#HEAVY CLUB >:D | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lanadelreyscokewhor3 · 5 months ago

Text

YUCK!- D. GRAYSON

pairing: richboy! dick grayson x girly! innocent!fem! reader

word count: 3.8k

part two here! part three here!

summary: dick grayson was not a relationship man. he was brooding, cold and much prefered a one night stand- but when you caught his eye at a club, everything changes. so long mr. brooding, and hello head over heels dick!

warnings: sexual thoughts/ implications but nothing happens this chapter, pet names, size kink implied, drinking mentioned, swearing, dick really just turns into a lover boy who is obsessed and possesive with reader hehe

"yuck, now you got me blushin'/ cheeks so red when the blood starts rushing/ yuck, that boy's so mushy, sending me flowers, i'm just tryna get lucky/ yuck, lookin' at me all sucky/ yuck, quit acting like a puppy/ fuck, going all lovey-dovey on me"- yuck, charli xcx

Dick Grayson had his eyes on you.

He watched for hours, simply waiting. He had always been quiet, elegant and sly.

Like a black cat in the night, he slithered his way across a room- seeming to work it without saying a word.

Where the others wore bright reds and soft hues of blue, he wore black. A stark contrast from anyone in the room- he was expected to stick out like a sore thumb. But somehow, he fit right in.

Mingling with others around him, his friends and the bartender when he needed another beer- reading lips over the loud thud of the heavy bass in the club. The bright lights flashed across the room, illuminating pockets and spreads of people from all over Gotham, coated in their daddy’s money- the pink and blue hues catching the glimmer of their diamonds.

But none of them shined as bright as you.

There you were- the spotlight of his eye from where you danced in front of him. You were oblivious, of course- a drink in your hand as you closed your eyes and leaned your head against what he presumed was one of your friends as you swayed your hips to the music.

He couldn't look away.

The way you moved was entrancing.

Not a diamond or emerald on your body, and yet- you seemed to be worth more than anyone at this posh, frat-boys, daddy’s money club.

Was it because you seemed different? Maybe.

Dick Grayson had his fair share of flings and one night stands in his time- but you made him want to try a new approach. Something more than just buying you a drink and taking you home.

And he wasn't sure if that pleased something in him- or terrified him.

There you were, in your sexy little skirt, something resembling go-go boots giving you spunk in your step, with each twirl and spin you did. He bit his lip, body becoming tense all over as he allowed the dirty, sinful thoughts of what he wanted to do to cloud his mind, like the haze that hung over the crowd.

That skirt alone had sent him reeling, clinging onto his self control he had suddenly seemed to lose as he thought of how sweet you’d taste under it.

How soft your thighs would be when he placed sloppy kisses across them,tugging your panties to the side before diving in fully- how sweet you’d taste.

And the little noises you’d make as he savoured you- an extra little whine and squeal as he’d tug on your precious little clit… Fuck.

He closed his eyes, fully tuned out of the conversation Tim was currently trying to have with him and the rest of the group, gripping his beer tight enough the glass started to crack.

He wondered if you’d be shy in bed, or a challenge. Either way- he was eager to find out.

He could always coax the shy ones, or tame the feisty ones. None of them would compare to you, though. He could feel it.

“... Dude. Dick. Are you with us?” a voice called, Tims eyebrows raised in concern, zoning in on his face that seemed tense. “Yeah, yeah man fuck sorry. Just got distracted.”

His eyes followed Dicks gaze- where you stood, mouthing the words to some Charli XCX song with your friends, giggling like schoolgirls.

A little whistle left his lips as he found Dicks line of attack, a smirk on his face. “You did good man. All is forgiven.”

Dick snarled as he patted his back, making the rest of the guys chuckle. “Don’t test me Drake. Seriously.”

Tim threw up his hands in mock defense, that same smirk plastered across his face. He always tried to get under Dicks skin. And Dick hated when it worked.

He was a possessive man- not so materialistic wise (though he did have a pretty penny), but when it came to you? It was as if the world had suddenly stopped spinning on its axis. He didn't even know your name.

He was fucking whipped.

“You gonna go talk to her with your rich boy charm, or are you gonna keep staring like some fuckin creep?”

“I’m trying to engage in a conversation, so I’d rather observe. Thanks though.” Dick mumbled, nursing his drink.

He hadn't studied you enough yet from the sidelines. He didn't need any surprises.

“If by conversation you mean staying silent like always while you act all vigilant like- you’re doing great.” one of the guys joked, and he couldn't help but roll his eyes.

“Seriously man, if you don't go for her- I might.”

The stare he sent Tims way was enough to silence him mid sentence, pursing his lips before taking a swig of his own drink. “Jesus man I’m kidding. But go get your girl. She's getting away.”

His eyes snapped back to where you stood, but all there was was a flurry of motion. You slipped through the crowd, smiling softly to everyone you passed by, so innocent and sweet it made him dizzy with want.

Without a word, he chugged the rest of his drink, slinking after you like a minx. “And don't just follow her like some stalker dude!” a voice behind him called, that he so conveniently ignored.

Cracking his knuckles, he glared at a frat boy who eyed you up and down after you passed him, fighting back an audible growl at the man. He had to calm himself the fuck down. It's not like you were his, not yet anyways- and he truly had no business being all up in your business.

But those nagging thoughts were dialed down in his brain as he watched you slip out of the club's doors, past the bouncers and line up outside- as if he turned down a volume knob.

He had to follow you. It wasn't safe alone at night, not for you, anyways.

When he had you under his wing, he’d never let this happen again.

Why the fuck werent your friends leaving with you? Were they really your friends?

He had to have this talk with you later on. It wasn't cool they were just letting you leave at- he checked his watch, just after midnight on a Friday night.

Baring the constant Gotham chill, he kept his distance (and failed), blending in with the night. He wanted to scream at you, look! See how easy this is for me? Just to sneak up on you like this, practically breathing in the smell of your perfume?

But he kept his mouth shut, frightening anyone who looked in your direction.

To everyone else, he appeared like some deranged bodyguard. To you- well you were truly oblivious. Humming a tune he had heard early at the club, you skipped along the sidewalk, creating a vomit trail of rainbows, sparkles and kitties wherever your boots touched.

It was like the clouds had parted just for you, moonlight shining down on your hair. It made something flutter in his stomach.

Butterflies? No, it couldn't be. Butterflies had never taken flight in his stomach, only bats. Cold, dark bats that churned with anxiety.

But a weight seemed to be lifted as he watched over you, protecting you from perceived threats. This just made sense to him. To be watching over you like this.

It felt right.

He stopped, watching as you opened the door that housed a cozy, dimmed cocktail bar. The smell of vanilla and soft cashmere enveloped his senses, disappearing as fast as it came when the glass door fell shut.

He stood, waiting.

After a minute, he decided. He needed another drink, it seemed.

---------------------------------------------------

You had walked to the first place you could think of. Tommy’s, on 56th and 8th. It was perfect, a five minute walk from the club you were desperately trying to escape.

The thudding music and sardine of bodies was fun- until it wasn't. You had quickly grown tired of the buzz, your head pumping as hard as the base from the drinks and people.

You much preferred the quiet hum of people that chatted at their tables in the bar, soft jazz music playing from the speakers.

You were out of place in your outfit- but you couldn't care less. You needed quiet, and alone time.

You waved cheerfully at the bartender on shift- Carter. You knew him from the few times you had stopped by, and he was always so sweet.

Your friends all told you he was flirting and you were just oblivious to it- but you disagreed. He was just being sweet, probably because you tipped him well- with what little money you had. Tonight was no different than any other, he dropped everything he was doing to come over to you with a smile plastered on his face as you slid up on the barstool, letting your feet dangle.

“Hi Carter.”

“Hi, you. Regular?” You nodded, watching as he got to work, grabbing the vodka and orange triple sec. You let your gaze wander over to the mirror behind him, resting your head in your hand as you noted your smeared lipgloss and the raindrops that had soaked through your white sleeves.

You were distracted though from nitpicking your appearance too much- as you eyes darted over to the hunk of a man who lingered in the shadows behind you.

The bar was dimmed already, candlelights flickering on each table illuminating an eerie glow- and the soft spotlights under the bar didn’t add much. But he stood out, somehow to you.

His hard, dark eyes were staring at you, as if he were trying to figure you out.

Your gaze met his in the reflection, and his instantly softened, a playful little smile just barely hinting on his face. You felt your cheeks heat and you quickly averted your gaze, before meeting his again.

Now he wore a full smirk. As if you fell right into his trap. Yet, he just watched as you got your cosmo, sipping on it slowly.

The drink was sweet, just as you liked it, and you savoured the taste of citrus on your tongue as you watched Carter tend to the bar, watching his hands quickly fly around all over the place, a hand on a bottle before it was wrapped around a glass, passing it over the counter to anyone who’d come over with a card to swipe.

It was mesmerising, really. But not as mesmerizing as the mystery man's cold, hard demeanour that seemed to linger throughout the room- his attentions directed at you.

It made you squirm, and left a weird, tingly feeling in the pit of your core. You shifted, thighs rubbing together as you finished the last sip of your drink, a soft clink sounding as you slammed it down on the bartop.

Just as you were about to pull out your card from your purse, a low, gruff voice emerged from beside you, a large arm extended with a shiny black amex card glittering in his hand.

The mystery man.

“Just add it under my card. Thanks.” He told Carter, barely sparing him a glance before all his attention was focused on you again.

Carter could hardly sputter a word out before he was shooed- the man fully turned to face you, his large, broad shoulders practically shielding you from anything else but him.

“Wouldn't want a pretty lil thing like you paying, now would we?”

You just stared at him with wide eyes, mouth practically gaping open.

He was beautiful. Even more so up close. The smell of his cologne was intoxicating. You wanted to bury your face into his cashmere sweater and bite his biceps like some teething child.

Woah, okay. Drunk you talking. Pump the breaks.

“Well thank you sir, but I promise you don’t have to do that. I can pay for myself.”

He just laughed.

“Sir? Dont treat me like I’m some old man, bunny. I’m only a few years older than you- if that.”

You looked away, tongue tied and flustered with the way he was staring at you. “I’m so sorry, I was just trying to be polite and jus-”

“Hey, hey I’m just teasing. It’s really cute.”

You giggled as he sat down in the stool beside you, making it look play sized. “So you decided to come over cause we were playing eye tag?”

“Something like that.”

You snorted, toying with the rim of your empty glass. “And here I thought you were coming over to compliment my hair.”

His eyes glimmered with amusement, clearly enjoying your drunken jests.

“I think your hair is lovely.”

“Do you think I’m lovely?”

His eyes darkened with lust, and you watched as he reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips, planting a soft kiss on the skin.

“I think you are divine.”

You giggled. “Are you going to try and kiss me sometime tonight?”

“If you’ll let me.” You pursed your lips together swinging your feet as you thought. You did really wanna kiss him. But you didnt even know his name.

“I’m Dick. Dick Grayson.”

Nevermind, that clears that up.

“Y/N.” You darted your lips, mouth suddenly feeling dry. Hot. Did you want this man to come back with you to your apartment? Yeah, actually- you did.

He seemed nice. You didnt realize you had blurted that outloud until he broke the silence with a loud laugh, practically shaking in his seat.

“You dont just invite a man back to your place because he seems nice, bunny. What if I was dangerous?”

Your eyes widdened. “Are you dangerous?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“You don't seem dangerous. You seem nice. And you smell good. And you paid for my drink, which you did not have to do. So I like you.”

You brought your hands together, jumping up from the stool with a start, wobbling slightly. “Well! I suppose we ought to go explore.” Carter raised his eyebrow, slowly and silently sliding Dicks card back over the counter.

“Carter, it was lovely to see you- as always. My concondalences.” you blew him a kiss, swinging your purse over your shoulder. He contored his face in confusion.

“Condolences? For what?”

“No idea. I guess for being you, and having your life. Goodnight!”

And with that, you left the door swinging on your way out, an extremely stunned looking Carter staring at you from behind the glass pane.

------------------------------------------------

“So, you just get ice cream? No matter the weather?” Dick asked you, taking a lick of his mint chip ice cream you had nagged him to buy, as the two of you made your way back to your apartment.

You looked like a married couple.

It was cold, dark and late, and he had slipped his jacket over your shoulders. It felt like a dress.

But no matter the weather, you got ice cream. There was no need for an occasion. Ice cream should be an everyday occasion, actually.

“The weather doesn't control anything, silly. Same with holidays. Why can’t we celebrate Halloween on a random Tuesday? Makes no sense to me.” You shrugged, licking your cone, ice cream dripping down on your fingers.

You felt Dicks eyes on you as you laughed, smearing soft serve on the tip of your nose. You were nearing your place, and you insisted you wanted Dick to come up with you.

Though you were extremely drunk, you knew he would take care of you. You just had a feeling you couldn't quite shake.

“Have I told you how handsome you are?” you asked, steadying yourself as you clung to his arm, as he guided you up the steps to your building.

You had given him your address, per his request- so he could actually get you home safely instead of just wandering around random streets trying to remember.

“You’ve told me many times tonight. It’s very sweet of you to say, bunny.”

“Kay. Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

He couldn't help but laugh, watching as you tried to search for your keys with one hand. He reached in his pocket, the jangling of your pink keychains capturing your attention immediately.

“How did you get those?”

“You gave them to me, remember?”

You shook your head.

“Oh bunny. What are we gonna do with you?” he tsked, clucking his lips as he took the last bite of his ice cream before unlocking the door, following you up the stairs to your place.

Honestly, he was beyond blessed you had captured his eye tonight- because he didn't even want to think about how you'd get home. You were too trustworthy, too sweet and kind to anyone who “seemed nice”.

He was pretty sure if he told Tim you said he “seemed nice” he would have a laughing fit so hard he’d die from asphyxiation. But here was now, to protect you, and to keep you safe from your own nativity.

He’d teach you how you should behave. With him, only trusting him. Other people would just take advantage of you.

“We’re here!” you smiled, taking the last bite of your ice cream cone, chewing happily as the waffle cone seemed to melt in your mouth.

“You should be a doorman, handling my keys and stuff. Do they do that?”

“No idea. But I don't think you should be giving anyone your keys but me. Got it?”

You nodded, leaning against the doorframe as he (once again) unlocked your door, leading you inside your own apartment.

“Thanks for taking care of me Dickie. I really, really appreciate it.” you slurred, stumbling in as he found the lightswitch, flickering the lights on.

He smiled to himself as he looked around, your apartment being so very you- and so against him. It was soft and light, gentle shades of pink and white, with bows and frills galore. Little trinkets were scattered around, with magnets on the fridge.

It looked- lived in.

He felt like he was home, and he had been in here for less than five minutes. Or maybe that was just you- amplified times a million. Everything smelt like you, reminded him of your bubbly personality- it was impossible not to marvel.

You plopped yourself on the couch, somehow toppling over the back so your legs were sprawled like a newborn fawns in the air.

He tried so hard not to look as your skirt rose up, giving him the perfect view of your dainty little panties that made him hard as a fucking rock.

He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath before approaching you, towering over the side of the couch as his fingers found the zippers to your boots.

”Let's get these off now, okay pretty girl?”

“Mhgm” was all you could mutter out as he began to slowly work them off your feet, setting them down on the floor neatly, so they wouldn't be a tripping hazard in the morning.

“You wanna get to bed silly?”

“Mghm. I’m sleeping here- can’t move. Too weak.” you murmured, hand flung over your eyes, hiding from the light. He chuckled.

“Too weak eh? Such a lil thing, aren't cha?” he taunted, wasting no time to get you into his arms, carrying you like a princess to the room he presumed was your bedroom.

You barely let out a protest, quickly nuzzling into his chest as he took careful steps, trying not to rock you.

“Can just pick you up so easily. You’re such a pretty girl.” he smiled, planting a kiss to your head, before setting you down on the bed.

“Can you stay?” you asked, reaching out to grasp his hand, curling it around his finger. He nodded.

“Of course, bunny. Let me just get you some water, okay?”

You nodded, mumbling incoherent phrases as he made his way over the scattered clothes (and thongs) on your bedroom floor, back out to the kitchen.

What would Tim make of all of this shit? He thought to himself as he grabbed a glass, filling it with cold water from the fridge.

He wouldn't believe him, if Dick told him. Here he was, caring for you like you were his girlfriend, and to be honest, in Dicks mind- you already were his.

You were so different, he just couldnt explain it. So no, he didnt want just a quick drunk fuck to get off- he wanted to care for you, to make sure you were tucked in bed safely.

His heart had gone soft, it seemed- he chuckled to himself as he made a quick trip to the bathroom, opening cupboards above the sink to fish for some advil.

You’d definitely need this.

“I’m back, bunny. See? I'm not leaving.” he smiled softly as you stirred, rubbing your eyes. He set the glass and meds down on your nightstand, brushing your exposed shoulder softly.

“I brought some meds okay? Let's take them now, so it's not as bad in the morning.”

You nodded, but made no movement to get up and take them yourself. Your brain was fuzzy and the room seemed to spin.

Sensing this, he slowly guided you to sit up, hand cradling your back as he placed the pills in your mouth, tilting your head back slowly to get you to swallow with water.

“Atta girl, there we go. Did you swallow?” he asked, and you stuck out your tongue, showing the pills were gone.

The action alone sent his thoughts completely in the other direction, and he cursed himself for it. He’d have to relieve himself before bed tonight, in your bathroom.

Oh well.

“Good girl. Let's get some sleep now, okay?”

“Okay. Gnight Dickie.” you smiled softly to yourself as you slumped back onto the bed, passed out in seconds. He sighed as he stood back up to his full height, watching your hands grip the sheets as you dozed.

Sleeping in those clothes couldn't be comfortable, but he didn't want to remove anything without you being conscious, or giving full consent. So for now, he’d leave them.

He was sure he’d hear all about it the next morning, how you couldn't sleep in outdoor clothes on the bed- or whatever shit girls always said- but it was worth keeping his distance, and hearing the bickering.

His phone buzzed- Tims contact flashing across his screen.

Tim: Well? You get lucky?

He smirked to himself.

Dick: Something like that. I’m taking the couch tonight.

He threw his phone somewhere in the cushions as he grabbed a blanket, stripping down to his boxers.

He had one last trip before bed, and his cock seemed to be reminding him like a snoozed alarm every two minutes. When he finally managed to slip to the bathroom and seek his much needed relief- all he could do was stare at himself in the mirror, his hands gripping the sink.

Dick Grayson had gone soft.

And the worst part? He fucking loved it.

1K notes · View notes

bzurk · 10 months ago

Text

“Reader who decided to go to like a free use club pretty much, the only thing showing was her ass/legs/pussy the rest of her was hidden behind a wall Met 4 people anonymously online and they agreed to play out that fantasy so she wasn't fucked by a whole bunch of random people, had the explicit request that they write those cheese things on her in sharpie yk like "cum slut" "cock whore" just all that, so even when she washes it off for a few days those will be lingering Back at work she bends down to grab something, her shirt hikes up and Johnny very clearly sees their captain's hand writing on her Ohoho they found their little anonymous minx”

um sorry not sorry

cw: f!reader, free use, degradation, spanking

Your calves burned from the strain of your high heels, legs straight and stretched and precariously balanced. They made your legs look miles long, smooth and soft, every curve begging to be touched - just like you'd planned. But now, you cursed them. The arch of your feet screamed in protest with every subtle shift in your stance, the balls of your feet aching under your weight, throbbing with the relentless pressure.

Your ankles wobbled every now and then, fighting to keep your balance, your toes cramping in their confines. This wasn’t part of the fantasy you’d imagined, this strain, this dull, incessant pain that throbbed in sync with your racing heartbeat. Tears burned your eyes.

You’d surely made a mistake. Nobody was coming, you’d been lied to. Made to stand, exposed, like a gullible fool. The cold air against your bare skin felt cruel, mocking, the chill biting at your flesh as if the room itself knew you'd been abandoned.

How could you have fallen for it? They’d seemed so genuine online, so convincing, playing into every fantasy. Too good to be true, and now you were paying for it.

The hole in the wall felt like a pillory, an embarrassing punishment you’d walked yourself into. The first tear slid down your cheek, bitter and hot, when the door creaked open behind you.

A presence filled the air, thick and heavy, making your heart lurch. Your breath hitched in your throat, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. Footsteps echoed faintly on the floor, each one slow, deliberate, purposeful. Someone was there. You could feel their eyes on you, their gaze grazing your exposed body like a physical touch, and your skin prickled with the awareness of it.

Closer. The footsteps drew nearer, the weight of their approach filling the room, pressing against you from all sides. You were trapped, your heart pounding in your ears, your body trembling - not from the cold anymore, but from the anticipation, the fear of what came next.

The footsteps stopped just behind you, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of their presence against your bare skin. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding as the silence thickened, tension coiling tighter around you with each second that dragged by. You couldn't see them, couldn't move, your body frozen in place as you waited, nerves crackling like electricity beneath your skin.

The bench under your chest was slick with sweat as you wriggled in place, brimming with a nervous, anticipatory energy with no way to expel it, the wall chafing around your waist.

