#EXCITED BUN NOISES

[sparklytimebun]

((😭😱💡 And also in general I'm wanting to write but I gotta recover the energy for it, ty for bein' patient XD you know most the ideas I've had already <3 !

com-MUN-ication meme

💡 I have a plot idea for our muses

😭 I want to write angst with you

😱 I want to write horror with you

YE YE YE YE YE YE YE

[wandaslovey]

ᴍʀꜱ. ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴏꜰꜰ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴡ

➺ dom!wandanat x sub!fem!reader

word count ~ 7k

authors note: i’m so excited to share this with you guys - this was so much fun to write! i’m planning on writing the first few parts as chapters where one will pick up right after the other and then once i get to a certain point i’ll do random time skips within the same au. oh also! i’m starting a tag list, so comment below if you’d like to be included on the next chapter! enjoy loves! 💕 as usual, this is not proofread.

content warning(s): legal age gap (w=30, n=33, r=23), natasha and wanda being two hot intimidating lawyers (except natasha kinda steals this show in this part, especially in the beginning. don’t worry though, wanda will have her time to shine!), conversation about kinkery and reader knows very little

if you’d like to read the drabble that inspired this series, click here

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you stand in front of the mirror, adjusting your white button-up blouse for the 10th time. you huff, frustrated that your wardrobe just wouldn’t cooperate with you this morning. as you look yourself over in the mirror—the rest of your outfit consisting of a mid-thigh black pencil skirt, some black nylons and black combat boots—you couldn’t help but wonder if your attire was okay for the interview.

the interview…you can’t believe you landed an interview at thee M.R. law firm. you knew how unqualified you were for the position, so you felt extra pressure to compensate somehow with your appearance.

you turn to the side in the mirror, first left and then right, scrutinizing yourself at every angle. you readjust the pieces of hair framing your face that you pulled out of your bun, before deciding you’d done all you could to look your best.

you glance at the clock on your nightstand in the reflection of the mirror, seeing it was time to go. you grab your knock-off brand purse and slip out of your apartment. when you walk down the stairs and open the door to the outside, the noise from the city fills your ears. the sounds of cars, horns, sirens, music and people all blended together, creating a sort of hum all new-yorkers were familiar with. you step out onto the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding some tourists that were taking a picture in front of the trendy restaurant you lived by. you hail a cab, quickly sliding into the backseat and telling the driver your destination.

now that you were settled in your seat with only the taxi drivers quiet music to distract you, the nerves you’d been attempting to snub out suddenly hit you full force. there was no way you could do this. you were sure you were just wasting your own time and the poor person who had to interview you. you knew your 6 months working as a receptionist at a dentist office nowhere near qualified you to manage things at M.R. law. you mentally curse yourself, thinking you must’ve been half asleep and entirely too desperate when you sent in your application at this place. you needed a job though—urgently. with your roommate moving back home, and no one else taking her place, you were stuck with paying the rent on your own. on top of that, you were still paying back loans for school. you knew you should cut your losses, leave new york and transfer to a much more affordable school, but you really wanted to stay as much as you could help it.

every stoplight you hit along the 20 minute drive only makes you more nervous. the fluttery feeling in your stomach turns into full blown pterodactyls by the time the driver has pulled up to the very tall M.R. building. you pass some folded up cash to the driver, mumbling out a quiet ‘thank you,’ and then step out of the car. you stare up at the intimidating building, the lettering of “maximoff-romanoff law” taunting you—daring you to step inside. you let out a stubborn exhale, squaring your shoulders and walking in with a confidence as fake as grape flavored candy.

you stride over to the front desk, noticing that the only employees in sight are all women.

“hi, i’m here for an 11 o’clock interview,” you tell one of the women behind the desk. she offers you a polite smile, giving you instructions to head into the elevator and up to the 8th floor. you nod your head, thanking her and make your way to your doomsday interview.

as the elevator doors shut behind you, you find yourself all alone in the small space. there was no background music to distract you now. you stare at the floor, noticing a slight glint to the black tiles you were standing on. you listen to the beeps counting up each floor, your eyes dragging up the stainless steel panel when the number reads 8 and the final beep sounds. the doors open and you’re immediately greeted with the sight of more women pacing around the place. some seemed to be in a rush while others were leisurely walking across the floor while chatting with a co-worker. you walk over to the front desk again, repeating what you had told the other kind lady downstairs. she gestures for you to take a seat on the couch in the waiting area, letting you know someone will grab you in a few minutes.

you take a seat on the black leather couch, figuring this piece of furniture probably costed more than the rent for your apartment. you cross your legs, interlocking your fingers together at your knee. you glance around the office, taking in the decor. it was very tasteful, some touches of greenery that went nicely with the black and dark woodsy vibe this floor was going for. you try your best to ignore the bile rising in your throat and the pterodactyls still swarming in your stomach. it was a good thing you didn’t eat breakfast this morning.

as two minutes turns into ten, and then fifteen, you can’t help but feel the urge to just get up and leave. you felt so out of place here; you couldn’t imagine working at this place with all these women who were so obviously out of your league.

just as you were settling on the idea of ditching this interview, you hear clacking footsteps making their way over to you. you didn’t dare look up yet, pretending to be very interested in the tiny hole in your pantyhose just above your knee.

“miss (y/l/n)?” the most heavenly, sultry voice calls out to you. your eyes slowly trail along the tile, up the woman’s legs covered in black slacks, her blouse and matching black suit jacket, and then finally her face. it was her.

thee mrs. romanoff.

mrs. romanoff was the person who was going to interview you? you couldn’t believe your eyes, or the situation. you clear your throat, realizing you had yet to acknowledge her calling out to you.

“yeah, that’s me,” you reply, standing on slightly wobbly legs. you watch as mrs. romanoff’s eyes slowly take in your appearance, her eyes lingering on your frame. you feel a little scrutinized, wondering if you really did mess up with what you were wearing.

“follow me.” she turns and leads the way. you stumble a bit as you follow behind her, not expecting her to have as long of a stride as she does.

“you’ll have to forgive me for the wait—we had a couple meetings run over this morning,” she talks to you over her shoulder, slowing her walk a little when she notices you’re not directly behind her like she thought.

“oh, no worries. i didn’t mind the wait.” that was technically a lie, but it wasn’t the wait that bothered you as much as the fact that you were left alone with your thoughts a little too long.

she rounds a corner at the end of the hall, pausing and gesturing for you to enter in one of the two doors that were side by side on the wall to the right. you walk through the doorframe, stepping into what you assumed was her personal office.

“have a seat, miss (y/l/n),” she says in a low voice, walking from behind you and around her desk to sit in her chair. you sit in one of the two chairs across from her, your heart thudding violently in your chest from being in such close proximity to her.

you adjust your seating position three times before finally settling in place, forcing yourself to sit still. mrs. romanoff humors you, remaining silent and patient through your nervous fidgeting.

“so, i have to say i was a little surprised to see your application come through to my desk,” she starts and you immediately feel your cheeks grow hot, the feeling of being in a place you don’t belong filling your whole body with dread.

she pauses, and you realize she was waiting for you to respond. right. this was supposed to be where you attempt to prove yourself adequate to work in this position.

“yes, um… well, admittedly i myself did think it was a stretch to apply here, but then i figured, i’m a fast learner, i’m very thorough in all i do and i enjoy learning new things. i thought i’d try my hand at something i haven’t done before.” you rattle off an answer that while it was true, it was also something you rehearsed 20 times in the mirror while getting ready before you got here. you were almost positive the slight robotic edge in your voice was noticeable.

mrs. romanoff hums in acknowledgment, nodding slightly at your rehearsed answer. “how well can you handle multi-tasking in a fast paced environment?” her lack of acknowledging your first answer puts a damper on your already fake confidence. you shift in your seat again, finding it harder to maintain eye contact with the sea of green that was her eyes.

“i would say i fare pretty well. i’m usually very good at managing stressful situations.” that was a complete lie—but most people bullshit their way through interviews, don’t they?

“usually?” she echoes, tilting her head to the side. she purses her lips, half attempting to hide a small smirk. she easily picked up on all your nervous antics the moment she saw you. you averting her gaze, walking unsteadily, fidgeting in your seat and the cute rose-y blush currently coloring your cheeks.

you clear your throat, interlocking your hands together in your lap. you notice they’ve already started to feel damp with sweat. “yeah, yeah most of the time i’d say so.”

“well, miss…” she glances down at what appeared to be your application and resume sitting in front of her on the desk. “(y/n)..you don’t sound very sure of yourself.” she sits upright in her chair, crossing her arms and leaning over the desk. your heart beats impossibly faster, the feeling of intimidation settling deep into your bones.

“no, i mean, i am sure—totally 100%.” you try to laugh, but it comes out sounding as nervous as you feel.

“okay, if that’s how you’d like to proceed…” she trails off, looking down at the papers in front of her again. you didn’t know what she meant, but your eyes fall desperately to the same papers she was looking at, as if they could provide some sort of answer to you. “what are your greatest strengths and weaknesses?”

you internally breath a sigh of relief. this was another answer you’d rehearsed in the mirror, it just needed to sound less robotic this time. “i’d say my greatest strengths are, i’m very punctual—i’m always on time if not early—um, i do all things thoroughly, as i mentioned before…i’m very reliable—hardly sick or need time off for family things, and i enjoy a good challenge. my greatest weakness is that i like to be very organized and sometimes i can spend a little too much time completing a certain project before moving onto the next.” you exhale after you finish talking, your eyes flicking across her face to try and get a sense of how she’s taking in your answer.

as you speak, you can’t help but notice that she was watching you so meticulously. it seemed that she was taking in not only your words, but your facial expressions, hand gestures and body language.

she looks at you for a moment as if she’s thinking hard on something. without taking her eyes off of you, she presses a button on her desk, the small ding from an intercom sounding. “joan, please track down mrs. maximoff and have her come into my office right away.”

your heartbeat now thrums loudly in your ears, your breath picking up its pace. you were not only going to be in the presence of mrs. romanoff but now mrs. maximoff too? never in your life had you seen such a powerful couple—and that was only in photos and billboards you’d seen around the city!

“is everything okay?” you ask nervously, feeling the permanent blush on your cheeks travel to the tips of your ears.

“everything’s fine, (y/n),” she gives you a smile but it was anything but reassuring. in fact, there was something about the expression that felt more intimidating with how devastatingly beautiful she was.

she grabs a pen and starts writing something on the paper. whatever it was was brief, but you couldn’t see clearly from your seat.

a quiet knock comes from the door and your posture becomes rigid as you hear who you assume to be mrs. maximoff entering the room.

“you called for me?” mrs. maximoff asks as she walks the length from the door to mrs. romanoff’s side. she walks around your chair and stands next to her wife, placing her palm flat against the desktop and leaning some of her weight on it.

“yes, i wanted you to meet our new interviewee,” she smiles with her lips and gestures to you in your seat. you look between the two beautiful, impeccably dressed women, feeling extremely small and insignificant. mrs. maximoff turns to look at you for the first time, a warm smile gracing her features.

“hi,” she offers simply, extending her hand to shake yours. you sit forward, reaching your arm out to shake her hand across the desk. her hand was incredibly soft and a little cold to the touch, but you wouldn’t expect anything less since the office was kept at such a cool temperature.

“mrs. maximoff is going to sit in on the rest of our interview. is that okay with you?” mrs. romanoff asks, her eyes daring you to object.

you quickly shake your head from side to side, shifting once again in your chair. “no, no that’s perfectly fine,” you reply easily, though you were feeling anything but fine. you notice mrs. maximoff giving her wife a curious glance but she doesn’t otherwise question it.

“let’s move over to the couches so we’re a little more comfortable,” mrs. romanoff stands up and heads over to the long olive green velvet sofa. you follow suit, except you take a seat in the smaller sofa, designed for only one person. mrs. maximoff sits closest to you on the long couch, brushing some of her pretty brown hair behind her shoulder. you watch as she glances back at her wife, mrs. romanoff giving her a certain look that you weren’t sure what it meant.

“so, (y/n), tells us what your career goals are,” mrs. romanoff proceeds with the interview as if the interruption never happened. you find yourself even more nervous to respond now that there were two, hot, older women sitting before you.

“umm…for now i really just need something steady that will simultaneously be giving me good work and life experience.. long term though, i’d like to become a therapist once i finish my masters program.” you bite your tongue once you finish your sentence, realizing this is not the sort of job where you tell your interviewers you’d like to pursue something that has nothing to do with their company.

“what appeals to you about becoming a therapist?” mrs. maximoff chimes in, tilting her head to the side curiously, just like mrs. romanoff had done earlier in the interview.

you lean back in your chair, a little surprised at her interest in your reply. “well, it’s a cliche answer, but i’m very passionate about helping people. it’s impossible to go through this life without getting seriously hurt and dealing with trauma. the vast majority of us have no idea how to cope or process through our experiences, so just knowing what i know, i’d like to try and be of some help for those who need it.”

the two lawyers look at you thoughtfully, mrs. maximoff nodding her head as you speak.

“that’s a very admirable passion. are you currently enrolled in a masters program?” she asks, crossing one of her legs over the other as she gets more comfortable in her seat.

“i am,” you reply with a shy smile. you never wanted to come across as bragging about your education, so you always sought to speak about it in the most humble way.

“you like school?” mrs. romanoff chimes in, leaning forward as she speaks.

your smile turns a bit rueful as you reply. “yes..i do. i know so many young people my age loathe school and all the hard work that needs to be put in, but…i love everything about it. i love taking notes, making flashcards, studying, taking tests, everything about it, i just love. i know it sounds a little crazy.” you laugh once, suddenly feeling more relaxed as you speak about something so genuinely. you feel a little more surprise again as you hear mrs. romanoff chuckle with you, nodding her head towards her brunette wife.

“sounds like somebody i know. this one here was a school addict. i had to practically pry textbooks out her hands just so we could do anything other than study,” she chuckles again, mrs. maximoff joining in with her.

“i won’t apologize for being so pointed about my studies. we both got straight A’s, didn’t we?” she jokes light-heartedly and you find yourself smiling warmly at their light banter.

mrs. maximoff turns back to face you, a smile still touching her lips. “what else do you do aside from school?” her question makes your face fall slightly as you now had to admit you were technically unemployed. you knew that didn’t look good for potential employers.

“right now, not a whole lot. just keeping busy with my studies,” you respond vaguely to which they both hum in response.

the pair of them continue asking you questions, except they become progressively more personal until they don’t attain to work or working at this position at all.

“do you like living alone? or do you prefer living with others?” was one of the questions mrs. romanoff asks you after you had explained you were currently without a roommate.

even though it was strange, you find that the more you talk about yourself, the more relaxed you feel. mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff both noticed it too. they could see more of your personality showing through as the nerves slowly but surely dissipated.

it had been near 40 minutes by the time mrs. romanoff checked her watch and noticed the time. she looked at her wife, mrs. maximoff seeming to sense her eyes on her as she automatically looked to the side. they shared a look, one of them nodding to the other before turning back to face you.

“well, we’ve kept you here much longer than was intended—i apologize for that.” mrs. romanoff says as she stands, mrs. maximoff following suit. you stand also, smoothing your skirt back over your legs. as you stand so closely to them now, you notice how they were both taller than you by a few inches, making you feel small again like you had earlier.

“it’s no big deal. i’m in no rush,” you smile shyly as you look up at the two of them. you extend your arm out, shaking both of their hands before getting ready to leave. they both give your hand a gentle squeeze and when mrs. romanoff shakes your hand, she grasps on longer than her wife, holding your gaze with a certain intensity.

“we’ll be in touch, miss (y/n),” she says smoothly, calling you out by your first name, and for some reason the combination between her voice and her eye contact made your knees feel weak.

you swallow thickly, nodding your head and thanking them both for the interview before turning away. mrs. maximoff leads you to the door to exit and walks you all the way out to the elevators. you pace the short distance in somewhat comfortable silence. when you turn to face her to say your final goodbye, your surprised to see mrs. romanoff behind her. she was following so quietly that you didn’t notice her presence.

“bye! thank you again,” you smile, stepping into the elevator once the doors open. the two women stand side by side of each other, giving you a near identical smile which portrayed some sort of knowing behind it, almost like they were expecting something.

“it was a pleasure meeting you miss (y/l/n),” mrs. maximoff calls out to you as the elevator doors slide closed.

you exhale a breath you didn’t now you were holding, slumping back against the elevator walls.

『 °*• ❀ •*°』

that evening, you cook up a box of mac n cheese, too lazy to try and find the ingredients to make anything else. not to mention, your mind was still a little bit jumbled after your interview with thee lesbian power couple.

mrs. romanoff’s words kept echoing in your head.

”we’ll be in touch” she’d said. but didn’t your interview totally blow? especially at the end. it wasn’t so much an interview but rather more like a conversation where people try to get to know each other better. maybe they were looking for a personality hire? you really doubted that though.

you eat your mac n cheese while staring blankly at the wall, thinking over the whole exchange with mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff. as you mindlessly feed yourself spoonfuls of your dinner, you realize you didn’t even know their first names. you remembered you had once seen them on a billboard somewhere but didn’t remember exactly what they were. mrs. romanoff’s first name was natalie or something similar? you were at a loss with mrs. maximoff. you decide to google them to put your curiosities to rest.

pulling out your phone, you google their names and the law firm. after doing just a little bit of digging, you see their full names: natasha romanoff and wanda maximoff. ah, so you were close with mrs. romanoff’s name. you wonder if they only go by their last names at the office. it definitely seemed like their vibe to have things be so professional.

as you go throughout the rest of your evening, showering and getting ready for bed, you continue thinking about them. the longer your mind lingers on them, the less “professionally” you think about them. you couldn’t help but notice how utterly beautiful they both were. they both carried themselves with a confidence that anyone would find intimidating. there was something so forceful about their presences, but not necessarily in a bad way. it seemed like natasha—mrs.romanoff—was a little more rough around the edges, but you could see she easily held a soft spot for her wife and life partner. mrs. maximoff gave off a much more approachable vibe, but she was still intimidating in her own way.

as your mind continues wandering, you find yourself becoming more tired before you finally drift off to sleep, your brain fatigued from all your analytical thinking.

『 °*• ❀ •*°』

the first thing you notice when you wake up is the light shining through your thin curtains. you blink a few times, slowly adjusting to the light. you blindly reach over to your nightstand, unplugging your phone from the charger. as you unlock your phone, you notice a missed call from an unknown number nearly two hours ago. you shoot up into a sitting position in your bed, suddenly feeling much more awake. it was just passed 10 am. was the unknown number a call back about your interview?

your fingers furiously swipe on your phone, quickly googling the number for M.R. law. you breath a sigh of relief when you cross reference the digits in your phone and the number online, realizing it was just a random unknown caller. you let your body fall back limply on the bed, your leg dangling off the side as you clutch your phone to your chest. that would’ve been humiliating if they called offering you the job and you didn’t pick up the phone.

as you go about your morning leisurely—not having any classes this day—you try to push the two hot lawyers out of your mind. there was no point in dwelling on them if you’d never hear from them again.

you leave your face bare of makeup, not intending on leaving the apartment and you opt for wearing comfy clothes—or “frumpy” clothes as you called them—instead of something nice.

you head into the kitchen, pouring yourself a bowl of frosted flakes cereal. you let it sit there for a few minutes to soak up the milk, as soggy cereal was your favorite. you’d argue with anyone who claimed crunchy cereal was best. as you wait, you power up your laptop, intent on working on some homework.

you’re munching on your cereal, blue-light filtered glasses adorning your nose as you work on your computer screen. you were mid-bite when you hear your phone buzzing on the counter next to you. you glance down at your phone and frown slightly when you notice it looks to be the same unknown number from earlier.

you continue chewing your bite, raising the phone to your ear as you accept the call.

“hello?” you ask, your voice mumbled a bit as you still had some food in your mouth.

“good morning, miss (y/n),” you hear a warm, velvety voice greet you. after almost an hour interview with her yesterday, you’d recognize this distinct voice anywhere.

“mrs. romanoff?” you just about choke on your food as you swallow, your body tensing slightly as you feel much more alert.

“that would be correct.” you hear her chuckle softly into the phone, your tone laced with obvious surprise she must have found endearing.

“i’m so sorry! i think i missed your call earlier? i didn’t recognize the number- i had no idea it was you, i’m sorry!” you apologize quickly, thinking that if she was actually calling to offer you the job, you might have just ruined it.

“don’t worry about it. i would be surprised if you recognized it given that this is my personal number,” her voice was low and warm. it was entirely too enticing.

“oh.. umm, right. well, good morning,” you stumble slightly over your words, unsure what else to say to her.

“are you normally a late riser?” she asks with humor in her voice.

“what? oh no, not normally no. i just don’t have classes today,” you explain, a little embarrassed at her having called you out on your sleeping habits.

“i see. well, we just wanted to call and ask if you’d meet us for a coffee,” her question came out as more of a statement and you were left wondering why on earth she would want to go out for coffee with you and…wait.. did she say we?

“we?” the words echo aloud from your mind.

“yes. my wife and i,” she reiterates calmly. you look around your small excuse for a kitchen as if the reasoning behind her posing this question was written on the walls.

“like today?” you ask stupidly. of course she meant today.

“yes - today. can you meet us in 15? we’re going on lunch break. i’ll text you the address.” your eyes zip to the digital numbers plastered on the microwave. you only had 15 minutes to try and look presentable, get a cab and meet them.

“ummm..yeah. yeah sure,” you nod your head as if she could see you through the phone. you quickly hop off the stool you were sitting on, walking briskly to the bathroom with the phone still held firmly to your ear.

“perfect. we’ll see you soon.” she hangs up and you all but toss your phone on the bathroom counter, staring down at the device as if it’s offended you. you quickly snap out of it, only having 5 or so minutes to un-hobo yourself. you quickly apply some concealer on your dark spots, powder on a little blush and brush on a coat of mascara in record time. in your haste, you stumble from the bathroom to your closet, trying to find something to quickly throw on. you grab a simple white baby tee, putting it on and then aggressively stepping into some loose light wash jeans. grabbing your belongings, you half jog out the door, nearly slipping down the last two stairs of your apartment.

you quickly get a cab, thanking whatever higher power there is in your head that there was very little delay in one driving by. as the taxi driver takes you to the address you gave him, you sit forward in your seat, gathering your hair in a pony tail near the top of your head. you secure it with an elastic you always keep around your wrist and pull some pieces out to frame your face. you glance in the cab rear view mirror, seeing you looked fairly presentable. you exhale shakily, sitting back in your seat as the same nerves you felt yesterday on the way to your interview were coming back now.

what was this about? i mean, you knew it wasn’t normal to meet with potential employees for coffee. it was especially suspicious because it was mrs. romanoff *and* her wife.

your thoughts are interrupted as the taxi slows to a crawl and he pulls up to the coffee shop. you’d never been to this one before, granted there were hundreds of shops all over the city so there were probably many you hadn’t gone to. your heart leaps in your chest as you see both mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff waiting outside for you.

you pass the driver the money, thank him and slip out of the car. as you step onto the sidewalk, mrs. maximoff greets you with the same warm smile she’d given you when you first met. mrs. romanoff smiles too, though it’s not as wide as her wife’s.

“hello again, (y/n).” your heart skips a beat as you hear mrs. maximoff use your first name for the first time. mrs. romanoff had been calling you by your first name since you’d stepped foot into her office. you liked the way your name fell from both of their tongues.

“hi, good to see you both again,” you smile despite your nerves, making eye contact with both of them in a polite manner.

“shall we?” mrs. romanoff suggests as she opens the door for you, her wife placing a gentle hand on the small of your back to usher you inside. you inhale shakily, the unexpected contact surprising you in a pleasant way.

as the three of you file in behind the small line of people waiting to order, your eyes skim the menu, even though you already knew exactly what you wanted.

“cute outfit,” mrs. romanoff murmurs from behind you. you could hear what sounded to be amusement in her tone but you weren’t sure.

you turn to the side to face her, her being on your left and mrs. maximoff on your right just a half-step behind you. “thank you. i threw it on—literally. i was wearing something a lot less presentable when you first called.” you glance down at both of their outfits. the duality between yours and their outfits was almost laughable. they looked impeccably fashionable and you were just in street clothes.

wanda chuckles lightly at your comment. “what were you wearing before?” she asks.

“just an oversized tee and some biker shorts,” you shrug, crossing your arms casually over your chest. you always felt more comfortable when you had your arms wrapped around yourself.

as the line moves and you’re next, mrs. romanoff quickly stands in front of you, her body moving between you and the counter. “what’ll you have?” she gives you an expectant look, ready to give your order.

“an iced mocha?” you ask a little shyly, her show of putting herself between you and the cash register did something to you for some reason.

she nods, and turns to the barista, repeating your order along with hers and her wife’s. you’re about to protest, wanting to tell her she doesn’t have to pay for you, but you feel mrs. maximoff’s hand return to the small of your back, swiftly maneuvering you away from the line and over to the small cluster of tables.

you sit down in a chair she pulled out for you and you scoot yourself in as mrs. maximoff settles in her own seat across from you.

“you really don’t have to pay for me, you know,” you pipe gently, glancing over at mrs. romanoff who was standing at the counter waiting for the drinks before you turn back to mrs. maximoff.

“of course not, we want to. plus, neither her nor i would ever allow you to pay for yourself even if you insisted,” she smiles winsomely, her eyes gleaming with something warm and bright.

mrs. romanoff returns with all three coffees, somehow handling all three and setting them down in a graceful manner.

“thank you,” you give mrs. romanoff a gentle smile as your fingers interlock around the cup and you drag it closer to you.

they both take a sip from their coffees—which were both hot—before mrs. romanoff clears her throat, her eyes narrowing in on you as she leans forward on the table.

“so, i imagine you’re wondering why we asked you here.” she throws a glance at her wife who was already looking at her speak.

“it may have been on my mind…” you trail off, sounding as innocent as possible.

mrs. romanoff smiles knowingly, her eyes appraising you in a way that made you squirm slightly in your seat.

“it’s not about the job, as i’m sure you might have figured, but rather about offering a different type of position,” she begins. your brow furrows in confusion. what did she mean?

“a different position? like a cleaning job or something?” you immediately go to thinking about jobs that require little to no experience, figuring that might be all they’d have to offer given your background.

they both laugh at your guess, mrs. romanoff being the one to shake her head no.

“no, not a cleaning job,” she pauses, seeming to measure your expression before continuing. “(y/n), have you ever heard the term bdsm?”

your face goes blank and you look from mrs. romanoff to her wife who appeared to be watching you just as carefully.

“um…i think so? i’ve heard the term a few times before.” your legs feel like they’ve turned to jelly, an unfamiliar pit settling into your lower tummy at the abrupt shift in the topic of conversation.

“what do you know about it?” mrs. maximoff chimes in, tilting her head to the side which causes some of her neatly curled hair to fall forward.

you look between the two of them, unconsciously shrinking further down into your seat. this was such a taboo subject to talk about it public; you found yourself already growing warm from just the thought of this discussion.

“well, it’s..sex stuff…right? like being tied down and whipped?” you speak hesitantly in a small voice, throwing quick glances at the strangers littered across the coffee shop.

“those things can be a part of it, yes—if all parties discuss that’s something they like to participate in” mrs. romanoff explains and then continues. “what else have you heard about it? or is that the gist of what you know?”

you shrug, your shoulders slumped forward and your head bowed slightly to try and obscure your flushed cheeks. you suck your bottom lip into your mouth—your nervous habit.

mrs. maximoff pipes in again after noticing your bashfulness. “a lot of people have that imagery in mind when they hear the term ‘bdsm,’ so it’s understandable that that’s your impression. there is so much more to it though. really, bdsm is about exploring people’s sexual interests in a safe space. you learn about your limits, what you like, what you didn’t expect to like, and so much more.” you listen to her explanation intently, your mind immediately wandering and wondering where this conversation was going to go.

mrs. romanoff picks up off her wife’s words. “some people simply dabble in certain aspects of bdsm while others treat it more as a lifestyle—and for my wife and i, it is a lifestyle.”

you nod hesitantly as they both pause for a second, watching you digest this information. you’re unsure how to respond, feeling progressively more restless in your seat.

they both give each other a look before mrs romanoff nods and mrs. maximoff speaks.

“normally, for people who live this lifestyle, they draw up contracts between themselves and the person they want as their submissive.. now we know this is all very forward, but there’s just no other way to put it. we’d like to have you as our new submissive.”

your face turns bright red for reasons you’re not fully aware of. you weren’t quite sure what being a “submissive” all entailed, but you couldn’t wipe the imagery of being helplessly tied down and whipped from your mind. you’re silent as your brain flits through one imaginary scenario to the next. you were so clueless though, you weren’t sure if the things you were thinking up were things people actually did or if they were just shown in porn.

“me…? i just..well it’s just that..i’m-i don’t know if i would be your ideal candidate,” you stumble out, your eyes glued to the table as you avoid looking at either of them at all costs.

“on the contrary, (y/n), i singled you out almost immediately at our interview. i knew i wanted you. that’s why i had wanda join us.” her face softens as she notices your slight uneasiness. being a bit of a sadist though, she couldn’t help but find your innocence and embarrassment so incredibly gratifying. it only made her want you more.

your teeth worry into your bottom lip again as you look between one set of green eyes and then the other. “do you guys normally.. share, uhm..submissives?”

“not always, but we do like to when it’s possible,” wanda shares, a reassuring smile on her face. you purse your lips, chewing on the inside of your cheek as more questions arise in your head.

“how does that work? sharing i mean.” you knew there were people who participated in polyamorous relationships, and you had no issue with it, you just had trouble visualizing the dynamic.

natasha grins wickedly to herself, realizing now how truly innocent and unknowing you were. she suspected a little yesterday at the interview, but had no idea the true scope of your innocence. wanda also found herself undeniably more attracted to you after this conversation. her hands twitch in her lap, thinking of all the things she could do to you that you probably haven’t ever dreamed of.

“it works (y/n), trust me…” mrs. romanoff says seductively.

“we know this is all very foreign to you, sweetheart. you don’t have to say yes today, just think about it?” mrs. maximoff reaches across the table and affectionately holds onto your wrist. your stomach does a little flip-flop at the term of endearment paired with the affection.

there were so many thoughts and feelings swirling around you, but one thing stuck out above the rest. you wanted to learn more. you didn’t want to say no and close a door on something that you might enjoy.

“i want to.. i mean, um, i will think about it,” you clear your throat for the umpteenth time that day, pulling your hand back from mrs. maximoff’s light grasp. it was suddenly feeling like her hand was searing your skin.

“you want to what?” mrs. romanoff presses, her eyes looking at you with intensity again.

“i just meant that i want to learn more..about this,” you reply quietly, peeking at mrs. romanoff through your lashes. you notice her clench her jaw and flex her fingers that were resting on the table, but you weren’t sure what it meant.

“well, there’s a lot to learn, but luckily i’d say we’re both pretty good teachers,” mrs. maximoff grins more wickedly this time, her expression giving you a new glimpse into something you hadn’t seen in her until this point.

“why don’t we meet up again sometime this weekend? we can answer any questions you have—help you learn more about what we’re asking from you,” she adds, to which you surprisingly feel eager to agree to the idea. you find yourself already wanting to learn more, especially if the people who were going to educate you were two of the hottest women alive.

“yeah…let’s do that,” you nod once, your blush slowly creeping off your cheeks though a slight honey glow was still present.

you all begin to gather your things, mrs. maximoff noticing their lunch break was just about up. the three of you hardly touched your coffees, the conversation too intense to take swigs of the drinks.

the two of them walk you out of the shop, mrs. romanoff hailing down a cab for you. you turn to say goodbye to mrs. maximoff and find that she’s standing closer to you than expected.

