#*slides down a staircase*

[cissa-calls]

Countdown to Agatha: Day 757

Natasha: “You’re a morosexual, just accept it!”

Wanda: “A what?”

Natasha: “A morosexual - it means you’re only attracted to morons”

Wanda: “I am not!”

Natasha: “Really?” *points to Y/N and Agatha*

Agatha and Y/N: *trying to slide down the banister of a three story spiral staircase*

Y/N: “If Anna did it in the opening song of Frozen, then SO CAN I” *slips off and cascades down an entire story*

Agatha: “HAHAHA” *slips and falls on top of them* “OOF”

Natasha to Wanda: “You’re doing a terrible job beating the allegations”

[s0methingmoonlit]

Updated edited ver

Feel free to call it "cringe" that's what I am trying to do

[nettedtangible]

James Potter jumps up to hit doorframes.

[lovebugism]

anything with domestic jackson!joel……. i miss him dearly

✶ ┄ END OF THE WORLD !

summary: you intervene when joel and ellie get into an argument, and try to find a way to tell him some shocking news of your own.

pairing: joel miller / f!reader

contents: s2ep6 spoilers, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, pregnancy mention, loads of fluff + girl dad joel miller <3

“Your husband’s a lunatic,” an unfamiliar voice calls as you slide the rain-soaked jacket from your shoulders. 

You pause with it halfway down your arms, face twisted as you turn to the strange girl rushing down the stairs. One of Ellie’s friends, you presume, with auburn hair chopped to her chin and pale skin littered with tattoos. She tugs a flannel over her shoulders, concealing the faded locket on her forearm.

“Husband—?” you echo, voice laced with confusion. “—Who are you?”

The girl slides past you in the doorway without a word, ducking her head as she rushes down the porch and into the rain. You watch over your shoulder as she disappears into the downpour and wonder briefly what’s got her seeking refuge in a storm. 

Then you hear yelling, two muffled voices in a screaming match, coming from the bedroom the stranger had just left.

You realize, then, what she had meant by husband. 

And lunatic. 

“Joel?!” you shout with a nervous waver in your voice as you ascend the creaking staircase, skipping a step at a time and tucking the piece of paper in your hand into the back pocket of your jeans. The angry voices grow louder the closer you get to Ellie’s room. 

“—I guess this is what I get for tryin’ to surprise you, huh?”

“—I didn’t ask for any of this shit!”

“—That’s what a surprise is!”

You push the ajar door open with one hand, finding the two deadlocked in a glaring match in the center of the room. Joel holds the girl’s arm in a stern but gentle grip, while she keeps her free one balled into a trembling fist at her side. The arguing ceases when you appear in the doorway, but the angered looks twisting their features remain when their heads whip in your direction.

“What’s going on?” you pant, wide eyes darting between the two of them. “What happened?”

“This happened,” Joel spits and angles Ellie’s arm in your direction. The length of her forearm is adorned with fresh black ink — a long fern leading to a wide moth on the inside of her elbow — red around the edges and slightly swollen. 

Your face floods with a visible shock, though you fail to understand why it’s got Joel so angry. “It’s… It’s just a tattoo,” you say with an awkward laugh. “I don’t understand—”

“It’s not just a tattoo,” the man shouts, voice deep and gruff and accented. He drops Ellie’s arm to inch closer to you, gesticulating wildly with his weathered hands. “It’s all the teenage shit all at once. Drugs, sex, experimenting—”

“It wasn’t sex,” Ellie bites, dark eyes hardened. “And it wasn’t an experiment.”

“She’s seventeen,” you remind the man looming over you, as tall and angry as a black storm cloud. There’s a frown etched between his pinched, greying brows that you meet with a quiet smile. “We can’t expect her not toact like a teenager—”

“So, what?” Joel’s voice booms, much firmer than your soft one. “You’re— You’re takin’ her side, now? Is that it?”

“Obviously not!” you say, laughing. “We’re definitely gonna talk about smoking in the house, because it makes everything smell like shit—”

You look over Joel’s shoulder to flash the girl behind him a pointed look. Ellie cowers under your gaze, “Sorry…” she mumbles.

“And we need to set some ground rules about having people over, but—”

“But what?” Joel interjects, hands on his hips, already angry at you for something you haven’t yet said.

“But it’s just a tattoo. And it’s just some girl.” You wave your hand vaguely to the open door behind you, where the stranger had just scurried from. “It’s not the end of the world you’re making it out to be.”

The anger in Joel’s tired eyes flickers suddenly, like a snuffed flame. “I thought we were supposed to be a team?” he murmurs, low and slightly strained. You see the stress of the situation hit him then, a visible fatigue on his greying face. 

“We are.” 

Joel exhales sharply through his nose in place of a laugh. The corner of his mouth quirks in an emotionless half-smile. “Well, then, it’d be real nice if you took my side every now and then.”

His broad shoulder brushes yours as he walks past you out the door. “Joel!” you call to him, though his only response is the slam of Ellie’s bedroom door. The framed photos and paintings on the wall jolt softly in protest.

Ellie huffs a breath of relief when he’s gone. “Thanks…” she murmurs, shifting shyly on her feet.

“Don’t thank me,” you sigh and lean your weight against her desk. 

To your left is a birthday cake — chocolate icing, rainbow sprinkles, and her name written in cursive. You think it must be the surprise Joel mentioned earlier, since he’s done this every year right before her birthday. He always says that there’s no real time to worry about cake on the day, ‘cause he’s always got something elaborate planned for her outside of Jackson.

He was gonna take her on her first patrol at first light tomorrow, like she’s been begging for since she was fifteen. You hope he’ll still take her. You hope she’ll let him.

You feel the exhaustion of the long day in your tired bones, then. All the sleep you didn’t get and the early hours you spent feeling sickly hit you all at once. You feel more infected than human most days. It’s a palpable weariness Ellie can feel across the room.

“Then I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize either,” you tell her. “I mean, I was serious about you smoking in the house— and about you having people I don’t know over, but… You’re not doing anything wrong, okay?”

Ellie’s brows pinch. She eyes you from beneath her lashes like she’s half suspicious, too used to Joel and his never-ending lectures. “I’m not?” she wonders aloud.

“No. Not as long as you’re being safe, you know, with the weed and the… whoever that was.”

“Kat,” she finishes for you.

“Sure. I just— I think it’d be easier for Joel if you’d, you know, talk to him— to us. I know you don’t care about his permission or whatever, but I think it’d help if he felt… included.” You shrug like you’re offering her something, but it’s more of a plea than anything. “At least then he wouldn’t have to find you smoking weed and sneaking girls over all at once. He’s old, Els, there’s only so much his heart can take.”

Ellie fights back a smile and plops down on the foot of her bed. The old thing creaks softly under her weight. “I don’t know how,” she murmurs, running her finger over the fresh ink in her arm. “To talk to him, I mean.”

“I don’t either, sometimes,” you confess with a sigh and rise from your slouched position. “But I guess I’m gonna try.”

“Good luck,” Ellie lilts as you wrench open the door.

“Thanks,” you deadpan back. “I think I’m gonna need it.”

You take your time making your way to the garage, which is where Joel usually goes to let off steam. He holds all his love in his hands, but he keeps his anger there, too — which is why you find him working on Ellie’s handmade guitar in the quiet yellow lamplight. ‘Cause even though no one pisses him off quite like than soon to be seventeen-year-old, Joel Miller can’t love her anymore than he already does.

You knock softly on the already open door to announce your arrival.

Joel, with his back turned towards you, blows dust from the waist of the guitar as he sands down its edges. “I don’t wanna talk right now,” he murmurs gruffly, running his calloused palm over the smooth wood.

You exhale a breathy laugh before you mean to. Joel glares at you over his shoulder. You clear your throat and try hard to be serious. “Sorry. You just— You talk a lot about Ellie’s mood swings, but some days you’re just as bad,” you confess, inching closer with hesitant steps. “Like father, like daughter, I suppose…”

The corner of Joel’s lip quirks in a quiet smile that he rubs away with his hand, fingers brushing over his greying beard. You walk closer and smooth your palms over his tense shoulders. Joel tries to deny himself the intimacy, “I’m serious, I really don’t—”

You bend at the waist to press your mouth to his ear. “Shh…” you whisper there, right before pressing a kiss to his scruffy cheek. Your arms wrap loosely around his neck as you sprinkle chaste kisses everywhere you can reach. His cheek, his temple, his jaw, his neck. You bathe him in softness until it washes the learned hardness from his body — until he exhales a much-needed breath and relaxes in your hold.

“There you go…” you coo, embracing him with one hand while your other smooths over his silver curls. Joel’s head tilts instinctively into your touch. His heavy eyes flutter slowly shut. 

“I just don’t understand her sometimes,” he murmurs.

“I know. I’m sure she feels the same way.”

His brows pinch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t think you confuse her the same way she confuses you? When you go from… barely talking to exploding out of nowhere?”

“I don’t explode,” he scoffs, face twisted with offense as he turns his head to look at you. You flash him a knowing look in response, which only offends him more. “I don’t!”

“You don’t ask her to open up, and then take it out on her when she keeps things from you.”

Joel glares when you straddle the bench to sit beside him. “You’re doing it again,” he deadpans and turns away, anxious hands messing with the half-done guitar in his lap.

“What?” you laugh. “Knocking some sense into you?”

Joel rolls his eyes in response. You reach for him, grabbing his scruffy chin with your thumb and forefinger to pull him closer and press a smacking kiss to his cheek. “I’m just kidding…” you lilt within a sigh and rest your head on his shoulder. “I know how you feel, Joel.”

You feel him shaking his head. “You don’t.”

“I do. I know every little thought that goes on in that head of yours, Joel Miller,” you insist gently, smoothing your cheek over his shoulder like a cat. “I know you love Ellie like a daughter. Like Sarah—”

The mention of her name makes him tense beneath you.

“—And I know that sometimes you miss Ellie like you miss Sarah. And I know that that confuses you, ‘cause Ellie’s still here, and that you just don’t want her to grow up… I get it.”

Joel flinches softly at your words, at the weight of them. His weathered features screw together, as though physically pained by the thought. He swallows hard and admits the hard truth out loud, “I just wanna protect her,” he mumbles, slightly strangled with emotion.

“I know you do. ‘Cause that’s what you always do,” you hum, resting your chin on his shoulder to gaze softly upon his profile. His features are strong and chiseled, like that of an ancient sculpture slightly worn with time. You smooth a rogue grey curl from his temple, chin bobbing as you speak, “But I think tattoos and weed are the least of our problems right now, all things considered.”

Joel huffs, broad shoulders deflating. 

Thinking about it now, he can’t remember why he got so worked up in the first place — why he resorted to the yelling place, as you called it, instead of just talking like a normal human being. But, in truth, nothing about him and Ellie has ever been normal. She was cargo to him one minute, and then he blinked and realized he’d set the world on fire if it meant keeping her safe. It’s a guttural, primal feeling he doesn’t think many people understand — least of all Ellie herself.

“Yeah. You’re right,” he sighs, southern drawl like honey, as he props the handmade guitar on the floor beside him. He rises from the workbench and guides you with him with a gentle hand on the outside of your elbow. “You always are,” he follows with a quiet, crooked smile.

“Thanks for admitting it, Miller,” you grin, and migrate instinctively into his arms when he opens them for you. 

You press yourself against him with every intention of melting in his warmth, inhaling his sea-salt scented shampoo when you nose into his curls. Joel buries his face in your shoulder and lets out a heavy sigh of contentment there. You try not to shiver when his beard scrapes the delicate skin of your neck.

“Ellie said she wants to move in here,” Joel mumbles against you.

“The garage?” you ask. 

He nods against you. 

“And what did you say?”

“Hell no,” he deadpans in response, then smiles to himself when he feels your body shaking with subsequent laughter.

“I’m not trying to take Ellie’s side, or anything, but… I don’t think it’s the worst idea ever,” you start slowly, awaiting his response. Joel stays silent to egg you on, and your eyes flit to the wooden panels on the ceiling, trying to find the words to say. They all just seem to strangle you instead. “I think that, you know, maybe we could use the extra room.” 

Joel parts from you, but only slightly. Just enough to peer down at you with a bearded face twisted in a gentle sort of confusion. “For what?” 

“I don’t know,” you shrug, even though you do know and you’re just trying to find the courage. “Maybe a nursery?”

It comes out like a question, like you’re just testing the waters — gauging his reaction. You don’t tell him, yet, that a nursery will become unequivocally necessary in the coming months, much sooner than either of you realize. 

The realization of such comes slowly. You watch his confusion deepen, then ebb slightly, before his face floods with a gaping look of shock.

“Are you…” Joel stammers. “You’re…”

“Pregnant? Yeah, apparently,” you answer casually, ‘cause you’ve had an hour or so now to get over the initial stupor. You reach into the back pocket of your jeans for the sonogram you tucked there for safekeeping. “I was coming back from Dr. Quinn’s when I found you and Ellie in a screaming match—”

Joel takes the ultrasound you offer him with shaking hands.

“Turns out, it wasn’t actually food poisoning,” you quip, crossing your arms over your chest to tuck your own trembling fingers under your armpits. “Even though I’m still almost certain that chicken alfredo Tommy made last week was, like, totally raw, but—”

Joel’s wide eyes flit between your face and the black-and-white photo in his hands. At the center is an indistinct blob, no bigger than a raspberry, and it sends his racing heart to the pit of his stomach. “You’re pregnant?” he wonders aloud, more firmly this time, though the words still sound a bit foreign on his tongue.

“Yep,” you answer, brows raised and smile wavering. “Surprise…” you lilt shakily.

Joel shifts on his feet before you, maneuvering the sonogram between his sweaty hands so he can wipe each one on his jeans. His mouth opens and closes for a few long moments as he tries to find the right words to say. It’s hard to, though, when his head’s racing a million miles a minute.

“Is… Is it…?” he trails off.

You don’t let him finish. “I swear to god, Joel Miller, if you ask me if it’s yours, I’m gonna be the one moving into the garage.”

Despite being half-breathless, Joel manages a quiet laugh. “No, I mean, is it… Is it a girl, or…?”

“Oh. Uh… It’s too early to tell, I think?”

“Right,” Joel nods. “Yeah. Obviously.”

Despite his obvious gracelessness, he’s been through this once before. He remembers every inch of his time with Sarah, who’d changed his life before she was even born. That all feels like lifetimes ago now, though — and, in some ways, it has been. 

The world went to shit, but it didn’t truly end until his babygirl died. And then decades flew by like minutes, and he found Ellie, and realized too late that she was his second shot at a life he thought was long gone. And when he got to Jackson, and when Jackson gave him you, he realized he could start living again — and that Sarah wouldn’t punish him for moving on. (Though she was always too kind for that, anyway.)

“I hope it’s a girl, though,” you say when Joel gets lost in his head, smoothing your hands over his chest. You think you can feel his heart racing beneath your palm. “I wanna keep you outnumbered, Miller.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” he mumbles, lips quirking in a quiet smile. 

Your grin comes more absentmindedly, relieved by his reaction. “So… You’re happy?”

Joel falters for a moment, ‘cause he can’t imagine being anything else — not when he’s got Ellie, and you, and this baby who’s not here yet. “Yeah,” he nods, slightly strangled when his eyes burn with unshed tears. “‘Course I am.”

He hugs you again, this time like he’s trying to press all the love in his heart directly into yours. His strong arms wrap tightly around you, like they have every day for years now, until he remembers his strength and jerks back like he’s burned you. 

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” he curses under his breath, holding you gently by the waist with careful hands. His dark eyes dart wildly from your smiling face to the barely-there bump beneath your sweater, scared that he’s hurt you somehow.

“It’s okay,” you laugh. “Keep holding me. I liked it.”

He abides you, ‘cause it’s in his blood to, though he’s clearly more gentle this time. He keeps one warm hand on your lower back and his other cradling the back of your hair. He presses his lips to the crown of your head and mumbles there, “‘M sorry for stressin’ you out today. Wouldn’t have made a fuss about it if I knew… Shouldn’t have made a fuss about it anyway…”

“Don’t worry about that,” you murmur sincerely into his chest, then joke quietly, “I want you to stress me out for a lifetime, Miller.”

You feel his soft laughter rumbling against your cheek. “I guess I can do that.”

[gyuuberryy]

don't look back!

pairing: yandere!jungwon x reader

genre: backrooms au, thriller, psycho!jungwon

synopsis: while working late at the waterpark, you slip through reality and fall into the nightmare realm known as the backrooms. you think you’re alone—until you meet jungwon, a charming boy who offers comfort, survival tips, and the promise of an escape together. but something about him doesn’t feel right. the more time you spend together, the more his affection turns eerie... and the deeper you fall into his trap.

warnings (MDNI 18+ only!!) : smut(corruption kink, oral f receiving, fingering, mild marking/biting, unprotected sex), yandere themes, obsession, slight horror themes, manipulation, slight dub con, choking, some degradation, dom!jungwon, swearing, not proofread

note: this is probably my darkest work, and also my first time writing smut!! i hope you like it >///<

word count: 10.3k

if you liked this please comment or reblog to give me your feedback! <3

you had been working late at the waterpark again, the last employee left on closing duty.

the usual nighttime sounds surrounded you—the steady drip of water from the slides, the faint hum of the filtration system powering down, the occasional creak of the structure settling. it was peaceful in a way, being alone in the empty park after hours, though tonight the silence felt heavier than usual.

you pulled your hoodie tighter around yourself as you walked past the wave pool, the water still and dark now that the pumps were off. your sneakers squeaked against the wet tiles, the sound echoing strangely in the vast, empty space.

as you moved toward the tower of spiral slides to complete your final check, you couldn't shake the feeling that the air had grown colder, thicker somehow.

that was when you heard the first laugh—a high-pitched, playful sound that seemed to come from the top of the blue slide.

you froze, your grip tightening on the flashlight. that couldn't be right. you'd checked every area twice already, made certain no guests remained. the park was supposed to be empty.

"hello?" you called out, your voice steady despite the sudden chill running down your spine. "the park is closed."

there was no response at first, just the continued dripping of water and that odd, heavy silence.

you were about to dismiss it as your imagination when the laughter came again, closer this time, seeming to bounce off the fibreglass walls of the slides.

your pulse quickened as you approached the staircase leading up to the slide platform. the metal steps were slick with condensation under your hands as you climbed, your flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.

"if someone's up here, you need to leave now," you said, forcing authority into your voice even as your palms grew damp.

when you reached the top, the mouth of the slide gaped before you, a circle of darkness that seemed deeper than it should be. you crouched to shine your light down its length, expecting to see nothing but empty plastic. instead, there was movement—something pale flickering at the edge of your vision.

before you could react, the world twisted around you. it wasn't wind that pulled at you, but something far more unnatural. the slide's opening seemed to stretch, the darkness within it suddenly alive and hungry. you tried to scramble back, but your feet slipped on the wet platform.

as you fell forward, you realised this wasn't just a slide anymore. the walls pressed in around you, warm and yielding like flesh, the air thick with the cloying scent of chlorine and something decaying. you flailed, trying to find purchase, but there was nothing to grab onto as you tumbled through that impossible space.

then there was only nothingness.

the impact knocked the air from your lungs before you even realised you'd stopped falling. your elbows stung where they'd slammed against the tile, your ribs aching like you'd been folded in half.

for several terrifying seconds you just lay there, gasping, your vision swimming as you tried to remember how to breathe. when you finally managed to push yourself up, your hands slipped on the damp floor—not the smooth fibreglass of the slide, but something older and cracked that felt wrong.

the slide was gone.

you whirled around, panic rising like floodwater in your chest, but there was only a wall behind you—water-stained wallpaper peeling away to reveal moldering drywall beneath. the cheerful cartoon dolphins printed on it were faded, their smiles stretched and warped where the paper bubbled.

your breath came in short, sharp bursts as you staggered to your feet, the room tilting dangerously around you. this wasn't possible. you'd just been at work. you'd just been checking the slides.

the space around you stretched endlessly in every direction, a nightmare parody of the waterpark you knew. the same blue-and-yellow colour scheme, but bleached and sickly under flickering fluorescents. the wave pools were empty except for stagnant puddles that reflected the ceiling back at you in distorted fragments. the air clung to your skin, thick with the scent of mildew and that same overpowering chlorine sting—but underneath it, something sweet. cloying. like fruit left to rot in standing water.

"hello?" your voice cracked on the word, barely louder than a whisper.

when no answer came, you tried again, louder: "is anyone here?" the sound died almost instantly, as if the humid air had swallowed it whole.

you moved forward without meaning to, your sneakers sticking slightly to the tacky floor with each step. the lights buzzed overhead, their flickering intensifying as you passed beneath them. down one hallway lined with lockers rusted shut, past another shallow pool that had no visible edge—just tile that stretched on until it blurred into the distance. your fingers trailed along the wall for balance, coming away damp.

a sound from above made you freeze. not the creak of old pipes, but something... wetter. like flesh dragging across metal. you didn't look up. couldn't look up. your pulse roared in your ears as you forced yourself to keep moving, your breath coming too fast.

in the reflection of a murky puddle, you saw something move behind you—a pale shape where nothing should be. when you spun around, there was only an empty hallway. but the puddle rippled, as if whatever had been there had just stepped out of view.

you broke into a run.

the corridors twisted in ways that made no sense, leading you past the same cracked mirror three times, past a snack stand with its menu board melted like wax. your lungs burned, your thighs aching, but you didn't stop until you reached a small kiddie pool tucked between two crumbling walls. its cheerful mosaic tiles were chipped and faded, the painted sea creatures now just vague smudges of colour. you collapsed beside it, pressing your back against the wall as you struggled to catch your breath.

that was when you heard the whistling.

low. off-key. a tune you almost recognised but couldn't place. your blood turned to ice in your veins.

the sound was getting closer.

you scrambled behind a rusted lifeguard chair, its paint flaking away under your desperate grip.

the whistling continued, unhurried, accompanied now by the steady tap of footsteps against tile. a shadow stretched long across the floor before its owner appeared—a boy, maybe your age, dressed in a staff polo that looked freshly laundered. his black hair was neatly styled, his sneakers pristine where yours were soaked. the name tag on his chest caught the light when he moved, but the letters swam when you tried to focus on them.

he saw you immediately. of course he did.

"there you are," he said, as if you'd been keeping him waiting. his voice was pleasant, almost friendly, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. they stayed dark and unreadable as he took a step closer.

"it's not safe to be out alone."

you pressed yourself harder against the wall, your mouth dry. he looked human. normal. but nothing here was normal.

when he extended his hand, his fingers were clean. no dirt under his nails. no dampness on his skin.

"come on," he urged, tilting his head slightly. "before they find you."

above you, the lights flickered again. somewhere in the distance, something heavy dragged itself through water.

his smile never wavered.

your fingers twitched before you even realised you were reaching for him—some primal part of your brain screaming that warmth meant safety, that another human voice in this suffocating silence was worth clinging to, no matter how wrong this all felt.

his hand closed around yours without hesitation, his skin almost feverishly hot compared to the clammy chill clinging to your own.

"i'm jungwon," he said, pulling you to your feet with unsettling ease, like your weight meant nothing.

his fingers lingered a second too long when he let go, leaving behind a tingling imprint that made you want to rub your palm against your jeans.

"you're lucky i found you first."

the words slithered under your skin. first before who? before what?

he was already moving, his steps light and certain against the warped tiles as he led you down another decaying hallway. you followed because there was no other choice, your sneakers squeaking against the damp floor while his made no sound at all.

when you opened your mouth to speak, your voice came out cracked and thin: "where—"

"this place doesn't have a name," he interrupted, glancing back with a smile that didn’t crinkle the corners of his eyes. "not one you'd understand."

his gaze flickered over your face, lingering on the way you bit your lip, the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat.

"i call it the aquatic sector."

your breath hitched. the backrooms. those creepy internet stories you'd skimmed late at night, half-believing, half-mocking.