It started when a single finger brushed the small of your back, the touch light as a feather, yet sending shockwaves through your entire body. It lingered, tracing slow, delicate patterns against your skin, feather-light, teasing. You bit your lip to stifle a moan, your breath coming in ragged pants as the anticipation built to an unbearable peak.

They had to hurry, hurry up, or you’d combust. They’d already left you waiting so long. But you had no say in this, did you? You’d signed it away, the ball no longer in your court, and you loved it. If just a fingertip felt electric, what would their hands feel like, their mouths, their cocks?

Then, without warning, a hand cupped your ass cheek, a firm grip that left no doubt who was in control. The touch was exhilarating, jolting through you, and you gasped, body arching reflexively, hips pressing backward into the touch, heels arching and shoes scrambling against the floor. A deep, gravelly chuckle rumbled in the room, a sound that sent chills down your spine.

“What a convenient little hole,” the stranger purred, their voice a low, husky growl, dripping with hunger. “Just what we need, hm?” Their words washed over you, heat blooming in your belly as they squeezed your ass, each touch igniting you further. “Waited so patiently, didn’t you?” A pause, deliberate, as the grip tightened. “Already so needy.”

A second set of hands, just as large and firm as the first, ghosted over your other cheek, squeezing, kneading, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. You moaned, unable to control the sound that spilled from your lips.

"That's what I thought," came a second voice, low and pleased, dripping with satisfaction. “Now, relax,” it commanded, the edge of authority sharp and undeniable.

Without warning, they spread you apart, exposing every inch of you in the most humiliating way, a wet squelch echoing as your body responded, slick and desperate. And then you felt it - hot, hard, the head of a cock pressing insistently against your entrance, seeking its way in.

Please, please, pleasepleaseplease-

The words swirled in your mind, a mantra of pure desperation, but the only sound that left your lips was a pathetic, needy whine. Your knees shook, weak under the weight of your need as those hands pulled away, leaving you trembling, exposed, wanting.

“No, no, please-” you hiccuped into your arms, folded beneath your head, the words breaking as a sob slipped through. Your hips twitched, pressing helplessly against the bench beneath you, desperate for more, the burn of their touch still scorching your skin.

"You look just like I imagined," one of them murmured, deep and smooth, tinged with dark amusement. New hands trailed up your thighs, teasing, maddeningly close to where you needed them most, only to pull away, leaving you gasping. “You’ll take what we give you," they chuckled, revelling in your frustration. “No more, no less.”

"You’re already soaked," the first voice purred, thick with approval, the smug satisfaction dripping from every word. It made your cheeks burn, the heat crawling down your neck, flushing your skin as much as the desperate ache between your legs. You were on fire, burning with the humiliation of your own need, the way your body betrayed you with every twitch, every quiver.

A shameless moan wrenched its way from your throat as a finger slid inside you, cool and deliberate, parting your slick folds and delving deep. It scraped against your insides, slow and unhurried, dragging out the sensation until your toes curled and your back arched. You couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop yourself, the sheer intensity of the intrusion sending shockwaves of pleasure rocketing through you, making you gasp, shudder, pressing back into the touch.

You could feel their eyes on you, could hear the amusement in their chuckles as they watched you squirm, watched you fall apart with just a finger.

“Look at you,” the second voice murmured, closer now, a whisper against your skin that sent shivers racing down your spine. “Already falling apart, and we’ve barely touched you.”

A whimper slipped past your lips, your hips bucking involuntarily as that finger curled inside you, hitting just the right spot, sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your already overwhelmed senses. Your mind was a haze, lost in the sensation, every nerve on fire, every touch igniting something raw and primal within you.

"More," you whispered, though the word came out broken, ragged. It was barely more than a breath, a plea that hung in the air between you.

But the fingers stilled, pulling back just enough to leave you aching, empty, desperate.

A strong hand came down hard against your ass cheek, the sharp sting radiating through your body like lightning. You gasped, more from shock than pain, though the heat spread quickly, leaving your skin tingling.

"Good holes don’t talk," one of them growled, firm and commanding, the words biting into you like a warning.

The authority in his tone left no room for argument, no space for anything but submission. You bit your lip, swallowing down any protest, your heart racing as the stinging warmth from the slap settled into a dull, aching throb. Your whole body tensed, bracing for more, every muscle coiled tight as you fought to suppress the need rising inside you, the urge to beg.

Another hand slid across your other cheek, soothing where the other had struck, a dark contrast between punishment and comfort. They knew what they were doing, playing with you, keeping you on the edge. The air around you felt charged, thick with the scent of your arousal and the oppressive weight of their presence.

Another hand, rough and confident, settled firmly on your hip, pulling you back just slightly, aligning your body with their demands. The head of a cock pressed against your entrance again, the heat radiating from it a stark reminder of what was to come.

“You asked for more,” the voice purred, satisfied. “So be a good hole and take what you’re given.”

The command was clear, the tone brooking no argument. Your body, trembling and desperate, responded instinctively, hips arching back, seeking that elusive pleasure that seemed just out of reach. Each touch, each command, was a reminder of the power dynamics at play, of the role you’d willingly accepted and now had no choice but to fulfil.

And just like that, one of them was inside you, one thrust, hard and deep, claiming you with a dominance that left you breathless, gasping. They didn’t stop, didn’t slow, another thrust and another, each one driving you deeper into the bench, the world around you falling away as you clung to the burning sensation that seared through your every nerve.

“Tight, so damn tight,” he panted, a mixture of awe and lust in his voice as he continued to pound into you, relentless and merciless. The rhythm was all-consuming, the sound of skin slapping against skin the only thing that broke the silence, punctuated by your strangled moans and their low groans of pleasure.

The bench creaked below you, cheap wood protesting under the onslaught of their hips, of your desperate grinding as they fucked you, each thrust driving you further and further from reality, from the world you thought you knew.

“You like that, don’t you, you dirty little whore?” another voice hissed, words punctuated by the wet slick of skin on skin. “Bet you’re clenching so tight on him.”

And it was true, your muscles were clenching, contracting around the invading cock, gripping and twisting as if to hold onto the pleasure, to extend the moment indefinitely. You were a hot, wet cavern around their length, taking them in, welcoming the intrusion with a slickness that spoke volumes.

"Fuck, you're so tight," the man inside you groans, his words a low, deep growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your world narrowed to this, to the cock inside you, to the feeling of raw, primal lust, the faceless man ravishing your body, reducing you to nothing more than a hole for their pleasure. The humiliation only fueled the fire in you, stoking the flames of your arousal as they brought you closer to the brink.

"Cum for us, whore," one growled, their voices melding together, hands gripping you, pinching you, touching you until you saw stars.

Their words sent you over the edge, the humiliation and the need and the overwhelming sensation of being so thoroughly used combining into a white-hot ball of ecstasy that exploded through your veins, your entire body convulsing around the invading cock.

“Look at you,” the first voice chuckled, triumphant, as your pussy spasmed around him, milking every last drop of his climax from him, his hot seed filling you, “Dirty slut.”

Their words echoed in your mind, even as the world around you blurred into a sea of colour and sensation, even as you lay there, panting, spent, and utterly broken in the best way.

You almost missed the feeling of a dull point against your skin, dragging and looping against the surface, lifting and then pressing. Writing.

More, you wanted them to touch you again, needed something to replace the emptiness. More, more, more. You wiggled in place against the drag of the marker. It only earned you another swat to the smarting skin of your cheeks.

—

‘Dirty slut,’

‘Dick here →’

‘Cumdump,’

Every time they came, they’d write on you - a brand, a claim, proud and stark against your slick skin. It only ended when the marker stopped running, clogged by all manner of fluids - cum, sweat, spit.

The four men watched, satisfied and sated, as your holes twitched and leaked, your legs slumped and weak and quivering, toes barely scraping the floor.

Kyle had gone first, as agreed. Johnny too eager, Simon too big, the captain too rough.

They took their turns, in order of largest to smallest, longest to shortest, in all the ways possible until it devolved to whoever was ready to go again, until your body was nothing but a mess of aching muscles and abused orifices and marker streaks and bruised cheeks.

“Fuck,” Johnny groaned from where he had slumped in the corner, hands twitching against the ground and his pants half-heartedly tugged back over his thighs. “Do we hafta leave?”

One of your legs twitched out and kicked, and the captain huffed a laugh, “Poor thing has nothin’ left in them.”

Price’s hand skated along the mess of cum and sweat and ink, collecting it on his fingers, and you flinched against the touch, still so sensitive, overstimulated.

“Might have broken them,” Simon snipped, flat, but not even he could act unaffected, his chest visibly rising and falling, sweat coating his visible skin.

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed, strained, sliding a hand down your back, “But it was bloody worth it.”

“Not going again, are ya?” Johnny guffawed from the floor.

“Much as I would love to see that,” Price drawled, but his tone was fond, “we gotta go. Time’s up.”

“Fuck, man,” Kyle groaned, parting with one last pat on your cheeks.

“I know.” Johnny helpfully added, voice wistful. “I’ll miss this ass.”

“Then next time, don’t come so fast,” Simon muttered, and it was the exact wrong thing to say, because they all laughed.

“Next time?” Johnny repeated, incredulous. “Fuck LT., I’m not sure there’s going to be a next time, I have nothin’ left in me.”

—

"Hoooo-lyyyy shit," Kyle blurted, gripping Johnny’s arm as if to steady himself, though his gaze remained glued to the phone in his hand. His voice trembled with disbelief, excitement, and a tinge of something more. He was practically buzzing with the revelation, his eyes wide in awe as he absorbed the image.

"Jee Sus, Mary, and Joseph..." Johnny muttered under his breath, his Scottish accent thickening with astonishment. The look of disbelief on his face mirrored Kyle’s as he leaned in closer, trying to process what he was seeing.

“What are the two of you lookin’ at-” Simon started, only to cut himself off as he swiped the phone out of Kyle’s hand with a swift, almost aggressive motion. Kyle staggered slightly but didn’t bother protesting. His mind was too occupied with the image burned into his retinas.

Simon’s eyes flicked over the screen, his expression shifting from irritation to something far more intrigued. His gaze lingered on the photo: Price’s assistant, the shy little thing that hardly said more than a few words at a time, stretching to grab something from a high shelf. Her shirt had lifted just enough to reveal faded, smeared ink scrawled across the smooth skin of her back, just above the waistband of her slacks.

The words, though blurry, were unmistakable.

The realization hit Simon hard, his grip tightening around the phone. He shifted his gaze to Kyle and Johnny, who both stood there, jaws slack, equally stunned.

"Fuck me," Johnny breathed out, breaking the silence, still staring at the screen like it was some sort of hallucination. "The assistant? Who would've thought she had it in her?"

Simon finally exhaled, passing the phone back to Kyle with a grunt. "Price has a way of... managing things, doesn’t he?" His voice was low, filled with a dark suggestion that hung heavy in the air.

Kyle glanced down at the phone again, his lips twitching into a half-smile. "Never would’ve pegged her for that type. Quiet little thing, but..." He gestured vaguely at the phone, at the faded writing that told an entirely different story.

Johnny laughed, the sound sharp with disbelief. "Looks like there’s more to that lass than we thought." He shook his head, still trying to reconcile the image of the shy assistant with the evidence on her skin.

"Wonder if she knows who got her marked up like that," Johnny mused, puffing out his chest with a wide smirk.

Kyle’s phone pinged with another photo from their captain, and Simon raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh, she knows."

1K notes · View notes

https-lvesick · 10 months ago

Text

MY TOP TIER SMAU REC LIST!（ 𖹭 ）

PARK JISUNG (nct dream)

score that goal! [jisung] by @lqfiles

football player!jisung x fem!reader | genre ・ humour, football/sports au, fluff, some angst, pining and eventually mutual pining, probably slow-burn, college au, strangers to lovers | status ・ completed!

summary ・ after your college had announced that all the students were required to join a club and attend it twice a week, you were planning on either a) dropping out, or b) join the art club and pretend to be sick most of the times. that was before you discovered that park jisung is a long time member of the football team. change in plans: you LOVE football.

game on! [jisung] by @hyuckswoman

astronomy major!jisung x astronomy major!reader | genre ・ humour, crack, strangers to enemies to lovers, college au, slow burn, y/n prefers dying over admitting her feelings, jisung is lowkey mean at times.. | status ・ ongoing!

summary ・ a story in which y/n finds herself meeting her roblox bestie in real life. turns out he’s not exactly everything she hoped for… who would’ve thought her nemesis park jisung would be user plumblossomer.

the bolter [jisung] by @lowkeychenle

idol!jisung x fem!reader | genre ・ SOCIAL MEDIA AU! :D suggestive, crack, funny haha stuff idk | status ・ completed!

summary ・ when you meet jisung, things are working behind the scenes, things you can't see and you don't acknowledge. can you overcome your metaphorical running in time for jisung to secure your heart?

drum me, stupid! [jisung] by @jirsungs

drummer!jisung x fem!reader | genre ・ college au, social media au (some chapters will be written though!), music band au, slight enemies to lovers, unrequited love (for a bit), whole bunch of fluff, angst, mutual pining, silly humor | status ・ completed!

summary ・ a story about a college student enjoying her life in school perfectly fine, until one of her friends drags the group along to watch their school's band perform. little did she know that day would be marked as the day her whole world turned upside down because of a particular, nonchalant, and difficult drummer boy. a drummer boy who spilled his entire drink on her brand new outfit at a party and never came back.

linger [jisung] by @beomgewz

college student!jisung x fem!reader | genre ・ strangers to friends to lovers, she fell first but he fell harder, college!au, unrequited love (at first), angsty(?), drugs, slow burn | status ・ ongoing!

summary ・ despite all of your efforts, you still cannot get over your 5 year crush on the shy boy from high school. to top everything off, he has a long term girlfriend of 3 years!

HAECHAN (nct dream)

pay the price [haechan] by @lqfiles

neighbour!haechan x fem!reader | genre ・ enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, probably slow burn, humour, neighbours au | status ・ ongoing!

summary ・ after getting evicted out of your old place, you're left with no other choice but to look for a cheaper alternative. which is how you end up becoming neighbours with lee haechan, who has a passion for music and disturbing whatever peace and quiet there is.

one night only [haechan] by @mrkified

college-student!haechan x fem!reader | genre ・ secret relationship, slight enemies to lovers, college au, angst, fluff, crack/humor, band au | status ・ completed!

summary ・ three years since your falling out with lee donghyuck he has suddenly transfered to your college in hopes to make it big with his friends in his band. unfortunately for you, your unresolved friendship started causing problems between you and the people around you, especially since your best friend is his ex. so — why have you found yourself in his room with a raging hangover?

she's the man [haechan] by @yutarot

gamer!haechan x fem!reader | genre ・ humour, friends to lovers, college au, gamer!haechan, gamer!yn, everyone’s a gamer actually, loosely based off the movie ‘she’s the man’, fem reader, slowburn, angst, plot heavy | status ・ completed!

summary ・ after you discover your love for gaming, you soon find out that your college won’t let you in any of their e-sports teams due to your gender. but what happens when your twin brother leaves town just before he’s about to start at a new college, where not even NCU’s e-sports captain, lee haechan knows anything about him? there’s only one problem, your brother’s crazy ex is trying to hunt you down. will they all find out your true identity? and will their views on you change if they discover who you really are?

divine timing [haechan] by @v1si0n

college student!hyuck x fem!reader | genre ・ smau (some written parts), college student! hyuck x fem! reader, ????? to lovers, fluff, probably some angst but not heavy bc i’m sensitive, humor, lowkey she fell first but he fell harder trope, hyuck is a jealous little lad. | status ・ completed!

summary ・ you confessed to your longtime crush, donghyuck, back in high school because you figured you guys would never see each other again. you begin to question your faith in the universe when you run into him on a rainy tuesday night, and you start seeing him every day after.

blooming hearts [haechan] by @jji-lee

flower shop owner!haechan x fem!reader | genre ・ humor , strangers to enemies to lovers, college au, maybe a little angst, fluff, slow burn, haechan and reader are oblivious and stubborn | status ・ completed!

summary ・ a new flower shop has opened up in front of your dorm housing and has been creating problem after problem for you. now you and shop owner, lee haechan have an ongoing feud that neither of you are willing to put to rest. as the weather cools and the flowers wither away maybe something else will begin to bloom between you two…

MARK (nct dream)

down bad! [mark] by @hyuckswoman

college student!mark x fem!reader | genre ・ slowburn?, humour, collegeau, fluff, mutual pining, strangers to lovers | status ・ completed!

summary ・in which a random business major finds herself joining a random music class not knowing the guy she had been fawning over attended it aswell.

got my ion you [mark] by @chenlesfavorite

tutor!mark x fem!reader | genre ・ social media au (smau), half written, friends to lovers, fluff | status ・ completed!

summary ・ you’ve failed yet another chemistry exam, high chances are you’re gonna have to retake the entire class next year and miss out on almost all school breaks due to studying and fixing your bad grades, and that is until your trusty friend suggests a tutor to you.

dream boyfriend: incoming [mark] by @wonbin-truther

college student!mark x college student!fem!reader | genre ・ smau, fake dating to ?? to lovers, slight jaemin x yn, yns cousins are assholes, mark is the ideal son in law, hes also an asshole, kys/kms jokes, mark kinda leads yn on, will add more as i go along | status ・ completed!

summary ・ it wasnt your fault mark was the first profile to appear on your instagram! and it was most definitely not your fault when you told your annoying older cousins that mark lee, the captain of your unis soccer team, was your boyfriend and somehow got him invited to the next family reunion...

when you smile [mark] by @svnnw

fake boyfriend!mark x fem!reader | genre ・ fluff, angst, slowburn, comedy, humor, fake dating, non-idol au, college au | status ・ completed!

summary ・ after barely passing your recent exam you're now desperately looking for someone to tutor you so your friends wouldn't worry about you and your grades.

cryptic crush [mark] by @jji-lee

fuckboy!mark x fem!reader | genre ・ humor, neighbors/enemies to lovers, college au, fluff, slight slow burn, fluff, mark and reader are always at it bro (fighting not fucking LMAO) | status ・ completed!

summary ・ are you looking for something deeper than just superficial romance? of course you are! sm university presents : cryptic crush the only on campus app that is 100% anonymous. sign up now and we'll randomly pair you with someone ready to chat! who knows? they might be the one...

NA JAEMIN (nct dream)

love on the court [jaemin] by @polarisjisung

basketball player!jaemin x basketball player!fem!reader | genre ・ (one sided) enemies to lovers, childhood best friends to lovers, college au, kinda forced proximity | status ・ ongoing!

summary ・ every college student has their struggles, but raising her younger brother has Y/N top of the list, struggling her way through college whilst balancing her academics and basketball captaincy is difficult no doubt and with Jaemin, her ex best friend and captain of the guys basketball team, and his growing one sided hatred towards her, it doesn't seem to be getting any easier

CHENLE (nct dream)

night rider [chenle] by @chenlesfavorite

motorcyclist!chenle x fem!reader | genre ・ social media au (smau), written, slowburn, angsty-ish, fluff, strangers to enemies to lovers (except they're not really enemies.. they just can't stand each other) | status ・ completed!

summary ・ working night shifts 24/7 at the convenience store while also supporting your boyfriend’s obsession with watching motorcyclists race is not easy, but little did you know that one of the bikers that he loves soon gets involved with you.

RENJUN (nct dream)

belladonna! [renjun] by @winwintea

actor!renjun x fem!reader | genre ・ social media au (smau), fluff, angst, drama, horror, very dark, detective au, murder mystery au, explicit(?) | status ・ ongoing!

summary ・ you've been tasked with visting and inspecting the grand rose theatre, a theatre that's been plagued with mysteries over the years. all seems well, until a string of murders follows your visit. as you further investigate, you find yourself falling for huang renjun, the beautiful male lead, and your mystery murderer who leaves you love notes and clues about who they could potentially be. will you be smart enough to be a step ahead of the killer? or will you find yourself caught within their trap?

JENO (nct dream)

hot to go! [jeno] by @sungiejpg

idol!jeno x stylist!fem!reader | genre ・ idol au, fluff, humour, maybe slow burn | status ・ ongoing!

summary ・ being aespa’s stylist is an easy and a lovely job, that’s what yn thought until she met Jeno by mistake. She now finds him scary.

JAEHYUN (nct 127)

roses [jaehyun] by @nneteyamss

college student!jaehyun x fem!reader | genre ・ smau, college au, second chance (?), humor | status ・ ongoing!

summary ・ during your freshman year of college you had a situationship with jaehyun. despite both falling for each other, issues got in the way and jaehyun ghosted you. it's been 2 years since and he never got over you and he'd do almost anything to get you again... including writing a song to get your attention.

KARINA (aespa)

it's me before her [karina] by @uchinagai

idol!jimin x actress!fem!reader | genre ・ smau + written , wlw fluff , idol au, y/n is in huge denial, strangers(?) to lovers, idol!karina, actress!y/n, idol!y/n, tiny bit of suggestive | status ・ ongoing!

summary ・ kim y/n, #1 soloist currently, known for other than just acting like out of this world and singing like an angel, is also known in the industry as 'flirt' among female idols. a certain world wide idol, got her attention on her, but little did she know, there was another one, more desperate and in love with her before the global it girl.

notes ・ if you guys have more aespa smau that you guys like it, pls send me! i'd really love more aespa fanfics to read!

