#and it has stayed in that spot ever since

[angstama]

07 ; spaces between us | l.jn

pairing: dad!lee jeno x f!reader (ft. na jaemin)

genre: angst, slight fluff, co-parenting

synopsis — three years after divorcing jeno, you've found a careful rhythm in co-parenting your son jun. the old fights about his work schedule and emotional distance have faded into polite exchanges and shared custody arrangements. but when small moments of connection start to feel like second chances, you begin to hope that maybe you could try again. though, it all falls apart when jeno asks to introduce jun to his new girlfriend. suddenly, you're forced to confront a devastating truth: the man who claimed he "wasn't good at relationships" during your marriage has apparently learned how to love properly—he just needed someone else to do it with.

a/n: hey lovelies~ man i gagged writing this chapter fskjhskjhsdds. this chapter was heavily influenced by this song! red flags - lewloh. it's so good and i teared up so hard when i first heard it live at a festival :")) i've been receiving so many asks regarding an alternative ending and i'd just like to take this chance and say that the ending has yet to come so please hang on~~ we don't need an alternate ending yet!!!!! as always, thank you guys so much for the constant support~ ilysm! see you in chapter 8!!!!!! 🩵🩵

chapter music: red flags - lewloh

sbu m.list | previous | next chapter

we accept the love we think we deserve.

you’ve heard that quote a thousand times. and for the longest time, you believed that love couldn’t be measured—that it was felt, not calculated. but your marriage with jeno proved otherwise. love, you learned, could be chipped away. there were too many days where you were left wondering if there was any part of you still worth loving. because jeno didn’t just leave; he took pieces of you with him—your confidence, your strength, the belief that you were someone worth fighting for. he left behind a version of you that no longer asked to be chosen. just quietly hoped to be tolerated.

and the part you hate most?

you’d still give him everything.

not because he deserves it, but because he still lets you exist in his world—in that small, fragile bubble he draws around himself. because once, the two of you shared the kind of love people dream about. and somehow, that still feels like reason enough to stay tethered.

it's been a day since the trial against jewel corporation. a day since you went head against jeno's lover. and now, you’ve been counting down the days until the weekend. counting down to when you’ll see jeno again—not just as jun’s father, but as the man whose choices have kept you awake at night. because you have questions. questions you’ve been carrying ever since you learned about soomin. about the woman he’s so eager for your son to meet. the woman he believes is worth introducing into jun’s life— into your shared world.

you wonder if soomin has already told him about the trial.

surely she has.

by now, jeno must know it was you standing on the other side— the one going after her company, the one threatening to unravel everything she’s built.

and if you didn’t know jeno any better, you’d think he’s already rehearsing the words he’ll use to cut you down when saturday comes.

sharpening his silence.

arming his disappointment.

because it wouldn’t be the first time he turned hurt into blame.

you were running late. not terribly—but late enough to send a sheepish text on your way to the café where you were supposed to meet lee donghyuck. jaemin’s one and only associate, as he’d called him. and now, your newly appointed solicitor, taking over where jaemin could no longer stand beside you.

you scanned the cafe, eyes darting between tables, trying to spot the man in question. jaemin’s description had been frustratingly vague— “another me but shorter and less handsome.” not exactly the clearest intel when you’re looking for a stranger in a crowd.

then, by the corner of the room, you spotted him: slick black suit that practically screamed expensive, tie perfectly knotted, black-rimmed glasses resting effortlessly on the bridge of his nose. something about his composure told you—this had to be lee donghyuck.

you barely opened your mouth when he turned, catching your approach like he’d clocked you from the moment you walked in “you’re late,” he stated, sliding a drink across the small wooden table. “but lucky for you, i was instructed to forgive you.” your eyes dropped to the cup—orange cold brew. still your favourite. definitely jaemin’s doing. “he said i had to get this,” donghyuck added, his tone dry as he mimicked jaemin’s signature brand of exasperation. “emphasis on had to.”

you let out an amused chuckle in disbelief at just how on point donghyuck's imitation of jaemin was. one could tell that the two of them must've been working together for a really long time to be at this level of comfort on imitating each other.

you and donghyuck went over the case again, combing through timelines and internal documents as you waited for the car jaemin had promised would take you to meet a potential witness—one of the former compliance officers from jewel corporation’s environmental division who had quietly resigned just months before the scandal broke.

“she’s agreed to speak with us,” donghyuck confirmed, flicking through his iPad, “but she wants to stay off-record until she’s sure she won’t get buried by NDAs. so don’t come in hot.”

you nodded, mentally adjusting your approach.

a sleek black mercedes maybach rolled up moments later, its engine purring like it had nothing to prove. jaemin’s private chauffeur—whom you’d come to know later as jisung—stepped out in a sharp uniform and opened the back door for the both of you with practiced ease.

you slid into the backseat and immediately sank into the unfamiliar luxury of butter-soft leather, momentarily stunned. you’d ridden in jaemin’s car before, but this? this wasn’t the one. mentally, you made a note—he has another car. and it wasn’t just any other car. it was this. beyond luxurious, absurdly quiet, and so tastefully extravagant that for a second, you forgot to breathe. jaemin was clearly much richer than you’d thought.

donghyuck let out a low whistle, adjusting his collar as he buckled in. “i’ve known jaemin for six years,” he huffed, “this is the first time i’ve ever been in his car.”

you turned to him, surprised. “really?”

he nodded, lips quirking. “man hoards his comforts. makes you work for them.” donghyuck’s fingers trailed over the leather seat, still carrying that faint, new-car scent—his expression marked with some sort of envy and respect.

“so why now?” you asked.

donghyuck only shrugged at first, gaze drifting to the passing skyline outside the tinted windows. towering skyscrapers blurred by in streaks of glass and steel. he seemed miles away for a moment—until something in his expression shifted. like a thought had just clicked into place. he turned back to you, and this time, his voice was lower, almost curious in return. “it’s nice to meet the person jaemin is risking his career for.”

your head snapped toward him, breath catching in your throat. “what do you mean?” you asked, unsure if you’d even heard him correctly.

donghyuck didn’t look at you. Instead, his eyes followed the road rolling past the glass. “you do know jewel corp is officially a client of our firm now, right?”

“yeah. that’s why you’re here.”

he nodded, but the slight downturn of his lips suggested that wasn’t the whole story. “it’s already serious enough that he was involved in a case targeting a client that size—especially one the partners had been trying to court long-term. but he didn’t just get involved. he took the case pro bono. with a small community firm. your firm. and he never got senior partner approval.”

your head whipped toward him. “he didn’t?”

“nope.”

silence settled between you. the weight of his words pressed against your chest. jaemin had told you, no—reassured you more times than you could count. that everything was under control. that since he wasn’t listed as lead counsel, it was technically permissible. technically. but even you knew that technicalities only went so far. you had let yourself forget just how high up the ladder jaemin really was—how major his name had become in a firm that played in the big leagues. and of course, even from the sidelines, something like this could still cost him.

“that’s…” you trailed off, brain still scrambling to catch up. “that’s grounds for disciplinary action.” donghyuck finally turned to meet your eyes. not accusingly. not even concerned. just honesty at the gravity of the situation. “yeah. it is."

you sat quietly, fingers fiddling in your lap, gaze unfocused as the city blurred past the window. a quiet storm brewed inside you—half guilt, half defiance. this case… jaemin had offered it to you. insisted on it, even. so why did you feel so awful? why did the guilt settle heavier than the anger? maybe because, despite how maddening he could be at times, jaemin had been nothing but good to you. reconnecting with him had felt like finding solid ground again. and now, that ground was shaking. you didn't like it.

sensing your internal turmoil, donghyuck spoke again—lighter this time, like he could feel the weight hanging on your chest and wanted to pull it off gently. “but don’t worry,” he said, leaning back and stretching out one leg. “he’s the na jaemin. they’re not gonna fire him over something like that.”

"they know if they ever tried," donghyuck continued, a wry smile tugging at his lips, "all the clients are gonna leave the firm by sundown. literally two third of the firm's clients are represented by jaemin." despite yourself, you let out a quiet breath of amusement. it sounded too casual, too confident. but with the way donghyuck said it—like a simple fact of nature—you couldn’t help but believe it.

you shook your head, guilt tugging in your chest. “this wasn’t even my case to begin with. he offered it to me. i didn’t ask for him to risk anything.”

“don’t mistake it for recklessness,” donghyuck said, voice levelled. “jaemin doesn’t take risks unless he’s calculated every single angle. he knew what he was getting into when he stepped into this. he chose to.”

you looked down at your hands. “and what if it costs him something anyway?”

donghyuck shrugged. “at most? they’ll delay his senior partner promotion a little. maybe toss in some cold shoulders from the exec floor for a few weeks. he can handle it, he's a big boy." he cooed.

which was when the thought struck you again, and you turned to him. “wait—aren’t you technically under the firm too, if you’re jaemin’s associate?” the car slowed to a stop in front of a small building.

donghyuck unbuckled his seatbelt, not even glancing your way as he replied, “the firm doesn’t pay me. jaemin does.” he said it so casually, like it explained everything. like that was the most normal arrangement in the world. but it didn’t make sense to you—at least not yet. you opened your mouth to question it, but he was already stepping out, the conversation left hanging in the warm silence of the car.

the hallway was narrow and dimly lit, with peeling paint that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and bleach. donghyuck knocked three times on the apartment door as you held your breath, hearing the scuffle of slippers inside.

the door opened a crack, held in place by a flimsy chain. a woman peered through — mid-thirties, tired eyes, a face weathered by too many battles. she didn’t speak.

donghyuck didn’t wait.

“ms. kim?” he asked calmly, lifting his ID just enough for her to glimpse it. “lee donghyuck. associate counsel for the plaintiff. this is y/n, the lead counsel. we’d like to speak with you regarding your former employment at jewel corporation.”

the woman’s eyes flicked to you, then back to him. “i told your friend i’m not getting involved.”

donghyuck didn’t flinch. “you also told him the things you saw were unethical. that you still had records.”

“you don’t know what you’re asking,” she hissed. “they threatened people. there’s money involved. it’s not just a case for them you know? you're not the first few people who tried to take them down.”

you stepped forward gently. “we know. we’re not asking you to risk your life. but you worked under han soomin directly, right?” and you saw the hesitance splashed across her face. “you kept a folder,” you added in an attempt to crack her open, “employee correspondences, environmental compliance reports that were shelved. jaemin told us.”

she looked at you sharply, then slowly undid the chain and opened the door. “you have ten minutes.”

inside, the apartment was small and cluttered, boxes stacked by the window. it looked like she had plans to leave soon—or maybe had already started running. she sat, motioning for you both to take the small couch opposite. donghyuck pulled out a slim voice recorder and placed it on the coffee table. “off the record, if you prefer,” he said. “but the documents you kept? they could blow open the entire trial.”

“they’ll say it’s fabricated.” she shook her head, already knowing where the case is heading after witnessing countless of lawsuits against her ex-company.

“then let them,” you said. “if you’re telling the truth, we’ll verify it. legally. forensically. everything.”

she sighed, running a hand through her hair, before reaching under the coffee table and pulling out a flash drive. “it’s all here. timestamps. audit trails. disposal reports that were never logged into the system. i kept copies because… i didn’t want to be part of it anymore.”

donghyuck leaned forward, sharp and focused. “and this is everything?”

she gave a bitter scoff, pressing the drive into your palm. “it’s everything. and you better win—because once this goes public, they’ll be coming for me next.”

you closed your fingers around it and met her eyes. “not if we get there first.”

"we’ll arrange safe housing and file for legal protection so don't worry." donghyuck reassures, dusting his suit before standing up to leave. miss kim exhaled, the fight and fear momentarily slipping from her shoulders. “you’ve got until the next court date. after that… i disappear.”

the sun had already dipped behind the horizon when your phone buzzed quietly on the car seat beside you. traffic was thick on the expressway, your mind replaying everything from the day — the flash drive, miss kim, donghyuck’s quiet jab: “the person he’s risking his career for.” it lingered longer than it should’ve.

you hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. not the stakes. not the collateral damage you were becoming in jaemin’s world.

so you did what your guilt nudged you to do — you pulled up your phone and sent him a text.

you: dinner tonight? jun's looking for his "favourite uncle".

somewhere across town, inside a sleek glass tower that overlooked the han river, jaemin was hunched over his desk. the glow of his computer screen lit the framed jerseys behind him — all autographed by clients he had brought in himself. athletes, CEOs, even a K-League manager. every signature, every plaque on his office wall was proof of the years he’d built his career brick by brick.

but today?

today, none of that mattered.

his jaw clenched at the memory of the meeting he had just walked out of. taeyong — the firm’s managing partner — had summoned him in with that signature clipped tone.

“you know how this looks, jaemin?” taeyong huffed, pacing behind his desk. “you’re directly involved in a case that’s tearing into one of our newest clients. and you’re doing it for free. for what? a former classmate? some… community lawyer?”

jaemin hadn’t moved from his seat. his eyes remained fixed on the glossy shine of his ferragamo loafers, jaw tight, lips pressed in a line of quiet frustration. the whole situation was already a mess — his senior partner promotion delayed, his reputation questioned — but what gnawed at him most wasn’t the politics or power plays.

it was taeyong’s words.

how dare he reduce you to just a community lawyer? like you hadn’t held your own in that courtroom, like you weren’t just good — maybe even more so — than half the partners in the firm.

jaemin clenched his fists.

he knew brilliance when he saw it. and if you had been given even half the platform he had, you would’ve eclipsed all of them — even taeyong. especially taeyong.

“that ‘community lawyer’ has built three class action wins in the last two years. she’s smart. thorough. and doing work most of this floor wouldn’t touch.” jaemin bites back, his voice clam, but cold.

taeyong gave a slow, sharp laugh.

“i don’t care if she’s a saint. she’s a problem for the firm. you want to throw away the senior partner promotion for her?”

jaemin didn’t hesitate. “i’m not throwing anything away. i’m doing my job. the right way.”

taeyong leaned in, expression souring. “you were due for promotion in two months. now it’s going under review. and if i find out you fed her anything from our end…”

jaemin stood, calmly adjusting the cuff of his shirt.

“you won’t.”

the office door slammed shut behind him.

that was three hours ago.

now, sitting at his desk again, exhausted and neck-deep in paperwork, he saw your name light up his phone screen. all it took was just a simple message from you and for the first time in all day, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

jaemin didn’t text back right away. he didn’t need to.

he just stood up, rolled his sleeves, and grabbed his coat. because if dinner with you meant even five minutes of peace from everything else — then he’d be there in ten.

"uncle jaemin!"

jun’s excited voice broke through the quiet hum of the pocha tent, his small hand waving eagerly as he spotted the man approaching. jaemin’s face lit up despite the wear of the day, and he returned the gesture with a grin.

"hey, champ!" he greeted warmly, making his way over.

you watched as he slipped out of his coat, the movement slow and deliberate, and folded it over the empty chair beside him. even that felt like him — tidy, calm, precise. when he finally sat down across from you, your breath hitched a little. the last time you’d seen him, you hadn’t known everything. but now you did. and it made everything feel heavier.

“hey,” you greeted quietly, voice softer than you meant.

“hey.”

his reply was just as soft, but there was warmth in it. he immediately reached for the jug of water, pouring a glass for jun, then one for you, and lastly for himself — a small gesture, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

“how was today? did donghyuck give you a hard time?” he asked, watching you with a slight tilt of his head.

“it was fine,” you said, nodding slowly, though you were focused on cleaning jun’s utensils with a wet tissue. “we managed to get the materials we needed. donghyuck was a great help, actually.”

jaemin chuckled, almost as if surprised. “glad to hear he didn’t scare you off.” you smiled faintly, still not meeting his eyes. there was so much you wanted to say — thank you, i’m sorry, i didn’t know — but none of it made it past your lips yet. instead, you looked at jun, who was busy humming and arranging his chopsticks like soldiers.

“i hope you don’t mind, i ordered ahead first.” you scratched the back of your neck, trying not to wince at how awkward you sounded. you hated how you felt like you were walking on eggshells around him — it wasn’t like before.

jaemin’s eyes didn’t miss a beat. of course he noticed. he always notices. his gaze narrowed, playful but sharp, like he was already piecing the puzzle together. “no,” he said casually, “but i do mind whatever this new aura is you’ve got going on.” he made a vague circular motion at you with his hands.

“what’s with all this nervous energy? did donghyuck open that big mouth of his?”

you opened your mouth to deny it, but before you could say a word, jaemin was already turning to jun with a grin. “isn’t your mummy being weird today?” jun giggled without hesitation, ever the eager little co-conspirator. “mummy is weird.”

you rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you, tugging upward despite yourself. “traitor,” you muttered to jun, who only laughed louder, basking in the attention.

jaemin leaned back slightly, watching the exchange with an amused glint in his eye — like, for a moment, the tension could wait. like he didn’t mind letting the weight of the day hang just outside this small tent, if only for your sake.

"nothing’s going to happen to me," jaemin says, and the conviction in his voice leaves little room for argument. and you know he’s right — just like donghyuck told you earlier, the firm wouldn’t dare drop him over something like this. jaemin knows it too. he knows the weight his name carries in that office, the leverage he holds. his results speak louder than any whisper behind closed doors, and he’s never cared much for politics or what people have to say about him.

"but donghyuck said your senior partner promotion will be delayed..." you murmured, a crease forming between your brows. at that, jaemin rolled his eyes, letting out a long sigh, somewhere between annoyed and amusement at your concern.

“delayed,” he echoed, “not denied.”

he leaned back in his seat, “they’ll give me the title eventually. if not me, then who else?” the way he said it — not arrogant, but matter-of-fact — made it clear he wasn’t worried. he didn’t need anyone’s permission to know his worth.

"but if you really wanna make me feel better, come bowling with me and the boys," jaemin grinned, eyes glinting with mischief.

you blinked. "the boys?"