"like... the backrooms?" you whispered, the word tasting absurd even as it left your tongue.

jungwon's smile didn’t waver, "something like that." he said it so casually, like he was discussing the weather, and the sheer normality of his tone made your stomach twist.

he turned a corner without checking if you followed—of course you did, where else would you go?—and you realised with a jolt that he knew this place. the way his shoulders never tensed at the distant, wet sounds echoing through the pipes. the way he stepped over a particular cracked tile without looking down, avoiding the dark stain spreading beneath it like he’d done it a hundred times before.

when he finally pushed open a door marked staff only, the room beyond was so jarringly intact it made your eyes water. clean towels stacked neatly on a shelf. unopened cans of fruit lined up in a tiny pantry. a battery-powered lantern cast warm light over a faded couch, its cushions dented from use. it looked like a lifeguard break room plucked straight from your own world and dropped here, untouched by the decay choking everything outside.

"this zone's safe," jungwon said, watching your face as you took it in. he grabbed a water bottle from the cabinet and held it out to you, the plastic crinkling in his grip. "but only for now."

your fingers trembled as you took it, the condensation cool against your palm. you wanted to drink so badly your throat ached with it, but the way he watched you—head slightly tilted, dark eyes tracking the bob of your throat as you swallowed nervously—made your grip tighten without opening it.

something about the way his smile didn't reach his eyes, about how his uniform was still perfectly dry when your clothes clung damp and clammy to your skin, about how he'd known exactly where to find you in this endless maze.

"you should drink," he said, softer now.

he took a step closer and you could smell the faint citrus of his shampoo, so out of place here it made your pulse skip.

"you'll get dehydrated fast in this sector."

his fingers brushed yours as he reached to twist the cap off for you, and for a dizzying second you considered letting him. his touch was the only warm thing in this entire place. but then the pipes above you groaned, a wet, meaty sound that had you jerking back, the water bottle slipping from your grip to roll across the floor.

jungwon's expression darkened for just a second—a flicker of something sharp behind his pleasant mask—before he sighed and crouched to retrieve it.

"you'll learn," he said, more to himself than to you as he placed the bottle carefully on the table.

outside, something heavy splashed into one of the pools, the sound echoing through the thin walls. when you tensed, jungwon's hand settled between your shoulder blades, warm even through your damp hoodie.

"don't worry," he murmured, his breath stirring your hair. "i won't let anything hurt you."

the promise should have been comforting. so why did it feel like a threat?

time bent around you like wet paper, the hours stretching and warping until you couldn’t tell if minutes or days had passed.

jungwon became your only constant, your lifeline in this rotting, endless maze. he told you where to sleep (the staff break room, always with the door locked), when to hide (when the lights flickered in a pattern that wasn’t random), which corridors to avoid (the ones with the faint smell of overripe bananas). but he never explained why.

"don’t follow the laughter," he said one evening, or what you thought was evening, as you both sat cross-legged on the floor of the break room, sharing a can of peaches.

the syrup was too sweet, clinging to your teeth, but you ate it anyway because hunger gnawed at your stomach like a living thing.

you frowned. "what laughter?"

jungwon’s fingers paused where they’d been tracing patterns on the tile floor. he didn’t look up.

"you’ll know it when you hear it. it sounds almost human. almost." his voice dropped on the last word, and something in his tone made you set the can down, your appetite gone.

"that’s not an answer," you muttered.

he finally lifted his gaze, his dark eyes unreadable. "it’s the only one i can give you."

you wanted to push, to demand more, but then the walls breathed—a slow, wet expansion of the water-damaged drywall that made you recoil. jungwon didn’t even flinch.

"also," he continued, as if nothing had happened, "don’t trust water that moves on its own. and never, never go into a glowing slide."

"why not?"

he leaned forward suddenly, close enough that you could see the faint scar on his lower lip, the way his pupils swallowed the dim light.

"because some doors only open one way," he whispered. then he pulled back, his smile returning like a curtain falling.

"eat your peaches."

you noticed things, over time. the way the walls never dripped when jungwon was near, how the flickering fluorescents steadied when he walked beneath them, as if they were afraid to sputter out in his presence. you noticed how he watched you—constantly—his gaze lingering on the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, how your fingers trembled when you were tired.

and then you found the notebook.

it was tucked under his pillow, the leather cover worn soft. you hadn’t meant to snoop, but he’d been gone longer than usual (to "check the perimeter," whatever that meant), and the silence had pressed in on you until you needed something to focus on besides the sound of your own heartbeat.

the first page was a sketch of your face, rendered in startling detail. your lips slightly parted in sleep, your eyelashes casting shadows on your cheeks. you turned the page.

another. another. dozens of drawings, all of you—your hands clutching a blanket, your back arched in alarm when something had banged on the door the night before, your tear-streaked cheeks from when you’d broken down sobbing your third day here.

your breath caught.

"you’re beautiful when you’re afraid."

you hadn’t heard him come in. jungwon stood in the doorway, his head tilted, his expression unreadable. your fingers clenched around the notebook, the paper crinkling under your grip.

he stepped closer, his movements smooth and predatory.

"just kidding," he murmured, but his eyes—dark and endless—never left yours.

he pried the notebook from your hands with terrifying gentleness, his thumb brushing over a sketch of your crying face. "you’re beautiful all the time."

the air between you thickened, the silence broken only by the distant sound of something heavy dragging itself through water. jungwon didn’t seem to hear it. his gaze burned into you, possessive and hungry, and for the first time, you realised the most dangerous thing in this place wasn’t the shifting halls or the things that lurked in the water.

it was the boy standing in front of you, smiling like he already knew every way you’d break.

the air in the filtration room had been particularly thick that day, clinging to your skin like a second layer of sweat as you followed jungwon through yet another routine patrol.

you'd memorised the path by now—past the cracked wave pool tiles, left at the concession stand with its permanently stuck "hot dogs $3.99" sign, right at the third set of rusted lockers.

his flashlight beam cut through the perpetual twilight, illuminating dust motes that swirled like tiny galaxies in the stale air.

"wait here," jungwon said suddenly, his hand squeezing your wrist just a bit too tight before releasing.

the filtration tunnel gaped before you both, its mouth dark and damp.

"i need to check something. don't move." his smile didn't reach his eyes as he said it, the way it never did anymore.

you nodded, forcing your breathing to stay even as you watched him disappear into the tunnel. the moment his light vanished around the first bend, your body thrummed with nervous energy. this was it. you'd been watching for weeks, noting which corridors made him tense, which doors he always locked extra carefully. the copper-scented hallway to your right had been his most consistent avoidance.

the first step away from the tunnel entrance sent a jolt of electricity up your spine. your sneakers made barely a sound against the slick tiles, your movements practised after so many days of following his lead through these endless halls. the chlorine-copper smell grew stronger with each step, so potent it made your eyes water and your tongue feel coated in pennies.

halfway down the corridor, your foot caught on something soft. you barely stifled a scream as you looked down to see what appeared to be a waterlogged park uniform, the fabric bloated and discoloured. something about the way it lay—too flat, too empty—made your stomach turn. you stepped over it carefully, your pulse pounding in your ears.

the maintenance ladder appeared like a mirage, its rusted rungs nearly blending into the water-stained wall. you tested the first step with your weight, wincing as the metal groaned in protest. every creak seemed deafening in the silent hallway. as you climbed, the air grew noticeably colder, each breath forming visible clouds that dissipated into the gloom above you.

at the top, the platform was smaller than you expected, barely three feet across. the glowing slide pulsed before you, its eerie green light casting strange shadows across your trembling hands. up close, the hum you'd noticed from below vibrated through your teeth, setting your nerves on edge.

you hesitated, one hand hovering over the slide's entrance. jungwon's warning echoed in your mind, but so did the memory of his sketches, the way his fingers lingered just a beat too long when he touched you. the way he'd started saying "we" instead of "you" when talking about the future.

the decision crystallised in an instant. you launched yourself forward, the slide's surface shockingly cold even through your clothes. for one glorious moment, you felt weightless, the current carrying you forward with exhilarating speed.

then the world twisted.

the temperature plummeted so fast your muscles locked in protest. the smooth tunnel contorted violently, the walls rippling like disturbed water before going rigid at impossible angles. your scream caught in your throat as you were flung sideways, then upside down, the laws of physics abandoning you completely.

when you finally crashed into a brackish pool, the impact drove what little air remained from your lungs. the water tasted foul—salt and something organic, something living. you thrashed toward the surface, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and terror.

breaking through into the air brought no relief. the cavernous room stretched endlessly in every direction, the ceiling lost in shadow. the pool's edges weren't tile but something porous and veined, pulsing faintly in time with your racing heartbeat.

then you saw him.

jungwon stood perfectly still at the water's edge, his clothes soaked through as if he'd swum through miles of tunnels to reach you. water dripped from his hair into his eyes, but he didn't blink. the quiet rage radiating from him was more terrifying than any monster this place could have conjured.

"didn't i say," he began, his voice deceptively soft as he stepped into the pool, "not to trust glowing slides?" each word carried the weight of betrayal, his hands flexing at his sides.

the water resisted as you tried to back away, its viscosity suddenly wrong - too thick, too clinging. jungwon closed the distance effortlessly, his fingers wrapping around your biceps with bruising force as he hauled you onto the slick ground.

your body hit the floor with a wet slap, the impact reverberating through your bones. jungwon loomed over you, his knees caging your hips, his breath coming in sharp bursts that fogged in the frigid air. up close, you could see the way his pupils had swallowed nearly all the brown in his eyes, leaving only thin rings of colour around bottomless black.

"you could have died," he hissed, his voice cracking on the last word.

one hand came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing roughly over your cheekbone.

"do you have any idea what's out there? what would have happened if i hadn't found you?"

tears spilled hot down your cheeks, the salt taste mixing with the brackish water still dripping from your hair.

"i just wanted to go home," you choked out, your voice barely audible over the distant, watery echoes of the cavern.

jungwon's expression fractured. he pressed his forehead to yours, his nose brushing against your tear-streaked skin.

"this is your home," he whispered, the words vibrating through your skull. "i'm your home."

his grip gentled as he pulled you upright, his arms wrapping around your shivering form in a mockery of comfort. one hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

"don't ever do that again," he murmured, his lips grazing your temple. the kiss felt like a brand.

"next time..." his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly in your hair. "next time i might not be able to save you."

the unspoken threat hung between you, heavier than the humid air, darker than the endless corridors stretching in every direction. as he helped you to your feet, his arm slung possessively around your waist, you realised with dawning horror that you'd just proven his worst fear.

and in doing so, you'd given him the perfect excuse to never let you out of his sight again.

that night, something inside you finally cracked open—not with the sharp snap of defiance, but with the slow, inevitable splintering of resistance worn down by exhaustion and something dangerously close to surrender.

you sat shivering on the edge of his mattress, the damp fabric of your clothes clinging to your goosebumped skin like a second layer of shame. the scent of chlorine still clung to your hair, undercut by something darker—something organic and vaguely sweet, like fruit left to rot in standing water, which seemed like a recirring scent in this place.

jungwon knelt before you, a threadbare towel in his hands, his movements methodical as he dragged the rough fabric up your calf. the friction should have warmed you, but you only felt colder with each pass, your skin pebbling under his touch.

"you never listen," he whispered, his voice almost affectionate, the way one might scold a beloved but wayward pet.

his fingers tightened slightly around your ankle—not enough to hurt, just enough to make the bones shift under his grip.

"do you know how many rules you broke today?" his thumb pressed into the hollow beneath your ankle bone, a silent demand for your attention.

you swallowed hard, your throat clicking with the motion. "i just—"

"shh," he interrupted, pressing a finger to your lips. his skin tasted like salt and metal. "i know what you were trying to do. but we don't lie to each other, do we?"

his hand slid higher up your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, just shy of bruising. "say it."

your breath hitched. "no. we don't lie."

"good girl." the praise curled warm in your stomach despite everything.

his thumb hooked into the waistband of your soaked shorts, tugging them down your legs with agonising slowness.

"i should punish you," he mused, his breath hot against your inner thigh as he pressed a kiss there, "but you look so pathetic like this."

his teeth grazed your skin—not biting, just testing. "all shivering and wide-eyed. like a drowned kitten."

you should have stopped him. should have pushed him away. but your hands stayed limp at your sides, fingers twitching against the mattress as he pulled you closer to the edge, his grip firm on your hips.

"jungwon—"

"tell me you're sorry," he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing the crease of your thigh.

your pulse pounded in your ears. "i'm sorry."

"for what, exactly?" his tongue darted out to taste you, just once, making your stomach clench.

"for—for trying to leave." the admission tasted bitter on your tongue.

he hummed, the vibration travelling straight to your core. "and?"

"for not listening." your voice broke on the last word.

his mouth found you then, soft at first—just the barest flick of his tongue that made your toes curl. then deeper, firmer, until you couldn't stifle the gasp that tore from your throat. your thighs trembled around his head, your fingers twisting into the sheets as he worked you open with his tongue, each lick sending sparks up your spine.

"that's better," he murmured against you, the vibrations making your hips jerk.

"this is what you need, isn't it? to be reminded?" his fingers dug into your hips, holding you still as his tongue circled your clit with devastating precision. "to be taken care of?"

you couldn't answer. your thoughts had dissolved into static, your body no longer your own. when you whimpered his name, he hummed in approval, the sound curling low in your belly.

"use your words, sweetheart." his breath was hot against your soaked skin. "tell me what you want."

"please—"

"please what?" he nipped at your inner thigh, just hard enough to sting. "you have to say it."

your vision blurred at the edges. "please don't stop."

he rewarded you immediately, his tongue laving over you in broad strokes before he pressed two fingers inside, curling them expertly until your walls fluttered around him.

"like that?" he asked, his voice rough. "you want me to make you cum? to remind you who you belong to?"

you nodded frantically, your hips rocking against his hand.

"say it." his fingers stilled inside you, denying you the friction you craved. "say you're mine."

the words stuck in your throat for only a second before you choked them out: "i'm yours."

he crooked his fingers just right, the heel of his palm grinding against you in time with each thrust, and you shattered—your back arching off the mattress, your walls fluttering around him as pleasure ripped through you like a riptide.

he kissed you after, his lips tasting of you, his grip bruising on your jaw as he held you in place.

"you're mine," he said again, his voice rough, his pupils blown so wide they swallowed the brown of his eyes.

"no one else gets to have you. not even reality."

his words settled into your bones like a curse. you wanted to protest. wanted to tell him you belonged to yourself, that this place wasn't your home, that you would find a way out. but when he pulled you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, you didn't resist. and when his fingers traced idle patterns over your hip—claiming and possessive—you let him.

because the worst part wasn't the way he touched you.

it was the way your body arched into his hand when he reached for you again.

the way your breath caught when he whispered, "again."

the way you obeyed.

after that night, the invisible leash around your throat pulled taut like a noose gradually tightening. jungwon became your shadow, your keeper, your only tether to anything resembling safety in this rotting labyrinth.

when he did leave—always with that same murmured excuse about "checking the perimeter"—the backrooms seemed to come alive with malicious intent. the first time it happened, you sat perfectly still for exactly three minutes after he left, counting each second by the erratic drip of water from a ceiling pipe.

then the lights began stuttering like a dying man's pulse.

"jungwon?" you called out, immediately hating how small your voice sounded.

the hallway ahead warped suddenly, the tiles rippling like water disturbed by some unseen force. when you turned to run back to the break room, the door you'd just come through was gone—replaced by a staircase that definitely hadn't been there before, its steps slick with something dark and viscous.

"no, no, no," you chanted under your breath, pressing your back against the wall as the staircase shifted again, the top step now leading to a ceiling vent far too small for any human to crawl through.

that was when you heard it—a wet, clicking sound from the darkness beneath the stairs, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of overripe bananas and something metallic. your stomach turned as the clicking grew louder, more rhythmic, like dozens of tiny bones knocking together.

jungwon found you exactly seven minutes later curled behind a stack of mouldy pool noodles, your nails digging bloody crescents into your palms.

"i told you not to wander," he sighed, crouching before you.

his fingers were warm when they pried yours open, his thumbs rubbing circles into your clenched fists.

"what did you see?"

"the stairs—they moved," you gasped, still trembling. "and there was something under—"

"shhh," he interrupted, pressing a finger to your lips.

his eyes darted to the hallway behind you, suddenly sharp. "don't say it out loud. this place listens."

he helped you stand, his arm slipping around your waist in a way that might have been comforting if not for how easily his fingers spanned nearly the entire width of your torso. "let's get you cleaned up."

you tried to assert yourself exactly once, three days later.

it started as a simple request—"i need space"—but the words came out cracked and brittle, like you were begging rather than demanding.

jungwon paused in the middle of rewrapping your blistered foot (when had you gotten blisters?), his head tilting in that unnervingly precise way of his.

"space?" he repeated, the word curling oddly in his mouth.

his smile bloomed slow and sweet, like blood spreading through water. "oh, sweetheart. there's nothing but space here."

his fingers brushed your ankle, trailing upward with deliberate slowness.

"endless, hungry space." when his hand reached your knee, he squeezed just enough to make your breath hitch. "i'm just protecting you."

you swallowed hard. "from what?"

jungwon leaned in so close his lips brushed your ear, his next words a warm puff of air that made you shiver.

"from what happens to pretty things that get lost in the dark."

he pulled back slightly, his dark eyes searching yours.

"this place listens to me. you don't want to hear what it says about you when i'm gone." his thumb traced your lower lip. "the way it licks its chops every time you stumble. the way the walls whisper about how sweet you'd taste."

that night, you woke abruptly to the feeling of something cool and padded encircling your wrists. your eyes flew open to find yourself in jungwon's lap, your arms secured to the bench with what looked like salvaged lifeguard rescue tubes—the orange foam frayed but still sturdy.

"w-what—" you stammered, panic surging as you tugged against the restraints.

"shhh, just for your safety," jungwon soothed, his fingers already carding through your hair. the casual ease with which he held you down sent ice through your veins.

"you were thrashing in your sleep again. nearly rolled right off the bench." he held up a can of peaches, the syrup glistening in the low light. "let's get some food in you, yeah?"

when you turned your head away, his grip tightened fractionally in your hair.

"now, now," he chided, popping the lid with a metallic snick. "none of that."

the first syrupy slice pressed against your lips was cold and cloying. "open."

the fight drained out of you with terrifying speed. by the third bite, you were chewing mechanically, the sweetness coating your tongue like medicine. jungwon's approving hum vibrated through you as he wiped a stray drop of syrup from your chin with his thumb—then sucked it clean with a soft, satisfied sound.

"good girl," he murmured, kissing each of your knuckles in turn. the shackles stayed on all night.

as the days bled together, resistance became a distant memory, as foreign as sunlight or fresh air.

his touches became your only constants—the steadying hand at your elbow when the floor suddenly slanted, the broad palm spanning your back when a corridor narrowed unexpectedly, the strong arms that lifted you effortlessly over patches of suspicious-looking water. in the hot pool (the one oasis in this rotting place, its waters always perfectly clear and heated), he would wrap around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as the steam curled around you both.

"feel good?" he'd murmur, his hands drifting along your arms beneath the water.

you'd nod silently, too tired to lie or protest. his heartbeat against your back was the only rhythm left in this place, the only thing that still made sense.

the backrooms themselves seemed to worship him. puddles stilled when he approached, their surfaces going eerily smooth. hallways straightened obediently at his approach.

once, when you caught your reflection in the pool's surface, it grinned at you—wide and knowing—even as your own face remained carefully blank. when you jerked back with a gasp, jungwon just tightened his arms around you.

"just a trick of the light," he murmured, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.

the question burned in your chest for days before you finally found the courage to whisper it one night: "what are you?"

jungwon went very still, his fingers pausing where they'd been tracing nonsense patterns on your bare shoulder. for a long moment, the only sound was the distant drip of water and your own too-quick breathing.

"i used to be like you," he said at last, his voice soft with something almost like regret. "scared. lost. convinced there was a way out."

his hand returned to your shoulder, his thumb brushing the knob of your collarbone. "then i stopped pretending to be afraid. stopped fighting what this place wanted from me."

his lips grazed your temple, lingering just a second too long. "you'll understand soon."

the promise should have terrified you. should have sent you scrambling for escape. instead, a warm heaviness settled in your chest, spreading through your limbs like syrup. when he pulled you closer, you went without resistance, your head finding its familiar place against his shoulder.

outside your fragile bubble of warmth, the backrooms groaned and shifted—but here, cradled in jungwon's arms, the world held its breath. you closed your eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing lull you into something like peace.

somewhere along the way, you'd forgotten how to fight.

somewhere deeper still, you'd stopped wanting to.

it had been weeks—or maybe months, you had no idea how the warped time her worked—since jungwon had let you out of his sight for more than a few minutes at a time.

you'd practised the request of wanting to sleep alone in your head for days, carefully framing it as concern for his own rest rather than your desperate need for space.

"you look tired," you ventured one evening as he rubbed your sore feet (when had you started letting him do that?).

your fingers played with the frayed edge of his sleeve, the fabric soft from countless washes in the pool's filtration runoff.

"maybe... maybe you should take a night for yourself. i'll be fine here."

jungwon's hands stilled on your instep. the silence stretched so long you could hear the drip-drip-drip of water from the ceiling vent counting out your racing heartbeat.

when he finally looked up, his smile didn't reach his eyes—those dark, fathomless eyes that always seemed to see straight through you.

"one night," he conceded, his thumb brushing the delicate bones of your ankle. the casual possession in that simple touch made your stomach clench.

"but scream if you need me." his fingers trailed up your calf, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "the walls carry sound beautifully here."

he left you in a small bunkroom near the filtration systems, the space eerily pristine compared to the decay everywhere else. thick blankets covered the narrow bed, their faded nautical patterns almost cheerful under the glow of luminous pool tiles embedded beneath the frame.

you waited until his footsteps faded completely before letting out the breath you'd been holding.

the second the door clicked shut, the air grew heavier, pressing against your skin like wet hands. you told yourself you wouldn't sleep—just rest your eyes until morning came, whatever that meant in this endless place. curling up on the bed, you pulled your knees to your chest and stared at the door, straining to hear anything beyond the ever-present hum of machinery.

every sound became magnified in his absence. the walls creaked like old ship hulls, the pipes groaned with more than just water pressure, and every distant droplet echoed like approaching footsteps. at one point, you swore you heard whispering—not words exactly, but something like the hiss of water through cracks, forming almost-syllables that prickled the hairs on your neck.

"it's just the pipes," you muttered to yourself, your voice thin and unconvincing in the heavy air.

pulling the blankets over your head, you tried to focus on your breathing, but the fabric stuck to your lips with each panicked exhale.

when the bed suddenly shifted beneath you—just a slight dip, like someone had sat at the foot—you nearly screamed. your muscles locked, every nerve ending alight with primal terror as you waited for the inevitable touch, the breath against your neck.

but nothing came. the silence that followed was worse than any sound, thick with anticipation and something else—something watching.

by the time jungwon returned, you were curled into a tight ball, your face pressed against your knees to muffle the quiet sobs wracking your body. the door opened without a sound, but you knew it was him from the way the room immediately stilled, the oppressive weight in the air lifting as if by command.

"oh, sweet thing," he murmured, his voice dripping with false sympathy as the mattress dipped behind you.

his hands were warm where they slid under your shaking form, gathering you against his chest like a child. you hated how easily you folded into him, your body betraying your mind with its immediate relaxation.

"see?" he whispered into your hair, his lips brushing your temple. "you're safest when i'm touching you."

you wanted to protest, to push him away, but your limbs felt leaden, your resistance worn to nothing by the terror of the empty hours. when your fingers twitched weakly against his chest, jungwon made a soft, approving sound and kissed your forehead.

