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papayainsectorone · 19 days ago

Text

Look at You.

alternative title: objects in mirror may be hornier than they appear

summary: teasing turns into something intense, it’s the beginning of something more: exploration and a growing list of fantasies you’re both eager to check off

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, mirror sex, voyeuristic elements, power dynamics (soft), mutual teasing, consent & trust, some bondage, public play references, kink discovery, domestic intimacy, lando being a menace, horny but wholesome energy

word count: 5.3k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

It’s quiet,the kind of quiet that only settles a few days after chaos, when the dust has settled but the air still remembers the storm. The hotel room is dimly lit, the curtains drawn against a pale, lazy afternoon. The TV flickers in the corner, playing something neither of you are watching, some cooking show or maybe a nature doc, sound turned low, narration drifting in and out like a lullaby.

You’re stretched across the wide hotel couch, head tipped back over the armrest, spine curled in something between contentment and exhaustion. Your legs are draped across Lando’s lap, bare skin pressed against the soft cotton of his joggers. A half-eaten bowl of crisps rests on your stomach, crumbs dotting your shirt like little souvenirs from earlier laughter.

Lando’s hand moves slowly, absentmindedly, tracing lazy patterns across your shins. He doesn’t look at you—his gaze is trained on the ceiling like he expects it to blink back at him. There’s a stillness in his posture that feels rare, like he’s finally let himself land after being airborne too long.

And then—he shifts.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The way his thighs tighten beneath you, the sudden pause in his fingers like a thought just took up too much space in his chest. You don’t move. Don’t even open your eyes.

“What?” you murmur, voice hoarse with rest.

There’s a beat. Then, light and unmistakably mischievous:

“You know the thing you told me…”

You sigh, already bracing. “Lando, I say like... a million things to you every day. Narrow it down.”

You can hear the smirk as he speaks, soft and self-satisfied. “The thing about mirrors.”

Your eyes fly open.

He doesn’t look down right away—just grins like he’s been waiting for your reaction. Like he’s been saving this for exactly when your defenses are lowest. Your legs twitch in his lap, but he grabs your ankle before you can pull away.

“Don’t,” you warn, voice already warm with embarrassed laughter.

“Oh, I will,” he says, finally glancing down at you. His curls fall toward your face, casting shadows across your cheeks. “You said—and I quote—‘I’ve always wondered what I’d look like fucked in front of a mirror.’”

You groan, dragging one hand over your face. “I was drunk.”

He hums like he’s considering it. His thumb circles the inside of your ankle now—barely there, but maddening. “You were honest,” he says, sing-song and smug.

Your hand stays over your eyes, but you peek at him through your fingers. His grin has grown just a little too pleased with himself, like he knows exactly what kind of spiral he’s starting.

“I hate you,” you mutter, half-hearted.

“No you don’t.” His free hand moves to your thigh, thumb brushing lightly beneath the hem of your shorts, casual—but not. There’s intention behind the touch now. Something slower. More curious. “You trust me with your darkest, filthiest secrets.”

You snort. “That wasn’t a secret. It was a hypothetical.” Your voice is muffled against your palm, but your breath hitches all the same.

“Mmm,” he hums, not even trying to mask how much he’s enjoying this. “You said you’d never done it. That you wanted to watch.” He drags out the last word, slow and sticky with intent. “Wanted to see your own face when you came.”

You drop your hand from your face with an exaggerated sigh and give him a flat look. “You are literally insufferable.”

Lando just leans back, completely unbothered, his grin widening into something downright sinful. “But now I can’t stop thinking about it. You. Mirror. Me behind you…” He shifts slightly beneath you, his hands tightening on your thighs as he lets the images stack. “On your knees. On top. Bent over the edge of the bed, maybe. Fuck—bent against the mirror.”

He shrugs with an easy, almost innocent smile. “I’m not picky.”

You sigh again, a little less dramatic this time—more resigned. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you,” he says, eyes gleaming, voice dipping low, “love it.”

He lets that word sit for a second, warm and weighty.

“Maybe…” he adds, almost too casual, “you still want it?”

There’s a beat.

Then his gaze slides across the room—to the tall, sleek mirror propped elegantly near the corner, angled just enough that you can see the bed behind it. It’s glossy and unassuming, entirely unaware that it’s about to become the center of a very inappropriate conversation.

You follow his line of sight automatically, lifting your head from the couch. The mirror gleams back, pure and quiet.

He catches your hesitation. Sees the way your eyes linger just a second too long.

“Oh fuck,” he whispers, voice delighted, “you do.”

“Lando,” you say, a warning, though your voice is already softer. Already shifting.

“Don’t Lando me.” He slides his hand lower, palm trailing along your ribs, your waist, slow and exploratory. “You’re the one who planted the idea. I’m just—” his thumb dips just beneath the waistband of your joggers “—cultivating it.”

You bark a laugh, caught off guard. “You sound like a pervy gardener.”

“Pervy, definitely,” he says, grinning. “But also curious.”

He tilts his head like he’s thinking deeply, but his fingers don’t stop moving. They hook just slightly into the elastic at your hip, not tugging—just there.

“Aren’t you?” he asks.

You don’t answer right away. Mostly because your mouth’s gone dry again. Because yeah, okay—maybe it wasn’t just a passing comment. Maybe you have thought about it since then. More than once. Maybe you’ve imagined watching the way your body moves, the way his hands look on your skin, the way your own expression changes when he’s deep inside you. Maybe that idea has stuck to you like syrup ever since it slipped out of your mouth.

He shifts beneath you, knees nudging until you’re forced to sit upright in his lap. Your breath stutters at the sudden shift in posture, in energy. He’s closer now. Focused. Serious in a way that feels heavy and intimate.

“You want to see how good you look,” he murmurs, voice nearly a whisper, “or do you want to see how good I make you look?”

Your throat is tight, pulse thudding behind your ears. When you speak, it’s smaller than you meant it to be.

“Both.”

His grin turns sharp, almost reverent. “Come on, then.”

He offers his hand—palm up, fingers open, like he’s inviting you to dance.

You arch a brow, resisting the tug in your chest. “What is this, prom night?”

“Don’t make me carry you,” he warns, already bracing.

“You wouldn’t—”

You don’t even get the word out.

He lunges, sudden and unreasonably fast for someone so full of crisps and cockiness. His hands slide under your thighs, then your waist, and before you can blink, you’re off the couch and slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

“Lando!” you yelp, legs kicking uselessly in the air as your view flips upside down. “Put me down, you absolute dickhead—!”

He just laughs, a rich, full sound that bounces off the hotel walls. One of his hands pats your ass, entirely too pleased with himself. “Told you not to test me.”

You slap weakly at his back, breathless from laughing. “I swear to god—”

He spins in a tight, dizzying circle just to make it worse, your hair whipping around your face, before finally, finally setting you down with surprising care.

Your feet hit the carpet. You’re standing in front of the mirror now.

It towers in front of you, clean and polished and waiting. You catch your reflection—a little wild-eyed, flushed from laughter, shirt rumpled and falling off one shoulder.

Lando steps up behind you, chest brushing your back, hands still on your waist. His face is close to your ear now, voice low and soft and too sincere.

“You wanna see what I see?”

Your laughter lingered in your throat as you caught your own reflection—wild hair, flushed cheeks, the hem of your shirt now askew from the ride. Behind you, Lando’s hands slid over your hips, steadying you. His eyes met yours in the mirror, playful but darkened by something deeper.

“Better,” he murmured, close to your ear.

“Now look,” he murmurs, catching your gaze in the glass. “Don’t look at me. Look at you.”

His hands move under your shirt, slow and deliberate, calloused fingertips grazing the curve of your waist like he’s rediscovering you. The brush of skin-on-skin sends goosebumps racing down your arms, and for a moment, all you can do is breathe. Shallow, shaky, anticipatory.

Then his hand rises—firm but gentle—tilting your chin with two fingers until your gaze lifts. He angles your head toward the mirror. Forces your eyes to meet your own reflection.

His mouth finds that sensitive spot just behind your ear, lips warm, tongue flicking out briefly, and your lashes flutter, instinct pulling you inward. But he taps your jaw, gentle but insistent.

“Nope,” he murmurs, voice low and curling with amusement, a grin pressed against your skin. “Keep watching.”

You swallow hard.

He peels your shirt off slowly, raising your arms over your head, the fabric brushing your flushed skin as it slides away. He lets it fall to the floor without ceremony. His own shirt follows seconds later, revealing the warmth of his chest against your back. You can feel his skin, hot and solid and there.

You glance at the mirror again—see yourself bare from the waist up, your body molded into his, and his arms winding around you. His hands travel the span of your torso, tracing the curve of your ribs, skimming under the band of your bra. The way your body arches into his touch is automatic. Craving.

And then his fingers slip below the waistband of your joggers, dragging slow over your hipbones, thumbs sliding inward toward the center of you.

“Still just a fantasy?” he asks, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice husky now, the heat rising between you undeniable.

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Your pulse is pounding in your ears, blood rushing to all the wrong places, and his fingers are already dipping low—confident, familiar, but still unbearably teasing.

He chuckles, and the sound is low and dark and satisfied, vibrating down the line of your spine like thunder.

“That’s what I thought.”

Your knees wobble. You reach forward, planting one hand against the edge of the mirror to stay upright, palm flat against the glass as he presses himself flush against your back. The heat of him envelops you, chest to spine, hips snug. You can feel him hard against you, feel every line of tension in his body. But it’s his focus that undoes you—the way his gaze stays locked on yours in the reflection.

It’s the most exposed you’ve ever felt—not because of how little you’re wearing, but because of how seen you are.

He’s watching your face as he touches you—watching the way your mouth parts with each exhale, the way your eyes go half-lidded when his fingers dip just a little lower. You try to stay still. Try not to squirm or reach for more.

But your hips roll back, seeking pressure, seeking him.

He smirks, maddening. And then he pulls back—just enough to make you whimper.

“Patience,” he whispers, lips grazing your ear, hot and breathy. “You said you wanted to see, didn’t you?”

“Fuck,” you breathe, the word barely audible, your knuckles going white where you grip the edge of the dresser. “Then stop teasing.”

“Oh,” he says, amused and dark, his teeth grazing your neck, “now you want it quick?”

His fingers slip forward again, slow, purposeful, slick with anticipation.

“What happened to the fantasy?” he teases, circling your clit with such maddening gentleness you could scream. “Didn’t you want to watch yourself fall apart?”

You moan softly, forehead resting against the glass, your own eyes blinking back at you—flushed, parted lips, pupils wide with want. He doesn’t let you look away.

His hand at your jaw moves again, angling your face so you have to see. Have to witness yourself unraveling at the hands of someone who knows exactly how to pull you apart.

“Keep watching,” he says again, and this time there’s no grin—just heat. Reverence. Need.

You do.

And it’s devastating.

He pushes your joggers and underwear down in one smooth, unhurried motion—like he’s unwrapping something he’s been dying to get his hands on. The fabric pools around your ankles, and you step out without looking, body trembling with anticipation. The cool air kisses your calves, but it doesn’t register. Not when Lando’s already behind you again, all warm skin and want and steady hands.

You meet his eyes in the mirror.

He’s devouring you.

Shirtless, hair messy, lips parted just slightly, chest rising with slow, deliberate breaths. His gaze is heavy—dragging over every inch of you, lingering at the curve of your ass, the dip of your spine, the tension in your thighs. And then he finds your reflection, locking eyes with you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

“You’re so hot,” he whispers, reverent. Like he’s saying it more to himself than to you.

Your breath catches. “Please,” you manage, quiet, aching.

His hand moves then—slides slowly down your stomach, fingers splayed wide. You feel the way his palm presses heat into your skin, trailing lower, lower. You can’t look away. Not from him. Not from you. Your reflection shows everything—the way your mouth falls open, the way your legs shift restlessly, the way your chest rises with every staggered breath.

Then his fingers reach your center.

You jolt—just slightly—as he slides between your folds, already slick and ready for him. His touch is sure, practiced, unbearably slow at first. Just the pads of his fingers, circling, exploring, spreading you open like a secret. He watches it all. Watches you watching him. The way your hips twitch forward against his hand. The flush spreading down your chest. The desperation leaking out of every breath.

He moves with maddening control circling your clit with just the right pressure, dipping down to gather more slick, then back up again. A rhythm that’s measured, teasing, intimate. It’s not just about getting you off. It’s about watching what it does to you.

“Look at yourself,” he murmurs, voice rough against your ear. “Look how you fall apart for me.”

You can’t stop.

You don’t want to.

Every roll of his fingers makes your knees shake, your hand clutch the mirror for dear life. You gasp when he slips one finger inside, then another, curling them just right, his other hand bracing your hip, grounding you, anchoring you.

And in the mirror, you watch it all: the flushed wreckage of your face, the ripple of your stomach, the dark intensity in his eyes as he works you open, coaxing you closer with every slow thrust of his hand.

You’ve never looked so utterly undone.

And he’s never looked more obsessed.

“Fuck, you feel—” he chokes on the rest, breath catching in his throat as your body tightens around his fingers, heat pulsing through you like a live wire.

Your eyes flutter shut without meaning to, overwhelmed—but his hand tangles gently in your hair, tugging just enough to bring your gaze back to the mirror. Back to him. Back to you.

“Look,” he murmurs, voice low and fraying. “Don’t miss this.”

And so you do. You force your eyes open, breath trembling, and meet your reflection.

It nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

Your lips are parted in something between a gasp and a moan, cheeks flushed deep, collarbone rising and falling with every hitched breath. Your skin is glowing with heat, the sheen of sweat already starting to gather where his chest brushes your back. You can see the exact moment his fingers curl just right—your body jerks, stomach twitching, another sound slipping free before you can swallow it.

It’s just his fingers. Just the slow, relentless rhythm of them moving inside you, pressing into that spot that makes your vision go white. But it feels like everything. It feels like he’s inside every part of you at once. Filling you. Reading you. Ruining you.

And still—he’s watching. Not even glancing at the mirror anymore. His gaze is fixed on you, the real you, the shaking, gasping version he’s holding up with one arm while the other works you to the edge with steady, intimate precision. Like he’s memorizing you in real time. Like he’s never seen anything more perfect.

His jaw is tight, flexing with restraint, his breath warm and ragged against your shoulder. “You feel so fucking good,” he groans again, voice breaking into something raw. “So wet for me.”

You try to respond, but your throat closes around the sound. Your whole body is tensing, spiraling fast.

And in the mirror, you watch the moment your mouth falls open. The exact second your thighs shake. The tremor in your fingers as you brace yourself, barely upright, chasing the inevitable.

It’s not just his fingers—it’s his voice, his breath, the mirror, the way you’re both watching you fall apart like it’s the most sacred thing in the world.

“Let go,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “I’ve got you.”

Your hand slips against the mirror, palm slick—every nerve drawn taut around the rhythm of his fingers.

He knows you’re close. You feel it in the way his movements grow more focused, more deliberate. No teasing now. No retreat. Just the steady pressure of his fingers stroking deep, the heel of his palm grinding against the swollen ache of your clit in perfect rhythm.

Your thighs tremble. Your breath catches.

“You gonna come for me?” he breathes into your neck, voice wrecked and reverent, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His eyes flick to the mirror. “Look how fucking gorgeous you are like this. Falling apart for me.”

You do.

Your reflection is a blur of parted lips and wide, glossy eyes—cheeks flushed, chest heaving, jaw slack. You’ve never seen yourself like this. Not just the way you look, but the way he watches you. Like he worships it. Like nothing else matters. His mouth is at your shoulder, open and hot, his hand at your front dragging you closer to the edge with every pass.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers, and it’s the tenderness in his voice that tips you over. Not the pressure. Not the friction. Him.

Your head falls back against his shoulder, a soft whimper escaping your lips.

He’s fucking you deep, hard, but controlled, letting the pace build slow enough to make you desperate, fast enough to make your legs shake.

“Lan—” you gasp, but it falls apart when he moves his fingers just right.

“I know,” he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’re close. I can feel it.”

You nod frantically, one hand flying back to grip his hip, anchoring yourself.

“Eyes. On. Me.”

You obey, barely. And when you come, it’s blinding. Messy. His name torn from your lips as your body trembles and he doesn’t stop.

You stay like that, breathless, collapsed against jim, both of you shining with sweat, cheeks flushed, bodies humming.

The mirror shows it all: the wrecked hair, the red marks, the wild grins that creep in after the comedown.

He catches your eye in the glass again.

You’re still breathless, your palms pressed to the cool glass, forehead resting there for a moment as your lungs fight to steady. The air between you crackles—humid with sweat and heat, your bodies humming, flushed, open.

Behind you, Lando doesn’t move. But you feel it—that lingering pull just beneath the surface. His hands still at your waist, thumbs moving in slow, reverent strokes like he’s memorizing the afterglow.

And when you glance up, find his gaze in the mirror again, it’s still there. Hunger.

Low, molten, impossible to ignore.

You both look wrecked. Hair wild, skin marked, eyes glazed and grinning in a way that only happens when you’ve finally crossed a line you’ve been dancing around for too long.

You catch your breath. Blink once. Then smile lazy, knowing.

“Fuck,” you murmur, finally turning in his arms. “Like we’re stopping there.”

He laughs, surprised, still catching up but you’re already tugging him backward by the wrist, toward the bed, toward more.

He lets you, pliant and amused, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress. You give him a gentle push and he goes easily, landing with a soft grunt, elbows braced behind him, curls sticking to his damp forehead.

“You’re serious?” he asks, grinning like he already knows the answer.

You don’t respond. You just drop to your knees between his legs, fingers finding the waistband of his joggers and tugging them down in one confident pull.

His breath stutters, eyes flicking to the space between you. But just as he looks down, your hand wraps around his thigh—firm. The other slides up, curling into the hair at the nape of your neck as you tilt your face up.

“No, no,” you say, smirking as his cock twitches. “You’re watching now.”

You jerk your chin toward the mirror.

His jaw slackens a bit—something in him tipping from smug to stunned as he realizes what you’re doing.

You lean in, breath warm over his skin but not touching, watching his reflection watch you.

“Don’t take your eyes off it,” you whisper.

You shift closer, knees spreading wide on the soft rug between his legs, hands gliding up the backs of his thighs—slow, deliberate. The muscles there twitch beneath your touch, and he exhales sharply, head tipping back for just a second before he remembers.

The mirror.

You watch his gaze drop to meet yours in the reflection, jaw tight, eyes dark with something deeper than lust. Anticipation. Awe.

Your fingers curl around the base of him, gentle at first. Testing. He’s already hard—hot and heavy in your palm and he twitches at the first light stroke of your thumb.

“Eyes up,” you murmur, just loud enough for the mirror to catch it.

He obeys.

And then you lean in.

Your lips brush the tip—barely there. Just a whisper of warmth, enough to make him suck in a breath through his teeth. You press a kiss to it like you would his mouth: slow, reverent, nothing rushed. His hips jerk slightly, but your hand steadies him, firm at his thigh.

You let your tongue follow, teasing around the head in lazy, wet circles—coaxing a groan from deep in his chest. It’s not needy yet. It’s slow. Intentional. A build.

His reflection is a portrait of tension: head tilted back slightly, eyes fighting to stay locked on himself, jaw clenched with restraint.

You slide down a little further, taking him just past your lips before pulling back again, spit-slick and grinning as his hips try to chase the heat.

“Patience,” you echo back to him, voice velvet-wrapped and wicked.

He groans—muttering your name like it’s a warning, like he’s hanging on by threads. One hand curls into the bedding, the other flexes at his side, but he still won’t break his stare in the mirror.

Your mouth closes over him again, slower this time, lips stretching around the weight of him. You sink down inch by inch, letting him feel every part of it, every stroke of tongue, every subtle suck until your eyes water slightly and his legs tense beneath your hands.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, voice rough and wrecked.

And still, you don’t rush.

You keep the rhythm smooth, teasing, rising and falling in slow, deliberate waves. Enough to make his toes curl. Enough to keep him right at the edge without falling.

“You’re killing me,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours like he doesn’t want to miss a single second.

And you smile around him, because that’s the point.

You ease off him with one last wet kiss, lips swollen and glistening, a thin string of saliva catching the light before it breaks. His thighs are tight under your palms, chest rising in jagged, shallow breaths, and in the mirror—God—the restraint written across his face is almost more than you can take.

His hands twitch at his sides like he’s fighting not to grab you.

“You’re too good at this,” he mutters, voice hoarse and reverent, like he’s confessing something sacred. “It’s fucking evil.”

You hum, tongue flicking lazily over your bottom lip. “Is it?”

And then you do it again. Slower. Just your tongue this time, licking a stripe up the underside of him, your eyes locked with his through the mirror like a challenge.

His whole body jolts.

“Jesus—” His voice breaks off into a groan, low and ragged, one hand gripping the edge of the bed like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “You’re playing with fire.”

You take him into your mouth again—deeper now, just for a moment, just enough to make his legs shift, to drag another guttural sound out of his throat—then pull back with a pop. Your hand replaces your mouth, stroking him slowly, firmly, letting your thumb sweep across the head with maddening precision.

He bucks into it instinctively.

Then you stop.

Completely.

He growls, actually growls and sits up straighter, grabbing your arms and hauling you into his lap in one smooth, desperate motion. Your knees hit the mattress on either side of his hips, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

“Okay,” he pants, eyes blazing. “We´re not playing games here.”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

He kisses you hard. Open-mouthed, breathless, filthy. His hands are already moving—gripping your thighs, your hips, pulling you flush against him. You feel the heat of him trapped between you, thick and throbbing, and the way he grinds up just once is all promise.

“I let you play your game,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice a dangerous rumble. “But now we´ll stop the games.”

He flips both of you over. Your head hangs off the bed, hair brushing the floor, and the world spins upside-down for a heartbeat before he’s there, his body aligned with yours. You´re watching the mirror again, your reflection distorted by the angle, but you can still feel every inch of him moving above you.

He pushes in, not slow, not hesitant but hard and sudden, like all restraint has shattered. Your breath catches in your throat, eyes watering from the sharp, beautiful stretch. He meets you in the mirror’s glass too, raw and raging, both of you locked in that watching moment.

For a second it's movie-perfect: your muscles clench, his curls obscure his features, sweat tracing down your skin, your breath mingling in the reflection of glass—every pulse, every flicker of mirrored light, everything raw and wild and real.

His hands grip your hips like they're never going to let go, steadying himself. His free hand moves up to curl around your throat—not choking, but connecting just enough pressure to tie you to the moment. You choke out a groan, voice echoing into the glass like a promise you didn't mean to make.

It’s violent and tender both—his tongue brushing over your collar bone, mouth stretched tight as he grunts and moves. You're balancing between pleasure and panic, eyes on your reflection as you feel him fully seated inside you, deep in a way that steals the air from your lungs.

The mirror explodes with movement: your hips rolling up, his thrusts driving forward, eyes still locked, wanting to see every reaction, every sound leaving your mouth. The world narrows to glass and flesh, sound drowned by the echo of your breathing and the creak of bed slats.

“Fuck,” he hisses into your ear, teeth grazing your lobe. “Look at you.”

You shiver, trembling, caught between the burn and the beauty of watching yourself want him.

He pushes inside you harder, faster. Mirror or not, there's no holding back. Hands move between you, fingers finding that spot behind your hipbone, knuckles brushing skin so perfectly, pleasure and want bleeding together.

You drop your head back, eyes flicking back to the mirror again. It’s too much and enough at once.

“Lando,” you moan. And in your reflection, he hears your name like a vow.

He huffs a laugh—raucous, desperate. “Say it again.”

Your voice shakes as you repeat it. He leans in, thrusts a final time, and everything shatters—clenches, breaks, crashes into the silence after.

The mirror registers your wild exhale, his head bowed low, both of you spent and shaking. In that reflection, you see the aftermath: sweat mottled curls, bruising hips, two silhouettes breathing hard, tangled and real.

He pulls you back up onto the bed fully, lips trailing kisses down your chest until he settles next to you. Everything’s loud now: your breathing, his heartbeat.

You stay there for a long moment, chests rising and falling in sync, the mirror still catching every aftershock in soft, glowy angles. Your skin is slick with sweat, your hair’s a wreck, and Lando’s got that dazed, cocky smile that always shows up right after he’s absolutely wrecked you.

Eventually, he exhales a laugh. “Well. That escalated.”

You snort into his shoulder, voice hoarse. “You literally flipped me like a pancake.”

He grins, lazy and smug. “Yeah, but like... a sexy pancake.”

You groan, covering your face. “You ruin everything.”

He props himself up on one elbow, hair wild, eyes still hazy. “Ruin? That was art.”

You squint at him through your fingers. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he says, brushing your hair off your face with exaggerated tenderness, “you keep giving me material.”

You pause, arching a brow. “Material?”

“For the next mirror session,” he says with a wink. “You think I’m forgetting that look on your face?”

You swat him with the nearest pillow, but you're laughing now—giddy and ruined and stupidly happy.

“Okay, Casanova.”

After the mirror, it didn’t stop. If anything, it unlocked something.

You started making lists—mental ones, whispered ones, ones jotted down in the Notes app under fake names.

Places. Positions. Kinks. Scenarios.

Sometimes it was mind-blowing. Sometimes it was hilarious.

Like the time you tried shower sex and both of you nearly slipped and died.

Lando caught you by the elbow mid-slide, shampoo burning your eyes, both of you wheezing with laughter.

“Sexy,” you gasped, bent over awkwardly with conditioner still in your hair.

Or the time he tried blindfolding you but tied the scarf too tight and you got a headache halfway through.

And then there were the wins—lazy morning sex with your wrists tied above your head and his mouth trailing kisses down your stomach.

A hotel balcony in Barcelona, warm night air against your skin while his fingers curled inside you and he murmured, “Keep your voice down.”

Or the time he dared you in a restaurant, completely drunk on red wine and adrenaline and you made him comeunder the table flushed and giggling while he tried to pretend he hadn’t just ruined his pants.

It became your thing.

Not just the sex.

The exploring.

Together. With complete trust and absolutely zero shame.

You laughed when it was awkward. You raved when it was good. You tried again when it flopped.

tag list:

@lifesass @norrisjpg @random-movie @widow-cevans @mxdi0 @graceln4 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @mara1999

#lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #lando norris one shot #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #mclaren #mclaren x reader #lando norris x fem!reader #lando norris smut #lando norris #f1 smut #𓊆papayainone𓊇

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norristrii · 2 months ago

Text

THAT’S NOT HER, CHAT!

You and Lando had been keeping your relationship hidden from the public eye. But all it took was one accidental appearance on his stream to change everything. After that, there was no going back.

pairing. Lando Norris x Verstappen! fem! reader.

warnings. chaos, fluff, comedy.

DATING LANDO HAD BEEN EXCITING, exhilarating even, but it also came with its fair share of complications—ones you had been aware of from the start.

Two months in, things still felt new, still carried that fresh spark of discovery, of late-night conversations and shared laughter that felt just a little more intimate now. The way he looked at you, the way he reached for your hand absentmindedly, like it was second nature—those moments were yours, tucked away, safe from the outside world. But while the relationship itself was thriving behind closed doors, taking it online was an entirely different story.

You had your reasons—solid, unshakable ones that kept you cautious.

First, you were Max Verstappen’s sister. That alone made things complicated. The championship fight had put your family in the center of attention in ways that went beyond just racing, and adding your relationship into the mix? It would inevitably fuel speculation, opinions, and unwanted scrutiny. People would have theories, analyze dynamics, question loyalties—none of which you wanted to deal with.