#mark fanfic #nct fanfic #nct imagines #nct smut #nct dream headcanons #chenle fanfic #haechan fanfic #jaemin fanfic #jeno fanfic #karina fanfic #karina imagines #nct smau #nct dream smau #nct dream smut #nct dream imagines #[ ☆ ] skye's recs!

2K notes · View notes

rafecameronssl4t · 10 months ago

Note

I LOVED the “Who invited you?” one, so i was thinking… maybe a Thornton!reader x season 3!rafe, where Rafe and reader are secretly dating and reader tells about it to sofia, not knowing she had a crush on Rafe, so she tells everything to Topper

Stay in your lane || Rafe Cameron x Thornton!reader

A/n: so sorry this took me forever to reply to but hope you like it!!! added my own little twist in the end reminder that requests are open!!!!

Warnings: mentions of smoking, suggestive content, if theres anything else, lmk!

Word count: 1,884

MASTERLIST (rafe x thornton!reader au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

As you step into the country club, the cool air conditioning providing instant relief from the summer heat, you're greeted by a familiar face. "Hey," Sofia's voice carries a warm, welcoming tone as she catches your attention. Her honey-coloured hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail, and she looks every bit the part in her crisp, white polo shirt.

"Sofia, right?" you say with a smile, sliding your sunglasses up onto your head. She nods with a bright smile, her eyes sparkling. "That's me! And you're Y/n, Topper's sister," she says confidently, her gaze lingering on you for a moment as if to commit your face to memory.

"Yeah, that's right," you reply, your tone light and friendly as you confirm her guess. "Can I get you a table?" she offers, her hand subtly gesturing towards the dining area where groups of people are already seated, enjoying their meals and conversations.

You shake your head gently, your smile widening. "Oh no, I'm here with someone," you explain, a hint of warmth in your voice. Sofia's expression shifts as her lips form a small 'o' of understanding. "Well, enjoy!" she responds, her smile returning, though there's a hint of something else in her eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or intrigue.

You reciprocate her smile, offering a small wave before you turn to walk away. As you move towards the back of the club, you can feel Sofia's gaze following you, her attention unwavering until you disappear from sight.

Sofia stepped into the secluded section of the country club, balancing a tray of drinks with practiced ease. The chatter of the main dining area faded behind her as she ventured deeper into the quieter, more exclusive part of the club. As she approached the table, she quickly recognised you sitting there, and a curl of smoke caught her eye, obscuring the person seated across from you.

"Iced tea and a Westbrook?" Sofia announced as she drew closer, her voice steady. But as she placed the drinks on the table, her eyes widened in surprise as she finally saw who you were with—Rafe Cameron, his presence unmistakable.

“Thanks, Sof,” you responded warmly, your smile reaching your eyes as you accepted the glass of iced tea from the tray. Sofia’s attention drifted towards Rafe, who sat across from you with an air of nonchalance. He casually exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke, his intense blue eyes never leaving you as he flicked the ashes into the nearby ashtray.

His gaze was unwavering, almost possessive, as he watched you, barely sparing Sofia a glance. It was clear that his focus was entirely on you, as if the rest of the world, including Sofia, simply didn’t exist in that moment. The casual way he leaned back in his chair, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, contrasted sharply with the tension in Sofia’s chest.

"Y-you're welcome," Sofia stammered, caught off guard by the sight of the two of you together. She quickly realised that her surprise was showing, and she forced a polite smile before retreating, her mind racing as she walked away, the image of you and Rafe together lingering in her thoughts.

As Sofia made her way outside, she hauled the heavy bags of rubbish towards the bins at the back of the country club. Her thoughts were preoccupied, replaying the scene she had witnessed earlier of you with Rafe. The image of the two of you together lingered in her mind, stirring a mix of emotions she couldn’t quite pin down.

Lost in these thoughts, something in the parking lot suddenly caught her attention—Rafe Cameron’s truck parked in the parking lot. Her steps faltered as she saw you step down from the passenger side, a playful smile on your lips as you tugged your dress back into place.

Sofia’s heart raced, and without thinking, she ducked behind a nearby tree, hoping to remain unnoticed. Peeking out from her hiding spot, she watched as Rafe emerged from the car, his confident smirk evident even from a distance.

He moved towards you with a casual grace, his hand trailing down your back before giving your ass a light, possessive squeeze. The gesture was intimate, familiar, as if this wasn't the first time he'd done it. Then, Rafe leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that seemed to linger just a little too long.

Sofia could feel her chest tighten as she observed the scene, her mind reeling from the implications. She watched as he then walked you to your Porsche, his hand resting on the small of your back, guiding you with ease.

He opened the driver's door for you, the gesture almost gentlemanly, before leaning in for one last kiss. The way you smiled at him before driving off sent a pang of something unidentifiable through Sofia’s chest—jealousy? Surprise? Disbelief? Maybe all three.

As your car disappeared from view, Sofia’s eyes remained glued to Rafe. Just as she was about to breathe a sigh of relief, he suddenly turned his head in her direction, as if sensing her presence. Panic surged through her as she let out a quiet gasp, instinctively slapping a hand over her mouth and pressing herself harder against the rough bark of the tree.

She remained frozen, barely daring to breathe, until she heard the roar of Rafe’s engine as he sped off. Only then did she dare to move, her heart pounding in her chest. Of course, you and Rafe were together. The thought settled heavily in her mind, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. It was almost expected, yet seeing it with her own eyes was something else entirely.

"Hey, Sof," you greet her with a warm smile as you walk up to the bar and take a seat. Sofia returns the smile, but there's a slight tension in her expression, a tightness that you don't seem to notice. "Hey, what can I get you?" she asks, her voice pleasant but lacking its usual warmth.

"An iced tea will be fine, thanks," you reply, settling into your seat. Sofia nods and begins preparing your drink. As she works, your phone buzzes, drawing your attention. Sofia can't help but eavesdrop as you answer it. "Hey," you say into the phone, your lips curving into a smile as you listen to the person on the other end.

"Yeah, 1 p.m. is fine." Sofia continues making your iced tea, her curiosity piqued, wondering who you're talking to. When the call ends, you smile at Sofia, who quickly averts her eyes, focusing on placing a straw into your glass before pushing it across the bar towards you.

"Thank you," you say, taking a sip of the iced tea. You then pick up your phone again, your fingers tapping away as another smile forms on your lips, seemingly in response to a message. Sofia, now cleaning some glasses nearby, can't hold back her curiosity any longer.

"So… you and Rafe, huh?" she asks, her tone laced with subtle intrigue as she glances over at you. You look up from your phone, a light giggle escaping your lips. "Yeah?" you respond, a bit amused by her question. Sofia purses her lips, nodding as she tries to process this new information, a flutter of jealousy stirring in her chest.

"I didn't know you guys were dating," she continues, her voice careful, as if trying to gauge your reaction. You hum softly, playing with the straw in your glass. "Between you and me, we were friends with benefits for a while before he asked me out properly," you admit with a small, almost secretive smile.

Sofia nods, doing her best to hide her surprise, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes—disbelief, maybe even a touch of envy that she quickly tries to suppress. Her mind races, wondering how she missed the signs, and why the thought of you with Rafe unsettles her so much.

"Does Topper know?" she asks, her tone slightly more pointed as she looks at you. Your eyes snap to hers, and for a moment, the air between you feels charged with something unspoken, a tension that Sofia struggles to ignore.

"No, he doesn't know yet. We'll tell him soon enough, though," you reply, your voice steady. "Right now, he just thinks we're really good friends." Sofia hums in response, trying to mask the pang of jealousy as she watches you return to your phone, clearly engrossed in your conversation with Rafe.

You finish your drink and stand up, offering Sofia a warm smile. "Thanks for the drink, it was so good," you say sincerely before turning and walking off, leaving Sofia standing behind the bar, her thoughts racing as she watches you disappear from view.

When Sofia caught sight of Topper and Rafe walking into the country club, her heart began to race, a mixture of anticipation and anxiety flooding her system. The two of them made an imposing pair, effortlessly commanding attention as they approached the bar.

Sofia's gaze followed their every step, her pulse quickening when Rafe’s eyes met hers. He held her gaze for a brief moment before leaning in to whisper something to Topper. Without a word, Rafe then turned and walked outside, leaving Topper alone at the bar.

"Just my usual, thanks. Make it two," Topper said, leaning casually against the polished wood. His tone was indifferent, his eyes lazily scanning the room as if the bar and its staff were just another part of the scenery. Sofia nodded, accustomed to his detached manner, and began preparing the drinks.

As she worked, she stole a glance at Topper, feeling a sudden surge of boldness. Clearing her throat, she decided to speak up. "Y/N's not joining the two of you tonight?" she asked, her voice steady despite the nerves bubbling underneath.

Topper’s attention snapped back to her, his brows knitting together in mild confusion. A dry chuckle escaped his lips, the sound laced with a hint of amusement. "And what makes you think my little sister should be here with us?" he asked, his tone edged with curiosity as he watched her skillfully mix the drinks.

Sofia felt her confidence grow, fueled by the moment and the subtle power shift she sensed. She met his gaze head-on, refusing to be intimidated. "I'm not sure, I just thought she'd join you guys since she and Rafe are a couple now," she replied, trying to sound nonchalant as she shrugged her shoulders.

For a brief second, Topper went silent, and Sofia braced herself for his reaction. She expected surprise, maybe even a flash of anger or disbelief. But instead, Topper's response was cold and indifferent, his expression unreadable. "Don't see why that concerns you, Sofia," he said, his eyes drifting towards the view outside, his interest in the conversation fading as quickly as it had sparked.

Sofia's eyes widened, not prepared for his dismissive tone. "Oh, no—I was just wondering—" she stammered, her initial confidence rapidly dissolving under his gaze. Topper’s stare sharpened, cutting her off before she could finish. "I think you forget yourself sometimes," he said, his voice chillingly calm.

"Just because you work here in Figure 8, it doesn't give you the right to go sticking your nose in our business, yeah? So stay in your lane," He grabbed the glasses she had just finished preparing, his hand steady, his demeanor cold.

With that, he walked off without another glance, leaving Sofia standing there, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She hadn’t expected Topper to speak to her like that—so harshly, so dismissively. The words stung, lingering in the air long after he had disappeared, and Sofia was left alone.

1K notes · View notes

filmbyjy · 10 months ago

Text

ONE NOTE (COMPLETED)

PAIRING > sim jaeyun x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS > When you turned 18, you heard your best friend’s favourite song. Turns out, it was just one of the various signs to finding your soulmate. However, you couldn’t bring this up to jake. Not when he was in a happy relationship with your other best friend! Would you choose heartbreak or sacrifice your happiness for the sake of keeping the friendship

GENRE > soulmate au + best friends to lovers / facing a crisis that you don’t want to break the perfect relationship your two best friends have.

FEATURING > leehan and taesan from boynextdoor, an oc for your girl bestie named aria & the rest of enha in your friend group.

SCHEDULE > every two days or so

TAGLIST > closed as smau has ended

START: 18 August 2024 | END: 28 January 2025

PROFILE: the fam | mental health club

ONE: wingwoman

TWO: souls bonded

THREE: elephant in the room

FOUR: so sorry for your future

FIVE: it's not jake

SIX: i accept it

SEVEN: will we ever be close again?

EIGHT: happy birthday jae

NINE: she's been a nastay gurl

TEN: or was it? [written]

ELEVEN: it's glowing

TWELVE: it's just not fair

THIRTEEN: pretending to be like me

FOURTEEN: hanahaki disease?

FIFTEEN: most touching story [written]

SIXTEEN: aria is a bitch

SEVENTEEN: into you

EIGHTEEN: the first petal [pictures + written]

NINETEEN: I have to ask

TWENTY: it’s kinda suffocating

TWENTY-ONE: no thanks

TWENTY-TWO: candid photo

TWENTY-THREE: a heavy topic

TWENTY-FOUR: she has no friends! [pictures + written]

TWENTY-FIVE: I DIDNT BLOCK YOU ON KAKAO??

TWENTY-SIX: good, weep

TWENTY-SEVEN: love makes you truly blind [written + pictures]

TWENTY-EIGHT: moving on

TWENTY-NINE: disgustingly creepy?

THIRTY: my two girls

THIRTY-ONE: family drama [written]

THIRTY-TWO: I'm cooked

THIRTY-THREE: living with a baddie

THIRTY-FOUR: two d*cks??

THIRTY-FIVE: morning smooches [written + pictures]

THIRTY-SIX: my apolocheese

THIRTY-SEVEN: I caved in

THIRTY-EIGHT: (name)’s puppy

THIRTY-NINE: the love architects

FOURTY: silly little family

fin

got any questions to ask the cast or author?

ONE NOTE: asks

1K notes · View notes

mammonscheeks · 11 months ago

Text

obey me brothers reacting to a malnourished mc

⤑ a/n: I feel like this is the most canon writing I’ve ever done yet... enjoy!

⤑ warnings: none

obey me masterlist | requesting rules

DEMON BROTHERS REACTING TO A MALNOURISHED MC

“Hey, MC! You’re lucky because you get to go out with The Great Mammon tonight! We’ll hit the casino n’ leave with our pockets stuffed, and then we can go clubbing! What d’ya say?”

“...”

“MC?”

Mammon put his warm hands on your shoulders and shook gently, not used to your lack of response. He furrowed his eyebrows as he caught sight of the dark bags under your dull eyes.

“Yeesh, MC! Did ya get into a fight or something?” Mammon joked, trying his best to hide the fact that he was worried about his human.

“Huh?” you blinked as you realized you had just been zoning out. “I, uh.... Shit! I forgot my potions textbook in my room, I’ll see you all later!”

“Language,” Lucifer sternly reminded you as you haphazardly scurried out of the classroom, your mind "lagging” as Leviathan would put it. The demon brothers watched you leave, shooting odd looks at each other.

“I don’t think MC’s been getting enough sleep,” Belphie yawned.

“As much as I hate to agree with Belphegor, he’s right. They seem quite fatigued.” Lucifer said, staring intently at his brothers. “Leviathan, did you force MC to play video games with you all night again?”

“Don’t accuse me first,” Leviathan grumbled. “But no, I was catching up on some anime alone last night.”

“Maybe MC needs to eat some more,” Beelzebub said, snacking on some chips despite the ‘no food’ sign in the front of the classroom. “Oh, I have an idea! Let’s get Luke and Simeon to cook a celestial feast.”

“You obviously only want that for your own self interest,” Satan rolled his eyes. “I’ve read a book on this. Maybe MC’s malnourished? Humans are fragile, of course. Additionally, the Devildom provides little natural light from the sun like in the human world.”

“I know just the cure!” Asmodeus gasped, pulling up Akuzon on his D.D.D. “Aaand it’s ordered!”

“You better not have used my Akuzon account for whatever beauty product you bought,” Leviathan raised an eyebrow.

“Oh hush, Levi. Trust me, this will fix MC up right away!”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

The package arrived by the end of the school day, thanks to Levi’s Akuzon Prime subscription.

Mammon held up a colorful piece of gelatin in his hand, inspecting it thoroughly.

“So this... Vitamin gummy... Is gonna help MC? This tiny little colorful thing? Seriously?” He grunted.

“Wow... Humans are weaker than I imagined,” Satan frowned, squishing one in his hand. “They have to eat these to stay alive?”

“Beel, don’t you dare think about eating MC’s gummies,” Belphegor scolded his twin.

“And don’t forget, I also got MC a sunlight lamp!” Asmodeus’ eyes glittered. “Apparently, these provide light therapy by tricking the human body into thinking they’re receiving natural light!”

“It seems that humans have weak minds then,” Lucifer sighed. “Either that, or we’ve been fooled.”

You walked into the HOL, stifling a yawn. Your entire body felt heavy from fatigue. It seemed like you had taken the human world’s abundance of sunlight and Vitamin D for granted. Solomon had helped you by casting a energy spell for the first few months you had lived here, but even that was starting to wear off.

“MC!” Mammon basically tripped over his brothers to rush to you. “Take one before you die!”

Startled, you looked up just in time to see Mammon basically shoving a gummy in your mouth, before you were immediately blinded by Asmodeus holding a warm light in your face.

You covered your face and squinted your eyes, seeing the eager and expecting eyes of the demon brothers.

“Guys, what are you doing?” You questioned. This was pretty unexpected, but you were used to the brothers pranks and shenanigans.

“We just wanted to help! We heard you were malnutritioned because it’s always dark in the Devildom!” Mammon said.

“So we bought a sun lamp and some vitamin gummies for you,” Belphegor yawned.

“Aw, guys... Thank you!” You smiled happily. Even though you hadn’t told the brothers explicitly what was wrong, thinking you could take care of it yourself, they had of course, noticed. Your heart swelled with appreciation, until you noticed that the brothers were still staring at you expectantly, like you were about to turn into some mutant creature.

“Uhh.. You guys do know that it’ll take a few days for my body to recover, right?” You shrugged.

“Oh..” Satan sighed, as the brothers looked disappointed. “I thought the effects would have been immediate.”

“Laaame,” Leviathan said. “A power-up type feature would have been way cooler! Like, imagine if MC ate that thing and grew 10 feet in size to defeat the final boss!”

“That’s fine, MC. Just focus on resting. I’ve excused you from classes for the rest of the week,” Lucifer said. “This is an quality of humans we should have researched more during the planning stage of the exchange program. Diavolo also sends his apologies.”

"Thank you Lucifer, but it’s no big deal,” you smiled. “Well, I’m going to go take a nap now.”

"I’ll come with,” Belphegor yawned.

“Oh no you don’t!” Mammon yelled, running after the two. “I’m the only one allowed in MC’s bed!”

“Hey, don’t forget about me! I’m bringing the lamp!” Asmo cried, waving it in the air.

“You know, I also read that cuddling with a partner can help fatigue,” Satan blushed, following behind.

“I’ll bring some snacks for us,” Beelzebub called after.

“I’ll bring my TSL movies so we can have some background sound!” Leviathan ran after. “Don’t you dare start without me!”

Lucifer sighed, looking after his brothers scrambling to get to MC. From having spells backfire on you, battling unique health concerns, and getting preyed on by lower-ranking demons, your acclimation to the Devildom had faced many obstacles. However, Lucifer knew that he and his brothers would do anything to ensure you had a support system.

As you fell asleep with the weight and warmth of your favorite people around you, you couldn’t help but feel loved and cared for.

#obey me #obey me hc #obey me mammon #obey me x reader #obey me lucifer #obey me x mc #obey me leviathan #obey me asmodeus #obey me satan #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me brothers #obey me x sick mc #obey me shall we date #obey me scenarios #obey me imagines

2K notes · View notes

meazalykov · 4 months ago

Text

terror arrives

barcelona femeni x female!pugh!oc

margaret (margo) pugh breaks through world class stars to score goals. so what happens when she transfers to barcelona after knocking them out of the champions league in the previous season?

the woman’s name had always been a heavy topic for opponents.

mallory pugh was the darling of american soccer, the golden girl. the one who followed the well-paved path, the one who did things the right way.

a good youth career, senior national team. nwsl. the poster child for what a career was supposed to look like.

the younger sister… margo? margo had never done things the right way.

she is the younger sister, the shadowed talent. the one who took the road less-traveled. she is the one who was always chasing after something, even if she did not yet know what. the one who ignored the noise, the expectations, the comparisons to her older traditional sister, and ran her own race.

literally, because margo pugh was not just fast on the pitch, she was terrifying.

tonight, the best team in the world learned just how terrifying she could be.

barcelona had confidence, as they always did. they had won the first leg 1-0, and even without alexia in full form, they were still the most dominant force in club football.

lyon, the sleeping giant, had stumbled this season. margo? she had missed the first leg due to a minor injury. without her, lyon lacked their usual bite.

now she was back, and she was hungry.

from the first whistle, margo was a nightmare. she did not just move…she exploded. the ball stuck to her feet as if tethered by an unseen force, her low center of gravity allowing her to slip through tackles with a grace that should not have been possible at such speed.

at just twenty-one, she was already different and already unpredictable, already rewriting the narrative that had been crafted for her due to having a sibling already in the ranks.

barcelona’s midfield, patri, keira, and aitana, were accustomed to dictating games.

against margo, they could only chase.

at minute 18, margo picks up the ball just past midfield. she turns sharply, a half-second quicker than walsh, and she is gone. aitana reaches out, tries to pull her back…too late.

one touch. two. three. the ball moves like it is an extension of her. she slices through the space between irene and ona like a hot knife through butter. she takes a touch with her right, steadies herself, and buries it past coll before anyone can react.

1-0.

barcelona is stunned. the catalan stadium, roaring just minutes ago, falls into an uneasy silence while the away crowd goes wild.

the aggregate is tied.

in minute 36, lyon’s press forces a mistake. renard wins the ball, flicks it to diani, who sees margo already running. she knows better than to hesitate. she sends the pass forward, and like clockwork, margo is there.

she takes the ball in stride, past ona, past paredes…again. one-on-one with coll. this time, she fakes right. cata bites. margo drags it left, rolling the ball into the net with the ease of someone who has been doing this her entire life.

brace.

before halftime. 2-0.

barcelona looks at each other, shaken. they have never feared a player like this before. they have never feared a twenty-one-year-old with only two years of european experience after leaving the states, but margo?

they fear her.

in minute 74, barcelona fights back and it seems like the best team in the world will have a comeback. they know one goal will send this into extra time. they push, they press, but lyon cannot break. we,, at least until fridolina gets a penalty, which she scores.