"shhh, i know," he murmured, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck.

his thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind your ear in slow circles. "you just needed to learn, didn't you? needed to see what happens when i'm not here to keep you safe."

his kiss started soft, just the barest brush of lips. but when you didn't resist, it deepened, his mouth hot and insistent as his tongue slid against yours. the taste of him flooded your senses, metallic and sweet like the canned fruit he always fed you, and some broken part of you responded without thought, your hands fisting in his shirt.

when you didn’t pull away, he pressed deeper, tongue slipping past your lips with practised ease. he kissed you like he had the right to. maybe that’s what terrified you most.

“see?” he whispered against your mouth, tasting you in slow drags. “you’re already calmer.”

you weren’t. not really. but your breathing had steadied, your muscles unknotted just enough to stop trembling, and your arms were curled weakly around his shoulders. it felt… safer. wrong, but safer.

he coaxed your top over your head with ease, discarding it like it meant nothing. his hands were warm and slow as they skimmed over your skin, trailing reverent touches across your ribs and stomach.

“let me take care of you,” he murmured, more command than offer, but spoken like a promise. “you were scared without me. i know. i felt it.”

his mouth moved to your chest, kissing your collarbone, then lower. when he sucked your nipple into his mouth, you flinched, but didn’t stop him. the heat of his tongue, the way he hummed low in his throat when you arched into him—it made your stomach twist, shame and need tangled too tight to separate.

“you don’t have to think,” he murmured, his palm sliding down your side. “just let yourself feel.”

you should’ve said no. you didn't want his presence right? but you didn’t push him away, instead clung closer to him whispering a breathy okay. because your limbs still felt heavy, your brain still foggy with the memory of isolation and the cold silence of the bunk.

and his hands were so warm.

he kissed his way down your stomach, pausing to bite gently at your hip before nudging your thighs apart with his palms. his eyes flicked up, reading your expression in the low light. your breath hitched.

“tell me to stop,” he said. his voice was calm, but something coiled underneath it. “i’ll stop if you ask.”

you didn’t. you couldn’t.

and that was enough.

his mouth met your folds with agonising slowness, tongue sliding through you like he already knew exactly where to touch. he teased you with slow flicks, warm and wet, circling your clit until your hips twitched, then pulling away just to hear you whine. you hated how quickly your body betrayed you.

“you’re already dripping,” he murmured into your skin. “sweet thing… you missed this too, didn’t you?”

his fingers slipped into you without resistance, two of them stretching you gently. the stretch made you gasp, your walls clenching around him instinctively. he crooked them slightly—finding a spot that made you buck, unbidden—and smiled against your thigh.

“so sensitive,” he cooed, kissing the inside of your knee. “so good for me, even now.”

he kept going until your legs were trembling, slick pooling where his wrist met your body. you were panting, eyes hazy, brain empty of anything but the rhythm of his fingers and the hot drag of his mouth against your clit.

when he finally pulled back, you almost whimpered at the loss.

he stripped without a word, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound between you. when he hovered over you again, cock in hand, he paused at your entrance.

“i’ll go slow,” he said. “i want you to feel everything.”

he pushed in with a groan, hips moving with infuriating control, stretching you inch by inch. the burn was real. but so was the way you clenched around him, the way your legs wrapped around his waist out of instinct.

“fuck,” he breathed, resting his forehead against yours. “you feel like you were made for me.”

his rhythm started slow—careful, deep thrusts that filled you completely, his fingers locked with yours on the sheets. his other hand hovered at your throat again, resting lightly as if to say remember who’s in control.

and still, you didn’t push him away.

you didn’t want to.

you’d tried to sleep alone, and it had nearly broken you. here, at least, you could pretend his touch was warmth and not some strange obsession.

he moaned when you clenched around him, and his thrusts picked up pace, harder now, deeper. the bed creaked beneath you, his hips slapping into yours with a rhythm that turned everything else to static.

“you’re mine,” he growled, breath hot against your ear. “you know you’re mine.”

your orgasm hit with sudden force, tearing through you like a cracked dam. you cried out, shaking, your nails digging into his back.

jungwon swore, driving into you once—twice—before he spilled inside you with a shudder, pressing in so deep it felt like he was trying to disappear inside your body.

neither of you moved for a long time. he stayed buried in you, breath shallow, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

“you won’t ask to be alone again,” he whispered against your hair. “will you?”

you didn’t answer. your eyes were already drifting closed.

he pulled the blanket up and curled around you, possessive and still, his fingers tracing lazy shapes across your stomach, like he didn't want to stop touching you.

“good girl,” he said softly. “sleep now.”

and you did, not because you felt safe.

but because you were too tired to be afraid.

the next night, jungwon’s fingers interlaced with yours in the dark, his grip just shy of painful.

"i want to show you something," he murmured, his breath warm against your temple. you hadn’t even heard him approach—he moved through these rotting halls like a shadow given form.

"it’s late," you whispered back, your voice hoarse from disuse. the words tasted like a lie because you both knew time didn’t exist here.

jungwon’s thumb stroked your knuckles, a mockery of comfort. "it’s always late here," he said, pulling you to your feet with effortless strength. "come on."

he led you to the broken diving board—the one with cracks spiderwebbing through its surface like veins. you’d passed it a hundred times, maybe more. but tonight, under the flickering glow of the emergency lights, something was different.

"watch," jungwon breathed, pressing your palm flat against what looked like solid wall.

beneath your fingers, the surface pulsed like a heartbeat before peeling away with a wet, tearing sound. your stomach lurched as a hidden alcove revealed itself, the air inside stale and thick with the scent of mildew and something sweet.

"what is this?" you choked out, trying to recoil, but jungwon’s arm banded around your waist, holding you in place.

"ours," he said simply, stepping inside and dragging you with him.

the shelves were lined with artifacts—your waterpark nametag, the plastic slightly warped as if melted. your favourite silver bracelet, the clasp broken, the chain tangled in on itself like a strangled snake. the hoodie you’d been wearing that first night, the fabric stiff with dried pool water and something darker.

"the place gave me these," jungwon murmured, running his fingers over each item with reverence.

his nails scraped against the nametag, the sound making your teeth ache. "it knew you belonged here." he turned to face you then, his eyes glowing an unnatural blue in the dim light. "just like i do."

your breath came in short, sharp bursts. "that’s not—that’s not possible."

jungwon stepped closer, the wall sealing shut behind him with a wet, sucking sound.

"you feel it, don’t you?" his hand rose to cup your cheek, his skin fever-hot against yours. "the way the water stills when you touch it? the way the lights flicker when you’re scared?"

his thumb brushed your lower lip, his grip tightening when you tried to turn away.

"you were always meant to be mine."

you wanted to scream. wanted to claw at his face until that smug certainty bled out of him. but your throat closed up, your voice abandoning you just as it had so many times before.

jungwon’s lips crashed into yours, wet and cold like the slide that had brought you here. his teeth caught your bottom lip, sharp enough to draw blood. the taste of him flooded your mouth—chlorine and copper and something alive, something wrong. behind you, the pool water began to ripple without any disturbance, parting in perfect symmetry as if making way for something unseen.

"see?" he panted against your mouth, his fingers tangling in your hair to keep you close. "even it knows."

the days bled together after that. you watched, numb, as the backrooms bent to jungwon’s will.

you sat cross-legged by the pool’s edge, trailing your fingers through water that had gone suspiciously still. jungwon watched you from a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest.

"make it move," he said suddenly, nodding toward the water.

you blinked. "what?"

"the water." he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing yours whole. "try."

you shook your head. "i can’t—"

"try," he repeated, his voice hardening.

you swirled your hand through the water, creating weak ripples that died almost immediately.

jungwon sighed, crouching beside you. "you’re thinking too small."

he placed his palm flat against the surface, and the water recoiled as if burned, forming a perfect circle around his skin.

"it’s not about force. it’s about knowing." his eyes locked onto yours. "knowing this place is yours."

you swallowed hard. "i don’t want it."

jungwon’s smile was all teeth. "liar."

the punishments grew subtler but no less cruel. when you tested him—when you asked one too many questions or pulled away from his touch—the backrooms themselves turned against you.

"why won’t you let me leave?" you demanded one night, your voice cracking.

jungwon, who had been humming under his breath while braiding a strand of your hair around his finger, went very still.

"leave?" he repeated, the word dripping with amusement. "oh, sweet thing. there’s nowhere to go."

the lights chose that moment to flicker violently before plunging you into darkness. something wet dripped onto your shoulder from above. jungwon’s fingers found yours in the dark, his grip vise-like.

"shh," he murmured, though you hadn’t made a sound. "it’s just angry you’d even ask."

when the lights returned, his knuckles were smeared with something dark and glistening. you didn’t ask.

sleep became your only respite, though even that was tainted. jungwon insisted you rest curled against him, his arms banded around your waist like living restraints.

"sing to me," he’d whisper into the nape of your neck on the bad nights, when the walls groaned a little too loudly.

his voice would curl around words you didn’t recognise, the language guttural and wrong.

"it’s an old lullaby," he explained once when you stiffened. "the first thing this place taught me."

sometimes he’d disappear for what felt like hours, returning with his hands stained rust-red under the nails and a smile that made your stomach drop.

"someone else got lost," he’d say, wiping his fingers clean on a towel that was somehow always pristine afterwards.

his eyes would roam your face hungrily, as if comparing.

"but they weren’t you."

the unspoken always hung heavy between you—they weren’t special. they weren’t his.

eventually, he began allowing you to explore—always with him, always with his hand clamped firmly around yours. the invisible leash between you grew shorter each day, tightening whenever you strayed too far.

"why do you hold my hand so tight?" you asked once, your voice barely above a whisper.

jungwon stopped walking, turning to face you. the hallway seemed to hold its breath around you. "because i can’t trust you yet," he said simply, his free hand brushing your cheek. "but you’re learning."

you held his hand not just out of fear, but because his skin was the only warmth left in this rotting place. because the hollow in your chest ached when he wasn’t near. because you couldn’t remember what your reflection had looked like before it started smiling at you with too many teeth.

the pool became your twisted mirror. no matter how still you stood, how blank you kept your face, your reflection always grinned back—wider each time, its eyes darker, its features sharpening into something that wasn’t quite yours anymore.

"she likes you," jungwon said one day as you stared at your warped reflection, his chin hooked over your shoulder. his lips brushed the shell of your ear. "she knows you’re staying."

and now it felt like you did too.

the tallest slide loomed before you—the same one that had first swallowed you whole months (or was it years?) ago. only now, it twisted upward into the flickering fluorescent void, its plastic edges blackened and glistening like the inside of a living throat. you could feel it breathing, each pulse of the structure sending warm, damp air washing over your face. jungwon stood behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist in a mockery of tenderness, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both stared into the abyss.

"it's beautiful, isn't it?" he murmured, his lips brushing your ear.

his fingers traced idle patterns on your stomach through your thin shirt.

"i've been waiting so long to show you this."

your throat tightened as the slide emitted a low, wet hum that vibrated through your shoes and up your spine.

"what... what is it?"

jungwon chuckled, the sound dripping with amusement.

"it's our way forward, sweet thing."

one hand rose to cup your chin, tilting your face toward the spiralling darkness.

"this one leads deeper. to where the water is warm and the lights never flicker," his thumb brushed your lower lip, "where nothing can ever separate us."

you swallowed hard, your pulse rabbiting in your throat. "i don't understand."

"you will."

his arms tightened around you, pulling you back flush against his chest. you could feel his heartbeat against your shoulder blades.

"it's where we belong. where you've always belonged."

when you turned in his arms to face him, your hands came up instinctively to brace against his chest. jungwon was already smiling, his dark eyes gleaming with something ancient and hungry. up close, you could see the way his pupils dilated—not round anymore, but slit like a cat's. when had that happened?

"we'll be happy there," he promised, his voice dropping to a whisper.

his fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. "no more running. no more fear. just you and me. forever."

the word hung between you, heavy and final.

you searched his face—the boy who had fed you when you were starving, who had shackled you when you tried to leave, who had kissed you with teeth that were just a little too sharp. the only constant in this endless, rotting nightmare.

"what happens to me if i say no?" you whispered.

jungwon's smile didn't waver, but something dark flickered in his eyes. behind him, the walls groaned, the sound wet and pained. a single drop of black liquid oozed from the ceiling, landing with a splat between your feet.

"oh, my love," he sighed, brushing your hair back from your face with terrifying gentleness. "that's not an option."

the slide pulsed again, the hum rising to a fever pitch that made your teeth ache. your reflection in the pool behind you grinned, wider than any human mouth should allow.

jungwon's hands slid down to grip your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh there.

"trust me," he murmured, his lips grazing yours. "you want this."

and the terrible thing was—

you did.

you took a shuddering breath, your fingers curling into his shirt. jungwon's smile widened, triumphant and tender all at once. his forehead pressed against yours as the slide's opening stretched wider, the darkness inside beckoning.

"together?" you whispered, the word tasting like surrender.

jungwon's laugh was warm against your lips. "always."

you closed your eyes—

and let yourself fall.

ALTERNATE ENDING

you found it again.

the tallest water slide in the entire park—the one that had pulled you into the nightmare when this all began. even after everything, it was still here, standing exactly where you remembered it, though now it shimmered faintly with a green glow that pulsed gently from within the tunnel’s mouth.

jungwon stood beside you, just slightly behind your shoulder. he didn’t say a word. his silence was heavier than any threat he’d ever spoken aloud.

when you turned to glance at him, the absence of expression on his face was more unsettling than any of his smiles. he wasn’t smiling now. there was no softness, no cold affection, not even the hint of disappointment.

“it leads out, doesn’t it?” you asked, your voice quiet and unsteady, though you already knew the answer.

it had to lead out. you felt it. everything in your chest ached with the possibility.

jungwon didn’t answer. instead, he reached for your wrist. his fingers curled around it tightly—not enough to hurt, but firm in a way that told you he was prepared to hold on if you ran.

“it doesn’t matter,” he said eventually.

his voice was calm, too calm, as though your desperation was something he didn’t need to take seriously.

“you don’t want to leave.”

but he was wrong.

you did.

you wanted to leave more than you had ever wanted anything in your life. your body was already bracing to run, every instinct firing all at once. your heart pounded in your chest, loud and fast, and your mouth had gone dry with the weight of the decision forming behind your teeth.

the tunnel wouldn’t stay open forever. the backrooms would shift again. the slide could vanish. and jungwon—he wouldn’t give you another chance. if you hesitated now, if you gave him even one second longer to read your fear, he would never let you get close to this kind of freedom again.

you looked at him—really looked. at the boy who had trapped you with soft hands and quieter lies. who fed you, touched you, claimed to protect you from the things out there when he had become the worst thing in here. the fear in your chest rose like bile.

“jungwon,” you breathed, but the rest never came out.

instead, you ripped your arm free.

his fingers slipped from your skin, and before he could react, you turned and sprinted toward the tunnel, your bare feet slapping loudly against the damp tile. you didn’t look back. you couldn’t.

he called your name, but it came out ragged—loud and broken in a way that didn’t sound human. his voice echoed across the walls of the abandoned park like something that belonged underground.

but you kept running.

you threw yourself into the slideheadfirst, and it swallowed you without hesitation.

the slide gripped you instantly, and the light blurred as you careened downward. the curves of the tunnel twisted your body in every direction, and each sharp turn sent jolts of pain up your spine. the green glow surrounded you, too bright and too close, pressing in like it wanted to consume you. your lungs burned with the pressure, and your arms flailed for anything to hold onto, but the walls were smooth and slick.

you were falling, spiralling, unmoored in a tunnel that didn’t feel like it was ever meant to end.

and then, just as suddenly, it did.

you hit the ground hard, the concrete beneath you unforgiving and wet. the impact knocked the wind out of your lungs, and you lay there for a moment, stunned and breathless. the world spun behind your eyelids as you coughed, your body shaking violently.

but then you realised something was different.

the air you were breathing—it was real. it wasn’t thick with that damp, humming rot of the backrooms. it was cool and dry, laced with the familiar scent of chlorine, dust, and cheap coffee. the silence around you had edges again. and above you, warm sunlight filtered through cracked skylights, casting real shadows onto the floor.

this was the waterpark.

the real one. the one that didn't stretch endlessly into pools of nightmare

you were back.

you pushed yourself upright, palms scraping against rough tile, and looked around with wide, disbelieving eyes.

everything was where it should be. the vending machines stood in their proper place. the lazy river looped around peacefully in the distance. the walls were solid. your own breathing echoed back to you. you had made it.

you had escaped.

your chest clenched as a sob rose up from your throat, and before you could stop it, you were crying. laughing and crying at the same time.

you curled your arms around yourself and let it all out, letting your body shake with the unbearable mix of relief and exhaustion.

you were safe.

you had finally done it!

but then, just as you began to steady your breathing, a sound broke through the quiet.

it came from above, from deep within the vents lining the ceiling—soft at first, almost unnoticeable. but as it grew louder, the shape of it became clear. it was a whistle.

your breath caught in your throat. the sound was too familiar, it was the same off-key melody jungwon always hummed when he thought you were sleeping.

the first footprint appeared in the puddle you'd left behind—larger than yours, the edges too perfectly defined against the concrete. then another, materialising closer as if someone invisible was walking toward you. the water in the lazy river began to ripple against its current, forming patterns that looked disturbingly like grasping fingers.

your hands shook as the lights above you flickered once, twice, before plunging the park into darkness.

the temperature dropped so fast your breath fogged in the air, the hairs on your arms standing on end as the silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

then suddenly, cold fingers brushed against your ankle, their grip tightening like a vice.

"did you really think," jungwon's voice whispered from right behind you, his breath chilling the nape of your neck, "that i'd let you go that easily?”

“i will make you mine no matter what”

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[differenteagletragedy]

In which Simon Riley meets a distressed single mom at the park and is immediately LOCKED IN.

Here's Part Two and Part Three and Part Four and Part Five and Part Six and Part Seven and Part Eight and Part Nine :)

Simon likes going for walks.

It's an easy way to eat up time when he's on leave -- every minute he's walking is another minute he doesn't have to sit staring at the walls in his cold, dull apartment. And this way, he gets to see all sorts of things, trees and flowers, beautiful buildings and people that he passes by so quickly that he can almost convince himself they're beautiful too.

He doesn't think highly enough of himself to believe that he can truly have any of these things. That's why his apartment is bare bones, sparsely furnished with only the necessities, nothing even close to a frill in sight. But on his walks, he can catch little glimpses. He's been telling himself for so long that this is enough that most of the time, he believes it.

Then he met you. And now, suddenly none of it matters -- what he believes he deserves, what he thinks he can get by with, none of it. Because for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he's filled with such an exquisite, excruciating rush of want that it drowns out everything else, floods all the ugly little nooks and crannies in his mind and his heart until all that's left is you.

It happened at the park. Not the big one he walks by sometimes in the nicer part of town, with its brand new shiny jungle gym and the constant crowd of children and parents and nannies and noise -- no, it was at the small little rundown one closer to home. The one that's almost always vacant, which is probably one of the reasons why he noticed you there.

Another, much more notable reason would be the way you were nearly screeching, your voice filled with panic and fear as you stood by one of the tall slides.

Simon heard you from a distance, and when he was close enough to see you, it was easy enough to figure out why. You were standing there, your belly big and swollen with child, looking up at a little boy with your complexion and hair color as he stood by the railing of the steps leading up to the slide.

"Get down right this instant," he heard you hiss when he snuck even closer. "Charlie, i swear to God, this isn't funny, get down."

The boy, with a playful, terrorizing little smile Simon could make out from a distance, shook his head, replying, "You come get me."

And there was the problem. You couldn't get up the narrow little staircase of that part of the playground with your pregnant belly, and the boy wouldn't come down on his own. Simon surveyed the park once more, but he already knew there was no one else there. You were alone, no husband to step in and take care of things.

At this point, he was strolling along the sidewalk beside the park, trying to decide if he wanted to help or not. On one hand, you seemed a little desperate, but on the other, he didn't want to frighten you even more. He knows how imposing he can be, and at least in these kinds of situations, he's mindful of it.

Then he hears it: a frustrated, choked little sob from you. That made up his mind.

"All right?" he asked carefully, slowly approaching you.

You jumped at the sound of his voice, your hand instinctively going to cradle your bump, then glanced back up at the boy.

"We're fine," you told Simon. "We're just waiting on my husband to come back, then we'll call it a day."

It was a weak lie -- he'd already clocked that you weren't wearing a wedding ring, nor did you have a tan line there, but even if he didn't go on that, you were just not a good liar. He might have laughed at your attempt to brush him off, but then little boy put his hands on the railing and leaned over it to greet him, and your nervous gasp brought him back to the situation at hand.

"Charlie, stop," you barked, an authoritative mom voice if he'd ever heard one. But Charlie, it seemed, was a headstrong little thing, and he simply laughed and began jumping, apparently not noticing or caring that his reckless behavior was causing you so much stress.

"Could get him down for you, if you like."

He didn't know why he said that. Why he even thought to offer. But you looked up at him, really looked at him with those wide, teary eyes, and he knew he'd do that and so much more, if only you'd let him.

"I can't ... it's ok, you don't have to do that," you replied, still hesitant to accept the help from the big, bulking stranger.

"'Course I don't have to," he answered simply. "Just trying to help."

You glance between him and the boy once more, and you even give Charlie one more chance to listen and come down on his own, but he just shrieked with laughter, pleased to be the center of attention, so you just sighed and gave Simon a nod.

He easily climbs up the tall metal structure, squeezing his wide body up the narrow steps to where the boy stood. Then he stopped.

He's not a people person by any stretch of the imagination, so of course he's not a kid person either. He's never interacted with them much, so as stilted and closed-off as he is with most adults, he's even more clueless with children.

He didn't know if he should pick him up and carry him down to you, maybe push him to the slide to get down that way. He also considered that maybe he shouldn't even touch him at all, but that left talking to the kid, which didn't sound great either.

Luckily for Simon, Charlie was chatty enough for both of them.

"Never seen you here before," he told Simon. "You're too big for the slides."

"Not here for the slide," he said, his gaze drifting back to you where you stood below, watching anxiously. "Why don't you get back down there before you give your poor mum a heart attack?"

"I'm not supposed to listen to strangers."

"That so?" Simon asked. "Supposed to listen to your mum though, yeah?"

That easy bit of logic seemed to trip Charlie up, and Simon smirked, then nodded to the slide.

"Go on, then."

The child let out a dramatic sigh, then climbed the rest of the way up the steps and went down the slide. Simon watched you rush to the bottom of it, swiftly grabbing his hand when it came within reach.

"Thank you so much," you told him when he climbed his way back to the ground, your earlier trepidation gone, seemingly with relief. "He usually listens better than that, and I couldn't ..."

"No need," he said gruffly, cutting off your explanation. "Just glad I could help."

You gave him a smile, and just for a moment, he let himself think of things he never allowed himself to imagine. A life in which he not only had a family, but this family -- a family where you, the boy, and the baby in your belly all belonged to him.

That's when the wanting started. And now, nearly two weeks later, Simon finds himself walking past the park, again and again, hoping to find you there. Hoping to ease the gnawing little ache that began knocking around his chest that day, to see what he now believes could be the most beautiful thing this ugly world has to offer.

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

reader and rafe sneaking behind sarahs back.

❛ SNEAKING INTO BESTFRIEND¡BROTHER¡RAFE TO FUCK ❜

sneaky¡reader . . . rafe cameron

You glance at the clock on her nightstand—1:17 a.m. Sarah’s breaths are slowing, her eyelids fluttering as sleep creeps in. Your heart thuds against your ribcage, a wild, reckless rhythm. You’ve been waiting for this moment all night, the one where she drifts off and you can slip away.

The guilt gnaws at you, sharp and insistent, but it’s drowned out by the heat pooling low in your belly, the anticipation that’s been building since Rafe shot you that look earlier—dark, hungry, a promise wrapped in a smirk—when you passed him in the hallway. He doesn’t care if Sarah finds out.

He’s made that clear, his hands always finding your skin too easily, his voice rough when he whispers that he’d take you right in front of her if you’d let him. But you care. She’s your best friend. So you’ve kept it quiet, kept it hidden. For now.

