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dakusan · 7 days ago

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G r e y S w e a t p a n t s & M u s k

stray kids ot8 x reader | sweat-drenched worship, spit-slick ruin, and eight different ways to be fucked stupid

🖤 synopsis: You’ve always loved watching them stumble through the front door after dance practice—sweaty, breathless, loose-limbed in those damn grey sweatpants that hang just right. Usually, they shower before you can get your hands on them. Not tonight. Tonight, you ambush them. You wanted them filthy. Now you can’t stop shaking.

📌 Wipe your chin. Stretch first. Cancel your plans.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Drip Drop — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:25 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan

The keypad beeps.

You barely breathe before your feet are moving—heart thudding, heat already curling low in your belly. You don’t wait. No time for hellos. No time for “Welcome home.”

The door creaks open and Chan moves inside—hood off, hair stuck to his forehead, black t-shirt clinging to the sweat on his chest, and those goddamn grey sweatpants slung low on his hips.

He doesn’t even see you coming.

You collide with him in the hallway—fists gripping his shirt, mouth crashing into his before he can speak.

“Wha—mmph,” he grunts, catching your waist automatically, stumbling back a step from the sheer force of your hunger. You don't give him a chance to recover.

Your tongue licks into his mouth, hands already sliding down, tugging at the loose knot in his drawstring, fingers brushing against sweat-damp abs. He shudders. You moan.

“Fuck—baby,” he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown, lips already swollen. “What’s gotten into—”

You drop to your knees.

Right there in the hallway. No warning. No teasing. Just grab the waistband of those soaked sweatpants and pull them down with purpose.

Chan gasps—his cock already hard, flushed deep red at the tip, leaking. You look up, tongue running across your bottom lip, and he just breathes, “Oh, fuck me.”

His hand flies to the back of your head—but he’s not pushing. He’s holding on. Like he might fall apart if you move too fast.

“Didn’t even shower,” he mutters, voice thick, guttural. “You want me like this? All sweaty, baby?”

You hum in response—warm breath ghosting over his length, and he twitches.

“I want you filthy,” you whisper, dragging your tongue up the base—slow and teasing, tasting every bead of sweat, the salt of his skin, the heat of hours on his body. “I want to ruin you before you get clean.”

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes. “You’re—fuck—You’re gonna make me cum already.”

And then you wrap your lips around the head, hollowing your cheeks, moaning as he sinks deeper into your mouth.

Chan loses it.

His head drops back against the wall, hips jerking forward, thighs trembling. The hand in your hair tightens, the other gripping the corner where wall meets doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Good girl,” he groans. “Fucking perfect like this. Tongue—ah, shit, just like that.”

He grits his teeth, hips rolling forward slow—but the tension in his thighs betrays him. He’s trying to stay controlled, trying to savor you. But the second you moan around him again, lips glossy, eyes already glassy?

It’s over.

"Fuck it,” he mutters, voice dropping to that dangerous growl you know means trouble. “You want me filthy?”

You nod—barely—mouth still wrapped around him, your tongue licking behind your teeth, dragging along every swollen vein.

He exhales through his nose and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheek. “Then take it.”

And he starts to fuck your mouth.

Not a tease. Not gentle.

Thrusts deep, the tip hitting the back of your throat before you can breathe. The wet slap of skin on your lips echoes loud in the hallway as he ruts into your face, sweat from his abs dripping down your chin. You choke, eyes watering instantly—but you don’t pull back.

You want this. Need it. Crave it like air.

"That's it, baby," he pants, looking down at you like you're something to worship and ruin all at once. “Drooling on my cock already? Fuckin' nasty little thing.”

Your nails dig into his thighs and he groans, hips stuttering. “You’re not even fighting me. Just letting me use your throat like it’s mine.”

You try to say his name but it’s nothing but a garbled choke, spit dripping down your chin, eyes red and cheeks bulging. He pulls out with a loud, wet pop—just enough for you to inhale—before thrusting back in deeper, pushing past resistance.

“Gonna cum just like this,” he hisses, twitching on your tongue, forehead slick and eyes wild. “Not even a second in the door and you’re gagging on me like a fuckin’ heat-drunk mess.”

You whimper.

He feels it—your throat clenching, your tongue flattening, your jaw relaxing just to take more. You’ve gone slack and obedient, dripping with spit and submission.

“Ohhh fuck, good girl. Good—good fucking girl.”

And then he cums.

Hard.

Hot.

Deep.

Cock pulsing against your tongue as he moans, low and filthy, holding you flush to his pelvis. You swallow instinctively, once, twice, choking just a little—and he groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

When he finally pulls out, cock still twitching and glistening with spit, your jaw’s slack, tongue out, lips shiny, and he just watches you breathe for a moment.

“Didn’t even let me get my shoes off,” he chuckles, dark and breathless. His hand strokes your cheek, thumb smearing a bit of his own cum across your lower lip. “God, look at you.”

You blink back the tears that gathered and Chan tucks himself halfway back into his sweats, helps you up to your feet—but doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath.

His arms wrap around your thighs.

You yelp.

And just like that, he hoists you over his shoulder, your ass in the air, face pressed to his sweaty back, heartbeat thundering between your legs.

“Didn’t even let me take a fuckin’ breath,” he mutters, palming your thigh. You can feel his cum still warm on your chin. “You think you’re getting away with that?”

You squirm, giggling, breathless—but he lands a hard slap on your ass and grins when you gasp. “You’re real fuckin’ lucky I missed you today.” You try to respond, but all you can manage is a breathless whimper as he stalks down the hall, grip possessive, pace fast.

He kicks the bedroom door open. Slams it shut behind him. And tosses you on the bed like you’re the next thing he’s about to devour. Already tugging his sweats the rest of the way down, dark eyes locked on you like a promise.

You're laid out on the mattress, chest heaving and Chan’s already crawling over you. Sweats gone. Cock hard again. Eyes dark like stormclouds rolling in. You can still feel his cum smeared across your chin, tacky on your skin, and it makes your head spin.

"You look so fucked out already," he murmurs, voice thick with want. “But you’re not done yet, are you, baby?”

You shake your head, biting your lip—and he smirks like you just said something delicious.

“No,” he hums, crawling between your legs, body hot and heavy and damp with sweat. “You’re never done with me. Not until I say.”

He grabs your jaw again—thumb smearing your bottom lip, collecting his own release from your skin and pushing it into your mouth.

“Swallow it.”

You moan around his thumb, tongue curling around the taste of him, and he groans, hips twitching forward.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Such a good little mess for me.”

Then he leans in. Not to kiss. To devour.

His mouth crashes to your throat, trailing down to your chest, teeth dragging, tongue licking every inch of skin you didn’t even know was sensitive.

And when he gets between your legs? He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t talk. He just presses his cock in deep—slow and thick and overwhelming—with a groan that sounds like prayer.

You arch, crying out, hands clutching his forearms, nails sinking into sweaty skin.

“Shhh,” he coos, thrusting deep and slow. “Just let me in.”

You do. You take it. All of him. All over again. He fills you like it’s instinct—like your body was made to hold his. And once he’s buried to the hilt?

He doesn’t move.

Just holds you there, pinned underneath him, cock throbbing, your cunt fluttering from the pressure, your legs wrapped tight around his waist.

“Feel that?” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “That’s me, baby. That’s all of me.”

You whimper. Squirm. Try to roll your hips.

He chuckles—deep and dangerous.

“Nuh-uh. Not yet. You wanted me sweaty? Filthy? Unshowered and on the edge? Then you’re gonna lie here and take every fucking inch of it until I decide I’m done fucking into you.”

He grinds, slow and brutal—just once—and your eyes roll back.

"Let’s see how many loads you can hold, sweetheart.”

He then starts to move. Not fast. Not pounding. Just deep. Possessive. Each thrust a grind of heat and pressure that makes your toes curl and your back arch.

“Yeah,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot against your lips. “You’re fuckin’ perfect like this. Wrapped around me. Taking me.”

You sob—can’t help it—because it’s too much and not enough. You’re so full, so wet, his precum already starting to mix with your slick, squelching every time he rocks into you.

“God, listen to that,” he pants, his mouth at your ear. “Hear how wet you are for me? You love this. You love getting stuffed full of me before I’ve even washed the day off.”

You nod frantically, legs locked around him. “C-Chan—fuck—I’m gonna—”

His hand slides down, grabs your jaw, tilts your face up.

“You’re gonna cum baby?” he growls, eyes sharp and electric. “Already?”

You whimper—helpless, delirious—your hips rising to meet his every push.

He’s so deep. So thick. So fucking good.

"Cum on it, then," he says through gritted teeth. “Be my good fucking girl and cum.” And you do. Your orgasm hits so fucking hard and you clamp around him with a cry, thighs shaking, eyes rolling back—and he fucks you through it, grinding deeper, sweat dripping off his body and down your chest.

His cock pulses—he’s cumming again.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, baby—”

He buries himself to the hilt with a groan that sounds like pain and pleasure melted together, hands grabbing at your waist like you’re slipping away. And then—

You feel it. Hot. Heavy. Endless. He cums again. Deep inside. But he doesn’t stop.

Just grinds. Slow. Messy. Filthy. Spreading the warmth of it everywhere inside you, cock still twitching, your cunt fluttering around the overstimulation.

He leans in, panting against your mouth, your sweat and his mixing on your skin, his arms shaking from holding himself up.

“You’re still fuckin’ tight,” he moans, rubbing himself deeper with every lazy grind. “Still squeezing me like you want another load.”

You can’t even speak. Just cry out, overwhelmed, broken open and full to the brim. And that’s when he stops moving. Just stays there. Buried deep. Cock still throbbing. Still hard. And he kisses your cheek, feverish and slow, whispering: “Shh… Just keep me inside, baby. Let me stay. We’ll move again in a minute.”

Lee Minho

You hear the door click open.

Minho having returned from dance practice. All silent and composed and already toeing his shoes off, black hoodie halfway unzipped, revealing the faintest sheen of sweat down his chest.

He doesn’t see you at first. But you’re already moving.

You don’t even let him shut the door.

You grab a fistful of his hoodie, yank him inside, and press your mouth to his before he can speak. He freezes—just for a second. Shock, maybe. You don’t usually ambush him.

But then—his hands slide around your waist. And his mouth turns hungry. He kisses back slow at first—dangerously slow—like he’s thinking while tasting you, deciding exactly how he’s going to handle this.

And when your hands drop to the drawstring of his grey sweatpants?

He grabs your wrists. Tight. Controlling. Not cruel. But unmovable. “What do you think you’re doing, baby?” His voice is a low purr. Dangerous. Almost amused.

“I want you like this,” you breathe, nuzzling into his neck. You inhale—he smells like warm cotton, salt, and that irresistible Minho scent that clings to his sweat. “Don’t want you clean. Want you filthy. Want you now.”

There’s a pause. Just the sound of your breathing. His grip doesn’t loosen and before you even know it, he yanks you toward the bedroom.

You stumble as he drags you down the hall, grip bruising on your wrist, chest rising under his damp hoodie. You try to speak—say “Minho—”—but you don’t get the chance.

Because the moment the bedroom door shuts behind you?

He pushes you onto the bed. Hard. Your back bounces on the mattress, and he’s already stripping off his hoodie with one hand, the other pushing your thighs apart like it’s his fucking right.

“You want me sweaty?” he growls, tossing the hoodie to the floor, eyes flashing like warning signs. “Want the smell of my sweat on your skin while you cum?”

You can’t even speak—just nod, breath shuddering as he sinks down to his knees.

“You really are filthy.”

He doesn’t even pull your panties down. He just presses his face between your legs, inhales hard, groans—“Fuck, that’s it.” And then licks you right through the fabric, tongue slow and deliberate, letting the scent of sweat and sex bleed together into something carnal and overwhelming.

You gasp—hips jerking—but he pins you down with both arms, holding your thighs wide apart, his face already soaked from your arousal and the heat of his own body.

“Minho—oh my god—” you choke, fingers flying to his hair.

And he rips your panties to the side with a grunt, diving in fully—tongue sliding between your folds, slick, greedy, relentless.

It’s not soft. It’s not patient. It’s devastating.

He moans low in his throat, tongue flicking your clit like he’s mapping out revenge, sucking hard, filthy, his nose bumping against your cunt, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

“Does this feel good?” he mutters between strokes, not even looking up. “Getting eaten out by a man who hasn’t even showered?”

You sob something incoherent, already trembling.

And he smirks against you.

“Good. Because I’m not stopping until your thighs are shaking and my face is dripping with you.”

And then he buries himself again—tongue fucking deep, lips locking around your clit, fingers digging into your thighs like anchors—eating you like he’s starving and your cunt is the cure.

Your head rolls back.

You’re gasping now, sobbing into the sheets, legs locked around his shoulders—but he’s unrelenting. Tongue working in slow, devastating circles, lips dragging across your clit like velvet, every move so calculated it makes you cry.

And all the while, Minho doesn’t stop moaning.

Like you taste better than water. Better than sleep. Like he came home for this. Like your pussy was the destination.

“You sound so pretty when you whimper,” he mutters, pausing just long enough to breathe before licking a thick, heavy stripe up your center—tongue flat, slow, filthy. “Dripping all over my face, and I haven’t even touched your pussy with my cock yet.”

“Please,” you beg—desperate, undone. Your thighs tremble against his jaw, and your hands are in his hair, trying to anchor yourself to something.

He chuckles darkly. “You gonna cum like this? All messy and cock-starved?”

You whimper something like yes—but he doesn’t let you finish.

His mouth clamps around your clit again, sucking, tongue curling just right—and the orgasm rips through you like lightning.

You scream, back arching, thighs clamping, hips bucking into his face—and he just holds you down and keeps eating through it, licking and lapping and humming like he’s trying to drink your soul.

“Minho—fuck, please—”

You’re babbling, shaking, overstimulated beyond reason—and then he finally pulls away, his lips slick, chin wet, and eyes dark with hunger.

“Look at you,” he breathes, licking his mouth like he’s tasting your cum for a second time. “You came so fast for me.”

You reach for him. Desperate. Feral. Already empty again.

“I need—” you choke, voice shaking. “Minho—please, I need your cock. I need it—I need to feel it—I need to be full.”

His gaze sharpens. Voice lowers.

“You need to be fucked dumb, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, writhing.

He grabs your hips—flips you with one brutal pull—and kneels behind you. His sweats are already shoved down, cock flushed and leaking, and he doesn’t tease. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even breathe.

He lines up and slams into you in one deep, unforgiving thrust.

You moan loudly, voice cracking, because he fills you all at once—thick, hot, stretching you wide, your pussy already soaked and fluttering from the orgasm he tore out of you with his tongue.

“Fuck yes,” he growls, thrusting deep, pace fast and merciless. “This what you needed? This what that pretty pussy was crying for?”

You’re shaking under him, face buried in the mattress, hands clutching the sheets like they’ll keep you anchored to the earth.

He fucks you like he’s claiming you, hips slapping, sweat dripping from his body onto your back, his cock dragging across every nerve inside you like he knows exactly where to aim.

“Take it,” he pants, voice breaking. “Take all of it. You wanted me dirty, baby? You’re getting all of it.”

You’re choking on every thrust. Your body jolts forward with each snap of his hips, the mattress creaking beneath you, your thighs trembling, soaked and burning.

“You wanted this?” he snarls, pace brutal now, his voice wrecked, ragged. “Wanted me like this? Sweaty. Filthy. Feral—?”

Your mouth is open, drooling into the sheets, sounds spilling out with every slap of skin-on-skin. He’s so deep, fucking you like he’s trying to stay inside you forever—like your pussy is the only place he ever wanted to be.

And then—

His hand fists your hair.

He yanks your head back—sharp, mean, delicious—exposing your throat to the hot, panting air.

“Look at you,” he hisses against your ear. “Fucked stupid already. Can’t even speak.”

Your lips tremble, eyes fluttering, brain static. “M-Min—”

“No,” he cuts in. His cock drives deeper, angling just right to grind against your sweet spot with every savage thrust. “Don’t say my name. Scream it.”

And you do.

Because the drag of him inside you is overwhelming—relentless, the tip of his cock punishing your walls just right, your clit swollen and untouched, but still throbbing. You're wound so tight you could shatter from nothing but breath.

“Fuck, I feel you,” he groans, hips starting to falter—not slowing down, just getting wilder. “Your pussy’s choking me. You close? Huh?”

You sob—legs giving out—but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you fall. He grabs your hips tighter, slams in deeper, and pulls your hair harder.

"Cum on it," he grits out, teeth clenched, sweat dripping from his jaw to your skin. "Cum on my fucking cock like you were made for it."

You break.

Your whole body convulses—mouth open in a silent scream, vision white-hot as your orgasm tears through you. Your pussy clamps down around him, tight and wet and pulsing, and Minho groans like a demon.

“Shit—fuck—take it, baby, take it—”

He slams in one last time—deep and desperate—and cums hard.

So fucking hard.

His cock pulses, twitching inside you as he fills you deep, warm, thick—his hips rutting through it even as he moans, low and guttural, pouring himself into you like he’s emptying his soul.

You both collapse forward.

His body blanketing yours, cock still buried, cum dripping from between your legs, your chest heaving, your brain gone.

He doesn’t move. Just breathes. And whispers: “...Next time? Don’t you dare wait ‘til I’m clean.”

Seo Changbin

The lock beeps.

You’re already perched on the armrest of the couch like a trap. Loose tank. No bra. Nothing under the shorts. Waiting.

And when Changbin walks in, fresh from dance practice—hair sticking to his forehead, black tank soaked through, neck glistening, grey sweatpants clinging to his thighs like a sin—you move.

“Hey, baby—whoa—!”

You pounce. Full-body slam.

He grunts, catching you with both arms instantly—those arms—biceps flexing as you wrap your legs around him like a koala on a mission.

“Missed me that much?” he teases, grinning, breathless from the surprise. “Or are you just that horny for my sweat?”

Your answer? Mouth on his neck.

Tongue dragging over salt-slick skin, nose buried in the heat beneath his jaw, hands tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

“Shit,” he breathes, stumbling backward as you grind against him, your arousal already soaking through your shorts. “You’re fucking serious.”

“Don’t shower yet,” you pant. “I want it like this. I want you like this.”

He looks down at you. Sees the hunger in your eyes. Smirks. “You’re outta your mind.” Then shrugs. “Lucky for you… I’m worse.”

He hauls you up higher, grips your thighs tight, and throws you on the couch like you weigh nothing. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on you—sweat-slick, pumped, and hard already.

And he doesn’t undress you. Doesn’t even ask. Just yanks your shorts down and growls: “Gonna fuck you like this until you’re crying.”

“Spread,” he growls, voice low, knuckles bruising your knees as he pushes your thighs open on the couch. “Now.”

You do.

Breath hitching. Heart pounding. Pussy already wet and twitching at just the sound of him. Changbin lowers his sweats alongside his briefs, freeing his cock and then spits into his hand—messy, hot, unbothered—and strokes himself once, twice.

And you see it.

Thick. Veined. Heavy.

That fat fucking cock you always forget just how much it stretches you. Until it’s right there again—pulsing in his palm, the tip flushed and leaking, already too big for your brain.

“You’re already dripping,” he mutters, leaning over you with a smirk. His tank hangs loose from one shoulder, soaked with sweat, and his hips are cocked like he’s about to ruin your entire career. “You that desperate for this cock, baby?”

You nod frantically. “Please—Binnie—need it, need to feel it—”

“Yeah?” He lines himself up. Pushes in—slow at first. Just the head.

And you sob. Because fuck, the stretch. The stretch.

Your pussy clenches helplessly, trying to take him, trying to make room—because he’s so thick and heavy, the kind of full that makes your eyes water. And he hasn’t even bottomed out yet.

“Shit,” he breathes, watching your face twist. “Still so fucking tight.”

He slides in more, and more—inch by devastating inch, sweat dripping from his chest onto your belly, his hands gripping your thighs so hard you’ll have bruises.

And when he finally bottoms out?

You’re split open. Stuffed.

“God, you’re fucking made for me,” he growls, pulling out halfway—then slamming back in. “Taking all this cock, huh? Just letting me stretch this little pussy out like it’s nothing.”

You choke on a cry, back arching, nails digging into the couch.

He picks up the pace. Fast. Brutal. Loud. The wet slap of skin against skin echoes through the room. Your body bounces with every thrust, tits shaking, throat raw with moans.

“You like that?” he pants, one hand gripping your waist, the other coming up to your throat.

Pressure. Just enough. Enough to make you go dizzy—floaty—your pussy fluttering around his cock as he ruts into you like a beast.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he snarls. “Taking it all like a little cockslut. You wanted me sweaty? Now I’m drippin’ all over you while I pound this pussy into the fuckin’ couch.”

You can’t even answer. Just sob. Shake. Clench. So full.

And when he leans in, lips brushing your cheek, voice rough and close?

“You’re gonna cum like this. On this thick cock. With my hand around your throat. Soaked in my sweat.”

You’re whimpering, barely coherent, mouth slack as his fingers tighten around your neck—just enough to make your breath shallow, your vision swim.

And his other hand? He slips it under your loose tank, shoves it up, exposing your tits to the hot air.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he sees them—bouncing with every thrust, nipples stiff, glistening with sweat. “You’re so fucking pretty like this. Messy little fucktoy.”

His hips don’t stop. Not even for a second.

Slamming into you, brutal and perfect, cock dragging along every sensitive nerve inside you like he’s trying to carve you open. You cry out, high and breathless, and he just grins.

“That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”

His palm cups your breast, rough and greedy, thumb flicking over your nipple while his cock splits you open, while your body burns under him—your pussy fluttering, stuffed so full you feel like you might break.

You gasp into his hand, and he moans low in his throat, like he can feel your reaction in his cock.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, almost sweet if his tone weren’t dripping with pure filth. “So fuckin’ close, huh? You gonna cum just from this?”

You nod, frantic, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as he releases your throat—only to drag that hand down between your legs.

“Oh my god—”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t tease.

Just rubs your clit hard and fast, the way he knows drives you insane—his cock still hammering into you, still filling you with every deep, punishing thrust.

“S’too much—Binnie—fuck—” You’re blabbering, sobbing, legs shaking, the couch damp beneath you.

But he’s not stopping. Not when you’re this close. Not when you’re writhing. He leans down again, body pressing to yours, soaked tank clinging to your skin, and growls in your ear: “Cum for me. Ruin this couch. Show me how good your little cunt is at milking every drop out of my cock.”

And you snap.

You cum with a scream—loud, shaking, your entire body locking up, your pussy clamping down so hard around him he curses, slamming in deep one last time.

He shudders as you pulse around him, and then he cums deep inside, thick and flooding you, pushing it even deeper by the way your hips buck helplessly under him.

You’re sobbing into the cushions. Soaking the couch. And he’s still grinding.

“Don’t run from it,” he murmurs, fingers still working your clit gently as his cock twitches inside your ruined, overstimulated cunt. “Take it all, baby. All of it.”

You’re wrecked.

And he just kisses your neck, smiling against your skin, whispering—

“You’re not moving for a while. And I’m not pulling out.”

Hwang Hyunjin

You hear the door before you hear his voice—keys dropping, gym bag thudding, shoes kicked off with a tired sigh.

He’s home. And you’re already moving.

Because Hyunjin after dance practice is your favorite version of him. Sweaty. Loosened. Raw. His long hair sticking to his temples, his tank top clinging to his chest, and those goddamn grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, riding just right over tight thighs.

You meet him at the hallway.

No warning. No hello.

Just grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him in—mouth on his, tongue sliding deep, needy and wet and messy, and he freezes for half a second before he moans low, like a match being struck.

“What the fuck,” he breathes, dazed as you grind your hips against his. “You’re seriously doing this right now?”

You lick into his mouth, fingers already tugging at the knot in his waistband, and whisper, “I want you sweaty.”

He laughs—sharp and breathless. “Oh, baby. You’re in trouble.”

You don’t even make it to the bedroom.

He presses you against the wall, one hand already down your shorts, fingers dipping between your folds like he’s testing how badly you need it.

“You’re soaking,” he growls. “From a kiss? From my sweat? Fuck, that’s filthy.”

He sinks to his knees without warning, sweat-damp hair falling around his face, and rips your shorts down like he’s starving.

“Jinnie—!”

“Shut up,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “I’m eating.”

And then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Wet. Mean.

His tongue licks up your cunt like a threat, like he’s trying to carve his name into you with every flick. He grabs your thighs, spreads you open wider, and goes in.

He groans. Loud. And then he moans. Fucking moans like your pussy is the best meal he’s ever had, sloppy and noisy and unashamed, saliva dripping down his chin as he devours you like a man possessed.

"Sweet and salty," he murmurs, breath hot against your clit. "Just like I like it."

You’re shaking.

He presses his tongue flat, drags it over your clit slow—then sucks hard, lips locking around you, tongue fluttering fast, cruel, perfect.

Your hands fly to his hair. Your knees buckle. And he just grips your thighs tighter, moaning like he’s getting off on your sounds, your taste, your squirming.

“You gonna cum like this?” he pants, lips slick, chin drenched. “Gonna fucking fall apart on my face?”

You sob—already so close, already gone.

And he smirks. “Then fucking do it.”

Your vision’s gone white.

Your hips are grinding against his face, fingers clawing at his scalp, knees wobbling as the orgasm rips through you like a storm.

“F-Fuck—Hyun—!”

You cum on his tongue.

Messy. Loud. Drenched.

He groans—deep in his throat like he’s getting drunk on it—tongue flicking even harder, lips sealed tight around your clit as he sucks through your climax.

You try to pull away.

He doesn’t let you.

He grabs your ass with both hands and pulls you down onto his face harder—and now you’re riding it, practically sitting on his mouth, your thighs shaking, whimpering, overstimulated and wrecked and still so, so wet.

He comes up for air only after you’re crying.

Face soaked. Lips glistening. Chest rising and falling like he just sprinted a marathon.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks up at you with those wild eyes, and smirks.

“Did I say I was done?”

You barely have time to blink before he’s lifting you up, arms under your thighs, carrying you to the couch like you weigh nothing.

“Jinnie—wait—!”

“No.” His voice is low. Commanding. Filthy. “You’re gonna squirt on my fingers, and then you can beg for cock.”

He drops you onto the cushions, spreads your legs open, and sinks to his knees between them.

“You look good like this,” he mutters, watching your cunt twitch, still wet, still sensitive. “Pussy all swollen. Just begging to be used.”

And then—two fingers. Right in. No warning, no warm-up, just thick, long and fast, curling upward like he’s already memorized every nerve you can’t handle.

You scream.

He starts to finger fuck you hard, sweat still rolling down his neck, muscles flexing as his wrist moves with precision—like an artist painting with your body.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, thrusting deep, palm slapping your clit with every motion. “You’re dripping all over my hand. You want more?”

“Please—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can.” He leans in close, breath hot against your cheek. “I haven’t even drawn my name in your cum yet.”

His fingers speed up. Wrist twisting. Palm grinding.

You lose it.

Your thighs lock, your eyes roll back, your pussy gushes—

You squirt.

All over his hand. All over the couch. Soaking the cushions, his arm, your thighs, everything.

And Hyunjin just watches. Smirking. Drenched. Hard as hell. “Yeah,” he pants, licking your cum off his wrist with lazy, hungry strokes. “Now you’re ready.”

He leans over you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your stomach. “Now you’re gonna take my cock. And we’re not stopping ‘til you do that again.”

He leans over you slowly, tongue licking the corner of his mouth, his free hand already sliding down to push his sweats and briefs down just enough to free his cock—hard, flushed, dripping, slapping wetly against your mound.

You whimper.

"Shhh," he coos, breath hot against your cheek. "You're twitching already. Look at you. So fucking sensitive, and I haven’t even fucked you yet."

You try to speak—don’t even know what you’re trying to say—but your body is trembling, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted, hips rolling involuntarily toward the heat of him.

He reaches down and grabs his cock, drags the head between your folds, slow and mean, teasing your overstimulated clit with just the tip.

Your whole body jolts.

He watches the way your pussy jumps, the way your thighs clamp together, and smiles—soft and cruel.

"Still soaked from squirting on me like a needy little mess," he whispers, circling your clit again with the head of his cock. "You gonna cry when I finally fuck it in?"

You nod, desperate, broken, begging without words.

"Yeah? Then cry."

And he thrusts in. All at once. Deep. Heavy.

Your back arches off the couch with a scream, the sudden stretch too much, too fast, too fucking perfect, and Hyunjin moans as he bottoms out—his hips pressed against yours, your walls fluttering like they don’t know whether to grip or push him out.

"Oh my fuck—" he chokes, head dropping to your shoulder. "You’re tight as hell. So warm. Just sucked me right in."

He doesn’t move.

Just grinds, deep and slow, letting you feel every thick inch as your pussy clenches, so wet that the slide is almost obscene—your slick and his precum mixing, leaking down your ass and onto the couch.

"Can feel you pulsing," he whispers, voice gone hoarse. "Still coming down? Don’t care."

He leans up—grabs your hips, and starts to thrust. Hard. Deep. Bruising.

The sound of skin slapping against soaked skin fills the room. Sweat drips from his chest to yours. His hair sticks to his face. His cock pounds into you, and you sob from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Take it,” he growls, one hand sliding to grab your tit, fingers digging in as he thrusts rougher. “Take all of it.”

There's tears in your eyes. Mouth open in gasps. Pussy milking him like it’s trying to keep him in your body forever. “You’re shaking again,” he breathes, leaning close to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Bet I can make you squirt on my cock.”

You whimper—your whole body trembling, overstimulated to the point of delirium, sweat soaking your back, your thighs aching from how hard you’re clenching.

But he doesn’t stop.

He’s fucking you through it—deep, fast, brutal. Every thrust is precise, his cock dragging right over that spot inside you that makes your legs kick, makes your voice break.

“C’mon, baby,” he pants, licking the sweat from your jaw, voice breaking with you. “Give it to me. Fuckin’ give it to me.”

His hips roll faster, slapping against your soaked skin, the sound wet and obscene, your body bouncing under his weight. You claw at his back, crying out, overwhelmed beyond sense, your mind already unraveling.

“Jinnie—I can’t—too much—!”

“Yes you fucking can,” he growls, teeth dragging against your collarbone. “You're gonna squirt all over my cock, and you’re gonna take every drop when I cum inside you.”

And then he slams deep and grinds, hips rolling in a filthy rhythm, cock thick and twitching inside you—and something in you snaps.

“Fuck—!”

You scream, back arching violently as it hits you. Your pussy clenches so hard around him it makes him moan, and then—

You squirt. All over his cock, down your thighs, onto the ruined couch beneath you.

Hyunjin groans deep in your ear, his voice a raw, fucked-out growl as your cunt pulses around him like it’s trying to pull his soul in.

“Oh my fucking god—yes—fuck yes—”

And he loses it.

One final thrust, and he cums. Presses all the way in, burying himself to the hilt, and you can feel the way he twitches, the way he fills you—thick ropes of it spilling into your sore, overstimulated pussy as he pants above you, drenched in sweat, still shaking.

He doesn’t move.

