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rainrot4me · 1 day ago

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You And Your Friends - Part 1

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

─────────────────────────────── i love you - fontaines d.c.

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: When your name appears in your late great-uncle’s will, you sell your house and move out to the Estate. A victorian manor, an endless garden, and too many candles to keep up with now belong to you—and so do the groundskeepers that come with it. But behind all the intricate furniture and shiny tile, you find that all things have secrets—even the handsome ones.

✦ . Characters: Tim Wright/Masky & Brian Thomas/Hoodie & Ticci Toby x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Lore/canon-adjacent, gardener!Tim, woodworker!Toby, maintenance!Brian, fear, stalking, romantic tension, love square (lol), eventual smut, weapons, blood, alcohol, drunk make outs, risky make outs, talks of grief and mourning

✦ . Words: 17.6k

✦ . Note: Finally! I had to cut this fic into two parts because the setup and story became way longer than intended, but trust, the smut in the next part will make up for all the reading. Very not canon, but also not an AU?? You’ll see, you’ll see. Anyway, thank you again Angie for the beautiful art, and I can’t wait to see what ya’ll think!

Art by @z0l0fft.

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Grief is a weird feeling to have about someone you barely even knew.

The forest had grown thicker the farther you drove. Roads narrowed. Trees leaned inward like sentinels, their black limbs threading above your car like rib bones. The GPS had lost signal over twenty minutes ago, replaced by static and silence—but it was clear where you needed to go. The road dwindled until it barely fit your car alone, then the asphalt turned to packed gravel and weed-ridden dips. Until eventually, it all cleared out.

When the gates came into view, you didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath.

Tall wrought iron—laced with crawling ivy and something white growing through the slats, maybe fungi—stood wide open as if expecting you. Past them, the long gravel drive curled like a spine through mist that sat heavy on the ground, never quite clearing. It clung to the trees, to the stones, to the windows of your car like breath on glass. A crow watched from a crooked wooden post as you passed, unmoving, eyes beady and coal-black.

And then the manor revealed itself—huge, victorian, timeless.

It loomed at the top of the hill, its grey stones slick with dew and age. Ivy bloomed like veins across the façade. Balconies with wrought-iron railings curved out like ribs. Candles—real, flickering candles—lit the windowpanes, casting warm amber light through the dusk. Even from the drive, you could see the tall banisters inside the grand entry. The flames along them shivered into being as you approached, one by one. Unlit—then lit. Unlit—then lit.

The house was alive—sort of. Motion sensors are the face of the future nowadays.

You still weren’t sure why he’d left it to you.

Your great-uncle on your mother’s side—a man you hadn’t seen since you were seven—had died quietly in his sleep three months ago. No funeral. No obituary. Just a letter from an estate lawyer in an envelope that looked like it had been typed on a typewriter and licked shut.

“The Estate now belongs to you, as dictated in the will. The property is in your name. Immediate possession granted upon arrival. All expenses pertaining to the upkeep, facilities, and maintenance of the Estate shall be covered by the remaining balance of the previous owner’s account, per his final wishes.”

That was it. No explanation. No fine print. Just a manor no one in the family had spoken about in decades, and a name barely remembered from a childhood photo album.

But something in you hadn’t questioned it. Not really. Not when you saw the photos. Not when you sold your old place in less than a month. Not when you packed your life into a car and followed the map into fog.

Who gets a chance like this, right?

You parked beneath the massive archway, engine sputtering as you shut it off. You stepped out, the cool air hitting your face like a whip, the smell of gravel and moisture heavy in the dense air. For a moment, there was only silence—so full and thick it almost rang. Then the soft crunch of gravel behind your car.

You turned quickly.

A tall man in a thick ochre jacket stood just beyond the back of the vehicle, his arms crossed, the black of his gloves matching the dark mess of his hair. He looked rough around the edges—broad-shouldered, with tired eyes and a permanent scowl carved into his scruffy face. He has dark facial hair and a scowl that could kill.

“‘Bout time,” he muttered, not unkindly—more matter-of-fact. “You drive like an old woman.”

“…Excuse me?”

He jerked his head toward the house, already walking past you. “Tim. I’m the groundskeeper. You’ll meet the others eventually. I told ‘em you’d be late. You are.”

Charming.

You rolled your eyes, but there was something oddly comforting about how blunt he was. No sugar-coating. No fake sympathy about the death of your great-uncle—whom you hadn’t seen since you were seven and barely remembered. Just blunt honesty and a noticeable scent of soil, herbs, and faint cigarette smoke trailing behind him.

You popped the trunk and started pulling your suitcases out, straining with the last one when another figure appeared from the fog near the left side of the manor.

This one was leaner, a little taller, wearing a layered brown hoodie with a tool belt slung diagonally across his torso. Shorter light brown hair, less facial hair, and a better demeanor. His face was tense too, but not nearly as much as Tim’s—just the face of a man who worked all day. There was something… still about him. Gentle, but unreadable. He came forward quietly, gave you a nod, and took your last suitcase without a word.

“Uh—thanks,” you said, a little startled.

He looked at you for a beat longer than most people would. Not creepy. Just… deliberate. Like he was learning your shape. “Brian,” he finally said, voice low and smooth. “I handle the house, miss.”

And then, just as quiet as he’d arrived, he turned and headed up the wide stone stairs, suitcase in hand like it weighed nothing. His boots made no sound. Tim took a larger duffle bag in your hand, and made his way inside too.

Okay then.

You followed after them, feet echoing slightly on the stone. The doors were already open—enormous double slabs of oak carved with swirls and vines, polished but ancient. The inside of the manor was even more beautiful than you’d imagined.

It was like stepping into another century.

Marble floors half-covered in velvet rugs. Staircases that twisted up to balconies you couldn’t yet see. A chandelier that glittered like it was dripping crystals. Paintings of people you didn’t recognize lined the walls—eyes too lifelike, almost following you. And everywhere: those damn candles. Lit. Flickering, soft, and low like breath on skin.

“N-Nice, huh?”

A new voice behind you—lighter, raspier, but playful.

You turned to see a man standing in the wide hallway with a hatchet strapped to his belt and sleeves rolled to his elbows. He had on a flannel jacket over a hoodie, one side of his mouth pulled into a sharp grin. His eyes were bright and wild behind shaggy brown hair and orange safety goggles, and his head tilted just slightly when he looked you over. A large medical patch was taped over his left cheek, obviously covering some injury underneath. Height wise, he was in-between the two others, but was more muscular if the veins in his forearms had anything to say about it.

“You’re smaller than I th-thought you’d be,” he added, then stuck out his hand, bandages and tape covering most of his digits. “Toby, ma’am. I’m the one that makes shh-sure the place doesn’t get eaten by the fo-forest.”

He seemed to have a stutter, accompanied by the occasional jerk of his neck or pulse of his arm, but you ignored it. You took his hand, firm grip. “Nice to meet you.”

He snorted. “You say that now.”

“…What?”

“J-Joking.” He winked. “Mostly.”

Tim passed behind him with your second bag, muttering, “Don’t scare the damn girl yet, boy.”

“I’m not scared,” you said flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder.

Brian, who had disappeared around the corner, reappeared beside the bannister. “We’ve got your room ready. East wing. End of the hall. It’s the only one with a red door. You’ll find it.”

That last part sent a chill down your spine. “…Find it?”

His head tilted. “You’ll see.”

And then, without another word, he turned and vanished up the stairs. You stood in the grand hall for a moment—your bags by your feet, your heart a low thrum behind your ribs—as the fog outside thickened against the windows like steam.

The manor wasn’t crumbling. It wasn’t rotting. It wasn't disgusting and falling apart like you predicted it would be. It was thrumming with life, with energy. Evidently, these men had taken care of it in your great-uncle’s wake.

It made the unease in your stomach dwindle—if only a little.

By the time Tim sauntered back down the steps, slightly out of breath, you decided it was time to settle in.

The grand staircase curved like a serpent’s spine, the banister warm beneath your palm as you ascended. Brian had said east wing, end of the hall, red door—but you hadn’t expected the house to feel like a cathedral inside a labyrinth. Every turn led into a new corridor. Every wall held art that didn’t look hung, but placed with purpose.

Your footsteps echoed as you walked. The silence swallowed them just as fast.

Candles flared to life as you passed—always just ahead, as if the house anticipated you. The flame never flickered when you got close. It simply burned steady, golden and watching.

You passed tall windows with thick velvet curtains, some drawn closed despite the dusk. The ones left open showed nothing beyond the glass but fog. No trees. No horizon. Just the endless, soft swirl of grey.

The walls were paneled in dark wood, inlaid with carvings of ivy and thorns, suns and moons, spirals and strange, knotted symbols you didn’t recognize. Beneath your boots, the floor shifted from rug to tile to smooth, gleaming wood again.

Then there were the paintings.

One hall was lined with portraits of people in archaic clothing—Victorian corsets, fur-lined coats, high collars and hollow eyes. The longer you looked at them, the more it felt like they weren’t portraits at all. Like they’d been preserved.

A woman in crimson lace. A boy holding a raven. A man with a scar beneath one blind eye. None of them smiled. All of them stone and stern. They looked like pieces you’d find in a haunted house.

You swallowed hard and kept walking, turning what felt like your third corner when you saw it: a tall, narrow door painted a dark oxblood red. The only color in the whole corridor wasn’t mahogany or black.

Brian had said the door would be red. You gripped the handle. It was iron—cool, almost damp. You pushed.

The room beyond was enormous.

Your shoes sank into an old but pristine rug patterned with intricate swirls and designs. The walls were a smoky, soft green, the ceilings high with beams that stretched like arms above your head. A chandelier hung here, too—smaller than the one in the entry, but full of dusty crystals that caught the candlelight and scattered it across the room in warm, golden webs.

There was a canopy bed, dark wood and velvet drapes, tall as you and made up with sheets that looked untouched. A writing desk sat in front of a window, and beside it, a small table cluttered with books. The spines were cracked and hand-bound. Some of them had no titles at all.

And everything—everything—looked too valuable to belong to someone like you.

You set your bag on the bed and stared for a second.

This was yours now.

All of it. The velvet. The crystals. The creaking floorboards and carved lintels and echoing halls.

It felt impossible.

And yet… right.

You opened your suitcase, started unpacking—folding clothes into drawers that looked untouched for decades, placing a few familiar things on the desk: a small photo frame, a worn notebook, the brass key your great-uncle’s lawyer had mailed you with the deed. The only thing in the envelope aside from that eerie letter.

For a moment, as you placed the key down, the candle beside it flared—not wildly, but like it had sighed. There really wasn’t any electrical lighting in the building from what you could see, so even now, the candles swirled and shifted the shadows around the thing.

You stared at it.

Your manor. Your estate. Your workmen taking care of it.

You smiled.

── .✦

You nearly got lost on your way back down—nearly—but you found your way.

The door at the back of the manor opened with a groan—deep and deliberate, like it hadn’t been used in years, yet still expected to swing open for you. A chill crept in through the frame, damp and heavy with mist, and you stepped out into the fog like crossing into a dream.

The air smelled like moss and wet stone. Somewhere, a wind chime rang softly, even though the air was still.

The backyard, if you could even call it that, unfurled in soft, uneven layers—stone paths winding through hedges and overgrown rose bushes, patches of ivy crawling over marble statues half-swallowed by time. The fog was thinner here, but still present, blanketing everything in that same quiet veil. It didn’t obscure so much as… blur.

You followed a winding path with grass growing between the stones, passing under an old iron arch where climbing roses had once bloomed. Now only a few deep crimson buds clung to the vines like drops of blood.

And then the garden opened wide. It was vast. Wild.

Bushes trimmed into winding mazes. Tiered flower beds that had long since spilled into one another. Tall wrought-iron trellises swallowed by tangled vines. A dry fountain with a statue of a weeping angel at its center, moss growing at her feet.

It looked like someone had manifested the pages of The Secret Garden right before your eyes—untamed but alive. Like it was waiting for someone to bring it back.

You smiled to yourself and wandered deeper.

Farther down the slope of the property, just beyond the edge of the garden, you spotted them—old horse stables, sunken slightly into the earth, their wooden frames dark with age but not ruin. You imagined them alive again: the soft sound of hooves on hay, the glow of lanterns, the scent of saddle oil and cedar shavings. You’d never owned a horse in your life, but the fantasy settled in your chest like a childhood wish remembered.

Maybe someday.

And then you noticed the lights.

Not in the manor—but past the stables, nestled beneath the trees. Three small homes. One with string lights blinking dimly around the porch. One with smoke curling from a chimney. One with an open window and the distant flicker of a lamp.

Tim. Brian. Toby.

Each of them lived just far enough to be separate, but close enough that the house was still central. Like planets orbiting the same haunted sun.

You watched the lights flicker for a few seconds before the cold began to settle into your arms. Evening had started its slow descent. The sun would vanish behind the trees soon, and you hadn’t eaten since morning.

You turned back toward the manor.

The kitchen, as you found it, was toward the back—through a side hall lit with lower, warmer candles and lined with faded cookbooks and hanging bundles of dried herbs. The door was thick and swinging, and it opened to reveal a space that looked untouched by time but somehow still in use.

It was enormous—long wooden counters, copper pots hanging from a ceiling rack, a cast-iron stove the size of a small car tucked into the far corner. The stone walls were smooth and soot-darkened, the floor a patchwork of cool brick. There was a wide sink with a spout shaped like a lion’s head, and an old-fashioned icebox humming softly in the corner like it shouldn’t even still work.

A long wooden table sat near the center, clearly used more for prep than dining. A thick butcher’s block was stained with time and something darker. But it was warm. Comforting, even. Like this place had fed generations.

You moved slowly through it, your fingers trailing across aged surfaces, and opened one of the cabinets to find a neat row of mismatched mugs and stoneware dishes. Another held jars labeled in someone’s looping script—dried lavender, thyme, dried lemon peel, powdered bone—

You closed that one quickly.

Your stomach gave a soft growl, and you leaned back against the counter with a slow exhale, still adjusting to the fact that this was yours. All of it.

Even the strange parts.

Especially the strange parts.

You rummaged until you found a pantry hidden behind an old cabinet door, stacked with dried goods and preserved jars. Salted meats wrapped in wax paper, bundles of dried root vegetables, and jars of cloudy olive oil lined the shelves beside sealed tins of flour and herbs.

You found a small iron pan, lit the stove with one of the long matches in the ceramic jar, and started cooking—nothing fancy. Just some chopped root veg in oil, crisped alongside strips of cured venison. The smell was rich and earthy, grounding. By the time you slid everything onto a plate and sat at the long wooden prep table, the sun had fully dipped behind the trees. The fog outside pressed thicker against the windows. The only sign of life being those three little lights in the distance.

You’d just taken your second bite when the kitchen door swung open with a loud creak and a gust of cold air.

You jumped, nearly dropping your fork. “Woah—”

There in the doorway stood Toby, orange goggles pressed up into his curly hair, boots muddy, cheeks flushed from the cold. He carried a huge bundle of chopped wood in his arms, his sleeves dusted in bark shavings and tiny splinters. He didn’t even notice you until he looked up.

“Oh—s-sorry,” he said, voice scratchy with fatigue. He stepped carefully around your chair. “Didn’t m-mean to freak you out. D-Doors around here—never shut r-right.”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, setting your fork down. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone. What’s the wood for?”

“You haven’t seen?” He shifted the bundle in his arms, nudging it higher against his chest. “For the f-fireplace. Main one. B-Brian says if we d-don’t keep it lit, the d-damp creeps in too fast. Makes th-the whole place… w-weird.”

You raised a brow. “Weirder than it already is?”

That earned a low laugh from him—half-muffled, like he didn’t quite mean to let it out. “C-Come on. I’ll show you.”

Abandoning your plate, you followed him through the side hall, past narrow windows and walls lined with dusty trimmings, until you reached a massive arched doorway you hadn’t noticed earlier. Toby shifted the firewood to one arm and pushed it open with his shoulder.

What lay beyond nearly took your breath away.

The living room—if you could even call it that—was huge. The ceiling stretched two stories up, supported by beams carved with twisting flowers and vines. Velvet armchairs and an enormous, half-moon couch faced the grand fireplace—a gothic structure carved into the far wall, its stone mantle etched with wolves and trees and a crescent moon overhead. It looked big enough to walk into.

“This used to be the h-heart of the house,” Toby said, dropping the firewood into a copper bin beside the hearth. “B-Brian says it was the first room built, like… b-before the rest of it. S-So, uh. It d-doesn’t like being empty.”

You watched as he crouched near the hearth and began arranging kindling with practiced ease. He struck a match and lit the fire slowly, methodically—like a ritual.

“So, are you guys all… like… hired workers? Or did you know my uncle?”

Toby paused as he fed in a piece of bark, letting the flames catch. “W-We’ve b-been here a long time,” he said slowly, without looking back at you. “Not hired. Not really. M-More like… we s-stay. Keep the place g-going. Make sure it d-doesn’t fall in on itself. We knew your uncle, though. He was a go-good guy.”

“That sounds… ominous.”

Toby snorted and tossed in a larger log. The fire flared golden, shadows dancing up the walls.

“It’s not so b-bad. Beats working in town.” He stood and dusted off his hands. “Less p-people. More ghosts.”

You gave him a look, trying to decide if he was joking.

“I—uh, I’m k-k-kinda kidding,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean. S-Sort of.”

A soft silence settled between you. The fire cracked and popped, filling the room with heat and flickering light. The velvet cushions looked more inviting now, less like relics and more like they belonged to someone real.

“So, uh…” Toby glanced at you, then away. “Y-You like it here? Or is it all t-too… creepy?”

You sat on the edge of the couch, curling your hands in your lap. “I think… it’s weird. But beautiful. And a little overwhelming. I’ve never had this much space. Or… history. Or silence. I used to live in town before this.”

He nodded, shuffling his boot across the rug. “It’s a lot. Y-You’ll get used to it. The h-house’s kinda like a dog. If you d-don’t freak out, it won’t either.”

That made you laugh quietly. “So I just have to let it sniff me and offer it a treat?”

Toby grinned. “E-Exactly.”

You both sat for a moment in the warm, flickering quiet. It was still awkward—but nice. Like two people orbiting the same strange world, slowly working up the courage to say more.

“Thanks for the fire,” you said softly.

He shrugged, eyes still on the flames. “Yeah. Any t-time.”

── .✦

The next morning, the sun filtered through the tall windows in slanted beams, catching the dust in the air like floating gold. For the first time since arriving, you could see the full shape of the manor’s interior in daylight—and now, it felt less like a haunted fairytale and more like a massive, elegant mess.

So, naturally… you grabbed a broom.

It started small. One corner. One rug. But by midday you had swept the grand hall, dusted two of the massive stair banisters, wiped cobwebs from the corners of three corridors, and even mopped the kitchen’s stone floor—nearly breaking your back with the old wooden mop you found hanging in the pantry like a forgotten relic. The house didn’t resist it, either. In fact, it almost felt like it appreciated the attention.

When you finally stopped for a break, your face was flushed and your arms ached.

You rolled your sleeves up, dug out a few actual lemons you’d found in a ceramic bowl in the pantry—clearly fresh—and squeezed them into an old pitcher you’d washed clean. The sugar was slightly clumped, the mint was just a little wilted, but the icebox had cubes in its tray, and somehow, miraculously, the lemonade turned out perfect.

You sipped once. Then twice. Cold. Tart. Sweet.

You stared at the glass. “…How the hell are these lemons fresh?”

And then the thought hit you. Tim. Maybe the boys would want some.

You weren’t sure what their dynamic was with one another—roommates? coworkers? allied cult members?—but there was something grounding about them. Like each had a place here and welcomed you smoothly. And after Toby’s kindness the night before, it felt right to offer.

You made your way out the back again, pitcher in one hand, two mismatched glasses in the other, and followed the path toward the garden. The fog was lighter in the daylight, but still hung low like a lazy ghost on the lawn. The breeze smelled of basil, wet stone, and rosemary.

You found Tim kneeling in the main garden bed.

His jacket was slung over the fence post, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands deep in the earth as he repotted a thick clump of herbs beside a basket already filled with tomatoes, squash, and—yep—lemons.

So that’s where they came from.

You approached slowly. “Hey.”

He didn’t look up at first, just kept working the soil between his fingers. “You clean the whole damn house or just beat it into submission?”

You blinked, then laughed. “Both.”

That made him glance up, dark eyes narrowing slightly against the sun. His face was ruddy from the heat, jaw dusted with stubble, hair mussed from sweat and wind. Despite his constant scowl, there was something steady about him. Like a wall you weren’t meant to get past—but if you did, you might find something behind it.

“I made lemonade,” you offered, lifting the pitcher a little. “From your lemons, apparently.”

He grunted and wiped his gloves on his jeans. “Guess you didn’t poison it. I’ll bite.”

You poured him a glass and handed it over. He took it, sipped once—and let out a very small, very faint huff of satisfaction. “…It’s good,” he admitted. “Better than the crap Toby tries to make.”

“Oh? What’s his specialty?”

“Filling the pitcher halfway with sugar.”

You laughed again, and Tim smirked into his glass. He leaned against the garden fence and nodded toward the manor.

“So. You settlin’ in?”

“I think so,” you said, looking back at the looming silhouette of the estate. “Still feels like a dream. Or maybe a hallucination. One with antique rugs and self-lighting candles.”

Tim tilted his head, expression unreadable. “You don’t remember it? From when you were a kid?”

You shook your head. “Not really. My great-uncle didn’t visit often. The few memories I do have feel… blurry. I definitely don’t remember it being this big”

He looked back at the soil, swirling the lemonade in his glass. “House has a way of messing with memory. Not on purpose, just… that’s what time does here. Gets soft around the edges.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched him press a few leaves flat against his palm and sniff them, as if checking their oil. His movements were efficient, practiced. You realized then—he didn’t just tend the garden. He knew it.

“So all the herbs and things in the kitchen are from you?” you asked, curious.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “If we don’t have the soil to grow it here, I make runs to town and restock on the weekends. Brian rigged up the cellar to keep things fresh longer. I grow it, he preserves it. Toby tries not to eat it raw.”

You giggled, and he looked vaguely amused at that. “I appreciate it,” you said sincerely. “The food, the garden, everything. It makes this place feel less… haunted.”

Tim raised a brow. “Don’t worry. You haven’t seen haunted yet.”

The way he said it—casual, with a smirk—made you shiver just slightly. He downed the rest of his lemonade and handed you the glass. “Thanks for the drink,” he said, already moving back to his plot. “And for cleaning. House hasn’t looked that awake in years.”

You blinked. “Awake?”

He crouched again in the dirt. “Yeah. You’ll see.”

── .✦

You wandered farther beyond the garden, past the sun-dappled hedges and the old stables, where the sound of rhythmic chop… chop… chop echoed between the trees. The scent of pine and cedar lingered in the warm air, carried on a breeze that whispered through the taller grass near the edge of the property.

There—beneath a crooked elm tree, stood Toby.

A heap of split logs lay stacked at his feet, the head of his axe buried in the next round of wood. He stood with his back toward you, moving with casual precision. Swing. Split. Breathe. Repeat.

He’d shed his jacket and hoodie, leaving only a pair of low-slung work jeans held by a belt and scuffed boots. His torso was lean but corded with muscle—not bulky, but built like someone who worked. Real work. Outdoor, constant, unforgiving work. His skin was pale beneath the sun but marked with the story of old violence: scars, some deep and thick, others more chaotic—slashing, jagged. A faded bruise bloomed low on one side of his ribs, yellowed at the edges like it had been there for weeks.

Were those from chopping wood? Or maybe losing a grip on his axe once in a while.

You swallowed, caught somewhere between curiosity and concern. “Hey,” you called gently, lifting the pitcher. “Brought you something.”

He turned, surprised—but only for a second. His orange safety goggles were high on the bridge of his nose, but he pushed them up into the mess of his hair and out of the way. A grin spread across his face as he wiped his hands on his pants and crossed the grass toward you.

“You’re just makin’ the r-rounds today, huh, ma’am?” he said, his voice lighter than yesterday. “Let me guess. B-Bribing the help?”

“I prefer the term being friendly.” You handed him a glass. “It’s lemonade. Your friend Tim said you have a habit of eating things raw, so I figured this was safer.”

Toby barked out a laugh. “Fair.”

He took the glass and tipped it back without hesitation, drinking deep. A small sound escaped him—somewhere between a sigh and a growl of satisfaction.

“Holy s-shit, that’s good.”