Sarah mumbles something incoherent, rolling onto her side, her blonde hair fanning across the pillow. You wait, holding your breath until her chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm.

She’s out. Carefully, you peel back the covers, your bare feet hitting the cool hardwood floor. You’re in nothing but a thin tank top and a pair of cotton shorts, the fabric clinging to your skin in the sticky heat.

The house is silent save for the distant crash of waves beyond the Camerons’ sprawling estate, and you tiptoe toward the door, every creak of the floorboards amplifying your pulse. You ease it open, slipping into the hallway like a shadow.

Rafe’s room is at the far end, past the grand staircase and the framed family photos that line the walls—pictures of a younger Sarah beaming, a younger Rafe brooding even then.

Your bare feet pad silently against the polished wood, and when you reach his door, you hesitate. The brass knob is cold in your palm, and for a split second, you almost turn back. But then you hear it—a faint rustle from inside, the sound of him waiting. You twist the knob and slip in, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

The room smells like him—cologne, sharp and musky, mixed with the faint bite of weed. Moonlight spills through the open blinds, casting silver stripes across the floor, illuminating Rafe where he lounges on his bed.

He’s shirtless, his broad chest rising and falling, a pair of gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. His hair’s messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his eyes lock onto you the second you step inside—blue and piercing, stripping you bare without a word. He doesn’t move at first, just watches you, a slow, predatory grin curling his lips.

“Took you long enough,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, barely above a whisper. He pats the space beside him, but there’s no invitation in it—it’s a command.

You cross the room, your breath hitching as you climb onto the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, and before you can settle, his hands are on you—rough, calloused fingers gripping your hips, pulling you astride his lap.

Your thighs straddle him, the heat of his body searing through the thin fabric of your shorts, and you bite your lip to stifle a gasp. “We have to be quiet,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and need. His grin widens, wicked and unrepentant.

“Then you better try harder than last time,” he teases, his lips brushing your ear, hot breath sending a shiver down your spine.

His hands slide up your sides, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts through your tank top, and you arch into him before you can stop yourself.

He chuckles, a dark, rumbling sound that vibrates against your chest, and then his mouth is on your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin just below your jaw.

You clamp a hand over your mouth, muffling the whimper that threatens to spill out. The house is too still, too quiet—every sound feels like it could shatter the fragile bubble you’ve built around this moment. Sarah’s just down the hall. If she wakes up, if she hears…

Rafe doesn’t care. His fingers dig into your hips, grinding you down against him, and you feel him harden beneath you, the bulge in his sweatpants pressing insistently against your core. “Fuck, you’re soaked already,” he mutters, voice hoarse as he slips a hand beneath your shorts, finding you bare underneath.

His fingers slide through your slickness, slow and deliberate, and your head falls back, a silent cry trapped in your throat. You grip his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, desperate for an anchor as he works you open, circling your clit with maddening precision.

“Rafe,” you breathe, barely audible, a plea and a warning all at once. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his gaze dark and feral. “You want me to stop?” he asks, but he doesn’t mean it—his fingers don’t stop, don’t even slow.

You shake your head, helpless, and he smirks. “Good girl.” Then he’s shifting, flipping you onto your back so fast the air rushes out of you.

The sheets tangle beneath you, cool against your heated skin, and he’s hovering above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other yanking your shorts down your legs.

You’re exposed now, trembling and vulnerable, and he takes a moment to drink you in—his eyes roving over your body like he’s memorizing every inch.

Then he’s shoving his sweatpants down just enough to free himself, thick and heavy in his hand as he strokes once, twice, before lining up with you. “Quiet,” he warns, a glint of amusement in his voice, and then he’s pushing in, slow and relentless.

Stretching you until you’re clawing at his back, teeth sinking into your own lip to keep from crying out.

The fullness is overwhelming, a delicious burn that has your toes curling, and he doesn’t stop until he’s buried to the hilt, his breath ragged against your throat.

“Fuck,” he groans, so soft it’s almost lost in the rustle of the sheets. He starts to move, hips rocking into you with a steady, punishing rhythm, and the bed creaks faintly beneath you—a sound that makes your stomach lurch.

You grab his face, pulling him down to kiss you, swallowing his grunts and your own moans as his tongue tangles with yours, messy and desperate.

Every thrust sends a jolt through you, the pressure building low and tight, and you wrap your legs around his waist, urging him deeper.

His hand slides between you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles that have you teetering on the edge. “Come on,” he whispers against your lips, “let go for me.”

It’s too much—the risk, the heat, the way he fills you—and you shatter, clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash over you.

You bury your face in his shoulder, biting down to muffle the sound, and he follows seconds later, spilling inside you with a choked groan, his body shuddering against yours.

For a moment, you just lie there, panting, the world narrowing to the thud of his heartbeat against your chest. Then reality creeps back in—the quiet house, Sarah asleep down the hall.

You push at him, and he rolls off you with a lazy grin, pulling you against his side. “You’re gonna get us caught one of these days,” he murmurs, but there’s no remorse in it. You swat his chest, half-playful, half-panicked, and slip out of bed, tugging your shorts back on with shaky hands.

He watches you go, unapologetic, and you slip back into the hall, the taste of him still on your lips, the ache of him still between your thighs.

Back in Sarah’s room, you slide under the covers, her soft snores filling the silence. Your heart’s still racing, your body still humming, and you stare at the ceiling, wondering how long you can keep this up—how long before it all falls apart.

𓂅 notes ―

return home ⸝⸝

©RAFESGREASYCURTAINBANGS ꪆৎ est. 2025

[avatar-of-the-web]

If you asked me 4 years ago if a system like mine could exist and described it as it is now. Well I probably wouldn't have said no but I would've been completely astounded still.

[8lyme]

Heat Rises

Logan Howlett x f!Reader

SUMMARY: The mansion is boiling hot

WARNINGS: excessive use of italicisation, borderline dirty thoughts, makeout scene bc that's the best i can do, maybe ooc bc I fear I imagine Logan a little funnier than he actually is.

a/n: the ac in my room broke and inspiration struck after I doomscrolled through wolverine edits on tiktok ... chat i love men

It was hot. Boiling. Stifling.

You woke up at 2 a.m. drenched in sweat, sucking in a deep breath of hot, stale air. Grogginess fading, you stumble from your bed while pulling of your shirt and pajama pants. You open the door to the bathroom and turn the cold water on in the sink.

The heat was dripping down your back despite your lack of clothing. Overheating and still half-asleep, you stuck your head into the stream of cold water, splashing over your neck and across your shoulders.

You straighten to tie your hair up before turning the water off and running your still cold hands down your arms. The patter of thudding sounded outside your door, and you move to dress in a thin tank top and shorts.

You let your eyes adjust to the light as you began walking down the hallway of the mansion. A few children slipped out of their rooms in similar sweaty conditions to follow you down the staircase and onto the main floor.

Gathered by the professor's office were Scott, Storm, and Jean. The stray young mutants who trailed you settling around them.

"Goodmorning," You call out the the group.

"Do you know who turned this place into a boiler?" Jean asks. You both swipe sweat off your foreheads in sync while you shrug, shaking your head.

"Jesus, my glasses are gonna slide off my face," Scott complains, knocking his head against the wall in exasperation. He was shirtless, (rightfully so) wearing what you guessed were swim trunks.

"Charles is working on it," Jean put a hand on his shoulder, then quickly removing it to wipe his sweat off her hand and down the wall.

You turn to Storm, who was pulling the fabric of her tank top to fan herself off.

"Do we know where Bobby is?" You ask in search of the Iceman. You turned to scan the room, addressing the three students who followed you.

"Pretty sure him and Rogue took off before lights out," a young girl from the floor calls out. Her mutation rubberized her molecules, and her legs were in misshapen puddles - akin to flat stanley - due to the heat.

"Christ, it's fuckin' hot in here," a familiar voice groans loudly from behind you. "Nice shorts." Logan said to you before reaching your side.

"Alright fashion police," you respond in mock annoyance, offering a small smile at him. "Didn't know you worked this late."

He shot you a wink before turning away. When you caught full sight of him, your face froze and (if possible) more sweat rolled down your spine.

It was sickening how attractive he managed to look in what felt like the inside of an air fryer. Having clearly just woken up, his hair was perfectly tousled into a messier version of his normal tufts. His hair hardly looked damp despite the oiled-up glow he had on his face ...

And torso.

Fuck he was shirtless.

Although you've known Logan for the better part of a year, you unfortunately failed to experience him half-dressed. You'd been in close proximity frequently - sparring and other various training taking a large percent of that. You were friendly with each other, his acknowledgement of you with a nod whenever you walked in a room affirming he didn't hate you. You normally ate breakfast together, often offering the other the last portion of cereal or setting aside an extra cup of coffee for whoever entered the kitchen second. Within the last few months, however, after a particularly unfortunate mission gone wrong in almost every way, your friendship became more affectionate in those 'off the clock' moments.

Quick but firm hugs, slinging his arm over your shoulders, nudging each other with elbows or hips at inside jokes. He'd also been placing a hand on your back or shoulder every time he was in proximity to do so when moving behind you; in the kitchen, during briefings, even while you were grading papers in the library. He would touch your shoulder to let you know he was moving past you or going to sit next to you.

All that is to say you were aware - in theory - he was well built. He was taller and broader than you, so you made an educated guess. Theory proven, but well beyond expectations.

A month ago, you and Scott had stopped at a Texas Roadhouse an hour outside of the city after having spent two weeks clearing out a mutant experimentation lab in eastern Quebec. The plump and shine of the appetizer rolls (that you and Scott had both equally asked for seconds of) had absolutely nothing on Logan.

He damn near glistened. The dim light of the mansion sconces bronzed his skin, cutting him into an even more defined picture for you to look at. His chest expanded with each breath, shoulders and pecs slightly flexing in response. His hands lazed on his hips, if even possible causing the room's shadows to shade in the dips of his biceps and forearms. The veins of his arms just barely covered by the moisture-slicked hair covering his skin. If you had a fork and knife, you would throw them behind you to happily eat a piece of him with your hands.

You had to force yourself to swallow to shock your brain into looking anywhere else. You made an 'eaugh' sound and swiped your hands across your face. You meant it defensively, but you really were dripping into your eyes.

"I feel like I'm being waterboarded," you say disgustedly while wiping your palms on the back of your shorts. Feeling a texture that wasn't fabric, you turned your head. Glancing down, you understood Logan's earlier comment.

These shorts must have been from your freshman year of high school that somehow never got tossed or donated. They were a pair of (very) short, low-cut and dull pink velour Juicy Couture shorts with the word 'Juicy' spelled out in rhinestones on the ass. You actually felt like hurling as your body got even hotter.

You slowly turned your face away from the glittery stones on your booty to unfortunately glance in Scott's direction. His hands covering his mouth to block how obviously he was holding in a laugh.

"Scott, don't even look at me right now," you groan in exasperation, crossing your arms over yourself in attempted modesty. Scott's eyes glitter, and you snap "Keep your mouth shut" at him to no avail.

"Do your shorts say Juicy on your ass?" He snickers. "In rhinestones?"

He's cracking up now with his hands in fists over his mouth. Jean bites a smile away and looks down, shaking to stifle a giggle. You look across the room to the kids who are choking down laughter themselves.

"Oh my fucking God-uh!" you again groan out, covering your eyes. "I really liked Jersey Shore when I was in High School, guys, leave me alone!"

Storm bursts into a laugh that inspires the others to join in. You're cracking up too, mortification disappearing. You glance at Logan through your fingers, who surprisingly seems to be choking back a laugh himself.

"Storm, can't you make it snow or something to-", Logan clears his throat. "Save her from embarrassment?"

"Not how it works," She says. "I can't pull cold air or moisture out of this heat to create any snow." She looks at you and winks. "Sorry J-Wow, the shorts are staying on."

Scott about keels over with a snort before Jean thwaps him in the shoulder.

"If we bring you enough bags of ice, could you use that to cool the building down then?" Jean asks.

"In theory," Storm says. "I can stay here with the students to wait for the professor if you all don't mind searching for some. I'll need to conserve energy if I have to create a blizzard out of thin air."

"Copy. Divide and conquer," you say glancing at Logan again. The four of you turn to wander the mansion, but you stop to turn back to Storm.

"Also," you call back to her. "I'm so obviously Snooki."

Scott barks a laugh from the other corridor as you trot after Logan. He turns to meet you with a confused look on his face.

"What the fuck is a Snooki?"

---

Logan daydreamed about upper-cutting Scott with his claws unsheathed. He fantasized about throwing him down the stairs and curb-stomping him after. He imagined speeding over him on his own motorcycle and drilling him into the asphalt.

Right now, as your face flushed with embarrassment over your bedazzled booty shorts, he wished he had enacted any of those in reality so he had never, ever, heard Scott say a word about your ass.

Logan was used to waking up in a sweat, heart racing as he yelled out in anger (or fear, he couldn't tell which) from the nightmare that slipped from him the longer his eyes were open.

This time, he awoke uncomfortably hot and sprawled out diagonally above his sheets. He pushed himself up onto his knees and rubbed his eyes. He took a beat to wake himself up and stared at the clock on his nightstand blinking at 2:00 am.

He found it impossibly hotter in the hallway, swiping his palms on his pants every few steps. He regretted not scouring his room for shorts or even a pair of briefs. He moved down the stairs and rounded, following the sound of conversation. He dragged his sweaty palms across his pants again, groaning out; "Christ, it's fuckin' hot in here".

And then he almost tripped over his own feet.

You stood facing away from him, hands clasped on top of your head, in the tiniest clothing humanly possible. You wore a thin, strappy little yellow tank top that ghosted just under your ribs. In the dimmed lighting, your skin glistened, droplets of sweat gliding down your neck, your spine - fucking hell, was your sweat turning him on? - down your lower back, and -

Logan just about stopped in his tracks.

Impossibly tiny pink shorts clung to your ass, riding low on your hips. In glittering rhinestone, the word Juicy was bedazzled over the fabric. He felt like a dumb moth to a flame, trying to look like he wasn't seconds away from using his hands for some workplace misconduct.

"Nice shorts," he managed, trying to shake his head clear.

"Alright fashion police," you smirked up at him. "Didn't know you worked this late."

He winked at you, turning away to avoid staring at the beads sliding down your collar bone. Trying even harder to not imagine where the droplets would travel next.

Too focused on thinking about anything else in the world other than you, he blinked back into reality after Scott's voice grated his ears.

"Do your shorts say Juicy on your ass? In rhinestones?"

Whatever you or anyone else responds with falls on his deaf ears. The only thing he can hear is the pounding of his heart and the rush of blood. His face tightened and he clenched his jaw.

He coughed to clear his head and interject into whatever conversation he's too furious to tune in to.

"Storm, can't you make it snow or something to-", Logan paused, coughing again to catch himself from saying anything related to freezing Scott solid so he can shatter him to pieces. He settled on "Save her from embarrassment?"

Once again, Logan half-listened and half-internally plotted extreme violence, perking back in at the sound of your voice. He turned to you as you catch up with him.

"What the fuck is a Snooki?"

---

You declined to continue to explain trash TV to Logan. You settled on "It's entertaining to watch people be out of touch with reality", to which he quipped back a "That's stupid", effectively shutting you up.

The both of you wandered to the kitchen, you fanning yourself as Logan tried not to burst a blood vessel while holding to his willpower to not watch you tilt your head back and exhale while uttering whines of complaint. He decided the amount that his was sweating coupled with the lack of sleep made him delusional. That's why his brain kept trailing back to the same thought: you.

You pulled open the bottom drawer of the fridge, exposing the freezer. The rush of cool air fanned at your skin, and you signed in relief.

"Logan," you call, eyes closed. You waved him over and he leaned next to you.

"Oh my god," he quietly uttered out, eyes closing in relief. "Oh my god, this is better than sex."

You snorted and slapped your hand to your mouth.

"Logan, shut the fuck up" you giggle. He snickers back with you, shoulders shaking.

"Aw man," you groan, staring into the freezer drawer. Inside, there was an empty popsicle box, an half-eaten pint of strawberry ice cream, and an unwrapped ice-cream sandwich with freezer burn. You and Logan met each other's eyes with matching disappointed expressions.

You shut the freezer drawer, straightening up.

"I think there's a freezer in the basement lab," Logan says, sweat instantly beginning to drip down his neck.

"Aw man," you respond, lifting your arms slightly as sweat slides down you as well.

"Come on, bub," He moves around behind you. You feel the familiar ghost of his fingers against your back, but you recoil away at the thought of more heat against your body.

Logan yanked his hand away like he had been burned, gaze raking from you to his hand. You keep walking, not realizing how far behind you he's trailing.

---

He tries to shake it off, he really does. He feels stupid for letting something so small seep into his head and twist his thoughts around.

It's just because it's hot, he thinks to himself. Rationally, yes, he knows that is the answer. And yet he stupidly can't help but overthink every interaction he's had with you.

He masks it with a stony expression. The walk to the elevator is sticky and humid. When you both step in, he strays as far away from you as he can.

You've felt the shift in energy from him. He's pressed against the curved wall, arms crossed over his chest. It's palpable, but you aren't the type to pry when Logan is brooding.

He slips out of the opening doors first, relinquishing in the slightly cooler air of the lab. You trail after.

The air is awkward now. You fumble in your brain for the right words to say to him. 'Are you okay?' doesn't seem to cut it.

You've come to understand Logan. He has a complicated relationship with feelings and is awful at communication. If you don't notice the energy shift and bring it up, it isn't getting spoken about.

You follow him to a white metal crate pressed near a cabinet of saline. It's clasped shut and luckily on wheels. The precipitation on the outside confirming this is what you were looking for.

You place your hands on the corners of the crate to slide it from the wall, but Logan damn near rips it out of your hands. He shoves it across the lab towards the elevator.

You stare at him in shock and confusion. Your thoughts whir as you replay every moment from the entire day, convinced that he's pissed at you. He seems pissed. He's acting pissed.

You reach the elevator just as the door slides open. You're trying to decide if you should say something. Trying to think of a way to approach this in a way that will actually get him to talk. The air in the elevator is thick, more so with his shift in attitude than with heat.

Logan is locking himself inside his head. He can’t organize his thoughts and all he feels is stupidity. He can't understand why he's over analyzing, much less what he's over analyzing.

He doesn't know it's basically radiating off of him. Unaware that you've been staring at him to try and decipher what's wrong.

You utter out "Are you okay?" just to cut through the thick silence (and hopefully the wall he's locked himself in). You're sure he hears you, but the sliding of the door gives him the perfect opportunity to continue to ignore you.

Again, you trail after him. The wheels scrape against the hardwood, a testament to how hard he is pressing into the metal.

You're confused, sweaty, and almost on the verge of nonconsensual tears when you reach Storm and the other kids. The girl from the floor has turned into mostly puddle. Everything besides the tip of her shoulders and up are deflated to the wood. The other kids have spread to the floor themselves.

Logan shoves the crate towards Storm.

"Alright," he says curtly, once again crossing his arms. "Cool this shit down."

You fiddle with your fingers as Storm unlatches the metal. Her eyes gloss over to a milky white while she lifts the lid. The temperature drops almost instantly, and you begin to shiver.

"Done," She says, blinking away the glaze. "Charles said that-"

"Great," Logan cuts her off with a slam of the metal lid. He slides it around before moving back towards the elevator. You glance back and forth between Storm and Logan for a second. When you meet her confused expression, she gestures back towards him.

Ignoring the comfort of your sheets and lack of emotional drainage, you jog after Logan.

---

He huffs at you when you reach his side.

"I can push a metal box by myself," he says dismissively.

"Okay," you say, just to get something in the air. "Am I not allowed to come with you?"

You regret even speaking anyways as he scoffs at you, kicking the crate into the opening of the sliding door. It hits the wall with a loud clang. You flinch, but you're more concerned about him to not slip into the door at the last second.

You hug yourself as you start to shiver. Logan rolls his eyes, crosses his arms, and turns away from you to lean against the wall. For the third time tonight.

You are racking your brain. Screaming at yourself to say something, literally any words at all. It feels like you've been panic-searching your thoughts for anything to say for a while.

"Are we not moving?" You ask. You wait for an answer before repeating, calling him by name and moving to stand in front of him.

He huffs before standing straight. After a beat, he says "We're not."

"Shit, how should we -" You start, but are cut of by the metallic unsheathing of Logan's Claws. In a blur he rears back and slices through the door, scraping three parallel lines across the metal.

"Jesus Christ, Logan!" You snap out at him. The glare he gives you while his claws sink into his skin makes you back up into the wall.

"What the hell is your problem?" you say evenly.

He scoffs at you, muttering out "Don't know what you're talking about."

"You just sliced the wall open," You point out, gesturing to said wall. "And you're acting like you're pissed at me"

"You're imagining things," he says back, resuming his position against the wall with his arms folded.

"Oh, that's bullshit. You're literally sulking in the corner and you want to tell me that isn't happening."

Logan stays silent. You almost expect him to turn into the wall so he can pretend to not see you.

"Logan," you say, trying to catch his eyes. "Why can't you be upfront with me? It's very easy to say 'Hey, you pissed me off because of this' or 'Oh, something sparked a bad memory' or, I don't know, 'I don't want to talk about it' "

"I don't want to talk about it," he responds. You smack the back of your head into the wall behind you in exasperation.

"Oh my god, obviously that was just an example. Please just tell me what's wrong."

Logan raises his eyes to meet yours for just a second. You catch his gaze, and you can tell that he wants to tell you. When you quietly say his name he looks away.

"Logan, you’re being mean." Your eyes flick over him, trying to catch any more indication that he'll open up. He stays stoick, stubborn piece of shit. You decide to wait just a moment longer before giving up. If he's going to be this adamant about whatever happened, you aren't about to keep fighting him on it.

"Okay, you’re pissing me off and I give up" You spit, sinking to the floor. You draw your legs up and fold into yourself, the chill of the room sinking into your skin.

It takes a long, awkward amount of time sitting in silence before you her Logan speak.

"You're cold," he states.

"No, I'm not," you say into your arms. Shivering.

"You look cold," he once again states plainly.

"I'm not, stop talking to me."

"I thought you wanted me to talk," Logan retorts at you. You look up at him over your arms, seeing a smug look on his face.

"Yeah, if the words you say are 'Hey, I'm sorry I'm being a dickhead and shoving stuff around and slicing into walls and ignoring you. I'm just thinking about X,Y and Z, which is making me feel X,Y and Z,' and then I would say 'Oh my gosh Logan, I had no idea! I'm so sorry, I wish you told me so I didn't make a big deal out of it because I thought you hated me!" You snap at him, mocking his voice for emphasis.

He blinks at you, and you move your head back into your arms.

"I don't hate you," he says quietly.

"You're acting like it."

"I don't."

The softness in his voice makes you sigh. You decide to take it easy on him, and ask him to come to you.

"What?" he asks, hesitation evident in his tone.

"Can you come sit next to me, please?" You ask softly.

"Why?" he asks, and you roll your eyes.

"Because I'm cold and you run much warmer than I do."

He moves and sinks down beside you, thankfully. You scooch closer until your arm is against his. The warmth of his body radiates against yours.

"Can you please talk to me?" you break the silence. The smallness in your voice chips away at his resolve, but his pride is still in the way. He's embarrassed enough about being upset in the first place, he can hardly stand (much less find the words) to say anything to you.

"Look, I'll literally cover my eyes so I'm not even looking at you," you offer, covering your eyes with your palms. "Please, just tell me."

"It's stupid," Logan says, pride dwindling down.

"I don't care, I promise. Please, Logan," You plead.

He sighs loudly, searching for the right words. He stutters out a few syllables before managing a sentence.

"In the kitchen earlier, you flinched away from me. I don't know. Didn't feel great."

Your hands dropped from your face. He was staring down at the floor. He looked embarrassed, maybe downright ashamed. You gently placed a hand on his arm.