2-1.

in minute 82, the final dagger. lyon counters. margo, once again, is at the heart of it. she receives the ball at the halfway line, faced with two defenders.

she stops. one touch. a step-over. she is gone again, but this time she does not go for a goal.

she lifts her head. she sees van de donk, waiting at the top of the box. a perfectly weighted pass splits the defense, and van de donk does not miss.

3-1.

barcelona is done.

when the final whistle blows, margo does not celebrate right away. she stands still for a moment, watching as the best team in the world lowers their heads, as their fans sit in stunned silence.

then, she turns, running toward her teammates, arms outstretched.

the headlines will follow. of course the spanish, french, and american media will explode. for now, in this moment, margo pugh just smiles.

she is no longer the shadow, because she is the storm.

the thing is that margo had always known lyon was temporary. when she signed her two-season contract at eighteen, fresh out of high school, people questioned her decision.

skipping college, heading straight to europe as an american teenager, it was bold and reckless some had said. however, margo had never been the type to follow expectations. she carved her own path away from her older sister who will never play in europe.

now, at twenty-one, that path was leading her somewhere inevitable.

when she lifted the champions league trophy with lyon, gold confetti falling around her, sweat still clinging to her skin from the 2-1 victory over chelsea, she knew this would be her last moment in a lyon jersey.

she had done what she came to do. she had proven herself.

she had stood on the biggest stage in club football and shown the world what she was capable of at such a young age.

first, she had business in the states.

the national break meant time with mallory, time with the uswnt, time to settle back into american soil before returning to europe. she didn’t talk much about what was next since her contract expired, but everyone around her already knew.

margo had loved barcelona for as long as she could remember. long before she became the player she was today, before she was tearing through midfielders and breaking defensive lines like they were paper, she was a kid watching el clásico matches with wide eyes, heart racing every time barcelona scored.

she had been obsessed with their style of play, the identity, their magic.

there were pictures to prove it. old ones, dug up by the media as soon as transfer rumors swirled.

margo, no older than five, standing next to mallory in an oversized 06/07 barcelona kit, sleeves drowning her small arms, her sister wrapping an arm around her shoulders. the picture was taken in 2010.

the jersey was so big on margo and it looked like a dress, but margo had worn it with pride.

so when the news finally broke, almost no one was surprised.

well, except for the barcelona players themselves.

they had seen firsthand what margo could do, and to say they were impressed would be an understatement.

there was a reason lyon had beaten barcelona in the champions league semifinals. a reason the best team in the world had been sent home before the final. that reason? margo pugh.

she had run circles around them. she had been relentless. she had made even the most experienced players look slow, out of sync.

now, that same terror was about to be on their side.

alexia had spoken about it first. she had watched margo closely, studied the way she moved, the way she read the game. she admired it. she recognized that rare spark, the kind only the greats had. she’s special, she had told a few of her teammates, and there was no disagreement.

some, like patri and pina, had felt something else…something dangerously close to jealousy. barcelona had been the team for so long. the standard. the team with the best midfield in the world.

now? now a twenty-one-year-old was arriving, and she wasn’t just talented, she was a force that nobody stopped last season. not a single soul.

when margo finally landed in barcelona, the entire club felt it.

the signing was no ordinary transfer.

this was a statement. a warning. a shift in power.

this time, the storm wasn’t coming for barcelona.

it was here with them.

next part to this: 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ

masterlist

438 notes · View notes

musingsofheaven · 1 month ago

Text

GREW UP PRETTY. p1

summary: She’s your mother’s best friend. Apparently she's always around, and everywhere. She shouldn’t be here. Not this late, not this drunk, not in the silk nightgown her ex-husband use to fuck her with.

pairings: milf!tashi duncan x family friend!reader

warnings: 17.7k words. mature themes. graphic cunnilingus (f/f). spit-heavy oral sex. oral fixation. clothed face grinding/humping. age gap. power imbalance. dubcon-adjacent tone. d/s undertones. overstimulation. cheating mentioned (not between the main characters). read responsibly.

notes: this was supposed to be one big 31k word fic but i got overwhelmed and shy so i’m posting it in two parts… :( here’s part one!! i know…. i know this is still long but… 🥺 i’ve been staring at this fic for like forever with my face in my hands because I am rethinking what I am doing. thank you so much for reading… i’m so grateful and shy and sparkly about it… part two is coming soon i pinky swear!!! thank you for being here ily forever ok ok ok < 3

You weren’t looking for it. Swear to god. You weren’t doom scrolling for drama or stalking her name in search bars or anything pathetic like that. You were just… on your phone like a normal human being. That’s it. You are laying half-splayed across your bed like a damn baby, one leg cocked over a pillow you should’ve replaced a long time ago. The screen brightness is so bright that it can burn your eyes. Reruns are flickering on the background television, but it’s on mute. Bra strap slipping down your shoulder. Brain activity hovers somewhere between static and sludge.

It was a nothing night. You hadn’t eaten since 4 p.m. Your tongue felt like it had fuzz on it. You were sure you could still taste the food your mom poured earlier. And maybe that’s why you didn’t move; you just lay there like a lazy animal in the low light, refreshing the same three apps in a loop, thumbs twitching over notifications that weren’t even for you. No texts. No calls.

Until you saw it.

It’s a big white font with a black background. It’s so sleek and serious. That little blue checkmark is like a cherry on top of a shit sundae, meaning it’s credible.

TASHI DUNCAN AND ART DONALDSON, HUSBAND OF 14 YEARS, OFFICIALLY DIVORCED, SOURCE CONFIRMS.

You froze.

It’s not dramatically frozen. Not gasp and clutch your necklace frozen. Just slow and still. The kind of still where your eyes read it once, then twice, then again, but your brain didn’t catch up until the fourth loop. It’s more like a shock.

Because yeah. Okay. People had been speculating. You weren’t blind. You’d seen the posts from other people. The shade. The way her ring stopped showing up in press shots. The way her tone changes, and there’s an edge in her voice when she says his name in interviews. How she looked at the court sometimes was like it was the only thing she still had left. You noticed.

But still. Divorce.

The word just sat there. Heavy. Echoing. Like it was trying to rearrange your memory. You stared at the headline until the letters blurred. Until they stopped looking like real words and started feeling static. Tashi Duncan. Divorced. You blinked once. Twice. Let it settle in your chest like it had the right to live there.

And maybe that’s what hit the hardest. It’s not a surprise because, deep down, you weren’t. Not really. You’d heard things. Seen things. Her name is trending for the wrong reasons. Her interviews were getting shorter and meaner, and she was clipped at the edges like she was bleeding patience in private. You’d noticed the ring vanish from her finger. Noticed how she smiled with her mouth but never her eyes anymore. You saw everything when it came to her.

You always had because you’d always been there.

Ever since you were little, you have been around whenever your mom was quiet in the background of wine nights, club fundraisers, and tennis galas that smelled like perfume and ambition. You’d trail after her like a shadow with a juice box while she laughed at something Tashi said, all effortless posture and that sharp, dry smile that made adults lean in. And then there was Lily… tiny, pink, squirmy Lily, who Tashi brought around for the first time when you were seven. Your brain clicked instantly into older-sister mode even though no one asked. You didn’t care. Lily was a baby, and she was hers, and you watched her like she might float away. You were good at that. At watching. You always watched Tashi.

She was your mom’s friend, sure. But she was also… Tashi. The Tashi. Women with posture like a weapon and a voice that could make grown men straighten up. She’d ruffle your hair like a joke, glance over your swing at one backyard match, and go, “Better, but your follow-through’s lazy,” and walk off before you could even be embarrassed. She wasn’t like the other women. She wasn’t soft. She didn’t coo. She didn’t coddle. She saw you, said things that made your stomach flip, then looked away like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t cling to them for weeks.

So, yeah. When the headline said “confirmed,” your gut didn’t twist from shock- it twisted from something worse. Something like inevitability. Fourteen years. A kid. A house full of trophies and a history stretched longer than your adult life. But you knew. You fucking knew it. No PR phrase could patch over the truth. Not “mutual decision.” Not a “joint statement.” Not even “good co-parenting.” It wasn’t mutual. You could read between the lines.

You sat there in bed, barely breathing, phone screen lighting up your face like a goddamn omen. One leg is thrown over a pillow, and your other foot is half-hanging off the edge of the mattress, cold and cramping. You hadn’t moved in maybe an hour, but your brain still felt like it hadn’t caught up with your body. Like you were still suspended between sleep and that blinking headline on your screen.

The article was still open. It was a clickbait article with all caps, clean font, and no-nonsense layout- the design that makes bad news feel worse. It had been waiting in draft form for someone to hit publish. You hadn’t even realized how tight you were holding your phone until your thumb cramped.

And that’s when it rang.

You didn’t move. Just stared at the screen like it had betrayed you. One name. No contact photo. No cute nicknames or emoji. Just her- Tashi Duncan. Plain and centered and suddenly taking up the entire world.

Which was weird. Because she didn’t call you. Not really.

You’d gotten calls from her before, yes, but they were always in the morning for one reason: your mother. Or Lily. Or both. Sometimes it was “Is she home?” Sometimes, it was, “Hey, are you free for a few hours?” Tashi was always running around, juggling matches, coaching, or flying out last minute for the press. You got used to hearing from her at 9 a.m. on a Saturday, voice brisk and polite and too awake. Sometimes, she’d ask if you could swing by and watch Lily. Sometimes, she just wanted to double-check that your mom hadn’t forgotten brunch plans. You were the in-between. The helper. The kid who never said no.

But this was different.

It was 12:41 a.m. on a Thursday.

And Tashi Duncan was calling you.

And that made no fucking sense.

You didn’t touch the screen. Just sat there blinking, your heart thudding way too loud for how still everything was. Reruns are still murmuring in the background. The taste of sleep still stuck to the back of your throat. And that damn article still glowing beneath her name like it was taunting you.

Because you knew her. Not well, but long. Long enough, you think. You were seven when Lily was born and have been around ever since. Your mom and Tashi met at Stanford when everything felt sharp, fast, and impossible. They bonded over late-night cram sessions, early morning practices, and the shared mess of being too bright, too ambitious, and alone in rooms full of men. But then your mom got pregnant. Dropped out. Moved back. Never quite circled back to the dreams she once had. Tashi didn’t say much about it. Just stuck around. Sent baby clothes. Stayed in touch. Their friendship got quieter, but it never broke.

Which meant Tashi was always around. And so were you.

Your mom would bring you along, and Tashi would ruffle your hair, ask about school, or pass you a cupcake when you thought no one was watching. When she had Lily, you were already old enough to babysit. Old enough to know where the emergency numbers were, how to heat milk, and how not to let a toddler fall off the couch. Tashi trusted you. Your mom did, too. You’d spent entire weekends in her guest room, with Lily snoring in a crib next to you and a baby monitor buzzing like static on the dresser.

You knew her.

Not like a second mom. But close.

Close enough that this late-night call, this out-of-nowhere ring against the backdrop of a fresh divorce headline, felt like a door creaking open. You didn’t know what the fuck it was about- but it felt big. Heavy.

You let it ring once. Twice.

Then, breath shallow, fingers stiff, you hit accept.

And you didn’t know what she would say when you picked up.

But your chest was already tight. And you already knew it wasn’t going to be about Lily.

And it sure as hell wasn’t about your mom.

You don’t say anything at first. Just press the phone to your ear and wait, heartbeat tripping into something nervous and twitchy, like it knows more than your brain’s willing to admit. There’s a pause- not dead air, not silence, just that heavy sort of in-between sound you only hear when someone dials before fully deciding if they should. That held my breath. That weight. That question mark. You think about saying something. You almost do. Her name’s right there, soft in your throat like a dare, but you don’t push it out yet. You just… wait. Wait like the pause might stretch long enough to cancel itself. If you stay still enough, maybe she’ll hang up, and you won’t have to hear whatever this is.

And then, “Hey.”

Low. Casual. It’s way too casual, as if you didn’t just catch her in the middle of unraveling like this was normal. Like this was fine. You blink up at your ceiling and squint at the shadows there, your thumb rubbing the curve of your phone without realizing it, your other hand fisted in the sheets like that might ground you somehow. Your throat is dry, and your pulse feels like a misplaced metronome.

“…Hey.”

Another pause. Tighter now. Shorter. But heavy, like it’s hanging off the edge of something that could tip either way.

“She around?”

She doesn’t say who. She doesn’t need to. You know exactly who she’s asking about. There’s only one she Tashi has ever called to check in on. The same woman who once tried to mail her homemade ginger drink when she had strep throat. The same woman who’d leave Tashi voicemails that were basically wine-fueled TED talks. The same woman currently passed out in the bedroom down the hall, dead asleep with a headache and half a bottle of chardonnay in her system and absolutely no idea that her old friend just dropped a divorce headline like a live grenade across your phone screen. She’s the one who still uses scented lotion like it’s 2003, who has a favorite wine glass and a vendetta against oat milk, who keeps old voicemails from Tashi saved on her phone and doesn’t even realize you know that.

You shift onto your side, pillow warm beneath your cheek, voice soft but steady. “She’s knocked out.”

There’s a sound on the other end. Barely there. Just breath, maybe. Or the quiet exhale of someone leaning on something, the kitchen sink, a doorframe she hasn’t moved from since she hung up on the last reporter call. Something solid. Something that holds her up when her knees won’t. You can almost picture her in the half-dark, staring down at her own feet like they might give her an answer, like she’s still waiting for someone to come home and tell her this wasn’t real.

“She had a headache,” you murmur. “Long day.”

Tashi hums. Not in agreement, not in dismissal-just a noise that lives in the middle. “Yeah,” she says, quieter now. “Mine too.”

You glance at your phone, still propped on the blanket beside you. The article’s still open. The headline is bold. Obnoxious. Weirdly clinical for something so personal. You want to ask her about it. You really do. Want to crack a joke, maybe. Make it normal. Make her laugh. Or perhaps say nothing and let her know you read it. You’re not pretending this is just a check-in when you see her. But you don’t. She called to ask about your mom because she didn’t bring it up.

Except… maybe she didn’t.

“She asleep-asleep?” she asks, voice low, smooth, but with an edge now. “Or could I still come by for a second?”

You blink at the ceiling. Your tongue presses flat to the roof of your mouth. “It’s past midnight.”

“I know.”

Her voice doesn’t waver. But it doesn’t settle, either. It’s still too even, too precise. Like she’s rehearsing each word, measuring how much she’s letting you hear. There’s something behind something raw, something cracked- but she’s holding it close like she’s afraid of spilling more than she means to if she lets one more word slip.

You sit up a little, back against the headboard now, the pillow falling to your lap. “Did something happen?”

“No,” she says too fast. Too tight. Then quieter, more real-“Not really. I just… I was thinking I might ask her to drink.”

A beat. Two. Three. You let the silence hang just long enough to wrap around you like static. Your fingertips twitch against the sheet.

“You wanna get wine-drunk with my mom?” you ask, half-laughing, but not like it’s funny, just like it’s surreal. This version of your life you hadn’t fully considered until now is making the floor tilt under your feet.

She breathes out. Short. Half amusement, half surprise. “Maybe.”

You settle deeper into the pillows, the weight of this whole conversation finally sinking in. “She’s really out, Tash.”

“Yeah.” There’s a rustle. Something clinks. You picture her standing in the kitchen, barefoot, in some old hoodie that doesn’t belong to her anymore. “I figured. I don’t know. I wasn’t really planning. I just…”

She trails off. You can hear her breathing. That’s all.

You wait again.

“I just didn’t wanna drink alone.”

It’s quiet. Honest. It lands in your chest like a rock. Not dramatic, not needy-just simple. It’s sad, in that sharp, quiet way, that you only hear from people who’ve been holding it together too long. You chew the inside of your cheek.

“…You could drink with me,” you offer. Easy. Light. Like it’s nothing. Like your heart didn’t skip when you said it.

A pause.

“What?”

You smile a little. “If it’s just about not being alone. I’m awake.”

Another long silence. But this one doesn’t feel awkward. It feels loaded. Like she’s thinking. Like she’s standing in the middle of her kitchen staring at the wall, trying to figure out what you said that means. Trying to decide if this is pathetic or fucked or maybe just the most human thing she’s done all week. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what scares her most.

“Are you sure?” she asks eventually, her voice thinner now, like she’s asking for something bigger than you think.

You glance at the clock. 12:59 a.m. “Yeah.”

There’s a breath on the other end. Deep. Real. The kind of breath people only take when they’re finally exhaling something they didn’t know they were holding in.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll be there in ten.”

You don’t say anything at first. Let the silence stretch between you, quiet and strange, like the kind that only happens when someone doesn’t hang up or want to. Your room’s still dark, lit only by the lazy flicker of some rerun still muttering to no one. The kind of show that’s supposed to make silence feel less heavy. But it doesn’t help much now. The phone’s still warm against your cheek. She hasn’t said anything since “ten minutes” and hasn’t asked if you’re still there, but she knows. You both know. And that’s the strangest part: the silence, but how easy it is to stay in it.

There’s sound on her end- soft things, background things, the kind of things you only notice when you’re trying not to breathe too loud. Movement. A door creaked open, the low drag of something across the wood. A drawer sliding shut. The faint clink of something glass hitting the glass, or maybe keys dropped into a bowl. You can’t tell. It’s domestic and messy and real. It feels too personal, somehow, hearing all that while lying in bed like this. Like you’re eavesdropping on a life you’re not supposed to be part of. Like you stumbled into a crack in the wall and didn’t look away fast enough, if you say anything now, you’ll break whatever strange thread is holding this together.

You clear your throat. Barely. “Do you want me to hang up?”

There’s a beat as if she’s considering it not seriously but enough to pretend she has a choice. And then her voice comes, low and even, laced with something unreadable: “That’s up to you.”

You exhale softly and carefully as if your breath might push too hard against the moment and knock it over. She didn’t say yes, and you didn’t say no, either. You fidget with the hem of your tank top, your thumb sliding under the fabric, the phone still pressed close. “It just feels weird.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s past midnight. You’re driving over. We’re still on the phone. It’s like…” You trail off, staring at the ceiling like it might finish your thought. “Never mind.”

She makes a slight sound, quite a laugh, but not quite a sigh. Just something breathed through her nose, soft and tired. “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

You blink. Try not to read into it. Try not to let your mind spin-off in too many directions. But it’s Tashi. And she called you. And it’s not nothing.

Then she sighs, quieter this time. “I don’t even know what I’m wearing.”

You blink again. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t change,” she says, like it’s something to be ashamed of. “Still in that nightgown.”

You swallow slowly like the word is stuck somewhere in your throat. “What kind of nightgown are we talking about?”

There’s another pause, the kind that stretches like fabric pulled too tight. The kind that sounds like she’s not looking at anything thinking. Then, quieter, “Silk. Green. The one Art gave me.”

And just like that, your brain pulls it forward. The memory. You were younger- iway younger. Staying over for some reason, you barely remember now. Your mom was out of town. Their house felt too clean. Too still. You remember her sitting by the window, wine glass in hand, the city lights bouncing off that same green silk silk. You remember thinking she didn’t look like anyone’s mom. Didn’t look like someone who had to tell people what to do. She looked like a painting. Like someone expensive and complicated.

Your voice is softer now. “You’re still wearing it?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” she says. “I just… I don’t know. It’s soft. I like it.”

Another pause. Then sharper: “God, I should probably throw on something else.”

You hesitate, heart skipping. “You don’t have to.”

“Well, I’m not showing up to your porch in lingerie.”

You laugh, but it’s quiet. “It’s not lingerie.”

“It’s silk.”

You bite your lip. “Bring a coat.”

“I was going to.”

“I know. Just… it’s cold tonight.”

She doesn’t answer right away. And when she does, her voice is soft. Almost fond. “You’re sweet.”

You shift under the blanket. Your heart’s doing something it shouldn’t be doing. “I’m not.”

She hums again. The kind that doesn’t argue but also doesn’t agree.

Then the sound of her front door, the way it clicks shut behind her, the breath she lets out, her footsteps on the porch, the soft beep of her car unlocking, her keys jingling, muted like she’s trying not to wake the world.

And still, neither of you hangs up.

You put the phone down on your nightstand, a soft clack muffled in the quiet room, the screen’s glow painting your ceiling like an old movie. Your fingers drift to the mess on your floor- clothes half-tossed, notebooks stacked like they might topple any second. Without thinking, you start picking things up, folding a shirt that’s been wrinkled for days, nudging a pile of papers into some order. The rustle sounds loud, alive, and impossible to ignore.

From the other end, her voice cuts in, smooth but teasing: “Hey, what’s that noise? You cleaning?”

You freeze, fingers halfway through folding a T-shirt. You laugh softly, trying to sound casual like it’s nothing. “No. Definitely not.”

She hums, amused. “Mhm, sure.”

You sigh, shoving the shirt aside. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m tidying a little.”

Her laugh is soft, knowing. “A little?”