You smiled. “You’ve been out here a while?”

“Mmhm.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Couple hours, g-give or take. Need to s-stock up before sunset. Fires keep the ro-rooms warm, and Brian gets pissy when the h-hearth runs cold.”

Your eyes lingered a little too long on the lines of his shoulders, the thin sheen of dirt across his forearms, the livid scarring at the base of his throat. It wasn’t just that he was shirtless—it was the contrast. The way he looked so at home out here, in the open air, alone with the work and the trees and the sound of his own breath.

“You’re not sweating,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You’ve been chopping wood in full sun and there’s nothing. You’re completely dry.”

Toby shrugged one shoulder, his smile still crooked but looser now. “Ah. Y-Yeah. I don’t really… d-do that.”

You blinked. “Don’t do what? Sweat?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the trees. “Got this we-weird thing. Got a lotta weird things, a-actually. Basically means I don’t feel pain, and my b-body doesn’t know how to cool itself. S-Sweating’s for fancy people with functioning nerves.”

“Oh,” you said softly, surprised by his bluntness. “Does it bother you?”

He shrugged again. “Not really. Gets dangerous sometimes. Gotta be careful not to o-overheat, but I grew up with it. You l-learn.”

There was something in the way he said it—matter-of-fact, no self-pity. Like this was just another fact of his body, same as height or eye color. You respected that.

“Well, I think you’re officially the most interesting groundskeeper I’ve ever met,” you said lightly, sipping from your own glass.

He smirked. “What, y-you meet a lotta g-gr-groundskeepers in your spare time?”

You raised a brow. “Recently, yeah.”

That pulled another laugh from him, softer this time. He stepped back to his chopping block, gripping the axe again but not lifting it yet. “You h-headin’ back in soon?”

“Yeah. Thought I’d find Brian before lunch.”

Toby gave you a look—still playful, but more pointed. “He’ll probably be d-down in the basement. Or the attic. Or inside the w-walls, depending on his mood.”

You smiled. “Duly noted.”

“See you t-tonight?”

The question hung in the air a little longer than it needed to.

You nodded. “See you tonight.”

Toby tilted his head, grin widening, then brought the axe down with a solid crack that echoed through the clearing as you turned and started back toward the manor.

── .✦

Back inside the manor, the temperature shifted again—cooler near the baseboards, warmer near the windows. You set the empty lemonade glasses in the sink, then wandered deeper through the halls, listening for any sound of life.

But the house had gone still again.

Brian hadn’t been in the kitchen. Or the study. Or any of the main rooms you’d passed on your first night. You called his name once—softly—but the silence felt too thick for your voice to carry. Like the house was holding its breath.

You were halfway up the second staircase when you noticed the attic door was cracked open. Faint scraping sounds drifted down from above. Metal against wood. A low, intermittent hum. You crept upward, hand brushing the railing, and carefully pushed open the door at the top.

The attic stretched wide—long beams crisscrossed beneath the sloped ceiling, and narrow windows filtered in beams of afternoon light muted by fog. Dust motes danced in the air, and the scent of old cedar and metal filled your lungs.

Near the far wall, surrounded by tangled cords and open toolboxes, was Brian.

He was crouched with his back half to you, one gloved hand propping his weight, holding a flashlight between his teeth, and the other arm elbow-deep in a fuse box he’d clearly carved into the paneling himself. Wires looped over his shoulders, slung like bandoliers across his chest. A bundle of bulbs and a roll of copper wiring sat nearby, along with an ancient notebook opened to a sketched schematic of the manor.

You stepped into the room. “Wow. This is… intense.”

He paused, flashlight still clenched in his mouth. Then, without turning around, he pulled it free and said simply, “Didn’t hear you come up, miss.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

He sat back on his heels, then finally looked over his shoulder. A black balaclava covered his face, pushed up above his nose—but even from here, you could tell he was flushed and dusty, a smudge of soot on his jaw. He dusted off his hands on his thighs and pulled the balaclava up over his eyes—clean-shaven, pale, and faintly freckled, though dust clung to the edge of his lip like he’d been breathing in drywall for hours. His face was flushed from the heat of the attic, but he didn’t seem to mind.

You looked at him sideways. “You always wear that thing while you work?”

“Helps with insulation dust,” he said simply, tugging off one glove with his teeth. “And anonymity. Never know when you might need to do something suspicious.”

You stepped closer, eyeing the schematic. “So, you’re installing power? I thought this place ran on candlelight and ten-thousand windows.”

Brian gave a quiet huff—his version of a laugh. “Most of it does. But some rooms don’t hold flame well. Too damp, too old. Wiring’s a mess—wood’s not standard, walls shift more than you’d think. Takes work to keep it functional. Trying to at least get wiring set up.

You noticed the marks on his hands as he peeled off his second glove—faint burns, small healed cuts, calluses thick across his palms. This wasn’t a hobby. This was his life.

You took a few steps closer, careful not to trip on the wires, and held out the last glass of lemonade you’d saved. “I’ve been passing these out like a traveling salesman. You’re my final stop.”

He accepted the glass without hesitation, fingertips brushing yours briefly. “I knew I smelt something good in the kitchen earlier.”

He drank slowly, savoring it. You watched his throat work as he swallowed, the soft sigh of contentment that followed.

“And you do this all yourself?”

“No one else wants to. Toby’s a hazard with anything that sparks, and Tim gets bored and walks off halfway through. So it’s me.”

You watched him reconnect a copper strand and twist it into place, working with efficient silence. “Do you like it?” you asked after a moment.

He glanced up. “The house?”

You nodded.

Brian leaned back slightly, resting one hand on his knee. His eyes were unreadable—grey, but storm-dark, thoughtful. He looked past you for a moment, toward the narrow attic windows where the fog curled thick around the edges of the glass. “…It’s alive,” he said finally. “Not in the fairy tale way. More like a forest. Or an animal. Old. Temperamental. But loyal.”

You let that settle, then smiled. “You sound like Toby talking about the fireplace.”

Brian smirked faintly, then stood—slow and fluid, brushing dust from his thighs as he did. “So you’ve been making the rounds,” he said. “Cleaning, lemonade, talking to the help.”

“I’m trying to settle in. Or make friends. Or at least figure out what kind of weird energy field I walked into.”

He tilted his head. “How’s that going?”

You gave a half-smile. “It’s all weird. But… nice. You and your friends are kind.”

He considered that for a moment, then pulled the balaclava back down over the lower half of his face, just as casually as one might tuck away a strand of hair. “It’s lunch.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been at it since morning. So has everyone else. We usually raid the pantry for lunch, but it’s been a bit since we’ve had an actual person living here. Still putting my bets that Toby is in the kitchen, though. Come on, miss.” He turned toward the attic door, already descending without looking back.

You stared after him, eyebrows lifted, then followed, suddenly aware of how hungry you really were.

── .✦

The kitchen door creaked open as you and Brian stepped inside, the familiar scent of lemon peel and old stone greeting you like an old coat. The light had shifted—afternoon now, golden and slanting through the small windows, catching dust motes dancing lazily in the air.

You sat the now-empty pitcher into the deep sink, finding that two empty cups were also there.

Toby was already at the prep table, chewing on something that looked suspiciously like a raw root vegetable. He blinked at the both of you, eyes bright behind his shaggy hair.

“I d-didn’t wanna wait,” he said around the bite. “W-Wasn’t sure if anyone was actually comin’ to feed me.”

“That’s a turnip,” Brian said flatly, dropping his toolbox near the door. “You’re not a rabbit.”

Tim followed a second later, stepping in through the back with dirt still on his hands and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “It’s better than that jerky he found in the cellar. Looked like it was from the civil war.”

You set your hands on your hips. “Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll cook something.”

That made all three of them pause. Brian raised an eyebrow. Toby tilted his head like a curious dog. Tim blinked, as if processing the idea of being cooked for was not something that happened often around here.

“I mean. If you’re okay with that?” you added, unsure. “Just something simple.”

Brian, mercifully, nodded. “That sounds good.”

Tim grunted and lit his cigarette, exhaling through his nose like a dragon. “Long as it’s not raw.”

You laughed, rolled up your sleeves, and made your way to the pantry. The garden haul was still fresh on the counter—squash, some greens, and a bundle of tomatoes. There were eggs in the icebox, too. A cast-iron skillet and a few minutes later, something vaguely resembling a vegetable hash with fried eggs was sizzling on the stove.

The boys stayed seated while you cooked, lounging like tired lions around the kitchen table. Tim smoked slowly and passed the cigarette over to Brian, who took a pull and said nothing as the smoke curled around his jaw. Toby kicked his boots up on the bench and tapped the side of his glass of water with a rhythm that might’ve been a song if it weren’t so off-beat.

“So,” Tim said, looking at you as he handed the cigarette across the table to Toby. “You still freaked out?”

You flipped something in the pan. “Define freaked out.”

“New house. Dead relative. Haunted furniture.”

You snorted. “I think I’m still waiting for it to hit me. My great-uncle was basically a ghost in my memory. Nice enough guy when I met him as a kid, but I didn’t know him. Just stories and whispers from family reunions.”

“You ever visit the manor back then?” Brian asked, voice soft.

You shook your head. “No. I think my mom didn’t want us here. Something about it spooked her, but she never said much. He sent me letters once or twice when I was little—super formal, written like he was from another time.”

“Sounds like him,” Tim muttered.

“I didn’t expect to be left all this,” you said, more quietly now. “It doesn’t feel real. Like I’m house-sitting for someone who’s just… gone forever.”

The kitchen settled for a moment—just the sizzle of the skillet, the soft knock of Toby setting his boots back on the floor.

“He must’ve l-liked you,” Toby offered after a second. “People don’t leave big fancy m-manor houses to folks they hate.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “Maybe. Or maybe the house picked me.”

Tim grunted. “Wouldn’t put it past it.”

You plated the food and set it down in front of them, one after the other. It wasn’t much—just hot, real food—but the way they looked at it, you would’ve thought you’d handed them steak and gold.

“Okay,” you said, grabbing your own plate and sliding into a seat. “As long as you guys keep this place from falling apart, meals are on me.”

Toby immediately dug in with no hesitation. “Marry me,” he mumbled through a mouthful of squash.

Brian chuckled, quiet and low, and Tim actually gave a gruff, “Not bad.”

The four of you ate in warm silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of fork against plate or soft exhale from one of them. There was something peaceful about it—something unspoken and good. You didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. Not really.

Just… someone sitting at a worn wooden table with three men who belonged to a house that might’ve just decided to keep you, too.

── .✦

Later that night, the manor had settled into its usual hush—the kind that pressed into your ears and made even your own heartbeat sound too loud.

You padded barefoot through the parlor in your sleep shirt, arms folded loosely as you stepped into the familiar glow of the main hearth. Toby was already there, kneeling in front of the massive fireplace, stacking wood with one hand and shielding the sparks from catching his hoodie with the other.

He glanced over his shoulder as you entered, his hair falling into his face and eyes flickering in the firelight.

“W-Wasn’t sure if you’d be up, ma’am,” he said, reaching for the iron poker. “But I figured you’d wanna w-wake up warm.”

You offered him a small smile, arms hugging your sides. “I appreciate that.”

Toby gave a short nod, pushing one last log into place and prodding the fire until it flared and caught fully. The light bloomed across the room, casting shadows behind every antique and over every tapestry like they were breathing.

You hesitated before speaking again. “Is this all you do? All day, every day?”

“Mhm. Nothing m-much else to do.”

That made your brow knit slightly, but before you could talk further, Toby stood up and brushed ash from his palms onto his jeans.

“I’ll l-leave you to it,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the stairs. “Don’t stay up too l-late.”

And just like that, he was gone—boots creaking faintly down the east corridor as the fire cracked behind you.

You lingered for a moment, watching the flames twist, before taking a deep breath and heading for the stairs. The candles along the banisters were already lit, flickering gently in their iron sconces. You didn’t remember lighting them.

The house felt different tonight.

Still, you made your way up the stairs, letting your hand trail the smooth wood of the railing, eyes flicking from room to room as you passed. The air had cooled. The quiet was too quiet.

And that feeling—that skittish, crawling feeling—had started just halfway up the second floor.

The sensation of being watched. Not from a doorway. Not from the windows. From behind.

You paused on the landing, turning sharply, expecting to see someone—or something—lurking just out of view. Nothing. Just the usual dim hallway behind you, cluttered with towering paintings and narrow furniture too old to move without it groaning.

You swallowed and walked faster, arms crossed now, fingers clenched.

Your door was an even deeper red during the night. You reached it quickly, opened it quicker, and stepped inside.

But the feeling followed.

You shut the door. Locked it. Turned slowly, eyes scanning the room. You checked behind the wardrobe. The curtains. Even peeked under your bed with a half-nervous laugh.

There was nothing there.

But your skin prickled. The air had shifted. The warmth from the hearth hadn’t followed you up here. And the candlelight didn’t seem to push back the dark in quite the same way. You crossed the room and stood in front of the large arched window, pulling the heavy curtain aside to let the cool air in through the old glass.

The garden stretched wide below you, cloaked in fog, silvered in moonlight.

At first, there was nothing.

And then—movement. A low, fast shape darting between the edge of the hedges and the tree line. It skittered unnaturally, fast and hunched, limbs too long, too bent. Animal-like, but not quite right. Not quite animal.

You blinked, breath caught in your throat.

Gone.

Just like that—whatever it was had vanished into the mist, leaving only the rippling hush of the trees and the slow churn of fog behind it.

You stood at the window long after it disappeared, heart beating too loud, hand still clutched around the curtain.

This place was beautiful.

But beautiful things always have ugly secrets.

── .✦

The days began to blur, in that soft, timeless way that only came with old places and new beginnings.

Each morning started the same: the manor bathed in cold light, the fog peeling back just enough to make out the treetops from your window. The air always smelled like moss and stone and smoke from last night’s fire.

You’d wake, dress, and wander through the halls with a hand grazing the banister, slowly learning the rhythm of the house. You knew now that the second door on the left in the east wing led to a linen closet that always creaked when you opened it. That the library had a slant in the floor that pulled your steps just slightly downhill. That the attic moaned louder on rainy days.

And—most importantly—that the back kitchen always got the best light come late morning.

You cooked there more often now. It had become a kind of ritual. Every day around noon, you’d gather what you could from the pantry or the garden haul left near the sink, and make something simple but warm. Always enough for four. Toby started showing up early, tracking dirt and twigs through the hall. Tim came in with his sleeves rolled and arms flecked in soil. Brian, reliably, walked in last—quiet, steady, with his tool belt slung low and a smudge of dust near his jaw.

You talked over meals now. Little things.

Toby cracked dumb jokes and asked you about your favorite horror movies. Tim corrected your technique when chopping herbs but grunted approvingly when the food came out good anyway. Brian listened more than he spoke, but when he did, he always made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

And it was good. Better than good. It felt normal in a place that refused to be.

But when the sun went down… that’s when the house changed.

You told yourself it was the shadows. The candlelight. The wind through the rafters. You didn’t want to be dramatic. But the sense of being watched hadn’t gone away—it had only grown. Like something just outside the light was waiting for you to pass by. Some nights you couldn’t shake the thought that the house itself was testing you. Watching how you moved. What you touched.

And then came the window.

It had been four or five days since you arrived. You’d just finished washing the dishes from dinner and had said goodnight to Toby at the fireplace. The manor was dark now, lit only by flickering wall sconces and the low burn of the fire still dying in the main room. You were halfway up the staircase, your hand brushing the banister, eyes on your feet so you didn’t trip—

SLAM.

Something hit your window. Hard. Glass rattled. Wood groaned. Your heart nearly tore out of your chest.

You stopped cold on the stairs, breath caught in your throat. Your room was on the second floor. Nothing should’ve been able to hit your window. A bird, maybe. But what would a bird be doing flying around at this time of night?

You waited. Listening. Chest heaving. But there was no follow-up. No footsteps. No scraping. Just the fire crackling below, and your own blood thudding behind your ears.

You didn’t go to your room right away. You waited, perched halfway up the stairs with your back to the wall like it would protect you. You watched the hallway. Watched the ceiling. Watched the window across the corridor in case something tried again.

Eventually, you climbed the rest of the stairs and locked your door. You didn’t even peek outside. Not this time.

You slept with the candles lit and the covers pulled up tight.

And in the morning, when the sun finally reached your windows and the world felt solid again…

You knew you had to tell someone.

── .✦

You stood beside Brian at the window, arms folded tight across your chest as the early morning light filtered through the glass. The fog hadn’t burned off yet. It never did this early. The world outside still looked bleached and still, like it was holding its breath.

Brian thumbed the latch and pushed the window open with a soft groan of old hinges. The cool air rolled in, sharp with pine and wet earth. He leaned halfway out, peering around the frame, his gloved fingers dragging carefully over the wood.

“No cracks,” he muttered, inspecting the pane from the inside now. “Seal’s still good. No warping. If something hit it, it didn’t leave a mark.”

“I know something hit it.” You didn’t mean to sound so insistent, but the memory of it—the sound of it—was still buzzing under your skin. “It wasn’t a branch or some little bird. It hit like a body.”

Brian glanced at you, eyes stern and inspecting, his balaclava pushed up above his forehead. “A bat, maybe,” he offered gently. “Sometimes they clip the glass on a dive.”

You shook your head. “No. Too heavy. I heard the weight in it.”

He studied you for a moment, expression unreadable.

The manor groaned above your heads, one of its long, slow creaks that had no clear source. The sound felt like a sigh in the bones of the house.

Brian turned fully to you, closing the window with a soft click. “This place… it’s old,” he said finally. “Built with too many corners and not enough insulation. It creaks, and talks, and stretches. Gets inside your head if you let it, miss.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked back at the glass, as if something might still be out there, watching from the fog.

Brian stepped a little closer, tilting his head to your eye level, lowering his voice. “But just in case,” he said, “I’ll do a sweep.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “A sweep?” you repeated.

He nodded once. “Top to bottom. Every locked door, every loose board. I’ll even check the cellar if that makes you feel better.”

You exhaled slowly. The knot in your stomach didn’t unravel, but it loosened enough to let you breathe. “Thanks, Brian,” you said, voice soft. “I know it sounds crazy, but… I just need to know it’s only me in here.”

Brian looked at you for a beat longer, then gave the smallest nod—firm, final. “I’ll make sure of it.”

── .✦

You couldn’t sit still.

Your hands ached from scrubbing. Your shirt was damp with sweat from dragging rugs across the floors and beating dust from the curtains. The bucket sloshed at your side as you scrubbed down a banister that hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

The manor felt like it was pressing in on you. Like every wall had inched closer. Like the air was just a little too heavy to breathe.

Somewhere above you, Brian was still checking the upper floors. You could hear the occasional creak of boots overhead. The creak of doors opening. Closing. The quiet, focused hum of him doing his job for you.

You stayed on the main level, brushing cobwebs from molding and muttering to yourself as you wiped a smudge that wasn’t coming out.

“This fuckin’… Damn piece of…” you said to no one, shoving the rag harder against the banister.

“You know you’re talkin’ to yourself, right?”

The voice made you jump, nearly dropping the rag. You turned to see Tim standing just inside the hall, shoulder propped against the doorframe and a sweat-damp towel slung around his neck. Dirt clung to the knees of his jeans. His arms were still dusted with the morning’s garden work.

He watched you for a beat, then glanced down at the overly-clean railing. “Place looks like it’s about to sparkle off the foundation,” he said. “You alright?”

You gave him a weak smile. “Yeah. Just… keeping busy.”

Tim grunted. “I can see that.” He took a few steps closer, eyes narrowing slightly. “Or you’re spiraling. Hard to tell.”

Your smile wavered.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked bluntly.

You blinked. “What?”

“C’mon,” he said, already turning back toward the hall. “I know a spot. You need fresh air, and this place isn’t gonna give it to you.”

You hesitated, rag still in hand, heartbeat too fast from everything—not just the window, but the sense of something looming. Like waiting inside too long would rot you from the inside out.

You dropped the rag into the bucket and followed him.

Tim didn’t talk much as you walked. He led you through the kitchen, out the back door, down past the garden rows where tomatoes were just starting to bloom fat and red on the vine. The fog had thinned, but the air was still cool and wet with mist.

You followed him through a break in the hedges you hadn’t noticed before, tall green walls parting like a quiet secret, and ducked beneath an old iron gate barely hanging on its hinges.

Beyond it was a pocket of quiet earth. The path widened into a small, shaded clearing, half-eaten by time. And there, rising from the center like a breath held for a hundred years, was an enormous willow tree. Its sweeping branches curved down to kiss the ground, green veils of hanging limbs dancing gently in the windless air.

You stepped into the space like stepping into a memory.

Tim watched your face as you looked around. He didn’t smile, but he did seem… softer.

“Used to keep horses back this way,” he said, nodding toward the leaning remains of a corral beyond the willow. “Gate’s been rusted shut for years now. No one really comes back here. Figured you could use a place the house hasn’t sunk its claws into yet.”

You turned to him, your voice quieter now. “How did you know?”

Tim shrugged, looking away. “You clean like someone who’s tryna stop thinking. And you keep looking around like you’re being followed.”

You swallowed, arms folding loosely across your chest. The sound of the willow’s leaves whispering overhead filled the silence.

“Something hit my window last night,” you murmured.

Tim’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

“It was loud. Heavy. And we’re not talking about a squirrel kind of hit. It felt like someone threw themselves at the glass.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he walked to the edge of the clearing and plucked a long reed of grass, chewing on the end thoughtfully.

“Brian’s got the house,” he said finally. “If something was inside, he’ll find it. But out here…” He glanced up toward the tree line beyond the clearing. “Out here, sometimes things pass through.”

You followed his gaze, but the trees offered no answers. Only shadow. “I don’t like that,” you admitted quietly.

“Good,” he said, flicking the grass aside. “Means you’re smart.”

You gave a weak chuckle. He nudged your arm gently with his elbow. “You’re not alone here, y’know. Even when it feels like it. We’re all just down the path if you ever need company at night.”

You looked over at him. He wasn’t looking back—just staring at the tree, brow furrowed like he was looking for something.

Still, the words stuck with you.

── .✦

The clink of dishes in the sink echoed lightly through the kitchen as you wiped your hands on a towel and glanced toward the table. Tim and Brian sat opposite each other, both half-reclined in that unbothered, post-dinner kind of way—full stomachs, tired limbs, quiet minds. The air was warm with the smell of roasted root vegetables and fried herbs, smoke curling faintly from the open window where Tim had lit another cigarette.

Brian leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes half-lidded under the pulled-up balaclava. “Did a sweep top to bottom,” he said, his voice that same low, gravel-soft hum. “No one in the house but us. A few mice in the attic, but I scared ’em off.”

You nodded, your hands pausing over a plate. “Nothing in the cellar?”

Brian shook his head. “Didn’t check the cellar. Thought I’d leave that to the guy who actually enjoys being in it.”

Tim snorted. “Or the guy who’s not scared of black mold.”

Right on cue, the back door creaked open.

Toby stepped inside, arms full of chopped logs, boots leaving faint mud prints on the tile that you would have to mop tomorrow. His shirt was still grimy with dirt across the collarbone, and a few wood shavings clung to his forearms. He dropped the load with a thunk near the door, then stretched with a groan and popped his neck side to side.

“F-fire’s gonna feel good tonight,” he said, brushing off his palms.

Brian stood, and Tim followed, stretching his back with a wince. The three of them wandered to the main room, you trailing behind after flicking off the kitchen light that Brian has recently installed—a single swinging bulb above the prep table. You had thanked him vigorously for actual lighting.

The living room glowed dimly in the candlelight, the grand hearth yawning cold in its frame. Toby knelt in front of it and began arranging the wood with jerky hands. The kind of casual rhythm that came from years of repetition—stack, crumple, spark. He muttered something under his breath as the kindling caught, and soon the flames licked high, warm and golden.

They all settled on the old furniture—worn velvet armchairs, the moon-shaped grand couch, the kind of low coffee table that had probably held everything from chamber music sheet music to ashtrays. You perched near the edge of the couch, leaning back as the fire cracked.

Tim lit another cigarette and passed it lazily between himself and Brian. Toby, cross-legged on the rug, stared into the fire.

Then, casually—too casually—he said, “Was down in the c-cellar earlier. Thought I’d check the foundation near the—uh, near the south wall.”

Brian raised a brow. “Since when do you care about the foundation?”

Toby smirked. “I d-don’t. But I do care about the crate of whisky I found tucked behind an old wine rack.”