"Logan, I'm sorry. It was just so hot and I felt all gross and sweaty. I didn't mean anything by it, I swear."

"Okay," he says, but his eyes never left the floor.

"And that's not stupid. I freak out over the tiniest things in the world."

"Yeah?" he huffs out a small laugh, finally turning to you.

"Yes, duh, I'm a girl. One time you didn't sit in the stool right next to me and I had to suck my tears back in and I thought about it for two days straight," you told him.

"Because I didn't sit next to you?" he teases, and you push off of his arm in mock annoyance.

"Yes, I'm not kidding. I remember once when you came back from a mission you ignored me when I said 'hi' to you on the stairs and locked yourself in your room for almost two days. I was genuinely convinced you wanted me dead and I couldn't function until you'd brought me toast because you thought I was sick."

"You weren't sick?" He raises an eyebrow at you.

"No! I thought you wanted me to jump into oncoming traffic!" You laugh at yourself, feeling ridiculous after replaying those few days back in your head.

"Okay, okay, I get what you mean. I don't want you dead, by the way. Never will." His face has relaxed and the tension in the air completely dissipated. You tilted to rest your head on his shoulder, relishing in his body heat and enjoying the comfortable silence.

"Seems like I get you pretty worked up, huh?" Logan smiles to himself, knowing he'll get a rise out of you.

"I'm not answering that," you snort, giving him a side eye.

"Are you kidding me?" He says in a deadpan.

"No! I'm not answering that," you sputter, forcing an even tone out of yourself. "Why'd you get so upset about me moving away from you?" You shoot back.

"I'm not answering that," he says, and you now shove him away jokingly.

"Oh, come on!"

You both start to giggle at each other, needing to look at anywhere except at the other. Weight has been lifted off both of your chests, being stuck in the elevator long forgotten.

"So," Logan speaks, letting the word hang in the air for a second. He wonders if the feelings he's completely sure are mutual should remain unspoken. "Are either of us gonna do anything about," he gestures to the both of you. "Or..."

"Oh man, I was wondering which one of us was going to take the bait first," you giggle out to mask the nervousness settling in your chest. "You almost had me, I never figured you'd say anything."

"Did I?" He asks. You turn to him and meet his gaze, smirking at him. You hum happily after a few seconds, turning away from him to lean on his arm once more.

"So," Logan says again, so you mock him and echo the word back.

"So," he tries again, obviously wanting a certain response from you. You bite, looking at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

"Oh my god, you can just kiss me. I'm cold, I'm not moving my arms," you say to him, earning a short laugh from him.

Logan moves and scoops you into him, sandwiching your arms between both your bodies. You slide one of your hands up him so that your fingertips reach his collarbone. His nose is just touching yours, and he tilts, barely touching your lips.

"So," he whispers against you. You snort and shove his face away with your free hand.

"Okay, nevermind! Get away from me!" You giggle, Logan following suit.

You feel Logan's hand move to the back of your neck, and you blink at him a few times with a small smile. Finally, he leans down to kiss you. You snake your free hand up to the side of his neck and grasp onto a few tufts of his soft hair. He leans into your touch slightly, so your curl your fingers in response.

One of his arms releases you to brace the floor for support, the other moving to hold you tighter. His fingers splayed across your shoulder blade as you slip your other arm out. You slide your hand up the side of his abdomen, almost moaning when the feeling of his back muscles reach your fingers.

You both pull away for a second to breathe before diving back into each other. Logan pulls you towards him, hand that was on the floor now sliding down your side to squeeze at the flesh of your hips.

He pulls back from you and presses and open mouthed kiss just under your ear. You crane your head back in response while feeling your way up the front of his body. Your fingers dip over the curves of his abs and over his chest, and then slide over his shoulder and down his arms. You think about the glisten of his body earlier in the night, the shadows of his muscular biceps and forearms.

"You and these damn shorts," he groans between the kisses he's now leaving on your collar. You let out a breathy laugh.

"I'll take them off later, they don't even fit," you say, pulling his face up so you can kiss him again.

"I hope you'll let me help," he says into your open mouth, causing you to squeeze your thighs together as you heat up.

The shrieking sound of metal against metal surrounds you both, and you shove Logan off you to scramble to your feet. He moves besides you, claws unsheathed on instinct.

The door of the elevator slowly slides open, coming to a halt while it's halfway open. Charles and Jean were waiting from the outside.

"There you both are," Jean huffs out. "You've been gone for about an hour."

"What time is it?" Logan asks, moving out into the mansion floor and sinking his claws back into his knuckles. You follow behind, the chill coming back to your skin.

"About 4:30 in the morning," Charles replies, gliding away from the opening of the metal door. "I suggest you all get some sleep while it's still early." He looks pointedly at you and Logan before rolling to face Jean.

"Agreed. Goodnight you two," Jean says, moving down the hallway to her room.

You and Logan make your way up the stairs, still buzzing. You stop at his door while he opens it. He turns to face you. Once again, you're back to staring at each other hoping you both can understand what the other is thinking.

"Well, good night Logan," You sigh. He cocks an eyebrow at you.

"You're not coming in?" He says while leaning against the door frame.

"Oh," you begin, a smile nervously making its way to your face. "Well ... I ..."

"I gotta help you with those shorts, remember?"

You can't help the soft laugh that leaves your mouth. You move towards him and step just into the doorway.

"I'll take all the help I can get," You say up at him. He takes the opportunity to wrap you in his arm and move you both through the door.

He turns you both, pressing your back against the wall next to the doorway, shutting the door as he molds his lips into yours. His hand slides under your flimsy yellow tank top as you hear the click of the door lock.

More than likely, neither of you were getting much sleep tonight.

[forlix]

𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞・b.c.

— incurable playboy turned doting boyfriend was a character development arc nobody saw coming for christopher bang, including (especially) his frat brothers.

words・2.8k pairing・frat president!chris x gn!reader genres・fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, college!au, fuckboy!chris, boys being boys, kissing, implied sex so mdni warnings・substance use, talk of past heartbreak

a/n・here is "nobody believes you're dating" w/chan, requested by none other than my @rachalixie for my 2k event !! anny, i hope u love this fic as much as i love u; thank you for allowing me to write something so self-indulgent <3

In the deafening throes of one of Phi Mu Alpha’s spring kickbacks, Minho finds Jeongin and Seungmin standing in motionless silence by the kitchen counter. Both boys are gaping at something with an intensity that dips egregiously into the realm of creepy. He moves to pour himself a shot.

“What the fuck are you people looking at?”

Seungmin prods a pointer finger in the relevant direction. It takes a few seconds of scanning the scene for Minho to find what he’s referring to. He digs a knuckle into his eye, instantly confused by what he’s seeing. Maybe the gaping is justified.

The windows and doors have all been thrown open to invite the balmy April weather into the foyer of the frathouse. There’s a large crowd of people huddled around a long, foldable table stationed before the stairs; Jaehyun clutches a ping-pong ball between his fingers, singular eye squinted shut as he takes aim. The number of remaining solo cups dwindles rapidly, as does the players’ sobriety.

Something—someone—is missing.

Not to say “beer pong virtuoso” was one of the reasons Chris was elected frat president, but you’d think the guy had a career path in basketball with how he’s given the entire Greek life community alcohol poisoning by courtesy of two or three plastic balls alone. Minho has never known him to miss a shot, let alone miss out on a game.

Today, however, the reigning champion is only spectating, seated above the ongoing match on one of the steps of the main staircase.

A beautiful stranger is sitting beside him, cheek pressed to his shoulder as you peer at the match through the bannister.

You say something inaudible. The laugh it earns from Chris is bright enough to pick up from a few streets down. He leans in to murmur something in return, and you slide your hand over his nape to pull his mouth onto yours, light blush crawling up and over your ears. The way Chris melts into you can only be described as familiar, his eyes slowly fluttering shut, finger hooking delicately beneath your chin, grin going lopsided as your lips part—

“That’s enough,” Minho hisses, tearing his eyes away with considerable effort. “Aren’t you ashamed? Just fucking ogling.”

Jeongin shakes his head, grinning. “It’s dinner and a show. We’d be idiots not to.”

By dinner, he must mean the gallon of chocolate milk he’s been drinking from for the last hour. He now holds out said gallon with the intent to cheers. Seungmin picks up the entire handle and does the same.

Minho sighs, clinks his glass against theirs, and they throw back their respective refreshments in unison.

“Anywho.” Jeongin swipes the back of his hand over his mouth before going on. “You guys know who that is?”

Minho resurfaces with a wince, relishing in the bitter aftermath, then motions for Seungmin to give the bottle back straightaway. He arrived to the function late and he’s not nearly as drunk as he’d like to be.

Seungmin obliges Minho only after another heady swig. “No clue. Probably just another fling, no?”

“Mmm,” Jeongin hums in assent. “It’s Chris we’re talking about, after all.”

"Agreed. Case closed.”

There’s an air of finality in Seungmin’s voice—but Minho isn’t so sure.

Perhaps because he has never noticed that Chris had dimples until now; or because you fold so naturally into Chris' side after your kiss ends, head nuzzling against the crook of his neck and hand seeking out his to hold in your lap; or, most likely, because Chris' eyes seem to return to you when he looks at you, as if his gaze drifting anywhere else is but a momentary departure from where it really belongs. As if he comes home every time you come into his line of vision.

Whatever the reason, the idea coalesces in Minho’s mind, even as inebriation begins to fall over his cognitive faculties like a curtain, that the boys have got it wrong.

Jeongin utters his name, jolting him out of his trance. There’s another shot lifted halfway to Minho’s lips that hasn’t budged in minutes. “Whatcha thinking about?”

Minho looks at Jeongin first, Seungmin next, then back at Chris and his stunning companion. He’s not inclined to answer the question in full, but he can in truth. A coy smile crosses his face.

“Threesome?”

Jeongin laughs hard enough to collapse onto the kitchen island. Seungmin drags a hand down his face. “Come on, man.”

In the corner of his eye, you’ve gone back to kissing again, slow and sweet and secretive. Chris' gentle hold on your jaw shields you from view but fails to hide his lovesick smile. Dimly, Minho thinks that maybe his friend has met his match.

Then, he takes four shots in rapid succession—and stops thinking altogether.

Christopher Bang’s love life is like a horror movie and romcom spliced together: a fiasco of a film to which his housemates have front row seats.

The frat’s upperclassmen live in sets of four-bed, two-bath suites comprising a small common space with a kitchen and a sitting area, sandwiched by bedrooms on either side. It is in that common space that Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jisung often see or hear Chris stumbling home after a night out, entangled with a different attractive stranger every time—so often, in fact, that they’ve come to believe that he’s deathly allergic to anything bigger than a one-and-done hookup.

They can’t judge. In part because they’d be throwing stones from glass houses, but also because the man’s penchant for empty physicality is far from unfounded. His past self gave pieces of his heart to the wrong people, contracted first-degree burns from the guileless warmth he sought out. Now, his version of “intimacy” is less a connotation of closeness than it is a self-contradiction, for it should be impossible for so much distance to remain between two people in a single bed.

Chris hasn’t vocalized any of this. Nor have his housemates discussed it with each other. The knowledge simply exists in the air between the four of them like something akin to taboo, dipping in and out of acknowledgement depending on the circumstance.

This might be the circumstance of all time.

At around 11:40 A.M. on a Saturday, three doors in the suite open at once. Hyunjin and Changbin aren’t coincidence—the latter is coercing the former to go to the gym again—but they lift their eyes to the opposite side of the living room, and the slice of milk bread dangling from Hyunjin’s lips very nearly takes a fatal fall. Changbin manages to snatch it up with an extended hand.

Chris has just emerged from his room as well. Your silhouette follows close behind, your mouth stretching into a yawn as you massage the sleep from your eyes. You’re sporting a mesh green sweater identical to one Chris owns. They find Chris' accessories more interesting than his clothes, though: two hickeys peeking out from beneath his jaw and the base of his neck.

Chris sees Hyunjin and Changbin right away, and his expression goes utterly blank, not unlike their faces as they watch you close his door meticulously. You turn around and gasp.

The four of you stare at each other for what feels like multiple business days. At least, Hyunjin, Changbin, and Chris stare at each other; your eyes dart between the men on the other side of the room and the man next to you, silently pleading for him to say something. He does not for a long while.

Then, he lunges for one of the throw pillows on the couch and flings it at Hyunjin like a shot put. It ricochets off his chest and lands on the floor rather anticlimactically.

“Distraction!” Chris yells anyways, grabbing your hand and tearing towards the exit, wild grin on his face. “Go, go, go!”

Your raucous laughter lingers even after you’ve been hauled away, accompanied by an unintelligible, breathless shout of something along the lines of my toothbrush—and then the front door clicks shut, and there are two.

Changbin and Hyunjin lock eyes, struggling to process what just happened. Hyunjin is the first to move, wandering hesitantly into the bathroom that Chris and Jisung share. Nothing about the place looks out of the ordinary.

“Well, shit,” Hyunjin says out loud.

That is, aside from the two toothbrushes slotted in the holder on Chris' side of the counter.

Something moves in the bathroom window, catching his attention. Hyunjin looks over just in time to spot you and Chris dart out onto the lawn two floors below. Chris has his arm draped over your shoulders, yours wrapped around his waist. Your smile is discernible all the way from here, and Hyunjin sees a perfect mirror of it on his friend’s face when Chris glances at the frathouse over his shoulder. 

Has he always had dimples?

Moments later, Changbin joins him in peering out the window. A high-pitched cackle erupts from the older boy’s lips. “Look at that idiot.”

Standing off to the left is a tiny, astonished Han Jisung, his arms full of groceries, jaw sitting squarely the grass and whites of his eyes on full display as he watches you and Chris stroll away.

Hyunjin laughs with his whole fucking body. Changbin whips out his phone and takes a picture.

When you finally breach the topic, it’s because you don’t think you can physically study for another minute—but also because, after multiple long months of fruitless sparring, your curiosity finally wins.

Your boyfriend is seated in your desk chair, feet kicked up onto your mattress with his laptop propped up on his thighs. His features have rearranged themselves into an expression of intense focus as he pores over his production homework. You can hear music blaring through his headphones from all the way here.

You uncross your legs from below you, scootch across your bed, and lift your hands to cradle his cheeks. He startles as if coming out of a trance, then begins to smile when he reads the words hi, Channie off your lips.

His headphones fall around his neck. He sets his laptop down onto your desk with a dull thunk. The next thing to drop is you when Chris seizes you by the waist and tackles you into the mattress. The somber atmosphere of your study session is shattered by your muted laughter and Chris pressing his lips to every inch of your exposed skin he can. He saves your mouth for last.

“Hey, beautiful,” he answers, but only after kissing the living daylights out of you, the syllables soft and silky with adoration. “Missed me?”

You drag your eyes from his brown irises with blown pupils to his sloping nose, from his disheveled dark locks to his cordate lips, so plush and warm against your own that you swear you still feel them there. You brush a hand over the back of his neck, your head now spinning so badly that you barely remember what you wanted to ask him.

“Always,” you say. “I was starting to feel jealous of your homework.”

He chuckles. “Shit, I’ll drop out of college right now, baby. Just say the word.”

“You’re perfect,” you hum.

“Says you,” he murmurs, nudging the tip of his nose against yours.

Your lips find each other’s again—needless to say, your study sessions aren’t known for their productivity. Some time passes before you come up for air. Even afterwards, Chris doesn’t let you go far, pulling you into his chest by the curve of your waist, nuzzling his cheek into your hairline. You only need to whisper for him to hear your question.

“Can I ask you something?”

“'Course,” he returns, and you’re close enough to sense him tighten with apprehension. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, don’t worry.” You print a kiss to the side of his neck for extra reassurance. “It’s just…I’ve been meaning to ask how your friends feel about me.”

He tightens with something else now: surprise, you’re guessing; you’re hoping. You hadn’t seriously considered that the answer could be negative, but it’s dawning on you now that the possibility of that isn’t zero.

“Where’s this coming from?” Chris inquires, his tone opaque.

You hesitate, mentally reviewing your interactions with your boyfriend’s social circle. Hyunjin and Jisung can’t make eye contact with you when they speak to you. Minho does nothing but make eye contact with you whether he’s speaking to you or not. Jeongin and Seungmin can maintain small talk for about ten seconds before they start looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. Changbin is the only one you’ve held a conversation with, and only because you were going up the same stairs at the same time and the alternative would have been mind-numbing silence.

What is the best way for you to say this?

“Well,” you begin, “I can’t help but notice that they act a little—when I’m around, they’re a bit, uh—”

“—crazy,” Chris offers. “Completely fucking bat-shit crazy.”

“Yes. Exactly that.”

Chris threads a hand through your hair, the comforting gesture doing nothing to assuage your worry. It seems there’s some truth behind your impressions. Your next words are tinged with a quiet sadness.

“I’m not imagining things, then?”

“No, angel,” he sighs. “But not for the reasons you think.”

A beat passes. Chris perceives your silence as a chance to backtrack, to opt out of this conversation if it’s one he’s not ready for. He would’ve leapt at the opportunity once.

But he realizes in that moment, with your voice gentle against his ears and your touch so doting upon his skin, how much has changed since he met you: from the color of the sky to the word home and everything in between, including his cynicism towards love and all the iterations of forever it holds. 

With that epiphany comes another, then another: he wants you to know why his friends are acting insane, wants you to know about him and his past and all the wounds of his you never know you healed, wants you to spend the rest of this forever with him.

His pointer finger dusts beneath your chin, a wordless request for you to look at him, and he nearly liquifies when you do and he finds entire constellations in your eyes. 

“It’s a lot,” he mumbles, though he suspects you know that already; he suspects you know about the other stuff, too. 

You bring your hand to the side of his face, bring your forehead to rest upon his. Your closeness washes over him like a low summer tide lapping over sandy shores, a soothing balm spreading over scorched flesh. 

“It’s you,” you breathe. “I will love it just the same.”

Chris' held breath comes out in shudders.

So this is warmth.

Minho and Felix are watching anime on the couch when a knock comes at their door, unfortunately during a pivotal moment of a pivotal episode. 

Minho hits pause with a ghastly groan. Felix laughs and rises to his feet, dashing into his room to grab the two silver necklaces he’ll be loaning out for the evening. “Coming!”

Outside, Chris is standing alone, hips and thighs accentuated by a pair of tight-fitting dress pants, sculpted chest and collarbones framed by a thin, cream-colored shirt with the top three buttons undone. Most of his hair has been pushed off his forehead, leaving a few locks free to fall over his right eyebrow. He’s rolling up his sleeves when Felix opens the door, veined forearms flexing as a result of the effort.

“Well?” He asks. Minho cranes his neck to look past Felix.

Both boys start to holler and whistle like excited macaques.

“What in the Calvin Klein is this?” Felix shouts, spinning Chris around by the shoulders. “You look insane, bro. Holy fuck.”

“What’s the occasion, young man?” Minho inadvertently sounds like a gruff uncle. “Where are you going dressed like that, huh?”

Chris' laugh comes easier nowadays. What’s more, it comes in a way that reaches the rest of him, that ends in a tiny, high squeak that you really have to look for in order to hear.

Felix and Minho can't help but replicate his smile. Those clothes look good on him, yes—but happiness looks better.

“You guys are silly,” Chris giggles. Dimples indent his cheeks as he accepts the necklaces from Felix. “Thanks, man. I’ll give ‘em back tomorrow.”

“No rush,” Felix replies, grinning. “Have fun, yeah?”

“We will.” Chris starts to retreat down the hallway, hands moving to clasp the jewelry around his neck, but not before he blows the both of them a kiss.

“Be back before ten!” Minho hollers; Chris laughs again, turns a corner, and disappears.

Felix closes the door. His smile falters fast. Minho has brought his face mere centimeters away, his expression thoroughly humorless.

“Tell me only the truth, Lee Yongbok,” he deadpans.

“O-okay—”

“Is Chris in a relationship?”

“—oh.” Felix frowns. “Well, yeah.”

Minho blanches. “How—how long?”

“One year, give or take? Anniversary’s today.”

Minho is stunned. Felix is stunned that Minho is stunned.

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[simplygojo]

12 Days of Desire ⸺ Kento Nanami

author's note ⸺ MERRY CHRISTMAS! Here is a lil something for the holidays, just a lil smutty blurb. pairing ⸺ Kento Nanami x reader content ⸺ 18+ SMUT, MDNI, oral sex (reader recv.), overstim., fingering, Nanami being sexy asf, full fledged mating position, reader has a vagina, reader uses female pronouns

materlist || request guidelines || commissions ||

The 12 Days of Desire 'adult advent calendar' was a bold purchase—one you hadn’t quite expected your boyfriend, Kento Nanami, to agree to. 

Yet, there it was on the kitchen counter, with its sleek, black-and-gold packaging and an air of understated mischief. 

You had giggled when you saw the name, and though Nanami’s face had remained as stoic as ever, you could swear there was a flicker of curiosity in his gaze as you brought it to the register.

Now, on the first day of opening it, you and Nanami stood together, the morning light casting a golden hue over the kitchen. 

You carefully pressed a finger against the thin cardboard flap marked "1" and peeled it back. Inside was a neatly folded red card. Pulling it out, you opened it and read aloud:

"Silent Night"

“No sounds tonight—just let your bodies do the talking.”

You glanced at Nanami with a mix of amusement and bashfulness. He tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “That’s... specific,” he remarked, his tone dry but his eyes warm.

You laughed, setting the card down on the counter. “Well, I guess we’ll have to save that for later. When we’re both home and not thinking about deadlines.”

Nanami adjusted his tie, his expression softening further as he nodded. “Later it is, then.”

—

The day passed as it usually did, with both of you immersed in your respective workloads. You finished work earlier than Nanami and arrived home just as the sun dipped below the horizon. 

Deciding to make the most of the extra time, you headed upstairs to change into something more comfortable—an oversized sweater that draped over your frame, paired with a pair of Christmas-themed panties you’d bought on a whim. 

The playful holiday pattern made you smile as you adjusted the hem of the sweater, letting it skim just enough to hint at the festive design beneath.

As you stood in front of the mirror fixing your hair, you heard the familiar sound of the front door opening, followed by the quiet shuffle of Nanami’s shoes against the floor.

“Kento?” You called out, your voice carrying down the staircase.

No response. You frowned slightly but shrugged it off. He was probably putting away his things or caught up in thought. It wouldn’t be the first time. Returning to your dresser, you barely had time to register the soft creak of footsteps on the stairs before he appeared in the doorway.

“Hi,” you greeted, turning toward him with a smile. But instead of replying, Nanami crossed the room in measured, deliberate strides.

“Kento?” You asked again, tilting your head in curiosity. 

But before you could say anything more, his hands were on your waist, pulling you close. His lips found yours in a kiss so fervent it stole your breath. The heat of his touch and the firmness of his embrace made your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

It hit you then—the card.

“No sounds tonight…”

You let out a muffled sound of surprise, but Nanami didn’t falter. His hands roamed, sliding up your back and down your sides with an urgency that belied his usual composure. 

His silence wasn’t cold or distant; it was commanding, a wordless way of communicating everything he wanted and everything he intended to give.

Your back met the edge of the bed as he guided you toward it, his hands never leaving your body.

Nanami eased you down, towering above you with his tie already loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone in a way that revealed the hint of his toned chest. 

He leaned down, capturing your lips in another kiss that was slower this time, more deliberate. His tongue teased the seam of your mouth, coaxing it open until you melted under him, giving yourself fully to his lead.

Nanami’s hands moved with purpose, sliding your sweater up and over your head before discarding it to the side. 

His lips didn’t leave your skin for long, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone until he reached your soft, swollen tits.

Nanami’s mouth worked skillfully against your skin, drawing a soft gasp from your lips as he lavished attention on one breast, his tongue circling the sensitive peak before sucking gently. 

His hand on the other breast mimicked his mouth’s rhythm, fingers rolling and tugging until you squirmed beneath him, a quiet whimper escaping you.

