#//hits the post button before i mess up more

[eelliotss]

— Borrowed time, part 5

‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!

Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.

“I bet you still thought of me.”

song: party 4 u by charlie xcx [this song has been the main inspiration for this series, so whatever you feel listening go this song, i hope you’ll feel that while reading this series as well]

word count = 9.6k

i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over <3

i cant say im proud of this chapter, and tbh theres so much i hate about this part, but if i dont post this right now, i dont think i ever will, so please be kind, but i appreciate constructive criticisms! if this part felt unsatisfactory, just pretend this update didnt happen lol

ps. thank you so much for over 1k followers??? heres a thousand roses for all of you 😭🌹

part 1 | masterlist

The door creaks open.

The closet’s darkness slips away, replaced by blinding light and loud cheers.

But everything feels distant.

Your breaths are shallow. The warmth of his breath still clings to your skin, the ghost of his lips a lingering echo. His touch—still branded into your waist, your jaw, the hollow between your ribs. Your pulse hasn’t settled.

The air outside is cool, but your skin burns.

You stumble slightly as you step out, Sylus behind you—his shirt rumpled, one button undone. His silver hair is tousled, a little too messy. Your lips sting. You know you look wrecked.

And the crowd eats it up. Whoops and whistles explode around you.

You try to smile. You try to breathe.

But then your eyes land on him.

Caleb.

He’s across the room, half-lit by the cheap string lights, drink forgotten in his hand. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable—except for his eyes.

They are cold.

Piercing.

It’s not anger. It’s like he’s looking right through you—like you’ve somehow ruined something sacred. Like you’re the disappointment.

Your chest tightens.

And then, just behind him, you catch a flash of movement.

MC.

Her head is down, hair shielding her face, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she brushes past him, shouldering her way through the crowd.

Caleb snaps out of his trance in a heartbeat. His face shifts—concern overtaking scorn—as he calls after her and follows without hesitation.

And just like every time before, he doesn’t even spare you a second glance.

The cheers fade into static. Laughter turns tinny and distant, swallowed by the ringing in your ears.

It hits you all at once.

The heat. The mess. The press of Sylus’s body against yours. The way you leaned into it. The way you wanted to. The way you let yourself.

And then—MC’s face. Her voice. Her smile when she told you he’s kinda cute, isn’t he?

Guilt slams into you like a car.

It punches the breath from your lungs.

You feel it in your throat, acidic and raw, threatening to spill. A sickening twist coils in your stomach, bile licking at the edges of your tongue.

What have you done?

What did you just let happen?

Your skin crawls. The warmth you felt seconds ago now feels wrong—disgusting. It clings to you like smoke. Like shame.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold in the nausea curling up your chest.

Sylus says something beside you, low and teasing, but you don’t catch the words.

All you can hear is your own blood rushing in your ears.

And all you can feel is the weight of what you’ve just done. The taste of it. Bitter. Burning.

And the worst part?

You don’t even know who you’re more disgusted with—Caleb…

Or yourself.

You don’t wait for the whispers.

You don’t wait to see if MC turns back or if Caleb says anything at all.

You push through the crowd, pulse hammering in your throat, lungs clawing for air like there’s not enough oxygen in the room, not enough space in your ribs for this many feelings, this much shame.

The door slams shut behind you but it’s not enough.

Not enough to drown out the ghost of Sylus’s hands still on your waist. Not enough to erase the memory of his mouth against yours, hot and unbothered and too real.

Not enough to wipe away the scowl in Caleb’s eyes or the way MC couldn’t even look at you.

The night is too loud. The world is too close. Everything—everything—is pressing in on you.

So you push everything out of your way, scouring to find air.

You don’t think, don’t breathe, just bolt down the steps of the villa, sandals slapping against stone, the wind catching in your hair, stinging your eyes, stealing your balance. You don’t care.

The beach calls to you like a goddamn siren.

You trip onto the sand, knees buckling, breath shaking, heart feral in your chest like it’s trying to break out and leave you behind. You tear your heels off, toss them somewhere you’ll never find again, and march straight toward the water like it might wash you clean.

The ocean crashes louder than your thoughts.

Salt fills your nose. Wind tangles in your hair. The stars above are too bright, mocking. Too calm for the storm splitting your insides apart.

You drop to your knees at the shoreline, water licking at your calves, seeping into your clothes, and you let it. You need it. You need the cold. You need the sting. You need to feel something real.

Because everything in your chest is twisted. Twisted and wrong and out of place.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against your knees, breathing like each inhale might keep you from unraveling completely. You wish it were just the alcohol. Just a mistake. Just a hazy memory you could laugh off tomorrow.

But you remember it too clearly.

His mouth. The weight of his gaze in the dark. The way his hand didn’t hesitate when it slid against your jaw, when he leaned in like he’d been waiting to taste you all night.

And you let him.

Worse—you wanted it.

The thought turns your stomach. You dig your fingers deeper into the wet sand, nails scraping at the earth, like maybe you can bury the part of you that’s smiling.

Because she’s there.

Somewhere inside you—beneath the nausea, beneath the shame—there’s a version of you curled up, smug and satisfied. A version who watched MC’s face twist, who watched Caleb’s scowl turn cold, and felt nothing but satisfaction.

That part of you is smiling.

You hate her.

Because that part of you—the one that enjoyed it—she’s been quiet for a long time. Always biting her tongue, always watching from the corners while MC took the spotlight, while Caleb gave his warmth to someone else. You taught her to wait. To be kind. To be better.

But god, you’re tired.

Tired of twinkling for people who never look up long enough to see you. Tired of being loved only in parts—when you’re easy, when you’re quiet, when you’re beautiful and harmless.

You’ve always been the supporting character in everyone else’s story. The best friend. The comic relief. The tragic footnote.

So tonight, you wanted to be the villain.

So tonight, she let herself out.

You let her kiss him.

You let her drag Sylus into that closet and tilt your chin up with a smile that begged “ruin me if you want to.”

And she did.

Now here you are, buried in the sand and sea, trying to figure out if the guilt eating at you is heavier than the satisfaction still curling at the edge of your lips.

You’re not supposed to feel this way.

You’re not supposed to want to be seen like that. Wanted like that.

Not at the cost of MC. Not at the cost of Caleb’s crumbling expression.

But you do.

You wanted them to see. You wanted to be wanted. And for a second—you finally were.

And for that, you are repenting your sins, kneeling by the shore and letting the cold eat you whole.

The tide rushes in again, crashing against your skin.

You raise your head, throat raw, eyes burning.

You sit there, watching the waves hit and retreat, over and over, counting the sparkling stars reflected on the ocean surface, until you could not feel your feet.

This is your way of atoning—because you fear the girl curled up inside you, biting on her nails every time a tear threatens to fall. Because the damage she has done once you let her out for a fraction of a moment is irreversible. Collateral.

And because you can’t promise this will be the last time you let her out.

You finally return to your room, dread curling tight in your chest like a vice. Each step down the hallway feels heavier than the last, your body moving on autopilot, mind spiraling with possibilities.

You hesitate at the door. Fingers resting on the knob. You aren’t sure what you’re bracing for.

An angry Michaela?

A tear-streaked Michaela?

A cold, distant Michaela who won’t even look you in the eye?

You don’t know which would be worse.

The knob turns with a quiet click, the door creaking open. You take a breath—slow, bracing—and step inside.

Empty.

The room is quiet. Still.

Her suitcase remains tucked in the corner. A half-drunk bottle of water sits on the bedside table. The lights are off, the curtains drawn. Not a trace of her. Not even the ghost of footsteps.

Somehow, it’s worse than yelling.

You stand there for a moment, motionless, caught in the heavy weight of nothingness.

Then your phone buzzes.

MC [02:46 AM]: Had to clear my head. Be back later.

Short. Punctuated. Not cold, but definitely not warm either.

And with that, you’re left alone.

Surrounded by silence.

Sinking into it.

You sit on the edge of the bed, heart thrumming against your ribs.

You should feel relieved.

You grip the edge of the mattress tighter.

You should be thankful the confrontation didn’t happen yet.

But all you feel is this crawling unease.

Like the silence is just the eye of the storm.

And when she comes back—

You’re not sure which version of Michaela you’ll meet.

And worse—you’re not sure which version of you she’ll find.

You get changed and crawl under the covers, body heavy, soul heavier. The silence is your only companion—thick, choking, unforgiving. You bury yourself into the blankets like they could shield you from the weight of what you’ve done.

Eventually, exhaustion drags you under.

•

Rustling wakes you.

Sharp. Precise. Intentional.

You blink your eyes open, and there she is.

Michaela.

Her back turned to you.

Her suitcase is open on the floor, half-filled. Clothes folded with a neatness that feels hostile.

You sit up slowly, throat dry.

She doesn’t look at you, nor say a word.

You rise. Move toward your side of the room. Get ready in silence. The kind of silence that screams.

Every breath feels wrong. Every second, guilt crawls further up your throat, pressing, choking, aching.

You swallow hard, then try to break the weight as you part your mouth to speak.

Your voice is quiet. Fragile.

“Michaela… last night, I—”

Michaela freezes for only a second before she turns around, face already wearing a smile that feels too sharp, too bright.

“Was such a blast! You gotta tell me all about what happened in that closet!” She winks.

“No—I—”

“Don’t think too deeply into it!” She waves her hand casually, like you’d just brought up a funny memory from a party instead of the reason her bag is half-packed. She lets out a breathy laugh, brushing her hair behind her ear. “It’s college, Yn. People kiss like, all the time. It’s nothing.” Her face drops slightly, but returns back to its beaming state. She reaches for your hands, and her voice lowers down. “It’s just a kiss, isn't it?”

A pause.

“Y-yeah,” you utter.

Her face beams once more as she squeezes your hands. “Besides, he is a pretty good kisser, isn’t he?”

You stare at her. The smile she’s wearing is dazzling—carefully crafted, practiced.

But it doesn’t reach her eyes.

And that hurts more than if she’d screamed at you.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

Eventually, the two of you gather the last of your things and leave the room. You walk side by side, the air between you tight with everything unsaid.

Outside, everyone is saying their goodbyes. Laughter, hugs, last-minute selfies. But none of it touches you. Not really.

You spot Caleb near the car, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He shifts his weight, arms crossed, leaning against the car with that infuriatingly calm expression—like he’s been waiting to deliver a blow.

“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes dragging over your form. “Eventful night, huh?”

You freeze mid-step.

His tone is light, teasing, even laced with that familiar cocky lilt—but it cuts deeper than any insult. Because you know Caleb. You know exactly when he means it. When the smile on his face is just another weapon.

“Hope he was worth the show,” he adds with a smirk. You can’t quite get a read on his face, can’t really understand whether the smirk is teasing, jabbing, or insulting.

You don’t answer. You can’t. So you walk past him without a word.

But he’s not done.

He leans in just slightly, voice dropping low enough for only you to hear:

“I bet you still thought of me.”

It hits you like a slap. You don’t flinch. You don’t give him that satisfaction. But it scorches down your spine, curling into something heavy and sour in your stomach.

All words run dry in your throat.

Because you know you did, and he knows you did.

So, swallowing down the lump in your throat, you quietly climb into the car.

The ride back is a void—quiet and cold despite the sun that floods through the windows.

Michaela sits in the front, headphones in, eyes fixed outside. Her expression is unreadable, a delicate mask of serenity.

Caleb drives in silence, but the tension in his body betrays him.

His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. The muscle in his jaw ticks every time the car slows.

And yet—despite everything—you still see the way his hand occasionally reaches over to Michaela’s thigh. Subtle. Familiar. He squeezes gently, reassuringly, every time the silence grows too loud.

You sit in the backseat, hands clenched in your lap, stomach churning, heart clawing at your ribcage.

Because somehow, in this cramped little car filled with silence and ghosts, you still feel like the one who doesn’t belong.

•

You finally find yourself back in your familiar space.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Shoes off. Bag down. Keys tossed on the counter.

The silence wraps around you, soft and undemanding.

For the first time in days, you breathe without pretending.

You shower, letting the water scald the memory of Michaela’s laugh off your skin.

You eat something. Actual food. Not alcohol. Not regret.

And for a brief, flickering moment, you start to feel okay again.

Until your phone pings.

A message.

Unknown [6:43 PM]: So?

You freeze.

Every part of you stills—except for your heart, which begins to pound like it remembers the thing you’ve tried so hard to forget since last night.

Something forbidden.

Something thrilling.

Something wrong.

The memory comes back in flashes as guilt claws its way up your throat, hot and unrelenting. It tastes like shame.

You stare at the screen until the words blur.

And then, with trembling hands, you type.

You [6:50 PM]: It was a mistake.

You [6:50 PM]: Don’t text me again.

You hit send before you can think twice.

Your phone slips from your grip, landing face-down on the bed as you bury your face in your hands.

“It was a mistake,” you mumbled.

•

The following days were the most peaceful ones you’ve had in what felt like forever—quiet, slow, and mercifully uneventful. No parties. No whispered gossip. No sharp glances from Caleb or strained smiles from Michaela. Just the soft hum of routine and the space to finally breathe.

You sleep more. Eat better. Enjoying the lasts of your break. You’re rebuilding yourself piece by piece—one uneventful morning at a time.

But the moment you start feeling a little more like yourself, Monday catches up.

The quiet comfort of the break ends the second your feet hit campus tiles. The world spins forward like nothing ever happened.

Michaela acts like nothing ever happened.

She greets you with the same bright smile, the same light giggle, the same affectionate bump of the shoulder. As if that night was just another one of many forgettable college party blurs. As if your lips had never touched Sylus’s. As if her eyes hadn’t dulled the second they landed on you.

And you pretend too.

Because it’s easier that way. Safer.

Later that day, she loops her arm through yours as you walk out of class, swinging your hands between you. “Let’s go shopping after lectures? I need a new outfit or something for the first viewing next week,” she beams.

You nod before you can think too hard about it.

“Oh—” she adds, with that little flicker in her voice that always precedes something calculated, “I invited Caleb too.”

Your smile doesn’t falter, but your stomach twists.

The shopping trip is tolerable at best. Michaela slips into her spotlight with ease—twirling in front of mirrors, holding up dresses with playful pouts, laughing just a bit too loud at jokes that don’t quite land. Caleb sticks close, fingers brushing her waist, whisper her ear when she grins too hard.

But his eyes wander.

You catch him sometimes, gaze flicking to you when Michaela isn’t looking. Just for a second. Just enough to leave that same sour taste in your throat.

You don’t acknowledge it.

You can’t.

Instead, you smile when Michaela pulls you into the dressing room with her. You nod when Caleb asks if you’re tired. You pretend not to notice how her laugh dims a little when he lingers by your side for too long. You go through the motions—lift the hangers, compliment the colors, offer the safe, neutral opinions you’ve mastered so well.

It’s like muscle memory now. Playing your role.

Because if you don’t look too hard, you can almost believe this is normal. That nothing’s changed. That your mouth hadn’t betrayed you. That your silence wasn’t stitched from guilt.

By the time the sun dips below the skyline and the three of you step out of the store, bags in hand and feigned joy in your lungs, you feel wrung out—drained from smiling too much and meaning none of it.

Caleb says something—something teasing, probably—and Michaela laughs like a girl in love.

You stay a step behind them, clutching your bag a little too tightly.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself you deserve this.

Because in this triangle of careful lies and quiet betrayals—

You’re the one who kissed the wrong boy.

And you were the one who almost said yes again.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Michaela says, as if it just came to her. “You have to come to the premiere next month.”

You blink. “The… premiere?”

She grins. “The film. The one we shot over break? We’re doing a small screening—kind of like a soft launch—for friends and crew.” She swings her shopping bags absentmindedly. “It’s just this tiny old theatre on 12th. Indie vibes, red velvet seats, ancient projector that might burst into flames halfway through—super charming.”

You force a smile. “Sounds cute.”

“You’ll come, right?” she says, looking at you over the rim of her cup. “I already told them to save you a seat.”

You hesitate—but not long enough for her to notice. “Sure.”

She beams. “Perfect.” Then, casually: “Sylus will be there too. I made sure he’d come.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the straps of your bag.

“Made sure?” you echo, trying to keep your tone even.

Michaela shrugs, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes—the kind that always means she’s saying more than she lets on. “Yeah! I’ve been seeing him pretty frequently these days. Bumped into him a few times after the shoot… had coffee once or twice. He’s actually really funny when he’s not being all mysterious and broody.”

“Oh,” Caleb joins, light and amused. “Him. Great. Can’t wait to hear him brood about cinematography or whatever the hell it is he does.”

Michaela laughs, linking her arm with yours again. “Be nice. He’s actually been really helpful lately.”

“Helpful,” Caleb echoes, quirking a brow as he pops the lollipop from his mouth. “Didn’t realize mysterious bad boys were part of the crew now.”

“He’s not a ‘bad boy’,” she says, rolling her eyes.

She says it lightly, but there’s a deliberate lilt in her voice—a softness, almost flirtatious.

Your grip on your bag tightens, the fabric biting into your fingers.

You nod once, slow. “Didn’t know you two were close.”

She hums. “We’re getting there.”

Then, with a coy smile: “He asked a lot about you, though. Thought that was cute.”

Your chest constricts. The air feels thinner somehow.

“Anyway,” she says, skipping in front and spinning to fully face you, “it’s going to be such a fun night. You should wear that black slip dress—the one you wore to Jenna’s party? You looked so good in that.”

And all you could mutter in response was a short hum along with a smile.

•

The following days were as normal as they could’ve been. Well, aside from the fact that he has suddenly been everywhere.

At first, it was subtle.

A glimpse of him through the glass-paneled door of the editing lab, leaning over a student’s shoulder.

The sound of his voice drifting down the hallway—low, smooth, impossible to mistake.

Then you saw him again, this time in the courtyard. Talking to a group from the business department, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a coffee he barely drank from.

Word spread quickly.

“I thought he took most of his classes online?” someone whispered nearby.

“He does. No one ever sees him around.”

“Then why’s he here now?”

“Who knows? Maybe to complete his last courses before graduation?”

“He’s a business major, right?”

“Yeah, but like… old money business. Scary smart. The kind that makes you nervous to breathe too loud.”

You kept your head down, but your pulse never quite stayed still.

Because every time you caught sight of him, he never once looked your way—

And yet, you felt his presence like it was stitched into the fabric of your day.

He was too composed. Too polished. Too calculated.

And somehow, his silence was louder than if he’d cornered you outright.

“Just a mistake,” you mumble to yourself each time you see his figure waltz by.

But your quiet whispers to calm your nerves didn’t prove to be a very sustainable method.

Not when the universe seems hellbent on rubbing it in.

You see them together.

Once in the corridor outside the media building—her laugh echoing off the walls, his hand casually in his pocket, head tilted down to hear her better. They walk side by side, their pace easy, unhurried.

Michaela looks effortless next to him—bright-eyed, golden, her hand brushing his arm as she says something that makes him smile.

Not his usual smirk. Not the quiet, condescending curve of his mouth he wore like armor.

You stop in your tracks.

Just for a second.

Long enough for Michaela to spot you.

She waves. Cheerful. Unbothered. “Hey babe!”

He followed her gaze and landed on you. The smile on his lips curls up a little higher as you meet his eyes.

“Hello,” amusement coats his voice.

“Hi—”

“I’m probably not going to be free today for our usual hangouts,” Michaela cuts in, turning to you with an apologetic pout. “I asked Sylus to help with some of my work… You can hang out with Caleb by yourself, right?”

Before you can answer, she adds with a dramatic sigh, “Please tell him to chill and that I’m fine—just really busy. He’s been blowing up my phone non-stop these days.”

You force a smile, nodding once. “Yeah. Of course.”

She beams, already tugging Sylus further down the hall.

He casts one last glance your way.

A flicker of something in his eyes—teasing, sharp, unreadable.

As soon as you’re left standing there, caught in the space between their footsteps and your silence, your phone buzzes.

You glance down,

Caleb [4:28 PM]: where are you

Caleb [4:28 PM]: arent we having dinner today

Caleb [4:28 PM]: are you with her? she’s not answering my texts

Your stomach tightens.

You can still hear Michaela’s laughter fading around the corner, Sylus’s low voice murmuring something back.

Caleb [4:29 PM]: nvm

Caleb [4:29 PM]: i’ll find you myself

You don’t even remember agreeing to it.

One minute you’re reading Caleb’s texts with a pit in your stomach, the next he’s striding up to you outside the lecture hall—jaw tense, eyes scanning over your shoulder like he’s half-expecting Michaela to appear.

“She’s with him, isn’t she?” he asks, no greeting, voice clipped.

You blink. “Caleb—”

His expression shifts. He exhales, scrubs a hand through his hair, and forces a smile.

“Whatever,” he says, eyes softening as they settle on you. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here.”

And just like that, the edge in his voice fades.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “I’m starving. Let’s go grab something before I start chewing my own arm off.”

You hesitate for half a second, but he’s already walking ahead, glancing back to make sure you follow.

•

Dinner ends up being at this tiny place tucked behind the arts building—warm lighting, mismatched chairs, the kind of quiet hum that makes everything feel a little softer.

You sit across from him, arms tucked against your chest, still a little shell-shocked from everything.

He notices.

“You’ve been doing that thing again,” he says between bites. “Where your brain goes somewhere else and forgets to take your body with it.”

You snort. “And what thing are you doing right now?”

He leans back, exaggeratedly smug. “Being charming and irresistible, obviously.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth lifts. Just a little.

When your food arrives, he pushes his plate toward you with a quiet, “Try this. It’s better than yours.”

You glance at him, suspicious. “You haven’t even tasted mine.”

He grins. “Exactly. That’s how confident I am.”

It’s silly. Stupid, even. But it helps. The knot in your chest loosens just enough to let a small laugh slip out.

And then—just as you’re mid-bite—his voice softens.

“Hey.”

You look up.

His eyes are steady now. No teasing. No act.

“I never really got the chance to say it properly,” he murmurs. “About what happened at the filming set. That night. Everything.”

The clinking of cutlery fades around you.

“I was inconsiderate,” he says. “I thought too little. Acted too harsh. ”

He looks down at his hands for a moment. “I overlooked your feelings. And I hurt you more than I meant to.”

You don’t know what to say.

So you just watch him as he finally lifts his gaze again, softer now. Warmer.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry.”

The air between you stills.

“Can’t say I really enjoyed the stunt you pulled though,” he jokes.

The dinner continues quietly—less heavy now, more like the old rhythm you used to share with him. Caleb cracks a few jokes, pokes fun at your serious face, and makes exaggerated guesses about the lives of people at nearby tables. You end up laughing more than you expected to.

Then, as you gather your things to leave, he tilts his head toward you with a mischievous glint.

“One drink?” he asks. “There’s this quiet place nearby. They make the worst cocktails I’ve ever had in my life. Thought you’d like it.”

You roll your eyes. “Sounds irresistible.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

The bar turns out to be this cozy hole-in-the-wall tucked behind a bookstore, dimly lit with string lights that look like they’ve been up since 2003. There’s an old piano in the corner no one plays, and the bartender greets Caleb like he’s a regular—which is both comforting and mildly concerning.

The music’s soft. The booths are deep and worn-in. And somehow, the world feels smaller here.

Caleb orders for both of you, raising a brow at you across the table. “Just trust me.”

You don’t. But you drink it anyway.

“You’re smiling,” he points out, pleased with himself.

You arch a brow. “Must be the worst cocktail I’ve ever had in my life.”

He lifts his glass. “To consistent branding.”

You clink glasses, laughter warm between you.

The kind of warmth that sneaks up on you—gentle, nostalgic, easy.

And then, somewhere between the second and third drink, he leans back, eyes softer now, his playful edge melting at the corners.

“You know,” he starts, swirling what’s left of his drink. “I don’t really remember what my parents look like anymore.”

You glance over at him.

“You don’t talk about your family much,” you say gently.

He lets out a breath. It could’ve been a laugh.