You shake your head, voice light but defensive. “I’m not cleaning. I don’t need to clean.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, voice thick with a smile you can’t see. “Because what, you think I’m coming over? No reason to make your room look nice?”

You hesitate, shirt still bunched in your hands, the fabric soft and warm from your palms. Her voice lingers in the air, half-teasing, half-knowing, like she’s watching you even through the quiet hum of your speaker. You don’t answer right away. The silence breathes.

“I’m not cleaning,” you say, finally, sharper than you meant it. Defensive. A little too fast. “Why would I be cleaning?”

The clock on your nightstand reads 1:12 a.m. It’s the time when everything feels too honest, the walls go soft, and your skin feels a little too aware of itself.

Tashi hums. You can hear the clink of her glass-ice against crystal, that rich little sound that tells you she’s poured herself more. Settling in. Comfortable. Like this is normal. She does this when her best friend’s daughter can’t sleep and texts her at midnight, asking if she still wants that drink.

“Mm. No reason,” she says. “Just sounded like you were getting ready for something.”

You roll your eyes. She can’t see you, but it still feels like a tell. You toss the shirt aside and land crooked on the half-folded bed like a half-lie.

“I’m not,” you say again. “It’s just… the floor was a mess.”

Which is true. But that mess didn’t bother you earlier. It didn’t bother you at dinner or when your mom said goodnight and disappeared upstairs at half past ten with that familiar yawn and a reminder to lock up. Twenty minutes ago, it didn’t bother you when you were still lying in your sleep shirt, scrolling through your camera roll with that low buzz in your stomach.

But then Tashi said yes.

You told yourself that she was just being polite wasn't a big deal. It wasn’t weird, but now, as you shift a tangled hoodie off your chair and tuck it into the laundry basket, you can feel how aware you are of the space. Of the way, the lamp glows with the vague scent of your lotion still clinging to your wrists.

It’s not for her. You’re not fixing your room because your mom’s friend, who’s been in your life since you were eleven and always smelled like expensive perfume and wine-dark lipstick, said she’d come by for a nightcap.

You’re just… tidying.

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs, with that soft, crooked smile you can hear more than see. “So this isn’t you trying to make things look nice before I come over.”

You lie back against your pillows, your heart thudding stupidly and slowly. The fan clicks softly overhead. You can feel your skin, the bare curve of your thighs under the hem of your shorts, and the heat in your cheeks that isn’t from the blanket.

“I didn’t ask you to come over,” you mutter.

“No,” she says sweetly. “You just asked if I wanted to drink with you. Since your mom’s already asleep.”

And it sounded harmless at the time. But now it’s 1:15 in the morning, and your room smells like clean sheets, and the idea of Tashi Duncan in your doorway feels less like a hypothetical and more like a pulse beneath your skin.

“I’m not cleaning,” you say again, more firm this time. If you say it with enough conviction, it’ll be true. “I’m not… prepping or whatever. It’s not that serious.”

There’s a pause, and you can hear her sip. Another ice clink. The sound of her lips parting just slightly before she lets the drink settle on her tongue. She doesn’t answer, but you can feel her disbelief stretching through the silence. Warm. Heavy. Like her eyes would be if she were standing just inside the doorway.

You sit up straighter, your legs folding beneath you and your blanket slipping to your hips. “I’m not trying to make it look nice before you come over,” you add, your voice lower now. More careful. It won’t feel like a lie if you say it slowly enough.

Still, the room is too quiet. Still, you feel that twitch in your chest, right beneath your collarbone-guilt or anticipation, you can’t tell. Your phone is hot against your ear. You imagine how she’s sitting: one leg tucked under the other, glass in hand, that look she gets when she’s humoring you when she knows more than she lets on.

You run a hand through your hair, catching slightly on a tangle near the back. Your fingers pause there for a second, hooked in the knot like they’re stuck on something else entirely. You untangle it without thinking, nails grazing your scalp, the motion slow and absentminded, like if you’re gentle enough, it won’t pull. Perhaps tonight, nothing has to be drawn. “Do you… still have the key?” you ask, as casually as you can manage. “The one my mom gave you for emergencies.” You toss it out like it’s just a detail. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you’re not already picturing her standing on your porch, hand hovering near the lock.

A pause stretches out on the line. Not long, not suspicious- just long enough to make you wonder if the question landed too soft. If maybe the air between you swallowed it. If she’s pretending not to hear it. But then-

“I do,” she says. Her voice is steady and straightforward, as if this isn’t a question with history inside it. “Your mom never asked for it back,” she says.

You nod automatically, even though she can’t see you. You glance toward the door without meaning to. “Right,” you say, but it sounds far away in your mouth. Your gaze lingers in the hallway like you’re already expecting movement. Like the air’s already shifted around her ghost.

There’s another pause- thicker this time, not uncomfortable but full. You can hear the engine hum gently behind her, maybe the soft tick of her turn signal. And then her voice again, softened like worn cotton: “Do you want me to use it?”

The question is careful. Not shy, not uncertain, but balanced-weighted with something she’s trying not to push too hard. You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding, chest loosening around the ribs in a way that makes you dizzy. It’s not relief. Not really. But it’s not dread either. Just something fluttery and uncertain. Something suspended between maybe and yes.

You chew the inside of your cheek, eyes skimming your room without seeing it. The mess is still there, still obnoxious. Piles of clothes clean, some not. A pair of jeans draped over your chair like a corpse. You hadn’t even touched your vanity. Your mirror is still smudged with fingerprints, moisturizer thumbprints, and maybe a little dust. You pull the blanket tighter around your waist like that’ll cover more than just your legs. Like that’ll somehow shield you from being seen too much. You feel suddenly thirteen again, like she caught you playing dress-up in her heels, and she didn’t say anything; she just smiled.

“…Yeah,” you say finally, the word landing soft and full. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Your voice slips out smaller than you thought it would. Not shy. Not timid. But raw in that way things are when you don’t bother to hide them. Like you’re done pretending it’s just a friendly drop-in. Like you’re letting her hear the truth hanging around the edges. That kind of openness that only leaks out after midnight, when the house is quiet, and your skin feels like it doesn’t quite belong to you.

“But,” you add, your voice flickering a little brighter, trying to steady itself. “Just- can you let me know when you’re already at the door? Like, say it. On the phone.”

You don’t know why you say that. Or you do. You just don’t want to admit it. You want a warning. You want time. You want to hear her voice in your ear when she’s standing on the other side. Not a knock. Not a surprise. Just her voice, letting you know I’m here. Get me.

There’s a pause again. A beat of silence thick enough to feel in your throat. And then you hear it. No words yet, just the shape of a smile curling behind the line.

“You want me to announce myself?”

You roll your eyes toward the ceiling, exhaling through a grin you try to smother. “Yes, Tashi. Just don’t sneak in. I’ll come down.”

And she laughs.

God- it’s so quiet. But it hits you like a wave. That breathy, honest kind of laugh she never gives to cameras. The kind that sneaks out sideways when she’s caught a little off guard. You hear it, and your stomach flips. It’s like warmth under your ribs, like someone lit a candle in your chest, burning slowly.

“Alright,” she murmurs, and there’s something close to fondness in it. Something that makes your throat feel tight. “I’ll announce myself.”

You close your eyes, just for a second. The line hums between you. Not silent. Not full of words. Just alive. And you sit there, curled into the quiet, heart knocking once against your ribs as it knows like it heard something in her voice that your brain hasn’t caught up with yet.

You didn’t hear anything.

Not the low rumble of her car easing up the curb, not the gravel crunching under tires, not even the click of the gate- if she’d even bothered to close it behind her. Nothing. No cue. No build-up. No warning. Just the television murmuring some rerun in the background of your room, the volume turned too low to follow the plot but too high to feel like silence. That soft, useless kind of noise you’d left on without thinking, the kind that fills a space but doesn’t keep you company.

And her. Still on the phone. Still breathing on the other end. She’s always had that quiet, steady presence, even when not saying anything. You’d almost forgotten she was still there, still driving, still on her way-until she wasn’t.

You’re in bed. On your side, one arm curled under your pillow, the other holding the phone too close to your face. Your tank top’s wrinkled from how you’d been rolling around, pressing your knees together and not doing anything else. Just waiting. Without saying that’s what you were doing.

And then, like she’d dropped the match right into the middle of it, “I’m here.”

Two words. Soft, maybe even gentle. But they slice clean through the room like they’d been waiting for the silence to land in.

You freeze.

Because of something about how she says it low and a little too close to the mic, her voice never really sounds unless she’s in a smaller space.

And then your whole body’s moving.

You’re already halfway up before your brain gives permission. You don’t stop to think. You don’t ask if she meant it literally. You know she did. Your body knows it before your mouth can shape a reaction. You’re out of bed in a blur, your sockless feet thudding down the hallway, the phone still clutched in your hand like it might explain something if someone saw you like this. It could justify how you’re dressed, how fast your heart’s beating, or that you’re not even trying to play it cool.

And you don’t hear the key at first.

You’re already on the stairs, halfway down, adrenaline rushing so loud in your ears you could’ve sworn you were alone in the moment you had time. You still had a beat before she’d be right there before you.

But then it happens.

That slow, practiced turn of the lock. The deadbolt gives in like it’s always been hers to open. Then, the door shifted against its frame with the softest kind of surrender. The way only people you trust too much come through.

And then her voice again, this time not from your phone.

Not filtered through distance or speaker static or the safety of conversation. Real. In your house. From the hall.

“I figured you didn’t hear me.”

Like she’s always had a key. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like you weren’t already standing in the middle of the stairs, barefoot, heartbeat in your mouth, wearing the kind of tank top you never meant for her to see you in like this.

She doesn’t even look up at first. Just kicks the door shut behind her with the heel of one boot, her coat still half-buttoned, hair a little windblown, like maybe she’d been driving with the window cracked. One hand was still wrapped around her phone. She’s not wearing makeup. Or perhaps she wiped it off in the car. Her lips look clean and soft. Tired, maybe.

You don’t say anything. Can’t. You just stand there on the stairs, still halfway between levels, your shoulder pressed to the banister like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. You haven’t hung up. Neither has she. Her voice still hums through the line clutched in your hand, an echo or a memory that hasn’t caught up yet.

She looks at you.

And for a second second, there’s something raw in her face. Some flicker she doesn’t cover fast enough. Not softness, exactly. Not relief. Just something that sees you.

“Hi,” she says, and it’s quieter in person than it ever was on the phone.

You’re not sure if you answer or even breathe.

She walks toward the stairs, slowly, like she’s giving you a second to move, to meet her halfway, to stop her if this was all a mistake. But you don’t. You stay exactly where you are. And so does she when she gets to the bottom step. Looking up at you.

Neither of you is high enough to have the advantage. Not really. You’re still in your tank top. She’s still in her coat. The heat hasn’t even settled into her clothes yet. She looks out of place here, standing in your hallway, close enough that you can smell her perfume. The same one you always recognize but never name.

Her fingers twitch like maybe she wants to say something to them. Maybe reach out.

But she doesn’t.

And then soft, measured, like she’s testing the weight of it:

“Were you going to come down?”

You swallow, but your throat’s too dry to make a sound of it. Just a blink. A breath. A half-step forward that doesn’t register until you feel the wood under your foot instead of the carpet. Like your body moving on instinct and the rest of you lagging.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t have to. She’s already in the middle of the hallway, with the door softly shut behind her. Her hand is still half-curled around her phone like it’s the only thing tethering her to the version of this where she’s not breaking a line.

You say, “Yeah.” And it’s the smallest thing. Practically a whisper. But she hears it because, of course, she does. She always hears you when you don’t mean to be heard.

Her mouth twitches at the corner, not quite a smile. More like she’s relieved you spoke at all.

“You were still on the line,” she says, holding up the phone like proof. “Didn’t wanna scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

A lie. Or something close. You’re still trying to catch up to your heartbeat, still figuring out what part of you bolted for the stairs without a plan. But you don’t walk it back. You don’t explain. You just make it down the last two steps and stop short in front of her, close enough that the heat trapped inside her coat is starting to bleed into the air between you.

She looks at you for a second longer. Not just a glance- she looks. Like she’s cataloging the tank top, the way your hair’s a mess from your pillow, the grip you haven’t loosened on your phone. Her eyes fall to it, then back up, slower this time. Like she’s making a decision she already made ten minutes ago but wants to make it again right here.

You ask quietly, “So you used the key to come in?”

She doesn’t blink.

“I didn’t want to wait.”

You stare at her, and something in your chest shifts- just slightly, just enough to feel. You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to. The silence does it for you, humming heavily between your bodies like something just shy of a yes.

Your phone’s still in your hand. Still warm from the call. You glance down at it, the screen lighting up uselessly beneath your fingers, still clinging to the line. Still holding her voice like it hasn’t already moved past the speakers and into your hallway.

You press the red circle. End it like it matters. Like she’s not standing right here.

The screen goes black, and the phone’s weight suddenly feels stupid in your hand. You’d been holding it out of habit, not purpose. Without thinking, you set it on the edge of the stair rail and hear it make the softest clack against the wood. Her eyes follow the sound, then flick back to you.

“Kitchen?” you offer, voice low.

She doesn’t answer. She follows.

You move first, not looking to see if she’s right behind you, but knowing. You can feel her presence tugging at your back like static, like tension. The kind that builds slowly gets into your blood and makes your fingers clumsy when you open the fridge just to do something.

Light spills out in a dull glow, too cold against your flushed skin. You lean your hip into the counter and stare blankly at the shelves like you’re looking for something you already know you won’t find. Maybe pretending you don’t see what you’re looking for feels safer than naming it out loud.

She doesn’t say anything. She’s in the doorway, watching you like it’s not the kitchen she came here for.

Not really. Not tonight.

You pretend not to notice. Open a cabinet too loudly. Let the glass knock against the counter like you’re thinking about something else- like you’re still playing it cool, even though nothing about your heartbeat is. You feel her eyes on you, heavier than the quiet, steady in a way that makes your neck warm.

Then she speaks softly like she’s easing the question out of herself.

“What do you and your mom drink… when you go out together?”

You blink.

It’s not what you expected. Not quite. You look over your shoulder, and she’s still there crossed, mouth unsure like the words came out before she could check if they were dumb. Like, she’s not sure if that counted as prying.

You take a beat, glass still in hand, then let the edge of your mouth twitch up. “Depends. Wine, if she’s trying to be classy. Margaritas if she’s trying to get me to gossip. Tequila if we’re both trying to forget shit.”

That makes her smile a little. Not all the way, but enough. Enough to soften her mouth. Enough to make you wonder what she really wants to know.

You turn and lean back against the counter now, your hip finding the spot it always does like this is any other night. She’s not dressed like that, and the air isn’t thick with whatever she hasn’t said yet.

You turn and lean back against the counter now, your hip finding the spot it always does like this is just any other night. She’s not standing there in silk silk and a coat like she didn’t drive here in the dark just to see you.

Your eyes flick toward her carefully. She’s still by the doorway. Not moving. Not saying anything. Just looking at you like she does when she’s about to say something that’ll stay in your head for weeks. Months, maybe.

You clear your throat just a little. Then, casual, too casual, you ask, “So… what do you want to drink with me?”

Not what do you usually drink. Not what do you want. Just that small, specific weight at the end of it with me.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers brush the table’s edge like she’s thinking it over. This is more serious than you meant it to sound.

Then she finally says, “What do we have?”

And when she says, “Not you, not your mom, not this house,” your stomach tightens just enough to feel it.

You shrug, glancing toward the cabinets, then back at her. “I don’t really drink at home,” you admit, voice low. “So… just pick whatever you want. Whatever looks good.”

You try to sound breezy, unaffected. But it comes out quieter than you meant, like you’re afraid of breaking whatever this is. You’re not sure what’ll happen if she picks something too firm or soft or walks all the way in instead of standing there like she hasn’t already crossed a line just by being here.

Tashi doesn’t say anything. Just steps into the room like she owns the silence between you, her coat slipping more off one shoulder as she moves toward the cabinet. Her hand grazes your arm when she passes, light, deliberate, and completely unnecessary. Your skin sparks like it’s been waiting for that exact kind of contact, like it’s been rehearsing it in dreams you don’t admit to having.

She opens the door and browses like it’s a bookstore, like she’s looking for something familiar. “You used to have that peach liqueur,” she says after a moment, half to herself. “Your mom swore it tasted better over ice, but I always liked it neat.”

You blink. “She still has it.” Like it’s some little secret you’re sharing, like a fact that settles something between you.

Her mouth quirks up, that half-smile she’s been saving for moments like this when she’s unsure if she’s amused or just trying to look calm. “Good. Then that’s what I want.”

You reach for the bottle, that peach schnapps your mom and Tashi always drink when they’re here together, the one that tastes like syrup and sunburn and afternoons that stretch too long. You hold it like it’s a clue you’re handing her, like maybe it’ll say something you both haven’t dared to say out loud yet.

“But I don’t really drink that at home,” you say, your voice folding around the words like you’re telling her some new fact she didn’t know about you. “Too sweet. Too fake. Like it’s trying too hard to be fun or something, I don’t do that. That’s not me.”

You set two glasses down for her, one for yourself. How your hand brushes the counter feels like you’re waiting for the room to catch up, waiting for her to catch the weight of what you just said.

“I’m more the hard stuff kind of person,” you add, and you can’t help the smirk that pulls at the corner of your mouth. “Tequila, gin, things that hit you where it hurts, and don’t apologize for it.”

You watch her, eyes steady, daring her to say something or maybe just daring her to meet you where the sweet meets the sharp, and nothing’s quite what it seems.

She shifts like she’s weighing whether to step closer or retreat into the doorway she claimed moments ago. The silence hums between you- thick but fragile like a secret waiting to spill.

“You always do this,” you say finally, voice casual but low. “You show up out of nowhere, asking for a drink with my mom. I don’t know if I should be grateful she’s already asleep or annoyed she’s missing all the fun.”

She swallows, and you catch that flicker - that small crack in her calm. Because yeah, you both know the history here. The lines that were never crossed but always hovered just beneath the surface. The way she’s always been careful not to stay too long, not to look too hard, not to linger when your eyes caught hers across a too-quiet room.

“So,” you say, your voice just a little rougher now, a little lower, “what’s really going on tonight?”

She’s still standing there like she hasn’t decided whether to come all the way in. If she does, something shifts. Something tips.

Like her being here becomes something else that becomes real. Becomes a choice.

Her coat’s slipping further down her shoulder now, satin catching the soft yellow light of the kitchen like it’s staged, like the universe is lighting her from some impossible angle just for you. But she doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t notice, or maybe does and leaves it anyway. The curve of her collarbone is bare. Clean. Unbothered. She didn’t drive here with a headache, heartache, and no idea what she’d say once she got to your door.

You don’t press. Not yet. You just look at her and let her decide how far she wants to take it.

But she doesn’t say anything.

So you do.

“…Is it about the divorce?”

You don’t say it is cruel. You don’t say it curious, either. You just say it straight. Maybe you’re tired of pretending she came here for the peach schnapps and not something bleeding under her skin. Something that brought her here in the dark, wearing perfume and silence and that expression she always puts on when she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s hurting.

Her mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not a frown. Just something caught in between, like she’s been holding her breath since she parked the car and doesn’t know how to let it out.

Her gaze drops to your hand, one still holding the bottle, and she steps closer.

The sound of her heels on the tile is soft but final, like a clock ticking over to the next hour. Her fingers wrap slowly around the neck of it, brushing yours, warm, present, and a little too firm to pretend it didn’t happen.

She takes it from you like you offered it, like you didn’t mean to, but maybe you did.

She pours carefully. Steady. Like the quiet between you hasn’t thickened into something close to guilt.

Or want.

Or both, messy and knotted up, sitting in your throat like something sweet you’re trying not to choke on.

Two glasses. There’s no rush. There are no excuses. She doesn’t look at you while she does it; she just watches the syrupy liquid rise in both. That seems safer, as if it gives her time.

Once they’re full, she slides one across to you without speaking. Then she picks hers up, turning it once between her fingers like she’s still deciding what to say or if she should say anything at all. The glass catches the light. Her nail clinks against it, absentminded.

You don’t touch yours yet.

You watch her.

You wait.

She exhales. “I didn’t think I’d say anything.”

Her voice is lower now. Not soft, exactly, but undone in a way you’ve never really heard before. Like she’s halfway through the thought and hasn’t decided if she trusts it enough to finish it.

You glance up. “You didn’t have to come here to talk.”

“I didn’t,” she says, a little too quick. A little too automatic.

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

But you both know that’s not true.

You don’t even have to say it. It just sits there between you, evident as the drinks and the hour and the way her eyes won’t quite meet yours.

And when you finally reach for your glass, her eyes follow your hand like she wants to stop you. Maybe you’ve already heard too much. Perhaps this is already more intimate than it should be.

You take a sip anyway. Let it burn.

Then, after a beat that lasts longer than it should: “You’re allowed to fall apart, you know.”

She stiffens-not all the way, not enough for anyone else to notice. But you do. You feel it in how she adjusts her weight and her thumb stills on the glass.

She stares down into her drink. “Not in front of just anyone.”

Her voice is quieter now. Not hushed, but stripped.