Second—well, Lando’s fans were intense. Not all of them, obviously, but enough to make you wary of putting too much of your personal life on display. You had seen how they dissected his every move, how they speculated about things that didn’t even exist, how quickly narratives could spiral out of control. The thought of people analyzing every interaction, every glance, every post—it was exhausting. You loved him, but you weren’t sure if you could handle what came with loving him publicly.

For now, the secrecy wasn’t a burden—it was a protection. A way to preserve something that felt fragile, something you weren’t ready to hand over to the chaos of the internet.

You spent so much time at Lando’s place that, at this point, it felt less like visiting and more like home. Your things had slowly integrated into his space—your clothes hung in his closet, your favorite snacks filled his kitchen cabinets, and the couch had practically molded itself to fit your preferred spot.

And you adored every bit of it.

The quiet mornings where the two of you lazily made breakfast, the way he’d pull you into his antics without hesitation, the soft moments where words weren’t needed—just existing together was enough.

But there was one unspoken rule.

When Lando was streaming, you knew not to walk into his room. Not because he didn’t want you there—quite the opposite. But because the two of you had made a choice, a silent agreement to keep your relationship yours for now. Away from the internet, away from prying eyes and endless speculation.

He was too quiet. So quiet that you had convinced yourself he wasn’t streaming, that you could casually walk in and drop off the food without a second thought.

So, naturally, without hesitation, you pushed open the door, plate in hand, ready to deliver his food like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

And that’s when the panic set in.

“I’m streaming, I’m streaming, wait!” Lando practically jumped in his chair, hands flying up in frantic urgency, his voice tight with alarm.

You froze in place, gripping the plate a little tighter, your heart immediately racing. Your mind scrambled—had the camera caught you? Had his chat noticed? Had you just completely blown your cover?

Lando’s eyes flicked towards his monitor, then back at you, a whirlwind of chaos flashing across his face. He exhaled sharply, his fingers moving quickly as he hit pause on the stream, momentarily shutting out the thousands of people currently watching.

Only then did he turn back to you, his expression softening, his lips curling into something between amusement and exasperation.

“You can come now,” he said, his tone lighter, like he was trying not to laugh.

You let out the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, the tension in your shoulders easing ever so slightly as you stepped fully inside, setting the plate down on his desk.

“Thank you, baby,” Lando said softly, leaning in to press a light kiss to your cheek. His tone was casual, affectionate, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But you? You were frozen. Your eyes locked onto the chat, still rolling at an alarming speed, messages flooding in faster than you could even process.

Is that Y/n Verstappen? Y/n and Lando confirmed? Baby? Omg. NO WAYY SO THE RUMORS WERE TRUE!?? MAX’S SISTER?

Your stomach dropped as realization hit you like a freight train. Slowly, you turned to Lando, your voice careful, almost hesitant. “You didn’t pause it?”

His eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he whipped back to his monitor. “Oh, shit!” he exclaimed, scrambling to mute the stream. But instead of fixing the situation, he leaned into the chaos, laughing as he turned back to the camera.

“Chat, this is not Y/n Verstappen!” he shouted, his voice filled with mock urgency, his hand flying up to cover your face as you tried—and failed—to stifle your laughter.

“That’s not her, chat!” he repeated, his grin widening as he glanced at you, clearly enjoying the absurdity of the moment.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you buried your face in your hands. The damage was done. The chat was already in full meltdown mode, and there was no undoing it now.

Lando, of course, was having the time of his life. And despite the chaos, you couldn’t help but laugh along with him. Because, really, what else could you do?

You couldn’t help but laugh, the entire situation spiraling into chaos before your eyes, and instead of trying to salvage it—you leaned right into it. There was no fixing this, no smooth way out, no denying the very obvious slip-up that Lando had just handed his viewers on a silver platter.

So instead of panicking, instead of shrinking away from the inevitable, you grinned and played along.

“He’s lying, chat!” you exclaimed, stepping fully into frame now, amusement bubbling in your voice as you pointed at him accusingly. “That’s me! Y/n!”

And that was it. The chat detonated all over again.

I love whatever this is. Y/N AND LANDO HARD LAUNCH BEFORE GTA6??? They’re so cute stopp

The messages flooded the screen at an alarming rate, the reactions coming in so fast it was impossible to keep up. Text flew by in all caps, people spamming emotes, sending chaos into overdrive.

Meanwhile, Lando whipped his head toward you, jaw dropping, eyes wide in sheer disbelief as if you had somehow betrayed him in the most dramatic way possible.

“Hey!” he gasped, his voice filled with exaggerated betrayal, throwing his hands up. “You’re supposed to lie along with me!”

You laughed harder, shaking your head, still grinning at him. “Oh, no, you absolutely dug your own grave with that ‘baby’ comment,” you teased, nudging him playfully. “This is your fault, Norris.”

Lando groaned dramatically, dragging his hands down his face, shoulders shaking as he tried—and failed—to suppress his laughter. He turned back to the screen, exhaling a long, exaggerated sigh before finally giving in.

Lando leaned back in his chair, dramatically throwing his hands up in surrender, accepting his fate with a grin that only made the chat more unhinged. He knew he had lost this battle before it even started, and at this point, there was no turning back.

“Okay, okay,” he said, dragging out the words for effect, voice dripping with exaggerated exasperation as he finally relented. “So chat, this is my precious girlfriend, Y/n Verstappen.”

He gestured toward you with both hands, as if he were presenting some kind of grand reveal, his mischievous expression making it clear he was fully leaning into the moment now. The fact that this wasn’t how he planned on announcing your relationship didn’t seem to bother him anymore—if anything, he was thriving in the chaos.

The chat exploded instantly.

Messages were flying so fast it was almost impossible to process them, the flood of reactions coming at an overwhelming speed. There was no stopping it now, no undoing it. You had gone from a quiet, private relationship to a full-blown hard launch in the span of seconds—and the internet was eating it up.

PRECIOUS?! What is going on!? THE WAY HE SAYS IT SO PROUDLY?? PLEASE. MAX IS ABOUT TO THROW HANDS. She’s precious, smart and beautiful… and yeah he’s also here.

You blinked at him, raising an eyebrow, arms crossing over your chest as you tilted your head slightly in mock amusement. “Oh wow, precious, huh?” you teased, a slow smirk tugging at your lips. “Didn’t know I ranked that high.”

Lando scoffed, turning to you with a playful glint in his eye. “Obviously. You should feel honored,” he shot back with an air of complete confidence, leaning closer like he was about to let you in on some grand secret. “Chat, she’s lucky I didn’t say queen.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but the warmth bubbling in your chest betrayed the sarcasm in your expression.

You grinned, shaking your head slightly as you leaned into frame, playing along without hesitation.

“And that’s my Lando,” you added with a smile, eyes flickering toward him as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart, pretending to be touched by your words.

This is hard launch of the century. I JUST CAN IMAGINE MAX WATCHING THIS. THEY’RE SO IN LOVE OMGG. This stream changed me as a person.

Lando laughed, shaking his head at the chaos unraveling on his screen. “Oh, now they’re losing it,” he mused, reading the messages aloud. “Max is definitely gonna kill me.”

You grinned, resting your chin on your hand as you eyed him playfully. “Yeah, you might wanna start practicing your apology now,” you teased.

Lando exhaled heavily, straightening up and dramatically addressing the camera like he was preparing for a speech. “Alright, alright—if Max Verstappen is watching this,” he started, clearing his throat. “Just know that I am deeply, deeply sorry for exposing this relationship like an absolute idiot on stream.”

You snorted, shaking your head at him. “Wow, strong start,” you mused, crossing your arms.

Lando ignored you, pressing on. “Max, please, I beg of you—do not throw me into a wall the next time you see me,” he continued, still fully committed to the dramatics.

You shrugged innocently, crossing your arms. “Yeah, probably will,” you teased, lips twitching with amusement. “But hey, truth is, it was your mistake, not mine.”

Lando groaned, tossing his head back like he had just accepted his doomed fate. “You could have helped me cover it up, you know,” he pointed out, smirking at you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, please—you called me baby and precious on stream, Norris,” you countered, shaking your head. “This was never staying a secret after that.”

Lando exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face, feigning defeat. “Guess we’re official now,” he muttered, laughing to himself.

You leaned in slightly, nudging his arm. “Guess we are,” you echoed, grinning.

And just like that—the world knew.

Messy, unplanned, very public—exactly the way it was always going to happen with Lando.

And honestly? You wouldn’t change a single thing.

Even if Max did come for his life later.

It would absolutely be worth it.

Every second of it.

@haniette <3

#formula 1 #mclaren #lando norris #lando norris f1 #formula one #lando norris x y/n #ln4 fic #lando norris x reader #ln4 x y/n #lando norris x you #ln4 fluff #ln4 imagine #ln4 #lando norris fluff #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #f1 x female reader #f1 fic #f1 writing

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rrysbabydoll · 1 month ago

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A Night In Rome

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

CW: Alcohol consumption, public intoxication, suggestive sexual behavior in public, light dominance/submission dynamics, clingy Y/N.

Synopsis: A night in rome with a very drunk clingy Y/N.

You were wearing a white lace dress, with your hair tied loosely back, a few strands slipping free to frame your flushed face. The streets hummed around you, but you weren’t really paying attention to anything except Harry, well, Harry and the icy drink in your hand.

The cobblestone streets of Rome glistened under soft amber lights. It had rained briefly earlier that evening, just enough to coat the city in a sheen that made every step feel cinematic.

You were tipsy. Gloriously, gigglingly tipsy.

Harry leaned back against the wall of the trattoria you’d all just left, the collar of his blue shirt slightly undone, the hem of his trousers brushing his ankles. He was sipping slowly, his other hand tucked into his pocket, eyes watching you with that amused, adoring little smile.

Alessandro Michele was standing nearby with an arm lazily draped around his partner. He was telling some story to the group gathered around, all talking over one another.

But you were entirely fixated on your boyfriend.

You took a sip of your cocktail, lips pursing. “Why is this so good?” you said, stumbling a little as you reached Harry. You clung to his side, wrapping your free arm around his waist like you needed him to stay upright.

Harry chuckled, low and patient. “Because it’s your fourth one, bunny.”

You smiled dreamily. “It’s not my fourth.”

“It is.” He slid your glass gently from your hand. “And that’s enough, lovie.”

You blinked up at him, swaying just slightly on your feet. “You’re mean.”

“I know.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek. “But you’ll thank me in the morning.”

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, hands gliding over the silk of his shirt, and buried your face in his neck. “You smell so good,” you whispered, then nuzzled in deeper and left a slow, open-mouthed kiss just beneath his jaw.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away or tell you to behave. Just let you nuzzle and nip at the soft skin beneath his ear, your lips brushing just beneath his jaw as if you were trying to memorize the shape of him with your mouth. You were delicate at first, barely-there kisses, your breath warm and sweet against his skin, but then your teeth grazed him, playful and a little greedy, and he made a low sound that barely passed as a laugh.

Still, he didn’t stop you.

His arm wrapped more securely around your waist, hand warm and steady against the small of your back, his thumb drawing slow, grounding circles. He was still listening to Alessandro and laughing softly with the others, nodding along, but every now and then, his hand would slide just a little lower, soothing, steadying, as your lips trailed along his neck with lazy devotion.

You kept going, half-draped over him, mouthing at the skin above his collarbone, barely noticing how your lip gloss had smudged just a little. You pressed another kiss to the side of his neck, then did it again, just because you could.

Harry tilted his head to the side slightly, offering you more space, still not saying anything. He didn’t need to. His body was so relaxed, like this was just second nature, letting his tipsy girl crawl all over him in the middle of a Roman alley while he chatted with old friends.

Every now and then, his fingers would tighten at your waist, squeezing gently when you got a bit too close to his collar or a little too sharp with your teeth. But he didn’t move you away. He just kept talking.

At one point, Giovanni, Alessandro’s partner, caught Harry’s eye and raised a brow with a knowing smirk.

“She’s had fun tonight,” Harry said smoothly, not missing a beat. He kissed the top of your head without even looking. “Haven’t you, bun?”

You hummed in reply, completely blissed out against his neck, lips still grazing skin as if it was the only thing tethering you to the ground.

Then you said softly, right against his skin: “You taste good too.”

That was when Harry finally blinked and let out a quiet laugh.

You kissed him again, then again, sloppier this time, hot lips dragging across the column of his throat. “Can we go back home?” you murmured.

“Not yet, bun.”

“Wanna be alone with you.”

“I know you do.” His voice was still gentle, but there was a warning edge to it. You’d pushed past that edge.

Your hand slid down, tracing the front of his shirt, nails dragging lightly, until you reached the waistband of his trousers. You giggled, brushing the heel of your palm over the slight bulge in his pants.

His eyes widened. “Jesus,” he muttered, laughter bursting from him as he quickly grabbed your wrist and pushed your hand away. “You’re gonna get us arrested.”

“But it’s Rome,” you whispered with a giggle. “They’re romantic here.”

“Yeah, not that romantic,” he said, still laughing.

You pouted, leaning up to kiss him again. This time it was full-on, your mouth open, messy, hungry.

Your lips found his like it was the only thing in the world you could focus on. You tilted your head and opened wider, tongue brushing his, fingers tangling into the collar of his shirt as you pressed up on your toes to reach him fully.

Harry let you kiss him. Let you take and take, groaning softly into your mouth as one of his hands came up to cradle the back of your head, steadying you. His other arm stayed looped around your waist, keeping you anchored, flush to him. His fingers curled at your lower back again, a slow, reassuring stroke up and down, up and down.

Around you, no one paid much attention. The group had splintered into smaller conversations, Alessandro now theatrically reenacting something with wide hand gestures, everyone too caught up in their own tipsy laughter and stories to care that you were practically devouring your boyfriend in the street.

You whimpered softly into his mouth, angling yourself closer, knee slipping between his, and Harry chuckled again, deep in his chest.

“You’re a menace tonight,” he murmured against your lips.

But he still didn’t stop you.

You were about to say something, something about how warm he was, or how you wanted to crawl into his shirt and live there, when a sudden arm slung casually around your shoulders from the side, pulling you back slightly with affectionate force.

“Alright, bambini,” Alessandro grinned, standing between you and Harry now like a human barrier, one arm still draped across your shoulders, the other flung around Harry’s. “Save some of that passion for behind closed doors, hmm?”

Harry threw his head back and laughed.

You blinked up at Alessandro, dazed and pouty, but didn’t resist his grip. You stood there for a moment, swaying a little under the weight of his arm, then slipped out from under it with a tiny huff and wandered toward the table nearby, sinking into one of the wrought iron chairs with a sigh.

Your cheek smushed against your hand, elbow propped on the table. You kicked your feet slightly under the chair and started humming to yourself, some soft, dreamy tune you couldn’t quite remember the name of. Probably something Harry had played for you once, or something Alessandro had blasted through his villa speakers.

Your dress caught the light every time you shifted, your flushed face dreamy and content as the night swirled on around you. People talked and sipped and smoked and laughed, and you just hummed and watched Harry from your little spot, like he was the center of your universe.

Because he was.

You kept humming, now swaying slightly in your seat, arms folded on the table in front of you. The streets had grown quieter now, just the low hum of traffic in the distance, a few passing voices, the clinking of ice in glasses.

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the breeze slip past and cool your flushed skin. You imagined Harry’s hand instead, those warm fingers tracing down your back, over your thighs, up the inside of your—

“Bun,” came his voice suddenly, close.

Your eyes fluttered open to find him crouching beside you, glass of water in one hand and that soft, bossy smile on his face.

“Drink this,” he said, nudging it toward your lips.

You wrinkled your nose. “I don’t want water.”

“I know,” he said gently, tilting the glass anyway. “Be a good girl, yeah? Just a little.”

You let out the tiniest whine, dramatic and pouty, but opened your mouth. He helped you sip, watching you the whole time, free hand rubbing your thigh slowly under the table. You finished a little less than half before turning your head dramatically into his shoulder.

“There,” you murmured. “I’m healthy.”

Harry laughed, soft and warm. “You’re getting healthy. One more sip, bunny.”

“This is so entertaining,” Alessandro said suddenly, perched across from you both with a smirk on his face, chin in hand, elbow propped on the table, as you glared at him.

Harry smiled down at you, ignoring them entirely, lifting the glass once more.

“You gonna finish this for me?” he asked sweetly.

You stared at him. “If i get a kissy after.”

He smirked. “Deal.”

You took another sip, then immediately threw yourself at him. His arms came around you instinctively, laughing into your shoulder as you tried to kiss his cheek, his jaw, his mouth.

“Christ,” he muttered, letting you do whatever you wanted, still smiling as he glanced back toward Alessandro. “She’s relentless tonight.”

“Let her be,” Alessandro said.

“C’mon, time to go.” Harry said after a while.

You blinked. “Already?”

“It’s nearly two,” he said gently, crouching slightly so you were eye level. “I thought you wanted to go home?”

You pouted again. “No, I like it here.”

“I know, lovie,” he said, brushing his knuckles against your cheek, “We’re gonna come again tomorrow, right now you need sleep.”

You giggled and let him pull you to your feet.

Your legs wobbled a bit, and Harry steadied you immediately with both hands around your waist, then leaned in to kiss the tip of your nose.

“I want pizza,” you said dreamily as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and guided you back to the group.

Alessandro gasped. “Finally, someone says what we’re all thinking!”

Within minutes, the group was making their way down the winding street toward a place Alessandro swore had the best late-night margherita in the entire city. You walked with Harry, arm wrapped tightly around his middle, your body practically glued to his side.

You kept kissing his shoulder as you walked. His arm never left your back.

“You know how much I love you?” you asked, not quietly.

Harry glanced down at you with a soft laugh. “How much, bun?”

You stopped suddenly in the middle of the street. “This much,” you declared, stretching your arms wide, nearly twirling in your spot.

He caught you before you could wobble too far and kissed your forehead, tucking you safely back under his arm. “That’s a lot.”

“You’re my favorite person,” you whispered into his chest.

He squeezed you closer. “You’re mine, too.”

Eventually, the group stumbled into the tiny pizza shop Alessandro had spoken of, and you curled up beside Harry in the booth, half-asleep on his shoulder by the time your slices arrived. He fed you bites between sips of water and whispered something against your hair that made you giggle again.

And when you finally left, the cobblestone streets still warm beneath your sandals, Harry wrapped his jacket around your shoulders, held your hand tightly, and guided you all the way back home.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles #dom harry styles #harry #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fluff

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coquitten · 3 months ago

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ok but NOTE on this when i was a lil kid i was like >:3c well if the hot evil character does it...

SO im just saying... minors r so susceptible to being influenced and dulled to the reality of topics that we with developed frontal lobes can look at/think about/engage in with a clear distiction from reality!!

(i could rant about dnis and their ineffectiveness to keep Real Bad People out but i knowww that mostly minors have those and tbh, that's alright. let them be safe and protected. that’s a Good Thing)

"Age gap ships promote pedophilia!" "Incest ships promote incest irl!" okay so FNAF promotes child murder

#this post is sponsored by my therapist who has had to lovingly remind me YET AGAIN that liking fictional dynamics =/= liking them irl #i saw a post that said “reading a story that i would call the police for if it happened irl”#and that’s how i deal with problematic fandom stuff!!#im anti harassment tho!! i like when people just *block* eachother without starting drama #pspspsps #im pro-being weird!! getting a little too silly about blorbos in public spaces!!!#:3

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baby-yongbok · 3 months ago

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Run

Bang Chan x afab!Reader x Hwang Hyunjin

⤷ Genre - Smut | friends to lovers | MDNI

⤷ WC - 7.5k

⤷ Summary - You walked right into it - the thrill, the desire, their twisted idea of a game in the middle of nowhere. You gave yourself over, let them take control. Now all that’s left is to run. But the real fantasy? It begins when they catch you.

⤷ Content warning - primal play, psychological play, mxm, oral (f&m rec.), unprotected sex, choking, slight dumbifictation, spit (for like 10 seconds), anal sex - double penetration, public sex, humiliation, overstimulation (m rec.), Mention of & light use of substances, Dom/sub dynamics (let me know if I missed anything!)

⊳ Masterlist ⊲

The sky is burning, orange into pink as it fades by the second. The clouds drag like your feet through the fallen leaves. The woods are quiet, too quiet for what the boys promised you but you keep going.

You follow the trees, look out for the red marks that Chan put there just for you. To lure you closer and closer until you stumble into the clearing.

Chan is there - back against a tree, cigarette hanging off his lips, eyes dragging across you slow like molasses. The glow of the lighter catches his cheekbones, and you can feel the heat from where you stand.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” he says, voice low, lazy. But his fingers twitch. You notice.

Then - Hyunjin. Loud, chaotic, all limbs and a toothy smile as he appears from the dark, shirt half unbuttoned and wild in every sense of the word.

“There you are,” he purrs. “Took you long enough.”

“I’d be here quicker if we met at normal places. What do you guys have against a park?” Hyunjin laughs, something that almost sounds crazed and Chan pushes himself off of the tree, letting one foot fall in front of the other lazily - closing in.

“What? You afraid of some woods?” The corner of his mouth ticks up into a smile, his dark eyes study yours and you look away.

There’s an aura to Chan - there always has been. It’s something that neither of you have put a name to, something that you’ve only known him to have with Hyunjin. The two came as a pair. Attached at the hip as something more than friends but you’ve never seen it. Not really. You just know.

“Don’t you like the way this sounds?” Hyunjin cuts in, throwing an arm around your shoulder, he whispers, “Silent, free. Listen.” You do, you listen and you're met with nothing but the faint sound of a cricket and the rustling of leaves in the wind.

Chan watches the two of you, studying the way Hyunjin touches you so comfortably - studying the way that you let him. “Thought you might like an escape but you’re free to leave.” he breaks the silence, taking his cigarette between two fingers and turning to face the small fire flickering in a makeshift bonfire.

Hyunjin follows, sparing you a single glance before plucking the cigarette from Chan’s lips and wedging it between his own. Your feet bring you closer, ignoring Chan’s words and taking the open bottle of liquor from the tree stump next to them. You fist the neck of the bottle, taking a swig that’s too long, too bitter, but you need it.

“Atta girl.” Hyunjin coos but Chan just watches, studies. A silence falls over the space, the crackling of fire is all you have to remind you that you’re not alone in the eerie dark. You’ve come here with them before. You’ve smoked here. Drank here. Laughed here. But tonight - tonight feels different. Like the air’s been wired to snap. Like they’ve brought you here for something else entirely.

“Hyunjin…” Chan exhales slow, smoke curling from his lips. “Tell her what we talked about.”

Your pulse thrums, the looming nerves that buzzed in your background move forward and spread. Hyunjin hums, it almost sounds like a moan and he looks over at Chan, just a bit. “You don’t think it’ll scare her away?”

You can hear the smile in his voice and then you look over, catching the dare in Chan’s gaze. It’s subtle but you could never miss it. “It might.” His voice is clear but his lips just barely move. “But I’ve got faith in her.” A pause. Then, soft and sharp: “She hasn’t gone weak on us… right?”

He’s talking to you, you know that he’s talking to you.

Hyunjin turns to you, his lips twitch, barely a smile, as he leans in closer - close enough that you can feel the heat of his body against yours.

His fingers barely brush your arm. A fleeting touch that makes your breath catch, but before you can pull away, it’s gone. He’s teasing, not letting you settle.

“Why the hell are you two acting like that?” The waver in your voice betrays you but you keep your spine straight, you give the illusion of security just as they give the promise of danger.

“Shh,” Hyunjin breathes and your eyes meet his, “You feel that?” he whispers, his voice dripping with something hungry. “The pull? The way the air's gotten thick?”

His eyes flick to Chan, who watches the entire exchange with quiet intensity. “It’s not the woods making it heavy, sweetheart,” Hyunjin continues, voice laced with amusement, like he knows something you don’t. “It’s us.”

Then Chan’s gaze sharpens, and just like that, the atmosphere shifts. His next words come with purpose. Quiet but decisive.

“Run.”

His voice is so smooth, like it’s part of the air, but the weight behind it is undeniable.

“Hide.”

And then, his lips curve up in a ghost of a smile. “Let’s see how well you can stay hidden.”

You stare at him and then Hyunjin, your eyes move back and forth and your head spins with pressure. What the fuck? You want to say it, but your mouth just opens, lips parting just enough for your breath to cloud in the cold.

“Told you it would scare her away.” Hyunjin is laughing again, smiling like a taunt but Chan is still, staring, daring. “You’ve played hide and seek before, haven’t you, doll?”

Your gaze breaks to him. “What the hell are you two getting at? You want to play a stupid game?” Chan tsks and Hyunjin looks at him with a knowing glint that you wished you possessed.

“When’s the last time you just… ran?” Chan takes a languid step forward, his heavy boots thudding softly in the leaves. “Like a wolf on a full moon. Free, unchained from responsibility.”

Hyunjin’s gaze never leaves you, his eyes simmering with an intensity that seems to press against your skin. As Chan speaks, Hyunjin takes a languid step forward, moving in a slow circle around you. His boots don’t make a sound as he shifts in the darkness, a shadow slinking in and out of your peripheral vision.

You can feel the subtle shift in the air as he moves, his proximity so close that your body instinctively pulls tighter, almost as if anticipating something - but you can’t predict his next move. His presence is undeniable, suffocating in the way it hovers, waiting.

His voice cuts through the tense silence, too smooth, too close. “Run,” Hyunjin echoes, a low hum in his chest as his eyes never leave yours. “But you’ll never outrun us.”

Hyunjin keeps circling, never touching but always near - like a predator closing in on its prey. Naturally, you bare teeth, resisting. “Why the hell would I let you two chase me through the woods? What’s so freeing about that?” Your eyes stay on Chan’s and he fucking smirks.

“Don’t you trust us?” He murmurs, head tilting to the side in mock curiosity. He knows the answer. He knows that you do. If you didn’t you would’ve never come here.

You know the answer too, but for a different reason. Because you’ve hooked up before. Kisses in shadows, hands under clothes, fast and desperate. That time one shot turned into nine and Hyunjin mentioned how he wanted your thighs on his shoulders in the back of Chan’s car. You trust them, but not like a friend.

“You’re going to run,” Hyunjin murmurs, his voice like a warning. “Or you’ll stay. And if you stay, you’ll belong to us.” He stops, standing behind you with just a breath of space between you. You can feel his heat on your back, a blazing contrast to the chill between the three of you.

“And if I do run?“ You ask, half out of curiosity, but there’s a weight behind it now, a recognition of the game you're caught in. You think you already know that answer. Hyunjin smiles, leaning in to just barely whisper. “You’ll still belong to us.”

Your heart skips. You knew it.

Chan watches, studying yet again but this time he learns something new. “You like that, don’t you?” your eyes flick to his, “The idea of us having you in such a primal way.”

Your throat feels dry, your tongue too heavy. “You two are drunk or something.” Chan doesn’t respond, he only closes in. “I didn’t come here for you two to be acting all fucking weird and - and …” the words die in your throat.

You try to swallow but your throat stays dry. Chan is too close now, and Hyunjin hasn’t moved from behind you. You’re boxed in, heat at your back, fire in front. Still, you square your shoulders, even if your legs feel like they’re humming with anticipation.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, but there’s no bite. Just breath.

Chan tips his head, mock confusion curling at the corner of his mouth. “Like what?” He asks, but he knows. He always knows.

“Like you’re waiting for me to break.”