“Don’t really have one,” he says. “Not really.”

He lifts the glass to his lips, but doesn’t drink. Just rests it there, like he needs something to hold on to.

“Thankfully, Michaela’s took me in,” he continues. “Thankfully…” he repeats, quieter this time.

Your mood sours from the mention of her name. Of course she would be mentioned.

“She has always been sick since she was a kid. ‘Cause of her bad heart.”

You stay quiet. Let him keep going.

Something in his voice says he needs to.

“It’s always been my responsibility to keep her safe,” he says, almost like he’s reminding himself. “Since we were kids.”

His fingers drum against the glass, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

“And whenever I failed to do so… well…” he trails off, then smiles, a crooked, breathy thing that doesn’t touch his eyes. “It never really ended very well.”

You feel the weight of those words, the way he tries to tuck pain into them like they’re just another part of the joke.

“He used to remind me constantly… of my purpose…” Caleb mumbles, his voice slowing, slurring slightly. His words are slipping like his grip on the glass—loose, tired, too worn down to hold on.

You watch his eyes begin to dim, heavy with drink and something much older.

“You’re too drunk, Caleb,” you say softly, reaching out to steady the glass before it tips.

He blinks at you. Slow. Dazed. And then his lips part, just barely.

“That I’m just a stray…” he whispers, almost to himself. “If no one needs me…”

His gaze unfocuses for a moment. You don’t think he even realizes he’s still speaking.

Your breath catches.

He’s still smiling, faintly, lazily. But it’s the kind of smile that scourches your chest.

You slide your hand across the table, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t move.

“You should go home,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer. Just leans further into his folded arms, the tension in his shoulders finally giving out.

You sigh, quietly.

The bar is warm, the night colder. And somehow, without much thought, you find yourself wrapping his arm around your shoulder, whispering half-hearted complaints as you half-drag, half-guide him out the door.

•

The days fly by like leaves lifted off the branches.

Nothing of the past has ever been mentioned ever again—the few days at the film set, the tense atmosphere between you and Michaela, nor the night Caleb slumped into your shoulder, murmuring half-truths through the haze of cheap liquor and old pain.

Classes resume. Group chats return to life. The cafeteria starts serving that awful tomato soup again. You slip back into the rhythm like nothing happened.

But the cracks are still there—just beneath the surface, waiting.

You’re sitting under the shade of a banyan tree behind the humanities building. It’s quiet, peaceful, a little breezy. Your lunch is balanced on your lap, half-eaten. Michaela plops down beside you with a soft “ugh” and a dramatic stretch.

“God,” Michaela says brightly, appearing at your side like she always does—seamlessly, like a breath of perfume. “He’s actually so funny once you get him to talk.”

You glance at her. “Who?”

She tilts her head, playful. “Sylus,” she says, drawing the name out. “He’s been helping me prep for the Q&A tomorrow. Said I needed to sound less ‘pageant’ and more ‘visionary.’ Whatever that means.”

Her laugh is breezy. Too light.

“Oh?” you respond, forcing a smile. “Sounds like you’re getting close.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious,” she says quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Coffee here, late-night notes there. He’s just so…” She trails off, eyes sparkling. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

You hum. Noncommital.

Michaela doesn’t seem to notice—or pretends not to.

She takes a sip of her drink, then suddenly perks up. “Oh! The premiere’s this Saturday. Are you ready?”

You blink. “Ready for…?”

“The spotlight, duh,” she grins, nudging your arm. “To see yourself on screen, see the scenes you played in come together with the background music. And to see your name in the closing credit!”

You roll your eyes, but it makes you smile. “It’s not that serious.”

“It is,” she insists. “You looked amazing, even in the trailer. You carried that café scene.”

You snort. “I said four words.”

“Yeah, but you felt those four words. I almost cried.”

You laugh together, and for a second—it feels real. Familiar. Like the last few weeks never happened.

“Have you picked an outfit yet?” she asks between bites of salad.

You shake your head. “Was just gonna wear something simple.”

Michaela gasps. “No. You’re not walking into an indie theater full of film nerds in ‘something simple.’ You have to look effortless. Like you’re not trying, but also like… if you were trying, you’d end worlds.”

You glance at her, raising a brow. “That specific, huh?”

“Always,” she says, eyes sparkling.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you.

Two girls beneath a tree, laughing about dresses and dumb film boys and the weight of appearances.

It feels soft. Safe. Like how things used to be.

And it hits you with a quiet ache.

Because even now, part of you still wants to believe this friendship can survive what’s been done.

That maybe you haven’t already burned the bridge.

That maybe—just maybe—she hasn’t noticed the match in your hand.

The rest of the week passes in quiet, deliberate steps.

Classes blur. The campus grows louder, buzzing with exams and end-of-semester deadlines. Your name gets tagged once or twice in the group chat—reminders about call times, wardrobe, a blurry meme of someone joking about crying during the Q&A.

You try on outfits with Michaela after class, like you promised.

It’s surprisingly normal—her room filled with scattered hangers, half-empty iced coffees, the faint sound of a playlist humming from her speaker.

You laugh. You bicker. You twirl.

And then—Saturday arrives.

The day of the premiere.

It’s just past golden hour when you step out of your building, the sky painted in soft streaks of lavender and orange. The air is crisp. The kind that wakes you up and reminds you something’s about to happen.

The old theatre on 12th is just as Michaela described it—small, a little run-down, with velvet seats that creak and a marquee that flickers every other letter.

There’s already a crowd forming outside. Film kids in too-large blazers and thrifted dresses, professors dressed semi-formal but too cool to act like it, and the crew—all wide-eyed and excited, passing around programs and laughter.

The theater glows in the soft spill of marquee lights, buzzing faintly overhead as you approach, clutching your clutch tighter than necessary.

The car pulls up just as you step onto the red-carpeted pavement.

And then you see her.

Michaela steps out first, the silk of her silver dress catching the light like water. It slips over her frame effortlessly—cool-toned and reflective, like moonlight turned human. Her lips are painted a soft coral, her eyes dusted with shimmer, and her smile—bright, unbothered, breathtaking—lands like a punch to the chest.

Then comes Caleb.

He unfolds from the car in slow, unhurried movements, sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled neatly to his elbows beneath a tailored blazer, the collar unbuttoned just enough to suggest trouble. His hair is slicked back, not too perfect, and a hint of cologne catches the air as he leans slightly toward Michaela, saying something close to her ear.

You feel it instantly—the pull. The heat.

They look like they stepped off a magazine spread. Like they’re here to be looked at. Owned it. Earned it.

Your stomach twists.

But then her eyes find yours.

“Yn!” Michaela beams the second she sees you, waving you over like the oldest friend in the world. Her voice cuts through the crowd with effortless warmth. “You look stunning! Oh my God!”

You force a smile, walking toward her as she reaches out and takes your hand for a brief spin. “See? I told you that dress was the one. Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Caleb’s gaze drifts lazily toward you. His eyes widen slightly, just for a second—subtle, but there. And then that crooked, lazy smile of his crawls up his face like he’s trying not to let it show too much.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, just loud enough for you to hear over the soft chatter of the crowd. “You do look good today, shortcake.”

You don’t turn to look at him. You don’t smile. But your pulse stutters anyway.

Inside, the lights are low and flickering, casting everyone in gold.

You find your seats near the front.

You sit first.

Then Michaela slips in beside you, smoothing the back of her dress.

Then Caleb—his thigh brushing against hers, jacket folding as he slouches back with that usual too-cool ease.

And then—

An empty seat. Reserved with a single placard.

SYLUS QIN

You stare at it for a second too long.

The serif font. The clean white card. The space he hasn’t filled.

People slowly fill the theatre, and the chatter dies down as soon as the introducing speech starts. Cheers and laughter are exchanged as the producer welcomes everyone, and soon, lights begin to dim, the hush rippling through the room like a spell settling.

The first flicker of light sears across your vision—too bright, too sudden. You blink, disoriented.

The grainy opening shot bleeds onto the walls, painting everyone in uneven strobes of white and shadow. Your hands curl into the fabric of your dress.

Then you hear your voice.

Just a small line, off-screen. But it makes your throat tighten.

And then you’re there. You.

A glimpse of your face on camera—too quick, too exposed.

Your stomach flips. A cold rush spreads down your back. You shrink into your seat without meaning to.

The flickering continues—scenes switching with sharp cuts, too fast, too loud. Your eyes strain to follow. The glow of the screen presses against your skin like heat.

You feel it in your temples. In the base of your skull.

A thrum. A pressure.

You try to breathe slower.

But there you are again.

In the corner of the frame. Behind Michaela’s shoulder. Walking across the background, smiling as she delivers a perfect monologue.

You’re always there—but never really there.

Never centered. Never seen.

Just enough to anchor the shot.

Never enough to be remembered.

Your heart races faster.

You glance sideways—Michaela is watching intently, chin tilted just so, the soft rise and fall of her breathing unbothered. Her hand rests lightly on Caleb’s arm.

You try to focus on the screen, but the lights are too much now. The images change too quickly. Your skin feels hot. The sound dips and rises, warping in your ears. Laughter in the film echoes strangely, like it’s bouncing around inside your chest instead of the room.

You swallow down the tightness clawing its way up your throat.

Breathe.

You stare at your knees. At your folded hands.

The screen flashes white again—another cut. Another shot of Michaela framed in golden light, eyes brimming with perfectly timed tears.

And just behind her, out of focus—your figure. Barely lit. Barely there.

You curl your fingers into your dress and force yourself to stay still.

Because if you move—if you flinch, if you breathe too loud—it’ll feel too real.

Like this isn’t just a movie. Like your position in the film is just as it is in real life.

Your breath hitches.

Get through this. Just get through this.

But the room feels too full. Your lungs too tight. Your face too visible under the flickering screenlight.

So, with quivering hands, you quickly excuse yourself out quietly, muttering a soft “I need to use the toilet,” to Michaela.

Your fingers brush her arm as you squeeze past, knees knocking against the velvet seat in front of you.

You don’t look at Caleb.

You don’t dare.

The moment you reach the aisle, you bolt.

The darkness of the theater presses in from all sides, but the exit sign glows red—blessedly real, blessedly distant from the version of you being projected for everyone else to see.

You push through the heavy doors.

Out into the hallway.

Into the quiet.

It’s cooler out here. Dimmer. The hum of the projector muffled by layers of walls.

And still, your hands shake.

Your chest heaves.

You press your back against the corridor and squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to breathe again.

To stop hearing the lines you spoke, the laugh that wasn’t yours, the way you stood just out of frame.

You weren’t supposed to matter.

You weren’t supposed to be seen.

But seeing yourself just that—seeing yourself as nothing more than a narrative device—knocks all air out of your lungs.

And so you do what you do best in situations like these.

You walk.

Down the corridor. Past posters for old plays and peeling signs pointing to locked rehearsal rooms. The soft clink of your heels echoes against the concrete, sharp and rhythmic, the only sound in the hush that follows you.

Left. Then right.

You take the stairwell without thinking—something about the way the door hangs open, waiting.

Up.

One flight. Two.

You’re not counting. You’re not really anywhere.

Just moving.

The final door gives with a groan.

And then—open air.

The rooftop is quiet. Dimly lit by a few tired bulbs and the soft haze of city lights glowing from below. The wind brushes past your cheeks, tugging at the hem of your dress, the strands of your hair.

You inhale slowly—deeply.

The air fills your lungs and doesn’t choke. For the first time tonight, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

You hug your arms around yourself, rubbing warmth into your skin as you move toward the edge of the rooftop. The wind tangles softly in your hair. The quiet is heavier than silence—it’s soothing. Honest.

The sounds of the premiere, the echoes of your lines, the weight of Michaela’s smile, Caleb’s lingering glances—all of it stays behind those concrete walls.

But the moment your shoulders finally drop—the tension unwinding from your spine like thread pulled too tight—

a voice slices through the quiet.

“The movie boring?”

You jolt.

And there he is.

Leaning lazily against the railing at the far edge of the rooftop, one hand resting in the pocket of his black slacks, the other loosely curled around a cigarette he hasn’t lit. The wind toys with the edges of his shirt, untucked and open at the collar, the soft fabric fluttering just enough to hint at the warmth beneath.

His silver hair—bright even under the dull rooftop lights—shifts with the breeze, strands falling across his forehead in that effortless way that should be illegal. The city glows behind him, casting shadows across the hard angles of his jaw, the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His eyes catch yours beneath long lashes, amused, unreadable.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t need to.

Just the sight of him—calm, crooked smile in place, posture loose like he’s got nowhere to be and nothing to prove—pulls something taut inside you all over again.

Sylus Qin.

Looking like trouble sculpted in moonlight.

And you walked straight into it.

Your voice stumbles out, more breath than word.

“What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tips his head slightly, eyes trailing over you in that infuriatingly slow, unreadable way of his.

“Didn’t realize rooftops were exclusively yours now.”

His voice is quiet but laced with amusement, like he’s already enjoying how thrown off you are. The wind picks up, tousling the silver strands of his hair. He doesn’t fix them. Just leans back against the railing again like this is his space now. Like you’ve wandered into his scene.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he adds, gaze settling on you. “Didn’t strike me as the type to abandon your own premiere.”

Your jaw tightens. “It’s not my premiere.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, eyes glinting. “You were in almost every shot. That little background smile of yours really carried the emotional arc.”

You shoot him a glare. He shrugs.

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make your skin prickle. “I’m just making conversation.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, he pulls the cigarette back out from his pocket—like he knew exactly when to use it for effect.

You watch as he rolls it between his fingers, slow and practiced, before slipping it between his lips. His eyes flick downward, shadowed beneath dark lashes, as he flicks the lighter.

A soft click.

A brief spark.

Then flame.

He cups the light with one hand, shielding it from the wind, the gesture intimate in its precision. The flame catches the edge of the cigarette, a quick sizzle, and then a curl of smoke unfurls between his lips as he leans back—head tilted, silver hair brushing the collar of his jacket.

He exhales through parted lips.

Smoke spills from his mouth in a lazy stream, rising into the night air.

And for a moment, the whole rooftop smells like sin.

You swallow. Hard.

Because it shouldn’t look that good.

No one should look that good doing something so simple.

But he makes it look like poetry wrapped in gasoline.

Dangerous. Beautiful. Impossible to look away from.

He glances sideways, catching your gaze—then smirks around the cigarette.

“What?” he says, smoke curling past his teeth. “You want one?”

You ignore his question as you cross the distance between you with quiet steps, heels clicking softly against the rooftop floor, until you’re beside him.

Close, but not touching.

You lean forward onto the railing, elbows braced, eyes fixed on the world below. The city stretches beneath you—cars like fireflies, neon signs blinking against concrete, life spilling in all directions.

“Heard you’re pretty close to Michaela these days.”

Words slip out of your mouth before you could stop them—carried off too quickly by the breeze.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. Just takes another drag, eyes still on the skyline, unreadable behind the soft glow of the city lights and the rising smoke.

“Is that what people are saying?” he asks, voice low, like he’s half-amused, half-bored.

You glance sideways at him, but his expression doesn’t shift.

“She’s been… talking,” you murmur.

He exhales slowly, smoke curling from the corner of his lips. “Yeah. She does that.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that leaves your thoughts too loud.

“She seems to like you,” you add, keeping your voice light. “Says you’re funny. Helpful.”

His gaze finally cuts to you, slow and sharp. An eyebrow arches. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips.

“You sound jealous,” he says, voice dipped in something darker. Teasing. Dangerous.

Your breath falters.

“I’m not.”

He hums, low in his throat, clearly unconvinced. Then, he turns—just slightly—enough to face you, enough to make you feel it.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, voice barely above the wind.

He leans in, just a bit. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that the air between you shifts.

“I mean… if you wanted my attention,” his eyes drag slowly down your face, “you didn’t have to bring her up to get it.”

You blink. Hard.

The smirk deepens. He takes one last drag from the cigarette, flicks it to the side, and exhales—

Right past your shoulder, warm and slow, like it was deliberate.

Then he turns back toward the railing, arms resting casually as if he didn’t just turn your pulse inside out.

“Relax,” he says again, voice smooth and cruelly amused. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Fuck you and your conversations.”

“Language, princess.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and smug, like he enjoys your bite more than he should.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks next—just watches the lights below with that lazy, unreadable calm.

“The deal’s still on, by the way,” he says, almost offhand. “I don’t usually hold my deals this long.”

Your breath catches—but you don’t answer. Not immediately.

Instead, eyes still fixed on the city, you ask quietly,

“What’s it like?”

He glances sideways.

“To smoke,” you murmur, voice soft against the wind. “What does it feel like?”

That catches him off guard.

His smirk fades into something quieter—still sharp, but thoughtful.

He straightens a little, resting his elbows on the railing, eyes narrowed at the skyline like he’s remembering something he can’t touch anymore.

“It’s… warm,” he says eventually. “First few seconds burn. Then it’s just heat in your chest. Makes everything a little slower. A little duller.”

He glances at you again, eyes shadowed beneath silver strands.

“You’d hate it.”

And then, softer—

“You’d get addicted.”

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That confident, huh?”

His smile returns, crooked and slow.

“Always.”

Then—without looking away—he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the pack again, taps it once against his palm.

“Wanna try?”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

The rooftop wind brushes your skin. The lights below blur like you’re not quite grounded anymore.

“…Okay,” you say finally, barely above a whisper. “Sure.”

His gaze lingers on you for a breath longer than it should—sharp, slow, searching.

Then, with practiced ease, he slips the cigarette between his lips, flicks the lighter, and inhales. The tip glows ember-red. Smoke curls around his face like it belongs there.

He steps closer.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just… inevitable.

Until your backs are no longer parallel, but aligned.

Until his body is angled toward yours, his hand brushing the railing beside your arm.

Then he exhales—slow, steady—up into the air first, just to show you how.

And before your thoughts can catch up, before your pulse even finds a rhythm, his hand slides around your jaw. Gentle, but certain. Fingers curling under your chin, tipping your face up to his.

“Open,” he murmurs.

And you do.

He leans in—closer, closer still.

Not to kiss. Not yet.

His mouth hovers just a hair’s breadth from yours, and then—

He exhales.

Smoke floods from his lungs into yours, warm and heady and tasting like fire and him.

It hits you all at once—your lips parted against his, the heat of his breath rolling into your mouth, your chest, your nerves. Your hands grip the railing behind you, fingers curling tight.

And just as your knees begin to weaken, just as the smoke begins to burn—

His lips press to yours.

Not soft.

Not tentative.

It’s full, hungry contact—heat and pressure and something sharp beneath the surface. He kisses you like you’re something he earned. Like he knew this was coming the moment you stepped onto that rooftop.

And god, you let him.

His hand slips from your jaw to your throat, thumb resting lightly just beneath your pulse. You feel it hammering there, wild and fast. He deepens the kiss, mouth coaxing yours open further, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip like a tease, like a challenge.

You kiss him back.

Harder. Needier. Like you’ve been holding it in.

Like you’re finally letting go.

The smoke lingers between you. In your mouth. Your chest. The heat of it coils through your veins, makes the moment feel reckless, dangerous, electric.

When he finally pulls away, just barely, your lips are still parted—still chasing after him.

And Sylus—

He’s already smirking.

“Told you,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“You’d get addicted.”

Your breath comes shallow. Foggy. Like you’re drunk—from the smoke. From him.

From the way his voice sits too low in your stomach, too warm in your throat.

You blink, dazed. “What the fuck was that?”

He laughs—low, rich, and dizzying.

“Still want to call it a mistake?”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Not with the nicotine still curling in your lungs. Not with his breath still ghosting yours.

Maybe it’s the way the air thins between you again.

Maybe it’s the flush that rises to your cheeks when you look up at him and realize he hasn’t stepped back this time.

Or maybe it’s just that dangerous cocktail of heat and haze and the taste of sin still lingering on your tongue.

“I think,” you whisper, eyes flicking to his mouth, “you didn’t teach it properly.”

His gaze sharpens. That smirk falters, just for a second—enough to show the hunger underneath.

“Oh?” he breathes.

You nod. Barely.

He leans in. Slowly. Purposefully.

His hand grazes your waist, his breath brushing your lips—and just when you think he’s going to kiss you again—

He pulls back.

Barely an inch. Just enough to keep you chasing.

His smirk returns, lazier this time. Meaner.

“Didn’t think you’d beg so soon,” he murmurs.

You glare. “I didn’t beg.”

“Mm,” he hums, dragging a finger along your jaw, “Not yet.”

Then—finally—he kisses you.

But it’s slower now. Crueler.

His mouth moves with calculated ease, like he’s studying you. Like he wants to see how long you can last with the tension stretched this thin.

He barely gives you what you want—just enough heat to make your knees unsteady, just enough pressure to make you lean in.

When your hand fists in his shirt, tugging him closer, he lets out a quiet laugh against your lips.

“Impatient,” he mutters, and you feel it—low and hot—right in your throat.

And then he deepens the kiss.

Because he knows you’re done pretending you don’t want it.

And he’s done pretending he doesn’t love watching you unravel.

But in the middle of it all—his fingers sliding under your shirt, your hands fisted in the back of his hair, breaths shared like secrets—

It hits you.

A crack of clarity.

Sharp and sudden, cutting through the haze.

You pull back.

Not far, but enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to speak.

“Why are you doing this?”

His brows knit, just slightly. You feel the shift in him, the quiet tension settling beneath the heat.

You keep going. You have to.

“What will you get out of the deal?”

Your voice is low, but steady. The question tastes bitter in your mouth—maybe because you’ve been trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

But it does. It always did.

He watches you, smoke still clinging to his breath, his thumb pausing on your skin.

And for a moment, he doesn’t answer.

Like he’s deciding what version of the truth to give you.

Like he’s debating if you’ve earned it.

He fully pulls away, the warmth of his body gone in an instant.

You watch as he straightens his spine, smooths down his collar with one hand, runs the other through his wind-tousled silver hair—like he’s putting his armor back on. Like he needs the distance again.

“I’m not playing games,” he says.

His voice is low. Still sharp, but there’s something underneath now. Not heat. Not flirtation.

Something older. Quieter. Worn.

You cross your arms, still catching your breath. “Then what is this?”

He pauses.

You see the flicker in his eyes—a calculation, a hesitation. The part of him that always weighs what to say and what to bury.

Then his lips tug into that same maddening smirk.

“You’re just really pitiful,” he says, voice lazy with mock sympathy.

Your brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Kind of like someone I knew,” he continues, like he didn’t just insult you to your face. His tone is still light, but something about the way he says it—too casual, too precise—makes you freeze.

He doesn’t elaborate right away. Just glances down at the city lights below, cigarette smoldering between his fingers again.

He takes one last drag from the cigarette before flicking it over the edge, watching the ember fall like a dying star.

Then he turns back to you—smirk faded now, voice lower, rougher. Real.

“Let’s just say—” he begins, eyes locking with yours,

“you get to use me to get whatever you want…”

A pause. A slow step closer.

“And I’ll use you to get whatever I want.”

He lets the silence stretch between you, lets the weight of the words hang there like smoke.

“Sounds fair?”

You don’t answer right away.

You just stand there—wind tousling your hair, the taste of smoke still clinging faintly to your lips—watching him.

Watching the way he doesn’t push.

Doesn’t ask again.

Just lets the offer hang in the air like a match waiting to be struck.

Your thoughts spiral—through the flickers of the film, the ache in your chest as you watched yourself play the shadow, Michaela’s bright voice, Caleb’s wandering gaze, Sylus’s mouth on yours, the weight of his hands, the things he said.

And the worst part?

The way all of it made you feel alive again.

Like something inside you had finally stirred.

Like you were tired of being careful. Tired of being quiet. Tired of waiting for someone else to hand you the pen to your own story.

You draw in a breath, meet his eyes.

“Fine,” you say, soft but steady.

“I’m in.”

His smile is slow. Pleased. Like he already knew.

But he says nothing. Just nods once and turns to leave, hands in his pockets, silver hair catching the rooftop light.