"chenle and renjun," he said like it was the most normal thing in the world.

and that alone made your head tilt. jaemin, hanging out with your friends — and doing it without you?

what’s even crazier was how natural he made it sound. as if jaemin sliding into your circle like he’d always belonged there wasn’t weird at all.

you couldn’t even remember when they got that close. but clearly, they had. and somehow, jaemin had done what jaemin always does — quietly and effortlessly making space for himself in your life, piece by piece, until you looked around and realise he’s everywhere.

"only because renjun and chen le is around."

geez y/n, what a liar.

you stared at the clock again. the minute hand had moved, but the silence in the living room hadn’t. it was past jeno’s usual arrival time. by now, he should’ve been here — car engine humming in the driveway, jun’s squeal of excitement as he dashed for the door. but today, none of that came.

you sat on the couch with jun curled beside you, his legs tucked up and his little backpack still slung over his shoulders. the afternoon light was starting to turn gold, casting shadows across the floor. time kept moving — but jeno hadn’t shown up.

“mummy,” jun said quietly, tugging your sleeve. “is daddy coming today?”

you looked down at him. his voice was soft, the question so painfully hopeful that it sent a dull ache through your chest. you glanced again at the front door, as if your answer might walk through it. “i’m sure he’s on the way, baby,” you said, brushing his hair back gently. “maybe he got caught up with something.”

but your voice felt hollow, and jun didn’t look convinced. neither were you. jeno was never late for his weekends with jun — if anything, he was always either early or on time. never letting work or traffic stand in the way. you knew how much these visits meant to him and how he wouldn't have given it up for the world.

you picked up your phone, unlocking it for the fifth time in the last ten minutes. still no reply. you scrolled through the chain of texts you’d already sent:

you: hey, are you on your way? [10:15am] you: jeno, is everything okay? [10:40am] you: jun’s waiting. please let me know. [11:05am]

you hesitated, then opened the group chat you shared with chenle and renjun. and you guess, jaemin now ever since chen le had insisted on adding him into the group chat.

you: hey, just letting you guys know i might be late. jeno still hasn’t shown up to pick up jun.

you tossed your phone onto the couch, heart thudding against your ribs now. worry taking over your sense as anxiety starts to grow in your stomach.

thirty more minutes passed and jun had gone quiet beside you, toy car rolling slowly in circles on the coffee table. he kept looking at the front door. every little sound made him perk up, eyes flicking towards it only to be disappointed by the silence that follows.

then — finally — the doorbell rang.

you and jun both jumped to your feet. you practically ran to the door, twisting the handle and flinging it open — but your heart sank when you saw who it was.

not jeno.

“what are you guys doing here?” you asked, confused, breath slightly caught. jaemin, chenle, and renjun stood on the porch. “uncle jaemin! uncle chenle! uncle renjun!” jun’s face lit up as he lunged into their arms, clearly grateful to see someone familiar.

“junnie!” renjun laughed, catching him. he playfully pinched jun’s cheek, earning a giggle and a scrunched-up nose in protest. but then jun looked past them. “mummy… where’s daddy?” he asked, voice small. “he said we’d play soccer today.”

your stomach twisted. you knelt beside him, pulling him into your side. “he’s not here yet, sweetheart,” you murmured, fingers brushing the back of his shirt. you looked up at the three men, brows pinched. “jeno’s not picking up. i’ve been calling, texting… nothing. it’s been nearly two hours.”

“you haven’t heard from him at all?” jaemin asked, stepping forward, concern immediately darkening his features. you shook your head. “not a word. it’s not like him. he wouldn’t leave jun hanging like this — ever.”

“has anything been going on with him lately?” chenle asked, quieter than usual. “no,” you said, but doubt was already flickering in your chest. had there been signs? something you missed? he's barely said anything to you since the camping trip.

you tried to keep calm — for jun’s sake — but your thoughts were unraveling now.

what if he got into an accident?

what if something serious happened on the way here?

what if…?

“don’t,” jaemin said softly, like he could hear the panic rising in your head. “don’t go there yet.” you clutched jun a little tighter. but the fear had already taken root. something wasn’t right — and the silence was only growing louder.

“why don’t you head over to his place to check?” renjun suggested. your lips pressed into a thin line, your heart leapt at the idea — not out of excitement, but fear. because you had been thinking it too, but were too afraid to say it aloud. afraid of what it might mean. afraid to bring it up in front of everyone. especially… jaemin. you had agreed to hang out with them after all.

you glanced instinctively in his direction, like you needed his permission — though you knew you didn’t. and jaemin, perceptive as ever, met your eyes without hesitation. “you should go,” he encouraged. “we’ll watch jun.”

and it wasn’t just permission. it was understanding. he knew — of course he knew — that even if he hadn’t said anything, you would’ve gone. because it’s jeno.

jeno — the father of your child. the love of your life. your choice.

“thank you,” you breathed out, a mixture of guilt and relief flooding through you. they didn’t have to do this. jun wasn’t their responsibility — he was yours. and yet they stepped up, no questions asked. you turned to your son, kneeling in front of him. “baby, i’m gonna go check on daddy, okay?” you said softly, brushing the hair from his forehead. “uncle jaemin, uncle chenle, and uncle renjun will take care of you while i’m gone, so be a good boy alright?”

jun’s face fell, brows knitting together. “can’t i come with you, mummy?” he asked, voice small and worried, lip trembling ever so slightly. “i’m afraid not, baby,” you said gently, tilting his chin with your fingers. “but i promise i’ll come back soon.”

“hmm, junnie,” jaemin piped up then, crouching down to his level with a playful grin. “how about we play that new pokémon game you showed me? you can teach me all the cheat codes.”

jun’s eyes lit up immediately. “really?” he gasped.

jaemin nodded with mock seriousness. “i’m ready to become a master ball trainer. i need a pro like you to train me.”

and that seemed to do the trick — jun perked up again, nodding eagerly and turning to dig through his little backpack for the console. you exhaled slowly, heart aching with gratitude as you rose and grabbed your bag and car keys. but before you could step out the door, jaemin’s hand reached for your arm, stopping you.

“jisung’s outside,” he said. “he’ll drive you. you shouldn’t be behind the wheel like this.” his voice still calm and collected as usual. and you hadn’t even realised how shaken you were until he said it.

you looked at him, touched by the quiet way he was always taking care of the things you didn’t know how to ask for. your body moved forward slightly — an instinct to hug him, to show your thanks. but you caught yourself. it was jaemin.

so instead, you gave him a small smile.

“thank you,” you murmured.

he gave a little nod, stepping back. “go.”

and you did.

you reached jeno’s apartment, barely waiting for the car to come to a full stop before murmuring a quick “thank you” to jisung and rushing up to the door and ringing the doorbell.

“jeno?” you called, knocking gently.

no answer.

your heart pounded a little harder. you glanced around the doorway, your memory kicking in — jeno had once told you, casually over coffee and keys, that he kept a spare hidden under the mat, “just in case.” at the time, you’d laughed, teasing him about being too trusting.

you crouched down now, fingers lifting the mat with shaky urgency. and sure enough, there it was — a silver key, taped carefully to the underside. your stomach churned. you slid it into the lock, the familiar click echoing a little too loud in the silence. the door creaked open, darkness spilling out to greet you.

“jeno?” you called again, stepping inside.

the living room was untouched. no lights. no clutter. not even a coffee mug left out — which was rare for him. it looked like no one had been home for days.

your chest tightened as you continue to scanned through the living room. “jeno, are you here?” your voice was much tensed now, edged with worry as you moved past the living room. every step felt too loud, your footsteps falling into the silence like thuds.

then — a sound.

a cough. weak. muffled.

you turned towards the bedroom, heart thudding painfully.

you pushed the door open slowly — and there he was. jeno, curled up beneath a mountain of duvet, body trembling. a cooling patch stuck unevenly to his forehead. skin pale, lips dry. he looked like he was clinging onto the covers with the last of his strength, face drawn tight with fever. “jeno—” your voice caught in your throat as you rushed to his side.

the room suddenly felt small, like the air had been sucked out of it. this wasn’t just a cold. this was bad. and you hadn’t known. no one had. your fingers reached out instinctively to brush the damp hair from his forehead. his skin was burning.

“oh my god…” you whispered, panic settling in your chest like lead. “jeno, why didn’t you call me?” you knelt beside the bed, shaking him lightly — not enough to startle, but enough to pull him back to you. his skin was burning under your fingertips, and his shirt was damp with sweat. he stirred faintly, a soft groan escaping his throat.

your instincts kicked in.

you rushed to the kitchen, nearly stumbling in your haste. everything was still where you remembered — you grabbed a clean mug, filled it with warm water, and hurried back. the bedroom light remained dim, casting long shadows on the walls.

“come on, sit up for a bit,” you murmured, voice trembling as you hooked your arms around him, trying to pull him upright. he was heavy with fever, his body limp and sluggish. “i need you to drink something.”

his brow furrowed slightly at the effort, but he didn’t resist. “y/n…” jeno rasped, voice hoarse and cracked. his eyes fluttered open just a sliver, but the way his lips moved — the way he said your name — you knew he recognised you. his voice barely held shape, but his body leaned into your touch like it remembered you too.

he still knew your voice. your scent. your presence. you guided his hand around the mug, steadying the cup to his lips. he took a small sip, coughing slightly, but you helped him again — tilting it gently, rubbing soothing circles on his back as he swallowed.

“that’s it, good,” you whispered, even though your hands were shaking. “jeno, you’re burning up.” you paused, heart squeezing with dread. “where’s soomin?” you asked, your voice rising slightly. “has anyone checked in on you? you’ve been like this for days, haven’t you?”

he didn’t answer. just a soft exhale — like he didn’t have the strength to lie even if he wanted to.

your eyes scanned the room: no signs of soomin. no second toothbrush in the bathroom. no overnight bag. no used tissue boxes or soup containers from someone else. just silence, and jeno — burning alone under the weight of his fever.

“have you even eaten?” your voice broke.

the only response was the sound of jeno’s labored breathing as he leaned into your shoulder, fevered skin pressed against your arm, the mug now forgotten in your lap.

he had been alone.

and somehow, that hurt more than anything.

“soomin’s away for work,” jeno mumbled, voice barely a breath.

your jaw clenched. something in you twisted — a sharp, bitter pang that lodged itself deep in your chest. away for work. that’s what she was doing while he lay here feverish, trembling alone under heavy sheets.

you wanted to yell. not at him, but at the world, at the injustice of it all — because it wasn’t your place anymore. he wasn’t yours anymore. and yet, here you were, dropping everything to be by his side, while the one who supposedly held that place now was nowhere in sight.

you swallowed down the rising emotion, ignoring the words entirely. instead, you pushed the covers up over his chest and stood. “i’ll cook something for you first,” you said quietly, trying to sound calm, like your heart hadn’t just broken again in a new place.

your fingers paused as they grazed through his hair gently — a small gesture, a familiar touch — before you pulled away and walked to the kitchen.

thankfully, jeno still kept his pantry stocked. instinct kicked in. your hands moved without much thought, finding what you needed, like muscle memory honed by years of knowing him intimately — how he lived, what he liked, what comforted him.

you cooked his favorite chicken porridge, just the way he loved it — soft, warm, seasoned lightly with a dash of sesame oil, a pinch of pepper, and finely chopped scallions. you remembered how he used to crave it when he was sick. how he once said, jokingly, “if i had to choose a last meal, it’s this porridge.” you’d laughed back then, flicking his forehead. don’t say things like that, idiot. you never imagined you’d be making it again under such circumstances.

in the hours that followed, you fell into quiet care. spoon-feeding him slowly, cooling the porridge when he was too tired to blow. you wiped him down with a warm towel, changed his damp shirt, and gave him his meds. you even found the old bluetooth speaker and softly played the ambient playlist he used to fall asleep to — quiet piano melodies and rain sounds, because jeno always said silence felt too loud when he was unwell.

you tucked him back in and watched him drift into a restless sleep. the music playing in the background, his breaths slow but steady and fever slightly lowered.

you left jeno to rest, careful not to wake him, pulling the door shut with a gentle click behind you. the soft hum of music still drifted faintly from his bedroom as you padded quietly back towards the living room.

you hadn’t planned to stay long. you’d told yourself you’d check on him, maybe help him eat, then leave. but your feet slowed as you passed the familiar hallway — the one that led to the study.

your gaze lingered on the door.

it used to be your study, too. where you’d spent countless nights together — working in comfortable silence, trading coffee runs and scribbled sticky notes, sometimes stealing kisses between deadlines. it had been one of your favourite rooms in the house. but when you moved out with jun, jeno took over the space completely.

still, curiosity — or maybe something else you didn’t want to name — tugged at you.

your hand hovered at the doorknob for a second before you pushed it open.

nothing much had changed.

same layout. same bookshelves. even the same faint scent of eucalyptus from that old diffuser he used to refill every week. your steps were cautious, slow, as if you were walking through a memory. and then your eyes landed on it — your old study table.

it was still there. untouched.

you walked towards it, heart caught somewhere between surprise and something softer. jeno had left it as it was — like a piece of you still belonged here.

your eyes wandered, landing on the papers and scattered notes on his desk. you didn’t mean to pry, but then your gaze shifted to a small photo frame tucked to the edge.

jun’s first birthday.

a snapshot of that day — jeno holding jun in his arms, you beside them, mid-laugh. you remembered that day clearly. the chaos, the cake, the mess of balloons in your living room. jun had refused to wear his crown. it had been one of the many happy memories that you shared with jeno.

and then beside it, another frame. a photo of the three of you — taken during jeno’s birthday. the one where jun had drawn moustaches and squiggly glasses across all your faces with a permanent marker. you’d scolded him gently, but jeno had laughed, saying, “it’s modern art.”

you didn’t think jeno had kept that photo. let alone displayed it.

your throat tightened.

slowly, you turned, eyes catching on a leather-bound album sitting on your old desk. you froze. you knew this album. of course you did. jeno had given it to you on your third wedding anniversary. filled with film photos he’d taken of you — in the library, at the beach, brushing your teeth, laughing in the passenger seat. jeno loved taking photos of you. he used to call you his muse. “you make the world look softer,” he once said, camera always slung around his neck.

you’d left the album behind when you left. not because you didn’t care. but because it hurt too much to take it with you.

you reached for it now, flipping the cover open slowly. page after page greeted you like ghosts — photos of you, candid and still, frozen in time. smiling. unaware. in love. so so so in love. that you cringed at the fact that you guys were no longer together.

you left the study room, deciding it was time to go. the sky outside had turned a softer shade of grey, the rain falling gently now — a far cry from the storm spinning quietly inside your chest.

jeno was still asleep, his breathing deep and steady. you had done everything you could. the tupperwares of porridge sat neatly in the fridge, labelled with post-its in your handwriting — “heat for 2 mins,” “eat this with a soft-boiled egg,” “don’t skip.” on the counter, you arranged the medication neatly into the weekly pillbox, monday to sunday, checking it twice before placing it within easy reach by the bedside. beside it, a large tumbler of hot water. just like he used to like it — no ice, not too hot.

“jeno, i’m going to head off now, okay? your medicine’s right here,” you said softly, guiding his hand to the bedside table where everything had been neatly laid out. he nodded weakly, eyes barely open, his skin still warm with fever.

you began to pull your hand away, but his grip suddenly tightened around yours. "hold my hand please." he mumbled softly, voice fragile but clear enough for you to hear it.

you stood frozen for a second, heart lurching at the quiet plea. it was the softest request — but it cracked something wide open inside you.

you looked down at him. jeno’s lashes were heavy, his cheeks flushed with fever, but his fingers trembled slightly as they clung to yours. and it wasn’t just the sickness. you knew him. you knew the slight panic in his grip. the unspoken fear that lingered in moments of weakness.

you sat back down slowly on the edge of the bed, thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “i’m here,” you whispered. you didn’t say more — didn’t need to.

jeno relaxed almost immediately, his hand squeezing yours tighter before settling into a more comfortable hold. his breathing evened out, the soft lull of the background music mixing with the sound of rain beginning to fall outside.

you watched his face — the same face you used to wake up next to, the one that still felt like home even after all the months you’ve been apart. you remembered the nights you used to fall asleep with your fingers intertwined. the nights he’d mumble half-asleep, “don’t let go yet. just five more minutes.”

minutes passed. maybe an hour. maybe more. the warmth of his hand curled into yours, his body slowly cooling from the medicine you fed him earlier. he shifted once in his sleep, murmuring your name so faintly it almost didn’t register. but it was there — on the edge of his dream, like he still carried you even now.

you should go. you should go.

but you didn’t.

not yet. not while he still needed you — even if he didn’t say it out loud.

“who are you?”

the voice behind you made your heart jolt, fingers instinctively letting go of jeno’s hand. he stirred slightly under the blanket, groaning lowly in his sleep. you turned around slowly, startled, to see soomin standing in the doorway—her brows furrowed, arms crossed, dressed sharply in a white blouse and black pencil skirt.

her gaze flickered to jeno, then back to you. she had seen you holding his hand.

“what are you doing here?” her voice was clipped, irritated—though you couldn’t understand why. you were the one who had dropped everything to care for him. you were the one who—

“i just came to check on jeno. he didn’t show up to pick jun up,” you said quickly, your voice steady despite the rising heat in your chest. you fumbled to grab your bag. “he wasn’t answering his phone, so—”

“so you decided to hold my boyfriend’s hand?” she cut in with a snort, her tone laced with disdain. this was the longest conversation you’d ever had with her—and from the sound of it, one you wished had never started.

you could’ve explained. you could’ve told her that it was jeno who asked. that he was half-conscious. that he just needed comfort. but something inside you twisted, a bitter part that refused to defend something so innocent to someone who wouldn’t understand.

“jeno’s always been like that,” you said instead, quieter now. “when he’s sick, he likes having someone hold his hand. it helps him feel safe.”

you saw her eyes narrow slightly.

“he doesn’t need you to do it,” she snapped. “i’ll take it from here.”

you nodded stiffly. there was no point in saying more. the last thing you wanted was to stir another storm between the two of you. not after everything—especially not with the lawsuit still hanging in the air like a shadow.