You swallow. Quiet. Slow.

“Good thing I’m not just anyone.”

Her eyes flick up at that fast, sharp, like a reflex she didn’t mean to show.

And for a second, she doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just watches you in the way she does when her mouth wants to be clever, but her chest is too tight for it.

Then she says it quietly, flat, almost defensive:

“No. You’re not.”

Her voice isn’t cold. It’s careful like she’s trying to hold something back that has already slipped out.

“You’re my friend’s daughter.”

It’s not a joke. Not a tease. It’s a warning. A reminder. A fucking line in the sand that she’s already ankle-deep in.

And she knows it.

You just blink at her. Not mocking. Not flinching. Just standing there, looking back at her like you already knew she’d say it, and you don’t care.

And that makes it worse.

Because god, you shouldn’t be looking at her like that. Not with your lip caught between your teeth. Not with your neck bare in that tank top. It’s not like she’s the one who made you this bold.

Tashi breathes in slowly and steadily like she’s trying to cool something off inside her ribs.

Fucking hell, she thinks, you could be my daughter.

Not biologically. Not legally. But emotionally? Practically?

She watched you grow up. Ate birthday cake in this kitchen. Drove you to volleyball practice once when your mom was sick. You had braces the first time she ever heard you cry in this house. You used to beg to stay up late just to listen to her and your mother talk shit over wine.

And now you’re standing across from her, grown, calm, a little offering her a drink like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the rules never applied.

And maybe they didn’t.

Because she called you tonight, not your mother.

She knew what she was doing. Somewhere, under all the grief and mess, she knew.

You tilt your head a little, watching her unravel one inch at a time, and then say soft, amused:

“So, why did you call me instead of her?”

Her eyes drop before you even finish the question.

Not in guilt, exactly. More like avoidance. She already knows what you’re asking and is not ready to answer it out loud. Or maybe she’s just tired of lying to herself about it.

She presses her palm against the counter, fingers splayed like bracing herself against something heavier than gravity. You watch her shoulders settle- not relaxed, not tense, but somewhere in between, like she’s practiced this exact posture in a mirror. A long pause. Then:

“She’s usually asleep by now.”

You hum, dry. A quiet scoff under your breath, not cruel-just real.

“Still not an answer.”

That gets you a glance. Quick. Sharp at the edges. Like she’s weighing whether to snap or shrug.

And you let the silence stretch, just for a second. You know her well enough by now. She’s not the type to spill unless it starts to burn. And something about tonight smells like smoke.

She exhales, barely. A breath that folds her in on herself, slow and reluctant, like it costs her something to keep talking. Her hand lifts to her temple, thumb dragging across her forehead like she’s trying to rub something out, a headache, a memory, the echo of your voice.

And then, quieter, almost like it’s for herself:

“I didn’t want to have that kind of conversation tonight.”

Your brow arches just slightly. You don’t lean in, but your gaze sharpens and narrows.

“What kind of conversation?”

You know the answer already. You just want her to say it. You want to see if she’ll be honest when it’s just the two of you, the lights are dim, and the house feels like a different version of itself.

She doesn’t look at you. Not right away. Just reaches for the bottle in silence, fingers curling around her neck like she’s done this before. This is muscle memory, not a choice. Her movements are smooth and practiced but not casual. You catch the subtle tremor in her wrist as she unscrews the cap. The quick, tight inhale she pulls through her nose before she tips the bottle.

“The kind where I have to pretend I’m okay.”

The words hit the counter like a dropped spoon-soft but loud enough in a room this quiet.

It lands between you like heat. A private admission dressed as a throwaway line. You don’t flinch, but it sinks into you anyway.

She pours your glass first, then her own, steady now. Doesn’t meet your eyes until both are filled. When she finally does, there’s no apology in it. Just a kind of fatigue. And underneath it, something sharp. Something still alive.

You let your hand close around the glass, fingers tracing the rim without lifting it. The peach smell hits your nose- syrupy and familiar. It smells like summer nights you weren’t invited to. Like how your mom would giggle after three sips, and Tashi would just smile without explaining why.

But this isn’t then. And she isn’t smiling.

“And I’m the easier option?”

You say it like you’re teasing, but your voice is low, unreadable.

Tashi’s mouth presses into a line. Not a flinch, exactly, but close. You can see it in how her jaw shifts; it is like she swallowed something bitter.

Then, deadpan:

“You’re not easy.”

A pause.

Her eyes hold yours, steady now. No smile. Just heat.

“You’re just… not her.”

There’s a beat of silence that doesn’t rush to fill itself. She looks down into her glass for a moment, like it might tell her something.

And then she says it. Half under her breath, almost careless but not quite:

“And that’s not nothing.”

You don’t smile. You don’t joke. You let the weight of it hang.

The thing is, she’s known your mother for decades. Long enough that most people forget to filter around each other. Long enough that she saw your mother fall in love, felt the weight of those early, fragile promises, and witnessed the slow unraveling that came later. She’s been there through the celebrations and the silences, through moments in grander homes and quieter nights.

She knows the exact shape of your mother’s laugh, her wrist bends when she pours a drink, and her silence when she fears being seen.

And yet, somehow, you’re the one she called tonight.

Not your mom.

You lean against the counter again, slow and deliberate, letting the space between you shrink-not with steps, but with a shared understanding that neither of you is pretending anymore.

“Is it about the divorce?” You asks again.

The question slices through the quiet like a blade-clean, unavoidable. No fluff. No circumnavigation. Just the raw truth hovering between you.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Her fingers tap lightly on the side of the glass. Once. Twice.

Her mouth twitches like she’s about to deflect, joke, or change the subject. The words catch in her throat.

Then, quietly- just above a whisper, but firm, certain, “Everything is, lately.”

She doesn’t look away when she says it. Hold your gaze instead, steady and real.

And that- more than anything- makes you still.

Because she doesn’t deny it.

Don’t try to redirect or hide behind worn excuses.

She just stands there in the kitchen of her best friend’s house, across from the one person she probably shouldn’t be drinking with, eyes too clear, glass full of something sweeter than she probably wants.

When she takes a sip, you follow.

You don’t even think about it, really. Your hand moves. Like your body’s already whatever she does, you do. Like some part of you’s still following her lead, even now, even here, when she shouldn’t be leading anything at all.

The drink is sweeter than you expected. Syrupy. It coats your throat, lingers on your tongue, and tastes like something people drink on porches in towns where nothing ever happens. It’s not like this kitchen, not like this night. It’s the kind of sweetness that tries to pass itself off as innocent, like fruit punch at a church picnic, but there’s nothing pure about it. It stays too long. Sticks to the back of your teeth. Refuses to let go.

You swallow and watch her over the rim of your glass.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t flinch or twitch or shift. She just sets hers down like that’s the end of it. Like she’s done now. Like that one line- everything is, lately- is supposed to be enough. Like it should land and stick and explain away the years. That’s an answer and not a deflection dressed up like closure.

You let a beat pass. Just one. A silent exhale between the two of you, a space she could fill if she wanted, but she doesn’t. So you set your glass down, too. A soft clink, perfectly timed. Not dramatic. Just… placed. Like punctuation. Like you’re drawing a line in the sand with glass and liquor.

“So.” You tilt your head a little. Let the pause hang between syllables. Let it linger just long enough to press, not prod. “Why’d you really split?”

It comes out calm. Easy. Like you’re asking about the weather. Or about how long she plans to stay. But your eyes don’t leave her face. Not once. You want to see the first crack, the first tell, the first little shift that says you’ve touched a nerve.

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. Just shifts her weight like her shoes don’t fit right. She might just turn and walk out, take the bottle with her, leave you to drink in her absence, and sit in the echo of the things she didn’t say.

You give her a second. Maybe two. Long enough to take them out if she wants it. Long enough to walk away. She doesn’t.

Then, casual as anything: “I mean… ‘mutual’?” You lift your brows and sip your sarcasm. “Sure. That’s believable.”

She glances at you once, quickly like a flick of light off the glass. Like she’s just checking if you’re serious or if this is some kind of joke. But nothing in her expression moves.

So you smile. Not nice. Just sharp enough to scratch.

“What was it?” you ask like you’re playing a party game. “Too many nights apart? Too many cameras in your face? Was it one of those situations where you both wanted ‘different things’ but didn’t actually say what they were?”

Nothing. No reaction.

You keep going.

“Maybe he got tired of you telling him what to do.” You lean on the counter, chin propped on your knuckles. “Or maybe you got tired of pretending like he ever listened.”

She exhales slowly. Measured. But her fingers flex against the edge of the counter as she braces herself for a gust of wind that hasn’t yet come. She knows what’s coming next and is already doing the math to determine whether it’s worth staying for.

And you-it only fuels you. That stillness she hides behind. That constant calculation. If she stays perfectly quiet, none of this will count. Like silence is a shield.

You tilt your head the other way. Smile smaller now. Meaner, maybe.

“Could’ve been the retirement,” you say, offhand, eyes on your glass as it might explain her. “He brought it up, right? Not you.”

You don’t have to look up to know it lands. The quiet gives it away - not stiff, just still, like she’s trying not to react.

“He was the one who said it out loud first. Said he was done. Wanted out. Wanted to stop playing before it got uglier.”

You pause and swirl what’s left in your glass.

“Didn’t even fight you on it, I bet. Just… said it. Like it was nothing.”

You lift your eyes to her, slow. “But I don’t think you liked that.”

Still no answer, but something shifts - a faint breath through her nose, a muscle tightening in her cheek.

“Not because you wanted him to keep playing,” you add, voice light now, almost amused. “Let’s be real. He was barely holding it together. He could’ve thrown his back out tying his shoes.”

You smirk into your sip.

“No, I think you hated it because you weren’t saying it.”

Now she looks at you. Finally, it’s that look - not angry, not defensive, just… exposed. Like you pulled a thread she didn’t think you’d find.

“You were supposed to end it,” you say. “When you were ready. When you were done. Not him.”

A slow blink from her. Nothing else.

“You spent half your life turning him into something bigger than he was,” you continue. “Managing him, building him. Cleaning up his losses, stacking his wins. And he just… took that and handed it back to you. Said he didn’t want it anymore.”

Another pause. You set your glass down, soft.

“Bet that pissed you off more than anything else.”

You don’t smile now. You look at her. Quiet. Direct.

“Not because he quit,” you say. “But because he got to be the one who let you go first.”

Still nothing. Not really. But you can feel her silence now. It’s active. Charged. Like the pause before thunder. Like she’s daring you to say more because she won’t.

“God,” you say, dragging it out, light and cruel and just a little amused, “I can only imagine the arguments.”

You lift your glass again and swirl the liquid, looking for something to do or touch that isn’t her.

“But I mean… you were better than him.”

You shrug casually. “That’s not even opinion. Everyone said it. You were supposed to be the one who went the distance.”

She looks away, toward the stove, like it might rescue her. Like she wants to ask you to stop but won’t.

You keep going.

“But then your knee blew out, and he got a golden ticket, and you pivoted like the pro you are. Coach. Wife. Brand manager. Career midwife. You pretty much rebuilt him from the ground up.”

A pause. You lower your glass.

So you lean in a little. Eyes on her mouth.

“Or maybe you cheated on him?”

That does it.

Her head turns slowly like she’s already exhausted by you, but she can’t not look. Can’t hear what you’re really asking.

“Was it someone you knew already? Fucked someone he knows?” you ask, half-curious, half-slicing. “Or just a stranger?”

Still nothing.

You click your tongue, teeth catching your bottom lip like you’re trying not to laugh.

“Guess that’s a yes.” Yes, to the cheating. Clocked it.

You don’t flinch when she sets the glass down like that. Not quite a slam, but sharp enough to echo against the counter, against your ribs. Loud enough to mean something, even if it’s not clear what. A line in the sand. A flare is going up. A warning, maybe, though you don’t need it.

You just watch her. Her head was tilted slightly, her hip was against the counter, and her posture was loose, as if you were not reading every flick of her eyes. Like you’re not cataloging every breath. You wait because you think she’ll give you something, but because silence, lately, is the only thing that feels like power.

And when she doesn’t speak and move, doesn’t deny, doesn’t defend, laugh again. This time quieter. Smaller. Less venom, more disbelief. Not even for her benefit. If you don’t laugh, you’ll fall into that old habit of softening things for her. And you’re too fucking tired for that.

Then: “You know,” you say, almost thoughtful, voice a little breezy, a little too casual for the weight of the room, “for someone who can talk circles around a loss, you got real quiet when I said the word cheating.”

That’s the thing that does it.

Her head snaps toward you so fast it cuts the air sharply, and suddenly, she seems to have forgotten how to hold still. She also appears to have forgotten that you aren’t that kid anymore.

“Oh, fuck you.”

It’s not loud. It’s not even harsh. But it lands hard. Loaded. Raw. The filter finally slipped, and her authentic voice came out underneath. The one she’s been biting back since she walked in the door.

You blink, slow. Then, you’re slight, smug, and mean because you’re not trying to be fair. Not tonight. Not after everything.

“There it is.”

“No,” she says, jaw tight, shoulders squared like she’s gearing up for a serve. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you caught something. Like you know something.”

“Didn’t I?”

She scoffs, breath sharp and bitter. “You threw a grenade and waited to see if I flinched. Congratulations. You’re exhausting.”

You laugh through your nose. Short. Sharp. Then step back like the moment doesn’t weigh a damn thing-leaning into the counter like it’s all just a joke now, like you’re watching it unfold from somewhere else.

“You could’ve said no.”

“I don’t owe you an answer,” she spits, a little more venom now like she’s only just realizing you’re not going to back off.

“But you gave me one anyway.”

“No,” she says again, her voice rising steadier. “You decided what it was. You always do that. Fill in the blanks. Make it fit whatever story you want to believe.”

You lift your brows, unimpressed. Your glass sweats in your hand, still half full. Still ignored. “It wouldn’t have hit so hard if it weren’t true.”

Her hands brace the counter like it’s the only thing tethering her to the floor. She’s leaning forward now, with weight in her arms and tight across the shoulders, like she wants to run, hit something, or both. Like she’s burning from the inside out and trying not to show it.

“You think I came here to be accused?” she snaps, eyes cutting toward you like a blade.

And you, you almost laugh. Not because it’s funny. But because she still thinks that works. She can raise her voice, pull rank, and pretend she doesn’t know precisely what she walked into. Like she didn’t sit in her car for ten minutes outside before ringing the bell.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, all mock-innocent, your glass still in your hand, fingers loose around it like you’re trying hard not to throw it. “Is that not what this is?”

She flinches barely, but you catch it. A twitch. A stutter in her breath. And it’s enough. You step in a little closer. Not touching. Just pushing the space like it’s a boundary she forgot she gave you. Like you’re letting her remember who you are now.

“What the fuck did you expect me to think?” you ask, low, steady, almost nice. Like you’re not ripping into her. Like you’re not waiting for her to bleed.

She doesn’t answer. Of course, she doesn’t. The silence between you stretches, pulled taut like a wire about to snap.

You tilt your head and let your eyes sweep her slow neck to shoulder, mouth to jaw. She’s too close for this to be nothing. Not casual. Not innocent. Not even remotely smart.

“So what, then?” you ask, your voice soft now, too soft like you’re already bored with this game. “You called looking for my mom. She was asleep, and I offered. Now we’re here. Drinking. Like, that’s not weird. You didn’t just get divorced and think this would feel the same.”

Still nothing. But her mouth’s a little tighter now. Her throat works around a swallow, and she won’t let you hear. You can practically see the war she’s fighting behind her eyes.

“Is that the vibe you were going for?” you press, smiling like it’s a dare. “Little kitchen reunion with your friend’s daughter?”

Her eyes flick just once. Like she didn’t think you’d go there. Like she thought you would stay polite. Like she still thought you were someone she could manage.

But you don’t let up.

“You know how old I am, right?” you ask, raising your brows. “Or were you counting on the fact that I still look sweet enough to get carded?”

She still hasn’t answered, which only makes it worse, more pathetic, and more damning.

“Jesus,” you mutter, laughing a little now because you’ll scream if you don’t laugh. “Did you come here to drink with someone who could literally be your daughter, or were you just hoping I wouldn’t call it what it is?”

You let the question hang. Nasty and pointed and a little too honest. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But her jaw sets like she’s chewing something down-grief, guilt, or a comeback she can’t land.

“So what now, Aunt Tashi?” you add, voice dripping with mock the way you used to say it when you were a kid, back when your mom told you to call her that like it meant something. Like she was just some benevolent presence in your life instead of a woman who’d later show up drunk at your door at midnight. “You come crying to me now that it’s all falling apart?”

That gets her. A flicker. A tightening around the eyes. As the words hit somewhere soft, she forgot she was still sore.

But she doesn’t break.

So you go for the throat.

“Yeah, sure. You just happened to end up here, with me, of all people. Just a little nostalgic drive, right? Nothing to do with guilt or needing someone to say it out loud.”

You pause, glass hovering near your mouth. Her eyes are on it. You know she’s watching your hands now.

“And maybe you came because you wanted someone to make you feel like shit for it.”

You sip, slow. Unbothered. Let her sit in it. Let it thicken the air between you.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But the silence tells you everything. It hangs there like a guilty verdict, waiting to be read aloud.

So you give it voice.

“Bet he still defends you. Even now. Isn’t that pathetic?”

She blinks slowly. Her jaw twitches. But she doesn’t speak, and that only feeds you.

“Man’s out here playing loyal husband, and you couldn’t even keep your legs closed.”

Her head tilts, barely like she’s trying not to react like she’s calculating the exact amount of rage she can swallow without choking on it. But you’re not done. Not when she still thinks she can wear that calm- like armor.

“You had a man who worshipped the ground you walked on.” You lean in just enough to make it hurt, voice soft like cruelty in a whisper. “You pissed on it instead.”

That’s when she breaks.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But her hand clenches on the counter, and her breath stutters out of her nose in a way that makes your chest go hot like you hit something deeper than anger. Maybe, for just a second thought, she could still keep her dignity intact.

Too fucking late for that.

Her knuckles go white on the counter. She stares at it like it might offer her a way out. For example, if she doesn’t look at you, she won’t have to admit how much that landed.

But then-

“I swear to God,” she says, voice quiet, ragged at the edges, “if you say one more fucking thing like that-”

You raise your brows slowly. “You’ll what?”

That gets her. Her head snaps toward you, eyes sharp enough to gut.

“I didn’t come here to be judged by some- some little girl who doesn’t know shit about what it means to be lonely.”

Ouch.

But she doesn’t stop. Can’t.

“You think I came here to be judged?” she says, low now lower than before but harder, like the edge of a blade pressed to skin. “By you?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Her eyes flick up, meet yours, and for the first time tonight, she actually looks. Not away. Not through you. At you.

“You think you know something because you’re angry? Because you got a few bitter lines and a front-row seat to a marriage you didn’t understand?” She laughs, bitter and breathless. “You’ve been dying to use it on me, right? All this time, waiting for the chance.”

You flinch, barely. Her smile twitches. She saw it. She steps in. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the shift in the air like pressure drops before a storm.

“You think calling me pathetic makes you grown?”

You hold her stare, breath caught somewhere in your chest. You should say something. You should push back. You don’t. “Been waiting for this moment since the first time your eyes landed somewhere they weren’t supposed to.”

Her voice is a curl of smoke now, hot and venom- sweet, too close to your mouth.

“Don’t act like I didn’t notice. Don’t pretend you didn’t look at me like I was the one who’d done something wrong like you weren’t the one coming downstairs in shorts that barely passed your ass and trying not to stare at my legs.”

You swallow. You shouldn’t be hard.

“You think I missed how your voice always dropped when you said my name? The way you’d linger in the doorway when I said goodnight?” She scoffs, mouth curling around every word like it tastes filthy. “You’ve been soaking in it for years. Desperate. Quiet. Acting like you didn’t want me to catch you.”

She steps in close- closer than she ever has. Her coat brushes your chest. The silk underneath whispers when she moves.

And her mouth is right there.

“Pathetic little thing. You don’t want to judge me,” she breathes. “You want to be the reason I never stop being a fucking mess.”

You can’t move. You don’t want to.

“And now that I am,” she says, dark eyes burning into yours, “you don’t know what to do with it, do you? You thought I’d come here crying. You thought I’d fall apart.”

Her fingers graze your wrist. Barely. But it scorches.

“Poor thing,” she purrs. “You wanted to play grown-up? Show me your teeth? Then come on.”

The coat parts just slightly as she moves, the silk underneath catching the light like something obscene. You know that fabric. You see that nightgown. You’ve imagined it, dreamed it, ruined yourself over it, even back when you had no idea what to do with the ache.

And she knows that, too.

She sees your eyes catch on it. Linger.

You don’t even ask.

You just drop.

It’s not polite. It’s not romantic. It’s not anything you could explain without choking on your filth. You drop to your knees as they owe her something like they’ve been aching to hit the floor since the second she walked in with that coat slung over her shoulders and her mouth already parted as she knew.

That goddamn nightgown. Looks too good and too soft, the kind of silk that should be worn in candlelight, not under kitchen fluorescents, while someone half her age rubs their face against it like a dog in heat.

Her voice is poison- sweet when she says, “You recognize it?”