“i look forward to seeing you again so soon, dragotsennaya veshch’,” she murmurs, reaching to give your arm an affectionate squeeze. you smile at her, unsure what she said but not caring much to know now.

you step closer to the cab after mrs. romanoff opens the door for you. before you can slip inside the car, mrs. romanoff leans down, murmuring in your ear.

“if you have any questions before the weekend that simply can’t wait, don’t hesitate to text me. you have my number.” her voice was a little rough which makes you shiver.

you nod slowly, sucking on your bottom lip again. you give mrs. maximoff a shy hand wave which she mimics with an amused grin. you sink down into the car seat, mrs. romanoff shutting the door behind you.

as the taxi drives away, you can’t help but look behind you as the two women grow smaller and smaller on the sidewalk. as the car turns a corner, the couple remain standing there until you disappear. you sigh and turn back around in your seat, resting heavily against the cushion behind you.

what just happened?

——————————

tag list:

@poppyshuman @wandamaximoffsbadgirl @xenaizogie @ashadash0904 @kittnii @hayeeonn @gh0sstss @beggingonmykneesforher @natashalover3000 @msvenablesbitch @ihartnat @leesromanova @alwaysgoodnight @lowlifejuliett @azaleavolkova @caramelcat123 @daretodream1307-blog @ctrlaltedits @sweetmissnothing @gecko1 @karmasgxrl @marvelwomenarehot0 @elle161989 @waaayoutofline @snazzysprig @simpforlizzie @just4natasha

[ditzydoe444]

MDNI 18+

jason todd smut

sugardaddy! jason todd x bunny! reader

mentions of size difference, choking, breeding kink, degradation

“you’re so good to me bun,” jason grunted as his thrusts became harder, his large hands encircling the whole of your hips occasionally squeezing the soft flesh there. you and jason had just came back from a shopping trip, which obviously he paid for with his black amex. though on one condition, he got to fuck you for as long and hard as he wanted. you agreed obviously, there is nothing better than coming back from a large shopping spree and having a thick cock shoved inside your tight cunt.

you couldn’t help but to let a pathetic whine, your tiny body clinging onto his muscular one. “i know bun, i know,” he cooed softly, giving you a small kiss on the forehead before continuing to bully your cunt. jason was in a good mood, which meant he would let you come, if he wasn’t he would’ve edged you to the point of passing out. “gosh you are milking me,” he groaned, seeing how well your small tight cunt took him, gripping him.

“‘m gonna buy you all the pretty little dresses and lingerie you want yeah?” he grunted, “need to dress my bunny up.” jason loved dressing you up, in the tiniest dresses and skimpy lacy lingerie in bed. “how about i swell this little belly up, hm?” he grinned, the sight of you round and plump of his kids made his mind go haywire. you nodded eagerly, the thought of being filled with his cum and then carrying his kids was too much, god he would probably spoil you even more. “i’ll buy you all the things you want bun, push presents, pretty dresses to fit your new round body and all the toys for our kids.”

“this little desperate cunt loves me hm?” he teased, before rubbing his thumb over your clit, which resulted in a series of pathetic whines and moans. “my pretty little slut,” he grunted before slapping your clit harshly, which resulted a gasp from you. “your slutty little pussy loves me,” he spat out harshly before his thrusts deepened. “taking my fat cock like it’s nothing.”

jason in bed was something you’ve never seen before, the casual man who would take you shopping and paid for it without hesitation whilst giving you princess treatment and pampering you was gone. replaced by a man who was rough and dominant, and god you loved it.

“maybe i should get you a choker,” he grunted, “so everyone you are mine,” one of his hands slipped from your waist to your neck, squeezing it slightly. “guess my hand will have to do.” you couldn’t help but to moan a little louder, he knew you had a thing for be choked.

at this point you were nothing but a toy, you were pinned down merciless whilst he drilled down on you. saliva dribbled out of the corner of your mouth whilst he kissed your neck. “did i fuck you dumb, sweet thing?” he cooed, before grabbing your chin forcing you to look at him. “you were acting like a bunny in heat prancing around with nothing on but the small sleep dress on.”

it was true, you were never one to fully initiate sex, doing small things like nudging him shyly, or tugging him to the bedroom. you didn’t have the courage to boldly initiate it like he did. hence why you opted for the tiny sleep dress with no panties. it was enough to capture his attention after a long shopping day, with the excuse of trying everything you bought. jason had caught on, obviously, not taking long before he dragged you back into his room and currently had your knees shoved up to your chest. “fuck bun, ‘m gonna fill that pretty cunt if yours is that ok?”

you nodded eagerly, mumbling and babbling words to show your excitement, “p-please jay,” you whined as you clung into his neck. “‘m close too,” you added. your tight cunt was making the most lewd squelching noises, your slick coming out with his fat cock. “let’s come together yeah bun?”

it was a matter of seconds before he filled your pussy up, the warm sticky liquid spurting in, whilst you squirted. he chucked seeing the squirt on his abs, “making a mess already?” he grinned wiping it with one of his fingers before shoving it deep into your mouth. “be a good bun and clean it up,” making you gag on his fingers, coating it with your saliva.

[pbaz7]

SOFT SPOT: CHAPTER 2

paige x azzk

word count: 7.1k

a/n: just wanted to get this out before i got too busy this weekend. kind of moves the story forward a little bit but not much lol. let me know what you think if you can ���🏼

—————————————————————————

Azzi didn’t see Paige again for about two weeks.

Not that she was counting. That would be weird…right?

The Sparks’ starting shooting guard wouldn’t admit to anyone—not even herself—just how often the blonde had crossed her mind in that time. How many random moments she spent wondering what Paige did when no one was watching. If she ever took a day off. If she had any hobbies that didn’t involve punching something until her knuckles were raw.

She told herself it was just a casual curiosity. That it was normal to think about someone who barely acknowledged your existence but still managed to leave an impression. It was the—your mind craving what it can’t have kind of thing.

Once on their way to a game in Seattle, Azzi had asked Cam about her. Just in passing, trying to keep it casual. Cam had glanced up from her phone, smiled a little as she thought about her sister, and rattled off the usual—Paige liked her space, didn’t go out much, trained more than she slept and that she just had her weekly lunch date with her the day prior.

That was it. No further elaboration. No insight.

So when Cam mentioned that Paige would be in Dallas for All-Star weekend, Azzi wasn’t about to admit the small wave of anticipation that washed over her. Or the stupid little jolt of excitement that followed.

Because she hadn’t forgotten that house in the hills. Or the girl with the blue eyes and quick hands who didn’t smile but had somehow still managed to get under her skin.

…

As soon as someone stepped into the arena for All-Star weekend all they would notice were the bright lights, cameras flashing, and fans on their feet. Azzi had just taken her warm-up shots for the three-point contest and a towel was now slung over her neck as she walked back toward the sideline with a bottle of water in hand.

Her eyes moved toward the tunnel entrance when she heard Cam’s laugh cut through all of the noise. Rickea was next to her, clearly having just said something that had Cam laughing. A couple of their teammates trailed behind, but Azzi didn’t fully process which ones they were. Because Paige was trailing slightly behind Cam and Rickea and Azzi had to do a double take.

She didn’t have on sweatpants and a hoodie. Instead, Paige had on baggy low-rise pants that showed the band of her boxers and a black tank top that clung to her skin perfectly, revealing the lines of her stomach muscles. Her hair was pulled back into a bun and a simple silver cross chain sparkled at her neck. She had silver huggies in her ears and rings on a few of her fingers. The contrast made Azzi freeze for just a second, because damn—she looked good.

Azzi had known Paige had a nice face; everyone with eyes did. A sharp jaw and pretty eyes, light freckles if you looked close enough. But Azzi had only ever seen her in gym clothes. This version was attractive in a completely different way.

Azzi blinked, forcing her gaze away, her heart skipping once before she reached for her towel again to wipe her face—like that would distract her. It didn’t. Her hands felt just a little warmer now.

Eventually, during a lull before the contest started, Azzi walked toward the sideline where her teammates were gathered. She greeted them with quick hugs, some of them teasing her about bets placed for her to win.

Eventually her eyes drifted to Paige. She was standing up near the back, hands in her pockets, Paige gave her a once-over, expression unreadable as always before giving her a simple nod. “Wassup.”

Azzi arched her eyebrow, her smile making an appearance. “You came for the show?”

Paige’s head tilted slightly. “That's what we’re calling it?”

Azzi stepped a little closer to hear her over the noise, crossing her arms. “Well, I didn’t come here to lose.”

Paige’s eyes flicked over her face, lingering for a second longer than before when they made eye contact. “Let’s hope the ball agrees.”

Azzi laughed. “That almost sounded like encouragement.”

“Wouldn’t call it that,” Paige replied dryly.

Azzi tilted her head, her eyes narrowing playfully. “So you won’t have a problem putting a little bet on the table then? Seems like that’s what everyone’s doing.”

Paige blinked at her in confusion. “A bet?”

“Mhm.” Azzi didn’t break eye contact. “When I win, you have to get a drink with me.”

Paige didn’t blink. “I don’t drink once I have a fight scheduled.”

Azzi smirked. “Alright. I’ll get a drink—and you can sit there and pretend to enjoy yourself.”

A breath passed between them. Paige’s gaze finally lifted back up to meet hers, unreadable as always. “And if you lose?”

Azzi shrugged, eyes a little bright. “You tell me.”

Paige watched her for a moment, considering her options. “You do a workout with me.”

Azzi’s smile grew. “Perfect, so I win either way.”

“You do?”

Azzi tilted her head to the side slightly in a flirtatious way, her gaze softening. “Either I get you out or I get you alone. Win win.” With that she turned and walked back toward the court.

Paige just shook her head, lips pressing together like she was fighting off something—maybe a smirk, maybe a sigh.

Paige looked over at Cam, her voice dry. “What’s with your friends flirting with me?”

Cam just shrugged, looking at something on her phone. “You’re weirdly their type, apparently.”

Rickea leaned around Cam with a hand on her chest. “Nobody can replace me though, right, Paigey-poo?”

Paige didn’t even look in her direction. “A fly could replace you.”

Rickea gasped dramatically, hitting Cam’s shoulder. “Did you hear that? She’s so disrespectful.”

Cam laughed. “You know that’s just how she says she loves you.”

Paige shook her head, but her jaw relaxed just slightly, her eyes moving to Azzi as she took her position on the court.

Round one passed without much drama—Azzi setting the tone as soon as she stepped on the court for her turn. Her form was smooth and consistent. Rack after rack, shot after shot, she barely missed. By the time she reached the final ball, the crowd was on their feet and it was obvious to everyone she’d be advancing.

Rickea, Cam, and Rae were up and yelling before the buzzer even sounded. “That’s my shooter!” Cam shouted, hands cupped around her mouth. Rickea was clapping so hard it echoed, while Rae jumped and hollered, almost spilling someone’s drink beside her.

Paige didn’t move much. She just sat in her seat, one leg crossed over the other, a bottle of water balanced in her lap. Her expression stayed unreadable, but her eyes never left the court.

After her turn Azzi sat with her warm up jacket unzipped, bouncing one knee as the next shooter lined up. She wasn’t really watching—at least not the court. Cam and Rae had walked over to talk to her in between her turn.

Her gaze drifted again, pulled without permission to the row of seats across the court where Paige sat, arms draped over the back of Cam’s empty chair like she had nothing in the world to care about.

Until someone smacked the back of her head.

Azzi blinked in shock but Paige didn’t even flinch knowing exactly who it was.

It wasn’t until the woman—Azzi recognized her after a second, DiJonai—stepped around the chair and stood in front of Paige with her arms open expectantly that Paige finally moved. She shook her head, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her mouth, and pushed herself up. She threw one arm lazily around DiJonai’s shoulders, pulling her in for a quick hug.

DiJonai said something that made Paige huff a laugh—one of those small ones that looked more like exhaling her amusement than expressing it.

Azzi tilted her head. She didn’t notice she was staring until Cam leaned down near her ear. “Careful,” Cam said quietly, so no one else could hear. “You’re gonna make it obvious.”

Azzi glanced up at her, lips twitching. “I’m just studying the competition.”

“Nai’s definitely not competition.” Cam said casually before she fully processed Azzi’s words. Then she pulled back slightly, her eyebrows raised. “Pause. Competition?”

Azzi shrugged, casually. “Maybe.”

Cam stared at her for a moment, long enough that Azzi met her gaze. Then came the slight shift—her shoulders straightening, ‘big-sister’ mode taking over.

“Wait, let’s get one thing clear Az—”

Azzi held up a hand, laughing. “Relax. I’m not trying to fuck are with your sister’s head.”

Cam narrowed her eyes but didn’t say anything.

“I just wanna get to know her,” Azzi added, this time without any sarcasm.”

Cam studied her a moment, then finally said. “Just don’t come crying to me when she disappears on you for three days and pretends it’s normal.”

Azzi grinned. “Noted.”

Cam leaned back in her seat with a quiet scoff. “And you better come correct. She’s my sister so no matter what the situation is I’m going to be on her side. ”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

Once the conversation settled Azzi’s gaze drifted right back across the court—drawn in again without even meaning to.

Dijonai had taken the seat beside Paige, her posture relaxed. One leg was crossed over the other, her foot bouncing lightly, the outer curve of her knee pressing against Paige’s from the way Paige was taking up space—her legs wide, both arms draped loosely over the sides of the chairs next to her like she owned them.

Their conversation seemed to flow in low tones easily. What caught Azzi’s attention was the way Paige was talking. More than usual. Not animated, but more consistent, like she didn’t feel the need to censor herself around Dijonai. She still wasn’t look directly at her, gaze mostly ahead or on the court, but every now and then, when Dijonai said something that almost pulled a laugh out of her, Paige’s mouth would twitch at the corner—one of those rare flashes of expression Azzi had been waiting to catch again.

It didn’t seem flirty but then again it did seem a little more intimate for Paige.

Azzi tilted her head slightly, watching the scene unfold with curious eyes. Just observing the scene.

Then Paige’s eyes flicked over to her and she caught Azzi looking.

Their gazes locked across the space, a weird static humming between them. Paige didn’t glance away. She just held the look, seemingly reading Azzi in the same way that the brown eyed girl had just been doing.

Azzi raised a single eyebrow, challenging the silent conversation.

Paige didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. She just looked for another second—and then slowly turned her attention back to Dijonai, as if the moment hadn’t happened at all.

"You're still talking too much,”" she said dryly, leaning back further in her seat. Her voice was calm. She didn’t need to look at Dijonai for her to know it wasn’t serious. Just Paige being Paige.

Dijonai bumped her knee against Paige’s with a mock offense. "And you're still pretending like you don’t like Dallas so here we are.”

Paige’s lips parted like she might answer, but her eyes drifted back to Azzi

She was still looking but bolder now. Like she wanted Paige to know she wasn’t hiding it.

Paige didn’t turn away again. Letting her gaze linger longer than it should’ve. Long enough for her brain to feel that subtle pull again. What the hell was she doing?

Dijonai said something else—something about the skills competition—but Paige didn’t really catch all of it.

“Mm,” she responded automatically, but her eyes didn’t leave Azzi.

Azzi tilted her head slightly, smiling a little. Nothing obvious. Just the tiniest invitation.

Paige swallowed, then finally shifted her attention back to Dijonai with a delayed blink. But even as she spoke, her thoughts were still across the court. “So wait what’d you say she did this time?”

Dijonai sighed, resting an elbow on the back of Paige’s seat as she leaned in a little. “She didn’t do anything wrong, technically. Just… she shuts down every time I bring up anything serious. It’s like dating a wall. She’s irritating.”

Paige nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch as her eyes scanned the court. “And you’re trying to get serious right. Settle in Dallas?”

Dijonai gave a dry laugh. “Exactly. Thank you, Confucius. Or however you say it.”

Paige let out a breath at her last sentence—almost a laugh. “Maybe she just need more time Nai.”

“Paige, she's literally had time. We been doing this for years. ” DiJonai leaned her head back, her knee pressing more firmly into Paige’s because of how Paige still had her legs spread out. “I’m not asking her to propose. I just want her to tell me if I’m wasting my time. Anything.”

“You tell her that?”

“I did. Got a bullshit ass ‘I’m hearing you’ and then she changed the subject.”

Paige finally glanced over. “Want me to talk to her?”

Dijonai laughs before saying, “Hell no. I won’t have a girlfriend when you’re done.”

Paige huffs a laugh at this.

Dijonai tilted her head before saying, “But look at you being all supportive and shit.”

“I have my moments.” But as she said that Paige’s eyes drifted to where Azzi was talking to Cam before she looked back down at her shoes.

Dijonai leaned forward a little bit and smirked. “You worried about me or ole girl who’s been staring at you since I sat down?”

Paige didn’t react. Just blinked once. “Cam’s friend?”

“Mmhm,” DiJonai said. “She got that ‘undivided attention’ look. She trying to make it clear she want you.”

Paige’s eyes had already wandered back to Azzi and she shook her head once. “Cam’’s friends always flirting with me.”

Dijonai leaned back with a grin. “Azzi look deadass, though.”

That earned her the rarest thing—Paige laughing, the blonde biting her bottom lip a little to stop the smile. “Yeah,” she mumbled. “I noticed.”

The final round of the contest was louder. Brighter somehow, even with the same lights. The energy from the crowd had tripled. But to Azzi it all dimmed for a moment as she stepped behind the line to start shooting again.

Thousands of eyes tracked her every move, but somehow, she only felt two. She knew it was the blue ones. She felt them but they weren’t distracting. If anything, they just reminded her that she actually wanted to win the contest.

The moment she started she was moving with a mechanical ease. Her eyes stayed on the rim the entire time, her release time consistent as she moved through the racks. Once her final ball dropped through the net, she let her follow-through hand for a second longer than necessary. She had only missed two shots. After letting the cheers from the other players around her settle, Azzi's eyes cut toward Paige, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Across the court, Paige didn’t smile back but Azzi caught the way her chest shook slightly. A laugh, maybe. Quiet and held close to the chest like everything else about her.

Next to her, Dijonai narrowed her eyes at the blonde. “What was that about?”

Paige’s gaze didn’t move. “We got a bet.”

Dijona raised her eyebrows. “You have a bet?”

“Mm,” Paige hummed, like it barely mattered.

Once the contest wrapped and Azzi had won in a landslide she gave a very brief interview and was presented with the trophy that she didn’t care much about. She handed it to her manager and eventually, her feet carried her toward the edge of the court, where Paige and Dijonai were sitting in the middle of a conversation that slowed when she neared.

Azzi greeted Dijonai first with a kind smile, the kind of warmth that was for familiar players who'd shared the floor with her enough times to earn a mutual respect. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Dijonai replied, pulling her into a half hug. “Congrats.”

Azzi thanked her and her smile lingered before her eyes shifted to Paige.

Paige hadn’t moved much, still lounging like she had nowhere to be. But her eyes were already on Azzi when she looked over.

“So…I win.”

Paige blinked, nodding slightly. “Yeah. You did.”

Azzi smirked, stepping in just a touch closer, lowering her voice. “I don’t get a good job? Only missed twice, and not even a pat on the back?”

Paige glanced at her, just the corner of her mouth twitching. “You get a drink with me. Worth more than a pat on the back.”

Azzi raised her eyebrow. “You’re really committing to the whole emotionally unavailable bit, huh?”

Paige took a breath, eyes flicking down to Azzi’s shoes before dragging back up. “You’re the one who wanted to bet. Don’t start acting like you need compliments now.”

Azzi leaned her weight onto one leg, arms crossed loosely. “Maybe I just like hearing you talk.”

Paige looked at her for a long moment, then asked, “That why you were staring?”

Azzi’s smile grew, but her voice stayed quiet. “Maybe. You gonna start keeping count or something?”

Paige didn’t respond the way she knew Azzi wanted her to, didn’t smirk, didn’t frown. Just let out a short breath through her nose and said, “Tell me when and where.”

Azzi tilted her head again, like she was studying something. “Tomorrow night. I’ll find somewhere quiet.”

Paige gave the faintest nod. “Text Cam.”

Azzi’s eyes sparkled, and she leaned in just a little. “You’re not gonna give me your number?”

Paige stood up casually. “I don’t give my number to strangers.”

Azzi squinted her eyes, her lips tugging into something between a smirk and a pout. “I’m a stranger?”

Paige’s eyes flicked over her face. “I don’t know your favorite color.”

“Pink,” Azzi answered without hesitation.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t make us friends.”

“Guess I have some work to do then.”

Before Paige could reply, Dijonai stood back up, brushing down her skirt. “Can you come with me? I gotta go get ready for the skills challenge in the back.”

Paige gave her a quick nod, then looked at Azzi one more time. “Tell Cam to give you my number.”

And with that, she turned and walked off, leaving Azzi standing there with her arms slightly crossed and a smile tugging at her lips.

…

Azzi [2:08 PM]:

so about that drink…

where’s your favorite spot in dallas?

Paige [2:14 PM]:

i don’t go out like that

you can pick

Azzi [2:16 PM]:

hope you like rooftops and overpriced appetizers

Paige [2:20 PM]:

sounds like you googled “places in dallas to impress a girl”

Azzi [2:21 PM]:

and it’s clearly working since you’re still texting me

7:30?

Paige [2:22 PM]:

send the address

i’ll meet you there

…

Later that night Azzi stepped into the rooftop lounge just as the sun began to dip behind the skyline, casting a glow across the space. Her shirt was cropped—black with just the right cut to hint at the abs beneath. She had on high-waisted jeans and her hair was pulled half up, half down, her soft curls falling just past her shoulders. There was something easy and confident about the way she moved through the crowd, like she belonged anywhere she went.

Paige didn’t look over right away, but the second she felt her presence, her eyes flicked to her—sweeping over Azzi’s figure a little slowly. She greeted her before turning her attention back to the bar in front of her.

Azzi slid onto the stool beside her, shoulder brushing Paige’s for a second before she leaned her elbows on the bar. “You always look this thrilled to be out, or is it just for me?”

Paige didn’t look over. “Depends who I’m out with.”

Azzi grinned. “So...you like the place? I picked it just for you.”

Paige gave the space a once-over. Exposed brick walls, low lighting, music just under the noise of conversation. “Didn’t peg you for the moody rooftop type.”

Azzi shrugged. “Multifaceted.”

They sat in a comfortable beat of silence before Azzi leaned in slightly. “Soo is this the part where I pretend to enjoy myself?”

Paige’s lips twitched, barely. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Azzi raised her eyebrow. “You’re not gonna entertain me at all?”

Paige gave her a sidelong glance. “You invited me here, remember?”

“That’s true.” Azzi swirled the ice in her water with her straw. “I figured you’d at least try to keep up. Thought you were competitive.”

Paige exhaled a quiet breath. “What—you used to women falling all over you or something?”

“Yes, actually.” Azzi said without thinking about it. Then, with a tilt of her head, she added, “You’re not?”

Paige looked at her. “What do you think?”

Azzi let her eyes sweep over Paige for a second—deliberately slow on purpose. “I think if they’re not, they’re definitely missing out.”

Paige’s eyebrow arched slightly, a small scoff escaping her lips as she turned back to the bar. “You don’t stop, huh?”

Azzi just smiled and swirled the straw in her drink, watching Paige over the rim of her glass. “So…you like hitting people for a living?”

Paige let out a short laugh through her nose. “Something like that.”

Azzi leaned her elbow on the bar, chin resting in her hand. “You ever think about why?”

Paige’s gaze dropped to her water for a moment, fingers tapping lightly against the glass. “It’s quiet,” she said finally. “Everything goes still. You physically can’t think about anything else while you're there. Just…them or you.” She shrugged lightly.

Azzi nodded slowly, studying her. “So it’s like peace in chaos.”

Paige didn’t respond right away, but her eyes flickered with something—recognition maybe. “Sure.”

Azzi studied her for a moment, head tilted slightly, saying nothing.

Paige’s eyebrow lifted. “What’s that about?”

Azzi blinked innocently. “What?”

“You,” Paige said. “Always looking at me.”

“Well, one—you’re nice to look at. Two—still trying to figure out how to make you smile.”

Paige looked at her again, more direct than before. “What if I just give you one right now?”

Azzi shook her head, a grin spreading. “Wouldn’t be genuine. And I’m not a cheater.”

That pulled a soft chuckle from Paige. “That so?”

“Mmhm,” Azzi said, folding her arms on the bar. “I want to earn it.”

Paige tilted her head, eyes flicking over her. “You always work this hard?”

Azzi shrugged. “Only when I think the reward’s worth it.”

At these words Paige leaned back slightly, arms crossed as she looked at her like she was trying to figure her out—maybe for the first time, maybe not. “You don’t even know me.”

Azzi’s voice softened. “Then tell me something I don’t know.”

Paige took a long breath, eyes flicking down for a second before lifting again. “Look…if you think I’m some project or sum,” she said, her tone calm but slightly tight. “Or if you got this weird fixation on tryna fix me—I’m not interested…truthfully. I’m good.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. She just watched her quietly before saying, “Who said anything about fixing you?”

Paige shrugged, but it wasn’t careless—it was careful. “You’re just…too interested in tryna get me to talk. Smile. Open up.”

Azzi let out a small laugh, not mocking her, it was lighter, more like surprise. “That’s because I’m attracted to you, Paige.” She said it like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Paige blinked once, eyes steady on her. “Like I said. You don’t even know me.”

Azzi leaned in slightly, resting her elbow on the bar. “That’s kind of the point of talking, isn’t it?”

Something flickered across Paige’s face—quick, almost gone before it could land.

Azzi decided to add, “I’m not trying to fix you. I just…like what I see. And I’m curious about you.”

Paige was quiet for a long second. “Curiosity gets people in trouble.”

Azzi smiled. “Only when it’s not mutual.”

Paige tilted her head slightly, seemingly unimpressed. “You think it’s mutual?”

“I think you wouldn’t be here with me if you weren’t at least curious.”

Paige let the words hang there for a moment before replying, dry as ever, “What if I’m just kind?”

Azzi laughed and gave her a look showing that she was unconvinced by the words. “You don’t strike me as the type to entertain people out of kindness.”

Paige’s lips twitched. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

There was a pause and something crackled in the silence between them.

Azzi leaned back just slightly, deciding to tease Paige some more. “You going to keep pretending like you don’t like me, or should I give you more material to work with?”

Paige’s gaze stayed fixed on the bottles behind the bar. “I don’t know what I think about you yet.”

Azzi smiled like she’d been waiting for the honesty. “Well, I can help you with that. If you let me.”

Paige exhaled lightly, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “That so?”

“Mmhmm. I’m good with people. Real good if they let me be.”

“Mm.” Paige’s fingers tapped once against her glass of water. “You this confident with everyone or just me?”

Azzi tilted her head. “Just you, lately.”

Paige didn’t look over, but the corner of her mouth curved up slightly. “Lucky me.”

“You are,” Azzi replied, her tone casual, like it wasn’t even up for debate.

They fell into a pause. It wasn’t awkward—just space to breathe. Then Azzi added, “What would I have to do to get you to relax for real?”

That got Paige to look over. “I am relaxed.”

Azzi raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Sure…What do you do for fun?”

“Hit a bag.”

Azzi rolled her eyes lightly. “Outside of that.”

Paige thought for a moment before saying. “Cardio.”

Azzi let out a half-sigh, half-laugh. “You are exhausting.”

Paige just shrugged, unapologetic.

“Alright,” Azzi leaned on the bar, turning slightly toward her. “If you couldn’t work out, couldn’t hit a bag or do any training for a day—just one—what would you do?”

Paige thought for a second. “Prolly watch basketball.”

Azzi perked up, smiling. “See? We’re getting somewhere. Why basketball?”

Paige’s eyes dropped to the rim of her glass. “I grew up watching Cam play.”

Azzi nodded, quietly interested. “How’d your families meet?”

“Our dads were best friends and lived down the street for each other,” Paige said. “So we grew up together.”

Azzi’s expression softened. “That makes sense. You two definitely have that annoying sibling vibe.”

Paige just hummed in agreement, eyes still on the bar.

Azzi didn’t fill the silence right away. She just let it hang there, like she was getting used to the rhythm of Paige’s pauses.

Then, casually she asked, “Are you single?”

“I wouldn’t be at a bar with another woman if I wasn’t.”

Azzi let out a low laugh. “That’s fair. Just had to make sure.”

Paige was already looking ahead again but she already knew what made Azzi ask her that.

“DiJonai is prolly my best friend,” Paige said plainly.

Azzi tilted her head, eyes still on her. “What makes you think I was asking because of her?”

Paige let out the faintest breath—maybe a laugh, maybe just air. “You haven’t seen anyone else to make you ask.” She paused, then added, “She’s a less annoying version of Cam. Only less than Cam because she’s in Dallas most of the year and Cam pops up at my house like it's hers.”

Azzi nodded as she listened. “So…has anything ever happened there?”

That pulled Paige’s gaze. Her eyes flicked to Azzi, and this time, the edge of her mouth curved—barely. “You ask a lot of questions,” she said. After a second, she spoke again. “To answer—no. She’s like my big sister. Spent all-star weekend complaining to me about her love life actually.”

Azzi leaned back with a quiet “Mmhmm,” her smile growing just a bit.

Paige gave a slight nod, but didn’t say anything—just let the moment settle. Paige’s eyes drifted toward the bar, then to the seat in front of Azzi. “You don’t have a drink,” she said, a statement more than a question.

Azzi glanced down at her water, then back up. “Tequila pineapple,” she said with a small grin. “Unless this is some kind of setup.”

Paige didn’t rise to the bait. She simply caught the bartender’s attention with a subtle nod in Azzi’s direction.

Azzi turned toward the bartender to order, but her eyes flicked back to Paige with a quiet amusement. “Didn’t think you were chivalrous.”

Paige kept her eyes forward. “I’m not.”

When the bartender brought Azzi’s drink over, he lingered a second longer than necessary, his gaze settling on Paige. “Where do I know you from?”

Paige looked up at him, her expression blank as ever. “Nowhere.”

He squinted like he was unconvinced. “Nah, I swear I’ve seen you before…”

She shook her head. “Don’t think so.”

The bartender looked like he might press again, but something in Paige’s expression—or lack of one—shut it down. He let out a soft “huh” before walking off.

Azzi sipped her drink, watching Paige over the rim of her glass. “You sure you’re not famous?”

Paige didn’t look at her. “Positive.”

Azzi hummed, amused at Paige’s clear disdain for the topic. “Could’ve sworn I watched you in a fight once. Women were basically throwing their clothes at you.”

Paige’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Probably somebody else with blonde hair and blue eyes again.”

Azzi tilted her head. “You saying you don’t get that kind of attention?”

“I’m saying I ignore that kind of attention.”

Azzi grinned. “So what kind do you pay attention to?”

Paige finally turned her head toward her again. “Apparently the ones who don’t stop asking questions.”

Azzi lifted her glass again, smirking before she took a sip. “Sounds like I can keep your attention then.”

Paige didn’t deny it—just leaned back in her seat as she replied, “You’re still talking to me, aren’t you?”

That earned a soft laugh from Azzi, who took it as her cue to keep going.

The next forty five minutes passed in a rhythm that didn’t feel rushed or forced—it was almost steady. Azzi did most of the talking, not in an overbearing way, but with the kind of ease that made silence feel optional. She told Paige about growing up with younger siblings, how she hated running unless it involved a basketball, and her low-key obsession with romance novels. Paige offered small comments, dry humor, the occasional question that showed she was listening even if her body language stayed relaxed and unreadable the entire time.

