Even when I’m this close?”

You shake your head once. Not at him but at yourself. At this. You can’t look at him, not when your whole body’s already betraying you. His scent, his closeness… it was too much, too soon. You’re not ready to face him.

“I haven’t said anything,” you whisper. Your skin is flushed, something akin to nervousness (or arousal) building somewhere deep in your tummy.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s kind of your thing, isn’t it?”

He takes a step forward. You feel the heat of him now, not touching, but close enough to scorch. And even though there’s no touching, your body reacts like there is. Like it remembers what his breath feels like against your neck. What his fingers can do.

“You said you moved on. So did I,” he pauses. Smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “But wanna know something funny?”

You don’t answer. You already know it won’t be funny.

He lifts his phone. Swipe. Tap. Holds it just out of view, “Guess what I still watch when I can’t sleep.”

You turn your head just slightly and see it. A flash of movement. Your body. The sound of his name gasped like a prayer.  You flinch like you’ve been slapped. Heat rushes between your thighs. Your stomach sinks, and tightens.

That night. That angle. You know exactly what he’s watching. What you wore. How he looked when he came inside of you.

“Delete it—”

“Why?” His voice is calm. Dangerous, “You think you didn’t want the camera on you that night? You think I didn’t know exactly what that look in your eyes meant?”

You did, still do. You know exactly what he means. You remember the way you looked up at him. Mouth parted, eyes wide, begging without saying a word. You remember how it felt, being watched by him.

You turn to leave back to your boyfriend before you do something stupid. You try to push past him, but he’s already moving. Not blocking you. Just enough to remind you you’ll have to touch him to get out.

His hand grazes your wrist. Not by force, just subtle touch. It lingers like a promise.

Like a warning. You should pull away but your skin tingles from that one brush like it’s been lit on fire.

“You’re still lying,” he says softly, “Just not with your mouth.”

You flinch. Something in you twists — humiliated, exposed, wet. Your body still wants him. But your mind claws for a way out.

You snap your gaze to his, eyes sharp.

“I have to get back to my boyfriend,” you hiss. More bite in your voice than you intended. It echoes against the marble tile like a slap.

His face changes. Barely. A twitch of the mouth. But it’s enough to tell you you hit something raw.

He laughs once, bitter. Low.

“Yeah. That’s always been your line, hasn’t it?”

You blink.

“Run back to Jungwon when it gets too real. Just like before.”

Your jaw tightens. He doesn’t stop.

“You think I didn’t know you were using me? Letting me fuck you like that — whispering my name like I was the only one — and then going home to him?”

“Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you didn’t think about me when he touched you.”

Your breath hitches. His words hit you straight between the thighs… and that’s the worst part. You do still think about him.

And he knows it.

You shove past him this time, physically push the door open and leave before you say something you can’t take back.

You return back to the table, flushed. Your chest is tight as you try to calm your breathing. Jungwon places a hand on your lower back.

You startle. But smile. Too quickly, too rehearsed.

Riki joins the rest of you a moment later, leaning boyishly across his chair. He places an arm around Rei’s shoulder, looking directly at you.

But you don’t give him the reaction he’s looking for. Instead, your hand rests on Jungwon’s thigh and he clasps your fingers together as he tells you about the dessert that’s about to be served.

And as the sky outside turns to black everyone starts slowly leaving the hotel.

You’re in bed when your phone buzzes. Jungwon’s in the shower. You’re half-scrolling, half-asleep.

It’s a screenshot of that same video he was showing you in the bathroom. The photo is blurred. But unmistakably you, pink thong pushed to the side, exposing your wet cunt that’s gushing with Riki’s cum.

He didn’t add any caption.

you’re sick

Is what you type back, knowing exactly who this is from.

u like it.

Is what comes back, a second later. Then, another buzz.

go somewhere you can be alone

 before I send it to your boyfriend

You stare at the messages. But your feet are already moving. You slip onto the balcony, tightly wrapping the black robe around your shoulders. The cold wind cuts through you. You shut the door just as your phone rings.

You don’t hesitate as you pick up.

“I told you to delete it,” you snap. No greeting. No pretense.

A beat of silence passes between you before you hear the crackling on the other side. Was he smoking? Then, his voice cuts through the line, deeper and rougher than you remember him sounding on the phone.

“And you also said you loved me.”

Your breath stutters. You grip the phone tighter.

He exhales, something sharp behind it, “You think I sent that to fuck with you?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, “I sent it because you’re mine. You always have been.”

Your lips part to argue, to say something cold. But nothing comes out. He hears it. The silence. The surrender.

His voice softens, but only slightly.

“Just spend one week with me,” he says. “Like before. No strings. And I’ll delete it for real.”

You laugh, bitter, “And Rei?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Don’t act like you’re any better.”

You stiffen. His voice is sharper now, no softness, “You were still fucking me when you started dating him. Or did you forget that too? Three months of you calling me baby, coming over at midnight, then going to brunch with him the next morning like your mouth wasn’t still swollen.”

Your stomach turns. Shame curls hot under your skin because he’s right. Because he remembers it better than you do. Because you never really stopped. You couldn’t. That’s why you had to leave.

He exhales into the silence slower now. Controlled. Cruel, “So don’t ask me about Rei like you’re innocent. You don’t get to moralize, baby. Not when you let me fuck the lie out of you for months.”

You feel it low in your gut, the feeling building the longer he taunts you. That horrible, aching twist of guilt and arousal, of memory and muscle memory. Like your body remembers every time you swore you’d stop, and every time you came crawling back.

“Does Jungwon know that?” Riki asks, so calm it could kill you. “That when he took you to your first fancy dinner, I was the one you called when you got home?”

Your mouth is dry. Your thighs press together, not because you want to but because your body’s already answering questions you haven’t asked.

“I thought you didn’t care,” you manage. “You’ve moved on.”

“Sure,” he says, too fast. Too sharp. “Me, Rei, we look good, don’t we? That what you wanted to say?”

You don’t reply.

“So why are you breathing hard into the phone right now like you want me to say more?”

You clench your eyes shut, grip the phone harder. You want to throw it. You want to drop it. You want to crawl through it. Anything to make it stop. To don’t’ make it stop.

“You kept that video,” you whisper.

“I did,” he confirms, without apology. “Watched it last week. And last month. And again the night before your anniversary.”

You gasp softly, shoulders curling inward. Shame coats your skin, thick and electric. But there’s no denying it anymore. You like his obsession with you. The confirmation that he was just as bad as you were was weirdly soothing.

“I told you not to make it so pretty,” he murmurs. “You think I was just gonna delete that?”

“You’re sick,” you say, but it comes out breathier and whinier than you intend.

“You liked it,” he says. And then, softer he adds, “And I know you still do.”

Your hand trembles. You press your fingers to your lips to quiet yourself, to swallow whatever sound might escape. You slide a finger down to your panties. Pressing down on your clit. You don’t move your fingers though, gaslighting yourself that this is okay. That you’re not about to masturbate while Riki’s taunting you with his deep voice and cruel words.

He lowers his voice. It’s barely a whisper now. “You’re still mine, even if you won’t say it.”

You feel your pulse stutter. There’s something dangerous about the quiet in his tone — not violent, not even angry. Just… sure. Like he’s not trying to convince you. Like he knows you’ll say yes. Eventually.

You press the phone harder against your cheek.

“I have a boyfriend.”

He lets that sit. Lets it rot.

“And I had you,” he says finally. “Every fucking version of you. Not just the good parts.”

You think about Jungwon’s hand on your lower back. How light it felt. Safe. Soft.