Just collapses forward, still inside you, your bodies pressed together, cum leaking down your ass, both of you breathless, ruined, shaking.

And then—his hand cups your cheek.

“Look at you,” he whispers, voice warm, wrecked, in awe. “Made a fuckin’ masterpiece on my cock.”

Han Jisung

The door slams open—harder than usual—and there he is:

Han Jisung, soaked with sweat, hood halfway off his head, grey sweatpants dangerously low, curls stuck to his forehead, and lips already parted.

“Baaabyyy,” he groans before even seeing you, tossing his bag somewhere in the general direction of the floor. “Practice killed me. I’m so sweaty, I smell like I fought a demon and lost—”

You cut him off with your mouth.

One second he’s mid-ramble, the next, your tongue is in his mouth, your hands in his waistband, your body already on fire. His eyes go comically wide—and then roll back.

“W-Whoa—wait—wait—mmph—!”

You don’t wait. You don’t stop. You’re already pushing him into the wall, kissing him filthy, tugging those sweatpants down while he makes the prettiest little sounds—half-laughs, half-gasps, all desperation.

“W-What the fuck—what the fuck is happening?” he pants, dazed. “Did you—did you just get turned on by my smell—?”

You palm his cock through his briefs.

He whimpers.

“Oh my God,” he chokes, hands flying to your hips like he doesn’t know whether to push or pull. “You’re—fuck, you’re actually into this? You’re gonna suck me off while I’m still gross from rehearsal?”

You pull back, licking your lips.

“I don’t want you clean, Ji. I want you messy.”

He just melts. Full body crumbles, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open.

“...I’m gonna cum just from that alone.”

You grab his wrist and yank him toward the couch without a word.

He stumbles after you, breath hitching, cock already half-hard under his briefs. He’s still sweaty, flushed from practice, his skin warm and sticky—but you don’t care.

You want it. You want all of it. You push him down onto the cushions, and he just falls with a soft oof, legs spread slightly, looking up at you with wide, ruined eyes.

“Wait—baby, are you—fuck, are you sure? I smell like a locker room and I haven’t even—”

You shove your hand into his waistband.

He chokes on his sentence.

You grip both sweats and briefs and yank them down in one go, cock springing free, flushed red and twitching—already leaking for you.

“Fuuuck,” he whines, head falling back, chest heaving. “You’re serious. You’re really—oh my God—”

You toss his sweats aside like trash. Kneel between his legs. Grab his thighs. And sink your mouth over the head of his cock without a single warning.

“F-fuck—oh fuck oh fuck—”

He’s already moaning, legs tensing, hands scrambling into your hair like he doesn't know whether to push or just hold on for dear life.

Your tongue swirls over the slit, catching the precum, letting it mix with your spit as you take more—inch by inch, until he hits the back of your throat and your eyes start to water.

You pull back just a little, then slide back down with a slick, wet groan—gagging softly, your lips stretched, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

Jisung is losing his goddamn mind.

His hands tighten in your hair, and he’s panting like he just ran five miles.

“Shitshitshit—baby, baby, you’re gonna—fuck—if you do that again I’m gonna cum—I’m not kidding—”

You moan around him.

His hips jerk up off the couch, thrusting into your throat before he can stop himself.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, voice cracking, eyes rolling back. “I-I didn’t mean to do that—fuck, you just feel so good, your mouth is so wet, I can’t—”

You moan again around him—loud and filthy, throat tightening around his cock as your own hand slips down into your shorts, fingers diving between your legs, rubbing messy circles over your clit while he fucks your mouth like he owns it.

You’re gagging softly, drooling, spit soaking your chin, hand moving faster over your clit as he thrusts shallow and fast, hips jerking forward in helpless little snaps.

Jisung looks down.

And he loses it.

“Holy—fuck—are you—are you touching yourself right now?!”

You look up at him, eyes glassy, makeup smudged, tongue flattening under his cock, and your fingers keep moving.

You don’t break eye contact. You just moan again. On his cock.

The sound vibrates all the way through him.

“Baby,” he whines, voice cracking open like he’s about to cry. “You’re gonna fucking break me, I swear to God—”

His hands are gripping your hair, holding you down while his hips fuck into your throat, wet sounds echoing through the room, your saliva dripping everywhere—his thighs, the couch, your own chin—and your fingers don’t stop.

You’re soaked.

So turned on from the weight of him on your tongue, the taste of his precum, the sound of his needy little moans echoing above you as he loses every last thread of control.

“Y-You’re fucking gagging on me while fingering yourself—fuck, I’m so in love with you—”

That one breaks you.

You whimper hard around his cock, thighs clenching, your clit throbbing under your fingers as he holds your head still and thrusts deeper, his hips rolling forward, desperate, brutal, eyes wild and glassy.

“You’re gonna cum?” he gasps. “Oh my god, you’re gonna cum with my cock in your throat?”

You nod. Just barely. And that’s all he needs.

“Cum for me. Fucking cum while I fuck your throat—please—please—”

Your fingers move faster. Your mouth is full. Your pussy is clenching—

And you cum. Hard. Shaking. Muffled. Gagging. And Jisung, he cums with you.

One loud, broken cry as he thrusts in deep and pours into your throat, his cock twitching hard on your tongue, his entire body curling over you, sweating and sobbing and panting like he just survived a war.

And you take it all. Every drop.

You pull off him slowly, lips dragging across his length with one last, wet suck—cum dripping down your throat, your mouth glistening, your chin a mess.

And then?

You swallow. All of it. Head tilted back, throat bobbing, eyes never leaving his. Jisung is frozen. Mouth open. Hair plastered to his forehead. Cock twitching, already starting to swell again between his thighs.

“...Holy shit,” he breathes.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and then push yourself up onto your knees, climbing into his lap.

He still hasn’t recovered. But you don’t give him time. You straddle him, bare thighs spread over his, your soaked core grinding down against his softening cock—already half-hard again, twitching with every breath.

“You’re insane,” he whispers, hands flying to your hips. “You’re actually—fucking—insane.”

You just grin.

Then you kiss him.

Hard. Filthy. Desperate. Spit and heat and teeth and cum still on your tongue, moaning into his mouth as he grabs you tighter, groaning into the kiss like he’s being pulled back from the grave.

He tastes himself on you. You feel him thicken again beneath you. He breaks the kiss first—panting, eyes wild, lips swollen.

“You’re grinding on me already—?” he pants. “I just came. You swallowed all of it. I should be dead.”

“You’re hard again,” you whisper against his lips.

“Yeah, because you’re fucking sitting on me, making out with me like I’m your next meal—”

You roll your hips once—slick heat sliding over his cock.

He gasps.

And then: “Sit on it.” His hands grip your ass now, pulling you closer, voice wrecked and ragged. “Ride it. Ride me just like this. Sweat, spit, cum—I don’t care. Fucking ruin me again.”

Your hands press to his shoulders, thighs shaking, cunt throbbing as you lift your hips, grab his cock, and line him up.

You sink down, slow, stretching, aching.

And the second he slides in—fully, deeply, bottoming out—

You both moan, loud and wrecked, heads dropping forward to each other’s shoulders.

Your pussy clamps around him immediately, still tender and fluttering from cumming on his tongue, from choking on him until you shook, and now—he’s buried to the hilt, twitching inside you, and you swear you can feel it in your throat.

“Holy shit,” Jisung gasps, voice cracking. “You’re so tight, baby—fuck, you’re squeezing me like you missed me—”

You start to move.

Slow grind first, hips rolling, teasing him with every inch, the wet squelch of your cunt sliding along his cock so loud it makes his jaw clench.

His grip on your ass tightens.

And then?

SMACK.

“AH—!”

Your eyes fly open, body jolting as he slaps your ass, hard and perfect, his handprint blooming red against your skin.

“I said,” he growls, “ride me like you mean it.”

Before you can even catch your breath— SMACK. Other cheek.

You cry out, thighs shaking, cunt fluttering around him like it’s begging, and he groans at the way you squeeze him tighter with every hit.

“Fuck, I knew you liked that,” he pants. “Knew you were the type to cream on my cock while I spanked you.”

He grits his teeth and grabs your hips, starts thrusting up into you from below, meeting your hips halfway with each brutal slap of his thighs. “You’re gonna cum like this,” he growls, pulling your body down to slam against his with every movement. You’re gasping, slapping down onto him, the whole room echoing with wet, dirty sounds—skin on skin, sweat, soaked moans.

"Let me take control now baby. You had your fun." he breathes, pulling your hair back to make you look at him. His eyes are wild. Pupils blown. Mouth swollen.

“You sucked me so good,” he pants, hips snapping up. “Took me down your throat like you were starving for it.”

You whimper, back arching as he keeps fucking you from underneath, slamming into that perfect spot, his grip on your hips tightening until your skin burns beneath his fingers.

“I should be giving you a nap,” he growls, thrusting deep. “Letting you rest after swallowing all that cum—” He leans in, teeth grazing your jaw. “—but you rode me like a filthy little cockdrunk princess. So now I’m gonna break you.”

Your cunt clenches at his words—hard.

And he feels it.

“Oh, you like that,” he huffs out a laugh, sweat dripping from his neck to your chest. “You love when I take it from you, huh? When I grab your hips and fuck you like I’m claiming every fucking inch?”

He slams up into you, once—hard and deep—and you scream.

“Say it,” he pants, hand sliding from your hair to wrap around your throat lightly. Not squeezing. Just enough to hold you still.

“Yours,” you sob, eyes rolling back. “I’m yours—fuck—Jisung, I’m so close—”

“That’s right, baby,” he whispers, voice rough and proud. “My perfect little fucktoy. My good girl. My cockslut.”

His hips move faster now—precise, filthy, relentless.

“You’re gonna cum again, huh?” he groans. “On this cock you sucked dry. On the same dick that dumped down your throat and still came back hard for you.”

You’re gone. Shaking. Drooling. Falling apart.

And then he lifts his hips, grinds deep, and whispers: “Be a good girl. Cum for me. Cream on my cock while I fill you up again.”

And your orgasm rips through you.

Loud. Soaked. Violent.

You clamp down around him, pulsing so hard it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs—and Jisung groans, slamming up one final time, burying himself deep.

“Fuuuck—baby—fuck—”

He cums with a moan, high and sweet, whole body trembling as he spills inside you, hips jerking, breath catching, cum flooding your pussy in thick waves.

You both collapse—sticky, wrecked, gasping.

Jisung wraps his arms around you, kissing your temple as you collapse onto his chest.

“God, you’re insane,” he breathes. “I’m never letting you suck my dick again unless we’ve got, like, a week to recover.”

And then softer—sweeter: “Good girl. So fucking good for me.”

Lee Felix

The door opens. You don’t move.

You’re curled on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, scrolling aimlessly—but your eyes snap up the moment you hear the keypad beep and the door click open.

Felix walks in like pure comfort. Grey sweats, damp curls, flushed from rehearsal, hoodie half off his shoulder. A sweet smile spreads across his face the second he sees you.

“Hey, baby.” Voice low. Soft. Like honey. Like he missed you so bad, even after just a few hours.

You don’t say anything. Just stare. Because he looks ridiculous. All sweaty and musky and glowing, and that smile? You’re going to hell for the things you’re about to do.

He crosses the room, leans over the back of the couch to kiss you—just a soft brush of lips, but his hand finds your cheek like always. Gentle. Warm.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. Then—reach down.

Grab his waistband. Tug. Hard.

Felix freezes. Eyes flicker. “…What’s that about?”

You smirk. “You smell too good to shower yet.”

He blinks. Once. Then again. And then—the smile shifts. Just slightly. “Oh, baby…”

He moves fast. In a blur, he’s coming around the couch, blanket yanked off, phone tossed aside, and you’re gasping as he climbs over you, caging you in.

“That little tug,” he whispers, mouth ghosting over yours, “was real fuckin’ brave.”

You grin, daring. “What if I do it again?”

He leans in. Nose to yours. Smile still soft, but his eyes?

Not sweet anymore.

“Then I guess,” he murmurs, “you want to see what happens when I stop being nice.”

You barely have time to gasp before his hand wraps around your throat—not tight, not cruel—just enough to hold you still. To make you look at him.

Felix grins.

Wide. Wicked.

Then he kisses you. Hard. Tongue greedy. Teeth catching your bottom lip. Soft hands—gone. Now they’re gripping your hips and yanking you flat beneath him, the weight of him pressing you into the couch.

"You really think I was gonna be soft forever?" he whispers between kisses, dragging his mouth to your neck. "After the way you looked at me? The way you tugged on my sweats like I’m just here to be used?"

He ruts against you—slow, heavy, his cock already straining hard beneath the fabric, grinding into your core like he’s marking the spot.

“I came home to shower,” he says, biting the shell of your ear, “but now I think I’m gonna fuck you messy and let your cum wash over me instead.”

Your breath catches—completely, violently gone—when he reaches down, yanks your shorts aside, and presses two fingers right against your soaked slit.

“Of course,” he laughs, low and smug, “you’re already wet.”

“Lix—” you gasp.

“I said you wanted this.” He kisses your cheek, sweet again for half a second—and then shoves your panties down with one hand and drags the other up to your throat. “So you’re gonna take it. All of it.”

He stands, yanks his sweats and briefs down in one motion—his cock slaps against his stomach, flushed and leaking, a fucking weapon aimed straight at you.

You stare, wide-eyed, mouth parted, thighs instinctively pulling together—

“Nope,” he grins. “Open those legs, pretty. Or I make you.”

You obey.

And then he’s kneeling on the floor, hooking your knees over his shoulders—

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he purrs. “You wanted messy, right?”

He licks a long, slow stripe up your slit. You jolt. You scream. Because he doesn’t stop. Tongue fucking in, nose nudging your clit, moaning like you’re his favorite thing he’s ever tasted. Holding your thighs down while you squirm and cry and beg, humping his face, and he’s just smiling—grinding against the couch while he eats you alive.

“Good girl,” he mumbles. “Cum on my tongue. I’m not stopping till you do.”

His tongue is licking up every drop, flattening against your clit, then curling in with maddening precision. He groans like it’s divine, like you taste better than anything he's ever known, and you feel the sound vibrate through your whole body.

You arch. Grab at the cushions. Whimper his name.

And he just moans, mouth pressed so deep between your thighs it sounds like he's drunk on you.

“Felix—” you gasp, trembling.

He hums, lips never leaving your skin. Then, without warning—one finger slides in.

Perfect pressure. Curling. Filling.

Your eyes roll back.

"You’re gripping me so tight already," he pants, voice ragged now. “God, you really did wait for me, huh?”

A second finger joins the first. Slow. Stretching you. Fucking into you deep and steady while his tongue keeps flicking circles around your clit.

You cry out, back arching so high he has to hold you down.

"Stay still, angel," he murmurs against your soaked skin. "Let me take care of you. Just feel."

The lewd, wet sound of his fingers pumping into you mixes with his low groans—a symphony of filth and devotion. He licks harder. Sucks gently. And you snap.

Your thighs tremble violently. Breath stutters. Your hands fly to his hair—

“I—I'm—”

"Cum for me," he says into you, voice raw, fingers relentless. “You’ve been so good. So patient. Let go.”

You do. With a cry that shatters the room.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—rushing, rolling, full-body and dizzying. He doesn’t stop. Not even for a second. Sucking you through it, moaning like he’s the one falling apart.

And when your hips finally jerk away, overstimulated and slick and still fluttering, he kisses the inside of your thigh. Gentle. Sweet.

Then licks his lips, eyes dark.

“…That was one,” he says softly, standing up.

“And baby?” He presses the head of his cock between your soaked folds, eyes fluttering. “I’m not nearly done.”

Felix finally presses in. The stretch is filthy. Your mouth falls open. Your back arches. He lets out a low, broken sound that doesn’t even sound human.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants, sinking deeper, inch by inch. “You feel—God—you’re soaked.”

You gasp his name, nails digging into the cushions behind you as he finally bottoms out—deep and hot and thick and pulsing. For a moment, he just stays there, buried inside, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling.

Then?

He moves.

Not gentle. Not slow. He fucks you like he means it.

Hips slamming against your thighs, cock dragging against that sweet spot again and again—wet slaps, broken gasps, filthy praise.

“Wanted to ruin you the second I walked in that door,” he groans, grabbing your waist to yank you into every thrust. “You looked at me like you needed it—needed me.”

You moan, breath catching as his pace turns brutal, the couch creaking beneath you.

“So take it.” He pulls out halfway, slams back in. “Take all of me.”

You can’t even form words anymore, just messy cries of his name, hands scrabbling for purchase as he leans over you, kissing your jaw, your mouth, your throat.

“You’re shaking so much,” he breathes, voice tight. “You gonna cum for me again?”

You nod frantically, tears prickling, already so close from how he devoured you before.

“Yeah?” he pants, thumb finding your clit, rubbing hard and perfect. “You'll hold it baby, yeah? You're my good angel, and you're gonna hold it for me.”

And you simply whimper at those words.

“Lift your arms for me, baby.” he suddenly said and you obey—barely—fingers shaking, vision still swimming, and he peels your shirt up slowly. Not rushed. Not frantic.

Just hungry.

It’s soaked with sweat, clinging to your back as he pulls it over your head. And then—his hands are everywhere.

Palms warm. Confident. Reverent.

He cups your breasts like he’s waited all day to touch them, brushing his thumbs over your nipples until they stiffen under his fingers. Then his head dips—lips soft and open-mouthed as he kisses between them, up your chest, until he can take one into his mouth.

Your back arches. You whimper.

“Felix—”

“Shh,” he breathes, voice like velvet and smoke, “I’ve got you.”

His tongue flicks, circles, sucks just hard enough to make you gasp. One hand kneads the other breast, lazy but firm, and the other? Slips between your thighs again, rubbing on your clit, a perfect rhythm to match his thrusts and you jerk at the feeling. “You’re close,” he breathes against your skin, lips grazing your collarbone, hips still moving in those deep, precise thrusts. “I can feel it.”

You nod frantically, eyes wide, barely holding on. Your body is taut beneath him, thighs trembling, hands gripping his arms like lifelines.

“But I said no, didn’t I?” he whispers, licking a slow stripe up your throat. “Told you not to cum. You held it for me like such a good girl.”

You whimper—desperate, wrecked. “Please… please, Lix…”

His pace falters. Just for a moment. Then his forehead presses to yours, eyes locked on yours, glowing with something tender and dangerous all at once.

“Okay,” he murmurs, breath warm and ragged. “Now.”

The permission breaks you. Instantly.

You unravel in his arms, clenching tight around him as your orgasm crashes through you—shaking, crying out, your entire body trembling.

And the second he feels it—the moment you pulse around him like that—he loses it too.

“Fuck, baby—god, you’re perfect—”

He spills inside you with a deep, broken groan, thrusting through it, chasing every last second of the high as his hands bury into your hips.

Even after—he keeps moving. Slow. Shallow. A few more messy thrusts.

Felix leans down and kisses your jaw. Your chest. Your forehead. He’s still buried in you, still warm, still full. “Shh,” he breathes, rocking into you once more. “I know. I know, baby.”

His voice goes soft again. Sunshine again.

“You're so perfect. All mine.”

Kim Seungmin

He doesn’t even blink when the door opens and you lunge at him.

Seungmin just tilts his head, one brow arched, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temple. His chest rises slow beneath the loose tee he hasn’t even had time to peel off. Grey sweats slung low. Post-practice glow radiating off him.

He drops his bag.

Crosses his arms.

“Wow,” he deadpans. “No ‘hi, baby’? No ‘how was practice’?”

You press your mouth to his jaw, already tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

He exhales. A quiet chuckle. “You really are desperate, huh?”

You nod, lips dragging down his neck, one hand already palming him through the fabric. “You smell so good,” you whisper. “So hot like this. I couldn’t wait—please, let me—”

And that’s when he grabs your wrist.

Hard. Firm. Controlling.

Eyes dark.

“You could’ve just said you needed to be put in your place.”

You blink.

He takes a step forward.

You take one back.

Until your knees hit the edge of the couch and you drop into it with a soft gasp.

“Better,” he mutters, leaning over you, hands braced on either side. “Now pick. You’re getting ruined either way.”

You swallow.

“On your knees,” he murmurs, “or on the couch. Choose.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

You’re already slipping off the couch and onto your knees—palms splayed against his thighs, mouth parted, breath coming fast. You look up at him with that desperate, pleading stare he lives for.

He hums. Smiles lazily.

“Good choice.”

Then he shoves his sweats down in one motion—boxers too—and his cock springs free, flushed, hard, dripping at the tip. Your mouth waters.

But before you can lean in—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back just a bit.

“Tch. What’s the rush?” His thumb brushes your bottom lip, eyes glinting. “You couldn’t even wait five seconds to say hi to me, and now you think you deserve my cock in your mouth?”

You whimper.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say how desperate you are. Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m—” you gasp, “I’m sorry, Seungmin. I just—fuck—I need it. I need you.”

He grins, teeth sharp.

“Then open wide,” he growls, stepping closer. “Since you’re so fucking starved.”

You do.

And the second your tongue slides against the head, he groans—low and guttural—and sinks into your mouth with a hiss of breath through his teeth. “Yeah, just like that. Filthy little mouth. Fuck.”

His grip tightens in your hair, pulling your head back, then guiding you forward again. His hips begin to move—slow thrusts, shallow at first, letting you adjust—but it doesn’t last.

Not when you moan around him. Not when your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock like you need to be ruined. Not when you look up at him again with tears already gathering.

“Oh, you like this,” he pants. “You want me to use your mouth. Want me to fuck it raw, huh?”

He’s fucking into you now. Properly. Holding your head still. Groaning when your throat spasms around him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he gasps. “Make you swallow every fucking drop. And then I’m gonna throw you on that couch—stuff you full all over again.”

Your knees ache, your throat burns, and your whole body trembles from how long he’s kept you like this—spit slicking your chin, breath catching every time he slides back in with a guttural groan. But god, it's worth it.

“You’re still hanging on?” he pants, jaw clenched as his grip in your hair tightens. “Fuck. You’re better than I thought.”

His hips roll into you with a little more weight now. Less restraint. More need.

“You wanted it this way, remember?” He leans in, breath hot against your flushed face as he holds you steady and thrusts deeper again. “Didn’t even let me sit down. Didn’t give me a second to think.”

You moan around him—pathetic, needy—and that seems to do something to him.

“Thought so.” His voice drops to a low growl. “You like being used, don’t you?”

You nod as best you can, mouth stretched wide, spit coating your lips. Your hands are fisting the fabric of his sweatpants at his thighs, desperate for something to hold onto.

He groans through gritted teeth. “You’re shaking. You gonna cum just from this?”

You almost do. Just from the look on his face. The weight of him on your tongue. The raw, breathless sound of his pleasure.

Then—his cock twitches in your mouth, and he hisses, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye.

“Don’t move,” he warns. “You want to be my pretty little toy? Then stay right there.”

His hands cup your jaw, holding your face still, and he thrusts into your mouth again—slow but brutal, breath coming faster, his muscles tensing with every motion.

You barely register his words through the haze,

but his voice cuts through it all:

“Be good. Take all of it.”

And then he groans. Deep. Guttural. Raw.

The thrusts falter. Hips jerk. And you feel it — thick, warm, undeniable — as he spills down your throat with a choked, breathless growl of your name.

His hand is still tangled in your hair, but he’s shaking too now, his abs tightening as he pants through it, every muscle strung tight as a bow.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You… fuck. You’re too good.”

You stay still, letting him empty every drop, swallowing around him as your hands clutch his thighs for support. He twitches once, twice, before finally pulling back, breath ragged, cock still flushed and glistening with the aftermath.

Your lips are shiny, your mouth wrecked.

He stares down at you like you’ve undone him completely.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, thumbing at your chin, his voice softer now. “Look at you.”

You look up, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

And that’s when his smirk returns—dangerous, slow. “What?” he breathes. “You thought we were done?” He leans in close, brushing his lips against your jaw. “Cute.”

Seungmin moves and drops back onto the couch like he owns it, which he does,

sweatpants pushed halfway down, thighs spread, cock flushed and twitching against his stomach, still glistening from the mess you made together.

He looks wrecked. And hungry.

“Take it off,” he murmurs, gaze locked on you. “All of it. Want to see you.”

Your fingers tremble as you pull your shirt over your head, and he groans when he sees the state of your chest—kiss-bitten, rising and falling with every breath. Then go your shorts. Your panties. Every inch of you exposed, aching.

You take a step forward.

“Uh-uh,” he says, voice dipped in warning. “Beg first. You want me again? Ask.”

You swallow, pulse racing.

“Please, Seungmin,” you whisper, climbing into his lap with trembling thighs. “Need to ride you. Need it so bad.”

He smirks, hands gripping your waist. “Then ride me like you mean it.”

You sink down slowly—his cock still sensitive but hardening fast—and his head falls back with a growl.

“Shit—fuck, you feel perfect.”

You gasp at the stretch, the heat. His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you down until you’re seated fully, your cunt fluttering around him as you adjust to the pressure.

And then—he slaps your ass. Once. Twice.

"Move baby." he coos, words contradicting with the way he slapped your ass, skin bright red.

You start bouncing in his lap, your hands braced on his shoulders, your moans slipping out faster than you can control—Seungmin thrusts up to meet you, teeth grit, pupils blown wide.

Your thighs are trembling. You’re barely keeping rhythm, gasping every time his cock presses against that spot that makes your vision blur.

Seungmin’s grip tightens. He watches you—devours you—with that sharp, dangerous glint in his eyes. Your tits bounce with every slap of skin, your pussy soaked, sucking him in like you’re trying to pull his soul out.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls. “You’re so fucking messy for me.”

You nod—barely coherent, chasing your high.

But then—

“No.”

Suddenly his hands slide down, grip your thighs tight, and before you can even react—

He flips you.

Your back hits the couch cushions with a gasp, legs in the air, and his cock slips out for just a second—slick and twitching, the loss of pressure making you whimper.

He leans over you, hand gripping your jaw, eyes dark.

“You think you can fuck me like that and not get ruined?” And just like that, he slams back into you—deep, and hard.

His thrusts are relentless now. Sharp and punishing. One hand holds your leg up over his shoulder, the other planted firm beside your head.

“You’re not done till I say so.”

You claw at his back. Your walls clench. Every snap of his hips makes your mind blank out. It’s all Seungmin—his sweat on your skin, his cock driving you insane, his breath in your mouth as he leans in closer—

“You gonna cum for me pretty girl?” he pants, voice wrecked. “Gonna cream all over me like a good girl?”

You sob a yes, so close—

He’s deep—too deep—and you’re clenching so tight around him it feels like you’re going to split open. He leans over you, bracing his forearm beside your head, the other hand dragging down your thigh, gripping until your skin dimples.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick. “Come on, pretty girl. Let go.”

You whimper. You’re close. Too close.

He dips his head, mouth brushing your cheek, breath trembling. “You know I’ll be right behind you. Just give it to me.”

Your fingers dig into his back. He’s grinding now, not thrusting—hips rolling deep, slow, cruel. His cock hits that devastating spot again and again, and your eyes blur, lips parting around a helpless moan.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “God, look at you—falling apart for me.”

You nod, unable to speak. Your whole body’s caught in that moment right before you break.

And then—he says it:

“Cum for me, baby. Right now. Let me feel you lose it.”

And you do.

It crashes into you like a wave—hot, blinding, full-body. Your back lifts from the cushions, a sob rips from your chest, and your thighs clamp around him as your climax hits—hard and all-consuming.

He groans your name like a prayer. Hips stuttering. You feel it—his release catching up with yours, the sound he makes low and wrecked, fingers gripping your face like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth as he spills his cum inside, painting your insides with it.

He stays there, buried deep inside you. Both of you breathing like you just ran through fire. And then he kisses you. Not rushed. Not filthy.

Just… real. Gentle.

"My perfect fucking girl. I think I would like to be greeted from dance practice like this."

Yang Jeongin

You barely hear the keypad beep before you bolt—socks sliding on the floor, heart pounding.

The door creaks open, and there he is.

Jeongin, sweaty and flushed from practice, black hair sticking to his forehead, grey sweatpants clinging low on his hips. He’s shrugging off his hoodie when he sees you rushing toward him.

“Wha—?”

You grab his face, kiss him hard. Open-mouthed, messy, greedy.

He staggers backward with a soft grunt, dropping his bag. His hands are up like he doesn’t know where to touch first. “W–Wait, baby, I’m—sweaty—”

“I know,” you whisper against his lips, tugging at his waistband. “Don’t care. Want you just like this.”

His breath catches.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice cracking around a moan as you sink to your knees. “Oh my God.”

He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything so filthy and perfect. His cock is already hard beneath the fabric, a damp patch blooming at the tip.

“You’re serious?” he pants, shuddering when you press your mouth over the bulge. “You—you’re gonna—fuck—here? Right now?”

You nod, tongue tracing him through the cotton. “You’re not going anywhere, Innie.”

His breath hitches as you tug his sweats down, just enough to free his cock—already flushed, leaking, twitching. And when your lips wrap around the head, he chokes on his own moan, one shaky hand flying to the back of your head.

“Fuck—baby—slow, slow, please—”

But you don’t slow down. You devour him.

Tongue licking flat underneath, hand stroking the base, spit dripping to your chin. You look up at him—eyes glassy, mouth full—and that’s what snaps the last of his control.

Jeongin’s voice drops, low and tight. “Get on the couch. Now.”

You blink, stunned by the sudden shift. He’s already pulling you up, guiding you backward, his hand curled around your jaw like he can’t stand not touching you.

You fall onto the cushions, dizzy from the way he’s looking at you now—hungry and steady and unshakable.

“Take your shorts off.”

You do, trembling. He kneels in front of the couch, spreads your legs with gentle fingers, and drags two through your wetness, his eyes going hazy.

“Messy already?” he murmurs. “From sucking me off?” He smiles, soft and wicked. “Poor baby. You really thought I was gonna let you cum that easy.”

You don’t get to respond.

His mouth is on you—hot and unrelenting—tongue pressing firm and slow, lips sucking just enough to make your hips jolt. And when you try to grind into it, he pulls back.

“Uh uh.” A soft laugh. “You stay still. Or I stop.”

You whimper, hips twitching—instinctive, desperate—but his strong arms hold your thighs apart, locked down like restraints.

“I said,” he repeats, voice low and dangerous, “stay still.”

He licks up your slit with deliberate slowness, savoring the way you tremble, how wet you are already, how you pulse around nothing.

“God, look at you. Thought you were doing me a favor, baby. But you're the one falling apart.”

You gasp when he sucks your clit—just once, just enough—and then pulls away again, mouth wet, chin glistening, flushed and still panting from dance practice.

“You taste so fucking good when you’re needy,” he groans, rubbing his slicked jaw against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prey. “But you don’t get to cum yet. Not until I say.”

His tongue returns, this time featherlight. Barely there. Every flick a tease, every stroke too soft to give you what you crave. You try to roll your hips again—just a little—and he slaps the inside of your thigh.

You gasp.

“Didn’t I just tell you to behave?”