“i’ll go now,” you muttered, stepping past her.

but just as you reached the hallway, her voice sliced through the silence again.

“has jeno told you i’m pregnant?”

you stopped.

the air was knocked out of you.

slowly, you turned to look at her—at the small, satisfied smirk tugging at her lips. "i guess he hasn't huh?" you glanced down, eyes landing on her stomach, your mind suddenly blank.

pregnant.

you didn’t say a word. couldn’t. your throat tightened as you glanced back at jeno who was still asleep, his face pale but peaceful. as if the world hadn’t just tilted.

jeno was going to start a family. again.

but not with you.

not with jun.

you felt the nausea rise, bile burning the back of your throat as you stepped out the door. this time, you didn’t look back. everything felt numb.

you should’ve known better.

you should’ve just walked away the moment you saw how sick he was.

you should’ve never let yourself get pulled in again.

why do you keep running back to him?

everyone in your life had told you—gently, firmly, desperately—to let go. to move on. but still, you stayed.

still, you hoped.

some small part of you—naive and stubborn—clung to the idea that maybe, just maybe, jeno would find his way back to you.

that he'd remember what it felt like to be loved by you. to build a life with you.

and now, standing outside your once shared apartment, it just made you feel foolish.

because this hurts.

it hurts more than you thought it would because you believed love is a choice. and it kills you every day that you had to choose not to love him.

because at the end of the day, you're willing to fight against all who wants him but not against the person he wants.

and the person he wants is han soomin.

// to be continued

taglist: @chaoticstrawberryland @bbykaixx @strawberrytyong @desiree-lee @mybearcollective @dilflover44 @kangshinwoolovin @kgneptun @firydst @httpsxnox @justineasian @sunflowerhae @huangberryyy @stelleduarte @luvleenono @ccoristu @gomdoleemyson @tinted-skies @dior-15 @socollectionmoom @blackberrywonie @dinonuguaegi @merakicafee @jenzyoit @haechsauce @lorena-mv33 @taeeflwrr@chocojiji @markleesleftpinky @carelessshootanonymous @l3l3luvs (please lmk if i missed out any!)

[calebsdog]

Two pairs of feet travel side-by-side. Tiny legs bend at the knee, fighting the steep angle of the downhill sidewalk. Caleb's daily walk to school is slowed significantly this morning.

"You have nothing to be nervous about, pipsqueak. I remember my first day of school. Your teacher is really nice. It's gonna be easy-peasy."

"Mhm." The tip of your shoe bullies a pebble along the pavement. Whenever you accidentally kick the small stone out of reach you'll pull Caleb to a stop, placing the pebble back in front of your feet, before continuing on your way.

This was the third pep talk today. Caleb's been acting a little strange ever since Gran announced you would be starting your first year of school when summer was over.

Silently, you wish Caleb would stop trying to encourage you. Why was he so worried you were afraid ?

You've spent time with the other kids in your neighborhood. All of them either have a few years of experience under their belt, or would be starting school this year just like you.

Gran told you every kid has to go to school at some point. Those were the rules.

The pebble you've forced to join you on this journey catches on the bottom of your sneaker. Nearly stumbling over your two feet, Caleb's grip on your smaller hand keeps you upright, stopping your descent.

Here, the sidewalk was alive, bustling with chaos. Children of all ages shuffle past you. Some cling to their parents, others old enough to walk to school on their own. The metal gate of the school entrance was wide open, welcoming students inside.

"You got everything? Books, pencils, your stuffie?"

"You checked my backpack this morning," you mumble, thumbs hooked through the straps of your bag.

Placing his hands on his knees, Caleb crouches, bringing his eyes level to yours. He wants, and needs, to put your worries at ease one last time.

Unfortunately for him, your attention has already been stolen by the large, unfamiliar building. Why do so many older kids complain about it? The place looks cool.

"Buh-bye."

"Huh? What- wait!"

Caleb doesn't get the chance to send you off on your first day properly. Without sparing a glance, head held high, you make your way to the opened school doors.

You're halfway there before your sneakers skid to a stop, scraping on the concrete. Your small figure stays rooted to the ground, beginning to hesitate.

Slowly, your head turns, peeking over your shoulder. You spot Caleb through the crowd, catching his gaze.

"Where am I going?"

"... Come on. Let me walk you to your class."

The scent of cleaner tickles your nose as you walk through the hall. Caleb already knows which classroom he needs to take you to, having memorized your schedule by heart. The teacher, a nice lady who speaks in a soft voice, seems familiar with Caleb when he guides you to her door.

She guides you inside, taking you off Caleb's hands. Out of your sight, he watches the top of your head disappear into the classroom, unable to join. He has his own classes to head to.

"All the tables have name tags. The chair with your name is where you'll be sitting. If you can't find it, just let me know."

Avoiding the gaze of fellow students, you drag your feet across the carpeted floor. First, you search the back of the classroom in hopes of finding your name tag. No luck. You don't seem to be in the middle row of desks either.

Ah, there it was. Your assigned seat, all the way in the front of the classroom. Directly underneath the bright, artificial lights embedded into the ceiling. The white bulb reminds of the sterile doctor's offices you hate so much.

This was only the start of your first day at school. The nice lady gives her students ample time to locate their seats. The chatter of children, all around your age, fills the room, bouncing off the colorfully decorated walls, echoing in your sensitive ears.

How long has it been since Caleb dropped you off? Five minutes? You've already begun to realize Caleb might have a point.

There was every reason to be nervous on your first day.

It starts off small. The boy placed in the assigned seat next to yours is rowdy. As you're reaching into your bookbag, fetching a sharpened pencil for your first assignment, his elbow bumps his drinking can.

Sticky, sugary soda spills from the open tab like a fountain. Your skin, the tips of your hair, and brand new shirt all fall victim to the messy spill.

"Whoops!" Your teacher swoops in, heroically setting the can upright as it belongs. It was too late to reverse the damage. But at least she prevents the mess from spreading any further on your belongings.

"What do we say when we make a mess?"

"Sowwy." The boy gives a halfhearted apology. Only after the teacher goads him into it.

Caleb told you assigned seats last the entire year. Is it mean to think that you hate this boy already?

It gets worse when the teacher calls on you to answer a question. A simple math equation was written on the board, numbers you don't quite recognize.

She's reviewing last year's teaching, giving the class an easy warm up for the first day back.

You hadn't raised your hand. But even though your teacher seems friendly enough, she was still a teacher at the end of the day. And, apparently, calling on students is a teacher's way to coax the quiet kids out of their shell.

"You were taught basic maths last year, right? Do you know the answer?"

"No ma'am. This is my first year of school."

After some consideration, Gran had made the decision to place you in the same grade as your age group. By the time she adopted you, a year's worth of your education had already been missed.

It wasn't your fault. But you would be the one to pay the price. Ahead of you was a busy school year full of catching up, as well as keeping track of the new material.

When recess hits, you've hit your last straw.

Groups form inside of the classroom, friends gathering to have their own playtime. Board games, fidget toys, coloring books, there were plenty of activities to participate in.

All you were missing is a friend to join you.

Caleb was the first and only friend you've managed to make. The memories of your first meeting have blurred in your mind. For all you care, you and Caleb have known each other from the moment you were born.

Caleb teases you, but always knows your limits. He speaks to you in light tones, careful not to overwhelm you with loud noises, knowing they would make you jumpy. He knows when it's time to play and when it's time to recuperate.

Your soul is sensitive. Caleb knows this, sees this, and treats it with delicate care beyond his years.

He wasn't much older than the kids you're stuck with right now. Yet, he is nothing like them. Neither are you.

That means... You just don't fit in.

"Hey! How'd your first day go?"

Caleb wasn't patient enough to wait for you at the gate. The moment the bell goes off, Caleb is already gathering everything into his backpack, walking from his classroom straight into yours.

"Fine."

Ignoring Caleb's offered hand, you brush past him, nearly bumping elbows. It's not like you're angry at Caleb, not at the moment anyway. You were just ready to go home.

Do you really have to do this all again tomorrow?

This? This was just what Caleb has been afraid of. He hoped the anxiety festering in his chest ever since Gran enrolled you in school would be for nothing.

Your scrunched, weary expression on the way out the door kindles the flames of his constant concern.

"Bad day, huh?"

Shoulders slumping, Caleb follows close behind you. He maintains a few steps of space between the two of you. Even though you always hold hands when walking together.

He shouldn't insist, even if the change was quite jarring.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"No."

You continue to avoid discussing your terrible, enlightening day with Caleb the whole way home. Usually you would be in the mood to chatter his ears off by this time.

Slam!

Your bedroom door shuts with a bang. It's been some time since you've thrown a pissy tantrum of this magnitude. At least, a tantrum that wasn't targeted at a poor unfortunate soul known as Caleb.

It isn't fair, you think, tossing yourself on top of your bed, burying your face into the pillow sheet.

Why did you have to be different from everyone else your age? Could you even be considered a normal kid?

The world was too loud. Too bright, too fast, too consuming. It was as if you had dropped out of space, landing in an alien world you were never meant to step foot on.

Caleb made fitting in, made belonging, look so easy. He's always had friends. Friends who aren't you.

He had the same upbringing you did. But he walks the world like it's his oyster.

Hours tick by. The warm orange glow of evening painting the sky dissolves to an inky black. Your time is spent laying face down in bed, mourning everything you could never be.

"Pips? You awake?"

Caleb stands outside of your room. Light as a feather, in case you did indeed fall asleep, he knocks on your door.

"The sun's gone down. It's chilly outside. I think you'll like it."

The air circulating your bedroom had started to become stuffy. All of your windows were closed, cutting off the ventilation. Feeling the cold, fresh air of the outdoor on your overheated skin would feel better than rotting in bed for the rest of the night.

The weight of your tired bones slowing you down, you fight to pull your heavy body to slide off your mattress. Trudging to the door, turning the golden knob, the sudden relief flooding Caleb's expression is the last small encouragement you need.

"Gran went to bed an hour ago. How about we take a walk? But ya gotta promise you won't tell her we were out this late.

"I'm not a tattletale." Not when it benefits you to shut your mouth.

Caleb leads the path to your escape. Pulling open the screen door to the porch, slowly, trying not to make a racket, the two of you slink out of the house undetected.

You genuinely believe that you don't fit in with other people. But stepping outside, green blades of grass poking the underside of your feet, the cold night air embracing you like a loved one, the song of crickets beckoning to take another step, it's as if you've resonated with nature.

"Come on." Caleb takes your hand. This time, you don't refuse his offer.

Dandelions glowing under the moonlight tickle your bare legs. Wind whips through your hair, a loud thrumming in your ears. It doesn't hurt your ears the way listening to people speak does.

Nothing out here is capable of overstimulating your frayed nerves. You can only crave more and more of what this side of the world has to offer. Soil stains the bottom of your feet, leaving your mark in this lonesome, quaint meadow Caleb drags you through.

'Home' fades into a distant blur on the horizon. You can't bring yourself to miss it.

"Here." Caleb, as athletic as he is, is slightly out of breath by the time you've arrived.

Your destination? A hillside, over a mile out from Josephine's house. Just far enough from town to guarantee you and Caleb were alone with the world. Nobody will bother you out here.

When was the last time you had truly been alone with Caleb? It used to be only you and him standing against the whole world. Now, it feels like all these strangers are forcing their way into your lives. There isn't enough space to fit them all in your reserved heart.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Caleb plops his butt onto the grass. He pats a dirt mound beside him, inviting you closer.

"I'll keep an eye out for mosquitoes. We should be alright for a little while."

After the day you've had? Mosquito bites are the least of your worries now. Claiming your spot next to him, you dirty your pajama shorts with loose soil.

It should make you feel small. Being out in the world like this. Two young, weak kids under the open starry sky. No, it was the most relaxed you've felt in...

You can't even say how long.

"Flower for your thoughts?"

A dandelion, one lucky enough not to be trampled under your feet, hovers in front of your face. It isn't the typical pretty, well-tended flower that catches the average person's eyes.

Dandelions may be weeds. But you believe they're beautiful in their own right. Wrapping your little fingers around the browning stem, you pluck the plant out of Caleb's hand.

"How do you do it, Caleb?"

"Hm? Do what?"

"Everyone you meet likes you. Gran praises you for all the hard work you do around the house. And all the kids on the playground fight for the chance to play with you first. You get along with everyone you meet. But I don't like anyone."

Absent-mindedly, your fist clenches around the fragile body of dandelion. As soon as you realize what you're doing, your grip eases, giving the plucked flower a reprieve.

Caleb was the one who gifted it to you. You want to handle it with care.

"Gran, my teachers, everyone wants to change me. They think I'm different. You make being likable look easy. Why am I not normal like the other kids?"

In the distance, at a nearby creek, a frog croaks into the night. It sings in tune with the bugs, the melody carried away by the cool breeze.

"Hey. Wanna know a secret?" Caleb's elbow gently nudges you in the ribs. It steals your attention from the shimmering moonlight.

"I don't think it's easy to get along with people either."

"What?" That makes you perk up. Could he be lying to make you feel better? For as long as you've known him, Caleb has won the favour of everyone he meets. You can't remember a time where he's struggled.

"Yeah, really. I mean it. I thought it was difficult to get people to like me too. Like no matter what I did, no matter what I said, I was still different from everyone else."

Leaning back in the grass, propping himself on his elbows, Caleb watches the sky as he speaks. Though he tries to appear nonchalant, his words hold a weight you never knew he was carrying.

"But I wanted you to always have someone you can hide behind. Whether it was cause you were scared, or if you lost your voice and needed someone to speak for you, or to protect you. So, I just... Changed myself. Until I was the best of the best."

Taking a deep, slow breath, Caleb tilts his head. His purple eyes feel as bright as a supernova.

"We're both different from everyone else. That means we'll always understand each other. So, don't think you're alone, okay? I'll see you when no one else can."

Who was it that made Caleb feel it wasn't safe to be himself? You think back, struggling to jog your memory.

Sure, things had been tough at the orphanage. But didn't Gran save you from the worst of it? What was it that has been haunting Caleb?

"Pipsqueak, look!"

Caleb doesn't give you the time to ponder it. Blinking, you're brought back to reality. Following Caleb's outstretched finger, your gaze lifts to the night sky.

All was still above you, calmer than you currently felt. All except a lone, shooting star.

"I'll let you make a wish. I won't use up any of your luck."

Like an angel falling from the heavens, the star plummets alone. It's death, it's descent, was truly beautiful. Every other star in the sky watches on as their own kind burns up in your planet's atmosphere.

"I wish... Me and Caleb never have to change ourselves for anyone else."

[jollyhunter]

“Was kinda hoping you’d ask me for another drink?”

Between you and me; I wouldn't even manage to down that one Dean Winchester drink but don't tell him that, I'll just keep feeding the pots with them whenever he's not looking and serving blazer-boy, pretending to get tipsy. (Are there even plants at a bar?)

He throws the rag he holds over his shoulder and reaches for a rack of glasses sitting by the complimentary beer nuts and iced lemon water.

it's a detail, but oh how I love that move.

“Yeah, well, you might be trying to forget some guy, but feeling sorry for yourself with your head stuck in a bowl ain’t going to help your pride.” “How’d you know it was a guy?” you say, but he doesn’t reply. Just smirks and grabs a shaker. Rinses it.

Like I said. Details details. You make spot the Dean way too easy (meant in a good way). And then you continue with this?

And it’s mesmerising. The way he pours the alcohol and shakes the ice? The chicka-chicka as each cube rolls through the metal cylinder, sloshing through whiskey and whatever else he’s put in there. 

Agh - I want to see this. Do we ever get to see this in the show? Him shaking the chicka-chicka cubes?

If he wasn’t working, he’d be chatting you up. Or would he? As much as he has a reputation to uphold, you’re easy game, and undeserving of anything other than a free drink and a couple of compliments.

Always love how you manage to switch pov's so effortlessly and smooth. And love how he's aware of her vulnerable state and doesn't want to take advantage of it, even though he's clearly got an eye on her ever since she got there. Dean is a gentleman at heart after all. 😉

This is ridiculous. You stop your pacing and put your hands on your hips. Why can’t this night go on forever? No thank you, Journey.

Journey's playing in my head (and on my speakers) in loops now. Thank you. (love the band though, I'm classic like that - or like you if I remember right - so I'm not even mad 😂)

Make good use of that stubble between your legs?

We all love a good tingling down there, right? And who am I to deny that I will never get enough of stubbles Dean, no matter where. 😉

And then he goes and does says the thing?

“What do you need, darlin’?” he drawls.

Hol' up - lemme just-

Jokes aside, I was a goner by then. 🫠 And good for her! Finally a man who made her feel all the things her ex clearly wasn't capable of. Dean just knows how to make every girl feel special, doesn't he? 😘

Joining in the others as we all chant together "Part two! Part two! Part two!" I want to know what happens now? Will she stay with him in Hawaii? Is he gonna show the beaches to her and take her out? (the sexy way, he's not the creepy bartender after all) Will her asshole-runner-ex come back crawling to her and beg her for forgiveness and we get to see Dean deck him at the same time as she kicks him in the nuts?

We must know, Beth! Don't leave us hanging like this! (no pressure though, just a gentle motivator 😘)🧡

Tell Me The Secrets That Make You Cry

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Bartender!Dean Winchester x Reader

After being dumped on your wedding day, you pull a Rachel Green and head to Hawaii on your honeymoon alone.

Tags: strangers to lovers, angst, flirting, pining, fluff if you squint, cunnilingus, one-night stand, rebound sex, alcohol consumption, open ending 18+ Only MDNI 4.4k words

A/N: This one is for @zepskies 5k Follower Celebration! Congratulations again on hitting such a big milestone! ♥️ Naturally, I chose Dean, and asked for either a colour palette or a song to work with. Alex gave me both. Hope you enjoy! 😘

“Oh, for the love of,” you say, twirling your straw through the remains of your Blue Lagoon once again. 