But it’s not what you ache for now.

“Where?” you whisper decisively.

A pause. And then, with brutal precision he answers – as if he’s thought it all out, “Hotel Majestic, on the top floor. Friday. Wear whatever you want, but no underwear.”

The line clicks dead.

And you’re left out in the cold, wind wisping hair all over your face. You sneak back into the warm bedroom and luckily Jungwon was still in some other part of the penthouse.

Throughout Monday and Tuesday you’re trying to stay composed. You’re soft-spoken, polite, and polished. You hold Jungwon’s hand a little tighter in public. Smile a little sweeter. Your makeup is perfect, your outfits more carefully curated than ever. You’re performing the role of the good girlfriend with a new level of desperate conviction.

But once you’re alone, you spiral. You can’t stop replaying the phone call in your mind over and over again. You’re easily startled. You zone out. You can’t stop anticipating and imagining Friday — his hands, his mouth, his voice.

He texts you on a Tuesday evening.

You’d stayed late at the office — some intern mixed up a calendar invite and your boss chewed through the whole team like wet paper. Your brain feels like it’s in a mush. You’re half-dressed out of your blazer, collar loose, wine-stained lipstick smudged, when your phone buzzes on the desk.

You glance over. Coupang Eats. You’d saved him under that name to avoid raising suspicion. Your stomach knots, low and sharp.

You unlock the screen. The message is already waiting.

Coupang Eats: u gonna wear white on friday

Your throat tightens. He doesn’t even say hello.

You: You don’t get to ask that.

Coupang Eats: didn’t think u’d answer didn’t think u’d say yes either

You: It’s just sex. That’s what you said, right?

Coupang Eats: sure. keep saying it if it helps

You stare at the text box. Thumbs hovering. You type ‘Don’t text me again’. But then you delete it.

You don’t send anything.

So he does.

Coupang Eats: u’ll be thinking about me either way might as well give you something real to touch yourself to

You turn your phone over and chuck it across the room.

The next day you’re jittery. Checking your – now cracked – phone over and over again. But he doesn’t text you. You don’t know if you’re happy or disappointed by that as you lay in bed next to Jungwon, staring at the ceiling. He’s warm. He always is. One arm thrown across your waist like you’re something precious. Like you’re not betraying him the longer this goes on.

And still, your legs are clenched tight together. Your breath uneven.

You check your phone again, around 3 a.m.

Nothing.

The next day you try distracting yourself. You fold laundry. Light a candle. Then give up pretending you’re not waiting. Your phone buzzes at exactly 11:04 p.m.

Coupang Eats: still thinking about the video?

Your stomach flips. You hate him. You hate him for knowing. You hate him for being right.

You: How long have you had the video?

Coupang Eats: long enough.

You: Why?

Coupang Eats: I like watching you when I miss you.

There's a pause. Long. You try not to breathe. But he’s typing again.

Coupang Eats: you miss me?

You: You’re disgusting.

Coupang Eats: and you’re wet, quit stating the obvious

You clench your jaw. You throw your phone across the bed like it burned you. But when you crawl after it again — your hand doesn’t go to the keyboard. Instead you open the gallery and click play on the video.

Your hand snakes between your legs. Just like Riki said it would.

You probably touched yourself more than you did when you were a teenager this week. And each time, you hated yourself for it. You’re consumed. It feels like Riki owns you. Again. You're ashamed that you still want him. It’s humiliating. And what’s worse, it turns you on.

On Friday Jungwon comes home with takeout and a new bottle of red. You’re pacing around the room, white dress on when you hear the front door open.

You greet him by the door, always the perfect girlfriend and he kisses your cheek, leaves his coat on the stand, and hums something low as he sets the table for you two.

Two plates, two candles, and the playlist you made him months ago still queued up from some night before. He lights the candles without asking. Like being with you has made him softer in all the right places.

“Surprise date night?” you ask, trying to sound playful. As if you’re not lowkey trying to rush out the door.

“You’ve been quiet this week,” he murmurs, brushing your hair off your shoulder. “I missed you.”

The words land in your chest like a bruise.

You pour the wine. Try not to shake. Try to smile. It’s real — the affection. But it feels like you’re loving him with your hands tied behind your back.

“Since when do you pour for me?” he laughs, eyes warm and teasing.

You smile, small. “You’ve had a long week.”

He hums. “You’re so good to me.”

Your stomach coils. Guilt, maybe. Or something worse — the part of you that wants to ruin it all.

He kisses your temple. “You’re gonna make an amazing wife one day.”

The glass nearly slips from your hand.

You don’t respond. Just press your face into his shoulder and nod like you believe it. Like that’s the version of yourself you want to be.

He doesn't notice. He leans in, kissing your jaw, his voice warm and low against your skin. “You look so pretty. Is that the dress I bought you?”

You nod. He beams like you just gave him a gift. You press your lips to his. Slow. Familiar. Gentle. But your head is somewhere else entirely.

The first message from Riki comes just as Jungwon is plating dinner.

Coupang Eats: tick tock.

You ignore it.

Jungwon sets your plate in front of you. Sits. Laughs about something his coworker said. Eats with one hand while he reaches for yours with the other. You let him hold it. Let him squeeze. Let yourself pretend this is enough. You don’t check your phone again until he leaves to get another wine bottle.

Coupang Eats don’t keep me waiting. again.

Your heart stutters. Then starts racing.

You: He’s almost asleep.

Read.

Coupang Eats: aww. such a sweet girlfriend want me to call? help tuck him in?

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard.

He’s baiting you. Of course he is. And you hate that it’s working.

You: Shut up.

Coupang Eats: did he kiss you goodnight? did you kiss him back thinking about me?

You clench your thighs together. It’s not fair. It’s never been fair. And worst of all he knows it.

Jungwon comes back in a t-shirt and sweats, smelling like mint and dryer sheets. He drapes an arm around you on the couch, nuzzles into your neck.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles. “I love this.”

His fingers trace circles on your thigh. Not sexual just sweet. Just his. His version of forever. You feel him relaxing next to you. Melting into the couch as his breath evens out.

You leave a blanket on the couch. Place a kiss on his forehead so soft he doesn’t stir. The guilt is loud in your ears, but not louder than the pull. Your phone buzzes again in your coat pocket.

Coupang Eats: wear white.

And you already are. Because it’s not about being good anymore. It’s about seeing if he still burns.

You drive in silence. Not because you want to but because any music might make it real. The roads blur. Your hands grip the wheel tighter than they should. Every red light feels like a warning.

Jungwon’s scent is still on your clothes. Your lips still taste like the kiss you left on his forehead. And under all of it, you’re wet. You hate yourself for it. You hate how easy it is.

Your turn signal clicks. You’re five minutes away.

Your phone buzzes again in the passenger seat. You don’t even look. You already know who it is. You already know what you’re about to do.

The hotel hallway reeks of too much cologne and carpet cleaner. Room 912. You hesitate once, then knock.

The door swings open fast. Like he was already standing behind it.

He doesn’t speak.

You’re not sure who moves first, maybe him. But suddenly, you’re inside, your back against the door, his mouth inches from yours.

His voice is low, rough. “You wore white.”

You almost say for you. But you don’t. Because that would be too honest. Riki doesn’t care to wait for your answer. His big hands are on you as soon as the door locks.

"You missed this?" he gruffly asks, pinching your nipple through the dress as his hips grind against yours.

"I missed being treated like shit? No, thanks," you bite. But your body betrays you, chest pushed out, legs spreading to allow him access.