Hyunjin lets out a low, dangerous sound behind you - like a laugh dragged through a growl. “You already did,” he murmurs, voice close to your ear. “You just forgot.”

Something flashes in Chan’s eyes - recognition - and then, slowly, deliberately, he says, “You remember that night on the roof?”

Your stomach drops.

You know exactly which one.

You’d been too high, toes curled over the ledge, stoned on something you didn’t question because Chan passed it to you with that look in his eyes. Hyunjin was sprawled out nearby, shirtless and golden in the moonlight. That was the night you’d said too much. That was the night you told them how you wanted it - chased, caught, pinned. Like prey. Like a fucking animal.

“I remember what you said,” Chan continues, voice lower now, like he’s slipping under your skin. “You said you wanted to be hunted. Wanted to feel teeth at your neck. Wanted to run until your legs gave out, and then be taken.”

Your breath hitches, body going still.

“You didn’t mean it?” Hyunjin asks, tone playful but tight with something else. “Because it sounded real to me.”

You shake your head, but even you don’t know what you’re denying. Your heart pounds too loud, too fast. The fire’s crackle feels like it’s inside you now, licking at your spine.

“You’ve thought about it since then,” Chan says, stepping even closer. “That feeling of being chased… like the world falls away and it’s just us. The dark. The dirt. The trees. Need.”

And maybe you have. Maybe that night etched something into you that you never let yourself revisit - until now. Because your body? It’s already leaning in. Your thighs press together without you realizing, your breath turns shallow.

Hyunjin catches it, sharp and smug. “There she is,” he whispers. “You want it. Say it.”

You don’t speak, can’t. But you don’t need to. You take a step back - toward the trees.

Chan’s grin is slow, dark, knowing. “Run.”

Your breathing picks up. Your fingers twitch at your side and you can feel your resolve stretching thin over your desire. Hyunjin brings his hands up, gently peeling your jacket from your shoulders and down your arms, he whispers, “What’re you fighting it for? Run.”

Your eyelids flutter, you can hear him too clearly - like he’s settled in your brain. Chan just watches, hands in his pockets like he isn’t trying to rope you into a game of manhunt. You take another step back and then another.

Hyunjin moves next to Chan, watching with phlegmatic anticipation.

“Go,” he says. “You’ve got a head start.”

Silence again.

Not empty.

Not safe.

Crackling. Loaded. Breathless.

You turn your back on them.

And run.

Leaves crack underfoot, branches whip at your clothes, and your breath comes fast. You’re running blind, high and aroused and absolutely feral. Every step is a pulse, every heartbeat another second closer to being caught. You can feel them - as if there are chains connecting you all, leading them to you through the dark, stalking you just like they wanted - and now you want it too.

You don’t know who will find you first.

That’s part of the thrill.

You crouch behind a tree, trying not to breathe too loud. You have no idea how long you’ve been running. You have no idea how far you’ve gotten or if you ran in circles. You have no idea where they are.

Your senses sharpen and it’s like you can smell them before you hear them, a strong musk - honey, cigarettes and liquor.

Snap.

A branch, somewhere behind you. Closer now. Then silence.

You freeze, hand over your mouth. Another sound. Breathing? A footstep?

Nothing.

And then - “Found you.”

Hyunjin’s voice in your ear, hands on your waist. But you twist, dart away, laughing as he curses.

“Fuck- she’s quick-”

The game is on.

Chan’s voice floats through the dark, smooth and sharp. “Don’t let her think she’s winning, Hyune.”

“Let me have my fun, hyung.”

They split up, lingering far but still too close. Chan watches, slow and calculating, you vault over a log and stumble. “That tree again?” Chan calls out, amused. “You’re going in circles.”

Fuck.

You are.

Or are you?

“You think we don’t know this forest?” Hyunjin pants. His voice comes from the left… no, right… no, “We own it.”

Panic flares in your chest, but it’s the wrong kind. It’s not fear - it’s the thrill. Your pulse spikes like a live wire and you feel alive. This isn’t about getting away. Not really.

You keep going.

Until you hear Chan again, this time closer - too close:

“Left foot’s dragging. Getting tired?”

You bolt, cleaning up your rhythm like your life is on the line. You forget about being quick and focus on being neat.

You could handle Hyunjin catching you. You could fight him off, something wild and rough, but Chan, he’s worse - because you know he’s calculating. Quiet. Waiting for you to zig when you should zag. He’s not chasing you to catch you. He’s chasing you to learn you. Like a predator with patience.

You press your back to a tree, chest heaving. You don’t know how long you’ve been running, how far you've gotten - but it’s silent. That’s what matters. You’ve lost Chan.

A grin breaks across your face, shaky with adrenaline. This is fun.

You listen again, it’s silent, right? The forest pulses with your heartbeat. You wait. One second. Two. Ten. Nothing.

No voice. No footsteps.

No Chan.

No Hyunjin.

It’s worse than being chased.

Your thighs press together, your spit is thick in your mouth and you listen. You try to listen but the thought of what’s to come, the image of them catching you clouds your vision. Will they take you? Right here? Wild and primal - or will they make you run again? Hunt you over and over like a game of cat and mouse.

You want both. You want it all.

Crack.

What was that? Who was that?

The air in your lungs thins, your thighs press tighter and you fight the urge to peek. Don’t you dare fucking peek.

You hear it again, the direction is unclear like they’re everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Fuck it.

You hold your breath, leaning forward ever so slightly just to take a glimpse, something quick. Nothing. You pull back even quicker and that’s when you hear it, a whisper.

“Boo.”

You scream, Hyunjin tackles you into the leaves, laughing wicked and full. “You’re so fucking loud,” he purrs against your neck. “You want him to hear you?”

“Chan-” you gasp.

Hyunjin grins. “Yeah, call for him. Bet he’ll lose his shit.”

You breathe out his name again, softer this time. “Chan…”

Hyunjin hums, pressing his nose into the curve of your throat. “Thought so,” His hands settle on your hips like he’s trying to calm you, soothe you, even as he straddles you like prey. “Let me help you up.” he murmurs, voice lower, tender in a way that feels wrong.

And you believe it - stupidly, you believe it - because Hyunjin feels like warmth, like comfort, like that sliver of reprieve before the slaughter.

He pulls you to your feet, hands brushing dirt off your arms like a lover would. “Shhh,” he whispers, lips barely grazing your cheek. “Stay quiet. Follow me.”

So you do.

The woods swallow your footsteps. You trail behind him, heart still skittering, adrenaline crashing into lust and confusion and something dangerous.

Then-

“Where do you think you’re going?” The voice doesn’t come from behind you. No.

It comes in front.

Too late.

Before you can even react, Chan’s hand is around Hyunjin’s throat, slamming him back against a tree so hard the bark cracks under his spine. The impact shudders through the ground. You gasp, instinctively reaching forward - but Chan doesn’t even look at you.

Hyunjin’s laughing. Laughing.

“Found me,” he rasps, grin splitting his face like an axe to wood.

“You always were the easy one,” Chan growls, voice as rough as the hand still pinning Hyunjin.

“You said don’t let her win,” Hyunjin manages, eyes flicking toward you with a wild glint. “Didn’t say I couldn’t guide her.”

Chan doesn’t smile. Not fully. Just the ghost of it - mean and knowing.

“She didn’t win.” His eyes meet yours. “She walked straight into the wolf’s den.”

Your breath stutters. You take a step back - but he doesn’t come for you. Not yet.

Instead, he leans in toward Hyunjin. Fist still on his collar, other hand sliding up his side. And Hyunjin - Hyunjin fucking melts, head tilting, throat offered like he’s been waiting for this.

“Chan,” he murmurs, breathless and sweet.

You can’t look away.

Chan’s mouth brushes the hinge of Hyunjin’s jaw. Lower. Down his neck. Slow, deliberate. You watch his lips part, his tongue trace the line of a tendon, right there - where you were aching for it. Where you still are.

Hyunjin gasps, eyes fluttering shut, mouth slack with need.

It should be obscene. It is obscene. But it’s not for you.

It’s a lesson.

Your stomach flips. The air feels too tight to breathe. You want to move, say something, but your body’s locked in place, the ache in your core twisting into something uglier.

Then Hyunjin moans. Soft and bitten-back. And Chan just smiles.

Like he knows.

Like he planned it.

Like this was always meant for you to see.

And that’s when it hits you: this isn’t over. It’s barely even begun.

You bolt.

Leaves whip your legs. Branches claw at your arms. You don’t even think, just run, throat tight with humiliation and arousal and rage.

Behind you, laughter cracks through the trees.

Hyunjin’s first - breathy, wrecked, gleeful.

Then Chan’s - low and cruel and thrilled.

“Didn’t even touch her,” Hyunjin pants, already moving.

“She’ll beg next time,” Chan replies, and you can hear it: the grin in his voice. The certainty. “We’ll take our time.”

And just like that - The hunt is on again.

You sprint, branches slapping at your arms, lungs burning. But even with the blood pounding in your ears, you hear him.

Chan doesn’t shout - he calls, like a song. Like a spell.

“Where are you running, sweetheart?”

You stumble. Just a beat. Just enough.

“I wasn’t even touching you.”

The words slice. You blink hard, try to focus. Keep moving.

“But you wanted it, didn’t you?”

Your breath catches. You nearly trip.

“You watched my mouth on him like it was your fucking salvation.”

A whimper breaks out of your throat. You push faster. Leaves blur. The forest bends.

“You thought you’d be the one I’d ruin first.”

You’re shaking now, not just from exertion-shame, heat, frustration-all crawling under your skin like fire ants.

“And you still want it. Even now.”

The last one hits like a hammer. You don’t want to believe it. But it’s true. It’s so fucking true.

You can feel it-between your legs, in your teeth, under your skin. A thread you can't snap. You want to go back. You want to keep running. You want to scream.

Then you hear Hyunjin’s voice, somewhere behind you, breathless and laughing.

“She’s gonna break soon.”

Chan’s reply is velvet and final.

“Let her.”

You veer off the path, heart clawing at your ribs. It’s a gamble, doubling back, but it feels smart. The boys had split up-Hyunjin darting deeper into the trees, Chan trailing behind like a shadow. You could feel them peeling off you. You could breathe again.

So you circle. Slipping through brush, feet light on damp ground. Smiling now-just a twitch of lips. You might win this. You might actually-

You break through a clearing and freeze.

The bonfire is there, dimly lit.

This is exactly where you started, and even worse,

Chan is already there.

Leaning against a tree like he’s been waiting for hours. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar crooked, chest rising slowly like the night has bored him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at you, eyes shining like he never chased you at all.

You stop breathing.

“I was hoping you’d come back,” he says, voice low. Calm. Like this is a date. Like this isn’t war.

Behind you, twigs snap. Leaves rustle. Not far now - Hyunjin.

Trapped.

Chan pushes off the tree, saunters forward, slow and deliberate.

“You really think you’re hard to catch?”

You shake your head but you don’t run. You can’t. You don’t know why.

He tilts his head, a smile cutting deep.

“Then why are you still playing?”

His fingers brush your jaw before you flinch back, but it’s too late. You’re rooted. Trembling.

“You could’ve let me wreck you back there. Let me use him to pull every sound out of you. But no,” he whispers, stepping closer. “You just had to make it harder.”

Hyunjin finally appears behind you, wild and flushed, eyes burning with something unhinged.

Chan doesn’t take his eyes off you. “Now, you’re ours. Properly.”

Hyunjin presses his chest to your back but you feel something more, you nearly moan. “Tell me you weren’t thinking about it.” his voice is breathy in your ear. “Our hands on you. Breath on your neck. Fingers in your hair. You wanted to be the one under Chan’s grip, didn’t you?”

You laugh - but it’s shaky, more like a shudder. They caught you.

“Tell me,” Chan murmurs, “You didn’t picture it when I licked him.” You still don’t speak. But your silence is louder than a scream. “You want a turn, baby?”

Hyunjin’s hand is on one hip, Chan’s is on the other. They’re everywhere. “Say it,” Hyunjin whispers, smiling against your skin. You inhale with every intention of speaking but none of the execution.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Chan coos, too calm, too sure “Say it.”

Snap.

“I want it.” Your voice is strained, your throat is dry and then Hyunjin is on you. His lips latch to the soft spot of your neck, kissing and nibbling like a dog with a damn bone. His touch turns bruising, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip but then, suddenly, it’s gone.

Chan’s hand wraps around Hyunjin’s throat again, slower this time, like he’s savoring the feel of his pulse under his palm. He pushes him back, his voice slips out, lower now - cracked and frayed at the edges for the first time all night.

“Control yourself.”

Hyunjin groans, the sound deep and simmering, more animal than man. He tilts his head toward Chan’s touch, eyes flicking to you as his lips curl.

“How about you control me?”

Something changes.

It’s not a switch, it’s a crack - splitting down the middle of Chan’s restraint. His jaw clenches, tongue pressed hard behind his teeth like he’s holding something back, barely. And then he’s not.

He surges forward, catching Hyunjin’s mouth in a kiss that’s rougher than it should be, open-mouthed and teeth first, like he wants to devour him. You feel it like a shock in your chest.

Then Chan’s hand finds you, fingers fisting your shirt, pulling you in until your breath is trapped between both of theirs. You can smell the kiss on them, feel the heat pouring off their skin.

Chan pulls back just enough to look at you. His voice is hoarse when it lands.

“Kiss him,” he says, eyes dark. “I wanna taste you.”

Hyunjin’s lips find yours with his eyes closed, yours shut too, a moan breaks through and Chan slots himself behind you - trapping you yet again.

Chan pushes your chest against Hyunjin’s, his lips on your neck while Hyunjin slips his tongue into your mouth with a groan. You don’t know what to do with your hands, you don’t know who to touch but Chan solves that problem for you. He takes one of your wrists and brings your hand back, placing it over the bulge in his jeans, you moan.

“That’s it, baby,” His voice is the one that’s wild now, his breathing ragged. “Use both of us, don’t make me show you how.” You break the kiss, panting against Hyunjin’s spit slick lips. His hand slips under your shirt, nearly clawing at your skin.

“Look at me while you touch him.” You manage, finding Hyunjin’s shining eyes in the dim light. “That’s my girl.”

Chan’s mouth ghosts along your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse like he’s deciding whether to bite down. He hums, low and approving, when you squeeze him through his jeans, your other hand is still tangled in Hyunjin’s shirt like you’re holding on for balance - like you need to.

Hyunjin’s grip tightens on your waist, his fingers branding your skin as he buries his face in your throat. He bites harder than he should. You gasp, your hips jerking back into Chan’s.

“Oh, she likes that,” Hyunjin breathes, drunk on your reaction.

Chan’s hand closes over your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of who’s in control. “Of course she does,” he growls. “She wants to be ruined.”

You whimper, and it earns you a hard roll of Chan’s hips, the pressure making your knees buckle. He doesn’t let you fall-he never does, he never would-but he wants you unstable, trembling, caught between them.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Hyunjin says again, rougher now. “Let him feel how wet you are, but don’t come,” he whispers. “You come, we start over.”

“You come when I say.” Chan leans in close, turning your head so that his hot breath fans over your lips, “You’re mine when you come. Say it.”

Hyunjin groans against your stomach, sliding down, already tugging at the waistband of your jeans with frantic fingers. You feel his teeth drag across your skin.

Chan watches you fall apart from behind, his voice the only tether left.

“Say it, or I’ll stop him.”

Chan’s fingers tighten on your throat, enough to make your breath hitch but not enough to choke. You feel your heart race, your body trembling, and you know it's not from fear. It’s desire - frenzied desire.

"Say it," he growls, his voice so low it vibrates through your bones. "Say you belong to me."

Hyunjin pulls your shirt up roughly, his hands clawing at your skin as if he wants to tear you open. “Say it, baby,” he sounds like he moans, he probably does. His lips are dragging across your chest, nipping and marking your skin. His voice is a little more frantic now, as if he's barely hanging onto control, too.

“I belong to you, both of you. I’m yours.” Your words are dizzy just like you are. They’re the only thing in your head that makes sense besides them.

You gasp as Hyunjin’s hand slides lower, finding its way past the waistband of your jeans and into your underwear. He groans when he feels how wet you are, running his finger through the slick slowly. “Fuck... she’s dripping, Chan.”

Chan growls, leaning in to bite your ear, his teeth sharp enough to make you cry out. “Don’t move,” he commands, his voice like a whip cracking in the still air. You want to obey, but it’s getting harder with every stroke of Hyunjin’s fingers, the teasing pressure making your legs quake.

Hyunjin fights your pants down your thighs, getting them off completely and tossing them to the side. You shiver as the cold air hits you mixed with the static of lust pulsing around the three of you.

Instinctively, you close in on yourself, pressing your thighs together just for Hyunjin to pry them open again. Chan moves his hand from your throat and grabs at your hips. His tongue moves past his lips with purpose, licking up the side of your throat and sucking a bruise into the flesh before he whispers,

“Open wider. Let him eat.” Hyunjin’s mouth is between your legs, obscene and skilled, moaning into your skin while Chan bites your shoulder, hissing filth into your ear.

Hyunjin’s tongue dips up and slowly swipes at your folds. You moan. He growls. He does it again and again and again and then he latches to your clit with a flat lick that ends with the tip of his tongue circling and teasing your sensitive bud. Your arousal drips down his chin and it sets something off in him.

He grabs your thighs, nails in your flesh before giving you some shallow tongue fucking that makes you tilt your head back on Chan’s shoulder.

“See what happens when you let us win?” Chan coos, sliding a hand under your shirt to cup your breast. He pinches your nipple, rolling it between his fingers as he watches Hyunjin in the moonlight. He can make out the glisten on his chin when he pulls away. He can see the bliss in his eyes.

“She’s so wet, you gotta fucking taste her.”

They trade. They take turns. Fingers, mouths, teasing each other while teasing you.

Chan latches onto your clit and you palm Hyunjin through his jeans. That’s enough to have him stripping himself to feel you - to really feel you. He guides your hand back, wrapping it around his cock and spitting down to give you something to work with.

“That’s what you’ve wanted, isn’t it, baby.” It’s barely a question but you nod anyway. You jerk his cock and he holds your thighs apart from behind you, keeping you open for Chan to continue tongue fucking you. “You sound so fucking gone.”

You can’t even find the words to respond, not with Chan’s tongue flicking and teasing, not with Hyunjin’s cock pulsing in your hand. Hyunjin pulls you back toward him abruptly, making you switch positions, turning you to face him. His lips crash into yours like he needs to taste how wrecked you are. Possessive fingers lace through your hair and you feel lightheaded, like all the heat in your body has gone to your core.

You moan, it’s all you can manage.

You feel stretched thin - nerves burning, mind blank, every inch of you hypersensitive and strung up between them. It's like your body is working faster than your brain, need overriding thought, pleasure overriding shame. You're not even sure where you end and they begin anymore. You just want more. More mouth, more hands, more everything.

Chan is still kneeling behind you, kneading the plush flesh of your ass in his big hands until he spreads your cheeks and rims your tight hole.

You gasp into Hyunjin’s mouth and he takes the opportunity to press his mouth into you further. He groans at the taste, sucking on your tongue before letting go and whispering. "I have to be inside,"

Chan stands, there’s a rustle of clothing and then skin - his skin - against your shirt, pressing against you. He grabs Hyunjin’s jaw, hard, steering him to his lips. You don’t miss the way they groan, the way Hyunjin’s hips stutter against you. They’re as drunk on each other as they are on you, lost in this fever heat. Hyunjin trails kisses along Chan’s jaw before he pulls back, panting heavily.

“Hold her open for me,” Chan tells Hyunjin. There’s a glint in his eyes where the light hits. Hyunjin obeys, bringing you back with him until his back hits a tree. He presses you into him, bucking his bare cock against your back while Chan stocks forward, admiring the two of you.

Chan hooks an arm under one knee and then the other, he hoists you up, positioning you right above his cock with a growl so raw you’d thought it came from Hyunjin. Chan rubs his cock through your drenched folds, barely teasing at your entrance before he pushes in.

You howl.

You claw and keen.

“Ah, fuck, baby - you’re tight. So fucking tight.” Chan praises you through gritted teeth and a wild look in his eyes. Hyunjin moans at the description, breaking a bit and lining himself up behind you.

“Hyune,” You whimper, less like a warning and more like a plea. He shushes you, using the dripping slick from your cunt to lube your ass. “Breathe,” He presses in and your eyes roll back. “Take it, angel. Breathe.”

Chan slows his pace in your cunt while Hyunjin eases his way into your ass. He gives you a few shallow thrusts, bottoming out slowly and letting you adjust to how full you are. The stretch has you gasping for air, every inch of space claimed with them - just them - until they start moving.

It’s slow at first. Every thrust is perfectly timed like they can feel each other's rhythm. It’s slow until Chan can’t help himself and starts bucking up like an animal. You groan, Hyunjin moans.

“Hyung, fuck, I can feel you.” The words sound wild from Hyunjin's pretty mouth, wilder when Chan slams into you harder and he starts to melt into a broken mess. “Fuck, fuck - keep going.” He pleads, his grip on your thighs is like iron but you’re too far gone to feel the sting.

“Please don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.” You whimper, just as fucked out as they are - hell, maybe more. You’re drooling now, your tongue can’t stay in your mouth like a wolf in heat being bred and marked by rabid alpha’s

Just then, Hyunjin bites your shoulder, a warning before he grabs your jaw with one hand and turns your head forcing your mouth open. He spits into it once, twice, messy and obscene.

“Swallow.” You do.

“Fuck-” They choke out the curse in unison when you clench around them, they press into you at the same time, their cocks rubbing against each other with only the pulsing wet walls of you to keep them apart.

“This pussy is gonna fucking empty me.” Chan grunts, looking you in the eyes and you clench, keening loud and lewd.

You jolt with every thrust, a ragdoll between them while they use you, praise you, break you down. “She’s gonna fucking come,” Hyunjin moans, “I can feel it.”

“Do it,” Chan grunts, glancing at where you’re connected. He can see everything, how full you are with him and Hyunjin. “Fucking do it.”

They pump into you at a rhythm that syncs so well you can only call it wicked. Hyunjin is groaning, growling in your ear. While Chan is grunting, moaning, struggling to keep his control right in front of your eyes. You cry out as they pound into you hard enough to shatter the stars overhead. You shatter too.

“H-hyune- Cha- Channie, I’m fucking - fuck!” You quake, thighs trembling, cunt gushing and clenching while you see stars. They don’t stop, they only cry out, howling like wolves who need to let the world know who just ruined you.

“Holy shit, baby, I wan’ your mouth.” Hyunjin is panting, slowing as he nearly reaches his peak. Chan does the same, slowing as you ride out your high and then they both pull out. Chan peels off his jacket, laying it on the ground for you to kneel on.

You’re still shaking. Your body limp and slick with sweat, barely able to hold yourself upright. Chan’s jacket is soft under your knees, but nothing about this moment feels gentle.

Hyunjin’s cock is in your hand before you even register it. It’s still wet from your cunt, flushed and pulsing, and he’s staring down at you like you’re something holy. Ruined and holy.

“Open your mouth,” he commands - soft but not sweet. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling tight enough to arch your throat. “Be a good girl and show me.”

You part your lips, tongue out, obedient and dazed.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, stroking himself slow just inches from your face. “You look so fucking desperate like that.”

Chan crouches behind you again, running his hands down your back, trailing over the bruises he left, the fingerprints painted into your skin.

“Look at her,” he murmurs to Hyunjin, voice dark with wonder. “So ready to be used. Fucking perfect.”

Hyunjin leans in, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “This what you wanted, angel? To get ruined twice and still beg for cock down your throat? To gag on it like a whore?”

You whimper - barely a sound - and Chan coos.

“She can’t even speak anymore. Drunk off the come we let her have.”

Hyunjin’s cock slides against your tongue - wet, warm, heavy - and he groans like it’s the first time. “God, yes... that mouth. You were made for this, weren’t you?”

You hollow your cheeks, tongue working instinctively. Chan watches over your shoulder, one hand gripping your ass, the other threading into your hair beside Hyunjin’s.

“Take him,” he says. “Deeper.”

Hyunjin's hips buck forward and you gag but hold him, eyes watering, throat burning in the best fucking way.

“That’s it,” Chan growls. “Choke on it. Be good and take it.”

Hyunjin shudders above you, voice raw. “She’s fucking moaning on it, hyung. You hear that?”

Chan grins like the devil himself. “I hear it, baby. She just loves being a slut for us.”

You try to nod, but your throat is full and your jaw is straining, and that’s answer enough.

Chan drags his hand from your hair to your mouth, wiping the spit from your chin, then pushing it back between your lips around Hyunjin’s cock.

“You drool on his cock, I’ll make you lick it back up. Clean him like you’re starved.”

You gag again, loud this time, and Hyunjin moans - deep and broken. He pulls out for a breath, watching your spit stretch from your lips to his tip.

“I’m gonna come down your throat if you keep doing that,” he pants. “Fuck, you want that?”

You gasp, eyes wide and glassy, tongue still out.

Chan grabs your jaw, tilting your face to look at him. “Swallow all of it. Don’t fucking waste a drop.”

Hyunjin thrusts forward again - shallow, controlled, but shaking at the edges. You take him, take it all, gagging and drooling as Chan whispers in your ear “Hold still. Take it. You’re doing so good, baby. So fucking good.”

Hyunjin’s breath shudders. His grip in your hair tightens, and his hips stutter forward with a desperate sound that’s half a sob, half a snarl.

“Ah - shit, fuck, I’m-”

You feel it before you taste it - thick, hot, spilling over your tongue as Hyunjin groans like the weight of it knocks the air from his lungs. “Hold still. Open wider - yeah, just like that. You’re doing so fucking well, sweetheart.” Chan watches you swallow with heat in his eyes. You choke slightly, tears leaking from your eyes as you gulp around him. He holds you there, buried to the hilt, trembling.

“Don’t rush. I wanna watch it all go down that pretty throat. Wanna hear you whimper with a mouth full of him.”

Hyunjin pulls back slowly, his cock slipping from your mouth with a wet pop. He’s still panting, flushed and wide-eyed like he’s just seen God, and maybe he has. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s our girl,” He’s cupping your face now, gentle - contradicting everything he just did. “You did so fucking well, baby.”

Chan doesn't give you a second to breathe.

His hand threads into your hair, firm but not cruel, guiding Hyunjin’s cock from your lips only to replace it with his own - thicker, heavier, the taste of salt and skin overwhelming your senses.

“Didn’t think I was done with you, did you, doll?” he growls, already pushing past your lips, taking advantage of how loose your throat is now, wrecked from Hyunjin. “Open wide. Let me use that pretty mouth.”

You hum a moan but you’re not the only one. Hyunjin groans above you, breath catching as Chan’s hand slides around his waist and grips his cock again - still flushed, still twitching, too sensitive to be touched but not able to pull away.

“Fuck, hyung, baby…” Hyunjin’s hips jerk forward into Chan’s hand, legs shaking.

“She’s already a mess, ruined from both ends,” Chan huffs, mouth curled in something cruel. “And you’re still leaking like a whore, Hyune.”

He pumps Hyunjin slow and tight, fingers teasing the head where your slick still clings, smearing it over the shaft. Hyunjin shudders, his hands on your shoulders now for balance, head tipped back, lips parted in a silent moan.

“Th-there - fuck-” Hyunjin’s voice cracks. “That’s too - too…”

“You’ll take it,” Chan grits out, cock fucking deep into your throat, your gag swallowed by the sound of Hyunjin’s desperate sob. “Just like her. Just like the little mess you are.”