Tim straightened a bit. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope,” Toby said, popping the ‘p.’ “Unopened. Labeled. Looks like it hasn’t been touched since… I d-dunno. Prohibition?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Toby looked up at you and grinned, a little sideways and lazy. “I mean, w-would be a shame to let it go to waste. C-call it a housewarming gift. Or a—uh—a rite of passage, since no one’s drunk in th-this house in… hell, probably a hundred years.”

Brian gave a short, amused grunt. “I’m not carrying your ass back to your place if you go blind.”

“I’ll g-get my own ass back home, thank you very much.”

He stood with a groan, brushing ash from his jeans and glancing toward you. “C’mon, ma’am. You wanna see the scariest r-room in the house?”

You hesitated for half a second—but only half.

“Lead the way,” you said, rising to your feet and grabbing a candle off the mantle.

Tim chuckled as you passed. “If you come back with a ghost attachment, I’m not helping you do an exorcism.”

“D-don’t listen to him,” Toby muttered as he opened the cellar door for you, grinning. “The ghosts down there are friendly. M-Mostly.”

The stone steps creaked beneath your feet as you followed Toby into the cellar, candlelight dancing against the old walls. The air shifted as you descended—cool, dense, and heavy with the scent of soil and something metallic. Your breath fogged faintly as you exhaled.

The cellar was cluttered chaos. Dust-covered furniture leaned against each other like drunk old men at a bar, and crates were stacked two or three high, marked with fading labels and water stains. Cobwebs stretched across the ceiling beams like forgotten lace, and somewhere to your left, something scurried behind a box.

“Cozy,” you muttered.

Toby snorted. “W-wait till you see the whiskey.”

You ducked under a low archway as he led you to a darkened corner of the room. He tugged an old steamer trunk aside with a grunt, then leaned over a wooden crate tucked behind it. The top creaked as he pried it open with a pocket knife, and when it gave, you both leaned in.

Eight bottles, dark amber liquid sealed and labeled, nestled in straw like buried treasure.

“Holy shit,” you whispered.

Toby let out a breathy, delighted laugh. “Still sealed. Damn near g-glorious.”

He reached in and pulled out a bottle, holding it up to the candlelight. “You think this still tastes like p-piss, or—?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” you grinned.

He looked at you, his expression playful, then uncorked the bottle with a pop and took a swig without hesitation. His face soured, then relaxed into something pleasantly surprised.

“Oh, that’s smooth,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Gimme,” you said, already holding out your hand.

You took the bottle, tilted it back, and let the warmth slide down your throat. It burned, but in that satisfying way that made you cough once and then grin like an idiot.

When you looked back at Toby, he was smirking. “S-so, does that count as our first kiss? Or…”

You choked on your laugh and turned away, waving the bottle at him. “Shut up.”

He just laughed harder, the sound bouncing off the stone walls.

You both kept grinning like fools as you plucked a second bottle from the crate and wandered deeper into the cellar, passing shelves full of dusty wine bottles, old books, and water-damaged boxes. It was oddly quiet down here, peaceful even—until your foot nudged a crate shoved beneath an old table.

You knelt, bottle tucked under your arm, and pulled it out. The lid was loose, and inside were piles of brittle folders, Polaroids faded to shades of yellow, and a black leather sketchbook with a name embossed faintly on the corner.

Your great-uncle’s name.

“Hey…” you said, flipping it open. “I think this was his.”

Toby had gone still. You glanced up—his eyes were fixed on the sketchbook, his body tense like a wire pulled too tight.

You frowned. “What’s with the face?”

“N-nothing,” he said too fast. “Just—uh. Could be p-personal.”

You ignored him gently and flipped through the pages. At first, it was harmless—drawings of birds, floorplans, some messy handwriting—but then you paused.

Page after page of… something.

Thin, contorted creatures. Eyes too big, mouths too wide. Lanky limbs and claws and hunched poses crouched in unnatural positions. One stood on two legs like a person, but its face was bare—no eyes, no lips, just skin stretched over nothing. Your stomach turned a little.

“What the hell,” you murmured, eyebrows lifting. “Okay, yeah, my uncle was always kinda a freak. My mom used to say he lived in ‘his own little world.’ This is some kind of nightmare fuel.”

Toby gave a dry chuckle but didn’t look amused. He stepped forward, took the sketchbook gently from your hands, and without another word, tossed it onto the pile of blankets and boxes nearby.

“Trust me, ma’am,” he said, voice lower now. “It’s just sketches. D-don’t let your head make it worse than it is.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but before you could ask anything else, he tapped your shoulder with the back of his hand.

“C’mon. We’ve got w-whiskey, and a fire upstairs, and I d-don’t feel like staying sober tonight.”

You hesitated just a second longer, glancing back at the sketchbook where it had landed, the corner of a monster’s limbs still peeking from the page.

Then you followed Toby up the stairs—two bottles in hand, heart just a little heavier than before.

The fire crackled to life by the time you both returned to the main room, each with a bottle tucked under your arm like some ancient treasure trove. Tim and Brian were already there—Tim sprawled on one of the deep velvet armchairs with his boots kicked up, and Brian perched more neatly on the edge of the couch, examining a set of crystal shot glasses he must’ve pulled from one of the manor’s many gilded display cabinets.

“You weren’t kidding,” Tim muttered, holding up a glass to the firelight as you entered. “I think this one’s older than I am.”

“Technically,” Brian said without looking up, “all of this is.”

Toby dropped into one of the armchairs with a grunt, already working the cork loose from the first bottle. “T-then we’re doin’ it justice.”

With a satisfying pop, the whiskey bottle opened. You passed the second to Brian, who poured for everyone with careful hands—four glasses, thick cut-crystal shining orange with firelight and anticipation.

The first round hit your throat like a match struck inside your chest. You coughed. Brian only flinched slightly. Tim winced and grimaced and immediately lit a cigarette to chase the burn away.

Toby? Toby barely blinked.

“You didn’t even make a face,” you accused, half-laughing.

“W-well, I don’t feel it,” he replied with a shrug. “T-tastes like spicy tree bark. That’s about it.”

Tim chuckled, raising his glass again. “Bastard’s cheating. He doesn’t feel pain, so the burn’s nothing. Bet he could drink a whole bottle and barely stumble.”

“You say that l-like it’s not a skill,” Toby said with a grin, clinking his glass against yours before throwing another shot back.

The fire burned brighter, casting long shadows against the dark, high walls. Layers of coats were shrugged off and draped over the couches. Boots untied. Someone opened a window just a crack to let the cold air mingle with the warmth and smoke. Brian leaned back with his second glass, quiet but relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. Tim was still nursing his cigarette between his fingers, occasionally tapping the ash into a cracked ceramic dish.

Conversation shifted—small stories, shared work gripes, little observations about the manor. You learned that Tim once tried to plant a pear tree and was “personally offended” when a deer ate them. Brian admitted he doesn’t hang around much in the manor because the wiring hums too loud at night. Toby, half-slouched in his seat, mentioned offhandedly that he once got locked in the cellar for three hours and just decided to nap.

“Of course you napped,” you snorted. “That place is like… haunted and musty. You didn’t even freak out?”

He stretched his legs out in front of him and shrugged. “If something wanted to c-c-come get me, it missed its chance.”

Tim let out a bark of laughter. “The only thing that’s gonna get you, boy, is tetanus.”

“L-l-lotta overlap there, actually.”

The whiskey flowed in slow waves. Nobody rushed it, but it warmed everything. The room, your limbs, the tension you hadn’t realized had been knotted in your shoulders since the window incident. You leaned into the couch cushions, eyes fluttering closed for a second as the fire snapped and the others kept talking.

And in that moment—just a flicker—you felt like you belonged here. With them. In this big, haunted house in the woods, surrounded by fog and secrets and soft-spoken strangers who were slowly becoming something else.

It finally felt like your home. Maybe.

── .✦

The fire had dwindled to low, glowing embers—the kind that whispered instead of roared, casting flickering shadows that danced along the high stone mantle. The warmth still held, lingering like the comfort of thick blankets and shared laughter.

Brian stretched with a soft grunt, rising from the couch and setting his now-empty glass back on the side table. “I’m heading out,” he murmured, grabbing his things, rubbing at his neck. “If I stay any longer, I’ll fall asleep on that damn chair.”

Tim was already up, swiping his jacket off the back of the couch. “Yeah, ‘m done too. You two try not to fall into the fire or whatever.”

Toby offered a lazy wave from his spot beside you, his legs splayed, head tipping slightly to the side. You giggled and returned it, feeling delightfully heavy and light at once—like your limbs weren’t quite connected to your body.

The door clicked shut behind the other two, leaving you and Toby in the amber haze of the manor’s massive sitting room.

You shifted to stand and promptly tripped over the edge of the couch.

“Woah—wh-whoa, easy,” Toby said, catching your elbow with one hand and half-laughing, half-hiccupping. “Y-you’re not allowed to get a c-concussion your first week here.”

“I’m fine,” you giggled, swaying into his side. “It’s the rug’s fault.”

He smirked, slipping an arm around your waist and nudging you toward the hallway. “C’mon, l-let’s get you to bed, light-weight.”

You leaned into him without resistance, your body warm and soft with buzzed comfort, the steady rhythm of your footsteps echoing against the old walls. The flicker of the candles guiding the way shimmered a little more than usual.

At your door, Toby reached out to push it open and half-led, half-carried you inside. The room welcomed you with its familiar scent—aged wood, cool linen, candle wax.

“I got it, I got it,” you mumbled, trying to wriggle free to climb onto the bed yourself.

But he followed, hands still on your arms, trying to help you—and then his foot caught on the edge of the rug.

You both toppled—onto the mattress.

His weight pressed into you—not crushing, but grounding, and for a moment, the two of you just lay there, breathless with stunned laughter. “Oh my God,” you wheezed, “You tackled me!”

Toby laughed, nose scrunching, his forehead resting against yours. “I tr-tr-tried to help—th-the damn rug’s out for blood.”

You giggled again, chest rising and falling beneath his. His laughter slowed. So did yours. And when your eyes met—wide and glassy in the low candlelight—everything shifted.

The air thinned. The laughter settled into something slower. Quieter.

Toby’s gaze dropped to your lips. He blinked, breath hitching. “S-s-sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled, but didn’t move.

Your heart thumped hard in your chest. His hands were on either side of your head, arms braced, holding himself up—but barely.

“…Don’t be,” you said softly.

The distance closed—tentative, but magnetic.

His lips met yours, uncertain at first, as if checking you were still okay with it. Then deeper, a little hungrier. One of his hands slid up into your hair, the other curling into the sheet beneath you. He tasted strongly like smoke and whiskey, and when you sighed against him, he pulled you just a little closer.

The kiss lingered, warm and real, like something neither of you meant to do but somehow needed to happen.

He was about to lift himself off you—muttering a soft, stuttered apology—when your hand found the front of his shirt. You sat up slowly, the room swaying just a bit with the motion, and before he could step back, you tugged him down again.

“Toby,” you whispered, voice low. “Stay.”

“M-Ma’am?” His eyes flicked to yours, wide and caught between hesitation and want—but when you leaned in again, kissing him deeper this time, that hesitation crumbled.

The second kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was hot, desperate, heady. His hands found your waist, sliding under the hem of your shirt, callused palms dragging across your skin. You gasped softly into his mouth, fingers curling into his jacket as he leaned you back onto the mattress, bodies tangled.

You felt him everywhere—his breath, the weight of him, the tremble in his touch that wasn’t quite from nerves. He pushed your shirt higher, mouth trailing clumsy, hungry kisses along your jaw and throat, and you arched into him like you’d been waiting for this since the moment you met.

But then—

The room tilted. Not in the way it had before. The wave of alcohol that had been simmering in your bloodstream surged forward all at once—your limbs going heavy, your chest tightening with a sudden, unsteady breath.

Your fingers faltered.

Toby froze instantly. He pulled back just enough to see your face, stilling as his breath came hard and fast between you.

“You okay, ma’am?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You blinked slowly, heart pounding. “Just… dizzy. It hit me all at once.”

A beat passed. And then Toby moved off you. Not in a rush—but carefully, like something inside him had just shifted. He sat at the edge of the bed and ran a hand down his face before adjusting his jeans, trying to catch his breath. The patch on his cheek was slightly ruffled, pulling at the edges.

“I—” he started, then cleared his throat. “I sh-shouldn’t’ve done that. I shouldn’t b-be—taking a-advantage of you like that. You’re my boss.”

“You weren’t,” you said quickly, sitting up beside him, shirt still rumpled, your skin still buzzing with heat. “It was me too. I wanted to.”

He gave you a long, unreadable look—torn between guilt and longing.

“…Still,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the floor. “You’ve had a l-lot to drink. I—don’t wanna do anything you’d regret in the m-morning.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just studied his profile, the slight flush in his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands had curled into fists in his lap.

“I won’t regret it,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond, just exhaled, slow and quiet.

Then, finally, he stood. You followed him to the door, still half-stumbling and dizzy. Toby looked back at you with something that wasn’t quite a smile. Something softer. A little sad.

“Night,” he said, voice low and rough.

You nodded. “Night.”

Neither of you moved for a second too long. And then he stepped out, closing the door behind him with the same care he did everything else—but now it felt heavier.

A week. You’ve been here a week and you’re already trying to fuck the help.

You turned and buried your face into the velvet pillows, grumbling until you fell asleep.

── .✦

Things got normal again.

Not normal—nothing about the manor quite fit that word—but familiar. You woke with the sun filtering through gauzy curtains, made coffee in a robe that dragged across boot-scraped floors, and opened windows to let in the wet scent of pine and fog. The eerie quiet was less eerie now—more like a hush, a secret being kept just for you.

And nothing exceptionally creepy had happened since Brian swept the place, which was a plus.

Toby still chopped wood past the edge of the garden. Tim still muttered to himself while trimming basil and pinching off squash blossoms. And Brian… well, Brian always seemed to be nearby, half in shadow, doing some quiet task no one had asked him to do.

Toby had been distant since that night—polite, gentle, even funny—but different. He didn’t linger like he used to. Still smiled when he passed you, still brought in logs every night, still let his shoulder brush yours sometimes when no one was looking. But the energy between you had shifted. Neither of you said anything about it.

And yet… he was still kind.

They all were.

The guys had started dropping in more—never lingering long, but always stopping in for something. Brian would bring a box of old bulbs and tinker with the kitchen sconces while you made tea. Tim would wipe dirt on your shirt just to make you swear at him, then duck in to ask if you needed anything from the garden. And Toby would pop by with mushrooms or cool rocks he’d found in the woods, only to “accidentally” stay for half an hour while you made lunch.

You liked it. The quiet company. The slow growing of something that felt almost like home.

And then you found the keys. A ring of them, heavy and old, hidden in the very back of a kitchen cupboard behind dusty linens and a chipped porcelain soup tureen. They jingled like they were singing—thick iron ones, tiny ornate ones, long bronze ones with curling teeth.

The exploring began that afternoon.

You unlocked a narrow room with stained glass windows and a dozen abandoned easels—your great-uncle’s forgotten artist studio, the paint still cracked dry on the palettes like ghosts of color.

Two more bathrooms were revealed, one with a velvet fainting couch and a mirror too tall to clean.

And then—your uncle’s office.

The door creaked open like it hadn’t in years. Dust danced in the sunlight pooling through tall windows. You saw more of those drawings tucked in desk drawers—strange, lean figures with hollow eyes and gaping mouths, crouched and twisted in impossible shapes. You stared at them for a moment, uneasy, but eventually tucked them back and turned the key in the lock once more.

You didn’t tell the guys. You don’t really know why.

And things… stayed normal.

Until lunch.

Tim was in the garden. Toby was somewhere in the woods, you assumed. That left just you and Brian.

He’d wandered in through the back door, quiet as usual, stripping off his gloves and balaclava and setting them beside the old bread box without a word. You stood at the stove, stirring something simple—rosemary chicken, a side of boiled potatoes, some roasted carrots Tim had left on the counter with a note that just said “eat these.”

He stepped forward, pulling a chair out at the kitchen table and sitting down backward in it, arms resting across the top like he was settling in.

“Smells good,” he said. “Have you always cooked for people?”

“Only the people who don’t scare me,” you teased, tossing him a wink over your shoulder.

He huffed a small laugh, head tilting. “…So not Toby, then.”

You snorted. “Toby’s just awkward.”

Brian’s eyes flicked toward the floor. “He’s been quieter.”

You didn’t answer. The moment stretched long and warm with the scent of herbs and firewood. Outside, the fog pressed softly against the windows, as if waiting to be let in.

“I found a bunch of old keys earlier,” you said after a beat, just to fill the quiet. “Unlocked some weird rooms.”

That got his attention. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. A whole art room. My uncle was definitely a painter.”

“Painter, hunter, craftsman—bit of everything.”

The rosemary clung to your fingers as you moved to slice the last of the carrots, humming quietly to yourself. The kitchen was warm—steam curling from the pot on the stove, the sound of a ticking clock mingling with the crackle of the oven. Brian said nothing, but you could feel him watching. His silence filled the corners of the room.

Your knife slipped.

“Shit,” you hissed, jerking your hand back from the cutting board.

Brian was on his feet in seconds. You barely had time to turn before his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm—as he brought your hand closer to his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” you started, embarrassed by the sting and the sudden attention, but he shook his head.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, already pulling something from his back pocket—a worn handkerchief, navy with fraying edges. He licked it without hesitation, then gently dabbed at the smear of blood on the side of your finger.

You blinked.

His touch was… soft. Careful. You stared at him while he worked, at the way his eyelids lowered, at the faint crinkle of his brow beneath a singular smudge of dirt.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, glancing up at you. “Wasn’t watching you close enough.”

You gave a breathless laugh. “It’s not your fault I’m clumsy.”

He looked down at your hand again, cradled in his palm like something breakable. And then—without thinking—he leaned forward and kissed the tip of your finger. It was feather-light, almost nothing. “All better.”

But your breath caught. His eyes flicked up, and the change in the room was immediate.

Brian froze. “…Shit,” he muttered, straightening slightly, hand still on yours. “I don’t know why the fuck I did that—Sorry, miss.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He watched you a second longer—then his voice lowered, uncertain. “…Was that okay?”

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

You only realized how close he’d gotten when his other hand rose slowly—fingertips brushing your jaw, then coaxing you forward. The touch was barely there, as if asking permission.

And then he kissed you. Just a soft, tentative press of his mouth to yours. A test. A moment.

You leaned in before he could pull away.

His hand slipped to your waist, guiding you back gently, until your hips met the edge of the counter and the breath left your lungs. His mouth moved against yours again—slow, easy, but deepening, pulling a sound from you that surprised both of you.

His fingers curled tighter against your side, your arms finding his chest, fisting in the worn fabric of his hoodie. He tasted like cigars and woodsmoke, felt like fire and hit coals, and kissed like he’d been holding his breath for days.

Brian didn’t pull away. In fact, he leaned in harder.

His hand slid beneath your thighs, strong and steady, and before you could react, he’d lifted you clean off your feet and set you on the counter with a soft thud—cool wood meeting the backs of your legs, your breath catching.

He stepped between your knees like he’d done it before, like he belonged there, and kissed you deeper. Hungrier.

Your arms locked around his shoulders, fingers digging into the back of his hoodie as he pressed flush against you. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs dragging slow, thoughtless circles into your skin through the fabric of your shorts. You felt him—all of him—through his jeans as he rutted forward once, twice, a soft, strangled sound escaping from the back of his throat into your mouth.

He kissed like he wanted to climb inside you and burn the memory into his tongue.

Your head tilted back, a quiet gasp slipping out. And then—

Pop. A sharp sizzle. A curl of smoke. Then the unmistakable, nostril-burning scent of burning oil and meat.

You both froze. You turned in unison toward the stove. The skillet hissed violently, thick black smoke rising from where the chicken had completely charred on one side.

“Shit,” you barked, hopping down from the counter.

Brian stumbled back as you grabbed the pan, yanking it off the burner with a dishrag and blowing at the smoke. The kitchen window fogged as the scent of scorched garlic, meat, and herbs thickened the air.

You groaned, laughing behind your hands as you set the pan down in the sink. “Well,” you muttered, still breathless, “guess that’s lunch ruined.”

Brian stood off to the side, rubbing the back of his neck, his face red and tense, “That’s my bad,” he said, voice low and rough. “Shouldn’t’ve distracted you, miss.”

You looked at each other. Long. Quiet. Still tasting one another.

His eyes flicked down to your hand. “…You’re not bleeding anymore,” he murmured. “That’s good.”

You nodded mutely.

He shifted, like he wanted to say something else—do something else—but then glanced toward the door and cleared his throat.

“I should… go check the attic wiring. Make sure we’re not about to have an electrical fire on top of a kitchen one.”

You nodded again. “Yeah. Yeah, go… do that.”

He hesitated. Then gave a tight, unreadable smile before slipping out into the hallway. You stared after him, wide-eyed, heart thudding in your ears. Then you turned to the table, dropped into the nearest chair, and planted your face in your hands.

“Mmhmm,” you groaned, muffled against your arms. “Cool. Awesome. Love this for me.” You sat there for a moment, the smell of burnt food still hanging in the air like a guilty fog, and let your thoughts spin out of control.

You had just kissed Brian. Properly. After kissing Toby. On the mouth. In your bed.

You groaned again. You were living in a crumbling manor, isolated in the woods, with three ridiculously attractive men who couldn’t seem to stay out of your kitchen or your personal space.

This was getting out of hand.

── .✦

The laundry was warm in your hands, soft from the sun, your fingers folding shirt after shirt in the hush of your room. The manor was quiet—eerily so—as it always was in the late mornings, the old floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet as you moved. A candle on the dresser flickered even though there was no breeze, and a distant grandfather clock ticked steady from somewhere down the hall.

You were just halfway through organizing socks when the sharp honk of a truck horn cut through the silence.

Your head snapped up. That wasn’t usual.

You padded over to the window and pulled back the sheer curtain. Across the courtyard and around the bend of the fog-lined gravel drive, a beat-up, pale red pickup was crawling around the side of the manor—old, boxy, and definitely vintage. You squinted.

Curious, you tugged on your shoes and hurried down the stairs, the back door swinging open with a long groan. The air was warm, a little muggy with the heat, and sure enough, Tim had parked in the shaded gravel behind the manor, hopping down from the driver’s seat with his usual scowl and an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.

You approached as he pulled open the tailgate, revealing the small mountain of brown paper sacks in the truck bed.

“Groceries?” you asked, blinking.

“Town run,” he grunted, reaching in for a crate of canned goods. “No one grows pork or tobacco out here, shockingly.”

You laughed. “Need help?”

He jerked his chin. “Sure. You know where the pantry is.”

You both got to work, hauling bags in pairs, stepping in and out of the fog-cooled shade of the house. The scent of fresh dirt clung to the bags—root vegetables, herbs, hand-wrapped cheeses, wax paper packages of smoked meat. The manor’s ancient kitchen felt alive as you moved through it, pantry doors swinging open, cupboards filled with new life after you stripped them bare for meals.

You reached into one of the last bags near the cab and pulled something small and unexpected: a thick brown paper envelope with a bold, hand-labeled sticker on the front. You turned it over.

“Sunflower seeds?” you asked, confused.

Tim looked over his shoulder as he slid a new carton of eggs into the icebox. “Yeah. They’re in season. Thought maybe you’d wanna see something outside that’s not brown or gray for once.”

You blinked. He didn’t say it with any sentiment—his voice was rough and offhand, like he hadn’t even thought twice about it—but something warm tugged in your chest all the same.

“I’d love to plant them,” you said quietly, fingers curling around the seed packet.

He gave a little shrug, grabbing the last crate. “Then let’s do it. Dirt’s soft from the rain yesterday.”

You tucked the envelope into your pocket and followed him outside, down past the thinning garden rows and tangled vines, your shoes brushing against grass and clover. Tim led you to a space just past the last vegetable bed—a patch of rough soil along the back fence line that caught a good bit of sun in the afternoon hours. The willow tree swayed far in the distance.

You both knelt in the dirt, side by side, working quietly, fingers digging into the earth.

The sunflower seeds were smooth and pale, and you tucked them carefully into the ground one by one, pressing them into little cradles of soil. Tim didn’t say much—just made quiet little comments about spacing and depth—but it was nice, the silence. Companionable.