You don’t stop him.

You stay there for a moment longer, listening to the echo of your own heartbeat.

And when the rooftop door clicks shut behind him—

You’re still tasting sin.

Still thinking about the deal you just made.

And wondering who, in the end, will really get what they want.

[hearts4hughes]

RAFECHELLA | RAFE X FEM!READER

note: i’m super jealous of anyone who got to go to coachella. my outfits would go so hard 😓

more like this…

rafe hated coachella. he hated the music festivals, the skimpy outfits, the pure spectacle of a clear money grab.

but you? oh, you loved it.

you asked him if he wanted to go with you. it’d be two weeks in palm desert, spending time together, and partying on the weekends. of course, he politely declined, pressing a button on his phone and wiring you all the money you could need.

but now he knew he fucked up.

he clenched his phone so tightly that it creaked in his hand. the screen illuminated your instagram post: a photo of you wearing next to nothing with some douchebag male influencer next to you. his hand grazed the bare skin of your hip, not obnoxiously, but enough to have rafe dialing your number within two seconds.

it rang two times too many before you answered.

“hi, baby! i miss you so much!” you squealed, barely taking a breath before rambling on. “oh my gosh, it’s so hot out here. i mean i was in a bikini and i was practically having a heat stroke.”

“baby-”

“wait one sec, i have to tell you about charli xcx’s set,” you screeched into the phone. “it’s tonight and i’m praying that she brings out billie eilish or lorde-”

“that’s nice, hun, but-”

“and then julia forgot her shoes at her house and we had to go out and buy a new pair, and-”

“y/n.” rafe snapped, his voice stern and demanding. you stopped blabbering with a furrow of your brows. “who the fuck was next to you in your instagram photo?”

“that was just julia, sarah, and lexi… why?”

he scoffed, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. he was losing his patience. “i’m talking about that fucking douche-lookin’ male model that had his hands all over you.”

“oh, you mean mark? yeah, he’s super nice. he’s some influencer that is being sponsored to be here. i only posted the picture because i looked hot.” you said so casually that it made his jaw clench.

“why do you know his name? why does he know your name? why are you even speaking to men? scratch that, why are you even in a ten-yard vicinity as other men?” is what he wanted to say.

instead, he hummed. “yeah, mark, that’s who i meant.”

he thought of twenty ways he could kill mark—half painful, the other half excruciatingly painful.

you thought nothing of it though, continuing to yap about everything under the california sun. rafe sat on the other end of the phone, head in his hands, muscles taut. he crossed the room to his computer with a dangerous stride.

it looked like he was going to coachella after all.

~

the desert sun was merciless, but you barely noticed it. your body moved to the bass pounding through the speakers, hands in the air, hair a mess of waves and glitter, skin warm and glowing. you were in your own little world; sweaty, tipsy, high on adrenaline, and overpriced festival cocktails.

coachella was somehow even more unhinged than the day before. influencers everywhere. lights flashing. girls in metallic bikinis and guys in fishnets for no reason. and you? you were dancing in the middle of it, laughing with your friends, practically vibrating with the energy of it all.

and then it hit you.

that prickly feeling at the back of your neck.

like someone was watching you. no… staring.

you turned instinctively, and there he was.

rafe.

dressed in all black, looking like a threat, jaw flexing, sunglasses low on his nose. his eyes locked on yours like a heat-seeking missile. he didn’t move right away. just stood there, watching. as if he couldn’t believe his eyes; as if he wanted to scream.

you blinked and he started walking.

not fast but not slow, just determined. people moved out of his way like they could feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

and then he was in front of you. no words. no warning.

his hand slid around your waist, fingers splaying over the bare skin above your skirt. he pulled you back into his chest like it was nothing.

you gasped, breath catching. your head tilted back automatically, lips parting in surprise.

he leaned in close, mouth brushing your ear. his voice was low. dangerous. like a threat and a promise all wrapped into one.

“you’re lucky i like that little outfit,” he whispered, every word laced with heat. “but if another guy even thinks about touching you, i swear to god i’ll put him in the fucking hospital.”

your thighs clenched, your pulse spiked, and all you could do was smile.

[bernardsbendystraws]

Don't You Wanna Make Me Proud? (V.H.)

Visit pinned post for navigation.

“That’s it…atta girl,”

CW: MDNI, SMUT, softdom!vinnie, p n v, praise kink, and more.

This is my work. I do NOT authorize plagiarism or "inspiration" at all.

A/N: snuggle up and take a deep breath while we all escape from reality for a minute <3

With love and big tits, Rose

Word count: 492

It all seemed so sudden to you. Your boyfriend had never been the type to rush intimacy before, but that wasn’t the case right now. Although, it wasn’t exactly rushed to him. His innocent offer of trying to help you game on his lap was quickly turned to ruthless teasing. You just kept moving. He tried to hold your hips still, but every time there was a close call in accidentally missing a button, he was hissing with gritted teeth, trying to hold himself back as his cock strained harder and harder against his clothes. He couldn’t control himself. His body betrayed him and that led him to be a bit embarrassed, but that embarrassment was long gone on his behalf. Now he had all the control—all the control over you. 

You were both still fully clothed besides the slight shift of fabric. His sweats and briefs had been yanked down just enough to let his dick be free and your flimsy, silk pj shorts and thin underwear had been pulled to the side. Leaning forward, you grip the table for dear life as he pushes his cock at a rough pace, making sure to fully bottom out with each thrust. Both of his hands are clasping around your waist, dragging you down to suck in his cock. 

“You were so good, baby,” he rasps, slightly out of breath for the extraneous flex of his abdomen. “--tryna impress me, hm?” Nodding your head with a broken moan, he’s biting the smile back as he ruts even harder into you. The loud clap of skin echoes with your scream and he knows he’s hitting just the right spot based on how your back arches. You’re practically squirming away from him, overwhelmed by the immense euphoria washing over your tensing muscles, but it’s no use. He’s holding you tight, making sure you feel everything. “Nu-uh, take it. Make me even more proud, yeah? Don’t you wanna make me proud?”

 

There’s nothing more you want than to hear his sultry praise. Starting to collapse your body to meet each of his thrusts intentionally, you’re shrieking from how fucking good your boyfriend’s dick is ramming into you. “I—yeah—” you say, your words wheezing out between thrusts. 

“Yeah?” he taunts, making sure to push his hips even further to really push you. Smirking at your cry, he hugs your waist tight, fucking you with everything he has. You’re more than compliant with his actions. In fact, your mind is such a mess that all you can do is feel. The obedience of your body leaves Vinnie digging his teeth even further into his lip, mesmerized by the sight in front of him. “That’s it…atta girl,” he coos in a breathless voice. 

As you keep your pussy clenching and tensing around him, he’s filled with an overbearing amount of pleasure. It’s almost like an award to him watching you succumb to his control entirely. 

He’s just so proud. 

[kisseobie]

p1harmony as your stoner boyfriends

pairings: ot6!piwon x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw (mdni)

a/n: hello again 😓 sorry for being gone for months, i still don’t know how much i have in me to post regularly, but i hope u all like this nonetheless <3 if this sucks please give me some grace, i’m so out of practice. anyways i love stoner piwon 😸

tags: established relationships, drug use (obviously, please stay safe!), sexual content, high sex, cunnilingus, blowjobs, domesticity, idk what else

౨ৎ keeho

the only member i think would rather drink than get high, but honestly, he’s down for anything you want. kyo doesn’t really buy bud on his own, so you’d have to be the provider i fear. all is well though, because he sends you money every other day anyways. the first time you got high together, keeho’s tolerance was shit, and the man had fallen asleep within 20 minutes of the sesh. now though, he’s built up his tolerance, and rather than getting sleepy, he just becomes cockier than he already is. compliments come easy to keeho, he’s never shied away from praising you, but when he’s smoked some weed, it’s like the words just spill out. it’s almost annoying, he knows exactly which buttons to push and prod at until you’re reduced into a blushing mess, and keeho definitely uses that to his advantage. what he doesn’t expect, is for you to retaliate, pressing your fingers into his chest to push him backwards, his back hitting the soft of your mattress as he looks up at you confused. it makes you giggle, how he’s so easy to render speechless when moments ago, he wouldn’t dare shut up.

admittedly, you’d already been craving him, long before he had made his way to your apartment. now that you’re high though, all that’s on your mind is keeping the boy beneath you quiet, almost as if to teach him a lesson. your attention falls from his face to his crotch area, his dick already pressing against his jeans, as if his body was anticipating this before his mind could even catch on. you coo at his patheticness, reveling in this newfound power you have over him. your manicured nails find themselves underneath his white tee, scratching slightly at his bare chest as kyo continues to silently ogle you. you don’t miss the blush on his ears though, or how his eyes glaze over in a way that makes it obvious he wants nothing more than to be taken care of. you test the waters by ghosting your fingers over his covered cock, now painfully aware of how inexperienced you are when it comes down to dominating him, as the opportunity hadn’t arrived until just now. you look at your boyfriend to gauge his reaction, and he simply nods to give you permission to use him as you please. confident once more, you unbutton his jeans slowly, all while staring at his bewilderment (and enjoyment!) of your sudden affinity for dominating him. twenty something minutes later, you’ve got keeho in tears, the man whimpering and thrashing around in your sheets, all while your fist pumps his dick as fast as you can manage. you’ve robbed him of three orgasms at this point, and you’re not planning on stopping anytime soon.

౨ৎ theo

taeyang was an avid stoner long before he had even met you, and now that you’re his girl, he’s corrupted you as well—if the pen you carry around like a vice is anything to go by. he’s still disciplined though, saving his smoke seshes for the weekend, where he can actually enjoy himself without having to stress about work. his ideal weekend entails sleeping in, picking you up to take you on a date, bringing you home to lounge around, and of course, smoke. i imagine theo has a cozy little spot in the corner of his living room where he likes to get high the most. there’s a good view of the tv from there, along with cushions that remind him of his childhood home, proper ventilation, the works. before you’re even over, he makes sure to have your go-to blanket on top of your usual cushion, along with some of your favorite snacks. once you’re both back at his place after another successful date, you get undressed into something comfy and make a beeline for his special corner, harry potter and the prisoner of azkaban already on, lighter and joint in your boyfriend’s hand. the two of you have a routine at this point, tuning the movie out and making conversation as the high starts to kick in.

high sex with taeyang isn’t guaranteed. it happens when it happens, so you aren’t necessarily expecting your boyfriend to lean over and stare at your lips, much less to make out with you right then and there. you get ahold of the situation pretty quickly though, deepening the kiss while putting out the joint on the ashtray beside you. he’s not super vocal, but his tight grip on your hips makes his desire for you undeniable, and lucky enough for him, it doesn’t take long before you can feel your arousal, your panties now sticky. he stops kissing you for a moment to stare at you, smiling like he just won the lottery. “i missed you.” is all he says, and the man doesn’t even give you enough time to reply, locking your lips once more while his hands move upwards to knead at your clothed tits. the stimulation is heavenly, and with just a few gropes you’re whimpering into his mouth, hot and heavy. eventually, yangie pulls you into his inviting lap, and after some more making out, you’re both naked from the waist down, with your pussy grinding against his thick cock in hurried motions. there’s no time to think, no time to even put him inside of you. all you care about is the dizzying friction against your cunny, and theo wouldn’t have it any other way.

౨ৎ jiung

rolls up for you every time like a true gentlemen—is good at it too. prefers to smoke with you out on his fancy patio, the chill air easing him into fully letting go, without having to worry about the pungent scent of bud that’ll no doubt linger on his clothes later. however, if you’re convincing enough, he might just allow you to place yourself atop his lap, your combined weight pressing into the plush of ji’s living room couch as you blow smoke into the stillness of his apartment. jiung, always responsible, has water bottles within reach for whenever need be, as well as the cute calico cat ash tray you bought him a few months back. hatessss getting ash anywhere but in the tray, and scolds you if some drops onto his hardwood floors. has a pretty high tolerance, but when it does hit, all of his stress fades away pretty quickly. isn’t really all that talkative, as he’d rather listen to whatever bullshit you have to spew when you’re high off of your mind. gently rubs at your thighs with his cold hands as he listens, a curious look in his eyes that’s mixed with something else that you can only place as love.

waits until your high dissipates into a thin fog before he suggests anything remotely sexual, afraid that he’ll do something rash and regret it afterwards. jiung tends to be a little lazier in this state, preferring to spoon fuck you into the couch at a slower pace than usual—not that you mind, especially not when his cock hits every little spot inside your gummy walls. kisses at your exposed shoulders after every few mind-numbing thrusts, and like always, makes sure that you’ve came on his cock before indulging in his own peak. jiung gets kinda sappy once the deed is done, evident in the way he turns you over to look at him, or how his hands come up to cradle your fucked out face, grounding you almost instantly. whispers sweet nothings at you until your eyes have fallen shut, and proceeds to bridal carry you to his bed when he’s sure you’ve tapped out for the night, knowing how much you despise waking up cramped on his couch. getting high with bf!jiung is comfortable, and you know that you’re always in safe hands with him.

౨ৎ intak

hwang intak rolls worst joint ever, asked to leave p1harmony. genuinely though, his lazy ass always stocks up on the weakest pre-rolls, because he knows his fingers aren’t to be trusted with the pretty pink rolling papers you bring to every smoke sesh. you always end up having to roll for the two of you because of his lackluster skills, but he makes up for it by buying his girl a cute hello kitty themed grinder. has a really low tolerance, but swears up and down that he’s not high (he absolutely is). when he’s baked, he somehow gets even touchier with you, pawing at each and every curve of your body with no shame. his big eyes get all droopy, tinted a slight red color as he watches you—perched up against his bedroom wall, joint between your fingers as you pay him no mind, like he’s not even there. for some reason, i see intak as the type to want to work for your attention, especially during times like these, where all you really care about is getting high, with or without him. he’s not one to falter when it comes to a challenge.

in true intak manner, he’d try to get you to crack with physical touch, and although the feel of his hands against your skin affects you more than you’d ever admit, the final push would definitely be intak getting real close to your ear, whispering something like “let me make you feel good? please?”, and you don’t have to be asked twice. smirks all stupid when he realizes he’s won, ready to make you see stars and regret ignoring him. i think tak would be an eater when he’s high, not like he usually isn’t, but his desire to explore your cunt with his tongue just grows tenfold when he’s in this state. takes you right there on his carpeted floor, not even bothering to take off any of his own garments, because this is just for you. likes to take his time with it, looking up at you with teary, hazy eyes as he admires the crinkles in your features when he moves his tongue especially well. wouldn’t even stop once you’ve hit your climax, is way too lost in the sauce, overstimulating your pussy until he comes in his pants with a groan like some horny teenager. he’s not ashamed about it in the slightest, as intak thinks the sexiest thing in the world is to have his girl rutting against his eager mouth.

random little thought of mine, but i imagine intak lovessss to get crossed as well :3

౨ৎ soul

i don’t know why, but sho pegs me as an avid bong user. maybe it’s the childlike whimsy of pulling and watching bubbles rise in the chamber, much like how he’d blow bubbles into a glass of milk as a kid. i don’t know, but soul loves himself a good bong. has a bunch of ‘em actually, colorful and strangely shaped. whenever you get high together, he lets you pick out the one you want to use from his collection, like the true gentleman he is. you’re both sat in front of his janky tv, passing around the bong and laughing at whatever anime soul’s currently binging. your boyfriend’s personality doesn’t change much when he’s high, but you on the other hand, happen to get horny each and every time. maybe it’s the way your foggy brain can only focus on his side profile, the light of tv screen casting a glow on his pale skin in the prettiest of ways, accentuating his jawline that you oh so love. maybe it’s his posture, hands pressed into the floor behind him to support his weight, sweatpants adorning his slightly spread legs that leave little to the imagination. whatever it is, you’re horny, and you get an idea that brings a flush of pink to your cheeks.

you crawl over a bit to hover over his legs, and shota, bless his heart, is too high preoccupied with the episode to wonder what you’re doing. you place your forearms onto his legs to stabilize yourself before looking up at him some more, waiting with batted lashes for soul to finally make eye contact with you. when he does, your lips move faster than your brain. “can i suck you off?” is what shota registers before blood rushes to his dick embarrassingly quick, and the innocent but eager look in your eyes has him filling up his sweatpants in record time. he’d probably mumble some stupid shit like “uh huh” with his gaze focused on your every move, clearly forgetting all about the show that was taking up all his attention earlier. you smile while pulling his sweats down, just enough to free his cock—red and begging for attention, the view making you salivate. of course, you get to work real quick, pumping his dick with a tight closed fist before taking it all the way in your mouth with some effort. your boyfriend lets out a strained “fuck” at the contact, hips already chasing the heat of your mouth, making you gag around the flesh—just how you like it. he comes embarrassingly quick, but you still swallow up everything with pleasure, cunt throbbing and head still lost to your high. when you pull off of him with a smile, shota wastes no time in grabbing your face and pulling you into a messy kiss, with his taste still on your tongue. and of course, he returns the favor with the most ruthless back shots, slapping at pulling at your ass to give thanks for your generosity. :D

౨ৎ jongseob

once again pitching the idea of seob being your boyfriend, as well as your dealer all-in-one.. only difference is, you don’t have to pay him shit, which is very convenient! has a zip on him at all times, and you’re forever thankful for it—especially when you’ve had a god awful day. his favorite way to cheer you up after one of those types of days is by getting high together, oh and fucking your brains out too. he’s not really picky location wise, doesn’t have a designated spot where he likes to smoke, as he’s used to getting ash on his sheets and doesn’t mind it much. while he’s sparking up, he watches you get unready for the night from the comfort of his bed. you’re wearing a cute little baby tee and some pajama shorts you bought a while back, hunched over by the vanity he bought just for your convenience when you sleep over. seobie lovesss watching you do your skincare in his bedroom, the sight so domestic and comfortable, making him want you even more than he already does. once you’re all done with your routine, he’s already taken a few puffs and passes the joint to your ready fingers as you approach him. is surprised when you seat yourself on his lap, but you look so pretty while doing it that he wouldn’t dare complain.

if you blow smoke into his face with a giggle, he’s a goner. flips you over to kiss you silly, pausing momentarily to take another hit from the still-lit blunt. jongseob when high is at his most confident, and it doesn’t take long before he’s smirking down at you while feeling you up over your clothes. unbeknownst to him, you’ve been waiting for this moment all day, to be in his bed, with a much needed high. his smooth fingers tease a bit more, grazing against the bare skin of your tummy, but never daring to touch you underneath the layers of polyester until you work for it. you’d squirm a bit, joint long forgotten and clearly unamused at his antics, but eventually you can’t wait anymore! the magic word is “please”, and as soon as it’s spoken, he lets go of all the teasing and gives you what you really want. pulls off your clothes with a mix of love and lust in his eyes, and fucks you into his mattress without hesitation. laughs at the sight of his dick forming a bulge in your tummy, presses on it just enough to get your eyes rolling back. you both fall asleep after a few more rounds, and he doesn’t even bother pulling out, just holds you close with his cock still planted in your cunny. he’s so <33

taglist: @woozixo @hearts4chanhee @kyokopi @astro-doll-the-star @soobiary @kyaaramello @angelcbf @idontknow-1s-world @dprvivi @elissasimp @imjustayapper @ihatewreckingballmains @sosaverse @seobing @www90kitsch @khfviq @barbiekh86t @bbyjjunie @taeyangi @fullsunstrawberry @jihnyah @intheemptymirror @watamotee33 @dreamer1299 @jixnnsie @wonootnoot @yukx-x047 @sundancearchives @chuuswifereal @seisyiss @fishsquishh @jiungsdaisy @asianpenguin04 @lunepoesie @haku-s0ultrain @tkooooop @taehyux

© kisseobie, please do not repost my writing!

౨ৎ ⋆ 𓏲ּ

[bunny-jpeg]

"beautiful." price's words were like a siren's call as you looked to him. in his hands was his lunch that you picked up for him. in a pressed, expensive suit, leaned back in his office chair. he looked at you with a certain look in his eye as he said, "roast beef and swiss? the order is roast beef and gouda." he put the paper back around the food and said. he crossed his arms and huffed, "you're supposed to be my assistant. are you not taking this job seriously?"

you stood there, shivering like a leaf at your boss' heavy gaze. there was some dark behind those blue eyes. but he covered it up with one of his charming smiles. you didn't want to disappoint, but you swore that he said he liked roast beef and swiss earlier in the week...

it was almost too easy to trick you, price almost felt bad about it. you were so eager to please, those pleading eyes, the tremble in your soft bottom lip. didn't help that those pencil skirts you wore showed off all of those curves of yours. this was your first job post graduation and you didn't want to mess it up!

"c'mere, you know the rules." just as you were eager to please in your job. you also aimed to please price on every level. you got his coffee, photocopied his paperwork, sucked his cock and let him finish inside of you. you were the perfect employee.

you approached him and he reached for you and placed a hand on your behind as you stood next to him. he got his legs off the desk and pulled your soft middle up against his bearded cheek.

he gripped your ass tightly and you let out a sharp noise, which he shushed you for, "quiet there, little bird. don't want everyone to know that you're gettin' fucked by the boss. they might get jealous." or think you're a total whore. he gave your ass a firm pat before he said, "over the desk, love."

you were perfect as you bent over the desk and let price pull down the zipper and let it fall to your ankles. your panties ended up halfway down your thighs. then price got his cock out of his dress pants and rubbed the leaky tip against your slick entrance.

"i expect the best from you. i know it's a hard concept for you, doll. but i believe you can be the best you can be. you just need to work harder and do better. right? can you do that for me?" he asked with a heat in his tone before he pushed his cock into you.

he rested his chest up against your back and placed a hand over your mouth as he started to move against you. his thrusts like ruts of a dog in heat, needy for your pretty pussy. hard not to become obsessed, you were a virgin when price for met you. you've come a long way and while you were doing excellent at your job. price believed that there was still some more training to do. so that meant price having to be a good boss and teach you everything you need to know.

except it was hard to keep the lessons in your head when your brain was near mush from the intensity of climax. price's weight felt good against your back, he squished you under he sturdy form. you knew under that crisp button up, he was hairy like a shag carpet.

his cock hit against your sweet spot and your noises got a little higher in pitch, but price clamped his hand tighter around your mouth, his hand almost big enough to cover your nose too. he said lowly, "shh, shh, shh doll. relax. relax. that's a good girl." he said with a low tone, "no need to cause a scene, i know it's good for you."

he moved against you, his cock was hefty. it stretched you, but didn't tear. sometimes he fucked you and it was like he was re-shaping your poor pussy to fit him. and only him. you gasped a little louder, it was hard to compose yourself when the pleasure raced through your body.

something about price that pulled you in. he was a domineering presence in your life. he made you squirm and ache for him. you wanted to do well for him, make him praise you. even if that meant letting him take you raw over his solid desk. he kept you quiet while he fucked you, his heavy breathing in your ear as every thrust of his hips aroused you more.

you felt so good under him, right where you belonged. pretty little thing spread out like paperwork across his desk. your red cotton panties around your thighs and that skirt at your ankles. if price had his way you'd be in a lot less clothes at the office, and maybe a collar too. little tag that said "property of jonathan price". but he'd just have to settle with fucking the daylights out of you over his desk. until your little body bruised from how hard the surface was.

he liked a girl he could own, keep wrapped around his thick fingers like the ones he was keeping in your mouth as he fucked you. didn't hurt that you did your job well and you kept his cock nice and warm. you were the full package. and price loved it.

he thrusts left your head in a tailspin as he continued to pleasure the both of you. your heart hammered in your chest as you felt his cock spear you open, make himself fit inside your cunt. he was the only one who ever used it, and he was the only one who would ever use it. he continued his movements, his long thrusts that left you feeling on a different planet. his heavy movements that had you gasping around his fingers in your throat.