You can barely breathe - tears stream down your face again, spit slicking your chin, drooling down to Chan’s balls. But you don’t stop. Can’t. The taste of him makes your brain short-circuit, and the way he jerks Hyunjin off like he owns him? It has you dripping again, even as your knees shake under you.

Hyunjin leans forward, bracing himself, eyes glassy. Then he kisses Chan.

Hard. Mouths crashing together over your head, messy and hot, all teeth and tongue and groaned curses.

Chan growls into the kiss, fucking your mouth harder, and jacking Hyunjin faster now, just to feel him shake.

“You’re so close again,” Chan mutters into Hyunjin’s mouth, their foreheads pressed together. “Gonna come all over my hand while she chokes on me?”

Hyunjin nods, desperate and ruined. “I - I can’t-”

Chan bites his lip and grips his cock tighter. “Yes, you can. You’ll come again just like this - watching her.”

He leans back just enough to see you.

Your eyes flutter open to meet his - blown wide, desperate - and he groans low in his chest.

“There’s our perfect fucking girl,” Chan says, thumb brushing the edge of your lip as you gag on him again. “Taking my cock like a good little hole while I milk Hyune dry.”

And then it happens

Hyunjin breaks with a sound that’s feral. His cock pulses in Chan’s grip, spurting hot over Chan’s fist, some of it landing on your shoulder, your chest, dripping down to stain Chan’s jacket beneath you.

You moan around Chan’s cock - eyes rolling back, the whole thing too much and not enough.

Chan laughs low, cock twitching deep in your throat. “She liked that. Fuck, look at her.”

He doesn’t last long after that. He pulls out just to come all over your tongue, your lips, mixing with Hyunjin’s cum on your skin. They both watch you swallow, licking your lips like it’s your last meal.

Hyunjin collapses beside you, spent, and Chan leans down, cupping your jaw, thumbing away your tears with the same hand slick from Hyunjin’s come.

“Still want more, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Or did we fulfill your fantasy?”

Hyunjin’s hands, once relentless, now gently trace your cheek, pulling your attention his way. There’s still that burning intensity in his eyes, but it’s paired with something else - care, tenderness, as if he's remembering what it means to be gentle. "You okay?" His voice is softer, different, like he’s come back to the moment with you.

Chan, standing in front of you, kneels and runs a hand up your thigh. His touch is a stark contrast to the roughness from earlier. His fingers move with intent, slow and deliberate, tracing the outline of your body as if memorizing it. "You did so well," he murmurs, his voice hoarse but sincere. His lips brush your neck, soft, as though he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

You feel them, both of them, pressing close, not in a demanding way, but in a way that feels... protective. Hyunjin nudges his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply. "That’s all you, baby," he whispers. "You’ve got us wrapped around your finger, you know that?"

Chan chuckles just barely, a small smirk on his lips as he presses his forehead to yours. “It’s more than that, it’s like we’re chained.” Hyunjin hums, acknowledging, agreeing.

You take a breath, finally remembering how to use your voice. “You’ve got me.” They both pull back, looking at you with eyes too wide, too wild, too vulnerable.

“Good.” Chan sighs and Hyunjin leans in putting his forehead together with the two of you, he whispers.

“We’ll keep being each other's escape.”

⤷ a/n - This is my first long fic since I've had writers block. I hope that you enjoyed! I was really excited for this fic and I've been hard on myself about it. If you enjoyed it then feedback and a reblog will actually make my day. Thank You!

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janumun · 1 year ago

Text

Painted Red (LaDS Sylus - NSFW ABCs Headcanon]

Rated: NSFW/18+

Words: ~4k

Tags: oral, vaginal and anal sex, usage of toys, fingering, enemies to lovers dynamic/passing usage of guns, bondage, semi-public sex, improper use of Evol, switching power roles, dirty talk, masturbation, mirrors, orgasm denial, praise kink

Author’s Notes: A little treat to myself right before Sylus’ release. Please take careful note of those tags and content warnings before you proceed.

I hope you enjoy your read as much I enjoyed myself writing this!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

With the state of indecent disarray one usually ends up in — quivering, drenched thighs, nerveless arms useless by your sides, a flushed face and an inability to catch your breath — after a single night spent in Sylus’ bed, aftercare is a necessity post-coitus. And fortunately, the man, damn him, knows and understands so, very well.

And so, he has a pitcher of cold water, prepared well beforehand — even on days your dalliances are not what the two of you intend when you meet — ready and at your disposal by the bedside.

The moment he pulls out of you, another short one spared to ensure you are still there, with him and well, he’s moving off of you. A clean robe he throws on, loose, over his body before striding over to the nightstand to pour you a glass.

A cool, pleasant palm he eases against the back of your head to raise, as he encourages you take those big, long gulps of fluid to quench your thirst and replenish your energies. “There you go, well done,” his low baritone settling deep within your belly, your core instinctively clenching in on emptiness to hear his unexpected praise for something so very mundane.

Truly, you do not know what this man is doing to your body and mind.

Extra

Sylus slides into bed with you for the remainder of your night and tucks close under the covers, for your much needed repose.

Morning afters, you greet with a fresh shower (and on days you insist, with him), a pair of clean towels and a pressed outfit, ready for you to change into and later settle in for a healthy, fulfilling breakfast, whipped up to perfection by his personal chef. All of his house-staff, professional, discrete and well-versed in handling affairs of the Onychinus scion’s household. Whatever the two of you share within the confines of your privacy — animosities or amourous rendezvous — remains entombed, within that very space.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Sylus takes pride within his dexterity, particularly that of his limbs (...particularly that of his hands, his fingers when it comes to matters of the bedroom).

One would hardly expect a man of his body stature to possess the nimble flexibility that resides compacted within his body. An erroneous judgment that often proves fatal to foolish foes within a fight.

And with you, he puts that lethal agility to use: within the push of thick digits up into your clenching walls, the roughened pads of them swiftly seeking and pressing up against the spot at your frontal walls that makes you wail, makes you twist. Makes that body of yours gush against his insistent palm in an orgasm vehement enough, you see dark blanket across your eyes for the scarcity of mere seconds. Truly bringing upon you, as they call it, la petite mort. A tiny death.

Sylus is extremely fond of your face. It’s not because of the way you look, a mere pretty face in the crowd he would simply gloss over; it’s the striking catch of your facial tells that steal his gaze and keep it captive.

The wary intensity of your eyes the first time you laid eyes on him.

Or the way your brow knit in firm concentration when you had him tossed to the ground, once. Nearly taking him by something almost akin to surprise, the weight of your gun, incessant, against his chest. Your mouth turning sour in restless irritation when he dared try tease at your sensibilities, a harsh knee you plunged deeper into his torso.

The quick work of your mind — a testament of its well-endowed intellect and wit, a Hunter of good repute — channeling brilliance in crisp words uttered from rouged lips, when the two of you, on one certain occasion, found yourselves in a particularly dire situation. One you’d agreed to accompany him to, undercover, as an associate of the Onychinus’ head.

Truly, he has been snared with your fascinating mien since the day he laid his eyes upon you, your expressions spinning — amusing — as if placed upon a carousel, the longer he spends in your company.

And from there on, is born a desire to witness even more.

When you drive him back into the covers with the force of your wet kiss, parting untimely before he has the proper chance to put his tongue into your mouth and taste for himself (there will be further opportunities, he holds himself).

The way that well-coveted, devious tongue sweeps a slow path against your upper lip —just out of reach — edge to edge. The harsh dash of red, high across your cheeks, the intensity of your breaths, untamed as his. And those beautiful eyes, a riotous mix of vexation and desire so incinerating, it turns Sylus’s cock to unbearably hard stone beneath the cleft of your ass, he bucks up against you just to see that wheeling carousel within your gaze, shift forms for him, watch that mouth swear at the exhilarating stimulation of your combined symphony, he knows, you too feel. Just for him alone.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Sylus enjoys the slick feeling of your skin stained by his cum; that exact moment he pulls out of your quivering walls to release himself in thick spurts down the length of your folds. Slips the head of his cock against the smears of his release, before pushing back, slow, once more into your depths.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

There is no secrecy or shame involved with a man in possession of as poised a self-assurance as Sylus; his sexual tendencies he not only owns up to and understands but has no qualms about elucidating his wants in great... obscene detail, to his partner, you.

He wants you to be knowing exactly what it is you are doing to arouse him and exactly how to get him up to that stage.

His palms curving about your thighs, scaffoldings of heated flesh that climb up and slink slow beneath the cut of your dress. Covetous fingers that trace delicate patterns against the lining of your panties and yet you quiver underneath that feather touch alone. “Such fine lace.” Garnet gaze, sharp, as it meets yours within the tight, much too confined space of his car.

The chauffeur in front, separated a mere layer away from the two of you as Sylus wrenches you onto his spread lap, the firm muscle of his thighs unyielding beneath as they shift, subtle, to press you deeper against a broad chest.

Index and middle scouring a hot, glancing path against your clothed slit before withdrawing, leaving you to scramble for purchase against the fine pressed collar of his shirt, creasing it within your hold.

Your question snipped short with the soft, soughing whisper at your ear, voicing his true intentions. “I’d very much like a memento, to remember our evening by. Your panties...” Devious fingers pinching at the apex of your heat. “They will do well, sweetheart.”

A moan tumbles past your lips before you can smother the sound — you break it against the sweep of his mouth, welcoming — at such a scandalous request, bold, without a lick of remorse. Just as the man himself.

“I trust you will help me then, yes?” A long, tapered finger, pressing above underwear, right at your slit. Course thumb leisurely stroking its fire against that tight bead of pleasure. A rumbled groan he breaks free against your ear to feel the wanton slick of your arousal, soaking right through fabric. “That’s right, drench them well. I want your fragrance long on my gift, even after your departure.”

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Sylus has been out and about. He isn’t capricious enough to have changed sexual partners as frequently as the rumors around Zone N109 might paint him to have, but he is certainly no stranger to sex.

His preference before you, usually having been for casual, short-lived, discrete dalliances, to indulge in bodily pleasures and no more beyond. With a man as committed to his goals as Sylus is, with a clear concept of how he wishes to manipulate the underworld to his liking, he does not spare much attention to subsidiary gratifications.

With people at large, he is apathetic to that which does not catch his interest. There is very few within this world that truly does.

And you, now, stand among those rare few treasures that have all of his attentions arrested.

He finds himself wanting to captivate you, in turn, not just in body but mind. Truly, he finds you a fascinating being.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Seated within his lap, cock nestled warm within clenching depths.

Hair, a spread of wild locks across the coverlet, mirroring the writhing state of your sweat-drenched body underneath his, as he thrusts into you.

Hungering fingers clawing at the expanse of his chest, down the strength of his shoulders as you furiously grind upon his cock, intoxicatedly chasing an orgasm just within reach. Strong fingers, he rushes down the length of your clenching abdomen, inquisitive palm digging just beneath your naval to feel for the vibrations that ripple across pliant skin with the vehemence of your thrusts onto his cock.

Sylus relishes the privilege of your private, salacious unravelings, brought upon by him alone, by what he does to you and what you force out of him, for your singular pleasure. Desires heightened to witness you using his body to bring yourself to shattering ruin, it floods his veins with inebriating arousal so heavy, his body aches with the force of his want.

As such any which way he takes or lets you take, which allows him privy to your raw, unfettered emotions rushing across your face [See above: B, Body Part] is what he enjoys most. Bringing him to completion the fastest when he is able to witness your mouth breaking apart in moans, watch sex mussed strands of hair stick to your temples, mixing in with the sweat of your body, tear-streaked pleasure smeared vivid across your cheeks.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Your sexual escapades are hot, often times competitive and cathartic; an unfettering of strangled desires. Bursting to the surface within the fever of your intimacy. Arduous cravings that are hardly scotched in a singular session.

Vocal and perverse though he may be in tongue when it comes to your love-making, Sylus is not one for poetic romanticisms waxed within the bedroom. A man of action rather than ornate words.

His regard for you exhibited in the grip of sturdy arms that clutch you back against his body, feeling for each part of you pressed against his. In the tongue that laves at sweat soaked skin in soothing mercy, from the relentless assault of his hips against your ass.

Roughened thumbs that swab at tears from red-rimmed eyes, post-coitus, a gentle towel that skates soft down the quivering length of your ruined body before tucking it clean into fresh robes.

The manner in which he chooses to stay close and warm your bed, instead of leaving right after, even after the fire within your veins has long cooled itself. Foregoing his own personal mandate, to never spare a single trace of himself behind.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Sylus takes exceptional care to maintain good hygiene at all times; a man who looks and smells just as good, the pleasant, sharp undertones to his cologne, having you canting your nose into the space of his neck, as you breathe.

Right at that tendon wrung taut with the press of your teeth into a harsh bite, to choke the scream that climbs up your throat with the hard propulsions of his cock into your depths.

Downstairs, he is fairly clean; a shave on the regular, a mere fine dusting of ivory tracing a path from navel, downwards until it disappears beneath the stretch of his pants.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

[Also see above: G] Choosing to bury his skewed smiles against your wet moans, the bite of restive teeth you sink into his lip, pulling it wider. The anchor he throws forwards for both your sakes in the entwining of digits, meshing tight against the other to ride out your highs.

Sinking a bite in farewell right above your left breast before you part, so he knows how that heart bears its frenzied beats for him alone. A reminder he leaves upon your body to ache by, until the next time he finds himself buried within you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Sylus lies in possession of an exceedingly high sexual drive. And herculean, in-humane self-control to boot. Experienced though he may be, due to the course of his sexual history; he’s been able to keep his casual encounters to a minimum due to how well he is able to compartmentalize his needs.

Overwhelming desires at times, he often spilled within the confines of an oiled fist. At others, tamping down the more primal parts of himself, until he felt it turn a necessity.

After you, he allows himself release from that tight-fisted restraint more often. Finishing himself in white relief, trickling down his fingers on the days (...hours) he does not have your warm body to sheath into, does not have the symphony of your cries to help him along.

Your visage in mind, sharp, jagged; he’s already expecting your next meeting with bated pleasure.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Sylus loves the color red on you, appreciates fiercely how becoming it is on you.

Loves to buy you dresses — scarlet as his eyes, as his desires — to put on, when you let him. Personally ensures, first-hand, they are well-fitted, within the confines of a cosy dressing room.

When large hands reach to flit past the split of your dress, cup about your ass, fingers drifting about your waist. “A perfect fit.”He praises, to your reflection within the body-length mirror. Skating further up your body to finger the strap of the outfit, skirting it, slow, down your shoulder. Indolent digits, index and thumb, pinching at the hardened peaks of a breast. Curving a hefty palm about the clothed flesh. “You’re a sight to behold.”

Red, when he curls a palm in between the cleft of your legs, leaves your flesh smarting with the short, pinching grinds against an increasingly swollen clit, stimulated for hours on end. Ruby, to match the flush at your cheeks. Scarlet, down the crescent of your breasts.

Wine, when you make his color spill with the bite of harsh teeth into his lip, bursting blood in between your mouths, as you withdraw on panting breaths. Tipping down in willing obeisance — he gifts just to you— with the violent tug of your fingers, directing him back against your mouth. Lapping at his wound, marking him for your own.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anytime, any place, any where.

There isn’t an authority powerful enough on Earth to stay his hand, once the two of you decide you want your bodies against each other. Sylus does not shy from an opportunity presented, and if there is none, he makes one.

In seclusion, or in public—

Crowds melting away the moment his fingers whip about your waist, stealing you away into private silence. The weight of his Evol has barely scattered from your shoulders, before the strength of his body replaces it, driving you back against a carved pillar. Mouth pulsing against yours in a slow, heavy kiss. Wet, hot; parting from your tongue on a conjoined string of damp pleasure, that bows and breaks under the weight of gravity.

There isn’t a moment he does not desire you and he certainly has no specious sensibilities to appeal to, when it comes to the chance to indulge you.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Curses, nothing quite turns Sylus on than to see you flourish in the place you shine best. When you are dedicated and singular-minded, in pursuit of your target. When you are forced to contend against situations far out of your control, compelled to navigate the perilous dangers that come with your line of work, be it the Tenebrae, Wanderers or something else entirely. And rise above it all, through the sheer drive you possess, a stubborn nature unable to give up on what you believe in. Not unlike his own, a kinship he finds within you.

A desire to obtain that fire for his own.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

There is little Sylus would ever deny you. Certainly, keep from you, briefly; demands he may not fulfill immediately, in the pursuit of your combined pleasures.

Sharing you with another, however, is a stringent boundary.

Despite that first impression he settles, of immovable composure, he’s territorial, rather like a murder of crows, over you. Your heart, your sole focus, he desires to monopolize for his own.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Having your mouth on his cock is stimulating. Having your positions swapped and your ass grinding hard against the strength of his jaw, however, is what truly incinerates the blood within his veins. The leverage it bestows within his hold, to have you. Manipulate your pleasure to his liking, set the blood thrumming high within your own body.

Sturdy arms that cord about the plush of quivering thighs, garnet gaze that rolls up to capture yours, accompanying the wicked bite of teeth into the pliant flesh of your thigh. The flat of his tongue running from base to hood, ensuring not a single drop is wasted.

Relishing his victory in the slow sweep of lids falling shut, the open grin that pulls taut, with the harsh, fluttering pull of your fingers at his hair, shoving him deeper into your pussy. Signaling your utter defeat.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Sylus is in it for the long game. And no matter what it takes, no matter the cost, he sees to it that he gets what he wants.

Oh, him fracturing from that torturous tug-and-pull you’ve got going on, is but a feverish wish on your part. Sylus lives for the pleasure of your ruination, delights in the number of times he can crest you to your climax. And when not.

Part desire, part the necessity to have you well and utterly drenched before he even thinks to breach that soft, quivering flesh. Extended periods of torturous teasing foreplay, obligatory if he is to have penetrative sex with you. His size, he understands, not an easy burden to accommodate.

He often starts out slow; long, deep thrusts into your body as it clenches and moulds against the shape of him. Stimulated eventually enough, you drip copious against him, pleasure over-riding any remaining scraps of fleeting discomfort entirely until you’re clawing at the sturdy strength of his back.

Fingernails pulsing at the firm flesh of his ass, his name tumbling incoherent from a parched mouth, until he’s driving into you with the vehemence of an untethered beast. Guttural groans and whispered sighs, splintering against the give of your neck in tandem to your mounting screams. Quenched against the bite of a breast.

Letting your desires burn in between you until the moment they’re blanketed, hours later, into the dark of night.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Sylus does not wait. When he witnesses desire pool within that provoked gaze, watches the fire that burns parched, as you seek for moisture with the slow slide of a pink tongue against your rouged lip.

Helping you along into a dark crevice, if you’re out in public. Drawing your panties down against your thighs to reach for the place in between your legs. Roughened fingers plucking at wetness, dragging an indolent path from your slit to the apex of your sex. Curving one long, tapered digit into your clenching walls, stroking, until he brings you crashing for him.

Proud mouth pulsing a kiss in hushed laughter against your temple, as he assists you in putting yourself back in spruced order.

Sylus never goes the entire way, when the two of you are rushing against the clock. Ample time, he requires — and makes certain he’d have that, later — to unwrap and uncover the entirety of you, piece by piece.

An early aperitif, however, is one he isn’t opposed to, especially when it is served, as intoxicating as you are.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s willing and he’s game; a word from you is all he requires before granting you exactly what you desire, in spades.

There isn’t a thing you could throw his way to turn him off you, Sylus is the kind of man to take it all in stride.

[See also: L, N and K]

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Oh, he possesses a generous, infuriating amount of discipline; immovable rock in the face of obvious temptation. That does not, however, imply there isn’t a savage beast caged, restless, underneath that cool, tempered demeanor. Sylus merely maintains inhumane control over the leash of that sexuality beneath. And he knows how well to untether it too, once he allows himself to let loose his inhibitions.

Infinite stores of stamina (for daaays), an extremely brief refractory period and an overwhelming desire to wring you dry, entirely for himself, make for a terrifying combination.

Your hips would long break before Sylus’ cock ever begun to lose its vigor.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Sylus knows an opportunity when he sees one and the chance to have you utterly devastated, is one he never lets up on, and toys are just a welcome addition to his arsenal.

Pretty little baubles, the two of you purchased together on one of your dates — a discrete, neat store tucked within one of N109’s infamous districts, the way he’d encouraged your fascinated survey of the store’s à la mode selection of vibrators and jeweled plugs, a vaguely amused smile plucking at his mouth. Pulling up every single toy that sparked your fancy for a detailed overview from the ever-present staff, more than happy to answer all your enthused questions.

Rounding a firm hand about your waist to tug to his side, at the end of your purchase trip, breathing a sensual promise into the cleft of your ear, to let you try them all out in due time.

And he fulfills it, in equal enthusiasm.

Deft fingers that press up to slide against the insistent vibrations of the object settled snug into your wet walls. Toying, indolent, at the intensity of its stimulation with sporadic flicks of his Evol. Your stuttered moans clawing higher the longer he keeps you suspended within this torturous state of denial. Rejecting your babbles to let you come, that he’s been at it for hours.

“Not yet,” he instructs, slipping a cool hand onto the shell of your hip to hold down your senseless bucking.

It is only several, excruciating denied orgasms later does he tug free the plug at your ass, pressing his cock in lieu of its emptiness. And the way your hole clamps down in a vice at the base of him drags a shuddered, guttural groan from him. Your body stimulated so beyond sense, it drags an exhilarated laugh from his chest, in conjunction to your lost moans.

“This is it, lovely. Are you enjoying yourself that much?” Mouth pulling wider at your vehement nods. “Do you desire more?” Sinking three fingers up to the knuckle into your pussy, without warning. A quick tug of them upwards, has his energy tinkering at the vibrator’s intensity, sending it buzzing higher and you wail your curses at him. “Hah.” He shudders above, pressing deeper against your back. “That’s it, I like those sounds.”

“Sing higher, darling.”

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Oh, his craving for riling you up and goading you is infinite.

Even when you have him physically bound and at your mercy; the gorgeous, insouciant pull of that mouth into a skewed smile — a crafted calculation — has you feeling as if he still holds the entirety of a winning deck within those trussed hands.

Through each singular groan, every heaving breath and grunt, a disquieting, infuriating grin tugs constant at lips that demand further of your cruelty. As if a perverse beast actually enjoying the cage it belongs in.

The ram of a harsh heel, deep into his abdomen, has his grunting a long, gravely sound, Sylus’ body driving further into the savage crush of your shoe — pleasure so intoxicating in the knot of strong brows, that parted mouth — it stirs fiery arousal deep within your own belly.

Traitorous wetness trailing down the length of your thighs, arousal that Sylus convulses against the binds of his shackles for. Manages to dip forwards just enough — the brute — to catch the trickle of wetness against an adept tongue, at your thigh, and lap. Garnet gaze seeking and capturing yours in a haze so vicious your fingers fist harsh into his hair, in an unforgiving pull. Your moans, he steals — victorious — for himself.

“That is surely not all you can manage to do with me, can you, darling?”

And you can’t be too dishonest with yourself any longer; your orgasms far more fervid and ruinous when he’s had you both dancing along to his little cat-and-mouse game for hours on end, teasing you both with the pantomime of the act. Until, finally, finally, his cock plunges past aching, swollen folds and into your drenched, clenching walls.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Sylus’ moans are low, licentious burrs; throaty whispers he secretes right against your ear, to turn your legs to quivering flesh. He doesn’t require his voice to rise above a certain octave, not when he has you gushing on his face with the vibrations that buffet deep into your pussy, when that pleasured rumble of his breaks right in between your legs.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Sylus does not care much for binding or detaining you — restraining your senses — for personal pleasure.

He allows you use of your precious fetters and restraints, for what it does for him — an opportunity to maneuver your pleasure — and for the two of you, that is... if you can manage to bring him under, to begin with.

It merely isn’t something that works for him, in roles reversed, when he finds himself sufficient enough to draw forth the pleasure he can achieve for the two of you, with his body alone.

He has innumerable ways within his arsenal he can bring you to mind-numbing finish with, and he doesn’t require the comfort of a rope for that.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Sylus’ cock is a beautiful, symmetrical thing — rather intimidating at first glance. He teaches your body to take it well, in long, pleasurable lessons. Curving, slight. towards his abdomen. A thick shaft running up into a flared glans that burns in pleasurable penetration the first time you take him in. Numerous, undulating veins along the length, that bump perfect against the surface of your tongue when you swirl around it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

[Incredibly high as detailed at great length in J and S]

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Sleep is the farthest thing from mind when the Onychinus’ head has you tucked at last, exhausted, within his bed. His body — long programmed — hardly permitting the scope of vulnerability slumber brings, in your presence.

And so, he puts that time to other pursuits. Often nights, choosing to watch over your sleep, carding the occasional stray strand of hair back against your ear. At others, he brings work to bed, spectacled scarlet gaze scouring over lines of text and diagrammatic compilations.

Not choosing to desert your side, even once, throughout the entire night, protective over your own vulnerability, for as long as it lasts.

End Notes: Once my fingers actually started on this man, I could not stop even if I wanted to. Sylus has me gripped by my very throat and that worries me greatly LOL.

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#love and deepspace sylus x reader #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace x you #love and deepspace x reader #lads sylus x reader #LnD sylus smut #sylus love and deepspace #lads headcanons #love and deepspace headcanons #l&ds sylus smut #l&ds smut #lads x reader #lads x you #l&ds headcanons #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x you #sylus x reader

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joelsrose · 2 months ago

Text

Dark Matter

i haven't written reed before but here we go! i hope yall enjoy xx

warnings: fingering, age gap? (reader is mid 20's), cheating (sorry sue), power-dynamic, semi-public

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You walked into the lab the same way you always did—quietly, carefully, your notebook hugged to your chest like a shield, pages dog-eared and smudged with graphite, filled with half-solved equations, theoretical scribbles, and tiny margin doodles of molecules and stars.

The click of your heeled boots echoed off the cold, polished floor, a sound that somehow felt too loud in the stillness of the room. The air inside was always a little too cold, like the whole space was suspended in a vacuum—untouched by the warmth of human hands—but you liked it that way. It made you feel sharp, focused. Like anything could happen here. Like everything already had.

It had been exactly seven days since you started your internship under Mr. Richards—or Reed, as he’d insisted you call him on the very first day, his tone polite but firm, eyes flickering to yours with something unreadable when you stammered out “Dr. Richards” instead. The man was brilliant. Obviously. He was also deeply intimidating in the way only truly intelligent people could be—effortlessly so, like he didn’t notice the way the rest of the world bent around his mind.

He wasn’t cruel, not at all, but there was something about him that made your pulse skip whenever he turned to you with a question, something about the way he spoke in low, thoughtful tones, his hands always busy with some piece of machinery or scribbling formulas on the glass board like his thoughts couldn’t be contained by paper.

You’d been selected from a pool of thousands—won the LUMINA International Science Initiative, a fellowship that granted a single spot, once a year, to shadow one of the world’s leading innovators.

You never expected to get it. You’d submitted your proposal last-minute, half-convinced it was too ambitious, too naive. But something about it must’ve caught their attention—maybe your hypothesis on temporal field distortions, maybe the way you phrased it like a love letter to curiosity itself. Either way, it landed you here, standing just inside the threshold of the Baxter Building’s most secured lab, wearing your best skirt and your favorite boots, heart thudding in your chest like a metronome gone mad.