His voice is breathless now, gravelly with want, his cock hard again from watching you lose it. He exhales through his nose like he’s trying to stay calm, but you can see it—his self-control hanging by a thread.

He drags two fingers through your slick, slow and thick, then brings them to your lips.

“Suck.”

You moan around them, tongue wrapping eagerly as he watches you with dark eyes.

“God, you’re such a good girl for me. Bet you’d let me edge you all night if I asked, huh?”

You nod, dazed. “Please, Innie, I—I need—”

“You need?” His voice goes sharp, mocking. “You need to cum?”

He slips one soaked finger in—and you cry out.

It curls just right, finding that spot instantly. But then it’s gone just as fast.

“No,” he whispers. “You want to cum. And that’s different.”

You’re sobbing now, tears welling from sheer frustration, your legs trembling against his shoulders.

His thumb circles your clit again—slow, steady, but never quite enough. Just on the edge of unbearable.

“You feel that? That pressure building?” he murmurs, licking back into you. “Don’t you dare cum. Not until I tell you.”

You clench, thighs shaking violently, pleasure coiled tight like a scream in your gut.

“Innie, please, please, I can’t—”

He growls, pulling back again, dragging your hips to the edge of the couch. His sweat drips onto your bare stomach as he leans over you, still panting, still flushed from training.

“You can. You will. You’ll take every second of it for me.”

Then—he spits on your pussy. Hot. Filthy. You cry out.

“Again,” he whispers. “Mouth open.”

You obey, lips parting—and he kisses you filthy, licking into your mouth like he owns it. You taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s jerking his cock now, slow strokes as he watches you writhe.

“When I finally let you cum…” he pants, eyes gleaming, “I want tears. I want begging. I want to ruin this couch.”

And then—he slides two fingers in, curls them just right—and stops.

“Not yet.”

You sob. He grins.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make you cum so hard you forget your own name. But not until you learn how to be good for me.”

Your body is trembling, sweat slick between your thighs and on the backs of your knees, chest heaving like you’ve just run a marathon. But all you’ve done is beg. And beg. And beg.

Jeongin’s knuckles are white around his cock now, stroking himself slow and steady, eyes never leaving you—your ruined expression, your swollen pussy, your trembling hands clutching the cushions.

You sob out his name. “Please—please, Innie, please—”

“You don’t even know what you’re begging for, do you?” he growls, leaning forward, gripping your jaw again. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, yes, I—”

“You want to cum?”

You nod frantically.

He slaps your pussy—not hard, but mean. You yelp, whole body flinching.

“Too bad.”

You scream in frustration, thighs clenching, but he shoves them apart again, rutting his cock between them—rubbing the head against your slick folds, but never pressing in.

“You don’t get to cum just because you’re messy and desperate,” he breathes into your mouth. “You cum when I say. Only when I say.”

You moan—wild, helpless—as he rubs the head of his cock right against your clit. One press. Two. Three. Each time you jolt like you’ve been shocked.

“Want my cock?” he pants. “You think you’ve earned it?”

You nod so hard your neck aches.

“Open your mouth.”

You obey immediately, lips parting, tears clinging to your lashes. And Jeongin spits into it.

“Swallow it.”

You do. Without thinking. Without shame.

“Good fucking girl.”

And that’s when he snaps. With one hand braced under your thigh, he slams into you in a single, brutal thrust.

“Fuck—you’re so tight—” he groans, already moving, fucking into you like he means it. Like it’s punishment. Like it’s relief.

Your hands claw at the cushions, legs shaking around his hips, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“Innie—Innie—I’m gonna—”

“No.”

He pulls out completely—you sob, your orgasm vanishing like smoke—then slams back in.

“You don’t fucking cum until I tell you.”

He’s soaked now, even more than before, more than dance practice made him, hair stuck to his forehead, sweat dripping onto your body, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the room. His cock drags perfectly against that sweet spot inside you, over and over—until you're right on the edge again.

“You close again?” he growls.

You nod, sobbing.

“Hold it.”

He fucks you through it anyway—deep, rough thrusts designed to undo you—but keeps you dangling just on that razor-thin edge.

And when you start to tremble, to break—he pulls out again.

You cry out, a broken noise, back arching. “Please—I’ll be good, I swear, I swear—”

He grabs your face. Kisses you hard. Spits into your mouth again.

“Not yet.”

You can’t stop crying. Not from pain, not from fear—just from need. You’re shaking, soaked, every part of your body screaming for release.

And Jeongin is still holding you right there. Just there.

Teasing thrusts. Barely in. Pulling out. Slapping the head of his cock against your pussy like he’s mocking you.

“Every time I stop,” he pants, voice shredded, “you clench so tight. Like your body’s begging even when your mouth can’t form the words.”

You whimper, unable to breathe around how full he feels—when he lets you have him. And when he doesn’t? That emptiness is worse than death.

“You want to cum that badly, baby?”

You nod, broken. “Please, Innie, I can’t—I c-can’t—”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lip. “You can.”

And then—he spits into your mouth again.

“Swallow.”

You do. Reflex, reverence. His spit tastes like sweat and salt and sin. And Jeongin loses it. He slams into you. No warning. No restraint. Just full, deep, filthy thrusts—hips smacking hard against your ass, cock dragging against that sweet spot with unrelenting precision.

Your back arches. Your scream catches in your throat. Your orgasm hits like a fucking bomb.

He doesn’t stop.

“Cumming baby?” he growls, watching you fall apart. “Didn't tell you to, but I'm going to be nice, so fucking take this cock, yeah?”

You’re cumming so hard it hurts, body locked in a seizure of pleasure, clenching down on him like a vice.

Jeongin grunts in pleasure, too much pleasure, your cunt squeezing his cock perfectly. The perfect fit. “God—fuck—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—”

But he keeps going. Fucking you through it, past it, until you're shaking so hard your legs give out. Until your tears smear across your cheeks and you’re begging—actually begging—for mercy.

“Innie, please—please—I c-can’t—”

“Yes, you fucking can.”

He pulls out just long enough to flip you—rough hands manhandling your limp form onto your stomach, ass up, face buried in the cushions.

He shoves back in. Deep. And you sob.

“You wanted this,” he pants, cock twitching inside you. “Wanted to get on your knees all pretty with spit on your chin and act like a little slut—”

He grabs your hair, tugs you up so your back arches.

“Now take it.”

You’re crying, mouth open, drooling, babbling nonsense as your second orgasm crashes down even harder.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarls into your ear. “Now stay right there while I fill you up.”

His thrusts go erratic. Desperate. He grits out your name—once, twice—then groans, deep and raw as he empties inside you, cock pulsing, hips twitching.

And he stays buried. Breathing hard. Sweaty chest pressed to your back. You’re limp. Soaked. Ruined. And then he kisses your shoulder. So soft. His hand rubs slow circles into your hip as you tremble, wrecked beyond words.

“Next time,” he murmurs, pulling out with a filthy squelch, “you’ll ask before you put my cock in your mouth. Yeah? Or maybe let me get in the shower first.”

A pause.

“Actually, we can do this in the shower next time.” Smiling, all innocent.

#skz #stray kids #stray kids x reader #skz smut #stray kids smut #bang chan x reader #lee know x reader #changbin x reader #hyunjin x reader #han jisung x reader #lee felix x reader #seungmin x reader #jeongin x reader #filthy friday #skz ot8 smut

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sunshinesfreckless · 2 months ago

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His Spoiled Kitten

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Lee Know x fem!reader

Summary: Leeknow loves showing his Favourite Girl who she belongs to.

Warnings: Luxury ownership. Designer collars. ehehehe minho being sexy

A/N: Leeknow arrived to the spoiled series… Han and Changbin are next, don‘t worry my kittens <3

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Bangchan ୨ৎ Jeongin ୨ৎ Seungmin ୨ৎ Changbin ୨ৎ Han

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Minho didn’t do flashy.

He didn’t need to. He did exclusive.

Her Gucci collection didn’t come from store shelves.

It came from private appointments, whispered calls, and sketches sent to his inbox for approval. Each one designed with her in mind.

A velvet handbag dyed to match the flush on her cheeks when she came for him.

A pair of gold heels engraved with his initials under the sole, so she’d always have him beneath her.

A perfume created by the Gucci lab with notes of peach nectar and white musk — he named it “Mine.”

“I want her to smell like she belongs to me,” he’d told them. “And something sweet. She is sweet.”

He never let her see the invoices.

She didn’t need to.

He’d slide rings onto her fingers mid-conversation, like it was nothing.

Fold jackets over her shoulders in rooms that weren’t cold, just to see her wear his name.

And when Gucci sent over a mini-dress designed for events — deep green silk, bare-backed, dripping with subtle crystals — he only had one response:

“She’ll wear it at home. No one else gets to see her in that.”

And she did.

In their bedroom.

With nothing underneath but a thong he bought to match.

────୨ৎ────

He once got her a travel bag.

Cream leather, soft as sin. Her initials embossed in rose gold on the side.

She laughed. “I don’t travel enough to need this.”

“You will,” he said, zipping it open. “Check the inside.”

She did.

It was packed.

With envelopes.

Each one labeled in his neat, sharp handwriting:

• Paris – for the kiss on the Seine.

• Tokyo – for the night we stay in.

• Milan – for the Gucci headquarters. I want them to see how perfect you are in person.

He’d planned it all. First class, black cars, suites with balconies — and a new outfit for each destination, custom-tailored to her measurements.

“Minho,” she whispered, teary-eyed.

He only smiled, pulling her into his lap. “Told you. You don’t lift a finger unless it’s to touch me.”

And she did.

────୨ৎ────

He swore he just came for a wallet.

Simple. Clean. Black leather, nothing flashy — just something to replace the worn one he’d been using for three years.

But the second she sighed, it was over.

Minho followed her gaze without a word.

The bag was a soft cream Gucci Jackie — butter leather and gold hardware. She didn’t even say anything, just looked once and turned away like it was nothing.

Like she didn’t know he noticed.

He tapped the glass counter lazily. “We’ll take the bag too.”

The cashier brightened. “Anything else? It comes in a set with three—”

“Yes,” he cut in. Didn’t even let her finish.

His Girl turned, eyes wide. “Wait—”

“Choose the other bags,” he said simply, leaning back on the counter. “Whatever you want, kitten.”

The cashier smiled. “Follow me, Miss.”

This wasn’t the first time. Not with Minho.

Her collection was ridiculous by now, a full spectrum of spoiling.

Minho never blinked. Never asked twice.

He just gave.

Like the day he came home with a little velvet box and pulled out a diamond collar.

Not a choker. Not jewelry.

A collar — dainty but unmistakable. With his name engraved in cursive at the center, studded with tiny black diamonds.

“Come here,” he’d said that night, low and calm, snapping it around her throat.

“Now everyone knows who my kitten is, right?”

He’d tilted her chin up, kissed her mouth softly.

And then ruined her on the floor like she was made to be taken with his name glittering at her neck.

God, he loved how it looked when she went down on him like that.

Diamond collar catching the light. Tears sparkling on her cheeks. His hand fisted in her hair while she gagged so sweetly around him.

“Mine,” he’d growled, hips thrusting deeper, “look how fucking pretty my girl is like this.”

Minho didn’t just spoil. He claimed.

────୨ৎ────

He cooked for her like it was sacred.

Wouldn’t let her near a single knife or pan. Just sat her on the counter, fed her from the spoon, kissed her when she whined.

“Let me help—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No, kitten. Sit there and look pretty.”

He’d press kisses to her knee. Sometimes he’d undo the straps of her dress and fuck her right there against the fridge before the water even boiled. He liked to see her tits bounce.

She was soft. Sweet. So good for him.

And he?

He was everything. Rich, controlled, a little dangerous — but hers.

────୨ৎ────

It wasn’t supposed to be used like this.

The scarf had been a gift — crimson silk, embroidered with tiny cats and cherries, a nod to her two favorite things. He’d tied it gently around her neck when he first gave it to her, pressing a kiss just beneath the knot.

But now, it was wet with spit and stuffed between her lips.

“Shhh, baby,” Minho cooed, thumbing away a tear from the corner of her eye. “You’re being so good for me, aren’t you?”

She whimpered, breath catching as he thrust deeper — slow, thick strokes that made her toes curl.

He was behind her, one hand fisted in her hair, the other resting on the small of her back, keeping her arched just the way he liked.

The scarf fluttered with every moan she choked on. Her Gucci gift — now her gag — pressed into her tongue like another brand of ownership.

And he loved it.

Loved seeing her spoiled and ruined, all at once.

A trembling doll made just for him.

“I should buy you another,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “One for every time I make you cry on my cock.”

He pulled back slightly, admiring the string of saliva that connected them to the scarf.

“Maybe one for every orgasm too. Hm?”

She could only sob in response, her walls fluttering around him like she was already saying yes.

────୨ৎ────

Minho had one room in their house locked.

She wasn’t supposed to go in.

But she peeked anyway, one day when he was gone for schedules.

What she found was a vault.

Dozens of boxes. Wrapped. Labeled.

Gucci. Cartier. Loewe. Rare editions. Archived pieces.

All neatly stacked, waiting for the right moment.

Shoes she hadn’t worn yet.

Dresses he never let her even see.

She was still standing there, stunned, when he walked in.

Caught red-handed.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue. “Curious kitten.”

Before she could apologize, he was already lifting her.

He sat her down — right on top of the stacked boxes. Velvet, silk, leather beneath her thighs.

She gasped.

“Since you’re up here,” he said, pushing her skirt up with slow fingers, “might as well give you a reason to come back.”

Her back hit the wall of the closet. He slid in without warning, one hand around her throat, his other gripping her thigh.

“Every one of these gifts,” he grunted against her ear, “is yours. But I’m your favorite, right?”

She nodded desperately, gasping against his mouth.

“Say it.”

“You,” she whimpered. “You’re my favorite gift.”

He smiled.

And made her scream that line three more times.

────୨ৎ────

But oh — she was in love with him. Not just the diamonds or the handbags or the silken scarf still damp with the memory of him.

No, she loved the way he looked at her when she was curled up on the couch in his hoodie, hair a mess, a cat asleep on each thigh.

She loved how he melted when she fed his babies before he even got the chance — Soonie, Doongie, and Dori happily flocking to her, as if she’d always belonged.

And he did too.

Some nights, he came home exhausted. His limbs heavy from hours of practice, his voice hoarse, his energy drained. But then he opened the door — and there she was.

His girl. His home.

Bundled up in the blanket he always said was too warm, half-asleep, a drama playing on low volume, and the cats purring beside her like guardians.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“You’re back,” she whispered.

And he’d kneel at her feet, bury his face in her stomach, arms wrapped around her waist like a man starved.

“You stayed up?”

“Always.”

Because no matter how much he spoiled her — she was the one who gave him peace. Who gave him softness. Who never let him go to bed without a kiss, or leave the house without a snack.

He pressed his lips to hers, slow and sleepy.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever bought,” he teased, and she smacked his arm.

“I’m not for sale.”

“Exactly,” he murmured. “You’re priceless.”

And she was.

The one thing he couldn’t put in a shopping bag.

Only in his heart.

#felix #felix stray kids #felix x reader #felix yongbok #lee felix #skz felix #stray kids #lee felix smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #lee know #leeknow x reader #leeknow smut #leeknow skz #lee minho

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solxamber · 4 months ago

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Guide Rank: Overwhelmed || Malleus Draconia

Being a high-ranked guide is tough—you’re basically a glorified babysitter for overpowered, emotionally constipated espers. But it gets harder when Malleus Draconia, the strongest esper in existence, asks you to guide him. And somehow, despite it all, you’re pretty sure Malleus is the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Or: Guideverse au!

Series Masterlist

The world is a nightmare. It used to be bad enough with things like taxes, slow WiFi, and that one sock disappearing in the wash. But now? Now you have random cosmic hellmouths opening up and vomiting out monsters that think humans are snack-sized protein bars.

They call them Gates. They pop up out of nowhere like your intrusive thoughts at 3 AM, and if no one deals with them, entire cities get turned into discount horror movie scenes.

The only reason people aren't living in a monster apocalypse is because of Espers—overpowered individuals who fight these creatures with sheer force, wild abilities, and a complete disregard for their own safety.

But there’s a tiny problem. Espers have the durability of a wet paper bag. They burn through their energy, go berserk, or outright implode if left alone for too long.

And that’s where Guides come in. Guides stabilize Espers, keep them from disintegrating mid-fight, and prevent them from making headlines as "Local Hero Explodes on Live TV."

And you? Congratulations! You are an SS-Class Guide, one of the absolute best. This should mean power, prestige, and maybe even free drinks. Instead, it means you are a walking, talking, highly sought-after life support machine, and every Esper on the planet wants a piece of you.

And not in a fun way.

You’ve spent your entire career dodging unhinged, desperate, overpowered individuals who think "force-bonding" is a reasonable dating strategy.

Some try to flirt their way into your schedule (bad idea). Some try to bribe you with things like gold, private yachts, and one guy who straight-up offered you a castle. And then there are the truly feral ones, who don’t understand the word “no” and think "What if I just grabbed them?" is a valid problem-solving technique.

One time, an S-Class Esper sent you 72 marriage proposals in a single day. Another time, a different one broke into your apartment and left a PowerPoint presentation on why you should bond with them. With transitions.

If you had a nickel for every time you had to physically dodge an Esper trying to latch onto you like a clingy octopus, you wouldn’t need this job anymore. You could retire to a nice, peaceful life in the mountains, away from all of this nonsense.

But no. You’re still here. Still dodging Espers who treat you like a Black Friday deal at 90% off.

Something has to change.

It’s another day at work. Another day of wading through a swamp of increasingly deranged requests for guiding, because apparently, every high-ranking Esper on the planet thinks you’re the Holy Grail of Stability™.

You take a deep breath, open your inbox, and immediately regret your life choices.

Request #1:

"O Supreme and Benevolent Guide, I have compiled a PowerPoint titled ‘Why You Should Guide Me and Not Those Other Losers.’ Please see attached. I am very persuasive. Also, I have snacks. Just saying."

Attached: A 657-slide PowerPoint presentation with bullet points like “I Only Go Almost Berserk Like Every Other Tuesday” and “Look At This Dog I Found, Do You Like Him?”

Request #2:

"Greatest and Most Esteemed Guide, I humbly request your guidance. I will literally pay you in gold. Actual, real gold. Or cash. Or—listen, name your price. My mental stability is at stake here. I am ONE bad day away from levitating into the stratosphere and exploding like a firework. PLEASE. I am BEGGING you. Sincerely, your most devoted, desperate, and slightly deranged fan."

Attached: A poorly photoshopped picture of you both standing in front of a sunset. You’ve never met this person in your life.

Request #3:

"GOD-TIER GUIDE, PLEASE, I WILL DO ANYTHING. I WILL FETCH YOUR GROCERIES. I WILL WALK YOUR PET. YOU DON’T HAVE A PET? I WILL GET YOU A PET. I WILL BECOME YOUR PET. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, JUST GIVE ME 10 MINUTES OF YOUR TIME. MY LAST GUIDE QUIT ON ME AND MOVED TO AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION. I AM VERY STABLE. PLEASE."

Attached: A video of the sender crushing a monster’s skull with their bare hands while sobbing.

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

This is your life now.

And then—you see it.

A request.

A normal request.

No groveling. No bribery. No half-deranged monologue about why their existence is crumbling without you.

Just a plain, simple request for a guiding session. No attachments. No drama.

You do not even look at the name or the rank.

You just slam the approve button so hard your screen nearly cracks.

And you schedule them for today.

Whatever poor, normal, well-adjusted Esper just sent that request? You’re about to meet your new favorite person.

You hear a knock on your office door and, without looking up from your third coffee of the afternoon, you say, "Come in." You assume it's just another esper with an unhinged request or a government official trying to bribe you into a permanent bond arrangement (as if free coffee is enough to make up for dealing with an unstable murder machine forever).

But when you finally glance up, you’re met with Malleus fucking Draconia.

SSS-class esper. Only because the measuring device physically cannot display values above SSS. If it could, it would probably just scream in binary before shutting itself down out of fear.

And Malleus, the walking cataclysm, smiles at you. A polite, almost sweet smile that absolutely does not match the soul-crushing amount of raw, unstable power radiating off of him.

He thanks you, so genuinely, for agreeing to guide him, and suddenly, you feel like maybe—just maybe—the guy who sent you a PowerPoint presentation about why he’d be the perfect esper for you would’ve been a safer choice. Because in what world were you qualified to guide Malleus Draconia?

But you’re a professional. A highly trained SS-class Guide. You’ve dealt with terrifying espers before. (You survived guiding Leona Kingscholar, and that man once threatened to bite someone’s hand off for waking him up.) So you take a deep breath, paste on a practiced, reassuring smile, and gesture toward the couch. “Please, take a seat.”

Malleus does, settling in like a well-mannered prince, and when you take his hands, his power hits you like a truck.

No, scratch that. A truck would be merciful. This is like getting yeeted into the sun.

Because for all his outward composure, for all his eerie, elegant calm, his body is ripping itself apart from the sheer force of his own abilities. His energy is so volatile, so uncontained, that even just touching him feels like holding onto a live wire dipped in liquid magic.

You open your mouth, fully prepared to yell WHAT THE HELL, but instead, what comes out is a weak, strangled, “So… how long has it been since your last guiding?”

Malleus blinks, tilting his head slightly, as if the question is odd. “Ah,” he hums. “A rather long time, I suppose.”

You squint at him. "Define 'long.'"

There’s a pause. And then, with the same pleasant smile, he says, “Over a decade.”

…

…A decade.

You stare at him. Your soul leaves your body. Your hands are on him right now, guiding him, and no other guide has touched him for ten whole years??? You’ve guided espers who've almost lost their minds after three months without stabilization, and this man—no, this monster, this eldritch entity in the shape of a handsome Esper—has been raw-dogging reality for a full decade???

And the worst part is, you get it.

You’ve heard the stories. No guide is willing to risk their life guiding him. He’s too powerful, too unstable, too dangerous. But also??? He’s the reason those cowardly soy-latte-drinking guides even get to enjoy their caramel cream monstrosities without getting eaten by a Gate Beast. The least they could do is try.

So you do.

You take all that power, all that impossible, barely-contained force, and you stabilize it. As much as you can, at least, because Malleus is like an ocean, vast and endless, and you are one person desperately trying to keep the tide from sweeping away an entire city. But you manage. And when the strain starts to weigh on you, when exhaustion creeps in, Malleus—ever the gentleman—gently removes his hands from yours before you overextend yourself.

He looks at you like you’ve done something extraordinary. And in that soft, almost reverent voice, he murmurs, “Thank you.”

And when he asks if you’d accept his request again, how could you possibly say no?

You’ve seen Gates before. Too many, in fact. You’ve spent years standing at the edges of battlefields, waiting for Espers to stumble out after pushing themselves to their limits, ready to catch them before they crumbled into a pile of unstable, overpowered problems.

Usually, you’re waiting outside, stationed alongside other Guides, ready to stabilize the Espers who come stumbling out looking like they just did twelve rounds in a blender.

And today? No different.

The Gate suppressors finish their job, and as the shimmering tear in reality finally vanishes, a wave of exhausted Espers begins to stagger out.

Your fellow Guides immediately spring into action, swarming their assigned Espers like the world’s most exhausted yet underpaid nurses. You hear the usual litany of groaning, the occasional complaint about “why does guiding feel like drinking a warm glass of sadness,” and at least one voice yelling, “DON’T THROW UP ON ME, BRO.”

All in all, a standard post-Gate event.

But then—then.

Malleus Draconia walks out.

And the reaction is palpable.

Every Guide freezes. The air itself seems to shift, a held breath, a quiet hesitation, a collective someone else handle it.

Which, yeah. Fair. SSS-class esper. Walking apocalypse. If the world were a video game, he’d be the final boss, the secret bonus boss, and the eldritch horror you accidentally summon if you input the wrong cheat code.

But unlike every other high-class Esper, who would immediately demand a Guide’s attention like a toddler throwing a tantrum in a supermarket, Malleus just… looks around. Sees the other Espers getting help. And without a word, he simply starts walking away.

And something in you breaks.

It’s not just that your fellow Guides are scared of him. It’s the fact that he expects it. That he doesn’t even try. He just accepts that no one will come for him, and he leaves.

It’s one thing for a terrifying Esper to demand your attention, to expect you to fix them as if you’re a mechanic and they’re a car with the check engine light permanently on. But this? This quiet resignation? This acceptance of the fact that no one will help him?

Oh, absolutely not.

You push past the usual crowd of unstable, desperate, feral Espers who are trying to grab at your hands (“PLEASE, I WILL PAY YOU IN GOLD—OR FAVORS—WHICHEVER YOU PREFER”), and you march after him.

“Malleus,” you say, grabbing his arm before he can vanish into the night like a dramatic antihero.

He turns, blinking down at you in quiet surprise. “You’re here.”

“Of course I’m here,” you say, like he just told you the sky is blue. “I’m a Guide. This is my job.”

His expression flickers, the barest crack in his usual calm. “You would guide me?”

“Yes,” you say. “Now sit down.”

He actually listens. Thank the stars. You’re not sure what you would’ve done if he refused. Probably wrestled him to the ground, which would have been a terrible life choice, but whatever.

You sit across from him, take his hands, and—oh.

Oh.

Oh wow.

It's as bad, if not slightly better than the first time.

If guiding most Espers is like sifting through a river, guiding Malleus Draconia is like being pulled into the center of a supermassive black hole. It’s overwhelming, his power a heavy, crushing thing that hums under his skin like an unrelenting storm, pressing at the edges of your mind.

“How long has it been since your last session?” you ask, voice a little strained as you work to stabilize him.

Malleus tilts his head, thoughtful. “My last session was with you.”

Your grip tightens around his hands. “It's been 5 months.”

He hums. “No other Guide has been willing to take me on.”

That—that makes you want to throw something. Because sure, Malleus is terrifying. Sure, he’s a walking natural disaster. But he’s also the reason those Guides get to breathe.

You exhale sharply. “Well. That’s stupid.”

Malleus blinks. “Stupid?”

“Yes. Stupid.” You focus, pouring everything you have into stabilizing him, because you might not be able to guide him fully, but you sure as hell can make things better.

Malleus says nothing. He just… watches you.

And when you’re finally done—when you pull back, exhausted but satisfied—he tilts his head, voice soft.

“Allow me to escort you to your car.”

There’s a weight to the way he says it. A quiet intent.

You glance at the still-lingering crowd of Espers who have been waiting for their chance to pounce, and—ah.

That’s why.

Because Malleus walking with you means no one is about to harass you for an impromptu guiding session.

You glance back at him.

Malleus Draconia. The most powerful Esper alive. Unstable. Dangerous. Literally a walking storm.

“…Okay,” you say.

He walks you to your car, a steady presence at your side, and for the first time in years, you are not approached, begged, or proposed to on the way.

It’s peaceful.

Nice, even.

And as you slide into the driver’s seat, Malleus thanks you again, voice warm, quiet.

And impulsively—because your brain has fully given up on thinking before speaking—you blurt out, “Repay me by taking me out for coffee.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

And then—Malleus smiles.

Not his usual polite, diplomatic smile. A real one.

And you realize, with sudden clarity, that you may have just changed the course of your entire life.

The next day, you step out of the Guidance Center, utterly exhausted.

You’ve spent all morning dealing with overworked Espers who don’t believe they need guiding until they start twitching like a broken lightbulb. One guy genuinely tried to convince you that he was “built different” and then proceeded to collapse mid-sentence.

So yeah. You’re tired. You just want to go home, take a nap, and not think about the absolute disaster that is your job.

And then you see him.

Malleus.

Waiting just outside the building, standing with the kind of stillness that makes him look more like a painting than a person.

But it’s not just him.

It’s the flowers.

A full bouquet, wrapped neatly, cradled in his hands like something precious.

And when he sees you, he smiles.

Your brain immediately blue-screens.

You walk up to him in a daze, already bracing yourself for the inevitable attention this is going to bring because, let’s be honest—Malleus Draconia standing outside your workplace holding flowers is about to start rumors.

(And by rumors, you mean your coworkers are never going to let you live this down.)

But when you reach him, he doesn’t do anything dramatic. Doesn’t say anything insane like “these flowers pale in comparison to your radiance” or “I will obliterate anyone who disrespects you.”

(You have, unfortunately, received both of those lines from unstable Espers before.)

Instead, he simply hands you the bouquet, his voice warm. “For you.”

And just like yesterday, you realize—this is different.

It’s not some desperate attempt to tie you to him, not an unstable Esper trying to own their Guide before anyone else can get to them.

He’s just… appreciative.

Grateful.

Your heart does something very annoying and fluttery at that realization.

You glance at the bouquet, then back up at him, and—oh.

He looks so pleased.

Like giving you flowers is the highlight of his week.

“…Are you free for that coffee now?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, expectant but unassuming.

And despite your exhaustion—despite knowing that this is probably the beginning of something huge and irreversible—you find yourself smiling.

“…Yeah,” you say, holding the flowers a little closer. “Yeah, I am.”

So far, this coffee date has been perfect.

You’re sitting across from Malleus, ranting about the absolute clowns you have to deal with daily.

“…And then this Esper looked me in the eyes and said, I will literally perish if you do not guide me this instant. Like. Sir.” You slap a hand on the table. “Sir. Please. This is a Starbucks.”

Malleus chuckles, eyes alight with amusement. “And what did you say to that?”

You sigh dramatically, tilting your head back. “I said, ‘Sounds fake, but okay.’”

He actually laughs at that—low and warm, and oh no, it’s really nice.

Before you can spiral about that, your drinks are ready. Malleus, being the gentleman he is, gets up to retrieve them.

And that’s when you feel it.

That unmistakable feeling of being watched.

Your instincts immediately go on high alert. Slowly, casually, you glance at the table next to you, expecting to see some shady esper trying to worm their way into your life.

What you actually see is so much better.

Sitting at the table next to you are three of the most suspicious individuals you have ever seen in your entire life.

The first one is a tiny man drowning in a trench coat three sizes too big, like a detective in a noir film gone wrong. He has an obviously fake mustache that is slightly peeling off his face, and he is watching you intensely.

Next to him, there is a guy wearing a tragically ugly pink wig.

He is asleep on the table.

Just. Fully unconscious. Like someone just unplugged him.

And finally—

A tall guy in fake glasses with an even faker nose, aggressively shoveling cake into his mouth while glaring at you like you just stole his firstborn child.

It’s silent.

You blink.

They blink.

And you immediately have to slap a hand over your mouth to keep from bursting out laughing.

Malleus returns, setting your drink in front of you, and you immediately point at the disaster trio sitting next to you.

“…Do you know them?” you ask, barely holding it together.

Malleus follows your gaze.

Sees the absolute circus happening at the next table.

And sighs.

A long, suffering sigh. The sigh of a man who has seen some things and has just realized he is doomed to see them for the rest of his life.

“Yes,” he says, like the words physically pain him. “Unfortunately.”

And that’s all you need to hear.

You immediately wave them over.

Because honestly?

Why not.

They look hilarious.