"good girl. good girl." he cooed as he fucked you heavily. he felt your cunt tighten around his heavy cock. he knew it was a lot to take for you, but he knew you'd persevere and take him each time.

you tried to speak but his hand muffled any noises. you arched your back a little to give him further access to your weepy cunt. you felt trapped by his aggressive movements and it shook you down to your core. your head throbbed, your body trembled. you couldn't help yourself. it was all so much, you kept your hands flat on the desk as you were pushed further up against it.

you saw stars when you closed your eyes, each thrust hit in a way that it made your toes curl in your heels. you were price's little assistant, your job was to make sure he was taken care of. he was a busy man who worked long hours. you whimpered as you kept his fingers in your mouth as his cock dragged up inside of you.

he had fully marked you inside and out. his thrusts continued but he knew you were getting close by how wet you were, how your hole was fluttering around his cock and how he had to try harder to keep you quiet. his pace quickened and he watched you tremble. shivering like a leaf as the feeling of absolute pleasure started to take over.

it was a sight to behold. a proper working girl reduced to a whimpering slut. good girl.

"my petal. my doll. i want you to cum for me. i want you to make a mess of my cock. i want them all to smell your pussy on me when i got to my next meeting." he said with heat in his tone as his thrusts were brutal and his weight left you stuck under him. he made you take all of him as you clenched around him. your cunt tight that it was near impossible for him to pull out. a tight fit made tighter.

you whined and soon came around his cock. he continued his movements against you, fucking you right through not one, but two back to back orgasms. they felt almost on top of each other as they near fried your brain from the intense pleasurable feeling. your eyes closed once more as you let yourself be consumed by the heated feeling.

price continued to fuck you, his thrusts heavy as he neared his own climax as well. he fucked you as deep as it would go and eventually spilled himself inside of you. he cooed in your ear, "that's it, baby, that's it. you feel so good. pretty little thing for me." he rocked into you to get that over stimulated feeling through him as he felt you quiver under him.

he left you a mess on his desk, his cum stuck to your pussy lips and his wetness stained the front of his dress pants. the office smelt like hot sex and he watched you quiver against the desk. he gave your ass a firm squeeze before he tucked himself back into his pants, not minding the stain.

"p..price." you said in a shaky tone.

he replied, "up and at 'em, petal. you gotta get me a new sandwich before lunch is over. this was a nice appitizer, but i need some real food in my stomach. so hurry up." he got back into his seat and watched, "and get it right this time, or we'll have to do this lesson all over again." <3

[baigepueckers]

Nika Mühl X Reader

Worth the Shot

The first thing you learn about All Star Weekend is that it’s less of a weekend and more of a whirlwind.

You arrived in Indianapolis two days ago, and since then, you’ve barely seen Caitlin for more than ten minutes at a time. Between practices, media hits, meet and greets, and promo obligations, she’s been in full blown superstar mode.

Still, she managed to sneak you in as her “plus one” to tonight’s private Players’ Party invite only, post skills challenge, free drinks, and no cameras. You’re not WNBA, not media, not a sponsor. But you’re Caitlin’s friend, and apparently, that counts.

You tug your sleeves down as you lean against a makeshift bar on the rooftop of a downtown hotel, watching the crowd buzz around you. Some of the league’s biggest names are here, chill now, in hoodies and leather jackets, heels and sneakers, like they don’t carry entire franchises on their backs.

And then you see her.

Nika Mühl.

She’s near the edge of the crowd, sipping something in a tall glass, nodding along to a conversation but not really engaged. She’s wearing an open button up over a tight tank, low rise jeans and heels. Her hair’s curled, a few strands curled along her cheek, and her posture screams, I don’t need attention to get it.

You’ve seen her in person before…on the court, near Caitlin, in WNBA tunnels…but you’ve never spoken.

You also know she’s newly single. That little detail wasn’t hard to figure out after social media went suspiciously quiet between her and her long term boyfriend a few weeks back. Followed by a “Are you single?” question in an interview. You noticed. Everyone did.

And right now, she’s alone.

“You’re staring,” Caitlin says behind you, coming up with a half finished Truly in hand.

You don’t even pretend to play dumb. “She’s here.”

Caitlin follows your gaze and immediately grins. “Oh my God. Just go talk to her.”

“She’s literally Nika Mühl.”

“And you’re literally hot when you’re not being a coward.”

You shoot her a look. “I’m not being a coward.”

“You’re hiding behind a plastic cup and watching her like she’s on a safari.”

You inhale, press your lips together, and give Caitlin the last look of panic she’s come to expect from you.

“Okay. Okay, fine. I’m going.”

Caitlin gives your arm a squeeze. “Go get your Croatian queen.”

You walk slowly, adjusting your step so it looks casual…like you just happened to be heading this way, like it’s nothing when in fact your hands feel like static and your pulse is in your ears.

Nika turns her head when you’re a few feet away, eyes scanning briefly until they settle on yours. You almost retreat. Almost.

“Hey,” you say. Simple. Soft. Non threatening.

She blinks, then gives a small smile. “Hey.”

Close up, she’s even more stunning. Her eyes are this sharp, dark brown but warm at the edges. She tilts her head slightly, studying you.

“You’re…?” she prompts.

“Oh. Sorry. Y/N. I’m, uh, friends with Caitlin. She invited me out for the weekend.”

Nika nods. “Right. I think I’ve seen you around.”

“Yeah, usually just lurking behind her at media day,” you joke. “I’m not anyone special.”

Nika lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t undersell yourself. You walked all the way over here.”

You blink. “Was it that obvious?”

She sips her drink, and her smile curves up. “A little. But I didn’t mind.”

You grin, letting the tension in your shoulders soften. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk.”

Her gaze flicks down, then back up again. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know. You’re here supporting your team. You’re…”you pause, then drop your voice a little, “…freshly single.”

Nika’s smile wavers just slightly…just enough that you worry you said too much. But she looks at you evenly.

“Freshly, yes. Dramatically? No. It was time.”

You nod slowly. “That’s good. I mean…not the breakup part. But the part where it wasn’t a mess.”

“Yeah.” She nudges the toe of her sneaker against yours, a tiny, careful touch. “You always this bold at WNBA parties?”

You laugh quietly. “No. I’m not even supposed to be here.”

She tilts her head. “I’m glad you are.”

That sentence shouldn’t feel like anything. It’s simple. Polite. Soft.

But the way she says it?

It lands. Deep.

You gather your nerve. “I was kind of hoping you’d be here, to be honest.”

“Oh yeah?” Her voice is low, teasing now. “Hoping to meet me, or shoot your shot?”

“Little bit of both,” you admit.

She watches you, eyes unreadable, until the corner of her mouth pulls into a smirk. “Then shoot.”

And god, you do. You take a step closer, matching her energy, every nerve ending lit up.

“I think you’re incredibly hot,” you say, steady as you can. “And I think we’d have a stupid amount of fun on a date.”

Nika’s eyes flare with surprise…and something else. Something darker. Interested. Amused. Curious.

Then she steps closer too, so close you can smell her perfume…warm and clean and something vaguely citrusy. “What are you doing after this party?”

You blink. “I don’t know. I didn’t plan that far ahead.”

She smiles. “Good. Let me plan it for you.”

Just like that, you’re walking side by side through the party crowd, her fingers brushing yours as if she’s easing you in…slow, smooth, deliberate.

[lostintransist]

Divorcing John Price | Reddit Replies

AITA Part 1

I read through some of the responses from my moment of weakness. I shouldn’t have posted to Reddit of all places but dammit I couldn’t talk to anyone about this. My therapist knew but watching her lock down her muscles all I could see was the ‘don’t react, don’t react, don’t react’ screaming through her mind as I dropped the news on her. Objective would be the only kind of conversation I got from her.

“Is there anything he can do or change that would make you want to stay?”

“Have you thought about couples therapy?”

“Let’s check in, is there any part of you that doesn’t want this?”

Telling any of my friends before I told John felt dishonest and shameful, apparently telling the entirety of AITA forum didn’t hit that same bell though. I don’t plan on replying to anyone, but answer them in my head anyway.

Reddit user/veto58468731247

Dude…are you okay?

Heh, I guess? Finding the choices I made at twenty don’t fit as well in my thirties.

Reddit user/ Vanta (say happy cake day)

Have you thought about talking to him? Maybe if you talk with him and let him know you can start a trail of actions and therapy to show you at least tried. IDK 🤷🏾‍♀️ I also think maybe he married you as a beard of you think he is too friendly with the guys he works with. Have you heard of a lavender marriage?

Well, damn. A lavender marriage wouldn’t be that bad. I would want my own money though, need it. I can’t keep up the tap dance of toeing the line between keeping him happy and making sure I can live and enjoy my life. It would have to be a friendship kind of relationship and not a marriage. A friendship means I can go ahead without having to check on things that truly don’t matter to me but will cause stress if mess with. That would be the only way that I could keep going like I have been. I never had a chance to be a dumb twenty-something; the idea of kissing a girl doesn’t light a spark but I want to try you know? Just to see.

Reddit user/ NotReallyDumb:

Poor guy. This is why men should be careful about who they get pregnant. His wife is complaining about being a fucking housewife.

The slow blink that I can’t stop reading this one pairs nicely with the block button. Making sweeping statements about a situation you only know the grievances about will never be helpful for anyone. Like why the fuck would the jerk type that out? ‘NotReallyDumb’ seems really dumb.

Reddit user/ DontDropTheSoap:

Is this who I think it is? Is John [redacted] who I think it is? 👀👀👀

This one got a reply. I shouldn’t have, but if any of his men were sleeping with him and smiling in your face? That roiled in my chest like a hurricane at sea.

I don’t know, Soap, [please read this with a popping of the p]. Why don’t you schedule lunch with the wife of who you think this is and we can compare notes.

I pop the p on Soap at least once every time I see him. Tiny bits bring me joy.

Reddit user/ therapyisforsuckersandassholes

Husband must not be a real man if he can’t do more than crash after coming home from work.

First off, asshole, my husband does crazy hard work and him collapsing into himself wouldn’t be a problem if he could pull himself out of the funk for anything except his men. If I was important to him, if the kids held a higher hold on his heart, he would at least try for us.

Mentally replying to this one caught me in the neck. Tears started without my permission. That was it. The big issue. John would always find the energy to save his men from anything, but couldn’t find the will to schedule a babysitter or take me on a date. He commanded men all day, a captain. But one annoyed sigh from his strong-willed wife and he crumbled. Fucker needed to step up or step out because I couldn’t hold this teeter-totter still much longer.

Reddit user/sharingcaringandassstuff

Do you have a job hun? It sounds like you’re gonna be needing one soon if not.

Not a full-time gig, no, but soon the kids will all be in school and I can swing getting job that pays more and has more h. I’ve been using John’s pay to clear the debt that hasn’t yet been wiped away. While you want the house I won’t fight him for it. I would happily find somewhere to sleep during the weeks he is home and with the kids. Honestly, keeping it for them would be the best option in my opinion.

Reddit user/8675309999971

Does your husband do anything?

Both too much and not enough. Therapist said he sounded avoidant and that if he can’t face the ninety seconds it would take for his brain to stop throwing panic why would I want to keep trying for this marriage? Can’t I step back and keep him as a co-parent instead of drowning under the weight of my own unmet needs?

Three days later a text from John’s sergeant, Soap, with an offer to go to grab lunch solidifies the fact I cannot stay as I am.

Drafting the options takes several days. There it sits in stark black and white, the end of what we were and the beginning of what we could be.

If he chooses divorce, I won’t ask for alimony. I will fight tooth and nail to be the primary custodian of our children though. Between his job and his long absences, any well-educated person could see that child support payments would be cheaper than a nanny.

However, if he chooses a lavender marriage I want him out of the main bedroom. I get two days free every month to do whatever the hell I want while he gets to be home with the kids. I will treat this legal agreement exactly like what it is. A legal agreement. The thing about contracts is they can be updated, adjusted, changed, if both parties agree.

John will balk, but the man had ten-plus years to buck up and try for something different. I’m not waiting on his inconsistent timing anymore.

Masterlist | Taglist

Shout out to @miss-vanta-likes-to-write and @skeletonsucker for helping me with the reddit replies 😘

[yuronic]

HUNTR/X Girls Nsfw Hcs!

I went back to study this fucking movie just for them

Another note; oops i got sick and forgot abt this entirely😭😭 also mb for how short mira’s is, i tried really hard but i struggle with writing dominant women in a way that’s unique and not just me projecting (if you have any ideas of how she’d be, please lmk so i can take notes *sobs*)

Warnings; Nsfw/18+, written with wlw in mind (so afab! reader), established relationships, switch, cunnilingus, fingering, toys, anal,

Rumi

i diagnose her w/ chronic virgin🫵 (same). But seriously, she’s not shy about her body, she knows she looks good (“I’m everybody’s type!”), but she gets a teensy bit embarrassed about the fact that she’s inexperienced.

Her body is really, and I mean REALLY sensitive, especially if you trail your fingers lightly across her arms or thighs. Imagine having your hands wrapped playfully around her neck, trailing down her breasts and stomach- By the time just one hand is dipping beneath the elastic band of her lacy panties, they’re basically soaked through and her thighs are quaking.

Her voice ughhh, she’ll let out a squeak here ‘n there at the beginning- Grinding her puffy clit against your fingers. However, when she gets closer, losing control, her voice gets deeper, growling and raspy as her markings glow faintly. When she comes, back arched as she rides yours digits, all wet from her mess

She loves kissing. Your lips pressed gently against her wrist before being dragged up, soft touches setting her body on fire as you pepper kisses up her neck, feeling her plump breasts as your lips travel along her jawline. She turns her head impatiently to meet your lips herself, pulling you close.

Not exactly horny but isn’t exactly uninterested in sex, she’s always down but will only actively act on it if you’re leading (she’s a sub through and through, isn’t not interested in domming whatsoever)

Prefers having her hair up during sex (since it’s too long and in the way), but she’ll gasp for you if you undo it for her and massage her scalp after sex.

Rumi isn’t too adventurous by herself beyond like.. maybe a vibrator, but she’ll be willing to explore more if you bring it up first - If that happens, she doesn’t care for straps (Not hate but also not loving it)

It’s take some coaxing on your end to try to get her to do it, but once she tries it she surprisingly really enjoys anal?? it’s a guilty pleasure for her that has her weak in the knees but it’s not something she’d explore by herself until you introduce her

Heavy into watching you touch yourself!! Have her in between your thighs while you rub your clit or finger yourself, use a vibrator- However you want to do it, she loves the show and will get really flustered about it.

Prettiest arch in her back!!

Zoey

Chronically horny💔💔💔 is a twt porn connoisseur and has sooo many videos saved and retweeted. It’s anonymous, obviously, it’s like a whole other secret identity and outlet for her.

Her favorite kind of porn are the softly colored ones that look almost professionally done, but have the worst, freakiest actions performed on camera. She’ll definitely want to recreate her favorites, recording your fingers in her mouth while she maintains eye contact with the camera, leaning back against your chest with her legs spread- It’s a nice view and you’re already looking forward to watching it again later. Of course, her being famous, it’s private! but she doesn’t mind and likes it just being between you two (even though she gets the impulsive thought to hit the ‘post’ button every once and awhile).

Huge voice kink, whisper in her ear while holding her hips and she’ll be blabbering in no time. PLEASE send her voice messages of you talking while touching yourself, every one you send is a new favorite of hers and she quickly adds it to her spank bank.

Likes clothed sex. It feels more desperate and hurried and she loves it, she’ll move her clothed pussy against your knee while you press her against the wall and will be perfectly happy if you just let her cum like that.

Cannot for the life of her cum without clit stimulation - Which is exactly how it’s the perfect way to bully her. if you happen to think she deserves it, fingering her or just lightly blowing against her sopping clit will have her near tears and humping the air, grabbing your hair and trying to bring you head closer! It’s so desperate, it’s cute

She’s the biggest switch of the three, she’ll be a more bratty (although that’s generous, it’s more playful defiance rather than actually committing to the bit) submissive and as a dominant? Evil. Pure evil, she’s the worst and she’ll giggle about it too.

She’s exactly the type to say she wants to experiment with toys and then bring out the most vile, confusing, mecha excuse of a vibrator dildo combo ever??? She probably signed up for some shady website to get the toys early to test them

Any praise has her melting where she’s laying standing, leaning into you and whispering your name as you two explore and rub each other down, her hands squeezing your thighs.

Mira

Mira is heavy (and i mean HEAVY) into marking. She’s not even possessive or jealous, she trusts you, but she takes pleasure in seeing her bite marks and lipstick stains smeared against your neck!! if you let her, she’ll take pictures and set it as her wallpaper

She thrives if you do the same with her so you can have a matching set- She’ll make sure it’s all aesthetic too just so you guys

She’s obviously the most dominant, she might let you take the lead once or twice but she’ll not in love with the idea. She prefers being in control and seeing you under her.

Mira loves piercings as well, she’ll be so fascinated if you have any! She might consider getting a tongue piercing as well, and she will with your encouragement!! you may not be able to experience the positives immediately, but trust that you’ll definitely experience them

She’s surprisingly not entirely rough, not at first, she really likes edging you. Mira will set aside plenty of time, choose the perfect playlist so she can comfortably take her time in edging you

Tits person! she loves kissing down your neck and mouthing at your clothed tits, pulling your shirt up and muttering muffled praises against your skin. She loves the rest of your body as well, but she gives some special attention to your tits

She’s a service/stone top, Mira doesn’t care for having her own body touched beyond kissing. She can cum but, as a whole, she prefers to do it herself

Not as committed to toys as Zoey might be but really likes strapons and simple vibrators. She’s not going to pull up some devious, never before heard of shit like Zoey would, but she’ll bring in some things for some spice!!

Almost shockingly into being well groomed, and is the most groomed of the three of them- She likes to regularly get waxed and massaged, manicured, and pedicured (although all of them do that, she’s the most into it)

Will do you and her make up just so you guys can freak and make a mess, she likes watching the end scene- Pillows smeared with lipstick and eyeshadow, your eyes messy with eyeliner. It’ll be a mess to clean up, for sure… For somebody else, you two can just relax on the couch for the night!

[beldamtarot]

-ˏˋ MASTERLIST ˊˎ-

Hello there! This is my first pick-a-pile reading here. I'm very sorry for not being able to post sooner, as I'm quite busy with life. But here you go! I'll do my very best to stay as active as possible here and do readings as much as I can.

Also, this reading is The Secret History-themed because I'm rereading the book for the 3rd time now! I really love it so so so much. I highly recommend that book btw! So before further ado, let's dive into your reading. X.

Love,

Beldam

DISCLAIMER: take what resonates, leave what doesn't. Not everything here will resonate nor will be accurate to your situation, as this is a collective reading, which means I'm connecting to a lot of energies. For more accurate and longer readings, you may book a reading with me. If you want to simply support me, you may tip me here.

If you struggle in choosing between these piles, you may choose more than one if you feel connected to them. For any other clarification, feel free to drop by or hit me up!

‎✧ ─── PILE ONE !

Your future spouse's first impression of you is that you embody both masculine and feminine energies, and you can switch it and turn either energies on and off whenever you want to, like a light switch. When it comes to your masculine energy, your future spouse thinks you're a passionate and adventurous person. I feel like your future spouse finds you hot in your masculine energy. You could be someone who likes to hit the gym and do weightlifting. You could be someone who has muscles. If you're a woman, you could have a big booty and you really have a lot of strength in your lower body, which your future spouse likes looking at. And if you're a man, you really have some muscles on your biceps and you have broad shoulders, which make your future spouse fold. As for your feminine energy, you're someone who's opinionated and doesn't hesitate to speak up. You're not scared of being "too harsh" for other people just because they can't handle the truth. You're someone who doesn't let anyone disrespect you in any way. You're willing to fight them if that means keeping your peace and this serves as a warning for them not to walk all over you again. Your future spouse likes that and admires you for that. I feel like your future spouse finds you extraordinary and different from everyone they have met in the past, and because of that, you pique their interest a lot. I also feel like that your future spouse thinks you tend to feel stuck and have a brain fog whenever you're stressed and overwhelmed. Because of this, they want to help you in any way they can and protect you. You also seem like someone who's willing to take the risk. It's like what they say, take the risk or lose the chance.

Signs: Aries, Libra, Aquarius, Leo, Gemini, Capricorn

Other signs: Business. Workaholic. Morning coffee. Spilling coffee when in a rush. Office as a workplace. White button-down blouse. Wavy hair. Blonde. Brunette. Long hair with highlights.

‎✧ ─── PILE TWO !

I feel like you'll meet your future spouse when everything in your life is falling apart so their first impression of you is that you're brave but miserable and you can't get your shit together. It's when you're so confused with what you're going to do with your life because nothing is going the way you want it to go. Your career is falling apart, you might be sick of your job and thinking of resigning but you can't find another job, or you just got fired, or you're really unemployed and need to get a job. During this time, you'll feel defeated. It feels like life will never be gentle to you, ever. You might be going to clubs or bar, drinking a lot, you might even be sleeping with a lot of people you just met that night and barely know. You have a messed up sleeping schedule, you're awake at night but asleep during the day. You don't eat healthy and you smoke a lot. There's a lot of confusion in this energy and I feel like you'll consider stealing money from people or selling drugs because you don't know how to help yourself financially. And this is where your future spouse comes along. I feel like your future spouse has been there and they also went through so much. They already know how to take a grip and take control of their life, and I feel like they will help you get through this. I'm seeing that when you meet, you might be drunk in the middle of the night and they will help you get sober so you can go home safely. I'm seeing a woman drunk and a man helping her, so most of you here could be women. Though they will take you home themselves and ensure that you're safe. But when you get home. Nothing will happen between you that night. Nothing sexual. They respect you a lot and will never take advantage of you. I feel like this is when you realize that they are the one for you, and they inspire you to change for the better. It feels as though this person leads you to the light at the end of the tunnel.

Signs: Leo, Scorpio, Aquarius, Pisces, Sagittarius

Other signs: Paris. Big cities. Bar. Clubbing. Alcohol and wine. One night stand. Junk food. Fries. Burger. Pizza. The movie The Menu. Anya Taylor Joy. Francis. French.

‎✧ ─── PILE THREE !

Your future spouse sees you as the one for them, the moment they see you. I feel like this is love at first sight, whether you like that concept or hate it. They think you're a happy and jolly person, it seems like, to them, you don't have any problems in life. And they know that of course, you have, because no one in this world has zero problems in life. But you make it look so easy, it's like you're not dealing with anything because you're a calm person and you have everything all-together in your life. It's like, even if you get upset over something, you know how to deal with it without crashing out. I also feel like you catch your future spouse's attention in the crowd. You both could be in a crowd of people, maybe at a business party of a friend's party. I see a woman holding a glass of champagne or any drink, talking to some people, and the man is walking towards her to approach her. So I feel like most of you in this pile are women too. I also feel like your future spouse might be someone who likes to make plans. They will let you be in your feminine energy while they handle everything. It's like, you don't have to worry about anything, I have it all under control. You or them or the both of you could be asking people about each other because you have a lot of connections with other people, so it's like you're both connected to each other all along, you just haven't met sooner yet. It's giving the invisible string theory where you're both in the same place at the same time, you just haven't met sooner because it wasn't the right time. You might even have pictures where the other is in the picture, you just didn't realize it before. And in the eyes of your future spouse, you're a confident person and really attractive physically. You have a specific charm where you can charm everyone in the room.

Signs: Libra, Taurus, Scorpio, Cancer, Virgo

Other signs: Blonde. Blue eyes. Barbie. Elegant & classy fashion style. Black hair. The movie How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. Business party. The series Emily in Paris. Swan Lake.

[st3f13ily]

Dating The Impossible

• Reverse Romance Trope

• Instead of Fake dating, everyone is convinced you aren't dating.

• Itoshi Sae x Influencer Chaotic Reader

• Sorry, I don't really know how this will goes, probably gonna be confusing and all, I just put whatever is on my mind.