Azzi ordered a second tequila and pineapple, then a third—this time switching it to cranberry after Paige made a sarcastic joke about how she probably ruined Sponebob’s house at this point. Azzi raised an eyebrow, grinning as she took a sip of her new drink.

“Happy now?” she teased.

Paige’s expression barely shifted, but her chest moved with a quiet laugh. “Didn’t know you cared to make me happy.”

Azzi leaned in slightly, her brown eyes dancing. “I aim to please.”

Paige stared at her for a moment—fighting the urge to lick her lips. “Crazy thing to aim for.”

Azzi smiled. “Only if I’m not good at it.”

Before Paige could respond, the bartender reappeared, snapping his fingers as if something had just clicked. “Nah I remember now—you’re that UFC fighter who broke that girl’s jaw!”

Paige’s gaze barely lifted away from Azzi. “Am I?”

“Hell yeah,” he said, grinning. “I just watched the video—man, that shit was crazy. Her shit was fucked up me and my buddies were talkin about it for weeks.”

Paige didn’t respond. Just nodded once slowly.

“You got that real killer instinct for real. I’ve seen a lotta knockouts, but that one? Different. You training for something now?”

Paige’s jaw moved slightly like she might answer, but she just shook her head once.

The guy kept going, oblivious. “That right hook? Crazy brutal. You always fight like that?”

Another slight shrug. Her eyes stayed on her glass.

“Damn,” he muttered, clearly impressed. “I wouldn’t be caught dead messing with you. You ever think about teaching classes or something?”

Azzi’s head tilted as she watched Paige—curious about the interaction but staying quiet.

Paige let the silence stretch before finally saying, flatly, “Not really.”

The bartender leaned his forearms on the bar, still animated. “Why not? I’d definitely take a class—no hesitation.”

Not a people person.”

He laughed. “Nah, that’s fair.” He tossed his towel over his shoulder. “You just got that look, y’know? Like you don’t fuck around. Gotta be wild, getting in the cage like that.”

Paige gave the faintest nod, eyes still forward.

The guy lingered a little too long, clearly trying to stretch the moment. “So how long you been training? Since you were a kid prolly right?”

She entertained it—barely. “A while.”

“Yeah you definitely could teach a thing or two then. Especially to guys like me. Willing to learn you know,” he laughed.

Paige turned her head toward him. “You’re kinda interrupting our conversation.”

That got him. He blinked, then looked over at Azzi like he’d just remembered she was there. “Oh—my apologies, sweetheart. I didn’t mean no harm. Just got a little excited to talk, that's all.”

Azzi offered a polite smile. “It’s okay.” Her tone was smooth, but her eyes flicked back to Paige.

Once the bartender walked off, Azzi swirled her drink, then looked over at Paige with a smile. “I think you might actually be famous.”

Paige tilted her head slightly. “I think you might like attention.”

Azzi laughed softly, leaning her elbow on the bar. “Only when it’s yours pretty.”

That got Paige to glance at her, just for a second, before her gaze returned to the glass of water in front of her.

Azzi caught it. “You never react to compliments.”

Paige didn’t look back. “You want me to react.”

Azzi smirked. “So you are playing hard to get.”

“No,” Paige replied dryly. “Not in the business of satisfying people just for the hell of it.”

Azzi let out a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re gonna make me work for it, huh?”

Paige turned toward her slightly. “Work for what?”

Azzi didn’t flinch. “You.”

Paige didn’t blink. She just looked at her evenly for a long moment before lifting her glass of water and taking a sip. “I’m not a prize, Azzi.”

Azzi rested her chin on her hand, still smiling. “Didn’t say you were. Now can you tell me why you won’t accept my compliments?”

Paige's eyes flicked over to her. “You like bets, right?”

Azzi perked up slightly. “Yes.”

“If you can float around for the next month, I’ll accept your compliments.”

Azzi’s eyebrows lifted. “Why a month?”

Paige’s gaze dropped briefly to the condensation on her glass before answering. “I can get a little…tense closer to fight time, for lack of better words. Not everybody can handle that.” She gave a small shrug. “I’m not dense—I know it’s something I need to work on. But that’s where I’m at.”

Azzi faked a look of shock, hand to her chest. “This is you relaxed? Wow. Who would've thought.”

That drew the faintest curve at the edge of Paige’s mouth.

Azzi leaned in slightly. “Can I at least flirt?”

“If that floats your boat.”

Azzi smiled at that, pleased with the outcome. “It’s a bet, then. What do I get when I win?”

Paige looked at her. “You tell me. You’re the one winning apparently.”

There was a pause. Then Azzi said, “A date.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “A date?”

Azzi nodded once, holding her gaze. “Mhm.”

Paige hesitated just a second, then gave a small nod. “Alright bet.”

Azzi reached her hand out. Paige looked at it, but still shook her hand. “What’s this?”

“Shaking on being friends,” Azzi said. Then, after a slight pause, “For a month.”

Paige smirked, just barely. “Friends, huh.”

Azzi grinned. “Friends…For now.”

After another thirty minutes at the bar—Azzi nursing one last drink and the conversation never quite losing its playful edge. Once the two of them decided to call it a night Paige slid off her stool and pulled the keys for the rented car from her pocket. “I can drive you,” she said simply, already heading toward the door.

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “I can Uber.”

“Unnecessary,” Paige replied, opening the door and waiting.

The ride to Azzi’s hotel was quiet in a comfortable way. The Dallas lights flickered through the windshield as quiet music hummed through the speakers—nothing distracting, just enough to fill the space. When they pulled up to the curb of Azzi’s hotel, Azzi turned to her. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Paige nodded. “Goodnight, Azzi.”

Azzi smiled, lingering for just a second before stepping out. Paige didn’t drive away right away. She waited until Azzi was safely in the lobby, then reached for her phone.

She pulled up DiJonai’s contact.

Paige [10:17PM]:

where’s that gym u were telling me about?

The response came almost immediately with a dropped pin.

DiJonai [10:17PM]:

You want me to meet you?

Paige thought about it for half a second, thumbs hovering before she replied.

Paige [10:18PM]:

u don’t have to. just need to hit somethin. haven’t been in a gym today

DiJonai [10:18PM]:

I’ll meet you.

Paige liked the message, tossed her phone in the passenger seat after pulling up maps, and drove off.

When she got to the gym Paige sat in her car with the engine off, one arm draped over the steering wheel as she stared out at the empty lot. The gym looked exactly how she liked it—quiet, barely lit from the soft glow of streetlights bouncing off the windows. She didn’t move until DiJonai’s car pulled in beside her.

Paige stepped out and popped the trunk, pulling out a gym bag that had seen more miles than most people she knew. DiJonai stepped out of her car and put her hands in her hoodie pocket as they walked toward the entrance of the private gym.

“How was your date?”

Paige didn’t miss the side eye Dijonai threw her way. “Wasn’t a date.”

DiJonai just smirked and flicked on the lights as they walked in. The fluorescents buzzed overhead, illuminating the rows of heavy bags, speed bags, mats, and benches. As soon as the space lit up fully, Paige felt her body respond—her shoulders loosening, chest less tight. Like just seeing the setup gave her permission to exhale.

She glanced over at DiJonai as she walked toward a bench. “You wanna hit?”

DiJonai shrugged like it wasn’t a question. “Yeah.”

They settled across from each other on a bench, facing inward. Paige unzipped her bag, pulling out a pair of hand wraps. Without saying anything she motioned for DiJonai to give her one of her hands. DiJonai lifted one and Paige started wrapping her knuckles with ease as the two of them sat in silence.

As Paige tightened the wrap around DiJonai’s wrist, DiJonai gave her a look. “Okayyy…so how was your not date?”

Paige didn’t glance up, just shifted to grab DiJonai’s other hand, her eyes still focused on the wrap. “It was cool. Just talked.”

“About?”

“She asked me about fighting. Talked about basketball a little.” Paige paused for half a second. “She flirted nonstop.”

DiJonai’s eyebrows shot up at this, a grin spreading across her face. “A pretty girl was flirting with you all night, and you look like you’re in pain and dragged me to a gym. Please make it make sense.”

Paige motioned for DiJonai to flex her hand so she could finish the wrap. “Not sure if you heard,” she said dryly. “I’m fighting somebody who’s fucked up every person she’s stepped in the cage with.” She finally looked up, sarcasm laced in her voice. “So I’m sorry if I’m a little distracted.”

DiJonai dropped down into a deep quad stretch as Paige started wrapping her own hands.

“So how’d you respond to all the flirting?”

Paige gave a small shrug, eyes on the wrap. “Told her to give me a month, basically.”

DiJonai switched legs. “So you’re interested.”

Paige didn’t look up. “I’m not…not interested.”

“But?” DiJonai asked, already knowing there was one.

Paige let out a breath, securing the loop around her thumb. “I can’t wake up without thinking about what I can do that day to make sure I don’t get my shit rocked in a month.”

That made DiJonai laugh, it was a short real one. Not surprised or concerned. Just letting the subtle joke land.

And that’s what Paige loved about her—everyone else either flinched or tried to change the subject when she joked like that. DiJonai just let her say it and kept it moving.

“The money must’ve been nice,” DiJonai said, still stretching.

Paige hummed as she finished up her hand wrap. “1.5. 2 if I win.”

DiJonai stood up straight, shaking her head. “Damn. That’s crazy. I’ll make sure I send my invoice for the free therapy.”

Paige laughed as reached into her bag and pulled out two sets of gloves, tossing one to DiJonai without looking.

“Exactly, so I can’t really think about shit else right now even if I wanted to,” she said, flexing her fingers as she slid her gloves on.

DiJonai looked at her as she adjusted the velcro on her gloves. “That’s fair. You’re locked in. I get it.”

Paige nodded once. “Doesn’t leave much room for flirting and cute drinks, though.”

“Which is why you dragged me out of bed to punch something,” DiJonai said with a laugh.

“You volunteered, I said you didn’t have” Paige responded back, laughing too as she stepped toward the mat.

The two of them moved in sync, warming up—light footwork, shoulder rolls, stretching. One they were about to start hitting Paige circled her quietly, eyes scanning like she was a coach.

“Your stance is too narrow,” Paige said, gently nudging DiJonai’s front foot out with her own to widen it. “You’re gonna fold if someone comes at you heavy.”

DiJonai adjusted. “Didn’t know I signed up for a critique tonight.”

“You didn’t,” Paige said, with a small smile. “But I can’t help it.”

DiJonai laughed mumbling, “Control freak.”

Paige didn’t deny it—just nodded as she watched DiJonai hit the speed bag a few times before moving to her own bag, slipping into a rhythm that calmed her for the first time today.

[dazevi]

CHAPTER THREE: CAN WE PRETEND?

heart to heart series | vi x fem!reader

synopsis: you're not sure what comes over you tonight, but caught up in the moment, you make a reckless choice—one that could change everything.

content warnings: MDNI. nsfw (18+ content), angst, fluff if you squint idk, rockstar!vi, bookshop owner/writer!reader, exes to lovers, friends with benefits (kinda), sexual tension, again—vi is down bad, smut; needy sex, oral (r rec.), vi cums untouched, little bit of overstimulation, idk what else !!!

wc: 12,183

notes: happy late late late valentine’s day! (i was supposed to post it on friday but got busy) and sorry for the wait on this chapter! here it is—glorious smut lmfao,, kind of ashamed to say that the next chapter is way more smutty—but ofc with feelings!!!) fanart by bunimint_ on ig !!

navigation | series masterlist | previous chapter

The cold bites at your skin, but you barely even notice it. Not with the way your heart is hammering. Not with the way your nerves are tangled in your stomach. You stand outside Vander’s bar holding a small birthday gift in your hands, staring at the entrance like you haven’t walked through those doors countless times before.

But it’s been years. A lifetime ago, it feels like.

And standing here now, dressed in a pretty black dress you spent way too long debating over—god, what the hell were you thinking?

You tug your jacket tighter around you, like that will somehow make you feel less exposed, less like you’re making a mistake by being here. The leather is warm, but it doesn’t do much to muffle the voice in your head telling you that this was a bad idea.

That coming here, looking like this, feeling like this—it means something.

You used to love this place. Loved the way it always smelled of whiskey and smoke, of cheap beer but distinctly of home.

It’s different now.

Or maybe you’re the one that’s different.

Vi is probably already in there. Maybe she’s backstage, laughing with the band, tuning her guitar, oblivious to the fact that you’re standing out here like a fool, trying to gather the courage to step inside. Maybe she’s already seen you through the window, watching like she always used to—like she could read every thought in your head without you saying a word.

You close your eyes for a second, exhaling slowly. You could still turn around. You don’t have to go in. But then again, you didn’t have to dress up either, and yet… here you are.

The second you step inside, the warmth surrounds you. You hadn’t expected this many people, but clearly, word must have spread that Vi’s band was playing tonight.

Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim lighting over the packed room. It’s overwhelming at first—the volume of voices overlapping, the clinking of glasses, the scrape of barstools against worn wooden floors. But then, beneath all of it, you hear Benzo’s boisterous voice cutting through the noise, followed by Vander’s throaty laughter.

It’s been years since you’ve been here, but nothing has really changed. The same old neon signs flicker against the brick walls, the dartboard near Vander’s glowing jukebox is still crooked, the pool table in the corner still missing a chunk from one of its legs, and behind the bar, bottles of liquor line the shelves, arranged in the same way Vander has always kept them.

And Vi is somewhere in here.

Your stomach twists at the thought, your heartbeat quickening as you scan the crowd.

Just as you’re about to turn toward the small stage, the sound of your name cuts through the noise.

“Is that really you?”

You barely have a second to react before a blur of blue rushes toward you, and suddenly, Powder is there, beaming up at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.

She looks different—older, maybe a tad bit taller—but the same excitement, the same energy, radiates off of her like it always has. Her hair is longer now, pulled back into two twin buns with trimmed bangs covering her forehead.

She doesn’t wait for confirmation before throwing her arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“Oh my god, it is you!” she laughs against your shoulder, squeezing you tighter. “I can’t believe it! When Vi said you might come tonight, I didn’t think—I mean, I hoped—but holy shit!”

You let out a breathy laugh, arms instinctively wrapping around her. It’s been years since you’ve seen her—since she left for college, since everything with Vi fell apart—but somehow, it feels like no time has passed at all.

When she finally pulls back, she holds you at arm’s length, her hands gripping your shoulders as she looks you over, like she’s trying to make sure you’re actually standing there in front of her and not some trick of the lighting.

“You look amazing,” she gushes, her eyes shining, before huffing playfully, shaking her head. “I mean, seriously—wow. Vi didn’t tell me you still looked like this. She’s soooooo in trouble.”

You blink at her words, your breath hitching slightly, but before you can even begin to unpack what that means, Powder grabs your hand, tugging you towards the bar.

“Come on, you have to catch me up,” she insists, grinning ear to ear. “How have you been? What are you doing back here? Wait, how did Vi even convince you to show up tonight?”

Your lips part, but you hesitate, glancing toward the stage. You still haven’t seen Vi yet, but now, with Powder in front of you, talking a mile a minute, you realize just how much you’ve missed this—her.

“Powder, slow down,” you laugh, grinning from ear to ear as you shake your head. “It’s really good to see you too.”

She beams, squeezing your hand once before looping her arm through yours like she used to when you were all younger.

“Dad, look who’s here!” Powder calls out, cutting through the music and chatter as she drags you toward the bar.

Vander stands behind the counter, just like he always used to, one large hand resting on the counter, the other holding a glass he’s in the middle of drying. He looks up at Powder’s voice, eyes darting toward the two of you.

His lips curve into something between a smile and a look of pure surprise. He sets the glass down, wiping his hands on a bar towel as he steps around the counter.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Vander murmurs, taking you in. His voice is just as you remember it—gruff but warm. “Look who finally decided to show her face.”

“Hi, Vander,” you say, your voice softer than you mean it to be.

He huffs out a chuckle, shaking his head before pulling you into a firm hug.

“You don’t gotta be shy, kid,” he says, patting your back like he used to when you were just a teenager sitting at this very bar, waiting for Vi to finish whatever dumb stunt she was getting up to. “Hell, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” you murmur.

When he pulls back, he looks you over, eyes full of something fond.

“You look good,” he says, before glancing at Powder with a smirk. “She givin’ you trouble yet?”

You laugh, shaking your head as Powder scoffs, crossing her arms. “Me? Trouble? Never.”

Vander chuckles, ruffling her hair before looking back at you with that same fatherly warmth that makes your chest ache.

“Vi’s gonna lose her damn mind when she sees you.”

And just like that, your heart flutters all over again.

Vander studies you for a moment, his gaze settling on yours like he can hear every thought running through your head. But he doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. Instead, he gives you one last reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before nodding toward the bar.

“Well, since you’re here, let me get you a drink,” he says. “On the house. Benzo!”

Powder grins, practically bouncing on her boots as she gestures to the small, neatly wrapped gift in your hands.

“Come on, I’ll put that gift over with the others!” she chirps, already reaching for it before you can protest.

The chatter dies down slightly as movement stirs toward the stage, conversations dipping into hushed murmurs. People turn their attention forward, waiting patiently as the band gets into place.

Vi stands in the center of the stage, tuning her guitar beside an amp, fingers practiced as she twists the tuning pegs, testing each note. She’s glowing, that pink of her bright against the light, also outlining the sharp angles of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbones, the ink that winds down her arms and up the side of her neck.

She looks really fucking good. Dressed in a snug black shirt that clings just right, showing off the sculpted muscle in her arms, the broad set of her shoulders. The sleeves are pushed up slightly, just enough to expose the edge of her tattoos. Paired with a pair of baggy jeans that sit low on her hips, the waistband of her boxers showing every time her shirt shifts upward slightly as she moves—

—God, you have got to get yourself together.

But even despite how cool she looks up there, there’s a pout pressed against her lips, so slight that most people wouldn’t even notice.

But you do.

Because you’ve seen that pout before.

It’s the same one she used to wear when she was waiting for you after class and you took too long saying goodbye to your friends. The same one she had when you were late to meet her for a movie, arms crossed as she huffed dramatically before breaking into a grin the second she saw you. The same one she’d wear when you teased her by refusing to kiss her.

And now, up on stage, she’s wearing it again.

Because she hasn’t seen you yet.

You swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of yourself. Of how you look, of how this dress looks on you, of the way your heartbeat has picked up.

You shouldn’t be this affected—you shouldn’t.

And then—just as she adjusts the strap of her guitar, rolling her shoulders back, her eyes sweeping slowly over the room, over the crowd, then towards the bar—

She finds you.

Her fingers still against the strings, her whole body tensing just slightly. Her lips part, eyes locking onto yours.

And then, just like that, her pout is gone, smoothed over with the faintest, laziest smirk.

You feel your stomach flutter.

Before you can fully process it, Ekko steps up to the mic, patting Vi on the shoulder, grinning out at the crowd.

Behind them, Steb is adjusting his drum stool and Loris, stands off to the side, his bass slung low, a cigarette tucked behind his ear as he watches the crowd with that same unreadable look he always has, like none of this phases him in the slightest.

Ekko leans into the mic, flashing a charming smirk towards the crowd smirk.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” he teases, though he’s clearly reveling in the attention, in the love the crowd is throwing at them. He lets the cheers die down just a little before continuing, “First off, gotta give a huge shoutout to the man who means the absolute world to me. Happy birthday, old man!”

The bar erupts into another round of cheers, laughter echoing through the room as Benzo raises his glass.

“I love you, Benzo!” Ekko adds, placing a hand over his chest in mock sincerity.

Vi chuckles beside him, shaking her head as she ducks slightly, her pink hair falling forward as she looks down for a second.

Your stomach twists as you watch her, taking in the way her fingers flex against the neck of her guitar, the way she glances at Ekko with that lopsided smirk before finally lifting her head again, pink strands shifting as she looks back out at the crowd.

And just for a second—so brief you almost miss it—her eyes fall back to you.

Ekko claps his hands together. “Alright, enough of the mushy shit. Let’s get this started, yeah?”

And the crowd cheers again.

The music begins, the first chords ringing out as Vi’s fingers find the strings of her guitar. The sound of the crowd fades into the background as she leans into the mic.

Every time her gaze sweeps over the bar, her heart skips a beat when she catches sight of you. You’re there, standing at the edge of the crowd, watching. Watching her. And god, it makes her feel alive. She can feel the heat rising in her chest, spreading down her arms, making her fingertips tingle as she strums the next chord. She can’t stop glancing at you, her smile widening every time your gaze meets hers.

She wants to impress.

She really fucking does.

And every time Vi steals a glance your way, her heart beats faster. It’s almost like the music fades and the room shrinks down until all she can focus on is you.

You look so damn good. Your dress is simple but it fits you perfectly, so prettily. The soft glow of the stage lights catches the curve of your neck, the way your hair falls just perfectly, and god—god—she’s getting distracted.

The thought crosses her mind before she can stop it—did you dress up for her? It’s silly, of course, but it flares in her chest anyway.

But then, before she can let herself spiral too far into that thought, she sees you again.

You came. You actually came.

I mean, you told her you would, but right now, she can’t stop smiling. She’s so fucking happy you’re here.

The set ends after an hour.

It wasn’t too long, but the crowd erupts into applause anyway, cheers and shouts and whistles echoing throughout room, although Vi didn’t really think much of it. She’s still buzzing, the tips of her fingers still tingling from the friction of the strings, but she didn’t care about it.

She doesn’t wait for the others. Ekko and Loris are already heading backstage, Steb cracking his knuckles as he follows, but Vi’s eyes are locked on you.

She doesn’t even care about the after show rituals—the sweaty gear, the backroom chatter—because right now, all she can think about is how badly she wants to get to you.

It doesn’t take long to find you. You’re sitting with Powder, a bright smile on your face, talking to Vander and Benzo at the counter.

And then, when she’s just a few feet away, you look up.

She opens her mouth, trying to say something—anything—but the words won’t come. She’s not sure why she’s so nervous now.

“Hey,” she says softly as she looks down at the counter, then back up at you. “You made it.”

Her smile is soft, almost shy, and she watches you carefully, her heart is pounding in her chest.

“I told you I would,” you reply warmly.

Vi nods softly and just stands there, her heart pounding in her chest, suddenly unsure of herself, the words slipping out of her mouth before she can fully think them through.

“You look… you look really good.”

It’s quieter than she meant it to be, but it’s honest. She can’t help it. She’s been trying not to let herself be completely consumed by the way you look tonight, but there’s really no stopping it. You do look amazing.

And she watches you closely, trying not to let her nervousness show too much, but it’s hard to hide the slight tremor in her voice.

Before you can even respond, Powder bursts in, her voice high and teasing as she slides up beside Vi and throws an arm around her shoulders, nearly knocking her off balance.

“Vi!” she says, her grin practically splitting her face, as she begins to tease her in hushed whispers, something about you coming tonight, maybe how nervous she was.

But Vi doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break her gaze from you. Her attention stays completely on you, even as Powder hugs her excitedly, laughing. Her focus is elsewhere. It’s on you. It’s always been on you.

For a moment, she almost wishes it was just the two of you in this room—no distractions, no people, no laughter, no teasing from an overly excited litle sister, just you and her.

Before either of you can speak, Powder pulls away from Vi, spinning on her heel as she looks around the bar.

“Say, where’s Ekko?” she asks. “I’ve got to go give him a talk about giving Isha the wrong cat food earlier.”

Without waiting for anyone to respond, she darts off into the crowd, running on pure energy that never seems to run out. You watch her blue hair disappear into the mix of people, the playful laugh she lets out fading as she vanishes.

Vi stands there, staring at you. There’s so much she wants to say, so much she’s been holding back for what feels like forever, but the words just don’t come.

“You guys sounded really great up there,” you say gently.

Her heart skips. She blinks, almost startled, and before she can stop herself, her lips curve into a wide, genuine grin, the pride swelling in her chest. She straightens slightly, shoulders relaxing just a little as her eyes soften.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, eyes glued to the way your tongue smooths over your bottom lip. “It, uh… feels good to be playing again… Here, I mean. At home.”

You smile again, and for a second, Vi forgets how to breathe.

“I bet it does,” you say, keeping your voice light. “I mean, I would have been disappointed if you weren’t any good.”

Vi chuckles at that. “Well, I couldn’t let you down. I’ve got a reputation to maintain, after all.”

“You’re being cocky,” you raise an eyebrow at her.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says quietly.

Vi swallows hard, trying her best to stay calm, but being with you like this, well, it catches her off guard.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” she smiles softly. “I really am.”

And she’s grateful. Very grateful that she gets to see you, to be with you like this, even though you weren’t really hers anymore.

She spent the rest of the night glued to your side like she’s afraid to let you slip away, her body leaning just a little too close whenever you’re talking to someone else.

It’s a subtle thing, the way she gravitates toward you, like there’s an invisible thread pulling her in, towards you each and every time.

Vander, Benzo, Powder, and the rest of the band surround you, laughing and teasing, recounting old stories from their countless gigs, but Vi isn’t really paying attention to any of that. Not when you’re sitting next to her, not when you’re wearing that dress.

The fabric fits your curves so perfectly, but it’s your legs that keep pulling her attention.

Every time you move slightly, every time you cross or uncross them, the way your thighs peek out, just enough to tease—Vi can’t tear her eyes away. It feels almost too much—like she’s seeing you in a way she hasn’t allowed herself to in a long time. She tries to focus on the conversations, on the laughter and the jokes being tossed around, but it’s impossible to ignore the way her body reacts every time you move right next to her, every time she catches a glimpse of your skin.

Her gaze moves back to you again, almost instinctively, and her breath catches just for a second when your eyes meet hers, that soft smile of yours playing at your lips.

“Vi,” Powder says, nudging her with an elbow. “Earth to Vi? You’ve been dozing out over there for a while.”

Vi blinks, shaking her head and forcing herself to focus on the others. She smiles, though, a little embarrassed, and laughs it off, trying to shrug it off as a joke.

“Sorry, just got distracted for a second,” she says, but her eyes dart back to you before the words are even fully out.

She can’t help it. You’ve always had that effect on her—always able to pull her in, even when you don’t mean to.

And when you laugh, when you lean forward to talk to Powder, it sends a shiver down her spine. She can’t stop herself from thinking about how much she’s missed this. How much she’s missed being with her family. How much she’s missed being with you.

Her heart beats faster in her chest.

She wants to reach out and touch you. To kiss you. To touch you in places people aren’t allowed to see. She wants to say something, but every word gets stuck in her throat.

And throughout the rest of the night, you could feel her eyes on you.

It’s not just her glances you notice, but the way her posture shifts when you move, the tension in her shoulders when she’s close to you, like she’s trying to keep herself in check, but her body betrays her every time.

It makes your heart race. You can feel her eyes on you, even when you’re not looking at her. It’s impossible to ignore. The way her attention feels so intense, the way she’s so obviously drawn to you, despite all the people around you.

And you start to wonder if coming here tonight was a good idea after all.

It’s silly, isn’t it? You came because Vi had asked you to. Because you couldn’t say no to her.

You force yourself to look away, focusing on Powder and Vander’s laughter, on Benzo’s loud voice cutting through the noise, but you can still feel it. And every time your eyes meet, she looks away just a little too quickly, like she’s afraid of being caught.

You glance at her again, and this time, she doesn’t look away quickly enough. Her eyes catch yours, and you see it clearly. Vi hasn’t really changed that much. She was still Vi. Still the girl you once loved, and maybe, in some strange way, still the girl you might love again—

God, what are you talking about?

Is that what this is?

Is that what she wants too?

You force yourself to look away, focusing back on the chatter around you.

Was this a mistake? You didn’t know that answer to that.

All you knew was that it was clear Vi wanted you.

And you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want her, too.

It gets pretty late into the night when the drinks, as light as they were, started to settle in, a warm flush spreading across your cheeks.

It’s not enough to make you drunk—nothing like that—but enough to make your limbs feel a little heavier, your eyelids a little more droopy than they were earlier in the evening.

You glance around the table, taking in the chatter of old friends, the lighthearted teasing and laughter, the way Powder is leaning into Ekko’s side while Benzo and Vander talk shop at the counter. It was soothing to be here and spending time with them.

But your body is tired, and as much as you don’t want to leave, you know it’s probably time.

You stand up slowly, feeling the slight unsteadiness in your legs, the gentle sway of the room, but you brush it off. You pull your jacket on, the cool leather against your skin reminding you of the chilly air waiting for you outside. You catch Powder’s eye, giving her a soft smile as she looks over at you, but she’s too wrapped up in a conversation with Ekko to notice how tired you’ve become.

“I should probably get going,” you say softly.

Your words are met with a series of warm and friendly goodbyes, but there’s something in the air now that you can’t ignore.

Maybe it’s the way you’ve been trying not to meet Vi’s eyes, the way you’ve felt her gaze on you all night.

But you turn to her finally and say, “Bye, Vi.”

She freezes. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, her lips parting as if she wants to say something—anything—but the words get stuck somewhere inside her all over again.

She doesn’t get anything out before you turn on your heel to walk out of the door.

Then, out of nowhere, Ekko elbows Vi lightly.

“Seriously?” he murmurs under his breath, though it’s loud enough for her to hear.

Vi blinks rapidly, snapping out of her trance, and before she can even register what’s happening, she looks up. She turns to the rest of the group, and to her surprise, the entire crew is watching her. Powder, Benzo, Vander—they’re all grinning, urging her with their eyes.

“Go!” Powder mouths.

And just like that, she just moves.

She grabs her jacket and practically runs, pushing past the tables and chairs, her heart pounding louder and louder.

But just as she reaches the door, her foot catches awkwardly on the edge something, and soon, she’s stumbling, the world tipping sideways before she crashes forward. Her head hits the doorframe with a sharp thud, and for a second, everything is disorienting.

And you hear it—the sound of Vi groaning behind you. You freeze, your heart leaping into your throat.

“Violet?!” you call out.

Vi’s still on the ground, her hand pressed against her forehead, trying to push herself up. Her face scrunches in mild discomfort, but as her eyes meet yours, she lets out a small, breathy laugh, shaking her head.

“I’m fine,” she says softly as she rubs her forehead where it collided with the doorframe.

Her eyes dart up to you, and she offers a sheepish smile. You can’t stop the small laugh that bubbles up in your throat. Your heart is still racing as you move toward her.

“Are you sure—”

“I’m okay, really,” she says again.

She reaches up, brushing her hair from her face, trying to play off the moment. You offer her your hand, your fingers brushing hers as you help her to her feet. She doesn’t let go immediately, her fingers lingering against yours for a moment longer than necessary.

“I… I wanted to catch you before you left,” Vi catches her breath. “Are you walking home?”

“Y-Yeah,” you finally say quietly. “It’s not too far.”

You motion vaguely toward the street, but it’s clear that the idea of walking back alone, in the late hour, with the chill creeping in, doesn’t sit quite right with you either.

“My truck’s at the back,” she says. “I’ll drive you.”

You blink, caught off guard for a moment. And before you can stop yourself, you start to protest, a gentle laugh slipping from your lips as you take a small step back.

“Oh, it’s fine, Vi. I don’t mind the walk. It’s not that far, really.” You try to brush it off, not wanting to be any more of a burden than you already feel like you are.

But she doesn’t let you get far.

“I’m driving you,” she repeats.

It’s not a suggestion. It’s not a question. It’s just fact.

You could argue, but there’s something about the way she looks at you, the way her eyes are so steady, so intent, that makes your inner protests feel futile.