And you were right—Lilia (who introduces himself with a flourish and an actual theatrical bow) is an absolute riot. Silver, despite the crime against fashion sitting on his head, is actually very nice. And Sebek—who is still burning holes into you with his eyes—is begrudgingly polite, only because you’ve been guiding Malleus.

It turns into a full-blown sitcom.

At one point, Lilia pulls out a picture of an egg and tries to convince you that it's a baby picture of Malleus. You're not sure if he was serious. Sebek is still glaring at you, but it’s now 30% hostility, 70% begrudging respect. Silver almost faceplants into his drink.

Malleus, across from you, looks like he’s actively questioning all of his life choices.

It’s beautiful.

Eventually, when it’s time to leave, Malleus insists on walking you to your car.

And that’s when you notice it.

He’s pouting.

Not a dramatic pout. But his lips are slightly pressed together, his brows furrowed, like a cat that just got denied a seat on the kitchen counter.

You immediately find it endearing.

“What’s up?” you ask, amused.

Malleus exhales, glancing away. “…I was hoping for this to be a time where we could get to know each other.”

Oh.

Oh, that’s adorable.

You grin.

And before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Malleus freezes.

His eyes go wide. His breath catches. He looks like you’ve just blue-screened his brain.

You step back, grinning. “I'll see you around.”

And before he can respond, you slip into your car.

But as you drive away, you catch a glimpse of him in your mirror—

Standing there, hand pressed to his cheek, smiling like you just gave him the greatest gift in the world.

You hate Gates.

You hate that they can just open whenever they want, completely ignoring normal human schedules like some kind of otherworldly chaos entities (which, to be fair, they are).

But mostly, you hate that they always seem to open in the middle of the night.

Like, is there some kind of Gate Union that collectively decided on this? Do they hold meetings where they specifically vote to screw over guides by opening at the most inconvenient times?

And in the dead of winter, no less.

Truly, suffering knows no bounds.

Still, you drag yourself out of bed, slap on as many layers as physically possible (to the point where you briefly resemble a sentient pile of laundry), and head to the Gate’s location. On the way, you stop by an all-night café, because if you’re going to be miserable, you might as well be miserable with hot chocolate.

You even get two cups.

Not because you always do this for espers (you don’t—they can suffer like the rest of you), but because he is different.

Malleus.

The most powerful esper on the field tonight. The one who singlehandedly keeps half the Gates from turning into full-scale disasters. The one who always acts like he’s completely fine no matter what comes out of them.

And, most importantly—

The one esper you have a ridiculous, stupid, undeniably massive soft spot for.

So, you wait.

And wait.

You’re perched on a bench, holding your hot chocolates, trying not to think about how this is starting to feel like some kind of romantic drama scene, when you finally see him step out of the swirling remnants of the Gate.

Even exhausted, he still looks ridiculously elegant. His coat is dusted with frost, his dark horns curved like the wings of a dragon at rest. His presence—so big, so vast—immediately settles over the field, even as other espers struggle to regain their balance.

His expression is neutral, as always. Composed. Untouchable.

Until—

He spots you.

He blinks, as if surprised to see you.

And his face softens.

He doesn’t react right away, like he’s making sure he’s seeing correctly. But then, when it clicks, his lips part just slightly—an unspoken question, a faintly surprised blink—before they curve into the warmest, most gentle smile.

And wow. Wow.

Maybe the cold is getting to you, because you suddenly feel a little too warm.

You lift a hand and wave.

Malleus immediately starts walking toward you, his movements slow but steady. His eyes stay locked on yours, like he’s drawn to you without realizing it.

“You’re here,” he says, voice carrying that soft rumble that’s way too nice to listen to at this ungodly hour.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, Gates don’t believe in work-life balance, apparently.” You hold up the second cup of hot chocolate. “Here. Thought you could use something warm.”

“For me?” he asks, sounding so genuinely touched that your heart does something stupid.

“No, for the other giant dragon esper who just walked out of that Gate,” you deadpan.

Malleus huffs out a soft laugh, the kind that makes you think he doesn’t do it nearly enough. He takes the cup from your hands, fingers brushing against yours, and you don’t miss the way he lingers there for just a second too long.

“You should let me guide you,” you say, reaching for his free hand.

Malleus makes a vague sound of protest. “That isn’t necessary.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And then, before he can argue further, you unleash your most powerful technique.

“Please?”

Malleus Draconia—the Apex Esper, the one who holds dominion over storms and shadows, the one who can level an entire battlefield with one command—

Folds like a house of cards.

“…Very well,” he murmurs, looking a little defeated, a little amused.

You beam and take his hand, immediately pressing your energy into his.

And wow, yeah, he definitely needed this.

His presence, which is usually so steady, flickers faintly at the edges. He must have been holding himself together through sheer force of will, because the second you start guiding him, his shoulders finally relax.

Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

You feel his weight lean into you ever so slightly, just enough that you know he’s letting you support him. His energy curls around yours, vast and dark but gentle, like the hush of a midnight storm.

For a while, neither of you speak.

The night is quiet, save for the distant sounds of other guides working, of espers coming down from battle-highs.

You steal a glance at Malleus. His eyes are half-lidded, his breath even, his fingers curled loosely around yours.

“…You do this often?” he asks suddenly.

“What, guide tired espers?” you shrug. “Yeah. Someone’s gotta be here to catch them before they crash.”

Malleus hums, a thoughtful sound.

“…No,” he says. “I meant… this.”

You blink. “This?”

“Wait for me.”

Oh.

Your grip tightens slightly, a flicker of warmth creeping up your neck.

“I—” You hesitate, then exhale through your nose. “No. Not really.”

Malleus watches you closely. You can feel his gaze on you even as you pointedly avoid meeting it.

“…Then why?” he asks, and his voice is so quiet, so genuine, that you feel yourself falter.

You take a deep breath.

And then, before you can overthink it, you grin.

“Well, you always push yourself too hard,” you say, squeezing his hand once for emphasis. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t keel over from exhaustion.”

Malleus huffs, clearly amused. “I assure you, I would not—”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

He laughs, quiet but real, and your heart skips a very concerning beat.

“…You are quite peculiar,” he muses, gazing at you like you’re some kind of strange, fascinating mystery.

“Yeah, yeah, I get that a lot,” you say, waving a hand. “Now, if you really wanna thank me, take me out for coffee again later.”

Malleus pauses.

You watch, in real-time, as your words settle.

And then—

Slowly, slowly, he smiles.

“…I would like that,” he says, his voice quiet, but so very certain.

And suddenly, the cold doesn’t feel quite so biting anymore.

It was late. Too late. So late that if anyone dared to bother you right now, you would simply keel over and die on the spot out of sheer spite. You had finished your work, logged everything, and were seconds away from clocking out and going home to live as a blanket cryptid when someone grabbed your wrist.

That was already mistake number one.

You turned around, tired and mildly homicidal, to see one of your fellow high-ranking guides standing there. You recognized them—someone competent, someone respected, someone you had never spoken to outside of required work matters.

And yet, here they were, gripping your wrist like you were about to reveal the secrets of the universe to them.

"You got a second?" they asked, eyes shining with something too intense for this ungodly hour.

No. You did not have a second. You barely had the energy to stand upright, let alone entertain whatever nonsense this was about to be. But before you could tell them that, they were already pulling you off to the side, lowering their voice like they were about to ask you for classified information.

"How’d you do it?"

Your brain, already running on fumes, barely processed the question. "Do what?"

"Don't play dumb," they said, looking equal parts exasperated and impressed. "How'd you bewitch Malleus Draconia?"

Your mind, previously sluggish and exhausted, full stopped.

The sheer audacity of the question short-circuited your ability to respond. You just blinked at them, waiting for them to explain whatever the fuck they were talking about.

They misinterpreted your silence as playing coy because they leaned in conspiratorially and hissed, "Don't gatekeep. We want a bite too."

It was at that moment you considered committing actual murder.

"I'm sorry. A bite?" you echoed, voice dangerously calm.

"You got Malleus Draconia—Malleus Draconia—to let you guide him, regularly," they stressed, looking half in awe and half like they wanted to shake you for answers. "No one else has ever gotten close enough to work with him like that. If we knew he was harmless, we would’ve stepped in ages ago. But we weren’t going to take the risk."

You could physically feel something in your brain snap.

So that was it. That was why. It wasn’t that they hadn’t had the opportunity to guide him—it was that they had actively chosen not to. They had taken one look at Malleus, decided it wasn’t worth the effort to risk handling someone as powerful as him, and just left him alone.

And now, because you had proven he wasn’t some terrifying force of destruction, they suddenly wanted in? They suddenly thought they deserved him?

Like he was some exclusive club they wanted membership to?

Your hand twitched. You ripped yourself free from their grip, scowling. "Screw this."

Their eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting that reaction. "Wait—"

But you were already storming off, anger burning through your exhaustion. You didn’t even realize where you were going until you stepped outside—

And saw Malleus standing there.

Waiting.

For you.

His sharp eyes flickered with concern the second they landed on your face.

"Are you alright?"

Your rage didn't cool, but it twisted into something tighter, something that made your throat close up for an entirely different reason.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached out, grabbed his hand, and started dragging him down the street.

Malleus didn’t resist. He simply followed, letting you pull him along like this was perfectly normal behavior.

The café door chimed as you shoved it open with more force than necessary, still stewing over the conversation from earlier. Malleus, utterly unbothered, stepped around you to order both of your usual drinks without hesitation.

The fact that he had memorized your order without ever asking, without making a big deal of it, without using it as some kind of flex, made something in your chest ache.

You sat down at the table, staring blankly at the surface as you tried to untangle your emotions.

Why were you this angry?

Was it because they had ignored him? Because they treated him like some kind of trophy instead of a person? Because they had assumed the worst of him and only changed their minds when it was convenient?

Yes. Absolutely.

But then—why did you also feel like crying?

Your fingers curled into fists on the table.

And that’s when it hit you.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

You liked him.

Like like liked him.

Like the kind of like that made you want to scream into your hands and never recover. The kind of like that made you want to turn back time and stop this from happening before it was too late. The kind of like that meant your life was now ruined beyond repair.

Your whole body tensed, brain going into full meltdown mode.

And then—just to make everything infinitely worse—

A cup slid into view.

You looked up, and there he was.

Malleus.

Standing in front of you, holding out your drink.

His eyes were gentle, studying you carefully, like he could see every single thought racing through your head. "Are you alright?" he asked again, voice quiet, sincere.

And in that moment, you realized you had two options:

• Stay here, drink your drink like a normal person, and accept the horrifying truth of your newfound feelings.

• Launch yourself out of the nearest window and never be seen again.

Option two was looking real tempting right now.

Another night, another gate opening at the worst possible time.

You were so tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary, existentially exhausted. The universe seemed determined to ensure that you never got a full night’s sleep, and you were starting to take it personally.

Still, you were here, bundled up against the cold, sipping a hot drink as you waited for Malleus.

The gate was a high-level one tonight. You knew it had to have been difficult—he was strong, but no one walked out of those things completely unscathed. So you were already standing up, ready to meet him halfway, when—

That guide.

The one who had all but interrogated you last time.

They stepped in before you could move, approaching Malleus with their best professional smile, like they hadn’t spent years pretending he didn’t exist.

"Do you need guidance?" they asked smoothly, their voice dripping with the absolute audacity.

Malleus blinked at them, clearly surprised. Because why wouldn’t he be? No one else but you had ever offered before.

And your chest burned.

Of course he’d pick them.

They were higher-ranked than you. More experienced. More respected. Malleus, despite everything, was still an outsider to most of the guide network, and it would make perfect sense to accept help from someone with more prestige.

You braced yourself, swallowing the bitter feeling threatening to rise—

But then—

He looked past them.

His eyes landed on you.

And then he smiled.

"I must decline," he said simply, voice polite but final.

And then—much to their visible horror—he walked right past them and straight to you.

The sheer triumph that surged through you was immeasurable.

You barely stopped yourself from cackling, but as you took his hand, guiding him like always, the urge to turn back and stick your tongue out at that seething guide was so strong.

Malleus, oblivious to your inner gloating, watched you with a softness that made your heart ache.

And then, suddenly, it all just—

Hit you.

The sheer depth of your feelings, the way your chest tightened at the sight of him, the way everything in you just settled when he was near—

You broke.

You grabbed him, yanking him forward, and before he could even react—

You kissed him.

Malleus let out a surprised sound against your lips, but after only a second of hesitation—

He kissed you back.

It was warm, steady, and when you finally pulled away, he was glowing, his expression soft in a way that made your breath catch.

"I like you, Malleus," you confessed, your voice quieter than you expected.

And his smile—

It was like you had given him the world.

He cupped your face so gently, kissed your forehead like he was sealing the moment into reality.

"I have feelings for you too," he murmured.

You melted.

You leaned against his chest, warmth seeping into you despite the cold night air.

And as his arms wrapped around you, as you felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, you couldn’t help but be so glad you had accepted his guidance request all that time ago.

(And okay, maybe you were also smug as hell about it. Because when you glanced back at that other guide—

They looked ready to throw hands.)

You had been waiting.

Patiently. Lovingly. For months.

Malleus loved you. You loved him. You were in a relationship, you slept in the same bed, you guided him, he refused to let anyone else even offer—so what the hell was taking him so long?

Why wouldn’t he just ask?

It was infuriating. It was agonizing. It was the most painfully obvious conclusion to your relationship, and yet—

Malleus refused to bond with you.

And frankly? You were at your limit.

So tonight, as you lay wrapped around each other in bed, his arms comfortably encircling your waist, you finally decided to just ask him.

"Malleus," you said, looking up at him, voice soft but firm. "Why haven’t you asked me to bond yet?"

He stiffened. Just slightly. His fingers twitched where they rested on your back.

And then—

He gave you that look. The sad, gentle smile. The one that made your heart clench because it meant he was about to say something infuriatingly self-sacrificial.

"If you ever regret me," he murmured, "you won’t be able to guide anyone else." His thumb traced circles on your back, soothing even as his words infuriated you. "I don’t want that for you."

You froze.

You stared at him.

And in that moment, you were torn between laughing at his stupidity or crying because how could someone so powerful be so utterly dumb?

So you did neither.

Instead—

You kissed him.

You kissed him until he was breathless, until his arms tightened around you, until his body melted into yours and he let out the softest, neediest little sound against your lips.

When you pulled away, his pupils were blown wide, his expression dazed, and you felt the way his heartbeat had turned erratic beneath your palm.

"You," you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, "are the only thing I've ever been sure of in my life."

Malleus let out a shaky breath.

And then you kissed him again.

You pressed him into the bed, slotting yourself against him, feeling his hands grasp at you like he was afraid you might disappear.

But you wouldn’t.

Because you were here. You chose him.

And that night, you finally bonded—just as you always should have.

Malleus had always been powerful. From the moment he was born, strength had been woven into his very being.

His draconic lineage alone made him stronger than most, but when his Esper abilities awakened, it had set him apart even further. Too far apart.

The strongest being in the world.

And because of that, people had feared him.

It had been that way for as long as he could remember. Even other Espers, who should have understood, kept their distance. Some whispered about him behind closed doors, about how a being as powerful as him didn't need guidance in the first place.

It had been Lilia who had guided him for most of his life, a steady presence who never flinched, never wavered, never treated him as if he were something to be afraid of. But when Lilia lost his guiding abilities, that stability was suddenly gone, leaving Malleus untethered.

For years, he had gone without. And then, one day, he heard about you.

You were a Guide who accepted nearly every request. You had guided Espers with overwhelming abilities, those who were labeled as difficult or too much to handle. You had never turned anyone away. And so, despite knowing the likelihood of rejection, Malleus sent a request.

He had expected nothing to come of it. But instead, he got you.

You had seemed nervous when you first met him, but it wasn’t the type of nervousness he was used to. There was no fear in your eyes, only cautious curiosity—an instinctive wariness, perhaps, but not rejection. And despite whatever initial hesitation you had, your hand had reached for his without trembling. You had guided him.

For the first time in over a decade, Malleus had felt light.

And then, the first time you guided him outside a Gate—

That had been a key moment in his life.

He had stepped out, battle-worn, expecting emptiness. And instead—you had waved at him.

You had smiled at him.

He had thought, at first, that perhaps you had simply been assigned to check on him. That maybe it was some unspoken duty, a requirement of your role. But then, as if that warmth weren’t enough, you had asked him to coffee.

He had expected a quiet outing, a moment to rest and speak with you in a more peaceful setting. Instead, Lilia, Sebek, and Silver had shown up, disguises both laughable and obvious, as if the flimsy mustaches and oversized trench coats could fool anyone. He had braced himself for your irritation, for exasperation or a resigned sigh.

But instead—you had laughed.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, you had welcomed them to join you.

That had been the moment he first thought, perhaps, he liked you.

The first time you had brought him hot chocolate would forever be etched into Malleus’ memory.

It had been a bitterly cold night, the kind where the air cut through even the thickest of coats, where breath curled in the air like mist, and the sky was so crisp and clear that it felt endless.

The battle had left him drained, his energy worn thin in a way he had long since grown accustomed to. He hadn’t expected you to be there. There had been no reason for you to wait for him—you could have guided someone else, finished your duties quickly, and gone home to rest.

But instead, there you were.

Sitting on a bench, bundled in layers, your arms crossed to hold in whatever warmth you could, with two cups of hot chocolate in your hands. You had waved at him like it was the most normal thing in the world, like of course you were waiting for him. Like of course you had brought him something warm to drink.

He had been so startled by the sight that for a moment, he simply stood there, staring, trying to commit every detail to memory. The way the streetlights cast a soft glow against your skin, the way your breath curled in the cold, the way your fingers tapped against the side of the cup as you held it out to him.

He had taken it without a word, still dazed, still trying to process why you had done this. And then, as if you hadn’t just shaken the very foundation of his existence, you had grinned and asked him to take you out for coffee again.

Malleus had never known such warmth, even in the frigid winter.

Then there was the day he had waited for you.

He had been standing outside the guidance center, patiently waiting for you to finish your duties. It had been something of a habit by then—he always waited for you when he could, just as you waited for him. He enjoyed the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him, the way you always greeted him like you had been expecting to see him there.

But that day, when you finally stepped outside, there was no warm smile, no familiar greeting. Instead, you stormed out, eyes blazing, frustration radiating off you in waves. Malleus had barely opened his mouth to ask what was wrong before you grabbed his wrist and started dragging him down the street.

He followed without hesitation, allowing you to pull him along, his mind still catching up to what was happening. You had led him straight to your usual café, barely stopping to take a breath as you shoved the door open and beelined for your favorite spot. Malleus sat across from you, watching with quiet curiosity as you fumed, hands clenched around your menu, your foot tapping aggressively against the floor.

And then, as the tension in your shoulders refused to ease, as you let out a frustrated huff and glared at your drink like it had personally offended you, you had finally told him what had made you so upset.

They had questioned you. They had asked how you had bewitched him, of all people. Like he was some trophy, some untouchable relic that no one had dared lay claim to until you had somehow managed to crack the code. They had assumed that if he were harmless enough to guide, then they would have taken him for themselves. They had spoken about him like he was something to be owned.

Malleus had expected you to be upset. What he hadn’t expected was for you to be so furious on his behalf.

And he shouldn’t have liked it—shouldn’t have felt anything beyond quiet gratitude for your defense of him. But there was something ugly in his chest, something selfish and dark that thrived off the way your anger was so fiercely his.

For so long, people had feared him, had rejected him, had kept him at a distance out of self-preservation. And yet, here you were, not just standing by his side, but fighting for him, defending him, choosing him.

And he wanted that.

He wanted the way you almost stormed into battle for him. He wanted the way your voice shook with anger because you cared about how he was treated. He wanted the way you grabbed his wrist without hesitation, the way you dragged him to this café because he was the person you sought out in your frustration.

He wanted you.

And as you finally sighed, your anger fading just enough for you to take a sip of your drink, Malleus came to a quiet realization.

He had liked you before. But now?

Now, he was falling.

Malleus had never expected to be offered guidance by anyone else.

It had never once crossed his mind as a possibility—he had long since grown used to being avoided, used to the way others hesitated to even meet his eyes, let alone reach out to him. The moment he stepped out of the Gate, still feeling the lingering exhaustion of battle, he had been prepared to find you, as he always did.

And yet, instead of you, there was someone else.

A guide—one he recognized, one who had been among those who had always turned away from him before. And now, suddenly, they were standing before him, offering their assistance as if it were something he needed, as if he should be grateful.

Malleus didn’t even consider it.

How could he? How could anyone else fill the space that was meant for you? How could he even entertain the thought of accepting someone else’s hand when your hand was the only one he ever wanted to hold?

So he simply stepped past them, not bothering to spare them a second glance, not wasting a single breath on an answer. Because they were irrelevant.

Because you were there.

And the moment he spotted you, standing just a few steps away with that bright, warm expression that was meant only for him, he felt something in his chest ease. Like everything had shifted back into place, like the air had cleared, like he was where he was supposed to be.

And when you laughed, really laughed, like this was all some great joke only the two of you were in on, he thought it might be his favorite sound in the world.

And then you took his hand, and the moment your fingers intertwined with his, he knew with absolute certainty—there was no one else for him. There never could be.

And then you kissed him.

For all his years, for all his strength, for all his wisdom, Malleus Draconia had never once been prepared for this.

You had grabbed him, pulled him in, and pressed your lips to his, and Malleus had let out an embarrassingly surprised sound before his instincts took over, before his hands found their way to your waist, before he was kissing you back like he had been waiting for this moment for centuries.

And maybe he had been.

Because when you pulled back, just far enough to whisper, “I like you, Malleus,” he felt like the world had stopped spinning, like time itself had come to a halt just to give him this moment, just to let him have this.

And when he smiled, it was because it felt like you had just handed him the world.

So he kissed your forehead, let his lips linger against your skin, and whispered against you, “I have feelings for you too.”

And when you leaned against him, when you let yourself rest against his chest, Malleus felt something settle in his soul.

He was home.

Then you asked him to bond.

And Malleus hesitated.

Not because he didn’t love you—he did. He had never loved anything the way he loved you.

But because he was afraid.

Because bonding with him meant forever. It meant you would be tied to him, it meant you would never be able to guide anyone else, it meant that if one day you woke up and realized you regretted him—realized you wanted something else, something more, something that wasn’t him—then you would be trapped.

And he could not, would not, allow that to happen to you.

So he had told you no. Not because he didn’t want you, not because he didn’t ache for you in ways he could never put into words, but because he would die before he let you shackle yourself to him forever.

And then you had kissed him.

Hard.

You had pressed him into the bed, breathless and unyielding, your lips against his like you were trying to prove something.

And maybe you were.

Because when you finally pulled back, when your fingers threaded through his hair and your forehead rested against his, you whispered, “You’re the best decision I’ve ever made.”

And Malleus—Malleus, who had spent his entire life waiting to be chosen, waiting to be wanted—felt his walls crumble.

So he let himself believe you.

He let himself hope.

And when he kissed you again, when he let his hands roam over your skin and let himself take you, it wasn’t just an acceptance of your love.

It was a promise.

A promise that no matter what, no matter where life took you, no matter how much time passed—he would always be yours.

And as the bond settled between you, as he felt the pull of your soul entwining with his, Malleus let himself hope for more.

He hoped you would be with him forever.

You woke up feeling warm.

Not just from the blankets wrapped around you, or the way the room was still dim from the early morning light, but from the way Malleus was wrapped around you.

His arms held you firm but gentle, his breath soft against your forehead, his body curled protectively around yours. It was comfort in its purest form.

You smiled, still basking in the afterglow of your bond, and tilted your head up to kiss him.

Malleus stirred, letting out a sleepy hum as his lips curved into a small, contented smile against yours. His eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep, and you both just… looked at each other.

The love in his gaze was overwhelming.

So, naturally, you asked the most important question of your life.

"Was the egg picture that Lilia showed me actually you?"

Malleus blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then, to your absolute delight, he looked flabbergasted.

"You—" He stopped, as if trying to process the sheer absurdity of your first words after bonding. "That is the first thing you wish to ask me?"

You nodded, completely serious. "I've been meaning to ask for a while."

And then—

Malleus laughed.

Laughed and laughed.

Deep and rich, his chest vibrating against yours as his entire body shook with amusement.

You pouted and waited for him to get it together, only for him to kiss your forehead, still grinning.

"Yes," he admitted, eyes twinkling. "That was me."

You gasped. Vindication.

Finally.

The mystery that had plagued you for months was solved.

With a triumphant little noise, you snuggled back into him, pressing your face against his chest as sleep threatened to claim you again.

Malleus chuckled, tucking you closer, and as he rested his chin atop your head, he couldn’t help but think—

Despite your eccentricities, he had never been happier than being yours.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #malleus x reader #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia #twisted wonderland malleus #malleus draconia x you #guideverse x reader #guideverse #࣪ ִֶָ☾. guideverse

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cowboybeepboop · 10 months ago

Text

Desire

“Anything you want, baby,” he murmurs, his voice strained with desire. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x fem! Reader

Genre: Friends to lovers, romantic smut

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: Your feelings for Jake resurface after you tried to push them away, leading to an extremely intimate night with your best friend.

a/n: I really hope there's still an audience for Top Gun Maverick smut because I really loved writing for Hangman and Rooster. Also, I’m currently working on the requests in my inbox but as always feel free to send any my way! I hope you enjoy <3

You're best friends with Jake, in fact you're the only one who he doesn't seem to have an attitude with. Working at The Hard Deck allows you to see him even more frequently, which you truly enjoy.

You know not to get too attached to him, you know how he is with women, you know that given the chance he would simply fuck you and leave your life forever. So of course you’ve entirely given up on the chance of ever being anything more than just his friend, his best friend.

The doors swing open with Mav and his team bounding in, he greets Penny, glancing over at you as you lean over a table obviously lost in thought.

“What are all of you doing here? I’m not even open yet,” she starts to scold but Maverick brushes her comment off.

“I thought you could make an exception for us,” he shoots her a sly grin and she rolls her eyes. Hangman gives you a gentle pat on the back as he passes you, saying a soft hello.

Phoenix chuckles as she stands in front of you, “Hey Y/N,” you groan in response.

“Hey, bagman.” Phoenix addresses the blond who's standing at the pool table, “What's up with Y/N?” Hangman turns toward Phoenix and raises an eyebrow in response to her question. He didn't seem particularly interested in the conversation, but his attention was piqued nonetheless.

"Hm? Oh, Y/N? What about her?" he said, leaning against the pool table with a nonchalant tone.

“I mean, just look at her. She looks like she's got something on her mind.” she says, nodding in your direction. Their gazes fall on you, watching as you wipe the same place over and over. He approaches you with a frown on his face, clearly noticing your distracted state.

He stands in front of you, his arms folded across his chest, and observes you silently. "You look like you're in another world, sweetheart," he finally says in a low voice, tilting his head to get a better look at your face.

You glance up at him, letting out a soft sigh. “Yeah, something like that.” you mutter.

“Well, don't just say that and not give me the details.” he raises an eyebrow, watching the way you look away. Something was definitely on your mind, he could tell by the look on your face alone. He knew you all too well, and your usual mood was certainly not this solemn.

He leaned down a bit, making sure he was in your field of vision again, his arms still crossing his chest. “Come on, you can tell me. What's going on?” he prodded, a hint of concern in his voice.

“It’s nothing,” your expression softens as you toss the rag into the red bucket under the counter.

“Oh, really now?” he says with a doubtful tone. He knew you were lying straight to his face, you were usually a pretty terrible liar. He leans against the counter a little bit, keeping his eyes on you. “I know there’s something going on in that pretty little head of yours. So spill it.” He spoke in a firm tone, trying to get you to open up to him.

“It's just,” you purse your lips as you choose your words carefully, making sure he doesnt find out you're talking about him. “Just some guy, has me distracted.”

“A guy?” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. There was something off about the way you spoke, like you were intentionally being vague. But his curiosity quickly shifted into jealousy as you mentioned you were distracted by another guy.

His arms tensed across his chest as he leaned a little closer towards you. “Who is this guy? Is he bothering you?” he asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice. He didn’t like the idea of someone else capturing your attention, let alone making you distracted.

“Don’t worry your pretty head over it.” you tease him, your mood becoming a bit more lighthearted.

He rolled his eyes at your teasing, a small hint of a smile appearing on his face. But he was still determined to figure out who this other guy was, who was taking your attention away from him.

He pushed off the counter, moving to stand in front of you so that you were now face to face. “Come on, spill it. Who is this guy?” he said, a hint of insistence in his voice.

“I don’t want to make you jealous.” There was a hint of a smirk on his face as you mentioned making him jealous. He knew you were teasing him, but his competitive nature couldn’t resist the challenge.

“Oh, you think I’d get jealous?” he said, a hint of mock arrogance in his tone. “I don’t get jealous, sweetheart.” you think for a second, realizing that maybe getting advice from the man who's bothering you so much, might actually be your best option.

“Fine,” you pull yourself up on the counter, sitting on the edge in front of him. “He’s an ass sometimes, all he cares about is getting laid so I know I need to stay away. But.. I just can’t stop thinking about him.” you sigh.

Hangman looks a bit surprised by your admission, he wasn’t expecting you to be so blunt about the situation. He wants to tell you to forget about the guy and focus your attention on him instead, but he knows he doesn’t have any claim over you.

He leans against the counter next to you, his arms resting across his chest once again. “Sounds like a player, why bother with him?” he asks, trying to sound indifferent.

“I don't know, it’s just that he's always on my mind.” you lean back on your palms, “I guess that's why I’m so distracted today.” He can see the hint of frustration and confusion in your expression, it was clearly bothering you that this guy was constantly invading your thoughts.

He’s silent for a moment, his mind racing with different thoughts and feelings. But eventually he speaks, his voice low and firm. “You can do so much better than some player,” he says with a slight scoff, “You don’t need a guy like him in your life.”

Your eyes wander across his face as you sigh, “I know..” your voice trails off. He looks down at you, noticing the way your eyes are wandering across his face. He can see the hint of disappointment in your expression, as you admit that you know you can do better.

He steps a bit closer to you, his eyes never leaving your face. “So why bother with him then? Why waste your time and energy thinking about a guy who doesn’t deserve you?"

“I should get back to work.” you smile softly at him, hiding the frustration at his admission. He didn’t want you to go, he wasn’t ready to let the conversation end just yet. The way you smiled softly at him, a hint of frustration in your eyes, made him want to keep talking to you and find out more.

But he knew you had a job to do, and he didn’t want to come off as needy or overbearing. He nods in response to your statement, forcing a small smile back.

“Y/N,” Penny smiles warmly at you, “How about you call it a day?” she presses her hand to your back.

“Are you sure?” you question her, she simply nods at you. You find your way over to the pool table watching the pilots play.

The pilots are in the middle of a game of pool, laughing and teasing each other as they take turns shooting. Hangman in particular is clearly enjoying himself, relishing in the competitive atmosphere. He knows he's good at pool, and he's not afraid to show it.

He’s the first to notice your approach, and his demeanor changes slightly. He glances at you, a hint of a cocky smile on his face. “Finished working already?” he teases, his eyes watching you intently.