The warm scent of damp earth lingered thick around you both as you tucked the last of the sunflower seeds into their little patches of turned soil. A soft breeze passed over the back garden, stirring your hair and making the willow leaves rustle in the distance. Tim worked quietly, sleeves rolled to the elbows and thick gloves caked in dirt, occasionally glancing over at your technique—though he didn’t correct it much after the first time.

You reached for the last handful of seeds and caught him watching.

“What?” you asked, brushing hair behind your ear.

He gave a low grunt and pulled his gloves tighter at the wrist. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’ I’ll have to get you a pair of gloves if you’re so hellbent on helpin’ all the damn time.”

You smiled, digging your hands into the dirt anyway. “What, these?” you wiggled your muddy fingers. “This is half the fun.”

“‘Til you’re cryin’ about a splinter,” he muttered, but there was a faint smirk pulling at his mouth.

When the last seed was pressed into the soil and the garden patch looked neat and content, you sat back with a sigh, brushing your hands on your thighs. Tim stood and stretched his back, cracking his neck and watching the plot like he could already see the golden blooms rising.

“You’ve got dirt on your face,” he said suddenly.

Your brows pinched. “Where?”

He stepped closer. “Right here.”

Before you could react, he swiped one gloved finger across your cheek—not brushing the dirt off, but smearing it more, dragging a streak of soil across your skin.

Your jaw dropped. “Tim!”

“What?” he said innocently, tugging his glove tighter.

With a mock gasp, you scooped up a little handful of loose soil and chucked it at his chest. The dirt splattered across his shirt, leaving brown specks on his already stained flannel.

His eyes narrowed—but the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?”

You gave him a smug look just before he bent down and lobbed a clump of soil right back at you, hitting your shoulder with a soft thud. A laugh broke from your chest, and then the two of you were at war—ducking behind planting beds, flinging dirt with your bare hands, shrieking and dodging with abandon. The whole back garden filled with laughter and the shuffle of boots and sneakers on grass and soil.

You scooped up a particularly wet clump and turned to throw it—

But your foot caught on the edge of a planting bed. You yelped, pitching forward, hands instinctively flailing for balance—

Tim’s arms shot out fast, catching you by the waist as you stumbled into him. He pulled you up quick, steadying you like it was nothing.

But now you were right there. Panting. Dirt smeared across your face. Your palms flat against his chest, his hands gripping your waist. The sun hung warm behind you both, haze pooling at the edges of the woods, and suddenly the garden felt very small.

You glanced up at him—he was already looking down at you. Close enough to see the specks of dirt on his cheekbones, the sweat at his brow, the heat behind his tired eyes. His breath brushed your skin. Neither of you moved.

You swallowed hard.

Your fingers twitched against his chest as the moment hung heavy—muddy clothes, pounding hearts, breath caught in your throat. You felt it when he tensed slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do either, but then you began to pull back, heat crawling up your neck, preparing to laugh it off—

But Tim reached up, tugging his glove off with his teeth in one smooth motion, then tucking it in his pocket.

“Hold still,” he muttered, voice low and rough.

You froze as he reached out, calloused, bare fingers brushing gently across your cheek—wiping the dirt smear away with a care that startled you. You blinked up at him, mouth parting slightly, and his lips quirked in something almost fond.

“You’re so damn clumsy,” he said, shaking his head.

You let out a breathy laugh, unsure how else to respond, eyes darting away—but he caught your jaw, firm but not rough, guiding your face back to his.

“Nuh uh,” he said softly. “Don’t look away.”

You stared at him, nerves buzzing beneath your skin, lips parting to say something—to make a joke, or tease, or shut it down before your heart leapt out of your ribs—but his fingers slid down to your neck, warm and anchoring.

“You always do that,” he muttered. “Deflect when you get nervous.”

Your eyes widened. “I do not—”

But the words died on your lips.

Because Tim silenced you with his. It was hot—sudden—his hand tightening at your waist and the other still beneath your jaw, pulling you in like he’d been holding back for days. You gasped softly against him, his mouth rough and certain, lips parting yours as he tugged you flush to his body, every inch of him pressed warm and solid against you.

You curled your hands into the front of his shirt instinctively, half-steadying yourself, half-dragging him closer as his teeth grazed your lower lip. You tasted sweat, earth, and cigarettes—and under it all, him. Tim kissed like he worked—with full intent and no hesitation once he’d started.

When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his breath was ragged and warm against your cheek. His hand still cradled your jaw. You just stared at each other, caught, trembling slightly in the fading heat of the afternoon.

“…Still nervous?” he asked, voice husky.

You swallowed hard, lips swollen, cheeks burning. “…A little,” you breathed.

And he just smirked.

Your breath caught in your throat the second his lips curled, and it was like the weight of everything suddenly crashed down.

Holy. Shit.

You stepped back like you’d touched fire.

“I—I have to go,” you blurted, already untangling yourself from his arms. “Sorry—I didn’t mean—I mean I did—but I didn’t—oh my god.”

“Hey, wait—” Tim started, reaching for you. But you were already scrambling toward the manor, shoes slapping the dirt path, heart pounding so hard in your chest it sounded like thunder in your ears.

You didn’t stop until you were back inside, up the stairs, down the hall, and flinging yourself into your bedroom like something was chasing you. You hit the bed face-first with a muffled scream.

Then rolled.

Then screamed again—this time into a pillow. You flailed, limbs a mess across the duvet, before groaning and yanking at your hair in both hands, whispering frantic, breathless nonsense like “Oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck is happening—”

You slammed your head gently—but repeatedly—into your mattress.

“What am I even doing?” you groaned, rolling again, now hanging halfway off the bed. “Oh my god, what the hell is wrong with me?”

Your hands dragged down your face as everything came flooding back with horrifying clarity.

Toby—on your bed, after the firelight and whiskey.

Brian—against the counter, your finger still stinging, the smoke curling behind you.

And now Tim, just outside, with sun and soil and heat still clinging to your clothes.

You’d kissed each of them. You weren’t sure if you were the luckiest person alive or absolutely doomed.

And dusk was in two hours. You stared blankly at the ceiling.

Dinner was going to be hell.

── .✦

Dinner time rolled around, and the silence was louder than anything you could’ve cooked.

You’d made too much food—roasted potatoes, seared green beans from Tim’s garden, that lemon-pepper chicken recipe you were weirdly proud of—but no one came. No knock. No thump of boots in the hall. No door creaking open with a muttered “smells good in here.”

Not even Toby dragging in firewood.

Your stomach sat tight in your belly as the minutes ticked by. You kept glancing at the door, willing it to open, practically begging for one of them to appear—even if it was just to yell.

But the manor remained still.

“Maybe they’re mad,” you whispered, poking at your food with the side of your fork. “Maybe they’re talking. Figuring out what to do with the idiot who kissed all three of them.”

The thought made you wince. Rip each other apart, or rip you instead. You barely ate. The chicken dried out, the beans went cold, and your whiskey glass stayed untouched. It all felt like some sort of punishment. You washed the dishes in silence, the clang of ceramic against sink echoing too loud, too empty, as if the walls were holding their breath.

And when the fire never started in the main room, you knew—they weren’t coming.

Upstairs, your pacing felt frantic. You chewed your thumbnail, dragged your hands down your face, cursed at the floorboards and the ceiling and yourself.

“This is stupid,” you hissed. “They’re grown men. It’s not like I planned for any of this to happen! I just—” You bit off your sentence. “I should go down there. Just check in. Make sure they’re not—fighting or something.”

But when you pulled the curtain aside, peeking through your bedroom window, you froze. The cabins were glowing softly—three little stars in the fog, warm and yellow through the mist. Lights on in each one. They were there. Alive. Not dead. Not bleeding.

Just… absent from your space.

You let out a breath—relief and guilt tangled in your chest like briars.

Then something moved—fast.

Your eyes snapped to the right, and you swore—you swore—you saw something skitter across the edge of the fog, just beyond the garden. Thin. Pale. Animal-like—but not an animal. The legs bent wrong. The way it moved was wrong.

And then—

A shadow sprinted after it—a human silhouette.

Your breath hitched.

“What the fuck—” you whispered, heart slamming into your ribs. You staggered back from the window, breath ragged, ears ringing.

Something was out there. And someone was chasing it.

You tried to rationalize.

Maybe it was a stray dog. Some hunter going after an animal. Maybe—God, maybe someone lost their pet, and it slipped through the woods and they just—

But no one lived out here. There were no neighbors. No houses for miles. Just trees, fog, and the wind biting through the gaps in the manor’s old windows.

Your breath started to come faster. You moved back toward the window, hands trembling as you reached for the curtain again, trying to calm yourself, to see—to prove to your own damn brain that there was nothing out there. Then—

BANG.

A single, deafening gunshot cracked through the courtyard. You screamed.

The windows rattled in their frames, the sound echoing off the trees like it had split the ground in two. You dropped back, stumbling, your hand flying to your chest as your heart tried to burst free.

No no no no no—

You whipped back to the window, scanning frantically—but there was nothing. Just thick mist. Shifting branches. But the cabin lights were still on, glowing like weak lighthouses in a sea of gray.

Your hands moved before your thoughts could catch up. You grabbed the first jacket you saw, yanking it over your shoulders. You didn’t even bother with shoes. Your hand smacked against the bannister as you bolted down the stairs, breath ragged, throat dry.

Whoever—whatever—was out there had a gun. That meant this wasn’t some animal. This wasn’t some illusion brought on by isolation and guilt and the ache in your chest.

This was real. And it meant one of two things.

Someone was here to rob you—or someone was here to hurt you.

The manor’s back doors groaned as you flung them open, and the air outside hit you like a bucket of ice water. Your breath turned to fog as you sprinted into the night, the gravel biting at your bare feet, eyes scanning, searching—

You had to get to someone. Anyone. You didn’t care who. Tim, Toby, Brian—hell, all three. Just someone real, someone armed, someone who knew what to do. There’s no way they didn’t hear the shot.

The fog felt thicker tonight. The kind that clung to your skin like a damp sheet, swallowing sound and vision whole. Your pulse pounded behind your eyes as you ran across the grass, your head whipping around at every creak, every twig snap.

The cabins were up ahead. Yellow lights. Them.

And something moved in the trees to your left.

You faltered. Your steps stuttered on the dewy grass, and your body jerked to a stop, chest heaving with the rush of adrenaline as your eyes locked on the shape.

A figure. Human-sized. Standing motionless at the edge of the tree line just beyond the veil of fog. Still. Too still.

Your heart surged, panic curling up your throat like bile, but still—you called out, voice cracking, “T-Toby? Brian? Tim?”

No response. The figure didn’t move—just shifted. The kind of shift that makes your instincts scream. A slow tilt of the head like a dog confused, or a curious predator.

Your heart skipped. Then stuttered. You called again, louder, more desperate now. “Hey! This isn’t fucking funny guys! Is this some prank or something?!”

The thing stood up. No… it unfolded.

Long. Too long. Limbs stretching like they weren’t made for a human frame. Slender arms reaching toward the dirt. A body hunched and sickly in silhouette, pale and sinewy and wrong.

Your brain was already screaming, but your legs stayed locked. Your eyes immediately welled with tears, lips parting to scream, to shout, to call for anybody—

Until it moved on all fours. Fast. Not a lurch. Not a shuffle.

A sprint—straight at you.

You shrieked, a sharp, raw sound that tore up your throat as you spun and bolted, feet slamming the grass, sprinting so hard your lungs burned. The fog seemed to clutch at your legs, dragging you back with every step. You screamed their names again, over and over, begging,

“TOBY! BRIAN! TIM—HELP!!”

Behind you, that thing tore through the grass like knives through silk. Heavy, wet thuds of too-long limbs slamming the earth. You could feel it closing in.

The cabins were just ahead. Closer—closer—

You screamed—but no sound made it out.

One second, sprinting full speed toward the cabins, lungs burning, throat raw from shouting—and the next, a pair of arms slammed into you from the side, snatching you mid-stride and throwing you to the ground.

You hit the grass hard, dirt scraping your elbows and back as you rolled with the momentum. The breath whooshed out of you, replaced instantly with pure, primal terror. You kicked, tried to scramble back, chest rising and falling like you were drowning.

It got me. It got me. It got—

Then you saw him. Not him—not right away. A shape—crouched, lean. Orange goggles glinting in the fog, and a metal muzzle strapped over his mouth. Broad shoulders, stained hoodie. A hatchet in one gloved hand, twitching fingers on the other. Your brain scrambled to identify it, to rationalize, but nothing came.

And he was already gone, sprinting into the fog like a goddamn feral animal. The creature was mid-lunge. You saw it rear up, gangly limbs arching, the sharp silhouette of it rising like a nightmare.

Then—CRACK.

The blade of his hatchet buried deep in the side of its head with a wet, awful thud. The thing spasmed, a shriek escaping it—inhuman, high-pitched, wrong.

And he didn’t stop. He yanked the hatchet free—then slammed it down again. Again. And again. Over and over until blood and black matter sprayed into the fog like a horror show. You saw its limbs twitch once. Then stop. And he just kept chopping.

You could only watch. Your body refused to move. Then it did—all at once, violently—your limbs shaking as you scrambled backwards through the grass, breath ripping through your chest like glass shards, full-blown panic setting in.

You didn’t know where to look, what to do, your vision going fuzzy at the edges.

Click.

The cold, metallic cock of a shotgun behind you froze your blood. You twisted, gasping, eyes wide.

And there they were. Two silhouettes walking slowly through the fog like something out of a fever dream. The one in front wore a dirty white mask with ink-black eyes and a painted mouth. A taller figure flanked him, face hidden under his yellow hood and black balaclava. One carried a shotgun. The other a pistol. They joined the third figure panting over the creature, digging his boot into the side of it before jerking his hatchet out.

And they were all staring at you.

Your heart thudded in your chest like a war drum, and the realization hit you like a slap.

Tim. Brian. Toby. But not like you’d ever seen them before.

And for the first time, you realized—

You didn’t know a damn thing about the men living on this land.

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

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yrluvjane · 2 days ago

Text

dream’s been in one of his Moods again.

you’re across the room, watching him sulk behind that massive desk of his like the entire universe personally insulted him. he's been like this since you very gently pointed out that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t need to be such a cold bastard to the mortal girl in the dream he unraveled this morning.

you didn’t even say it mean. you were careful. polite. borderline diplomatic.

but the moment you said, “did you have to be so cold with her?” he full-body froze and replied with a clipped, “i do not require instruction in my own realm.” and then.

radio silence.

he hasn’t looked at you since. he’s working (allegedly), but every now and then you catch him pausing—just long enough to think, just long enough to be dramatic—before going back to pretending you don’t exist.

which is hilarious. and also unfair. because now you can’t stop looking at him.

his back is all stiff, his shoulders tense under the stupidly elegant fabric of whatever coat he’s chosen today. you know he doesn’t even need to wear clothes like that. he does it to be extra. to be “regal.” to make it harder to stay mad at him.

and it works.

because even when he’s being moody and petty, he’s also... painfully beautiful. and a little tragic. like someone carved a god out of starlight and then gave him abandonment issues.

you sigh. quietly. dramatically. and get up.

he doesn’t move when you approach. he’s totally still, even as you come up behind him and start massaging his shoulders.

he does tense at that—just a little—but he doesn’t stop you.

so you keep going. slow, firm pressure with your thumbs. leaning over him, your lips just barely brushing his ear.

“my dream,” you say softly.

no reaction. but you feel it.

“my morpheus,” you whisper.

his fingers go still. you can’t see his face, but you know that look—jaw tight, pretending it’s not affecting him. pretending you’re not affecting him.

“my oneiros,” you murmur. you kiss the side of his neck, light and slow. “my nightmare. my darkness, my starless sky.”

he says, “enough,” but it’s not sharp. it’s barely even a protest.

“why?” you ask, lips brushing against his throat. “afraid i’ll undo you?”

his breath catches. gotcha.

you keep kissing. trailing slowly down his neck, one hand sliding down his chest, the other still kneading his shoulder like you’re trying to physically drag the tension out of him.

you lean in again, mouth near his ear. “you sit here brooding like someone wounded you,” you whisper. “you push me away because i see too much. because i tell you when you’re wrong.”

no answer. but his hands lower from the desk. one grips the chair. tightly.

“you think you’re too much,” you whisper. “but you’re not. not for me.”

you kiss just under his jaw.

“my king.”

he snaps.

not in an angry way. in a finally breaking way. he turns, grabs your wrists like he’s grounding himself, and stares. hard. eyes all sharp and tired and soft underneath it all.

“you vex me,” he says, voice low.

you grin. “i know.”

he pulls you in. it’s not soft. it’s needy. like he’s been holding something in for centuries and it’s finally cracking.

and then he kisses you.

and it’s everything. it’s desperate and slow and almost angry with how much he wants it, how much he doesn’t want to want it. he’s holding you like he can’t let go or he’ll fall apart. like if he doesn’t touch you right now, he’ll vanish.

when you finally break apart, he leans his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“i don’t know what to do with you,” he whispers.

you smile. kiss the tip of his nose.

“yes, you do.”

and then, just for fun, you whisper it again—

“my king.”

and this time, he doesn’t protest.

this time, he kneels.

#morpheus x reader #fanfic #dream x you #morpheus x you #sandman imagines #dream of the endless #dream imagine #x reader #sandman x reader #dream x reader #morpheus #dream of the endless x reader #dream #sandman #the sandman

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humanjarvis · 1 day ago

Text

watch for a while

synopsis: caleb won’t let you take care of him, but he will let you watch.

tags: masturbation, he uses his bionic arm to pretend it’s you, heavy scent kink, he is weird, panty sniffing/licking, exhibitionism, voyeurism, fake bondage (really tight bedsheets), finger sucking pairing: caleb x fem reader word count: 1.6k

a/n: i had no intention of writing about underwear again but i saw something related in a show and the parasite took over my brain

“I’m so tired,” you moan, trudging into the kitchen and headbutting Caleb's broad back.

A chuckle flows through him, mixing with the sound of a knife chopping through fresh fruit. “I told you not to stay up all night. But did you listen? No,” he drawls. “Every time, it’s always ‘Caleb doesn’t know anything,’ ‘Caleb’s so strict,’ ‘I can do what I want.’ How’s that workin’ out for you?”

Grunting, you poke his spine and turn him to face you, revealing his teasing grin. “Today’s my day off! I had to make the most of it.”

“If ‘making the most of it’ means wakin’ up at noon. Here,” he offers, holding out a plump grape. “Get some water, too. I’ve heard binging a show for 8 hours straight causes dehydration.”

“Feed it to me. Too lazy,” you mumble, parting your lips to give him access.

A tinge of pink blooms across his cheeks, but he clears his throat resolutely. “M’kay. Hold still.” Stepping closer, he gently lays the fruit on the pad of your tongue, chest constricting when your tired eyes sparkle up at him. But before he can retreat, you close your mouth around his fingers, suckling and releasing them with a cheeky pop.

Giggling at his baffled expression, you chew and swallow so you can speak again. “Thank you,” you sing, standing on your tiptoes to kiss the corner of his lips. “I feel better already.”

Hoping he’ll let your prank slide without taking revenge, you nuzzle into his chest, pressing another kiss to his heartbeat. But as you sidle up to him, something hard and heavy brushes against your lower belly.

Your head snaps down before he can stop it, and a laugh bubbles out before you can stop it. “Seriously? Just from that?”

Caleb scoffs, but his darkening blush betrays him. “You caught me off guard. You weren’t playing fair.”

“Aw,” you pout, reaching up to pinch his flushed cheek. “I didn’t know there were rules right now, I’m sorry. Why don’t I help you fix it?” Even through his clothes, your hand leaves a burning trail down his abdomen, but he captures it before it can claim its prize.

“No,” he says firmly, eyes narrowing into slits. “You’re tired, remember?”

You grin at his stern refusal. “I’m more than awake now, I think.”

Grimacing, he tightens his grip and lifts your hand from his body. “You showered when you woke up, right? You’re already clean, and you go back to work tomorrow. I’ll take care of it myself, just…go rest.”

The pout on your face is real, now. You scan his face, taking a cautious step back. “You don’t want me to touch you?”

His eyes widen in guilty understanding. Shaking his head, he follows you and lifts your chin. “What I want and what you need are two different things. How could I be the reason you’re fallin’ asleep at work tomorrow?”

“But what about what I want?” you mutter, furrowing your brow in disappointment. “I want to help.”

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “You don’t have to—”

“Want to.”

His eyes travel down your frame, freshly showered and clad in clean pajamas. What a pity it’d be to ruin them. “Fine. Just…let me think.”

Moments later, Caleb had gathered you in his arms and made the short trip to your bedroom, shifting your weight to one side so he could pull your sheets back with the other. He’d laid you down gently, like a fragile flower, and tucked you in against the headboard—tight, so you couldn't slip out from under the covers without him noticing.

And there you sit, twiddling your thumbs as he rifles through your laundry. What is he looking for?

A flash of a familiar pattern catches your attention. He’s turned to his side, but you can see how he’s looped the fabric through his fingers, holding it with a wicked sort of reverence. He stretches the thin cotton in his hands, and you gulp.

“I wore those to the gym yesterday.” Your voice is barely a whisper.

“I know.”

He’d fished them out with confidence. As if he’d done this before.

You don’t have long to dwell before he’s dragging your desk chair to your bedside, letting the sky blue fabric fall across his lap as he takes a seat. Your eyes lock for a moment, electricity crackling in the air, and something in your gaze begs him to keep going.

Always obliging, he slips a hand under his sweatpants. The outline of his knuckles pokes through the material, and the way they flex around his length makes you shudder with anticipation.

You’re not left waiting long. His cock is red and angry in the cool air, translucent fluid spilling from the swollen tip. He palms the base gingerly, as if his desire is hot to the touch.

In bed, your hands are balled into eager fists.

When he manages to speak, his voice is hoarse. Like he’s forcing it out, like he’s seconds from unraveling. “You can tell me to stop, if…”

“I want to watch.”

He snaps his eyes shut, failing to suppress the moan that falls from his lips. When he blinks them back open, their only focus is you.

His chest heaves as he holds your gaze, his ragged breaths filling the room as your panties return to his fingers. He only looks away when he lifts them to his face—he has to, with the way his eyes roll back.

Just a few feet out of reach, Caleb inhales long and deep, chest expanding as he fills himself with your scent. Below, he drags his palm over the veins of his cock, tugging roughly with his right arm.

He can’t feel himself that way, can he? Unless…

Unless he’s pretending it’s you.

Your breath hitches, but you’re pulled from your thoughts by a soft groan.

The sight before you is obscene. Caleb, drunk on your scent, precum dribbling from his flushed tip. His hips buck into his hand from the thrill of your lingering essence.

All while you’re laid up in bed like a princess.

Slick pools around your heated center. Mindlessly, you squirm under the covers, only thinking of how badly you want to feel him. “Let me help. Please.”

He moves the fabric just slightly. Still close, but enough for his refusal to ring clear. “Stay right there, all pretty for me,” he breathes, slowing his desperate strokes to a lazy pace. “You don’t have to lift a finger. Look at what you do to me—this is more than enough. Just stay there, baby. Stay still and watch me.”

Scrambling for a rebuttal, you stammer in protest. “But you…i-it’s not the same. It can’t be. It can’t feel as good without me, please.”

“You’re here with me, baby,” he soothes, giving himself a gentle squeeze. “Can almost taste you. Wanna see?”

Sunset irises trained on yours, he shifts your panties in his hand, exposing the strip that’d covered your pussy just hours ago. His pink tongue peeking out is your only warning.

With a lewd groan, he licks a slow stripe up the soiled fabric, his filthy stare binding you further to the bed.

A whimper rips from your throat as you squeeze your thighs together. “Caleb—”

“Hmm?” His eyes flutter closed with a blissed-out chuckle, and he sucks the cotton into his mouth. His cock, engorged and begging for release, twitches under his firm grip.

Your heart nearly bursts from how much you need him. Taking advantage of his distraction, you almost wriggle free unnoticed, but the loosening of the blanket makes a soft rustling sound.

Burning eyes snap open and lock onto yours. “Don’t move.”

Your body tenses as you debate disobeying him. How easy it’d be to kick free from the rest of the covers, rushing over and taking him into your mouth.

Somewhere in your deliberation, he’d begun circling his thumb around his tip, hissing at the agonizing sensitivity. He draws in a staggered breath. “You want me to finish, yeah? Won’t be able to if you move. Need to watch you watchin’ me,” he murmurs, trembling as his peak nears. “You want to help me? Then stay.”