So for once, you don’t argue.

“Fine,” you say softly, a smile tugging at the edges of your words.

Vi leads you toward the back lot where her old truck is parked, the cool night air settling over your skin as you follow a few steps behind her.

When you reach the truck, she moves ahead without hesitation, reaching for the handle and pulling the door open for you. It’s a small thing, but it catches you off guard—she does it like it’s second nature, like she’s done it a million times before. Well, she probably has.

You hesitate for a second, looking at her. Her pink hair is a little messy, strands falling over her forehead, but she doesn’t push them back. She just stands there, her hand still on the door, waiting for you.

“Thanks,” you murmur softly.

Vi just nods, not saying anything as you step up into the seat. She closes the door gently behind you, and a second later, she’s rounding the front of the truck, pulling herself into the driver’s side.

The engine stars, and Vi adjusts the rearview mirror before glancing over at you. You can tell that she has more that she wants to say, but instead, she just puts the truck into drive, her fingers flexing around the wheel before she finally pulls out of the lot.

The drive is quiet.

Not awkward, not tense—just quiet.

The road stretches ahead, the glow of streetlights passing in a blur, fleeting shadows across Vi’s face. Her jaw is set, a hand steady on the wheel, but inside the truck, everything feels so quiet.

You watch her from the corner of your eye, the way her fingers tap lightly against the wheel, the way she lets out a slow breath, like she’s thinking about something she won’t say out loud.

You shift slightly in your seat, your hands resting in your lap, feeling the warmth of the heater kicking in against your legs. You should say something—maybe thank her again, maybe fill the silence with small talk, maybe ask her again how long she’s staying in town, how long her break is, when she’s leaving again—but for some reason, you don’t.

You just sit there.

Eventually, the truck slows to a stop in front of your apartment building, the engine humming for a moment before Vi shifts into park and shutting the engine off. The street is quiet at this hour, the street lamps casting long shadows across the sidewalk, everything outside the window felt frozen.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just grips the wheel, her fingers flexing slightly before she finally moves, unbuckling her seatbelt.

Before you can protest—before you can even tell her that she doesn’t have to—she’s already stepping out, rounding the front of the truck with long strides. She opens your door for you again, and when you step down, you can feel how warm she is, close enough that you have to force yourself not to lean into it.

Then, she walks you up to your apartment door, taking the elevator, her steps slower now, like she’s drawing out the last few moments before she has to leave.

You fish your keys out of your bag, fingers brushing over the familiar metal as you try to ignore the way your heart is beating too fast.

But Vi… she just watches.

She’s standing a step behind you, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, her body tense like she’s holding herself back from something.

And she is.

Because she doesn’t want to leave.

Not when she’s spent the entire night thinking about you, stealing glances at you across the bar, admiring how the lighting made your skin glow, how your lips curled into that gorgeous smile she fell in love with—that she’s still in love with. Not when you looked so damn good in that dress, when all she’s wanted, since the second she saw you tonight, was to touch you, to press her lips against yours and see if you’d melt into her the way you used to.

Not when she still wants you.

But she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

She just stares, her jaw clenched slightly, her pink hair falling into her face as she tilts her head down, eyes darting between your face and your hands as you struggle with the keys.

She should say something. She should tell you goodnight, make some stupid joke to break the tension, turn and walk away before she does something reckless. Because every single part of her is screaming at her to stay, to close the space between you, to reach out and touch you the way she’s been dying to all night. To press you against that door and kiss you until she forgets where she ends and you begin.

She just bites the inside of her cheek, waiting—hoping—you’ll give her a reason not to go.

You finally find the right key, fingers brushing over the familiar grooves, you slot it into the door but you don’t turn it just yet.

Vi hasn’t moved, hasn’t said anything, and when you glance up at her, she’s still staring—not in an absentminded way… No, she’s simply watching you, like she’s trying to memorize every single detail.

Your throat feels tight, but you push through it, offering her a soft smile, one that feels a little shy.

“Thank you for inviting me out tonight,” you say quietly.

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” she murmurs, almost hushed. “I—”

She stops, exhales through her nose, rubs a hand against the back of her neck before shaking her head, like she’s sorting through whatever thoughts are running wild in her head.

“I wanted you to come.”

You don’t know what to say to that, not when she’s looking at you like this, like she means it, like tonight actually mattered to her.

You swallow, gripping your keys a little tighter, trying to ignore the way your fingers tremble slightly.

“Still,” you say softly, meeting her gaze. “It was… nice.”

She looks at you like she wants to say more, like there’s so much more left to be said between you two, but she doesn’t say it.

Instead, she just nods, stepping just a fraction closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her, close enough that if you tilted your chin just slightly, you’d be right there—right within reach.

And for the first time tonight, you realize you don’t want to step away.

Vi moves slightly, her hands still buried in the pockets of her jacket, like she’s physically stopping herself from reaching out. But her eyes tell a different story. They flicker over your face, down to your lips for the briefest second before settling back on yours.

“I… I wanna see you again,” she says quietly, almost desperately.

You freeze, the key still in your hand, but now the door feels so far away. Vi’s voice rings in your ears, and as you stand there, your mind spins.

You know what she means by those words.

You’ve already been seeing her as the weeks go by. As a friend—she came in to help with your bookshop, invited you out tonight. And now—now she’s expecting something more with you.

And you’re scared of that. Terrified, actually.

You can’t do this again. You won’t survive it.

You’ve lived through her absence, through the silence, through the distance. You’ve been holding your breath for years. You’ll expect her to leave the same way she did, promising you she’ll never forget you, that she’ll come home soon, she’ll call. You’ve already lived through it.

And soon, she’ll be leaving again. Once her break is over, she’ll be gone.

And whatever she wanted build with you now, you expect all of that to be gone the moment she is.

“Vi… I’ve been thinking about it for a while now… and I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, almost as if you’re talking to yourself, trying to convince yourself that this is the right decision. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t look at her as you speak, afraid that if you do, you’ll see the hope in her eyes, and it will break you.

Vi’s heart sinks at your words. But she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t argue.

Instead, she stands there, eyes locked onto the side of your face, refusing to let the space between you become any bigger than it already is.

She wants to say something—wants to convince you, to make you see that this time could be different, that she can be different.

But the words won’t come. They’re stuck somewhere inside her, tangled up with the fear of losing you again, with the ache of wanting you close, even knowing that you might not feel the same.

So instead of speaking, she just stands there, her hands still in her pockets, her chest rising and falling with every shallow breath she takes. Her gaze never wavers from yours, even as it breaks her inside to see the hesitation in your eyes. She doesn’t want to push. She doesn’t want to make it harder for you.

But god, she wants to be near you.

She wants you so fucking bad.

She wants you to say yes.

The lump in your throat feels like it’s made of stone as you swallow. Your hands tremble slightly as you stand there, staring at the door, tears already threatening to roll down your cheeks.

You can feel her eyes on you, searching, waiting for something, and you know—you know that she’s holding onto the edge of whatever this is.

But you can’t do this.

So, you say it quickly, almost too quickly.

“Goodnight, Vi.”

You can hear the hesitation in your own voice, the way it cracks just a little, as if you’re trying to make the decision for both of you.

You don’t wait for her to reply. You don’t give her the chance to stop you, to pull you back into her. You push the door open just a little more and step inside, slamming it behind you.

On the other side of the door, Vi stands completely still. She doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, just stares at the space where you were. Her heart is pounding, your words still burning in her chest, but she doesn’t turn away. She doesn’t walk away. She stays in place, her eyes glued to the spot where you had been standing, as if she’s waiting for you to come back.

The sound of your footsteps on the other side of the door is faint, but it might as well be a symphony in her ears. Her hand reaches up slowly to knock, almost without thinking, like she’s trying to hold onto the last of the warmth that came from being so close to you, from having you near her again.

But it’s only cold now.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, doesn’t know how much time passes as she waits, hoping—just for a moment—that you might open the door again, that you might step back out and say that it wasn’t over, that it was just a misunderstanding.

But the longer she stands there, the more she realizes how hopeless that hope is, how much she’s already lost.

She almost turns on her heel to leave, the cold night air pressing in on her, but then—then—the sound of the door opening again stops her in her tracks.

You’re standing in the doorway.

For a split second, she doesn’t know what to expect. Her heart skips, and the breath she was holding catches in her throat.

“H-Hey,” Vi breathes out, her eyes widening. “Are you—”

Then, you move quickly, almost. You step up to her, and before Vi can make sense of it all, your hands are on her shoulders, and you’re standing on your tiptoes, and before she can breathe, before she can even think, your lips are on hers.

And holy fuck. Holy. Fuck. Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck holy— Is she dreaming? Are you really kissing her right now? Or did she really hit her head that hard?

Vi’s whole body freezes at first. It’s quick, but it’s enough to make her world tilt on its axis. She’s barely aware of what’s happening, of how she instinctively wraps her arms around you, pulling you closer. Her hands find their way to your waist, holding you gently.

She doesn’t want to pull away. She doesn’t want to let go of of you, not when it feels like you’ve come back to her. Her arms tighten around you, and she groans into your mouth, feeling the warmth of your body press against hers like she’s trying to make sure you’re really here.

Vi doesn’t think—she doesn’t have time to.

The second your lips press back into hers, everything else fades and she cant see anything else but you. She deepens the kiss, her hands squeezing roughly at your waist, pulling you impossibly close like she’s afraid you might slip through her fingers again if she lets even an inch of space come between you.

You respond just as eagerly, softly moaning into against her lips, your fingers fisting into the fabric of her jacket, pulling her forward like you can’t stand the distance either. Your body presses into hers, soft where she’s firm, delicate where she’s rough, and it only makes her want you more.

The kiss turns messy—more tongue, more teeth, like neither of you can get enough.

Vi doesn’t realize she’s walking forward until she feels you stumble slightly, your hands gripping onto her arms for balance. She guides you backwards, step by step, her lips never leaving yours as she pushes you back into your apartment. And with one firm kick of her foot, the door swings shut behind you both.

The moment the door clicks into place, she moves quickly—gripping your hips as she turns you, pressing you firmly against the solid wood making you gasp against her mouth, a quiet, breathless sound that sends a rush of heat straight through her.

Vi exhales sharply, pulling away from your lips only slightly to breathe, pressing her palms flat against the door on either side of your head, caging you in without a single inch of space between you. She can feel your breath against her lips, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you both try to catch up with what’s happening.

But then, as she leans in again, ready to kiss you breathless, she sees you.

Your eyes, wide and glistening, your lips swollen from the kiss, your breaths coming out in soft little gasps. And the trail of tears… still visible on your cheeks.

Vi’s stomach clenches.

Her chest tightens as she reaches up without thinking, brushing the pad of her thumb against your cheek, just beneath where the tears had dried. You don’t pull away, but you don’t meet her gaze either. You just stand there, still breathing hard, your hands still clinging to her jacket like you need something to hold onto.

Vi swallows hard, her fingers still lingering on your cheek, and she lets herself look at you—really look at you.

And it feels like a fucking punch to her stomach, a hard one, because you are still so beautiful, even like this.

And, she doesn’t know if she’s supposed to be here. If she’s supposed to be kissing you like this, touching you like this.

But when your eyes finally meet hers again, she knows one thing for sure.

She doesn’t want to let you go.

Vi opens her mouth, barely forming the words before you beat her to it.

“Vi,” you whisper softly. “I-If we do this… if we do this, we can’t commit.”

She blinks, once, twice, her breath still uneven from the way she’d just had you pressed against the door, her lips still tingling from kissing you like she had been starving for it. Her hands are still on you, one hand against your cheek, and another on your waist, her thumb ghosting over the curve of your hip.

“What?” Vi’s voice is barely more than breath.

You look up at her and she sees the hesitation in your eyes, the way you swallow thickly before you even attempt to explain.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. Because out of everything she expected you to say, this wasn’t it.

No commitment.

The words press into Vi’s chest like something sharp, something cruel, something that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does—but god, it does.

Her mind races, trying to make sense of what you mean, of why you’d say that after everything. After the way you kissed her, after the way you ran back out that door.

No commitment.

Did you think she’d leave again? Did you really think she’d break your heart a second time?

Vi swallows, her throat tight, her fingers twitching against you.

“What do you mean?” she whispers, careful, like she’s afraid if she says it too loud, you’ll pull away completely.

But she already knows.

She knows what you mean. She knows exactly what you’re saying without even having to hear the rest of it.

You don’t trust her. Not with your heart.

And fuck, she wants to argue again, she wants to tell you she’s different, that she wouldn’t leave you alone this time, that she would stay, that she wants to stay.

But you’re looking at her like you’re waiting for her to fight it, and she suddenly realizes—maybe you need this.

Maybe you need to believe that thi won’t be anything more than what it is tonight.

Maybe you need to protect yourself from what loving her again might do to you.

Vi’s jaw clenches, her hands tightening ever so slightly where they rest against your waist. She should say something. She wants to fucking say something.

You hold Vi’s gaze, your breath still uneven, your heart pounding so loudly it feels like it might drown out your own words. You don’t want to say it—you really don’t—but you force yourself to. Because if you don’t, if you let her look at you like that for a second longer, you might break.

“We just… we can’t do it,” you say, barely above a whisper. “We can’t pretend like we can just pick up where we left off, Vi. You’re still you—you have your whole life out there that you have to get back to, your career, your band, and I…”

You pause, exhaling slowly, pressing yourself back against the door.

“I can’t go through it again.”

Vi’s breath hitches in her throat.

But you see it—the way your words hit her, the way her fingers tighten slightly at your waist before she forces them to loosen, like she’s reminding herself to be gentle with you. Like she’s reminding herself that she did this.

That she gave you a reason not to trust her.

She wets her lips, blinking once, twice, all over again as if she was trying to process what you’re saying. But you can see the protest in her eyes. You can see how much she wants to protest, to tell you that you’re wrong.

“So… what?” she asks roughly. “You just want this to be… casual?”

You hesitate. You don’t want to call it that. It feels wrong, too small, too insignificant to name what’s happening between you.

Because it’s not insignificant. It never has been.

But you can’t give her what she wants.

So you force yourself to nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

Vi stares at you, and it’s hard to read her face now, but you know her well enough to see the way her jaw tenses, the way she presses her tongue against the inside of her cheek like she’s trying to hold something back.

She looks down for a second, her hands still resting at your waist, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter.

“You… you want me to pretend that this—” she exhales, shaking her head just slightly, like she can’t believe she’s even saying it, “—that you don’t mean anything to me?”

Your chest tightens, and for a second, you almost cave.

“Vi…” You say her name softly, and it’s enough to make her close her eyes, her head tipping forward like she’s bracing herself for impact.

You bite your lip, shifting under her gaze, but you don’t deny it.

“I want something safe,” you say instead.

Vi stares at you longingly.

She runs a hand through her hair, exhaling a bitter laugh, shaking her head as she looks at you.

“Safe,” she echoes, like she’s tasting the word on her tongue, trying to decide how it makes her feel.

She knows exactly how it makes her feel.

It fucking hurts.

Because when it comes to you, Vi has never wanted safe.

She’s only ever wanted everything.

But she looks at you now and she can see the hesitation in your eyes, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re waiting for her to fight you, to push, to promise something she might not be able to keep.

And, Vi realizes that you probably need this boundary.

That this is the only way you know how to let her in without risking losing yourself in her all over again.

So she takes a slow breath, lets it settle in her chest before she speaks.

“Okay.”

You blink, like you weren’t expecting her to agree so easily.

“Okay?”

Vi nods, keeping her face straight and stoic.

“Okay,” she repeats, quieter this time.

She watches the way your lips part slightly, the way your breath catches, and fuck, she could kiss you again right now. Could prove to you that whatever this is—whatever it’s turning into—isn’t just something temporary for her.

That it never was.

But instead, she just looks at you, nods once more, and says, “I can do that.”

And she knows for sure if it’s a lie.

You can feel her breathing against you, warm and uneven, her body still so close. Your breath shudders, your fingers twitching at your sides.

You don’t know how to tell her that you’re just as scared, that this—whatever it is—is already starting to feel like something dangerous, something that might swallow you whole.

So instead, you do the only thing you can do.

You lift your hands, slowly, hesitantly, and brush your fingers over the sides of her face, over the sharp line of her jaw, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your touch. Vi lets out a breath, and when you tilt your head slightly, your lips barely a breath away from hers, she doesn’t pull back.

She doesn’t run.

Neither do you.

And before she can say another word, before she can question it, you kiss her again.

Vi doesn’t hesitate this time.

The moment your lips crash against hers, she melts into it, melts into you. Her fingers tighten at your waist, pulling you impossibly close, like she needs to feel every inch of you against her. She’s warm, burning, her body radiating heat as she kisses you deeper, rougher, her teeth grazing your bottom lip before she soothes the sting with her tongue. A quiet moan escapes your throat, and that’s all it takes for Vi to lose whatever restraint she had left.

She cages you in again, her palms flat against the wood on either side of your head, her breath uneven as she pulls back just slightly. Not enough to create distance—just enough to look at you again.

She studies you, the way your fingers clutch at her jacket like you don’t want her to go anywhere, and for a brief moment, she wonders—is this what you need?

Because Vi doesn’t think she can just pretend.

She doesn’t think she can hold you like this, kiss you like this, and not want all of you.

But maybe… maybe right now, this is enough.

So instead of saying something that will ruin it, instead of pushing for something you aren’t ready to give, Vi does what she knows best.

She leans in again, slower this time, her lips brushing. Her hands move to your waist, then up your sides, fingers ghosting over your ribs before sliding down the the hem of your dress, slipping under the fabric to grasp at your thighs. She doesn’t rush—she takes her time, savoring the way your body reacts to her touch, how you shiver slightly beneath her hands.

“You sure about this?” she asks.

You nod, barely a whisper of movement, your hands sliding up her chest, over her strong shoulders, fingers curling into the soft fabric of her shirt.

“Yeah,” you whisper back.

One moment, you’re standing there, breathless, and the next, Vi is crashing into you, her lips slanting against yours.

You gasp against her mouth, and Vi grips you tighter, her strong hands sliding down, catching the backs of your thighs before lifting you up. You gasp, but your body reacts on instinct, your legs wrapping around her waist, arms winding around her shoulders as she holds you up with ease.

And, the way she holds you—firm, steady, possessive—makes the heat coil in your stomach.

She doesn’t stop kissing you, not even for a second, her tongue your mouth, tasting you. Vi carries you through deeper into your apartment, like she knows exactly where she’s going even though she’s only ever been here once for several minutes.

Your fingers slide into her hair, tugging slightly, and she groans against your lips, low and needy, sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel the tension in her muscles, the way her grip tightens around your waist.

She stumbles slightly as she reaches your bedroom door, blindly pushing it open with her foot before stepping inside. The moment she steps in, she presses you against the nearest wall, just for a second, just to feel you pinned against something, her body flush against yours, her breath hot against your lips.

“Fuck,” Vi mutters, her forehead pressing against yours.

Her breath is uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly, and when she looks at you—lips swollen, eyes dark with want—you swear you’ve never seen her like this.

You don’t give yourself time to overthink. You don’t want to think.

You just pull her back into you, your lips crashing into hers once more, and she groans against your mouth as she finally moves again, finally carries you those last few steps toward the bed.

And when she lays you down—Vi stares.

Her body hovers over yours, her hands braced on either side of your head, her breath still uneven as she takes you in—really takes you in. And fuck, you look so pretty like this, sprawled out beneath her, lips swollen and your lipstick smudged slightly from kissing her. Your chest rises and falls with each breath, the thin fabric of your dress shifting slightly, and Vi can’t stop staring, can’t stop drinking you in like she’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she exhales sharply through her nose, her hands curling into fists against the mattress as she forces herself to pause, to breathe. She feels like she’s standing at the edge of something dangerous, something she’s wanted for so long but never let herself have, and now that you’re here—now that you’re letting her have you—she feels like she might lose her fucking mind.

Her gaze trails down your body, heat pooling low in her stomach as she watches the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twitch against the sheets, waiting for her to do something.

She wants you. Wants to make you forget everything except the way she touches you, the way she makes you feel, the way she’s about to have you.

Vi exhales again, slower this time, and when her eyes flicker back up to yours, she smiles bitterly—low, lazy, cocky.

“Oh, fuck,” she murmurs, shaking her head slightly, her pink hair falling into her eyes as she licks her lips.

She leans in then, pressing her lips against the soft skin of your neck, her teeth grazing just slightly as she whispers against you teasingly.

“Vi, hurry, please—”

“I’m on it, baby,” she says.

Vi doesn’t waste another second.

She shrugs off her jacket in a rush, the leather hitting the floor, and her fingers already working at the hem of her shirt. She pulls her shirt over her head, leaving her in her jeans and her sports bra, barely noticing where it lands—because you’re right there.

Vi moves above you, her body pressing closer, and that’s when you see it.

The small glint of silver catches your eye, swaying gently as she hovers over you, her breath warm against your skin. Your lips part slightly, because you know that necklace—

And now, it’s still there.

Vi doesn’t seem to notice at first. She’s too lost in you, in the way your body moves beneath hers, in the way she’s been desperate to have you again. But when she feels you stiffen slightly beneath her, when she pulls back just enough to really look at you, she follows your gaze—and freezes.

Her breath falters, chest rising and falling just a little too quickly, her entire body suddenly too still.

She realizes what you’re looking at.

You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to.

And Vi—Vi feels like she’s been caught.

The necklace still rests against her skin every single day, always hidden beneath layers of fabric, unseen by anyone else.

But now, you see it. You know.

She doesn’t just want you tonight.

She wants you always.

Right in front of her, staring up with wide eyes, breath coming in soft, uneven gasps, your lips still swollen, and your dress still clinging to you.

And holy fuck, she needs you out of it.

Her hands find the fabric at your sides, her fingertips pressing into your skin as she tugs, as she urges your dress higher, bunching it up until she can pull it over your head.

You lift your arms for her, letting her take it off, letting her strip you down just like she wants, and Vi swears her brain short circuits the second she sees you like this.

Her breath catches, her pupils blown wide as her gaze drags down, raking over every inch of your skin exposed to her.

She groans softly, deeply and almost pained, before she lunges forward, her lips finding the soft skin of your collarbone, your shoulder, anywhere she can reach. She kisses you so messily, open-mouthed and desperate, her tongue flicking out between kisses, her teeth grazing just enough to make you moan.

She wants to taste every inch of you, mark you up so that you remember exactly where she’s been.

“V-Violet—”

Your voice—soft, breathy, breaking just slightly on her name—hits Vi harder than anything else has tonight. It goes straight to her chest, down to the part of her that remembers, that aches for every time you used to say her name like that, every time you used to fall apart for her.

And fuck, she’s missed it. She’s missed you.

A soft whimper rumbles from Vi’s throat, her teeth scraping gently along the delicate skin of your chest before she pulls back just enough to look at you. Your bra is pushed up, her hands eagerly roaming your tits, swueezing and pulling just like she always did whenever she was in a rush to make you feel good. Its not long before she reaches behind you, one hand undoing your bra and throwing it on the floor with the rest of your clothes.

And you’re already so wrecked, your lips parted, your breaths uneven, your body arching beneath her as she touched you.

God, she wants you—wants to ruin you, wants to hear you beg, wants to make you forget everything but the way she feels against you, around you… inside you.

Vi’s hands tremble slightly as she hooks her fingers into the waistband of your panties, tugging at the fabric slowly down your legs. She watches the way you react—the way your breath catches, the way your thighs tense, the way your fingers clutch at the sheets like you’re bracing yourself. Like you’re nervous.

She pauses, her thumbs rubbing small, absentminded circles against your hips, trying to soothe the tension in your body.

She’s thought about this.

Fuck, she’s thought about this almost every night—about you, about having you like this again, spread out beneath her, breathless and wanting an be needing her.

It’s been so long. Too long.

And as much as Vi wants to devour you as soon as possible—she also wants to savor this. She wants to feel it.

You make a small noise—soft, hesitant—and when Vi finally drags the last piece of clothing down your thighs, when she finally sees you, all of you, she lets out a breath she didnt even know she was holding.

You shift slightly, instinctively moving to close your legs, to hide yourself, but Vi is already there—her hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open for her.

And then she sees the hesitation in your eyes. The way you bite your lip and glance away. Shy.

Something in Vi’s chest tightens.

She knows.

She knows.

You haven’t done this in a long time.

She wants to say something, but can’t find the right words. So instead, she does the only thing she can—she leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, her lips soft and wet.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” she murmurs against your skin. “Always been so pretty, baby.”

She kisses you again, this time closer.

But when your breath hitches, when you finally look at her, when your fingers twitch like you want to reach for her but don’t know if you should—Vi knows.

She knows you want this.

You need her.

So Vi immediately gets to work.

The second she spreads you open, the second she sees how wet you are, she groans low in her throat, the sound vibrating against your skin as she leans in without hesitation, before finally dragging her tongue through your wet folds.

Your body jerks as get tongue presses flat and firm against your clit, and your fingers immediately reach for her, tangling into her hair—longer now than it used to be, your fingertips curling around the strands, gripping on it, pulling on it.

Vi feels you everywhere—the way your thighs twitch slightly against her hands, the way your hips shift up as if you were chasing the warmth of her mouth, the way your fingers tighten in her hair the second she flicks her tongue just right.

She hums against you, reveling in the way you respond to her so easily, like no time has passed at all, like your body still remembers her, still wants her just as much as she’s always wanted you.

She licks into you again, her tongue delving deeper into your pussy, messily and slurping loudly while her hands grip your thighs as she pulls you closer, like she can’t get enough—like she wants to devour you whole.

“Fuck,” Vi breathes against you. “You taste so good. Missed this pretty pussy so much.”

You let out a soft, broken sound as your hips buck slightly, your fingers still tangled in her hair.

Vi whimpers against your cunt, at the way your body gives to her so naturally, so easily. She tightens her grip, pressing you down into the mattress as she speeds up, her tongue dragging through your folds with faster strokes before circling your clit.

And when you whimper, Vi fucking smirks against you, because this is what she’s missed. The taste of you. The sound of you. The way you fall apart so easily for her, like you were made for this, like you were made for her.

“Hah, mmph—F-Fuck, Violet—”

Vi rolls her eyes back in bliss, moaning into your messy cunt as she slurps and sucks on your swollen clit. She loves hearing you moan her name like that—absolutely lives for it. Craves it. And god, she could fuck you all day just so that she could hear the heavenly sounds that fall from your lips.

She feels it before you even say anything—the way your thighs tremble beneath her palms, the way you close her in between your legs, the way you pant quicker and wuicker by the second, the way your body starts to tighten.

She knows you’re close already.

She knew you would be—knew from the second she laid you out in front of her, from the moment she tasted you, from the way you gasped and clung to her, fingers tangled in her hair, pulling, tugging, harder and harder, your body arching.

And that only makes her hungrier.

Vi doesn’t let up.

If anything, she doubles down, her grip tightening on your thighs, her tongue moving faster, more precise, lapping up everything you give her like she needs it, like she’s starving for it. She slurps at your wetness desperately, her tongue flicking, curling, pressing your pussy just right—just perfectly—and it sends you spiraling.

You don’t stand a chance.

Your entire body tenses as the orgasm crashes into you, ripping through you so fast, so hard, that your back arches off the bed, your thighs squeezing around Vi’s head as your fingers pull at her hair, and you cry out.

“V-Violet!”

Vi doesn’t stop.

She doesn’t slow down, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even pause—she just keeps going, her tongue still moving against you, inside you, her hands still gripping you tight, holding you down, keeping you there, like she’s refusing to let you come down from it, like she wants to drag you through it again and again and again.

And it’s too much.

Your breath stutters, your body twitching beneath her, overstimulated and shaking, but she’s relentless.

She moans against you, the vibration making you shudder, her tongue never stopping, pulling another wave of pleasure out of you before you can even recover from the first.

“V-Vi—” you gasp, broken and trembling.

But Vi just groans in response, like she loves how fucked out you sound, like it only spurs her on. She presses herself closer, tongue flicking faster, sucking have on got clit, drinking you down, devouring you, like she doesn’t plan on stopping until she’s satisfied—until you’re a mess beneath her, until you can’t think of anything else but her.

And fuck, with the way she’s going, you’re not sure she ever plans to stop.

Vi growls against you. Your body twitches beneath her, still trembling from your other orgasms, your breath ragged, uneven, and yet she doesn’t stop. Her tongue is still working you over and over, her hands still holding you down, still keeping you open for her, like she needs this just as much as she needs to breathe.

You gasp, your fingers tightening in her hair, tugging, pulling, trying to push her away, but Vi just moans at the feeling, her nails digging into your thighs as she keeps going, trying to drown you in the pleasure she’s giving you.

“V-Vi, I can’t—”

But Vi only smiles against you. Her fingers squeeze at your thighs, firm, steady, keeping you right there. And then, she finally pulls back—just barely, just enough to let her breath kiss over your wet, sensitive cunt as she tilts her head up to look at you.

Her lips are glossy with you, her pink hair disheveled from where your fingers have been pulling, and her pupils are blown, dark and hungry, her mouth curling into something dangerously smug, something so unbearably cocky.

“Can’t?” she echoes, raspy, teasing.

She presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss against the inside of your thigh, her teeth scraping just slightly before she smirks up at you.

And then she’s right back on you, tongue slipping inside, sucking at your clit, pulling another moan from your lips before you can even think to stop it.

You don’t know how many more times you came on her tongue.

It was so much.

And soon, you could hear Vi whimpering, louder and louder, her hands gripping your thighs tighter as she grinds her hips down onto your bed while she ate you out.

Vi was close. Untouched.

“V-Vi…” you breathe, your body trembling.

“Just a little more, baby, please…”

And you couldn’t say no to her. She always asked so nicely, even before—you loved it when she’d beg.

So she kept going and going and going.

Her whimpers grow louder, turning into moans, as she continuted to work her tongue against you. Fuck, she was so close. So fucking close. She could feel it tight in her cunt, waiting. All she needed was one more out of you. Just one.

She could feel you, almost there.

And when you jerk, trying to pull away from her mouth only for just a moment, Vi pulls you against her, wrapping her mouth around your clit and sucking. Hard.

You scream, the sound sending a wave over Vi’s body and that just about does it for her.

“M-Mmmph—Nn-ah, f-fuuuuck—” Vi whispers, gasping for air, her face still against your cunt.

She rests there for a moment, her cheek pressed againdt your inner thigh as she tries to catch her breath, her body shivering from cumming hard. She could feel her boxers, wet and sticky, and she swears you just sent her to heaven.

It doesnt take long for her to regain her energy, before crawling back up, leaving gentle kisses over your skin, before claiming your mouth with hers once more. You could taste yourself on her tongue, in her mouth. And you knew for a fact that Vi was cocky about it. She smiles against your lips before trailing back down to your jaw and neck, kissing the small bruises she left on them earlier.

Her hands are still resting lightly on your body, her fingers gentle now, as if she’s afraid you might shatter if she’s not careful. She pulls away a moment later, just enough to look at you.

She stares at you for a while, like she’s trying to memorize every inch of you—your flushed face, your lips swollen from the kiss, your eyes still half-lidded.

There’s a flutter in her chest. Vi can’t explain it—not really—not when every part of her is overwhelmed with the need to keep you close, to have you.

But she doesn’t say anything.

She just looks at you, her thumb gently brushing along the side of your cheek, her eyes soft as they lock onto yours. Her mind is running a mile a minute, every thought tangled up in the same three words that she wants to say but knows she can’t.

She says them to herself over and over.