“Yeah, but my ride won't be here for a couple more hours.” you bite down on your bottom lip, gazing at him.

He steps even closer to you, his gaze unwavering. “If you don't want to keep waiting, I can drive you home.” his voice lowered as he stares down at you.

“Actually that sounds like a great idea,” you smile up at him, thankful you won’t have to stay any later.

He can't help but feel satisfied that you agreed so easily to his offer, pleased that he'll have more time alone with you. He grins back at you, his arms still crossed in front of his chest.

"Alright then, let's get going." he says, jerking his head towards the exit. He places a hand on your lower back, guiding you towards the doors. You wave goodbye to Penny and Mav who are deep in a conversation.

“Do you maybe have time to watch a movie with me?” you fiddle with your fingers, “I mean, it's been a while since we've hung out just the two of us.”

He listens to your question, his mind racing with different thoughts, but he quickly shoves them down. He would do anything to spend more time with you. He pretends to act a bit indifferent, but his voice betrays him as he replies.

"Sure, we can watch a movie." he shrugs, trying not to seem too eager. "Got one in mind?" you reach for the handle of his passenger side door.

“Hm, we could watch anything. I just want to be with you,” you admit carelessly while getting into the car.

He can’t help but feel a flutter in his chest at your admission, his heart races a little bit faster as he watches you get into the car. He quickly gets into the driver’s seat, trying to act like your words don’t affect him.

“Anything, huh?” he teases, glancing over at you quickly as he starts the car. “Even a cheesy romance movie?” he smirks, knowing how much you love them.

You gasp in response, “Obviously, you *know* they're my favorite.” his mind goes back to the discussion you had earlier as you smile at him.

He lets out a soft chuckle at your response, “Of course I do, I can’t forget your obsession with them.” he teases, his eyes staying focused on the road as he drives. But his mind starts to wander again, thinking about your earlier confession.

As his mood shifts slightly, he glances over at you with a hint of a frown on his face. “So, uh, this guy you were talking about,” he says, breaking the silence in the car. “How… how serious are you about him?”

“Hm?” your eyebrows furrow softly. His grip on the steering wheel tightens ever so slightly at your reaction, his eyes staring straight ahead as he continues to drive.

He can’t help the pang of jealousy that runs through him, he glances over at you, his face trying to maintain a nonchalant expression. “I just mean, you said you didn’t want to get in trouble with a guy.” he says, his tone guarded.

“I don’t know.” you sigh looking out the window.

His heart does a backflip at your words, he tries to maintain a neutral expression, but he can’t help the small smirk that appears on his face. “So, you’re single, huh?” he teases, a hint of hope in his voice.

“Mhm, why do you ask?” you question him. He continues to drive, keeping his eyes focused on the road as he answers your question.

“Just wondering,” he replies casually, trying to feign indifference. But he can’t help the nervous energy that’s building inside of him. He glances over at you, his gaze raking over your face thoughtfully. “You know, I’ve been single for a while too,” he adds, an underlying hint in his voice.

“You’re always single,” you retort, “you prefer hook-ups over relationships, right?” you tease him.

He lets out an annoyed huff, not expecting you to tease him like that. His face flushes slightly as he remembers all the past hookups he’s bragged about to you, in an attempt to make you jealous. “Hey,” he says with false annoyance in his voice, “I can be in a relationship if I wanted to.”

“And would you want to?” you question as he pulls into the parking lot of your building.

He parks the car, his heart racing slightly at your question. He turns to look at you, hesitating for a moment. The thought of being in a relationship, with you, was something he’d fantasized about for a while. But he’s also a coward, terrified of being vulnerable and getting hurt.

He takes a deep breath, trying to maintain a casual composure. “Maybe, if it was the right person.” he finally responds, his eyes searching your face for a reaction. You nod in response, slightly disappointed with his answer.

“Who’s your right person?” your voice is quiet. He’s taken aback by your question, the subtle disappointment in your voice stabbing at his heart. He glances down, his mind racing with different thoughts and emotions.

He takes a deep breath, his eyes shifting back up to meet yours. His heart pounds even faster as he musters up the courage to answer you. “Well.. I think you already know.” your eyes widen at his implication, feeling his hand moving to cup your cheek.

He can see the surprise in your eyes as he cups your cheek gently, his thumb stroking your skin softly. His heart is racing as he looks down at you, his eyes searching your expression for a reaction.

He takes a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak. “Do you… do you feel the same way?” he asks, his voice soft and nervous.

“Jake.. I.” your heart races as your words get stuck in your throat. His chest clenches as you struggle to speak, his stomach in knots as he waits for your response. His hand is still gently caressing your cheek, his eyes never leaving your face.

He swallows hard, trying to maintain his composure. “Please, just tell me. I need to know.” he says, his voice quiet but firm. Finding yourself speechless, you respond by pressing your lips to his.

He’s taken by surprise by your action, his eyes widening for a split second before he responds to your kiss. A wave of relief and happiness washes over him as he feels your lips against his, his heart racing with excitement and disbelief as he realizes the asshole you were talking about earlier just so happens to be him.

He moans softly against your mouth, his hand moving to the back of your head, his fingers burying into your hair as he kisses you back, passionately and hungrily. You lean closer to him, your hands cupping his cheeks as he slips his tongue into your mouth.

He deepens the kiss, his tongue twirling with yours. He can’t believe this is actually happening, that you feel the same way he does.

He pulls you closer, his hands gripping your hips and guiding you onto his lap. He moans against your lips, his hands roaming down your sides, his touch both gentle and desperate at the same time.

“Jake,” you whisper against his lips, feeling his bulge pressed against your heat. He shudders hearing his name leaving your lips, his eyes darkening with desire for you. He can’t help but moan softly as he feels your body pressed against his, his hips instinctively bucking up slightly in response.

He pulls you even closer, his hands gripping your thighs, his lips trailing down your neck. “Sweetheart,” he breathes, “I want you so damn bad.” you moan quietly, leaning into his touch.

“We need to go inside,” your voice and gaze are filled with desire. His heart races at your moan, his body aching with need for you. He nods in agreement, his eyes filled with the same desire.

“You’re right, we should go.” he mutters, his hands roaming over your hips, unable to keep himself from touching you.

He lifts you off his lap, opening the car door and practically dragging you out with him. He shuts the door behind you before pulling you towards the building’s entrance, his eyes filled with impatience and lust.

He presses you against the wall of the elevator, his hands roaming over your body, exploring every inch of exposed skin. His lips trail down your neck, leaving a trail of heated kisses in their wake.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” he mutters against your skin, his voice thick with desire. He kisses and nips at your neck, unable to get enough of you, your soft moans fill the cramped space.

He can’t help but smirk to himself as he hears your moans, his heart racing as he realizes he’s the one making you feel this way. He feels a surge of pride and satisfaction knowing he’s the one who has your heart racing and your body yearning.

“Jake, fuck, you’re driving me crazy.” The ding of the elevator pulls you both out of your trance as the doors open, revealing the empty hallway. He grabs your hand, practically dragging you towards your apartment.

You fumble with the doorknob as you unlock it, feeling his desperate hands around your waist.

He can't keep his hands off you, his fingers tracing the exposed skin of your waist as you fiddle with the keys. Impatience floods him, his desire growing with every second.

He presses himself against you from behind, his lips finding your neck once again. "Hurry up," he mutters against your skin, his breath hot against your ear. "I need you, right now."

You pull the door open, smirking at his impatience. He traps you between his arms, your back pressed against the closed door, his body pressed firmly against yours. He gazes down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of desire and possessiveness.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters, his voice hoarse and low. He leans down and captures your lips in a fierce and passionate kiss, his body desperate to get closer to you.

You press against him, your palms against his lower abs, as you lead him to your bedroom blindly. He follows your lead through the apartment, his lips never leaving yours. His body is on fire, the feeling of your hands on his abs driving him wild.

He pushes you against the doorframe of your bedroom, his body pinning you to it as he continues to kiss you deeply and hungrily. He can't get enough of your mouth, his tongue tasting every inch of it. He slips his knee between your thighs, pressing into your sensitive pussy. You moan into his mouth, your eyebrows scrunching in pleasure.

His knee presses against your sensitive core, his tongue exploring your mouth greedily. He can hear your moans, your breath hitching as he presses into you. He feels a surge of satisfaction as he knows he’s the one who makes you feel this way.

He nips at your bottom lip, his hands roaming down your sides, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. “You like that, sweetheart?” he mutters, his voice low and hoarse. “You want more?”

“Please,” you grasp onto his sides, moaning desperately, “I need more please.”

He can hear the desperation in your voice, your fingers gripping his sides. His heart aches at your plea, his body responding instantly to your need.

He moans against your mouth in response, his hands roaming down to your thighs. In one swift motion, he lifts you up with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you into your bedroom.

He gently but firmly presses you against the plush comforter of your bed, his eyes devouring every inch of your body. The room is bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting shadows across your flushed cheeks and the passionate hunger in his gaze. You can feel the heat emanating from his body, and it sends shivers down your spine.

With a low growl, he starts to peel away the layers of fabric that separate his skin from yours. His rough hands glide over your smooth flesh, sending waves of pleasure through your body. Each piece of clothing that falls away reveals more of your beauty to him, and he can't help but moan in appreciation. His eyes are locked onto yours, watching the way your pupils dilate with every touch, every kiss.

He nips at your earlobe before tracing the line of your jaw with his teeth, making you squirm under him. His hands are everywhere, exploring the curves of your body, learning every dip and peak that makes you gasp. His kisses become more fervent, his teeth grazing your neck as he sucks soft hickeys into your skin. You can feel the pressure build, the promise of bruises that will be a secret between the two of you.

Your breath comes in pants as he kisses down your chest, his tongue swirling around your hardened nipples. You arch your back, pushing your breasts closer to his eager mouth, your hands tangling into his hair. He groans, the vibration of his pleasure echoing through your body, making your core clench with need. His teeth graze the sensitive skin, and you can't help but bite down on your lip to stifle the moan that threatens to escape.

His mouth continues to travel downward, leaving a trail of hot kisses down your stomach. His eyes never leave yours, the hunger in them growing with every inch closer he gets to your wet pussy. You can feel your heart pounding against your ribs, the anticipation of his touch making your skin tingle with excitement.

With surprising gentleness, he spreads your legs apart, his gaze lingering on the wetness that's already gathered there. He groans, his own arousal evident in the tightness of his pants. He leans in, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, and you can't help but moan out his name as he kisses the inside of your thigh.

The first suck is gentle, but firm, and you feel your pussy clench in response. He starts to suck dark hickeys along the sensitive skin, each one a little harder and closer to your center. Your hands tighten in his hair as he works his way closer to your core, the pleasure building with every mark he leaves.

“More, Jake, please!” you beg him, your voice desperate and needy. He chuckles against your skin, his tongue flicking against your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. Your back arches as he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking hard. You moan loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls of your small apartment.

He inserts one finger inside you, feeling the slickness of your arousal. You gasp as he starts to pump in and out, his thumb rubbing circles around your clit, teasing and taunting it. His eyes watch yours as he reads every reaction, making sure to hit all the right spots.

You're close, so close, but he knows you can take more. He adds another finger, stretching you just right, the friction making your toes curl. Your eyes roll back into your head as he starts to pump faster, his mouth never leaving your clit. He feels you tighten around his fingers, the warmth of your orgasm approaching.

He keeps his rhythm steady, not letting up even when your moans turn into whimpers of pleasure. You're so close, your body begging for release. His eyes never leave you, the intensity of the moment causing your chest to heave with every ragged breath. And then it hits you, the orgasm crashing over you like a wave.

You scream his name, your body convulsing with pleasure. He keeps his mouth on you, drinking in your release, savoring the taste of your arousal. As the waves subside, he kisses up your body, his hands still holding you in place.

"You taste so good," he murmurs against your skin, his voice filled with satisfaction. He can feel your legs shaking as his own need for you grows with every second. He strips off his own clothes, his eyes never leaving yours, and then he's on top of you, his body pressing you into the mattress.

He positions himself at your entrance, his cock aching to be inside you. He looks into your eyes, searching for permission, and you nod eagerly. He takes a deep breath, then gently pushes in, feeling your warmth envelop him. You gasp as he stretches you, his eyes never leaving yours, watching for any signs of pain or discomfort.

As he’s fully sheathed in your wetness, he holds still for a moment, savoring the feeling of being connected to you so intimately. He starts to move, his hips rolling in a slow, torturous rhythm. Each time he thrusts into you, your eyes widen and a moan escapes your lips. He loves the way you react to him, the way your body moves with his.

He keeps his movements gentle, not wanting to overwhelm you, despite his own desperate need to claim you completely. His hands are everywhere, stroking your skin, feeling your curves, as he kisses along your jawline. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your legs tightening around his waist.

Your thighs squeeze around him, your heels digging into his back as he continues to thrust into you, deeper and deeper. His movements become more urgent as he feels your body tightening around him, the walls of your pussy clenching down on his cock. You moan his name, urging him to go faster, harder, and he responds eagerly, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm.

You can feel yourself on the edge of another orgasm, your breaths coming in short gasps. Hangman’s eyes are locked on yours, watching the pleasure build in your gaze, feeling the power he has over your body. He can’t believe how beautiful you look, your face contorted in ecstasy, your eyes glazed over with lust.

Your body begins to spasm around him, your pussy clenching down hard. He groans, his hips stuttering as he feels you start to cum. The sensation is overwhelming, your muscles tightening around his cock like a vice, sending waves of pleasure through his body.

With a sudden jolt, he pulls out of you, unable to hold back any longer, his cock spurting cum onto your stomach with a loud groan. His eyes never leave your body, watching as your orgasm takes over, your pussy pulsing and gripping at nothing.

He's left breathless, his chest heaving as he looks down at you, his expression one of awe and satisfaction. He leans down, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, before his eyes drift down to the mess he's made of you.

He watches as your eyes flutter shut, your body trembling with the pleasure he’s given you. He can’t help but feel a sense of pride and satisfaction at the sight of your beautiful, sated body.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire and exhaustion. His eyes rake over your form, taking in every curve and plane, every mark he’s left behind.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he mutters, his fingers tracing the lines of his bites and hickeys on your skin.

“Now let's get you cleaned up, hm?” He lifts you up, wrapping his strong arms around you, and carries you to the bathroom. He turns on the shower, letting the water run until it warms up, before placing you gently under the spray.

He steps in after you, his body pressing against yours as he begins to lather your body with soap, his hands moving over your skin gently but possessively. You exhale contentedly as you press into his chest, relaxing in his embrace.

He holds you close, his arms encircling you, as the water cascades over your bodies. His hands run over your body, washing away the sweat and evidence of your passionate encounter. Jake nuzzles his face in your hair, inhaling your scent, a sense of peace washing over him. He murmurs sweet nothings in your ear, his voice low and soothing.

“You’re not just fucking around with me are you?” your voice is uneasy as your stomach twists with anxiety. He freezes, taken aback by your vulnerable question. He can hear the anxiety in your voice, and it pierces his heart.

He pulls away slightly, turning your body to face his, cupping your face gently in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes are intense but filled with understanding.

“No. No, sweetheart, I’m not just ‘fucking around with you’.” His voice is firm but tender. “What we did tonight, it meant something to me. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. You mean way too much to me.” your eyes soften as his gaze into yours with sincerity.

“Good, because I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.” you bite down on your lip. He feels a rush of tenderness and protectiveness wash over him as he hears your sincere words. He pulls you closer, your wet bodies pressed against each other, his arms encircling you in a firm embrace.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” he mutters against your hair, his voice filled with a mixture of vulnerability and possessiveness. “You’re all I want too, sweetheart. You have no idea how much I need you.”

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nanamisgirly · 2 months ago

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pussy slapping with your maths teacherྀི

based on this ask (I hope the anon will like it🙂‍↕️)

next part

you knew the email meant trouble the second it landed in your inbox.

subject : “Homework 6 — Integrity Dicussion.” from : [email protected]

so now you're standing outside his office door, palms sweating, thighs pressed together in your miniskirt like that might save you from the cheating homework you assigned. it's not like you're scared of Gojo. he's just your goofy annoyingly attractive nerd math professor. the man wears Gundam socks with his loafers, makes calculus puns, and has a signed photo of Neil deGrasse Tyson on his bookshelf like it's a family heirloom.

but he also happens to have shoulders like a swimmer, hands big enough to palm a basketball, and a mouth made for sin that he hides behind dump jokes with his stupidly slutty glasses. you're not into him or anything tho, you're just not blind.

your knuckles tap against the door.

“come in,” he calls, voice low. too low actually.

you step in, closing the door behind you.

the first thing you see are the posters of fractals and famous math equations—not surprising. in the other hand, what is really surprising is the life-size cardboard cutout of the pokémon Blastoise. what the fuck is that?

your surprise doesn't stop there, as your eyes land on the chunky old Casio calculator sitting on his desk next to a mug that says, “i'm a cute professor <3”.

he's seated at his desk, glasses on, sleeves rolled to the elbows showing strong forearms scribbled in veins, one ankle resting over the opposite knee like he's got all the time in the world. a lopsided smile appears as he asks “you're nervous ?”

you scoff, clutching your handbag a little tighter. “i'm not.” he's the one to talk—how would anyone look comfortable in a office looking like this?

“mmh. tell yourself that.” he leans, pulls open a drawer and slides out your homework. he taps the edge the paper as he hold it in the air. “you handed your homework last week. and you scored…a beautiful 97.” he tilts his head, gauging your reaction.

you're feeling a bit too hot now, sweats trickling down your spine, but you try to hold it together. you feign innocence, “yeah, incredible isn't it?” you say, rolling your eyes to play it cool.

he hums thoughtfully. “sure… if you hadn't cheated.”

you swallow, crossing your arms as you cock a hip “a girl scores high and suddenly some old grump of a man's offended by it. what a world we live in.”

gojo leans back in his chair, gaze sliding over your form—lingering a bit too long on your thighs. “is that how it is?" he hums, eyes flicking up to meet yours "just a bitter old man then?” the corner of his mouth twitches like he's trying not to grin

he clicks his tongue and leans back further, arms spreading across the armchair like he owns the place. he does, actually. his knees spread too—annoyingly wide, “look, we both know you didn't do these problems yourself. and you're gonna redo it. right here. right now. on me.”

your lips part. “gojo—”

“professor gojo,” he corrects, tone maddeningly even. “you don't want me to call the Academic Integrity Committee, do you?”

you glance down at his thighs, then back up. “you're a math professor. Not my—”

“—brat tamer?” he cuts in smoothly, raising a brow without blinking.

you go still. your jaw clenches, heat crawling up the back of your neck. he's so smug. smug and patient and infuriatingly unfazed.

you step forward and settle on his lap—hovering, refusing to fully sit. if he thinks you're gonna give in that easily, he's dead wrong. you don't care if your thighs start shaking. you'll squat until the apocalypse if you have to.

“ah—!” a squeal rips out of you when his hands clamp around your hips, big and warm and decidedly firm as he drags you down until you're fully seated, straddling his lap. your miniskirt hikes up dangerously high in the process, your bare thighs pressed tight to his slacks.

his breath hitches, almost imperceptibly. you probably wouldn't have noticed if you weren't so hyper-aware of every single shift in the room.

“problem one,” he says, casually putting your paper on the desk like he isn't now rock-hard beneath you like a complete weirdo. his hands stay planted on your thighs, thumbs stroking idly, but his voice stays cold. unbothered, professional almost.

keyword : almost.

you swallow hard, cheeks burning from the sheer proximity—his firm chest pressed to your back, white fluffy hair brushing every time he leans in. his scent clings to your skin—clean linen, cologne, and chalk dust—it's driving you insane. and those damn impossible formulas staring up at you on the paper—differential equations, matrix exponentials, fucking laplace transforms. couldn't he have picked basic calculus ?

your brain is short-circuiting. and the little laughs of the far-too-good-looking-with-his-glasses-pushed-low-on-his-nose professor is doing nothing to ease your nerves. “solve the matrix for the homogeneous system.” your spine stiffens as his voice is nothing but hot air dragging goosebumps up your neck.

“c'mon, engineer girl. use that big brain of yours.” you let out a shaky exhale, trying to focus on the paper even while his fingers toy with the hem of your panties. he hasn't even really touched you, but you're feeling your panties clinging to you—embarrassingly wet.

“one over s-squared plus four?” you try something, mind too fuzzy to think. your breath catches as his fingertips trace your clothed slit—oh very so slowly. he doesn't bother pressing, just lets the fabric catch and soak even more.

“gojo, what are you—”

“professor,” he reminds you, tone suddenly sharp. “and…” he's turning his head, cheek brushing yours as he watches your teeth dig in your bottom lip “no guessing.” you shudder, thighs trembling on his thick one.

that’s ridiculous how sensitive you were from featherlight touches…you’re better than that..so why are your wetting your thighs by seconds ?

“from now on,” his fingers slip beneath the damp lace, two digits brushing your folds, “you get every problem right, you're so good at pretending to be smart—but be smart.” his hand curls back up—cupping your pussy, applying steady pressure to your aching clit through the underwear. your thighs squeeze together instinctively, the heat unbearable.

you stare at the same problem, chest rising and falling in heavy breath. “a-a inverse time b—?” you offer weakly.

a low, pitying sound escapes him.

smack.

“wrong again.” the sudden sharp slap on your cunt makes your entire body jolts in his lap, your ass pressing harder against his cock. your head drops forward, tears prickling your lashes, hips twitching in a pathetic attempt at friction.

it"s so humiliating. that nerd of a teacher. fuck.

“uh-huh, don't move, sweetie. who told you you get to grind on my thigh?” he grabs your jaw with his free hand, forcing you to meet his glacier-blue eyes glinting behind crooked glasses. “let's try again. if f(t) = sin(3t), then what's the Laplace transform?” his breath ghosts over your cheek, one hand directing your gaze to the paper like you aren't already losing your mind.

your mind scrambles, your pussy pulses, and you're cursing the world for putting you in this situation. you can't even help it, it just feels so good.

your voice breaks on a moan, nothing reflecting your angry mind “three… over…squared plus n-nine—”

gojo groans softly, cock twitching under your ass. “there she is,” he mutters, hand sliding down to rub rough circles against your clit. “smart and fuckable? you might be my new favorite little project sweetie.”

and just as a whimper leaves your lips—the second your hips barely roll forward in a desperate grind—he yanks his hand away.

“what did i say?” he asks, calmly adjusting his glasses like he's not the filthiest thing on earth right now. “no grinding. one right answer doesn't mean you get to cum. you've got four more questions, we're far from done.”

he lands another slap on your clit—scarily precise. “i get to edge you again. and again. until your poor little cunt forgets what cumming even feels like.” you sob his name as he pulls your underwear taut between your fat lips, the soaked lace dragging cruelly against your swollen clit. you shove your fist into your mouth, biting it to stay quiet.

he dips his fingers back into the ruined mess between your legs. not inside—never inside apparently. he's probably a psychopathe who loves skimming his student's pussy entrance, circling it like a threat.

“if you get all the five right tho," he murmurs darkly, "i'll bend you over this desk and fuck you, raw, with your nose pressed onto that test," your walls clench hard at his words—and he feels it, obviously…

smirking into your hair, he adds, “you'd love that, of course you would. so go on, sweetie. show me you're not just a brainless little brat. show me how much of a perfect slut you are for good grades.”

you swear once you'll get all your mind together, you're gonna make him regret everything. that cocky, small-dick bastard—acting like he's got a big game between his thighs.

a nerd like him, isn't packing enough to pleasure you. right?

^⌯𖥦⌯^

a/n aaaand we thanks my bachelor in engineer for my knowledge ☝🏼 tho i hope you enjoyed reading this, i don’t think it’s perfect buuut i tried :))) let me know 🫶🏻

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piastriprincess · 2 months ago

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caught up in circles ⸻ oscar piastri x reader .

featuring oscar piastri , time loop , f1 med staff!reader , strangers to lovers , slow burn . tw one crash , z*k br*wn and chr*stian h*rner mentions lol word count 9.9k author’s note this one is for my piastri princesses ! aka it’s all about oscar and entirely self - indulgent but i hope you all like it too ! inspired by palm springs - one of my favorite movies which for some reason made me think of osc the last time i was watching it <3 this is lowkey long as hell but in my opinion it’s worth it . as always let me know what you think , and my inbox is open for requests ! i’m hoping to have an event up in the next couple of days too . love you all MWAH ! title is from time after time by cyndi lauper .

Oscar always wakes up before his alarm goes off.

He doesn’t bother checking the date anymore. Sunday, May 25, 2025 — the 82nd annual Monaco Grand Prix. It’s sunny outside, a cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly over the glittering harbor. It seems like the perfect day for racing, though it will grow overcast around the 32nd lap and rain will cover the Fairmont Hairpin by lap 41. Lance Stroll always hits the turn going too fast on his inters and skids into the barriers. Oscar knows everything about the day, down to his bones. After all, today will be the 57th time he’s lived it.

By now, his morning routine doesn’t run on instinct so much as muscle memory. He brushes his teeth, calls his mum and tells her he loves her, listens to her tell him you’ve got this, Osc (which is entirely ironic to him now, because he affirmatively does not “got this.” In fact, he thinks this might be the first time he’s ever done anything 56 times without improving at it even an ounce). He shaves, not because he needs to, but because he knows his stubble will start itching by the time he gets to the media pen. He puts on the team kit that’s always neatly folded on his chair when he wakes, even when he leaves it crumpled on his bedroom floor the night before. At least reliving the same day over and over means he never has to do his laundry.

Here’s what he knows so far (a list, meticulously kept in one of his McLaren notebooks). He’s tentatively titled it Oscar Piastri’s Guide to the Time Loop.

Number one: the loop resets every day when he falls asleep.

It doesn’t matter if he makes it past midnight; doesn’t matter if he drinks an absurd and frankly dangerous amount of Red Bulls and drives from Monaco to Woking in one caffeine-crazed night; doesn’t matter if he flies home to Australia after the race, pinching himself to stay awake for the entire twenty-hour flight. The second his eyes close, he wakes up back in Monte Carlo, the sunlight streaming through his curtains.

Number two: he can alter the day.

There are some things that are always the same, of course. The team polo on his chair. The rain on the hairpin. The offhand crack Lando makes about him having no social life — a joke that was funny the first time, but gets increasingly cruel every time it repeats. But things can change, too. He can walk a different way through the paddock. He can have different conversations, though nobody remembers them when the day resets. He can drive the race differently, drive it better. Although, even in 55 races (his gearbox crapped out before the start of the race on Day 16), he hasn’t won yet.

Number three: he can’t die.

Can’t even get injured, really. He’d gotten a couple bruises and scrapes that seemed to heal overnight, but he’d actually confirmed the theory just a couple loops ago. He made a desperate push to pass Charles on the Nouvelle Chicane, and the back end of the car just… slid out from underneath him. There was a moment, brief and terrifying and calm all at once, that he thought that might be it. The only way out. Then he slammed into the barrier, and the carbon fiber crumpled like paper around him. It’s all bits and pieces, what he can remember after that — fire licking up the back wing, the frantic radio messages in his ears, the flashing lights of the safety car, the med staff swarming the track. Someone he’d never seen before pulling him out of the car, speaking to him in a slightly panicked voice. Blinking up at their face through the haze of pain before he lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bed on Sunday morning, not a scratch on him.

The analytical conclusion Oscar has come to, after 56 days of testing, note-taking, and driving in circles both literal and existential, is that he’s trapped. Inexplicably, inescapably trapped in a day that never really changes, and he can’t for the life of him figure his way out.

When he gets to the paddock on Day 57, everything is the same. He takes pictures with a few fans as he walks in, jogs slightly to catch up with Lando up ahead, who throws an arm around him like it’s second nature and claps him on the back. They qualified P2-P3, a solid result for the team. (In the first grand prix, on what Oscar’s now calling Day 1, Lando surprised him, pipping him to second place after an absolutely vicious overtake at the first corner. Oscar hasn’t let him pull that move again for 56 days.)

Today, he just chats idly to Lando as they walk about the upcoming race, about team strategy, about the stupid TikTok that marketing is forcing them to do later in the day. Then they round the corner towards the team hub, and Oscar nearly trips over thin air, because someone is standing there.

No one is supposed to be standing there. Oscar’s learned to control variables, gotten used to experimenting and predicting what’s coming next, because nothing ever changes until he changes it. And never, not once in the fifty-six Sundays that came before this one, has a stranger been standing in front of his driver’s room, spinning their lanyard around their fingers with their eyes fixed on him like they’ve been waiting for him.

“Hey, Piastri,” the stranger says, voice tight but polite in the way that his own gets when he’s trying not to freak out in public. He walks closer, and panic slices cleanly through him. Because you’re not a stranger. He knows your voice, your face. You’re the person who pulled him out of the car after the crash. The last thing he saw before the loop reset.

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you continue, voice pitching higher, teetering on the razor’s edge of fear.

He thinks he might forget how to breathe. “Shoot.”

“You crashed two days ago,” you say, and his pulse spikes under his skin. “Pretty spectacularly, actually. I pulled you out of the car, but you were already going under. I was—I was sure you were dead.” You pause, running a hand through your hair. “Cried about it twice. It was, like, the worst day at work ever. And now…” You trail off, like you’re afraid to say it, like you think Oscar is going to laugh and call you ridiculous. “I think I’m going insane, or else I’m having the worst recorded case of deja vu in human history, because this is the third day in a row I’ve woken up on Monaco race day, and no one remembers anything that happened the day before.”

“That’s not a question,” Oscar says, dumbly, heart hammering beneath his ribs.

You look up at him, eyes wide like he holds the keys to the universe. “Yeah. My question is: what the hell did you do to me? And how do I make it stop?”

For once, Oscar’s got no answer. Just a cold, creeping realization settling into his chest.

Number four: He can pull people into the loop?

DAY 58

Oscar’s rational. He’s reasonable. He doesn’t believe in magical thinking: he believes in statistics, logic, in systems that can be measured and tested and solved. Oscar works hard for what he achieves. He doesn’t ever let himself hope, doesn’t think there’s a need for it when you have skill and diligence on your side.

But when he wakes up the next morning before his alarm, staring up at the ceiling like he has every day for the past 58 days, he really hopes you’ll be at the paddock.

Which, statistically speaking, is not likely. The rest of your conversation yesterday had… not gone well, to say the least. He’d tried to ease you into it quietly, carefully, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. He’d pulled the small McLaren notebook from his back pocket, frayed at the corners now, dog-eared from overuse. He’d held it out to you, as if it might bridge the gap. “Here. I started this on Day 3. It explains everything.”

You hadn’t taken it. You’d just stared at him like he’d sprouted three heads.

“It’s not just you,” Oscar had said, as gently as he could. “It’s the same Sunday for me, too. This is the 57th time I’ve lived it.”

You’d let out a laugh, shaky and high-pitched. “That’s—that’s not possible. You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m very much not,” he’d said dryly. “The first time I ever saw you was Day 55, after the crash. And this morning, you’re here. That’s never happened before.”