You adjusted your grip on your notebook and cleared your throat softly, the sound swallowed by the lab’s cavernous quiet. “Morning,” you offered, voice smaller than you meant, eyes sweeping the room for him—half-hoping he wasn’t here yet, half-hoping he was.

From behind one of the massive monitors, you heard the gentle clink of metal, followed by a low voice.

“You’re early.”

You turned and there he was, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collarbone peeking where his lab coat had come undone. His hair was tousled, like he’d been up for hours already, running his hands through it between equations. There was graphite smudged on his wrist, and a faint streak of oil down one thumb, and somehow that made him look even more untouchable. He glanced over his shoulder at you, then down at your notebook.

“More scribbles?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting—not quite a smile, but close enough to make your chest flutter.

You nodded, holding it out. “A few questions from last night. I kept thinking about the energy dispersion curve in the 5-D field model, and—well. It didn’t make sense that it plateaued. Not at those values.”

He took the notebook, flipping through the pages like he was reading a novel written in his own handwriting, then looked up at you with a sliver of something warmer in his gaze.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you might be the first person to ever challenge that curve. Everyone else just accepted it.”

You blinked. “Oh. I—didn’t mean to be... disrespectful or anything.”

“You weren’t.” He looked back at the page, his brow furrowing like he was genuinely considering your notes. “You’re just... asking the right questions.”

And the way he said that—asking the right questions—it made your cheeks heat, made your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag like you were suddenly fifteen again, flustered and awkward and unsure of what to say next, even though you were here because you belonged here, even though you were brilliant in your own quiet way.

He glanced at you again, slower this time, eyes scanning your face like he was watching a theory unfold in real time, and said, “Let’s run it. See if you’re right.” Just like that, like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean the world.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Hours passed, though you barely noticed them. What started as a single equation quickly unraveled into an entire evening of hypotheses and recalibrations, the two of you moving around each other in this strange, quiet rhythm—typing, adjusting, scribbling, calculating, retrying, failing, fixing, retrying again.

The room had fallen into that kind of sacred stillness where every noise felt sharper—the whir of machines, the scratch of pencils, the occasional creak of the stool beneath you. Every time a result came back wrong, you’d lean in beside him and try again. Every time it came back right, your shoulders would touch, just barely, and you’d both say nothing.

And then it happened again—casual, effortless—Reed stretched.

This time, to grab his phone from across the room without moving from his chair, his arm extending impossibly far and elegant, fingers curling around the device with that same practiced ease, like it was just another part of his body responding to his mind. You watched it happen with that same quiet awe you always did, eyes following the length of his arm as it retracted, as he settled back into himself like it hadn’t been strange at all, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t even the stretch itself, not really—it was the nonchalance, the way he didn’t even think about it. But you did. You thought about it too much.

You were still thinking about it when he glanced at his screen, a quiet frown flickering across his face.

“It’s eight already,” he murmured, thumbing through a text. “We’ve been here all day.”

You blinked, surprised by the time, and then watched as his expression shifted—something soft and faintly guilty tugging at the edge of his mouth as he read whatever had been sent to him.

“Sue made dinner,” he said after a beat, sighing, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand like he hadn’t sat down for a proper meal in days. “Guess I should…”

He trailed off as he stood, the chair sliding back with a scrape, and something in your chest twisted—tight and unexpected. Not sharp enough to hurt, but deep enough to notice.

You weren’t sure if it was jealousy, exactly, but there was something inside you that ached a little at the thought of him leaving. At the thought of him sitting across from someone else, in a warm apartment somewhere above the city, eating food someone else had made for him, laughing over things that had nothing to do with lab results or radiation curves or the way your hands always trembled just slightly when he got too close.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced back at you with one brow arched, curious, amused, his coat slung half over his arm and a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Something wrong?” he asked, voice low and too steady, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

“No,” you said quickly, too quickly, the word tripping over itself on your tongue. “No, nothing.”

He looked at you for a long second, long enough that your skin prickled under the weight of it, his eyes steady and a little too knowing, like he could see past your flustered expression and straight into the chaos of your thoughts. Then—he chuckled, soft and brief, like the sound had slipped out before he could stop it, low and warm and close enough to make your pulse stutter.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, not in disapproval, but something more bemused—like he found you endlessly curious and had all the time in the world to figure you out.

You ducked your head, the heat rising in your cheeks again, blooming in a flush that you tried to suppress with a tight little smile, your fingers worrying the corner of your notebook as though it could ground you, steady you, hide the fact that your heart was now pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

Then his voice came again, low and coaxing, that soft velvet drawl of someone deeply used to being the smartest man in the room—“Come on,” he said, “what’s going on in that brilliant mind?”

And you should’ve lied. You should’ve laughed it off, said something safe, something neutral, something clever and unassuming and appropriately scientific. But your brain had been wandering all week—had been drifting there over and over again, uninvited, unwelcome, inappropriate, gnawing at the edges of your curiosity in the quiet moments between experiments.

You’d tried not to think about it, tried not to let your gaze linger when he stretched, tried not to imagine what else could stretch, how far, how much, how deeply.

And somehow—somehow—it slipped out of your mouth before your brain had a chance to intercept it, just a whisper of a thought spoken aloud, soft and breathless and too curious to be innocent.

“Does everything stretch?”

The silence that followed was instant and absolute.

You heard it in the way the machines kept humming but your breath caught.

You felt it in the way Reed’s eyes snapped to yours, too quickly, like he wasn’t expecting that.

And you saw it—oh, you saw it—in the way he froze, the way the lines at the corners of his mouth shifted, lips parting slightly like he was about to speak but couldn’t quite remember how.

Your eyes widened almost immediately, your whole body locking in mortified horror, hands flying up to your face as if that could undo what you’d just said, as if that could pull the words back into your throat and shove them into the void where they belonged.

“Oh my God—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that, I swear—I swear, it was just—I was talking about your arm, I mean your body—not your—oh God, not your body body, I meant your abilities, like biologically—scientifically—I’m so sorry—”

You were rambling now, barely breathing between the words, voice growing higher and faster with every sentence, and he was still just looking at you, still absolutely silent, like you’d short-circuited him and he was trying not to let it show. His expression hadn’t changed much—but his eyes were different now, darker maybe, or maybe just sharper, like a wire had pulled taut somewhere beneath his usually-calm exterior.

Then—finally—he blinked.

And his mouth twitched.

Not a smirk. Not quite. But close. Very, very close.

“Everything?” he echoed softly, voice rough around the edges like it had dropped an octave without permission.

You wanted to melt through the floor.

“Forget I said anything,” you mumbled, practically squeaked, your hands halfway up your face now, notebook clutched uselessly against your chest like a shield made of paper and shame.

But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just looked at you for another long moment, like he was tucking the question away in some private drawer of his mind, like he was considering it—you—carefully.

And then he said, his voice quiet and unreadable. “Some things stretch more than others.”

He said it with the same offhand ease he might’ve used to mention the weather or the results of an equation, as if the words weren’t heavy with meaning, as if they didn’t land like a struck tuning fork in the center of your chest and hum there, low and electric. And then—just like that—he glanced at the time again, slipped his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, his fingers moving with quiet efficiency, and looked toward the door without even a flicker of hesitation in his expression.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice smooth and calm, like it had all been nothing—your question, his answer, the unbearable silence that followed—like he hadn’t just reduced you to a trembling, wide-eyed mess with five words and a look you couldn’t quite decipher.

And then he turned and walked out, his footsteps steady and unhurried, as though the entire moment hadn’t happened, as though he hadn’t noticed the way your breath had caught or your lips had parted slightly or the way your fingers had curled around your notebook like you were holding onto it for dear life. The door eased shut behind him with a soft, final click, and the silence that followed felt far too loud, as if the air itself had been holding its breath and now didn’t know what to do with the tension left behind.

You stood there for a moment, completely still, eyes fixed on the door like he might come back—might say something, might clarify or laugh or admit that yes, that had been what you thought it was, that you weren’t imagining the way his gaze had sharpened, the subtle shift in his voice, the pause before he’d answered like he was trying to decide how honest he wanted to be.

But the door stayed shut. The lab was quiet. And your face was burning.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The next morning, you thought about quitting.

No—worse—you thought about being removed, escorted out of the lab with quiet, professional shame, the faculty committee shaking their heads at the girl who couldn’t keep her thoughts scientific. You’d spent the entire night twisted in sheets and mortification, staring at the ceiling of your tiny dorm room with cheeks that wouldn’t stop burning and hands that kept curling into fists against your pillow, your mind looping the same sentence over and over like a taunt.

Does everything stretch?

It had sounded so much worse in hindsight. In your head, it was a purely biological question—curiosity, theoretical, relevant. But the moment it left your lips, soft and shy and tilted with unintended suggestion, you’d felt the way it landed. The way his eyes had flickered. The way his voice had dropped just a hair lower. The way he’d looked at you after.

And then he walked out like it was nothing.

Which somehow made it worse.

So when you walked into the lab that morning, notebook clutched to your chest like a shield, heart crawling up the back of your throat with every step, you were fully prepared for disaster—for tension, awkwardness, maybe even polite dismissal. But he was already there, of course he was—leaning over one of the central consoles with his sleeves rolled, hair still rumpled from sleep, lips pursed slightly in thought as he ran through some new readout, a mug half-full of black coffee resting near his elbow.

And when he glanced up at you?

Everything was... fine.

He offered you a brief, familiar nod, the same one he always did, and then gestured to a screen without so much as a hint of discomfort, as if the night before had been a dream, as if you hadn’t asked the most humiliating question of your life and then spiraled into a dimension of shame he probably discovered himself.

You blinked, stunned by the ease of it, by the way he moved through the morning without even a trace of tension, without a single flinch. It was—professional. Cordial. Kind.

And strangely, that grounded you.

The day unfolded slowly, then steadily—small victories, clarified hypotheses, new data sets—and your body slowly began to relax into the rhythm you’d started to love, the silent teamwork of minds that trusted each other. And even though he hadn’t said anything beyond the work, even though the stretch of time passed with nothing but research and updates, you caught yourself looking again—watching the way his hands moved, the way he’d lean into the screen, the way he thought so deeply with his whole body, and the way you were beginning to understand him in ways that had nothing to do with science.

It wasn’t until late afternoon, when the sun outside had dipped low enough to cast long gold shadows across the lab floor, that he finally spoke without referencing an equation.

“Sue was asking about you,” he said casually, eyes still on his screen, voice calm as if he didn’t know he’d just sent your stomach tumbling.

You blinked, startled. “Oh?”

He nodded once, the motion subtle. “Think I’ve been talking too much about how smart you are.”

Your breath caught in your throat and then returned all at once in a rush of heat to your face. You looked away, your lips parting slightly as your blush bloomed across your cheeks, creeping down your neck, the words lingering like sunlight on your skin.

“She wants to meet you,” he continued, finally glancing over at you with that steady, unreadable gaze that always made you feel a little exposed, a little unsteady.

“Really?” you asked, blinking up at him, your voice too soft, too unsure. “I—I mean, I’d be honored.”

He chuckled, quiet and amused, and God, it made your heart stutter.

“Tonight?” he asked, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Your lips parted again. “Tonight?” you echoed, because your brain was clearly still catching up.

He tilted his head, expression flickering with something close to amusement. “Unless you’re busy,” he said smoothly. “Or unless you were planning on camping out here all night again, trying to crack the wavefield inversion curve without sleeping or eating—because that does sound like you.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, the sound escaping like a sigh, soft and a little breathless, and he smiled—genuine and rare, the kind that made your knees feel unsteady and your chest warm.

You shook your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “No,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not busy.”

“Good,” he said, his smile deepening just slightly. “I’ll see you for dinner then.”

And with that, he turned back to his screen, the moment slipping away like mist, but the warmth of it stayed, curling low and steady in your chest.

You were going to dinner. With Reed Richards. And Sue Storm.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The Baxter Building stood tall and impossible in the heart of the city, its sleek, glinting frame catching the last of the golden evening light like it had been plucked from some distant future and set gently down in Manhattan.

The security in the lobby had let you through without question, as if they’d been expecting you, as if your name already belonged in the same breath as Reed Richards and Sue Storm, and that thought alone made your stomach twist with something between awe and panic as you stepped into the elevator.

It was silent inside—sterile and smooth, the walls a brushed metal that reflected the softest version of your silhouette back at you, almost dreamlike. You stared at your reflection for a moment, adjusting the bottle of wine you held with both hands, the paper bag crinkling slightly beneath your fingertips.

You’d picked it up on the way here after spending a full thirty minutes in the wine shop pretending to know what pairs with intellectual dinner parties hosted by superheroes. You smoothed the front of your dress—a soft, modest thing that you’d chosen carefully, something that felt like you, but maybe a little prettier, a little more delicate than usual, your lips painted just faintly, enough to make you feel like you were trying without looking like you were trying.

You exhaled slowly, barely noticing the way the elevator glided up without a sound, your heartbeat louder than anything around you. Your thoughts raced, of course they did—what if it was too much? What if you shouldn’t have come? What if he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, that subtle curve of his voice when he said see you at dinner, the glint in his eye, the way his attention had lingered for just a moment too long?

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors opened.

And then— There he was.

Reed stood just inside the threshold, one hand braced casually on the edge of the doorway, the other slipping his phone into his back pocket like he’d only just finished checking something, his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, collarbone peeking slightly where his top button had been left undone, no tie, no lab coat—just a simple, perfectly tailored shirt that made your brain stutter for half a beat.

His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it absentmindedly more than once, and there was a tiny streak of ink or maybe graphite on his knuckle that hadn’t been washed off completely.

It was Reed, but not the version of him you’d grown used to seeing in the lab, not the hyper-focused, brilliant blur of intellect you worked beside every day—this Reed looked like he’d been waiting. For you.

His eyes moved over you slowly—once, all the way down and back up again, not rushed, not obvious, but deliberate enough that you felt it everywhere, like heat pressing into the skin of your chest and the backs of your knees, your fingers tightening instinctively around the bottle you were holding.

He didn’t say anything at first, just quirked the corner of his mouth into something halfway between a smirk and a smile, soft but amused, his gaze still lingering just a little too long.

“You clean up well,” he said finally, voice lower than usual, not teasing exactly—more like he was confessing something he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Your mouth parted slightly, but your voice caught, and when you finally managed to speak, it came out soft and a little breathless. “I—brought wine.”

He glanced down at the bottle, then back at you, his smile deepening just enough to make your heart skip. “Dangerously overqualified,” he murmured, stepping back to let you in. “Smart and thoughtful. Sue’s going to love you.”

You stepped past him into the apartment, the warmth of the space wrapping around you instantly, the scent of dinner and city lights and him curling at the edge of your senses, and even as you tried to focus on your breathing, on your posture, on not tripping in your kitten heels, you could still feel the echo of his eyes on your skin, like he hadn’t really stopped looking.

The apartment unfolded around you like a page in some impossibly curated design magazine, only softer, warmer, more lived-in than anything artificial—clean, modern lines met rich textures, brushed steel softened by warm walnut floors and deep navy accents that glowed golden under the cascade of low, amber-hued lighting.

One entire wall was glass, and beyond it, the Manhattan skyline burned softly against the horizon, city lights just starting to glitter like distant stars, and even the air inside smelled expensive and comforting—like slow-cooked herbs and something faintly sweet.

You were still catching your breath, still clutching the wine like a lifeline, when you heard a voice float in from down the hall—clear, warm, and unmistakably female.

“There she is.”

Sue Storm walked into view like she had been sculpted from light itself—tall and impossibly graceful, wrapped in soft neutral fabrics that draped just right, her golden hair falling in loose waves that framed her face perfectly, her eyes a crystalline blue that held a kind of sharpness you immediately respected.

She was breathtaking, in that way women are when they know who they are, and the moment she looked at you, her whole expression softened with something kind and curious and real.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said with a small smile, her voice smooth like honey stirred into tea, her gaze never once breaking from yours.

“Hi,” you breathed, the word escaping before you could shape it into anything more eloquent. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

She waved you off with a flick of her manicured fingers, as if the formality embarrassed her. “Please,” she said with a light laugh, stepping closer. “The way my husband talks about you? I’m the one who’s honored.”

And you blushed so hard you felt it in your ears, your whole body warming beneath the soft light, fingers tightening just slightly around the neck of the bottle as you dipped your head in modest disbelief, not quite sure if you should laugh or hide.

Reed, who had stepped away to adjust the music or maybe just give you a moment, said nothing, but you felt the weight of his glance again—the quiet satisfaction in the corners of his mouth like this was exactly what he wanted: you here, now, nervous but luminous, admired and welcomed.

“Come in,” Sue insisted gently, her hand brushing your arm in a way that grounded you immediately. “Dinner’s almost ready. I made way too much food—he said you don’t eat much, but I never trust him when he says that. He’s never once finished a plate himself.”

You smiled, heart still beating a little too fast, and followed her deeper into the space, the sound of your shoes soft against the hardwood, the city glowing quietly beyond the windows as if watching you take your first steps into something bigger than an internship—something warmer, more dangerous, and far more personal.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Dinner was lovely—elegant but warm, the kind of meal that felt intimate without trying, served at a long polished table that glowed honey-gold under the overhead lights, the city sparkling just beyond the glass like a living mural.

You sat across from them, Reed to your left, Sue across from you, and despite the tight coil of nerves you’d carried into the evening, it was… comfortable.

Sue had a way of making you feel like you belonged, like you weren’t just a guest in the home of two of the most brilliant minds on the planet, but someone worth sitting at their table, someone they genuinely wanted to know.

You found yourself watching them more than you meant to—Sue leaning toward him with quiet laughter, Reed murmuring something back without looking up from his wine glass, the two of them moving in the kind of rhythm that only came from years of intimacy and quiet understanding. And still, as you watched them, something bloomed low and warm in your stomach—not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of quiet ache, a fascination that hummed beneath your skin, a longing that had less to do with their relationship and more to do with him.

You were still chasing the thread of that thought when Sue turned to you again, eyes bright with interest.

“So,” she said, “how did you get interested in all of this?”

You blinked, startled out of your reverie, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with a shy smile. “Well,” you began softly, glancing down at your plate before meeting her gaze again, “ever since I was a kid, I just… I always wanted to understand how the world worked. The math, the movement, the rules. I remember watching the stars and thinking—that’s what I want to learn. That’s what I want to be part of.”

Sue offered you a warm smile, nodding in that gentle, encouraging way that made you feel like your words mattered, like they weren’t small or naïve or too eager. “Well,” she said, “it’s always nice seeing young people interested in this kind of work—especially a fellow…” she paused, grinning as she reached for her glass, “…girl genius.”

You laughed softly, cheeks warm, about to reply with something awkward and grateful and probably too modest—when it happened.

You felt it.

Unmistakable.

A hand. Large, warm, and undeniably real, sliding gently across your thigh under the table.

Your heart stopped. Your breath caught somewhere high in your chest, your eyes flickering toward Reed so quickly you barely caught Sue sipping her wine across from you. But he didn’t look at you—not exactly. His gaze remained calm and forward, his profile composed and entirely unreadable as he took a slow sip of his wine and then glanced up at Sue, his hand still resting firmly on your leg.

“She’s brilliant,” he said casually, his voice smooth and even, like he was commenting on the weather, like he wasn’t currently touching you from across the table while sitting next to his wife.

You sat frozen, pulse thundering in your ears, body rigid but electrified, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around the stem of your glass as you tried to focus, to breathe, to not move.

“She corrected me the other day about a flux equation I wrote in ’04,” he continued, eyes finally drifting to meet yours—and holding there, steady and direct, a silent dare written behind his calm expression. “She was right, too.”

Sue laughed, clearly delighted. “Good. God knows someone needs to keep you in check.”

You could barely hear her. Could barely focus on anything except the heat of Reed’s hand, the way it pressed gently into the top of your thigh, just enough to let you know it was real, just enough to make your stomach twist with something hot and shivery and shamefully thrilling.

And then—his hand moved.

Not in that subtle, polite way you might’ve been able to ignore or convince yourself had been some kind of misunderstanding, not a graze or a twitch or something incidental—but deliberate, slow, intentional, his palm sliding higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress in a single fluid motion that felt so impossibly confident it made your entire body lock up at once.

The heat of his skin against your thigh stole the breath from your lungs, and when his fingers skimmed the delicate edge of your underwear, just barely brushing the fabric, you felt your heart climb straight into your throat and stay there.

You almost choked on your wine.

The glass halted halfway to your lips, your hands trembling just enough for the crystal to click against your teeth, and you let out a strange, stifled sound—half gasp, half cough—your eyes wide, your posture going ramrod straight as you struggled to swallow the panic and arousal crawling up your spine in tandem.

“You alright?” Sue asked gently, glancing up from her plate with concern etched between her brows, the picture of warmth and kindness and everything undeserving of what was happening beneath her dinner table.

“Yes,” you stammered, too quickly, the syllable snapping out of your mouth like it had been fired from a slingshot, your cheeks flushed a deep, telltale red as you nodded a little too hard. “I’m fine. Just—went down the wrong way.”

Across from you, Reed glanced up from his glass at the sound of your voice, his expression calm—no, worse than calm—amused, like he was enjoying watching you fall apart in real time, like he was studying the way you squirmed and flushed and fidgeted with quiet, academic satisfaction. His fingers moved—barely a shift, just enough to press the pad of his thumb along the inside of your thigh, skimming the thin lace of your panties with a featherlight drag that made your vision blur for a moment, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek to stop a sound from escaping.

Sue kept talking, mercifully, unaware of the silent war happening beneath the table, and you tried to nod along, tried to pretend you were still following the story she was telling about something at the foundation gala last week, but Reed’s hand was still moving—so slowly, so wickedly gentle, fingers drifting along the edge of the fabric like he was memorizing it, teasing it, learning every soft line of you with nothing more than a ghost of touch and that insufferable, unreadable look in his eyes.

You were blushing so fiercely now you were sure it had reached your chest, heat blooming down your neck like a fever, your knees squeezing together reflexively beneath the table as your breathing turned shallow, chest rising and falling in a way that did not feel casual anymore.

“Are you hot, honey?” Sue asked suddenly, concern returning to her voice, her eyes flickering to your cheeks. “A house full of so-called geniuses and we still haven’t figured out how to fix the aircon properly. I’ll be back—I’ll check the thermostat.”

And before you could answer—before you could find any response at all—she stood, placing her napkin neatly beside her plate and disappearing down the hall with a rustle of fabric and the click of her heels.

The door hadn’t even shut all the way before Reed finally spoke, low and calm and just for you, his fingers still resting against the soft, soaked curve of you beneath your panties.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice a dark, honey-dipped whisper that sent shivers straight through your bones. “Don’t stop now.”

“Reed—” you stammered, your voice cracking under the strain of your own name trembling on your lips, barely more than a whisper, a breath caught halfway between panic and disbelief, your thighs squeezing together out of instinct, out of desperation, out of need you didn’t yet know how to name. “What are you—”

He didn’t lean in.

He didn’t move closer.

He didn’t even blink.

He simply sat there, on the opposite side of the table, one elbow resting near his wine glass, the other arm subtly stretched beneath the surface like a quiet secret unraveling in the dark, and his voice, when it came, was soft and low and steady.

“Tell me to stop.”

And as he said it—calm, impossible, infuriatingly composed—you felt it: the cool air against your skin, your panties slipping down your thighs with a slow, torturous grace, peeled away by a hand that wasn’t even near you, stretched from across the table, precise and gentle and unspeakably brazen. The fabric caught just slightly at your knees before his fingers nudged it past, and you sat there frozen, wide-eyed, red-faced, with your dress pooled neatly over your lap and nothing beneath it now but heat and humiliation and the thundering pulse between your legs.

“Reed—” you breathed again, barely able to shape the word, and his gaze met yours in that maddening, quiet way—no urgency, no shame, only that still, measured calm that made your insides tremble, as if he was watching a reaction unfold under glass.

And then—

Sue's heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she entered the room again, moving with that effortless, elegant grace as she crossed behind you and returned to her seat.

“That should fix it,” she said lightly as she sat, her smile warm and unbothered, her tone casual as if nothing had changed in the few moments she’d been gone.

You turned toward her, your face flaming, your smile shaky and paper-thin as you tried to find your voice again, tried to stitch together whatever pieces of yourself hadn’t yet dissolved under Reed’s hand, which now rested high on your bare thigh like it belonged there.

“Thank you,” you managed softly, the words nearly catching on the breath that refused to sit still in your chest, and somehow, impossibly, you held her gaze.

And across from you, Reed Richards—calm, brilliant, monstrous in his control—simply took another sip of wine.

You tried to focus, truly you did—on Sue, on her words, on the soft clinking of silverware and the gentle thrum of jazz somewhere in the background—but all of it became nothing more than a blur of light and noise the moment his fingers moved again, slow and purposeful, the stretch of his arm impossibly seamless beneath the table, as if he could command every tendon, every muscle, with surgical precision.

He didn’t even shift in his seat, didn’t look down, didn’t so much as twitch, and yet—you felt him, truly felt him now, his fingers slipping between your thighs with exquisite control, brushing over your bare, trembling core with a deliberate slowness that made you forget how to hold your breath steady.

And then—he pushed.

Just one finger at first, and it was too much, because it was him, because it was stretched impossibly long and thick, curling up with inhuman ease, reaching deeper than anyone had ever dared, pressing into you like he already knew exactly where to go, what you needed, like he’d studied your anatomy and had all the answers memorized.

Your thighs tightened automatically, knees trembling under the weight of holding in a sound you very nearly let out, and your hands clenched into your lap, the wine glass beside you forgotten, your whole body alight with the unbearable tension of being touched like this—open, pulsing, absolutely undone—and doing nothing about it.

And then—

“Why don’t you explain to Sue what we went over the other day,” Reed said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just buried his finger inside you under the dinner table, as if he wasn’t slowly crooking it up to find that sweet, aching spot that made your stomach twist and your eyes nearly flutter shut.

You froze.

“What?” you whispered, blinking at him.

He offered a slight tilt of his head, his eyes resting on yours with a look of calm expectation—amusement, even—and then shifted his gaze to Sue, who was looking at you with the kindest, most open smile, entirely oblivious.

“The resonance collapse formula,” Reed said helpfully, voice steady. “She corrected one of my assumptions about it earlier this week. She’s sharper than she lets on.”

He curled his finger again.

And it took everything in you not to cry out.

You blinked rapidly, your lips parting around a breath that wasn’t quite a word, trying to remember the theory, the math, the basic principles of language, but all you could feel was the stretch inside you, the thick, gentle press of him moving in slow, unrelenting circles, coaxing you open without haste, without apology, without shame.

“I—” you started, your voice embarrassingly thin, “we—uh, we talked about—about the resonance curve failing at the threshold of—”

He added a second finger.

Your breath caught so hard you coughed, the burn of it tight in your chest, and you reached for your water like it might ground you, like the coolness of the glass could balance out the unbearable heat pulsing between your legs.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Sue asked again, concerned.

You forced a smile, shaking your head quickly, eyes wet with the effort to look normal, to act normal, when Reed’s fingers were pushing deeper now, stretching you in a way that was obscene, careful, perfect, and somehow managing to keep the rhythm slow and steady, barely moving, just enough to make you drip helplessly onto his knuckles under the table while you tried to describe a physics principle with your body unraveling second by second.

“I’m okay,” you managed to whisper, voice too soft, too high.

Reed’s thumb brushed upward. You jolted. He smiled—just slightly.

“You were saying?” he asked gently.

You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or crawl under the table and never come out.