The ice is shaken enough already, yet you still hold the web of your hand protectively over the large base because you need your hands to do something. Anything is better than being up in that room. 

The rose petals. The bottle of champagne that’s now lying empty on the bathroom floor, swimming in a sea of strawberry stems and minuscule pieces of cork. 

They really should make the bottles easier to open for women like you. No one’s drinking champers alone, except women like you. Everyone else is enjoying it with their significant other or down here dancing to this terrible Journey cover while their drinks spill all over the place. 

Why can’t this night go on forever? It’s a nice sentiment, but once you love somebody, well, you eventually go your separate ways, don’t you? The night has to end, and then who’s crying now? 

“You okay there?” the bartender says to you, and no, no you’re not. You’re quoting the greatest hits of Journey, for fuck’s sake. 

But what else can you do but nod your head enthusiastically when the man stares at you with a look that says he’s already read you? Because he has. He’s been standing there staring all night, watching, judging you no doubt, along with every other singleton sitting at the bar. 

Newsflash. You’re the only one. 

The tiki bar is full of people for sure, but they’re all partnered up. Shared whispers across two-tops, laughing, flirting. The women’s faces melt under the bright lights of the torches that surround you. The men pretend the sand in their shoes don’t bother them. 

They’re celebrating their unions, their anniversaries or new love, and you’re stuck with the barkeep, somewhat flattered because at least he’s kind of pretty. 

Freckles dust his skin. There’s enough stubble on his cheek to tickle you in all the right places, and maybe that’s what you need? To be tickled into forgetting. To be humoured by a man’s company even if it is for five minutes and he’s on the clock. 

And you know what? 

That’s even better because you have all the power. If you pretend, even for a minute, that you’re not alone on your honeymoon, then maybe you can get sloshed enough to cover the pain, if only for the night. It won’t go on forever. No matter how many times the crooner belts it out.

So, you push your glass in his direction and point down into your fish bowl. “Can I get another one of these?”

Your hiccup is as cultivated as you’d expect it to be on the end there. Not meant to happen, and certainly not cute, but his green eyes widen just the same. 

“How ‘bout a water instead?”

He throws the rag he holds over his shoulder and reaches for a rack of glasses sitting by the complimentary beer nuts and iced lemon water. 

“No.” You’re firm. His brow raises at you, and you’re reaching out to take his bare wrist in your slender fingers to stop him.

“I really need another drink,” you say, and it’s pathetic. You’re begging a stranger not to cut off your booze supply when he’s the one who really has the power to do it and more.

Defeated, you let him go. Poise straightening to show you’re not drunk, because you’re not. The first one barely licked your empty insides, and there’s still more fire in there to douse with a third. 

“Please. Just…one more.” You bat your eyes at him. Smooth your dress over your thighs, playing with your skirt while you try to play him, but it takes a long damn time for him to consider.

That hand you had the pleasure of stopping comes up to his chin and scratches at his five o’clock shadow. “One more—” He holds his finger up stern. “—But if you’re gonna get wasted, at least do it on something worthwhile. That crap will go right through you tomorrow.”

You huff. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Yeah, well, you might be trying to forget some guy, but feeling sorry for yourself with your head stuck in a bowl ain’t going to help your pride.”

“How’d you know it was a guy?” you say, but he doesn’t reply. Just smirks and grabs a shaker. Rinses it.

And it’s mesmerising. The way he pours the alcohol and shakes the ice? The chicka-chicka as each cube rolls through the metal cylinder, sloshing through whiskey and whatever else he’s put in there. 

His arms move as fluid as the lines on the tiki bar’s uniform. He’s dancing with the bottles and the bar is dancing with him. Then he slides a tumbler in front of you that’s tall and thin. Holds nothing in it compared to your last two drinks, but it’s elegant. The amber sparkles through the torchlight. He even throws in an umbrella and a spiked cherry on the rim.

“There you go. A Dean Winchester special,” he says. Pulls out a shorter glass and pours a fifth of whiskey for himself. Takes a sip. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” 

You’d tell him, but you’re mesmerised by the tick of his jaw, too. The way he holds his glass with those nimble fingers. The way his tongue slips over his bottom lip and rubs the top.

It’s not until he bumps the glass with the counter between you and folds his arms between it that you notice he’s waiting for you. Eyes expectant, amused. Grinning again when you tell him yours and he repeats it. Savours the last syllable with a strong southern drawl. 

“Texas?” you say, because pulling pleasantries out of your ass is far better than ogling at the man.

“Kansas,” is all you get.

And what were you expecting? He’s there to serve the patrons booze. Not talk to single women who just so happen to be at his bar. There are glasses to dry and counters to wipe, his lowball to drink, which he finishes in one gulp. Goes back for another. 

“Figured,” you say, but who’re you fooling. You got it wrong from the get go, but of course you try to act cool.

You take a sip of your Dean Winchester. It’s sweet, delectable. There’s a hint of vanilla and a tug of spice that clings to your throat as it slips down to join the Blue Lagoon and the one before it. Has you choking on the burn.

“So what brings you here to a place like this? Hawaii is a long way from Kansas.”  

His eyes give you another once over, but he’s still grinning. At least he’s not insulted. “You hitting on me?” 

Oh god. Are you? “No.” No, no, you’re not. You shake your head. Blurt out the start of an apology until his laugh cuts you off and you’re watching him with a wary eye. 

“Relax. I’m just messing with you,” he says, but then he looks you over, and he forces a wry smile. “Guess it’s the last thing you need.” 

“So it is obvious.” 

It’s not a question, and you’re not wrong. It’s not obvious what happened. He’d have to pry to know those details, but he’s seen that look in plenty of eyes. 

Dean spotted you the second you stepped foot in the bar solo. Noticed the pretty dress. How you weren’t waiting on anyone, and how no one came. 

If he wasn’t working, he’d be chatting you up. Or would he? As much as he has a reputation to uphold, you’re easy game, and undeserving of anything other than a free drink and a couple of compliments. 

So, “It’s on me,” he says. Taps the bar and downs the second fifth. The asshole in the red blazer is clicking his fingers at him, and he needs to serve in hope of a bigger tip to pay for that top shelf concoction he’s just treated you.

He serves blazer-boy the martinis he’s ordered, along with a strawberry daiquiri for the Mrs whose cleavage is falling out of her dress. It’s a nice rack, but he can’t help but check on the modestly covered one he’s been keeping tabs on all night.

Once you’ve downed most of his Winchester special, he’ll try to get the raw deal out of you. There’s a story to tell with the manicured nails and tan line from where a giant rock once was. 

Did the asshole cheat on you? Are you widowed and reliving the honeymoon? No. You wouldn’t be so inclined to look at him the way you do when he’s pretending not to. Wouldn’t be curious about his background or seeking company at the resort bar in the first place. 

Why does he even care?

Because he’s a sap, and you’re polite enough to not openly flirt? 

He’s seen it all.

Women who throw themselves at him even when they’re with their partner or girlfriends. Ones alone, like you, who pull their top down and their skirt up the second they see him behind the bar. It’s what Hawaii does to people, but it’s not doing it for you.

Blazer-boy takes his watered down martini and sits down with the wife at a table across the bar, but four tequila shots and a hen’s party show up next and Dean’s left to watch and hope that you don’t leave. 

He throws a smile your way. Points at the glass and offers you another. He was never going to cut you off, just wanted to assess the situation. If making you a new one means you’ll stay longer at his counter, he’ll forgo his tip to find out more. 

Sam’d say he’s a sap, gone soft, and maybe he has, but his good conscience can’t help but make a pretty girl’s night better. Even if she does just breeze by his bar.

He mixes yours next. Adds two cherries on top, and brings with him a fresh bowl of nuts, placing it all in front of you. 

“Guess you haven’t eaten anything?” he starts, similar to the earlier line. Goes straight in for the kill, straight after with the usual preliminary questioning. Gives you a second of scrambling over what to say before he cuts in again and tells you to relax, again. 

“You don’t have to tell me, jack—” he swipes his head “—but I’m the cheapest therapist I know.” The kind that listens anyway. He won’t put any more stress on being cheap or place any expectations, for that matter. 

Not when his cheeks burn from your infectious laugh and the little snort that leaves you embarrassed and covering your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“I thought you had me figured out,” you say, and his eyes meet yours.

“I do.” He crosses his arms. Sees the way you fold in on yourself, holding whatever newfound confidence you had in. “Just wanna make sure you’ve figured it out, too.

“Think of that drink as a truth serum. You’ve had two now. You’re bound to start spilling all your secrets soon.”

The humour works. He could further it, and give his best menacing laugh or stroke his fingers, but you nodding your head is enough.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I’m the guy that listens, remember?” But in his next breath, he’s frowning. Blazer-boy is back and clicking his fingers like it’s going out of fashion. Couple of feet closer and Dean could punch him in the nose.

“Hold that thought,” Dean says, and you do. 

You do a number on him. 

Well, not quite, but you’re an idiot for it. 

Who leaves their suite number on a napkin? 

You do, that’s who. Desperate and lonely. You almost told Dean your pathetic little story, and worse? You’re what? Planning to tell him in your suite? The one with the rose petals on the bed and the pieces of cork strewn around the bathroom floor because you were that desperate for booze. 

God.

He won’t come.

But what if he does?

Then should you be worried about him? Who takes an invitation from a cocktail napkin and visits a random stranger’s room?

Who buys a woman two free cocktails when she’s clearly in need of therapy?

You’re a match made in heaven. A hot mess in her wedding night lingerie, waiting ‘round for some guy she’s not sure she’s hoping will show up. The potentially creepy bartender. 

Do you want a hook up? Is that it?

Does Dean?

At least you know his name, first and last. 

This is ridiculous. You stop your pacing and put your hands on your hips. Why can’t this night go on forever? No thank you, Journey.

“He’s not coming,” you mutter. Your chuckle is just as crazed as you are. Your new steps and raised arms fit the mood, too.

As you step into the bathroom, you don’t bother with the strawberry stems. You smush them into your feet and the cold terracotta tiles below them. Cork chips and seeds stick to you, but you’re too busy pulling off the negligee to deal. 

You really do look hot. The red satin and lacy combo matches your cherry lips and bad moves.

Your shake is more of a tremor when you move your head. It rids you of all your doubts and all your pain for all of five minutes. At least you won’t be bent over the toilet bowl come morning, thanks to Dean. 

You should thank him tomorrow. And apologise. Pay him back for the drinks and then some. 

But Dean just wants to know you’re okay. That’s all this is. 

Nice girl, potentially unstable, but you did kiss the bottom of the napkin he holds in his hands, and if that ain’t a sign you’re interested, then you’re well outta his league.

Still. He can’t deny there’s an edge of worry. He really does have your best interests at heart. Who knows which other dickbag at the bar might’ve seen your little stunt and taken advantage of you? 

Yeah. “Let’s go with that,” he says under his breath before he raps on the door and waits and then some. You could be sleeping it off already, but it doesn’t stop him trying once more. 

He’ll wait five seconds, then he’ll walk. That’s what he tells himself again when he knocks a third time. Fourth times the creep, so he’s good. Better when he hears the shuffling. Deer in headlights when he sees the sliver of bare legs below the white fluffy robe you’ve got on.

“Dean,” you say. Arms fold across your chest when you see him. 

“I got your note.” He shifts his weight to his other leg. Holds it up, in case you’re unsure which one. “Wanted to check you were okay. Guess you are.”

“Yeah.”

Yeah. And for once in his life, Dean Winchester is at a loss on what to do. It’s not awkward, not for him, but you sure are.

Your lips part like they wanna say more, but whatever that is, it’s caught in your throat, and him standing there is not helping.

“Well, ah, I’m working down at the bar again, same time tomorrow if you wanna finish our conversation.” He thumbs in the direction he’s come from. At least that way you’ll know there’s no hard feeling. Maybe you’ll even take the hint. 

And you do. It just takes him turning on his heels and saying, “I’ll leave you to it,” for you to make your move.

“Wait,” you say, and it’s breathless, which makes no sense at all. It’s not like you’re chasing him down the stairs or out onto the beach. He’s standing on the ninth floor balcony, and your hand is around his wrist again. 

Are you doing this? Is this what you want to do? Invite this stranger into your room, and what? Make good use of that stubble between your legs?

You can’t deny that’s all you’ve been thinking about besides what the hell you were thinking, leaving the note behind you at the bar. 

But he’s here. He’s not walking any further, and he’s not shaking you off or flinching under your touch, either.

So you’re bolder. You tug at his arm and encourage him to turn back and look at you. “Stay,” you whisper. “Don’t want that truth serum to go to waste,” you add next, and what the hell is that? 

You’re cringing. Reeling at your pathetic words. Crap like that only works in shitty romance novels and rom-coms, and Dean doesn’t belong in one of those—you think—why are you thinking? 

Everything else you’ve done until this point tonight has involved very little thinking, and when Dean’s eyes narrow and he does the little lick over his bottom lip like you caught at the bar, you’re keening. If you weren’t gripping him, you’d be on the ground. A mess far bigger than the one forming in your panties right now at the sight of Dean Winchester leaning closer and closer.

He’s moving in for the kill. His face is inches from yours. 

He steps into your bubble and your nose breathes him in. The tip of his brushes yours and soon his lips are too, and all you can do is grip him tighter. Bring your free fist and pull on his jacket. Hold him there. 

It’s gentle. He’s gentle, but you’re certain, no, hoping he’s holding back, because sparks are flying. Your chest is thrumming. Your toes curl against the cement below you, and all you want is for this to last forever. Not this night, just this moment. You and Dean Winchester.

You’re disappointed when he pulls back. Your first thought, that’s it? But his hand rests just below your cheek. His warm breath breathes over your plump lips and you’re pulling the bottom one between your teeth. Making it shine more than it already did. Lipstick, what’s left of it, no doubt on the tip of them.

His eyes flick over you. They’re olive in the light and up close. Iridescent right before they close. A flicker of mischief behind them. A smirk that presses into you before his tongue is swiping through the gap you’ve made from biting too hard.

You take a step backwards; he moves with you, and the next thing you know, the door’s closed behind you and you’re standing on the plush carpets. 

That’s when he surveys his surroundings. 

One second, he’s taking his arm out of his jacket, the next he’s seeing the speckled red from rose petals scattered across the sea of white, ash and wicker. It doesn’t take an idiot to realise he’s standing in the middle of a honeymoon suite, but he is one for not recognising the room number two hours ago. 

Funny enough, it’s not the first time, but it is a first not knowing the situation. 

“You’re on your honeymoon?” he says, and before you can pull away and curl in on yourself, he grabs your hands and holds them tight. 

He’s not mad. He’s not worried either. You’re a grown woman who can make your choices. If he helps you commit adultery, it’s nothing on his conscience. Just needs to know he’s not going to be jumped if things lead below the belt.

“I ah, don’t wanna pour salt on the wound here, but is he on the island?” he asks, and thank god you shake your head.

“I couldn’t face my friends and family,” you say. “Pulled a Rachel Green and came alone.”

He’d ask if she’s the hot one, but he doesn’t care. Your fella let you come here alone, and now he gets to reap the rewards. He’s gone past compliments to showing you a good time. He just has to get you there, and fast.

“So he ran off with your friend or discovered he was gay?” He chuckles, but his attempt to lighten the mood is lost on you. 

“His boss,” you say, and it’s a pity because Dean still doesn’t know which team your ex bats for. 

He removes his jacket and peels off his ghastly work shirt, too. Takes one last good look at you before sauntering into the small kitchenette. “You racked up the mini bar under his name yet?”

You shake your head no. A sniffle sounds behind your hand when you swipe at your eyes. “But I made a scene in front of his parents.”

“Did you kick him in the nuts?”

You huff. “No.” 

“Not really a scene then, is it?” He opens the fridge and takes all the miniatures to you. Downs the bourbon, offers you the rest, but you’re shaking your head again. 

“It’ll take the edge off,” he insists. 

Only then do you accept. You swallow the tequila and the vodka, one after the other. The rest, discarded on a random counter when his hands find your waist. 

He pulls you back into him, flush against his hips. Lips drinking the nip of alcohol, tongue, removing the burn when he hums and breathes you in. 

You’re pliable under his touch, soft but firm; smooth like the Winchester special, warming his skin just right, fueling his fire. He hit the mark talking to you. Made his day, week, and month more exciting, and he’s going to savour it just as much as you savour him.

The same fingers tugging him to the king size bed are pushing him back into the comforter, and he lets it happen. Encourages you to straddle him. Holds your bare thighs and pushes the robe to the side.

“You expecting some company?” He quirks his brow at the lacy number. Red like your lips and the kiss stain tucked in his pocket. “Dude doesn’t know what he—”

“Shut up,” you say, but there’s amusement in your eyes when you pull back to look at him. 

It’s not that you want him to, it’s just you don’t want to hear about your ex right now. This night is for bad decisions and rebound sex, after all. Might not have been before you stepped into the bar, but it is now. You’re banking on it. You know Dean is, too.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. Fumbles with the tie, hiding the rest of you as you move to his buckle. “Wanna try the real Dean Winchester?”

God, yes you do. You’ll laugh over the cheesiness when your flesh is tickled pink and your insides are sideways, but he doesn’t give you the chance now even if you wanted to. Nor does he disappoint. 

Just like you found yourself on the plush carpet, you’re soon caged beneath him. His lips on your skin bringing a fire to your belly you’ve never felt before, and all you can think is you want more. 

You tell him, too. Your hands run through his hair, sticky from whatever product he’s used to slick it back. It’s thick, with plenty to grip and prompt him lower.

A trail of wet kisses is left on your skin in his wake. Cools and soothes. Dries quick. Only to be replaced by more nips and sucks that follow him and your guidance. 

His breath is warm where you’re warmest. Your core clenches as he pulls the satin to the side. He swipes a long stripe up your seam that has your hips squirming and your thighs clenching in on him. 

Heaven. You’re in heaven. 

The sacrilegious sounds coming from his lips as the hairs on his chin tickle and tease yours are exactly what you’ve been craving, and you beg him not to stop.