You’d blinked, color draining from your cheeks, fingers tightening around your badge like you were about to bolt. “So you think it’s my fault?”

“No,” he’d assured you, instantly. “No. I don’t know why it’s happening. We’re just both… stuck. That’s all.”

“You sound like you’ve made peace with that,” you’d said, crossing your arms over your fireproof scrubs, and something in Oscar’s chest had ached at the way your voice trembled around the words.

“Not made peace with it,” he’d shrugged, pasting on a smile that didn’t quite fit on his face. “Just ran out of ideas.” Just haven’t won yet. Haven’t proven myself yet.

“This can’t be happening,” you’d muttered, knuckles going white where you clutched at your medical badge. “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Or we’re both concussed, or something.”

“I get it. I freaked out at first too,” Oscar had replied.

“No, you don’t get it!” you’d snapped, eyes all wildfire. “We’re trapped in time, and you’re acting like it’s another day at the office?”

He’d had to bite back his smile. “Well, it sort of is another day at the office. For both of us.”

“I’m going to fix this,” you’d said, ignoring him. “I’m going to get myself out of this.”

“I’ve tried everything. Tested everything,” Oscar had started to explain, but his voice died in his throat when you looked at him. Really looked — bottom lip stuck out slightly, color high in your cheeks, gaze shaky but defiant. The sight of you made his brain go still.

“No way can you test your way out of this. You might have started this, but I’m going to finish it,” you’d said, and stormed off without waiting for another word.

So. The chances don’t seem great that he’ll see you today. But when he gets to the paddock, he still walks past the medical centre to see if he can catch a glimpse of you, scans every face, just in case — the team members, the med staff, the engineers, every person in the paddock holding a camera or a clipboard or a latte. He even searches the grandstands, is almost late for the driver’s parade. He’s halfway through making up some stupid excuse to Lando before he realizes it doesn’t matter, he won’t remember it anyway.

You’re not here.

It’s to be expected, really. Oscar tried to break out of the loop by force when he first figured it out, too — stayed up for a full 24 hours after the race, drove as far as he could out of Monaco, wrote down every little detail he could remember about Day 1 and tweaked it as much as he possibly could over the next few days. None of it works, but you don’t know that yet. He gets it. It’s fine.

Except there’s something about your absence that makes his chest ache.

The lack of you unsettles him in a way he’s not used to. It’s an odd reaction, Oscar can admit to himself. He doesn’t actually know you. But he’d gotten used to being the only one stuck, found a way to exist in the repetition. Until yesterday, for the first time in nearly two months, when the world suddenly cracked open just enough to let someone else in, to remind Oscar what it was like to be seen. And now, just as suddenly, you’re gone again, and the loneliness feels so much worse than it did before.

He races like shit, somehow gets passed by drivers who have no business overtaking him on a circuit that makes it nearly impossible to drop places. Not that any of it matters.

Not without the only other person who might remember it.

DAY 60

“Osc, where are you going?” Lando asks when he turns right toward the team hub and Oscar starts walking to the left. They’re leaving the morning strategy briefing, which has quickly become Oscar’s least favorite unskippable part of the day (and he’s tried — the team always tracks him down, explaining that it’s crucial he attends. He doesn’t know how to tell them strategy is somewhat pointless when you’ve done the actual race every single day for two months.)

“Med centre,” he answers without thinking. It’s become part of his routine over the past few days. Brush teeth, call mum, shave, drive to the paddock, look for you. But of course, no one else knows that.

“Med centre? Oscar? Are you okay?” Zak’s voice rises about an octave, behind them, and Oscar has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“He’s fine, he’s just aura farming,” Lando giggles, and Oscar’s mouth twists into a grin instead. In a day that loops over and over again, he has to find moments that aren’t completely monotonous. He’s taken to setting up jokes for Lando, letting him hit the punchline. Oscar always laughs, even though he knows exactly what his teammate is going to say half the time. Seeing the pleased smile on Lando’s face is good enough for him to keep doing it.

“Thinks if he walks around the paddock locked in, it’ll add to the whole vibe,” Lando continues, egged on by the grin on Oscar’s face. “Mate, you know the only reason people think you’re mysterious is because you never actually go anywhere.”

The smile fades. Well. It’s nice to know that even when Oscar’s acting weirder than normal, the joke about how he’s the most boring guy in Monaco sticks around.

“Whatever, man. See you later, yeah?” Oscar mutters, hopefully sounding good-natured enough as he goes. He’s got more important shit to do anyway — namely, tracking you down.

He walks by the med centre exactly six times, nearly trips over himself when he sees someone swinging their paddock pass around their fingers. But it’s still not you. He’s starting to worry you’re not coming back. Or maybe, he thinks as he walks dejectedly back across the paddock, you figured out how to get out. And now he’s stuck and alone. By the time he opens the door to his driver’s room, shutting it behind him and leaving himself in the darkness, the surroundings are the perfect fit for his blackened mood.

“So, that didn’t work,” you say from somewhere inside, and Oscar nearly jumps out of his own skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, flipping the lights on to see you sitting cross-legged on the small bed he uses for mid-practice naps, eating Tim Tams. The absolute audacity you have to invade his space, sit on his bed, eat his snacks — he should be annoyed. But for some reason, the sight of you makes just relief spread through his body. “You came back,” he says breathlessly, immediately regretting how stupidly eager the words sound coming out of his mouth.

“I’m back,” you confirm, grinning up at him unfazed as you pop another biscuit in your mouth. “And I think I owe you an apology for how I spoke to you last time. I may have overreacted a little.”

“S’alright,” he says affably. “I did the same thing at the beginning.”

“You drove a moped off the cliff at Pointe-Saint-Martin to see if you could hit the water hard enough to shake yourself out of the loop?” you ask.

Oscar just stares. “You did that?”

“Kind of a mix of Groundhog Day and Palm Springs,” you shrug. “Thought if it worked for them, it might work for me, but I just ended up half-flooding a boat and seriously pissing off a fisherman.”

“Probably needed to drive faster then,” he replies. You roll your eyes in response, but you’re smiling. He can’t quite tell how to read you. It leaves him feeling off-kilter, like when the car snaps around a corner in a way he’s not expecting.

“Clearly taking lessons from time-travel movies didn’t work. But you’re still stuck here too, and I don’t think either of us can do this alone. Time to compare notes, Piastri.” You waggle your fingers in the space between you. “Hand over the book.”

He pulls the notebook out of his pocket automatically, passes it to you. Watches quietly from the doorway as your eyes scan over the pages. He doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t. But your hair keeps falling in your face, and you keep tucking it behind your ear impatiently, and something about the sight makes Oscar’s heart stutter in his chest a little bit.

You look up suddenly, and Oscar goes pink to the tips of his ears, shaking his head slightly as if to clear the thought from his brain. “You weren’t kidding,” you say. “This is extensive. Borderline obsessive.”

“Borderline?” he deadpans, and you laugh. It’s a light sound, almost musical. Oscar can’t remember the last time he made someone laugh without planning for it in advance.

“Okay, completely obsessive,” you agree cheerfully. “But also kind of impressive.” He doesn’t quite know what to say to that; he settles for sitting carefully next to you on the bed as you flip through a few more pages. “You really think winning is the way out?”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only goal I haven’t managed yet. Once I get it perfect, it’ll have to end.”

You grin. “That’s such a driver answer.”

“I do happen to be a driver,” he replies dryly, and you bump your shoulder against his.

“Yeah, but not everything’s about the checkered flag, Piastri,” you say, handing the notebook back to him. He clutches it in his lap, hands curling around it like a lifeline. “What if it’s about… changing? Growing? Something that matters more than racing, at least.”

Nothing matters more than racing, Oscar wants to say. But you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure him out, running over what you know of him in your mind like he’s a puzzle you’re desperate to solve, and he wants to say something that will make you realize you’ve been looking at the pieces all wrong. To unbalance you the way you do to him.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” you say, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, and Oscar realizes he’s been silent far too long. “You keep trying to win the race, and I’ll help however I can. But only if you agree to try things my way too. Half careful, half chaos. Deal?”

Oscar hesitates, and you raise your eyebrows like you’re daring him to say no. “Okay,” he says, pretending it’s a reluctant confession. “Deal.”

You grin, and Oscar has the distinct feeling he’s lost ground that he didn’t know was up for grabs until you extend your hand out to meet his. “Shake on it.”

When he takes your hand, your fingers are warm against his, and something shifts in the air. Nothing big. Probably no one else would feel it.

If Oscar believed in things like that, he’d almost say the loop was taking notice.

DAY 63

Oscar walks away as quickly as he can. Behind him, Lewis Hamilton is yelling, because someone has dyed Roscoe a shocking papaya orange. Non-toxic, pet-safe, temporary fur dye, of course — the bulldog will be completely back to normal in a few days, no worse for the wear.

Not that Oscar has anything to do with it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he picks up his pace, and he pulls it out to see a notification from you: well done agent 081. come to the pit wall to receive your reward :)

The two of you text, now. You’d scrawled your number on a fresh page of his notebook in a glitter gel pen before you left his driver’s room the other day. The messy cursive, the careless heart drawn next to it, stood out against Oscar’s cramped, boyish handwriting. “So we can talk strategy,” you’d said, easy as pie. “Scientific purposes only, of course.”

He’d traced his fingers over the numbers later, at home after the race (P4, nothing to write home about. His lines were perfect, but his front right tyre got stuck on the car during his pit stop, and it all unraveled from there). Spent a little bit too long trying to think of something to say, ended up just sending Hi, this is Oscar Piastri.

You’d responded immediately: i figured lol. u dont need to be so formal oscar!!!

Then another, before he could overthink again: meet me tomorrow at medtent before the race. time for chaosssss >:)

When you said chaos, you meant it. That first day, you’d convinced him to hang signs reading CAUTION: VENOMOUS SNAKES all over the Red Bull garage. (“It’s a metaphor, Oscar,” you’d insisted. He had to admit, seeing Christian Horner scream into his phone until he turned purple was kind of worth it.) The next day, it was reprogramming the Alpine coffee machine so it only dispensed hot water. Oscar had told you it was stupid, but watching Pierre get increasingly frustrated, his accent getting thicker and thicker as he tried to explain the problem to any mechanic who would listen, he’d laughed so hard he’d doubled over, tears pricking mercilessly at his eyes.

You’d leaned against him, wheezing like you couldn’t catch your breath from how hard you were giggling, and that was the moment, Oscar thinks. The moment he knew you were friends.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s made a friend.

When he gets to the McLaren pit wall, you’re sitting on the base of it, head tipped back, soaking in the Monaco sun. You place a hand on your brow, squinting slightly like you’re trying to make him out, and then you wave him over.

“So. Now that we’ve done my idea, what’s your plan today?” you say, pulling two sandwiches wrapped in Ferrari-red napkins out of your bag and tossing the larger one to him. You’ve started sneaking into the different hospitality suites before lunch, figuring out which garage has the best to offer and forcing Oscar to rank them with you. “It’s caprese, by the way,” you add as he catches it. “Scuderia knows what’s up.”

“It’s gonna be a clean start. Pit stop at lap 39 to switch to wets. Overtake Leclerc late,” he repeats automatically as he unwraps the sandwich, taking a bite. It’s good — fresh mozzarella, a perfectly ripe slice of tomato. Miles better than the chicken salad bites McLaren insists on.

You hum around a mouthful of your own. “You tried that already,” you point out as you swallow. “Like, four times now.”

“Five,” he corrects, and you shake your head fondly. Something about the gesture makes his breath catch in his chest. “But, uh, I’ll tweak the timing a bit. Try an overtake in the tunnel, or something.”

“You know it’s okay if you don’t figure it out right away, right?” you say, taking a sip from your water bottle.

Oscar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. We have all the time in the world.”

You scoot closer to him, knee settling against his. “Well then… play the long game. Maybe don’t drive yourself crazy over the race before you even start, okay?” Oscar huffs a laugh under his breath. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t pull away from you, either.

“Well, well, what’s this?” someone drawls very poshly from above. Oscar looks up, and there’s George Russell towering over them both. He’s wearing that stupid Mercedes cooling jacket, a deeply self-satisfied smirk on his face. Oscar knows George thinks he looks sick in the jacket. Oscar thinks he looks like an oversized alien. “Don’t tell me you’re making friends with the med staff, now.”

You smile sweetly up at George, despite the fact that he’s essentially just referred to you as the help. “Russell, right? Nice to meet you. What time does the mothership leave?”

Oscar snorts, nearly choking on his water.

George, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “Toto usually beams me up around midnight,” he replies, deadpan.

You laugh at that, bright and unguarded, and something twists uncomfortably in Oscar’s chest. It’s not jealousy. He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’s supposed to be the one who makes you laugh. Not George Russell, with his perfect hair and dimples and ridiculously plummy accent.

George notices Oscar’s scowl, and the smile on his face stretches even wider, if that’s possible. “Not friends, then,” he sings teasingly. Oscar goes red up to his ears, staring into the middle distance and taking another aggressive bite of his sandwich. “See you at the driver’s parade, Piastri.”

As George saunters off, you turn your head to watch him go. “He’s kind of funny,” you muse. “In a weird, wax-figure-come-to-life sort of way.”

“Debatable,” Oscar mutters.

“Relax, Osc,” you grin, leaning back on your elbows and letting the sun stream down on your face. You nudge your knee against his, and he feels it everywhere. “You’re still my favorite.”

The pit stop goes off without a hitch, but even with the perfect weather strategy he can’t seem to get past Charles in the back half of the race. He’s P2, again. After the race, you text him a YouTube compilation of all of Charles’ angsty radio messages from seasons past set to sad violin music.

Somehow, the loss doesn’t sting as bad as it usually does.

DAY 71

Someone is pounding at his door when Oscar’s eyes open. It’s so different that for a minute he thinks he broke out of the loop, somehow. But when he checks his phone, it’s still May 25, just about an hour and a half earlier than normal. He drags himself out of bed to the door, pulls it open, and there you are standing on the other side, sunglasses pushed to holding a white paper bag filled with pastries and two cups of coffee. You’re not dressed in your usual race gear, switching it for a filmy black sleeveless top and denim cutoff shorts that expose miles of your bare skin.

Oscar is suddenly, painfully aware that he’s only wearing boxers. You seem to be realizing that fact, too, if the way your eyes drag torturously down his bare chest is anything to go by.

“Hey,” he croaks, cheeks flushed as he takes you in. “What are you doing here?”

You clear your throat, looking back up at him. Your eyes meet, and for a moment the air sparks between you, electric. Then you just smile mysteriously before you push your way inside, handing him one of the coffee cups as you go. “New pre-race hypothesis. Get dressed and come with me.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar’s sitting in the passenger seat of your tiny, beat-up car, watching the sun rise through the windshield. You’re an unexpectedly cautious driver, too slow around the corners, hands planted firmly at 10 and 2, eyes fixed on the road. It’s nice to know that even after weeks of spending May 25 together, you can still surprise him. (Even if his hands are itching to take the wheel from you, see just how hard he can push the Mini Cooper down these famous streets).

You pull to a stop near the harbor, the car’s brakes squealing at the effort. Oscar makes a mental note that when you both get out of the loop, he needs to take you to a mechanic. Or maybe a dealership.

“C’mon,” you say, getting out of the car and walking towards the dock. You’re moving in that sort of effortless way you do when you have a really ridiculous idea, the kind of way that makes Oscar follow you against his better judgment because he just wants to see what you’ll do next. He’s jogging slightly to catch up, sipping at his coffee, when you slow ahead of him, touching your pockets like you’re looking for something.

“Hold this for me?” you ask as he catches up to you, passing him your cup. At the moment he takes it with his free hand, almost reflexively, you pluck his phone out of his hoodie pocket and toss it over the railing.

“What the fuck,” Oscar says flatly, watching it land with a soft plop! in the azure water.

You toss your own phone in after his. Oscar grabs the railing, watches the twin black mirrors swirl around each other, sinking deep into the harbor. “So I might’ve lied a little,” you say sheepishly. “This isn’t a pre-race hypothesis. This is an instead-of-race hypothesis.”

“You’re not serious,” he says, and you just grin, wild and unapologetic.

“Oscar Piastri’s first-ever DNS,” you sing, turning and walking down the dock towards a frankly massive boat, waving off the dockhand like you own the fucking thing and starting to untie the knots holding it to the dock. “You coming or not?”

Unleash The Lion, the stern reads in script as big as his head.

You’re going to commandeer Max Verstappen’s fucking yacht.

“Max will kill us, you know,” he says as you step onto the back of the boat, pulling yourself up to the deck.

“Max won’t remember this tomorrow,” you reply over your shoulder as you rifle through the boat’s glove compartment.

“He could,” Oscar protests, mostly just to argue, because he likes the way your eyes flash when he challenges you. “Who knows? This could be the day the loop resets. Then I’ll get fired, and we’ll both go to jail.”

You grin down at him, wicked light gleaming in your gaze as you dangle the keys over the side of the boat. “Monaco prison is probably pretty nice. D’you think they’ll let us be cell mates?”

He sighs, looking up at you. The morning light kisses off your cheekbones, your skin glowing golden and sun-warmed. How is he meant to say no to you, looking at him like that? “I hate how persuasive you are,” he grumbles halfheartedly, taking your hand and climbing up the back until he lands ungracefully on the deck.

“No, you don’t,” you reply cheerfully, turning the key in the ignition. The yacht roars to life, and you pilot it out of the harbor with confidence that feels somewhat unearned, given you’ve basically stolen the thing.

That’s the problem, Oscar thinks. He really, really doesn’t.

An hour or so later, you’ve lowered the anchor, far enough out that no one will catch you for the day. Monaco is a distant speck behind you, though if Oscar squints he swears he can still see the paddock. You’ve pulled him to the bow of the boat, laying next to each other on deck chairs with a pilfered bottle of champagne between you. Your sunglasses are sliding down your nose, the boat rocking gently in the waves. It might be the bubbles talking, might be the fact that his edges have been softened by sun and champagne and you, but Oscar can’t remember a better day in a long time.

“Not bad for our first grand theft yacht,” you say, and Oscar laughs in spite of himself. “Although next time, we should probably bring sunscreen.” You look over at him with such fondness that it makes his heart squeeze in his chest, and touch your finger to the tip of his nose, gently. “You’re gonna be scorched.”

He’s warm, but it’s definitely not from the sun. “I’ll be fine,” he says, aiming for a light tone. You touched his nose, and he’s melting down like a complete weirdo. Get it together, Piastri, he tells himself. You’re a Formula One driver, for god’s sake.

You don’t seem to notice. You just hum, unconvinced, then go quiet for a beat. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Oscar’s learned to recognize as very dangerous when it’s coming from you.

“I’m bored,” you say, finally. “New plan.”

Oscar sits up so fast he nearly knocks over the champagne bottle. “This isn’t enough for today?”

You just smile mischievously at him. “Wanna go for a swim?”

“We don’t have bathing suits,” he says, dumbly. But you’re already peeling your shirt over your head, stripping to your underwear, and racing barefoot on the hot wood, your laugh trailing in the air like the kind of song he wants to learn every word to.

Oscar’s brain short-circuits somewhere around seeing your bare shoulders. He has to stare at the sky and think about Zak Brown for a minute before he can strip off his joggers and follow you.

When he climbs the ladder to the top, you’re already at the edge, toes curled over the lip of the roof, the sea breeze teasing at the ends of your hair. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes dancing, and then you leap.

It’s not graceful by any means, but you look glorious — arms thrown wide, a yell of pure exhilaration tearing out of your lungs as you plunge feet-first into the sparkling ocean below. Oscar scrambles to the side, watching for you to come up. For a second, there’s silence. Then, you resurface with a whoop that seems to echo to the horizon, and you’re smiling so wide it makes his chest ache.

“Come on!” you yell, treading water fifty feet beneath him. “Don’t make me swim all the way back to push you off.”

“You’re insane,” he calls back, but there’s no heat in it. Just that strange, subtle warmth still blooming in his chest. He steps to the edge, glances over his shoulder once at Monaco sparkling like a jewel on the coastline, at the tiny smudge that might be the paddock, that might be his real life.

And then he jumps.

For one perfect moment, he’s airborne — weightless, untethered. Free. The wind rushes by him, salt air biting at his sunburnt skin, and then the sea swallows him whole. The water is cool, soothing around him, and when he surfaces, gasping for air, you’re already swimming towards him with a smile on your face.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you say breathlessly.

“More to me than meets the eye, I guess,” he replies, steadying his eyes on you, and your cheeks flush under his gaze.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of warmth and motion. The two of you let your skin dry in the sun, pass another bottle of champagne back and forth until there’s nothing left, talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about his first karting race, how he was older than all the other kids when he started and cried because he still didn’t think he was ready. You tell him about a trip you took to Japan when you were younger, how you took pictures of the temples on your digital camera and still dream of the scent of the cherry blossoms in the air.

Later, as the sun starts to sink over the horizon, blue bleeding into soft pinks and golds, you sit together on the bow, your legs dangling over the edge, shoulders touching. Oscar’s tongue feels looser than usual, whether it’s the champagne or whether it’s you to blame, so he doesn’t think, just asks the question that’s been playing on his mind all day. “Why do you think you’re in the loop?”

You turn to look at him, like it’s the last thing you expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have to win the race,” he says, and you roll your eyes fondly. “But — what do you have to do? Why are you here?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “I suppose there’s something I have to learn, too.”

“Like what?” Oscar asks, pressing his shoulder against yours.

You sigh, staring out at the horizon. You don’t look at him when you speak. Oscar wonders if you won’t, or you can’t. “I’ve always been good at a lot of things,” you say. “But I never committed to anything. I just kept bouncing from place to place, from project to project. Now, I love working here, but it just feels like I figured it out too late, and now I’m stuck. To get a permanent job with the team, I’d have to go to med school, and…” you pause, teeth sinking into your lip. “What if I try and fail? What if I’m average?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Instead, he watches the way the fading light reflects in your eyes, golden catching on the edge of something tender and raw. He wants to tell you you’re not average, you’re brilliant. That the past few weeks with you in the loop has been the most alive he’s felt in months, maybe ever.

But he doesn’t.

“Today is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” he says, the words falling ungracefully off his tongue. “Taken a risk like this. Everything in my life has been planned out. I made it to Formula One off of being consistent, composed, controlled. I’m perfect because everyone expects it. But — racing used to be fun. I used to love it.”

You tilt your head toward him slightly, enough that he can see the pout of your bottom lip. “You don’t love it anymore?” you ask softly, like he’s a scared animal you’re trying not to spook.

Oscar shrugs, chest tightening. “Feels like I’ve been trying to win for so long that I forgot why I wanted to in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what the loop’s for,” you say, leaning back on the cushions. “Not to win. To find the joy again.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. The silence feels suspended, like the whole world is holding its breath along with you both. Oscar lies back next to you, his heart thudding a little too hard in his chest for such a quiet moment.

You both lay there for a while as the stars slowly reveal themselves one by one, scattered like glitter across the indigo sky. You start pointing out constellations, making up ridiculous stories that make him laugh lowly, helplessly. He’s lying close enough to you that your arms are pressed together, breath syncing in the quiet.

When he turns to look at you, you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded, and you’re so beautiful in the moonlight that it almost makes him lean in to kiss you. But something holds him back. Fear, maybe, or uncertainty — not knowing if you feel it too, or if it’s the champagne, or the loop, living another borrowed day that doesn’t quite feel like his own.

He looks back at the sky. You sigh next to him, shifting closer so that your head rests on his shoulder, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the pale moon reflect off the waves until he drifts off into the blackness.

When he opens his eyes next, he’s in his apartment, sunlight streaming through his curtains. Oscar swears under his breath, picks up the phone that should be sitting at the bottom of the harbor. Sunday, May 25. Just like always.

He flops back onto his bed, pressing a pillow over his face. His skin is still sticky from the salt water. It’s not even the fact that he didn’t break the loop that hurts today.

It’s waking up without you.

DAY 80

Oscar’s nervous, which is completely irrational. He’s lived this day eighty times now. Done press completely hungover, slipped past Charles Leclerc on his home track, crashed full-speed into a barrier and nearly died. But none of that made his palms sweat the way they’re sweating now.

You’re in his apartment. You’re having dinner in his apartment.

The race had gone fairly spectacularly for him, all things considered. He’d made a few mistakes, taken the chicane a little too wide, and still Charles barely beat him. Oscar’s about to figure it out, the perfect race so close he can almost taste it.

You, on the other hand, had quite the busy day. Stroll’s crash started it, but in lap 60 there’d been a major pileup at the back of the race — one of the rookies hitting the brakes just a little too late, slamming into another driver. By the time he found you after the race, you looked exhausted, muttered something about how you wished this particular loop was over already, couldn’t fathom the idea of driving home, cooking dinner for yourself, going to sleep alone.

Oscar invited you over before he could think too hard about it.

He drove you back to his place, cooked dinner while you showered — some pasta dish his mum had taught him ages ago, surely worried that he’d try to survive in Monaco solely off of frozen dinners and takeout. He’s dug up some candles from a dusty box in the closet, uncorked a bottle of wine he thinks Charles gave him for Secret Santa last year, and is just putting the plates on the table when you emerge from his room, fresh-faced and hair damp. You’re wearing one of his McLaren hoodies and a pair of bike shorts, and for a moment Oscar forgets how to form sentences.

“Smells amazing,” you say, sitting on the floor across from him. “Thanks.”

You chat idly for a while, but Oscar can’t shake the feeling that the air between you feels different tonight. It’s in the way your laugh sticks in his brain longer than usual, the way he can feel his gaze searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. It’s almost simmering, like there’s some invisible boundary you’re about to break through. Things have been different since the day on Max’s boat — the glances between the two of you weightier, the touches softer, gentler. But there’s something about tonight that feels inevitable, like the weeks of being together are all pinpointing into a logical, tidy conclusion.

“You’ve barely touched your pasta,” you point out, nudging your knee against his under the table.

Oscar just shrugs, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Not hungry.” He is actually, the feeling turning to a pleasant ache in his stomach. If he’s honest with himself, he’s just too busy looking at you to bother with the food.

You raise your eyebrow, slurping up a noodle. It leaves a small smudge of sauce on the edge of your mouth. “You okay?”

“Hold on,” he says, leaning over the table. “You’ve got —”

You flush, hand flying to your cheek, but Oscar’s already there, leaning over the table and brushing his thumb against your lip carefully. You blink up at him, breath catching slightly, and then, unmistakably, your eyes flick to his lips. The moment stretches, fragile and loaded like the night Oscar stargazed with you, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to make the same mistake twice.

And then — because he’s been thinking about it for hours, days, weeks — he kisses you.

Your lips are soft, warm against his, and you taste like vanilla lip balm and red wine. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you let out the tiniest sigh against his mouth before kissing him back. It’s slow, soft at first, then deeper, like the buildup of all the days circling each other has finally burned down to this single point of gravity, rooting you both to the spot. Your hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, like you’re trying to pull him closer to you.

It’s perfect. And then you break away, foreheads pressed together, and Oscar opens his mouth.

“Well, that’s a new variable,” he breathes, dazed, and you flinch away from him like you’ve been slapped.

“Oscar,” you say, voice sharp, and for someone with world-class reflexes and awareness he’s definitely caught the shift in your tone too late. “You just kissed me, and your first thought was fucking data?”

“No, I —” he stops, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset his brain. “That’s not what I meant.”

You breathe out disbelievingly, the sound shaky as it leaves your lungs. “Yes, it was,” you say flatly, standing up, and Oscar scrambles to his feet after you.

“No,” he pleads, but you’re already heading towards his bedroom, throwing your things back in your bag. “I just thought, if the loop’s trigger is emotional…”

“Don’t,” you spit, words like venom. “Don’t reduce this to numbers and logic. Don’t treat it like it’s another page in your stupid fucking notebook.”

He opens his mouth to try to fix things, but nothing comes out. Even from across the room, he can see the tears slipping down your cheek, and he knows the damage is already done.

“I thought it was real,” you whisper. “I thought we were real. And the first time you actually let yourself feel something, you turn around and treat it like evidence to be catalogued.”

“It was real,” he blurts desperately, and you scoff. “Please,” he begs. “I’m trying, I’m just — I don’t know how to do this. It’s — it’s never mattered like this.”

Your lips press together, jaw tight, and Oscar can still taste the red wine against his mouth. “Well, maybe don’t kiss me again until you figure it out.”

You don’t wait for him to reply. You turn on your heel, slamming the door behind you and storming down the hall like you’re leading an army of one to battle against his stupid, broken heart.

Oscar doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the door, the silence ringing in his ears, before he blows out the candles. He leaves the dishes on the table, crawls into his bed and stares at the ceiling. The notebook sits on his dresser, taunting him, but he doesn’t reach for it.

Nothing about this day is worth remembering anymore.

DAY 81

Oscar doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to sunlight through the curtains and silence and the distinct feeling that his chest has been scraped hollow.

He’s never felt more stupid in his life. He had you, in his apartment, lips pressed to his, the thing he’s been dreaming about doing for weeks, and he completely fucking bottled it.

But if there’s anything to learn from being in a time loop, it’s that he’s got a chance to fix things. To learn from his own mistakes, and do something better. He sits up in bed, watching the boats in the harbor for a long moment. Then he gets up, gets dressed. Leaves the notebook sitting on his dresser, untouched. And goes to find you.

Except, clearly, you don’t want to be found. He searches the entire paddock, but you’re like a ghost. Your station at the med centre is empty, half-cleared out like you came to work before deciding seeing Oscar would hurt too much. You’re not in his driver’s room, stealing his snacks, or by the pit wall watching the team principals flit around with a scary kind of efficiency. He even tries going to the med centre HR to ask for your address, but the woman behind the desk is very particular about her employees’ privacy, won’t give him your contact information no matter how many times he drops that he’s a driver, just hands him a pamphlet about respecting workplace boundaries.

The day wears on, sun arcing high in the sky, and Oscar has to accept he’s not going to see you before the race. Maybe he’ll crash on the first lap, he thinks. Knock himself unconscious, reset the loop. He doesn’t care what it takes. He just has to find you.

Like a vision, or some sort of twisted prophecy, he turns the corner to the garage, and you’re standing there. Always standing where you’re not supposed to be, he thinks for a moment, mind racing wildly. The thought feels hysterical in his head. You’re wearing your fireproof scrubs, eyes red-rimmed, arms crossed over your chest, and you look like fate. Or his future. He’s not sure which. Oscar doesn’t waste another second before he runs to you.

“It was real,” he blurts, before you can open your mouth to speak. “I think it’s been real for me since the minute you pulled me out of that car. I’m shit at feelings, and I’m sorry, because I’m about to be even worse at—” he gestures between the two of you, the confession he’s word-vomiting into the space between you. “—this, but... I’ve spent my whole life being cool, calm, collected, trying to perfect things, trying to keep everything under control, but I can’t control love, and you fucking — you turn me in circles, and I don’t want to live another day, of the loop or anything else, without you around.”

You just stare at him, and he runs a hand over his face. Out of all the ways he’d been thinking up to profess his love while he was looking for you, this had to be one of his worst. Did he even say it? He thinks back, unsure.