Riki's grip on your waist tightens, his hands find the curve of your ass. He hikes the short dress higher, exposing your ass.

His mouth is by your ear when he speaks, and you have to fight the urge to nuzzle into the crook of his neck.

"Funny. Your pussy says otherwise," he lowly says, fingers prodding by your clothed wet entrance.

You clench around nothing, groaning in what you hope Riki thinks is annoyance.

He doesn’t.

He roughly turns you around and wraps his hand around your throat. Just enough to make your mind go numb, enough so your knees tremble.

Your hands are pressed against the door, as Riki pulls your hips back. He has you awkwardly half-way bent as he bunches your dress around your waist. Expertly tucking and folding it in so it doesn’t slide down.

He harshly spanks you and you moan at the contact.

“Stand still, take what you came for,” he gruffly tells you.

“I didn’t come for you,” you spit out, moaning as he lands another fat spank on your ass. You feel it jiggle at the harsh contact.

"No? Then why are you shaking?"

You don’t reply. You can’t, not when his hands slide up your back sensually. He’s pulling you back against his body and you let him.

Riki wraps his arms around you and guides you towards the bed.

He doesn’t let you lay down. Gripping your hips when you reach the edge of the bed and pushing your head forward.

Doggy. Of course. That was always his favorite way to have you. He finds your lacy panties, slowly slipping them down.

"You still wear lace for me, huh? Or is this what you wear when you’re playing house with him, too?"

"Don’t flatter yourself," you tell him, refusing to feed his ego. But you can feel your pussy gushing, the substance dripping past your lips, making your thighs sticky.

"Why not? I’m the reason your thighs are shaking right now," he whispers as he hovers by your neck.

"Fuck you," you hiss as you bite down on your lip.

"You will. But not yet," he tells you, his hands on your ass. You feel him press his hips into you and glance over your shoulders.

He was still dressed and that only made you even more turned on. Oversized gray tee, black chrome hearts boxers.

Riki hisses as he lets your pussy stain his boxers. You feel him twitch as he humps you once, twice, three times.

Then he slips two fingers past your mouth. His larger frame allowing him to do so from behind. "Every time you lie to me, I’ll make you gag on the truth."

“Shuck yoh,”

Fuck you is what you mean to say but it comes out muffled with his fingers pressing down on your tongue. He has them in so deep you can’t even swallow, saliva pooling at the corner of your mouth.

But Riki only presses closer, his other hand traveling to your clit.

"You already did. That’s the problem."

He starts playing with your pussy then. Just the way you like, and each time you moan, the fingers in your mouth pull back a bit.

"You looked real proud, playing perfect girlfriend. Walking around like you’re innocent."

"I am innocent," you complain and Riki immediately slides his fingers deeper into your warm and wet mouth.

"Not after tonight. You came to this hotel just for me.”

"I had to. You said you’d delete the video if I did."

“Oh sweetie,” he mocks you, “you and I both know you’d be coming regardless of the video.”

That when he pushes you fully on the bed. He flips you around so you’re laying on your back.

He positions himself between your thighs, gaze locked on your glistening cunt.

You move up on your elbows as you watch him watch you. His eyes flick to yours as he pushes past your entrance.

He shows you no mercy as he immediately pushes two digits deep into you.

"Slower— I haven’t—" you gasp, back arching off the bed.

"You haven’t been properly fucked. That’s what you meant, right?" he darkly mocks you. But you see the ghost of smirk on his handsome face.

"Riki—" you whine, trashing on the bed as he roughly pushes in and out of your wet pussy. Loud moans and squelching noise fill the otherwise quiet hotel room and you really hope it’s soundproof.

But Riki is merciless, almost cruel as he taunt you, "No one else gets you wet like this. Say it."

"No one," you quietly gasp, gripping onto his hair as he presses a wet kiss on your clit. His tongue swirls and sucks on it, just enough to make your mind spin. He pulls back with a popping sound.

Your breath hitches when he says it—

“That’s my good girl.” Like he’s been waiting to say it. Like he knew you’d earn it eventually.

Your eyes drag up, greedy, as he pulls his shirt over his head. The muscles. The sharp cut of his waist. And then the tattoo—dark, bold ink sprawled across his side, crawling up his ribs like a warning.

You stare. Maybe a little too long.

“You like that?” he smirks, thumbs hooking under his waistband. “Thought about this when you were with him?”

You say nothing. But he sees the way your thighs press together. The way your lips part when he drops his boxers and steps toward you, cock hard and already leaking.

You swallow. And nod. Just once. Honest, finally.

He smiles, cruel and slow.

“Of course you did,” he says, voice low as he crawls on top of you. “Bet you fucked him with this image in your head.”

You’re trembling now. Not from fear. From the weight of it — the ache, the guilt, the unbearable want. His tattoo is right there, close enough to touch, and your hands rise almost instinctively, splaying across his inked ribs. He’s warm. Solid. Real.

“Say it,” he murmurs, bending slightly, his mouth ghosting over your jaw. “Tell me you thought about me.”

You exhale shakily. “I… did.”

He hums, pleased. His hand slides to your neck, the other gripping your thigh, forcing it open.

“And now you get to have me. Just like this. Just like you wanted.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. Because the truth is lodged in your throat — hot and humiliating and dangerous.

He leans in until his lips brush your ear.

“Good girls shouldn’t lie,” he says. “And you’ve been lying for so long. Would love to punish you, but some other day. Need you too badly right now.”

Then, Riki is on you. Body on yours, lips on your neck.

He growls ever so slightly as he grips his dick and positions it close to your pussy.

“Been waiting for this, for so long,” he softly mutters and then he’s slipping in.

He was way girthier than you remember, the stretch pleasurably painful and you claw at his back. Your legs automatically wrap around his waist.

Riki continues pushing in, slowly stretching your cunt with his big dick.

"God— I forgot—" you whine in a strained voice. 

"No, you didn’t. You pretended to forget. Just like you pretended he was enough," he replies through gritted teeth.

"Stop talking about him," you whine, lips brushing against his shoulder.

"Why? You’re dripping around my cock while he’s asleep thinking you’re loyal," he mocks as he sheaths his dick fully into you.

You cry out at both the pleasure and his cruel words, "You’re a fucking monster."

He pins your wrists to the bed when you press your nails into his back. Harshly. His other hand goes to your throat, squeezing you in silent warning.

"Yeah? And you let the monster ruin you every time," he taunts you, his hands move to your legs – still wrapped around his waist – and he adjusts your position so they’re resting on his shoulders.

You’re folded like a pretzel, left to his mercy. And Riki knows it too.

He smiles down at you as if he won a prize and then he starts fucking you. His thrusts are intense. Deep and unrelenting as the fucks you as if he’s punishing you. He is.

Your sounds are a mix of gasps, whimpers and moans, “Please—Riki, please—”

“Yeah? This how you wanted to get fucked? To be ruined?”

But he softens just a bit, slowing down ever so slightly, “You miss how I break you open, don’t lie.”

He’s softer. But not sweet. His thrusts fueled by the betrayal, the jealousy, the ache. This is sex punishment for leaving.

And you understand that this is him establishing control. So you let him, hips tilting up to meet his rhythm, hands fisting in the sheets instead of pushing him away, your body falling into obedience before your mind can catch up.

And it’s only when he sees you break, after your moans start to sound like sobs — that his mouth lowers to your throat, planting a gentle kiss. Then another on the inside of your knee, a subtle crack in the armor. Always a reward.

“I always knew you’d come back like this,” he breathes into your neck, his voice a low growl. “Opened up. Begging.”