I love you.

She says it in her head, again and again, her lips barely moving with the words as she stares at you. She wants to say them aloud, wants to let you know how much she means it, how deeply those words run for her, how she’s only ever felt like this for you.

But she holds herself back. She’s afraid of what might happen if she does.

Vi’s not sure if you feel the same way—if you even could, after everything that’s happened.

So instead of saying the words, she just leans down again, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, letting her lips linger there for a moment, breathing you in. She pulls away slowly and moves to lay down next to you, her gaze still locked onto yours.

The room is quiet now. Vi watches you closely, her eyes tracing the rise and fall of your chest, the way your face softens as you drift off to sleep beside her. You’re curled against her, one of your hands still resting lightly on her chest.

The soft glow of the light outside the window makes your skin glow. She can’t stop staring.

Her fingers, still warm from where they rested on your skin, twitch at her sides, but she doesn’t dare move. She can’t tear herself away from you, from the way your hair spills across the pillow, the way your lips are still parted slightly. She reaches out slowlyc just to brush a few strands of hair from your face, her fingertips grazing your cheek gently.

You stir slightly, your lips parting in a soft sigh, and Vi feels her heart lurch again. She knows she should sleep—knows she should rest too, but the thought of closing her eyes and missing even a second of you like this seems impossible.

Vi can feel herself drawn to you, drawn to every subtle movement, every breath you take. Her mind spins with thoughts—of the past, of what could’ve been, of what might still be. She thinks of the way you kissed her earlier, the way you touched her, the way she was so sure of you before, and then everything fell apart. The distance between you both became something too big to cross, and now, after everything, she’s here again, watching you as you sleep beside her.

It’s not just being close to you—though, fuck, she wants to hold you, wants to feel you pressed against her until there’s no space left between you. But it’s the fact that she’s here with you. After all the years apart from you, she finally has you again. Right next to her. And she doesn’t know what it means or where it’s going, but right now, she feels whole in a way she hasn’t in years.

Her hand hovers for a moment, just over yours, but she doesn’t touch you. She just watches you, watches the way your chest rises and falls, the way your face looks so relaxed, so safe, like you’ve finally found peace in her presence.

Vi stays there all night, her eyes never leaving you. She watches the clock tick by, watches the light change, watches you sleep, and for the first time in so long, she doesn’t feel so alone.

series masterlist | next chapter

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[venusbyline]

Rhaenyra Targaryen & Alicent Hightower — Night Temptation

— summary: It had been Rhaenyra's suggestion to take the three of you to a walk on the Street of Silk, helping you and Alicent with your disguises, going unnoticed by the guards, just as her uncle Daemon had taught her a few moons before.

— pairing: Rhaenyra Targaryen x best friend!reader x Alicent Hightower

— type: smut

— word count: 2.2k

— tags/warnings: Femslash February, female!reader, young!Rhaenyra, young!Alicent, Criston Cole's younger sister!reader, dubcon, threesome (female/female/female), underage sex, corruption kink, drunk sex, oral sex (female receiving), tribadism, scissoring, fingering, anal play, praise kink, voyeurism, exhibitionism, Rhaenyra is 17, Alicent is 18 and Reader is 17, loss of innocence, manipulation, breast worship, body worship, nipple licking, religious guilt, sexuality crisis, sexual tension, first time, first kiss, Targcest mentioned (uncle/niece & cousin/cousin), minor Daemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra Targaryen, minor Laena Velaryon/Rhaenyra Targaryen, minor Gwayne Hightower/reader, minor Criston Cole/Alicent Hightower, ambiguous/open ending, bisexual!Rhaenyra, bisexual(?)!Alicent, bisexual!reader, Alicent and Viserys never married, Rhaenyra and Laenor never married, dom!Rhaenyra, sub!Alicent, dom!reader, canon divergence. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— author's notes: Happy Valentine's Day everybody!!! ❤️💚 Unfortunately here in Brazil we only celebrate "this date" on June 12th hahah. But I hope you guys have fun, even if you're dating someone or if you're single (just like me lmaoo).

— author's notes²: I wanted to post this one-shot and the next bonus one-shot sooner, but there's kinda a summer storm in my town, so the Wi-Fi is lagging sm today 😭😭

❥ Rhaenyra masterlist • Alicent masterlist • HOTD masterlist

— crossposting: AO3

❥ about me • main masterlist

It had been Rhaenyra's suggestion to take the three of you to a walk on the Street of Silk, helping you and Alicent with your disguises, going unnoticed by the guards, just as her uncle Daemon had taught her a few moons before.

The only one of the trio who was afraid and worried throughout the experience was Alicent. The girl could even picture her father cursing her and restricting her routine for an indefinite period of time if he found out what she and her friends were doing secretly at night, instead of using her free time and the constant insomnia to dedicate herself to the Faith of the Seven.

You were not thinking so much about the consequences or dangerous possibilities, being easily convinced by the Targaryen Princess and the new nightlife idea.

During all those hours visiting that brothel and watching the sinful sights taking place in the establishment, all of you remained in your male disguises, drinking many glasses of wine and giggling with excitement at the sexy dancing performances around.

To get back to the Red Keep, you accidentally bumped into Ser Harwin Strong, but the man just sighed in frustration and agreed to keep the girls' forbidden exit like a secret, as long as he could accompany the three of you to ensure your safeties, as you were all a little drunk.

Harwin helped the ladies enter without making too much noise, even though you were all laughing due to random things. He limited himself to giving a gentle scolding before leaving you alone at the Princess Rhaenyra's chambers, already knowing that any arguments would be ignored due to the alcohol consumed.

"My father is going to kill me!" Alicent exclaimed with flushed cheeks, but her voice was kinda euphoric, as she lay down on Rhaenyra's bed even without being invited, you and the Targaryen Princess still laughing after the knight left.

"He is going to kill you only if he finds you out about the whole story..." Rhaenyra pointed out, taking off the hood that hid her silver long hair and removing the pins from her bun. "And he will not find out."

Alicent rolled the eyes, stretching out on the mattress and taking off her hood too, just like you did next, her long red hair getting messy on the white sheets. "Well, we should not really trust him. He can tell your father..." The young Lady pointed at Rhaenyra and then pointed at you. "Or at least tell your brother."

It was your turn to roll eyes, crossing your arms and remaining close to the door, not trusting your legs, feeling so dizzy after the wine that you were sure you would trip if you tried to walk in a straight line, even though you wanted to lie down on the bed.

"Ser Harwin will not tell Criston anything." You mumbled and Rhaenyra smirked listen to your tone, resting her hands on your shoulders to aid your way to the mattress, receiving your hum as gratitude.

As soon as the three friends lay down on the bed, Rhaenyra snuggled you, the one who was most affected by the alcohol's effects, your head on her torso and running one of her hands through Alicent's wavy strands, wanting to calm down any fears that might be bothering her thoughts.

Alicent leaned closer to the Princess's touch, sighing at the good feeling of the long slender fingers caressing her scalp.

As the minutes passed, Rhaenyra felt the need to break the silence. "So what was your favorite parts?"

Her perverted question brought laughter from Alicent and you, Hightower's pale cheeks flushing when the memories left her body warm.

"Oh, that is definitely when we saw that man rubbing his cock between the whore's full breasts." Your explicit response made Alicent slap you on the shoulder, exclaiming your name in disbelief. "Hey! That was horny to watch." You teased her and Rhaenyra agreed.

"One day I will have breasts as big as her." Rhaenyra teased, bouncing her own still-growing breasts.

The redhead grimaced and crossed her arms. "Of course you will, most of the women of your family have always been voluptuous. But I doubt I will ever become like that."

Rhaenyra stroked Alicent's hair again. "Small curves are beautiful too." You agreed, nodding your head and then dropping your gaze to Alicent's almost flat chest, covered by the male tunic, and you felt your mouth going dry for some reason.

"That is a lie. No one finds small breasts hot."

Alicent's self-deprecation was immediately countered by your words. "That is a fucking lie. I find all female bodies hot."

Alicent's big brown eyes widened, and even Rhaenyra was surprised by your sincerity, smirking and sitting up when an idea popped into her lustful mind. "How about we look at each other's bodies?

Although the suggestion seemed crazy when said out loud, you did not even wait for Alicent's response, starting to untie your tunic and following Rhaenyra's movements, whose excitement increased looking at you. The two girls began to undress, Rhaenyra removing the white fabric from herself and revealing round tits with rosy peaks.

When both of you went to take off your pants, Alicent finally whispered in a shaky voice. "I-I do not know if we should do that." Rhaenyra's head and yours turned towards the other girl, a sigh of frustration escaping your lips.

"And why not? You are already eighteen, me and Rhaenyra are already seventeen. We will have to get married to some men soon and we have barely enjoyed anything about your own lives." You did not let her hesitant behaviour hinder your motivation, taking off the pants until Alicent was the only person dressed inside that chambers.

"You do not have to participate with us if you do not want to, Ali. I know the Faith of the Seven says you should not give in to lust before marriage and you also should not have pleasure with someone of the same gender." Rhaenyra's voice was softer, but more manipulative. She opened slightly her legs with false innocence, knowing that her friend's gaze would fall on her cunt with golden hairs.

Alicent swallowed hard, nibbling her fingertips and dividing her attention between watching your breasts or Rhaenyra's cunt. She knew that was wrong for so many reasons. Her father would be furious if he knew she was doing inappropriate things with other girls, especially since one of them was King Viserys' heir. Alicent was supposed to remain pure and chaste for her future husband, however, it was impossible not to want to have fun with you and Rhaenyra as the two of you began to move closer to each other, Rhaenyra's hand grabbing your curves during the kiss.

Alicent had no experience with men — much less with women. She never kissed anyone, at most she shyly flirted a few times with Ser Criston, imagining what it would be like to caress your older brother's dark hair and wondering what his mouth would taste like.

Actually, Alicent Hightower had no experience even with herself. She knew almost nothing about her own body. It was so different from Rhaenyra who had fucked with her own uncle Daemon and her cousin Laena, and also from you who had already lost your maidenhood with her older brother, Gwayne Hightower. Alicent did not even know how to touch herself properly, doing that only twice during her entire eighteen years of life, once on the night Rhaenyra told the details of what it was like to have sex with Laena Velaryon, and the other time a few hours after she lent you a dress and seeing you naked.

However, Alicent had not gotten much pleasure when she did these things, not knowing the right speed to caress her own clit or anything like that.

The young Lady's thoughts were interrupted when she heard sticky noises, turning herself to focus on the sight next to her. Your legs were intertwined with Rhaenyra's, her pale body beneath yours, holding your calf so she could rub her cunt with more pressure against yours, both of you biting your lips to muffle loud moans.

Rhaenyra's nipples that were almost always flat were now hardened, the round and medium mounds bouncing every time she moved faster. Your eyes were closed, hands pressing each side of your friend's waist and helping her.

"Gods..." Alicent let out an almost pathetic whining watching that.

Rhaenyra giggled softly, without stopping the rhythm, but raising her index finger and gesturing for Alicent to come closer, almost like the tales about witches who seduced men with sex.

"Have fun with us, Ali." You purred, opening your eyelids and pinching your own nipples.

Alicent hesitated again for a while longer, the morality not prevailing when the girls' moans began to get louder and echo throughout the room, as well as the sounds of your cores meeting each other.

She gave in to the temptation, tearing off her tunic and untying her pants with a considerably and surprising speed, fearing that her sense would return and she would just leave. Both your and Rhaenyra's attention shifted away from what you were doing, admiring the sight of your introvert friend naked for the first time.

Her breasts were smaller than Rhaenyra's, with light brown and more perky nipples. She had thicker thighs than the Targaryen Princess and larger hips.

You and Rhaenyra gasped in shock.

"Do not you dare do that." The order came out of your mouth in a growl when the redhead tried to cover her chest. Instead of just obeying, Alicent nodded, moving closer to the two of you. She did not know exactly how to act during a situation like this, so she waited for you and Rhaenyra keeping rubbing each other until you reach your first highs.

"Lay on the bed."

Alicent followed the Princess' command, adjusting herself on the part of the mattress in front of her friends. You were both panting and Alicent could not wait to know what was going to come next.

She felt your touch on her thighs, parting her legs and not caring about the way she almost closed them on impulse. You and Rhaenyra shared a knowing gaze, understanding that you were still too drunk to be able to give Alicent a good sex oral. Then, without saying anything, you let Rhaenyra take your place. "Just relax, darling."

The sudden nickname blushed Alicent's cheeks. Rhaenyra bit the lip, noticing how her friend's cunt was already wet. She licked her own thumb and brought it to Alicent's reddish clit, applying circular movements and causing surprised moans. If it had been any other woman, perhaps such a simple caress would not have so much effect, but that was Alicent Hightower's cunt, her pure and innocent best friend Alicent.

"You are so gorgeous..." You praised, moving closer to Alicent hands caressing her pretty little tits, playing with her peaks and getting close enough to lick her pointed them.

"Oh... Oh, Gods!" Alicent practically screamed due to the overstimulation. Rhaenyra was rubbing her clit, realizing that unlike her cousin Laena, who preferred to feel Rhaenyra's fingers caressing her bundle of nerves up and down, Alicent liked more the simplicity of the circular movements, moaning louder when Rhaenyra reached down to rub the other hole too.

Your mouth continued to worship Alicent's body with soft kisses, caressing and squeezing her, until finally passing your tongue along her neck, leaving a love mark on the milky skin. "You look so beautiful. Such a good girl..."

Alicent whined at the compliment and moved her face closer to yours, a silent invitation for you to give her the first kiss of her life. Your hand went to her chin, holding it affectionately and closing the short distance, soft lips colliding in messy ways due to the young Lady's inexperience, which did not mean the kiss was bad.

Quite the opposite. You were enjoying teaching that, your fingers moving her face then she could keep up with your rhythm.

Rhaenyra allowed the two of you to enjoy that intimate and important moment about Alicent's loss of innocence, returning to pleasuring her swollen and neglected bud when she noticed that the redhead was already comfortable enough with the situation to the point that she began to squeeze your curves.

The Princess squatted between the older woman's legs, placing them on either side of her head. Alicent's folds dripped even more during the kiss, and Rhaenyra ran her tongue there, eliciting a surprised moan from Alicent and a chuckle from you.

Neither of you said anything else despite the momentary surprise. You and Alicent continued to kiss and Rhaenyra continued to savor the sweet taste of Alicent, her fingers moving away the tuft of red hair at the top of her crotch, having more space to suck it all. But she did not waste it anyway, licking the drops from her pubic curls. "Seven Hells, what a hot cunt..." Rhaenyra muttered to herself, a part of her wishing Alicent was less of a prude, because in this hypothetical way she could fuck her fingers inside Alicent's core and inside yours at the same time. Wishing her friend did not mind keeping her tight little hole intact. It was a waste to maintain that delicious virgin cunt only to a stupid future husband.

All that was left for the two drunk girls with a big repressed lust was keeping appreciating Alicent's body, respecting those unspoken limits, but which were too obvious to be crossed, not wanting to force her into more anything sexual.

At least just for a while...

[takes1]

[final part] kuroo x hard to get!reader

ohhh this was a fun little series. thanks for the support :)

warnings. nsfw, minors DNI

details. face sitting / riding kuroo / pining!kuroo / complicated crushes / hard to get!reader / switch!reader / switch!kuroo / rbf!reader / manager!reader / whiny!kuroo / training camp setting / degradation kink / quickie / play fighting kink / kuroo with a big ego / player!kuroo / 3.3k words

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu here. part one. part two. requests open.

There was only a small pause, short enough for him to realize what you were doing.

"Please just come in," He sighed, candid and contrite, "Until the storm passes."

At this point, you were both locked in a tense game of chess, unwilling to sacrifice too much truth at any given point, but unable to stop playing until somebody won. You let him slip your raincoat off of you and hang it up, gentle, attentive, playing eye tag for the length of time it took to close and lock the door.

The kitchen stole your attention almost right away, filled with the sounds of a ritual slaughter. The shouting was accusatory and excited, like someone had been deeply wronged.

"Stop that before you set something on fire!" Kuroo shouted.

He picked up the peace offering and carried it towards his needy, weary team.

Your eyes widened a little at his team captain voice, safe to react because his attention was split. You trailed behind him, hesitant, towards the commotion.

"Keep it down. We've got a guest."

The noise was broken for a moment of silence at the presence of hot food, landing right on the dining table, then a million eyes on you.

It looked like everyone was dressed comfortably because there were no girls around. You averted your eyes immediately from the few that were in just their underwear and found that most of them opted for no shirts.

None of them cared very much. They all went in on the giant bag like a pack of starving wolves, shoving each other out of the way, grabbing as many as they could hold all at once. One hit the floor and was picked up, placed right into somebody else's mouth for safe keeping.

You took a step back, closer to Kuroo. He was so tame compared to them. The bag was empty in 20 seconds; it would've been less than that, had they not been fighting over lukewarm scraps.

"Where's your Coach?" You surveyed the room and found nothing but Nekoma players, munching obnoxiously.

It was the most prevalent thing on your mind. You didn't want to be 'caught,' though your surface-level intentions were innocent and backed by evidence.

Right before you left your own team's corresponding lodging, Coach Ukai was rounding up all the guys, trying to put them down for bed like twenty rowdy toddlers. If everyone sat still, you'd be able to still hear him yelling down the pathway.

A short guy you caught earlier today as Yaku answered, between three big bites of a bun, "Oh, Coach Nekomata went to bed, like, an hour ago."

The guy was ancient. It made sense that he wouldn't be as involved as Ukai in his old age, but he also had no need to. His team was well-behaved. Despite their frenzy, they were still a much quieter group than Karasuno.

In fact, after all the initial thanks and praises sung for your angelic timing, it felt too quiet. You wanted to leave, get back to your familiar and fun team, despite the weather. Kuroo could sense it in your stiffness.

The team was preoccupied with their supper. He had to make some bold maneuver, or you would voluntarily forfeit and slink back in the rain- because that was somehow a more appealing option than admitting you wanted to have sex with him.

Fukunaga clocked the complicated mess that was your current dynamic for exactly what it was. Some weirdo mating ritual. First he noticed that Kuroo wasn't eating. Then that he was only speaking to you. He was the ticking clock personified, double fisting two delicious buns without blinking. His unwavering stare cut into you from across the kitchen.

You shivered at the intensity, shifted just a little towards Kuroo with your head turned, defensive, towards the lanky guy. "He's creeping me out."

Kuroo leaned further down to mutter against your hair, dismissive, "Him? Shouhei's harmless."

He lingered, bent at the waist, just to take in another breath of your hair. You smelled so good. He couldn't let you go back just yet.

"How about we go upstairs?"

Aside from Fukunaga, nobody had a mind to notice if you left now. It wasn't a 'Yeah, let's fuck,' but it was close, so you sat in hesitation for a good, still minute.

-

The pace naturally quickened the closer to the door you got, like you were being chased by something. It was mostly the threat of time, but the predatory vibe you both got from each other was substantial, like if you let your guard down for a second, the other would eat you alive.

There was a rushed cadence to the way you entered the room and how he slid the door closed- only slowing to completely lock it as quiet as possible.

Everything was still for a moment. The end game was in sight, and neither of you could predict who would be the first to let up. Would it end here, or as you were coming down?

"What's your deal?"

"What deal?" You snapped, arms crossed, glancing about the large room filled with pallets.

This was so risky. Nothing about the danger of getting caught up here appealed to you. You weren't sure if he understood how comprised you'd be if anyone heard about this- you'd have to quit your manager job, at least.

It made you rigid, inflexible conversationally and physically. He fought the need to cross his arms, too.

"Why did you really come over?" He threw his chin up at you. When he tried to close the distance, he noticed how you took a step back.

The irony was eating him alive; you were so delicate to work with, but merciless in your methods- and you just kept coming back around, sparing no time for him to find just the right angle to work through your impossible armor.

His dismal attitude marked the next words out of his mouth, "You just- get a kick out of torturing me, or something?"

A hum- no, a laugh. He looked at you to figure out what it really was, and found your expression a little softer.

You looked around the room, head rocking side to side, "Mmm...Yeah."

Kuroo rolled his eyes at how much it took for you to be honest with him. He muttered to himself on the way to his bedding. You could leave if you wanted, but he needed to sit down. Dealing with you made him tired.

It was passive enough to get you curious again. You came around eventually, taking the time to mosey through the little aisle of space between where everyone slept. He only looked up from his hands when he felt you sit and lean against his side.

The flinch back was too strong to be ignored. He winced at the way your brows screwed up, forming a negative, probably wrong idea of him already. He could hear you being let down.

"You're all talk," Your voice was kind, dismissive, but your gaze pierced right through him.

He had to act like it didn't hurt, as if you didn't just twist a knife in his stomach.

It wasn't his fault you had conditioned him to be wary of you, if he wanted to stay in your favor- if he wanted a fair chance at pleasing you.

It frustrated him that you put him in a box so quickly, inspiring rough and ready action.

But you didn't back down from the quick, hungry kiss he stole from your parted lips. It was a challenge, after all. You met it, leaned freely into it- fingers filling with his messy, still-wet hair, while he palmed at your waist to pull you into his lap.

"You're not a-," Kuroo cut you off on purpose with another kiss, so you pushed him against the floor, eyes narrowed at his smirk, "You're not a virgin, are you?"

Fingers hooked under the waistband of your pants, searching absentmindedly for your panties, he laughed- genuinely amused.

"Fuck no," Was a sigh, distracted by the subtle but undeniable rock of your hips on top of him.

The sensation was so much better than his hand. He pushed against you, eyes scouring every inch of the perfect sight before him.

"Then why are you acting like one?" You pulled your shirt off, tossing it a reachable distance away.

That look in your eyes was back as you struggled to undo the clasp on your bra for a second; what he could now read as 'You better be worth it.'

Kuroo sat up with a quickness, forcing you to rock back and lean against his thighs, his brow sifting through the implication of your words, but his eyes ready to deliver.

"What, I can't be a little nervous?"

Big, agile hands slid behind you with another crushing kiss.

Your bra was off in half a second, replaced with his warm palms. He groaned against your lips at the feeling- you melted a little into his hasty touch, his wordless declaration of desire.

You arched into his touch, into his kisses descending in a messy, wet flurry down your collarbone and over your perky buds. The addicting sensation of his tongue made your thighs squeeze, your hips to rolling over his with a gasp as you unbuttoned yourself.

Those big hands swallowed up your sides easily, so pleasant compared to the cold air that made your skin prickle.

Soon, you were pushing him again, harder because he wasn't as easy to remove this time.

His eyes searched you, watching you get up and only concerned for a moment before you took the rest of your clothes off, standing over him. He realized he couldn't catch his breath, perfectly still in awe at your confident smile, that self-imposed nudity you used just to get a rise out of him.

"Shit," He groaned. His back of his head hit his pillow and he openly palmed himself to the sight of you.

Those cat-like eyes were blown out, so dark against the whites of his eyes, a little hitch on his breath already before you could even think about sitting back down. You nudged his shin with your foot to bring him back to the land of the living, telling him to take it all off.

The guy was a nice size- worthy of some of his cocky attitude, at least. You sat on him to slide back and forth over him.

"This what you wanted, pretty boy?" Your eyes were smiling, but your little frown was what completed the look for him.

The clipped whine, loud, though it never got past his lips, told you yes.

You put your hands on his chest so he had to watch you slide over his cock, coating him, showing him how wet you had gotten from that killer body he flaunted around so freely. He was kind of a whore, and you wanted him to know it.

It felt heavenly but he would never have guessed it, based on that pissed off pout you still had. His nails dug into the fleshy part of your thighs, a big sigh to collect himself before he let go, hands clasped behind his head. It looked casual, enjoying the view.

"You wanna know what I want?" He teased.

You cocked a brow at him, still using his slippery member to get off with little circles of your hips. He rode a fine line.

"I wantcha to sit on my face."

Kuroo blew a kiss at you. It wasn't the kiss, rather the good idea that made you slow to a stop and hum.

"Oh yeah?" Your low-lidded eyes burned into his soul as you dipped to eye level.

Your breasts squished against him, a thumb brushing his glossy lips- you took his cock with one hand and lined him up against your pussy, sensitive head rubbing back and forth.

The little bit of pressure against you, as he bucked instinctively with a throaty groan, helped your point.

He was under a spell, breath shallow, his fingers coming undone with the built-in need to steady your hips and fuck you already.

You spoke to that struggle in his eyes, "You sure that's what you want?"

Kuroo unlaced his hands and, when you thought you had him, sitting further back on his cock, he pulled you up and off of him.

"Was saving just enough room for dessert, baby," He muttered, dark and restrained, but still managing a little bit of humor to shine through.

He sure did. That slick tongue of his did more than just aggravate the shit out of you- he could guess what you wanted by how you were riding his cock. Nothing too aggressive, just dizzyingly consistent and enthusiastic.

Because it was the notion of worship that got you off. How good did it feel? How much did you want to fuck him? That depended. How bad did he want it?

"F-uck," You moaned under your hand, legs shaking under the locked pull of his arms, "Fuck-mmnh!"

Kuroo's excited, well-placed moans vibrated against you, faltering your balance at the worst of times.

You kept a rough hold in that mess of black hair and rode his flat tongue with no shortage of eye contact.

It was like you hated each other, how vicious those looks got.

You couldn't stand it. You'd be damned before you came on his tongue. He was going to give you your orgasm with his cock.

When you tried to get off, he readjusted his grip, stronger-- you had to start prying his fingers, one by one, off of your thighs. He loved how whiny and cute you got in the struggle, but noticed you never once begged him to stop.

You jumped, failing one last time to get his arm off, at his silly groan buzzing against your clit, "Ah-!"

It took pressing your palms against his face to get him to let go.

His gaze was brutal, taking in the way your legs shook, as he pushed the rest of you off of his chin and onto his aching cock.

There was no point in changing positions. It was obvious you wanted to be on top. He wanted the view.

"O-ohh," You threw your head back, eyes screwed shut, at that perfect, pretty cock stuffed in you.

Your tight pussy took the breath out of him. His hands filled with your hips, bringing you slow, up and down over what you had been too proud to admit that you needed.

His low-lidded eyes took in every curve of your perfect body, every little bounce he fucked into you, especially the shocked expression taking your face. It wasn't dissimilar to what you had looked like watching him earlier that day.

"That feel good, pretty girl?" He raked his nails gently across your thighs.

He seethed at the intense feeling of you starting to fuck him right back. It was a move he hadn't experienced yet with any other partners.

And you got to watch him completely unravel before your glossy eyes.

"F-uck-!" He gasped, "H-oh, shit," was spilling out of his mouth, between the light sounds of him bottoming out into your soaking wet cunt.

His brows were screwed up, real vulnerable- it sent a chill through you and ended swirling up fast, turning into tension in your tummy that he threatened to fill.

You prayed nobody was in the hallway, or they'd be able to hear some downright incriminating sounds.

Your palm pressed over his loud mouth, barely swallowing your own whimpering to tell him, "Shh..."

The way you threw your weight back into his thrusts demanded a very whiny cry into your hand. You knew it; you knew he was a whiny fuck. You clocked him so well from the very beginning.

Maybe he would've been more of a dominant presence if he was used to dealing with girls like you- or maybe he liked giving up some responsibility, once in a while.

His big, strong hands groped at your tits as they bounced, brushing his skin just enough to get some sharp, rolling pleasure.

He slowed, his hips rolling deep into you- he moved out of your hand and took a breath through his mouth to gasp.

"You better not cum before me," You warned, a little stilted because of how close you were, but deadly serious.

Your resting face was just so bitchy. You looked like you hated him, but loved his cock by the way you fucked him.

Kuroo kept his edge at bay with his eyes unfocused, trying not to watch you. Just for you, just so he could feel you cum first.

He was so grateful -barely holding on, just a dumb toy for you to fuck at this point-, to hear a high-pitched break in your gasps, "Mm-!"

"A-h-mmn-!" You kept your sounds muffled so well with one hand, forcing him to keep his at bay with the other.

The tension in your face was incredibly cute. Probably the only look of its kind, when it came to what you were willing to show him.

It was all he could do to fuck you to the height of it, rough but so dangerously close after that he had to pull out halfway through yours.

And boy, were you glad to be keeping him quiet. That guy could wake up the whole camp if he wanted to.

He came all over his own tummy, sweaty and out of breath, not even pushing back against your hand. He looked exhausted. You were tired, too, but didn't wear it as clearly. You spared a minute to catch your breath.

A slow, little peck to his forehead.

"All talk."

You slid your hand off of him and composed yourself enough to stand, gathering up your clothes. You grinned at the deep frown you were able to conjure while he was still swimming in post-orgasm bliss.

Kuroo groaned, sleepy and filling back up with something unpleasant, running his fingers through hair. He sat up, still glossy with cum.

You were nearly dressed when he was carefully pulling his pants back on.

He was so broody at your words, grumpy when you got a tiny glance at his face- there was a shared, quiet understanding that he still needed to walk you back, so you quietly waited for him to wipe off in the bathroom and pull a jacket on.

The journey to get out the door was comical and exaggerated in nature. Lots of looking around corners, waiting for people to get distracted, for you to slip outside. Thankfully his team weren't concerned with your whereabouts.

Kuroo still had not said a thing to you until you were back at Karasuno's lodging. You had already made your peace with this as the end of it, entirely, and understood he wouldn't want to look at you again after tonight.

When you about to turn, to go inside, he spoke up.

"Did you get what you wanted?"

It was mean and assuming. You deserved it a little.

"Did you?"

He deserved it too. It felt like you both lost, in a way.

You leaned into a last-second kiss, hands coming out of your pockets to run your fingers through his hair again. It fell naturally into a very long, lustful thing between you. His hands pulled you against him, hot and heavy, hardly ready to let go when you heard some stirring from inside.

"Fuck, no," He admitted, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.

The door was unlocking.

"It's a long training camp."

You said it vague enough so Daichi would have no idea what you meant as you walked by him.

He threw a hard look to Kuroo before closing the door, who returned it tenfold.

♕VIP♕

@integers @yuchacco

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@misachibi

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[lovebugism]

“don’t you dare touch him” eddie x shy!reader

idk i need a situation where reader never really speaks up but she finally does when it comes to eddie because she loves him sm😭

thanks so much for your request! hope you like it!! — the one where eddie melts when his quiet gf sticks up for him in front of jason (shy!reader, fluff, 2.4k)

bug's summer fic fest ♡

The drive from Forest Hills to the arcade is spent with Lucas and Dustin bickering in the backseat and Eddie’s hand on your thigh.

“It’s been two years, and you still can’t beat my high score, Dusty Bun,” the former boy taunts. The nickname spills like venom from his smiling face. “Just give it up, okay? It’s not happening.”

Dustin grins back at him. It’s more so mischievous than it is taunting. His deep blue eyes narrow in a challenging squint. “You are so gonna be eating your words by the end of the night. When we leave, Princess Daphne is gonna be mine, alright? For good.”

Their arguing becomes background noise. With your cheek lolled against the hand you’ve got propped against the window, you’re pulled into the wispy lilac cloud your gaze is so heavily fixated upon. The sky billows lavender against a sea of pink and golden orange — a summer sunset so vivid you can taste it.

The only thing keeping you grounded is Eddie’s palm on your knee, wide and warm and all-consuming. His thumb rubs against your skin so softly you think it must be absentminded. It feels like static shock, anyway. He laughs quietly to himself, and his fingers tremble gently against you. This time they squeeze you with a newfound intention as he brings you back to him.