“I love you,” he adds, sighing. “In case that wasn’t clear. I’m really fucking in love with you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you say to him in response, voice trembling.

“I know,” he says, helplessly. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

You shake your head, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “Of course I’ll have you,” you say, eyes bright with tears. “I’m really fucking in love with you too.”

Oscar files the sound of your voice saying those words somewhere deep in his chest. Closes the distance between you and smashes his lips to yours. It’s not sweet, not soft — it’s raw, wanting, hot with need. You squeak against his mouth, your hands flying up to cup his face, and when your tongue slides against his, his knees actually buckle.

You’re both giggling when you come up for air, dazed and giddy. “Wow,” you say, fingers resting against your lips, like you can’t believe it’s real. “Glad I came back in time for that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes. “What took you so long?”

You look up at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Well, I wasn’t gonna show up because I was still pissed at you,” you crack, and he laughs. “But then I decided I couldn’t let you drive alone. And I was late,” you say slowly, “because I just applied to med school.”

His heart skips a beat in his chest. “You did what?”

“You were right,” you say simply. “I’m not stuck. And maybe I’ll fail spectacularly, but I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Oscar says, and you just smile. Someone from inside the garage is calling for him. He’s running out of time.

“It’ll be a colossal waste of time if we don’t break out, though,” you huff out a laugh. “So now it’s on you.” You pause for a moment, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You got this,” you say, and for once Oscar believes it. “Go have fun out there.”

Ten minutes later, he sits P2 on the grid, heart beating hard in his chest. For the past 80 days, he’s been in this exact same position, obsessing over the perfect line, how to time the pit stop, where he can shave a tenth of a second off his time.

Today, when the lights go out, Oscar’s thinking about you.

He lets Lando pass him on the first lap again, for the first time in eighty days. Drives like a maniac to pass him back three laps later, waving to him as he goes. It’s a risky move; Tom is half-screaming, half-laughing at him through the radio, and Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling underneath his helmet. He nearly takes it on two wheels around the Tabac corner, back skidding out from underneath him. The car is responsive as he pushes to the limit; the drive feels messy, imperfect, alive. He’s never had so much fun in a Formula One car.

When the last lap starts, he’s leading the race. The sun’s starting to come back out again, the rain drying on the track. Oscar’s cruising.

By the time he gets to the hairpin, Charles Leclerc is in his mirrors.

It’s an all-out battle to the finish, red car and orange dueling side by side. Oscar presses his foot to the pedal as hard as he can, thinks if this race is the one that breaks the loop, it’ll probably go down in history as the most exciting Monaco GP of all time.

They get to the Nouvelle Chicane, and Charles slices around it with the elegance of a ballerina, the power of a heavyweight fighter. Oscar’s in his dust before he even knows what’s happened.

He finishes behind the Ferrari by a half second, and he’s never been so happy to lose.

He pulls into parc ferme, rips off his helmet, searches the crowd wildly. The paddock is bustling. It takes him a minute to spot you running towards him, your scrubs unzipped to your waist, smiling and crying all at once.

This time, Oscar doesn’t wait. He jumps off the car, reaches you in three strides, and kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again. It’s all adrenaline and aching sweetness, teeth knocking, the taste of tears on both your lips like you’re both tumbling toward something you can’t name.

You break away first, pressing your forehead against his, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You were amazing,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“I don’t care,” Oscar laughs wetly, because it’s true, and because eighty Sundays ago he would have died before he said something like that. “That was the best drive I’ve ever had.”

“You found the joy,” you say, a giggle bubbling out of you.

The sound nearly coaxes a laugh out of him too, but he shakes his head instead, smiling at you softly. “I found that a long time ago. Standing outside my driver’s room spinning their med badge like a weapon.”

You make a noise at that, somewhere in between a sigh and a sob, and he pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re the first-place trophy. “I love you, you know,” he says into your hair, and he can hear you mumbling the exact same thing into his race suit.

You walk back to Oscar’s apartment together, a silent agreement that he’ll skip the post-race interviews, just this once. You sit on the balcony he never uses, watch the sunset over the harbor. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a single moment, like he needs to feel your touch under his fingertips to remind himself he’s still here.

“D’you think we did it?” you mumble later when you’ve both found your way to his bed, voice slurring around the edges from exhaustion. “Broke the loop, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Oscar says, his fingers brushing through your hair slowly. “I’ve thought we did, before, and obviously we hadn’t.”

“Me too,” you say, but there’s something hanging in the air between you. An unspoken confession, like you’re both afraid to jinx it. This time feels different.

You yawn gently, burrow tighter into his side, and his heart feels like it might crack open in his chest. “M’getting pretty tired,” you say. “So I think whatever the answer is, we’ll know pretty soon.”

There’s silence, for a moment. What do you say when your entire universe hangs in the balance?

“If this was the last day, if we really figured it out,” Oscar says finally, breath catching in his throat as he stares at the ceiling, “I really liked spending forever with you.”

DAY 82 DAY 1

Oscar wakes up to the beep of his alarm and the sound of rain on his roof.

You’re there, too. Curled against his body, still asleep. Oscar watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, listens to the soft sounds of your breathing. You smell like that jasmine perfume you started wearing around Day 68 and you’re snuggled in one of his old McLaren hoodies and you’re so real that he thinks he might die of happiness.

It is Monday, May 26, 2025, and Oscar Piastri is so in love with you that he’s stooped to watching you sleep like a total weirdo and using ridiculous hyperbole to describe his feelings instead of waking you up to tell you the news. He nudges you gently, and you stir.

“Osc?” you mumble disbelievingly as your eyes flutter open, like you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or not.

“We did it,” he whispers back to you, and the smile on his face is starting to hurt his cheeks. “We’re out.”

You don’t even respond — well, with words, anyway. You just drag his face to yours, kiss him like you’re making up for 81 days of lost time. You still taste like vanilla, and your mouth, your tongue work against his in a way that makes it hard to think of anything else.

“We’re out,” you repeat as you pull away from each other. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and Oscar can’t resist kissing you again. Small pecks this time, scattered from your lips to your cheekbones, each one like a drop of water for a man dying of thirst. He thinks absentmindedly that kissing you might be his new favorite thing.

“God, I can’t believe this is real,” you giggle as his lips brush down your collarbones, and Oscar laughs, because he was just thinking the same thing about you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you sigh it back sweetly, your pulse thrumming beneath his lips.

Forever isn’t an easy concept to swallow for a man who’s just been stuck in a time loop. But Oscar thinks if you’re by his side, he could definitely get used to it.

#f1 #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fluff #f1 imagine #oscar piastri #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #❀ my work .

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reidrum · 6 months ago

Text

glory of the snow

note: the return of insecure!reader my beloved <3 i had a bunch of requests to bring her back so i hope we like it! this is really just a gentle reminder from spencer that we should be kinder to ourselves. also i wanted to have them actually fuck but it didn't seem right to fit that in here so ,,, part 2 question mark who is to say. anyways my inbox is always open for any thoughts, comments, questions, musings all of it! love y'all mwah

summary: you freak out when spencer walks in on you accidentally, and he just loves you too much to let it go

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, fingering, masturbation (r, just mentions), heavy petting/kissing, comfort, talks of intimacy issues, self-deprecating reader

wc: 3k

“Oh, sweet girl.”

Three words, maybe two and one syllable, that in any other instance would have had you melting into a puddle at the softness it reared. Words that have so easily turned you into a preening cat but are now aimed at you, albeit no judgement from his end, with no room for escape.

Spencer had come home after a long day of paperwork when he first heard it. He would have brushed it off if it didn’t happen again moments later, and louder. Concerned, he walks toward the bedroom, a flush rushing to his face as he comes to recognize what it is. A small crack of the door allowed him the glorious sight of you in the center of the bed, hand between your legs, eyes shut in ecstasy. You’re mesmerizing to him and he really can’t bring himself to look away, and he doesn’t notice himself subconsciously leaning on the door causing a faint creak that alarmed you to his presence. In that moment, however, he’s less worried about scaring you, and more about the overwashing look of shame on your face.

The soft creak of the door pulled you out of your daze, screaming when you saw the figure behind the door. Your eyes are bulging out of their sockets nearly, heartbeat still racing with adrenaline from when you haphazardly threw the blanket over yourself. You were conflicted, but getting caught doing something that is a common and completely normal instance in relationships really shouldn’t make you feel this guilty. Although you do know the guilt was created by a previous version of you where you had told Spencer that you wanted to take the pace of your relationship slowly, and had little to no desire to engage in such activities for the time being. Or so you said.

He cautiously steps closer, careful not to startle you further, “I’m not upset, or anything.”

You’re not upset either, you’re mortified. “I lied to you.”

“You did…but I don’t think you meant to, right?”

There had been a time where you were tangled all up in him, and poor Spencer, his hands were in the wrong place at the wrong time to no fault of his own and entirely yours, and your shutdown was unavoidable. The blood in your veins seized up like crystallizing water turning into ice, paralyzing both the physical and mental before you could realize.

Intimacy for you was a complicated concept. While it wasn’t novel or unwanted, physical intimacy was something you struggled to accept with open arms. Call it a consequence of your self perception, but it was hard to accept the soft touch of love when you felt like you didn’t deserve it. Spencer never minded, although his heart ached to make you see yourself the way he saw you, he was always more than willing to meet you where you were.

It almost pains you with how understanding Spencer was of the whole situation because you knew any other person would be deeply upset. Every other person was upset.

Spencer never was just any other person, you suppose.

“I don’t know how to explain this.” Another lie, you could easily explain the reason.

It’s not that you weren’t ready, it’s that you didn’t feel like you looked ready. The thought of subjecting Spencer to the one dark cornerstone of your being in the early days of being together seemed illogical and burdensome, and so it was more simple to play it off as wanting to take a slow pace.

But, as biology would see it you have needs and your boyfriend just happens to be so detrimentally attractive that the simplest act has been sending you into a hot fit as of late. The culprit this time was an innocent mirror picture of him at the store trying on new trousers. You had no chance.

You had found that your intimacy issues lie within extending it to others, and less with yourself. The solution of you finding release on your own quickly became a habit when you realized there was no fear on your own. There’s no one to let down if you’re alone.

Spencer perches at the foot of the bed, flat hand outstretched on the blanket towards you but keeping a comfortable distance, “You don’t have to explain anything, honey.”

“No I know, but—fuck—I should.” you bury your face, choosing to only speak to him from behind your hands for now, maybe forever.

He takes a moment to take inventory of your physical being—you don’t look in pain. Clearly you didn’t sound in pain. Your face is flushed, and though he’s sitting a little far from you, the heat radiating from your body hits him like a space heater.

“Sweetheart…I’m not upset.” he repeats, in hopes a reminder might provide reassurance.

It doesn’t. “You’re never upset at me, it’s concerning.” you mumble.

“You make it kind of hard to be upset at you, ever really.” Spencer braves and lays a hand on your leg.

You take a deep breath, the cold of his hand grounding you more and more. Spencer senses the calm it’s bringing you and rubs circles into your calf.

“Can you tell me what you’re feeling?” he asks gently.

What are you even feeling? You ponder for a moment—anxious, nervous, bad.

“Embarrassed.”

“Honey, there’s nothing embarrassing about masturbating. In fact, it’s more than healthy to do it to keep cortisol levels low,” he explains, “I just don’t know why you didn’t…want to tell me.”

The guilt swirls in your gut, hearing the twinge of hurt buried beneath the comfort he’s laid out for you. He just wants to help you, but you won’t let him in and that hurts him more.

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“How so?”

“It’s just…I…Look it’s…You’re just so hot—“ you slip out, clamping your hand over your mouth before leaking any more intrusive thoughts.

A faint smirk ghosts his face, “I’m…hot?”

“No—Well, yes. I just…ugh.”

“Okay, okay calm down,” he scoots closer and gently brings the hands covering your eyes to rest in your lap, “You don’t need to be all secretive, you know I’d never judge you.”

“I know,”

“I just thought you wanted to wait.”

“I do.”

“But, not with me? It’s okay if it's not with me.”

“Spence, I do. It’s not that.”

“Am I missing something?”

You gulp, “I just…it’s a personal problem. With me. Not you.”

His brows furrow, “Like what, baby? Do you need to see a doctor?”

“Yeah, if a doctor can fix my shoddy self esteem and make me like myself again.” you chuckle.

He doesn’t laugh.

The pause he takes seems to be ages long before he speaks again, “Angel, how long have you been feeling like that?”

You’ve been caught red-handed, water filling up the tank faster than you can tread, “It’s nothing, I was just joking.”

“Hey,” he says with a rare firmness, “How. Long?”

You deflate under his hard gaze, “A…while…long enough… for it to feel like a…like a default setting, I guess.” you trail off.

Spencer couldn’t hide the hurt on his face if he tried. Not hurt from your lack of admission, hurt that you had felt like this for so long, dealt with this for so long on your own, and he didn’t even know.

All he ever hoped and wanted was for you to be happy, and if he could be the source of that he would ask for nothing more in life. So to hear about you struggling with this, that you felt like you had to keep it to yourself, was heartbreaking.

Spencer remains in his head a little too long as he’s broken out of it by your small voice, “Are you sure you’re not mad?”

He sighs and moves to sit next to you, making sure he stays above the blanket for your comfort. His back is against the headboard of the bed, and he raises his arm a little, gesturing for you to fill the you shaped crevice. You hesitantly move into the space, hating how you feel every move you’re making is calculated, but all of that goes away the second your head meets his chest and his hand comes up to comb through your hair, the other smoothing your arm down, and all you’re left with is him.

“I promise I’m not mad,” he whispers softly, “Just wish you told me. I would have helped you.” He’s intentional in his wording—would, and not could. Could implies he has a choice, a want to do or not do something. I could have helped you, or I could have not helped you. Would is finite, he is doing it because it is programmed in him that caring for you is a need. I would have helped you because it is the only thing I know to be certifiably true, that you deserve to be cared for.

“It sounds stupid out loud but I was afraid you wouldn’t like me the same if you saw me like…that. It seemed logical for me to remove that option altogether.”

His heart aches painfully, and he wishes he could take everyone who’s made you feel that way to target practice. “You are the most beautiful girl in the world. I would spend every day of my life proving that to you.” he utters with unequivocal resolve.

You sigh out shakily, “You’re too kind to me.”

“I’m always kind to you. You deserve kindness. You deserve a lot of things actually…” he trails off.

“Like what?” you ask.

“Well, did you um—” he trails. You look at him quizzically, he continues, “Like before I came in did you…finish?”

Oh. “Oh. I…I don’t think I did, actually. It’s okay though, no big deal.”

He stares at you intently, “Do you want to?”

Your eyes widen, “Spence oh, no it’s okay really you don’t have to do that.

“You’re encouraged to say no if you feel even an ounce of doubt, but I’m offering because I love you and I want to show you that you can feel safe with me, even when you feel otherwise.”

The familiar sting returns to your eyes as the tears pool up. You’re not used to anyone putting this much effort and concern for your comfort, it’s a novel feeling but if Spencer is willing to handle you with as much care as he is, you’re ready to welcome that sentiment in with open arms.

“Yeah, yes.” you waver.

He grins and leans down, gingerly pressing his lips to yours. His hand ghosts from your calf to your knee, testing the water before moving more intent. An unwelcome yet familiar onset slowly rises, trying to break through to you, “Wait—“

He retracts his hand immediately, “You okay? We can stop if you need to.”

You shake your head. “No, no I’m fine. I just need a second.” you breath out, trying to self regulate.

He pulls back his hand but you stop him, “No keep it there, it helps. I just…” You don’t know how to phrase it. You think it’s because you’re not in control. When you’re alone it’s only you at the helm calling the shots. But when it really comes down to it, the lack of control is nothing compared to the lack of predictability that comes with the former. Explaining that out loud was daunting to even think about.

Yet Spencer understands what you need, because he always knows what you need. His hand returns to your knee, giving it a soft squeeze, “You tell me to stop whenever you need to.”

He continues kissing you while smoothing his hand up your leg, making wide and sweeping motions across the plush of your thigh so you can feel where he is and where his hand is going. The gesture is comforting and makes you feel grounded, but your head is in a dreamy haze at how good Spencer’s hands feel on you.

The haze leaves through your lips as Spencer feels you sigh against him, feeling you relax more and more as the seconds go by. His hand reaches your upper thigh, fingers ghosting on the inside. “Is this okay?”

You nod, feeling your nerves idling like a distant wave in the ocean. But Spencer’s presence is a lighthouse shining through the fog and guiding you to his shores while the calm washes over you.

His fingers lightly trace the fabric of your panties, ones that you had slid back up your hips upon his entrance into the room. The motion causes you to jump and he pulls back to gauge your reaction. When he sees no fear in your eyes, more so stunned by your wide eyed gaze, his fingers move with more precision, adding more pressure to your clothed core.

A gentle gasp leaves you as he strokes up and down your slit. You’ve given up on continuing to kiss him, the feeling of his hands being too overwhelming to have both sensations at the same time. You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, your body involuntarily curving towards him as he draws symbols on you with his index. Your breathing gets heavier and faster the longer he goes, and soon small moans begin to escape you.

He drags his finger to the top of your panties and toys with the band, faintly asking, “You still with me, sweet girl?” You preen into the crevice of his neck as he keeps talking, “Want me to keep going?”

He feels you nodding into him as you breathlessly whisper, “Please.”

His finger dips below the fabric and travels down to your entrance, gathering the slickness and spreading it all over you. “Fuck,” he curses softly, “Look how wet you are, baby.”

You whimper at his words and Spencer ascends to the heavens if there even is one, and if there is it’s the one where you sound like that for him. He circles back up to your clit, paying special attention to the bundle of nerves before sliding back your slit and repeating the whole sequence a few more times.

Your moans are coming out at a steady pace, and he’s been prodding around your entrance for some time now, teasing and edging you closer. “Gonna put a finger in now, okay? Doing so good for me, baby.” he murmurs.

The feeling of his finger entering you is satiating. But it’s not enough, and you need more. “Spence,” you manage to get out, “Can take another one, please.” His eyes shut tight as he revels in your desperation for him, and how cynical he must be to love having you at his mercy this much. He would confess the darkest of sins if you asked him in that tone, and he has no choice but to oblige. He stifles a groan at how easily the second finger slid in, his other hand moving up to play with your hair and cradle your head close to his chest as he works his ministrations.

The familar coil builds in your gut, but at an intensity you’ve never felt before. His fingers move in and out of you urgently, his thumb returning to your clit. He’s a man determined to get you there, and your moans and cries of his name only spur him on further. After a few minutes your moans and cries turn into whines and babbles, and he knows you’re close.

His head leans down to croon in your ear, “Shh, it’s okay. I got you, sweet girl. You can come, ‘m right here.”

It’s enough to push you over the edge and you come harder than you ever have on your own, the waves of your climax overtaking you completely. Spencer continues to pump his fingers through your orgasm, talking you the whole way down. Mutters of praises and kisses flow through your subconscious as the euphoria high takes its peak and you come back down to this realm.

His hand smoothes your hair back as you continue to pant against his chest, words unable to find you.

“You okay?”

You finally catch your breath, “That was—fuck—the most insane orgasm I have ever had.”

Spencer beams at this. For one, his obvious and impressive skills that have stunned you into oblivion. And two, because you look so relaxed. The stark difference of your anxiety filled face from when he first came into the room to the blissed out daze you have right now makes his heart swell five sizes up.

He hugs you closer and whispers, “I’m so proud of you, angel. Thank you for trusting me.”

Sleep is fighting you hard as you laugh airily and tuck yourself under his arm again, “I don’t know why I thought that would be scarier.”

He sighs, his smile faltering but still fond, “Past experiences and self perception complicate the anxiety around sex and intimacy. It’s a natural response based on your lived experiences.”

“Oh.” you mutter, slight deject in your tone.

“But we can work on it, if you want.” he adds, “It’s all up to you with what you’re comfortable with and how you want to do it. If you’ll allow me, I’d love to help you in any way I can, angel.”

You really don’t know how you got so lucky. Someone so kind, and patient, and willing to be with you as you navigate these things you normally would have kept to yourself. You feel grateful to be able to bare a piece of yourself to him, and know that he would receive it with open arms, wrapping it up and handling it with as much care as he can bear.

You cuddle closer, and mumble before your eyes succumb to sleep, “Love you. So much.”

Spencer looks down maybe two seconds later and you’re already out like a light. He chuckles softly to himself and whispers, “I love you more than you’ll ever know, sweet girl. Good night.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fanfiction #doctor spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction

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diqldrunks · 6 months ago

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free fallin’ — lando norris

requests are open! send me anything!! [nav | inbox]

a/n: hope you enjoy my first lando fic!! i’m going to try really hard to not have this be too similar to other fics 🫣 please reblog if you enjoy <3

content: fake dating, famous!reader, cheating scandal, misinformation, reader is implied to have a drinking problem

twitter

the replies

instagram

celebritynewsofficial just posted!

liked by user8, user 9 and 254,853 others

celebritynewsofficial ✓ HERE THEY ARE! Paparazzi photos from last night of Jackson Edwards and Y/n L/n kissing outside of a bar in the streets of London. Neither’s management team have responded to us asking for any comments on the situation. Our thoughts go out to Sophia Roth, Edwards’ fiancée.

tagged: @/yourusername, @/jacksonedwards

53,735 comments…

user10 tagging them both is FOUL

user11 y/n looks so out of it in these

user12 frfr she can barely stand up

user13 do you not remember that article last year where a ‘close source’ revealed that she had a drinking problem??

user14 well at least their film will be getting a lot of publicity 💀

user15 DAMN i forgot about that!!

user16 they haven't even finished their press tour 😭 i’m honestly looking forward to the next set of interviews they do

user17 @/yourusername homewrecker

user18 what a good day not to be on y/n’s pr team

user19 you couldn't pay me enough money to defend her

user20 finally! can we stop pretending she’s perfect now?

messages

the meeting

inbox

[email protected] just sent you an email containing one document(s)

messages

tadaaaaa!!! i hope you enjoyed this <3 she’s my baby!!

if you want to be added to the taglist, just lmk!! (tagging people on my other taglists just bc i don’t have a lando one atm <3)

lando taglist; @llando4norris @mharmie-formula1 @mixedribbons @tallrock35 @mel164 @awritingtree @littlegrapejuice @daemyratwst @sheslikeacurse @futuref1-wag @tinyhrry @lokideservesahug @ricciardonut @sumlovesjude @emryb @ems-alexandra @pausmoon @dear-fifi @silkenthusiasts @yesmanbabe @hwalllllllelujah @saachiep81 @sunlithearts @spanishcorndogs @gr1mes-cc @yukiotadako @evie-119 @kissesandmartinis @thebookbakery @merchelsea @booksandflowrs @sinfully-yoursss @gigigreens @alilstressyandlotdepressy @itsss4t4n @agmoon03 @poppysrin @pastrymechanic @pastryfication @elizabethenjoys @m3ntally-unstable @papayadays @milkysoop @hadesnumber1daughter @sid-is-gr8 @noeasayys @chris-evanslover @linnygirl09 @bowielovesyou @allywthsr

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bbokicidal · 8 months ago

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A Simple Analysis. | OT8 [SKZ]

Warnings: I'm gonna be straight discussing these men and their pp sizes so if you don't want to read about that then just skip this post, no biggie.

Notes: I'm just theorizing what I think they're like 'n I included some good 'ol references. Please note - these references include pictures/videos of the boys AS WELL AS pictures that are NOT the boys but are references to what I picture in my head when I write smut for them. I also need to thank @skzms because I Lowkey could not find bulge pics/vids on my own and their post really helped me out w that.

Extra Warning: There are twitter links in this post, so you know what that means!! Watch at your own discretion losers, I don't want ppl in my inbox whining that I use refs that 'don't look like them' like obv jfc let me hop on bub quick to ask Chris for a dick pic smh.

Extra extra warning: I like slowly lost the ability to think the more I wrote this because all I was doing was looking at SKZ cock so I mean. forgive me.

Chris

HEA. VY.

Heavy Heavy Heavy !!!! I said what I said !!! And if you want to know why, you can simply look at this video!! If I'm being totally honest here, I don't think he's massive down below but I do think he's a little above average at least. Maybe -- mm... six and a half inches? Pretty sure it's pretty, pink, and always leaking pre because he gets hard so easily.

Also, pretty sure it's relatively thick. I mean, we've seen it a few times before in his pants/shorts, so... definitely enough to make you whimper when he's splitting you open. <3

I'm not even gonna like. explain why I think this bc I'm pretty sure we all know but it's veiny as fuck and you cannot argue w that.

And his favorite thing is when you mention during sex how full you feel just bc of how heavy he is. :]

In conclusion: Pretty pink fat cock that is more than enough to make you feel incredible each time you fuck. <3333

Minho

This man is... packing. p a c k i n g.

Packing like I'm pretty sure it's not like thick thick but it's thick enough and it's probably more on the purple side than the pink side, and it's so fucking long--

Not as heavy as Chan but definitely bigger. Bigger, longer, one pretty blue vein running up the side. Literally so perfect and just the right size for your hands to fit around. Also not too long to the point where it hurts to take it but definitely... big. Seven, at least. At. Least.

And his favorite thing is when you whine about how he's fucking you so good that you might die. Dunno why that comment specifically gets to him, but he makes sure to fuck you a little deeper after that.

In conclusion: pretty cock for a pretty man and so fucking yummy.

Changbin

Okay look people might disagree but I think Binnie's a lil on the smaller side !!

Now look. I'm not saying 'bah this bitch has a small cock' I'm just saying it's not a cervix-kisser like a few of the men on this list. It's just right!! It's the perfect size to be perfectly comfortable when fucking and he knows that 'n he's happy with it. (I'm thinking five, bc five is a comfy size.)

However.

He will ABSOLUTELY split you wide fucking open with how thick he is. This man has the chubbiest, pink, mouth-watering, pussy-dripping, eyes-rolling-back, tears running down your thighs, cock ever !!! He's gotta prep you for so fucking long and there is always soooo much foreplay to you two having sex because he's just so thick that if you don't prep lots it's gonna hurt a lil and Bin really really just wants to take care of you. :(((

And his favorite thing is seeing the way you struggle to take him in your mouth because of how thick he is. :]]]]]

In conclusion: best cock on this list. <3

Hyunjin

Hoh. My God.

Hyunjin,,,, ... Hyunjin's packing a fucking rod of a cock, I can't even lie to you. I'm like 90% sure it's at least eight inches and if it isn't then I'm dead. Y'all thought Minho was big? LAWD have mercy, Hyunjin's got a fucking PIPE on him. A third leg, if you will. Shit slaps his thigh when he walks if he don't wear briefs.

SO. PRETTY. I keep saying all their cocks are pretty BC THEY ARE I JUST KNOW IT but Hyunjin's cock is actually fucking gorgeous like it's the type where even if you're someone who's like "I don't like dick pics" and he sends you one?? you're like "omg y'know what I've had an epiphany"

Not like heavy or thick like the others but soooo long, soooo pretty, soooo mouth watering. The type of cock that has you actually drooling and getting fucked dumb every time he puts it in you.

And his favorite thing is when you do just that ^ and go all quiet n whimpery during sex because your brain is mushy.

In conclusion: Monster cock and no one can convince me otherwise !!

Jisung

Mm, okay. I think it's -- average?? But see I dunno why but I'm picturing a little on the thinner side. (AND NO THAT ISN'T MY SUB JI SUPREMACY MINDSET SPEAKING) but just bc it's a little thinner doesn't mean it's not heavy !!!

And even though it only might be like - five and a half, it's still so cute and so pretty and so fucking tasty!!!

Also like a firm believer that he jerks it at least twice a day, sorry not sorry.

And his favorite thing is when you blow him because you just take it so well and he loves seeing it all disappear down your throat <33 mm mm mmmm !!

In conclusion: Mmmm,,, cutest cock on the list <3

Felix

Y'all keep saying Felix has a little cock just bc you enjoy Twink Felix and look - I too enjoy Twink Felix but I also believe in frat boy Felix supremacy SO -

Big dick Felix in the building !!!

Pretty sure he's above average. Like, 6 or 6 and a half, maybe?? SO pretty, cut, pink, so so cute, so fucking yummy looking.

Easily like, the slickest cock on the list. And if you know what I mean, you know what I mean. if you don't that too bad ig.

The type of cock you wanna like. put in your mouth forever and just never stop giving him head fr.

And his favorite thing is when you jerk him because sometimes he just doesn't have the energy or care but he wants it. Plus your hands look so much better on it than his do. :ccc <333

In conclusion: Pretty, big, hefty cock that fills you up soooo good. Also constantly leaking cum n making a mess but you didn't hear that from me !!!!

Seungmin

Y'all,,, I'm not just saying this because I'm a Seungmin bias but,,,

This man has a fucking. rod. Not like Hyunjin-length rod but rod that's like at least seven inches and I refuse to believe otherwise because have you seen the,,,,

Fucking!!Monster!!Of!!A!!Cock!!!!

Thick! So thick! So heavy! Rivals Chris w how heavy he is !!

And his favorite thing is when you choke on it because raaahhh!!! (im not okay)

In conclusion: 2Min Monster Cock Squad

Jeongin

Holy God y'all.

Think I mentioned it once in a post where I was like, "P sure Jeongin has a big dick because as soon as he hit 21 he had this massive boom in confidence n I'm p sure it's bc his dick grew like 6 inches"

Sooooo,,, pretty sure he's also in the monster cock squad.

Like, at least seven inches, again. So big, so tasty. The type of cock that makes you pray to God it won't rip you apart because I just know he fucks hard, bro.

And his favorite thing is when you actually scream during sex because of how good he makes you feel. <3

In conclusion: Jeongin big dick supremacy, we all know he's packing a fucking log of summer sausage in his boxers.

Taglist : @dwaekkicidal @jabmastersurpriseee @possum-playground @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie

#skz imagine #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz smut #bangchan smut #lee know smut #Changbin smut #Hyunjin smut #han smut #Felix smut #seungmin smut #Jeongin smut

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wildflowersandvibranium · 23 days ago

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Now , Forever

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem Reader (set during CABNW)

Summary: Bucky ended things out of fear , thinking his dark past made him unworthy of love , but when he found her drowning her heartbreak in a bar, he couldn’t stay away.

Word Count: 2.5k+

Warnings: anstyyyy then ends happy , established relationship , exes to lovers , lots of drinking , smoking mentioned , depression mentions , alcoholism mentions , buckys past mentioned , blood mentioned , throw up/vomitting , hangover symptoms , medicine mentions , kisses i think thats all....

If I missed any let me know! 💖

A/N: im writing this half asleep and in one contiuos go , so sorry for any mistakes till i can proof read it! this little idea just popped in my head when rewatch CABNW and i just had to quickly whip something up. Hope you enjoy bbys :P

read my new series here! MY MASTERLIST

REQUESTS AND INBOX ALWAYS OPEN COME SAY HI OR DROP AN IDEA OR TWO! <3

The night Bucky ended things , you could feel it in your gut before he had even said the words.

He was tense , shoulders tight as cable , his jaw working like he was chewing on something bitter and sticky.