He slows down then. Just enough to make you feel him in a different way, the angle almost brutal. He stays deep inside of you and leans down so your foreheads nearly touch. Not kissing. Just staring.

“You think he can make you feel like this? Tell me who owns this pussy. Say it.”

And you do. Pleasure swirls in all parts of your body, you don’t even register the building ache in your thighs.

You’re nearly crying, choked "Harder— please, I want—"

"Want what? Say it," he tells you, nuzzling into your neck.

"I want you to ruin me."

"Already have," he growls, and then his hand finds your small clit. Peeking through the gap between you two.

He rubs you, not to fast, not too slow – but just right. You lock in place, the pleasure of his fat cock entering you, stretching you open and his big hands playing with your cunt too much.

"I c-can’t— Riki— it’s too—" you beg.

"You’ll take it. You owe me this."

"Please— I’m gonna—"

"Cum for me. Prove it still belongs to me," his voice is strained as he speaks. He can feel your tight cunt squeezing impossibly tighter around his dick and he groans when he hears your breathy voice.

"Yours— yours— fuck, I’m—" you say, trembling and not breathing momentarily as you cum.

You’re still trembling when he pulls out. Riki fists his cock, teeth clenched, eyes locked on you as he cums hard, messy, all over your bare skin like a claim.

Neither of you speaks.

For a moment, the only sound is your broken breathing, shallow, trying to come down. You reach blindly for something, maybe a sheet, maybe him and feel the mattress shift under his weight.

He doesn’t hold you. Not fully. He doesn’t even look at you as he tosses you a towel and lies back beside you, chest rising and falling.

But when you move closer, he doesn’t stop you. Your head finds his chest, and he stays still. Heart pounding beneath your cheek.

You close your eyes.

Silence stretches.

Then, just as your fingers start to relax against his ribs, you hear his voice low and steady, dangerous.

“You left me once.” A pause. “You won’t get another chance.”

You lay there for a moment longer, catching your breath on his chest. He still hasn’t touched you, not really. He’s just letting you cling onto him.

You speak first. “I should go.” Your voice is quiet. Calculated. You don’t look at him.

Riki doesn’t move. “Obviously.”

You sit up. Wipe the mess from your stomach. Slip your dress back on, not bothering to fix your hair. You’re still flushed. Still swollen where he broke you open. But your voice? Steady. Controlled.

“I live with him,” you say, reaching for your phone. “I can’t be gone all night. He’ll wake up.”

You expect silence. Maybe something cruel.

Instead, Riki laughs, it’s short. Bitter, “You think I give a fuck about Jungwon?”

You turn, fixing your earring in the mirror. “You did this whole thing because of Jungwon.”

He sits up now, elbows on his knees. His stare cuts through your reflection.

“No. I did this because you pretended you were over me.” He stands, walks up behind you, not touching. Just close enough. “And you’re not.”

You hate how your knees almost give.

You snap the clasp on your purse shut. “I never said I was.”

He steps in closer. “So stay.”

You swallow. “I can’t.”

Riki’s jaw ticks. Something in his eyes dims. “Right. Because you’re such a good girl now.”

You don’t flinch, but your heart does, “Better than I was with you.”

It lands. It hurts him. But he doesn’t stop you when you reach for the door.

You pause before leaving. Glance back once.

He’s watching you with that look again, the one that never says what he wants, only what he can’t admit.

“Text me when you get home,” he mutters. “So I know you didn’t crash or something.”

You stare, “You’re not my boyfriend.”

“No,” he calmly says. “I'm not, but you're still going to text me.”

You don’t respond. Just close the door behind you. But you don’t stop shaking until you’re halfway back home.

You wake up sore the next morning. The ache in your hips is slow and low and everywhere. Your body remembers before your mind does.

You're curled against Jungwon’s warm and familiar chest and his hand rubs soothing circles on your back.

“Don’t feel good today, Wonnie,” you mumble, barely above a whisper.

He presses a kiss to your temple. You flinch. Not enough for him to notice. But you feel it. The echo of Riki's mouth, rougher, crueler… it still burns under your skin.

Jungwon hums, his voice soft with concern, “You were tossing around a lot last night,” he says. His fingers trail down your spine. “I’ll make you tea. Go shower, baby.”

You do. Twice.

The water is hot enough to scald. But it’s not enough. You scrub behind your ears. Between your thighs. Inside your bellybutton. There’s still something on you. In you. His scent. His breath. The way he said mine like it was a curse and a promise.

You check your phone with wet fingers. One new message. A photo.

Riki’s hand, ringed and veined, fisted around something delicate and pale. Your panties. Twisted in his palm like a trophy.

Coupang Eats: forgot these.

You close your eyes. You bite your lip. And you save the photo.

And when you meet at night his mouth is everywhere, teeth against your thigh. His voice dark and amused, whispering to you what he’ll do next time.

This time, after you are done, you make sure to stuff your ruined panties into your coat pocket as you’re leaving.

On Sunday he simply texts you “come outside in 15” and you do. You slip out just as Jungwon get’s on a business call coming from overseas. You mumble something about needing air. He kisses your cheek without looking and you’re already halfway out the door.

Riki’s car is parked at the edge of the driveway. Engine low. Window down. He doesn’t say a word as you slip into the passenger seat. The smell hits you first — leather, smoke, cologne that clings to your skin even when he's gone. His eyes drag over you like he’s checking for damage.

You don’t greet him. Just say, “What if Jungwon finds out?”

He laughs, sharp and short. “You’re not worried about that,” he mutters, not even looking at you.

“I am,” you snap. “This is insane. We shouldn’t—”

But his hand is already moving, low between your thighs, and your body betrays you instantly. You flinch, it’s not from fear but from how fast your pulse spikes when he touches you like that. Like he’s entitled to it.

You climb into his lap anyway.

It’s cramped. Messy. Windows fog too fast, too loud, and you're fucking him in the front seat with your skirt bunched around your hips. Your back hits the steering wheel. He doesn’t care. Neither do you.

You tell him to be quick but the moment he’s inside you, time fractures. He grips your waist like a lifeline. You ride him like you’re drowning.

There’s no music. No words. Just breath and skin and the wet slap of your bodies colliding in the dark. You bury your face in his shoulder and his hands slide up your back like he’s remembering every inch of you.

Oddly, it feels romantic. Not soft. Not safe. But intimate in the way only ruin ever is.

He finishes with his mouth on you, not your lips — no kiss. Not yet. That would mean something.

When he pulls back, his eyes are still half-lidded, gaze fixed on you like you’re something carved out of sin. Your heart’s pounding in your ears. Your thighs are shaking.

You reach for your coat silently. Pull it around you like a shield.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice low, “don’t wear anything. Saves us both the time.”

You slam the car door harder than necessary.

The next day you’re halfway through lunch with Jungwon when your phone buzzes on the table. You glance at it absently, thinking it’s work—until you see her name.

Rei: I’ve been thinking! Maybe we do a little double date? It’s been forever! 🥹 I think Riki’s been down ever since he saw you again. I wanna patch you guys up 😭💗

You choke slightly on your iced coffee.

Jungwon looks up from his plate, concerned. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, setting the drink down and wiping your mouth. You try to play it cool, but your fingers tighten slightly around the phone.

He squints, playful. “Who is it?”

You hesitate. Just a beat. Then force your best smile. “Rei. She wants to set up a double date. Us and her… and Riki.”

Jungwon’s brows lift. “Really?” He seems genuinely surprised, but not suspicious. Just thoughtful. “That’s kind of sweet of her.”

“Yeah,” you lie. “It really is.”