Instead, you looked up, cheeks flushed, throat tight, and murmured, “We adjusted the decay rate curve based on the harmonic threshold failing beyond point-six-three, and—and recalibrated the control conditions to reflect a more dynamic waveform—”

His fingers pressed up, deep, and you gasped—but you made it sound like awe, like wonder.

Sue beamed at you. “That’s amazing.”

You blinked, barely nodding, and Reed—still untouched himself, still seated like a man entirely at ease—just gave you the faintest smile across the table, like he was proud of you. Like you had passed some unspeakable test.

You weren’t sure when it changed—when Reed’s fingers, once so slow and exploratory, shifted their rhythm, no longer teasing but deliberate, their movement suddenly quickening beneath the tablecloth, each stroke firmer, deeper, more precise, curling up into that one devastating place inside you with the kind of methodical expertise that only a man like him could possess.

His thumb pressed again and again against your swollen clit in quiet, unrelenting circles, and it was obscene, unbelievably obscene, because he was still sitting across from you, back straight, shoulders calm, expression thoughtful and polite as Sue continued her story—talking about an ambassador, or a charity gala, or maybe a speech she gave—and you couldn’t hear a single word of it.

Because you were about to come.

Right there. At their dinner table.

Your thighs were trembling beneath the fabric of your dress, your body pulled taut like a string about to snap, nerves alight and burning in every limb, and you could feel it rising, fast and hot, building in your belly like a storm, spreading up through your spine with every practiced motion of his hand—stretched from across the table, long and dexterous and hidden beneath the soft, quiet clink of silverware.

You were soaked, dripping, pulsing around his fingers, and he knew. Of course he knew. He could feel every flutter, every desperate little squeeze your body gave him, and when he looked at you—really looked at you—his eyes burned with a satisfaction so soft it felt like praise.

You tried to hold it back. God, you tried. Your nails dug into the fabric of your skirt, your breathing shallow and uneven, your lashes fluttering as you ducked your head and bit into the back of your hand, trying to hide the sound, trying to bury the moan that threatened to rip itself from your throat. You were right on the edge, hovering there, helpless, when—

DING!

The sound of the oven’s timer rang out sharply through the kitchen, perfectly, cruelly timed—at the exact second you broke apart, your body shuddering around his fingers as the climax hit you so hard and fast you saw stars behind your eyes. You muffled the moan with your hand, trembling violently in your chair as you faked a cough so sharp it made Sue look up, concerned, just as she was standing to go check the dessert.

“Poor thing,” she said sweetly, already halfway out of the room, completely unaware of what had just happened right beneath her nose. “Let me go grab the cobbler—Reed, didn’t I tell you to turn on the vent fan for the oven? It smells like caramelized sugar in here.”

You barely managed to nod, your breath still stuttering in your chest, the taste of your own bitten-down moan lingering in your mouth like smoke, your vision wet and dizzy as you tried to collect yourself—but it was impossible, completely impossible, because Reed was still watching you, still calm, still composed, still seated like nothing had happened at all, as though his fingers hadn’t just coaxed your orgasm from you with the kind of precision that only a man with endless patience and supernatural reach could possess.

And then—he moved.

His hand, the one he had just pulled back from beneath your dress, rose slowly from beneath the table, casual, unhurried, and with the sort of smooth detachment that made your blood run hot all over again. You watched—helpless, horrified, entranced—as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his expression unreadable but his gaze never leaving yours, and then—

He licked them.

Just the tips. Just a quiet, deliberate motion—his tongue flicking out to drag across the pads of his fingers with unbearable slowness, like a man tasting something rare and sacred, like someone who savored knowledge, savored reactions, savored you—and your breath caught so hard it made your throat ache, your hands clenched in your lap, body still trembling beneath the table.

And that was the exact moment Sue walked back in.

The tray in her hands held a golden, bubbling dish still steaming at the edges, a pitcher of vanilla sauce tucked beside it, and she moved with the same easy grace she always had, placing the dish gently in the center of the table as the scent of caramelized fruit and butter filled the space.

“Was the sauce that good?” she asked with a light laugh, glancing over just in time to see her husband finishing his little motion, his fingers slipping from his mouth like it was nothing at all. “You just licked your fingers like you hadn’t eaten in days.”

Your entire body tensed.

Reed—calm, collected, horrifyingly composed—didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head toward her, then turned back to you, his eyes locking with yours across the table, his gaze heavy with meaning, with memory, with the weight of what he’d just done to you, and said, without a flicker of shame—

“Delicious.”

Your stomach dropped. Your cheeks flamed. You looked away instantly, your eyes darting toward your lap, toward your empty plate, toward anywhere that wasn’t him, your skin hot and crawling with mortification, your thighs pressed tight together under the table, still slick and tender and sensitive as hell, and now—now you had to eat dessert.

With him. With her. With the taste of your orgasm still on his mouth.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You said your goodbyes to Sue as sweetly and shakily as you could manage, your voice still thin and breathless from the quiet ruin Reed had left you in, the remnants of your orgasm still echoing in your body like a pulse you couldn’t calm, and still—still—you smiled, you nodded, you played the part of the polite, well-mannered girl who had not just come in silence at the dinner table. Sue hugged you lightly at the door, warm and soft and lovely, thanking you for coming and saying how nice it was to meet you, her words kind and sincere, her smile so genuine it made you ache.

“We’ll have to do this again,” she said gently, her voice carrying no suspicion, no awareness, only the comfort of a woman who’d welcomed you into her home and truly meant it.

“It was an honor,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper, eyes lowered, fingers nervously wrapped around the strap of your bag, heart pounding loud and unrelenting in your chest.

Reed appeared behind you then, as if summoned by the rhythm of your exit, and without saying anything, without asking, he moved to walk you out, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back—a simple gesture, one that should’ve been harmless, innocent, but that felt anything but, especially after what those fingers had just done to you beneath a tablecloth in the dim golden light of a family dining room.

The door clicked shut behind the two of you, and the hallway beyond was quiet, cool, and still, a soft hum from the city beyond the glass, but the silence between you buzzed with something thicker, darker, more intimate than you could bear. He said nothing at first, only walked beside you with slow, unhurried steps, like the moment hadn’t already been branded into both your bodies, like he hadn’t watched you fall apart with your hand over your mouth while his wife got dessert.

At the door to the elevator, he stopped, and you turned toward him, still too flustered to meet his eyes, still trying to hold yourself together with trembling fingers and shallow breaths, your lashes lowered as you whispered, “Thank you for… dinner.”

His response came after a pause, his voice smooth, impossibly steady. “You were perfect.”

You froze—eyes flicking up, breath catching—and found him watching you with that same calm, unreadable expression, but there was something beneath it now, something warmer and darker and dangerous, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth that made your knees weaken all over again.

“Good girl,” he added softly, low enough that only you could hear it, and the elevator doors opened behind you with a soft ding, cool air spilling out into the hallway like a breeze that didn’t belong.

You stepped inside on trembling legs, unsure if you remembered how to breathe, and as the doors began to close, you looked back—just once—and there he was, standing exactly as he had before, his hands in his pockets, head tilted ever so slightly, still watching you, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t wait to take apart again.

And when the doors shut fully, sealing you into silence, your hand finally flew to your chest.

Because you had just survived dinner. Barely. And you weren’t sure you’d ever be the same again.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

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vinnyvamppp · 3 months ago

Text

She Threw Me—Then Kissed Me

NOTE: Have I been up for three hours writing this? Yes. Is this one of my longest expeditions about an alien mating with a man? Probably. Two lucky commenters requested this, so here I deliver.

@xecres1cloud @deleted-1-800 Warnings: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Public Sex, Cecil Catches Them, Alien Fucking, Tit Sucking, Porn w a Plot, Misuse of Powers, Cowgirl, Dom!Reader, Switch/Dom!Mark Grayson (battle for dominance), Infatuation, Rough Sex, Plot Changes for Convenience, Mutual Dirty Talk, Hair Pulling, etc. Synopsis: When the shadows of your heritage awaken for the first time in years—responding not to war, but to him—you’re left with one terrifying, exhilarating realization: You didn’t come here to be claimed. But Mark Grayson might just be the first man brave enough to try.

Mark Grayson x Alien!Fem Reader

Word Count: 2,908

You were never meant to leave Themyscira.

Your people—warriors, champions, god-forged in strength and purpose—do not abandon their home lightly. But you were given a mission, one that pulled you from the sacred shores of your birthplace and thrust you into a world that feels too fragile beneath your hands. The gods spoke of a coming war. A force beyond Earth, beyond even Olympus, stirring in the void between stars.

Not one brewing on earth, but amongst earth dwellers in space. The Amazons do not sit idly by when the balance is threatened. You do not sit idly by. So you were sent to watch. To learn. To prepare.

You were sent to this world to stop what’s coming. And then you met him.

Mark Grayson is not a god, but he wears his strength like one. And yet, for all his power, for all the might in his blood, there is something uncertain in the way he carries it. He does not fight like an Amazon—he hesitates, he questions, he cares in a way warriors are taught not to.

Never knowing a world this fragile. Being of Amazon and Talok IV descent, you were a new breed of soldier for your people, and one that could blend in if needed. Although, the power was bestowed due to your father's trickery. No matter. The man is dead.

The moment you landed on Earth, you sought out Cecil to initiate your infiltration. Earth people claimed to be resilient, yet so desperate for help once offered, it's pitiful.

You weren’t expecting to find something worth staying for. His influence prodding at you like an infectious disease. The time was approaching, the time to mate that is, yet you were unusually apprehensive–. THWACK!

Here, metal bends like softened wax beneath your hands. Brick crumbles as if it were pressed from sand. You’ve seen men build their homes, their towers, their weapons—each one designed to endure, yet none of them built to withstand you.

Mark learned that the hard way. “I swear I was ready for that,” he groans, flat on his back in the wreckage of a training arena that should have been reinforced better.

The dust hasn’t even settled from your last hit. A crack spiders through the concrete where he landed, but he’s already moving, rubbing the back of his head like a man more embarrassed than injured. You stand over him, arms crossed. “You weren’t.” Mark exhales sharply, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He’s strong—stronger than most things in this world. But not stronger than you, outside of his domain of expertise.

He knows it, too.

“You’re really not holding back, huh?” he says, half a grin forming. You tilt your head. “Should I?” Mark blinks, then laughs, shaking his head. “No, no. It’s just… you’re insane.” He gestures vaguely at the crater where the ground used to be. “I’m supposed to be the strong one, you know?” You raise an eyebrow. “Who told you that?” For a second, he just looks at you.

Then he grins, something sparking behind his eyes that wasn’t there before. “I’ve been wanting you to say that. I like you.” he says, and for the first time since this match started, it almost feels like a challenge. The slight rasp in his voice sends tingles through you. And finally, you think, someone worth fighting. Someone worth keeping.

Mark is still grinning at you, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you. I like you. A simple statement, but there’s something behind it—something testing the waters, something that sees you as more than just an opponent. You roll your shoulders, easing the tension from the fight. “You like losing?” Mark exhales a short laugh, pushing himself fully upright, closer now. "I like a challenge." His eyes flicker over you—not with fear, not with wariness, but something else. Something warmer.

You’re used to admiration. It comes naturally when you are carved from power itself, when your body is built to command. Men have looked at you in awe before, in fear, in respect. But Mark looks at you like— Like he isn’t afraid to lose to you.

That’s new.

You shift your stance, but you don’t step back. "Careful, Grayson," you say, your voice dipping lower. "Keep looking at me like that and I might think you're flirting." At your words you sway slightly.

You were tall and statuesque, and your skin was kissed by deep cerulean hues. Its very image carries the mystery of the void itself. Your hair, thick and dark flows past your shoulders, caught in satisfying curly tussles. Your eyes—piercing, luminous—glow softly in the dark, a warning and a lure. Just how could he not be reeled in? From the moment you two’s eyes met, he felt his heart stir. He couldn’t tell if it was just lust, perhaps, even so he wanted you.

Mark swallows, his grin flickering—still there, but a little uneven now. His eyes dart away for half a second, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re messing with him. “Uh,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “I mean, I was kind of flirting, but if that’s, like, weird, or—y’know, if you don’t—” He clears his throat, cutting himself off before he spirals any further.

“You’re really hard to read, by the way.” You arch a brow, unimpressed. “You’re nervous.” His shoulders tense slightly. “What? No. Pfft. Me? Nervous?” He gestures vaguely between you. “I just—uh—didn’t expect this to happen after you threw me through a wall.”

“You survived.”

“Barely!”

“You’re fine,” you counter, stepping closer. His breath hitches—just a little, but you catch it. He’s still sitting on the broken concrete, looking up at you, and for all his strength, all his power, there’s something hesitant in the way he meets your gaze. You tilt your head. “You’re not used to this, are you?” Mark blinks. “Used to what?” “Someone stronger.” His mouth opens, then closes. He hesitates, then exhales a short, nervous laugh.

“Wow. Okay. Just calling me out like that.” It’s not an insult, just an observation. The men here—especially the ones like him are used to being the strongest person in the room. It doesn’t matter that he’s still learning, still figuring out his limits. People look at him and see power. You wonder if anyone has ever made him feel small before. If he even knows what it’s like.

You kneel slightly, closing the height difference by roughly four inches. His breath stills. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Mark.” His lips part slightly, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, his gaze flickers over your face, lingering for just a second too long. “…I’m not.” Lie. Not fear, exactly but something close.

Its that nervous, unsure energy that coils in his muscles like he doesn’t know if he should lean in or back away. You’re used to confidence, used to men puffing their chests, trying to match your strength. Mark doesn’t do that. He just looks at you like he’s trying to figure you out, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how. You decide for him.

You lift a hand, slow enough that he can stop you if he wants to. He doesn’t. Your fingers graze his jaw, and he tenses. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and when you tilt his chin up, his breath catches. “I really don’t know what to do right now,” he admits, voice slightly higher than before. You smirk. “That’s new for you, isn’t it?” He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “That obvious?”

“Then let me teach you.” Mark swallows hard, his hands twitching slightly at his sides—like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he should. His pulse is quick under your fingertips, his face just inches from yours. “…Yeah,” he breathes after a moment, voice softer now. “Okay.”

his hands grip your waist, rough and sure, pulling you into him with a force that sends heat curling through your spine. His lips crash into yours—not careful, not questioning, but hungry, decisive. It takes you a moment to process it; to register the way his fingers tighten against your hips, the way his body pressed against yours, firm and demanding. Mark Grayson, who had been so nervous before, so uncertain, is kissing you like a man who finally stopped thinking and started wanting.

Mark moves, twisting, and before you can counter, the ground disappears beneath you. He takes you down with him, the two of you collapsing onto the rubble left in the wake of your fight. The impact sends up a small cloud of dust, but neither of you care.

He’s already back on you, already pushing up on his elbows to hover over you, breath warm against your lips. His voice is rough, a little unsteady. “You keep acting like you’re the only one who can take control.” You smirk, fingers trailing along his jaw. “Prove me wrong.”

Mark stares at you. Mid kiss, you’ve fumbled the bag and told him, in clear, matter-of-fact detail, that on Themyscira, men do not live after mating with an Amazon. And he is very much a man. His mouth opens. Closes. Then, finally: “Okay.” He lifts a finger, his voice rising slightly. “Uh. I—Okay. I really need you to explain how we got here.”

You fold your arms, unimpressed. “We were talking about your customs romantically. I shared mine.” You explained. “Right. Right.” He nods rapidly, pacing for a second before spinning back around to face you. “And—just so I’m understanding this correctly—your custom is that if we—uh—mate, you have to kill me afterward?”

“Yes.”

Mark makes a strangled sound, somewhere between a laugh and a panicked wheeze. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. And you—you don’t see a problem with that?” You tilt your head. “I see a problem for you.” Mark runs both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Okay. See, that is the part I’m stuck on. Why does that have to happen?” He inquires. “It is tradition,” you say simply.

“The Amazons have no need for men beyond what they offer.” Mark lets out a nervous laugh, rubbing his face. “Great. That’s very reassuring.” You watch him carefully. You expected resistance—expected him to balk at the idea of it, at you. Men tend to do that when faced with their own mortality.

And yet, he hasn’t left. He hasn’t even backed away. He’s nervous, sure, but he’s still here. Interesting. You take a slow step toward him, forcing his eyes back to yours. “Do you want to?” Mark swallows. Hard. “I—What?”

“You seem conflicted,” you observe, studying him. “If you didn’t want me, you wouldn’t still be here.” His lips part, but no words come out. His gaze flickers over your face, your stance, the way you’re looking at him. He does want you. He just doesn’t know what to do with that want when it comes with a potential death sentence. You smirk. “I wouldn’t kill you, Mark.” Mark visibly deflates with relief. “Wait. Hold on.” His brow furrows. “Then why would you even say that?”

You shrug. “I never said I had to. Only that it was tradition.” Mark stares at you again, looking so caught between exasperation and disbelief that you almost laugh. “So let me get this straight,” he says slowly, pointing at you. “You could have led with ‘I don’t have to kill you,’ but instead you decided to give me a heart attack first?” You tilt your head, amused.

“You’re still alive.”

“Barely!” He sighs, pressing his fingers against his temples. “I think I just aged like ten years.” You close the space between you, reaching up to rest a hand on his chest. He tenses—but not in fear. His pulse thrums beneath your fingers, quick, strong. “You’re an interesting man, Mark Grayson,” you murmur, watching the way his breath catches.

His hands hover uncertainly at your sides, fingers flexing like he wants to touch you. “…Yeah?” You nod, smirking. “Most would have run by now.” Mark exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. I’m really bad at making good decisions.” You hum in amusement, then lean in, lips just a breath from his. “Now, where did we leave off?”

It didn’t take long for you both to be disheveled and distracted. Mark shudders beneath you, his hands gripping your hips as you hover above him. "I won't kill you, but I can't make any promises about how hard I'll fuck you." He shudders at your words, his resolve crumbling. "I'll take my chances." You can feel his hardness pressing against your core, begging for entrance.

Creamy pre-cum bubbling from his tip acted as a perfect lubricant. Succulent. The slip caught your clit, each time earning a sharpened moan from you. Without warning, you slam down onto him, taking him deep inside you. The size of him certainly shows his non-human relation.

He groans, his head falling back as you begin to ride him hard and fast. Your breasts bounce with every movement, drawing his gaze like a magnet. He reaches up, cupping them in his large hands, kneading the soft flesh. "F-fuck, you're soooo beautiful; I’ve seen this in my dreams." He pants, his thumbs circling your hardened nipples.

"I c-can't get enough of you." He admitted, a grin wearily etching across your lips. “W-Wouldn’t want you to, need you badly, Mark.” The simplicity yet raw need in your sentiment drives him wild.

His strong hands suddenly suction to your upper thigh, his mouth latching onto your nipple instead. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, his gaze fixed upon your pleasured expression as your combined moans vibrated the flesh. His tongue grew erratic as it sought to bring stimulation, his hips snapped forward to meet you.

The swollen tip of his cock threatens to bruise your walls with each drive. Small dust clouds from debris kicked up, the sex growing more aggressive as he realized you could handle his strength. No need to hold back, only needing to savor the feeling. A loud clap echoed within the domain; the slab of concrete shifted beneath you as his toes gripped the floor. It's taking everything within you two to hold on as your cunts arousal responds to him. Thank god you’re on earth, easier access to the best pussy he’s had so far. The only pussy he needs now. A strangled growl crawls from his throat—.

“Donald. Turn off the training facility cameras.” Cecil chimed, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “...Right away, sir.” Replied Donald as he hastily cut surveillance.

Your fingers left his chest, deep claw marks reddening his skin. You lean down, your hair cascading around you as you capture his lips in a searing kiss. Your tongues dance together, each of you fighting for dominance. His hands slide down to your ass, gripping it tight as he thrusts up into you, meeting you stroke for stroke.

You squeezed him with such vigor, pussy puffier with more pleasurable ridges. "Jesus, y-you're s-so tight," he grunts, his hands digging into your ass hard enough to leave bruises. "I'm going to make this pussy only crave me." His conviction made you laugh, a wicked sound. "Promises, promises," you taunt, rocking your hips to meet his thrusts. "But we'll see who's ruined by the end of the night."

The room fills with the sounds of your lovemaking—the slap of skin on skin, the cries of pleasure, the obscene squelch of your wetness. “Mmph…! Do you feel this, Mark Grayson?” You asked, your voice dropping to a husky whisper, and something in it—some unearthly vibration—rolled through his bones like a pulse, deep and intoxicating. “Mmm… yeah—yeah, fuck yeah, I do.” He rasps, as his teeth grit with determination. “This is how it feels to fuck someone who can handle you.” You grinned, almost sadistically, with a strong sense of pride.

Your expression grew into one of lust as your nose scrunched, glistening lips singing so beautifully for him. “I’ll give you that and more.” The comment was so resolute you almost didn't hear it before you both groaned in unison. One of his hands comes up to tug your locs, preventing your teases. Your head slinging back with a loud yelp as your vision blurred.

You can feel your orgasm building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. A series of pleasured whines leave your unfiltered lips. Mark must sense it too, because he flips you over onto your back, never breaking their rhythm. However, his previous efforts went for not, only spurring you on. Wisps of living shadow curled around his neck, his chest—soft and teasing, cold phantom touches caressing him in droves of trembles. They grew more intense with every stroke of gratification. “Ooh…! Mark! I— I—.” You stutter.

He pounds into you, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. "Oh god, I’m gonna cum. C’mon… please… for me,” he commands so sweetly that you couldn’t deny him, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come; I need to feel you." His words are all it takes to send you hurtling over the edge.

You scream his name like a mantra, your body going limp, and he convulses above you as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. He follows soon after, dick knotting inside you as he spills his seed deep within your walls. Harsh gasps leave you both as he nestles himself within you absentmindedly, not thinking of the consequences. Or so you thought.

Mark smiles— a small, lopsided thing. He leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your lips before whispering, “… Guess you’re stuck with me.”

…

Optional ending!

The Next Day

“No, Mark. After the shit you just pulled, you two are banned from the training facility indefinitely,” Cecil said, rubbing his temples like he was one bad decision away from an aneurysm.

Mark, sitting across from him with his arms crossed, groaned. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

Cecil shot him a look. “Mark, we had to evacuate three city blocks because someone thought an earthquake was happening. Do you have any idea how hard it is to explain to the public that the ‘seismic activity’ was just you and your Amazonian girlfriend going at it?”

Mark turned bright red. “Okay, in our defense—”

“There is no defense!” Cecil snapped. “You two leveled the place! I’m still waiting on a damage report for what’s left of the foundation!”

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, entirely unbothered. “It’s not my fault your training grounds weren’t built to withstand real combat.”

Cecil’s eye twitched. “It was! It just wasn’t built for you two doing whatever the hell that was!”

Mark coughed into his fist, eyes darting to the side. “...We, uh, might’ve gotten a little carried away.”

Cecil exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Mark. Son. You punched through a wall mid-mission briefing the next morning.”

Mark stiffened. You turned to him, amused. “You did?”

He muttered something under his breath, ears still burning.

Cecil waved a hand. “You’re lucky we need you, otherwise I’d have you both on clean-up duty for the next decade.” He sighed, rubbing his face. “Just—do me a favor. Next time, take it off-world.”

Mark perked up. “Wait, so you’re saying we can—”

“Out of my office, Mark.”

And with that, you grabbed your still-flustered boyfriend by the wrist and gracefully exited before Cecil had an aneurysm.

Again.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

NEXT PART!!

1K notes · View notes

hyuckiefluff · 21 days ago

Text

The Wicked Game of Love| Lee Haechan

pairing: slytherin! haechan x ravenclaw! fem.reader genre: rivals to lovers, smut, angst wc: 21k+ (full fic) content warning: explicit content, unprotected sex, public sex, oral (fem. receiving), rough sex (hair-pulling, light spanking), marking (hickeys, bruises), forced proximity, toxic family dynamics, blood status discrimination, mean haechan, usage of wizard ver. of a slur, canon divergence (post-hogwarts /ministry setting), their relationship gives whiplash i apologize in advance, emotional hurt/comfort. summary: Lee Haechan was a pure-blood heir raised to hate everything you are. You, a half-blood girl who knew better than to let your guard down around someone like him. You were never supposed to want each other—until one disastrous kiss shatters everything you’ve worked to protect. a/n: AT LAST it is here!! my blood, sweat, and tears went into this u guys. i hope it was worth the wait. also i somehow ended up with a very dramione-coded fic (yes, this is me coming out as a dramione enjoyer). it’s so long i had to split it into two parts because apparently i don’t know when to stop. part two should be up right after this one (unless i passed out from exhaustion). pls enjoy and scream at me about it in the comments <3 ps: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BABYGIRL HAECHAN!!! ILYSM!!!

READ PART 2 HERE

“I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask why I do so? I do not know, but I feel it, and I am tormented.” — Catullus, poem 85

What you and Lee Haechan had could only be described as pure, unadulterated rivalry. Or it started that way, at least.

Your mother and his father had been political opponents for as long as you could remember—two towering figures in the wizarding world, constantly at odds in public and behind closed doors. While your mother built her career on progressive reform and transparency, his father operated in shadows, pulling strings and building alliances that made him one of the most quietly feared men in wizard politics. When your mother was named Minister of Magic, it was only by a thin margin, one that turned their rivalry into something closer to open war.

Because of your parents’ standing, and their closely intertwined conflict, you were often forced to share space. Too much of it. Not just at Hogwarts, but everywhere. Ministry galas, private events, summer functions.

Haechan was like a buzzing fly in your ear, a little gremlin who made it his life’s mission to drive you up the wall. You didn’t like him. You didn’t like his voice, or his slouchy posture, or the way he looked at you with those half-lidded eyes. You didn’t like the stupid pattern of moles on his face or the way he always knew exactly which button to press.

Everyone who knew you, knew you couldn’t stand him. If anything, the daily verbal sparring made it pretty damn clear. But what no one could’ve ever predicted was how quickly this would change.

A change that started when your mother was officially sworn in as Minister.

The announcement made headlines across every wizarding publication, and for a brief moment, your name was something people said with admiration. Students congratulated you in the corridors, professors gave you subtle nods of approval, and even the portraits seemed more polite than usual.

Your mother had been a respected Ministry official long before taking office, a well-known pureblood figure who shocked everyone by marrying a Muggle-born wizard, a choice that set tongues wagging long before you were born. Eventually, your father cracked under the pressure of a world he never fully belonged in, leaving your mother in favor of a simpler life with a Muggle woman.

Because your mother was so busy with her political career, you grew up with your father in the Muggle world, isolated from magic entirely until the age of ten, when strange incidents like your hair changing colors overnight, glass shattering during arguments started happening and forced your mother to intervene.

She brought you into a world you didn’t know then. Hogwarts became your fresh start, your chance to prove you belonged in the magical world despite whispers about your blood status, your father’s scandalous departure, and your upbringing.

Which was exactly why, when you walked into the Great Hall a few days after your mother was sworn in and saw the headline The Daily Prophet had run, it hit so viciously.

“Merlin’s beard, Y/N. Have you seen this?”

Hannah Parkinson’s voice stopped you on your way to the Ravenclaw table. She unfolded her copy with a dramatic flair and shoved it into your face. Your stomach dropped as you read the words.

“THE MINISTER’S HALF-BLOOD HEIRESS: RAISED BY MUGGLES, GROOMED FOR POWER?”

Under the headline was a moving photo of you walking through a Muggle market wearing jeans, scuffed trainers, and a second-hand T-shirt. You hadn’t even noticed the photographer.