Desperate authority laces his voice, as if he’s commanding you to send him over the edge. And when you sigh your relent and sink back under the sheets, settling your longing gaze on his jerking hips, you know you’ve lost.

Moaning his approval, he shifts your panties into his busy hand, wrapping them around his spasming cock with two rough, final strokes. Thick spurts land on the light blue fabric, staining it further in a milky white. You whine at the waste, grieving how good it’d feel inside you.

For a second, his head lolls back while he catches his breath. Then, half-lidded eyes search your quivering form, relief and a slight smirk dawning on his sweat-slick face. Slowly, he tucks himself back in, chuckling when you lurch forward in protest, and heads to the bathroom to clean himself.

The whole time the shower runs, you're rubbing your thighs together under the blanket.

He returns with a satisfied smile and a change of sweats, his dog tag dangling over his bare chest. But where Caleb is sated, you’re anything but.

You’re on him as soon as he crawls in beside you, panting and pawing at his exposed skin.

“Hmm? What is it?” he asks, rubbing soothing circles into your hips.

“I know…” You swallow. “I know you wouldn't let me help you. But, um…maybe you could help me, now?”

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wosospacegirl · 3 days ago

Text

Mallorca - part 2

Summary: Alexia ruins your couple's vacation by inviting the girls to tag along with you. You decide to make her pay for it. - This time with sex

Word count: 6.3k

Warnings: (+18) dom/sub dynamics, power play, oral (r giving and receiving), fingering and spanking (r giving), strap (r receiving), scisorring.

A/n: I think you'll have a better experience if you read part 1 first

Alexia was very well behaved during dinner.

If you were feeling generous, you might think it was because she was trying to be a good girlfriend.

She was holding proper conversations with everyone (instead of being her usual grumpy self), telling the waitress your exact order, and she was even pulling the chair out for you.

A complete gentlewoman.

But you weren't naive. You weren't a fool. You knew what Alexia wanted.

You weren't planning to make her work for it. No. You were planning to (very willingly) pleasure her, give her all your attention as soon as dinner was over, and you two were back in the villa's room.

But in Alexia's mind, it seemed like she thought she had to be on her very best behaviour to earn her orgasms.

You liked her like that. Compliant. Polite. Eager. Especially after she had ruined your couple's vacation by bringing the girls along.

So you didn't say anything. You barely spared her a glance as she talked to Jana and Bruna about football things you didn't understand.

You ignored Alexia when Patri asked you about your work. You even slapped her hand away when she tried to place it on your thigh from under the table.

You didn't mind the slight pout that formed on her face as she pretended not to care.

You enjoyed how she proceeded to ask if you wanted her to fill your glass of juice. As if she wanted to please you. She grabbed the juice jar and did it without even letting you answer.

So polite!

Alexia wasn't like that. She wasn't restless. But right now, her legs were shaking, her feet tapping against the ground annoyingly, her hands idle, as if they had no purpose if they weren't touching you. Which they weren't. You didn't let her.

You caught her looking at you sometimes, as if she was ready to speak, but she didn't have the courage to let the words out.

Even the girls noticed how dizzy she seemed. How… distracted.

You wanted to be mean tonight. Not cruel, though.

You were still going to keep your promise of making Alexia come and let her strap you. But first, you wanted to have a little fun.

Bruna asked you what the hell you actually did as a lawyer, and you were suddenly very engaged in the conversation. You explained how you specialised in sports law, how you worked for the federation, taking care of all the bureaucracy.

The girls watched you with interest, but not as much interest as Alexia, who had heard you explain this probably a dozen times before, and still didn't look bored.

While you were talking, your palm fell onto Alexia's thigh, over her long dress. She froze next to you, but tried to keep her composure.

"I don't have to go to court much, no," you explained to Jana. "I do most of the research and the paperwork… I work behind the scenes."

Your hand trailed higher. Alexia was rigid under your touch.

Poor thing. You weren't even touching her skin yet (just the fabric of her dress), but you could feel her shiver; you could bet the fine hairs on her legs were standing up.

You excused yourself to the bathroom, and Alexia followed.

You pretended not to notice her steps, but when you went to close the single-stall bathroom, her hand appeared, keeping it open just enough for her to slip in.

"Amor," she whined, taking a step closer and trapping you between her body and the sink. She nuzzled her nose against your temple, her warm breath on your skin. "Let's go back to our room, sí?"

You let her kiss your neck, your body soft against hers.

"Don't be rude, Ale," you said. "We're here with your teammates, remember? The ones you invited? We need to spend time with them."

You wanted to punish her. Just a little.

"They can stay here, finish their dinner," Alexia said, hands gripping your hips and pushing you even further into the sink. "And we can go. Por favor?"

You wanted it too, so much. You were wet for her, had been since Alexia had guided your fingers into her cunt, showing you how desperate she was.

Maybe you could let yourself have a little fun. Maybe you could be a little mean.

"Get on your knees and make me come," you said bluntly. "And then I'll think about leaving dinner early."

Alexia clearly wasn't expecting it. Her mouth fell open, but it didn't take long before she helped you up onto the sink, your hands holding onto the sink as she got on her knees.

For someone who liked to be in control so much, Alexia was very keen to follow orders.

"Okay, amor," she murmured, spreading your legs open, exposing you. "Te amo, te amo," she whispered as she kissed from your calf up to your thigh.

"Hurry, Alexia," you said sternly. "Can't leave your teammates waiting."

Alexia let out a sound that could only be classified as a whine.

She pressed her face to your underwear, breathing you in, licking you through the fabric.

You were ready to tell her to hurry up again, but she was faster, quickly hooking the fabric aside with her fingers.

Your hands instinctively went to her head, tugging lightly at her hair as her tongue licked from your hole all the way to your clit. Her tongue was warm, her spit mixing with your own wetness.

She dragged her tongue over you once more before focusing on your clit. Alexia liked to taste you, to fuck you with her tongue, but she needed to be fast, and she knew it.

Her hands gripped your thighs, and you were sure they would leave marks, but you didn't care. You didn't care about anything.

Her lips latched around your clit, and you saw stars. She didn't take her mouth off you.

Not when you begged for a break. Not when your thighs closed around her head and you were sure she would suffocate from the lack of air.

She didn't stop even when someone knocked on the bathroom door five times.

She didn't stop until you came on her tongue, mumbling things neither of you could understand.

She only stopped when you pushed her hair back harshly. Alexia looked up at you with a pout.

Her face was completely wet, a mess of your orgasm all over her. Her brows were furrowed, as if she couldn't understand why you would take her meal away.

"It's enough, Alexia," you said, breathless, your cheeks flushed from the intensity of your orgasm.

"What?" she asked softly. "No good? I can be better, sí? I'll try again," she said, pulling your hand away from her hair and placing her face right back to your cunt.

"Ale—" you started, but she cut you off with her tongue, swirling around your clit again.

You wanted to come again. God, you wanted it so much. But you knew it would send you into a completely different head space, one you wanted Alexia to be in, not you.

You yanked her hair, hard enough to make it hurt on purpose.

She whimpered as you pulled her face from between your legs, your grip firm, not releasing her even as her eyes filled with tears.

"What did I tell you?" you asked slowly, dangerously calm.

Alexia stayed silent, staring at you like the words were stuck in her throat.

She looked so conflicted, so needy… it made you want to take her back to the room, make her come, kiss her until she was wet and ready for you again.

You wanted to spoil her. But she wasn't helping herself. And you weren't one to reward bad behaviour.

"What. Did. I. Tell. You." You leaned down until your face was inches from hers, her eyes never leaving you, as if she were bewitched.

"Yo-you said it was enough," she whispered.

"So why did you put your mouth on me again, if I said it was enough?"

"I-I don't know," she stammered, eyes looking around the bathroom as if searching for an answer. "Perdón… I-I'm confused."

She really looked confused… like a lost puppy.

"Then you better get your mind right," you said. "Do you understand me? Or else you go to sleep with your cunt wet and needy, and I won't give you anything."

"P-pardon…" she whimpered, tears falling down her cheek.

You cupped the back of her head, pulling her face closer. You stuck your tongue out and licked her tears.

She froze, solid on the bathroom floor.

You moved your mouth to her ear. "Your tears are so sweet, preciosa. Makes me think your pussy must be just as sweet. You wouldn't deny me my pussy, right?"

Alexia shook her head, eyes wide.

"Good," you said condescendingly, patting her cheek. "So you're going to behave and do what I say?"

Another eager nod.

"Perfecta." You kissed her lips softly. "Can you remind me of your colours, Ale?"

It took her a moment to understand. For someone who captained club and country, Alexia could be surprisingly slow when she was feeling subby.

"Red, yellow, and green," she recited slowly, as if remembering was hard.

You kissed her again. "And can you tell me your colour now?"

"Green," she said, quicker this time.

"Great." You kissed her nose.

You slid off the sink, trying to steady yourself while Alexia stayed kneeling. You washed your hands, then leaned over, tugging her hair so she had to look up at you.

"I'm going back to dinner. You pull yourself together and join us, sí?"

Alexia nodded.

"Words, Alexia," you said.

"Sí, sí," she replied quickly. "I'm going."

"Muy bien, preciosa," you said, kissing her forehead before quickly fixing her messy hair. "Don't take too long. I'll be waiting for you."

You walked back to the table, leaving Alexia behind in the bathroom. You took a deep breath, trying to look like someone who hadn't just came in a restaurant bathroom.

You were good at acting, so the girls didn't say anything when you sat down, probably because the food had already arrived.

Five minutes later, Alexia sat on the chair next to you.

She, on the other hand, didn't have the same skill. Her eyes were distant, her mind clearly somewhere else. They were still a little red from tears, but to anyone who didn't know her, it could easily be mistaken for allergies.

The girls were chatting with each other. You chimed in here and there, between bites.

Alexia stayed quiet. Different from before, she wasn't ignoring anyone on purpose; she just… wasn't there.

You didn't want her mind drifting. Not when she was surrounded by people. Her foggy, submissive head space was for your eyes, and your eyes only.

You watched her eat very slowly. You placed a hand on her thigh, the same spot as before, your thumb brushing her skin above the fabric of the dress.

You were trying to bring her back, to keep her with you.

She looked at you, surprise on her face. She hesitated, but then she placed her hand over yours.

You felt her warm, slightly sweaty hand trembling, so you wrapped your fingers around hers, grounding her there for a few minutes.

You glanced at the girls, still pretty much engrossed in Bruna's phone screen. They wouldn't mind you two now.

You carefully leaned your head against Alexia's shoulder, kissing the spot where her neck met her clavicle.

You kissed her skin softly. It was a sweet kiss, not teasing, but Alexia still shivered.

"You're being very good to me, mi amor," you murmured, keeping your eyes down, not looking at her, focusing on your intertwined hands. "Gonna do everything I promised you, sí?"

"S-sí," Alexia answered, her voice in that small tone that told you everything you needed to know. She was exactly where you wanted her.

"Do you wanna go now?" you asked, placing another kiss. "Or do you want dessert?"

She thought for a second. "I don't want it, b-but… you said you wanted to eat the cheesecake."

You looked up at her and smiled. Such a good girl she was. "You just want to see me happy, huh?"

She nodded. "Muy happy."

"I think…" your fingertip traced up and down her arm, "that I'm craving something else, preciosa. I think you are, too."

"Sí," Alexia said, almost out of breath. The words were caught in her throat as your hand slipped under her dress. "A-amor… qué? oh—"

You touched her through her underwear. Poor Alexia was soaked, the wet spot obvious even without you having to look at it.

"Oh, my baby," you said, faking empathy. "Eating me out made you this wet?"

Your voice was low enough that no one else could hear. The girls were too caught up in whatever Bruna was showing them.

But still, Alexia's eyes looked around nervously between the girls and the rest of the restaurant.

"Talk to me, Alexia," you said, your tone dry.

"Sí, amor," she whispered, a pout forming on her face. "I want you so much."

Without warning, you pushed her underwear aside and sank two fingers into her cunt.

Her mouth immediately formed an ‘O' before she snapped it shut, trying not to make a sound. to keep herself together.

Her hand gripped the chair, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

"I love you, mi amor," you murmured against her neck. "So much."

"Te amo," she said, though it sounded like she was just repeating whatever you said.

You thrust your fingers a few times, just enough to feel her tightness and wetness around you, to feel her clenching.

When you noticed her body starting to tremble with need, you withdrew your fingers, taking her underwear with you.

She looked at you with wide eyes as you leaned slightly to slip the panties down her legs and into your purse.

"You won't need those when we get back to the hotel," you said with a calm smile, as if you were just talking about the weather.

She only nodded, still breathing unevenly.

The waitress came for the payment, and the girls finally looked up from the phone. Patri and Jana were talking about how to split the bill, but Alexia suddenly placed her black credit card on the table.

"Here. J-just put everything on this," she said.

"No, Ale, it's oka—" Bruna began, but Alexia interrupted her.

"No," she said, already standing and moving behind your chair, pulling it out for you.

She grabbed your hand (her palm was clammy) and started tugging you toward the exit of the restaurant.

"You niñas use the card to pay for the meal and… go do something. Anything," she said, her voice rising slightly as the two of you walked away. "Get ice cream or- I don't know…. It's on me!"

The girls just stared, confused. You, on the other hand, just chuckled. You loved desperate Alexia. It made you want to devour her.

And you did.

When you reached the villa's room, the poor girl didn't know what to do with herself.

She closed the door and immediately turned to you, big, eager eyes waiting for orders.

Slowly, you walked to the bed and sat on the edge. You curled your finger, calling her closer, and she obeyed.

"Do you wanna get on your knees, preciosa?"

Alexia nodded, kneeling for the second time today at your feet.

You cupped her jaw, taking a moment to admire the beautiful colour of her eyes, the shape of her nose, and the shape of her mouth.

"Mi niña bonita," you murmured, turning her jaw slightly, as if inspecting something valuable. She let you do whatever you wanted.

"Can you tell me what you want to do tonight? Or do you want me to decide everything for you?" you asked gently.

She was so far gone, you already knew the answer.

"Want you to think about everything," she said, her eyes locked on yours.

"Okay, Ale," you said. Your thumb pressed her chin, opening her mouth.

You leaned forward and spit directly onto her tongue. She stayed like that for a moment, mouth open.

"You can swallow, bebé," you said.

She did.

"Do I taste good?"

"S-sí," she said, nodding almost desperately. "Very good."

"Then why don't you eat me out again? If I taste that good."

Her eyes looked up at you, then her gaze dropped to your thighs. You parted your legs and lifted your dress, showing yourself to her.

"Take my underwear off," you told her.

With shaky fingers, she slid them down. She stared at your cunt like she hadn't just had a meal.

As soon as Alexia licked you, it was like the bathroom all over again. She was desperate, but you weren't sure exactly why.

Did she just want to taste you? Did she want to be good? Or the two weeks without having sex turned her mind into an animalistic version of itself?

She ate you out like it was the last thing she was ever going to do.

She dragged her tongue through your wet folds, spreading your slick, then thrust her tongue into your hole before focusing on your clit, wrapping her lips around it and sucking deliciously.

Alexia wasn't teasing you. She was honestly doing everything she could to make you come fast.

You held her head against your cunt, keeping her there, afraid she might pull away, but with how hungry she was, that probably wasn't going to happen.

You closed your eyes, focusing on her warm breath against your pussy, her (very skilled) tongue giving your clit so much attention it almost made you want to cry.

It didn't take long before your heart started racing, for your breathing to become shallow.

Your legs trembled around her shoulders, and then you came. It was one of the best orgasms of your life.

This time, when you told her it was enough, Alexia stayed perfectly still, looking up at you, her face a mess, waiting for her next order.

From the way she stared, you knew she would happily eat you out all night if you let her.

"Come here, my love," you said, and she got up on her feet.

She was taller than you, but with you sitting on the bed, her puppy expression was anything but intimidating.

"Strip for me," you said simply, as you undressed yourself too, so you were completely naked in front of her.

Alexia eagerly obeyed, and her dress fell to the bedroom floor. She stood naked before you.

Your eyes looked up and down her body, at her firm abdomen, at her strong arms, her thighs … fuck, her thighs.

You placed your hands on her waist and brought her closer. She let out a tiny, surprised sound, and she didn't hesitate this time .

You leaned forward, kissing her stomach, licking every bit of skin you could reach.

"Pretty. Mi niña bonita, all mine," you murmured against her warm skin.

You glanced up at Alexia. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open; she was just letting you worship her. Your heart softened at the sight.

She was always so good to you, such a good girlfriend, hardworking, devoted, and now completely trusting you to do whatever you wanted with her body.

Your hands cupped her breasts, twisting her nipples. They were so hard. You licked one before wrapping your lips around it and sucking.

"Amor," Alexia whined, leaning into you, like she needed you to take more of her, as if it was physically possible. "I-it's so good…"

You kept sucking her tits, noticing how her thighs were slightly parted.

Your hand slid to her ass, and you grabbed a handful of soft skin, making her moan, then you pulled her closer to you. One hand stayed on her ass as the other cupped her c.unt.

"Your pussy is so pretty," you said, rubbing your thumb over her clit, holding her still as her thighs began to shake. "And all mine."

"Yours… please—" she whined. "More, baby. Please?"

She was so wet that her inner thighs were a mess. You kissed her navel before sliding two fingers into her pussy.

Alexia moaned (the prettiest sound you had ever heard).

Her hips rocked with your fingers, and when you looked up at her, she was a goddess: her cheeks were red, her eyes shut… she was biting her lip. All yours.

Alexia was all yours.

You kept thrusting until her legs trembled harder, and you were sure she wouldn't be able to stand much longer.

"Ale," you said, slowing your fingers. "Go lie on the bed for me. On your back. Spread open, okay?"

She nodded, and you pulled your fingers out. She lay back clumsily, and her legs spread the moment her back hit the mattress.

You crawled on top of her, meeting her eyes. You smiled, then kissed her lips in a deep, messy kiss, tongues and saliva were all over the place.

You could taste yourself on her mouth, and you didn't stop until you were both breathless.

"Hold your tongue out for me," you murmured.

Alexia obeyed, her tongue out and still. You wrapped your lips around it, sucking, and her hips started to rut against your body.

You pulled back, a string of saliva connecting your mouths. You kissed her gently before pressing your hands together.

"You can come whenever you want to, sí?"

Alexia's eyes widened, like she couldn't believe it. "Gracias, mi amor… gracias," she mumbled, like she was praying.

You kissed your way down her body, sucking one nipple into your mouth on your way down, then you licked her abdomen, stopping at her navel.

She was completely spread out for you.

You could see every detail of her pussy…. her folds glistening, her clit puffy and demanding attention, her hole clenching and begging to be filled. Even the birthmark on her inner thigh that you had kissed countless times.

You used two fingers to spread her lips open and smiled when a soft whine came out of Alexia's mouth. Her clit was so red and sensitive that you pressed a kiss to it.

Then you grabbed her hands, which were clenching the blanket, and placed them over her cunt.

She looked at you in surprise but didn't question you.

"Touch yourself for me," you said.

Without breaking eye contact, she brought her middle finger to her clit, rubbing side to side, her body twitching already. You watched, completely mesmerised by her.

Her poor cunt was clenching, there was slick everywhere, but she was only focusing on her clit.

"Finger yourself, preciosa," you instructed. "Let me see you."

"O-okay," she panted. One hand rubbed her clit, and the other pushed two fingers inside herself.

It always amazed you how long her fingers were. She reached deep inside, and every time she pulled out, her fingertips glistened with wetness.

You couldn't just watch anymore. You straddled Alexia, hovering above her without sitting down.

She looked confused, but you told her to keep going, not to stop, to just focus on herself.

Your hand went to your own pussy, rubbing your clit, your fingers brushing hers as she touched herself.

You wanted to watch her face, but the sight between her legs was too heavenly to look away from.

You picked up your pace as Alexia's tells gave her away… her trembling thighs, her irregular breath, her soft whimpers.

"Amor," she mumbled (barely coherent), words clumsy in her mouth. "I-I—"

"I know, Ale," you said, closing your eyes as your own orgasm built. "Be my sweet girl and come for me, baby. Come right here."

Less than a minute later, both of you were coming.

Alexia's whole body went rigid, every muscle became stiff as she came. You, in contrast, went completely soft, melting into her as if your muscles had given up working.

You collapsed on Alexia's chest, feeling her shallow breaths against your shoulder as you tried to come back to reality.

Your ear rested on her heart, and you listened to her heartbeat slowly settling. Alexia wrapped her arms around you and kissed your neck gently.

You wanted to talk to her, but there was no energy left in your body. So you did what felt natural; you began rutting softly against her.

When you moved, your pussies stayed pressed together, wetness mixing between you.

You kissed Alexia's shoulder, moving your hips lazily. The angle wasn't perfect(your clits were barely touching ), but the friction was delicious.

Alexia grabbed your hips, guiding the rhythm.

You wanted to slap her hand away, remind her who was in charge, but she was so far gone you knew she wasn't trying to control; she was just needy, horny.

Your hardened nipples brushed against hers, sending shivers through your body.

You didn't know what time it was, you didn't know how long it lasted, you only knew that both of you came again.

This time, Alexia let out a soft cry. You looked at her face and saw tears running down her cheeks.

"What's wrong, pretty girl?" you asked gently. "Tell me your colour, sí?"

Alexia opened her eyes slowly; she looked very dizzy. "G-green… just-feeling confused."

You pouted, this time without teasing. You kissed her lips.

"What about you fuck me nice and good, and then we go to bed? Does that sound good?"

Alexia nodded.

"Do you want me to put the strap on for you? Or can you do it yourself?"

"Don't… think I can," she admitted softly. "Want you to do it."

You kissed her forehead before sliding off the bed. "Okay, mi amor."

Your legs ached from the orgasms, and wetness was dripping down your thighs; you couldn't even tell whose wetness it was anymore, if it was yours or Alexia's.

You knelt by the suitcase, pulling out the strap and dildo.

When you returned, Alexia was still lying down, so you asked her to kneel on the bed. You secured the harness around her hips, adjusting the dildo in place.

"Looking so pretty," you murmured as you tightened the last strap. "So well-behaved today. I'm so proud of you."

In any other situation, you would have laughed: Alexia was blushing, actually blushing. After everything tonight, she still blushed, eyes dropping to the mattress shyly.

"I want you to do exactly what I say, okay?" you said, already getting into position.

You lowered yourself on all fours, there was a pillow under your chest, as you let your arms fall softly on your side, so only your ass was up.

"Fuck me good, baby." You told her.

You closed your eyes, your face squished into the pillows. You heard Alexia shifting behind you.

She was taking longer than usual; normally, she would be in a hurry, but not tonight. Tonight, she was gentle.

But you didn't want gentle right now.

Alexia leaned over you, dropping part of her weight onto your back. She kissed the back of your neck tenderly, her tongue audacious against your skin.

You parted your legs, hoping the hint would make her move faster…but she didn't.

"You smell so good," she said in a small voice, and you felt a little guilty for wanting to rush her (but not that guilty.)

"Alexia, be good to me," you said, turning your head to catch her eyes. "Fuck me, mi preciosa. Go on." Your patience was already wearing thin.

Alexia pressed one last kiss to your neck before settling on her knees. Dopamine had completely taken over her body.

She just wanted to please you, to worship you.

Her entire mind was you. You, and only you.

It was like she was part of you. Like the two of you were made to stay like this forever: skin to skin, tangled up.

She wanted to see you smile, to watch you come, to make you happy.

She wanted to kiss you, and she wanted you to kiss her.

Alexia didn't usually let herself get like this. She liked to be in control, to be the fixer, the steady one, always one step ahead.

The one to set the rules, to make sure you followed her. But tonight, it felt good to let go. To not think. To listen and obey. To be good. To be well-behaved.

You wanted the strap, and Alexia was going to give it to you( exactly how you liked) because she was, indeed, a very good girl. She would do anything you asked.

Alexia's eyes dropped to your pussy. It was just like hers: wet, messy, and practically shining between your thighs.

Her own cunt clenched. Maybe it was the endorphins, maybe exhaustion, but she barely felt her own body anymore…only need.

Alexia leaned down and kissed the bottom of your back before her hands found your ass, spreading you. She kissed and licked every bit of skin she could touch until she reached your clit.

"Alexia," you said sternly, turning your head. "How many times do I have to say it? Are you going to fuck me, or do you want punishment?"

The word punishment sent a red light flashing in Alexia's mind. She didn't want punishment. She was being good.