“What do you think, babe?” Eddie asks, pink mouth spread in a pearly white grin. His chocolate eyes glimmer with the golden hour sun as his gaze flits between yours and the road. “Think Dusty Bun has a chance here?”

You nod, scrunched nose and squinted eyes, silent in your support for the curly-headed boy who’s still yelling over Lucas in the back of the van.

“What about me?” he presses. And because he knows better than to give his quiet girl anything other than a yes or no answer, he follows quickly, “You think today’s the day I finally beat your Space Invaders high score?”

A beat passes. The momentary silence is filled with arguing boys, old tires on older asphalt, and Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train” spilling softly from the radio. A quiet smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You purse the mischievous expression to the side as you turn away from him again.

Your non-answer makes him laugh. It sounds exactly like the colors of the sunset.

His beat-up van jerks when he puts it into park. The door on the side squeaks as the kids file out of it. Eddie’s does too, but you can’t hear it over him telling you to “sit tight.” 

You wait patiently in the passenger seat like you always do, smiling to yourself as the boy rushes around the hood to open the door for you. The hinges screech in protest. His wild curls billow in the wind as he smiles. “C’mon, sunshine. Our palace awaits.”

The group of you stand beneath the spinning neon sign he parked next to — glowing orange and white beneath a setting sun. Someone calls from across the parking lot, “Well, well, well. Look who it is.”

Your heads snap in the direction of the painfully familiar voice. 

Jason and the rest of his abnormally tall goons stand outside the new gym that just opened on the strip. The dark, vacant building wedged between The Palace and Family Video was no longer as scary as it used to be now that it was occupied. You were just hoping it’d be something more exciting. Forcing arcade nerds and gym bros into one spot feels like a crime.

“And they brought little miss wallflower, too,” Jason lilts with his pretty smile and straight teeth. His blonde hair is a darker shade of brown, damp with half-dried sweat. His lean form is unnaturally built underneath his white tank top and basketball shorts. 

It isn’t any wonder why he turned out to be such a raging douchebag. 

Someone so perfect needed at least one flaw.

“The gang’s all here, huh?” one of his other friends — Andy, you think — concurs from behind him, always in the boy’s shadow.

“Like what you see, fellas?” Eddie calls out from across the slab of pavement separating the group of you. He’ll never turn down an opportunity to take the piss out of the so-called jocks, all muscle and no brain. 

“What do we do when those assholes give us hell?” he’d often ask when you’ve had a particularly shitty day with them. “We give ‘em hell right back.”

Jason’s thin lips curl into a more mischievous smirk. His blue eyes are lighter in the golden sunlight, and they twinkle beneath the neon signs as he looks you up and down. “Yeah, actually,” he hums with his unabashed ogling. “I do.”

Mike’s lanky legs sidestep to stand ahead of you. He does it so swiftly, so instinctually, you don’t think he even really meant to do it. Despite the raven-haired boy halfway covering you, you cross your arms over your torso in a further attempt to keep yourself hidden. 

You feel so suddenly exposed in your frilly floral sundress — especially considering the only thing you wear to school is baggy jeans and baggier sweaters. You feel like you might as well be naked standing in front of them just now.

The younger boys stand on high alert as Eddie walks the short distance to Jason. The brief journey is made quicker when the blonde boy strides to meet him halfway. It’s a high school sort of standoff — neither particularly wanting to get physical because the real-life repercussions aren’t worth it. They just want to see who can piss each other off the most.

“She is pretty, isn’t she?” Eddie concedes with a grin, flashing you a brief glance over his shoulder. He turns away quickly at the sight of your wide, pleading eyes. He scrunches his nose in feigned sympathy. “I bet you’re real jealous, huh? Especially now that you’ve got nothing but your right hand keeping you company ever since Chrissy dumped your ass.”

“Watch it,” Jason warns through gritted teeth.

“I think I saw her riding around last week with Harrington, actually.”

The blonde boy’s sneakers scuff against the concrete as he takes a daring step closer. His piercing stare never wavers. “Don’t talk about Chrissy.”

“Don’t talk about my girl, and I won’t talk about yours,” Eddie retorts in lilt. And then, because he can’t help but twist the knife, he tilts his head to his shoulder and continues. “Well, I guess she’s not really yours anymore, is she?”

“I said don’t talk about Chrissy!” Jason repeats, louder than before, when he lets his anger get the best of him. One hand shoots up to shove at Eddie’s chest, using only enough force to make the boy stumble slightly back. 

While Dustin, Lucas, and Mike gear up for a fight, Eddie only laughs in response — big, boisterous, and boyish.

You don’t even realize you’re stepping in front of the group until you’re already doing it. The words seem to fly from your mouth without you even thinking about them. “Don’t touch him!” you shout. 

And even though it wasn’t particularly loud, it quiets in the mindless bickering all at once. Everyone turns to gape at you — Jason, Andy, Dustin, Eddie. Everyone is equally surprised by your outburst. Because you don’t speak. Ever. At least, not if you can help it. 

And it’s not because you don’t have anything to say, because you do. It’s just that your brain works too much, and your mouth can’t keep up with it sometimes. It’s easier just to be silent.

That’s what you’ve been known for ever since you were little. You went through all of it — the bullying, the sad eyes, the talks with teachers, the ‘is everything alright at home’s. Everything was fine, for the most part. Your childhood was equally as middling as everyone else’s. You just had a harder time being human than most people.

Jason smiles again, amused by your warning. “What was that, sweetheart?”

You swallow through a tightening throat. Your sweaty hands clench into balls at your sides. The words come out quieter than before, but no less meaningful. “I said… Don’t touch him.”

“Oh, so she does speak. Here I thought no one ever taught you how to,” the blonde boy laughs. You feel disgusting when his attention settles solely upon you. The lingering sick feeling is eclipsed by your gratitude that Eddie’s no longer in his line of fire. “I’m gonna be honest… I thought you were cuter when you were quiet.”

You don’t know what he means by that. You can’t tell if he’s being genuine, or if he thinks you care enough about what he thinks to slink back into your shell.

“Leave Eddie alone,” you retort drily.

He snorts. “Yeah? Or what?”

There’s a thousand words you want to say. You open your mouth to spit all of them at the boy across from you, but nothing comes out.

“Yeah,” Jason laughs at your silence. “That’s what I thought.”

You stand your ground when he walks towards you. His strides are slow and menacing, like he’s expecting you to back away. You might’ve if you were anywhere else — if Eddie wasn’t a couple feet away and the rest of your friends weren’t crowding behind you. You’re made somehow braver by their presence.

“This is a really cute dress, though, sweetheart,” the blonde boy compliments with a thin smirk. “You should dress like this more often. You know what? You’d really fit in at the strip club downtown— what’s it called?”

“Pink Paradise,” Andy answers without missing a beat.

Jason smacks his lips against his teeth. “That’s the one.”

“Is that the one your mom works at?” you wonder with your arms crossed over your chest. Your head tilts to your shoulder as you squint at him. “Is she still giving those two-for-one discounts?” 

Jason’s confidence stutters at your biting reply — even more so by the choked-back laughter accompanying it. Your boys don’t bother to hide their humored giggles, though the basketball team covers theirs by coughing into their fists.

“Ooh. I didn’t know you had such a much on you,” the blonde lilts as his blue eyes narrow. “I’m like… fifty percent more attracted to you now.”

“Leave Eddie alone,” you deadpan once more. “And go be a douchebag somewhere else.”

One of his friends breaks free from the pack. He’s tall, thin, and toned. He’s got the same haircut as Lucas: compact curls, squared off on the sides. You know him — Patrick McKinney. He’s the only one of Jason’s friends that was actually nice to you. Or, at the very least, he wasn’t a total asshole.

“Let’s go, man,” the boy ushers, nudging at Jason’s bicep. “Let’s go shoot some hoops or something. This isn’t worth it.”

You scoff out a laugh. “Oh, please— the only shooting Jason Carver does is into a kleenex. It’s why you were benched all last season.”

“I twisted my ankle!” the blonde boy defends, sounding weak and pathetic beneath the chorus of laughter as Patrick drags him away.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you mutter, perhaps too quiet for him to hear, as Lucas pulls at your forearm to guide you in the other direction. His touch is still gentle — it would be uncharacteristic of him to be rough with you. It would also be a terrible idea with Eddie just a few paces behind the both of you.

The walk to The Palace is a silent one. There’s too much to say, and everyone’s just a little too amazed to say it. Eddie, however, never had a hard time killing a quiet. He rushes on long legs to match your quick strides, reaching you rather easily. 

“Hey, hey, hey— you okay, babe?” the worried boy wonders. He takes a gentle hold of your wrists when you reach the awning beneath the arcade. His chocolate gaze flits attentively over your form, nowhere near as leering as Jason had been. 

He can tell by your heaving chest and glassy eyes that you’re a little overwhelmed. When he takes your face in his hands, he finds that your cheeks are burning, too.

You nod into his warm palms in silent reply, back in the comfort of your shell all over again.

“What’d you do that for, huh?” Eddie singsongs with a quiet laugh. His thumb dances over your cheekbones as he grins at you. “You know I don’t like you getting involved with those assholes.”

“They don’t get to talk to you like that… Or put their hands on you,” you mutter. Despite your soft tone, Eddie can see the fury flashing in your eyes, getting angry about it all over again.

His smile widens — proud and hopelessly in love with you. “No. They don’t. Especially not with my girl around, huh?”

“Nope,” you murmur, popping the p. A sheepish grin pulls at your mouth, equally as proud and in love.

Eddie leans down to kiss you, guiding your mouth to his with the hands cupping your jaw. It’s innocuously chaste, being that you’re still standing in a public parking lot. You could never quite stomach the attention of PDA, anyway. His pink lips lock with yours in a fleeting peck, and his arms wrap around you a second later.

He smothers you into his chest, and you revel in every second of it. He smells like cigarette smoke and the cologne he tried to cover it up with. He smells like a home you could live in forever. 

You smile into the thrifted Blondie tee you got him — which he happily accepted because he loves you (even though he hates Blondie). He presses a kiss into your hair and smushes his nose into the crown of it as he laughs.

“‘Is that the one your mom works at?’” Eddie repeats with a soft chuckle, chest swelling with pride once more. “God, babe. That’s good.”

“Shut up…” you murmur.

“I’m serious! I didn’t know you were such a good smack-talker! I think you might be a genius, actually.”

“Don’t,” you grouse with a lighthearted scowl. You pull away from him only slightly — enough for him to put your face back in his hands again. You feel safest there, even if you are pouting up at him.

“You’re so cute,” the boy muses with a beam. His eyes glimmer like a sea of chocolate syrup, melting with all the love he has for you. “You’re like a cinnamon roll. A cinnamon roll that could bite people.”

“That’s exactly what I am,” you monotone and try your best not to smile.

Eddie couldn’t hide his grin if he tried. “And that’s exactly why I love you.”

[biting-miguel-ohara]

Bunny - Logan Howlett x ftm!Reader x Wade Wilson

A/N: OH MY FUCKING GOD! I’m just gonna 🫣 Oh I hope this is good. I’m sorry if the ending is a little cheesy or whatever. I did my best

Let me know if I missed any warnings, please! And as always, please don’t read if the warnings make you uncomfortable in any way!

Written for this request

CW: smut; explicit sexual content; oral sex (Reader receiving); Reader’s arousal is called slick; Reader is called bunny, baby, bunny boy, beast, buns, rabbit, dumb, fucker, and babykins; dumbification, I guess?; praise (?); degradation; condescension; Wade and Logan kiss; Reader is too fucked out to speak much in this; choking; Reader’s parts are called dick and hole; prey/predator dynamics (?); dirty talk; grinding; Reader is a bunny mutant; mentions of heats; mentions of breeding; hehe double penetration; uhhhh Reader makes a lot of various noises in this; squirting; Reader gets fucked dumb; what’s a step above blissed out?; aftercare is important, y’all; cuddling; forehead kisses; soft ending

1249 words

You’re in Wade’s lap, forcibly held in place, no matter how hard you squirm. Logan’s between your legs, lapping up the slick dripping from your hole.

The sounds he’s making are obscene, the squeals you’re letting out even more so. You can’t help it, not when Logan’s eating you out so well.

Wade just coos in your ear, every now and then rutting his dick up against your ass. “Such a good little bunny. Look at you, letting Logan eat you up. I bet it just feels so good, doesn’t it, baby?”

You can’t even respond. You can only cry out, your noises high-pitched and desperate. You just can’t help it; Logan’s been between your thighs for what feels like hours. Licking and sucking and slurping up your slick.

Finally, finally, Wade pushes Logan’s head back. “Come on, peanut. I think our sweet little bunny boy’s all wet and ready for us now.”

Logan grunts and eyes you. He wipes his mouth, which does absolutely nothing to clean your slick from it. Wade pulls him in for a kiss, pinning you between the two men.

You squirm and whine, pawing at Logan’s chest. He growls and grips your throat. “Calm down, you little beast. Insatiable fucking thing.”

Wade snickers and coos. “Awww, our little bunny isn’t that bad… You can be good, can’t you, baby?”

You nod, letting out a squeak. Logan grips your throat tighter, making it harder to breathe. “He’s a dumb little rabbit who only knows how to fuck, Wade. Look at him! He’s dumbed out, and we haven’t even fucked him yet.”

You clench at Logan’s harsh words, the fuzzy haze in your brain from lack of air only adding to the pleasure pooling in your gut.

You love it when they get like this; Wade all soft and condescending, and Logan all gruff and mean. It makes your dick throb with need.

You whimper, the sound choked and needy. You thrust your hips up as best you can, before Wade pins them down again. “Nuh-uh, bunny boy. I know your greedy little hole wants to be filled, but you’ve gotta be patient. We’ve got big plans for you.”

But Logan smirks. He eyes you hungrily, and you can see the thoughts forming behind his eyes. “I say we give the dumb rabbit what he wants. If he wants to be fucked so badly, let’s give him the dick he needs.”

Wade pauses at that. Then he gasps. “Oh, peanut, you filthy dog. You don’t mean—“

“Little beast wants us.” Logan’s eyes glint with a vicious light you’ve never seen before. It sends a delightful shiver down your spine. He lets go of your throat, watching you gasp for air.

Wade squeals with delight. “You think he’s ready?”

“He can take it. Bet he’ll even like the pain.”

Your tail twitches with anticipation. You tremble in their hold, suddenly feeling more like prey than ever before. It makes you feel small, vulnerable. Wanted.

You know you’re even wetter than before. You can feel the slick dripping down your thighs. Just the thought of the two using you for their own pleasure has you clenching with excitement.

Wade shifts you onto his thigh as he hastens to pull down his pants. You just mindlessly grind down, moaning at the friction against your needy dick.

Logan scoffs, already fisting his cock. “Look at you. Dumb little rabbit. Can’t think of anything but his own pleasure.”

“Now, now, peanut,” Wade chimes in, shifting you back onto his lap. His cock slots against you, rubbing against your dick. “It’s not his fault he’s so dumb. It’s his mutation, remember? Poor little bunny boy’s suffering from a heat.”

You whimper, struggling to focus on anything other than the way Wade’s tip is smearing precum against your stomach. Your mouth waters at the sight, the memory of him fucking your throat only adding to the problem.

Wade’s words aren’t entirely false. Some of your desperation does come from your mutation. But it’s not springtime. You’re just a horny mess. Still, the idea of getting bred like a bunny in heat makes your body tense with pleasure.

Logan just chuckles, low and dark. “Oh, yes. How could I forget? Dumb little fucker won’t be satisfied until he’s all stuffed full of cum.”

The dirty words make you whine. Your tail twitches again, and Wade shoves his hand down to grab it. “God, buns, you don’t know how hot you are.”

He rubs his dick against you, coating it thoroughly in your slick. Then Logan does the same, notching the tip of his cock against your hole.

You clench hard, letting out a whine. You want to beg him not to tease you, but the words just won’t come out. You can only moan, rutting your hips forward for any sort of leeway Wade’s grip will allow.

Logan growls softly, eyes darkening. But he doesn’t scold you. Instead, he presses into you, bottoming out in one go.

You choke, brain going fuzzy at the feeling. He’s so big, thick and long. It feels amazing, and you clench around him.

And then Wade presses the tip of his dick against your stuffed hole. You can barely process it, your brain sluggish and dumb. But you definitely feel it when Logan pulls out and the two press in.

The sound you let out is obscene. High-pitched and breathless. You practically shriek at the feeling, body going limp in their arms. You can’t help it; your brain feels blank, your body split in half by the feeling of their dicks in your hole.

You can vaguely hear them groaning, cursing and swearing up a storm. All you can focus on is the pleasure and pain rocketing up your spine.

They start to thrust, and your brain turns to mush. It feels like hours. Endless waves of pleasure crashing over you. You cum once, twice. The third time, it’s like a dam breaks.

You gush all over them, staining the sheets under you with your slick. All you can do is weakly mouth at whomever‘s holding you up. It feels like a dream, your brain all mushy and gooey.

Eventually, the feeling of fullness is pulled away. You whimper at the loss, squirming away when something cool and wet is pressed against you. It’s only there for a moment, gently cleaning you up.

You can hear words, but your brain feels too mushy to understand. You just whine, snuggling into the touch that comes to press against your back. A weight sinks onto the bed on your other side, sandwiching you between two warmths.

It takes a long time for your brain to come back to itself. You feel sleepy and thirsty, your body all tingly.

“Wade…?” You mumble. A hand strokes your cheek. “I’m here, babykins. What do you need?”

You lick your lips, eyes barely half open. “Some water…?”

A water bottle is pressed to your lips and you drink slowly. Then you snuggle back into the other warmth next to you. Logan’s voice rumbles in your ear. “You alright, buns?”

“Mhmm.” You nod and close your eyes. “Just tired.”

There’s a soft chuckle from the two, and a soft kiss is pressed to your forehead. “Go to sleep then, buns. We’ll be here.”

You let out a soft sigh and relax. It doesn’t take long for sleep to creep up on you and you fall asleep soon, cuddled in the arms of your boyfriends.

[sugurugetoshairbrush]

Peeping on your neighbor DILF!Getou Suguru [prev]

[cw: voyeurism & implied daddy kink(?) idk tbh you decide]

Irises speckled with shimmering sapphires, deep as amethyst, swirling in pools of lilac. A fringe of onyx, long tendrils dipping over a horizon of golden bronze.

“Hey, so I was wondering…”

A taut abdomen rippling with each breath—muscles carved sharp, the dip of his waist a lighter beige contrasted by a dark trail of hair leading down his navel. Broad, firm pecs teasing a softness despite the solid planes beneath.

“When are ya gonna confess to peeping on the guy?”

Deltoids flexing, obliques framing a trim waist. Triceps bulging, a testament to strenuous lifting, cardio, or something far more sinful.

“Gotta drop the bomb at some point, hm?”

Lustrous black hair cascading elegantly along a sculpted back, adorned with a splattering of moles. The glint of black titanium gauges, a thin silver chain, and the gleam of a barbell piercing at his chest catching the dim light.

“Hey, don’t just leave me hanging.”

Sometimes, the precise linework of seaweed-green ink peeks from beneath tight boxer briefs—a twisting dragon wrapping around thick quads. Quads that curve into a plump, cushioned—

“Hey!”

“Huh—what?” You blink, reality snapping back into focus. “Sorry, were you saying something?”

“Yes! Where’d you go just now? Don’t tell me you were daydreaming again.”

“No…”

Yu hums in faux consideration before pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. “I’ve never seen a case this severe before in my entire career. You’re showing all the symptoms of OGD.”

You shoot him a confused look. His expression turns grave, lips pulling tight. “Obsessive Getou Disorder. And I’m afraid… it might be incurable.”

You laugh nervously, already grasping for a distraction. But Yu anticipates your escape route like a seasoned chess player, moving faster than you can react.

He snaps his fingers, three sharp cracks in quick succession. Twisting his wrist, he waves his hands dramatically as if casting a spell. “Compelling you back to reality. Return to our realm.”

Yu’s big brown eyes blink up at you expectantly, ever sparkling with mischief. His brow quirks, and you can’t resist ruffling his crop of messy hair.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m listening.” You pat the cushion beside you, inviting him to sit. Yu, ever the enthusiastic puppy, eagerly flops down.

Every time you finish a shift together, he chases you out of work like an excitable dog, hyping up elaborate plans—outfits, venues, guest lists—only for the night to inevitably end curled up in your apartment, eating pizza, watching movies, and gossiping. Not that you mind. It’s an outlet for your… fixation.

You grab the remote, scrolling aimlessly through endless shows and movies. Beside you, crinkling sounds announce Yu unearthing the snacks from earlier. The sweet scent of cinnamon wafts into the air.

“You up for anything in particular? Feels like we’ve watched pretty much everything at this point.”

“Mmfh, y’know wha’? We’re no’ fish again. Les’ do somethin’ bold.” Yu’s words are nearly swallowed by the honey bun he’s chewing, muffled and garbled between bites.

“Come again? And this time, without the sugar-coated mumbling.”

Yu dramatically swallows, throat protruding as he gulps too fast. Wiping the crumbs from the corners of his mouth, he tries again. “Let’s be bold tonight. Instead of stuffing our faces, we should both text our y’know…” He trails off, making exaggerated kissy noises.

Your stomach flips. “Okay…”

Yu lights up, snatching both your phones from the coffee table. Before he can act, you raise a hand. “Hold up.”

You retrieve two plastic shot glasses, a pitcher of juice, and a bottle of tequila. “Some liquid courage might be helpful, yes?”

Yu pouts but is already pouring generous shots, the tequila teetering at the brim. You know he’s just as nervous as you are.

“Three, two, one—bottoms up!”

Your throat burns, the juice barely easing the sting. Staring blankly at the open text thread with Getou, you hesitate.

“How’s this?” Yu tilts his phone for you to see.

Haibara Yu: Hey, Ken! Hope I’m not bothering you. I remember you were baking bread today, and I’m free—need a hand?

“Perfect. A casual excuse to see him while being forward. Now send.”

Yu wavers, his finger hovering over the button. A split-second of doubt, then—

“Can’t! You do it, quick!” He shoves the phone at you like it’s a ticking time bomb.

Laughing, you press send. Yu gulps down another shot in retaliation.

“What do you have typed out? Don’t make me suffer alone—”

Three loud dings cut him off. Yu’s phone vibrates. You both freeze.

“No way,” Yu whispers.

You flip his phone over and huddle together, shoulder to shoulder, to read the messages:

Nanami Kento:  Haha, nice to hear from you, Haibara. Perfect timing—I just started proofing the yeast. I’d love for you to join me, might help this go smoother. Would you like me to send my address?”

Your jaw drops. “Yu. This man is whipped for you. Barely a minute and he’s already inviting you over.”

Yu can’t contain his grin, quickly typing back:

Haibara Yu: I don’t know what proofing yeast means, but I’m sure you’ll teach me!

Yes, send it now—I’ll head over ASAP :))

You groan theatrically. “Great, now you’re abandoning me.”

Yu snatches your phone, eyes scanning your screen. “You haven’t even drafted a text yet?”

“No…”

His fingers fly across his screen, typing something out—until, suddenly, his expression shifts. The look of concentration melts away, replaced by a devilish glint in his eyes.

“Actually, you don’t have to.”

He tilts your phone toward you, revealing the reason for his sudden change in demeanor.

One new message.

Getou Suguru: Hello, neighbor! Just wondering if you’d like to come over and help me cook for the girls since you proved yourself capable in the kitchen (thank you again).

They’ve been asking about you—they’d love to see you.

Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.

Yu grins wickedly, typing furiously.

You: I’d love to! I can be over in a few.

I’d love to see the girls, although I hope they’re not the only ones excited to see me…

You lunge for your phone, but Yu holds it out of reach, laughing.

“Just give it a second—just watch. One more sec—okay, here!”

Getou Suguru: Sounds good. And of course, I’m excited to see you as well, if not more.

Be sure to text me before you head over.

In a span of minutes, you and Yu go from lazily sprawled on the couch to full-blown panic mode, securing dates with the men you’d been fawning over for what feels like an eternity. The realization sends a surge of adrenaline through you, a buzz that has you both scrambling through the apartment—showering at record speed, yanking outfits from hangers, fixing your hair with practiced precision, and spritzing on just the right amount of fragrance.

The chaos leaves your bedroom and bathroom looking like a war zone. Clothes are tossed haphazardly across the bed and floor, makeup products lie toppled on the vanity, and an army of skincare bottles clutters the bathroom counter. But none of that matters—that’s tomorrow’s problem. Right now, the only thing on your mind is making sure you both look impeccable.

Before heading out, you give each other a final once-over. Yu has swapped his usual casual wear for sleek black straight-leg pants and a fitted white shirt, the fabric hugging his frame just enough to be noticeable. At your insistence, he’s kept it simple, and you know you made the right call. With his messy brown hair adding a carefree touch, the outfit is the perfect blend of boy-next-door charm and just the right edge, thanks to the black leather zip-up jacket left open.

“You’re giving bad-boy-next-door,” you tease, stepping back to admire your handiwork.

Yu, predictably, flushes a deep shade of red. You smirk, knowing full well that Nanami is going to have a field day with that reaction later. Kudos to you.

“We’re in this together,” Yu says, raising a determined thumbs-up.

You chuckle, sending your final message.

You: Heading over!

𓂃۶ৎ

Getou’s apartment door cracks open just as you lift your fist to knock. Your grin falters, lips curving downward in a sudden frown.

“What’s wrong? Something on my shirt? Or are you just disappointed to see me?”

Your heart lurches at the genuine confusion laced in his soft voice. His dark brows knit together, a small pout forming on his lips as he glances down at himself, smoothing out his black turtleneck and shifting his weight in his brown corduroy trousers.

You reach out instinctively, your hand brushing against his forearm, stilling his restless fingers as they pick at his sweater.

“Aw, no, Suguru. You look great,” you reassure him. “I just thought I’d get to see you in that cute frilly apron again.”

His brows shoot up in surprise before his violet eyes glimmer with amusement.

“Ah, so that’s what had you looking so forlorn.” He steps back, gesturing for you to come inside. “How about you say more about how great I look?”

“Don’t get cocky now.” You huff, perching yourself on a stool at the kitchen island.

Getou strolls over, leaning against the counter with his elbows propped up, his face resting in his palms. You glance around, noticing the eerie quiet that has settled over the apartment. It’s spotless—almost suspiciously so. Usually, there’s a telltale trail of toys left behind by his daughters, but today? Not a single one in sight.

“Where are the girls? Are they here?”

“Mhm,” he hums, retrieving a clean glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. He places it in front of you, setting it atop a coaster before wiping down the space in front of you with practiced precision. “Bribed them with new dolls so I could clean.”

You snort. “I don’t know what to call out more—your obsessive cleaning or your blatant bribery of your own children.”

He ducks into a drawer, rummaging for something. “I never claimed to be a good man.”

When he straightens, he turns around slowly, revealing the infamous pink frilly ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron draped around his neck. He blinks down at you, lashes fluttering flirtatiously.

“Tie me up?”

“Come here, dork.”

Getou feigns offense but turns obediently, sweeping his long hair over one shoulder. A few loose strands remain, and you gently trail your fingers along the nape of his neck, smoothing them over. His hair is softer than you expect, and when your fingers brush his skin, he shivers.

Your hands move to his waist, tying the apron strings into a neat bow. You pat his shoulder lightly.

“And don’t undersell yourself,” you murmur. “Somehow finding the time to keep an orderly home and spoiling your daughters? Sounds like a good man to me.”

He turns, his long hair cascading elegantly down one side of his face. He smiles at you, his almond-shaped eyes crinkling shut, and you silently thank the divine forces that allowed you to be so well acquainted with such a beautiful man.

“And now, you’re not only a good man,” you tease, “but the perfect housewife.”

His brow arches. “Oh, really?” A smirk tugs at his lips before he bends down, retrieving another pink frilly apron. He unfolds it, revealing the embroidered words: ‘The Kisser.’

“Oh—I—” You stumble over your words.

“Did I forget to mention? It came in a set.” He steps forward, slipping the apron over your head. “This one’s for you.”

Wordlessly, you turn so he can tie you up. The moment he finishes, he leans in, voice dropping to a hushed murmur.

“Now, one could argue that you are now my perfect housewife.”

“Mhm.” You wag your finger at him, beckoning him closer. “Come here, and I’ll tell you what I think about that.”

He leans in, hovering just above you, his face mere inches away. Up close, you can see the soft crinkles by his eyes, the slow curve of his lips.

“I think I quite like my new role, Suguru,” you whisper. “Let me fulfill my duty.”

Your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging him forward. You press a soft kiss to his lips, allowing him to deepen it. He licks over your bottom lip before biting at it, making you sigh into his mouth. Before you can pull away completely, he captures your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm. The affectionate look in his eyes nearly brings you to your knees.

You clear your throat, trying to rein in the conversation.

“So, what’s on the menu tonight?”

“Chicken alfredo pasta,” he says, straightening your apron. “The girls love it, but I don’t make it often because it’s practically a heart attack on a plate.”

“So, a special night?”

“The special-est.”

You bring a large pot of salted water to a rolling boil as Getou collects the ingredients. He works efficiently, rinsing the chicken cutlets before slicing and seasoning them with practiced ease. You fall into an easy rhythm—while you heat the frying pan, he drizzles olive oil; you melt butter, he finely slices garlic; you pour in cream, he grates parmesan. The pasta cooks as the chicken sizzles, and the sauce thickens to a velvety consistency.

While the meal comes together, you wipe off the chopping board, ready to cut the parsley garnish. But the leafy pieces refuse to separate, sticking stubbornly to your blade. Frustration wells up, and you hunch over, applying more pressure in an attempt to force the pieces apart.

A warm weight presses against your shoulder, accompanied by the scent of coconut. Getou’s arms encircle yours, his rough palms resting over your hands.

“Looks like you need a little guidance,” he murmurs, his breath hot against the shell of your ear.

You scoff, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh yes, please, help me. I’m just a helpless damsel in distress.”

He chuckles, guiding your hand over the knife’s handle, steady and deliberate. With his touch, the blade moves effortlessly through the parsley, slicing with precision.

“Just like this,” he instructs, voice low and smooth. “A diagonal angle makes all the difference—now you try.”

You mimic his movements, finding the rhythm, the process suddenly easier. His hum of approval sends a shiver down your spine.

“Good girl,” he praises, his voice a little too indulgent, a little too intimate. “Just like that—keep going.”

Your composure wavers. Something shifts in the air—his proximity, his tone, the subtle dominance in his words. It leaves you feeling cornered, like prey beneath the gaze of an apex predator. His breath warms the side of your neck, his scent lingers sweet and intoxicating. Heat coils in your stomach.

There are… other things you wouldn’t mind him teaching you.

Before your thoughts can spiral further, his voice breaks through the moment.

“Look at that, pasta and chicken are done.”

By the time the girls peek in, drawn by the rich, creamy scent wafting through the apartment, you’ve mixed and plated the alfredo while Getou sets the table—placemats, utensils, drinks, napkins, everything in place.

“YAY, PASTA!”

Mimiko barrels into Getou’s leg, clinging enthusiastically.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Daddy!”

Nanako isn’t far behind, latching onto his opposite leg. “Yay! We love you, Daddy!”

He ruffles their hair, cradling their faces with unmistakable affection. “Aw, my beautiful girls. I love you too—but I couldn’t have done this alone.” His gaze flicks to you, warm and teasing. “Go say thank you to my sous chef.”

The twins twist their heads toward you, beaming. Before you can brace yourself, they launch forward, nearly knocking you over.

“Thank you, Suit Check!”