You feel his foot graze yours under the table. “I’d be down,” he says with a grin. “Maybe you two can finally patch things up.”

Your stomach coils. Not from guilt. From the irony of it all. Rei wanting to help. Jungwon wanting to trust. You’re smiling through your teeth like you’re not already branded head to toe in Riki’s touch.

You: Totally! Would be fun.

Rei: He needs this. He won’t say it but I can tell 🥺

You turn your screen off.

You haven’t even seen Riki today, and still it feels like his hands are all over you. The rest of the day stretches, thick and frustrating. No texts. No missed calls. Not even a sign.

You go home with Jungwon. Let him kiss your cheek. Let him laugh against your neck. Let him touch your waist with hands that don’t know better.

You wait. All day.

You shower. You try not to think about the marks on your skin, the ache between your thighs that never really left. You try not to check your phone every ten minutes.

By nightfall, you’re pacing.

Finally, just before midnight, your phone lights up.

Coupang Eats: rei’s breathing down my neck. can’t today.

That’s it.

No “hi.” No apology. Just dismissal dressed like explanation.

You don’t reply. You leave it on seen. You throw your phone on the nighstand and crawl into bed. You hate that it hurts. You hate that it hurts because you miss him.

You curl up, blanket pulled to your chin, and close your eyes like that’ll stop the heat from spreading low and slow inside you.

You don’t expect another text.

But at 1:13 a.m., your phone buzzes again. You grab it with more desperation than you mean to.

Coupang Eats: but ive been thinking about you the whole day

There’s a slight pause, and then he’s double texting you.

Coupang Eats: think rei’s starting to catch on. she asked if i’ve been seeing someone else

Another pause. You keep leaving his messages on seen.

Coupang Eats: anyway. i want your mouth tomorrow

You stare at the screen. Your body flushes instantly, pulse skipping. He always knows what to say to wreck you.

You read it again. And again.

Your thighs clench under the blanket. You should block him. You should throw the phone across the room. Instead, you place it gently on your nightstand. And smile, just a little. You never stood a chance.

Tuesday he’s ignoring you. Again.

You try to stay rational. You tell yourself it’s because of Rei. Because of guilt. Because of everything this already is. But that doesn’t explain why your chest tightens every time your phone buzzes — and it’s not him.

You last until midnight. You’re curled under your blanket, half-dreaming, half-angry, when your screen lights up.

Incoming Call: Coupang Eats

You step into the hallway and gently close the door so you don’t wake Jungwon. Then you answer without a word.

Silence on the other end. Not awkward. Not hesitant. Just… breath. Slow and steady.

“Riki?” you whisper.

Still nothing.

Your voice sharpens. “What’s wrong?”

Another breath. Then finally, his voice — low, worn, unsweet.

“You’re mad.”

You scoff. “You think?”

You can’t help the raising of your voice, “I waited all day for you yesterday. I sat next to him thinking about you, and you haven’t even—” You catch yourself. Bite down the whine in your voice. “—you haven’t said anything. Not even a text.”

“I’m not here to make love to you. You have someone for that,” he says, flat and final.

You flinch. Like he slapped you through the phone. Your throat tightens. You wait for him to say something else.

He doesn’t.

You end the call first.

You stand there in the hallway with your phone pressed to your chest like it might keep your heart inside your body. But it doesn't help. Not even a little.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. You toss and turn so much that Jungwon at some point bear hugs you and keeps you close to his warm body. And finally you’re able to relax enough to let sleep overtake you.

The double date is happening late afternoon today. You don’t mention the call — not to Jungwon, not to yourself. You just get dressed. Not in red because that’s too obvious. But soft. Romantic. A pink silk dress that hugs your waist and slips off your shoulders with every movement. The kind of dress that would make someone believe you’re innocent. That you belong to someone.

The date is happening in a cute, but luxorious sweet shop. The café is a pastel-hued dream. Soft pink walls, delicate white lace curtains, and dainty gold accents catching the light. Glass display cases are lined with perfectly frosted cupcakes. Vintage floral teacups clink softly against saucers, and gentle indie music hums in the background, mixing with the faint chatter of quiet patrons.

Rei and Riki are already sitting down by the window overlooking the entrance. Your heart squeezes when you see him. He’s dressed in a crisp, black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the lean muscle of his forearms. A subtle flash of silver chain is glinting around his neck. His shirt is tucked neatly into tailored charcoal trousers, sleek and effortless, like he stepped straight out of a midnight city skyline.

You make sure Riki sees you walk in first. With Jungwon’s arm around your waist, smiling up at him like you mean it.

Rei waves you over. She’s sipping on her drink, other hand on his thigh like she owns it. You slide into your seat across from them, perfectly poised.

Jungwon orders for you, as always. You rest your chin on your hand and glance at Riki just long enough to make it look casual.

He won’t look at you.

Not at first.

But you can see the tension in his jaw. The white of his knuckles on his water glass. He’s trying not to react.

Good.

Rei watches you. Not warmly. She senses something — can’t name it, but it’s there. Then she blurts, “Didn’t you two used to be, like, inseparable?”

Her tone is off. Maybe playful. Maybe not.

“That was a long time ago,” Riki speaks.

You shrug, smile too sweet. “We were kids.”

You don’t look at him.

Jungwon laughs, reaching for your hand. “Didn’t you say you had a crush on him in high school?”

Your stomach tightens. You throw your head back and laugh, “God, don’t remind me.”

This time, Riki looks at you. Dead on.

Then, slowly, his hand drops to Rei’s thigh. He leans closer to her and murmurs something — something that makes her smile and adjust her grip on his bicep.

You almost break. But you don’t. Instead, you slide your hand under the table and rest it on Jungwon’s knee. Riki’s gaze drops. Then sharpens. You can feel it burning through your skin.

Jungwon starts telling a story to break the tension — something light about his boss messing up an email thread. You fake-laugh, brushing your hand along his forearm.

Still nothing from Riki.

So you go further.

You lean into Jungwon’s ear. Whisper something that makes him grin and kiss your cheek. You giggle and sip your coffee, letting your lips linger on the mug.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You glance down.

Coupang Eats: Stop fucking smiling at him like you’re not going to be on your knees for me in 2 hours.

You excuse yourself. A moment later, in front of the bathroom stalls, you hear footsteps. You don’t turn around.

“So that’s how we’re playing it?” you murmur.

Riki doesn’t answer.

“She’s clinging to your arm like a trophy and you’re looking at me like you want to kill something.”

Still nothing.

You turn. Face him. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, shoulders tight, breathing slow and shallow.

“She asked about us,” you say. “You really gonna sit there and pretend we were nothing?”

His eyes narrow. “You’re the one pretending.”

You raise a brow. “I’m just being polite.”

Riki steps closer. Still calm. Still composed. But you know the signs… the way his jaw clicks, the twitch in his brow. He’s unraveling slowly.

“You smile at him like he’s enough,” he says quietly. “But I know what you look like when you’re lying.”

You look up, but Riki’s already turned back toward the tables.

And you follow.

Because you always do.

You return to the table with Riki just a few paces behind, the silence of the hallway still clinging to your skin. Jungwon glances up from his cappuccino, expression tightening. Rei’s head tilts ever so slightly, like she’s trying to catch a whisper she just missed.

“Everything okay?” Jungwon asks, voice easy, but his hand slips off the back of your chair like he’s not sure if he should still be touching you.

You nod too quickly. “Just—long line.”

“Hmm.” His eyes stay on you for a beat too long. You know he doesn’t believe you, but he smiles anyway.