"You know how some people say their life is a rom-com? Yeah, no. Mine is more like a chaos-com. I wake up tangled in bedsheets like a burrito, burn half my breakfasts, and trip over absolutely nothing at least once a day. But hey, at least I make it look cute. Or so my fans say."

"You've probably seen me online."

"The loud, over-the-top influencer with an obsession for bubble tea, oversized hoodies, and singing off-key on live streams. Yeah, that's me. Sunshine's personality is a human disaster, and I'm proud of it. My life is like an endless string of events, collaborations, photoshoots, and the occasional scandal where people assume I'm dating half the industry just because I smiled too wide in a selfie."

"But... plot twist. The rumors were all wrong. The truth? I've been dating Sae Itoshi."

"Yes. That Sae Itoshi."

"The national heartthrob, soccer prodigy, king of the resting deadpan face. The man who kicks balls for a living and somehow looks like he invented the concept of "too cool to care." That's my boyfriend."

"Shocking, right? I know, I know. You're probably making the same face my best friend did when I told her."

"Mouth open, brain error, blue screen."

"But!—ah, ah, ah—before I spill the tea on how that happened... let's rewind."

"It wasn't on a fancy red carpet or an exclusive afterparty."

"Nope. The universe had something more... clumsy planned."

"It was just another Tuesday. I was running late, of course, because of punctuality and I have never been on speaking terms. Sunglasses perched on my head, iced coffee in one hand, and phone in the other, trying to post a "good morning" selfie to my feed without walking into traffic. Multitasking: my toxic trait."

"And then, boom."

"Literally. I slammed right into someone."

"My coffee went flying, my phone almost joined it, and I stumbled back like a cartoon character. I looked up, ready to apologize to whoever the poor soul was and there he stood."

"Tall. Cool. Expression flat enough to rival the moon’s surface."

"A guy in casual clothes, baseball cap pulled low, hands stuffed in his pockets like he’d rather be anywhere else."

"And me? The clueless fool who thought. Huh. Cute stranger."

"I had no idea I'd just bumped into Itoshi Sae himself. And him? Oh, he definitely thought I was just another random, overly smiley girl with zero spatial awareness."

"Funny, right?"

"But, I'm getting ahead of myself again. You want the real story, don't you? The how, the why, the wait, really? moments."

"Well... hold tight. Because that, my lovely little chaos crew, is a story for another day."

"And speaking of stories, my livestream timer's blinking at me. Time to hit the "Go Live" button and let the circus begin."

"Story starts now: me, my camera, my fans, and one accidental love story I never saw coming."

.....

.....

.....

.....

Beep.

Beep.

BEEEEEP.

You swatted your alarm clock like it had personally insulted your family name, groaning into your pillow. Five more minutes. Just five more, universe, please. But the sun was already slapping you across the face through your curtains like it had a personal vendetta.

Reluctantly, you peeled yourself from your cozy blanket cocoon and rolled out of bed emphasis on rolled because grace was never part of your brand. You did a little zombie shuffle toward the bathroom, catching sight of your bedhead in the mirror.

"Wow. A masterpiece." you mumbled to yourself, finger-combing your tangled mess like it would magically fix anything. Spoiler: it didn't.

Your morning routine was a wild mix of chaos and caffeine. Face wash? Check. Skincare? Check—uhhhhhh—mostly. Coffee? Priority number one. You fired up your machine and did a little dance while waiting, humming off-key to whatever pop song was stuck in your head. You were halfway through pouring your coffee when your phone buzzed.

[Your BFF]: 𝗔𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗲??

You grinned, sending back: 𝗕𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗹𝘆. 𝗖𝗼𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁, 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗱.

You flopped onto the couch with your mug and pulled out your phone, opening your livestream app. Your followers were already leaving comments on your last post:

"You're late today, queen!"

"She lives!! What's the chaos plan for today?"

You snorted into your coffee, holding up your phone for a quick selfie.

"Good morning, chaos crew!" you chirped to your camera. "Guess who overslept again? Spoiler: it's me. But plot twist, today I have a story. And it's about a certain someone."

You paused, flashing your most dramatic grin.

"But before that, let's talk about the day I met him. Because wow. Absolute definition of 'meet-cute,' minus the cute, mostly just me being a hazard to society."

You leaned back, letting the memory replay in your head.

It was an ordinary day. Well, as ordinary as your life ever got. You had a brand meeting to rush to, and as usual, you were running late because you couldn't pick an outfit. One minute you were posing for mirror selfies in your oversized hoodie, the next you were panicking because your Uber was two streets away and you couldn't find your left shoe. Classic you.

With only two brain cells firing on pure iced coffee and hope, you dashed out of your apartment, phone in one hand, drink in the other, and zero focus on the sidewalk ahead. You were too busy typing a caption for your next post, something about the universe always testing your time management skills, when the world decided to humble you.

Crash.

You slammed chest-first into someone.

Your iced coffee did an Olympic-level flip, your phone wobbled dangerously in your hand, and you stumbled back two steps, blinking like a deer in ring light.

"Whoa—sorry, I wasn't looking!" you blurted out, brushing imaginary dust off your clothes and finally daring to look up.

And there he was.

The stranger.

Tall, and lean, hoodie, cap pulled low, and hands in his pockets like life was just a long waiting room. His expression? A mix of boredom and 'Why is this human in my personal space?'

At the time, you didn't recognize him. To you, he was just another person having the misfortune of existing on the same chaotic sidewalk as you.

But him? Oh, he definitely looked at you like you were just another hyper, overcaffeinated civilian with no spatial awareness. Probably filed you away as background noise and kept walking.

You, being the ray of unbothered sunshine you were, had just smiled wide and waved, as if you hadn't nearly caused a traffic accident with your face.

"Have a good day, mystery man!" you chirped before bouncing off, completely unaware that you'd just met Sae Itoshi.

The Sae Itoshi.

The soccer prodigy. The media darling. The human iceberg.

And soon-to-be... your boyfriend.

You grinned at the memory, shaking your head as your chat flooded with emojis and question marks

"But—ah, ah, ah—that's just the beginning," you teased, sipping your coffee dramatically. "You thought I’d spill all the tea in one sitting? Pfft. Stay tuned, chaos crew. You know I live for the plot twists."

You winked at your camera, stretching your arms with a happy little hum.

"So, where were we? Right—me, being a disaster, and the world's most unexpected love story. But that's for the next stream."

And with that, you ended the live, leaving your fans screaming in the chat for more.

You sort of love it when your fans suffer.

༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻

You were lounging on your bed, blanket wrapped around your legs like a burrito, phone propped up against a water bottle, livestream running full blast. The chat was already exploding with:

"You left us hanging last time!!"

"Tell us about the first REAL conversation!!"

"DID YOU FALL OR DID YOU FLY?? Spill!!"

You laughed, cheeks hurting from smiling.

"Okay, okay, okay, calm down, gremlins." You raised your hands like you were surrendering to the internet police. "So last time, I told you about the day I bumped into him. Literally. But you thought the universe would let me off with one accidental meeting? Oh, honey. No, no."

You shifted to lie on your stomach, kicking your feet behind you.

"It kept happening. Like, a lot. I thought I was the main character in a bad rom-com."

You tilted your head back, replaying the memories like your own private highlight reel.

The second time was the most random. You'd been at that cute little coffee shop you loved, the one that did those overly fancy heart-shaped lattes you always pretended to hate but secretly adored. You were waiting for your order, nose buried in your phone, when someone brushed past you.

You looked up, and there he was again. Mystery Man. Hoodie, cap, same blank expression. For a second, you thought your brain had glitched. Wasn't this the guy you’d run into like, a week ago?

He didn't recognize you, or at least, if he did, he was very committed to pretending he didn't. You'd watched him leave with his black coffee like some kind of aesthetic Pinterest post, and you'd stood there clutching your caramel frappé like, Huh. Weird.

But it didn't stop there.

A few days later, different place, the same weird coincidence. You'd been out at the park, earbuds in, walking your snack-fueled guilt off when you spotted him again, sitting on a bench, casually scrolling his phone as if he belonged in the background.

At first, you thought, Okay, world, nice try. People exist. Whatever. But by the fourth time, when you ran into him at that tiny sushi place you swore no one else but you and your bestie knew about. You couldn't take it anymore.

You'd straight-up stared at him across the room, your mouth half full of rice, eyebrows raised so high they nearly left your forehead.

And the moment your eyes met? He raised his brow right back.

So you did what any reasonable, mature adult would do.

You marched right up to his table, planted your hands on your hips, tilted your head, and blurted out:

"Are you stalking me or do I just have main character syndrome?"

Silence. Dead silence. The poor waiter passing by almost choked on air.

And for the first time, the guy cracked the tiniest, barely-there smile like you'd just told a joke only he got. He tilted his head, lazily resting his chin on his hand and replied, "Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing."

You had stared at him, blinked, and then dramatically pointed a finger at him like some bootleg detective.

"Hah! Suspicious!"

Your chat was going insane by now, spamming.

"SHE LITERALLY SAID ‘STALKER’ LMAO"

"HE SMILED?!? That's a world record!"

"He was so calm too, I'm wheezing."

You grinned at your phone.

"Yeah, I know right? The man was so calm like his entire personality was set to 'unbothered.' Meanwhile, I'm the one flailing through life like a caffeinated pigeon."

You sipped your drink, shaking your head at the memory.

"At that point, I didn't even know who he was, not really. Just thought he was some suspiciously attractive stranger who clearly had a talent for showing up wherever I existed. Turns out... well, you guys know the plot twist already."

You let out a dreamy little sigh, flopping onto your back.

"But that was just the start. You think that's the cute part? Oh, no, no, no, chaos crew. The universe was just warming up."

You flashed a wink at the camera.

"Next stream, I'll tell you the part where I found out the truth. About who he really was."

You raised your glass like a toast.

"And spoiler alert: my jaw hit the floor. See you next time!"

You ended the live, still smiling like an idiot, heart full of those silly, sweet memories.

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You tug your hoodie over your head, slumping deeper into the cold, unforgiving airport chair while the distant hum of suitcase wheels and boarding calls blend into background noise. One earbud dangles loose, the other blasting your "waiting-around" playlist at a volume slightly unhealthy for your eardrums.

Your phone rests against your knee, the livestream chat already buzzing like a hive of nosy bees.

"WHERE are you going?? Stop gatekeeping."

"Tell us, tell us! Your airport fit is 10/10 tho."

"Are you going somewhere or is this Kidnapping??!! Blink twice if you need help!!"

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING??"

"Airport fit check pls??"

You chuckle under your breath, stretching your legs out until your sneakers nudge your suitcase.

"Yeah, yeah. I know you're all dying to know, but I'm not telling you yet. Let's just say... it's gonna be a long few hours, and the flight's not boarding anytime soon."

You leaned back, stretching your legs out, sneakers tapping against the floor.

"So I figured, since we're all here, stuck together in digital purgatory, why not tell you the rest of the story? The full, uncut, slightly embarrassing tale of how I ended up with Sae Itoshi."

The chat exploded again, and you snorted, holding up a hand.

"Calm down, calm down! You already know about the 'Are you stalking me?' moment." You grinned at the memory. "But that wasn't the last time we crossed paths. Oh no, the universe was playing the long game."

You licked your lips, settling in like you were about to spill ancient gossip.

"Turns out, I was working on this brand deal, you know, usual influencer stuff, smile, wave, pretend I don’t trip over my own feet in front of professional cameras. My manager told me there was this promotional event, super casual, nothing fancy. Show up, look cute, shake hands, snap photos. Easy."

"What she forgot to mention was that it wasn't just some small event. No, no, it was one of those 'shared space' promo collabs. You know, influencers meet athletes, actors, streamers, the whole 'everyone's famous except you' type vibe. I was barely surviving the social anxiety."

You gestured at your own face, chuckling.

"And then, guess who walks in. The same guy I called a stalker—Sae. Freaking. Itoshi."

You paused for dramatic silence, watching the chat spam screaming emojis and caps-lock confessions of second-hand embarrassment.

"And the worst part? I still didn't know his full name. Not until the event started, and the host announced it like it was some royal entrance. 'Football star Itoshi Sae, everyone!' And I just—I swear my soul left my body."

You covered your face, laughing into your hands.

"I was standing there holding a plate of free desserts and staring at him like I'd seen a ghost. He? Oh, he was perfectly fine. Cool, calm, like this was just Tuesday for him."

You shift in your seat, tugging your hood lower, and let the memory pull you under.

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The sky had been that weird, in-between colour, not quite sunny, not quite cloudy, just hanging there like it couldn’t commit to a mood. You were half-jogging, half-power-walking toward your favourite café, craving something sugary and caffeinated to survive your schedule.

Just five minutes of peace, you'd thought, before the next shoot, the next meeting, the next 'smile for the camera.'

The second you pushed the café door open, the little bell above the frame jingled and there he was. The same guy. Cool expression, soccer-star hair, the casual posture of someone who was definitely not expecting you either.

You froze mid-step, recognizing that sharp jawline and those ocean-glass eyes.

No way. No freaking way.

And he glanced up from his drink, raising one eyebrow like he'd just spotted a UFO. No fanboy moment, no awkwardness, just that signature, unimpressed Sae Itoshi stare.

You blinked, too stunned to even remember your coffee craving. "You again?" you blurted, before your brain could filter the words.

He sipped his drink like you weren't real. "Should I be asking you that?"

The universe clearly had jokes, because this wasn't the last time either. After that café, you saw him at a restaurant, same casual lean against the counter, the same unreadable face. Then at the park. Then at a bookstore. Every time you locked eyes, it was the same little pause, like both of you were waiting for the punchline.

The fourth or fifth accidental meetup, you'd finally folded your arms, tilting your head at him, amusement bubbling out before you could stop yourself.

"Alright, are YOU stalking me?" you'd asked, deadpan but half-laughing.

For the first time, his lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smirk.

"No." he'd replied, gaze flicking to you and back. "If I were, you'd never catch me."

And you had stood there, flustered, annoyingly charmed, and wondering if he'd always been this infuriatingly smooth.

But the real twist came later, your manager dropped the bomb about the upcoming event.

"A crossover gig." she'd said, breezy like it wasn't life-ruining. "You're going to meet some athletes and shoot some promo stuff. Super chill."

You'd thought nothing of it, until you showed up at the venue, makeup barely set, nerves barely managed, and there he was. Again.

This time, his name wasn't a mystery. The host's voice boomed through the speakers like an announcement in some royal court.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome Itoshi Sae!"

And you? Standing there like an absolute clown, holding some candies you snuck into your bag without your manager looking. Staring at the man you'd mistaken for a random guy for weeks.

I am going to dig a hole right here and move in.

The worst part wasn't even the reveal, it was how unbothered he looked. Smooth, sharp, camera-ready. Until the event wrapped, the photos were done, and he passed you in the hallway, hands in his pockets.

"Still think I’m stalking you?" he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear.

Your heart had done a perfect backflip right into your stomach.

I'm doomed, you'd thought, completely doomed.

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The airport speakers crackle, calling out some other flight and the chat floods your screen like you'd just dropped the juiciest scandal.

"OMG stop, the candy part got me dead."

"YOU MET HIM SO MANY TIMES AND DIDN'T KNOW??? Girl."

"How are you not married to him already, I'm crying."

You snort, flipping your phone so the camera only catches your eyes, full of fake dramatic regret.

"Yup, that's the story. The universe was practically waving a red flag in my face, and I still didn't get it. But hey, I never said I was smart."

You grin, voice going soft.

"That was the beginning of the mess, though. Things only got weirder, funnier, and... well, better from there."

You glance at the flight board, the 'Delayed' sign still glowing. Plenty of time to keep the story going.

"Should I tell you what happened after that event?" You tilt your head, teasing. "You might wanna grab snacks for this one."

You rested your chin on your palm, the corners of your lips twitching upward at the memory.

"But noooope. Plot twist, we kept running into each other even after that. Like, the universe wasn't done embarrassing me."

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It started with the afterparty.

You weren't even supposed to stay long. Your manager had warned you: "Just smile, mingle, and leave before anyone asks awkward questions." But you'd stayed for the free food. Because of priorities.

You were swiping the last mini cupcake from a passing tray when you noticed him, standing alone by the balcony doors, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Same suit, same cool stare, but there was something... so normal about him when he wasn't surrounded by flashing cameras and interviews.

You hadn't meant to walk over. Honestly. Your feet just moved.

"Hey, stalker." you'd greeted, cupcake half-raised to your mouth.

He glanced your way, eyebrows lifting slightly.

"You've got the roles reversed." he murmured, sipping his drink, "I was here first."

You'd grinned around the cupcake. "Pfft. Technicality."

It was small, that first conversation. You talked about nothing, the music, the cheap wine, how awkward those ‘stand here and smile’ photos were. And when you'd finally left the party, you were sure that was the last of it.

But then came the run-ins. Again.

At the bookstore. At the same street-side ramen place. At the stupid laundromat of all places.

Each time, the same exchange.

You: "Okay, this is getting suspicious."

Him: Deadpan. "I live here. You're the one following me."

The universe was clearly shipping you two harder than your entire fanbase ever could.

But the real kicker came a week later when your manager ambushed you mid-photoshoot with a new assignment.

"Big commercial gig. Big brands, crossover style, you'll be working with athletes again."

You didn't even flinch this time. Please let it be someone normal, you'd prayed silently, half-joking.

Spoiler alert: it wasn't.

The day of the shoot, you arrived early, coffee in hand, only to find him sitting on the armrest of the studio sofa, completely at ease, scrolling through his phone like he owned the place.

The second your eyes met, he locked his phone and gave you the faintest nod, almost amused.

"Guess you're stuck with me again." he muttered.

You'd raised your cup like it was a toast. "Could be worse."

And honestly? It could've. The more you worked together that day, the more the weirdness of ‘Itoshi Sae the world-class footballer’ faded away. He was sharp, calm, and maddeningly good at making your heart do cartwheels with a single glance. But also... surprisingly soft-spoken, and just the right amount of sarcastic to match your chaos.

When the cameras weren't rolling, the two of you sat on the studio floor, sharing a pack of sour candies you’d stashed in your bag, the conversation flipping between random nonsense and quiet silences.

At some point, you caught yourself thinking.

Huh. This isn't so bad. Actually... it’s kinda nice.

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You blinked, pulling yourself out of the memory, stretching your arms overhead like the story had physically weighed on you.

"Yeah." you muttered into the mic, "That's when things got... complicated. After that shoot, we started texting. Then hanging out. Not the usual ‘post it on Instagram and make it obvious’ kind of way. Just... quiet."

Your thumb swiped the chat, watching your fans lose their collective minds.

"I KNEW IT. Texting is the gateway to the heart."

"You two were so private, we thought you were single fr."

"So you're telling me this was a soft slow burn all along?!"

You smiled to yourself, your heart swelling just a little as you stared at the screen.

"Yup. No fancy announcements, no PDA, no hints on social media. Just... us. And honestly, I liked it that way."

You leaned back, glancing at the flight board again.

"But I'm getting ahead of myself." you teased. "If you want the full tea—the real ‘how we actually got together’ story—you're gonna need snacks, drinks, maybe a pillow, because that part?"

You tilted your head toward the camera, grinning wide.

"That's a whole saga on its own."

༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻

You leaned your head against the cold airport window, watching planes blink through the foggy glass while your phone rested comfortably against your knee, still live, your chat buzzing like a beehive.

You were mid-sentence, rambling about the "friendly" phase, when your brain hit that memory, the moment things stopped being just friendly.

Your lips twitched into a soft, secret smile.

"Alright, alright, so here's the part everyone wants." you chuckled, stretching your legs out in front of you. "You've all been dying to know how it went from texting, hanging out, to... official, right?"

The chat exploded with caps and emojis.

You rubbed the back of your neck sheepishly.

"Yeah, the thing is... he never actually asked. Like—no ‘will you be my girlfriend?’ no rom-com confession under the rain, no dramatic gestures. It was just... Sae being Sae."

༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻

It had been months.

Months of quiet coffee shop meetups, walking side by side with your hands brushing but never quite touching, late-night texts about the dumbest things, and his deadpan humor paired perfectly with your endless chaos.

And then one ordinary night, the two of you were sitting on his apartment balcony, the Tokyo skyline stretched out before you like an endless string of stars. You were bundled in his oversized hoodie—correction: permanently borrowed hoodie, sipping canned peach soda, while Sae scrolled through something on his phone, utterly relaxed.

The silence wasn't awkward. It never was with him.

Out of nowhere, without even looking up, he spoke:

"You know my schedule, right? Next season's gonna be worse."

You glanced over, raising a brow. "Yeah, your manager already sent me the doomsday calendar."

His lips curved into a faint smirk. "Then you'll have to deal with it."

You blinked. "Deal with what?"

"You. Being stuck with me." He finally tilted his head, looking at you sideways, eyes soft but so unreadable. "You're already here all the time, anyway."

The soda can slipped slightly in your hands.

Wait... is this... is he... asking?

You tilted your head, squinting suspiciously. "Are you... asking me to be your girlfriend without asking me to be your girlfriend?"

His expression didn't even flinch. "If you need me to spell it out, you're dumber than I thought."

You gasped, mock-offended, shoving his shoulder lightly. "Excuse me?!"

But before you could launch into a dramatic fake argument, he reached over, pulling you back gently by the sleeve of his hoodie. His hand stayed there, warm and steady against your arm, anchoring you in place.

"That wasn't a question," he added, voice low but steady.

And just like that, that was it. No grand announcement, no perfect moment. Just simple, real, and entirely him.

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Your fingers absentmindedly fidgeted with the zipper of your jacket, the memory lingering like warmth in your chest.

"Yeah... that’s how it happened," you told your audience, your grin softening. "No dramatic confessions, no fairytale scenes. Just him deciding we were already together without me even realizing it."

The chat blew up in every direction.

"HE JUST CLAIMED YOU LIKE THAT???"

"Sae Itoshi pulled the ‘you're mine, you just don’t know it’ move?? I'm screaming."

"Girl that wasn't even a question. That was a declaration!!"

You laughed, stretching out your legs again, letting the warmth of that night sink in all over again.

"Yeah," you whispered, half to yourself, half to the stream. "That's just... him."

The airport speakers crackled with another delay announcement, and you groaned, flopping back against the chair like your soul had just left your body.

"Guess I've got plenty of time to spill the rest now," you told your phone, your live stream still going strong, chat still wild, even though you were only halfway through your long-winded, slightly embarrassing love story.

You twisted your fingers into your hoodie strings, eyes flicking toward the camera, a little mischievous spark dancing behind your smile.

"So, here's the fun part. When we finally decided to tell people... no one believed us." You let the words hang for dramatic effect.

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You flopped face-first onto your bed, phone dangling from your hand, notifications still blowing up your screen like a mini firework show. Your social feed was chaos—memes, clips, conspiracy theories, fan edits— and all for the same ridiculous reason.

The public didn't believe you and Sae were actually dating.

You groaned into your pillow.

"Why. Why is the world like this?"

Just earlier that week, you finally decided to post that one photo, the soft, cozy one of you wearing his hoodie, feet propped up on his coffee table, his unmistakable blue-and-white game jersey draped on the back of the couch in the background.

The caption was simple:

"Soft launch? Nah. Full send."

And Sae, the man of zero social media energy, actually liked it.

But instead of hearts and celebration, the media? The fans? The blogs?

𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌?

𝙿𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚝?

𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚝?

They refused to believe it. Your chaotic, sunshine personality, the influencer who couldn't sit still for five seconds, with Japan's most stone-faced, deadpan soccer prince? They weren't buying it.

Truth was, you avoided his matches like the plague.

Sure, you loved seeing him play, but you didn't love the VIP section. You hated the constant camera pans, the forced smiles, and the announcers awkwardly mentioning you every five minutes like you were the main event instead of him.

And even if you could handle that, the crowd wasn’t much better.