She was just loving you… why punishment?

She thought she was doing the right thing, preparing you for the strap, making sure you were wet enough.

"No punishment," Alexia said, fighting a pout.

You turned fully around. Your brow was furrowed, your jaw locked in a painful way.

You grabbed the harness at her hips, tugging hard enough that she stumbled forward.

You caught her by the waist so she wouldn't fall on top of you.

"Just because you have this on your hips," you said, yanking the strap just for emphasis, "doesn't mean you're in control. Do you understand that?"

Alexia nodded, tears beginning to shine in her eyes. "I just wanted to get you ready—"

You rolled your eyes and grabbed her hand before guiding her fingers inside you. Her finger slid in with almost no resistance. You were absolutely dripping.

"Do I look ready enough?"

Alexia gulped, keeping her fingers in you. "Sí…"

You held her jaw, making her look deep into your eyes. "I told you to give me the strap. Not to kiss me. Not to tease me."

"Perdón," Alexia whispered.

"Who's in control?"

"You, mi amor."

"Who knows better?"

"You," she repeated.

"Then you better do what I ask."

"Sí. I'll do whatever you want. So sorry, amor," she whispered.

You smiled softly, your thumb brushing her tears away.

"I don't like it when you don't listen to me." You pressed that same thumb to her mouth, making her open up, before placing it on her tongue.

She wrapped her lips around it, sucking while staring at you.

"One time, you're perfectly behaved," you murmured, "and the next, you don't listen." You pouted at her, just enough to make her squirm.

"Perdón, I—oww!" Alexia winced as your palm smacked her ass. It stung your own hand too; you were sure it was going to leave a mark.

"Count," you ordered, keeping her on her knees in front of you.

You spanked her ten times. By the fifth, Alexia was a crying mess, mumbling about being sorry, about wanting to be good.

But Alexia wasn't the only one in a special head space.

You were in a dom space… now you were all about being heard, being obeyed. It felt strange, but good.

When the last slap landed on her skin, you kissed her tears away. "What colour, mi amor?" you whispered against her wet cheek.

"Green," she sniffled softly.

"Good." You massaged her ass, ignoring how the strap nudged your stomach. You wanted the strap a lot, but you didn't want to overwhelm her.

"Ale, look at me," you said, cupping her jaw. "Do you want to stop? Want me to make us a bath?"

"No," she answered instantly, the fastest reply she had given all night. "I want to use it on you. Please. I promise I'll listen this time."

"Do you?" you pressed. "Do you really promise you'll be good?"

Another eager nod. "Sí. Te prometo."

You patted her cheek and turned around, getting back into position. "Then you can do whatever you want, preciosa."

Alexia kept her promise.

She filled you completely. You were so wet that she slid in with no resistance.

She pressed almost her entire weight onto your back and began thrusting into you, murmuring in your ear about how good you felt.

You could barely speak. Her warmth, her presence, her weight… it was overwhelming.

You felt so full, you had waited weeks for this: to have Alexia to yourself, to be fucked by her, filled up, loved and cared for.

The strap was so deep, hitting you perfectly. Her breathing against your neck made your eyes roll back.

"I wanna hold hands," Alexia said shyly, and your heart melted.

"Here, bebé," you breathed, reaching for her hands. She laced her fingers with yours as she kept pounding into you.

Her thrusts were hard and fast, but the kisses she pressed to your spine were tender, gentle, her way of telling you how much she had missed you, too.

"Good, Ale... like that," you moaned, feeling full, feeling hers. "Fuck, baby…"

Alexia kept moving, the base of the strap brushing her clit. She was close; you both were.

Your body felt everything at once. Her weight. Her warmth. The sound of the strap sliding in and out of your cunt. And then the the rise of your orgasm coming, and… something more too.

You let go of Alexia's hands, gripping her forearms. "Alexia, I'm—"

Alexia thrust twice before she came with a whimper in your ear, and your own orgasm ran through your body as well.

Your pussy clenched around the strap. You felt as if your whole body was shutting down.

You closed your eyes, hearing Alexia murmur something you couldn't even register.

When you opened them again, you didn't know how many minutes had passed. Alexia was still on top of you, the strap snug inside.

She was kissing your cheek softly.

"Open your eyes, bebé," she whispered, until you did.

You felt the strap again, but now it was too much. You shifted your hips, trying to get it out.

"I-I don't want—" you mumbled, and Alexia understood immediately.

"I'm pulling out, don't worry," she said, voice so sleepy you wondered if she might pass out right there.

Alexia watched carefully as she slid the strap from you. If she hadn't just come, she would have wanted to go again, but her mind was fuzzy, her ass still stung, and you looked completely wrecked.

She was sure you would both sleep until midday.

Alexia wasn't usually one to leave things lying or throw around, but tonight, she let the strap and dildo fall somewhere on the floor. That was tomorrow's problem.

She collapsed beside you, face first into the mattress, with one arm wrapping around your back. "Are you okay?" she asked, voice hoarse.

"I'm the one who should be asking that," you said, smiling at her. "I'm not the one who took a spanking."

"Let's not talk about that…" Alexia groaned, burying her face in the pillow.

You slid closer to her, almost on top of her, kissing the side of her head. "Come on, don't be embarrassed. We have done worse."

Alexia always got shy after letting herself be more submissive. You didn't understand why; you never felt embarrassed after subbing.

"You were perfect for me," you purred in her ear. "Thanks for letting me take control." You playfully bit her earlobe before slipping out of bed.

If Alexia had been trying to look tough, the moment your warmth left her side, she whined…actually whined. "Nooo. Come back."

"Just getting the oil for you," you explained, going to the suitcase.

"I don't want it," she grumbled, still face-down, she probably hadn't moved because her ass was still sore.

"I didn't ask if you wanted it," you said. "I told you I'm getting it."

When you came back to the bed and began applying the oil, Alexia opened her mouth to argue, but the second the cold liquid touched her skin, her whole body relaxed.

Guilt filled your chest. "Was it… too rough? The spanking?"

Alexia shook her head against the pillow, then turned to face you.

"No, bebé, don't worry." She smiled and reached out, brushing your cheek with her thumb. "I enjoyed myself. I mean it. If it was too much, I would have told you."

You smiled softly. "Okay."

You massaged her skin until Alexia complained about how long you were taking; you rolled your eyes before finally curling into her side. She wrapped her arm around you.

"I need to change the sheets," you muttered.

"No…" she mumbled, half-asleep.

"They're drenched," you tried again.

"And they'll stay that way until morning."

"Are you really going to sleep on wet sheets?"

"Just like you said… we have done worse."

You wanted to argue, but your eyelids were heavy. So you let them close. Just for a minute. You would. wake up and change them soon… just five minutes.

A/n: had a lot of fun writing this hehe. hope u guys liked it too?

Tag list: @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16 , @wosohk04 , @evaissleepy13, @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics @riyaexee @miaereen

#woso #woso x reader #woso fanfic #alexia putellas smut #alexia putellas x reader #aleixa putellas #woso smut #wlw writing #wlw fanfic #wlw smut

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yuyuyukiii · 2 days ago

Text

The Outfit? Offensive ⛐

Summary: The paddock thought race day was intense. Then a five-year-old showed up with glitter sunglasses and a clipboard. Chaos followed.

Content: cuteness, chaos, toddler logic, paddock drama, fashion crimes, soft dad moments, glitter-level confidence, and even retired or inactive drivers somehow getting dragged into the drama

Author's Note 🏎️:

I’ve always liked writing cute stuff, especially with some of the drivers or team principals as dads since a few of them are older now and it just fits so well. This one was super fun and chaotic to write, so I hope it made you smile. If you have any requests or ideas you want to see written, my DMs and request box are always open!

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Security didn’t question her. Probably because she looked like she owned the place.

By the time the first batch of drivers had checked into the paddock, she was already seated outside the motorhomes in her tiny foldable chair, glitter sunglasses on, clipboard in hand, and a sign (written in crayon) that read:

FASHION CONTEST. WINNER GETS HUG + CANDY. + and maybe sumthin else if u dress rilly rilly good ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

The “judge” was Y/N. Age five. Future fashion dictator. Also known around here as “Toto’s kid.” Which explained how she had clearance before sunrise and knew exactly where to set up for maximum drama.

Max Verstappen was first in. Walked through security. Barely two steps in and—

“Minus three! AGAIN with the Red Bull shirt? BORING.” You scribbled with flair, then flipped your whiteboard. “You get a zero.”

Max blinked. “It’s part of my job?”

“Not my fault you picked the boring work shirt,” you pouted. “Why no sparkles or colors or fun?”

He walked away muttering something about unfair systems and needing a stylist.

Then came Oscar, pink hoodie and all.

“POINTS for pink! You’re automatically higher than Max!” she cheered.

Oscar blinked. “Thank you…?”

The others trickled in like lambs to the fashion slaughter. Charles got a 6.5 and was already arguing about it.

He blinked. “But this is Dior.”

“I’m five,” you replied flatly.

Lando got a 4.25 because of his mismatched socks. “A four point what?” he repeated, stunned.

You raised your board. “Four. Point. Two, Five. Don’t argue with the system.”

Carlos came next, looking a little too confident in pastel colors and suspiciously clean shoes.

“Mmm. 7.4,” you said, scribbling on your whiteboard. “Points for the matching socks.”

George looked scandalized. “Wait, he gets a 7.4?”

“You’re not up yet,” you warned him.

As more drivers arrived and got judged, the area around your chair became less a walkway and more a pit lane of chaos.

“I better be higher than Carlos,” George muttered, peeking at your notes.

“You’re not,” Gabriel said from behind him.

“You got a five,” Kimi added helpfully, “and a note that says ‘pants are too tight.’”

“They are!” you shouted.

At one point, Lance walked up wearing Crocs. The judging panel went silent.

“Crocs?” you asked, peering over your whiteboard like a judge on TV. “Two out of ten.”

Lance looked like you personally offended his ancestors. “They’re limited edition!”

Pierre came back holding the ice cream like a peace offering. “I brought you something, look.”

You squinted. “Is it chocolate?”

“No…”

“Then it’s a 5.5.”

Valtteri arrived next, holding a protein bar and a juice pouch like he was paying tribute. You took the juice and sipped dramatically.

“You’re now a 6.2,” you announced with a proud nod.

Fernando, ever the opportunist, approached with a bag of chips. “What if I throw in a selfie?”

“I can’t eat a selfie,” you said.

“She’s right,” Nico Hulkenberg muttered. “Give her the chips.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

By mid-morning, the judging line was done.

But instead of going to their garages to get ready like professionals, the drivers started hovering behind Y/N’s chair like she was hosting the paddock version of the Met Gala.

Then it happened. Someone, probably Lando, pointed at a poor, unsuspecting crew member just walking by with a headset and clipboard.

“What does he get?”

You looked up. Squinted. “His jacket’s cool. 6.6.”

“6.6?” Ollie nearly choked. “That’s higher than me!”

“He has a lightning bolt on his arm,” you said proudly. “That’s awesome.”

Some poor team staffer walked by with a coffee tray and got hit with:

“Okay, why does he get a 5?” Alex pointed aggressively. “He’s literally wearing beige. Like, beige on beige. He looks like a bread roll.”

“BEIGE SNEAKERS TOO,” Nico gasped.

“I think he’s just doing his job,” Zhou said gently.

Another guy walked past wearing skinny jeans and a massive team jacket.

Oscar pointed. “That jacket’s so big it has zip codes. Why does he get an 7.2? And I got a 4?”

“I like big jackets,” Y/N said.

Fernando pointed at another staff member passing by. “Okay, and why does she get a seven? What did she do?”

You tilted your head. “She smiled at me before.”

George looked personally betrayed. “That’s not fair! I smiled at you all morning.”

“You also wore pants that looked like they couldn’t breathe,” Yuki muttered.

Someone else walked by, probably a logistics guy.

“0,” you said.

“Finally,” Max muttered.

“Wait, no. 3,” you said, thinking hard. “He gave me gum yesterday.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Are we really losing to people just walking by?”

You looked at him. “You wore that hoodie yesterday. And yesterday was not fashion day.”

Someone else passed, this time pushing a catering cart. “6.7,” you decided. “The food smells yummy.”

“Unbelievable,” Nico muttered. “Outscored by a sandwich guy.”

“Sandwich guy has style,” you added, chewing a gummy worm.

Another poor soul walked by with a clipboard and two phones, just trying to do his job.

Liam pointed. “Him. That guy. Why does he get a six and I got 4.5?”

“Because I like his phone case,” Y/N said, totally confident.

Everyone turned to stare.

“What’s on his phone case?” Logan asked.

“A duck. In a hat.”

Liam dramatically collapsed. “I lost to a duck.”

“Don’t say that sentence out loud,” Franco said, wheezing.

“I’m judging the judge now,” Oscar announced. “This whole system’s rigged.”

“You’re just mad you peaked at 4,” Pierre smirked.

“I bribed her,” Oscar said. “She took the Oreos. She took them.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Somewhere else in the paddock, a reporter hesitated mid-question and glanced at his earpiece.

“Sorry, Toto,” he said carefully. “There’s… a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“Your daughter’s judging the drivers.”

“She’s what?” Toto blinked.

“It was cute at first. But now the drivers have formed a line, and they're heckling anyone who scores higher than them.”

Toto stared.

“They’re terrorizing innocent staff,” the reporter added. “One guy just walked by holding cables and got a 6. George is demanding a recount. And someone might’ve cried. We don’t know who. We just know one of them walked off muttering, ‘I got a two. A two.’”

Toto closed his eyes for a second. “Where is she now?”

The reporter just pointed. “Follow the chaos.”

With a sigh, Toto turned and started walking. As he stepped outside, he was immediately hit by the sound of complaints.

“I got a three? Can you believe that?” an engineer said loudly, holding a banana like it had failed him.

“Look at me. I got a two,” someone else muttered. “She said my shoes look like ‘marshmallow blobs.’”

“She’s not wrong,” another voice chimed in.

Toto paused, slowly dragging a hand down his face.

This... was going to be a long weekend.

—

And things were only getting worse.

The bribery escalated fast. Isack came with gummy bears. Yuki offered a big bag of Cheetos. Franco brought stickers. Zhou offered gum. You accepted everything like a tiny goblin hoarding treasure.

You pointed suddenly, like you just saw a crime. “Wait. He has Crocs.”

Lance looked like he was about to cry. “You already rated me!”

You blinked. “I did?”

“Yes! You said two out of ten. In front of everyone!”

“Oh.” You stared at his feet. “Yeah. Now you get a 1.6. The socks made it worse.”

Lance threw his hands in the air. “They’re also limited edition!”

“They’re limited ugly,” you said, munching on your Tim Tam like nothing happened.

Off to the side, the drivers had started judging each other.

“Why is he a seven?” Alex pointed at Zhou. “He’s literally wearing that.”

Zhou folded his arms. “This is Balenciaga.”

“Yeah,” you said. “But I like purple.”

“I have purple socks!” George yelled from the back.

“Too late,” you replied, taking another bite of Tim Tam without even looking at him.

—

After all the snacks, and panicked sock changes, the board had definitely changed. And now? Everyone wanted to know who climbed, who fell, and who got pity points.

“I better be higher than YOU,” Lando muttered under his breath.

“You wore mismatched socks,” Yuki pointed out.

“I changed them! I literally ran back to my room!” Lando yelled.

Pierre leaned in smugly. “She said my outfit had ‘French flavor!’”

“You got a 4.8!” Franco yelled. “How is that flavor?”

“It’s called ✨style✨,” Pierre replied, flicking invisible dust off his shoulder.

“Bro, you’re wearing boat shoes!”

“She said they were yacht-core!”

"She gave me a sticker and told me to 'try again later," Logan added, offended.

"Huh. I got bumped up to a 6,” Oscar muttered to no one in particular.

"That's solid. That's decent."

"You're lucky," Alex said "She looked at my pants and said “what's happening here?'"

“Bet I look better than Nico,” Carlos added smugly.

“He got a four,” you muttered. “Because I said his shirt looks like a couch.”

“Hey!” Nico protested from the back. “It’s vintage!”

“She gave me a 5.2,” Esteban muttered. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re five-point-two out of ten,” Yuki said. “Be grateful.”

Then George came storming back, holding your scorecard like it was a trophy.

“I got an eight,” he announced, waving it in the air. “Eight! Highest so far. I am literally winning Fashion GP.”

He turned like he expected applause. There was none.

“You bribed her,” Alex said flatly.

“I did not! I matched my socks and wore pastel. I’m a fashion icon.”

“She said your pants were too tight earlier,” Yuki muttered.

George pointed at you. “Yeah, but she said they’re tight but committed. That’s growth.”

“She just gave you pity points,” Pierre said.

George scoffed. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

Carlos raised a brow. “You really think you’re winning?”

“Obviously. You got a 7.4. I got 8. Highest score. I’m unbeatable.”

Right on cue, Lewis strolled by, humming to himself.

He was in full chill mode, wearing a silk bomber jacket with hand-painted flames, tailored trousers, silver chains, and reflective sunglasses. The grid might as well have been his runway. Everyone else just looked underdressed.

He paused when he saw the crowd. “Hi? Is there a meeting I forgot about?”

Your eyes lit up. “Lew Lew!”

He blinked. “Oh no. Am I being judged too?”

You stood up, arms wide. “You get a hundred out of ten!”

The crowd gasped.

George actually dropped his scorecard.

“That’s not even allowed!” he cried. “You said the limit was ten!”

“You’re just mad you peaked too early,” Lando said, wheezing.

“He gets more than a candy and a hug,” you declared. “I will spend my whole race weekend with you.”

Silence. Shock. Betrayal. Emotional damage.

George stood in stunned silence, watching all his fashion dreams crumble.

“She WHAT?” Yuki gasped.

“No, no, no, hold on,” Pierre cut in. “That was not in the prize list.”

“Had I known that,” Charles muttered, “I would’ve worn the leather pants. The ones I saved for Monza.”

Oscar blinked. “I gave her my last pack of Oreos and got a six. Lewis just exists and gets her soul?”

Max looked around, offended. “If I knew that was on the line, I would’ve worn a full suit!”

Isack scowled. “Should’ve told us. I would’ve ironed my shirt.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “Why didn’t anyone say that? I literally brushed my hair today. That should’ve counted for something.”

Fernando raised a finger. “Where was the memo that spending time with the cutest kid on the grid was on the table?”

You wrapped your arms around Lewis’ legs. “You always dress good. Not like Maxie. He wears Red Bull every day.”

Amidst the chaos, just as George’s soul visibly left his body, Toto turned the corner and found you proudly holding up a whiteboard.

You grinned and pointed directly at him. “Papa! You get the same as Maxie. Zero out of ten… but plus one because you’re my dad.”

Toto blinked. “I get a one?”

“Yup. Same uniform. Same boring.”

“How is it boring? We’re literally at work!” Max yelled, gesturing at his team gear like it made perfect sense.

Toto nodded. “He’s right, though. We have to wear it.”

“See?” Max said, pointing at Toto like he’d just won a case in court. “It’s mandatory!”

You shrugged. “Still boring. Papa, you should wear a fun hat or something.”

Toto looked down at his black team jacket, then at Max. “Maybe we are the problem.”

Lewis crouched beside you, his grin far too satisfied. “By the way,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “she told me the prize for winning is spending the rest of the day with her.”

There was a collective groan from the grid.

Toto sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You’ll be spending the rest of the day in the Merc garage, young lady.”

“No,” you said immediately, pointing at Lewis. “He won. I go with him. You better start dressing good.”

Toto blinked like she’d cursed him.

Lewis just smiled and held out his hand. “Guess I have a co-pilot this weekend.”

The grid was devastated.

Oscar looked like someone stole his snacks (the oreos). George was still trying to argue about scoring criteria. Pierre quietly whispered “bro…” under his breath.

Somewhere in the background, Lance was still yelling about his crocs.

And your fashion reign?

Had only just begun.

By the time you walked away with Lewis, bag of Cheetos in one hand, whiteboard in the other, the grid was still recovering from the fashion carnage you left behind.

And next time? They’d better dress like their contracts depended on it.

END.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

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thatonegrimm · 3 days ago

Note

Saja boys react to a reader who is half neko 🐱🐱

Thank you for the request! This one was paw-sitively adorable. Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Neko!Reader

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

🧿 Jinu

You were trying to be discreet.

It wasn’t easy, though—especially when Jinu entered the room and your ears perked straight up like they had a mind of their own.

He froze mid-step.

"...Was that... a twitch?"

You sighed and rubbed your temple. “They do that sometimes. Instinct. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Jinu blinked. “I thought you were wearing, like... cosplay.”

“I’m not.”

He blinked again, slower this time. Then his brain caught up and he practically leapt behind the kitchen counter.

"Wait. You're part what?"

“Neko. Half,” you admitted, flicking your tail idly. “It’s in the family. My mom’s side. It’s not that weird.”

“Oh my god,” Jinu muttered. “That explains so much. Like the time I caught you eating a raw egg with rice and you hissed when I asked if you wanted ketchup—”

“That’s normal,” you argued.

“Not the hissing!”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re scared of a little tail and some teeth?”

“No!” he yelped, straightening up. “I'm not judging! I just—I need to recalibrate my worldview! Give me like, five minutes. Maybe ten.”

You tilted your head at him and let out a slow, challenging purr.

“…Make it fifteen,” Jinu said faintly, ears turning red. “I’m gonna have to rewatch that cat documentary.”

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

💪 Abby

You were curled on the couch with your tail wrapped neatly around your legs, twitching now and then like you were dreaming even while awake.

Abby peeked over from the kitchen, mid-snack.

“…You okay, kitty?”

“I’m fine,” you murmured sleepily.

He padded over, plopped onto the floor in front of you, and propped his chin on the edge of the couch. “You look like my cat used to when she wanted to curl up on someone’s chest.”

You gave him a slow, deliberate blink. “Maybe I do.”

Abby grinned wide and warm. “Well, lucky me.”

He tugged at your wrist. “Come here, then. You want the lap or the full bear hug?”

You hesitated. “You’re not weirded out by the tail?”

“Nah. I think it’s cute. Plus you flick it like a mood ring.”

You gave a startled little trill-laugh, and he lit up.

“There it is again! You do make little noises!”

“Abby—”

“Wait, do you knead blankets? Like this?” He mimed a cat pawing the air. “Oh my god, can I give you catnip tea? Would that work? Is that offensive?”

You collapsed against him, half-laughing, half-embarrassed. “Stop. Please.”

But he just wrapped you up in his arms, strong and easy.

“I’m serious, though,” he said. “If you ever wanna curl up somewhere safe, I got you.”

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

📚 Mystery

Mystery was doing his usual: lurking in shadows, pretending he wasn’t watching you. But today, you were on the rooftop railing, tail twitching behind you as you leaned into the breeze.

His gaze dropped once, then again.

“…It moved.”

You turned to look at him. “Yeah, it’s part of me. I don’t control it all the time.”

He studied it like it was alive. “It follows me.”

“It follows movement,” you explained. “And you do teleport in and out of the dark like a suspicious fly.”

He didn’t respond—just kept watching your tail with narrowed eyes.

Then he stepped closer and slowly reached out.

You turned crimson. “If you touch it, I will bite you.”

Mystery paused.

“…Would that be the worst thing?”

Your jaw dropped. “Are you flirting with me or testing if I have rabies?”

“I’m gathering data,” he said simply, crouching to meet your eye level.

You swatted him with your tail. “Creep.”

He caught it, just for a second. “Soft,” he murmured. “Warm.”

Then he let go.

You looked away, ears flattened in embarrassment.

From behind you, he said in a softer voice, “I think it suits you.”

You pretended not to hear—but your tail curled at the tip.

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

💋 Romance

Romance caught you halfway through pulling a hoodie up to hide your ears.

“Whoa, whoa, stop.” He grabbed your wrist with one hand and plucked the hood back down with the other. “What are you doing?!”

“…Covering them?”

“But why?!” He looked genuinely offended. “They’re adorable. I’ve been waiting for the right time to ask about them, but this—this is slander to the aesthetic.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s... cute?”

“I think it’s criminal that you’ve been hiding them from me this whole time,” he said dramatically. “Do they wiggle? Wait—do they flatten when you’re mad? Are they sensitive? Oh my god, is the tail prehensile?”

You flicked it across his chest in warning. “Back off.”

He gasped. “Whipped.” He clutched his chest. “You whipped me.”

“I grazed you.”

“And I will never recover.”

You started walking off but he chased after you.