Nanako’s golden ringlets brush your arms as you wrap them in a hug.

Getou clicks his tongue. “No, girls—sous chef,” he corrects, exaggerating the pronunciation. “It means she was my helper in the kitchen, and she was the best helper! The pasta is extra delicious because of her.”

Satisfied with the explanation, he lifts the girls into their seats. With the help of stacked cushions, they’re just high enough to reach their plates. The moment their forks touch the pasta, the room falls silent, save for the sounds of clinking silverware and exaggerated chewing.

Getou chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s good, huh? Seems like a fan favorite.”

“S’good, Daddy—so cheesy!” Nanako exclaims, her cheeks full, her chin streaked with sauce. She wipes her fingers on the table, completely unbothered.

“So messy, honey.” Getou sighs, grabbing a napkin to clean her up despite her weak attempts to squirm away.

You lift your fork, twirling a bite expertly to catch the dangling cheese. “Watch this,” you say, demonstrating. “Wrap the cheese around your fork like this, so you can enjoy every bite without getting scolded by your dad.”

The girls gasp like you’ve unveiled some grand magic trick. They attempt to copy you, their enthusiasm infectious.

Getou takes a sip of his white wine, smirking. “Preventing messes like that isn’t exactly helping you escape the housewife allegations.” His voice dips just enough to keep the words between the two of you.

You giggle, swirling your fork aimlessly around your plate, suddenly feeling like a giggly schoolgirl.

Then, an idea strikes. “Hey, if you need an outlet for those messy tendencies, my job is hosting a family event on Monday. Finger painting—they can go wild. I’m working it, so you should bring the girls. It’ll be fun.”

Getou raises a brow, turning to the twins. “What do you think, girls? Want to go? Do some painting?”

He coughs, muttering under his breath, “That’s not on our walls.”

You swat his arm playfully, but the girls don’t notice. They’re already buzzing with excitement.

“We wanna go!” “Yeah, we love to paint! Daddy never lets us!”

You grin, throwing up two thumbs. “See? I’ll let you paint all you want on Monday. I’ll sign you all up—it’ll be a blast!”

𓂃۶ৎ

You can’t help but wonder if Getou regrets agreeing to come to ‘Family Finger-painting’ as you watch Nanako, ever the ball of energy, streak cobalt blue finger paint across the front of his crisp button-up. The deep navy smudges stand out starkly against the fabric, flecks of red in her dark umber hair only adding to the chaotic artistry. Her small, paint-covered hands leave damning evidence all over his sleeves and the hem of what was, moments ago, a pristine Ralph Lauren Oxford.

You cringe, anticipating a reaction—a sigh, a flash of disappointment. But Getou only leans down, furrowing his brows, his sharp eyes honing in on the tiny perpetrator with exaggerated accusation.

“Nanako…”

His large hands wrap around her waist, and in one swift motion, he hoists her up, lifting her high above his head as if she were soaring like an eagle. “Such a messy one, aren’t you? Look what you did to Daddy! I’ve got you now, Nana.”

Nanako kicks her little feet, writhing in his grasp as peals of laughter burst from her lungs, the sound rich and warm like music.

“D-Daddy, stop! Let me go! Sorry, sorry!”

Finally, he relents, setting her back down with an affectionate pat to her head. His shirt, however, has taken even more damage—blue smears blending with the red, swirling into purple, with specks of pink now dotting his arms and pants like an abstract masterpiece.

“Daddy, me too! Wanna fly!” Mimiko tugs at his pant leg, her small hands leaving more marks in their wake.

Obliging, Getou lifts her with the same ease, holding her up until she nearly brushes the ceiling. You make your way over, watching them with quiet amusement.

“Careful with her head, Suguru.”

Getou lowers Mimiko to rest against his hip, turning to greet you with a smile. “Ah, thank you. I do tend to get carried away.” He gestures toward the three canvases spread across the floor, protected by layers of newspaper—a rare stroke of genius on Yu’s part. “How’s the progress?”

You kneel to inspect their work: a peacock, a flower, and three handprints.

“Let me guess—the peacock is Nanako’s, and the flower is Mimiko’s?”

Nanako beams, nodding vigorously as she tugs at your smock, eager for praise. The bird she painted is surprisingly elegant, its neck curved gracefully, head tucked bashfully. The feathers—done in sweeping strokes of yellow, blue, and green—are intricate for a child her age.

“Nanako, this is beautiful! You did such a great job.”

Her cheeks flush pink, her smile widening with pride. Mimiko, not to be outdone, smushes her face against her father’s side, peeking up at you. “Wuh ‘bout mie?”

You turn to her painting—green stems drawn with a careful forefinger, flowers crafted from colorful thumbprints. It’s simpler than Nanako’s, but no less charming.

“These flowers are so pretty! I love all the colors, Mimiko.”

“Danks.”

Getou chuckles, shooting you a knowing look—one that clearly says, I know you’re just being nice, but I appreciate it.

Then, he dips his fingers into the paint and smears a thick layer of violet onto your open palm.

“Why don’t you be the finishing touch to my piece?”

You glance at his canvas—sky blue with a large purple handprint on one side, two smaller ones beneath it, one lime green, the other bright pink.

He nods toward the empty space. “Go on. Left room for you.”

With a small smile, you press your palm against the canvas, feeling the sticky paint mold to the lines of your skin. A warmth settles in your stomach as the girls erupt into applause.

Getou hums, scratching his chin as he inspects the final product, his voice dipping into a teasing lilt. “Now it’s perfect. My idea to have you complete the piece was a true stroke of genius.”

You groan. “Not a dad joke, Suguru. How stereotypical.”

He pouts, scrunching his nose in exaggerated offense. Beside him, Mimiko mimics the expression perfectly, her chubby cheeks puffed out in what might be the most adorable sight you’ve ever seen.

Before you can comment on it, a frantic voice cuts through the room.

“Just a sec, you drama queens—I’ll be right back.”

You jog toward Yu, weaving between families painting peacefully. When you finally reach him, your stomach drops at the scene in front of you. A toppled canvas lies face-down, irreparably smeared. Paint has dripped from the palette, bleeding past the newspaper barrier onto the floor.

Shit.

A wail erupts, high and heartbroken. Yuji, eyes brimming with tears, sniffles as he clings to Nanami, whose face is twisted in regret.

You scoop Yuji into your arms, rubbing his back as he hiccups between sobs.

“Yu-Yu, honey, it’s okay. We’ll get another canvas. We can make something even cooler.”

His sniffles continue, tiny fists wiping at his tear-streaked face.

“See? Nanami’s not mad at you.” You nudge Nanami’s leg.

Nanami, who’s been furiously cleaning to prevent Yu from getting written up, straightens at once. With practiced ease, he runs a hand through Yuji’s pink curls before cupping his cheek.

“Oh, Yuji, of course I’m not mad. I just had to clean up. We can still paint whatever you want, okay?”

Yuji sniffs, lower lip trembling, but the tears finally slow. You grab a tissue, holding it up to his face.

“Blow.”

He obeys, filling the tissue. You clean him up and pat his head.

Nanami bows slightly. “Thank you.”

You wave him off. “No need for thanks, Yu won’t get in trouble tonight thanks to you.”

Yu joins Nanami, curling around his arm like a content cat, while the two men share a look—soft smiles, red-tipped ears, and a warmth that’s almost too much to witness.

You groan, turning back toward the Getous. As your gaze sweeps the room, Getou towers over the families, effortlessly catching your eye. He raises a bronzed hand, beckoning you back over.

And without hesitation, you go.

𓂃۶ৎ

Turns out, washing dried paint out of hair is harder than you’d expect. Not that it ever seemed easy, but it's a lot like trying to remove gum from thick locks—frustrating and nearly impossible without the right tools.

You hold Mimiko’s head steady over the sink, your fingers working diligently to scrape out stubborn streaks of red paint from her bangs. How she managed to get it there in the first place is beyond you. Speckles of color circle the drain as you slowly restore her hair to its natural brown.

“Suguru, please,” you mouth over to Getou, careful not to let Mimiko catch on to your frustration. He peeks around the side of the tub, where he has Nanako perched on the edge, her head tilted back as he rinses out her own mess. At least he seems to be making progress—her dirty blonde strands darken to caramel under the stream of water.

Your gaze flickers to Getou himself, and concern stirs in your chest. His loose black hair, usually immaculate, is now streaked with vibrant splashes of paint. He notices your stare and offers you a small, tight-lipped smile, but his furrowed brows betray his worry.

Reaching into the cabinet, he pulls out a jar of coconut oil and hands Nanako a wide-toothed comb. “Here, sweetheart, detangle your hair for me so I can help your sister.”

He joins you at the sink, twisting the cap off the oil. “This should help. If it moisturizes the hair, it’ll loosen the paint’s grip.”

You hum in agreement, stepping onto the twins’ footstool so you can hover over Getou’s head. He glances up at you, incredulous. “Pour some for me. Someone has to do yours, too.”

He flicks your forehead in response, a teasing gesture before tipping the bottle generously into your outstretched palm. Warming the oil between your hands, you begin raking your fingers through his dark locks, careful but thorough. The silver strands peppered throughout catch the light, gleaming softly under the bathroom bulb. The oil works wonders, and soon enough, the paint starts to dissolve.

“Mm, careful back there,” he murmurs, voice dipping into something almost indulgent. “Feels nice—I might just drift off.”

Smirking, you wind the ends of his hair around your fingers and give a light tug.

What you don’t expect is the breathy gasp that slips past his lips, followed by a low, gravelly, “Watch it.”

Does he like that? You file the information away for later—time and place, after all.

The faucet shuts off, and Getou lifts Mimiko upright, wrapping a fluffy towel around her shoulders and drying her hair. You do the same for Nanako before helping Getou finish up with them both. The twins announce their plans to change into clean clothes and scamper off, promising to dump their messy outfits straight into the washing machine.

Meanwhile, Getou scrubs his forearms with the remaining coconut oil as you towel off his hair to prevent it from dripping down his back. Out of everyone, he’s easily the most covered in paint—the sink now tinted a muddy brown from the mixture of colors.

“You know, we should get changed too,” he says, wringing out a section of his hair. “You can borrow something of mine if you’re okay with that. No pressure.”

“Honestly, I’d do anything to get out of these sticky clothes,” you sigh. “Something soft sounds like a dream right now.”

He grins, booping your nose. “Your wish is my command.”

A few minutes later, you pull on the clothes he’s left for you on the hamper—a large, oversized olive green graphic tee that’s so faded you can barely make out the text, ‘Girl Dad’ (which is sickeningly adorable), and a pair of simple black sweatpants with a drawstring. The fabric pools around your feet, the sleeves gaping at your elbows, but it’s comfortable. More importantly, it smells like him—rustic sandalwood and sweet coconut.

You step out of the bathroom just as Getou emerges from his bedroom, his gaze sweeping over you unabashedly. He looks thoroughly pleased, his own outfit a mirror of yours, except his shirt is a solid white. His hair is now twisted up and secured with a claw clip.

Without warning, he snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. His nose is cold as it nudges against your pulse point, pressing a light, lingering kiss there.

“Soft enough?” he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

You hum in response, though it comes out more like a contented purr. Your arms loop around his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He lingers for a moment before pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead, then pulls back with a sigh.

“C’mon,” he says, lacing his fingers through yours. “The girls are waiting.”

In the living room, the twins are sprawled out on the couch, whispering conspiratorially over a small crate filled with hair accessories. As soon as they spot Getou, they light up.

“Daddy makeover! Daddy makeover!”

A faint flush spreads down Getou’s neck. “No, girls, d—what?”

“We want to do your hair too!”

“Pleeeeaaaseee.”

They bat their lashes, their tiny hands clutching at his shirt, and oh, they’re good. Getou looks at you for backup, but you only grin and join in on the pleading.

“Pleeeeaaaseee.”

He sighs, defeated, and slides onto the floor, his back against the couch. “Fine. But be gentle.”

The twins cheer, shoving the crate toward you so you can join in. Inside, you find butterfly clips, neon barrettes, pink bows, satin scrunchies, and rainbow elastics. The three of you claim your sections of his hair and get to work—messy buns, neat braids, tiny pigtails. By the end, his head looks like a walking arts-and-crafts project.

Getou's phone blares an absurdly loud, obnoxious ringtone, shattering the quiet hum of the evening. He fumbles with it, brow furrowing as he tries to navigate answering—his age is showing. Finally, after an unnecessary struggle, he swipes to accept, and the screen flickers to life.

Gojo’s face appears far too close to the camera, wide blue eyes blinking unnervingly. The glow of the screen illuminates the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the faint shadows beneath his eyes, casting his features in an eerie fog of azure.

“What the fuck am I looking at?”

Getou lets out a loud, pointed cough and lowers the volume, shooting Gojo a disapproving look. With a shift of his wrist, he adjusts the angle so the girls—and inevitably, you—come into frame.

“Hi, Satoru!!”

Gojo winks, flashing a toothy grin. “How’re my favorite goddaughters?”

“Good!!”

“That’s what I like to hear. Your incredibly, generous godfather is calling to persuade your stuffy dad to take you somewhere awesome! Put him back on the phone, okay?”

“Okay!!”

Getou scowls and holds up an obscured middle finger to the camera. Gojo only cackles.

“I see you’re being pampered like the princess that you are by those sweet girls and your… friend.”

“Yes,” Getou replies dryly. “What about it?

Gojo somehow flips himself upside down in the frame, his hand dangling as he snorts.

“Nothing, just making an observation. Anyway, I called to invite you on a trip this weekend. I booked an Airbnb in the city so the kids can see that new superhero movie premiere. The city screenings are being introduced by actual cast members. Megumi and Tsumiki will be inconsolable if their cousins can’t come. So… you in?”

Getou shrugs, arching a well-groomed brow. “How can I refuse? The only one who spoils their kids more than you is me.”

“I dunno, the jury’s still out on that. Why don’t we ask your friend this weekend? If she comes, she’ll be the perfect tiebreaker.”

Oh, he’s slick. You suppress a smile but lean forward over Getou’s shoulder, tapping his cheek.

“Suguru’s friend likes that idea very much. I’m in—and I’ll be sure to make an unbiased decision.”

Getou turns to you, his expression shifting, concern softening the sharp elegance of his features. There’s a slight crease between his brows, and for a brief moment, you want to smooth it away, to press a kiss over the corners of his lips that have dipped into a hesitant frown.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice lower now, meant just for you. “Don’t feel pressured by this idiot.”

“Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t have agreed if I wasn’t. I have no qualms about rejecting cocky men.”

Gojo snaps his fingers, amused. “Testy. I like it. Give me your number, and I’ll send you the details. I need to record everyone staying in the house for the homeowner.”

You recite it, then settle back into your spot. Your fingers thread through Getou’s dark hair absentmindedly, mirroring the girls’ movements as they weave an impressively tight Dutch braid along the side of his head.

Getou and Gojo continue chatting, their voices fading into the background as your phone lights up on the arm of the couch. You stretch forward to grab it, expecting a message from Yu with an update—he had also gone home with his beau.

But when you unlock the screen, an unfamiliar number stares back at you.

717-904-3856: Hey! It’s Gojo Satoru AKA your wingman, and I won’t rest until I successfully hook you up with my best friend. 

God knows he needs it.

𓂃۶ৎ

“This Airbnb is fu—uh, I mean, freaking huge. How’d Gojo afford this?!”

Getou chuckles under his breath as he steers the wheel, glancing in the rearview mirror before backing into the long driveway. The house looms in front of you—massive, especially for something in the heart of the city. Beige bricks stack into sleek, modern walls, and the tall, black roof contrasts against the setting sun. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a lofty foyer inside, warm light spilling onto the neatly trimmed bushes lining the entryway. The double doors arch into a perfect half-circle, framed by lush greenery rooted in pristine, manicured grass.

He shifts the car into park, turning off the engine with an effortless press of his fingers. “Ah, did I forget to mention? Gojo’s family owns an upscale hotel franchise. You might’ve heard of it—Living Limitless?”

Your jaw nearly hits the floor. “No way. Of course, I’ve heard of them. They were in the news last year after acquiring that media conglomerate for a ridiculous amount of money. They’re loaded!”

Getou hums in response, slipping off his seatbelt. The silver frames of his glasses catch the light as he glances at you, the soft twill of his black short-sleeve set draping over his frame. His hair is neatly tied into a bun, the stray strands framing his face in a way that makes him look devastatingly good. The delicate glint of his rings and bracelets only adds to the effect.

“Mm. Money doesn’t buy manners, though. His family isn’t exactly warm and welcoming, so he doesn’t see them often. But he still has access to his shares, which is why he can afford to act like a snob.”

You chuckle, pushing open the passenger door before reaching into the backseat to unbuckle Nanako from her booster seat. “I mean, he can’t be that bad. He does a lot for the girls, doesn’t he?”

“Welcome to my humble abode!”

Your head snaps up just in time to see Gojo—not walking—but rolling toward you down the cobblestone driveway on a hoverboard, tilted forward like he’s the main act in some grand performance.

You inhale sharply. “Spoke too soon.”

Getou sighs, dragging a hand down his face before taking both girls by the hands, guiding them toward Gojo. Unlike you, the twins are completely mesmerized by his dramatic entrance. You, however, can’t help but see a man in his thirties, draped in designer from head to toe—Gucci sunglasses, Gucci joggers, Gucci slides—riding a Segway like a rich kid who never outgrew his phase.

To his credit, Gojo is absurdly friendly. He sweeps all of you into a round of enthusiastic hugs, exchanging pleasantries before immediately launching into an animated info-dump about the upcoming movie. His voice brims with excitement—maybe even more so than the kids’.

“—and the actor that plays Cursebreaker? Absolute machine. Does all his own stunts. Megumi could tell you more, he follows him on TikTok. He and his sister have been asking about you two all day.”

Right on cue, a small head peeks out from the front door. Tsumiki beams brightly. “Hi Nana! Hi Mimi!”

From behind her, little Megumi appears—his tousled black hair falling over his forehead, his lips drawn into a scowl.

The interior of the house is even more elegant than the exterior—sleek and modern, a symphony of whites, grays, and blacks. The minimalist design is softened by the presence of large, leafy plants, and a high-end television camouflages as an expensive painting on the wall.

As soon as you step inside, the girls scatter, immediately engrossed in an impromptu game of tag, their laughter echoing through the open space. Getou settles himself into the plush white couch, casually grabbing a controller as Megumi boots up his Switch beside him. That leaves you with Gojo, who is carefully slipping into his Cursebreaker cosplay for later that evening.

“Zip this up for me?” he asks, turning his back to you.

The suit is absurdly tight, a second skin molded to every inch of his form. You struggle with the zipper, nearly yanking Gojo backward in the process. The sleek, black material stretches over his body, covering him from head to toe—built-in shoes and all. The design spirals with glowing icy blue accents that converge at his sternum, forming a swirling curse energy emblem.

Gojo’s usual vibrant eyes are further exaggerated by unnervingly bright blue contacts, the pupils swallowed entirely, leaving only a ghostly glow.

As you help spike his already gravity-defying hair, you can’t help but ask, “Where the hell did you even get this costume?”

Gojo smirks, fluffing a single strand just right. “Oh, you know… I just reached out to the actual designer from the movie, commissioned an exact replica. Had to expedite it, though.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “Oh. So you’re rich-rich.”

Gojo actually has the nerve to look a little bashful, kicking at the floor like a kid caught sneaking an extra dessert. “It’s not like that! I don’t splurge on just anything. I’ve been obsessed with this franchise since I was a kid.”

From the couch, Getou’s smooth voice interjects lazily, “Born to be a nerd, forced to be an heir. Tragic.”

Megumi, ever eager to roast Gojo, jumps in with a smirk. “NERD.”

What follows is a predictable bout of bickering, it lasts until Gojo’s phone vibrates, signaling that their Uber will be arriving in an hour. He claps his hands together and directs the kids to get into their costumes.

Then he turns to you and Getou with an expression that makes you wary. “So,” he drawls, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain, “fun fact—there are only five cinema tickets. Totally sold out. Couldn’t get extras.”

Getou frowns, about to protest, but Gojo cuts him off with a raised finger. “Ah, ah, ah. This actually works out perfectly, because let’s be honest—I’m the only one who actually cares about seeing this movie. So, instead of sitting through something you don’t care about, you two should have a night out. I even have recommendations.”

You glance at Getou with amusement. “So, Suguru, when’s the last time you went out socially?”

Silence. Getou’s lips press into a thin line.

Gojo beams in triumph. “Yay! You’ll do it! Get back out there, Grandma!” He whips out his phone and texts you both the name of a bar. It looks lively—plenty of drinks, an arcade, even a dance floor.

“Oh, and FYI,” he adds, “I already called an Uber for you. So, chop chop, go get ready.”

The sudden realization that you’re about to go on what is essentially a date with Getou sends you scrambling for an outfit. After giving your goodbyes to the twins, who latch onto you for hugs, you rush off to get ready.

A steaming shower melts away any tension as you exfoliate, shave, and lather yourself in fragrant lotion and body oil. When you step out, your reflection grins back at you, brimming with anticipation.

You settle on an all-black ensemble: knee-high boots, a mini skirt, and a textured, long-sleeved button-up, strategically fastened at your midriff to reveal just the right amount of skin. A small black bag completes the look. You’re banking on Getou wearing black—his wardrobe rarely deviates from it.

Descending the stairs, your hunch proves correct. Getou stands by the mirror near the front door, adjusting his watch and straightening his jewelry. He’s still in his earlier outfit but has thrown on a wool-lined button-up denim jacket and swapped his shoes for chunky-sole ankle boots. His glasses remain, framing his face as a few strands of hair escape his bun.

You creep up behind him, aligning yourself in the reflection. “Hey.”

His gaze lifts to meet yours in the mirror, and a faint flush rises to his cheeks. “Hey.”

You let out a low whistle. “Damn, you clean up well.”

He turns, draping an arm over your shoulders, pulling you in. Your palm finds his chest, and in the mirror’s reflection, you can’t deny—you two look good together.

“You make me look even better,” he murmurs, his arm snaking around your waist. “You look beautiful.”

A car horn honks outside, breaking the moment. Getou steps back, extending a hand, and you take it. He even opens the door for you, effortlessly slipping into the role of a gentleman.

During the ride, he chats idly, reminiscing about growing up on the outskirts of the city. He tells you about the sprawling fields that once existed before modernization, where he and the local kids played streetball. You tease him for having firsthand historical knowledge of the ‘90s, earning an eye roll in return.

At the bar, the crowd is thick, the air electric. Getou’s firm hand guides you through, settling at the small of your back. At the bar, he orders your drinks.

“So handsome…,” you say, swirling your glass before taking a sip, “what brings you out tonight?”

Getou smirks, playing along. “Finally got a night away from the kids. I’m a father, by the way.”

“Oh?” You eye him appreciatively, slow and deliberate. “You ever heard of the term DILF before?”

He chuckles, amusement glinting in his eyes as he downs half his drink. “Oh, how forward of you. Would you personally apply that term to me, or…?”

You grin, raising your glass. “Let’s save the pillow talk for later. Tell me more about yourself—steady job, good income, solid principles, family values?”

Getou swirls his drink lazily before topping it off with a fresh pour. The gleam of his silver watch catches the light. “I sit on the board of a local non-profit, invest in my 401K, indulge in questionable activities in moderation, and put family above all else.”

Your eyebrows lift, surprised by the thorough answer. He clinks his glass against yours, eyes flickering with curiosity. “And you?”

You down the rest of your drink, holding his gaze. Then, licking your lips, you lean in slightly.

“Oh, me?” You twirl a strand of hair around your finger. “I’m a daycare teacher and tutor, planning to start grad school after I get my promotion. I splurge irresponsibly with my best friend on weekends, but I’m generally kind-hearted. I want a family of my own someday.”

Getou hums appreciatively. “Sounds like you’re exactly what I’m looking for in a partner—smart, nurturing, ambitious, outgoing, and devoted.” He flags down the bartender, already ordering another round before turning back to you with a smirk. “I imagine we’ll get along well.”

Two drinks deep, and you’re debating your go-to orders—his, a neat Scotch, yours, a lemon drop martini.

Three drinks in, and you’re bickering about how absolutely repulsive the other’s choice is.

Four drinks in, and the embarrassing stories spill out like the liquor in your glasses. He’s telling you about the time he pranked Gojo so convincingly at a KFC that it led to an all-out meltdown, ultimately getting them banned from every location nationwide. You counter with a tale of your early days at work, when a particularly unruly kid kicked you in the crotch and bolted, leaving you to chase him around the parking lot in a frenzy.

Five drinks in, and you’re both breathless with laughter, wheezing about how absurd Gojo looked in that ridiculous costume—how he is probably chafing from its unnatural tightness.

Six drinks in, and you’re tugging Getou onto the dance floor, the bass rattling through the floorboards as you pull him close, fingers trailing down his torso before turning to grind back against him. His hands find your hips, strong and steady, guiding you in rhythm, his hot breath fanning across your ear.

Six drinks and two shots of D’Usse in, and you’re clawing at his jacket, trying to shrug it off his shoulders while he palms your ass through your skirt, drawing the ire of surrounding patrons.

“Say, we get outta here,” he murmurs, voice husky.

“Mmm, yeah, but where?”

He pulls back just enough to glance around, trying to shake the intoxicating pull of your scent. Then, his gaze lands on the neon sign above the exit.

“Oh, shit.” He chuckles, already tugging you toward the door. “This bar’s connected to a hotel… Limitless Hotel.”

The realization dawns sluggishly, but in sync. “Gojo.”

You both scoff, but Getou doesn’t dwell. He’s already handing his black card to the receptionist, sliding across a generous tip before guiding you to the elevator. The doors shut, and just as you sneak a hand beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin, he stills, regaining his composure. Instead of pulling you closer, he just looks down, offering you that saccharine smile—sweet, soft, disarming.

The most contact he allows is the gentle squeeze of your hand as he leads you down the hallway. The key card beeps, the door unlocks, and the moment you step inside, Getou turns to you, effortlessly lifting you by your thighs. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist as he walks backward into the room, lips finding the damp skin of your neck. He licks, sucks, nips his way down to your collarbone, groaning like he’s savoring something divine.

He stumbles near the closet, and you tumble onto the mattress with a breathless yelp, your hair catching uncomfortably beneath you. You cling to his neck, trying to ease the tension, and he gazes down at you, his violet eyes suddenly sharp despite the haze of alcohol.

“You okay, baby?”

“Mhm.” You cradle his face, his cheeks flushed, lips tinged red, pupils blown wide. You sigh, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “S’pretty Sugu… kiss?”

Getou gets the message, dipping down to capture your lips in a slow, consuming kiss. His strong arms cage you in as his tongue teases yours, urging your mouth open further. You moan into it, gripping his shoulders as he presses closer, the heat between you mounting with every stolen breath.

Your shirt is barely clinging to your frame, skirt bunched high around your hips, and Getou takes full advantage, trailing kisses down your chest, tugging your bra aside to flick his tongue over a peaked nipple. The sensation sends sparks through your body, and he groans, biting gently as his eyes flick up to gauge your reaction.

You arch beneath him, desperate for more, hands fisting in his hair. The loose bun unravels, his dark strands cascading around you like a curtain, his scent enveloping you completely.

You whimper, shifting beneath him, seeking friction. “Su-gu-ru…”

He bites at your earlobe, his voice a breathy whisper, “Tell me what you need, baby. Talk to me.”

“Need you,” you gasp, hips canting up in frustration. “More—please.”

His weight presses against you, his clothed length dragging over your damp panties, and you keen at the friction.

“Like this?” he teases, grinding slow, deliberate.

You moan, rolling your hips to meet his. “Yes—yes, Sugu. Feels so good.”

The taste of alcohol lingers on your tongue, but it’s overshadowed by Getou, his kisses devouring, claiming. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, and he groans, shuddering against you.

His hands roam, tracing down your torso, teasing over your navel. Your fingers wander in turn, slipping beneath his shirt, nails dragging over the taut muscles of his back, feeling them ripple as he moves.

Your hands drift lower, mapping the firm planes of his chest until your fingers catch on the cold metal of his barbell piercings. You flick them, drawing a sharp inhale from him. And then you see it—the tattoo you’ve admired from afar, the coiled tail of a dragon peeking from the jut of his hip.

He chuckles, low and rough, nuzzling into your neck. “What do you want, baby? Tell me.”

You swallow hard, heart hammering. “Need you—now.”

His smirk is sinful. “Yeah? Here, you’ve been so good for me.”

He shoves his pants lower, and you shiver as his hands skim your thighs, pushing your skirt down and off entirely.

“Be a good girl,” he murmurs, kissing you slow, teasing. “Take me out of my boxers.”

Getou straightens up, towering over you like a Greek god—sculpted physique gleaming under the dim light, skin slick with perspiration and arousal. Your breath hitches as you curl your fingertips around the waistband of his black boxers, carefully pulling them down, revealing the end of his happy trail and the thick, pulsing length of his cock straining beneath the fabric.

You free him from the confines, wrapping your fingers around his girth. He twitches in your grasp, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth.

“Just like that, baby,” Getou murmurs, leaning over to flick his tongue over a sensitive nipple. Your mewl is music to his ears.

He lets you stroke him a few times, a bead of precum glistening at his tip as you lick your lips. But before you can indulge further, he captures your wrist, his other hand slipping beneath the damp fabric of your panties, pressing a teasing stroke over your clit.

A violent jolt racks your body. Your hips twitch, desperate for more, but all you can manage is an incoherent plea, breathy and urgent.

Getou chuckles, the sound dark, almost cruel. “Shh, shh. I got you. Daddy’s got you.”

He slips a finger inside you, and the moan you release is downright filthy. The slick glide allows him to press a second digit in beside the first with ease, stretching you open with deliberate, lazy pumps. His knuckles brush against you, curling upward with intent, watching your every reaction.

Your eyes flutter back, mouth parted, and you think you might be drooling. Getou licks at your chin, smirking. “Hey. Eyes up here.”

You barely manage to meet his gaze, his irises eclipsed by lust-darkened pupils. He leans in, your panting breaths mingling, and you press your lips to his, tasting him, losing yourself in the heat of his mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his voice like gravel and honey. “You just tightened up—mmh, you like it when I look at you?”

“Yes, Sugu,” you gasp, teetering on the edge of madness. “Please, I’m gonna die if you don’t fuck me soon.”

The words are only half-teasing; the ache inside you is unbearable, the need to be filled leaving your eyes pricking with unshed tears. Getou’s expression softens for only a moment before he kisses the corner of your eyes, his thumbs swiping tenderly over your cheekbones.

Then, without warning, he hikes your legs over his shoulders, dragging your panties aside. The swollen head of his cock nudges against your slick clit, the slight friction sending a white-hot surge through your nerves. He watches the way you shudder beneath him, reveling in your sensitivity.

“You want it?” he asks, lining himself up, teasing your entrance.

You whimper, wiggling your hips, desperate to catch him inside. The wetness pooling between your thighs makes it effortless, yet he stills his movements, smirking down at you.

“Go ahead, baby,” he urges, voice thick. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”

He pushes in just enough for his tip to breach your entrance, the stretch immediate, electric. You sink down onto him, trying to take more, but it’s too much—too thick, not deep enough. Your walls clench greedily, but you can’t fit him in entirely on your own.

You look up at Getou, his lip caught between his teeth, veins prominent along his throat and forearms. A single tear escapes the corner of your eye, sliding down your cheek as you whisper, broken and pleading:

“Fuck me.”