Rei's stirring her iced latte with her straw, the clink of ice loud in the delicate atmosphere of the café. The scent of vanilla and buttercream hangs in the air. Around you, couples laugh softly, forks clinking against pastel plates.

But at your table, the energy has shifted.

You take your seat, careful not to brush against Riki’s knee under the table. You don’t want to give anything away… except maybe in this moment you do. Maybe you want to be caught.

Jungwon reaches for the last macaron, brushing a crumb from your plate as he does. “Try this one, it’s raspberry.” His voice is soft. Familiar. And it makes you ache.

But before you can answer, Riki’s voice cuts in, sharp around the edges. “She doesn’t like raspberry.”

The table stills.

You freeze mid-reach.

Rei blinks. “Oh?”

You force a laugh. “I guess I… grew out of that.”

Jungwon sets the macaron down slowly. “Right,” he says, like he's trying to convince himself.

The tension spirals, thick and sticky as frosting. You try to redirect, compliment the café wallpaper, anything to smooth it over. But Rei’s already watching Riki too closely now. Her fingers trace the edge of her water glass. Her mouth presses into a thin line.

“So,” she starts, “you guys been seeing each other lately?” She phrases it light, like it’s casual. But her eyes are too sharp, scanning you both.

You smile like you’ve practiced it. “Not really. We ran into each other a couple of days ago. Unexpectedly.”

Riki doesn’t say anything. He’s staring down at his coffee like it personally offended him.

Rei hums, glancing between you again. “Weird. Riki never mentioned it.”

You sip your drink to avoid answering. It tastes like syrup and guilt.

Jungwon shifts beside you. He’s been quiet too long. Observing. Calculating. He reaches for your hand under the table—and you flinch. Just slightly. Just enough.

You see the flicker in his eyes. Something cold, unsure, tightening his jaw before he lets go.

Riki’s chair scrapes softly as he leans back. He stretches one arm behind Rei’s chair. It’s casual. Possessive. Performed. But when your eyes flick to him, he’s already watching you. And he doesn’t look away.

The silence stretches too long.

You glance at the time. Not late, but suddenly, it feels like you've been here too long.

Jungwon clears his throat softly. “We should probably get going. You have work early, don’t you?”

It’s a neutral out. A subtle offering. But the edge in his tone is unmistakable.

You nod too quickly. “Right. Yeah.”

You stand, smoothing the hem of your dress. Across the table, Riki doesn’t move. Rei offers a tight smile as she pushes her hair behind her ear, eyes flicking between you and Riki again.

“You two heading out too?” Jungwon asks, polite.

Rei shakes her head, “I think we’ll stay a bit. Riki’s sweet tooth hasn’t kicked in yet.” She laughs, light but forced. Riki doesn’t even blink.

Jungwon places a warm hand on your lower back, guiding you toward the door.

You don’t look back.

But still in the café, as you and Jungwon are leaving Rei watches Riki pick at a dessert he’s not even eating.

“You wanna tell me what that was?” she asks.

Riki shrugs. Doesn’t look at her.

“You couldn’t fake it for two hours?” she says, still trying to keep it light, but her voice is breaking at the edges.

He doesn’t respond.

She swallows. “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

Still nothing.

Rei sits back, blinking fast.

“I hope she’s worth ruining everything.”

In the car you and Jungwon are barely halfway down the block before he speaks.

“You don’t like raspberry,” he says. Quiet. Not accusing. Just… unraveling the thread.

You stare out the window.

He doesn’t push. Not yet. He just lets the silence sit between you both, letting you feel the weight of it.

And when he parks the car outside his and yours penthouse, his voice drops lower.

“How long has this been going on?”

You blink. “What?”

He turns to look at you. Not angry. But hurt. And that’s worse. Way worse. You never meant to hurt him. You were just too blindsided by Riki. Like you always are. Everything is always too much with him. Too colorful, too loud, he makes you too ha-…

“Whatever this is between you and Riki,” he says. “You think I can’t feel it?”

You open your mouth. Then close it again.

He nods, jaw clenched. “I didn’t want to be right.”

You don’t say anything. Not because there’s nothing to say but because anything you could say would sound cruel. Or worse, dishonest. And you’ve lied enough.

The penthouse is quiet when you step inside. Not soft quiet — hollow. Like all the warmth Jungwon tried to build with you has finally leaked through the cracks. You trail in behind him, your eyes skimming over the small signs of his care… the flowers he replaced just this morning. The charger he keeps plugged in for your phone. The pink cupcakes you like in the fridge, even though he doesn’t eat sweets.

You should feel something. But you only feel heavy.

You sit on the edge of the bed. Your dress folds gently at your thighs. The same dress you wore to hurt someone. Or maybe yourself. You can’t tell anymore. Somewhere between the fucking, something in you blurred.

Across the room, Jungwon doesn’t move. He stands like he wants to ask for something, an explanation, an apology — but knows he won’t like the answer.

And maybe the worst part is… you wish he would yell. Or cry. Slam a door, something. But Jungwon is still himself, still his calm self and it only makes you feel messier. Uglier.

Your phone buzzes.

Coupang Eats: We should talk.

You lock it. Set it face-down on the nightstand.

Coupang Eats: Whenever you're ready.

Your hands shake slightly as you unzip the weekender bag. You don’t pack much. Just what you need. You tell yourself you’ll come back. That it’s not permanent. You lie to yourself the way you always have. Softly, sweetly.

You glance toward Jungwon once more. He hasn’t moved from his office. His back is to you now, one hand gripping the edge of the desk like he’s trying to ground himself.

You want to go to him. Say sorry. Say something. But you don’t know how to comfort someone while still choosing someone else.

So instead, you whisper “I’m staying at a hotel. Just for a while.”

He doesn’t answer.

You leave the keys on the credenza. The door clicks shut behind you.

And just like that, you become the kind of girl who walks away from a man who would’ve never walked away from you.

You last 5 minutes in the car by yourself before you’re shaking. Your vision blurs and you pull over. Your hands stay on the wheel, but your shoulders can’t stop shaking.

No noise escapes you, the kind of breathless crying that comes only after you’ve been thoroughly overwhelmed. You don’t even know why you’re crying. Because you hurt Jungwon? Because you left him? Because you chose Riki this time and you’re sorry for hurting him too? Because you don’t know if you’ve ruined it with him too?

You gather yourself slowly. Just enough to drive to the closest hotel.

It’s shabby. If you were your usual self you wouldn’t be found within 10 feet of it. But right now the small and dim room brings you comfort.

The lighting is yellow and uneven, the hallway carpet faded with time and secrets. But right now, the small, dim room wraps around and it's enough.

The walls are a muted pastel green, chipped at the corners, soft and sleepy. The heavy curtains are the color of oversteeped tea. The rug beneath you is old, scratchy in some spots and suspiciously soft in others — probably disgusting. But it’s warm. And it doesn’t ask anything of you.

The bedspread is stiff. The air smells faintly like cheap linen spray and leftover takeout from whoever was here before you. But there’s a strange comfort in how off it all is — like the room knows you don’t belong here, and it’s choosing not to care.

You drop your bag. The zipper’s still half open.

You lie down on the carpet, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The glow from the streetlights outside crawls in through the blinds in thin gold lines. You trace them with your eyes like they might lead you out of this moment.

But they don’t.

They just remind you that morning will come whether you’re ready or not.

Eventually, you sit up with heavy limbs and pull your dress off in silence. You throw on an oversized tee, one that smells faintly like Jungwon’s laundry detergent, and immediately hate it. You shrug it off your shoulders as if it burned you.