“What do you need, darlin’?” he drawls. Plants a kiss, then sucks on your clit. Replaces his mouth with the pads of his fingers and draws circles over you. 

There’s a grin on your face that quickly turns as he surprises you by pushing one inside. Your broken “Oh” is all you can answer through your raspy breath that’s half chuckle, half giggle. 

“Use your words,” he says, and it’s as stern as he was when he wouldn’t pour you one more drink. 

But it’s obvious what you want. Your chest is heaving for it. From elbow to fingertip, the apex of your thighs to your entrance, you buzz with the beginning flutters of pins and needles. Your skin, stretched as far as it can go. 

“Just fuck me already,” you say, and he does. He liberates you.

Takes you heights you never thought possible. Has you clinging and begging for more all over again. 

He makes better use of you than you have of yourself and the honeymoon suite. If it weren’t for those eyes and that grin that continues to make you weak in the knees and wet above them, you’d swear you were on your honeymoon because it’s how you imagined it to be. 

And in the morning, the ache in your muscles is delicious. Your skin still buzzes and your legs stick together. You’d stand up and take a shower, except you’re held in place by his muscular arms and a warm breath that’s attached to them. 

So you wait. Get comfortable. Drift back off, only to wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of water running an hour later. 

He didn’t leave, but did you expect him to? 

Doesn’t matter because he welcomes you when you join him. Slaps your ass then smooths it. Grips and pulls you into a searing kiss under the stream, then gives you a grin when he leans back to ask, “How’d you sleep?” 

If he’s honest, he wants to know. 

“Great.” You look it, too. Your cheeks flare red all over again at his stare, and you’re biting your lip like he’s grown accustomed. “I don’t normally do that,” you say, and he believes you. Already had that part of you figured out.

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” You’re incredulous. Insistent in your response, like what he thinks of you matters when it doesn’t. He’s flattered just the same.

And, “Good,” he says. Wags his brows as his hands rub circles over your back. “Was kinda hoping you’d ask me for another drink?”

So, are you asking for another?

I can now say I know this song like the back of my hand from the amount of times I listened to it lol. As well as listening to Journey on repeat for this, I was also listening to “Beautiful Things” by Benson Boone in the lead up to that kiss. Hope you enjoyed 😘

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[jambie-me]

I saw your Freaky Alphabet and it got me thinking.

Snotlout, a bit submissive and inexperienced, his first time. He's begging you to take off your top so he can suck your tits. He's eager to learn quickly to make you feel good, and he's incredibly dedicated to your pleasure.

Please- LA! Snotlout x GN! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Subby Snotlout, First Times, lots of nipples, tit sucking, coming in pants, reader is gn but has AFAB parts, I still don’t know how to end smut fics 😭

Word Count: 1,947

A/N: Oh this was an absolute GIFT of a request. I have so many thoughts about Snotlout learning how to make you feel good HHGJNDFJK I fear I may need to make a part 2 to this. Hope this is something like what you had in mind <3

“Please,” Snotlout practically whimpers against the column of your neck. His knees are on either side of your left thigh, his chest against yours. You weren’t exactly sure what happened to get you here-one moment, you’d been making out with Snotlout, maybe getting a little more handsy than normal, and now you were here, with him in your lap, needy and keyed up. “Please, show me what to do.”

“You haven’t done this before?” You blink in surprise, tilting your head to the side.

“…I-I mean, yeah, ‘course I have, tons of times, just-“ He scoffs nervously and looks away conveniently. “Just-um. Been a bit since I’ve wanted to. It was a choice, yknow, no one in the village…measured up.”

You raise an eyebrow disbelievingly-the way his hands were trembling and resting awkwardly on your shoulders told another story. “Uh huh.”

Snotlout’s face flushes at that and he sighs. “Okay, maybe I haven’t really gotten THIS far, but-the part about no one measuring up was true!!!”

You snicker and take his hand between yours, squeezing it reassuringly. “Well, color me flattered.”

“Yeah.” Snotlout laughs softly before seeming to remember the situation and straightening up. “But…I do really wanna do this. With you. I wanna make you feel good so badly, I just…” he draws a shaky breath, biting his lip, and you can’t help but be impressed with how open he was being with you. The Snotlout most of Berk saw would never admit to being anything less than a natural at whatever was asked of him. He would make up a boisterous excuse for every mishap, so this…this was something extra different. Something special.

And you could tell, too, with how nervous he was. You rub your thumb along his knuckles gently and raise his hand to your lips, pressing a featherlight kiss to his bruised skin. “You want me to guide you?” You finish for him.

He meets your eyes once more and nods desperately. “Please. Please, I want to, so bad.” He whispers. You squeeze his hand once more before lifting your thigh against his crotch, making him gasp.

“Well, you don’t need any lessons on dirty talk, that’s for sure.” You cup his jaw and draw him close once more to kiss him deeply. A high pitched noise leaves him and his hands begin frantically exploring your body, unable to stay in one spot for too long. Without breaking the kiss, you cover one of his hands and move it to slide down from the crook of your neck to cup your breast. He whines and squeezes his hand tightly over your clothes.

“Please-“ he whispers as he breaks the kiss. “Please, can I-can you-“ his eyes dart between your eyes and your chest, tongue wetting his lips.

“Can I what?” You tease gently, cupping his face and tilting his head up towards you. He groans pleadingly, brow furrowing up in want. “Come on, tell me what you want.”

Finally, Snotlout presses his lips together and tugs at the bottom of your top. “…take your shirt off.” He whispers. “Please, please, I wanna-I wanna touch you so bad, babe-“

You shut him up by placing your hands over his and guiding him to lift off your shirt. The look on his face when he sees your bare chest is absolutely beautiful-his brown eyes glazed over with a mix of lust and adoration, his lips parted ever so slightly and his anxious, trembling breaths. “Gods, you…you’re so-“ his hands copy your movements, tracing from the crook of your neck to your breasts once more. “…amazing.” His thumbs swipe over the soft skin and he shudders, then looks back up at you. “I wanna-“ he wets his lips again, seemingly a nervous habit of his. “I wanna use my mouth.”

There’s a flicker of surprise and something deeper within you-most other partners you had been with, your pleasure was on the back burner to them, a second thought, especially if it was their first times. You hadn’t expected Snotlout to be any different. You thought he’d be eager, but more so for the new feelings he’d experience-not for pleasing you. But it’s a welcome surprise, and you nod with an adoring smile. “Okay, then… be gentle, to start, okay?” You instruct him, guiding him to kneel in between your legs and cup your breasts. “Just lips and tongue. Alright? I’ll tell you if something hurts, or doesn’t feel right. Just explore.”

Snotlout nods, looking at your chest hungrily with intense focus. He leans closer, taking his helmet off and dropping it to the floor thoughtlessly. His warm breath fans over your right breast before he finally closes his lips over your nipple and sucks lightly. You gasp at the suction, hand falling to push his hair back. He looks up at you with those big, brown eyes with the silent question of if this was okay.

“Yeah. Like that. That’s good.” You whisper delicately. “You can keep going, try using your t-tongue-“ you lose your words when you feel the wet warmth of his tongue on the sensitive bud of your nipple, laving over it eagerly. You feel pleasant vibrations wash over your chest as Snotlout groans around you, his hips grinding down against the mattress. “That’s-so good, Snot, you’re-so good-“ you praise softly, small noises leaving you.

He whimpers against you at the praise and doubles his efforts. “You’re so soft…” He pulls away to give his attention to your other breast, repeating the lapping motion of his tongue. He’s so enthusiastic, like he’s drunk on the taste of your skin and the closeness, nuzzling closer into you and inhaling through his nose.

“Gods, Snotlout-“ you moan, taking his other hand in yours and squeezing tightly. He looks up at you again, eyes pleading and desperate. After a moment of consideration, you guide his hand down to the waistband of your pants and underneath, making him gasp and pull away.

“What do I do?” He breathes, his hand ghosting over your skin. You wriggle out of your pants and underwear before placing your thumb over his.

“I’ll show you.” You mutter, pressing a kiss to his jaw. You guide his hand down to your clit and press him thumb lightly over it. Snotlout responds in a sharp, gasping noise, biting his lip. “This little, um, nub here is real sensitive.” You explain softly. “You can try stuff with that, if you want. And keep doing the-sucking.” Your eyes flutter shut as he presses down a bit more and rubs his thumb back and forth over your clit, watching your reactions with an intense focus.

“Like that?” God, he still sounds so uncertain and nervous, even though hes catching on faster and better than any other partners you’d been with before. He was so determined to make you feel good, you could see it, hear it, feel it.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yes, baby, just-just like that, fuck…that’s perfect…” you lean back further against the headboard as his other hand returns to your breast.

“You’re so warm…” he whispers in awe. “Down here-and here.” He places an open mouthed kiss on your tit, taking the nipple in his mouth again and sucking.

You whine and tighten your hand in his hair. “Fff…yeah, and whose fault is that?” You try to tease, but it comes out strained with want as his movements over your clit grow faster. By now, he’s whining and whimpering against you, his hips grinding down needily as he sucks at your breast. “Fuck, Snotlout, I’m close…”

That only spurs him on, a high pitched noise leaving him as he doubles his efforts. He switches his mouth to the other breast, working tirelessly to get you to your peak.

“You’re doing-so good for me, Snotlout.” You whisper, remembering how your praise had affected him earlier. Sure enough, his eyes are wide with lust when he looks up at you. “Yeah, just-just for me, right? You’re incredible, I would never think this was your first time if I didn’t already-holy-“ your back arches when he experimentally tweaks your nipple with his free hand. “Fuck, yes, perfect-you’re so perfect, Snotlout, my-my perfect boy, mine-“

With that, he cries out, his tongue sloppily lapping at your skin, thumb pressing to your clit in tight circles. You come with a shudder, clenching around nothing and bucking into his touch as your clutch his hair tightly.

It takes a few moments for you to truly come down to Earth, mind hazy with the waves of pleasure that was still rushing through you. But you soon become aware that Snotlout is resting his forehead against your chest, breathing heavily while his hand is clasped over his crotch.

“…I-I’m sorry.” He manages after a minute, looking up at you. His face is flushed, a bit tacky with sweat as you cup his cheek.

You laugh in disbelief at the apology. “What the hel could you have to be sorry for?” You grin, but then notice how he looks away in embarrassment, pressing his thighs together. It also looks like he’s not straining in his pants anymore, and there’s some kind of stain-

Oh.

You immediately cup his face and bring him closer, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Oh, baby, don’t worry.” You assure him gently, guiding him to sit beside you against the headboard. “Did you still have fun?”

It’s Snotlout’s turn to laugh now. “Yeah? Of course I did, I loved-everything.”

“Then that’s all that matters.” You kiss his temple and give him a comforting squeeze before getting up. “I’ll get you some clean pants, alright?”

“Thank you!” He calls back, watching you wistfully as you leave the room and he slumps down into the bed. This felt like something from a dream. Every second since he had started dating you had felt like a dream, and gods, had he always been this sappy after an orgasm? He was still in that afterglow, abnormally quiet and blinking slowly up at the curling when you returned. You help him change and remove his shirt before blowing out the last candle in the room and cuddling up to him.

“You really did do amazing, by the way.” You murmur as you wrap your arms around him, chest pressed to his neck. He shudders slightly at the feeling, your chest still damp with his saliva, but he quickly melts into you.

“Yeah? I mean-I’m pretty much a natural with…these things, so. Not too surprised, but…” he boasts halfheartedly, though you can hear the relief in his voice and you smile.

“Yeah, I see that now.” You sigh against him, tangling your legs with his. “So you’re up for messing around again soon?”

His response is immediate, squeezing your hand. “Please.”

[itoshiierae]

ᯓ atsumu miya as your bodyguard au 𖦹⭒˚｡⋆

it’s been 6 months since your dad appointed atsumu as your personal bodyguard and whether you like it or not, he’s been by your side ever since. while the two of you are constantly at each other’s throats with that back-and-forth banter; you can’t deny that he’s always there when it counts and deep down, you do appreciate him being around to protect you.

even so, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want a bit of space sometimes — being 21 & all.

“can you not breathe down my neck for five minutes?”

you mutter without turning around, readjusting the sleek strap of your YSL le 5 à 7 leather bag as it shifts on your shoulder — steps composed as you pace towards the lounge area. the hotel lobby’s crowded tonight; some big-shot celebrity must’ve just walked in judging by the flash of camera phones, the swarm of tailored suits, and just enough sleazy stares to make your skin crawl.

he only snorts behind you. “sweetheart, ya think kidnappers take smoke breaks?”

you shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “i just need to be alone...”

he doesn’t laugh this time.

instead, he steps forward — boots loud against the sleek marble flooring as he closes the space between you, gaze sharp under those black aviators. then, in a voice low enough to rattle your bones:

“… over my dead body, sweetheart.”

you exhale sharply, “please…. i just need to be alone alright? without you hovering around me all the time.”

“doesn’t matter,” he shrugs, voice slipping back into that usual teasing drawl, but the edge lingers. “next time ya want alone time, go hide in the bathroom or somethin’… not out here where creeps can try their luck.”

well… speak of the devil. a sleazy-looking man — probably in his mid-30s, wearing an overpriced suit and a leering smile — is already making his way towards the lounge area, eyes fixed on you like you’re the prize in a rigged casino game from the moment he spotted you across the room. it’s almost unsettling, the way his gaze lingers on your body like he’s not even trying to be subtle about his intentions.

atsumu immediately clocks him before you do.

“… ah, hell no,” he mutters, stepping slightly in front of you casually but after 6 months of being around him, you’ve learned exactly what that shift in his posture and the slow crack of his knuckles means.

“atsumu… don’t,” you hiss under your breath, “we’re in public.”

“and?”

“we’re gonna get kicked out—”

“mmm, don’t care… yer dad’s got deep pockets, i’m sure we’ll be fine.”

the man approaches, opening his mouth to speak — but before a single sleazy word can leave his lips, atsumu cuts in.

“ya got five seconds to walk away before i make ya regret openin’ yer damn mouth.”

the man laughs — flashing atsumu a cocky, condescending look, as if to say, ‘you really think a mere bodyguard like you has the right to stop me?’ well, that’s a huge mistake because within three seconds, atsumu has one hand fisted in his collar, the other already curling into a fist; drawing wary glances from the concierge and nearby guests.

even with those black aviators on, you can feel the weight of his stare like it’s searing right through the man. his voice stays calm, but there’s a hint of danger in it as he leans in closer:

“stay the fuck away from her.”

the man stumbles back, muttering, “… tch not worth it,” before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd without another word.

you exhale in relief.

he finally turns to you, smug again. “see?? terrifyin’ efficiency. now admit it… i make yer life way easier.”

you roll your eyes, “you’re so annoying...”

he smirks, leaning in just enough to make your breath catch. “and yer stuck with me… princess.”

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

[sundownbyri]

The bookworm and the apple ♡

word count : 1.4k

intro : nerd!gojo has been transferred to a new school and has yet to make friends, during English class, f!reader sees nerd!gojo sitting by himself in class reading a book. f!reader feels guilty that no one has made an effort to get to know nerd!gojo on a personal level so she does it herself! ⋆˙⟡

part 1! (part 2 soon)

—🌊☆⋆｡🪼𖦹°‧★🐚—

Over and over again. It’s like a never ending cycle when it comes to stuff like this.

For starters, ever since Gojo turned 6 years old, he switched schools every 2 years. Sometimes 1 on bad years. There was no way of telling how long he would stay in a school for specifically. He didn’t really know why, but he knows he never questioned his parents.

This caused Gojo to start making less friends each year, he’d rather save the devastation of leaving his friends the minute he got told he had to be enrolled in a new school. Because he knew the cycle would repeat.

Over and over again.

Until it was his last year of high school, the most important year! He knew he had to make it count! But there was one problem.

He didn’t know how to make friends.

All the years of isolating himself from the other kids has made him realize that he forgot how to make friends. I mean sure, there HAS to be some people who still like Digimon and manga books in this new school, right?

Wrong.

Students roamed the hallways with styles he had never been exposed to, and it overwhelmed him. he thought to himself, “who would like to talk to a loser like me?”

Really? A 17 year old thinking like this? But you can’t really blame him, the poor kid has practically been isolated from the new fashion trends and trending opinions! All he did in his free time was read books, watch Digimon or other shows, or just simply play retro games! What kind of 17 year old does this stuff?

A sudden loud ring hits his ear drums, snapping him out of whatever insecure thoughts that he was having, signaling that class was about to start.

He hurriedly checked his schedule, eyes darting to the top of his page. English class, alright! Seems easy enough for a first period.

He walked into room 167 where his english class was located, didn’t seem too bad. Everyone in there looked relatively nice, then he spots you. His first impression of you was “she seems really nice!” Cute, really.

You were talking to your friends about whatever nonsense you are blabbering about, as you heard footsteps and you turn over, looking at the tall nerdy boy who’s probably never seen another girl in real life outside his mother, take a seat awkwardly beside you and look around the room nervously. Is he okay? why was he so nervous?

“Hey,” you call out to him, having the intention of catching his attention. Gojo turned his head to look at you and awkwardly smiles, squeaking out a little “hi.”

“You new here? I don’t recall seeing you from last year,” Gojo’s eyes widened slightly for whatever reason, his sentence starting out in a rushed stutter, “Oh- I- um- y-yeah! I’m- um.. new to this school…” Great Gojo. What a great start into making a new friend. He mentally face palmed himself for being so nervous around you, let alone everyone in the classroom right now. He should be used to this.

You softly smile at him, recognizing his anxious demeanor, you were about to open your mouth to ask him his name but then were immediately interrupted by your English teacher for the year. Annoying, loud, and stern. Dealing with this for the whole year? heck no! not with this old person! You honestly can’t imagine what your other teachers are going to act like if this is your first period teacher. Will they be nice? mean? in between? who KNOWS.