Getou exhales sharply, dragging your panties off, your slick stretching between the fabric and your core. He balls them up, stuffing them into his pocket. You open your mouth to question it, but before you can, he grabs your ankles, pulling you to the edge of the bed.

With one deliberate thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.

A choked cry escapes your lips, his name mangled on your tongue. He sets a ruthless pace, each stroke angled perfectly to find the spot inside you that has you keening.

Your head falls back, eyes glassy, body trembling as pleasure builds in your core. Getou watches you come undone beneath him, kissing and biting at your thighs as he keeps driving into you.

“Gripping me so tight, baby,” he groans, voice raw with need. “So fucking wet—do you want to cum for me?”

You nod frantically, words failing you.

Getou chuckles darkly. “Can’t understand you, sweetheart. Try again.”

You suck in a shaky breath, but he thrusts particularly deep, stealing it away before you can respond. Your body quivers violently, pleasure teetering on the edge of oblivion.

“Yes, Sugu—yes! Please, I need—”

“Better,” he huffs. He withdraws, just long enough to shift his position, slotting himself between your legs, guiding your hands behind his neck. You instinctively wrap yourself around him, pulling him deeper as he fills you completely.

The pressure is dizzying. His hand presses against your lower stomach, and you keen, feeling him so impossibly deep inside you.

“S-so big—fuck—so deep, Sugu, s’good.”

He kisses your cheek, resuming his brutal pace, the wet sounds of your coupling only adding to the sinful bliss. He reaches between you, circling your clit with practiced precision, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

You choke on a sob, pleasure consuming you. “Sugu—c-coming—”

His nose brushes against yours, his lips hovering just over your own as he coaxes you further. He licks along your cupid’s bow, voice a whispered command:

“Come for me.”

The dam bursts.

A violent wave of ecstasy crashes over you, leaving you gasping, body convulsing around him. Your walls flutter and squeeze, a gush of arousal soaking his cock, dripping down to his balls.

“Fuck, baby,” he grits out, fucking you through the aftershocks. “Just like that.”

He doesn’t stop, dragging out your pleasure until it’s unbearable. Another orgasm crashes over you before you even have time to recover, leaving you sobbing his name.

Getou groans, his body tensing. “Fuck—‘m close—”

You know what will push him over the edge.

“Come inside me,” you beg, voice wrecked. “Fill me up—Su-gu-ru.”

A broken moan falls from your lips as Getou thrusts deep, his release spilling into you, hot and thick. His pace stutters, but he doesn’t stop, fucking his cum into you, his hips rolling lazily as your walls pulse. The slick, creamy mess coats his base, dripping from your swollen cunt.

You tug him closer, pulling him into a messy, breathless kiss—your tongues sliding together, lips slotting against each other with desperate need. It’s intoxicating, dizzying, and you only pull away when the edges of your vision blur, the threat of passing out looming.

You blink up at him, mind hazy, body wrecked and thrumming with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Your voice comes out shaky, barely more than a whisper.

“Fuck.”

Getou chuckles, the sound low and breathless, his chest rising and falling against yours. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck, disappearing into the dip of his collarbone.

“Fuck is right,” he murmurs, voice tinged with amusement.

His gaze softens when you nuzzle against him, your cheek pressing against his damp skin. The fatigue creeps in—drunken, drowsy, and thoroughly ruined, your limbs feel too heavy to move.

His lips brush your temple. “You okay, baby? Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shake your head against him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Nah, you’re perfect.”

He hums, fingers tracing absentminded circles against your back. Then, he shifts, trying to sit up—but the moment he moves, you tighten your arms around his neck, pulling him back down with a stubborn whine.

“Need to clean us up,” he says, voice gentle. “Won’t take long.”

You pout, clinging to him like a lifeline, your fingers wringing around his nape, refusing to let go.

He exhales, surrendering. “Alright, alright. Later?”

Your smile presses into the crook of his neck, the warmth of his touch soothing as his hand glides along your spine, up to scratch at your scalp in slow, languid motions.

“Later.”

𓂃۶ৎ

One thing you hate about your job is how it conditions your body to wake up at ungodly hours. In theory, it’s practical—what responsible adult wouldn’t want an early start to their day? But when you’re still reeling from a brutal hangover, desperately craving more sleep, and your body betrays you by jolting awake at the crack of dawn, it feels like pure, unadulterated torture.

You groan, rolling over in an attempt to force yourself back under, but sleep refuses to claim you again. After tossing and turning until frustration wins out, you surrender and drag yourself toward the kitchen, deciding a glass of water might help reset your system.

Hydration is key, after all, and judging by the desert-dry state of your throat, it’s safe to say you neglected it for the last forty-eight hours. Understandable, given how you’d spent the night before last.

The memory hits you out of nowhere—Getou Suguru, your devastatingly attractive neighbor, buried deep inside you, his face tight with concentration, his lips parted, breathless, still so effortlessly beautiful.

Your thighs squeeze together instinctively. It’s been happening often, these flashes of him in the most compromising positions. You just hope it isn’t obvious.

The cool air from the fridge is a relief against your overheated skin. For a fleeting moment, you consider drinking straight from the jug but decide to cling to the last shred of your dignity and pour it into a glass instead. Still groggy, you make your way to the couch, your sleep shorts riding up with every sluggish step, the strap of your bralette twisted uncomfortably.

Then—movement.

From the corner of your eye, just outside your window, something shifts. Old habits die hard, and before you can think better of it, you tiptoe closer, peeking through the curtain just enough to get a view. You expect to see the usual—Getou up early, like always. You recently learned that he wakes at the crack of dawn to make breakfast for the girls every day—a habit formed from years of going without, back when his family couldn’t afford the luxury of a morning meal.

You do see Getou.

He’s on his bed, legs stretched out, and he’s touching himself.

Your breath stutters in your throat.

His cock is flushed and straining in his hand, thick fingers wrapped around the length as he pumps himself at a lazy pace. You can almost hear the sounds he’s making—the quiet, low groans that would rumble deep in his chest, the sharp inhales as he works himself over. His lips move, forming words you can’t quite make out, but what catches your attention most is the fabric curled around his shaft, moving in time with every stroke.

You squint, trying to get a better look. Then your stomach drops.

Your panties.

Your used panties from the other night. The ones you’d worn throughout the evening, growing wetter and needier with every stolen glance at him, every lingering touch. The lacy pair with the pale pink bow at the center.

Now, they’re tangled along his cock, the waistband stretching with every movement, sticky with precum as he grinds himself against the delicate fabric.

You’re mesmerized. Completely, utterly entranced. You don’t even realize you’ve moved the curtain further, no longer just peeking but openly watching. And then—it happens.

Getou’s dark eyes lock onto yours.

Your stomach flips, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he slows down, dragging it out, making a show of it. His hips thrust up to meet his tight grip, his jaw tightening as he bites back another moan. He doesn’t waver, doesn’t look away. He just keeps watching you watch him.

Then, still stroking himself, he picks up his phone, tapping the screen a few times before bringing it to his ear.

Your phone vibrates from where you left it on the couch.

A heavy silence stretches between you as you hesitate. Then, slowly, almost mechanically, you reach for it, pressing it to your ear.

The first thing you hear is his moan—gravelly, drawn out, punctuated by a sharp breath. 

Across the way, Getou smirks. He stands, his cock bobbing against his stomach, your panties still tangled around the tip. He lifts a single finger, curling it in a slow beckon.

You swallow hard, pulse hammering in your ears.

And then, his voice, deep and smooth, curling around the words like a promise.

“Come over, pretty girl.”

[My beloved taglist: @mentallyillcore @ourfinalisation @nanasukii28 @tokyolittledelulu @reveursetcrieurs @c0ckdrunkk @inthedarkshadows000 @exelyox @inoluvrr]

+ A/N: Experimenting with my writing style ! Ngl I had to pause multiple times while writing this because DILFtou is just too damn fine !! Also, realized I have daddy issues while writing this smh

[sparklytimebun]

“Oh, it seems my little secret is started to come out as well~” The noblewoman chirped, as she was lifting the hems of her dress, until she exposed her black-laced panties. What Ru didn’t expect, was the big bulge around the other’s crotch, it started to throb, even forming an erection, stretching the fabric of her panties.

“That’s right, Ru, even I have a secret. And it is excited to meet you~” Saliva started to come out as she licked her own lips.

Ru at first is confused by what she means, but then...oh. OH. Her face blushes and she's suddenly very very shy, but also very very turned on.

"My Lady--" she murmurs softly. "That looks very heavy, pehaps you should let me hold it~"

Quick like a bunny she moves to bring them closer, a gloved hand moving to cup them, tracing her finger tips up and down the length. She is pretty certain this woman before is going to ruin for any man or woman this night.

[steddieas-shegoes]

spiderman kiss

for @steddieholidaydrabbles pop-up event for Valentine's Day

rated t | 896 words | no cw | tags: fake dating au, fake wedding date, strangers to lovers, fast burn of the century, getting together, first kiss, modern au

🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️

“I cannot believe you fell for this guy,” Robin hisses through her teeth as she gestures to Eddie, who is doing his best impression of a bat by hanging upside down from a tree branch. “You were supposed to bring him to the wedding, not want to marry him.”

“Woah. I said I liked him, not that I wanted to marry him,” Steve whispers.

“For you, that’s basically the same thing.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but she’s right. He may not fall for people often, but when he does, it’s all or nothing. Head over heels. Madly, deeply in love.

Eddie was supposed to be his date for this wedding to appease all the kids, to get them to just shut up already about how single he is and how miserable he is when he comes to events alone. He’s Dustin’s friend, apparently someone just as miserably single as Steve.

He’s weird. Steve likes weird.

He’s loud. Steve likes…his loud.

He’s exciting. Steve needs excitement.

He’s also hot. In a metalhead who didn’t get the memo that the 80s are over, wore jeans and a button-up to a formal event, played air guitar in his seat during the bridal march kind of way.

“He’s fun,” Steve settles on, shrugging. “Aren’t you the one who said I need more fun in my life?”

“I meant, like, a new hobby!”

“He could be my new hobby.”

“Ew,” Robin groans. “Okay. Alright, fine. You wanna be involved with him, be my guest. Dustin says he’s never once seen him in a committed relationship.”

Steve knows. They spent most of yesterday together talking, getting to know each other, making sure they could pass as boyfriends and not people who just met. Steve didn’t care about being single at a wedding, but apparently all of his friends had told Dustin’s mom they were dating behind their backs and now-

“Stevie!” Eddie yells when he notices him talking to Robin at the table. “We could Spiderman kiss!”

Steve glances at Robin, who rolls her eyes and throws her hands up. “Oh my god, just go.”

He stands and walks over to Eddie, who is hanging much lower than he should be for a proper Spiderman kiss. He’s grinning, and his hair has started to fall from its messy bun. Steve cannot believe he’s doing this.

He stands with his hands on his hips, smirking at Eddie trying to hold himself up higher, but not having the strength to do it.

“It would be a lot easier to kiss you if you got down,” Steve says.

Everyone goes silent.

Because everyone who is standing by Eddie– Max, Dustin, Will, and Mike– are all very aware that this was nothing more than a fake date for the wedding. Steve doesn’t need to kiss Eddie when no one is watching; He doesn’t need to kiss even when someone is watching.

Eddie stops trying to lift himself, eyes widening as Steve takes another step closer.

“You’d have to be on that branch to pull it off,” Steve says as he points at the branch about two feet above the one he’s currently on. “Unless I get on my knees.”

Everyone pretends they don’t hear the strangled noise that escapes Eddie.

“You’d get dirty, though. Those are nice pants,” Eddie says, still upside down, face bright red from embarrassment and blood rushing to his head.

“They are,” Steve agrees, laughing as he squats so he’s barely higher than Eddie’s face. “But I have to dry clean them anyway. Might as well get what I’m paying for.”

Steve places his hand on the back of Eddie’s neck and leans in, brushing their lips together softly. It’s awkward because Eddie’s upside down and Steve has no idea how they made it looks so hot in the movie, but-

“This is a turn of events I did not see coming!” Dustin’s new wife, Suzie, claps. “You were so right, Dusty Buns. They’re perfect for each other.”

Steve does what he does best and ignores them, focusing on Eddie, who looks unstable now.

“Do you need help getting down?” Steve asks.

Eddie nods, and Steve moves as quickly as he can to help get him upright so he can climb down. He’s surprised Dustin agreed to an outdoor wedding in the spring with his allergies, but Suzie insisted on having fresh flowers everywhere and would not accept store bought. He’s even more surprised that Eddie, who admitted to having seasonal allergies while they talked at dinner last night, is hanging in trees.

When Eddie’s back on the ground, Steve kisses him for real. A hard press to his lips, tongue brushing against him, teasing.

“Did you climb a tree for attention?” Steve asks him when he pulls away.

“It worked. I can’t be blamed for doing something drastic for you to kiss me.”

“You could’ve just kissed me,” Steve laughs.

Eddie does.

“Still fake? Or can we admit that there’s way more chemistry here than we expected there to be and kiss some more?” He asks.

“I regret doing this. I regret it so much,” Dustin groans as he walks away.

Steve rolls his eyes. “He doesn’t. He’s gonna go do his happy dance where we can’t see him.”

“He has a happy dance?” Eddie asks, smile growing as he leans into Steve’s side.

“Yeah, it’s embarrassing. Let’s go watch.”

[charismatic-writer]

Bun In The Oven (S.R x Fem!Pregnant!Reader)

Summary: (Based off an anonymous request) "Married Spencer Reid x Reader where reader tries to tell Spencer she is pregnant but it goes wrong? Not like angsty, but something unexpected happens?"

Word Count: 808

Warnings: None!

Awaiting Spencer’s arrival back home from his most recent case in Illinois was probably one of the most stressful moments of your life. You had spent all day setting up small hints towards a surprise you had for him once he got home. You spent a large chunk of time moving all of the liquor from its usual cupboard into the back of your bedroom closet, as well as moving your coffee cup from the spot on the counter it is usually found in. The hint you were most excited for was probably one of the more cliché hints of the bunch. During your earlier trip to the grocery store, you picked up a fresh bun from the bakery, placing it inside of your oven. 

Everything had fallen into place just how you had planned, that was until your phone vibrated with a text from Spencer. Your heart ached as you read the message, 

‘The unpredictable Chicago weather has us stuck here for another night. I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. I love you’ 

You knew firsthand how unpredictable the Chicago weather could get, having lived there for a few years as a child. Flight delays were nothing new to the team either, coming across them every few cases. It was just sucky that it had to happen the night you had been planning for over a week. 

Since Spencer was no longer coming home tonight, you decide to call it a night and head to bed earlier than you would on a night like this. You shoot him a quick reply to his original text, and a goodnight before shutting off all lights in the apartment and heading to bed. 

You had woken up early the next morning, a cup of tea grasped in your hands as you sit on the couch. You opted for a nature documentary, the voice of the narrator being nice background noise while you scroll endlessly on your phone until your husband’s inevitable return.  

The clock on the wall above the TV ticks on as the hours pass; each minute feeling like an eternity, that is until you hear the front door unlock and open revealing Spencer standing in the doorway. You practically jump out of your seat, launching yourself at him. 

“Someone missed me,” He quips, placing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“I have a surprise for you, but you have to find the hints I hid around the house.” You say, and admittedly, it was a quite childish game for you to be making your husband play. 

“A surprise?” He asks, an eyebrow raised in suspicion. 

You nod, and lead him into the living room. “Yup! And it starts now!” 

You watch as his eyes adopt a determined glint to them, and he starts looking around the living room. He sifts through the bookshelves, and through the couch cushions. Soon moving on to the bedroom, he looks through drawer and under pillows and blankets. 

While he is doing that, you decide to start on dinner, setting the oven to preheat while you prepare the chicken. As time passes, Spencer has now made his way into the kitchen opening cabinet doors. He comes across the empty liquor cabinet, and makes a mental note of it. As he passes by the oven, though, a peculiar smell hits his nostrils.  

“Is something burning..?” He asks. 

Your head snaps up at his question, whipping around to face him at the sudden recollection of the bun you had put in there not even 24 hours ago. You go to open the oven door, but he holds his hand out to stop you. He grabs a pair of tongs, and opens the door of the oven, retrieving the now burnt bun. 

“Honey what is this?” He asks, holding up the tongs with the bun in their grasp. 

“It’s a bun.” You say, cheeks flushed a dark shade of pink. 

“Darling, Honey, I love you so, so much, but why did you put a singular roll in the oven?” He drops the bun onto the stovetop, setting the tongs next to it. 

“It’s not a roll, it’s a bun!” You can’t help but laugh now, the look he is giving you was priceless. 

“Okay, why did you put a singular bun in the oven?” He asks 

“It’s a BUN in the OVEN.” You reply. “WE have a bun in the oven.” 

“No, I just pulled it out.” He says, his face remains one of confusion. 

“No- Spence-” You sigh. “We’re having a baby.” 

His face becomes one of realization, and a smile grows on his face. “Really?! Oh my God, that’s incredible!” With a few small steps, he crosses the kitchen, and wraps his arms around you. “I can’t believe you almost burnt our kitchen down, but this is amazing!” 

TY FOR READING!!!!

Comments and reblogs are always appreciated

[fixated-cookies]

*get out of your walls* Hi! If you take requests of super epics/epics can I request a Capsaicin cookie headcanons with a tottally opposite reader (male if you can, and like when I say opposite is the COMPLETALLY opposite on everything like he is fire and the reader is ice etc....) if you don't can I request a burning spice x wife!reader? *comes back to your walls*

Thanks for reading! (if you read)

capsaicin cookie? yeahhhhh

He Is loud, brash, and always burning. He's the kind of guy who speaks with his whole chest and moves like he’s got something to prove.

So imagine his SHOCK when he meets you: a man colder than a blizzard, with eyes like winter glass and a voice soft as snowfall.

He’s intrigued. Offended, even. “What—ya think you’re too cool to say hi back?” Cue you blinking once and slowly sipping something cold without answering.

You barely emote. Your whole vibe is "don't melt me." Stoic, dry-humored, and physically chill to the touch. He touches your hand and FLINCHES because— “WHOA! You’re FREEZING!”

Your abilities? Ice-based. Sub-zero blasts. You once froze Capsaicin’s entire lunch mid-rant and said, “You were overheating. I fixed it.”

You have no tolerance for noise... which is 100% of his personality.

Some relationship headcanons hmm..

You’re the definition of still water runs deep. He’s the goddamn volcano it runs beneath.

He calls you things like “Snowflake,” “Cool guy,” or “Chilly buns” to annoy you. You never react. That only makes him do it more.

When he hugs you, he wraps around you twice as tight, because you're so cool his flames naturally start to dim. He doesn't admit it, but he loves the calm you bring.

You cool down his temper. Literally. If he's to excited about something, one single touch from you numbs him—he hates it. Loves it. Needs it.

now NSFW WORK? hehehe

He runs hot. Like skin-sizzling, steam-rising-off-his-body hot. You're ice-cold. The contrast during intimacy? Devastating.

His hands BURN, yours freeze—so when he grips your hips and pulls you onto him, the temperature clash is visible. Steam rises from every touch.

He gets off on your composure breaking. He needs to see you shiver—not from cold, but from him. The one time you moaned his name? He went FERAL for a week straight.

He jokes mid-thrust like, “Hope I’m melting that glacier you call a personality, babe.” You stare him dead in the eye and say, “Barely lukewarm.” He WHINES. He RAMPS IT UP.

Bonus:

He’ll try to “warm you up” by force. Blankets. Cuddles. Tucking you under his cloak. You're visibly annoyed, but secretly love it.

You make him snow cones from scratch. He tries to act cool about it (he fails).

Your kisses? Start cold, end scalding. The temperature always flips midway through. It’s kind of your thing.

---

Before i got into cookie run i used to see this dude EVERYWHERE, he really invoked the himboness I love in men.

[dumbgoondog]

Pet Names and Trouble(P1)

Ft. Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, Kenjaku, Mahito, Nanami

Cw/Tw— Degradation, BDSM dynamics, Sub Dom dynamics, Mahito…

What the men call you! Cute names and dumb names, plus how to know if you’re in trouble!

SATORU GOJO

Pet names- Sugar, sweetheart, lovely, candy, lollipop, beautiful/handsome, honey, and cutie. All interchangeably sometimes he makes up dumb pet names too.

Dumb Pet Names- Cutie booty, Squeaky toy, smoochems(doesn’t know the pkmm)

“You’re in trouble”- Baby. Y/N.

SUGURU GETO

Pet Names- Darling, Dearest, lover, sweetheart, my love, and my blessing. Mostly uses darling tho

Dumb Pet Names- Pookie(started as a joke), Monkey(even dumber joke), and Bumpy.

“You’re in trouble”- no nicknames, doesn’t even use your name, he’s just quiet and watching. Probably plannin

RYOMEN SUKUNA

Pet Names- Woman/Boy, Pet, and something based on your name. Not really a pet names guy.

Dumb Pet Names- Snack, leftover, and Chuck. He thinks he’s funny, and he is funny. He probably won’t compromise unless you give him better.

“You’re in trouble”- your full name. He says it slow too, with a low growl.

KENJAKU

Pet Names- Lovely, lover, love, princess/prince, mi amor, love of my life, and things of that nature.

Dumb Pet Names- hot pants, twinkle toes, dancer, you have to wonder why they call you these things but honestly you might never get an answer past that tongue out smiling shrug.

“You’re in trouble”- Firecracker an inconspicuous one, especially in public. Y/N as well but is a happy little hum where he might squeeze your shoulder or waist.

MAHITO

Pet Names- Bunny, Birdie, baby, bug, ladybug, butterfly, I dunno why B based names feel right but they do.

Dumb Pet Names- bumpky, buggles, squooshy, Bitsy, butt cheek. Also Y/N but add an “ee” to it but if it ends in an “ee” noise it’s becoming “in” (ie. Nanami->Nanamin)

“You’re in trouble”- Pet or Human. Don’t run, it makes him more excited.

KENTO NANAMI

Pet Names- honey bun, sweetie, and sweetheart. Simple and sweet.

Dumb Pet Names- dumpy, he wanted to say “dumpling” and “sweetie” and called you dumpy. He’s so embarrassed by it, please wear it like a badge of honor tho.

“You’re in trouble”- lover, lover of mine, and my love.

[euphorajeon]

For 1k celebration! How about my time and jungkook with it??

Also congratulations my love 💖

opposite of sun

— request: jeongguk + my time - bts

— pairing: jk x f. reader

— genre: fluff, angst

— word count: 1.8k

— warnings/tags: idol!jk, college student!oc, mild angst (it's rly mild i promise!), they're best friends (i rly gotta stop writing this trope,,,)

— summary: jeongguk has a peculiar way of dealing with time difference.

— author's note: hello luv! thanks for requesting :) i really enjoyed writing this one eheh i hope you enjoy reading it too~

masterlist

There are a few things Jeon Jeongguk does not like about his life as a singer.

One, that constantly looms above his head, is how busy his schedule is. His days are filled to the brim with performing, song recording, photoshoots, video shoots, company meetings, and a long list of things in between. Some days, he could barely stay awake. Some days, he forgot the last time he ate. Some days don’t feel like days because all he saw was the inside of a building. Some days he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Two, the lack of privacy. There’s always someone watching his every move, waiting for him to fuck up. This extends to his closest people as well, his parents, his brother, even his non-famous best friend, you. Jeongguk could not forget the time he accidentally revealed he has a long-time girl best friend on a livestream. The media went crazy, trying to make headlines that would cause the most noise with wild rumors and assumptions. It took the PR team almost a month to divert the media attention to something else, along with a livestream ban for Jeongguk for three months.

Three, the one he’s facing right now, is time difference. As a singer, Jeongguk travels a lot to other time zones outside of KST, oftentimes resulting in jetlag. It’s not too troublesome when he visits another Asian country, the time difference only one to two hours, but when he’s on the other side of the world like now, it feels like his whole world is a jumbled mess.

Jeongguk plops down on the couch in his hotel room, glancing at the clock on his phone screen before tapping the FaceTime button. His reflection stares back at him as the call rings, the only thing visible on the screen just his eyes and sweaty strands of hair. He’s running his fingers through his damp hair when the call finally connects.

“Sorry, sorry! I— wow, eyes. And forehead,” you say in lieu of a proper greeting. Jeongguk grins, even though you can’t see it.

“Hi, Bun,” he greets. “Whatcha doin’?”

Jeongguk’s nickname for you is fairly new, only conjured up after his accidental slip on livestream, but it rolls off his tongue easily as if he’s been calling you Bun since you were both thirteen, when your friendship first started. It stems from his fear that anything has ears and if he says your name, someone somewhere could use it to dig up information about you. Although you’d rolled your eyes at him the first time, he knows you appreciate the thought.

Also, contrary to your friends’ beliefs, bun here stands for bread, not bunny. It’s known to the people who know you that you love bread. Steamed bun, milk bun, melon bbang, chocolate bread, cheese sticks, anything. But despite this knowledge and your protests, your friends still hoot in teasing whenever Jeongguk video calls you and drops the nickname. Jeongguk tries to prevent his grin from blossoming more when he sees you pretending to ignore your friends’ teasing.

“Studying,” you answer with a roll of your eyes, before a grin matching the one on Jeongguk’s face overtakes your feature. “What about you, superstar? Bet it’s more exciting than…” you glance at the paper in front of you, “the study of the economic impact of singer Jeon Jeongguk on South Korea.”

Jeongguk laughs. “You are not studying about my economic impact on SK.”

You hold up a finger, snatching the paper off the table to shove it into your phone camera. Then the pair of your eyes appear above said paper, hogging Jeongguk’s screen much like his eyes are hogging yours. “Read, Jeon Jeongguk. Read,” you say menacingly.

The words on your paper blur in his sight as he focuses more on the dark bags under your eyes. Even through a shitty video call connection, it’s apparent that you haven’t had a good rest for some time.

“Bun, have you been sleeping okay?”

Your eyebrows shoot up and you stare at him like he has three heads. “Jeon, I’m a college student. Asking me that at two AM is like asking you if you’re resting okay.”

Jeongguk sits up from his leaning back position on the couch, alarmed. “It’s two AM over there? It’s— fuck, it’s two AM. What are you doing still studying, Bun? You should be sleeping right now.”

All the exhaustion he felt from the flight, the jetlag, the rehearsal right after just evaporates the moment he realizes you’re still studying in the hour you should be sleeping. He should’ve been there with you, studying and reminding you to get some rest when the hours got late. He wishes he were there next to you.

“He’s a celebrity so he wouldn’t know what this feels like, huh?”

That was one of your friends, off camera. It sounds a bit distant but Jeongguk caught his words perfectly. Although he’s not wrong, Jeongguk could feel bitterness rising in his chest, one he fights so hard to suppress lest this causes a fight between you and him.

“Sorry, Jeon, he’s just stressed about the midterms. Don’t take it to heart, yeah?”

Jeongguk forces a smile on his lips, one tight pull of muscle that’s far from his grin earlier. “No, he’s right. I wouldn’t know how it feels like being stressed about the midterms just like he wouldn’t know how it feels rehearsing for a performance only an hour after you landed in New York. It’s okay.”

Ah, the bitterness still slips out. He’s tired. He feels guilt slowly replace the bitterness when he sees your downcast eyes. He shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Fuck.

“Sorry, Bun. Not your fault.” He sighs.

“It’s fine. We’re all tired.” You give him a small smile. “You said you were rehearsing for a performance? What performance?”

“Surprise performance, actually. It’ll be in Times Square later at six.”

There’s a gasp from your side of the call, before a short squeal is heard. You glance at someone behind your phone, letting out a chuckle. “You just spoiled a surprise performance to a very excited Yeseo,” you say.

“Since when do your friends listen to my songs?” Jeongguk laughs disbelievingly. He knows your college friends by name, and as far as he does, no one in your friend group actually listens to his songs enough to get excited at the prospect of a surprise performance.

“Last week. She heard ‘Yes or No’ when I was going through your album and hasn’t shut up about it since.”

“Thanks, Yeseo,” Jeongguk says. “It’s on the setlist for the performance later.”

A bang on the table. Then Yeseo’s excited shriek sounds, making your other friends on the table groan. Tell your boyfriend to shut up! one of them says. You stuck your tongue out at whoever it was before getting up from your seat, taking your phone with you. The image of you from a low angle as you walk away from your friends almost makes Jeongguk chuckle. He misses being able to see your double chin live in front of his eyes.

“Apologies for Yeseo. She’s very excited,” you say when you’ve settled down somewhere more quiet. “Are you excited for the performance later? Confident?”

“I will be if I know you’re watching,” Jeongguk hums. He fixes his best puppy dog look as he looks at you with so much hope in his eyes. “Will you? It’ll be on YouTube, six PM New York time.”

“That’s … hold on,” you tap around on your phone, the image of you on his screen shaking as you do. “That’s seven AM here in Korea. I’d probably be asleep, though. Midterm’s at nine.”

Jeongguk pouts. “Time difference sucks.”

“It does,” you agree. “But time zones aside, our times are already different. Like, if you have a recording for a music show in Korea at six AM KST, I still wouldn’t be able to attend. Because—“

“That’s why you never come? Because the recording is always early in the morning?”

“No, because they’re always on weekdays. And I have class. Or work. I’m not one of your rich fans, you know.”

“But you’re my best friend,” Jeongguk sulks, his frown deepening.

“Your college student best friend. Who has classes, essays to write, papers to do, midterms, finals…”

Jeongguk is quiet. There’s a pop up notification on his phone, telling him rest time is over in 15 minutes. His manager must’ve set this reminder when he was rehearsing, knowing very well about his tendency to lose track of time when given free time. Suddenly, all your differences flash before his eyes, and it feels like a gaping chasm in your friendship. Did you always feel this far away from him?

“I wish I were a college student too,” he whispers wistfully. “Then we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

“You are, though?” you sound genuinely confused. He doesn’t know if you missed the longing tint in his voice or just decided to ignore it. “You’re still enrolled in Global Cyber University, right?”

“Yeah, but,” Jeongguk sucks in a breath, searching for words that say what he wants to convey without actually saying them. He comes up empty, though, with every combination of words sounding as desperate as the last. Eventually, he settles on: “It’s different.”

“Ey, it’s different to accomodate people like you. No one in their right mind would go to a regular college if they have a schedule as crazy as yours.” You shake your head while waving your hand around, misinterpreting what he means by different. “You know, your fans must be so proud of you. Attending college while performing all around the world.”

“Are you proud of me?” The words tumble out before Jeongguk’s brain can catch up. In hindsight, it’s a normal thing to ask your best friend. But maybe, in the tiny corner of his mind, sits something he doesn’t want to admit yet: maybe he wants more.

“I am,” comes your instant reply. “I always am, Jeongguk.”

In the darkness of the night, under a single lightbulb lighting up your face, Jeongguk sees 15-year-old you, hugging his lanky figure and saying you were proud of him for finally debuting. Your dreams! They have come true! you’d said. Your eyes were shining, hopeful, excited for what’s to come for him. Although you’ve lost the child-like enthusiasm, Jeongguk knows you’ll always support him in anything he does.

Now he’s the one who’s lost. In your eyes, dim with exhaustion but full of warmth still. You have your cheek in your hand, lips moving. The words you’re saying sound like a buzz in his ears, only catching a stray one that’s unusual for your vocabulary: melancholic.

You’re still talking. He doesn’t care.

“Do you want to come to New York?”

Time difference sucks. Jeongguk’s solution?

Get rid of it.

a/n: thank you for reading! requests are still open but pls note it will take time for me to write them all hehe