"Why do you even go, if all you do is get stared at?" you remembered Sae asking, poking the straw in your drink lazily as the two of you hid in a quiet little ramen shop once.

"Exactly! I don't," you shot back. "You wanna know how awkward it is to sit there, every second feeling like I should wave or pose for the camera? I'm not tryna be the soccer wife template, okay?"

And as usual, Sae just nodded, no offense taken, no guilt tripped, just casually accepting your boundaries without blinking.

And the interviews? His manager probably sent him a dozen pre-approved questions about you every week, and he still answered the same way:

"Private life's got nothing to do with the field."

"Next question."

"No comment."

You loved him for that. But the world? They took it as proof you were all for show.

You rolled onto your back, clutching your phone to your chest dramatically.

"I want everyone to know you're mine, damn it!" you whined out loud, even though Sae wasn't even in the room.

Your phone buzzed, and speak of the devil, his name flashed across your screen.

A text, short as always.

Sae: 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭?

You typed back furiously, thumbs moving like you were fighting for your life.

You: 𝐘𝐄𝐒. 𝐈 𝐚𝐦! 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐈𝐦 𝐟𝐚𝐤𝐞-𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮! 𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬? 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬!!

A few seconds passed.

Another buzz.

Sae: 𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭. 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞.

You let out the most dramatic gasp, holding your chest like you’d been mortally wounded.

He doesn't care. He's so... him.

But even in the middle of your whiny pout, your phone vibrated once more, and his last message made your stomach flip

Sae: 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬.

Your lips twitched into a defeated smile.

Yeah. That's true.

Bonus: Later that week, you caught him scrolling past some article about your "fake" relationship. His only reaction?

"Tch. They're dumb."

And then he slid his phone back into his pocket, grabbed your hand, and squeezed it liked the whole world could fall away and he'd still be fine, as long as you were beside him.

It wasn't just the fans.

It wasn't just the media.

It was everyone.

Even your own best friend.

You sat cross-legged on your couch, phone balanced on your knee, holding back a groan while your bestie's voice played through the speaker like the most supportive but suspicious customer service rep on Earth.

"So… Sae Itoshi, huh?" they hummed, voice full of that polite, careful tone people use when they think you’re about to tell them you joined a pyramid scheme. "You're really serious about this?"

You flopped onto your back dramatically, one arm tossed over your face.

"Yes, I'm serious! Why does nobody ever believe me?!"

Your best friend laughed, soft but teasing.

"It's just... you only post about him once or twice a week then it's just you with your routine. You're always hanging out with me or working. And he doesn't mention you in interviews either, so…"

You sat up and grabbed a throw pillow, clutching it like a lifeline.

"Because we like being private! You know how insane people are about celeb couples. We don't need the world crawling up our noses."

Your best friend didn't sound mean about it, or even doubtful in a harsh way, just unconvinced in that "I love you, but I’m side-eyeing this" way.

"Well, if it's real, I'm happy for you. But I'll believe it when I see him at a family dinner or something."

You froze.

Family dinner. Right. That wasn't helping your case either.

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Your family was no better.

Every group call, every visit, every holiday, someone always asked the same thing:

"Are you still seeing that soccer guy?"

"Yes, I am!"

And always, the same suspicious, supportive-but-totally-judging smile.

"Mhm. Must be hard, dating a busy man like that. You two probably don't see each other much, huh?"

You wanted to yeet your phone across the room every time.

It wasn't their fault.

They weren’t being cruel, or bitter, in fact, they were probably trying to avoid sounding jealous.

But they hadn't seen Sae show up at birthdays, or in your Insta stories, or on the group vacations.

And every time you'd try to explain the situation, the words sounded faker and faker even to your own ears.

"He's busy with training."

"He doesn't like social media."

"We like keeping things private."

"It's not that serious to everyone else, but it is to us."

You knew it was true. You knew Sae wasn't some trophy boyfriend for display. But you also knew how invisible your relationship looked to the outside world.

The meet-and-greet was in full swing. Flashing lights, smiles so wide your cheeks hurt, laughter so loud it made your ears ring — you were in your natural habitat, bouncing from fan to fan like a hyper, overcaffeinated puppy.

You signed merch, posed for selfies, gave out warm hugs, and listened to all the sweet things your fans had to say.

"You're literally the best person ever."

"You make my day so much brighter."

"You're my comfort streamer, always."

And then, the classic.

"So… are you really dating Sae Itoshi?"

You smiled, the same smile you'd mastered over the past few months. The yes-it's-true-but-nobody-believes-me-anyway smile.

"Yup! Totally. 100%."

Cue the polite giggles.

They didn't mean it in a mean way. In fact, you loved how playful your fans were about it. But deep down, it still poked at you like an itch you couldn't scratch.

They were so sure it was fake.

Why wouldn't they be? You and Sae were barely ever seen together unless a manager forced it. You hated attending his matches. He hated social media. It all lined up too perfectly, like the plot of every fake celebrity romance scandal.

You'd whined about it to him just last night. Practically buried your face in his chest, grumbling like a five-year-old.

"Why won't anyone believe me? I want the whole world to know you're mine!"

And like always, he'd just ruffled your hair, kissed your forehead, and said.

"Let them think what they want. I know what’s real."

But apparently, Sae Itoshi had a limit, too.

Because while you were grinning at the next fan in line, mid-conversation, halfway through signing your name on a hoodie, the room shifted.

There were gasps, murmurs, and the kind of hush that only happens when someone so unexpected, so untouchable, walks into the room.

You lifted your head and froze.

Standing casually near the back, hands in his pockets like this was the most normal thing in the world, was Sae Itoshi himself.

Your jaw dropped.

Before you could even string a single thought together, he was walking toward you, eyes locked on yours like there was no one else in the world. And without stopping, without saying a word, without hesitation.

He leaned in and kissed you.

Soft but confident. No over-the-top drama, no staged posing. Just real. Simple. Certain.

When he pulled back, the silence was deafening. For once in your chaotic, noisy life, you were speechless.

Your fans were quiet, wide-eyed, some blinking like they’d just been hit by the plot twist of the century. But not in a bad way. No hate. Just pure, I-can't-believe-I-just-witnessed-that energy.

You blinked up at him, your voice breathless but happy, giddy from the surprise.

"What are you doing here??"

Sae tilted his head slightly, his signature deadpan expression softening at the corners.

"You kept whining about nobody believing you."

A pause.

"I can't take it anymore. So here I am, making sure they're convinced we're together until the end."

You wanted to melt into the floor.

The fans, finally breaking out of their stunned silence, burst into soft claps and cheers. No screaming chaos, no wild frenzy, just a wave of warm, supportive acceptance like, "Well, damn. Guess it was real all along."

And just like that...

All your whining finally paid off.

You couldn't stop smiling even as the meet-and-greet wrapped up, Sae waiting nearby like the world’s most casually overprotective boyfriend, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes glancing toward you every few minutes.

And this time, when you scrolled through your notifications later that night, the headlines weren't speculating with assumptions anymore.

Confirmed: Itoshi Sae And Our Influencer Queen Are Officially Together. For Real.

You stretch your arms above your head, rolling your neck side to side as the loudspeaker overhead calls out another delayed flight. Your phone, propped up against your coffee cup on the little table, is still going strong, the live stream timer blinking away.

The screen is flooded with hearts, emojis, and comment after comment, your fans practically vibrating through the chat.

You let out a small yawn, your voice light and teasing.

"—And that, my friends, is the full story. Yup. That’s how your favourite chaotic influencer and Mr Ice-Block Sae Itoshi became a thing." You grin at the camera, lifting your drink for a little toast. "No fake dating, no PR stunt, just real-deal feelings and a very stubborn soccer boy who took his sweet time making everyone believe me."

The comments start rolling in faster now that you finally stopped talking, and you lean closer, eyes flicking across the screen.

"OKAY OKAY I BELIEVE YOU NOW MY QUEEN I’M SORRY."

"THE WAY I DIDN'T BELIEVE YOU FOR MONTHS I FEEL SO DUMB."

"I KNEW IT! I FREAKING KNEW IT! You two are so real I'm crying."

"Plot twist: Sae is the softest boyfriend behind the scenes."

"Her telling the whole story at an airport like a rom-com main character."

You chuckle under your breath, heart swelling a little at the waves of support finally pouring in. The very people who doubted you for so long were now spamming apologies, excitement, and even edits waiting to be made the second this livestream ended.

You leaned back in the chair, looking out at the huge glass windows where planes rolled slowly across the runway. Your lips curl into a smile, fingers tapping against your cup.

"See?" you mutter under your breath, knowing full well Sae isn't here to hear it. "Told you they'd believe me eventually."

The screen blinks again with another message from a fan.

"Now tell us, where are you flying off to, Queen?"

You smirk playfully at the camera, pressing a finger to your lips.

"Ah, ah, ah—that's for me and a certain someone to know. Spoilers, you know?"

And just like that, the screen explodes with more theories, more hearts, and more love.

You close your eyes for a moment, listening to the soft airport hum, your mind wandering to the boy who'd flipped your world upside down without even trying, the boy who wasn't so icy, once the cameras stopped rolling.

You're still grinning at the endless flood of comments lighting up your phone screen, fans spamming:

"WHERE YOU GOING?"

"IS SAE PICKING YOU UP??"

"TELL USSSSS."

When suddenly—A voice from behind, smooth and slightly amused, cuts through the airport noise.

"So that's why you didn't greet me."

Your breath catches, and your whole body stiffens for half a second before you whip your head around. There he stands, casual as ever in a hoodie and cap, hands in his pockets, Itoshi Sae.

You blink like your brain short-circuited.

Oh.

He's here.

The chat explodes the moment the camera catches the hint of him standing behind you, leaning over slightly to glance at the screen. The comments spiral into full-blown chaos:

"IS THAT SAE?????"

"WHAT THE ACTUAL—"

"NO WAY NO WAY NO WAY."

"SAE APPEARED IN THE FLESH. CONFIRMED."

"I CAN'T BREATHE."

You laugh, cheeks heating up as you tilt the phone slightly toward him, watching as Sae raises a brow at the scrolling flood of reactions. He gives the camera the most casual glance, like he hadn't just walked into your live stream unannounced, and then looks back at you.

"You done?" he asks.

Because, of course, he knows you've been here talking about him for who-knows-how-long.

You roll your eyes playfully, bringing your hand up to brush a strand of hair away from your face. "Almost," you reply with a soft grin, turning your attention back to your fans, who are practically foaming at the mouth at this point.

You lift your left hand, casually wiggling your ring finger right in front of the camera, the glint of a sleek, simple ring catching the light. Your grin widens when you say, sweet as ever:

"Oh, right. Almost forgot to mention—we're engaged."

And with that, you reach over and hit the "End Stream" button, the last thing your fans see being your smug little wink and the chat blowing up so fast the app almost lags.

Phone off, you glance back at Sae, who—for once—lets out the softest huff of a laugh.

"You just had to drop that like a bomb, huh?" he mutters.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, nudging him lightly. "You didn't want me whining anymore, remember? Plus, I love it when I leave my fans with cliffhangers."

And without another word, he reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, as the two of you stroll off toward the gate, away from the flashing cameras, the exploding comments, and the doubters.

Just the two of you.

Till the end.

[pleasurebuttonwrites]

Getting to Know Jake Lockley's Massive Cock

Jake Lockley x f!Reader | Explicit 18+ | 5.5K

Summary: You are a fic writer in the marvel universe living in New York where Moon Knight, and of course, Jake Lockley are real. His identity, as well as Marc's and Steven's are public. You write for the fandom, primarily for Jake. He joins tumblr...and reads your fics.