“Wait, let me style your ears like accessories! I can make a whole neko-chic outfit for you. Little bows—”

“No bows.”

“Matching eyeliner?”

“…Maybe.”

He grinned like a cat who caught a bigger cat. “See? That’s the spirit.”

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

🔥 Baby

You yawned wide and stretched your arms over your head, tail flicking behind you lazily. Baby, sitting on the floor near your legs, eyed you like you’d just dropped a plot twist.

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You’re not fully human,” he said smugly. “I felt it. I knew there was something weird when I saw you land on all fours that one time.”

You shrugged. “I told you I did gymnastics.”

“No. You pounced. There’s a difference.”

You narrowed your eyes, then smirked. “So what? You scared?”

“No. I’m just annoyed it took me this long to confirm it.”

Baby leaned back on his hands. “You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“I’ve been calling you ‘kitten’ as a joke. Now I’m gonna keep doing it, but mean it.”

You groaned. “You are the worst.”

“You like it.”

“I’ll bite you.”

“Hot.”

You whipped your tail at him, annoyed—but he caught it in one hand and smirked.

“That all you got?” he teased, voice low.

You yanked it back, ears burning.

“I’m just saying,” he added casually, “if you ever feel like curling up somewhere warm… I run hot.”

You didn’t respond, but your tail gave a single flick toward him as you walked away.

His grin widened.

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

M-List

#kpdh x reader #kpop demon hunters #saja boys x reader #mystery x reader #abby x reader #romance x reader #jinu x reader #baby x reader #kpdh #grimmstories

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littledykeblue · 1 day ago

Text

──𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑;

(established!sevika x reader): you finally figure out what's been bothering your girlfriend and make all her dreams come true.

wc: 5.8k | cw: sub top!sevika, fingering, face-sitting, oral sex, voyeurism, strap-ons, praise kink, multiple orgasms, orgasm control, overstim, MINORS DNI.

note: just a little treat before i go out of town this weekend! i hope you enjoy :3

It is unlike Sevika to be nervous.

Correction: it's unlike Sevika to be nervous in a way that shows. She's a woman who keeps her cards close, who moves through the world like someone who has already calculated every possible outcome. A bit neurotic, all things considered.

But something's shifted lately, and you’ve started noticing the small things: the way she jumps a little when you speak suddenly, like she's been too far in her own head to hear you coming. The distant look in her eyes when she thinks you’re not watching, not pensive exactly but preoccupied, like there's a thought she keeps chewing on but hasn’t dared to spit out.

She still reaches for you, still holds your waist when you pass by and pulls you in for slow kisses on the couch, but there’s a tension behind it now, like she’s waiting for something. Bracing for it.

And then there’s the issue of your sex life. Or more accurately, the slow but undeniable decline of it.

In the beginning, Sevika couldn’t keep her hands off you. You’d barely make it through dinner without her getting that look in her eye, and next thing you knew, you were being hauled into the bedroom or pinned to the kitchen counter with barely enough time to gasp her name.

The sex had been ravenous, like she needed you to survive, like fucking you was the only way she knew how to breathe. And for a while, you thought that was just her baseline. That maybe she’d finally found someone who made her let go of whatever leash she kept on herself.

But now? You’re lucky to get a bit of half-hearted groping during your nightly wind-down, maybe something more if the stars align and she’s not distracted or tired or haunted by whatever's been eating at her. You try not to take it personally. Really, you do.

The easiest, most humiliating conclusion would be that she's just not that into you anymore. That maybe the shine wore off and she’s already got one foot out the door, even if she hasn’t said it out loud. But that theory doesn’t hold water when she still looks at you the way she always did—like you hung the damn moon.

She still cooks for you. Still listens when you ramble. Still runs her hand down your back when you’re falling asleep and tucks the blanket under your chin when she thinks you’re not awake to notice. She's still your Sevika. And so, you chalk it up to the relationship settling. No one stays in that honeymoon heat forever. You try to convince yourself that it’s not a problem. That not having sex every day isn’t a failing. That it doesn’t mean something’s broken.

And when you do have sex, it’s still good—god, it’s incredible—but there’s something in her that holds back now, something you haven’t been able to name, and you’ve been too scared to press for it.

So, you let it lie. You tell yourself that whatever it is, she’ll work it out. That if it’s important, she’ll come to you.

But it's Sevika, and you were always going to have to find out the hard way.

It’s a normal day when it happens. You’d made plans to grab lunch with a few friends and maybe catch a movie afterward if the timing worked out. Nothing special. Sevika had kissed your forehead as you got ready, told you to use her card to treat yourself—something she always insists on when you go out—and murmured for you to have a good time.

Lunch was a joy. There was something soothing about the low hum of conversation and the clatter of silverware, about the laughter echoing off the restaurant walls as you caught up with people you hadn’t seen in weeks. It wasn’t until you stepped outside that the three of you realized it was raining, and the plans begin to dissolve. The movie was quickly nixed in favor of warm homes and dry clothes, and you found yourself making the familiar drive back in the kind of light drizzle that turns roads slick and hypnotic.

Sevika texted while you were still en route. Just a simple raining. be safe. You didn’t respond right away—being a safe driver and all that jazz—but the quiet comfort of knowing she was thinking about you settled warm in your chest.

When you push through the door, Sevika isn't waiting for you like she normally is. She's not in her usual spot on the couch nor the kitchen; for a second you entertain the idea that maybe she's just gone out. Then, you hear muffled noise from your bedroom.

The closer you get, the more clarity you get. Ragged little gasps and choked-off whines, the wet slap of skin against skin in rhythm. You freeze for a moment because you're certain it must be Sevika, but you've never heard her sound like that in your life.

A part of you panics, for one blinding second. That sharp, sour bite of suspicion creeps in without warning. The kind that stems from some buried, ugly place inside you. The whisper that maybe she’s not alone in there.

But the thought fizzles as fast as it forms, burning out in the face of what you know about her, about the woman waiting on the other side of the door. And then, when you reach out and ease it open just a crack, just enough to look inside—you see her.

Alone. On the bed.

She’s splayed out across the sheets on her back. Her shirt is rucked up high on her ribs, revealing the slope of her stomach and the way her chest rises and falls in ragged, uneven gasps. Her sweatpants are halfway off, bunched awkwardly around one knee, and her legs are spread wide in a graceless sprawl. One arm is curled up, pressing something to her face, and when you squint, you recognize it. A flash of familiar color. A torn bit of lace. Your underwear—yesterday’s—held tightly to her nose in a truly shameless display.

You barely breathe. Can’t.

Her other hand is between her legs, fingers moving in a slick, relentless rhythm. She’s not playing. She’s fucking herself. Three fingers deep, fucking into herself with the kind of hunger you’ve never seen her give to herself. The kind of force she usually reserves for you. The kind that has her back arching and her thighs shaking and her heels digging into the mattress for leverage as her hips jerk to meet every thrust. She's wrecked. Her face is twisted with something halfway between ecstasy and frustration, brows furrowed so deeply it almost looks like she’s in pain. Her jaw trembles with every breath.

You should look away. You know that. But you're stuck there, shameless in the doorway, drinking her in with greedy, disbelieving eyes. Every part of her is trembling with effort, her breath coming in short, stuttering gasps.

Her hand is slick—dripping—and every time her fingers slide out, you can see the mess she’s making of herself. It’s obscene. And this is the same Sevika, who once told you she didn’t want the favor returned, that getting you off was enough. Sevika, who always made you come first, who always had that wolfish grin and strong hands and took what she wanted like she knew she deserved it.

But this isn’t that Sevika.

This is something else. This is need laid bare. Desperation, raw and unhidden, as if she’s cracked herself open on purpose and is holding the pieces out for someone to see. For you to see. And god, you see her. You see her so clearly you can hardly think around it.

And then, she speaks.

“Please,” she whimpers, barely more than a breath. “I’ll be good.”

The words slice right through you, clean and brutal. Your body reacts before your mind catches up, a jolt of heat racing straight down your spine. I’ll be good. Her hand slows for a second, stuttering mid-thrust like the sound of her own voice has startled her, and then she drives her fingers deeper, rougher, chasing the edge again like she can’t stand being without it. Like she's punishing herself for daring to ask.

“Let me come, please,” she moans, her voice breaking around the edges. “Tell me I’m good.”

There’s no one else in the room. No one for her to be putting this performance on for. Just her, trembling on her back, begging to be seen, to be allowed. Her face is flushed, her mouth slack, eyes squeezed shut like she can’t bear to look at herself this way. Like the shame is part of the pleasure. And all the while she keeps moving, fingers plunging in and out of herself with rhythmic urgency, the wet sound of it a low, relentless underscore to her pleas.

Tell me I’m good.

She says it like she’s starving for it. Like the words themselves might unravel her in just the right way. She wants you to say it. She needs you to say it because she doesn’t believe it unless it comes from you.

And then she says your name.

Once. Then again. And again. She chants it like a lifeline, like prayer turned desperate. She’s crying it now, wrecked and hoarse and slipping toward the edge with every syllable, like saying your name might summon you, might give her permission to let go.

Through the arousal clouding your thoughts and the flush of voyeuristic heat across your skin, it dawns on you with startling clarity: this is what’s been eating at her. This is the thing Sevika has been hiding, the thing she’s never given you, maybe never given anyone. And you know it’s not just the act. It’s what it means to her. What it costs her to want this, to need it.

And God, you want to give it to her.

You want to cross that threshold and press your body to hers, kiss her until she softens and give her exactly what she's begging for. You want to tell her there's nothing—nothing—she ever needs to hide from you. That she could give you every raw, tender, humiliated part of herself and you'd hold it with both hands.

But you know Sevika. You know how easily she spooks when she feels exposed, how quickly she’ll lock herself up tighter than a vault the second she thinks someone’s seen too much. If you walk in there now with eyes full of knowing and hands full of comfort, she’ll shut down. You’ll lose her. She’ll bolt behind her usual defenses, pretend it never happened, maybe even avoid you for days out of some twisted sense of shame.

She doesn’t do confrontation. She bulldozes through it, clumsy and bristling.

So you don’t call out to her. You don’t step inside and ask her why she didn’t tell you. You don’t throw open the door and offer her safety. You choose a tactful retreat for now.

You back away from the bedroom like a thief with a priceless secret, gently easing the door shut behind you as though you were never there at all. Then, on silent feet, you tiptoe to the front entrance, crack it open just enough to set the stage.

You wait a beat—long enough to let her think the noise is genuine—before slamming it shut, hard enough to echo through the apartment. The keys jingle as you toss them into the ceramic bowl by the door. You clear your throat. You even throw in a practiced sigh for good measure.

“Sev! I’m home,” you call, keeping your voice smooth, casual, just slightly above normal.

A few heartbeats pass before you hear her bare feet padding softly across the hardwood, the rustle of clothing, a door easing shut somewhere behind her. And then she’s there, walking down the hallway like nothing's amiss. Her hair’s a little mussed, but her smile is easy, practiced. “Welcome back, baby. How was your movie?”

You wonder how often she’s done this. How many times she’s waited until she was sure you were gone, then slipped into your shared bed with shaking fingers and bitten-back moans and your scent pressed to her face.

It makes your chest ache, but you keep it hidden behind a smile. You give her the line you’ve already rehearsed. “We decided to reschedule because of the rain. Lunch was good, though. We should go together sometime.”

“Sounds good,” she murmurs, and leans down to kiss you. Soft and warm and familiar; you return the kiss and it takes everything in power not to tackle her to the couch and have your filthy way with her. You manage, barely.

That night, you don’t push. You don’t say a word about what you saw, won't until you're sure of what exactly it is you plan to say.

You settle into the rhythm she knows best. The two of you curl up in bed (you note that she changed the sheets while you showered), limbs tangled and breath syncing in that quiet way you’ve always loved. She falls asleep with her arm around your waist, her head pressed into your shoulder. And you lie awake for a while, watching the rise and fall of her chest, letting everything settle.

Over the next few days, you start testing the waters.

You start taking a little more initiative in bed. Nothing extreme. Just a firmer grip on her hips when you pull her in, a hand to her throat—not squeezing, just holding. You tell her she’s beautiful when she gets a little vocal. You guide her mouth between your thighs and gently hold her there until you’re done, showering her in as much praise as you can choke out.

It all comes to a head a few nights later.

Sevika’s cooked for you. Something rich and hearty with roasted vegetables and crusty bread, the apartment filled with the warm smell of garlic and thyme. She’s wearing a black tank top and dark jeans, and her hair's freshly washed. There's a part of you that wants to forgo the entire meal in favor of just having her, but you know she's worked hard.

The two of you sit across from each other at the table, each with your own glass of wine. She’s leaning back in her chair, legs spread, eyes lazy as she watches you chew. You can see how proud she is of the meal, even if she won’t say it outright. She always likes feeding you.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” you murmur, setting your fork down and reaching for your wine. “Seriously, this is amazing.”

She grunts, but her mouth quirks up. “Glad you like it.”

You swirl your glass, watching the wine catch the candlelight. Then you glance up. “Can I ask you something?”

She tenses. It’s so slight most people wouldn’t catch it. But you know her. You’ve learned how to read the micro-expressions, the shifts in her breathing.

“Sure,” she says, guarded.

You speak plainly, knowing that any hint of pity or hesitation would only serve to agitate her. “The other day. When I got home early, I was actually back a little earlier than I lead you to believe.”

Her expression freezes.

You keep your voice soft. “You were, uh, busy…in the bedroom.”

Her jaw ticks. She sets her glass down with a quiet clink. “You saw that?”

You nod.

Her eyes flick away. She shifts back, a muscle in her cheek twitching. “You gonna give me shit for it?”

And that breaks your heart a little. The idea that someone made her feel like that's anything to be ashamed, the fact that she expects it even from you.

“No,” you say, and the word is so fierce, so immediate, that her eyes flick back to you. You take a breath, steady your voice. “I wouldn't bring it up to make fun of you, Sev.”

She’s still watching you like she’s waiting for the trap to spring.

You lean forward slightly. “You know you don't have to be embarrassed, right?”

There’s a long pause.

And then she says, quietly, “I'm not embarrassed, baby.” Her mouth twists, like she’s trying to get the words right. “People take one look at me and they've got a whole lotta expectations. Stuff they think I am, stuff they want me to be. They find out I'm not really the domineering type and they're usually not happy about it. And you seem to like it when I'm in charge.”

She shrugs, but the movement is stiff. “Didn't wanna disappoint you, is all.”

You feel something hot burn behind your ribs. A kind of quiet fury. That anyone had the chance to be on the receiving end of Sevika’s surrender—to watch a woman that powerful offer herself up—and treated it like anything short of a god-given gift.

You shake your head, stunned. “Jesus, Sev. That’s…” You search for the words. “You didn't disappoint me. I gotta be honest, babe, that was, like, the hottest thing I've ever seen.”

She snorts, amusement breaking through the tense air. “That why you brought it up? Just to let me know it's okay?”

You meet her eyes, your own lips pulling into a little grin. “Would you want that with me? To submit like that?”

“Yes.”

You nod slowly, heart pounding.

You finish the last sip of your wine. Set the glass aside. Then you rise to your feet, smooth your hands down your thighs, and hold her gaze.

“Good,” you say, voice low and certain. “C'mon.”

Sevika doesn’t ask where. She doesn’t hesitate.

She stands without a word, places her empty glass on the table, and follows you with her hands tucked in her pockets.

Inside the bedroom, you stop near the foot of the bed and turn to her.

“Sit,” you say gently.

She obeys without question, sinking onto the edge of the mattress, legs parting just slightly as she settles. You step between them, resting your hands on her shoulders, watching how she instinctively reaches out. Her big palms slide immediately to your waist like they belong there. And when she looks up at you, something in your chest clenches. She looks so open like this. Unguarded. A quiet, private kind of softness that few people probably ever get to see.

She’s beautiful like this. Cute, even. Which should feel wrong, coming from someone so broad and blunt and vulgar, but somehow it doesn’t. It just makes you want to cup her jaw and hold her face in your hands and make her feel adored.

Your fingers move before your mind catches up, threading through the strands of her hair—slow and gentle, dragging along her scalp in a way that makes her eyelids flutter.

“Gonna tell me how you want this, Sev?” you ask, voice low but not demanding. An invitation.

She smiles, something shy tucked behind it, and it’s the freest you’ve seen her in days. Like letting the truth out at dinner shook something loose inside her. She takes her time, chewing on the inside of her cheek, clearly turning over her thoughts before she speaks.

“I like it when you tell me what to do,” she says slowly. “When you tell me I’m good.”

A pause.

“You can be mean, too,” she adds, voice a little rougher, like it costs her something to say. “I need it to behave, sometimes. I like being kept in line by a pretty thing like yourself.”

The words hit you like a pulse beneath your skin. Not just the meaning of them, but the vulnerability it takes to say them aloud. To admit that she wants control taken from her. That she craves not just praise, but discipline.

Your fingers are still buried in her hair, stroking. Calmer than you feel. “I can do that for you,” you murmur, leaning down to press your lips to hers. It’s not a heated kiss. Not yet. Just a promise, warm and sure.

You pull back just enough to meet her gaze. “Anything off the table?”

She tilts her head, amused, and that familiar smirk curls at the edge of her mouth. “Oh? Got something really fucked up you wanna do to me?”

You roll your eyes and swat her shoulder lightly. “No. I just don’t want you uncomfortable.”

She leans in again, slower this time, and brushes her lips along yours like she’s savoring it. “I trust you, baby,” she says softly. Her voice is close, and her eyes are steady. “I’ll tell you if I need to stop. Swear.”

You nod once, fingers tightening gently in her hair. “Good girl,” you murmur.

And the way she exhales, shaky and wrecked and already half-gone, tells you she’s yours.

“Take your clothes off,” you say, calm and clear.

Sevika blinks, then nods once, and rises to her feet. There’s no sarcasm in her smile now, no teasing in her movements. Just a quiet obedience as she sheds each piece, folding them roughly and dropping them onto the chair in the corner without ceremony. You drink in every inch of skin she reveals—broad shoulders, that scarred chest, the solid strength she carries in every line of her body—and it hits you again, how rare this must be for her. To bare herself like this. To offer herself.

When she’s fully nude, you nod toward the bed. “Up.”

She crawls backward onto the mattress, then scoots up until she’s resting against the pillows, legs slightly parted, gaze fixed on you.

You don’t undress. Not yet. Instead, you crawl up after her, settle into her lap with a shift of your hips. Her hands twitch on the comforter—like she wants to touch, to grab, to drag you in by the hips—but she doesn’t. She holds still. Her eyes dip to your mouth, and when she swallows, it’s audible.

“Who knew you could be so well behaved?” You murmur, palms smoothing up her shoulders as you lean in.

You kiss her before she can respond. It’s slow at first, but the second she starts to lean into it, you pull back, just enough to shift your focus lower. Your lips trail from the corner of her mouth to her below her ear, then lower still to her jaw. Then, to her throat. You bite, gentle at first, then harder, drawing a sound out of her that goes straight to your core.

Your mouth continues downward, to the side of her neck, where you suck a little harder. She shifts beneath you, hips twitching, and your hand finds her side, thumb dragging across her ribs in slow strokes.

You leave another mark. Then another. A messy little constellation along the side of her throat, scattered proof that she’s yours.

And she lets you. Chest rising faster now. Breath heavier.

Your hands slip down her torso, brushing the soft skin beneath her breasts before rising again, more purposeful this time. You cup them, thumbs brushing her nipples, and her back arches just slightly into your touch. An unconscious response, so telling.

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath, head tipping back against the pillows.

You smile, wicked and fond, and lean down to replace one of your hands with your mouth. You drag your tongue slowly over the stiff peak, then close your lips around it, sucking just enough to make her gasp. Your free hand tweaks the other, enjoying the way her whole body reacts: shoulders tightening, thighs shifting beneath you.

The little sound she makes—soft and needy, half-bitten off—is almost too much. You grind down without thinking, chasing a little friction, trying to soothe the ache building between your legs.

Her eyes snap to yours.

But she still doesn’t move. Her hands stay clenched in the sheets. And you know she wants to touch you. You can see it in the way her fingers curl, the way her knuckles go white. But she doesn’t. Because you haven’t told her she can.

You press your mouth to her chest again, more greedy this time, your hips rolling just a little against her lap as you murmur against her skin, “I like these new noises you're making. You don't have to hold back.”

"'Kay," she says, voice stretched thin.

You kiss a slow, teasing line down her stomach, savoring the way she trembles with every inch you travel lower. Her thighs part for you like second nature, wide and inviting, and you settle between them with reverence. Your hands settle on her hips, breath ghosting over her cunt.

You glance up.

Sevika’s watching you. Her chest is rising and falling like she’s already halfway gone, and you commit the sight to your memory. You duck your head and lick one slow, deliberate stripe through her folds, and the sound she makes—fuck. It’s guttural, pulled from somewhere deep. Her hips jerk despite herself.

You take your time. Parting those puffy lips with your tongue and drinking in the taste of her. And when your tongue finds her clit, you pause.

She’s so sensitive. You feel it in the way she twitches, how her thighs flex on either side of your head. And she’s big here, swollen and flushed, easy to wrap your lips around. So you do. Gently. Eagerly.

The reaction is immediate. She lets out a sound you’ve never heard from her before—high, needy, almost whimpering. Her hips roll without rhythm, trying to chase more friction, and you press your palms harder to her thighs to hold her still.

“Shit. Baby,” she gasps, voice already fraying at the edges. “I—fuck, you can’t just—”

But you can, and you do. You suck slow, then fast, then slow again. Teasing, tasting, keeping her just off balance enough that she doesn’t know whether to cry or come. She starts to babble, to beg. She’s never begged you like this before. Every word stumbles out half-formed, punctuated by desperate moans and broken gasps.

“Please. Please don’t stop, just—fuck, right there.”

You hum against her clit, letting the vibration do the rest. Her whole body tenses. You feel it building in her thighs, in her stomach, the way she tries to close her legs but can’t. Not with you holding her open like this, tongue relentless, lips locked around the part of her that seems to reduce her to a mess beneath your expertise.

And just as she tips over the edge—shuddering, breath hitching—her hand suddenly comes down, fingers curling tight against the back of your head.

You freeze.

Then, slowly, you lift your face from between her legs, mouth slick, lips kiss-swollen.

“I didn’t give you permission to touch me,” you say softly.

It takes a second for it to land. Her eyes are glazed, chest heaving, lips parted around a word she’s forgotten how to finish. But you see the flicker of realization in her expression—the way she blinks, processing. The way her hand drops from your hair like it’s been burned.

You don’t scold her. You don’t say another word.

You just rise to your feet, eyes never leaving hers, and step off the bed in search of something. Sevika lays there stunned, bliss-drunk, and suddenly very alert to what might come next.

You return with a familiar object in hand, something you forgot you even owned until just now—cheap, pink, and fuzzy, dangling from one finger like a taunt. You watch as Sevika’s eyes narrow.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, half-laughing, half-wary. “I'm under arrest now?”

You smile, all mock sympathy and wicked delight. “You broke the rules, baby. I’m just helping you behave.”

Sevika opens her mouth to argue: It was an accident. I barely touched you. But you just raise a brow, silencing her with the glint in your eye. She hesitates, then leans back against the pillows with a groan, stretching her arms above her head. A reluctant offering.

You cuff her wrists to the headboard.

They’re not tight. Not serious especially considering she can easily break them if she wants to. But the effect is instant: her whole body shudders at the shift in power. She’s at your mercy now, and she likes it.

Your clothes are quickly discarded atop Sevika's with considerably less order. You crawl up the bed and straddle her chest, not quite sitting yet. “Maybe if you’re good,” you murmur, trailing your fingers along the edge of her jaw, “I’ll let you fuck me later.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes darken, her tongue flicks across her lips, and she nods like she’s already planning her redemption arc.

But that’s not what this moment’s for.

You shift higher, settling over her face, bracing one hand against the headboard as the other guides her mouth exactly where you want it. “Open up,” you purr, and she obeys immediately—eager, hungry, already moaning before her tongue even touches you.

She wastes no time closing her mouth around you, tongue flicking out in the way she knows you go crazy for. Sevika always eats your pussy like she'll die without it. Her eyes flutter shut as she sets a steady pace, dragging her tongue through your slick and pushing her face as close as she can get it.

You grind down harder, throwing your head back with a drawn out moan.