Your lips part. Nothing comes out.

She hums. “He bought it for me,” she adds, soft and vicious. “And said this makes him want another Lily.”

Then she leans in, faces leveling before you, breath hot and foul with something ugly.

“Guess that’s why you couldn’t stop staring.”

When she stands properly again like a god… you nose along the hem like you’ve lost your mind. You have. You must have. Because it smells like her- her skin, her perfume, her pussy, barely shielded by layers that feel like paper when your mouth’s this hot, this hungry. You mouth at her like it’ll save you. Like getting her wet through her nightgown might buy you absolution.

It won’t. But fuck, it feels close.

“Tashi,” you groan, already pressing open-mouthed kisses where the silk clings damp to her. “You smell so- fuck- so good, oh my god-”

She should push you off. Say your name like a warning. Say stop.

But her hand finds your head instead.

Not gently.

Fingers in your hair, scalp- tight grip, and her hips fucking jerk forward like she doesn’t care if you bite. Like she wants the teeth. Wants the desperation. Wants the tongue that’s dragging slow and heavy up the curve of her through that ruined silk, like it’s not even in your way.

“Jesus,” she breathes out. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

She’s not even saying it to you. She’s saying it like a confession. Like an apology.

But you don’t care. You’re gone. You’re lapping at her like you can taste the years of bad decisions soaked into her skin. Like if you’re disgusting enough if you worship her hard enough through the layers, she’ll let you do worse.

You grind your nose up where the fabric clings darkest. Your tongue presses. Her thighs shake.

“Bet no one’s ever been this fucking desperate for it, huh?” you mutter, voice wrecked and breathless. “Bet Art never got on his knees. Not like this. Not for this. Didn’t know what the fuck he had.”

“Shut up,” she gasps, but it’s not angry.

It’s desperate.

You know that tone. You’ve heard it behind doors years ago, room over, pressed up against drywall, breath caught in your throat. At the same time, her voice broke, and you didn’t know why you were wet just hearing her beg him in another room when you slept over her place before.

Now she’s the one soaked.

And you’re the one making her.

You grab her ass and drag her forward against your mouth as if it belongs to you like she should’ve been letting you do this the whole damn time. Her knees nearly buckle. Her hand tightens in your hair like she wants to tear your scalp open.

“Tashi,” you whisper, breath hot enough to melt silk. “You’re shaking.”

“Fuck you,” she chokes out.

But her hips say thank you.

You lick a stripe straight up the center of her cunt through her nightgown and panties- obscene, slow, heavy with spit. She lets out a noise that’s half a sob, half a growl. Like this is killing her. Like she wants it to.

And you?

You’d stay here forever.

On your knees, face soaked with her, mouth pressed against the place no one else gets to see her break. She’s older. She’s been loved. She’s been ruined. But not like this.

You’re the one making her fall apart now.

And you’re not even under the silk yet.

She doesn’t even try to stop you now. Her fingers are knotted so tight in your hair they’re shaking, and the coat slips off her shoulders like even fabric can’t stand between you anymore. It hits the floor with a whisper.

But the silk stays.

Because that’s the thing, you don’t move it. You don’t even try. You just drag your tongue up the soaked center of her cunt, slow, like the silk’s not a barrier but a sacrament. It sticks to her wet, sheer, clinging to every curve, every ridge, every swollen beat of her pussy like it wants to be ruined.

And god, do you ruin it.

You nose up into the seam, breathing hot against it, and the heat makes it cling tighter. Her taste is leaking through, already sweet, sour, and sharp, like sweat, skin, and something even deeper. You lick again. Broad. Firm. Right up the center, letting your tongue flatten against the thin slip of fabric and press.

She chokes on her breath. Her whole body twitches.

“Oh fuck-”

You don’t stop. You double down. You wrap both arms around her thighs, fingertips digging into the soft give of her ass, holding her steady as your tongue works her over. The silk is a second skin now, and you’re devouring it. Lapping at it. Mouthing at the swollen, slick outline of her pussy like it’s a puzzle you’ve been dying to solve for years.

And it’s not just the silk.

She’s still got panties underneath- thin, soaked through, clinging to her just as tight. You can feel them under your tongue when you press harder. A soft layer of lace or cotton, maybe both, bunched under the silk like a final line of defense that gave up hours ago. They’re drenched- darker than the nightgown now, twisted into the shape of her cunt like she came into them days ago and never stopped leaking. You lick right through all of it. You feel the texture shift under your mouth- wet silk dragging across soaked cotton, your tongue pushing the fabric harder into her clit with every pass, and she’s shaking. You want her to cum through it. You want to taste her as she breaks apart in layers.

She moans- harsh, guttural, trying to swallow it down and failing. She buckles. Grabs the countertop. Her knees wobble, and her hips roll, seeking, grinding against your mouth like she can’t help it. Like the friction’s not enough and too much all at once.

And fuck, she’s wet.

The silk’s drenched now dark, clinging, and practically transparent with how soaked she is. You can see everything. The way her folds push up against the fabric, plump and flushed. The outline of her clit, straining, begging. The soft dip where her hole flexes, twitching under the heat of your tongue. You lick it all. Slowly. Obscenely. Over and over, soaking your face with her.

She shudders violently. Her thighs clamped around your head, not enough to stop you- just sufficient to make it filthy. She’s rocking now, breathing hard, trying not to say your name, but it keeps slipping out anyway-half-formed, like a prayer.

And still, you don’t pull the silk aside.

You want her like this- wrapped, soaked, too far gone to care. You want her cunt to pulse against fabric you’ve defiled with your mouth, want her to feel you even through layers. The pressure. The heat. The drag of your tongue as you circle her clit through the silk again and again until her whole body jerks.

“Fuck-” she gasps, voice cracking.

You hum into her, filthy and satisfied, and the vibration makes her whimper.

“Tashi,” you pant, spit-slick and raw. “You taste so fucking good- this pussy- god, you’re soaked. You’re fucking dripping.” Your mouth is already glossy with her, chin sticky, upper lip burning where her slick is drying fast in the kitchen air, and still, you keep licking like you’re trying to get drunk on her, like it isn’t enough to just taste- like you want her leaking down your throat until she lives inside you.

You nose hard into the mess of it, grind your tongue right up into the soaked seam, and that breaks her. Her whole body lurches, stutters, hips pushing forward like she’s chasing the pressure, thighs clenching around your head so tight it makes your ears ring. You moan into her in response, tongue dragging firm and slow right up the seam again, and her whimper curls into the air like a scream that’s been swallowed too many times. You swear you feel her clit twitch just from the heat of your breath.

She arches. Moans like her whole body’s unraveling. And you don’t even flinch- you push into it, greedy, worshipful, kissing her cunt as you mean it like it’s her mouth and you’ve been starved for it. You’re not just licking- you’re making out with her through silk and lace, lips pressing soft and hard in turns, tongue slipping across the soaked fabric like you’re begging to crawl inside. Your jaw aches, your mouth is raw, but you don’t care- you’d live like this forever if it meant she’d keep gasping your name like that.

Because that’s what this feels like. Like making out with her pussy through silk and soaked lace, mouth dragging slow, reverent licks over the heat of her, tongue pressing up against the wet fabric while your fingers come up and start rubbing her clit in tight, focused circles- firm and hungry and filthy. You groan against her, the vibration of it rolling through her clit, your fingertips catching the swell of it through the fabric, grinding it down. At the same time, your lips suck against the shape like you’re kissing it open. Every touch is soaked. Every stroke drenches your hand more.

“T-Tashi,” you murmur again, hot breath fogging the sheer fabric, mouth sliding against her like you’re trying to devour her through it. “Let me kiss you. Let me fucking kiss this pussy until you cry.” Your voice breaks on it, all husk and reverence like you can’t believe you get to worship her like this like she’s holy and ruined and still letting you kneel between her legs like a girl who’s never wanted anything else.

She whimpers. And you do. You lick and suck and rub and press, tongue dragging slow and deep along the line of her slit, nose nudging the base, lips locking around the outline of her clit while your fingers work it from the outside. You grind your face into her like you’re kissing her hard, sloppy, hot- and every time your mouth seals against the fabric, she gasps like she’s feeling your mouth inside her. Her thighs twitch around your head, and her hands scramble for the edge of the counter like she doesn’t trust her legs to hold her up.

You moan into it. Let her feel the sound. Let her feel the vibration all the way through the soaked silk and her pulsing cunt and the nerves firing off like sparks. It’s not just heat anymore- it’s friction and desperation and the way she’s grinding into your face like she’s trying to fuse with you. Like the silk isn’t a barrier, anymore- it’s the thing holding her together.

She’s trembling. Her hips roll forward like she’s trying to kiss you back, grinding herself into your face and your hand, as she needs it deeper, more complicated, wetter. You’re rutting your tongue up through the fabric, sliding it just right while your fingers rub fast, relentless, slippery circles into her clit until she’s soaking both of you. Her panties are still on under the silk, pressed in and tight, and everything- everything- is slick.

You suck hard through the fabric- groaning against it-then slow it down, flick your tongue over her like you’re tracing the seam of her lips. Tongue to silk to lace to skin. One thin layer away from the flesh and still somehow inside her. You can feel her clenching, feel the tremble beneath your lips, the way her clit twitches under the fabric as your fingers tease and tongue works in time.

She gasps, jerks- ruts forward on instinct- and you meet her, kisses her clit like it’s her mouth, open-mouthed and wet and filthy, dragging your fingers faster now in time with your tongue, like the rhythm of a kiss that’s turned violent. She cries out. Her knees buckle. Her body’s trying to fold, but your grip won’t let her- you. You’re holding her up, feeding off her, moaning into the silk as she pulses against your face.

“W-wait,” she pants, voice sharp and useless. One of her hands fists in your hair, the other scrambling behind her for the counter’s edge. “What if your mom- fuck, what if she comes down and sees me like this-?”

You don’t answer.

You just keep licking her through everything. The thin, clinging silk of her nightgown, the soaked panties underneath. You press your tongue hard against the heat of her, mouthing at her like you could suck her off through the fabric if you just tried hard enough. And maybe you can. The way she’s twitching, gasping, and whining now is like she’s trying to stay quiet and failing, like her body’s giving you away whether she wants it to or not.

Her hips stutter forward, grinding into your mouth on reflex. Your fingers don’t stop either- rubbing messy little circles right over where you know she’s aching, where the fabric’s glued to her cunt and getting wetter by the second. You’re soaked in it. Your chin, your lips, your fucking soul-drenched with her.

And she’s trying to fight it. She is. She’s still mumbling about your mom, looking toward the stairs like she will pull back. You’ve got her trapped. You’ve got your hands gripping the backs of her thighs, your face buried where no one can save her, and she’s so close now it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter if your mom’s upstairs. Doesn’t matter if god’s watching. Doesn’t matter that she’s still fully dressed because you’ve got her coming apart anyway.

You moan into her like you’re fucking starved- like you’ve been waiting years for this like you’d crawl through the glass just to taste her through those panties again. You’re not even pretending to be good anymore. You’re sloppy with it now, tongue everywhere, mouth wide and messy, soaking the silk with spit until the fabric’s clinging to your lips like a second skin. She’s drenched. You’re drenched. It’s fucking sick how wet she is through all this, how your chin’s slick and your jaw aches, and you still won’t stop.

“Fuck, you’re-” she chokes, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the countertop like it’s the only thing tethering her to this dimension. “You’re not even under.” She can’t finish it. She doesn’t have the breath. She just whines instead, sobs almost, her thighs trembling where they’re locked around your shoulders.

You palm her ass with both hands now, greedy and possessive, dragging her hips forward until she’s got no choice but to grind on your face. And she does. God, she fucking does. She ruts against you like it’s wrong, and it is her best friend’s daughter on her knees with a mouthful of silk and pussy and history-and. Still, she pushes harder, grinds filthier, rocks into your face like she’s trying to fuck you through the fabric.

Her voice cracks. “We shouldn’t- we shouldn’t- what if she-”

And you don’t. Even. blink.

You groan into her, deep and filthy, like you want her to feel your refusal all the way up her spine. Your fingers speed up faster, tighter, cruel little circles over the soaked lace of her panties, the pressure too good to think through. Her whole body jolts like she’s been shocked, and you suck at her through the silk-like you can punish her for thinking about anything else but this.

She’s gonna cum. She knows she is. And she starts shaking her head like that’ll stop it, like she can logic her way out of what you’re doing to her body she can’t. Not when you’re moaning like that, not when your fingers are grinding her down, and your tongue is pushing and pushing and fucking pulsing over her clit through the wet fabric like it belongs to you.

And the worst part? The most disgusting, humiliating part?

She’s gonna cum dressed like this. Half-covered in silk, panties soaked, nipples hard and visible through that ridiculous nightgown her ex-husband bought her. She’s gonna cum standing in your mom’s kitchen, trembling like a slut on the mouth of the girl she shouldn’t even be touching.

And she does.

She cums.

It slams through her like a train- fast, brutal, no mercy. Her whole body locks and then shudders violently. Her knees nearly give out, thighs quivering where they’re clamped tight around your head like a vice. A raw, broken sound tears from her chest-half a gasp, half a sob- and it punches straight into your mouth. You keep licking. Keep sucking. Keep grinding your tongue into her clit like you’re starving for it.

Because she’s soaking.

Everything between her legs is obscene now, filthy and soaked, a mess of spit and slick and come, sticky and hot and seeping through layers like it’s got nowhere else to go. The silk of her nightgown is utterly ruined, clinging to her skin like melted sugar, translucent and dark where your mouth’s been. Her panties-thin and utterly useless, now- are plastered to her cunt like a second skin, sodden with your spit and her slick. The crotch is slick and squelching every time your tongue presses in, and the fabric clings so tight you can see the outline of everything- her folds, her clit, the twitch of her pulsing hole.

She shakes, twitching like her body doesn’t know what to do. Her thighs squeeze around your head once-twice-then go loose, trembling violently. And she’s still coming. You can feel it. Taste it. The way her pussy keeps pulsing under your tongue, spasming helplessly, her whole cunt clenching through the fabric like it’s not sure what it wants-more pressure or to run.

“Fuh-fuck-” she chokes, hips jerking, one heel skidding on the floor.

Your mouth is soaked. Your chin is soaked. The whole bottom half of her nightgown is soaked, clinging wetly to her inner thighs and sticking in a twisted mess between her legs like you poured warm syrup down her body. Her panties are ruined- warped and stretched, glued to her from slick and spit, and come leaking through the seams.

You don’t stop. You keep licking like you’re chasing the final tremors of it, tongue wide and slow, lips dragging over the soaked swell of her cunt like you’ve gone mad for the taste.

Then-

“Sweetheart?”

Your mother’s voice.

Upstairs.

Tashi jolts. Her entire body stiffens. Her hands clutch your head like she’s going to shove you off, but she doesn’t. She’s still panting. Still dripping.

“Are you downstairs?”

You don’t move. Neither does she. You can hear her heartbeat can feel it pounding through her thighs against your cheeks. Her nightgown twitches with every hard breath she tries to swallow.

You breathe once, hard through your nose, and whisper against her, voice shredded raw:

“Don’t. Say. Anything.”

Her grip on your scalp is trembling. Not releasing. Not pulling.

“I thought I heard something,” your mom continues. “Are you okay?”

You sit back on your heels, a little face still slick, your mouth glistening, her mess smeared all over your lips.

“Yeah! Just getting water!” you call back, voice wrecked but pitched high- innocent. Harmless.

Like you weren’t on your knees seconds ago with your tongue buried against the soaked seam of Tashi Duncan’s panties. Like your mouth isn’t still slick with spit and her come. Like her pussy isn’t still twitching behind the fabric that’s clung to her for years and will never feel clean again.

You don’t move. You don’t even look up. You just keep your head bowed like she’s an altar, and you’re already in prayer, forehead brushing the inside of her thigh, mouth parted where her scent lives thick in the humid air between her legs. And she’s still shaking-legs loose, knees buckling, breath stuttering sharp and shallow where her chest heaves under silk that’s clung to her in places you ruined.

“Jesus,” she hisses, more breath than voice. It doesn’t even sound angry anymore. Just stunned. Shattered.

You look up. Her face is flushed. Her lips are parted. Her hair’s sticking to her temple in wet pieces like she’s been through a storm she pretended not to see coming. One hand is still tangled in your hair, and her grip is slack, like she forgot to let go.

You should get up.

You should stop.

You should wipe your mouth and pretend you were actually getting water.

But instead of pulling back, instead of catching your breath or wiping your mouth, you slide your hand under her nightgown.

Not fast. Not greedy.

Slow. Sure. Possessive. Like you have every right.

The silk lifts just slightly, but you don’t look yet- you don’t need to. Your head stays down. Your cheek is still pressed warm and reverent to the inside of her thigh as your hand climbs higher. You worship, like prayer, like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment longer than you’ve ever been alive.

And when your fingers find her panties again… underneath this time, your breath stutters.

They’re soaked.

Not just damp. Not just a wet patch. They’re ruined. Drenched all the way through with spit and slick and come, sticky and hot and clinging to her like a second skin. You can feel everything now. Everything. The heat of her. The mess. The way she twitches when your palm first cups her fully, right between her legs, like she wasn’t expecting that kind of contact even though she should’ve known you were never going to be gentle again.

You press your hand flat against her. Just hold her there. Let her feel the weight of it- your palm against her pulsing cunt, the pressure steady and low.

She exhales sharply as if it hurts a little.

You rub.

Slow at first. Just the heel of your palm rocking forward, dragging the wet fabric over her. It slides easily, slick enough to drown in, your fingers catching gently at the edges of her folds through the cotton. You feel her start to throb again. You feel it in your wrist and your fingertips, like her whole body is centered here now- right here, under your hand, under your control.

Then, you lower your fingers.

Trace the length of her down the whole curve of her slit, slow and unhurried. You can feel everything: every soft swell, every twitching ridge, every shiver that jolts through her thighs. You press in a little. Feel the way the fabric pulls tight over her folds, soaked and warm, clinging to the shape of her like it wants you to know what’s underneath.

And you do. God, you do.

Your fingers rub lower, then back up. Find the curve of her again. Let the tips dip gently along her lips, not quite slipping inside, just dragging enough to make her shudder. Then, higher- pressing into the swollen little bud at the top, the one pulsing like it’s begging to be touched.

You circle her clit through the panties- slow, dirty, deliberate.

She gasps.

It’s soft, but it punches straight through you. Her thighs twitch. Her hips roll just a little. Just enough to push herself harder against your hand.

And that’s when you look.

You lift the hem of the nightgown finally, slowly, reverently, and the sight that greets you is fucking obscene.

Her panties are plastered to her- dark with wetness, slick with spit and come and sweat, and everything you did to her. The center is stained so deep it looks painted on, the cotton sheer with how soaked it is, clinging to her lips like a fucking confession. You can see the shape of her through it- the puffed, flushed folds, the tremble of her clit twitching under the pressure of your hand. Her slick glistens where it’s bled through, still leaking, still hot.

Your hand’s still under her nightgown.

Palm pressed flat against her soaked panties. Your fingers slide low, dragging along the outline of her cunt, tracing the shape of her lips through the drenched material. Every inch of her is slick- wet from your mouth, from her come, from everything she spilled all over your tongue and into your hands. The fabric is sticky against your skin. Clings like it’s begging you not to leave. And you don’t.

You rub her slow, tentative, just to feel it again. The heat. The mess. The way she twitches when you catch her right fingertips grazing the swollen bump of her clit through layers too ruined to count as clothing anymore.

And fuck, she’s still wet.

Still dripping.

Still leaking through her fucking underwear like you haven’t already taken her apart in the middle of your mother’s kitchen.

You swallow hard, staring down.

You haven’t even moved the nightgown out of the way. Haven’t peeled anything back. You’re just holding her there- cupping her with one hand and staring like it’s something sacred. The silk is bunched up around your wrist, warm from her body heat, and her panties are so soaked they’re practically see-through. You can see everything. The puffed flush of her lips. The quiver at the tip of her clit. The wet spot is blooming darker where she’s still leaking, still ruined.

You drag your thumb over it again with a slow, reverent stroke.

“M-mommy,” you breathe.

It comes out so soft that you almost don’t hear it yourself, as if it wasn’t meant to be spoken at all, just thought, maybe. Dreamed. Whispered in some dark corner of your mind where names and boundaries blur.

But it hangs there. It lingers. Sweet and sticky and awful.

And her body goes still.

Not just still- tense. Like a wire pulled too tight, straining just before it snaps. Her fingers flex where they’re braced on the counter behind her, her jaw going slack. She doesn’t look down at you. Doesn’t move. She just stares straight ahead like she’s been frozen in time, like the word struck some nerve she forgot she even had.

You go breathless, weightless. The panic doesn’t hit right. First comes the awareness, the shame, thick and sick in your throat, your stomach flipping over like a dying thing. And still, somehow, you don’t take your hand away. You don’t move an inch.

Because she hasn’t moved either.

She hasn’t told you to stop.

Her chest rises slowly and shallow. Her lips part. And when she speaks, it sounds like it hurts. “What… did you just call me?”