You flick the TV on, scroll through the channels until you land on one that only plays indie love songs and soft piano ballads. You try to sleep to it, but your brain won’t quiet down. The pillow feels too loud. The room feels too full of everything you left unsaid.

So you grab your phone.

The screen lights up with missed calls. Coupang Eats (3 missed calls) 11:08 PM. 11:42 PM. 12:17 AM.

You don’t call back.

Instead, your fingers start flying across the screen. You swipe through your notes app, scroll past voice memos and lists you never finished, until you find it: “Shared account pw 🫣🤐🤞”

The login still works.

The finsta you and Riki made when you were fifteen. No followers, no bios, no comments. Just a locked archive. You remember laughing about it back then, calling it your “burner for memories.”

The feed loads.

First photo you see is a blurry close-up of your pinky with his pinky wrapped around it. Captioned contract sealed.

Then you scroll past selfies at the convenience store, your faces mid-laugh, Riki sticking out his tongue. Then a video of him trying to teach you how to skateboard, failing miserably and pretending to die in the parking lot. You can hear your own cackling in the background.

The further you scroll, the harder it gets to breathe.

A picture from your sixteenth birthday. He’d made you a paper crown from receipts and straw wrappers. You wore it all night. He wrote in the caption ‘Queen of making me soft’. You’d replied ‘Ur weak anyway’.

You press the screen. Let the image fill up your phone. Let the ache press into your lungs.

He was your best friend before he was anything else. And now everything feels like too much.

You set the phone face down and finally let yourself cry. Quietly. Face buried in your arms. Not for Riki. Not for Jungwon. Just for the version of yourself who didn’t know how complicated love could get.

You fall asleep like that, head pounding, throat sore and dry and eyes swollen. And wake just as the sun is starting to paint the skyline yellow-

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Your heart leaps. You sit up too fast. The pounding continues, it sounds urgent, not frantic. Like whoever’s on the other side knows you’ll open. Like they’re sure of it.

You reach for the first thing you can find (your old hoodie) and slip it over your head as you stumble barefoot to the door.

You peek through the peephole.

Riki.

Hair a mess. Hoodie half-zipped. Jaw tight. His shoulders are hunched like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His eyes are ringed with exhaustion, skin pale under the hallway light. You open the door slowly.

Neither of you says anything at first.

He just looks at you. Takes in the hoodie. Your bare legs. The redness around your eyes.

You swallow hard. “How did you even find me?”

He scratches the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze for once. “Went to your place. Jungwon opened the door. Didn’t say much… just said you were staying at some hotel. That you left.”

He looks up now. “So I checked every hotel near the highway. Every cheap one I thought you’d never usually pick. I figured, you’d want to be somewhere that didn’t ask questions.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Your chest tightens just seeing him there.

Riki doesn’t wait for an invitation. He doesn’t speak again. Just steps inside, shuts the door behind him with a soft click. Tosses off his jacket onto the nearby chair.

Then he walks over and pulls you into his arms.

No tension. No games. No hunger.

Just holds you.

You cave instantly, burying your face into his chest like your bones have been aching for this. And you cry. Again, but it’s not like last night, not quiet or restrained — but open. Loudly. Like a kid.

Riki says nothing for a while, just moves you both to the bed. His hand just runs slowly over the back of your hoodie, warm and careful. You can feel his heartbeat against your cheek.

Then, just barely above a whisper he tells you, “I told you I’d never stop choosing you.”

And that’s all it takes.

You let yourself collapse into him, fully.  His hands splay across your back, holding you close enough to feel every shaky breath. The kind of hug that says stay here. That says I’ve got you.

Time moves differently in his arms. You don’t know how long you stay there, pressed against his chest, legs tangled, hearts a little quieter now.

Eventually, your tears slow. You sniffle and wipe your cheek against his shirt, then freeze. “Sorry. I got snot on you.”

Riki glances down. “I don’t care.” He slightly pauses before speaking again, “I like when you ruin my stuff anyway.”

You roll your eyes, even as the corners of your lips threaten a smile. “You're such a freak.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you — his thumb brushing beneath your eye gently. “And you look ridiculous in that hoodie. It's swallowing you.”

“It’s yours.”

“Exactly.”

You both laugh. A small one. But real.

Riki presses a kiss to your forehead. It's gentle. No pressure. No expectation. Just warmth.

You sit on the edge of the bed while Riki disappears into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. You hear the faucet, the clatter of the cheap soap dish. It’s quiet again, but this time, not lonely.

When he steps back out, his hair is damp and pushed back, and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows. He looks younger this way. Less like the person who ruined you, and more like the boy who used to make you laugh until your stomach hurt.

You curl your knees up to your chest. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

He glances at the crusty hotel menu on the nightstand and lifts a brow. “Room service?”

You nod. “Please don’t judge me if I order pancakes and miso soup.”

Riki smirks. “That’s disgusting. I’m getting that too.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed with trays between you.

Miso steam fogs your lashes. The pancakes are a little dry, but Riki drowns his in syrup and makes a show of pretending it’s gourmet. You throw a rolled-up napkin at him and he catches it mid-air with his mouth. He’s so smug, it’s ridiculous (ridiculously endearing).

For a while, it feels like the world outside doesn’t exist. Like you’re not running away. Like this is just... the two of you again. Existing in a quiet pocket of peace.

“I forgot how easy it is,” you murmur.

Riki chews, swallows. “What is?”

“This. Us. When we’re not trying to hurt each other.”

He’s silent for a second, then reaches across the tray and tugs your sleeve. “Then let’s stop trying.”

After breakfast, you both stretch out on the bed. You lie back. He lies beside you. Not touching. Just breathing together. And after a while, without saying anything, Riki slips his pinky against yours.

You link it.

He glances at the clock. “It’s still early,” he says. “Wanna go for a drive?”

You turn to look at him. “Where?”

He smiles. Soft. Secretive.

“Somewhere we left a part of ourselves.”

A short drive later with the windows cracked and the morning sun warming the car you’re on your way.

You recognize the route before he even parks.

The overlook.

It’s stupid, really. Just a hill that peers out over the city, tucked behind an old park and some bike trails. You used to sneak up here after dark when you were both barely sixteen. It was the first place you ever kissed. On a hot rainy summer day. Hair soaked, heart pounding, shoes caked in mud. Neither of you ever talked about it much after — like it was a secret even from yourselves.

You stare at the familiar curve of the hill, the chipped bench still there.

“You remember?” Riki says as he kills the engine.

You nod slowly. “Of course I do.”

Neither of you says this is where it started. But you’re both thinking it.

He helps you out of the car like he always used to, like you’re fragile and treasured and something he doesn’t want to lose again. You sit on the bench, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the skyline.

And when he takes your hand, he doesn’t lace your fingers together… he just holds it, palm to palm. Still. Soft.

“Do you think we could ever do it right?” you ask quietly.

Riki looks over at you. His lashes catch the light. His voice is a little hoarse. “Maybe not perfect. But honest this time.”

You nod. “I could live with that.”

And then, he finally kisses you.

Slowly. Gentle. The kind of kiss that makes time stretch like the world softens just to give you this. He kisses you like he remembers every version of you — the girl from next door, the one who used to steal his hoodies, the one who left him, the one who came back. Like he’s been holding his breath since the last time you touched and finally gets to exhale.

And you melt into it. Your hands slide into his hair without thinking, like it’s an old habit. He tilts his head just slightly, deepening it, and your heart stumbles because it’s not lust that makes you shiver — it’s how much you feel. The love. The passion. The yearning you’d been hiding from yourself.