She groans shamelessly with a mouthful of you, and then she’s doubling down. Her movements turn sloppy and focused and fucking needy, licking like she’s trying to earn your forgiveness. You keep your eyes on her, watching her strain against the cuffs, watching her fall apart under you.

“That’s it,” you breathe, rolling your hips slow over her tongue. “Just like that. Look at you. So desperate to make up for being bad.”

A noise escapes her, muffled and obscene. You feel it reverberate through your whole body.

You keep going, hips grinding, words getting filthier by the second. “You love this, don’t you? Getting used. Having me sit on your face like you’re just a toy to cum on. You want to be my good girl so bad.”

She’s moaning beneath you now, tongue working faster, almost frantic. You glance down, and that’s when you notice it: the way her body is tensing. The way her hips jerk against nothing. The tiny, helpless whimper she lets out.

She’s coming.

“Oh, Sev,” you say, laughing breathlessly as you reach a hand back, fingers slipping between her thighs. Her clit is soaked and swollen. You rub slow, lazy circles as you keep riding her face, and she just takes it—tied up, overstimulated, and practically vibrating with need.

“You came just from this? From eating me out?” You give her a few more strokes and she whines deep in her throat. “God, you’re such a mess. That tongue still working?”

It is. Barely. She sticks it out like she’s offering it to you, like she’ll keep going until she physically can’t anymore. And that’s exactly what she does. She lets you ride her face until you’re falling apart above her with a cry and grinding down harder to ride it out.

You don’t linger long.

You uncuff her wrists gently, and she immediately brings her hands down, arms shaky, fingertips brushing your thighs with a quiet sort of intimacy. You shift off her chest and lean down to kiss her.

“You okay?” you murmur between kisses, brushing your thumb along her cheek.

Sevika smiles like she just won the lottery. “You kidding?” she breathes. “I’m amazing.”

"Good. Me too." you say and you're both just smiling at each other like idiots for a while. "Anyways, about that fucking I was talking about."

It doesn't take much longer after that until you've got her strap-on securely on her hips. She helps as best she can, but she's too shaky for all the buckling and adjusting.

Still, there's something sweet in the effort she makes to keep her hands steady. You take over for her and, as soon as it’s secure, you crawl into her lap and line yourself up before sinking down with a sharp gasp.

“You can touch me now,” you whisper, bracing yourself against her shoulders. “Touch as much as you like. I think you've earned it.”

Her hands go immediately to your hips, grip firm, and she groans deep in her throat when you bottom out.

“Fuck,” she mutters, letting her head fall back for a second. “M'still so fucking sensitive…”

You lean in, pressing your forehead to hers, voice low and teasing. “You wanna be good for me?”

“Of course,” she says, instantly. And she's breathless, still wrecked, still eager.

“Then I don’t care if you’re sensitive,” you tell her, rocking your hips slowly to start, letting her feel every inch. “I want to come. So you’re gonna let me use you, aren’t you?”

The noise she makes is strangled, pulled from somewhere low and vulnerable. She nods helplessly, hips jerking up despite herself. You smirk down at her, not bothering to hide your satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”

She mutters something under her breath—creating a fucking monster, or something close enough—and it only makes you grin wider.

You ride her with purpose, grinding down hard with every bounce, angling your hips so that the base of the harness rubs just right against her clit with each thrust. It’s slow torture, and you know it. You feel it in the way her grip tightens, in the way her eyes flutter, in the little frustrated groans she lets out every time her body bucks up to meet you, desperate to take some semblance of control but holding back.

“Look at you,” you pant, fingers sliding through the hair at the back of her neck. “Trying so hard to be good.”

And she is. She is—trembling, sweating, falling apart beneath you. She tries to keep still, to let you have it the way you want, but the pressure is too much. Her hips start jerking up with every downward stroke, chasing something she can’t stop herself from needing. You don’t stop her.

When she comes again, it’s with a gasp and a full-body shudder, mouth slack, body tensing and then breaking into ripples beneath you. The desperate, quiet moan she lets out as she finishes nearly drags you under with her.

You follow not long after, riding her through it, coming with a cry as your body finally caves to everything she’s giving you. Everything she's letting you take.

You collapse against her chest, both of you panting, slick with sweat and shaking.

Eventually, Sevika’s arms wrap around you, warm and loose, and you stay there for a long moment—just breathing each other in.

“Was that everything you hoped?” you murmur into her neck.

“Better,” she says, lips brushing your temple. “Thank you.”

You just smile, lips brushing her throat. “Anything for my baby.”

#𓆩♡𓆪 ─ blue is typing... .ᐟ #arcane smut #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #sevika x you #arcane fanfic #lesbian #sevika smut #sub sevika #this one goes out to sevika lover nation

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emotionalrodent · 1 day ago

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Not recognizing Jason as Red Hood

Jason Todd x Reader

CW: Violence and swearing

Summary: You’re saved by Red Hood (your boyfriend) but don’t recognize him, much to Dick’s amusement.

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You hadn’t planned on walking home after your overtime shift, yet misfortune seemed to find you wherever you went. It was late at night and eerily quiet. There weren’t too many people out at the time, which made the man eyeing you down from the corner of an alleyway much more noticeable. Your blood had ran cold the moment you met his eyes. Desperation and a sort of distant look was what you caught from them. Not what you would have liked to see at all.

You swallowed hard and pressed on, hyper focused on the speed at which you walked to the expression you wore on your face. The footsteps that progressed in speed behind you told you that you had ultimately failed in looking like more effort than you were worth, and the gun held at your temple confirmed it.

“I want everything you have on you. Now. I’m not asking.” He spoke lowly yet still with a slight waver to his voice. You felt a hand wrap tightly around your arm that kept you in your place.

Your hands shook as you worked to collect everything in your possession, your nerves lengthening the process slightly. The cold metal pressed harder into your skin as the man began to raise his voice. He fired a warning shot that just barely missed your foot and rang out through the cold alleyway.

“I don’t have all fucking day, hurry the hell up!”

Before you could process it, his hold on you was broken as he was pulled to the floor. You turned to see none other than Red Hood and to your surprise, Nightwing. Although a bit of the fear still lingered, you couldn’t deny that you were completely star struck. Jason gushed over Red Hood each time the vigilante was mentioned (you were more of a Red Robin fan yourself though.) so you’d definitely have to tell Jason about this later.

You were pulled from your thoughts by a robotic-like voice and a red helmet leveled with your own face.

“I asked if you were okay? You gotta be more careful out here. You could’ve been killed, babe.” He spoke softly, voice dripping with concern. A gloved hand rested on your cheek as he looked at you.

The petname didn’t go unnoticed by you, nor did the affectionate touch. You had assumed he was trying to flirt with you so you decided to try to let him down easy.

“I’m alright, really. I appreciate you saving me but I have a boyfriend so I’d like if you didn’t try to flirt with me.” You lightly swatted his hand from your face with a sweet yet slightly apologetic look on your face.

Red Hood was stunned for a moment and seemed almost hurt. Just behind him you heard a very amused Nightwing fighting back a laugh.

“Yeah Red Hood, no flirting on the job!” He teased as he lightly poked the other vigilante with a baton. Red Hood was quick to grab the baton and snatch it away with a glare. Though he didn’t appreciate his brother’s teasing, he felt a subtle sense of pride in his chest at you speaking up.

“Right, sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s pretty late though, do you need me to walk you home?” He offered almost instantly.

“Well, my apartment’s actually right there so I’m okay.” You answered while rummaging through your bag. “This is kinda embarrassing but could I maybe get an autograph? My boyfriend Jason is a big fan of yours.” You held out a small notepad you used at work along with a pen.

Red Hood was slightly embarrassed but mostly touched at the gesture. He could feel Nightwing’s smug grin radiating beside him as he took the notepad and messily signed it. You took the notepad and left with a quick “thank you”.

“Stop fuckin’ laughing.” Jason huffed out halfheartedly.

“You just got rejected by your own girlfriend, how am I supposed to not laugh?” Dick snickered. “I just hope Jason likes the autograph since he’s such a biggg fan.” Dick drawled out, earning an elbow to his ribs.

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I’ve had this idea for a while now and I finally decided to write it down. I was mostly happy with it so I hope you guys like it too. Thank you for reading!

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #dc #dick grayson

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maskedbyghost · 3 days ago

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In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (13)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

You walk back to your room with heavy steps, with your jaw tight, your shoulders tense, and every part of you buzzing with that specific kind of anger that doesn’t burst but simmers, low and constant and consuming.

You can’t stop thinking about him, can’t stop playing it all over in your head... the way he looked at you when it ended, the way he didn’t say anything, the way he just let it happen and walked away like it meant nothing, and no matter how many times you try to talk yourself out of it, no matter how much you try to rationalize it or blame the job or the stress or the timing, it always circles back to the same thing: you thought it meant something.

He made you feel like a fool for it. You tell yourself fuck him again and again, because it’s the only thing that helps, even if it doesn’t last more than a few seconds at a time.

Fuck him for walking away, fuck him for making you carry it alone, fuck him for not having the decency to say it to your face, and fuck him most of all for making you think you mattered to him in a way that no one else ever had.

You weren’t hoping for promises, you never wanted some fairytale ending where it all works out perfectly, you just wanted something said out loud so you could fucking breathe again instead of being stuck in this weird silence that feels worse than if he’d just said he didn’t care.

You were willing to fight for it, whatever it was, but he didn’t even give you the chance, and now all you have left is this bitterness, this loop of regret that keeps clawing at your chest every time you try to let it go. And by the time you reach the door, your hand is already pushing it open harder than necessary, your body moving ahead of your thoughts, and the second you step inside, you freeze because he’s there, standing in the middle of your room.

You don’t even hesitate when you speak, the words already climbing up your throat before your hand has the chance to push the door fully open. “What the fuck are you doing here—”

But he cuts you off, voice calm in that way that makes your chest clench even tighter. “Take the ring off.”

You stop and just stand there. Your mouth’s still half-open like you’re about to keep yelling, but your eyes drop to your hand and you just stare at it, stare at the silver band sitting there on your finger like it belongs. You forgot about it. Honestly, you did.

You’d been wearing it since the beginning of the mission, since the fake couple act, since you were pretending not to give a shit while slipping it on every morning. And now, after everything, it’s still there like some sick little reminder that none of it was real, or maybe worse, that it was.

You rip it off, fast, and without thinking, you throw it at him. “There. That’s all you fucking wanted, right?” you spat. “You can go now. Get out of my room.”

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. “That’s not the only reason I came.”

You scoff and laugh without humor. “Oh yeah? What, you wanted to make sure I remembered what a fucking joke the whole thing was?”

He opens his mouth, but you keep going before he can say anything. “You could’ve just talked to me,” you snap. “You could’ve said anything. I didn’t need some dramatic bullshit, but you couldn’t even look me in the eye after everything?”

There’s a flicker in his face then, but before you can place it, he actually fucking chuckles.

“I hate you, Simon,” you say, but your voice breaks in a way that makes you furious all over again.

“Good,” he says, stepping forward just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Wouldn’t want our second marriage to start any differently.”

“Whatthefuck,” you snap, the words leaving your mouth in one breath. “You know what? I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to see you, I want you to get the fuck out of my—”

“You think this was easy for me?” he growls, stepping forward before you can finish.

“Oh, fuck off, Simon,” you bark, voice rising right with your heartbeat. “You don’t get to play victim when you’re the one who—”

“Let me speak, woman,” he snaps, actually raising his voice now, something raw in it, like it’s the first time he’s ever let the leash slip in front of you.

“I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want your fucking excuses—”

And then he’s on you without warning, or time to react. His hand wraps around your arm, and he’s pulling you forward, crashing his mouth onto yours so hard your teeth click together. You make a sound of protest that dies the second his tongue slips past your lips, and then you’re gripping his shirt, clutching at him even as you try to push him away. It’s messy, angry, and perfectly fucked up.

He only pulls back just enough to growl against your mouth, “You stubborn little woman. Let me speak.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss, biting his lip before he can kiss you again.

“Oh, I will,” he breathes, voice low and filthy, and before you can say anything else, he’s got you pinned against the wall, his body flush against yours, one hand sliding up your side while the other braces by your head.

“You think I planned this?” he says, breathless between kisses, lips brushing over yours every time he speaks. “You think I wanted to walk away? I was fucking wrecked when they took you into surgery, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t fucking think, I thought you were gonna die and I didn’t even—didn’t even tell you how I felt because I was too much of a fucking coward—”

You shove at his chest, but your hands don’t leave him. “You ruined me,” you breathe, voice shaking. “You ruined me and then left me alone to clean up the fucking mess!”

“I ruined myself the second I let myself love you,” he bites out, mouth back on yours before either of you can say something crueler.

“You scared the living shit out of me, baby,” he continues, voice low and strained, forehead resting against yours as you both try to catch your breath.

You scoff, still breathless from all the yelling and kissing and crying, and shove at his shoulder weakly. “Yeah? Good. You deserved that after the way you treated me. You think you get to break my fucking heart and then come back like nothing happened?”

“I didn’t come back like nothing happened,” he says, still smiling, but it’s that tired kind of smile, the kind you’ve missed, the kind that only shows up when he’s not pretending to be someone colder than he really is. “I came back ready to finally do something about it.”

You narrow your eyes. “What the hell does that even mean?”

And then he does it. Just drops down onto one knee like it’s the most normal thing in the world and reaches into his pocket like he’s been planning this for weeks, and suddenly there’s a ring in his hand. A new one. Not the stupid fake one they gave you for the cover story.

“I got this after the medics said you were stable,” he says, eyes on yours, voice soft in a way that makes your chest feel too tight. “After they told me you were gonna pull through, I—I went out and bought it, because I knew if you woke up, I wasn’t gonna waste any more time. I wasn’t gonna let another fucking day go by pretending like we don’t belong together.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out, because you didn’t expect this, not here, not like this.

“I think we’ve hated each other long enough,” he goes on, chuckling a little like he can’t believe he’s actually doing this. “I think it’s time we try the other thing. You know… the part where we get our stupid happy ending.”

Then, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, he looks up at you, and he says it.

“Will you marry me?”

You blink at him, stunned for a second, staring at the ring in his hand and the bruises on his jaw and the stupid way he’s still smiling even after everything you screamed at him.

And then you snort, arms crossing tight over your chest.

“No,” you say flatly. “Absolutely fucking not.”

His smile falters just a bit, but you see the way his eyes narrow, the way his head tilts.

“You’re gonna have to earn my hand in marriage, Riley,” you add, stepping closer and snatching the ring from his fingers, holding it up between you both. “You don’t get to ghost me for days and then waltz back in here with a speech and think that’s enough. Try harder.”

He laughs with that rough kind of laugh that shakes his whole chest, and stays on one knee like he’s not in a hurry to get up.

“Guess I better start groveling then.”

“Oh, you will,” you say, tucking the ring into your pocket like a little menace and turning away before he can even stand.

And behind you, you hear him mutter, “Jesus Christ, I love you.”

You don’t say it back.

Not yet.

But you don’t give the ring back either.

You don’t even remember agreeing to this trip. He just showed you the tickets, told you to pack your shit, and next thing you knew, you were sweating in a rental car that smelled a little, driving up a dirt road toward a cabin that apparently had “a view worth not killing each other over.”

You’re still not convinced.

He’s driving with one hand, the other resting lazily on your thigh like he’s trying to win points for being calm and domestic, but you’ve already caught him checking the GPS five times in the last ten minutes.

“We’re lost, aren’t we,” you say, not even bothering to make it sound like a question.

“I’ve got it handled,” he replies, like that means anything when you’ve passed the same crooked tree stump twice and your phone’s had zero signal since the gas station two hours back.

“Mhm. You said that the last time we were being shot at and ended up face-down in mud.”

He laughs through his nose, tapping the brakes as the road gets even rougher. “Yeah, but we lived. That’s a win in my book.”

You roll your eyes, dragging your hand down your face. “So the plan is survive first, figure out directions later?”

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” he mutters, and there it is again, that little grin that drives you insane because it means he knows he’s pissing you off on purpose.

You don’t even argue this time. Just lean your head against the window, staring at the trees flying past and muttering, “Next time I plan the vacation.”

He hums. “You’d take us to some overpriced spa and yell at me for snoring during a massage.”

“I’d take us somewhere with actual roads and Wi-Fi.”

“Oh yeah, real romantic. You checking your emails while I die of boredom.”

You flip him off without turning around, and he squeezes your thigh in response, thumb brushing lazily against your skin.

And even though you’re hot, annoyed, possibly lost in the middle of nowhere, you’re still here, still next to him. Still breathing the same air, after everything.

The cabin is small, definitely old, and smells faintly like dust and pine, but the view from the porch is enough to shut you up for once. The trees stretch for miles, the sky is beautifully blue, and there’s not a single radio, rifle, or report in sight. Just the two of you, a half-unpacked bag tossed onto the couch, and the sound of him whistling low under his breath while he fumbles with the damn fireplace.

You stretch your arms over your head, sighing as you lean against the kitchen counter. “You want coffee or tea?” you ask, flipping open the cabinet door and squinting at the faded labels. Someone left a whole collection of mismatched mugs in there, one of them says #1 Dad, and it makes you smirk a little, for reasons you don’t even wanna unpack.

He grunts from the other side of the room, finally getting the fire going with a triumphant little “There we go, you bastard.”

Then he stands. “Tea,” he calls out. “As long as you’re not gonna drown it in sugar like last time.”

You scoff, flicking the kettle on. “Oh, come on. It was one time.”

“You put five sugars in one cup,” he says, walking over and leaning his weight into the counter beside you. “I thought you were trying to end me quietly.”

You shrug, not looking at him as you grab two mugs. “I thought I’d tortured you enough that day. Wanted to give your blood pressure something new to worry about.”

He laughs, and it makes your stomach twist just a little. You hand him his mug a few minutes later, nudging it into his chest until he takes it from you.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, deliberately syrupy.

You narrow your eyes. “Call me that again and I’ll spike yours with vodka next time.”

He sips, eyes locked with yours over the rim. “Worth it.”

You smack his arm lightly, and he just grins, setting the cup down and pulling you in by the waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re still not used to this version of him, the one who doesn’t flinch when you touch him first, the one who kisses your forehead just because, the one who doesn’t look over his shoulder every five seconds like something’s about to be ripped away again.

You wrap your arms around his neck, chin resting on his shoulder as you breathe him in. “We should ruin this vacation.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, brow raised. “Ruin it how?”

You smirk. “I don’t know. Break something. Start a fire. Get banned from ever coming back.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Or,” he says, brushing his lips over yours, “we could just… enjoy it.”

You pretend to consider it for half a second. “Boring.”

He kisses you anyway.

The fire’s low now, just a flickering orange glow that casts shadows across the cabin walls, and the only sounds are the creaking of the old wooden floorboards and the soft rustle of sheets as he moves over you, slowly, as if he’s still convincing himself you’re really here.

He’s got one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing down your thigh, fingertips light over your skin, like even now he’s scared of pushing too hard and shattering whatever this is between you.

“Can’t believe you’re here,” he murmurs against your neck, voice filled with something between lust and relief. “Every time I touch you, it’s like—I still think I’m gonna wake up and find out you didn’t make it.”

You exhale, hand curling around the back of his neck, pulling him closer until your lips brush his jaw. “I did,” you whisper, voice soft but sure. “I’m here, Simon.”

He presses his forehead against yours, his thrusts slow and deep, each one pushing the air out of your lungs in these broken moans. It’s not rushed, he’s not chasing a finish line. He’s savoring you, devouring you, and letting himself feel everything.

“You don’t get it,” he breathes out. “Thought I lost you for good. And now I—fuck, baby—I can’t get enough of fucking my wife.”

You snort softly, breath hitching as his hips roll deeper, lazy and precise. “Technically,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “I’m your ex-wife now.”

He pauses for just a second, chest rising against yours with a short laugh, and then he dips his head, kissing you hard. “Not for long.”

You grip his back, fingers dragging down the muscles there as he picks up the pace just a little, but still slow enough that it feels like an apology.

Then he says against your lips. “You wrecked me, you know that?”

“You deserved it,” you whisper, and he groans at that, not angry, just desperate.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, thrusting deeper now, each stroke more hungry than the last, “and I’d let you ruin me again and again if it means I get to keep you like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut as he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower down your neck, over your collarbone, anywhere he can reach like he’s making a map out of your body, just in case he ever forgets how it feels to love you like this.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, and this time, it’s not a demand. It’s a promise. A quiet vow in the dark, spoken into your skin as if he’s stitching the words into your bones.

And you don’t say anything this time. You just wrap your legs around him tighter, pulling him impossibly closer, and let him say everything else without ever stopping.

The next few months aren’t some perfect fairytale, but they feel more real than anything you’ve had in years. You still argue about laundry, about the way he leaves his boots by the door, about how you always forget to turn off the bathroom light, but you also laugh more.

You find comfort in the routine, in the way he always pulls you closer when he thinks you're asleep, in the way he starts keeping sugar in the cupboard now even though he swore he never would. You go grocery shopping together and somehow end up bickering in every aisle, but he always lets you win, even when you're wrong, just because he likes the way you smile when you get your way.

He still looks at you like he can't believe you're real, like he’s memorizing every part of your face in case he loses it again. And sometimes, when you catch him doing it, you roll your eyes and say, “You’re being weird again,” but you don’t really mind. You like it more than you’ll ever admit.

It’s not always smooth, and there are still moments when it hits you, what you went through, what it almost cost you, but then he’ll wrap his arms around you from behind while you’re brushing your teeth or pull you into his lap while you’re pretending to work, and it reminds you that this, whatever it is, is worth it.

And the proposal doesn’t happen in some dramatic way like the movies would’ve liked. Actually, the kitchen smells faintly like burnt garlic because you forgot the heat was on, and there’s tomato sauce on the floor because he knocked the pan off the counter while trying to pull you in for a kiss.

He’d asked a few more times since that night in your room, and each time was more ridiculous than the last. Once while you were brushing your teeth. Once when he caught you halfway asleep on the couch. And once, half-laughing, half-serious, when you yelled at him for finishing the last of your favorite snack.

Every time, you rolled your eyes and said something like “nope,” or “try harder,” or “marriage sounds like a trap.” He never pushed, never got upset, and just kept looking at you like he already knew the answer would change eventually.

So now, standing barefoot on the sticky tile floor, both of you half-covered in sauce and flour, something just clicks.

You’re laughing, breathless from the mess and the way he keeps wiping his hands on your shirt instead of a towel, and when your eyes meet, he stops. You don’t say anything at first. Just reach into the drawer next to the sink, where you’d kept the ring since that first night.

You press it into his hand without a word, and his eyes go wide. He stares at it, then at you, like he’s afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

“Do it,” you say, just barely above a whisper.

His hands shake a little when he drops to one knee, not out of nerves, but because his heart’s in his throat and his eyes are stinging and he’s trying so fucking hard not to let it show.

“Baby,” he says, voice low and shaky, “will you marry me?”

You nod, slow and certain. “Yeah,” you say. “I will.”

And the way he holds you after that, the way his arms wrap tight around your waist like he never wants to let go, the way he buries his face against your stomach and just stays there for a second too long, feels like the beginning of your happy ending.

The second time you got married, you did it right.

Without a courthouse or rushed vows. This time, it was real. It was loud and messy and beautiful in all the ways that mattered. You stood outside in the late afternoon sun, surrounded by the people who mattered most—some in suits, some still hungover from the night before. The flowers were crooked in their vases, the playlist glitched halfway through the ceremony, and Soap cried more than anyone else, even though he swore he wouldn’t.

You wore white. A dress that made you feel like yourself. Hair half-up because you couldn’t be bothered with too much fuss. And Simon stood at the end of the aisle, in a dark suit that somehow made him look even more dangerous and even more like home all at once. He didn’t smile, not the way people usually do, but his eyes never left yours, and his hands shook just slightly when he held them out to you.

The vows were short and a little clumsy in places, because neither of you were good with words when it really mattered. But you didn’t need a perfect speech to tell him you’d walk through hell for him, again and again, if it meant ending up back here.

And when it was over, when the rings were on and the kiss was done and the crowd was cheering, you leaned in, close enough that only he could hear you, and whispered, “I love you, Mr. Riley.”

He didn’t hesitate. His hand found your waist, his forehead touched yours, and he said it back like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“I love you, Mrs. Riley.”

You didn’t even make it to the end of the night before dragging him away, laughing as you kicked off your heels and told him he looked better out of that suit anyway.

Your story wasn’t easy, but it was yours, and in the end, that’s what mattered most.

THE END

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