The apartment was a little too quiet , the air too still.

You sat on the edge of the bed , fingers twisting in your lap waiting for the ball to drop.

“Bucky , what is it?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look at you at first.

He stared at the plush carpeted floor, eyes shadowed and distant in deep thought.

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides , the faint creak of the metal plates as his vibranium fingers flexed.

“I can’t do this ,” he finally replied , voice low and hoarse.

Your heart seized up. “What? What do you mean?”

He dragged a hand through his hair , his fingers trembling.

“I’m not who you think I am. I’ve tried to be… someone better. But it doesn’t change what I’ve done. What I’ve been.”

“Bucky,” you whispered , your voice shaking and broken.

You stood , crossing the space between you , reaching out to touch his flesh arm. “I know about your past. I know it’s hard for you. But I love you. I don’t care—”

“It’s not that simple!” he snapped , his voice breaking on the last word.

He flinched like he’d struck you , his expression twisting and turning. “I can’t let you see it. If you did… if you really saw what I’ve done , the blood on my hands , the ghosts that haunt my mind , you’d never look at me the same again and I can't live like that.”

You swallowed hard , tears blurring your vision pouring out. “I already see you , Bucky. I see the man in front of me. I see the way you try every day. That’s who I love.”

He shook his head , shoulders slumping now. “You deserve more than this , more than me. I can’t keep pretending I’m not… tainted and bruised. I thought I could protect you from it , but I can’t.”

You stepped closer, your hands on his chest , feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palms. “Don’t do this,” you whispered. “Please don’t , you dont mean it right?”

But his hands came up wrapping around your wrists , gently but firmly removing yours from his chest. His eyes were wet now , his lips trembling. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to.”

And with that , he turned and walked out the door , leaving you standing there with your heart in your hands and the taste of his goodbye lingering on your lips.

You didn’t go home that night.

Couldn’t. The apartment felt like an empty tomb without him , every shadow whispering his name. So you ran.

The bar down the street was loud and bright , neon signs flickering in the dark and glitter scattered around like promises you knew better than to believe.

You pushed your way in , the music hitting you with a physical force , the beat so loud it rattled inside your bones.

You didn’t bother with grabbing a seat.

You went straight to the bar , your voice barely a thread as you ordered a shot of vodka.

The bartender gave you a once-over , something like concern flickering in his eyes, but he poured it anyway, sliding it over.

You tossed it back, the burn slipping down your throat a welcome distraction from the ache in your heart.

You ordered another.

And another.

The edge of the bar was sticky under your fingertips , the smell of sweat and smoke heavily thick in the air.

The world started to blur around the edges.

Faces became smears of color and simple shapes , laughter and conversation melting into the thud of the bass blaring.

You ordered another shot , your hand shaking so badly the shot glass clinked against the counter.

Someone bumped into you , muttered an apology you didn’t hear.

You didn’t care.

Nothing mattered except the heat of the alcohol and the numbness creeping through your veins.

Just what you were wanting.

Your phone buzzed and lit up in your jeans pocket , a tiny lifeline in the noise and haze.

You fumbled for it , your fingers clumsy and tingling , almost dropping it twice before you managed to answer.

“Hello?” you mumbled, your voice thick and slurred , not even looking at the contact.

“Hey,” Sam Wilson's voice came through , calm but urgent. “Where are you?”

You tried to focus , tried to remember. “I’m… I’m at the bar. The one by the river. He… he left me , Sam.” Your voice cracked , a sob breaking free before you could stop it. “Bucky left me.”

Sam took a breath on the other end , calming himself. “Okay. Listen to me. I need you to stay right there. I’m coming to get you , okay? Don't leave.”

You clutched the phone so hard it could crack under the pressure. “Don’t… don’t tell him where I am . Please. I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“I won’t,” Sam promised. “I’m just going to get you home safe.”

You didn’t remember hanging up.

You didn’t remember much of anything after that , just the constant too loud music pounding in your buzzing head , the alcohol burning a hole in your gut and chest , and the feeling that you were already halfway to nowhere.

You slumped forward , your head resting on the bar top , the shot glass still clutched in your hand like medicine.

You didn’t even fight it when the world went black around you.

When you woke back up , it was to the smell of stale coffee and paper.

Sam’s office.

The overhead light was dim , the soft hum of the city outside the only sound you could make out right now.

You tried to sit up , but your head felt like it was full of broken glass and bricks. A groan slipped past your lips , and you pressed a hand to your forehead , trying to piece together how you got here.

Your eyes caught a picture frame on Sam’s desk , Sam and Bucky, arms slung around each other, grinning wide and bright.

It felt like a punch to the gut.

In your fuzzy , still havely drunken mind , you couldn’t separate the photo from the real people.

You stumbled to the desk , your hands trembling as you reached for the frame. “Bucky,” you whispered , your voice small and raw. “Why’d you leave me? Why didn’t you let me fight for you , for us?”

Tears welled up , slipping hot and fast down your cheeks. You pressed the frame to your chest , your body shaking with sobs. “I love you,” you cried , your voice ragged. “I love you so much , please, don’t leave me.”

The picture didn’t answer.

It just stared back at you , frozen in time. You sank to your knees , the frame still clutched in your hands , your tears dripping onto the glass.

And then , from the doorway , you heard a voice , soft , rough , but unmistakably real and him.

“I’m here.”

You looked up , your breath catching in your throat.

Bucky stood there , his expression a mix of anguish and love , his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Bucky,” you gasped , the frame slipping from your fingers. “You’re… you’re here.”

He crossed the room in three long strides , dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands came up to cradle your face , thumb pads brushing away your warm tears. “I’m here,” he said again, his voice shaking. “I’m so sorry.”

You threw your arms around his neck , burying your face in his shoulder.

The scent of him , leather and pine soap and something uniquely his , wrapped around you , grounding you to the world.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” you sobbed. “I thought I lost you.”

“Never,” he murmured , his breath warm against your hair. “I was trying to protect you. But I was wrong. I can’t protect you by pushing you away.”

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his jacket , holding him like you’d drown if you let go.

Bucky didn’t say another word as he stood and scooped you into his arms. You let out a soft gasp , surprised by the effortless strength of his hold , but you didn’t fight it.

You didn’t want to.

Your head lolled against his chest as he carried you out of Sam’s office.

The cold night air bit at your skin , but it didn’t matter.

All you could feel was the steady , sure beat of his heart under your cheek.

Sam and Joaquin hovered in the doorway, their expressions worried but relieved.

“Thank you guys,” Bucky murmured , his voice a promise as he shifted you in his arms. “I’ve got her.”

Sam gave him a small nod. “You know where I am if you need anything.”

Bucky just nodded , but his focus was entirely on you.

The ride back to your apartment was quiet and short..

You curled against him in the passenger seat of his car, the streetlights blurring past in streaks of white and golden light..

You felt the rough but also soft pad of his thumb brushing soothing circles on the back of your hand and knuckles , the last bit of tether to reality , in the here and now.

When you reached your building , he carried you inside like you weighed nothing at all.

He kicked the door shut behind him , the soft click of the lock sealing you in with him , no more noise , no more neon lights , just you and him and the quiet of the night.

He set you down gently on the edge of your bed , his hands lingering on your shoulders as he knelt in front of you.

Your eyelids fluttered , heavy with exhaustion and the last dregs of alcohol sinking in , but you forced them to still be open.

“Let’s get you cleaned up baby ,” he murmured , his voice a low rasp that sent shivers down your spine.

You nodded , your breath hitching as his fingers brushed a lock of hair behind your ear.

He reached for a washcloth in the nearby dresser , running it under warm water before wringing it out.

He cupped your cheek with his flesh hand , tilting your head slightly as he began to wipe away the smudged mascara and left over makeup ruined by your tears.

The gentle drag of the cloth was comforting , his touch so tender it made your stomach do a flutter.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, eyes still closed. “So much.”

“I missed you too,” he said softly, his eyes full of intent on cleaning your face. “Every second.”

He set the now dirty washcloth aside , his hand lingering on your cheek for a moment longer before he moved to brush your hair.

He found your black hairbrush on the nightstand , the bristles worn and familiar.

He worked slowly , carefully , untangling each knot with a patience that made you want to cry again but you were drained of all tears.

Your eyes fell closed again , breathing in the familiarity of having him here with you , letting yourself relax under his touch.

“There you go,” he murmured , his voice a soothing rumble. “Almost done.”

When he was finished , he gathered your hair in a messy ponytail , his fingers deft as he laid it over your back. He tied it off with a small black band , his knuckles brushing against your collarbone in a way that made your skin tingle.

“Better?” he asked, his lips curling into a small smile.

You nodded , blinking up at him with glassy eyes. “Yeah. Thank you.”

He pressed a barely there and oh so quick kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get you into bed , okay?”

He helped you out of your rumpled and dirty day clothes reeking of cheap vodka and that smokey club smell , swapping them for one of his old t-shirts that you loved so much.

It hung loose on your frame , the fabric soft and word against your skin. When he was done , he tucked you in , smoothing the blankets and duvet around you with a care that stole your breath.

He paused for a moment , just watching you.

His eyes traced every line of your face , every dotted freckle , and the soft curve of your lips , even the faint flush on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he said finally, his voice rough. “I hope you know that.”

“I love you too,” you murmured , your voice thick and raw with sleep. “Don’t leave again. Please.”

He brushed your fly aways back from your face , his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek bone . “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Not this time, not ever again.”

You drifted off to sleep with his hand in yours , the world fading around you like the last echoes of a bad dream.

You woke to the sharp , twisting pain of a hangover in your gut and piercing dull pain in your head , your mouth overly dry.

You stumbled to the bathroom barely making it , half-blind with the bright morning light streaming through the window.

Before you could even get your mind together , Bucky was there.

He knelt beside you as you vomited into the toilet , his hand steady and warm on your back , his other hand gathering your hair away from your face to keep it clean and out of the way.

“It’s okay , I'm right here ,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Just let it out.”

When you were done and spent , he wiped your mouth with a damp corner of a towel and helped you rinse your mouth and brush your teeth.

You leaned against the cool tile wall , breathing ragged, but he didn’t move away.

He stayed right there the entire time , his thumb brushing over your temple.

“Here,” he said , holding out a glass of cool water. “Small sips not too much.”

You took it with shaking hands , the cold liquid a relief against your parched and raw throat.

You managed a weak smile of thanks , your eyes bleary as you looked at him.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said , your voice barely audible.

“I wanted to ,” he said simply. “I love you.”

Tears welled up again , but this time they were soft , gentle. “I love you too,” you said , your voice breaking. “I don’t want you to run anymore.”

He cupped your face in his hands , his thumb brushing away the single tear that slipped down your cheek. “Then I don’t,” he said. “We face it together.”

He pulled you into a hug , his arms wrapping around you like a shield against the world.

You clung to him , your face buried in his shoulder , breathing him in.

“You’re it for me,” he said softly, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re my forever.”

You looked up at him, your eyes shining. “You’re my forever too.”

He pressed his forehead to yours , the soft morning light catching on the tears in your lashes. “Then let’s start that forever right here , right now,” he murmured.

In the quiet morning , with the world slowly waking around you , you knew that no matter what came next , no matter how dark the nights , how heavy the memories , you’d now face it together. And that was all you both needed.

-end 🌷

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

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ama3003 · 2 months ago

Note

hi! is there any way you can write a pt 2 of a pawn once more? maybe turn it into a series? i just read it and LOVED it, your writing is beautiful!

Ask and you shall receive!!!!!

A Pawn Once More (2)

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: Sorta??? Lol I've been seeing all the love it's been getting.

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: You're trying to figure out if you should listen to your heart or follow your head.

Part 1: Here

Part 3: Here

A.N: I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader. Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

I honestly wasn’t expecting this to get so much love — thank you all so much! I've seen a lot of people asking for it to become a series, and the truth is, I actually started this one-shot right in the middle of everything. There’s so much more I can write — backstory, missing context, and I could even take it all the way through Mockingjay Part 2 and beyond.

Let me know what you want to see, and I’ll gladly make it happen!

My inbox is always open and y'all I love your comments! Soooo please comment!!!!!!

You couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t just the bodysuit—though it clung too tightly to your ribs—but the panic.

The cold, creeping panic of being back. The fear you thought you'd buried, the ghosts you thought you'd left behind—they were all clawing their way back to the surface.

How unlucky were you, really? To be given a second round of memories. A cruel encore.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe." The words barely made it past your lips, more breath than voice, a desperate mantra as you stepped into the Chariot Staging Area.

You just needed to find Haymitch.

If you could hear his voice, meet his eyes, feel his presence—maybe then the terror would loosen its grip. Maybe then you could breathe.

“You look stunning!” your stylist chirped, smoothing your hair and flicking back a few stubborn flyaways. Her hands were quick, practiced, and utterly unaware of the storm brewing inside you.

You were dressed in a sleek black bodysuit, tailored like a second skin. Woven into the fabric were delicate fiber-optic threads that pulsed in slow, elegant waves, mimicking lightning bolts across your body. A walking storm.

“This beautiful number responds to movement,” she said proudly. “The lights will shift and pulse with every gesture. I’ll be operating the pattern controls—you just need to wave and look pretty.”

You nodded absently, your attention already drifting, eyes scanning the room like sonar.

You needed to find him.

“Little bird looking for me?” You turned, and there he was—Gloss, standing with that signature smirk, arms crossed like he owned the room.

“You look breathtaking,” he said, eyeing the suit with an appreciative nod. “I swear, you’ve got enough power in you to light up all of Panem.”

A genuine laugh escaped you, small but real, and you stepped forward to pull him into a hug. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” you said, voice lighter. “But it’s good to see you, Glossy. Where’s Cash?”

“Here I am!” a familiar voice called.

You turned to see Cash striding over, flanked by Enobaria and Brutus. A wave of warmth surged through your chest. You moved quickly, gathering them all into a hug.

These weren’t just allies. These were your people. Friends who understood the weight behind your eyes. The ache in your chest. The blood on your hands. Because they were the exact same way. As broken as you were.

Once, when you were young, it seemed impossible to be asked to kill strangers. And now? Now you were being asked to kill your friends.

“How are you all?” you asked, voice soft. “I’m sorry I missed the last hangout. I had food poisoning. And I’m even sorrier that this is how we’re seeing each other again.”

You gave them a sad smile. The kind that meant more than words ever could.

“This was definitely a turn of events,” Enobaria muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Never thought I’d have to set foot back here as a tribute,” Cash added, shaking her head.

Everyone nodded grimly. You all had the same unspoken thought: peace was promised. And then peace was stolen.

Brutus looked across the room, tipping his chin toward the group. “So? Should we expect you and Mason to join us?” You raised an eyebrow. He went on.“I doubt we’ll offer that to District 4. I love Mags, but this isn’t about friendship. It’s about survival. Or are you planning to side with the newbies for your husband’s sake?”

You met his gaze, firm and unflinching. “You already know the answer to that, Brutus. Those kids? They’re basically his. Which means… they’re mine, too.”

Enobaria let out a slow sigh, stepping closer. “Just don’t put their lives above your own. And don’t forget about Mason. You have to think about him. Plust those kids…” Her next words hit harder than you were ready for. “--they’re the reason we’re here. If just one of them had died... we wouldn’t be back in this arena and we all know it. And look at us we’re stuck here once again and now we have to kill each other.”

The silence was immediate and suffocating.

No one spoke.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

It was the truth everyone avoided speaking out loud—but now that it hung in the air, you all had to face it.

Bitterness curled in your stomach, uninvited but undeniable. You hated feeling it. Hated that it made sense.

“Hey,” Cash cut in sharply, eyes narrowing at Enobaria. “Stop. Whatever happens, happens. We keep it fast. We keep it painless. Right?”

Everyone nodded. Even Enobaria.

Then Cash turned to you, her voice lowering.

“I would really love for District 5 to join us,” she said. “We love you. And we love Mason. But I get it. You’re looking out for your husband. That’s not cowardice—that’s loyalty. It’s love. Just… if anything changes, you’re always welcome here.”

She gave you a tight hug and stepped away. Gloss winked and followed. Enobaria gave you a rare side hug. Brutus patted your shoulder, rough and sincere, before the group slipped into the crowd.

And then you were alone again. Not alone in the room—but alone in the way that mattered.

Your eyes scanned once more, heart pounding harder now.

For him.

And then you saw her—Katniss. Standing with Peeta. Not speaking. Not blinking. Just... watching.

You hadn’t spoken yet. You and Haymitch had always kept your relationship quiet, tucked away where the Capitol couldn't twist it. Mentors by day. Lovers by night. The other victors knew. Your families knew. But to the Capitol?

It had to stay hidden.

Some things were too sacred to put on display.

Last night had nearly shattered that wall. You’d broken down behind a closed door, only to feel their eyes on you through the crack—Katniss, Peeta, and even Effie.

But Haymitch had pulled you away, shielding you from their stares. From their pity.

And now, Katniss was watching again.

You met her gaze, steady and calm, and offered a soft smile. A small nod.

She mattered. They both did.

You needed her to trust you.

Because Haymitch did. And you saw it—how he cared for them. The soft way he spoke to them. The cracks in his armor, carefully hidden but real. He was letting himself feel again.

He was learning to love. Openly. Fiercely. Just like you had always wished he would. And because of that, you would do whatever it took to protect them. By your life… or by your death.

Katniss gave you the smallest of nods. Then turned away.

You exhaled—slowly, shakily.

A small victory.

Maybe the only kind left.

A warm hand caught your arm. Mason.

“You ready for this?” he asked, helping you up into the carriage.

You nodded. “Smile and wave,” you said softly.

The chariots began to roll and the sound hit like thunder. A roar of applause, cheers, screams. Your lungs tightened. The noise pressed in from every side. Your hands trembled. Sweat gathered along your brow. You felt like you were drowning in the sound.

Mason’s grip on your hand tightened. He could feel your fear. But he wasn’t the one you needed.

You needed Haymitch.

His voice. His eyes. His strength.

You scanned the audience, heart hammering wildly. Too many faces. Too much light. Too much noise.

And then—there.

You found him.

He stood behind the others, half-hidden, quiet as always. But his eyes were on you.

Only you.

You felt your shoulders drop. Your breath returned. You smiled softly

And he winked.

Just like that, the panic loosened. The thunder of the Capitol became background noise. The trembling in your fingers eased.

You could do this.

You could finish the parade.

Because he saw you. Because he was there.

And that was enough.

*******

You hated looking at yourself in the mirror. You always had. Especially after the Games.

Back then, at sixteen, you’d stare at your reflection and search for something—someone—you recognized. But all you ever saw were the eyes of the people you killed, their final moments etched behind your own.

You didn’t see a girl. You didn’t see a victor. You saw a murderer.

And now, nearly a decade later, here you were—twenty-five years old, staring into the same damn mirror, in the same damn room, waiting to face the same horrors.

Except this time, you weren’t naïve enough to believe you’d make it out.

You knew the moment you volunteered.

This was your end.

A knock at the door snapped you out of your thoughts. “Darling, we need to go,” Mason’s voice called gently from the hall. “We need all the training we can get.”

You looked at yourself one last time.

A murderer. A lunatic. A dead man walking.

You blinked away the tears, jaw tightening. Then you tied your ponytail higher—tighter—like it might hold you together a little longer.

You stepped out to meet Mason.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice laced with that familiar worry. He always worried. Especially about you. You were the little sister he never had—and now the two of you were walking into hell all over again.

“Well enough,” you replied, offering him a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “But it’s fine.”

He didn’t believe you. But he nodded.

You were grateful, at least, that you’d never really stopped training after your Games. You were constantly on edge, and staying active had become your only way to keep the nightmares at bay. The gym had always felt more familiar than your own home.

The Training Center was exactly how you remembered it: the scent of metal, sweat, and Capitol sterilization. Clean and gleaming, like death dressed up in a ballgown. Everything here looked expensive. Perfect. Soulless.

You and Mason stood shoulder to shoulder on the rising platform. The doors opened, revealing the training floor—wide, cold, and humming with tension.

Tributes filled the space, moving like restless ghosts. Silent, watchful, already assessing one another like it was the arena.

You tensed immediately. The smell. The sound. The weight in the air. It all pulled you backward, to the first time. The fear. The blood. The moment everything changed.

You scanned the floor, searching for him. For Haymitch.

But he wasn’t here.

Mason nudged you gently. “He’s probably hungover. He’ll be down in a minute.”

You nodded, but your mind was still spinning. You didn’t want to be here. Not really. You didn’t want to spar or strategize or throw knives at holograms. You wanted to find Haymitch. You wanted to hold his hand and talk about nothing. You wanted to remember what it felt like to be alive before the arena took everything again.

But the odds were never in your favor.

“I say we stick with the Careers,” Mason murmured, arms crossed over his chest as he nodded toward the familiar pack from Districts 1, 2, and 4. “They’ve got numbers. They’re predictable. We know how they move, how they think. We get in, stay close, bail when it gets ugly. And hey—if we do die, at least it'll be quick and painless.”

You didn’t respond immediately.

Your eyes drifted across the floor, landing on Katniss and Peeta as they entered the room. Their posture was stiff. Guarded. Haymitch still nowhere in sight.

You sighed. “We can’t.”

Mason’s brow furrowed. “We can’t what?”

“We can’t team up with the Careers.”

You turned to him fully, voice steady, even as your heart pounded. “We need to stick with District 12. With them.”

He stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “Are you serious? Y/N, come on. They’re kids. They won out of dumb luck.”

You met his stare. “We all won out of luck.”

“You know what I mean.” He stepped closer, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Everyone here won. They’re strong. Dangerous. But you want to team up with the wide-eyed girl and her boy toy? Compared to the Careers? Darling, please.”

“I’m not asking you,” you said quietly. The edge in your voice cut sharper than you meant it to. “I’m telling you. I’m staying with them. You can make your own call.”

There was a pause. Not anger—just tension. Thick with history. With grief.

Mason’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t like last time, Y/N. This isn’t your Games. This isn’t about heart or honor or—whatever the hell you and Haymitch have going on now. This is survival.”

You looked him straight in the eye. “Exactly. And it’s their survival I’m fighting for.”

His voice dropped. “And what about you?”

You hesitated, but he caught it. Your silence was louder than any answer.

“Look,” you began, softer now, “I’m not asking you to follow me—”

But he cut you off, stepping closer.

“You don’t have to! We’re partners. I’m sticking by you. I always have.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I just want you to think. Really think, before you throw yourself into a losing bet. There’s a smarter play here. You know that.”

“I do,” you said. “But sometimes the smart play isn’t the right one.”

He exhaled harshly and scrubbed a hand over his face. “You want to help Haymitch. I get that. I do. But we both know it was luck that those two made it out. Pure, stupid luck. But you. You can win. You can make it back to your family. I’ll help you get there.”

You were about to say something to Mason—something half-formed and already losing shape in your mouth—when you heard his voice.

“Y/N! Mason!”

Your head turned faster than your heart could catch up. And there he was.

Your husband.

That familiar flutter of your heart. Like it always did. You hadn’t seen him in a day? But even now, with him just a few feet away, it felt like a lifetime had passed. You missed him deeply.

Trailing behind him were Katniss and Peeta.

“I want to formally introduce you to my victors,” Haymitch said, stopping in front of you. “Katniss and Peeta. Guys, this is Y/N and Mason. District 5.”

“Hey,” Mason said, flashing that strained, too-polished smile he always wore around new people. He gave your shoulder a quick pat. “I’m gonna go see what Gloss and Brutus are up to. Grab me when you’re done.”

Then he leaned in, low enough for only you to hear. “Please… think about what I said.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice. He gave you a look—worried, conflicted—and walked off.

You turned back to the trio.“Sorry about him,” you said with a soft exhale. “He’s… under pressure…but aren’t we all?”

Your gaze lingered on Haymitch for half a second longer than it should’ve. You didn’t need to explain more. He already knew.

Then you looked at Katniss and Peeta, offered a small smile, and reached out your hand. “I’m Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you both. What you did—how you handled everything—it was impressive.”

Peeta was the first to move. His handshake was firm, warm. His eyes kind. “It’s good to meet you. We, uh… we watched your Games last night.” He hesitated, then smiled a little. “You were incredible. And also… slightly terrifying.”

You actually laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said. “If things go well, you won’t have to be scared of me.”

Haymitch cleared his throat, arms crossed, already watching the storm gather in Katniss’s face. “I was telling them you and Mason would be good allies. They seemed open to it.”

Katniss turned sharply toward him. “No, we didn’t.”

You blinked, trying to keep your expression neutral, but her words stung.

She folded her arms, looking you up and down like she was trying to see beneath your skin. “How are we supposed to trust you if you’re still with him? He clearly wants nothing to do with us.”

Your voice was quiet but steady. “I can handle Mason. He’ll follow my lead. He won’t be a threat.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, turning away, “I don’t trust you either.” And just like that, she was gone. Peeta followed, his face apologetic but silent.

You stood there for a beat too long, your hand still halfway raised before you let it fall.

Haymitch ran a hand down his face. “She’s scared,” he muttered. “She’s trying to protect him. She’s paranoid—on edge.”

You shook your head, arms wrapping around your chest like armor. “I get it. I really do. But if she won’t trust me, Mason’s going to dig in even harder. He’s already eyeing the Careers, and they really want us. They’re not taking District 4.”

Haymitch glanced toward where Mason was sparring with Brutus, the clang of metal echoing through the air like thunder. He winced.

“You thinking of going with them?”

You turned back to him slowly, locking eyes. “You really asking me that?”

Silence.

“I’m here,” you said. “With Twelve. With you. That’s not changing.”

He nodded, but you could see it—the guilt. The weight of what he was asking from you. Of what he couldn’t promise in return.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said finally. “I’ll get her to see reason. But you’ve gotta keep Mason from jumping ship. We don’t win this if he flips.”

You followed his gaze. Mason was grinning now, laughing at something Brutus said. “He can go if he wants,” you said quietly. “I told him. But my alliance is here. I made that choice.”

For you. You didn’t say it out loud. But Haymitch knew.

The noise of training continued around you—grunts, shouts, weapons clashing—but for a second, it all felt muffled. The pressure building behind your ribs was harder to ignore by the minute.

You looked at Haymitch again and tried not to let the fear show. But he saw it. He always saw it.

And that was part of what made this so unbearable.

“How are you feeling?” He asks the question softly, like it’s the only one that matters. You know his eyes are tracing the lines of your face, trying to read the answer that you’re not saying out loud. The panic attack you’d had with him still lingers in his mind — a tightness in his chest he can’t shake. He’s scared, just like you are. The separation, even this small distance between you, feels like a raw wound. Every second without you feels like it’s eating at him from the inside out.

You shrug, doing your best to sound nonchalant. “I’m fine enough. Haven’t had another panic attack... yet. But it gets close sometimes.” You try to offer a half-smile, but it’s hollow. You can feel it — the weight of everything about to happen. And it’s suffocating.

His fingers twitch, almost as if he’s reaching for you before realizing he can’t. The frustration is written all over him. He needs to touch you. Needs to hold you, but everything feels like it’s out of his reach.

“You’ve only got a few days left until—” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to. You both know what’s coming. The suffocating fear. The arena. The uncertainty. But for a second, you don’t want to hear it. Not from him.

“I walk into my death?” You let out a shaky laugh, trying to break the tension with humor that doesn’t quite land. “I promise to make it as epic as possible.”

You turn to look at him, but his eyes are hard, like he’s trying to hold it all together, and he doesn’t like what you’re saying.

“What?” you ask, but you already know.

“Don’t say that.” His voice is low, urgent. His brow furrows as he steps closer, his gaze sharp. “Never say that.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, a dull pain spreading through you. “I’m sorry.” The words fall out before you can stop them, but it feels too late to take them back.

“I need you out of that arena.” His voice is raw, like it’s the one thing he can cling to. “I don’t know what I’d do if you don’t.”

You know that’s the truth. You can see it in his eyes, that quiet desperation. He’s already lost so much. He can’t lose you too. But you’re not sure how to make him understand that you’ve already made peace with the reality.

You turn your body toward him, not daring to reach out because of the eyes on you both. But this — this moment — this conversation, it’s just between the two of you. You need him to see you, to know you’re still there, even when it feels like everything is about to come crashing down.

“Haymitch,” your voice is softer now, the lump in your throat growing. “We’re going to be fine. No matter what happens, okay? In sickness and in health. In better or for worse. Death won’t do us part.” Your breath hitches, and you try to hold back the tears, but they spill anyway. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

There’s a tremor in his eyes, like he’s holding something back. But it’s his voice that cracks this time, just a little. “And I love you,” he says, his words lingering between you both. “Which is why I don’t like that you sound so defeated.” His voice is a whisper now, almost lost in the space between you.

It’s true. He’s only seen you three times. And all those times, you’ve looked at him like you’ve already accepted your fate. And that’s the part he can’t handle. The part that tears at him in a way he’ll never be able to explain.

“It’s not defeat.” Your voice is stronger now, though it still trembles. “I’ve accepted it. I won’t be as lucky as I was the first time around. And honestly, I don’t think I want to be. Not with them.” You gesture to the others around you — the tributes who would be in the arena with you. “And definitely not if it’s against your kids.”

He bristles at the mention of them, his expression hardening in that way you’ve come to know well. “They’re not my kids.” His tone is sharp, defensive.

You roll your eyes, though the sadness creeps back in. “You’re letting them into your heart, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.” You smile, but it’s bittersweet. “It’s such an honor seeing the light shine back into your eyes.”

His gaze softens, but his voice drops, rough and honest. “I’ve had light from the moment we kissed. You are my light. And that’s why I need you to stop talking like you’ve already lost.” He steps closer, his hand hovering like he wants to touch you but is afraid to. His breath is ragged. “The Abernathy’s don’t give up.” He’s trying, trying so hard to convince you both. But the truth is, you’ve already decided.

“They don’t.” You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “And that’s why, whatever happens, I’m going to need you to remember that.”

How could you still try to take care of him when you were the one who needed the comfort? You were supposed to be the one being held, not the other way around. But he was still trying to do it — trying to take care of you in whatever broken way he could.

“I’ll figure something out,” he says, his eyes burning with determination. “Trust me, okay? I’ll figure something out. And both you and the kids... you’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.” He reaches for your hand quickly, squeezing it tight. You can feel the heat of his palm, the raw, frantic pulse beneath his skin. His eyes meet yours for just a second, and he gives you a wink, a shaky attempt at something like normal. “Now, I have to go find where that girl ran off to. I swear, she’s becoming more of a pain in my ass this time around. And Peeta’s following her like a lost puppy.”

You chuckle softly, the sound breaking the tension between you both. “But you love them.” You smile up at him.

He shakes his head, his smile small but real. “But I love you more.”

And in that moment, you know he means it. Even if you’re both standing on the edge of an abyss. Even if you don’t know how you’ll survive the next few days, or if you’ll survive at all. Haymitch’s love is the only thing in this world that feels like it might be enough to hold you together.

But you can’t say that. You can’t say anything. Because the truth is, you’re terrified.

And you’re not sure you can be brave enough for both of you.

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