There’s something unsaid in it. A hundred unsent messages. All the years in between. An apology. A promise. A beginning.

And when he finally pulls back just an inch, your forehead rests against his. Both of you a little breathless.

“I missed you,” he says quietly. “More than I should’ve.”

You don’t speak. You just kiss him again. Because saying it aloud would break you.

But he already knows.

You sit beside him on the old bench by the reservoir for the long time after that. Shoulder to shoulder, reminiscing together.

You glance at him. “It hasn’t changed much.”

Riki smiles faintly, eyes forward. “You have.”

You huff a laugh. “Thanks?”

“I mean it in a good way.” He tilts his head toward you, expression open now, so rare for him. “You always had all this light in you. You just… didn’t know how to carry it.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Letting it in. Letting it sting.

Then you nudge his knee with yours. “You were the first person to ever see me.”

[jiriwoos]

୨୧ ruin me, won’t you?

- pairing: bad boy! taesan x innocent! reader

- contents: soft dom!taesan, thigh riding, praising/degrading mix, corruption kink, slight possessiveness, marking, light overstimulation, p in v, aftercare, lowercase styling

- a.n: red hair taesan u will forever be famous wc: 1.6k

MINORS DNI

he always looks like he doesn’t want to be here.

hood up, headphones in, arms crossed. he never talks in class unless he has to. you’ve seen him fight — twice — and each time it left your heart hammering in your chest, unsure if it was fear or fascination or something dangerously in between.

everyone says to stay away from him.

so naturally, you end up tutoring him.

he doesn’t say much during your first session, slouched in the library corner like he’s allergic to being helped. but he listens. and when you drop your pen, he picks it up before you can.

“thanks,” you whisper, brushing his fingers.

he just hums, low in his throat. doesn’t look at you. but later, when you leave, he waits until you’re a few steps ahead before following. not close enough to walk with you. just… close enough.

like he’s making sure you get home safe.

you don’t ask. and he doesn’t stop.

⸻

you spend the next three weeks pretending the tension isn’t getting unbearable.

he never flirts — not really. but he looks at you like he wants to, and you can feel it in the way his eyes trace your mouth when you talk. he’s quiet, but never when you laugh. that’s when his lips twitch — just barely — and he tilts his head like he’s trying to figure you out.

then one night, after a late study session, it happens.

you’re both in your apartment. you made tea, like you always do, and he drank it even though you know he doesn’t like it. you’re curled up on the couch beside him — far enough that you aren’t touching, but close enough that you could.

and maybe that’s what makes you bold.

“can i ask you something?”

he glances over, one brow raised.

“why do you always look like you hate being around me?”

his gaze lingers a little too long. then he looks away, jaw tight.

“because i don’t,” he mutters. “and that’s a problem.”

you blink. “why?”

he doesn’t answer.

but his eyes find you again — darker this time, narrowed and sharp.

and then, quietly:

“you really don’t get it, do you?”

you shake your head, heartbeat already picking up. “get what?”

he leans in, voice barely above a whisper now.

“you’re too fucking sweet. too good.”

his hand lifts to your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. you freeze.

“you smile at everyone. wear those stupid bows. bring me snacks like i’m not the same guy people cross the street to avoid.” he huffs a breath, thumb now tracing the corner of your lip. “you shouldn’t want someone like me.”

you whisper, “but i do.”

and then he’s kissing you — rough and slow at the same time, lips pressing yours open like he can’t decide if he wants to savor you or ruin you.

you whimper when he tugs you into his lap.

his voice is hoarse, mouth against your neck:

“ever done this before?”

you shake your head, cheeks blazing. “n-no.”

taesan groans like he’s in pain. “fuck. of course not.”

you flinch — but he cups your face with both hands, gaze steady.

“not judging you,” he says, gentle. “just… didn’t expect you to let me be the first.”

you look up at him, wide-eyed. “should i not?”

his lips part, breath catching.

then he shifts — sits back on the couch and pulls you forward with him, settling you on his thigh. the pressure makes you gasp.

“you can change your mind anytime,” he murmurs, voice lower than before. “but if you’re gonna keep looking at me like that… you need to know what you’re asking for.”

your fingers twist in his shirt. “i want to know.”

he grins — sharp and slow.

“then ride my thigh.”

your breath stutters. “what?”

he pulls you closer, until the seam of your panties is pressed right where you need it. your hips twitch instinctively, grinding down just a little. it’s already too much.

taesan groans. “that’s it. let me see how good you get when you’re messy.”

you hide your face in his neck, but he just grabs your hips and guides you.

“don’t hide,” he whispers. “you’re so fuckin’ cute like this.”

you moan as the friction builds — dragging your clothed pussy against his thigh, trembling as you chase your first high. you’re soaked already, and he feels it. his hands squeeze you tighter.

“look at you,” he says, voice tight. “already falling apart. haven’t even fucked you yet.”

you gasp, hips stuttering. “t-taesan—i think i’m—”

“come for me,” he groans, rocking you harder. “make a mess. be a good girl.”

and just like that, you do — back arching, cunt pulsing through your panties, thighs shaking.

he doesn’t even give you time to catch your breath.

“take these off,” he growls, fingers tugging at your waistband. “now.”

you nod, still hazy, fumbling out of your underwear. he’s already undoing his jeans, pulling himself free — flushed and thick, tip slick. your mouth parts at the sight.

“you okay?” he murmurs, suddenly softer again.

you nod, breathless. “please, taesan… i want it.”

he curses under his breath, lining himself up.

“you’re sure?”

“yes. please.”

he pushes in slow, thick head breaching your tight heat. you whine, walls fluttering around him.

taesan’s jaw clenches, hand gripping your hip.

“shit—so fuckin’ tight. fuck, you’re perfect.”

you’re gasping as he slides deeper, stretching you inch by inch. his other hand cups your cheek again.

“you’re doing so good,” he murmurs. “look at me, baby.”

you do. and it’s almost too much — the way he watches you fall apart, hungry and tender all at once.

he bottoms out with a groan, and you shiver.

“you okay?”

“mhm,” you breathe. “full.”

taesan smiles, slow and crooked.

“yeah? wait ‘til i start moving.”

and then he does.

slow at first — hips rolling up into you, thick cock dragging against your walls just right. you cry out, clinging to him as pleasure builds again, too fast.

his voice stays low, breath hot against your throat.

“so innocent,” he pants. “letting me fuck you on your couch like this. how long were you thinking about it, baby? how long were you waiting for me to take what’s mine?”

you whimper. “a while.”

“yeah? me too.”

his hands roam your body — squeezing your waist, tugging your shirt off, palming your tits while he sucks bruises down your neck. you’re melting in his lap, overwhelmed and aching and on the edge.

“you gonna come again?” he asks, breathless.

“i think so—feels so good—”

“fuck, that’s my girl. soak my cock, baby. make it yours.”

your second orgasm hits harder — walls clenching, mouth open in a silent cry, body trembling in his arms.

taesan doesn’t last much longer.

“gonna fill you up, baby,” he groans. “you want that? want me to come inside?”

you nod, dizzy. “yes, yes—please—”

he spills with a deep groan, hips stilling, forehead pressed to yours.

you’re both shaking when he pulls you close again, wrapping you in his hoodie like you’ll break if he lets go.

“you okay?” he whispers, lips brushing your temple.

you nod, already half-asleep against his chest.

he kisses your forehead.

“ruined you, didn’t i?”

you giggle weakly. “a little.”

taesan smiles. “good. you’re mine now.”

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