As she was introducing herself and what she likes to do in her free time, she stated that her name is Mrs. Ray. She then went over her classroom rules and what she expects from you this year, typical boring stuff. After her lecture she dismisses the class to do whatever they want until the bell rings. So no cliche ice breakers? Well, not complaining.

Your friends go back to talking as you observe Gojo take out a manga book and start reading it, you can just read the look on his face saying “I really hope I don’t get bullied for reading this in class.” You see him fidgeting with one of the pages, and then he suddenly looks over at you. You were surprised he even noticed you were staring the way he was so engulfed in his book.

You softly smile at him “so what’s your name? i was gonna ask that earlier but the teacher interrupted me,” you end the sentence with a little giggle awaiting his response.

“Gojo. Satoru Gojo” he whispers shyly

“I’m sorry what did you say? I didn’t hear you.” you politely state.

you could visibly SEE the pink hue that tinted his cheeks as you finished your sentence. Did you say something wrong? No, I don’t think so.

“S-satoru Gojo.” he says in a somewhat louder tone

“Gojo, huh?” your soft smile turns into a big one. “I’m y/n! it’s nice to mean you Gojo.”

You can see Gojos expression soften into a genuine smile, he looks at his manga book for a split second then looks back at you.

“So just wondering,” Gojo started, his nervous expression falling back into place. “Do you, um.. by any chance.. like m-manga?”

“Manga?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s manga?”

Gojos. Face. DROPS. He feels so embarrassed he assumed you knew what manga was. How can a person like you know what manga is? A person who seems willing to be his friend? No way. Too good to be true.

“Oh.. um.. would you like me to explain what it is?” He quietly says, feeling so down right embarrassed about his assumption. You, on the other hand, nod. “I would love to hear about what it is!”

“Really?” Gojos eyes nearly pop out of his head when he hears those 8 words from you. 8 glorious words. The ones he didn’t need you to repeat.

Gojo is obsessed with manga, so he jumps into action whenever people offer for him to explain what it is or if he has any recommendations for future reads. Totally a nerd when it comes to this stuff.

He starts explaining what it is from top to bottom, starting about where it originated to modern manga. Seeing him ramble about something he’s passionate about makes you smile.

Sure, you barely even know the dude.

You don’t know his age.

Where he’s from.

What he wants to do in life.

Nothing!

But oh, it’s so entertaining to watch the way his eyes sparkle or the way he gets a massive grin when he talks about his favorite characters in a book.

(PART 2 COMING SOON!)

[hangnailme93]

Can I please get some cardinal copia x f reader

I’m thinking some nice altar fucking with a lil splash of dark satanic ritual vibes idk maybe

Bonus points for the cassock staying on

👉🏻👈🏻

(if u want to, pls and tysm)

rating: NSFW 18+

tags: cardinal copia x fem!reader, altar fucking, clothed sex, public sex, breeding kink

It wasn't uncommon for the Cardinal's sermons to mention the sin of lust - especially after you started coming to black mass more and more often. He desperately wanted your attention, to hope that his preaching of sexual exploration and completion are any hint of what he wanted to do to you.

You moved closer up the pews each week, knowing that sometimes his heated, lusty sermons rile up the congregation. Members are getting more eager each week, turning to their partner beside them or finding a compatible suitor in the audience to kiss, fondle, or fuck after Copia's enticing words drive them to chase their carnal desires.

Tonight turns into a full-blown orgy, sinful sounds of skin slapping, slick holes being ravaged, and a thousand moans fill the entire temple. Normally, Copia bolts off the altar and back to his office before anyone can engage him. But tonight is different. He has noticed your decreasing distance to the altar over the last couple weeks, and is well aware of your dark, lengthy gazes into his eyes.

As the congregation begins to erupt into hedonistic affairs, your eyes are locked onto the Cardinal's, his white eye piercing through the crowd, and one of the few sources of light in the black candle-lit temple. He gestures his finger toward you, summoning you to join him at the altar. You feel that hot, tingling sensation in your stomach, and your breath hitches, as your legs are thinking faster than your brain, guiding you up to the altar.

You have not been this close to him, ever, and oh Satanas, he is beautiful. He is wearing your favorite red cassock and biretta, and you wonder how long it will take to get thru all those buttons. He gently grabs your hand, kissing your fingertips, one by one. "You are too perfect to be alone tonight, tesoro..."

He pulls you back towards the altar. The sin coursing through the room, as well as his low sultry voice, have you wanting to melt already into a puddle on the floor. Copia pulls you close, dropping his head right by your ear and whispers, "Only one rule, sorella: the cassock stays on."

You don't question his rule, at least you don't have the opportunity to, since he has completely pulled the breath out of your lungs when he suddenly begins sucking mercilessly on your neck. Your hands latch onto his hair, the biretta falling off his head, and you whimper helplessly, hoping your knees don't give way.

His lips eventually meet yours, the sweet spot he just devoured on your neck now throbbing. He wastes no time getting his tongue in your mouth, and he tastes delicious. His hands start pulling at your habit, signaling that you're entirely too dressed. You pull your habit and hood off, leaving you in a silk, sheer slip. The way it accentuates every curve on your body, leaving little to the imagination, has him unraveling.

Copia lies you down on the altar, your hands falling above your head, hanging off the edge. You are dripping with desire watching him slowly unbutton the lower buttons on his cassock, he cock firmly pressed up against his tight pants, begging to be let out of its fabric cage.

He kneels down between your legs, lifting the slip up to your stomach to expose your slick pussy to the humid air. "Nnngh, so perfectly wet for me, baby." Copia groans, his breath lingering over your cunt. You gasp sharply as you feel his flat, strong tongue lick a heavy swipe up through your folds. The weight of his tongue, combined with his finger that has already found its way to your clit, is enough to bring you to orgasm alone. He thrusts his tongue in and out of your entrance, occasionally breaking away to suck at your clit.

You are practically sobbing at this point, feeling the impending explosion building within you. "Cardinal....ple-eease. I need you... to fill me up..."

He lazily pulls away from your folds, the lower half of his face covered in your slick, while his half-lidded hazy eyes contain evidence that he was totally lost in you. Coming to his senses, he gracefully pulls you up and turns you over onto your hands and knees. Making sure you get the chance to assess the pulsing rod that will soon be wrecking you, and walks around to your front, and pulls out the unholiest, uncut cock from above his trousers. It's modest in length, but obscene in girth, as it hangs heavy between his legs. He strokes it slowly, eye contact locked onto you, watching as you literally begin to drool on the altar below you.

Copia leans closer to you, the red cassock now hanging over your shoulders, as you drown in his vestments, taking his cock into your throat to the hilt. You've always dreamed up crawling up his cassock to suck his cock, but holy fuck, this was even hotter. You support your body weight with one arm, the other one coming up to tug at his balls, pulling an unholy moan from the Cardinal's mouth. He lightly starts bucking his hips in pure ecstasy, eyes rolled to the back of his head as you continue to feast on his cock.

"Cara mia, you feel divine, but I am an old man, have me-ercyyy." He pulls away, knowing he'll miss out on the opportunity to bury his cock in you before he reaches his climax if he doesn't stop now. He bends down, grabs your chin and kisses you tenderly, pulling away with a smirk.

Copia positions his head on your shoulders, leaving soft coos and whispers in Italian as he slowly enters your cunt. You realize right there that there are few greater feelings in the world than feeling Cardinal Copia's fat cock stretching you to the brim. The sound of his balls slapping against you mix in with the cacophony of pleasure still filling the temple, as his thrusting picks up speed. You feel overwhelmingly full as he pounds into you, and you crave the feeling of his hot seed pouring into you.

His hand trails along your silky slip as he walks behind you, kneeling down to meet you on the altar. The atmosphere of the room has him feeling animalistic; his carnal need to mount you like a bitch in heat is consuming him. He leans over you, his cassock swallowing you, and you feel one hand come around to grasp firmly over your plush breasts, and the other finding your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours.

Your minds aligned, a new wave washes over Copia; being in this position, he can't help but feel the need to breed you, to fill you up with his cum and hope it takes. His pounding is now relentless just thinking about it.

"IN ME! Oh, fuck, please Copia!"

"COPIA!" you scream, as his constant slamming against your clit sends you in a searing white hot orgasm.

"Si....oh, s-sorella! I'm gonna cum!!

Your cries for his seed set him over the precipice, and his cock kicked endless hot ropes of cum deep within you. He bucks his hips a few final thrusts as overstimulation starts to creep on both of you. He pulls out, tucking himself back in his trousers with one hand, and clamping down on your tired pussy with the other hand.

"Don't let it drip out." He growls, clearly still in a carnal high. You lay down carefully on the altar table on your back, making sure to obey his command. You expect him to begin the meticulous matter of re-buttoning his cassock...but he doesn't.

"Find me in my quarters in twenty. I'd like your company tonight, so I can make you scream my name like that all night long."

With that, he turns on his heel, and heads for the door, cassock eloquently billowing behind him. You were in for quite the evening.

[sunshades]

i always wished the animation in heathcliff's ego changed after c6.. i feel like bodysack has always been about his own self hatred and how he views himself as less than human, so when he's able to move past and grow from his trauma, this view of himself as less than human changes. i know that changing the art + animations would have been a hassle so i'm not that mad about it but it would have been neat

YEAHHHH. i mentioned it in a post before, but i do love the ambiguity of the bodysack and the feelings it connects to, that it's both about his warped sense of self and about the guilt over having consciously or subconsciously hurt the people he loves. in the end it all goes back to a feeling of displacement, of never being Right or Good Enough. it goes back to:

the base E.G.Os are a bit varied in what they represent because of well the sinners' stories being different, but since heathcliff's story has him facing his own self-hatred, it gives off a very different feeling from the others... snagharpoon for example is about ishmael's fight against ahab which goes back and forth between being righteous and being misguided, la sangre shows don quixote's dreamer side which becomes a positive after c7, land of illusion represents the flowing water that contrasts stagnation and even after the canto the negative implications feel so minimal you gotta squint to see them (boring. but i digress)- all very easy to translate to an uplifting interpretation with only a voiceline change!

on the other hand with bodysack... the voicelines are of course extremely expressive: the wrath and aggression at first, desperation and horror during the canto, then determination and resilience afterwards. but bodysack is different in that the "weapon" appears physically And as a metaphor in his canto, and therefore always carries a stronger meaning than many of the others. we're shown very thoroughly how the concept connects to heathcliff's life in various ways, all the anguish and shame tied to it... so that stays as relevant as the feelings of the voicelines, even when his focus should've shifted, so it leaves you a bit conflicted seeing it again. But. in a way. even if it ended up in a weird spot in the practical point of the long term visuals i am happy the narrative itself went that far, in text and implications and gameplay content.

i do think that as we go on with the cantos it won't be heathcliff alone- there's no way in hell looking at suddenly one day will ever remind u of anything but how horrible what happened to gregor was, no matter what voiceline update he ends up having, and forest for the flames is... well, just look at it. if they're supposed to reflect the sinner's emotions and subconscious i think by the end it'd be nice to have at least these three get an update reflecting the growth they'll have experienced in the story.

until then, it is still nice if we're taking those powers/manifestations as more of like. the things each sinner has taken in consideration about themselves, kind of. so for heathcliff rather than just Hes Moved On itd be, he remembers the way people treated him and how he thought of himself, and that it's something he doesn't want to stand for any longer... bodysack as acknowledging both the fucked up things that were done to him (the time at the heights) and that he did to others (the aimless violence in the syndicate years), and drawing power from it, with the awareness he's grown from it and now fights for a purpose.

particularly i feel like remembering that it relates to the time with the rabbits helps soften the imagery, as he starts it off with the Yeah killing remorselessly, but then it also signals a lot of positive things for him- the first time being in a place where he felt accepted, the first time he truly took control of his own life and like. thinking about how it was a syndicate with a culture centered on friendship and loyalty and that didn't really take advantage of people, and about how during that time he made friends and kept writing home out of consideration for catherine, then you can see it as an important moment for his personal growth and in his ability to express himself. so the same E.G.O can be a bit of a mixed bodybag [THE CROWD BOOS ME OUT OF THE POST]

[notklosswift]

Duty & Desires

Chapter 18

Pairings: Alexandra Cabot x Detective Reader

Warnings: Cock Warming (if you call it that), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Teasing

Summary: You and Alex finally confront the tension and fear that was built between you since the shooting.

Chapter 16 Chapter 17

You’re still tangled, bodies covered in sweat. Her weight was pressing into you with a kind of comforting heaviness, Alex still ever so careful not to press into your wound. The room smells exactly like sex and skin, and she's still inside you. Literally.

Alex groans softly against your collarbone as she shifts, arms framing your head to anchor herself up, starting to move. Maybe to pull out, maybe to clean up, maybe to finally talk. But before she could get up, your hands tighten around her back.

“Stay,” you murmur, voice lazy and raspy from the way she just made you scream. “Feels nice. You inside me like this.”

She freezes. Flushes. You don’t miss the way her cheeks darken or how her breath catches like she’s still learning there’s this version of you. Bold, wild, vocal, and soft-hearted all at once. It wrecks her a little. In the best way.

Alex laughs under her breath, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “I've probably said this a concerning amount of times already tonight but you’re gonna be the death of me,” she says, voice low. “And I’d still come back just to do that all over again.”

You chuckle, fingertips tracing lazy circles on her bare shoulder blades. “Please. You’d haunt me just to get another round.”

Alex grins, about to quip something back, but then a thought flickers across her face, something sly and amused. She lifts her head slightly, looking down at you with a smirk playing at her still-swollen lips.

“By the way,” she begins innocently, but her tone is far from innocent. “I gotta say… I never thought you were jealous of Langan.”

Your eyes widen before you groan, covering your face with both hands immediately. “Oh my god.”

Alex laughs. Actually laughs, her body shaking gently against yours. “What was that you said earlier? Something about him seeing the the bite marks in court and knowing I’m very taken?”

Your face is buried in your hands now. “I don’t know where that came from,” you mumble into your palms, your voice half-mortified and half-laughing.

Alex leans in, kisses your temple, then gently pries your hands away and wraps your arms back around her. “Really? Cause the way you were biting and sucking my neck, it felt like you had a motive. That felt personal, detective. Not to mention the growl in your voice when you said his name.”

You roll your eyes with a laugh, the tips of your ears still burning. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

Alex hums. “I didn’t become a prosecutor for nothing.”

You sigh, giving in. “Fine. I don't know. It’s just… when you’re in court and you’re up against him, his eyes linger on you waaay too long for my liking. Like? Back off, dude. She’s all mine. No wonder he’s losing all his damn cases. Instead of focusing on the defense, he’s busy staring at your butt like he’s got any cha—”

Alex gave a quick peck on your lips, cutting you off, her eyes wild with amusement. "Yeah. 'I don't know where that came from' my ass." She laughs, repeating your words. "But seriously, does it really bother you that much?" Her voice now quieter and sincere.

“Well, not really,” you lied. “I mean, I know he has no chance on you but still—" You start to answer, but before you can finish, she thrusts her hips once, the strap hitting the spot inside you again. Firm and sudden.

Your breath stutters, a moan catching in your throat. “Alex—”

“Need any more proof that I don’t give a damn about Langan? That I know exactly who I belong to?” She said with a smirk, her hand reaching for your neck to toy with your necklace, her thumb tracing the engraved initials of her name.

You exhale sharply as you try to recover from that unexpected pressure inside you, eyes fluttering shut for a second before you manage to respond. “No. The people rest, your honor.”

She smirks, “You never really take this off, don’t you?” She asks as she lifts the pendant.

“Never.” You answered, your tone sounding like it was the most obvious thing.

“Even when we were fighting?” Alex asks, almost shy.

You nod, “Especially when we were fighting. I don’t know what kind of spell you put to it but it keeps me calm. Like a gentle reminder that we love each other even at times we couldn’t stand one another.”

“You’re something else.” She laughs before finally, finally pulling out of you, her body moving gently as she removes the strap and sets it aside. You let out a soft whine at the sudden emptiness.

She kisses your forehead before she lies beside you again, wrapping her arms around you as you rest your head on her chest.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

Your cheek rises and falls with the gentle lift of her chest, her breathing steady. You close your eyes for a moment, trying to will the rest of the world away. It almost works.

But then you feel her shift slightly, the way her hand pauses mid-stroke on your arm, like something’s tugging at her mind. You don’t say anything yet. You didn't want to move.

Alex breaks the silence first, her voice quiet, careful.

“Hey,” she says, her lips brushing your hair. “Can we… talk? About the last few weeks?”

You hum, not quite pulling away from her, but your chest tightens slightly. You knew you had to talk sooner than later. You nod against her skin, and with a reluctant breath, sit up just enough to meet her eyes.

Alex’s gaze is soft but steady. Her expression serious, without being sharp. But there’s a flicker of vulnerability there too, like she’s not quite sure if she has the right to ask for clarity, or forgiveness, or both.

“I know I’ve been… intense,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching, suddenly becoming too aware of what's happening. “Controlling. Overbearing. You don’t have to sugarcoat it.”

You raise your brow slightly, but don’t interrupt.

Alex exhales. “I just, after what happened, after I almost lost you…” her voice falters, just a touch, “I’ve been walking around with this… constant fear. Like if I let you out of my sight for too long, something awful is going to happen again. And I know that’s not fair to you.”

You bite your bottom lip, staying quiet for a few more beats. Processing. Then finally, softly, you speak.

“I get it, Alex. I really do. And part of me, God, part of me loves how much you care. But it’s like I can’t breathe lately.” You shrug, helpless, your eyes flicking away. “Every step I take, it’s like you’re right behind me, just waiting to catch me before I even fall.”

Her face falters at that, like the words hit deeper than she expected.

“I never meant to make you feel caged,” she murmurs, reaching up to tuck a strand of damp hair behind your ear. “I just wanted to keep you safe.”

“I know, baby,” you whisper. “I know. And it might not look like it, but I’m scared too. Terrified. These past few days have been a battle in my head — between braving through the trauma of being shot and just wanting to feel normal again. Between staying home safe, so you wouldn’t have to keep putting your whole career on hold for me… and needing to go back to work because being a detective, doing what I do, that’s who I am.”