Warnings: smut, oral, p in v, unprotected, cream pie, breeding

A/N: I had so much fun writing this one. If I had more time I would have created fun edits for the parts where there are tumblr posts and messages and such, but I really wanted to post this already. Also, sorry about the Spanish, I don't speak it. If it bothers you too much, give me a shout, and let me know what I should change it to and I'll fix it!

~~~

It was always the same. When you finish a story and are about to post it the nerves kick in and you hesitate to hit the button. You shake yourself, literally, and post it before you could talk yourself out of it.

You refresh the page and there it is, first post on your dash under your url: jake-lockley-is-my-husband. You know if you don’t distract yourself, you’ll obsessively check for any interactions with it. So you close out and find something else to do.

You manage to occupy yourself until it’s time for bed, and you just can’t resist checking. You have dozens of likes, a few reblogs, and two lovely comments that you reply to before going to bed. All-in-all not too bad.

When you wake up the next morning you can’t wait to check again and when you open tumblr your first thought is that there must be a glitch. You have thousands of notifications. You try to sort through your activity but it’s a complete mess. Fics you posted months ago are suddenly getting interacted with, and random other posts too. But your top post is the fic you posted yesterday. You scroll through the comments:

No way it’s really him.

New celebrity tumblr just dropped.

Man of the people!

You go to the reblogs to figure out just what the fuck these people are talking about and click view post on the most recent. You scroll through a chain of reblogs until you get to the first one.

It’s from a blog called jake-lockleys-massive-cock. It says:

dios mio that was hot! i love the way you write me. it’s kinda eerie how spot on you are. #my wife knows me so well #fic rec

Your brain practically malfunctions. Was-was-was that, was that, was that…?????

You go to his bio. His pfp is a picture of Jake Lockley and he’s written:

hola, me llamo jake lockley the handsome third of the superhero known as moon knight. he/him. some say man of the people. according to fics written about me: lover extraordinaire. here to read said fics. if you write for me, tag me 😉

It was some kind of joke, right? It had to be. You scroll through his blog. He’d been busy in the last five hours, replying to asks about his identity to which he provided pictures of himself. Pictures that people were quick to point out weren’t anywhere else on the internet. Others of course still doubted it, but you were starting to be convinced. Or maybe you just wanted to be convinced. But that would mean that Jake Lockley had read your smut about himself.

You don’t know how to respond directly to him so instead you make a new post:

Oh my god you can’t do this to me when I’m asleep. Did jake lockley just comment on my fic? No right? Am I still dreaming? #freaking the fuck out

You step away because it’s just too much. Notifications are still coming in and you don’t know how to reply to any of them. Later, at work, at random moments you’ll think about it and it’ll shock you all over again. This potent mix of excitement and fear courses through you. Fear because all of the attention is damn scary. You scroll through your asks on your break and there is some hate in there. Some of it just random hate that seems to come with getting attention. But some of it clearly borne of jealousy that Jake had singled out your fic.

You consider turning off anon, but some of your best requests had come from people on anon. And you don’t want to end that. You think about replying to the hate but you barely have time to reply to all the nice comments. Instead you block the bad and focus on the good. You can’t get to it all, but you’ll try.

You still can’t work up the nerve to reply to him directly - if it really is him anyway.

-

You’re still trying to manage your inbox days later when you see a request come through. You were planning on closing them since you’d gotten so many new ones and needed time to get to them all. This new request is from jake-lockleys-massive-cock. Your heart is practically beating in your throat as you read it.

are you avoiding me? seems like you answer all your requests so here’s one: jake (that’s me) gives you a cream pie and fingers it back into you with my gloves on.

You realize just how much you believe it’s the real him by how wet you get from this request. You try and try and try to temper yourself, but your imagination gets the best of you and for a few hours as you fulfill this ask you live in a world where not only is Jake Lockley requesting smut about himself from you, but he’s actually giving you a cream pie and fingering it back into you with his gloves on.

-

I would never avoid my husband. That’s preposterous. Go Time Summary: Trying for a baby, your ovulation window comes up and Jake’s busy driving around. You go meet him and fuck right there in his cab. A/N: not the way ovulation tests work but idc You’d gotten the smiley face. It was on a stick you’d just dipped into your pee, but still it made you incredibly fucking happy. You immediately reached for your phone and called up your husband. It went straight to voicemail, but that was common when he was working. You left him a brief message: “It’s go time.” You don’t have to wait long for a response. He’s good about checking his messages in between fares. You pick up. “Jake Lockley, are you ready to put a baby in me?” “Mi vida, no puedo esperar a esta noche.” [Can't wait for tonight] “No, not tonight. Now. We’ve missed the window the past three months because something always comes up. I want to do this now.” “It would take me hours to get home with the way traffic is right now.” “So…let me come to you.” You take the subway and meet him in one of the sub-levels of a parking garage. It’s full but he doesn’t need a space and everyone is already in their offices so no one is around. Jake’s double parked in one of the darker corners, leaning against his yellow cab. You thread your arms around him in a hug and he pulls you closer burying his face in your neck. Being close to your husband like this still never fails to turn you on. And knowing that you’re about to try for a baby with him just takes it through the roof. He slides his hands into the back pocket of your jeans, giving your ass a little squeeze. Your lips meet his and it’s all a rush from there. He opens the door to the backseat, ushering you in, trying not to break the kiss. On your back he pulls off your jeans, muttering, “...should’ve worn a fucking skirt.” He gets in and pulls his pants down his thighs freeing his cock, already leaking precum. You can’t help but lick it off. “No, no, baby. This load’s going between your legs.” He pulls you into a straddle on his lap and drags the head of his cock through your folds. “Already so wet for me.” You’d taken him so many times before but it still took you a minute to get used to his size. You sank slowly down over him letting the thickness of his cock give you that delicious stretch. Soon though you’re bouncing on him like a pro and he’s pulling your shirt down to free your tits and mouthing at them while your cunt soaks his lap. He knows you. Knows you better than you know yourself. No matter how much you rock and shimmy your hips, somehow you just can’t hit that spot like he can. He knows this, of course, so he takes your hips and angles you and pulls you down onto him. It doesn’t take long after that. Those pretty sounds and the way your cunt squeezes his cock so good have him right there with you. You cum together, his seed coating your walls so thoroughly, there’s no way you won’t get pregnant from this. Unless you let it all leak out. He at least as the presence of mind to get you on your back to help keep it in. He watches as some of his cum drips out of your spent hole and without a thought, he gathers it on his gloved fingertip - in his haste he hadn’t taken off his driving gloves - and pushes it back inside you - deep inside you. He does this over and over again, making sure his cum stays in, ushering it back with his thick fingers, up to your cervix. His thumb slides over your clit and the tips of his fingers inside you are coaxing you toward your next release. You want him to fuck you again. To make the most of your ovulation window. “Do you think we could go again?” He slips his fingers out, only leaving you empty for a mere moment before he fills you up with his cock. “Mi vida, I’m not stopping until you can’t hold one more drop.”

The words pour out of you. Never before have you had such inspiration to write a story. You’re awash in the glow of post-writing when you realize that now you have to post it. For Jake (if it’s really him) to see. You just wrote filthy smut for your celebrity crush. By his request, but still.

Normally you look over it for a quick proofread/revision before putting it out there for the world to see. But you’re pretty sure you’ll change your mind if you don’t just post it as is. So you add a note to the A/N section and send it off into the abyss of the internet.

You want to log off. Go do something, anything else. But the thought of someone else seeing his reply before you do makes you seethe with jealousy. So you stay connected and obsessed and watch for replies.

You’re still getting a stream of notifications so you ignore those and refresh the page with your post every few seconds to start, and then only every 30 seconds. You get some likes, then some comments and reblogs. You don’t even read them when you see they’re not from him.

Finally after what seems like forever, but is really about ten minutes judging by the timestamps, he replies.

i didn’t know i had a breeding kink until just now. you’re a goddamn genius. also my cock is way bigger than you described.

While you’re still recovering from this praise, you get a dm from him. You have to take some deep breaths before you open it.

Jake: do you know you’re my favorite writer? would you like to see a pic of my cock, you know, for inspiration?

You: Wait. Are you serious?

Jake: yeah, i love all your work.

You: NO, about the other thing.

Jake: only if you promise not to share it. it’s only for you.

You: I promise. If you’re not comfortable though, it’s all good.

Jake: ok, here it is.

The pic comes through and it is indeed a massive cock. Just not the kind you were hoping for. It’s a very large rooster. Like a rooster photoshopped to be huge.

You: 🙄🙄🙄

You: You know if I had really expected you to send one I’d be disappointed right now.

Jake: sorry, cariño. i’m looking at the dick pic i took and now i'm thinking i’ve over-promised what i have. 😰

You: I can promise you that I will like it, but there’s no pressure to send anything.

The dots appear and disappear a few times as you await his response. You’re about to change the subject, when his reply pops up.

Jake: está bien, look what your fic did to me.

And a second later a picture of the finest cock you’d ever seen. You waste no time replying, wanting to reassure him that you indeed love it.

You: oh fuuuuuuuck 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤

You: Is this really yours?

Jake: you’ll just have to trust me 😈

It does its job and inspires you. You feel inspired all night long. But you don’t write one word.

-

You’ve never spent so much time on tumblr as you do for the next few days. You dm with Jake a little bit, but he’s a busy man and you only get to talk for a few minutes here and there. You’re addicted to his blog though. He’s reblogging so many fics and answering asks. You’re pretty sure he has his queue set up and he just blasts these things in the few minutes he probably gets to spend on here.

On a tender Marc x Reader fic where Marc opens up about his past and then has emotional sex with the reader, he’s commented:

that’s pretty good, but marc cries more during sex.

And on a Steven x Reader fic where the reader is dominant, taking what she wants from Steven and pegs him:

this was fucking hot, but steven would be hard from the moment you looked at him. if your hand is down his pants, he’s already at full attention. #why is it always steven who gets pegged? #i feel left out

Someone asks him if Steven and Marc are also on tumblr and he replies that they don’t even know that he’s on here.

It’s shameful how often you look at his dick pic. He hasn’t asked you to, but you want to return the favor. You spend some time taking a good pic of your tits and you want to send it to him, but you have to figure out how to broach the subject with him.

He’s just caused a stir by posting:

thinking about getting a cat now.

And after lots of comments with suggestions on what to name the cat, he creates a poll.

He dm’s you with the question:

Jake: can you explain to me why everyone wants me to have a cat?

You: We can just tell you’re good with pussy 😏

Jake: jajaja, so you don’t know either

You: Forget it, Jake. It’s Fandomtown.

Jake: !!!!

Jake: one of my fav movies

Since you’re the queen of non-sequiturs, you write

You: Hey, could I send you something?

Jake: like…in the mail? 🤔

You: Uh, no. Like a picture? Of me?

Jake: absolutely! i’d love to see your face.

You: Welllll it’s not of my face

Jake: you have my attention

You: It’s a tit pic. Is that ok?

Jake:

You take a deep breath and remind yourself that he’s a guy and guys like tits. You send it to him and the one second that ticks by before he’s typing makes your heart skip a beat.

Jake: 🍆💦💦💦

Jake: tan hermosa. quiero tocar y besar y lamer y chupar y poner mi cara en ellas [So beautiful. I want to touch and kiss and lick and suck and put my face in them]

Jake: if i stop responding i want you to know it’s because i'm stroking my cock while drooling over your tits.

You: That’s perfect. It’ll give me some time alone with your dick pic.

Jake: dffdsdsadsajkl you’re trying to kill me woman

-

It’s strange how something so incredible can become so normal in the span of days, but it’s hard to remember what it was like before Jake was being a menace in the fandom. Not that it wasn’t still exciting, every post, every comment, every ask. But you no longer had to pinch yourself to prove it was real.

In fact it was so usual, it felt strange when he seemed to disappear for a few days. You missed him, but you didn’t wonder about it too much. He was a busy man, a superhero, a cabbie and shared a body with two other whole people.

His absence gave you some time to catch up on your tbr list, reply to comments and get to requests. You’re in the middle of an engaging back and forth on a thread when you get a request on anon.

can i request a fic of reader holding jake (preferably against your perfect tits) as he cries?

It’s him. You know it’s him. Was he even trying to disguise himself? You sprint to your dms.

You: Everything ok, buddy?

Jake: whatever do you mean? 😇

You: 🤨 Ok, ok, brb.

You get to work right away.

Get Closer to Me It’s later than the usual time that your husband, Jake, comes home. He always tells you not to wait up for him, but you struggle to fall asleep without him so you might as well stay up watching TV. You’re in one of his T-shirts. It smells like him and the soft cotton caresses your bare skin underneath. Finally you hear the click of his key opening the lock. He steps over the threshold, tired from his night of protecting the city. Something’s wrong. You can tell by the way he doesn’t meet your eyes. If not for the protection of his suit, you’d fear he’d been hurt. He lets you lead him over to the couch where you sit him down. You take off his shoes for him and then sit back. As soon as your ass touches the cushion, he throws his arms around your middle and buries his face in your chest. You’re about to ask him what’s wrong when you feel his body shuddering with sobs. As much as you rely on his strength, it’s times like this when he trusts you with his vulnerability that makes you feel closest to him. You cherish the moments you get to be his rock. A wet spot blooms between your breasts, soaking in his tears. You run your hands through his hair, using your other hand to graze your nails on his back. You lay together in the stillness and silence of the night until his breath calms and his grip on you eases. You kiss the top of his head and he shifts, nosing the space between your breasts and placing a hand beneath your shirt, traveling over your ribs to squeeze at your flesh. “Jaaake?” you ask lightly, drawing out his name. “Hmmm?” he replies. “What are you doing?” From where his face is firmly planted in your chest, comes his muffled answer, “It’s soothing.” Your body shakes with laughter and relief. If he’s fondling your tit, he’s back to his usual self. There’ll be time tomorrow for talking about what was bothering him. But for now, it was time to take your husband to bed.

You’ve never written or posted something so fast. Before you can even tag him by adding your tag list in a reblog, he’s reblogged it with the comment:

THAT’S WHERE YOU CUT IT OFF?! #why are my eyes suddenly wet #boobies make everything better #currently accepting hugs

Then you get a dm:

Jake: gracias, cariño. i’m feeling much better. 🥹

You: Glad I could help! ❤️

-

One thing that you and Jake had bonded over was being New Yorkers. Despite not having it in your bio, Jake could tell you were one based on your posts. He messages you that he’ll be in town in just a few days.

You: Are you excited to be coming home?

Jake: i’m more excited to be closer to you.

Wait. Was Jake actually flirting with you?

Jake: do you think i could meet you while i’m there?

Holy shit holy shit holy shit. For the first time in a while you worry that maybe this guy isn’t really Jake. Because it’s not possible that Jake Lockley wants to meet you, right?

When you don’t respond, he messages:

Jake: no pressure if you’re not comfortable.

You: No, I’d love to meet you. It’s just… you could be anyone on the other side of this screen.

Jake: ah. would you like to chat on video?

He gives you his number and you take a few short minutes to freshen up and find a spot with good lighting before you video call him. He picks up right away, his smile lighting up the screen.

“Cariño, eres muy bonita,” he croons. [You are so pretty]

You put a hand over your face in embarrassment.

“No, no, no, don’t cover that pretty face!”

He’s walking around his place, the background shifting behind him as he moves around.

“What are you doing?” you ask him.

“Packing.” He sets up his phone and holds up two pairs of pants. “What do you think? Tight jeans or grey sweats?”

He’s rendered you completely speechless, your mouth is hanging open but no sounds come out.

“¿Por qué no los dos?” He shoves both in his suitcase and picks up his phone, but before he can continue his conversation with you, his attention is drawn to something or someone off camera. You don’t hear anyone but Jake listens with a stony face, then rolls his eyes.

“Lo siento, cariño. I have to go.”

“Was that Khonshu?” you ask, all amazement.

“Unfortunately. See you in a few days?”

“Yeah, see you then.”

You hear him start to yell, presumably at Khonshu, as he hangs up the call.

-

Jake: no don’t send me your address.

Jake: if i find out you give random people online your address i’m going to be mad. you should care more about your safety.

You were texting with Jake, trying to make plans to meet up and though it would be convenient to have him at your place, he doesn’t want to put you at risk. If an enemy of his sees him there, your place would be compromised.

You: Oh, but it’s ok if I send a random person on the internet a picture of my tits?

Jake: uh, yeah, your tits are beautiful, you should share them with the world.

You’d managed to fend off the nerves until the day of. Now as you make your way to the intersection you’d agreed to meet at, your heart feels like one of those huge timpani drums and like a gorilla is erratically banging on it.

There’s a crush of people and tourists on the sidewalks and you’re not sure how you’re supposed to find him. Though you are like extra super early, so perhaps he’s just not here yet.

As you scan across the street, you walk by a line of yellow cabs - and nearly walk right past him. He’s leaning against his car, flat cap pulled down covering his face, and gloved hands holding a newspaper. He’s reading a newspaper. An actual goddamn newspaper of all things.

He lowers it when you stop in front of him. His eyes scan you and a smile spreads on his lips. “Would you like a ride, señorita?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.

He folds up his paper and tosses it into the passenger seat through the open window, then opens the back door for you. For a moment you’re worried he doesn’t recognize you, but then you step toward the door and his hand is on your lower back guiding you into his car. He leans down to your ear to tell you it’s nice to meet you and that you look beautiful today.

You’re too caught up to reply. Up close his brown eyes are even deeper and richer than you could have imagined. His touch is gentle and comforting but the strength in him is unmistakable. And best of all his scent, sharp and heady, his cologne a perfect complement.

Your body still tingles from his touch as he circles around from the back and slides into the driver’s seat. As soon as he shuts his door, it feels like the two of you are in a little bubble. He meets your eyes in the rearview mirror. “Sorry about the pretense. Can’t be too careful these days. Never quite know who’s watching.”

“That’s okay,” you try to say, but it comes out in a croak. You clear your throat, embarrassment racing up your neck. “So, um, where are we headed? Your place?”

He pulls out into the flow of traffic, and glances in the mirror at you. “We don’t keep a place here. When we visit we usually stay with a friend.”

You wonder if you should be jealous of this friend until you realize he probably means…”Frenchie?”

Jake barks out a laugh. “I’m so glad you all use your powers for smut. If any one of you became a villain we’d be so fucked.”

“‘So fucked’ is kind of what I’m going for.” You can’t believe you said that out loud. Apparently you have no control over your mouth when your panties are soaked.

Jake doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, though you are busy admonishing yourself in the backseat, it doesn’t stop you from catching the way he bites his lip and tightens his grip on the wheel.

Before you can restart the conversation, Jake pulls into a parking deck underneath a hotel and slips into a spot. Was-was he recreating your fic?

You stay in the back as he gets out. He comes around to your door and you expect him to climb in but instead he offers you his hand.

“We’re not staying in the car?” you ask him as you take his hand and he pulls you out.

Amusement flickers in his eyes. “No, cariño. Cab sex is hot in theory but there’s not nearly enough room for what I have planned.”

You’re thankful to still be holding onto him because your knees go weak at that.

As you wait for the elevator, it occurs to you that you don’t know for sure that this is Jake Lockley. Like the real Jake Lockley. There were known to be lookalikes that posed as various superheroes. What if you’d been duped by one?

You’re quiet in the elevator. And through the grand lobby of the hotel complete with a fountain. And when Jake nods to the man dressed very nicely at the reception desk and says, “Buenas tardes, Eduardo.” And when the man returns the nod and says, “Señor Lockley.” And when Eduardo looks right at you and Jake says, “This is [your name].”

You don’t speak until Jake has opened the door to his hotel room and you hesitate before crossing the threshold and you blurt out, “How do I know you’re you?”

His eyebrows lift in surprise. “How do any of us know who we are?”

God, he’s funny and charming. Even if this turns out not to be the real Jake Lockley, you might fuck him anyway.

“No, I mean how do I know you’re actually you. You look like Jake, but you could be some impersonator, right?”

“Oh, I see.” He ponders for a moment. “If you’re comfortable coming into the room, perhaps I could show you something.”

You still hesitate.

“Okay. No. Good,” he says. “You have a survival instinct after all. Here, I’m going to go in. You watch from the door, but only open it enough for you to see in, okay?”

You nod and Jake goes in and you hold the door open just enough like he said. He turns around and while turning, his clothing appears to morph into a black and white suit, complete with a cape that you know only too well. Your jaw drops open because it’s one thing to see it from a recording where your brain is used to seeing all manner of crazy CGI. But it’s another to witness it right in front of your own two eyes.

You rush in, letting the door close behind you. “Oh my god,” you gush. “Can you keep it on?”

He embraces you and delivers a kiss that feels completely natural like the two of you have done this hundreds of times before, but also nothing like you’ve ever experienced. And maybe that’s one and the same. His breath is minty, and you swear he’s wearing cherry chapstick.

“That will defeat the point, won’t it?,” he says. “This thing doesn’t have a zipper. Besides, it’s really itchy.”

He transforms back while you’re still in his arms, and you have to admit you like him better this way anyway.

It’s not anything like your fics and that makes it magical. There’s more fumbling and laughter and friction. He’s not some love god and you’re not a siren. But there is desire, and it is real.

-

That One Night Summary: When your date stands you up, but you’re lucky that it happens in the same bar that Jake Lockley frequents. A/N: Special shoutout for the inspiration, you know who you are You’re in Jake Lockley’s hotel room. In the bed. And you’ve just laid eyes on the swollen spear he calls a penis. Your gulp is cartoonishly loud, and your legs press together like they’re Shaggy and Scooby in a haunted mansion. “Don’t worry, cariño. I’m going to get you really wet,” Jake says, crawling on the bed toward you and gently prying your legs open. He settles his face between them and when his tongue touches your clit, your legs fall all the way open and you sink into the bed. You marvel at the way your night has gone. From getting stood up, to trading looks with the hot stranger across the bar, to now being in said stranger’s - no he told you his name, so technically he’s not a stranger anymore - bed. He lifts his mouth off of you and you whine in protest, but he shushes you and a fingertip circles your entrance before dipping gently in. He goes slow, tantalizingly, excruciatingly slow. He works you until you can take two of his thick fingers, then his lips return to suck gently on your swollen nub. He didn’t lie. You are soaking wet, the puddle beneath you more like a lake. You’re at the edge when he asks, “Do you want your first orgasm on my fingers or my dick?” Your body doesn’t give you a choice, the image of either sending you over, and you clench down so hard on his fingers, he mutters, “Fuck.” He sweetly kisses his way up your body as you come down. Planting them on the soft skin of your belly and spending his time covering every inch of your breasts. He ignores your pleas to be fucked, waiting instead until your breathing slows and the coil inside you relaxes. You look up into his deep brown eyes and caress his face, wanting to know this man, his story, his life, what brought him to you tonight. “Ready?” he asks, and you nod. Despite how slippery you are, he’s still big enough for you to feel the stretch. He eases himself into you, breathless praises falling from his mouth. “Doing so good for me.” “You’re taking me so well.” “Tu cuerpo me maneja tan bien.” [Your body handles me so well] When he’s reached your depths, he stays there, letting you get adjusted around him. “Why don’t you show me how you like to play with your tits?” he suggests. You’re self-conscious at first but he watches you, hypnotized, while you tug at your nipples and knead your flesh. It relaxes your pelvic floor enough that Jake can fuck into you. Gently, until he learns how far into you he can go. He’s like a fucking paperweight inside you and you tell him so. “It feels even better from behind,” he informs you. And that’s how you find yourself on your knees, Jake behind you, his heavy cock dragging across your G-spot back and forth with every thrust, the pressure building up until it’s nearly blinding, your legs shaking so bad that he has to hold you up, which is a good thing because your body goes limp when your release comes, and then his cock is jumping inside you (‘twitching’ is too tame for what this monster can do), his spend replacing the weight of him. The bed is soaked, your legs are a sticky mess, and the night is just beginning.

The writing came easy but you debate posting, wavering between wanting to keep your experience to yourself and knowing that no one but you and Jake would know the truth. Ultimately, since you had kept the most personal parts out of the fic and it felt somewhat removed from the real thing, gussied up as it was to be smut-worthy, you decide that you want to share it, and as usual, you click the damn button before you could change your mind.

You wait a while before checking the interactions. This time not caring as much what other people would say, or whether anyone would read it at all. There is only one person’s feedback you’re interested in. And it’s there the next time you open tumblr:

sounds like a really good time. like something i’d like to do again.

[deniable-masterpiece]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐗𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐓 𝐎𝐍

a/n — heheh guys look it’s ^^ him anywho i came up with this as a joke, and just figured i’d post some small scenarios. old draft I dug up lmao, merry Christmas ya filthy animals. these are kinda rushed but these are also just mini vignettes! nothing too long or detailed lol

warnings — smut for each, centering around ass. Pietro likes putting stuff up his ass ! 'x reader' is only in one scenario. writing exercise ! contains: Pietro x Thor, Pietro x Steve, Pietro x You

𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑

Music pounds below his feet, and from above, the only area devoid of it seemingly being the floor of his bedroom. Pietro, the self-appointed “life of the party,” had left after that title was taken from him. One too many drinks and one too many mouthy conversations where they all used words to position him as the butt of the joke, made worse by Thor egging them on and cracking the most jokes about the speedster, sent him and his party life packing back to his room. The elevator doors dinged and squeaked as they reeled open.

He stood in the glass box, debating if he should zoom down the hall and to his room or try and find his place on a lower level. A rush of blue filled the elevator as he made a dash for his room, but was cut short less than a second later. His feet staggered over something in the dark, to the point where he would have fallen face-first into the ceramic tile. His trajectory changed from his room to the light switch and back to the esoteric object.

When he flicked the light, Thor’s hammer was all of its annoying glory sat upright at him. The handle felt like an indirect ‘fuck you,’ complete with the gesture and all. Why was it here, on the floor Pietro shared with Peter? He didn’t really know or care to get an answer. He knew he wanted it gone, though. Seeing Thor’s face on his floor would make him do something crazy.

That’s when something close to a moment of idiotic ingenuity hit him, which happened as often as lightning finding its way to a metal rod did—like always. If he could lift the hammer, and effortlessly carry it up—or even fly up—to the top of the roof, quote-unquote “returning” it to Thor, it would make everyone there turn their head. The Asgardian would be left mouth-open as Pietro had every right to what once was Thor’s kingdom.

Pietro, a king. He liked the sound of that and the image of sitting on a throne, making it his own when it was Thor’s seat before his. He wanted to take it from him, but with one pull, his entire fantasy crashed harder than Asgard falling from the sky. He didn’t want to go back to that stupid party anyways. Pietro liked Thor’s silent partner much more than the actual zombie-bait a few floors above. 

Well… if he couldn’t move it, he could still mess with it as payback for hitting his foot against it and for Thor’s behavior in general. All these thoughts about being the butt of the joke gave him his second perfect idea.

He undid the belt and buttons to his dress pants, already shoving his disheveled blazer off his shoulders, and his shirt was almost undone from how much he liked to make a show of himself, so ridding himself of that was easy too.

The bulbous metal head of the hammer was the hardest part to fit because of how flat it was. All it took was a little bit of force and strong legs to keep himself at such an angle to let him sit on it with success. Using his strong quadriceps and glutes, he kept himself steady as he slowly sank down the handle of it.  He could feel the swirling leather around the grip, the ridges where the thousands-of-years-old cowhide was parted to show the metal underneath, almost like the artificial veins of a thick dick. It stretched him out like anything else, but it was more unforgiving. The benefit of riding this over anything else was that Pietro was in control, from the start to what he knew would be a noisy finish.

His hairy ass reached the cold metal of the brick of Uru, and that’s when he stopped. Pietro had done it, the entire handle of Mjolnir was up his ass, and he couldn’t wait to see Thor’s face when he returned to get it, only to realize what happened as payback.

Then came the ride back to the top, which required a little more work to do correctly. Though, it wasn’t like he could fall over, the hammer wasn’t going anywhere. He lifted himself up at a slower pace and sank down faster once he reached the point where he could bounce down on it. He kept riding it all night, and it didn’t move an inch.

𝐂𝐀𝐏’𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃

Again, a revenge plot. Cap’s decked Pietro enough times with his shield, so he’s going to ride it like a boot, but it’s cold vibranium.

The Quinjet takes off with surprising speed and is only occupied by two people, but the only thing more surprising than the skeleton crew sent out on the latest mission is the fact that one of those two people is Pietro Maximoff. The single-handed best non-flying, earthrunner was sat slumped in the cabin of the aircraft.

He would have had enough stamina and speed to rush home before the levitating ball of metal he was trapped in made it there had it not been for the fact that Captain America's shield had decked him on the latest mission. Pietro managed to be a sight unseen most of the time thanks to his speed, but Steve had the uncanny ability to hurl his shield off of different objects to hit certain things. And during this mission, he had relied a little too heavily on Pietro being in the right spot at the right time. Because the oversized frisbee was made out of such a strong metal, Pietro was the one to absorb all of the force from the moving object on each collision. His superhuman abilities allowed him to absorb most of the shock with ease, but it wasn't without its mental upset.

This would mark the third time that Pietro had been brought on a mission simply to move around and be Cap's reliant ricochet tool when nothing was around for him to bounce his shield off of. It was a pain in the ass, but ironically, that was the only part of him that hadn't been hit by one of Cap's throws. He never missed the mark; it was impossible for him to do that since he could see exactly where the shield was headed mere milliseconds after it was thrown, and he could be at the next spot for the shield to bounce off of in less time than that. 

Now the shield rocked and stuttered against the cabin of the Quinjet. It taunted him, giving him mean glares. Steve was piloting the vehicle, all the way up in the cockpit. He wanted to talk to Steve about his role on the team, but the last time he sporadically popped into the passenger seat next to him, Steve nearly crashed the damn thing.

If he couldn't get to Steve directly, maybe he could go after the thing that's practically attached to him at the hip. Just the thought of leaving his seat welded to the wall makes him spring up--his powers act faster than his brain sometimes. The shield is behind him in seconds, lined up with his clothed ass. 