His lips trailed downward, leaving a heated path across your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your festive lace panties, he paused, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. 

You nodded, giving him the permission he didn’t need to ask for. With that, Nanami’s fingers curled around the fabric, sliding it down your legs with an unhurried precision that made the anticipation almost unbearable. 

The cool air against your exposed skin sent a shiver up your spine, but it was quickly replaced by the warmth of his breath as his face settled between your thighs.

He took his time, his lips and tongue tracing along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasingly close to where you wanted him most. The faintest flick of his tongue against your folds made you jerk, a soft cry slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

Nanami’s eyes darkened, his grip on your thighs tightening. “Quiet,” he murmured, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

But he didn’t make it easy.

His mouth found your clit, his tongue swirling in slow, deliberate strokes that had your back arching off the bed. He alternated between gentle flicks and firmer pressure, keeping you on edge, your breaths coming in short, ragged bursts.

Your hands gripped the sheets, your body trembling as he continued his slow, torturous rhythm. When his fingers joined in, sliding into you with an ease that made your toes curl, the moan that escaped your lips was anything but quiet.

Nanami reacted instantly, his free hand moving to cover your mouth, his palm firm against your lips as he shot you a look that was equal parts commanding and amused. 

“I said, quiet,” he whispered, standing up from his position between your thighs to look down at your flushed face.

Before you could react to him, Nanami shifted, positioning himself over you as he unzipped his grey-ish dress pants. 

His shirt was still half-buttoned, the fabric brushing against your sensitive skin as he lined himself up. He paused just long enough to meet your gaze, his eyes asking a silent question as you watched his thick cock spring free from his pants.

When you nodded, he pushed into you in one slow, deliberate thrust that stole the air from your lungs. 

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as he set a steady, deliberate pace, his movements controlled but intense.

The soft creak of the bed and the sound of your bodies moving together filled the room, and despite your best efforts not much effort was made tbh, small, muffled cries escaped you. 

Nanami leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “I told you to be quiet, didn’t I?”

His hand firmly covered your pretty lips once again, maintaining the pressure as his pace quickened. The slight edge of dominance in his actions only heightened the intensity, your body reacting instinctively to the way he held you in place, the way he claimed you completely.

But then, just as you thought you’d grown accustomed to the rhythm he set, Nanami pulled back slightly, his free hand sliding down to grip your thighs. 

His strength was undeniable as he pushed your legs toward your chest, folding you into a position that left you completely exposed to him.

“Stay just like this,” he muttered, his voice low and commanding, his hand tightening around the soft curve of your thigh to keep you in place.

The new angle had him sinking even deeper into you, his cock brushing against a spot so sensitive it made your body jerk beneath him. The sensation ripped a muffled cry from your throat, your nails digging into his shoulders as your vision began to turn white.

Nanami didn’t falter. His hips moved with purpose, each thrust precise and devastating, the force of his movements making the bed creak beneath you. 

His grip on your thighs didn’t waver either, his fingers pressing into your skin as he held you exactly where he wanted you.

Your muffled moans and the tension in your body were all the encouragement he needed. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, his composure fraying as his own release built. 

When he finally reached his peak, his body shuddering above yours, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hand still covering your mouth to muffle the cries you couldn’t contain as you too felt the wave of pleasure overtake you.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, catching your breath as the room filled with the sound of your slowing heartbeats. When Nanami finally pulled his dripping self out of you, his hand releasing you mouth, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your sweat slicked forehead.

“You didn’t make it easy,” he said, his tone dry but his eyes warm as he helped you settle back against the bed.

You managed a tired laugh, your body still tingling from the aftermath. “Hmmm, I’ll try harder tomorrow.”

Nanami raised an eyebrow, a small, rare smile tugging at his lips. “Tomorrow?”

You grinned, your exhaustion no match for the spark in your eyes. “It’s only the first day of the calendar, Kento.”

author's note II ⸺ I did not edit this at all so imsosorry

[hcneymooners]

⋆ ambessa headcanons but it's a modern au & she's a ruthless business mogul.

business mogul!ambessa x wife!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: what it says on the tin.

cw: implied age difference! explicit sexual content below the cut!

notes: i need her. i am going to lose it. the theme of this marriage is definitely cherry by lana del rey ( listen here. ) and bordersz by zayn ( listen here. )

getting together

one night, a little tipsy and feeling bold, you post a video to social media. you don’t care about the controversy, you declare—you need ambessa so badly.

despite the chaos that follows, your words are so heartfelt, so sweet, that the video practically goes triple platinum overnight.

later, at a restaurant opening, you both happen to be there. she spots you sitting in a corner, all soft warmth and radiant energy.

you look lovely, your wide smile lighting up the room. she notices how your nose scrunches when you laugh and how your dress—loaned as a favor to a designer you adore—dips elegantly at your hips.

with a little... maneuvering, ambessa secures the seat next to you and strikes up a conversation.

you’re so vivacious, so intelligent, and for the first time in a long time, she meets someone who doesn’t greet her with judgment or disapproval.

when you speak, you lean in, your hand occasionally brushing her arm. you’re so intentional, and it utterly endears her to you.

after the event, she goes home haunted by your perfume and the sound of your laughter.

the next morning, her PA reaches out with a dinner invitation to one of your dream restaurants. ambessa had spent the night scrolling through your socials, watching videos over and over.

the married life.

you’ve become a media darling—everyone adores you.

sometimes, ambessa can’t handle sharing you with the world, so she’s left her mark: photos of you often feature dark hickeys blooming across your neck like wildflowers.

your ring is massive, but she insisted you pick it out yourself—she wanted to make sure it was exactly what you wanted.

you call her “bessa,” and she alternates between “my love,” “baby,” or “sweet girl” when speaking to you.

when you leave for trips, whether for work or to visit family, she secretly diffuses perfume oils that mimic your scent throughout the house.

the playlist you share is ridiculously long—so long, in fact, it almost crashed your phone once, but neither of you care.

her desk is cluttered with framed photos of you, and your house has a photo wall that stretches up the staircase.

even when she’s annoyed or upset, she’s impossibly soft with you.

she gets genuinely upset if you don’t use her card to make purchases. like pissed.

“you will want for nothing” was one of the first promises she made to you.

you have to sneak birthday and christmas gifts for her because she always checks to make sure you’re spending her money “as the Lord intended.”

“i didn’t add this card to your apple wallet for decoration.”

she’s deeply affectionate, both in public and private.

she adores nonsexual intimacy—massaging your feet as you tell her about your day, pulling you into her lap while she works, and just sitting quietly together.

when you cup her face during conversations to focus her, it often leads to... wonderful outcomes.

if she catches you pouting, she pinches your lips into a duckbill and laughs. you let it slide because her laughter is so full-bodied, so infectious, you can’t help but love it.

her humor is so dry and witty it takes you a minute to register sometimes, but when you do, you’re in stitches.

she’s always close—sharing water, joining you in baths and showers. you’re rarely apart.

ambessa loves to provide for you. she’s your dictionary, bank account, calculator, calendar, dild—

her gift-giving is unmatched. she remembers things you mentioned wanting years ago, down to the minute you said it. it could've been mentioned 6 years, 2 months, 3 days, 1 hour, 6 minutes, and 23 seconds ago. she still remembers.

she keeps a lawyer on retainer because you’re fiercely protective of her. she acts exasperated but secretly loves it.

if you get sick, she’s terrifying—she’ll track down whoever got you sick and sue them into the ground. when you had pneumonia once, she nearly had a breakdown. it is now referred to as the crashout of the century in your household.

she’s serious about keeping you healthy, even if it drives you crazy. workouts with her are intense.

“just a little more, my love.” “you said that two rounds ago!"

her countdowns are the worst. she swears there’s ten seconds left, but it feels like eternity.

speaking of households, you don’t play when it comes to your family.

you’re fiercely protective and, let’s be honest, a little conniving when necessary.

the pta? you run it like the navy. everyone falls in line when you walk in the room.

once, a kid at mel’s school thought it was a good idea to bully her. you pulled up, found the kid, and made sure they’d never even think about messing with her again.

after that, everyone was a little afraid of mel and kino’s stepmom. you never heard another peep of bullying.

when it's good—it usually is—it's wonderful. but there were compliated moments in the beginning.

ambessa’s rise to the top wasn’t exactly clean. there were deals in shadows, strategies that left her enemies ruined. you should’ve felt more conflicted, but you found it difficult to care.

but then she announced she was running for office, and everything changed. you hated what she was doing to win—how ruthless she was, how far she was willing to go.

it led to the biggest fight you’d ever had. you left, heartbroken, and stayed with your parents for weeks.

mel had never seen her mother so undone. ambessa was quiet, distracted, a shadow of herself.

mel flew out to see you, desperate to fix things. when you saw her, the grief on her face mirrored your own, and it shattered you.

you forgave ambessa immediately—not because she was blameless, but because you hated what it had done to both of you.

she will always choose you and the kids above anything.

the marriage bed.

it's a workout in here, too.

she gon’ put that baby inside of you.

you are a bit of a perfectionist and stressed about doing it wrong and she literally could not have cared less.

she loves to lace your hands together when you fuck.

the first couple times you sleep together she treats your body like a land she needs to learn, to map.

she prefers to be dominant but sometimes you just need it and she allows you to take control.

you adore her strength and you are not slick about it because your favorite positions reflect it: mating press and amazon press, specifically.

she’s a munch and she likes humiliating you so that usually entails spreading the lips of your pussy to watch it drool for her, spiting into your cunt, pushing your legs out or up so that it’s completely bare to her.

you're enamored with her breasts. 

even outside of sex sometimes you just squeeze or hold them.

she says you’re being ridiculous but then will take off her top and reveal the most insanely tight sports bra. her tits are practically spilling into your mouth all on their own.

you can no longer go to the gym with her bc it will get crazy.

impact play. 

straps you down. you are not walking for at least two days.

once she begins, she will be finishing. no breaks. so don't tease unless you can commit.

will most definitely keep fucking you even she gets a work call + sometimes if you try to be quiet she’ll loop a hand under the thin fabric of your g-string and bounce you fast and hard on her cock until you’re moaning shamlessly.

you love kissing her so she’ll make out with you until your lips are so swollen and your words are slurred.

the best sex you had was in the bathtub one evening.

you were slipping and sliding but a swat team couldn’t have pulled her out of you.

you held onto her tightly, felt her back ripple, and to this day you swear you saw the gates of heaven. you knew if you came to be before them without her, you'd hold the gates to let her in.

she’s always telling you to take it and forces you to look at the ring you’re making around her cock.

when you’re ass up she’ll consume you until you’re shaking.

she loves making you squirt; it’s like a challenge for her.

when it happens she’ll drop her mouth open and moan so loudly it makes you flush.

she then begins to finger you and the overstimulation really works you up.

she loves to put you on your side with a leg raised so she can snap her hips hard against your ass and hear the squelch.

you love when she does this because her tits are against your back and she’s just so fucking big and warm. you feel safe.

you’re usually so sweet but during these moments you curse like a sailor.

“fuck fuck fuuuuuck. holy shit, bessa.” “such a dirty girl.” 

one thing about her fingers? they’re going in your mouth and you’re gonna gag on them.

super thoughtful with aftercare.

massages every part of your body and intersperses the pressure with tender kisses.

you always fall asleep to affirmations of how beautiful and loved you are.

you are her angel, fallen and found by her hands.

© hcneymooners.

[fireinmoonshot]

your fiyero | fiyero tigelaar x reader

Pairing: Fiyero Tigelaar x Reader Summary: Ever since Fiyero Tigelaar started at Shiz University, he found himself fascinated by you – the one student who didn't care about him. When he notices you starting to struggle with something, he'll do anything to make sure you're okay. Warnings: Mentions of fainting, falling over, academic stress/burn out Word Count: 2.2k A/N: I've seen Wicked (the show) three times now with the amazing Australian cast that's currently touring and I fell totally head over heels with Fiyero, and then yesterday I saw the movie and fell even more in love with Fiyero and so I had to write for him. I do intend to write more for him, especially if other people want to read more! He's so fun to write for and definitely a challenge compared to some other characters I've written for in the past. I hope you all enjoy! 💗

It’s not difficult to sense the presence of Fiyero Tigelaar behind you as you leave Doctor Dillamond’s classroom, shoving your books into the bag over your shoulder. With the way the students heading into the classroom are staring at someone behind you, it’s quite obvious who they’re staring at. Everyone at Shiz University wants Fiyero Tigelaar. 

Everyone, that is, except you.

“Classes are over, you know?” Fiyero’s voice comes from behind you as you round the corner, heading down the staircase leading to the courtyard. “You don’t have to rush off.”

Irritatingly, the fact that you can’t particularly care less about wanting Fiyero Tigelaar makes himwant you. He usually isn’t the type. If someone doesn’t like him – something he’s actually yet to experience – he would just let it slide. Why waste his energy? But ever since he’d started at Shiz and met you, he’d found himself unable to leave you alone. 

“I know,” you glance back at him over your shoulder. “But some of us actually want to study and spend their time here learning, Tigelaar.”

Fiyero hurries his steps a little so he’s walking alongside you. “Did you miss the part where I said it was my job to corrupt my fellow students when I started here? It’s never too late, darling.” He flashes a grin your way.

You can’t help but roll your eyes at him, right at the same time you almost miss a step and stumble a little. Fiyero is quick, catching your elbow to help steady you. You don’t look at him as you steady yourself, meaning you miss the look of worry in his eyes.

“Are you all right?”

You clear your throat and shake off his grip. “Consider me corrupted by your presence.” 

With that, you make a beeline away from him and you’re glad to notice that he doesn’t attempt to follow you. You highly doubt that he’s going to follow you all the way to the library. Fiyero and the library have never exactly gone hand in hand. 

~~

The next time Fiyero bothers you, you’re sat on one of the benches by the gardens. There’s a book in your hands and he can see you staring intently at it as he saunters over to you. It’s almost like he’s approaching a wild bird or something, he thinks. If he moves too quickly, he’ll frighten you and scare you away. It’s the last thing Fiyero wants to do.

He’s a few steps away from you when you look up from your book and meet his eyes. His face breaks into a smile as he moves the last few steps and takes the spot beside you on the bench. You turn to look at him, your eyebrows raised. 

“Now, don’t say I’m interrupting your study,” he begins. “That book is most definitely not in the curriculum. And yes, I did actually take the time to look the curriculum up after I saw you reading here the other day, if you can believe it.”

For a few moments, you only stare at him. Fiyero, for the first time probably ever, finds himself actually a little uncomfortable at your unwavering gaze. It surprises him. He’s never the type of person to feel uncomfortable. He’s confident in almost every situation.

You let out a sigh. “It may not be in the curriculum, but you’ve interrupted me nevertheless, Tigelaar.”

“Apologies,” he says, with a small smirk. “Am I corrupting you even more with my presence?”

“Something like that.” You close your book and sit it on the small space of bench beside you. You had actually just been reading the same page over and over for the last twenty minutes and trying to convince yourself to stop overthinking things. 

You had so much studying to do, so much to learn and so many assignments to do and so little time to do it all. It was probably a little counterproductive to be sitting outside, reading a book and doing none of those things, but if you didn’t try and have a break from them all, you were pretty sure you were going to burn yourself out, which was the last thing you needed. It would have helped if you’d actually been able to relax and enjoy your book, though.

“Is it any good? Your book. Not that I’d read it, of course,” Fiyero grins.

You try your best to conceal your amusement. “I’d offer to lend it to you but, as you said, you wouldn’t actually read it so… I’ll keep it safe with me. I doubt the Winkie Prince knows how to properly take care of books if he can’t read them.”

Fiyero gasps jokingly. “I’ll have you know I can read, I just choose not to. I prefer to fill my brain with much more useless things. That way, I don’t have to think. It’s a peaceful way to live, my darling.” 

You shake your head, this time unable to keep a smile off of your face. Fiyero likes the sight of it. It strangely makes his heart beat a little faster. He can’t actually remember the last time he saw you smiling… not that he’s been keeping track. 

“How about you join me?” He offers. “No more studying for the rest of the day and no more thinking? I’m positive I could find something we could do to fill the time.” 

The reminder of studying, however, brings you back to reality after you small moment of joking with Fiyero. You reach down and grab your book before standing up and turning to face Fiyero, who is looking at you with slight concern in his eyes at your sudden movement.

“I can’t,” you say simply. “I’ve been reading all morning and there is a lot I have to do. I’ll see you around, Tigelaar.”

He watches you with furrowed eyebrows as you walk away from him, clutching your book to your chest and heading in the direction of the library. Fiyero shakes his head and lets out a small laugh. He really thought today would be the day he’d win you over.

~~

A week goes by without Fiyero even getting to utter a word to you. He sees you, though, fairly often around the school. In the courtyard, in the library (where he definitely didn’t go specifically looking for you), in history class and in the dining hall. But every time he’s thought to approach you, you’ve disappeared before he could even make his move. It’s on the seventh day when he notices that something is different about you.

You’re coming out of the library, carrying several books and what looks like a stack of papers in your hands when you trip. Fiyero isn’t quick enough to cross the courtyard and get to you in time to stop your fall. He does, however, take off at a run to be by your side as you start collecting all of the scattered pieces of paper and books that had fallen out of your grasp.

“It’s all right, Tigelaar. You don’t have to help me,” you mutter, trying to shove books into your already overfilled bag. “It’s a Friday night. I’m sure you’ve got other places to be.”

Fiyero, truthfully, does have other places to be. He’s been invited to the Ozdust Ballroom by nine separate people today. But how can he leave you to just clean all this up by yourself? He can see just by the look on your face that you’re utterly exhausted.

“I do,” he says honestly. “But I’ll help you with this first.”

He’s surprised when you suddenly stop putting things in your bag and when he looks up, he finds you staring at him again. It makes him uncomfortable in the same way he felt last week when you’d looked at him in a similar way. 

“Okay,” you sigh. 

Your lack of energy in fighting him is the second thing to make Fiyero realise something is wrong.

After the two of you finish picking up all of the things you’d dropped, the both of you stand. Fiyero opens his mouth to say something when he notices you start to sway. He’s quicker this time, moving to catch you before you fall. His arm wraps around your waist to keep you steady, while his other hand takes the book bag off your shoulder and moves it straight onto his. He’s surprised by how heavy it is. 

“Woah, darling, what’s going on?” Fiyero looks down at you as you blink and push yourself away from him. “Hey, be careful, okay? I think you were just about to faint.”

You shake your head. “I just stood up too fast, that’s all.” You know the words are a lie, and you can tell that Fiyero knows that as well. First, he’d seen you trip coming out of the library, then he’d caught you when you’d almost fainted… you can’t hide it from him. That much becomes crystal clear immediately.

“Let’s get you somewhere you can sit down, okay?” Fiyero begins. “May I?” He gestures to you, asking silently if he can wrap an arm around you to support you incase you fall over again. 

You nod and allow him to guide you just around the corner into the small seating area off to the side of the library. It’s dark, the lanterns not being lit yet despite the fact that the sun had gone down over twenty minutes ago.

“I swear I’m not usually this clumsy,” you say sheepishly. “That’s twice you’ve stopped me from falling in the last two weeks… I suppose I should say thank you, Fiyero.”

Fiyero sits you down gently on the bench and sits your book bag down on the ground. He crouches down in front of you and reaches up to take your hands in his. He’s surprised when you don’t immediately pull away from him. “I don’t think you’ve ever called me by my first name before.”

“Oh,” you think on it for a second, trying to ignore the warm feeling of his hands and how comforting it is. “I guess I haven’t. Sorry, Tigelaar.”

“No, no,” Fiyero shakes his head. “Don’t go back to that. I like when you call me Fiyero.”

“Well, I suppose it is your name,” you offer a small smile.

“There’s that gorgeous smile,” Fiyero smiles back at you and squeezes your hands. “Now, are you gonna tell me why you almost just fainted on me and why you’re clumsier than you usually are, darling?”

You stay silent for a few moments and just when Fiyero begins to think that you might just brush him off and try to make a quick exit like you did last week, you start to speak.

“I haven’t really been sleeping well lately,” you admit quietly. “I’ve had so much work to do, I fell behind on my assignments and I took on some extra work from Doctor Dillamond and… despite my best efforts, I guess I let myself get a little burnt out.”

Fiyero looks at you with his eyes full of pity and you hate it. 

“Anyway,” you clear your throat, “that’s not important. Why would you care?”

Your attempt to make light of the situation fails spectacularly, judging by the look that Fiyero gives you afterwards. You’ve never seen him look that unimpressed before. 

“Of course I care,” he says, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Why, though?” You can’t help but ask. “Why are you so fixated on me?”

Fiyero sighs and moves to sit beside you, letting go of your hands in the process. “If you’ll allow me to be honest with you for a moment,” he starts, “I suppose… you’re the only person at Shiz that doesn’t treat me like the perfect Winkie Prince that everyone thinks I am. You’re the only person that doesn’t think I’m perfect, and half the time you act like you can’t stand to be around me, and for some reason that only makes me want to be around you more.” 

“Are you not the perfect Winkie Prince?” You ask.

Fiyero grins. “Oh, not in the slightest, darling. But let’s keep that between us. I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine. How does that sound?” 

You don’t even try to hide the smile that comes to your face at his words. “You promise you won’t tell anyone about what happened today?”

“I promise,” he nods. “But only on one condition: you tell Doctor Dillamond you can’t complete the extra work you signed up for and you take a break to make sure you get plenty of rest before diving into your other assignments. I’m sure I can sweet talk some of the Professors if you need help.” 

He smiles as you hit him with the same look as before, but for the first time, he doesn’t find himself feeling uncomfortable at the sight of it. Now, he finds it slightly amusing and incredibly endearing. He has always found you endearing, he supposes.

“Sweet talking my Professors will not be necessary,” you chuckle. “But okay. It’s a deal. And I’ll keep your secret too. You can continue to be the perfect Winkie Prince to everyone… except me.”

Fiyero laughs. “I’ll just be your Fiyero, then.”

“My Fiyero?” You repeat after him, eyebrows raised. 

He ignores the way his heart beats faster at the sound of those words coming out of your mouth. 

“Yes, your Fiyero,” he hums. 

“Everyone will think that you finally corrupted me after all this time,” you joke, voice teasing. “I’ll just be like everyone else at Shiz. Part of the Fiyero Tigelaar fan club.”

Fiyero fixes you with a look. “Oh, darling. You could never be like everyone else.” 

[littlelovelunette]

Filthy Troublemaker

⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆ Ambessa Medarda x Fem!Reader x Sevika ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆

Contains sugar mommy!ambessa and sevika, jealousy issues, smut, brat!r, headlock!r receiving (sevika giving), suffocation, fainting!r, strap, size kink, cnc, different sized dildos, squirting, dacryphillia, mommy kink, throat fucking, bondage and handcuffs, degradation, overstimulation, calm but cold!ambessa. not proofread.

Word count: 1.2k . . .

Ambessa was working in her office when Sevika burst through the door, slamming it open on her way. She didn't care that it slammed against the wall, making the glass of the windows rattle in their frames. “Quit breaking down my office, will you?”

Ambessa turned to face Sevika with an eyebrow raise and a disappointed stare, “What's the issue?” Sevika held out her phone, the screen displaying a screenshot of your Instagram story. Ambessa would have made a comment on the way she saw it was clicked seconds after you posted the story but then, she saw it.

Your tits were basically out in the picture, cleavage on full display. Ambessa’s jaw tightened, “Where is she?” She asked, setting the pen she was twirling between her thick fingers down and rising to her feet.

“Probably replying to all the guys sliding in her messages,” Sevika answered, roughly shoving her hands in the pockets of her suit.

You were peacefully laid on the bed on your stomach as you scrolled on your phone, you were feeling as fresh as ever— with your freshly washed hair and skincare all done, you felt giddy and happy. You almost jumped off the bed when you heard Sevika's deep voice calling your name from downstairs.