You swallow, eyes starting to blur.

“Between fighting this awful, nagging doubt — this voice in my head that keeps asking if I even deserve someone like you… someone who loves me completely and probably cares about me more than I’ve ever cared for myself — and trying to convince myself that I do deserve you. Just because the idea of losing you… it’s too painful and unbearable. I’d rather have died than survive just to lose you.”

The tears slip from your eyes silently, and Alex sees them but she doesn’t say anything. She just pulls you tighter against her, holding you like she never plans to let go.

“God, I love you so much it’s overwhelming,” you whisper brokenly. “And I’m truly sorry for all the shit I’ve put you through. You didn’t deserve any of it. I’m so sorry, Alex.” You choke out a quiet sob, burying your face into her.

Alex shifts, sitting up slightly and gently moving you to face her. She cups your cheeks softly, wiping your tears with the pad of her thumb.

“My love,” she whispers, “you’re not putting me through anything. And I hate to break it to you, but I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.”

That earns a faint smile from you. Small, but real.

“I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re a burden to me because you’re not and you never will be. And I didn’t pause my career because of you. I wanted to. I’ll always choose to take care of you. I guess… I just need to figure out how to do it differently without hovering.”

You laugh through your tears, your body still trembling slightly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love it when you’re all protective. It’s hot, really.”

Alex rolls her eyes with a fond exhale, and you smile wider.

“But yeah,” you continue, softer now, “maybe just give me time to find my footing again? And trust that I love you, and that I’ll do everything I can to not end up in those kinds of situations again. I know I’ve already said this before but I really, really want a whole life with you. Impossibly articulate, legalese-speaking two-year-olds, remember?”

Alex laughs fully at that, her eyes shine with warmth and affection as she nods, still grinning. “Yeah. I can do that.”

She leans in and kisses you, slow, and full of promise. Her lips taste faintly of salt, from both your tears. You breathe into her, letting everything settle.

When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests against yours, and she whispers, “I want everything with you, too, you know that? Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts.”

You nod, your hand reaching up to cradle her jaw. “Me too.”

The silence now isn’t heavy. It’s comfortable. Like something has finally shifted into place. Like everything that happened tonight was perfect. Almost perfect, you thought to yourself. If only you went and bought the damn ring already before coming home earlier. It would’ve been absolutely perfect.

You both sink back under the covers, your body curling instinctively into hers. Her fingers find yours again beneath the sheets, lacing together and resting over your stomach, holding you just a little tighter tonight.

Eventually, your breathing slows. The exhaustion seeps in, not from the intense, animal-like sex (well maybe a little), not from the tears, but from the release of everything that’s been weighing on you both for weeks.

You feel Alex’s steady breaths, knowing she’s fast asleep. You sighed out of contentment, thinking tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. You slowly grabbed your phone from the nightstand, careful not to wake Alex, your thumb pressing Olivia’s name.

Y/N Hey, mind coming with me tomorrow for some ring hopping? Lunch is on me.

You slowly moved to put your phone back, but Olivia quickly replied.

Liv Deal. Throw in some coffee too.

You smiled at that, putting your phone down. For the first time in a while, sleep finally feels like peace instead of escape.

_________________________________________________

Read Chapter 19 Here

[seaofreverie]

Anyway.... Back to what I was pondering earlier today... It's been 4 months but I'm still as deeply obsessed with Exotic Creatures of the Deep as at the very start

[tourmaline-v4x]

hi, reblogging this again as her family has like $15 after bills and still has medical, food, and pet related expenses to cover. even just interacting with this post or with his tweet is a huge help, one of her writing examples is attached under the cut if you wanted to see it and there's more on her carrd on his twitter page.

The walk through the forest was refreshing. She could let herself take in the gorgeous scenery, let her lungs fill with the air she had been yearning for. At last, she knew she was free, no longer bound by the shackles that Serpenti had given her so long ago. She was a dog set loose, being released from her duties. She would never have to attend to that constant beck and call ever again. It was a relief.

Even with the unstable ground beneath her, Lyra easily kept her balance. She followed every turn and twist of the path, humming a pleasant tune to fill the silence around her. She had never been one to enjoy silence, especially not when her mind was racing like this- it had been a while since she had a victim she loved hanging heavy on her mind.

She had already wrapped her head around why she did it. Truly, to her, it was mercy- and it was a soft callback to when she had done the very same thing the first time. It had been more gruesome when she first did it, considering her choice of weapon, but this was still awfully close. She couldn’t help but feel like Adeline would be disappointed in her. She had taken yet another life, all for her selfish desires. It quenched the bloodthirst she had grown used to since her teen years. This time, though, it gave her a chance to escape the confines of Hollywood. This entire trip was her escape route. Going to a place where he couldn’t find her, where she was utterly unreachable no matter what. And now, she could go wherever she wished. She didn’t have to return to the cage, which was the red carpet, and that dull house that felt so empty without her presence.

The thought made her chuckle to herself. Even if word got out about what she had done, there was always another route she could take to get away. She had made it her goal for years to not get caught, and from the looks of it, she’s done perfectly. Clean up every crime scene, show sympathy to the people who mourn that she knows, attend the funerals, and watch from afar. She felt lucky that she could put her skills to use in a place such as the Dome, even if she had to be puppeted the entire time.

Eventually, Lyra stumbled upon the cabin. It wasn’t something that she had a taste for, but it was better than staying out in the harsh, deeply wooded area that stood high around her. She entered the cabin with a hum and went straight for the kitchen, looking down at the letter that had been left behind for her in utter disgust.

She poked at the envelope for a moment before barely picking it up with her nails, dragging the sharp edge on the underside of the flap to open it. Carefully, she pulled out the plane ticket awaiting her, her expression softening as she saw the location. Just as she had requested- finally, that serpent had done her some good for once. Perhaps her efforts wouldn’t be for nothing after all.

After tucking the ticket back into the envelope, she found herself a place to rest, draping herself over the chair that finally let her give her feet a rest. Hanging her head over the armrest, she took off her ring and held it up in front of her in a spot where the light hit it just right. A golden snake, adorned with a few genuine diamonds- it had always been her favorite piece from the Serpenti collection.

“I’m quite surprised no one pieced together that I was just a scapegoat for our dear ‘Serpenti’. The letters, the writing, the name… I’m disappointed that no one is a connoisseur of jewelry in that Dome. Even with Bulgari’s popularity, it seems no one was familiar with it,” she sighed, looking towards nowhere in particular. “I suppose that means that my job was well done. I took the fall, led them on, watched their every move, and found who was vulnerable… the persona of ‘Serpenti’ can no longer be used now that I’ve departed. I do wonder what they plan to do next to cover up their tracks… or perhaps they’ll finally give up. Those poor, poor souls have no idea what evil has been alongside them all this time…” A long silence filled the cabin as she fiddled with the ring, eventually sliding it back on her hand carefully as she relaxed into the chair. She let her eyes close before she started singing a gentle song to herself.

Stars shining bright above you,

Night breezes seem to whisper “I love you”,

Birds singin’ in the sycamore tree, Dream a little dream of me…

Say, “Nighty night” and kiss me, Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me,

While I’m alone and blue as can be,

Dream a little dream of me…

…Goodnight, Lyra Bardot.

May love return to you and heal whatever remains of your broken heart,

May the little girl you lost so long ago finally return and give you a warm embrace,

And finally,

May the Lord have mercy on a woman as cruel as you.

(again if you liked this there's more on his carrd, any commission or donation or engagement with these posts helps and thanks for reading)

hi everyone !! bit of an unusually personal post for me, but my gf is having trouble affording some necessities right now and so has opened emergency art and writing commissions. some of his art examples are attached to this post, and writing examples can be found on her page. please consider commissioning or donating if you can. https://x.com/starfrxst/status/1924267141911486800?s=46&t=S3IYDjeS_VhSUc4A7Nov1w

[mossbabie]

🚰

[mage-leo]

there’s something to be said about the way that tumblr users speak & post & how awkwardly it translates on other platforms. it’s this weird third person perspective where personal posts are disconnected and written for an audience. i don’t know how to fully explain it but in my time on other websites, people don’t really address this imaginary audience in the same way. comments are direct responses to the OP & posts are intended to start a conversation. you can comment on tumblr posts but they aren’t really meant to be discussed, only to repost to show people what you believe/agree with.

i dunno how to fully explain what i’m trying to get at here but in my time away from tumblr & occasional returns there’s a pretty clear cultural standard that i haven’t really noticed anywhere else other than maybe twitter, though the ppl on twitter who talk this way are often tumblr migrants.

[luvcaleb]

18+ (nsfw) thoughts about caleb living his horny teenager self's dream. contains pseudocest, usage of gege, and fantasies of underage sex (because, again, caleb was a horny teenager). if you feel uncomfortable reading this kind of content, please scroll away. (this is straight up porn lol what is plot)

during spring cleaning, you come across your old high school uniform tucked away in a little, dusty box. the uniform that caleb has very strong feelings for.

because as it so happens, high school was probably the horniest period of caleb's life. it also happens to be the most repressed period of his life because laying a finger on his precious "little sister" would be several degrees immoral.

you probably have no idea how much that goddamn skirt has tormented him in the past, but you can see an excited glimmer in his eyes. yes, that period of his life has passed. his desire, however, has not waned in the slightest.

so of course you spend the following afternoon reenacting every one of his dirty fantasies, dressed in your uniforms.

pushing you down the bed the moment you arrive home after school. sucking down your neck as he fondles your tits over your shirt, humping against your panties. rubbing his cock over your clothed pussy, soaked with how wet you are.

caleb grabs your ponytail when you give him a blowjob, because that's how you always tied up your hair back then. groans when you rub his cock between your tits, straight out of the stupid porn he used to watch, the tip peeking out your breasts drooling with precum. he binds your wrists together with his tie before he eats you out so you can't resist while he laps at your clit, plunging three fingers inside your cunt, not stopping even when his jaw gets tired until he's made you squirt on his tongue.

he makes you sit on his face, his nose rubbing against your clit, licking up all the cum and slick from your pussy. breathes in your erotic scent as he's trapped between your plump thighs and your skirt, uncaring if he suffocates. he pushes you back to his mouth with his evol each time you try to run away, begging you to squirt on his face again, pleading that he has to taste you.

and after all of that, caleb still hasn't had enough. because there's no end to his desire, bottled up since he could remember. he can't imagine a time he'll ever be satisfied.

he doesn't really take off any part of your uniform, no. he bunches up your shirt to grope at your bare tits, flips up your skirt, pulls your panties to the side so he can thrust his cock to your pussy.

caleb fucks you from behind, pulling out in time before he can cum, just so he could rub his dick and spill his thick load all over your clothed ass. he lets you ride him as you hold up your school skirt, giving him the full view of your cunt swallowing his girthy cock, streams of your wetness gliding down his veins. he watches your face twist in pleasure with unrestrained delight, giving you a little help by pounding at the spot that drives you crazy, and isn't surprised by the spray of squirt that comes out of you for the nth time that day, soaking his shirt and the sheets below.

"fuck, pips," he groans, still fucking up to your cunt as you cum messily all over him. "should i have done this before? huh? would you have enjoyed this back then if i just pushed you down and fucked you like the slut you are?"

"ahn, yes, fuck!" your tongue lolls out of your mouth, eyes rolled back. "i, haah, thought about this too, mmgh, fuuuck... being gege's little slut...!"

"yeah?" caleb pants, pinching your clit. "you wanted to be gege's cumdump? fucked everyday just to please me?"

"ah, ah, yeah, mm, yes, more..." you spread your legs wider, showing him more of your pussy overflowing with cum. "anything for gege...!"

his lips quirk into a manic smile. "then stay like this for a little longer." caleb gives your thigh a mean slap, making you whine. "show gege what you've got."

[mssishipi]

ecstacy — yjw

sex with jungwon is good, no doubt about that. but the thing is… he doesn’t know how to stop.

content tags: established relationship, unhinged jw, explicit content (smut): soft dom jw (is he really?), cuffs, usage of toys, fingering, nipple play, overstimulation, basically this fic is an actual torture so read at your own risk, squirting, unprotected sex, jw has a big dick (yum🤤), creampie, cnc. MDNI. WC: 3.3K

note: it's been a really long ass time since i last wrote a smut so please bare with me. my mind is so fried but atleast i tried ahuehue... not proofread, anw, enjoy reading and reblog!

One thing about your boyfriend Jungwon? He has a bit of a collection—of sex toys, to be exact.

It’s the kind of surprise that catches most people off guard, especially considering how incredibly gentle, soft-spoken, and genuinely sweet he is.

Well...he’s still soft-spoken—his voice never rises, never loses that calm, steady tone but gentle? Not quite.

Behind closed doors, there’s a different edge to him. His sweetness doesn’t disappear, but it’s laced with dominance, control, and an intensity that contradicts his daytime demeanor. If there’s one rough thing about him, it’s the way he takes control when you’re underneath him.

Sex with Jungwon is good, no doubt about that. But the thing is… he doesn’t know how to stop.

Once he starts, it’s like he falls into a rhythm only he can hear, and you’re just along for the ride, trembling and breathless and completely at his mercy.

Your wrists are cuffed to both sides of the bed, the metal cool against your heated skin. Your legs are spread and tied down, leaving you completely exposed—open for him. At first, it’s fine. You can handle it. The slow build, the teasing. The way he slips the toy inside your pulsing cunt, then drags it up to circle your clitoris with frustrating precision.

Each slow movement of the toy has you dripping onto the sheets, your body reacting before your mind can even catch up. You don’t miss the way Jungwon’s eyes light up with excitement, a sparkle in them. A small, satisfied smile curves on his lips as he watches your pussy clench around absolutely nothing, the vibrator pulsing against you while he teases, never quite giving you what you’re begging for.

That’s the thing about Jungwon—he knows exactly how to ruin you without even touching you properly. He hasn’t taken off a single piece of clothing, hasn’t even laid a finger on your most sensitive spots. And yet, you’re falling apart.

He makes you crave everything. His touch. A simple brush of his fingers. Even just a glance at what’s hidden behind his pants—his huge fucking cock, so painfully hard. You’ve barely seen it tonight, and that alone makes you dizzy with need.

Your head is spinning. Your throat burns from all the begging, the moaning, the hoarse screams you’ve let out over the past hour. Your legs shake, your wrists ache against the cuffs, and your eyes—God, your eyes can barely stay open. Every time he pulls another orgasm out of you, they roll back with a mix of pleasure and exhaustion. You’re so, so tired, and so wrecked.

“Please, please… just fuck me. Just fuck me already!” you cry out, voice cracking from exhaustion.

Jungwon is still sitting at the edge of the room, completely composed, watching you with fascination. Your legs tremble uncontrollably, still spread wide, still bound, as another orgasm rips through you. The loud hum of the vibrator fills the room, blending with your high-pitched moans and hitched breaths.

You try to shut your legs, to push the toy away from your aching core, but you can’t. You’re strapped open, so damn helpless. Your clit feels raw, burning from the endless attention. It’s been nearly two hours of this, and your entire body feels like it’s on fire. You’re drenched in sweat, heart racing, muscles twitching from the constant tension. And still… Jungwon doesn’t look finished. He watches you like you’re the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

“L-Let’s just finish this and sleep, okay?” you gasp, trying to meet his eyes. There’s desperation in your voice, but you still try to sound sweet—still trying to bargain with the man who holds all the control.

Finally, he stands. His gaze travels slowly down your body, from your tearful eyes to your heaving chest. And then, he leans in and kisses you softly, almost tender. You melt into it, sighing against his lips, your body automatically responding despite the ache. You try to kiss him deeper, tongue desperate against his, hands twitching against the restraints as you try to pull him closer.

“Love you, my sweet little angel,” Jungwon whispers against your lips, smiling so gently it almost feels cruel.

You smile weakly back, eyes watery but soft. “Love you too… now please—please untie me?” you beg.

For a moment, your heart lifts in relief as you see him walk toward the cabinet beside the bed. You think he’s going for the keys because finally. But then your eyes widen in horror when he pulls out a small collection of toys instead and places them gently on the nightstand.

Your stomach drops.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“No!” you cry out, yanking at your cuffs even though you know it’s useless. Panic surges as he picks up a pair of nipple stimulators and places them over your already sensitive chest.

"Shit— no! Don't! Stop!"

The moment they turn on, you jolt. The soft suction and flickering pulses send electric shocks through your breasts, focusing on your nipples and making your back arch off the bed.

“Ahh—n-no! No more!” you shout, writhing, body bucking against the restraints.

Jungwon doesn’t say a word. His fingers trail down slowly, tracing the mess between your legs, spreading you gently. Then, without warning, he pushes two fingers inside you, curling and sliding them.

“Hahh… J-Jung… ahh—” Your head falls back, and your eyes roll. The pleasure blurs everything—your thoughts, your words. “I c-can’t… anymore…” you whisper, voice trembling, barely holding together.

Your thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm, lost to the overwhelming flood of sensation. Every nerve in your body is lit up, every inch of you trembling, wrung out, and oversensitive.

Jungwon, on the other hand, looks like he’s in bliss. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths, eyes locked on your body. When he feels your walls tightening around his fingers, his lips part with a quiet moan. The way you grip him—so hot, so wet, so helpless—nearly drives him insane.

Your head lolls to the side, arms stretched and chained above you. Your mouth hangs open, tongue slipping out slightly, drool tracing a path from your lips to your chin. You’re panting, muttering broken, incoherent phrases that even you don’t understand.

Underneath his pants, Jungwon’s cock throbs with the weight of restraint. Finally, he pulls his fingers out of you and quickly undresses, his hands shaking in urgency. He barely blinks, barely breathes, as he climbs back onto the bed.

Before you can even register his presence fully, you hear another vibration. A sob tears from your throat as a small egg vibrator slips inside you, humming to life with a relentless buzz. Another one is pressed directly to your clit, making your hips jerk violently. The stimulation is too much, all-consuming and now you’re crying, tears running freely down your cheeks.