Rita Skeeter’s quill did its best to flay you alive.

“Young Miss Y/L/N may carry a famous surname, but does she carry the polish befitting the office? Sources say the new heiress spent most of her childhood in a Muggle household, blissfully ignorant of wizarding custom until age ten—hardly the upbringing our world expects from a Minister’s child.

Classmates describe her as ‘aggressive on a broom, and foul-mouthed in the hallways’. One wonders whether this half-blood Seeker has the temperament to represent us on the international stage.”

And it continued into the next page, because Skeeter never knew when to stop.

“Her fashion sense appears equally questionable as she’s seen in the picture wearing Muggle denim and a shirt bearing a ‘Misfits’ logo (whatever that means). One hopes Madam Malkin can work miracles.”

The tears welled in your eyes before you could blink them back. Skeeter had somehow managed to hit all of your insecurities with one article—your parents separation, the years spent as the weird kid, the endless fight to prove you belonged in the wizarding world—and splashed them across the breakfast tables of the entire wizarding world.

“Aww, is the Minister’s little charity case going to cry?” Hannah cooed mockingly.

Before you could even find the words or grab your wand to shut her up, there was a loud crack behind you. The paper in her hands tore clean in half, as if slashed by an invisible blade. Hannah stumbled back in shock.

Next thing you knew, Lee Haechan was walking past you, his wand still glowing faintly. Dark hair fell in soft waves over his eyes, his uniform tie was crooked as always, his expression flat with boredom.

“Parkinson,” he drawls “I’d ask if the Prophet’s paying you for distribution, but just like your father you clearly enjoy handing out trash for free.”

A collective ooh rippled across the Hall. Hannah’s face turned an impressively blotchy shade of red before she turned around and stalked off, tripping over the hem of her robes.

Haechan turned then, catching your eye before his gaze dipped to your jeans and the battered trainers peeking out beneath your open robes.

“And you.” His mouth curved into a half-snarl. “If you insist on dressing like a stray Muggle, don’t act shocked when the rats sniff you out.”

You flinched at his words, feeling even more self-conscious than when Hannah was insulting you.

He nudged the ruined paper with his shoe, his voice low so only you’d hear it. “Never bleed where they can smell it.” Then, louder in a mocking tone “Try to keep up, you’re the Minister’s pet now.”

He turned on his heels and strolled back to the Slytherin table, his friends thumping him in the back in glee.

You stood frozen, not knowing how to react. He humiliated you, which wasn’t a new thing in your relationship. But this time, it felt as if he’d thrown the punch so no one else could.

After that day, Haechan was still a nuisance to you. Still the boy whose father would do anything to see your mother fail. But now his teasing felt different. It wasn’t sharp the way it used to be. His taunts started landing just shy of cruelty, aimed to sting you into strength instead of out of it. No one noticed the difference except you.

Bit by bit, you found yourself almost looking forward to it. Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

In the days following the article, you did your best to become invisible—but Hogwarts was not a place that allowed anonymity when your name was constantly on the front page of newspapers. Rita Skeeter’s words spread fast, and soon every corridor was filled with whispers about your family. The attention made you retreat into solitude, often spending your free periods hiding among the furthest library stacks.

One afternoon, as you sat hunched over your Charms textbook, the chair across from you scraped loudly against the stone floor. You looked up, startled and already annoyed.

"Did you lose your way?" you asked coldly, glaring at Haechan as he settled carelessly into the chair opposite.

"Unfortunately not.” He replied with a yawn, dropping his textbooks onto the table with a thud that made you flinch.

"What do you want, Haechan?”

He raised a brow. “Wow, no ‘hello’? No ‘thank you for publicly humiliating a pureblood princess on my behalf’?”

"Right, I almost forgot chivalry’s alive and well in Slytherin.” you said, sarcasm dripping from every word.

"Only when it comes with entertainment value." He leaned back, arms behind his head. "And you're a surprisingly decent show these days."

"Glad I could provide," you muttered. “Did you come here just to annoy me?”

"Nah, I just figured you were desperate enough to tolerate my presence," he retorted, flashing a shit eating grin. "Since your fellow Ravenclaws aren't exactly lining up to spend time with you these days."

You narrowed your eyes. "If you're looking to have a laugh, go bother someone else."

"Believe me, watching you sulk around like a kicked puppy isn’t that fun anymore."

"Then leave," you hissed.

“Can't. I need your notes."

You scoffed loudly. "You're delusional if you think I'd help you."

"Am I?" he tilted his head thoughtfully. “Cause you still haven’t hexed me, which means you're at least considering it."

Your wand hand twitched under the table, and he noticed immediately, mouth quirking upward in amusement. The two of you were used to swapping harmless hexes for years. Silly stuff like changing each other’s hair color, gluing quills to fingers, turning the other’s pumpkin juice to green sludge during breakfast. Nothing scarring, but enough for you to flinch when the other’s temper flared. Haechan’s smirk said he remembered every jinx.

The nature of your relationship is exactly why you weren’t used to having him on your side all of a sudden, and you couldn’t be judged for holding him at a safe distance when you had no idea what his intentions were.

Especially now that his father was capable of doing anything to ruin you and your mother’s reputation with the purpose of hindering her future reelection. Not to mention, you hated feeling like you owed him anything.

"You didn't have to interfere the other day," you muttered bitterly, unable to meet his gaze. "I could’ve handled Hannah myself."

He didn't respond at first. The quiet stretched long enough that you glanced up just in time to catch a strange expression crossing his features. He masked it quickly with indifference.

"Parkinson annoys me," he shrugged.

"Since when?" you raised a skeptical eyebrow.

He leaned forward, voice dropping into a velvety murmur. "Since she started messing with what's mine."

"Excuse me?" you stammered.

"Mine to torment, I mean," he corrected, rolling his eyes. "Merlin, don't get ahead of yourself."

"I wasn't," you snapped, embarrassment twisting sharply in your stomach.

"I know." His smirk returned. "Your pride wouldn't allow it."

You huffed, returning your gaze to your textbook, pretending to read despite the words blurring uselessly in front of you.

He flipped open his own book, pretending to skim through pages in bored silence. After about twenty minutes of silent “studying”, he stood up without looking at you.

"I’ll come back tomorrow for those notes.

You hesitated, feeling the inexplicable urge to humor him, despite every reason not to. "Fine. Whatever."

"And stop hiding in the library every day. It's depressing."

"Fuck off," you shot back sharply.

His answering laugh echoed as he walked away and you sat there for the next few minutes trying to summon any sense of concentration to no avail.

A week later you were back in the library, this time sequestered at a corner table piled with parchment and potion vials. Professor Slughorn had paired the two of you for an extra-credit antidote project—“my favorite students working together!” he’d said with a wink—and neither of you had managed to wriggle out of it.

Haechan wasn’t really doing any work, he just kept twirling his quill and splattering ink blots across your carefully labeled ingredient chart.

“Could you not?” you snapped, blotting at the stains.

“Relax,” he said, slouching until his knees bumped yours under the table. “Don’t you know that chaos is the mother of invention?”

“That mentality is how you melted the cauldron earlier in class”

He grinned. “That was funny, though.”

You rolled your eyes and bent back over your parchment, quill scratching furiously across the page. You could feel him watching you, but you refused to look up.

The quiet of the library was broken by a burst of loud whispers from a nearby table.

“…I bet he only keeps the half-blood around because he feels bad for her—”

“—heard they sneak off after curfew. Wonder what she’s giving him in return…”

You didn’t even need to guess who they were talking about. It was obvious what people thought when they saw you with the Slytherin golden boy, the heir of one of the most ancient pureblood families. They probably thought you were his charity case as well. That you were stupid enough to want him around after all he said to you.

Your pulse pounded too hard in your ears to hear Haechan’s chair scraping back. A second later, the gossipers’ table went silent, punctuated only by the unmistakable snap of someone’s quill being broken in half.

He walked back to your table and dropped into his seat, jaw tight. “Idiots.”

You shoved your notes into a messy stack. “I’m done for tonight.”

“Y/N—” he reached across the table, but you were already on your feet.

You didn’t stop until you reached an unused classroom three corridors away. It was cold and dusty, with cobwebs in the corners and desks scattered around.

The ghost of a bride hovered near the corner, sobbing quietly into her translucent veil. You ignored her as you braced both hands on the windowsill, trying to steady your breathing, willing the sting behind your eyes to fade.

After a few minutes, the ghost floated silently through the wall, giving you a mournful look—as if accepting that you had more reason to cry tonight.

The door clicked open after a few seconds.

“Thought I told you I was done,” you said without turning.

“And since when do I listen?” Haechan closed the door behind him.

You didn’t reply, only sound that could be heard was your quiet sniffles and his slow steps getting near.

“They’re not worth it.” His voice was careful. “A new article will come out tomorrow and everyone will move on. You know people need a new chew toy every week.”

You huffed a shaky laugh. “Easy for you to say. Your family’s never been headline fodder.”

“Sure we have. Just with less sensational adjectives.” He stepped closer until your shoulders brushed lightly. “Besides, if they’re going to talk, we might as well give them something good to gossip about.”

You glanced up at him, puzzled. “Like what?”

Haechan hesitated for a quick second, before his mouth quirked into that half-smile you recognized as the one he gave before saying something ridiculous. “We could pretend to date.”

A surprised laugh burst out of you, louder than you’d intended. “Fake dating? Seriously?”

“Why not?” His expression was deceptively casual, but his eyes stayed serious on yours. “It’s the quickest way to control the narrative. People eat that shit up.”

You shook your head, smiling, expecting him to crack up and admit he was joking any second now. But his expression didn't waver, and you faltered slightly.

“You’re not serious.”

His gaze didn’t shift. “What if I am?”

You stared at him, waiting for the joke, the laughter—but it didn’t come. Still, the idea was too absurd. Fake dating Lee Haechan? Impossible.

You shook your head again, forcing another laugh as you quickly dismissed the notion. “Nice try, Lee. But I think I’ll stick to something easier to manage like maybe getting top marks in our Potions assignment?”

He chuckled, finally relenting. “Suit yourself.”

Another tear escaped as you laughed softly, embarrassed. You swiped at your cheek. “God, I hate crying.”

“Yeah, you’re an ugly crier.” He nudged your shoulder gently

You rolled your eyes, shoving his arm, but he caught your hand mid-motion. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, making your breath catch. For a moment you both stood there quietly, until finally, you let out a slow exhale and allowed your head to rest carefully against his shoulder.

He stiffened for barely a second, then relaxed, leaning gently into your weight.

Neither of you spoke again until the clock tower chimed curfew. Reluctantly, you straightened, feeling calmer but oddly reluctant to move away from him.

“We should finish that antidote tomorrow,” you murmured.

He nodded, eyes searching your face as if confirming you really were okay. “All right.”

When he left, his suggestion lingered in your thoughts, stuck there like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

Fake dating Lee Haechan. You snorted softly to yourself, shaking your head as you walked back to the common room. The idea was not only ridiculousbut completely impossible.

Yet your brain, traitorous as always, circled back stubbornly to it. The thought of Haechan holding your hand in the corridors, leaning closer at dinner, brushing a casual kiss to your forehead in front of everyone...

Heat rose sharply in your cheeks.

Ridiculous, yes… but not completely unappealing, if you were honest. He was handsome and smart, plus he wasn’t as irritating as you originally thought.

You shook your head again firmly, as if to physically dislodge the thought. No. You couldn’t afford to indulge this. It was crazy. Dangerous, even.

But as you walked up to the Gold Eagle Knocker at the entrance of the Ravenclaw common room and answered the riddle, you couldn’t deny the way your heart sped up at the thought of everyone believing you belonged to each other.

You spent more and more days studying with Haechan after that. Or rather, you studying while he studied you. It was a comfortable escape from judgmental whispers and the scrutiny of everyone else’s eyes. Somehow, he’d become your calm in the midst of chaos.

To your surprise, Haechan was actually a good listener, offering better advice than anyone else you'd ever met. It was unexpected for someone who seemed born to antagonize, but behind his cutting remarks was someone who noticed more than he let on.

He was even helping you improve your flying form, despite technically being your biggest rival since both of you played Seeker. But he’d started noticing small flaws in your technique, quietly pointing them out during your private drills. You only learned to fly at eleven, which made you less experienced compared to Haechan who’d practically grown up on a broom.

“You’re still dropping your shoulder every time you dive for the Snitch,” he called over one afternoon, a playful grin on his face as you landed and sat on the grass.

“I do not,” you shot back, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead.

“Yes, you do.” He snorted lightly, tossing himself onto the grass beside you. “It’s why I keep beating you in dives.”

“Whatever.” You sighed, picking at blades of grass. Admitting your weakness felt uncomfortable, but the words slipped out anyway. “It’s just...dives still freak me out a bit.”

His teasing expression softened immediately. Quietly, he stood and held out a hand. “Come on, I’ll show you how to fix it.”

You hesitated only a second before taking his hand. The warmth of his fingers sent a small flutter through your chest.

“Mount your broom,” he instructed gently, letting go once you were steady. “But don’t kick off yet.”

You did as told, gripping the handle tight enough to hide the slight tremble in your fingers. He moved behind you, his presence too close. You felt your breath catch sharply when one of his hands gently settled on your lower back, steadying you. His palm felt impossibly warm through your Quidditch robes.

“You’re way too tense,” he murmured, amused. You jumped slightly when his other hand rested firmly on your shoulder. “Relax a bit, yeah?”

“How am I supposed to relax when you’re—”

“Just trust me.”

You tried to turn your head but he gently redirected your chin with his fingertips, guiding your gaze straight ahead.

“Eyes forward. If you were flying, you'd have crashed already.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from the soft rasp of his voice near your ear and the firm grip of his hands. You swallowed thickly. “It’s hard to concentrate with you right there.”

“I’m just correcting your form,” his fingers moved softly along your spine, and every nerve in your body seemed to spark under his touch.

His grip tightened slightly on your shoulder, pressing it into a more relaxed position. “Keep it down like this. Shift your weight forward without leaning into your broom too hard.” His breath was warm in your ear. “Trust your broom, and trust yourself. And stop tensing every muscle just because you’re afraid you’ll fall.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mumbled, frowning. “You were born with a broom attached to your hand.”

“Just try the dive.” he chuckled.

You hovered mid-air and bent forward, shoulders steady this time as the broom descended. The dive went smoother and your stomach didn’t feel like a bottomless pit.

“That…felt better.”

He grinned. “Told you.”

You dismounted, heart still thumping. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he said, grabbing his own broom. Then, with a teasing smile, “Just remember who helped you when you finally beat me to the Snitch.”

The following week The Great Hall hummed with the usual breakfast chatter. It had been an awkward morning, people seemed more on edge than usual and you didn’t even know why until commotion started by the Slytherin table.

Haechan’s voice rose sharply with anger, breaking through the murmurs. “Mind your own business, will you?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you saw him glaring down a small cluster of Hufflepuffs who immediately ducked their heads, faces flushed and eyes darting nervously. He snatched a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet from one boy’s trembling fingers. He looked up and his eyes locked onto yours.

“Enjoying this?” he stalked toward you, paper clenched in one fist.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, defensive under the weight of everyone’s stares.

He threw the Prophet down onto the Ravenclaw table. The headline screamed out in black lettering “MINISTRY SCANDAL—LEE FAMILY FACING INQUIRY OVER ILLEGAL DARK ARTEFACTS”

“You happy now?” Haechan hissed. “Your mother’s finally getting rid of the bad press. Congratulations, Minister’s pet.”

“What… I—We had nothing to do with this!”

“Oh, really?” he sneered bitterly, leaning in closer. “Funny how these stories started coming out right after the articles about you. Maybe Skeeter wasn’t so wrong… hanging around Muggles didn’t teach your family much about fair play.”

A few gasps echoed softly around you. You wanted to scream, to hex him right then and there, but your hands shook too badly under the table to even grip your wand.

You lifted your chin, staring back. “What are you really so upset about? That your father’s finally being exposed, or that people might think you’re just like him?”

His expression faltered enough to let you know your barb had landed. Of anything you could’ve said that was probably the worst for him.

Haechan didn’t just resent his father. He was terrified of becoming him. Every cruel instinct he buried, every smirk that masked something darker, every time he played the game too well—he wondered if he was already halfway there. So hearing it from your mouth, that disgust, that echo of everything he feared he might become? It was too much and it shook something in him loose.

“You’re right,” he said with a cruel laugh. “My father’s not a good man. But at least he never pretended to be. Your mother clawed her way to the top on the back of others and you’re just her dirty little project. Filthy blood dressed in silk. And no matter how high you climb, you’ll always reek of where you came from.”

The air drained from your lungs. It wasn’t just the insult — it was how easy it came to him. As if it had always been there, lurking under his tongue. You stared numbly at the crumpled headline on the table.

He was clearly deflecting. Protecting himself and his family’s name. But you never expected him to use words you’d only ever heard whispered by the worst kind of witches and wizards.

Haechan stormed out of the Great Hall, past the whispers and stares, past the first-years who scrambled aside in fear, past the professors who pretended they didn’t see anything. He didn’t slow down until he reached the abandoned courtyard behind the greenhouses, his breaths coming short and shallow.

He braced a hand against the cold stone wall, his pulse pounding sickeningly in his ears.

“Filthy blood dressed in silk”

The echo of his own voice made bile rise in his throat. He’d said it so easily, so effortlessly cruel, exactly like his father would have.

He could still see the way your expression had shattered. Not in anger—that would have been easier to stomach—but stunned disbelief, pain etched deep into your features, your chin held high even as your eyes welled with tears. He’d torn you open, hit you exactly where he knew it would cut deepest, and he’d done it because he couldn’t face feeling vulnerable himself.

“Fuck,” he whispered harshly, sliding down onto the nearest bench and burying his face in his hands. He felt like a coward. No, he felt worse. He felt exactly like the kind of person he’d sworn he would never become.

He’d watched you go through this already, helped you pick up the pieces, telling you people would forget, that it wouldn’t matter in the end. But he’d never imagined his family would become the next target. He’d never expected the anger, the embarrassment, to burn so personally.

He swallowed thickly, head tilting back against the wall, gaze fixed unseeingly on the darkening sky. He needed to fix this. Needed you to understand that he’d meant none of it, that he wasn’t like his father, even if today he’d failed spectacularly at proving it.

But how could you possibly forgive him after what he'd said?

He wasn’t even sure if he could forgive himself.

The courtyard incident never reached the Headmaster, but the castle carried gossip faster than owls. By the next morning everyone knew Lee Haechan had called the Minister’s daughter “filthy blood” to her face. Ravenclaws pitched him glares sharp enough to cut skin. Half the Slytherins avoided eye contact, the rest wore smirks that said at least one of us finally said it out loud.

You refused to be in the same corridor with him, let alone speak. At meals you sat with your team while he took the far end of the Slytherin table and toyed with food he never finished. Whenever you entered the library, he left. Wordlessly. Every time.

The distance should have made things easier, instead it thrummed like a headache behind your eyes.

Thing’s should’ve calmed down after that, but the Prophet ran a follow-up column on the Lee investigation, calling Haechan directly a liability to the family reputation. Skeeter framed his words against you in the Great Hall as proof of the “volatile Lee temper,” the perfect angle to question whether the family’s dark artefact inquiry hinted at deeper corruption.

She quoted unnamed “allies” of the Lee family who feared the heir’s public outbursts were undermining decades of carefully polished prestige. In Skeeter’s telling, Haechan wasn’t just an embarrassed teenager but a wobbling pillar threatening to topple the entire Lee dynasty.

You closed the paper before anyone could see your hands shaking. Whatever anger you still felt, seeing him reduced to a scandalous article—no less than you had been—left a sour taste in your mouth that lasted throughout breakfast.

By the time you slid into Charms class, your stomach was in knots. Professor Flitwick’s flickering quill skated across the blackboard, dividing your Charms class into pairs for the upcoming Presentation on Non-Verbal Counter Charms.

The moment your name appeared next to Lee, H., the knots pulled so tight you thought you might throw up.

Across the room, Haechan twirled his wand between two fingers, deliberately avoiding your gaze. You’d managed to avoid him so well you were half-convinced the castle had sprouted secret passages just to keep you apart, so being forced into proximity again felt deeply unpleasant.

“Partners will demonstrate in two weeks,” Flitwick announced, clapping his tiny hands. “Research and practice outside class is essential!”

Reluctantly, you gathered your things and walked stiffly to the empty seat next to Haechan. He didn’t bother moving his books to make room for you.

“I wrote down a few options,” you said, dropping your notes onto the corner of the desk. “I’ll handle wand movement notation, you can do the theory.”

Haechan barely cracked one eye open. “Pass. Last time I trusted your wand work, I nearly lost my eyebrows.”

“That was in Defense class, and you deserved it,” you snap, voice sharp enough that two Gryffindors glancd over. “Just do the theory, Haechan. It’s not that hard.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—did I miss the part where we decided you’re in charge?” He straightened slowly, finally meeting your glare. “If Flitwick’s grading us on performance, I’m not gonna let you take all the spotlight.”

You exhaled sharply. “Then what’s your brilliant idea?”

“We can meet in the library tonight,” he said evenly. “Let’s practice first, figure out who does what later.”

“Fine,” you snapped.

“Fine.” He leaned back again. “And let’s do something advanced. Your choice, if that makes you feel better.”

You rolled your eyes, muttering a resigned “Whatever”

When you arrived at the library a few hours later, it was mostly empty aside from a Ravenclaw girl who was crying into her Potion notes and Madam Pince who was judging from her desk at the front. Haechan was sitting at a back table, posture so straight it seemed unnatural for him. His eyes flicked up only when you dropped your bag across from him.

“Non-verbal Disillusionment,” you said by way of greeting. “It’s a simple figure eight motion. If you botch it, I’m not explaining to Flitwick why you’re half-invisible in class.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Let’s try partial disillusionment first, just my hand."

He raised his wand, eyes narrowing in concentration. "Stay still," he murmured. His wand flicked in a tight spiral. At first nothing happened, then slowly your fingertips began to shimmer into the tabletop, camouflaging perfectly with the wood.

“Not bad,” you admitted, slightly impressed.

He lowered his wand, the illusion fading quickly. "Your turn."

You focused carefully, tracing a precise spiral in the air. His hand flickered briefly before returning fully visible.

He gave you a faint smirk. "Looks like you need some pointers."

“Just be quiet for two seconds, will you?"

"Maybe try easing up on the wrist movement," he suggested anyway. "Less stiff."

You tried again and his fingertips vanished almost completely. He flexed them experimentally.

"Better," he said quietly.

Halfway through the wand practice he paused. "About the other day, in the Great Hall—"

You tensed immediately, eyes snapping up to meet his. “I’m not really here for an encore performance,” you muttered.

Your counterspell fizzled again, causing reddish brown to bleed through the fading illusion on his arm. He didn’t mock you this time. Instead, he silently recast the charm, patiently waiting for you to try again

“I was a dick,” he said quietly. “And not in my usual charming way. I mean… a proper, full-scale dick.”

“I’m aware.” You said, though you wanted to laugh at the way he described that.

“I crossed a line," he finished, holding your gaze steadily. "I shouldn't have lashed out like that or called you a—”

“A filthy half-blood?” you finished, swallowing around the tightness in your throat.

His jaw tightened. “Yeah. My father always taught me the fastest way to look strong was to punch down. It’s taken me this long to realize how pathetic that is.”

"You didn't have to throw me to the wolves to save yourself."

He exhaled slowly, looking tired and ashamed. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

His sincerity softened some of the tension that had lodged itself inside your chest. After a pause, you gave him a small nod. “Apology acknowledged.”

He tilted his head cautiously. “But not accepted?”

"Still pending," you offered quietly. "But no more low blows and no more humiliating me publicly."

He almost smiled, relaxing slightly. "Fair, truce?"

You hesitated, then held out your hand. "Truce."

He took it firmly, and you felt warmth linger briefly even after he let go. You hesitated, fingers tracing the edge of your wand.

“How are you doing, by the way? With... everything. The Prophet. The investigation on your father.”

Haechan looked down at the table, then exhaled a laugh that had no humor in it. “It’s weird. Part of me’s pissed they’re dragging his name through the dirt. The other part…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “The other part thinks maybe it’s what he deserves.”

You stayed quiet, but your hand crept across the table, resting just near his.

“I keep thinking,” he said softly, “if they tear him down, does that mean they’re tearing down part of me, too?”

You bit your lip. “No. You’re not him.”

“Don’t sound so sure.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I sounded exactly like him that day in the Great Hall.

“But that’s not who you are.” You reassured him softly.

His hand moved then, his pinky brushing yours.

“Thanks,” he said, voice barely above a breath.

“Ready to try the full-body charm?”

He leaned back with a teasing smirk. "Try not to make me disappear permanently. I know you'd miss me."

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't entirely suppress your smile. "Don't tempt me."

For the next hour you traded spells and counter-spells. He still rolled his eyes and mocked your notes, but the comments landed softer every time, the edge dulled by something like mutual respect or at least mutual exhaustion. When Madam Pince finally shooed you out of the library, you’re silently looking forward to the next practice.

After that truce in the library, nothing between you and Haechan got any easier.

In private, he still showed up to practice and study. In public, he kept his distance, afraid that more articles would come out. The more time you spent around him, the riskier everything felt.

If anyone had asked, you would have denied thinking about Lee Haechan at all—denied the way your pulse lurched when his broom skimmed too close during matches, denied how your gaze drifted to his mouth when he argued with you in class, denied the fierce stab of protectiveness that flared whenever someone else insulted him.

But your parents were still political adversaries, and it was the middle of the elections which meant everything was so much more fragile. You were starting to think that The Prophet had spies in Hogwarts. The rumor that Rita Skeeter could transform into a fly and that’s how she heard so many private conversations was starting to seem more believable every day.

Because of the complexity of all these things, you hand no choice but to roll your eyes at Haechan in the corridors, call him insufferable beside your friends, and let the castle believe you hated him without exception.

Mostly you stuck with your own Quidditch team since it was easier to pretend around them. Venting about the Slytherin Seeker was practically a bonding ritual.

“He’s such an asshole!” Mika spat after a Saturday match, pushing her dark hair off her forehead.

“I can’t believe Madam Hooch let that shoulder check slide,” Renjun grumbled, ripping off his gloves. “He nearly sent you into the stands.”

“Typical Slytherin, they only know how to play dirty,” you agreed breathlessly, bruised, and secretly exhilarated.

But you weren’t totally innocent either.

That morning at breakfast, right before the match, you’d gotten into one of your usual arguments with him over something silly like who’d scored more points this season or who had better broom control.

“Keep dreaming, Lee,” you said, smirking across the table. “You’ll fumble the second the Snitch shows up.”

He scoffed, chin propped on his hand. “If I win today, I want a reward.”

“A reward?”

“Yeah. Something worthy of beating you.”

You pretended to think, tapping your fork to your lip. “Fine. If you catch the Snitch, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

The words left your mouth with a casual shrug, but the second you said them, his expression darkened with interest.

“Anything?” He asked, lowering his voice enough so only you could hear. “You might not like what I want though.”

You blinked, suddenly very aware of how close his knee was to yours under the table.

His gaze flicked briefly down to your mouth, then back up. “See you on the pitch, then.” he said softly, pulling away with a smirk that left your cheeks burning.

You’d said it as a joke. Obviously. But now, after the match, with bruises blooming on your ribs and your teammates fuming about missed fouls, you couldn’t stop replaying that look on his face. And to top it all off…

He’d caught the damn Snitch.