You blink, stunned by your mouth. “I-I didn’t-”

She looks down at last, and fuck-her eyes are wild. Glossy, wide, full of something you can’t read. Not anger. Not quite. Not disgust. It’s closer to grief. Or lust. Or both tangled up in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“You said mommy,” she says, almost to herself. Not angry- just wrecked. Like she can’t believe it. Like she’s trying to scrub it out of her own ears with disbelief.

You want to backpedal. You want to undo it. But the moment’s too full. The air is too thick. There’s something between you now that wasn’t there before, and it won’t go away just because you pretend it didn’t happen.

You whisper, “I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, you did.” Her voice cracks at the edge- thin, glassy, like she’s not sure whether to break down or burn you alive for it.

There’s something brittle in it, something dangerous like she’s splintering from the inside out like your voice alone did that. Like the word you moaned cracked open a vault, she swore she’d never touch again. Now everything’s leaking out all at once: want guilt, that rotted sweetness you always thought she only used on other people. It’s in her now, and it’s in you. You see it flash behind her eyes like lightning. Then she moves.

And then her hand’s in your hair.

Not a caress. Not even close. Her fingers knot so deep it feels like she’s trying to pull memories out of your skull. If she grips hard enough, she can rip the name out of your mouth and strangle it in her fist before it gets a second chance to ruin her. Your scalp screams, and your spine locks, but you don’t pull away. You don’t even want to. You just gasp-and it’s wet, embarrassing like the pain is wired straight to the slick heat that’s already running down your thigh.

She yanks you up in one sharp, breathless motion. Fingers twisted deep at the roots like she wants to scalp you for what you said and punish herself for liking it.

It’s so fast it steals the air from your lungs and knocks the sense from your head. You stagger forward, bent at the waist, half-bent and breathless with the humiliating burn, your mouth slack and your eyes wide. She hasn’t even touched you properly, and you’re already dripping. Already aching. Already- fuck- already needing. And maybe she sees that. Perhaps that’s why she grins, just a little, without joy.

Your gasp barely makes it out. She’s already walking. Dragging you by the hair like she’s reclaiming some twisted territory like she doesn’t trust her mouth to speak, and this is the only language she has left.

Every step is an accusation. Every tug is a curse. She walks like she owns the house, and you’re a stain, so she will scrub out upstairs. Her grip tightens when you hesitate, and the pain shoots hot and liquid down your spine. You swear you feel her breath behind you. Close. Measured. Like she’s counting the seconds it’ll take to get you into bed and ruin you properly.

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

330 notes · View notes

chrollohearttags · 4 months ago

Text

hard to breathe • portgas d. ace

seeing your ‘ex’ boyfriend ace one last time for closure..or so you thought. (based off of this song I’ve been obsessed with for months. It’s ‘old’ but I felt like it fit him and the vibe of this fic)

📝: black fem!reader, lots of relationship angst, modern au, heavy kissing, arguing + lots of dialogue, they’re slightly toxic ( y’all both ain’t shit I’m sorry 😭), riding, car sex, dirty talk, breeding, baby trapping (kinda), infidelity, hair pulling, pet names and daddy used, crying

wc: 4.1K

🎙️: I love writing my faves in a bunch of different scenarios, including ones that aren’t typical for their personality. This is in no way condoning toxicity, infidelity or anything of the sort. I just thought it would be a lil fun to experiment.

═✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿═══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

“Where are you right now?”

“I should be with you..”

“You know that’s not a good idea..”

“Yeah, but it’s what we both want..who cares if it’s wrong or not?”

3:30am

the deep drawl on the other end of the line luring you in with each word..it always had a tendency to do so, even when you wished you could just ignore it.

“Ace, what the hell do you want from me? Stop this.”

“C’mon, babe. It’s the truth. Don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty..what did I tell you? You’ve got to stop giving so much a damn about what other people think.”

“Go to hell. Not everyone can just mistreat people like it’s nothing.”

it was a shame honestly..this type of behavior was so unbecoming of both of you. A sweet girl who didn’t like to make much of a fuss for anyone or over anything. And him, the shining example of a stand up guy. Charming, kind, helpful, a little rough around the edges but what every man should strive to be. Yet here you were..whispering into the speaker of your phone as to not wake the one in the room next to you. A mere replacement to dull the ache in your heart caused by him and his stupidity. Meanwhile, he was chuckling in your ear. Seemingly teasing you because he could sense the tension in your shaky voice. He knew you’d bolt the second you heard a ruffle from the other room…but he also knew you’d never hang up. Knew you couldn’t resist answering in the first place and for damn sure, that you couldn’t resist his offer…

“I want to see you. I can be at your place in ten..”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? It’s late, Ace..and—“

“And what? Afraid your little boyfriend might wake up? I know it’s not because you don’t want to see me either.”

“You’re a piece of work, you know that? How dare you? You ended things, Ace. Not me. So why the fuck do you keep hitting me up?”

the line would fall silent for a moment..only the shallow echoes of your breath captured on the opposite end. That was until you’d hear a sigh and his voice once more. This time with a much less arrogant tone.

“Listen, (y/n)..I get it. I fucked up..it’s my fault things turned out this way and I’m sorry. I know I can’t go back or change anything that happened between us but I can try to make it right. Even if it means someone else gets to do what I couldn’t…I just wanted a chance to apologize. In person…which I should’ve been man enough to do from the jump.”

the things in question? Your relationship..a bond of three years to be exact and a union everyone was certain would end in the two of you walking down the aisle. However, life has a funny way of throwing even the biggest of curveballs. This man had all but swept you off your feet one night a few summers ago..both out with friends and enjoying the night life as young singles should. Drinking, laughing and having a blast. Even though you were a bit more on the reserved side, he still managed to spot you out of all the beautiful women in that club that night. And trust, a fair share of them had been vying for his attention. Even so, he couldn’t focus on anyone but you. That was one of Ace’s many wonderful qualities. In a room full of people, he managed to make you feel special..as if you were the only one there. Which wasn’t exactly intentional..his biggest issue was that he tried to be friendly, trying his hardest not to hurt anyone’s feelings anymore. He struggled with his anger quite a bit when he was younger, taking next to nothing to set him off and if he was in the midst of conversation with one person, it was best that no one else tried to interrupt. However, he realized that only caused trouble so he always tried to greet someone regardless. It just didn’t fare very well when it came to women. No girl wants someone that it seems everyone can access to!

But alas, you sat in that section next to him; nursing your drinks and exchanging pleasantries. He was so easy to talk to. He had this awkward yet charming charisma about him. Almost as if despite his good looks, he wasn’t the ‘ladies man’ you’d peg him to be off first glance. Somehow though, he managed to get your number and the rest was history. You began hanging out, going on a couple dates..even spending a weekend together after a bad storm trapped the two of you inside of his apartment. You really enjoyed being around him and as time passed, the bond grew stronger. Six months later, you came over to visit and found yourself greeted by smoke and an obviously frustrated Ace covered in soot..a result of him attempting to cook a dinner to formally ask you to be his girlfriend! It was those goofy yet sweet gestures that made you adore him.

perfectly flawed was the best way to describe him in your book…maybe he made mistakes and maybe he didn’t come from this picturesque family but he was a damn good guy doing his best to be better than what he was used to. He was a hard worker and willing to fight for what he wanted.

You cherished every moment you guys got to spend together and at one point, you even got matching tattoos of half hearts on each of your hands..however, things began to crumble in the once ideal world you had curated together.

going from laughing all the time to petty arguments that seemed intentional. From spending late nights together..making love until the sun shines over your bodies..now you were blowing up his phone to see where he was. You began to suspect that he was cheating. Perhaps somewhere with another woman. But you were wrong..truth be told, he was running.

running away from a healthy home and relationship because he didn’t know how to handle it. Didn’t know how to process being loved unconditionally without expecting the worst to happen…he never figured himself to be good enough for you to begin with but here you were..constantly showering him with affection; buying him gifts, making his favorite meals and even surprising him with massages after long, stressful days at work. You were everything he didn’t deserve! Hence why..he felt the need to blow it up before it could escalate. He couldn’t let you continue treating someone like him as if he were special. Three weeks later, he texted you asking to break up and to say you were devastated? Was an understatement. You loved this man so damned much, you had already begun looking at wedding dresses and contemplating baby names, figuring you guys were in this for the long run. But fairy tales don’t exist and you weren’t getting the story book ending. Instead, you were left heartbroken..trying to piece yourself back together and figure out what went wrong.

“Just one last time, that’s all I’m asking. I want to say I’m sorry and then I’m out of your hair for good, I promise. I won’t bother you ever again..”

a solid compromise, you supposed. Besides, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to look him in his eye and tell him to go fuck himself for how he fumbled you. He’d plead, calling your name until he got a response and finally:

“I’ll be in the lobby, call me when you get here.” Before disconnecting the line and releasing a heavy sigh. You fought back tears but in order for the next chapter of your life to begin, you had to finish this one. But the funny thing about some books…

is that they refused to remain closed!

═✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿═══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

page break bc I don’t do filler

═✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿═══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

“..it’s nice to see you again. You look beautiful as always—“

“Enough of the small talk. State your business and make it quick.”

the two of you sat parked outside of your luxury apartment complex, downstairs in the desolate parking garage. Your arms folded across your chest in a defensive manner and his stretched across the steering wheel..that goofy snark on his face as he kissed his teeth. He knew you were fighting so hard to stand firm in your boundaries, something you struggled with in the past. And truthfully, he hated to disrupt that peace…but he was selfish, gluttonous even. He wasn’t always this nice guy everyone saw him as. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too and if that meant he’d leave your head a mess once again then so be it. A fucked up sentiment but the truth nonetheless..

“…damn. It's like that then? Fair enough..”

turning in his seat, Ace shifted and focused his attention directly on you. It was hard to maintain eye contact because how could he face you after such a betrayal? Even so, this was his bed he made and it was time to lie in it.

“The truth is...I was afraid. One day, you’d wake up and realize that I wasn’t what you thought I was. That I was broken and I didn’t have my shit together. It’s like no matter what I did in my life, I found a way to fuck it up. Make a mess of things..I’m not like you, (y/n). Honestly, what could you possibly see in me? Don’t you want someone who’s your equal?”

by this time, tears were beginning to swell in his eyes as well. The more he spoke, he realized that these feelings of insecurity were always within him. You promised yourself that you were just going to give him a piece of your mind, storm out and never have to see him again. But it was never that easy with this man.

you knew he was genuine and not just trying to victimize himself. He honestly felt like you could do so much better. But he also knew by the look in your eyes that you were not going to let him get away so easily.. You didn’t hate him, hell, you couldn’t even bring yourself to fully get angry with him for what he did. Looking down, Ace would begin to chuckle; a weird coping mechanism for him in times of stress and uttered the last words you wanted to hear.

“And after all this time, all the bullshit I put you through..you still love me, don’t you? That’s the only reason you’re still sitting here..the only reason you didn’t hang up. When you’re done with something, you never give it a second thought.” sitting cross armed, you’d begin to laugh. Not at his hurt but at the fact that for the first time in almost five years of knowing him, you saw him show genuine, raw emotion. You saw him finally let down his guard and be himself…as sad as it was, it was a bit cathartic.

“Wow…so you are capable of communicating your feelings and there isn’t a ten foot wall of bullshit in that head of yours.” Poking the side of his temple playfully..

“Of course I love you. I never stopped, you inconsiderate jackass. What did I ever do to you? That’s all I could ask myself. You keep talking about me deserving better and all of this bullshit..who gave you the right to decide what I wanted and what I deserve? Shouldn’t I have a say too? You left because it was easy, Ace. Instead of working through it with me, you ran because you don’t want anyone thinking you’re weak. That’s not how relationships work..we’re supposed to see each other at our worst, our best..good and bad days. If you feel insecure about anything, you did it to yourself because you were perfect to me and you know damn well I never made you feel anything less than.”

those words stung like none other. And honestly, no matter what he said, there wasn’t a good enough excuse for any of his behavior. You said it best..he was selfish, immature and didn’t think clearly. Ace had a knack for marching to the beat of his own drum and damn the consequences.

“..you’re right, (y/n). It’s my fault..and I can’t take any of it back…” suddenly, you’d feel his hand clutch the top of your own, intertwining your fingers as he stared you in the eye.

“..but I can try to fix it. Fix us..let me make this right. Please…if you’re happier with someone else, then there’s nothing I can do. But—“ In that moment, (y/n) had finally heard all that you could take. Reaching over the console, you’d clutch his face in your palm and shove your lips together. The sensation of that warm kiss sent a surge throughout your body..a spark you hadn’t felt since the day he left.

“Are you done? God, I swear you talk too damn much.” Prompting him to laugh as you held the side of his face. He was a little taken aback by your sudden dominance. Not knowing you to ever take control like this but he wasn’t mad about it one bit..

“..why’d you kiss me? What about your boyfriend?” A question as disrespectful as it was rhetorical.

“You’re as dumb as you are cute sometimes. You think I came all the way out here at three am to chit chat? Nut uh, you owe me..also, you’re a greedy bastard. No way you’re letting me go back in that apartment unless it’s with you." By this time, your hands were roaming his chest and your faces were only inches apart. His lips would curl into a sheepish grin before his palm snaked to the back of your neck, tugging your head towards him.

“..what can I say, babe? I’m just too damn stubborn..I always have to get my way.” And with that, you’d find your tongues joined together again. Twirling around one another with heavy whimpers mixed in. Suddenly, you’d find yourself crawling into the driver's seat and onto his lap. Just as you’d suspected, he’d worn those gray sweats you’d always loved to see him in and a black tank top to display his muscles, along with a newly acquired tattoo.

This man was not slick at all! Even so, his little tactic worked because all those memories of late nights and early mornings with him came rushing back. When you’d find yourself sneaking out on lunch breaks at work just to come eat his dick up or when he’d show up at your apartment around midnight because he’d work the closing shift again. With a bottle of wine and the intention of putting you through the mattress in every position after two glasses got you turned on. It was always exciting and spontaneous with Ace, something your ‘new man’ lacked. Slowly winding in his lap as you continued to make out, (y/n) caressed his torso..missing the familiar touch of his skin, taking in the scent of his cologne and immersing yourself in him. He’d run his thumbs across your throat, gently squeezing as you took his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You’re so beautiful..I missed you.” “Yeah? You missed me, baby?” Teasing him as you bounced your ass against his crotch, subtly twerking on his visible bulge. Caressing your gentle fingertips across his freshly shaven jawline. You could feel him growing harder underneath him and knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. Even kissing on his neck and licking on his jugular. “Mmmm..fuck. Pull that dress up and I’ll show you just how much.” Without a single bit of hesitation, you lifted the hem and allowed your bare cheeks and slit to graze him. Shuffling around underneath you, Ace slid his thumbs into the sides of those sweats, letting them pool around his waist. Meanwhile, he couldn’t stop marking your neck and lips with tender kisses..or apologizing for how stupid he was! Being here with you again brought back a flood of memories and emotions..ones that he never wanted to lose again. He needed this to be real once more. However, you weren’t much for talking right now..if he wanted to win his girl back, all you needed were actions.

“Why are you still talking? Just fuck the shit out of me before I grow a conscience and change my mind.” Your command being heard loud and clear; forcing him to grip your waist and balance you above that aching tip. Swollen red and seeping with precum, he was eager for you and that warm cunt was welcoming him in.

“Yes ma’am..whatever you say.” Following up his remark with a toothy smirk so you knew he was going to deliver and give you exactly what you were looking for. (Y/N) reclined against the steering wheel for a moment as he slowly infiltrated that entrance. That core drooling as he made home inside of you. Both of your heads fell backwards in a haze of pleasure…enjoying the all too familiar feeling of being one!

“Shiiit..why are so fucking tight? Oh my gosh..” those breathy moans and whines escaped his mouth the second he began thrusting. Not even two pumps in and he was trying to maintain his composure. With you though, he failed pretty quick. Reacclimating to the warmth that was your insides was going to be a challenge. Even so, he’d continue to guide you up and down on his shaft, letting that thick cock stretch open those wet folds.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Take this dick…just like that..” Meanwhile, (y/n)’s mouth fell ajar, overstimulated by the sensation already. You’d paw at his chest, holding onto him as he maneuvered you to his liking. Using your body like that of a flesh light. “’s so good. Missed this big fucking dick.” Hearing those words elicited another chuckle from Ace, prompting him to cradle the back of your neck in a dominant manner, pulling you close. “Yeah? Your little boyfriend ever fuck you like this?” Questioning through clenched teeth as he continued guiding your lower half..

those soft insides wrapping around him with each stroke. You’d then feel the tight clutch of his hand on the back of your head, tugging at those freshly styled wefts coursing down your back..he was aware of the minute fortune you spent each month to upkeep your beauty. From the thousand dollar hair appointments, nail salon visits and waxes..even so, he didn’t give a damn! Turning his gorgeous girl into a sloppy slut was his favorite pastime. A toothy grin on his face, watching your swollen tits bounce and drool seep from the corners of your mouth, along with the loud moans following suit.

“..I’ll take that as a no. You’re squeezing me like you haven’t come in ages, babe.” Those taunts harbored more truth than you’d care to admit. As shameful as it was to be cheating, you’d never be happy with someone who couldn’t give you a nut! Hypocritical as it was abhorrent, you too would never be satisfied until you got what you desired. And that desire was the guy slamming balls deep up inside of you at the moment. Pounding that sensitive little core..letting that fat mushroom tip split you open and begging for that sweet cunt to siphon him for every last drop of cum he had. “You’re fucking dripping..you must’ve needed this bad. Goddamn..” referring to the creamy release you had drizzling his cock. Making a mess of his lap. “Y—yeah..you’re the only one who can make me cream like this.” Cock drunk and giggling as he catapulted you up and down. The vehicle began to sway due to the heavy activity taking place and the windows also began to fog up as a result. That’s when you’d feel his palms colliding with your asscheeks, egging on your bouncing. It was in the midst of those heavy handed smacks that he’d begin pleading his remorse. Telling you how sorry he was for how he mistreated you. As cute as it was, you weren’t interested in any half assed apologies, but rather….

”…if you’re really sorry, you’ll nut in me. This is your pussy so act like it..” Uttering those words with a wide smile on your face whilst meeting his strokes with heavy bounces..nearly made Ace convulse. He loved when you spoke to him in such a domineering manner. You’d feel a sudden twitch inside of you and his hands guiding you as you slammed down on that cock. Your cheeks grazing the outer rim of the steering wheel..both of you so close to your peak that you’d claw into one another’s skin.

Covered in a sheen of sweat and saliva..begging the other to get you there and revealing all of your deepest confessions for one another..including the fact that he wanted you to be his forever and that you weren’t leaving this parking lot without him. You’d clearly chosen who you wanted to be with.

“…damn right it’s my pussy, princess. I don’t care who you bring home. You belong to me and I belong to you..no one else can come between that. Ever again.”

not to mention..you were begging for his cum yet again. You’d often divulge in the throes of pre-climatic bliss that you wanted to have his kid..be so full of his seed that there was no way you weren’t pregnant and Ace certainly had no objections to it. Maybe it was the sensation of being cream pied or the fact that you really wanted a family with him. Either way, he constantly fantasized about seeing you full with his seed; how adorable you’d look with a bump and he just couldn’t maintain his composure.

“Yes..please come in me. Want your baby—“ having to laugh again at how cute and pathetic you were becoming. But alas, there was no room for shame right now. You’d plead with your last breath to feel that womb stuffed again.

“That right, gorgeous? Does my pretty girl want me to get her pregnant?..” “Yes, nut in this fucking pussy, daddy. Please!” certainly a far cry from the headstrong woman who was yelling at him before. Now, you were reduced to a desperate little cumslut, pleading to be bred. Luckily, you didn’t have to wait long. After experiencing your second orgasm in close succession, Ace would pin you down and force his cock up into you, going as fast as he could muster. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna take every drop. You’re going to have my baby and I’m going to take such good care of you both. Gonna marry you—be a better man this time around..” That soft flesh ricocheting as a result..loud grunts and curse words filling the car as he prepared to do the same to you.

“M fucking coming, babe! Hold still—shit!—“ in that moment, that orgasm would rip through his body and just as you requested, all of his warm seed coursed through your insides and didn’t stop for a solid two minutes..having not had a proper orgasm since you guys split up. He was still twitching inside of you, holding you to his chest as you both cried from how amazing it felt. Tears on both of your faces as a result of ecstasy.

“Damn, I guess I wasn’t the only one who needed that.” Teasing him amidst your cute giggles. Leaning up, (y/n) kissed the tip of his nose and caressed his cheek..unable to believe that you were here with him again. He’d gently stroke the side of your face as well..glaring at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

“I love you, (y/n)..so much. I never thought I’d get the chance to tell you that again. Feels so good.” And you shared his sentiment. He was the only one it ever felt genuine from and damn sure, the only guy you meant it to. Any guilt or shame had long since absolved and you knew this was exactly where you should’ve been. ”I love you too, Ace. I’m so glad you showed up.” It was going to be a long day, as you had some explaining to do. But for now..

“Shit..he’s calling me.”

“Ignore it..let me hold you a little bit longer, okay?”

you wanted to remain in this moment for as long as possible. After all, this is where you were happiest and there was no one who’d give you the high that he could.

524 notes · View notes