Your mind is barely there when Jungwon settles over you. You feel his body hovering close, the warmth of him mixing with yours. He cups your cheek with one hand, gently brushing away your tears, while the other supports the back of your head.

“Shhh…” he soothes. “It’s okay, baby. You can take it, can’t you? Be my good girl, hmm?”

You can’t even answer. Your lips tremble, a sob stuck in your throat, your body wracked with pleasure that borders on pain. The buzzing on your clit, the pulsing deep inside you, the suction on your nipples—it’s too much!

“You’re my good girl, right? Answer me, angel,” Jungwon repeats.

“I-I… I’m y-your… nghh… g-good girl,” you manage to choke out, eyes squeezed shut. The moment you say it, Jungwon smiles—and not just any smile, but the one he gives when he’s deeply, thoroughly satisfied. It’s the kind of smile that says he’s proud of you.

He shifts on the bed, straddling your hips, his knees on either side of you. His cock is flushed, rock hard, and leaking precum. From this angle, you can see it clearly—aching and ready. Your breath catches.

“Say you can take it,” he says again, eyes burning into yours.

“I-I c-can t-take it… F-FUCK!” you scream as the vibrator inside you kicks up to a stronger setting. Your nails dig into your palms, your back arches off the bed, and your legs jerk against the restraints. Another wave crashes over you, and you’re gone again, mouth open in a silent scream before the moans pour out helplessly.

Jungwon groans at the sight of you. He tosses the remote aside and his hand wraps around his length, the slick glide of his palm a poor substitute for what he really wants, but right now, it’s enough because what he’s seeing? It’s everything.

You’re trembling, legs shaking uncontrollably, arms pulled taut by the cuffs. Your entire body is soaked in sweat, flushed, and still, you’re clenching and twitching, hips jumping with every surge of overstimulation. You’re crying, sobbing softly through parted lips, but your body won’t stop responding. And to Jungwon, there’s no more beautiful sight in the world.

Ecstacy.

He never understood the word fully before you. People always talked about it like a fleeting rush, a peak that fades as quickly as it comes. But with you? It lasts. It blooms slowly.

"Hahhh.... 'Wonnie, c-close again!"

Jungwon whines, an unfiltered, almost desperate sound as his hand speeds up. He braces himself on the mattress, panting through clenched teeth as the fire in his gut coils tighter and tighter.

You’re nearly delirious, legs quaking, sweat dripping off your skin in soft trails. The small toy is still pulsing relentlessly between your thighs, buzzing away mercilessly, and you—his perfect, precious girl—can do nothing to escape it.

Your body jolts, then locks up. Another wave crashes over you, and Jungwon can see it in real time—your stomach tensing, mouth falling open, eyes fluttering back as you climax again. It’s like your soul momentarily leaves your body and crashes back into it, all in one breathless scream.

He groans loudly, the sound raw and shameless, as his orgasm builds at the sight. His cock throbs painfully in his grip, aching for release.

“Stop! Please… stop! Make it stop!”

You’re sobbing, shaking your head side to side, tears streaking your cheeks as your voice breaks entirely.

A strangled gasp escapes Jungwon’s lips as his climax slams into him. His body jerks forward as he spills across your stomach and chest. The orgasm tears through him, spine curling, muscles locking, vision flashing white at the edges. His hips twitch helplessly as each pulse escapes him, breath ragged, mind floating somewhere far away.

Between his high and the aftershocks rolling through his body, he still hears you screaming his name, begging him to stop.

Jungwon blinks, disoriented. For a moment, his mind is blank, floating somewhere between euphoria and guilt. But then his eyes land on you.

With shaky hands, he reaches for the remote and flicks off the power. The hum of the toys dies, replaced by silence—save for your ragged breathing, the hiccuping sobs that break his heart, and the faint creak of the bed as your body finally begins to fall limp in exhaustion.

He moves fast but gentle, slipping the nipple clamps off first. His breath hitches at the sight—your nipples flushed deep red, firm and oversensitive. He swallows hard, fighting the urge to touch, to kiss, to soothe with his mouth.

Then there’s the vibrator still buried inside you. It’s soaked, your slick dripping down your thighs, clinging to the toy as it slips out with a wet, lewd sound. The air is thick with the scent of sex, of release, of everything you gave him tonight. His stomach tightens again at the sight, but he forces himself to stay focused.

“D-done?” your voice comes, barely a whisper.

Jungwon doesn’t answer right away. He’s still staring. His body might’ve just finished, but his mind is caught somewhere in the afterglow.

His fingers fumble briefly with the small key before unlocking the cuffs, one by one. You don’t even lift your arms—just lie there, shivering, twitching occasionally when a breeze brushes across your skin.

You let out a shaky breath as your wrists fall free. A sob leaves your chest, but this time it’s soft—relieved. Grateful. Your arms weakly pull inward, cradling your own chest as you collapse into the sheets.

But your body… it’s still trembling. You’re still soaked. That last orgasm hadn’t even faded, and the aftershocks have your thighs twitching with every shift of your hips.

Jungwon swallows hard as he kneels behind you, watching your body try to recover, the way you curl slightly into yourself like you’re trying to keep your insides from spilling over.

"J-Jungwon?"

You feel his hands gently reposition you, guiding you slowly onto your stomach. You let him, barely resisting, only sobbing quietly, the kind of sound that makes his chest ache and his cock twitch.

“One more,” he whispers near your ear, brushing his lips over your cheek. “Just one more, baby. Then I’ll stop. I promise, okay?”

You cry out, he gently pushes your legs apart and lifts your hips just enough, guiding you into position.

“Fuck,” he hisses, as he presses forward slowly but your body reacts instantly.

"Ahhh!" You gasp, then squeal as your walls clamp down, and without warning, a gush of liquid pours from you. You’re fucking squirting.

Jungwon groans, forehead dropping to your back, overwhelmed by the sheer sensitivity of your response. Your hips try to jerk forward, trying to escape, but he holds you in place with one arm curled around your waist.

You’re still spasming when he finally sinks inside, forcing his huge cock inside you. Your soaked walls resist him in a trembling way, trying to push him out while also drawing him deeper.

You scream again as he fills you, your voice breaking around the sobs. He hushes you gently, lips brushing your neck.

“Shhh… it’s okay, baby. Almost there. You can do it—just a little more,” he whispers, his own voice shaking.

He stays still for a moment, buried inside your pulsing heat, feeling your body flutter and tighten around him. His chest presses to your back, arms wrapping around you, holding you close as you sob into the pillow.

“My good girl,” he breathes, kissing the space behind your ear. “You’re doing so well. So perfect for me.”

You whimper brokenly, clenching again as he slowly draws his hips back—just an inch—and thrusts forward again.

Your body goes pliant beneath him, letting him take the lead, letting him guide every motion as his hips begin to roll with slow, fluid strokes. The drag of his cock through your drenched heat makes his head fall forward, jaw clenched, breath shuddering against your neck.

“Little more,” he pants. His eyes flutter shut as he sinks back into you, the tight grip of your body drawing another moan from deep in his throat. “Just… like that.”

You sob again, your hands claw at the sheets.

Jungwon groans softly and leans over you more. His hand slides gently around your neck, His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your head up so he can see your face.

Your lips tremble. Your eyes flutter, barely open, hazy and wet from tears, but locked onto him.

He exhales sharply at the sight. He leans in and kisses you upside down, the angle is awkward, but lips finding yours between moans and movement. The kiss is messy, wet, desperate. His hips never stop, and the rhythm begins to build again, more urgent now. Each thrust hits deeper, heavier, guided by the way your body clings to him, keeps him buried.

He moans into your mouth as you whimper against his. Then his tongue drags over your bottom lip, over your cheek, catching the taste of your tears and sweat. His teeth scrape lightly against your skin before he licks up the salty trail along your face.

“Mine,” he breathes against your cheek. “All mine.”

Your only response is a faint cry as your body clenches again, another sharp squeeze that makes him falter, hips stuttering from the overwhelming sensation.

His hand leaves your throat and presses between your shoulder blades, pinning you gently into the bed as he pulls your hips higher, changing the angle.

“Ahh, f-fuck!” you squeal. Your thighs quiver violently, and Jungwon nearly loses it right there at the sound.

His pace falters for a beat, then picks up again, faster, more erratic. “So good—so fucking good,” he stammers out, neck slick with sweat.

Your walls clench again, fluttering around him, and he lets out a wrecked sound, almost pained in how much he needs this.

His hips slam forward as he grits out, “Pretty… you’re so pretty. So good for me.”

His hand moves from your back to your waist, holding you tight as he keeps grinding in. “I love you,” he gasps, not even meaning to say it again, but it falls out of him in a choked whisper. “I love you so fucking much…”

His voice cracks at the end, moaning into your skin.

His lips find your shoulder—he kisses it once, then again, moaning into your skin as he thrusts harder. He’s unraveling. His rhythm turns desperate, your name falling from his lips.

"J-just a little more, hmm? I'm gonna creampie this little pussy t-then— fuck, we're done." Jungwon pants, voice cracking with emotion, every word shaking as it leaves his mouth. His eyes are blown wide, focused on where he’s buried deep inside you. “I love you—ahh, I love you so much…”

Jungwon grabs both of your arms, pulling them back gently, lifting your upper body just enough to tilt your chest off the bed. Your back arches, his hips slapping against you, skin to skin, the sound filthy and wet.

Your breasts bounce with every motion, your body jolting under his force. You barely register your own scream before your entire frame begins to convulse.

"Holy shit." Jungwon gasps at the sight, eyes wide with stunned, reverent awe as he breathes out.

You let go completely—again—and it’s overwhelming. A fresh, hot stream releases from you uncontrollably, drenching everything. His thighs. The sheets. The space between you. The air fills with the scent of arousal and sweat, with the stuttering breaths of both your bodies falling apart at the same time.

His thighs shake violently as he spills his cum into you, a strangled, low moan escaping from the pit of his chest. He doesn’t stop moving—keeps thrusting, dragging his length in and out as he pours every last drop inside of you, desperate to make it last.

The warmth floods between your legs, and the way your body pulses around him only draws more out of him. And it’s almost an afterthought to you now, dulled by the overwhelming waves of pleasure and exhaustion. You’re beyond feeling it fully, your body too far gone from the overstimulation he dragged you through.

He whines high as he buries himself to the hilt again, staying there, pushing in as far as you’ll let him. Your body quivers under the weight of his release, and he presses his chest to your back, wrapping both arms around you.

"Thank you, thank you, my angel."

The room falls into a heavy silence.

When Jungwon finally, carefully pulls out of you, he pauses—eyes drawn to the mess he left behind. His release slowly trickles from you, glistening down your inner thighs, and he can’t help but stare.

Then his gaze drifts up.

Your body is limp against the sheets, your chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Your face is flushed and dewy with sweat, eyes barely open, lips parted like you’re still floating in that lingering euphoric high.

And yet—something about the sight of you like that makes heat stir in his gut all over again.

Jungwon swallows hard as he feels himself twitch, already starting to thicken with the urge to take you again.

[charlotteking27]

The pretty interviewer

Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: You are Max's favorite interviewer...so much that he will not stop flirting with you.

PT2: Pursuing the journalist

Three Races Earlier…

You stand off to the side of the paddock, fiddling with your Sky Sports F1 microphone. As the newest member of the broadcasting team, you typically handle the less significant interviews, while the veteran reporters get to speak with drivers like Max Verstappen. Today, you're set to interview one of the midfield teams.

The buzz in the paddock suddenly grows as Max comes out of the Red Bull garage after his stunning pole position. A crowd of reporters quickly surrounds him, microphones pushed forward, voices overlapping with "Max! Max, a moment, please!"

You watch from your quiet spot while he walks past them, his expression neutral and barely acknowledging them. This scene is familiar. Max is known for being choosy with the media and often speaks only to a select few senior reporters.

That’s why your heart skips a beat when his eyes suddenly turn to you. His face brightens with a smile, and before you realize it, he changes direction and walks confidently toward your corner.

"Sorry," he tells the stunned reporters behind him, not sounding sorry at all. "I'm giving my first interview to her."

You hear your producer’s voice in your earpiece: "Wait, what's happening?"

Max stops right in front of you, that familiar half-smile on his lips. "Hi," he says casually, as if he hasn’t just brushed off every major broadcaster in the paddock.

"I… um…" You struggle to collect your thoughts, acutely aware of the jealous stares from the other reporters. "Hi?"

He laughs softly at your surprise. "You're new, right? I've seen you around. You ask good questions – technical ones. Not just the usual PR stuff."

"I… yes, I started this weekend," you manage to reply, still in shock. "But shouldn't you be talking to—"

"I'm talking to exactly who I want to talk to," he cuts in, his Dutch accent somehow stronger when he speaks softly. "So, would you like to hear about that qualifying lap?"

𐙚

That first interview changed everything. Since then, Max has asked to give you his post-session interviews. Each one became more flirtatious than the last. This brings you to today.

The Red Bull garage looms ahead as you adjust your Sky Sports F1 microphone for the thousandth time. Post-qualifying interviews are routine by now, but nothing about interviewing Max Verstappen has ever felt normal. Especially not since he started doing whatever this is.

"Three minutes," your producer says through your earpiece. You try to focus on your questions, but all you can think of is last week's interview. Max had deliberately held your gaze so long that you forgot the second half of your question.

He emerges from the garage, race suit tied at his waist as usual. Your heart skips a beat as he approaches, wearing that annoying half-smile that makes you forget basic English.

"Max, congratulations on another pole position," you begin professionally.

"Thanks," he interrupts, eyes shining. "I was hoping it would be you interviewing me today."

You feel warmth creeping up your neck. Stay professional, you remind yourself. "That last lap was incredible. How did you find the grip through—"

"The grip was good," he says, leaning slightly closer than necessary. "But you seem a bit nervous today. Everything okay?"

Your producer chuckles in your ear. Traitor.

"I'm perfectly fine," you manage, though your voice comes out higher than you wanted. "About turn three—"

"You're cute when you're flustered," he says quietly, just low enough that the microphone won't catch it. The smirk on his lips tells you he knows exactly what he's doing.

You almost drop your notebook. "I'm trying to conduct an interview here," you whisper back, fighting a smile.

"And I'm trying to ask you out," he counters smoothly before raising his voice back to interview level. "But yes, turn three was tricky today. The crosswind made it challenging."

Your face feels like it's on fire. You're painfully aware of the camera rolling, capturing what must be the most unprofessional blush in F1 broadcasting history.

"Speaking of challenges," Max continues, clearly enjoying himself, "there's this great restaurant in Monaco that's almost impossible to get into. I have a reservation for two tomorrow night if you're interested in discussing race strategy, of course."

You hear your producer choking back laughter. "The interview, Max," you remind him, trying to sound stern despite your racing heart.

"Right, right. The interview." He grins. "But about dinner…"

"Maybe we should finish talking about your qualifying lap first?" You're fighting a losing battle against your smile now.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, then winks. "But just so you know, I'm going to keep flirting with you until you say yes."

Your producer is practically cackling now. "Best. Interview. Ever," she whispers in your ear.

"The qualifying lap, Max," you insist, but you’re grinning too.

"The qualifying lap," he agrees, finally sitting up straight and attempting to look serious. "But I should warn you, I'm very persistent. Almost as persistent as I am on track."

You shake your head, trying to remember your questions through the butterfly storm in your stomach. One thing's for sure—this interview is definitely going viral on F1 Twitter.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll say yes to that dinner in Monaco.

𐙚

You barely remember how you finished that interview. Your mind is still spinning from Max's dinner invitation. But the real chaos is just starting.

Your notifications have not stopped buzzing since that interview aired. #MaxAndTheReporter is trending on Twitter, and F1 TikTok is having a field day with edited clips of every moment you and Max shared during the past three races.

"OMG THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER," says one viral tweet, featuring a slow-motion clip of Max's eyes softening when he sees you in the paddock.

"Remember when Max used to HATE interviews? Now he’s literally running to them. #MaxAndTheReporter." This tweet includes a side-by-side comparison of his usual stern media face and his smile when he approaches you.

Your producer sends you a link to a fan-made compilation video titled "Every time Max Verstappen has flirted with the Sky Sports reporter (so far)." It has already gathered 2 million views.

Not everyone is convinced. "She's just another reporter," one skeptic tweets. "Max is probably just being nice."

That theory gets blown away during the next race weekend. You're interviewing Carlos Sainz when Max casually walks by. He does such an obvious double-take that Carlos starts laughing mid-answer.

"I think someone wants to interrupt this interview," Carlos teases, watching Max hover nearby with barely hidden impatience.

"He can wait his turn," you respond professionally, though your cheeks warm when you hear Max chuckle behind you.

"Can I?" Max calls out. "Because I'm pretty sure my dinner reservation is in an hour, and someone still hasn't given me an answer."

Carlos raises his eyebrows and grins. "Ah, so the rumors are true?"

Your producer's voice crackles through your earpiece: "The social media is going absolutely crazy right now. This is better than Drive to Survive!"

Later that evening, a photo appears of you and Max at a hard-to-get-into restaurant in Monaco. He is looking at you instead of the camera, with that soft smile on his face that F1 Twitter has named the "reporter smile." Fan theories start to explode:

"HE REALLY TOOK HER TO DINNER, I'M SCREAMING." "The way he only smiles like that for her.❤️" "Remember when we thought Max would never date someone in the F1 media? This man really said 'Watch me."

Your phone buzzes with a text from Max: "Have you seen we’re trending again?"

You reply with an eye roll, trying to ignore the butterflies that haven't settled since that first interview.

"Good," he responds. "Maybe now everyone knows why I only want interviews with you."

Your producer sends you a message: "Just wait until they see tomorrow's pre-race interview. The internet might actually break."

You smile, thinking about how a simple paddock interview three races ago changed everything. From a reluctant interviewee to whatever this is becoming, Max Verstappen has definitely kept his promise about being persistent.

And honestly? You wouldn't have it any other way.