He dropped his pants and placed the shield between his legs. He tried to keep most of the shield behind him by pressing his knees against the circumference of it. The shield was so tall, meaning that Pietro only had to bend his knees slightly for the cool metal to make contact with his ass.

Like a rolling pizza slicer parting the two mounds of dough that he had for an ass, the shield slotted in perfectly and had a slight dig into his skin. The edge wasn't quite blunt but also wasn't quite sharp. Putting his full weight down on it, it shook as Pietro nailed the balancing act of keeping himself and the shield upright without actually cutting himself on the metal.

With his pants down, Pietro's cock flopped out between his legs and fell over one side of the shield. The silver side. If he kept it there, it would soon become one-third of the color painted on the opposite side: white.

Pietro started grinding down on it, marking it with his scent and fogging up the metal with condensation forming from his hot ass. It was time to put the roll into the rolling pizza slicer, forcing the rim of the shield to rotate along his crack so if Cap's fingertips were to touch the shield, he inadvertently touched Pietro's hairy, musky ass.

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄

No explanation needed. Kidding!

It happens faster than before. Almost impossibly fast. The date—the main feature of a "date night”—is tossed aside almost the second you arrive at the Avenger's compound. All discernments of class and poise lose themselves when Pietro sweeps you off your feet, two hands come to cradle the backs of your knees and your upper back, and he smears the world into a blur until you're standing before his bedroom. 

He's so fast with opening the door that you can't even feel his hand leave your support. Pietro zooms in and shuts the door, all of it happening so fast that you can't even register where you are when he first puts you down in his bed. You're immediately hit with his smell; his pillows smell like the top of his head whenever you kissed it, and his sheets smelled like his musk and body wash.

Pietro sets you appropriately in bed, placing your head on the pillows that were still a mess from last night's sleep. He had thought about it over about a million times since his mind was never not racing, and he paced about it too with his powers. He had spent an entire day examining every square foot of the compound for where he could make you worship his ass. The bedroom seemed the best for both privacy and comfort, but he did consider a few areas if he happened to introduce the idea prematurely. Like taking advantage of you lying on the couch in the common area to make your face into a nice top cushion, or getting you to sit on your knees behind him in the weight room when no one was in it, supporting a barbell over the width of his shoulders as he squats down and rubs against your face over and over. But the bed. That was where he wanted to get you used to the idea of learning his ass.

You don't need to lift your head from his pillows to hear his clothes slipping off. His shoes are the first to go with a loud crash to the floor as he excitedly takes them off. The metal fastener of his belt clatters to the ground while the leather smacks the hard tile. His cloth pants make a small thump, but they're a bit too wispy and light to really make much of a noise. The same goes for his socks, leaving little impact to actually let you know they were off until you see Pietro climb onto the bed. He's standing, tall and proud, completely naked. The compound's ceiling is still a distance away from him. He walks the length of his bed and stands next to your head, his big cock pointing straight down at you. There are no condoms needed for tonight because all Pietro yearns for  is to ride your face—not that he had even bothered to have sex with you. He was ready to get straight to the stuff he actually wanted. He planted one foot on your right side and kept the other on your left, standing above you now. Pietro grabbed onto the headboard that was tall enough to meet him at the middle of his torso, using it as a guide as he squats down, exposing his crack and balls.

"I've been thinking about this all night," he said softly from above. Which was true; even below a table with cloth flowing over the sides to cover his legs, you could see him rocking in his chair at dinner. Grinding, pressing his hips down in anticipation of how the night would conclude. You hadn't exactly promised or agreed to let him sit on your face, but learning to love Pietro was learning that he wanted to move fast in a relationship. It was only your second date, and he was already pulling out the big tree trunks to keep you with him. There was no running since he had super speed, so arguments were resolved in a matter of minutes as he kept up with your hasty exit from the room, too cocky to take your anger as anything but a temporary disdain. 

Pietro lowers himself further, his big moony cheeks eclipsing the light coming from behind his figure. Now, there really was no escape; you were behind legs more detaining than prison bars. Pietro relished in the fact that he could go for as long as he wanted to. If he needed to get up, he could leave and return without you missing his presence for a second. There might be a brief moment when you don't feel his thick thighs or ass pressing onto you, but it would have been so short that it would make no difference.

Pietro sealed this fact in when he actually sat on your face. You took one last look at the ceiling just beyond his hairy ass with the bountiful silver hairs on it, like stars freckling a pale sky. His thighs grew in your periphery, and his ass only came crashing down, or at least, that's what the sudden weight felt like. It had actually been a slow descent down before he was fully sitting on your face—before it was dark and there were no stars in the sky. 

His cock landed on your forehead. You could feel it already twitching against it, growing until it was against your scalp. His balls sat uncomfortably in the middle of, well, you couldn't really tell. It was dark, and every bit of him smelled like it had been marinating in the same funk. You tried to stick your tongue out to give him some sort of pleasure since he wanted to do this. He wanted to feel good, and the noises elicited by just sitting on your face were more than enough to tell you that he loved the feeling.

Above, Pietro used the headboard as support so he wouldn't topple over, but he soon stopped crouching and repositioned himself so that he was kneeling. He finally put all of his weight back, all of his muscles adding a dense amount of extra weight to his fat, squishy cheeks. His hips started to sway, moving from left to right and feeling how each side of his face felt as if it were two halves. His nose became the epicenter for all of his pleasure though, as he loved the feeling of it being forcibly scrunched up by his hole pushing directly up against it. It twitched from the smell as well as simply being the force he could put on you from his own weight.

It didn't take long for Pietro to work himself up with his own motions and playing with himself. A few strokes and the thought of turning his partner into his dedicated ass Rimmer, especially one he could use any time, anywhere, sent him into a frenzy. Pietro shot thick ropes up and onto the headboard, slamming his face into your ass as he did.

He dashed out of the room to clean up, but insisted that he was going to continue sitting on your face, even if he wasn't searching for a climax. Pietro returned only seconds later, sitting on you again, but now his back was to the headboard and his cock and balls laid over your chin. He spoke up to JARVIS, asking it to turn down the lights as he sighed, getting comfy to sit and relax on you.

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐌!!

She... I'm sorry, she...

Pietro ran through her like A-Train! Call the police!

Oh... oh no. She's a pile of guts on the floor...

[messenger-of-babel]

Hi! Idk if you’re taking requests (I like to call those suggestions), but I’m OBSESSED with your writing. I absolutely loved the voicemail fic. But it’s got me thinking about the other side! What would happen if Leon got that voicemail from the reader? I’d be so curious to see how you wrote it. Keep up the awesome work!

Attachments

Summary: When you get in over your head, the last thing you can bring yourself to do is say goodbye. (Death Island! Leon x reader)

based as an alternate universe from this fic: here!

Word Count: 2.2K

Notes: my dear dear anon, thank you for posting this and I extend that hope that you are around to see this. Sorry for the wait! I actually had this just sitting here despite finishing it earlier today, I just forgot to proof read it. Warning for description of injuries, angst, mentions of death. I was inspired by Mia from resi 7, so that's the scenario I played with for this fic.

But regardless, thank you so much for your words anon I can't even describe how giddy I am that people like my work that much, and I reread everyone's comments when I need motivation.

Thanks for everyone sticking around with my wild posting, I promise I still exist here. <3

RiRi xx

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You and Leon had a pact.

You weren't the same agents that you both once were, running through an infested rural town in Spain. Especially after everything that had happened in China, and the strain that threatened to break you two apart when Ada reappeared. It took counselling and effort, long nights and early morning arguments with one of you hitting their head against the wall.

But you did it.

The dauntless task had been completed, and you had successfully managed to leave that life behind you. Well Leon had at least. There had been nothing more rewarding than seeing the hard lines of your husband soften, the crinkles in his eyes smooth out like the worry lines on his forehead. He'd filled out a little bit too, softening up now that there wasn't a team of trainers hounding him to stay in peak physical performance. Now he used the home gym when he wanted to and dedicated his time heavy lifting in the garden or fixing his bike in the back shed. Two years since being an agent, and domestic life was looking good on him.

You, however, were a liar.

You went for weeklong 'business meetings' in the next town over, claiming that the numbers on your laptop were finance spreadsheets when in reality they were government secrets. You had urged and begged Leon to quit, without leaving the force yourself, and now you were paying the consequences.

You hiss as you drag yourself to the laptop, a hand pressed to your side as you feel the gooey mess there. The ship you're on groans and tilts to the side, the emptiness eerie for a vessel of this size. Sweat beads your forehead and it's hard to breathe, fingers shaky and smearing black ooze across the keycaps as you type in your password. You fat finger in Leon's email address, before pressing the button, record, in the upper left.

"Hey, honey." you grit out, trying to smile at the white light at the top of the computer. "Hope you remembered to take the bins out on Friday."

You're aware that you look a mess, skin ashy and lips cracked. There's a gash on your forehead sticking your hair to your scalp, and you do your best to wipe it away with the back of your hand.

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions," you breathe out shakily. "And before you say anything, I'm sorry." It seems harder to get the words out, throat closing up. "I'm so, so sorry."

You take a deep breath and lean forward, a wave of dizziness making you rest your head on the edge of the table. Right now, you felt like the biggest idiot in the world, but it was hard to focus on your self-pity and fear of impending death when your blood was on fire. "I shouldn't have lied to you." you grit out, eyes desperately searching the camera as if you would be able to see Leon looking back at you.

You could almost image what he would look like staring back at you, and the image of it is enough to make you grateful this wasn't live. The sad, quiet heartbreak that would ripple across those blue eyes, he downturn of his mouth and the way he took that half breath in when he was surprised. The pain would be held in the way he clenched his fists, the way that his throat bobbed when he was angry, till the person left was the old shell of his rookie self-losing yet another person he cared about.

"I know I should have told you, but this was going to be the last job I swear." you choke out, eyes burning behind your eyelids. the pain in your side grows worse, a sickening squirming sensation growing. "I was going to quit for real. I didn't quit because I wanted some more retirement money for us, buy us a place in the countryside where you can ride your bike on the backroads." your hands shake as you try to wipe your face, smearing black across your cheek. "This was supposed to be easy, just escort the cargo but-" you cut yourself off with a defeated sob. "It went sideways. it went wrong, it's all gone wrong, I just wish-" you sniffle, staring into the tiny computer camera. "I just wish I could take it all back. I just want to come home." you roughly scratch at your eyes, taking a deep breath.

"This is my fault, not yours." you say after a few heaving breaths, tone level. "So don't blame yourself. I made you quit the force; I chose to stay. This would have happened whether you stayed an agent or not. So don't blame yourself, okay?" your voice breaks. the ship groans, tilting heavily to the side and you grip the table to try and stay steady.

"I know you still blame yourself about Marvin." you croak out, tears now making it down your cheeks. "Don’t blame yourself for me too."

God, you missed Leon. Your body shook, wanting nothing for this to be a bad dream. That you weren't giving him a front row seat to what was your inevitable death, the decay and rot that was crawling over your skin like a film. You knew you should turn off the camera, to save him the pain, but you couldn’t.

You were scared, and right now all you wanted was your husband.

"God, baby I'm so sorry." you sob into your hands, unable to keep it together the more you thought it through. The way he looked in his suit at the wedding, the twinkle in his eye at the altar. The grin he wore when you accepted his proposal, the peaceful look on his face as he slept on your honeymoon, stress free. The warmth of his hands when he took the dry dishes from you, the check in texts he'd send you when you went away for work.

"I'm so sorry. I want to come home. I want to come home, I don't want to be here." you cry, the pain wracking your body making it hard to think straight and not devolve into panic. "But don't come here." you choke out. "Do not come here. If you get this, stay away." you plead, voice a wheeze as you grip the sides of the computer screen.

"I love you," you say shakily as the ship groans, throwing you off balance. "I love you forever, just like I promised back in Spain. No matter what. Third drawer in the closet, there's a binder with all my information, it's got my will there. There's a trust there with enough money for you to move, a-and there's receipts for that bike you always wanted. It was going to arrive for your birthday." you smile through your tears, rushing out all the information you can.

"I'm getting so tired Leon," you sigh out, fat tears flicking off your eyelashes as they flutter. "I think I'm going to have to end this here, honey. Stay away, stay home, stay safe." you plead, voice breaking. "Stay the man I love with all my heart. You're so, so strong Leon. You've survived so much, I'm sorry I couldn't come back home." you whisper, black creeping into your vision.

On another thought, that could just be the rot.

"I want lilies for my flowers." you whisper out, legs buckling. "And an open tab. throw a party for me, won't you?" you manage a weak, shaky smile at the camera, pinprick of light flashing at you.

"I'll say hi to Luis for you when I see him."

with trembling fingers and hazy vision, you type in the subject line, not caring about mistakes. it take a few seconds for the video to upload but as soon as the blue circle is complete you click send, the computer whooshing softly. the effort of keeping yourself upright on the rotting ship is too much now that you had done your job, sending you crashing to the floor, eyes closing before you could see the message pop up:

email sent.

Leon groaned hearing the laptop chime from the other side of the living room. He had been out with Chris the night before, the older man requiring his help and thoughts on a particular situation. He knew that you'd kill him if you knew that he went out not for drinks but to talk bioterrorism with the head of the BSAA. Their discussion had drawn deep into the night as Chris laid it out.

Genetic altering had resulted in a new type of bioweapon, which did little to surprise Leon. 'Where there's a will, there's a way' he thought often, and when it came to bioterrorists and ego inflated scientists it always seemed to ring true. The BSAA was attempting to track it down, after it went dark on the radar during transportation.

"Not interested." he had waved it off, when Chris had dared to offer him a place on the team. "Told my spouse I was done with that." he said, and Chris had reluctantly backed off. It didn't mean he couldn’t help provide his two cents on it, so he spent the next few hours talking it over with Chris. Collapsing on the couch he had fallen asleep, unmoving until the chime just then. He groans, swinging his legs off the couch and rubbing his hands on his sweats, padding over to the computer.

He closes the tabs displaying bills and the calendar for when you were supposed to be getting back from New York. There, sitting in his inbox amongst the clutter of unread spam mail and pizza coupons, was an email from you. He frowns reading the subject line, eyebrows furrowing.

'Urfent plese readgt' - (1) attachment.

You were never one to make a spelling mistake, making his concern grow. There was no message, just a three-minute video attached. It took him a moment to open, but as soon as the media player launched, he felt his blood freeze. He was suddenly startling awake, like he had been thrown in an ice bath and electric shocked right after. The big pause symbol took up part of your face, but he studied you, the face he knew so well.

Your cheeks were sunken, eyes tired and frantic. Your hair was drenched like you'd been thrown in the ocean, sticking to you along the hair line.

Nothing could have prepared him for when he hit play.

Your voice was shaky and hoarse, eyes darting from the camera to behind you, like you were worried. It was too dark to tell where you were, only that the lights were off, and it looked abandoned. He felt like being sick the long the video went on, eyeing how a black webbish structure slowly crept across your skin. If you could feel it or had even taken notice, he couldn't tell.

Tears came to his own eyes as you sobbed your apology, and he wished he could reach through the screen and pulled you home when he saw you shaking. His fists were screwed up tightly on his legs, and the pressure in his chest felt like it was going to burst. With heavy breath he stared into the eyes of your recording, a shattering pain exploding through his chest.

This wasn't happening.

But it was.

When your voice crackled through the speaker, "I'll say hi to Luis when I see him," something inside him screamed. His head rang, and after a moment he realised he had been screaming, head in his hands. He felt like when he lost Marvin, when he lost Luis. It was a burning that sat in his chest and in his throat, and no matter how much he took in a deep breath he couldn't stop himself from making that sound. The pain rippled outwards from his chest, making it hard to breathe and his head dizzy.

Finally, after a few deep breaths he managed to stagger from the chair, stumbling for the stairs. He got his bearings back slowly, his feet feeling disconnected from his brain. Over and over again he played back each painful second of the video, stuck in his mind like a haunted loop. Leon must have been an evil, evil person in his past life if this is how he was being punished.

When he finally reached the banister, he began pulling himself up, legs shaky with adrenaline. Leon cursed himself. He should never have left the force. Never have stopped being your partner, should have made sure that you handed in that badge and gun to the DSO. He scaled the stairs two at a time to get to the bedroom, throwing open the closet drawer and digging into the built in on his side, instead of the drawer you had instructed him to. He hauls thick winter wear onto the floor, hands finding purchase on what he was looking for.

He pulls the box out and flips the lid, hand sliding back onto the pistol grip naturally and pulling it out. His jaw tightens as the image of your face in that video flickers in his mind's eye again, and he cocks the gun he had hidden from you, a little harder than he meant to.

It was a damn good thing he never actually left the force.

[theplaid-wearingmoose]

Let Me In~Vampire!Sylus x Reader smut~

Pure nonsense self-indulgent brainrot, please ignore me...Based on this stupid ass post

Warning: orgasm denial, edging tf outta Vampire!Sylus, blood drinking

"I want to try something, Sylus."

That should've been warning enough for him that he was in for a long night. You loved pushing his buttons and testing his limits. Tonight was no different.

And yet he always indulged you....

You wanted to test the specifics of the vampire lore and for some reason Sylus agreed. He didn't expect it to be like this. Surely the rules forbidding him from entering without permission didn't apply here. Especially when what really mattered here was phrasing.

And now here he was, pinned beneath you as you straddled him, his hands gripping your hips tightly and his aching cock buried deep inside you. And you...you were the master of his torture at this moment. The way you were riding him so slowly was killing him. His eyes were shut tight, his head fallen back against the couch, mouth dropped open and his fangs glistened in the moonlight as heavy breaths escaped his parted lips.

"My darling...please...I...I don't know how much longer I can...take this!" He panted. His long slender fingers gripped the plump flesh of your ass, his sharp nails stinging as they pierced your skin. You chuckled and rolled your hips against his. "C'mon Sylus...my big, strong vampire lover can't handle some teasing?" Sylus growled and glared at you. "This is definitely....m-more than teasing, sweetie." You giggled and sped your hips up for what felt like the hundredth time. Sylus's back arched as he gasped and moaned loudly. "F-fuck! Oh c'mon, angel...how long are you going to torture me like this?"

Not only were you denying him release, but you had bribed him with something precious: your blood. You promised that if he held out long enough, you'd let him drink from you. It wouldn't be the first time but Sylus often held back, afraid he wouldn't be able to stop himself and hurt you.

You rocked back and forth, the wet sounds echoing throughout the room. You yourself had already cum a few times but you wanted to see just how much Sylus could take before he became a whimpering, begging mess. "Do you think you've earned it yet, Sylus?" You teased. His ruby eyes stared into yours, pleading for mercy. "Please, my love. I've been so good for you. I...I need it...please-ah!" His voice cut off with a whine as you clenched around him. His tongue lolled out of his mouth and his eyes rolled back. You hummed in satisfaction and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "You have been good, I'll admit. I think you deserve something for that." Gripping his chin, you tilted his head forward so he was looking at you. "I want you to bite me when you cum, Sylus. I wanna feel you fill me up while you're drinking from me, baby." Your voice was firm and Sylus loved it. He shuddered and nodded weakly. "Can I please cum inside now, kitten?" He begged, his eyes sparkling with desire. You grinned and kissed him before exposing your neck to him. "Yes, my love. Cum inside and take what you want from me." You breathed, bracing yourself.

Sylus groaned and sunk his teeth into your neck. You cried out but kept your hips moving as fast as you could. Your vision blurred as the pain quickly turned into pleasure. His cock was hitting perfectly inside you and you felt yourself approaching another orgasm. "Fuck I-I'm gonna cum again, Sylus!" You moaned. He groaned against your skin, his mind going fuzzy at the taste of your blood mixed with the warmth of you on his cock. He held you tightly against him as he bounced you on his lap. "Cum with me, my darling." He murmured against your skin before latching back onto your neck. You both moaned loudly as you tumbled over the edge of pleasure together.

Finally, you brought your hips to a slow stop and Sylus unlatched from your neck. His mouth was stained red and your blood dripped from his fangs. You panted heavily and pressed your forehead against his. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" You joked, weakly. You were a little lightheaded from blood loss. Sylus grinned and gently licked at your neck to soothe the pain. "I very much enjoyed that, beloved. However, I hope you won't be testing any other vampire theories. I doubt I would enjoy "sun play" or something like that." He stood with you in his arms and carried you to the kitchen. "Come, my darling. Let's get you some food to replenish your strength. You'll need it for later..."

[lonerslug]

Hi! This is my first time sending an ask but I really have to cuz your work is SOO GOOD omgomg I love you smsmsm🩷I look forward to EVERY one of your posts especially spamming in the comments hehe🤗Would you ever consider writing something for Shane from the L word?

heyy! THANK U SO MUCH?!! u guys need to send me more requests 😔😔

i don’t really know if u want her to top or bottom.. BUT ILL TRY OK.

and i’m so sorry if it took along time for me to respond 😭 i’m busyyy

You Knew What This Was

You don’t know who kissed who first, but her mouth is on yours before the door even shuts. It’s messy and hard, her tongue sliding past your lips like she owns you already. You stumble back into the dark of her place, caught between laughter and heat, the taste of whiskey and smoke on her breath.

“You’ve been looking at me like you wanted something,” Shane mutters, voice low, biting the edge of your jaw. “You gonna tell me what it is, or do I have to drag it out of you?”

You smirk, tugging her belt. “What if I like it rough?”

Her grin is wicked. “Yeah, I fucking figured.”

Shane spins you around and slams you back against the wall, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath catch. She pins your wrists up, body flush against yours, knee parting your thighs. Her mouth drops to your neck and she bites, open and hot, teeth dragging just enough to make you squirm.

“Already soaking through,” she hums, rocking her leg up just right. “Didn’t take much, huh?”

You let out a breathy curse, hips grinding against the pressure of her thigh. Shane releases your wrists, just to flip you around and shove your chest against the wall instead. One hand slides up the back of your shirt, yanking it over your head while the other pops your button, drags your pants down without ceremony.

She doesn’t undress you, just leaves you bent over, panties crooked, ass bare. “Fuck. Look at this,” she breathes, running her hand over the curve of your backside. “So ready for me and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Her palm smacks your ass once, sharp and sudden. You jolt. Gasp. She does it again, harder. “Count.”

“What?” you pant, turning your head.

Shane smiles. “Thought you liked it rough, baby. Count.”

You swallow hard. “One.”

Smack.

“Two.”

By five, your legs are shaking and she’s pushing two fingers between your legs, dipping into the mess you’ve made. “Fuck, you’re dripping,” she growls, teasing your entrance. “Beg for it.”

no answer.

She chuckles, low, dangerous. “Wrong answer.”

She pulls back and leaves you hanging for a full, torturous minute. You squirm, clench around nothing, desperate for anything.

“…Please,” you whisper. “Please, Shane, just fuck me.”

“There she is.”

You hear the rustle of her grabbing the harness, the click as she straps in, thick. The sound alone has your walls fluttering. She steps in close behind, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise.

“Hands on the wall. Don’t move.”

She pushes in, slow, but deep, stretching you open in one smooth thrust. You cry out, forehead dropping to the wall. Shane doesn’t wait long, she pulls out just to slam back in, hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that leaves you gasping.

“God, Shane—”

“You can take it. Don’t act like you can’t.” Her hand wraps around your throat, just enough pressure to make your knees go weak. “You asked for this, remember?”

Your moans turn messy. Obscene. You can barely hold yourself up as she rails into you, her pace relentless, grip bruising, breath hot against your ear.

She pulls you back by the hair, forces your spine to arch so she can hit deeper. “You wanted it rough. Now take it.”

You come undone with a choked cry, legs trembling, body spasming around her cock. But Shane doesn’t stop. Not yet.

“Not done with you,” she growls, fucking you through the aftershocks. “One more.”

You whimper. “Can’t!”

“Yes you can.”

Her fingers slide down and rub fast, merciless circles over your clit. Your body jerks, overstimulated, but fuck, it’s too good. You break again, harder, vision white, voice raw.

finally. she slows, hands trailing down your sides as you slump forward, boneless.

Shane leans in, kisses your shoulder, voice low and smug:

“Knew you’d be a good girl for me.

_

Your body is wrecked.

You’re still pressed to the wall, bare from the waist down, breathing like you just ran five miles. Your thighs are shaking. You can feel the slick between them, the sting of her handprint on your ass, the throb of overstimulation still echoing in your core.

And then, warmth.

Shane’s hands slide up your sides, slow and steady, until she’s wrapping herself around you from behind. No more roughness. No more teasing. Just solid, grounding heat.

She presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “Hey,” she murmurs, voice soft now. “You okay?”

You nod, slow. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay.”

Another kiss, this one higher, near your neck. Her nose brushes your skin as she exhales, almost like relief.

“Let me clean you up,” she says quietly. “Stay right there.”

You hear her move away, and for a second, you miss the contact, miss her hands, her heat. But she’s back quickly, towel in hand, her touch careful as she gently wipes between your legs. She takes her time. No rush. No rough edges.

“You were…” she starts, then stops. Looks at you, eyes darker but soft. “Fuck, you were so good for me.”

Your chest swells, the praise hitting somewhere deep. “You too.”

Shane laughs under her breath, she leads you over to the bed. She tosses the towel aside, peels off her harness and shirt, and crawls in with you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You expect her to grab her phone or light a smoke, but instead, she pulls you into her chest, tucks your head under her chin.

You blink up at her. “Didn’t think you were the cuddling type.”

She shrugs, fingers sliding lazily over your arm. “I’m not. Usually.”

You smile. “So I’m special?”

Shane looks down at you, smirks. “Maybe. Don’t get cocky.”

You both fall into a quiet hush. Her hand drifts down, splaying over your stomach. Her thumb brushes slow circles into your skin, and she hums, low and soft, like a song she doesn’t know she’s singing.

Then, out of nowhere, she whispers:

“You let me have you like that. Trust like that… it means something.”

Your heart stutters.

You don’t say anything for a long beat. You just press closer, hand curling around her wrist, grounding yourself in her touch.

“It meant something to me too,” you finally whisper.

Shane nods once. No jokes. No smirks. Just that look in her eyes, honest, wide open.

She leans in and kisses you slow, no rush, no hunger. just warmth. Her lips move against yours like she’s savoring it. Like she wants to make you feel wanted, even after the storm.

And you do.

Wrapped in her arms, skin still tingling, you let yourself believe, for tonight, at least, that maybe Shane is capable of something more.

Even if it’s just softness in the dark

[kxxxyy]

Still Breathing (18+)

pairing: sova x fem!reader

notes: post mission stress relief, rough sex, possessiveness, russian dirty talk, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, creampie, aftercare

The door to the safehouse slammed open. Dust, blood, and ash still clung to your body as you stumbled in. Sova was across the room in seconds.

No words. No greeting.

Just two massive hands grabbing your face, tilting it, eyes scanning like he didn’t believe what he saw.

“Ты…” he whispered—you—like the word alone hurt. “You’re alive.”

“I told you—comms were just down. I’m okay,” you said, your voice hoarse.

He didn’t respond.

He kissed you.

No, devoured you.

His mouth was hot and furious on yours, tongue forcing its way in, hands dragging your jacket down your arms like it burned him to see it still there.

You barely had time to react before he lifted you—effortlessly—and shoved you onto the table behind you. Supplies clattered to the floor.

“Sova—”

“Shut up,” he growled, eyes wild. “Don’t you dare speak like nothing happened.”

His fingers went to your pants. Pulled. Yanked. Buttons popped, your thighs spread with no ceremony, your soaked panties the only thing in his way.

“You’re wet,” he muttered, dark amusement flashing. “You want this. After all that?”

You nodded. He didn’t accept it.

“Words.”

“Yes. I want you. I need—”

His mouth descended between your legs before you finished.

Tongue flat and devastating, dragging up your slit, stopping to circle your clit slowly—too slowly—before he latched on and sucked. Hard.

You cried out. He didn’t stop.

Fingers pushed inside you in rhythm with his tongue—two, thick, curling perfectly as he kept your hips pinned with one forearm.

You were already shaking when he pulled back, lips glistening, beard wet from you.

“Good girl,” he said darkly. “Now take more.”

Your shirt was gone. He was naked before you noticed—how did he undress so fast? Combat training. Efficiency. Every second between life and death used perfectly.

His cock was heavy, thick, flushed at the tip. You didn’t even get to touch it.

He lined himself up and slammed in.

“Fuck—Sasha!”

Your voice cracked and he groaned, burying himself fully, not giving your body time to adjust. Just pure, primal claiming.

“I thought you were dead,” he hissed into your ear as he thrust. “And now—this. You let me fuck you like this, after all that?”

You moaned, nails raking his back, eyes rolling back.

“You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you choked out, breathless as he hit your deepest spot again and again.

“Again.”

“I’m—fuck—yours!”

He bent you over the table, one hand gripping your hair, the other pressing between your shoulder blades.

He fucked you hard. No rhythm. Just pure, brutal need.

Wet sounds echoed off the walls, your pussy squelching obscenely as he pistoned into you. Every thrust hit your g-spot, dragging filthy cries from your throat.

He slapped your ass, watching it jiggle.

“You make such pretty sounds,” he growled in Russian. “Look at you—taking all of me.”

You were babbling now, overwhelmed, dripping down your thighs.

He pulled out suddenly—spun you around, lifted your legs onto his shoulders, and slammed back in. Deeper. Angled perfectly.

You screamed.

And then—

“You’re gonna come for me,” he snarled, holding you by the throat now, his thrusts unrelenting. “Now. Do it.”

You did.

You exploded around him, your pussy clenching so tight he groaned, low and vicious, and spilled inside you—hot, thick, pulsing.

He didn’t stop moving until every last drop was buried inside you.

Silence.

Only your ragged breathing and the cooling sweat on your skin.

He slid out slowly, watching your cum-slick folds twitch from overstimulation. You whimpered.

He pulled you into his lap on the floor, both of you trembling.

His fingers stroked your thighs, brushing over the mess between your legs.

“You’re okay,” he whispered again. “You’re alive.”

And then in Russian:

“Никогда больше так не пугай меня…”

“Don’t ever scare me like that again…”