“They're home already?” You glanced at the clock before getting up and putting on your fuzzy slippers, “Yeah, coming!” You hopped down the staircase but gasped when you almost crashed into Sevika halfway.

“What i—” you were cut off with Sevika picking you up without a word, her face held some sort of animalistic anger, barely contained. Ambessa followed after, calm but equally as angered if not more.

“Loyalty,” Sevika began when she put you down on the bed, “Is the key aspect to a proper relationship, do all these—” she pointed at the expensive furnishing, “— mean nothing to you?” You stared at her with your big, wide, innocent eyes.

“What?” You asked dumbly. Sevika's fist clenched, she took a deep breath. She gestured to Ambessa to continue.

“See, sweet child, we are aware of the story you posted,” Ambessa said calmly, but she didn't seem like she'd save you from what Sevika would do to you. Sevika, who had already started rummaging in the drawer full of sex toys, had her jaw set so firm so you were almost sure you could hear the grinding of her teeth.

Sevika took her suit off leaving herself in her suit pants and shirt, she rolled her shirt sleeves up before pulling you to your feet, “Strip, doll,” she ordered. You glanced at Ambessa, a silent plea in your eyes but the other woman merely shook her head.

Your clothes pooled at your feet, and before you knew it, you were gasping for air, Sevika's bicep wrapped snuggly against your throat, hoisting you up in a headlock. Your feet left the ground, you were gasping for air.

Ambessa knelt, a calm smile on her face as she felt your wetness against your folds. She held up a standard sized dildo for you to see before she slowly slipped it inside your clenching hole, you moaned against Sevika's skin.

“Mmm…” you whimpered. The dildo felt bigger in your pussy because of how much you were tensing up. You moaned, the sound gurgling out of your throat as Sevika choked you in the headlock, “She's so wet,” Ambessa said in the same calm, collected tone. Your cheeks flushed red at her blatant statement, legs flailing a little but then stilling when she smacked your thigh. “I'll be good, I promise, please,” you cooed weakly causing Sevika to scoff.

Ambessa took the dildo out suddenly leaving you empty and needy but the feeling was quickly replaced when she put in another dildo. This was thicker than the last, it was huge. Your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to accommodate the new size but it was hard.

“What now, slut? Regretting the decision of posting something so suggestive, are we?” Sevika snarled, pulled your legs apart with her other hand. Your hands tried to push her away but your attempts were futile, they were both so much bigger and stronger than you. You stood no chance.

The big dildo rubbed against your cervix, making a visible bulge form on your tummy. Sevika reached her other hand to press that bulge making you groan against her bicep, “M-mommy, please…”

Sevika chuckled, letting you go from the headlock. The dildo slipped out with a plopping sound, landing with a dull thud on the marble floor. You landed on your knees, dropping on your front with your ass in the air. Perky, hard nipples touching the cold marble tile, you whimpered.

“What a slut, she's still so damn wet,” Sevika shook her head with a tut. She knelt in front of you and grabbed your jaw, forcing two fingers down your throat. “Suck, bitch.” You moaned, whimpers and helpless pleas muffled by the thick digits that invaded your warm mouth, sliding at the back of your throat causing you to gag a little.

Ambessa chuckled at the sight of you struggling to suck Sevika's fingers as she grabbed the dildo up from the floor, “You've taken this well, too,” Ambessa said, “Wuich wasn't exactly what I'd hoped for, I'll admit.” Ambessa picked up another dildo, this one bigger than the last one. “Ready?”

She didn't wait for your answer when she shoved the dildo all the way inside your pussy. You screamed around Sevika's fingers, drooling, “Better not bite me,” Sevika said, smirking at your drooling, crying form. Your tears seemed to turn your sugar mommies on further.

Sevika reached into the drawer grabbing some cuffs for your flailing arms and clicked them into place, “Nice and restrained for us,” Sevika smirked but before you could respond she pressed her fingers down your throat. You gagged, choking on her digits and crying because the dildo was far too big for your small, wet cunt.

Your face, cheeks were soaked with tear stains as more continued to stream down your cheeks steadily. Ambessa didn't relent, wrist working precisely to shove the dildo in and out. It was rubbing against your g-spot in the most delicious way possible.

Surprisingly, today you felt hyper sensitive, maybe that was because you had four orgasms. You let out a weak gurgle around Sevika's fingers before they finally left your sore throat, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss. You let her put her tongue in your mouth, a low whine leaving your lips. You came again, eyes closing and that was it. Darkness.

Even though you wanted to relish in whatever rest you got— you knew.

Whenever you'd come to… they'd do it all over again.

[chiscaralight]

what's that sound?

includes: nsfw! continuation of my college athelete!choso linked here. vouyerism, oral sex(f receiving), somewhat bottom choso, p in v, unprotected sex, choso is a little pervy, he’s never eaten pussy before either, choso cums from hearing i love u then he gets a little emotional. he’s just a loser!!!!!

word count: roughly 3k

a/n: we r so back!!!!

choso has been at his best since he met you.

ever since you two got together, he's been much different. not just to you—to everyone! there’s a pep in his step when he walks, he’s a little more confident when he talks, and he’s even playing better on the field now! (totally not because he knows you’re in the bleachers and he’s trying to look extra cool just for you.)

and it pains him in more ways than one when he has to stay away from you for so long. with the new league about to hit its peak, coaches are adding in extra hours, school work is getting more and more tasking by the day, and only talking to you on the phone for a couple of minutes and texting the whole day is nowhere near enough for him. even though he’s the one that needs most of the space!

you’re so sweet about it too, assuring him you’d be fine and he has to prioritize his sports career. you still show up to the occasional practice to offer a quick kiss before you go home, and you leave him snacks in his book bag when you see it lying around. you’re honestly such a blessing, why is the world so against the two of you right now?

but a single ray of light shines down on Choso’s dim day when the head coach sends a text that they can have the day off since they played so well in the last game. he’s almost flying out of his class seat right then and there—his mind is going straight towards you.

he feels like shit as he makes his way out of the flower shop; bouquet in hand. it’s not much, but he hopes you find it sweet enough that you’ll forgive him for how long it’s been since he last saw you. he stood there, individually picking out the best blue hyacinths and white orchids from the bunch, all fresh and neatly wrapped as a sort of poetic apology. you might not even know what it means, but who cares? it’s the thought that counts.

and he feels even weirder driving to your doorstep after all the times he’s run there instead. he’s still nervous even after all the times you’ve held him, kissed him, fucked him. you’re just so perfect, who wouldn’t be near pissing themselves right now with you behind the door?

he’s carefully sliding the single key you gave him in, pushing inwards after he hears the soft click. fingers tightening around the paper holding the flowers together, he steps in. empty.

what the hell? you should be home right now. it’s Friday—your classes end early and your favorite podcast should be up by now. but you’re not here.

choso’s brows furrow. He peered into the kitchen and checked the downstairs bathroom, the backyard, and even under the stairwell. nothing.

agitation crawls up his neck as hears a muffled noise from upstairs. it's faint; almost impossible to hear, but he’s sure it’s you.

the staircase is barely creaking as he makes his way up insanely slow. his grip on the flowers are tight, almost inhumane as he’s prepared to use them as a weapon. his steps are quick once he reaches the top, deathly silent but still quick as he closes in on the cracked open door of your room. the noises are getting slightly louder, more frantic and they sound less like pain and more like moans. moans..?

choso’s heart cracks once and he stops dead in his tracks. there’s no way. he knows he’s been gone for a long time, but it hasn't been that long, right? fuck—you said you loved him, you said it so many times, you wouldn’t cheat on him so quick. you wouldn’t cheat on him at all. so why are you–

“f-fuck cho.. miss you s-so much..”

oh.

oh.

oh.

the blood flow in Choso’s legs finally picks up once again, and he’s noiselessly pushing himself against the wall right next to your doorpost. he’s craning his head so far to the side, but he can finally see it. he can finally see you. and holy shit, he might have just cum in his pants.

your legs are spread, bed facing the door as your fingers disappear into your cunt. your shirt–his shirt is pulled up right under your chin, leaving your cute tits out in the open as you harshly tug on one of your own nipples.

the view is stupidly mesmerizing, and choso catches himself just before he starts drooling at the sight of you. he’s not even paying attention to how hard he is, he’s completely entranced by every little action. the way your body is twitching, how your fingers are moving, how your eyes are pressed tightly shut as you cry out his name.

choso is genuinely about to lose it. he just wants to crawl over there and eat you whole, in more ways than one. but he’s practically glued to the spot; he’s even holding his breath just to not ruin the moment!

but he’s getting knocked out of his incomprehensible trance when you let out a particularly irritated groan.

it’s so annoying. you haven’t been able to cum once since your boyfriend has been scarce. it’s not like you tried anyway, you’d much rather have him pump your orgasms out of you like he seemed to love doing. but it’s been so long, and you’ve been so sexually frustrated that you had to turn back to playing with yourself like this.

it’s not that you couldn’t call him, you’re almost a hundred percent sure he’d run all the way to you if he was on the other side of the country. but you didn’t want to bother him too much. his schedule has been overflowing with activities and he’s probably so busy, you didn’t want to seem inconsiderate! so you’d settled on seeing him when you knew he was free.

but this is getting way too bad, and you’re sure you’d start losing sight in your left ear if you don’t get it out right now.

so against your better judgment, you’re using your free hand to reach over to your phone, banking on the fact that his voice will be enough to get you off. he doesn’t have to know, right? And plus, you can always tell him later when you feel less guilty.

it doesn’t take long for you to find his name surrounded by hearts in your contact list and you’re calling without a second thought. it takes a couple of seconds before the line actually starts to ring.

the loud noise from Choso’s back pocket startles him so much that he drops the flowers he’s forgotten he’s holding. he’s silently cursing himself amidst the noise of his phone singing out, and now he’s lost on what to do.

you speak first though, voice breathy and low as you call out his name. he bites down on his lower lip, slowly stepping into the entrance of your room. you bite back a laugh despite the obscenity of the whole thing. he looks like a kid who got caught with their chubby hand down the cookie jar, he’s just way too cute!

“were you watching me, cho?”

almost immediately he’s a stuttering mess of excuses and apologies. he swears he didn’t mean to, he just wanted to surprise you—he just got a little carried away!

and you can’t hide your smile as you shut him up, gesturing for him to come closer. you’re sitting up now, more covered than before as your shirt rolls down.

you pat the space beside you, signaling for him to come over. it feels like ages, almost eons when your bed finally dips from his weight, but he’s still so far away. it’s definitely an improvement from the first time he came over, but you need him much closer than he is.

you can see his body tense up as you shift closer. he’s still avoiding your eyes, finding the floor much more interesting than the face of yours he always says he can’t get enough of. your fingers are giving his bicep a reassuring squeeze as he apologizes once again. you’re not upset. nowhere near even—this might have been the best possible outcome. but if he’s all mopey like this, neither of you will get anywhere.

“y’know, i don’t mind you watching me.”

you can feel him physically cringe at your words, but you’re not done just yet.

“so, you can keep watching me, or…”

his eyes finally meet yours after what feels like an eternity, waiting for you to go on. there you go.

“or?”

“…you can help me.”

quite literally, you can see the gears turning in that silly little brain of his. but he’s choosing to forgo an actual response, pressing his lips against yours instead. you can’t help the moan you let flow out of you, and he’s grunting in response, arms closing around you hard so he can push you onto your back once more.

choso’s kisses are heavy and full of need, tongue dancing around yours as his fingers graze the exposed skin of your thighs. you feel so good under his rough palms, he can’t help but try to soften his touch. he doesn’t want to hurt you! after all, you’re his most prized possession. he has to take care of you in every way he can.

and you’re half expecting his fingers to replace yours as they were a couple of minutes ago, but he’s pulling back with a sharp huff. you’re lazily opening your eyes, gaze connecting with his again as you start to notice the tips of his ears are a burning red.

“can i... i want to taste you. please.

even with his eyes still trained on yours, his entire face is flushed. even after all these months, he’s still as nervous as ever.

you offer him a welcoming smile and nod. he’s clearing his throat as he moves away, making quick work of getting his shirt off before settling between your legs.

and he’s a little overwhelmed coming face to face with your pussy like this. he knows you’re watching him, and he’s watching your essence drip out and down your cunt as he thinks. he’s racking his brain, trying to think of the best way to approach this. but your hand guiding the back of his head closer towards your aching heat is all the encouragement he needs.

once his tongue comes in contact with your slick, his eyes fall shut. you gasp at the experimental licks he’s giving you, warmth of his tongue sending jolts all the way down into your toes as he groans at how sweet you taste.

he’s catching on with lightning speed, lightly dipping his tongue into your entrance between every couple of strokes from his tongue. his nose is bumping your clit just right, and you’re tugging at his hair quite harshly as he continues to suck at your hole.

it’s his tongue going deep into your cunt that has you arching off the bed, nails digging into his scalp as your thighs close around his ears. his strong hands are only wrapped around your thighs, locking you tight in place as he ravages his new favorite meal.

and the tip of his tongue is starting to invade your sensitive spots as he fucks it in and out of you, wiggling it around when he’s sure it’s as deep as he can go so you’re arching high off the bed. you’re desperately trying to push him away—you’re not sure you can handle all this! but choso is too far gone; he’ll apologize later. right now, he’s going to get a fill of this flavor he’s been missing out on for weeks.

but even with your pleas and cries, choso doesn’t stop. you’d think he’d gone deaf from how hard your thighs were pressing on his ears. truth is he can hear you loud and clear. he just wants to make sure he gets every single drop of your release down his throat.

he’s only had a sneaky taste of it after he helps you finish on his fingers. when you’re finally off the high and sleeping wrapped in his arms like a baby, he’ll bring his digit to his lips, childishly licking at them to get whatever remnants are on his fingers onto his tongue. but it won’t be long before pangs of guilt and shame cover him, and his hand will settle right by your side.

but now? there’s no way he’s about to give this up. he can feel it. the way you’re tightening around his tongue, how your moans are starting to crack just like they always do.

and he’s right because your thick release is hitting his throat in no time, flooding his mouth as he slurps up every last drop.

when he finally lets you free from his vice grip, you’re both panting and sweaty. his chin is entertained covered in your release. you can barely keep your eyes open, but you can hear how choso is fighting to get rid of his pants next.

it’s not long before Choso’s lips collide with yours in a much softer kiss. he’s been slightly… satiated. but his boner is getting more painful by the second, and he misses the way you envelop him so dearly.

he doesn’t break the kiss as he hooks his elbows under your knees. he’s pushing up, not stopping u til your calves are rested perfectly against his shoulders. he didn’t know you could bend like that. you didn’t know you couldn’t bend like that. but both of your trains of thought are broken when he finally pushes into you. a short string of curses falls from his lips when you clamp down around him just like you always do.

and regardless of how impatient he’s been all this time, choso never fails to fuck you properly. his thrusts are calculated and deep, each one making your entire body twitch under him.

you never fail to give him the praise he deserves either, telling him he’s doing so well they turn his harsh grunts into weak whines.

but he loses all composure when you call him ‘my good boy’. you can swear you hear him sob, but the noise gets drowned out fast by the sound of skin slapping as he picks up the speed of his hips

your eyes are crossing, fingers dipping into his shoulders when his pelvis starts to brush your overstimulated clit. he’s hitting everything so right, deep whispers of your name breezing through your head as he pounds into you.

you’re practically an inch away from getting fucked into a concussion but it’s the least of your worries right now. you’ve missed this—you’ve missed him. it’s the moments where he’s so raw with you, no masks of shame or fear covering how he truly feels that you love the most. this is the cost that you love.

but you’re still a human being, and one with limits. your orgasm is bubbling hard in the pits of your belly, so you’re tightening your own hold on him, mumbling about how you’re getting close. and you barely last another five seconds before a stupidly broken ‘i love you’ falls from your swollen lips.

those three words are sending choso over the edge so fast he can’t help the strangled noise that comes from his throat. those words are pumping energy throughout every vein of his body, and even through his orgasm, he doesn’t stop his movements. his face is digging into your neck as he rides out the rest of his high, tears dripping onto the skin of your collarbone.

you’re so confused when you recover, that you don’t know what to say! all you can do is shush him, dragging your fingers calmly through his messy strands as you try to calm him down. even through his fit, he’s still apologizing and it breaks your heart over and over. all you can do is press a sweet kiss against the side of his face and tell him how cute he looks with his face all wet like this. then he remembers.

he’s returning to your sides within seconds, setting the bouquet carefully in your arms before explaining what it’s supposed to be. they’ve already been out for quite some time though, so you’ll need to take them downstairs to place in a jar before they start to wilt too badly. but you’re in no state to walk like this.

so choso is scooping you up bridal style despite your protests and carrying you down the steps. he only puts you down to place you in front of the kitchen sink as he moves around to find a suitable container. it’s adorable you think, how proactive he is about this. but he’s done pretty quickly, and all you have to do is lean over the basin and push the jar onto the sill.

which you do with a gasp because he’s pressing onto your back, wrapping his arms around your waist. but that’s not what catches you off guard, it’s how hard he is. and with the way his hand is trailing down between your thighs, you know you don’t have long before you’ll be getting filled up again.

if you think you’ve missed him, you have no idea how much he’s missed you. and even with that, he’s so considerate! he knows how tired your legs must be, so he’s keeping you up with his vice-like grip as he fucks into you from behind right in front of the kitchen window. your brain's been turned to mush a long time ago, you don’t even care if your neighbors see you like this. all that’s on your mind is how bruised you’re going to be when choso finally lets up, and how much cum he can pump into you until he has to go for his next practice.

[papayainsectorone]

not a bad night

summary: just lando´s dj era and a little smau and song/music kinda thingy

content: i call this party fluff, smau, wannabe-dj!lando, dj!reader, alcohol mention, mild suggestiveness, flirtation clickable songs (highly suggested)

word count: 6,6k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

a thought: not sure if i´m any good at the smau thingy but I like this plotline, pls let me knwo your opinions

a´s masterlist

The rooftop was already humming by the time you arrived, deep basslines pulsing through the walls like a second heartbeat, bleeding down the staircase into the packed club below. Monaco had its own rhythm, usually silk-smooth and laced with champagne, but tonight it bowed to the decks.

The city lights flickered like fireflies beyond the glass walls, too distant to touch. Inside, the heat was alive, the air so heavy it felt like you could swim through it. Condensation crawled down mirrors, slicked over skin, soaked into every breath. People moved like they’d surrendered to it. Too many bodies, too little space. Music turned to pressure.

You ducked under the velvet rope behind the booth, brushing off a sweaty arm as you passed. A quick nod from Martin pulled you in. He was already close to the end of his set, headphones crooked around his neck, fingers moving like muscle memory. He saw you and grinned wide.

“About time,” he shouted over the drop, leaning in to offer a tight hug. “You good?”

You held up your laptop up. “Always.”

He chuckled, already stepping aside to give you space. “You’ve got the closing hour. Make them forget they just had me as their favorite DJ.”

That was the thing about following Martin Garrix, the pressure could kill lesser nerves, but for you? It was a high. Your fingers flew, plugging in, adjusting BPMs, sliding into the next build like you were born for it. You didn’t need to see the crowd to feel them responding.

After you ended your set and it was now only a playlist for the last guests left.

Your skin was damp with sweat, heart still racing from the last drop. You barely had time to pack your headphones and other equipment before Martin reappeared, a drink in one hand and someone trailing behind him.

“Hey—” he said, already grinning, “—figured I should introduce you two. He was practically hypnotized the whole time.”

You raised a brow, turning just in time to catch those eyes, bright, unreadable and way too focused for someone fresh off a party floor.

Martin nudged him. “This is who I was telling you about. The one with the dangerous hands.”

You scoffed. “That’s one way to put it.”

he reached out his hand introducing himself "Lando"

He smiled, crooked, a little sheepish. “You’ve got insane control. I didn’t know someone could actually command a room like that.”

You tilted your head, letting your smile tilt too. “Maybe you just haven’t been in the right room.”

You took the drink Martin offered, something citrusy, cold, and mercifully not too sweet then leaned one hip against the booth while Lando lingered just a step too close, like he couldn’t quite help himself.

“Not gonna lie,” he said, voice pitched low under the throb of the subwoofers, “I’ve never seen someone own a crowd like that. You didn’t even look at them. You just... knew.”

You smiled around the rim of your glass. “You don’t look at the crowd. You feel them. Eye contact ruins it, makes it about you. I’m not the show. The music is.”

That made his brows lift slightly, impressed. “That’s not what most DJs would say.”

“That’s because most DJs want attention,” you said, eyes glinting. “I want obedience.”

Lando huffed a soft laugh, but there was real admiration behind it. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp curls. “Martin warned me you were a little terrifying.”

Martin grinned over his shoulder, not denying it.

You cocked your head. “And you still came over?”

“I like terrifying,” Lando said. “Especially when it sounds that good.”

Your stomach flipped a little — not because he was cute (he was), or because he was charming (also true), but because he meant it. You could see it in the way his gaze lingered not on your face, but on your hands, like he was still trying to figure out how you pulled off what you just did.

“Martin got me a set of decks a few months ago,” he added, almost shy for a moment. “Just for fun. Something to do on long flights, nights between races. It’s mostly trash. But I’m trying to learn.”

You tilted your head, curious. “What’re you mixing? Proper sets or just messing around?”

“Mostly just transitions. Playing with tempos, trying not to butcher it.” He smiled again, but there was a glimmer of frustration behind it — the kind of drive only someone truly invested would have. “I keep watching YouTube tutorials like they’ll turn me into you.”

You laughed, surprised by the honesty. “Step one: close the tutorials.”

His eyes lit up at that.

“Step two,” you said, setting your drink down, “let someone show you how to feel it instead of force it.”

Lando leaned in, matching your tone now. “You offering?”

“I might be.”

The moment hovered, heat between your fingers and his, the music folding into something slow and bassy behind you, the club's chaos dimmed by the quiet between your breaths.

And then Martin clapped a hand on both your shoulders, oblivious. “You two gonna nerd out over gear all night, or are we dancing?”

You shot Lando a look. “You dance?”

“I can be convinced,” he said, already moving toward the floor. “But only if you promise not to judge my rhythm.”

You followed, smirking. “No promises.”

yourusername

liked by martingarrix, landonorris and 104,446 others

yourusername🎧 played my heart out last night. thank you martingarrix for letting me close after you (again) and thanks to the guy in the McLaren cap who wouldn’t stop asking questions about the reverb knob.

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martingarrix still can’t believe you followed with that drop — you killed it. honored every time ♡ liked by yourusername

user1 your set was amazing i was in the crowd and your transitions were unreal 😭 can’t wait for you to headline one day

yourusername was fully sweating behind the decks but I’m glad it landed 😅 can’t wait to see you at a headline set someday (maybe soon-ish👀)

user 2 wait… is that Lando Norris??

user 3 pls post a mix or I’ll riot

lando reverb guy had good taste

lando

liked by f1gossip, youusername and 608,549 others

lando not a bad night. also, I didn’t break anything, when martingarrix let me work his set

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user1 lando really be in his party boy era

martingarrix you touched the decks once. calm down

lando that’s one more time than i´d let you drive my car

user2 dj!lando unlocked ...

user3 he's so so sexy oh my

user4 the cap is WORKING

Your studio wasn’t much — just a spare room in your flat that had long since given up any hopes of normalcy. The walls were smudged with fingerprints and fading soundproof foam panels, corners cluttered with crates of vinyls that teetered like they were held up by willpower and nostalgia. Cables coiled across the floor like restless snakes, tangling under desks and over rugs, but somehow you always knew which one did what.

A pair of mismatched monitors blinked lazily in the low light, next to a patchwork of MIDI controllers, drum pads, and synths that all bore the wear of use — the kind of wear that meant love, not neglect. One cracked speaker still stood loyally in the corner, buzzing faintly when the bass hit just right. Above it, taped to the wall, was a setlist from a club night three years ago that you’d never had the heart to take down.