You waited until your teammates were gone and the Slytherin tent was empty to walk in. Haechan was sitting on a bench there, shirt half-off and hair damp with sweat.

“Took you long enough,” he sighed, leaning back in his arms.

“You’re lucky the wind was on your side today.”

“Aht! Aht! Don’t come at me with that now, you were still confident enough to bet.’

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever, you’re not even going to cash that in.”

“Oh, but I am.” He pushed off the bench slowly, stepping closer. “You can’t offer something like that and expect me to just forget.”

You crossed your arms. “What do you want, then? A box of Fizzing Whizbees? A foot massage?”

“Tempting. But no.” His fingers reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear before letting his hand drop.

“I want you to admit I’m the better Seeker.”

“Come off it.” you laughed.

He leaned in a fraction, his voice lower now. “Alright then. I want you to ask nicely.”

“What?”

“Please, Haechan, what do you want from me?” he said, mocking your voice. “Say it.”

He was getting too close. Your eyes flicked to his mouth for half a second, and you knew he caught it.

“Is this the part where you make me kiss your boots or something?” you scoffed, looking at a point behind him instead of his eyes.

“I have a better idea of what you can kiss.”

An annoying flush crept up your neck, lips parting in disbelief at the implication.

“Excuse me?” you asked, with a laugh that came out shakier than intended.

“You heard me.” He didn’t look away, didn’t even blink.

This wasn’t your usual banter anymore. The kind you could dismiss with a scoff and a snide remark. This felt infinitely more charged.

“Oh, you’re disgusting.” You muttered.

“We made a deal,” he said, stepping even more into your space. “And I won.”

You backed up slightly, only to hit the wooden lockers behind you.

“What exactly do you want from me, Haechan?”

“That,” he started, his voice lower and raspier now “is a great question.”

He moved slowly as if he was offering a chance to run but you didn’t. Maybe you should have.

His hand came up, knuckles brushing your jaw. “You want to know what I want?”

You swallowed hard and nodded.

“I want to know what happens when you stop pretending you hate me.”

“I don't pr—”

“Don’t lie. I've seen the way you look at me when you think no one’s watching, you’re so obvious.”

You tilted your head, defiant even now. “Fine, let’s say you're right. What then?”

He gasped so slightly you barely caught it before his smirk came back in full force.

“Then we need to do something about it.”

You stared up at him, close enough to count every damn mole on his stupid, perfect face.

He leaned in until his lips brushed your ear. “Unless,” he whispered, “you’re scared you’ll like it.”

Your hands twitched at your sides.

“As if.”

You kissed him so hard you knew it would bruise later. And for a second it wasn’t about politics or Quidditch or the Prophet or who hated who first. It was just his mouth on yours, insistent and warm, and the way his hands gripped your waist possessively.

The kiss only lasted a few seconds before he pulled back, breathless.

“That was definitely better than a foot massage.”

He barely finished the words before your mouth crashed onto his again, hungrier this time, any shred of dignity gone. Your fingers slid up his neck, tugging him down by the collar of his robes.

Haechan chuckled into your mouth, and you felt him press you harder into the wood, his body trapping you there.

“So much for hating me,” he murmured, breaking just far enough away to speak, his breath hot against your lips.

“Shut up,” you hissed, fingers tightening in his hair as you pulled him back down to you, kissing him roughly to silence that stupid mouth.

He groaned against your lips, slightly annoyed at how good you were at this. Your hands caressed his jaw where stubble was growing. His hands found your hips and squeezed firmly.

You gasped, lips parting to give him an opening, and he took it immediately, deepening the kiss with the kind of reckless arrogance that made your knees tremble. One of his hands slid lower, slipping under your Quidditch shirt to brush bare skin.

“Fuck—” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut when his mouth pulled away to trail along your jaw. “Haechan.”

He hummed, pleased at the way his name sounded from your lips. “Say that again.”

You shook your head stubbornly, pulling his mouth back to yours, swallowing the cocky smirk you could feel forming. You needed him silent, you needed to stop thinking, stop remembering that this was Lee Fucking Haechan.

His thigh pressed between your legs, and suddenly it was harder to pretend you didn’t want this with every fiber of your being. Especially when you were arching against him, hips chasing the friction shamefully. He noticed and pressed harder, savoring the breathless sound you made.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?” he teased, nipping your lower lip.

“Just—god—stop talking,” you breathed, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, earning a rough groan that vibrated through you.

Your head spun from how quickly this was happening, how eagerly your body surrendered to him.

He smirked against your lips. “But I like watching you argue.”

You grabbed his jaw firmly, forcing his gaze down to yours, reveling in the way his breath stuttered at your sudden boldness. “Haechan, I swear—”

“What?” His voice was challenging, eyes glittering with excitement. “What are you gonna do?”

The answer came in the form of your hand sliding down to palm him through the fabric of his quidditch trousers, smiling sharply when his confident expression fell, eyes squeezing shut as he bit out a moan.

“That.” You murmured, stroking him again, slowly.

He recovered quickly and was kissing you again with a hand tangling in your hair, tugging firmly enough to make you gasp.

“Two can play dirty, princess.” He growled softly, hips pressing forward into your hand.

“Then fucking play,” you challenged, breathless.

His fingers swiftly undid the buttons of your trousers. Nothing but heat flushed your skin as he slipped his hand lower and under your panties, fingers finding exactly where you needed him.

You cried out sharply, hips bucking into his touch.

“So sensitive,” he teased, voice shaking just slightly as his fingers circled your clit gently, then pressed inside you. “I wonder if your team knows their perfect little seeker gets this wet for a Slytherin.”

“Shut—ah—” your retort melted into a moan, hips grinding shamelessly against his hand.

Your head fell back against the locker, lips parted in a silent gasp as Haechan’s fingers worked you over. Your legs were already trembling, breath hitching in time with every curl of his fingers.

The need to to wipe off the fucking look on his face of pure cocky satisfaction was overcoming. He was watching you unravel like this was the victory he really wanted—not the snitch, not the match, this is what he’d been craving the most.

“Who knew,” he murmured. “That you’d look this pretty falling apart all over my fingers.”

You couldn’t even glare at him, all your strength focused on moving your hips against his hand, chasing that high, chasing him. Until the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching froze you both on the spot.

His hand stilled immediately, and you slapped it away in a a panic. Your pants were unbuttoned, his shirt was still half-off, your lips were swollen, and you could feel your pulse between your thighs, desperate and unfinished. This was not exactly how you wanted to be caught dead.

“Shit,” you hissed, shoving him back as quickly as your wobbly knees allowed.

Haechan grabbed his wand and muttered a cleaning charm under his breath, wiping any visible evidence from his hands and your legs. Then, he schooled his expression into that bored and slightly annoyed mask he wore in class.

You barely had time to fix your clothes before a voice rang out from outside.

“Haechan? You in here?”

The Slytherin beater, Na Jaemin.

Haechan stepped out of the tent as if he hadn’t just been knuckle-deep inside you. “Just grabbing my wand,” he lied smoothly. “I didn't know I needed a hall pass to change.”

Jaemin laughed. “Hey, was someone else in there?”

You forced yourself to step out, tucking your shirt in with trembling fingers and praying to every god in the castle that your face didn’t look as wrecked as it felt..

Jaemin blinked at you, confused. “Oh.”

Then he looked between the two, and you could see the pieces falling in place.

“Right…” he said, drawing out the word. “Well, don’t let me interrupt. Just figured you’d want to see the scoreboard. They’ve posted top players.”

Haechan raised a brow. “Top players?”

Jaemin gave a pointed look. “i think you’ll be surprised.”

Then he turned and walked out, leaving behind a thick silence in his wake. You let out a breath, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“That was a close call.” He said, still looking way too proud for someone who’d just been caught mid-debauchery.

You glared. “I'm going to kill you.”

He smirked. “Only if you say please.”

The Ministry’s Galas always felt like a battlefield in ball gowns, but this year it was worse. Your mother moved through the ballroom with effortless grace, every nod and handshake a subtle show of dominance. You followed half a step behind, champagne flute untouched in your hand.

“Y/N, darling, try to look engaged,” she murmured, looping her arm through yours as she guided you toward yet another tedious cluster of political allies. “This is the perfect opportunity to make connections before graduation.”

“Can I at least enjoy dessert before I get offered a job I don’t want?” you said under your breath.

She laughed lightly as if you’d said something charming. “You have options, dear. The International Magical Cooperation office is always interested in young minds, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has already reached out. You could even apprentice under Councilwoman Fairbairn, she’s been watching you.”

You blinked, trying to summon enthusiasm. “That sounds... overwhelming.”

“It sounds like a future,” she corrected, smiling at a passing Wizengamot elder. “We can’t all be Quidditch captains forever.”

You clenched your teeth behind a tight smile. This entire night was curated around your mother’s standards. From your dress, your hairstyle, to your perfectly timed laugh. And you were so bored you could scream.

So when she paused to speak to a pair of visiting diplomats, you used the opportunity to escape toward the dessert table. You stuffed a sugared pumpkin tart into your mouth just to have an excuse not to answer questions about your “career trajectory.” If anyone asked again about your post-Hogwarts plans, you were going to throw yourself into the enchanted punch fountain.

The peace lasted until you felt that familiar prickle between your shoulder blades. You turned just as Haechan bowed to a council witch, and walked straight toward you.

“Enjoying the pastries, princess?” he asked, stopping close enough that the chandelier lights caught a storm of gold in his eyes.

“You should focus on your father’s damage control, not my dessert plate,” you replied, forcing a smile that hurt your cheeks.

“Trust me, he’s better at politics without me. Besides, I’m here to make sure you don’t die of boredom.” he said with a crooked grin.

Then as if it was the most common thing, he wiped a bit of powdered sugar from the corner of your lip. The action shocked the reply out of your mind, and you had to look around to make sure nobody saw that. A passing journalist drifted too near so you stepped back on instinct and lifted your chin to reply.

“I would rather be bored than babysat by you.” The reporter’s quill twitched happily and moved on.

Haechan’s eyes cooled, but a corner of his mouth lifted. “If you keep insulting me that sweetly, people might think you mean the opposite.”

“Are you ever serious about anything?” you rolled your eyes, yet your pulse thudded hard enough to blur the string quartet.

He offered his hand. “One dance. You can call me names the whole time.”

“Not a chance,” you hissed but a council member brushed past and mistook your glare for a smile. “Oh, Miss Y/N, would you lead the next waltz?”

Before you could refuse, Haechan’s hand slid to your back. “She’d be delighted,” he said smoothly, steering you onto the glassy floor.

You settled your palm against his shoulder, felt muscle tense under velvet, and tried to count the steps. But his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist and the numbers scattered.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

“It’s the tempo,” you lied.

The waltz spun you through three agonizing minutes of perfect posture and silent arguments fought with eyes alone. When the final note faded, applause burst around you, and you let go as if burned.

You escaped to a side corridor lined with stained-glass portraits. Halfway down, you heard his footsteps. You spun, skirt whipping.

“You had no right—”

“No right to what? Save you from making a scene?” He stopped an arm’s length away, breathing hard. “I’m pretty sure we’re here to keep appearances.”

“Oh, thank you,” you snapped. “But I can fight my own battles.”

“I’m aware.”

A flickering wall sconce threw silver across his cheekbone, your eyes followed the droplets of melted snow that still clung to his hair from the ride here. He looked beautiful, and you hated it.

“Why do you always do this,” you said, softer now, “You always make everything harder than it needs to—”

He stepped closer. “Do you really not know why?”

Your breath caught, his gaze dipped to your lips.

“Haechan… this isn’t right,” you whispered.

“I know,” he answered, not moving back. “But tell me you don’t want it too.”

A voice rounded the corridor corner—two aides chatting about the banquet. Without thinking, you grabbed Haechan’s collar and dragged him into a narrow alcove behind a velvet drape. The aides passed but you still held onto him.

“You’re truly such a pain,” you breathed.

“You’re one to talk.” He said and kissed you before you could come up with another retort.

His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking away shock. Yours fisted in the silk of his robe as you kissed him back, matching every demand. The gala’s distant music thumped through the walls, but inside the alcove everything narrowed to the press of mouth on mouth, the soft catch of your breath, the relief of finally, finally shutting each other up.

When you broke apart, you were both trembling. He rested his forehead against yours.

“This is so dumb,” you breathed.

“I have to disagree.”

Another set of footsteps came from outside and you pulled away smoothing your hair. He straightened his lapels with a tiny smirk on his lips.

“Lose the grin, Lee.” you said, slipping out first into the hall, masking swollen lips behind a polite smile. He followed a minute later, expression schooled into neutrality again.

Across the hall, your mother caught your gaze. You forced yourself to move toward her, while behind you his fingers brushed across the back of your hand before letting go

A week went by without much thought. The bruises from the gala’s waltz, the little half-moon marks his fingers left on your wrist, had faded. But the memory of that alcove kiss refused to. Unfortunately, life went on, and in your household that meant tea with the Minister at precisely eight in the morning.

Your mother was already seated in the glass-roofed conservatory, steam curling from a delicate china pot. She greeted you with the smile she reserved for diplomats.

“Sit, darling.”

You obeyed quietly but anxiety bubbled in your chest. She only used this much ceremony when she was about to drop a bomb.

“I’ve been thinking about your future,” she began, pouring. “You’ve always excelled in Defense, but I know how fond you are of languages as well. So I called in a favor.”

Your stomach dipped. “Mom…”

She set a parchment envelope on the table. “A summer internship in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, right after NEWTs. You’ll shadow the Trade Accords division, they might even pay if you impress them.”

“I didn’t apply for this,” you said tightly.

“I applied on your behalf. They accepted instantly, obviously. One look at your marks, your pedigree—”

“Exactly,” you cut in. “My pedigree. When do I get to make a choice that isn’t pre-selected for political optics?”

Her expression cooled by a few hard degrees. “Opportunities like this don’t wait. You’d be foolish to refuse.”

The conversation spiraled quickly with her measured reasoning, your rising temper, and the clink of china as you set your cup down too sharply. In the end she dismissed you with a gentle but immovable, “We’ll speak once you’ve calmed down.”

You left the conservatory shaking, the parchment still unopened in your fist.

You considered skipping but pride shoved you into the Ministry lift at 8:59am. You wore sensible robes you hated, hair pulled back into a ponytail that was giving you a headache, and your heart was still hammering with resentment. But if you had to do this, you would do it well… and spitefully prove you didn’t need your mother to pull strings.

The lift grill rattled open onto a marble corridor lined with signage that said Level Five, International Cooperation. You approached the reception desk, rehearsing a polite introduction. Then you heard a laugh that froze you on the spot.

Haechan was leaning against the counter, chatting easily with the receptionist. He was wearing dark robes, and his hair was slicked back. The receptionist pointed toward a stack of orientation folders, he thanked her with a wink, and turned towards you.

His eyebrows shot up in shock when he saw you, then his mouth curved into a slow smile.

“Well, well. Fancy seeing you here on a Monday morning.”

You gave him a flat look. “What are you doing here?”

“Same thing as you, I’m guessing. Interning because my father thinks letting me rot on a beach all summer would reflect poorly on the family name.”

You raised a brow. “Was this the only department desperate enough to take you?”

“Actually,” he drawled, stepping closer, “Magical Law Enforcement was my father’s first pick but it was too much work so I requested this department specifically.” He tilted his head. “Imagine my surprise when I saw your name on the roster last night. Made this whole endeavor infinitely more entertaining.”

Heat crept up your neck, equal parts anger and something far less convenient. “I’m not here for your entertainment, Lee. Stay out of my way.”

“That might be difficult,” he said, tapping the crest on his folder. “Trade Accords division, same as you.”

Of course. Your mother couldn’t have orchestrated a more ironic punishment if she’d tried. But grateful relief pooled in your stomach anyways. At least you wouldn’t be alone in a sea of strangers, at least the one person who could keep up with you (and rile you up) would be right there. But you couldn’t show that. The whole structure of whatever twisted thing existed between the two of you depended on pretending you’d rather kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

The program coordinator, Ms. Thatch approached you, beaming at you both. “Wonderful! Our Hogwarts pair. Minister Y/L/N spoke highly of you, and Mr. Lee comes with stellar references. You’ll be working together on our project about Portkey Tariff revisions.”

You swallowed a groan, Haechan’s grin only widened.

“Looking forward to our collaboration,” he said sweetly, extending his hand. Ms. Thatch watched, expectant.

You shook it, pretending your pulse didn’t spike when his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist in a silent echo of the waltz from the gala. His eyes flickered with the same memory.

“I hope you can keep up,” you murmured under your breath.

“When have I ever disappointed you?” he answered, squeezing slightly before releasing your hand.

The morning of your first official group session, you found Haechan sitting on the arm of a leather sofa in the Ministry atrium, twirling his wand mindlessly and balancing a croissant on his knee. You approached slowly, arms full of color-coded folders of all the research you’d done already. He looked up, eyes dragging over your thoroughly professional appearance before raising a brow.

“Someone’s ready to storm the Wizengamot.”

“I can’t say the same about you.”

He popped the last bit of croissant into his mouth and spoke through the crumbs. “Relax, this thing’s just a formality. They don’t expect us to have actual solutions yet.”

“I’m not here to coast,” you huffed. “I’m not going to let anyone say I got this internship because of my mother.”

“Of course not. You’ve got enough pressure breathing down your neck without adding my laziness to it.” he replied with a dramatic sigh.

“So you admit you’re lazy.”

“Ah, I'd call it strategic,” he corrected with a grin. “Why waste effort on a rigged game?”

You stared at him, genuinely annoyed now. “Why even be here if you’re not going to try?”

“Because I was told to be,” he said, still smiling but something behind his eyes hardened.

You opened your mouth to press, but Ms. Thatch appeared, waving the two of you over to the briefing room where interns settled around the long mahogany table. Ms. Thatch stood at the front, adjusting her elegant tortoiseshell glasses.

“Welcome back, everyone. Today we’ll outline initial proposals for the Portkey Tariff Revision project,” she said briskly. “I trust you all reviewed the necessary documents in preparation for this.”

You glanced quickly at Haechan, who was leaning back and looking bored in the chair opposite you.

When Ms. Thatch’s gaze landed on you, she smiled encouragingly. “Miss Y/L/N, let’s hear your proposal first.”

You straightened, ignoring the faint twitch at Haechan’s lips, and began clearly, “The current tariffs favor Western European trade. I think we should revise the rates using updated data from underrepresented regions, especially in Eastern Europe and Asia. It would make things fairer across the board.”

Ms. Thatch nodded appreciatively. “Very good, any thoughts?”

Haechan leaned forward, eyes glinting as they locked onto yours. “That sounds good on paper but it ignores our current diplomatic priorities. Adjusting tariffs too quickly risks alienating our key European allies. I’d suggest a phased approach, start with targeted reductions for certain regions while giving our main trade partners time to adjust.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, feeling irritation rise at the implication that your idea was naïve. “So we just let the imbalance drag on for years while everyone tiptoes around it?”

He tilted his head, annoyingly calm. “No, we just need to be smart about timing. If we push too hard and too fast, we could lose cooperation completely. It’s not just about fairness, it’s about what’s actually doable.”

“Diplomacy requires action,” you shot back, voice sharpening despite your efforts to remain composed.

“When has rushing things ever gotten us anywhere?” he asked with a raised brow.

The other interns glanced between you two with barely hidden fascination. Ms. Thatch cleared her throat delicately. “Passionate debate, but perhaps we can find a middle ground?”

You flushed slightly, biting your lip. Beside you, another intern whispered something like awkward, but you ignored it.

“Well,” Haechan started, “we could try a hybrid approach. Immediate adjustments where the gaps are the worst, but phase in the rest over time. We could also offer incentives like better magical goods regulations for countries willing to work with the new model early on.”

You blinked. It wasn’t a terrible suggestion. It was annoyingly logical. Worse, you’d briefly considered something similar before dismissing it because it felt too cautious. You glanced at Ms. Thatch, whose expression was encouraging.

“…That could work,” you said reluctantly. “As long as we set clear timelines for change and don’t let it get buried in process.”

Haechan gave you a satisfied smile. “Look at that teamwork.”

Ms. Thatch clapped once, pleased. “Wonderful! A joint proposal from Mr. Lee and Miss Y/L/N. Excellent demonstration of cooperation.”

Your face warmed up at her compliments, but you were still annoyed because you'd unintentionally made Haechan look good too. He reclined in his chair again, twirling his quill lazily, with a little smirk on his face.

When the meeting ended, you gathered your parchments quickly, eager to escape the lingering awkwardness. But as you stood, Haechan slipped smoothly into step beside you.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, leaning slightly toward you.

“For what? Pointing out flaws in my idea?”

“For saving your impulsive approach from alienating half of Europe,” he corrected.

“Why do you act like you care about the outcome now?” you snapped softly.

“You’d be surprised.”

The lift chimed before you could answer. You stepped in first, forcing a slow breath. Haechan followed, positioning himself at a polite distance but still close enough that his body heat seeped through your robes.

The enchanted car lurched upward, then swerved left, then right in its usual nauseating zig-zag. Your boots slid and you lost your balance. Haechan’s hand shot out, pulling you against the solid plane of his chest.

“Careful…” he murmured.

“Thanks,” you managed, the word thin and embarrassingly high.

He released you the moment you steadied, but the imprint of his fingers stayed on your skin. When the doors finally opened on the Atrium, your pulse was thudding so hard you could hear it.

“See you tomorrow, partner,” he murmured, throwing a knowing glance over his shoulder as he exited.

You watched him disappear through the bustling floor realizing it was going to be a very long internship.

The next few days consisted of nothing but research. Haechan seemed more interested in the project after your argument. He claimed he was committed to helping but you suspected he just enjoyed contradicting your findings.

“Page six,” he announced, flipping your draft around. “Your import tariff curve is off by half a point.”

“It is not.” You muttered without looking up.

He leaned forward. “Wanna bet?”

You rubbed your temples, eyes throbbing from going through three decades worth of parchments. “Fine. Show me.”

Haechan stood and bent over your chair, his cologne wrapping around you. He pointed to a neat column of figures, far closer to your face than necessary.

“See?” he murmured. “You adjusted by seven percent, but the 1903 clause moved the baseline to eight.”

“Good catch,” you conceded through gritted teeth.

He straightened, grinning. “Say it louder, the ghosts in the basement might’ve missed it.”

You rolled your eyes, then pressed two fingers to the side of your neck and winced. All those hours of hunching had finally caught up with you.

Haechan’s smirk faded. “You okay?”

“Just sore,” you muttered, rotating your shoulder. “Thanks to someone who insisted we cross-reference three languages and thirty years of footnotes.”

“That same someone happens to give excellent massages,” he said, sliding behind your chair before you could protest. “Turn.”

You opened your mouth to refuse but then another sharp twinge shot down your spine. So with a reluctant sigh, you let his hands settle lightly on your shoulders.

“Don’t break me,” you mumbled, cheeks heating.

He chuckled, low. “You’ve survived Bludgers to the ribs. I think you’ll live.”

His thumbs worked slow circles into the knotted muscles at the base of your neck. Heat unfurled under your skin; the room seemed to narrow to the quiet rasp of parchment and the steady press of his hands.

“Better?” he asked, voice a breath from your ear.

“A little,” you managed, pulse thudding far too fast for mere relief.

He kneaded deeper, tracing careful circles. Your breath caught as his thumbs slid higher toward your neck. He paused, and you didn’t realize he was leaning in until you felt the faintest ghost of a kiss graze your bare shoulder where your robes had slipped. Your entire body stiffened in surprise.

“Haechan—” The name broke on a gasp as he kissed you again.

“I’ll stop if you want,” he murmured but his lips only drifted higher. Another kiss landed below your ear, teeth grazing a spot that made your breath hitch. He nudged your hair aside, mapping the exposed skin with his mouth.

“What are you doing…” you breathed.

“Just helping you relax,” he whispered, mouth warm on your neck.

You turned without thinking, and his mouth met yours, stealing the rest of your question. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging him closer.

He stood from his chair and eased you back until you bumped the table. His tongue brushed yours; a low sound caught in his throat when you arched into him. Your hands found the loosened knot of his tie and pulled. He broke the kiss just long enough to trace your bottom lip with his thumb.

“Feeling better?”

You swallowed thickly. “I don’t know.”

“Hmm, we gotta keep going then.” He kissed you again, deeper this time, hands sliding down to your waist and gripping tightly. His hips pressed forward, drawing a sharp gasp from you as you felt the heated line of his body. Your fingers tightened in his shirt, clinging as he kissed along your jaw, teeth gently scraping your skin.

“We shouldn’t—” you breathed, though you tilted your head to grant him better access.

“I know,” he said hoarsely. But neither of you stopped.

His hands slid down to explore the curves of your body through your robes. You felt dizzy, entirely consumed by him. He lifted you slightly onto the table, knocking scrolls and parchment to the floor, but you hardly cared. There was no one around in the Archives at this hour and all you could focus on was him—the fierce heat of his mouth, the soft catch of his breath when you bit his lip.

Your robes shifted upward, exposing bare thighs. His palms skimmed your skin, rough fingertips igniting sparks along your nerves. He kissed you deeply, tongue sliding against yours as you parted your knees instinctively, drawing him in closer.

“Lie back.” He murmured.

Your heart kicked up as you leaned onto your elbows, breath already shallow. His eyes didn’t leave yours, not even as he dropped to his knees, hands sliding up your thighs and pushing them apart with slow pressure. With his other hand he bunched your robes higher, the cool air hitting your skin in sharp contrast to the heat rolling off him.

“Haechan—” you gasped, tensing when his mouth brushed the inside of your thigh.

You hadn’t expected how soft he’d be. How careful. He kissed higher, lips dragging up inch by inch until his breath was warming your core. You squirmed closer, needing him closer, needing somethinv to relieve the pressure building low in your stomach. His eyes flicked up to yours with a silent question in them. You nodded without hesitation.

His mouth was on you in a second. A sharp main escaped before you could stop it, echoing off the dusty shelves. His tongue moved slowly at first, learning you, and then with more purpose. Your hands fumbled for the edge of the table, gripping tight as your breath caught again and again. The sensations were overwhelming, so much better than anything you’d let yourself imagine.

“Fuck,” you breathed. “Haechan—”

“You’re so fucking sweet,” he said between strokes. “Tastes better than I thought.”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, voice cracking. “Please—”

“Not planning to.” His fingers dug into your thighs as he dragged his tongue in tight circles. “Gonna make you fall apart on my mouth.”

He groaned low against you, and the vibration nearly sent you over. Your hand flew to his hair, tugging, desperate, but he didn’t slow. His tongue worked you relentlessly, fingers digging into your thighs as you twitched.

“Haechan—fuck—” you choked, voice high and strangled as you came hard. Your thighs clenched around him but he still didn’t stop until you started to shudder.

You slumped back, breathing fast. Haechan rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You reached for him without thinking, pulling him into a kiss. You tasted yourself on his lips, but you didn’t care. You just needed to feel him.

“Less tense now?” he murmured, his smirk returning, but softer this time.

You exhaled, dazed. “Yeah. But—”

“I know,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes slipped closed. “This doesn’t leave the room.”

You nodded, even though everything in you hated the idea. He pulled back just a little, smoothing your robes down, then reached for his fallen notes without meeting your eyes. You fixed your hair with trembling hands, still trying to get your breathing and your thoughts under control.

But you knew the truth, even if you weren’t ready to admit it. This wasn’t just something that happened and pretending otherwise wasn’t going to make it go away.

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