Post-its with half-sketched stuff, looping ideas and strange doodles decorated the desk like confetti. A lava lamp glowed faintly beside your main deck, casting slow-moving shadows over the mess. A half-eaten slice of cold pizza sat precariously on a synth pad like it had claimed that territory.

To anyone else, it would’ve looked like chaos. But to you? It was rhythm. A space alive with sound waiting to happen.

Lando stood in the doorway, his eyes wide, one hand still on his backpack like he wasn’t sure if he should be stepping into something holy or chaotic.

“This is...” he said slowly, “...a beautiful disaster.”

You grinned, dropping onto the stool in front of your setup. “That’s the point.”

He stepped over a tangle of cords, eyes scanning every inch, the shelves, the decks, the beaten-up keyboard with faded key labels. “This is where you built your sets?”

“Pretty much,” you said, spinning slightly in your chair. “It’s ugly, but she purrs.”

Lando laughed, finally settling onto the couch pushed against the far wall. It creaked under him. “I figured you had, like... some underground warehouse or sleek studio with glass walls and no dust.”

“You just described a hospital.”

He grinned. “Touché.”

“So. You ready to stop watching YouTube and actually learn something?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly serious. “Completely.”

Something about the way he said it made your breath hitch for half a second. It wasn’t just curiosity in his tone, it was respect. Interest. Focus. Like he already knew he was out of his depth but wanted to drown anyway.

You patted the seat next to you. “Come here, rookie.”

He rose without hesitation.

When he sat down, your knees brushed. Neither of you moved away.

Lando sat beside you, shifting to get comfortable on the stool that wasn’t really made for two. Your thigh pressed lightly against his, not enough to be a statement, but enough to notice. Neither of you mentioned it.

You reached for the controller, powering up the decks. The pads came alive with color, warm reds, cool purples, blinking in rhythm like they were already waiting for you.

“So,” you said, pulling a spare set of headphones off the hook and tossing them at him. He fumbled the catch. “First rule: don’t treat this like it’s fragile. It’s not a museum. It’s a weapon.”

Lando smirked as he slid the headphones on. “Got it. Be aggressive with the buttons.”

You shot him a look. “God no. Not aggressive. Intentional. Every tap, every slide, every cue point, it needs to mean something. Otherwise it’s just noise.”

He nodded, more serious now, leaning in to watch as your fingers skimmed across the surface. You ran through the basics, tempo match, EQ balance, how to cue the next track in one ear while the crowd hears another.

“Don’t rely on the sync button,” you said, glancing at him. “Unless you’re lazy or panicking.”

“Both are valid states,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Not on my decks, Norris.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

You slid the headphones halfway off one ear and started walking him through a transition. “Okay — beatmatch first. Here. Listen.”

You nudged the pitch control slightly and pointed to the waveform on screen. “You’re too fast, this is not racing. Hear it?”

He tilted in closer, close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, brow furrowed in concentration. “...Yeah. Okay. Slower.”

His fingers hovered near the slider, unsure.

You reached over, your hand covering his gently. “Not like that. Think... deliberate. Push and pull, not shove.”

His eyes flicked to yours. “You always this hands-on with your students?”

“Only the hopeless ones,” you said, deadpan.

He smirked, biting his lip just slightly as he looked back at the deck.

You pulled back eventually, spinning one knob with muscle memory. “Try it. From the top.”

He did. Slower this time. More focused.

yourusername

liked by martingarrix, landonorris and 384,376 others

yourusername great set! also martingarrix and i have been trying to teach lando some stuff, conclusion: should better be keeping to driving fast cars so far

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martingarrix hard but fair, i give him 3 more lessons before he drops his first “lando edit” ♡ liked by yourusername

lando i literally nailed that tempo shift don’t lie 😤

yourusername ehhhhhh, don´t know about that

f1gossipdaily the crossover we didn’t know we needed 👀

user 1 lando sitting on the floor like me in music theory class

user 2 she’s teaching him AND humbling him 💅 we stan

user 3 imagine getting roasted and remixed

tracksidebuzz 📍Monaco | 📸 by someone who was definitely not minding their business

IS LANDO WATCHING THE DJ — OR THE GIRL? Last night’s rooftop afterparty turned heads for more than just Martin Garrix’s surprise set. Rumor has it F1’s favorite chaotic golden boy, Lando Norris, made an impromptu joint appearance, not behind the decks, but beside them.

Eyewitnesses say Norris arrived early and stayed locked in beside Martin Garrix and Y/N during her closing hour, whispering between tracks and definitely not pretending to know what he was doing with the mixer (don’t worry, she looked amused).

👀 Bonus? Sources say she let him cue a track during the final transition and he didn’t totally flop it.

What’s the verdict? A music collab in the works… or just an F1 driver falling fast for a girl who can spin his heartbeat into a drop?

He knocked this time, knuckles light against your front door like he’d done it before. You didn’t bother to call out, he let himself in a second later, already grinning like he’d been sitting on a joke all morning.

“Didn’t realize you booked viral fame along with the lesson,” he said as he stepped inside, brushing past the curtain that doubled as a studio door.

You didn’t look up right away, just nodded toward the monitor where a headline still lingered, open on a paused screen: IS LANDO WATCHING THE DJ — OR THE GIRL?

“I was gonna put it on a t-shirt,” you said, deadpan. “But I thought I’d let you be the first to suffer.”

Lando laughed, tossing his phone on your cluttered side table and dropping into the worn-out couch like he owned the place now. “You’re telling me you’ve never been the subject of a headline before?”

“Not one with that many thirst comments.”

“That’s on you,” he said, pointing toward your decks. “You’re the one out here seducing a whole rooftop with a BPM slider.”

You spun slowly in your stool, facing him. “And you’re the one who showed up with puppy eyes and bad timing.”

“Was I that obvious?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “You tell me. Were you watching the DJ… or the girl?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just met your gaze, calm and sure.

“Same person, right?”

You laughed under your breath, unable to stop it. “You’re trouble.”

Still smiling, you spun back to the controller, fingers adjusting a few dials to hide how warm your face had gotten. “Alright, Mr. Headline. You ready to redeem yourself with a real mix?”

Lando rose, stretching a little before stepping close again, slow and loose-limbed like he had nowhere else to be. When he settled next to you, his knee brushed yours and didn’t move away.

“I’m ready,” he said, voice low. “But just warning you. I’m still probably gonna be watching you.”

You didn’t turn, but your smile was there. And yeah, he saw it.

The mornings and afternoons you spent together were inconsistent at best, little pockets of calm between race weekends and neon-lit clubs across Europe. But they became a rhythm of their own, casual but steady. If you were in the city, he’d ask. If he had a spare day, he’d show up.

Always with that same energy, cap backwards, smile half-cocked, teasing like it was a reflex. He’d flop onto your battered studio couch like he belonged there, tossing his phone somewhere in the vinyl pile and kicking his shoes off near the pizza boxes.

“You ever clean in here?” he asked once, nudging an empty container with his foot.

You didn’t even glance up from the controller. “You ever learn what quantize does?”

He grinned, rolling his eyes like he was offended. But next time he came, he brought food. Thai, in little white cartons that ended up stacked next to the Italian from the week before. No one ever remembered to take the trash out.

The sessions were loose, more talk than actual mixing, half of them derailing into conversations about BPM vs. heart rate, or whether you could build a whole set off one emotional breakdown song. He liked to ask dumb questions just to hear you explain.

“What if I just… dropped ABBA in the middle of a deep house set?”

“You’d clear the room.”, you laughed

“Or start a riot.”

“Lando, you could never start a riot with ABBA, I on the other hand...”

Sometimes he got serious. Focused. You’d catch him watching your hands while you showed him how to time a drop, nodding like he was storing every second. Then he’d say something stupid like, “You know you’re really hot when you’re bossy,” and the spell would break again.

You didn’t mind.

You liked the way he sat close without thinking. The way his shoulder brushed yours when he leaned over the mixer. The way your name sounded when he said it with his lips half-full of noodles and a smirk like he knew something you didn’t.

lando

liked by f1gossip, youusername and 608,549 others

lando spent my week off mixing some stuff. might not stick to cars after all. thanks for having me yourusername

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yourusername a pleasure to have you over to stop you from being horrible 😇

lando lies. i´m not THAT bad

martingarrix: bro you better not break her equipment

user1: IS THIS A SOFT LAUNCH???

user2: that’s her studio 👀

user3: obsessed with this chaotic little DJ/racer romance

user4: they’re literally twin flames in bass boost form

user5: him saying “might not stick to cars” when she’s probably carrying his whole set 😭 ♡ liked by yourusername

Lando had been getting bolder lately.

With every passing week, his hands moved more confidently across the decks. His transitions smoothed out, his sense of tempo sharpened. He still cracked jokes mid-mix and got distracted if you looked at him too long, but the hesitation was gone. And he was starting to talk — half-serious, half-daydream — about maybe playing a proper set somewhere soon. Martin had thrown him a few bones already. Quiet late-night slots, mid-week crowds. Nothing huge. But enough to get the bug.

Still, tonight was yours.

The club in Paris was intimate and dim, ceilings low enough to catch sweat. The kind of place where sound echoed off the walls and clung to skin like perfume. Gold light painted the crowd in slow-moving waves. It was a Tuesday, but the room was packed, Parisians didn’t care what day it was if the music was good. Martin was there too, just watching tonight. And Lando, of course.

You spotted him early, leaning against a far pillar, drink in hand, cap pulled low, curls sneaking out like always. He hadn’t come to say hi. You’d already been half-buried in pre-set preps when he slipped in, and he didn’t want to break the rhythm. So he watched instead, head slightly tilted, like he was studying.

The next track rolled in.

Was doing fine until you came with no warning No one told me all it takes is a moment Now every time I leave the house it is pouring Overflowing in an ocean

You were focused, mind in that liquid space where time gets stretchy and your fingers move before your thoughts do. But you could feel him. The grin, probably. The steady gaze. Lando had a way of looking at you like you were the only thing worth noticing in the room.

I feel it rising in my body Zero to hundred when you call me Head underwater, hear my heartbeat Each time you're touching me, tsunami

The drop hit. You were locked in, tempo synced to the throb of the crowd. All gold and heat and sound.

When the set finally ended, you hopped down from the booth, pulse still riding the last swell of bass. Your shirt clung to your spine. Hair stuck to your neck. Lando was already waiting, leaned just far enough from the booth to not be obvious, but his hair was damp at the nape, his grin low and lethal.

He tilted his head, voice low but laced with amusement.

“You always flirt like that when you’re behind the decks?”

You paused, brows drawing slightly. “Huh?”

He stepped closer, mischief blooming in the corner of his mouth. “You don’t feel it rising in your body?”

You let out a breath of laughter, water bottle pressed to your lips. “Should I?”

“I mean…” His gaze skimmed over you slowly, not shy, reverent. “That’s what it feels like for me. You, playing like that. It’s like a fucking tsunami.”

This time you laughed properly, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “Oh, Lando.”

Martin appeared behind you with the smug face of someone who had absolutely clocked everything, arms folded, brow arched.

Lando didn’t back off. He only stepped in a little closer, close enough that you felt it in your ribs.

“So you’re just teasing me then?” he asked, that smirk just short of a challenge.

Your mouth tilted into a grin of your own, eyes glinting. “Isn’t that what a good DJ does?”

You weren’t supposed to be there.

Martin had mentioned Lando was getting a short set, a midweek slot at some underground club, unlisted, no press. Just a favor and a quiet room to keep practicing. You weren’t even planning to go out again, your own set had wrapped an hour earlier and your feet were still sore from the boots you’d DJed in. But the idea of him behind the decks, hoodie sleeves pushed up, tongue tucked into his cheek in focus — well. It lingered.

So you showed up.

The club was tucked into a side street, small and unpretentious — low ceilings, walls lined with mirrors that caught the light like glitter. It smelled like vinyl, sweat, and citrus. The sound system was perfect — not too loud, just close enough to your skin to hum in your chest.

You slipped in quietly, found Martin leaning near the bar with a drink in one hand and an amused look the moment he saw you. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

“I didn’t either,” you muttered, eyes already scanning for him.

You spotted Lando in the booth, hoodie on, chain catching glints from the stage lights, headphone hanging around his neck. Just as you imagined. He was locked in. Focused. Until he saw you.

Then the look changed.

His face lit up, surprised first, then smug, like he couldn’t believe his luck but was fully prepared to lean into it. He bit back a grin, nodding once in acknowledgment.

And then the next song rolled in.

Tell me that I'm the one Say that you love me too Kisses don't come for free So what you waiting for?

Your head whipped toward the booth.

He was staring dead at you. No shame. Mouthing the lyrics like it was a private message, a direct line only you could hear.

Back to mine, only five Then we can go all night

Your eyebrows hit the ceiling. You raised your drink in exaggerated salute, laughter bubbling up before you could stop it. He winked — actually winked — then turned back to the decks like he hadn’t just delivered a full audio proposition in front of 200 strangers.

He kept it moving, transitioned into a deeper, bassier house cut like it was nothing. But the message? It clung to your skin like smoke.

You stayed near the back corner, arms crossed, trying to act unbothered while very obviously smiling every time he glanced your way.

You barely had time to breathe before Lando found you after he finished.

“That was subtle,” you said, voice dry, arms still folded.

He was flushed from the heat, hair damp, chain sticking slightly to his collarbone. He leaned against the wall like he had all the time in the world, grinning wide.

“What, no notes on my transitions?” he asked, breath still a little uneven.

You tilted your head. “Oh, they were tight. Shame about the lyrics, though. Bit on the nose.”

He gave a lazy shrug. “Wasn’t for the crowd. That one was for you.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just stepped a little closer, enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, but not touching. The air between you buzzed like low bass.

The city pulsed long before you even stepped inside.

Spain’s nightlife didn’t wait for you, it swallowed you whole. Every corner buzzed with heat, laughter, and the kind of music that made strangers dance like lovers. The club tonight was built for sweat and stories, narrow corridors, light bouncing off mirrored walls, and a booth perched high like a pulpit. It was packed already, a sea of bodies moving in sync, and for once, you weren’t rushing to the decks.

You stood at the edge of the floor for a moment, letting it settle in, the sound, the heat, the nerves. These were your people. Your nights. And maybe, more than you liked to admit, your gaze was already searching for one person in particular.

There he was.

Lando.

Leaning against a wall near the booth, a glass balanced casually in his hand. He looked impossibly relaxed — like he belonged there, despite how out of place he should have seemed. You clocked the girl he was talking to — pretty, sleek, one hand touching his arm as she laughed. He was grinning, effortlessly charming, and for half a second you rolled your eyes at yourself.

You weren’t jealous. You were just... observant.

You turned toward the booth, letting the game begin.

When you dropped into your set, you didn’t look his way again. You let the crowd build around you like waves, the tempo a slow tease — one hand on the mixer, one eye on the moment. You saved it for the right point. Let the tension stretch, let him think maybe you hadn’t noticed.

And then, the beat snapped through the room like a warning. Sharp. Unapologetic.

You keep on runnin' around With all the women in town I've had enough of these games I will be kickin' you out

On the drop, you finally turned your head.

He was already watching.

Eyes wide. Hand still halfway to his drink. His expression twisted into mock offense as the lyrics hit — lips forming a dramatic, “Ouch.”

You just laughed, spinning into the next transition, hips moving with the beat. The crowd was yours — sweaty, loose-limbed, full of life — but the spark in the air between you and Lando was its own rhythm.

You let him stew. Just a little.

He found you after your set, slipping up behind you like he’d always had access.

His hands landed lightly on your shoulders, fingers brushing skin like punctuation.

“Rough message,” he said in your ear, voice low and grinning. “But I like it.”

You gave a small shrug, not turning around just yet. “Gotta keep you in check somehow.”

He leaned closer, so close you felt his breath against your neck. “I’m not running anywhere,” he said, serious now. “Not if it means missing nights like this.”

That one almost knocked the air out of you.

You turned to face him slowly, expression unreadable, but your eyes gave you away. You searched his for something — sincerity, maybe. He didn’t flinch.

Just smiled. Not cocky. Just sure.

The Miami heat stuck to your skin, but the rooftop club was the perfect escape, open sky, flashing lights, the kind of night where the air feels electric with possibility. You arrived just in time to catch the tail end of Martin’s set and then Lando stepped up.

You’d seen him grow more confident behind the decks, but tonight there was something different — slower, deliberate.

The opening lyrics teased the edges of your skin:

I got a craving, I want you to know it Won't say, 'I love you' but I'm gonna show it.

You crossed your arms, already predicting what was coming next. When the beat hit, he pointed directly at you in the crowd, eyes locked.

You shouted over the music, “Stop it, Lando!” but you stayed. You didn’t want to leave.

He smiled, that crooked, mischievous grin, as if daring you to call him out.

And mouthed:

“So come on, baby.”

After the set, he caught your eye again, this time close enough that you could smell the faint hint of coconut from his cologne mixing with the salty ocean air.

“You’re driving me insane,” he said, voice low. “And I’m loving every second.”

The air was electric with heat and distortion, thick with smoke and sweat as you stepped onto the decks. Berlin didn’t pretend to be pretty — it pulsed. The club’s low ceiling trapped the sound like a heartbeat, neon lights flickering across concrete walls, painting the crowd in flashes of blue and blood-orange. This wasn’t just a set, it was a showdown.

You scanned the sea of bodies, already knowing where to find him. Lando stood near the back, half-hidden in shadow. His eyes were fixed on you — sharp, unblinking, hungry. A game of cat and mouse, except neither of you ever agreed who was which.

You slipped your headphones on, lips tugging upward in a grin only he would understand.

The track queued, and you let it hit. Sharp. Unapologetic.

You think I wanna fall in love Well, I′m not, babe You want a life, as a wife But that's not my thing You′ll be at home all alone lookin' at the rain I'm just gonna tell you straight

Even through the haze, you saw him react. A flicker of surprise. Then a hand to his chest in mock injury, staggered back like you’d personally wounded him. Martin, off to the side behind his signature shades, just laughed — low and knowing.

You didn’t flinch.

This was your message. Fierce. Clear. Independent. You weren’t just in control — you were the moment. You let the bass drop like a hammer, hips rolling with the beat, body fluid and deliberate. Each movement a declaration. Each transition aimed like a shot across the room.

By the time your set closed, the crowd was molten, bodies swaying, pulsing. You jumped down still vibrating with adrenaline. And there he was, already making his way through the crowd like gravity pulled him to you.

Lando stopped in front of you, damp curls clinging to his forehead, a crooked grin cutting across his face.

“You’re ruthless,” he said, laughter in his breath.

You gave a casual shrug, half-innocent. “Just telling you straight.”

He stepped in a little closer, voice dropping. “Good,” he said, eyes flicking from your lips back to your eyes. “I like the chase.”

That made you smile. Not shy, dangerous. There was spark and smoke between you now, and it felt like the entire room narrowed down to just the two of you.

Later, on the dance floor, things blurred. The music thickened into something sensual and loud, and the space between your bodies was thinner than it had ever been. His hand grazed your waist, your arm brushed his chest, the chemistry humming louder than the speakers.

And still you didn’t let him have it. Not yet.

He could’ve kissed you right then and there. You saw it in his eyes.

But you weren’t ready to give in.

Not when teasing felt this good.

The race was over, champagne long dried from his suit, and the city had softened into something velvety and indulgent. Post-race weekends had a rhythm all their own, slower, heavier, more dangerous.

You slipped into the club late, the thud of bass already rolling through the floor. Tight black dress, heels clicking over stone, you weren’t trying to keep a low profile, and you knew exactly who would notice.

Lando was already in the booth, looking like trouble. He didn’t spot you right away, not until you stepped inside the booth and leaned casually against the back wall, arms crossed. He glanced over, did a double take, then broke into a wide grin that split his entire face. A little glassy-eyed. A little flushed. Definitely tipsy.

His first few transitions were... shaky. You raised an eyebrow when the kick didn’t quite land where it should. He caught your expression, visibly pulled himself together, and focused, hands steadying, eyes flicking between the decks and you.

Then he played it. The opening lyric dropped, slow and deliberate:

It’s six in the morning and I’m thinking of you…

Your brows arched, lips parting in surprised amusement. You tilted your head, silently asking really?

Lando didn’t flinch, just winked at you, his hand brushing unnecessarily close to yours as he reached for the fader. His fingers grazed the back of your hand — just enough to feel, not enough to grab.

“This one’s for you,” he murmured over the music, mouth close to your ear now, voice smug but warm. “No backing down.”

The next lyrics made your stomach flutter.

Got a small proposition for you You look kinda sexy, got it going on

You burst out laughing, half-turning so he wouldn’t see how flushed your cheeks were. But he knew. You could feel it in the way his gaze stayed locked on your profile, playful and predatory.

Here′s what I want you to do Come a little closer, let me see that thong

The beat dropped harder now, his confidence kicking back in. He was good, not perfect, but better than he had any right to be after three drinks and your bare shoulder brushing his arm.

Mid-song, Lando leaned in again, closer this time — the side of his body pressing against yours, his hand sliding casually along the edge of the booth just behind your waist.

“Come back to the hotel with me,” he said lowly, his breath brushing your neck. “I promise. No more missed beats.”

You turned, lips inches from his, one hand sliding lightly up his chest — just enough for him to feel the warmth of your palm, not enough to hold. “No,” you whispered, letting the rejection drip like honey. “But points for confidence.”

Later, when you stepped down to the floor, he followed. Watching. Waiting. Still grinning.

You glanced back over your shoulder, teasing smirk playing on your lips. “Not bad for a rookie.”

And then you disappeared into the crowd, leaving just your perfume, your laugh, and the echo of that impossible maybe.

Your set was already done, the sweat cooling on your skin, the crowd thinning like fog in the first morning light. The beat had settled, your heart was slowing, and the promise of fresh air outside was starting to pull at you.

Then from the back: “One more for Lando!”

You groaned dramatically, but couldn’t help the slow smile tugging at your lips. You didn’t even need to look to know it was Martin — his voice carried too much amusement to be anyone else. You turned toward the decks again, letting your fingers skim the knobs and faders like muscle memory.

“What should I give you, huh?” you murmured under your breath, already scrolling through the playlist. Then your eyes caught a familiar title and you laughed — quiet and to yourself, remembering the moment from months ago.

“What if I just dropped ABBA in the middle of a deep house set?” “You’d clear the room,” you’d teased. “Or start a riot.” “Lando, you could never start a riot with ABBA.” You’d smirked. “I on the other hand...”

You pressed play.

The first notes bloomed through the speakers, smooth and strange. The room didn’t empty. If anything, it were people coming back in.

You didn’t look toward the bar right away, but you could feel him. That pull. That heat. Eventually, you let your gaze slip toward the crowd and there he was, framed in strobes and shadow, eyes locked on you like the rest of the room didn’t exist.

The lyrics fell from your lips without thinking, soft and as private as one can be in a room still this full, like secrets only he could hear:

A little small talk, a smile, and baby, I was stuck…

Your cheeks burned. You knew he saw, the slight flush, the way your fingers trembled over the knobs.

You risked another glance. He hadn’t moved. He just grinned, slow, sure, eyes bright with something that felt a lot like understanding.

I feel a kind of fear When I don’t have you near…

Something cracked open in your chest. The teasing, the games, they all thinned into something tender. Real. Vulnerable.

Don’t go wasting your emotion… Lay all your love on me.

It hit different this time. Not a lyric. Not a joke. A call, maybe. An answer.

After the song faded and you stepped down, heart thudding louder than the bass.

Close. Closer. Grin soft, voice even softer.

“I’m not gonna settle for you teasing tonight.”

You laughed, the sound catching in your throat, but your eyes didn’t leave his. “Took you long enough.”

He reached up slowly, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, the kind of touch that asked permission without words. You didn’t stop him. Couldn’t.

And then — finally, finally — Lando kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild. It was deliberate, warm, and sure, like he’d been rehearsing it in his head for weeks, maybe months and had finally found the right beat to drop.

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